A LITTLE HOARSE
To my pards, with a raspy voice,
I said, "I'm jus' a little hoarse."
Well, my pards, they had no choice,
They knew what to do of course.
They roped and tied me down
And tossed a saddle on my back
I squealed and tossed all around,
Couldn't throw the rider or the kack.
Sunfish, crow-hop, bound for the sky,
Back down to earth, starting over again,
Rider spurring me from ear to thigh
Till my roar faded to quiet little din.
The moral is one you really can hear,
You could be roped, saddled and broke
When horse is heard and hoarse is near
Be careful of words that can be mis-spoke.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
THE TIRE BURNER
The night had a bitter chill to it, which was strange for the north coast. There was no rain falling, just a cold wind blowing in off the Pacific Ocean as Brady made his way home from the radio station in the dark.
He had traveled this path many times both during the day and while the stars were out. He walked home from KPOD along C Street, passed the old high school where his mother had been a student in the fifties. He continued down the hill towards the fire station and then to the cemetery.
Brady had both family and friends buried there. It did not bother him to walk through the grave yard even on nights where the weather would have tortured a more spiritually possessed person.
His path continued outside the cemetery on the back side of Northcrest Motors, where both he and his father had worked a few years before. Now just his father worked there as General Manager.
Brady could see the old tire burner in front of himself as he walked a steady pace along the path. He thought for a moment about how many times he had loaded the black rubber tires into the old steel furnace and poured the mixture of gasoline and diesel over the mass and lit it on fire.
He thought, “There’s something strangely satisfying about seeing that black smoke oozing out of the chimney.”
Suddenly his reverie was broken by a voice just off the path and in the tree line to his right. “I was told I’d find you here like clock work,” said the voice.
The small hairs on the back of Brady’s neck stood up. He knew the voice and male violent character that it belonged too. His mind flashed back a half dozen years.
“I’ll be right over Kathy,” Brady said as reassuringly as he could.
He gently placed the telephone receiver down on the cradle and stood silently for a few seconds. He was attempting to gather his thoughts about him.
His parents had gone to bed a couple of hours before and Brady was the only one up. He had been sitting in front of the television when the phone rang.
It was his friend and a neighbor girl, Kathy. She lived across the field from his family’s house. She had called crying, saying that the guy that Brady had introduced her to a week ago had just raped her and had let two of his friends rape her as well.
Brady went to the hall closet and reached into his father’s old unused service jacket. The inside pocket held a special key that he had once been shown. That key went to a small gray-brown lock box that lay on the top shelf behind several mason jars of nuts bolts and nails, inside the wood shed.
The seventeen year old walked outside to the shed and stepped inside. He pulled on the string cord that brought to life the single naked sixty watt bulb in the plywood and two by-four ceiling.
He carefully stepped up on the small tool bench and reached to the top shelf. He lifted the dusty box out of its resting place, set it on the bench inserted the key, twisted it and lifted the lid.
There wrapped in oil cloth lay his fathers service pistol. A forty five caliber hand gun that his father had been given while serving in the Korean War and then carried with him the four times he had returned to Vietnam to serve his country.
Brady picked it up.
Within minutes he was on his way across the large open field to Kathy’s house. He did not dare tell his parents where he was going because they would want to call the sheriffs office and then his father, who was also the town of Klamath’s constable and fire chief would have to be involved.
Brady wanted to solve this problem all on his own.
When he arrived at her front door, she let him in. Her mascara was all runny because she had been crying. He put his arms out and she fell into him sobbing.
“Have you called your parents?” he asked her.
“No,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to go out and I am afraid they’ll be mad at me.”
She continued to cry. Brady let her cry for a minute or so.
Then he suggested, “Maybe you should call them.”
Kathy sniffed, “I’ve got a bigger problem than that.” She paused and looked down. “I can’t stop bleeding,” she said.
She pulled down her jeans and revealed that her white panties were soaked red with blood.
“That’s it, Kathy,” Brady exclaimed, “I gotta go get my Dad.”
She started crying harder, falling to the floor and curling up into a little ball. Brady walked quickly into the bathroom and grabbed a towel.
He returned and placed it between the young woman’s legs. He pulled her jeans off and then retrieved a yarn comforter from the back of the couch and laid it over her.
Next he picked up the telephone and dragged it to the side of his friend and dialed his own home number. As the rotor spun around with each number he thought about how he would explain leaving the house and having his father’s gun.
“Hello?” It was the voice of his father. “Brady? Is that you?”
The young man spoke as calmly and deliberately as possible, quickly explaining what was happening.
“Okay, your mom and I will be right there. You stay put, got It.!” instructed Dad.
”Yes sir,” Brady replied.
Within minutes his parents were there. His mother sprang into action by helping to move Cathy to a bed and getting her comfortable. His father called the Air Base and requested an ambulance.
The ambulance arrived long before the sheriff deputy did, so Brady’s father left instructions with his wife to tell the deputy to meet them at the Base infirmary. Then he left with the ambulance, leaving Brady and his mother alone to wait for the law to arrive.
In the meantime Brady’s mother decided that she should call Kathy’s parents to let them know what had happened. The deputy arrived while she was on the phone.
Once the officer was on his way to the base and Kathy’s parents were notified Brady and his Mother started the long walk back across the field. They did not speak as there was not much to say at a time like this.
Finally as they walked up the steps to the house Mom turned to Brady and said,”I’m proud of you. It’s what’s known as a judgment call and you made it---right or wrong---and you stood up for it. I’m proud of you.”
She hesitated for a moment then added, “If you wanna go up there to hold her hand and be her friend you can.”
Brady hugged his mother tightly and kissed her on the forehead before racing into get the keys to his Dodge Plymouth.
As he drove the few miles up “the hill” to Klamath Air Base, he fingered the pistol still tucked in his belt line. He decided to put it in the center box before entering the main gate.
Once at the hospital he tried to see Kathy but the medical technicians would not let him. Instead he sat in the waiting area near the two Air Police Officers and the sheriff deputy.
He eavesdropped on their conversation about what had happened. The more Brady listened the more he realized that they were not going to do anything.
They called Kathy a tramp, because as the two air police men had put it, “She’d been in the dorms with several airmen on different occasions.”
Brady had heard enough. He got up and went to his car.
He retrieved the pistol and walked over to the barracks. He knew where the room of the main rapist was and walk straight up to it.
He could hear laughing and talking coming from the room. He reached down and tried the door knob. It turned. He pulled the slider back on the pistol, twisted the door’s handle and pushed it inward.
There they were---all three of the men that Kathy said had gang raped her.
Brady raised the pistol and leveled it waist high. Their laughing and talking stopped, as they looked at the pistol and the young man holding it.
“I trusted you,” Brady started out, “With my friend and you guys all took turns at her.”
The oldest one, about twenty-three, responded, “Now, Brady it wasn’t like that.”
He was cut off, “Wasn’t, like what?” Brady asked. Then he added, “Wasn’t like what? How do you know what I’m talking about?
The three looked at each other with wide and frightened eyes.
Behind Brady came a small noise. He stepped back and towards the far corner of the room, looking to the door on his right. It was Dad and the Base Commander.
“Brady," said the commander, “You don’t wanna do this. It’ll ruin you’re life too."
The major stepped inside the doorway but away from the young man.
“I wanna confession from them. They raped her and she could have bled to death from cutting her up like they did,” Brady responded.
His father spoke, “It wasn’t a cut, Brady. It was a tear like having a baby.”
Then he added, “It doesn’t bleed all that much, jus’ looks like it does. Kinda like a head wound.”
Brady thought about it for a few seconds. It did make sense.
“And perhaps," he thought, “I’m overreacting.”
He felt the tension slip out of his shoulders out through his head. Without warning, the Major and his father sprang on him like cats on an unwary mouse.
The two men wrestled the pistol from the teenagers hand and pinned him to the floor. Brady did not have the strength to put up a fight so he laid there like a limp noodle waiting to be arrested for having assaulted the three airmen.
In the meantime, the three airmen wasted no time in scrambling out of the room. They rushed out into the hallway and into the waiting cuffs of the sheriff and air police.
The commander and Brady’s father let the young man up as soon as they had the pistol secured. The commander pulled the clip out of the gun and slipped it in his pocket.
Brady watched as the officer popped each bullet deftly out of the clip and then replaced the clip in the weapon. He slid the hammer back again, causing the bullet in the chamber of eject.
With reflexes of a juggler the commander caught the shell in mid air and stuffed it in his pocket as well. Then he handed the pistol to Brady’s father, saying, “Good thing that show piece of yours ain’t loaded.”
His mind raced back into the present moment and the danger he was facing now.
”Look,” Brady said, “I don’t want any trouble with you.”
The man laughed and asked,” What? Don’t have a gun this time, huh?”
Brady felt for the knife near his back pocket.
“You ruined my career," the voice in the shadows said, “And I always said I’d find you alone one day.”
Brady slowly withdrew the knife from its sheath.
The man stepped forward and out of the shadow of the tree line. Brady could see he still had the physique of a body builder. He also noticed that the man had something in his right hand as he approached Brady.
The man snorted,”This time I brought the gun and I made certain to load it."
He pulled back on the double action hammer, making a loud click-click sound. Brady knew that if the man was serious, he did not have much time.
“You ruined your own career,” Brady responded,”you did the raping not me.”
“Yeah, but everyone knew she was a slut and wanted it,” the man replied.
“No,” Brady stated calmly, “She was a confused fifteen year old kid who jus’ wanted some sort of attention.”
He snickered again, “Well, she got it didn’t she.”
The man bared his teeth in a fiendish smile that sent chills along Brady’s spine. Then he asked, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, it’s not smart to bring a knife to a gun fight?”
As the rhetorical question passed his lips, the man raised the pistol and stepped forward. There was no time for Brady to think, just react as he stepped forward and to the left of the man.
There was a blinding light, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The man had pulled the trigger. The pistol went off again and again.
By the time the man fired his third round though, Brady had a grip on the pistols barrel. All three shots had missed their intended target.
Brady held tightly to the gun as the man slammed his left fist into Brady’s head. Brady continued to move forward and then to the right of the man, pivoting under his arm.
As he did, he stabbed violently at the man’s lower torso. The pistol went off again, this time harmlessly into the air. Brady continued to jam the knife at his assailant.
He heard the man gasp out a breath of air as he drew back the knife. For the sixth time the pistol discharged. This time it fired into the ground as the man slowly dropped to his knees.
Seconds later Brady stood there holding the gun in his hand by the barrel. The man had pitched forward and collapsed face down into the dirt.
Brady did not move for nearly two minutes. He was frozen, listening for noised from around the area. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary.
Still he waited.
As he waited, he reached down and felt the neck of the man lying on the chilly earth before him. There was no pulse.
He rolled him over, revealing that the lifeless body had died in a state of surprise. The man’s eyes were wide open, not expecting to be overcome by a knife verses gun fight in close combat.
Brady squatted down by the body. He heard the words of Major Graham echoing in his head, “It’ll ruin your life…”
He realized that the Major had been right and was still correct. This incident would ruin his life and the piece of trash he had just killed would be the one to get off easy no matter what.
Brady looked around and decided that his best course of action would be to dispose of the body. He was so close to the graveyard and just beyond that was the old swamp area.
Then he realized that the body could be discovered and that would lead to a murder investigation. It would be better if the body disappeared completely.
Brady looked around and saw the old tire burner.
“That’s the best place to get rid of the body," he thought.
Brady quickly went over and opened the burner. He tossed four tires inside it and doused them with the diesel fuel.
He added four more tires and then more fuel. Brady struggled to lift the body into the furnace and get it centered on the tires.
Brady added four more tires and the fuel and then repeated the process one more time. Finally he pushed the igniter and the furnace roared to life.
Shaking and feeling terribly sick to his stomach Brady walked through the cemetery and down into the swamp. He tossed the pistol into the deepest channel he could see after taking the chamber out and throwing it off into another part of the swamp.
He walked back up the hill and through the grave yard once again. He opened the furnace and tossed as many tires onto the raging fire as it would hold.
The black smoke billowed out of the chimney as the tired cooked down into ashy soot. He stood there, watching the furnace as it continued to push the smell of diesel fuel, gasoline and rubber into the atmosphere.
While he stood and watched, the sky grew cloudy and the stars went away along with the moon. Minutes later started raining, muddying up the pathway where the pair had fought to the death.
As Brady walked away from the furnace he could hear the rising sound of the rain drops as they struck the super heated blasting furnace, hissing in a sinister way.
The young man could not help but wonder, “Is this what Hell will sound like?”
The night had a bitter chill to it, which was strange for the north coast. There was no rain falling, just a cold wind blowing in off the Pacific Ocean as Brady made his way home from the radio station in the dark.
He had traveled this path many times both during the day and while the stars were out. He walked home from KPOD along C Street, passed the old high school where his mother had been a student in the fifties. He continued down the hill towards the fire station and then to the cemetery.
Brady had both family and friends buried there. It did not bother him to walk through the grave yard even on nights where the weather would have tortured a more spiritually possessed person.
His path continued outside the cemetery on the back side of Northcrest Motors, where both he and his father had worked a few years before. Now just his father worked there as General Manager.
Brady could see the old tire burner in front of himself as he walked a steady pace along the path. He thought for a moment about how many times he had loaded the black rubber tires into the old steel furnace and poured the mixture of gasoline and diesel over the mass and lit it on fire.
He thought, “There’s something strangely satisfying about seeing that black smoke oozing out of the chimney.”
Suddenly his reverie was broken by a voice just off the path and in the tree line to his right. “I was told I’d find you here like clock work,” said the voice.
The small hairs on the back of Brady’s neck stood up. He knew the voice and male violent character that it belonged too. His mind flashed back a half dozen years.
“I’ll be right over Kathy,” Brady said as reassuringly as he could.
He gently placed the telephone receiver down on the cradle and stood silently for a few seconds. He was attempting to gather his thoughts about him.
His parents had gone to bed a couple of hours before and Brady was the only one up. He had been sitting in front of the television when the phone rang.
It was his friend and a neighbor girl, Kathy. She lived across the field from his family’s house. She had called crying, saying that the guy that Brady had introduced her to a week ago had just raped her and had let two of his friends rape her as well.
Brady went to the hall closet and reached into his father’s old unused service jacket. The inside pocket held a special key that he had once been shown. That key went to a small gray-brown lock box that lay on the top shelf behind several mason jars of nuts bolts and nails, inside the wood shed.
The seventeen year old walked outside to the shed and stepped inside. He pulled on the string cord that brought to life the single naked sixty watt bulb in the plywood and two by-four ceiling.
He carefully stepped up on the small tool bench and reached to the top shelf. He lifted the dusty box out of its resting place, set it on the bench inserted the key, twisted it and lifted the lid.
There wrapped in oil cloth lay his fathers service pistol. A forty five caliber hand gun that his father had been given while serving in the Korean War and then carried with him the four times he had returned to Vietnam to serve his country.
Brady picked it up.
Within minutes he was on his way across the large open field to Kathy’s house. He did not dare tell his parents where he was going because they would want to call the sheriffs office and then his father, who was also the town of Klamath’s constable and fire chief would have to be involved.
Brady wanted to solve this problem all on his own.
When he arrived at her front door, she let him in. Her mascara was all runny because she had been crying. He put his arms out and she fell into him sobbing.
“Have you called your parents?” he asked her.
“No,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to go out and I am afraid they’ll be mad at me.”
She continued to cry. Brady let her cry for a minute or so.
Then he suggested, “Maybe you should call them.”
Kathy sniffed, “I’ve got a bigger problem than that.” She paused and looked down. “I can’t stop bleeding,” she said.
She pulled down her jeans and revealed that her white panties were soaked red with blood.
“That’s it, Kathy,” Brady exclaimed, “I gotta go get my Dad.”
She started crying harder, falling to the floor and curling up into a little ball. Brady walked quickly into the bathroom and grabbed a towel.
He returned and placed it between the young woman’s legs. He pulled her jeans off and then retrieved a yarn comforter from the back of the couch and laid it over her.
Next he picked up the telephone and dragged it to the side of his friend and dialed his own home number. As the rotor spun around with each number he thought about how he would explain leaving the house and having his father’s gun.
“Hello?” It was the voice of his father. “Brady? Is that you?”
The young man spoke as calmly and deliberately as possible, quickly explaining what was happening.
“Okay, your mom and I will be right there. You stay put, got It.!” instructed Dad.
”Yes sir,” Brady replied.
Within minutes his parents were there. His mother sprang into action by helping to move Cathy to a bed and getting her comfortable. His father called the Air Base and requested an ambulance.
The ambulance arrived long before the sheriff deputy did, so Brady’s father left instructions with his wife to tell the deputy to meet them at the Base infirmary. Then he left with the ambulance, leaving Brady and his mother alone to wait for the law to arrive.
In the meantime Brady’s mother decided that she should call Kathy’s parents to let them know what had happened. The deputy arrived while she was on the phone.
Once the officer was on his way to the base and Kathy’s parents were notified Brady and his Mother started the long walk back across the field. They did not speak as there was not much to say at a time like this.
Finally as they walked up the steps to the house Mom turned to Brady and said,”I’m proud of you. It’s what’s known as a judgment call and you made it---right or wrong---and you stood up for it. I’m proud of you.”
She hesitated for a moment then added, “If you wanna go up there to hold her hand and be her friend you can.”
Brady hugged his mother tightly and kissed her on the forehead before racing into get the keys to his Dodge Plymouth.
As he drove the few miles up “the hill” to Klamath Air Base, he fingered the pistol still tucked in his belt line. He decided to put it in the center box before entering the main gate.
Once at the hospital he tried to see Kathy but the medical technicians would not let him. Instead he sat in the waiting area near the two Air Police Officers and the sheriff deputy.
He eavesdropped on their conversation about what had happened. The more Brady listened the more he realized that they were not going to do anything.
They called Kathy a tramp, because as the two air police men had put it, “She’d been in the dorms with several airmen on different occasions.”
Brady had heard enough. He got up and went to his car.
He retrieved the pistol and walked over to the barracks. He knew where the room of the main rapist was and walk straight up to it.
He could hear laughing and talking coming from the room. He reached down and tried the door knob. It turned. He pulled the slider back on the pistol, twisted the door’s handle and pushed it inward.
There they were---all three of the men that Kathy said had gang raped her.
Brady raised the pistol and leveled it waist high. Their laughing and talking stopped, as they looked at the pistol and the young man holding it.
“I trusted you,” Brady started out, “With my friend and you guys all took turns at her.”
The oldest one, about twenty-three, responded, “Now, Brady it wasn’t like that.”
He was cut off, “Wasn’t, like what?” Brady asked. Then he added, “Wasn’t like what? How do you know what I’m talking about?
The three looked at each other with wide and frightened eyes.
Behind Brady came a small noise. He stepped back and towards the far corner of the room, looking to the door on his right. It was Dad and the Base Commander.
“Brady," said the commander, “You don’t wanna do this. It’ll ruin you’re life too."
The major stepped inside the doorway but away from the young man.
“I wanna confession from them. They raped her and she could have bled to death from cutting her up like they did,” Brady responded.
His father spoke, “It wasn’t a cut, Brady. It was a tear like having a baby.”
Then he added, “It doesn’t bleed all that much, jus’ looks like it does. Kinda like a head wound.”
Brady thought about it for a few seconds. It did make sense.
“And perhaps," he thought, “I’m overreacting.”
He felt the tension slip out of his shoulders out through his head. Without warning, the Major and his father sprang on him like cats on an unwary mouse.
The two men wrestled the pistol from the teenagers hand and pinned him to the floor. Brady did not have the strength to put up a fight so he laid there like a limp noodle waiting to be arrested for having assaulted the three airmen.
In the meantime, the three airmen wasted no time in scrambling out of the room. They rushed out into the hallway and into the waiting cuffs of the sheriff and air police.
The commander and Brady’s father let the young man up as soon as they had the pistol secured. The commander pulled the clip out of the gun and slipped it in his pocket.
Brady watched as the officer popped each bullet deftly out of the clip and then replaced the clip in the weapon. He slid the hammer back again, causing the bullet in the chamber of eject.
With reflexes of a juggler the commander caught the shell in mid air and stuffed it in his pocket as well. Then he handed the pistol to Brady’s father, saying, “Good thing that show piece of yours ain’t loaded.”
His mind raced back into the present moment and the danger he was facing now.
”Look,” Brady said, “I don’t want any trouble with you.”
The man laughed and asked,” What? Don’t have a gun this time, huh?”
Brady felt for the knife near his back pocket.
“You ruined my career," the voice in the shadows said, “And I always said I’d find you alone one day.”
Brady slowly withdrew the knife from its sheath.
The man stepped forward and out of the shadow of the tree line. Brady could see he still had the physique of a body builder. He also noticed that the man had something in his right hand as he approached Brady.
The man snorted,”This time I brought the gun and I made certain to load it."
He pulled back on the double action hammer, making a loud click-click sound. Brady knew that if the man was serious, he did not have much time.
“You ruined your own career,” Brady responded,”you did the raping not me.”
“Yeah, but everyone knew she was a slut and wanted it,” the man replied.
“No,” Brady stated calmly, “She was a confused fifteen year old kid who jus’ wanted some sort of attention.”
He snickered again, “Well, she got it didn’t she.”
The man bared his teeth in a fiendish smile that sent chills along Brady’s spine. Then he asked, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, it’s not smart to bring a knife to a gun fight?”
As the rhetorical question passed his lips, the man raised the pistol and stepped forward. There was no time for Brady to think, just react as he stepped forward and to the left of the man.
There was a blinding light, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The man had pulled the trigger. The pistol went off again and again.
By the time the man fired his third round though, Brady had a grip on the pistols barrel. All three shots had missed their intended target.
Brady held tightly to the gun as the man slammed his left fist into Brady’s head. Brady continued to move forward and then to the right of the man, pivoting under his arm.
As he did, he stabbed violently at the man’s lower torso. The pistol went off again, this time harmlessly into the air. Brady continued to jam the knife at his assailant.
He heard the man gasp out a breath of air as he drew back the knife. For the sixth time the pistol discharged. This time it fired into the ground as the man slowly dropped to his knees.
Seconds later Brady stood there holding the gun in his hand by the barrel. The man had pitched forward and collapsed face down into the dirt.
Brady did not move for nearly two minutes. He was frozen, listening for noised from around the area. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary.
Still he waited.
As he waited, he reached down and felt the neck of the man lying on the chilly earth before him. There was no pulse.
He rolled him over, revealing that the lifeless body had died in a state of surprise. The man’s eyes were wide open, not expecting to be overcome by a knife verses gun fight in close combat.
Brady squatted down by the body. He heard the words of Major Graham echoing in his head, “It’ll ruin your life…”
He realized that the Major had been right and was still correct. This incident would ruin his life and the piece of trash he had just killed would be the one to get off easy no matter what.
Brady looked around and decided that his best course of action would be to dispose of the body. He was so close to the graveyard and just beyond that was the old swamp area.
Then he realized that the body could be discovered and that would lead to a murder investigation. It would be better if the body disappeared completely.
Brady looked around and saw the old tire burner.
“That’s the best place to get rid of the body," he thought.
Brady quickly went over and opened the burner. He tossed four tires inside it and doused them with the diesel fuel.
He added four more tires and then more fuel. Brady struggled to lift the body into the furnace and get it centered on the tires.
Brady added four more tires and the fuel and then repeated the process one more time. Finally he pushed the igniter and the furnace roared to life.
Shaking and feeling terribly sick to his stomach Brady walked through the cemetery and down into the swamp. He tossed the pistol into the deepest channel he could see after taking the chamber out and throwing it off into another part of the swamp.
He walked back up the hill and through the grave yard once again. He opened the furnace and tossed as many tires onto the raging fire as it would hold.
The black smoke billowed out of the chimney as the tired cooked down into ashy soot. He stood there, watching the furnace as it continued to push the smell of diesel fuel, gasoline and rubber into the atmosphere.
While he stood and watched, the sky grew cloudy and the stars went away along with the moon. Minutes later started raining, muddying up the pathway where the pair had fought to the death.
As Brady walked away from the furnace he could hear the rising sound of the rain drops as they struck the super heated blasting furnace, hissing in a sinister way.
The young man could not help but wonder, “Is this what Hell will sound like?”
Friday, March 7, 2008
THE REANIMATION OF SAMUEL HARDY
It was the final weekend of the summer and Billy and Paul pointed their BMX bicycles westward down the old dirt road and the best place to do some high jumps and hard landings in the area. They pedaled to the abandoned Toano rock quarry in an effort to forget school was to start the coming Monday.
The two 12-year olds slipped through the cyclone fencing which had been pried loose by a group of teenaged boys the summer before in search of a place to drink stolen bottles of beer. The chain links had been turned upward and hooked to the upper edge of the fence. It was a hole just large enough to allow a BMX bike through as long as the rider wasn’t on it.
Down inside the quarry, the boys raced over huge piles of gravel. They leaped their bikes as high as possible and landed with enough control to continue racing around the site.
“Up there,” Billy pointed. “That where I wanna go,” he said to Paul.
They rode up to the crest of the quarry and looked down into the gapping pit, searching for what they called “a good line,” to ride down.
Each boy moved back and forth looking over the high edge for a possible trail to the bottom. Neither one wanted to make the lengthy trip around the lip of the quarry and admit defeat at not finding a more direct path down to the bottom.
“Well, do you wanna try it?” Paul asked.
Billy looked down the proposed “line,” and shrugged, “As long as we go slowly the first time.”
He was worried about the possibility of falling down the side of the quarry and landing in the jagged rocks below. They pushed their bikes out onto the embankment and faced them down hill.
Billy was in the lead. He had only gone a few feet when his front wheel knocked an object loose from the earth. Paul saw it roll down the face of the cliff and he stopped to look at it was, because it didn’t appear to be a normal looking stone.
As he inched his way closer to the ledge and looked over, he was horrified to see a human skull with vacant eye sockets peering straight back at him. He quickly scrambled away for the edge of the rock face and yelled for Billy.
“Stop!” Paul nearly screamed.
Billy skidded his bike to a stop and turned around in the seat to look back at his friend. He saw Paul sitting on the ground with his back against the stony face and he had a look of fear on his face.
“What is it?” Billy asked in an impatient tone of voice.
Paul looked at him and answered, “I think it’s a skull of a dead person.”
The sun was starting to fade and the teams of Elko County deputies and Nevada state troopers were still searching for remains along the wall of the rock quarry. It was estimated that they had discovered 22 unmarked graves in a quarter acre patch of ground.
Detective Leach was on a cell-phone talking, “Each body is in a wooden casket.”
A voice on the other end of the cell-phone asked, “Are they buried at various depths?”
Leach responded, “Yeah, some a couple feet down others deeper.”
“It sounds like an old cemetery, maybe a forgotten family plot,” the voice said. It belonged to Nevada state archeologist Walt Franco. He was the states leading authority on all matters regarding historical artifacts.
Then Franco added, “I’m on my way.”
By sun up, Franco had led the two teams to the remainder of three more caskets. They each had been photographed and a detailed map had been drawn showing each body’s exact location.
“Look at this Walt,” one of the state troopers said.
When Franco viewed what the trooper had found it left the scholar puzzled. There was no getting around the fact that the body in the old wooden box had been moved after death.
The box lid had the letters “SH,” and the number “54” written on it. They were formed by using brass tacks; however it wasn’t the only casket to be marked in such a way. What made it so unusual was the fact that both thigh bones had been laid out to create an “X” over the chest of the body and the skull was replaced in an upside down position.
Each body was removed and taken to the state lab in Reno for further study. Meanwhile Franco went to Carson City to search the state achieves. He needed to do some research and it didn’t take him long to find what he had been looking for.
He picked up the telephone in his office and dialed. A few seconds later a woman answered.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good morning, Sandra,” he replied.
Sandra Goodall glanced at the clock on top of her bed stand. It wasn’t even 8 o’clock yet.
She asked, “Do you know this is Sunday?”
Franco said that he did. Then he told her what had been unearthed at the abandoned rock quarry. Goodall was suddenly awake and the fact that it was the latter part of the weekend no longer mattered.
She hurriedly dressed after hanging up with Franco. She could hardly wait to get to the state lab and start her examinations. She realized that this case could be the thesis she had been wishing for in her lengthy process for a PhD.
Franco flipped through the yellow leafs of paper. It was a land registration book that had been buried in an estate sale and he had purchased for the sum of one-dollar. The leather-bound book had been a solid source for Franco on a number of occasions.
He ran his finger down page 92 and found what he had been looking for: Hardy. It was the name of the family who had first settled the area prior to the year 1850. The last name fit with the “H” on the coffin.
Franco turned on his computer. After waiting for it to come to life, he typed in the name, Hardy.” Much to his surprise he found a list of names including a “Samuel,” who was listed as having been “put to death by hanging” in 1871.
While, Franco believed he has resolved who the family plot belong too and the possible identity of “SH,” he still had no answers as to why “SH” had been defiled they way that he had been.
It was early Monday morning when Franco drove into Toano. He was there to see if he could find any records on the Hardy family. Within and hour he had an answer to his puzzle.
Franco found a cracked, red leather bound book in the counties library that contained hand written notes from the Toano’s town meetings. As he read it, he tried to imagine the scene.
It was 1883 and Samuel Hardy’s eldest son, Eli was asked to appear before the towns elders. It seemed that they had a strange request to ask of him.
“We’d like permission to open you’re fathers grave and stake his body to the ground,” one of the men said.
Another piped in, “We want this to above board.”
“Why do you want to do this?” Eli asked.
The group of elders looked about at one another, and then someone answered, “We have reason to believe your father, Samuel Hardy is a vampire.”
Eli was silent as he reflected on the fact that his father had been hanged for murder. It was not a pleasant thought. He was nearly 17 years old when his father was found visiting the decaying body of a young woman he had killed nearly three-weeks before.
It took less than a day for a jury to find him guilty and sentence him to death by hanging. Eli still heard the endless whispers about his family and had on more than one occasion thought of leaving Nevada for land out west of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.
He also thought about the rumors about hundreds of sheep, cows and horses found dead. He also knew that several young women had been attacked in the 12 years his father had been executed; some had even been killed.
Eli himself had told his wife Sarah on more than one occasion that he had felt his father’s presence. Fearing that he might be accused of being in league with a murderer or worse, a vampire, Eli Hardy quickly consented.
“You have my permission,” he said.
That same day a small group of men went out to the Hardy family cemetery and located Samuel’s grave. Four men set about the task of digging up the casket. Also present was one of Toano’s priests, its medical doctor and a mysterious figure from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Once the earth was pulled away, one of the four men digging used the edge of his spade to pry off the top of the box. Inside they found only the bones of the deceased Samuel Hardy. There was nothing left to stake the body to the ground.
However the mysterious stranger recommended a course of action to prevent even the bones of Samuel Hardy from rising again. Quickly, they did as was recommended then returned the body back to the earth.
That was nearly 135 years ago. Now the body of Samuel Hardy was lying on a chrome steel table in the state medical lab. Sandra Goodall was completing the final examination of the man’s skull.
She had been working on what had been dubbed by the local press as the “Hardy Project” for the last eight months. Goodall had compiled hundreds of pages of notes and felt certain that she was nearly done with the 25 bodies. Soon they would all be returned to Toano for reburial in one the local cemetery.
“SH,” or Sam as he was affectionately known, was the last body that she documented. Goodall had found that he had lived the hard life of a farmer, possibly raising sheep or cattle for a living.
Sam had died at the age of 54. At the time of his death, he had an open wound on his lower right leg that probably caused him to limp. Goodall had also discovered a trace of white growth attached to the outer tips of the Sam’s rib cage.
She concluded that Sam had the consumption. Today it was known as tuberculosis. Goodall theorized that it had been a fairly slow process and agonizingly painful for Sam. She also noted that two vertebrae in his neck had been crushed.
Goodall had painstakingly glue the shattered bones back together. She wanted a clear idea of what had killed Sam. She deducted that he had probably choked to death before his vertebrae gave way under the weight of his body.
Her conclusions were backed up by historical facts that Franco had found in the same months he spent investigating the small family plot. He discovered that Toano had been plagued by a severe case of consumption in the late 1800’s. He also had the record of Samuel Hardy’s execution and the later defilement of the single grave from the red-leather book.
Franco also found a rare instance where a 19-year-old woman named Mercy Brown of Exeter, Rhode Island was exhumed after it was suspected she was a vampire and feeding on her brother Edwin.
Rhode Island archivists Anne Paulo told Franco, “Mercy’s heart was removed, burnt and the ashes were fed to Edwin as a remedy.”
The rearranging of the bone was a harder puzzle to solve for Franco. He had to look over seas for his answers. And it was in Ireland and Egypt that he found it. Both countries had historical references to “decapitating bodies,” and used the skull and cross bone symbol to denote the possibility of the “walking dead.”
Sandra Goodall placed the skull of Samuel Hardy at the top of the body. It was the first time in about 125 years that his body had actually been assembled in its proper form. She sighed as she looked at the old man’s bones. Goodall decided she would deal with his remains on Monday.
“It’s the weekend and you can wait a couple more days, Sam” she said aloud as she turned to switch off the lab’s lights and lock the door.
It wasn’t until Monday morning that the bones were discovered to have been stolen. The state police investigated and concluded that someone had been hiding inside the building when Goodall was locking up.
“She never had a chance,” the detective said. Then he added, “He attacked her from behind, but I think she got a piece of him.”
“What makes you say that?” asked another investigator.
“Look at the blood trial,” he answered, “whoever did this was dragging his right leg slightly.”
It was the final weekend of the summer and Billy and Paul pointed their BMX bicycles westward down the old dirt road and the best place to do some high jumps and hard landings in the area. They pedaled to the abandoned Toano rock quarry in an effort to forget school was to start the coming Monday.
The two 12-year olds slipped through the cyclone fencing which had been pried loose by a group of teenaged boys the summer before in search of a place to drink stolen bottles of beer. The chain links had been turned upward and hooked to the upper edge of the fence. It was a hole just large enough to allow a BMX bike through as long as the rider wasn’t on it.
Down inside the quarry, the boys raced over huge piles of gravel. They leaped their bikes as high as possible and landed with enough control to continue racing around the site.
“Up there,” Billy pointed. “That where I wanna go,” he said to Paul.
They rode up to the crest of the quarry and looked down into the gapping pit, searching for what they called “a good line,” to ride down.
Each boy moved back and forth looking over the high edge for a possible trail to the bottom. Neither one wanted to make the lengthy trip around the lip of the quarry and admit defeat at not finding a more direct path down to the bottom.
“Well, do you wanna try it?” Paul asked.
Billy looked down the proposed “line,” and shrugged, “As long as we go slowly the first time.”
He was worried about the possibility of falling down the side of the quarry and landing in the jagged rocks below. They pushed their bikes out onto the embankment and faced them down hill.
Billy was in the lead. He had only gone a few feet when his front wheel knocked an object loose from the earth. Paul saw it roll down the face of the cliff and he stopped to look at it was, because it didn’t appear to be a normal looking stone.
As he inched his way closer to the ledge and looked over, he was horrified to see a human skull with vacant eye sockets peering straight back at him. He quickly scrambled away for the edge of the rock face and yelled for Billy.
“Stop!” Paul nearly screamed.
Billy skidded his bike to a stop and turned around in the seat to look back at his friend. He saw Paul sitting on the ground with his back against the stony face and he had a look of fear on his face.
“What is it?” Billy asked in an impatient tone of voice.
Paul looked at him and answered, “I think it’s a skull of a dead person.”
The sun was starting to fade and the teams of Elko County deputies and Nevada state troopers were still searching for remains along the wall of the rock quarry. It was estimated that they had discovered 22 unmarked graves in a quarter acre patch of ground.
Detective Leach was on a cell-phone talking, “Each body is in a wooden casket.”
A voice on the other end of the cell-phone asked, “Are they buried at various depths?”
Leach responded, “Yeah, some a couple feet down others deeper.”
“It sounds like an old cemetery, maybe a forgotten family plot,” the voice said. It belonged to Nevada state archeologist Walt Franco. He was the states leading authority on all matters regarding historical artifacts.
Then Franco added, “I’m on my way.”
By sun up, Franco had led the two teams to the remainder of three more caskets. They each had been photographed and a detailed map had been drawn showing each body’s exact location.
“Look at this Walt,” one of the state troopers said.
When Franco viewed what the trooper had found it left the scholar puzzled. There was no getting around the fact that the body in the old wooden box had been moved after death.
The box lid had the letters “SH,” and the number “54” written on it. They were formed by using brass tacks; however it wasn’t the only casket to be marked in such a way. What made it so unusual was the fact that both thigh bones had been laid out to create an “X” over the chest of the body and the skull was replaced in an upside down position.
Each body was removed and taken to the state lab in Reno for further study. Meanwhile Franco went to Carson City to search the state achieves. He needed to do some research and it didn’t take him long to find what he had been looking for.
He picked up the telephone in his office and dialed. A few seconds later a woman answered.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good morning, Sandra,” he replied.
Sandra Goodall glanced at the clock on top of her bed stand. It wasn’t even 8 o’clock yet.
She asked, “Do you know this is Sunday?”
Franco said that he did. Then he told her what had been unearthed at the abandoned rock quarry. Goodall was suddenly awake and the fact that it was the latter part of the weekend no longer mattered.
She hurriedly dressed after hanging up with Franco. She could hardly wait to get to the state lab and start her examinations. She realized that this case could be the thesis she had been wishing for in her lengthy process for a PhD.
Franco flipped through the yellow leafs of paper. It was a land registration book that had been buried in an estate sale and he had purchased for the sum of one-dollar. The leather-bound book had been a solid source for Franco on a number of occasions.
He ran his finger down page 92 and found what he had been looking for: Hardy. It was the name of the family who had first settled the area prior to the year 1850. The last name fit with the “H” on the coffin.
Franco turned on his computer. After waiting for it to come to life, he typed in the name, Hardy.” Much to his surprise he found a list of names including a “Samuel,” who was listed as having been “put to death by hanging” in 1871.
While, Franco believed he has resolved who the family plot belong too and the possible identity of “SH,” he still had no answers as to why “SH” had been defiled they way that he had been.
It was early Monday morning when Franco drove into Toano. He was there to see if he could find any records on the Hardy family. Within and hour he had an answer to his puzzle.
Franco found a cracked, red leather bound book in the counties library that contained hand written notes from the Toano’s town meetings. As he read it, he tried to imagine the scene.
It was 1883 and Samuel Hardy’s eldest son, Eli was asked to appear before the towns elders. It seemed that they had a strange request to ask of him.
“We’d like permission to open you’re fathers grave and stake his body to the ground,” one of the men said.
Another piped in, “We want this to above board.”
“Why do you want to do this?” Eli asked.
The group of elders looked about at one another, and then someone answered, “We have reason to believe your father, Samuel Hardy is a vampire.”
Eli was silent as he reflected on the fact that his father had been hanged for murder. It was not a pleasant thought. He was nearly 17 years old when his father was found visiting the decaying body of a young woman he had killed nearly three-weeks before.
It took less than a day for a jury to find him guilty and sentence him to death by hanging. Eli still heard the endless whispers about his family and had on more than one occasion thought of leaving Nevada for land out west of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.
He also thought about the rumors about hundreds of sheep, cows and horses found dead. He also knew that several young women had been attacked in the 12 years his father had been executed; some had even been killed.
Eli himself had told his wife Sarah on more than one occasion that he had felt his father’s presence. Fearing that he might be accused of being in league with a murderer or worse, a vampire, Eli Hardy quickly consented.
“You have my permission,” he said.
That same day a small group of men went out to the Hardy family cemetery and located Samuel’s grave. Four men set about the task of digging up the casket. Also present was one of Toano’s priests, its medical doctor and a mysterious figure from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Once the earth was pulled away, one of the four men digging used the edge of his spade to pry off the top of the box. Inside they found only the bones of the deceased Samuel Hardy. There was nothing left to stake the body to the ground.
However the mysterious stranger recommended a course of action to prevent even the bones of Samuel Hardy from rising again. Quickly, they did as was recommended then returned the body back to the earth.
That was nearly 135 years ago. Now the body of Samuel Hardy was lying on a chrome steel table in the state medical lab. Sandra Goodall was completing the final examination of the man’s skull.
She had been working on what had been dubbed by the local press as the “Hardy Project” for the last eight months. Goodall had compiled hundreds of pages of notes and felt certain that she was nearly done with the 25 bodies. Soon they would all be returned to Toano for reburial in one the local cemetery.
“SH,” or Sam as he was affectionately known, was the last body that she documented. Goodall had found that he had lived the hard life of a farmer, possibly raising sheep or cattle for a living.
Sam had died at the age of 54. At the time of his death, he had an open wound on his lower right leg that probably caused him to limp. Goodall had also discovered a trace of white growth attached to the outer tips of the Sam’s rib cage.
She concluded that Sam had the consumption. Today it was known as tuberculosis. Goodall theorized that it had been a fairly slow process and agonizingly painful for Sam. She also noted that two vertebrae in his neck had been crushed.
Goodall had painstakingly glue the shattered bones back together. She wanted a clear idea of what had killed Sam. She deducted that he had probably choked to death before his vertebrae gave way under the weight of his body.
Her conclusions were backed up by historical facts that Franco had found in the same months he spent investigating the small family plot. He discovered that Toano had been plagued by a severe case of consumption in the late 1800’s. He also had the record of Samuel Hardy’s execution and the later defilement of the single grave from the red-leather book.
Franco also found a rare instance where a 19-year-old woman named Mercy Brown of Exeter, Rhode Island was exhumed after it was suspected she was a vampire and feeding on her brother Edwin.
Rhode Island archivists Anne Paulo told Franco, “Mercy’s heart was removed, burnt and the ashes were fed to Edwin as a remedy.”
The rearranging of the bone was a harder puzzle to solve for Franco. He had to look over seas for his answers. And it was in Ireland and Egypt that he found it. Both countries had historical references to “decapitating bodies,” and used the skull and cross bone symbol to denote the possibility of the “walking dead.”
Sandra Goodall placed the skull of Samuel Hardy at the top of the body. It was the first time in about 125 years that his body had actually been assembled in its proper form. She sighed as she looked at the old man’s bones. Goodall decided she would deal with his remains on Monday.
“It’s the weekend and you can wait a couple more days, Sam” she said aloud as she turned to switch off the lab’s lights and lock the door.
It wasn’t until Monday morning that the bones were discovered to have been stolen. The state police investigated and concluded that someone had been hiding inside the building when Goodall was locking up.
“She never had a chance,” the detective said. Then he added, “He attacked her from behind, but I think she got a piece of him.”
“What makes you say that?” asked another investigator.
“Look at the blood trial,” he answered, “whoever did this was dragging his right leg slightly.”
PERFECT DAY
A narrow beam of sunshine pushed its way between the two curtain halves and into the small one room flat. It was enough to cause James to blink slightly then wake up.
He looked around the room for a moment, puzzled by his surroundings then remembered he was now a civilian, living in the civilian world. He rolled over slightly and picked up the half full pack of Marlboros and his lighter.
As he worked to light one of the cigarettes, he slipped his legs over the edge of his bed and drew in on the cigarette. He blew out the smoke and thought, “I need to quit these things.”
James recalled that he started smoking as a response to the stress he felt out in the arid desert of Iraq. He needed something to do with his hands after that first fire-fight and one of his buddies offered him a smoke.
“That’s been a long time ago,” he thought. James realized that he’d no longer need them as he wasn’t in a place where 10 to a 100 people got killed everyday by snipers or car bombs.
He smiled, knowing he had survived all that. ”Today’s a perfect day,” he James thought.
Now that James realized that he was back in the World, he relaxed a little and snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers. He resolved that this cigarette would be his last one.
He looked around his room and reached for his jeans.
After getting dressed, James walked to the window and peered outside. He still felt a small reservation about standing directly in front of the large piece of glass. His combat instinct always came on strong as he approached the window.
“After three weeks,” he thought, “You’d think I’d shake that whole idea.”
The street was busy; cars, truck and buses driving by. He could see the corner market from his place and a he decided to go over and buy a cup of coffee.
James had come to enjoy the sweet taste of a French-vanilla cappuccino. He had drunk the stuff the Army tries to pass off as coffee for much too long. The cappuccino was a benefit of being a civilian once again.
He grabbed up his camera, draped it over his shoulder and stepped out of his room and into the hallway.
Down stairs he stood on the sidewalk watching as people walked by completely unconcerned with the activities going on around them. It was something he had never paid much attention to when he was younger.
He was just 18 years old when he joined and after three tours in Iraq, he was the old man of the outfitted when he mustered out four years later. He saw that a number of things in the World had changed since he had been away or perhaps it was he who had changed.
Either way James was now a free man to pursue his dream of being a photographer. That’s why he was living in New York City rather than returning home to the farm in Nebraska.
The decision had been met as a scandal by his folks and friends back home. However James knew that he couldn’t return directly to a quiet life of farming after the three and a half years he had spent in the Middle East. He needed the excitement of a large city like New York, besides that is where his school was located.
He waited for the little green man to appear on the crosswalk light across the street. When it did, he moved with the mob of humanity from one corner to the next. He repeated the action again to get to the market.
James poured his coffee and paid the clerk for the hot brew. He stepped outside and wondered what he would do with the remainder of his day.
“I think I’ll just walk around and snap some photos for the hell of it,” James thought.
It was about that time that a young white man walked up to him and asked, “Hey buddy, you got a light?
James placed his cup of coffee on a yellow pole that was employed by the market to prevent vehicles from driving through the large glass doors and windows and reached into his shirt pocket, searching for the book of matches only to realize he had left them on his nightstand in his room.
Then he awful realization came to him; he was about to be mugged by the white man asking for a match. This realization was too late.
Without warning, he was facing a pistol and the man was yanking his camera from his shoulder. James grabbed the strap, hoping to hold onto his prized-possession.
James saw the flash of the gun barrel but never heard the report. He felt a heavy punch to his chest and that the punch had knocked him down. James was surprised by the lack of pain.
When he awoke, he was looking down on an ashen-colored black man. It was his body, laying flat across the sidewalk as a small crowd had formed around him.
James recognized himself. He was confused by the sight of his lifeless body. He saw a small wisp of steam rising from his cup of coffee as it was still resting on the top of the yellow pole. In the distance was the sound of sirens.
James felt a warm sensation envelope him as he floated ever higher. Then suddenly his view went dark and knew he was dead.
It was the ending of a perfect day.
A narrow beam of sunshine pushed its way between the two curtain halves and into the small one room flat. It was enough to cause James to blink slightly then wake up.
He looked around the room for a moment, puzzled by his surroundings then remembered he was now a civilian, living in the civilian world. He rolled over slightly and picked up the half full pack of Marlboros and his lighter.
As he worked to light one of the cigarettes, he slipped his legs over the edge of his bed and drew in on the cigarette. He blew out the smoke and thought, “I need to quit these things.”
James recalled that he started smoking as a response to the stress he felt out in the arid desert of Iraq. He needed something to do with his hands after that first fire-fight and one of his buddies offered him a smoke.
“That’s been a long time ago,” he thought. James realized that he’d no longer need them as he wasn’t in a place where 10 to a 100 people got killed everyday by snipers or car bombs.
He smiled, knowing he had survived all that. ”Today’s a perfect day,” he James thought.
Now that James realized that he was back in the World, he relaxed a little and snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers. He resolved that this cigarette would be his last one.
He looked around his room and reached for his jeans.
After getting dressed, James walked to the window and peered outside. He still felt a small reservation about standing directly in front of the large piece of glass. His combat instinct always came on strong as he approached the window.
“After three weeks,” he thought, “You’d think I’d shake that whole idea.”
The street was busy; cars, truck and buses driving by. He could see the corner market from his place and a he decided to go over and buy a cup of coffee.
James had come to enjoy the sweet taste of a French-vanilla cappuccino. He had drunk the stuff the Army tries to pass off as coffee for much too long. The cappuccino was a benefit of being a civilian once again.
He grabbed up his camera, draped it over his shoulder and stepped out of his room and into the hallway.
Down stairs he stood on the sidewalk watching as people walked by completely unconcerned with the activities going on around them. It was something he had never paid much attention to when he was younger.
He was just 18 years old when he joined and after three tours in Iraq, he was the old man of the outfitted when he mustered out four years later. He saw that a number of things in the World had changed since he had been away or perhaps it was he who had changed.
Either way James was now a free man to pursue his dream of being a photographer. That’s why he was living in New York City rather than returning home to the farm in Nebraska.
The decision had been met as a scandal by his folks and friends back home. However James knew that he couldn’t return directly to a quiet life of farming after the three and a half years he had spent in the Middle East. He needed the excitement of a large city like New York, besides that is where his school was located.
He waited for the little green man to appear on the crosswalk light across the street. When it did, he moved with the mob of humanity from one corner to the next. He repeated the action again to get to the market.
James poured his coffee and paid the clerk for the hot brew. He stepped outside and wondered what he would do with the remainder of his day.
“I think I’ll just walk around and snap some photos for the hell of it,” James thought.
It was about that time that a young white man walked up to him and asked, “Hey buddy, you got a light?
James placed his cup of coffee on a yellow pole that was employed by the market to prevent vehicles from driving through the large glass doors and windows and reached into his shirt pocket, searching for the book of matches only to realize he had left them on his nightstand in his room.
Then he awful realization came to him; he was about to be mugged by the white man asking for a match. This realization was too late.
Without warning, he was facing a pistol and the man was yanking his camera from his shoulder. James grabbed the strap, hoping to hold onto his prized-possession.
James saw the flash of the gun barrel but never heard the report. He felt a heavy punch to his chest and that the punch had knocked him down. James was surprised by the lack of pain.
When he awoke, he was looking down on an ashen-colored black man. It was his body, laying flat across the sidewalk as a small crowd had formed around him.
James recognized himself. He was confused by the sight of his lifeless body. He saw a small wisp of steam rising from his cup of coffee as it was still resting on the top of the yellow pole. In the distance was the sound of sirens.
James felt a warm sensation envelope him as he floated ever higher. Then suddenly his view went dark and knew he was dead.
It was the ending of a perfect day.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
THE LAST CHAMPION
A couple of his classmates snickered when they heard Taz say, “I’ll join.”
Then one of the girls said, “Coach couldn’t even get you to run a hundred steps last year during P.E.”
Taz ignored the remark and the chuckling and kept his hand raised to make certain that the new Cross Country coach had seen him. The young man didn’t know it but he would be one of only four boys from his entire school to sign up for the sport.
The following day, the four boys walked across the street from their school to the park for the first day of practice. They were met there by the coach.
“I’m going to make things simple,” he said. “I expect you give one-hundred percent everyday at practice and I expect you to do your best at every meet.”
The coach paused, his hands firmly placed on his hips as he looked at each boy, then he added, “Any questions?”
After a few seconds he said, “Good! Now I need five laps as soon as we get warmed up.”
By the end of his second lap, the coach could tell that Taz would require more time and effort to complete the assigned run. He could see that the young man was overweight and not used to the level of exercise required to run a three and a half mile race.
Still he had to admire the fact that the kid wasn’t complaining or giving up. It took him twice as long to finish the five miles as it did his other three team mates.
“I’m not very good at this,” he complained to the coach after he caught his breath. Then he added, “Maybe I should quit before I embarrass you or the other guys.”
The coach stepped up and looked the 15-year old in the face and asked, “Did you give it your all today?”
The teen sheepishly answered, “Yes.”
“Good! Then I’ll hear no more talk about quitting!” the coach barked at the startled runner.
The team worked out with one another for the next two-weeks. They ran not only in the park across from the school, but they also ran in the hills surrounding town, using old cattle trails for their workout paths.
At the first race, the competition was steep. Nearly 200 runners had arrived to run through the mountains over looking North Lake High School. The best place anyone from the team was 55th.
It was Taz who did the worst though. He placed last in his division, even being out paced by the girls as they started half an hour after the boys took off in their race. I took the young man more than twice the time it took others in the race to complete the course.
The coach felt a knot in his stomach as he stood waiting for the last member of his team to cross the finish line. He also felt bad for the young man as he came around the corner and through the gate onto the football field all the while being passed by girls his own age.
Taz refused to give up.
The next week the same thing happened, followed by the same occurrence the following week. Taz refused to give up and by this time he had gained a small fan based, made up of runners from other area teams, who willingly cheered him on as he ran towards the finish line.
By the seventh and final week of the regular season, coaches were standing along the sidelines cheering Taz as he dashed towards the finish line. Some had even started chanting his name, “Taz, Taz, Taz…” until he finished.
One coach even went as far as to nickname him “Last Place Lane.” At first Taz’s coach was angry at the idea of such a rotten thing to call a child, but Taz smiled and said that he like being called that.
“Why?” the coach asked.
Taz smiled and then explained, “It makes me feel like a champion simply for finishing.” Then the young man added, “Besides last place is a place. There are a couple of guys who dropped out in the middle of the race.”
The coach nodded his head in agreement with the teenagers’ statement.
That’s when it occurred to the coach that Taz had the right attitude about sports and sportsmanship. He also realized that while Taz may have been the team’s worst runner, he was also the last champion.
A couple of his classmates snickered when they heard Taz say, “I’ll join.”
Then one of the girls said, “Coach couldn’t even get you to run a hundred steps last year during P.E.”
Taz ignored the remark and the chuckling and kept his hand raised to make certain that the new Cross Country coach had seen him. The young man didn’t know it but he would be one of only four boys from his entire school to sign up for the sport.
The following day, the four boys walked across the street from their school to the park for the first day of practice. They were met there by the coach.
“I’m going to make things simple,” he said. “I expect you give one-hundred percent everyday at practice and I expect you to do your best at every meet.”
The coach paused, his hands firmly placed on his hips as he looked at each boy, then he added, “Any questions?”
After a few seconds he said, “Good! Now I need five laps as soon as we get warmed up.”
By the end of his second lap, the coach could tell that Taz would require more time and effort to complete the assigned run. He could see that the young man was overweight and not used to the level of exercise required to run a three and a half mile race.
Still he had to admire the fact that the kid wasn’t complaining or giving up. It took him twice as long to finish the five miles as it did his other three team mates.
“I’m not very good at this,” he complained to the coach after he caught his breath. Then he added, “Maybe I should quit before I embarrass you or the other guys.”
The coach stepped up and looked the 15-year old in the face and asked, “Did you give it your all today?”
The teen sheepishly answered, “Yes.”
“Good! Then I’ll hear no more talk about quitting!” the coach barked at the startled runner.
The team worked out with one another for the next two-weeks. They ran not only in the park across from the school, but they also ran in the hills surrounding town, using old cattle trails for their workout paths.
At the first race, the competition was steep. Nearly 200 runners had arrived to run through the mountains over looking North Lake High School. The best place anyone from the team was 55th.
It was Taz who did the worst though. He placed last in his division, even being out paced by the girls as they started half an hour after the boys took off in their race. I took the young man more than twice the time it took others in the race to complete the course.
The coach felt a knot in his stomach as he stood waiting for the last member of his team to cross the finish line. He also felt bad for the young man as he came around the corner and through the gate onto the football field all the while being passed by girls his own age.
Taz refused to give up.
The next week the same thing happened, followed by the same occurrence the following week. Taz refused to give up and by this time he had gained a small fan based, made up of runners from other area teams, who willingly cheered him on as he ran towards the finish line.
By the seventh and final week of the regular season, coaches were standing along the sidelines cheering Taz as he dashed towards the finish line. Some had even started chanting his name, “Taz, Taz, Taz…” until he finished.
One coach even went as far as to nickname him “Last Place Lane.” At first Taz’s coach was angry at the idea of such a rotten thing to call a child, but Taz smiled and said that he like being called that.
“Why?” the coach asked.
Taz smiled and then explained, “It makes me feel like a champion simply for finishing.” Then the young man added, “Besides last place is a place. There are a couple of guys who dropped out in the middle of the race.”
The coach nodded his head in agreement with the teenagers’ statement.
That’s when it occurred to the coach that Taz had the right attitude about sports and sportsmanship. He also realized that while Taz may have been the team’s worst runner, he was also the last champion.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
STRUCK BLIND
While visiting the Veteran Administrations Hospital for his annual physical, Tommy got off on the wrong floor. He promptly got lost. Tommy knew he had never been very good at finding his way around government buildings.
It was the third floor where the door to the elevators opened and he instinctively stepped off without looking at what floor he was on. Tommy was supposed to go one more floor up. However it would be fifteen to twenty minutes before he would discover this.
Wandering up and down the corridors of this building, Tommy searched for the set of offices that he needed to visit. He had been to them before, one year ago, so he knew they existed; however Tommy could not remember what they looked like. And to him all governmental offices look the same anyway.
As he searched for the office numbers, he came to the Chapel. Every VA Hospital has one. It was here he also discovered the only telephone on the floor. Tommy lifted the receiver and started to dial the number to the clinic that he was by now already late for, when he notice a man seated in the chairs of the Chapel. He could hear him crying.
Gently Tommy hung up the phone and quietly he walked into the seating area and sat down beside him. He had both hands over his face and was softly weeping. Tommy leaned over and whispered, “Brother, are you okay?”
He looked at Tommy and said, “Yeah, I am.” He paused to catch his breath. He obviously had a breathing problem. He explained that as a baby he had an accident that had broken his nose and had caused him pain throughout his life. Several times he had lost jobs because he could not catch his breath and now at 70 years old the doctors had discovered the problem and were going to be able to fix it for him. “I cry because I’m happy,” he said.
It was hard for Tommy to stop crying as he laid a hand on his should and asked if they could pray together for a successful operation, quick recovery, joyful life and a gracious God. He thanked Tommy and said, “God bless you,” as Tommy left to make his appointment. Those words made him feel heroic.
After his doctor’s appointment, Tommy dropped back down to the third floor and the Chapel. The man was gone, as he had expected him to be. So Tommy rushed off to speak to the Chaplain. He wanted to tell him what I had done. He followed the signs that had arrows pointing to his office. He searched for nearly half an hour and could not find his office. Tommy had to get back to work, so he left.
It was later the next day that it occurred to him what had happened. Tommy was relating the tale to friend when this thought crossed his mind: He wanted to tell the Chaplain what he had done, when in truth, he had done nothing at all. It was the Holy Spirit that had done it. And it was also the Holy Spirit that had blinded Tommy from seeing the Chaplains office so that he could not go barging in there; make a fool of him claiming to have done something that he had no right to claim.
Tommy looked at his friend and scratched his head and asked, “I wonder if met a Vet on that third floor or an Angel in the Chapel and if it really matters anyway?”
While visiting the Veteran Administrations Hospital for his annual physical, Tommy got off on the wrong floor. He promptly got lost. Tommy knew he had never been very good at finding his way around government buildings.
It was the third floor where the door to the elevators opened and he instinctively stepped off without looking at what floor he was on. Tommy was supposed to go one more floor up. However it would be fifteen to twenty minutes before he would discover this.
Wandering up and down the corridors of this building, Tommy searched for the set of offices that he needed to visit. He had been to them before, one year ago, so he knew they existed; however Tommy could not remember what they looked like. And to him all governmental offices look the same anyway.
As he searched for the office numbers, he came to the Chapel. Every VA Hospital has one. It was here he also discovered the only telephone on the floor. Tommy lifted the receiver and started to dial the number to the clinic that he was by now already late for, when he notice a man seated in the chairs of the Chapel. He could hear him crying.
Gently Tommy hung up the phone and quietly he walked into the seating area and sat down beside him. He had both hands over his face and was softly weeping. Tommy leaned over and whispered, “Brother, are you okay?”
He looked at Tommy and said, “Yeah, I am.” He paused to catch his breath. He obviously had a breathing problem. He explained that as a baby he had an accident that had broken his nose and had caused him pain throughout his life. Several times he had lost jobs because he could not catch his breath and now at 70 years old the doctors had discovered the problem and were going to be able to fix it for him. “I cry because I’m happy,” he said.
It was hard for Tommy to stop crying as he laid a hand on his should and asked if they could pray together for a successful operation, quick recovery, joyful life and a gracious God. He thanked Tommy and said, “God bless you,” as Tommy left to make his appointment. Those words made him feel heroic.
After his doctor’s appointment, Tommy dropped back down to the third floor and the Chapel. The man was gone, as he had expected him to be. So Tommy rushed off to speak to the Chaplain. He wanted to tell him what I had done. He followed the signs that had arrows pointing to his office. He searched for nearly half an hour and could not find his office. Tommy had to get back to work, so he left.
It was later the next day that it occurred to him what had happened. Tommy was relating the tale to friend when this thought crossed his mind: He wanted to tell the Chaplain what he had done, when in truth, he had done nothing at all. It was the Holy Spirit that had done it. And it was also the Holy Spirit that had blinded Tommy from seeing the Chaplains office so that he could not go barging in there; make a fool of him claiming to have done something that he had no right to claim.
Tommy looked at his friend and scratched his head and asked, “I wonder if met a Vet on that third floor or an Angel in the Chapel and if it really matters anyway?”
RIDER OF THE STORM
“You’d best take a look at the obituary,” Iris said as she held out the section of the Reno Gazette Journal for him to read.
He looked up from sharpening his knife with a half smirk on his face, asking, “Why is my name in it?”
Daniel could tell by the look in his wife’s face that she was serious. He reached up and took the extended newspaper in hand. He scanned quickly through each name on the clean colored page. Suddenly his eye stopped searching. He had discovered the recognizable name of his friend.
”Well, I’ll be a son of a ..,” his voice trailed off as he read the obituary.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Sam?” his wife asked.
Daniel fumbled with the paper for a moment in an attempt to regain his composure.
“It’s been a couple of years,” he answered. Then he added, “Just before he headed for Europe. I didn’t think he’d follow through though.”
Again his voice trailed off as he re read the obituary and faded into a memory Sarah’s voice came over the intercom to the always busy promotions office, “Daniel, you have a call on line seven, Daniel, call line seven.”
Daniel pushed back from his computer dreading another interruption as the dead line for the proposal he was working on loomed closer. He picked up the receiver and pushed the button next to the red flashing light. “Hey, hey,” came a voice over the line.
Daniel responded as he had hundreds of times before, “Hey.”
It was his friend Sam Anderson.
“How you doing?” he asked Sam.
“I’m fine,” he answered. “Going to go to Europe and bum around for a while.”
“Say what?!” Daniel asked with surprise.
”Yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna go to Europe,”
There was momentary pause. “Are you still there?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” responded Daniel, “I’m just surprised that’s all.” Then he thought to ask,
”How you going to get there,” Sam laughed.
“I’m going to fly,” he answered.
Daniel knew that he had asked a dumb question or had at the very least phrased it incorrectly. “No,” he shot back,”I mean how are you going pay for it?”
Daniel knew Sam always had money difficulties. Sam answered,”I got my income tax check so I’m going to buy a one way ticket.”
“A one way ticket?!” asked Daniel.
“Yeah, I don’t plan on coming back,” Sam continued.
Daniel thought this over for a few seconds. “How will you live?”
Sam had a smile in his voice and replied,” I’ll be a day laborer.” There was a long pause between the two men. Sam added, “Besides I still have a problem with junk.” He paused again than said, “I can’t quit fixing.”
Daniel just sat there and listened as Sam laid out his plans for a two year European vacation as he was calling it.
“And finally,” Sam concluded, “when I’ve seen and done it all, I’ll pull a Jim Morrison.”
Daniel recalled how Jim Morrison had died. He seemed to have it all. He was the lead singer of the group called the Doors. He had money and plenty of women yet he died during a heroin overdose.
Daniel sighed heavily. Then he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He thought to himself that Sam won’t go through with it. After a few more minutes of conversation they said good-bye to each other and Daniel hung up the telephone and returned to the proposal waiting on the computer.
“That was two years ago,” he said out loud as he continued to think.
“What was?” Iris asked
“It was two years ago that he said he was going to pull a Jim Morrison.”
Iris frowned, “So?”
“The obituary says,” he picked up the paper, “Sam Anderson died in his sleep while on vacation in Paris, France.”
Iris shook her head, “I still don’t get it.”
“That’s how Jim Morrison of the Doors died---in Paris in his sleep,” he said.
“I didn’t know that, “she replied.
Daniel got up from the table where he had been sharpening his knife. He picked up his coffee mug and stepped outside through the sliding glass door. He looked southward towards the remnants of Wedekind City and shed a silent tear for Sam Anderson.
“You’d best take a look at the obituary,” Iris said as she held out the section of the Reno Gazette Journal for him to read.
He looked up from sharpening his knife with a half smirk on his face, asking, “Why is my name in it?”
Daniel could tell by the look in his wife’s face that she was serious. He reached up and took the extended newspaper in hand. He scanned quickly through each name on the clean colored page. Suddenly his eye stopped searching. He had discovered the recognizable name of his friend.
”Well, I’ll be a son of a ..,” his voice trailed off as he read the obituary.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Sam?” his wife asked.
Daniel fumbled with the paper for a moment in an attempt to regain his composure.
“It’s been a couple of years,” he answered. Then he added, “Just before he headed for Europe. I didn’t think he’d follow through though.”
Again his voice trailed off as he re read the obituary and faded into a memory Sarah’s voice came over the intercom to the always busy promotions office, “Daniel, you have a call on line seven, Daniel, call line seven.”
Daniel pushed back from his computer dreading another interruption as the dead line for the proposal he was working on loomed closer. He picked up the receiver and pushed the button next to the red flashing light. “Hey, hey,” came a voice over the line.
Daniel responded as he had hundreds of times before, “Hey.”
It was his friend Sam Anderson.
“How you doing?” he asked Sam.
“I’m fine,” he answered. “Going to go to Europe and bum around for a while.”
“Say what?!” Daniel asked with surprise.
”Yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna go to Europe,”
There was momentary pause. “Are you still there?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” responded Daniel, “I’m just surprised that’s all.” Then he thought to ask,
”How you going to get there,” Sam laughed.
“I’m going to fly,” he answered.
Daniel knew that he had asked a dumb question or had at the very least phrased it incorrectly. “No,” he shot back,”I mean how are you going pay for it?”
Daniel knew Sam always had money difficulties. Sam answered,”I got my income tax check so I’m going to buy a one way ticket.”
“A one way ticket?!” asked Daniel.
“Yeah, I don’t plan on coming back,” Sam continued.
Daniel thought this over for a few seconds. “How will you live?”
Sam had a smile in his voice and replied,” I’ll be a day laborer.” There was a long pause between the two men. Sam added, “Besides I still have a problem with junk.” He paused again than said, “I can’t quit fixing.”
Daniel just sat there and listened as Sam laid out his plans for a two year European vacation as he was calling it.
“And finally,” Sam concluded, “when I’ve seen and done it all, I’ll pull a Jim Morrison.”
Daniel recalled how Jim Morrison had died. He seemed to have it all. He was the lead singer of the group called the Doors. He had money and plenty of women yet he died during a heroin overdose.
Daniel sighed heavily. Then he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He thought to himself that Sam won’t go through with it. After a few more minutes of conversation they said good-bye to each other and Daniel hung up the telephone and returned to the proposal waiting on the computer.
“That was two years ago,” he said out loud as he continued to think.
“What was?” Iris asked
“It was two years ago that he said he was going to pull a Jim Morrison.”
Iris frowned, “So?”
“The obituary says,” he picked up the paper, “Sam Anderson died in his sleep while on vacation in Paris, France.”
Iris shook her head, “I still don’t get it.”
“That’s how Jim Morrison of the Doors died---in Paris in his sleep,” he said.
“I didn’t know that, “she replied.
Daniel got up from the table where he had been sharpening his knife. He picked up his coffee mug and stepped outside through the sliding glass door. He looked southward towards the remnants of Wedekind City and shed a silent tear for Sam Anderson.
METALLIC THUNDER
It had started two weeks before when Karen had called Daniel and said, “We need to get your truck moved before it gets towed”
Daniel was in agreement, however life happened and his wife, Mary’s father died and the entire family had to go out of town for funeral arrangements and the funeral.
The next time Daniel heard from Karen was the evening they returned home.
She had left a trite message starting, “If you don’t get your truck moved, it’s going be impounded and then auctioned off.”
That peeved Daniel off right then and there. He picked up the telephone and called Karen’s house. Her husband answered. He told him plainly. “I don’t like to be threatened like that and if you’ll give me the address where I can come get it I have arrangements to have it towed.”
Karen’s husband replied, “Well, I’ll have to ask Karen if I can give you the address because I don’t know about that.”
Daniel cut him off “Is there something you guys are hiding?” No?” he replied
“Then just give me the address,” Daniel demanded, “I don’t want my truck to disappear suddenly.”
“It won’t,” the husband respond.
“What do you mean?” Daniel retorted. “It already has once. You moved it to a secret location without telling me without telling me and won’t tell me where it is now.”
“That’s up to Karen,” he said.
“Look I’ve been threatened with having it impounded and auctioned off and I don’t have a location where I can come get it. If those two things happen I will take action, do you understand me?” Daniel said.
“Are you threatening me?” he asked.
Daniel answered, “Nope, promising.” He gently hung up the telephone.
The following morning Karen called at 6:30am. “Hey, I didn’t like you threatening my man like that, “she said.
“I didn’t threaten, I promised. I need an address,” Daniel quickly cut to the point.
“I’ll call you right back,” she replied and hung up the telephone.
Finally, two hours later she called Daniel back with an address. “How fast can you get this thing out of here? She wanted to know. “I’ll have a tow truck ordered before I’m enroute and I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes,” Daniel answered. He was feeling pretty steamed because she had made him wait for so long.
As he pulled out of his driveway he called the tow service. They said they would be there within half an hour. Daniel sudden felt better. He was glad to be getting this done.
In less than twenty minutes he had pulled up in front of the house where he was told he could get his truck.
Unfortunately while he could see his truck in the back yard he could also see the two rottweiler dogs patrolling the area just beyond the “Beware of Dog” signs. Daniel got out of his truck and walked up to the front door and knocked on it three times. There was so answer. Again he knocked. There was still no answer.
He looked around and saw Karen’s pickup truck parked in the driveway so he knew she had to inside the house. He knocked once more. Again getting got no response, Daniel walked back to his car and reached inside, he picked up his cellular telephone. He dialed her cell-phone number.
She answered.
“Are you going to answer the door?” he asked.
She paused then said, “Not until the tow truck gets here.” Then she hung up.
Daniel climbed into his car and relaxed while waiting for the flat-bed tow truck to arrive. When it did, he walked up to the door and knocked again. This time Karen answered just as she said she would. “Can you put the dogs away?” he asked.
She smiled, “Their really sweethearts so it’s okay to go in.”
Karen closed the door. Something about the situation did not sit well within Daniel. He felt it appeared all too simple so he said to the tow truck operator, “Wait right here, I need to see how friendly these dogs really are.”
With that Daniel slowly opened the rolling gate. He knew his answer within a heart beat as both dogs alerted and raced towards Daniel growling and barking. Daniel pushed the gate closed as both dogs hit it with forceful violence. “Sweethearts my butt,” Daniel thought, “so let’s see how well she respects outlaws.”
Daniel walked over to his car and retrieved his cell phone once again. This time he called his brother Adam. He knew that his brother had contacts with some outlaw motorcycle gangs. “Hey Adam, I need some help,” he started off. Daniel explained the situation. A couple minutes later he hung up and walked over to the tow truck operator. “If you can come back in about 30 minutes, this situation should have cleared itself up, “
Daniel told him. “Yeah, I can do that,” he responded as he climbed up in his cab and drove away.
Karen shouted out the window, “See what you get for threatening me and my old man?”
Daniel just smiled at her and walked over to his car, casually leaning on it, not the least bit worried. He knew Adam would come through.
At first the sound was like that of freight train several miles away across the open plains, yet it grew louder and louder. Then the first of the bikes rolled into the narrow cul-de-sac, these were followed by even more motorcycles.
Soon the noise was deafening. The bikers, most in their gang colors, sat there revving the throttle as they waited for the return of the tow truck, Daniel was more than amused when he saw the look on tow truck drivers face as he wheeled the flat-bed truck around the corner only to find the street and cul-de-sac choked with the loud rumble of motor bikes.
As he stopped his tow truck, so did at the motorcycles’. They turned off their engines in unison. Daniel remained leaning against his car as the shortest member of the gang got off of his cycle and walked up the pathway to the front door of the house.
He knocked on the door and Karen slowly opened it.” “Ma’am,” he said, “We’ve come to retrieve our brother’s truck.”
Daniel couldn’t hear what Karen said. He could only see her lips move slightly. She disappeared behind the closed door. A minute later both dogs were called from the back yard and two of the motorcyclists went into the yard and pushed Daniel’s truck out into the street.
The tow truck operator hurriedly moved into position to load the truck. Once it was on the flat-bed, the motorcycle gang fired up their bikes and like metallic thunder, roared out of the cal-de-sac and down the street. Each one gave a salute to Daniel as they rode passed.
It had started two weeks before when Karen had called Daniel and said, “We need to get your truck moved before it gets towed”
Daniel was in agreement, however life happened and his wife, Mary’s father died and the entire family had to go out of town for funeral arrangements and the funeral.
The next time Daniel heard from Karen was the evening they returned home.
She had left a trite message starting, “If you don’t get your truck moved, it’s going be impounded and then auctioned off.”
That peeved Daniel off right then and there. He picked up the telephone and called Karen’s house. Her husband answered. He told him plainly. “I don’t like to be threatened like that and if you’ll give me the address where I can come get it I have arrangements to have it towed.”
Karen’s husband replied, “Well, I’ll have to ask Karen if I can give you the address because I don’t know about that.”
Daniel cut him off “Is there something you guys are hiding?” No?” he replied
“Then just give me the address,” Daniel demanded, “I don’t want my truck to disappear suddenly.”
“It won’t,” the husband respond.
“What do you mean?” Daniel retorted. “It already has once. You moved it to a secret location without telling me without telling me and won’t tell me where it is now.”
“That’s up to Karen,” he said.
“Look I’ve been threatened with having it impounded and auctioned off and I don’t have a location where I can come get it. If those two things happen I will take action, do you understand me?” Daniel said.
“Are you threatening me?” he asked.
Daniel answered, “Nope, promising.” He gently hung up the telephone.
The following morning Karen called at 6:30am. “Hey, I didn’t like you threatening my man like that, “she said.
“I didn’t threaten, I promised. I need an address,” Daniel quickly cut to the point.
“I’ll call you right back,” she replied and hung up the telephone.
Finally, two hours later she called Daniel back with an address. “How fast can you get this thing out of here? She wanted to know. “I’ll have a tow truck ordered before I’m enroute and I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes,” Daniel answered. He was feeling pretty steamed because she had made him wait for so long.
As he pulled out of his driveway he called the tow service. They said they would be there within half an hour. Daniel sudden felt better. He was glad to be getting this done.
In less than twenty minutes he had pulled up in front of the house where he was told he could get his truck.
Unfortunately while he could see his truck in the back yard he could also see the two rottweiler dogs patrolling the area just beyond the “Beware of Dog” signs. Daniel got out of his truck and walked up to the front door and knocked on it three times. There was so answer. Again he knocked. There was still no answer.
He looked around and saw Karen’s pickup truck parked in the driveway so he knew she had to inside the house. He knocked once more. Again getting got no response, Daniel walked back to his car and reached inside, he picked up his cellular telephone. He dialed her cell-phone number.
She answered.
“Are you going to answer the door?” he asked.
She paused then said, “Not until the tow truck gets here.” Then she hung up.
Daniel climbed into his car and relaxed while waiting for the flat-bed tow truck to arrive. When it did, he walked up to the door and knocked again. This time Karen answered just as she said she would. “Can you put the dogs away?” he asked.
She smiled, “Their really sweethearts so it’s okay to go in.”
Karen closed the door. Something about the situation did not sit well within Daniel. He felt it appeared all too simple so he said to the tow truck operator, “Wait right here, I need to see how friendly these dogs really are.”
With that Daniel slowly opened the rolling gate. He knew his answer within a heart beat as both dogs alerted and raced towards Daniel growling and barking. Daniel pushed the gate closed as both dogs hit it with forceful violence. “Sweethearts my butt,” Daniel thought, “so let’s see how well she respects outlaws.”
Daniel walked over to his car and retrieved his cell phone once again. This time he called his brother Adam. He knew that his brother had contacts with some outlaw motorcycle gangs. “Hey Adam, I need some help,” he started off. Daniel explained the situation. A couple minutes later he hung up and walked over to the tow truck operator. “If you can come back in about 30 minutes, this situation should have cleared itself up, “
Daniel told him. “Yeah, I can do that,” he responded as he climbed up in his cab and drove away.
Karen shouted out the window, “See what you get for threatening me and my old man?”
Daniel just smiled at her and walked over to his car, casually leaning on it, not the least bit worried. He knew Adam would come through.
At first the sound was like that of freight train several miles away across the open plains, yet it grew louder and louder. Then the first of the bikes rolled into the narrow cul-de-sac, these were followed by even more motorcycles.
Soon the noise was deafening. The bikers, most in their gang colors, sat there revving the throttle as they waited for the return of the tow truck, Daniel was more than amused when he saw the look on tow truck drivers face as he wheeled the flat-bed truck around the corner only to find the street and cul-de-sac choked with the loud rumble of motor bikes.
As he stopped his tow truck, so did at the motorcycles’. They turned off their engines in unison. Daniel remained leaning against his car as the shortest member of the gang got off of his cycle and walked up the pathway to the front door of the house.
He knocked on the door and Karen slowly opened it.” “Ma’am,” he said, “We’ve come to retrieve our brother’s truck.”
Daniel couldn’t hear what Karen said. He could only see her lips move slightly. She disappeared behind the closed door. A minute later both dogs were called from the back yard and two of the motorcyclists went into the yard and pushed Daniel’s truck out into the street.
The tow truck operator hurriedly moved into position to load the truck. Once it was on the flat-bed, the motorcycle gang fired up their bikes and like metallic thunder, roared out of the cal-de-sac and down the street. Each one gave a salute to Daniel as they rode passed.
Saturday, August 6, 2005
A BOX TURTLE IN A BAG
The sun was setting in the Oklahoma sky as the pair drove towards Tulsa from the smaller town of Muskogee. It had been the first time Kyle had ever been to the town in which his Grandpa Tom had grown up and later died. Now he and his Dad were returning to their hotel room after a full days visit.
“Those are armadillo along side the road,” Kyle said. He was talking about the mangled bodies of the hard-shelled animals, now road kill which lay along the highway as they sped by.
His Dad, Tommy, thought to himself, "Cripes, I hope we don’t hit one of those things.” He knew that if an armadillo ran out in front of their car it would cause considerable damage.
Just then Kyle yelled, “Look out!”
Tommy jerked the car hard to the right, attempting to avoid a rock in the path of his tires. But it was too late, he struck it and it ricocheted off the bottom of the car twice.
His son spun around in his seat to look out the back window, “You just ran over a turtle!” He looked at his Dad, expecting him to stop.
The look worked. Slowly Tommy backed the car up to where the object lay in the middle of their travel lane. He got out and walked over to it. Kyle was right, it was a turtle.
The creature was dead though as all four of its legs hung limp from its shell, as did its head. To make matters worse, the turtles tongue dangled loosely from it slack jaw. Tommy returned to the car and was met by Kyle.
“Ah, the poor little guy,” Kyle said, as he held out his hands to hold it. “I can’t believe we killed it.” He was obviously saddened by the whole affair as he slumped down by the side of the car while Tommy opened the trunk of the car and searched for a plastic bag. “Yuck, he just crapped on me!” Kyle shouted.
Tommy laughed at his son as he took the dead turtle from him and put it in the empty grocery bag. And as Kyle was cleaning the turtle dung off his hiking shorts, the deceased reptile was placed in the empty ice chest inside the car’s trunk. Then the pair continued down the road.
The following day, Kyle and his Dad had plans to bury the turtle on one of the many little side roads in the area. They ate breakfast and wondered out to the car.
It was Kyle who decided to pop open the trunk and look at the remains of the turtle again. When he did, he was surprised to find the plastic white bag moving around in circles. He hollered, “Dad, it’s alive!”
“Well I’ll be,” was all Tommy could say. He was surprise to see the plastic bag as it bumped into the sides and corners of the ice chest. Gently he reached down and picked everything up. The little beast was strong as ever and struggling to get out of the bag.
He held on to the bag as Kyle reached in and pulled the turtle out. He set the softball-sized reptile on the asphalt near the car and watched it. At first the animal didn’t seem to want to go anywhere, and then he started walking in circles. The circles were to the right only.
Tommy looked at his son and said, “We can’t very well let him go like this.”
Kyle smiled, “Then can I keep him as a pet?”
“Only, if he doesn’t get better before we get home,” was his Dad’s answer.
They spent the next hour getting the needed supplies such as an aquarium, bedding and worms for their journey back to Nevada. They wanted to make the trip home for the new pet as comfortable as possible.
It took the box turtle two days too stop walking in circles, by that time the pair were in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Kyle decided to name his pet turtle ‘Keeble,’ after a cartoon character he knew.
Still, Tommy knew there was something not quite right with the thing. For instance, it refused to retract its head or legs when either he or Kyle came near it. That seemed unusual. Every turtle Tommy had ever come across had reacted to the presence of a human by retreating into its shell.
‘Keeble’ also had no problem being hand fed, though watching him eat a worm was nasty business. Finally, there was the fact that the turtle followed Kyle everywhere as if Kyle were its family. This forced Tommy to keep the turtle with them knowing it would not have sense enough to protect itself in the wild.
That night Kyle asked to talk to his step-mom. He decided to tell her about ‘Keeble.’ Instantly Tommy could tell that the conversation was not going too well when Kyle said, “Hey Lynn, it could be worse.” The thirteen year old paused for a second, “We could have run over an armadillo and be bringing that home instead.”
Tommy had to step outside the hotel room so his wife wouldn’t hear him laughing.
The sun was setting in the Oklahoma sky as the pair drove towards Tulsa from the smaller town of Muskogee. It had been the first time Kyle had ever been to the town in which his Grandpa Tom had grown up and later died. Now he and his Dad were returning to their hotel room after a full days visit.
“Those are armadillo along side the road,” Kyle said. He was talking about the mangled bodies of the hard-shelled animals, now road kill which lay along the highway as they sped by.
His Dad, Tommy, thought to himself, "Cripes, I hope we don’t hit one of those things.” He knew that if an armadillo ran out in front of their car it would cause considerable damage.
Just then Kyle yelled, “Look out!”
Tommy jerked the car hard to the right, attempting to avoid a rock in the path of his tires. But it was too late, he struck it and it ricocheted off the bottom of the car twice.
His son spun around in his seat to look out the back window, “You just ran over a turtle!” He looked at his Dad, expecting him to stop.
The look worked. Slowly Tommy backed the car up to where the object lay in the middle of their travel lane. He got out and walked over to it. Kyle was right, it was a turtle.
The creature was dead though as all four of its legs hung limp from its shell, as did its head. To make matters worse, the turtles tongue dangled loosely from it slack jaw. Tommy returned to the car and was met by Kyle.
“Ah, the poor little guy,” Kyle said, as he held out his hands to hold it. “I can’t believe we killed it.” He was obviously saddened by the whole affair as he slumped down by the side of the car while Tommy opened the trunk of the car and searched for a plastic bag. “Yuck, he just crapped on me!” Kyle shouted.
Tommy laughed at his son as he took the dead turtle from him and put it in the empty grocery bag. And as Kyle was cleaning the turtle dung off his hiking shorts, the deceased reptile was placed in the empty ice chest inside the car’s trunk. Then the pair continued down the road.
The following day, Kyle and his Dad had plans to bury the turtle on one of the many little side roads in the area. They ate breakfast and wondered out to the car.
It was Kyle who decided to pop open the trunk and look at the remains of the turtle again. When he did, he was surprised to find the plastic white bag moving around in circles. He hollered, “Dad, it’s alive!”
“Well I’ll be,” was all Tommy could say. He was surprise to see the plastic bag as it bumped into the sides and corners of the ice chest. Gently he reached down and picked everything up. The little beast was strong as ever and struggling to get out of the bag.
He held on to the bag as Kyle reached in and pulled the turtle out. He set the softball-sized reptile on the asphalt near the car and watched it. At first the animal didn’t seem to want to go anywhere, and then he started walking in circles. The circles were to the right only.
Tommy looked at his son and said, “We can’t very well let him go like this.”
Kyle smiled, “Then can I keep him as a pet?”
“Only, if he doesn’t get better before we get home,” was his Dad’s answer.
They spent the next hour getting the needed supplies such as an aquarium, bedding and worms for their journey back to Nevada. They wanted to make the trip home for the new pet as comfortable as possible.
It took the box turtle two days too stop walking in circles, by that time the pair were in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Kyle decided to name his pet turtle ‘Keeble,’ after a cartoon character he knew.
Still, Tommy knew there was something not quite right with the thing. For instance, it refused to retract its head or legs when either he or Kyle came near it. That seemed unusual. Every turtle Tommy had ever come across had reacted to the presence of a human by retreating into its shell.
‘Keeble’ also had no problem being hand fed, though watching him eat a worm was nasty business. Finally, there was the fact that the turtle followed Kyle everywhere as if Kyle were its family. This forced Tommy to keep the turtle with them knowing it would not have sense enough to protect itself in the wild.
That night Kyle asked to talk to his step-mom. He decided to tell her about ‘Keeble.’ Instantly Tommy could tell that the conversation was not going too well when Kyle said, “Hey Lynn, it could be worse.” The thirteen year old paused for a second, “We could have run over an armadillo and be bringing that home instead.”
Tommy had to step outside the hotel room so his wife wouldn’t hear him laughing.
Monday, March 7, 2005
SHOT FOR A KNOT
It had been a rather pleasant autumn day for a Civil War reenactment. Daniel pulled his truck up under the “Hanging Tree,” as it was known in Genoa. The small town had once been called Mormon Station and was the oldest known settlement in northern Nevada. Today however it was being overrun with visitors for the annual Candy Dance and Daniel was there to be an active participant.
His unit, consisting of both Confederate and Union forces had established a small encampment in front of the towns museum. It had a beautiful sloping hill with a nice shade of trees and place ready made for recruiting new members to the organization and that’s what Daniel set about doing.
It wasn’t until after late afternoon that he was relieved by another member so that he might be able to take in some of the sights and sounds of the festival. Daniel was tickled to discover that he also had the privilege to escort Miss Katherine Marie and her South Georgia friend Miss Christine through the event grounds.
Together the trio headed happily along the rows of venders displaying the many crafts and arts of the day. Miss Katherine Marie shined in her purple evening gown and Miss Christine flashed wildly in her red satin dress. Daniel stood out like a sore thumb between the two in his dark blue wool uniform. Still they absorbed the festive atmosphere.
It was Daniel who saw the trouble that was approaching them in the form of gunslingers. He recognized them as Southern sympathizers who would not let him pass due to the fact that he was wearing Union blue. To make matters worse, Daniel realized he was unarmed.
“I see we have ourselves a Blue Belly,” said the leader of the band.
The leader stepped up and into Daniel’s path, barring his ability to continue escorting the two women.
Daniel paused, smiled and said, “Excuse me, sir you are in the way of these two ladies.”
The leader looked around and then said, “No, I’m in your way Billy Yank. Are you prepared to die or make music?”
Daniel said nothing.
“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said the leader. He paused, and then proceeded to tell, though no one had inquired, “I’m Doc Holliday and I come from Georgia.”
With that he threw back the right bottom of his jacket, exposing an ivory handled six shooter.
“As you can see Doc Holliday of Georgia, I have come unarmed,” Daniel calmly replied, “as being prepared to die or make music, I am a believer in Jesus Christ, so I am forever ready for death.”
He slowly reached into his sack coat and with drew a silver harmonica, “I am also prepared to make music.”
Daniel blew into the little device sounding out, “Dixie.” The group laughed and wished each other well then continued down the street in opposite directions.
The streets had long since closed up, the vendors had packed away their goods, the friendly face of Old Man Moon had shined his smile between the riffles of clouds which layered the night-time sky and the festivities had moved themselves to the dance. And it was after nine when the threesome decided that fifteen hours was enough for one day.
They decided to head back to where there vehicles were parked. It was a large now, mostly vacant field, filled with fresh cut hay, bordered by rows of cottonwood trees including the infamous “Hanging Tree.”
Once they got to the car that Kathy and Christy were driving, the two women decided that they had enough of the hoops they were wearing under their dresses. Kathy’s came off without any problem.
However, Christy’s hoop had developed a knot and refused to be undone. It was decided that Daniel needed to get his truck and get a flashlight so that the situation could be better looked at.
Minutes later, Daniel found himself standing in the middle of an open field hold a flashlight on the backside of Christy as Kathy worked to get the knot undone. The knot was proving to be more difficult to get out than it was to get in.
“I told you not to tie it in a knot,” Christy scolded Kathy.
“I know,” answered Kathy.
Daniel added his two-cents worth, “We can always cut it.”
“No!” was the resounding reply from both ladies.
A few more minutes of picking at the knot produced no more success than when they first started. Kathy was getting annoyed and Christy was exasperated.
“Here, hold my hat,” Daniel said to Kathy. She took his kepi.
He bent over and grasped the knot between his teeth and rolled it over a couple of times. He could hear Christy ask, “What in the world are you doing?”
Suddenly the knot loosened and the cotton sash that held the hoop skirt up slipped away. At that same moment there was a heavy sound from the right of the trio. It was some one walking through the hay field.
“Why you Yankee Bast…” it was Doc’s voice. Daniel recalled it from earlier in the day. It was heavier and he sounded sluggish. It occurred to Daniel that the man was perhaps intoxicated. Doc never finished the sentence, or if he had the sound of his voice was interrupted by the report of his black powder pistol discharging towards Daniel.
Daniel had seen him as he walked up to the car and then fumble for the six shooter. Now Daniel found himself temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash of the pistol.
Quickly the two women raced to get into the awaiting car. They drove out of the field like old-time moon shiners with the revenue man hot on their heels. Daniel ran for his truck too, high tailing it out of the field behind the women.
It wouldn’t be until he was half way through Carson City that he would come to realize that he was at a reenactment.
Daniel looked at his bloodied knuckles and wondered aloud, “Will Doc remember shooting at me or that I broke his nose?”
It had been a rather pleasant autumn day for a Civil War reenactment. Daniel pulled his truck up under the “Hanging Tree,” as it was known in Genoa. The small town had once been called Mormon Station and was the oldest known settlement in northern Nevada. Today however it was being overrun with visitors for the annual Candy Dance and Daniel was there to be an active participant.
His unit, consisting of both Confederate and Union forces had established a small encampment in front of the towns museum. It had a beautiful sloping hill with a nice shade of trees and place ready made for recruiting new members to the organization and that’s what Daniel set about doing.
It wasn’t until after late afternoon that he was relieved by another member so that he might be able to take in some of the sights and sounds of the festival. Daniel was tickled to discover that he also had the privilege to escort Miss Katherine Marie and her South Georgia friend Miss Christine through the event grounds.
Together the trio headed happily along the rows of venders displaying the many crafts and arts of the day. Miss Katherine Marie shined in her purple evening gown and Miss Christine flashed wildly in her red satin dress. Daniel stood out like a sore thumb between the two in his dark blue wool uniform. Still they absorbed the festive atmosphere.
It was Daniel who saw the trouble that was approaching them in the form of gunslingers. He recognized them as Southern sympathizers who would not let him pass due to the fact that he was wearing Union blue. To make matters worse, Daniel realized he was unarmed.
“I see we have ourselves a Blue Belly,” said the leader of the band.
The leader stepped up and into Daniel’s path, barring his ability to continue escorting the two women.
Daniel paused, smiled and said, “Excuse me, sir you are in the way of these two ladies.”
The leader looked around and then said, “No, I’m in your way Billy Yank. Are you prepared to die or make music?”
Daniel said nothing.
“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said the leader. He paused, and then proceeded to tell, though no one had inquired, “I’m Doc Holliday and I come from Georgia.”
With that he threw back the right bottom of his jacket, exposing an ivory handled six shooter.
“As you can see Doc Holliday of Georgia, I have come unarmed,” Daniel calmly replied, “as being prepared to die or make music, I am a believer in Jesus Christ, so I am forever ready for death.”
He slowly reached into his sack coat and with drew a silver harmonica, “I am also prepared to make music.”
Daniel blew into the little device sounding out, “Dixie.” The group laughed and wished each other well then continued down the street in opposite directions.
The streets had long since closed up, the vendors had packed away their goods, the friendly face of Old Man Moon had shined his smile between the riffles of clouds which layered the night-time sky and the festivities had moved themselves to the dance. And it was after nine when the threesome decided that fifteen hours was enough for one day.
They decided to head back to where there vehicles were parked. It was a large now, mostly vacant field, filled with fresh cut hay, bordered by rows of cottonwood trees including the infamous “Hanging Tree.”
Once they got to the car that Kathy and Christy were driving, the two women decided that they had enough of the hoops they were wearing under their dresses. Kathy’s came off without any problem.
However, Christy’s hoop had developed a knot and refused to be undone. It was decided that Daniel needed to get his truck and get a flashlight so that the situation could be better looked at.
Minutes later, Daniel found himself standing in the middle of an open field hold a flashlight on the backside of Christy as Kathy worked to get the knot undone. The knot was proving to be more difficult to get out than it was to get in.
“I told you not to tie it in a knot,” Christy scolded Kathy.
“I know,” answered Kathy.
Daniel added his two-cents worth, “We can always cut it.”
“No!” was the resounding reply from both ladies.
A few more minutes of picking at the knot produced no more success than when they first started. Kathy was getting annoyed and Christy was exasperated.
“Here, hold my hat,” Daniel said to Kathy. She took his kepi.
He bent over and grasped the knot between his teeth and rolled it over a couple of times. He could hear Christy ask, “What in the world are you doing?”
Suddenly the knot loosened and the cotton sash that held the hoop skirt up slipped away. At that same moment there was a heavy sound from the right of the trio. It was some one walking through the hay field.
“Why you Yankee Bast…” it was Doc’s voice. Daniel recalled it from earlier in the day. It was heavier and he sounded sluggish. It occurred to Daniel that the man was perhaps intoxicated. Doc never finished the sentence, or if he had the sound of his voice was interrupted by the report of his black powder pistol discharging towards Daniel.
Daniel had seen him as he walked up to the car and then fumble for the six shooter. Now Daniel found himself temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash of the pistol.
Quickly the two women raced to get into the awaiting car. They drove out of the field like old-time moon shiners with the revenue man hot on their heels. Daniel ran for his truck too, high tailing it out of the field behind the women.
It wouldn’t be until he was half way through Carson City that he would come to realize that he was at a reenactment.
Daniel looked at his bloodied knuckles and wondered aloud, “Will Doc remember shooting at me or that I broke his nose?”
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