TW: Swearing Angela ‘Sneezy the Cat Lady’ Rhymes met the eyes of a billboard advert model through the classroom window. Three teenagers slouched in chairs with their arms folded, facing her whiteboard. One was on her phone. Angela sighed. “None of us want to be here at magic summer school so let’s get done what needs done and go home, deal?” Anna-May ‘the Animator’ Ghibli nodded enthusiastically, as the only one who wasn’t there through misdemeanors. Jesus Hernandez raised his hand. “Miss, how many classes do we have to go to before we can graduate?” “You have to be able to pass a test, Jesus. It’s not a number.” Miss Rhymes rubbed her forehead where a frown was working its way into a tension headache. The teacher rubbed the plastic chip on a cord around her wrist. “You can control cats, right?” asked Peter ‘the Pervert’ Parka, without raising his hand. “We need to begin the class for any of you to pass the test,” Angela said, ignoring Peter. “But you can, right? I heard you set a pack of cats on a kid for spitting on you.” Jesus smiled as if it was the funniest thing since he’d last looked at his phone. “Yes,” Angela said, hoping she could address their interest and move on. “I can control cats.” “That’s a cool power.” “Not really,” Miss Rhymes sniffed, reaching for a tissue. “How is that not cool?” Peter asked, “all I can control is clothes.” “Yeah, you suck, creep.” Jesus frowned at the blonde boy in the plain white T-shirt. Hernandez then stood up, knocking over his desk as he held the waistband of his trousers. Fighting an invisible force, his fingers lost their grip on the fabric. “PETER. STOP IT.” Angela felt her tension headache settle in for the day as she yelled at the boy who was giving his classmate the middle finger. “Why? He was being a dick. Why not show everyone his?” “Because that’s sexual assault, Peter. You’ve been told that a hundred times.” “More like a thousand,” Parka said as Jesus pulled up his trousers. “Then learn,” Miss Rhymes said, not holding back the anger in her voice. Her eyes caught Dalia DeWinter slouching in her chair. The girl had turned herself into a full sized doll with blank staring glassy eyes. “You’re just prolonging this if you don’t pay attention, Miss DeWinter.” Angela walked to the transfigured student and clicked her fingers in front of the girl’s unresponsive face. “What would happen if we pulled her arms off like that?” Peter asked, smirking as he eyed the plastic joints of Dalia’s bare elbows. “Prison or the chair, Parka. Don’t even think about it.” “I heard you’re an alcoholic, Miss.” Anna-May said, smiling the wide smile of a gossip laden teen. “Incorrect.” Angela rubbed the one year chip on her bracelet. One year, one month, two days , she thought. “I don’t drink anymore. Now I would like to start by-” She didn’t manage to finish the sentence as Jesus grinned an evil grin, pointing to her water bottle. “Want me to turn that into wine for you, miss? No charge. Maybe you could just say we all passed the test and we could go. Except Peter. He can go fuck himself.” Hernandez turned his stubble covered head to grin at Parka. Jesus stopped grinning as his purple letter jacket collar began strangling him. “Peter, enough!” Angel said, holding up her hand as if it would do something. “I SAID ENOUGH.” Her shoes clapped on the discoloured laminate tiles as she strode to her desk with purpose. Throwing back a glug of water she downed another allergy pill. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she chose the biggest book on the shelf and aimed it at Parka. “Owch. What the hell?” Peter looked at her with wide eyes and a red mark on his forehead. “You can't do that!” “I just did and I’ll do it again.” “You’ll get fired.” “I have tenure. If they could fire me they would have done it already. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP. LISTEN. I’m not asking you again.” She looked at Dalia, still as death in her chair. Angela rubbed her throbbing head. She pulled a marker from her pocket and began writing a spell they had to master on the board. Peter rubbed his head as his eyes followed her pen. Shimmering sparkles in the corners of his blue eyes hinted at tears he was fighting back. Angela breathed deeply, counting to ten in her head. “Look at that,” Anna-May said, pointing her black painted nails to the window. Despite herself Miss Ryhmes looked at the billboard outside. The handsome with the glass of wine in his hand was beckoning to Angela. The teacher turned to the student with hellfire in her eyes. “That’s not funny, Anna-May. Do you know how hard I fought to get sober?” A cat leapt onto the window sill. “I heard you punched Miss Banks from art class,” said Jesus, grinning the bully’s grin. Feeling her eyes itch and water, Angela opened the window. The striped moggy casually leapt through the window. A tabby leapt up behind it. The itch spread to Miss Rhymes’ throat as she went back to the whiteboard. “Repeat after me, or the cats will scratch the spell into your skin.” Hernandez and Anna-May recited the spell as Angela pointed to it. Peter pulled off his socks with his powers and had them dance in front of the cats to distract them. Felines poured in through the window, two at a time. Parka was in no time surrounded by moggies who had no interest in his socks. “Are you going to pay attention, Peter?” Angela asked. “Yes, Miss Rhymes.” “You’re not going to cause trouble?” Her voice was ice. Cubed ice floating in single malt whiskey. Something from Islay. Dammit, stop thinking about alcohol . “No, Miss Rhymes.” Parka shrank down in his chair rubbing his forehead. “Good.” Cats continued to floor into the classroom. Though her eyelids and throat began to swell she kept the cats there, watching each of the students as they repeated the spell with her. She wanted them to pass the test. She wanted to go on a holiday. Barbados , she thought. Sitting in a deckchair on the sand. An umbrella as I look out over the sapphire blue sea. Sangria in a pitcher on the table next to me. Fuck . Anna-May gazed out of the window again as Miss Rhymes wrote up the next spell on the board. Outside the window, the printed photograph of the beautiful man and woman were kissing. Teenagers . “Looking at the board everyone.” Angela was pleased with the rest of the lesson despite the fact she was slowly suffocating. Her airways were closing as the time passed. The breeze from the window was blowing cat hair everywhere. Without interruption she managed to note down and have them repeat every required spell. A week of that would probably be enough for them to pass the test. “Time to go, kids. Get out of my classroom.” “Woo,” Peter whooped, throwing his hands up. A ginger paw pushed his chest. He fell silent and nodded. The feline sea parted for Anna-May, Jesus and Peter to leave. “Can you walk on water, Jesus?” Miss Ghibli asked. “I can ice skate, yeah.” Hernandez had clearly been asked a thousand times. His delivery was slick and delivered with practiced confidence. He wore his letter jacket like a king’s cloak, swaggering. He’s not the messiah , Angela thought. He’s a very naughty boy . Their voices retreated down the corridor. Jesus and Peter insulting each other again. “Enjoy your evening with the cats,” Miss Rhymes said to Darla ‘Doll Face’ DeWinter. Locking the door, the teacher thought about Barbados again. Sun soaked bodies glistening with the sweat of mild exercise. DeWinter turned back to human form, expecting the teacher to be at the desk and the lights on. She leapt out of her chair backwards into more cats. Her perception of anything but the clock on the wall had vanished in her other form. Felines seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “What the hell?” asked Dalia as the cats she’d crashed into scratched her. On the board were the words: ‘See you again tomorrow Miss DeWinter, and every day until you learn the set spells. You only wasted your time.’ Pulling her phone from her back pocket, Dalia saw multiple missed calls from her mother. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, I did it again. Just gonna wait here. No, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m going to be dealing with that Dalia idiot all summer , Angela lamented as she walked to the bus stop. The billboard for Welcome Wine leered down at her from the photographic eyes of the handsome man and the beautiful woman. Bitch . The bus pulled up, Miss Rhymes saw cats disperse from the school as the bus doors hissed shut. Catching the eye of a muscular young man with tattoos protruding from his gym wear, she smiled. He grinned back. Trading addiction to alcohol for sex addiction wouldn’t be so bad would it? At least I’d get some exercise . He flashed his teeth again as the bus turned a corner, arms bulging. Am I too old for him? Fuck it, he’s smiling. Come on, Angela, let’s do this . Just don’t sneeze on him .


Hallotweenys’ Tale Spin Shelbi sat entranced at the Dragon Fly, as it flew near and far below Destinies ear. Shelbie's eyes were then drawn to the Manor House window. Evening was fast approaching and the sky was brooding; the chill in the air fighting for dominance against the hearth fire, the hearth wasn’t winning. Shelbie's thoughts once more were drawn to Destinies ear, why did the Dragon Fly stay there as if on a leash? There are just so many places to explore Shelbi reasoned? If only I can get her attention, over here Shelbi waved, over here, but DF just flew and returned where she once was, as if she was lured by a spell. Over here, oh n-o-o-o, oh no yikes… What is this? Shimmer dust? Shelbi tumbled and tumbled all at once falling in what? Legs over legs over legs she swirled. What is this? Acho-o, a-a-a-c-h-o- , Oh! What kind of shimmer dust is this? It’s making me sneeze, a-a-a-c-h-o-o as she tumbled into the…dustpan rolling and rolling end for end. This is just not right! Wait! Where am I going? Shelbis’ teeth chattered, and where did that brisk wind come from, b-r-r-r that b-r-e-e-z-z-e, I’m s-o-o-o chilly b-r-r-r. Shelbi was thrown into the cold October evening, oh the wind was brisk. All Hallows Eve would soon be upon us she knew, but why did she get thrown out into the cold, don’t big spiders come to the door Halloween… so why would they do this to me, this must have been a mistake. Destiny, she tried to scream, but the wind silenced her cries. She hadn’t done anything that she knew of that would warrant being thrown out into the cold so why? Why? Where will I go what will become of me, I’m going to freeze out here, as her teeth began to chatter. Gg-r-r-r- it’s freezing out here. How will I ever make it through the night, let alone winter b-r-r… wait a minute what’s that?

Snap! Followed by another snap, now what? What could possibly be wrong now? Wait a minute is that you Bartholomew you slumber hungry bear. What are you doing fumbling around here, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? You just about stepped on me, please be careful, though it might have been the most humane thing she thought as her skinny legs shook.  Sorry Shelbi I didn’t even see you, I can hardly see…my eyelids feel so heavy he spoke within a huge yawn. Aren’t spiders supposed to be stashed away somewhere by now. What are you mumbling about now Shelbi? I thought you had a nice place to live with Destiny at the Manor House, what happened? He yawned again mixed with a low growl, followed by a fur faced smirk. I think I ate too much, burp. Shelbi fought back the tears that she knew would only end in teeny weeny icicles. Oh Bartholomew, wait, please, let me stay in your fur till spring, I’m so cold. Stop! Wait Bartholomew her words floated off into the descending twilight. Bartholomew simply shrugged, spotted his nearby cave and he was gone. Bears have a one track mind she thought, just wait till spring; he can find his own berries. Ok she thought, think positive thoughts. Un huh, yup, positive thoughts… Shelbi is that you, what are you doing outside? I was visiting with Bartholomew singing him a sleeping melody, and no he didn’t need it. He mumbled something about you out in the cold. Then off he went counting the days till he could gorge himself on blueberries. They’re his favorite berry you know. Tenley isn’t it way past your slumber, Shelbi said? Aren’t moths supposed to be in a cocoon by now, Shelbi chattered some more. I could ask you the same thing, said Tenley, I missed my cocoon time, and we’re both going to freeze. Shelbi we both have to find shelter quickly. Can you move your legs Shelbi? Barely, Shelbi chattered, what do you need me to do? Speaking of barely, look Bartholomew’s lost some fur on that twig he snapped over here. Can you see it Shelbi, can you make it over here? I think so; she spoke in nothing more than a whisper. Just snuggle into Bartholomew's’ fur Shelbi. I’ll try for you Tenley; you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. We’ll make it Shelbi; I’ll flap my wings to protect you from the wind. What will save you from the cold wind Tenley? Shelbi, I’m starting to feel a warm breeze I think.                                                                                How is that even possible, and thank you s-o-o much Tenley. You’re so welcome Shelbi, we need to stick together. Didn’t you see him Shelbi? See who Tenley? I’m shaking so hard everything is a blur. Coconut just ran past us in frenzied gallop, you know how warm that stag is. You are right about that Tenley? When you’re warmer Shelbi do you think you could spin a web? I’ll try Tenley! Wow this is awesome, I can actually move. As Shelbi busily worked on the web Tenley dusted her web with the scales from her wings. Tenley I couldn’t make my cocoon earlier but now no problem. It’s like it’s a sign, Shelbi. Shelbi just stared into twilight’s eve, just as a huge snow flake landed over their cocoon. We now have a roof Tenley spoke in utter amazement. This is amazing, oh! Look how it glitters Tenley, Shelbi spoke with hope in her words, the most hope she had in a while, and we just might make it. Hurry up Tenley before the cocoon freezes and you’re locked outside. I’m coming, don’t worry, I think we’re going to make it. If I must be completely honest I didn’t think this would work, but I’m really glad it did. We made it Tenley; it’s amazing what can happen when we work together. Everything pointed to us being mortal enemies. Yes it looked really dark before the light shone. Enemies just haven’t learned to love...Tenley just be careful of some other Spidey's, they aren’t as loving as we are, and that’s the truth! Don’t worry Shelbi I didn’t live this long to help you by trusting every one, trust is earned. Tenley, Shelbi yawned, it is so comfy in Bartholomew's fur in this cocoon, I guess Bartholomew was a help after all. Its funny how things work out for the good when all seems bad, I guess it just takes a little faith. I think we’ve been friends too long you’re starting to sound like me. Tenley did I ever tell you about DF? That’s a spell if I’ve ever seen one. DF will only fly to and fro from Destinies ear. It’s probably just an earring Shelbi? Or an evil witch put a spell on her, Shelbi taunted. Tell you what Shelbi, if we get a Chinook we’ll check it out before spring ok Shelbi? Ah Shelbi? Ok sleep my long legged friend we’ll talk in the spring. Miracles still happen right… she mused as she thought about what the future would hold… Shelbi and Tenley were off in search of new adventure, although only within their dreams. The magical realms, where adventure and creativity speak the same language! Out of the frosted snowflake they heard Tenley, Shelbi are you in there? As the echo became increasing clear snap…..the Tale Spin begins... Author Deborah Nielsen


My teeth chatter and bones rattle beneath my big wool coat. I didn't layer nearly enough to wait outside this Target for what feels like an hour. Really it has probably only been about thirty minutes. Time truly freezes when you're frozen. I am packed in against the entrance like a last minute toiletry stuffed inside a suitcase, bursting at the seams. At this point, I don't even remember what I came here for; do I even have a plan? The bundled-up ladies next to me equipped with Venti Starbucks lattes seem to have a whole itinerary. I envy their foresight, especially the latte part. "What do you get the man who has everything?" I hear one of the ladies ask rhetorically. "A bigger TV," the other shrugs. I laugh along with them as if I am somehow in on the joke. We have all been standing here so long together, bonded by the experience of torturing ourselves for the chance at a good deal. I glance down at my phone for the time. The doors should be opening any second. My mind flashes back to images of news broadcasts detailing the trampling deaths of Black Friday shoppers and store greeters. The fear of becoming the next casualty sets in. Suddenly there is a quiet amongst the crowd. Everyone is positioning themselves with the seriousness of runners at the starting line of a marathon. A thin teenage boy in red appears through the glass, jangling keys. He unlocks the door and the floodgates are officially open. Shoppers spill into the store like a plague of locusts. I am not trampled, but squeezed between other sweaty bodies until I am finally inside. Everyone is swarming frantically, but I stand there dazed and overwhelmed. What am I even here for again? A gift for Will. Taking the latte ladies' indirect advice, I head to Electronics. Will definitely already has not one, but two TVs, and they seem to be just fine. But maybe the one lady was right, maybe he could use a bigger TV. On the shelf in front of me is one TV, it seems to be the last one, unless they have more in the back. Afraid to hesitate much longer, I   pull it down from the shelf and nearly fall over from the weight. I didn't even bring a shopping cart with me to put this in. Poor planning yet again. I stand there with the TV next to me in the floor of the aisle, looking around for someone in a red shirt who could maybe help me move it. I turn back to see one of the latte ladies lifting the TV into her already brimming shopping cart. "Hey, I was going to buy that," I protest, with very little fight. "Me too, baby doll," she says in a sickeningly sweet "bless-your-heart" tone. She makes an aggressive u-turn with her shopping cart and speeds off, probably on a mission to take the last KitchenAid mixer from the appliance section. I am left standing there in Electronics, stunned like a kid who just dropped her ice cream, still without a gift for Will. I wander the rest of the store looking up and down each aisle for ideas. At this point a lot of the shelves are missing product, so there isn't much left to choose from. They are out of his size in the flannel shirt he would like, no more W's in the monogrammed coffee mugs, they don't even have his favorite candy in stock. Feeling the pressure to make this painfully disappointing experience worthwhile, I grab some on-sale kitty litter and cat food and checkout. On the way out I pass the latte ladies waiting in line at the in-store Starbucks for another round. I hope their husbands like their newer, bigger TVs. Back in my car as I wait for the heat to warm up, I feel the chill of not just the air, but the emptiness left behind from my attempt at participating in this whole Black Friday charade. As I mourn my time wasted, I realize that is really the only negative. Will doesn't want or need a TV, or any of these big ticket "doorbuster" items the ads manipulate us into thinking we need. Will isn't that kind of guy anyway. He isn't the guy who has everything, nor does he want to be. He has everything he needs, and doesn't want much more than a new record for his collection, or tickets to a soccer game. He loves whales, music, and traveling to new places. It doesn't cost much more than time to think outside the brick and mortar box. Sure, lots of people do want a new TV. But what is better than opening a gift to find something that really is in essence, you? It is human nature to want to feel "seen." What better gift can one give than that very feeling? We all deserve a little extra thought and effort from time to time, especially those we love. Especially Will.


ACT I FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY ESTABLISHING SHOT SEAMUS (Captain) early 30s, steers the ship from the helm. The ships crew douses the sheets as they come up on the wind.

SEAMUS All hands on deck. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir! SEAMUS Oliver, pass the watch to Winston and meet me in my cabin. WINSTON early 20s, relieves OLIVER 26, of the watch. Oliver walks to the Captains Cabin. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY Oliver walks in and Seamus motions for him to sit.

SEAMUS We need to find a safe port to refit the ship and give our crew a days rest. OLIVER I agree, I was thinking of Charleston. It keeps a bit farther from the pirates we are hunting.

SEAMUS Tell the watch to make way for Charleston. EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY Oliver walks to the helmsman. Winston salutes the senior officer. OLIVER Set a course North East towards the East Coast of the Americas. We are making way for Charleston. WINSTON Aye Sir. Helmsman come right and steer 040 degrees magnetic. HELMSMAN

Aye Sir. Now steering 040 degrees magnetic.

Oliver walks off the deck. Winston stares towards the horizon. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY CLOSE UP Seamus sits staring out the window. SEAMUS These men have worked so hard that we need a relief so we may return home. These men need their families. Seamus stands as he hears the sounds of CANNON BLASTS in the distance.

EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY OTS MEDIUM CLOSE UP Winston spots two ships in the distance. Oliver and Seamus walk to the helm. WINSTON Captain, there have been two ships spotted about five miles in the distance. They appear to be firing at one another. SEAMUS Thank you Winston. Keep a weathered eye towards the horizon and steer clear. This is not our fray today.

OLIVER Does our mission remain the same Captain? SEAMUS It does. We need to make landfall and give everyone a much needed furlough.

OLIVER We are in concurrence with that. We should set the watches and let the crew rest unless needed for sail stations. SEAMUS Set an early taps and let the men sleep. I will take the first watch. Winston you are hereby relieved go rack out. Same goes for your Oliver. OLIVER AND WINSTON IN UNISON Aye Sir! FADE OUT. END OF ACT I ACT II FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - NIGHT MEDIUM WIDE SHOT Seamus stares at the horizon steering a course by the stars. SEAMUS (V.O.) I cannot help but wonder of home, but I must stay sharp and focussed as we are not there yet.

Oliver walks out and startles Seamus. SEAMUS You gave me a start.

OLIVER My apologies sir. It is my turn for watch so you can sleep.

SEAMUS We are headed Northeast. Tracking along the eastern coast of Florida. Maintain this heading and wake me before South Carolina. OLIVER Aye Sir. Winston has the next watch and I will pass this along when he relieves me. I offer my relief Sir. Oliver salutes Seamus.

SEAMUS I stand relieved. Wake me if you need anything. Seamus walks off the deck.

INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - NIGHT CLOSE UP Seamus lays in his hammock. Seamus dozes off as a loud CRACK AND RUMBLING echoes through the bowls of the ship. Seamus runs out. FADE OUT. END OF ACT II ACT III FADE IN: EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Seamus runs to the helm. Oliver and the helmsman are feverishly looking for what has been hit. Winston checks the charts to see what hazards are in the area. SEAMUS What the hell was that? OLIVER We are unsure sir. There is nothing charted in the area.

WINSTON This hazard is unknown. Not listed at all. UNKNOWN CREW MEMBER We are taking on water sir. We need to combat the damage. SEAMUS Wake the crew and get everyone to stations. Multiple sirens surface near the ship. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN (Meekly) This is our home. It claims many ships. PAN INTO A CLOSE UP. SEAMUS Of course it is the Sirens. Always leading us to our doom. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN There are no ships sank here. Despite our reputation we fix ships and send them on their way. SEAMUS Then what did we hit? Can you save the Celtic Rose so we may make it to land? SIREN The rocks are only near the surface this time of year. The moon draws them to the surface for us. Of course we can fix it for a price. SEAMUS There is always a price with your kind. What is it? SIREN That you spread positive reports of Sirens. That we help and not kill people. SEAMUS That is an easy price to pay. I gladly accept those terms. What do you need from us? SIREN We will need your men inside the ship to help place beams and repair the wood. We will salvage the wood from the ocean floor. Sirens swim off. Seamus gathers his men. SEAMUS We are going to help the sirens with repair inside the ship. They cannot get on board. WIDE SHOT SHIPS CREW

Aye Aye! Ships company mills about and gathers tools. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP ON TOOLS Carpenters mates work on repairing holes and setting up the hull for repair. EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Sirens surface trailing timbers behind them. Seamus mills about watching. SIREN We have returned with the timber necessary to repair the ship. It will take until morning to make repairs and get you underway. SEAMUS We appreciate the help more than you know.

EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT Sirens begin work on the hull placing and sizing timbers. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP Ships crew drive dowels into the timbers to secure them in place.

EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING EXTREME WIDE SHOT The sun rises as the work finishes. Seamus paces the deck observing.

EXT. OCEAN - MORNING Sirens approach the surface.

SIREN The work has been completed. EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING Seamus leans over the rail. SEAMUS Thank you beyond belief for the timely repairs.

SIREN It is our pleasure. We will use our magic to float the ship off the rocks.

SEAMUS We will set sail stations and make ready to be underway. SIREN Make sure you keep your promise. The sirens life the ship from the rocks and place it in the water.

SIREN Be safe on your journey. SEAMUS Thank you...All hands make sail. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir. EXTREME WIDE SHOT The Celtic Rose sails off towards the north east waiting for landfall. EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN - EVENING The Celtic Rose sails into Charleston. EXT. SHIPS DECK - EVENING Seamus stands near the helm. SEAMUS All hands make ready to enter port. EXT. PIER - EVENING Seamus crosses the brow. WIDE SHOT SEAMUS Gentleman let me tell you a tale. The stories of Sirens are not true. They are the reason we stand here before you. FADE TO BLACK. END OF ACT III


Where I come from Coke is a generic work for any carbonated drink. For instance—  I’ll take the fried chicken livers, green beans, and a Coke. What kinda Coke you want hon’? How ‘bout a Dr. Pepper? Where I come from

sweet  is the only way tea is served and potato salad has mayonnaise, mustard, and sweet pickles.

Like most young people, I suppose, I hated my hometown. I was young and impatient, and the place I came from was in no big hurry. Mostly though, I couldn’t wait to escape the claustrophobic gentility that was often a disguise for generational hate and racism.  Where I come from, black men still say

Yes suh, Mr. John

when white men speak to them and very old ladies don’t even blink when they let the

n word  slip.

Where I come from, if you look carefully on the exposed brick wall of the  Five and Dime— below the words suggesting you

See Rock City— you can still make out the words

white  and

colored  where the segregated water fountains hung.

Don’t get me wrong, not all my memories are bad. I grew up there. I learned to walk and talk. I had my first kiss and went to football games and dances. I graduated from high school and earned my first real grownup paycheck in that place that I came from.

When I go back to visit now, I can look at it with grace. I can sit and watch the sun set over the lake to the deafening soundtrack of the cicadas. I can drive down country lanes bounded on each side by unending cotton fields and glory in the vast magnolias that I know where old when I was born.

Much of my father’s family still live in the place I came from and like the cicadas and magnolias, I have learned to appreciate them. Growing up, I recall bickering and long-held grudges. I remember my grandmother playing my aunts and uncles against each other—whispering

this  in one’s ear and

that  in another’s.

But there are good memories as well. I particularly recall a picnic at the lake —a birthday party for my great grandmother. I might have been nine or ten. I can remember the burned sugar smell of barbecued pork ribs cooking over a hand dug fire pit and scoops of cold potato salad on thin paper plates.  I remember my grandfather, Paw Paw, turning a hand cranked ice cream churn while chain smoking from an aluminum folding chair. I remember exactly how that thin vanilla ice cream would melt and soak into the edges of the grocery store birthday cake. I remember cold sweet tea in red plastic cups. Now, for anyone who is not southern, the ratio is two full cups of Dixie Crystal White Sugar into a two quart pitcher of hot tea.  Looking back, it’s a wonder we are not all diabetic! While the adults cooked and gossiped, we children played. I can recall the feel of the mud squishing between my toes as we played waist deep in the edge of the lake. Our swimsuits were eternally stained dingy orange from the iron rich red clay in the water. My cousin, Regina, and I were the oldest and were expected to entertain and supervise the younger cousins. We accomplished this by taking turns pretending to baptize them. We would instruct each little one to cross his arms and lean back. Then we would hold them just above the water and ask,

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

We would pinch their little noses closed and dramatically lower them back into the smelly lake water. When they emerged, hair dripping behind them, we would all shout,

Hallelujah ! And then the next cousin would be waiting, impatiently crying,

Do me next! I’m next! In addition to my uncles and aunts, Granny and Paw Paw, my great grandmother, Margie, and her sister, Bonnie Jean were installed in folding chairs in the shade of the mimosa trees. (Great) Grandma Chandler wore a thin flowered house dress that zipped up the front and heavy black lace up shoes. On the front of her dress two large square pockets held a small package of tissues, her reading glasses, a pack of Beechnut gum, and a small Round red can of Garrett and Sons’ Sweet Snuff. Her thin gray hair was pinned to the back of her head with black bobby pins because she said it was just too hot to wear her wig. Bonnie Jean, who had left home, had a career and two husbands, wore a pair of polyester pants and a coordinating flowered top purchased from the ladies’ sportswear section of Sears and Roebuck. Both women fanned themselves with stiff square paper fans emblazoned with the name of the local funeral home on the front and quarter page ads for local mechanics, beauty parlors, and divorce attorneys on the back.

 Grandma Chandler worked as a winder at the local cotton mill for thirty-seven dollars a month. She retired after sixty- four and three-quarter years. When they asked why she didn’t make it an even sixty-five, she replied that she just didn’t want to. After she retired, she received a pension of thirty five dollars a month a Christmas box containing six oranges, a bag of hard ribbon candy, and a paper box of old fashioned peppermint sticks. On Saturday evenings, Grandma Chandler would prepare Sunday dinner. Where I came from

lunch  was

dinner  and

dinner  was

supper . She would fry chicken and cook turnip greens with a slab of fat back, and slice sun warmed red tomatoes from her garden. When the meals was complete, she would place it on the kitchen table and drape a clean flowered bedsheet over it until the next day, after church. She loved her family, Jesus, and Johnny Cash, but maybe not in that order.

I loved Grandma Chandler but I worshipped her sister, Bonnie Jean. Bonnie Jean was exotic. She had been to places outside of that place I came from.  She talked to me like an adult. Bonnie Jean liked to rock the boat a little and I hope I learned that from her.

Even as a small child, I took it to heart when someone would offer to wrap up a piece of cake for her to take home and she would declare, “I’m going to save myself from temptation later, I’ll just eat all my cake now!” There was, I thought, an important life lesson there and I embraced it fully.

I cannot escape the place I come from.  No matter how far I travel or how loudly I deny it.  The place—the people— I come from are part of me. You can hear it when I pronounce the word

bed

or  dead  with two entire syllables or declare that I am

fixin’ to go to the store.

You can see it in the way I dress, and walk, and talk.

You can feel it in who and how I love. And— You can taste it in my sweet tea.


Sticky notes littered his bedroom wall. Yellow, green, blue, and the hot pink that used to be yours. He kept a pen in his pocket, a black ball point, and a notepad in the other one.

He forgot a lot of things. Simple things, like what he ate for breakfast, and important things too, like doctor appointments. He remembered the day you two met though. One of the only long-term things he remembered. He didn’t remember what you were wearing or the place, but he remembered the feelings. The scramble of getting your number on his phone because he was afraid that if he wrote it in his notepad, he’d forget about it until next year. You had laughed at his haste, but complied, writing in Someone for the name. He texted you to make sure it was right, and you parted ways soon after.

He never changed your contact name.

He forgot to turn his alarm on that night, forgot to feed his tiny fish, forgot to take out the trash. But he remembered to text you good night. Your love was fast.

He didn’t forget you. Sometimes he’d forget why he was feeling so giddy, why his heartbeat was acting up. But then he’d look down and see he was talking with you. You were always patient with him. Always. Sometimes you’d ask him a question and he’d blank out and ask you to say it again. You knew the whole conversation was out of his head by then. He’d write down his favorite parts though. You moved from texting to calling in summer. He’d put you on speaker and sit low on his couch, writing down the important things, things you might bring up later. You moved to facetime in the fall. He sat in the seat in front of his window, the orange and red leaves serving as a beautiful background. He didn’t want you to see his sticky notes, and they were everywhere else.

In the winter, you started seeing more face to face. In coffee shops, bookstores, libraries, wherever you could meet. Before you’d part, he’d read you a poem he’d written every single time. You’d touch foreheads and then leave. It was a sweet little routine. His memory grew worse. He forgot to eat sometimes, set on the fact that he must’ve eaten earlier. Even when he remembered, his fridge was mostly empty, since he forgot to shop for groceries.

You moved in when sweater weather was over.

You didn’t have much. Two boxes filled with clothes, and one with your other things, like your lotion collection and stationary. You didn’t have to go out to meet each other anymore, you were in the same house. He often sat cross-legged on the couch, with a blank expression, and you’d join him, laying your head on his shoulder. About the sticky notes, you said nothing, only sometimes you added on. You added ‘I love you’ and ‘Smile’ amongst the ‘Brush your teeth’ and ‘Feed the fish’. When he ran out of poems, you’d tell him ideas of what you could do together.

You tried hiking together, but he tripped on a rock, earning a scar running along his arm.

You had blown on it, kissed it ever so softly, your eyes clouding with worry. He didn’t like blood, didn’t like the way it dripped bright red against his pale skin.

He only wore long-sleeved sweaters after that. Rarely let you drag him out. The only times he did was to see you smile. To watch your dimples come and go. You loved getting ready, wearing fancy clothes, and painting your makeup like a masterpiece.

You had only come with two boxes but by that summer you had over a closet-full of clothes.

He forgot to rinse his plate, forgot to brush his teeth, forgot to buy new glasses, but he remembered what you liked, remembered to get you something if he was ever out alone. You memorized his face, every freckle, every crease. He memorized your laugh and your soft touch. The scar stayed, a red line reminding him not to go out. One of the only things he didn’t really need reminding on. If he was feeling okay, then you would spend the day talking. About everything and nothing, and all the in betweens. About politics and animals and sometimes the sticky notes.

While you spoke, he didn’t keep the notepad near him. He started to be afraid to lose the authenticity of just hearing your voice. If he wrote it down, he would miss the light in your eyes and smirk in your smile. He bought the ring very suddenly. It was early morning, and you were still asleep, tangled in the covers. The night before had been a talking night. His hair was starting to grow long, and you told him to cut it. He had put it in a ponytail and said he liked it that way, though you probably still remember.

Deep down, he does too. The ring was simple, in case he would forget where he put it and lose it. You always loved christmas. Green and red were your favorite colors at the time. Weeks earlier, you had bought a tree and ornaments. An angel for the top. The first time he asked it was morning. The golden light was still barely peeking in through the white curtains, the birds were still stretching. He had grabbed your hand as you poured your bitter coffee and slipped the ring on your finger. He was short for words so you kissed him instead, the taste of mint evident because he finally remembered to brush his teeth.

You were going to go and see the big tree in the city. It was only out the 24th and 25th and you wanted to go both days. It was the one time you didn’t need to persuade him.

You took the ring off to shower.

After you were almost ready, you saw him with the ring in his hand, a blank expression that you knew so well plain on his face. He actually asked that time, his words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. Nothing like the poet he was.

The third time was the worst. He had stopped you as you were walking, getting ready to ice skate. He looked sad, and his pale skin was paler than usual. You had caressed his cheek and pressed foreheads like you used to and you continued to pick up your skates.

The fourth time was on the ice. You were the one who fell for once, and as he caught you, he whispered the question in your ear. It was the most romantic one in your eyes. You wished it wasn’t ruined by your brain yelling at you that he was sick. That he probably wouldn’t remember later, that he might just forget you later.

The fifth time was when you were back at home, untangling your hair from the unnecessary amount of bobby pins it had suffered through. You had cried softly into your pillow that night.

It was supposed to be perfect, but life disagreed. He had apologized in the morning, and when you tried to wave it off, he told you he heard you crying. Half of his sticky note wall came down that day.

He was so tired of forgetting. He wanted to love you with all his heart, mind, and soul, but he was busy trying to make sure to keep himself alive. And his fish. But it was both of your fish then, and you made sure to remind him it was okay, that you still loved him.

The bad days were still there.

But so were the good days. So were the good days.


The center was quiet for a seasonal afternoon. Usually, the residents sat around playing bingo, cards, or dominos. The other residents plopped themselves in front of the television for entertainment. But today, everyone seemed to be in their rooms, patiently waiting for the day to end, so the cycle continued. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened; some staff remarked that every day was groundhog’s day. Nothing ever changed, just the visitors that came and went. Although the residents would never know if anything did happen, and when things did happen, the residents forgot everything by the following day. Except for one man, Mr. Charlie Ray Carlson, he remembered something no one else could recall. When he asked for his old nurse, Nurse Sandy, no one could tell him where she went or when she would be back. The other absentminded nurses promised him she would be back tomorrow, but she never was. That was fine; Mr. Carlson would continue to ask for her until she returned. Mr. Carlson may have forgotten what he ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But he never forgot about Nurse Sandy. Even if everyone else did, he couldn’t remember what year he saw her last, but Mr. Carlson could remember the day he’d last seen her. It was a holiday. All Hallow’s Eve, Nurse Sandy always brought him a small pumpkin full of candy. When Christmas came along, she baked him homemade gingerbread, and for his birthday, she baked him an Italian Creme cake. Mr. Carlson missed when Nurse Sandy stopped by; he liked when she was the one who wheeled him down to the cafeteria or when they visited the side gardens. She was his only caretaker that’s name stuck with him. “Good morning Mr. Carlson; how are you doing?” The nurse that walks in is Philippine, she is thin, short, and her hair is blacker than oil. She looks nothing like his usual nurse, and he frowns with a grunt. Nurse Sandy is a petite but tall woman, with blondish-brown curls down to her shoulders, a light spray of freckles across her cheeks, and she sports a tan all year long. His morning would be better if Nurse Sandy quit horsing around and got her tardy behind here. For a few moments, he does not say anything. Instead, Mr. Carlson stares at the woman with an expression that he hopes tells her to go to hell. He didn’t like when Sandy sent others. He only wanted Sandy’s assistance; everyone else could forget bothering. “Where is Nurse Sandy? I don’t want anyone else helping me unless Sandy told them too,” That was the only way the other nurses could help him. But, first, they had to convince him that Sandy had already set him up with a nurse she trusted. “Nurse Sandy took the day off; she told me you’d be asking for her,” The young nurse swiftly carries on with Mr. Carlson. She eases through their conversation without a single pause to think; she is used to dealing with their reluctance. “And who are you to, Nurse Sandy? I ain’t ever heard of you before,” He growls at the nurse; indeed, Sandy would have told him about her friends. “I am Nurse Tina; I will do my best to do half the job Nurse Sandy does to take care of you,” She smiles, reassuring him, grabbing his shoes from the end of his bed and gently placing them in front of his toes. “You have your work cut out for you,” He gripes again, breathing deeply. His hunched back bars his movement, and the nurse assists him with his house shoes. Nurse Tina knew that sometimes the patients she worked with here would have various perceptions of how the patients process their environment. Some patients remember people that never existed; others do not remember the last sentence spoken to them; each case was different. Nevertheless, Nurse Tina took personal fulfillment from helping these people, even if they never appreciated her. She did not mind their hatred. However, she didn’t shoulder their negativity; they had every right to be pissed off when they spent eighteen years growing into an adult, just to be dumped by their adult children after they reach seventy. Some of these people had family members who never missed a weekend; others were dropped off and never saw their family again. The spectrum varied, and each patient was different. They all had their individualistic backstories that cultivated the person they are today. Tina liked to bring the patients that tended to spend most of the time by themselves little gifts. She’d buy crosswords for the puzzlers, cards for the dealers, and books for the readers. Their reactions always justified the cost, but Tina never added up the receipts anyways. She enjoyed helping others feel better. Her heart was too big, but Tina herself went home to no one. She didn’t know her parents, she grew up in a shelter, and when she turned eighteen, the shelter threw her out. The world ate her alive for months until Tina eventually turned things around. Everything that Tina had today she had herself to thank for, and maybe she felt more empathy for these people because she would end up just like them one day. Cold, lonely, miserable, forgotten, and forgetful. “Let’s get some food in your system, Mr. Carlson,” The young nurse suggests, but Mr. Carlson belligerently shakes his head. Tina just smiles; her time is Mr. Carlson’s today. “Nurse Sandy always takes me on a walk first. She even brings her dogs sometimes.” She smiles at the older man’s sassy tone, and she ponders about this Sandy person. She’d never heard of any of the other nurses bringing their pets to work. “We can walk first; we can sit out in the garden; how does that sound?” Tina wondered if Sandy was a nurse here way before her time, but she knew she could not ask how long ago she’d been here. Mr. Carlson would not be able to tell her. “What is today?” Mr. Carlson asks with a long face. His bushy eyebrows are wiry and long. Thick hairs come off his face in all directions, and his face is wrinkled like an oatmeal cookie. He frowns, and it makes his ancient features all the harsher. His skin looks dry and feels like sandpaper. His hair is paper-thin and covers his scalp in patches. “It is Halloween today,” Tina replies, wheeling him out of his room. He shared the space with another man, Mr. Zane, but Mr. Zane passed away many years ago. Although the facility never filled the bed up with another person, Mr. Carlson did better when bunked by himself. “Nurse Sandy never misses Halloween. Where are you hiding her? Why are you keeping me from Nurse Sandy? SHE IS MY NURSE.” Mr. Carlson is indignant. He clutches the arms of his chair, and he tries to push himself off so he can stand. He loses his balance, but Tina helps him safely slip into his chair. Sometimes, her job is nerve-racking, at times too strenuous on the soul. She took a few deep breaths, keeping her face blank. “The day isn’t over; Nurse Sandy will come back, Mr. Carlson.” “I want my nurse back!” Mr. Carlson is hollering now, and the other orderlies are starting to send her weary glances. The last thing Tina wants is for one of the other contentious nurses to stick their noses in; she has to find a way to soothe him quickly. Or they will sedate him and stick him back in his room. “The garden isn’t too far now,” She’s at a loss for words. Mr. Carlson doesn’t reply, he grunts with frustration, and he impatiently taps his feet against the footrest of his chair. They turn down the last corridor, the wheels of his chair squeak and creak like a haunted house. The Assisted Living Center for Memory Impairment is outdated. The building needed renovations decades ago, so naturally, the building required some work. The walls were no longer cloud white but a rather off-butter yellow that made the place appear scuzzy. In addition, the warped wooden floors are ruined from water damage, and broken tiles litter the kitchen and bathrooms. Tina brought this up to management, but they never handled the issue with priority. “Tell Nurse Sandy when she gets here that I am firing her and that I will have a new nurse. One that shows up. One like- what’s your name again?” He gently requests a reminder, even though his tone is as spiteful as a crossed snake. “I am Tina,” She almost repeats his name, but she stops. “Tina! Pretty name. Yes, tell Nurse Sandy I found someone reliable,” He compliments her with a backhanded remark, but Tina laughs with a grateful smile. As long as he is not boisterously griping, Tina could handle it. So she brought him out to the garden and parked him on the terrace next to a white bench. The garden was lovely; that was one thing that management never let go of. Their bushes and hedges were all meticulously trimmed, not a leaf or stem out of place. The sprinkler system kept the plants and flowerbeds hydrated. “Nurse Sandy liked to read to me. Won’t you read to me?” His voice is soft; his expression is callous. “What would you like to read, Mr. Carlson?” Tina shelved hundreds of books in her office; if only he would have told her this before they’d made it all this way. Tina watches with careful eyes as her patient struggles to get a grip; he frowns. His angry eyebrows slant upwards, and his mouth makes half of a frown on the left side of his face. The gears are gradually turning, but his memory does not work as fast as it should. The frustration that scrawls across his face is heartbreaking, and Tina can’t stand to see him suffer. “I have a small copy of the newspaper; I clipped the poem for today. I will read that,” “Good,” His quick answer is abrupt. Tina fumbles through each pocket of her scrubs before she finally finds the short poem that touched her this morning. “In autumn, the leaves metaphor and the animals prepare, In winter, snow frosts the grass, and bears hibernate in caves, In spring, squirrels climb trees and birds sing, In summer, the sun shines, and the blue sky looms above, As the seasons change, So do people, As time passes, The world moves on, So remember to stop every once in a while, And listen to the breeze of the wind passing you by,” Tina finishes, not sure what she likes about the poem just that she likes it. Mr. Carlson’s beady eyes are focused on her face, he seems to disapprove of the poem, but the older gentleman doesn’t say anything. Tina listens to the engines of cars that pass by on the road in front of the facility. “That had nothing to do with Valentine’s day; Nurse Sandy would have read something that related to the holiday. So, Save that poem for spring Nurse-” He stops rambling, the octaves of his voice stretch, and he tries to fumble through his memory like he is searching his wife’s purse for a missing object. “I am Tina. And I thought the poem was fit for any occasion. Especially a nice afternoon outside, under the shade.” She’s finally starting to wear down. Her willpower to be excellent was strong, but after too many chinks in her armor. Tina’s bark could be just as powerful as her bite. “Well, read me something else,” Tina chuckles, feeling the stress nesting between her shoulder blades tingle. Mr. Carlson wasn’t the most challenging patient, and he never could compare to Mrs. Winston. That lady was about as pleasant as a thumbtack to the heel. “We will have to go back inside,” “That’s fine. It is hot out here anyways,” Tina knew for a fact that the weather was not hot; in fact, the temperature outside was cooler than the thermostat stuck at seventy-five degrees inside. “I’ll take you inside then,” Their walk was short if one could consider it a walk at all. “I’m hungry,” Mr. Carlson scratches his head with long fingernails; he doesn’t let anyone touch his nails. “They are serving steak and eggs for breakfast this morning; tonight’s dessert is pumpkin pie,” “Pumpkin pie is my favorite. Must be Thanksgiving,” “Do you take whip cream?” Nurse Tina navigates to the dining room, where most of the residents have already left. Breakfast was over an hour ago, so hopefully, there was food left for Mr. Carlson. If not, she would have to make him a snack. “I do; Sandy used to make the best turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches. My mouth waters just thinking about them.” “Let me go get you something to eat, Mr. Carlson,” “Maybe you’ll find Sandy in there,” He sends her the first smile he has in a very long time. His lips are just a few shades of pink darker than his white skin. His happy expression makes his face appear so fragile, as his skull may fracture at the slightest touch. He is weak and old. His body is tired, and his eyes are secretive. Tina walks into the kitchen, where there are cooks busy preparing lunch. Loaves of bread, stacks of tomatoes, lettuce, bacon, and cheese linger on the counter. “Do you know if there is any cranberry sauce?” She asks Debra, the older woman that runs the kitchen. Although, most people call her Deb; she’s been here longer than anyone else. “Haha, baby doll, you are in luck. I just made some fresh cranberry sauce this weekend. It’s in the fridge. Who do you need it for?” “Mr. Carlson,” “You mean to say, Charlie Ray?” The older woman pauses to glance at Tina; a perplexed scrunch of her nose makes her look like a pig. “The very one,” Tina replies with a soft tone. “Oh, Charlie Ray! He’ll love a turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Just like she used to make. For the sake of Halloween, I’ll make him his favorite.” “You know Mr. Carlson?” “Of course, not many people around her know about him or his wife anymore. Such a sweet woman, she came to see him every day,” Her voice is sticky with sweetness, and she’s already popping the roasted turkey back in the fridge. “That was nice of her,” “Has he asked you where she is? It breaks my heart every time someone complains about him. He can’t help his memory,” The older woman babbles and gossips. “Not that I know of,” Her reply is absentminded as she stares at the time on her watch. “I am sure he will; she was his favorite.” The woman slides the plate over to Tina; her lips stretch into a rueful smile. Tina thanks her for her time, still staring at her watch. She grabs the plate, paying little attention to the context of their conversation. She is just about to walk out the door when she pauses. Could Nurse Sandy be his wife? “Did you know her name by chance?” “Yes, Sandy Mable Carlson. She was a doctor.” Tina almost dropped the plate of food. Her heart tumbled into her stomach, and she swallowed the large lump in her throat. “Thanks a-again, Debra.” Tina stammers, swearing the temperature just dropped twenty degrees. As she left the kitchen, her eyes immediately sought out Mr. Carlson. He was sitting alone at a table with a pumpkin centerpiece, his frail hands are outstretched across the surface. His palms are faces the ceiling as if he were holding another person’s hand. She could tell that he was talking, his lips moved quickly, and his mouth opened and closed as he finished speaking. Pity flooded her stomach and muddled together with the breakfast she’d eaten this morning. She felt sorry for Mr. Carlson, he’d spent a lifetime knowing someone, and now his brain confused him and tricked him. His brain made it increasingly more difficult to comprehend her absence. She took her time, doing her best to exaggerate her steps so she did not startle him. Once she reached the table, Mr. Carlson beamed at her with such a joyous expression; Tina couldn’t help but wonder if somebody had ransacked him for his personality. “Oh, Nurse Tina, I found Sandy! She brought us some little cakes. Why don’t you pull up a chair and take a seat?” The chair across from Mr. Carlson is entirely empty, although he gestures for her to grab another chair. She does, without really comprehending what she is doing, too worried about the empty room, to care what chair she was grabbing. Tina glances around the room with chaotic eyes, but there is no one here but Mr. Carlson. Her heart hammers as she tries to play off her concern. There is no one here, but Mr. Carlson seems to be content. “Nurse Tina, we sure are glad you could join us,” Mr. Carlson places a hand over hers and smiles with watery eyes. Then he turns his head to the apparition only he can see and strikes up a full-blown conversation. Tina sits in silence, as she listens to Mr. Carlson chat up his dead wife.


        “Wherever you want to go,” the man in the sport jacket said. He had an athletic build, and the white shirt he was wearing looked like it was just pulled out of the packaging. Blinding white. No one in Bend dressed like that. D was dressed in his regular school clothes, joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He towered over the man in the sport jacket.                “How about Ruby’s?” D said.                The man in the sport coat and the heavy-set coach to his left smiled. “Yeah, sure, but you can go higher end, if you want,” Coach said. “We’re trying to get you to come to our school. You can order the chateaubriand.”                D didn’t know what chateaubriand was, and he didn’t want to ask. But he knew enough and he hated the implication. It was as though some fancy dinner and the prospect of financial gain could just make him do whatever they wanted. “That’s just the way those big schools do it,” Robert told him. Robert and Karen, D’s adoptive parents, were not persuaded that D should even pursue an athletic career. Karen, especially was concerned that D needed an education. She cited statistics about the success rates of those who pursued big school or professional sports.                “We just don’t want you to think that’s all there is in life,” she said. “When your career in sports is over, you need to assimilate. Sports careers are not that long.” But when he started being scouted, she and Bob, along with the rest of the community in Bend, got caught up in the hype.                He was a phenom, as the press put it.

               Coach and the man in the white suit climbed into a large black Cadillac Escalade. They seemed oblivious to how it stuck out in a town whose inhabitants drove Subarus. “Take the front,” Coach said. “I need to stretch out my legs, anyway. Too much traveling.”                Ruby’s was an unassuming local place. It was the sort of place that Robert and Karen took D when he got a good test grade. Sandwiches, wings, pizza and burgers. He had to hand it to them, Robert and Karen knew what he liked from day one, not like the other foster parents. Prior to Robert and Karen, D saw it all—the out-of-touch agency ladies and the leeches. The leeches were the ones who collected foster kids. Each kid was a new source of income. They piled them into the house and didn’t care what happened to them. And the other kids were insufferable. Some had been beaten up, and they were quick to beat up on others. D cowered away from them and tried to hide, until the day that Karen and Robert came to take him in.                Karen never had children and Robert was in sales. They went to church every week and had already fostered D’s other adopted brother, Sid, who was now a banker in Ohio. Robert signed D up for basketball. It was white man’s ball. By that, D understood that it meant just the basics. Robert and Karen lived in a huge house and had a half court outside. On Saturdays Robert and D shot layups. Robert told D that basketball and sports would build character. But D didn’t care at the time. He only played it because there was nothing else to do.                Ironically, Karen was the one who saw how much D took to it. She brought a flyer home about a travel clinic. She thought it’d be good for D to develop some skills. Besides, she’d pointed out, she and Robert could use the time that D was away for a little break. D was pissed at first. A break. They weren’t his real parents. D did practically everything for himself anyway. But it turned out Karen was right. D took to basketball naturally. When he started to pour himself into it, something magical happened. D grew. A lot. And the travel team played better basketball. They lined the players up and threw the basketball hard at their stomachs. Some of the boys got the wind knocked out and D found himself gasping for air, but it was a turning point. D knew it served a purpose. When D played other teams, he wasn’t afraid of getting hit or fouled. It sure beat getting a basketball launched at your solar plexus.                “You’re Demetrius, aren’t you?” the waitress had long, dark hair that was tied up in a high ponytail. She was pretty.                “Yes,” D said, before Coach cut in.                “Hon, we’re trying to keep it low-key, OK?” The man in the bright white shirt tucked some extra bills into her hand.                The waitress waved it away, “you got it,” she said. “Just wanted to tell you it’s a pleasure to serve The Phenom.”                Coach smiled, but it was not a real one. “Lots of phenoms out there, honey. Now can you get us a couple menus?”                Coach and the man in the bright white shirt perused the menu. D put his down.                “What looks good?” the man in the white shirt asked.                “I’ll have the double-decker burger, no fries,” D said. “Mind if I get two?”                “Whatever you want,” the man in the white shirt said.                “And the malted shake,” D added.                This was a little splurge. In season D didn’t like to drink shakes, but this was an occasion to celebrate. He led his high school team to a winning season and now he was being scouted by the big ten schools. The press then caught wind. When national sports reporters showed up at the house, D knew that things were changing. They wanted to talk to D. They tried to get pictures.                “You know we can’t offer you cash yet,” the man in the white shirt said, as he cut his burger in half and bit into part of it. Coach grabbed some fries from his plate. “Look here, son,” he said. “The money will come, but before it comes, you gotta show the world what you’re made of. I can help you get there. You come with me, and you’ll get court time, provided you are committed to putting in the time.” He paused. D smiled broadly. “I can put in the time,” he said.                Coach smiled back. “Then you can collect your shoe contracts and do your commercials.”                The man in the bright white shirt spoke next. “We brought along a couple things we thought you might like.” He pulled out a large duffel bag. “Just some college swag for our college boy,” Coach said. “You ever see these before?” He pulled out a pair of high tops. They were huge and light, but had some sort of stiff wedge above the sole.                “No,” D smiled.                “That’s cause no one has,” the man in the white shirt said. “Factory made for you when you join our team. Can’t wait to get you signed up.” He handed D the duffel bag. “Look through that when you get home,” the man in white said. “I’ll call you on Monday morning.”                When D got home from dinner, he expected Robert and Karen to beam. Instead, Karen was pale and looked at D through red-rimmed eyes. There was a woman sitting on the sofa.                “Demetrius, baby!” she held out her arms.                Karen looked sidelong at D. There was a rather long pause.                Robert spoke first. “Demetrius, this is your mother, Destiny Laximoore. She showed up at our door tonight.” *            *            *                 That had been three weeks ago. There were other schools after that. They all wanted to take D out to dinner. Some had given him gas cards, warmups. D wasn’t sure that cash equivalents were kosher under NCAA guidelines. At first, it had been fun to be treated like sports royalty, but D still found something unsettling about it. It was as though each duffel bag was a little piece of him that the colleges were buying. They wanted return on their investment. They really didn’t care what happened to D, D thought. They wanted to buy winning. Only Karen and Robert gave any thought to what was best for D, and then, well Destiny.                It was obvious that Karen didn’t like Destiny. She never said anything negative, but D could tell the way she looked at Robert when Destiny called, as though she wanted him to say that he didn’t need to tell D that Destiny had called. When D gave Destiny the gas cards he’d been given, Karen looked hard at Robert, who’d said nothing.                “Demetrius, I have always loved you, and I only need a little money so that I can get enough to get us an apartment together,” Destiny said. D took one look at Destiny and knew it was true. Destiny was skinny, like she could use a meal. She also needed to see a dentist. Years of neglect, thought D. The world is good to the Roberts and Karens, but the Destinys had to make it without any help.                “Mom, how’s the search going?” D asked one day. “I’m pretty close to picking North Carolina for school. We could move there together. Look what I got you.” D pulled out the pages that he had printed from his computer. He circled three apartments. He’d given Destiny money from his savings account, already. It would easily have covered a down payment on any of the apartments.                “Honey, I’m still looking,” Destiny said. “I gotta go now, catch you next week.”                D hated it when she said that. It meant that she might or might not show up the following week.                “Yeah,” he said, handing her a roll of cash. “Don’t forget to call me next week.”                But she did. And every time she did, D found himself taking out his anger at the court, slamming the ball through the hoop, lashing out at anyone who screwed up at practice.                Karen and Robert took notice.                “Hey, D,” Robert said one night. “What’s going on with your savings account? I thought you were saving up for a car—remember, I’ll match whatever you put down.”                “Yeah, my mom needed some money so she can get to her job,” D said.                “Hmm. D, maybe she needs to come up with some of that money on her own.”                Karen broke in. “Enough!” she said loudly. “Honest to God, I have had enough of all this. Why do we have to keep pretending? Demetrius, your mother doesn’t have a job. She’s sucking all the money off you because she sees you as one big paycheck. Where’s she been for the last fifteen years? Where was she when you spray painted the side of the school, huh? Did she get you out of that? No! That was us, Demetrius. Where was she when you were sick? Did she come to you then? How about when you couldn’t pass Algebra? She didn’t knock on our goddamn door then, did she?”                This was scary. Karen never swore. Her face was white and D could see a vein throbbing in her neck. Even her fingers were shaking. “Wake up, Demetrius. She’s using you.”                Robert looked bothered. “Karen—”                “No, I got it,” D’s own hands were shaking now. “You’re wrong. You hate her because she’s my real mom,” he heard himself say. “You wouldn’t have any of this, the fame, the attention, all that stuff you love if my real mom didn’t bring me into this world. Now you’re just jealous. Yeah? Well, you’re gonna find out the hard way. I’m outta here. I’m not your son anymore. I never really was.”                Robert looked bothered now. “Demetrius, we don’t mean that—”                But it was too late. Demetrius had grabbed his jacket and was out the door. *            *            *                Three hours later, he had traced Destiny’s steps. It wasn’t difficult. She drove a beat-up gold duster that stuck out like a sore thumb in a town of middle-class people. A few questions at the convenience store, and D found himself watching his mom from behind a dumpster in a parking lot on the edge of town.                “Yeah, I got it,” he heard her say. She handed a man the roll of cash that D had given her. “Now you give me what you got. D didn’t see what he gave her, but he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was she doing? That was the money that was for the apartment. The feeling in the pit of his stomach began to rise. It was nausea. D swallowed back bile.                When the man left, D emerged from behind the dumpster. Destiny immediately turned toward the sound of a can falling from the dumpster.                “Demetrius, what are you doing here?” she called.                “What are you doing here?” D asked. “That money was supposed to be for our apartment, remember?”                Destiny looked hard at D.                D looked hard right back. “What’s your explanation? I mean, mom, why are you doing this?”                “Demetrius,” Destiny said. She paused. “I’ve, I’ve—” She gathered herself. “It’s for my job, like I said,” Destiny finally said. “I’m a nail tech. That man gets me my supplies for cheap. Too expensive to buy them at the store. I buy ‘em on the street.”                “Yeah? Where are they?” D asked. “Show me.”                “Actually, he delivers them for me,” Destiny said. “You know I can’t show them to you—cause he delivers them so I don’t have to carry them home. . . Then I do my nails. I’ve got some saved up, Demetrius. It’s gonna be you and me. I’ve got some saved up. We gonna live in that apartment—I just need one more thing, Demetrius. Just one more thing, and that’s the gel drying machine. Cost me about $500 more. Can you get that for me next week? Think you can get me $500 more by next week?”                D sighed. “Yeah, mom.” He walked slowly back to Robert and Karen’s. *            *            *                Karen had been crying. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen. “Sorry, D. I didn’t mean it,” she was saying. “We love you and are just glad you’re back.”                D looked at Karen and Robert defiantly. “I’ll sleep here,” he said. “But I want to you to know that you’re wrong. You were wrong. My mom’s a nail tech, and she’s been saving up to live at college with me. Till then, I’ll crash here, but only till then.” D then felt the overwhelming urge to cry, to run into the arms of Karen and Robert and cry, but he didn’t know why. Instead, he spoke. “I’m signing. North Carolina,” he said. “Then I’m outta here.” *            *            *                The man in the bright white shirt was back. “I just want you to know that you made the right decision,” he said. “I think you’ll find that we are a real family at NC. This is where you belong.”                Coach smiled and all his large white teeth showed. His large stomach shook with laughter. “So long as you perform, D!” he punched D in the shoulder.                Karen and Robert looked on. They smiled, proudly. “Well done, son,” Robert said.

               They were standing outside, and D had signed four times on a clipboard balanced on the front of the Escalade.                “Wait, wait, we didn’t capture this moment,” Karen was smiling. “Someone take my phone!” She handed it to Sid, who had come home to celebrate D’s signing. “Sid, you get in the next one.”                Sid snapped a picture. D’s phone chimed.                There was the picture. Karen, smiling with joy. Robert, slapping D on the shoulder. The man in the white shirt looking victorious, and Coach looking as though he had just eaten the canary. Ironically, only D looked out of place. A big kid, in an even bigger NC warmup jacket, looking out from a bowed head, just like he had when he cowered behind the sofa at his first foster home.                “As long as I perform,” D thought. “as long as I perform.”


Herb Goes Hermit Herb peered over the top of his cubicle, mesmerized by the agonizingly slow movement of the minute hand on the clock at the far side of the room. In his one lone, exhilarating act of defiance, he had tossed his watch into the waste basket in the company cafeteria years ago. Everything else in his life was constraining and suffocating. As illusory as it was, Herb could at least imagine he was freed from the bonds of time. Time. 34 years = 408 months = 1,768 weeks =12,410 days = 297,840 hours = 17,870,400 minutes. The last 20 minutes would be the most painful for Herb- anxiety soars as the moment approaches. In twenty minutes Herb would walk out that door for the last time, liberated from the mind-numbing, torturous tasks he had so long endured. Herb hated his job, but not quite as much as he hated his boss and his coworkers. Punching out at the end of another miserable day at work brought little relief as he also hated his neighbors, their noisy, bratty kids, and their incessantly barking dogs. He was particularly burdened by old man Johnson’s rooster which faithfully announced the arrival of every new day a half hour before sunrise. The feelings were mutual. Herb’s going away party would be held the week after he left. Kids forfeited their baseball whenever a foul ball sailed over his fence. Conspirator theorists might even have suggested the dogs and the rooster, even though situated on opposite sides of Herb’s property, were running a tag-team operation designed to drive poor Herb, in layman’s terms, “woo-woo”. There was no salvaging Herb’s relationship with the rest of the world. Twenty minutes. Each jump of the minute hand took forever as Herb’s mind bounced back and forth from the scourge of his painful past to the peaceful, soothing, serene thoughts of the wondrous future that loomed just over the horizon. He had it all planned out. Walt had Disneyland; Michael had Neverland; Dolly had Dollywood; Herb would have his Herbville. Having no friends, no interests, and no pleasures, Herb stashed away a small fortune during his working years. As such, he was well positioned to acquire his Shangri-La, his Camelot, his Promised Land- a one-room cabin on a remote 50-acre parcel in the Montana Rockies. The nearest sign of civilization was the aging town of Butte, affectionately referred to by the locals, and by some phonetically challenged visitors, as “Butt”. With the mindset of a junior accountant, Herb had meticulously prepared for his great escape- a small wood-burning stove, stockpiles of firewood, flintstones, oil lamps, oil, tin cutlery, hunting and fishing equipment, and a moderate supply of bomb shelter-style food rations in case his hunting and fishing efforts proved inadequate. He made one concession for the sake of a possible medical emergency- a cell phone and a solar-powered charger. Herb and his hideaway cabin in the wilderness would be a self-contained unit; he had no further need of anyone or anything. Good riddance, world. Herb hatched his plan five years ago, right after he got a new, even more intolerable boss at work, and his canine-loving neighbor brought home two rescue German Shepherds that added volume and consistency to the cacophonous nightly bark-a-thon. He found his little piece of paradise in an ad in Wilderness Living Magazine, and he spent all of his vacation time making the place ready for the move. Herb supplemented his very limited survival skills with books and Internet searches. With his remarkable lack of commitment to the task, the workday provided ample opportunity for Herb to research life in the wild. He even picked up a few helpful tidbits by streaming a little Rambo online. Herb was as prepared as any unprepared guy could be for wilderness living. At 5:00 PM Herb was out the door faster than a kid heading for summer vacation. He drove straight through, Minneapolis to Butte. His final stop was Big Bertha’s General Store on the outskirts of Butte- “Everything You Need Under One Roof, And More.” By this time in the process, Herb had befriended the young man behind the counter. “Today’s the big day, Seth. I just filled up with gas, you know, in case of some kind of medical emergency. And I’ll need a few more cases of beer. Could you throw them in the truck?” “Will do, Herb. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” “This will be as bare bones. I want to live like the early pioneers, free of all the crap society throws at us.”  “And what about that pistol I suggested, you know, for those long walks in the woods you talked about? There’s Grizzlies up there, you know.” “No, I’m good.” “And Mountain Lions.” “I’ll be all right.” “And wolves.” “Well, not a Dirty Harry gun, maybe just a little one.” “Grizzlies, Herb.” “Ok, a medium size one.” Herb teared up when he saw the cabin. Sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the actual event, but not in this case. Totally relaxed, at peace, far from all the tribulations society had inflicted upon him for so many years. He was what he had dreamed about for so long, a happy Herb.

Hopefully, we will all have that one great moment in time, a defining instant that can be called upon from our lockbox of memories to bring a smile even in the most difficult of times. Herb’s moment was rooted in the crass, the most primitive of actions to be found in the human experience, but nonetheless, it was as glorious an event as one could hope for. Immediately after unpacking the truck, Herb walked out his front door, gazed upon the vast valley below, took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air, and peed. Functional and symbolic, the exhilarating feeling of the freedom to do whatever he wanted, as well as an overt expression of his distaste for the world below. When the deed was done, Herb triumphantly raised his arms above his head, Rocky at the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ali leaping atop the ropes after Liston failed to answer the bell, Jack declaring he was King of the World at the bow of the Titanic. Oops, maybe you don’t want to go to the Titanic thing, Herb. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness. Herb, the cabin, the mountains, crisp clean air, the moon peaking in and out of wispy white clouds. And no people, no rooster, and no barking dogs. Some pilgrims wander through the wilderness to find salvation; Herb found his in the wilderness. Unfortunately, the body operates on a separate track from the mind. Herb’s state of mental bliss was interrupted by nature’s call. < Warning: The following descriptions may be disturbing for some readers.> No, Herb had already gone pee-pee. Now it was time, as delicately as can be stated, to go… poo-poo. Herb read all about the early pioneers using leaves for…shall we say, cleanup. Herb realized his first miscalculation as he walked through the stand of tall pines toward the outhouse. Pine needles and leaves, similar in purpose when they are on a tree; not so much after they’ve fallen to the ground. Nothing in Herb’s research noted the dearth of leafy trees at higher altitude. Herb’s first visit to his new bathroom was…unpleasant. The splash of stars across the night sky was spectacular. Herb sat on a fallen log, taking it in all in, a heavenly panorama of sheer wonder unknown to those who dwell within the glow of bright city lights. Herb smiled as he snuggled under his quilt. He felt a great sense of relief over all he had left behind, but surprisingly, he had trouble sleeping. He was on edge the whole night as he kept waiting for the disturbing sounds of the barking dogs. And under the spell of some form of subconscious anticipation, Herb awoke the next morning a half hour before sunrise. A sheepish Herb entered Big Bertha’s the next morning. “Herb! What are you doing here?” “ I guess there is one more thing I could use.” “What’s that?” “Toilet paper.” “Ha…ha, ha…ha, ha, ha…” Herb, seeing no humor in the purchase, quickly grabbed voluminous amounts of toilet paper, and headed back to his little piece of paradise. Herb’s seller had boasted of the good fishing in the trout stream that bordered the property, but he (cleverly) neglected to disclose the competition. Even before he wet his line, Herb felt the menacing gaze of the grizzly bear just a hundred yards downstream. His first thought was he didn’t think a bear could be that big. His second thought was the gun sitting on the floor next to bed. Herb hurriedly gathered his gear and left today’s catch to the bear. Meals placed on your table at a restaurant may not look as good as they did in the picture on the menu. Meals pulled out of a box previewed only with written descriptions may appear even less appealing when held in your hand. After a lengthy review of his options, Herb went with the “Black Bean Burger.” Herb felt good about starting his cooking fire in the mode of Daniel Boone. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch click. God dammit. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click. You’ve got to be #@*! Kidding me. “Hey, Herb, what do you need?” “Just some matches.” “You came all the way down here just for matches?” “Matches, Seth, matches.” Herb managed to down the Black Bean Burger with the help of a few beers. He couldn’t help but note that tonight would have been pizza delivery night from Felipe’s back home. The prospect of fishing was akin to Herb’s temptation to misbehave in grade school. He had never seen a nun whacking a kid with a ruler, but the reputation for such acts was enough to keep him in line. Likewise, Herb had never seen a man ripped to shreds by a grizzly bear, but recalling such reports was sufficient deterrence to keep him from the stream. Plan B- hunting. As Herb had never done it before, it may have been imprudent for him to rely on taking down big game for his subsistence. Herb figured he should get a little practice in. The guy at the sporting goods store showed him how to load his hunting rifle, but Herb’s hands were shaking as he put the bullets into the killing machine. He stood just 20-30 yards from the target, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. The shockingly loud bang and the jolt to his shoulder scared him to death. Maybe hunting wasn’t his thing. He could acquire a taste for the bomb shelter food. As nightfall drops in temperature in the mountains can be extreme, Herb tried to limit his outhouse visits to the daylight hours. Going pee-pee wasn’t an issue, as one of the benefits of his new life was he could now pee anywhere. Going…poo-poo…was the problem as Herb’s butt was not accustomed to making contact with freezing cold surfaces. The sound of howling wolves in distance only added to the discomfort of the experience. Boiled potatoes, powdered milk, Black Bean Burgers, crackers. Herb wasn’t a prayerful man, but he was thanking God for beer on a nightly basis. One night he put in a call to Big Bertha’s. “Hey, Seth, does Butte have any pizza joints that would deliver up here?”  Short walks through the woods. Even though Herb packed a pistol whenever he strayed far from the cabin, he feared the odds of hitting a wild animal in full attack mode would be slim. He stayed close to home after sundown as the howling wolves in the pitch-black darkness unsettled his nerves. Quiet, then it got even more quiet. Herb had grown tired of debits, credits, reruns of Colombo and Gunsmoke, traffic jams, wait lines at the grocery store, barking dogs, and a crowing rooster. Could he now grow tired of nothing at all?

The evergreen branches covered with snow brought extra beauty to the setting, but the cold temperatures created more challenges for Herb. He was making more frequent trips to the wood pile, brushing the snow away, and kicking logs to free them from the pile. Herb moved his bed closer to the old wood burner, and he and his blanket became one. Sometimes the scales are tipped with that proverbial last straw; sometimes it comes with a ton of bricks. Shivering in bed, Herb felt a little something else going on. It was just past midnight, the snow was falling, and a fierce wind was blowing. The last thing Herb wanted to do was make a trip to the outhouse. It is a known fact that the coldest experience in life is a bare butt placed on the ice-cold surface of a seat in an outhouse in winter. Herb will attest to that. As Herb opened the door, ready to race back to the cabin, he saw them approaching, first one, then two, and finally a third. His research was correct- wolves do hunt in packs. Herb slammed the door shut, breathed a sigh of relief, and snuck a peek out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves were drawing closer. Oh my God, Herb! They know you’re in there. He looked, they were gone. He looked, they were back. They were circling the outhouse. Herb about couldn’t breath. He thought if he stayed perfectly still, they’d leave. And then scratching, clawing at the walls, at the door. It finally occurred to Herb to fasten the small, rusted hook on the door into the eyehook on the door. The hook immediately broke off. Herb grabbed onto the wood slat running across the door and held on for dear life. He couldn’t believe he was being hunted Jaws-style by three freaking animals. The door swung outward so he just had to keep the banging from creating a sliver of an opening for one of the beasts to stick its head through. He once again pictured his pistol resting comfortably on the floor next to his bed. Repeated failed attempts to gain entry seemed to only anger the attackers and intensify their efforts. Growling, snarling, frenzied clawing at the door and walls. Holy crap! One was digging at the base of a wall! The sight of a paw under the wall nearly gave Herb another poo-poo moment. Suddenly quiet. He prayed the wolves had left. But even if they had, would he have the nerve, the courage, the requisite speed and energy to make a run back to the cabin? Herb looked out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves had not left. They were lying down just 10 feet from the door, their fur flecked with snow and flickering in the wind. All eyes were on the outhouse. Herb was under siege. He began to tire. He sat down on the floor, never releasing his grip on the wooden slat. Herb was so terrified he didn’t notice the drop in his body’s core temperature. He had only thrown on a pullover sweatshirt for what should have been a quick trip to the outhouse. He now wished he had researched just how long a body could survive sub-freezing temperatures. He recalled one interesting and hopefully helpful hint from his research. When confronted by a dangerous animal, a mountain lion, a bear, or perhaps a dog, make yourself look big…and scary. The tactic seemed risky to Herb, but he could feel his joints tightening up, and his fingers getting numb. He feared freezing to death, and the writer of the article had impressive credentials. He’d give it a shot. Herb stood up and took a look. The wolves were still there. As soon as he opened the door, three heads in unison turned toward Herb. He raised his hands high and let out a primordial scream. Unfortunately for Herb, the wolves had not read the same article, and snarling, growling, and flashing their teeth, they charged at Herb. They hit the door just after Herb managed to get it closed. Herb assumed his sitting position, holding onto that life-saving slat, and fought to stay awake, struggling to survive. Throughout the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange thoughts, dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations, visited poor Herb. He wished his outhouse were built of stone rather than wood, recoiled in horror as “Two-Socks” turned on Kevin Costner and went for his jugular, and saw himself as Little Red Riding Hood running through the woods. All the while his body temperature continued to drop. Irony. A rooster. Did a rooster somehow appear in the area? Or was it part of his mind flipping around haphazardly from the cold and lack of sleep? They say some people dream in color; maybe Herb dreamed in sound. Either way, it was the morning crowing of a rooster that awakened Herb that day and saved his life. The wolves weren’t in sight, and Herb understood that to stay was to die. Arms and legs grudgingly cooperating with the hazy signals being sent from his barely functioning brain, Herb rose, pushed the door open, and trudged through the snow to his cabin. He hurriedly threw on some warmer clothes, grabbed the keys to the truck, and after a long, wistful look at the cabin, he was headed down the mountain. Herb stumbled Frankenstein-like into Big Bertha’s, disheveled hair and eyebrows covered with frost, his jacket buttoned unevenly, a fur hat tilting sideways on his head. He had the look of a crazed man. “Jesus Christ, Herb, what happened to you?!” “Nothing. I just had a bad night.” “I guess. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” “What do you need?” “Nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to buy a cabin in the mountains.”


Aloysius Lets the Cleaning Lady Go It really was time to let the wretched woman go. Goodbye, but as graciously as possible, of course. Aloysius had forty pounds in his pocket and the words on the tip of his tongue. She stamped into the room, in the middle of a sentence as usual; another thing that irked him, her non-stop chatter. “So, you see, Mr Aloysius, there is a big difference between being alone and being lonely , if you get my drift. A big difference.” Maggie was unusually stern, having finished her hours. They were in the orchid house, where she was allowed one cigarette after her shift, but Mr Aloysius, having inadvertently broached a comment earlier, thought this might not be the case. He rather feared for his new Dendrobium and moved it slightly away from the floating smoke. They were sitting at the potting table, with Maggie using a plant saucer for ash. “It’s like this Maggie …” he began … “Here’s my friend, Rosalind, been married 40 years, loses Harry just like that. So, you could say she’s alone. Anyway, after the crying her eyes out, and me and her with a bottle of the whisky, she says she always liked some flipping poem, about wearing purple and eating sausages and stuff. Anyhows, we got the poem from the library, and blow me, if we didn’t do everything on it and she was like a new woman. Stupid things, but it made us laugh, going out in the rain in our slippers and that. I didn’t get it really, I’m not a fan of purple at the best of times, and she doesn’t do everything in the poem now of course. She got this little white dog that sits on the end of the bed while she reads her library books, ‘til midday if she wants to and then off they go visiting all over. Don’t get me wrong she grieves for Harry every day, she misses him heart and soul, but it’s been a couple of years now and she doesn’t feel lonely.” Against his will, Aloysius found himself strangely interested. “She does still eat a big plate of sausages all at one go sometimes. I’ve tried it myself. It’s very satisfying.” “Maggie…”, Aloysius steeled himself. Maggie paused, lit up another cigarette and Mr Aloysius, as discreetly as possible, opened a window by the rare Phalaenopsis and sat down again. “My friends, Wendy and Sharon, I’ve told you about them, haven’t I, what works at the restaurant in town. Now I wouldn’t say they are the most sensitive girls around, and they’d be the first to say the same. But do you know what they hate working the most? Valentine’s Day. You’d think you’d want to work it for the tips, eh?” Aloysius did indeed wonder why. “But they try and wangle it for a day off on that day. They say it’s the saddest day of the flipping year; some of those couples sitting together, trying to look together, but they’re not, Mr A; they’re pretending, and they’re not alone , but some of them are feeling the loneliness, that’s what Wendy says. She says it makes her really sad. Them trying to look together and happy for the day, but not really; not really.” Aloysius drew a determined breath. “Then get me, eh. Nothing more I love than a good car trip on my own. Alone, Mr A. singing along to the music like anything. Smooth FM, all good songs on there. I like going up to places to see the birds; Flamborough Head and all the terns, puffins and such. You should get yourself out Mr A., a bit more, really. So, one day I’ve had a really good walk, got my binoculars and all, see the little chicks in their nests, it’s brilliant. Just as brilliant as yer beautiful orchids, if you don’t mind me saying. And then I pass this family of four; the kids are real little shits, sorry to say that, but they are, the mam’s telling them they can have anything they want when they get back to the car; she’s as bad as them not wanting a walk, all moaning like mad. Then the dad comes up behind, and it’s him I see, his eyes. He’s tried to do something different, maybe, take everyone for a bit of fresh air, but that’s not the point. His eyes, he’s like lonely and alone at the same time; like ‘is this the rest of my life?’ This spoilt wife and these spoilt kids? His eyes went down to a right desperate soul, I could tell. Lonely and alone; I’m not sure, I’ll have to think about that a bit more for my theory, you know.” Aloysius could see it all, felt the breeze on his skin. Maggie puffed away on her cigarette. “Just finish this, Mr A. and then I’m off. Got me pilates class; I know, you wouldn’t believe it, but it’s good for me back. Another time, I’d been down to see Sue one afternoon in Cleethorpes. That’s another story. But driving out, oh, it was such a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I had this real hankering for fish and chips. Sit by the beach, watch the waves, see everyone splashing around, glorious. So there I am, all settled under a tree, mouth watering, just starting on my fish and chips, when I felt like I had just stepped off a cliff and fell into a sea of lonely. Oh, it was dreadful. All the world carried on around me; seagulls crying, children shouting, people laughing and chatting, and I was so apart from it, so, so lonely, it grabbed onto my insides and I started to cry into my chips. I don’t know what happened there, still don’t. I can still feel that lonely plunge today if I call it up. And I have never eaten fish and chips by myself since.” Aloysius clutched the notes in his pocket. “Right, I’m off. Have a think about it Mr A. when you said what you said today. Lonely, or just alone? Come and see those lovely little baby birds on the cliff, eh? I’ll drive.” Aloysius sighed. Another day, perhaps. That woman definitely had to go.