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Are the Snacks
Here Yet?
Free
Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle
Meraz Hooper
In honor of the beginning of baseball season...
T-ball
season is over, and a good time was had by all. Of course, the spring weather was awful—isn’t it always? The grownups
sat huddled in their folding chairs hugging their thermal coffee cups and urged their young players to run out on the field
and roll around in the wet grass and the muck and have fun. When it actually rained, the adults brought out the umbrellas—not
for the little players—for themselves. After all, wouldn’t want to get those camcorders wet, would we? No siree,
Grandma and Grandpa back in Wisconsin had to see this!
We
were into our second season, and the parents and grandparents could see a lot of progress in our girls’ and boys’
approach to the game. For instance, the first season, our little leaguers spent more time following the snack lady than the
ball. You’d think the little rookies had never seen treats before.
This year, they were way cooler. As each player arrived, he’d saunter over to an earlier arrival
and quietly ask if the snack mom had arrived yet. When a player pointed out a mom with a big white plastic bag at her feet,
you could hear a sigh of relief from the T-baller. Then, the player would carefully scan the Mom and the bag. Was the bag
big enough? Could someone else’s mom be trusted to bring enough snacks for everybody? Surely, they didn’t have
any mothers who couldn’t count?
Their
mind at ease on the snack situation, they moved over to hear the coach’s instructions. “No dog-piling!”
he pleaded. The team broke into a chant, “No dog-piles! No dog-piles!”
Actually,
I was relieved to see some dog-piles. The first year, the T-ball would run through a tiny outfielder’s legs on its way
to the alley and they’d never notice—their eyes would be on the snack bag.
This year, the same kids jumped on the ball rolling down the middle of the field like it was the last
candy bar on earth. Sometimes, kids playing in other games on the multi-purpose field broke position in their own game to
run over and jump on a ball in our game. Now that’s progress.
Yep. The season is over. The baseball pants and tee shirt have been washed and put away until next
season—when they’ll undoubtedly be too small—the camcorder has been dried off, and the official baseball
pictures have arrived in my mail.
At the beginning of the season I wrote a commentary that said organized ball was a lackluster substitute
for a pick-up game in a makeshift field. I was wrong. Baseball is baseball.
Whoever.
Wherever.
Whenever.
Play ball!
Harpy and Julianne's War of the Roses
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Harpy looked out his kitchen window and
counted the cats hanging around his neighbor’s kitchen door. Nineteen! The old man scowled and swore beneath his breath.
He reckoned he had time to make coffee
and get to his rocking chair on his back porch before she could get them all fed. He’d slept in, but luckily, his ice
cubes were already in the old coffee can and ready to go. That would save him some time.
Excited as a kid, he hustled around his
kitchen, multi-tasking chores as he went—he pulled up his suspenders as he measured coffee, filled the coffee basket,
and loaded his coffee cup with sugar.
He’d just sat down in his rocking
chair when Julianne’s backdoor opened and the old lady waded through a welcoming wave of cat tails to fill assorted
recycled bowls with dry cat food. She disappeared long enough to return with a pitcher of water that splashed over the rims
of the empty water dishes as she poured the liquid without bending over. The droplets of water caught the edges of her lace
nightwear that hung below her robe and sparkled in the morning sun.
Hmph!
Harpy
grunted. Who does she think she is, a spring chicken? Well, if she was trying to snag him, she was wasting her time. No way was he going to get involved with a woman who
had so many cats. Harpy hated cats. Always had. He didn’t know which
was the most disagreeable end of the animal—the front end that caught the birds in his garden—or the back end
that dirtied his flowerbeds, no matter how many times he asked Julianne to keep them home. Sometimes he even wondered if Julianne
wasn’t starting to look like her cats. Yeah,
a cat in a lacy nightgown, he grumbled.
Unaware of Harpy’s thoughts, Julianne
smiled and waved at her cranky neighbor before she went back inside. What does she
do inside there all day? Harpy wondered. She seldom had company, and it was obvious she didn’t expect any, because
she never raced to get dressed. Once, he tried to look in her living room window—just out of curiosity—but she
had so many plants on the windowsill that he couldn’t see inside. Hmph! Harpy
grunted again. She probably watches those religious and soap opera shows all day on
her TV. He knew for sure she wasn’t ordering from the shopping channels, since the deliveryman never stopped at
her house. That didn’t surprise him none—neither of them had extra money to spare on goo-gahs.
He caught sight of movement by the fence
between the two yards. Harpy reached in his coffee can and grasped an ice cube while his other hand got a good grip on his
slingshot. The first cat’s head was just poking through the picket fence when Harpy pulled back on his cat-shooter and
let an ice cube fly. His hand was already in his lap before the cat screamed with surprise and pain. Julianne pulled back
the kitchen curtain and peered out, but saw nothing. Even the occasional ice cube that was propelled between the pickets into
Julianne’s yard got lost among the flowers and melted before it was ever detected. Harpy took a swig of hot coffee and
waited for the next cat’s head to poke through the fence. This is better than
a shooting gallery at the carnival, he mused. Thanks to several months of practice, he seldom missed. Lately, the hardest
part was keeping a straight face when Julianne looked his way.
Julianne wasn’t as clueless as
she looked. She peeked out her window at the old man on his porch. What was he doing
to her cats? Why did so many of them have bumps on their heads? Some of them had even suffered eye damage. Try as she
might, she’d never been able to find a rock or other sign of a weapon in her yard. But he was doing something—she
was sure of that.
Finally, determined to discover what
was going on, she called Joe from across the alley and asked him to come over that night with his high-powered security camera.
He’d been urging her to beef up her home protection, and this was as good a time as any for a demonstration of what
his new equipment could do. He was a little puzzled when Julianne asked him to sneak the camcorder and tripod over to her
house. Sensing some excitement, he loaded the camera and made sure the batteries on the unit were fully charged. It was still
light when Joe arrived at Julianne’s back porch.
“Dang, Julianne, I can’t
wait to find out what you’re up to.” he said with a chuckle.
“Joe, here’s the deal. Harpy
is doing something to my cats, and I can’t figure out what. Can you set up this camera to watch him tomorrow morning?
He always sits in that rocking chair on his porch. The best view of him is from behind my big azalea.”
“Julianne, this camera could film
him taking a bath, if you wanted to. Filming that porch will be easy.”
“Good. Maybe I’ll finally
be able to make some sense of these wounded cats I have around here.”
“Let’s just set it up and
forget it until tomorrow after lunch. It has an automatic motion detector on it. When something moves, it’ll start filming.”
“That’s perfect. I knew I
could count on you. How about some cake and coffee? I made it fresh.”
“That’s perfect.” Joe
mimicked Julianne. “I knew I could count on you.”
Next door, Harpy had moved off his porch
and pulled on his garden gloves. He preferred to work gloveless, but too many nasty—and he did mean nasty—surprises
lurked underneath the soil, thanks to Julianne’s cats.
The ice cube attacks were a lot of fun, but
it was time to move on to something that would do a lot more than just slow the cats down. It was time to start eliminating
them. He had a plan that would get rid of them slowly, but he was too impatient for that. He wanted to kill a lot of the cats—soon.
But how? Poison was too dangerous. He might end up killing someone’s dog. Traps were likely to be discovered. What a
hullabaloo that would cause! Julianne was amiable, but she was no pushover. No, it had to be something undetectable—like
the ice cubes—only fatal. Usually, Harpy did his best thinking when he weeded his flowerbeds, but not this time.
It was time for supper before the old coot went
back into his house. He didn’t mind his empty stomach as much as he minded being empty-headed. How was he going to kill those cats? Frustrated, he slammed things around in his kitchen as he opened a can of
chili and grabbed a beer from his refrigerator. While he was in the kitchen, he made some fresh ice cubes.
As planned, Joe stopped
by Julianne’s the next day to see what, if anything, his camera had caught. After he transferred the film onto a blank
videotape he sat back with cake and coffee to watch his detective work on Julianne’s television.
Julianne was impressed with the clarity of the
film. They could see Harpy on his porch as clearly as if they were looking at the real thing. There he was, sitting down,
drinking coffee—and loading ice cubes into a slingshot.
So that was it! Julianne was stunned. And angry.
As soon as she could politely get rid of Joe, she began to think about a plan to get even with Harpy.
She loved her cats. What did Harpy love? She found her answer when she looked out her window.
Roses. Harpy loved his roses. That night, and every night thereafter, Julianne sneaked out before she went to bed and watered
Harpy’s roses with salted water.
The old man’s roses began to turn brown.
Everyday, Julianne watched him frantically digging fertilizers and insecticides into the soil around his prized bushes—to
no avail. The roses kept dying; Harpy kept fretting.
One day, when the roses looked their worst,
Julianne leaned over the fence.
“Harpy, what on earth is going on with
your roses?”
“I don’t know! They’re dying
off faster than I can plant new ones. Even the new roses don’t look so good.”
“Oh, my. That is a shame.” Julianne looked at the roses, then looked at Harpy. “I’m no expert on roses, but
I do have an idea…I’m betting that your roses are dying off because they’re so sad about my cats
getting maimed. I’m even willing to go so far as to bet that if my cats stopped getting all messed up, well then, your
roses would start to heal. Do you get what I mean, Harpy?”
Harpy looked at the little frail woman leaning
over the fence in amazement. He heard what she said all right. He never thought the old gal had it in her. Trouble was, he
couldn’t accuse her of killing his roses without admitting what he’d been doing to her cats.
“Julianne, I have the feeling your cats
are going to be fine from now on.” he finally said. “Do you have any idea how I can fix my roses?”
“Well, I’m not sure Harpy, but I’ll
guess your roses are suffering from too much salt. You fix that problem, you’ll fix your roses.”
Just then, one of Julianne’s cats came
through the picket fence and did his business in Harpy’s flowerbed. On his way back across the fence, he paused long
enough to rub against Harpy’s leg and purr.
Harpy rolled his eyes upward. He knew he was
beat. Julianne leaned over the fence and patted his arm.
“Why don’t you put a soaker hose
on those roses and come over for some cake?” she said sweetly. “There’s nothing else you can do for those
bushes right now anyway.”
The Bridge to Divorce
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
It was a silly way to end a thirty-year marriage. And totally unintentional ...especially
on Margie’s part. All she’d really set out to do was get a good pair of shoes on sale…
On dark
gloomy Northwest winter days, heavy clouds hung close to the moist pines, dampening spirits as well as greenery. The three
women who ran the office for a little architectural firm on Commerce street in Tacoma raised their spirits on days like this by going on a “shoe run.” One glance
out the window at the cloudy sky was all it took to make them spontaneously grab whatever sack lunches were in the refrigerator,
hop into Margie’s red Mustang convertible, and zip out of town. Their mission: to each buy at least one pair of shoes
before the architects they worked for on the second floor ran out of coffee and realized they were gone.
Margie,
the office manager, explained the ropes to Anna, who was new to the office. “Shoe-runs like this require an extra thirty-minutes
travel time each way because the city stores have shoes, but they don’t have bargains. For that, we have to race through
downtown Tacoma, leap on the freeway, cross the Narrows
Bridge, and hit the outlet mall on the outskirts of Gig Harbor. When we get there, we all split
up, grab as many pairs of shoes as we can in fifteen minutes, and race back to the office. Are you in?”
“Is this something we could get fired for?”
“No,
our bosses know we’re underpaid. They don’t expect us to just sit around when they’re busy or gone.”
“Then
I’m in! But when do we eat?” the young girl asked.
“In
the car! Just bring a sack lunch everyday and be ready; the trip is worth it. The outlet store has real leather shoes at a
fraction of the cost of shoes downtown. Oh, sure, the color might be last year’s navy blue and the style a few months
behind Vogue, but we’re way past worrying about being on the cutting edge
of fashion; we’re into quality!”
Everyday,
Margie watched Anna bring in a sack lunch big enough for a Seahawk linebacker, and wait, poised to jump into Margie’s
Mustang at the first signal. “This girl’s going to work out just fine,”
Margie told the rest of the women.
Midweek,
Susan ran through the office announcing, “All of the architects are going to be gone for the whole afternoon. They’re
presenting their new renovation design for the old fire station to the county council.”
“How
does she know they’ll be gone all afternoon?” Anna asked. “What if they get to present their design first?”
“Past
experience, my dear, past experience,” Margie answered. “The county council hasn’t stuck to an agenda since
fishing was free. We won’t see our young creative bosses for the rest of the day.” The three women were out the
door in four minutes. Make that five. Anna had to run back in and unplug the coffeepot.
During Anna’s
mad dash, Margie and Susan put the top down on Margie’s restored red ‘66 Mustang. One look at the low thick clouds
told them it wasn’t really going to rain, it was just going to be moist enough to ruin their hairdos and turn their
hairspray into glue.
With the
radio tuned to an all-oldies station, they tootled across town and onto the Narrows
Bridge. Everyone cheered when they came over the hill and saw that traffic
on the huge bridge was clear. There wasn’t a tow truck or blue-flashing light in sight.
Shopping
the outlet malls usually meant that each woman got two pairs of shoes for the price of one. Margie found a pair of navy blue
leather spike heels that George would love her in for only eighteen dollars. Then she found a pair of Italian leather driving
shoes in red and black to match her car for only ten dollars.
The other
women didn’t come away empty-handed, either. Susan found a pair of stack heels in gray to match her new suit and a pair
of tan Birkenstocks for her college-aged daughter. Anna bought rubber slip-on duck shoes, for rainy weather, in all five fashion
colors for nine ninety-five a pair.
Their enthusiasm
was only slightly dampened when they got back on the freeway and saw the great bridge, bumper to bumper with more blinking
lights than the carnival at the edge of town. While they inched forward, they turned their lunch bags inside out to ferret
out any missed morsels and passed their shoeboxes from one lap to another.
They were
going to have plenty of time to admire each other’s purchases. Up ahead, a pick-up towing a boat much too large for
its size had jack-knifed and stopped all lanes of traffic going both ways.
“Lordy,
Lordy,” said Margie as she shut off her engine.
“I
have to pee,” whined Anna from the backseat.
“You
don’t have to pee. Just don’t look at the water. It triggers a psychological response.” Susan advised.
“No,
that’s not it,” Anna insisted, “I really have to pee!” they all laughed.
“Next
time,” Margie instructed, “go before we leave. You never know what condition traffic on the bridge will be in.”
Bridge
stoppages were much too common on the Narrows and everyone was out of their cars milling
around and stretching. Apparently, a small squall had passed over the bridge, and its rain turned the oil on the pavement
into slippery patches that caused the man pulling the boat to lose control, that resulted in a mess of fender benders when
the cars around him tried to stop. Everyone knew from experience that no one
was going anywhere until the state patrol and tow trucks arrived. Margie counted at least three men outside their cars talking
on their cell phones. For a businessman, being stuck on the bridge was a nightmare of missed appointments, angry clients,
and frustrated bosses.
Margie
strolled to the edge of the railing and took a deep breath of fresh, salty air. She’d always loved the view from the
bridge. She watched the currents rush into whirlpools and swirl and swirl until they bumped into the next whirlpool, finally
disappearing hundreds of feet beneath the water.
She saw
few boats. The main salmon run must be over, she thought. Then her eyes fell on
a boat that was very familiar, and so was the man in it. There was her George, tied on a long rope to the bridge pilings.
He’d told her he was going to put in a new air conditioning system for that old school house that had been turned into
condominiums, but there he was, fishing! No—wait! He wasn’t fishing, there
were no poles in the water, and who was that woman with him?
In less
than a second, her brain telegraphed to her heart that her marriage was over. Anna and Susan were busily petting some black
puppies in the truck behind them and didn’t see Margie run to her car for her new navy blue spikes. The first shoe missed
its mark and got caught up in a whirlpool, but the second shoe hit the deck right on target. The surprised boaters looked
up to see Margie on the bridge staring down at them like an angry goddess. Her blond hair was being whipped by the wind. Behind
her, black clouds boiled and lightning flashed, or so it seemed to George and the woman. Instinctively, the two on board the
boat bolted jerkily in several different directions looking for a place to hide. The only shelter was the sleeping cuddy,
and they knew it wouldn’t improve matters to duck in there. Before Margie turned to get back into the car, her eyes
fell on the name of the boat painted on the side: I Must (go down to the sea again). Before now, it had seemed like a dandy
name.
After that
trip, the women lost interest in shoe shopping. The office became a quiet, efficient place of business that scared the heck
out of the young architects upstairs. Whenever they wanted coffee, Margie was sure that they drew straws to see which one
of them would venture downstairs to the coffeepot where the atmosphere was dripping with perpetual gloom.
Everyday,
Susan and Anna would gather around Margie’s desk to hear the latest. Margie told them that George said he’d just
met the woman and they’d only dated a few times and it’d never happen again. Margie, broken-hearted, said that
wasn’t good enough. From there, things took their normal course. Margie filed for separation. George moved out. Margie
threw herself into fixing up the house and joined a health club. George spent a lot of time on his boat. There was even a
rumor going around that he was living on it.
George told
Margie that he never did see the other woman again. He didn’t even know
what made him take her out in the boat. His and Margie’s boat. It was a stupid thing to do, he lamented over and over.
From time
to time, Margie got reports that George was seen here or there with a woman. Always a different one, by their descriptions.
For her part, Margie didn’t even bother to date. All of the eligible men her age in Tacoma
seemed to be dating girls in their twenties. That left the old coots. Rich old coots, sometimes, but still, Margie wasn’t
interested. There just didn’t seem to be much point.
Then, one
gloomy Saturday, she made a speed run to the outlet shoe store by herself and got caught in bridge traffic on the way home.
Looking ahead, she could see blue flashing lights blinking across all lanes of traffic. It looked like she was going to be
stuck for quite awhile, so she strolled over to the bridge to look at the view. Looking down, she saw George, fishing under
the bridge in the same boat, with a new name: Not Worth It. Surprised that she no longer felt any anger, she watched him.
Same old George, he was doing more snoozing than fishing. Margie was overcome with loneliness. He used to be her best friend,
and she missed him. On a whim, she took off her red and black driving shoe and tossed it at the boat. There was a slight breeze
and the shoe missed. Shouting just to say hello might sound silly, or even desperate. As she turned back to her car, she could
hear an old country-western song drifting up from his radio, “You were the only
girl for me, you were the only girl for me...”
It’s just as well, she thought. It wasn’t as if hitting her target would have changed things. Traffic began to move again and
she ran for her car. On the drive home, she unconsciously hummed the sad song she’d just heard.
Margie limped
to her front door on one bare foot, still thinking about George, and how she’d lost her best friend. Sure, his brains
got all tangled up with his zipper, but all in all, they’d had a good marriage.
Back on
the boat, the fish weren’t running. George had really just come out to relax and have a few beers. He was almost lulled
to sleep by the slap of the water against the hull of the boat, except for that rhythmic thud. What was that, anyway? He reached
over the side, and pulled out a red Italian driving shoe that had been caught in the currents and drawn to his boat. He looked
inside and saw it was a familiar size.
Up on the
bridge, traffic was moving smoothly and he couldn’t see a red Mustang convertible anywhere, but who else threw shoes
at him? He dried off the shoe with his flannel shirt and set it on the dash of the boat to dry. Maybe the storm was over.
It was about time, it’d lasted over six months. On the way home he’d drop the shoe by her house and test the weather.
He missed his best friend.
Later that
day, Margie opened her door to find George leaning against one of the porch pillars, close to the steps so that he could make
a hasty retreat if she wasn’t happy to see him.
“Did
you lose this?” George stammered. Just then, his eyes fell on the matching shoe that Margie had kicked off as she’d
come in the door.
“It
looks familiar,” Margie grinned, “where did you find it?”
“Well,
I was out on my boat and—do you have any coffee?” George pleaded.
The next
Monday, the architects upstairs were puzzled to hear laughter in the downstairs office. It was the first they’d heard
in months. Then, Anna brought the men a whole pot of fresh coffee with a platter of assorted doughnuts. The architects were
amused to see that their plain glazed doughnuts had been replaced with the goopy kind, with colored sprinkles all over them.
Next, it got eerily quiet until they heard tires squealing in the parking lot. The young men ran to the window just in time
to see Margie’s red topless Mustang race through the intersection in the direction of the Narrows Bridge and bargain shoes.
“What’s
been going on here the last couple of months?” the youngest architect asked.
“I’m
not sure,” one of the other architects answered, “but I think it had something to do with a severe weather system
that started at the Narrows Bridge
and settled over our office and got stalled here. Whatever it was, it’s over now,” he grinned as he bit into a
sugary doughnut and looked out the window at the little red car speeding toward the bridge.
Gets Tickled and the Fish Trap
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle
Meraz Hooper
Downtown Tacoma, the year 2100…
The injured veteran took a crumpled
piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address. This was it: 2121 Pacific. He stepped back and surveyed the shiny,
black glass that fronted the structure. There was no sign above the door. Who ever heard of a bus station with no sign?
He shrugged
and entered the building. Instantly, he found himself in a Northwest Country Bus Station—a company that had been gone
for years—with empty wooden benches for waiting passengers on one side and a 1950s style luncheonette, complete with
chrome stools and plastic counter, on the other. Even the waitress wore a starched pink uniform with white trim on the sleeves
and a flower folded from a printed handkerchief pinned over the pocket. She smiled at him and motioned for him to sit in the
chair nearest the cash register. He noticed that every seat at the counter was filled, but no one was eating. Instead, they
all seemed to be waiting for something.
Somehow, the
young vet felt that he was part of the reason for their wait, although he couldn’t imagine why. Another strange thing:
all of the other diner patrons were Indians. They smiled as if they knew him. When he looked around some more, he saw that
the view out the plate glass window had changed from the busy Pacific Avenue
to a view of Commencement Bay
that was actually behind them.
The waitress
said softly as she passed the veteran, “You’re next, Honey. You take care now.”
He heard a
rattle above his head, then a loud, girlish giggle. Looking up, he saw a huge Indian fish trap, woven out of twigs. The Indian
next to him cried out in delight when a live salmon fell from the huge basket onto the counter in front of him. There hadn’t
been any salmon in Puget Sound for years. The Indian picked up his thrashing fish, put it
under his arm, and left. The next Indian moved up to sit in his place.
When the first
fish fell, the veteran was sucked up into the trap. Just then, another vet came hesitantly through the door. The waitress
smiled at him and motioned for him to sit in the first chair by the cash register. The waitress said softly as she went past
him, “You’re next, honey, you take care now.”
The Indian
next to him smiled and shook his hand. “I am Running Water. And you are Pete.”
“How
did you know?”
“We’ve
been waiting for you.”
“Why
am I here? Where am I going?”
“Up there.”
Running Water looked toward the fish trap.
Just then,
there was a rattle up above, and a huge fish fell down in front of Running Water. At the same time, the vet felt himself being
pulled up toward the ceiling. With a friendly wave, the Indian picked up his fish, put it under his arm, and left.
The next Indian
moved up. Another soldier came through the door and was seated.
Meanwhile, Pete found it slow going as the trap narrowed. He was surprised that he wasn’t in pain. At the top,
his head bumped against the inside of the lid of an old iron pot-bellied stove. The lid rattled as Gets Tickled opened it.
With no effort, she pulled Pete through the small hole into her kitchen that had a huge pile of live salmon in the corner.
“Who’s down there now?” she asked Pete. “Oh, it’s Rock’s Hard,” she said
as she peeked through the hole. “He and his wife are alone now.” She picked up a smaller fish and threw it down.
Rock’s Hard waved and called, “Thank you, Gets Tickled.” A loud giggle answered him. He picked up his fish
and went home.
The vet that was leaving the bus station just as Pete came in was still in Gets Tickled’s kitchen. Both men felt
themselves pulled toward the beach outside Gets Tickled’s front door.
“Hi, I’m Pete.” Pete said to his fellow vet.
“Good to know you. I’m Charley. Have you noticed your pain is gone? Mine is.”
“Yeah. When I first felt myself being pulled toward that contraption downstairs, I was sweatin’ it. I’ve
been in constant pain for months and I thought that being pulled up to the ceiling was going to kill me, but I didn’t
even feel it.”
“The trip didn’t hurt me either.” Charley agreed.
Check this out,” Pete said to Charley as they approached two new lounge chairs, “lounge chairs with our
names printed on them—just like Hollywood.”
The two stretched out in the comfortable chairs and felt the warm sun soak into their skin. Their clothing changed
to swimsuits.
“There’s quite a few of us here. I have a feeling we’re all veterans.” Charley said as he looked
around the beach. “Maybe we should go over and introduce ourselves.”
“Good idea. Just let me rest here for a little bit first. I want to savor this body that for the first time since
the war isn’t hurting me anywhere.”
Pete fell asleep and Charley watched him softly breathe in and out. While Pete slept, another man appeared. So did
a new lounge chair with the name “Frank.” Charley shook his hand and said hello.
“What the hell am I doing here?” the befuddled man asked. “First I’m getting off a plane in
the middle of a desert, the next thing I know, I’m going through some crazy fish basket in a bus station diner.”
“Were you on duty there?” Charley asked.
“Hell, no, I was there to pick up the body of my brother. He was killed in the desert war.”
“You went over there to pick him up? That’s unusual.”
“I know, but my mother has some kind of crazy idea that a man’s spirit is still alive for days after he
dies, and she didn’t want my brother to be alone. She begged me to go pick him up.”
“Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You must have been pegged as a vet who fit the criteria
of the rest of us.”
“What criteria is that?”
“I don’t know.” Charley admitted. “We’re hoping to find out more later on tonight.”
“Are we dead?”
“We’re not alive. I know that because I’m no longer in pain. Are we dead? Don’t know. Must
be.”
“This, whatever it is, is a mistake. I’ve got to get back. I’m not dead. I’m not even sick!”
Pete looked over to see that the whole crowd was moving toward tables laden with food. He was famished.
“Let’s go eat. Maybe we’ll find some answers while we’re over there.” Charley said.
Pete opened his eyes, saw the newcomer, and leaned over and shook Frank’s hand. Nothing after today would surprise
him; he supposed that the newcomer got there the same way he did.
“Pete, this is Frank. We need to see if we can get him back down through that fish basket. He’s here by
mistake.”
“Frank, you must have a hell of a story. I can’t wait to hear it, but let’s eat first.”
It was a happy group of soldiers that gathered around the food-laden table. The whole scene was like something out
of a 50s beach movie.
“Hey, here he is, back from the frozen level,” a man named John waved to a friend. “I told you you’d
be back.”
“Damn, it was so cold there I almost got frostbite on my nose. But it was beautiful.” He turned to Frank,
Charley and Pete, and explained as he shook their hands and said a quick hello, “Hi, I’m George. I got permission
to go to a winter level because I’d never seen snow when I was on earth, and I wanted to experience it. John warned
me that I wouldn’t like it.”
“There’s different levels?” Pete asked. “Where are we anyway?”
“That’s a common question around here. The best we can figure, we’re in some kind of a holding pattern
for vets. Maybe some kind of a dimension/purgatory kind of thing. None of us really knows.” John loaded his plate while
he talked.
“How long have you guys been here?” Charley asked.
George shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Maybe minutes. Maybe days. We’re not sure if they have time
here.”
“That’s fine for the rest of us, but Frank is here by mistake. How do we get him back on earth?”
Charley asked.
“I don’t know of anyone who has ever gone back. Sometimes, one of us switches to another level just for
fun, like George.” John laughed. “Frank, can you remember how you got here?”
“I was slightly injured while I was in the desert, but I wasn’t a soldier. My brother was killed over there.”
Frank’s eyes searched the beach for his brother.
“Is his brother here?” Charley asked John.
“No, you guys are the only new men here. He could be on another level.”
“If he’s not here and not on another level, I wonder why not?” Pete asked. “Aren’t we
all soldiers?”
“Yes, but if you look around, there’s not enough of us to account for all the battle deaths. We think that
there’s a common thread that brings us all here, but we don’t know for sure what it is.”
“Is it possible that there’s a level we don’t know about? A … er … lower one?” Pete quietly asked, glancing at Frank.
“Could be. For right now, let’s try to figure out how to get Frank back home,” John suggested.
“Any ideas?” Charley asked.
“There is a girl here who seems to be the hostess. Maybe she’ll help us out with Frank. Here she comes
now.” John lifted his arm and waved over a young woman wearing a swimsuit with a baggy khaki shirt pulled over the top
for modesty. “Hey, Lauren, can we talk to you for a minute?”
“Hey, Guys, what’s up? Not enough food?”
“No problem there,” the man joked as he surveyed the laden table. “We’ve got a stowaway here.
This is Frank. He’s not a soldier. He wasn’t even injured.”
“Where were you?” Lauren asked Frank.
“I was in the desert, picking up my brother’s body. He was the
soldier.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“I just remember that I picked up a little boy who was crying and helped him find his mother. All of a sudden,
I was flying up into some sort of basket. I ended up here.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.” Lauren made a note on her clipboard.
“Have you seen my brother?” Frank asked Lauren.
“No, Frank, I haven’t. I’m sorry. Only a few vets come here.”
“What few is that?” Charley broke in to ask.
“Only soldiers who were trying to save someone else’s life. We have other levels with soldiers from the
other sides of the battle lines. We keep you guys separate so you can get some rest.”
“We’re dead and we still can’t get along?” Charley asked.
“Dead? What makes you think you’re dead? You’re just moved to a different level, away from your real
body, while you either go through difficult surgery or recover from a coma. Didn’t you see your medical charts behind
your lounge chairs?” Lauren pointed to a pocket in the back of each chair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here
to greet all of you, but we ran into a problem down on earth, and I had to go back.”
Turning to Frank she said, “Let me check this out. I’ll get back to you.”
Sometime during the night Lauren gently shook Frank’s shoulder. “Wake up, Frank. You were right. This was
a mistake. You’re going home.”
“That’s great. How?”
“I’m going to have to guide you back down the fish trap. After you end up in the bus station, you’ll
be on your own. While I’m down there, I have a pickup to make. There’s an Arab boy who would be too frightened
to make the trip by himself. I’ll hand deliver him to the Mid-Eastern level. He could be the boy you helped.”
“What did he do?”
“He stepped in front of his mother to protect her from gunfire.”
“Sounds like him. When will he be able to go home?”
“He won’t. At eight-thirty tomorrow morning the whole Mid-East will be gone. Some maniac will use nuclear
weapons and misjudge their power. Palestine, Israel,
Iran, Iraq—all
of them—will be contaminated for thousands of years.”
“Isn’t God going to stop it?”
“I don’t think so. From what I hear, He’s had it with all of them.”
“That’s a story to take back home.”
“Sorry. You won’t remember this conversation or this place when you get back to earth.”
Lauren’s voice began to fade and Frank began to hear his wife’s voice plead as she shook his arm, “Frank,
Frank! Are you okay?”
Frank opened his eyes to find he was stretched out on a sidewalk on Pacific
Avenue surrounded by 911 medics. Had it all been a dream?
“Honey, what are you doing in this part of town? We were supposed to pick you up at the airport—and where
did you get this big fish—isn’t it a salmon?” his curious wife asked.
Frank looked over and saw a huge salmon flapping around next to him on the sidewalk. “Honey, I swear, I’ve
never seen that fish before in my life,” he said.
No one but Frank heard the girlish giggle that floated down between the office buildings. A big smile moved across
his face, but he didn’t know why.
the end
Tango Momma
Janelle
Meraz Hooper
I’ve
a box of home videos under my bed. Everyone does these days.
I have film of my
grandson playing softball, soccer, and baseball. I have film of my daughter graduating from college and film of my husband
and son-in-law fishing on the Skagit. All treasures.
Some
priceless moments came too early. Before we had video cameras.
All
I have is this one photo of my Mother and her brother dancing The Blue Tango. Oh, what I’d give for a film of the two
of them sliding across the floor. They were the envy of all women who elbowed their husbands in the ribs and whined, “Why
can’t you dance like that, and the men who answered, “Why can’t you look
like that?”
Note: This short is not in Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
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