Ah, Young Love

During the night several heavy showers had dropped almost two inches of water; by morning the rain had settled into a steady downpour which was predicted to continue all day, and the temperature was not expected to get above 45 degrees Fahrenheit. In front of the school, the flag, which someone had neglected to take in the previous day, was a soggy mess wrapped around the pole.

Since 1898, forty years of weathering had reduced the bright red bricks of the schoolhouse to a pinkish-orange color, and the original sharp corners of the bricks were either rounded or broken off. The yellow trim was a streaked ivory color; where it had not peeled completely off the window and door frames, it was scored with tiny cracks. On this morning the building was slashed by great streaks of dark pink where the water had run down the walls and soaked into the bricks.

The entrance to the building was through double doors at the rear of the classroom. Eight rows, each containing eight desks, extended from the rear to the front of the room. The desks had been installed when the school was built, and consisted of cast iron frames bolted to the floor, with a hinged, fold up seat on the front of the frame, and storage space projecting to the rear, so that the frame with one student's storage space contained the seat for the next student in the row. Each desk had a small ledge covering the front of the storage area. The ledge contained an inkwell and a groove extending the width of the ledge so that pencils did not roll onto the floor. The cover of the 14"x18"x5" storage space was hinged to the rear of the ledge, and served as the writing area.

Beginning five feet from the front of the classroom, the floor was raised six inches to form a wall to wall platform. Two feet above the platform the four foot wide blackboard was attached to the wall, and above that was a display of cursive penmanship with each letter of the alphabet displayed in both upper and lower cases. Each class in turn went to the platform and read, answered questions, performed calculations on the blackboard, or whatever the teacher required.

The center spot of the wall, above the penmanship display, was occupied by a Seth Thomas pendulum clock with Roman numerals and an octagonal wooden frame surrounding the face. To the left of the clock was a large map of the world, and the right side of the wall contained an American flag with 48 stars.

The heavy rain had soaked through the west wall, resulting in huge water marks on the plaster, and ruining the picture of George Washington which hung near the front; a moldy odor not unlike that arising from damp newspapers pervaded the room. The roof also leaked, forcing several students out of their customary seats, and all sorts of buckets and cans were pressed into service, both on the floor and on some of the desks, in order to prevent puddles. As the drops fell into the containers, each one emitted a unique sound which depended upon its size and construction, thus raising the noise level well above normal for the classroom.

The only relief from the dreariness of the day occurred when one of the second graders, while exploring the ornate cast iron leaves, vines, etc. which formed the frame of his desk, got his finger caught. He was trapped until a messenger brought back a neighboring parent with a hack saw to cut him loose. He missed lunch, but acquired the nickname of "fingers," a distinction which followed him until he went to High School in nearby Union Square.

But ten year old Jimmy Davenport did not notice the depressing situation. Until this year he had been a rather reluctant student, but that was before Miss Hannigan became his teacher. Fresh from the State Normal School in nearby Jonesboro, she was the red haired, green eyed, freckle nosed daughter of Irish immigrants. Miss Hannigan was the dream of every little boy in the room, and the envy of every little girl. Today she was especially attractive because of her brightly flowered skirt and crisp white blouse. How could he notice the rain, the leaky roof, the soggy flag, or anything else, when the sunlight, in the form of Miss Hannigan, was blinding him?

The day passed quickly for Jimmy, and he was half way home before he remembered the arithmetic test coming up the next day, so he hurried back to the school to get his textbook. He was afraid Miss Hannigan had already left, but as he approached the school yard he noticed that her driver's car was parked out in front. As he was about to enter the classroom, he first glanced through the window in the double doors, and saw Miss Hannigan stand on her tiptoes and kiss the driver right on the lips!!

He was crushed! He forgot about the textbook, forgot about the arithmetic test, forgot about everything but the terrible scene he had witnessed! He cried the whole way home!

Of course his mother immediately saw that he had been crying, and asked, "What's wrong, Jimmy?"

Nothing," he replied.

She put down the fork with which she had been testing the pot roast, and feeling his forehead for signs of a fever, she asked, "Do you hurt somewhere?"

"No."

Since his head was cool, she decided to wait and see what would happen.

Jimmy didn't think he was very hungry for dinner, but when he smelled the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen: dandelion with vinegar and sliced hard boiled eggs, pot roast and potatoes cooked together until the meat could be cut with a fork and the potatoes were saturated with the meat juices, corn on the cob, fried eggplant, and a choice of shoofly pie or chocolate cake for dessert he changed his mind. In fact, the pie was so delicious that he decided to try the cake too, so his mother pretty sure that his problem probably wasn't very serious.

Jimmy slept somewhat fitfully; he kept having dreams about Miss Hannigan. In one, the two of them were having a picnic, then that man appeared and she kissed him; in another, she came to Jimmy's house for dinner, then that man appeared again and received another kiss. It was like that all night long.

He awoke to the aroma of bacon and eggs, pudding (a ground pork dish) on bread, and raw fried potatoes with onions; he had a large helping of each, along with two glasses of milk, then topped everything off with another piece of cake.

The rain had ended during the night, and the morning dawned bright and clear; the daffodils burst open into little yellow suns, the grass was bright green as the new shoots pushed through the topsoil, the first robins appeared and began singing to each other as they started building their nests, the trees were pushing out little green buds, and the air had that clean fresh aroma that comes after a heavy rain. The schoolhouse flag was flapping in the breeze, and even the bricks appeared a little cleaner than they were before the rain.

Inside the schoolroom, the sun was shining through the red, yellow and blue paper flowers which the students had pasted on the windows, creating large colorful designs on the oiled wooden floor. The sunbeams appeared as bright beams of pure gold as they passed through the tiny dust motes in the air. Miss Hannigan knew that keeping the children indoors on such a beautiful day would make it hard to hold their attention, but she was smiling and happy and enjoying the day along with them.

All the children, that is, except Jimmy. He didn't even notice the honking, and the answering bark of every dog in the area, as a gaggle of geese flew over in V-formation on their way back to Canada. He felt as if the rain and cold of the previous day had seeped into his very soul, and every time he closed his eyes he could see Miss Hannigan kissing that man.

As soon as Jimmy lifted the cover of his desk, he saw the folded paper on top of his books. He knew from the handwriting that Shirley Breitigan, who sat at the desk behind him, had written the note, which said, "Sarah Jackson likes you." Sarah, who sat three desks in front of him in the next row, had long golden curls and the brightest of bright blue eyes.

Of course Sarah knew about the note, and was watching Jimmy while she waited for him to find it. When he glanced at her, she turned a lovely, bright pink. She was especially pretty today in her white pinafore and blue blouse.

At that instant he forgot all about Miss Hannigan's betrayal. The sunlight poured into his soul and instantly dried up all the cold and dampness that was there. Suddenly it was a beautiful day!

To The Top

An Interview With Benjamin Franklin

From the Los Amigos Times:

March 15, 1999 - Cerritos, California - An elderly man was apprehended today while walking along the center divider of the 91 Freeway. The obviously bewildered man was taken to the local hospital, where he gave his name as Benjamin Franklin. Further investigation revealed that he really is the Franklin of Founding Father Fame, and he had apparently fallen into our modern world through some sort of crack in the space-time continuum

Two months after the above article appeared, the Times assigned me to get his opinions on the world of today. Dr. Franklin had been taken into the home of one of the city fathers, where he has been a guest since his arrival. I found him in the city library, where he spends much of his time. He was dressed in a modern, though somewhat rumpled business suit provided by his host. He needed a haircut.

LAT - Good morning, Dr. Franklin. How have you been spending your time here at the closing of the 20th. century?

BF - Good morning, young man. As you know, I do not believe in wasting time, so I have been dividing mine between walking the streets of your city and speaking to its citizens, and reading here in the library. I tried getting up at 4:00 AM and walking like I used to do at home, but your officers seem to frown upon anyone walking at that hour. The reading is going rather slowly, since you have so many unfamiliar words in your modern language, but through the use of the dictionary, which we didn't have in my day, I am making progress.

LAT - After having lived in a modern home for two months, what do you think of it as compared to the homes of the late 18th. century?

BF - I think the ability to walk into a room and flood it with light is a most wonderful thing. Also the presence of running water, especially hot water, at the turning of a handle, is a great time saver, and as you know, I am always in favor of that. The idea of moving the privy indoors is a nice convenience, particularly on cold nights, and other devices which enable the wife to wash dishes by machine, flush her garbage down the drain, etc. are things which no one would have dreamed of in my day. The problem is finding something of value to do with all that extra time. The devil finds work for idle hands.

LAT - Have you ridden in an auto?

BF- As you know, the officers were kind enough to get me off that dreadful road when I was rudely deposited right in the middle. Other than that, my host has taken me riding several times, and I must admit that the great speed and closeness of other autos makes me very uncomfortable. I have noted that you are now able to fly, and I am not sure if I will ever summon enough courage to try that. Again I think that the ease with which you can travel about the country is a most wonderful time saver. I am also awed by the speed with which you can transmit news, although some of the things you transmit seem to be a waste of time.

LAT - Have you had an opportunity to see how far the country has expanded in the past two hundred years?

BF - Yes, and I think the expansion to the west is nothing short of marvelous. We knew there was another ocean out there, but we had no idea of the vastness of the land between our eastern cities and the western ocean. I also read that the United States now includes the Sandwich islands, as well as what in my day were Russian colonies in the north.

LAT - That's correct. Today the islands are called Hawaii, and the northern state is called Alaska. What is your opinion of our modern science?

BF - In my day science consisted primarily of what you now call philosophy. Your science we called "natural philosophy," a field in which I was most interested. I am happy to see that I was on the right track when I began my investigations of electricity, although from what I have read since I've been here, I was probably very fortunate that I was not killed. Much to my regret, your science has progressed past the point where I am unable to understand most of it, although I think it is one of the most important fields of study for Americans. One can never know too much about the world and how it works.

LAT - What's your opinion of our government?

BF - I am happy to see that you still give deference to the Constitution which my colleagues and I worked so hard to create. However, the first ten amendments were devised to limit the power of the government over the people. Today they are used to limit the people's control of the government. To a large extent, you have given away your freedom. For example, Section 9 of Article I says that the government will not have any power to pass any direct tax unless it is in proportion to the census. In 1913 you gave Congress permission to assess an income tax. The taxes we objected to because they were laid without representation were nothing compared to the taxes you have managed to assess upon yourselves with representation. In so doing, you have given some of your freedom over to the Infernal Revenue Service. In my day we struggled mightily to get our citizens to support the government. Your citizens struggle mightily to get the government to support them. I could go on, but it is soon time for my lunch.

LAT - That's Internal Revenue Service, Dr. Franklin. One more question, please. If you could give a bit of advice to the American people of today, what would you tell them?

BF - I prefer my pronunciation. I would tell them to learn the difference between reality and wishful thinking. I would direct their attention to real world problems. I would suggest they learn that freedom is not the same as amusement. I would ask them to rely on themselves instead of the government, and to stop taking offense at every little slight. And for God's sake as well as your own, take back your freedom. Maybe one of the best ways to do that would be to stop electing lawyers to public office.

LAT - Thank you, Dr. Franklin.

BF - You're welcome.

To The Top

A Tijuana License

Of course, if we had known how our one and only trip to Tijuana was going to turn out, we would not have gone. Never in her wildest nightmares did Sally ever dream she would . . . but I'm getting ahead of the story.

For several years we had been purchasing an annual "Entertainment" card, which entitled us to a "buy one, get one free" meal at many of the fine, and some not so fine, restaurants in Southern California. Another couple, Vince and Sara Capezzi, also purchased the card, so the four of us got together one Saturday night each month to try out various restaurants around the area, restaurants we never would have been able to afford without the card.

At one of our monthly gatherings the subject somehow got around to the Mexican city of Tijuana, just across the border from San Diego. Since none of us had ever been there, and it was only a two hour drive from home, we decided to visit there the following weekend. Sara, a travel agent, made reservations for us at one of the international hotels in Tijuana; a hotel where we could be sure that only Yankee bottled water was used for drinking and cooking. This is important in order to avoid catching the dreaded Montezuma's Revenge, the scourge of American tourists to Mexico.

Saturday dawned bright and clear, unusual for the season in Southern California. A shower during the night had washed all the smog out of the air, the sky was bright blue (again unusual), there were no clouds, and the temperature was expected to be about 72 degrees-just perfect for traveling.

After meeting for breakfast at Danny's (even Danny's can't ruin breakfast), we proceeded down the San Diego Freeway. As we passed through San Juan Capistrano, the ocean appeared to be covered with a flotilla of brightly colored sailboats, and the view across the red tiled roofs and palm trees of that lovely city was gorgeous.

"Look," Sara said as we approached Camp Pendleton. "The Marines are storming the beach." And so they were-several hundred of them were involved in a landing operation, accompanied by several helicopters, landing craft, and a large ship standing off shore. It was a stirring sight.

Passing through that jewel of a city, San Diego, we got a fine view of the beautiful harbor with its fleet of Navy ships and the usual myriad of sailboats, jet skiers, and other craft.

We arrived in Tijuana about 11:30, and after a light lunch we set off to see the sights. Avoiding the pushcarts with their roasting chickens and other assorted goodies, we concentrated on the shops and markets, which is really why the ladies wanted to go there. Sara bought a brightly colored, hand painted flowerpot, and Sally purchased a beautiful opal ring. Of course, these purchases were accompanied by the obligatory haggling over prices, which is a procedure built in to every purchase in a Mexican market. While the tourists are happy with the great deals they get, the merchants are happy that they get just about what the products are worth in the first place.

About 3:00 in the afternoon the ladies were getting a bit tired from all the walking, so they decided to go back to the hotel and rest a bit. Vince and I accompanied them, but instead of resting, we decided to find a local tavern and have a Corona. Amid some good natured kidding, for example, we were accused of leaving to go to a dog and pony show, (which has a vastly different connotation in Tijuana from the one it has at a US sales seminar), and we accused Sara of coming to Tijuana to buy pot, we took our leave, promising to be back shortly.

After about half an hour, the ladies decided to try to join us, although first they had to find us. Not knowing how unescorted ladies would be received in a Mexican tavern, they decided to look through the window of the first bar they found to see if we were inside. It was at this point that a local peace officer showed up.

Since Sally and Sara's knowledge of Spanish was limited to si and nada, and the officer spoke even less English than that, communication was not too good, until the policeman pulled out his weapon and proceeded to herd them to the police station. There they were fingerprinted, booked, and put into a cell with three very unsavory looking local ladies, who huddled together and stared at them while speaking Spanish in what our wives considered to be very threatening tones of voice. The basin in the corner was very dirty, and the toilet looked as if it had not been washed since the day it was installed, so of course they were afraid to use it no matter how pressing the need. All this time they had not met anyone who spoke English, so they didn't even know why they had been arrested.

In the meantime, Vince and I got back to the hotel. Finding the ladies missing, we waited for about an hour. By that time we began to get very worried, so we decided to report their disappearance to the police. Fortunately a booking officer who spoke English had come on duty, so we quickly ascertained that the ladies had been found before we knew they were lost.

"We'll take them and see that they don't get into any more trouble," I told him.

"Well, senor," he replied. "There is the problem of the fine."

"What's the charge and how much?" I asked.

"The charge is practicing prostitution without a license and the fine is $200 each."

"What? Prostitution? $200? That's ridiculous!" Vince and I exclaimed almost in unison.

"But our officer found them looking in the window of Jose's cantina. He says they were looking for customers," he replied.

"Well looking through a window does not indicate they were looking for customers," I said.

"Well, senor," he said. "You may be right. You can tell that to the judge at the hearing next Wednesday."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You said 'without a license.' How much is a license?"

"Ten dollars."

Realizing we had just saved $190 and four days, we quickly decided to come up with the $10. After filling out the necessary paperwork, the ladies were released.

Understandably, they wanted nothing more to do with Tijuana, and we drove home that same night.

A few days later a large envelope arrived, and inside was an official looking, embossed and signed certificate. We had it translated, and the typed translation is now hung in our game room, just beneath the framed document. It says "For payment of $10 cash in hand, the undersigned, Sally Terwilliger, is entitled to practice prostitution in the City of Tijuana for one year from the above date."

It makes a great conversation piece (no pun intended).

To The Top

The Wandering Jew

Although this story is fictional, I did not write most of it. It has been written over a period of 2000 years, as adventist and fundamentalist Christians have tried to explain why Jesus has not returned as He promised in Matthew (16:27, 28), Mark (8:38, 9:1) and Luke (9:26, 27). Rather than being based on these verses, the legend of The Wandering Jew has grown from John 21, where Jesus says, apparently about John, "If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?" But since John did die, perhaps Jesus was not referring to him at all, but to someone else. Someone not mentioned in the gospels, alive in Jesus' day, was somehow cursed to remain alive for centuries until judgement day, wandering over the earth and longing for death. Many versions of this story have appeared over the years. The following is a compilation of just a few of them, along with my ending.

For the son of man shall come in the glory of his Father, with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works. Verily, I say unto you, There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom. MATTHEW 16: 27,28

I have been a nurse at the State Mental Hospital for several years. In that time, one of our most interesting patients has been the one we called "The Wandering Jew." It's not that I believed him, but except for his story he seemed to be one of the most learned and wise men I have ever met.

Since I have no family, I had volunteered to work a double shift on New Year's Eve so that some of my coworkers could celebrate with their families. At dinner, The Wandering Jew was retelling his story as he did every night to his fellow patients at the table. As usual, most of them paid no attention, occupied as they were with their own troubles.

"Many years ago," he said, "I believe in your calendar it would be about the year 32 or 33, I was a shopkeeper on the main street in old Jerusalem. When you bought your sandals from Ahasuerus, you were getting the best that money could buy.

"At this particular time, Jerusalem was in a state of turmoil over an itinerant rabbi whose followers called him Jesus Christ. This Jesus had entered the city the week before with accolades from everyone because they had heard many wonderful things about His ministry. It was rumored that He could heal any sickness, and had even brought dead people back to life. Everyone turned out for His entry into the city, and of course greeted Him with hallelujahs.

"During the week, however, certain leaders of the Jewish community realized He was planning to open the religion to Gentiles, and of course that did not sit too well with most people. The leaders took these fears to the Romans, who controlled the city, and after some indecision as to responsibility, the Romans agreed to crucify Him.

"The area where the crosses were assembled was located on the opposite side of the city from Golgotha, where the crucifixions usually took place. As a result, the condemned criminals were required to carry their heavy crosses through the streets.

"As this Jesus passed my shop, I did what all the other devout Jews were doing: seeing how slowly He was walking with His heavy load, I struck Him on the back and told Him to speed it up since His procession was hurting my business. Little did I realize that it was an act that would cost me my death.

"Jesus turned to me, and said, 'I go, but you will tarry until I return.'

"There were rumors that He had come back to life after the crucifixion, and reportedly had said something about someone not dying till He came into his kingdom, but of course, I didn't believe them. No one had ever recovered from a crucifixion.

"I thought no more about it for several years, and then I noticed a strange thing. My friends and customers were all growing older, but I was not changing. It was then that I remembered what this Jesus had said to me. Was I going to be this same age until He returned?

"At first it was rather exhilarating to know that I was going to have a very long life, but as the years went by and all my friends died, I began to find it was not that much fun. People began to look at me rather strangely, and word soon got around that I was cursed. My business fell to nothing, and I was forced to close my shop. Since I was no longer welcome in Jerusalem, I began to wander.

"Soon the passing of time with all its troubles began to wear me down, and I began to wish for death. I tried hanging myself, but the rope broke every time. I tried to stab myself, but the knife came out clean, although I felt all the pain. Eventually I decided that God was being vengeful, and I might as well get used to it.

"I came to one village and met a young lady who took an interest in me. I soon realized how unfair it was of me to befriend her, since she would soon grow old and I would remain young, so I decided to try my most drastic approach to death: I jumped into Mount Etna, which was erupting at the time. Little did I realize that the lady had followed me, and when she saw what I had done, she followed me into the volcano to join me in death. Of course, the flames instantly consumed her, but although I suffered terribly from the high temperature, I did not die. Some time later the volcano spewed me out unharmed.

"Since that time I have been involved in all kinds of adventures. One time I was caught in a forest fire, but it didn't harm me. I have been involved in countless wars but arrows, spears, clubs, swords, bullets, mines, and trampling elephants have had no effect on me.

"In the thirteenth century (by your calendar) I told my story to someone in England, and it immediately spread throughout the land, and even across the channel into Europe. In the early seventeenth century someone claimed to be The Wandering Jew in Germany, and thousands of pamphlets were printed about him. Almost instantly it created a mania comparable to today's UFOs, Abominable Snowmen and Elvis Presley. Hoards of so-called 'Wandering Jews' have popped up over the years, and no one knows whether they were due to rumors, hoaxes, or imposters.

"Eventually I wound up in this institution, and I suppose I will be here for a long long time, although Heaven knows I will not die here unless Jesus appears in the meantime."

As usual after the evening meal, the patients were returned to their rooms for the night.

The next morning, January 1, 2000, I was still on duty when the police brought in a man for evaluation. At six that morning he had appeared "almost from nowhere" as the officers put it, and was nearly run down by their cruiser. Because of his appearance, they decided to bring him directly to the hospital.

I admit he did look rather strange. He was tall and had long shaggy hair and a beard. His hands were rough, such as you would expect on a carpenter or other construction worker. But it was his clothing that was really strange. He was dressed in an ancient robe and sandals.

I asked him his name, and he said "Jesus Christ."

"Great," I said. "We already have three Jesus Christs here, along with several Napoleons, Henry VIIIs, and Richard Nixons, not to mention an assortment of other famous people. I think we have enough to form a separate Jesus support group."

"You will sit on my left hand with the goats," he said.

"Whatever," I replied, as I locked him in a small room to await the arrival of the doctor.

When Ahasuerus didn't show up for breakfast that morning, I went looking for him. I found him in bed, apparently asleep, but when I couldn't awaken him I realized he had died. He had the most peaceful smile on his face I have ever seen. After examining him, the doctor said he had died about six that morning.

Strangely, our newest Jesus vanished from the locked room before the doctor got to him.

You don't suppose? . . . Nah.

To The Top

The Condemned Prisoner

While a little dog was crossing the railroad tracks, a train came along and cut off the end of his tail. When he turned to look across the rail at it, another train cut off his head. Moral: It is not a good idea to lose one's head over a piece of tail.

Why would a man who has been a faithful, loving husband for twenty-five years suddenly take a mistress? I have asked myself that question countless times in the seven years I have been in prison.

It certainly was not because I didn't have offers along the way. I am a reasonably good-looking man: just under six feet tall, weighing 175 pounds, mostly muscle, with dark hair and eyes that women seem to love.

There was Colleen, beautiful Irish Colleen, with red hair, green eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her perky little nose. Several times she offered to spend a night, a weekend, or whatever time I could spare, with me. I never was able to spare any.

Then there was vivacious, blonde Rachel, who walked into my office one day and informed me she was not wearing any underwear, and asked what I was going to do about it. To prove it she hiked her foot up on the corner of my desk, proving not only that she was telling the truth, but also that blondeness sometimes comes from a bottle rather than from the genes. I didn't do anything about it, and shortly afterwards she left the company.

And there were many others who made both veiled and outright offers to spend "quality" time with me.

It's not that I couldn't find the time for romantic liasons. I took many business trips over the years, and there were always beautiful women hanging around the best hotels. You know the kind, low cut tops, short skirts, boots, etc. Always, always I preferred to have dinner and a drink, and then go to bed with a good book.

Nor were there financial problems that kept me on the path of fidelity. My expense account was never questioned when I took a business trip; there would have been no problem if I had slipped in an extra few hundred dollars for "sales expense."

Through all those years, no woman had ever tempted me to be unfaithful. Until that fateful day I met Cherise, the day that started the chain of events that led to my present predicament: at midnight tonight the state is going to administer to me a lethal injection as punishment for a murder that I didn't knowingly commit.

As an effort to keep my mind off that horrible appointment, I have been attempting to summarize the last seven years into a single phrase. "Never underestimate the power of a woman" and "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" come to mind, but neither seems to exactly fit my particular situation.

It started simply enough. At the age of fifty I received a rather large inheritance; large enough so that neither my wife nor I would ever have to work again. I immediately decided to quit my job and pursue my lifelong desire to write a best-selling novel. However Serena, my wife, a successful executive in her own right, realizing that she would be bored to death sitting home watching me write, decided to continue working.

Knowing that writing was a sedentary occupation, I made up my mind to take a long walk every morning before settling down with my word processor. I set up five three-mile long routes (one for each day of the week), and proceeded to follow one each day, come rain or shine.

For several weeks all went well. Then one day, I believe it was on my Wednesday route, I chanced upon a very attractive young lady who was busily sweeping off her sidewalk. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, as I did with everyone I met on my daily rounds.

The weather on the following Wednesday was a fantastic reminder of why people move to California. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the flowers were brilliant, an unseasonable rain the night before had washed all the smog out of the air, and as far as I was concerned, my life was perfect. The young lady was again sweeping her sidewalk, and in her shorts and halter, she was a beautiful complement to the already gorgeous day. In addition to the usual greeting we got to talking, and during the course of the conversation I found out her name, and that she had recently become a widow.

In contrast, on the following Wednesday the sky was overcast and the air was quite cool, as it so often is at that season. (Although it looks as if rain will start at any moment, it seldom happens). As I passed Cherise's house we again struck up a conversation, during which she invited me in for a cup of coffee; an invitation that I quickly accepted, only partly because of the cool weather. Over the next several trips this sharing of coffee became part of the routine.

Then came the fateful day when she was not outside waiting for me. I glanced at her window, and saw her beckoning me to come in. Upon entering I noticed that she was still in her robe, so I thought that perhaps she had risen late, and had not had time to get dressed.

The longer we sat with our coffee, however, the more the robe gaped open, and it soon became apparent that she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath it. When she placed my hand on her bare knee, and said, "You really don't have to leave right away, do you?" my resistance was washed away like a sandcastle at high tide.

"Of course not," I replied, and before I knew it we were making love right there on her kitchen table. Fortunately, it was a good, sturdy piece of furniture.

From that time the Wednesday route was upgraded to the daily route. Cherise was extremely energetic, unbelievably creative, and absolutely uninhibited. I am sure that we sampled every tidbit in the catalogue of sensual delights over the next few months.

The only interruptions to our daily rendezvous were the one-week vacation trip my wife made me take to Hawaii, and a three-day trip that Cherise took to visit her mother in Oregon. As much as I love Hawaii, I know that I was not a very good companion. Although the weather was beautiful, it might as well have rained every day. I passed through the Cultural Center, the Pearl Harbor Museum, the dinner cruise and the volcano tour in a daze. I had no more interest in those things than I had in walking through fire. To be truthful, except for the time I spent with Cherise, my normal demeanor was one of irritability and testiness. I was not a very pleasant person to live with.

For all the exciting times Cherise and I enjoyed together, she refused to accept any gifts from me. On the one occasion when I suggested that I buy her something meaningful, she said, "No, I don't want you to think you need to pay for the good times we are having. I would feel like a hooker."

Oh, she did accept a few small "tokens of thoughtfulness" as she called them: an occasional flower I picked on the way to her house, or perhaps a book or two I thought she might enjoy. Also, I noticed that she liked a particular brand of artificial sweetener in her coffee, so whenever I ate in a restaurant I would stick a few packets in my pocket for her. She was definitely a low maintenance lover.

One day, I remember distinctly, it was the day before Thanksgiving, the weather was miserable, with heavy rain and strong winds; consequently I was in a great hurry to get to her house and be comforted. When I arrived, however, the sight of a fire engine, a paramedics' vehicle and several police cars greeted me. Yellow tapes enclosed the entire front of her lawn. Joining a crowd of curious onlookers on the sidewalk, I asked someone what was happening, and was told that the lady who lived there had apparently called 911 during the night, but had died before help could arrive.

I recoiled as if I had been struck a heavy blow! It was all I could do to keep from rushing in to see for myself! Shortly afterwards the story was confirmed when a gurney was brought out bearing a body bag.

Almost blinded by tears, I ran home and completely lost control of my emotions. I cried for several hours. Of course, I could not let Serena find me in this condition, so I pulled myself together as best I could before she arrived home. For several days I didn't leave the house. During that time I barely heard what Serena said, and answered in monosyllables whenever she spoke to me.

The following Saturday dawned bright and clear, and Serena stood inside our front window looking out at the sidewalk. Finally, without turning around, she said very quietly and seemingly emotionlessly, "The newspaper says there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of your mistress."

I was shocked! She couldn't possibly know, could she? I replied, "What are you talking about?"

"The newspaper says that the death of Cherise Comstock, 1237 Lavender Avenue, was due to poison. I know she was your mistress."

"You know nothing of the kind. I have never loved anyone but you."

"Don't insult me by pretending to be innocent. I know about your daily meetings with her. When your personality changed, and you became downright disagreeable, I followed you for several days instead of going to work. I know all about it."

Realizing she really did know, I tried contrition. "OK," I said. "You are right. But she's dead and it's all over now." Then I pulled out the cliches. "Can't we put it all behind us and get on with our lives? Can't we start over from here?"

"No, I don't think so. I can't tell you how dirty and violated I felt whenever you touched me after I knew you had been with her. I can never forgive you."

"Besides," she continued. "It's not over yet. In spite of the fact that you drink your coffee black, I noticed you slipping packets of artificial sweetener into your pocket whenever we went out for dinner. So Sunday night after you went to sleep, I found some of the packets in your jacket. I opened them and inserted enough poison to make sure that whoever used them would suffer for a few hours before dying. Then I closed them again and put them back in your pocket."

I was horrified! "You killed her!" I screamed. "I'm calling the police!"

"Before you do, let me tell you a few things you don't know. In the first place, the poison cannot be traced, because I bought it, using your credit card, from a far eastern company on the internet, and had it shipped to a post office box, which I opened in your name. As you know, credit cards used for internet purchases do not require a signature, so there is no problem of handwriting identification. Second, I wore gloves when I handled the packets, so there are no fingerprints on them except yours and hers. And I imagine they will find more of your prints all over her house, and possibly her body too if they can be found there."

"I'll tell them what you told me," I responded.

"Go ahead, but I'll deny it. I am the naïve, innocent wife who was betrayed by a philandering husband. Obviously you wanted to break off with your mistress, and when she threatened to tell me the whole story, you killed her."

She turned from the window just as the doorbell rang. "That would be the two policemen who just came up our sidewalk. I imagine they are looking for you."

That was seven years, a trial, and numerous appeals ago, and the chief justice of the Supreme Court has just turned down the last one.

I just thought of the descriptive phrase I was looking for. "I'm afraid women will be the death of me yet."

How Far Does Friendship Go?

"My name is Jack, and I am an alcoholic." I figure I said that over 2,000 times in the 14 years I have been going to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Attending an AA meeting three times a week is probably why I am alive today.

I took my first drink at the age of 16, and didn't stop until I blacked out, which is the reason I am sure I inherited a genetic disposition toward alcoholism. But that didn't stop me from drinking, and I was one of those drunks who became belligerent and destructive between my first drink of the day, and the blackout that invariably followed. Because I usually wound up breaking either the furniture or someone's face (and often getting mine broken in return), every bar in town finally refused to serve me. I can't tell you the number of times I woke up in the gutter, or in a strange bed, or even in jail, without the slightest recollection of how or why I got there.

When I finally found someone willing to marry me, I thought perhaps I could settle down, but it didn't work. Three weeks later I was back in jail, this time for spouse abuse, and my wife was getting a divorce. I don't blame her; it probably saved her life.

Finally a judge required me to attend an AA meeting every day during a six-month term in jail, and I can't thank him enough. It turned my life around.

When I got out and started attending meetings of a group in my area, I met Big Bill K., at that time a 15-year member, who became my sponsor. During Bill's drinking days, he needed a drink every couple of hours to keep him going. Like all alcoholics, he thought no one knew about his drinking, but of course, everyone did. He had a drink with breakfast, a mid-morning shot in the restroom, two or three at lunch, and so on throughout the day. He even had a drink whenever he woke up at night, which was normally five or six times.

Because Bill had a DUI on his record, he was afraid to carry an open bottle in his car. He solved that problem by hiding one in a hollow tree along his daily route to work, and every morning and evening he stopped for his "pick me up." One of the first things I learned in AA is that drunks are sneaky.

After Bill lost several jobs because of his drinking, his family issued an ultimatum: either go to AA, or get out. He had been going to AA ever since.

Bill and I got very close over the years. Whenever I felt I just had to have a drink, I called him, and he always came through for me, sometimes in the middle of the night. Again and again he told me that when an alcoholic stops drinking, the disease continues to progress, so that if he starts again, he starts not where he left off, but where he would have been if he had continued drinking.

After meetings, and even on nights when there was no meeting, we would get together over coffee and hold our own little meeting. We were more than mentor and student, we were friends.

About two years ago Vonnie started coming to the meetings. Her story was not uncommon, particularly among alcoholic women: both parents were alcoholics, her father abused both Vonnie and her mother, her mother left home when Vonnie was six, you can imagine the rest. She told about lying in bed praying that her father would not come home and abuse her. She started drinking when she was eight. When Vonnie was ten, a neighbor heard her screaming and called the police, at which time she was placed in a series of foster homes, some of them good, and others not much better than her own home had been.

At the age of fourteen she ran away for good; the next several years were a nightmare of booze, drugs and sex. Finally, at the age of 25, she attended her first AA meeting while in jail. Upon her release the old habits took over again, although they were interspersed with irregular periods of sobriety as she wandered in and out of AA. She finally wound up in our city when the pimp for whom she was working decided she was too old to be a profitable investment.

After hearing her story, Bill volunteered to sponsor her. Under his guidance it appeared as if the program was a success for her this time, at least as far as her drinking was concerned.

But ours is a small city, and word soon got around that she was again working on her back to support herself. Even more disturbing was a report that she spent a couple of days in Las Vegas every two or three weeks. The story was that she had a boyfriend there that she didn't think she could do without.

Throughout all this, Bill downplayed all the stories. "Vonnie is a fine looking woman, and you know how these guys like to portray themselves as lovers. It's just talk."

When I asked him about the Vegas trips, he said, "She just likes to go to the shows and stick a few dollars in the slot machines. Everybody needs a few days off now and then."

For my part, I just figured she was a tramp.

Vonnie had been coming to our meetings for about a year when she and Bill announced they were getting married. I hated to be a pessimist, but in addition to all their other problems, Bill was 20 years older than she was. In my opinion, they were starting under a huge handicap. But what could I say? I knew Bill wasn't about to listen to me. Although my heart wasn't in it, I stood up for Bill at the wedding, and one of the ladies of the club stood up for Vonnie.

Everything seemed to go OK for a few months. I figured maybe Vonnie would calm down, but Bill told me she was still going to Vegas every couple of weeks. When I asked him why he didn't go along, he said he didn't care for all the glitz and gambling of Vegas; he would rather read or work around the house.

One Sunday evening about six months ago, Vonnie called me and said Bill had drunk half a pint of gin and had been rushed unconscious to the hospital. Bill had to have realized before he took that drink that it would probably kill him. I just knew Bill started drinking because he wanted to commit suicide.

He almost succeeded. When I got to the hospital, the doctor had told Vonnie that there wasn't much hope.

For two days Bill was unconscious, and during that time either Vonnie or I was with him all the time. Miraculously he pulled through, and when he finally woke up, the doctor told him that if he ever took another drink, he would die.

"You thought that drink would kill you, didn't you?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"Then why did you do it?"

"I was depressed," he answered. "Vonnie and I were fighting, and I just got tired of it."

"Why didn't you talk to me? After all the times you've helped me, you know I would have tried to return the favor. We could have come up with something."

"You're right," he answered. "If I ever get into that mood again, I'll call you. I promise I will never do that again."

Last Sunday night, or actually about 1:00 Monday morning, my phone rang. It was Vonnie, and she was hysterical. "Bill has done it this time! He's in the bathtub covered with blood! He's dead!"

"I'll be right over! Call 911!" I replied.

She was right - Bill was dead. After running a tub of water, he got in, drank a few shots of gin, and slashed his wrists with a razor.

Vonnie told me they had had an argument when she arrived home from Vegas Sunday evening, but she thought they had made up. She woke up later to find he was not in bed. When he didn't come back after a short time, she got up to look for him and found him in the tub.

As would be expected, Vonnie was devastated. Since I had known Bill for so long, I volunteered to help her make the arrangements, and she accepted. Together we made all the decisions: casket selection, burial site, what suit to wear, etc. Six of us from AA were his pallbearers, and it was the toughest job I ever performed.

The day of the funeral started out overcast, and by the time the service got underway, rain was coming down like Noah's flood. A tent covered the grave itself, but rain blew in from all sides, and the fake grass they placed around the grave during the service was as sopping wet as seaweed on the Titanic. When the undertaker asked each of the pallbearers to place a rose on the casket, I had to choke back the tears.

Throughout the service Vonnie, dressed all in black, moaned and sobbed, and when it came time to lower the casket, she had to be restrained from throwing herself into the grave with it. I decided I had her all wrong; she really loved the guy.

That night I was at home trying to pull myself together when the phone rang. It was Vonnie.

"I just wanted to thank you for all the things you've done to help me in the last few days," she said.

"Bill was my closest friend," I replied. "It was the least I could do."

"Jack," she continued. "Now that Bill is gone, could you come over and keep me company?"

Dumbfounded, I exclaimed, "You mean tonight?"

"Sure," she said. "Bill's not here, so I think it would be alright."

I slammed down the phone. Now I need to find a new AA group. I don't think I could stand to be in the same room with Vonnie.

To The Top

The Big Oak Tree

Prologue

Since the day it was transplanted as a sapling to the center of the small city park, the big oak tree has witnessed the annual cycle of seasons more than 125 times. During each of those periods its swelling buds have heralded the earth's spring renewal, its bright green leaves have shaded the warm days of summer, its brilliant reds and yellows have painted the fall landscape, and its stark black branches silhouetted against the gleaming snow have been a reminder that, as with all life, rebirth was not far off.

Although its leaves have been eaten by caterpillars, its roots attacked by grub worms, and its bark jack hammered by woodpeckers, it still stands, apparently impregnable, against parasites, storms, urinating humans and other attackers.

Over the years, its trunk has been the home and food warehouse for generations of squirrels, and its leaves have sheltered countless lovers, picnickers, strollers and other passersby. Not long ago a group of young children enjoying a late spring outing frolicked in its shade, and a rope swing, hung there by one of the adult chaperones, still droops listlessly from a lower limb.

A bench, placed beneath its branches several years ago by a benevolent city administration, serves as the nightly home for Jack "Lips" Lister, who earns his food and, more importantly, his drink, by playing solo alto saxophone on nearby street corners. Music lovers and others drop money into Jack's battered hat, although it is rumored that some merchants pay for the privilege of having Jack play on corners not adjacent to their businesses.

The park itself serves as a thoroughfare for foot traffic passing from the railroad station on busy Commerce Street to the financial district on Walker Street. As a result, probably 95% of the pedestrians never notice the lovely flowers, grassy areas, picnic tables, or even the mighty oak tree. Most people are busy concentrating on where they are going, and do not have time to stop and appreciate the beauty around them. They miss a great deal, not unusual in this day, in which almost everyone is hurrying somewhere. Few realize we are all rushing to the same destination; the trick is to enjoy the trip.

1953

After three years of marriage, Megan McConnell was delighted to find she was pregnant. Her joy was doubled when she found out her best friend, Emily Jamison was also expecting about the same time. The two spent many hours together discussing the upcoming births, shopping for baby clothes and furniture, planning the future, and other things mothers do when expecting their first child.

The two friends entered the hospital on the same day, and Megan's Ian and Emily's Howard were born within an hour of each other.

As the babies grew, they continued in lock step throughout their babyhood: the first step, the first word (dada), weaning, potty training, etc. The mothers often commented to each other about how their happy, healthy boys both progressed exactly as the baby book said they should.

When the boys entered kindergarten together, they were almost evenly matched in every respect. Both learned finger painting, animals, numbers and letters together, but the teachers always felt that Howard held a very slight edge over Ian.

In personality, however, the two boys were almost complete opposites. All of Howard's achievements came to him almost effortlessly; he was never concerned about working or studying, and was naturally adept at whatever he tried. If someone achieved a higher score or a better result than he did, he shrugged it off and went on to his next project.

Although Ian was also very good at everything he tried, his achievements resulted from hard work rather than from natural ability. Each assignment was planned and executed in minute detail, and he became very upset when his plans went awry.

Ian and Howard had what could be called at best, a variable friendship. When Ian bested Howard at anything, everything was fine. When Howard came out on top, the friendship was off as far as Ian was concerned, although after a few days Howard's good-natured banter usually patched things up. After a while Ian learned to keep his resentment bottled up inside himself, and only a very astute observer could tell when he was upset.

1963

"Four. . . three . . . ," Megan counted down. "Two . . . one . . . zero." With that the door banged open, and Ian burst into the room!

"Hi Mom," he said.

"Hello, Ian."

To Emily, seated at the kitchen table, she said, "See what I mean? Exactly 3:42."

"I see it, but I don't believe it," Emily replied.

"He was born on the exact day the doctor had predicted. Both his first step and his first word occurred exactly on the day that the baby book said they should. It has been like that ever since."

"Mom," Ian said. "I have to do my homework and get to my baseball game."

"Your game doesn't start for two hours," Megan said.

"I know, but I have to get there early to take extra batting practice."

"Naturally," his mother replied, somewhat sarcastically.

As Ian raced upstairs to his room, his mother turned to her friend. "He worries me. If he's not the best at everything he does, he broods for days. He's a real control freak. If things don't go according to plan, he becomes almost violent. It's not normal for a ten-year-old to be that way. He should be having fun, not worrying about things going wrong."

"He'll probably outgrow it."

"I doubt it," Megan replied. "If anything, he's getting worse."

1970

Although Mary Hannigan was third generation Irish, she had the red hair, green eyes and fair skin of a girl born on the Emerald Isle. Intelligent and vivacious, Mary was class president, head majorette (the one who did the fire baton routine at the night football games), head of the school debating team, editor of the student newspaper, a straight A student, and the girl about whom the boys fantasized and the girls hated. She and Ian had been going steady since the eighth grade.

Of course, when Ian asked her to go to the senior prom, which was still one year away, she said yes. Then when he asked what color her gown was so that he could order her corsage, she told him she would have to let him know. He seemed disappointed with that answer, so she promised to have a decision within the next week. By now she was used to Ian's concern with planning, so during the following week she did some frantic shopping, and finally found a beautiful green gown which exactly matched the color of her eyes. She knew he would love it, as he loved everything she did.

For several years it had been the custom for the boys at Central High School to compete to see which one could deliver his date to the prom in the most sophisticated manner. As a result, the limousine services in town brought out their longest, lowest, sharpest vehicles on that night.

As always, Ian was determined to win that contest, but he couldn't figure out how to do it. All he knew was that he wanted something that would overwhelm the competition.

The solution came while he was conducting his cousin, who was visiting from the east coast, on a tour of the local tourist attractions. These happened to include the facilities of a national brewing company, who offered a tour of their factory in conjunction with a theme park that they operated.

The tour guide happened to mention that the company's well known brewery wagon had been altered to carry passengers, and was available for rental. It included real leather seats, a bar, and even a TV set. Immediately Ian pictured the famous logo with the uniformed driver, the Dalmatian on the seat next to him, and the team of eight huge Clydesdale horses, driving up in front of the school and disgorging Mary and him on prom night. He promptly made the reservation and put down the required deposit. He'd show those peasants what style was, particularly that smartass, Howie Jamison.

1971

With only 43 seconds left in the final game of the season, Central was trailing West Side by a score of 28 to 24. When West Side's fullback fumbled on his own 37 yard line, Steve Yankovitch recovered for Central. As Ian prepared to return to his quarterback spot, coach Brown told him, "Remember to pass so that your receiver can get out of bounds. We have no timeouts left."

On the first play Central's line fell apart, and by the time Ian scrambled to avoid the rush, and got the pass off to his halfback, ten seconds came off the clock, and the receiver dropped the ball!

With 33 seconds left, Ian called for the option play, and managed to complete the pass to the 23 yard line for a first down.

With 27 seconds left, Ian called two plays in the huddle: the first called for all receivers to get open, but before Ian could get the pass off, West Side's nose guard dropped him on the 29 yard line.

By the time the players had lined up again, only five seconds were left on the clock! Ian dropped back and fired a pass toward the goal line before he was tackled. The pass appeared to be way too long; it looked as if the ball would sail all the way out of the end zone. But at the last second Howie Jamison dived for the ball. Stretched out parallel to the ground, his hands outside the back of the end zone, but his feet dragging so that his toes were just inside the line, he caught the ball with his fingertips! He looked up to see the official's arms in the air signaling a touchdown! They had won!

The home crowd went wild, surging onto the field to tear down the goal posts. The players exchanged high fives, the coach hugged them, and the noise was deafening. Ian clapped Howie on the back in the locker room, and told him what a great catch it was.

"Yeah," Howie said. "But it wouldn't have been possible if the pass hadn't been perfect."

"I guess the two of us make a pretty good team," Ian replied. Their relationship was at an all time high.

Much of the crowd was still hanging around as they left the locker room, but finally the boys got away and headed for "The Hangout," where Mary was waiting. By the time they ate their burgers, and did a little necking, it was after midnight when Ian arrived home.

The next morning he turned immediately to the sports page. The headline proclaimed "Sensational Ending For Central." A smaller heading said, "Howie Jamison Is Hero Of The Game." There was even a column about Howie's athletic history, along with his picture. Nowhere was there a mention of the great pass by quarterback Ian McConnell.

Ian was furious! He felt a terrible pressure inside his head. He locked himself in his room, and refused to come out until Monday morning, when the pressure had subsided. The friendship was definitely in a down cycle.

Most high school seniors have plans for their future: go to college, get a job, get married, start a family, etc.

Ian also had plans for the future, similar in structure, but different from others because of the detail involved: attend Stanford, majoring in pre-law, graduate in 1975, attend Stanford law school, graduate in 1978, spend two years as clerk for a Supreme Court Justice, join the law firm of Batt, Mann and Robin, become a junior partner in 1985 and eventually become a senior partner. Of course, he had already been accepted at Stanford, and in preparation for obtaining his Supreme Court clerk's job, he had been in contact with his local Congressman, who put him in touch with several Justices. Ian had also been interviewed by a senior partner (a friend of Ian's father) of the law firm in which he was interested. Insofar as possible, his future was planned in great detail.

But today his plans were focussed on a more immediate project: tonight's prom. With the help of the bar in the brewery wagon, he also planned to get through the formidable defenses that Mary had thrown up over the past four years. While she was willing to French kiss all night, and allow him to pet through her clothing until he was driven wild, there was one line he had never been able to cross. He was determined that tonight she would give in; he had even rented a motel room in anticipation of his final victory.

Mary had also made a decision. She had been going steady with Ian for four years, and had decided several months ago that he was going to be the first and only one to make love to her, and eventually to marry her. Tonight she would put the first part of her plan into operation. During the past several weeks she had practically memorized the words and pictures in a sex manual she had managed to sneak into the house.

As she prepared to dress for the prom, she took one last look at her nude body in the full-length mirror: a generous, upturned bosom with a firmness that would begin to succumb to the pull of gravity in another year or two, a slender waist, softly curving thighs, and long, beautiful legs - she knew Ian would be pleased. While slipping her waxed, showered, creamed, powdered and perfumed body into the new underwear she had purchased especially for the occasion at Victoria's Secret, she thought again of the motel room with the round bed and sunken, king-sized spa she had reserved for the night. She planned to slip the key to Ian during the dance as a surprise gift. It was going to be a night neither of them would ever forget.

The day started with heavy showers, but by 9:00 AM the rain tapered off, and by 11:00 the sun came out. Ian verified that the special wagon he had hired for the night was in readiness. "Be sure to pick me up no later than 8:50 so that by the time we pick up my girl and get to the country club it will be exactly 9:15 when everybody else will be arriving," he told the driver. Everything was perfect.

That night when the wagon didn't arrive until 8:55, Ian was very upset, and let the driver know it in no uncertain terms. And when Mary took another five minutes getting out of the house, he was fuming. It was 9:22 when they arrived at the club, and the only person at the front door was the parking attendant.

Ian stormed out of the wagon, and asked, "Where the hell is everybody?"

The attendant replied that everyone was around the back to see Howard Jamison and his date arrive in a helicopter.

Ian again felt the pressure growing inside his head! He was furious! As far as he was concerned, his friendship with Howie was over forever! He opened the door on Mary's side to help her out, but he was so angry he could barely see. As she stepped down her high heel caught on the step the driver had placed to assist her, and she fell into Ian's arms. He was caught off balance and fell on his backside into a puddle, with Mary on top of him.

Now he was soaked as well as furious. "Why don't you learn to walk, you clumsy bitch?" he fumed. He pushed her off him and stalked away. As he left he looked over his shoulder and shouted, "I never want to speak to you again!" And he never did.

1999

As the hot shower poured over her body, Shirley Kaminski, Ian's paralegal for the past two years, thought back over the events of the last two weeks. When she had been introduced to "Big" John, who, at 5'6" was only two inches taller than she was, and weighed only 150 pounds, she wondered how he had received his nickname. But after spending one night with him, she knew. He had three major attributes of a good lover.

As she stepped out of the shower, John called, "Come on back to bed, Shirley."

"I can't, honey," she answered from the bathroom. "I'll be late for work."

John, who was "between positions" at the moment, never went home after that first night. It was just until he could find a situation where he could "utilize his talents effectively" as he put it. Since making love was the only talent he had exhibited to Shirley so far, she couldn't quite figure out what kind of a job he would be able to find, but for the time being she was enjoying it too much to worry about it.

"Oh, come on," he called again. "I thought of a new position I want to try." (Imagination was his second attribute). "Surely they can get along without you for an hour or two."

"Well, I guess you're right," she said, as she slipped back into bed. At some time during the next hour and a half she heard the phone ringing for what seemed like an unusually long period of time, but she was too busy to answer. When she finally did get up, she was exhausted and sore - stamina was John's third attribute.

"Damn!" Ian said to no one in particular. "Wouldn't you know it? Of all the times for my electric razor to go kaput, this is the worst."

"Sara," he called. "Where is your razor?"

"In the medicine cabinet," his wife replied.

It had been many years since he had used a blade razor, and it showed. He scraped and cursed and fumed for fifteen minutes, and when he was finally finished, his face sported half a dozen little patches of toilet paper, each marked by a little red dot.

"I've got to skip breakfast," he said as he scrambled to the door. He barely managed to brush a kiss across Sara's cheek as she opened the door and handed him his briefcase. Upon discovering that a light rain was falling, he ran back into the house for his umbrella. He arrived at the bus stop ten seconds too late.

"Honey," he said, as he rushed back into the house. "You're going to have to take me to the railroad station."

Sara hastily pulled on a jacket and pants over her pajamas.

Ian directed her on a shortcut to the station, but because of the unexpected shower, there had been a traffic accident on 15th. Street, so that when he arrived at the station platform the train was almost out of sight.

"What do I do now?" he wailed. "I have an important meeting scheduled at 9:00 with the president of the Guideon Company. The company is the defendant in a huge class action suit, and he is trying to decide which law firm he wants to represent it. If I miss the meeting, I know he will go to Takem, Butt and Goode."

"Shirley lives close to the office," Sara said. "Call her and tell her to get there immediately and postpone the meeting until 10:00 o'clock."

"Good idea," Ian answered. "She knows the file as well as I do. I'll tell her to go over the highlights with him, and I'll get into the details when I get there."

He let the phone ring twenty times before he gave up. "Damn," he exploded! "She must be on her way to the office."

Quickly dialing the office, he told the receptionist to have Shirley call him on his cell phone the minute she got in. As he boarded the next train, he realized he didn't know much about Shirley. Where was she when he really needed her?

At 9:45 he arrived at the Commerce Street Station, and hurried through the park to his office. Shirley hadn't called him, and he feared the worst.

The receptionist was upset almost to the point of tears. "Mr. McConnell," she said. "Mr. Herman was here for almost half an hour. I got him coffee, and tried to talk to him, but he said he was too busy to wait any longer. He said he had to leave for an appointment at Takem, Butt and Goode. I'm sorry, Mr. McConnell."

"Did Shirley ever show up?" Ian asked.

"No, Mr. McConnell."

"Damn," he said, as he rushed into his office, slamming the door behind him.

When Shirley came in about 10:30, his office door was still closed. She tried getting him on the intercom, but he didn't answer. The receptionist told Shirley what had happened, and knowing him as she did, she was very much afraid she was about to lose her job. She finally managed to get up enough courage to stick her head in the door, and found him with his head on the desk. Over and over he kept moaning, "It was the razor, it was the razor." She quietly closed the door and withdrew to the outer office.

Meanwhile the pressure inside Ian's head began to grow as it always did when his plans were thwarted. It had never been this bad before. When the phone rang, the sound was so painful he thought his eyes were going to burst. The receptionist told him it was Mr. Robin (the managing partner) calling from Florida. He spent a moment trying to pull him self together. "Good morning, Red," he said.

"Ian," Mr. Robin said. "How did the meeting go with the Guideon people?"

"Not too good," Ian replied. He then went on to explain what had happened. "I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid the account has gone over to Takem, Butt and Goode."

"You know we'd been counting on that account," Robin replied. "I presume you realize you just lost your bid to become a senior partner."

Now the pain in his head was so bad he thought he couldn't stand it another minute. He dashed out of the office without saying a word to anyone.

"Lips" Lister had had a good day. He had earned enough to buy his wine for the night, with a little left over for a Big Mac, which he had enjoyed very much. As he approached his bench, he could hardly wait to get to work on his bottle.

But in the dim twilight, something looked different. His bench had been moved. It was directly under that swing someone had left there a week or two ago. And the swing didn't look the same either. Instead of two ropes, it looked like a bulky object hanging there. It reminded him of the times he had seen his father butcher hogs back on the farm, when he had to hang them up to let the blood drain out.

As he got nearer, the object kept twisting and turning in the breeze. Suddenly he realized what it was. "Oh my God," he thought. "It can't be." After losing his Big Mac in the grass, he started running. Finally finding a policeman, he gasped out his story.

Ian had finally halted the pressure in his head. When he found his life out of ontrol, he ended it.

After cutting Ian down, the police had the area taped off for several hours until the coroner finished. "Lips" didn't get his bench back until after ten o'clock. Even with the wine, he didn't sleep too well.

On the way to the cemetery, the hearse broke down. Since it was a Saturday, it took a long time to get a replacement hearse from the mortuary. Ian was an hour and nineteen minutes late for his own funeral. He would have hated it.

Epilogue

Batt, Mann and Robin, LLP
Attorneys At Law
100 Walker Street, Ste. 200
Centre City, CA 90011

Ms. Shirley Kaminski
17956 Through Street, Apt. 202
Centre City, CA 90015

Dear Ms. Kaminski:

As you requested, I have made inquiries into the identity of your birth parents. Although records were sealed after your adoption by Ivan and Helen Kaminski, I have managed to have them opened as a result of new laws regarding such situations.

Your father was Mr. Howard Jamison, late of this city. Unfortunately he was killed in a high speed auto accident just two weeks before he was scheduled to graduate from high school.

Your mother was Ms. Mary Hannigan, formerly of this city. Although she and your father reportedly planned to marry, after your father died she felt that she was unable to undertake the responsibility of raising you by herself. After placing you for adoption she moved to Orlando, Florida. She has never married.

If I can be of any further service in this or any other matter, please feel free to contact me.

Sincerely,

Ima Mann, Senior Partner

To The Top

A Tricky Landing

Flying in bad weather didn't bother Rodger a bit. During the war, WWII, (the big one), he had landed his fighter in monsoons, day and night, sometimes when his carrier was being tossed around like a dry leaf in a Jacuzzi.

Besides, he had made this trip dozens of times. Granted, landing was a bit tricky, what with the peaks on all sides, but all he needed to do was glide down along the mountain and be sure to hit the so-called landing strip at the very beginning, because it wasn't long enough to provide the luxury of taxiing for a half mile or so. And besides, if he didn't land at the beginning, there was no way he could climb fast enough to avoid the mountain at the other end. Unlike the carrier, there was no one to wave him off if he came in at the wrong angle, assuming he had anything but fumes left in his fuel tank. Aside from that, this was a snap.

What had once been a beautiful jungle valley nestled high among snow-capped mountain peaks was now a Brazilian mining camp with more or less of a landing strip for flying in supplies. The strip had been hacked out with machetes, and the hacking crew hadn't been too particular about cleaning up the branches and rocks left after the "construction." Each time before Rodger took off for his return trip, he walked the length of the strip to make sure there were no branches, rocks, wild boars or other obstacles.

Although the weather had been sunny with no breeze to speak of when he left Rio, Joe, his radio contact told him there was heavy fog at the camp.

When he arrived at his destination, he made a pass over the area to assess the situation. Sure enough, the fog was lying in the valley like the cotton in the bottom of a costume jewelry gift box. And landing was an absolute necessity, because he couldn't return to Rio without refueling.

The fog didn't look very deep, but it was deep enough so that he had no idea where to find the beginning of the landing strip.

Finally he had an idea. "Joe," he radioed. "Do you still have those bamboo fishing poles that we used last summer?"

"Sure," the answer came back. "We caught some big ones, didn't we?"

"Never mind that. I want you to park a flatbed truck on the right hand side of the strip at both ends, and have someone stand on the truck beds holding the poles upright, with the butt on the beds and the tips sticking up through the fog. In fact, tie a red flag on each of the tips so that I can see them better. And be sure the guys hold the poles as close to the strip as possible."

The next ten minutes seemed like ten hours, but finally Rodger let out a whoop as he saw two red flags poke through the fog! He landed without incident.

But even in the cold, damp fog, he was perspiring as he stepped from the plane. "I don't know what I would have done if the fog had been three feet deeper," he said to himself, as he walked to the shack to change his pants.

To The Top