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"Out Of The Blue" (the seventy-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Out Of The Blue" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Sept. 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Out Of The Blue By B Matthews arethronok@yahoo.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| “I know there’s better
brothers, but you’re the only one that’s mine.” – Murder by
Death Out of the Blue The nurse was finishing the 3:00 change of my father’s saline drip when I looked up and saw Jack in the doorway. His eyes were on the wasted body in the bed. I saw a flutter in Jack’s jaw muscle and knew that he was grinding his teeth. It was an old trick we learned as kids – grind your jaw as hard as you can and your eyeballs forget about sissy-boy tears. The only problem is it’s hell on your teeth – I’ve got a mouthful of metal, have since I was seventeen and three of my molars crumbled within two months of each other. High school killed my teeth. I was perversely glad to see he still remembered our not-crying trick – I’d been using it myself lately. He looked good. Too thin, his clothes hung on his body, but otherwise he looked the same as he had at the Greyhound station the day of his parole six years ago. His dark hair was longish and tousled, and he had a couple days of stubble growing. I didn’t care. Just seeing him standing there made me pull our old jaw-grinding trick out of my own mind-closet to avoid an unscheduled session of afternoon waterworks. I stood up, pushing back the uncomfortable hospital chair, scraping it across the green speckled linoleum. The nurse, finished with her task, nodded at me, gave my brother the once-over, and left without speaking. Jack stepped absently out of her way and into the room, his eyes never leaving our father’s form. I stayed still for a second and wondered what to say to someone I barely knew now that our lives had become so different – me with my divorce, my distant children, my big old empty two-story house in the suburbs, my office job, and him with his drugs and women and stolen cars and reduced jail time. I had no idea how to start talking to him again. The arc of our separate pasts lay between me and any words that made sense or weren’t awkward. I finally settled on something fairly ambiguous: “Hey.” He looked at me, took a couple of steps towards the bed, and looked back at our dad. The machinery surrounding the bed clicked and hissed and beeped out of rhythm. On the television mounted to the wall, a lady newscaster moved her mouth soundlessly about the upcoming presidential election. I keep the TV muted, usually parked on a news network. I find it comforting – every so often I need some kind of reminder that the world is still turning and everyone is keeping on with their regularly scheduled lives outside this tiny hospital room where my father lies dying. Jack took it all in – me, the machines, the bed, and the huddled form, swaddled in sheets, eyes closed. “How long’s he got?” “They still can’t say.” “He looks like shit.” “Yeah, well, three surgeries and a ton of chemo does that to you, Jack.” “How long’s he been sick?” I took a minute to figure it out. Cathy’d left just after Christmas two years before. Dad was diagnosed the summer before that, so – “Almost three years.” I’d gotten used to telling the passage of time by my divorce, but it was still depressing as hell. “Fuck.” “Yeah.” “Anybody else here but you?” “Margaret’ll be here around four.” He nodded. “I should prob’ly jet. I just wanted to…” he looked up at me and made a sort of helpless gesture with his hands. “…you know.” “How’d you find out?” “I ran into Dave Gardner. He said he was sorry to hear about the old man. At first I thought he was already gone, but I figured you’d’ve figured out a way to let me know if that’d happened.” I kept quiet, wondering how he expected me to let him know anything when I had no idea where he’d been for years. “Anyway, I made some calls, found out he was here, borrowed a car –“ “Borrowed?” I couldn’t help my mouth on that one. “Yeah, borrowed. It’s a piece of shit, but it’s legal.” He narrowed his eyes and sucked at his teeth, grinning at me. “You should learn to relax, Mikey.” “So how long are you here?” “Just tonight. I’ll head back in the morning. Too far to drive in one night.” “You got a place to stay?” He shrugged. “Prob’ly. I gotta make a phone call.” “Fuck that. Come stay at my place.” “Ah, I dunno, Mike. Cathy –“ “Cathy’s gone, Jack. We got divorced.” I couldn’t tell if his expression was sympathetic or pleased. “Oh. Hell, Mike. I’m sorry.” It was my turn to shrug. I reached over and picked up my jacket from the back of the hateful hospital chair. “Margaret’ll be here soon. We should go if we’re going.” He nodded, looking at the huddled form in the middle of the bed, then back to me again. “Mike, can I…?” He didn’t finish, and I didn’t need him to. “Sure. Meet you in the lobby.” ***** Eight hours of reminiscing and two suitcases of beer later, I was standing beside my couch, blinking owlishly at the handles that pulled the hide-a-bed out of its frame. The couch cushions were piled around my feet like big upholstered stones. For some reason, I was having serious difficulty working the usually simple spring apparatus. From behind me: “Fuck it, Mike. I c’n sleep on the floor.” “’Kay.” I grabbed onto one of the arms of the couch and used it to steer myself into a sitting position on the carpet, then fell backwards onto the cushions. Jack crawled over. “Gimme one of those.” I pulled a cushion out from under me, handed it over, settled back into my nest. We sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. I looked up at the fan mounted on the vaulted ceiling above us. Its blades twirled lazily, barely stirring the air. I could see a blue haze up near the recessed lights in the ceiling. “We musta smoked a carton of cigarettes.” “Yeah. Reminds me…” I heard the click of Jack’s lighter. I laughed. “Fucker.” I’d quit a few years ago, but drinking with Jack had brought the urge back strong. I’d been smoking like a chimney all night and could already feel a dark tightness spreading in my chest. My lungs would definitely hurt in the morning, but I was too drunk to care. “Want one?” “Yeah.” He handed me his lit smoke and got another for himself. We lay there in silence, our mingled smoke curling up into the air in long blue ribbons. “Mike?” “Yeah?” “What d’ya get when you cross an onion with a donkey?” I snorted. We’d been trading bullshit jokes like this all evening. “What?” “A piece of ass that’ll bring a tear to your eye.” We giggled like kids for a minute, then: “Mike?” Laughing: “What, man?” “Why are divorces so expensive?” I knew this one. “Because they’re fuckin’ worth it!” We howled. The sound bounced up into the vaulted rafters and the echoes of our laughter made my big old house sound like it was filled with refugees from some nuthouse. “Gotta piss.” Jack pulled himself up and I heard him stumbling to the bathroom in the hall, dragging his fingers along the wall, still giggling in little snorts and hitches. It was a good sound – it made me feel younger than I’d felt in a long time. I reached over and stubbed out my cigarette half-smoked in the nearest ashtray. Before Jack came back from the bathroom, I’d passed out on the couch cushions. ***** I woke up stiff and dehydrated and carefully covered with the afghan from the back of the couch. The lights in the living room had been turned off, and the room was filled with shadows. Greenish light from the streetlight at the end of my driveway filtered in through Cathy’s white sheers. I sat up slowly, feeling the kinks in my shoulders and back complain. Jack’s cushion was beside me, but he was gone. I pulled myself up, went into the kitchen, and got some orange juice from the fridge without turning on the light. I was still a little muzzy-headed from all the beer, but the juice was cold and sweet and good and it woke me up a little. I walked back into the living room, clearing the cobwebs out of my head. “Jack?” No answer. I looked down at the couch cushions on the floor and saw the afghan wadded up beside them. I smiled, knowing Jack had covered me up with it before he left. Left. Was he gone, or somewhere in the house? I went to the windows beside the front door and looked out at the dark driveway. His borrowed POS was still parked behind my car. I put my glass down and set out to find him. In the dark and halfway between being drunk and having a hangover, my house had become foreign territory to me. I bumped my shin on the coffee table. A plant swam out of the shadows to give me a start. The stairwell seemed cavernous and spooky. “Jack!” My voice echoed up the stairs. “You up there?” “Yeah…” I headed in that direction. On the landing, a finger of warm yellow light spilled out onto the carpet from the cracked door of my study. I pushed the door all the way open. Jack was at my desk with a photo album from my shelves in front of him. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy and red. I sighed. “Are you fucked up, man?” “Nah.” “Let me find you a bed to sleep in. You want Cory’s or Jenna’s? I’ll make it up for you.” Jack shook his head, looked down at the album. The pages were open to pictures from a fishing trip with our father when we were teenagers – me, thirteen, and Jack, sixteen. “Remember this shit, Mike? Fishin’ with the old man?” I sighed. I was tired, sore from sleeping on the floor, and my body was edging completely into hungover. I wasn’t in the mood for memory lane – I just wanted some sleep. “Yeah.” “I miss that.” “Me too.” “Fourteen years. You know?” I wasn’t sure of what to say. Jack wasn’t known for regrets, but six years had passed since I’d last spent time with him and a lot of things had changed. I picked something neutral: “It’s a long time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fourteen years go by and shit, where did it go? You know? I wish…” I waited. When he didn’t finish, I said, “You need to get some sleep, buddy.” “I need you to know something.” He stared at the album as he was talking. For a second I wondered if he was talking to me or our younger selves, frozen in those old pictures. “I’m not going back. I’m heading out Texas way.” He paused. “Time for a change.” I sighed. “Tell me about it in the morning. Let’s get some sleep.” ***** The doorbell woke me out of a sound sleep. Sunlight poured in through the space between the window and the shade. I sat up and winced at the bolt of pain in my head. It rang again. I threw the covers aside. At least I didn’t have to get dressed – I’d fallen asleep in my clothes. Downstairs my orange juice glass from the night before was sitting on the sofa table next to the door, the pulp separated from the juice and collected at the bottom of the glass. A picture of Jack, me, and our dad, all of us holding fish and grinning like fools at the camera, lay on the table beside it. Fuck. I opened the door. The man standing on my front porch was in his mid forties, wearing khakis and a polo. His salt and pepper hair was buzzed short and he had a thick mustache. He took off his sunglasses when I opened the door and took in my obviously hungover appearance – slept-in clothes, rumpled hair, squinty eyes, stubble – with barely a raise of an eyebrow. “Michael Lakewood?” “Yeah?” “My name’s Carl Norris. I’m with a bonder in Norfolk, Virginia. May I come in, please?” I held on to the doorknob. “I think we can talk right here, thanks.” Now the eyebrow raised. “I’m looking for your brother.” “Jack?” He smiled, and I suddenly hated him – he had an air of smug satisfaction that just got under my skin. I knew that he was sure as hell that I would give my brother up to him. “Yes, Mr. Lakewood. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I need to take him back to Norfolk.” I looked around him at the cars in the driveway. Only two – the bondsman had parked behind me. I saw with absolutely no surprise that the asshole was driving a Crown Vic. “I dunno where he is,” I said. “You sure about that?” I was suddenly sick of everything – my dying father, my criminal brother, my empty house, this bully in front of me. For a moment I couldn’t breathe; it seemed like the air was being crushed from my lungs. I was exhausted. And mad as hell. “Yeah I’m sure. You wanna get off my property now, or wait ‘til I call the cops?” His smug grin grew wider. “Your father’s sick, right?” “What does that have to do with anything?” “I’m sure your brother’d head down here to see him before he dies, Michael.” “Mister,” I said, and my face must have shown how close I was to the end of my rope, because he lost his grin fast and his hand went to the small of his back, where I was sure he had a gun in a holster – “I don’t know what my brother does. At this point you’ve had more contact with him lately than I have. Now get the fuck off my porch.” I took a step back and slammed the door in his face with all my strength. The sound of it clapped off the walls in the foyer and echoed through the house. I picked up the glass and the picture and walked into the kitchen. I put the glass in the sink and stood there in front of the counter, the morning sun streaming in through the window over the sink. I looked at the picture in my hand. The three of us, totally unaware of what was down the road. I turned the picture over, sure Jack would have left me a note, a word, something. It was blank. “Fuck you too, Jack,” I said, and wiped my face. It was wet. I’d forgotten about grinding my teeth. Behind me, the doorbell began to ring. |
| Out Of The Blue By michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| There once was a cow who didn't want
to be a cow. But then, so few do. Now the cow that this story is about is what you call one of them Oklahoma type cows, living as it did on my Uncle Joe's ranch just north of Tishomingo. But the important thing about this cow is not so much that it lived in Oklahoma, though I mention that just so you know where everything takes place because what I'm about to tell you is a true story. No sir, the important thing about this cow is that it was what you might call - for lack of a better word - a genuine Oklahoma Talking Cow. You see, I was spending a month on my Uncle Joe's ranch back in the summer of '76 when the rest of the country was busying itself celebrating this thing they called the Bicentennial, which is another thing I mention not so much because it's something you want to know necessarily, but rather to prove that this story is true. Anyway, late one afternoon I was minding my step while walking through the cow pasture when, out of the blue, I heard this voice. "Hey, kid." I stopped, as they say, dead in my tracks. Now, I'd been paying close attention to where I was putting my feet down and what was around me and all sorts of important things like that, so I was pretty darn sure there wasn't anybody else out there except me. And the cows, of course. I mean, it was a cow pasture I was walking through. Cows are to be expected in places like that. Anyway, after some considerable thinking on the matter, I had pretty much convinced myself that I really hadn't heard anyone talking at all. The way I figured it, some cattle rustler way down the line somewhere had snipped one of the strands of barb wire that ran around Uncle Joe's ranch, and that snipping made kind of a zing-zing sound, just as you might expect. Only thing is, by the time it traveled along all that wire to get to where I was standing out there in that cow pasture, "zing-zing" ended up sounding more like "hey, kid" than the "zing-zing" it had started out sounding like. I undeaded myself from my tracks and began walking again. "Psst. Hey, kid. You." "Me?" "You see anyone else around?" "No, but then I don't see you around." "What did you do, forget your glasses? I'm standing right here in front of you." "I don't wear glasses," I said, "and the only thing in front of me is a cow." "Right you are, kid. Well, at least you got the part about the cow right. I'm not so sure about the glasses. You, uh - you seemed to have stepped in a little something there." Indeed, there was a large clump of what polite folks call manure on my shoe. Right off I wondered if maybe this was some kind of joke my Uncle Joe was playing on me. How maybe he'd rigged up a CB radio or something like that, and right now he was settin' on his porch, laughin' and scratchin' and talking into a microphone and pretending to be a cow so's he could fool the city kid from Jersey who was only out here for a month anyway. Being from Jersey, I wasn't about to let someone make a fool out of me all that easily. "I ain't talking to no cow," I muttered and picked up a stick to scrape the manure stuff off my shoe. "Well, that's okay, because I'm not really a cow," said the cow. "I knew it! I knew this was some kind of trick. It's you, isn't it, Uncle Joe?" "Huh? You think I'm your Uncle Joe? Kid, are you sure you don't wear glasses?" "I don't wear glasses," I told the cow again. "Besides, if you're not my Uncle Joe, then who are you?" "Well kid, around these parts, they call me Bubba." "Bubba? What kind of name is that?" "It's - it's a cow name." Now I really didn't know much about cows, but it seemed to me that a name like Bubba might just be the kind of name a cow would actually have; that is, if cows had names. There was, however, one little problem with this line of reasoning. "If you're not a cow, then why do you have a cow name?" I asked. "Because I look like a cow." "Okay, lemme see if I've got this right: you're not a cow, but you look like a cow, which is why you have a cow name. Is that right?" "Kid, I couldn't have said it better myself." I felt pretty good about how I'd figured that out, and in hindsight I would have done well to leave it at that. I didn't, of course, which is why this story isn't over with yet. "There's just one thing," I said to the thing that said it wasn't a cow, "if you're not a cow, then what are you?" "A space alien." Now I have to admit that this cow - or space alien - didn't sound anything like my Uncle Joe, but I still thought he was playing some sort of trick on me. On the other hand, neither did it seem very likely that I was talking to a space alien in a cow suit. Nonetheless, at the risk of enduring howls of laughter from his farmer buddies the next time Uncle Joe took me with him to the feed store, I decided to play along. "Really? A space alien, huh? From where, might I ask?" "Nymeria." "Nymeria ... Nymeria," I repeated the name a couple times and scratched the side of my head pretending to be deep in thought - as though I were trying to recall where I'd heard the name before. "Oh yeah, that's that little town just south of Ardmore, isn't it?" "No, and please don't make fun of me, kid." "All right, then. Where is Nymeria exactly?" "Nymeria," said the cow, "is located in the planetary cluster Gu-Gu 519." "Oh, that Nymeria. I always get the two confused." "You're making fun of me again, aren't you?" For a cow, he had a pretty quick brain. "Listen, I gotta tell you, I'm having a hard time believing this space alien thing. Why would a space alien visit Oklahoma dressed up in a cow suit?" "Because all the great scientists back on Nymeria thought cows were the most advanced species on your planet." "Cows? Advanced? Why would anyone think that?" "At the time it made sense." "Well, it doesn't make sense to me." "Would you like me to explain?" "I'm all ears," I said. "Huh?" "It's an expression. It means I'm listening. Go ahead, explain away." "Phew! For a minute there I thought I'd accidentally transported myself to the third moon of Tozerian. They have a creature there - a Mudge-Yak-Yak they call it - that is, in fact, a giant ear. Imagine that. A giant ear and nothing more. No eyes, no nose, no feet. As one might hypothesize, it makes for quite an interesting ..." "Excuse me, but you're getting off track here. You were telling me about this advanced cow species thing." "Oh, yes. Of course. Very well. Um - are you familiar with the nursery rhyme that begins 'Hey diddle diddle'?" "I know that one," I said, holding up my end of the conversation while standing in a cow pasture, scraping manure off my shoe and discussing nursery rhymes with a talking cow who claimed to be a space alien. "Hey, diddle diddle. The cat and the fiddle. The cow jumped over the moon ..." "That's it!" the cow interrupted. "The cow jumped over the moon. Not a pig. Not a horse. Not even a person." "So -" "So, back on Nymeria we thought it meant cows had mastered space travel." "Poor little Space Commander Bubba," I said and patted the cow on his head. "Able to transcend the space-time continuum and master interplanetary travel, yet so tragically incapable of understanding the folly of a child's nursery rhyme." "In Nymerian terms, it made sense," said the cow. "If you don't believe me, ask your Uncle Joe." "What? Uncle Joe knows about you?" "Sure, kid. I'm living on his ranch, aren't I? A talking cow is not the kind of thing a rancher would overlook, you know. Besides, he gave me this really nice cowbell to help me hide from the evil Mudge-Yak-Yaks." Bubba shook his head and rang the cowbell for emphasis. "Oooooh," I said, "I don't think I want to hear about those evil Mudge things. What are they dressed up as? Sheep?" "Not Mudge things. Mudge-Yak-Yaks," said the cow, correcting me. "And they're everywhere." "Everywhere? Really? Then how come I haven't seen one?" "Ah, but you have, my boy. In fact, your Aunt Betty is a Mudge-Yak-Yak." "Aunt Betty? One of those evil Mudge things? Impossible! Why the woman does nothing but sit around watching soap operas all day. Well, except for Wednesdays when her quilting group comes over." "Ah, she's a clever one, that Aunt Betty. I shudder to think what would have become of me on the business end of a quilting needle if your Uncle Joe hadn't given me this wonderful cowbell disguise so I could fool her." "I don't understand. How does a cowbell fool my Aunt Betty? It doesn't fool me." "That's because you're an earth-dweller, and your senses are pretty much in balance. Mudge-Yak-Yaks, you see, aren't built the same way. They rely much more on their hearing than their vision - exactly what you'd expect since, in their natural state, they are giant ears. Now, in your Aunt Betty's case, whenever she's around me and she hears my cowbell clinking, well, she figures I'm just another cow." "Say, that gives me an idea," the cow went on. "Sort of an experiment, as it were. A way to prove that your Aunt Betty really is a Mudge-Yak-Yak. Are you interested?" "Okay," I said, though I didn't know why. Unless it had always been my life-long ambition to engage in an interplanetary scientific experiment with a space alien dressed up in a cow suit while wearing a shoe that stank of cow manure. "Good. All right, then, listen. Here's what we'll do. I'll let you borrow my cowbell, and you go back to the farm house and sneak up on your Aunt Betty and start ringing that cowbell just as loudly as you can, okay?" "What'll that prove?" "You'll see. Believe me, you'll see." "Well, okay, I'll give it a try. Gimme your cowbell." "I can't exactly give you the cowbell. It's - it's the cloven hoof thing here with the cow suit, you understand. No thumb-forefinger opposition. No ability to grasp anything." "All right then, lower your head and I'll slide it off you." "Moo." It was a tight squeeze, but I slipped the cowbell over Bubba's head. "Moo." "What's with the moo thing all of a sudden?" "Got to," Bubba whispered. "Mudge-Yak-Yaks. Everywhere. Evil. Can't be too careful." "Oh yeah. Sorry. Almost forgot. Okay, you just stay right here and do your mooing, and I'll be back as soon as I can." "Moo." I stuffed the cowbell in my pocket and headed toward the farm house to conduct my first ever interplanetary scientific experiment. Uncle Joe was in the shade of the front porch, sitting in his rocking chair with a tall glass of iced tea beside him. "Where you been, boy?" "Oh, just out walking around." I wasn't sure yet if I should tell him about Bubba. Better to conduct the experiment first, I thought. I went around to the back door and sneaked in through the kitchen. Aunt Betty was sitting in the parlor watching one of her soaps on TV. She didn't see me come in. I took the cowbell out of my pocket and started shaking it. Aunt Betty, upon hearing the clank of the cowbell, jumped up off the couch and began to scream. "Joe! Joe! There's a cow in the house! Get it out of here! Hurry, Joe, hurry!" Uncle Joe bounded into the house and grabbed the cowbell away from me. Leading me out the door by my ear, he turned and spoke to my Aunt Betty. "It's all right, dear. I've got him. I'll get him back out to pasture where he belongs. Dunno how these dang cows keep gettin' in here anyways." On the porch Uncle Joe set me down in his rocking chair. "What in tarnation you doin', boy?" "Conducting an interplanetary scientific experiment." "Now boy, I want you to tell me the truth. You haven't been talking to none of my cows, now have you?" "Uh, yes, sir. Actually, I did." "Mm-hmm. And that cow you were talking to, his name wouldn't be Bubba, now would it?" "Why, yes, it would," I said, all excited. "And, I suppose, he told you a story about being some sort of space alien or other from some far-off planetary cluster or something like that, did he?" "You do know him, don't you, Uncle Joe?" "Boy, that cow ain't no more a space alien than I am. Or you. Or even your Aunt Betty, for that matter." "He isn't? But, Uncle Joe, he told me everything. How you knew about him, and how Aunt Betty would react to the cowbell, and how ..." "Now, I don't want you to go off feeling badly about this - 'cuz it ain't like you're the first one – but boy, you just fell for the oldest cow trick in the book." "Cow trick?" "He got you to take the cowbell off him, didn't he?" "Well yeah, but that was just for the experiment. Otherwise, he seemed to really like it." "Boy, the cow ain't yet been born who likes wearing a cowbell. 'Course, that ain't something I'd expect a city feller like yourself to know." "You mean, the whole thing was just so's I'd take the cowbell off him?" "Yep. 'Fraid so." "And all the stuff about Nymeria and Mudge-Yak-Yaks and space aliens and ..." "Just a story, boy. Just a story." Uncle Joe patted me on the head and sent me inside to help Aunt Betty get supper ready. He went off to find Bubba. That night we had t-bone steaks for supper. While we were eating, Uncle Joe told Aunt Betty all about Bubba the space alien who liked to dress up in a cow suit and lived somewhere on their ranch. They laughed and slapped their knees and nudged each other in the ribs with their elbows and generally had a fine old time while he told her about the great scientific interplanetary cowbell experiment. All during dinner I kept hoping that, at some point, Uncle Joe would lean over and whisper to me that it was all a joke; that he had indeed rigged up one of his cows with a CB radio or something like that, and put one over on the city kid from Jersey. But he never did, and I was glad that I'd be flying back home before Aunt Betty's quilting group showed up again or before Uncle Joe had another chance to drag me with him to the feed store. And that, my friend, is the true story of my first encounter with a space alien. You didn't really think there was such a thing as a talking cow, now did you? |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place (tie): #3, #5 Third place (tie): #2, #7, #8 Others receiving votes: #4, #9 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Out Of The Blue RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#1 of 10 |
| 1301 words | |
| Long after we'd been separated by time and space, I
never thought that I'd finally meet him again. That Sunday afternoon, I saw him
outside a small shop across the new building of '56' Middle School in Jeruk
Purut, South Jakarta. Sitting there alone and smoking, he looked as though he'd
been waiting anxiously for someone. He was in jeans and a long-sleeved red
shirt, despite the hot weather. He was tall and very skinny. His dark, wavy
hair was completely unruly. His face was haggard and pale, not the kind of tan
I used to recognize. But I was certain that he was the same guy. Why did I happen to be there? Well, the answer is pretty simple. I'd rummaged through my drawer the night before and found my old school yearbook. I'd flipped through the dusty pages, and suddenly I felt like reminiscing. So there I was. Before '56' that building used to belong to my old middle school. And the small shop across it used to be our favorite Padangese food stall. We used to hang out there, eating fried chicken, rendang*, and especially the most delicious shrimp I'd ever tasted in my life. Until Babe** the owner had known us by heart. So did his family, Babe's wife Bunda*** and their two sons --- Yusri and Okta. Where are they now? "Nando?" The tall and skinny guy looked up as I approached. For a moment his brows furrowed, obviously looking puzzled and trying to remember. "Ran!" he exclaimed in amazement. A sweet smile spread across his handsome face as we shook hands firmly. But, why did his eyes look so dreary? Almost bloodshot, as if he'd lost sleep for days. Dark circles under his eyes had overcast the warm radiance of spirit I used to acknowledge and truly admire, back when we were fourteen. "How are you?" I casually sat beside him, but still aware to notice that he didn't seem too thrilled to see me. A bad time?? "Fine." Well, at least Nando would still smile at me. He snuck a quick glance at his watch. "What are you doing here?" "I'm...I'm just looking around our old school," I told him, trying to sound genuine and maintain my cool. "You?" "Me too," he said, half-shrugging. He didn't seem to care that much. He didn't even really look at me. He scanned our surroundings. It seemed to me that he was really expecting someone else but me. It was obvious from the way he let the silence take over. How odd, considering the fact that we'd been close friends in school. I could even say that he was one of my heroes. I tried to squash back the sudden hurt inside. Deeply sighing, I tried to keep our conversation going. "I haven't heard from you in a long time since I called you back in high school," I reminded him. "By the way, which college do you attend now?" Nan do was still quiet. I began to feel slightly annoyed. How arrogant! But when I glanced at him, I was suddenly startled. The handsome face had gradually stiffened, with a pair of eyes staring emptily. I couldn't figure out why I felt a sudden pang. Was he sad about something?? "Sorry, Ran," he whispered softly, then turned to me with a bitter smile. "I couldn't stand college." "Still playing guitar?" Nan do shook his head. "What about you?" he asked me. "Still singing?" "Well, not quite much anymore. It's just a hobby now." "College?" "Just graduated with a degree in journalism." "Congratulations." When we shook hands again, I'd just realized how cold his hand was. "You used to say you wanted to become a journalist or a writer. Isn't it great, to have your dream come true?" "Well, yeah," I agreed nervously. What did he mean by that? As far as I remembered, he'd always wanted to be a musician. Why did he sound so apathetic? I felt even more terrible. Especially when I noticed him smoking clumsily. His hand was shaking. Again, he glanced anxiously at his watch and surroundings with his round, bloodshot eyes. Suddenly I felt like a real intruder next to him. Maybe he wanted to be alone, waiting for that someone. A girlfriend, probably. I reluctantly got up, feeling somehow...distressed. "Um, I've got to go," I mumbled shakily. Why the hell did I feel like crying now? "Can I call you some other time?" "I don't live there anymore," Nando informed me quickly. Noticing my stunned expression, he gave me a reassuring smile. "I'll call you. Still the same number?" "Yeah." Actually, I still had many things to tell him, things I'd never gotten the chance to back then. And questions about him. Unfortunately, my body refused to cooperate. I just automatically smiled and waved goodbye at him, then turned around and left. Not looking back again... If Nando hadn't been around, I would've stayed a quiet, shy nerd. He was the very first guy who'd looked beyond a bullies' favorite target like me. He'd once heard me sing and complimented me honestly. Then we formed a band and played in school gigs together. I'd gained more confidence. I was no longer a joke, getting my own credits. I'd considered Nando my hero, although he would've never known that. I'd had a crush on him too, but he already had a beautiful girlfriend. I would never have wanted to split them apart and wreck our own great friendship. Besides, puppy love never lasts, right? Nando had always been kind to me. A smart guy too. But he'd also been a bad boy, often giving teachers a serious headache. Cutting classes, once suspended after a fight with another student, until playing some practical jokes on other girls in school but me. The whole school staff had been busy too when he'd run away from home for three days, right after a fight with his own mother. I'd been so worried like hell, but never had the courage to simply ask him what had been going on when he finally returned with a smile. Maybe I was afraid to upset him. But I was still crazy about him. From Nando, I'd learned to face the world with courage and not to take things way too seriously. After graduation, we'd gone to different high schools. I'd suffered a great deal of loss at first, but then decided to move on. I'd once heard a terrible rumor about Nando from our old friends. They'd said, Nando had joined a bad crowd and started doing drugs. He'd even gotten thinner. I couldn't believe it and never wanted to. So I'd phoned him, without mentioning the drug issue. He just laughed when I'd asked about him. He'd said he was fine and I'd believed him. He'd cut school again too many times and finally got expelled. He had to try another high school. As simple as that. Then I'd completely forgotten about him during college. Until that Sunday afternoon... But when the night came, I suddenly felt more anxious than ever. I couldn't quite put my finger on. I'd browsed through TV channels, hopeful for a decent show. No luck. I'd finally given up to a news. I was just putting the remote back on the table beside me, when suddenly another news caught my entire attention. The police failing a drug-dealing. The dealer was dead, shot after trying to escape. The place was...oh, my God. My eyes could no longer blink. I sat very still. I felt somehow suffocated. There, where we'd met hours before at noon. My hero was lying there on the ground. His round eyes were fixed permanently in pure horror. The camera zoomed in to a BCU (big close-up) of him, his face completely uncensored. He had three bullets marked his chest... *rendang: meat simmered with spices and coconut milk (Padangese food) **Babe: 'father' in Batavian language ***Bunda: 'mother' in Padangese language |
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| Out Of The Blue Ken Staley madhatterat50@yahoo.com |
#2 of 10 |
| 2497 words | |
| Must have been late October when the school bus dropped
us off at Uncle Ed’s store. Uncle Ed’s is sort of the social
gathering spot in the Hollow and is the best place for a bus stop. Just fifty
feet up the lane from a bad curve in old Highway Fifty-two, Moss, Tennessee the
squat, peeling, white-washed clap board building with its tin roof streaked
with rust - a screen door forever dusty; a Pepsi Cola sign on one side of the
door, in the shape of a bottle cap - so faded the original colors are
indeterminate - with a thermometer that no longer worked in the center – a
chipped paint and sun bleached Coke signs on the other side proudly proclaimed
KENDALL GROCERY, but to us, it was always Ed’s Store. The first thing you saw in Ed’s Store was a semi-circle of old chairs facing a wood burning stove. Each chair had its own ‘owner’, sort of like Uncle Ed had assigned each of them that chair. A blue haze clouded Ed’s Store every day as the men smoked constantly. Some rolled their own cigarettes, others used ‘store boughts’, but they all smoked. One or two chewed tobacco, now and then. I wasn’t old enough to join The Circle yet, but I could rest my feet on the bars of the stool as I nursed my peanut filled Coke. Scooter Davis would slip me one of his store boughts when he thought no one was looking. Buster Jenkins, easily the oldest, chewed an old cigar. His lips moved the white plastic tip from one side of his mouth to the other, depending on who was talking. On a summer day, when his John Deere hat came off so he could mop his brow, there wasn’t much hair, just a mass of liver spots. He claimed to be sixty, others said seventy, Uncle Ed swore he was 80 or more. He sat at the closest spot to the old stove, one end of the horseshoe. He needed to be close ‘cuz of the lumbago’ he claimed. “More likely it’s the lead behind your back pockets,” Uncle Ed replied every time Buster made his excuse. “You only sit there so you can set your coffee cup or beer on the stove.” Big Al Davis sat next to Buster. An ox of a man, he never said a word but followed every conversation with an intense stare, regardless of the topic or humor involved. He laughed only when everyone else did and, for the next few minutes, after the general laughter died, Al’s mouth would twitch at one corner, like he was practicing his smile. Scooter Davis was Al’s mouse of a little brother and he never went anywhere that he didn’t take Al with him. Buster told me once when I was little that the red Moustache under Scooter’s nose was really a caterpillar. I kept waiting for it to cocoon, but it never did. Clyde George – the man with two first names - sat in ‘The Wreck’ and was the newest and youngest member of The Circle. Clyde salvaged the old chrome frame, denuded of any padding or softness, whose seat was nothing more than a slab of old plywood siding and whose legs threatened to buckle, and shoved it in at the top of the horseshoe, inviting himself to join The Circle. They’d argued at length four summers ago, when Buster brought in his old stuffed chair, that The Wreck should go to the trash heap out back. Clyde found The Wreck on the burn pile and resurrected it back to The Circle. The Wreck would find itself back in that trash pile, now and then, when Clyde got too silly or too loud or too obnoxious. Uncle Ed’s chair was the other end of the horse shoe, next to the stove and closest to the counter on those times when someone needed something. Buster was always first to arrive, usually right after lunch unless it was blazing hot, then he got there earlier. Clyde was second. Sometimes I think he hid down the road and waited for Buster to get there. Seems he didn’t never want to be first, but he sure wasn’t going to be last in case some stranger should show up and claim The Wreck. Scooter and Al would wander in, early on the days they didn’t work, later on fall days when they could cut and deliver several cords of wood. They always smelled of ash and red maple and two cycle exhaust. Then, one day in early October, clean out of the blue, in walked Bobby Ray. He opened the screen and stood in the door to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting in Uncle Ed’s Store. He wore his Army hat, that desert stuff that’s supposed to make them hard to see in the sand, and his fatigue jacket with his name patch above the breast pocket. He’d been gone some time - just a kid when he left - they all said later. This wasn’t the gangling high school kid with greasy hair and a face full of pimples. This lost young man who looked haunted by his recent history. All eyes went to him as the jokes and stories stopped stone cold dead. Without a word, he moved back through the aisle to the far cooler and took out a six pack of Schlitz. No one else in the store moved but we watched him carefully. When he came to the counter, I could see he walked with a gimp, his left leg just didn’t seem to work quite like his right leg did and, as he passed me, his left knee creaked a bit, like he needed WD 40. “Bob,” Uncle Ed said with a short nod as he came to the counter. I was surprised. Before today, he always called him Bobby Ray. Now it was Bob. “Anything else?” Bobby Ray didn’t respond right away. He stared over Uncle Ed’s shoulder, out the small window, and then seemed to quiver like a cold wet hound dog before shaking his head ‘no’. “Set a spell?” Uncle Ed asked. Again the pause, but this time he nodded yes and, much to my shock, and that of The Circle, went over and sat down in Uncle Ed’s chair. That caused some shuffling. The Circle never invited strangers to ‘set a spell’. Buster, of course, didn’t move. He was, after all, sitting in his own chair. Scooter and Al stood, Scooter’s being the second best chair in the group, which meant that they expected Clyde George to move, too. He did so only after Big Al stood in front of him and glowered at him. That meant, for the day at least, Clyde was a ‘stander’. And you had to stand outside the horse shoe if you wanted to stay. Uncle Ed didn’t allow people to lean against his counters. “Keep your butt outta them pickles!” He’d call to whoever tried to lean against the barrel. Aunt Ruthie’s specials…so crisp it was a toss up which would snap first, the pickle or your teeth. Then Uncle Ed did something I never saw him do before. He reached down into the water filled soda cooler and brought out two bottles of long neck. Popping the caps on both, he carried them to The Circle and offered one to Bob. They toasted each other silently and took long pulls of the cold home made brew. “That’s right,” Clyde said loudly from the outer edge of the group now, trying to fit in, not wanting to be forgotten. “You been in the war, ain’t you.” Bobby Ray said nothing, just lowered his head with a slight nod. Everyone knew Bobby Ray had been in Iraq. Few knew that he drove supply truck there; fewer still that he’d been wounded. “Say, was you at that jail? You know, Apple Gravy or whatever it was?” Clyde asked, laughing at his own joke. He was the only one who did laugh, though. “No.” “Oh, that’s right,” Clyde said as though he’d just remembered. “You just drove truck didn’t ya?” “That’ll do,” Uncle Ed said. Usually, when he made that announcement, the topic changed. “How long you been home, Bobby Ray?” Scooter Davis asked after a long pause. “Week.” “How’s your folks?” Uncle Ed said, trying to fill in the gaps and make Bobby Ray comfortable. “About the same,” this brought a kind of smile from him. “Things don’t change much here, do they? Guess that’s why I wanted to come back so bad” A longing echoed in his voice as he looked about the store. “It doesn’t change here.” “How many of them rag heads did you kill from the cab of your truck there, Bobby Ray?” Clyde called, trying not to be left out or forgotten. “You’re steppin’ right close to the edge there, Clyde,” Uncle Ed said coolly, pinning Clyde to silence with his look. “Edge of what?” I asked him one day when he said the same thing to me. “Why, the very edge of tarnation, boy,” he replied. Bobby Ray said nothing – just stared through his beer at the floor. “What happened to your leg?” Buster asked quietly. He was patriarch and had the right to ask. A veteran of WW 2, Buster he claimed he’d been wounded, but I never saw the scar. “IED,” Bobby sighed as he sat back a bit. When he saw the puzzle on Big Al’s face, he assumed that the rest of the group didn’t understand either. “Road side bomb. See, they just left cars all over, or piles of trash. You never knew,” he paused and sighed, then added very quietly. “Now and then the bomb was a person. Suicide bomber…pieces of meat everywhere.” His voice faded until I had to strain to hear the last. “Nobody checked?” Scooter said. Most of The Circle was quiet, leaning in, happy for Bobby’s willingness to share, but just as willing to let him sit quietly in peace and enjoy his beer if he wanted. “There were too many piles of trash, burned out cars, broken water mains - you could spend all day just tipping over trash piles and never see anything but garbage. You can’t imagine what it was like,” Bobby said with a long sigh as he got that far away look again. “The smell ….” I’d given up any pretense of reading my G I JOE comic and crossed to stand behind Uncle Ed’s chair. I’d always been keen on the Army, maybe even the Marines, when I was old enough. “I heard you was back,” Scooter said. “I mean, before this.” “I was,” Bobby Ray nodded. “Twice. They sent us back.” He took a long pull from his beer. “Third time’s the charm, I guess,” he smiled as he said it and the tension in The Circle eased some. “These old fools don’t know,” Uncle Ed said. “But I do. I was there.” “’Nam?” Bobby Ray asked. “Korea,” Ed said. I hadn’t known. He never talked about it, ever. “Inchon.” “C’mon Ed, you were a cook,” Buster snorted. “What did you do? Throw your soup at ‘em?” The group laughed, too loudly. Bobby Ray just smiled and tilted his bottle at Uncle Ed. There was a bond between them that the rest of The Circle would never understand. “Hospital?” Scooter seemed to know more than the rest of the group, except perhaps Uncle Ed, but even he deferred. Scooter knew just what to ask and how to say it so as not to offend Bobby Ray. “Six months,” Bobby Ray sighed. “I gotta go back and get this fixed.” He said as he slapped his left leg, causing an audible clank. “Hey! You can be the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz now,” Clyde called. Nobody laughed except him – a loud, long phony guffaw. Bobby Ray finished his beer to fill the silence. The Circle was silent, ashamed that they’d even let Clyde sit down among them now. When the bottle was empty, he stood. “Thanks for the beer,” he said as he handed Uncle Ed the bottle and crossed for his six pack, still sitting on the counter. All eyes followed him, but nobody moved. If they were anything like me, they were watching his limp carefully, just to see. He must have known. When he got to the counter, he leaned against it and sighed heavily. When he turned around, he lifted his pants leg. Pipe. That’s all. Strapped somehow to just below his knee and ending in a boot. One or two in The Circle sucked breath. His stump was still an angry red. “So, you didn’t get to torture nobody, you didn’t kill no rag heads and the only medal you brought home is a fake leg,” Clyde snorted. “Hardly seems worth it.” Suddenly the room was very cold and I moved closer to Uncle Ed, feeling his tension. I knew he was really angry, so were the rest. I knew then exactly what he meant by ‘crossing the line.’ Clyde George just took a large step across. There he was, on the very edge of tarnation and I knew The Wreck was headed for permanent residency in the trash heap real soon. Bobby Ray looked at him – looked through him – and I hope I never, ever live long enough to have any man stare at me the way he did Clyde George that day. Clyde even took a couple steps back, looking like he wanted to run. Bobby Ray just stood there - made no threatening move, either for a weapon or to the door - and stared Clyde George silly. Finally he smiled. Not a funny – ha ha – type smile, but a smile of death. “No,” he said as he turned and scooped his six pack from the counter and started for the door. Clyde George gave him a wide berth. He stopped just as he touched the screen and said, to the outside world. “It wasn’t worth it at all.” |
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| Out Of The Blue michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#3 of 10 Runner-up |
| 2293 words | |
| There once was a cow who didn't want to be a cow. But
then, so few do. Now the cow that this story is about is what you call one of them Oklahoma type cows, living as it did on my Uncle Joe's ranch just north of Tishomingo. But the important thing about this cow is not so much that it lived in Oklahoma, though I mention that just so you know where everything takes place because what I'm about to tell you is a true story. No sir, the important thing about this cow is that it was what you might call - for lack of a better word - a genuine Oklahoma Talking Cow. You see, I was spending a month on my Uncle Joe's ranch back in the summer of '76 when the rest of the country was busying itself celebrating this thing they called the Bicentennial, which is another thing I mention not so much because it's something you want to know necessarily, but rather to prove that this story is true. Anyway, late one afternoon I was minding my step while walking through the cow pasture when, out of the blue, I heard this voice. "Hey, kid." I stopped, as they say, dead in my tracks. Now, I'd been paying close attention to where I was putting my feet down and what was around me and all sorts of important things like that, so I was pretty darn sure there wasn't anybody else out there except me. And the cows, of course. I mean, it was a cow pasture I was walking through. Cows are to be expected in places like that. Anyway, after some considerable thinking on the matter, I had pretty much convinced myself that I really hadn't heard anyone talking at all. The way I figured it, some cattle rustler way down the line somewhere had snipped one of the strands of barb wire that ran around Uncle Joe's ranch, and that snipping made kind of a zing-zing sound, just as you might expect. Only thing is, by the time it traveled along all that wire to get to where I was standing out there in that cow pasture, "zing-zing" ended up sounding more like "hey, kid" than the "zing-zing" it had started out sounding like. I undeaded myself from my tracks and began walking again. "Psst. Hey, kid. You." "Me?" "You see anyone else around?" "No, but then I don't see you around." "What did you do, forget your glasses? I'm standing right here in front of you." "I don't wear glasses," I said, "and the only thing in front of me is a cow." "Right you are, kid. Well, at least you got the part about the cow right. I'm not so sure about the glasses. You, uh - you seemed to have stepped in a little something there." Indeed, there was a large clump of what polite folks call manure on my shoe. Right off I wondered if maybe this was some kind of joke my Uncle Joe was playing on me. How maybe he'd rigged up a CB radio or something like that, and right now he was settin' on his porch, laughin' and scratchin' and talking into a microphone and pretending to be a cow so's he could fool the city kid from Jersey who was only out here for a month anyway. Being from Jersey, I wasn't about to let someone make a fool out of me all that easily. "I ain't talking to no cow," I muttered and picked up a stick to scrape the manure stuff off my shoe. "Well, that's okay, because I'm not really a cow," said the cow. "I knew it! I knew this was some kind of trick. It's you, isn't it, Uncle Joe?" "Huh? You think I'm your Uncle Joe? Kid, are you sure you don't wear glasses?" "I don't wear glasses," I told the cow again. "Besides, if you're not my Uncle Joe, then who are you?" "Well kid, around these parts, they call me Bubba." "Bubba? What kind of name is that?" "It's - it's a cow name." Now I really didn't know much about cows, but it seemed to me that a name like Bubba might just be the kind of name a cow would actually have; that is, if cows had names. There was, however, one little problem with this line of reasoning. "If you're not a cow, then why do you have a cow name?" I asked. "Because I look like a cow." "Okay, lemme see if I've got this right: you're not a cow, but you look like a cow, which is why you have a cow name. Is that right?" "Kid, I couldn't have said it better myself." I felt pretty good about how I'd figured that out, and in hindsight I would have done well to leave it at that. I didn't, of course, which is why this story isn't over with yet. "There's just one thing," I said to the thing that said it wasn't a cow, "if you're not a cow, then what are you?" "A space alien." Now I have to admit that this cow - or space alien - didn't sound anything like my Uncle Joe, but I still thought he was playing some sort of trick on me. On the other hand, neither did it seem very likely that I was talking to a space alien in a cow suit. Nonetheless, at the risk of enduring howls of laughter from his farmer buddies the next time Uncle Joe took me with him to the feed store, I decided to play along. "Really? A space alien, huh? From where, might I ask?" "Nymeria." "Nymeria ... Nymeria," I repeated the name a couple times and scratched the side of my head pretending to be deep in thought - as though I were trying to recall where I'd heard the name before. "Oh yeah, that's that little town just south of Ardmore, isn't it?" "No, and please don't make fun of me, kid." "All right, then. Where is Nymeria exactly?" "Nymeria," said the cow, "is located in the planetary cluster Gu-Gu 519." "Oh, that Nymeria. I always get the two confused." "You're making fun of me again, aren't you?" For a cow, he had a pretty quick brain. "Listen, I gotta tell you, I'm having a hard time believing this space alien thing. Why would a space alien visit Oklahoma dressed up in a cow suit?" "Because all the great scientists back on Nymeria thought cows were the most advanced species on your planet." "Cows? Advanced? Why would anyone think that?" "At the time it made sense." "Well, it doesn't make sense to me." "Would you like me to explain?" "I'm all ears," I said. "Huh?" "It's an expression. It means I'm listening. Go ahead, explain away." "Phew! For a minute there I thought I'd accidentally transported myself to the third moon of Tozerian. They have a creature there - a Mudge-Yak-Yak they call it - that is, in fact, a giant ear. Imagine that. A giant ear and nothing more. No eyes, no nose, no feet. As one might hypothesize, it makes for quite an interesting ..." "Excuse me, but you're getting off track here. You were telling me about this advanced cow species thing." "Oh, yes. Of course. Very well. Um - are you familiar with the nursery rhyme that begins 'Hey diddle diddle'?" "I know that one," I said, holding up my end of the conversation while standing in a cow pasture, scraping manure off my shoe and discussing nursery rhymes with a talking cow who claimed to be a space alien. "Hey, diddle diddle. The cat and the fiddle. The cow jumped over the moon ..." "That's it!" the cow interrupted. "The cow jumped over the moon. Not a pig. Not a horse. Not even a person." "So -" "So, back on Nymeria we thought it meant cows had mastered space travel." "Poor little Space Commander Bubba," I said and patted the cow on his head. "Able to transcend the space-time continuum and master interplanetary travel, yet so tragically incapable of understanding the folly of a child's nursery rhyme." "In Nymerian terms, it made sense," said the cow. "If you don't believe me, ask your Uncle Joe." "What? Uncle Joe knows about you?" "Sure, kid. I'm living on his ranch, aren't I? A talking cow is not the kind of thing a rancher would overlook, you know. Besides, he gave me this really nice cowbell to help me hide from the evil Mudge-Yak-Yaks." Bubba shook his head and rang the cowbell for emphasis. "Oooooh," I said, "I don't think I want to hear about those evil Mudge things. What are they dressed up as? Sheep?" "Not Mudge things. Mudge-Yak-Yaks," said the cow, correcting me. "And they're everywhere." "Everywhere? Really? Then how come I haven't seen one?" "Ah, but you have, my boy. In fact, your Aunt Betty is a Mudge-Yak-Yak." "Aunt Betty? One of those evil Mudge things? Impossible! Why the woman does nothing but sit around watching soap operas all day. Well, except for Wednesdays when her quilting group comes over." "Ah, she's a clever one, that Aunt Betty. I shudder to think what would have become of me on the business end of a quilting needle if your Uncle Joe hadn't given me this wonderful cowbell disguise so I could fool her." "I don't understand. How does a cowbell fool my Aunt Betty? It doesn't fool me." "That's because you're an earth-dweller, and your senses are pretty much in balance. Mudge-Yak-Yaks, you see, aren't built the same way. They rely much more on their hearing than their vision - exactly what you'd expect since, in their natural state, they are giant ears. Now, in your Aunt Betty's case, whenever she's around me and she hears my cowbell clinking, well, she figures I'm just another cow." "Say, that gives me an idea," the cow went on. "Sort of an experiment, as it were. A way to prove that your Aunt Betty really is a Mudge-Yak-Yak. Are you interested?" "Okay," I said, though I didn't know why. Unless it had always been my life-long ambition to engage in an interplanetary scientific experiment with a space alien dressed up in a cow suit while wearing a shoe that stank of cow manure. "Good. All right, then, listen. Here's what we'll do. I'll let you borrow my cowbell, and you go back to the farm house and sneak up on your Aunt Betty and start ringing that cowbell just as loudly as you can, okay?" "What'll that prove?" "You'll see. Believe me, you'll see." "Well, okay, I'll give it a try. Gimme your cowbell." "I can't exactly give you the cowbell. It's - it's the cloven hoof thing here with the cow suit, you understand. No thumb-forefinger opposition. No ability to grasp anything." "All right then, lower your head and I'll slide it off you." "Moo." It was a tight squeeze, but I slipped the cowbell over Bubba's head. "Moo." "What's with the moo thing all of a sudden?" "Got to," Bubba whispered. "Mudge-Yak-Yaks. Everywhere. Evil. Can't be too careful." "Oh yeah. Sorry. Almost forgot. Okay, you just stay right here and do your mooing, and I'll be back as soon as I can." "Moo." I stuffed the cowbell in my pocket and headed toward the farm house to conduct my first ever interplanetary scientific experiment. Uncle Joe was in the shade of the front porch, sitting in his rocking chair with a tall glass of iced tea beside him. "Where you been, boy?" "Oh, just out walking around." I wasn't sure yet if I should tell him about Bubba. Better to conduct the experiment first, I thought. I went around to the back door and sneaked in through the kitchen. Aunt Betty was sitting in the parlor watching one of her soaps on TV. She didn't see me come in. I took the cowbell out of my pocket and started shaking it. Aunt Betty, upon hearing the clank of the cowbell, jumped up off the couch and began to scream. "Joe! Joe! There's a cow in the house! Get it out of here! Hurry, Joe, hurry!" Uncle Joe bounded into the house and grabbed the cowbell away from me. Leading me out the door by my ear, he turned and spoke to my Aunt Betty. "It's all right, dear. I've got him. I'll get him back out to pasture where he belongs. Dunno how these dang cows keep gettin' in here anyways." On the porch Uncle Joe set me down in his rocking chair. "What in tarnation you doin', boy?" "Conducting an interplanetary scientific experiment." "Now boy, I want you to tell me the truth. You haven't been talking to none of my cows, now have you?" "Uh, yes, sir. Actually, I did." "Mm-hmm. And that cow you were talking to, his name wouldn't be Bubba, now would it?" "Why, yes, it would," I said, all excited. "And, I suppose, he told you a story about being some sort of space alien or other from some far-off planetary cluster or something like that, did he?" "You do know him, don't you, Uncle Joe?" "Boy, that cow ain't no more a space alien than I am. Or you. Or even your Aunt Betty, for that matter." "He isn't? But, Uncle Joe, he told me everything. How you knew about him, and how Aunt Betty would react to the cowbell, and how ..." "Now, I don't want you to go off feeling badly about this - 'cuz it ain't like you're the first one – but boy, you just fell for the oldest cow trick in the book." "Cow trick?" "He got you to take the cowbell off him, didn't he?" "Well yeah, but that was just for the experiment. Otherwise, he seemed to really like it." "Boy, the cow ain't yet been born who likes wearing a cowbell. 'Course, that ain't something I'd expect a city feller like yourself to know." "You mean, the whole thing was just so's I'd take the cowbell off him?" "Yep. 'Fraid so." "And all the stuff about Nymeria and Mudge-Yak-Yaks and space aliens and ..." "Just a story, boy. Just a story." Uncle Joe patted me on the head and sent me inside to help Aunt Betty get supper ready. He went off to find Bubba. That night we had t-bone steaks for supper. While we were eating, Uncle Joe told Aunt Betty all about Bubba the space alien who liked to dress up in a cow suit and lived somewhere on their ranch. They laughed and slapped their knees and nudged each other in the ribs with their elbows and generally had a fine old time while he told her about the great scientific interplanetary cowbell experiment. All during dinner I kept hoping that, at some point, Uncle Joe would lean over and whisper to me that it was all a joke; that he had indeed rigged up one of his cows with a CB radio or something like that, and put one over on the city kid from Jersey. But he never did, and I was glad that I'd be flying back home before Aunt Betty's quilting group showed up again or before Uncle Joe had another chance to drag me with him to the feed store. And that, my friend, is the true story of my first encounter with a space alien. You didn't really think there was such a thing as a talking cow, now did you? |
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| Out Of The Blue glenlee10@sky.com |
#4 of 10 |
| 2026 words | |
| It always intrigued me when something small, even
insignificant, had an unexpected effect on something bigger and supposedly
stronger; like the outcome that a small sip of Scotch whiskey had on my stocky,
little Grandma one Christmas, for example. The glass had barely touched her
lips when her legs turned to jelly and she started to giggle. I remember that
Dad was not amused. At school, we learned about the famine in Ireland in the mid-1800s when a fungus decimated the potato crop. Such a small thing, yet with its creeping, invidious nature, it had the strength to cause a disaster during which thousands of people died and many more were forced to leave Ireland altogether. I found it very interesting and received an A+ for my work. Or the reaction when a tiny beetle from a foreign land colonised and killed the row of old elm trees in the lane outside the house. I never saw any of the beetles but I watched the trees dying over the course of a very few months. But the issue that best symbolised the phenomenon I thought, was the blue bag that Mum used to make the washing whiter. I found it incredible that a small muslin bag could turn a whole copper full of clothes such a brilliant white. Occasionally Mum would allow me to apply the blue to the water, but she always watched me carefully to make sure I didn’t overdo it. A bag was about the size of a baby’s fist and bright, bright blue; a blue that only exists otherwise on the cover of a holiday magazine. The bag, which was tightly tied at the neck, would be dipped into the rinsing water just twice; once to wet the block inside and once to bring a swirl of rich colour out of the blue. Then I was allowed to dip the washing tongs into the water to mix it in. I would spend too long tracing long trails of blue through Dad’s white vests and around Mum’s knickers until Mum would take the tongs from me to finish the job herself. And when she had done, there was no trace left of the beautiful, powerful blue. Just a line of washing so white you’d blink to watch it flapping on the line. And all because of a few drops of blue. I was the smallest girl in my secondary school but I’d taken this David and Goliath syndrome to heart and whenever I was bullied, which in a school containing over three hundred teenage girls was quite often, I would bide my time and plan my revenge. One day, I remember, one of the prefects deliberately tripped me up when I was hurrying to a lesson and I went flying down the polished lino of the corridor on my knees, scattering books in all directions. “Don’t you forget who is in charge around here, peasant,” she said and giggling to a crony, left me to pick up my belongings. Not only did I get a telling off from the Head Mistress who turned up just as the two had left and I was fishing under a radiator for my pencil case, but I also got a detention for being late to class. It rankled for days but I got my own back on the Friday afternoon. That was the day when the older girls were able to leave school thirty minutes before the younger ones. “Home study time,” the Head Mistress called it. “Going up town shopping time,” was how the older girls labelled this generous allowance of free time. And of course, there was always a rush to catch the bus to town, which only went on the hour, every hour. I did double domestic science on Friday afternoons and that term we happened to be doing needlework. I had all the items to hand that I needed. I was excused from class to go to the toilet but instead I ran downstairs to the cloakroom. All the prefects’ coats were identifiable by the thin blue cord around the collar and cuffs of the dark-blue gabardine. It took no time at all to sew up all the sleeves of every prefect in the school. It was easier than finding out which were the coats belonging to the two who’d got me into trouble. They were all as bad as each other, anyway. Then, as an optional extra, I tied all their scarves together in one long festoon, using very, tight knots. It looked just like Christmas by the time I’d finished. The sewing teacher asked why I’d been gone so long. I told her I’d felt ill and had had to sit down until I was better. The simple soul that she was, she believed me. I didn’t grow much and until the day I left school I remained one of the smallest girls and even the teachers thought I was fair game and picked on me. The music teacher, Miss Jakes, upset me once but I discovered that I could create delightful discords at assembly by putting straws down the back of the piano. The whole school just cracked up and it took the Head Mistress ten minutes to quieten things down. On another occasion Jakesy opened the piano lid to find a dozen muddy, slimy worms wriggling on the keyboard. The look of horror on her face was priceless. I’ve never heard anyone scream so loud or for so long. If I remember right, she had to have the week off work to recover. I was eighteen when I left school. My passing was unmarked by the awarding of prizes or accolades. That was as I wished it. I merely wanted to be left alone. But that seemed too hard a thing to ask for. My first job was in the accounts department at a hosiery factory. For over a year everything was fine but it all fell apart when the boss brought his son into the business. Joshua had only been there for two days when he made a pass at me. I did what any self-respecting girl would do; I slapped his face, hard. That I broke his nose was unfortunate. Was it that that got me the sack? Or the fact that I laughed at him afterwards? Whatever, I was fired for gross misconduct. I didn’t act instantly. Cop shows on the television had taught me that the police always look for some disgruntled ex-employee when a crime is committed at a business. Instead I found another job and settled down. I made myself as pleasant and as useful as possible, lining up good character witnesses, you might say. But after six months, when I considered that the time was right, I struck. The timing was crucial. I didn’t want to leave it much longer or someone would have noted that the company’s insurance premium had not been paid. Actually, it had. The cheque had just never been posted. The boss had taken my keys from me when he fired me but I am always so afraid of losing keys that I have copies of every key I own. One evening, I tucked the factory key in my bra then joined a group of girls from my new work who were having a hen party in a pub near the factory from which I had been dumped. I was as tipsy as the rest of them, or that was the impression I gave, anyway. There were twelve of us and we were all dressed alike in long, black skirts, pink T-shirts and wearing red, feather boas round our necks and Rudolph antlers with flashing lights on our heads. Who could keep tabs on any individual in such a mob? In advance of the evening I had found out where the town’s CCTV cameras were and I knew where the blind spot was in the factory’s system. The factory had a cheap set-up, not adequate for the job of complete security having been designed to discourage thieves by the presence of the cameras, some of which were dummies. Like the rest of the girls, I carried only a very, small handbag and a change of clothes could have been difficult. Unlike the rest of the girls though, I was wearing tight black jeans and T-shirt under my clothes. In no time I had hidden my party wear in a cupboard, which contained cleaning materials and slipped unnoticed from the rear door of the pub. It was a warm night and even though it was dark, there was a large, noisy group of people outside the front door of the pub. They were all smoking, chatting and laughing loudly so it was easy to pass them by in the shadows on the other side of the road. I had no trouble getting into the factory. The fools hadn’t even thought to change the alarm code. My plan was simple. I’d thought it through many times during the last six months. The offices, which I particularly wanted to target, were directly over the factory canteen and the materials’ store. There were fabrics, laces and yarns in the store, along with a huge quantity of polyester fibre, cotton filler and goose feathers that had been bought years ago to fill an order for cushions and pillows by a customer who then went into bankruptcy. There was a rack, in the centre of the store, on which samples of draped cloth were hung I lit a match. A slight scent of sulphur teased my nostrils. I admired the cool inner blue core and the relentless power of the yellow flame, leaping eagerly to the corner of the envelope containing the cheque that should have gone to the insurance company. I enjoyed the symbolism, before holding the merrily burning paper up to the fabrics on the rack. I waited just long enough to make sure the flames were doing the work I had intended, then leaving the door open I walked quite calmly into the factory itself. That should burn nicely too, I thought, noting the dust, which was still thick in the air after a full day of machines winding and knitting and sewing fabric. Then I left the premises by the back door through which I had entered. For good measure, I left the door wide open to let a draught into the building. I could have closed the door but then the fire might have been considered to have been an accident and I didn’t want that. I wanted the bosses to know they were victims of arson. I wanted them to know that someone hated them. And it wouldn’t hurt, I chuckled to myself, if the police believed Joshua and his father had set fire to the factory themselves as an insurance fiddle. I was back with the girls within fifteen minutes, into the middle of an even noisier gaggle than when I’d left. No one seemed to have missed me and I was sure that no one had seen me coming or going. Finally, I let my hair down and had a couple of drinks; just enough to enjoy the evening, but not enough to do or say something that might give me away. Photographs of the fire were on the front of the following day’s newspaper. Uninsured losses, the reporter said, are calculated to be in the region of two million pounds. I was satisfied. The police called on me at one point but they only sent a young constable so I don’t think they are taking too seriously the possibility that I might have had anything to do with the fire. In any event, I have a good alibi. Eleven of my work mates will give statements to prove I was with them throughout all the evening. Something has gone wrong, I fear. A blue car has pulled up outside my house. A man in a crumpled navy-blue suit has got out, followed by two uniformed policemen. This thin blue line is coming down my garden path and I have nowhere to run. |
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| Out Of The Blue Nancy J Schneider njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#5 of 10 |
| 2470 words | |
| “So have you given any thinking to the big dance
now that you are an important senior?” My mouth was full of cereal, so all I could mumble was, “Whaaaaa?” Swallowing, I looked at Mom. Where did this come from? “Um, no, I can’t say I have. Why didja ask?” She sat down, folding her hands in her apron. “This is a big time for girls, Kristen, your last year of high school. I just did the wondering if your friends were talking about it yet.” We were from Austria and my mom, with her clipped Austrian accent, still had an awkward time with the language. It took a moment for a thought to go from her brain to her tongue and she rarely used contractions. It was sometimes embarrassing. Why couldn’t Mom learn? Why couldn’t she be like the other mothers? I shook my head. “No, no one has mentioned it. It’s only January for heaven’s sake. So no, we haven’t talked about it and I don’t think about it. Besides, who would ask me? I’m not popular with the guys you know. Too much in the brain department and not enough in the boobs. Why talk about something that won’t ever happen.” “No, do not think that way. Anything is possible, Liebchen. Maybe some boy is thinking of you but is too shy to say words. Maybe he will ask when it is closer to spring, hummm?” Mom said with a hopeful look. “Yea, right,” I mumbled. “But even if someone were to come out of nowhere and ask, I don’t have anything I could wear. And you don’t have money to spend on fancy dresses.” “Ja, it’s true we do not have much money to spend foolishly. But we have always had enough. I could make you a fine dress for the big dance.” “Mom, I know you could. But to make a fine dress you need material and buttons and zippers and patterns and…………..” “Ja, but I still have the blue material. Have you forgotten?” “Forgotten? How could I forget?“ Narrowing my eyes I continued. “You mean you would make me a dress out of the blue material? That same material you said you’d never use? No way Mom, you’re the one who forgot. You said you’d never use it!” “No, I said I would never make a dress for myself. That material was to be used for that special - what is the word - that special ‘occasion’ when your Papa joined us in America. I spent much money to buy the most beautiful material I could find. We were going to celebrate and I was going to wear my beautiful blue dress when he came. Then he died before he could come so I never made it. But - I never said I would not make a dress for you.” Cereal forgotten, I just looked at her, this person who was my Mama. Life wasn’t easy for her, trying to raise me all by herself in a strange country. At first she took in laundry and mending for those who lived in the better part of town. Because she was careful and honest, she soon was doing house cleaning, too. I was secretly proud of her, but I’d just die if my friends found out she cleaned other people’s toilets! But I knew this cleaning lady could work magic with a sewing machine. It was tempting to let myself think maybe, just maybe, I could go to the Senior Prom. “I have given you something to think about, no? Just remember, things have a way of working out if you want them bad enough. Now it is time for you to be going to the school and I must go to Lake Shore Drive. I have three homes to clean before the night falls.” Looking at the clock, I jumped up. “Oh my God, I didn’t know it was so late. I gotta get going or I’ll miss the bus.” I reached over and gave Mom a quick peck on the cheek, picked up my books and jacket and ran toward the door. “Do not take that attitude with the Almighty, young lady,” Mom yelled as I dashed out. ***************** “Can you believe my Mom asked me this morning if I was planning on going to Prom?” “Well, I know the Junior’s have started making plans for our Big Night, trying to decide on a theme and everything. Maybe it is time to think about who you’d like to go with,” Betsy said. Betsy, with her orange hair, black nails and weird clothes is my closest friend. She is different, but I like her a lot. We don’t keep secrets, we tell each other everything. She’s the only one who knows Mom is a stupid cleaning lady for the rich and famous. “Go with? You think I want to go to Prom?” “Sure, doesn’t everyone? Some of the girls are going stag, without a date. Course most of them are losers and can’t get a date.” “Like me you mean.” “Nooo, I didn’t mean you. You could get a date if you really wanted to go.” I gave her my raised eyebrow look. “Yea? Like who?” “I see you hanging out with Tim Calloway. He’s a cool guy. Bit on the nerdy side, but still cool. Not too bad looking if you could get him to look at you.” “Tim’s my computer science partner, that’s all. We’re sorta friends, but I don’t think he likes me that way. Not in a girlfriend-prom-date kinda way. But he is cute.” “Didja ever think of him, you know, as a guy? I mean, not as your project partner or anything, but as someone you’d like to go out with?” Betsy asked casually, snapping her gum. “I dunno. I try not to think of guys. That always leads to trouble. Besides, I have no intention of ever getting married. I want to become someone important in the technology world and make a fabulous fortune. I want to live on Menomonee River Parkway someday. Heck I may even go to New York City and live the good life.” Betsy gave me an odd look, shook her head then said quietly, “Being rich doesn’t always bring happiness Kristen. Sometimes just being comfortable with who you are is better than all the money in the world.” “Maybe. But I promise you, I’ll never clean anyone’s toilets on Lake Shore Drive!” Betsy was quiet a second, then looked me right in the eye. “You gotta get over this ‘poor me’ attitude. Yea, your mom cleans rich people’s houses, and yea she even cleans their toilets. But she doesn’t consider it beneath her. She’s doing whatever it takes to survive, and she does it with pride. It’s time you realize how wonderful she really is. There, I’ve said it. It’s about time, too. I get tired of listening to you gripe about the fact that your mom cleans toilets. She’s a great lady and you should appreciate her.” I looked at Betsy and before I could start crying, I stomped off. ***************** “Hi Kris, ready for the Power-Point presentation?” Tim asked as I sank into my seat. “Yea, I guess so, I think I did everything. You’re going to be the one talking though, right? I mean we agreed that if I did most of the layout you’d do the actual presentation.” “Sure, I don’t mind talking in front of the group. I know we’re way ahead of them. We’ll get a good grade on this, I just know it. You did an awesome job on the layout. We make a pretty good team, eh?” I took a good look at him straight out. Usually I glanced at him when he was preoccupied and wouldn’t know, but this time I looked right at him. He was cute. And he was nice. I could like him if I let myself. I guess I stared too long, because suddenly his face turned a bit red and he looked down at the computer and said, “Well I think we did a good job. Let’s hope Mr. Sanders thinks so, too.” “We did do a good job. We do make a great team and I’m glad I got you to work with.” “Really?” he asked as his head jerked back up. “I didn’t think you wanted to work with me.” “At first I didn’t. I work better alone. But if I had to have a partner I’m glad I got you.” “Same here,” he replied. He fiddled with the keys a bit, then straightened up and said, “Could I ask you something? I was wondering if maybe you’re related or know our housekeeper. Her name is Eva Schultz and I was wondering if…………” Oh gawd. He found out! Now it will be all over school. Then I remembered Betsy’s words. Time to fess up. “Yea, I know her, she’s my mom.” His eyes lit up as he said, “She’s your mom? Man that’s awesome. She’s one cool lady.” “You think she’s cool?” I stammered. “Oh yea. Sometimes if I go straight home from school instead of going to the library or something, she’s still there. We always have a nice talk. She’s always so upbeat. She’s pretty smart. I really like her and so do my mom and dad. They think the world of her. My dad says she has a lot of wisdom wrapped up in one package.” “I’m happy to hear that. She really is someone special.” Just then Mr. Sanders entered the room and it was time to start class. We waited while another team presented their project, each stealing quick glances at the other, and then smiling. It was turning into a great day. *********************** After several months, I was once again stuffing my mouth when Mom said, “So, you think it is maybe time to look at the material and plan the dress?” My head jerked up, I swallowed, and then shyly nodded. “Yes, Mama, I think maybe it is time to think about the dress.” “Is good,” she said. “I have been watching you and thinking that maybe you like Tim more than just a friend? He is the only boy that you talk about or go out with so I was hoping….” “Yea, I like him. I never thought I’d feel this way, but Tim’s very special. I like him a lot.” “Has he maybe asked you to go to the Senior Prom?” “No, not in actual words. I guess he assumes we will go, but he hasn’t asked yet.” “Still, we must be ready,” Mom said leaving no room for argument. We went up to her room and I sat on her bed, while she pulled the small chest out. Lifting the cover, all I could see at first was tissue paper. I knew the blue material was wrapped in several layers of tissue to keep it from creasing. She reverently unwrapped it, then gave it a small shake and the material cascaded down her arm like rose petals slipping off the bush. It was a beautiful cobalt blue, and it pooled around her knees. Gathering it in her arms, she stood and hugged the soft satin to her face. “Come, Liebchen, let me see how it looks.” My breath caught as she arranged the material over my shoulders. “Do you really think you can make me look beautiful, Mama?” “I do not need to make you look beautiful, Liebchen, you already are beautiful. The dress will only add to your beauty. You have the perfect figure for the dress I have in my mind. You will like it and so will your friend, Tim.” From that day on Mom worked lovingly on my dress. She didn’t use a store bought pattern because she didn’t need anyone else’s ideas. Her thoughts and fingers knew what to do. The dress had front princess seams, an Empire bodice with cap sleeves and scoop front neckline. But it was the back of the dress that made my mouth go dry. It had a low plunging back neckline and a center back slit. It was simple yet elegant. Tim at last formally asked me to go to Prom. I teased him, saying I wasn’t sure he was ever going to ask. He grinned and replied, “Who else would I ask? You’re the love of my life.” When he came to pick me up, I knew he was pleased, very pleased. The dress made me feel beautiful and Tim made me feel loved. Mom glowed with happiness and she even sniffled a bit. She took several pictures, then took Tim’s hand and placed it in mine. “You two lovely children have a wonderful evening.“ “Thank you, Mrs. Schultz, we will. I’ll take good care of her.” Later at the dance I couldn’t help myself, I told Betsy, “Maybe I was wrong, maybe I will be cleaning toilets on Lake Shore Drive. My own!” ******************** “Good morning Mrs. Calloway,” Eva said as she entered the kitchen. “Good morning to you, Eva. Such a lovely day.” “Ja, God has outdone himself once again.” “That’s a funny way to put it, but I think you’re right. Will you join me for a cup of coffee, Eva, I have something to discuss with you.” Mrs. Calloway poured another cup of coffee for herself and set a fresh cup and saucer on the table. “Do you take cream or sugar?” she asked. “No, I like it black.” “Me, too.” Mrs. Calloway sat down, took a sip of coffee and started in. “As you may know Jim and I have become very fond of your Kristen. She’s a lovely young lady. I’m sure your influence has helped make her so special.” “Thank you, Mrs. Calloway. I think she is very special, but then I’m a bit, mummm, prejudice.” “Please call me Sandra.” She smiled at Eva and it was returned. “What I want to discuss is Kristen’s dress. Tim brought her here before Prom so we could take some pictures. Anyway, I remarked on how lovely her dress was and she told me you made it. She also said you made it without a pattern.” “Ja, I do not need the patterns. I let my eyes and fingers tell me what to do.” “I have a niece that will be getting married next spring and I told her about Kristen’s dress. Would you consider making the wedding party dresses? It would thrill her to have you design and create her wedding dress.” “I would be pleased to do so, Mrs…. I mean Sandra. Back home in Austria I made many dresses for important people. It would give me pleasure to make one for your niece.” |
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| Out Of The Blue Carol Kloskowski cklos@jamadots.com |
#6 of 10 |
| 1390 words | |
| The graduation ceremony wasn’t until Sunday but
Angie’s last day at St. Michael’s High School was finally over. The
minute she got home she rushed into her bedroom and took off the hated uniform
she’d worn every school day for the past four years—a navy blue suit
which should have been dry cleaned regularly, but rarely was. Instead,
occasionally it was simply spot cleaned and ironed by Angie. From four years of
ironings the uniform was as shiny as satin and definitely showed every bit of
the years of wear it had been subjected to. Next, she took off the plain white
cotton blouse worn under the suit jacket. The only parts of it that were ever
ironed were the collar and front area that showed under the jacket once it was
buttoned. Neither she nor her classmates cared much about their appearance at
St. Michael’s. Why bother, it was an all girl school. In her underwear,
Christi made her way to the kitchen carrying the uniform and its blouse. With a
loud enthusiastic “Yippee!” she deposited her bundle in the trash
compacter followed by yesterday’s newspaper and this morning’s coffee
grounds. She turned on the switch and as the machine grumbled angrily she
hurried back into her bedroom to decide what she was going to wear to the party
tonight. “You look great!” Michael told her after she opened the front door when he came to pick her up. She wore low-hip jeans and a fitted tee-shirt that showed off her lovely figure without being too sexy, after all she was a “good Catholic” girl. “Thanks, Mike,” she answered and smiled at him. “You look pretty cute too.” He laughed as he came in to say hello to Angie’s mom and dad. They liked Mike and they knew their daughter was safe with him. The party was at Peggi O’Connor’s house. “We need to celebrate,” Peggy had insisted to many of her classmates. “The four years we’ve been imprisoned at St. Michaels will finally be over.” “Amen,” had echoed everyone present and the party planning began. It had been a fun party. Peggy’s parents stayed upstairs while the graduates and their dates danced, necked a little and drank some beer snuck into the basement by Frank Randazzo. Nothing bad happened though. Everyone just had a good time. Afterwards, on the way back to Christi’s house, Michael stopped to get gas at the Gas to Go Station. It was late and his was the only car at the pumps. Eventually another car pulled in, rap music blaring and parked on the side for the gas station near the restrooms. In it was Michael’s friend, Joey Blackberg, who grinned sheepishly when he saw them. “Hey, Mike,” he yelled. Do ya see what I’m drivin’?” Finished filling the gas tank and checking the oil of his 85 Chevy beater, Mike walked over to him. “Whose car is this, Joey?” he asked, worried about his friend. He’d known Joey since he was five, and he knew Joey didn’t have a car. Joey was lucky he had a bike. Joey was in big trouble with his folks and the police. Joey had been caught stealing things from people’s houses and was on probation right now. “Doesn’t matter,” Joey slurred. I’m drivin’ it now.” He was drunk and he’d stolen this car, Michael quickly deduced. If Joey was caught driving it and being drunk he was going to jail for sure this time, Michael knew. This was his friend. They lived on the same block and had gone through elementary school together, played football together in high school, and even worked at the same supermarket for awhile. Michael wanted to help him--protect him from himself. “Get out, Joey,” Michael insisted. Joey looked at him like he was crazy. “What you talkin’ about buddy?” His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing. “Get out of the car, Joey. You’re drunk and this car isn’t yours.” “It’s mine for now,” Joey laughed. Michael opened the door and pulled him. He collapsed on the ground. By this time Christi was by Michael’s side. “Michael, for God’s sake, what are you doing?” she shouted. “He stole this car, Christi” he answered, a pained look on his face. Christi knew Joey. She knew he was on probation although she didn’t know why. She also knew that Michael and Joey had grown up together. “What are you going to do?” she asked, worried about the boy she thought she loved. “I want to get him home and get rid of this car,” Joey answered with determination. “If he’s caught drunk and with this car he’s going to prison for sure.” Looking at the car for the first time Christi asked, “How can I help,” she asked, her concern was only for Michael. “Wipe of the door, steering wheel and keys. We’ve got to get rid of his finger prints,” he told her. How had Joey got the keys, he wondered? Was there an injured owner somewhere or maybe a dead owner? No, his friend wasn’t capable of anything so horrible, Michael was sure. Using many Kleenex from the box in Michael’s car, Christi wiped down the Corvette’s door, steering wheel, and the keys which were in the ignition switch while Michael half carried Joey to his car were he passed out. Was the clerk in the gas station seeing all this, Michael wondered as left Joey and went in to pay for his gas. Behind the counter sat a young woman with small earphones protruding from her ears. Her MP3 player lay on the counter. She was humming as she looked through one of tabloid magazines displayed around the counter. She smiled at him as she took his money and gave him the change. She hadn’t seen or heard a thing, thank God, he thought. Back in his car, Michael shouted from his car to Christi in the Corvette, “You drive the Corvette to the police station and park it in front. Then you and I can drive Joey home.” Michael’s a saint, Christi thought and yelled back, “Okay,” and she pulled away. Michael’s car didn’t follow. It wouldn’t start. Swearing, Michael got out, lifted the hood and began desperately searching for the problem. After about five minutes he discovered that when he was checking the oil he must have hit the cable to the ignition coil. He reconnected it, got back to the car and pulled away. Which street did she take, he wondered? There were a few ways to get to the police station. It didn’t matter, he thought, they’d both get there within a few minutes of each other. But they didn’t. The police car’s gumball lights scared Christi. She’d never been stopped by the police. Why was a police car was following her, she wondered? She wasn’t speeding, was she? She checked just to be sure. No, she was only going thirty miles an hour. So what was the matter? And then it hit her, she was driving a Corvette that had probably been reported as stolen. Oh my God! “Evening,” the police said as he walked up to the driver’s side of the Corvette with his hand on his gun. “Is this your car?” She smiled and started to explain. After she was done he asked her to step out of the car. Shaking, Christi did as she was asked. Handcuffs appeared and were placed on her wrists. She was read her rights. She went to the police station. Michael missed all this by five minutes. Hers were the only finger prints on the car, and Michael’s statements about what had happened were uncorroborated and no help. Joey didn’t remember anything about the evening except going to the Bear Trap, a local bar and drinking more than a few beers. Christi now has a new uniform. It’s orange. Hopefully she won’t have to wear it four years. |
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| Out Of The Blue B Matthews arethronok@yahoo.com |
#7 of 10 Winner |
| 2500 words | |
| “I know there’s better brothers, but
you’re the only one that’s mine.” – Murder by Death
Out of the Blue The nurse was finishing the 3:00 change of my father’s saline drip when I looked up and saw Jack in the doorway. His eyes were on the wasted body in the bed. I saw a flutter in Jack’s jaw muscle and knew that he was grinding his teeth. It was an old trick we learned as kids – grind your jaw as hard as you can and your eyeballs forget about sissy-boy tears. The only problem is it’s hell on your teeth – I’ve got a mouthful of metal, have since I was seventeen and three of my molars crumbled within two months of each other. High school killed my teeth. I was perversely glad to see he still remembered our not-crying trick – I’d been using it myself lately. He looked good. Too thin, his clothes hung on his body, but otherwise he looked the same as he had at the Greyhound station the day of his parole six years ago. His dark hair was longish and tousled, and he had a couple days of stubble growing. I didn’t care. Just seeing him standing there made me pull our old jaw-grinding trick out of my own mind-closet to avoid an unscheduled session of afternoon waterworks. I stood up, pushing back the uncomfortable hospital chair, scraping it across the green speckled linoleum. The nurse, finished with her task, nodded at me, gave my brother the once-over, and left without speaking. Jack stepped absently out of her way and into the room, his eyes never leaving our father’s form. I stayed still for a second and wondered what to say to someone I barely knew now that our lives had become so different – me with my divorce, my distant children, my big old empty two-story house in the suburbs, my office job, and him with his drugs and women and stolen cars and reduced jail time. I had no idea how to start talking to him again. The arc of our separate pasts lay between me and any words that made sense or weren’t awkward. I finally settled on something fairly ambiguous: “Hey.” He looked at me, took a couple of steps towards the bed, and looked back at our dad. The machinery surrounding the bed clicked and hissed and beeped out of rhythm. On the television mounted to the wall, a lady newscaster moved her mouth soundlessly about the upcoming presidential election. I keep the TV muted, usually parked on a news network. I find it comforting – every so often I need some kind of reminder that the world is still turning and everyone is keeping on with their regularly scheduled lives outside this tiny hospital room where my father lies dying. Jack took it all in – me, the machines, the bed, and the huddled form, swaddled in sheets, eyes closed. “How long’s he got?” “They still can’t say.” “He looks like shit.” “Yeah, well, three surgeries and a ton of chemo does that to you, Jack.” “How long’s he been sick?” I took a minute to figure it out. Cathy’d left just after Christmas two years before. Dad was diagnosed the summer before that, so – “Almost three years.” I’d gotten used to telling the passage of time by my divorce, but it was still depressing as hell. “Fuck.” “Yeah.” “Anybody else here but you?” “Margaret’ll be here around four.” He nodded. “I should prob’ly jet. I just wanted to…” he looked up at me and made a sort of helpless gesture with his hands. “…you know.” “How’d you find out?” “I ran into Dave Gardner. He said he was sorry to hear about the old man. At first I thought he was already gone, but I figured you’d’ve figured out a way to let me know if that’d happened.” I kept quiet, wondering how he expected me to let him know anything when I had no idea where he’d been for years. “Anyway, I made some calls, found out he was here, borrowed a car –“ “Borrowed?” I couldn’t help my mouth on that one. “Yeah, borrowed. It’s a piece of shit, but it’s legal.” He narrowed his eyes and sucked at his teeth, grinning at me. “You should learn to relax, Mikey.” “So how long are you here?” “Just tonight. I’ll head back in the morning. Too far to drive in one night.” “You got a place to stay?” He shrugged. “Prob’ly. I gotta make a phone call.” “Fuck that. Come stay at my place.” “Ah, I dunno, Mike. Cathy –“ “Cathy’s gone, Jack. We got divorced.” I couldn’t tell if his expression was sympathetic or pleased. “Oh. Hell, Mike. I’m sorry.” It was my turn to shrug. I reached over and picked up my jacket from the back of the hateful hospital chair. “Margaret’ll be here soon. We should go if we’re going.” He nodded, looking at the huddled form in the middle of the bed, then back to me again. “Mike, can I…?” He didn’t finish, and I didn’t need him to. “Sure. Meet you in the lobby.” ***** Eight hours of reminiscing and two suitcases of beer later, I was standing beside my couch, blinking owlishly at the handles that pulled the hide-a-bed out of its frame. The couch cushions were piled around my feet like big upholstered stones. For some reason, I was having serious difficulty working the usually simple spring apparatus. From behind me: “Fuck it, Mike. I c’n sleep on the floor.” “’Kay.” I grabbed onto one of the arms of the couch and used it to steer myself into a sitting position on the carpet, then fell backwards onto the cushions. Jack crawled over. “Gimme one of those.” I pulled a cushion out from under me, handed it over, settled back into my nest. We sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. I looked up at the fan mounted on the vaulted ceiling above us. Its blades twirled lazily, barely stirring the air. I could see a blue haze up near the recessed lights in the ceiling. “We musta smoked a carton of cigarettes.” “Yeah. Reminds me…” I heard the click of Jack’s lighter. I laughed. “Fucker.” I’d quit a few years ago, but drinking with Jack had brought the urge back strong. I’d been smoking like a chimney all night and could already feel a dark tightness spreading in my chest. My lungs would definitely hurt in the morning, but I was too drunk to care. “Want one?” “Yeah.” He handed me his lit smoke and got another for himself. We lay there in silence, our mingled smoke curling up into the air in long blue ribbons. “Mike?” “Yeah?” “What d’ya get when you cross an onion with a donkey?” I snorted. We’d been trading bullshit jokes like this all evening. “What?” “A piece of ass that’ll bring a tear to your eye.” We giggled like kids for a minute, then: “Mike?” Laughing: “What, man?” “Why are divorces so expensive?” I knew this one. “Because they’re fuckin’ worth it!” We howled. The sound bounced up into the vaulted rafters and the echoes of our laughter made my big old house sound like it was filled with refugees from some nuthouse. “Gotta piss.” Jack pulled himself up and I heard him stumbling to the bathroom in the hall, dragging his fingers along the wall, still giggling in little snorts and hitches. It was a good sound – it made me feel younger than I’d felt in a long time. I reached over and stubbed out my cigarette half-smoked in the nearest ashtray. Before Jack came back from the bathroom, I’d passed out on the couch cushions. ***** I woke up stiff and dehydrated and carefully covered with the afghan from the back of the couch. The lights in the living room had been turned off, and the room was filled with shadows. Greenish light from the streetlight at the end of my driveway filtered in through Cathy’s white sheers. I sat up slowly, feeling the kinks in my shoulders and back complain. Jack’s cushion was beside me, but he was gone. I pulled myself up, went into the kitchen, and got some orange juice from the fridge without turning on the light. I was still a little muzzy-headed from all the beer, but the juice was cold and sweet and good and it woke me up a little. I walked back into the living room, clearing the cobwebs out of my head. “Jack?” No answer. I looked down at the couch cushions on the floor and saw the afghan wadded up beside them. I smiled, knowing Jack had covered me up with it before he left. Left. Was he gone, or somewhere in the house? I went to the windows beside the front door and looked out at the dark driveway. His borrowed POS was still parked behind my car. I put my glass down and set out to find him. In the dark and halfway between being drunk and having a hangover, my house had become foreign territory to me. I bumped my shin on the coffee table. A plant swam out of the shadows to give me a start. The stairwell seemed cavernous and spooky. “Jack!” My voice echoed up the stairs. “You up there?” “Yeah…” I headed in that direction. On the landing, a finger of warm yellow light spilled out onto the carpet from the cracked door of my study. I pushed the door all the way open. Jack was at my desk with a photo album from my shelves in front of him. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy and red. I sighed. “Are you fucked up, man?” “Nah.” “Let me find you a bed to sleep in. You want Cory’s or Jenna’s? I’ll make it up for you.” Jack shook his head, looked down at the album. The pages were open to pictures from a fishing trip with our father when we were teenagers – me, thirteen, and Jack, sixteen. “Remember this shit, Mike? Fishin’ with the old man?” I sighed. I was tired, sore from sleeping on the floor, and my body was edging completely into hungover. I wasn’t in the mood for memory lane – I just wanted some sleep. “Yeah.” “I miss that.” “Me too.” “Fourteen years. You know?” I wasn’t sure of what to say. Jack wasn’t known for regrets, but six years had passed since I’d last spent time with him and a lot of things had changed. I picked something neutral: “It’s a long time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fourteen years go by and shit, where did it go? You know? I wish…” I waited. When he didn’t finish, I said, “You need to get some sleep, buddy.” “I need you to know something.” He stared at the album as he was talking. For a second I wondered if he was talking to me or our younger selves, frozen in those old pictures. “I’m not going back. I’m heading out Texas way.” He paused. “Time for a change.” I sighed. “Tell me about it in the morning. Let’s get some sleep.” ***** The doorbell woke me out of a sound sleep. Sunlight poured in through the space between the window and the shade. I sat up and winced at the bolt of pain in my head. It rang again. I threw the covers aside. At least I didn’t have to get dressed – I’d fallen asleep in my clothes. Downstairs my orange juice glass from the night before was sitting on the sofa table next to the door, the pulp separated from the juice and collected at the bottom of the glass. A picture of Jack, me, and our dad, all of us holding fish and grinning like fools at the camera, lay on the table beside it. Fuck. I opened the door. The man standing on my front porch was in his mid forties, wearing khakis and a polo. His salt and pepper hair was buzzed short and he had a thick mustache. He took off his sunglasses when I opened the door and took in my obviously hungover appearance – slept-in clothes, rumpled hair, squinty eyes, stubble – with barely a raise of an eyebrow. “Michael Lakewood?” “Yeah?” “My name’s Carl Norris. I’m with a bonder in Norfolk, Virginia. May I come in, please?” I held on to the doorknob. “I think we can talk right here, thanks.” Now the eyebrow raised. “I’m looking for your brother.” “Jack?” He smiled, and I suddenly hated him – he had an air of smug satisfaction that just got under my skin. I knew that he was sure as hell that I would give my brother up to him. “Yes, Mr. Lakewood. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I need to take him back to Norfolk.” I looked around him at the cars in the driveway. Only two – the bondsman had parked behind me. I saw with absolutely no surprise that the asshole was driving a Crown Vic. “I dunno where he is,” I said. “You sure about that?” I was suddenly sick of everything – my dying father, my criminal brother, my empty house, this bully in front of me. For a moment I couldn’t breathe; it seemed like the air was being crushed from my lungs. I was exhausted. And mad as hell. “Yeah I’m sure. You wanna get off my property now, or wait ‘til I call the cops?” His smug grin grew wider. “Your father’s sick, right?” “What does that have to do with anything?” “I’m sure your brother’d head down here to see him before he dies, Michael.” “Mister,” I said, and my face must have shown how close I was to the end of my rope, because he lost his grin fast and his hand went to the small of his back, where I was sure he had a gun in a holster – “I don’t know what my brother does. At this point you’ve had more contact with him lately than I have. Now get the fuck off my porch.” I took a step back and slammed the door in his face with all my strength. The sound of it clapped off the walls in the foyer and echoed through the house. I picked up the glass and the picture and walked into the kitchen. I put the glass in the sink and stood there in front of the counter, the morning sun streaming in through the window over the sink. I looked at the picture in my hand. The | |