I Used To

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Of course, I knew that wasn't the right thing to say as soon as it was out of my mouth; and if I hadn't already realized it, then Danny's reaction would've clued me in pretty quick. All the happy went out of his face, so fast that it was like I'd slapped it off of him. He bowed his head low as if something very interesting had just sprung out of the mossy ground between his bluejeaned knees. His knobby little eight-year-old shoulders slumped. I've never been what you'd call good with words, but this was downright apocalyptic.

I waited a few seconds before clearing my throat. "I'm sorry, Danny. I know how much you must be missing him." Then I reached out and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "If you want to quit fishing and go back up to the house..."

"Nuh uh," he muttered. He swiped at his eyes with one hand, then looked up at me. He'd been doing a lot of crying these last few months -- which was good, because if an eight-year-old loses his father and doesn't cry about it, then there's something pretty wrong with him -- but he wasn't crying now. Misting a bit, maybe, but not crying. "Grandpa, was he good at fishing? My dad?"

That threw me for a loop briefly; Danny had been living with his grandma and me since the accident, and in all that time he'd never actually started a conversation about his dad. "Well, now," I said in a thoughtful tone, stalling for time until my brain could kick into gear. "Well, now, let's see... what do you think it would mean to be good at fishing?"

"Like if he caught a big fish," Danny answered promptly. He dropped his fishing rod to the grass and stretched his arms apart. "Like thiiiiis big."

"Nope, can't say I ever remember him catching a big fish here. Lot of smaller ones, sure, but none as big as you're asking for!" Of course, I had my doubts that this stream could even handle a fish like Danny was asking for -- he'd measured out a span big enough to fit a deep-sea tuna, while as far as I knew all that'd ever been caught here were minnows, perch, and the occasional bad-tempered catfish. Not that generations of boys hadn't tried otherwise, of course.

Danny was looking out at the stream, and I wondered whether he was still thinking long thoughts. A second later he unknowingly answered me. "Was he better at fishing than me?" he asked softly.

Which, of course, was a question about more than just fishing. "Danny, your grandma and I loved your dad, because he was our son." He looked back down at the ground, and I went on in as firm a voice as I could manage. "And we love you, because you are our grandson. Nothing will ever change that."

We were both quiet for a moment, him likely thinking about his dad, and me trying to think what to say next. Finally I decided to try to bring back some enjoyment into his day, so I picked up his fishing pole and handed it gently back to him.

"Now, come on, how's about you show your ol' grandpa up?" I smiled at him, not expecting him to smile back, though I thought I saw his mouth twitch ever so slightly. "After all, those big fish aren't going to catch themselves."

On Diesel

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Phoenix rolling up behind him now, rearview eventually giving way to rock-strewn emptiness, and he was on his way. North to Flagstaff, east to Albuquerque, a quick run through Amarillo. Nick had christened his truck the Yellow Kid a few years back, once it became apparent that the Phoenix-to-Oklahoma-City drive had sort of unofficially become his. Nobody got it.

Nick flicked through the radio spectrum for a while, trying to find something that wasn't either brimstone or steel guitars, but finally gave it up as a lost cause. Instead he hummed to himself, some song he'd heard recently about a cat in the rain, or something, he wasn't sure; it was in Spanish, which he had known as a kid but managed to mostly forget somewhere along the way. Probably the song had nothing to do with cats, or rain.

Once or twice he glanced at the photo taped to the dashboard; it was an old one, and the kids were still frozen at four and six and running laughing through Teresa's backyard. There were newer photos at the house in Wichita, he knew, but he preferred the ones that still had Charlie in them. Teresa's daughter Julieanne was in high school now. Every Christmas Teresa sent him family pictures, which he kept in a shoebox. On his dashboard Charlie and Julieanne laughed and ran, and neither cousin betrayed any knowledge of the fall that would neatly remove Charlie from future scenes. Nick was pretty sure you could see the offending tree in the background of that photo. He'd never asked which one it had been, though. Hadn't even been there in the first place. He'd been on the road.

He worked the gears, babying The Yellow Kid up a hill, and then eased it down the other side. In a couple of hours he'd stop at the same diner he always stopped at outside Phoenix. Clara or Berenice or Steph would be there, one of the waitresses who'd served him coffee a hundred times before, and she'd ask him as she poured how his family was, and he'd lie and say fine. As far as Clara and Berenice and Steph were concerned, his wife was still around and his son was still alive. They all lived in a pretty little ranch house in Phoenix. Rhonda wasn't tired of him being gone all the time. Charlie's six-year-old neck hadn't snapped against the hateful ground. Nick enjoyed the fantasy.

Tonight he would sleep in the cab of his truck, and tomorrow night, and probably the night after that, before catching a Greyhound up to Wichita. He'd sleep on his sister's couch, say hi to his niece, and then go back to The Yellow Kid and get back on the road. He didn't have a home; or if he did, then the Kid was it. The pretty little ranch house in Phoenix had been sold years ago, once he no longer had a wife or child to share it with him. Now all he really had was the road.

It was enough, Nick told himself firmly.



Yeah, I don't know. It was going to be a quiet little reflection about a guy with a quiet little life, rolling from job to job, occasionally seeing his sister but otherwise being very much alone. Then I started channeling Richard Bachman at his weakest. Next I guess I die of cancer of the pseudonym?

Slow to Adapt

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He reached out one gnarled hand to fiddle with the television. "Now, let's watch some TV, hmm? I think Happy Days is on." He grabbed for the knob, and seemed surprised to find instead a row of sleek buttons. "You like Happy Days. Why won't the channel change?" He burst into tears.

"Okay, Mr. Dalton, okay," the nurse said soothingly, taking his arm and gently leading him back to his bed. "It's all right. I can change the channel if you like."

Wyatt raised one withered old arm to scrub at his eyes before lying down. "All right. At least I got that damned VCR clock fixed."

"I know, Mr. Dalton." The nurse pulled his blanket up over him.

"I wanted to tell Sara. Where's Sara?" He looked panicked. "Sara?!"

The nurse took his shoulders as he started to rise. "She'll be here soon, Mr. Dalton. Just rest for now."

"She'd better get here soon," Wyatt grumbled, though he allowed himself to be put back to bed. "She's going to miss Happy Days."

The nurse smiled at him, patted the cover over his spindly chest, and let herself quietly out of the room. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, she slumped.

"Wyatt giving you trouble?" asked one of the other nurses as he passed.

"No, it's okay." Wyatt's nurse put a hand to her head briefly. "Just my first day on the job. He's kind of... draining."

The other nurse nodded sympathetically. "You'll get used to it, a little. If that's any consolation."

Wyatt's nurse uttered a humorless little laugh. "Not really."

"Yeah."

She grabbed a cup of coffee from the lounge, then headed back to Wyatt's room. He had moved back to the TV, and was doing something to the VCR again.

"Look, Sara! I figured out the clock on the..." He turned to her, and his face fell. "Sara?" he added doubtfully.

"She's not here," the nurse said gently. "Why don't we get you back in bed, Mr -- "

"I don't want to go to bed!" Wyatt snapped. "I'm tired of bed! And I want Sara!"

The nurse tried to smile again. "She'll be here soon, Mr. Dalton. And if you don't want to rest, why don't we watch TV?"

"All right," Wyatt replied, reaching once more for a nonexistent knob on the television. The nurse quickly stopped him before he could get upset again, then picked up the remote and began flicking through the channels.

"No, no," Wyatt muttered irritably. "None of these shows are any good. Bunch of junk. Is Happy Days on?"

"I don't think so," the nurse replied doubtfully.

"Hmph."

She left the TV on some nature show; Wyatt was still sulking, but she preferred that to more tears. Or more questions about--

"Where's Sara?" Wyatt asked suddenly.

The nurse sighed. "She's not here, Mr. Dalton."

"I can see that. I'm not stupid." He glared at her from watery eyes. "But where is she?"

She's dead, the nurse thought to herself. She's been dead for three years, and they stopped telling you that because they couldn't bear to keep breaking your heart. Your wife's dead, you don't remember because you have Alzheimer's disease, and you're rotting away what's left of your life in a second-rate nursing home. "She's just stepped out, Mr. Dalton. She'll be back soon."

Wyatt smiled. "Good. She wouldn't want to miss Happy Days." His eyes lit up. "And maybe I can get the VCR clock set before she gets back, too. She's been on me about that for ages."

Lunch Alone

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Bill hung back as the other workers stowed their tools and headed towards the break area. They were joking and laughing amongst themselves; he might've joined in, but didn't see the point. If any of them noticed he was still around, they gave no sign. He busied himself with his gloves, making sure they were lined up neatly on the I-beam.

Eventually he couldn't hear their voices anymore. He ambled across the construction site to the parking lot, where the other workers had already gotten their various lunches and picked a tailgate to congregate around. Today it looked to be Fred's. PJ was regaling them all with what was undoubtedly a profoundly filthy story. Bill had a pretty good one from the time his cousin had gone to a prostitute while on business in Australia, but when he had started to tell it his second week on the site, he'd only been met with stony stares. Today, as every day for the last three months, he ate his lunch sitting alone on his own tailgate. His wife's tuna salad was probably as delicious as ever, but it generally tasted like ashes when she packed it for his lunch.

Loud laughter erupted from the knot of workers around Fred's truck, and Bill glanced over there briefly. They all seemed to be okay guys, Fred and PJ and the rest, except when they were talking to him; and then they all clammed up, mouths drawn down, eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. All the guys at his old job back in Rockford had liked him just fine. He'd even been on the bowling team, after Jimmy had retired and left his spot vacant. But the Rockford job had ended, and there didn't seem to be any more jobs anywhere closer than Pike Creek, and so Bill and his wife had moved. Now Bill was that one guy on the crew that nobody else ever wanted to talk to, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He finished his sandwich, washed it down with warm Pepsi. The others were still talking by Fred's truck, although by now PJ had surrendered the floor to someone else. Eventually they'd finish up and head back over to the site. Then he'd trail behind them again, slinking back to his post, quietly returning to work without making eye contact with anyone. When the day ended, the others would all exchange their various farewells, while he went quietly back to his truck and went home. And then he would do it all over again tomorrow.

Bill wasn't ordinarily a contemplative man, but sometimes even he had to stop and wonder just what the hell was wrong with the world.

Ran

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"Spare some money for gas?" Elly called, as a smartly-dressed man approached her on the sidewalk, head tucked down into his collar against the cold. The smartly-dressed man gave no indication that he had heard her, and she sighed inwardly and pulled her jacket a bit tighter. It was starting to snow, and she wished yet again that she had on something warmer.

For about the millionth time in the last couple hours she glanced back over her shoulder, checking that her car was still parked by the curb. Not that anyone could steal it with the tank dry as it was, of course. She'd run it till the very fumes were used up. Run it as far and as fast away from home as possible. "Or what was home, anyway," she muttered to herself, and then made a sound something like a laugh. Not that the situation was particularly funny.

"Spare some money for gas?" she repeated yet again, as two women passed by. One of them gave her an odd look, then quickly turned away; they both sped up slightly, as though wishing nothing more than to escape from Elly's request. One of them tittered brief laughter as they disappeared into the thickening snowfall.

Elly shivered, then uttered a series of deep coughs. Stupid to have left without coat or hat or even a pair of gloves; stupid to have left with a dollar sixty-three in her wallet. Stupid to have even done this in the first place, but she'd had to do it, she just couldn't take any more...

Making that not-quite-a-laugh sound again, Elly felt gingerly at the latest bruise on her face, the one that had been the reason for her sudden flight. "Never again, you bastard," she said through a humorless grin. "I don't even care if I freeze out here, as long as you never get to hit me again."

Ice Cream

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Kim shook her head. "It's been so long since we've done this... why's it been so long since we've done this? Spending time with you here used to be the highlight of my week. I wonder why we ever stopped."

"Because you skipped town with that boy," Penny answered quietly.

They both were silent for a moment then, Penny idly stirring her milkshake, Kim looking down at her sundae. All around them, the ice cream parlor was full of the sounds of talking and laughing, washing over their little island of awkwardness.

Finally Kim looked up again. "I know it's been a long time, and I haven't called or written or anything. But that doesn't mean that our friendship wasn't important to me. Hell, it used to be just the two of us against the world, remember?"

Penny smiled slightly. "I remember."

"And then I went and did something stupid, and ran off with some guy who dumped me a month later." Kim sighed. "Luckily my aunt took me in, and I managed to get my life back on track even if I never could bear to come home again, but... still, that's almost ten years that we've lost." She looked around the room, her eyes reflecting the overhead lights rather more than they had been doing a few seconds ago. "We used to come here every week, and talk, you know? Just talk. Only now we've lost that."

Penny smiled again, this time looking like she meant it. "Seems to me that this is as good a time as any to get caught up. So? Let's talk."

Overlook

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"It just doesn't seem fair," Katie said quietly. She glanced at their father, sitting by the window in the wheelchair one of the nurses had fetched for him. "This must be so humiliating for him, to wind up in a place like this."

Dean nodded. "He and I actually talked about it some earlier, while you were parking the car." Then, as she looked at him in surprise, "We didn't say much, really. I told him we were sorry about all this. He told me he was too."

Tears loomed in Katie's eyes. "He's just so helpless sometimes," she said in a choked voice. "He was always so strong, and now sometimes he can't even remember where the bathroom is in his own damn house."

"I know, Kay-kay, I know." Dean wrapped his sister in a hug, trying to comfort her, feeling her tears begin to wet his shoulder as he continued. "He knows too. He can't always take care of himself these days, and he said he hates it, but that..." He swallowed. "That he knows it's time for this. For someone else to take care of him. Someone who knows how."

Katie looked over at their father again, still sitting by the window. The slump of his shoulders matched her own. "God, aging sucks," she whispered.

My Space

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Rebecca curled up tighter on the bed, despite the pain that shot across her middle. One hand cupped her face gingerly. She wasn't crying, in part because her left eye was already swelling up enough as it was, but mostly because she didn't want to draw any more attention to herself. She was safe in her room, at least for now. Better to keep quiet, and hope dad didn't find reason to come in here and continue their "conversation".

One shaking hand reached out and snagged the fluffy foot of a stuffed rabbit. Rebecca clutched it to her chest and allowed herself one small sob. She'd had no idea this would happen when she decided to go out with Shelly. Seeing a movie wasn't worth this. Maybe nothing was.

She'd come home from school at 3:30, just like always. No one else had been home, but that was normal. Rebecca had thought nothing of leaving the note on the fridge; she'd had a twenty burning a hole in her pocket since her birthday last week, and she and Shelly hadn't hung out in ages. "At the movies," she'd scrawled, "back 8ish." And she had pinned up the note with a magnet shaped like a tomato, and skipped right back out the door.

Now, alone in the silence of her room, Rebecca squeezed the stuffed rabbit tighter. Dad had been waiting in the living room when she came home for the second time. She should have realized something was wrong as soon as she came in the door, but the smell of beer hadn't registered at first. Then he'd fairly leapt across the room and seized her wrist like grim death. She wasn't to go out without permission again, it seemed. This became abundantly clear shortly. Dad supplemented the argument with his fists, as was usual when he'd been drinking; then, at last, he had sent her to her room. She'd gone gladly.

Now Rebecca lay on her bed, hardly daring to move, a few silent tears falling to wet the fur of the stuffed rabbit. The room softly faded to darkness as the last of the light drained from the sky outside. Finally she slept, and when her father left for the bar, she did not hear.

Shirts

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After she left he had gone into the bedroom, flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. It was taking a while to sink in. Six years together, three of those in the same apartment, and now it was all over. "Not feeling it anymore," she said. Well, what did that even mean?

He lay there for maybe half an hour, not wanting to think about what had just happened, but unable to stop. He kept thinking back to the years they had had together, which was even worse. What good were all of the hopes he'd had for them, all the times they'd talked about finally getting married, settling down, buying a house -- what the hell had been the point? Six years of his life gone, and yet not nearly enough time. Why did it have to turn out like this?

Eventually he got up and went to the closet. The door was hanging partly open; she hadn't bothered to shut it after emptying her half. Absently he pushed it aside and stared at his own clothes. They seemed almost to be huddled together against the gaping emptiness on the other side. He knew how they felt.

He pulled out one of his t-shirts and stared at it for a minute. Band logo in blue and white on red. He remembered buying this one; it had been at that concert at the Coach House two years ago. Her favorite band, and she'd convinced him to come along. He had loved it.

Angry, now, he threw the shirt to the floor. She'd certainly done a good job excising herself from his life, so why didn't he finish the job? He tore another shirt from the closet. "No, I Will Not Fix Your Computer," it read -- a birthday present from her, back when he kept getting suckered into doing everyone's tech support at work. He hurled it at the floor with the first one. Here, one of those fancy-pants polo shirts with the alligator on it, which she had given him as a joke; there, a sweatshirt bought from their favorite vacation spot. Souvenirs of their life together, now as useless as he felt.

Finally he finished the job, and then only stood there for a moment, glaring at the pile of clothing. He stormed out to the kitchen for a trash bag to put it in. That was the ticket. He'd throw it all away. She'd thrown him away, after all, hadn't she? So he thought as he worked on bagging up the pile; but when he was done he only left the bag of shirts there, and sat on the bed to stare at it, thoughtfully.

Patriotic Colors

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I'm hiding this one from the mainpage, because it contains a fairly nasty ethnic slur. Click here if you want to go to the post page and read it anyway.[WARNING: FAIRLY NASTY ETHNIC SLUR BELOW. SKIP ON BY IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT.]

It wasn't so much that David minded people doing this sort of thing to him. Or rather, he reflected as he ducked back into the house, it wasn't quite so bad when it was just directed at him. Sometimes, going to work or out on errands, he'd catch a dirty look or a cruel remark; one time when he was pumping gas, he'd actually been approached by a belligerent drunk who'd threatened to deck him if he didn't go back to his own country.

Funny, David thought as he pulled a bucket out from under the kitchen sink. He'd been born and raised in Los Angeles, not an hour's drive from where he now lived. Same with his wife, for that matter. But try telling that to the redneck at the gas station.

"Dave?"

He winced, then turned to his wife. "G'morning, Sora. Didn't mean to wake you."

She rubbed at her eyes, voice still muzzy as she asked, "What are you doing? It's not even six yet, and you're going to clean something?"

"It's nothing, sweetie, go back to bed." He hefted the bucket, now full of soapy water, and grabbed the sponge from by the sink. "I was just out getting the paper, and I decided the, um. The steps could use a wash."

Sora looked at him, dismay flooding into her face and replacing the sleepiness. "Oh, David. It happened again, didn't it."

He nodded. "On the wall by the front door," he answered quietly. "I was hoping to get it cleaned up before you or the kids could see."

She moved slowly toward the door, and after a moment he followed. Together they walked out to the front porch and looked at the graffiti someone had left in the night.

SAND NIGGERS GET OUT, it read.

"We'll need my scrubber brush," Sora said finally, her voice oddly small. "And we'll have to work fast. There's only an hour or so till the girls get up."

Once A Month

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That was the rent taken care of, then, another month before Evan would have to worry about that. The utilities were awfully high this month, what with having to run the heater so much, and that leak in the sink; fortunately his cousin Jerry had finally paid back that $100 loan from a while back, and that would more or less take care of it. More or less.

Of course, that still left the doctor's bill. Evan stared glumly at the cast on his left arm, then at the paperwork from the hospital visit. Even with the insurance, he still owed a good two week's wages, payable immediately. Quiet inquiries around town had landed him a few odd jobs. But a man with only one good arm couldn't do much, and anyway nobody else really had money to spare right now either. Which left Evan still broke, and still with an unpaid bill staring him in the face.

He sighed and rested his head in his hands, or at least in his hand. Every month it seemed he had an impossible task to fulfill when bill-paying time came around, and every month he managed to muddle through somehow. This time, though, his resources were more or less tapped. Slowly his eyes moved to the corner of the dining room.

The pot dresser was huge, and dark, and terribly old -- nearly two hundred years, according to his mother, who had kept it faithfully dusted and went over it with lemon oil once a week. Evan hadn't taken quite as much care with it since it came into his possession, and it had taken on a small bit of fire damage. All the same, he knew it was still quite a valuable piece.

It was also the only thing he had left of his parents, after the fire that had taken their lives and most of their house.

Evan's gaze moved back and forth between the pot dresser and the bills on the table. He made no other movement for some time.

Time

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King lifted his head, then carefully got up from the floor by the fireplace and barked. Jonah could remember a time when the old Labrador would have been positively dancing around the room at the prospect of going for a ride... but then, of course, that was some time ago now. And, really, why he was doing this in the first place.

"Come on, then, old boy," he said heartily, scratching King behind the ears. "Let's have us some fun, eh?" He opened the front door, allowing the dog to pad out carefully onto the front step, then locked up behind them. They walked together to the truck, and he tried not to notice how much King was limping.

"All right, here we go." Jonah opened the passenger door to his truck. He stood there a moment, watching as King tried and failed to climb onto the seat a few times, occasionally whimpering; then, somewhat hurriedly, he reached out and helped the old dog scramble up. "There, now you've got it," he said gruffly, and perhaps a bit more loudly than usual. "In you go, no problem at all, right?" He stopped to give another affectionate scratch of the shaggy head before gently shutting the door. "Let's have some fun," he added with a brief smile, and King seemed to grin in response.

Jonah took his time running his errands, taking the long way to the post office and hitting both of the town's hardware stores. Throughout the process King sat sprawled on the truck's passenger seat, seeming to enjoy the process, though every once in a while he would give a little whine of pain. Jonah brought him a small treat from Quincy's hardware store, which the dog licked his hand gratefully for before consuming. Eventually all the day's errands were done, except the one Jonah had been dreading most.

He pulled up outside of the long brick building, then sat quietly behind the wheel for a few moments. Beside him King sat calmly, looking sleepy again already from the day's adventure. Finally Jonah sighed, turned off the engine, and exited the truck. His steps were heavy as he came around to the passenger side, and it was only very slowly that he opened the door and carefully helped the dog down to the ground. King whined and shivered, and Jonah passed a hand over his eyes.

"I know, boy, I know," he said quietly. "It's not so easy gettin' around anymore. But just one more thing to do, and then that's all for the day, huh? Then you can..." He swallowed, eyes glistening. "Then you can rest." He knelt down beside King and hugged him gently. "You've been my best friend for all these years... I think you deserve a rest, old boy."

King licked Jonah's face and barked softly. Then Jonah rose and led the slowly limping dog up the steps and into the vet's office.

Quarter Horse

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Leigh tugged at her mother's hand. "Look, mama, they put in a horsey ride," she exclaimed, pointing. "Can I ride it? Can I, mama?"

Judy sighed. The horse had been added to the row of coin-operated rideable sculptures next to the grocery store entrance, on the end by the battered old Dino the Dinosaur. Leigh had never expressed any interest in the old ones, which had been fine by her mother. The fewer frivolous expenses, the more of their meager funds were left for necessities. Still, maybe this one would be only a penny a ride, like the plastic tiger on the other side of Dino. Something like that would be easy enough to let Leigh have a turn on every time they went shopping.

She looked down at her daughter and smiled. "Let's see, then, shall we, love?"

Together they walked over to the horse, a garish pink-and-tan monstrosity that Judy was honestly surprised the girl didn't find terrifying. There, printed on the coinbox, was the legend "1 RIDE -- 50 CENTS". Judy sighed again, and squeezed her daughter's hand. "I suppose you can have a ride, dear, if you want. But only one, okay? We've still got groceries to buy, yet."

For a moment Leigh gazed longingly at the horse, then looked back up at Judy. "I promise, mama, just once. And then I'll never ask again!"

Judy closed her eyes. "Oh, love, I'm sure that won't be necessary. There will be other times you can ride it, okay? We can spare the money now and then." She smiled at the girl then, but the smile was brief, and trembled slightly.

Marketing

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Bah, way to wreck one of the semi-autobiographical fics by skipping a week of archives, gocomics.com...

I'm currently (04/14/2010) looking for the image to this one. It was something about, like, there are a lot of commercials for denture cream and life insurance and stuff during the daytime soaps and gameshows and what have you. Thus, marketing. Plugger marketing, I suppose, since I tagged the post with comic.plugger tech.

Stay tuned for possible future pictoral update!

"Oh, dear, don't you remember?", Mother replied. "Today they're airing Marie's episode of The Price Is Right! You weren't going to the store just now, were you?"

Emma shifted the phone to her other hand. "No, I didn't remember that." She walked into the living room, grabbed the television remote and sat down on the couch. "I can wait until it's over to go."

"Well I should hope so!" Mother sounded so matter-of-fact that Emma had to smile. "Marie's only been wanting to meet Bob Barker for ages, and then when she finally got her ticket she was so excited -- "

"Did she actually meet him?" Emma answered distractedly as she flipped through the channels. "I mean, I don't think they do unless they actually get to go up and all."

"Well, no. But she said it was a thrill all the same. Are you watching it yet?"

"Mmm. Yes. I always know I've got the right channel when the commercials for scooters and Centrum Silver come up."

On the other end of the phone, her mother chuckled. "It's all about knowing your audience, dear. The only people who watch this show are children home sick and old women like Marie and me."

"Hey! Where does that leave me, then?" Emma replied, and they both laughed at that. Then a commercial for denture cream ended, to be replaced by one touting life insurance. Emma's laughter cut off quickly, and there was a pause for a few moments.

Finally Mother spoke up. "I know you still miss him, dear. Death is never easy to deal with, and when it's so unexpected it's even worse. But eventually the memories will stop hurting so much. You believe that, don't you?"

Emma closed her eyes. "I've certainly been told it by enough people," she answered quietly. "But I don't know what I believe anymore."

Silence then but for the rattle of cheerful game-show music; loudly, from Emma's own television set; and, more quietly, floating down the line, echoing as though from a very great distance.



Meh. Fairly obvious bit of fictionalized self-insertion here. Well, "write what you know" and such, I guess.

Premiums

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I'm currently (04/14/2010) looking for the image to this one -- it was something about how plugger health care premiums don't go up because for "plugger health care" you should actually read "band-aids and a kiss from mommy on your scraped knee", or something like that. Stay tuned for possible future pictoral update!

Helen looked over the paperwork and sighed. "The co-pays have gone up again, too."

"Cripes." Dan pulled out another of the kitchen chairs and sat down heavily. "How much?" Wordlessly she handed him the page, pointing at the relevant section. He winced. "Bloodsuckers. They just keep wanting more, don't they?" Then he set down the paper and sighed. "How's Joey doing?"

"Not too bad today," Helen answered quietly, eyes cast downward. "But you know, his prescription is coming up for refill again soon."

He nodded. "I know."

She looked up at him. "He's doing so much better with this medicine, Dan. Most days he says he hardly feels any pain at all."

"I know," Dan said again. Then he sighed. "I'll talk to my boss. Maybe he'll let me pick up some more hours. I mean, he said he couldn't before, but..."

"Explain it to him," Helen pleaded. "He'll understand, won't he?"

All Dan could do was shrug. "I hope so," he replied, and then was silent.

Success

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The foreman coughed politely. "Need some help there, Murray?"

Murray felt his face go red, but he remained as he was, facing the door, head down so he could get a better look at his keys. "Nosir, Mr. Talbot. I know I've got the right key here; I'll find it any second now -- aha!" From the massive keyring he triumphantly held one key aloft, a huge silver-colored affair, worn and greasy with the use of years. "Sorry about that, sir, there's just so many keys to sort through that it... hrm."

Talbot frowned. "Problem?"

"Wrong key." Shamefacedly, he held the keyring even closer to his face, nervously aware of the seconds ticking by even as the key he sought continued to elude him. "There's just so many of them I need to have on me, you see, and so many of them look alike, and -- "

"Murray, your boss and I have been somewhat... concerned, lately," Talbot interrupted smoothly. "You've worked here for, what, fifteen, twenty years?"

Murray felt his throat tighten, but he answered as calmly as he could. "Twenty-three."

"Twenty-three. That's a long time to have kept up your janitorial duties, and you've generally performed admirably." Talbot paused slightly, then continued. "However, we have noticed lately that you appear to be having... difficulties."

Murray turned to the foreman in alarm. "Sir, if this is about that door I left unlocked last week -- "

Talbot shook his head. "No, no, it isn't just one thing; it's more a series of incidents, minor ones, certainly, but... they do add up." He coughed, then pointed to Murray's belt. "Is the key you need on your other keyring, perhaps?"

"Oh." Murray went red again. "I think it is, actually."

Talbot's hand came down on his shoulder, heavy, insistent. "As I said, your boss and I have been talking about your performance lately, and... I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

"Oh," Murray said again.

"Perhaps there's something else on your mind lately, and that's what's got you distracted," Talbot went on, not letting go of Murray's shoulder. "We would certainly be willing to consider rehiring you in a year or so, if that is the case. And we've no hard feelings, you understand."

"Yes," Murray agreed.

"We just have to look out for the success of the company, you see?" Talbot gave him a brief, meaningless smile. "That's all."

Math Homework

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Gerald smiled at Toby. "Got it now, kiddo? You borrow from the tens column, then subtract from the ones."

"Thanks, grandpa!" Toby took back his paper and pencil, then ran back to the kitchen. Gerald watched, still smiling, as the boy clambered carefully back up onto the tall chair, bending once more to the book spread open on the table. Smart lad. Not the smartest, certainly, but he took instruction well, if you exercised a little patience with him.

He had been sitting in one of the armchairs in the living room, reading the newspaper, when Toby had asked for help with his homework. Mina was sitting in the other chair with a small pile of mending; she was quiet, but they had been married long enough for Gerald to know that something was on her mind. "Nickel for your thoughts, dear?"

Mina glanced up at him, smiling slightly. "A whole nickel?"

"Inflation."

"Mmm." She looked back down at the shirt she was mending. "Just thinking about Toby. He's almost eight, did you realize that?"

Gerald looked through the kitchen doorway at their grandson again. "Time does fly. I still remember when he was learning to walk." He grinned. "Remember the bowl of fruit he pulled down almost on his head, with the grapes -- "

Mina groaned, then laughed. "Yes, and I also remember finding grapes beneath the furniture for weeks afterwards!" Then she grew serious again. "He's growing up, Ger. But at the same time, we're growing old." She looked down at the shirt again. It was one of Toby's, bright red with a dinosaur emblazoned on the front. "He needs his father. Not us."

"Marcus has made it quite clear that he doesn't want to be a father," Gerald replied quietly, glancing towards Toby, who was still absorbed by his homework. "I talked to him again not too long ago. He says he still isn't ready." A pause. "That he still can't look at Toby without seeing Toby's mother."

They were both silent for a moment, and then Mina sighed. "I don't want to be rid of him; I love having him here. I love him, just as much as I loved Marcus when he was a boy."

"I know."

She folded Toby's shirt, gently smoothing the red cloth. "But all the love in the world won't give him what he needs. No matter how much we wish it could."

"I know," Gerald said again, morosely; and then, a third time, as if to himself. "I know."

Bachelor

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Marcus knew that it was ridiculous to get so flustered over his mother's coming to visit. It wasn't like he was still a teenager, living in her house and subject to utter embarrassment every time she came into his room while he had friends over. He was a perfectly respectable 32-year-old middle-manager, with his own apartment and a dependable late-model sedan. Still, the thought of having mom over for dinner brought him back to his childhood all too well. Didn't help that he wasn't used to it; usually, he came to visit her.

He did one last check of the bedroom, picking up a stray dirty sock that had managed to miss the laundry hamper. As he turned his attention to the living room, he decided that it would have helped if his apartment wasn't so sparse. He didn't have much, really: a bed, a desk, and a bookcase in the bedroom; a small couch and a single upright lamp in the living room; a smattering of dishes in the kitchen cabinets. A few random other items. Not a lot; certainly not enough to really make the place feel lived-in. He'd had mom over once not long after he moved in, and she had hinted strongly that the place could use the much-vaunted "woman's touch". Well, all that would have been nice, presumably, but in the interim he'd had to deal with what was rather than what he would have liked to be.

In the kitchen Marcus noticed the remains of his lunch by the sink. He threw away the empty box of "Mac'n Cheez" quickly, almost guiltily, and dumped the saucepan into the dishwasher without dealing with its congealed contents. Thing was heavy-duty; might as well put it through its paces. He surveyed the kitchen again, then nodded to himself. He might be unused to entertaining, but he could still put on a respectable enough showing. Maybe he'd even avoid being asked again when he was going to meet "some nice girl". Certainly he had already spent more than enough time asking it of himself.

What Goes Around

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Ben smiled briefly at the counter girl as she handed the coffee to him, but her attention had already turned to the next customer. Well, that's all right, he thought to himself, they are awfully busy this morning. It seemed like she had plenty of time to smile at the next guy as he ordered his fancy frappu-cappu-whatever, but what of it?

He grabbed a couple napkins and a coffee stirrer, then paused in the act of reaching for the sugar tray. He usually took his joe black with plenty of sugar... quite the sweet tooth had old Ben, as he would freely admit... but maybe he ought to give the sugar a miss this time. Or at least cut down on it a little. After a moment, though, he went ahead and dumped in his usual four packets, stirring thoroughly before putting the lid back on his coffee. He'd start cutting down tomorrow, maybe.

His usual morning routine was to buy a paper at the newsstand next door, grab his coffee here, and then sit at a table by the coffeehouse window, drinking and reading, before heading on to work. He had his paper and his coffee, but abruptly he turned and headed outside anyway. He knew everyone in the room couldn't really be giving him funny looks, and certainly nobody but him knew that he'd had to put a new hole in his damn belt just to be able to wear it today. Still. The pretty people could have his usual seat by the window this morning. Hell, maybe they deserved it more anyway.

Ben sipped at his coffee as he walked slowly back to his car. Maybe he'd quit the coffeehouse runs entirely, put that forty-five minutes every morning to better use. Start taking walks around the neighborhood. Take up gardening. Something like that. Anything to combat this nagging feeling that he was, in some way, not good enough; that he would have to atone in some obscure way in order to be worthy of a position in society. The feeling that he refused to admit, and that he pushed away even now, taking a long pull at his coffee and forcing his mind to more pleasant matters.

In Motion

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Tense silence reigned for a few minutes, and then she blinked. "You know, I think you're right," she said thoughtfully. "I remember that tree from the last time we were here... up on the right in a bit there should be..."

"That old barn that burned down," he agreed. "And they never tore out what was left, so it wound up all overgrown with honeysuckle."

"Oh!" She pointed through the windshield. "Yes, there it is!"

He chuckled. "I told you I remembered it was down this road. I've got my bearings, now; it's about ten miles more this way, not long before you cross the creek." A rueful smile crossed his face. "You would not believe how many hours I spent by that creek when I was a kid... every time we came this way to visit my grandparents, I'd be out there swimming or catching frogs or just watching clouds..."

"Sounds like it wasn't your grandparents you were visiting," she said with a grin, and he laughed and nodded his agreement. As he drove on, she continued, "So it was a nice place, the creek?"

"Nicest little garden spot I've ever seen in my life. Shaded by these massive trees; cool even in August, and the water as clear as air, so you could see the fish plain as day, even if I never did catch any when I tried. Hey," he exclaimed, turning to her briefly, "why don't we go there and you can see for yourself? We've got time. It's the most beautiful place you'll ever see, and it's -- " He stopped. "What?"

She was shaking her head. "I'm sure it was a wonderful place, dear, but..." She hesitated. "My friend Mabel, her son works as a highway patrolman, usually right along this very road. He told her that the paper mill had an accident a few years ago. Flooded the rivers with all kinds of chemicals." She rested a hand briefly on his arm. "Apparently not much of anything'd be growing by that creek anymore."

"Oh." Silence again for a few moments. "Well, that's... that's a shame. A real damn shame."

"I'm sorry, dear... I'd thought you would have already known."

He sighed. "I guess it's just been so long since I was down here except for quick visits... I just never thought about how long it'd been." Then he shrugged. "I guess it's to be expected, though. That's how life is. Nothing ever stays the same for very long."