Author Archives: gabbyhayes

Through an Open Window

The single sheet of paper gently flew out of the open window, which rose six stories above the quiet back street. A breeze slipped through the small crack where the window raised above the sill. The loose paper became ensnared by the draft and slid effortlessly out into the air, where it hovered aloft like a condor catching an updraft.

The cold January air mixed with the warm drafts, which emanated from the homes and businesses below, caused a thermal wave, taking the paper soaring across the small town, unnoticed by the few people who walked the streets that blustery day. The paper rose and fell with the drafts, traveling farther and farther from the open window. Like an ill-spoken rumor, it traveled the breadth of the town, dancing from street to street. It finally came to rest near a bench in the small park that lies on the north side of the small city.

Johnathon and Simone walked the park every morning and often sat in the bench to drink coffee and feed the ducks who lived in the nearby stream. As they sipped the warm contents of their cups, Simone noticed the single sheet pf paper wrapped around the wooden leg of the bench.

“What a lovely piece of paper.” she remarked. “It looks as though it might me a letter that became separated from its author.”

Johnathon reached down and untangled it from the bench. “You’re right, dear. It is a letter. Nicely written, but by the looks of it, I’d say it’s been stranded here for a good week.”

He flattened the paper on the bench and brushed away the dirt, which accumulated upon it. “Whomever wrote this had lovely penmanship.” he said, as he turned the paper over to examine the back.

“What does the letter read?” Simone curiously asked.

“I didn’t bring my spectacles.” Johnathon replied as he handed the letter to Simone. “Here. You read it.”

Simone quickly scanned the first side, and then the second. “I do believe it’s some sort of New Year’s resolutions list.”

“What makes you ascertain this?” Johnathon inquired.

The author, whomever he or she was, talks about the previous year, with its many trials and tribulations. Ohhh. This person had a terrible 2023.”

“How’s that?”

“By the looks of the handwriting, I’m going to assume the author was a woman. And according to her words, she had many losses. Losses of friends and loved ones. Losses of material things, and losses of self.”

“Quite sad sounding, indeed.” Johnathon remarked. “Why do you say then that the letter contains resolutions?”

Simone continued as she read. “On the second side, she lists what she is grateful for and what she hopes for the coming year. Her list is humble, yet well arranged.”

Again, Johnathon asked about the contents. Simone read the hopes of the writer.

“She simply wants to find peace and happiness in her life. She wants to have the wherewithal to help others around her. Lastly, she hopes for good health in the coming year and . . .”

“And what?”

“The letter just ends.” Simone stated. “Maybe she just ran out of time. I hope she finds her happiness.”

Johnathon looked up. “Look. Here come the ducks. Let me fetch the bread crumbs.”

Food for Thought

Grant smiled when Betty, his waitress, brought breakfast. Grant, and his friend Horace, came to Frenchy’s Diner often to eat breakfast and share stories. Today was their first breakfast of the new year. Grant arrived on time, but Horace was late. Grant was famished and ordered. “I’m awful hungry this morning.” he told Betty. “Why don’t you bring me a tall stack of hot cakes with chocolate sauce and whipped cream? And throw a side of bacon and some hash browns with them.”

“Sure. Anything else?” inquired Betty.

“Another cup of coffee. And more cream, please.”

Grant was chowing down on his breakfast when Horace arrived. Horace apologized for his lateness, blaming it on Henrietta, the dog, traffic, and the seven emergency vehicles that blocked his street that morning.

“What was the emergency?” Grant asked.

“Fire on Barrel Cactus Drive. No one was hurt, but it sure made a mess of the neighborhood.”

Betty walked up to take Horace’s order. Horace glanced at Grant’s plate and said, “I definitely don’t want what he’s having. I want to live to see 2025.”

“What’s wrong with my food?” Grant quizzed Horace. “It’s quite delicious, and after the party we had last night, and into the morning, I need a little protein to absorb the libations.”

“And grease, and fat, and enough carbs to fuel a marathon runner for a month. I’ll have a bowl of oatmeal, some orange juice, and black coffee, Betty.”

Grant listened to Horace’s order and remarked, “At least I’ll enjoy 2024.”

To that, Horace responded, “I thought you vowed to eat better this year. You’re not getting any younger, and you did put on a few extra pounds last year.”

“I try to eat better, but I’m always confused as to how. They say this and others say that. Who knows what to believe?”

“What are you talking about?” Horace asked. “It’s pretty simple. Just eat sensibly, and don’t eat too much.”

“It’s not that easy.” Grant interrupted. “I tried last year to change my diet. I ate only natural foods. They tasted like cow dung, but I kept with it for a few months. Then I read an article that said most people die of natural causes. So I quit.”

Horace shook his head in disbelief just as Betty brought his order and refilled Grant’s coffee cup. They eat in silence for a couple of minutes. Horace looked up to see Grant wiping bacon grease off his hands. “You know what that fat does to your arteries?” Horace asked. “You’re looking at a one-way ticket to by-pass surgery.”

Grant commented without looking up. “You sure about that? I’ve never heard of a pig dying from a heart attack.”

“You’re not a pig, Grant. At least, not all the time.”

“I’ve tried a bunch or diets. They all promise the same thing. Lose weight, feel better, and instantly appeal to the opposite sex.”

Which of these gimmick diets did you try?” Horace asked.

Grant rattled off a list of diets. “First was the Mediterranean Diet. Wholesome food from Italy and Greece. After a month of eating pizza and drinking Ouzo, I gained ten pounds and woke up a lot with a headache.”

“That’s not what the Mediterranean Diet means.” Horace jumped in. “It’s a lot of grains and seafood.”

Grant took a swig of coffee and continued. “Even seafood is confusing. My doctor said I should eat more seafood. I was good with that until I found out Goldfish Crackers don’t count.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Horace asked.

“I try.” Grant pleaded. “I tried GOLO™. They promised I’d lose weight without worry. The only thing that went low was my bank account. After that, I tried the Paleolithic diet. You know, the one the cavemen followed. Turns out there aren’t many mastodons around to eat.”

“You really buy the stuff they’re selling?” Horace asked Grant.

“Maybe I watch What the Health on Netflix too much. They preached the advantages of the South Beach Diet and the Beverly Hills Diet. I’ve never been to Miami Beach or Beverly Hills, and don’t plan on going to either. They need to have a diet for around here. Maybe the Mesa Mess Diet or the Arizona Starve You to the Bona Diet.”

“Is that it?” Horace inquired.

“No. I even tried cleansing.”

Horace grimaced. “No Shit?” he said.

“At the beginning, yes, but after a while, none at all.”

“You don’t need to follow any of those fads.” Horace replied. “Just eat good food, drink lots of water, and don’t keep going back for thirds. It’s not hard to do.”

“I hear you, Horace. I’ll try harder this year. That’s my resolution. I have one question, though.”

“What’s that?” Horace asked.

“When we go to Suds on Wednesday nights, do we need to drink Lite beer?”

Horace looked Grant in the eyes and replied, “Let’s not get hasty. After all, we still want to enjoy 2024. Right?”

A Lady on a Bus

A light snow fell around the bus on which I rode that late November afternoon. I had spent the better part of the day visiting a Kriskringlemart in downtown Frankfurt, Germany. Christmas wasn’t a big thing for me. I stopped believing in Santa Claus years before. Over time, Christmas became a time to empty your savings, buying gifts for everyone you knew, even those you didn’t like or those that didn’t deserve presents. Other than two sisters back in the states, I had no one to buy for anyway.

I did miss my sisters though. Barbara and Monica were the only family I had and they were so far away. Before mobile phones, communication with them back in the states was limited. Letter writing and an occasional phone call on MARS, the Military Auxiliary Radio System, were the only means of knowing how my sisters were, or telling them that I was still alive.  I decided that I would use the international postal system to send them gifts.

In 1977, the military shipped packages from Germany to the states. The military had more important things to ship, such as troops, bombs, and expensive furniture for generals, thus Christmas packages were relegated to third-class shipping. For packages to arrive in California by Christmas day, which is where my sisters lived, I needed to post them by November twentieth. That date was the following day, which is why I shopped in Frankfurt that day. Besides gifts for Barbara and Monica, I’d also purchased a few things for myself.

With Glűhwein in my belly and gifts in a shopping bag, I left the market square and walked to the Bahnhof, where I boarded a bus back to the base. Snow started to fall during the forty-minute ride to the front gate. I grabbed the bag, strode off the bus, and walked through security back to my barracks. After removing my coat, hat, and gloves, I opened the bag of gifts, ready to wrap them and prepare them for shipping. Only, they weren’t there. The two gifts I bought for my sisters were missing.

My attempt at reviving my Christmas spirit dwindled. I had no time to buy more gifts, not if I wanted them delivered on time. I sat and tried to think of where I might have lost the presents. Only one place came to mind. The bus. I donned my warm clothes and walked back to the bus stop, hoping for some type of miracle. Perhaps the gifts are still on the seat that I occupied. I’d still have time to wrap them and send them if they are on the bus.

I waited for forty minutes. The snow fell harder and the temperature dropped. At last, I saw the bus coming my way. It stopped and the door opened. In broken German, I began to ask the driver if I could look for my packages. I quickly noticed that he was a different driver, driving a different bus. I knew then that Christmas presents from me would not be delivered that year.

As I turned to walk away, the bus driver said, “Ein moment.”

I turned to look. He grabbed a bag from under his seat. “Eine Dame fand diese im anderen Bus und gab sie dem Busfahrer, der sie mir gab.”

My German was sketchy, but I understood enough to know that a lady found them and he had them. I smiled as I retrieved the bag.

“Frohe Weihnachten.” I said as I walked away.

My belief in Christmas and Santa Claus didn’t grow that day, but my belief in kind people, strangers, and bus drivers did.

Crustacean Frustration

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Ben Waiten, a resident at Wander In Active Adult Community, thought of the immortal words spoken by Sarah Palin in October of 2008. Ben wasn’t in search of oil or natural gas. He wasn’t running for Vice President either. Ben just wanted to improve his pickleball game, and his good friend Horace Henderson told him that the only way to improve is to drill.

“Drill and drill more. Play and then drill. Then, drill some more.” is what Horace kept telling Ben.

Drilling though, wasn’t always that easy. Free court time was scarce, and during peak hours, courts were only available for open play. By the time the temperatures started to soar, most players were done for the day and didn’t stick around for drills. Every now and then, someone would hit balls back and forth with Ben, but that wasn’t enough. Ben needed a partner who could hit balls to him with force, finesse, and consistency.

“Have you tried the Lobster™?” Horace asked Ben one day.

“I prefer the scampi. Or even Alaskan king crab legs.” Ben replied. “They go great with a nice bottle of Chablis.”

“No. I mean the Lobster.” Horace interrupted. “The pickleball machine the park owns. I’ve heard it’s great for drilling when you can’t find a partner.”

“I’ve heard of it, but have never given it a try.” Ben added. “Can anyone use it?” he asked.

“You’re supposed to have training on how to use it, but it’s pretty straight-forward. You should give it a whirl some time. It’s in the shed behind the courts. The combination for the shed is 1-2-3-4. Pretty easy to remember.”

Ben thanked Horace for the advice and said he’d look into the Lobster.

Later that week, once the temperature reached into the nineties and everybody left the courts, Ben walked to the shed. Using the top-secret code Horace gave him, Ben entered the shed and found the Lobster in the corner. It was plugged in and the green light shone solid, a good indication to Ben that the battery was fully charged. Ben unplugged the machine. He noticed a reference sheet with basic use commands, but figured he could figure out how to use it just by playing with the controls. He also saw a sign-up sheet, but since he had never officially had instruction, he didn’t sign his name. Ben wheeled the Lobster to the closest court, placed it on one side of the net, and then bent down to examine the switches and knobs that adorned the control panel.

One toggle switch read On/Off. It was self-explanatory. There were four knobs below the toggle. The label above the first read Speed. The second read Trajectory. The third read Delay. The fourth read Rotation. Ben twisted all four up and down, and figured he could control the ball lobbing with ease using the four controls. He returned to the shed and brought back a large box of bright yellow pickleballs. He poured around 40 balls into the hopper, the large funnel-shaped bowl on top of the Lobster. Ben made three random adjustments to the knobs and flicked the toggle switch to the On position.

A soft yet audible sound purred from the Lobster. It was running. Ben waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. He walked around the front to examine the control panel, just as the first ball shot out of the barrel, at a very high rate of speed. The ball hit Ben squarely in the stomach, knocking him over in the process. Ben sat there, thinking how glad he was that the Trajectory knob wasn’t set a few inches lower when a second speeding projectile soared over his head, barely missing his hat. Ben rolled out of the way, reached up, and turned the toggle to the Off position.

“That was close!” he thought as he made adjustments to the knobs. “Maybe a little less Speed and Delay.” he said to himself as he turned the two knobs down. He also gave the machine a little shove, just to let it know who was boss.

He flicked the toggle up. Within seconds, three balls slowly dribbled out, hit the ground directly below the barrel, and harmlessly rolled by his feet. Two seconds later, another ball rolled out, and then another and another. Ben switched the Lobster off again.

“I know it’s just figuring out the right combination of settings.” he murmured under his breath. He again rotated a few knobs, and turned on the Lobster. The base of the Lobster swung to the right, a pickleball blasted out of the barrel, and landed in the next court over. The Lobster swiveled left and deposited another ball on another court. This continued until Ben once again hit the switch. Ben looked around to see if anyone watched the barrage of balls flying here and there. No one did. He quickly ran to the adjourning courts and gathered up all of the wayward balls.

“This is getting frustrating.” he thought. “One more try and then I’m giving up.” he assured himself.

He again made adjustments that he thought would be good for drilling. He again looked around for spectators, and when he was sure no one watched, he flicked the switch up. The familiar hum of the Lobster began, but nothing else happened for about ten seconds. Then, before he knew what to do, five balls shot like mortar rounds over the brick wall and directly into Saguaro Drive. Ben immediately heard the sound of squealing tires as multiple cars came to abrupt stops in the middle of the busy boulevard.

“Crap!” Ben yelled as he ran to the wall and hoisted himself up to take a look. Fortunately, no accidents occurred. Ben saw several drivers exit their cars, raising fists and cursing loudly. Before Ben could back down, another five balls arced over his head and landed in the street.

“Incoming!” one of the drivers yelled.

Ben yelled an apology to the drivers as he quickly scurried to the Lobster and shut it off. While doing this, ten balls flew back over the wall. He yelled an apology again and thanked the drivers for returning the balls. He gathered everything up, and grabbing the Lobster by its handle, hightailed it for the shed. He put everything back, cursed to himself about the frustration he encountered with the nefarious machine, closed the shed door, and walked away.

Ben was twenty feet from the shed when he heard the distinct humming of the Lobster humming, followed by the sound of high-velocity balls pummeling the shed walls. As he quickened his pace, he was glad he didn’t add his name to the sign-up sheet. “Next time” he thought, “I’ll read the instructions.”.

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Ben Waiten, a resident at Wander In Active Adult Community, thought of the immortal words spoken by Sarah Palin in October of 2008. Ben wasn’t in search of oil or natural gas. He wasn’t running for Vice President either. Ben just wanted to improve his pickleball game, and his good friend Horace Henderson told him that the only way to improve is to drill.

“Drill and drill more. Play and then drill. Then, drill some more.” is what Horace kept telling Ben.

Drilling though, wasn’t always that easy. Free court time was scarce, and during peak hours, courts were only available for open play. By the time the temperatures started to soar, most players were done for the day and didn’t stick around for drills. Every now and then, someone would hit balls back and forth with Ben, but that wasn’t enough. Ben needed a partner who could hit balls to him with force, finesse, and consistency.

“Have you tried the Lobster™?” Horace asked Ben one day.

“I prefer the scampi. Or even Alaskan king crab legs.” Ben replied. “They go great with a nice bottle of Chablis.”

“No. I mean the Lobster.” Horace interrupted. “The pickleball machine the park owns. I’ve heard it’s great for drilling when you can’t find a partner.”

“I’ve heard of it, but have never given it a try.” Ben added. “Can anyone use it?” he asked.

“You’re supposed to have training on how to use it, but it’s pretty straight-forward. You should give it a whirl some time. It’s in the shed behind the courts. The combination for the shed is 1-2-3-4. Pretty easy to remember.”

Ben thanked Horace for the advice and said he’d look into the Lobster.

Later that week, once the temperature reached into the nineties and everybody left the courts, Ben walked to the shed. Using the top-secret code Horace gave him, Ben entered the shed and found the Lobster in the corner. It was plugged in and the green light shone solid, a good indication to Ben that the battery was fully charged. Ben unplugged the machine. He noticed a reference sheet with basic use commands, but figured he could figure out how to use it just by playing with the controls. He also saw a sign-up sheet, but since he had never officially had instruction, he didn’t sign his name. Ben wheeled the Lobster to the closest court, placed it on one side of the net, and then bent down to examine the switches and knobs that adorned the control panel.

One toggle switch read On/Off. It was self-explanatory. There were four knobs below the toggle. The label above the first read Speed. The second read Trajectory. The third read Delay. The fourth read Rotation. Ben twisted all four up and down, and figured he could control the ball lobbing with ease using the four controls. He returned to the shed and brought back a large box of bright yellow pickleballs. He poured around 40 balls into the hopper, the large funnel-shaped bowl on top of the Lobster. Ben made three random adjustments to the knobs and flicked the toggle switch to the On position.

A soft yet audible sound purred from the Lobster. It was running. Ben waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. He walked around the front to examine the control panel, just as the first ball shot out of the barrel, at a very high rate of speed. The ball hit Ben squarely in the stomach, knocking him over in the process. Ben sat there, thinking how glad he was that the Trajectory knob wasn’t set a few inches lower when a second speeding projectile soared over his head, barely missing his hat. Ben rolled out of the way, reached up, and turned the toggle to the Off position.

“That was close!” he thought as he made adjustments to the knobs. “Maybe a little less Speed and Delay.” he said to himself as he turned the two knobs down. He also gave the machine a little shove, just to let it know who was boss.

He flicked the toggle up. Within seconds, three balls slowly dribbled out, hit the ground directly below the barrel, and harmlessly rolled by his feet. Two seconds later, another ball rolled out, and then another and another. Ben switched the Lobster off again.

“I know it’s just figuring out the right combination of settings.” he murmured under his breath. He again rotated a few knobs, and turned on the Lobster. The base of the Lobster swung to the right, a pickleball blasted out of the barrel, and landed in the next court over. The Lobster swiveled left and deposited another ball on another court. This continued until Ben once again hit the switch. Ben looked around to see if anyone watched the barrage of balls flying here and there. No one did. He quickly ran to the adjourning courts and gathered up all of the wayward balls.

“This is getting frustrating.” he thought. “One more try and then I’m giving up.” he assured himself.

He again made adjustments that he thought would be good for drilling. He again looked around for spectators, and when he was sure no one watched, he flicked the switch up. The familiar hum of the Lobster began, but nothing else happened for about ten seconds. Then, before he knew what to do, five balls shot like mortar rounds over the brick wall and directly into Saguaro Drive. Ben immediately heard the sound of squealing tires as multiple cars came to abrupt stops in the middle of the busy boulevard.

“Crap!” Ben yelled as he ran to the wall and hoisted himself up to take a look. Fortunately, no accidents occurred. Ben saw several drivers exit their cars, raising fists and cursing loudly. Before Ben could back down, another five balls arced over his head and landed in the street.

“Incoming!” one of the drivers yelled.

Ben yelled an apology to the drivers as he quickly scurried to the Lobster and shut it off. While doing this, ten balls flew back over the wall. He yelled an apology again and thanked the drivers for returning the balls. He gathered everything up, and grabbing the Lobster by its handle, hightailed it for the shed. He put everything back, cursed to himself about the frustration he encountered with the nefarious machine, closed the shed door, and walked away.

Ben was twenty feet from the shed when he heard the distinct sound of the Lobster humming, followed by the sound of high-velocity balls pummeling the shed walls. As he quickened his pace, he was glad he didn’t add his name to the sign-up sheet. “Next time” he thought, “Maybe I’ll read the instructions.”.

I Hear an Echo

Horace was excited to show off his new technology to Grant. Horace and Grant had a long history of one-upmanship, and Horace knew Grant would be quite jealous of the new system he owned. Less than one hour after Lou, Horace’s son left Horace’s house, he called Grant.

“You won’t believe what I got from my son for Christmas.” Horace proclaimed over the phone.

Grant answered. “It’s not even Christmas. Heck, we still have our Halloween decorations up.”

“Well, it’s the middle of December. Your house is the laughing stock of the park. But back to my present. You need to come see it.”

“It’s probably a new pickleball paddle, right?” Grant asked.

“Why do you say that?” Horace wondered.

“Because I just got a new paddle, and every time I get something new, you go out and get something better. That’s been going on since I bought that new battery-powered leaf blower back in 2010.”

Horace thought back to the time he did in fact buy a new battery-powered turbo leaf blower, just to out-do Grant. “Well, it’s not a pickleball paddle, and I’m not going to tell you what it is. You’ll just have to come over to see what it is.”

Ten minutes later, Grant rang Horace’s doorbell, a funny-looking device with a black circle in the middle and the word ‘Ring’ etched across the top. Without looking out the front window, Horace yelled “Come on in, Grant.”

Grant stepped in and asked, “How did you know it was me?”

With a beaming smile, Horace responded, “I just asked my Echo device. She’s hooked up to my new doorbell, who ran facial recognition, and then informed Alexa you were at the door. Alexa informed me. And now you’re inside.”

“How can I help you?” Alexa asked.

“Alexa. Never mind.” Horace said.

“Cute.” Grant exclaimed. So what’s this new gift of yours?”

“That’s it. Alexa. And her friends. My son Lou set it up today, and now I’m in the twenty-first century.”

“Would you like to watch Friends on TV?” Alexa asked.

“No thank you.” Horace replied.

“I have an echo device too.” Grant replied. “I can ask it to do things, like play music, set an alarm, or play Jeopardy, and she’s always ready to obey my command.”

“Just a minute.” Horace interrupted. “Alexa, could you please dim the living room light, play a mix of smooth jazz, and tell me Grant’s horoscope.”

The light in the living room dimmed, Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue filed the room, and Alexa said “Look for opportunities to fully experience life under the Gemini full moon, dear Taurus, moving through the day with all your senses turned on. These vibes are great for embracing simple pleasures and breaking up tasks with moments of luxury.”

Grant was astonished. “How does Alexa know my birthday?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re asking.” Alexa said.

“Don’t say her name unless you want something from her.” Horace added. “You’ll only confuse her.”

“I know how she works.” Grant replied. “I have an Echo also. So what makes you so special?”

“My Alexa has all the bells and whistles . . .”

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” Alexa asked.

“Don’t say here name unless . . .” Grant responded, mimicking Horace’s voice.

“I know.” Horace stated. “Anyway, my house is fully connected. You-know-who does whatever I ask. I also have the Amazon app on my phone. As long as she’s connected to my Wi-Fi, I can have her do things from anywhere in the world.”

“So all you need is to be connected to your Wi-Fi to get her to obey your every command?” Grant asked.

“No. She needs to be connected to my Wi-Fi. As long as I know my password, she’ll do anything I ask. Pretty nifty, eh?” Horace asked.

Grant told Horace of the horror stories he’d heard about privacy, big-brother, and the Deep State. “Don’t get too caught up in all this technology. Just remember. Watch what you say. Alexa is always listening.”

“Can you please say that again?” Alexa asked.

With that, Grant smiled and headed toward the door. “Don’t call me to bail you out when the FBI knocks your door down and hauls you off to jail. Alexa. Play Hell’s Bells by AC/DC.”

Grant walked out the door just as Bob Scot screamed, “I’m a rolling thunder, pouring rain
I’m coming on like a hurricane.”

Horace called out to Grant as he headed home. “Let me know if you ever need help moving from the Dark Ages.”

Later that evening, Horace was home with Henrietta. Horace sat in the Arizona room reading. Henrietta called to him from the back bedroom. “Horace. Why did you turn the bedroom light off?”

“I didn’t.” he replied. “Just a minute. Alexa. Turn the bedroom light on.”

The light illuminated. “Thank you.” Henrietta said.

“No problem.” Horace responded.

As the words left his lips, a familiar yet agonizing voice blurted out God-awful yodeling from the kitchen. Slim Whitman’s voice crooned Cattle Call softly from the Echo.

“What’s gotten into her?” Horace wondered. “Alexa. Stop playing music.”

“Okay.” Alexa said.

Horace grabbed his phone and called Lou. Horace started to ask Lou why his Echo acted up. From in the bedroom, Henrietta yelled, “Horace. Did you mess with the thermostat again? It’s awful hot in here.”

Horace walked to the new Nest thermostat. It read eighty-eight degrees. “Just a minute.” he said to Lou. “Alexa. Set the temperature to seventy degrees.”

“Okay.” Alexa said. “Would you like to set a schedule?”

“No. Just quit screwing with the settings.”

Horace continued the conversation with his son. “There must be a bug in the system. Alexa is going crazy.”

Just then, Crazy, by Patsy Cline began playing. Horace yelled into the kitchen. “Alexa Not that Crazy.”

“Okay.” Alexa said. Crazy, by Gnarls Barkey filled the air.

“ALEXA. STOP THE MUSIC. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

The music stopped. “I’m just fine. How are you?” Alexa asked.

The doorbell rang. “Lou, I gotta go. Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back. Possibly to ask you to come over and take my gift back.”

Horace opened the door. The porch was empty. Horace slammed the door, just as Henrietta called out again. “Horace. It’s cold in here.”

Horace had enough. He was on his way into the kitchen to unplug the Echo. Before he could, though, Alexa began speaking. “You’ll feel many emotions under the Gemini full moon, dear Pisces, though some of the sensations that run through you could be rooted in what others are feeling. Take care to protect your heart with verbal, energetic, and internal boundaries.”

Across the street, and two doors down, Grant sat in a recliner in his Arizona room. He held his mobile phone, and smiled as he typed commands into the Amazon app he had open.

So Long, My Love

We had a prompt in our writing group to write about our worst date. This is my attempt to tell a mostly true story about a date I had years ago.

Two score and four years afar.
 I met a girl in a disco bar.
This lovely lass was oh so pretty.
Young a wise and very witty.

We danced to the Bee Gee’s Staying’ Alive.
She liked my moves. She dug my vibes.
Then wouldn’t you know it. It was just my luck.
She got down and waddled to Disco Duck.

Her dancing was hotter than a can of Sterno.
When the deejay spun Disco Inferno.
I thought to myself, it really seems.
I’d found the girl from my wildest dreams.

I got up the nerve and asked her out.
She said yes. I gave a shout.
I said I was free on Saturday.
She told me Saturday was a busy day.

She had an early job interview downtown.
But she didn’t have a car to get around.
It was an all-day affair with the L.A. Police.
If she could get there on time, in one piece.

I told her I’d pick her up before eight.
Drive her to the academy so she wouldn’t be late.
I’d come back before five and I’d sit there and wait.
Then I’d take her on our first date.

She lived with her aunt, on Second Street.
Only two miles from my one-room suite.
I wanted to show her that she need not despair.
 I arrived on her street with ten minutes to spare.

I waited outside for thirty minutes or more.
I never saw her walk out of the door.
I looked to see if she’d gone astray.
I didn’t want to be the cause of delay.

How long would I sit in my car and wait?
Did she skip out on our very first date?
I saw a street sign and let out a foul word.
I was one block over, sitting on Third.

I sped around the corner and stopped by her house.
Feeling as low as a lowdown louse.
I explained my demise as I opened her door.
I’ll still get you there and your faith I’ll restore.

I drove like crazy at a swift tempo.
Pulled up to the academy with mere minutes to go.
Work hard at the academy. I’m sure you’ll survive.
I’ll be back there to meet you no later than five.

I did arrive early. No way I’d be late.
I didn’t want to screw up our first date.
I picked her up as I said I would do.
Then took her out to dinner for two.

We had a fine meal and laughed over wine.
She told me her story and I told her mine.
The evening was splendid; we had a great night.
Our future together was looking quite bright.

We walked back to my car but to my dismay.
One more time I’d lead her astray.
I’d left my lights on. The battery was dead.
I could tell my presence she’d started to dread.

It took an hour to get on the road.
It was midnight when we reached her abode.
She said a quick goodnight as she ran from my car.
By the time I responded, she was quite far.

So much for the first date. The next would be better.
Next time, I’d be a real go-getter.
But alas, I turned out to be a bird-brain.
For I never say the young lass again.

Winning Isn’t Everything

The Celtics were up by one. One second remained on the clock. I was the one who had the last shot. Would I make it? Would I be the hero for the Lakers and their wild fan base? Would my winning shot go down in the annals of basketball history?

I rose. Their best defender was all over me, blocking my view of the rim. The buzzer was ready to blare when the ball left my hand, arched toward the basket, and . . . .

I woke up. What a frenzied dream I had. I didn’t play for the Lakers, although that was one of my lifelong desires. I grew up in LA, had a brother who worked for the Lakers, and watched as many games as the limited television stations aired. Laker purple ran through my veins. I spent every moment thinking about the Lakers, except for those moments I thought about girls. The Lakers were royalty, and I lived in their kingdom.

That was back in the 1960s and 70s. Those were the days of Wilt Chamberlain and Jerry West and Gail Goodrich. The 1980s arrived, and my adoration of the Lakers, now staring Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, and James Worthy never waned. The early nineties were lean, but the emergence of Shaq and Kobe brought more glory to the City of Angeles. Every time the Lakers hoisted a championship trophy, I too held the trophy in my hand. I was a Laker, or at least, their truest fan.

All Laker fans have two things in common; their love of the purple and gold, and their loathing of the Boston Celtics. The rivalry between the two teams went back to the 1950s. When the two teams squared up in the 2008 finals, the Celtics owned one more trophy then did the Lakers. We, by that I mean the Lakers and me, had a chance to even the score. We were ready to win it all.

That didn’t happen. Game six took place on June 17th. I rode my bike to my favorite sports bar to watch the game with a few friends, ready to watch the Lakers beat the Celtics and force a game seven. Instead, the Celtics demolished the Lakers, beating them by a hefty 39 points. It was hard to watch the game, and harder to ride my bike home. I felt defeated – let down in a humbling way. It was the worst feeling I’d had in quite a while.

I slowly rode home, draped in the doldrums of despair. That feeling though, only lasted a few blocks. As I peddled through the dark streets of Boise, a new feeling hit me, like a behind the back pass to the face. “Wait a minute.” I thought to myself. “I didn’t lose that game. I didn’t miss out on a championship ring and the glory that accompanies it. No extra money did I miss. No picture of me on the cover of Sports Illustrated did I forfeit.”

I realized in that moment that I was just a fan. I realized that basketball, like all sports, is just a sport. I learned to love the sport, to enjoy the sport, and more importantly, to put the sport into perspective. Since that day, I still watch the Lakers (and the Dodgers, Kings, and Rams – when they play in LA) and I hope they win. If they do, I’m happy, If they don’t, well, I’m happy too. Life is too short to be unhappy, especially when you cannot affect the outcome of what causes unhappiness.

Last night I had a dream. The Celtics were up by one. One second remained on the clock. I was the one who had the last shot. Would I make it? Would I be the hero for the Lakers and their wild fan base? Would my winning shot go down in the annals of basketball history?

I rose. Their best defender was all over me, blocking my view of the rim. The buzzer was ready to blare when the ball left my hand, arched toward the basket, and . . . my shot was short.

Snakes on the Bus

The Greyhound bus drove slowly and safely down Interstate 17, staying in the right lane, in no hurry to make it back to Mesa. Most of its passengers were in no hurry. They were returning from a weekend getaway at the Twin Arrows Navajo Casino and Resort, outside of Winona. Horace and Grant were two of those riders.

A handful of passengers weren’t coming from the casino. Several younger riders were making their way south from the Grand Canyon, returning from a weekend of hiking. An Airman, on leave from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, was going home to see his girlfriend in Tucson. Near the middle of the bus, an elderly couple, Shirley and William, were going to their winter home in Mesa.

Shirley couldn’t fly. At least, that is what one of her many doctors told her. Because of anxiety and heart palpitations, Shirley was grounded, and couldn’t fly from their home in Springfield, Missouri to Mesa, where they’d spent the past twenty-two winters. William’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and his driving scared the living daylights out of Shirley, which only made her more anxious and made her heart skip beats. For the past two years, they boarded a Greyhound Bus in Springfield, and rode for forty-five hours, across the farms of Missouri, the wheat fields of Kansas, through the plains of Eastern Colorado, over the Rocky Mountains into New Mexico, and across the desert into Arizona.

Shirley and William sat on the left side of the bus, in row thirteen. William had the window seat and Shirley sat in the aisle. Across from them sat Horace and Grant, who were in a heavy conversation about their weekend’s exploits.

“I still can’t believe I won at the blackjack table.” Grant beamed.

“Well, you really didn’t.” Horace said, trying to bring Grant back to earth.

“You saw it. I walked away from the table with over two-thousand bucks!”

“And how much did you put down at the start?” Horace asked Grant.

“Fifteen-hundred dollars, which means I won five-hundred.”

“And how much did you lose on the slots?”

“I think about seven-hundred.” Grant replied. His smile was slowly slipping away.

“Last question. How much of your winnings are you bringing home to Gloria?”

“That’s beside the point. The point is, I won big at blackjack.”

During their conversation, Horace kept an eye on Shirley. She looked somewhat pale and fidgeted quite a bit. At one point, she reached toward her heart, and small beads of sweat appeared on her brow.

“Excuse me ma’am. Are you okay?” Horace asked from across the row.

“Thanks for asking, son. I’m just a little anxious. It’s somewhat stuffy in here. Maybe I’ll take my heart pill. You know, my doctor says I should take my pills when I get too hot or if I feel too shaky.”

Shirley reached under the seat in front of her and grabbed her large, overstuffed bag. She began digging through the bag, searching for her heart pills. “You know, I’ve got so many medicines in here. It seems that every time I see a commercial that tells me to ask my doctor about a drug, I ask, and he gives them to me.”

Horace smiled as Shirley dug through her bag. Just then, she screamed and turned white as a die on a craps table. She dropped her bag and shouted “Snake!”

William, who up until then had been in a sound sleep, stirred. Horace rose to see what the matter was. Grant looked up and said, “I don’t see a snake. You sure there’s a snake?”

It’s in my bag. A rattlesnake. Listen.” she screamed.

Sure enough, a rattling sound emitted from the bottom of her bag. Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

Shirley looked close to death. “Don’t let it bite me.” she yelled. “My doctor says one bite from a poisonous snake, and I’m good as gone.”

Horace jumped into action. He noticed William’s cane, reached across Shirley, and grabbed it. Carefully, he used the handle to slide the bag out from under the seat.

Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

“Stop the bus!” he yelled to the driver. “Coming through with a snake.”

The driver pulled over on the side of the interstate. Holding the bag as far away from him as possible using the cane, Horace walked to the front of the bus, and then exited onto the shoulder of the road. He placed the bag on the ground, stood behind the bag, and gave it a nudge with the cane. Nothing happened.

From inside the bus, Horace could hear Shirley yelling. “I need my pills. I think I’m dying.”

Horace smacked the bag harder with the cane. Still, no snake emerged from the bag. Shirley kept yelling, louder and louder. Horace knew he had to get those pills. He gathered his courage as he slowly approached the bag. He reached down and grabbed the bottom of the bag. With the cane clutched in his left hand, ready to clobber the snake if necessary, he yanked the bag toward him, spilling its contents on the dirt.

A plethora of items rolled out of the bag; an old shawl, the latest edition of Reader’s Digest Condensed Stories, several bottles of pills, a can of Shur-Hold hairspray, and a ball of knitting yarn with needles. The last thing to fall out of the bag was what caused the commotion. Horace saw the biggest, scariest-looking battery-powered toothbrush he’d ever seen. Somehow, it had been activated, making a constant rattling sound.

Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

Horace was relieved. He dropped the cane and rummaged through the pill bottles, looking for anything that displayed the word ‘heart’ in the instructions. He found a bottle of Warfarin, grabbed it, rushed back onto the bus, and handed the pills to William, who popped a couple of pills into Shirley’s open mouth and gave her a swig of water. Shirley instantly began to look better.

“Did you get the snake?” she asked.

“It wasn’t a snake. Just your electric toothbrush.” Horace exclaimed.

Everyone on the bus settled down. Horace exited the bus again to gather Shirley’s belongings. He placed the shawl, book, pills, can of hairspray, and knitting items back into the bag, got back onto the bus, and returned the bag to Shirley and the cane to William.

“You’re my hero.” Shirley said to Horace.

William thanked Horace for his deeds, and then slowly nodded off. Horace returned to his seat and continued his previous conversation with Grant.

Calm soon presided over the bus. That is, until Shirley grabbed her bag, wanting to read a Reader’s Digest Condensed Story. A new sound emerged from the bottom of her bag. She assumed a Gila monster had crawled into her bag while it sat unattended by the side of the road. She yelled, “Gila Monster!”, and then instantly passed out.

From out of her bag, came a hideous hissing sound.

Hiiiisssssssssssssssss . . . .

Lonely and Lost

The drive was lovely. The day was not. I was wandering through central Illinois, driving from Hannibal, Missouri to Davenport, Iowa. The early morning sun turned into a stifling hot day before I hit Monmouth, home to Wyatt Earp and Monmouth College. The car I rented from the airport in St. Louis was a new Ford Mustang Convertible that made driving in the heat fun but at the same time, well, hot. The late morning temperatures were already in the high nineties. Sweat rolled down my brow and if I’d been wearing a shirt, it would have shown dark circles under my arms.

I needed something to cool me. I looked for dark storm clouds in the distance. None appeared on the hot August day. I thought about putting the top up, closing the windows, and turning the air conditioner on, but I selected the convertible so I could drive with the wind in my face. Instead, I kept driving north toward Viola and the Quad Cities with the top down.

By the time I entered Viola, the thermometer registered a sweltering 105 degrees Fahrenheit. I needed relief and I needed it soon. I slowly drove past the Viola United Methodist Church, the US Post Office, and the Viola Home Telephone Company. It wasn’t until I hit the north end of Highway 67 that I spotted a place that offered what I needed. Just past St. John’s Cemetery and Skunk Creek, I saw a welcoming sign. Vern’s Tavern sat on the east side of the road. A few trucks occupied the dirt parking lot. A flashing sign that read “Ice Cold Beer. Three Dollars.” illuminated from the small window of the wooden door leading into Vern’s.

I slowly pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. I put the top up, donned a dry shirt, and slid into my flip-flops that were lying on the floor of the passenger seat. In the few seconds that I sat in the car with the top up and the windows closed, the temperature felt like it rose ten degrees. I grabbed my wallet, climbed out of the furnace, and headed for the door.

A blast of cool air surrounded me when I walked through the entrance. My demeanor rose a notch as I strode to the bar. It wasn’t until I sat down that I noticed the eyes that noticed me. Besides the bartender, a lanky kid, probably in his mid-twenties, I saw three middle-aged men at the bar. No one said a word when I sat. They all starred my way, probably wondering what I was doing in Viola, Illinois on such a hot day.

Benny, the bartender, who happened to be Vern’s grandson, asked what I wanted.

“I need a cold beer. The colder, the better. You got Stag on tap?”

“Yep.” was his one-word reply.

“I’ll have one to cool me off, and maybe one more to get me up the road.”

I sat at the bar quietly, anticipating the cold draft that was coming my way. I glanced up toward the three locals sitting across the bar from me. They were all quiet too. They sat there and gawked my way. My beer arrived. I looked up at the trio, raised my mug their way, and took a long swig. Still, no emotion from my on-lookers.

I was half way through my first beer when one of the locals finally spoke. He, like the other two, was dressed almost identical to his friends. They wore faded blue coveralls, sweat-stained tee shirts, and John Deere ball caps. Dirt covered all three, most likely the same dirt that provided them with their livelihoods. They all sported old, cracked Redwing boots, which were also covered with dirt.

“You lost?” he asked.

When he spoke, I noticed that he was missing a few teeth. I noticed also that he was missing a finger or two, a sure sign that he was either a farmer or a butcher. His clothes and John Deere hat told me it was the former.

I got the feeling I wasn’t particularly welcome in Vern’s in Viola, Illinois on that how summer day. I took another long sip of beer, emptying the mug, smiled his way, and replied, “I was lonely and lost, but not anymore.”

The three weathered farmers looked at each other, shaking their heads and smirking under their breath. I heard one of the men ask John, the man who spoke first, if I was for real.

John spoke again. “Lonely for who? Someone from around these parts?”

Benny came my way and placed a second beer in front of me. He quickly retreated, probably wondering if a fight was in the works.

I took a sip of my new beer and looked John’s way. “Not who, but what. You see, I’ve been driving half way across your beautiful state, enjoying the quiet roads and endless miles of corn and soybean fields. It sure is lovely here. But the temperature kept rising, and I found myself lonely for the only thing that can truly cool a person off. Stag Beer. Ice-cold Stag Beer. Just then, in the middle of what you all I’m sure refer to as paradise, I found Vern’s. I’m not lost anymore, and these two mugs of beer relieved my loneliness.”

John was at a loss for words. He picked up his glass, tipped it my way, and said, “Well, thanks. You have a nice day, son.”

“I’ll do just that” I replied.

The tavern was quiet again. I finished by beer and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar, stood up, and headed for the door. I turned and asked John, “’Bout how far is Davenport from here?”

“’Bout half an hour up 67. That where you’re heading?” he asked.

“Yep.” was my one-word response.

“In that case, you ain’t lost no more.”

They Said That

Horace and Grant were on their way to Suds. It was Wednesday evening and they always spent Wednesdays at Suds, drinking a few beers and discussing the world. While driving to the tavern, they came upon road construction. A construction worker with a flag closed their lane for about ten minutes. Horace put his car in park and shut it off. Grant commented on his action.

“They say that you should keep your car running. They say it’s hard on the starter to stop and start the car a lot.”

“Who said that?” Horace asked. “It sure wastes a lot of gas sitting here idling.”

“They did. People who know how new cars work.” was his answer.

About fifteen minutes later, as they pulled up to Suds, Grant commented on the weather. “Good thing you didn’t wash your car. They say it’s going to rain.”

Again, Horace asked, “Who are they?”

“You know. Weather people. Meteorologists. They’re always right.”

“Maybe about meteors crashing into the earth and wiping out life as we know it, but they’re not always right about the weather. Beside, do you really know who they are?”

“Stop being difficult.” Grant replied. “Every time I look on my weather app, it says what the weather is, and it’s always right. They obviously know what they’re talking about.”

Horace replied to Grant’s hypothesis. “Well, you sure know a lot of people. A lot of very intelligent people who seem to know everything about everything. You always refer to this vast group of acquaintances when talking with me, just so you can tell me what they think.”

Grant pondered Horace’s remark for a second. Horace continued. “Sit up straight. They say it’s better for your back. You should take Ibuprofen rather than Acetaminophen. They say it easier on your stomach. You shouldn’t buy produce on Mondays. They say it’s been sitting on the shelves, rotting, all weekend.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Grant asked. “So I read a lot of good advice. Ain’t hurting no one.”

“I don’t know those people. I don’t even think they exist, but you say they’re everywhere. I guess they all work for some large corporation somewhere. It’s probably called They, Inc. It’s made up of highly trained, and in-the-know individuals who spend their days telling the rest of the world what to do, how to act, when to do things, why things happen as they do, and who said so, which is usually themselves.

The conversation fizzled out when they entered Suds and found a table by the pool table. Jackie, the waitress, approached them with two beers. She knew Horace and Grant well and knew that they were good for two light beers per night. She placed the two beers on the table and asked, “You two really like the taste of these light beers?”

Grant spoke first. “Not really. I mean, they’re not bad, but they have less calories. They say men of our age need to count calories.”

“There you go again.” Horace said. “I often wonder, though, are these people, those I don’t know and have never seen, always right? Just because they say something, does that make it right?”

Jackie looked up with a quizzical look on her face. Horace continued. “I have another question for you, Grant. How many of them does it take to form a consensus on a topic? Do fifty meteorologists need to agree on rain before it actually starts raining, or is it more like four to five? What if three of them say one thing and three others say another? Which ‘they’ is correct? Perhaps they take a vote. The majority becomes ‘they’, while the minority becomes ‘some other guys, but they don’t know what they’re talking about’.”

 “You seem to be a know-it-all on the subject.” Grant quipped.

“Well, as a matter of fact, last week I read an article in the newspaper about neopronouns. New pronouns that are used instead of the traditional he, she, and it. The article stated that ‘they’ is now commonly used as a singular pronoun. If this is true, they could be just one person. Everything that you tell me could just be the flawed opinion of one person who doesn’t know that they are talking about.”

“Are we done yet?” Grant asked. “Can we drink our beer in peace?”

“Sure.” Horace said. “But the next time you say, ‘You don’t need to use the parking brake when parking on a hill. They say new car brakes are okay.’ I’ll reply, ‘Well, Grant, this they, meaning me, says otherwise, and they have been doing this since they can remember. So they’re!’”