No Fly List

“I’m in the airport,” I realize as blood is running down the side of my face onto the cold linoleum floor.  Everything is blurry, even the sounds swirling around me, but I begin to put things together.  I was there trying to get to Pittsburgh to visit some old friends.  I was travelling without my family for the first time in years, so I took my carry-on straight to security and stood in line judging the other travelers.  Watching them unload their pockets, I imagine which of them is hiding something.  When an exhausted young couple suddenly left the line to tend to their child’s spontaneous nosebleed, I saw him. 

A beefy man-child wearing flip-flops, cargo shorts, and an old t-shirt stood there sweating.  The shirt read, “Dying Fetus,” on the front and pictured a cartoon fetus out of an old medical pamphlet.  As the smell of his feet during a three-hour flight filled my nose, he turned around to reveal the back of his shirt, which read, “Warfare Forever.” 

“That’s the one,” I thought. 

My guess was he had at least two homemade daggers in the side pockets of his cargo shorts and a manifesto tattooed on his belly.  I couldn’t wait to watch as the TSA agents took him down in a wave of overbearing fury.  Instead, he tipped an imaginary cap to the grouch running the checkpoint and cruised through casually.  “Anyone else see that?” I wondered suspiciously.  As I filed into the threat detector, the machine scanning what I assumed was someone else’s bag began to whistle and shriek.  “Here we go!” I said in delighted anticipation.  Lights and sirens closed in around me and a battalion of troops appeared out of the shadows.

“You!” a booming voice commanded.  “Step to the side!”  I panicked and squealed, “I didn’t do it!”  A pair of agents ushered me away, but when I thought we’d stop for a frisk-and-chat, the men kept going out of the main security area and down a hallway I’d never seen.  “Um, what’s going on, Your Honors?” I asked.  “We’re going to have to ask you some questions,” they answered in unison.  They pulled me into a small, spare room, locked the door behind me, and stood there flanking the door silently.  I didn’t know what to do with my hands.  “Sit!” they barked.  I did.  The bare bulb hanging over the table felt like a heat lamp on my face as I tried desperately to look innocent and not fidget, sweat forming on my brow.  I was frozen in a movie scene when the door opened again, and a third agent entered formidably carrying my bag.

She set the bag down on the table, opened it, then closed it again before I could get a look.  “You want to tell me why you’re here?” she asked through a glare.  “You’ll never get me to sing, Copper, cause I’m innocent, see?” I shouted in a bad 1920s affect.  My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I recoiled from my nervous outburst.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m just new to this.  I honestly have no idea what’s going on.”  I broke off as I remembered the gifts I brought for my friends’ kids, packed hastily in my carry-on. 

“I think this is a big misunderstanding,” I pleaded. 

“Why are you trying to sneak a weapon onto my airplane?” she yelled in my face.

“It’s just a toy, I swear!”

The woman slapped me so hard across the face, my eyes welled up.  “Answer me!!” she insisted.

“It’s from Despicable Me, the animated movie, starring the incomparable Steve Carell.  Or The Minions, maybe.  I’m not really sure, but in whichever movie it’s featured, the minions use it to spray farts on people.  This one just makes noises.  It’s a fart guuun—a toot generator, that is.  I brought it to give to my friends’ kid.”  The agents looked at each other then back at me.  “Give it to whom?  Were you planning to pass the weapon to another passenger?” she asked threateningly.  She slapped me again, but half-heartedly.  “It’s not a weapon,” I repeated.  “It’s a toy.  It makes toot noises when you…push the finger-button on the front of the grip.”

“The trigger?” she asked.

“I don’t think I would call it that, no.  If you’ll allow me, I’ll demonstrate the toot.”

“You want me to hand you the weapon so you can pull the trigger and show me what happens?  Are you threatening me, Sir?”

I began to cry.  The agent in charge looked back at her minions by the door who shook their heads to dissuade her, but she pulled the fart gun out of the bag and gave it a hard look.  With her eyes trained fixedly through mine, she pointed the fart gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

A long, cartoonish but realistic toot noise echoed through the room loudly in the dripping silence.  “Get him outta here,” she ordered, disappointedly.  They put the fart gun back in my bag and shoved me out into the hallway.  I pulled my phone from my pocket and called my wife.

“You will never believe what just happened to me,” I began loudly.  “The TSA just stopped me for trying to sneak a gun on the plane!”  I paused as she guessed exactly what had happened.  “Yeah, I guess I got away with it!” I said with an ironic sneer.

Picking myself up off the floor a little and dabbing at the blood still running down the side of my head, I can see the guy in the “Dying Fetus” shirt proudly leading a group of TSA agents in my direction, judging me.

-          Written for “The Wrong Time to be Proud”

---

Sherlock

Sherlock had difficulty making friends.  He was small for his age and afraid of almost everything.  His greatest fear was social interaction, so Sherlock spent his youth with his mother, who worried about him constantly.  Where Sherlock differed from other awkward mother’s-boys was that he was an excellent athlete.  His early physical education teachers were bewildered by the extraordinary abilities hiding behind his diffidence.  Typically, a kid that can hit a homerun and dunk a basketball in junior high is the star of the team.  Sherlock, on the other hand, was too likely to cry in the middle of the game.  A coach in high school tried to recruit a larger, inexplicably muscular Sherlock, but when approached, he threw up and ran to complain to the school counselor. 

Fortunately, Sherlock was also a gifted student.  He excelled in physics and quietly earned a scholarship to a school not far from home.  One night in college, a group of frat boys were passing the lab as Sherlock was leaving, when the largest of them complemented his bicycle.  Assuming they were planning to beat him up or steal his bike, Sherlock shrieked and threw the bike at the approaching hulk.  Confused, upset, and drunk, the group surrounded Sherlock and begin pushing him back and forth.  Sherlock surprised everyone when he kicked the ringleader ten feet back into a dumpster.  He grabbed his book bag, jumped seven feet in the air over the charging group, and sprinted away with the speed of a fighter jet.  He stopped only a few blocks away feeling nauseous.  Naturally, he worried something was wrong with him and carefully went home to consult with Mother and hide under the bed.

When he emerged, Sherlock decided to begin experimenting with his abilities in his spare time.  While learning he could run seventy miles an hour, jump fifty feet in the air, and lift over two thousand pounds, he struggled to balance his scientific curiosity with his fear and insecurity.  He frequently sobbed and was consumed with worry that he would lose control of his body or get noticed.  He woke up one morning hovering eight feet above his bed but refused to test his ability to fly.  When he discovered he was able to temporarily turn himself into a liquid, he fell into a deep depression and wouldn’t leave his room for weeks. 

He thought of inventing a secret identity, but he had never been much of a costume person.  He was too modest for tights and too subdued for a cape.  The idea of a mask had its appeal, but ultimately Sherlock knew there was no better way to hide than to be himself.  Also, any further experiments were out of the question.  The risks, as he always found, far-outweighed the benefits.  Sherlock had no idea why he had superhuman abilities, but he wanted no part of it and went back to his life in the lab.  He was awarded a research grant by a private firm in his hometown and bought a house on his mother’s street so he could stop over and visit every Saturday.

-          Written for “Tuning Out Physics”

The Graduate

“I’ve got an idea.  Let’s have a match fight,” Leo suggested hopefully.  “I’m listening,” Matt said, perking up as he stared into the bottom of his solo cup.  “We each take one of those boxes of strike-anywhere matches over there by the stove, and we use them in an epic, boredom-destroying battle,” Leo explained.  Matt smile wryly and stepped over to the keg.  “That sounds just stupid enough to be fun,” he said, “but I have two questions before we begin.  One, how do we decide who wins?  And two, do we have to leave Amanda’s kitchen?”  Leo grabbed a box of matches and answered, “If you have to ask these questions, you might as well surrender now!”  Leo struck a match on the counter and threw it at Matt in one expert maneuver.  Matt sprung to life, dodging the attack, and leaving the match to brown the linoleum floor as he grabbed the other box of matches and let out an exaggerated war cry.

The battle was intense, though most of the damage was inflicted on the kitchen itself.  People at the party began cheering, screaming, laughing, and yelling at the two as matches flew across the room.  It wasn’t long before Amanda, the unsuspecting host of the party came running into the kitchen in a panic.  Unfortunately, she ran through the kitchen door and straight into a flaming match sailing through the air towards Matt.  It landed surely in Amanda’s hair, which caught on fire immediately.  Amanda’s rather large boyfriend quickly extinguished the flames and chased Leo and Matt out the door and halfway down the street in a rage.

As they wandered on towards their own house, Matt and Leo laughed as they caught their breath and appraised their wounds.  “That could have gone better, but in a way, she should be thanking us,” Leo said.  “I mean, she’ll be telling that story for years.”  Matt poked his finger through a hole in his shirt.  “What should we do tomorrow?” he asked.  Leo kicked a newspaper lying on the sidewalk and said, “I don’t know.  I might just take it easy.  I’m not sure I can take another graduation party.”  Matt objected, “Come on, Man!  A guy I know from work is having a cookout in the afternoon.  They’re renting a projection screen to watch the baseball game and there will be a ton of food and beer.  Just come with me to that and see how it goes.”  Leo nodded and said, “Man, you really burned my shoulder.”

As they pulled up to the party the next day, Leo got an idea.  “Nobody here knows me, so whatever I say, just go along with it,” he said as he and Matt got out of the car.  “Okay, but remember most of these people are from work, so try not to get me fired.”  After eating some surprisingly good brisket and quickly getting bored with the baseball game, Leo began to mingle.  He got creative about who he was and what his plans were for after graduation.  After claiming to be everything from a fly-fishing guide to a Harvard med student, he finally came back around to Matt and his co-workers. 

When Matt’s friend Colette asked what his plans were, Leo asked, “Do you know how the cooking instructions for frozen meals always leave the food either cold in the middle or dry and alien in texture?” Colette and Matt nodded, and Matt smiled just a bit.  “Well, I’ve been in the process of finding a solution.  I’ve found that by adjusting the cook times and introducing a combination of venting, stirring, defrosting, and rotating the dish in just the right procedure, I can microwave anything perfectly,” he continued.  “That’s actually true!” Matt added.  “I’ve started my own consulting firm that provides both the culinary expertise and technical writing needed to update the packaging on frozen foods and revolutionize the industry,” Leo added convincingly. 

“That is so crazy!” Colette shouted.  “Maybe to you,” Leo replied, “but it’s my calling.”  Colette shook her head and clarified, “No, I mean it’s crazy because my girlfriend’s dad works for Stoeffer’s and she just took a job for him in the marketing department!  I know she would be glad to setup a meeting.  It could be good for both of you.”  Leo glanced at Matt and then agreed.  “I’ll have Matt give you my info on Monday, thanks!  Great party, by the way.” 

When Leo showed up to the Stouffer’s meeting a few weeks later, he had grown quite passionate about his idea and was desperate to close the deal.  When he sat down at the conference room table with the marketing team, however, Amanda immediately stood up yelling, “No, no, no!  Not this guy!” She went on to describe the graduation party at her apartment where Leo and Matt had drunkenly destroyed her kitchen and started her hair on fire.  “I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time,” she concluded. “If I would have known it was him, I never would have setup this meeting, no matter how inspired his ideas for our Turkey and Gravy.”

Leo tried to argue his case, but it was over before it started.  The marketing team basically ignored him after that, consoling Amanda as she fussed with her new haircut.  He made some weak apologies and retreated to his car. Sometimes it’s not what you know, but who knows you.

-          Written for “Bored at Parties”

T-Bone

At St. John’s Academy in Kansas City, Thomas Bohnsky is known simply as T-Bone.  As a young child and through most of elementary school, he had been called Tommy.  Tommy was an average kid, apart from having lost his mother at a young age.  He spent most of his time outside of school riding his BMX bike around the neighborhood with his friends, playing sports, and running free without getting into too much trouble.

Towards the end of fifth grade, the boys on his baseball team started calling him Bohnsky.  He found that he enjoyed having a nickname, even if it was just his last name, so he began introducing himself that way to encourage it.  Bohnsky felt more mature and was ready to move on to middle school, no longer considered little Tommy. 

During that summer before his sixth-grade year at St. John’s, Bohnsky decided to choose music as his fine arts elective and told his dad he intended to learn the trombone like his late mother.  He didn’t tell any of his friends about it, so when he showed up at the bus stop on the first day of school carrying the faded old trombone case, it was all anyone could talk about.  Bohnsky was well-liked, but he still took a little grief about it as the bus rattled its way to St. John’s.  As the boys filed lazily off the bus and into the crowd of students waiting outside the school, Bohnsky’s friend Archer finally pieced things together.  From that moment on, Tommy Bohnsky, who played the trombone, would be universally referred to as T-Bone. 

Unfortunately for T-Bone, he genuinely hated his new nickname, so that moment effectively changed who he was entirely.  Not all at once, but note by note and piece by piece, he would be torn down and rebuilt through the torment of his unwanted nickname.  It started right then, as he told Archer and his other friends he didn’t want to be called T-Bone.  Naturally, they argued the obvious case, over-sold the charm of such a perfect nickname, and insisted he would have to live with it.  T-Bone lashed out at his friends as he never had, said horrible and only partially true things about each of them, and claimed to never want to speak to any of them again. 

When his music teacher learned his name, he also lit up and made an announcement to the band, anointing Tommy henceforth as T-Bone.  Again, the band was delighted and many of the other students were envious of the nickname.  T-Bone, however, was mortified and stormed out.  Kids in the hall curiously watched T-Bone marching past with his trombone and laughed at him.  When a teacher stopped him to ask where he was going, he noticed all the attention he was getting and furiously threw the trombone into a trophy case before running away.

Tommy, in the span of only days, had gone from a likeable baseball player full of youthful hope, to a social outcast left with seasoned angst and a reputation for hilarious vandalism.  He quit the band and retreated into the shadows as much as he was able to.  Occasionally, someone would call him T-Bone at the wrong time or place, and T-Bone would unleash a beating so severe he’d get suspended from school.

His father would sign the disciplinary notes and meet with the principal apologetically.  He felt bad for Tommy and was the only one that truly understood what he was going through.  Tommy’s mother had been killed when he was in first grade.  Her station wagon was crushed from the side when the driver of a refrigerated truck full of steaks had fallen asleep and ran a red light.  Tommy really hated that nickname.

-          Written for “unfortunate Nickname”

The Gift

Shopping for my dad was never easy, in many respects.  When he was a boy, rather than making a Christmas wish list, he started making lists of gifts he didn’t want.  It was sweet, in a way, as he meant to say he would be happy with almost anything, with a few minor exceptions.  His first list, I have been told was quite simple, including only Barbies, socks, and Tinker Toys.  My dad was more of a Lincoln Logs man.  As the years went on, the list grew more and more detailed and lost its innocent charm.

By the time he was a teenager, the list was several pages long and began to include gifts he did not wish to receive again.  Some entries were hurtfully specific, like “the sweater Aunt Jane gave me for my fifteenth birthday”.  It became common for him to keep the list with him while opening presents—something he continued to do through my childhood, when the list had grown into more of a book.  If you bought something that was in the book, he would point out by memory the exact page where it was listed, smile, and say, “I’m only showing you this because I love you.”

The worst-case scenario was a gift that inspired an immediate addition to the book.  While he was never mean or openly ungrateful for anything, the mere sight of his pen and that book was a failure that stung every time.  On the other hand, when the book remained closed and Dad was happy, it was a thrilling victory.  Dad was an otherwise affable, charismatic, and charming person, so everyone genuinely sought his approval.  He gave thoughtful and generous gifts himself, so his persnickety and unconventional perspective represented by the book was rarely challenged.

One Christmas, when my uncle Jeff’s family were in town, my cousin Harry refused to buy Dad a gift in protest of the book and the associated pressure to please him.  When it was his turn to give Dad his gift, Harry panicked and said he’d left it at home.  Dad looked Harry in the eye for what seemed like five minutes, opened the book, and wrote “LIES” in large capital letters.  Though he smiled as he closed the book, Harry was ashamed and never made the same mistake.

Avoiding the list only grew more difficult, but we learned some reliable ways to minimize the risk.  A good book, for example, was a fine option.  If it was not already in his library and the synopsis on the back cover seemed like something Dad would enjoy, it would avoid any immediate embarrassment.  There were other things Dad believed a person could never have too many of, like a nice fountain pen or a handsome pair of sunglasses.  As a family, we certainly put that theory to the test.  Cash, checks, and gift cards, however, were strictly forbidden.  As noted on page seven, one should not give the gift of shopping.

Perhaps the greatest key to success was Mom.  We had to be careful, because she was called on for ideas by so many of us that she couldn’t help repeating ideas, but she did her best and often came through in a jam.  She was also kind enough to provide insider information on books or records we might be considering.  We were rarely allowed in Dad’s office, even as adults, so it was difficult to check his inventory without her help.  After Mom died, we had to invent reasons to stop by and casually investigate.  That increased the urge to buy Dad things we found he needed, which turned out to be a dangerous game.

My brother stopped by to give Dad some batteries after seeing one of his smoke detectors on the counter, and Dad added “household items” to the book as an entire category.  The batteries weren’t even meant as a gift, but the damage was done.  A few days after Easter in 1979, he ate some chocolates Harry had mailed him.  When he reached for his insulin to counteract his rising blood sugar, his supply was empty.  He was found the next day, still sitting in his chair with the book in his hand.

At the funeral, I was asked to read something Dad had prepared.  He started off by saying he hoped no one had gone to the trouble of bringing him a gift, which drew a laugh from the crowded church.  He hoped I would keep the book, and that people might flip through it from time to time when they came to visit.  Truthfully, Dad explained, he had been delighted with nearly every gift he had ever been given.  The book became his way of showing us not only more about who he was, but things that were important to him.  Think of those you love.  Do your best to get to know people.  Be as generous as you can be.  Call your Mother.  I don’t know how much of that was true, or for how long, because most of the time the book certainly seemed self-interested.  Either way, it was a clever way to provide a legacy. 

-          Written for “Don’t-Buy-Me-This List”

The Only Places You'll Go

My first travel guide article was for Texas Monthly.  I did five hundred words on “Things to do in Amarillo on your way to Colorado.”  My family and I happened to be driving to Colorado Springs, and a friend from journalism school needed a favor.  We rolled into town in the early evening on a Sunday, and our options were limited.  We stayed at an unexpectedly nice Embassy Suites across the street from the minor league baseball stadium, which was hosting a regional livestock show and rodeo.  There were only two restaurants open—a steakhouse and a barbeque joint.  The piece pretty much wrote itself.  The editor said she liked how oddly specific it was and the “you have no other option” angle.  I meant it literally in that case, but she saw it as a hook, so I ran with it. 

I started writing articles on all kinds of random places.  When work sends you to Shawnee, Oklahoma, on a Thursday in the dead of winter, there’s only one place to go.  If you suspect your wife is having an affair and you follow her to Dimebox, Texas, during their crawfish festival, you absolutely MUST stay at this rustic motel. 

I kept it within a reasonable driving distance at first, but before long, I began requesting plane tickets and expense money to expand my work across the country.  For a time, I would try several popular restaurants, multiple activities with a local flavor, and choose a short list of notable things to see while in town.  I tried to ensure I was providing legitimate insights, even in the context of my stylistic constraints.

I enjoyed those days as long as possible, but it grew exhausting.  Once I felt I had established a reputation for consistently trustworthy recommendations, I began to cut corners.  For example, I went to Truckee, California, near Lake Tahoe to write a piece I’d submit to Outdoor Life and wrote the entire article based on two conversations I had in my first thirty minutes in town.  I asked the old lady at the hotel’s reception desk to tell me the most popular places to eat.  After that, I walked to the 711 and a scruffy local washing his clothes in the parking lot gave me a list of things to do outdoors that didn’t involve driving over to the lake.  I ended up with a unique piece called “How to make the best of it when your car breaks down twenty-five miles from Lake Tahoe and you don’t get paid until next Friday”.

The main hiccup in my considerably more relaxed approach came when I couldn’t find anyone to provide any useful ideas or properly describe them.  If all I could get was “Fridays” or “Dave and Busters”, I’d have to venture out like the old days.  It wasn’t long before I lost my sense of direction entirely and the quality of my work declined. 

A piece instructing where to go when work is scarce and you can’t afford champagne in Champaign, Illinois, was the low point.  I suggested in that situation the only place to go was a drive-in movie theater that, while non-operational, still “allowed” visitors for street fighting.  After that, you limp over to the tiny library on West 81st Street, then crash a house party at a kid named Aaron’s house.  Work slowed after that, and I grew bored at home telling my wife and kids how to spend their time.

When I told my wife she just had to check out a new gym in midtown, a day spa down the street, and a boutique on the west side, she strongly recommended the couch and a family lawyer.  I committed to turning things around.  Not for my family so much, but for my career.

I decided to get back to what got me started.  I still believe I can find the perfect trip and write about it so beautifully that readers feel they have no option but to experience it firsthand.  I still believe I can get something published and see my name in print.  For now, I keep trying, because it’s the only thing I can do.  So, if your life is in shambles and you’re a failed travel writer camping temporarily at Lady Bird Johnson State Park near Fredricksburg, Texas, you HAVE to eat at “Airport Diner”.  They are only open between 11 and 2, but the retro décor is nostalgic and they’re willing to sell chicken fingers 2 for $2.  Get a booth facing the private airstrip.

-          Written for “How You Should Spend Your Time

The Sprinklers

“Good afternoon,” Jaime shouted into the phone.  “Yeah, hi, I’m planning to install a sprinkler system, so I’m just calling to see if there is anything I need to do before I start digging,” the man on the phone explained.  “Well,” Jaime answered, “how experienced are you with this sort of thing?”  The man chuckled a bit and admitted he’d never done anything like it before.  “Do you think this is a good idea, sir?” Jaime asked.  “Honestly, I didn’t think so at first, but I watched several videos about it, and it seems fairly straightforward.  Anyway, the first thing I’m supposed to do is call before I dig, so that’s what I’m doing.  Are you going to send a crew over, or what happens next?” he wondered, already growing impatient.  “What’s your name, sir?” Jaime asked, ignoring the question.  “Evan,” Evan replied. 

“Evan, I like to know the person planning to dig is prepared before anything else happens.  Suppose a crew comes over there to flag your yard, but you make a mistake anyway.  You could tear up your yard, cause a gas leak, and electrocute yourself all because you decided to install sprinklers you never needed in the past.  Do you feel like that would be a good use of city resources?”  Evan cleared his throat and considered Jaime’s hypothetical.  “I Just don’t see any of that happening,” he decided.  “What sort of machinery are you planning to use for the job?” Jaime asked.  “Um, I don’t know.  A shovel, I thought,” Evan said tentatively.  “Be serious, sir,” Jaime said sarcastically.  “Listen, have you considered using one of those oscillating sprinklers you screw onto a hose?  The dance move one.” 

Evan explained that he already had one of those, but he was tired of moving it around the yard. His wife used to do it for them in the mornings, but she left him a few months ago.  “It must be hard having that reminder that she’s gone every day,” Jaime acknowledged.  “Well, every other day, but yes,” Evan admitted.  “On the other hand, it also sounds like you’ve been thinking of her and maybe appreciating some of the little things she used to do for you—things you probably took for granted.  You obviously miss her.  You should call her and tell her.” 

As Evan considered Jaime’s unsolicited advice, Danny burst through the door rather loudly.  “Who are you talking to, Dingdong?” Danny shouted before turning on the TV.  Evan quickly asked, “Who was that?  Did he call you Dingdong?”  Jaime rushed to the other room and explained that Danny was his roommate and apologized.  “Is this 713-DIG-LINE?” Evan asked excitedly.  Jaime sighed and confessed.  “No, sir.  I have a very similar number and I get these calls all the time.  It’s good that you called me though.  You need to forget about the sprinklers for now and get your wife back.”

Angry and annoyed, Evan shouted, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, pretending to be the Dig Line guy!  I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to impersonate a city official.  I just wanted to put in some sprinklers and now you’ve got me all confused.”  Walking back into the living room to have a Hot Pocket with Danny, Jaime concluded, “Just think about what I said.  Good luck, sir.”

--Written for “Call Before you Dig”

The Good Neighborhood

Around three years ago, we moved from St. Louis to Cleveland.  We got a fine three-bedroom house in a nice neighborhood with access to good schools.  To ease the heartache of leaving their friends, I had promised the kids we would get a pet once we got settled.  When the time came, we browsed at some chain pet stores, did some online research, and ultimately found ourselves at an exotic pet store a little further out of town.  The kids walked wide-eyed around the store, imagining themselves with a pet armadillo or an albino squirrel.  I feared I might have overplayed my hand.

Thankfully, they found a beautiful kitten they couldn’t resist.  The store manager was a sweet, but rough-around-the-edges type one could easily picture surrounded by reptiles.  He explained excitedly the kitten was half wildcat, noting several characteristics that could serve as confirmation.  He assured me it could be domesticated and would be no danger.  The kids quickly named him Thor, gathered some toys and accessories, and the decision appeared to have been made.

When we got home, the kids began what would become the cat’s standard introduction: “This is Thor.  He’s half wildcat!”  When word spread to my neighbor, Frank, he came over with a four-pack of beer and some talking points.  After we covered what were clearly his wife’s safety concerns, he asked all about the exotic pet store and what other pets they had for sale. 

Two weeks later, Frank and his family had attracted a small crowd in their front yard, so I went to check it out.  Frank, in his relentless spirit of friendly competition, had bought a juvenile fox and was showing it off with pride.  “What are you going to do with that thing?” I wondered.  “Says the guy with a wildcat in his backyard,” countered Frank.  “Half wildcat,” I quickly corrected him.  “Whatever.  Vince at the pet shop says he’ll behave well enough after we’ve been feeding him for a while.  I’m building him a cage in the back to keep him from running off,” Frank explained.  “Make sure he doesn’t get into our yard.  I don’t know how Thor would react,” I said before taking one more look at the fox and heading home.

Sure enough, a few months later, Foxy Brown got loose and came looking for food, only to leave with a gash across his flank and a little less of his left ear.  Frank took it as a personal affront and set out to take what he thought were the appropriate measures.  To everyone’s astonishment, he brought home a fully grown coyote he called Nimrod. 

Obviously, Nimrod almost immediately killed and ate Foxy Brown.  After the funeral, the people on our block had a meeting with members of the civic association to discuss the legality of keeping a wild coyote as a pet in our neighborhood.  Ironically, we learned there were scant restrictions and the meeting backfired.  Frank built a new enclosure to meet the basic requirements and brought home a second coyote.  He was more than willing to display the required sign on his fence that read, “Beware of Coyotes”.  He showed me the sign twice, quite intentionally.  Not long after, Eddie, from three houses over, surprised his kids with a mountain lion.  They named it Pinocchio, which was surprisingly clever, but did little to ease the neighborhood’s growing concerns about safety.  Nevertheless, people continued the dangerous trend. 

Every week, I would notice a new sign had gone up on someone’s fence.  Danger: Bobcat.  Do Not Enter: Baby Bear on Premises.  Beware of Dingoes, Etc.  Just before the Fourth of July, Dr. Sanders at the end of the block was maimed irreparably while giving his tiger a bath.  When Bobby Miller took a leopard cub to the Shop-and-Save the week after that, the civic association called an emergency meeting to discuss increasing restrictions.

The obvious solution would have been to send all the animals to a zoo and implement some logical rules preventing the average person from keeping a dangerous predator in their garage, but people in our neighborhood didn’t see it that way.  We threatened to move to Kansas City every time someone lost a leg, or a kid went missing, but we never did.  Thor ran away that summer, so we got a fish tank and kept to ourselves for the most part.  As it turns out, caring for a hammerhead shark is somewhat of a full-time affair.

-          Written for “Wildlife Escalation”

Priced To Sell

When I was seven years old, my grandpa bought me a Dustbuster at a garage sale.  He used to come visit on Saturdays and the two of us would go out hunting for good sales.  He had a talent for locating garage sales that was unrivaled.  On that particular Saturday, we had already breezed through a few underwhelming sales, when Grandpa found the winner.  He always got excited about a sale on a cul-de-sac, and this one did not disappoint.

Grandpa found some great old pocketknives, a t-shirt that read, “Maybe Next Time,” and some golf balls still in their original packaging.  He hadn’t played golf in 15 years, but the price was too good to pass up.  I had spent my allowance at the arcade that week, which I regretted as I wandered through the merchandise.

When I first saw the Dustbuster, I wasn’t entirely sure what it was for, but it looked great and it was priced to sell.  As Grandpa was wheeling-and-dealing for some garden tools, I stood there gazing at it.  I protectively stood over it or picked it up any time someone came near, to keep them from taking too much interest.  When Grandpa found me holding it like a loaf of bread, he reassured me that the Dustbuster was the premier portable vacuum cleaner on the market.  I explained my financial predicament and luckily, Grandpa agreed that it would be a shame to walk away from such a great deal.  He offered to buy it for me, provided I would dust bust his car and my mom’s Astro van every weekend for six weeks.  I couldn’t wait.

As soon as we got home, I studied the faded instruction manual and watched the clock as the Dustbuster slowly charged.  Grandpa had to leave before it was ready, so I thanked him profusely and promised to start working on his car first thing the next Saturday.  It became a tradition that continued until Grandpa needed a warmer climate and moved to Tucson. 

Buying used Dustbusters became a serious hobby for me.  I managed to buy several more at garage sales with Grandpa, but after he moved, I started to find them on eBay.  At the peak of my collecting, I was sure I had more than anyone in the tri-state area.  I had every color, generation, and special edition on the market.  I even traded for rare editions and shared the hobby with other enthusiasts in a Facebook group called “Dustbuster Life.”

When Grandpa died, I was heartbroken, but I knew what I had to do.  I went to the storage room, found that first Dustbuster that Grandpa bought me, and begged Mom and Dad to let me have a small bag of his ashes.  When I began to plan the garage sale, the only thing I was certain of was that the Dustbuster would be priced to sell.

-          Written for “Dustbuster Life”

The July Of My Life

“I am going on a road trip,” I told myself two-and-a-half months ago.  “When this thing is finally over and we’re free to go places again, I’m going to cross the country and go as many places as possible,” I decided.  I was set to receive my government stimulus check in plenty of time and school was delayed, so I had an extra few weeks before I had to get back to work.  The timing would be perfect, and I couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t go.  Part of me felt guilty for considering using the situation for my own benefit, but it had been a difficult year and I needed it.  The pandemic would likely continue anyway, so I was determined to take my opportunity.

I bought an RV, named it Arnie, and waited two weeks before opening her doors.  I ordered some road atlases, food, books, and everything else I thought I might need.  I even briefly thought of getting a dog.  The night before the nationwide lockdown was to be lifted, I couldn’t sleep.  My mind wandered back through the months we had spent basically cutoff from the world around us. 

I thought of the uncertainty in the beginning, the sudden spread and growing panic, and the surreal reality as more and more positive cases closed in around us.  I thought of my parents and how I had been avoiding accepting their fragility even before the pandemic.  I thought of the “essential workers” I had safely interacted with that were brave and responsible.  I thought perhaps more of those that refused to play by the rules and wondered how much time had been added to our sentence because of their behavior.  I also recounted some of the strange and unexpected quarantine details, like how many people apparently eat pasta on Easter weekend.  The empty shelf at the grocery store on Good Friday made that little tidbit abundantly clear.  Even as I prepared for my journey, it seemed the one item Americans feared going without more than anything was toilet paper. 

Ultimately, I thought of my trip.  I fantasized about climbing out of Arnie at various landmarks and walking around freely without a hint of anxiety.  I imagined stopping at diners and truck stops and basking in the nostalgic Americana.  I longed for it. 

The next morning as I watched the big press conference and drank too much coffee, I felt overcome.  I threw the last few things I needed into Arnie and jumped into the driver’s seat.  I took a deep breath and set off on my big adventure.  The low rumble of the highway was invigorating.  I felt thankful.  I sang loudly to the music I had thoughtfully selected and waved enthusiastically to neighboring vehicles.  I reached my first truck stop and wandered inside while Arnie was filling up with gas.

I stopped in the middle of the store as a man licked his finger to turn the pages of a magazine and then returned it to the rack.  I turned away and cringed as I saw a woman pick up a bare handful of straws off the floor and dump them back into the box near the self-serve fountain drinks.  I began to sweat as the cashier wiped his nose as he was handing a woman her change.  I heard coughing and looked around at the door handles, merchandise, counters, cups, and the air between me and those disgusting people and I ran outside while holding my breath. 

I stood for a minute, staring at Arnie.  I finally slumped back into the driver’s seat and thought about my plans.  I thought of all the places I planned to visit and the things I planned to see.  Mostly, I thought of home, trusted friends, and closed doors.  I neatly folded my atlas and laid it on the seat beside me as I pulled back onto the road.

-          Written for “The July Of My Life”

Darling

“This could take a hot minute, Officer.  See, that sonovabitch Graves has been gunning for me since forever,” began Darling.  “Just start from the beginning,” Officer Sheridan instructed.  Darling looked thoughtfully around the blank interrogation room and explained, “Back in the fourth grade, Graves called my old man a no count cheat and a bold face liar, so I whooped his ass after school right out front for everyone to see. I guess you could say that was the start of it.”  Sheridan raised his hand to pause Darling’s history lesson and clarified, “You mean to say a no-account cheat and a bald-faced liar.”  Slightly annoyed by the unnecessary critique, Darling moved on.  “Anyway, I kicked his ass proper and we’ve gone at it ever since.  There was this one time in seventh grade, Graves…”  Officer Sheridan stopped Darling again and said, “I think I get the picture, Mr. Darling. Why don’t we talk about what’s been going on lately?”

Darling took a drink from the can of RC Cola on the desk in front of him and said, “Listen, call me Darryl.  Anyway, when I heard he was moving back across town to work the farm next to mine, I knew it was gonna be trouble.  Me and Darlene were pissed.” Officer Sheridan cleared his throat and asked, “Your wife’s name is Darlene?  You’re Darryl and Darlene Darling?  That’s something.”  Darryl gave a cursory nod and took another drink.  Sheridan composed himself and continued.  ”So, after Mr. Graves began working at the adjacent farm, you were angry.  What was your first interaction with him at that time?  It says here Mr. Graves began to stop by your farm to complain about your animals crossing the fence line.  Is that true?” Darling was quickly agitated.  “Of course, it’s true, but that’s a mute point!”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Sheridan asked.  “I don’t give a damn!  It don’t matter none.  I could care less,” Darling hotly clarified.  Officer Sheridan spoke the words as he took note that Mr. Darling confirmed the first recent interaction with Mr. Graves already on record, but that the animals crossing the fence line was, in his opinion, a moot point and he couldn’t care less about it.  “Why is that irrelevant, Mr. Darling?” Sheridan asked.  Darling explained, “That kind of thing happens all the time on a farm.  When the animals get out, you round ‘em up, patch the fence, and nip it in the butt.”

“The bud, I understand,” Sheridan said.  “So, when would you say the situation began to escalate?”  Darling thought for a minute and said, “About a few weeks ago.  He came over all of a sudden all loud and grouchy, talking about how my hogs supposably went and spooked his zonkeys during their nap time. Thing is, I know they didn’t do that because my hogs are afraid of zonkeys.  I told him, I said ‘Now look.  You got this backwards.  It’s visa versa.’”  Sheridan shook his head, bewildered.  “I’m not sure I’m following.  Mr. Graves claims your hogs attacked his zonkeys, but you feel it was vice versa?  Why would you say that?”

“Maybe to extract revenge.  Like I said, Graves has been after me for years.  Why would his zonkeys be any different?” Darling reasoned.  “Why would the zonkeys need to exact revenge against you, if that’s something they’re even capable of?” Sheridan wondered.  “Because we all got into a bit of a donnybrook at the livestock show the week before, and I bit a few of ‘em during the fracas,” Darling admitted. 

Sheridan, unsure if he heard correctly, asked, “One second.  Who bit who at the livestock show?”  Darling tossed his empty RC Cola near the trash can next to the desk and said, “I believe you mean to say, ‘Who bit whom.’  I mean to say I bit a bunch of his zonkeys because I hate Graves and zonkeys are unnatural.  I know I’m here because you think I started the fire at the Graves farm, but I ain’t sayin’ another word without my lawyer.”

Sheridan turned bright red and slowly closed his notebook as he processed his humiliation.  As he tried desperately to channel his embarrassment and anger into a professional response, Darling smirked and said, “I think we’re done here.”

-         Written for “Who Bit Whom”

Cinderella

The first time Kenny sat behind the controls of the forklift, he took everything in for a minute, pondered the use of the myriad levers and buttons, then moved slowly while he got his bearings.  The lack of any formal training only added to his enjoyment when he was asked to operate it.  For some reason, towards the end of last summer, he had a below average forklift operation day.  He had been asked to break down the spent plastic barrels housed in the storage shed, which involved moving them on pallets out into the main yard.

He started off alright, easily and swiftly moving the first pallet to the far end of the yard.  He took great care using a Skil Saw to cut strips out of the barrel, tossing the remnants into a large dumpster.  He was surprised how difficult it was to cut the industrial-strength plastic.  The saw blades would often snag and wrench his arm violently if he tried to go too quickly.  Plastic dust shavings and a strange chemical residue began to accumulate on his clothes and skin.  Driving the forklift would become a welcome distraction as the afternoon sun crept across the Texas sky.

On his way back to the shed, he began to drive fast and swing wider on turns than was necessary or safe.  He grinned mischievously as the rear wheels slid across the dirt.  The simple joy was just enough to keep him motivated on that punishing August day.  Kenny was a college student that worked for the construction company during his breaks from school and was frequently given that type of arduous task that the full-time employees wanted to avoid.  He saw them as opportunities to belie his privilege and gain some amount of respect. 

When he was close to finishing for the day, Kenny was driving recklessly and collided with the back side of the main office building.  He panicked a bit and pulled the forklift into the shed as fast as he could.  Seconds later, the old company accountant, Mr. Friedman, came rushing out the back door wearing crumbs on his face and a napkin tucked into his dress shirt.  He stood there momentarily behind his oversize glasses, possibly trying to remember why he’d come to the door, then sunk back inside scowling.  There was some loose siding and a possibly unrelated dangling shingle, but nothing so serious as to concern anyone too greatly. 

Unfortunately, in his haste, Kenny had driven the forklift tines into a mostly empty barrel of chemicals that had leaked out onto the dirt floor while he had been spying on Mr. Friedman.  As he was covering the mess with kitty litter and dirt, a crew of relatively young dropouts known as “the three musketeers” walked past arguing about video games.  They paused briefly to look at the scene, then blankly piled into Jason’s prized Mitsubishi Eclipse and sped away, hurling dirt and rocks everywhere.

Feeling relieved, Kenny decided to move the last barrel out and finish up for the day.  As he was repositioning the forklift in the shed, he caught a rear wheel on a conduit pipe, tearing it from the wall and disabling the overhead lights.  Lacking the tools or knowledge to fix the problem, he decided it was time to go home.  He was sure he’d be fired the next morning. 

He returned to find the wiring had been unprofessionally but acceptably repaired and everyone milling about like any other day.  However, when his supervisor, Tim, came out of the office building, he looked pissed.  Everyone got quiet and Jason boldly asked him what was up.  Tim began yelling about how he couldn’t believe how stupid people could be and how he was going to be busy all morning filling out an incident report.  Kenny’s stomach began to twist in nervous anticipation, but Tim went on to explain.

One of the other supervisors, Tom, had done a bunch of speedballs and tried to run over some cops before destroying the company pickup truck he was driving while trying to escape.  As Tim continued detailing that Tom would be demoted for six months after he got out of County, a tow truck arrived with what was left of the truck. 

Kenny, Tim, and the three musketeers all walked back to survey the damage.  As they imagined Tom driving the wrecked pickup down the railroad tracks until there was nothing left of the wheels, Kenny said, “I’ve always liked Tom.  He calls me Cinderella, which is weird as hell, but he’s a good guy.”

-          Written for “Incident Report”

A Quick Stop

I had never been to that particular corner store, but I was in a rush, so I parked my car backwards in the spot closest to the entrance and hurried inside.  I walked the aisles with my head down and focused on getting what I needed and out of there as quickly as possible.  I soon became distracted by an argument a woman was having with the salesperson in the grocery aisle.  The woman wanted to use a coupon to buy some overpriced coffee.  It was a manufacturers coupon from an actual grocery store—the kind meant to be used when the item is first purchased.  She knew it was unreasonable, which is why she had asked the salesperson if she’d be able to use it while she was still shopping.  I needed to hurry up; the line at the register was growing. 

I made my way to the back of the line, checked the time, and began to wait.  I read all the magazine covers in the little stand near the counter, though I had no intention of buying any of them.  After a minute, I wasn’t even really reading them so much as staring straight through them, but I couldn’t seem to stop.  The customer checking out was taking forever deciding which scratch-off lottery tickets to buy.  Eventually, he decided to play the Powerball Lotto, which required the use of a machine the cashier wasn’t qualified to operate.  It’s possible it was her first week on the job.  As she fumbled around trying to figure it out, the line of people waiting grew annoyed and began looking at each other in disbelief.  The cashier buckled under the pressure and called the manager for assistance. 

The next person to the counter asked for help with the photo machine.  I stood there looking at the unmanned register and fantasized about just walking out.  “Yes, I know I have to pay for this,” I’d explain.  “I’ve been trying for ten minutes.  Please allow me to pay you and get on with my life!”  A different version of me might have tried it, but I decided to glare at the man and the cashier as they painstakingly worked their way through what appeared to be an exhaustive chronicling of his nephew’s tenth birthday party.  I hated that kid.  I hated the store and the fact that they offered photo services. 

The mood had turned ugly in The Corner Market and the line was pulsing and collectively perturbed.  At that point, the girl in front of me asked if I would hold her place in line while she ran to grab something she had forgotten.  Before I knew it, I had not only agreed to that, I was holding her heavy basket of items.  As soon as she left the line, I decided I would leave her basket on the floor if she didn’t make it back in time.  Naturally, just as I had a glimpse of the empty counter before me, she came hustling back to the front with several more items and a disappointing lack of appreciation for my sacrifice.  The crowd shifted its feet and sank back into their phones as she began to unload her basket.  About halfway through scanning her items, there was a price check and a duplication reversal, topped off with a jammed receipt printer that needed troubleshooting. 

I deeply regretted promising my son I would stop for baseball cards on the way home from work, but it was finally my turn to pay.  I turned back to acknowledge the remaining customers stubbornly waiting, then smiled at the cashier and asked, “Do you take checks?”

-          Written for “Patience In The Convenience Store”

'Tis The Season

Early last December, I took my stepson to the mall to do some holiday shopping.  Henry was nearly six at the time, so really, I was shopping, and he was there because my wife thought it would be a good idea.  I was a little bit nervous about it, as he had only been my stepson for a few months, and it was our first real outing on our own.  Having no other children, I worried I would do something wrong or someone might question if Henry belonged with me in the first place.  We do not look alike, and Henry is rather precocious and occasionally mischievous.  It was a legitimate concern that he might spontaneously run from me while yelling for help.  My wife, April, assured me everything would be fine.  The one thing, as she frequently reminded me, was that Henry had significant food allergies.  Avoiding nuts of any kind was particularly important.

Despite my paranoia, we headed to the mall in the late morning and I held his hand too tightly as we navigated the holiday crowds.  Around lunch time, I had begun to relax and enjoyed watching Henry test out the remote-control dinosaurs at a kiosk near the food court.  We admired the giant Christmas tree in the center of the indoor ice rink and laughed when the skaters fell or crashed into each other. 

A woman outside The Great American Cookie Company was handing out samples.  Henry asked if he could have one, though he had already finished most of a bag of candy.  I reluctantly agreed and got us both a miniature chocolate chip cookie before getting on the crowded elevator back towards the parking garage.  As the doors closed, I took a bite and immediately swatted the cookie from Henry’s grasp and began to panic.  What I thought were chocolate chips were actually tiny peanut butter cups.  I felt horrified as I frantically looked for anything I could use to clean the delicious poison off Henry’s hands.  I turned around to ask others for help and imagined the worst of what might happen at the passing of each second. 

I wondered what April would say and felt certain she would never trust me with Henry again.  I began to feel angry that the store wouldn’t have provided a warning or disclaimer.  Mainly, I was mad at myself for being so careless and unprepared.  When someone finally produced a mostly clean napkin for me, I poured some of my water on it and turned to clean Henry off, but I looked down and he wasn’t there.

I didn’t have the first clue what to do and was beginning to feel like I might pass out.  Panic, confusion, and dread washed over me in an instant, but I decided to return to each floor and hope to find him waiting for me.  I looked out at the sea of people each time the doors opened and my skin crawled.  I had no idea where he was, if he could breathe, or if he was swelling up in a stairwell somewhere.  I did what anyone in my desperate state would do and I called my wife for help.

Thirty minutes later, I ran up to the third-floor security desk to find Henry watching cartoons and finishing a Snickers bar.  I don’t know if he was no longer allergic or never allergic to begin with, but except for having eaten his weight in sugar that day, he was perfectly healthy.  He even told the security guard he was only kidding after claiming to have never seen me before.  After finishing the mountain of required paperwork and swearing never to return to The Great American Cookie Company, we went home to face the music.

-          Written for “No Longer Allergic or Fake Allergy”

The Academic

“Vincent, hurry up and finish your morning sketches.  We’re going to be late for our meeting with your counselor!” Vivian called through the intercom.  Vincent closed his tattered Algebra book and slipped it discretely into his messenger bag.  Today was the last day of his junior year and he was nervous about the meeting.  He took a deep breath as he walked down the long hall that led to the main staircase.  “Good morning, my love,” Vivian said as she smiled and grabbed the car keys.  Vivian Shoemaker was a wildly successful ceramics artist. “Good morning, Mom.  Can we take my car?” Vincent asked.  Vivian dangled the keys to her Aston Martin and replied, “It’s your special day, so I’m going to let you drive mine.”  As nervous as he was, he couldn’t help but feel excited as he grabbed the keys and rushed to the spacious garage.

On the way to school, Vivian asked Vincent if he had made any decisions yet.  She and her husband, Calvin, had been lobbying for months for him to apply to the same art school where they met.  Vincent said nothing and rolled his eyes as he tried to focus on the road.  “Well, I know you’ll make a responsible decision,” Vivian added hopefully.  As Vincent pulled into the parking lot at the exclusive Portland School for the Arts, Vivian reached into the back seat to grab Vincent’s bag for him and was surprised by the weight.  “What are you carrying around in that thing?  You’re going to have to get that yourself,” she said as she got out of the car.  Relieved she hadn’t seen the textbooks he was smuggling, Vincent made sure the bag was securely closed and changed the subject as they walked into the beautiful school. 

“Hello, Vivian! Hello, Vincent!  How are you all doing this morning?” Mr. Gregory asked as they approached his workspace.  “Just fine, Mr. Gregory, thank you.  Calvin sends his best.  He’s out of town this week doing research for his next book.  How are you?” Vivian replied.  Mr. Gregory coughed rather alarmingly, then smiled and said, “I’m wonderful, thank you.  Well, Vincent, let’s talk about your plans for after high school, shall we?  I’ve seen your portfolio and have no doubt you would be a fine candidate for Harvard Art School like your parents, if that’s what you’re thinking.”  Vincent took a deep breath.  “Actually, Mr. Gregory, I’ve been thinking of going to the Rhode Island School for Doctors. Science and medicine are my true passion,” he explained.  “Vincent, we have talked about this!” Vivian exclaimed. “Your father and I are willing to support you if you want to study medicine as a hobby, but you need to think about your future.  We have worked too hard to let you throw it all away on this silly little dream. How will you support your family?  You think your wife and kids will want to move in with us?”  Vincent shook his head and continued, “Mom, calm down.  I’m 17.  Maybe I don’t even want kids, I don’t know.  Either way, plenty of doctors have families and they find a way to make it work.”  As Vivian was storming out to call Calvin, she added, “I will not have my son living in some academic commune!”

Mr. Gregory turned to Vincent and tried to offer some encouragement.  “She and your father just want to see you use your talents to provide a comfortable life, so you don’t have to struggle like most academics do.  It’s normal to question your path at this stage of your life and even rebel against the conventional wisdom of your parents and teachers.  On the other hand, you might take a minute to think about what your mother said.  If you go to a good art school and get a stable creative job with a nice salary and benefits, you’ll be able to afford to pursue these academic interests all you want.  If you go to RISD, you might be able to make enough to scrape by for a few years, but hardly anyone manages to turn medical science into a sustainable career.  Only the most famous doctors are able to earn a respectable living, and that has just as much to do with luck and timing as anything else.”  Vincent brushed off Mr. Gregory’s sage advice and whined, “I thought you, of all people, would be cool about this.”

Vivian returned to the room after reporting her son’s betrayal with a fresh resolve.  “We’re leaving, Vincent,” she said curtly.  “Sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Gregory.  I don’t know where he gets this from, but we’re going to New York to see Calvin immediately.”  Vincent jumped to his feet.  “Mom be serious!  It’s the last day of school,” he shouted.  “I am being perfectly serious.  Your father obviously wants to talk to you about this, but also he’s horribly ill again,” Vivian explained.  Mr. Gregory, having battled illness his whole life, gave a knowing glance.  “Aren’t we all,” he said through a cough.  “See, if you would let me go to Med School,” Vincent started to say. “Vincent, that’s enough!” Vivian interrupted.  “Mom, please!  How can you ask me to just give up on my dreams?” he pleaded desperately.  “Not another word.  We’ll talk about this in New York.” 

-          Written for “A Time You Begged”

This Is Going To Hurt

Geoffery was only twenty-two when he said goodbye to his family and moved to Singapore.  He had recently graduated from college, but his fiancé had broken off their engagement, his job search was not going well, and he found himself without many prospects.  When he saw the exotic sheen of the Singapore nightlife on a reality show he was binge-watching, he decided he would move.  Geoffery’s bailiwick was art history, so his plan had been to teach English in the short-term while he looked for a more suitable job opening.  However, he found the work more challenging and rewarding than he expected.  He felt that way to begin with anyway. 

At the end of his first month, his star student, Alex, told him in Malay, “Sayah dah kenal ibu suci awak.”  When he asked Alex what it meant, he smiled and said, “I bow before you in sacred respect.”  Geoffery felt great pride that day, though he had a terrible hangover.  The social-exploration of his new city, while just the excitement he had been looking for, was not without its price.  Just two weeks after that day, Geoffery learned that his former fiancé was pregnant with her new boyfriend’s baby.  He was an acquaintance of Geoffery’s, but he told the story as though they had been best friends. 

What had been harmless fun in the Singapore nightlife became a downward spiral of self-medication for Geoffery after that.  After getting really drunk one night, he was getting some food at KFC when he overheard a girl ordering her 3-piece value meal “inside out” and laughed so hard he fell to the floor and was told he had to leave.  Starting the following day, he began sneaking the phrase into his lessons on common restaurant dialogue, claiming it meant the person wished to eat in the restaurant rather than taking the food home.  It was a relatively innocent misdirection that he found very amusing.  He did feel a little guilty about it, but when at the end of the week, his students said, “Sayah dah kenal ibu suci awak,” he felt proud of both his teaching and his mischief.

The following week, he began introducing more invented phrases and alleged slang to the class.  He would imagine his students travelling to America and speaking excellent English, but causing confusion when they refer to cups as “buckets” and napkins as “blankets.”  It gave him a sick satisfaction.  He wished he could be there to hear one of them address the cashier at Burger King as “Your Excellency.”  He had a difficult time keeping a straight face when teaching them a cool way to tell people you’re having a good day is to say, “I’m really gobbling the candy!”  In his final week of teaching, one of Geoffery’s students told him an American friend of his had never heard that phrase and suggested Geoffery was messing with the class.  Luckily, he was able to convince them that it was more of a regional thing used in the Midwest, but he worried he had taken things too far. 

The following weekend, while out on the town, Geoffery bumped into a police officer, knocking him to the ground.  The police officer, having very little patience for drunk Americans, got angry and began to place Geoffery under arrest.  Geoffery pleaded for mercy, shouting desperately, “Sayah dah kenal ibu suci awak!”  The police officer became enraged, hitting and kicking Geoffery and dragging him to the police car by his hair.  Terrified and panicked, Geoffery shouted the phrase again and again.

When it came time for his public caning weeks later, many of his students came out in support, standing front and center.  Geoffery looked to his favorite student, Alex, and pleaded for him to help.  Alex looked at Geoffery scornfully and said, “Sayah dah kenal ibu suci awak.  Do you know what that means?”  Geoffery shook his head in confusion and answered, “I bow before you in sacred respect.  I learned that from you and the other students!”  Geoffery’s students began to laugh.  “It means I have known your sacred mother,” Alex explained.  “You’re not the only one who can make a joke.  Maybe now you will show US a little respect.  Either way, it is time for you to bow before us.  This is really going to hurt.  Someone get teacher a blanket to wipe his tears.”

--Written for “Fast Food or Drive-Thru Dialogue”

Ponderosa

I had lived on the streets as long as I could remember.  When I crossed over Timberline Drive that night and onto Ponderosa Lane, none of my experiences helped explain what I was seeing.  It was a bowl full of food, just sitting on the sidewalk.  Nobody loses a bowl of food, so I knew better than to dive right in.  I kept watch for awhile and there was no one around.  Cautiously, I inched closer, ate feverishly, then crossed back over Timberline in a hurry.

I couldn’t believe my luck.  That evening, I asked around my neighborhood to see if anyone else had ever heard of such a thing.  Most I talked to were as bewildered by it as I was, some offered paranoid warnings, and the rest didn’t believe me. 

I started to visit Ponderosa every evening around the same time.  The first couple of nights all I found was the empty bowl.  On the third night, to my astonishment, it had been filled again.  Again, I waited and watched.  Again, I crept closer and ate feverishly.  Before I knew what was happening, something was covering my head and I was tossed into the back of a van. 

It was a brief and terrifying drive.  My captors took me to a holding cell where I waited in silence.  I wondered what would come next and negotiated the flood of questions in my head.  Eventually, a man brought me water, but left immediately without speaking to me or answering my desperate questions.  I was left there in the dark wondering where I was, who these people were, and what they wanted with me.  I laid down in defeat and began to blame myself.  After I worked through that, I got angry and cried out into the night, daring the cowards to face me.

I awoke to find a man in white and a needle in my arm.  I tried to form the words to ask what was happening, but quickly faded out of consciousness.  When I came to, I was in a new room.  It was bigger and brighter and had some cheap paintings and window.  I felt simultaneously exhausted and as though I had been sleeping for days.  When I tried to stand up, I felt a sharp pinch between my legs and winced as I saw the bandage. 

“Don’t start messing with that,” a voice spoke, startling me.  “Excuse me?  Who are you?  What’s going on here?” I demanded.  “The bandage.  If you mess with it, they’ll put a cone on your head.  Have you ever seen a hairless cat with a cone on its head?  It’s not a good look,” the stranger explained.  “You’re new to the Colony.  Best not to start things off that way,” he continued.  “The Colony?” I asked.  “The Ponderosa Cat Colony.  My name is Marlon.  They like to pair the new recruits with someone who has been here for awhile to ease the transition into the general population.  I’ve suggested not starting with the surprise neutering, but they don’t listen to me.  They took a piece of your ear, too, by the way.”  I was struggling to take it all in. 

“Can we back up a minute?  What is a Cat Colony?” I pleaded.  Marlon explained, “A lady that lives at the end of the street traps the neighborhood cats, spays or neuters us, and then lets us hang out here as long as we want.  She feeds us and talks to us, and if you play your cards right, she’ll let you inside to watch Judge Judy.”  On one hand, I wanted to bite someone or shred a couch cushion, but it was starting to sound pretty nice compared to how life had been the past several months.  “What if I want to leave?” I wondered.  “After you’ve healed up, you’ll be free to go whenever you want, but I wouldn’t rush it.  The food is pretty good, there are plenty of places to nap, and there are enough of us here to keep the dogs away.  Let me introduce you to some of my friends when they let us out of here and then go from there,” Marlon offered. 

I laid back down and looked at the wall, then the window, then the wall, then the window, then I licked my left paw.  I thought I saw a bug.

--Written for “Reminds Me of Human Beings”

The Dog Whisperer

The trouble with Jerk is that people don’t realize there is no irony to his name.  He appears as any other dog.  He was originally called Vernon, but I informally changed his name after the first couple of weeks he spent in our lives.  He was, and is, mean in ways I never realized a dog could be mean.  Typically, one might expect a mean dog to bark, growl, and aggressively show its teeth.  With Jerk, we get the silent treatment, passive-aggression, and subtle attempts to break our family into a fragmented disaster. 

When Jerk was still Vernon, he began to make colorful feces all over our apartment after eating candles, carpet, diapers, and crayons.  That might not seem unique for a puppy, but the care that Vernon took in curating a box of crayons was unmistakable.  He wouldn’t just refuse to play with a stuffed broccoli toy he didn’t like as a normal dog would.  Instead, he would thoroughly chew up every green crayon available, eat any green shirt, towel, or piece of furniture he could find, top it off with a few diapers, then cover the toy in a carefully placed “display” on the living room floor.

As he grew a little older, he graduated to faking a stomach bug any time he was fed a reasonably-priced brand of dog food. Somehow, he could smell our eagerness when we had attempted to ease our Jerk-food budget.  One might suspect an allergy or actual dietary restrictions, but Jerk knew what he was doing.  One week, we managed to mix in some Purina with his typical artisan fare.  Everything was fine until he caught me in the act of rejoicing.  He immediately threw up in his food bowl and spent the rest of the afternoon whining and glaring at me.  If I left the room to get a break from it, he would just follow me making choking sounds and limping.

Once our son was born, Jerk really turned up the psychological warfare.  As we were pulling into the driveway after returning from the hospital, Jerk tore through the screen door, trampled the flowers lining the front walkway, and dropped his favorite toy into our infant son’s car seat.  He smirked at me through my wife’s gushing.  By becoming my baby boy’s best friend, he knew I would be powerless to get rid of him.  Not only that, I’d lost my only ally in the battle against Jerk.  While my wife and I used to commiserate over the ridiculous and spiteful ways Jerk might react to being left alone for an afternoon, for example, she began defending him and even blaming me for his behavior. 

After that, he began doing things like pretending to lose his balance in the back of the SUV, so she’d let him into the back seat, where he’d kick over my coffee and watch us fight over whether he had done it intentionally.  Jerk always enjoyed watching us fight about him, especially in front of other people.  His eyes would light up any time my in-laws came to visit.  They were fond of reminding me that there aren’t any “bad dogs” and suggested repeatedly that I watch The Dog Whisperer, a television show focused on fixing the issues with the “bad dog owner.”

As my son was nearing an age where he’d be able to talk enough to join in Jerk’s defense, have memories of what he believed to be a normal dog, and possibly never forgive me, I decided I had better get rid of Jerk.  I devised a plan and sent my wife and kids over to my sister’s farm on a Tuesday afternoon, secretly took the day off, and snuck Jerk out to “go for a drive.”  He knew right away what was happening and began to sob loudly.  Unfazed, I explained to Jerk that he’d have to find a new family to torment and that it wasn’t my fault he chose to be such a nuisance.  Also, I suggested he seek professional help for his personality disorder.  I drove and drove, listing my many grievances in detail as we made our way far out into the country where any signs or calls to local shelters would be useless.

Just before I felt the distance was great enough, I passed a family selling puppies on the side of the road.  I mentioned to Jerk that perhaps he needed an Emotional Support Animal.  It was then that I figured out a way to solve my Jerk-problem without looking like the bad guy.  I turned back and happily bought the cutest golden retriever puppy I had ever seen.  When my family returned home to find me sitting on the floor with our beautiful new puppy, A.J., they were overjoyed.  They made sure to briefly acknowledge Jerk, making comments about his jealousy and assuring him he didn’t need to worry, but the allure of a puppy is a powerful thing.  I smirked at Jerk through their gushing.  From that day forward, any time Jerk started to seem like he had anything devious in mind, I’d point at Anti-Jerk and ask if he wanted to go for a ride.

-          Written for “A Jerk Professing Not to Be A Jerk”

Carol

When I was twenty-three, my mother bought me a cat for my birthday.  She called me, awash with excitement, and asked if she could come by my apartment to bring me a surprise.  Though she lived about 45 minutes away, she arrived eleven minutes later holding an orange cat she introduced as Carol.  “Mom, how nice,” I genuinely exclaimed. “You got a cat.”  Grinning from ear to ear, she shouted, “Happy Birthday!” as she thrust Carol into my life. 

She went on to recall the many times in my childhood that I’d dreamt of having an orange cat called Carol, named for my favorite comedian, Carol Burnett.  For years, she remembered, I longed to have this cat and had begged her to make my dream a reality.  “Mom,” I said, “this is the nicest birthday surprise I’ve ever gotten!”  I turned Carol around to look into her eyes and she yawned indifferently.  “Well, I figured now that your dad is gone, so are his allergies.  You can finally have your Carol!” she explained.  While that was technically true, she seemed a little too delighted to be putting it that way.

“Don’t you just love him?” she asked.  “Who? Dad?” I wondered.  “No, Carol!” Mom shouted.  “Oh, Carol is a boy cat?  Of course, I do.  He’s beautiful!  Very orange.”  My mother stood there for the next few minutes staring at Carol and me, mouth agape, like a child staring at the sky in anticipation of a fireworks display.  Not sure what to do next, I sat down to pet Carol.  As he began to purr, my mother bathed in the warm glow of her benevolence.  I thanked her repeatedly as I clumsily negotiated Carol’s loose coat and wondered if my apartment building allowed pets.  “You are very welcome, my darling.  Happy Birthday!  Now, I’m going to get out of your way, but I hope you and Carol have a wonderful day together,” my mother said as she made her way to the door, stealing her final glances with pride. 

The moment she was gone, I called my older sister, Jenny, to find out if she had any memory of my childhood prayers for a Carol cat.  I, for one, had no recollection of any of it.  “What in the world are you talking about, Evan?” Jenny replied in shock.  “Tell me this is some kind of weird joke--because if it’s not, I’m calling her right now.  She actually bought you a live cat?”  I spent the next few minutes repeating everything to Jenny a second time and then begging her not to call our mother or say anything to anyone until I’d had time to properly investigate. 

“So, you’re just going to keep this cat and let mom believe she’s made your dreams come true?” Jenny asked.  “Only for now,” I said.  “I just need to be certain it wasn’t me and see if I can find out who she is confusing me with before I say anything to Mom.  You should have seen how happy she was.”  Jenny followed with the inevitable question, “Do you even like Carol Burnett, Evan?”  I wasn’t sure.  “Only for now,” I answered. 

That was eight years ago.  I never learned who wanted a Carol cat or how my mother got the idea it was me, but I also couldn’t ever find the nerve to break it to her.  Every birthday since, she has brought a new framed picture of Carol and me, which is starting to make me, and my apartment look insane.  Jenny, on the other hand, uses my birthday as another chance for me to buy her silence, which I obviously continue to do.   Unfortunately, Carol and I never really made a connection.  I tried, for a time, to figure out his favorite hobbies and pastimes, but he never seemed interested in anything, particularly not me.  The only time he pays me any attention is when my mother comes to visit.  I suppose that’s what we have most in common—a shared desire to convince my mother we’re happy together.  I just wish I wasn’t so allergic to cats.

--Written for “An Everyday Con”

The Time of Their Lives

“First off, the toaster oven was supposed to be a gift for my sister-in-law.  Well, for Luann.  She was only briefly my sister-in-law,” Crystal began.  “Anyway, I bought the thing for Luann, but then she and Denny broke up the day after the wedding.  I mean, I guess the problem really started when Denny got laid off from the Conoco station over by the highway.  He had been working the register for about a year and a half and they had been talking about making him an assistant manager, so he took the news real surprised.  They told him it wasn’t his fault or nothing and he said he didn’t care, but Denny got all depressed after that. 

The thing about Denny is, he don’t mix well with boredom.  He got to making trash fires and huffing paint thinner all the time, so Mama got to gettin’ on his case.  Another thing about Denny is, he don’t like people getting’ on his case, so he started hanging out over at his friend Tommy’s all the time, so he didn’t have to listen to Mama carryin’ on.  Well, Tommy’s brother got him a line on some illegal fireworks, and Denny started selling them out of his truck all over town.  That’s when he met Luann.

Denny was out selling fireworks after the homecoming game, and Luann came by with some friends to get some stuff for the after-party.  Boy, they really hit it off, and she invited him and Tommy to come to the party.  After that night, Denny and Luann was always together.  They was always partyin’, and sellin’ fireworks, and havin’ the time of their lives.  Then Denny went and asked her to marry him. 

I really liked Luann from the start, too.  Her family came to town at the start of last summer from Biloxi.  Since she was from the city, she knew all sorts of things about fashion and what-not.  She even made my hair all fancy a couple of times, but I don’t know how to do it myself though.  She had plans to go to beauty school next spring and take Denny back to Biloxi.  Well, a couple of weeks before Christmas, Denny and Tommy got super-drunk and wild and burning stuff, when all those plans changed.

Denny caught a wild hair and tossed a bunch of them fireworks in the blaze.  Poor Tommy got caught in the crossfire and got burnt up and his left arm blowed off, practically.  Denny and Luann started visiting him in the hospital every day after that, but within a week or so, the cops came and hauled Denny off for possession of illegal fireworks and criminal negligence.  Everybody figures it was Tommy’s mama that ratted him out.

Anyway, Luann kept going to visit Tommy while Denny was locked up, which was Denny’s idea, and I guess they got a little thing goin’.  As Luann tells it, they was just spending so much time hanging out and talking while Tommy was recovering, they just fell in love on accident.  The problem was, she still loved Denny, too, so she just went on with the wedding because she didn’t know what to do.

The day after the wedding, she told Denny she made a mistake and Tommy was her true love and all.  So, now I’m stuck holding this toaster oven,” Crystal explained.  “Alright, and did you want a refund?” the man at the customer service desk asked.  “Store credit is fine,” she replied.  “I can always find something I need at Wal-Mart.”

·         Written for “Did You Want a Refund?”