SLAM DUNK

THIS WEEK'S SHORT, SHORT STORY . . .
In the excitment of hearing my poems read on national radio I very nearly forgot to post this week's story! (If you missed the details of my 15 seconds of fame, check 14 March post.)
Too easily do resolutions fall by the wayside. So, here's the story (Could the choice of title have something to do with this week's Final Four? Hmm.):

SLAM DUNK
“You said it was a sure thing Mr. Nussbalm, a slam dunk,” said the doorman.
“Come on, Rick, there are always risks, you know that,” replied the man in the Armani topcoat.
“An easy ten to twenty-five percent return on investment you said.”
“You’ve seen the news, you know what the market has been lately, Rick. But cheer up, things will turn around eventually. We must be patient.”
“But my bills are piling up. I need that money now.”
“There is no changing your mind once you commit to an investment. Wheels are in motion.”
“I invested in good faith on your say so, Mr. Nussbalm,” pushed the doorman. “Now everything’s gone sour . . . well, I think you ought to return my initial investment.”
“That’s not how the world works, my friend. Even if I wanted to return your money I couldn’t do it. It’s tied up in illiquid assets,” he said as he spotted the approaching black town car.
What will I do now, wondered Rick as he opened the passenger door for Nussbalm. What? Pray? He couldn’t believe in a god who bailed out losers like himself, pitiful dudes who kept shooting themselves in the foot. “God helps those who help themselves” was the way he’d heard it.
As the town car beetled away into crosstown traffic, Rick stood in his ill-fitting uniform, the city swirling around his body like a swollen river around a rotted log.
How much money was left in the checking account? Not much. Enough for a six pack maybe. Yes, that much - and a few rounds for his dad’s old service revolver. Only question now was where to put them for the best return on his investment - best bang for the buck.
An unbidden chuckle escaped his throat. With it came the knowledge that however tempted, he probably wouldn’t kill anybody. Not himself, not Nussbalm. At least not right away. He’d wait a day or two - see how things panned out.
Story of my life, thought Rick, stand around opening doors for other dudes to walk through.

Redefining "Retirement"

Spring officially has returned - with it comes a certain restlessness, birds creating a fuss in nearly bare branches, chill wind ruffling the first crocus blossoms. It is a time of resurrection, reinvention. A time to start off down unfamiliar roads looking for adventure! And to my way of thinking there can't be a better time to "retire"!


But what does that word mean these days? Not what it used to mean, that's for sure. Which is a good thing. My understanding of "retirement" is that it was a concept invented sometime during the early 1950s for people who never existed. These mythical people worked forty years in factories to earn fabulous pensions which allowed them to utterly quit all physical and mental activity at the age of 65, sailing off into their sunset years to bask under tropical sunshine for the balance of their long blissful lives. That was the Cold War propaganda I grew up with. It was a lie my generation swallowed whole. Though I can't help wondering where we got such a weird notion. Our ancestors didn't retire. They worked at this and that until they dropped in their tracks. Both of my grandfathers died in their eighties after putting in a full day at work. And women NEVER retired - and still don't. My 94 year old mother works around the house morning till night keeping the household running smoothly.

So I reject the fantasy of traditional retirement - which isn't to say I'm going to cling indefinately to the 40 hour plant care route. No, I'm ready to scale back on the "day job" to make way for other adventures. I have five novels in first draft stage that I need to revise and boot out into the world. I'm eager to volunteer at the local Senior Center. I want to explore all sorts of interesting opportunities and meet vast numbers of fascinating folks. I already have a handfull of exciting part-time gigs lined up that are bound to keep me on my toes. Yep, I'm ready to fly! Ah, Spring! What could be better than starting off into a bright new season?

But for now, I guess I had better get myself out of this chair and into the backyard to clean up the remains of our Winter storms. First things first.

MY POEMS TO BE FEATURED ON RADIO!

Let me share with you an email I received this morning:
"Congraulations!  We’ve selected your poetry submission to use on an upcoming episode of “Travel with Rick Steves.”  Your three haiku about the sites along Interstate 90 will be read near the end of program #166, which airs the weekend of March 21, and includes interviews about round-the-world family travel, and Southern California.  
You should be able to hear it locally on KUOW 94.9 FM on Saturday afternoon, March 21 starting at 2pm."

I submitted this trio of haiku a year ago and forgot all about them! And here they have been out there in the world all this time - and now will find their moment of radio fame.

We take our own home towns too much for granted, don't you think? We travel to other people's towns, other countries without ever truly seeing the wonders of our own. We need to look around us with the eyes of an explorer, appreciate what we too often take for granted. It was in that spirit that I wrote my I-90 haiku series (I have dozens of haiku now), celebrating my daily commute out the interstate to Geekatopia. Here are a few (And yes, I take liberties with the form but I write in English not Japanese - that's my story and I'm sticking to it.):

BELLEVUE HAIKU

Bellevue rides a rhythm
of rail and boat and road -
a heart pumping, centered.

A tawny Jaguar stealthily
prowls up eighth,
closing in on parking.
    
Only the cadence of cars
dancing to the lights at the corner,
music as day dawns.

BREAKROOM

This week's short story is a romance set in the rat's maze of downtown Geekatopian businesses. Poor Geekatopia is gradually depopulating under the stress of our recession - two more of my clients threw in the towel last week: a mortgage company and a supplier to the aircraft industry. Yet construction proceeds on buildings that will no doubt remain vacant far into the future. Too bad we couldn't just commandeer a few to house the now-homeless software engineers!

BREAKROOM
He was off the couch like a shot when she screamed.
“Whoa! I’m just taking a nap here!” he yelled.
The woman with the cart aimed a can of lemon air freshener at his heart.
“What are you doing in the employee lounge?” she shouted.
“Like I said, taking a nap.” He held his hands up to show he was unarmed.
“In the dead of night?”
“I’m not hurting anyone,” he said. “Hey, it’s Friday. I thought the janitor came on Wednesday night?”
“He has the flu so I’m filling in,” she said.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” he said. “Sorry I scared you. Sit down and I’ll make us coffee. You’ll feel better in no time.”
He stepped to the galley kitchen, filled the coffee maker basket with Starbucks Pike Place Blend, and punched the brew button.
“You can’t do that!” yelped the woman.
“Sure I can. Do it all the time,” he said. “My name’s Mark, by the way. I used to work here.”
She sat down at the bistro table by the refrigerator. Mark took two clean mugs from the dishwasher and a package of Fig Newtons from the cabinet above the sink.
“Slim pickings, I’m afraid. They clean out the fridge every third Thursday. But you’d know that I suppose.”
“No, I . . . you said you used to work here? What are you doing still here?”
“Actually I mostly live here,” said Mark. “What’s your name? I can’t call you cleaning lady.”
“Maggie. You live in the building?”
“Sure. It’s got everything: kitchen, fitness room with a shower, nice cozy couch. Beats the heck out of a box under a bridge.”
“But how do you get past security?”
“Security is a joke. If you look like you belong, no one knows you don’t.”
Mark’s deep brown eyes twinkled with mischief. Maggie smiled. He filled her mug.
“You have a pretty smile,” he said. “How long have you been emptying wastebaskets for a living?”
She blushed.
“Not long. It’s the old story, I’m working my way through college,” she said. “You don’t exactly look like your typical homeless guy.”
In fact she was noticing that he was really very cute - for a homeless guy. Steady on, Maggie told herself. Though the idea of putting one over on mighty Microtechna appealed to her sense of poetic justice. She’d had to compete with a mob of downsized geeks for her modest janitorial job.
“Thanks,” he said. “And you’re prettier than most janitors I’ve seen. I’d be tempted to help you clean toilets if this was your regular route.”
“But it’s not my regular route and if I don’t get busy I won’t finish the building before dawn.”
She rinsed her mug in the sink and set it in the dish drainer.
“You won’t rat me out?”
“Nope. But I might ask for a re-route.”
“Cool! I’ll practice my toilet cleaning technique!”
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