short stories – Page 6 – Aremyfeetofftheground

Randy Randy

So many human foibles have we. So many.
In the mid 1960’s, we lived in a fourplex, and had some new neighbors move in. It was a mother and her teenaged son, and we got to know them and to be friends. The son’s name was Randy. He was a skinny, wiry little guy, something like a young Mick Jagger, with kind of a hard looking streetwise countenance. He may have been a year or two older than I, but we chummed around anyway, being convenient to each other.

About fifteen years old at the time, I was easily impressed (and corrupted) by his cunning ways, and by the picture he presented of being a rebel against his mother’s authority. Each escapade of his seemed to top the last one. Looking at it now, I think he was acting out because of his broken home life and estrangement from his father. He never talked about it.

We got involved in some small time misdemeanors, such as creeping out in the middle of the night and running down the street in our sock feet with a shopping bag to rob a coke machine at the local gas station, using his deft technique, learned from who knows where. He came on vacation with us one time, to a cottage we rented each summer, then suggested we go for a long walk, whereupon he magically produced some bags from his trousers, and we pilfered a local farmer’s garden. We were chased before we got far, but managed to elude the pursuit in the bush. Farmer Maggot never did catch us.

Things got more serious later on in this career of crime. Randy got involved with drugs, and his behavior became more erratic and unpredictable. He made it known that he had a gun, but of this I am not certain. He was still allowed into our house, as my parents didn’t know. One night, while we were playing poker, he took out a small bottle from his pants and began to sniff it. Nail polish remover. It had an instant effect upon him, and he did some crazy and destructive things. We got him to his house and left him with his mother, and we had to explain to our own folks what had happened. That was effectively the end of our association, and it wasn’t long before he moved away. A short time later, I heard that he had been picked up for grand theft, and was spending time at juvenile hall.

It may seem wrong to have “Sympathy for the Devil”, but there are a few things that I will always carry with me about Randy…..he needed a friend, and so did I, and it happened. The little hints that one could divine from his conversation showed what kinds of wounds he had within his soul.

And, lastly, he may have saved my life one night when we were attacked by a group of hoodlums trying to show off to their girlfriends. They got us from behind, pulled us down on the pavement, and began the beating. Six against two. I didn’t know how to fight, but he did. We both took a pretty good beating, but my wiry little skinny friend managed to defend both of us until they took off. The last memory I had was of Randy beating one guy’s head against the pavement, before someone came along and called an ambulance.

Nobody home

It’s like a boogeyman tale from when we were kids. I’ve been in this town for thirty years, and do quite a bit of walking. I suppose I could say I have been by her door more than five hundred times.

Reputedly, the spinster (or widow, depending on which story you believe) either inherited, or was born, in this house. Back in its day, it may have been reasonably fashionable, but from my picture you can see it has fallen into decay. There have never been any men, at least none that anyone knows of or will talk about. I personally do not even know how she survives or gets her supplies, and it’s a subject that few want to talk about.

Some of the vile things I have heard I will credit to the overactive imaginations of adolescents. Freezers in the basement, full of who knows what, or who. An overabundance of felines, whose population reputedly has dwindled with the last few years. Pungent cooking smells coming from the place. Ashes and tiny bone fragments in the back garden. All my eyes have seen, and can confirm, are the broken windows, mossy carpets on the outside of the place, weeks and weeks of newspapers which accumulate until some good Samaritan collects them, and, yes, on a handful of occasions, the specter herself (or so I suppose).

My own imagination is overactive at times, and I am something of a romantic bookworm, and so I will say that the pale, grassy-haired figure with sunken eyes vies for comparison between two literary figures of old: The ghost of Catherine Earnshaw scrabbling at the dark window in Wuthering Heights, and the cobwebbed Miss Havisham
from Great Expectations. She appears at odd times peeking through moth eaten drapes of lace, never in full view, and quickly withdrawing once she has seen what she has needed to see. Uncomfortably, it has been me on a few occasions.

I have not met a single soul who has ever spoken to her, or seen her out of doors. As for me, I am divided between a sense of dread and one of exciting mystery, and have more than once considered plucking up the courage to rap on her door.

Do wish me luck, reader, for, if this gets the best of me, I may come to know more about Miss Earnshaw-Havisham than is good for me.

Perhaps the newspapers will begin to pile up in front of MY door.

A singular invasion

In the tumble-dry furnace of Nevada afternoon, a snoop escapes notice.
This impostor, a perfect artifice of thought and design, drifts (seemingly) in congress with its confrères, deployed seeds of the dandelion delicate. Fluffy copters of the air currents. Through chain link warnings, as good as a ghost. This tiny spiny cousin to the drone. Cheating the clever camouflage, its flight is sure. Into penny sized vents it is guided and, when needed, waits for a chance entrance. Soon now, soon, thinks a white- haired man in Ecuador. The Great and Secret Show will be known.

Vignettes in Yellow Brick

We were kids
In the old apartment,
Just sprouting into adolescence
Not in poverty
But we knew
Who the Bailiff was
And somehow
We were always saved
And could always stay
The bricks were yellow
The hallways dim with dirt
Broken windows
Smelly carpets
Pothole pavement
Freeze in winter
Boil in summer
Lazy landlord
Nothing fixed on time
But pay the rent we must
On time
It was home I think
For nigh on ten years
My brother and I
We two, inseparable
Bunk beds, one room
That was us
He had the top one
He was lightest
But not light enough
He came crashing down
On me, one night
Bolts not tight. What a fright
That got fixed, then one night
We had spaghetti for dinner
He got sick
Over the side, down the ladder
We fell in with little hooligans
Maybe we were hooligans at heart
Made stun guns
From sawed off hockey sticks
With clothespin triggers
Holding tight bands of rubber
With bobby pin bullets
The Police did not like this much
And we heard about something called
Juvenile Hall
Guns confiscated
Wrists slapped
Started a gang
With pretend wooden swords
And Mom’s old sheets for flags.
You’ll put someone’s eye out with that
The side door at Yellow Brick
Had a tall narrow window
So you could see outside
Coming down the stairs
It got smashed
And was left open
For a day or two or three
Our friend Stanley
Got used to running down the steps
And right through the open gap
Until one day the glass man came
And we didn’t know
We heard a loud crash
And screaming
Stanley nearly died
He was so cut up
The neighbors brought towels
They were soaked in his blood
There was a fire in the night
Outside in our underwear
In October, all clear
My little brother had a special friend
Named Stewie
But they moved away
His Mom Sophie would drive him
For visits, sometimes overnight
One time, she came to get him
They went to go home
And were never heard from again
Died on the road
Bad crash
Our little girlie friends
Started growing a little
I liked Rosie, and brought her cookies
Puppy love
There was Arlene too
She took needles every day
And the backs of her legs were red
We loved Elvis
And at thirteen came The Beatles
Change in the world
I went to work as a bagel baker
At thirteen. At thirteen.
Life had new things in store
It was our time
To leave the street we called
The Yellow Brick Road.

***

[Image: https://pixabay.com/users/mabelamber-1377835/%5D

Found in a diary

Today, my Manna told me stories of the stars. How we, at the Hub, sent our Envoys far far afield, long ago in the Folding Times. How one of them came to a world of blue and green and white. Many lived there, but still there was much room, and bounty for all. Fleeces of white beauty floated in their skies. There were depths of flowing waters, yes! If you can believe. Creatures many and varied. Years divided by the weathers, and blessed by a life-giving sun. The one who stopped there saw these things. I said to my Manna “Why treat me as a child? These are fairytales to make us think there is a Heaven, no?” My Manna smiles and hugs me, tousles my hair. After all, I will turn 1,562 tomorrow.

Blackstars

Through a half inch chink in my prison of warm rubble, I stare. Gluttonous for the light. I screamed, at first. Now, breath is shallow and rationed. In thirty minutes, I will manage a gooselike honk. I am held motionless and squeezed in painful pincers of crazy two-by-fours, in steel and glass. I squat. I smell of myself. Never been so familiar with my own kneecaps. One arm, my best one, captive by a deadly weight. The clockwork beams coming through my spyhole show me flesh, so purple. I thirst. Three nights I count, and I am fading. These nights have been clear, and I see a star selection. For a while, the burning smell permeated all. Now, it is my own effluent and decay. I babble to myself ….the sad joke is on you now, brother. You proud atheist. If there was a Pride Parade for such, you would have been the flag bearer. You feel like praying now, don’t you? But you don’t know to whom.

All of this day, this bright dreamlike day, I see stars too. They are before me, black spiders pulsing. Please.

Haraview Burgers

Going on 50 years ago, I first began driving highway 11 north into Ontario’s Muskoka country. I and a group of friends were weekend campers in a park north of Severn Bridge. Just south of our campground, a burger place had opened. I never did stop there because it was so close to our destination and because of the sometimes difficult task of getting back onto the highway again. Haraview Burgers it was called, and I do remember a small sign in their parking lot that said something like “Best burgers around. Recommended by Kingsmill of the Toronto Star”.

In all of those camping trips, and the subsequent 40 years of driving past it on the way to North Bay with my wife, I noticed a few things: It seemed to have been operational for only a short time, maybe a year or two. After that, there was a CLOSED sign on the door. At first I thought that they were only going to open in the summer months, but that never happened.

Curiously, the place seems to have been reasonably well maintained over the years. The signs are still up, but I have seen no evidence of occupancy. The single exception to this is a curl of smoke I saw coming from its chimney one winter day. The photos I have presented here were taken about two weeks ago. I actually stopped there to take a look around. No one was about, and I did not knock on their door. I have never been able to glean any information about the place, even from the great God of Google, or from social media.

It now has a fresh paint job, but still has the persona of a burger place. I really do wonder how many people have actually pulled into that driveway in fifty years. My imagination says that perhaps an old hermit lives there who gets amusement out of peering through his curtains at the disappointed tourists that come and go from his property. Or, it could be a front for some kind of nefarious business, haha.

Next trip, I may just summon the nerve to investigate a little further. I will keep you posted.

Jack’s winter

Jack sat in the living room of his big old house, chewing on a dry sandwich of rye bread and rubber cheese slices. No butter. Too hard to spread. A container labelled “Milkshake” was in his left hand, to wash it down. Too tired to bother reading labels anymore, he knew that the cheese and the milkshake were likely made of some chemical cocktail, and about as nutritious as eating Kleenex.

Surrounded by stacked up boxes, he had just enough room to peer out of the front window, waiting on the movers to come. Now, at 69, Jack was alone. Irene had died six weeks before, and Jack didn’t want this house any more. Sure, he could move in with his kids but, no. There was not a chance he would do it. He and the kids were pretty close, so it was not because of their relationship that he nixed it. This old man was smart enough to know that something like that would change everyone’s routines, and the last thing he wanted was to be in the way. Besides, he was still healthy enough to be on his own for a while.

He had five crisp hundred dollar bills in his pocket to give to the movers as a tip, if they deserved it. He’d been in that business as a young man, and knew it was no picnic. Between Irene’s life insurance and his sale of the house, he had nearly two million. A small apartment with a view had attracted his attention. It was uptown, overlooking a manmade lake. A quiet and well groomed neighborhood. He had given them the deposit, and that was where he was going to end up tonight. The other thing he had in his pocket was a folded envelope. It contained five prepaid credit cards worth a thousand bucks each. He had plans for those.

The movers arrived within the hour. There were four reasonably burly guys in their 30’s and 40’s, and a teenage red-haired kid who looked skinny but wiry. The kid looked a little nervous, standing there and shifting from one foot to the other. One of the guys looked at him, shook his head, and said “Jimmy, let’s go. I told you it’s your job to start packing the boxes into the overhead. Start with the heavy stuff and use it as a base. We’re gonna get the furniture padded and ready to go. Hey, where’s the dolly? You should have brought it with you!” Jimmy nodded quickly and went up the ramp into the truck.

Jack spoke to the guy, saying “Don’t be hard on the kid. He looks like he’s trying. He’ll work out for you.” The guy just gave him a sidelong glance. As the afternoon went on, Jack noticed they were giving Jimmy quite the workout, putting him on the wrong end of kitchen appliances, heavy dressers from upstairs, and leaving him most of the boxes as well.

In about five hours, they pretty well had it done. Jack had made them coffees and sandwiches for a break in between. Jimmy had asked to use the washroom before they went. He seemed to be gone for a while, so Jack went upstairs to check on him. Jimmy came out, and had obviously been crying. Jack said “What’s up, buddy?” Jimmy sat down on a chair and said “My Mom died three weeks ago. My Dad left us two years ago. Now it’s just me and two brothers and a sister. I don’t know what we’re gonna do. I started with these guys two weeks ago, but I’m finding it hard to keep up.”

Going downstairs, Jack said to the mover boss “Listen, can you get along at the other end without this fella? He’s sick, and I want to drive him home. If you need someone else, get them, and I’ll pay the extra”. The guy grumbled a little bit and said “Well, he never told us anything, but if there’s an elevator we can use, we’ll be alright. Just take a little longer.” Jack said “Right, I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

So it was that he took Jimmy home, and met his younger siblings, who were trying to cook macaroni and wieners on a hotplate. He took an old business card out of his wallet and wrote a phone number on it, then gave Jimmy one of the hundred dollar bills and a couple of the credit cards. “Look, this will be enough to keep you going for a little while. You’ve got a tough road ahead, but I think you can do it. Call me and let me know how you’re doing.”

At his new apartment, most of his stuff had gone into storage. Unneeded furniture and what not. Jack gave each of the guys their tips and thanked them. The day was finally done, and he was once again alone. He was warm and dry, and had lots of food.
Well. He wouldn’t be home much anyway. Irene, with her optimistic spirit and her charitable ways, had changed him a great deal. He had plans for the winter. They involved more credit cards, and the little wagon he had in the basement. It would hold a good amount of groceries. The people sleeping with a sheet of cardboard between them and the sidewalk would do a little better this year.

Follow Jack’s last adventure here:

https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/03/07/oh-that-magic-feeling/

At the X-Ray dept.

Well, I went in for a CT scan today. More about that in a minute. If you’re lucky enough not to have been for X-rays, you may not relate to some of this. What is with those gowns they make you put on? The nurse tells you ” please strip from the waist down (or waist up), and put on the gown. It ties up in the back.” Yes. Sure. It ties in the back. Now, I have always prided myself on being able to tie my own shoes with a flourish, but trying to tie bows behind your back is like doing brain surgery with a catchers mitt on. Why can’t they give you a bathrobe style thing with a string around the waist that you can do up? Easier and more dignified. They’re going to want it open anyways, right? And don’t even get me started about those ones with three arm holes.

As for the scan, the first thing she tells me is that they are going to put a bigger than normal needle into me so they can inject the special fluid into my system. Right away, I am at ease. And, it hurt like freaking hell. To add to the calmness, she informs me that the special fluid has certain properties, and can cause certain reactions, the most common of which are hot flashes and an instant urge to pee. Less common side effects can include difficulty breathing, and numbness in the lips. I am to report these things so they can give me an emergency antidote. Fine. Just fine. I am on the table now, rolling slowly towards the scanner. I hear a voice say OK Mr. Dunn, here comes the fluid. Almost instantly, I have a fever, a bad taste in my mouth, and I really really have to pee. (Actually, I had to go before I even got on the table, but was too embarrassed to say anything).

Then, the machine itself speaks to me. “Take a deep breath, and hold it for 15 seconds”.

Please, just kill me now.

Aberration

On the third floor of the stacked parking garage, I sit hunkered down. Locked in the dirty black Jetta that I’ve squeezed into a sardine can spot, almost touching the concrete wall. It’s what I want. No one can get in from either side. The spate of pounding grey rain outside panders to the mood. I can watch from here. See what passes under the showerhead streetlights. Too much nondescript traffic pulsing, pulsing, all bleached black in the deluge. The time window is long tonight, and I’ve smoked my last half pack. I risk rolling down a window to let out the blue, then think shit, I shoulda left it. It’ll last longer. In my jacket pocket, there’s a cyanide candy for me. A glossy gel cap, in case they come and find a way to bust the armored glass. Quick dissolving. There’s someone I have to find and readjust. Tonight, it’s a She. A needle in a haystack, so I’ve been told. After all, this is Tokyo. But I am secure in my own self, and I know what I can do. The coordinates are true. I know that the one I wait for will be more nondescript than even the rest of the floaters going by. It’s always the way. They think it’s perfect camouflage, but subtlety’s been my study for a while now. I open the glove box, fumble around for more ciggies, no luck. Until I touch a long plastic tube. Yesss, it’s that Kanda Leaf cigar that buddy gave me from off world. Maybe a little stale now, but it’ll do, for more blue. The things that I know about the Runners mean that there’s a big price on my head. I have to stop her, empty her hard drives, and feed in some handy counterpoints. Otherwise, they’re going to be successful in slipping this aberration of time into”Our” continuum. This has been their seventh attempt, and they are here for a reason: to eliminate a bloodline, to prevent what they see as a catastrophic event that will bring their world order down, five thousand years from our “Now”.