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Aging Dragonflies
A dragonfly lands on a leaf. The
lightning quick hands of a ten-year-old girl reach down and form a cage around the
insect, its fate sealed.
“Got one!”
The captor’s name is Destiny. She’s peering between her fingers to make sure the
prey is still inside. Lean and tan, with scab on each knee, she’s wearing her usual
attire, cut-off jeans and an oversized Molly Hatchet t-shirt. The dragonfly panics
around inside the hollow of Destiny’s hands.
“It’s a blue one!”
“How big is it?”
This second voice belongs to Ryan, an eight-year-old boy and Destiny’s next door
neighbor. He comes running over the railroad tracks, hurriedly tiptoeing over the
white rocks wearing swimming trunks and a layer of dirt. He’s missing a big toenail
and as he sees Destiny with her cupped hands outstretched, he starts to feel nervous.
“Not that big, but it’ll do.”
Ryan catches his breath as he peeks through Destiny’s fingers.
“What are we going to do with it?”
“I told you. We’re gonna see how old it is.”
“How?”
Destiny gently takes the dragonfly out from between her hands by holding its wings
together tightly between two fingers. The dragonfly struggles briefly, but then
resigns itself to the inevitable.
“Like this.”
Destiny uses her other middle finger and thumb to flick the dragonfly’s head. Ryan
stares curiously, learning a new skill. The head of the dragonfly jerks violently.
“One.”
“What?”
“See, for each flick, that’s one year. How ever many flicks the dragonfly can take
without its head coming off, that’s how old it is.”
“Oh.”
“Two.”
Ryan is thinking hard. “So, to see how old it is, you have to kill it?”
“Three.”
The dragonfly’s head flies through the air and lands in a clump of weeds. The two
watch it soar and land. Destiny lets the headless body fall to the dirt.
“Yeah, let’s find another one, and you can try.”
“Me?”
“Sure. It’s easy.”
Ryan and Destiny begin to hunt through the weeds, knocking them around, stirring
up dust. They scan the ground, inspect every leaf, check every twig. They get bored.
“There ain’t any around.”
“They’re here Ryan, you just have to be patient.”
It’s then that a majestic, orange-colored dragonfly lands on Ryan’s shoulder. He’s
standing there slouching, watching Destiny’s search, oblivious.
“Come on, let’s do something else.”
Destiny angrily wheels around towards Ryan. “No! You haven’t had your chance yet.”
Spotting the orange dragonfly, she lowers her voice to a library whisper.
“Don’t move.”
Ryan moves only his eyes in the direction of Destiny’s. He can see the thing sitting
comfortably on his shoulder, afraid to touch it, wanting to warn it. He looks back
at Destiny who’s stealthily approaching, eyes transfixed. Then comes the moment
of truth: Destiny’s hands slowly moving up, the dragonfly daydreaming, Ryan panicking
inside his head. He knows Destiny will make him kill the thing, or at the very least
do it herself.
“Orange ones are the rarest of all.”
“Maybe we should let it go then.”
Destiny raises her whisper an octave. “Are you nuts? He’s got to be about seven
years old!”
Her hands continue slowly moving.
Ryan tries his failsafe excuse. “I should be going home. I think I hear my mom calling.”
Destiny doesn’t bother to whisper. “We’re way too far from your house for you to
hear her, and the streetlights ain’t even on yet. Don’t be a ninny, ninny.”
This is when Destiny makes her grab. Ryan tries to duck and pull away, but her trained
reflexes are way too quick. The dragonfly is caught completely off guard.
“Got it.”
“C’mon let it go.”
“Shut up, wuss! Here, grab its wings like this.”
“No. I don’t want to do it.”
“You have to see how old he is.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Destiny grabs the dragonfly’s wings and moves her fingers into position.
“No, don’t! I’ll do it.”
“No you won’t. You’ll let it go and pretend it was an accident.”
Ryan’s last hope is shattered and he can only watch as Destiny proceeds with her
strange method of torture. He turns away, but he can still hear the flicking and
the counting…
Twenty years later, a dragonfly lands on a leaf. The lightning-quick hands of a
eight-year-old boy reach down and form a cage around the insect, its fate sealed.
This boy’s wearing green shorts, a faded Broncos jersey, and his name is Matty.
His dad watches him play in the front yard, where he’s been trying to catch a dragonfly
for the past hour. This is his first one ever.
He cups it in his hands and stares at it.
Ryan, the dad sitting on the porch, lives in the same town, knows the same people
as when he was eight. He works for the local refinery, coaches little league and
drinks just a little too often. When he sees his son Matty catch the dragonfly,
he walks over.
“Got one?”
Matt smiles up at his dad. “Yeah, it’s a blue one.”
“Whatcha gonna do with it?”
Matty shrugs his shoulders.
“Do you wanna see how old it is?”
“How?”
“Give ‘im here.” Ryan takes the dragonfly by the wings. “Whatcha do is flick its
head until it comes off. How ever many flicks it takes, that’s how old it is.”
“But it’ll die.”
“Well yeah, but we’ll know how old it was.”
Matty is thinking hard.
The dragonfly’s head jerks violently. “One.”
“Daddy, doesn’t that hurt it?”
“Bugs don’t feel things.” The dragonfly struggles in protest.
“But, I don’t want it to die.”
“We want to see how old it is, don’t we?”
Ryan gives the head another flick. It flies through the air and into the ditch.
“Huh, only two.”
He lets the headless body fall to the grass at Matty’s feet. Matty stares at it
in horror.
“Okay, Matty find another one so you can try.”
“Me?”
“Sure it’s easy, go on.”
He goes inside for a beer. Matty looks around in the grass, inspects the leaves
of his mom's rosebushes, scans the surrounding air, but his heart’s not in it and
he gives up pretty quick. When Ryan comes out and sees him sitting in the grass
peeling a stick, he flips.
“What’re you doing?”
“Couldn’t find any.”
“You gave up too quick. Get up and find one!”
Matty mumbles something.
“What’d you say?”
“I don’t wanna.”
Ryan marches across the grass, snatches him up, gives him a kick in the butt.
“Find one by the count of three, or you’re in a world of trouble!”
Matty's holding back tears. Ryan's sitting back down on the porch and sipping beer.
“One!”
Matty wipes his face and begins to look. He doesn’t want to find a dragonfly. He
knows his dad will make him kill it, or at least do it himself. He’s hoping there
aren’t any for miles around. To his horror, he spots one right away. It’s sitting
on a rock and Matty can’t help but stare.
“Two!”
Matty thinks about what to do. He looks back at his dad, who’s gazing into his beer
can between sips and counts. He doesn’t want the dragonfly to die, but he’s also
afraid.
“Three!”
Matty snatches up the dragonfly and turns to face his dad. Ryan walks up staring
at his son’s cupped hands.
“Got one?”
“It’s a green one.”
“Do it like I showed you.”
Matty carefully grabs the dragonfly by its wings and stares at its head. The dragonfly
stares back with thousands of eyes filled with fear.
Ryan breaks the connection. “Go on...”
“Huh?”
“See how old he is.”
“Dad, I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Flick its head off.”
“Dad, no.”
“Do it, or you’re punished.”
Matty's silently crying now, Ryan getting angrier by the moment, the dragonfly just
wanting to fly away. Frustrated, he takes Matty’s fingers and forces them into position.
Matty looks at his own hand as if it's betrayed him.
“Flick.”
Matty makes a crying moan in response.
“Flick it, Matty!”
He turns his head away and flicks. To his relief, he misses.
“Don’t do that! Look this time and flick its head right now!”
Matty looks up and stares through the tears into his father’s eyes and hates the
man behind them. The dragonfly’s head jerks violently. Ryan counts.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
The head detaches and bounces off Ryan’s shirt and onto the ground. The body floats
down after. Matty squeezes his eyes shut and sobs.
“Five.”
The two are still standing in the yard, when Ryan turns around to watch as a purple
sports car pulls into the driveway. His wife, wearing a tailored business suit and
pumps, gets out, hangs up her cell phone and smiles at Ryan. Her expression changes
when she sees Matty.
“What’s going on?”
Ryan backs up a step and crushes the body of the dragonfly into the grass. Matty
sees it and starts to bawl.
“Nothing, babe.”
“Why’s Matty crying like that?”
In response her son runs into the house screaming. Ryan tries not to look guilty
and fails.
“Dunno.”
Still thinking, she asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for work?”
Inside, Matty lays on his bed and looks out of his bedroom window. On the other
side of the window, a young, half-translucent dragonfly relaxes. Matty makes an
oath to himself, God and the dragonfly that he'll never be like his dad.
When Ryan leaves for work ten minutes later, his wife is given the task of consoling
their son. She sits on the corner of his bed and puts her hand on his back as he
lies face down sobbing.
“What happened?”
Matty turns over. “Dad made me kill a dragonfly by flicking its head off.”
The faintest trace of a smile curves Destiny’s lips as she asks,
“How old was it?”
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Tumbleweed's Usurper
This is what’s happening right now:
Rain clouds gather in the skies over El Paso.
A plastic grocery bag, the tumbleweed’s usurper, drifts down a deserted alleyway carried along by an imperceptible breeze.
An irritated calico cat coughs up a fur ball.
And..
Uriah sits crunching cereal, barely awake.
He chews mechanically, staring at the back of the cereal box. Silly crossword puzzles and useless nutrition facts occupy his limited attention until his wife Fanny sits down across from him. Uriah mumbles something that vaguely resembles a greeting. Fanny mumbles back in the language only they know.
After five minutes of crunching and slurping, actual, intelligible conversation ensues:
“Is this new cereal any good?”
“Hurm.”
“Awesome O’s, eh?”
“Hurm.”
Fanny gets up from the table to refill her coffee and curses when she bumps her knee on the table leg. Uriah crunches and crunches, staring hard at nothing, oblivious. As she’s standing in front of the coffee pot, Fanny looks back at Uriah. He’s still just chewing.
“I’m pregnant.”
This is what will happen in one second:
Trevor, an eight-year-old at a local funfair, will intentionally let a balloon slip from his hand because he wants to give a present to St. Michael.
Jasper, a struggling, egomaniacal artist, will stand in his back yard gazing at a giant, blank canvas, contemplating the universe.
Oscar, a park ranger and exhibitionist, will strip off his uniform so he can be more in tune with nature and the animals.
And…
Uriah will inhale so sharply that an Awesome O will get lodged directly in his windpipe.
Instead of making a choking or gagging sound, Uriah will emit a high pitched squeal. This will be the sound of Uriah trying to breathe through the little hole in the O. His face will turn a cheery shade of fuschia, the veins in his forehead will make their presence known and he’ll grip the sides of the table so hard, he’ll get a splinter.
Fanny will do what anyone in her situation would. She’ll ask, “Are you okay?”
Uriah’s eyes will bulge so huge, he’ll look like an iguana. His most hated pet peeve in the entire universe is to be asked ‘Are you okay?’ while he’s choking. In his head, he’ll curse Fanny with the foulest language ever thought towards a person. It’s a good thing the last thing she’ll ever hear from him is the squeal.
This is what will happen as a result:
The calico cat will feel much better.
Trevor’s mom will hit him for being so wasteful.
A dove will relieve itself on Jasper’s canvas.
Tourists will photograph Oscar running through the forest and make a fortune.
It will rain in El Paso.
And..
Uriah Jr. will grow up hearing stories of how heroic and noble his father was. He’ll grow up to be a best-selling author of adventures stories, all starring his dad.
Also...
In thirty years Uriah Jr. will learn that the true cause of his father’s death was not the result of a mountain climbing, fly fishing or even an automobile accident, but a wholegrain breakfast treat containing 2% potassium and 7% sodium with a little hole in the middle. He’ll eat oatmeal from then on.
The plastic grocery bag will be banned by conservationists and the tumbleweed will make a triumphant comeback. Alleyways will be much relieved.
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Step, Step, Twirl
In Teddy’s Sports Bar and Grill, the locals mindlessly and automatically line dance.
Their expressions blank, their boots shined, they go through the steps routinely,
not making eye contact, silently counting. The music is bass-heavy and bland, the
walls covered in wood paneling, the ceiling yellow from smoke.
Ted sits alone at a dirty table in the corner, tapping a nail file, obviously waiting
for someone. The guy he’s waiting for is over at the bar, leaning back casually
sizing the place up before making his presence known. Soon, Ted recognizes him as
the man he's expecting, but keeps looking at an old drink coaster so as not to give
it away. The song changes but the dancing doesn’t.
Step, step, twirl. Step, step, twirl.
Fifteen minutes pass this way, the mystery man and Ted both watching the western-clad
patrons dance like a giant automaton. Finally, the man walks over to Ted and introduces
himself.
“I’m Hank. Are you Ted? I’m here to do the deal.”
“Sit down Hank. What’s your rush?”
“No thanks. I just want to keep this as business-like as possible, that’s all.”
“Well, it is a business Hank, but that’s no reason to be so blunt and impersonal.”
“Let’s just get it done O.K.? I can barely think with this horrible music playing.
Now, I’ve got the cash in my boots, where are the pills?”
Ted motions to a pair of bouncers, as he looks away from Hank to the dancers.
Step, step, twirl. Step, step, twirl.
“You know, Hank. To be honest, I was having some serious seconds thoughts about
this, but you’ve just made up my mind for me. I thank you for that.”
The two huge football player-type goons walk up behind Hank and politely ask him
to follow them. As Hank walks behind them, he tries to think positive and forget
about what Ted might’ve meant. The goons, Hank, and Ted walk towards the rear of
the bar and through an orange door labeled “office”.
Walking in, Hank can see that it is no normal office. There are no file cabinets,
papers, or even a desk, just a chair bolted to the floor with ankle and wrist straps
on it. Hank tries to run, resist, but the bouncers are ready and thump him on the
head, knocking him out. Falling, he can still hear the droning music….
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
Step, step, twirl. Step, step, twirl.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
Step, beep, step, beep, twirl, beep.
Hank slowly rouses to the sound of beeping and dancing. The beeping sounds like
a heart monitor. Opening his eyes, he sees that it really is a heart monitor. How
strange, he thinks. His wrists and ankles are locked down, and he has black suction
cups stuck to his chest. Ted comes into view.
“Ah, finally. I was getting sick of waiting for you to wake up. I’ve been so bored!”
“What the hell is this?”
“I don’t think I’ll answer that Hank. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Are we ready?”
This last part is directed at a man hunched over some strange electrical equipment
in the corner. The man just grunts and goes about his business, whatever it is.
Ted paces back and forth like a father expecting, smoking and occasionally nodding
his head in time with the still audible music. The mystery man comes towards Hank.
“Hank, this is Andrew,” informs Ted as Andrew sticks suction cups on Hank’s temples.
"Don't worry, he's a paramedic." Andrew smiles huge. He checks the rest of the cups
and goes over to Ted. They mumble for a minute, Ted nods vigorously.
"You see Hank, Andrew is my connection for the pills you came here to buy. So, he'll
give you the pills, but in a way you didn't intend."
Andrew opens a cigarette case and takes out a pill. He shoves it into Hank’s mouth.
“Swallow it Hank,” Ted's face comes so near to Hank’s eyes that he can see his clogged
pores. He repeats, “Swallow it Hank.” Hank does.
“What the hell is it?”
“It’s commonly referred to as speed,” mumbles Andrew, from somewhere.
Ted’s huge face comes back into view, “We’re going ask you a question, and I want
you to answer, so that nothing bad has to happen to you. Alright?”
“What’s this all about?” Fear is audible in Hank's voice.
“The question.”
“Okay, what’s the question?”
“We’ll get to it in a minute, for now take the pills like a good boy, alright?”
Ted begins to pace again. Andrew shoves another pill in.
Hank’s mind starts to race. He focuses in on an extremely annoying noise he soon
realizes is the heart monitor. The beeping has increased. He watches the blip get
more and more agitated. He stares and stares and stares for what seems like five
hours. It’s really five minutes. Then Andrew stuffs another pill in.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep
Step, beep, beep, beep, step, beep, beep, beep, twirl, beep, beep, beep.
Another pill, another pill, another pill, and in twenty minutes Hank is nearing
cardiac arrest. At least, that’s what he hears Andrew say. The heart monitor has
flipped. It beeps so fast that it almost sounds like one long tone, which is what
Hank most definitely doesn’t want to hear. His mind does cartwheels around one central
thought: Why?
“Why?!?”
“No, No, I’ll ask the question when I’m ready Hank.”
“About what?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
“What’s about to happen to me?”
“Give him another pill Andrew.”
“Sure.”
As Andrew is reaching for Hank’s mouth with a pill pinched between his fingers,
Hank checks out.
He lets loose with a long painful-sounding groan, and his head
flops back, the heart monitor making that long tone. Andrew drops the pill and races
to grab two greasy paddles. He sticks them to Hank’s chest, presses a button and….
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! What just happened?’ screams Hank.
Ted’s face is close again, his eyes bulging, he is childlike in his joy. “You died
Hank.”
“Oh, my God! Stop this! I’ll tell you anything! Don’t kill me!”
“You mean again, don’t you? I’ve already killed you once Hank.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who’s the buyer ? Who told you to set up this deal? Whose money is in your boots?”
Hank sits stone-faced and staring.
“Give him another one Andrew.”
“No, No! God no!”
“What’s the name Hank?”
Silence. Andrew shoves in two pills, and pinches Hank’s nose shut. Hank has no choice
but to swallow. He has ruined his pants, sweat is dripping out of every pore, his
teeth are chattering. Ted resumes his pacing. Andrew looks at some monitors, starts
to re-grease the paddles. Hank waits to die, again.
Step, beep, beep, beep, step, beep, beep, beep, twirl, beep, beep, beep.
Two pills later, and the monitor is flat again, Hank’s tongue is hanging out, his
eyes rolled back. Andrew has the paddles on, but has to push the button three times
to bring Hank back this time. Ted is looking at a stopwatch. Hank jerks back to
life and coughs so long that he’s drooling blood.
“Ted. Ted. Don’t do it again Ted. Please. Please. Don't send me back! PLEASE!”
“Tell me the name Hank.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“I’ve killed you twice already Hank! It’s me you should be scared of! I’ll kill
you again!”
“No! Crispin Clavadetchser! That’s the name! For God’s sake no more!”
Ted mulls the name in his head for a minute, memorizing it. He pulls a pad and pencil
from his pocket, writes it down.
“Tell me Hank, what did you mean when you said ‘don’t send me back’?”
“What?”
“When you came back just now you said, ‘Don’t send me back’, what’d you mean?”
“When I'm... dead, I can only feel this crushing sadness. I couldn't bear it again.”
“Hmmm. We’ll see.”
Hank barely manages to yell “What?!” before Andrew shoves in three pills while pinching
his nose shut, he swallows, crying.
Step, beep, beep, beep, beep, step, beep, beep, beep, beep, twirl, beep, beep, beep,
beep.
Ted and Andrew step out of the office, leaving Hank to beep. Outside the door, Ted
is scribbling something in his notepad, and mumbling to himself. Andrew is wondering
whether Ted might do this to him one day. While he's thinking this, Ted interrupts...
“Let me know how many more times he comes back okay?”
“Sure.”
“And find some info on this Crispin Clavadetchser. I want to get to the source of
all this cash, and maybe retire a rich man.”
“Sure.”
“And take a shower when you’re through, you smell bad.”
“Sure.”
Ted walks off to the dance floor, his mood instantly changing from psychopath to
expert line-dancer. He waves at some people he recognizes and begins to step, step,
twirl. Andrew goes back into the office to check on Hank,
who is silently weeping,
and beeping. He almost has pity for him, almost. He shoves in three pills.
Some time later, Andrew re-emerges into the bar, with a smile, hair that is still
slightly wet, and a uniform that is slightly wrinkled. He sits at Ted’s usual table
and watches the locals mindlessly line-dance, easily able to see that Ted is the
most skilled. Ted notices Andrew and comes over, half walking, half dancing.
“Well, how did it go?”
“I feel very clean, thanks.”
“Smart ass.”
“Five.”
“Five?” repeats Ted. He whips out his pad and writes it down.
“Five.”
Ted goes back to dancing. Andrew goes back to thinking. Hank goes back to being
dead in a burlap sack in the back of Ted’s pickup, tools scattered around him. The
locals go back to dancing like a giant automaton. The song changes but the dancing
doesn't.
Step, step, twirl. Step, step, twirl.
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Arachnid Pulchritudinous
A young, optimistic black widow spider,
Ventures forth with only fate to guide her.
Born in a cemetery of a long dead mother,
Her first meal is the slaughter of her brothers.
Now she’s seeking sanctuary, a safe place to weave,
A viscous snare no husband could ever hope to leave.
But in her path lies a monument to greatness,
Some gaudy memorial to a champion peerless.
Hardly an obstacle, this limestone gravestone,
She deftly climbs through the weeds all overgrown.
Across ‘Loving Father,’ along ‘Devoted Son,’
Tenderly treading over the insipid dedication.
She ascends to the top, a point surveying,
This vast burial ground with morning mist burning.
The possibilities are infinite, all crannies and corners,
Protection from the black shod feet of maudlin mourners.
But cruel fate intervenes, robs her of this brief joy,
Conveying destruction in the form of a naïve, young boy.
He’s with grandparents, visiting the family plot,
When he eyes our dear arachnid, though not her small red spot.
Soft hands reach down to block her desperate flight,
Only to receive the venom contained within her bite.
Pain, chaos ensue, our heroine falls to the earth,
Her relief slightly shaded with mirth.
The poison’s toxins cause rapid swelling,
The child’s cries drowned by grandparents yelling.
Fingerprint lost, the boy’s left index finger,
Replaced by a phobia that will forever linger.
Our young, optimistic black widow spider will also change,
Become a deadly bug, all treacherous and strange.
But isn’t it peculiar, isn’t it weird,
That one so blameless should be hated and feared?
Regardless, the arachnid pulchritudinous will forever persevere.
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ish
"Osman Hermida"
July 15, 1965- Brownsville, TX – Border Lounge – 7:42 P.M.
Tinny country atmosphere wafts out of an old dust-ravaged jukebox while at a corner
table wearing forest green coveralls, slouches Osman Hermida. With his head resting
in his hands, he has the look of a man long resigned to an undeserved fate, no dreams,
and no hopes other than to numb away the ache of life with a cold pitcher. Paint
flakes spot his rough hands, sweat-stained boots, bald head and beard, evidence
of a day’s hard work. Sitting there, he’s hiccupping violently, and at 6’7, 235
lbs, makes the old wooden chair he's in groan each time his body spasms. Carefully
taking a sip of black beer in between convulsions, he stares at the wood grain patterns
of the table top, becoming lost in painful reverie, hiccupping all the while.
Born in Mexico City, forty-three years ago to the day, Osman's had these hiccups
from the
moment the doctor slapped him, but his mother used to say he had them even
before then. In the record book article, “Longest Case of Hiccups,” it’s his sad
picture you’ll see there, the picture taken when he was only twelve, working for
the local circus to which his parents sold him in exchange for a horse. Because
the hiccups tortured him even in his sleep, he grew up alone, living in a small decrepit tent apart from the others, set up so that lined customers could view him
before making their way to see the real freaks, the pinheads and paraplegics. When
he wasn’t on display or cleaning out cages, he spent most of his time reading and
rereading a Spanish translation of Moby Dick, wishing he was Quuequeg harpooning
some great beast. The public was not impressed by a hiccupping boy at first, but
soon it became an enjoyable local custom to attempt to cure the hiccups through
fear. They would scream “Fuego! Fuego!” while he was napping, throw buckets of hot
water on him and more than once men pounced into his tent wearing strange homemade
masks. While all horribly unnerving, the hiccups continued unabated. Osman adapted
to these conditions as humans do, and eventually grew into a very large young man
of nineteen.
It was then that catastrophe struck. An odious little farmer took it
too far, attempting to scare him by threatening his life. Osman stared at the polished
knife and something suddenly came out of him. In front of forty or more witnesses
and hiccupping every second, he strangled that awful little man in a fit of rage
and confusion. Fleeing law and guilt, he headed north along the coast, longing to
find the whaling world of Ishmael, but running out of money and energy after crossing
the border into Texas. He's remained in Brownsville ever since, living inside the
abandoned garage of Lilla, sixty-year-old heiress and former prostitute. Working
all these years in a variety of manual labor jobs, he eventually settled into painting
houses for the little money he needed. No one’s ever asked him too much and those
who’ve sarcastically offered a cure have usually regretted it, learning quick to
leave him be.
Back inside the bar, two white men in brown uniforms are talking quietly to the
bartender. Osman is grimacing after a particularly painful hiccup and fails to notice
the men, their badges or the photograph one of them is holding. He does notice when
they both sit down at the table next to him. The bar is empty except for Osman,
the bartender and some kid sweeping the floor, yet these two choose to sit right
next to Osman. His mental alarm specially designated for authority figures starts
to claxon. The pace of his hiccups increases, betraying his nervousness as he shakily
brings his
glass to his lips. He’s just about to swallow when one of the men speaks.
“Hey Osman, still got those dang hiccups I see. Why don’t you come with us for a
little ride?”
Convulsing, beer sprays from Osman’s nose and mouth covering the men with a mist.
Taking off his cowboy hat to wipe it off, the second man asks, “Well now, was that
from the hiccup or the question?”
The pace of Osman’s hiccups only increases. The first man gets serious.
“See, Osman we know you’re an illegal. Hell, everyone in town does, but a new law
states that we’ve got to fill a certain number of deportations each month. So, we’re
starting off with the easy ones. Now, you can come back in a day or two, and we’ll
just throw you out again next month real easy and regular like. Okay?”
The two Border agents sigh as they get up and stand on either side of Osman. They
put their hands under his arms and start to lift.
He shakes his head and doesn’t budge. The agents look at each other and then back
down at the back of Osman’s bald head. The bigger agent pulls on the back of the
wooden chair in an attempt to tip him out, but the chair only groans. Osman doesn’t
move.
“Up, damn you.”
The other man walks around to the front of the table so he can look into Osman’s
eyes, trying to tell if this is going to get bad or really bad. As he's about to
flip the table over, he notices something.
“You’re not hiccupping...”
Osman stands up slowly, silent, unmoving and menacing. The jukebox changes songs,
the bartender swallows hard.
“Dave, he’s not hiccupping!”
To learn more about the next minutes in Osman Hermida's life, head on down to
Brownsville, Texas, and ask for directions to the Border Lounge. Rodolfo, the kid
who was sweeping cigarette butts off the floor when Osman lost his hiccups, still
works there. He’s on parole now and can probably tell you what happened next to
Osman. You’ll need to speak Spanish and you might have to pay him five bucks in
advance, but if you tell him you’re Osman’s distant relative, maybe not.
"Russ Roberts"
December 3rd, 1975- 15 miles outside Billings, MT – Hwy 312– 3:42 A.M.
As snow begins to fall, glossy paint reflects the lights of the sky atop the hoods
of new cars harnessed into a pale blue convoy trailer. The Veloco-Trans truck is
soaring down Highway 312, taking full advantage of the absence of a speed limit or patrol cars, its cargo tardy by two days. Behind the massive steering wheel bounces
Russ, barely able to see over, but jamming out to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Saturday Night
Special” with all his heart. He’s freezing cold but starting to feel like an actual
truck driver for the first time during the trip, now just twenty miles away from
being over. Too busy belting out lyrics, both lead and backup, Russ doesn’t notice
the snow drifts getting larger, the road getting icier or the lightning illuminating
the horizon.
He started this trip from his home in Detroit, where he was born just fifteen years
ago on the day John F. Kennedy was elected, to a mother and father still angry from
the news. Russ’ father, Lieutenant Colonel Russell Roberts Sr., had recently received
the Congressional Medal of Honor for his valor in the Korean War and was soon appointed
Senior Information Administration Director. An exalted position, but unfortunately
for Russ Jr., this led to a childhood spent globetrotting, seeing the world from
inside the chain link fences of U.S. military bases and having a new best friend
every three months. Around Russ’ fourteenth birthday, this world came to an abrupt,
crashing end when Russ Sr., was implicated by his peers in a scandal involving documents
sold to foreign powers. The colonel was innocent, but the army brass needed a scapegoat
to save face, and so a year later, the Roberts family had moved into a peach mobile
home outside their old hometown of Detroit with Russ Sr. driving for V.T.C.S., Veloco-Trans
Convoy Service.
The bad luck continued. Russ dropped out freshman year, was arrested
for pot, and got his girlfriend pregnant in the same month. His parents didn’t seem
to notice as his father was rarely in town and his mother’s health depended largely
on her accessibility to liquor, but Russ’s behavior had its effect. With his dad
barely supporting the current family, much less a daughter-in-law and granddaughter,
tragedy again struck. Russ Sr. injured his ankle in a fall while strapping in a
midsize van and had no one to turn to but his son.
“Russ, I can’t drive with this ankle, can’t shift. But, if I don’t make this run,
the company will put me on disability, basically cut my pay in half. I know you're
only fifteen and don’t have a license, but you know how to drive a truck and the
family needs your help. Can you make the run?”
Russ looked at his dad’s ankle and tried to feel like a good son. “Yeah, alright.”
Two weeks, countless hamburgers later, and still oblivious to the coming blizzard,
Russ is humming the horn parts of “Low Rider”, when another convoy truck passes
and gets in front of him. He turns down the radio and picks up the CB microphone.
“Uh, hey fellow trucker! I’m right behind you on Highway 312! COME ON BACK!”
“Not so loud! I don’t have time to talk; this weather is getting nasty, out.”
“Sorry! Wait, uh which exit is Billings? Do you know? Over?”
“You sound like a kid!”
Russ sits in angry silence, staring at the brake lights of the truck in front.
“Listen kid, we’re about to hit one helluva storm here. I’d pull over if I were
you, I'm pulling off now, over.”
The brake lights get brighter and the truck eases onto the shoulder, the snow starting
to look like a cotton blanket. Russ keeps driving, stonily staring ahead, not looking
at the driver of the other truck who’s now waving out of his window. He floors the
gas pedal as he whispers something.
“Kid?”
Thirty seconds pass, ice creeping up the shoulder of the asphalt.
“Kid?”
A minute passes, snow swirling in an angry frenzy.
“O.K., don’t answer. But just know that the weather service called this is the worst
storm in fifty years and coming ahead a few miles there's a nasty curve, and if
you don’t take it just right, you’ll go off the road and hit this rock mountain-thing
called Pompey’s Pillar. You should pull over, kid. Let the storm pass, then you
can follow me, over.”
Thirty seconds pass, lightning starting to strobe.
“Kid?”
A minute passes, and Russ can’t take it anymore.
“I’m not a kid! I can do anything my dad does! OVER AND OUT!”
Russ turns the CB off and the radio back up. He’s singing with the next song…
“Hey ho, let’s go! Hey ho, let’s go! Hey ho, let’s go! Hey….”
For more information about the events which transpired on the
night of December
3rd, 1975, on Highway 312, mail a letter of inquiry to the Yellowstone County District
Court, 227 North 27th Street, Billings, MT 59307, or call (406)–256–2970 and ask
for Records. To visit Pompey’s Pillar, take exit number 23 off Interstate 94, pay
your three dollars, and have look for yourself to see if you can find a roadside
memorial to Russell Roberts.
At the very least you can see where explorer William
Clark carved his name into the rock, and you can even take a canoe tour while you’re
at it.
"Isaac Lee"
September 25, 1982-Atlantic City, NJ-near City Hall- 4:36 P.M.
Raindrops pelt the pavement steps outside the Atlantic City Court House as umbrella-covered
reporters angle to get closer to a podium adorned with microphones. When District
Attorney Schuberman emerges, he’s greeted by chaos and flashing light. His assistant,
Isaac Lee makes a tactful exit, skipping down the stairs of a side exit with a newspaper
over his head. He’s relieved that the case is over, but paranoid that the Don may
kill him for it. Halfway to the parking garage, under the hiss of the rain, he notices
the sound of footsteps behind him. Isaac quickly turns down an alleyway and listens
for the footfalls. They sound like the steps of a giant wearing flip-flops.
The path leading up to this alley beside the court house is muddled at best. This
may be due to the fact that the current Bruno mob isn’t really one for records or
history at all for that matter. But it is known that Isaac grew up in Upton Orphanage,
a known front for a notorious numbers racket. Like most of his friends/brothers/coworkers,
he ran messages all over town during the day, semi-oblivious to what he was actually
doing. In a few years however, Isaac was not too surprised or displeased to be talking
with an intimidating man in a fedora about doing some “real” work for Don Angelo.
What he did or didn’t do after this is point unclear for a few years, but it is
known that he left the orphanage and that the Don developed a strong fondness for
“Ike” and groomed him as the organization’s lawyer. Graduating in 1980 from Atlantic
Union Law School, he was on the road to becoming the new consigliere to Don Angelo
when something happened. He found out why he grew up in an orphanage instead of
having a normal happy family. Isaac discovered in dusty folders evidence that the
Upton Orphanage was especially reserved for children whose parents were killed by
the Bruno family. It was the Don’s way of cultivating an army of alienated youth,
and Isaac was one of them. The paperwork detailed the lineage and method of death of hundreds of people, meticulous as a Nazi tally sheet. Above Isaac’s name were
his parent’s as well as the word “shot.” He took the folder and his anger to newly
elected District Attorney Schuberman who was thirsty for evidence against the “The
Docile Don.” Isaac accepted a temporary position of assistant, but refused police
protection or to testify against his former boss/surrogate father. All he wanted
was to close the orphanage for good, but the case became larger and larger, gaining
nationwide notoriety. For a year, he lived anonymously in a crappy motel and every
time he heard his name on the news, he felt a noose tighten.
Now with the case over, the orphanage closed and the Don imprisoned, in that grimy
alleyway with rain soaking his grey trench coat to black, Isaac can still hear the
strange steps coming closer. He retreats to the bricked dead end wall and hides
behind a filthy trashcan, more terrified by the weird sound the footsteps make than
anything else. When the steps finally stop, Isaac is more interested in the sound
than afraid for his life and suddenly identifies it: a person wearing flippers walking
along side a pool. He’s congratulating himself in his head when he hears his name,
snapping him back to the present.
“I said stand up Isaac.”
He tells himself to go out like a man, but when he stands up, what he sees is so
unexpected, so out-of-the-blue and so outrageous, he faints like a little girl.
A few minutes later, the same astonishing thing is slapping his face. It’s a clown.
A clown wearing an oversized foam, orange cowboy hat is worriedly slapping his face
and telling him to get up. Isaac can’t help but stare at the giant red shoes as
rain runs off the brim of the ridiculous hat and onto his face. The water has made
the clown’s face paint run off a little, revealing a surprisingly sad old man underneath.
Isaac brushes off the fool, struggles to his feet and turns on lawyer-mode.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Do you need any help?”
“No. Now answer my question.”
“OK I’ll be going then.” The old man starts away.
Isaac knows when someone’s hiding something. “Stop!
You’re not going anywhere!”
“Neither one of you is.”
This is an unidentified third voice coming from outside the alley. As two tall,
sharp featured men in thousand dollar suits step into view, the clown and Isaac
exchange glances, the owner of the voice no longer unknown. They stare back at the
approaching men, at their hands slowly reaching into their jackets, at how even
the raindrops seem to avoid touching them. To Isaac’s amazement, the clown quickly
pulls out a gun from his huge pants, nothing funny or silly about it. To his even
greater amazement, the clown says words he never expected to hear anyone say to
him:
“Listen Isaac, I’m your dad.”
Further information on Isaac and his father’s fate could be a bit tough to find.
You’ll need to go down to the Atlantic City Police Department’s Organized Crime
Unit and ask Gina to show you all the files they have on Angelo Bruno, A.K.A. “The
Docile Don.” You’ll need a court order to gain access, but it’ll be worth it because
these files contain all the reports about crimes the Bruno Mafia was suspected to
be responsible for but were never prosecuted for.
If you find a file covering the
murder of Isaac Lee, you’ll know he was in fact killed by the gunmen. So if you
don’t find the file, it could mean he and his father somehow escaped and lived happily
ever after.
Then
again, the folder could have just been lost or misplaced by Gina,
who’s a bit scatterbrained at times.
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Fluorescent Lint
Incandescent spiders rising up from a lightless void
Fluorescent lint covering a black corduroy jacket
Reinforced plastic hopelessly failing as a mirror
Tangible portal into a distant imagined reality
Inane babble assaulting a subdued mind
An omnipresent hum all over the world
Bobbing heads rock to a silent tune
Headphones drone out the sound
Instructions purveying disaster
Seat cushioned lifesavers
Seventeen Celsius
Pressurization
Flaps down
Buckle up
Arrival
Life
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Currently residing just outside of New Orleans with his wife Kolleen and their son Abram, Ben Fortenberry writes for the same reasons cats cough up furballs, priests perform exorcisms and trains derail. He's worked as a grease monkey, computer programmer, paintball referee, grill cook, electronics salesman, video store stooge and mascot for a well-known cookie company, but he's a writer now...
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