No Pulse

 

No Pulse

I went to the doctor.  He said I had no pulse, no blood pressure, no vitals at all.  He ordered an EKG and sent me to a specialist.  The cardiologist’s results were all flat lines, so he sent me to a neurologist, who could find no brainwaves.  A pulmonologist said I wasn’t breathing and a hematologist found no blood.  My physician looked at all test results and said it might be something serious.  He referred me to a good coroner.

            After my autopsy, I asked, “How bad is it, Doc?”

            The coroner said, “I have bad news.  You better sit down.”

            I asked, “Is it cancer?  Heart disease?  Is it my diet?  Exercise?”

            He said, “I’m afraid you’re dead.  There’s no cure, but there are a lot of promising new treatments, mostly experimental.”

            “Sign me up, Doc, I’ll try anything.”

            “You didn’t sign your donor card.  That’s going to be a stumbling block.”

            I asked, “Can I sign it now?”

            “I’m afraid not.  The dead have no binding signature authority.”

            I said, “I can pay.  I have money in the bank.”

            He said, “Your bank accounts are in probate.”

            “Will my insurance cover it?”

            “We called them.  They don’t honor claims from the dead.”

            I asked, “Well, what can I do?  Do I have any rights at all?”

            The doctor said, “You can still vote.  They’ll never take that away from you.” 

 

Concussion

 

Concussion

I’m lying on my back on the field, watching the blue sky spin, ears buzzing, helmet cracked, skull throbbing. Hollow voices come from the fuzzy faces on 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.”
    EMT’s in black shirts strap me onto a red board and put a white 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.
    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 declares, “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 the boy, let him rest, give him fluids, put a cold pack on his head. Give him Tylenol, not aspirin. Call me tomorrow. He’ll be fine.” The same thing he’d say for a cold or flu.
    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 seventh grade.”

Romantic Movie

 

Romantic Movie

Every Saturday night, my boyfriend took me out.  He held doors for me, and said, “Ladies first.”  I replied, “I can open a door myself,” and I did.  He pulled chairs out from tables for me, and I called him, “Pig,” under my breath.  What was sexist to me was chivalrous to him.  Boys require so much training.            

             

             He always took me to the movies.  He loved movies.  I suggested we go to plays, restaurants, and nightclubs, but no, he always took me to the movies.  I didn’t know if he was cheap, lazy or dumb, but I intended to re-train him.  Boys. 

            “Let’s go to the movies tonight,” he said.

            I said, “I can’t stand one more of your sci-fi war movies.”

            He said, “I agree.  Tonight it’s a romantic movie.  You’ll love it.”

            “Romance?” I asked.  It was a small step, but maybe my training was working on him.

            When he arrived to pick me up, I said, “I’ll drive.”  I have a nicer car and a cleaner record, plus, as we all know, boys turn down side roads, park in the dark, and try to kiss you in the oddest places.

            I parked the car under a streetlamp, a smart move for girls everywhere.  Darkness is a boy’s best ally.  As we walked across the lot, he took my hand, and I pulled it away.  His hands were big and rough.  Mine were soft and moist, with perfect cuticles and nails.  I want people to notice them, which they won’t if my boyfriend wears them down. 

            Ten minutes into the movie, during coming attractions, he put his hand on my kneecap.  The kneecap is not a hotspot, but I still found it vaguely threatening, so I brushed it away.  Thirty minutes into the movie, when the star onscreen kissed his wife, my boyfriend whispered in my ear, “That’s us up there.”  I elbowed his ribs and scooted as far away as I could.  Boys.

            The stars on the screen argued, then he hit her.  I whispered “Kill that sonofabitch.”  He hit her again and I glared at my boyfriend.  He had told me it was a romantic movie.  Bastard. 

            The actress ran out of the house, the actor hot on her heels.  She ran through a dark forest, occasionally falling because she’d worn wedges, not sensible shoes, while he wore cross-trainers.  He caught up, threw her to the ground, pounced on top of her, and pulled up her skirt,  Just when all was lost, when he was on top of her, on the verge of rape, a shot rang out and he slumped, bleeding all over her knit pullover.  There stood her lover, standing over them, holding his hot gun.  He was the reason her husband was so angry.  Her husband had found out about their affair and gone into a jealous rage.  Her lover picked her up, carried her to safety, put her in his car, and took her home. 

He said, “Why don’t you take off those bloody clothes and I’ll get you a robe.”

She said, “Thank God you came along.  How did you find us?”

He said, “I’ve been following you, to see if you were cheating on me by sleeping with your husband again,” and pulled a bread knife from the butcher block.   

That was all I could take.  That’s when I walked out of the movie, stomped across the lobby, and crossed the lot to my car, my keys in hand for use as a weapon.

            My boyfriend was right behind.  He held the car door so I could jump in.  I was shaking too much to drive, so he drove me home, walked me to my front door, and opened it for me.  Somehow, the way he held doors now was protective, not sexist.  I was helpless, but he made me feel secure. 

            “Goodnight,” he said, turning to walk away.

            I said, “Don’t go.  Please, come in.  I’m too frightened to be alone tonight.”

            We sat on the couch, holding hands, which gave me a sense of security this time.

            My boyfriend hugged me, a polite, asexual hug, the kind of hug a woman needs when the world becomes a scary place.  I held him tight.  Our chests squeezed together, naturally comforting.  Slowly, I became aroused.  I noticed  movement in his pants.  I’d heard that danger  and sex had some primitive connection, but I never thought it would happen to me.  I was more civilized than that.  Men were the animals, not us.  Now, my inner animal arose, and fear gave way to lust.  I hated myself for feeling that way. 

            We went further that night than I had planned.  I wanted to wait ten more dates before intimacy, but no longer.  It was too late now to put him back on my training schedule.  We did it, we did it again, and I laid in his arms, feeling safer than ever.

I complained, “You said it was a romantic movie.  That wasn’t a romantic movie.”
My boyfriend said, “It is now.”  

 

My Uber Career

 

Uber

I signed up to be an Uberizer.  I had difficulty signing up online.  When I grew up, computers were the size of refrigerators and they only responded to Captain Kirk's voice.  I decided to visit the Uber store in person.  I went to the Uber place beside Pier One and saw five Uber staffers sitting in Uber chairs behind Uber tables.  I asked to talk to them about Ubering.  They said no, go back to the front door and sign in on the ipad on the ipodium.  I had walked right by, thinking it a tiny table, setting my cinnamon macchiato on it.  After I signed in, I went back into the Uber room, where I sat, ignored by all the Uber-hirers bowing their heads to their devices. Eventually, the same person who told me to go back and sign in called my name off a list.  I was the only one on the list, and in the room. 

I told her I had failed at signing up online because I am over twenty-five and cannot operate complicated things like Rubik's cubes.  She showed me how to input my entire life’s personal data into her pad in five seconds.  I told her how old I was and she started over, slowly, talking to me the way she talks to her parents once a month in assisted living.  Eventually I got it.  I went home and proudly turned the app on and got in my car.  But my car would not let me get texts from riders while in gear because the onboard computer didn’t allow texting while driving.  I went inside, went online on my PC Google machine search engine looking for help.  A blog of people let me know I had to turn off my blue tooth in my car because my 2016 ford was too old and stupid to be an Uber car.  It took me ninety minutes to turn off the blue tooth because 1:  I don’t know what "blue tooth" means, and 2:  I don't know what "settings" means, and 3: I was raised on an abacus.  

The blogosphere taught me more about Uber.  I turned on the App again and it told me the terms and conditions of my contract had changed in the last ten minutes.  I had to read a new policy document the size of the big bible my parents use as a TV stand.  I just scrolled down and hit "Yes, I agree” ten times. That probably sent my bank account numbers to a server farm in Moscow.  So again, I was ready to Uber.  No, the Uber app told me my insurance card was expiring in two weeks so I had to photograph and submit a new one.  I did that, but I think I also sent them all my vacation pictures from St. Croix.  So now I was ready, right? Well, no.  By then, my selfie pic in their system no longer looked like me, because I was aging so fast.  I updated that with a picture of my neighbor Bob who looks the way I want to look. Then I was ready to Uber.  The app said no, because my GPS navigation failed, because my phone was not transmitting my car’s location, because I had not told it to, because I was afraid my wife was tracking me.  My phone and I were no longer on speaking terms, so I went to "Settings" and swiped every option to Yes.  Suddenly my credit card company texted me that I had just bought a new Range Rover two states over.  Later I tried again to go online, so I could Uber (pick up strangers.)  I should be able to pick up strangers easily because that’s how I got married.  The Uber App said not so fast. It said my car was not clean enough and I had to vacuum out the back seat, and for God’s sake hang a deodorizer on the mirror.  Okay, done. Now I was ready to Uber.  But then I read in the paper that human trafficking is illegal, so I called my lawyer, who hung up on me.  Next, I called AARP for advice but I couldn’t hear their response because my hearing aids were picking up air traffic control chatter.  I was stumped.  I have not yet picked up any strangers, but boy, do I want to.  I really need that Uber money since my Social Security checks started going to Nigeria.  I did get a bonus, a cool U sticker in my car window, free.  I think I will be able to Uber once I hire an IT guy to ride shotgun.

 

The Hike

 

The Hike

Jessica hiked up into the mountains to escape crowds, traffic, and clamor. Camping in the wilderness brought her peace of mind.  She drank from clear streams and slept on beds of pine needles and moss.  Upward she climbed until the air was thin and her breath was short.  Then she began to hear voices. Were they the voices of angels?  No, they were chattering tourists.  Jessica had finally reached the visitors center.

Buddies

 

Buddies

When me and my buddies played ball, Maria tagged along. She was too small to play, plus she was a girl.  Yuck.  But we let her chase foul balls.  She thought she was our buddy, but no way. 

One day a guy was out sick, so we let Maria play right field.  We put her way out near the fence, where she couldn’t bug us. 

I hit a long one, a homer for sure, but she caught it, spun, and threw it all the way to second.  I never saw nothing like that before. So we gave her a shot at batting.  She grounded to shortstop and outran the throw to first.  She ran faster than all my buddies.  We let her play a little more each practice, until we had to let her start, so we could win more games.  She was still just a girl, but sort of like a buddy. 

We got used to her and let her bike home with us after games.  We let her swim with us at the quarry.  We can't stop her cuz’ she throws a mean punch.

I think Maria might be my best buddy now. All the other guys think she's theirs.

 

I Wrote A Book

 

I Wrote a Book

I wrote a book.  Everyone has a book inside them.  The trick is getting it out without surgery.  All you need are characters and plot, a catchy start, a twist at the end, and a lot of filler in between.  For example:

1.      Moby Dick: A guy goes fishing, followed by chapters of filler, then he dies.

2.      Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, lots of filler, then he dies.

3.      Romeo and Juliet: He falls in love.  She falls in love.  Filler.  She dies.  He dies.

    So I wrote my book following those three simple principles. I tried to copyright it, but the U.S. Copyright Office website is all legalese, lists, and links.  I decided to use the “Poor man’s copyright,” an accepted practice in common law.  I mailed the manuscript to myself, proving it existed on a date certain.  My copyright now protects me from lawsuits by Melville, Dickens, and Shakespeare.

            Always use a pen name with punch.  Like Mark Twain, Bram Stoker, or Herodotus.  I wanted to use Jack Vail as my pen name, but it was taken, so I tried Jak Vaille, but it was also taken.  Jacques Villa?  Taken. Every name in the history of names is taken.  So I settled on Norm DePlume. 

A website that rhymes with “beagle zoom” offered a formatting service guaranteed to prep my work for publication.  For a couple hundred dollars they took my word document and butchered it.  I complained, and they explained that all they do is run it through their software and send it back.  I asked for my money back, and they said they would run my request through their software. 

            I pitched my book to a publisher, who told me she gets a million books a year, doesn’t read a one, and saves them securely in her “Burn room.”  I called an agent, who read my book and said “Keep your day job.”  I contacted an editor, who recommended I remove the filler, which would turn my novel into a short story.  

             Writers who can’t publish have to “Self-publish.”  You send your work to a “Vanity press,” which prints it for a fee, binds it for another fee, adds cover art for an additional charge, and sends you twenty copies for the low price of five-thousand dollars and up.  Mostly up.  You market it yourself, which means you gift it to family and friends, who put it on their top shelf, out of childrens’ reach.

            Big bookstores like the one that rhymes with “Farms and Noble,” will put your book on their shelves, way in back by the bathroom, if you make it through the agent-editor-publisher-distributor labyrinth, and are recommended by established authors, like Mariel Hemingway. 

Not wanting to spend thousands of dollars on a lark, I sent my book to an online ebook service that rhymes with ”Kindall.”  Their software shrank the font to 2, so it was like reading an aspirin label.  I re-submitted it after “saving” the format and font, then by making it “read-only” and finally, encrypting it in pig latin.  Kindall told me that their “Miminum standards” department required the removal of all culturally offensive content, all f-words, and all gender-specific pronouns, which shrunk my book to a pamphlet.  I re-submitted it, and they regurgitated it repeatedly, until they suggested using their editing service, for a fee, and they would market it, for a percentage, or stick it in their virtual library of amateurish literature.  There it would stay forever, for future generations to read, or until the next change of terms and conditions, at which time fees would apply

After months of re-writes and rejections, Kindall finally accepted my book and made it available on the dark web.  I ordered twenty copies for friends and family. When the books arrived, the title had been changed to “Author’s Proof,” which I found catchy.  I made one hundred and eleven dollars in royalties in my first year, after an initial investment of two thousand.  To order my book, go to the website that rhymes with “Ham is on.”   

 

 

 

 

Meet Me In Paris

 

Meet Me in Paris

When I was seventeen, I fell in love with my girlfriend’s mother.  Though much older, she fell for me, too. Our bodies never touched, but our hearts longed to. 

My girlfriend broke up with me.  As I left her home for the last time, her mother took me aside and whispered in my ear, “Café Le Flore, Paris, ten years from today.  Be there.”  She had never seen Paris except in romantic movies.  I had never been to Paris either, but I swore to myself that I would be there, no matter what. 

I ached for the day we would meet again.  Ten years passed slowly. On the appointed day, I found her seated at a tiny table at the Café Le Flore, her long legs crossed, two wine glasses poured.

I said, “You’re really here.  I can’t believe my eyes.”

She said, “I never doubted.  We were meant to be together.”

We drank two bottles of wine, then retired to Le Hotel Meurice. After two hours of passion, she rose from our bed, dressed quickly, and headed for the door. 

I said, “Don’t go.  Stay.  We’ve just begun.”

She said, “I must go.  I have appointments.  My daughter had many boyfriends.”