writers zine - march 2013

Welcome, to the APL’s new literary zine

featuring the writing and creative works of

the members of the Aurora Public Library’s,

Writer’s Night @ Eola Road Branch !

Defending Scout’s Honor Written by: Patrick Huff

During the time that we were exiled

from our home church I was ineligible

to participate in the Scout program

sponsored by St. Pete’s. I found this

out in a letter sent by the scoutmaster

(Greeter Jenkins) to my home informing

me of the termination of my membership

in Troop 505. The troop held their

meetings in the new community center at

the church, so of course it would not

do for an outcast such as me to mix

with the respectable brethren.

This was fine with me, but I didn’t

want to give up on scouting. I had

recently completed the requirements for

“Star” rank, and I planned on going all

the way to “Eagle”.

The only other troop in town was

sponsored by our new church, St. Thomas

the Apostle, which was fondly referred

to as Doubting Thomas. They met at the

Teddy Bear Tap, in the banquet hall

kitty corner to the church. Dad took me

into register with the troop. We had a

meeting with the scoutmaster, “Red”

Barnaby in the bar at the Teddy Bear.

Red was the union steward at the

stamping plant where Dad worked as Vice

President of Quality Assurance.

March, 2013 VOL. 2# ISSUE 1

Writer’s Site

Original artwork by Patrick Huff

Defending Scout’s Honor

Poetry

Elapsed Time Written by: Alyssa Trivett In a world of intercontinental zombie movies, electric cars and personal updates, the clock winds down only ticking away. Reminders on calendars fade away, crossed off as time’s arrow sways back into the swing of things. As passengers wait on a train walking about while time delays fighting the ticks and the tocks with menial tasks & traits. To be running out of time is to be doing, to be running on time is defeating to the purpose. No one pays attention as the next day passes memories come to mind in the best ways… most of the time.

Save Me Written by: Karen Christensen

I long to sit at the feet of the wise

Surrounded by people who challenge ideas

Looking for truth

Not the petty and venal

Seekers of power

Those who can teach me,

pull me, stretch me

Forcing my brain to work overtime

Rejecting the obvious

Spare me from those whose eyes

on the prize

Focus on trappings, their fluff and stuff

Introduce me to genius

Save me from fools.

IF UNDERWEAR COULD TALK

Written by: Ken Draus

Ah, if underwear could talk. The secrets

we could learn. Just think of what we

might discover about Attila The Hun if

his T-shirt could spill the beans.

Would Shakespeare still be credited for

his magnificent body of literature if his

jock strap could speak? And what would

Cleopatra's bra say if it could?

Frivolous conjecture? No longer.

After years of research the curators of

the Underwear Museum in Skivvies, France

have indeed developed a means of

communicating with famous underwear.

The first to give it's side of the story

is Leonardo Da Vinci's shorts.

The following is the transcript:

JULY, 1482

Leonardo putta me on under his

pantaloons today anda we headed for Mi-

lan. Milan isa exactly like Venice except

there’sa no canals, so the gondoliers

gotta tougher time at it. Leonardo de-

cided to be a renaissance man because he

heard da pay isa good. Right after we

finda apartmente’ he starts askin' around

where he could take some renaissance

lessons.

Night Shift Written By: Bob Walker

Sometimes our demons are within

The barracks is dark and filled with the rasping sounds men make while they lie in uneasy sleep. Periodically the room is bathed in light as a searchlight from one of the perimeter guard towers flashes through a window. The quiet is shattered by the thump of jack boots ascending the barracks steps, as the door is flung open with a loud bang and footsteps march purposefully into the room.

I arrived in Chicago late in the day. Flying in from the coast is always a drag and this trip had been no exception. Chicago was in one of those melancholy, gray days common in late November. Before I arrived at my hotel, the leaden sky had given way to a cold, misty rain that would continue through the night. Due to a trade show being in town, I'd had to book in an older hotel just north of the river, but the place turned out to be clean and had a halfway decent restaurant. After dinner there I watched some television

but by eleven I was still wide awake so I

decided to go for a walk. Many would say that

walking about a big city in the middle of the

night is foolhardy. But I've never encountered

any trouble before on my midnight

meandering, so I grabbed my coat and took

the elevator down to the lobby.

A powerful flashlight crisscross-

es the rows of bunks, searching,

searching for a particular prison-

er. The room is now dead silent,

the sounds of sleep replaced by

a fear so overwhelming as to be

mind numbing. Each man prays

that the intruder is seeking

another as the footsteps come

ever closer.

Thump, thump, thump…

All the Days of Together Written by: Karen Christensen

Two brothers at breakfast

Two flannel shirts

Two pairs of worn blue jeans

Sitting on the diagonal

Sipping hot coffee

Chewing hash browns

Their own private system

Dependably silent

The bills of their baseball caps

Tip in shared rhythm

They bid farewell

No one knows them better

No one could interrupt

This conversation

Requires no words.

.

Can it Get Any Worse? Written by: Karen Christensen

The young people say

Get out of the way

Let us take over and solve all the problems

We know what to do

We can’t make it worse

than it already is

We’d like our chance

We’d like to try

To put our own stamp on things

Rescue the world

From your foolishness

The old people say

We remember this feeling

Don’t trust your elders

They’ve made a big mess

They turn a deaf ear

To fresh new ideas

So, what have we learned

It’s always the same

Can it get any worse?

Poetry

CHAPTER __

Steve Annie’s Pregnancy

Written by: Leslie Lindsey

Thinking about Annie—about

her life now—who she is, who’s she’s

become. A wife, a mother.

Pregnant? Could that be just

another illusion? I mean, I knew she

had kids—two of them to be exact—

and Beth, well all she ever wanted

was what Annie had. It was like a

bad joke; a twist of fate I wasn’t

expecting. Annie had everything she

ever wanted—children, a home, an

education. And Joe. I wince.

An impediment to my goal.

Annie.

Short Story

And all Beth wants is a baby.

With me. I rake my hands

through my hair. Pregnant.

How can that be?

I always assumed Annie

and I would have children some-

day. It was one of the reasons I

fell so hard for her. I pictured us

having kids together—nurturing,

maternal Annie. If anyone was

cut out for the job, it was her.

What more could I want—a wife

who was a nurse. Maybe a

school nurse, who would place

Band-aids on skinned knees and

ice packs on sore heads; the

summers off to be with our own

kids. It seemed like the ideal

situation.

Defending Scout’s Honor Continued ….

We found Red at the end of the bar where

he was holding court with a basket of

onion rings and a pint of stout. If Red

had ever been red, it was a fading

memory, fading referring to the lack of

hair and respective coloring. He was

stocky and slovenly, and most certainly

a little drunk. A cigarette was hanging

out the side of his mouth. (I don’t

believe I ever saw him without a

cigarette out the side of his mouth.)

He even drank without removing the

cigarette first. (I bet he smoked while

he was sleeping.) He motioned us to the

two closest stools next to the bar.

He glared at Dad. “Hey, I know you.

You work at the plant. You’re a white

shirt, aren’t you?”

“If you mean management, yes. I work up

in Quality Assurance.”

“You live around here?”

“No, we live on the other side of town.”

“I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t live in

this trash heap if I made the bucks you

guys do. Why are you joining the

troop?”

“My son was kicked out of St. Pete’s.”

Red laughed. “What’d you do?”

“We had a disagreement with Father T.”

“That pompous ass, that’s not surpris-

ing.”

Red looked over at me and blew smoke at my face. I tried not to cough, but it was

a wasted effort.

“So you wanna join the troop, huh? What

rank are ya boy, “tenderfoot”?

I felt the warmth in my face. Did I

really look like an eleven year old? “No

sir,” I answered. “I’m first class now,

but I just finished the requirements for

“Star”.

Red swore softly. “Our highest ranked

scout is first class and this is his last

year.” He continued through sips of beer

and puffs of smoke.

“You know we’ve prided ourselves on being

frugal here. We’ve never had to buy new

badges or uniforms. They’ve all been

handed down. We’ve never had anyone

reach ‘Star’ before. Now we got to spend

valuable money out of our dues for a

patch so that you can strut around just

like your old man does at work telling

everyone how much better you are than the

rest of us.”

“How much can polyester badge cost,”

asked my dad? “It can’t be that much.”

“That’s not the point,” returned Red.

“You’re going to raise the bar. We never

had anyone that ambitious go beyond first

class. Now everyone will be trying for

it. Not too mention you got to get all

them merit badges first. You know how

much those little buggers cost. You got

to buy them from the council. They got a

monopoly. They can charge whatever they

damn well please.”

“Well,” continued Dad, “Eric was the top

seller in the popcorn fund raiser. He

should be able to cover his badges and

then some.”

Red smiled. “That’s a different story.

How much did you sell kid?”

Continuing Reading


Continued …..

“I sold $1500 last year.”

The cigarette dropped out of Red’s mouth, the first and only time I would ever see him

without one. “That’s three times more than what we sold as a troop last year. Maybe

we can beat that Stinking Troop 505 this year.”

“I doubt that,” returned Dad. “There were several kids in the troop that were only $50

or so less than Eric. They do over $20,000 a year in the sales.”

Red huffed, and crossed his arms. “We’ll see. We have a new popcorn chairperson this

year, Vinnie Bubgumba. He just got out of prison. We got high hopes for him.”

“Vinnie Bubgumba,” questioned Dad?

“Yeah. We call him Gumball for short. It almost sounds like it, huh. He was in

sales.”

“Really,” responded Dad.

“Yeah. Unfortunately the things he was selling didn’t belong to him.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “I suppose you got to have someone you can trust.”

“Yeah, we can trust Vinnie. Red signed us up and we left.

Doubting Thomas was all that Father T. had said it was and more. What rotten luck to

get kicked out of St. Pete’s during the hottest part of the summer. Doubting Thomas

was the oldest church in town. When they built St. Pete’s, Doubting Thomas lost most

of their funding due to the affluent in town who lived up on the hill. Air condition-

ing wasn’t in Doubting Thomas’s building budget. Even if it would have been, they

couldn’t have afforded the electric bill, nor was it wired to handle the extra

wattage. As it was, the lights flickered intermittently during the service.

We arrived early for 9:00 Mass, my parents being anxious for the seating arrangements.

Dad always liked to sit up as close to the altar as possible. With no Sunday Boot

Camp, he wanted to get in the front row. I wasn’t excited about the prospect of front

row seats as everyone tended to scrutinize you. Mom came along to ensure that we both

behaved. She made me bring along my famous note pad so that I could take notes during

the homily.

We managed to grope our way to the front pew as the tightwads at Doubting Thomas

hadn’t turned on the lights yet to save on energy costs. The church wasn’t illuminated

with candles or lights until five minutes before the service began.

A large woman and a small petite man leading what must have been 17 kids immaculately

dressed in suits and white lacy dresses came up to the front pew. She was startled to

see what must have been her usual pew, already occupied. Her frown quickly turned to a

slight smile. She tapped on my Dad’s shoulder.

“Excuse please, may we pass by?”

Mom and Dad looked at the long line of family members. “We’d be better off to get out

of the pew and let them get in.”


Continued …..

The large woman smiled as we made way for her family to get in the pew. As

the family got into the pew, I made a mental calculation as to how much room

they would take up. The small man was the last to get in the pew. He looked

over at us, while we waited to get back into the pew. But, alas it was not

to be. They had taken up the whole pew.

Dad glared at the lady, who now was smiling back with satisfaction.

We ended up in the back of the church on one of those pews that don’t have

the kneelers. I think they call it the “penance pew” for those who are late.

Instead of a cushion, you’re forced to kneel on the dirty floor. Mom was

ticked. She refused to kneel, since she didn’t want to soil her good dress.

The same law didn’t apply to me. She made me kneel.

The pastor, Father Bartholomew, was a tall fat fellow with a shock of thick

hair that would have made Father T. very jealous. Later on I learned that he

was referred to as “Black Bart” due to his unusual name and clerical garb.

I think I had seen him at the Teddy Bear Tap, when I signed up for scouts.

I had heard of the famous Mariachi bands. I had no idea that I would ever

hear them in the church. You don’t know what you’re missing until you see

the Priest strutting down the aisle to the lively tunes of Mexico.

But now back to business. I got out my legal pad. I was bound and determined

to mend my wicked ways and get the most out of church.

I am amazed at the manner in which the good parishioners of Doubting Thomas

make themselves comfortable in church. The incident of which had gotten us

exiled from St. Pete’s was a common occurrence here, and was no more made

mention of than if you sneezed. In fact, there was quite a bit of bodily activity

coming from the opposite end. I could just imagine what Father T. would have to

say to that. He would have to have a Sunday Boot Camp section instead of just

the front pew.

Black Bart had a pleasant soothing voice. In the hot stifling heat of the

church, it had the unpleasant effect of making me want to go to sleep. I

needed to do something quick, so I decided to scout around the church.

Doubting Thomas was no different than St. Petes. You get together a large group

of people and you’re sure to see a lot of nice girls. One thing nice about being in

the back, I’ll be able to check them all out during communion without being too

conspicuous.

I couldn’t wait until the homily. Black Bart seemed to be upbeat. While not

as monotonous as Father T. he seemed to really enjoy the mass.

Defending Scout’s Honor continued …..

I can’t believe what I am hearing. Black Bart has been discussing a Winnie the Pooh

book, “At Pooh’s Corner” for his sermon. Is everyone else deaf? I seem to be the only one no-

ticing. I look over at Mom and Dad. They seem to be paying at Itention, but are they real-

ly? Everyone else appears to be doing the same. It reminds me of this one comic where this

kid drew eyes wide open on his glasses for his school lessons so that he could sleep during

class without being discovered.

The offertory was different from St. Pete’s. Yeah, they passed the basket. But the

clinking of coins that would have gotten the attention of Father T. was so commonplace

that no one paid scant attention. I took note that most of the coinage was of the

copper persuasion. I could see the offertory prospects were rather bleak here. (I have

to note that my family made an unexpected impact on this parish. My family gave what

we normally did on Sundays. In the next Doubting Thomas bulletin in bold print was

the headlines, “Offertory contributions Up 20 %!”)

Communion is every bit as interesting here as it was at St. Pete’s, different church, different

pool of girls. They’re pretty skimpy on the hosts. I got half of one instead of a whole. How-

ever, I am concerned about eating the hosts. Whereas at St. Pete’s, the Eucharist Ministers

applied liquid antiseptic to their hands before giving out the hosts, the Eucharistic

Ministers at Doubting Thomas spit on their hands and rubbed them together.

I must say that the people dispensing the wine get a lot more action than at St. Pete’s. I

think some of the parishioners went up for seconds. The wine ran out a third of the way

during the communion.

I tracked down Black Bart after church. “Uh, Father Bartholomew?”

“Oh, you must be from the new family. What’s your name, boy?”

“Uh, Eric. I couldn’t help noticing that you were discussing a Winnie the Pooh story,

instead of giving a sermon.”

Black Bart’s eyes lit up. He breathed hard, clapped himself in the chest, and looked

up in the sky. “I can’t believe it. Someone finally listened to my homily…. I

stopped giving homilies years ago, because no one was listening to them anyway. So

now, I just do reviews of books that I recently read. Oh, and next week will be real

good, I just read Wind in the Willows.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I returned as I walked away.

“It was a good sermon,” I mentioned to my Father.

“Uh, yeah, Father Bart is a good speaker.”

I probed further. “Now out of curiosity, what was your take on it?”

Dad turned flush. I was in for one of his dancing around the question. “Uh, the usual

stuff, you know.”

I turned to Mom. “Uh, what did you think?”

“It was every bit as good as Father T’s. Right now, I’m not as concerned about the

homily as I am about losing our seats. The nerve! We get there early, and these

idiots come in late and steal our seats.”


Monday nights were reserved for the Boy Scout meetings. The backroom of The

Teddy Bear Tap was the unofficial parish center. Dad and I arrived for the

first meeting. Red, our inebriated scoutmaster had obviously been there for

quite some time. I was impressed to see Black Bart there. Father T. had

never been to any of our meetings except to solicit extra funds for the

church. The smell of alcohol on Black Bart’s breath made me wonder if he was

there to research material for his next sermon.

In addition to the aforementioned individuals, there were five other men and

about forty boys, including two that were from the family that booted us out

of the pew last Sunday. There were several folding chairs set up. We did a

mental count. There didn’t seem to be enough chairs for everyone. We decided

we better get ours while we could. Dad and I sat in the front. Red finished

the remainder of his beer and banged the bottle on the table. “Aw right,

everyone take their seats. We got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

The two boys from the pew incident stood in front of us. “Hey man, you’re in

our seats.”

Dad scrutinized the boys. “Hey don’t I know you somewhere?” His eyebrows

raised. “Hey you’re from that family that stole our seats in church.”

One of the boys, a tall skinny one answered, “You took our seats then too,

man.”

“Nothing doing,” retorted Dad, “we’re not moving. You guys should have been

here earlier.”

I was relieved when Red came over to sort things out. “Hey, newcomer, out of

the seat. Can’t you see you’re in their spot? C’mon beat it.”

“I don’t see their name on it,” defended Dad. “We were here first.”

“They’ve always sat there. You don’t like it? Go back to St. Pete’s.

Doesn’t matter to us.”

Everyone in the room stared at us. There was definite animosity towards us.

Obviously there was a pecking order in this parish and Dad and I were bottom

feeders. I did the only thing I could. I got up and walked to the back of the

room. All the chairs were taken so I had to stand. Since I was the one that

had capitulated, Dad was able to save face and he reluctantly joined me.

“I would have stayed there,” whispered Dad.

“I know you would have and most likely you would have gotten into a fight

with Red or worse, Mr. Mackowicz.”

Mr. Mackowicz was well known in both parishes from the affair of the Bishop’s

reception. During the Bishop’s visit last year, Mr. Mackowicz was part of the

Doubting Thomas chapter of Knights of Columbus. There was a special mass at

St. Pete’s and the chapters from each church in town were present for the

Bishop’s retinue. The Doubting Thomas Knights were a shabby bunch. None of

their uniforms matched. Mackowicz’s fluff on his hat had worn off and was

substituted with a peacock feather. At the reception after the ceremony, he

received a great deal of ribbing and harassment from the St. Pete’s crowd.

Finally, Mackowicz had enough and challenged Usher Flusher to a sword fight.

I don’t know if the ceremonial swords were made for fighting, but both put

them to good use.


The end result was that Mackowicz received a slice on his cheek. Black Bart

interceded at this point and Usher Flusher was declared the victor. Mackowicz wore

the scar as a testimonial to his courage. (However, in more informed circles, the

scar was a testimonial to his insobriety.) Mackowicz was assistant scoutmaster. He

glared at us from his spot behind Red.

Red pounded the bottle on the table. “All right, quiet down. Now that we got the

seating arrangement figured out,” he glared at Dad and I, “we can get down to

business. We’re going to kick off our popcorn fundraiser. Before I turn it over to

our fund raising chairman, Bubble Gum, I’d like to read some words of inspiration

from The End of the Road Popcorn Company.”

Red took out his glasses and read:

To whom it may concern.

The End of the Road Popcorn company is proud to announce the start of the popcorn

fund raiser for your local Boy Scout troop. If you have received this letter,

chances are you are one of the few troops that sold less than $500 last year. You

guys can’t get any worse. If you don’t do at least $1000 in sales this year, you

will be dropped from the program. Go get em fellas.

Sincerely yours,

The End of the Road Popcorn Company

c.c. Mataskoga County Boy Scout Council

“Well there you have it guys.” Red took off his glasses. “All this reading is

making me thirsty. I’m going to retire to the bar. Someone get me when Bubble Gum

is done talking.”

I couldn’t believe what I just heard. The End of the Road Sales Manager always

attended our fundraiser meeting at St. Pete’s. St. Pete’s usually coordinated the

meeting with a sales trainer that worked with all of us. The extensive sales

training started with Cub Scouts and included a great deal of role-playing. We

learned how to jump up and down and yell excitedly, “Would you like to buy some

tasty popcorn?” For Cub Scouts, this was a very effective pitch.

The adult would usually smile and say, “Oh, you are so cute. How much is it?”

We knew we had a sale when we heard that.

As we got older the pitch had to change. Since most of the booths were set up at

grocery stores, we were trained to offer people help loading their groceries into

their cars so that we could make eye contact and engage them in conversation.

After the person would thank us, we would say something along the lines of, “You’re

welcome. Oh and by the way, my troop is selling popcorn as a fundraiser. The money

raised is used for a great cause of keeping young boys off the street and working

for a worthy cause. I’ve really benefited from the experience and we want to share

it with other boys. Just think, you’ll be investing in the future of young men

versus them going the bad route and then having to pay for their upkeep in prison.

This certainly is the better route isn’t it?” It was a very effective pitch, and I

sold a lot of popcorn with it.


Bubble Gum got up to speak. “First of all, I want to thank all who wrote letters to me

while I was doing time. I can’t wait to return the favor with the knowledge that I picked

up in the stir. I think it will really make a difference with the fundraiser this year.

I want to talk a little bit about my strategy this year. We are going to hit every

grocery store that we can…”

My Dad cleared his throat and spoke up. “I wouldn’t waste your time. St. Pete’s

contracted nine months ago with every single store in the area, including the ones in St.

Thomas the Apostle’s parish. I know because I did the job myself.”

I shrunk down a little bit. “Bad strategy Dad,” I thought. Everyone in the room was

glaring at us.

Bubble Gum looked ticked. I don’t know how long it had taken to come up with his

brilliant strategy, but Dad’s skill would now force him to look for other outlets. Bubble

Gum didn’t appear smart enough for the challenge. “They can’t come in our area.

We support those stores.”

My Dad continued, “I thought so too, but surprisingly, your local grocers didn’t have

much loyalty to their local customers. We offered them a $100 at each store to lock up

the sites. We got contracts too.”

“Listen, jerk, where do you come off screwing up our fundraiser? You’re that newcomer.”

“I am amazed,” I thought. “They still haven’t introduced us yet.”

Bubble Gum continued, “You got that uppity son who’s got all those merit badges coming

and I heard that he is going to break a longstanding tradition here by going above the

rank of first class.”

There was a gasp of breath from the whole room. Someone had actually achieved the rank

above first class. Since it was a first, there would be no option of a second hand

badge, and the troop would have to splurge for a new badge, let alone for several merit

badges. I could see that we were not very popular. I had been taken back at first for

not being introduced, but now I didn’t care.

Dad saved the day. “Eric sold $1500 in popcorn sales last year.”

There was another set of gasps. These people didn’t have much in the way of raising the

bar. My achievements must have seemed insurmountable to them.

Bubble Gum’s face turned red. “Are you blowing smoke…”

“Don’t say it,” answered Dad. He didn’t like profanity. “Yes, he’s that good. And they

have a few other kids at St. Pete’s that were writing those numbers too. I’m sorry about

tying up all the grocery stores. But you guys would have done it too if you had the

chance. We can’t turn back the clock. You’re just gonna have to figure out a different

angle.”

Dad looked Bubble Gum in the eye. “But if you’re not up to the task, I know I could

figure it out.”

Defending Scout’s Honor continued ….. Bubble Gum look flustered. “No, I survived two and a half years inside, I can handle

this. I’ll just have to rethink my strategy.”

The meeting ended on a sour note. Red never did make it back into the meeting. I could

hear him laughing it up in the bar. As we went out the door of the tavern, we ran

into the two boys that had taken our seats.

The tall skinny one walked in front of me. “Is it true? You sold that much popcorn?”

“Yeah, I have pretty much done the same for the last couple of years.”

“And you’ve really earned Star?”

“Yeah, just before I go kicked out of the pack.”

“Wow, and you got kicked out of the pack too? What’d you do?”

“I belched loudly in mass.”

“And what else. They don’t kick you out of church for that?”

“They do at St. Pete’s.”

“Good thing they don’t at Doubting Thomas. We wouldn’t have anyone left in church.”

“At least we’d be able to get a decent seat.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry about that. My family has been sitting in that pew since my

grandparents moved into the parish 40 years ago. My mom isn’t about to give up her

seat. By the way, my name is Jose Ruiz, and this is my bro, Berto. You can just call

me Hose.”

Berto grunted in reply. As Hose was tall and skinny, Berto was short and fat. As if

reading my mind, Hose continued. “Berto’s the manager at the El Flaco Taco. My mom

owns it.”

I knew of the said eating establishment. It had been there for several years. Alt-

hough I had never eaten there, I had heard it referred to as “The Lard Bucket.” Pur-

portedly, the healthiest fare offered there were the cigarettes. Berto appeared to

not only be the manager, but one of the frequent customers at that establishment.

Hose continued, “You like video games?”

“Does Red Barnaby drink?”

Hose looked at me weird. “Of course he does. He smokes and smells bad too. But what

does that have to do with video games.”

“What I meant was of course I do. Right now, I’m grounded from playing video games.”

“I got the newest version of “The Assassin” series.

He got my interest. “You got the ‘Raid at the Convent’? I was saving up for that one.

My mom made me put the money in the offertory as an additional punishment.”

“Yeah, and it’s awesome. You wouldn’t believe how those nuns can handle a Kalashnikov.

You want to come over and play it?”

“You bet.”


My dad came out of the Teddy Bear Tap. He had tried to give Red some tips on

fine-tuning the program. Unfortunately, Red paid more attention to his beer than he

did Dad’s ideas.

I visited the Ruiz household a couple of days later. They live in easily the largest

home in town, but certainly not the most desirable, at least from the standards of our

side of town. First it was in a working class neighborhood. Besides being the tycoon

in the taco business, Mrs. Ruiz was a shrewd business lady in realty. She had managed

to buy up both lots on either side of the Ruiz ancestral home, and they had added on

as needed in a haphazard manner. The outside was a light blue and they had lime green

trim. It hurt my eyes to look at it. It was nice inside, but a little difficult to

navigate because of the maze of hallways and rooms brought on by the frequent

additions.

I was staying overnight. Mrs. Ruiz was much nicer in person than she was in church and

her cooking was great. I was surprised to see that we didn’t have Mexican food served

that night. It was actually some of the best lasagna that I had ever had. She and her

husband chatted on in a foreign language oblivious to the other kids. I had assumed

that it would be Spanish, however, I started picking out what was being said, and I

didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. Last year, I had started studying Italian in school.

I turned to Hose. “Do you know what they’re saying?”

Hose looked at me like I was asking a dumb question. “Of course not, do I look like I

speak Italian?”

“Why don’t they speak Spanish like the other Mexican families do in the home?”

“Well my Mom is Italian. She met my Dad in Italian Language class in high school.

All of my Dad’s brothers and sisters studied Italian. His parents spoke German.”

“I thought your ancestors came from Mexico?”

“Well on my Dad’s side they did. And my parents can speak Spanish too. I can’t speak

any if my life depended on it. Berto’s probably the most fluent in it, cause he manag-

es the restaurant, and that’s just terms regarding food. Actually, we’re all learning

French.”

“That’s kind of weird,” I returned.

“Weird or not. It’s tradition. My family has a long record of the parents not being

able to understand their kids and vice versa. It’s nice being able to talk in front

of them without them knowing.”

I didn’t particularly like it. Needless to say, even with my rudimentary knowledge of

Italian, I could understand that I was being discussed in a negative light with Mr.

and Mrs. Ruiz. I thought about confronting them, but then, I thought, I may be able

to use this to my advantage later on.

I had received a phone call earlier informing me to call Bubble Gum. I guess he had

lined up a spot. The Ruiz’s had gotten the same call too, and I got the particulars.

We were to meet at the Teddy Bear Tap at 7:00.

Gumball rolled up in a beat-up van. I guess it belonged to his mom. He drove us to a

section of town that was frequented by skid row bums. He parked the van in front of

Waldo’s Liquors.

He sneered at me. “Humph, Mr. Uppity. Thought your old man had every location tied

up, didn’t he? ”I didn’t see the wisdom of debating the potential with place. We

stayed there for several hours and didn’t sell a single box. We had managed to col-

lect $1.37 in donations, but then a bum managed to carry it off.


I tried every technique learned in the End of the Trail Selling Guide.

Nothing worked. I even tried my first pitch from Cub Scouts. “You wanna buy

some tasty popcorn,” I said while jumping up and down. My prospect, an old

man with a skin condition said nothing and shook his head.

I felt a hard whack to the back of my head that knocked me to the ground.

“Don’t do that again, Mr. Uppity. You’re embarrassing me. These are my

friends, you jerk.”

I rubbed the back of my head. Is he allowed to do that? I would think that’s

a violation of his parole. I wouldn’t tell Dad, but you mind yourself Mr.

Bubblegum. I’m going bide my time for revenge.

At 1:00 AM, Bubble Gum decided it was time to move to the next location,

Vinnie’s Pizza and Pub.

Bubble Gum got out of the car wearing a head band with a flashlight on.

He set up a folding table and set out the popcorn. “Okay boys, listen up.

Vinnie’s is closing right now, and the drunks are going to be coming out. I

need two boys to help them down the steps. I want another boy to grab their

wallet and tell me how much is in there. Got it?”

I raised my hand.

“Yes Mr. Uppity.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Look, Mr. Know-it-all, I spent a few years in the stir. I know what legal

is. Just do what I say. Get it, or you’ll never live to see making Star?”

As it turned out, Gumball was right. The drunks needed help. I don’t know if

I was being singled out, but I got to be the wallet man for the first drunk.

“Okay, Mr. Uppity, how much does he got?”

“He has $25.00.”

“Good, let’s give him a box of microwave popcorn and a small can of caramel

corn.” Gumball wedged the popcorn between each of the drunk’s arms.

“That only comes to $24.00. Are you going to give him change?”

Gumball checked my figures on his calculator. “Uh you’re right. He put $1.00

of the money into a jar. “We’ll say he gave the change as a donation.”

Gumball wrote out a receipt for the popcorn and donation, stuck it in the

victim’s pocket, and sent the drunk on his way.

We “rolled drunks” for the remainder of the night and did a booming business

in popcorn and donations. When Red came out, Gumball shouted, “Okay, boys

let’s pack it up. Red’s always the last one in the bar.”

After Red finished vomiting out on the side of the stairs going into the

club, I checked Red’s pockets. No money in the wallet, and the contents of

his pocket consisted of a switchblade and 57 cents. I handed the change to

Gumball. “I suppose you want this as a donation.”

Gumball assessed Red’s pocket contents, wrote out the receipt, and noted.

“I better hang on to this or he’ll hurt himself.” He kept the switchblade

and handed me a receipt for the change that I put back in his pockets.

The $400 we made that night was enough to bail us out of jail for being out

after curfew. Unfortunately, half of us were under 16. We were pulled over

for the van’s loud muffler. Gumball avoided getting in trouble, by claiming

that he had seen us walking on the street and wanted to make sure we got home

okay. None of us dared to dispute his story.


Everyone got bailed out except me. “Your parents are rolling in cash,” Gumball ex-

plained, as he walked out the door with the other boys.

Mom and Dad, who were normally happy to see me, were not as excited when it was 3:00 in

the morning. They were furious. Mom was all for keeping me out of scouts. Dad was

mad too, but even more determined for me to stay in and cause them misery. “Gumball

would be sorry that he ever crossed our family.”

Needless to say, there would be no more sleepovers at the Ruiz residence.

Next Saturday, I met the other scouts at the Teddy Bear Tap and piled into the Bubble

Gum family van. The muffler had now become totally detached and was louder than ever.

“Aren’t you afraid of being pulled over?” I asked.

“Naw, I got it figured out. I used the oven at the Teddy Bear Tap and heated the muf-

fler. I got it wrapped in a blanket. If I get pulled over, I’ll just say it fell off.

And it’s still warm to prove it.

I was surprised that we were heading in the direction of my side of town. We pulled

into the Buy and Save Supermarket parking lot. “Uh, I’m pretty sure that my old troop

has this spot tied up. In fact, I can see them over there.” I pointed to the en-

trance of the store.

“I know. I been casing, I mean watching the joint. They only cover the entrance.

We’re going to set up a table the exit.”

“They’re not going to let another troop in here.”

“They will if they think you’re one of them.”

“Huh?”

“You haven’t been gone long enough. Now let’s set up the table.”

I carried the table and signs while Bubble Gum carried the popcorn. He waved over at

the other boys and parents and shouted. “Greeter Jenkins thought we should cover the

exits too.” The other parents waved back. “I’m sure I looked familiar to them, so

they’re not suspicious.

I’ll pick you up in two hours.”

I had taken in at least $300 when disaster struck. Ms. Clunc came out the door with

Father T in tow. “Well, how much are we taking in today, young man…” He stopped

short.

“What are you doing here?” He looked at the sign. “You don’t belong to this troop any

longer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Old sign, forgot to change the pack number.”

Ms. Clunc hadn’t wasted any time, and had gone over to the entrance where the other ta-

ble was. I had a small group around me. I started packing up.

One of the parents pointed at me. “We were telling some shoppers they could purchase

from the other table on the way out.”

Another parent joined in. “We must have sent at least 15 people to him.”

“He seems to have sold most of his popcorn. What are we going to do, Father?”

Father T. looked over at me and then at the boys from my old troop. “Well, I say we

let Eric here discuss the situation with his former troop. I’m sure they can come to an

understanding.”

Father T. and the parents went back to the entrance. Our meeting reconvened to the

back of the store.


I didn’t give up the money, but I looked like hell when Bubble Gum picked me up

later on. We lost the table, and they confiscated what little product I had left.

“You look like crap, kid,” noted Bubblegum.

I got in the van and glared at him. “You knew they’d figure it out sooner or lat-

er, and then I’d get it.”

“Lemme ask you this Mr. Uppity, how much did you sell?”

“About $300 worth. I was lucky they didn’t get the money from me.”

“$300, that’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, but they got my table and the unsold popcorn.”

“No biggee. It was their stuff anyway. I snagged it at the Super Duper Market. I

told them I was transferring the stuff to the Buy and Save. No one ever questioned

me on it. I can’t wait to see what you do next week.”

“I ain’t going back nowhere, especially to sell stolen popcorn.”

Bubble Gum slammed on the brakes. I fell up against the window. “Look kid, I did-

n’t get where I got today by being a nice guy. You want me to mess up your pretty

face, keep it up. I think we can pull this off at least two more times.”

We got pulled over shortly after I was picked up. The police officer walked up to

the driver’s side. Bubble Gum interceded before the officer could speak. “I know

officer. My muffler’s loud. It just came off. I got it in the back of the van,

feel it, it’s still warm.” Bubble Gum was cool and calm as he had reheated the

muffler in Vinnie’s Pizza oven.

“Hmmm, must be”, the cop said. “I pulled you over because you have smoke coming

out the back the van. I wonder if it’s on fire.”

Bubble Gum and I quickly got out of the van and walked around to the back of the

van. Smoke was coming out. All of a sudden, “Pop, pop, pop….

The police officer fell to the ground and started pumping bullets into the van.

Now there wasn’t just a problem with the muffler, the tires were shot as well. “I

think you killed it,” I shouted.

Popped popcorn was starting to overflow from the back of the van into the middle

seats. Officer Smertz got up off the ground. “What’s going on here?”

“I think our popcorn is popping. We were selling popcorn for the scouts and the

back must have gotten so hot from the muffler that it started popping.

Office Smertz looked over at me. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere? I busted

you the other night for being out past curfew. You look like you been in a fight”

Smertz pointed over at Bubble Gum. “Did he have anything to do with it?”

“Well, indirectly. And he’s gonna do it again next week.”

“Really?”

“Yep, and also,” I whispered. He’s a convicted felon. I think you should check his

pockets.”

“I think I just might.”

Smertz walked over to Bubble Gum.

“You jerk, look what you did to my tires. This is gonna cost you big time.”

“ID please.”


“ID?”

“Yeah. I gotta check you out. Routine.”

Smertz came back a couple of minutes later. “Well, Mr. Bubgumbah, you just got out a

little while ago. I wonder if you’re up to anything.”

“Nah. I’m actually doing a little public service for the boy scouts.”

“Sure you are. Please turn around and put your hands against the van.

“Well, what do we have here?” Smertz pulled a switchblade, Red’s, out of Gumball’s

pocket. “What does a jailbird like you have to do with a switchblade?”

“I confiscated it from one of the boys. I thought he’d hurt himself.”

“Really. Why didn’t you just throw it away? I imagine you thought it would come in

handy. I wonder what else you have.” Smertz cuffed Gumball, and walked him over to

the police car. “You just get comfy in here. I ain’t charging you yet with anything,

but if I find anything…

It didn’t take long for Smertz to find a pistol underneath Gumball’s seat. He walked

the gun over to the car and opened the door. “What’s a convicted felon doing with a

pistol?”

Gumball was concerned. “That’s not mine. This is my Mom’s car. That’s her gun too.”

“Really. And she took the time to file off the serial numbers too.”

“Well, it might have been one of my old ones, before I went off to the pen. She

cleans my room, you know. She probably found it.”

“Well then she’s in a lot of trouble for supplying a gun to a convicted felon. Can I

take a statement from you that this is her gun?”

“I ain’t saying nothing.”

“Okay, well, you’re going back to jail, buddy.”

Smertz looked at me. “I gonna have to tow this vehicle. Can I call your parents and

have them pick you up?”

“Is it possible to just give me a ride home? I had to be bailed out already once this

week because of this jerk.”

“I guess so. But you’d better ride in the front.”

A tow truck came and hauled away the van. I got in the front seat.

I looked at Officer Smertz and reflected. “How long is he going to be put away?”

“At least a couple of years. He’s gonna have to finish his full sentence now.”

I looked at Gumball. “That’s a disappointment. You’re not gonna be around to see me

make Eagle.”

Gumball ignored me. I turned back to Smertz. “Officer Smertz, I just thought of

something. I gave him all the money I collected today for the Scout Popcorn Fund

Raiser. He should have about $300.00.”

Smertz looked back at Gumball. “Is that true?”


Gumball was irritated. No doubt the money was going to be targeted to make

bail. “What popcorn. I …” He stopped. It would not be a good idea to admit

to stealing the other troop’s popcorn.

Smertz opened up the door and checked his wallet. He took out $300 and gave

the rest to Gumball.

There was an emergency meeting at the Teddy Bear Tap to find a new Popcorn

Chairman. Red had been there several hours earlier preparing for the meeting.

He banged one of several beer bottles in front of him to get everyone’s

attention. “Alright everyone get to their seats. We got a lot to talk about

here. We have to figure out how we are going to beat those guys at

St. Pete’s.”

“That isn’t gonna happen and it’s a complete waste of time.” My Dad had stood

up.

“Well Mr. Newcomer, where do you get off speaking? We’re not interested in

what you have to say. As it is, it’s your fault in the first place, jerk.”

Dad walked up to the front of the room. “You know, the boys deserve better

than this. You’re drunk and you’re a horrible role model.”

I braced myself. I didn’t think that Red would take very well to Dad’s com-

ments. But nothing happened. Red had nodded off, and Dad won control by

default.

Dad continued. “I would like, if you allow me, to take over as popcorn

chairman.” No one objected and the room was silent.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now we can’t beat St. Pete’s. By now, they’ve sold

more popcorn than we can ever hope in the short time left. But we can

certainly put a dent in their sales while making some money ourselves. I had

an idea the other day, as I was being harassed for the umpteenth time by

scouts selling popcorn going into a store. How about if we were to sell our

popcorn for a $1.00 more than we’re supposed to and count it as a donation?”

Mr. Rivera raised his hand. “How’s that gonna sell more popcorn?”

Dad smiled. “Cause when they buy it from us, we’re gonna give them a big

yellow badge to hang around their neck that says, ‘I Supported Scouts by

Buying Popcorn’. I suspect that many people will find the buttons useful to

avoid being asked every time they go to the store. Now, I know that when I

ran the popcorn sales at St. Pete’s that many of the people we sold to,

didn’t want to buy more popcorn. But they did it out of guilt. So we can

generate some needed revenue here and put a real damper in the St. Pete’s

sales, especially if we work the parking lots at the stores that they’re at.

We can also offer the buttons for $2.00 each if they don’t buy popcorn and

put that money towards our donation.

Mr. Rivera wasn’t convinced. “I don’t see how this will work.”


Dad wasn’t fazed. “C’mon up I’ll show you. Eric you come up too. Let’s do a little

roleplaying. Mr. Rivera, you be the guy walking in the parking lot and Eric you be the

scout.”

“Excuse me sir,” would you like to buy some popcorn to help with our fundraiser?”

“Uh, no thanks. Not today.”

“Well sir, let me ask you this. Look at the entrance to the store you’re going to go

in. What do you see there?”

Mr. Rivera pretended to look off in the distance. “I see a table with popcorn on it.”

“You’re right,” I continued. “That’s the scout troop from St. Pete’s. Do you know

they sell more popcorn than any other troop in the state?”

“Really.

“Yep, and it’s not because people buy just once from them. They are so good that some

people buy every time they go to the store. They can’t help themselves. Those scouts

are super salesman. That’s why they’re number one in popcorn sales.”

“The Bastards! You’re right; they’ll probably sell me every time I go to the store.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Rivera.” My sales techniques were coming back to me. Just

like riding a bike. “What if there was a way that you only bought the popcorn once and

you were never bothered again, at least until next year. Would that be of interest to

you?”

“Sure. I hate to get pestered every time I go to the store. But how ya gonna do that?”

“If you buy this can of popcorn here for $11.00, I got a big yellow pin that you can

wear that states, ‘I supported the Scout Fundraiser for 2_____.’ It will keep the vul-

tures off you every time you go into a store where the scouts have set up shop.”

“You got my interest now. Can I get an extra pin?”

“Sure, for an extra $2.00.”

“You got it man.” Mr. Rivera took out some money from his wallet.

“Uh, Mr. Rivera, we don’t have the pins yet.”

Mr. Rivera look confused. “Oh yeah. Put me down for a couple of them when you get em

in, would ya?”


The rest of the pack was impressed. Dad talked to the bigwigs at the

plant and we got the pins for free. We didn’t do too bad with the pop-

corn drive, but we did a better job with screwing up popcorn sales with

St. Pete’s. They usually got a free banquet from “The End of the Road

Popcorn Company” for being number one in the state, but this year they

didn’t. Some other troop at the other end of the state had more sales.

In fact, this year turned out to be a horrible year for them.

We didn’t set the world on fire with our popcorn sales, but we did do a

bang up job in donations thanks to the pins. And we sold enough to get

out of probation with “The End of the Road Popcorn” people.

Dad was also savvy enough to come out with an “I have a girl scout at

home” pin for use during the Girl Scout cookie drive. We made big bucks

off of that one selling in the parking lot during the cookie sales.

Maybe they can afford my badge now. They better save their money for

merit badges cause I’m going all the way to “Eagle”.

If Underwear Could Talk Continued …

SEPTEMBER, 1486

Today-Mona, a girl from down da block, comes over and aska Leonardo to paint her. Butta she

sure getsa mad when he starts slappin' her around with da wet brush. She says she meant him to paint

her on a picture. So Leonardo says, "Hokey dokey, I'll give ita shot." Now Leonardo has good

intentions butta he can't draw a straight line with a ruler, even ifa somebody elsa moves da pencil for

him. So when he's through paintin' Mona's picture she takes a gander at it anda starts to yellin, "You

som of a bitch! You made me looka like a platypus with psoriasis!" Leonardo says, "Have you checked a

mirror lately?" Mona getsa real upset and folds Leonardo up in his easle. In da mean time Mrs.

Speenelli, the cleaning lady, comes in and tries to fix up da picture da best she could, even though she

runs outta purple.

April, 1488

Disa mornin' Leonardo was shoppin' around for some new golashes and he starts a big commotion.

He's a stoppin’ people in da streets anda feelin' on their bones. At first I justa figure itsa his way

of meetin' girls. Butta he tells Luigi, the shoe man, dat he’sa studyin' anatomy. He even made up a

song about it. "Da knee bone isa connected to da thigh bone. Da thigh bone isa connected to da elbow

bone. Cha cha cha!"

He tellsa Luigi' he wants to study internal organs next, and isa gonna write a book on dis here

anatomy stuff. Butta when Luigi mentioned to Leonardo dat he would have to learn da alphabet before he

could actually do any writin', Leonardo changed his mind anda says he's gonna take up ping-pong instead.


JANUARY, 1491

Leonardo isa continuin with his renaissance lessons anda now thinks of himself asa great

musician, even though it tooka his music instructor da better part of a week to convince him dat an anvil

isa not a wind instrument. Leonardo bought himself a lute to practice on butta this was even worse and

ita took da doctore’ three hours to get Leonardo's fingers untangled from the strings. And how he gotta

his nose stuck in da thing I'll never know.

It isa my personal opinion dat Leonardo should quit dis here renaissance business anda become an

accountant or insurance agent or somthin'.

DECEMBER, 1495

Last night Leonardo woke up da whole neighborhood, screamin' with agony in da street, "Why me? My

left leg isa gettin' shorter! Why me?" I gotta admit, hesa hobblin’ for sure butta it’s because he isa

walkin' with one foot in da gutter.

As far as work goes, a fella named Lodovico commissioned Leonardo to sculpt a statue ofa

magnificient horse. Lodovico tella Leonardo that he don't a think horses are suppose to have antlers but

Leonardo tells Lodovico to minda his own business, and then sticksa on another antler just for spite.

Itsa good thing this Lodovico fella only lets him work with snow and da statue should be completely

melted by the middle of April.

Night Shift Continued …

"I'm off on Mondays. Otherwise, yes, six nights a week for twenty years this coming June." He set the

coffee mug in front of me. "My brother, Ed, owns this place and works days while I work the night shift.

We get along better that way. My name is Bill, but people around here call me 'Sage' cause that's what I

use when I fix turkey." He offered me his hand which I gladly accepted.

"Glad to meet you, Sage, but don't you find working late like this...," I hesitated, not sure how to phrase the

question, "Lonesome, at times. I mean, there's rarely anyone about these hours."

"No, not at all. I love working the night shift. I guess I’m what you call a night person."

"Besides you meet more interesting people at night. Night people are very different from those that come

in during the day." He paused, and asked, "What brings you out on a night like this?"

"I just flew in from Los Angeles and hadn't been able to adjust to the time change." Somehow, Sage's

obvious honesty, or perhaps the lateness of the hour caused me to continue. "Couldn't sleep. I often have

trouble sleeping. I guess I'm what they call an insomniac."

The intruder jams the flashlight into the corner of the bunk so that the light shines on the

ceiling. The reflected light casts an eerie glow over the scene. The man on the floor

cringes within the circle of light, his fear so overwhelming it seems almost too painful to

endure. His hair is white and he wears the dreary garb of a prisoner. Even in the dimin-

ished light one can make out the age lines on his hands and face.

"I had another guy in here, while back, with similar trouble. An old Kraut with a heavy German

accent. Used to see him every night."

"Was he an insomniac?"

"No, just the opposite, he dreaded sleep." The counterman turned to refill his own coffee mug.

"Yeah, he was afraid to sleep, terrified."

"Terrified of sleep? Why would anyone fear to go to sleep?"

"That's what I couldn't figure...until I learned why. The old geezer had an unusual problem."

"I don't understand"

"Years ago there were lots of all-night diners on the near north side. One by one they all closed, except for

this place and the Whippoorwill Inn, on Clark Street. The owner of the Whippoorwill died and it shut down

the next day. That night the Kraut showed up here for the first time."

Sage leaned back against the back counter, balancing on two legs of his stool as he began to tell

me about the man terrified of sleep.


JUNE, 1498

I can't understand how he getsa these jobs. A bunch a monks hired Leonardo to paint

their refectory wall. He musta be givin' kick-backs. This bunch a monks justa wanted something

simple to match their dinnerware, butta Leonardo isa always thinkin' big and decides to paint a

picture of da Last Supper and starts to drawin' charcoal studies of pasta dishes and bread

sticks.

He spends alla his time sittin’ in a field watchin’ birds, tryin’

to figure out why it is that they can fly and other animals can’t. He comes

to da conclusion dat it’s because they gotta beaks. So he made a beak outta

papier-mache anda tied it to his face with some string. Then he climbs

to da top of a high cliff, starts chirpin’ and jumps off headfirst. It

was a good thing his hat broke his fall. As it was, it tooka bystanders

long time to dig him out of the gravel because he was kickin his legs so

much. When they pull him out he says, “Maybe itsa not because they gotta

them there beaks.” I think he finally gotta it figured out butta then

he adds, “It must be because of their diets.” He is now eatin’ nothin’ butta seeds.

MAY, 1499

Da French have captured Milan. Leonardo took his resume to the french prince, tellin’

him that he isa expert painter, sculptor and architect and aska da french prince ifa there isa

anything he would like him to do around the castle. Da prince handed Leonardo a broom.

Leonardo seems very, very happy.


Once out on the sidewalk, I almost changed my mind. The misty rain was accompanied by a cold wind. Down here,

on the street, the city seemed darker, more foreboding than from the window high above. But since I'd come this far I

decided to continue. I set out down the street without any idea where it led. There wasn't another soul about and even

the cars were few and far between.

I'd walked five blocks and was considering turning back when I noticed some bright lights a block further. On such a

drab and cheerless night I felt drawn to the warm glow much as a moth is drawn to the light. As I neared, I could make

out a neon sign announcing, ED's Diner - Open 24 Hours atop a long narrow chrome and glass structure that seemed

right out of the 1950s. Peering inside, the place appeared empty except for the counterman. By this time I'd welcome

a little conversation to pass the time and besides, I was wet and could use a hot cup of coffee.

The footsteps stop. The powerful light concentrates on a lower bunk. "GET UP, OLD MAN!" The

sound seems to careen about the silent room. "I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE!"

The old man blinks into the strong light. "Please, not again!" Before he can say more, the man with

the light grabs his arm and pulls him out of the bunk onto the floor. "Oh, God, please, no more!"

As I entered, the counterman looked up from his crossword puzzle and gave me a twisted grin, "Coffee?" he asked, as

if he could read my mind. I nodded as I took a stool directly across from him. He turned to fill a cup with steaming hot

coffee from a large urn set on the back counter.

"Cream, sugar?” He asked as he set a large mug of hot coffee before me.

"No, neither thanks.” The counterman had a scruffy look about him and I guessed him to be in his late forties. He was

thin, almost wiry, with deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows, his hair thinning and laced with gray. The bright fluorescent

light gave his skin a yellow pallor. A forgotten cigarette traced a lazy path of smoke from an ashtray next to him.

I held the steaming mug between my hands, savoring the warmth. Inside, Ed's Diner did nothing to dispel the image of

the 50s. On the counter was one of those old flip card jukeboxes that I hadn't seen in ages. A large mirror framed with

faded red, white and blue crepe covered the wall behind the counter. A sign proclaimed: Best Chili in Chicago $2.75

a Bowl.

As I sipped my coffee, the counterman was again bent over his crossword puzzle. Behind me, the misty rain contin-

ued, leaving rivulets of water down the large plate glass windows.

"Refill?" The counterman posed the question without looking up from his puzzle.

"Yes, please. You work here every night?"


The intruder stands over his victim, hands on his hips, enjoying the old man's

reaction. The man is young, in his early 20's, more than six feet tall, with big,

broad shoulders. He is dressed in a black uniform trimmed in silver. In his left

hand he holds a riding crop. His cap bears the Death Head insignia of the

Totenkopf-SS, the concentration-camp guards.

"He came in about ten o'clock, sat in that booth right over there and ordered coffee, nervous as

hell. He spoke with a German accent that was so bad that I had a hard time understanding him. I

served him his coffee and asked if he wanted anything else and he said, no, coffee would do."

"I'd expected him to finish his drink and be on his way. But he'd just sit there, smoking a ciga-

rette, staring out into space. About a half hour later he asked for a refill. After one o'clock things

get kinda slow, so I was mopping up. Sure enough, he was still here, nursing that coffee, getting

refills from time to time. Finally, when it was nearing dawn, he paid his bill and leaves. He'd

spent the entire night in the diner sipping coffee."

"Is it unusual for people to spend the night here? I mean does it happen often?"

"No, sometimes a guy will camp out here. Usually they're in trouble at home, so they spend the

night at the diner. Truth is, I thought no more about the old man until the next night when he

comes in again, same time, and same booth. Not many show twice."

"I must admit I was surprised. And just like the previous night, he drank coffee until nearly dawn,

paid his bill and left."

"When he showed up the third night, I began to take notice of him. He was a tall man, six feet or

more, very old, must have been in his late eighties, his face wrinkled with age lines and his hair

was entirely white. Even sitting down you could see that he was big with broad shoulders, huge

hands and a neck like a bull.”

“He always wore the same outfit, a white shire and a black suit and tie. The suit had seen better

days and you could see where it had been mended. Despite that, he was always neat and clean

with his hair combed back in an old-fashioned way. He wore a round lapel pin with some sort of

markings I couldn’t identify. He wore no other jewelry, not even a watch.

Sage paused while he lit another cigarette. “Night after night he appeared. All he ever had was

coffee. We seldom exchange anything more than a greeting for it was clear that he had no inter-

est in talking. After a few weeks I’d become accustomed to having the guy around all night. He

had become more or less like a fixture in the place. While he never caused any trouble, you

could tell he was very nervous about something. I mind my business, but it was strange every

night.”

"For all I know, it might have gone on like that forever, him sitting there in that booth drinking cof-

fee every night if it weren't for what happened."

Night Shift Continued … The black uniformed SS man reaches down and drags the old man to his feet, holding him by the collar of his prison uniform. He peers closely into the old man's face as if he were looking for something. Standing there, in the reflected light, they appear almost as a single being.

"It was close to 3:00 A.M. on a Saturday night and I was doing the weekly accounts. The truth is I completely forgot

the old guy and failed to notice that he hadn't asked for his usual refill in quite a while. Then I heard what sounded

like a groan and I went to see if the old guy had gotten sick or something."

"He had pushed his coffee aside and was sprawled, face down, across the table. He's fallen asleep, I thought to

myself. Just then he let out such a mournful cry that it sent shivers up and down my spine. I reached over and took

hold of him and raised him off the table top and then I got a closer look at his face. Someone had beaten the old

man half to death!"

"Both eyes were blackened, almost swollen shut, his face a bloody mass of bruises. There were cuts evident all over

the upper part of his body, his shirt bathed with blood and sweat."

"And yet, he appeared to be unconscious...or asleep!"

"Not knowing what else to do, I took the glass of water that sat untouched on the table and threw in his face. He

awoke with a start; his eyes had the look of utter horror. He reached out and grasped my hand in a grip that only a

drowning man would use."

"I asked him what had happened? How could he have been beaten is such a way? I hadn’t heard anyone come into

the diner. He answered in German and I couldn't understand a word! At last I broke away from him. Under the

counter by the cash register I keep some whisky. I poured him a stiff drink and then one for myself."

The SS man draws his fist back and hits the old man directly in the face. Staggered by the blow,

the old man would have fallen, but for the SS man’s hold on him. "I HATE YOU!" the SS man

screams at the old man as he hits him again.

"After a bit, he calmed down some and I was able to understand him. I sensed he had a need to relate his story.

His name was Rudolf Weinrich and that he had retired a couple of years ago. He had come to Chicago in 1950. Dur-

ing the war years he’d had been Obersturmführer in the German Schutzstaffel, the SS."

"Slowly, searching for the right words, He told me his story, how he was born in Hemsbach, in western Germany, in

1919. His father had been a soldier in the German army during the first war. His mother was a school teacher. His

father abandoned his family two years after Weinrich was born. As a result, Weinrich had grown up in abject pov-

erty. When he was old enough to realize how his mother and he had been betrayed, he became very angry and the

anger increased with each passing year.”


Sage paused to refill his coffee before continuing. “His mother kept a picture of his father.

Weinrich would gaze at that picture with overwhelming rage for the suffering he and his mother had to endure. As a

teen he sought to locate his father without success. He would attend the veterans’ parades peering at the old soldiers

seeking his father. Had he found him Weinrich would have attempted to kill the man. However, as he became an

adult, other events overtook his desire for revenge.”

“Weinrich joined the Hitler Youth in 1935 and the SS in 1939, just before the attack on Poland. He'd been wounded in

the early days of the fighting and had been hospitalized for a time in Baden."

"Just before he was due to be released from the hospital he told me he was recruited for a special SS group being

formed for duty in a place called Dachau. Needless to say, even I had heard of the infamous concentration camp and

my ears perked up

when I heard that."

"He told me when he arrived there he had no idea what kind of place Dachau really was. Later, when he learned what

the concentration camp was all about he claimed it was too late. Because of his size, he was assigned to interroga-

tions. That meant

that he beat people up to get them to cooperate. So they'd answer questions about where they hid their money or

jewelry."

"When I asked him how he felt about beating helpless people with his fists, he said that at the time these people were

enemies of the state and weren't entitled to any better treatment. He felt that he was just doing his job. Then one day,

it all changed."

"Most of the people in the camp were middle aged German and Austrian Jews. When the camp's officers interrogated

them Weinrich would beat them with his fists if they didn't answer the questions, or if they seemed to be lying. Most

didn't need much convincing before they told the officer what he wanted. A few held out, but not many."

The old man collapses to the floor after being pummeled by the SS man repeatedly. He is covered

with blood, his eyes blackened. In the room around him there is dead silence. "Please," The old

man implores his attacker, "Stop, you don't know what you’re doing."

"THEN TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!" screams his tormentor.

"One day Weinrich told me something happed that changed everything. They brought in an old guy in his late 70's sus-

pected of hiding gold. The officer asked the old man a question and he refused to answer. The officer signaled for

Weinrich to rough him up a little. Instead, Weinrich went berserk and nearly killed the man before the officer pulled him

off."

"Asked to explain his actions, Weinrich was unable to offer any excuse for his loss of control. The mere sight of this

old man caused Weinrich to fly into an uncontrollable rage. It mattered little that the man was a Jew; he would have

treated an Aryan in the same fashion. Weinrich was aware that in any other organization he would have been re-

moved from interrogations. But the SS overlooked such behavior."


"After that, Weinrich went out of his way to interrogate old men. And at the slightest pretext, he'd beat them

nearly to death. He told me old men seemed to trigger an overwhelming rage in him and he found it pleasura-

ble beating on those old guys. And as the war years passed he beat hundreds of them, a few died as a result

of his beatings."

"But Weinrich was no fool. He told me he could see the war was lost. Just before the camp was about to be

overrun by the Americans, Weinrich slipped away and joined a regular German Army unit. He exchanged his

papers for those of a dead sergeant. After the surrender, the war crime’s investigators missed him and in

1950 he was able to immigrate to America."

"Then, two years ago, shortly after he retired from his job, Weinrich began to have nightmares."

The man at his feet raises his hand, his words are a raspy whisper, "But I have nothing to tell you!

Please, no more!" The SS man responds with a brutal kick. A cruel grin marks his face as he gaz-

es down at his prey. In the half light, he appears as the devil incarnate.

"No, old man, I enjoy this..."

"He told me on the first occasion he dreamed that he was back in the camp, only this time as a prisoner. The

dream was very real. It was night and he was lying in his bunk. He could hear the other prisoners snoring

and turning in their sleep. He was dressed in the ragged striped uniform of a camp inmate. So real were the

sensations that he could even smell the stink of the barracks. Weinrich woke up shaking."

"A few nights later he had the same nightmare, even more vivid than before. And there was something else.

In his dream he was the same age as when he was awake. He was an old man."

"After that, every time he went to sleep the camp was there waiting in his dreams. And, although he refused

to say, I think he feared that something else was waiting too. He called the dreams 'nachtschrecken', night

terror."

"He became so frightened that he feared going to sleep at night. Instead he began to take short cat naps dur-

ing the daylight hours and drinking coffee in one of the all-night diners to stay awake. When the Whippoorwill

closed, he came here at night. He never would say how he came to be beat up so bad that one night. But, on

that, I have my own suspicions."

Sage reached for his cigarettes and lighter. "Quite a story, right?"

"But wait, what became of the old man?" I looked about. "He's certainly not here now."

"He settled here, in good old Chicago, USA. He worked as a warehouseman where his size was an advantage. He lived

alone, keeping to himself, the war years, the camp slowly fading in his memory. Just another hardworking German immi-

grant. He was strong and worked well past the usual retirement date but arthritis finally forced him to quit.”

"Quick as I can, I grab the phone and call the Paramedics although I figure the old guy's got to be dead. When the

cops and the paramedics arrive, I go out to see if there's anything I can do."

"I'm surprised to find the paramedics are working on the old man because he looks dead to me. I asked about him,

as they were loading him onto the meat wagon. One of the paramedics asked if I knew the guy, and I say, no he

was just a customer. Then he says the old guy's not dead, he's in a coma, like a deep sleep, and sometimes they

stay like that for years."

"That's when I heard it."

"Heard what?"

"Why the old man screaming, in my head like. No one else heard it. When the doors closed on the meat wagon, it

stopped. It really shook me; I tell you!"

The beam of the powerful light shines directly in his face. Weinrich can barely make out the

figure standing behind the light, yet he has no doubts as to the identity of his tormentor. But he

trembles with terror when he hears him say, "Now we have plenty of time!"

"You see, the way I got it figured, the old guy had done some pretty terrible things as a young man in that camp.

The guy he kept meeting in his dreams was himself when he was a young man. He found himself on the receiving

end of all those terrible things he had done back then." Sage took a long pull on his cigarette. "It was retribution. In

the end Weinrich became the very thing he hated, an old man. Perhaps it was God's way of settling accounts. He

haunted by his own youth!"

Right there I decided I was being had; retribution indeed! Sage seemed to think I was some out-of-town rube that

would believe anything. Ghosts are one thing, but being haunted by one's own self was a bit too much to swallow!

Well, I hadn't been born yesterday. "It's getting near dawn. I got to get back to my hotel. How much do I owe you?"

Sage looked at me as if he could read my mind. A sad grin crossed his face. "Dollar 'ought to about cover it."

I left Ed's Diner just as the sun was peeking over the lake front buildings. The rain had stopped and the sky was

clearing as I stood on the curb thinking about the tall tale I'd heard that night. I happened to look down. There amid

the paper and other trash in the gutter I saw something shiny in the early morning light. I reached down to retrieve

it. A coin perhaps?

It was a lapel pin and when I turned it over and rubbed the dirt off a cold chill went though me. I found it bore the

twin thunderbolt emblem of the SS!

"Night Shift Continued …

That's kinda sad, I'm afraid." Sage paused as he lit his cigarette. "About a week after he had that terrible beat-

ing, he paid his bill, at six o'clock, same as always, goes out the front door and starts across the street. Before

he can cross, one of those big Water Street produce trucks comes around the corner and knocks him ass over

teakettle, right out there, with me watching."

Steve: Annie’s Pregnancy Continued

The first time I imagined our future family was a year or so after we had been dating.

Dad’s sister lived just outside of Athens. Late winter—the dreary season in Georgia. “Come

with me to Aunt Christy’s,” he said. “We can order pizza and catch up.”

I had shrugged and told him I was busy with a chem lab, “Not today, dad.” I shifted the

receiver to the other ear and looked over to Annie sitting on my bed in the dorm, chewing on the

tip of her pen. I probably rolled my eyes, humoring dad but really wanting to get back to our

study date. She needed some help with pharmacology. I understood it, the mechanism of

action, uptake and reuptake loops, the way the chemical properties transformed into useful

substances in the body. But then something struck me. I don’t know—the tilt of her head, a

brief smile, her soft features.

“Hey, wanna go to see my Aunt Christy?” There was a part of me who wanted to show off

my girl. She lifted her shoulders and looked at the pharmacology book splayed open on the na-

vy bedspread. “Free pizza—“ I enticed her with a broad smile.

And so we went. The 13 mile drive felt like an hour along poorly marked back roads

littered with potholes. Dad met us there, pulling into Aunt Christy’s gravel drive of her dou-

blewide just before us. Crusty-nosed kids peered out of the window. My cousins. I didn’t know

them well. They were much younger. But Annie took to them like milk and cookies.

Her eyes shone brightly as she bent down to the boy’s level, “Hi. My name is Annie.

What’s yours?”

“Colin.” He muttered. And as kids often do, he turned away, pulling a toy from a plastic

bin. “This is my truck.”

“Oohh…that’s a nice truck, Colin.” Annie cooed.


And when Colin took Annie’s hand in his own, leading her to the small bedroom down the

hall of the cramped trailer, Aunt Christy and dad looked to me and said, “She’s great. Colin

even likes her and Colin likes no one.”

I sniffed out a smile and shrugged, secretly pleased with their assessment of my Annie.

When I wandered down to the bedroom, rubbery cheese pizza in hand, I leaned on the door

jamb and watched. Annie and Colin were perched on the green shag carpeting, her arm around

him, a book open in her lap. “And then the third little pig…” Her voice lilting with excitement.

I knew then that I would marry Annie Kelley and make babies with her.

And now, that dream has been shattered. All because of one little mistake, more like a

series of mistakes. I hang out with Beth in college. I kiss Beth. I ignore Annie. She needs

more.

And now she is getting more. More kids.

Less of me.

I lean back, the leather chair creaking with my weight, and reach for my beer. I really

need something stronger. I take a swig, stroke my jaw, and close my eyes. Vodka. In the wet

bar.

I heft myself up and head downstairs to the wet bar. I open a cabinet and rummage

around. There, in the back is a bottle of Smirnoff. I reach for a highball glass, the kind etched

with our monogram—a wedding gift—and pour some. It goes down with a strong burn. I gri-

mace. A crystal-clear numbing agent.

Tough luck. You made your bed, Steve. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the

glass again. And again.


My head is clogged-a spider web of snot, an impenetrable membrane of fascia.

I reach for a can of nuts and rip off the foil liner. I pop almonds, cashews into my

mouth, spilling them down the front of my shirt.

I’m not sober. It’s over.

I reach for my cell sitting on the counter. I could call her. Tell her how much I

love her. Again. I am not opposed to raising another man’s child.

Beth. How would that work? I swallow another gulp of Vodka. I could just di-

vorce her like everyone else does in this day and age. A divorce is as easy as filing

your taxes. Hell, some attorneys even offer free divorces on Valentine’s Day.

Does that make them cupid, or the devil?

But then I would have to wait almost a year. I suck my teeth of nut residue

and pick up my cell again. I tap Beth’s mom’s number into the phone. The ringing is

deafening. I hold the phone away from my ear.

“Hello?”

I say nothing.

Steve, is that you?” Mrs. Beth’s Mom is pointed. I picture her looking to Beth,

slumped at the kitchen table of her childhood home, an uneaten grilled cheese and

bowl of tomato soup sitting in front of her.

“Yeah, it’s me.”


I bet Beth twists her hair into a bun, shoving a pencil in to secure it and then waving her

hands as if to tell her mom that she doesn’t want to talk.

Mrs. Beth’s Mom looks to her daughter, my wife I imagine. My head rock-heavy and

swimming in Vodka.

“Steve, she doesn’t want to talk.”

“But why the hell not? She’s my wife. My wife!”

“I know. She’s hurt. Leave her be.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” my words slur. My tongue thick.

“Steve, are you drinking?”

“What does it matter?”

“I think you need to stop drinking and sober up. She’s not going to talk to you when

you’re drunk.”

“But she’s my wife….”

“I am hanging up now, Steve. Please don’t call back.”

I fling the phone across the room. A framed photo falls to the floor, the glass smattering

into tiny shards.

Writer’s Night @ Eola

Many thanks to the Writer’s Night group for their creative contributions and passion for writing. The Writer’s Night

@ Eola is an informal critiquing group that meets on the second Tuesday of the month.

writers zine - march 2013

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