It was a slow night at Suds. Partly this was due to the time of the year. Many of the snowbirds who came for the sunny weather were heading back to the northlands. The fact that the cable was on the fritz didn’t help. Many of the regulars who came to watch Wednesday Night Wrestling found other bars to watch the made-up mayhem that some call sport. Only seven patrons occupied the bar. Three semi-drunk local lawyers sat at the bar and discussed litigation, frustration, damnation, and titillation, all while downing draft beer. Two middle-aged women sat at a table near the front. Several large bags sat at the foot of their table, suggesting they’d been on a shopping spree. The only other people in the bar, besides Nick the bartender, were Horace and Grant, who sat at a table in the back.

Horace and Grant could usually be found at Suds on Wednesday evenings. They came to discuss the world as they knew it, while their wives, Henrietta, Horace’s wife, and Gloria, Grant’s wife, shopped, and had their hair done and nails manicured. Horace and Grant started with their first beer, and talked about the news of the day. Since they were only allowed two beers – doctor’s orders and their wives insistence – they sipped slowly, enjoying the quiet.

“Last night sure was a cluster . . . “, Grant told Horace.

“How’s that? What did you get into now?” Horace asked.

Grant told Horace about the John Denver tribute concert in their community the previous night, including the after-concert party Grant and Gloria worked. What started as a volunteer and fundraising opportunity for the basket-weaving club evolved into a Keystone Cops fiasco.

“Gloria got me involved with this after-concert dessert party. What a cluster . . . .”

“I heard you the first time, Grant. No need for cussing.”

Grant looked at Horace and replied. “If you’d have been there, you’d be cussing too. And laughing. The night was almost too bizarre to happen, but it did.”

“If you were involved, I believe it.”

Grant filled Horace in on the details.

“It went like this.”

Gloria volunteered to help serve cake and coffee after the concert Tuesday night. Of course, she volunteered me too. Dottie, the President of the basket-weaving club was in charge. Two other people were supposed to help.

We arrived at the community kitchen at 6:30, just like the e-mail from Dottie said. No one was there. We went home. Dottie called, wondering where we were. We went back to the kitchen. Dottie was there, but no one else.

Dottie took control. “First, let’s get the cake out and cut it into slices. Then we can put them on plates and back into the refrigerator until the concert is over.”

Gloria and I donned plastic gloves and headed toward the fridge. It was locked.

“Dottie.” I yelled. “I need the key.”

“The key for what?” she asked.

“The refrigerator. It’s locked.” I responded.

Dottie walked over and tried the handle on the large silver door. It was indeed locked. She walked around to the side and peered into the glass doors. You know, like the ones at the package store where the cold beer is loaded.

“WTF!” she squawked. “I don’t have the key. I’ll call security.”

A security guard arrived ten minutes later, just about the same time the other couple, Jim and Nancy came. We’d never met the security guard before. It turns out it was her first night.

“I’m new here, but maybe I can help. What’s the problem?” Catherine, the guard asked.

“We need the cake in the refrigerator, but the door is locked.” Dottie replied.

Catherine grabbed here key ring. There must have been thirty or more keys on it. She tried them all. None worked.

Dottie was starting to panic. She looked at Jim and asked, “Didn’t I send you the instructions on what to do tonight?”

Jim, an older man, with a thought-provoking look on his face replied, “Yep. I think so.”

“So what do we do now?” Dottie asked.

“Jim paused for a few seconds and replied, “Hmmmm . . . I don’t remember.”

Catherine chimed in. “Maybe I’ll call Stan, the other security guard. He’s been around awhile and knows the park better than me.”

Catherine called Stan. We all stood around for a few minutes, taking in our predicament. Dottie finally spoke. “Well, I’m not waiting around for security. I gotta get that cake.”

She opened one of the sliding glass doors, peered at the cake inside, and exclaimed, “I’ll climb through here. I think I can unlock the door from the inside.”

Before Catherine or anyone else could stop her, Dottie slid open the door, moved a few buckets of food to the side, and, headfirst, squeezed through the door. She would have made it safely too if her high-heel hadn’t of caught on the shelf. I heard a scream, and peered through the glass just in time to see Dottie hit the floor, kind of sideways, holding her right ankle. She screamed again, when a cream pie that was on a higher shelf tumbled off and hit her square in the face.

Just as Dottie was wiping pie off her face while cussing up a storm, Stan entered the kitchen. He saw and heard Dottie in the refrigerator and starting cussing up a storm of his own.

“What the Hell are you doing in there? And who let you go in there in the first place?”

Stan turned and looked at Catherine, who was trying to hide behind Jim and me.

“It happened so fast”, Catherine said. “I tried to stop her, but in she went before I could do anything.”

In the meantime, Dottie’s cussing turned to groans of agony. “I think I broke my ankle.” she exclaimed.

“Dammit! Stan yelled while he surveyed the situation. He instructed Catherine to call 9-1-1 as he moved over to the open sliding door. “Someone’s got to help her.” he said as he started his descent into the fridge.

Now Stan is no small guy. He’s at least six, two, and tips the scale around three hundred pounds. But in he went. Part ways at least. He got stuck halfway through the door. He was wedged in there like walrus jumping through a hula-hoop. He immediately started cussing again.

At that moment, Jim piped in, partially drowning out Stan’s tirade. “I think I remember where the key is. It’s in the bag of money.”

“What bag of money?” I asked. Now that Dottie and Stan were otherwise occupied, I figured I’d take charge.

“The bag of money we use for change when people want cake.” Jim answered.

“Good thinking, Jim. Do you know where the bag is?”

Jim thought again and replied, “Yep. Doris has it.”

“Who’s Doris”, I inquired.

“The vice-president. She has the money, and I’m sure the key is with it.”

“Well then, let’s call her and get her down here.” I said.

“Won’t work.” Jim replied. “I’m sure she has her phone off.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked Jim.

“Cause she’s in the concert.”

Over the moaning and cussing coming from the fridge, I decided that enough was enough. “I’m going to get the key.” I stated as I headed for the stairs leading to the concert hall on the second floor. I opened the door while the John Denver wannabe was singing about mountains and getting high, or something like that.

Interrupting John, I yelled, “Doris. We need you. Follow me and bring the money.”

Doris stood up, looking a bit embarrassed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“We have an emergency in the kitchen. Follow me.” I looked up and added, “Is there a doctor in the house?” We have an injury that needs attention.”

“I’m a doctor.” came a voce from the stage. John Denver put down his guitar and jumped off the stage.

Doris, John, and I made it to the kitchen just as the EMT truck arrived. I got the key from the moneybag and unlocked the refrigerator door. The EMTs went inside. One tended to Dottie with John while the other EMT, with help from Catherine, Jim and me, unwedged Stan from the shelf. Stan wasn’t hurt. He was just pissed. Dottie was loaded onto a stretcher. Stan walked out of the fridge on his own. Catherine, Jim and I followed, just in time to see a throng of people standing outside of the kitchen.

“What do they want?” I asked.

Doris answered. “I guess the concert is over. They want cake.”

Gloria, who had been quiet the whole time, finally spoke. “I guess I’ll start cutting the cake.”

“I have money for change.” Doris added.

The concert moved downstairs. Someone brought John’s guitar to the kitchen. Gloria and Doris handed out cake while John sang about country roads and feather beds, or something like that. We found out later that Dottie only had an ankle sprain. Stan left with Catherine, cussing her out the whole time. That’s the end of the story.

Horace looked at Grant and asked. “Did that all really happen? I know how you like to exaggerate stories.”

“It’s all true. If you don’t believe me, ask Gloria or Stan. Or even Dottie or Doris. Just don’t ask Catherine or Jim.” he added.

“Why not them?” Horace asked.

“I think Catherine got fired. And Jim won’t remember. He barely remembers anything.”

Horace was elated. He’d won something. He’d never won anything in his life, and just like that, he won a lottery. A Mega-millions lottery: or in his case, a mega-thousands lottery.

Horace guessed five out of six numbers correctly. Actually, he didn’t guess the five numbers. He used the jersey numbers from the starting five players of the 1984 Los Angeles Lakers: 5, 32, 33, 42, and 45 (Byron Scott, Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, James Worthy, and A.C. Green respectively). He had 31 (Kurt Rambis) for the Powerball number, but number 21 (Michael Cooper’s number) popped up in the final spot. Still, Horace won a little over thirty-thousand dollars. Enough money to go on a trip with his wife.

Horace’s wife, Henrietta was a homebody. She didn’t like to travel much, preferring to stay close to home.

“Come on honey, we can go anywhere you’d like. Paris. Rome. Moab. You name it and we’re there.” Horace pleaded with Henrietta.

“I’m perfectly fine here.” she said. “I didn’t leave anything in any of those places, and I don’t intend to. If you really have an itch to see the world, ask Grant.”

Grant was Horace’s oldest and best friend. The two had shared many experiences over the years. Travel was not one of them.

“Grant is like you.” Horace said to Henrietta. “He’s never been farther than Jerome, and that trip was only because he got lost trying to find Sedona.”

She replied, “I remember that trip. What was it he said when asked about his adventure?”

“He was talking about his trip. Someone asked ‘Jerome?’ He said, ‘No. I went there on purpose.’”

Henrietta said, “Well, I think you should ask him anyway. It would do you two good to get out of the house. And I could use a break.”

Horace called Grant. “Let’s go somewhere, just you and me.” he said over the phone.

Grant replied, “You mean to Suds? It’s not Wednesday afternoon.”

“No. A trip. Anywhere in the world. All expenses paid by me and the millions of other suckers who waste money on lottery tickets, hoping to strike it rich.”

Grant was a little confused. “Are you telling me you’re a gazillionaire or something?”

“Not quite. I won enough money for us to take a trip. Henrietta thinks we should go somewhere; get out of town and explore. What do you think?” Horace asked.

“Anywhere?” Grant asked.

“Anywhere you want to go. Think about it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Horace met up with Grant the following morning at Frenchy’s Diner. Over coffee and donuts, they discussed travel.

“Did you think about where you want to go?” Horace asked Grant.

Grant had a list of possible destinations. “Yep. I’m thinking Athens. I’ve always wanted to see the Apocalypse.”

“You’re confused as usual. You mean the Acropolis.”

Grant crossed the first item off his list. “Well then, how about London? We can go see Uncle Ben.”

Horace shook his head. “Where are you getting your information?” he asked.

“I’ve been reading this book by Charles Atlas.”

“Are you referring to the body builder?”

“Yeah. That’s him. He wrote a big old book with lots of maps and stuff.” Grant added.

“I’ve got news for you, Grant. That’s an Atlas. Charles didn’t write it. London has Big Be . . . “

“Never mind. I’ll scratch that one off my list.” Grant lined through London and then said “Maybe the south of France.”

“Now we’re talking.” Horace proclaimed.

Grant responded to Horace’s comment. “Nice.”

Horace replied, pronouncing the name of the French city in a slow, deliberate voice. “Nice.”

“Grant replied, “I don’t want her to come. She smells funny and eats too much.”

“Who are you talking about?” Horace asked.

“My niece Molly. She . . .”

“Stop it Grant. You’re starting to annoy me.”

“Sorry Horace.” Grant looked at his list again. “Maybe we could go to the Sahara Desert.”

“What makes you want to go there?”

“I was watching football on TV the other day. Joe Buck was announcing. He talked about a trip he made to Mali. He took his wife Michelle and his brother Tim Buck too.”

“Dammit Grant! Would you get serious? I’m offering to take you on a trip anywhere in the world, and you’re making fun of my offer.”

“Sorry Horace. It’s just that I’ve never really been anywhere. Okay, how about Italy? I’ve always wanted to see the ruins.”

Horace finally looked pleased. He responded. “Rome?”

Grant replied, “No. Let’s make an itinerary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They climb the walls, just like roses.”

“What the Hell does that mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wilt or Kareem?”

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

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

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

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

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

What do you mean, conviction?” Horace asked.

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

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

“They’re the same.” retorted Horace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about them?” Horace inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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