A Man on the Cross

Trust me, I’m not trying to be blasphemous. But many years ago, back in the eighties my BFF sat upon a cross that overlooked Flat top, a hill in the middle of West Richland. You can still see pretty much anywhere in the greater Tri Cities area; the cross not so much. 

There was a time in our younger days that we all were a bit too loose with our morals and let stuff happen that of course we can laugh at now that we are older and more or less wiser. Greg was my BFF in 1981. I don’t remember the particulars, but he came to live with us for a time. 

Us, I mean my parents and sisters as well as myself. He and I lived in the unfinished garage. At least it was insulated. I used him as a sounding board for the “great American novel” I was busy writing. Obviously, it was more of a futile effort at a crude first draft of high school kids learning to live in a post-nuclear war. The fact that Tri-Cities was within spitting distance of the Hanford Nuclear reservation, was key to the plot’s premise. 

Anyway, we both eventually found work doing scavenging work for Frank, a person I characterized in my later books working the landfill and doing any other jobs that needed physical labor. 

In the evenings we drove a recently bought Ford Galaxy 500 up to Flat top and would smoke pot and talk about nothing in particular, stoner issues of the time that seemed important to discuss, but most likely wasn’t important at all. 

Greg was taller and most likely stronger than me, but I knew I could handle anything thrown at me. He looked up at the cross, the February moon illuminating it and it looked cool in our inebriated conditions. 

“Jerry, ever tried getting on that cross?” 

“No, I can’t say as I have,” I replied. I admired the cross a bit longer and the pulled another toke from the pipe he offered me. 

“Want to go ahead and do it?” 

“Do what?” I laughed. 

“Climb up that cross and sit on it,” he replied simply. 

“Oh, I don’t know. If either of us slips, it is Gonnerville. You won’t stop until your bust-up body is at the bottom of this hill. It’s like three hundred feet down, Greg.” 

“Oh, you are just a woos,” Greg chastised me, as though insulting my manhood would make a hill of beans difference. I always considered myself well-grounded and never took unnecessary risks when it came to my well-being. Call it a deep seated but healthy fear of pain. “Come on Jerry. We ain’t gonna fall off!” 

“You go first and you help me get up and I’ll do it.” 

“Fine,” he answered as he opened the passenger side door and got out. I grudgingly followed suit and he being taller, over six feet, he had no trouble hoisting himself up and looked out over the Tri-Cities at night in 1981. “Okay, Jerry your turn.” He lowered his right arm for me to grasp and up I went, stumbling and doing my level best not to look at the endless darkness below me. 

After I was up and settled, Greg loaded his pipe, flipped the disposable lighter and went ahead to smoke on the cross. He passed it to me and I followed suit. “I hope we don’t get too buzzed Greg it’s a hell of a sudden drop before we hit terra firma.” 

Co-Depending with Ernie

Long ago when was just starting my life as an apprentice alcoholic, I became friends with my boss, a cook at the Elks Lodge in West Richland.  I remember his first name, Ernie, but not his last; not that it matters.  Suffice to say he was the journeyman alcoholic that I strived to  become. 

Mother gave me a job hint after returning home from school.  I was a full time college student at Columbia Basin College and needed gas money to get me back and forth in  my ’73 Gremlin.  A cook they recently hired at the Elks Lodge needed a dishwasher and prep cook.  I grudgingly went to the Elks lodge that overlooked their private golf course at the time.  The lodge later sold the course and swimming pool to the city.  At any rate, I met Ernie as he was mixing up the house dressing.  My first impression as I saw his wry smile behind a well trimmed salt and pepper beard, styled haircut and big gut was how similar he appeared to Kenny Rodgers. Our interview consisted of him asking me three questions: You ever washed dishes before? Can you prep? And do you like to drink? 

I replied yes to all three and he said, “You’re hired, now go and get me some more mayonnaise for the dressing.” 

It was purely business at first, and only later did I realized how far gone his alcoholism had progressed.  I went to work after classes and did my stint until I finished the last load of dishes and mopped the floor.  He cleaned up long before and sat at the corner of a bar nursing a Jack Daniels and coke.   

“You want something before you go,” he would ask me. 

Then, I was more responsible; if I drove I would ask for a soda, and if I walked I would sit at the bar and order a draft Bud.   

Later on, he bought himself a ’70 Coupe Deville and I became his designated driver, going to any number of bars in the greater Tri Cities area.  He would get himself plowed as I sat and drank my soda pop.  He would also reward my efforts by buying my weed for me.   It was a great relationship until he lost his job at the restaurant on night. 

It all started innocently enough, it was Mexican night, and we were on our way to the Elks Lodge, when he suddenly wanted to “grease his wheels” before getting there and we stopped at the bowling alley in Richland, called Atomic Lanes. 

No sooner had we sat down, than a group of ladies from Portland showed up to have couple.  He began flirting with them and soon he had one wrapped around his finger and I, being the sober driver noticed it was getting extremely close to getting started.  “Ernie, we need to go.” 

“Go ahead and start without me.  Come back later and pick me up,” he told me in his usual whiskey and cigarette rasping voice. 

“But Ernie, it’s Mexican night and they’ll be expecting you.” 

“Shit, everything you need to get started is in the freezer.  Just pull it out and get everything started.  Come back later and pick me up.  Now Scram!” 

I felt pissed, but that wasn’t the first time he pissed me off as I left the lounge, hearing a smattering of bowling pins explode as someone’s ball made contact.  No the first time was a few weeks before when he screwed up a meal at a wedding reception and the father of the bride or groom got into his face and threatened to beat the crap out of him and sue the Lodge.  In that little foray, he was gone and finally showed up just after the dinners were sent out, and the cook had no idea what exactly was being served and had to fly off the seat of his pants.  Somehow he got it wrong. 

After the confrontation had settled, the cook quit throwing his apron at Ernie.   

I went back to the dish pit doing dishes in silence, stewing in rage and embarrassment. 

Ernie came up to me and said, “Go ahead and clean up, I’ll be back later to help you finish up.” 

“Whatever, Ernie,” I replied as I glared back at him. 

“Don’t tell me you’re mad too.” 

“Yeah I am,” I said and went back to pre-rinsing  a rack of plates.  I saw him leave the kitchen, presumably going to the bar and having another one. 

Back to this night, it appeared we were headed in the same unfortunate circumstance as then and I felt the same rage beginning to approach.  He didn’t get it.  To him this was just another job to work at and get paid for with the added fringe benefit of a bar to drink in. For me, the Elks Lodge was more because people I knew, my parents’ friends went there on a regular basis and I carried aspirations of someday joining too.  He was a liability and an embarrassment for me.  The sooner I cut the cord the better, I thought. 

As soon as I arrived, the place was packed with lodge members wanting to know where Ernie was and his wife; yes he was married and had wonderful woman who had the patience of a saint, but not tonight. 

“Where’s Ernie,” was the first question that came out of her mouth as I ran like a chicken with its head cut off getting stainless steel containers full of refried beans, ground taco, meat and cheese out from the freezer and onto the flat range top.  That too was cold and I had to max the burners to get everything going. 

“I left him at the bowling alley,” I replied, tired of lying for him. 

“Really,” she replied as fire spit out from her eyes. 

Just then Mark, a cook who replaced the one who quit came in looking for Ernie.  “I need some money.  That check he gave me bounced.” 

A thought came to me at that moment.  “Look Mark, it’s taco night, I’m totally out of sorts here.  Ernie is at the bowling alley.  Do me a favor and get this stuff started.  I’m going to get him, even if I have to drag him out kicking and screaming.” 

I think he felt more sorry for me than mad at Ernie and agreed, as he threw on an apron and got started. 

“Go and get him,” his wife told me under no-uncertain-terms. 

Ten minutes later, I arrived at the bowling alley and saw Ernie carrying on a lively conversation with a red head and a brunette.   He was seated between the two. 

“Ernie we got to go now,” I stated to him.   

“Oh, your back.  I got this one for you.  We’re going over to the Hanford House to party there,” Ernie stated his eyes swimming in booze and lust. 

“Your wife sent me to get you back.  The place is full and thankfully, Mark showed to get the dinner going while I   come back to get  you.” 

That is when the two ladies excused themselves saying  “Goodbye Ernie,” as they left us.  Ernie appeared to have sobered up a bit then and got up, throwing on his cowboy hat and coat, and heading toward the door.  Not a word was exchanged as we drove back to the Elks Lodge. 

The remaining guests congratulated Mark on a fine dinner as they purposefully ignored Ernie who spoke pleasantries to them as they left the bar. 

“I thought you told me this place was packed,” Ernie said in disappointment to me. 

“It was,” his wife stated upon seeing us.   “They couldn’t wait all night for their dinners and went elsewhere.  Ernie, how could you?” 

He didn’t seem to have an answer as I snuck into the kitchen, taking off my coat and going into the dish pit as I donned my apron.  I started washing dishes when I suddenly heard dishes shattering. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I heard Ernie yell at someone who I could only assume was his wife. 

“You lying son of a bitch,” I heard her scream.  “Go and fine some place else to sleep.  You’re out of my place.” 

Later that night, I drove him to a lodge friend’s trailer.  He stayed there and they divorced.   

After the end of the year, of 1982, he and I separated too.  I didn’t feel like being  caught up in his downward spiral. 

He admitted to me some time before all of this happened that he was committed to a Schick rehabilitation facility by his first wife; this last one was his second.  He said he spent two days there and demanded to be released. 

As I later discovered myself, one cannot be forced to quit drinking.  For me, rock bottom was a stroke that left my left side of my body partially paralyzed and a decision to become sober for the rest of my life.  I don’t know if Ernie found the bottom of the bottle.  I pray that he did and changed his life to one of sobriety.  I feared though that  he ended up  drinking himself to death. 

Natural Pastime

Oh, the seventies growing up, so much to do and a teenager like me enjoying every moment of it. There were the bicycle rides to Lost Lake, a shallow pond within an oasis of trees, mostly Alder and Russian Olive. Not far from there was the old Tri-City Raceway, a quarter mile tri-oval track for wannabe stock car drivers. Outside Benton City was the POW camp, now just a dozen or so cement slabs where German prisoners of war were housed, and where me and my friends went to learn how to drink keggar beer, most likely Lucky Lager, and got sick. 

And finally, the ultimate rite of teenage passage, the unboat race held this time of year on the Yakima River when the spring runoff made the river and the Horn Rapids Dam most enjoyable. Unboats are a category of floatation devices that aren’t watercraft. Everything else was fair game: innertubes aligned and tied together with ropes or twine, rubberized rafts, homemade rafts like Jim and Huck Finn used to go down the Mississippi, a bathtub, and anything else one’s imagination desires. 

My first experience of this “race,” was when we came visiting Dad in 1971 before moving there permanently. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment that was above the Yakima River in West Richland. At that time that town had barely over a thousand residents. In five months, which will increase by five.  

But anyway, the race that we were more curious about than devoted fans of. Like you, I had no idea because I’ve never heard of it. It was a local thing apparently and not really organized in any official capacity. Later on, I hypothesized with my equally inebriated friends that this race was probably given birth to and christened at a similar keggar at the POW camp where we were partying.  

It fitted into a typical late sixties, early seventies great ideas that may have taken hold except the original organizers apparently sobered up by 1980 and that event never happened again. Considering the clear and obvious danger involved, not to mention most of these participants were probably feeling no pain when they launched their unboat craft from the boat launch just down river from the POW camp, down river and over Horn Rapids Dam. After that, the race itself was more of a party that amounted to shirtless young men or teenage boys frolicking on their tubes or rafts, teenaged girls wearing bikinis or bras with Daisy Duke shorts or halter tops. All had various long hair styles of the time. Beer and other alcoholic beverages passed freely amongst friends as well as those funny cigarettes. 

Anyway, we watch this “race” appear by where Dad’s apartment was and we hooted and hollered with the crews on their Unboats. At least one or two of these participants mooned us with their white cheeks proudly displayed. Mom wasn’t fast enough to shield my seven-year-old-sister’s eyes from that. “Mom, he’s showing his butt,” she exclaimed between giggles. I saw a couple teenager girls pull their t-shirts up from another raft showing young and perky breasts that I had never seen before. Of course, Dad just winked at me and grinned. 

The other night in between sleeps and fully awake I recalled that time and wondered if such an event still existed. Sadly, as I mentioned earlier, 1979 was the last year this Regala occurred not to be repeated ever again. I’m sure now that it’s been over fifty years since that first race, those original stoners at the POW camp are now retired, on walkers and gambling away their children’s inheritances at the local tribal casino if they aren’t already pushing daisies at the local cemetery. 

Book Two of Search for Justice is Live

“Four Seasons Book Two: Search for Justice,” is live and available for you my loyal readers to buy and read.

“Prominent Books Edge” has also agreed to publish book three called “Evil That Men Do.” It will soon be live in the fall. All of this cannot be possible without the support of you my readers.”

Here are the Amazon links:
Paperback: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two
eBook: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two

Here are the ISBNs for the books. You can use the ISBNs to search for a book on Amazon as it’s a unique code that quickly finds the exact version without confusion from similar titles or editions.

Paperback: 9798896722878
eBook: 9798896722885

The Mind

Science geek here again. This time I’m considering the mind, brain generally, and our perceptions of what we perceive as reality. I’m of an opinion that though everyone might see the same thing, how each individual perceives what he sees are as different as night and day. 

The Nova episode that I watched the other night is as telling of what each of us view as real or fake. It’s why magicians are still performing their acts of illusion, or delusion if you will, and wowing the audiences even in this day and age of skepticism.  

Our brains are programmed by our environment, parents, friends, and the intangibles such as mutations. Whatever one person might view in a certain situation including cataclysmic events and not sense they perceive the same thing. Instead, any traumatic event will invariable result in many people telling a vastly different story based on their past experiences, when and how they were raised and the intangibles of their own life experience. 

I’m a living example of my own trauma when I suffered a stroke in 2002. Many things on my brain that wasn’t affected is as poignant as what I lost. I lost some physical traits such as use of my left arm hand and fingers. I’m walking with a noticeable limp, but most of my memories are still there, my speech didn’t change—I was born with a cleft lip and pallet that speech therapy more or less fixed—still have my hearing and eyesight because those areas of the brain were not affected by the stroke I had. But, I’m noticing other changes that aren’t physical but mental. 

Like that minor, Phineus Gage, I noticed changes in my personality that weren’t apparent 23 years ago. I tended to be even keeled with a mild temperament. I was often taken advantage because I wanted to be accepted into whatever clique I wanted to befriend. It also explained my affinity for heavy drinking in my younger years, and probably why many people in higher positions of power didn’t see me as leadership material. 

Since my stroke, my personality has shifted more toward being impatient and temperamental toward certain people, and being terribly angry at myself. I have been warned numerous times that this behavior is unacceptable at work. When I saw that on Nova last night, how Mr. Gage’s own behavior issues were laid out, it made sense that the stroke I had also caused personality traits that are part of that portion of my brain happened near the frontal cortex and on my right side. 

Of course, with age, one has to put that into perspective how our personalities also change as well as our genes and how one was raised, be it a single parent relationship or even an abusive history that goes back many generations. 

As I have said before I have grown to appreciate Nova and other science programs more because I like learning new things about myself and the world around me. I hope we all can appreciate how we see the world through another lens and respect those differences, and embrace everyone’s perspectives and coexist. 

The Mailbox: Part 2

“Oh, to relive those days again,” Carl chuckled. “You were a handful that’s for sure.” He walked up the slight grade. His breathing, though steady became increasingly labored. He searched for that chair to sit upon before he became too weak to walk further. 

“What are you doing?” Susan screamed in frustration. 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Ginny yelled back in a voice filled with rancor and scorn. “You ain’t stealing my Carl either. I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.” 

“He’s my dad!” 

“Oh no, you are a harlot!” 

Carl found the chair and sat down. He fumbled with a pouch filled with cigarette tobacco and Zig Zag rolling papers. He began placing the paper in his one hand and pouring the tobacco onto the paper. With his free hand he fumbled with rolling it, until he had it started then used his other hand to complete the process. He used a wooden match to light the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply into his aged lungs. 

He could smell something burning from somewhere.  

“Mom, you’re going to burn his house down. Stop it right now!” Susan sounded frantic and Carl knew the time had come. She was beyond the help Susan could provide her. 

“That must be where the smoke smell is coming from.  

“Why are you insisting on calling you that? You aren’t my daughter. I don’t know who you are!” 

“Oh, that’s going to hurt to the core. I’m sorry Susan. I should never have brought us into your life. I bet you’ve aged ten years since we came here from Davenport Iowa.” He finished smoking the cigarette when he heard firetrucks approaching. Their distant sirens came closer to the property. He remained seated as he felt the breeze of the engine brush passed him. Several cars and trucks soon followed. Then all was quiet. 

 A commotion of men barking orders to each other while his daughter yelling at the men and Ginny singing a gospel song from when they were children over eighty years ago. “Come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!” 

Carl continued walking up the road to the mailbox. He tapped his cane against the four-by-four post and gingerly caressed the box until he found the opening and searched inside. He placed the single envelope out of the box and tucked it into the light jacket he wore. He then slowly made his way back to the house where fire truck, volunteer firefighters, Susan, and Ginny milled about putting out the fire Ginny started. 

“Yes, Susan it’s time to take her out of your hair and put us in a home where we can pass the days until we breathed our last breaths. 

The Mailbox

Carl used his white cane to guide him to the mud room where his black boots sat on the floor next to a chair from the last time he put them on, this time yesterday. It was a chore of love toward his daughter Susan that he did this each and every day except Sunday. 

He methodically put on his logger boots and laced them up. The macular degeneration took away his sight but not his memory. Unlike his wife of seventy years, he still remembered how to lace his boots and other things too. 

He heard her busy about the kitchen, his daughter was outside by her vegetable garden, an affair that brought envy to him every time he walked out there and smelled the beets, the potatoes, carrots and tomatoes, all ready for harvest this October afternoon. 

“I should wait until she gets back inside. I’m supposed to look after Ginny. But the mailman came and there might be an important letter awaiting for me or a bill from the electric co-op.” 

Just then she walked in with a basket of vegetables, mostly sugar peas and tomatoes, ripe and ready for the soup pot. She had handsome looks, though that too was a memory of Carl’s since the best he could do anymore was caress her daughter’s face, feeling the soft weathered flesh of her face, mouth, and hair. 

“Oh, you came in now,” Carl stated with a slight Norwegian accent to his baritone voice. “I wanted to wait so that Ginny wouldn’t get into trouble.” 

“I appreciate that Poppa. She hasn’t been herself lately and I’m worried for her,” she told Carl with more than a hint of concern emanating from her middle-aged voice. She had just turned fifty-nine yesterday, though Carl didn’t know what day which was anymore. They all blended together. 

“I will be back shortly, Susan.” 

“Take your time,” she advised him. “When you get back, I’ll have dinner started,” she promised him while she set the basket on the floor and removed her dirt covered shoes and placed slippers on her feet. 

Carl moved the cane side to side imagining in his mind where everything was to his darkened world. He heard and felt the cane strike the front door and he grasped the door handle, turning it and opening the door then stepping outside. He immediately felt the waning sun in his face while he walked in that very direction to the single lane road that led to the main road and the mailbox that stood sentry-like alongside that road. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was a goodly distance away and at the speed his old but gangly legs could muster it all took an hour to get there and back. Susan had her late husband place a folding chair around halfway up the road so that Carl could sit down and rest for a bit. He recalled he died last year from a massive heart attack. His name was Sam and he homesteaded this land and died making it all work out for him. 

“Mother no!” Carl heard Susan scream at her mother. 

“What did you do now Ginny?” He shook his head sadly knowing her demented mind lost all ability to reason or comprehend the simplest of tasks. Anymore, just having her sit quietly in the TV room vacantly staring off in the distance remembering a time long ago when her mind was sharper and more focused, she would be this darling angel that he fell in love with when they were teenaged sweethearts courting behind the barn. 

Lost Highway

“Do you know where we’re going dude?” Hector asked Mark with more than an abundance of impatience in his voice. 

“I’ve been down this way before,” Mark shot back with frustration. 

“It so happens, amigo, I think you missed our turn back there. You know how to work this navigation thing?” 

“If I knew, don’t you think I would be using it?” 

“Sorry I asked. So, what’s this all about?” 

“My parents,” Mark replied, concentrating on the highway and not paying attention to Hector’s reaction. It was five years ago to the day; he found out from Mark’s sister that they died. 

“What do you mean man?” Héctor asked trying to sound relaxed, but his gut was churning with guilt. 

“I need to confide in you something I found out. It’s a rumor and that’s all it is, my Mexican friend.” Mark appeared on the verge of tears as he tried desperately to hold his emotions in check. “God I miss them. Every night I have dreams of them before all of this. You know, Mom never had a bad heart; Dad did. I can’t and won’t believe they both died from some kind of cardio-event. Something happened to them.” 

“But the autopsy?” 

“In all the years we’ve been investigating homicides, how many times have you counted when the medical examiner or pathologist was wrong?” Mark turned his head quickly to Hector and saw a look he couldn’t describe upon his face. “What is it Hector? Do you know anything about this?” 

Hector so wanted to clear the air here; admit that he was the one tasked with protecting them, he failed and found their bodies in his parents’ home. “No man, I don’t know nothing.” 

The fog was thickening. “You never did answer my question, Mark.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Where are we going?” 

“Tri Cities.” 

“Why? Is there a case that Armstrong sent us on? I don’t recall anything in this morning’s briefing.” 

“You haven’t heard, but our entire team, except for Howard Jones, are being moved to the other Washington. I’m taking this trip to clear the air about how my parents really died. I know you don’t know nothing about this because you were on some kind of drug sting the day my parents died. 

“I called Sheriff Dickerson, but he sounded distracted by something. Next year is election year for him and that might have something to do with it.” 

Hector didn’t say anything. He stared at the heavy, dense fog layer and wondered Why can’t I tell him? He needs to know. “Mark, how much do you trust Joe?” 

“Armstrong? I guess I trust him, okay. He had my back on that first case we did together; had yours too. You just didn’t know it at the time.” 

“Howard told me some stuff on him that…Well I’m surprised he still has a job. And now he’s being promoted to section chief in D.C.? Who is he giving blowjobs to?” 

“I can’t answer that one partner. I’d have to admit though; without him I wouldn’t be in the FBI.” 

“What? Why you say that?” 

“He basically let my physical ride.” 

“What happened Mark?” 

“The doctor who examined me, had to leave suddenly and when he returned he forgot where he left off. Remember Héctor, I’m missing half my right lung from when I got shot in Baja California. The doctor probably…shit he had to have told Joe the physical was incomplete. Yet, I was hired anyway.” 

Hector pondered this bit of information, plus the fact that his duty assignment was vetoed in favor of being partnered with Mark in Spokane, plus every time he had requested a transfer, he was turned down three times in the fifteen years he’s been an FBI agent. I smell a big fat rat. 

“So, Mark, you are going AWOL just to try and clear the air about how your parents really died?” 

Mark wondered about that remark but let it pass. “You know, I wouldn’t blame you if you did know more than what you’re telling me. Secrets are made for a reason. I guess if there was something that happened and someone higher up the food chain wanted a lid clamped down on it, you’d have no choice. 

“Mark, trust me, if I knew anything, I would tell you.” 

“I’m sure you would, amigo. I’m sure you would. Shit I can’t see two feet in front of me.” 

“Dude, you really don’t need to do this. Just turn around and go back. Someday, something will happen and the truth will be revealed to you.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“Like you said earlier autopsies can be wrong sometimes.” 

“I just find it hard to believe they both died from a heart attack on the same day, virtually at the same time. It’s been in the back of my mind for a long time. Then, I lost touch with Nicole. She disappeared about the same time my parents died. 

“Oh, I did receive a letter from Dylan, but he doesn’t mention his mom at all. I think I know what might be going on. He wanted to straighten out his shit and joined the Army. He’s in Afghanistan doing something there, but couldn’t elaborate. But, why is Nicole giving me this cold shoulder treatment?  

“Ever since I joined the FBI, she has grown more and more distant. I think she’s afraid I’ll bring her drug days back, or that I’ll bust her for possession. Shit, Hector, I could care less. It’s her life. Anyway, she changed phone numbers or something because I can’t get hold of her. I even tried to get hold of her parents, but they died in 2000. The day after my parents. Some kind of gas explosion, I guess from what the police told me. 

“Did you hear about that?” Mark asked Hector directly. 

“I’m afraid I was out of the loop on that one, amigo.” 

Both men turned their attention back to the highway, just in time to see two sets of headlights coming on them. 

“SHIT!” They both screamed as Hector braced for impact, and Mark made a hard right. The car in his lane barely clipped him and he spun into the gravel, and the FBI cruiser, a 2004 Ford Crown Victoria flipped onto its side. Glass shattered and a horrible grinding noise of sheet metal and gravel echoed off the interior. 

Before the car came to a halt, Hector was on the radio, using his instincts from the Marine Corps to survive, blurted out, “Clear all chatter; clear all chatter. Unit 1641 involved in car accident on State Route 126 between…Shit Mark where are we?” 

Mark appeared groggy and perhaps injured, but replied, “between Lacrosse and Washtucna,” in a disembodied voice. He grimaced in pain. “Go check on the other car, Hector.” 

“We got a copy,” the dispatcher replied in a calm young female voice. “Are there injuries?” 

“Yes,” Hector replied quickly. “Mark, can you get out from the car?” 

Mark didn’t reply right away. He then slowly unbuckled the safety belt and discovered the car door was directly over his head. “Son of a bitch,” he stated in exasperation. Pull that center armrest down.” 

Hector did as he was told and saw Mark push the heavy driver’s side door open, using every ounce of strength to defy the gravitational pull. His six foot four inch frame worked to his advantage as he was able to pull himself out from the car. “Give me your arm, Hector.” Again, Hector obliged his friend and partner’s request by reaching his left arm up and allowing Mark to pull him out from the car. 

Once both were free they jumped off the car and onto the highway’s pavement, slick with black ice, and promptly fell on their butts. They slowly raised themselves and saw they were alone. The other two cars fled the accident scene. In the distance a lone siren wailed. 

Five minutes later blue and red overhead flashing lights came into view. Mark and Hector remained in the same position. They hadn’t said a word. The State Trooper pulled to a stop. He got out from the car, wearing his overcoat and trooper hat. “Are you two alright?” 

“I’m alright,” Hector replied, “ my partner might have a concussion.” 

“I ain’t got no such thing,” Mark replied in bitterness. “I’m just a bit uncoordinated right now. That’s all.” 

“What happened?” 

“We were on our way to meet someone,” Hector started. “We’re FBI agents working a cold case, when these two cars came at us. I believe one was trying to pass the other, but that other guy wouldn’t allow it. We tried to veer out of the way…” 

“The car that was in my lane clipped me though, and I ended up like this. Here are my credentials, Hector, I mean Agent Gonzales, please show him yours.” Mark handed the Trooper his badge and ID. Hector did the same.  

The trooper briefly looked at the pieces and then handed them back. “Did you get a good look at the cars involved?” 

“Sort of,” Mark replied. “But it happened so fast, I couldn’t possibly give you an accurate description.” 

“It was a dark colored Chevrolet sedan, possibly an Impala, and a blue Pontiac, maybe,” Hector guessed. 

“I think I went passed them on the way up here. I’ll call it in.” Another distant siren was heard lowly approaching their location. 

“So much for my perfect driving record,” Mark stated as he looked at the sideways car parked on the gravel shoulder. 

Hector nodded, but inwardly, he thanked God this happened when it did. Mark was about to get me to confess to everything. That would have been an awkward moment. 

end 

Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was this kingdom where everything was wonderful, so long as the emperor was happy. He was an old ruler with many whims and wants and needs, not least of which was that his loyal subjects graced his presence with reverence and awe. 

One day in the southwest corner of the massive kingdom a fair maid’s mother Lady Alabaster was abducted by a jealous lord from a rival kingdom. The news spread like a plague upon the kingdom, and the subjects were sad by this news. The fair maid after all was well liked by everyone. Lady Alabaster, though not known, was respected and admired. 

This of course took attention away from the emperor who fumed and muttered profanities at his loyal court. “How dare she take away my sovereign subjects. They must faun upon me not her! Who is this Lady Alabaster? A nobody! I’m the greatest emperor ever. She has nothing on me! Quick what must I do to gain my subjects’ attention back on me?” He asked the court. 

“My liege,” the Black knight announced to the emperor. “I have heard rumors that I am certain are true of a kingdom far away near the Orient that has amassed a great and powerful army that intends to do harm to our friendly ally. I say we strike them first to prevent our friend’s kingdom from certain doom.” 

“My liege,” the treasurer argued but not convincingly, “The kingdom doesn’t have the money to do such a bold attack, though we could tax the subjects for more through the tariffs we have imposed lately, your highness.” 

“Will my benefactors be affected through these higher tariffs?” The emperor asked. “I promised them I’d lower their taxes to ensure their absolute loyalty.” 

“Not at all your highness,” the treasurer replied. 

“Then make it so. Raise taxes for our glorious fight to save our ally’s little kingdom. What do they give us in exchange for this?” 

“What you always demanded, their loyalty to you,” the Black knight replied with a sinister gleam in his eyes. 

“Yes, most excellent for I am the greatest emperor of the greatest kingdom of all the world!” 

“YES YOU ARE!” The court stood and shouted their voices echoing throughout the halls of the castle. 

“But, can we rescue Lady Alabaster?” The court’s sheriff asked the emperor. 

“It’s not about her, but me,” he replied with disdain. “Whatever ransom this outlaw demands ignore him. Eventually he’ll simply kill her, and I of course will go to her funeral and bestow condolences to the fair maid. Perhaps I’ll invite her to be my jester or court scribe telling the kingdom of my greatness.” 

Dressing for a Change

I’m so glad I’m not the only person that thinks the current fashion comfort overlooking nice and decent. I read and saw the news about how Tampa International Airport had banned wearing pajamas at their airport. It might appear “tongue in cheek,” but I’m of a view that perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here. 

I see people, mostly millennials or gen-x types come to the casino I work at wearing pajamas while playing their favorite slots games. I see the same thing at Grocery stores and Walmart stores too. I’m not sure when or more importantly, why people suddenly have this yen to not change into regular clothes after getting out of bed. Is it to be comfort or laziness that explains this habit? 

If you haven’t noticed, I’m in that crowd that believes in a certain dress code where people are attired in clothing that makes them appear more becoming. I’m of that generation that thought it important to dress up for Sunday services, special occasions such as weddings, funerals, graduations, and even travel. And I considered people who chose not to dress according to the occasion, inept, slovenly, and perhaps not in their right mind. 

I don’t see anything wrong with being comfortable, casual pants or denim jeans are perfectly fine. Dockers come to mind. Women have their comfortable dresses, skirts or pants that doesn’t say “I just rolled out of bed. Look at me!” 

If I sound like a curmudgeon embittered by today’s fashion trends, you’re right. And what’s with wearing ripped and holey jeans? I guess that’s for another day.