WRITE YOUR OWN ENDING

Let’s have a little fun today. I’m going to start with a story opening, but I’ll take it just so far. You get to write your own ending. You can even send your ending to me at dontravis21@gmail.com, if you wish. So put those imaginations to work. Should you do it in a foreign language, please provide a translation.

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EITHER/OR

The Dagwood is a pretty good sandwich shop catering to impoverished students at the university. You know, decent food – and a lot of it – for reasonable prices. Its plain décor of whitewashed drywall and nicked Formica tables and booths is comfortable. You can get a conversation going or put up an invisible sign saying you’ve got cram for an English Lit test without any trouble. Traffic is always steady but not rushed except at lunch and dinner, then it’s a mad house.

This afternoon, I took my Dagwood Roast Beef on dark rye with three different cheeses and sweet red peppers to a corner table. No fries, and I had reluctantly declined the free chocolate chip cookie. It’s too easy to start packing on the weight, especially with a schedule that doesn’t allow for much exercise. Of course, I get some of that by walking the campus from end to end to meet my classes.

My best friends, Norman Pell and Maggie Shipton, had wanted me to go out for dinner at some uptown place, but I was pretty well ruled by my monthly budget, and Dagwood’s fit the bill. So I temporarily broke the mold of our triumvirate and asked them to go ahead without me. Besides, I was feeling a little out of sorts. Restless. Maybe craving something different. Let’s face it, I was horny. Not that I was going to find anything, but still …

I always cut my Dagwood sandwiches into small pieces in order to eat the gigantic things without looking gross. I finished that operation and was nibbling on a small wedge when I noticed a girl sitting alone at a table across the room. Girl … young woman, really. A brunette about my age with a heart-shaped face, fair skin, and wide eyes tastefully outlined with mascara. The irises were brown probably, although from this distance, I couldn’t tell. Generous lips on a rather small mouth.

She was staring at me, so I immediately named her Daisy in my mind and took the time to finish my inventory. Full bosom of the kind that showed cleavage. Her pantsuit was short enough to expose slender ankles, and shapely ankles do something to my libido. Open-toed pumps revealed scarlet toenails. My eyes automatically went to her hands. Long – but not overly long – fingernails so red they glistened in the fluorescent light.

I looked up to find her still watching me with a frank, appraising stare. My heart rate picked up. She smiled and leaned back in her chair, which thrust out her upper torso alluringly. Embarrassed, I went back to my sandwich. Whenever my eyes strayed, she was watching me. Should I go over and invite her to join me? Or just wait her out and see what happened?

I hadn’t made my mind up yet when I glanced up and saw a young man seated two tables to her right. His amused glance told me Brick – that was the name that popped into my mind – had caught the byplay between Daisy and me. I felt my face go red. The right side of his broad, sensual mouth ticked up in a lop-sided grin.

Brick’s hair was that indeterminate color between sandy and brown and curled around his ears in an engaging way. His face was more square than Daisy’s, definitely masculine. His eyes were slightly canted and obviously green. A hint of chest hair poked above his open collar. I dropped my gaze to below the table, and he obligingly spread his legs. My breath caught in my throat at the enticing way his jeans were packed.

I glanced back at Daisy and saw a puzzled frown on her face. In a moment, she’d catch onto the byplay, as well. But as I watched, she pushed away her plate, stood to smooth her slacks and take up her bag. Then with a long look at me, she walked past to push open the door. As she turned left, she let her eyes rake me one last time in an obvious invitation.

Movement brought my gaze back to Brick. He was on his feet, as well. Eyes boring into mine, he let his grin grow into a dazzling smile. Then he, too was through the door. He turned to the right.

Trying not to appear hurried, I abandoned my uneaten sandwich and pushed the café door open. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned …

#####

Okay, readers, it’s your turn. Which way did our protagonist turn, left after Daisy or right after Brick. And by the way, what was the narrator’s gender … male or female? Finish the story, and if you wish, share your ending with me.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A LITTLE EXCITEMENT FROM THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT

I thought maybe we’d revisit THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT this week. You know, I really like the cover on this book. That flaming, open hand picks up the theme of the Burning of Zozobra ritual at the Santa Fe Fiesta and throws it right back in your face. Martin Brown Publishers are good at cover art. That’s Sharene Martin Brown’s doing, I think. Not Robert, he’s a good publisher and great dancer, but cover art? Nah, that’s his wife’s thing. As a matter of record, I like the cover on THE BISTI BUSINESS just as well, possibly better.

But I digress (something I seldom do, you know). The following scene comes near the climax of the book in Chapter 27 (Page 259, as a matter of fact). During tense moments in the case, BJ has returned to his third-floor office in an old historic building at 5th and Tijeras NE across the street from the public library in downtown Albuquerque. He’s returned at night after being on a stakeout most of the day. You should know his building has an open middle atrium with offices around the perimeter, accessed by a landing with a sturdy brass rail.

#####

But it was the last message that really caught my attention. Mrs. Gertrude Wardlow, my plucky neighbor across the road, had noticed a suspicious car passing up and down the street two or three times earlier in the evening. She suggested I use “extreme caution” in returning home. What a wonderful old gal.

If this mess kept up much longer, my staid and stolid neighbors would ask me to move. On second thought, most of them hadn’t had this much excitement in ages. Safe, or presumed safe, behind their windows and drapes, the old geezers probably scanned the street every night before going to bed to check on that “private investigator fellow” down the street.

Resisting the temptation to sack out on my office couch, I got up, stretched, and started to leave. An indistinct noise from the landing—a footfall, a shoulder brushing against the wall, something—stayed my hand on the doorknob. The door was a solid plank of heavy oak, but a panel of frosted glass to the left darkened momentarily as a shadow passed across it. After five minutes of inaction, I cautiously cracked the door. A quick look up and down the landing revealed nothing alarming. If anyone was on this floor, he wasn’t visible, but a side hall leading to the restrooms lay between the elevators and me. Was someone crouching in ambush there? I stepped out onto the landing, locked the door, and tugged the peashooter from my belt. I turned away from the elevators and made for the stairwell.

I did not hear my assailant’s sneaker on the carpet until it was too late to face him, so I dropped to all fours. He tripped over my legs and fell with his body sprawled halfway across mine. Before he had time to recover, I gained my feet and sagged against the metal banister at the outer edge of the landing. Clinging to my back, he came up with me, flailing with a knife. When the blade ripped into my right biceps, I panicked, twisting away from the hand with the blade and straightening my back to throw him off of me.

Time switched to slow motion. The man clawed at my shirt for a moment. Then his center of gravity shifted. He slid over the railing. I clutched at his legs but couldn’t hold on. He fell with a terrified scream. I leaned over the railing and watched him flip on his back during the forty-foot drop to the hard, polished tiles below. He landed with a terrible suddenness and a sickening thud. A dark corona haloed his head. The blood and the clatter of his knife across the baked clay squares, kick-started my brain and released my frozen muscles.

#####

Hope you enjoyed the read. I also hope it grabbed you by the neck and demanded you order a copy of the book. Except for the famous ones, authors are always poor and starving. At any rate, that’s it until next week – same time, same place.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A CLOT IN THE CREAM

Time for some more flash fiction. Hope you can sympathize with Marvin Hoeckler and give him a little support as he breaks some personal news to his parents.

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A CLOT IN THE CREAM

By Don Travis

Panic? Disappointment? Fear? Probably all of those, but mostly it was mortification at letting my parents down. I’d just done what I’d been struggling to do for the last three years. Confessed something close to my heart. Something that made me me.

Cheeks blazing, I cut my eyes to the left where my mother sat, head down, lips moving silently. Likely praying. Begging enlightenment for her profligate son.

My gaze swept across the old-fashioned kitchen table laden with hot fluffy buttermilk biscuits, steaming platters of bacon and sausage, and a tray of over-easy eggs with yolks like yellow eyes filmed with albumen cataracts. The heady aromas seemed somehow diminished by the situation. Maybe I should have waited until after we ate.

My father, filling up the chair to my right, glared at me through flared orbs made even bigger by thick bifocals. His face was as red as I imagined mine to be.

“Marvin Hoeckler, tell me you’re putting me on.” His voice hovered between anger and disbelief. “We’re simple dairy farm people. We don’t get mixed up in things like … well, like that.”

My insides shriveled as I realized he couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. I’d known he would take it hard, but this was worse than anticipated.

“Son, are you sure?” Mom asked, sounding as if she were just coming out of shock.

“I’m positive. I’ve known since I was fifteen.”

My father loosed an explosive snort, a sign he was really mad. “You’re my only son, and I won’t stand for it, you hear? You live under my roof and eat my food, you’ll live my rules. And those rules don’t stand for nonsense like that.”

“Now, Father—” my mother began.

“Don’t you take the boy’s side, Bertha. Don’t you dare! You know the plans we made, and they don’t include this kinda thing.”

I went defensive. “I do my share of work. I pay my way. If I wasn’t here, you’d have to pay a hired hand.”

“Don’t backtalk me, boy, or I'll take on that hired hand tomorrow morning.”

The skin on my back went cold and puckered. I hadn’t considered my father might kick me out of the house. Mortification abated as fear took a healthier bite of the apple.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I said, unsure my tone supported my declaration.

“Not a big deal?” Dad didn’t even bother to snort that time. He let his rising voice do the job for him. His fork hit the empty plate with a clatter. “I never saw anything like that in you.”

“I dabbled at it now and then, but I guess I was good at hiding it.”

“It’s not every dairyman in the state who has to sit and listen to his son confess nonsense.”

“Dad, be reasonable. There are bound to be others who feel like I do.”

He rose and threw his napkin on the table. “I doubt that. Most sons would have the decency to keep such things to themselves?”

I shrugged my shoulders and held up my palms. “How? You’d know eventually.”

He stomped out of the room without bothering to answer.

My mother’s touch as she placed a hand on my arm drew me back to her.

“Be patient with him, Marvin. He’ll just have to come to terms with this in his own way and in his own time.”

“How about you? Are you okay with it?”

She sighed and withdrew her arm. “I’ll handle it. After all, you can’t go through life without an occasional clot in the cream.”

I winced. My confession that I wanted to be an artist rather than a dairyman had rendered me into a clot in the cream.

#####

Poor Marvin. That was quite a confession. But when folks get fixated on something, it’s hard to make them see another point of view.

See you next week, same time and same place. Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Does the “Do Not Call Registry” Mean Nothing Any More?

I don’t know about the rest of you, but years ago, I diligently listed both my telephone and cell numbers with the National Do Not Call Registry. Since then, I’ve updated the numbers by registering each of them again.

For quite some time, the precaution was quite effective. I very seldom was interrupted by an unwanted call. And on the rare occasion I was, I dutifully notified the registry of the violation. This past year, however, things seem to have changed. Calls from “blocked” numbers or “unidentified” callers are showing up with increasing frequency. In cases where the calling number is shielded, I have learned to wait patiently until a human interrupts the robocall to eagerly anticipate a live customer on the other end of the line. Once I determine the identity of the outfit calling, I inform the intruder they were being reported to the Do Not Call Registry.

I now see the scumbags (I really shouldn’t use such hyperbole for people simply trying to make a living for their families) have another trick up their sleeve. The last couple of calls I answered did not have the blocked or unidentified alerts. Instead,  the screen on my telephone was filled with a long string of numbers that defy identification. They are banking on me believing this was simply a software glitch and accepting the calls. It worked for the first two times, but now they stand revealed.

The most recent slew of calls have all started out in a similar way:

“Mr. Travis?”

“Yes.”

“This is Alex (or John or Thomas or Steve) with Word. We see that you may have some problems with your computer.”

Yeah, right … Alex. Alex with an East Indian accent (and I don’t mean the Iroquois Confederacy in the Northeast United States). Stay with them long enough, and you’ll learn they want to sell you a not inexpensive service contract for troubleshooting your computer.

To be honest, I bought a contract from such an outfit a couple of years ago. Again, in the spirit of fair dealing, I must say that when I contacted them for help, they took remote control of my computer and managed to solve most of the problems. I had trouble reaching them at times, but worse was the difficulty of understanding what Alex and Tom were saying. They had the same problem understanding me apparently, as I usually had to state my problem multiple times. Sometimes my calls were automatically transferred to a number with a definite continental ring tone. More often than not, these were never answered. Needless to say, I did not renew, even though they had been relatively responsive and responsible.

For the last three months, I’ve had numerous calls from such outfits. These are not robocalls, and it is always Alex with Word or Alex with Microsoft on the line. They seemed to be fixated on the European name of “Alex.” But the heavily accented voice is not the same each time. I have now simply reverted to the tactic of saying I know this is a scam, and am reporting it as such before I hang up.

But my friend “B” has hit on a much more effective tactic. She told me she had a similar call last night. The man’s spiel was that he was Alex with “Microsoft.”

“For the past week,” this particular Alex said, “we’ve been getting a signal from your computer that it has a problem.”

B says she has no idea where her response came from, but it was right there. “Wait! Wait!”

“What?” Alex asked.

“You’re right. I hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Hear it calling out.”

“You … do?”

“Yes, my computer’s saying, ‘Help me. Help me. Oh, please help me!’”

Alex hung up.

#####

Well folks, see you next week, same time and same place. In the meantime, I hope you aren’t overwhelmed by people wanting to fix computer problems that don’t exist.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Me and The Dragon

A couple of weeks ago I told you about my struggle with Dragon Naturally Speaking. Since then, I have done a lot of work with the program and found it both frustrating and rewarding. As a matter of fact, this post is being created using Dragon. It is the first actual work I have attempted with the program.

In preparation, I printed the better part of a 180-odd page operating manual and put it in a three ring binder for ready reference. My upstairs neighbor and mentor in all things electronic, Dr. Joe, was horrified. The manual was readily available on my computer as a part of the Dragon software. So why did I need to use paper and ink and put it in a book? I reminded him my mind does not work the same way his does. He lives out of an electronic machine; I live out of a filing cabinet. I am not certain whether this difference in approach is engendered by the four years difference in our ages or his many academic degrees compared to my simple Bachelors. Or perhaps it’s neither. Life experience is bound to play a major part. I am afraid of my computer. He tears into the guts of his with a vengeance.

At any rate, not satisfied with printing a manual, I sat down and created a document in Word called DRAGON OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS. I put every command Dragon would give me on how to perform specific tasks into the file. Of course, I printed that as well. Dr. Joe reminded me that I have virtually the same thing in the Dragon Learning Center, which appears on the screen as I work. That electronics vs paper thing, again.

Overlooking his criticism, I began dictating things extemporaneously to overcome my tendency to go mentally blank every time I attempt this procedure. I have to admit it took a great deal of work; however, the fact that I am dictating this blog indicates progress. Now I will get down to writing the real post for the week.

Ftttz.

“Uh.”

“The.”

See the post of August 28 to make sense of the last three lines.

#####

Well folks, it’s back to the beginning. See you next week, same time and same place. I hope you felt some of my frustration with Dragon Naturally Speaking. I also hope you sensed my hopeful optimism.

Thanks for reading. Take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

PS: I have to add that after I finished dictating “each Thursday,” Dragon gratuitously added the word “Eek.” I swear to you on the Dragon Naturally Speaking Operating Manual that this is true.

Another Look at The Zozobra Incident

Screwed up again, folks. Set it for PM, not AM, sorry.

This past Friday (August 29), the Burning of Zozobra described in my novel, The Zozobra Incident, took place in Fort Marcy Park in Santa Fe. This year, the puppet was larger, bare-chested, and went to his doom on the Friday before the opening of The Santa Fe Fiesta rather than the traditional Thursday night conflagration. The authorities used drones to overfly the park and take a count of the crowd. They came up with a record figure of 40,412. And that didn’t include some 2,000 police and other law jurisdictions. We’ve had a pretty good monsoon season, so the monster burned and fireworks lit up the sky without too much worry about resulting wildfires.

Martin Brown Publishers have been promoting the book on Facebook recently, and that plus this year’s burning made me take another look at the novel.

The following is the beginning of Chapter 2. BJ, our intrepid investigator, decides to look for Emilio Prada, the male escort believed to be attempting to blackmail Del Dahlman, at the place Del first met the gay gigolo.

#####

     A little after ten that night, I squeezed my anonymous white 2003 Chevy Impala between two extended-cab pickups in the overflow parking lot across the street from the C&W Palace. The C&W on East Central Avenue was Albuquerque’s biggest country and western boot-shuffling joint. This was where Del originally met Emilio, so it was a good place to start after a database search failed to turn up current information on him. That was no surprise; the kid probably lived around town with friends and johns.

      I pushed through the heavy door and ran into a wall of cigarette smoke, deafening music, and shrill conversation that turned the interior of the nightclub into a health nut’s worst nightmare. Bluegrass doesn’t go down well with many opera fans, and I was no exception. My parents, both of whom had been teachers, had exposed me to plenty of Offenbach, Mozart, and Verdi, and it took. The Tales of Hoffman and The Magic Flute and La Bohéme had preserved my sanity during the long convalescence after the shooting. A country-western band was a world away from those old masters—maybe even a galaxy or two.

     My snakeskin cowboy boots and white Stetson were sufficiently western to allow me to skip the mother-of-pearl studded shirt and the tight denim pants. It was a matter of comfort, not snobbery. Cowpoke duds, especially trousers, were too restrictive for my taste.

     After buying a vodka-rocks at the long bar, I circled the massive barn-like joint, stopping occasionally to talk to acquaintances. The C&W was a hetero place, but there was enough eye contact to spice up the evening, even though I had no intention of making a connection. One slender, athletic guy twirling a pretty coed around the dance floor caught my attention. I invested a few minutes in watching him as I tried to figure out where I’d seen him before. Eventually, I gave up and resumed prowling. After an hour of jostling by clumsy drunks and out-of-control dancers, I was ready to call it a night when—bingo. There he was.

     Emilio Prada wasn’t making much of an effort to hide. He looked like a million dollars dancing with a well-stuffed woman who could have been his mother. That roomy bosom was probably where he intended to rest his head for the night. I thought of Emilio as a kid but knew from his APD jacket he was twenty-two. He’d come up legally from Durango, Mexico and had a record for petty stuff, nothing that would get him deported. He didn’t seem to be married, and it apparently didn’t matter to him which way he swung, just so long as the swing was profitable. I guess that earned him a “bi” rating.

     The handsome shit was dressed all in black, including a ten-gallon hat shoved rakishly back to expose dark, unruly curls. A scarlet hatband, a red belt, and a bit of crimson on his alligator boots added the only traces of color to his outfit. On him, it was dynamite. He danced easily, confidently; the same way he’d behaved while he was living in Del’s room in my house. If Emilio harbored doubts about anything, it wasn’t apparent. He counted on charming his way out of any trouble hovering over the horizon.

     When the number ended, he gave his partner a hug and a peck on her plump cheek before leading her away through the crowd. I scrambled straight across the dance floor as a twang of guitars and a bang of drums announced the next song. Trying to elude the grasp of cowgirls bent on dancing—or more likely desperate for a companion for the night—I lost the odd-looking pair for a moment before spotting Emilio holding out a chair for mamacita, like the gentleman he was not. Then he took one of two vacant chairs across from her at a long table filled with Hispanics.

     Now, I’ve got bushels of Latino friends and don’t admit to a prejudiced bone in my body, but just as there are whites and then there are whites, there are Hispanics and then there are Hispanics. These guys were the latter. Nonetheless, I took a deep breath and slipped into the vacant chair beside Emilio.

#####

We’ll leave BJ walking into a dangerous situation. Hope he comes out of it okay.

Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Dragon Naturally Speaking

Joe, my upstairs neighbor, (I really should call him Dr. Joe since he went to the trouble of earning a PhD) works on his computer constantly but rarely uses a keyboard. He swears by Dragon Naturally Speaking. Me, I swear at Dragon Naturally Speaking.

My first exposure to the program came some five years ago when the VA provided me with the software. I eagerly embraced the idea and installed it on my computer.

Well, the honeymoon didn’t last long. Either Dragon did not recognize an Oklahoma drawl, or else I did not enunciate well. The first time I dictated a sentence, each of us put on boxing gloves and assumed a fighting stance. If I recall, the sentence was something like: “I woke early and lay in my sleeping bag watching the morning sun struggle to reach the horizon.”

Dragon chose to interpret it as: I broke early and play in my peeing bag watching the mourning son straggle to breach the Oregon.”

It took me longer to correct the mangled sentence than it would have taken me to type it ten times over. Needless to say, when I got a new computer, I didn’t bother to install Dragon.

Along comes Dr. Joe singing the praises of the very program that dealt me such misery. I told him of my problems, and he had me drag out the green box containing my version of  Dragon.

“Aha!” he said. (He’s a PhD and can get away with such expressions. Heck, he could probably say “Eureka” in scholarly tones without causing an eyebrow to twitch.) Anyway, he said, “Aha! This is Version 11. I use Version 12, which is far superior to 11. The technology progressed tremendously between the two." (He’s big on technology and can give a learned discourse on the subject at the drop of a hat. I’m intimidated by it and avoid such discussions.) “Not only that, but Dragon 13 is due out in August," he declared. "And the technology on 13 has improved exponentially.”

That sent me to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary where I learned “exponentially” is an adverb meaning “of or relating to an exponent” and that <10^x is an exponential expression. After wading through that nonsense, the dictionary condescended to tell me it meant "a rapid increase in something."

Well, I bought the new technology—plus an expensive set of wireless headphones—and Dr. Joe installed Dragon Naturally Speaking (Version 13) on my new Dell Inspiron All-in-One machine.

I should inform the reader that I write my novels just as if they were movies unfolding before me, so  this fantastic software ought to save me a whole bunch of time. I lie in bed at night and build scenes effortlessly. And Dr. Joe was right. Version 13 was much better than Version 11. I proved that to myself when I read from one of my books, and Dragon typed the passage flawlessly—no sloppy misunderstandings or misspellings as I had experienced with that terribly inept older software.

So I sat down yesterday, created a new Word document, angled my headset just right, and turned on Dragon. I took a moment to contemplate the flowing prose I'd use in my scene and went to work.

“Wake up,” I told Dragon.

Dragon went green…meaning he had obeyed my command.

I opened my mouth to speak, and my mind went “Ffttz.”

My mouth said, “Uh….”

And Dragon typed, “The.”

This post was not created using Dragon. I didn’t have the time.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Return to THE CITY OF ROCKS

I’d like to return to The City of Rocks for this week’s post. In the scene that follows, which takes place in Chapter 1, BJ Vinson, our intrepid PI, heads  to The University of New Mexico Medical Center to find a man named Richard Martinson – nicknamed Liver Lips. The man is being treated for scratches on his arm which have become infected.  BJ is tasked to question the man about the “kidnapping” of a valuable duck taken from a ranch down in the Boot Heel Country of southern New Mexico. Our PI is half-irritated and half-amused at being drawn into something he has trouble taking seriously.

#####

I do not like walking into a situation I don’t understand, and I damned well didn’t understand this one. But I had no trouble locating Martinson in the waiting room at the hospital. Liver Lips. The young man's nickname described him perfectly. His thick, purple-hued, oral projections drew my eye like a magnet. It was only later I noticed he was skinny, seedy, and carried a generally disreputable air. Gray eyes darted here and there as if he were constantly searching for a bolt hole. The man’s scalp glistened through thin strands of frizzy blond hair. Whether talking or listening or simply idle, his dark tongue periodically snaked out to wash those heavy lips. Seldom had I been so thoroughly repulsed by another’s physical appearance.

He looked at me blankly after I handed over my card and introduced myself. “Who’d you say you are?”

I tapped the card he held in his hand. “I’m B. J. Vinson.”

“A private eye, huh. What you want with me?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.” I nodded at the bandages covering his forearms. “What happened?”

“Had a fight with a thorn bush. Frigging bush won.” He went for humor, glancing up through thin, colorless lashes to see if it had worked.

I pointed to the red veins snaking up out of the white bandages just short of his elbows. “Thorn bushes didn’t give you that infection. That’s blood poisoning. How’d you get it?”

“Tangled with the wrong bush, I guess. Then didn’t get it treated. Turned bad on me, I guess.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride down to my office where we can talk in private.”

“Ain’t got time. Gotta get outa here. I been here six frigging hours.”

“Okay, I’ll call Lt. Eugene Enriquez down at APD, and we’ll have this talk in his office.”

He blinked rapidly three times. “No cops, man. Don’t need no cops. I ain’t done nothing, so leave me alone.”

“What are you doing up here? You live down in Deming, don’t you?” I drew on the thin biography Del had provided.

“Ain’t no law against a man visiting the city. I guess that’s why they do all that advertising on TV for. You know, to get me to come up here and spend my money.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“About what?” He seemed genuinely perplexed by my question.

“About stealing a valuable…bird.” If I’d said “duck” I’d have burst out laughing.

“Don’t guess I know what you’re talking about.”

“You do a lot of guessing, Richard. But I don’t think the Sheriff of Luna County would have sicced me on you if he was just guessing.”

“Hidalgo,” he blurted.

“What?”

“Sheriff of Hidalgo County.”

“Okay, now that you’ve admitted you know all about the theft, tell me about it.”

“Didn’t admit nothing.”

“You know where the abduction…uh, theft took place. Stop wasting my time. What did you want with a prize duck named….” I stopped, unable to call a bird by that ridiculous name.

“Quacky Quack, the Second,” he said. “That’s what old Mud Hen calls her. Ain’t that a hoot?”

“Mud Hen?”

“Millicent Muldren. Everbody calls her Mud Hen.”

“She’s the duck’s owner?”

“Yeah. She’s run the Lazy M Ranch since her old man died.”

“Why’d you steal her duck?”

“Who says I did?”

“About everybody in the countryside,” I improvised. “Police chief, sheriff, Ms. Muldren. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. Talk to me, and maybe I can do something about that.”

Old Liver Lips wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Those blood-suffused appendages quivered a couple of times before he squared his thin shoulders. “Ain’t nobody gonna arrest me for nothing, I guess. Who’d press charges on something like that?”

“Well, Mud Hen for one, and the insurance company for another.”

“Insurance company?”

“You didn’t know the owner had insured her property.”

“Shoot, I guess there ain’t no insurance company in the world that’d insure a frigging duck.”

I didn’t know much more than he did, but I couldn’t let up on him now. “Then you’d guess wrong. They’ll insure soap bubbles if you pay the premiums.”

Liver Lips wiggled in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Uh…you said something about a warrant?”

#####

BJ starts taking the “ducknapping” seriously when people begin turning up dead.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Sometimes Things Turn Out All Right

How about a little short fiction again this week.

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SOMETIMES THINGS TURN OUT ALL RIGHT

     I thought I’d die when she walked up to me. Guys aren’t supposed to admit things like that, but, man, that’s the way I felt. Part of it was surprise, and part of it was pure excitement.

     Graciela (I never called her Gracie like everyone else) and I had a history that stretched back to grade school. We’d started out yanking hair and kicking shins, but that switched to lipping off to one another as we got older. But I went virtually mute the first time I noticed she had breasts. One day she was built pretty much like me and the next, these knobby little things popped out on her chest. Kinda hard holding a casual conversation while sneaking glances at those awkward protrusions.

     The real transformation took place our freshman year in high school. Those knobs became balloons. Her rounded hips made my throat go dry. Imp-face became Pixie-face. Right about then, Graciela discovered boys. Not this boy. Not the schmuck next door, but guys older than me. Guys with shoulders and biceps and pecs and Adam’s apples.

     I used to hang around hoping she’d notice me. I’d head for school at the same time she did. I went to school dances … which I loathed … just to see her dressed up like a movie star. And in the privacy of my bedroom at night, I did my best to render myself blind while holding onto a mental image of her. And felt unclean afterward.

     My senior year I used some of my hard-earned savings and bought an old Ford, a jalopy like you saw in the Archie cartoons but without the rumble seat. Guys that hadn’t given me the time of day got to be buddies, but Graciela didn’t give me a second glance.

     One warm, pleasant Saturday afternoon about one-thirty, I breezed out of the house heading for my car in the driveway. As I reached for the door handle, Graciela materialized beside me. Surprised me. Scared the crap out of me, actually.

     “Johnny,” she cooed. Only person I knew who could speak and coo at the same time.

     “Uh … oh, hi. Didn’t see you there.”

     “I need a favor. Please.”

     She had the prettiest “pleases” of anyone in town. “What’s that?”

     “I need a ride to the mall.”

     Our only mall, The Eastside Mall, was – guess what – on the east side of town. I’d intended to head in the opposite direction to meet a couple of the guys at the municipal swimming pool. But screw the guys.

     As she settled in the front seat beside me, my mind’s eye saw us holding hands and exchanging glances as I drove down Henderson Drive. Me, a man in control of his powerful automobile, and she, the woman at my side. My starter ground, shattering the image. Nonetheless, I got the old jalopy started and backed out of the drive, almost clipping the mailman as I did so. Anxious for something to say in the face of near disaster, I cleared my throat as I followed her directions and parked as close to Dillard’s as possible.

     “I can hang around and bring you back home, if you want.”

     “That’s sweet. But I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said.

     “I don’t mind. I can just … you know, hang.”

     “I’m meeting someone.”

     “Who? Marcy?” She and Marcy were as different as night and day, but they were tight. “I wouldn’t mind having a pretty woman hanging off each arm.” Did I really say that out loud? My cheeks felt like they were on fire. They actually burned. I didn’t dare glance at her.

     “Not Marcy. Well, thanks loads.” She tossed the words at me as she flounced out of the car and slammed the door.

     By the time I got my voice-box to working she was walking down the sidewalk toward a dork named Freddy Fleisher. Last year’s fullback … this year’s freshman at the community college. All shoulders, biceps, thighs, and a real Adam’s apple. With hair on his legs, to boot.

     When they hugged, I felt like something tore loose inside me. He planted a kiss on her lips before opening the car door for her.

     I’d driven her to her date? Why didn’t he pick her up? My blood pressure dropped twenty points. I felt used. Like a taxi driver who got stiffed for the fare. I sat there like dog doo on the bottom of a shoe, my eyes watching the two-year-old Olds convertible fire up. Freddie revved the engine before throwing the transmission into Reverse.

     Movement caught my eye. A vehicle motoring down the lane was invisible to the couple in the Olds because of an SUV parked on their right. Mr. Flannery, the same postman I’d almost nailed, was headed to the mall’s substation. I could probably have honked a warning, but I didn’t.

     I expected a big crash when Freddie came roaring backwards out of the parking space but it was more of a thud and a crunch. Freddie must have been flustered – decidedly uncool – because he slammed the Olds in Drive and shot forward, smashing his front end into the Chevy parked on his left.

Graciela and Freddie piled out of the car, both talking a blue streak. What I got out of the rush of words was that Freddie was wrapped up in the wreck of his dad’s wheels, while she was bitching about being late for an appointment.

     I took a deep breath, eased my jalopy in gear and rolled past the scene of the accident. As Gracie tried frantically to wave me to a stop, I gave her a casual salute and went on by. A swim with a couple of buddies – boring though they might be – seemed like a good idea right about then.

#####

 That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Pursued by the Beast!

She is there ... among my earliest memories. Although I didn’t know exactly what she was. A friend? Ally? Fellow conspirator? All of those at one time or the other. I sought her companionship, but it was elusive. She was always there, dancing ahead of me … ephemeral … just out of reach. Tempting, taunting, giving, denying. Such a tease. She often withheld things I was impatient to have. But she usually delivered them in her own good time. She was extraordinarily important to me in my childhood and youth – perhaps even my early adulthood … leading the way to the future.

I’m not sure when she changed. Looking back on it, I think the conversion must have been gradual, subtle. She picked up her pace, forcing me to rush after her. Things seemed to speed up as the years tolled. I didn’t mind. Life was happening. “Real” life, not “Preparation” life, like waiting to be old enough to go to school, itching for classes to end, hungering for graduation, eager for the first career job. No, I mean the real life of going to work, seeking promotion, finding the right life-mate, building a family, and settling in for the long haul. Somehow, my childhood muse no longer seemed so immediate … and let’s be frank … so important. Maybe that was what changed her.

Now, I sense her once again drawing near. Yet, there is a difference. I perceive not the laughing, amiable countenance of yesteryear, but a threatening scowl and grasping fingers. Claws, really. She grows menacing. Instead of leading, she pursues me from behind. Uncomfortable. Frightening, even. Enough so that I pick up the pace to stay free of her clutches.

When did she become a beast, an ogre, a fearsome creature to inspire terror? I don’t know. Will I ever seek her embrace again? Same answer … I don’t know.

Perhaps you do. If so, please tell me.

You see, the beast’s name is Time.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading, and let me hear from you.

Don

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday