Monthly Archives: November 2022

The Heart of the Matter

Horace sat in a small booth at Frenchy’s Diner and worked on his cheeseburger. Grant, his best friend, usually joined him; however, he had to take his wife into Phoenix for a doctor visit, so Horace ate alone. The day was pleasant. A slight breeze blew, which cooled down an otherwise hot afternoon. Horace enjoyed the quiet time to himself. That is, until Travis Klein, an acquaintance from his neighborhood, walked through the door, spied, Horace, and decided to join him.

 “Hello Horace. Mind if I join you?” Travis asked, as he took a seat across the table.

“Yes. But go ahead anyway.” Horace replied.

Horace wasn’t to particularly fond of Travis. Over the years, Travis has shown himself to be an opinionated, righteous, windbag. Horace knew that, once Travis opened his mouth, the peaceful feeling he enjoyed would cease. It didn’t take long for Travis to prove Horace right.

“How about those elections?” Travis muttered.

“Let’s not talk politics.” Horace said. “You know we don’t see eye-to-eye, and I don’t really want an argument. I just want to enjoy what’s left of my burger.”

“So be it.” Travis responded.

Horace hoped Travis would move on, but good fortune was not in the cards. Travis ordered a plate of fried chicken with fries and a large pop. Horace commented on his order. “Didn’t Doc Aundebay recommend after your last heart attack that you eat healthier?”

“It wasn’t so much a heart attack. More just a murmur. Don’t worry about me.” Travis quipped.

Horace promised he wouldn’t. Travis sat quietly for a moment, scanning the faces in the diner. He caught a glimpse of a couple who had recently moved into the area. The middle-aged couple sat at a nearby table. He was dressed in white pants and shirt, and wore a red turban. The woman was dressed in a similar colored, floor length, saree. They looked quite elegant, and somewhat overdressed, compared to the others in the diner.

Travis nodded toward the couple and said to Horace “There’s that Arab couple. Don’t know why they come here.”

Horace replied without looking back “Maybe they’re hungry. Or maybe it’s because this is America. Just a guess.”

“We got too many Arabs around here. They should go back to Iran or Iraq or wherever they’re from.”

Horace grew impatient with Travis. “Just so you know Travis, Iranians and Iraqis are not Arabs. Those two countries are not on the Arabian Peninsula. You need to know a little about geography before you start talking. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Well, they’re Muslims anyway. I thought we were at war with them.”

Horace shook his head. “They’re wearing turbans. Not Muslim dress. I actually believe they are Sikhs.”

“What’s the difference?” Travis asked. “They’re not like us. I mean, look at his beanie. And what’s with that dress she’s wearing. It’s just a fancy burka. Why do those men make their woman wear clothes like that? What are they trying to hide?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask Sister Mary Rachel next time I see her.” Horace replied.

“What makes you an expert?” Travis asked.

“Well, for one thing, I read. And I watch more than one TV station.”

“We got too many immigrants in this country. It’s getting where you can hardly find true Americans anymore. People like us, who have been here since the beginning.”

Travis was really showing his ignorance, and Horace wanted it to stop.

“That would be the indigenous people. Besides, aren’t your grandparents immigrants themselves?” Horace inquired.

“Yeah, but they were different. They were from Germany. We’re not at war with Germany.”

“Not any more. That’s it. This conversation is over.” Horace announced. “Finish your cholesterol-rich chicken by yourself.”

Horace stood up and walked to the front counter to pay. He looked over at the Sikh couple and smiled. He then looked back at Travis, shot him a nasty look, and mouthed an unpleasantly. He paid his bill and walked toward the door.

Horace was almost out the door when he heard a commotion. Travis started to rise when he suddenly grabbed his chest and fell to the floor. Horace knew that this was no murmur. He started back to the table, but before he could reach it, the Sikh man rushed to Travis and began administering CPR. The woman immediately called 9-1-1.

After a minute of chest compressions, Travis’ eyes opened and he started breathing again. The Sikh man waited by Travis’ side until two EMTs arrived. The Sikh filled the EMTs in with details.

“I noticed he was looking quite pale. I was going to ask him if he was all right when suddenly, he collapsed. He had a heart attack for sure. Mild, but he needs to be evaluated.”

Larry, one of the EMTs responded. “Thanks Doctor Gurneet. He’s lucky you were here.”

The EMTs loaded Travis into their ambulance and drove off to the hospital. The patrons in the diner all applauded Doctor Gurneet as he sat down to finish his meal with his wife. Horace smiled again at the couple, and then made his way out the door.

Two weeks later, the neighborhood held a Happy Hour. Horace and Grant were there with their wives. A tired looking Travis showed up. Horace hoped Travis would not notice him. Travis looked over and walked toward Horace. Instead of stopping, he walked past Horace and over toward the Gurneets. He extended his hand, and smiling, thanked Dr. Gurneet for saving his life.

Locked Up

Horace and Grant were having a party. Not a cake and ice cream and presents party. They were having their weekly, sit around, have a couple of beers (that’s all their wives and doctors allowed them), and discuss the world as they knew it party. Their parties usually took place at Suds Tavern (coldest beer in town), usually on Wednesday afternoons (while their wives are getting manicures), and usually ended up in at least one argument. Today was no different.

They discussed sports for a bit. They stayed away from religion and politics. They were too old to talk about women. When they ran out of things to say, they talked about the weather and their many ailments. Mostly though, they liked to partake in back-and-forth, my story is better than yours, conversations.

After agreeing that the Arizona Coyotes are terrible, and why in tarnation do they play hockey in the desert, their talk turned to current news events. Horace started the latest topic.

“You hear about the rash of bike thefts in the park lately?”

Grant replied “Bike thefts? That ain’t real. We live in a gated community. It’s got a wall all the way around.”

“Believe me. It’s happening. Just this week. A couple bikes get stolen each night.”

“I’m not buying it! How do they get in and how do they get the bikes out?” Grant asked.

“They climb the walls, just like roses.”

“What the Hell does that mean?”

Horace tried to educate Grant. “That’s a simile. You know, using something to describe something else. Well roses climb walls, just like the bike thieves.”

Grant looked at Horace cross-eyed and remarked “Well, that’s just about as dumb a smile as I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s simile. And I don’t want to use another example of things that climb over walls. Last time I did, you got pretty riled up and I thought you were going to have a heart attack.”

They paused for a moment to sip their beers. Horace resumed.

“Anyway, if you want to keep your bike, you’d better lock it up at night.”

“I don’t own no lock, And I ain’t going to go buy one just cause you say bikes are going over the walls.”

“Do what you want.” Horace said. “If your bike shows up missing in the morning, I won’t say nothing.”

“Of course you won’t say nothing, cause if my bike shows up, it ain’t missing.”

The bike theft argument finished, along with their two beers. Their wives arrived to take them home. The party was over.

Later that evening, Grant pondered the situation. He sure liked his bike, even though it was old and clunky. It would be a shame if someone did indeed climb the wall and steal his bike. Grant didn’t own a bike lock or chain, but he was in possession of three things; a semi-working knowledge of how electricity flows, a golf cart, and a set of jumper cables.

He thought to himself. “Maybe I can sort of hook my bike up to the golf cart battery. Attach the negative grounds. Then attach the positive ground to the battery and place the other end under the seat. If someone tries to steal my bike, as soon as that scoundrel sits on the seat, the cable hits the seat post, completes the circuit, and sends a shockwave up his hind end. That’ll teach him.”

Grant got to work. He parked his bike next to the golf cart, secured the cables, and used some nearby palm fronds to conceal the cables. He looked over his work and chuckled at his cleverness. He went into the house and joined his wife in front of the TV. An hour later, they were both fast asleep.

Sleep didn’t last long. Not long after midnight, Grant awoke, thinking he’d been dreaming about Rice Krispies cereal. He heard a distinct Snap Crackle Pop in the driveway. He rushed to the living room window and gazed out. Sure enough, someone lay on the driveway, holding his buttocks; blood oozing from a cut on his head. Grant grabbed a baseball bat and ran out the door.

“I got you, you low-life, bike-stealing, son-of-a- . . . Horace?”

“Don’t just stand there, get me a bandage.” Horace said, grimacing in pain.

“What are you doing? And what were those sounds I heard. Sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies.”

Horace came clean. “I guess I was just having fun with you. Trying to teach you a lesson. That is until I climbed on your bike.”

Grant added “The Snap must have been the sound of the circuit closing.”

Horace piped in. “The Crackle was the sound of my buns getting zapped. And the Pop was my head hitting your golf cart when I flew off the seat.”

They looked at each other in the faint moonlight. Grant was annoyed. Horace was embarrassed.

“So there aren’t any bike thieves around?” Grant asked.

Horace finished the conversation. “Of course not. How would anybody get over the walls with a bike?”

Pronunciation

Michael was a shy and quiet kid. He mumbled and had a slight lisp, which made him sometimes hard to understand. In short, he had a problem with pronunciation. This became apparent to his father at an early age.

Michael and his second grade class went on a field trip to the local zoo. They spent the day viewing the different animal exhibits and leaning about animals, habitats, and world geography. After dinner that evening, Phil, his father, asked him about what he learned.

“We saw tons of really cool animals. Like lions and a hippo and lots and lots of monkeys.” he exclaimed.

“What was your favorite animal?” Phil asked.

Michael responded “A frickin elephant.”

Phil didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t like Michael using the word frickin. To him, the word was a less offensive substitute for an obscene word. Phil had to correct Michael.

“Michael. I don’t want you using that word anymore. It’s not a good or proper word to say.”

Michael objected. “But dad, that’s what I saw. A frickin elephant.”

“That’s enough. If you keep using that word, you’ll get some time-out.” Phil told him.

Michael looked partly discouraged and partly defiant. “Look dad. I’ll show you.”

He fetched his backpack from his room, pulled out a flyer from the zoo, and handed it to his dad.

Phil read the flyer. Sure enough, on the second page was a picture with a caption: Jumbo – African Elephant.

He was relieved that his son wasn’t saying frickin. Phil apologized for the misunderstanding.

Michael smiled as he took the flyer from his dad’s hand. “That’s okay dad. I guess I didn’t pronounce it well.”

The situation was defused and hopefully, a lesson learned.

That is, until Michael added “She sure was fucking huge!”

Michael spent the next hour alone in the corner.

Either Or

“Wilt or Kareem?”

“Wilt of course. He had a one-hundred-point game. He averaged twenty-seven rebounds one year. No one will ever get close to those numbers.”

“True, but Kareem has the most points ever as a player. And he has six rings to Wilt’s one.”

Horace and Grant were doing what they loved to do; drink beer and try to one-up each other. They were sitting at the bar in Suds Tavern. Their wives were attending a book club meeting, discussing a romance book. Horace and Grant were taking advantage of their free time to hang out and have fun.

Horace took a long sip of Guinness, and then kept the comparisons going. “Sandy Koufax or Clayton Kershaw?”

Grant replied. “Sandy. Four-time World Series winner. Better ERA than Clayton. And besides, he had conviction.”

What do you mean, conviction?” Horace asked.

“He was Jewish and wouldn’t pitch on Yom Kipper during the ’65 World Series. Still won the series MVP, plus Sports Illustrated ‘Man of the Year’ award.”

“I still like Clayton better. He has a pitch no one can hit. Here’s one.” Grant asked. “The Longest Yard or The Longest Yard?

“They’re the same.” retorted Horace.

“Not quite. One had Burt Reynolds and the other had Adam Sandler.”

“The old one with Burt was best. More realistic. Besides, Adam is too corny.”

 “The new one made way more money.” Grant added.

“Different time. Used to be able to watch a movie for a buck. Now you gotta mortgage your home or sell your first-born son.

“Good point. But I still like the second one better.”

Horace and Grant relaxed for a few minutes, drinking their beers and watching the hockey game playing on the big screen behind the bar. After a few swigs of his Budweiser, Grant asked, “Fiction of non-fiction?”

“What about them?” Horace inquired.

“Which do you like to read better? You’re a journalist, so I figure you like non-fiction better.”

“Not really. I write non-fiction all day, but at night, I like reading fiction. You know, made up stories that have not an ounce of fact. What about you?”

Grant thought for a moment. “It’s not so black-and-white. Sometimes a good piece of fiction is chock-full of real honest-to-goodness fact. Forrest Gump for example. Made up story, but there really was Elvis, The Vietnam War, Watergate, and so on. Kind of a mishmash of fiction and fact.”

“Good point.” Horace replied. “Same with Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Obviously, fiction, but a lot of real people, places, and events are in the book. But you didn’t answer the question. Fiction of non-fiction?”

“I guess I’d have to say non-fiction. To me it’s more interesting, plus it helps when there’s Trivia Night here at the bar.”

Another few moments passed with no discussion. Horace ordered two more beers. Five minutes later, Dusty, the bartender, came by and placed the cold beers on the bar.

“Last one.” Horace stated. “Jennifer Aniston or Courteney Cox?”

“No brainer.” Grant replied. “Jennifer for sure.”

Horace held his glass up and toasted. “At last. Something we can agree on.”