Goodnight, Wherever You Are

They tell me I’m wrong. Every time I ask these incompetent “care givers”, they give me the same blank stare, the same hesitation in their answer. They’re afraid of something, though I can’t figure out what it is. I’m not violent — I never hit anybody like some of these other dotards.

At least. I’m pretty sure I never hit anybody. Yeah, I’m sure.

Why can’t anybody give me a straight answer in this place? You were in bed with me one minute, and the next minute I roll over and you’re not there. You couldn’t have gone far because the wheelchair is still in the room. You never made it far without that creaky old crow.

I remember. I remember when you used to dance. That sticks with me forever. You in our living room, accordion in your hands and feet flying a million miles an hour. That smile spread so wide across your face I thought your cheeks were gonna crack. You know, I couldn’t tell you the year, but it was in our old house. That house up off…well come on now…deer-something road. Deer-something road? Oh for Pete’s sake, I know the name of our road! We spent a lifetime living on that road.

These people here, the nursing staff. All they know is you drooling all over yourself and wheeled around in that damn chair. They don’t know the life you had. They don’t know the woman I love.

But they must know how much I love you. So why do they keep giving me that frightful look? You wouldn’t believe what one of them said to me. Told me you’d gone away.

Can you believe that?! Now how are they gonna tell me you’ve gone away when you were with me all day? When you can’t make it two feet without that cursed chair.

They all saw you. I know they did. We had breakfast together downstairs, we had lunch downstairs, we had dinner downstairs, all for them to see. Didn’t we? Did we eat lunch upstairs maybe? Maybe dinner. Well now…now what did we have for dinner? 

No. They’re wrong. They’re always wrong. I told you so the day we moved in.

I knew it the second we handed over our first deposit to that slug of a salesman, grinning his reaper’s grin. A man selling grave-lots to the old folks. Only you got to live in these grave-lots before you’re dead. Assisted living, what a goddamn load of crock. I’m sorry my sweet, I know it upsets you when I take the lords name, but you know how they rile me. 

Twenty or thirty years as a manager on the factory floor teaches you a thing or two about efficient execution. About doing a job. Nobody around here cares about doing a job anymore. They just want to make everything difficult for each other, always whispering, stabbing each other in the back, taking stuff out of my room when they think I’m not looking.

You would not believe what our grandson said to me. The stones on him. I don’t even know why I was talking with him. I asked these people, these care givers to do their job and they went running to him. They wake him up and put him on the phone. The nerve of these people. I didn’t need to talk to him.

But I’ll tell you…what he said to me, I just don’t know. He put the fear in me, love, more fear than what I got for you being gone. 

He says to me that my wife’s been dead four years now. He says to me I been living alone these last few years. He says I woke up dreaming, or he says my old memories are bleeding into my new ones. And he says it all so calmly. I can hear his love. He’s patient, he’s cool as a cucumber, and yet just below it all, it sounds like he’s said this before. We’ve talked about this before.

And for a second there, I can see it. My life without you. It’s a cold damn place with that old wheelchair in the corner, your clothes gathering dust, and the radio you used to tune to the classical station sitting silent. But he’s wrong, right? I know he’s wrong, but I know he’s right.

It’s all so confusing love. We’ve been together some fifty years and I can tell you the name of our dog we had in the old house. I can tell you about the time I watched the Chinese drop commies out the back of an airplane without parachutes at the end of the second world war. I can tell you about the day I told my mom and pop I was leaving school and that same day I drove up to Chattanooga and got myself a job.

But I can’t tell you what I had for dinner an hour ago. Or maybe it was a couple hours ago. Seems like everybody’s asleep now. I meant what we had for dinner, what we had, because you were there, just a slip of the tongue, that’s all.

Our grandson told me he could only tell me his reality. And in his reality you’ve been dead a while now. And the thing is, I want to believe him. But I know you were just in bed with me. My mind circles the drain more and more these days.

I’m exhausted — our grandson said we should sleep on it and start again in the morning. A new day, new beginnings. I do love him. But for the first time, I think I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid he knows more about this world than I do. And I know that’s the truth of it.

I’m gonna go back to bed now. And I’ll pray to God forgiveness. We haven’t talked in a while, but I know you’ll whisper in His ear for me. I’ll pray forgiveness for taking his name in vain, for running you off, for losing my mind. And I’ll pray you come home soon.

I miss you, love. Goodnight, wherever you are.

Call Her Erratic

A little update on the blog, and finally some new fiction! -

The old woman lived at the end of a long desert road where the wind never stopped blowing. During the summer, a hot dry southwesterly would whip up all the dust and dead sagebrush and send it careening across the valley. The winter brought the bitter harsh northern wind and driving snows that would blanket the jagged landscape for weeks.

     Sometimes she felt as old as the wind, and the house would always remind her of this. Whenever a large gust would surge, the baseboards would creak, the wood siding would shudder, and the roof would maintain its foothold with a series of quiet moans. The old woman would crack her knuckles and go about her business. Or maybe she would sit on her back porch where she let the wind have its fun. It would catch her long hair turned an ashy silver gray and make it dance as she sat. She might tap her feet to a silent tune. She might rock back and forth and mutter quietly under her breath.

     There were whispers she heard on a wind that never stopped. What is she doing in there? Why won't she let us in? Maybe she really is a witch. She loved the idea of becoming a witch as she aged; she could see herself as someone possessed of nefarious intent, engaging in satanic sorcery, and performing in orgies for the Sabbath. Every once in a while she actually believed that she did all these things.

     What the old woman did do was make maps. She took her time, meticulously drawing each crease and fold of the ancient earth as she remembered crossing it. And the old woman had an incredible memory. Her greatest joy came from drawing and naming each glacial erratic that dotted the high desert. She could relate to these giant boulders that came to rest wherever the ice and sun eventually decided. At times she felt like an erratic taking thousands of years to travel across a landscape before finding a home. Of course she wasn't that old, but she would have preferred if the townsfolk had called her something more akin to those rocks. Call her erratic. Call her time and temperature bound. Call her EARTH.

     Her maps were dotted with numbers. For each map she had at least five pages of notes where each of these numbers was given meaning. One is where so and so died of pneumonia. Fifteen is where so and so killed the great bull elk and shared his bounty with another struggling family. Twenty-two is where the great sunflower crop began with the careless toss of a wandering traveler. Each map had its set of numbers and each number corresponded to a different event. This was her history, this was her past, and it was a past she wanted all of them to remember. This is why they called her the names with such a tone as to turn a dry face sour. They hated the past. They hated the dark, they hated the dirt, and they hated the way she seemed to till it all into the light.

     So she moved out here with the wind, the stunted trees, and the river running down the hill from the house. Follow that river for a few miles and you reached the town, you reached the people, and you reached the end of history. People were quick to forget down there where the mill turned every day. Down there where the men, women and children played with time like it was a new toy. Down there where no one wanted to hear how things had come to be. She could always hear their incessant bickering echoing up the hills to linger on her property. She could feel their discontent, their longing for something more that she thankfully no longer felt. The insidious nature of their forward thinking pushed them beyond a past the old woman desperately wanted to cling to. The old woman was content to have the past whip around her like the untamed wind.

     But there were some in town not content to just have whispers reach her. No, these people were possessed by a single word, the most damaging name she could possibly imagine. They usually came in groups of two or three to ambush her as she sat on her porch enjoying the afternoon. These people had the nerve to climb the steps of her porch. They would even insist on going inside her house. The house she built of her own body and spirit. To taint such a safe place with their insistent poking about made her sick. She would retreat inside and explain that her business was none of theirs. They would always shake their heads and whisper the name they reserved only for her. They whispered mother.

     The real terror always came on the days when the wind would quiet, the dust would settle, and the whispers would fall silent. She'd find herself with little to do but muddle through the cacophony of memories that bombarded her. They came in a flourish, ravaging her suddenly quiet mind with thoughts of past years, past conversations, and past people. It was on these days that the old mother might find herself crying alone while mending an old kerchief, only to realize that she'd been sowing the same kerchief for years and hadn't quite finished.

     How long have I labored on this damn fool thing? She might ask herself while she stared at the faded fabric like it was a dangerous animal. But she had it wrong. The kerchief wasn't the animal, the animal was her mind, her memory. She made maps to remember, but when was the last time she sat and finished one? The old woman would leap to her feet in complete disregard for her protesting back and run as fast as she could to the tiny living room that looked out upon her front porch and the desert hills beyond.

     There she would always find the truth scattered chaotically about her desk like a bad dream remembered in the morning. Her notes would reveal an even darker reality. Her numbers were assigned to random points throughout the landscape like darts thrown at a board from long distance. Number thirty-one is the rock where John Haverston killed... and that was all she wrote. Number upon number of half finished thoughts and ill conceived memories plagued those false landscapes upon the page. Sweat might bead down her neck and drip between her sagging shoulder blades. It would settle at the area just above her buttocks, an area that once was smooth, curvaceous and appealing that now felt hard and cracked like the desert floor after days of baking heat.

     The old mother would riffle through the maps, each one confirming the terror was indeed her reality. She'd throw them to her floor and rush out the front door to confront the stifling heat and her failing brain in one fell swoop. Tears would pulse down her cheeks and drip onto her chest to make little navy blue dots on a baby blue sundress. If she looked down she might wonder how she came to wear that dress, how many days had she worn it, and when was the last time she did the wash? The tears would continue until her knees could bear it no longer and would buckle. Then the names would come at her like bats from a cave. STUPID, INCOMPETENT, or even worse DEMENTED.

     There, before the ancient house in the old desert, she would fall to her knees and pray to God to give her mind back. Then, the wind would rise to toy with her hair like so many times before. Her tears would dry and she would stand. She'd smack her dirt covered hands on her dress and blow a raspberry to have dirtied such a fine garment. Back inside she would go, the house moaning and groaning like the bones of her body. Inside, the old woman would find the mess of maps, carefully collect them, and then toss them back on the desk where she might sit and decide on the days new numbers. She would eat, she would bathe, and then she would lie down to sleep as the wind rocked her house and her soul into a broken slumber.

     In the morning she would wake and put on the blue sundress. She'd think about the people in town, the ones that found names for her, and she'd shake her head with great pity. How could those folk ever find a bone to pick with her? All she wanted was to keep the past alive. The old woman might find herself downstairs, working on her maps and if she had her way, the wind might blow all damn day.

Election Night

The following is an oldie but a goodie. Originally written in 2005, it has been edited and updated for this blog. -

Mitch listened intently to the new broadcast. Hundreds of eyes all directed to the giant digital screen. Everyone took short, bated breaths while the man on the television, an older gentleman with a bushy white beard grabbed the latest election results and scanned them in his hands. Mitch heaved with anticipation, sweat breaking upon his tanned brow. His beautiful skin glistened in response to his excitement. His dark brown hair fell unevenly around his trembling head.

            “Yes, I have it now. This just coming into us…uh…the results will be here in about ten minutes. That’s right, ten minutes folks until the next four years of the country are decided. Twelve o’clock Eastern Standard Time, nine o’clock Pacific. As you know…” The rest faded into the growing murmurs of the impatient crowd. Mitch turned to his girlfriend who crushed his hand with an excruciating strength.

            He smiled at her and kissed her. She returned it and smiled back, pulling the loose strands of her blonde hair back behind her ear. Her hands trembled with the same anticipation of everyone else gathered inside the town square. Mitch looked around to the friends he grew up with in primary through high school. They all wore the same faces. They all waited for the same damn thing.

            Mitch let go of his girlfriend’s hand and walked over to a nearby vendor, hustling the crowd with his beverages of both alcoholic and non-alcoholic taste. He stood behind a broad shouldered man, wearing the blood red jacket of a ROP party member. For the time being, however, Mitch could excuse the man’s political perspectives. In ten minutes, on the other hand, all prescriptions were out the window. This was Mitch’s first rally, but all of what he had seen and heard on the television told him everything he wanted and needed to know about election night. Every person worth voting in the election between the ages of twenty-one and forty were allowed just one night to gather together in cities across the nation. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends and foe alike, all held hands on the night when the political machine would either keep chugging for another six years, or suddenly change gears. In any event, all hands would fall.

            When Mitch was five, he vaguely remembered a vote, THE vote that would solidify the nights festivities. Specifically, he remembered a conversation his mother and father carried on with the man on the television (the same man they watched on election night). It wasn’t so much a conversation, but a screaming match, one the man on the TV seemed to ignore. His father had stood, thrown his beer bottle against the wall and screamed obscenities, while his mother joined in by throwing her glass of wine. Mitch had cried, but his screams went unanswered while the man on TV read the bulletin outlining the new law.

            “As of twelve midnight, December 31^st, this year, the senate and house will only be open to the ROP and DNS political parties, all others have no place in our democratic seats. The voting age of twenty one will be in place. Also, the practice of rally will be legalized and encouraged under statute 512 of the federal…”

            Through his schooling, Mitch learned the actual meaning of that broadcast and how it affected his life afterwards. But as he stood in line for his beverage, nothing mattered to him except the call in the next eight or so minutes. A small scuffle broke out somewhere off to his right, between a man in blue, like himself, and another man in red. The police moved in quickly and forcefully arrested the two men before it could escalate. Besides, no one wanted to begin early except the drunk or the stupid. The man in front of Mitch, the rightist, approached the vendor and handed his dollar bill across the scratched plastic counter top. Mitch saw the face of Abraham Lincoln fly between the two and tried to envision how the old stovepipe master would have felt about this event. He might have been one of the orators, proclaiming the winning votes on his pulpit and watching the evening’s entertainment ensue and proud of a democracy sustained by breaking whilst also maintaining the law.

            As every child in his generation learned in school, had that bearded sage not bent the will of the Constitution, freedom would have been the last feather torn from a dying swan and allowed to sail into the wind never to be seen again. On election night, everyone was free and everyone was equal, giving homage to the great sacrifices so many had made before the younger generations could even walk.

            Mitch finally faced the vendor and purchased a bottle of water for ten dollars, sliding the Hamilton-faced parchment across the same worn plastic and grabbing his water at the same time. The vendor was obviously ROP, or else the water would have cost five bucks just like the other guy. Mitch shrugged it off, figuring that it wouldn’t matter in a few minutes. That ROP vendor would get his comeuppance. It had never occurred to him that the stakes might be thrown in favor of the ROP, for that was not how he was educated. The confidence of everyone that their side would win is what held them so close together. It was how ROP and DNS could stand together, united on election night, until the hour struck twelve and the bells began to toll.

            He hurriedly rushed back to the large television, finding his girlfriend and grasping her hand once more. The crowd surged toward the large plasma display, standing so close together that a piece of paper could not separate. The man on the broadcast wiped his brow with that same cool composure he always portrayed. A stack of paper was handed to him from off-screen. The crowd took a collective breath and held it, the air becoming still and perceptive. The only sound came from the large speakers that issued an annoying electric hum. Mitch found it so quiet that his girlfriend’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

            The man on the TV sighed and took a deep breath, removed his glasses and stared out to every individual in the country. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose and dripped upon the desk he tiredly bent over.

            “My fellow citizens, the ROP has won the presidential…” were the only words that anyone heard from speakers before the crowd erupted in shouting and screaming. Like a rock concert, no one could hear what the person next to them was saying, but they were both likely yelling at the top of their lungs. The entire crowd, both ROP and DNS roared in approval. It was hard to believe a vote had even taken place with the uproarious support from both parties. But it was tradition that forced their calls and jubilation. Tradition called them to the square to celebrate by any means necessary.

            Mitch finally stopped yelling and hugged and kissed his girlfriend, holding her tight and pulling his fingers through her soft blonde hair. He stared into her tear stricken eyes, smiling back with joy and wondrous amazement. The tumultuous crowd finally settled into a quiet murmur as everyone began to bow their heads and await the final election night ritual. Mitch looked across the tops of buildings lining the square, watching the mid-July sunset with his own tears beginning to stain his vision. He followed the path of light, as darkness quickly descended upon the horizon.

            From the center of town, a large bell finally rocked back and forth, back and forth. The chimes were deafening, but no one moved or raised their head. They all took deep breaths and mentally prepared for the task ahead, waiting for that final stroke. The bell tolled on and on, ringing and ringing through every person’s heart and mind. It rocked back and forth until finally, it locked into place and the clapper struck the sides twice more before swinging to a stop.

            The crowd exploded. DNS members stood their ground with bowed heads. Some, who were couples, hugged each other and closed their eyes. ROP party members grabbed every object they could, sometimes just using their fists and feet, and fell upon the DNS. A terrible swelling sound of screams erupted from the square as it exploded in chaos. The DNS made no movement as they were struck down to the pavement, broken, bleeding and dying. Six years ago, the scene was the same, but the roles reversed. Six years ago, Mitch had watched from afar as the DNS tore the ROP party to pieces. It was the way things were conducted. The police maintained a perimeter, to make sure no one left until the violence died down, but also to direct the festivities and put down any rebellion by the losing party’s members. Of course, not everyone attended, for the political process could not continue if such happened, but true patriots lined that square.

            Mitch pulled back from his girlfriend and gave her one last kiss. He pulled back and she smiled up at him, her tears gone, replaced with a frightening look of accomplishment. She hoisted her red band on her arm higher and turned to pick up a large obsidian rock she purchased the day before. With a small cloth she grasped the bulbous, sharp object. Lifting it high above her head she turned back to Mitch, who had already knelt on the ground.

            Pride beat in his heart and he knew with utmost certainty he would ascend the annals of history for his quiet sacrifice. His chin touched his chest and he rested it there. Mitch’s girlfriend brought the rock down and crushed his skull, blood spraying upon her crazed face. She continued until his last tremors ceased and his body lay still. She dropped the rock and picked up the cloth, wiping the blood on her face and smearing it down her neck. Her heaving chest was similar to every ROP in the crowd, finishing up the last stragglers of the DNS.

            She felt the election had gone quite smoothly. Her towel fell to the blood covered pavement and she looked down at Mitch, still smiling with patriotic pride and confidence. In six years, she would attend again, probably falling herself to the DNS. It didn’t concern her, however, for it was how things got done. It was election night tradition and would continue as long as the parties existed, God willing.

Untitled

Below is an excerpt from a long piece I began writing last year. I am excited to see where this story takes us. (warning: this excerpt is from a rough draft and is subject to change)

1

Danny’s flight didn’t come in. A big blow up over the Great Lakes shut down Chicago, leaving a ten year old boy stranded in an airport the size of a small town. At least, that’s what Linda, the customer service representative for United Airlines, told Sam.

            “You understand my son is ten?” she asked the customer service agent.

            “Yes ma’am. I understand the situation. There is very little I can do here, except to call the agents in Chicago and make sure they picked up Daniel.” Linda answered in her monotone calm.

            “Then call the agents!” Sam threw her hands out above her head.

            “Ma’am, I am doing it. I need you to calm down.” Linda tried to reassure.

            “Listen, LINDA. My ten year old could be wandering around a huge fucking airport. I’d appreciate if you could find him!” Sam screamed, making the man behind her shift uncomfortably in the growing queue.

            “Ma’am. I understand the situation. But if you don’t calm down I’m going to have to ask the police to escort you outside.” she glanced at an officer standing near the entranceway who had already taken a keen interest in the hubbub.

            Stepping away from the counter, Sam shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She tried to slow her heartbeat and gain some control over the rising tide of anger sitting in her chest. Linda picked up the phone and promptly called asked the operator to be connected to a Chicago representative.

            Sam knew that Linda was an innocent bystander in this situation. Zach. Zach always changed the game. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. It rang. Once. Twice. Third time’s the charm. One more for good measure before his egomaniacal greeting broke her anger egg open to reveal its molten core.

            Hi. You’ve reached Zachary Aschloch. I’m currently unavailable, but if you leave…

            She hung up before the prerecording could finish. Even though Zach rarely turned his phone off, Sam surmised he enjoyed taking every measure he could to torture her. He knew she’d be stewing, especially after keeping Daniel two days over the limit of their custody agreement. That’s Zach for you, she thought always pushing boundaries.

            “Hi this is Linda Burdon in Burlington. I have a woman here looking…” she spoke with an ease like calling Chicago was a daily routine.

            Sam expected Linda to forget Daniel’s name and opened her mouth to remind. Linda continued with the information without missing a beat. She relayed every concern, nodded her head, and looked up at Sam as she waited.

            “Just a minute,” Linda raised her finger before Sam could open her mouth again.

            “Thank you so much. I actually do appreciate your help,” Her effort to sound sincere didn’t take and Linda rolled her eyes.

            Linda nodded, raised her eyebrows, and tapped her finger on the computer screen at her desk as she waited.

            “He’s there. Oh good. Yes, his mother is here and I think she’d like to talk to him…” Linda handed the phone to Sam who snatched it out of the woman’s hand.

            “Danny! Baby! You okay?”

            “Hi mom!” Daniel yelled into the phone with the happiness only a child stranded in an airport could understand.

            “Danny, you need to be careful sweatheart. Is somebody there with you?”

            “Yeah. Hey mom, guess what. He’s got a tattoo just like daddy! Isn’t that cool? A little bunny his arm,” she could imagine his beaming smile and felt a little better.

            “I want you to stay with the nice man, okay? Do not leave his sight,” she commanded.

            “Fine,” he answered. Sam pictured his eyes rolling at her request. It reminded her of Zach.

            “Did you have a good time?” her voice shook as the color red slowly clouded her judgment.

            “It was soooo much fun mom! Daddy took me to the wild animal park. I got to see a giraffe, like, right up close. He also got me an iPhone. Now I can talk to him whenever I want,” Danny gloated. Sam couldn’t help but see Zach’s guiding hand behind every word. She refused Danny’s earlier pleas for a phone, mostly because she didn’t see the need in a ten year old having a cell phone. All Zach needed was for Danny to say mommy didn’t want it, and he would oblige.

            “Baby. Just stay with the guy in the airport. Give mommy a call when they put you on another plane. Okay?”

            “Yeah mom. Love you, bye!” Danny yelled as an announcement in Chicago nearly deafened his voice.

            “No! Wait!” Sam tried, but Danny already hung up the phone. She looked at the receiver for a moment before she handed it back to Linda.

            “Thanks,” she said, feeling the weight of waiting already sinking in.

            “No problem. Let me guess, ex-husband?” Linda raised an eyebrow.

            “Yep,” Sam nodded, managing a meager and ugly smile.

            “Bastards. Don’t you worry, honey. He’ll get what’s coming,” Linda spoke as much to herself as she did to Sam.

            “Not soon enough,” Sam resigned. She gave Linda a polite and thankful smile before grabbing her handbag and leaving. A bitter Vermont storm greeted her outside the terminal of Burlington’s airport. The wind whipped at her jacket and pulled loose strands of hair across her face. Sam noticed the south blowing wind did not mix well with the pelting rain pushing off Lake Champlain, and the two fought a fierce battle for control of the skies.

            Sam raised the hood on her winter jacket, moved loose hair behind hits shield, and sighed. The covered crosswalk to the parking garage across the street did nothing to abate the sideways weather. She darted in front of a taxi speeding up to the loading and unloading zone. The taxi driver honked, smiled and waved.

            Fucking polite Vermonters, she nearly grumbled out loud. Two years she had been living in Vermont, and she still couldn’t handle their accommodating attitudes. Much different from the Californians she left. If she’d tried the same maneuver in downtown San Francisco she might have lost her legs or her life. While she didn’t think of herself anywhere near being a local, people were already calling her a Closet Vermonter.

            The courtship out here goes sooner than you might think, Doug’s voice echoed in her head. Doug considered himself a Vermonter after fifteen years. Sam prayed her own acceptance would not take as long.

            “He’s gonna love this one,” Sam referenced her friend out loud as the rain continued to pelt the side of her jacket. It poured even harder when she drove out of the garage, turned onto Route 2, and headed into the heart of Burlington.

2

Doug Jeffries sat at his square kitchen table and set a hot cup of tea next to his lottery ticket. He stared at the glossy piece of paper and shook his head. After years envisioning a nice home in the Oregon backcountry, he found it hard to accept his current retirement. Sitting in his small kitchen in an old Victorian house in rural Vermont, Doug looked at his lottery ticket with nothing more than a bitter cringe.

            The last restoration of the house took place in 1988, seven years before he moved in. He’d painted the interior once. Doug covered the walls in a brick house red with a honey mustard trim. For his floors, he chose a darker stain and hadn’t the ambition to change it again. His kitchen, though, looked exactly as it did the day they finished the restoration. Everything covered in white with two windows; one facing west and the other looking south gave him perfect light year round and practically making the kitchen glow. On rainy days in the winter, however, the room gave a pale glow that made Doug sick.

He continued to stare at the ticket and wondered why he spent the ten dollars in the first place. Luck did not factor in for he had very little. I’m bored, he answered himself. Boredom crept into his life everyday from the moment he opened his eyes. Hobbies were few and far between at this time in his life. A long time ago, going on 40 years, he drew pictures like a mad artist. From the age of five to twenty, Doug drew pictures that tantalized the eye and the imagination. Sometimes, they were lifelike and heartbreaking. Other times they were abstract and hilarious. But college closed that door in his life. College taught him a different art: the art of sacrifice.

            Maybe that’s why Carol and I didn’t make it.

            He hated remembering his ex-wife. They only lasted five years, but managed two children in that time. The lottery ticket stared back at him with five sets of numbers, each set ending with the letters EP. His ambition notwithstanding, Doug liked the computer’s odds better than his own. He leaned forward and peeked into the darkening living room where his accolades hung like martyrs. A Bachelor of Science in Anthropology from the University of Massachusetts Amherst, a Masters and Doctorate in the same field from the University of Oregon, and a number of public and private awards for work contributing to the archaeology and anthropology of the Southern Oregon and Northern California Native American Nations and other unrecognized tribes. He’d put them up when he first moved back East, but now they gave him little, if any comfort.

            Another framed document caught his eye. He took a sip from his tea and walked to it. With so little light, he couldn’t read the paper underneath the dusty glass. However, the headline of the news print stood out black against the grey shadows creeping into the room. One Injured, Two Dead in Drunk Driving Massacre. Doug pulled the frame off the wall and sat back at the kitchen table. His eyes scanned the article, even though he knew the words by heart.

            He glanced back at the spot where he took it down and laughed. Every other framed piece he hung in that room protected the red wall’s original shade creating a dark patchwork of rectangles. The spot where this particular frame hung matched the rest of the wall. Doug read the article one more time, focusing on the words that meant the most to him. Charles Waters…ejected from the vehicle…not wearing a seat belt…Doug Jeffries...seriously injured…sober…Devon Maker…blood alcohol of .19…Merlin, Oregon...4:30AM on July 23^rd…services to be held.

            The clock chimed as the sixth hour of the evening slowly slipped into the seventh. Light continued to fade from the dark gray sky, but Doug could still read the numbers on his ticket without turning on a light. He looked to the eastern wall of his kitchen but heard little noise from the apartment on the other side.

            Sam should have been back with Danny by now

            He got up and shoved his chair hard under the table. Putting his ear against the wall, he again heard only the sound of his own heartbeat and the ticking grandfather clock in his living room. Doug knocked his hand against the wall. No reply came. Sam would be upset when she returned. She would be upset not only because that dick of an ex-husband had kept Danny two days later, but because Danny’s flight had either been delayed or cancelled. Undoubtedly, he could expect a knock on his door and find her a mess. His tea would be ready for her and they would talk, even if Danny was with her.

            The thought of Sam returning made him smile. His attraction to her struck him oddly at times. He did not see her in the way most men his age would probably see a younger single mother. She perked his interest, kept him awake, and intrigued his sense of compassion. With her, Doug remembered the person he desperately wanted to be, not the depressed retiree wasting his money and his luck on lottery tickets that never won.

            Snatching up the lottery ticket, he jammed the piece of paper into his pocket and shuffled into the living room. His hip locked for a moment and he stood still. Pain rocketed up his back and he held his breath to try and steady his mind. As the nerves slowly relaxed, Doug shook his head and shuffled through the living room into his small hallway. He turned left into his bathroom and grabbed four Aleve from the medicine cabinet.

            Doug swallowed the blue pills dry. He tried to think of the first time he bought a Powerball ticket but couldn’t recollect. The softly falling rain echoed in the bathroom, nearly lulling him to sleep. His hip finally relaxed and he moved back into the living room. While he sat, his hand fished in his pocket for the ticket. Just rubbing the numbers felt better than sitting and thinking. A gust of wind rose up and shimmied the side of the house. The wind fell, and the world grew quieter as the storm continued east through the Champlain Valley.

The Devil Laughs (2010)

The Devil Laughs

S. G. Scott

I stand and move to the window. My knees crack and I cringe. In this silent place, the sound hits hard and ends abruptly. Opening the window, I fill the room with noise. Seagulls caw unceasingly at distant waves while an ambulance slowly approaches with sirens blaring. It may be a raucously discordant tune but it is the sound of living, and that is what I need. I turn my head back to Mom and smile. She clears her throat and whispers.

“Can’t ‘member” she says it like a five year old.

“What?”

“Something used…used to say,” she huffs. Sweat builds on her brow. I already know what she’s talking about. The particular saying she was looking for I could guess, but I need to keep pushing her like the doctor asked me to.

“Come on Mom. Give me a memory.”

“Danny milkshake. Ranch milkshake,” she says, pointing a crooked finger at me. I laugh and wait for Mom to say it.

*

            Mother always had these wise old sayings she liked to throw out. She said it kept her in touch with the farm back in Ohio where she grew up. We went to visit the old place when I was ten. Far from my beachside community, I could see why Mom knew the Devil in that particular State. She once said the Devil had a hand in making Ohio, especially the flat parts.

            “Why the flat parts?” I asked her.

            “Well, the Devil just thought his flat ass was the prettiest thing to look at. And I’ll be damned if Ohio ain’t a spitting image of that greedy bastard’s ass.”

            One saying, though, she used more than all the rest.

“Richie, you may think that’s funny, but the Devil sure ain’t laughing.”

I heard it when I was six and I filled Dad’s swim trunks with sand while he napped on the beach. When I was nine and I filled my brother Danny’s milkshake with Ranch dressing making him throw up. When I was eleven and I’d written curse words in the margins of my school notebook. That time, I’d had the balls to ask her.

“What the hell does make the Devil laugh Mom?”

A quick back hand across my cheek was her answer. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I came to understand what she meant. I arrived home on a cold, rainy October day to find my mother pacing back and forth down the hallway between the front door and our kitchen. In one hand, she held the phone against her ear so hard her skin was turning red. Her other hand rubbed her neck and when I approached her to ask what was going on, she put it out and shook her head no. I went to the living room where I could nervously perch myself on the edge of the couch and still listen to her conversation. My first thought turned to dad. Mom shot me a look that was serious, but her eyes were dry and if dad had died at the mill, she’d a been plucking Danny and I out of school and rushing us down to the hospital where she’d have every tissue at the place used up.

            “Richie. There was a big accident out at the mill and I need to run out there to help dad. Get upstairs and grab the bucket out of the pantry. Bring it down and fill it. Also, grab all the towels and blankets you can,” she instructed.

            I did as she asked. I brought everything down, filled the bucket in the kitchen sink, and sat on the bottom step facing the front door while mom continued to run through the house, making sure everything was turned off.

            “Mom? What’s going on?”

            “The Devil’s laughing his ass off today, sweetie. He thinks this whole thing is just hilarious.”

            “What thing?”

            She didn’t answer me. She opened her mouth, but had no response.

            “Can I come?”

            “I don’t think so Ritchie. Danny’s at your Aunt Mary’s, but if she decides to drop by, I think you should be here.”

            “Mom, I want to come. I think I could help.”

            “Fine. But it ain’t gonna be pretty,” she resigned, grabbing the bucket and the few linens I couldn’t carry.

            We piled into my mother’s old brown Toyota. I hated the ratty death trap, but my parents were far from wealthy enough to afford a new car. Mom revved the tired old engine, making it whine like a mule. She pulled out of our driveway onto B Street. Before we’d gone two blocks, we were in the middle of downtown. Mom made a right onto the highway and stopped at one of two streetlights. She swerved to the curb to let a speeding ambulance and two state troopers go blazing past. My knees itched and I tried to scratch them. Mom grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go till we got to the mill.

*

Dad was a manager down at the lumber mill on the north end of town. He’d been working there since he was sixteen, when he met mom. My old man was great with people, and as a result did not spend much time working down on the floor. They moved him into a public relations role and then as one of the middle managers for the floor. He loved the guys that worked under him and they respected him, especially during the strike the year before the accident. Even though he wasn’t supposed to, Dad went to see those guys picketing every day before he went to his office. He’d listen and listen, and tell them he’d see what he could do. I mean, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do, but they liked him all the same just for listening.

            They’d gone back to work after what Dad called some tough negotiations on work safety and payable hours. From what Dad complained about, though, nothing had really changed much and they were on the verge of another strike.

            “Goddamn bastards…” Mom kept muttering.

            “How bad is it mom?” I asked as we drove down the dark road.

            “Bad.”

            I stared out the windshield at the large column of black smoke pouring into the sky above huge stands of Spruce and Douglas fir.

            “Is Danny gonna be okay at Aunt Mary’s?”

            Mom nodded. She didn’t say anything else the rest of the drive.

            “Goddamn,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot. Mom didn’t even flinch. She pulled up next to Dad’s truck and I could see him running quickly toward us from the blazing structure. The whipping cool breeze caught my breath as I stepped out. It made me shiver something fierce.

            “Dianna. I think Sharon needed some help from somebody with counseling experience,” Dad immediately barked orders. Mom nodded, handing him the bucket. He shook his head no and looked at me.

            “Where is she?” Mom looked around.

            “Over by trucks I think,” Dad grabbed a flashlight and shut the door before turning to me, “Ritchie, why don’t you grab the towels and help the paramedics lay them out over there?”

            “Okay,” I muttered. Dad pointed to the far side of the parking lot where two ambulances and three fire trucks all had their rotating beacons splashing red on the evergreen wall surrounding the lot. Mom was already headed in that direction, so I grabbed the towels and shut the door.

            The mill was on fire. Damn near all of it. Flames crept over every wall, through every crack, and reached into the sky through a choking white haze. Men and women were still coming out when a loud crack echoed through the lot. Someone screamed to look out, and a large loading bay collapsed into rubble. In front of me, emergency vehicles and nearly everyone in town was rushing here and there. They grabbed equipment, helped people to a row of blankets where paramedics were trying to treat the wounded, and rushed into the flames to find more.

            A huge crash made me duck behind a truck. Looking over at the mill, I could see a large section of the structure sinking in as a fireball crawled into the sky. Finally, I reached the line of ambulances and the bodies lined up on the pavement behind them. Through the open back of the nearest ambulance, I watched as one paramedic frantically pushed with both hands on a bare-chested man strapped to a stretcher. The other paramedic held a syringe and checked a bank of monitors.

            One…two…three…four…five.

            Breath. Listen. Breath. Listen.

            “Hit him with the defib.”

            Choonk!

            “Stick him.”

            The other paramedic stabbed a syringe into the man’s chest and quickly pushed its contents down, but he still would not move.

            “Hit him again.”

            I tried to close my eyes and my ears against the sound, but I heard everything. I heard the loud Choonk! and though I couldn’t see his body, I imagined the man’s lifeless form briefly stiffening awkwardly above the stretcher. I heard the screams coming behind me, the screech of tearing metal, and the constant crackle of living flames.

             Finally, I faced the bodies. Thirty or forty men and a couple of women laid out on blankets in a neat row. The towels draped over my left arm slowly slid to the asphalt. I hardly noticed as I looked out on those still figures and the flashing orange light playing over their quiet faces. A hand came around my shoulders and I jumped.

            “It’s alright Ritchie,” Mom said as she gently hugged me and tried to turn me away. I resisted, bending down to grab the towels.

            “I can do this Mom,” I said as I turned back to hear, burying my fear deep beneath an icy stare.

            “The Devil’s sure…” she began.

            “Laughing his ass off. Yeah, mom, but nobody here is laughing with him,” I finished.

            I joined a cadre of others slowly moving between the bodies and covering each one. By the time we had finished, their were so many colors covering so many people that they looked like a terrible rainbow burning in the flickering light of the mill. When I finished I found Mom, and I cried against her breast like I had so many times before. She held me like she always would.

*

I stand before my mother. Her face is calm like those bodies stretched out on that cold, wet night, but her body is in constant turmoil. Her stroke has nearly killed her, and I stand here like I did so many years ago watching. She rustles in pain, scrunching her face aged far beyond her actual years.

            Her pale sweaty skin is cold when I gently touch her hand. Her heart monitor quietly beeps, sometimes erratic. She flutters her eyes and moans. I rub her forehead and look to the hall to see dad nervously walking back and forth as he stares at a spot just beyond his footsteps.

            “Ritchie…” Mom mutters.

            “Yeah mom,”

            “The devil…” she starts and has to swallow. I hadn’t heard those words since that night.

            “I remember mom. The Devil’s laughing cause he thinks this whole thing’s a big joke.”

            She shakes her head at me and I shut up.

            “He…is…crying. I’m coming. Gonna give him…ass whooping.  An ass…whooping,” she weakly emphasizes. I try to keep in a sniffle and sneeze instead. Mom reaches over to her bed stand and grabs a tissue and hands it to me with her shaking withering hand. I take it and laugh. She smiles and closes her eyes. Going back to the window, I hear dad cough behind me, the traffic below the window, and another seagull cackles as it passes. I hear mom snicker and I smile. We all laugh together. 

Little Diddy

While I have been keeping busy with both my writing and reading, I recently found a project I did some years ago to reflect my knowledge around videography and editing. Thus I give you, my fan made trailer for "Fire in the Sky" (Paramount 1993). A film my father took part in no less. Enjoy.