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!”
###

SIDETRACKED

This week my goal was to write a mystery in 250 words. Here goes:

SIDETRACKED
“What you got there?” asked the old man.
“Spray paint,” said the kid. “Found it in the trash by the ticket window.”
“Put it back. And wipe your prints.”
“Like they’re going to dust the trash,” mumbled the boy.
“Don’t argue. Train’s coming.”
Harry hated working with kids. Still, there’s nothing like a cute little tyke to part suckers from their dough. They’d made a decent haul at the church social. He glanced at the briefcase by his foot.
Kids were more trouble than they were worth if you worked them too long though. Harry figured to ditch this one up the track. Why suffer the aggravation - or split the take?
“I should have swiped us a car,” said the kid.
“Told you, they’ll be watching the roads.”
“Won’t they watch the trains?”
“Who takes trains these days?”
The boy looked around the empty platform. Much as he hated to admit it, the old man might have a point.

“Our witnesses said the old man traveled with a boy.” said Detective Kirby.
“Yeah,” said Sergeant Phelps.
“Where do you suppose he is?”
“Ran off scared when the old man fell in front of the train. Uniforms are searching the woods.”
“Anything else?”
“Missing briefcase.”
“Maybe the kid stole it.” Kirby knew the station master undoubtedly filched it but he liked to needle Phelps.
“Yeah,” smirked Phelps. “And then he drove off in a stolen car.”
Kirby eyed the scary forest. “Poor little tyke,” he mused.
“Yeah, poor little tyke.”
###

Second Story

Okay, last week's story was a bit on the serious side so this week's offering is more fun.

CANARY YELLOW

“Strike!” yelled Keith, pumping his fist.
“Don’t get excited, you got no chance of catching me. You’re buying dinner tonight.”
“There’s a lot of frames left, Dougie old man.”
“You wish.” Doug lifted his black pearl ball, taking his stance at the line.
“Did I tell you Fran picked out her engagement ring?” said Keith as his brother fixed his eyes on the end of the lane.
“Nice try,” said Doug launching the ball in a precision trajectory for the sweet spot left of center pin.
The ball arched from right gutter, left into the notch where it detonated pins in all directions.
“Yes! How’s that for pin action, kid?”
“Not bad for an old geezer,” said Keith. “I could use a beer.”
“Quit stalling. Get it over with so you can buy us some burgers.”

“You said you wanted burgers, Doug.”
“You’re buying so I’m having steak. Got to keep up my strength for the next time you need your clock cleaned, kid.”
“Next week you’re buying me a monster pepperoni with double cheese.”
“Dream on,” said his brother. “Hey, what was that you said about an engagement ring?”
“Fran found one she wants. Look.” He flipped open his cell, scrolled, handing the phone to his brother.
“You got to be kidding! She wants a pee colored diamond?”
“It’s called a canary diamond. Fancier than plain white.”
“More expensive too I’ll bet. Fran’s got you where she wants you.”
“She should have the one she wants. She’ll wear it forever.”
“You’re setting yourself up to be a whipped man for life, kid. You’re as crappy with women as you are a bowler if you let her play this game.”
“Fran doesn’t play games.”
“They all play games. This yellow diamond thing is a test, take it from me. You hand over the plastic and you’re a keeper. Don’t and you’re history.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You think so? Tell her she’ll have to be satisfied with a plain white diamond and see how fast she heads for the exit.”
Keith chewed slowly, then swallowed.
“Dougie old man,” he said at last. “You’re a guy who lives like he bowls, sighting on the goal, following through to score - but you can’t see the bigger picture.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know I’ve had my eye on that ‘65 T-Bird in Tacoma, right?”
“Sure. Mint condition, rebuilt eight,” said Doug. “Kiss it goodbye if you bankrupt yourself springing for a yellow rock, kid.”
“Okay, let’s say I talk Fran out of the canary yellow. She loves me so she’ll marry me anyhow. But, what are the chances she’ll ever let me forget she made the sacrifice?”
“Hmm. Zero to none, I suppose.”
“Right. And what are the chances I’ll ever be parking that sweet T-Bird in my garage?”
“Have to say, you got a hell of a hook, kid, but it’s got some pin action on it. Maybe you’re not such a crappy bowler after all.”
“Pass the steak sauce, big brother.”
###

A Short, Short, Short Story

In the last post I set a goal to write a piece of "flash fiction" each week - I find that's not quite as easy as it sounds. What a struggle to keep it short and sharp. Still I did come up with one this weekend - a rather grim little tale but I promise to lighten up for the next one!

CUTTER
“How you doing back there, Jen?” Her daughter had quit whimpering. That was either good or very, very bad.
Megan kept her eyes forward and away from the rearview mirror. She knew she shouldn’t be worrying about the blood soaking into the car seats but she couldn’t help it. How will I get the stains out? And what does that say about my priorities?
“You okay? If you don’t answer I’m pulling over.”
“Go ahead. What do I care? I didn’t want to come anyhow.”
Megan ran the tail end of a yellow at Boren Avenue.
“Are you all right or not?”
“Peachy. How much longer?”
“Not long if the lights cooperate.”
“You should have left me there.”
“Sure, that was going to happen.”
“Seriously, why bother? I’ll just do it again you know.”
“Look, what choice did I have? What was I supposed to do, leave you bleeding all over the kitchen?”
“I only agreed to come with you because you threatened to call the cops.”
“I wasn’t calling the cops. I was calling 911 for an ambulance.” She changed lanes, signaling a right hand turn. “What did you expect me to do when I find you sitting in a pool of blood?”
“I didn’t expect anything from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Leave me alone.”
Traffic had slowed to a crawl around a two block stretch of pothole repair. Damn, if Jennifer had let me call an ambulance we’d be there by now.
“What did you want anyway?”
“Can’t I visit my own daughter without ulterior motives?”
“For once, just give me a straight answer. What did you want from me?”
“I hadn’t heard from you since . . . well, must have been Christmas. I was worried.”
“If you were so worried you could have phoned.”
“Okay, so I wanted to see for myself you were all right. Which, as it turns out, you weren’t, were you? Cuts all over your arms and judging from the scars this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Jennifer. Are you on drugs? Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Sure, blame it on drugs, Mother. That way you won’t have to deal with the real reasons your daughter cuts herself.”
“Now who’s not giving straight answers?”
“I’m not in the mood for this anymore.”
Megan followed the signs pointing the way to the emergency room, pulling the car up to the curb near the entrance.
“I won’t go in,” said Jennifer.
“Don’t be silly. You might need stitches.”
“I don’t have insurance.”
“They have to treat everyone who comes in.”
“I’ll go in if you tell me why you really came to see me.”
Does it matter any more?
“I’ve left your dad,” said Megan.
“Good,” said her daughter. “But you’ll go back.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you always do. You can’t get enough of the pain.”
Megan helped Jennifer out of the car, noting that the blood stains weren’t nearly as bad as she had imagined.
###