The way Tanya saw it, getting a new carpet in her Arizona Room would be an easy task. There were no tricky corners to consider. The room measured only sixteen feet wide by sixty feet deep. Anyone with any experience laying carpet should be able to complete the job in a few hours. She was wrong.

Tanya Sawyer lived in Wander In, an active adult community in Arizona. Her home, or more precisely, her trailer, was older, but still in great shape. She kept it that way. Tanya took pride in her home, and strived to keep it looking good. When the powder blue carpet in the Arizona Room began to show signs of age, she decided to replace it with carpet that looked nicer and didn’t look like it was installed in the 1980s, which it was. Over coffee one morning with her friends Henrietta Henderson and Gloria Stoom, Tanya Talked about her desire to update the carpet.

“I thought about hardwood flooring, but I just love the feel of carpet under my feet. I just need something that doesn’t show the dirt so much.”

Gloria replied first. “A nice Berber would work. Maybe taupe or something to hide the sand that blows in when haboobs occur.”

Henrietta added, “That will sure cut down on carpet cleaning.”

Tanya agreed. “Every time I clean my blue carpet, the water is almost black. Taupe Berber it is. I was thinking of calling the Fix It Men in the park to get the job done.”

The Fix It Men is a loosely formed group of men who live in Wander In. They are mostly old codgers and aging duffs who are bored with retirement, love to get out of their houses, usually at the requests of their wives, and consider themselves wannabe repairmen. When residents of the park need small jobs done and they don’t want to pay too much money, they call the Fix It Men. The men occupy a small room next to the woodshop, where they mostly sit around, drink coffee, and tell war stories, otherwise known as lies, while waiting for jobs.

As soon as her friends left, Tanya called the Fix It Men. Carl Fife answered.

“Hello. Fix It Men here. You need a man – we gotta plan. This is Carl speaking.”

Tanya recognized Carl’s voice. She knew him from around the park as a kind-hearted, easy-going individual who spoke a good line but had seen better days. She also knew that Carl was a bit absent minded, but honest.

“Hi Carl. This is Tanya Sawyer. I’m looking for someone who can install a new carpet into my Arizona Room. Is that something the Fix It Men can do?”

“You’ve called the right number. In fact, I’ve installed many carpets in my days. Just installed one for Ben Campbell a few weeks ago.”

“Great.” Tanya said. “When can you install a carpet in my Arizona Room? And how much will it cost?”

Carl thought for a moment. “If you can get the carpet delivered by next week, I can install it then. I figure it’ll cost about two hundred bucks for me to pull up the old stuff, put down new padding, and then the new carpet. I’ll need you to remove the moulding, but I can reinstall it. Sound good?”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll let you know when I know when the carpet will arrive. Thanks for your time, Carl.”

The carpet arrived the following Friday and Tanya called Carl to arrange for the work. Carl told Tanya the upcoming Tuesday is the only day he could come.

“I have a few appointments in town on Tuesday, but you can work then. I’ll leave the door unlocked and the carpet and pad on the deck.”

Carl agreed. The date was set. Tanya looked forward to having the new carpet finally installed.

Tuesday morning arrived. Tanya sat on her front porch, enjoying a cup of coffee before heading out of the park. The morning was quiet. A few golf carts passed by, their occupants waving hello to Tanya. In the distance, she could her the cooing of doves, which always made Coco, her pet parakeet excited.

“Simmer down.” Tanya said, turning around to see Coco hopping around in her cage. “I’ll be leaving soon and you won’t hear the other birds talking about their freedom.”

Tanya finished her coffee, made sure everything Carl needed was on the porch, and drove away. Twenty minutes later, Carl arrived. He surveyed the Arizona Room, made sure he had everything he needed, and started the task. Tanya had removed the wall moulding. It didn’t take him long to move a few small pieces of furniture. He had the old carpet and pad removed in less than an hour. He made a sweep of the room, looking for any nails or staples that might be protruding from the floor. When we was satisfied he’d removed them all, he laid the new pad down and using his staple gun, secured it to the subfloor. Next, he muscled the new carpet into the room, rolled it out, and pushed the far end onto the existing tack strip. He stretched the carpet out, making it snug and smooth. It looked good, so he secured the rest to the other tack boards. Satisfied with his work, he re-installed the moulding trim and replaced the steps that led to the trailer. He made one more pass to examine his work and gather his tools. That’s when he noticed a lump in the carpet, close to the back door.

“Well, I’ll be.” he muttered to himself. “Looks like I missed a nail.”

He grabbed his hammer and gave the nail three good whacks. Pound, pound, pound. The carpet was flat as a pancake, as it should be, and he was again happy with his work. He packed everything up, hooped in his truck, and drove back to the Fix It Men shop.

Carl was still at the shop, drinking lukewarm coffee with Horace and Grant, his two friends and fellow Fix It men. His phone rang. He recognized the number as Tanya’s.

“Hi Tanya. This is Carl. How does the carpet look?”

Tanya confirmed that the job Carl finished looked very professional. She then started asking Carl some questions. Carl sat on the phone, nodding his head, and repeating, “Um hum, Yes Ma’am, I see, No Ma’am.” After a few minutes, Tanya ended the call.

“What was that all about?” Horace asked Carl. “Did she like your work?”

“Oh yeah.” Carl said. She thinks it looks very nice.”

“What else did she want?” Grant inquired.

“Well, she asked me if I’d seen a little parakeet flying around while I worked. I told her I didn’t. I mean, what does she think I am, a pet-sitter?”

Ben Campbell needed a break from life at Wander In, the adult community where he lived in Arizona. He needed to get out of his small house, which, even though the air conditioner ran constantly, still seemed hot and stuffy. He just wanted to get out on the road, even if just for a few hours.

Summer had been unbearably hot, and the torrid temperatures still hovered over one hundred, even though September was half over. Fortunately, for Ben, his ancient car had a strong engine and an even stronger AC unit. He left the park early in the morning, heading for unassuming back roads that traversed Pinal and Pima Counties. Ben loved the isolation of these roads; the quiet yet beautiful desert landscapes and the lack of other cars. He knew he could escape the commotion that he often dealt with at home, ever since his wife Ruby passed away in January.

Ben readied his red 1980 Buick Rivera with everything he needed for the day. He made a couple of ham sandwiches, packed some cold beers in a cooler, and grabbed a box of jazz cassettes. He also brought Roscoe, the sixteen-year-old something-doodle mix he and Ruby adopted from the Mesa dog pound. Ben and Roscoe were on the road by eight in the morning.

The temperature was already in the low nineties when he made his way out of Maricopa County, avoiding interstates by taking surface streets through Chandler and Sun Lakes. He jumped onto Highway 87 and drove south, until he crossed a dry gulch, better known as the Gila River. From there, he proceeded to take smaller, less-defined roads past cotton fields and cattle farms.

Ben and Roscoe were somewhere between Ray and Dripping Springs. The temperature was now hovering near one hundred and twelve. The Buick’s AC pumped out cold air and the tape deck pumped out cool jazz. John Coltraine sang Blue Train. Ben reached into the cooler and grabbed a beer. Roscoe sat in the passenger seat and enjoyed the ride. Life was good. Life was peaceful. Mostly though, life was devoid of people. The void, though, didn’t last.

A listless figure sat on the side of the road, a hundred yards ahead. Ben couldn’t believe anyone would be out on this highway in this weather. He slowed down and stopped by the disheveled-looking man. The man looked sad. His eyes were sullen and his hair disheveled. It looked as though he’d been sitting on the side of the road for a long time. Ben opened the passenger window and yelled out. Roscoe looked on with interest.

“What in the Hell are you doing out here in this weather?”

“Ain’t your business.” the young man replied. “I’m just fine here. Leave me be.”

“Can’t do that.” Ben said.

“Why not?”

“Cause I like to drive out here from time to time, and next time I do, I don’t want to come upon what’s left of you after the coyotes finish you off.”

The young man stared at Ben and Roscoe. He couldn’t fathom the idea that someone actually cared about him. Ben continued. “Come on. Get out of the heat. I’ve got an extra sandwich and a cold beer.”

The stranger stood and approached the car. “Your dog friendly?” he asked.

“Mostly. Unless I tell him otherwise. Right now, he’s more curious. He won’t bite. Hop in.”

“Back seat, Roscoe.” Ben commanded. Roscoe jumped into the back and the stranger climbed into the front seat. Ben gave him the sandwich and a beer. They drove in silence for a few minutes. Ben, curious himself, started up a new conversation. “You lost?” he inquired.

“Nope.”

“Where are you heading?”

“Nowhere.”

“Well, I can’t take you nowhere. If you’re going somewhere, I can get you at least some ways there.”

After a couple more of minutes of silence, the young man replied, “Thanks for the food and beer. I appreciate it. You can let me out here.”

“I ain’t letting you out until you tell me what you’re doing here. Cause, by the looks of things, I’d say you’re out here to die.”

“I don’t have much to live for, so this is a good a time as any to die.”

“What’s your name, son?” Ben asked. “And why are you giving up on life?”

“Charlie. Life gave up on me. I lost my wife and son, my job, and pretty much everything that meant anything to me.”

“I’m Ben. Good to meet you, Charlie. But you listen here. You’re just a young kid. You’ve barely given life a chance. When you get as old as me, you’ll see what life offers, and I can tell you, most of its good.”

Charlie replied. “Well, that’s not how I see it. I don’t want to be here anymore, and you or no one else can make me feel otherwise.”

“So you’re just gonna sit out in the desert and fry yourself to death?” Ben asked.

Charlie replied. “That would take too long.” He reached under his shirt and brandished a small caliber pistol. “This would be quicker.” Charlie pointed the gun toward his head.

“Put that thing down.” Ben exclaimed. “You want to shoot your brains out, fine, but not in my car. I’ll let you out and you can take care of business on the road.”

Charlie slowly lowered the pistol. Ben kept driving while keeping any eye on Charlie. He felt for the young man, and in some ways, knew of his loneliness.

“You going to stop and let me out?” Charlie asked.

“Yep.” Ben replied.

The Buick kept driving down the straight and dusty road. Instead of slowing down, Ben was speeding up. The 5.7 liter V8 had power to spare, and before Charlie knew it, the car was travelling close to seventy miles per hour. Charlie didn’t know what Ben was doing, but he wanted no part of it. He pointed the gun at Ben.

“Stop the car now, or I’ll shoot.” Charlie demanded.

Ben looked straight down the road. They’d entered a small canyon. Rock formations and steep drop-offs surrounded the speeding car. With his foot stepping down harder on the accelerator, he said to Charlie, “That would be a mistake. You see, we’d both end up dead now, and I don’t think you really have it in you to kill another person.”

Charlie felt defeated. He wasn’t a killer. He just wanted to die alone. Now, this Ben guy ruined his escape plans.

Ben spoke again. “I lost my wife earlier this year. We’d been married for over fifty years. I know what it’s like to be lonely and lost. All I have left is Roscoe. But I also know that life is worth living. Don’t give up quite yet. Give it a little more time.”

Charlie was shaking. Ben saw the sad look in Charlie’s eyes.

“Give me your gun, Charlie. Today’s not your day to die.”

Charlie was in tears. He handed the pistol to Ben. Ben slowly closed the hammer and placed the gun on the floorboard. He slowed the car down to a manageable speed, drove south into Tucson, and pulled up to the Oro Valley Hospital.

“You should think about talking to someone. Maybe someone here can guide you in the right direction.” Ben said, as he stopped the car in front of the hospital.

Charlie was still crying and shaking when he climbed out of the car. In a trembling voice, he thanked Ben.

“Charlie. My name is Ben Campbell. Get the help you need. After that, the next time you’re in Mesa, go by the Wander In adult community. Look me up. I’d really like to see you again.”

“I will.” Charlie replied.

Ben reached over and closed the passenger door. Roscoe jumped back into the front seat. Charlie looked up one last time to see the old Buick driving north, back toward Mesa.

Tanya Sawyer was ecstatic when she heard the news from California, and called her friend Henrietta right away. “Henrietta. I won!” she yelled into the phone.

“Won what?” asked Henrietta.

Tanya reminded Henrietta of her trip a few months ago to visit her son in Los Angeles. “Remember when I went to visit Tom? And remember when I told you I went to a taping of ‘Your Dreams Come True’ at the ABC studio? They asked people in the audience what we would dream for. And guess what? They chose my dream, and now I get to go back to Hollywood to be on the show.”

Henrietta was impressed. “That’s wonderful, Tanya. When are you going? And what is your dream?”

“I leave in the morning. Tom bought me a plane ticket. I’ll stay with him and his family again. The show will be taped on Wednesday.”

”And your dream?” Henrietta asked again.

“You’ll be jealous. In fact, all of the ladies in our water aerobics class will be. I get to have coffee with George Clooney!”

Tanya told Henrietta how after seeing George on TV one day, all she wanted to do was sit down with him and enjoy a nice cup of coffee while looking into his dark eyes and savoring his warm smile. “Look. I’m in my mid-seventies, I’m single, and a girl’s gotta dream about something. And now it’s going to come true.”

“You’re right. I am jealous. Hey, if you can, give him a kiss on the cheek for me. Just don’t tell Horace. He’s the jealous type too.”

Wednesday came quickly. Tanya landed in LA the day before. She spent a nice day with Tom, Becky, and the grandkids, then went to sleep early. She didn’t sleep much. She was in deep anticipation of the next day. Tom dropped her off at the studio in the morning and told her he’s be back at five to take her back the airport.

“Hello, Ms. Sawyer.”

Tanya looked up see the show’s producer, Bob Bidnus, extending his hand. “Hello.” she replied.

Bob took her to a dressing room, where she was made up, and where she met the other two winners for the day. The whole experience was a whirlwind of activity, but Tanya kept her composure. She wanted to be cool and collected when she met George.

At exactly eleven o’clock, Biff Boufont, the aging emcee, entered the studio and took his place at his desk. Biff looked good for his age, and Tanya rightfully guessed his youthful looks were the results of extensive plastic surgeries and hair plugs. Tanya also surmised that Biff used enough bleach on his teeth to fill the pool back at the Wander In Resort where she lived.

“Let’s get this show started.” Biff announced. The three contestants took their seats on the stage. They received last minute directions from Bob. Tanya was nervous, but also excited knowing that she would meet George in a few short minutes.

“Here we go.” said Bob. “Five, four three . . . “, he said, using his fingers to count down the seconds. When he reached one, Biff took over.

“Hello America, and welcome to ‘Your Dreams Come True’. I’m your host, Biff, Boufont, and today, we have three eager people who will all get their dreams answered. Stick around. We’ll be back after a word from our sponsor.”

Before the show started, Tanya drew the shortest straw, and had to go last. She sat upright and kept a smile on her face as she watched the first contestant, Lois Langberger, from Feline Heights, Minnesota, feed and cuddle an imposter cat who she swore was Morris the Cat. Lois was a cat lover at heart, and Morris had been her hero ever since he stared in 9Lives cat food commercials in the 1970s. Lois was in Heaven until Buzz, the cat who looked like Morris, coughed up a hairball on Lois’ lap then ran from the stage. A commercial break followed.

Next up, Zachariah, an eighty-something, burned out hippie from Seattle, recounted his love for the Puget Punks, one of the first grunge bands to come out of Seattle. Zachariah, whose real name was Harvey Hackmore, always dreamed of jamming with Seth, the lead singer and guitarist from the Puget Punks. When Seth’s name was announced, Seth walked on; really he stumbled onto the stage, carrying an out-of-tune, and badly damaged Silvertone guitar. Zach’s dream was soon shattered when he realized Seth was quite stoned and couldn’t remember any of his big hits with the Punks. Seth sang a couple of incomprehensible songs that Zach had never heard, but tried to hum. Another commercial break arrived.

Tanya finally got her chance. Biff asked her about her dream. Tanya looked straight into the camera and told the audience how much she adored George Clooney and how much she loved her morning cup of coffee, and how her life would be complete if she could sit down with George and enjoy a cup of hot, delicious coffee with him.

Biff announced, “Well Tanya. Today is your lucky day. Your dream is about to be answered. It just so happens that George is in town filming his next movie. Let’s have him meet you. George . . . ?”

The curtain flung open and George Clooney stepped into the stage, pulling a cart with a shiny, new espresso maker. He smiled to Tanya with his friendly smile, teeth whiter than Casper the Ghost. “It’s so wonderful to meet you, Tanya.” George said, as he motioned for her to join him.

Tanya had a look of confusion on her face as she approached George. “Well, you’re a lot taller than I thought. And you have more hair then last time I saw you on TV. But it looks nice, and pretty real too.”

George kept smiling as he tried to figure Tanya out. “Well, Tanya, Thank you for that. You ready for coffee. I just happen to have a Perspresso machine, and I’ll make you the perfect cup of espresso.”

George made two perfect espressos with the Perspresso, handed one to Tanya, and then invited her to sit on the couch with him. Tanya still looked a little confused, but thanked George for the espresso, and remarked, “I’ve watched all your shows on TV. Remember when you tried to save the whale who had a golf ball in his blowhole?”

Now it was George’s turn to look confused. “I’ve never saved a whale. I did save Gotham city from Mr. Freeze.”

Tanya looked stunned, and hadn’t started on her espresso. “But I know that was you who came up with cotton uniforms for the Yankees. That was so funny when it started to rain. I thought Steinbrenner would . . . “.

George cut in. “Ma’am. I’m not sure who you’re referring to. I hate the Yankees. But maybe you saw me in Leatherheads. That’s a football movie.”

Tanya was becoming angry with George. “You’re starting to burst my bubble. Just like you did to that poor little boy in the bubble. It’s a good thing Jerry and Elaine came to the rescue.”

George lost it. He grabbed the cup of espresso from Tanya’s hand and chided her. “Costanza! Costanza! You have the wrong George, lady. He’s the short, fat, balding George and I’m the tall, handsome one. He’s on NBC. Their studio is down the street.”

With that, George Clooney grabbed the cart with the Perspresso machine and scurried off the stage. Tanya looked up at Biff and said, “Well, I like the other George better. I bet he makes good coffee, and not that espresso shit.”

Thursday morning, Tanya and Henrietta sat in the bistro at Wander In and laughed about Tanya’s encounter with her dream. “I don’t know how I confused the two. I watched every Jerry Seinfeld episode. I really wanted to have coffee with Jerry. That is, until I saw him throw a chair across the stage once. What a bad temper he has.”

Henrietta smiled at her friend and said, “Maybe it’s time to stop dreaming and just live your life in the present.”

Saturday found Horace and Grant at the pickleball courts. Grant worked the previous Friday night dance and stayed late to help clean up. He slept in until close to ten, and didn’t make it to the courts until noon. Friday night dances took their toll on Grant, especially when the band was hot and Gloria was in a dancing mood. Even though Grant worked, Gloria snagged him more than a few times to dance.

Between games, while waiting for open courts, Grant told Horace about the craziness of the previous evening. “Last night sure was busy” Grant said.

“I heard they set a record. This morning, Tim, the Dance Committee leader, told me he’d never seen so many people jammed on the dance floor all at once.” Horace replied.

“When the band played the booty scooty song, I thought a fight would break out between the regular dancers and those out-of-control line dancers. I was ready to lay down a wager on the line dancers. They sure did look determined.”

Horace smiled. “It’s worse on County and Western Night. I always say, ‘Don’t be messin’ when the bunkins are two-steppin’.”

Someone called Horace and Grant’s names and they trotted off to a court for a game. They lost to a couple of young guys and were back on the sidelines in ten minutes.

“Who invited those young punks to come play here?” Grant asked. “They should go play where they live.”

“Sorry to inform you, Grant, but they live here. And they’re in their sixties.”

Grant grumbled, and then changed the subject. “Back to the dance last night. Guess who showed up? Rich Cazayu. He was there with his wife, all dressed up real flashy and glitzy?”

“You mean the financial advisor?” Horace asked.

“You know him?”

“Not really. But he gave a talk for the Wander In Social Club a few weeks ago. It was all about how to protect your assets, in other words, your retirement savings, by giving it all to him.”

Grant nodded. “Yeah, him. I remember now. He was dressed up all rich and wanted us to think that if we give him our money, we’d all become rich too. Anyway, I dealt with him last night. I was selling raffle tickets and strolled by his table. I saw him sitting there looking all snooty and such. And his wife looked like she was getting ready to have an interview with Robin Leach.”

“Except Robin died a few years ago.” Horace interjected.

Grant continued. “I thought she was wearing the Hope Diamond, but when I looked closer, I realized it was way too small to be the Hope Diamond. Anyway, I asked him if he wanted to buy some tickets. I told him they cost five bucks for eight tickets. He opened his wallet and pulled out this huge ol’ wad of cash. But all he had was four one-dollar bills and a bunch of fifties and hundreds. And I didn’t have change for bills that big.”

“What did you do?” Horace asked.

Grant pulled a dollar bill from his pocket. “I had this dollar in my pocket. I took it out and handed it to him so he could buy eight tickets. He gave me back my dollar with his four and I peeled off eight tickets. He thanked me and shoved his wallet back into his pocket while Mrs. Glitz and Gliimmer grabbed the tickets.”

“That sure was nice of you.” Horace said.

“And guess what? He wins. Two hundred bucks. When Tim called his number, his wife, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, jumped up like a hen on a hotplate, sashayed up to the front waving her jewelry all around and grabbed the winnings.”

Horace remarked. “Well, I guess it was her lucky day.”

“Here’s the worst part.” Grant said. “A few minutes later, I strolled by again and congratulated him for winning. In my mind, I was thinking that since I gave him my dollar, and that my dollar could have bought the winning ticket, and that one in five is twenty percent, and that twenty percent of two-hundred bucks is forty bucks, that maybe he’d realize that, since he’s obviously a numbers person, and give me forty bucks.”

“Did he?” Horace asked.

“Nope. I don’t think we was going to give me anything. But his wife said he should give me my dollar back and he did. So they went home with a hundred and ninety-nine dollar profit, all from possibly using my money.”

“Well, that sounds about right for a financial advisor.”

“Yep.” Grant said. “I think I’ll keep my money right where it is. I’ve wisely invested it, and it’s safe and sound.”

Just then, one of the two young guys who beat Horace and Grant earlier called their names. “You ready to lose again?” he smirked.

Grant reached into the pocket and pulled out the dollar bill. “A buck says we kick your butts this game.”

Horace looked up and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s such wise investing. But it sure is a better bet than forty dollars. Let’s play.”

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?”

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.”.

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.

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 . . . .

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!’”

It was too darned cold outside for a Monday morning in April in Arizona. The mercury in the thermostat hovered around fifty-one degrees. The sun barely shone through the thick haze and the winds topped out at over forty miles per hour. It was definitely a blustery day, and Horace was glad he was indoors, drinking hot coffee.

Horace and Grant enjoyed their early morning breakfast at Frenchie’s Diner as best they could. They would rather be outside playing Pickleball or badminton, but at least they weren’t out with Henrietta and Gloria shopping. The two men found no enjoyment in walking around and waiting in stores while their wives tried on clothes, compared prices of new curtains, or talked about the many drugs they see on late-night television, knowing that they shouldn’t get any, but the commercials mention how the drugs can make life better, except for the many side-effects, like uncontrollable sneezing and flatulence, and how they should ask their doctors if the drugs are right for them. Shopping was too much of a chore for Horace and Grant, so they whiled the morning away in Frenchie’s, enjoying breakfast and coffee and talking about more pressing news of the day.

Horace glanced out the window just as a large cardboard box blew by at a rate of speed that made him think of Chuck Yeager’s first supersonic flight. He commented on the strong winds and the latest haboob that knocked over a few golf carts in the park while adding several shakes of Tabasco Sauce to his Denver omelet. Grant couldn’t help but notice all of the hot sauce Horace doused upon his eggs.

“You know, that could kill you.” Grant said.

“What?”

Grant continued. “The hot sauce. That’s what. You know it’s full of all kinds of unhealthy things, like salt and vinegar, and that’s not to mention all the preservatives and additives.”

Horace took a big bite of his omelet and agreed. “You’re right. It could kill me.”

Grant smiled and said he was just looking out for his best friend. Horace added. “If someone threw a bottle of Tabasco Sauce out of a passing plane that was flying at thirty-two thousand feet, and the bottle hit me on the noggin at nine-point-eight meters per second squared, yes, I guess it could kill me. But since we’re sitting indoors under a roof and not under any known flight paths, I’m not too scared about death by condiment.”

“So you don’t worry about dying?” Grant asked.

“Not usually, and not when I’m eating breakfast. So let me eat in peace.”

Grant pondered the situation for a minute and then added, “Me neither. I’m not scared of dying and I don’t really care. Just like the song by Blood, Sweat, and Fears.”

“Tears.” Horace commented.

“Only when I get Tabasco Sauce in my eyes.”

Horace corrected Grant. “It’s Blood, Sweat, and Tears.”

“That’s what I said. Anyway, don’t you ever fear death?” Grant inquired.

Now Horace thought for a minute or two. He replied, “I don’t really fear much. Too old for that. I mean, we’re all going to die, and I’ve lived a good, long life, so no, I don’t fear death.”

“You don’t have any fear of dying”? Grant asked again.

Now Horace became philosophical. “Fear of dying and fear of death are two different things. I’ll give you an example. If I’m pedaling down a bike path and some numbskull in a souped up, louder than a B-17 bomber, 1979 Firebird, otherwise known as a disco-sled, drives down the bike path toward me, doing eighty-nine miles per hour, of course I’ll be scared of the physical act of dying. I’d try to swerve out of the way, maybe pee my pants, and probably cuss, and yes, I’d be scared of becoming a two-hundred pound sailing soufflé as I fly over the hood of the car, but I’m not going to spend my life fearing the inevitable.”

Grant tried to contemplate what Horace said as he took a few sips of coffee. He then asked, “What about afterwards? You know; Heaven and Hell.”

“I’ve experienced both already. Heaven was the day I saw Henrietta working the lunch counter at the local Woolworths, and Hell was the day I shipped out to war. That’s good enough for me.” Horace said.

Grant agreed with Horace. He too had spent time in Vietnam, and he too had met Gloria, the love of his life.

As they worked on their breakfasts, Horace asked Grant, “What about you? What do you fear the most?”

Grant took a bite of his French toast, washed it down with a swig of coffee, and replied, “That depends on where I happen to be. When I lived in Detroit, my three biggest fears were running out of gas south of Eight Mile, driving into a pothole on I-94 and never getting out, and accidentally drinking water from Flint. When I moved to Colorado, my biggest fears were getting stuck in ski traffic of 1-70 without enough food or water to survive on for a couple of days, and getting run into by a kid in a brewery and spilling my beer.”

“What are you scared of here in Arizona?” Horace asked.

“When we moved here, I thought I’d be afraid of Gila monsters,rattlesnakes, and scorpions the size of Cuban cigars that crawl into my shoes when I’m dumb enough to leave them outside overnight. But I’ve never seen any of those. There’s only one thing here that really puts the fear of Jesus in me.”

“And what would that be?”

“Walking in a supermarket parking lot on Senior Day.”

“Amen to that.” Horace added.

They sat in silence for another couple of minutes. Just as they were finishing their meals, Alma, the waitress walked up to their table.

“Would you like anything else?” she asked.

Horace replied, “I think I left a little room for one of your hot, gooey cinnamon rolls.”

Alma shook her head and said, “Sorry. We just ran out.”

Horace looked up and grumbled, “I was afraid of that.”