Homeless

On her way to lunch, Ruby saw a poor man in the alley beside Wu’s Noodles.  She had never seen a homeless person before, having been raised in a diversity-free zone.  

She approached him and asked, “Are you hungry?”

He said, “Yes, ma’am.”

She asked “Do you have a name?”

He said, “Yes, ma’am.  I’m Chan.”

Ruby took Chan into Wu’s to buy him lunch.  She ordered a cup of wonton soup, and he ordered Wu’s jumbo family platter. 

She asked him, “Do you need money?”

He said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Ruby gave him two twenties. 

Wu was watching from across the room, angry at what he saw.  He marched up to their table and looked down on Chan.

Wu asked, “What are you doing here?”

Chan said, “I’m on my break.”

Wu said, “Stop talking to the customers and get back in the kitchen.”

Hot Servers

I came up with a new restaurant idea: waitresses in tight tops and short-shorts serving substandard food.  Subs, burgers, fries, whatever.  It’s not really about the food.  No one cares if the coffee is hot, as long as the server is.  I franchised across the Midwest at first, eyeing California, the capital of moral relativism.  I hired from three particular minority groups: the young, the dumb, and the pretty, an endless renewable resource.  Upon making my third million, I was sued for age discrimination.  I settled out of court for one million.  The plaintiff, a woman my age, took my million dollars, quit her dead-end job, and divorced me. 

Haunted Hotel

I read about a new trend in travel.  It sounded fun, so I told my wife.  “Did you know there are haunted hotels?  They’re popular.  We should go.”

She said, “No.”

I said, “People go and stay there, on purpose, to see ghosts.  What do you think?”

She repeated, “No.”

I looked it up online.  “Look, they’re everywhere. Boston, New Orleans, everywhere.”

My wife said, “You go.  It’s a scam.”

I asked, “What if it’s not?  What if it’s real?”

She said, “If it’s real, you’d have to be crazy to go.  So you go.”

I checked into The Grand, a Victorian mansion in the French Quarter.  In 1918, three children died there in a flu pandemic.  It was said you could hear them playing in the gardens by day, or see them looking out of windows at night.  I chose a small top-floor bedroom where one child reportedly died.  It overlooked the garden. 

I asked the proprietor, “What should I do when I see a ghost?  Talk to them?  Shake their hand?”

He said, “You may or may not see them.  You may just feel a cold wisp of air cut through you, or see something smoky out of the corner of your eye.  There are no guarantees.”

I asked, “Are they shy?”

He said, “The dead are unpredictable.  Sometimes they’re antisocial.”

I said, “Oh.  But it’s not a hoax, is it?”

“No.  But you may wish it were.” he said.

I went to bed early, wide awake and well prepared.  I had a flashlight, a camera, a small black-light, and a pint of vodka.  I sat, propped up on pillows, reading The Ghosts of New Orleans in paperback.  At two or three in the morning, I felt drowsy.  I tried to walk to the bathroom, but my legs were weak and my chest heavy.  The closet door clicked and opened.  A milky figure stood in the doorway, not a child but an adult, a woman.

I asked, “Hello, are you really here?  Are you friendly?”

A voice, clearly a woman’s, asked, “What are you doing here?”

I said, “I’m just renting a room for the night.”

She said, “I have bad news for you.”

I said, “Okay, I can take it.  I’m ready.”

She said, “I’m dead.”

I said, “I hope so.  How did you die?”

She said, “I died after you left.”

I said, “We just met.  You’re confusing me with someone else.”

She said, “You know who I am.  You were supposed to call.”

She sounded familiar.  I called home.  A man answered.  He was with Fire & Rescue, and he had bad news. 

Concussion

I lie on my back on the field, watching the blue sky spin, ears buzzing, helmet cracked, skull throbbing.  Voices come from the mouths on the faces of the heads above me. 

The offensive coach asks me, “Are you okay?”

The defensive coach asks, “Is he okay?”

The head coach says, “No, he’s not okay.”

Someone says “911.”

My helmet slides up and off.  The head coach says, “His eyes are sunken.  That’s a concussion, right?”

The quarterback coach says, “Keep him awake.  I heard somewhere you’re supposed to keep them awake.”

Guys in black shirts strap me onto a red board and put a brace around my neck.  I’m seeing stars.  Or bugs.  Or stars.  I close my eyes and someone says, “Open your eyes, stay with me a little while.”  I open my eyes and see gauze with stars.

A doctor looks in my eyes and says, “Yes, he’s had a concussion.  A mild one.”  I feel a cold pack and see lights dim.  Voices muffle.  My mother’s voice whimpers, “Oh, no.  I knew we shouldn’t have let him play football.”  My father’s voice says, “Bullshit.”  The doctor asks me my name.  I get it right, but then he asks me what day it is.  No idea.  He says “mild concussion” a few more times, convincing himself.  He says, “Keep an eye on him, let him rest, give him fluids, put a cold pack on his head, Tylenol, give him Tylenol, not aspirin.  Call me tomorrow.  He’ll be fine.”

Dad asks the doctor, “When can he play football again?”

The doctor says, “Well, he’s at an increased risk of more concussions, and well, you follow the news, you know there are long term effects on brain health.”

Dad says, “So, he should take this season off, and play next year?”

The doctor says, “I didn’t say that.”

Mom says, “He’s through with football as far as I’m concerned.”

Dad says, “Okay, lets compromise.  Let him take a year off from football, then he can try it again, in two years, in fifth grade.”

Handymen

My neighbor started building a deck on the back of his house.  Meanwhile, the surface-light on my range had burned out.  It took me a while to unscrew and remove the recessed light’s metal frame and glass cover, then pull the bulb out.  It wasn’t a screw-in bulb, it required a special quarter-turn twist and a gentle pull.  Very tricky.  I had no replacement bulb, so I went to the home store.  It took me twenty minutes in the store to find a replacement bulb that would fit. There were several wattage options: twenty watts, forty watts, and sixty, so I went home and looked at the bulb’s label.  The wattage numbers on the top of the glass bulb were in teeny-tiny print, and the heat had faded them.  I tried a magnifying glass, still couldn’t read it, gave up, and took the bulb to my neighbor, who has perfect vision.  He said it was twenty watts.  He was finishing his deck and building a gazebo out back.  I went back to the home store, bought the twenty-watt bulb, and took it home.  Trying to install the new bulb, I dropped the screws that fastened the light cover.  They fell down the crack between the range and the counter.  I had to get my neighbor to help pull the range out.  He was finishing the gazebo and was putting a coy pond with a waterfall in his side yard.  After we pulled the range out, he went back to work next door and I looked behind the range for the screws.  It was dark back there, so I grabbed a flashlight.  The flashlight was dead so I went back to the home store for batteries.  Looking at the battery display stand, I couldn’t remember if the flashlight required A, AA, AAA, C, or D cells, so I bought a package of each.  The total was ninety-eight dollars.  I went home, put the batteries in the flashlight, used it to find the screws behind the range, changed the bulb, and screwed the cover on.  I couldn’t push the range back in place by myself, so I asked my neighbor for help again.  He was finishing the coy pond and waterfall and starting to plant a tomato garden.  We put the range back in place.  He went home and I laid down to take a nap.  I was exhausted.  My back was sprained from moving the range.  I had blisters on my fingers from twisting bulbs, batteries and screwdrivers.  A couple hours later my neighbor rang my doorbell, waking me from my nap.  He invited me over for a cookout on his deck.  He had just finished assembling a gas grill and was grilling burgers.  And, best of all, the tomatoes from his garden were big and ripe, ready for slicing and laying on burgers.  I said yes, I could really use a burger after all that work.  I asked if I could make a dish to bring over.  He looked me straight in the eye for several seconds and said, “Chips.”            

Luke and Ellen

Luke’s mother caught him making love to the vacuum cleaner. She was shocked into silence. It was a perfect time for a father-son talk, if only her husband was still around.

Luke had sexual relations with grapefruit. His mother looked in the refrigerator, wondering where all the grapefruit were, then looked in the trash, wondering how all her grapefruit ended up there, cored and deformed. She never asked Luke, not wanting to do more parenting than was required.

A board on the fence in the side yard had a knothole in it that was just the right size. The neighbor saw Luke’s part popping through and beat it with a broom. Luke’s friends were going through the same phase, cursed with rivers of hormones and phones full of porn.

Luke took Ellen to a movie. Afterward, she invited him in to watch TV in the family room, while her father sat down the hall in the living room, pretending not to listen in. Ellen turned up the volume, dimmed the lamp, and coerced a kiss out of Luke. He didn’t know how to kiss, whether it should be open-mouthed or closed, tongue or no tongue. Ellen knew how, having discussed it at length with her friends while watching Titanic and The Notebook. Ellen’s father cleared his throat in the other room, a clear signal that it was time for Luke to leave.

Luke couldn’t wait to get home to make love to jar of jam or peanut butter, but instead climaxed prematurely in his pants while braking and going over a speed bump. When he got home, he said a quick “Hi, mom” as he sped from the foyer to his bedroom to change.

Ellen sat with her father at their dining room table, telling her father how careful she was being, promising to take it slow. Her father explained to her that physical love is much better when you wait. He wanted to give her the birth-control talk and abortion warning, but he wasn’t ready. He wished her mother was still around for these awkward talks.

Ellen sat in bed, texting all of her friends about her first date with Luke. It was scary and awesome, warm and sweaty. When she got off the phone, she brushed her teeth, washed her face and took a long, slow look in the mirror. Then she grabbed her electric toothbrush and went to bed.

Viktor

Customs

“Passport, please.  Reason for your visit?”

I said, “Vacation.”

The charcoal-unformed agent asked, “Is this a picture of you, in your passport?”

I said, “Yes, it’s not a good picture, I know.”

The customs officer scanned me without emotion and said, “Step aside please.  Remove your jacket and proceed to the Inquiry desk.”

My wife said, “Should I go with my husband?”

“No,” said the customs agent, “You are of no interest.”

Inquiry Desk

A woman wearing a sidearm and badge asked, “Are you Jack Bonner from Kansas?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“Birthday June 20?”

“Every year,” I said, trying to keep it light.

“Do you go by other names as well?”

“My wife calls me ‘honey’.”

She pointed to a nameless door and said, “The guard will escort you to holding.”

I asked, “Holding what?”

Holding

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Let’s call it the visitor’s lounge,” said a man in a tight suit and loose tie.

“Why am I here?”

He looked at his clipboard, “Facial recognition identifies you as Viktor Petrov.”

“That’s crazy.  I have my rights.”

He said, “In this country, only government has rights.”

“No phone call?” I asked.

“No, you get a van ride to Central.”

Central

A bald woman asked me, “Have you ever been to Prague?”

I said, “No.”

“Vladivostok?”

I said, “Never.  I’ve been to Disneyworld and Sandals.  This is my first time out of the country.”

She leaned toward me and said, “Viktor, you can’t fool facial recognition.”

“I’m Jack,” I said, “Not Viktor.  Jack, Jack, Jack.”

She said, “Your baggage is being dissected.  It’s a matter of time,” and walked out.

Trial

A judge behind a high bench said, “Viktor Petrov, we are pleading guilty on your behalf, to save time.”

I said, “I’m Jack Bonner.  Look at my passport.”

The judge said, “Your passport is why you are here.  Your face and Petrov’s face are one face.”

“Do I get an attorney?” I asked.

He said, “All attorneys are loyal to the government.”

“Do I have a right to remain silent?” I asked.

“Yes.  We prefer you remain silent.” he said.

Prison

They took my clothes and gave me gray pajamas.

I asked, “Are these clean?”

A man in a stained apron said, “The last man to wear them didn’t complain.”

I was restrained in a chair, and my hair was buzzed off.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

Then he shaved off my beard, “So lice will have no place to hide.”

My beard was sprinkled on the floor, and my face was naked.  He looked at me, looked at his clipboard, and picked up a phone.

Appeal

The judge looked down on me.  “Jack Bonner, are you still guilty?”

“No,” I said, “but at least you got my name right this time.”

He said, “We shaved your beard, and suddenly you are not Viktor at all.  Not even close.”

I said, “Are you saying you made a mistake?”

He said, “We never say that.  Never.”

“Am I free to go?”  I asked.

“After some paperwork.”
“How long?” I asked.

“Several days.  Facial recognition bureau is unhappy, and slow.”

Airport

I embraced my wife, “Honey, are you okay?  Did they treat you badly?”

She said “I’m fine.  They put me in a grand hotel.  I had room service.  Where were you?”

I said, “Purgatory, then hell.  I thought my life was over.”

She said, “You’re safe now.  We’re going home. We’ll be in the air in fifteen minutes.”

I said, “I won’t feel safe until we’re home.”

She said, “Well, you know what they say.”

“What the hell do they say,” I asked.

“Viktor, you remember, ‘Kos Kuchenko.  Vikh Toyarsk.” 

I said “I can’t believe you got to stay in a hotel this time.”   

 

Greatest Generation

After the rise of Germany to the East and Japan to the West, American eighteen-year-olds were yanked off farms and flown overseas. Women ran factories, airports, and baseball diamonds. Rosie the Riveter flexed her muscles on posters, a symbol of what would come. Our Grandpa went to Guam and then to islands that had no names, little dots on the map. He couldn’t give away his location in letters home. Loose Lips Sink Ships. His ship never reached battle, but held an island already captured. Grandpa mopped and cooked, swam and fished, until D-Day, VE Day, and Armistice Day brought America’s boys home. An unlucky few were called back up and sent to Korea, which most Americans couldn’t find on a map. Grandpa was among them. He went to Seoul and worked in a munitions depot, far from gunfire. If he had lived long enough, he would have gone to Vietnam as well. It was all he knew.

Grandma didn’t wait for Grandpa to come home. She found better men, men who were smart enough not to re-enlist. Divorced or widowed, they gave her comfort when she pretended to be lonely. She gave and took passion that was denied her before. Maybe one day there would be no war and Grandpa would return, but she wasn’t counting on it.

Grim-faced officers brought Grandpa’s dog tags to Grandma’s house in 1952. There were no remains, only rumors. The officers told her that he was a man of honor, though they knew no such thing. Grandma took it well. She had never loved Grandpa so much, just put up with him. Her generation married who they were supposed to, when expected to. Grandpa had spent more time away than by her side. Grandma was as independent as any woman in her century, or the next. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, as much as wander.

Grandpa met a Korean woman in Seoul, and loved her. She was not strong and dependable like Grandma, but spoke a universal, wordless language, in a dim room on a backstreet. It was she who removed his dog tags and tossed them. Her son found and wore them. That son died in an American bombing raid an hour West. Grandpa didn’t know he was listed as killed in action until long after he deserted.

Grandma hosted our family holidays for the rest of her life. We brought many side-dishes, hoping to discourage her from hauling out her mother’s unsavory cookbook. We tried introducing her to men of her age, but she hated men of her age. Men of her age left and never returned. One husband had been enough, she said. Multiple lovers were not enough, but one husband was.

At Grandma’s funeral, the dog tags were placed in her pale hands. We took turns telling stories about her and Grandpa, how they persevered through the darkest of days, and survived with the help of each others’ undying love, no matter how near or far. A few of their old friends arrived on canes and walkers, then sat listening, not hearing much. We were honored by their presence and grateful to their generation, the Greatest Generation. They knew their generation was no different than any other, but they kept it to themselves. They didn’t want to disappoint us.

Johnny and Mary

They were late. Johnny got Mary home at ten-past-ten. Earlier, when he picked her up, her father had said, “Johnny, have Mary home by ten. Not ten-oh-one. Ten.” Johnny said “Yes, sir, I promise.” But now they were ten minutes late because, as they left the Cinema, Mary had taken Johnny’s keys and held them behind her back, daring him to reach around her and take them. When he reached right, she turned left. When he reached the other way, she spun back. When he reached around her waist with both arms and grabbed his keys, she kissed him. He never saw it coming. He drove her home slowly, dazed.

At Mary’s front door, under the porch lamp, Mary planted another kiss on him. Again, she took him by surprise. The porch light flashed. Inside, his hand on the switch, was Mary’s father. His watch said ten-ten, not ten as promised. The door opened and Mary slipped inside with a sly smile and a half-wink. Her father stared at Johnny, “Good night Johnny.” Johnny said, “Sorry.”

Johnny drove home in a fog. He had just gotten his driver’s license, his first car, and his first kiss, all in one month. Johnny wondered, did Mary intend more last-minute kissing and late arrivals? Was she testing Johnny, or testing her father?

Their second date was at an afternoon pool party. All the parents were there. No alcohol was served. All the teens who attended were A students, debate-teamers and history-clubbers. It was a parent’s idea of a wholesome way to mix and meet. Mary took Johnny’s hand and led him behind the bath house. Without warning, she put her hands on his shoulders, pulled him in and kissed him. Mary’s mother popped her head around the corner and said, “Kids? Burgers are ready.”

On their third date, Johnny took Mary to a friend’s basement rec room party. There were no adults. The music was loud, a smoke smell was faint. The host’s parents were away, and their liquor cabinet was unlocked. Mary pushed Johnny into a side bedroom, closed the door, and shoved him backward onto the bed. Embracing him, she kissed him once, rested her head on his shoulder, and they talked until they fell asleep. They awoke after midnight. Johnny said, “Shit. You’re father’s going to kill me.” Mary said, “He never kills any of my boyfriends.”

Johnny raced her home, picturing her father’s height and weight advantage. The porch light was out. Mary’s father sat on the front steps in the light of his cigarette’s glow.

“You’re late.” he said.
Johnny said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. We fell asleep, nothing happened, I swear.”
Mary tossed off a laugh, walked past her father, and disappeared inside. Johnny stood in the dark of the lonely walkway.
Johnny said, “Sir, it’s really not my fault.”
“I know, Johnny.”
Johnny said, “I wouldn’t break your rules. Honest.”
Mary’s father said, “No, but Mary would. She’s bad news. I don’t want you to get hurt. Sit down. Let me give you the talk I gave all the other boys.”

HONEY!

“HONEY!” my wife hollered through the screen door, “HONEY?” I heard, but didn’t listen. “HONNEEY!” she yelled from the porch, getting closer. I started the mower to drown her out. I mowed our lawn, then the neighbor’s. The phone in my shirt pocket vibrated. I just knew it was her. After the neighbor’s yard, I started mowing the next. I didn’t know whose lawn it was, it didn’t matter, as long as I was on the run. My wife caught up with me three houses down, in her car. She pulled up, rolled down her car window, belting out “HONEY!” I turned off the mower, hung my head in surrender, and plodded toward her car, knowing the entire neighborhood was watching my humiliation. “Honey,” she said, “You forgot your pants again. Come on, let me take you home, honey.”

Warning Shot

I could tell by the look on his face that he was dead. The twinkle in his eye, the little smirk, all gone. His color was changing, pink to yellow, as the blood drained from his face, out of the hole in the back of his head, ruining his leather headrest. I had meant it as a warning shot. His car had aimed straight at me, not braking or swerving to avoid me. I fired a warning shot over his head, through his windshield. The glass deflected the bullet downward, I think, or else he moved his head up a little into its path, and instead of going over his head, it drove straight in between his eyebrows. I really meant it as a warning shot. It wasn’t my fault.

I dragged him out of the car and laid him on the pavement. I didn’t have to feel his pulse or listen to his breath. A hole straight through the brain assures only one outcome. I went back to his car and dragged the passenger out of the right seat, out of the tangle of her shoulder strap and airbag. She was breathing air and pulsing blood. She might live. I laid her on the pavement beside her lover.

She looked up at me and said, “It was just a fling. It didn’t mean anything.”
I said, “Save your strength. Help is on its way.”
She said, “I was getting ready to break things off. I don’t want a divorce anymore.”
I said, “Don’t worry. I still love you.” I leaned over and kissed a tear off of her cheek. That’s when I fired a second warning shot.

Hospital

 I visited a hospital. Signs inside instructed me to pay for parking by credit card at a machine inside the hospital before leaving, then take the ticket, go to my car, exit the garage, insert the ticket at the gate, raising the bar, and drive away. But the payment machine inside didn't work. People were lining up, waiting to pay. No one could leave. They called maintenance. The maintenance guy was already busy doing a million things around the building, plus he hated his job, hated his life, hated all the people in line who couldn't figure out how to use a damn ticket machine. Of course, it was a hospital, so all the people in line were old enough to remember the days when humans ran the parking garages. The maintenance guy was the only person there under 40, so he probably knew what Skype and Java meant. It turns out it's not all that easy to put a credit card and a parking stub into a machine while walking with a cane and trying to find your reading glasses. The maintenance guy looked at the ticket. It was in backwards. There was an arrow pointing the way to insert it, but the print was tiny and invisible to glaucoma patients. He took the ticket out and turned it around. It worked. He walked away quickly, avoiding eye contact with us. He pretended to listen to his phone so we wouldn't talk to him. He probably had to go mop up urine or chase a runaway wheelchair down a ramp. I waited in line behind the walkers and knee braces, got my ticket and went to the parking garage. There was a car broken down in the middle of the lanes, blocking all traffic. Dozens of cars were lined up, half of them blocked in, half blocked out, engines running, filling the garage with carbon monoxide. The stalled car was a huge Mercedes S class, driven by a little old man the size of a spider monkey. He chugged his starter over and over. It sounded like CPOD. No one got out of their cars to help, they just sat there producing CO and texting BFFs. It was up to me. I told the spider monkey to get behind the wheel and steer while I pushed his car single-handedly out of the way toward an overflowing dumpster. The titanium screws and teflon disks in my spine held up quite well, thank you for asking. Traffic began moving. I staggered to my car, breathing through my sleeve, wheezy from the poison gas. I started up and got in line with the other cars, marching toward daylight and freedom. The line stopped. Trapped again. I walked up ahead and saw the exit gate outside wasn't opening. A white haired woman shorter than her dashboard kept pushing her ticket in the slot. Nothing doing. I noticed it was raining. Maybe the parking robots don't work in the rain. I told myself to remember to only get hospitalized during good weather. I walked to the gate and took the old lady's ticket out of her bony little grip. She had it backward. I turned it around so the arrow was pointing into the slot. The gate opened. I went back to my car in the garage, holding my breath until my eyes bulged out. There was a guy behind me honking his horn. One of his fingers stuck out further than the others. I assumed it was a medical condition. 

Zen

Kevin pulled weeds in his garden. He gave his plants new mulch and fresh water. Flowers flourished in his hands. It gave him great peace of mind. He called it his Zen.

Kando sat, as still as a stone, in his garden in China, his eyes closed and mind empty. He found the one true way. It gave him great peace. He called it Gardening.    

SLUT

All the girls called Maria “Slut.” All the boys called Maria by phone. Girls voted her Least Likely to Succeed, while boys voted her Prom Queen. “Hold your head high,” her mother, Sofia, told her, “They can’t shame you if you’re not ashamed.” No boy got past third base with Maria, but rumors are immortal. Virgins at school watched her being escorted by popular boys, and cringed. They imagined what was being done to her in boy’s cars on weekends. Pity and envy curdled their blood. Maria loved her teachers, and they loved her. She got A’s effortlessly. Boys talked. In health class, when human reproduction was taught, Maria watched and listened closely, raising her hand often. Girls talked. Those girls learned about sex, not from slide shows, but by unbuttoning this and unzipping that, in secret.

After graduation, while most of her class attended college, Maria worked as a receptionist at a hotel, to help her mother pay the bills. The girls who attended college fooled around in dorms at their parents’ expense, rejecting the sexist “Slut” concept altogether. But Maria stayed behind in the hometown, working long hours at the hotel, with little time for social activity. For her work ethic she was promoted swiftly, from receptionist to administrative assistant, but the older women who were passed over for promotion whispered “Slut,” behind her back, assuming she was sleeping her way up. Maria worked seven days a week and was awarded another promotion, to assistant manager. Less ambitious women all assumed the worst and thought “Slut.” When the hotel manager was transferred and Maria became manager, her subordinates, from concierge to housecleaning, wagered she was not smart, but “Slut.”

The hotel chain Maria worked for merged with a diversified nationwide firm. The board of directors monitored her performance, leading them to move her up to the New York headquarters, where she got a corner office with glass walls and skyline views. Maria worked seven days a week. She posted pictures of her office view on social media. A year later, she posted pictures of the view from her Miami condo balcony. Two years after that, she posted a panorama of the beach in front of her San Juan villa. Some slut-shaming comments popped up from her old classmates and co-workers. Maria held her head high, occasionally calling home for encouragement from her mother.

Maria started her own business online, a service reviewing and linking the country’s best bed-and-breakfasts and guest houses. She worked seven days a week, hiring primarily men, and carefully discriminating against women. Men competed to be her favorite, willing to sleep their way to the top, aware they could never be called “Slut.”

At forty, Maria fell in love with an employee ten years younger, and proposed to him. They married in Paris and honeymooned in Rome. On their wedding night, Maria finally lost her virginity. It was worth the wait.

The Screenwriter

Sal, the producer, said, “Okay, pitch me this new show, Lou. What you got?”

Lou said, “Sal, it’s a whole new deal. A new kind of cop show.”

“A new cop show. I’m listening.”

Lou said, “It’s about a guy, his wife left him, he’s down on his luck. He’s drinking. He lives in a lousy apartment, or a trailer, or a boat. His place is a mess. No friends. Drives a beat up old car, maybe a sixty-five mustang. Sometimes it doesn’t start and he has to hoof it.”

Sal said, “I like it. Gritty. Authentic. Go on.”

“Okay, Sal, get this. He’s a dirty cop. Sometimes he goes in without a warrant. Doesn’t read them their rights. Maybe he beats a confession out of one or two.”

Sal said, “Music to my ears, Lou.”

Lou said, “So he’s got something way in his past. Maybe he was in combat. A hero or a coward, damaged goods. Maybe his best buddy died in his arms in Baghdad. Maybe he was driving drunk and hit a baby carriage, I don’t know, just something that makes the brass send him to a shrink. But he doesn’t go to the shrink, he hates shrinks, or he goes and it’s a pretty shrink, she falls in love with him, see?”

Sal got excited. “Lou, Lou, Lou. Beautiful. So complex. I thought you were a hack, not a Hemingway.”

Lou said, “I know. It just came to me. Maybe I got a muse somewhere.”

Sal said, “Give me some episodes, some raw meat.”

“Okay, Sal, episode one: A stripper gets murdered. Our hero, let’s call him Max. Max has to go interview all the other strippers, see what they know. They’re all suspects. He questions them in the dressing room after the show. The strippers all smoke and talk dirty. They hate cops, except one cutie, who takes a shine to him. Maybe Max beats up a bouncer, I don’t know, it’s all in my head.”

“Lou, my mind is blown, who murdered the stripper?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some rich guy uptown. Some guy with a manicure who no one suspects.”

“Nice, nice. Now, hit me with episode two.”

Lou said, “In episode two, a rich old white guy murders his pool boy. Turns out the pool boy is screwing the rich guy’s wife. She’s an ex-model, hitting thirty, married for money, losing her lustre. Everyone knows the rich old white guy did it, but then, BAM, other pool boys start showing up dead all over town while the rich guy’s in the slammer. There’s a gay serial killer out there. Be on the lookout. All points bulletin.”

“Lou, this is your ticket. The boys upstairs are going to die. Now, give me a climax, a season finale, a real punch in the chops.”

“Hang on to your hat, Sal. Max gets shot. Right in the chest. Any other man would be dead before he hit the ground. But Max, he’s got a metal flask full of bourbon in his breast pocket. His father gave it to him. His father was a drunk too, and a cop. Max never got along with Pops, but now that he’s shot, he goes in a coma and sees his father and dad is proud. Chip off the old block, son. Attaboy. Max comes out of the coma a new man.”

Sal said, “Tears, Lou, I’m crying real tears here. But you have to throw me a bone, something modern. Toss in a female captain who busts his chops. Maybe she’s black or lesbian or something like that. Give me a cop, his partner, named Sanchez or Cortez. Kill him off mid-season if you have to. And that female shrink, the one who falls for Max, make her all smart, successful, liberated. We need one of those in every show.”

Lou said, “Sal, this is the best thing I ever did. This is my heart and soul.”

Sal said, “Lou, all that matters in this biz is originality. Trust me, this is it. I’ll have Susie fetch us some champagne. SUSIE!”

Ethan Goes South

Ethan Goes South

Sophie called Ethan, her neighbor, before she left for work, “Ethan, can you watch Amy for me this afternoon? I have to work again.”


Ethan was glad to help, “Sure, Sophie, that’s what neighbors are for.” Ethan was used to it. Sophie was a workaholic first, a gym rat next, and a part-time alcoholic. Amy had been a surprise baby who took more of her time than Sophie expected.


Ethan picked Amy up at the school bus stop at three, then helped with her homework until six. It propelled Amy from C’s to A’s. It was just third grade, but his tutoring led her to excel through grade, middle, and high school. Plus, it made Ethan feel needed, before he left for the warehouse night-shift.
Eight years before, when Ethan moved in next door, Sophie dropped by to welcome him to the neighborhood with a bottle of wine in hand. She did not intend to sleep over, but she had just come from happy hour and was on a roll. Sophie never remembered that one-time tryst; Ethan never forgot it.

Pam, the neighbor across the street, watched the neighborhood through her bay window. She saw all comings and goings. Divorced and forty-five, she envied the way people in their twenties and thirties connected so easily. Pam invited herself over to Ethan’s porch on Sunday after her church let out. She tried and failed to seduce him.


Pam said, “Ethan, we have a lot in common. We both live alone, we both work odd hours. We should hang out more often.”
Ethan said, “You’re welcome on my porch anytime. Mi porcha es su porcha.”
Pam said, “I haven’t seen the inside. Maybe you could give me the tour.”
Ethan said, “Not now, Pam, it’s all man-cave, a total mess.” Pam always got the “Not now,” from Ethan. It hurt. It gradually sunk in; Sophie and Amy had a monopoly on Ethan. Pam’s envy grew with each unsuccessful visit. She called a tip-line and Ethan was arrested for child-molestation.

Amy was questioned by police, doctors, counselors, and social workers, but insisted Ethan had never touched her. Sophie asserted Ethan’s innocence, but her memory was dotted with blackouts. The court dismissed the charges and held no trial, but a neighborhood watch team was formed to monitor Ethan, and men in general. Ethan’s landlord refused to renew his lease. Ethan packed up at night, put the bare essentials in his truck and put the rest by the curb. He drove south from Virginia, looking for a state where people ignored news and neighbors.

When Amy turned eighteen she was contacted by an attorney and received the proceeds of an anonymous trust. She took the money and began spending it immediately. She hired a private investigator who, in turn, hired a skip tracer. A bounty hunter was considered, but dismissed, there being no bond. Amy learned that, in addition to fingerprints, DNA was taken in every arrest. She sent her saliva to an ancestry search firm and filed requests for family court records. She looked up old news stories about the arrest. Online, she found a database showing where accused sex criminals resided. Amy spent a good chunk of the trust money to put her mother in the best alcohol treatment center in Virginia. She had enough left over to buy a new car. Amy packed warm-weather clothes and headed south.

Ethan tended a poolside bar at a gulf-shore hotel. Serving double-strength drinks brought him double-size tips. He wore a beard and ponytail, faded Hawaiian shirts, and a plastic watch. If anyone asked, he said he was a broke veteran named Thomas. Other times he said he was Juan, an immigrant who was sending all his money to his family in Honduras. He was never just Ethan from Virginia, warehouse worker, alleged pedophile. Tipsy tourists were his only friends. He sold drinks over the counter and dealt weed underneath it. He paid no taxes and kept his money offshore.

Amy narrowed her search down, town by town, bar by bar, until she arrived and sat on a bamboo barstool at Ethan’s counter wearing oversized shades and a ball cap. She ordered a double vodka tonic, though she never drank and never would. Ethan asked the teen for ID. When he saw her license, her name and address, he felt the world closing in on him. He asked her, “Do you really want a drink? Is that what you’re here for?”
Amy said, “No. I came to see your face. I’m looking for resemblance.”
He asked, “How did you find me?”
Amy said, “I’m clever, like my father, who never told anyone he was accepted to colleges he couldn’t afford. Or that he didn’t just work nights in a warehouse, he built his own. I was accepted by UVA, but I can’t afford it. The size of the trust fund made me think. Maybe I should ask dear old dad for help.”
Ethan said, “I have some money stashed away.”
Amy said, “I assumed so. I’ve seen your credit report.”
He said, “Maybe I could sell my boat.”
“Boats.” she said.