The Russian Guide

After six years as a tour guide, Martina noticed a creeping sameness in showing strangers her beautiful, historic, and artistic city.  The job paid well.  Hard to put her finger on it.  Perhaps there was not enough suffering, the Russian national pastime.  Happiness always held the promise of pain, like the momentary freedom of leaping off a tall building.   Today, a black and gray sky held promise.

Not counting the long days, long lines and schedule eruptions, Martina found strands of pleasure. Very unusual in her life and when they appeared, she held her breath.

At first the tourists' redundant questions were her security blanket. But these days she wished customers could be more inventive and insightful.  Her wishes blossomed and died in infancy.

It wasn’t personal.  People automatically warmed to her easy manner.  Came from being married for long years to Bruno, a hairy longshoreman who liked his beer and hot suppers.  Bruno also liked sex and Martina obliged him a time or two a month. It was that kind of marriage.  In other words, typically boring, with lightening bolts of despair.  Perhaps tonight he would be more inventive and make her do some really disgusting things.  Then she could cry.  The disgusting things she could count on, but inventiveness?  Dream on.

Besides being a tour guide, Martina wrote pathetically mundane articles for a monthly travel magazine.  The magazine was free, handed out on street corners, and paid Martina nearly nothing, but it dovetailed with her guide job and brought a sense of sad association with the Romanovs. When she chatted over a microphone in a cramped mini-bus, she relished describing Nicholas II and his family as being ‘brutally murdered,’ as though ‘thoughtfully and humanely  murdered’ would be something entirely different. 

Sometimes, to break the monotony, she fudged in bits that scraped the edges of accuracy both in her delivery and her writing.  Who cared?  Not the hopelessly ignorant tourists.  Not her magazine editor.   His expertise began with a capital and ended with a period.  Paragraphs and lucidity only slowed him as he raced to coffee with his mistreated girlfriend, or out for a bout of the vodka flu with his so-called friends.

In a piece about the famous Albert Hotel, Martina added some spice about a bellhop who consorted with animals.  All balderdash, of course.  His ghost, she wrote, could be seen grinning, barking, and humping the legs of guests.

The editor never changed a word and the hotel never complained.  In fact, reservations for people with female dogs increased 25%.  A keen sense of the perverse lives in all of us, she thought sadly.

Toward the end of each tour, Martina took her charges on a barge ride through the canals, pointing out palaces and cathedrals, intertwined with tales of saints and royalty, heaven and earth, as it were.

Martina also had a secret yearning to leap out from historical non-fiction and write short stories.  Most dreams are like that, thin and shadowy.  Shifting sand would be Gibraltar by comparison.

Today, a late afternoon in mid-summer, she toiled in the midst of a barge ride.  Halfway through, to the gentle lapping of the water against the hull, and with the sun burned to a deep gold.  Her customers basked in the afterglow of a hefty meat and potato lunch, washed down with icy glasses of complimentary vodka.  Martina noticed her changes slouching, then doubled over, their heads nodding like round boats on an invisible sea.

She breezed through the Romanovs by name, number, and nefarious deeds, then branched out and re-dug the shallow earth of history to sprout a new family tree.

Martina spoke excellent English, but with an accent that lent authenticity.

“On the left bank of the reever is the Palace of Ill Repute.  Many emperors sucked their last, piti-ful breaths there.  The entertainment of dancing chickens and a dance with meat cleavers also sucked, especially when changing partners. The chickens especially hated it. One Empress took to hay-vee drink and mopped the floor with her longhaired dugs.  She later become very devout and spent great sums to have the dogs bapi-tized.  The choorch adored her.”

Nobody budged.  Martina continued.  “Next comes the home of Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater, named because his wife, Olga-the-Generous, had enormous breasts.”

No reaction.

“Then, there was Alexander-the-Bold, and his little known son, Boris-the-Lunaticski.  History has little to say about Boris except that he kept an array of birds.  His very Orthodox wife, Alexis-the-Kneeler, insisted the birds wear condoms.  Several died from latex thrombosis and allergic reactions to celibacy.  Things came to a head when a great bustard’s eyes popped, due to testicular pressure, wounding two bystanders.  The mighty bird crashed into a small boat, with the loss of all hands, as well as arms and legs.  It is what we Russians call a happy ending.”

Gregor, who also spoke English, had settled himself among the tourists, behind a mountainous English woman, wearing a red rain-slicker, whose deep snoring resembled a Gregorian chant.

Gregor had seen Martina several times and although he would never admit it, seeing her again was the sole purpose of this trip.  It had cost him money he could not really afford, but such is love, which in Greg’s case resembled stalking.  In his thirty-five years he’d experienced love many times, lasting only as long as puffs from a cannabis pipe.  As he had with his other romantic car wrecks, he was certain this time would be different.

Once he had spoken with Martina hurriedly, from boat to dock, which he managed without loss of balance.  She’d smiled a courageous smile that firmed his interest in the sadness in her eyes.  Now he was back for another dose of cupid’s tonic.

When the boat docked, Gregor lingered, allowing the tourists to disembark before he wandered to the creaking gangplank.  His joyous heart was light, but he still dragged a long cloak of despair, left over from previous romantic struggles.

Martina appeared to be taken by surprise.  But, still she smiled.  Gregor smiled back, trying his best to round the corner of the conversation and get to the part where he asked her to dinner. 

The clouds gave him the help he needed and although it was only four o’clock, a light drizzle allowed him to cut through the preliminaries and ask, “Coffee?”  He said it without whining.

Martina hesitated.  Who was this man?  His face looked familiar.  Still, the drizzle was beginning to show its muscle and one of her favorite coffee shops was across the street.  The street was in a good section and the coffee shop looked crowded, so, she nodded yes.  Coffee and harmless conversation might be just what she needed to unwind before she drove over an hour to reach her house, prepared dinner for her thankless husband and attended to household drudgery.  Traffic in this city was beastly.  Maybe it would take her two hours.

Gregor was in luck.  As they walked in, the couple at the table by the window got up.  Gregor and Martina sat down while the waitress cleared dishes and swiped a wet dishcloth across the scarred wooden tabletop.

“Two coffees,” Gregor said before the waitress could get away.  Hurriedly, he looked at Martina.  “Unless you want something else.”  If he expected disappointment, he didn’t get it.

“No, coffee is just right on a damp day.”

“I enjoyed your lecture,” he said and laughed, sounding almost as if he really had enjoyed it.

“It was the updated rendition of very worn stories.”

“I noticed.  But, you left out a lot.”

“Such as…”

“Gomez-the-Drinker, the first Emperor to distill vodka instead of waiting for sheep’s milk to ferment.”

“Forgot about him.  If I recall, he was later called Gomez-the-Kind.  He cycled vodka through his kidneys and donated it to the peasants.”

Conversation continued over yet more coffee, drunk from chipped china cups.  Gregor loved looking into her somewhat sunken eyes and didn’t want the tête-à-tête to come crashing down.  As any man knows, he saw what he wanted to see.  He’d waited so long for this moment.  Her eyes sparkled.  She was perfect in every way.  It was time to cut to the chase, stir the stew, fish or cut bait, ferment the potatoes.   Still, he hesitated.

“How is your day going?” she asked, looking down, taking another sip.  Such a cute little mole on her chin, he decided, and the deep circles only made her more attractive, in a perverse Soviet sort of way.

“So far, so good.  My therapist says I’ll be better soon.”

She laughed.  “You’re married, too?”

It was a bolt of lightening, but he dodged.  “The first time wasn’t too bad.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t like the way I spoke to her.”

“For example…”

“Started with good morning and went down-hill like a bull with mad-for-cows disease.”

“That bad?”

Worse.  Then came wife deux.”

“More bad luck?”

“She liked the heavy beatings at first, but soon tired of the salt baths.”

“Silly woman.”

“Yes.  She had it made.  Ice in her cup of thin tea, a stale crust of bread.”

He shifted gears.  “So, tell me what your husband is like.”

“He’s a brute.  I cheat on him often.”

“Really.”  He said it in passing, not wanting to interrupt the story.

“Yes.  I gave him a fabulous STD for his birthday.”

The sagging pathos was beginning to stir Gregor’s inherent Russian need for suffering.   While not actually lifting the table, he was at least wiggling the edge of the tablecloth.  He gripped his napkin tighter in his lap to avoid popping the zipper and unleashing the dragon, or in Gregor’s case, the gecko.

This infinitely sexy woman knew exactly what she was doing, he decided.  The more she spoke of sadness and pain, the greater his passion.  He suspected she wanted him just as much, always a man’s foolish miscalculation.

“Sometimes he deprives me of coffee and we have a wonderful shouting match.  The neighbors sell tickets and enjoy a jolly time.”

Gregor could barely contain himself, in the literal sense.

She reached under the table.  It was only to put a hand in her own lap, but still.

“Dear god!” he thought.

“It appears you’re furious with me, too.”  She smiled.

“Raging,” he said.

“Perhaps we should work off that rage.  Share a few precious moments of utter despair.”

“Yes, and perhaps the sun should rise and set.”  Was there sweat on his brow?  Felt like it.  His mouth tasted salty.

A man leaned across the table and asked him a question.  The language was Spanish or Italian, Gregor couldn’t decide.  He barely listened.

A moment later, when he started to settle the bill, he found his wallet was missing.  The man who’d asked the question.  Of course!  Gregor forgot his passion for a moment and raced to the door of the coffee shop, stumbled onto the street and looked both ways.  No one.

“They never run outside,” Martina told him when he got back to the table.  “Check the men’s room.”

The door was locked.  Gregor could hear someone inside.  He rattled the door handle.  It was loose.  He pulled, pushed and the door came free.  The guy inside was the same guy who’d asked a question.  He was shuffling through something and tried to hide it.  Gregor wasn’t big, but he was big enough.  He shoved the guy against the wall.  Money and papers fell to the floor.  The wallet fell in the urinal.  The guy brushed past him.

Gregor didn’t care.  He didn’t even care about the money.  The wallet was the important thing.  His license, his identification.  His condom. All there. Even the money.

When he came back, Martina was still at the table.  She eyed him, as if it were no big deal.  City girl.  Used to it.

“Where were we?” she asked as he slid into his chair.

“I was being robbed.”

“That’s Pietor.  He’s not a very good thief.”

“You know him?  Why in hell didn’t you say anything?”  He was rapidly losing the focus of this conversation.  Confusion was making steady progress toward disgust.

She shrugged. 

He got up to leave.  Martina clutched his sleeve.  “Don’t go.”  An obscure scene from Doctor Zhivago.

He looked down at her as if she had lost her mind.  In fact, he had lost his, but now he had it back and he wasn’t going to give it up again.  For the first time he noticed how ugly the mole on her chin really was, and the way one eye drooped a little, the thinness of her hair.

When he left, Martina sighed. She sighed again.  For anyone else it would have been sadness, but for her it was contentment. The perfect romantic suffering at the end of a dark and drizzling Russian day.

Woman in the Magazine

I’m invited to a wedding.  Former love.  Not recently, although that might be fun in a perverse way.  For me, when it’s over, it’s over.  No looking back.

The day before the event, I find myself with a quiet moment, snapping through the pages of a magazine at a downtown coffee house.  Sipping, dreaming.  I catch a flash of color and I stop and flip back several pages.  A woman.  Not a real woman, but an artist’s rendition.  Beautiful.  I’m spellbound. I’m a dreamer by nature and this is worth a long dream.  What makes me notice the curve of her body, the position of the hands, the far away look?  Is she a dreamer, too?  A fellow romantic?

What’s sexy about the woman in the magazine? She’s not real.  An irresistible allure captures me.  She’s not naked.  Nothing so blatant.  I’m romantic, not blurry-eyed.  Some have whispered, “foolishly romantic,” behind my back.  I hear them.  Noted.

The wedding is a glorious success.  The weather turns a tad cold for late May, but no rain.  After the ceremony, guests retreat from the garden into the spacious, high-ceilinged ballroom.  Long tables are laden with noshes.  Round tables, white linen covered, are spaced around the room.   I scan the crowd and see no one I know.  Along the way, I chat with a few guests.  Shake a few hands.  Compliment the bride and groom.  The bride looks at me a little wistfully, or at least I think so.  She adores roses.  I sent her a dozen yesterday.  I like motiveless gestures.  Very freeing.

Across the huge dance floor, close to the cream colored wall and apart from the crowd, I catch a glimpse.  The woman I spy is something like that magazine drawing.  When she cocks her head and brushes back a lock of hair, I notice her slender neck.   A body with gracefully soft curves.

Her hair is on the short side, much like the drawing.  Just long enough to move a bit when she speaks.  She’s chatting with another woman.  The red lipstick on full lips carves an image on my tender imagination.   There’s a rather suave man standing nearby.  Well cut gray suit.  Regimental striped tie.  Expensive black wingtips, well polished.  He’s good looking, but with a stern finish.  Power, if I had to guess, which I do.  The power of the boardroom.  The twin faces of Janus, aphrodisiacs, power and confidence. Half a head taller then I am, yet about the same as my 160, he exudes both.  But, the curl to his lips is somehow off-putting.  Chiseled features, like a male model, but not quite to that standard.  He yawns and doesn’t cover his mouth.  Bored and gauche.  Now he looks around the room.  Our eyes meet briefly in passing.

So much for her date.  What’s the first thing I notice about a woman?  Her age.  That’s not a judgment and not exact.  This woman I’d place about mid-thirties.  Her escort is maybe twenty years older.

Next?  Her eyes.  Comes as a shock, n’est pas?  Well, ok, I stand corrected.  I can’t see her eyes from here, or not the color.  But, I can tell they’re lively.  And, when it’s a woman whose breasts arrive a couple of minutes before the rest of her, the eyes are overlooked and everyone in the room, including the marble statues gives a stare.  But, really, how often do you see that?  Anyway, women pay much more attention to their breasts, and everyone else’s breasts, than men do.  Fact.  Men are simple.

Women seem obsessed with their bodies.   Much more than men.  I mean it.  They know every vein, every bulge, everything that in their eyes shames them with imperfections.  This woman doesn’t seem to share that handicap.  She’s relaxed, comfortable.

Men are also obsessed, but not in the same way.  I find myself noticing bulging waists, sunken chests, skinny necks, anything that could give me a clear advantage in the hunt.  But, I’m the first to admit, I could never guess what’s on a woman’s mind, or how she might judge a man.  We’ve all seen gorgeous women with lesser partners.  My guess is, attraction is seldom as physical for a woman as it is for a man.

The look that gets to me is the promise of surrender, but easy does it.  Romance.  Don’t be in a hurry.  Tease me, please me.  The woman in the drawing is like that.  Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

From across the room, the woman glances my way.  Was I staring too much?  Bad habit.  A stare is ok.  A lengthy stare screams perv.  I look down at my shoes, then refocus on another part of the room.  Nice party.  Da. Da. Da.  Count of three and I steal another glance.  I quickly scan another direction, then down at the empty ice cubes in my glass. They tinkle just a bit when I swirl them.

Time for another bit of Scotland.  The ballroom bar overflows with the thirsty minions.  No matter.  Drink or no drink is all the same.  Someone sidles up beside me.  I barely notice.  I’ve tried the 10 year old unpronounceable.  The Scots and the Celts use too many freaking consonants. Don’t even mention the Welsh.  It was watery to begin with.  The ice made it worse.

“What are you sipping?” the voice beside me purrs.  She.

‘Haven’t the faintest.  Single malt, or so they tell me.” 

“I’m drinking a Gimlet.  Ever had one?”  Her voice is musical.

“No….don’t believe I ever had…have…no.”

“Gin.  Sweetened lime juice.  Sugar. Ice.  Simple.”  She smiles and the stars come out of the dark night.  “My mother’s favorite.”  She leans forward when the bar keep asks for her order.  The bosom of her dress falls ever so slightly forward.  I can’t quite see her nipples, but god knows I try.  She looks toward me.  “Aren’t you going to have anything?”  As if she doesn’t know I was looking.

“Another of these,” I say and let it go at that.

“Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” she asks.  She’s casually slipped her arm through mine and we’ve moved away from the crowd at the bar, back toward a corner.  The good-looking, tall guy is nowhere to be seen.  She lets her arm drop and glances around the room, then back at me.

“Groom,” I say.  “He’s in the same office and married the woman I dated for three years.”

She laughs.  “Really?”

“No, it was closer to two.”  She laughs again.

“Looks like we have something in common.”  She winks.  “My fiancé ran off with his ski instructor.”

“Was she cute?”

“He,” she deadpanned.  “Unlucky all ‘round.”

“Well, you’re in luck this time.”  I smile.  She takes a sip of her Gimlet and I focus on the slim fingers and bright red nails lightly holding the stem of the glass.

“Want to dance?” she murmurs, putting her drink politely on the small, white-linen covered table and reaching for my hand.”

The band, which happily plays everything from hip-hop, to fifties rock, to Mozart’s Klein Nacht Musik, is currently on a waltz theme. 

We waltz.  We chat.  The music changes to a very slow version of ‘ Save the Last Dance for Me,’ and her cheek almost touches mine.   I can feel the warmth.

The music stops.  “Well,’ she says finally, “This has been nice.”

From behind me I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn.  It’s the tall guy with the chiseled chin.

“Oh, hi, darling,” she says. “Time to go already?”

He smiles and nods.

“It was really good to meet you,” she says and shakes my hand, lightly.  Her fingers linger just a touch longer than they should.   He doesn’t seem to notice.

I watch them leave.  Just before she walks through the double doors, she pauses and doesn’t look back, but places her gently folded napkin on the round, waist high table.

The band is playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”  The Platters did it better.  There’s ice in my glass, but the liquor’s only a memory.

I wait a decent amount of time, to see if by some miracle she’s headed back into the ballroom.  Then, I wander toward the double doors and casually pick up the napkin and put it in my suit pocket without looking.

Tease me, please me.

No wonder she reminded me of the woman in the magazine. Shows nothing.  Promises everything.

An Unlikely Hero

         


            In the ragged, hot summer of 1934, Tommy Brayfield sweltered in a cheap hotel room with his one true friend, a Smith & Wesson six shot,.38 Special, with a mother of pearl handle.  The window was open and a thin curtain chased a wisp of breeze in and out and carried away the smoke from the Chesterfield that hung off his lip.  Being skinny and missing breakfast didn’t stop him from sweating as he caressed the steel barrel with an oiled rag.  The gun was not a plaything.  It was his life, and he cared for it like it was something alive.  In a way it was.  Tommy carried it for a specific reason.  Sure, he could have gone bigger, or fancier, but the .38 caliber Special was what most police carried, and most soldiers.  Very common.  Hard to trace.   His stomach growled.He’d eat later, after the job was done.  “Steak,” he muttered aloud, “Rare and a full glass of whisky.”  His Adam’s apple bounced without touching the loose, white, but stained shirt collar. The collar was frayed in places.  It mirrored Tommy’s life.  But Tommy wasn’t much for introspection.  Still, he had his pride and especially pride in his work of killing people.  You gave him a job and the job got done.  Most of the time it was simple.  Money changed hands. You came, you shot, you left.           
          If it hadn’t been for that dumb bastard passing him on the street last night at the very moment, the very damn moment, he’d be back in Chicago now, with a full belly and a woman, instead of sweating like a two bit nag in this hick town.  He’d had a chance to do the job and he’d been ready to do it.  Shit, he should have just shot the mark and walked away.  Surprise and speed were the keys. Didn’t matter where and it didn’t matter when.  Chances are that other dumb bastard wouldn’t have gotten a look at him anyway.  This time he’d do it right. But last night still flickered and teased.  It ain’t all that tough, offing a rich husband.  Bam!  Sure thing.  Payday.  Not like that scary shit of driving into a hick town and knocking over a bank.  Dillinger and the boys could have that all to themselves; he’d stick with what he did best.            
          The daily paper rustled a little on the bed.  Headlines read, “Unknowns Rob Madison City Bank.” Tommy glanced at it and shook his head.  “Scary shit,” he said under his breath.
                                                                         *****            
          Mr. Brady strolled into the Police Station, touched his hat and growled a terse good morning to Sara Jane, the Chief’s secretary.  She looked up from her typing.           
          “Chief Collins in?”  He rocked back on his heels, put one hand on his prosperous stomach, then moved his hand up and twisted the end of his waxed mustache. His eyes wandered to strategic places.
          Sara Jane ignored the glances and parried,   “How’s Mrs. Brady?”                                 
          “Fine,” was the terse reply, flavored with a hint of a scowl.             
          The private office was behind a big door, half of it frosted glass.  Curved black letters read, “Elmer G. Collins” and under that a straight line, “Chief of Police.”            
          The Chief got up when Brady walked in.  Big smile and a handshake.  Collins waved him to a hardback wooden chair and sat back down behind his desk.  “What’s on your mind?”           
          “It’s not just my mind, Elmer.  As you know, I’m President of the Merchants’ Association.” There was an imperial, monotone to Brady’s voice that grated, like shaving with a dull razor.  Maybe it was the way his judgmental eyes flicked around the room and the impatient way he shifted in his chair, as though nobody else’s time was quite as valuable.            
          “I surely do know that, and I also know you’re doing a fine job.”  Collins spoke up to cut him off before Brady could begin his usual pontification.            
          “Well,” Brady began again, “We’re coming up on another election.”           
          Another veiled threat, Chief Collins thought, but he didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips and bridged his fingers.           
          “As I was saying, you’ve been a good Chief.”           
          “But,” Collins said.            
          “Well, there’s been some banks robbed and some members of the Association have been getting a little nervous.  You know, robbing a bank is one thing, but scaring off customers is something else.  And, Madison City is less than three hours away.”            
          “Your wallet starting to feel a little thin?”             
          “It’s not the business....” His eyes darted around the room.  “But, they only robbed the Madison Bank a couple of days ago.”            
          “What is it exactly you want me to do?”           
          “We were thinking maybe you could increase the police patrols downtown.”            
          “Horace, I’ve got three men and myself.  All of us are downtown all day, unless something happens that calls us away.”            
          “Exactly, my point.  What if you get called away?”            
          “We’re never called very far or for very long.  My authority ends at the city limit.”            
          The arrogant tone again.  “We really need some protection for the citizens.”            
          Sometimes it’s easier to give an inch.  “Look, I’ll tell you what; until this business with bank robberies calms down, I’ll walk the streets myself.  We can stretch the patrols to a couple hours after dark.”            
          “We were thinking that maybe you should deputize some of the citizens.  Let them sit up in the attics around town.  Maybe let them carry rifles.”            
          Collins wanted to roll his eyes.  He refrained.  Brady might be a little short on courage and long on talk, but the Association all but ruled the town when it came to turning out the vote and paying the bills.  “I don’t like the idea of untrained men with rifles.”
                                                                             *****            
             Miles away, Jackson, Billy, and Fred sat in a barn with an old Ford parked outside.  Jackson was counting, moving the bills into three piles.  “Looks like it’s gonna come out to four hun’ard apiece.”                     
          “Four hun’ard?”  Billy was incredulous.  “I could piss four hun’ard dollars worth of beer.”
          “Yeah,” Fred growled, “You was sayin’ lots before.”  Fred had problems with large numbers, so hundreds probably confused him.                            
          “I know what I was saying,” Jackson replied, trying to keep the edge off his voice, “But four hun’ard apiece is what we got!”  His pitch rose a little in spite of himself.  He shoved back from the table.  “You count it!”  It was a safe bet.  Neither Fred nor Billy could count past ten without taking off their shoes.            
          The conversation went back and forth, with nobody doing anything but complaining, until finally Jackson said, “Look, you want more money, you’re gonna have to rob another bank.”  It got real silent.                          
          “Where?”  Fred asked, unblinking. 
          “There’s a little town ‘bout three hours from Madison,” Jackson said.            
          “Whooowee!”  Billy pulled the silver revolver that was stuffed down his britches and rolled the cylinder.  “Whooowee!  Now you’re talkin’!”            
          Yeah, Jackson thought, now I’m talking, you cretin, but I'm talking to two useful idiots who are going to get me killed.  Billy forgot being upset about the lack of money from the last robbery and went back to grinning and polishing his gun.  The way he waved it around, somebody was going to get hurt.  With any kind of luck, it would be Billy.            
          Fred wasn’t the loose, gunslinger Billy was, but he didn’t test positive for intelligence either.  Periodically, Jackson thought of ditching the both of them, but right now, like them, he was broke.  Four hundred dollars wouldn’t last two months, then he’d be right where he started.  Broke.  He’d make this one last run with the two imbeciles and then cut himself loose.
                                                                            *****            
          It was the Chief’s shift, around noon, while the other men took a nap, or ate lunch, and the sun turned the whole town into a skillet.  A thin layer of dust covered everything like tan ash, including the blades of grass around the courthouse.  Still, he liked the idea of getting out of the office and strolling.  A little sweat was good for the soul. At least he’d been able to convince that fool Brady not to have him turn Main Street into a shooting gallery.              
          The Chief was walking toward the bank, glancing back at Mr. Brady who was standing in front of his store.  He saw a man come out of the hotel and walk toward Brady, a skinny stranger, one hand on a bulge in his coat pocket.  His first thought was that Brady had out foxed him; hired his own guns to patrol the town.   Almost simultaneously, a car swerved around the corner and drove right between the Chief and the stranger.  It screeched to a dusty halt in front of the bank and three armed men jumped out, one of them waving a silver revolver.  Two made for the front door of the bank. Silver Gun stayed in the street. They had hats pulled down tight, the brims shadowing their faces.            
          Sweet kingdom of God, Chief Collins thought as he whirled to face the guy in the street, dropped to one knee, and tugged unsuccessfully at the pistol in his black leather holster.  Being out in the middle of the street in a policeman’s uniform suddenly made him as uncomfortable as a Baptist in a brewery.  “I’m a dead man,” is what he said out loud.  Nobody was listening.            
          Tommy Brayfield strolled out of the hotel and headed toward Brady’s Department Store with murderous intent.  The sun shone in his eyes, but he could make out the rotund figure of Mr. Brady standing in front.  Got the bastard now, he thought, and put his hand on the gun hidden under his coat.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chief Collins.  Shit, he said to himself.  Another needless complication to what should have been over yesterday.            
          Then a car swerved toward him, kicking up enough dust for a rodeo.  The car stopped in a squeal of tires and the next thing he knew, a guy was pointing a gun at him from a distance of about ten yards.  He drew his weapon and sent Billy a chest high shot that shattered ribs and ruptured several major vessels.  Billy pulled at the spreading stain on his chest and wheezed, trying to draw a breath that wouldn’t come.  He fired the silver revolver on his way to the ground, but his depth of vision wasn’t any longer than his lifespan.  The bullet went array, striking Mr. Brady exactly between his beady eyes, dropping him faster than nightfall in December.            
          Tommy Brayfield wheeled around toward Brady and took a few steps, but made the grievous error of swinging his gun in the direction of Chief Collins. The chief had heard the pops from behind the car.  Then several more shots from in front.  Now that skinny stranger stepped into view and was pointing a gun at him.  Who the hell could tell what was going on?  It was like a wild west show in the middle of his quiet little town and here he was rolling around like a dog in a sandbox.  With all the effort and grace of an etherized man trying to escape from a dentist’s chair, he freed his pistol and fired off a few rounds in the general direction of the melee.  He saw a man go down. Between the dust and the heat and the sweat, and having bullets whizzing by, it was all a jerky, blurry movie.  Although he didn’t know it, one of his bullets shattered Tommy Brayfield’s femur and the femoral artery.  Another ricocheted off the street and smashed a store window, scarring hell out of 77-year-old Gertrude Timble, who was in the process of buying blue yarn, but now wet her pants and fainted. The whole thing lasted maybe two minutes, until two men raced out of the bank, screaming at each other and ignoring Billy’s body that lay sprawled in the street. The car sped away. The Chief fired another shot, and had no idea where it went, but nobody fell dead.   The dust settled.  The streets were quiet again.  Three men lay bloody and unmoving in the dust, Brady, Billy, and some poor son-of-a-bitch who’d been walking his dog.
                                                                            *****            
         The town mourned the loss of the President of the Merchant’s Association and most of all the death of the skinny stranger who it was said had killed one of the bank robbers and sent the other two running.  Some of the merchants said the Chief of Police must have taken Brady’s advice and hired an extra gun.  The Chief didn’t deny it.  The newspaper found out the stranger’s name and where he was from.  With Mrs. Brady’s overly enthusiastic blessing, a citizens’ committee collected money to have a statue put up that showed him pointing his pistol and selected an inscription that read, “I may be a stranger, but I come as a friend.”  Some called him a guardian angel.  Chief Collins gave another inch and didn’t disagree.

Glorious Rebellion

In February 1963, in that middle twilight between Christmas vacation and Spring Break, a group of us boys sat hunched on benches in the wood paneled smoking room.  In those days, parents still gave their sixteen-year-old sons permission to smoke on the grounds of our private school.  As the customs of a coat and tie prep school demanded, we didn’t just smoke cigarettes.  We luxuriated in swirls of black, pungent, Turkish tobacco and punctuated our sentences by jabbing the air with our Gauloises, the blue packaged favorites of impossibly suave continental actors.  We were too cool.

“Watch it!” Robert yelped, and I noticed a neat circle of ash on his blue, silk tie.

         Barry Ellis, a tall kid with sandy hair and cheeks flushed with a new crop of acne, was thrilling us with details of the trip he and his parents and sister took to the Bahamas.  I was mostly interested in the sister.  Lila was shorter than her brother, no acne and with breasts noticeable enough to blank my mind at a rampaging dogfight.  At that point in my life, female breasts were still only a theory, guarded by Egyptian cottons and worsted wools.  Things of mystery. The thoughts of which could keep you up until well past the time you were sure your roommate was asleep.

As Barry droned on about the cost of steaks at the Seasider in Bimini and other detritus, my mind was on the warmth of the sun, Lila in a one-piece bathing suit, her skin aglow, eyes closed, nestled on a thick, white towel on the sand.  She had one knee up and I could follow her perfect form through every slow, rhythmic breath.  She turned her head and eyes opened as gracefully as doves’ wings.  Those sapphire orbs held me like a very awkward mouse in a trap.  Even in the privacy of my thoughts, no poignant response leapt out to make her mine.  At that point, I hadn’t actually spoken with Barry’s sister, but I had seen her eyes.  Dreams, like clouds, float without anchors.

         You might ask why a one-piece instead of something more titillatingly improper?  A one-piece suit represented womanhood to me, maybe because my mother always wore one at our rented Edisto beach house, or perhaps because the cheap thrills in some of the men’s magazines always wore bikinis, the top coyly held in place by a limp hand and a smile. By then I’d learned the difference. Breasts were the defining edge.  Women in the pictures always beckoned.  Real girls guarded them like the keys to their immortal souls.

         Barry, perhaps noticing my somnolent gaze, picked up the volume.  My dream died in the blare of his voice and I had to listen to the cost of new Bass Weejuns.  I already owned a pair myself.

         “So, Barry,” I said, “What’s your sis up to these days?”  The question made as much sense as interrupting a rectal exam to ask, ‘Hey, doc, how’s the wife.’  Barry stared at me, but kept on talking.

         The torch of conversation passed.  Mark, a shorter kid, with a tight, dark haircut, lamented a past Spring Break that had been pretty much a sleep late and have pancakes with your family operation.  Tommy and Robert nodded.  Tommy always held his cigarette with a thumb and forefinger, the palm of his hand toward his face, like some Peter Lorre character.  We dragged at our cigs a bit more and the discussion swung to drinking, another adult mountain.            

         All of us were proud of having wrestled down a swallow of the evil whisky.  Unlike testosterone tales involving young ladies, these were probably true.  There’s something volatile about the combination of truth and possibility.  Before long we were well into a plot to willfully disregard the state law, our parents fervent hopes, and drink to the point of stupefaction.

         Tommy flicked a shred of tobacco off his tongue, lowered his voice half an octave and rasped out the thin plot.  “You just stand outside a liquor store in the city,” he continued, glancing around, “And when you see a black guy coming, you offer him some money.  Works every time.”  There weren’t any witnesses to testify, but confidence is a golden coin.

         Robert, whose father was black, wanted to know why it had to be a black guy.  We discussed that and it boiled down to black guys being more willing to flaunt the law and being more trustworthy with our money.

         “With a white guy,” Tommy opined, “You either get a derelict or a biker, who are both gonna stiff you, or you get a guy in a suit who all of a sudden figures he’s morally compelled to flag down the police.  A black guy will just buy the stuff and hand it to you on his way out.”  Even Robert didn’t mount a counter argument, although it was hard to tell what he was thinking.  Black guy, whiskey.  White guy, police.  Police is a sobering thought.  No pun intended.

         Race was still pretty abstract in a school that was ninety-five percent white.  When we put a face on it, like with Robert, we moved crab-like rather than straight line.   So, the whole idea of who’s better to ask to buy you a bottle could have gone either way, even with Robert standing there.  After all, who’s the better guy, the one who does you a favor or the one who won’t?  We went with the black guy theory, but Robert said he wasn’t going to do the asking.

         “My dad would kill me,” he said sadly.  That didn’t mean he was out of the picture, he just didn’t want a speaking part.  He echoed our dread of discovery.  All of our dads would have killed us, except for Tommy, who lived with his aunt and uncle, so his uncle would have to do the killing.

         But, no matter the consequences, conspiracies seldom fail in the planning phase.  Three nights later, we headed into the city in a convertible, top down.  The wind cut like ice.  Nobody wore a hat, but we clutched our overcoats and tucked our chins. Robert drove.  He was the only one who could scrounge a car.  Barry knew the liquor store, but he wasn’t getting out because he said someone might recognize him.  The deed fell to me. Pass the money; get the whiskey.  The honor was dubious, the fear real.

         I stood shivering about five feet from the entrance, putting a post and most of the door between the liquor store clerk’s view and myself.  The first prospect was a white guy in a suit, exactly the sort I’d been warned against.  The second guy was a black guy in a suit.  I started to.  I made a move, but then held back.  A black guy in a suit wasn’t in the equation. Maybe he’d kick the crap out of me, then call the police.

         I fogged the chill air and watched the first two saunter out the door and down the street.  If they noticed me, they didn’t say anything.  Around liquor stores, people don’t speak.

         Finally, an older black guy, in jeans, a jeans jacket and a well-oiled baseball cap showed up. My teeth chattered, but I mumbled my order, slipped him a ten-dollar bill and watched him disappear into the glow and warmth of the store.  Minutes passed like hours.  I stole a glance.  He was chatting with the clerk. My throat was already frozen.  My heart followed the throat’s lead.  Was this it?  Was that the sound of sirens, the trumpet call of my downfall and disgrace?  The clerk kept talking and didn’t reach for the phone.

Moments later the black guy strode out with two brown paper bags.  He pressed one into my hand and asked if I wanted my change.  I mumbled no.  He hustled down the street and didn’t look back.

         The four of us drove to a city park a block away.  Being it was cold and night, we and the evergreens had it all to ourselves.  Robert didn’t partake.  It was before the days of don’t drink and drive, but he was afraid his dad would smell it on his breath. 

         Rum burns raw in your throat at first and the gag reflex tries not to let you swallow, but we choked it down.  Warmth and smug contentment flooded me.  I sucked deep lungfuls of chilled air, gazed upward at the stars and tasted the thrill of adulthood.  The bottle lasted about an hour and made a hollow clink when Barry tossed it in the steel trashcan.  Mark retrieved it and wiped off the fingerprints.  There was some debate about whether we should go get another, but by that time it was near ten o’clock.

         On the ride back we sang sloppy rock and roll at the top of our lungs.  The streets were pretty deserted, so it didn’t matter.  At the first stoplight, Mark favored us with his rendition of the upchuck song.  Robert was screaming at him not to get any on the car, while the rest of us grabbed some overcoat and kept him from taking a header onto the asphalt. 

         Barry went next, but not at a stoplight. Robert screamed at him, but Barry tossed it over the side at full gallop.  He used his tie to get the spillage.  Robert was inconsolable.

           We got dropped one by one and the easy laughter died an awkward death.

           Next morning Robert’s dad first whiffed the unmistakable stench of raw bile and then saw yellow streaks on the door, dried like old, sad, tears.

         After parental recriminations tapered off, the school year settled back into the same loping, downhill gait.   Robert lost his use of the car. Our parents pulled our smoking privileges. The dark age of winter dragged on.

Spring’s bright smile brought redemption. Sins forgiven or forgotten. Lila never made the transition from dream to reality.  I think she married a stockbroker.  But, sometimes I still think about that one-piece suit.

Fractured- an incredibly short story

        


         I know Mr. Charles doesn’t like me.  You can see it in his beady eyes and the way his lips curl ever so slightly when he stops by my cubical.  He won’t look straight at me.  How can he when the hostility just oozes from him like putrefied garbage?  Thumbs locked under his braces, he rocks back on his heels and you can hear the breath hiss out of him.  A viper about to sink his fangs.  And he asks such inane questions.  “How is the project coming?  Is your wife going to attend the office Christmas party?”  Like he really understands my project, or really knows my wife.  That whiney voice is a dead giveaway.  He should be shot and I don’t mean metaphorically.

         I’m working on the same project I’ve been working on for the past two weeks.  Every Monday morning and every Friday morning, I send a full complement of charts and graphs that fully explains the situation.  It isn’t easy, but of course he wouldn’t know that.  He always calls me, right after the meeting he has on Mondays and Fridays with Mr. Fimburt, and he always implies my work is somehow incomplete.  Next time he comes in my office, I’m going to gut him.

         “What are the results we can expect if sales drop less than one percent in the quarter?”

         “Graph three, sir.”

         A pause, a shuffling of paper.  “That graph is of somewhat limited value.”

         “It’s the one you asked for.”  I told him the graph was useless when he asked me to make it, but of course he ignored me.

         Pause.  More paper movement.  “Perhaps we should rethink the relevance of putting projections and hard number columns on the same page. It’s confusing.”

         “I can easily separate them, if you’d prefer, sir.”  It was my idea to separate them in the first place.  His tongue should be ripped from his head.

         On and on it goes.  Half my life is re-answering questions and rearranging the same figures on new charts, in the futile hope of penetrating his fogged mind.  Fat chance.  I tell you, the man doesn’t like anything about me.  It’s true I got a hefty raise, but that was only because he couldn’t very well turn his back after all the things I’ve done for the company.  No, my raise was just to cover his own backsides.  He thinks I’m fooled by it, but I’m not.  Not even for a minute.  He’ll soon find out how unfooled I am.

         And the bit about the Christmas party?  What a crock!  If I asked him, Mr. Charles wouldn’t know my wife’s name if I branded it on his chest.  I may do just that.  He’s met her at least four or five times!  Where does the company find these cretins and why do they put them in charge?  I remember Mr. Charles’ wife’s name.  It’s Emily.  Not that I ever call her Emily.  I always call her Mrs. Charles, but at least I know her Christian name.  I know his children’s names and his street address and his home phone number.  Once when I was in his office and he kicked off his shoes, scattering them all over the place, I glanced down and noted his shoe size.   Oh, yes, I know lots about our Mr. Charles and he can’t even remember my wife’s first name? Harriet.   Not an especially tough name to remember is it?

         Come to think of it, Mr. Charles may not even know my first name.  He always calls me mister, then pauses to look at the nameplate on my desk.  He’s shifty and hides it well, but I can tell what he’s doing.  He’d probably deny that.  He’d probably lie.  My first name is Jerry, just so you don’t have to thumb through your Rolodex or type my last name into your computer.  I’m paying you enough that you should at least remember my name.  See, I even know how much you make per hour.  It’s more than you know about me.

         I saw the picture of your wife on your desk and it’s signed ‘Rita.’  The soles of your shoes are worn.  You can obviously afford a new pair, but you just don’t have the time.  Am I right? So, do you even remember what I just told you?  Do you know my wife’s name?  Emily?  Very poor.  That’s Mr. Charles’ wife’s name, numbskull.  You’re not paying attention.  I could tell earlier.  Do you know you shift in your seat a lot?  You’re a squirmer and squirmers don’t usually pay attention.  You know what they say:  if a person can’t remember something it’s because he’s trying hard to forget.  So, maybe you know my wife better than I think you do.

         Look at that!  You dropped your pen.  Very significant if you ask me, and your wafer thin, half-smiles don’t change my opinion one iota.

         Paranoid?  When you call me a name it’s just a weak attempt to change the subject.  You may not think it's important, but I find it not only important, but personally insulting.  You don’t like me, do you doctor?  Well, get in line.

         Here’s another tough question for that giant, doctor brain.  What’s my name?  Jerry?  Very good.  Very, very good.  Maybe I’ll remember to send you your check after all.

         Do I make you nervous?  God, my collar is tight.  Just reach over here and loosen it. Well, answer my question!  Do I Make You Nervous?  The question isn’t that difficult.  Ha, ha!  You’re more nervous when you drive to work.  Very funny!  Do realize you’ve picked up your water glass twice without taking a sip?  What does that tell you?

         What do I think about my wife?  What the hell kind of question is that?  And by the way, I’ll thank you to call her by her name.

         Well, she’s very intelligent for one thing.  She has a Ph.D. and don’t think for a minute she ever lets me or anyone else forget it. Oh, I know the name of the university all right, but it makes me want to puke when I say it, so I won’t say it.

         The other day she told me, “Getting an advanced degree was a burden, but it was worth it and I thank you everyday for putting up with all I had to go through.”  That’s a laugh.  It’s just another way she has of belittling me because I don't’ have Dr. in front of my name.  But, you already know about that, don’t you DOCTOR!

         She’s published in some high-powered journals and got her picture on the cover of Newsweek magazine.  I mean it wasn’t the whole cover.  She was with a group of twenty-five or thirty people.  There she was.  Big, bold smile.  That smile hides a lot.  Ask me anything you want to know about her.  IQ?  Shoe size?  Favorite foods?  I could tell you all about those little trivialities.  Just don’t ask me about sex.  I won’t talk about that even if you are a doctor, you pervert.

         Well, you’re right.  This hour is supposed to be about me, not about that crone I’m married to.  She can get her own shrink and don’t think she couldn’t talk his ear off!  Talk?  That woman makes Larry King seem autistic.

         Why do I call her a crone if she’s beautiful?  The eye of the beholder and all that for one thing.  For another, she hates me.  Hate may be a tad too strong.  The woman is so vapid she’s incapable.   Hate, I mean real hate, takes time, energy, concentration, and most of all emotion.  When it comes to my wife, her bucket of energy and emotion is as dry as an AA meeting.  Anyway, she dislikes me.  That makes her very, very ugly, at least where yours truly is concerned.  I wouldn’t make love to her on a bet, even though she’s always begging for it.  Oh, yeah!  Well, I mean, she doesn’t come right out and say it, but a man can tell, can’t he doctor?  Those chance encounters in the laundry room when she just happens to be hanging up her delicates?  Not a chance.  She’s too ugly where it really counts, on the inside.  She’s got a nice figure, pretty well rounded, if you know what I mean.  But, I just can’t do the deed. 

         Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing wrong with the old equipment. The woman dislikes me, with a capital D-I-S.  Would you make love to a woman whom you know can’t stand you?

         So, doc, when are we going to make some progress?  I’m waiting on progress and at the rate you charge, progress should be riding a bullet train.  You say you want to ask a few more questions?  There always seem to be a few more questions.  Long on questions, short on results is what I’m saying.  You ever been castrated, Doc?  Just wondering if you’d like to know what it feels like.

         Mr. Charles? You keep changing the subject.  I can’t believe I need to go into more detail.  More useless trivia.  You know, I’m starting to get the idea that you’re not any more fond of me than he is.

         You think I might need a referral?  To whom?  Another shrink?  I don’t care whether you like that term or not.  This isn’t about you; it’s about me, you moron!  Besides, after the nut cutting, you won’t care one way or another.   Sounds like another racket to put somebody else on my payroll.  What the hell do I need with another doctor?  And these straps are really getting tight.  I’m starting to feel like Venus de Milo.   Loosen ‘em up, meathead.  You really do dislike me, don’t you Doc!  Have you been talking to my wife, or maybe to Mr. Charles?  What the hell are you doing with that needle?

A Fetid Wind Blows in Scotland

         


            Dr. Rodney Hardstone sat at a sun-blessed table in the Rotted Apple Tea Emporium, perusing a crisp copy of The Establishment Times. When he reached up absentmindedly to adjust the Windsor knot on his Dunhill tie, the sleeve of his tweed blazer caught the edge of a silver butter knife, sending it careening to the marble floor.

            It raised such a clatter, all the patrons looked ‘round to see what was the matter. One of the serving girls sped forward and crouched down to retrieve it.  At the same instant, Dr. Hardstone leaned over the side of his chair to do the same.  Their heads nearly touched.  It was a magic moment.  Astonishment crossed his ruggedly handsome face as he found himself looking directly into the most beautiful jade green eyes.  He managed to exclaim, “Well, fondle my grapes!” only to see the owner of the eyes blush and turn away.

            This startling, raven-haired beauty deserved another look, or even more if he played his cards right. He asked the tea parlor’s owner, whom he’d known only since Friday, the name of the waitress.  Gertrude Stilthbottomm. 

            “That’s spelled with two m’s, the owner leered.  “We had to add the extra m to distinguish her time card from the other Stilthbottom’s who’s so homely we restrict her to the kitchen, except on Halloween.

            “Ah,” Dr. Hardstone replied, although in truth he could not have cared less about m and m’s.

            One visit to the Rotted Apple led to another and through delicate dialog, persistent persuasion, and sniveling sycophancy, he lured the willing waitress into revealing the devious detours that had led her to work as a menial maid. She breathlessly whispered her name, “Synthia Shibboleth,” and although she did her banal bit, she was in fact a laid off atomic scientist, and heir to a Scottish Dukedom.

            “An atomic scientist?” he queried, “Making bombs and whatnot?”

            “Oh no,” she blushed, “Not that kind of atomic.  I’m a chemist with the Atomic Jawbreaker Company.”

            “Hummmmm,” murmured the doctor. “So, no radioactivity, or mutations in the family?  No loose isotopes laying about?”

            “Dr Hardstone,” she implored him, “Although I hate you and you’re a frightful human being, and I know you would lie and cheat to get what you want from me….”

“Yes, yes, go on,” he answered.

“Whom I would never, never marry, or even, you know, kiss and stuff.  Even so, only you can help me return to Scotland and reclaim my ancestral lands, which the evil Earl of Shippingcrateshire is planning to sell to mortgage companies to turn into a suppository for toxic bonds.”  She pronounced Scotland as though trying to say it and swallow it in the same gulp.

“You mean a depository for toxic bombs.”

“Whatever.  It’s so Confucious.”

“You mean confusing.”

“Look, are you going to help me or sit there and do an oral spell-check all day?”

“And to what better use could you put your green, pastoral ancestral fields, my addled beauty?”

She got a far away look in her eye, making her bounteous bosom heave like two Spanish galleons on a temptuous sea.  “I….I….I ..”

“Those are nautical terms, yes?”

“I would donate my life and my land to establishing a pigeon park, where old carrier pigeons could live out their last, disease ridden days.”  A tear crept down her alabaster cheek.

Dr. Hardstone’s brows arched, making it three of a kind.  The girl had possibilities, even though some of her atomic particles were way out of orbit.  Well he’d never been to Scotland, but he kinda liked the music.

And so, the adventure began.