Coin Box

1950s in a small Midwestern town

It was with the expected degree of sadness he received the news of his mother’s passing. The expected degree, not more, not less. His father had passed years previously, much to the same effect. He loved his people, respected them and did his best to abide by them. He never wanted for anything and was well provided for. A deep emotional connection, though, had been absent as far back as he could remember.

The funeral proceedings had been well conducted. The well wishings and expressions of sorrow endured and reciprocated. As an only child it was now time for the overpowering chore of preparing his parents’ home for sale, the home in which he grew up.

The task of sifting through possessions and deciding their fate had taken nearly a month. The kitchen counter was the final quadrant. And there it was, the coin box. All these decades it sat there arm’s distance of the kitchen sink. Before a shopping venture you’d grab a few coins to have on hand to make clean change instead of breaking a dollar bill, if possible. After shopping you’d empty your pockets back into it. But, finally, the coin box had served its purpose and was being extinguished. He emptied the coins into his now bulging pocket and, for the first time in his life, saw the bottom of the box. Well, almost the bottom. Instead, he found a folded yellowed newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and found inside, a birth certificate. This part, then, caught his full attention. It reflected his first name, middle name, the wrong surname of Sipe, but his birth date. Something did not add up. What are the odds of a birth certificate, not yours, matching those three out of four? He started to think, he’d never actually seen his birth certificate. Was this his? Was he not who he thought he was? Were these somehow not really his parents? Questions rushed into his head, totally bereft of answers, filled only with doubt.

These were good people, his parents, or, his assumed parents at this point. He’d always thought he’d wanted more affection, more hugs, from them, more of a, how can he explain, a more spiritual connection with them. But no, it had never been.

The newspaper clipping, he’d forgotten it in this discombobulating moment. He read it now. The unexpected death of a young couple, their last name matching that on the birth certificate. The article was dated 1927, a year after the child’s birth. According to the article the child survived his parents. The confusion mounted.

It was Thursday evening, grocery night. He liked to do his shopping before the weekend to ‘gear up’ he liked to say, without ever clarifying what exactly it was he was gearing up for. He was perusing the produce bin when he spied Doctor Brown from across the bin. Dr. Brown was an old man, he’d been the town doctor for longer than the young man could remember. In fact, Dr. Brown had been an old man for as long as he could remember.

“Good evening, Dr. Brown. How goes it,” asked the young man.

“It goes well enough, thank you. I know you’ve had a trying few weeks. How are you doing,” asked the doctor kindly referring to his mother’ passing.

“It hasn’t been an easy time, but it’s almost complete, except for a few details,” then pausing while handling a pair of cucumbers.

“Doctor,” he asked, still across the produce bin, ”may I ask you a personal question? Personal, it’s about me.”

“You may ask away,” said the old man smiling at the exchange.

“I found a newspaper clipping while clearing out my parents’ home, and a birth certificate . . . ,” before stopping, seemingly unable to continue.

The old man, sensing what was coming, came from around the bin and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Well, man now, he was 28 years old. He looked in his eyes and there was nearly an uncomfortable silence before the old man spoke. But when he did, it was powerful.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they did good with you. They cared for you,” said the old man.

“They weren’t my parents, were they,” he said.

“They were your parents in every way but birth.” There was a long pause, his hand stayed on the young man’s shoulder. He looked down as if gathering his words, and then resumed.

“They were sometimes awkward with you, they spoke to me freely when you were a baby. They never expected to be parents . . . medical reasons. They wanted desperately to be parents, but I’d told them, as their doctor, five years before you were born that it wasn’t possible. But then the Sipes moved in next door. They were a young couple, became very good friends with your parents, sincerely so. The four would regularly visit with each other and dine, or so I had heard. You already know this by now, but they were your parents, the Sipes. They had several pregnancies before you were born, you were their first one to live, and their last. They’d wanted babies since before they moved to town. Then you were born. You should have seen them, so happy. This is a small town, I’d been the only doctor here for decades. I’d facilitated births many times, but it seemed different, more special to your parents. They loved you, they really loved you. Then they were gone too soon. Both of them dead before you were even a year old. Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they were good friends with the Sipes. Very good friends. Then your parents died.”

“The 1920s, it was a different time than it is now. In many ways it was different. The Sipes had no people, their parents were gone, both sides, nor were there siblings on either side. I’m sure the local agencies could have dug around deep enough and found a family member once or twice removed, but it wasn’t like that back then. The Stiglitz’ did what they thought was the best thing. A home and people who would love you.” 

“I was your doctor when you were a baby. They didn’t have time to plan to be parents, they just got the news one day and decided in the moment to take you in. The mayor was agreeable and it was done. Quite frankly I don’t even know if there was a legal adoption, but that wasn’t my role. They brought you into my office annually for a check up, and if you were sick here they’d come with you. They weren’t the most natural parents, not the most affectionate, but don’t let that deter you from the truth, they loved you more than I’ve seen many parents love their children.”

“I know it’s been a shock these last few weeks with the passing of your mom, but don’t let this discovery undo those decades. They never told you about the Sipes, did they? Maybe they should have, they probably should have, they did the best they could.”

Silence. The young man certainly wasn’t going to break it, he wanted the doctor to say more. Finally, the doctor’s hand released his shoulder and he cleared his throat.

“I know this is a lot, I hope I didn’t say too much or speak out of place. But if you’ll please pardon me, I’m going to pay for my groceries and go home. It’s late and I have a cat at home waiting for dinner,” then he ambled to the check out counter. “Good evening, Doctor Brown,” he overheard the counter clerk address the old man.

The young man went home, put his groceries in the refrigerator and dropped his change into his mother’s coin box.

[Inspired by a recent family outing perusing used books, I came across a book entitled The Coin Box. ‘What could possibly be interesting enough about a coin box to write a whole novel about it,’ I thought. I don’t know what the book was about, but the above narrative is what came to mind for me. -klem]

Popeye the Sailor, An Outsider’s Perspective

Pensacola, Florida 

I gotta tell someone about what I saw. Really, it was the damdedest thing. So I sometimes have lunch at that pub near the office on Fridays, down by the marina, a burger and pint before slipping peacefully into the weekend.

It was a month ago. I usually get there early enough to secure my preferred table at the back. You know, the outlaw’s position with my back to the wall and all the action kept in front of me. No surprises, right? It’s sparsely occupied at that time, plus it’s not a big place, maybe six tables and a pool table. I want to get a seat, eat lunch and get out.

Anyway, there was a lady sitting at the bar, beanpole skinny, jet black hair worn tight in a bun at the back, trying to keep to herself. There was a regular hassling her, a real barfly, “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.” Real weak stuff he was giving off.

“Leave her alone, Wimpy,” said the bartender, and like that he returned to his seat staring into his empty glass. Wimpy, it’s the dude’s name, the bartender wasn’t throwing shade on him. Meanwhile, I’m eating my burger, a delicious jalapeno burger with pepper jack cheese on a ciabatta bun, plus a hefeweisen, a tall boy from a local microbrew. This was my best meal of the week, very tasty. But back to this thing I saw. 

A big guy walks in. I’d seen him before but never had cause to interact, thankfully. The guy was big as a bear, a real lummox. He sees the lady at the bar and is immediately hitting on her, or trying to. They seemed to be acquaintances, but not particularly friendly. It was apparent she wanted him to leave her alone. I involuntarily overheard some of the exchange.

“Brutus, please leave me alone,” she said.

“Aw, but Olive Oil, you look like you could benefit from some attention from me,” said lummox. Not exactly A+ material, but that’s what he delivered.

“I advise you to scram, my boyfriend will be here any minute,” she said, then turned away from him in her barstool. Scram, she said, like she’s locked into 1950’s era slang.

As if on cue, sure enough, a little guy walks in with a massive jutting chin and a sailor’s cap. He was rocking an anchor tattoo on his forearm and was smoking a corncob pipe. I shit you not, corncob! He stood just inside the door for a few seconds waiting for his eyeballs to adjust to the darker environ.

“Well blow me down, there’s my best goil. And Brutusk,” he said tossing a ‘k’ on the end of the big guy’s name. Then it got good. Or, weird, really.

I’d just finished off my mojo potatoes. Hey, you know, you’ve got to have lunch with me there sometime. Their mojos are fantastic, and they serve ‘em with a generous tub of gourmet spicy ketchup. But I digress.

As I placed the last bite of burger into my cake hole the two guys are rolling around on the ground bumping aggressively into tables, knocking chairs over. I missed the inception of the scuffle, I don’t know what the flashpoint was.

“Brutus, get off of him! Leave him alone! Popeye, are you OK? Hit him back,” yells the lady at the bar, Olive. The big guy is pummeling the little guy. Little guy’s like half his size, tiny biceps, and then these vastly disproportionate forearms. On odd body configuration. The big guy pauses his assault to start dialoguing with the lady.

“Why are you with a wimp like him when you can be with a real man like me,” he lamely asked.

“Because you’re an awful mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging waste of flesh,” she deftly countered. The two continued bantering back and forth.

The little guy, Popeye, amidst the reprieve from taking punches off his massive chin, and this is where it gets really weird, he pulls a plastic bag out from his shirt collar. I found out later it was spinach. So, what gives, the guy walks around with a small produce bag of spinach in his shirt? A produce bag, the kind you’d see at Whole Foods. He pulls the contents of the bag out by a fistful, puts it in his mouth and chews. The effect was more fantastic than stories you’d hear about people on PCP. He gets to his feet, while the big guy is still on his back, riding him like a monkey as if he were no more burden than a throw pillow. The sailor man grabs Brutus’ ankle and starts whipping him around over his head like a ceiling fan. The guy’s gotta weigh near 300 pounds but there he is being waved around in the air like a rag doll. Then he launches him with enough force to toss the big fella completely through the window blinds and the window. He's lying dazed out there on the sidewalk.

‘What the hell is going on,’ I’m thinking to myself. I’m a big self-preservationist, so I quietly pulled the last of my hefeweisen, put the glass down and slipped out the back door. Last thing I heard as the door closed behind me was, “I’m strong to the finish ‘cause I eats me spinach, I’m Popeye the sailor man. Uck-uck-uck-uck,” finishing off with a strange cadence to his laugh. I could hear the police sirens approaching as I waked away, but never looked back.

Anyway, I haven’t been back since. Hey, you available for lunch this Friday?

Klem’s Goals for 2020

I understand success is statistically more frequently attained when written down. So, this is what I’ll be up to in 2020.

1)  Improved exercise regimen. The goal is to keep my stomach and back healthy and strong for infrastructure comfort in the coming decades.

2)  Dermatology visit for my face and scalp. I have sun-related skin issues and must treat them seriously. The benefits of the occasional cryotherapy administered by my general practitioner have plateaued. I will seek expert professional attention. 

3)  Have more fun. This is intended to include a combination of day trips, local ventures or any combination of fun-related bits. Maybe even a play, but hopefully not too many.

4)  Colonoscopy! [Does not count in the ‘Have more fun’ category.] My parents have done well aging gracefully and I will proactively do my part to prolong that legacy. I understand a colonoscopy is an important step in that direction.

5)  Make French toast. I’ve never done it but will in 2020, at least one time, with an option to repeat pending the experience of episode one.

6)  Shed a few possessions. This is not intended to be a disavowing of possessions akin to Christ’s Disciples, but a simple paring down. A simplification of life. This may even be the year I part with my collegiate skateboard, unused for nearly 30 years now. 

7)  Engage political conversation with a different intent. I will not try to convince anyone of anything, such plans only excel at getting people agitated. Instead, approach the conversation with questions to confirm an understanding of the other position and follow their line of reasoning. I may disagree with the position, but I want to understand the reasoning.

8)  Learn to play cribbage. There is no qualifier as to attaining a skill level.

9)  Promote a positive attitude in my interactions with others. The kids are growing up and will be independents before long. It’s important to foster the kind of atmosphere that may be rewarded with their future voluntary visitations. A time will come when they no longer need to visit, but hoping they’ll choose to visit.

10)                 Learn some Italian. The Duolingo App on my iPad will be conveniently deployed for this task. Just a smidgeon of learning. You know, for fun.

-klem

Rabid Red-Nosed Rudolph

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was no longer the cheery underdog fawn of fairy tale lore. The one-time youngest of Santa’s nine-reindeer team was all grown up and his demeanor had considerably soured. He’d become, rather, a ruffian.

His nose, still red in his adult years, but was not currently illuminated, as made famous those fabled years ago. On that dark Christmas Eve in harsh winter weather he led Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer team on the annual gift route. But today Rudolph had an upsetting afternoon and had taken vengeance for some perceived wrong.

His nose was dripping with a thick red liquid, likely not the sweet juice of the local lingonberry. With the mangled carcasses of two elves at his feet, elf blood was presumed. Their tiny lifeless bodies face down in the snow, one had been gored through the small of the back. A third elf slowly crawled away into a copse of trees for cover, a wide, red trail coloring the snow behind him. The gift-manufacturing production numbers may be slightly off goal this season for Santa’s factory, pending how many others from the captive elven labor force have fallen in this latest rampage.

Rudolph’s headgear was magnificent compared to that of his more modestly endowed and estranged teammates. He had filled out well, a veritable alpha buck amongst fawns.

The reindeer games were in full action amidst a gently building snowfall. Like usual, all the other reindeer playing and someone had forgotten to ask Rudolph to join them. This recurring trend of jealousies would end today, one way or another, but certainly not amicably.

He emerged from the perimeter of the forest and slowly approached his stunned, and tame, colleagues. Blood could be seen dripping from his antlers onto the snow. A horrific scene with red droplets littering the snow around his every step. He was foaming at the mouth clumping up thickly like robustly agitated dish soap. The reindeer games were stunned to a halt. Nobody moved. The other reindeer couldn’t have been more afraid were it a wolf standing before them. There were too many for Rudolph to touch them all, so to speak, but his rabies-induced rage would not be tempered by reason. The carnage on this pre-Christmas afternoon had only begun.

In the distance voices could be heard in alarm.

“Mr. Claus, where are you going with that rifle,” yelled a bewildered Mrs. Claus seeing her husband dashing out of his workshop toward the meadow with a 30-caliber lever action Winchester rifle in hand. He kept it well oiled and loaded, ready to fulfill any request, especially since Rudolph’s behavior had been lately becoming more erratic. There were lower caliber arms in his arsenal, which he used to ‘motivate’ the workforce, he liked to joke, but today’s uprising was no joke.

“Mrs. Claus, get back in the house and stay there. It’s Rudolph again, he’s snapped and gone deadly this time,” he yelled back, running toward the snowy ascent where his reindeer liked to frolic. The distance was a half-mile, the going would be slow with snow up to his shins. Too slow to intervene, he figured, but he must try.

He could hear in the distance ahead toward the meadow, some kind of skirmish had commenced.

“Dear God, deliver me swiftly and give me one clean shot,” said the not so jolly old Saint Nick under his breath hustling as quickly as an old man could, his bright red great coat with the ostentatious white trim fanning out behind him.

[Inspired by Jakub Rozalski's illustration, Rudolph Uprising. (https://twitter.com/mr_werewolf_art/status/941343537886629888?s=20)]

-Klem 

The Dud

1943 Bonn, Germany

The Pesch family, with father away at war, left Dusseldorf in 1942. The catalyst for the move was their home being destroyed in a nighttime air raid by the Allies. They resurfaced in Bonn, moving south putting distance between them and the front. Willy Pesch was nine years old.

Forever forward the family was understandably nervous whenever the air raid sirens rang out throughout the night. You could never be certain if your town was the target or if the 300 bomb-laden aircraft were merely flying through to unload at another destination. The rumbling drone of the bombers overhead. The endless defensive offering of the anti-aircraft flak into the night sky in a futile effort to slake the effect of yet another air assault. They combined for an awful discordant aural experience of growing up in World War II Germany. 

The family ran to the neighborhood bomb shelter. The air raids had been ongoing for months, a sure sign the war was not progressing as well as recent news reports claimed. Hours passed. The drone of aircraft and ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns ceased. 

Returning from the bomb shelter, their home, thankfully, was undamaged. This had become an all too real concern after Dusseldorf. It was past midnight, the little ones were sleepy and went directly to bed. First light in the morning, however, brought much excitement.

Willy was always an early riser. Even more so after an air raid, which had become uncomfortably frequent, sometimes twice monthly. He and a neighbor friend were the first to find it. The thing was big, scary and beautiful, an unexploded bomb immediately outside the yard’s perimeter wall! A dud. The bomb was five feet tall and weighed 500 pounds.

As is usual after air raids the demolition crew would be en route. They were deployed to the affected areas to search through rubble for survivors and deactivate unexploded ordnance. A surprisingly high percentage of bombs were duds, more than five percent did not detonate. One such dud was within 100 feet from the Pesch house. The two boys were, naturally, very impressed with the device. They were standing arms length from it, admiring it as if it were a new bicycle. That’s when Willy’s mom came out looking for her oldest child, and found him admiring the bomb.

Willy was very smart and mechanically inclined, even at nine. His desk and storage chest under the bed looked like contents one might accumulate after a sweep of unattended bits and parts from a laboratory, an electronic research laboratory to be more precise. He would read books and magazines on electronics, when he could find them, to learn how to use the pieces he’d managed to compile. When the world around you is being regularly bombed and destroyed it was not difficult to obtain loose wires, motors in varying stages of disrepair from different kinds of machines that had been partially blown up or crushed due to a structure’s collapse. Even sometimes he and his pals could successfully get their hands on a small amount of gunpowder to blow up an already blown up shed or burned out automobile. With that thought coursing through his head admiring the bomb he heard his mother calling to him. She was calling to him with no more alarm in her voice than if she saw him standing before a mud puddle and wanting him to step away. Concern for such things had been blunted by years of war.

“Willy, please come inside until the soldiers have removed the bomb.” Backing away, after a few moments of hesitation, without taking his eyes off it, he reluctantly complied.

He spent the next two hours, until the demolition crew came to dismantle it and haul it away, telling his mom about the electronic projects he had in mind and how the parts from the bomb would be especially useful. Of course, she said, “No,” it’d be nuts to otherwise imagine a nine year old boy with parts from a real bomb, even a dud. Explosive components remained, it was only the detonation portion that had malfunctioned.

She said no, but she listened with feigned disinterest, but she did listen, as if he was discussing the culinary arts and the wonderful dishes he could create if he only had the proper array of tools or proper ingredients.

The demolition crew arrived and Willy went to watch from the window. It was a chilly morning but he opened the window to catch what he could of the crew’s work. He saw, then, his mother approach the demolition crew.

“Missus, do not come any closer. It’s dangerous here. Go back in the house,” he called to her from 50 feet away.

This was no way to have a conversation from such distance. So she approached closer until one of the soldiers put out both hands impelling her to stop and much more loudly calling out, “Lady, stop. You see there’s a bomb here. It may explode, yet. Go inside until we’re done.”

Willy’s mom had it in mind to try to convince the demolition crew that they should let her boy have the detonation device. Not the bomb, of course, not the explosive, just the detonation portion. “My son likes playing with electrical wiring and such clever things,” she explained.

She stopped but was not done making her case. Could she convince the crew to allow her boy to have a piece of the bomb, he won’t hurt himself, she thought. Willy was a good boy, mommy’s favorite, although she could not say so aloud on account of hurting the feelings of the other three children. 

“Will you let my son have that? He’s very smart and knows how handle such things,” she said.

“Lady, this is a bomb,” he countered, scrunching up his face confused by the inanity of the question.

“I know, yes, he found it this morning with a friend. Can he have the detonation piece after you make it safe, please?”

“Look, no, we need to bring all unexploded ordnance back to base, intact. We need these for research and to put them back into the war effort,” replied the soldier.

“It’s just the one, you can’t spare that one part, without the explosive,” she asked feebly and sweetly.

“Missus, no, go back to your home and close the door until it’s safe.”

“Can I send my son out to watch you, then? You can give him some of the wire,” she said hopefully walking back to the house.

“No, we can’t do that. We’ll let the neighborhood know when it’s safe again,” hoping this bizarre query was now concluded.

Willy had been at the window listening to the entire exchange. He loved his momma. He beamed at her, smiling largely when she came back into the house. She didn’t know that he’d overheard. He loved and admired his mother. The war years had been exceedingly difficult on her, as one would imagine, worrying about the safety of four young ones, providing food and shelter in an increasingly more dangerous and depleted world.

[Inspired by one of Opa’s anecdotes growing up in World War II Germany. His mother, after an air raid, purportedly tried to convince the demolition crew to allow her son to have a portion of an unexploded bomb.]

-klem

Fireman’s Descent

Alhambra, CA

Fall 2012

His Christian name was Emmett. A good guy, this one. His momma lived in her home of six decades in Alhambra with full-time live-in help. He cared deeply about his momma and something needed amending at home, the task in need of mending pertained to bees. An inchoate beehive had burgeoned forth under the second floor eave overlooking the patio. What if mom were to get stung, he worried? So, with an important impetus as this he made a special trip to spend time with her, enjoy a light lunch of soup and engage in the obligatory conversation one must make with an aging parent before getting down to it. But get down to it he would, and did.

His friend from next door, Tim, saw Emmett’s car parked out front and dropped by for a hello. Having exchanged pleasantries the two boys went to the garage for the extended ladder and the recently purchased bee spray. With Tim holding the ladder at ground level from the patio Emmett began his ascent.

He was not afraid of the bees, he was also not overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each move. Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for his assault. One final deep breath, he held it and pull the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.

“Good thing you’re not allergic to bees because you’d be dead. More than 30 stings,” his doctor said without so much as a courtesy chuckle to lighten the mood.

What exactly transpired during the black out, you’ll ask. To answer that we’ll start with Tim’s account.

Emmett was immediately enveloped in a cloud of angry bees. Then the amazing thing, he did a fireman’s descent from the second floor. As his blackout commenced, he dropped the bee spray, placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud.

His body, under the influence of stress-induced auto pilot, he ran inside, went upstairs to the shower, brushing bees out of his hair and shedding clothes along the way. Still getting stung but with decreased frequency. The bees’ counter-attack finally, and thankfully, petered out as the shower concluded. Without a change of clothes, still on autopilot, he shook out spent bee carcasses from his trousers, shirt and, yes, even his grungers, and put his clothes back on.

Tim’s dad, also next door, arrived at the front door as Emmett, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs.

“Emmett, are you OK,” he asked with eyes wide open with concern.

“I’m fine,” responded Em calmly as he promptly passed out, collapsed into his neighbor’s arms who caught him, then issued a full dose of barf demolishing his neighbor’s trousers and shirt. The ambulance had by now pulled up in front of the house, paramedics hustled in to assist and drove Emmett to the hospital.

Emmett has, since the incident, developed an allergic reaction to bees. Bee-related emergencies have arisen twice since the fireman’s’ descent. On the bright side, the budding beehive was defeated.

[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]

Dicknose

He was outside on the patio on this cool, crisp night wearing his leisure house clothes. This was his usual summer routine when the day has progressed to his satisfaction, evening time to read and unwind after contending with the bothersome necessities of the day. The phone rang and cut through the ambient noise of the television from the other room. His wife answered and became flustered with the caller.

“There’s nobody here by that name,” she said. Pause.

“No. I’m hanging up now,” without hanging up. Pause.

“No.“ Pause.

“No,” sounding more irritated. Pause.

“Dicknose,” she said in a questioning tone into the telephone embarrassed at herself for having spoken the harsh word out loud.

Having overheard the phone call from the patio through the open rear sliding glass door, he turned around to see his wife as she continued her confused battle of wits with an unknown opponent. “Certainly not. There’s nobody here by such a name. I’m hanging up now,” again without hanging up.

They made eye contact, Dicknose and his wife. He raised his hand as if hailing a cab.

“What? Are you Dicknose,” speaking to her husband surprising herself at having again been flustered into speaking the vulgarity. She handed the phone past the sliding rear screen door. He received the phone and she immediately went back to what she’d been doing as if the annoying caller had already been forgotten. For him, her husband, the call had been a very long time coming. Years. Somehow it finally arrived on this otherwise unextraordinary night. In so arriving his evening read had been terminally ruined. There’d be no going back now. His entire existence was possibly to be upturned, but he would engage and try to beat back the unwanted, though entirely expected, intrusion.

“What,” he entered the fray gruffly.

“Hello and thanks for taking my call. I don’t think your wife was excited to hear from me. Haven’t you told her,” asked the caller.

“Why are you calling? It’s been a long time. It’s done. Over,” hoping to attain a forcible closure yet expecting it to be a fruitless effort.

“I want it,” was the response.

“You cannot,” he returned.

“I do. I will,” returning the volley.

“You won’t,” was the volley returned.

“I need it, I must,” continued the caller.

“Don’t be daft, it’s no more,” juked Dicknose.

“Dicknose,” sternly.

“What."

“You know how it’s always pleased me when you respond to that name.”

“Hang up the phone and disappear,” he wished.

“I’ll hang up the phone and be at your house in five minutes. Make sure it’s in your hand when I arrive. Let’s make this quick. You’ve never been good at holding my attention.” They both hung up and went into action.

“Who was that,” asked his wife with more curiosity than concern.

“Smokey,” walking through the kitchen to hang up the phone and not stopping to explain further. He didn’t want to be rude, but there was no explaining this without wearing a heavy dose of crudity forever forward.

14 years. That’s how long it’d been since they’d crossed paths. There had been five of them for that occasion, or skirmish, if you will. They got together in the woods, the general vicinity of the initial incident two summers prior that brought them together. They all knew each other. Or, more precisely, knew of each other. Nobody had another’s phone number, address or been to each other’s home, but they had enough acquaintances in common that they’d be able to track each other down if such a need arose. That’s what happened here, the calling to the woods.

He was contacted by a friend of a friend, “Hey, do you know [so and so]? I saw him running full court hoops last weekend at the high school basketball courts. You know, there’s pick up games Saturday afternoons. Anyway, he said to hand this to you. I think he knows we shoot pool Thursday nights.”

Dicknose thought it curious, but also thought it’d be a kind of celebratory get together. Some festivities after apparently getting over that highly dramatic first venture. Heck, he arrived in tennis shoes, a Hawaiian shirt, a hibachi barbecue, a six-pack of craft beers and sausages, for the hibachi. It wasn’t long before two guys got in a knife fight, another fired off a few rounds from a concealed pistol. In the confusion that ensued Dicknose made away with the envelope and an opened package of sausages. He assumed he’d eventually be tracked by someone. He didn’t know for what reason, but he knew it wasn’t over. Then came the phone call this evening. The hairs on the back of his neck knew. And they were correct.

Smokey did not lie. It was five minutes almost exactly. The envelope was, at this point, on the desk, retrieved only minutes before.

The doorbell rang. The porch lights were purposely not on. He opened the door.

“Dicknose,” said one.

“Smokey,” said the other.

No further greetings were exchanged. An awkward pause ensued, eye contact was not broken. A bulging envelope was handed out the door, door closed. And it was over. For now. Dicknose heard the car engine start and drove away with the radio blaring.

He had a hunch it would one day come to this, so he had kept the envelope always handy, though hidden. But what happens next?

Paddleboat Battalion

Early 1860s, somewhere in the Confederate States of America

It was late afternoon. The fighting was winding down at this point with intermittent gunshots from some ‘clean up’ skirmishing on the perimeter. The carnage was horrific. Not just in the traditional battlefield sense, but more of a combination of war and traveling circus kind of way. The battlefield was spent with the dead of both armies. There was also the unexpected, the paddleboats.

The paddleboats, just by unforeseen chance, had become implements of war late in a defensive action. Very colorful paddleboats, some fit for solo paddlers others equipped to handle two. But too late and poorly deployed. In the aftermath of today’s melee they were scattered along the river’s shoreline, askew, upended many of them, laden with wounded or dead soldiers and riddled with grape shot and minie balls. Grape shot, of course, being a cluster of iron balls wrapped with canvas in a bundle and shot from a cannon. Minie balls were muzzle-loaded iron balls shot from a rifle. Some paddleboats remained afloat but no longer in use as their passengers were all dead, or wounded and dying. They floated down river wherever the slow moving current would eventually decide to deposit them. The battle was done. The paddleboat battalion, their ill-thought tour of duty, concluded.

Human bodies were destroyed and splayed out across the open field over four hundred yards by another two hundred yards. One army dominated the other on this sad bloodstained afternoon, sun still blazing, but descending from its apex. The losing army needed reinforcements, of which there were many, but separated by that lazy, slow rolling river just beyond the battlefield. With the losing army hunkered down along the river’s edge waiting for the reinforcing troops, the victors approached from higher ground and shot at will. A turkey shoot, so they said to each other standing proud, pointing and shooting. Oh sure, many of them were being shot dead in return, but they had the numbers and would clearly win the day.

Across the river were the late-coming, but finally here, reinforcements. But the river! There was no easy crossing and it was easily more than 200 feet across, and too deep to traverse on foot. The soldiers couldn’t swim it because they were bogged down with much heavy gear. There hadn’t been time enough to seek out a way to traverse it nor build a bridge across. But, as wondrous as the odds might be, a traveling carnival had been caught up in the preamble to this brewing war. The people associated with the carnival had scattered long ago as the armies engaged. What they left behind was mostly unusable junk, tents and portable booths. The soldiers approached the river, could see the war in progress, their comrades in distress and sought to get across to do their part. 

A very dedicated corporal was the first to take up the initiative. He saw a paddleboat up river, sat down and got underway, paddling furiously, fueled by rage and adrenaline. He was so exhausted when he finally crossed that he stumbled ashore with wobbly legs only to get popped in the heat of the ‘turkey shoot’ as he disembarked the paddleboat. Meanwhile other soldiers, having seen what was perceived as smart action, engaged paddleboats themselves and were making their own journeys across the river, one by one and two by two. This strange visual of the rainbow colored army had only a minor affect on the actual fighting. The victors were distracted by the colorful, slow moving watercrafts poorly working their way across the river. This then brought some very untimely, and understandable, laughing. The victors watching a makeshift navy of 50 or so paddleboats making unimpressive and inefficient trajectories as they set out on their mission to cross the river. The soldiers who had been hunkered down along the shoreline were briefly rejuvenated at seeing the reinforcements, they loaded their rifles with minie balls and successfully fired upon the soon-to-be victors, temporarily preoccupied with hands on knees laughing at the amusing scene setting up before them.

Many paddleboats lost a soldier from sharpshooters. The remaining paddling combatant in the two-seated paddleboat would be unable to project enough energy for the needed force, as a result the vessel ended up down river rather than across it. Down river they went despite the paddling, a continuous volley of rifles followed as long as necessary. 

As the paddleboat reserves were emptied, the bulk of the reinforcement stranded across the river, the victors finished off what remained of the losing forces, plus the paddleboat battalion still trying to join in. Not a good decision. Paddleboats, as strongly evidenced here, were proven no vessel of choice by which to enter war. The colorful carnival rides littered the shoreline. Broken, bullet riddled and blood soaked.

[Regrettably inspired by a ridiculous thought while reading about Civil War reenactors and the horrors of those battlefields.]

Watermelon

He entered the house in a hustle, went directly to the family room and turned on the tv. As he waited for the picture to kick on he set his satchel on the floor, took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. The tv was now fired up and he turned to the channel for the ballgame.

It was baseball, early October for a playoff game and his team was playing. He didn’t watch much regular season baseball because with 162 regular season games there was absolutely no urgency to any of them. But today, playoffs, and a mid-day game. He managed to finagle his way out of a late morning meeting and leave the office under the guise of a work appointment. With a lack of probing questions, he left, traveled directly home to watch the game where it was in the early innings and was close.

That first commercial break he dashed off to change into sweatpants and t-shirt. That second commercial break found him rummaging around the refrigerator for lunch. That’s when he saw the unexpected treasure. A watermelon! All chilled off in the frigid air of the fridge. He had been thinking of a sandwich, but he’d gladly upgrade to watermelon, at least for one slice before getting into a lunch entrée.

He set out a plate, grabbed a good knife, removed the beautiful green gourd from the fridge to the countertop. He cut off the nub, a big piece, reduced that down to bitable chunks, covered the cut melon with plastic wrap and returned it to the fridge. He delightfully resumed watching the game as his team was getting runners on base and scoring runs with a clever batch of hits and smart base running. His team was winning and they’d closed out their half inning having scored several runs. Elated at the gaming action he went back for a second slice of watermelon. 

On it went late into the game. With his team ahead the adrenaline was flowing and he quickly progressed through the watermelon. The kitchen garbage was loaded with spent watermelon rind. His chin sticky with melon juice, as was the back of his hand which had been deftly and frequently deployed to stem the flow of dribble mid-consumption. He had forsaken his lunch entrée entirely and found himself in the 9^thinning, game still close, the enemy team had rallied and it was clutch time. His team must hold on or their season would end in defeat. Suspense built. With the game hanging in the balance the phone rang. His bride! He loved this one more than baseball itself. He smiled and took the call.

“Hi, I thought you might be home watching the game,” she said, the reciprocating smile could be heard in her voice.

“Yes, we’re winning but it’s close,” he responded attaching himself with the inclusive pronoun.

“Good, then I’ll be quick. Timmy and Mary are coming for dinner tonight. You don’t need to do anything, they’re bringing lasagna, cake and drinks. It’ll be a fun evening. Oh, I bought a watermelon for tonight. Don’t eat it before then. See you in a little bit,” and she hung up.

The watermelon! The conundrum here was thick. The game was on the line and he didn’t dare miss any of it. But he loved his sweet pea and didn’t want to disappoint her. It was imperative he replace the watermelon carcass, there was nothing left, he’d consumed the entire thing. His self-restraint had been so lacking that he’d even slurped up the residual juice from the cutting plate. He needed to leave immediately, drive to the store, brave the unpleasantly busy confines of the grocery store, hunt down a new, ripe replacement watermelon and place it in the refrigerator just like its predecessor. But the game! No, he must go now, cannot watch the game further, there wasn’t time for both.

The clock ticked. Soon, with further delay he’d surely not have enough time to return from the watermelon replacement-mission unnoticed. His mind was blank, even more blank than usual. The crowd on tv roared, the game was no longer going well, the other team scored and the game was tied. Make a decision.

[Inspired by a high school classmate who admitted to have once eaten an entire watermelon in one sitting.]

Free Diving

It was so peaceful. He was free diving in warm, clear tropical water. The fish were abundant, visibility outstanding and he dove down deeper to peruse the shells on the ocean’s sandy bottom. The depth was 30 feet, manageable, but he had to be careful not to lapse out from lack of oxygen. This was a fun sport, but was not a forgiving one.

He grabbed a beautiful, vacated abalone shell and began a modest rate of ascent. His flippers were propelling him, but not so fast as to dangerously put himself at risk of decompression sickness while ascending. As the pressure of the water above him decreased on his approach to the surface he slowly allowed a small trickle of air bubbles to escape his lips, a habit picked up from scuba diving, a slow exhale during ascent. He looked down taking a moment to hover in the water as if floating in air. A stingray fluttered about in the sand and a crab with a sideways saunter. The bright sun was shining diffusely through the water. With his face turned up directly toward the sky, eyes closed, he breached the water’s surface and took a deep, delicious breath of air. He opened his eyes.

‘What the heck is going on? Where am I,’ wondered the free diver. He was not in the tropics. He wasn’t in the ocean or some warm tropical sea. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and had awakened in the cab of his car. A car accident! He was regaining consciousness from having passed out from a car crash.

The air bags had deployed leaving visibility only through the driver’s side window. Before fully regaining himself he thought momentarily that this is what it might look like for an astronaut awakening from a deep sleep, the darkened cab with only the one partially exposed window mimicked what he figured to be comparable to a space capsule. Nope, just a car accident. Sirens could be heard in the distance. He hoped there’d be no additional cars colliding with his vehicle now immobilized in the middle of the intersection.

The seriousness of the situation was taking root. He had been listening to sports talk radio and it was still on, now competing audibly with the wounded bleating of the car’s engine. In the face of this new development he lost interest in the commentary about last night’s playoff basketball game and turned off the radio. The engine was still running and sounded odd, plus there was a smell of burnt rubber and chemicals. He turned off the car. He wanted to get out but was concerned about his safety from oncoming traffic. He tried looking out the window, but the deployed air bags obstructed the view. He decided to chance it, open the door and take a look. This initial effort was negated by a compromised element of the door or its latching device. At this point he sat back and wondered if he was hurt in any way. A quick review revealed no breaks, no sharp pains, only a little blood on his right knee from scraping on the keys hanging in the ignition. His head was in a fog, but his early assessment was that he was OK.

A second effort to open the door, boosted with a shoulder bump, proved successful. Looking around, there were no cars coming, many had remained at their traffic stops. He grabbed his phone off the floor, keys and sunglasses, stepped out of the vehicle and took a quick look around. The car had been pushed 90-degrees to the left, the other car had hopped the curb and run into a traffic pole knocking it down.

‘Well shoot, this is a crummy start to the day. Let’s get out of traffic, sit on the curb over there and see what happens next,’ so went his mental dialogue. He walked to the curb, sat down and looked at the other car. The driver’s door was open and the driver was on the phone. Eye contact had not yet been made.

[The car accident sequence is based on a recent occurrence.]

Passenger

July 18, 2019

The air had grown fetid over the four hours. Not yet rancid, but in his currently enfeebled state he thought he would not be able to tell when that threshold had been crossed. There were odors swirling around him, none of them good. He’d been breathing through his nostrils with only occasional lungfuls pulled in orally. He somehow thought the nostril breathing would reduce the amount of ambient spoilage that would enter his body. This was, luckily, a good sinus day for him, his nose was dominating the task at hand.

He was on a commercial airliner. The plane was full, 177 passengers plus crew. He was boxed in on both sides and his seat would not recline due to proximity to the Emergency Exit. As a youngster he had been inclined to claustrophobia but it’d been years since a related incident had been sparked off. The confines were tight and his freedom of motion was rigorously restricted. Then, he thought, maybe it wasn’t claustrophobia, maybe the recent meal was not sitting well. Certainlyit wasn’t sitting well, but was it sitting well enough? He couldn’t be sure, but this was truly an unpleasant time for a bellyache. A mild perspiration broke out on his forehead.

Just then a second wind of sorts. The flight attendant came around offering drinks. A cool cup of water, sans ice, was tendered and consumed. He was mid-flight with two hours remaining. The water did slake his mental anguish for the time being scoring a temporary triumph. Could the victory be prolonged? 

He had eaten four Eggo waffles as his in-flight meal. They had been toasted six hours earlier, placed in a Ziploc bag then secured in his backpack. The pair of napkins packaged with the waffles failed to stave off their soggification. The waffles, removed from the bag, were moist and had the compromised structural integrity of cooked spaghetti. He had to eat something, hours still before non-flight food options would become available. How could he be angry with Eggos, he thought to himself rhetorically. He couldn’t be, so he had eaten four of them. Delicious, at least at the point of consumption, then they sat in his belly like dirty dish rags. That’s when his tummy tumbled.

He had the forethought to remove his shoes before takeoff. He stretched his stockinged feet and dragged them across the tiny stretch of carpeting before him. Working to convince himself he was napping in the comforts of home with his feet on the couch. This came to a positive result, but fleeting. 

Humid and warm remained the air. He heard coughing and sneezing from some of his fellow passengers. He didn’t want to breath in the expellations of others. Nostril breathing was reinforced. He felt sticky, especially with his shirt sticking to his body at pinch points. He was waning. With his struggle hanging in the balance he closed his eyes and thought pleasant thoughts. Baseball. Reading on the patio. Snorkeling in the ocean yesterday on the now deceased vacation.

Christ, two more hours until landing. How much could be endured? The guy across the aisle in his bare feet. The lady in front of him enjoying her recline further encroaching into his diminished personal space. And then, a beacon of hope, another refreshment cart. A cup of orange juice. Pulled in two swift gulps. Courage coursed through him.

He put down the book, leaned his head back on the headrest. He needed a distraction from the attrition of this psychological combat. Removing a notebook from his backpack and a pen, he would write. Of course, beat back the tribulation with a more powerful mental task. With pen in hand he wrote of these current flight related troubles and concerns. What is his strategy to emerge victoriously from this rugged episode? He had been lost in a swamp of weakness but presently found himself summoning strength. His confidence cresting, his writing became inspired and the stream of consciousness came issuing forth in a strong flow onto the page.

[This documents a difficult mid-flight experience on the return leg of a recent vacation.]