A New Life (Part Two)

Marci opens the meeting with the usual corporate format – minutes, old business, new business. Boring. I don’t belong here. Why I’m the only one who sees this flabbergasts me. She sits at the head of the long, oak table with twenty-one executives training forty-one eyes on whomever speaks.

I own the roving eye. I check out Marci’s mannerisms every chance I get. The nuance of how she rolls her pen idly in her hand, then taps the point on her notepad every so often. Her brush-back of the blond locks that seem to always threaten her eyes. The way her eyes betray the smile on her face.

She does not want to be here. I feel it. I see it. I identify with it.

Outside, snow flutters by the window, presumably to fall another thirty stories until it come to rest on its frozen companions. There’s a party tonight and I must attend. At this point, I cannot tell whether Marci knows I exist. I would never be so presumptuous as to think she doesn’t know my name, but I feel stupid for my obsession with her. Maybe I need a shrink.

The meeting ends without me bumbling through anything, which I view as a major plus. Marci leaves through the side door that leads directly to her executive suite. I leave with the peons, herding out into the corporate corridors. I head home to change into something more ‘party’ appropriate.

* * *

Late again. I slow down as I pass the full length mirror. Tux with tails, handkerchief in place, fedora in hand, I’m ready to go. I snatch my London Fog trench coat off the living room chair and sail out the door. A wall of cold air greets me as I maneuver the four steps to the sidewalk. My right foot slips on some ice, but I gracefully catch myself.

A quick glance around the neighborhood tells me no one noticed, not that it would matter to anyone but me anyway. I place a little pop into my step. After all, Marci will attend the party.  My first opportunity for social interaction with her I choose to look upon with anticipation.

Hopefully she won’t be a stuffy, corporate type whose turned off by my shoulder-length hair and my unconventional thinking. Of course, why should she even speak to me? Why would she lower herself to my station in life?

Crap. While I’m answering these questions with a million absurd answers, the street sign says I’ve gone too far. I attempt a majestic about-face, I whirl around on my left foot, and unlike the porch a few moments ago, this time I experience no graceful recovery.

As my feet elevate and I sense the cold, solid ice beneath me, my world kicks into some sadistic slow motion fall. Very disconcerting. I hate falling. Even though everything happens so fast, time appears to go so slow.

“This is going to hurt,” I think to myself.

“No shit,” I answer.

The thud of my back on the black ice shoots my breath, a white puff of air, into the night. I stare up at the flakes twirling down. I hope nothing busted but my pride. I struggle for another breath, drink in the frozen stab of oxygen, and exhale slowly, like a deathrow inmate with his last cigarette.

A shrill peal of suppressed laughter bursts on my ears. I don’t bother turning my head, mainly because I want to find out if I can. Nothing to do but play this out and try to save face – at least as much face as one can when they’ve taken a classic dive to the pavement.

I take stock. My hat rests on my right cheek. My vision of my merry tormentor is conveniently blocked by the brim. The woman audibly forces her laughs down to a mere giggle. Before I’m ready to confront her, an expensive pair of women’s black heels step around to the left side of my head.

“Wow. Those ore the nicest ankles I’ve ever met.” I figure I have nothing to lose at this point. The woman’s ankles most certainly do look appealing. She bursts out laughing again. So much for savior-faire. I remain on my back feeling the cold seeping into my spine.

My spectator regains some control and asks, “Is there something down there of importance, or did you hurt yourself?”

I determine my ego prefers at this point to stay anonymous. I decide to make another attempt at a smooth answer. “Well, you see, I have recently been hired by the most respected research and development company in the United States, So I feel it my duty to explore all aspects of life anytime it hits me. And, boy, did it ever hit me this time.” I chuckle at my ridiculousness.

“And just what would you be researching on the cold, hard ice this evening?”

I glance again at her lovely ankles. This must be fate. Might as well… “I would be sorely remiss if I did not give full attention to ankles such as these. Why, I could get fired for passing up the opportunity to find where they lead.” I feel my face flush with heat, but part of me champions my boldness.

“Hmm. You’re in tails, obviously on your way to a party, and you are dallying in the street, nearly literally, with a pair of ankles? Not wise, especially if this party is mandatory.

“Hey, I report to the CEO in person, so how precarious can that be? I mean, if they think enough of my research proposal to have me report to her, how expendable can I be? After all, I truly have not been blessed with the presence of such perfect ankles my entire life. “

“My, my. aren’t we the complimentary one?”

I like what I hear, so I rise up to my left elbow. I wince from the pain in my backside. I push myself up to my knees and gratefully take a slim, finely gloved hand up. On the way up, even through her coat, I note the perfect ankles happen to be attached to a perfect body. I stand, stooped over a bit as I work on regaining my breath. I manage to mutter, “thank you.”

“Was the fall truly that embarrassing, or are you too scared to speak to a head as eloquently as you speak to ankles?” I hear the mirth in her voice and I fear another attack of laughter.

I straighten up as I reply, “Well, uh, yeah, embarrassment is why, but it is an embarrassment that I had to fall for, I mean in front of, such a beautiful woma – Oh my god!” I know I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my adult life, but the words tumble out of my mouth like a rocket at full thrust. “Marci, uh, Miss Pickering, uh, I am so sorry, I mean, I did not know it was you, um I, um…”

“Does this mean my ankles have lost their luster? They were perfect specimens a few moments ago.”

“Well, no ma’am, I mean, how could they be, it’s just that…”

“Just what?”

Time to bail out and cut losses. “I did not mean to offend you. I tend to be a bit silly and too playful at times. I hope you will accept my sincere apology.” I hope the conviction in my voice carries enough weight to save my job.

“I will not accept that apology,” she stated with the practiced air of a powerful CEO. “And the main reason I won’t accept it is I was not in the least offended. In fact, I haven’t had this much fun since before my father died. He always kept me laughing.”

“Thank you Miss Pickering.”

“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I know you meet with the Board, but all I know is your last name is Pitchford.”

“Marty, ma’am, Marty Pitchford.” I extend my right hand to meet hers.

Pinch Hitter, Part 8

Sorry for the delay, but Kenny Black was on vacation the other week.

(Click here for Part 7 of Pinch Hitter):

I stay crouched in that position, staring at the dead Eddie Snead for several minutes until the burning in my thighs forces me to stand. It’s a strange thing to watch someone die. For me, it’s even stranger when I’m not the one responsible for the death.

You’re probably thinking, that doesn’t make sense, Kenny. You’re out of your damn mind.

Well maybe I am, but if I don’t know the reason—or at least that the attack was for a just cause—seeing a man die just toys with my mind. But I don’t have time to be sentimental right now.

“Rest in peace, Eddie,” I say and then pull on a pair of latex gloves and get to work.

I perform a more thorough search of the house, but the kitchen and living room reveal little more than litter, dust, and a bare fridge. Eddie’s guest room appeared to be his drug packaging and storage center. But aside from some residue on the work table, a scale, and boxes of packaging supplies, the room is drug-free. The intruders obviously cleared it out.

Back in Eddie’s trashed bedroom, I look at the overturned mattress. A big chunk is cut out of the bottom of it and the material was sewn back over; Eddie’s secret hiding place no doubt. But the bad guys found that too and probably came away with a nice score of cash and maybe a little black book containing valuable contacts.

“Shit.”

I step back and scan the floor, and finally get lucky. Right in the middle of the pool of blood is the print of a cowboy boot. Appears to be a size 14 or 15. A big dumb cowboy mixed up in the crime world. How many could there possibly be in this small town?

Blue and red lights suddenly strobe through the house. The cops. Did a neighbor wake and notice my flashlight from across the street? I kill the flashlight, hurry through the house, and slip out the back door.

Once again I’m a place where Kenny Black feels most comfortable—the dark shadows of the night.

Death of an Inspiration

Mike Wallace – Journalist

Being a journalist, the death of Mike Wallace was a significant loss in my world. Of course, Mike Wallace being who he was, he had a significant impact on the ENTIRE world, for most of his 60 years in the business.

But one day earlier, in a small town, another gifted man died. The “Painter of Light” and author of inspirational books, overdosed on prescription drugs chased with alcohol alone in his home in California.

In this world, a hard, rough and tumble place of immeasurable beauty that’s occupied by beings capable of unspeakable cruelty, two men saw it with different eyes and gifts. One took it for what it was and allowed us to see it that way, too. The other wanted us to see the beauty that God created and not the dangerous, dark, and disreputable side that he knew was there.

Thomas Kincaid, like many treasured artists, was ridiculed by the “experts” and wounded somewhere in his spirit in a way that he could not allow to heal. The light God gave him went out and maybe that’s why he was so passionate about capturing it on canvas. Was he looking for it? Hoping to create so much in the world that his spirit would find its own again?

Mike Wallace, like the reporters of integrity before him, didn’t appear to much care about what anyone else thought. He exposed the dark side so we could see it in the light. He pursued the unvarnished truth of things and landed his verbal blows with an accuracy that reporters still critique with envy. His interviews indicate that by the time he retired in 2006, he had no illusions regarding the world or himself.

But both men wrestled with depression. Kinkade battled his darkness with alcohol and as one might predict, the alcohol bought him no light. Wallace also experienced some years of depression that he fought with the help of professionals and some medications. He kept his dark time a secret from the public so he wasn’t perceived “weak” or “vulnerable.” It would seem that the demands Wallace put on himself far exceeded those of his colleagues, family, or his Creator.

Mike Wallace, dead at age 93, a man who found peace with his regrets, eventually admitted his weaknesses, and was highly regarded by people around the world for his dogged determination to reveal truth no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

Thomas Kinkade, dead at age 54, a man who brought light to the world with his paintings and writing, who was loved by many not only for the peace that his artwork instilled, but for the hope he seemed to stand for in our world.

Two guiding lights extinguished in the same week. I’m not going to sugar coat it. I’m sad at the loss of them both.  And I’m glad that I’m a journalist and can’t paint worth a darn. There are days when the world looks really dark, but when we stare the truth in the eyes and stick together, we create our own light.

Until next time – I wish you all light.

Dorian

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Also available is the book Fictitious Fiction. This collection of short stories was actually written by the characters from the book The Method Writers. Yes, Georgie Mae, Marty, Dorian, and David (the OTHER Rogues Gallery Writers)  each wrote two stories for the book. No, Kenny Black did not write anything, but Kenny only writes in blood anyway, right?

Actually, if you want more Kenny Black, you’ll find him in Fictitious Fiction. Hey, the price is right folks. I mean, 99 cents? Let’s be real. you won’t see writing this good for that price most anywhere else! So go ahead, step up to the queue and order both books today. You won’t be disappointed!

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A New Life

I slip around the hallway corner into another long corridor. She reaches out her left hand to a doorknob, and in my mind, I freeze every detail about her. I marvel at her beauty. To list her attributes would require endless description. Far simpler to note her flaws, which in essence, only support her elegance.

A small section of her hair tends to fall across her left eye when she becomes agitated or animated about something. She dresses not to compliment. She does not smile nearly enough. She’s my boss.

I chuckle at the ‘long list’ of her flaws. I also look back at what happened over the past year and I realize I never really lived while with Jessica. I constantly put out fires on one hand and attempted to start blazes on the other. Now, for the first time in my adult life, I understand the meaning of desire – its subtleties, its ability to unseat logic, and its nuances that sneak into the heart.

My job switch definitely came at a critical turning point, shortly after Jess and I divorced. I knew the moment my eyes received the gift of her face my destiny lay with Marci.

Marci. I roll the name over my silent tongue a few times as I make my way past her door. I feel stupid. A schoolboy smitten by the class vixen. I feel teenage angst yet I’m thirty two. I dread opening the door to this meeting. I like the sound of the name, ‘Marci’ bounced off my name, Marty. They feel like the perfect match.

Some manner of miracle must occur to keep the wrong words out of my mouth. I desire to dazzle her with brilliant repartee, but I know my tongue will stumble and some garbled blurb will proceed from my throat and the snickers will flit around the table like evil butterflies that taunt their counterparts in my stomach.

In R&D, the unstated rules of the game demand professionalism, sharp observation, and an ability to focus. At least these make up the rules I’ve observed the past eight months. I’m not a scientist by trade, but I do love to tinker with concepts and possibilities. To be honest, I still wonder why Human Resources chose my resume and then chose me for this position.

I feel like a wildcard, a joker among royalty. Outranked at every turn, I know I offer little to these meetings other than ‘out there’ possibilities. HR must covet my knack to question anything, along with my ability to back up assertions with sound logic.

When Marci’s in the room, though, I tend to lose my competitive edge. I’m a bit too laid back for this crowd anyway. Just wait until I spring my theory of out-of-body time travel on them. No, maybe the time is not right just yet. I may have survived eight months, but something so nutcase-sounding as that could pink slip me real quick.

No, I’ll stick to the script of the mundane and throw in my outlandish observations. Who knows, maybe today I’ll get the chance to impress her. Did I mention she owns the company?

Hooking the Worm

My father has been in town this week. He arrived alone, without his baggage or other personal belongings, though he brought clothes and his fishing pole. This is a first for him, to stay this long and be this….available. He is not rushed or distracted which makes this visit, this very unexpected visit, alarming. He’s 72. His age coupled with his pursuit of wanting to spend time sinks my stomach. The elephant in the room is smoking a cigarette and saying, “Well, what’d ya expect.”

I can’t be the only one with an older parent. I can’t be the only one who’s hyper-aware of a finite amount of time left. Hyper-aware of the finite amount of time to commit to memory the wrinkles on knuckles, the pock mark on the cheek and hair growing out of the ears.

I did this with my mother. She was a sickly person and I knew, close to a year before she died that she was failing. Out of panic and knowing she was soon to pass, I started to save her voice mails. She left one in particular where she wished me a happy birthday and chuckled in a way that no one will ever match. I have them on my hard drive, a flash drive and in a safety deposit box. I know, it’s a little morbid but hearing her voice has brought me comfort. Hearing her chuckle has lessened my sadness because she chuckled, because she laughed.

Today my father said he was going fishing. This was a pursuit of his since his arrival. He loves to fish from the shore, from a boat, the pier. He announced he was going to the river (yes, that river) and would be there at 3:00. I asked if I could come and he smiled and said, “of course.” Though I had other “pressing” things to do, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to fish with my dad. He bought the worms and brought the poles. I provided the hooks and weights.

We met at my sister’s house; walking distance to the river. With our gear in hand, we toddled down to a small white dock that jutted out forty feet into the current and we set our plastic water bottles down.  Though I knew how to attach a weight and hook, I feigned ignorance and asked for a tutorial. I needed to hear my dad, his words and direction. I wanted to watch his hands fumble over the nylon fishing line and be in the moment.

The big moment came when the worm had to be hooked. I never liked hooking a worm. It wants to live in the dirt, poop our nutrients and aerate soil. The most benign being on the earth will be sacrificed and tethered to a metal hook and cast out to a murky bottom. Poor fucking thing. I couldn’t do it. Sheepishly I turned to my father and asked for assistance. Actually, I whined and said, “I can’t do it.” His reply, “I’ll do it, give it to me.”

The elephant is still in the room, smoking a cigarette and saying, “Well, what’d ya expect?” And I say, “I expect it all.”

Pinch Hitter, Part 7

(Click here for Part 6 of Pinch Hitter):

My flashlight doesn’t have far to travel. On the floor propped against the bed, the man I’ve been surveilling sits with his legs splayed. His head is slumped down and his hands are pressing against his stomach, trying to keep his guts from spilling out and onto the floor. A bad scene indeed.

There must’ve been a tremendous struggle because the bedroom’s trashed. Furniture’s turned over. The TV, pictures, and lamps destroyed. Could’ve been when I noticed the lights turning off. Here I thought he was calling it a night, when in reality intruders were calling it a life.

But why didn’t he hear his backdoor being kicked in? Was the TV too loud? Or was he too high? Probably the latter, which would also explain why he’s still conscious.

“Eddie, can you hear me?”

He bobs his head without looking up, that would require too much strength. The pain must be excruciating…then again, he may be long past pain now. I realize he won’t be able to talk, so I need to keep my questions very specific.

“The men who did this….” There had to be more than one based on what I’ve seen so far, probably three. “Are they coming back?”

He shakes his head ever so slightly.

“I’m going to get revenge for you, I promise you that, but I need to know something first. There are human remains in your grandfather’s garden. Did you put them there?”

He nods.

“You killed that person?”

With all he can muster, he shakes his head in protest. “Na-naah.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you. Save your strength.”

I take in a deep breath and slowly let it out, then squat before him, careful not to step in the growing body of crimson, Lake Snead.

“Now, Eddie … the people who killed that man, did they do this to you?”

“Ya-yah-yah.” His head continues to bob, long after it needed to.

“You’re going to die, Eddie. And I’m truly sorry about that. But if I’m going to get these guys, I need to know who they are first. Were they local competition?”

He shakes his head. Weakly, he lifts his right hand and points up.

“I see. They’re bigger than that.”

Eddie begins to grunt and moan, then dips his finger into his wound. Frantically, I search the room until I locate a piece of paper. I return to him and hold it under his hand. He writes two letters and stops. With all his strength he looks up at me and nods, then everything goes limp and he leaves this world.

I look at the two letters written in Eddie Snead’s own blood: “DC.”

I crumble the piece of paper and stuff it into my pocket. I don’t want to leave this for the authorities to find…not that they could do anything anyway.

D. C. Gibbons. Bigger than that, for sure. Much bigger.

The Waiting River

The strangest sensation wafted over my body the other day. I was driving on a road that I have driven down for years. I know every curve and dip in the cement and where I can accelerate to gain the most speed. If I had to, I might be able to drive it blind.

At the most southern intersection is where the river transects the road. The frigid water of the Boardman River flows under the bridge and pools and bubbles and swells in the springtime or after a hard rain. The Boardman Lake is fed by springs and sits just south of where this river and this road meet. The Boardman spills its contents into the riverbed and drags and pushes particles and leaves and fish over rocks and tree roots. Much like a vein threading its way from the heart to the lungs, the Boardman River joins one lake to another. Its smallest width is less than two feet and widest is fifty yards.

At different times of the year I’ve seen Kayakers, the professional kind, with their brightly colored neoprene wet suits with corporate logos festooned on the sleeves, take their tiny boats and plunge and roll them into the clear water. They mimic life-and-death situations under the close supervision of a neighboring carp. I’ve walked the edge of that river with friends and loved ones. I’ve rented inner tubes and have floated, swam and slid on that river. Yes, slid. The Boardman froze the year I was eight. I grabbed my plastic sled and headed down to the library on Sixth Street. The Boardman’s solid state lay at the bottom of the hill and I as I gained speed I barreled through the protective bank and out onto the ice I went, spinning like a child’s top. The best times and the best fun.

The other day as I drove, the feeling that came over me was being able to feel the river. It was audible as it whispered, “Come, sit at my edge and rest your feet within me. Walk beside me and tell me a story and I will tell you one too. I have been here all along as you have gone on your adventure and have been to other countries. I have been here when you head was not and I will always be here. I have missed you.”

And I have missed it. Time to go for a walk.

Bridget

Pinch Hitter, Part 6

(Click here for Part 5 of Pinch Hitter):

As usual, nobody came to pay Eddie Snead a visit at his house tonight. The little bastard stayed up late and I was beginning to worry that he was a tweaker; never sleeping, wired, unpredictable, and potentially violent. Which could also account for the bones in Herman’s garden. Around 2:15 A.M., he finally turned his living room and bedroom lights off. But I decided to wait another hour just to be safe.

It’s 3:15 now, so I exit my truck, which is parked two blocks from his house on the street, and slip into the shadows until I’m crouched in his backyard beside his garden. Like Batman, I’m wearing a mask and a belt with a multitude of tools hidden in it. Some of these tools are for picking locks, so I retrieve the right ones for the job and creep over to the back door.

I can pick locks in my sleep, so it’s not necessary to use a flashlight to see what I’m doing, but almost immediately, as I’m inserting my pick tools into the lock, I know that something is wrong. The angle of the lock is not right. I apply light pressure to the door and it begins to creak open—somebody had kicked the door in.

In a relatively seamless set of movements, I return the pick tools to the belt, draw my .45 semi-automatic pistol with my right hand and flashlight with my left. I remove the safety from the .45, but leave the flashlight off for the time being. Slowly, I duck walk into the house letting my left shoulder carry the door open. It is dead quiet inside. I keep my pistol and flashlight aimed about chest-level, finger on the trigger and thumb on the power switch. I hold my flashlight out away from my body, however, in case someone takes aim at it once I turn it on.

Without even turning on the flashlight, I can tell that the kitchen is dark and empty. I continue duck walking into the living room, where the street light gives me enough visibility to determine its condition is no different from the kitchen.

Through the living room toward my left is a hallway that inevitably leads to the bedrooms. I keep moving slow and steadily, feeling the burn in my thighs. At the first open door on my right, I shower the inside with a burst from my flashlight—it’s an unoccupied and pretty filthy bathroom. The next door on the other side of the hall is also open. I shine light inside. It looks like it could be Eddie’s “office,” but no one’s inside this room either, and by the looks of it, the door had been locked and kicked open as well.

Only one door left, also wide open. I power the flashlight on again.

The pool of blood in the carpet confirms that Eddie Snead had visitors tonight after all.

Word Play

My daughter came up to me yesterday with a mouthful of food. She cupped her right hand under her chin as if she were going to spit something out. Was she choking? Was what she ate too hot? Turns out it was neither. She was laughing and didn’t want the contents of her mouth spilling all over the kitchen floor. Apparently what she had to tell me was so funny, she couldn’t swallow her food. It took her a while to chew and gulp. Listening to her giggle and turn away in an attempt to compose herself started me laughing.

After the final swig, she gasped for air and announced that she is opening up a salon. As a parent we encourage our kids on any adventure. Since she didn’t tell me she was going to open a methamphetamine lab I was all for the idea! The salon wasn’t the funny part. It’s the name of the salon. Again, she started to giggle before she could tell me.

Feeling left out of the joke, I turned away from her and resumed what I was doing (nothing). Apparently this moved helped her calm down enough to blurt out the name. It was funny. I began to laugh too and the both of us repeated the name over and over to the point tears came out of my eyes.

She’s nineteen and her “firsts” have been gone for some time. Her first steps, tooth, boyfriend, etc. However, yesterday, she said her first, very funny, word play. After the tears were wiped away and the laughter gone, I thought maybe, just maybe she’ll be a writer. They grow up so fast, sniff, sniff.

Bridget