P4U

 

 The Touch of a Woman

As he slowly crept down the hall in silence that morning his heart was in his throat. The house was quiet. It was amazing. With all the people sleeping after dinner, not one was awake, the object of his desire sleeping a mere ten yards away behind a closed door sat at the end of the hall.  But the doors were closed. Not a sound. Not even snoring. And behind one door she was sleeping.

 

How many nights had he longed for just one look. To just watch her sleep. Every night as she went to her bedroom, she bade him a good night as she passed by, exchanging looks as the scent of her shower drifted across him. He could envision her rinsing the soap from her body, as he watched her walk to her room, her wet, auburn hair hanging loose just past her shoulders and her silk robe clinging to her form. How many nights had he imagined that form in his mind, wanting just one more second as she went to her bed, and tonight his passion had overwhelmed him and he was venturing down that hall to what? A woman waiting for his touch? Or a polite young lady who was kind to a friend of her mother in town for holiday? What men burn in their crazy minds!

 

But his hand slowly turned the knob.  Gently, ever so gently, he eased her door open. Her scent drifted across him as the moonlight came through her window, outlining her form beneath the sheets. He stood there. Her bare foot was exposed, the very sight of it arousing him. Her arms were extended above her head. From under the sheets, he could see the outline of her breasts rising and falling ever so slightly with her every breath. Then she turned her head in her sleep, stretching, and arching her back ever so slightly. Her breath escaped her lips followed by a low whimper. She was dreaming.

 

He moved forward slowly, ever so slowly, watching her body rise and fall in quiet rhythm with her dreams. She pursed her lips and stretched causing the sheets to slip away revealing more of her body. Then she wiggled free of the sheets. He considered she may be going to the restroom and nearly left, but then he saw her eyes, still closed, were in the midst of rapid eye movement. She was in her dream world. It was then that he noticed that she slept nude, and the moonlight painted an exquisite image of a goddess. His hand shook as he reached, not to touch her, but only to know that his hand was only inches from her. Just then she jerked slightly and that caused him to pull back. Just that evening their fingers had touched as she handed him cheesecake at her mother’s dinner party. Their eyes had met for but a moment. Was it an invitation? As she slowly withdrew her hand their gaze locked and no one at the table noticed. Had she felt it too? If he touched her hand now, would she clasp his, or would he alarm her? A man hears what he wants to hear, believes what he wants to believe, and now he had followed his belief to with a grasp of a young, beautiful woman sleeping in her bed. Would she wake with a start and alert the house? Would he just be an uninvited fool stalking a young lady as she slept in her bedroom? He looked at her breast. Firm. Full. Her small, pink nipples stood erect as she sank deeper into her dreams.

 

Just then she stretched again, slowly sliding her hand down, caressing her breasts. A look of intensity slowly covered her face. Then her body stiffened, her hips beginning to move slowly in perfect synchronization with her breath. Her hand slid down, rubbing her belly, and, spreading her legs, she began to massage herself, her movements increasing as short jerks of passion began to consume her.  Her eyes began to move more rapidly. Her body was asleep but her mind was in Paradise.

 

Her tongue began licking her pouting lips. Then it went from side to side as she kissed some imaginary lover. Or was she kissing herself? Her tongue was perfect. It would protrude from her lips, only to retreat behind clenched teeth, then again, and again as her breathing got deeper, culminating in a soft moan from deep within her body, the rhythmic creaking of her bed emphasizing this concert of ecstasy.  He considered leaving again expecting her sounds to awaken someone, but the sight of her fingers now slipping inside of her held him with invisible arms as she began to quiver and her excitement grew, her fingers going in and out faster and faster. His heart pounded within his chest. Her eyes were still closed, and she began to clench her teeth even harder. He could hear them grinding as her arousal reached its peak.  As her actions grew with abandon, he felt his own passion began to rise and he realized they may orgasm together without ever having touched. His quest was successful. It was sublime. Her passion had surrounded him. And she didn’t even know he was there. He could just leave. Why didn’t he?

 

He slid moved toward her. Slowly, ever so gently he put his hand on hers. She pulled her hand from his. He began to panic but then she put her arms around him drew him closer, put her lips to his ear, looked at him with her clear blue eyes and whispered, “Just fuck me!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standing in Line at a West Texas Bank

 

The line extended from the teller’s cage to the door. About fifteen yards. In that span was room for around twenty people. Everyone had a mask. From the expensive “95’s” to the cheap drugstore brand made for pollen while mowing grass. None of them really did any good. The Pandemic was government approved, nuclear powered influenza of the highest sort and masks of any kind were required if you were to eat, drink, be merry, or put money in the bank. Everyone had a mask.

 

He was standing in line. Nineteen people in front of him, bank bag in hand, mask on face. Sixty-five years of hard knocks and for him he was just a nail and COVID was just one more hammer. Going to the liquor store, the supermarket and the bank had become his routine since COVID rode into town. Bottle of whiskey, cigarettes, and money to do it all over again the next day. Go home, be alone, and drink himself to sleep.

 

He had kids. All grown and gone. Grandkids? Who in the hell knew who the “real daddy” was. Father’s Day was the most confusing day in West Texas.  He had sired two sons, and they came home with two West Texas Firecrackers, girls around fifteen or sixteen years of age who could get into any bar without an ID. And from those two unholy unions came a whole tribe of grandchildren who looked no more like him than a bunch of Chinamen slipping across the border pretending to be Mexicans.

 

He was retired. Social Security. That Ponzi scheme that made you pay into all you’re working life and then returned you pennies on the dollar while praying to the CDC that you wouldn’t last long enough to get all your money back. As he pondered this one person finished their business and the manager let another one in who took their place at the end of the line, causing the old man to index one slot closer to the teller’s cage.

 

Money was tight. But then, for him money was always tight. Money had been tight all of his working life and at sixty-five it just got tight-ER! If you had to pay the lights late, and not in full you hoped the electric company would work with you, and if they wouldn’t, you spent a lot of time in your car because in West Texas the heat could cook a chicken left in a mailbox on the curb.

 

The line indexed one more click. He noticed the teller was young and pretty. She had a ring on her finger. He wondered if it meant anything to her. It hadn’t meant anything to his two ex-wives. The first one lasted two years and ran off with her brother-in-law. The next one was a victim of the seven-year itch. He itched, she left. He called her “dearly departed.” She didn’t die, she just departed. The line indexed again.

 

He had to wonder how they expected to control the virus with people standing in line in a crowded lobby in a bank. Sure, they were six feet apart. It didn’t matter. Six feet apart or six feet under. Breath and cigarette smoke drifts. He’d done a highly scientific experiment at his house. By smoking just one cigarette he found that a normal sized living room of around 15 by 20 could be saturated with the blue haze of smoke. Now how many viruses could be floating around that bank lobby? One more person stepped into line.

 

He had to find a way to subsidize his income. He wasn’t into any of that internet stuff the kids do. He’d drive around town picking up discarded vacuum cleaners and cleaning them up. If he could get them to start one time they were good for five or ten dollars at the Hock Shop. Furniture was no good, not that there wasn’t furniture on the curb from foreclosures. The law of supply and demand. During oversupply there was no demand, and you cannot pawn a Lay Z Boy! Why did the former owners need to move out just so the homeless could move in. Fortunately, he’d bought his house on the GI Bill. God Bless America and God damn the property tax. Property tax was like renting your house from yourself.

 

He’d tried to control his drinking by using shot glasses instead of tea glasses, but he was so busy filling shot glasses appreciate any change. Two things did alarm him, however, concerning his drinking. He forgot how to put his car into gear one morning, driving home from the liquor store drinking straight from the bottle. However, he saw a news story saying that at least half of the population was just like him, so he did receive some solace from that. He was pleased that the churches were shut down so he could sleep off the hangover on Sunday. Another customer got into line.

 

His position in line was considerably closer now. He could see that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to complete his business. He felt really bad about the people still standing outside in the Texas heat. The bank would be closing soon, and he was sure that there would be no accommodations for the customers who hadn’t been serviced today but such is life. As the customer in front of him completed her transaction he adjusted his mask and stepped forward.

 

“How may I help you?” The young lady inquired.

 

He tapped the money bag he’d laid on the counter. She unzipped it, looking into an empty bag. Forgetful old men weren’t rare in West Texas.

 

“Where is your deposit, sir?” she said slowly and emphatically.

 

Again, he tapped the bag, this time wiggling it around a bit, seemingly indicating that there was something beneath the leather bag. Smiling, she understood. Obviously, he was making a withdrawal and not a deposit, having placed his withdrawal slip on the counter, laying the bank bag on top of it. She raised the bag slightly only to see a forty-four-caliber gun barrel beneath it. Removing her hand slowly she looked into his masked face. She heard the four clicks of the hammer as he drew it back. C O L T! As he stared into her pretty blue eyes he said in a calm voice just above a whisper, “All the cash!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

P4U

 

There was this girl. Not beautiful, but simple, valedictorian in high school, sexually pure by all reasonable measures, and finding herself alone each night in her apartment that her parents assisted in rent while she told herself that Ramen Soup was a well-balanced meal after a long day in college trying to become a chemist.

 

Although she had the slowest computer that her budget could afford, it would get her online and communicate with people, albeit slowly. Those were her only acquaintances. Not friends, acquaintances.  A Facebook illusion. Fake faces in a fake world. They didn’t really know her; and she didn’t really want to know them.  That was just fine with her. They weren’t welcome in her life. In that life the Ramen could become a ribeye and her bra size a 36 D!

 

But none of it was real, and she knew that. She had very few dates in high school, and the ones she did have were like a 1950’s sitcom where the boys the boys were gentlemen, and the girls had stiff hair. Good little girls get to go to heaven, but bad little girls get to go everywhere else, and those were the girls the boys picked up after they dropped her off!

 

One night, while pushing her glasses up on her nose a man appeared on the chat. He had never been there before. Light conversation, immaculate in his prose, obviously an older man. Eventually he concentrated on her which, due to his flair with words, she chalked it up to her similar ability with the venacular. She had often wondered if her vocabulary put boys off. She never used slang, didn’t understand LOL or TTYL. She was hopelessly stuck in her high school English class counting commas, making sure she didn’t end her sentences with a preposition. And, consequently, no one talked dirty to her. In point of fact very few talked to her at all, and when they did it was only once.  Except this one man.

 

He was as much of a mystery as everyone else, but, if you will excuse the expression, they spoke the same language. He did reveal his age, however. Seventy! Her schoolgirl cyber sense told her be warned but her intelligence and vocabulary told her age is just a number and right then the number of her social contacts was none!

 

He suggested a private chat. Again her Spidey sense kicked in, but he didn’t know where she lived, and if he was anywhere near the age he claimed, he was at least as old as her grandfather, and what harm could he do in any online chat, no matter how “private” it was purported to be. Her mind was certainly not in the gutter but perhaps a stroll down a well-lit cyber alley might be nice. So, she joined him.

 

The conversation was varied and elevated far beyond the regular chat she’d left. From politics to culinary, he sparked her interest to such a degree that she soon forgot about his age and listened to his knowledge on subjects she’d only touched on in her books and classes. He seemed to be well read and extensively traveled. Not one word of impropriety or insinuation of familiarity. Then one night he asked her if she had a friend who was more than just a conversationalist and more of a personal interest. 

 

“Why would you want to know?” she inquired.

 

He apologized and told her that he liked her, certainly not in a romantic way due to the age difference, but in a way that he would need to ascertain her opinion of him before he could proceed. He assured her that whatever her answer was it would not affect their friendship.

 

After some thought, while not revealing too much of herself, she told him her life revolved around study, getting her degree and landing a job with some company searching for a new sweetener for soft drinks.

 

He commended her focus on goals and dropped the subject until the next chat where he asked her how she was faring economically. She told him she got by on a scholarship with an assist from her parents. Again, she wanted to know why he needed to know, and yet again he avoided the subject.

 

Tired of his evasiveness, she began the next session by repeating the last question he had left hanging on the previous night. Now he became more candid. He explained that while he’d been successful in life, he was now a shut in. He was not destitute. He had everything he needed except a significant other. And not so much a wife. Someone he could trust. Someone he could bare his soul to without fear of repercussions. He had observed her online and deduced that she was exactly as she appeared. Her command of language, subject matter, but most of all the way that the other members of the chat where they had met seemed to avoid her. This interested him.

 

He desired to become closer to her. Not physically! He knew she did not want to share personal information such as location, sex, or age and neither did he. He had revealed his age for a reason, but his life, such as it was, would remain hidden from her.  He let her know his real age to instill trust within her. He was not interested in her age. But there was something he wanted, and he asked if he could tell her without her judging. He told her that while neither one of them knew the real situation where they now found themselves, anonymity would serve to enhance their trust and privacy. At this point she simply asked what it was that he wanted from her.

 

He typed, “I want an ounce of your pee.”

 

Amazingly she found herself repulsed and yet attracted at the same time. No man had ever wanted her pee, or anything else from her for that matter.  After a suitably pregnant pause she asked, “Why!”

 

“So I can have some small part of you. A symbol of our relationship.”

 

“Why not a lock of hair, or a fingernail clipping?”

 

“It has to be intimate. From somewhere very private. Just between you and I.”

 

“What will you do with it?”

 

“Keep it. When I look at it, I will feel our bond. A bond of trust between two people who will most likely never meet.”

 

She considered. She rationalized that his possession of her urine constituting him touching her in some mystical way. Indeed, his request itself disrobed her mentally. She felt aroused for the first time in her life, and it perplexed her, but before she could answer he typed again.

 

“And I will give you $1,000 for it!”

 

With the taste of Ramen Soup still in her mouth and the rent receipt from her parents still lying beside her computer, she lit a mental cigar, and she stuck her cyber hand out!

 

In the days following he helped her start a joint bank account for transfer of money. This one time he needed her real name but the arrival of the promised $1,000 calmed her apprehension. He explained to her that he expected nothing from her except her friendship and the pee represented the consummation of their agreement. No more pee would be required as the single sample would be enough. They were friends and if she should need anything, do not hesitate to ask.

 

As time passed by, he inquired about her being partners in a business venture. By now she had become comfortable with him. Twice he’d put money in the account to cover unexpected expenses for her. He explained that while not exposing the particulars of their relationship he had fielded the basic idea to some men at the country club and had not so surprisingly generated some interest among the more lucrative members of that society and would she be agreeable to distributing pee among the millionaires for a price? This time it was a no brainer. As she ate steak for dinner, all she asked was her true identity being kept secret and the pee had to be 100% non-diluted urine straight from the source, like premium bottled water, with no added ingredients. She did not want to stoop to a MacDonalds level of deception.

 

The product would be sent from her to her friend’s PO Box. He would then arrange delivery from that point and drop ship to the customers. He would handle all money transfers, accounting, and pay taxes.  He would then deposit the profit into their joint account. There would be no fee for his services.

 

Although her parents were disappointed when she quit college they were amazed when she bought two homes, one for her, and one for them where they would gather, and drink iced tea. She drank lots of iced tea.

 

And all was well until one day when a lawyer called. Her friend had passed but he’d left her a large share of his substantial assets. In a personal letter he explained that when he first met her he was in a wheelchair where he would remain for the rest of his life. His family and ex-wives avoided him, but not his money. He had searched in vain for a friend that would allow him to just be himself. Someone who would accept him on his own terms. It was then that he’d met her in a chat room. A chat room was as alien for him as it was for her. But he was searching for a particular person. He simply liked her style.  But he had to test her so he made her an obnoxious offer. He believed her to be a free spirit who just needed to learn to fly. And he was right! And fly she did. As the CEO of her own company that he formed for her. P4U! And he had one final request. And she fulfilled it after she took possession of the mansion that he’d bequeathed her as she poured the contents of the original bottle of pee on his grave, ensuring that they’d be together forever.

 

Don’t judge. Don’t ever judge.

 

 

 

 

 

         The Washing Machine

Working in a call center is tedious. The average career span is around eight months. The workload is like an interrogation by the Gestapo on a Monday night. Both caller and respondent suffer the same turmoil from different angles. The caller, upset by the failure of some product that failed out of the box and the employee, who is usually a temp worker, trying to resolve the impossible within twelve minutes.

 

“Thank you for calling XYZ Corporation. Your call is very important to us. Due to understaffing, poor training, and products made by eight year olds in China our call volume is through the roof. Please allow us to put you on a brief hold and unless you get hung up on, we will answer your call as quickly as possible. Your hold time is approximately one hour and forty three minutes!

 

Then the caller is entertained by the most mundane music imaginable, so faint that even scientists using equipment designed to hear a fart on Alpha Ventura can’t hear it. Every once in a while, there will be a click and a sudden silence. The caller will hold their breath. In the other end the employee will push “mute,” check their stats, think, “Oh HELL no!” and return the customer to the call tree on a higher branch. And it resumes.

 

But rarely, very rarely a call will come that needs to be answered. A slice of Americana so heartwarming, so poignant, that it leaves its mark on those who hear it, and gives pause. Maybe it’s not gone. Maybe it’s still there. Maybe theres hope after all.

 

One such call came to a call center in Austin, Texas one hectic afternoon while the technician was watching the clock, hoping to make the door at 5:01. Any call being answered before the end of the shift must be completed before the employee can sign out and go home. Consequently, front line staff avoid answering a call if at all possible (and it IS possible) hence, God forbid it turns out to be someone’s grandma who’s computer she was given on her 89th birthday fails to fire up because YOU have to explain to her what a power cord is!

 

Then the familiar tone penetrated the air in one cube and the tech therein made the mistake employees in large call centers occasionally make. So involved with getting ready to leave they answered the phone before they thought . . . at 4:55!

 

On the line was the old black voice of a woman. Speaking slowly, she meticulously gave the information requested for identification. Memphis! That explained the accent. After all the formalities were completed, the tech inquired as to her issue.

 

“My washing machine is down.”

 

“By ‘down’ what is it doing?”

 

“It’s not washing clothes.”

 

Normally a call center tech would be irritated by such a response, especially five minutes before quitting time, but for some reason this amused him. Even though he knew that he’d have to troubleshoot her way of giving him his comeuppance with her homespun Memphis logic lightened his mood.

 

He began the question-and-answer portion of the call, working his way through the appliance. When did it work as expected last? What had she done since then? Has anyone tried to fix it? And finally, was it overloaded?

 

“It’s always overloaded, sir!”

 

He asked why, reminding her of the specifications for that particular make and model of washing machine.

 

“Look! I got five teenage grand-babies living with me. I don’t keep this thing running they don’t go to school. Tennessee takes dirty kids away down here. I gotta use what I got!”

 

As he typed he asked if she would try running an empty load just to see if it would come on at all. These words stuck in his mouth because he knew he was opening a can of worms that may lead him down a long and winding road lined with washing machines. If the machine came on he could give her some customer education. Even though it might take a few minutes it was a no brainer. With any luck at all she may request a supervisor. She’s someone else’s problem and he’s out the door! But such was not to be. So, he began to work his way through water lines, the motor and computer components.

 

“I am going to have to send someone to check that washer out, Miss Ellie,” using her first name to increase familiarity.

 

“Oh no! When will he be here? Clothes is accumulating!”

 

“Well, I have a slot for Thursday. . .”

 

“THURSDAY! She interrupted him. “These chilluns’ll be naked by then. Can’t they come no faster?”

 

“I will try, but it looks like Thursday.”

 

“I sure miss April at times like this.”

 

“April?” he asked.

 

“My daughter. She dead. That’s why I got the kids.”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s ok. Long time ago.” Before he could so on she explained. “Drive by. She’s on a corner at a crosswalk. Stray bullet. Lord call her home. Babies come here. Some in diapers. Puking on the ‘flo.” It was hard, but I done it.”

 

He was stunned by her matter of fact nature. One old woman taking life as it came. “Miss Ellie, I can’t express my regrets and respect for you. Taking care of your grandchildren after such a tragedy.”

 

“Ain’t no tragedy. Just life. The Lord never puts more on us than we can bear. My baby girl bore these kids and I bear them now.”

 

“Well I’m gonna do my best to get someone out there as soon as possible. I don’t want you washing all them clothes by yourself like that.”

 

“Oh, I don’t do it. They do!”

 

“The grandkids?”

 

“Yes. They do laundry, dishes, flos,” they take it off me.”

 

“That’s wonderful.”

 

“Yeah. It was hard when they was young but I took care of them, and now they take care of me.”

 

As tears filled his eyes he said, “Miss Ellie, if you don’t mind I need to put you on a brief hold while I complete my notes.”

 

“You just take your time. I’ll be right here.”

 

He put her on hold and contacted the repair division. He explained all he’d done and thought the machine may be in bad shape. The repair manager agreed and noted that the washer was still under warranty. The delivery schedule was lighter than repair. They made the appointment and he went back to the caller.

 

“Miss Ellie, someone will be there tomorrow.”

 

“Oh praise the Lord! Do you think it can be fixed!”

 

“No, Miss Ellie. We have decided to replace it.”

 

She gasped! “A new washer? Oh bless you. The Lord bless you.”

 

“I think he just did Miss Ellie. Thank you for calling.”

 

He hung up, and glancing at his timesheet as he timed out he counted that last call as the most memorable hour of his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                   The Unanswered Door

 

Who knows the feelings of a child. Psychologists probe the thoughts of children before they can articulate or explain the plethora of information still formulating in their mind that seems to form with no direction. A world filled with reality, images, shapeless forms, angels and demons. Tooth fairies leaving quarters beneath the bed, and fat men coming down the chimney with Jesus nowhere in sight. A world of vast possibilities. Possibilities that disappear one by one as reality intrudes upon the magic world and they begin the lifelong march to the grave. And perhaps in the end we return to the magic world where we should have been all along.

 

But glimmers of light appear to children. Special people that attach to the children. And these people can do no wrong. Their every word, every action represents truth, reality and understanding to the forming mind inside a tiny little head. And in that first three years the soul is formed. The soul is created at conception, but it is formed by those special people. A village? Family? Friends? Perhaps only one. One very special soul that imparts a bit of itself like leaven in bread the takes reality, mixed with a spoon of magic and creates a person. And that person is what it will be until the day that it dies. No psychology, no medicine, no religion can ever change that. It is what it is.

 

Joe was little Steve’s leaven. Steve, nicknamed “New Baby,” hung on Joe and his every word. Joe watched cartoons with Steve, made scrambled eggs for him, corrected him when he’d done wrong, but was always there. A safe port in life’s storms, such as they were for a child. And Steve would say that each day was wonderful. And some days were “wonderfuller!”

But all wasn’t perfect. Joe was a well decorated Vietnam Vet. And Agent Orange was drinking his blood, one drop at a time. And the doctors called it depression, dementia, age, or Parkinson’s, it was reality intruding on the magic world Joe was giving to Steve. Joe was one of the last casualties of a forgotten war. Some names on the wall you cannot see.

 

Joe was a wood worker. More than that he was an artist. In his wood shop he could carve images into square wooden tiles of family and friends to give out freely. 3D memories. His front door on his house was one solid piece of wood. And his priest set the chalice on the altar that Joe built!

 

And Joe made toys! In the weeks before Christmas Joe would retreat to his wood shop and make the most wonderful toys. Trucks, doll houses, with dolls that had no faces, waiting to be completed by the imagination of a little girl. Durable toys that didn’t fall apart or continue to need batteries. Toys that could be given when the child had a child or grandchild who was struggling through their own magic world. And little Steve knew when Joe disappeared into his shop as winter stole summer that toys were being born. And he would knock on the door to the shop and eventually Joe would appear. And he’d get the first toy. And the jungles of Vietnam would be hauled away in a little wooden dump truck.

 

But this year was different. Six months prior Joe was called for his last assignment. And reported for duty at a VA hospital where all old soldiers go to fade away. What the Vietcong started his own government finished and Agent Orange did what it was always designed to do.

 

Stevie didn’t understand. He would wander through the shop among the saws and hammers and become immersed in fascination at the machinery. For is they were there, Joe was there! No one could take that magic away.

 

Christmas Eve found friends and relatives on the expansive porch that Joe had built. The funeral had been six months ago and as they say, time heals all wounds. As they celebrated there was a tapping sound coming from the yard. Tap tap tap. Little Steve was tapping on the woodshed door, holding his little truck from last Christmas.

 

And the grownups watched. And the wine glasses set on the table. As they watched a little boy tap on a woodshed door. An unanswered knock on a door that will never be opened. And one more little bit of magic left the world.

 

 

 

                                                                       The Best is Yet to Come

That was his motto, and one of the last things he ever said to what he told the nurse was his “best friend,” while in his final hour at the VA hospital.

 

 He was a retired Sargent Major, three bronze stars, a silver, and a purple heart, Vietnam!  He was married to his “best friend’s” ex-wife, jokingly referred to as his “husband in law.” He loved to work with wood. He built altars for the church, carved images in wood, and doubled the size of his house, all by himself. He cooked, too. He could’ve cooked a combat boot and made it taste like prime rib.

 

He was married to his first wife, Jackie, for forty-five years, and she finally died on him. He lived alone for a while until he met the lady he’d spend the rest of his life with. She had a heart condition and no medical, so “The old sarge” fixed that. He married her and being a widower, he could give her his benefits. Literally saved her life. But life is never fair. He could save her life, but he could not save his own.  As he tinkered in his wood shop, within his lungs Agent Orange was doing what it was always designed to do, and what the Viet Cong had started his own government finished!

 

 He continued to work on his old house, which was never done, and moved his friend there to watch over it for him. At first, he didn’t know how to take his friend, freshly returning from California.  Ponytail down to the middle of his back, with a full bar in his room, the sarge being a tea totaler, and an endless stream of visitors dropping by to have drinks and discuss Texas politics. Being from Buffalo, New York, he didn’t even think Texas HAD politics, and any thought of secession was beyond him.

 

A year or so later as he read the pamphlets he found lying around the house he began to understand more and more that the America he’d fought for in Vietnam was long gone. His friend watched his old house while he lived in a new one he’d bought for his new wife.

 

As they talked over three years he developed a dream. Listening to tales of the California desert, he got a yearning to travel to a place called Ocotillo Wells. The last time he was there was in the 60s, when he drove a tank, training for war. Now he wanted to drive a dune buggy, chase beach bunnies across the desert and sit by the fire at night with others like him talking about the used to be. But time was running out for him. What was originally thought to be Parkinson’s ended up being called Alzheimer’s, and finally got called what it really was . . . CANCER! Agent Orange had ravaged his entire body.  With each trip to the VA the diagnosis was fine tuned, and Ocotillo Wells drifted farther, and farther away. During this time he bought yet another home in Brigham City, Utah. He called it the big blue house, and it was. He shuffled between Utah and Texas trying to replace the blood that Agent Orange was slowly drinking.

 

When he had remarried, he also inherited five children. Like his bride, they too were covered by his military benefits and enjoyed all the trimmings after he adopted them. He had only one daughter by his deceased first wife, and he insisted for the youngest boy to be renamed after him. He finally had a son! And they were partners!

 

From that point it was endless trips to get blood, and endless hours on the couch. The army gave him a Hoveround as his legs began to fail but he couldn’t figure out how to drive it until his friend showed him that it steered just like a tank. After that he and “Junior” explored the neighborhood all the way down to the supermarket. Although he could use his Hoveround, he could no longer drive a car and it humiliated him to have his “husband in law” load him up in the passenger’s seat for yet another trip to the hospital. But he and his little buddy could sure as hell find that neighborhood store!

 

A week before he died he was looking for an RV to go to California. He knew better. It was for his little “buddies.” When he was being taken to the VA for the last time he told Junior, “Men don’t cry.” He checked into the VA that Friday. As he sank lower and lower on Monday he called his friend. He wanted an order of chicken wings and his Chihuahua that had replaced the one that he’d had for fourteen years until it died. The nursing staff let the little dog in, and he fed it the wings.

 

He told the nurses about his best friend. When the priest came to administer the last rites, he couldn’t come up with any sins to confess. He asked which direction Ocotillo Wells was, and his friend pointed through the window toward the west. He turned his head that way and said, “The best is yet to come.” He told his friend to take the little dog home and he would be left to take his last hill.

 

They transferred him to ICU, and an hour later, looking at his wife, said, “Oh, baby,” and reported to his last command. A simple phone call to family, “He’s gone.” was his obituary.

 

Over the next few days there was the usual rush to finalize all the paperwork. He’d wanted to be at Arlington. He got San Antonio. About a week later his “best friend” was napping alone, when he heard a familiar voice call his name.  Then, he clearly heard, “The best is yet to come!” He got up and walked to the front door and looked to the west. There was a great sadness and a sense of loss as he realized that the old sarge would never get to Ocotillo Wells, but then he realized . . .  maybe he just did!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      The Girl in the Red Dress

 

They were the children of the 50s. Halfway on the journey from five to six years of age in a black and white world. TV was black and white, schools were black and white, dreams were black and white, and memories were black and white. When the little boy became an old man the only color he could remember was a red dress. At six Baby Boomers would leave all they ever knew and plunge into public school. Disney became dizzy and it would take months to get used to leaving home every day, only to return, worn out. But this pair wasn’t there yet. All they had was each other and a broken deck of Bicycle brand playing cards.

 

Their mothers were friends, and frequently met over coffee in the kitchen to talk, gossip, and complain. Complain about life! Had the kids listened to their mothers, which they were always accused of, they would have had Reactive Attachment Disorder before their first day of school, which wouldn’t matter because RAD hadn’t been invented yet. That would have to wait for Beth Thomas to twist those little birds’ heads off in 1989. After that parents would see the advent of ADD, ADHD, and all the other conditions that made the DSM in all its manifestations what it is today. Up until then they just played banjo on rickety old southern porches.

 

But this particular boy and girl did not intrude into the adult world. They sat in the living room, if it could be called that, playing with a discarded poker deck left over from their fathers’ Friday night poker game. Some of the cards were missing, but no matter. Their games were their own, and fifty-two wasn’t significant in their world.

 

The little girl always wore the same red dress. Loosely fitting, extending to just below the knees, and “dingy.” Not dirty. Dingy, as in “washed too much.” Not new. Red, but not a loud red. More of a “was red a long time ago.” And it was cotton. Complete with sweat stains.

 

But she wasn’t dingy. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders and she shampooed with Prell. Her mind was quick. Not that it would do her any good in 1950s Louisiana, but she could devise card games. Each time her mother brought her over she had a new card game in her head. Ace plus Ace equals three. It didn’t matter what suit. The first one to complete such an equation won. The next time she came she would have another game tucked away somewhere in her head. And they would play as long as their mothers talked.

 

They never knew each other’s names. They never asked. They never realized that one was a boy and the other was a girl. Before society was “awakened” such pronouns had no meaning. Girls were pink. Boys were blue. They were friends. That’s all that mattered. And they never got tired of each other. They could play cards until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, wake up, and play again. While the adults deluded themselves into believing they were worth listening to. They weren’t. Problems were never discussed because they only had one problem. When they played cards they felt good. When they didn’t, they just felt. When they had to separate, and she’d go home they were too young to feel loss. They were only filled with expectation about their next meeting.

 

One day she would leave, never to return. The little boy would wonder why, but he wouldn’t dwell on it. There were frogs to catch and records to listen to, but there would be no cards to play. Later that year he would start the first grade. There was no Kindergarten in Louisiana. Her memory and her card games receded into his memory.

 

As time went by her memory returned, bit by bit, but never her face. All he remembered was her red dress. And she never got any older. Forever five. The girl in the red dress with no name, no face.

 

In the end he sat staring out of the window of a nursing home. Clinging to that memory. After all that he’d done, or not done, he was only sure of one thing in his life. The red dress would not fade away. And he never thought of her in an adult way. He never let himself wonder if she married. Did she have children? Did she die? He viewed her through a little boy’s eyes, and she never grew old. She haunted him until his final hour. The girl in the red dress was the love of his life! Ace plus Ace equals three.

 

 

 

                                                                              The Patrol

 

They were sitting on a back porch looking over the lake. It had become a nightly ritual, watching the sun go down across the lake as the breeze, and currents switched directions. The lake wasn’t wide. Just a backwash from the river that lay around the back of a strip of land. It was said that General Grant took shelter there when he took fire from a nearby hillside fort. If it were true or not didn’t matter. The tourists believed it.

 

As the shadows lengthened and darkness fell the conversation turned to the Civil War. The peaceful subset belied the years before. The idea of General Grant hiding just below, receiving enemy fire made the war seem real.

 

This sleepy little hamlet hosted a real live Civil War battle with control of the river being in jeopardy in 1863. The Union army stood up in righteous indignation to extinguish the resistance of a contingent of rebels one February day, thereby saving the Union for prosperity and securing the rights of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey for the Japanese. Oh, and freed three or four slaves.

 

Now, as the two sat sipping said whiskey on the back porch there was no evidence of mayhem as students from Vanderbilt headed for shore after a long day of hunting two legged deer. But the spirit of Dixie still remained.

 

As darkness overtook the waters a single light appeared on yon shore. Not unusual. Could be someone walking along with a flashlight, or perhaps a motorcycle. But the light was different. Somehow quainter as it swayed to and fro with each step of the carrier.

 

One of the men said, “Watch!”

 

The other man strained his eyes. “What am I looking at?”

 

“That light.”

 

A few moments passed before the man staring said, “So?”

 

About that time the walker stopped, turned, and began to walk toward them from the far shore. The lake lay between them, but the mysterious walker didn’t stop, but proceeded to take a few steps more. It would appear that he would soon be stepping into the lake but he did not! Instead he took about five steps on the surface of the lake!

 

“Optical illusion,” the viewer said.

 

The other man took a sip, lit a cigarette and said, “No.”

 

“Inversion. Seen it in the desert. Water in the distance where there’s only sand.”

 

“But that’s not sand. Distance ain’t right, and this is February in Tennessee.”

 

“Ok. What is it?”

 

“It’s a soldier.”

 

At this point his friend strained his eyes to focus on the figure. Hazy, small and grey. He could now able to just make out the form of a boy! A boy carrying not a flashlight but a lantern. A lantern with its flickering light just illuminating the face of a beardless boy. A boy now standing respectfully from about two hundred yards waiting for their response.

 

The first man set his drink on the table. “He comes around now and then. He’s on patrol in case the Yankees come back. The dam put in by the TVA backed the water up and made this lake. He’s standing on the dry land of his day. Watch!”

 

At that the speaker stood, and smartly saluted to the figure across the lake who swung his lantern in return.

 

“He has to finish his patrol.  He had to make sure we were ok, and the Yankees hadn’t come back.

 

The second man slowly stood and saluted. And, as the two Vietnam veterans stood in attention the young soldier disappeared back into the woods to continue his patrol.