Costa Rica

The Day Before the Incident

She was sweet-faced, silver-haired, virtually imperturbable as plump fingers turned the pages of her mystery novel every afternoon on the bus going downtown. The roughnecks would laugh a little too loud and their chicks would howl at most of what they said as if they were dating the world’s top comedians. Occasionally, they disturbed other passengers, but the old doll never seemed to notice.

Leonard silently fumed. He had never been like that as a youth. Sure, he had done some bad things, but never in an ostentatious way. He wondered why the bus driver didn’t stop the bus and throw them off when they got like that. He had to know what to expect. They were daily passengers – a little too old for school, but more than likely not working yet – piking off the parents, no doubt – and Leonard had seen a couple of them boarding through the back door when the bus was crowded, fare-beaters and acting haughty because it was too easy.

One morning, he was sitting beside the woman. He glanced down at her book, and took in the words, “…and then you stole into her room and took advantage of the situation, didn’t you, Mr. Dodd?” before looking away. A Christie or some such, it suited her. She looked the type.

“Do they bother you?” she asked.

“Excuse me.”

“I only ask because you look as if you’re ready to boil over.”

“They’re punks. For two cents, I’d…”

“They’re just kids. We were kids. Could anybody tell you anything when you were that age?”

“I never provoked people just for the sake of trying to amuse my friends.”

“I see.” She went back to reading and didn’t say anything more until the bus had reached her stop. Then, she excused herself to pass Leonard. As she did, she said, “By the way, my name is Martha. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She got off the front and walked westward. She was not too far from the bus when one of the roughnecks stuck his head out the window and called out, “See you tomorrow Martha.”

When Leonard glared at him, the kid said, “Oh sorry, man, I don’t want to step on your toes. She’s a little old for me anyway.”

Leonard said, “Don’t you have any respect for your elders?”

But the kid pointed to his chest where his tee shirt said in capital letters QUESTION AUTHORITY.

“Smart ass,” Leonard said.

The kid laughed. His friends laughed. Their girlfriends laughed.

Leonard had never enjoyed being the butt of a joke. In days gone by that kind of thing would have been enough for him to take some action. He promised himself if he ever came up against this punk while he was alone, he’d make him sorry for laughing.

The kid sealed his fate when Leonard got off the bus on 34th Street and the kid wolf-whistled through the window at him. He did not turn around as the bus continued on its way toward the Village, but he could hear the sounds of laughter drifting away.

The incident did not phase him so much out in the free air. He guessed he should be thankful to the kids for one thing. His response to their activity had caused the old doll to break the ice and start talking to him. He thought she must have been a stunner at one time, and not so very long ago. He was reminded how he himself used to be quite the ladies man and never found it difficult to make small talk. What was it about this dame that unsettled him? He had watched her reading every day for the last month without ever screwing up enough courage to start a conversation. He was losing his touch, no doubt, and he was only fifty-nine.

He figured she might have a couple of years on him, but she kept herself in good shape – the stylish hairdo was silver-white in a way that doesn’t occur naturally, and the way she just let the noise and bother flow past her – he guessed he envied her calm, so lacking in his own character.



The next morning, when he got on the bus, she was sitting in a seat by a window, but someone was already seated next to her. He tipped his hat when she looked up and she smiled.

A few of the kids got on two stops later, but not the wiseguy. He and his girlfriend came onboard three stops further down. It was not intentional, not really, but Leonard’s foot was a little too far out in the aisle, and the big kid tripped over it. His friends laughed as he almost fell. Righting himself, he did look a little foolish. When he screwed up his mouth in annoyance, his friends stopped laughing immediately.

Leonard said, “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Intentional, or not, Leonard had set up the situation. They were now enemies. Rather than taking one of the empty seats in back, the tough stood over him. In any case, the bus was soon crowded and there were no available seats. The tough crooked his leg slightly and pressed his thick knee into Leonard’s bony thigh, who couldn’t move away because the man sitting in the window seat was so huge he was taking up a seat and a half.

When his thigh started to throb, Leonard said, “Do you mind?”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” said the kid imitating Leonard, “But if you weren’t sitting next to Fatso, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hey,” said the other man.

“Watch it, kid,” Leonard said, “You’re going a little too far.”

“I’m going to the Village. Where are you going?” the kid said. “Shouldn’t you be in a nursing home?”

“The hell you say. I’m old enough to be your father.”

“My point exactly,” said the kid, “We put the old man in a home as soon as he started getting feeble like you.”

“Feeble? Why you punk,” Leonard said. He raised himself with some difficulty and backhanded the kid across his jaw, forgetting that he was wearing a signet ring, and regretting his action immediately. The kid’s face was knocked sideways. He lost his grip on the overhead bar and fell into the people behind him. Through the gap, Leonard saw Martha looking at him. She was not smiling. Before the kid was on his feet again, the bruise was already in evidence.

The driver called out, “What the hell, is going on back there?”

“You’re dead,” the kid said to Leonard. “You’re dead, old man.”

The driver pulled the bus to a stop, and coming back through the passengers, he soon discovered the source of the ruckus. He was a big man and said, “Kid, you’d better get off here and take another bus.”

The kid didn’t argue with him, but as he exited, he said with a smirk, “You should’ve warned your boyfriend not to mess with us, Martha.”

That was too much and Leonard started towards the exit also, but he felt a tugging on his jacket. It was Martha and she was shaking her head. He looked at the kids getting off and he looked back at her. Several options were crossing his mind. The other passengers were staring at him. He was not even thinking of the next day.

Monterrey

These Shoes (I Dare You Challenge)

This week Jo Prescott’s I Dare You challenge at her site JM Prescott - A Reader's World came in the form of clothing..."Clothing can set the scene as certainly as a wedding dress, predict plot like a ski mask and laytex gloves, or reveal character like chaps and spurs."
Herewith, my response to the challenge:

These Shoes

These shoes have walked all over London. They have traversed Bermuda and the Bahamas. They have climbed to the caldera in the Azores and stood atop Gibraltar. They have walked all through the worst parts of Lisbon until they made my feet ache, and some of the best parts of Hamburg, where again my feet were hurting at day’s end. In Barcelona, they walked a good part of las Ramblas. They have stood on the tarmac at the little airport a short distance from the edge of the Pyrenees and taken me through olive groves and parks where flamingoes danced and balanced on one leg. They, these shoes, not the flamingoes, helped me walk all around Las Vegas to take in everything there was to see and do for free, and because my feet were sore, I credit them with keeping me from losing more than $40.US in those oh-so prevalent slots. I did pick up another pair in Denver, but they’re really the same shoes, and at the end of the month they will take me back to Costa Rica.

These shoes have walked the decks of many ships and the aisles of dozens of airplanes. They have gotten me to airports early and to church late. They have guided me through shopping malls and into cinemas and across the streets of New York City against the light. They have walked me from the Battery to Harlem, from Sutton Place to the Chelsea Piers, from somewhere to no place. These shoes have walked me from childhood to my maturity.

These shoes are my guide. They are brogues. They are sandals, boots and loafers. I have walked a mile in another man’s moccasins and returned home in these shoes. They wait under my bed to greet me in the morning and take me to new places and the same old places. They can get there without a map. They have marked the mileage and taken into account my weariness. These shoes will never fail me. They are ruby slippers and if I click the heels together three times and wish solemnly for something, well, you know where that will get me. I have not yet been to Kansas, but I understand we all wind up there one day.

I have never drunk champagne from a woman’s shoe nor has any drunk from mine but the possibility is not ruled out.

Every so often, I remove these shoes and flex my toes on a sandy beach or swim in a pool or bathe, but for more hours of the day than I have them off, I have them on. The natural condition of my feet, it would seem, is to be inside these shoes. Sometimes I wonder why we have made the earth so hard and dangerous a place to walk barefoot that these shoes are more a necessity than a whim.

I am attached to these shoes, and have contributed to the fortunes amassed by men like Thom McAn and Mr. Florsheim, if there was such a person, and if there was, he must have been very attached to his shoes. Why else dedicate his life to providing them for so many others. He had not much work convincing people they needed their shoes. Everybody takes this for granted here in the first and second worlds. We are working on those in the third world, getting them to see the necessity of shoes.

Someday, everybody in the world will admit how much they are attached to shoes. Then, we will work on hats.

© Michael D. Brown 2010

52 Pick-Up

Open publication

Evelyn's Club

I asked Evelyn if I could go for the Property and Casualty Insurance broker's license and she said yes. She said, "I'm always happy when someone wants to try to move themselves along. Look at Solmari."

I was looking at people like Solmari. I was hired as a wordprocessor in the Personal Lines department at a time when the the only person they had typing documents was 62-year-old Betty. Betty had been a typist and recently learned how to use a computer to get wordprocessing done. She wasn't interested in learning much more than that and she knew she would be retired shortly after the transition. I came on board with more experience in electronic document processing and at 26 years younger than Betty, I was only thinking about advancing from the position to something with more prestige. Betty was a nice woman. She would say to me, "You know kiddo, with your abilities, you're gonna go places."

Now five and a half years into the job, with Betty long retired, I was still pushing paper around and typing letters. True, I had formulated macros and found other ways to make the job move faster but in response the company felt free to take on more and more clients and to increase the volume of business they handled for the existing clients without taking on more staff to handle the associated chores and grunt work.

Solmari and a couple of others were hired early on, around the time Betty was forced into her retirement. Her chemotherapy and doctor visits required too much off-time. Solmari came on as an Account Assistant, but was pleasant to look at, never argued with anyone and took the broker's course. Within a year she was given 100 accounts of her own to handle. Admittedly, they were not the big money clients, but it was a short trip up the ladder to a titled position. For her, that is, she fit into the club. The others came and went.

Now me, it's just possible I was too good at my job. I don't think there was ever any chance for me to step onto that ladder. I wasn't exactly argumentative, but I did question Evelyn a few times about the workload. When I asked about taking the course, and she answered in the affirmative, I thought at last, we were putting our differences behind us.

I discovered sometimes when people say yes, what they really mean is, "I'll agree to anything within reason to keep you from rocking the boat. It doesn't mean I'll even consider letting you get near the steering compartment." A year after I had my license, and let me tell you, that stuff was difficult to learn, I was still a glorified typist.

It was only when some of the staff, disgruntled and feeling underpaid, left, and Evelyn needed to come up with a solution in a hurry that she begrudgingly allowed me to assist one of the overworked Account Executives with her clients. She still wanted me to act as head word processor while I tried to handle a second duty which actually required more than the eight hours in a working day to complete.

I tried to juggle the two positions for a year and then gave notice. It was too much. The thing was, I had a fair amount of prestige as the wordprocessor. Quite a few people depended on me. When I left and checked back after a couple months, I learned five different people had drifted in and out of the two jobs I was trying to handle at the end.

This was one of those times when someone saying yes proved not to be a positive thing. I was reaching beyond my capabilities and if Evelyn had been a good manager she would have let me know right off the bat, in a subtle way, of course, that I would never be allowed to join her club when my prior affiliations were so set in place. She could have pointed out my lack of enthusiasm. She could have told me I was good at some things, but probably would not be able to handle the volume of another position. Or she could have just said, "No." I'd probably still be working there today. Grumbling, complaining about the unfairness of it all and producing all those beautiful documents.

London / Hamburg

Brighton

Lunchtime by the School of English

Hamburg: Wouldn't mind living here...

Hamburg: Suffering

Hamburg

Back on Herbrand Street after 15 Years

The London Eye

God Is in the Details

The sign says the next ferry will leave Staten Island at 6:20.
Matt says, “There’s so much to do when we get home.”
“Hey, we don’t have to worry about that until Thursday,” Alejandro says.
“I was talking about my apartment, not Mexico. Since we’ve been up here, it’s a mess.”
“Ay, you worry too much. There’s time enough to straighten up everything.”
A shabbily dressed woman, hair unkempt, standing at a phone kiosk about ten feet away suddenly, repeatedly slams the receiver against the phone. Bang, bang, bang. She tosses the receiver and leaves it dangling.
Somewhere a child is calling “Mama, mama,” or could that be a voice coming from the telephone?
A man is holding a black book from which he’s reading aloud, "At that time many will fall away and will betray one another and hate one another."
The woman retrieves her two shopping bags from where she’d left them at the end of the bench on which Matt and Alejandro are sitting.
“You know it’s true,” she says, looking at Matt.
“Don’t start with me, lady,” he says.
“Matt, she’s obviously upset about something,” Alejandro says. “What’s the matter, señora?”
“Fuck you,” she says, “Why don’t you go back to Puerto Rico where you came from?” She walks away from them but keeps looking over her shoulder as if she is afraid they might follow.
“Hey, I’m Mexican,” Alejandro calls out.
Matt says, “When you’ve been here enough times and seen enough things, you’ll know better than to try to help one of these crazies.”
The man with the book continues reading aloud, "For if we go on sinning willfully after receiving the knowledge of the truth..."
The woman drops her bags and pulls out newspaper sheets. She crumples them and throws them at the man with the book.
Unfazed, he continues preaching salvation, "...there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, but a terrifying expectation of judgement and the fury of a fire which will consume the adversaries."
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she shouts at him, “Shut up and go to hell.”
Matt says, “You know you left a sinkful of dishes last night and your clothes are all over my apartment. I’m thinking we should have stayed at a hotel.”
“Ay, ay, ay. I’ll wash the dishes and pick my things up. What’s up with you?”
The woman, still shouting and accosting the preacher, has drawn the attention of a policeman.
“C’mon, lady, knock it off,” he says. “Let’s go and leave the nice man alone.”
“But he keeps talking that Jesus shit,” she protests.
The policeman reaches for her elbow.
“Don’t touch me,” she wails, “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
“All right then, move it along. You too,” he says to the preacher. “Take it somewhere else.”
The man starts walking. Without looking in his book, he continues “For it would be better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than having known it, to turn away..."
The big doors slide open. Before everyone has come off the ferry, the waiting people start rushing through the exiting crowd, to board.
"It has happened to them according to the true proverb, ‘A dog returns to its own vomit,’ and, ‘A sow, after washing, returns to wallowing in the mire.’"
“Time to go,” Matt says.
As they pass the phone kiosk, Alejandro takes the dangling receiver and puts it to his ear. “Hello,” he says, “Hello?” He shakes his head then puts the receiver back in the cradle.

The MuDJoB Story

A Look Backward: TecIngles (pre-MuDJoB)

Open publication

We Can Still Be Friends

-So it has come to this, Elaine said. To think we only began dating four months ago.
-All good things have to end, Turner said.
But this stopped being a good thing weeks ago. She was filing her nails and looked up from under hooded eyes.
-Do you want your key back now or can you wait until next week? In any case, you'll have to wait. I left it in my desk drawer at the office.
-Why's that? He looked at her hand. Short choppy nails. He couldn't see the evidence of all her attentions. She smelled nice though. He thought it was lilacs. Real lilacs; not a chemical mix.
-When I was coming over, I would come straight from the gym after work. I just never brought the key home after that last time I went straight to work from your place.
-Why do you think we soured on each other, Turner asked, I mean in that way? Do you think we can still be friends?
-Sure, we can be friends. Hand me that little bottle will you?
How he hated the color she was applying to her nails. It made them look as if she had clawed him with them and the cuticles had filled with blood. He could feel heat and welts along his arms. He rubbed his right arm with his left hand.
A smile played on her lips. -Cold, she asked. -You can turn off the air conditioning. I just turn it on when it feels stuffy in here. Her apartment was crowded with furniture. Much more than a single woman needed. On the radio, Roger Miller sang, -Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let, fifty cents. No phone, no food , no pets...
-Do you mind if I smoke, Turner asked.
-I'd rather you didn't, if you're going to turn off the air conditioning, Elaine said.
-I'll leave it on, he said, -I'm not cold anyway. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply then turned his head to one side so as not to exhale the smoke all over her. After that he turned to her to smile and to see if she had appreciated his gesture, but she was preoccupied with painting her pinkie nail.
-So it's come to this, she said, and held out one finished hand.
He thought she was admiring how the light bounced off her red, red nails. They were very shiny.

Published at CJT's wordvamp

My story Intimations: Black Velvet versus Ebony was published as a guest writer at CJT's wordvamp.
CJT (Nicole Hirschi) is a fine writer herself, and a good friend. We are currently (for months now) partnering on a novelette in six-sentence episodes, tentatively titled Caitlin and Mathias.

Intimations: Black Velvet vs. Ebony

When lights are on, and I close my eyes, I see black velvet. When I close my eyes in the dark I see blackness opaque as ebony. In both instances, I'm well aware things exist which I cannot make out, but behind the velvet I surmise these things have rounded contours. In the blackest black I am afraid if I brush against something, I may receive a bruise from its sharp edges. In that instance I am more likely to remain motionless. In the velvet there is poetry, as if only definition has disappeared. In the other instance, time may have passed, and I am more concerned with what may have occurred and less with exploration. In the velvet the darkness seeps into me and is immediate. The ebony surrounds me and is infinite. When I experience the velvet it is usually out of choice. Contrition and awareness are only a blink away. Otherwise, it makes no difference and sorry seems unattainable. Fear is pervasive. The velvet comes often. It is a trifle. The ebony is always behind the door. It is the door. Once it slams, opening it takes some doing. In the end, for everyone, forever, as we have no choice, is jet black ebony, the blackest black. Starless and eternal night wins. No one has ever broken even. All lose, one at a time, each and every one. For those who await their turn, closing their eyes and experiencing momentary velvet; trying to recall the lost, snatching a fragment here, a memory there, the light returns, and the darkness recedes. It, too, waits. For its winning is ineluctable, inevitable and complete. It comes when it will. As if it knows resistance is futile. Do not go gentle... But go you must—eventually.

She has recently begun featuring work by other writers on her blog, including Jeffrey S. Callico, Salvatore Buttaci, Edward Dean, Michael J. Solender, Richard Godwin, and Lee Hughes, and I am pleased to be among their company.

A Union Contract

Who stole the money and from whom was it taken?
After Mr. Canaan was dead his widow and her lawyer opened his safety deposit boxes and inside discovered over two million dollars and a few Tai Chi videotapes.
The lawyer claimed Mr. Canaan was a gambler and had won the money at Atlantic City over a period of years and had stowed it away. He said one of the bundles was bound by a tape with the insignia from one of the casinos. Mrs. Canaan said she was unaware that her husband had been such a heavy gambler, but it must have been so because on finding the money she saw several casino binders. She mentioned the names of several.
Sherri Palatnik, a chronic junior executive, said she was not surprised. She had always thought something was amiss but she wouldn't elaborate. Later under oath in front of a grand jury, she denied having any knowledge whatsoever. In fact she denied having implied that rumors had reached her ears.
None of the partners of the law firm would give the goods on any other. Even those who had retired and were granted immunity refused to implicate any former coworkers. Each who came to testify fidgeted and appeared uncomfortable when the employee expense accounts were read out once again.
The Union had changed leaders a couple of times since Mr. Canaan's tenure. So none of the officers who came to speak could say much with any conviction.
The only thing that was a certainty, was that after the election in which Mr. Canaan lost his position, the law firm handling the Union's legal requirements was dropped in favor of another, not entirely different, firm. Many of the lawyers moved to the new firm. They were familiar with the Union members' needs.
In the end, the district attorney's assistant failed to make his case so it was a moot point as to how the money arrived in the safety deposit boxes. Mrs. Canaan was two million dollars richer, minus her attorney's fees of course.
And the old law firm which was paying a pension to the retired partner who had been a long-time friend of the deceased? They walked away quietly licking their wounds and hoped to rebuild their good name. They really did not need the bad publicity a trial would have brought on them.
These are rough times. Everyone says the stock market is due for a correction, in which case even privately held companies will suffer. Buying Union contracts could prove prohibitive under the new economy.

When I Was Young

Once, when I was young and immortal, I was cruel and immoral. I walked an endless highway. I was infatuated with what I was capable of doing. It did not bother me to see someone with tears. Well, it didn't bother me much.
When I was green, I laughed more of the time and saw humor in misfortune because I did not know enough to realize one day misfortune would visit me.
When I erred I denied it. When I succeeded, I gloated. I became bloated with my own complacency. I carried the laurel wreath long after it had dried and withered and revisited my past glory as if it were something fresh and new. I fully expected those around me awaited something from me which was fresh and new and I tried to pass off the stale remnants as such. No one ever accused me of begging for compliments, though if they had, it might have awakened me.
Once, when I was sleeping safely in the past, my tomorrows lacked the urgency I feel in them today.
When tomorrows were countless, I thought I would always have my friends and that I would have acquaintances for almost as long. Now the future feels like a finite possibility and probability lessens. There are days I walk alone.
When the days began to grow shorter, my attention was drawn to jesting matters. I played a waiting game, for there was no necessity to rush to checkmate. There were options aplenty and if none appealed there was the option to create more, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will, but self-fulfillment is a well bound to run dry. The days grew shorter and now I feel the loss of hours, not merely moments. The scales measuring the past against the future have been tipped in favor of the former.
Once, when I did not state these inevitabilities, I believed they could be staved. Now, no longer young, I walk the road I paved.

Valentine Surprise