The chasm seemed to stretch for miles in either direction though they couldn't be sure. At least one hundred feet straight down, one hundred feet across, and one hundred feet back up the other side. Son-of-a-bitch. The map showed it as a creek that one might step over...perhaps a guy might have to change wet socks, but nothing more. But down there, way down there, was a fully running, mother-fucking, drown your ass river.
Lieutenant Oxnard tilted his helmet back and scratched at his shortly cropped red hair. "Somebody is going to hear about this," he said to no one.
He arrayed a couple of men on lookout and began his work. There was a solution to be found and he would find it. The men watched. They had hiked many miles already that day and the rest was welcomed. Within a matter of seconds, Oxnard had already taken out some metal stakes and poles, along with what looked like a miniature surveyor's transit. He reminded them all of a little rooster as he quickly moved around the equipment. He had removed his helmet and put on his "action hat."
Once Oxnard had arrayed what seemed like more equipment than his pack could have held, he stood facing the chasm, arms akimbo. He studied for a while...then he whipped out a sketch pad and calculator and began making drawings and calculations. Every once in a while he took some kind of measurement with his transit and took more notes.
"Gents...we could be here a while," proclaimed Goodman as he propped his feet on a rock and reclined against his pack. "Remember that time made the water purifier out of a lamp? That only took a day and a half." They snickered.
"Yeah, but the water sure tasted like shit." More snickers.
"What about trying to fix the satellite radio with an umbrella and silver paint? Took about two days, and then he spray painted his eye because he held the can backwards."
"But THAT almost worked!" Their laughs did not slow Oxnard one bit. One moment the little rooster was over stripping a branch off of a tree and sniffing it, and the next moment he was digging a small hole with his bayonet. Then he was gathering stones, and then he pushing on a tree and tying rags to branches.
"Wonder what he's thinking...that just ain't enough shit to make a bridge." It was becoming unbearable. It was the best performance they had ever seen, but outright horse laughing would not sit well. How they wanted to laugh...but snickering would have to do.
Abruptly, he ran over to the men. "Here we go guys," whispered Goodman. They stood up as he approached.
He waved to the men on watch and gave hand signals...ALL CLEAR? One of them yelled over, "I see a rock or two, but no movement." Oxnard waved them over not catching the joke.
"Gentlemen. We have a problem. There is no way we can get down the embankment, no way to cross the river, and no way to get back up on the other side." They nodded their heads in quick agreement, keeping straight faces.
"We don't know how far the chasm runs and we are supposed to meet up with Bravo Company in two days. Therefore, I don't think it wise to try to hike around it." They began to squirm. Hiking back wasn't going to happen so what was Oxnard thinking?
"We are going to build...a catapult!" he stated, obviously proud of his idea. He looked from face to face, basking in the glory of his genius idea. A tight smile, and flashing his eyebrows to each man one after the other as if to say, "Brilliant...I know."
"Ah...Lieutenant...what do you mean, a catapult? You mean for...US?"
"Of course, Goodman. Let's call where we are now, Camp Able. The other side is Camp Baker. Now I've got these drawings here. A couple of men will go cut off the branches I marked with rags. The rest of the men come with me."
"BUT LIEUTENANT! I mean...let's say we get launched. It's a long way over there...I mean, won't the landing...hurt?"
"First we'll launch over 'landing pads' to Camp Baker, Goodman. I've thought of EVERYTHING. I know it is a little strange and all, but we have got to cross that river tomorrow morning so let's go men...times a wastin'." Oxnard smiled. His confidence in this idea was complete, but the men had doubts. Never the less they went about their assigned tasks exchanging glances.
Soon they had arrayed the materials in neat piles, each marked with a small sign made by Oxnard indicating the amount of material, a description of the material, and a part number. Oxnard's drawings included part numbers, dimensions, as well as calculations indecipherable to anyone else.
Once the gathering of materials was complete, Oxnard took inventory with a clip board, and smiled. "Outstanding work, gentlemen. Now we shall assemble the catapult. Oh...by the way. For any of you men that might be interested, we are building a Trebuchet catapult. Time tested. Rough and tough. Accurate. Any questions?"
"Lieutenant...that landing deal...er...over at Camp Baker...that still has me a little worried."
"Goodman...you are right. I've been thinking about that so instead of trying to hit a landing pad on Camp Baker, we'll WEAR the landing pad. We'll attach a rope to it and once over at Camp Baker the guy takes off the landing pad and we pull it back across with the rope for the next guy. Good question, Goodman. Shows you're thinking. Well, barring any more questions, let's assemble this puppy."
They were stunned. There was only one thing to do. Assemble the catapult. Oxnard read off of his drawing, directing the men to get two pieces of part number so and so, and soon the catapult took shape. The more it resembled an actual catapult, the happier the men became. Son-of-a-bitch. This thing might work. They worked through the night and by first light, there stood a Trebuchet catapult.
"OUTSTANDING men. It is time to test the catapult. We shall test it with my back pack. Fully loaded it weights 70 pounds but I will load some extra rocks to fully simulate my gross weight." Oxnard went back to work, making adjustments here and there. Finally satisfied, he placed his pack in the harness.
The men stood by...speechless. This thing might work? Oxnard pulled the lanyard, and moments later his backpack was at Camp Baker. The men cheered. Son-of-a-bitch. They then proceeded to launch each pack over to Camp Baker, and without one failure all of the packs were soon there within 10 feet of each other.
"Gentlemen. It is now time. I have trained Goodman, here, to set up and launch. I know some of you still have doubts, therefore, I will be the first to launch to Camp Baker. Once there I shall hand signal you...then I shall run a sweep and set up a perimeter...then the rest of you shall follow. Goodman, you'll be last. Once loaded, simply pull the lanyard yourself. OK men. Questions?" They were speechless.
Oxnard proceeded to "put on" the landing pad, giving clear instructions. He gave his drawings to Goodman. "Once I have removed the pad, simply pull it back to the other side via this rope. Once everyone is at Camp Baker...we shall pull the Trebuchet into the river with the pad retrieval rope so that no one can follow. Any questions, men?" They were speechless.
Oxnard placed himself in the harness, careful to show how it was done. "All right men. I'll see you at Camp Baker...Goodman...FIRE."
With a smile, Goodman pulled the lanyard, and Oxnard was launched. He flew fast and true. Son-of-a-bitch. Unfortunately, the rope which was attached to the landing pad was too short. Halfway across the river, the rope pulled tight. Oxnard's momentum was mostly checked but the force ripped the catapult apart. Oxnard, firmly tied to the landing pad, landed in the middle of the river.
Son-of-a-bitch. Oxnard was rapidly floating down the river, all the while giving hand signals which no one could understand. They began running along side trying to keep up, and trying to think of some way to grab the rope and pull Oxnard to safety, however, he was floating faster than they could run, and soon Oxnard was no longer in sight.
With nothing else they could do and all of their weapons and gear now on the other side of the river, they began hiking along the chasm, figuring at some point they would spot Oxnard's body tangled in the pad and rope, perhaps hung up on a snag. They had traveled approximately one mile when they came upon a wet Oxnard, whose rope had become entangled on the pilings of the bridge on which he now stood. The farmer who was pissing off the side of the bridge, and had seen Oxnard and pulled him to safety, stood next to his cart and mangy donkey.
"MEN! Frankly I'm darn glad to see you. I was afraid that you might attempt further launches, but I noticed that the cross-member which pulled out when the rope tightened was critical to the overall design...it simply would not have been of sufficient strength. Someone may well have landed in the river and let me tell you, the current is VERY swift. I was giving you hand signals in this regard when I floated around a bend and could not longer see you. Well...let's scoot over to Camp Baker and get our gear, shall we? This local gentry has offered to take us."
As they rode over the bridge in the donkey cart, Oxnard whipped out his notepad, and while he made corrections to his Trebuchet drawings he whistled the theme to "Bridge Over the River Kway". They met Bravo Company on time and the legend of Lieutenant Oxnard grew another notch. Edited by: Damnit Jim at: 1/22/03 7:35:27 pm
The Young One
As he pedaled the bicycle, rented to him on a weekly basis, the cold winter air burned his face. The chain of the single speed, girls bicycle rubbed the chain guard once every revolution and its noise and his breathing echoed through the dark, empty streets. He stood hard upon the pedals trying to get "home" as quickly as possible.
In his pocket was his pay from his AM job. An experienced white welder could easily earn $25/hour, but he was illegal so he earned $13.50. Today they had sent him to weld the flange of an old storage tank. He knew the risks...the risk that the air in the tank might explode or that the tank had held toxic materials, but if he refused to enter or asked for a breather, there were 5 guys waiting to take his job who would go in without hesitation. He fixed the flange and the boss-man admired the work with a grin, but that same man would fire him immediately if he chose.
His PM job, a busboy at one of those overly happy franchise restaurants earned him less, but it was the only job he could fit with the schedule of the welding job. The manager of the restaurant was adamant about only hiring legal workers, but never glanced at his poorly forged green card. With a wink he was hired because he could be paid peanuts...and fired on a whim. Tonight had been busy and extra cleanup required. Generally he got "home" at midnight, but tonight it was closer to 1 am. Five hours of sleep tonight, he thought without any particular frustration.
"Home" was a small room. He had kitchen privileges which meant half of a refrigerator shelf was his to use. He rented the room alone, which was his only luxury. Most had to share a room, but this time he had come up alone and sharing a small room with a stranger was something he would not do again. So he shared his room with his bicycle, some grocery bags, his clothes and most importantly, two photographs.
He also shared his room with four bags holding the belongings of four previous tenants of his room. Two had come up together to do the work normally assigned to mules back home...carrying rocks for walls or commonly called "landscaping" by those boss-men. One was a restaurateur (busboy) and the last was a chef (hamburger flipper). They were all ceremoniously interrupted at work by INS agents and given passage back home. Since they would be back, it was unwritten law to gather and store the belongings in the same room they once rented. They had, however, lost their right to the room unless it was coincidentally available.
As he opened the front door of the house he heard nothing. Tonight, everyone was already in bed and he was relieved. Though they were jammed together in a small house and had similar situations and backgrounds, they were not really friends. Sometimes on Friday nights they would pool their money and drink, and talk of home, and complain about their boss-men, but those that didn't come up together could not be friends. They had witnessed each other surrendering their dignity and it would be an insulting reminder to see each other back home.
He closed the door and carried the bicycle to minimize noise. As he unlocked his door and flipped on the light switch his eyes went directly to the photographs. What had been taken from his heart during the day at his jobs, was immediately replaced. His wife and children having a picnic in one photograph...he wondered how the young one was fairing...and THAT picture of his wife, before they had children. That picture which gave him heart palpitations as a young man, still filled his heart with the kind of warmth only possible with love.
He unconsciously patted his pocket with his welding pay and thought, "Soon my darling I'll have enough for the young one and then I'll be back home."
More Fun with Billy OxnardI mentioned in my writers group that I don't appreciate football...so they assigned me a football piece...bastards.
The Spokane Woodpeckers, NFL Expansion Team
By that Damn David xxxxxxx
It was the usual type of hush often found in the locker room of a team with 23 straight loses and which was currently trailing by 42 points at half time. There were some moans...some sighs...the left tight-end sat pounding the back of his head against his locker...one of the urinals was running...but no one spoke.
The doomed head coach sat in his glass office with his back to the team...feet propped up on his desk, door closed. He was thinking what his next move might be...perhaps a struggling team would pick him up as an offensive coordinator. There was always college ball...maybe a little school like Kansas Wesleyan. The assistant coaches were all on their cell phones outside of the locker arranging their escapes from the sinking ship.
The new team owner, Billy Oxnard, entered the locker room with his trophy wife wearing a huge grin. "Great half guys...really seeing some great improvement out there. Marla was saying that Oscar was throwing the ball with a new zip."
Oscar Snodgrass, the 4th string QB sat slumped in the corner holding a rag to his bloody nose. He had been sacked eleven times and thrown 1 for 15 with 4 interceptions, three returned for touchdowns. The teams total yardage was 3 and a half yards. His ears were ringing so loudly he could not hear Oxnard. The 1st string QB was out with a knee and 2&3 were still in the hospital from last weeks game. He was thinking that if he survived the game he would go back to being a backup QB in arena football.
"Hey...MUMBLES...how about that? Mr. Oxnard said you have some ZIP on that ball today," screamed the soon to be traded running-back to Snodgrass with an evil smile. They called Snodgrass "Mumbles" because no one could understand him in the huddle.
"Zii...ZIP?" stuttered the bewildered Snodgrass. He looked shell shocked...his left eye was not tracking as he slumped back against the locker with the one hand holding rag to his nose and the other rubbing his temple.
Oxnard continued, "Really...keep it up Oscar. Now I realize I just bought the team in the middle of a huge slump and all and you men don't know me that well. But I have some REALLY terrific news for you." They paid no attention. "Before Marla and I were married and before she was a cheerleader for our team, she was IN CHARGE of sales in the Bridal Department at Macy's in Toledo." He paused, eager with anticipation, smiling broadly.
"Well that's just great, sir. Macy's...who'd a thunk?" commented the running-back rolling his eyes.
"Neat, huh!? Well while she was there, sales went up over 3% THE-FIRST-YEAR." Marla stood arm in arm with Oxnard beaming broadly. "One of the keystones for her success was her ability to talk with the underlings in her department. They had meetings, and traded makeup secrets, and you know WHAT, men!? They were voted 'cutest' Department four months in a row...and frankly that was all Marla's doing..."
Was this Oxnard guy on drugs or what?
"...Well anywho...she asked me if she could give you guys a pep talk...you know...get you guys fired up for the second half..."
Second half, they all thought. Let's just call it a game and go to the hospital.
"...and so without further ado, guys...here is my beautiful wife Marla." He stood to the side holding his arm towardsher, a stage introduction. She stood a moment, still flashing a huge smile, but her eyes took on "the old deer in the headlight" expression.
"Honey...you can give your talk now," he spoke quietly and very slowly to her. "Just like you practiced...remember?"
Maintaining perfect posture, her huge smile and frightened eyes she somehow hovered forward at few feet into the approximate center of the team. They would all later say that she didn't even seem to move her feet, though the Hungarian kicker felt he saw that there were tiny wheels embedded in her stiletto heeled shoes.
"Ok...LETS GO...Yeaaaaaaa." She said in apparently her best cheerleader voice. She raised her arms, arched her back, one leg bent and the other straight and revealed through the high slit in her silver skin tight dress...many delightful curves there thought all the men who where watching. And she said nothing else, having spotted the reflection of herself in a mirror across the locker room. She suddenly seemed to be practicing various facial expressions with her hands on her knees, and was in the middle of a pouty expression when she remembered where she was. "Now you guys need to do better, because those 49er guys are winning and we are losing," she while never taking her eyes of herself in the mirror.
Oxnard stood smiling...these guys don't have a chance...my plan is so perfect it can't fail.
In the reflection she seemed to notice that her skin tight dress had hitched up on her hips a bit, and she s-l-o-w-l-y moved her hands down her hips wiggling them ever so slightly while at the same time nearly spilling out the top of the dress. "She's making that damn pouty face again, thought the running-back...damnnnn she's hot."
Suddenly and without warning, she stood straight up, crossed her arms and without the slightest look of fear stared at each man until he dropped his gaze. When she got to the running-back and he dropped his gaze she screamed, "YOU...trade meat...I'm talking to YOU. What the hell was that half?" She advanced straight to him, index finger an inch from the bridge of his nose. "Either you are the worst running-back in the league, in which case you can line up a job selling insurance back in your home town...Duncan, Oklahoma. I'm sure even you'd be a big wheel in Duncan...OORRRRRR...maybe just maybe you figure it isn't worth getting hurt running the ball for the last place Woodpeckers. Either way...YOU...bubba...are in for a huge pay cut, because NOBODY in this league is going to take a lard ass like you. I'll make god-damn sure of that."
She turned away and took two steps, before whipping back around, once again index finger in his face. "I have a little suggestion Bucko...250 yards in the second half...GOT IT?!" He nodded slightly and she flat handed him on his forehead. "G-O-T I-T?!" He nodded more emphatically.
Oxnard felt she had their attention as she hovered over to Mumbles. He cowered deeply into the corner, like an abused dog. She sat next to him and caressed his face. "Oh my...they really tore you up out there." She kissed him on his cheek and guided his hand to her breasts. "Here you go...is that nice?" You could hear a pin drop.
He nodded his head like a little boy missing a school day because he had a tummy ache. "MmmHmm."
"Good honey, because if you play like you played in the first half, I-WILL-KILL-YOU personally for Billy and you will never feel another breast in your life. Look at it this way...you have no offensive line...your receivers are crap and you are a 4th stringer. Want to go back and be a backup in arena...or do you want to be a starting quarter back in the NFL? Billy is going to give you that chance, isn't that right honey?" Oxnard nodded suppressing a smile. "But you'll have to you throw 300 yards in the second half. You'll have to put it right into the receivers hands because they are really crap...and they are slow. You're going to have to scramble...a lot. This means you'll get hit...a lot. But it also means you are going to get some rushing yardage yourself...in fact you are going to get 75 yards rushing. So...what do you think?"
"Hell mame...I cain't even see straight...they bumble-busted mah haid 'bout fift-illy taymes er sumthun."
"Oh silly Mumbles...do you know how much ass the starting quarterback can get?"
He thought a moment. Whenever he thought he scrunched his face and looked up to the ceiling as if hoping divine guidance would fall from the heavens and hit him directly. "Well mame...I sepose I cuud give it a shot...I means fer da team n all."
"I knew I could count on you Mumbles," as she raked his hand across her breasts again. "You know...I myself have a thing for quarterbacks," she winked.
As she walked towards the head coaches office, she walked the way women can walk which drives men crazy. But Mumbles was already tightening his shoes.
She politely knocked at the coach's door as she opened it. As she closed the door she also began lowering the blinds, one at a time.
----
"AP - Spokane. The hapless Woodpeckers finished the season by stunning the San Francisco 49er's 45-42 on a 24 yard field goal by Hako Junke with seconds remaining. An incredible second half come back led by 4th string Quarterback Oscar Snodgrass and journeyman running-back Walt Jefferson ends 23 game skid. (Full Story page 4)."
Billy smiled as he set the sports page down. "You know, Marla. It seems that those Woodpeckers have a secret weapon...found it a Macy's in Toledo." He laughed.
"Where did you come up with that, you idiot? The 'cutest' Department four months in a row. You are a funny man, Billy Oxnard."
"Well you HAVE been to a Macy's I presume? And if ANYONE has a 'cutest Department award it has got to be them. And you probably WANTED to be a cheerleader when you where a little girl. So you have a engineering degree from MIT instead...it's about the same in my book."
She threw a pillow at him.
----- Other than THAT, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?
Another writers club assignmentThe assignment was meant to be a serious story about an officer having to write a letter about a soldier getting killed in action. You know me...
Colonel Krinkle
By that Damn David xxxxxxx
(Thanks to Joseph Heller, Abbott and Costello)
After closing the olive drab door, Colonel Krinkle walked to his olive drab desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. He sat staring blindly at the map across his office for a moment, before opening his special drawer with held his precious dwindling bottle of Glen Moray single malt scotch. Without thinking he poured himself a tall one and drank half of it. He felt a pang of guilt for normally this scotch was to be savored, but today he just needed it to calm his nerves.
Nobody had been killed today in the ambush. He couldn't believe it. Anyone but Nobody he thought. Nobody could do anything like Nobody. And now, even though he had to admit that he didn't really know Nobody that well, he would have to write a letter to Nobody's family. He was a terrible letter writer and now he had to write a letter about Nobody, whom he knew nothing about. This would be difficult.
He tried to remember back the first time he had met Nobody, but he realized he couldn't remember anything about Nobody. What did Nobody even look like? He yelled for Sergeant Shriver, who was possibly actually working at his desk in the front office, "Shriver...what did Nobody look like?"
"Nobody?" yelled Shriver through the door. Krinkle thought he heard a shuffling but ignored it.
"Yes...Nobody," yelled Krinkle back.
"Ah...I suppose he looked pretty normal...kind of your average guy, I'd say," yelled Shriver.
"So you'd say Nobody pretty much looked like Everybody?"
"Yes. That's it sir. Nobody looked like exactly like Everybody."
The Colonel sat at his desk scratching is head. Was there actually a guy named Everybody, or does Shriver mean Nobody looked like everyONE? Confusing. "Sergeant Shriver?" he yelled.
"WHAT is it Colonel?" came back muffled as he heard that shuffling again.
"So are you saying that Nobody looked like someone named Everybody?"
"Oh...I see where you are going with this sir. Do you think Everybody looked anything like Nobody or did Nobody look like everybody...it that it sir?"
"Shriver...I am starting to feel like Abbott and Costello in here."
"Why is THAT sir?"
"I DON'T KNOW," fed Krinkle. There was a long pause.
"Sir...I believe the response is THIRD BASE."
"Goddamnit Shriver. Cut the horseshit. I just want to know one simple thing!"
"What's that, sir?" screamed Shriver.
"WHAT did Nobody look like?" shouted Krinkle as he poured another tall scotch.
"Pretty much like everyone else, sir."
"Great...now we've got THAT settled."
"Yes sir."
"OK Sergeant...carry on." He heard the shuffling again.
"Thank you sir."
He sat staring at the map another few minutes with a sheet of blank paper and his pen on his desk. What was Nobody's rank? What company was he in? He really knew nothing about Nobody.
"Sergeant Shriver?" he yelled. There was a pause, more shuffling out-there before the response.
"WHAT!"
"I need some info. I need to know everything...his company and rank and what the men thought of him and that kind of thing and I need this information right now. I'm trying to write a letter."
"WHO do you want to find out about....sir.?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody sir?"
"That's right...the guy who was killed in the ambush today," yelled Krinkle with a smile. Now we're getting somewhere he thought. There was a long pause.
"Sir...nobody was killed today."
"That's right...that is PRECISELY why I need the information."
"About who sir?"
"Goddamnit Shriver...is there a gas leak out there or something? NOBODY. I need to know everything about NOBODY. How hard is that Shriver?"
"Yes sir. I'll get it right away sir."
He sat staring at the map, waiting for Shriver while he unconsciously finished the scotch. Why was everything so fricking complicated, he thought. There was a lot of shuffling out there. I hope that damn Shriver is getting my information. Time passed slowly as Shriver gathered all the information they had concerning Nobody.
Finally, after Krinkle had poured the last drops of scotch out of the bottle several times, he stormed to the door and opened it. There, just sitting at his desk, was Shriver.
"Sergeant Shriver...unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, you are just sitting at your desk."
"Sir. Had you come out a minute ago your eyes would have been playing tricks on you, because if you saw me then, I wouldn't have been here."
"Oh. I hope that means you have gathered all of the information possible on Nobody."
"That is correct sir. You could say I have more information about Nobody, than Anyone."
"Stop it right now Shriver and THAT's an order."
"What would you like me to stop sir?"
"That goddamn Abbott and Costello business. It is just plain confusing. By the way. When you said you have more informaiton about Nobody, than Anyone...is this ANYONE a person or what?"
"Sir, I believe that every ANYONE is indeed a person," shrugged Shriver.
"Yes...I see your point Shriver," Krinkle paused because he didn't really see the point. He then noticed something odd. "Sergeant...I believe I see women's shoes under your desk."
"No sir. You don't see womens shoes under my desk."
"Now goddamnit Shriver," stated Krinkle calmly. "You confuse the hell out of me, but I know women's shoes when I see women's shoes...and those, Shriver, are womens shoes."
"No sir. They are my shoes."
"YOUR shoes? You wear WOMENS shoes, Shriver?"
"No sir. I wear army boots."
"Then why, pray tell, are there womens shoes under your desk, Shriver."
"Sir...I told you...they are my shoes."
Krinkle couldn't think of anything to say, and suddenly he had a migraine. "Shriver...I am going to go to the officers club."
"Yes sir."
"When I get back, I want you to tell me that you wrote a letter to Nobody's family and signed my name to it. I want you to tell me that you wrote that Nobody was a good soldier and add some other goddamn personal shit that I don't care about. Do you have that, Shriver?"
"Yes sir and sir, I am wondering if are you out of scotch?"
"YES Shriver, I am out of scotch."
"Do you want me to order more for you sir?"
"Why yes Shriver. Be a good fellow and order me more scotch."
"Yes sir. Whose name should I order that under sir?"
Krinkle paused. "Nobody. Nobody indeed."
"Yes sir."
----- Other than THAT, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?
A casual observer would not have been able to detect the moment of metamorphosis. He was just a man walking towards his car after work. He walked briskly, never slowing down, never turning his head, the expression on his face never changed, and yet somewhere in that parking lot, he had made the biggest decision of his life. And that decision was to end it.
He was relieved. It was a promise he made to himself and he always kept his promises.
For years he lived two lives. One life was the life everyone was permitted to witness, the American Dream life. He was an attractive man, with an attractive family, an MD, the right friends, plenty of money. Everything was perfect, and everyone wanted to be like him. They went to all the good parties, gave to all of the arts in a loud way, showing up at the top of all the donor lists. He was in the local newspaper often, was a member of all the "important" clubs.
His obituary would not find itself with those of people who died of old age, or in a knife fight, or "after a long struggle" with some disease. No. Not wedged in section D, just before the Classifieds. It would be front page news. The funeral would be held in the high school gymnasium to accommodate the crowd.
He opened the door to his BMW and was met with the oven-like heat of summer. He started the car before his door was closed, lowered all the windows, and turned the AC on max. He cursed that the Bavarian engineers had obviously NOT designed the AC for real American summers. Then he smiled. It wouldn't soon matter.
Only he knew the secret life he led, but there were no illicit affairs. He wasn't secretly gay. He wasn't a criminal, or in the CIA, and he wasn't a terrorist. He simply wanted to live a completely different kind of life than he was living. A life of HIS choosing, for so far he had lived a life preordained by others.
He spent the first part of his life pleasing his mother and father. After his father died his mother ran his life completely using the patented "Jewish Mother Guilt Trip" on him whenever necessary. There was nothing he or any other Jewish boy could do against this power. Once married his wife ran his life for a time, but now his mother and wife combined to run it in a kind of tag-team partnership. One of them always there to push him the "right" direction.
And all he ever really wanted was to own a fishing boat. He wanted to catch salmon for a living. During a childhood vacation, one stop had been Newport, Oregon where they visited a pier to buy some fresh fish. They also hired a boat for a quick harbor tour and it was one of his happiest and clearest childhood memories. He had seen the fishermen and the life they led seemed ideal to him. The boat was named "Leakin' Leena" and for some reason he never forgot it. For other reasons he never told his wife about it, and he had long ago stopped trying to tell his mother.
He was tired of living this way, and now HE would take control. It was HIS life...not theirs...and now he had a promise to keep.
In his trunk were several plastic bags filled with old clothes collected at the Synagogue, which he was to take to the homeless shelter. He knew the man who ran the shelter and greeted him loudly. He dropped off all the bags but one.
In grade school he was the teacher's pet. His mother pushed him to get the highest marks. She drove him to baseball practice. She was the Cub Scout leader. President of the PTA. In middle school he was on the basketball team. Straight A student. In the drama club. He took all of the hardest courses, because, as his mom had told him, he was going to be a doctor or a dentist.
Only a couple of times did he have the courage to mention owning a fishing boat. The first time she smiled a condescending smile and said, "That's nice, but you have to be realistic." The second time she said, "Enough of that talk...you HAVE to be a doctor and earn enough money to support a family...you have to promise me." He did.
It was getting dark as he drove outside of town to the river. He took the gun out of the glove box.
In high school he was class president and captain of the basketball team. He was an Explorer Scout at the hospital and every Saturday did bedpan duty. Straight A student. Treasurer of the Latin Club. He thought of Newport, Oregon often.
He received a scholarship, marched through college perfectly, and was accepted to medical school. During medical school, he found the trophy woman who would fit the expectations and they were married.
This would be the most important shot of his life...mustn't miss. And he didn't.
Most insurance policies do pay in the case of suicide, after the policy has been in force for a certain time. His wife would certainly have enough money to continue life in her accustomed manner. She would mourn the appropriate amount of time, and then get married again. She would be a "merry widow."
The bullet passed through his thigh, which he held high and and against the head rest about at the level of where his head would normally be. It passed through the seat and lodged in the door. From that angle it would appear to be head or neck shot from an assailant sitting in the passenger seat. The wound, he knew, would bleed dramatically until he put pressure on it...so he let it bleed a while. He took his wallet and pocketed the cash leaving the credit cards, wiped it clean and threw it on the floor. He opened the passenger door with his foot, leaving blood all over the interior, and then drug himself out of the car with the gun, the bag of clothes and some medical supplies.
He sat on the ground, just outside of the car. With his hands carefully placed on various clumps of weeds, he drug himself to the river leaving a nice trail of blood and drag marks. Then standing in the river, he carefully cleaned and tied off the wound, gave himself a local, and waded upstream for what seemed miles. The wound would heal, he knew. He would stitch it up later.
He had ended his life. He always kept his promises.
----- Other than THAT, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?
Once More, for you CharlesThe topic was "The Mercy F**k." I wasn't able to face it straight up...as usual
Once More, for you Charles
By that damn David xxxxxxx
Charles 8-G turned off the hologram projector and removed the power receptacle to his Sens-U-Suit. He was exhausted as Molly 2-M had been magnificent tonight. She was always magnificent. He smiled as thought of how they had taken turns ravaging each other, though at times she seemed preoccupied. Odd.
Molly 2-M was a tall, leggy blond with medium sized breasts. He was a leg man...and man did she have legs. She was also mature...not some kid. She knew what a man wanted, and not just sexually. He remembered when they first danced weeks ago. They had started very close to each other, and after only two or three random brushes against each other they danced very tightly together. As they danced and stared into each others eyes, they smiled, feeling each others bodies touching in all the right places. A perfect match. At the end of the first song she brushed his thick black hair from his forehead, then caressed his face, and they kissed. Nothing else existed and there was so much passion that they skipped the ride home and proceeded directly to bed. Wow.
They had been together nearly every night since then.
He swung out of his bed and shuffled to the kitchen. The Sens-U-Suit was not very comfortable for walking, especially for one as short and overweight as he, but he felt like conjuring up a slice of pizza and a beer. He would probably get on the network and contact her again tonight and it would save time keeping on the suit. He spoke into the Chef-o-matic and within a few seconds the familiar humming noise emitted from it. The panel popped open and there was his food exactly how he liked it. It always made sense to properly train your own Chef-o-matic he thought.
He took the tray and shuffled to the din. Deep in his chair he sighed and took a sip of beer. "Mozart...Random...and a bit cooler, please." As the music faded in he thought of Molly 2-M. He wondered what she really looked like and where she really lived. He didn't know much since they were introduced by his ex, who claimed to have taken a new interest in his latest form, a tall brooding French look with dark straight hair. He found it in an older catalog, but was able to purchase one of the last copies for an exorbitant price. But it had been worth every cent so far. He scratched his bald head with a smile.
Molly 2-M was still in bed. It always took her a while to get moving after a date, but tonight was a bit different. Why hadn't she told him tonight, she wondered. Charles 8-G was a very handsome man, very intelligent, and caring. He was a good lover, yet for reasons she didn't understand, she had grown tired of him. Too clingy maybe?
She was irritated with herself as she struggled to get up. Her huge body mass and the fact that she was nearing 68 years old were teaming against her. Her back surgery had gone well, and her new hips were holding up well, but now her knees were going out. Her doctor had always said being in better shape was cheaper than replacement surgeries...she cursed herself for taking the easy way out.
Charles 8-G relaxed in his chair after finishing his snack and listened to the music. "How about the Alps south wall and Great Barrier Reef north wall." It was so very comfortable. How could a man be more content he thought? Just had great sex with a beautiful woman, a piece of pizza, a beer, the Alps and the Great Barrier Reef. He watched the fish darting in and out of the coral...a diver came into sight, then another. A man and a woman, he thought. He watched the woman with great interest. Free floating in front of him, he watched her curves, her legs...oh yes...he was indeed a leg man. Wet suits are sexy he realized. He thought of Molly 2-M as he shuffled quickly back to the bedroom.
Molly 2-M was sweating profusely as she still struggled to lift her upper body into a sitting position. She cursed out loud as she struggled. "GawdamnitsonofabitchmotherfuckingassholeDoctor" when her contact alerter sounded. "Charles 8-G would be delighted with your presence in 5 minutes at the disco."
She stopped struggling and simply laid flat, sweating, out of breath, exhausted, and very irritated. She thought for a moment and realized that she would break it off with Charles 8-G tonight. But not at the disco...he had been a good man. "Ah @#%$..OK...okay...make it 2 minutes but in bed...not the disco."
At the other end Charles 8-G smiled. "TWO minutes...IN BED! Hotdigitty Dog."
He entered the bedroom. She was waiting with nothing on but a smile. It was a sad smile he noticed.
When they were finished, he smiled as he traced a line up and down the small of her back. What legs, he thought. She laid face down looking away.
"Charles 8-G...you are a wonderful man, but this time was the last time for us."
"Wha...what? Last time? But...why?"
"It's just time to move on...both of us need to move on, Charles 8-G," she said still looking away.
"Well...I can change...I can afford it. Would you like a blond Nordic man, or say an Italian?"
"No...it's not that. I should have told you earlier."
"Is there another man? I mean someone like you, Molly 2-M, who is so attractive. I mean I wouldn't blame any guy for trying," he said searchingly.
"No. It isn't you Charles 8-G. It's us. It just isn't perfect and I think we should all try for perfection. I meant to tell you earlier today, but you and those puppy dog eyes...I thought one more time might be important to you. I want you to go now. Goodbye Charles 8-G."
He sat in bed, still in his Sens-U-Suit. Break-ups were always so hard, but there had been so many he had learned to compress the grieving process into a matter of minutes. Two hours later, he was at the disco. There he met Nadia 11-R.
----- Other than THAT, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?
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