Prompt Wednesday #4: Golf Buddy

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Prompt: A character runs into their childhood hero and forms a friendship.

“Where you headed?” asked Pam without looking up from the stack of mail in front of her. Micah answered as he reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of water, “To the driving range. I need to work on my long irons.” Pam looked up at her son and cinched her eyes tight to one another.

“That’s a relaxing way to spend the afternoon. You gonna call Ryan or Harris to go with you?”

“I don’t know. Both of the those guys are headed back to school in a week and I’ll still be here,” replied over his shoulder as he packed his golf bag.

“All the more reason to see them before they go.”

Micah did not reply, instead he jammed several blueberry granola bars into a pocket and zippered it shut. Then he steadied himself, plastered a thin smile to his lips, and said goodbye to his mother. She knew he was embarrassed and alone. Micah chose to drop out of college after a single year, but did not consider what it would look like to his friends. Micah was going to be special, everyone said so. His friends said so. And when Micah made the announcement during a cookout, Pam and her husband Andy watched as each friend tiptoed through a long awkward silence. And most of them never asked “what are you going to do next” because they assumed Micah will work for his father’s as an electrician.

“It’s like their all brainwashed into believing college is everything,” steamed Andy later that night. “Every dumbass I ever hired had a college degree, as if knowing the capital of Paraguay makes you fucking genius. I’m glad he’s not going back. I am. Fuck these kids.”

“Shh. He’ll hear, Andy. Don’t make it worse.”

“Worse? How? Dropping out of college isn’t a big deal. Having a bunch of shitty friends is a big deal. It can’t get worse.”

Pam eased up and let the tension ebb back toward calm. And in a low voice she offered, “No. College isn’t everything. And I’m upset too. But, need I remind you, Micah’s friends are still more like boys than men. Let them sort themselves out. The good ones will stick around because they love our son and the dumbasses will fade away.’

Andy drew a strong breath through his nose and leaned back in chair, his was of conceding the point.

At the driving range, Micah paid for a full bucket of balls and set up his clubs on a driving green at the far end of the greens. He liked having a forest of Loblolly Pines to his left and only one person to his right, if anyone at all. The range was maintained by the old man who opened it, with well watered pitching greens and a comfortable clubhouse. Nothing fancy, but most golfers are happy with cheap beer, an overstuffed chair, and sports blaring from the TV in the corner. The one flaw was it’s location, too far outside of Charlotte for the serious golfers. In fact, this particular range, was more of a weekend range for half drunk duffers. As such, Micah rarely talked to anyone.

Micah began his visit to the range the same as always. He took out his 3 iron, gripped the club with both hand (one on either end), and held the club high as possible above his head. Then he leaned back, sideways, and finally into a forward fold. He felt his hamstrings complain a bit, then went through the routine once more. The day was perfect, he thought. Cool for a summer afternoon in North Carolina with a slight breeze at his back.

With a one wood in hand, he teed up his first shot. And as he approached his ball, a tall black man with a thin gold chain and slick golf spikes set up on the green one down. He instantly recognized the man and tried to concentrate on his shot. After a few practice swings, Micah sent his first attempt into the woods. A wicked hook. And without looking he tied up another. Slice. The fuck is that, he murmured to himself as he shoved his driver back into his bag. Then he watched the black man settle into his first drive. Crack! Hsssss! shot the ball down the middle of the range, landing beyond the two-hundred and fifty sign. Micah almost congratulated the man on his drive but stopped. He assumed Sterling Blunt came to that range for the same reasons he did. And by remaining silent, he honored the hero.

Micah went back to working on his game. For confidence, he pulled out his trusty nine iron and began whacking shots down range, beautiful and lofty shots. After a sip of water and a granola bar, Micah began working his way through he clubs until he reached his long irons. His nemesis. You can do this, he mumbled to himself. And on the first shot, he sent a chunk of turf flying with a thud. Micah closed his eyes and flexed the club over his shoulders. The next shot was what they call a worm burner, because the ball raced over top of the grass past the hundred yard mark. Micah shook his head.

“It’s the club,” injected Sterling from the metal chair behind his green.

“You think?” blurted Micah with wide eyes and flush cheeks.

“Yeah. I’ve watched you hit everything. And I think you’re problem is mental. You smack that five iron over 150 but can’t get your two to play for you. I get it. Here, try my two iron.”

Micah stumbled over himself as he went to retrieve the club. And for the first time he looked his neighbor in the eyes. Sterling held the two iron out with his left hand while puffing on a cigar in his right. The old athlete was still in shape, his shoulders still broad, and his stare still intimidating.

“Hopefully, this works,” joked Micah.

“We’ll see,” quipped Sterling before adding, “Always forget your last shot. Good or bad, you don’t know what’s over the hill.”

Micah returned to his spot and dropped a ball to the turf. He took a few practice swings and instantly felt the difference. Sterling’s club was lighter, more balanced, and somehow easier to swing than his own. Then, after a quick prayer for a good rip, Micah fired the ball down the range, well past the two hundred sign. Sterling clapped and let out a triumphant puff of cigar smoke.

“Guess I need new clubs,” Micah joked still looking down range.

“Wouldn’t hurt. I know my game changed when I got the right clubs. Hit a few more if you like.” replied Sterling.

“Thanks. I will.”

As Sterling packed his clubs, Micah continued to take swings, falling ever more in love with Sterling’s clubs. And then Micah felt eyes on his neck and quickly returned the two iron to its owner.

“Thanks again. I’ve watched videos and asked for tips from everyone. No one thought it could my gear,” Micah offered as he handed the club over. Sterling nodded and wiped his brow and face with a towel. Then the two discussed all things golf. Micah nodded and took time answering questions, his attempt to restrain his excitement. The longer they talked the more Micah geeked out. Why was Sterling Blunt talking to me about golf, he wondered. His bag is on his shoulder and keys are in hand.

“I need to get going,” Sterling finally said. Offering his big hand, he added, “I’m Sterling, by the way.”

Cooly, Micah shook Sterling’s hand, “And I’m Micah. Nice to meet you.”

“For sure. I’m here a few days a week. Next time, come borrow a club or two. Until you get your own.”

For the rest of the summer into the fall, Micah and Sterling shagged balls at the driving range. A few days a week. They didn’t talk about Sterling’s career or Micah’s life after college. Neither invited the other out for dinner or a drink, though Sterling offered to buy Micah a beer at the range and Micah had to decline. Sterling laughed when he found out how young Micah was. And when the weather turned cold and rainy, the trips to the range stopped. As happens in life.

The last time Micah saw Sterling, the old man showed him a new putter, one of the new ones with a long shaft and big face. “I’ve cut down on my two and three putts. Now it’s more like ones and twos,” he proudly announced. Micah laughed at the size of the club, but didn’t question the results.

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Prompt Wednesday #3: War and Peace

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Prompt: A character finds an old journal in a thrift store and becomes obsessed with finding its owner. (I’m going to take some liberty with this prompt.)

Max sat at the small circular kitchen table and eyed the whiteboard on the side of the fridge. Then he smiled and fluttered his bushy eyebrows at Gina. Gina put her steaming cup of black coffee to her lips and blew on the steam. And without looking up, she asked, “Whadday want to do this morning? It’s your Saturday.” Max did not answer rather he choose to sit back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his chin. Gina set her coffee down and searched for Max’s free hand until she found it. He waited. The game would only last as long as he didn’t answer. Gina knew better, so she waited too. And after a pause that felt like minutes but was probably mere seconds, Gina sought to motivate her young husband as only a bride can.

“Whatever your choice, remember, I’ve got the shower for Lisa at three. And I need to be back here to wrap my gift and get my car.”

Max smiled again. The game was underway, and only he had the power to end it.

“It’s going to be hot. If we were gonna get outside, shoulda done it sooner,” he quipped to himself.

Silently, Gina approved but added no commentary. Max took a stab at the last of his scrambled eggs and shoved it into his mouth. The eggs were cold and limp as was the toast that followed. Should I keep it up, he wondered. She’s been such a good sport.

“Alright.” He said, finally giving in, and thus losing the game. Slapping the sides of his legs he continued, “Let’s go thrifting. To Cal’s books, then Goodwill, then wherever.”

Gina looked away while hiding her smile with her coffee cup. She’d won their weekly game of “Who’ll Break First,” but more importantly Max had chosen an activity they both enjoyed. She put her coffee down and found Max’s eyes with her own. And reaching out to Max, she took his hand and mouthed the words thank you. He nodded. “Let’s get going.”

After noon, Gina and Max spilled into their front room with bags full of cheap blue jeans, a beach painting for the guest bathroom, and old books. Max loved old books. And today he’d found several classics he’s yet to read: Catcher in the Rye, King Lear, and War and Peace.

“Can you hang the painting in the bathroom, above the toilet? While I’m gone,” asked Gina.

“Yes. I can. In fact, I’ll do it right now.”

Gina welled up as Max went to retrieve his tools.

A few minutes later, Max called out from the bathroom for Gina’s approval. The painting was straight and fit the room perfectly. Isn’t that wonderful, she thought. Then she reached out for Max and hugged him tight. And the couple stood and swayed for a moment. And for the first time in months, Gina didn’t want to go see the girls. And Max did not want her to leave.

When Gina left for the shower, Max let the peace wash over him. The counselor was right. What took years to break was now took years to fix. And despite the trial of the last year, mornings like this were more common than before, like little green shoots from the blackness. Max said a quick prayer of gratitude then grabbed his new used copy of War and Peace.

He turned the book over in his hands and tossed it a bit to feel the weight of it. The Tolstoy novel is famous but rarely read, mostly because of it’s length. Had Tolstoy existed in modern times, in the West, his masterpiece would’ve been divided into four books and five movies with costumed people lining at conventions for an autograph. Thankfully, Tolstoy was unburdened by shareholders and soundbite media. I hope this worth reading, Max thought.

He chose to sit in the brown overstuffed chair in the living room. The sun light poured into the room through the big bay windows, but where he sat was the perfect amount of natural light. And happy with his choice of seat, Max began a more thorough examination of the inside of the book, the front and back covers first. Nothing special. But then on the second blank page inside the front cover, was a note written in what looked to be Russian, spanning the entire page. The date in the upper right corner was written in standard European format (day, month, year.) And this note was written August 5th, 1968. Wow, thought Max. He quickly thumbed through the rest of the book for more. The fuzzy corners and dusty edges made the novel appear more used than it was. This book has never been read, Max concluded. And then, he remembered his neighbor Yergin.

Yergin was in sixties, having moved to the United States as a young child with his parents. Their path to California started with a clandestine car ride from Kiev to East Berlin. And the journey ended three months later in sunny Sacramento. Yergin was barely five, and thus was more American than Russian by the time he graduated high school. By the time he graduated from Chico State, he’d lost his accent altogether. Only when he said his name or when he was caught talking to his mother, did people hear it. Max had heard him on the phone at the July 4th cookout. And now, he wondered if Yergin could read Russian too.

Yergin was out in his garage tinkering on an old Volvo when Max announced himself.

“Hey Ginny, how’s it looking?”

“Ah, Max, how are ya? The alternator is shot and it probably needs a new exhaust manifold,” replied as he leaned away from the car and began to clean his greasy hands on a rag.

“I wish I knew more about cars. Seems like a manly thing.”
”Me too,” laughed Yergin. “What can I do you for?”

Ordinarily, Max would play the polite game before getting down to business, but Yergin didn’t need smalltalk.

“I bought a copy of War and Peace.”
”Oh? Did you read it?”

“Yes, well. No. I mean, I am,” answered Max, trying too hard to be honest.

“What I mean is, I was just about to start reading it when I found an inscription on an inside flap. I believe the note is in Russian. When you have a second, could you read it and tell me what it says? Not right now, but whenever.”

Yergin stuffed the rag into his back pocket and lit a cigarette. Then he leaned against the Volvo and looked as though he might speak. He started and stopped several times, motioning his hand with each attempt. Max thought the scene was both comical and dramatic.

“What are the odds you found an english copy of War and Peace with a Russian inscription?” he finally asked.

“Low? I guess. What are you getting at?”

“It’s nothing. Just a thought. Let’s get a look at your book. Bring it over, I’ll clean my hands while you’re gone.”

Five minutes later, Max found Yergin on a wooden bench on his front porch, puffing away on a cigarette. And as soon as Max began to hand over the novel, Yergin’s face drained and Max felt the wind blow at his back. Yergin tamped his cigarette out on the concrete slab beneath his seat and tossed the butt into a bucket. And he clutched the novel with both hands. Max sat down beside his neighbor and remained quiet. At first, Yergin sat there, the book still in his hands, held at chest level. Then Yergin turned to Max with wide eyes and shallow breath. And though it wasn’t dirty, Yergin wiped the cover and set the book in his lap. He let his head sink and he stared at the object like a lost treasure.

“It can’t be.” he whispered as tears formed in his eyes.

Max remained quiet and focused.

Slowly, Yergin turned the front cover to the blank first page and then to the second. A visible shiver shot through him and he raised his hands in surrender. And then, just barely aloud, “It is.” Then the old man took out his spectacles, flattened the page with his left hand, and began to read. “Privet, syn. My tebya ochen' lyubim.” Yergin closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

With tears streaming down his face, he turned to Max. “This is for me. From my dad. He gave me this copy for my sixteenth birthday. I never read it. I’ve never read these words.”

Max didn’t know what to say. “Good. Right?” he said, hedging his bet.

“Oh yes, Max. Very good. Do you mind if I keep it for a little while. I want to read the rest of the note. Alone.”

Max nodded and placed his hand on Yergin’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need, brother. No explanations needed.”

“Thank you,” whispered Yergin as he dried his eyes and lit another cigarette.

Max nodded once more and got up to walk home. Can’t wait to tell Gina about this. She’ll love it. And as Max was about to step off the porch, Yergin caught him by the hand. Max turned to see Yergin’s snotty yet stern face glaring up at him. Max sat back down on the edge of the bench and waited for Yergin to speak.

“Don’t ignore the people you love, Max. This book, this note from my parents to me, is a gift. A true gift, in my old age. But it’s not normal. Write the notes and read the notes. You understand?”

Max nodded and fought back the swell in his chest.

“Do you?” asked Yergin again, more for emphasis.

“Yes.” replied Max and as he eased off the bench.

Back in his brown chair, Max was overcome thinking about Yergin and his parents. And then, for a long stretch, he thought about Gina, his lovely wife. He thought about how he loved her and hated her. How she looked in sweatpants and knew when he needed a real massage. How she made excuses for being late and rolled her eyes when he mentioned it. And he concluded he loved and hated the important people in his life at one point or another. Probably the way real love works, he thought. And then he thought once more about Yergin and his parents. And with a laugh he whispered to the himself “write the notes and read the notes.”

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Short #5: Life of a Gamecock

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Write a story about a fandom…

Clayton was born in Sumter, South Carolina to Harper and William Marion on a warm spring morning. And the first photo of the moment shows the boy dressed in a white onesie, a big garnet and black block C on his chest and the word “Gamecocks” above it. Months later, and before he could walk, he’d already begun to spend fall Saturdays in the gravel parking lots across from Williams-Brice Stadium. And not long after, when Clayton began to talk, William liked to brag that among his son’s first words were “Go Cocks.” 

And so Clayton was indoctrinated into the world of all things Garnet and Black. He could never remember making a choice to be a Gamecock, mostly because his loyalty to the university and its teams was never presented as a choice. His great grandfather played for the school back in the leather helmet days. His grandfather was president of Sigma Epsilon. And his father held two degrees from the school. And like all the Marion’s before him, William met his wife to be at a fall mixer. 

What did not give Clayton incentive to scream and sing and hope were the teams’ performances. Throughout the years, season after season, Clayton learned to whisper the hopeful words all Gamecocks recite after each and every heart break: Wait ‘til next season. It is this disconnect of loyalty from performance which empowers the poor bastards to suffer failure and loss. 

For Clayton, his loyalty began to fray his freshman year in Columbia. After watching the football team sustain an unusual run of success the previous three seasons, the Gamecocks slipped back to mediocrity under the guidance of a has-been coach. The has-been quit halfway through the season which ended in another defeat to their rivals from the upstate, the Clemson Tigers.

Later that evening back in Sumter, Clayton and his best friend Chandler drowned their disappointment in a twelve pack of Natty Light. And they examined the game and the season as all fanatics do, searching for blame and hope. 

“We’ll get a good coach, Clay. Wait till next year,” offered Chandler, half cynically half serious. 

“Huh?,” shot back Clayton. 

“Whadda mean, huh? I said we’ll land a good coach.”

“No, the other thing.”

“What? Wait till next year? Come on man. You know that’s our motto.”

“Yeah, I know it. Wait till next year…” Clayton let the words hang in the air for a long second before continuing. “Thing is, next year never comes.”

“Dude, stop. Don’t be a sad drunk.”

“I’m not, I–”

“Yes, you are. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this nonsense. You know I’m right. You’re just gonna regret it in the mornin’.” 

Clayton looked out his bedroom window, into the black November air, took another swallow of beer and turned back to Chandler, “Aren’t you tired of losing?” Chandler knew it was a question deeper and more sincere than any produced by alcohol. 

“Yeah, man. I am. I get it. But we don’t change who we are because we lose. I believe we’ll win one day and it’ll make all this suffering worth it. Think about it. Wouldn’t you love to rub it in your cousin Brandon’s face, that smug orange hillbilly’s face. It’ll happen. And you’ll be glad you stuck with it when it does.”

Chandler’s faith and logic made sense, from a fan’s point for view. And Clayton lacked the energy to continue the debate. “Yeah, man. It’ll be awesome,” he finally relented. And the friends went down the stairs to munch on leftover Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing. 

True to their nature, within weeks of the end of another terrible campaign, hope began to sprout on the Carolina campus. A new coach revived the spirits of the faithful and Clayton allowed himself to dream once more. He even engaged in a bit of trash talk with his cousin Brandon at the lake one July afternoon. From under the shelter he yelled, “Don’t feed him momma, not till he takes off that tacky orange hat.” Then, turning to Brandon he asked, “Why do you insist on wearing that crap around here? You know we’re all garnet and black.”

Brandon smiled and stepped to Clayton's side, close enough to make him uncomfortable, “What? Don’t like being reminded who runs this state?” 

“Pff. If we had y’alls cupcake of a schedule…”

And then, for the rest of the afternoon, the boys exchanged the tired salvos heard often between rivals, where nothing is settled or meant to be. 

When the fall semester started, hope filled the campus and students. A new coach will do that. And by October, the Gamecocks were a miserable 2-4. And though he said nothing, Clayton began to ask bigger questions about his loyalty to a school and a team, questions a man isn’t allowed to ask. After the loss to Georgia, he began to find reasons to skip home games. The UMass game started too early, he told his parents. The following week he decided he was sick. And for the Tennessee game, he invented a girlfriend- a lie that satisfied both parents and friends. 

What made that particular season awful were the needling, shit-talking texts from Brandon. Clemson was winning, and winning a lot. And Clayton knew the rivalry game after Thanksgiving was going to be a blood-bath. And, just as he’d always done, he’d have to watch the slaughter like the faithful idiot he was. This bothered Clayton and the questions lingering in his mind became loud and demanded to be answered.

Hoping for a better scene, Clayton opted to watch the game with Chandler alone in his living room instead of the family gathering on the other side of Sumter. The two made pimento cheese and ham sandwiches and polished off a six pack of cheap beer prior to kickoff. Chandler predicted an upset for the Gamecocks. Clayton nodded but made no such prophecy.

Then the misery commenced. After the first quarter, the score was 21-0, Clemson. 35-0 at the half. And ended with a final score of 56-7. The game wasn’t as close as the score. As the final second fell off the clock, and two friends sat on the couch in silent despair, the TV flickering on their faces.  

“Glad I brought this,” quipped Chandler as he revealed a handle of Jack Daniels previously hidden in his backpack. Clayton grinned for a moment and nodded his approval. Soon they were passing the bottle back and forth, diving deeper into a whiskey stupor. 

Chandler knew better than to talk about the game, and put his drunken mind to work searching for safe topics of conversation. 

“Whadda wanna do tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow? Hell, I dunno. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s get back to campus early and go to the river walk, the Cayce side. It’s better. Less people.”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe I can meet that girl you’re seeing?”

“Girl I’m seeing?”

“Yeah. The one you sat with for the Tennessee–” Chandler caught himself and went quiet. In less than a few seconds he’d broken his own rule. And though he knew to avoid talking football after defeat, he could not have anticipated what came next. Clayton began to laugh a deep guttural laugh. He doubled over then snapped his head back. At first, Chandler was relieved, then Clayton answered.

“There’s no fucking girl, hommie. Never was. I made her up so I didn’t have to go to the game.”

Chandler was stunned as Clayton continued.

“Matter fact, I’m done.”

“Alright Clay, chill out.”

“Fuck you, chill out. I’m serious. I’m tired of being loyal to this school. I didn’t choose them and they sure as shit ain’t doing a thing for me.”

“Careful now,” Chandler warned. “You can’t take some things back.”

“Ok, mister wannabe attorney, let me ask you a question or two,” Clayton said as he stumbled to his feet and paced back and forth like a courtroom lawyer.

“When did you decide you were going to be a Gamecock? When did you decide you were going to that school? Can you remember?” Chandler had no answer. Like Clayton, he was always a Gamecock. He didn’t see it as choice, rather a way of life- as part of his family as Christmas or barbecue. The following silence between the friends was long and uncomfortable. The questions Clayton asked were about more than football or a university. They were about a culture and the only way they knew how to live. Finally Chandler responded.

“You’re right Clayton. I didn’t choose this. We didn’t choose this. It was passed to us by people who love us as it was passed to them, I think. What were they supposed to do?” Clayton felt and then dismissed the compassion in his friend’s question. “Just because I was born a Gamecock doesn’t mean I have to stay a Gamecock.” 

“True. Very true. But what’ll people say Clay?”

“That I’m smart and can tell a winner from a loser.”

“Not around here they won’t. You know that. They’ll question your integrity, your honor.”

“My honor? What is this? War? Are we at war? Are you telling me 80,000 idiots show up to that shitty stadium seven Saturdays a year because they are too scared to admit it’s a waste?’

At that exact moment, both boys' eyes grew wide at the sound of creaking floor boards. Though they couldn’t tell which one made the noise, it had to be made by either William or Harper. And Clayton felt a shock rippled through his chest as he waited for the worst. “Rough game tonight, eh?” panned William from the direction of the noise, coming closer as he spoke. 

“Yes sir. Lousy game to end the year on,” Chandler responded as quickly as he could then immediately regretted speaking first. Clayton panicked and kept silent. Then William took another step into the room. And now both boys could see Mr Marion’s face in the flicker of the blue TV light. And he was somber as a cemetery as he stared directly at his son. 

Indeed, the old man had heard his son and he was angry, yet he understood. There’s nothing easy or fun about being devoted to a team so undeserving as the South Carolina Gamecocks. William knew the frustration of devotion more than his son did. And William knew his son too. He knew when his son had thought long and deep about a thing. And so he stood in the dimly lit room with two drunkards, and searched his heart for wisdom.

“Yep,” he began. “Today was as bad as it gets. But before I get to outta here, let me set you straight on something. For some people, it’s a tradition or an identity. For me, I love my school because I decided to love my school. Whatever comes. Same way I decided to love your mother and you. Even when you’re drunk and cussing in my house. And I’m going to keep on loving my wife and my son and my school. No matter what. Because, I’m committed. You hear me?”

“Yes sir,” whispered Clayton, his heart now beginning to slow, though still thumping in his ears while Chandler remained as still as a statue.

“Good. Before you get to bed, pour out the rest of that bottle and drink plenty of water. Being a Gamecock is a rough life. The bottle won’t help.”

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Short #5: Cracked Lives

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I strolled into Kennedy Fried Chicken off West Boulevard late on a Friday night and stared at the menu above the cash register. I tried not to notice the various people staring at me. Kennedy Fried Chicken did not have a lot of white customers and the Pakistani owner seemed confused by my presence. He took my order with a whisper and kept an eye on the door. A few moments later I strolled back out of the cramped shop with a bag of hot chicken and a few biscuits.

Before I reached my car, a smiling and tall middle-aged black man called to me from the sidewalk. He wanted a piece of chicken and I didn’t think twice as I reached into the bag for a leg. A beat later, I felt a hand reach into the front right pocket of my shorts. I quickly jammed my free hand into the same pocket and spun around to greet my intruder. The unwelcome hand belonged to a squat, black lady with short hair and blood-shot eyes.

“What are you doing?!”

“Gimme my money!”

“What?! No!”

“Just give her the money man,” advised the man.

My heart began to race as what was happening began to dawn on me. Ok, Nik, who’ve been setup. They saw your wad of cash you idiot(from waiting tables.) They are working together. Do they have a weapon? I saw no gun, no knife, or piece of broken glass, and thus I refused to give up my earnings.

“She’s crazy man, just give her the money,” repeated the man now walking toward me.

“Fuck off,” I shot back as I began pull myself and my assailant- both of our hands still in my pocket- toward the door of the chicken shop.

“Gimme my money BOY!”

I said nothing as we inched closer to my goal. It was at this point that the man realized I was not a soft white boy- an easy target- and things might get messy. So, he changed tact.

“Let go!” He screamed at his partner.

“HE OWES ME MONEY FOR A TRICK!” she barked, the man now just a few feet away.

A trick? Did she really just imply that I entered into a pay-for-sex agreement with her?

“I’ve never seen you in my life,” I whispered to myself as I used my free hand to open the door, the intoxicated woman still clinging to my tips.

The obviously more sober man raised the stakes and now threatened his friend, “Bitch, you better let him go!” And he raised his right hand into a fist.

At this, she finally let go and ran up away. But, I didn’t see in which direction because I bolted into the shop.

Over the next hour I repeated my story for the cops and waited while they tried to gather witness statements. (In truth, close to ten people witnessed the event, but none were willing to speak up, including the Pakistani shop owner. That reality, the hood reality, hit me hard but I understood. The shop owner had a business to run and the other witnesses were probably known personalities in the neighborhood. Any statement to the cops would be interpreted as betrayal leading to consequences that far outweighed the benefits.) For my part, I clearly and accurately described my attacker. And, in seconds they were able to find her file in the CMPD database.

“This her?” They asked as they turned the laptop toward me.

Indeed it was her. Short hair, angry scowl, and bloodshot eyes.

“Yep, that’s her,” I answered as I continued to stare at her file, the number 76 popping off the screen.

“Excuse me, officer?”

“Yea?”

“Has this lady really been arrested 76 times?”

“Yep.”

“May I?”

“Sure.”

And I began to scroll throw her rap sheet.

Possession of a controlled substance.

Possession of crack cocaine.

Assault.

Soliciting.

Robbery…

I couldn’t believe my eyes at the volume and frequency of her criminal activity. And, for the second time, the truth appeared. This lady, this attacking cracked-out mugger, was a hopeless drug addict. She’d become a one woman crime spree. And I felt myself begin to sink into despair.

“Y’all need anything else from me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ok,” I replied, ready to be anywhere else than standing on the sidewalk in front of Kennedy Fried Chicken.

“But,” quipped one of the officers. “I wouldn’t come around here again, if I were you,” he said in firm but quiet voice- his tone communicating both the gravity of his advice while keeping it between us. I nodded my agreement.

From the safety of my car and out of sight of the shop, I let my tears flow. The whole scene was bullshit, a far cry from the vision the Lord had when He created our universe.

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Vol II: #60 Short Stories

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Today, and almost completely by accident, I wrote a short story. My goal was to write fiction for ten minutes, what I thought would be the beginning of a short story. Ten minutes quickly turned into and hour and twenty minutes. The beginning was slow and clunky but the words poured from my fingers by the end. The experience was exhilarating.

I’m certain a seasoned writer or college professor would rip Mr. Brown’s Apples to shreds. I don’t care. This story isn’t about being good, but about the doing. Soon, I’ll join a writers group, where I’ll share my writing. In that forum, I expect to be sharpened and pushed. Today was about starting the next phase of my writing history: fiction.

So, from here on out and in addition to poems and blog posts, I will publish short stories.

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