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.”