Run, Boy, Run

Run, Boy, Run

Terry put on his left turn signal, eased into the fast lane, and accelerated his Toyota sedan past the 65MPH point, until he had passed the sluggish-moving pickup truck, before swinging back into the right-hand lane, allowing his little Camry to drop back down to 65.  He was returning from the City, and was on that two-lane stretch between Cloverdale and Hopland, heading north on the 101, on a night completely devoid of light: no moon, no stars, all obscured by the March overcast.  He reached over and changed the radio station, and was delighted to encounter a favorite ditty by Charlie Daniels, a song that he always associated with his wilder days when he was still young and bursting with vim and vinegar.

He turned the music up just a touch, “The devil opened up his case and he said, ‘I’ll start this show.’  And fire flew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow.  And he pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss.  Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded somethin’ like this.”

Almost immediately, as though the radio were a guiding force, a pair of headlights bore down on him from behind, the intensity of the high-beams making him squint in order to be able to maintain his position between the white lines before him.  He waited for the vehicle to swing out wide, and pass him, growing annoyed by the prolonged presence of the xenon headlights, considerably more blinding than their conventional cousins, the headlights that come stock on most cars.

He maintained his speed momentarily, assuming whoever it was, would continue past him so he could get that glare out of his eyes.  Christ, that was bright.  He flicked the dimmer knob on his rear-view mirror, giving his eyes some relief, when he became aware that the guy behind him was so close, that the headlights were practically on top of him.  What on tarnation was this clown trying to prove?  If he wanted to go faster than 65, then he should knock himself out, thought Terry.

By now he was beginning to get hot under his collar, and everywhere else, too, as he took his foot off the accelerator, and allowed his little Toyota to begin to slow down.  This shouldn’t take long, he thought.

And just like magic, the vehicle swung wide and stormed past him, getting ahead by less than a car-length, before whipping directly to the right, and ending up right in front of Terry, when he unexpectedly hit his brakes!  

“What in the hell are you doing, Jerk?” hollered Terry out loud, so startled was he by the actions of this lunatic.  At the same instant his mind registered the fact that the marauding vehicle was the same beat-up pickup that he had passed a couple of minutes before.  Only instead of being some powerless antique, it was a Dodge Ram from the early eighties, and it had a 440 in it, about double the number of horses, he had under the hood of his little Camry.  Let’s face it, he didn’t have to be anywhere in that big of a hurry, that he needed anything more powerful.  Until now.  

“When the devil finished, Johnny said, ‘Well, you’re pretty good old son, but sit down in that chair right there and let me show you how it’s done.’”

Terry reacted more than anything else when the madman hit the brakes.  He veered back into the fast lane, and floored it, not stopping until the little Camry had topped ninety miles an hour, faster than Terry had ever pushed it.  He was just not into speed.   

“Fire on the mountain.  Run, boys, run.  The devil’s in the house of the Rising Sun.  Chicken in the bread pan pickin’ out dough.  Granny, does your dog bite?  No, child, no.”

Now, as he zipped along at such an insane speed, he was momentarily overcome by panic, his heart leaping into his throat, and his gut seizing control of his attention, long enough for him realize just how crazy the whole thing was.

Crazy?  thought Terry.  More like deranged.  But he would quibble with terms, as soon as he had extricated himself from this devil’s clutches.  Instinctively, his foot had let up on the gas, as his eyes raked the rear view mirror for those high beams.  Inexplicably, the rearview mirror revealed nothing.

It wouldn’t, of course, because the savage had flipped off his headlights, and was now bearing down on the little Camry like an owl on a mouse.  

The truck hit the Camry going at least ten miles an hour faster, sending a surge of palpable fear coursing through Terry’s body.  For the first time, it occurred to him, that this was a deadly game, from which he was uncertain, he would emerge in one piece.  This was a real unfortunate time to make this realization.  Or, maybe it was the best time, because Terry was not ready to cash in his chips.  He had way too much going for him to allow that to happen.  So he stepped up his game.

“Fire on the mountain.  Run, boys, run.”

The impact of that truck hitting his little defenseless sedan, sent a bolt of anger, lightning-quick through his body, as he fought to maintain control of of his forward progress.  He had plunged his foot down on the accelerator pedal again, realizing that to do anything else, was to allow the fiend to smack him again.  But that Ram truck was not ready to let him go so easily.  

Terry could see it maneuvering into the fast lane, still again, as the demon slammed his boot to the floor again, and the roar of that engine dwarfed everything else.  Terry knew what the imbecile was trying to do.  He wanted to draw abreast, and then force Terry off the road.  He needed to send this monster a clear message that he was not to be trifled with-anymore, that is. 

Sitting on the floor of the passenger side beside him, was a four-pound hammer, that he had tossed in the car the previous day, when he’d gone to the park and set up the horse shoe stakes.  Reaching decisively for it, and then hitting the electric switch for his window, he acted within a few second window of opportunity, as the truck bore down on him from behind, to heave the hammer backward, and to the left, gripping the steering wheel with his right hand, to maintain control.  Any thought that he would have to answer for his actions down the line, was completely removed from his mind.  He was bent on surviving this most immediate test of his endurance, before he worried about the next.  Besides, as he saw the flames of the wreck behind him climbing high into the dark night sky, he doubted whether his fingerprints would survive the heat.

“The devil bowed his head because he knew that he’d been beat.  And he laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny’s feet.  Johnny said, ‘Devil, just come on back if you ever want to try again.  ‘Cause I told you once you son of a bitch, I’m the best there’s ever been.’”

Out of Sight

Out of Sight

From my vantage point inside the car, I can see the couple arguing over by the wind-blown cedar trees, the tops of which are peculiarly rounded from the incessant stiff breeze.  The cedars run parallel to the cliff’s edge, effectively blocking much of the view.  The dude is doing most of the talking; she is expressing herself primarily through body movements.  Neither one seems to be having that much fun.

I had not been sitting here for more than ten minutes, killing time while waiting for my appointment, when the little blue Honda pulled into the same row of parking spaces, without seeming to be aware of my presence.  I had my laptop in front of me, and never even noticed them, until I heard the voice.  The man was obviously agitated about something, and his voice had assumed a piercing intensity to it.  Though I could hear words, and distinguish tone, I could not make out what was being said.

There are no other people in the vicinity, and not many cars seem to be passing us by.  The first time I was over this way, ten weeks earlier, I had gotten out of my car, and walked over along the cliff.  I had only done it once.  The view over the edge revealed a long drop and a whole lot of rocks at the bottom.  There was no way on earth, or any other place, that a person could survive a fall from those cliffs.  But I didn’t plan to get out of my car, it did not cost anything to park here, and I still had time to kill.

The first thing I had noticed about this guy, is his black and orange hoodie, because I have one identical to it.  It says SF Giants on it, in any one of ten different fonts or scripts.  There is nothing unusual about a guy in a Giants hoodie.  The first thing I noticed about the gal was her green and yellow jacket, identical to the one a roommate used to own, only this one said Oakland A’s.  There is nothing unusual about a gal in an A’s jacket.  

However, in retrospect, there may be something about a guy and a gal, wearing these respective garments, and being together.  I just don’t know.  I mean, oil and water don’t mix.  Peanut butter/jam and pickles don’t mix, for most people, and people who like George Bush and people who hate him don’t mix.  I rest my case.

So I am intrigued by this couple’s very existence in the first place, let alone the fact that something is apparently very wrong.  Now, as I fixate on the two of them, standing alongside those cedar trees, squared off, carrying on this animated dialogue, I can only imagine what it is about.  Is she accusing him of infidelity?  Is he adamantly denying it in three different languages?

Has she unveiled something heinous about him, and demanded an explanation?  Has he stumbled upon some indiscretion on her part, that leaves him incapable of letting go?  I have no way of knowing one way or the other, and moreover, no reason for knowing, and-wait!  I suddenly notice that there is now only one person visible, over there by the cedar trees, alongside the cliff, where a second ago there had been two.

I straighten up so fast, that my head makes contact with the ceiling of my little Nova, and my laptop comes within an inch of skittering forward off my knees, and onto the floor, before I catch it, and restore its rightful spot.   A moment ago there had been two; now I see only one.  What else could that mean, but that the argument has come to a climactic ending, and that the woman is now a crumpled shell of her former self, lying at the base of a towering and unforgiving ocean cliff?

What in the hell am I supposed to do now?  I actually think he is staring at me even as I am writing this, as though suddenly aware of my presence.  Do I have time to make an exit?  He is completely staring at me, and his hands ore clenching and unclenching.  He looks mad, or nervous, or both; how am I supposed to know what he’s thinking?  I can only guess, if he thinks I just saw him push his woman over the fricking cliff... 

That’s the problem. He thinks I saw something, when I didn’t actually see a thing.  Should I tell him I didn’t see him shove his lady over the cliff?  Oh, how stupid is that?  Oh, shit.  what am I supposed to do?  Why can’t I think, and why do I think he is heading in this direction?  There is no way I am going to just sit here and let this madman do the same thing to me, that he just did to her.  No way.

As soon as he approaches my car, I am so out of here, I don’t even care if I run him down in the process.  I am going to shove this computer aside, and fire this beast up if he takes three more steps in this direction.  Holy shit, that’s four, so here I go-wait a second!  Is that her, again?  How did she get back up on top?  And they’re laughing, and no, I actually don’t think he’s looking at me like he’s angry, so much as he is embarrassed.

I guess I was yelling there for a second, and startled the dude.  And now I can see from her body language, exactly why she “disappeared,” and what she was doing, behind the trees, obviously out of sight.  I wish I were out of sight right now.

Embarrassingly, the dude and I exchange a few words...

The argument?  What else?  The eternal question.  Giants versus A’s... Which will emerge on top this season?

 

The Guest

The Guest

The rabbit may as well have been a rock, for all of the movement it made.  His five feet by three feet wooden hutch was adequate, but not.  Rabbits have hind legs that propel them along at a precipitous rate, but not now.  He was frozen into ice, not even a flick of his velvety white ears.  The pink nose, ever wrinkling and twitching, was frozen still.  Only his eyes, the whites of which displayed themselves so alarmingly, were dancing, gyrating frenetically, as they sought some explanation for the presence of the unthinkable.

For the rabbit was not alone.  His hutch, ever the solitary confinement that it was, now featured a guest, a most unwelcome guest, one who had appeared without knocking, to join him in the sultry August afternoon.  No hands meant no knocking, which was appropriate, because the guest had no hands, and no feet either.  This intruder-no mistaking that-was unwelcome, and unprecedented, and silent as the grave. 

One second the bunny had been assiduously avoiding the afternoon rays of the blistering sun, stretching his length out in the shade, along the north wall of his domicile, almost catatonic in the dry heat, and the next he was a non-quivering wreck, still unmoving, but vibrating within every iota of its existence.  His very soul was stripped of its equanimity by the instinctual recognition, that he was face to face with his mortality.  

The eyes into which the bunny stared were unblinking, for there were no eyelids.  The gaze presented to the bunny was hypnotic, and he would have shifted his gaze in an eye-blink, except he could not move.  Every pore of his existence shrilled out to him that to move was to perish.  

He had to think, only he was prevented from doing so, by the icy grip of dread.

The scaly, diamond-shaped patches of olive-drab green, contrasted with the vibrancy of the shining live oak leaves in the background, as the alabaster-like form glided soundlessly along the top wooden slat of the hutch.  There was a two inch gap between the top of this slat, and the framework of the compound, through which the intruder had gained entry.  

Thirty-six inches down his frame, the buttons of his rattle, numbered eight, indicating that he had shed his thin overcoat, and donned a larger size, eight times, though in the animal kingdom, size meant nothing, when it came to instilling fear.  The intruder was a master of the craft.

The rabbit wanted to speak, to blurt out insubstantial questions about the unfairness of it all, but he couldn’t move.  He wanted to withdraw, into the vestibule, if you like, anything to avoid the implacable gaze.  He wanted, more than anything, to wake up from this deadly nightmare.

And I, standing a dozen paces away, could do nothing but wait with him.  If I moved, it would certainly spell disaster, the same as if the bunny moved.  Time refused to stand still.  It would move inexorably forward.  Events would unfold, as surely as the sun continued its immutable progress across the unseeing, unforgiving universe.

“I’m sorry, Darling, I was distracted.  What did you say?”  The man looked up from his desk, papers overflowing, drifting aimlessly around his scholastic arena, and pushed his glasses more firmly into place on the bridge of his nose.  He was the consummate academic, his digs reflecting the fact that he had little interest in the domestic apportionment of his belongings, and even less interest in rectifying the situation.

The woman had just entered the room.  “I said it’s time for you to get a real job.  This writing crap is just that.  I can’t pay the bills with unpublished short stories.”  And she hovered there above him, as he attempted to fight off his panic, and failed, hurtling down into the bottomless pit of despair.

“Of course, dear.  You’re right.”  

Say good night, bunny.

Nothing Personal, You Know?

Nothing Personal, You Know?

Because he had so much respect for karma, Dana did not hate his boss, Scott.  He tried to view Scott with a good deal of detachment, because he found that he could better navigate the murky waters, in which Scott spent so much of his time, if he did not take things personally.

Scott had run a marijuana grow operation, the result of which Dana was trimming right now.  Scott had spent a lot of cash to set the whole thing up, way back in the remote area of Northern Mendocino County, and had paid little attention to details such as respect for the environment.  Scott had made use of chemicals in the form of additives, that he had dumped in the soil of his plants.  He had run a diesel generator eighteen hours a day, and didn’t give a hoot when a hundred gallons of the stuff had leaked out into the creek, from which he took his water.

Dana saw Scott on the graveled road regularly, and observed how Scott bullied his way around with his mega-colossal Dodge Truck, with its jumbo-sized mud tires.  He once saw Scott come up behind a little Nissan truck with such menacing wrath, that it reminded Dana of a rabid dog who slobbered and drooled his way amongst others, while they tried to stay out of his path.  He’ll get his some day, thought Dana, and when he does, I’m going to stand back and not lift a finger to stop it.

Now, as Dana sat in his chair, he felt the ache descending from his neck and shoulders, all the way down his spine, lodging in the small of his back with a vengeance.  You wouldn’t think sitting around using your hands, could cause such a ferocious amount of pain.  Whether or not it was worth the twenty bucks an hour was open for debate, but arguing with his old lady about paying the bills, was not.  She had given him an ultimatum: Either get off his lazy tush and earn some loot, or get a job, whichever he preferred.  Otherwise, get the hell out of my house, she’d said, forgetting for just a minute, that the house was actually Dana’s.

He did not know if the little incident the other day had anything to do with her edict, but then again, he did not know that it didn’t.  What incident?  He had darn near burnt the place down, and only the barking of the dog had alerted him to the fact.  Actually, since Haley was just arriving home at the same instant, it had alerted them.  To say she had been furious, is to say that the Dodgers bite.  No one would argue with either.

How was he supposed to know that his new bong had a peculiar habit of ejecting the contents of the bowl, if he should accidentally exhale into the glass shaft, while taking in a lungful of Blue Dream?  In this case, he had been coughing so hard, that he did not notice that the cherry had landed right in the pile of trimmings, sitting beside it, and that had ignited the pile into a dancing mass of leaping flames, just after he had gone out to the kitchen.  The resulting mess left him in a world of hurt, as far as Haley was concerned.

There was a bong here in the trimming shed, just sitting on a shelf, but not one that was up for grabs.  Scott seemed to derive great pleasure in dangling it there for Dana to see, while enforcing the official work policy, which was that Scott alone called the shots as to the frequency of use of said bong.  Otherwise, don’t even think about it.  He didn’t dare try to stuff a few button buds into it, and take advantage of what most trimmers accept as stock conditions.  He thought of it as one of the perks of the industry.  Well, who knows?  Maybe the earth would move and Scott would see fit to load a bowl. 

The door burst open, banging on the opposite wall, just as it did every single time Scott ever came into the shed.  Dana did not kid himself, that it was done for any other reason, than to make Dana jump six inches, and every time it made Scott burst out laughing.  Every single time. 

“Hey, there, old chap.  What say we fire up that bong?  I got a reason for celebrating-twenty of them, actually.”

“You sold your first-born into slavery?” Dana inquired.

“Ha, ha.  That’s pretty funny.  Shut up, dick, and hand me your lighter, so I can fire up this bitch.  I gotta meet a man about a horse.”

“You’re leaving?”  That came as a surprise, because Dana had been expecting to work at least another hour, until six.

“That’s funny, so am I.  You are too, dipshit.  Get your act together after we finish this rip so I can lock this place up.  I stashed the twenty pounds in the back room earlier.  If this guy goes for it, I’ll be back in an hour to get the shit.  Get a move on, Danny-we don’t have all night.”

Danny, Dana thought to himself.  Son of a bitch can’t even get my name right.  What else would I expect?  He took the perfunctory hit off of the bong and handed it back to Scott.  He turned to grab his lunchbox, while he pulled the hoodie off the back of his chair and donned it.  He watched as Scott loaded the bong for one last hellacious hit, and then couldn’t help laughing to himself, as Scott erupted into a fit of coughing, reaching out and grabbing for the door at the same time, and pulling it open.

“We’re out of here,” and out the door he went with Dana on his heels.  They headed back down the path, but only got about a hundred feet, before the penetrating November cold made Dana realize he had left his overcoat hanging on the nail behind where his work station lay.

  

“Hey, Dude!  Hold on.  I gotta go back and get my coat.  I’ll only be a second.  Toss me the key.”

“Oh great, like I got nothing better to do but wait for you.  Make it fast and don’t stop for anything but that lousy coat.  You hear me?”  He threw a key on a mimi-flashlight at Dana while he hollered the last to Dana’s retreating back.

Dana burst into the shed, heading straight back to his spot, where he snagged his jacket off the nail.  As he was turning back to the door, his nostrils were assailed by the acrid smell of smoke, and he realized that the source was a humungous pile of trimmings, that had been shunted to one side of the expansive trim table.  Apparently that last rip that Scott had taken, had sent that cherry out of the bowl, and right into the center of the bone-dry pile of shake, and it was about to erupt in a pile of flames.

Too bad Scott had given him such precise directions about what he could and could not do, at this juncture in time.  “...don’t stop for anything but that lousy coat.” 

Hey, he was just following directions as he pulled the door tightly shut.  Nothing personal, you know?

Lethal Purse l

Lethal Purse 1

I could tell there was a dame in the waiting room, while I was still halfway up the stairs.  I could sense she was young, beautiful and blond.  I could tell a lot, if only I could get my door opened, holding a 48 ounce cup of decaf, 3 egg McBarfs and a 20 pound sack of kitty litter, for Butch.  Of that assortment of necessities, the most critical was the last.  I could do without the coffee, and I probably should do without the barfburgers, but Butch needed that cat litter real bad.  My nostrils put out the call.

As I fought with that stubborn handle, the door was suddenly jerked open from the inside, and I came face to chest, with a middle-aged, heavy-weight brunette, with an attitude.  Her attitude was so bad, it made mine stay outside on the landing, leaving me to deal with Big Mama on my own.

Her perfume was as pungent as a wet dog by a hot fire, and about as inviting.  I took heed of my initial impressions and did a quick about face, to get the hell out of there, but she was too quick, and snagged me by my Giants hoodie, the first time that baby ever let a dame get the best of me.  Damn, bad timing for a first time.  But she had me in a vice-grip, so I turned around, and bowed, managing to dump half my coffee at her feet, splashing up those trunk-like legs.  I ducked under her back-hand, but splashed the rest of that coffee at the same time, all over her leather moo-moo. 

She clobbered me upside the left ear with her purse, leaving my head ringing.  Reaching for the phone, I announced, “Sylverter StillDumm, there’s still no job so dumb for Stilldumm.”  After a discreet pause, I replaced the phone in its cradle, and turned back face to Mrs. Horatio P. Plitterpuss, she of the pungency and the formidable purse.  That ringing was still problematic, but I had traced it beyond the phone, so I could now get down to business, by looking up at Mrs. Plitterpuss.

“Madam, you have the pleasure of addressing Sylvester B. Stilldumm, investigative engineer, have gun, till done.  May I be of some assistance?”

“You sure can, Half-Pint.  Get this coffee off me, and do it now.  I hope you aren’t as dumb as your name suggests.”

I jumped on the opportunity to be helpful, only to have her beat me away with her purse.  I heaved myself off of her, swearing she had a brick in that purse.  “Look, I need you to check that purse at the door, Mrs. Plutterpiss.”

“That’s Plitterpuss, and I”ll thank you to keep your hands off of me, you pervert.  I know your type.”  She sneered at me, or was that a leer?  Looking up at her, the way I had to, made for a poor angle.

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me.  I’m happy to keep my hands off of you.  Is there some reason why you are here, Mrs. Plusterpist?  Besides beating me senseless with your purse?”  I respected that purse, so I kept one eye on it at all times.

  

“I can’t beat someone with no sense, senseless, so get over yourself in a hurry, Runt.  Yeah, you can help me out.  I need to have my husband killed, and then buried somewhere.”  She looked expectantly at me.

“Excuse me?  Did I hear you correctly?  You want me to commit murder, instead of solving it?  What do you think I am, as dumb as my name?”

“Look, let’s leave the obvious aside for now, and take a look at my situation.  You see, I figure with all of your experience solving crime, you ought to be able to pull one off.  My husband is a runt too, just like you, so he shouldn’t be a problem.  I am willing to pay ten thousand dollars for the job, one-fourth to be delivered up front, one fourth after he’s dead, and the other fourth to be delivered after the pipsqueak is buried.  Any questions?”  She flashed that jeer at me again, and my hackles bristled.  

I’ve always wanted my hackles to bristle, but I had to set that aside, and deal with the towering nutcase in front of me.  Was I supposed to take her offer seriously?  Why didn’t she just try lambasting him with that purse?  What am I going to say to get her out of here?

“Madame, that is only three of the four fourths, coming forth, from your forward request.  What about the fourth fourth?  Stilldumm was not born yesterday.”

“No but Stilldumm dumped coffee all over my gown, and that is going to cost.  What about my proposition?”  She was counting out Ben Franklins, and I was all hands.  I thought maybe we could work out a mutually beneficial arrangement.

“Fine.  I’ll take the ten thousand, without the cleaning fee being included, and you get that tent you’re wearing fumigated and we’ll call it macaroni.  Now make like the wind, and blow.”

I never did take any guff off of a dame, especially one who outweighed me double. The bigger they are, the louder they squawk, when they realize that they have dealt with Sylvester B. Stilldumm, investigative engineer.”

I kept those ten thousand clams that Mrs. P. delivered to me, even though she had half the New Jersey police force out scouring the block for me.  Luckily, I don’t do scour any more, especially after her husband and I agreed to set her up, and split the ten large.  He’s not a bad fellow; in fact, he wants to go into business together.  He says two halves make a whole, and I say that makes a whole lot of sense.  Since I started out senseless, and now make sense, I can let Mrs. P. go to enjoy her stay at San Quentin Hilton, where there are no purses allowed, lethal or otherwise. 

I'll Be Right Back

I’ll Be Right Back

Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “Yes!” she exclaimed, never so happy to be moving on, than from this bleak spot that her mom had dragged her to, the worst in a long string of bad spots.  There was no other way it could be done.  Maria’s mother, Estelle, worked as a consultant for a high-profile group of corporate business interests, performing a role which required that she be on-site for as long as three months in each major city to which she was assigned.  The next destination was Seattle.

It was a good news/bad news proposition, in black and white, and etched in concrete, at least for the foreseeable future.  The good news was that Estelle was very well-paid, which allowed her to travel comfortably and live extravagantly, if she were of a mind.  The bad news was that, unless she wanted to send Maria away to a boarding school, there was no alternative to taking the girl with her, paying for not only a governess for Maria, but paying for that individual to travel and live where she and Maria did.

But when money is not an issue, and concern for the welfare of the girl is uppermost, then a course of action can be followed that at least allows mother and daughter to live together and spend what time they could together.  Unfortunately, circumstances dictated that there was generally little notice for a change of venue, and Estelle frequently found herself being reassigned, without warning.  Sometimes she was in one location for as little as a month; other times it stretched to three months or even longer.

For Maria, who was thirteen, it was as though she were permanently in purgatory.  She never referred to it as hell, because hell was forever, and Maria knew that even if it seemed like forever, eighteen years old would come eventually, and she could then do as she pleased.  Until then, she accepted the fact that there were no grandparents, or benevolent older siblings, who could help Estelle out, and provide an acceptable home for Maria, at least for the school year.  No, that was not possible, and Estelle was just fine with that.  She did not want Maria growing up without her guidance and love.

So placing Maria in school was not only impractical, it was inhumane.  No one wants to be the new kid 24/7.  Therefore, Maria had a governess, Rita, a woman in her twenties, who was pursuing a career in writing, but needed a steady income as well.  It worked out nicely for all involved, because Rita’s hours were consistent, and consisted solely of providing curriculum for Maria.  Rita followed a set of academic standards, provided by an independent educational service, designed to cover a broad spectrum of recognized grade level skills.  When Maria got to the point where she sought higher education, Estelle wanted her fully prepared to take her position without any noticeable gaps in her formal education.

So what was missing in this domestic picture?  How about a life for Maria?  What about sports?  Friends?  Or even the opportunity to have a crush on a boy or six?  As you may imagine, the situation worked out well for everyone involved, on paper.  But get away from what worked on paper, and start looking into what constituted reality, a twelve-year-old girl could introduce a lot of reality-drama, in an environment pretty much devoid of drama.

Estelle herself was simply not seeing men.  She had experienced hard times when she and Maria’s father had gone their separate ways, her resolve to stay out of the dating arena, still strong after more than five years.  Maybe, at some point in time, when her life had regained some consistency in it, she would have the luxury of dating again, but until then, she had too much on her plate, to include a helping of men.

Therefore, when Maria complained that a hotel was no place to live, because there were no other kids, Estelle commiserated with her, but could only suggest that it was a temporary situation, and then it would be different.

“When, Mom, when will it be different?  When I am grown up? What about my childhood?  Everyone else gets to be a kid and have friends, but I get to have a governess.”  Estelle admitted she made a persuasive argument.

“I’m sorry, Maria, as much now, as the other thousand times you have mentioned this fact.  What would you like me to do?  Besides quit my job, and go to work as a waitress, again.”  Estelle waited.

“Well, we’ve been here for two months now, and it’s boring as heck.  If only there were something here for kids to do!  If only there were kids here to do the something here for kids to do!”

With that rather incoherent bit of logic hanging in the air, Maria stormed out the front door, bypassed the elevator, and raced the five flights of stairs to the lobby, which is where she stopped to gather her thoughts, sitting on one of the deep sofas, looking through a pamphlet she’d picked up out of a whole selection of “things to do” in the greater Seattle area.  So immersed in her thoughts was she that she did not notice the appearance of a boy, probably around fourteen or so, who stood uncertainly to one side, as if trying to decide whether or not to proceed.  He wore a forest green hoodie, and seemed out of place in the lobby. 

Without warning a hotel employee who was sweeping nearby, allowed his broom to fall, hitting the floor with a resounding thwack, and causing Maria to look up suddenly, meeting a pair of the brownest eyes she had ever seen.  Why is it that she thought only girls had brown eyes?

Instinctively, she said, “Hey, there.  Is that you making all that racket?”  Maria was impressed with what she saw.

For an instant nothing happened, and then quickly the boy was pulling off his hood, and extracting the speaker buds from his ears, grinning widely and saying, “Sorry.  Listening to the Killers.  What did you say?”  He was not especially tall, but did seem to carry himself with an athlete’s composure, and the hint of a mustache on his upper lip, gave him the slightly older look than she might have first thought.

“Nothing.  I mean, it’s not important.  Who are you?”  She laughed then at her own abrupt question.

He laughed with her.  “I’m Ivan.”  His smile was right up front, with its authenticity and sparkle.  There was a hint of an accent, as though he were raised in a household where others spoke accented English.  His hair was jet black, with his complexion as smooth as glass, and hinting of a Mediterranean origin.  “What are you doing here?”

Now Maria laughed, since it seemed as though it were open field day on abrupt questions.  “I’m recovering.  From a fight, I mean.  With my mom.”  Why was she even saying this?  “What about you?  You’re here.  Where are your folks?”

“They’re up in our room, resting.  They don’t travel like they used to.  We’ve been on the road since the day before yesterday, if flying in a 757 can be considered on the road.”  He indicated the soda he was drinking.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure!  A Coke would be great!”  Wow, did that take Maria by surprise.  She’d never been offered a “drink” before.  This was definitely more like it.

He disappeared around the corner, and returned shortly with a similar beverage to the one he was carrying.  He also had a bag of pretzels, which he held out to her.  “Would you like a pretzel?”

Lunch too, she thought merrily to herself.  “Perfect.  I love pretzels with soda.  Thank you.  Why are you in Seattle?  Are you going to be here for more than just a day?”

“Definitely!  Probably for a month, while my father takes care of some family business.  What’s to do here?  Anything?”

“Besides the Needle?  I don’t really know.”  She giggled like a sixth grader.  “Maybe we can find out together.”  Had she really said that?

Ivan beamed back at her.  “I think this could be the start of a very good thing.  When do we begin?”

Maria beamed back at him.  “Ten minutes?  I’ll be right back.”  She scampered toward the elevators, but stopped short and turned back to him, for one last wave.  He hadn’t moved a muscle, and waved back at her.  He pointed to the floor at his feet, as if to say, “I’ll be right here.”

Never had the elevator taken so long to ascend the five floors.  When finally she broke free and raced down toward the room, her heart was on Cloud Nine.  Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “No” she wailed, never so distraught to be moving on, than from this joyful spot that her mom had brought her to.

Wheeling around, Estelle threw her hands up in the air.  “NO?  I thought you would be pleased.  I made some phone calls and rearranged my life, and now you say “NO?”

“Oh Mama, please, please, no.”  And Estelle sighed and thought to herself, What did I do now?  Jesus Christ.  “Come here baby, and tell me about it.”

Maria looked down at her soda, and watched as a tear mingled with the ice, and felt that ice in her very soul.  “What’s to tell?” she asked, and the tears came tumbling down.

Constance and the Variables

Constance and the Variables

I picked up the phone after one ring.  “What can I do you for?”

“Hey, Randy.  It’s Kyle.  The old man wants you to make an appearance before he takes off for Mexico.  He suggested 8, so I figured we head over at 7:30.  That good with you?”

“Sure, whatever, man.  It’s Friday night, though.  It’s not like I have a life, or anything.”  I was just blowing smoke.  I’d known what I was getting into when I signed up for this gig.  No one was kidding anyone.  If the old man wanted me to sit on the roof, and cackle like a chicken, I would be getting into my chicken suit.  When it comes to having a life, mine was still missing in action, as it was with most of the guys who worked for Kevin O’Brien.

Known for his expertise in imports and exports, O’Brien was also known for employing men, who put their needs second to those of O’Brien.  He liked that, and if it seemed as though an individual did not go along with that mindset, said individual was asked to seek employment elsewhere.  But it didn’t come down like that, because if you were here, it was because you had inquired about the pay, the hours and the work.  After finding out what the pay was, the hours became a moot point, because they already knew what the work was.

Now I was going to earn that pay.  I was standing in front of the old man’s office door, at one minute to eight, with Kyle along for the ride, just pausing long enough for the chimes to start tinkling in the lobby, before tapping lightly on the door.  It was opened immediately by Bruno, a man often found in the same venue as the old man himself.

“Come in and have a seat.  Bruno, shots for the gentlemen.  Jameson OK?”

It was sort of an in-house joke.  The old man always asked, and no one ever said no.  The old man got right to the point.  “I have a problem, but you’re going to take care of my problem, Randy.  Now, I’ve heard that you are the best, and that you have a lot of what we used to call moxie.  You’re going to need it for this next job.  You up for a challenge?”  The old man’s face was hard and expressionless.  You’re going to need all of your tools.”

I looked at him evenly and said, “Bring it on.”  

“OK, that’s what I like to hear, cause you got you a tough job ahead, working with the kid.  I need a tough hombre, because what we’re dealing with, is a commodity known to stiff the best of them, and the hell with the rest of them.  Yeah, we’re talking about Rodney.”

And then it all made sense, the subterfuge, the innuendo, the skirting around of the big issue.  I was about to be blindsided by a force that had brought better men to their knees than I.  Yes, I was being ordered to help the thirteen-year-old son complete all of the intricacies of a science fair project.  Of all the daunting tasks that present themselves in the life of a busy crime boss, dealing with his middle school aged kid, was the one that most frequently stymied Kevin O’Brien.  

He’d been told in no uncertain terms, by Rodney’s mother, that if this kid was ever going to actually make it through middle school, he would need to complete a science project.  Hence the presence of yours truly.  Now as I waited further directions, the old man signaled Bruno, and the hulking figure disappeared and returned a moment later with all of the necessary paperwork, including list of possible suggestions, a booklet detailing the intricacies of all procedures, and a selection of foam board. This last was the latest in aesthetically pleasing formats, for science fair projects, and Rodney’s mother was certainly going to expect the best.

I was tap-dancing my way through some treacherous terrain, just now, scrambling desperately, to determine the extant of this entrapment.  The old man kept glancing at his watch, and I could feel the noose tighten.

“So, Mr. O, what you’re saying is I gotta make the kid do his homework?  I just wanna get this straight.”  I was glancing through the booklet describing variables and constants.  “What’s constants?”

“Homewoik?  Dis ain’t homewoik.  Dint you never have to do no science project?  It’s like turning the screws to your head, dat’s what it is.  Who’s Constance?  Never mind, I got a plane to catch.  I don’t want no confusion here.  You take any steps needed, to get the kid to do his school work.  Bribe him, connive him, use a gun-whatever it takes.  Whatever.  You get this thing squared away, you’re a made man.  You don’t?  You’re a marked man.”

To Bruno.  “Let’s get out of here, before I lose sight of what’s important here, and it ain’t the science project.”  He glanced meaningfully one last time at me, and swept imperiously out of the room, leaving me with an impending sense of doom.  “What have I gotten myself into?” 

The next morning I presented myself at the main house, and was admitted by none other than Shirley, Rodney’s mother.  When I explained why I was there, Shirley stepped back and appraised me.  

“Well, I hope you know what you’re getting into,” she said.  “Rodney’s not up yet, but it’s time he was.  He’s not really a morning person, anyway.  Shall we convene to the kitchen for a cup of coffee?”

“Well, he’s going to become one, if we’re going to get anywhere on this project.  We only have weekends, or after school.”

Shirley asked, off-handedly, “Have you met Rodney?”

“No, but I guess this must be the lucky guy himself,” I said, as a sleepy-looking, bad-hair-day youth staggered into the kitchen.  “Hey there, are you ready to conduct the experiment of your young scientific life?”  I asked with a feigned excitement.

“What’s for breakfast?”  Rodney added a contorted facial expression, to go along with one last prolonged yawn.  “The only experiment I want to see performed this morning, is a plate of bacon, eggs, potatoes and toast, sitting in front of me in fifteen minutes.”

“How do you want your eggs, Honey?” Shirley was already keeping pace with the orders, leaving me to recognize that I was going to have to establish some ground rules first. 

“Fine.  Breakfast first, and then the science experiment.  Maybe we can get a few things squared away, here, while you are waiting for your food.  First of all, have you read the information, that your teacher provided for you?”  I held up the booklet that explained the scientific process, and gave the parameters of the whole activity.

“No.”  Rodney was fiddling with his “Droid.” 

“OK, that’s first, then.  Have you given any thought as to what kind of experiment you would like to conduct?”

“Yes, I would like to determine which kind of condom is best suited for sexual pleasure?  I’d like to experiment with your girlfriend.”  He stared owlishly at me.

I backhanded the little bastard a good one, and then realized that fantasizing wasn’t going to get me anywhere.  Shirley, of course, had left the room, the second before he had made the crack, but she wasn’t back yet, so I said, casually, “You talk about my girlfriend like that again, and I’ll use this razor sharp utility knife to cut off your-Hi there, Shirley.  Rod and I were just discussing the the apportionment of the foam board.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous!  I could tell you were getting down to business, as I came back through the door.  This is so exciting.  Rodney, what are you going to do your experiment on?”  She looked expectantly at her son.

“We’re going to evaluate the properties of latex, Mother, and the effect on the-”  

“Actually, Mrs. O, we’re still in the planning stages.  The young man has demonstrated that he is in need of sustenance.  His questions are still not properly formed.”  I glanced at Rodney, and he looked away.

I won’t bore you with all of the pedantic details.  Suffice to say, the whole thing came off as smoothly as a fixed horse race, with Rodney even garnering a second place ribbon, for his scintillating project on the effects of different additives on the growth of fresh radishes.  Nothing profound, mind you, but done to the letter of the instructions, and earning a ribbon to boot, at the science fair.

Needless to say, Shirley and Kevin were ecstatic, and even Rodney was persuaded to allow the ribbon to be affixed to his shirt, for a quick snapshot.  I got a substantial bonus, and a guarantee that, like chicken pox, it was a one-time deal.  Besides, the kid would be out of the eighth grade in only six weeks.  

As I lounged around, not too long afterwards, Kyle was interested in the details.  “OK, Dude, how did you do it?  How did you get the kid to do his experiment?  And radishes, of all things.  What’s your secret?”

“No secret.  Mr. O said to use any method I wanted.  Remember?  He even suggested that I use a gun.”

“Are you shittin’ me?  You used a gun on the kid?”

“In a manner of speaking I did.  I used my .357 as bait.  For every successful step of the science project, he got time on the shooting range.  All it cost me was the ammo.  I had to restrain the kid from doing too good a job.  As it was, he settled for second place.  I settled for new pair of headphones, ones that were effective enough that I didn’t get a headache, from all that time on the range.