Like It Is

The Big Dinner

2011-03-07T17:59:00.000-08:00

Last night was the big night. I met my fiances parents for the first time. My fiance and I have been together for over a year and are just about ready to move in together, so we thought it best to let her parents know face to face.

We chose avery nice restaurant and met her parents in the bar at about 730 pm. When we arrived her father was already drunk on Texas whiskey and her mom was chainsmoking and tapping her laquered nails on the glass table top. As we approached their little table off to the left of the whiskey bar my fiance and I were holding hands and I locked eyes with her father and I was pretty sure i saw him mouth the word (jackass)

I felt my fiances grip tighten on my hand and she whispered.

"Ignore him, he's drunk"

I nodded and smiled dumbly as I looked in her mothers direction. She smiled and waved her lit cigarette in my face.

"Well, hello there Moop. It;s so nice to see you again."

"Mother" my fiance hissed. " His name isnt Moop, its Beauregard."

"Horseshit, it's MOOP" slurred her mother.

It was obvious to me at this point that her mother had swallowed plenty of whiskey as well and I made a mental note to observe her habits and customs.

"Don't worry hon, if she wants to call me Moop. I dont care." i said. " it's all in good fun."

Her mother giggled and said " There, now thats a good chinaman."

"MOTHER!!" screamed my fiance.

Her mother and father both began cackling like trailer monkeys and screaming for more drink. Thankfully the waiter arived and we were seated near the back of the restaurant. The waiter took our drink orders and I decided to order a whiskey. The same exact whiskey that both my future in laws were guzzling at an alarming rate.

The next hour was a blur as I consumed glass after glass of southern fire water. I dont even recall ordering any food. I do however, recall snippets of conversation.

"How long have you been a Fuckin chinaman Moop?"

Does your mother always smell like this or was she groomed earlier?

" I like a woman what has a large derrier"

"My daughter has overlarge feet, but her father and I do not hold that against her."

"More whiskey bitches."

At some point there was a plate of food placed in front of me, but I didnt care. I was bonding with my future in laws and was pretty sure they were both raging alcoholics. I didn't care that my future mom in law had her lipstick smeared all over her face or that my future father in law wore a rumpled suit that smelled like piss. No none of that was important now. The only thing that mattered was strong drink and our newly formed bond.

A shortwhile later a nervous looking man in a white coat placed a glass of amber liquid in front of me. I recall trying to grab at his arms in a universal gesture of thanks and good will, but he scurried off muttering something about ugly ass amerikans, but it didnt matter because in front of me was a freshly filled jar of iced whiskey. I grabbed the glass off the table, spilling half of it on my fiances feet. I stood up with the intent to forge a toast to my new in laws.

As I raised my glass the room took on a purplish hue and tilted to the left, then the right and back to the center. I felt an odd rumbling in my stomach and was unable to form any words. Instead my bowles began speaking the international language of love. With one hand wrapped around my glass I used the other to steady myself as my insides growled and argued.

"What the hell is wrong with the chinaman?" screamed my fiances father.

"He's drunk daddy. that's whats wrong with him and its all your fault."

"Bullshit, I didnt make the chinaman drink that whiskey. Look at him, he's a mess. Lord help us all."

"Daddy! he is not a chinaman."

By this time the war in my intestines had taken on a new perspective and I was in no mood for any racial arguments. I waved my free hand in front of my new father in laws face and yelled.

"Sit down you fat bastard I have something to say."

I leaned over so that my face was inches from his and my rear end was pretty much aimed at my fiances mother. I raised my whiskey glass and was just about to invoke the toast when my intestines gave way and I unloaded one of the most savage farts in all northern amerika directly into the face of mom.

Releasing that much gas took alot out of me and I slumped against the table, knocking my father in laws glass to the floor.

"You rotten sumbitch" he screamed. " you kilt my whiskey."

" Fuck the whiskey Harold, the chinaman just shit on my head. what are you gonna do about it?" my future mother in law screamed.

My father in law tried to stand up, probably with the thought of punching my lights out, but succeeded only in falling backwards knocking over several other restaurant patrons in the process. My fiance was openly weeping and future mom in law sat in her chair unmoving. A small bead of perspiration had formed on her upper lip and her eyes had that glassy look of someone that had been shot in the face with a tazer gun.

The entire restaurant was in a state of confusion. the smell from my intestines had spread and now people were losing their minds.

" Oh dear god that man just crapped himself"

"someone call the police!!!"

"I want a refund!"

The shouting and commentary went on and on. An ambulance was called for my fiances mother who now refused to speak english instead she began chattering like a squirrel and trying to breathe through her mouth.

I decided I'd had enough of these filthy people and tried to make my way to the bar. Instead I both of my arms were pinned to my sides and I was escorted out of the building and deposited on the dirty sidewalk. The cold night air was like a slap to the face and tahts when I saw my fiance getting into a cab alone.

"Guillermina!! where the fuck are you going? I screamed.

Instead of answering she showed me the middle finger of her left hand.

"Call me!" I yelled from my supine position.

She glared at me from behind the cabs window and waved her finger at me again.

I havent heard from her in three days.

Lotto

2011-01-09T17:45:00.000-08:00

Extreme close up of an older mans face as he reads the evening newspaper. His thoughts are interrupted by the grating sound of his wife’s voice.

Wife: Three hundred.

The mans eyes jerk from the paper and look upward at nothing in particular.

His wife sighs.

Wife: Three hundred. Three hundred Melman, do you believe that?

Melman closes the paper and releases a breath of hot air.

Melman: Three hundred what dear?

Wife: Three hundred million dollars Melman. Oh if only we had three hundred million dollars.

Quick shot of the lotto logo on the back of the mans newspaper.

Melman looks at his wife and suppresses the urge to whack her with his newspaper.

Melman: If we had three million dollars someone would figure a way to need four.

Wife: Nonsense! You have to go down there and buy a lottery ticket at once.

Melman instead makes a weird mouth noise and lies on the couch.

Melman: I cant go down there. I don’t know about these things. What if they ask me a bunch of questions?

In his mind he sees himself in line at the local liquor store. It smells of sweat, curry, vomit and illegal whiskey. Weird people wander the aisles, but wonderful jazz blares from a Bose sound system installed behind the counter. When it becomes his turn Melman is scrutinized by the brooding Hindu clerk. Wearing full turban and dark poker glasses Hindu begins jabbering at Melman.

Turban: yes, yes, very busy, yes now what?

Melman: I, uh…I want a lottery ticket please.

Turban, exasperated at once, exhales loudly. Turbans’ bespectacled assistant looks up from his broken price gun.

Turban: what kind of lottery ticket do you wish to buy sir? We have the super lottos and the little lottos and the kind you scratch, but do not smell. There are lottos with many, many numbers.

Turban enjoys a small pause then slaps the top of the counter with an open palm and continues to rant.

Quick shots of other liquor store weirdo’s and jacks are taken. Turbans’ lumpy assistant is bleating like a nervous goat. Melman is spinning.

Turban: Do you wish to pick three? Four? Five? Six? Would you pick quickly?

More fast cuts of drips and freaks. Melman sweating, mopping his brow.

Turban glares down, eyes hidden behind his cutthroat shades.

Turban: Or do you want the Powerball? Please make a decision. You are not having very much more time. There are others. You must…”

Before Turban can finish his verbal onslaught Melman cuts him off.

Melman: The big one! Asshole!

Stutters…

Melman: The big one.

The A word is bleeped and quick shots of Melman, Turban, the assistant and some of the other selected liquor store turds are shown.

Fade to logo.

Echoes of Job

2010-05-14T08:34:00.000-07:00

And the kick to the midsection rattled him to the core. Races the bile and vomit upwards through the esophogus and lands in a wet splatter upon the concrete. The young man rolls over on his back, still reeling from the blow.

"From whence have you come and why me?" he moans.

"Why you insolent little prick! replies satan. "Are you above the rest? Have you considered you are no more than disgarded gum upon the bottom of a boot?"

More blows reign down upon the face of the young man.

Blood spurts from his lips covering his pearly whites. Red blood and white teeth, quite the perfect mix of pain coupled with faith.

" Do you really think a couple of wacks in my good old boy guy is gonna make me renounce? asks the young man as he chokes and sputters through the pain.

And the entity kicks and thrashes more violence down upon the prostrate , crumpled man.

" Where is your God now? You pathetic addict. You alcoholic piece of dung."

More kicks and slaps resound upon the flesh. The young man howls and weeps.

" You have been forsaken. Your God has left you. Fow you are worthless and deemed unworthy of redemption." screams the dark voice.

Blood drips and the pain is unrelenting. yet the young man does not waver, althought tempted, he does not.

"Renounce! I order you to renounce you pathetic sonofabitch and it ends. All the pain. All the slander. Your God does not tarry upon men like you, but I, yes I will. I will lift you up and you will sit at my left hand." says the entity.

The young man moans and vomits more acidic bile. Temptation feels like a warm blanket or maybe an ice pack. The young man looks into the black eyes and hoists himself to his knees. Smiling through the blood and vomit dripping from his chin the young man says

" Do your worst demon of light, but all I renounce is you."

The dark entity growls. The sound you may believe is chilling to the bone. It rears up upon hind legs, horns aflame and eyes with with a blackened fury. It takes a position over the crumpled christian.

The young man feels the ground tremble and sees the dark angel poised for the kill. The young man struggles to stand. On wobbly knees he extends his arms out as if hung on a cross.

"Do what you will to me you evil misinformed manipulative bastard. For I will never renounce my God. My God is the almighty and you. You are what falling and failure is made of. I will never renounce" says the bleeding young man. " Do what you will to me."

The young man bows his head in silent prayer as the dark angel howls and the ground shakes and the smell of sulphur permeates. The young man calls upon the Lord and when he lifts his head there is no more pain and the blood has all but dried.

An errant white dove lands upon the right hand of the young man and sunshine and wild flowers of all colors blossom.

Apartment Living

2009-12-04T19:16:00.000-08:00

The moment the water splashed cold upon his forehead, catching him by surprise and causing his breath to choke in his throat. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling above. A ceiling now dripping steadily with water.

“What now? What have you done now? Oh Fat Buffoon.” He screamed.

Springing from his reclining leather throne where he dozed. As an errant drop heavily made its mark upon the headrest where his head rested a moment before. Stomping across the floor muttering particular obscenities. The light in the kitchen off, now on with cockroaches scattering. He retrieves the broom from beside the oven.

Now back at the foot of his leather authority, broom in hand. Water continuing to take advantage of the beauty of his previous resting place he bellows.

“Oh Fatness above. What are you doing?”

Using the wooden broom handle as a lance. He bangs the plaster ceiling above his dampened head. Thump, thump, thump.

Whilst screaming “Oh dear Fatass above why do you cause such strife?

More broom now. Successful only in assisting wet lumps of plaster down upon his already wet cranium. Seething and wiping the white powdery mess from his eyes he drops the broom.

“Fatness, you have ruined me. Oh Fat One. I beseech thee. Leave me in peace” he screams.

Water, freefalling not only on his prized leather comfort but the carpeted floor as well. Heavy footsteps above. Accompanied loudly by the theme song from “Jeopardy.” Vessels of blood bulging on his once smooth scalp he bends to retrieve his wooden staff that lay at his feet. Fully intending to ascend to the second floor in order to exact full vengeance upon “The Fatness” above.

Moving across the wet floor with Jeopardy ringing throughout his brain. He opens the door and begins to climb the two flights of stained concrete steps. Since the elevator is in disrepair he is left without choice.

As he meets the second flight a wad of dearly discarded chewing gum finds its way into the soul of his shoe. Lifting is eyes toward the floor above he cries out.

“Oh Large One, Fatness from above. I know in my heart this was your doing. For you are a chewer of gum. As well as a spitter of gum once chewed. For I have seen this with my own two eyes. Oh Fatness.”

With the second flight now in the past he is greeted by the second floor. The smell of grease and foolishness assault the nostrils as he continues staff in hand along the hallway.

Now wild eyed and slightly out of breath he stands in front of the entrance to the lair of His Heaviness.

With a racing heart he pounds the staff upon the chipped and dirty gateway that leads to the beast.

Alex Trebec can be heard screaming from within the dark recesses as the volume of the television is as loud as methamphetamine induced monkeys. He bangs upon the door again and is answered by gargantuan footsteps. Footsteps so grand that they shake loose some of the dried plaster from his abused scalp.

For a moment he ponders running away. Admitting a mistake of direction perhaps, but no! The time has arrived. The Fatness will be dealt with now.

The door swings open and instantly his visual as well as olfactory senses offended. Human body odor along with funkified dietary mishaps attack.

The Fatness stands before him as if it were a Greek god that lost his way to its cathedra. Cloaked only in a yellowy stained, once white bath towel. Rolls of fat filling the crevices, straining the stitching.

He stands in misdirected awe as The Fat One blows a bubble of gum. Sending a fruity vapor into the face, further assaulting the oxygen within their proximity.

With a chubby hand resting on its bulging hip The Fat one chews its gum and lisps “Yes? Do you know you have powder on your head? Oh and by the way you are interrupting my bath.”

Almost dropping the broom he replies “Um, yes, well about your um. “ But before the sentence can be birthed The Fat One shrieks “Oh you awful man. You made my tub overflow. You are just a terrible neighbor.”

The Fat One sticks out its tongue as he slams the door in the plaster coated face of the newly recognized terrible neighbor. The Fat One now safe within its grease coated confines. Its oversized footsteps echo as it makes its way to the bathing trough.

Dropping the broom, defeat running amuck within. He retreats downward to his soaked plaster coated single apartment.

Justice Intact....Again

2009-12-03T08:25:00.000-08:00

The fifth grade boy sat stiffly at his desk and wiped his sweaty hands on the seams of his green Toughskins for what must been the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes. He knew today was the day and he was nervous. He was in the fourth month of his fifth grade year and he had the unfortunate luck to have been assigned to Miss Afseth’s class. Miss Afseth was undoubtedly was the meanest fifth grade teacher out of three possible choices. There was Mrs. Walden who seemed a nice quiet lady with golden hair and wire framed glasses. She only wanted to teach her students the three R’s. Then there was Miss Walker. An ancient gray haired lady, quiet as well unless a student happened to cough in her classroom. He recalled the day that his class and Miss Walker’s class were forced to merge for about three hours. One poor girl had a minor cold accompanied by a cough. The girl neglected to cover her mouth when she gave an undersized hack. Miss Walker was on her feet at once seizing the girl making her wait outside the classroom. Walker then lost her mind and rearranged the entire classroom in order to move the girls desk to the middle of the room all the while screaming about “coughers.” “Coughers are bad, coughers spread germs and coughers will be stationed away from the rest of the class” The girl who dared cough sat quarantined, staring balefully at the chalk board throughout the lesson and would suffer a grim glance from Miss Walker every time she attempted to stifle a cough.

Now Miss Afseth was entirely different matter altogether. Picture a sixty year old woman with a dyed brown bouffant hairdo, wire rimmed glasses and a very severe face. Her lips were constantly pursed and her nose in perpetual crinkle as if someone was holding a small turd directly under her nose. She had a voice that could shatter diamonds and when she yelled it felt as if your entire world was slowly grinding to an end. She wore only long matronly dresses that would hide her shoes. For the longest time the boy was sure she did not possess feet or legs for that matter. He was convinced that she floated because anyone that mean certainly had to possess super evil powers granted by the devil himself. In class when the students were given an assignment there would be absolutely no talking. Afseth kept up a constant stream of “be quiet, hush, be still, shut up, shhhh, no talking.” It didn’t matter if anyone was talking or not. Afseth seemed possessed by something and it certainly was not the soul of a human.

Now he could handle mean Afseth as long as he kept up his grades, which he did and completed his homework which he also did. The trouble was that the second meanest girl in the entire third grade was seated right next to him and she took pleasure in tormenting him on a daily basis. Her name was Debbie Ackerman and even in the fifth grade she had the face of a monster. That face was either verbally abusing him in class or pestering him on the playground. It felt as if her abuse knew no bounds.

One of her favorite activities would commence at the end of recess. As soon as the yard monitors would order the kids to turn in the basketballs, volleyballs and footballs Ackerman would nail him in the back of the head with whatever ball she could grab. She seemed to make it happen on a daily basis. The thing that irritated him the most was he allowed it to happen. Instead of being on guard at the end of recess he would be involved in deep conversation with his friends or goofing around and forget all about her.

Then out of nowhere he would feel the thump of a big rubber ball off the back of his head. His vision would blur for a moment as his head was savagely thrust forward by the impact and he would instantly go mad. He would spin around prepared to pounce on her, but she always made sure she was standing next to a yard monitor. His friends would laugh and Ackerman would pull a stupid face at him and skip off into line.

Once inside the classroom the verbal torture would start. She was an expert at whispering insults without ever getting caught “Doofus…loser…poop-breath…butt-face…ugly…bucky.” It would go on and on. He would sit there seething, wishing he could smash her into a million pieces.

The one time he did try to fink on her it was a complete failure. He approached Afseth at her desk and told her that Debbie had called him fathead. Afseth looked up from fiddling about with some papers, looked him square in the face and said nothing. Afseth looked over at Ackerman who was the personification of innocence, acting as if she was working on her spelling assignment or some phony nonsense.

Afseth looked back at him and said “go sit down and finish your assignment.” He was crushed, limping back to his seat on rubber legs with his heart beating far too fast for his young age. He thought briefly to grab the pair of scissors from Afseth’s’ desk and give Ackerman impromptu haircut. But he knew if he tried he would undoubtedly be convicted on some outrageous federal charge. It was obvious this girl was either protected by an entity so powerful his ten year old brain could not comprehend or she was in fact one of Satan’s minions. As he took his seat he glanced over at Ackerman’s face. She smugly returned his glance as she mouthed “Loser“ at him.

The rest of the day was a blur. When school ended he was picked up by his mom and did not have much to say when she asked about his day. He was on the couch in front of the TV that night not really paying much attention to what was showing when an idea popped into his head. It was an idea for revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. He jumped up from his spot on the couch and ran to the kitchen. He flicked the light switch and looked around the kitchen until he spied the infamous kitchen junk drawer. He tore open the drawer and peered inside. His eyes went right to a small cardboard square with tiny red thumbtacks stuck in it. He knew what he was going to do with at least one of them. He had no choice. It was either vengeance or madness. He chose vengeance. Stuffing the cardboard square carefully into the waistband of his pajamas he quickly walked to his room. In his room he removed the square from his pajamas and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

That night as he lay in bed he drifted to sleep fine tuning the details of his master plan. The next morning he awoke feeling giddy with excitement. He had worked out his entire plan the night before. He knew that if a student failed to complete the assigned homework, Afseth would keep that student inside during recess. He would tell Afseth he didn’t finish and she in turn would keep him in at recess. Then when no one was watching he would lift one of the small thumbtacks from the cardboard and carefully place it on the chair of the monster who sat next to him. Picturing the reaction the tack would provoke from Ackerman almost made him laugh out loud. She would come in from recess yapping and gabbing with her friends priming herself to begin her afternoon session of abuse. She wouldn’t even pay attention to her chair. She would be too busy blabbing. Ackerman would sit down and the tack would stab her right in her mushy butt cheeks. She would then proceed to jump up howling and everyone would laugh. He would finally get a taste of sweet revenge.

On the way to school the next morning there was an unusual amount of traffic and he was a little late getting to school. He was forced to run to ensure he made it to his classroom on time. As he entered the room his eyes went right to where Ackerman was supposed to be seated. Her seat was empty. For a moment he panicked thinking she was out sick. That is until he heard her snotty voice coming from the utility room that was located at the rear of the classroom. She came out carrying the pile of morning work fresh from the mimeograph machine. Afseth was right behind her. They were engaged in some crappy conversation and it was obvious that Ackerman had just completed a big butt-kissing episode. Afseth began ordering all students to take their seats and Ackerman began handing out the morning assignments. She conveniently skipped giving him his morning assignment and as she passed his desk stuck her tongue out. The students slowly began taking their seats. Afseth stood at the head of the class and orchestrated the entire movement. After the class took their seats Afseth gave the order to begin and walked back to her desk. As Afseth floated to her desk she noticed that the boy didn’t have his morning assignment on his desk.

Pointing a twisted finger at him she screamed “where is your morning work assignment young man?” Her voice seemed to rattle the glass windows in the classroom and it certainly caused his teeth to jiggle about in his head. The boy mumbled “I,umm err well I wasn’t given, she, uhh” but before he could even get the words out of his mouth Ackerman piped up and said “ I put one on his desk Miss Afseth, he must have lost it.”

Ackerman smiled her patented butt-kissing smile and Afseth began muttering about responsibility. Afseth walked to her desk to retrieve another copy of the morning assignment. The boy glared at Debbie Ackerman wanting nothing more than to pull the chair out from under her and see her fall on the ground, perhaps bumping her fat head in the process. The moment passed as he remembered his magnificent plan. The tack…the fabulous tack. Yes soon it would be time for the tack and Ackerman would feel the sting of his vengeance.

Afseth slapped the morning work assignment down on the boys’ desk and he set about completing it. Ackerman attempted to annoy him throughout the morning. Tapping her pencil on his desk, whispering small insults and breathing her foul morning breath in his face. He ignored all of her attempts at driving him insane and concentrated on his plan. After the morning assignments were completed and turned in Afseth began a lecture on some already dead president. The boy tuned her out almost instantly. He began to go over his plan. As he did so it occurred to him that if he was caught with the entire cardboard square of thumbtacks his excuse would never stand up under any type of investigation. Especially after the tack was yanked out of Ackerman’s gargantuan buttocks and examined by school officials. Of course he would be the likely suspect. He sat right next to her and it was common knowledge they were arch enemies. They would instantly match it to the other tacks on the cardboard square and his life would be over. They would drag him off to the office where he would be paddled and sent home. He would then be forced to suffer the wrath of his parents. He would be forced to explain why he had entertained the idea of placing a metal thumbtack on some poor girl’s seat. They would assume he was some sort of freak and ship him off to the special school, with the special kids. He would be obligated to sit next to kids who gobbled their own boogers and danced about the playground screaming their own brand of gibberish whilst messing their pants.

The boy’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat and he was on the verge of hyperventilation. He briefly considered confessing. But confess to what exactly? He hadn’t done anything yet. His plan could still work. All he had to do was make a minor modification. He looked around the room and out the window of the classroom. Across the quad he spied the restrooms and the idea came to him. He would obtain permission from Afseth to use the bathroom. He would deposit all but one tack into the trash. BRILLIANT! His plan was still a go and he relaxed.

He looked up at Afseth and raised his hand. Afseth pointed her bony face at him, fixed her beady eyes on his and said “yes? What is it?” The boy began to sweat all over again and froze. Before he could make his request Afseth said “If you are going to ask to use the restroom, you can wait, recess is in fifteen minutes.” Afseth’s beady eyes bore into the boy as if she was scrutinizing his every thought and sin before she muttered “as I recall you didn’t complete your homework did you? I guess you will be staying in during recess wont you?” The boy still partially in shock just nodded his head. Afseth said “you can go to the restroom then.”

He heard Ackerman giggle but ignored her. His plan was coming together perfectly. About five minutes before the recess bell rang the class began putting their books away and began lining up by the door. Ackerman whispered “have a fun smelling Afseth’s farts ya big dummy.” The boy shot back “I hope you step in a giant turd.” Ackerman twisted her face demonic and glared at him before lining up with the rest of the class. The boy stayed seated and waited for the class to file out. Luckily he was the only one that day who failed to complete his nightly assignment. He would be alone in the classroom with Afseth. He thought about that for a moment and decided that it would make things easier. Only one set of eyes t o watch while he placed the thumbtack on Ackerman’s chair.

After the class was gone Afseth took her seat behind her desk and began whatever it was that she did during recess. Not once did she look at him. The boy slowly raised his hand and whispered “um Miss Afseth…I…um still hafta go to the bathroom.” Afseth slowly looked up from her desk and pointed her scrawny finger at the door of the classroom and hissed “go and be quick about it.” The boy sprang out of his chair as if his butt was afire and ran out of the classroom. He ran all the way to the boy’s bathroom. Once inside he made sure no one else was in there he removed the cardboard square filled with little thumbtacks from his pocket. He carefully hid one in the coin pocket of his pants throwing the rest of the tacks in the waste bin. He ran all the way back to his classroom. and was breathing heavily as he opened the classroom door. Afseth looked up and said nothing. He hurried to his seat and quickly completed his homework. Now all he had to do was wait for the exact moment when he could sneak the tack out of his pocket and place it on Ackerman’s seat. He eyed Afseth who seemed engrossed in paperwork on her desk. He looked over at Ackerman’s empty seat then up at the clock. The class would be back in less than twenty minutes. His palms were beginning to sweat and he had to keep wiping them on his jeans. What if he got caught? What if Afseth looked up at the very second he was dropping the tack on Ackerman’s chair? His heart was beating fast and he tried to sit still and act natural. He looked up at Afseth who still took no notice of him. He briefly pictured Ackerman sitting on the tack. The thought brought him joy and happiness. He saw her screaming and rolling about on the ground in a futile attempt to remove the tack from her rear end. He imagined her being whisked off to the school nurse on a stretcher and the tack being yanked out of her derriere with a giant pair of railroad pliers.

He was jarred out of his daydream by the end of recess bell. He sat straight up in his chair and made instant eye contact with Afseth. Good lord the look she gave him it was as if she knew what he had been thinking. Without warning Afseth stood up and walked to the classroom door. He could hear her old lady shoes clacking away on the dull linoleum floor. He guessed she was opening the door so the class could file back inside. He knew this was the time. His pulse began to race and he felt a slight sweat break out on the back of his neck. Reaching into the coin pocket he felt he silently fished the little bastard out. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger he felt the sharp point on his thumb. He looked over at Ackerman’s chair and began to place the tack in the middle of the wooden chair. As he was about to position the tack it slipped from his sweaty grasp and fell to the floor. It made a small sound as it bounced on the linoleum. He froze for a moment waiting for Afseths shrill voice to scream at him “what do you think you are doing boy? “ But nothing happened. No shrill scream from Afseth, No bony fingers grabbing the back of his neck and dragging him off to the principal’s office.

Slowly he turned to see if what Afseth was doing. She was standing outside the door engaged in conversation with some other teacher. He quickly looked about the floor for the errant tack. As luck would have it was lying on its side directly under Ackerman’s desk. “Oh thank God.” He whispered to himself. He quickly bent down and retrieved the tack and placed it on Ackerman’s chair.

After the tack was in place his attention turned to the sound of his classmates noisily filing back into the classroom. They seemed particularly boisterous and Afseth began barking her usual orders from her desk “Sit down! Quiet!! Take your seats!! Recess is over!!!.” He turned to look see what his buddies were doing but ended up making eye contact with Ackerman instead. That’s when he got “The Fear.” He thought to reach over and knock the tack to the floor. He was sure he was going to get caught and sent to the special school.

“Oh crud...oh crud...” he thought to himself “I’m done, she’s gonna know oh no what have I done?” He began to hyperventilate. As he was falling apart another student by the name of Jon Monger was rapidly approaching Afseth’s desk and his face was filled with terror. At the same time Monger was advancing Ackerman was taking her seat. The poor boys breath was coming in short gasps and he felt lightheaded. He looked up at Monger who was standing pale faced, mouthing unintelligible words at Afseth. To his left he felt Ackerman sit down and give out a yelp as the tack pierced her fat ass. She jumped out of her seat her chubby little hand clutching at backside. Ackerman glared at him as if she knew he was definitely and without a doubt responsible for the pain she felt. Still clutching at her rear end she made a beeline for Afseth’s desk. Everything moved in slow motion for the poor boy. Monger was still at Afseth’s right side mumbling in some strange dialect as Ackerman rapidly approached Afseth’s left. He thought he heard Afseth tell Monger to take his seat but Monger stood fast. He saw the hate in Afseth’s face as Monger defied her direct order. It looked as if she was about to grab him and force him to his seat when out of nowhere Monger vomited what seemed a reservoir all over Afseth’s desk. Everyone in the class including Ackerman froze. Ackerman’s hand was still clutching her rear and Afseth had a look of horror on her face the boy would not soon forget. There was an orangey soupy vomit all over the top of Afseth’s desk. It dripped off the sides onto the linoleum.

Afseth began stuttering “Oh dear lord Jon…go...just get...go please god go.” As Afseth was in the midst of her begging Monger let go with another violent stream of puke, this time splashing into a large puddle on the floor to the right of Afseth’s desk. Afseth actually screamed and jumped up, grabbed Monger and hustled him towards the classroom door. It was then that Ackerman chose to make her move. Pointing at the boy she squealed “Miss Afseth! Miss Afseth! I think he put something on my chair!” Afseth turned her head and screamed “EVERYONE TAKE YOUR SEATS AND SHUT UP!!! THAT MEANS YOU DEBORAH!”

Afseth got Monger out of the classroom before he could soak anything or anyone else down. Ackerman stood there with a look of shock upon her face still massaging her posterior as Afseth disappeared with sickly Monger. The boy looked down at Ackerman’s chair and saw the tack all alone on the seat. He quickly grabbed the tack and slipped in into the coin pocket of his jeans. Ackerman didn’t even notice she was too busy weeping. Afseth returned moments later and found Ackerman standing by her vomit covered desk and bellowed” I thought I told you to take your seat Deborah?” “But Miss Afseth he, he put something on my chair and, and he did it.” Ackerman whined. Afseth twisted her face into a mask of terror and ordered Ackerman to take her seat.

Mr. Gurt the janitor showed up a few minutes later with his mop and bucket. Gurt began to clean Mongers last meal off the desk and floor. Ackerman made a couple more sad attempts to tattle on the boy but was rebuffed by Afseth each time. She finally gave up and sat in her seat sulking.

She looked over at the boy and mumbled “you’re gonna pay for this ya know?” The boy looked at her and smiled and whispered “Big fat meanies’ grow thorns on their butt sometimes ya know?” Ackerman never bothered the boy again and shortly thereafter the boys desk was moved next to a nicer girl altogether and things started looking better in every way.

The New Kid

2009-12-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

The new girl arrived at our school just before lunchtime. The principal walked her into our classroom and introduced her as Jane. He told the class she was from Uganda and had been in the United States for less than a month. Our teacher sat her in a chair off to the side until desks could be rearranged in order to better accommodate the girl. Everyone was certainly very curious about Jane, especially the girls. Jane was very tall, taller than all the girls as well as most of the boys in our sixth grade class. Her hair was very short and her dark eyes seemed to dart around the room trying to digest everything. Her clothing was very different as well. It appeared to have been purchased outside of the United States. Not that it looked bad by any means. It was just different. I knew her clothes would be talked about and criticized for days to come, especially if all her outfits were as such. Oh and did I mention she was the one and only black girl in our little private school?

You could hear the whispers as Jane took her seat. As she sat at her desk the entire class took turns sneaking looks in her direction, myself included. I can only imagine how she must have felt. It was obvious she was a little scared, well, probably a lot scared.

I felt bad for her. No one wants to be the new kid in school, especially one like this one. It was more of an elitist academy known for its snobbery than its academic prowess. Attended mostly by rich kids it could be a gauntlet of cruelty and criticism, especially if you didn’t come from money.

The whispering about the new girl continued until lunch. When the lunch bell rang the class lined up and walked single file to the lunch room. Our school had a very nice indoor lunch room and the food was great. And why the heck wouldn’t it have a nice lunchroom? Our parents paid enough in tuition every year. The least this place could do was feed us generously. As we walked I noticed that Jane was at the back of the line walking with her head down. I kept looking back at her and ended up tripping, falling down and, ripping a small hole in the seat of my pants. Of course most of the class saw this and I quickly became the subject of ridicule and laughter.

Upon our arrival at the lunchroom everyone immediately stopped talking. There was a very strict procedure that one followed when entering the lunchroom. Students would silently form a line in front of what was referred to as the serving section. Starting at one end one would receive a plastic tray along with utensils and move down the line in front of five lunch ladies. Each well over sixty years of age and attired in matching white uniforms. The uniforms resembled those of a nurse. I’m sure they weren’t really nurse’s uniforms. Back then they looked like they were and while I waited in line for my food I would ponder it constantly.

Each lunch lady had their own responsibility. From one you would get your vegetables. From another your fruit and so on. Until you stood in front of the last lunch lady who would serve the entrée and you had better not forget to say thank you either. This woman had an amazing memory. It appeared she had memorized every name within the student body and would loudly point out your indiscretion by saying your full name, grade, and teacher. Then smiling sweetly, remind you that you had forgotten to say thank you. All eyes in the lunchroom would instantly go to whoever that unlucky person. Please believe me when I tell you no one at that age needs that type of publicity.

As I made my way through the line I looked back to see how Jane was faring. She was surrounded by the “popular girls” a small group of girls, well known for their snobbery and snotty dispositions. They seemed to be firing questions at her at once. From the looks of it they didn’t seem that they were being very friendly about it either. It was obvious from the expression on Jane’s face she was not enjoying herself. I wished a teacher would step in and rescue her. Instead of being just another new kid in school the girls were treating her like some sort of weird science experiment, who instead of eating lunch should be poked and prodded with sharp sticks.

It was almost my turn to get my plastic tray. I turned my attention back to the line. I was able to successfully navigate my way through all five lunch ladies without suffering any nonsense and went to find a seat. I saw my friend Tony sitting alone at one of the tables shoveling lasagna into his mouth. He already had red sauce on his chin and some on his shirt. He was a fat little Italian kid who annoyed teachers to no end. Tony was noted for “fidgeting, fooling about” and for passing gas whenever and wherever the mood struck. Tony could care less what others thought of him, especially the teachers. I’m sure he took secret pleasure in causing angst amongst the faculty.

Tony grinned when he saw me approach, with red sauce all over his teeth he asked. “Hey man, what’s up? This lasagna is good today eh?” as he continued wolfing spoonfuls into his mouth. “Yeah I’m sure it is, hey what do you think of the new girl man? I asked. Tony paused for a moment, looked at me in mid-chew and asked “what new girl man?” then went back to slurping his lasagna. “The new girl man, Jane the one from Uganda, ya know? She came in right before lunch. Remember? The principal came in with her?” I yelled. Tony frowned for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. Tony didn’t care. He was too busy feeding to be concerned with new girls or guys or anything other than lunch.

I looked up to see where Jane was and spotted her at a table still surrounded by the girls. Jane wasn’t smiling and sure wasn’t touching any of her food. I looked back at Tony who now was deeply involved with the pineapples on his tray and said “hey man, check it out; those girls are really putting the new girl through the ringer.” Ignoring my request he asked “hey we gonna play handball at recess or what?” Continuing to look in Jane’s direction I shook my head and said “yeah sure man, handball.” Tony finished his lunch long before I did and said “I’ll see ya out there k?” He stood up, belched loudly and yelled “Hooray for me!” Then walked away from the table and turned in his dirty tray.

I glanced over at Jane again. She still had not touched her food as the girls continued yapping at her. One girl waved a spoonful of lasagna in her face. It looked as if she was trying to force feed her. The girl was so loud with her demands that Jane eat the food I was able to hear her from where I sat.

“Try it, try it, it’s really good. I mean like, what do you eat in your country? Oh my god just try it. Do you not like American food or what? ” She screeched. The rest of the girls laughed and Jane looked as if she was about to cry. I looked away. I’d had enough. If I’d any guts I would have strode over and invited her to sit at my table. At least it was quiet and I wouldn’t have treated her like an exhibit. But like most guys my age I was a big chicken and could only fantasize about doing something like that.

I knew their fascination with Jane would pass. Most likely within a few hours they would begin to ignore her and then start treating her badly. I’d seen them do it time and time again.

I finished my lunch and turned in my dirty tray. I took my time walking out to the playground. I wasn’t really in the mood to play handball with Tony. He became somewhat intense when it came to competitive sports. I can’t begin to count how many times I watched him go berserk on the court when he thought he was being wronged. And heaven help you if you were on the receiving end of his wrath” It was on the line! I tell ya, on the line! I’m serious it counts, It counts!” he would scream. Tony would continue his rant until his opponent would give in and let him have his way. Aside from his on court theatrics and chubby physique, Tony was probably the best handball player the school had ever seen.

I slowly walked across the quad toward the huge playground. It consisted of two large baseball diamonds, a football field and three handball courts. As I arrived I saw all three handball courts already filled to capacity. Tony was already immersed in a handball game, pitted against some kid from the fifth grade class and it was obvious from his frantic motions he was bent on winning. I stopped at the drinking fountain and took a long drink. The water was cold and I could feel it hit the bottom of my belly. As I slurped at the cold water I heard a gaggle of female voices coming from behind. I stopped drinking and looked up. The voices belonged to the group of girls that had been sitting with Jane in the lunchroom. They were busy yapping at one another while Jane sluggishly followed. Her head was down and her hands thrust deep in her pockets. I watched the girls walk to the benches near the baseball diamond. It was their proverbial hallowed ground. Not just anyone was permitted to sit at the benches after lunch. You had to belong to the cool crowd in order to gain invitation. I watched Jane take a seat near the end of one of the benches and continue staring at the ground. The girls seemed to ignore Jane. Wiping some excess water from my chin I imagined how lousy she must have been feeling, new kid, new school, and new country all in less than a month.

Begrudgingly I made my way toward the handball courts and took my place in line. As I waited my turn I looked toward the benches from time to time. Jane was in the same position each time I looked. This was really starting to bother me. I had never been in her position before but for some reason I really felt bad for this girl.

Tony had just finished beating the fifth grader and was hollering at his next opponent. “I know you ain’t ready for this.” I am King Tony, I will never be beaten. You will bow down to the master!” He yelled. His next opponent was a girl from the other sixth grade class named Lisa. Lisa was a regular at the handball courts and was very much used to Tony’s antics. “Just gimme the ball you fat lil galoot” she said. Tony gyrated his hips from side to side as he sang “who’s the King? I’m the King, that’s right. Who’s the king?” With a bored look covering her face Lisa stood there watching him until she had enough. Then like a snake in the grass she quickly tried to grab the ball from Tony’s hands. Tony, chubby yet agile danced away laughing, clutching the red rubber handball against his chest. Lisa gave chase as Tony zig zagged away from her laughing so hard a giant strand of drool escaped his mouth landing on his shirt. Lisa chased him into the corner of the playground. Tony was laughing so hard he did not realize he was about to be cornered. Lisa was just about to pounce on him when Tony threw the ball straight up in the air. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched the red ball sail upwards.

As I watched the ball blend with the blue sky an idea flashed across my brain. I leapt from my position in line and ran to where I hoped the ball would begin its descent. As the ball hurled toward the ground I was right there. I caught it before either Tony or Lisa could react. With the ball in hand I looked in the direction of where Jane sat. She was still in the same position, eyes downcast and hands in her pockets. The group of girls seemed to have moved even further from her. I threw the handball as hard as I could in Jane’s direction and yelled “Jane, Jane, get the ball!”

Jane looked up to see who was screaming her name. I began to run after the ball pointing at it as I yelled “Jane, Grab the ball, c’mon grab it.” Jane stood up and ran to meet the ball. Bending over to pick it up she held it in her hands as if it were something from outer space. I continued running toward her and when I was within fifteen feet from her I said “Hey, c’mon come play some ball with us, its fun, c’mon.” Jane looked at me and then back down at the ball. As she looked at the ball I closed the distance between us and said “hey c’mon, let play handball it’s a blast. I’ll introduce you to fat Tony.” Jane looked up at me and for the first time that day I saw just how white her teeth were as she smiled. She walked with me to the handball court and for the rest of recess we played handball. Jane turned out to be an excellent player. She even gave Tony a run for his money. At the end of the school year Jane left our small school and returned to Uganda with her family. It’s been over twenty years and from time to time I still think about that one perfect year where almost everyone in our class made a new friend.

Tough Old Men

2009-11-27T11:23:00.000-08:00

This is based on a true story as told to me by my uncle Herbert Jenkins, a retired WW2 veteran and former POW. I was 17 and we were sitting on his front porch in Kensington PA. He allowed me to drink a beer and he was illuminated by some very fine cognac as he relayed his story. The following account took place probably around 1980.

It was 5:45 am as the man slowly walked down the darkened sidewalk to the stairs of the train station. Up ahead he saw the sign that pointed out the station and quickened his pace. He carried a heavy brown leather suitcase with a worn handle. He was on his way to see his only daughter and grandkids. Usually his daughter would drive from her house to meet him, but at the last minute she was forced to work a double shift at the hospital where she was a nurse. Even though he hadn’t been on a train since the army he told his daughter he would gladly take the train instead of her making the long drive to the city.

At the bottom of the stairway that led to the train station he paused and looked upward. He had not counted on there being so many stairs and did not look forward to the climb. He was sixty four years old but still very strong, especially his upper body. His hair hardly showed any gray and his legs were still thick with muscle even though his knees ached daily with arthritis. He wore black plastic framed glasses. He used to wear them just to read but now he relied upon them. He wore a dark canvas jacket with a blue striped button down dress shirt. It was old but pressed and clean. His pants were dark gray and they went well with his black loafers.

There were people walking up and down the stairs around him. Mostly blacks some Puerto Ricans, very few white faces. He did not care much about race. He kept his own company. He accepted long ago that the neighborhood where he grew up had changed.

Looking at the flight of stairs he began his ascent. As he climbed his nostrils were assaulted by a strong pungent odor. The old man looked toward the other side of the staircase and saw what looked like old urine stains. People walked over them not giving them a second glance. He made a mental note to watch where he put his feet. Upon reaching the top he found himself in front of several metal kiosks and slightly out of breath. Placing his suitcase down for a moment he surveyed the rest of the station. It was very well lit by huge florescent lights which dangled from the ceiling. It was also far more crowded up here than it was on the sidewalk below.

Looking over at the kiosks again he felt a slightly agitated. He was not really sure how they worked. He knew they were used to purchase tickets but had no idea how to operate them. Unbeknownst to him this particular train station did not employ people to sell tickets. Employees were there to sweep floors and maybe assist with luggage. The only way to buy a ticket at this particular station was via the electronic ticket kiosks.

Staring at the kiosks he became annoyed with himself. Not only did he not know how to operate the kiosks he had also neglected to check the cost of the ticket before leaving. He needed to travel from Center City PA to Lancaster PA. The old man had a total of $ 65.00 dollars in bills, some change and one credit card. Now he wasn’t sure he had enough cash to purchase the ticket. His credit card was always an option but he disliked using them preferring to pay with cash.

He stared at the kiosks for a few more seconds before deciding to back away and have a look around the station. Perhaps he would find someone to assist with purchasing a ticket. He walked toward a random boarding platform and stood there for a moment. As he stood there a heavyset woman pushed by him muttering to herself and passed gas loudly. The old man was tempted to boot her in her full sized ass but instead turned and walked back to the kiosks.

As he walked he spied a man in a railroad uniform walking ahead of him. Jostling through the crowd the old man caught up to the uniformed employee and asked “excuse me sir, I’m trying to get to Lancaster and I haven’t ever used one of those new ticket dispensers. Think you could help?” The employee stared at the old man as if he were a bug then pointed in the direction of the kiosks and rudely said. “Put ya money in the slot and punch in where you want to go.” The employee sighed and shook his head slightly as if he was terribly inconvenienced by the old man then walked away not once looking back. The old man stood there embarrassed as he watched the employee walk away. Shrugging off his embarrassment the old man looked down at his wrist watch. Fearing that if he wasted anymore time looking for someone to help he would surely miss his train. Deciding to try and figure things out for himself, he walked backed to the kiosks.

When he arrived, there was a young man attired in the same railroad uniform as the other employee. The young man was leaning up against the wall with one foot propped up on a bench devouring a sandwich. The old man hesitantly approached the younger man not wanting to interrupt his meal and asked. “Hey bub, do you mind helping me out? I’ve never used these new ticket things before and…I could use some help if you don’t mind?” The young man stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and wiped his hands on his pants. The young man smiled showing off small bits of bread stuck between his teeth and said “Why absolutely sir, not a problem, where do you want to go? “ The old man said “I was trying to catch the next train to Lancaster. I’m worried I m going to miss it.” The younger man with his mouth still full of sandwich said “Not to worry. I think you have plenty of time.” Looking up at the train schedule on the wall the young man said “Ok, Lancaster huh? Let’s see. Ok sir, the next train for Lancaster leaves at 7:45, looks like you got plenty of time. “The old man smiled and put out his hand for the younger man to shake and asked “Thanks a lot. How much do I owe you bub? “ The young man gripped the old mans hand and said “Oh not a problem sir a one way ticket will be 28.50, round trip will cost you 51.25.” The older man handed him $60.00 in bills and the young employee helped him buy the ticket. “Here you go sir.” said the young man handing the old man his tickets and his change. Then pointed out where the train would arrive. They shook hands once more before the old man placed the tickets inside his jacket pocket and advanced through the crowd which had now grown thrice.

At the platform the old man stood there waiting for 7:45 to arrive, wishing he had a cup of coffee. It had been a while since he had taken a trip alone and the feeling of excitement he had when he woke up was quite the energizer. He had not even considered brewing any coffee. He wanted to be out of the house and on his way. He recalled seeing a small news stand that was on the other side of the station. Hoping they sold coffee he began to walk toward the news stand. Taking a quick peek at his watch he saw that he would have plenty of time to get a cup and return to the platform with time to spare. At the news stand he discovered that they indeed sold coffee and took his place in line. When it was his turn he ordered a large black coffee and asked for a lid. Now in the company of a large Styrofoam cup filled with steaming hot coffee he walked away and stood by a large concrete pillar. Placing his suitcase on the ground between his legs he began to sip at the hot drink. The caffeine hit his system at once. Feeling rejuvenated he took another look at the crowd wondered how many of them would be on his train.

As he sipped and watched the crowd he thought about how much his neighborhood had changed. As a young man in this neighborhood you would never see a dark face in this neighborhood or urine stains in a train station stairwell for that matter. It didn’t bother him too much. It just made him realize he was getting older. He continued to reminisce and sip at his coffee enjoying the burn on the tip of his tongue. When the cup was almost empty he felt the need to use the men’s room. He considered waiting until he was on board the train to use the restroom however at his age when he had to go, he didn’t dispute it. Glancing around for the restroom he spied two doors to the left of the news stand where he purchased his coffee. One marked with a stick figure of a female and the other a male. Tossing the cup in a nearby trash can he retrieved his suitcase and walked directly to the appropriate door.

What the old man failed to notice on his way to the restroom were the three young men that had been watching him since he made his way up the stairs. What the three young men failed to notice was a man although old, had seen more than his fair share of battle. The young men failed to see the former Special Forces officer that during world war two had been captured by the Germans, thrown into a prison camp, but along with a few other American soldiers were able to escape. All they saw was an old man who appeared an easy mark. As the old man disappeared through the restroom door the three young thugs followed.

The old man opened the restroom door and entered a small humid room that held a terrible stench that hit him hard in his nostrils. The walls were covered in graffiti and the lighting was poor. On one side of the room were the toilets and urinals. On the opposite wall the sinks. The old man remembering the urine stains in the stairwell carefully walked up to one of the urinals and hesitated. He looked at the stained cement floor. He didn’t want to put his case on the dirty floor but didn’t want to leave it atop the sinks either. Someone could just grab it and run. Choosing what he felt was the lesser of the two evils he placed the case on the ground next to him. Unzipping his fly he proceeded to relieve himself. As he was finishing he heard the door open behind him accompanied by whispering voices. He zipped up quickly was about to retrieve his suitcase when he noticed a young man standing to his right. In the young man’s hand was a small blade. The old man felt his heart race and turned slightly to get a better view as the young man said “hey pops got a cigarette man?” The old man turned around completely and saw that there were a total of three young men eyeing him hard. The old man stared at each one allowing his eyes to rest upon the man who had the knife. The old man knew what was about to happen. Other than his heart beating hard he felt no fear nor did he entertain thoughts of trying to run.

Continuing to hold the young mans stare the old man calmly replied “Nope…don’t smoke. “ The young man laughed and said. “Well, I think we are gonna have to go through your pockets ok pops?” The old man never taking his eyes off the man simply responded “yeah? Are you?” Then quickly reached down and grabbed his suitcase by the sides and thrust it as hard as he could into the chin of the thug. The corner of the suitcase caught the thug directly under the chin causing him to drop the knife and forcing his mouth to snap shut with an audible snap. The old man quickly kicked the knife into a corner as the thug hit the floor.

The other two would be muggers couldn’t get out of each other’s way fast enough to get out of there. The old man watched them run out of the restroom then re focused his attention on the thug on the ground who was trying to get up mumbling something that sounded like “gonna kill you old man.” Upon hearing those words the old kicked him the chest as hard as he could causing the thug to slam backwards on the dirty concrete. The old man angry now, kicked him again in the chest and once in the chin.

The thug groaned and tried to cover his head with his hands. The old man bent and grabbed a handful of the thug’s oily hair and dragged him toward one of the dirty toilet stalls. As the old man dragged him across the cold concrete the thug cried out “I’m ssssoory man, I’m sorry man ahhhh pleeeease we didn’t mean to sir, please, lemme go…its cool ok man.” The old man ignored him and continued pulling the man across the floor. The young man realizing begging wasn’t going to work tried biting the old man on the leg. The old man still gripping the thug by his hair jerked his head back and backhanded him across the face until the thug went limp and began crying. Still ignoring the young mans cries the old man continued dragging him until both men were inside one of the filthy stalls. Using both hands the old man hoisted the failed mugger into a semi-seated position. The old man grabbed him by the shirt and bent over until his face was inches away from the thug. The old man could smell the thug’s sour breath along with his unwashed essence and it turned his stomach. Looking into the thugs eyes he grabbed the young mans hair he shook him hard and said. “You messed with me didn’t you? You messed with me, so now I’m gonna mess with you.”

The thug continued to beg for freedom but the old man paid him no mind. He grabbed the thug’s hair and the collar of his shirt at the same time and held fast. He banged the young man’s head against the stained toilet bowl. The thug howled and cried out “Please! Please let me go I’m sorry please.” Disregarding the plea for mercy the old man lifted the thug by his hair and shoved his entire head into the disgusting toilet bowl. The thug began to thrash and kick splashing water all over the already filthy floor and the old mans shoes. The old man silently counted to three before he relented and allowed the thug to come up for air.

The old man then shoved him back against the metal wall that divided the stalls. With his face now streaming tears and toilet water the thug stared in horror at the old man. The old man stared back, unblinking and without heart. Grabbing the thugs jacket the old man shook him back and forth like an insane parent shakes a savage child. Then putting his face close to the thugs face the old man said “think about it next time bub eh? “ The old man let go of thug who collapsed weeping on the filthy bathroom floor. The old man wiped his hands on the thug’s jacket and left him lying in a puddle of tears and filthy toilet water. The old man grabbed his broken suitcase and walked quickly to the door.

With his suitcase tucked under his arm he opened the door with his other hand and stepped into what felt like another world. The station was just as busy as before and there was no sign of the other two muggers. A large silver train was waiting at the platform where the old man had been waiting earlier. Walking quickly to the platform he glanced at his watch. It read 7:41 am. A voice boomed over a loudspeaker announcing the departure for Lancaster PA and other locales. Seeing a crowd of people boarding the train the old man quickened his pace and after showing his ticket to one of the conductors boarded the train.

He found a seat towards the rear of the train and looked out the window. Nothing had changed on the platform and no one seemed to be looking for an old world war two veteran who had just danced with the devil and beaten him fairly.

Revise, Revise, Revise

2009-11-17T16:35:00.000-08:00

To my one and only follower, how awkward and pathetic is that eh? We all have to start somewhere would'nt you agree? Well maybe you have noticed that posts disappear and re-appear a few days later. I have to admit that sometimes I become so anxious to finish something I go ahead and post it before its completely ready. So please enjoy yourself and continue reading and thank you.

P.R.

Prologue

2009-11-08T06:22:00.000-08:00

I thought I would post the prologue from the novel I writing. Its almost done.

Prologue

As the sun relinquished itself behind the chocolate mountains the radio squawked as the dispatcher called out the sensor activations…11 November 4 hits, 13 mike, 7 hits…13 south 2, hits…5 November… 12 hits. …They were coming. The agent turned his binoculars southeast and scrutinized the terrain. Mesquite and sand blended in with the salt cedar. An unexpected cold wind blew from the south and chilled his insides to the bone. Yes they were coming. As was new life into his and none of this mattered anymore; let them come. The Agent put his binos on the passenger seat and exhaled. From his position on the north side of the border he could see the lights of Mexico and they shone like spirit stars each one resplendent unto itself.

Something New

2009-11-07T19:39:00.000-08:00

I,ve been trying to write a short story about an experiance I had in grade school again but Im not really happy with how its going. Im not sure If I will post it on here. Who knows? I'm also trying to finish my novel.

The Author

2009-10-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to write a quick note. I PR, are, am is, be the author of everthing written on this page.

The whore that got her stripes

2009-10-21T16:14:00.000-07:00

The whore who received her stripes

Did not earn by blood or tears or bravery.

The whore earned by stabbing the backs of the righteous

The whore will sin yet the finger of guilt will never be pointed

The whore who earned the stripes shall nurse at the hindquarters of the devil

The whore who was handed the stripes will continue to ruin the innocent and leave tears in her wake

The whore has sold her soul

And then there were two

2009-10-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

It was my third month on the job as a city cop. I was unlucky enough to be working the 6pm to 6 am shift in one of the shittiest areas in the City. I was also unlucky enough to be partnered up with a training officer that was one of the biggest overtime whores the department employed. What that means is that toward the end of my shift. When the morning sun was rising in the east and my flesh felt like it was burning off my bones. He would still be hunting for that last minute dope bust or traffic stop that would most likely lead to a drug arrest. He had a nose for dope and he was one of the best police the department had to offer.

And if we did catch anything I would be the one to clean it. I would write the report, book the dope and book the body. This would guarantee us at least two hours of cash overtime. In those first days of being a boot/rookie/amateur it was grueling when I had to complete the aforementioned alone. Did I also mention that along with him being one of the best he also had a caustic tongue and nothing was off limits when it came to ridicule, my looks, my wife, my kids, my eating habits, anything and everything was fair game to this cocky 12 year veteran. There were more than a few times I pictured snapping his spine. Quickly and effortlessly so he wouldn’t feel too much pain. I mean after all I did like the guy a little bit and he did teach me a lot

He was the one responsible for teaching me how to sniff out the ungodly, the ones that lived in the sub-terrain while the innocent slept. He was the one that taught me how to hunt, to be that particular hunter tweekers feared. He was also an enforcer of area integrity. That means that when you are working a patrol unit you are assigned a particular area and you are or should be responsible for any and all radio calls that are generated in your area. He did not approve of other units encroaching in our area and would have me cancel any units that were assigned calls in our fife. So what I am trying to convey is that between his hunting and the non- stop bullshit radio calls we were busy like demons in a catholic girl’s school.

It was about 4 am on a Tuesday or maybe a Thursday I don’t really remember or care. The EBO came on the air and jabbered. “24A1, 24A1 prowler suspect there now, P.R. states he sees three to four possible male Hispanic suspects in his front yard, see comments for further handle code 2, R.D. 2418.” I acknowledged the call over the air and we went en route. As we drove the radio came to life again and the EBO moaned “24A1 further on your prowler call, P.R. states he is armed and will meet you out in front of his residence.” I acknowledged and advised to EBO to call the PR back and tell him to leave his gun inside his house.

I looked over at my Training officer and said “what the fuck? are we gonna have to shoot this dummy?” Now most boots would not normally talk this way to or with their training officers. But I had prior law enforcement experience and I had already proven myself. (That’s a whole other story for another day,)

As we made the turn onto the street I hit the spotlight and began searching for the numbers. This in itself is a chore because in the bullshit city where I work no one keeps their addresses where they can be seen. Nor do they maintain the numbers that should be painted on the curb. Even if they did the numbers would be blocked by the four to five shit-box cars that most of the residents own and park on the street. And the city doesn’t give a shit so why should they?

I was able to find some numbers and when we arrived within about three houses we blacked out and parked. We crept up to the house and saw no movement outside and the inside of the residence was dark. Now bear in mind most of the houses in this particular area have big wrought iron fences supplemented by cinderblock or brick covering the perimeter and most, if not all have converted garages to the rear. These garages are rented out to families and can contain anywhere from 1 to 15 people inside. So you never know what you are getting yourself into when you arrive.

We stood in the dark for a few moments and silently watched. Nothing…no movement...no three to four male Hispanics creeping about. I got on the radio and quietly requested that the PR step out front to meet. Before I even had those words out of my mouth a sweaty male Hispanic came blundering out from the rear of the property. We lit him up with our flashlights and identified ourselves and told him to get his hands up. He responded by saying “hey guys, hey guys I was the one that called. It was me, man, fuck they were just here. Hey guys I got a gun, I live here man, but hey it’s cool.” Our lights illuminated a brushed nickel revolver with a black rubber grip sticking out of his waistband.

My partner had already broken leather since his position was a little closer to the idiot than mine was. I quickly followed my partners lead and broke leather as well and pointed my 9mm at his chest. I also got on the air and requested assistance for a man with a gun. My partner ordered him to turn around and lie on the ground blah blah blah the whole felony bullshit prone thing.

I killed my flashlight and approached the guy on right side as silently as possible; my partner approached him directly from behind. When I came within two feet I dropped all 220 pounds of myself onto his back as I grabbed is right arm and said “Don’t you fuckin move or we will put bullets in you, do you understand me?” I am not posturing. I am not exaggerating. I am not trying to impress. This is how we sometimes talk. It’s one of the best tactics we have. If you can scare a guy to death with just your words its better than having to hit him with a baton, taze or shoot him. Would you disagree?

The sweaty Mexican began jabbering “whoa I’m the one who called, it was me man fuck they were just here, fuck they ran off man fuck why the fuck are you handcuffing me?” As I was cuffing him my partner began talking to him. Asking him who he was and all the usual police Who? What? When? Where? Why? Questions. While these questions were being asked I removed a loaded .357 magnum from his waistband and rendered it safe. After this was done we cancelled our assistance call. Another unit arrived anyway and they checked mans residence to see if anyone was injured. It only took them a few minutes to check the small converted garage and they advised it was free and clear.

What we learned from this sweaty bastard was that he lived in the converted garage with his wife and two kids and he was sure he had seen at least 4 to 5 possibly Hispanic males creeping about his front yard. He said he grabbed his gun and went to confront them. He was sure that they were there to steal his cars or do some other bullshit. While he was telling his story to my partner I looked around the area he said he had seen them. There was nothing, no sign, no evidence that any of his cars had been tampered with.

I walked back to where my partner and the sweaty Mexican were. I looked at my partner and shook my head. He stepped closer to me and whispered “I think this guy is nuts. He keeps talking about his wife. I think they split up and he is freaking out a little bit.” We stayed there for about forty five minutes and made sure he wasn’t going to shoot himself or anyone else. He also stuck to his story about seeing someone in his yard. It may have been possible. Part of the yard was cement and it’s hard to see any tracks on cement right?

We had no crime. He did not fit the 5150 criteria. There wasn’t anyone dead inside his residence. The gun did not smell as if it had been recently fired. The check on the gun came back negative. He had no wants or warrants. There wasn’t much else we could do. So we left and moved on to the next adventure.

Our shift ended a couple of hours later and I was off I think for maybe the next three or four days. When I returned my training officer was in rare form. He suffered from back pain and I think the gods of sciatica had blessed him with reprieve. The first words out of his mouth as we left the station that night were “hey what the hell do you say we go get us a Dr. Pepper and Snickers?” “Jesus god” I thought. This fuckin redneck is going to be the end of me. One thing I didn’t mention is that this guy never ate. He never ate before shift, in the middle or towards the end. I think it was some sort of rite of passage to see if I, as a probationer could handle it. His only suggestion of eating was starting off the shift with a big jumbo snickers and a god dam Dr. Pepper.
I looked over at him and said “sure man, sounds good.” Thinking to myself I would have neither a DR Pepper or Snickers. The thought of eating all that crap disgusted me and I wanted no part of it or the ceremony that went along with it.

We drove to his favorite gas station where he quickly loaded up a huge plastic cup of that syrupy sugary filth, and grabbed extra large Snickers. I refused to go inside with him. I waited out by the car instead. I looked down at my watch and cursed silently, It was only 715 pm and I was already ready for bed. I couldn’t imagine driving around the entire night with this maniac. A few moments later he came back out to the car. In one hand was the big plastic cup loaded to the gills with his favorite drink and in the other hand was a jumbo Snickers candy bar. I looked at the candy bar and thought to myself “lord help us that entire thing must weigh two pounds.” I watched him as he shoveled that big fucking candy bar down his throat and followed it up with a Marlboro light. The entire process well it made me sick. I watched him smoke and I could tell he was waiting for me to talk. I knew he wanted to bait me into his sugar/nicotine rush.

He wanted to make me his victim. I knew as soon as I said something he would pounce on me. Berating me, reminding me what a dipshit probationer I was. I really wasn’t, like I said it was all ceremony. I stayed silent. I was in no mood to be on the receiving end of any of his verbal bile tonight. It was my Monday and I was on for three more nights and I knew he had the ability to wear me down in less than an hour.

As soon as he gobbled his candy bar he wiped his hands on his pants and with chocolate all over his front teeth said “c’mon let’s get outta here.” We jumped in the car and sped off into the dark. I could tell he was anxious, tweaking off his sugar and nicotine high. He wanted to get into some shit. But the radio gods smiled upon me that night. There were hardly any radio calls and no one seemed to be out walking the streets. We wrote a few tickets and talked for a while about bullshit. I was already picturing the end of my shift. It was a good feeling.

I remember we were driving north on a major north south street when the radio suddenly came to life. The EBO stated “North Valley units!!! North valley units!!! And 24A1 187 just occurred, PR states he has a body down from a gunshot inside the residence 24A1 handle code 3. My training officer sat up straight in his seat as if a 440 volt cattle prod had just been rammed straight up his redneck ass and screamed “that’s ours!!!! That’s ours!!! Tell her we are en-route lets go let’s go!!!!” I picked up the mic and screamed that 24A1 was certainly en-route. My training officer punched the accelerator and hit the lights and siren. In case you don’t know 187 is the California penal code for murder.

As we reached the street were the call was my training officer made a hard right. About three quarters of the way down the block I saw a Fire/Paramedic engine out front and two other police cars. We screeched to a halt in front of the location. We were met at once by two other police officers. All of us quickly began to walk toward the rear of the house. Something about this place looked so familiar. It was the typical house I had described earlier, a big 4 bedroom house out front with a converted garage to the rear. It also had a large iron fence surrounding the perimeter. I struggled to remember why it looked familiar to me. I was ignoring the conversation that my training officer was having with the other two officers. This is not a good thing when you are on probation. Because at anytime they can turn and start asking you to call the shots. As we reached the converted garage my training officer turned to me and said “Ok look, we have someone definitely dead inside, and there may be more, there may be two small kids in here that are dead as well. We are gonna clear the place, start a crime scene and wait for homicide to get here. The guy reporting is the father of the woman who is dead inside there. He heard gunshots and went inside and saw her on the floor inside one of the rooms. He tried to open the door but something was blocking it. He thinks it’s another body and he doesn’t know where the little kids are. ”

When he said the thing about the two kids everything went into slow motion. My breath was sucked forth out of my body and I stopped hearing what was going on around me. In the past I had read about things like this happening but never ever had I experienced it. I quickly looked toward the open front door of the converted garage. It was bright with light coming from within. Everything else surrounding that doorway was black. I couldn’t even distinguish the color of the house. I saw the future in that same second I saw that bright light. I was gonna walk in that fuckin room and see dead bodies and two of them were going to be kids. My Achilles heel. My weakness. My hesitation.

In the context of my job I can handle pretty much anything except for the smell of vomit or shit and the occasional stinker (dead body left to rot for over a week.) I’d only seen a dead child once before and It damaged me on the inside. So I know for a fact I cannot bear the thought of seeing two kids shot. I have young kids at home. My mind flashed to them for a second. I wanted to call my wife. I wanted to hear her voice telling me my kids were safe and sound and sleeping in their beds but it was close to 330 am and I wasn’t going to call her. I looked at my training officer and since it was our call he was putting an entry team together. He looked at me and told me I was to be the first in through the door… and I knew I was just about to wrestle with the devil. I drew my gun and everyone lined up behind me and we tactically approached the door. I would cross over the doorway first and move quickly to my right. My training officer would follow and cover left while the others followed. As I crossed the open doorway I moved slowly, or rather not as quickly as I should have. It was poor tactics but I was dodging the demons that I knew awaited for me inside.

At first glance the rooms looked normal, no bodies, just a very small blood stain on the far wall. I could see the kitchen as well as the door leading to the restroom. There were two other doors, one was partially open and I could see legs on the floor. The legs weren’t moving. The other door was closed. Fuck…I knew that’s where the kids were. Lying dead, both blasted with some fuckin gun. At that moment I realized where I was. I was in the home of the guy that had called us a few weeks back. The one screaming about men sneaking around his front yard. I looked around for my training officer and he was with another cop clearing the one and only bathroom. Two other officers were opening the other closed door and thankfully they yelled clear quickly.

I felt relief knowing that the kids weren’t in that room. There was however the one room left. The room where I saw the legs. One of the other officers approached the doorway that was partially open, where the legs were. He was having trouble opening the door. He made eye contact with me and as soon as he did my heart dropped to my balls. “Hey boot, get over here and help me get this door open.” I knew it was just behind that door. I knew the reason it wouldn’t open because there were more awful bodies. I looked around for my training officer and I saw him making his way toward me from the other side of the room. I motioned for him to come and talk to me as I went to assist the other cop with the door. My training officer and I reached the legs door at the same time and I said “ Partner, we were here a few weeks back, this was the guy that was flipping out because he thought there were Mexicans running around in his front yard. Do you remember? The gun. We took it off him, do you remember?” As I talked I could see in his eyes that he remembered. He didn’t say anything just stared at me. Our moment, if you will was broken by the other officer. He began pushing on the door and both my training officer and I covered him.

I was not the first into that last room that night. I was the second. I followed the other officer into the room and as soon as I did I scanned the room for kids. My eyes fixed on the legs, splayed with crimson painted toes pointed straight up. She was lying on her back. Black blind surprised eyes wide open and staring at ceiling. Her mouth was agape. She had a huge hole in the middle of her chest where the bullet had entered. The second thing I saw that in that room was the man we spoke with a few weeks earlier. He like the woman was sprawled on his back. He was not shot in the chest. He, after shooting the woman in the chest had aimed the gun at the side of his head and pulled the trigger. It looked as if someone had let the air out of his head. His unsighted eyes stared up at me as his brains leaked out of a huge opening on the side of his head. His blood and brains were in golf ball sized clumps. The clumps of blood-brain were all over the wall, the floor and at my feet. I did not quickly realize that I was standing in a small pool of his blood. I remember seeing it later in the daylight as it had already dried on the sole of my one of my boots.

On his stomach was the gun my partner and I had taken away from him just a few weeks earlier. It was lying haphazard and I remember staring at it for a long, long time. I thought for a second that my fingerprints were on that gun. I took my eyes away from the horror at my feet to scan for others bodies. There were none. No kids…just the two adults. Thank God.

I looked from the man to the woman then back to the man again. As I did this I could tell that the devil himself had been in that room. In my mind I felt like I could almost hear what the dead man’s devil sounded like. I could hear him laughing like some crazed Mexican gangster jackal. Goading that former man to do it...pull the trigger man…the bitch is cheating on you anyway… go ahead fool, blast that bitch…fuck her up fool. She is making you look like a punk.” Laughing inside the man’s head the entire time until he finally broke. Succumbing he pointed that fuckin .357 at her chest and pulled the trigger.

Do you think she died right away? Was it like a light being turned off? Quickly and without notice. Or did she linger, her throat rattling with that death gurgle that they all make just before they die? Did she feel the round pass through her as her head hit the floor? Or did she beg for her life? How many times do you think he pointed the gun at her before he jerked the trigger? Did he look down at her eyes as she died? Did she look up at him or was the last thing she saw the off white ceiling that had a brown water stain directly in the middle?

What do you think he did right after he pulled the trigger? Did the noise scare him? Did he cry? Did he scream? Did he yell for God? Do you think he said anything to her as she died? Did he stand over her and look in her face while the devil continued to whisper in his ear? Because you know the devil didn’t stop talking after he shot her. “Ahhh fuck fool look what you did now fool, you blasted her hahahahahaha fuck man what you gonna do now homes? Your kids don’t have a mama now fool…may as well join her homes eh? Damn fool just do it you fuckin pussy….And he did.

I found out later that they had two kids aged 4 and 6. They were staying at a relative’s house the night their parents left them.

The one that got away.

2009-09-26T16:04:00.000-07:00

The night I’m writing about put me in the United States Border Patrol for about three years. I was assigned to the Calexico station. It’s located about one hundred miles east of San Diego and about ten feet north of Mexicali. I was working the 2pm to 10pm shift in an area referred to as “east fence.” Imagine a regular street in your neighborhood and across the street from your house is a large iron fence. The fence is approximately eighteen feet high. It is made from iron columns approximately 3-4 inches in diameter, yet hollow. On the other side of that fence is downtown Mexicali.

When you are assigned to east fence your job is basically to park up against the fence and wait for the tonks to jump. You have one unit that parks at what we call “Point “His job is to sit there with his binoculars and watch the fence. He calls out the traffic via the radio. Translation, all humans jumping into the United States along east fence. That agent doesn’t move all night. He watches that’s it that’s all nothing more or less. That is his job all shift. The rest of the units assigned to east fence park at different areas along east fence, Dool street Encinitas, 5th wheel house, Mary’s’ school etc…

The tonks jump we chase, sans point, simple right? Not at all…working east fence can be wild and out of control. The radio traffic is fast and barely comprehensible. We speak, at least when I worked there in our own radio language, hardly understandable to outsiders. There are Border patrol vehicles zipping up and down the streets, mad dogs barking and biting, unlicensed drivers careening down streets. Agents out on foot, in backyards. Agents hiding in alleys, trees and on roofs, Tonks running amuck. Trying to blend in hard without looking tonkified. Smugglers on the south side (Mexicali) throwing rocks, bottles and on a few occasions firebombs at us. We retaliate by using pepper spray on the smugglers as they slide down the south side of the fence back into Mexico. Some nights the scent of cayenne is thick along east fence.

Now, let’s talk about the word “tonk” for a moment shall we? It’s a word you will see used whenever I write about the border. It basically refers to the people who are jumping into our country illegally. It is not race specific. So let us not dwell on any racial aspect of the word. It’s simply not racist, at least in my opinion. In the Border Patrol world it means one of two things. It is an off kilter acronym for temporarily out of native country or in the old patrol days it was referred to as the sound the big black metal flashlight makes on the back of their heads. Horrible? Maybe. Racist? No. I don’t believe so.

Anyway back to East Fence. The latest trend on East Fence was for the smugglers to hacksaw the columns in the fence allowing the tonks to slip through and hopefully blend in with the rest of population. You would think this hacksaw nonsense could be easily stopped but it was more difficult than you may think. The smugglers had all sorts of games with us to distract us away from what they were really trying to do. Their favorite was “The draw.” A couple of smugglers would jump the fence and run north and the agent parked closest would pull off in his vehicle and give chase. With that agent out of play it would leave his spot open so another small group would jump over at the new opening. More agents would pull off to chase. So, while everyone was busy chasing these fools another crew was busy sawing a portion of the fence. It was all a game. A game played during day shift so the fence would be ready by nightfall. They just wanted to draw attention away from the crew that was hacking away at the fence.

These smugglers could climb that fence as easy as walk across a busy New York street. It was really something to see. I tried on more than one occasion to climb the god dam thing and it was impossible. Yet these smugglers had no problems whatsoever. Climbing up and down the thing all day long, assisting their charges with shimmying up the fence on the Mexican side and sliding down the fence on the United States side.

Once they were on the U.S. side they could run to a million different hiding places all along First Street. Most hiding places were inside houses sympathetic to the cause. Other hiding places were garages, outdoor water heater closets, under cars, trees and sometimes on roofs. It was basically professional “hide and go seek” with guns and pepper spray.

It was close to 8 pm and it was winter on the night I’m talking about. I remember this because I was wearing my jacket and I was also wearing a black beanie. I was driving slowly down Second Street approaching a street called Encinitas when the radio began jabbering “Old port coming through the fence 7 to eight times.” Translation, there were seven to eight illegal immigrants coming through one of the cut columns near what we referred to as the Old port. It was the old port of entry from Mexico to the USA. I gunned the engine because in one more block I would have a perfect view of the entire group. They would pop out from behind the old customs building and I would most likely be able to scoop up every one of them.

As I approached Heber Street I looked to my left and had a perfect view of Old Port and the old customs building. I saw the entire group move out from behind the old customs building and stop. They stood there like a group of confused deer. There were about seven of them, mostly men, a couple of women, no children and thank God for that. All were wearing dark clothing as seems to be the custom when sneaking across the Border at night. One of the members of the group caught my eye. He was not dressed in dark clothing. He was wearing what appeared to be a white button up dress shirt and light colored jeans with dark dress shoes. He was also carrying a small brown paper bag.

Headlights flashed illuminating the group of illegal immigrants. I saw a Border patrol unit driving right up on the group. I knew this would cause them to scatter and T.B.S. (Turn Back South). I wondered for a second who was driving the unit. It was most likely a trainee and he wanted to be there first. I knew just how he felt. But when you work in the city the tonks can disappear so fast it can leave a Border Patrol agent confused and muttering.
On the east fence when the tonks didn’t immediately run into a hiding place but began to simply wander. It was sometimes better to let them think they have made it safely into the U.S. Watch where they go and make sure when you roll up on them they have no place to hide or run. And as I predicted, when the unit rolled up they scattered although none TBS’s but they did run in all directions.

I kept my eye on the man in the white dress shirt. I wanted to see why he was different and I wanted to see what the hell was in that brown bag. He walked quickly west on First Street passing the tienda on the corner. Once he passed the tienda he began to stroll, to blend in with the early evening shopping crowd. I continued to watch him walk and I kept looking at his little brown bag.

The man had no clue I was behind him. I maneuvered my vehicle, which at that time was a 2001 Chevy Tahoe, all the way to the left side of the street. On that particular part of First Street it turns into a one way street and even though it was somewhat late at night the traffic was still heavy. I stopped my vehicle a few yards behind him and got out.

I approached from behind and said in a louder than street noise voice “hey bro, hey bro it’s me. Turn around.” The man slowly turned and saw my uniform and just for a second I saw that look. That “oh shit, I’m caught “look. But then he smiled at me and said yes official what can I do for you?” Hearing his English caught me off guard. I asked him if he knew why I was stopping him. “No Official. “He answered smiling. “I have no idea why.” I looked at his brown bag and told him “Bro, I saw you come through the fence with a group of about seven others. “He smiled again and I could see his clothing was completely clean and he even smelled nice. “Surely official you are mistaken it was not me I have been just down at the store shopping for some Como se dice? Cositas...Little minor things for my wife.”

As soon as he completed his sentence I knew I had him. I smiled at him and asked him if I could look inside his bag. He hesitated for only a moment and then handed me the bag. I opened it and inside were three small brown plastic bottles containing some sort of medication. I looked further and found what I was looking for. The receipt. It listed the name and address of a well known Pharmacia located just across the fence in Mexicali. In fact if he and I walked back to Old Port we would both be able to see the entrance of said Pharmacia. I showed him the receipt and he looked down at the ground and asked “do I have to go with you now Official?” I nodded and said “sorry partner I’m afraid so.”

I gave him a quick pat down and put him in the back of my Tahoe. I tossed his medication in the front seat with me. I got in and started driving west along First Street to Imperial. I didn’t plan on driving him to the station right away. I wanted to see if anyone else needed transport for their bodies. I listened up for the radio to announce they had bodies in custody. As we drove he leaned forward and asked me my name. I told him and he told me his name was Juan Carlos. I asked him why he was dressed so nicely and why he seemed so clean. I told him most people who jump small pretty bad and their clothing is dirty. He explained that he had been living and working in the United States for many years and he only crossed to pick up medication for his wife because it was much, much, cheaper in Mexico. His insurance would not cover the cost of her medication and they could not afford to buy it in the United States.

I asked Juan Carlos if he had kids. He smiled and said “yes official I have three girls. Well actually four if you count my wife” He showed me a small picture that he had in his wallet of three smiling girls in matching dresses and a pretty Latina with her arms around all three. I nodded and said “nice partner, I’m sure you are very proud.

We drove in silence for a minute or two. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw his face. He had the look of a man that had the weight of God and the devil upon him all at once. “Hey Juan? “ I said. He looked up quickly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s wrong with the wife?” I asked. He looked at me in the mirror and said “Ahhh well Official, she has lupus. “ Now at the time Juan and I had met I mentioned I had three years on the job but in that short time I heard a lot of stories and excuses by the tonks. 99% of them were bullshit. At least that’s how I felt at that time. I pulled my Tahoe over to the side of the road and killed the headlights. I think I was somewhere on fourth street east of Imperial Highway. I turned around and looked at him and said “You serious? She has lupus? You aren’t bullshitting me?” “Oh no official, she has the lupus and she very much needs her medication. “

Now I happen to know just a little bit about the demon lupus. My friend Salvador’s wife is afflicted. Sal and I have had several discussions about her health in the past. I know it’s a terrible disease and can take its toll on the person who is afflicted with along with their family.

I asked Juan to name a few of her symptoms. Without hesitation Juan told me she has trouble with her kidneys now and sometimes trouble with the heart.” I looked at him and nodded. I reached over and retrieved my cell phone from my trique bag. I stepped out of my vehicle and dialed my friend Salvador. As I waited for Salvador to answer I reached back inside the Tahoe and grabbed the little brown bag. I was also thinking about what I was going to do with Juan. Millions of tiny little questions jumping their way around my head. On the sixth ring Sal answered and I apologized for calling late and asked him if he wouldn’t mind verifying some lupus meds for me and I would explain later. I gave him the names that were inscribed on the bottles and described the pills to him. He verified that all three were used to treat lupus. I thanked him and before I hung up Sal asked me if I was ok. I said” I’m not sure but I think I will be in a few partner.” I told him I would call him tomorrow and hung up.

I stared at my cell phone then looked through the glass that separated Juan and I. I wondered for a second if I had the same look on my face that Juan had on his when I first looked at him in my rearview. Juan saw me looking at him and smiled at me. I got back in my rig and turned and looked at Juan and asked him. “Do you know what street you’re on buddy?” Juan looked around in all directions and said “um I think Imperial highway is that way no?” as he pointed west. He was right. It was just a few blocks to the west. I asked him where he lived and he told me he lived further north in a town called Brawley.

I stared out my window and thought about his wife and his three kids. I thought of my wife and my kids. I thought of what I would do if was faced with a situation like Juan’s. I asked Juan if he had any money and he hesitantly told me he did. I looked back at him through my rearview and for a second I’m sure he thought I was going to shake him down. I turned on the headlights and pulled away from the curb and drove east along Fourth Street. Juan asked “are we going to the station senor?” I looked at him in the rearview and said nothing. I continued to drive east on Fourth Street until my lights illuminated a street sign that read Blair Ave. I headed north from there and drove slowly.

I asked Juan had he ever been to the station before. He looked at me in the mirror again and said he had, once before. I asked him had he ever been arrested in the US or Mexico. He said “No Never official, I never have.”

I jammed on my brakes hard. Hard enough to make Juan hit the glass partition but not hard enough to hurt him, just hard enough to locate his full and undivided attention. I turned and looked at him in his eyes. “No me diga mentida me! Me entiendas? No me hechas mentidas. Tiene que pensar de su esposa! Juan! If I find out you are lying I will personally come to Brawley and drag you the fuck out of your house” I yelled.

I had to do this. I needed to get in his head. He looked as if he were about to cry. “No no I swear to you a me Madre, never have I been arrested.” I stared hard at his face and could see in his eyes he was telling the truth. For just a brief moment I saw an honest man.

I punched the accelerator and continued to drive north and after a few more blocks made a quick left into a darkened alley. I killed the headlights for the second time that evening. I also shut the engine. I opened my door and stepped out onto the dirt alley. I could smell trash and dogs and the alley was void of anyone. It was so dark I could barely make out Juan’s silhouette in the back of my vehicle. I reached up and opened his door and asked him to step out. It was hard to see his face as I asked him for the second time that evening. “Do you know what street you are on?” Even thought I couldn’t see his face. I could tell his eyes were searching for mine. “Imperial highway is that way I am sure.” As he pointed west again. I took one last look at Juan and thought briefly of what might happen if I ever saw him again.

I got inside my vehicle and started the engine. I rolled down my window and handed Juan his wife’s medications. I put my rig in gear and kept the headlights off. I left Juan standing in that darkened alley. A cloud of Calexico alley dust most likely dancing on his white dress shirt.