Monthly Archives: May 2015

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Intersection

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The old step van breasted the hill on Hill Street and rolled across the small level stretch at the top. It rolled past nice, tree nestled residences. The wide residential street had plenty of room for parking but the residents here keep their cars in driveways, carports, and garages. No cars were parked on the street. A worn brake line ruptures and the van’s braking system begins to fail . . .

The ball. The pretty red ball. It’s so round and it bounces! Kick! And away it goes! It hits the wall and here it comes back to me. Ha! It bounces on the ground. It’s a pretty red ball.

“Cissy!” her mother calls from the kitchen window.

“I coming mommy!”

“You don’t have to come in, honey” mom calls through the screening. “Just remember don’t go near the street.”

The long hill stretches out and down, the step van begins its descent. The driver, just finished lunch, is digging at his teeth with a toothpick. A good driver, he wasn’t going too fast when he started down the incline.

“I bemember, mommy.”

Kick the ball! It’s so red. Nothing that red. And it bounces. Boing! And I can catch it.

The child is naked except for a grimy huggie. There is a dog lying in the shade with its head on crossed paws and watching the child. The dog is tethered to a screw-in peg and the ground in its territory is dusty dirt.

About a quarter way down the hill the driver taps his brakes. The brakes seemed a little soft. He pumped them a little and felt the van slowing.

Throw the ball at Winston. Ha! Catch, Winnie! Aww, c’mon, Winnie.

The dog looks up, snuffles a little. The ball hits the wall and bounces up and over the child.

The extra pressure exploded the ruptured brake line, spewing the remaining fluid. The driver felt the brake pedal sink to the floor and the speed of the van begin to increase. He pumped twice more and nothing!

The ball bounces! Ha! You can’t get away from me!

The child chases the ball toward the street with an awkward, stilting step. The dog lifts its head.

“Oh God!” The driver shouts out loud. “No brakes!” He’s looking ahead to see what’s coming and nothing in the way so far, all the while furiously pumping the useless brake pedal.

The ball is almost clear of the yard and crossing the sidewalk. The dog leaps up and runs, barking, to the end of its tether, coming within scant inches from the receding child.

By now the driver realizes his life is on the line and the adrenaline kicks in. In his mid twenties, he’s no rocket scientist but he’s far from stupid. For one thing, He’s always been able to remain calm in crisis. When everyone else is screaming hysterically he always seemed to be able to figure things out and save the day. He thought he’d better start saving today as soon as possible!

Red ball! Hahahahaaa! I get it!

The dog barks at the laughing child. The ball crosses the sidewalk and takes a little bounce as it drops off the curb. The child is about to cross the sidewalk. The child’s mother sees what’s going on and shouts, screams, “Cissy!” She drops the dish that shatters on the floor as she leaps for the back door.

He grabs the emergency brake and pulls it straight, he can feel a little drag but it’s nowhere near enough. He looks up and sees the ball in the street in front of him, then he looks over and sees the child following it. “Oh shit,” he said.

Red ball in street. Must get it! Mommy said don’t go in street. Red ball! So pretty!

He uses his foot to knock the brake loose then he leans down and rapidly puts a few turns on the tension adjuster. Pulling the brake handle he finds now it’s too tight and . . .

The child stumbles off the curb and rushes headlong into the street, awkwardly trying to regain her balance. She sees the truck.

Big truch! Big truch!

The dog jumps and barks. Mom is halfway there.

Too late! I’m about to run over a kid chasing a ball! The oldest story there is . . .

Cissy doesn’t regain her balance and falls down spread eagled, about a third of the way across the street. The old step van is barely ten feet away. Suddenly the van veers hard to the left, steering away from the fallen child. The turn is too sudden, however, and G-force drags the van over in what seems to be slow motion, narrowly missing the child by only a few inches. The van settles on its side and slides thirty yards or so down the street, finally hitting the curb and coming to a careening stop.

Sitting sideways with the seat belt pressing hard into his stomach, the driver realizes he’s okay. That was a close one. Boss’ll be pissed.

Story a Day

Chase

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The speeding car drifted around the corner. Screaming, smoking tires and an over-revved engine disturbed the evening calm. People who were sitting out on their porches looked up to see a shiny red Porsche shoot down the street.

About three seconds later a second car, this one a modest gray BMW, came around the corner in much the same way as the Porsche. The second car didn’t drift as much; it followed the Porsche.

Neighbors looked across their yards at each other, husbands and wives made chuckling, snide comments about crazy people on the streets. As the revving, gear shifting cars faded into the distance they went back to sipping their lemonade or tea or beer or whatever and immediately forgot the brief excitement.

The driver of the Porsche made the turn onto Old Line Road with enough spectacular drama to make Paul Walker and Vin Diesel jealous. Gravel and dust mixed with the whitish smoke coming from all four wheels as the sleek vehicle fish-tailed slightly and sped down the narrow dirt road.

The Beamer was slowly catching up. The dust trail from the Porsche pointed the way for the Beamer and it slowed enough to make the turn onto Old Line without drifting. It zoomed through the dust trail of the Carrera.

Old Line Road follows an abandoned rail bed that used to connect Winslow with Darton and the mainline rail corridor. Winslow, tucked back in the low Central Pennsylvania mountains, had several coal mines that shipped the black rock to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and other points in between.

When two of the most productive mines fizzled out the remaining operations couldn’t provide the volume to make the spur profitable so the railroad shut it down. That pretty much killed Winslow. Only diehard natives live there now and they’re dwindling fast by attrition. After decades of neglect the old rail line eventually became unsafe and the railroad finally picked up their rails and ties and went home.

The oil stained gravel bed is mostly overgrown now but there are still some places where you can see what it had been. The accompanying road is fairly straight until the old rail line crosses the Onuchko Creek. After crossing a dilapidated wooden trestle bridge the rail trail swings north and begins the long climb up to Winslow, winding around several mountains in its ascent.

Old Line Road turns left at the bridgehead and follows the creek about half a mile through sylvan scenery to a brand new, two lane, concrete and steel span, recently erected with Federal infrastructure improvement money. The road then backtracks down the creek to intersect and follow the old rail line on the other side of the trestle bridge.

Barreling down the old dirt road through darkening shadow, expertly jinking the occasional pothole, the red Porsche was an arrow, or a bullet, or, better, a cigarette boat, with its wake of dust billowing out behind it.

The BMW was eating that dust as it passed an old sign, askew and hanging by one rusted chain from a spar that held it out over the road. You could see “Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths” in burned woodcut letters as the weathered sign twisted in the breeze.

Brake lights flashed at the rear of the red Carrera as it approached the creek and the turnoff. The car stopped. The Beamer was closing the distance between them.

The bridge didn’t look particularly safe but there was a track where a street vehicle could cross. It was blocked at the moment by a barricade made of four perforated sign posts like they use for stop signs, and three horizontally mounted strips of plywood painted with reflective orange and white paint, the word “DANGER” painted prominently across the middle strip in big red letters.

The BMW was now in sight of the Porsche. Suddenly the red car’s wheels began to spin, grinding the gravel underneath, spewing dirt, dust, and smoke. It fish-tailed a little bit then ran the barricade down and bounced onto the trestle bridge.

A section of the bridge collapsed about halfway across and the Porsche did a beautiful swan dive down into the creek some 40 feet below. It crashed onto a huge flat rock in the middle of the stream and exploded with a pyrotechnical display that would make Walker and Diesel’s stunt director jealous.

The Beamer skidded to a stop at the bridge, clouds of dust billowing. The driver removed his sunglasses, his racing gloves,  got out and took in the scene. There was nothing to do but call the police; the car down in the creek was a tangled, wrecked ball of fire, no survivors.

“Crazy friggin son of a bitch,” the driver said as he tapped on his phone.

Incidentally, the Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths has just gone on the market, for sale and cheaper than dirt. Could be a good deal but you probably won’t get there in time.

 

Note: You may notice Wednesday’s story is missing. I did write a story on Wednesday entitled “Intersection.” However, I managed to forget about posting it. Waaah! My personal challenge is about complete by now as I have 27 stories published on this blog. With Intersection I’ll have 28.

The challenge was to write a story a day for the month of May. I began in April and there are six entries in that month. Early on I decided to give myself the weekends off, there is only so much time in a day!

May has 31 days. I may write three more stories just to be anal about it. Heh!

Chitlin Child    😈 

Story a Day

Serenity

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I’ve been searching for serenity all my life.

Evenings are so nice. When I first moved in here there weren’t any trees and the sun beat down on the yard with full, brutal intensity. Years ago I used to work on my tan out there. I got so dark someone asked me if I was Latino. But that was years ago.

Looking out my back door to the right, three doors down, there’s a huge maple tree. It’s so big you can’t wrap your arms around it. It’s branches embrace the backyards of at least five city properties. It’s very old and probably was here when most of these houses were built back in the 19th century. It’s progeny are all over the area. They’re called “weed maples” because they’re so prolific.

Three saplings took root on my right hand fence line 10-15 years ago. About the same time two or three others began growing in my neighbor’s yard to the left. Once again they were on the fence line there. That’s probably because seeds that fall in the yards get mowed and don’t get a chance to grow.

So now, well over a decade later, my back yard is nicely shaded. The view from my porch shows the yard, 25 feet or so wide, with the “lawn” going a little more than twice that back toward the graveled parking lot. The yard ends about halfway to the street.

Beyond the parking lot is the alley that bisects this city block east to west. On the other side of the alley, facing this property, is a line of weathered, freshly painted garages that sport a variety of doors: segmented rollups, tracked sliders, and big swingers, hinged on one side.

There’s even a brick carriage house they’ve done some work on lately, it looks really good for its age. There are areas spaced apart in its brick construction, where bricks were left out in a diamond shaped pattern, allowing air to circulate through the second floor of the structure.

I don’t really know why the wall is perforated like that but at one time tobacco was a big cash crop around here. One of the small towns out in the country nearby became famous for its cigars. Perhaps the second floor was used for curing small amounts of the pernicious plant.

Or, maybe, since people kept horses in their carriage houses (instead of cars, okay?), the ventilation may have been to keep methane from building up on the second floor.

There might be some “grass” in the lawn, which I like to call my “botanical garden” because of the large number of different varieties of plants that inhabit it. Most are weeds, crabgrass, dandelions, thistles, and other common varieties. Some have pretty flowers. All are kept at bay by my landlord when he mows the yard.

There’s a spot under one of the trees on my fence line where nothing is growing, just a bare spot with decaying tree dirt lying in a circle pattern under the tree.

There are several families of squirrels that make things lively from time to time. Suddenly you’ll hear this ripping and tearing through the trees and you’ll notice a couple of the tree rats playing tag. They can make you laugh.

Along with the squirrels in my arboretum are the local cats that you see prowling from time to time. They usually keep a pretty low profile and all have that “I don’t care” attitude. Many belong to homes in the ‘hood and roam free but there are wild ones that are nearly feral, living by their wits—there are occasional road pizza kitties.

There’s one cat I call Meesha. Somehow years ago Meesha’s tail was cut off; I saw the injury shortly after it happened, apparently, the severed part was still connected by a small strip of fur.

I often wondered if it was my action that cut Meesha’s tail. Cats like to crawl up into the engine compartments of cars to keep warm. A radiator fan would do a pretty good job on a cat tail. I’ll never know, of course, and some weeks later Meesha showed up with the thing all healed up. I’ve seen her this year, she has a place across the street somewhere, behind the line of garages.

And then there’s the birds. I know very little about bird species but I can tell you I’ve seen dozens of different ones here in the back yard. Cardinals, robins, sparrows, grackles, doves, orioles, and even crows (who like the big tree) among the star studded avian cast.

Also flying, with incredible, unbelievable skill I might add, are bats that make their appearance at night. They munch on the myriad insects that gather around the dusk till dawn light mounted up on the third floor of the building.

I’ve looked in many places for serenity during the course of my life. I very much like sitting on my porch, plinking on my guitar, and watching the whole thing go down in harmony. It is serene.

Story a Day

Waves

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Deena’s sick again this morning. She’s okay in bed for now so I thought I might as well run down to St. Matthew’s and see if there’s any bread left. Had to call in this morning so I could take care of her, the chemo’s starting to leave a mark. I’ve been through two jobs since she was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. Probably get fired from this one too, maybe get one more absence out of Boss before he finally loses patience.

One last look at Deena, asleep now, and then out, down three flights to Corman St., a nod to old lady Beson as she’s coming up from the mailboxes, and then outside. My overall feeling of confinement, enclosure, eases substantially; it usually does when I get outside. I’m dealing with a lot inside. I should say we’re dealing with a lot, she’s the one who’s sick. We’ll get through it. Still, outside’s a whole other world.

There’s a farmer’s market two blocks over and I head in that direction. The church is over that way too. Sometimes you can get free bread at the market; the local grocery stores drop off their “day old” bread there on Mondays and Thursdays. St. Matthews gets their bread from a franchise bread store. I’m glad they don’t throw it away. I’ve never encountered anything that was stale—maybe past the “sell by” date but perfectly edible nonetheless.

A dumpster full of that kind of food, headed for the landfill or the incinerator or wherever, would be a crime. If you don’t think so then you’ve never been really hungry before and good lucky for you! Most of the people in the world know what I’m talking about. Think about it.

The bread we can scrounge makes a fair part of our diet. Any money I gain from employment goes to the rent and ongoing medical bills. Our food budget is almost non-existent but I did fill out an application for food stamps and the clerk said we’d probably get them. There are other charities, churches, and foodbanks around that help with food, thanks to people who care.

I haven’t discounted the common sense it makes to give food to the poor. Starving people tend to do desperate things. Lots of starving people could be a real problem especially if they’re living next to people that have more than plenty. It’s a pretty old story.

The people I see on the street aren’t on this train of thought, however. They pass by, everyone to his own. We all have things to do, I suppose. We all have good days and bad days, trials and tribulations, glory and 15 minutes of fame. It’s another aspect of being outside that helps me get my own troubles into perspective. It’s uplifting.

So I told my boss about Deena and what we’re going through and he told me he was sorry about our misfortune. He also told me he was responsible for making, packaging, and shipping as many brooms as he can every day. He went on to say that when one worker doesn’t come in it starts a ripple effect through the production line that ultimately impacts the bottom line. Boss said he understands the situation and will bend as far as he can but there are others who can do the job for him without added headaches. Boss is a good guy, he should have fired me months ago.

Got a couple bagels at the market! It’s late to be checking these places, they’re mostly picked over with little but scraps left, but these bagels were there and they’re not too hard.

It’s another block to St. Matthews. A gentle breeze off the lake rustles my hair and a wisp gets in my eye. I remove my ball cap, finger comb my hair, then reseat my cap, stray hairs contained for the moment. I look ahead and see the church door is still open, a good sign. There aren’t any people in line, though, not such a good sign.

When I get there I see that it’s over. Not even a mashed cupcake left. I guess I should have gone sooner but I couldn’t leave Deena huddled over the commode dry heaving like some kind of clogged garden hose.

I take a short detour to the lake. The breeze is lifting choppy little wavelets that splash onto the riprap and gabions of the seawall. They just keep coming, again and again, inexorable. I’m leaning with my arms on the galvanized pipe guardrail, hands together with my fingers interlocked and clutching my bagels just looking out over the water. Time passes. It’s a big lake, nothing but water on the horizon. And those little waves keep coming.

Deena and I are going to be okay. The doctor said she’ll fully recover and she has a very good chance of complete remission. We’re both young and strong and, like I said, we’ll get through it. We’re going to be like those little waves, we’re going to keep on coming. I smile and turn back toward the apartment.

Somebody, or something must be looking out for us. Those bagels are the only thing Deena and I will have to eat today.

Story a Day

Memorial

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(Memorial Day Tribute to the Brave)

It’s amazing the things you think of when you don’t have a lot of time. Time’s pretty short for me. I’ve started an action that probably won’t end well. Had to do it, though.

For some reason the first thing I think of is the look on my little brother’s face when he won a gold medal at a grade school track meet. He’d run the 100 yard dash in 10.6 seconds, beating his closest competitor by nearly half a second. I remember his smile as they gave him his medal at the award ceremony. It was an easy smile, not terribly joyous or strained, just an easy smile that spoke of a new found confidence, and he was standing a little straighter.

I remember thinking ‘there goes little brother.’ There were two of us guys and a sister older than Benj in our family. How much that moment meant for him, how much that little personal victory would shape his life. I loved him for it because I knew how he felt, I was ‘little brother’ too. I was happy for him.

There was this dog I ran over with my car. That was pretty sad.

The roller coaster was almost at the top of the metal hill. Everyone waiting for the exhilarating drop from the crest. And it comes! Screams of hysterical laughter, mom right behind us yelling like a banshee just like everyone else. Colors—yellow, red, chartreuse, sky blue, orange, chlorophyll green, indigo, all swirl and pinwheel by as the plummeting coaster passes through the carnival scene in humid mid summer. Cotton candy and funnel cake, frying sausage and onions, redolent and wafting. King’s Dominion was it? Yeah, King’s Dominion.

So I put my tassel on the left side. I had graduated from High School. So now what? I should join the Army and get that over with while I’m still young, I thought. Get an education afterwards. Funny, how I was so practical about it. I had my future all mapped out and it looked pretty rosy!

Sarah Jenson was so beautiful. I remember staring at her in class. I couldn’t help myself, the curve of her cheek, the satiny luster of her skin, her lips so smooth and graceful when she smiled, her hair fine and the color of dark honey, her smell—was that what ambrosia smells like?

It was night and we made camp at the public campground. Pretty nice, really, rest rooms with showers, cast iron grills and fire pits. We had the bikes all chained up to an oak tree and pitched our tents nearby. I wondered at the fun we were having. Everyone pitching in to get where we were going, only a big circle but so worth the trip. A fire under the stars and I remember looking at all those unbelievably hopeful, optimistic faces, firelight dancing with dreams. How could the world do without anyone of us?

And dad said, “you okay?”

“I think so,” I replied and got up from the ground, a rouge scrape on my knee just beginning to show tiny dark crimson pinpoints. I picked up the bike. The handlebar was off center so I straddled the front wheel and wrenched the bar a little in the right direction. Checked it, gave it another little wrench, checked again, then said, “What am I doing wrong?”

“Trying too hard if anything,” dad said.

And now I’m landing on that grenade, just like I planned. Kevlar might save me. You guys live good full lives, okay? Make this worth something, okay? Shoulda said something to Sarah . . .

Story a Day

Gemini Virgins

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They threw the young virgin down at the feet of the High Priest. Defiant, she sprang to her feet only to meet a soldier’s truncheon that knocked her again to the floor. Black dots and stars impaired her vision as she struggled to her hands and knees, her swaying head hanging as she regained her senses.

“Stay down,” a soldier hissed from behind.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul, resplendent in a carnelian silk toga, stood before a throne on a circular dais three steps above the young girl. “You would do well to behave, young lady,” he said, “I’m told you’re a virgin.” He looked over to one of the two guards behind her and said, “She’s been checked, right?” The guard nodded.

The priest looked down, a grim, tight lipped smile on his hawkish face. “Yes, you’d do well to behave,” he said, “I’m going to offer you a wonderful opportunity.”

She raised her head, seeing first his sandaled feet, the thongs looked like woven gold, then the red drape of his toga covering his skeletal frame, then the severe narrow face on his hairless head wearing a ludicrous gold onion dome headpiece. She would have laughed but wasn’t really feeling very funny at the moment. Indeed, she was fairly pissed off. She sat back on her knees, poker faced, and said nothing.

“Nothing to say? Don’t you want to know why you’ve been brought here? What’s your name?” the priest asked.

She glared at him, “drop dead.”

His smile widened, progress—she’s talking, he thought. “What harm will it do to tell me your name?”

The guard prodded her with the butt end of his ceremonial lance. Answer!” he growled.

Sullen, “Wyx.”

The priest grinned, she noticed he had bad teeth. “Ah, Wyx,” he said unctuously, “was that so hard?” Dropping his hands, he gathered his toga and sat back into the ornate golden chair. “You’ve heard of the Gemini Virgins?”

“Sure,” she said, “everybody has. Those are the poor bitches you sacrifice to that god you worship.”

“Moul forgive you,” the priest said, tipping his head slightly and touching his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “The Gemini are twins, my dear,” he said, “one twin is sacrificed to Moul and the other gets to serve our priests and bear our children, a great honor I might add. Female children automatically become Gemini, males become our priests. You probably know that.”

“Why would I want to have any part in your stupid religion?” she snarled.

A benign expression came over the priest. “It’s a good life. We take care of our own quite well. By keeping the Order ‘all in the family,’ so to speak, we’ve managed to maintain dominion over this world for more than a century.”

“Ha! Good for you, eh?” Wyx fairly spit the words at him. “Meanwhile the rest of us pay your ‘tithe’ or starve, right?”

“Oh, you have that wrong,” said the priest, his eyes narrowing, “our followers pay the tithe because they believe!”

“Believe or starve, you mean.”

The priest tried mightily to suppress a yawn, which he hid behind the back of his hand, and sighed, “You will be a Gemini.” He arched his brow and his nostrils flared slightly, “What I need to know right now is which part you will play, a believer and lifetime servant of the Order, or the sacrifice to Moul. Choose!”

“Any religion that forces you to believe on pain of death sucks,” Wyx said, “and can’t possibly be anything good. You suck, your church sucks, everything about you sucks!” She spit at him right before the guard hit her with the club again.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul casually waved, flexing his fingertips with a sweeping motion, “Take her. You know what to do.”

Story a Day

Evident

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He could feel the sun almost directly overhead. He mopped his brow with an already damp red paisley handkerchief, stuffed the cloth into a back pocket and knelt. In front of him was a large mound of threshed wheat that he was winnowing before it could be ground into flour at the mill down by the stream.

With a big coffee can he put a couple scoops of wheat into the woven bamboo basket he was using. He stood up and with a quick upward motion tossed the wheat into the air. A light breeze that was always present on the knoll where he was working wafted dust, grit, and other detritus from the grain downwind. There was a thick carpet of chaff on the ground extending in that direction.

After several tosses he put his fingers into the wheat in the basket, ran some lightly between his thumb and fingers. He gave the wheat a few more tosses, repeated his test, then dumped the wheat onto a growing pile of grains ready for the mill.

He heard a small voice behind him. “Papo,” it said. It was Andalisha, his granddaughter. “Mumu says come in, it’s lunchtime.”

“Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.” He dropped the basket at his feet and reached out to find Andy’s left arm right where he expected it. Papo had been blinded 20 years ago fighting a fire at a neighbor’s farm. An almost empty kerosene can had exploded, spraying his face with shrapnel and fire.

She led him down the hill toward the stone cottage next to the mill. She was unusually quiet today, ordinarily she would talk his ear off. He reached over and touched her cheek and felt a wet track. “You’ve been crying,” he observed, “Why so sad?”

“Sendru is going to the harvest celebration with Idris,” she said bitterly. “He doesn’t even like Idris. She’s doing it just to get at me, I know it. She knows how I feel about him.”

“Ohh, I see,” the old man said.

“He’s already told me he doesn’t like her or her family,” she pouted, “and now he’s going to the grange with her. And he won’t even talk to me about it. I’ve asked him several times and all he says is, ‘later,’ and he walks away.”

The Conrads, Idris’s parents, were satraps for the local warlord and they owned the mill. In fact, they owned nearly everything in the valley. Andalisha’s father, Papo’s son, operated the mill for the Conrads. He wasn’t exactly tied to the land or the job, he could pick up and leave if he wanted but leaving in these troubled times wasn’t a very good idea. There was nowhere to go where it was different. His tacit serfdom, tantamount to the real thing, kept him and everyone else in the valley under the thumbs of the Conrads.

Over a century ago the Great Collapse, caused by a worm infecting the Internet that ruined the infrastructure of anything connected to it, knocked civilization back to the middle ages. With the cities in flames and most of their inhabitants dead fighting each other during the meltdown, the remnants of civilization, rural survivors mostly, degenerated into isolated pockets of Medieval feudalism. Warlords and their henchmen control large geographic areas and are always at each other’s throats—dark days indeed.

“Sendru may not have any choice, you know,” Papo said. “He must obey the Conrads. They can easily give his family’s farm to someone else to work and there would be nothing they could do about it.”

Andalisha had never thought about politics or power before, her naiveté nonplussed. She wrinkled her brow and said softly, “You mean they told Sendru he had to take Idris to the celebration or they would hurt him and his family?”

Papo could see the furrows between her eyebrows in spite of his handicap. Her voice didn’t sound so quite so childish as it did 5 minutes ago. “I’m afraid so, child,” he said.

Andalisha, deep in thought, led her grandfather across the yard to the cottage’s Dutch door in silence. Before she opened the door she turned to her grandfather and gravely said, “That’s not right.”

With a tight, humorless smile Papo shook his head. He said wearily, “and so it isn’t, child. But so it will remain until someone changes it.”

The young girl’s eyes became slits under her lowered brows as she digested her epiphany. “Ohh, I see,” she said.

Story a Day

What Goes Around

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Ha! I thought as I escaped with my prize. No one saw me pick up the gig bag and there was no one in the parking lot outside Turbo Mike’s Bar and Grille. I got into my beat up old washed out blue Ford Escort and drove home. I was thinking I could probably get maybe $50 to $100 for the bag’s contents. That harp player wasn’t that good anyway so now he has a good excuse to quit. Not a big score but it would help the wheels keep turning a little longer.

Stopped at a minute market for some cigs and lit one after getting back into the car. I blew out that first puff then reached over and unzipped the bag. Along with a mess of wires, there were 3 mics, all Shures, not top shelf but durable and reliable. In a long case were a dozen or so harmonicas, most of them Blues Harps, a Hohner industry standard. To buy that stuff new would run about $500 but the most I could hope for from a black marketeer would be maybe a fifth of that.

How do I know? Some time ago, when I was young and innocent, I was leaving a bar while the band was moving their equipment. They were all inside at the moment and I saw one of the guitar cases leaning against the trailer, out of sight of the doorway and the rest of the bar. I was in a fairly desperate state then, I barely had enough to buy a couple beers, so I gave in to the temptation and snatched it. Heavier than I anticipated but I walked it around the corner to my car and made a clean getaway.

Inside the form fit case was a 1958 gold top Les Paul, and though I didn’t know it at the time the antique guitar was worth a small fortune. I found that out when I took it to a friend of mine in Arkansas who collects guitars and he forked over $1500 without blinking. Just by the way, I found out later I got robbed, it was worth at least five times that amount then, astronomical today.

Well, anyways, I had found a new and lucrative career and I ran with it. You can make a pretty good living ripping off garage bands in the organized confusion that goes along with moving equipment. And the take is usually pretty good. Garage, basement amateurs usually throw money at their musicianship; they have regular jobs and more money than they know what to do with. So they often have expensive instruments they don’t have the wherewithal—skill or talent—to use. They don’t sound any better on a $4,000 bass than they would on the $150 special because they can’t really play the thing to begin with. All the better for me, the prizes have been good!

I took one of the harps out of the bag. It was a Marine Band Hohner and it had an “A” stamped to one side. I blew on it and liked the sound. I put it down in the car’s console and zipped up the bag. Actually got $150 for the bag and its contents when I sold it to a “friend.”

Not too long ago I finally got caught stealing a power stack. Probably should have passed on it but it was the only opportunity I had that night. I needed the money so I gave it a shot. The thing was on wheels and weighed about 150 pounds. Bet you could hear it rolling across the parking lot halfway down the street. Anyways, they threw me into county lockup where I languished for the better part of a year.

Thing is, I had that old harp with me, I used to blow on it from time to time. It relaxes me in a way. While I was in the can I began to practice on it. I got pretty damn good pretty quick. I amazed myself. One of the other inmates played guitar pretty good and we’d get some good jams going. We were a big hit with the other guys, they said we were “headhunters.”

Since then me and the guitar player have been quite successful doing local gigs. People leave our gigs raving about how ‘unbelievable’ we are. They can’t believe we get that much music out of a guitar and a harmonica. Frankly, it was a new experience for me, I was actually earning my living instead of stealing it. It has made me feel pretty good. There’s something to be said for deserving what you get in life—at least when you get good things.

It’s funny the things you remember.

So, here’s the thing. Me and the guitar player are here in New York City for a showcase performance. Showcase entry fee was $500. We’re sure to meet key people, agents, managers, promoters, who will take us to the next level. We’re scheduled to go on next but I’m afraid it’s not going to happen. We may or may not get this opportunity again, who knows?

Somebody stole my damn gig bag and no one else here plays harmonica.

Story a Day

Iniquitous

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Dark, ugly smoke came through the cracks around the windows, curled upward, rappelled around the soffits then sublimated across the slate shingles, wispy tendrils reaching into the damp morning air like so many undulating fingers. Through a bay window to the right of the front door, inside toward the rear of the house, a fierce, coruscating red glow could be seen in spite of the murky smoke inside.

Suddenly something inside exploded with a huge Kcerrrrummmppp!!! and the front door blew off its hinges and out into the street. All the windows in the house sent flying glass shrapnel in every direction. With the fire open to the air the beautiful, rustic stone rancher almost immediately became fully engulfed in flame.

My great grandfather, in his twenties at the time, stood there with his arm around Grama and they watched their home burn. At about the same time the local volunteers pulled up with a team of horses lugging a fire pump.

Chief Wilson jumped down and ran over to him. A couple of the other men began to unlimber hoses while the rest tossed sandbags into the small stream near the house, damming a pool to feed the pump.

Removing his helmet and wiping his brow, the fire chief said, “Looks like we’re too late, Jim.”

“Yeah, but we all got out,” great grandfather said. “That’s the important thing. I think the furnace just blew.”

The fire totally destroyed the comfy home, the slate roof finally collapsing into the stone shell, which smoldered for more than a week. Great Grampa and Grama, and Shamus, their golden retriever, were offered and gratefully took shelter at their closest neighbors, the Nicholsons, just down the road. The Nicholson’s turned their family room over to Great Grama and Grampa and told them they could stay there for as long as they needed.

Two weeks later, on a Friday, all the businesses in town closed at noon and every able bodied man, woman, and child went to Great Grama and Grampa’s house and began to clear away the mess. And they came for the long haul. Wagons laden with new construction materials arrived and everyone, each to their talent and skill, pitched in. By Sunday night Great Grama and Grampa’s house was rebuilt and ready to use. That’s how they did it in the old days.

At least that’s how my grandfather used to tell the story. I always thought it wonderful how his friends and neighbors got together to help his father. All the more pertinent now as I watch my own home burn to the ground. Like Great Grama and Grampa we all got out, so we’ve been lucky that way. Still, it’s hard to watch everything for which you’ve been working for years go up in smoke.

Sandra Bulk, my insurance agent, picking her way carefully over hoses going this way and that on the lawn, gets up to me and, ruefully shaking her head, says, “I was watching 50 Shades of Grey when you called. I dropped everything and came right away!” She looked at what was left of my house. “Looks like it’s too late to save anything.” I tell her we all got out and that’s the important thing.

“I was talking to the Chief,” she says. “We might have a problem.”

“Ohh?”

“It seems the flooded creek undercut part of your back yard and dropped your fuel tank about 8 inches. The broken fuel line and the shorted pump circuit are what apparently started your fire.” She was most apologetic, “Since flood waters caused the damage to your house—and you don’t have flood insurance—you’re not covered for this.”

I almost fell down. “What?!” I say, flabbergasted. “I’ve been paying that stiff premium for 18 years and now that I need it, you’re telling me I’m screwed? Lady, my HOUSE just burned down. What does that have to do with floods?”

“I’m afraid that’s it,” she says. “Of course the fire marshal will investigate but the chief said it’s pretty obvious what happened.”

“And there’s no way you can help us?” I ask, not believing what I’m hearing. “What can we do?”

“Well,” she says, “at least there’s the Red Cross. There’s nothing I can do for you. Get some flood insurance next time—I have several policies available.” She fairly backs away from me for a short distance. “I’m sorry,” she says, then turns to go finish watching her movie.

Story a Day

What’s In a Name?

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“Ohhh! I got one!” Darin said as he splashed in the creek bed. With both hands he tossed the dripping flat rock he was holding downstream where it was swallowed, gulped, by the chuckling brook. “Look, it’s a big one!”

While looking intently into the water at his feet, Darin suddenly raised an open palm and cried, “Don’t stir it up! We’ll lose it.”

Mik had begun to plod down through the creek but, realizing his mistake, got up on the bank. He crossed to where Darin was standing. “There it is,” Darin said, pointing a dark finger at something under the surface.

It was motionless, but Mik saw it there. “Let’s catch it,” he whispered, like it was some kind of great conspiracy.

“Don’t let it pinch you. That one’s big enough to hurt,” Darin said.

It was a crawfish, a very dark crawfish. “Ha,” Mik laughed, “It’s a nigga crawdad.”

“Hey, ya blue eyed devil, did ya ever see a cracker crawdad?” his friend said. Thus began the routine that had become, in one form or another, almost a ritual between them.

“There ain’t no white crawdads,” Mik said. “Only niggas in this stream it seems.”

Darin frowned with deep wrinkles in his forehead, “You’re not allowed to say that word, whitie. Now I’ve got to kick your ass.”

“Just a minute, partner” Mik said, holding up his hand with the stop motion. “Why can’t I say that word? You say it all the time. Dag, we can go up on the street and in less than five minutes some noisy ass car will go by with the singer singin’. ‘nigga, nigga, nigga!’”

“Doesn’t count,” Darin said, “that’s black music and black people are allowed to say nigga.”

“But what if it’s a white guy driving the car? Is he sayin’ nigga or is it the record artist sayin’ it?”

“Alls I know is that white people aren’t allowed to say ‘nigger,’” Darin retorted with an arch look.

“So I’m not allowed to say nigga because of the color of my skin? I have to be afraid to say something—because of the color of my skin?”

Darin smiled and they both said together, laughing, “. . . Isn’t that just exactly what black folks have been pissing and moaning about for the last couple hundred years?”

Darin and Mik met during a rainy day when they were both about 5 years old; they both lived on the fourth floor in the same building. Their parents weren’t real chummy with each other, sociable but not overly friendly. The two boys, however, found they had plenty to talk about, liked each other’s toys, didn’t mind sharing, and, in general, really hit it off. They’d been fast friends ever since.

“So when do you want to kick my ass?” Mik asked, grinning.

With a lightning move Darin reached down, splashing, and captured the crawdad. He laughed as he stood up, his catch in his hand. He chuckled and shrugged, “I’ll do it tomorrow—besides, we got bigger fish to fry, like what are we gonna do with this here nigga crawdad?”