Excerpt from The Lost Child: July 4th, 1976 - Fireworks

July 4^th, 1976 – Fireworks

In the end he decided to go with option number three.

A day at the lake with Stevie, Leroy, Theo and some guy named John Timmons who had helped add a deck to the back of the cabin while only requiring a wage that consisted of cold beer and hot chicken and was therefore now Theo’s new best buddy.

He got a late start on the drive over and stopped for gas and a six-pack before he even left the city limits. Having already consumed a couple of coffees laced generously with Baileys while perusing the daily newspaper it hadn’t taken long for him to generate a low-level dandy-doodle buzz.

It wasn’t going to be that hot today after all. Highs in the upper 90s but beware of the ungodly humidity. So the cold water of the lake would really feel good around four in the afternoon despite that fact that Theo’s lake was little more than a big red mud bath. No natural spring source or winter snow runoff here, just a large manmade gash scooped into the red Okie clay and they hadn’t bothered with lining its bottom with rock or anything like that. And with all the boat activity expected today the water would be churning and that silty bottom would kick up a simmering tomato broth. Bobby knew they’d all have to take long showers afterwards to get that rusty sheen blasted off of them and you’d be surprised to see how much bloody grit was trickling down that shower drain.

Lately Theo had taken to collecting rocks which he found scattered along the shoreline and in the woods (and even gravel from his neighbor’s driveways) and then stacking them into the corner of his boat. Later, when he’d reached a proper spot, he’d take those rocks and gently place them into the water with a delicate plop in hopes of little by little, stone by precious stone, getting that lake bottom lined with something besides red dirt.

“If everybody around here would pitch in we could have this lake crystal clear within a couple of years,” he’d sermonize, and then they would all watch as a little whirlpool of red water came spinning back up to the surface announcing the arrival of Theo’s latest offering. Last summer Leroy had offered to bring an abandoned toilet next time he came and the thought of a big shiny chunk of porcelain sitting down there actually appealed to Theo. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the idea of littering the lake bottom with a collection of discarded junk made perfect sense. Those items were in essence big damn rocks and would line that bottom forever. But then Stevie chimed in and quipped that it would be awesome to be able to relieve one’s bowels and improve the quality of the lake water at the same time.

“I only wish you would take a dump down there,” Theo said, “and then maybe a long nap afterwards.”

“Hey, we’re not here to drink it,” Leroy offered, but then he smiled, knowing that not even he could deny that the lake water was clogging their pores.

“We’re here to spelunk our way through it!”

A little after half past one Bobby pulled onto the gravel driveway that led to the cabin. He had promised to be there at least by noon so he wasn’t surprised to see that the boat and its occupants were no longer awaiting his arrival dockside. He parked next to Stevie’s car, got out, and walked to the back of the house to take a quick scan of the lake. He could only see a small portion of it from this particular vantage as the vast majority of the lake twisted around the eastern point which was lined with tall reeds and therefore lay unseen. That was the side where most of the partying happened, the water skiing and the general balls-to-the-wall hell-raising, and Theo was really fortunate to have the smaller quieter side right here with the best fishing just beyond his own back screen door.

At the moment there was just one small rowboat in his line of vision, a shadowy silhouette far across the lake, and he could barely make out two figures with their rods poking out over the calm water. But he could hear the familiar buzz of a speedboat slicing through the water just around the point and he felt certain that it was the old Chris-Craft with the boys coming back around, maybe conducting a quick drive-by to see if their old friend had finally shown up. As the sound grew louder he stepped back away from the shoreline and out of sight into the deep pools of shadow cast by shedding cottonwoods.

Sure enough the boat shot around the point and it was roaring now and casting off a splendid fan of spray, but instead of stepping forward and revealing himself Bobby retreated further and further until finally he was back inside his car and driving away.

Critter Removal

He got the call in the late afternoon, a last minute dispatch to one of the more wooded suburbs clinging to the fringe of the greater metropolitan area, and he knew only too well the lowly vermin that roamed the terrain out there behaving as if in fact they lorded over those wild hinterlands.
   It would be his pleasure to prove one of them gravely wrong, point out its trespasses, and then remove its filthy presence from this earthly existence.

His marketing material clearly boasted:

We rid you of all pests big & small, short & tall, two-clawed & four-pawed, bats rats & skrats, squirrels possums & birds. If God created it then we can eradicate it. No questions asked – Performance guaranteed!

He pulled up to the curb and approached the front porch confident and decked out in full regalia.

She was already there, waiting, exasperated with hands on hips.

“What kind of pestilence do we have here, mam?” he inquired in his practiced professional voice. 

“Go see for yourself... he’s upstairs in the corner bedroom.”

Good God, the man thought, it’s big enough for her to know its sex... I hope this aint mating season. 

As he approached the door he could sense the thing’s presence, an uncanny ability to innately feel such things an inevitable result of his seventeen months on the job, and he could certainly smell it. Cautiously he wrapped the goggles around his head and applied the oxygen mask. Thick gloves were already in place along with the steel-brush kneepads and the fang-proof vest. 

He turned the door knob very slowly and carefully pushed open the door. The jamb creaked like an old toad yodeling to a long lost lover sending a warning signal to the creature and the man cursed. 

Folks, is it too much to ask to keep your doors greased in the event services such as mine are required? Because they will be... eventually.

He didn’t see anything at first but spotted its tangled nest resting between two pillows placed upon an unmade bed. He looked up at the ceiling and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He scanned all four corners running his eyes along the floorboards and used a long metal prod to check underneath discarded clothing and mildewed towels. 
   Still, nothing.

“You see anything yet?” the woman asked from below.

“No, not yet, still looking,” he replied after yanking off the mask. He didn’t appreciate such intrusions while he worked.

“What’s wrong with you sonny, he’s right there in front of you! Open yer eyes fer cryin out loud!”

Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement. 

Toward the very end of the bed, beneath the covers. 

He saw it again... a pensive wiggling, the very slightest of palpitations. The sly varmint had slithered its way down to the foot of the bed in a futile attempt to escape both his attention and his resulting measured wrath.

“I do believe I’ve located your intruder,” he bellowed in self-satisfaction.

“It’s about time,” was all the insolent woman could manage. 

What to do next? 

He had a mental checklist that he always followed at such times and at the top of the list was use any available source of containment in an effort to take the creature alive. That was his moral obligation, he supposed, yet it was amazing how quickly he could slide down that list to number ten: kill the fucker! He wondered if he might simply use the available bed coverings like a sack at the end of a hobo’s pole and entrap the creature within said material. Surely its fangs and claws would be capable of ripping right through but of course that is where his gloves and vest entered the equation.

Before he could decide upon an appropriate course of action there came a loud burgeoning noise from beneath those sheets that rattled the tangled nest, that shook the four walls, followed by a diffusive foul stench that had the man reaching for his mask.

The nature of the cloistered beast had finally been revealed.

Man, lazy obese son, living off mother, sponging from society, indifferent contributor to the Greater Bad, sequestered in bed and resistant to all beseechings, pleadings and violent threats, unreachable, irremovable, and utterly devoid of conscience.

Spoiled.
Rotten.
Man. 

<  ooh, dat smell so bad says the little unnamed Asian man lurking inside your head  >

He descended the stairs but couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Mam, you don’t need me and you don’t need Animal Welfare. What you need is a priest well-versed in the rite of exorcism sporting one big-ass shiny cross.” 

Performance guarantee be damned.

White Out Published in New Mexico Magazine

White Out (my obscure paranormal fable) was published in the March 2013 online edition of New Mexico Magazine:

http://www.nmmagazine.com/article/?aid=80160


I'm very appreciative of the magazine's editor and crew for allowing me this wonderful opportunity!

Also, thanks to the folks at WordHarvest.

(the above photo was taken in early December 2008 by Yours Truly during a specific weather event that inspired White Out)

Girl in Plaid Scarf Smiling on a Winter Day

NOTE: I wrote this back in 2010 for the Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story contest. Originally titled Coffee Shop Blues I just this morning changed the title. Probably would have won with this more compelling artsy-fartsy moniker... right? Now slightly over the 750 maximum word count after recent editing but who's counting?

In case you haven’t noticed it’s a cold world out there.

Right now I’m dealing with Arctic depressions squeezed through the Rockies and sent tumbling down the plains by a determined wind as our little nodule on the map tilts away from an indifferent sun that’s running out of gas. Meanwhile I seek refuge inside this place where it stays warm, agreeably cheerful, and replete with hot coffee – today I indulge in the light roast and prepare to get down to the heavy thinking.

But there’s that shortbread cookie sitting right there that keeps distracting me. I keep picking at it, breaking it apart, making it disappear piece by piece into my mouth so soon I’ll have no excuse at all – just crumbs.

I call myself a writer and I have a deadline to meet but the words come slowly, begrudgingly – if at all. And there’s no local support group for those deprived of the creative impulse.

But I do have my local heroes, one being the notorious Leo Ritchey, a fellow writer who had one of his pieces (something about a calf, a blizzard and the heroic cowhand who saved it while losing three digits) published in a regional periodical of some repute.

In fact it is my understanding that Leo was recently asked to say a few words at my nephew’s school, a somewhat uppity Lutheran-based institution that promises to prepare their pupils for the important demands placed upon them by the country’s elite universities, while in fact most of their clients matriculate into local colleges with tuition that is half of what they paid the Lutheran-based institution; more specifically, my nephew’s honors English Lit class, and being asked while ensnared within a rare moment of agreeable magnanimity (between free drinks I’d reckon) Leo agreed.

As it was just this morning related to me Leo stumbled up to the front of the room, a twitching bag of nerves, apparently unbathed with wild uncombed hair and his unexercised body stuffed into a baby blue glossy sweat suit that was two sizes too small, dismissing with introductions, only clearing his throat with a growl as he spat out the previous night’s accumulation of alcohol-marinated phlegm into the teacher’s coffee cup. Tough way to acquire your flavored latte.

“I was asked to say a few words to you today. Well mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ bullshit. There ya go, have a great life.”

And then he clambered away, knocking over a metal waste basket on his way out, and the buffed shiny floors of that institution at long last reflected a man who had said something that would echo within those hallowed halls for the ages.

It occurs to me now that his inspired message was in fact meant for me, because face it, I can’t write a mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ thing, I probably won’t even be capable of getting my reader to mutter under their breath where’s the creative impulse?, which would at least imply an infinitesimal amount of thoughtful repose directed toward my effort. Long ago I should have begun my quest for an MFA from one of those directional schools headed by a visionary who at one time accepted a genuine Ritchey manuscript for publication.

You see, it is my only wish to write something that is way big, important, beautiful, something that delivers a real wallop, but I’ve only got 750 words to work with and just one more day.

Hours, really.

Minutes.

Life goes on and I seem to wallow in complete futility.

Outside this coffee shop window a late February snow falls and all is quiet and I just sit back and watch a young woman in a red coat with matching cap and galoshes slowly pushing her way through this glittering landscape while walking her little black dog. Suddenly she spies me gazing at her from inside and although a plaid scarf hides her mouth I can tell from her brightening eyes that she is smiling back at me. It makes me feel that old fuzzy warmth deep down inside and while lost in a peaceful reverie I sit hypnotized by the unfolding scene. Huge floating snowflakes, steamy caffeine up the nose, (fleeting epiphany), dreamy white world and a pretty girl who at this precise moment recognizes my presence in it.

I am rendered touched.

If only I could somehow manage to write something that real, that simple, that magical. If only I could write some thing that might truly touch someone else, then I could save this story, shut down my computer, and venture back out into our beautiful cold world.