I checked my watch for the fifth time and peered through the hotel’s lobby window, almost willing my taxi to get there. My flight was scheduled to leave in less than two hours, despite the weather.

“Departures are stacked up, but they’re moving,” the airline representative assured me. “Even with all the snow, our crews are on top of it.”

If only I could rely on ground transportation the same way.

Eight-thirty and no cab. Picking up my bag, I hurried over to the front desk and waited until the elderly harried clerk finished with her current guest before she turned to me.

“Still waiting, sir?” she asked, a patient smile on her face.

“Yes, but I’m running out of time,” I replied, pointing to my watch. “Do I have any other options?”

She shook her head. “You could take the subway, I guess. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. With everything slow or disabled, you’d be stuck watching for an empty car for hours.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “I always heard New York cabbies could drive through anything.”

Her eyes told me that wasn’t the right thing to say, but to her credit, her smile never faded.

“It’s only be fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Twenty-five,” I corrected. “My wife’s not going to be happy with me when I return.”

The clerk patted by hand. “I’m sure she’ll overlook your late arrival as long as you made it there safely.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, rubbing my eyes to ease the pressure in my skull. “She warned me if I didn’t get home by Christmas Eve, she was leaving me.”

The woman cocked her head. “Forgive me, but what’s so God awful important that your wife would demand you arrive at a predetermined time despite extenuating circumstances?”

I felt my cheeks redden. “I’ve run out of excuses.”

“Sir?”

“It’s because of my kids,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I have exactly been the best father.”

The clerk nodded. “You’re on the road a lot?”

“Yes, but it’s even more than that.”

Another guest approach the desk, so I occupied myself with the postcard rack while the clerk helped him. Every once in a while, I checked the street in front of the hotel for the cab, but few cars passed by. A true snow shutdown.

“I’m sorry, sir, you were saying?” she asked when she returned.

I smiled. “Never mind. I don’t mean to burden you with my problems. I think I’ll just wait by the front door.”

“Do you want me to call the taxi service again?” she said.

I shook my head. “Patience, right?”

I went back to my scouting location and pressed my forehead against the glass, feeling the winter chill cooling my skin and easing my growing migraine.

Pedestrians strode by me, all intent on getting to their destinations before the storm worsened. Two or three times, their sudden movements caused them to slip and fall on the icy sidewalk. Others passed by them without even pausing, leaving the poor souls to drag themselves back to their feet by hook or crook.

After a while, I returned to the front desk. My agony must have been obvious by the concerned expression on the clerk’s face.

“Are you okay, sir? You look pale, if you’ll pardon my observation,” she said.

“I could use a couple of aspirin.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Give me a moment.”

The woman disappeared into the office behind her and quickly returned carrying her purse. She rummaged around inside until she pulled out a small tin, removed two white pills, and handed them to me.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said.

As I waited, I turned to watch a young couple heading toward me with a child of barely four in tow. They wore the worn-out parent look I recognized from my own face and smiled at them.

“Christmas is hectic, isn’t it?” I said.

The man rolled his eyes, but his wife flashed me a grin. The child, a girl from what I could tell bundled up in neutral winter clothing, clutched her little fists and yawning.

“Terrible storm out there,” the husband said, pointing to the snowy scene behind me. “I didn’t think we should venture out into this much bad weather, but my wife thought our daughter deserved an adventure. We never have snow where we live.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Never? Are you from Southern California?”

“We are,” the woman said, with an obvious tinge of pride.

“Same here,” I said with a chuckle. “Trying to get home has been hard.”

The man let out a low whistle. “You’re not going to fly in this mess, are you?”

“I have to,” I replied with a resigned smile. “My family’s waiting for me.”

“Good luck,” he said. “Better you than me.”

“Us,” his wife reminded him.

The clerk returned with a glass of water and handed it to me. I stepped aside to swallow the pills as the couple spoke in hushed tones to her. I only caught a few words, but one of them was “Santa.”

I waited until the family left the lobby for the bitter winter evening before thanking the clerk and returning her glass.

“I hope you feel better, dear,” she said, touching my hand. “I’m sure you’ll be leaving soon, though.”

I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. “It’s getting pretty tight.”

“Maybe you should call her?” she suggested. “She’ll probably understand.”

I shook my head. “No, she’s not home right now. You know, running around for last minute gifts and such.”

“That’s too bad. Well, you’re welcome to lie down on the sofa over there if you believe that will help you feel better.”

“Thanks, but I think I should stay up to watch for my ride.”

She stood staring me for a few moments.

“Is something wrong?” I finally asked, eyebrows arched.

The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“That’s okay. What is it?”

She frowned. “You mentioned you have children?”

“Yes, a boy and a girl. Twins.”

“Twins! How lovely. I was just thinking about my kids,” she said, tearing up. “They’re all grown and moved away, of course, but I know how much I would’ve hated being without them on Christmas.”

I smiled politely.

She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Don’t mind me. I’m an old softie, I guess.”

“The problem is my job keeps me out of town a lot,” I explained. “My client can’t tell the difference between a holiday or a regular day. I work most weekends, too.”

“It must be worth it, right?”

I considered this for a while. My career allowed me to provide for my family in ways I couldn’t if I had chosen a different path. My kids had attended private schools since they were old enough to go. We had a nice house with a pool in a gorgeous neighborhood. And yet…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” the clerk said, stuffing her used tissue in her sweater sleeve.

“That’s okay,” I assured her. “And thanks for asking. Gives me something to ponder about on my flight home.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall across the room and frowned. “I’m starting to worry the taxi’s not going to show. Do you want me to help you with other arrangements?”

“Will a bus work?”

“No, I think they’re on an adjusted schedule because of the street closures,” she replied. “I could make a couple of calls, though.”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all. Why don’t you have a seat in the lobby and wait?”

I resigned myself to spending another night at this hotel as I slid into the soft cushions of the well-worn sofa. Things could be worse than an extended stay at the Astor, but I would pay dearly for the delay.

I must’ve drifted off because the desk clerk’s voice startled me more than it should’ve.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t think I should let you sleep too long,” she said with an apologetic smile.

“That’s fine,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Did you find something?”

“No, but I did call the taxi company again. They said your cab will be here in five minutes, ten tops.”

I rose and stretched my tired limbs. “Thank goodness. I appreciate your help.”

“No bother at all, sir. That’s the service we provide here.” She extended her hand. “It’s been a pleasure. Have a safe trip.”

I shook it with a nod and headed back to the front door.

True to her word, the cabbie skidded to a slippery stop in front of the hotel five minutes later. I ducked into the wind as I climbed into the backseat, throwing my luggage to the other side.

“You’re going to JFK, mac?” the driver asked as he slid into his seat.

“Um, yeah. American Airlines. Can you hurry? My plane takes off at eleven o’clock. I’m going to be cutting it pretty close as it is.”

He glanced at me in his rear view mirror. “I’ll do what I can, but no guarantees. The roads are bad in spots.”

“That’s all I can ask,” I replied, leaning back in my seat.

The cabbie drove through Time Square, only slowing for red lights and meandering pedestrians shuffling through the snow. My headache had finally started to fade, so I closed my eyes to prevent the stress from watching the traffic bring it to the fore.

I must’ve fallen asleep again, because the low, sonorous blast of a truck horn startled me to consciousness.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Another jerk on the road, that’s all.”

“Where are we?”

I could see his grin in the rear view mirror.

“The Belt Parkway. You’re going to make your flight with minutes to spare,” he bragged.

“How did you manage that?”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Hey, I’m that good, ya know?”

I chuckled, making a mental note to give him a generous tip when the time came.

Traffic within the airport slowed to a halt. My driver took every opportunity to steal another car length as he swore and gestured at the other drivers, paying particular care to level most of his abuse at his fellow cabbies.

“Lousy hacks can’t drive their way out of a paper bag,” I heard him muttering.

“Will we make it?” I asked, but one glance at his face told me that wasn’t a good time to nag him.

Multiple car horns blared into a single cacophony, forcing my migraine back to the surface. I kept silent, though, figuring there was nothing I could do to help us through the tangle.

“What terminal is American in?” I asked after a long while.

“Eight,” the cabbie said. “Just on the other side of this snarl. If we ever get through it, that is.”

“What’s the hold up, do you think?”

He shrugged. “Probably an accident. Someone tried to take the other driver’s half of the middle or something, who knows?”

I smiled at that expression. More a Chicago expression than a New York one, I thought. I wanted to ask him where he was from, but he didn’t seem to be the type to engage in small talk.

Fifteen minutes later, cars began moving again. I stared out the window as we passed bythe cause of the traffic jam.

“Pretty bad wreck,” the cabbie said as he brought the cab back up to speed. “Hard to believe people are that stupid.”

“It’s slippery out there,” I mused.

“Yeah, so you don’t drive like an idiot,” he replied, laughing for the first time the entire trip.

We encountered no further delays all the way to the terminal. I hurried out of the taxi and shoved a fistful of cash into the cabbie’s waiting hands.

“Hey, this is too much?” he protested. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, turning to the entrance. “Merry Christmas!”

“Happy New Year to you, too,” he shouted.

To my surprise, there wasn’t a throng of travelers crowding the inside of the terminal. I found the first class check-in nearly empty and in short order I had my boarding pass.

It took clever maneuvering to thread my way through the mass of humanity seeking their connections, but finally, after hours of waiting, I made it to my gate. The exhausted agent glanced at my boarding pass and typed a few keys on her keyboard.

“You’re ready to go, sir,” she said, handing it back to me. “We board in ten minutes.”

“We’ll be leaving on time?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Dillon. They’re deicing the jet right now. The runways are clear, so there’s nothing stopping us for the rest of the trip.”

“Good. Thanks.”

I stood aside to allow the few stragglers behind me check in. From the crowds hugging the wall and filling the seats, it looked like the plane would be full. Everyone wanted out from the winter blues and into the Los Angeles sunshine, I mused.

“Attention passengers for American flight 255, boarding will begin for our first class travelers shortly. You may proceed to the jetway entrance. Please make sure you have your boarding passes handy for our gate attendants,” a metallic voice intoned.

I nudged past a gaggle of families blocking my way until I reached the front.

“Good evening, sir, welcome to American Airlines,” a young woman said with a glowing smile. “Boarding pass?”

I handed her the card and waited until she checked my name off the manifest. She then gave it back to me.

“Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Dillon.”

I nodded my thanks and proceeded down the jetway.

Despite all the delays getting on the plane, the take-off and subsequent flight were problem-free. I slept most of the way, only waking to have a late dinner and a couple of glasses of champagne.

“We’re about to land, sir,” a smiling flight attendant told me, shaking me awake. “You need to put your seat up and buckle up your seatbelt.”

I thanked her and complied. My seatmate kept her eyes out the window, lost in thought.

“We have to prepare for landing,” I told her.

She spun around and stared at me. “I’m sorry?”

I pointed at the seatbelt clasped across my waist and shrugged. “We’re almost there.”

“Oh,” she replied, my words finally registering. “I apologize, it’s just that…”

Her voice trailed off, but I didn’t press her for more. We all have our minds elsewhere or wish we did.

It took forever for them to open the doors to let us out, but then we were freed from our metal prison at last. After I picked up my suitcase, I jumped aboard a shuttle bus to long-term parking.

By eight o’clock, I was speeding north on Sepulveda in my tan Cadillac, desperate to make it to Burbank by nine. Luckily for me, most of the holiday travelers stayed off freeway, getting me to the outskirts of the city in record time.

I drove by my house before I turned the car onto Buena Vista. The hospital rose over the palms lining the street. I pulled into the parking lot and hurried to the entrance.

After checking in and receiving my visitor’s badge, I got in the elevator to the third floor. The nurse at the welcome desk checked my ID and called for an orderly to escort me inside.

“How is she?” I asked.

“The same, Mr. Dillon,” she said, her eyes warm and sympathetic. “Well, you’ll see.”

The orderly arrived, and I followed him down the hallway through a locked door into another shorter corridor. We stopped in front of one of many nondescript rooms. He turned the key and stepped aside.

She lay on her side facing the window. Her arms and legs remained secured to the bed frame. I approached on tiptoes, trying not to disturb her, but she rolled over and faced toward me, her eyes vacant.

“Hi, Susan,” I said, stooping low to kiss her on the forehead, but she said nothing. She didn’t even smile.

There were still bandages on her wrists though less bulky than when I last saw her. At least she was healing physically.

“Have you seen the kids yet?” she said, her voice dry and raspy.

“No,” I told her, taking a seat next to her and grasping her hand. “I will after I leave here. How are you feeling, honey?”

She glanced down at her restraints. “Why?”

“You don’t remember?”

Susan shook her head.

“It’s probably for the best.”

We sat in silence for some time, our hands clasped, gazing at each other. There were some many things I wanted to tell her, but decided none of them were worth it right then.

“Sorry I was away,” I finally said. “The snow in New York was crazy.”

Her eyes widened. “You were away?”

I nodded. “Work, you know.”

“What about the kids?”

I looked up out the window and saw a plane flying over the mountain to the north. “They’re okay. Someone’s watching them.”

“Who?”

“My brother and his wife.”

She smiled for the first time. “They’ll spoil them.”

“That’s what the best uncles and aunts do.”

Susan laughed at that. Good, she still had her sense of humor. That was something.

I glanced at my watch. “I have to run out for a while. Stop by and see the kids, pick up a few things at the store. I’ll swing by later and check on you, okay?”

“Sure,” she said, dropping my hand.

I bent down to kiss her again and then turned away.

“Jack?” she called.

I stopped and faced her.

“Tell them I said hi, okay?”

“Of course, honey, I will.”

I left the room and walked down the corridor to the locked door, pressing the button to summon an escort to pick me up.

“Thanks,” I told the nurse at the desk. “I understand what you mean.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“You, too.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the freeway. It didn’t take me long to get to my exit.

Fifteen minutes later, I was driving past the towering gates to the main road that went through the center of the park. I took the scenic route until I reached the fountain that stood at the intersection.

I walked the well-manicured lawn, stopping at points to read the markers along the way. When I arrived my destination, I halted as though it was the first time.

The inscription on their stone told the whole story:

Here lies


Scott Anthony Dillon and Sarah Ann Dillon


Born July 4th, 1962


Died Christmas Day, 1969


May God grant them eternal rest

I touched the headstone and said a quick prayer.

Would it ever be Christmas again?

#Christmas #1970s #New_York_City #NYC #trauma

“Another martini and not so much vermouth this time,” she ordered, her glassy blue eyes fixed on the barkeeper’s concerned gaze.

“I think you’ve had enough, miss,” he said, wiping the counter in front of her. “I have some fresh coffee, though. It’s on the house.”

Her lips curled in an angry sneer. “Look, I need a drink, not a babysitter. If you won’t serve me, I’ll go someplace that will.”

The bartender laughed. “I doubt you could get off that stool without falling over, let alone navigate your way out of this place and go elsewhere. But you’re free to try. I’m not holding you prisoner.”

She regarded him with the disdain she usually reserved for ex-husbands, but he didn’t appear fazed at all. In fact, his casual smile told her she had met her match for the first time in a while.

She decided to take a different tact. Leaning forward so her scooped blouse dipped seductively in his direction, she smiled and reached out to finger his dark tie.

Instead of succumbing to this old-fashioned flirtation, he gently removed her hand and stepped out of her reach. Her eyes opened wide, first in shock, then in amusement.

“Gay, right?” she concluded, sitting straight again. “I should’ve known.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m glad you’ve proven my suspicions are correct.”

“What are you saying?”

He was getting tired of this banter. “Look, lady, I’ve worked in this hotel for two years now. I’ve seen every ploy, experienced every schmooze, heard every excuse one human could share with another. For what? A free drink or another drink when they are clearly over their limit. And yet, I’ve been swayed by none of them. Do you know why?”

She didn’t reply, but her unfocused eyes made it clear she wanted to know.

“It’s because I know people. I know what they think, feel, want, and need. I know it all. That’s why I’m good at my job. That’s why I tend bar for a living.”

The woman didn’t know how to respond to this. How could he know? Why would he care, even if he did know?

“Okay, I’ll bite,” she finally said. “Tell me about me.”

He laughed. “Are you sure? This isn’t some parlor trick.”

“I didn’t think it was. I’m serious. Tell me the truth. Who am I?”

The bartender sighed. He was about to go down the rat hole yet again, but he had to make sure she understood the risks.

He looked up at the clock. “Give me about fifteen minutes until my shift ends. Then we’ll find a quiet booth and I’ll break it down for you. Deal?”

She nodded.

“But until then, you should get a cup of coffee into you. Okay?”

“If you insist.”

He poured her a cup and pushed the sweetener bowl and cups of cream in front of her, but she just shook her head.

“See, you didn’t know I like my coffee black, did you?” she said, a look of triumph on her face.

The bartender shrugged but didn’t argue. He knew differently, but he felt no need to disabuse her of her notion of his fallibility.

Twenty minutes later, after the relief bartender arrived to take over, he escorted the woman to a booth in the far reaches of the bar and sat down across from her.

“You should drink more coffee,” he told her. Before she could argue, he raised a hand to get the attention of the cocktail waitress, ordering for both of them.

While they waited for their coffee to be delivered, he examined her face. He took his time, noting every line and imperfection that marked her. She sat still for his perusal, a slight smile on her lips.

“Did you get enough data?” she said when he was finished. “Need me to show you anything else?”

He ignored her implied suggestion and said nothing while the waitress placed two mugs of coffee in front of them along with all the fixings. He kept quiet as he watched the woman doctor the coffee. She noticed him staring at her as she did this.

“Okay, you caught me,” she said. “I hate my coffee black. But I couldn’t let you think you were right, could I?”

He laughed. “Couldn’t you?”

She shook her head. “You men think you know everything about women.”

“No, not everything,” he admitted. “But then again, I’m not most men.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, for starters, I readily accept my limitations.”

Her bitter laugh told him more about her than anything she had said or done up to that point.

“Okay, enough foreplay,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Tell me about me. And give it to me straight.”

He smiled. “If you insist. But you need to promise me one thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“You’re not going throw your coffee at me,” he replied, nodding at the mug in her hands. “Or won’t get violent or destructive in any other way. If you do, I’m gone. Got it?”

“Does that happen often?

“You’d be surprised. Do I have your word?” the bartender said.

The woman considered this for a time before she nodded her assent.

“Okay, here it is,” he began. “The obvious observations anyone can see.”

“Such as?”

“You’re lonely, Bored. Depressed. Feeling unloved and unwanted. Insecure.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, that’s easy. A single woman getting drunk alone in a hotel bar. I might as well have stepped out of central casting.”

“In a way you did,” the bartender said. He leaned back to gauge her reaction.

“What are you saying?” she demanded, her voice shrill. She shifted in her seat as she eyed him.

“You know how Shakespeare said we all play a role in life?”

“Yeah, so what? You’re saying I’m just playing a role.”

“Calm down, it’s no insult. We all are.”

“So what role are you playing?”

He chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d ask that.”

“What’s the answer then, smart ass?”

“At the moment, my role is both counselor and soothsayer.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “The counselor part I get, you’re a bartender. That your traditional role.”

“Touché”

“But soothsayer?” she continued, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “You’re saying you can see the future?”

“And the past,” he said with a knowing grin. “Present, past, and future. That’s what I know.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s the truth.”

She leaned forward, a challenge in her eyes. “Fine. Let’s stop beating around the bush. Tell me something about my past.”

“Okay. You’ve been married three times before and were engaged twice more on top of that.”

Her mouth fell open. “How did — ?”

“I told you, that’s what I do.”

She didn’t say anything for several minutes. Instead, she stared into her now empty mug, wondering whether she should press forward.

“I know, you’re wrestling with the pros and cons of knowing the truth,” he finally said. “Few people get father than this.”

She looked up at him. “You do this often?”

He nodded.

“With only women?”

He shook his head. “Men, women, even children sometimes, though obviously not here.”

“Do you ever give them bad news?”

He smiled. “What do you think?”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Tell me about my present, Mr. Soothsayer.”

“Rob. Just call me Rob.”

“Fine, Rob. My name is Stacey.”

“I know.”

They both laughed at this, though Stacey didn’t know why. He was beginning to freak her out.

“So, go on, Rob. My present.”

“Right. You got some bad news this week, didn’t you?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Yeah, a little.”

“Your mother died.”

She nodded. “That was pretty easy for you, I guess.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. My face is an easy read. My first ex said I should never play poker and I guess he was right.”

Rob tilted his head and regarded her. “But how could I be so specific?”

She didn’t look at him. “It’s just obvious.”

“Well, you and your mother didn’t get along for about ten years.”

“Estranged, I think they call it, right?” Stacey replied, her voice raspy.

“And you regret it, but only now.”

She nodded, willing herself not to cry.

“In fact, her funeral’s tomorrow and you’re still debating whether you’re going to go, even after flying all the way out here.”

Her eyes widened. “Where did I fly in from?”

“Los Angeles,” Rob said without missing a beat. “You flew out of LAX, but you living in Hermosa Beach.”

Stacey slapped her hand on the table. He snapped upright but didn’t utter a word.

“How did you know that?” she demanded, feeling the heat rise to her face. “Did you check the guest records? Because if you did, I’m going to report you.”

He raised a defensive hand. “No, I haven’t checked anything other than to confirm you are staying here so I could charge your room for your drinks. I swear.”

She didn’t appear convinced.

“Besides, how would I know about your ex-husbands and ex-fiancés from hotel records?”

Stacey pondered this for a few moments before she calmed down. “Fine, you’re right. Now tell me about my future. And don’t hold back.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Rob said. “Tomorrow’s the funeral.”

She nodded.

“You won’t decide until the last minute whether to go. But you will go.”

“And then what?”

“Your brother will be shocked to see you as will your stepfather.”

“But…?”

Rob smiled. “But you won’t care. You’ll pay your respects at the church and go to the cemetery and pay your respects there.”

Stacey, who had her eyes closed, opened them. “And that’s it?”

“Then you’re going to come back here, check out, and fly back home.”

She played all this over in her mind for several minutes. Finally, she processed it all and smiled. “So, to prove you wrong, I should just fly home in the morning,”

Rob shrugged. “If you want to live your life that way, it’s your choice. I personally wouldn’t handle it that way, but then again, I’m not you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Rob slid out of the booth and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table. “This will cover the coffee and tip. I’m heading home.”

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his hand.

He looked down on her but said nothing.

“I’m lonely, and a stranger here. You sure you don’t want to keep me company tonight?”

He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “No, Stacey, you don’t need me. You need to consider your priorities, though.”

Her eyes narrowed and hand tightened on his. “What does that mean?”

Rob extricated himself from her grasp. “Figure it out.”

He walked away before she could utter another word of protest. She watched him disappear through the hallway leading to the main lobby.

Despite her best intentions, Stacey awoke the next morning close to noon, thanks to the insistent pounding on her door by the hotel maid.

After sending her away, she called the front desk to make arrangements for another night’s stay so she could keep the room and then headed into the shower. Her flight was scheduled to depart at 3:35 PM and she had no time to waste.

While she was toweling her hair dry, she replayed her previous night’s debauchery which ended with an infuriating conversation with a know-it-all bartender instead of a tangle of sheets and limbs as she had planned on.

One thing she had to admit, though, was how spooky it was that Rob knew so much about her that couldn’t be dismissed as lucky guesses. He had some sort of physic power, Stacey concluded, but the truth didn’t make it less frustrating knowing she was so easy to read.

She sat in front of the vanity mirror and carefully applied her makeup, all the while keeping an eye on her watch. No way was she going to miss her plane if she could help it!

The Uber arrived in front of the hotel on time and she climbed in, taking one last look at the hotel before closing the door. As far as she was concerned, this chapter of her life was over.

“There’s an accident on the main route to the airport,” the driver said. “But I know a detour.”

“I’m running late,” Stacey replied. “Will you get me there on time?”

“Don’t worry, I got this.”

Stacey sat back and looked out of the window as the car zipped out of the hotel proper and onto the adjoining thoroughfare. She soon lost her bearings, but she blamed that on the alcohol still sloshing inside her.

Fifteen minutes later, the driver made a turn down a long unpopulated street.

“Is this the shortcut?” she asked, a bit panicked.

“Yep,” the driver said. “It’s fine, we’re making good time.”

Soon he made a series of other turns until they came to a small bunch-up in traffic.

“Shit,” the driver muttered.

“What’s wrong? Is something going on?”

Instead of replying, he pointed. There to the right sat a stately church and a long line of cars double-parked in front of it.

“Wedding or funeral,” the driver said in a morose voice.

Stacey looked at the sign in front of the building and sighed. “It’s a funeral.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m supposed to be here. Let me out, okay?”

“But — “

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the whole trip to the airport and give you a good tip to boot.”

He grinned. “Sounds good to me, lady.”

The driver stopped the car and waited until Stacey got out with her suitcase.

“Damnit,” she said as she trudged up the stairs to the front door.

Stacey stood away from the others as they milled about the gravesite, saying their goodbyes. So far, she had managed to avoid speaking to anyone. Once or twice, her brother and stepfather glanced over her way, but each time they did, she looked elsewhere.

Finally, the remaining mourners had walked to their cars, leaving behind the cemetery workers to complete their tasks. She thought about walking over to her mother’s casket one last time but decided to leave well enough alone.

As Stacey turned to walk to the exit, she spotted a lone figure watching her. She took off her sunglasses and saw Rob standing there, a placid smile on his face. He headed toward her.

“Okay, you were right,” she said. “I don’t know how you knew, but you guessed it.”

“It wasn’t a guess, but believe as you wish,” he replied. “How are you doing?”

She shrugged. “Torn. Sad, yet relieved in a weird way. You know?”

He nodded. “Deaths will do that. It’ll leave you thinking about her for a long time.”

“Perhaps forever. She was a very complicated woman.”

“As are you.”

She looked into his eyes to see if he chose that moment to be biting, but saw no guile there. He was telling her the truth, unvarnished and all.

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said after a while. “I hope you meant it that way.”

Rob didn’t reply but turned his head toward an approaching figure. Stacey looked in that direction and inhaled sharply.

“Whatever is, is,” Rob said as Stacey moved cautiously forward.

“Steven,” she said to her brother.

“You came,” he replied, reaching for her, but dropping his arms when she didn’t reciprocate. “But why? You told me on the phone you didn’t care.”

She swallowed. “I wanted to pay my respects.”

“It’s a shame.”

“What is?”

Tears came to Steven’s eyes. “That you waited until she was dead before you did that.”

Stacey tried to dismiss his words, but knew deep in her heart they were what she deserved to hear.

“You were right, Rob,” she said as she wiped her eyes and turning in his direction.

Steven looked at her, puzzled. “Who’s Rob?”

She spun around but didn’t see him. “He was just here. Didn’t you see him?”

Her brother shook his head. “You were standing alone the whole time.”

“How is that possible? He was talking to me like you are.”

Steven gave her a quizzical look. “I think you’re imagining things, Stacey.”

She smiled a sad smile. “Maybe you’re right.”

Steven turned toward the lone black car parked alongside a row of graves. “Dad would love to see you. Want to go say hi?”

Stacey looked in the same direction and nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”

The siblings walked across the cemetery grounds as Rob watched from a nearby gravestone. He waited until the car pulled away before jogging away in the opposite direction.

Off to another bar, another patron. Another life.

#bar #eerie #funeral #family

For the first and probably the last time in Earth’s history, scientists across the globe over agreed on just one thing — life on our fragile blue orb would cease to exist in eight hours, give or take an hour.

The planet itself would not just disappear. Astronomers predicted that with asteroid’s trajectory and estimated impact velocity, only five percent of North America’s land mass would be utterly destroyed. Unfortunately, the apocalyptic aftermath would make life on Earth untenable for all species, even the cockroaches and (as some suggest) Keith Richards.

Dylan flipped through article after article, searching for some glimmer of hope, perhaps a chance that this was all a bad dream. No doubt millions of other humans were doing the exact same thing and also finding nothing to give them solace.

I’m only twenty-four and now my life is ending? Aren’t I entitled to a future?

This thought punctuated his growing depression, a force that swelled in him like a never-ending tsunami. Even the irony of Washington, D.C. being the estimated impact point for the Texas-size space rock gave him little amusement.

What should I do? Wait for the end or go out on my own terms?

Dylan was hardly what one would call a curious fellow. He didn’t actually live life the way many of his of his generation did. No, Dylan merely existed, almost sleepwalking through his daily existence, his thoughts dispersed among a growing sea of distractions.

Work was a distraction. His girlfriend was a distraction. His parents, divorced for years, were separate and collective distractions. God knew social media was a distraction.

But to what end?

If Dylan had passion and curiosity for anything, it was the latest game craze Cat Patrol 3, known by its legion of adherents as “CP3” or sometimes just “Cats.”

CP3 kept the young man planted in front of his giant flat screen for hours as he guided his character, a cross-eyed Cheshire bruiser named Death_Mask, throughout a dystopian hellscape in search of other cats who he could befriend, kill, or mate with to build his army of feral felines in their quest for world domination.

Now even CP3 provided no allure to Dylan, for planning for future conquests was a key part of the game’s allure and there was no future. Besides, few people were playing these days as the concept of real-world priorities finally sunk in. No fun in RPG when you’re the only player for virtual miles.

The decision Dylan had to make was whether to stick out the coming cataclysm to watch it unfold in real-time or instead just take himself out of the game, so to speak.

His buzzing cell interrupted his musings. He checked the caller ID and almost sent it to voice-mail, but then decided he had to face the inevitable — or at least one of them.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into his game chair. “I was just thinking about you.”

If Molly, his long-suffering girlfriend, recognized this for the lie it was, she didn’t acknowledge it.

“Where have you been, babe?” she asked, a touch of panic in her Minnie Mouse voice.

“Oh, you know, here and there,” Dylan said, extended the lie. In fact, he hadn’t left his one-room flat for days.

“Can I come over?”

Dylan turned his head to assess the condition of his living space. Most everything had been put away, though he could see a few strands of cobwebs hanging from the overhead lamp above him.

“I need to clean first,” he finally said. “It’s a mess here.”

“So what do I care? Tomorrow we’ll be dead.”

He smiled. Or maybe sooner.

“Sure, come over if it doesn’t bother you,” he replied. “But don’t spend the first half hour cleaning. It’s a waste of time.”

“Don’t worry. I’m done with all that nonsense. See you soon.”

He clicked off the phone and headed to the kitchen. He needed a beer.

Molly arrived an hour later, two large bags held in her tiny embrace. He led her to the kitchen to drop them off.

“Groceries?” he asked, amused. “You don’t want to cook tonight, do you?”

She ignored him as she unpacked her purchases and laid them out on the table like a collection of cherished trophies.

Twinkies. Ding Dongs. Ho Hos. And that was just the from the Hostess family.

Dylan’s dark eyes scanned the plethora of junk food that now covered every surface of the table.

“What happened to clean eating?” he said, reaching for the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Molly popped open a bag of Skittles and poured a handful into her mouth. She finished chewing, her teeth a mix of rainbow colors, and shook her head.

“Screw that, we’re going nuts tonight,” she said, chomping another splash of candy.

“No alcohol?” he asked, his disappointment obvious.

“Nope. I’d thought we’d go out for that.”

“Out where?” he asked with a laugh. “Who’s going to be open?”

She took his hand and led him to the window overlooking Jones Street two floors down. There they saw hordes of people on foot heading this way and that.

“Where are they going?” Dylan asked.

“Who knows? Anywhere? Everywhere? Parties, bars, restaurants. Wherever others are to celebrate the time we have left,” Molly said, her voice gleeful. “And I know exactly where we’re going to go.”

“A party? I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”

Molly spun him toward her and kissed him full on the lips. They stood locked like that for several seconds before she released him.

“Trust me, it’ll be fun,” she said, her breath ragged.

Dylan looked back at the kitchen table loaded with goodies. “What about all that?”

“We’ll take whatever’s left with us.”

“What time does this shindig start?”

Molly pushed him toward the sofa. “Enough time for fun.”

Two hours later, the remains of their junk food stuffed in the sacks Molly brought with her, they emerged into a parade of pedestrian traffic and headed toward W 4th Street.

“Are we going to the park?” Dylan asked, referring to the nearby Washington Square Park, a popular hangout for people their age.

“You’ll see,” Molly said, grabbing his hand and leading him past some slow movers blocking their way.

They walked for several minutes, both amazed by the party-like atmosphere everywhere they turned. Dylan, in particular, seemed mesmerized by the sights in sounds in the city he had lived in since his first days at NYU.

“Reminds you of college, doesn’t it?” Molly asked, reading his mind.

When he looked at her amazed she had done so, she only shrugged, a soft smile on her face. They met in psych class at the university and had been together ever since.

When Mikey’s Tavern came into view, Molly led him to the front door. There stood a large bouncer, his NY Giants baseball cap topping a huge bald head.

“Hi, Jason,” Molly said to him. “Room for us?”

“Room for everybody tonight, Molls,” he said with a wink, opening the door for them.

As soon as they entered, the sound from the dense crowd hit them, threatening to knock them over with its intensity.

“Why are we here?” Dylan shouted as they dodged and weave on their way to the bar.

“Trust me, okay?” she said.

She pulled him toward a brief opening at the crowded mahogany railing, nearly shoving aside a tall woman in spiked heels trying to do the same thing.

“Sorry,” Molly said, ignored the woman’s unspoken protests.

Dylan gave the woman an apologetic smile and joined his girlfriend on the stool next to where she was already sitting.

“Molly!” Janice the bartender said. She looked over at Dylan. “Is he the one you were telling me about?”

Molly nodded. “Yes, this is Dylan, my main squeeze. You told us to come by, so here we are.”

Janice poured them two tall mugs of Guinness and placed them on the bar in front of them. Dylan reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Janice shook her head.

“Not tonight. Everything’s on the house,” she said with a wink. “Going out of business sale.”

Molly chuckled, but Dylan didn’t react. He still didn’t get why they were there of all places. He wouldn’t have long to wait for the mystery to be solved.

“You’re probably still wondering what’s going on,” Molly said after swallowed a deep gulp from her mug.

“It occurred to me, yes,” Dylan said. “I mean, this is just a bar, right? What about a party where everyone’s going crazy?”

“Be patient, Dylan. You’re so…un-spontaneous.”

“That’s not a word,” he reminded her, but she ignored him.

Moments later, a dozen men and women their age approached them. Dylan’s eyes lit up when he recognized most of them. He greeted them with a wave of his hand, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as they neared him.

“Dylan, me boy,” one of the men said, tall and lanky and barely keeping his balance. “You look better than you ever did back at NYU.”

Donna, the petite blonde holding him up, slapped him on the shoulder. “Cut the boy some slack, Blaine. He always was…interesting looking.”

Dylan rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

Janice, seeing their party had arrived, poured drinks for all of them and pointed to the rear of the bar.

“Where are we going now?” Dylan whispered as Molly tugged him off his stool.

“You said you wanted a party. So we’re having one. Follow me.”

The group trailed after their leader and her confused boyfriend to the back wall.

“Roadblock,” Dylan muttered. “What’s next?”

Molly rapped twice on the wall, then did it twice more in quick succession. A crack appeared and a hidden door opened enough to allow them access.

“We’re going in there?” Dylan asked, incredulous.

Molly took his hand and pulled him inside. The rest of their friends followed suit, with the last one pushing the false door closed tight.

To Dylan’s amazement, he recognized many of those standing there watching him. His mother. His father. His brother. A few aunts, uncles, cousins. The surviving members of his small family.

He turned to Molly, his eyes wide. “How’d you do it?”

A middle-aged man and his younger wife approached them wide smiles on their faces.

“Molly, dear,” the woman said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Hi Mom, glad you could make it,” Molly said. She turned to Dylan. “Dylan, this my father Steven and my stepmother Angela.”

Dylan shook their hands in turn before facing his own parents waiting for his attention.

“Mom. Dad. You’re here,” Dylan said, embracing them. “But how — “

“Molly invited us, dear,” his mother Margaret said. “When she told us, how could we say no?”

“But the asteroid — “

“Don’t worry about that, son, that’s tomorrow’s headache,” his father Winslow told him, a walnut pipe in his teeth. “Today, we celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?” Dylan asked.

His brother Connor stepped forward and gave Dylan a quick hug. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

Dylan shook his head.

“Dude, your family. Molly’s family. Your closest friends…or the ones who could make it here, anyway. Put two and two together.”

Slowly, an expression of recognition spread across Dylan’s face. Molly watched him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I know we only talked about getting married a couple of times,” Molly said, linking her arm with his. “And I know you’re the guy and you would want to ask. Forget about the old-fashioned B.S.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“I brought the families, friends, D.J, and minister,” she continued, pointing to two men standing in the corner, smiles on their faces. She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Is that the license?” he asked, taking it from her.

“Yep, but it’s not going to get officially recorded. We’re just going to pretend with this part anyway.”

He read it over and handed it back to her. “Looks legit to me.”

“Are we ready?” Steven asked, clearly a man of purpose. “Some of us have had a little too much to drink already and want to stay upright through the ceremony.”

Dylan took Molly by the shoulders. “I’m so happy. Lead on.”

“Does that mean you’re okay with this?” she asked. “I mean, I figured you wouldn’t object, but I would feel really stupid if you left.”

He kissed her on the cheek and smiled. “I’m in, babe. Let’s get hitched.”

She hugged him tonight and led him by the hand to the middle of the room. The minister, a tall African-American man with an infectious smile, stood in front of them.

“Rings?” he asked them.

Dylan’s eyes widened in panic, but Molly put a calming hand on his arm. She reached into her purse and pulled out a ring box, handing it to the minister.

“How long have you been planning this?” Dylan whispered.

“Since they said we were doomed,” she replied.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She only shrugged but said nothing else.

“Okay, everyone, take your places,” the minister called out.

The guests shuffled around, grabbing whatever empty chairs they could find. Those unseated stood silently in the back.

“Everyone settled?” the minister said. “Fine then, let’s begin.”

The ceremony lasted only fifteen minutes. Molly didn’t prepare any vows, and of course Dylan hadn’t, so they improvised. The words they shared were better than any they could’ve written if they had weeks to plan.

After the minister declared them to be husband and wife, the party began in earnest. The DJ, an old friend of Molly’s from her childhood, spun a mix of classic and fresh jams that got everyone on their feet dancing.

From time to time, Janice sent in one of the other bartenders with a tray of drinks and buckets of beer bottles. This pleased everyone, especially their respective pairs of parents since they knew all of it was on the house. The remainder of Molly’s snacks served as the only food for the festivities.

“What about the honeymoon?” Dylan whispered to Molly during one slow dance three hours later. “Do we have time too, you know, celebrate?”

Molly gave him a sly smile. “We already had that earlier, remember?”

Dylan laughed for the first time that night. “How could I forget?”

“We’ll get to that,” Molly said. “But I want to take you somewhere else first.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she shouted, getting everyone’s attention. “Dylan and I want to thank all of you for coming to our nuptials. All of you here made this the most special day we could’ve imagined.”

She paused as the attendees clapped and whooped their approval.

“But it’s time for Dylan and I to enjoy the rest of our time together as a married couple. Alone.”

“Go get her,” Blaine slurred, earning him a friendly slap by Donna, who by now no longer could hold him up as she had enough on her hands staying on her feet herself.

Slowly, the guests made their way to the newlyweds, offering their best wishes and then moving aside for the rest.

Molly’s and Dylan’s immediate family faced them last. Both mothers had tears in their eyes as they hugged their children. Even the fathers appeared to be on the verge of becoming verklempt but held it together.

“I know we’ll never see each other again,” Margaret said. “So enjoy the time you have together. We’ll meet each other again somewhere, sometime.”

Winslow, always the card, broke into “Happy Trails,” but stopped after one line when Margaret put her hand over his mouth.

“Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad,” Dylan said, hugging them both. “Thanks.”

“Take care of my little girl,” Steven said with no trace of irony and embraced his new son-in-law.

As Molly and Dylan headed to the door, Connor followed them.

“Hey, bro,” he called out to Dylan.

Dylan turned to face his brother. “Hey, man. Are you okay?”

Connor shrugged. “You know how it is. The world ending tomorrow and all.”

“Maybe not,” Molly said hopefully, though she knew the truth.

“I just wanted to tell you that’s you’ve been okay…for a little brother, that is,” Connor continued. “Good luck.”

“You, too, big brother,” Dylan said.

The two men embraced for a long time before letting go.

“Trails,” Connor said, waving to them as they left the hidden room.

The couple stopped to thank Janice before leaving the bar. The pedestrian traffic hadn’t slowed down since they had entered the bar — if anything, it had increased.

“Where to now, wife?” Dylan said. “Back to our apartment?”

Molly shook her head. “Nope. Someplace special.”

“Lead on,” he told her.

They hurried down the sidewalks and across Washington Square Park to the opposite side. From there, Molly headed to a tall nondescript building.

“Whoa, what’s here?’ Dylan asked as she pulled open the door.

“You’ll see,” she said.

They took the elevator to the top floor and got out.

“Down this way,” Molly said.

They walked to the end of the hallway to the closed door. She pushed the crash bar open to the stairwell and they climbed to the door leading to the roof.

“Up here?” Dylan asked. “The cops aren’t going to kick out off, are they?”

“Don’t worry about the cops. They’re probably partying like we were all night.”

They walked across the concrete surface until they reached the far corner. There they found a pair of chaise lounges atop a blue beach blanket. A market umbrella sat in a stand between the two chairs.

“I figured we couldn’t make it to the beach in time, so this would be a good place to hang out,” Molly explained as they sat in the two chaises.

Once settled in, she pulled out a bottle of champagne hidden under the blanket along with two crystal flutes.

“Will you do the honors?” she asked, handing him the bottle.

Dylan popped the cork, sending it over the edge to the sidewalk ten stories below. He filled both their glasses and handed one of them to her.

“To us, now and forever,” he said, touching his glass to hers.

They finished their first glass right away and Dylan poured a second for both of them before they settled back in their lounges.

Both of them stared up at the stars so clear in the night sky, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Happy?” she asked him after a time.

“Very,” he replied. “You?”

She nodded.

“Any regrets?” Dylan asked.

“Just one. I wish we had done this sooner.”

“I agree. I guess we’ll enjoy this as long as it lasts then.”

She raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

As Dylan stared into the eyes of his new bride, he couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that only a few hours before, he had contemplated ending his life before the incoming asteroid took them all out.

“What are you thinking about?” Molly asked after a while.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “You know, life and all. How funny all of this is.”

“Glad you didn’t kill yourself?”

His eyes opened wide and turned to look at her. “How did you know?”

Molly smiled. “Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to marry you. Even as late as this morning, I was positive it was a stupid idea.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I thought to myself what would happen to me if something ever happened to you. Not even thinking about the asteroid, just any kind of life-ending event. It made me sad. And furious.”

“Furious? Why?” he asked.

“Because at that momentI knew that you were going to check out on me before the universe checked you out. And right then, I knew I had to marry your ass just to keep you alive for a day.”

“At least,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, at least,” she agreed.

She reached out her hand and he took it.

“Ready?” Molly asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They looked up in the sky and watched as the heavens glowed, dimly at first, then with ever-increasing brilliance. The long-awaited asteroid had made its entry into the lower atmosphere as predicted and was heading for its final destination.

“I love you, Molly,” Dylan said.

“Ditto, kiddo,” she said.

They didn’t have to wait long for the explosion. But they didn’t care. They were happy.

#asteroids #armageddon #happy_endings #NYC #New_York_City

This thought ran through twelve-year-old Rodney Tennent’s head as he descended the stairs from his bedroom to the kitchen where his parents and little sister were already eating breakfast.

Biscombe, a tiny desert community located fifty miles on the California side of the border with Arizona, exemplified everything expected in small town living. Most only saw it as a gas stop, too far from any major business centers to be worth more than a drive-by.

Rodney’s parents, Stacey and Carl, both worked for the Frigate Freight Company, with Stacey in the dispatch department and Carl as a freight loader. They were born in Biscombe as were their parents and grandparents and expected the same of their children’s children. No one left Biscombe.

Rodney went to the refrigerator to grab the nearly empty carton of milk before sitting in his usual chair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Stacey joked, sliding an empty glass to him. “I thought I was going to have to run the vacuum outside your bedroom like last Saturday to get you up.”

Rodney yawned and filled his glass. He shook the empty carton and placed on the table in front of him.

“I’ve already added it to the grocery list,” Stacey said. “As soon as your father is done reading the newspaper, I’ll check for coupons.”

Carl stopped reading to shoot an annoyed glance at his wife. “I told you I’ll be done in a few minutes, Stace. Geez.”

“I’m not rushing you, dear,” she said with a friendly pat on his arm. “Just letting our son know he’ll have his milk later today.

“Damn kid’s gonna eat us out of house and home,” Carl grumbled.

“Mommy, can I have some more juice?” Beth, the three-year-old said, handing her mother her sippy cup with Elmo printed on its side.

Stacey took the cup, walked over to the refrigerator, and poured her more apple juice from a plastic jug.

“Looks like we’ll need more of this,” she said as she placed the cup in front of her daughter. “I hope the Zippy Mart has some good sales this week.”

Carl closed the newspaper with a snap and threw it at Stacey. “There, check it yourself. I gotta go. The game’s about the start”

He stormed out of the kitchen without another word.

“Bye-bye, Daddy,” Beth said, her chubby little hand waving at him.

“What’s wrong with Dad, Mom?” Rodney asked.

“Oh, work, I guess,” she replied. She spotted him staring at the empty place in front of him. “That’s right, I promised I’d make you French toast today. Sorry, I used the last of the eggs for your father’s omelet.”

“What should I eat then?”

“There’s cereal,” she replied. “Just use some of the milk from your glass.”

Rodney rolled his eyes and headed to the cabinet where only one box of cereal remained. He looked inside and grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” Stacey asked.

“Just the crumbs. I can’t eat this. What else do we have?”

“Honey, I can’t do everything for you. Make yourself some toast. There’s plenty of bread.”

He did as she suggested while she scanned the newspaper.

“Now this is interesting,” she exclaimed at one point. “‘Scratch & Save’?”

Rodney buttered his toast and walked over to look over his mother’s shoulder. On the page where the Zippy Mart advertisements were located was a card labeled “Scratch & Save” printed on top.

“I’ve seen those,” Rodney said, taking his seat again.

“Never from the Zippy Mart, though,” Stacey said. “Get me a coin from the junk drawer, would ya?”

Rodney, in the midst of taking his first bite of toast, shook his head and went over to find spare change in a drawer filled with small, mostly unidentifiable, objects. It took him a few minutes until he found a nearly black quarter.

“Thanks, honey,” Stacey said when he handed it to her. “Wish me luck.”

Rodney watched as she scratched the card several times. “What’s it say?”

Stacey held the card up. “Save fifty percent on your next purchase.”

“Wow,” Rodney said. “I wonder why they’re doing that.”

“I know why,” his mother said with a sly smile. “I heard from Daisy, the redheaded cashier over there, that they’ve lost a lot of business to the internet in the last couple of years.”

“For groceries?”

“For more than that. Apparently, overnight deliveries are coming all the way out here to Biscombe. They’re using drones and everything.”

Rodney chuckled. “Maybe we can get our milk flown in.”

Stacey rose and found a notepad and pen. “Time to make our grocery list. Your father’s going to be thrilled we saved so much money.”

Somehow Rodney didn’t believe his father was capable of being thrilled about anything other than the Rams winning another game, but he didn’t argue.

Rodney walked past the den and saw his father sitting in his favorite chair, his feet up on the banged-up coffee table he had saved from the salvage yard, the game blaring.

He was almost out of sight when he heard Carl call his name.

“Yeah, Dad?” he asked, not daring to cross the threshold. God knows what this was all about.

“Where are you going?” Carl asked in his gravelly voice.

“To my room.”

“Homework?”

Rodney shook his head. Here it comes, he thought.

Carl grimaced. “Going on your computer?”

“Yeah.

“What are you working on?”

Rodney shifted uncomfortably. He hated these interrogations, but what could he do?

“Oh, you know, just messing around.”

Carl didn’t reply for a moment, letting the silence lie there like a dead duck.

“Can I go now?” Rodney asked.

“What are you reading up there?”

Rodney inhaled and held it. Should he say?

“Well?” his father pressed. “Tell me what you’re reading.”

Rodney glanced behind him, but his mother was out of sight and wouldn’t be coming to save him.

“Who are you looking for?” Carl asked, his voice rising.

“Um, no one. I’m reading Benjamin Franklin’s biography.”

Carl turned to face him for the first time. “I thought you said you weren’t working on homework.”

“I’m not,” Rodney said, unable to suppress his grin. “It’s my own project.”

“Which is?”

Rodney quickly explained how he learned about the Harvard Classics collection and found it all available online. His father listened in silence as he observed his son’s animated face describing the challenge he gave himself to read the whole thing in a year.

When Rodney finished, he stood still, waiting for his father’s reaction. The fact he didn’t say anything through his whole spiel he considered to be a good sign.

“Are you kidding me?” Carl said after a while, a sneer on his face. “You’re reading that kind of crap when you could be out rough-housing with your friends out in the sunshine? What kind of boy are you, anyway?”

Stunned by this attack, Rodney stood mute, fighting the urge to retort. That would no doubt generate an even worse humiliation.

Carl stared at him for a long minute before turning his attention back to the TV, summarily dismissing Rodney from his mind. The boy didn’t need to be told to run out of the room before his father remembered who he was berating.

As soon as Rodney got to his room, he slammed the door shut and locked it for good measure. He didn’t hate his father — that would come later — but he certainly didn’t like him very much.

Minutes later, the encounter with Carl flew from his brain as he settled down in front of his computer. Who cares if his old man understood him? Someday he’d be long gone from this hellhole and would never have to talk to him again.

Rodney launched a browser and the page on Bartleby.com appeared in front of him. He then fished out a thumb drive from its hiding spot and plugged it into his USB port.

Moments later, he had a Linux session opened. Several keystrokes later, he landed at his usual chatroom, affectionately called MerryPranxtrz. After logging in with his usual handle. Hot_Rod_454, he sat watching the threads progress before wading in.

“It’s on, folks,” he typed and sat back to watch the response.

His fellow chatroom denizens greeted his arrival with a mixture of electronic hoots and howls, several of which included congratulations.

When the chatter calmed down, he explained how their morning newspaper had evidence of his success.

“Bullshit,” challenged one of the more cynical members who called himself ZZ_Bottoms, also known as Bottoms. “Prove it. Show us the coupon.”

“I can’t do that, idiot. My mom has it and she’s planning on going to the store later. Like I told you guys, I hacked in and changed the algorithm, then made sure it got in the newspaper. They’ll never know what hit them.”

“I still don’t believe it, script kiddy,” Bottoms retorted, effectively accusing him of being a poser instead of a real hacker. “You have to have the receipts or it’s just utter BS.”

“Hey, give him a break,” interjected LottaPranx, one of the female members, who everyone called “Lotta.” “You didn’t say he had to prove it, just he had to do it.”

“Shut up, Lotta,” Bottoms said. “You’re not involved.”

“Am, too,” she replied. “I’m an equal member. There are no ranks here, Bottoms. Get your shit together.”

“I think it’s pretty cool you did that,” ZedRedTed, also known as Zed, added. “Was it hard?”

“No,” Rodney typed. “I actually thought it would be harder, to be honest.”

“Are you going to go to the store with your mother?” Lotta asked him. “You want to witness the fun firsthand right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Rodney said. “I hate shopping, but I guess this time will be worth it.”

“Well, even if you really did it, I still think it’s lame,” Bottoms said, his disgust evident. “Try something REALLY daring and then maybe you’ll get my respect.”

“I didn’t do this for your respect, asshole!” Rodney typed, furious. “I wanted to pull a prank and I did that.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe it for a minute,” Bottoms said.

Rodney began typing another fiery response when he heard a knock on the door. He quickly closed the Linux screen, ejected the thumb drive, and slid it into its hiding spot.

“Who is it?” he shouted as he returned to the Bartleby.com site.

“It’s Mom,” came Stacey’s reply. “I need you to come to the store with me. Are you free now?”

Rodney grinned and hurried over to open the door. “Let’s go.”

They arrived at the Zippy Mart around noon and found that the normally busy Saturday parking had morphed into a scene from Death Race 3000. Cars honked as quicker drivers took their parking spot without even a casual apology.

“Wow, maybe we should’ve waited until tomorrow,” Stacey said as she jockeyed for position to steal a parking space from a slow-moving grandma driving a jet-black Esplanade.

“No way,” Rodney exclaim, his eyes wide as he watched the scene unfold. “I would’ve paid to see this.”

Stacey gave him a sideways look but didn’t comment. “Get our bags,” she told him instead.

Rodney dutifully removed the five well-worn canvas sacks from the trunk and followed her to the front door of the market. That’s when they had their second surprise.

“A line?” Stacey said as they saw a dozen customers standing at the entrance, waiting to push their carts inside.

The woman in front of her turned toward her and rolled her eyes. “Can you believe it? I’ve been shopping here for twenty years and this isn’t the first time I couldn’t just waltz in and do my marketing.”

“Did you get a Scratch & Save?” Stacey asked her.

“Yep,” the woman said, a wide grin on her face. “Fifty percent! It’s like I won the lottery.”

“Same with me,” Stacey replied, holding her card up for the woman to see. “We’re going to buy a month’s worth of groceries.”

“Excuse me,” a young man with a nose piercing called out to them. “Did you say you got a fifty-percenters?”

“We both did,” Stacey told him.

“Me, too,” a pregnant woman said. “I was just telling my husband it’s like Christmas.”

Soon, everyone else standing in line echoed the same refrain: they had all gotten fifty-percent-off coupons. Was Mack Jamison out of his mind?

Mack, the owner, had inherited the store from his father back before Rodney was born and renamed it the Zippy Mart after the elder Jamison died. He tried a few new promotions from time to time, but nothing as generous as this one.

As the customers chattered about what all this meant, Rodney stood in silence and just listened. Every time someone reported great luck with their coupon, he forced himself to suppress a smile. It was all going better than he had hoped.

Finally, after thirty minutes of waiting, Stacey and he passed through the door. They both searched for Mack amongst the clerks, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you even think he knows what’s going on?” Stacey whispered to Rodney.

“He must, it’s his promotion,” her son replied. “He’s probably in the office waiting until things die down.”

The pair pushed their cart into the sea of shoppers, each jockeying for position much like they had been doing in the parking lot. Rodney said little as they made their way down the first aisle.

“How’s everything going at school?” Stacey asked him, noticing his silence.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Rodney said.

“You’ve been kind of, I don’t know, distracted lately, that’s all. Anything bothering you?”

Rodney shook his head. Stacey let it drop, for they entered a particularly busy zone, made even worse by the broken jumbo-sized bottle of pickles blocking their progress.

While they waited for someone to clean up the mess, Rodney’s mind was elsewhere. He had been pondering how best to top his prank to shut down Bottoms’ skepticism and watching the sea of bodies negotiating the tight space disrupted his concentration.

Mack Jamison arrived at his store close to two o’clock, having visited his ailing mother at the nursing home all morning. Puzzled by the still hectic scene in the parking lot, he went inside through the employees’ entrance.

Fifteen minutes later, he waded into the mass of humanity clogging the front of the store near the registers, his eyes wide with panic.

“Mack!” Stacey shouted from register #5, waving to get his attention.

The store owner, looking shell-shocked and ready to cry, barely heard her. When he did spot Stacey with Rodney next to her, he hurried over to talk to them.

“Hi Mack,” Stacey said. “Your promotion is doing great! What gave you the idea to do it?”

He stared at her, his eyes full of terror. “I didn’t. This is going to break me.”

“What?” Stacey replied, her jaw dropping open. “This wasn’t your doing?”

He shook his head and scanned the long lines reaching deep into the aisles behind them.

“Who did?” she pressed.

He shook his head and turned away to speak to someone else.

“That’s odd,” Stacey said to Rodney as they pushed their cart outside. “Do you think it was a mistake?”

“Who knows?” Rodney said.

As Stacey chattered on about the excitement of the day on the way home, Rodney began having conflicted feelings. While he was thrilled his prank went so well, he felt sympathy for Mack Jamison he hadn’t anticipated. He never thought about the consequences of his actions.

“Honey?” Stacey said. “Did you hear me?”

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“I said you know about computers. Do you think that someone hacked some system or another to put those coupons in those newspapers?”

“Could be,” Rodney said. “It would be hard, though.”

“I’m sure some clever hackers could figure it out. Well, if they were involved, I hope they feel bad for what they did. Poor Mack, he pays for his mother in that nursing home and if he loses a lot of money today, I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

Rodney felt a pang of guilt hearing her words. Yet, he also figured a way to outdo his previous prank and get even with Bottoms once and for all.

Just wait, he thought to himself, anxious now to get started.

At home, Rodney helped Stacey drag the overladen bags of groceries into the kitchen. Carl, a bottle of beer opened in front of him, turn to gaze at the cornucopia.

“What the hell?” he roared. “Did you buy the damn place out or something?”

“Cool your jets, Carl,” Stacey said. “Remember, I told you we had a fifty percent off coupon?”

Carly stared dumbly at her and then shrugged. “Why they do that?”

Stacey explained about the promotion, adding that it seemed that Mack Jamison knew nothing about it.

Carl grinned upon hearing the news. “Serves him right. The bastard’s been ripping us off for years. I hope you stuck it to him good.”

Stacey ignored him, turning to Rodney instead. “I hope you never think this way.”

Rodney suppressed a grin but didn’t answer her. “I’m going up to my room now, okay?”

“Sure, go ahead. And thanks for your help.”

Rodney tore out of the room, almost tripping over his little sister playing with her toys right outside the kitchen door. Instead of being annoyed, she laughed as he managed to leap clear of her.

He shut and locked his door and headed right to his computer. Moments later, he was logged in and connected to the chatroom.

“Hey, Rod,” Lotta typed before he had a chance to announce himself. “How did things go at the store?”

Rodney described the mayhem his prank created, but then added he felt bad that the store owner told them he was going to lose the money.

“That’s a shame, I guess,” Lotta replied with some sympathy. “But I’m sure he’ll still make a profit.”

“Hey, kiddy, I see you’re back for more,” Bottoms interjected. “Boo hoo, the store owner’s gonna lose money and won’t be able to afford to pay for his mother in the nursing home. Big deal.”

“Hey!” Lotta said before Rodney could answer. “The kid has a heart, unlike you, you ignorant ass.”

“Ooo, big word from a little girl,” Bottoms replied. “Always coming to side with the script kiddies.”

Rodney watched for a few more minutes while the other two traded barbs.

“Hey, I got something to do,” he finally said. “But I’ll be back later.”

“Up to no good again?” Lotta asked. “If you are, give us a preview.”

“Nope, this one’s top secret. But I promise you that you’ll love it.”

“Good riddance, little Rod,” Bottoms said.

Rodney logged out and waited a few minutes before switching to his library of scripts. He had a lot of work today before the end of the day.

That evening, Stacey had to call him several times before he went downstairs to dinner. As soon as Rodney entered the kitchen, he could see trouble was afoot.

“Hey, your mother’s cooked good food here and we had to wait while you got off your ass to start eating,” Carl said, his fork gripped tightly in his meaty fist. “I told her you don’t have to eat, but she wouldn’t let us start without you.”

Beth, who had been exempted from this courtesy, sat happily shoving apples into her mouth, some of which decorated her pink-and-white bib.

Rodney sat in his usual spot and dived into the tuna casserole his mother made. Carl hunkered down and almost inhaled his first helping, while his mother picked at her dish.

Stacey waited a few minutes before speaking.

“I was talking to Daisy over at the Zippy Mart,” she began. “And the almost sold out of everything there today.”

Carl guffawed but didn’t take his eyes off his plate.

“Did she say if Mr. Jamison lost a lot of money?” Rodney asked.

“No,” Stacey said. “But he was so angry he called the police about it.”

This got Carl’s attention. “You think the cops actually give a crap about some podunk store in this place. He’s barking up the wrong tree with that.”

“That’s not what Daisy said,” Stacey continued. “The ‘cops’, as you call them, already have some leads on the case.”

“Well, goody for them,” Carl said, holding up his empty plate. “More?”

Stacey stood and brought over the pan containing the rest of the casserole. She spooned a pile for him and added some to Rodney’s dish as well.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, taking another bite. “Did Daisy say anything else?”

“Nope, just that they hope to have whoever did this caught soon.”

Rodney smiled but didn’t reply. He felt the same way.

Two weeks later, Rodney arrived home from school to find his mother on the phone, her eyes wide with excitement. She held up a finger for him to wait.

“Really?” Stacey said, her voice rising. “Where was he?”

She nodded several times. “Okay, thanks for letting me know, Daisy. Carl will get a kick out of it.”

After hanging up, she turned to Rodney. “You’ll never believe it! They caught the hacker. He lives in Gary, Indiana, of all places.”

“What?” Rodney asked, surprised. “They found him that fast?”

Stacey nodded, a satisfied smile on her face. “Yep. The guy who did it make it so easy for the police to track him down. A rookie mistake, they called it.”

“Wow, that’s pretty crazy he doesn’t even live around here. Anything else?”

“Of course. Daisy said the guy told the police it wasn’t him, it was some kid who lives around here, but they’re dismissing that. They have all the evidence they need to convince him.”

Rodney suppressed a grin. “Is anything going to happen to him?”

“Well, I hope so! Maybe jail. He’ll definitely have to pay Mack Jamison back for all the money he lost.”

“That’s good.”

Stacey placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I hope you don’t do anything crazy like that.”

Rodney stood mutely, staring at her. Did she know?

“Nah, not you,” she continued. “You’re a good boy. I can’t wait to tell your father.”

Rodney hurried upstairs to his bedroom. After he locked his door, he jumped into the chatroom and was immediately greeted by the regulars there.

“What did you do, Rod?” Lotta asked him after the hubbub died down.

“What do you mean?” Rodney typed. “Did something happen?”

“Hey, you’re aware all of us know it was you, right? You freaking told us you were,” she said.

“You did, dude,” Zed added. “Not saying it wasn’t a righteous hit on Bottoms, but geez, the guy may end up in jail.”

“You HAVE to claim it, Rod,” Lotta wrote. “If not, you’re not the guy I thought you were.”

Rodney didn’t expect that kind of response. If anything, he was hoping his online friends would congratulate him for his cleverness.

“Hey, he taunted me, so I showed him I wasn’t a script kiddy. He never saw it coming,” Rodney said, the heat rising up the back of his neck.

“Still not cool, dude,” Zed replied. “Not cool at all.”

“Do the right thing, Rod. You’ll be glad you did,” Lotta said.

“And if I don’t?” Rodney typed, his heart sinking to the bottom of his chest.

“Then we’ll just banish you,” Lotta said. “Just fix this.”

No more texts came his way.

Thoroughly disappointed, Rodney logged off and shut down his computer. He had a lot of thinking to do.

Carl sat in the den, watching highlights from the past weekend’s game, sipping on a beer, when Rodney came in.

“Dad, can we talk?” he began.

Carl glanced back and seeing the concern in his son’s face, waved him over to sit next to him.

“Crazy about that hacker,” Carl observed, his eyes fixed on the screen. “It was stupid how he allowed himself to get caught, but still you got to give him credit for have the balls to try it in the first place.”

Rodney considered this. “Do you really think so?”

Carl turned to him. “Definitely. You know my motto — always stick it to the man when you can.”

Rodney nodded. “Dad, I have a question.”

“What?”

“Supposing I told you it was me who did that hack?”

Carl stared at his son and shook his head. “Nah, you couldn’t do that. You’re not smart enough. And besides, you’re too much of a goody-two-shoes.”

Rodney didn’t say anything but stared at his hands folded in his lap.

“They caught the guy anyway, right?” Carl said, a bit unnerved.

“Because of me,” Rodney finally replied.

He quickly explained the chatroom dare and how he decided to get even with Bottoms the best way he could think of.

After he finished, Carl sat back in his chair to process this. Slowly, a grin grew across his face.

“You sly dog, you!” he said, slapping his son on the back. “I knew you had it in you.”

“But you said — “

“Never mind that. My son, the troublemaker. Just like his old man.”

Rodney’s eyes narrowed. “You’re proud of me then?”

“Of course I am,” his father said, squeezing his shoulder. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Mom, for one.”

Carl waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry about her. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Rodney sighed. “I guess you’re right. Thanks, Dad.”

He rose, gave his father a half-hearted smile, and left the room.

Rodney spent fifteen minutes confessing the whole scheme to Stacey. When he was finished, she just watched him, her face a mask of disappointment.

“You told your father?” she asked.

Rodney nodded, unable to look her into the eyes.

“And he said he’s proud of you?”

He nodded again.

“Figures,” she spat, her hands now on her hips. “You realize we’re going to have to make this right, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And that means we’ll have to pay Mr. Jamison back out of the money we’ve set aside for college for you.”

Rodney swallowed deeply but said nothing. What could he say?

“How do you want to handle this?” Stacey asked him.

“I guess I’ll call Mr. Jamison first and explain everything. Then I guess I’ll go to the police.”

“You could get in a lot of trouble, you know.”

“I know.”

Stacey looked at her son, then the telephone, and then back again. “Look, let’s wait until morning. Maybe we’ll be able to think more clearly with a good night’s sleep. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Rodney agreed. “Thanks for not yelling at me, Mom.”

“You’re getting too old for me to be screaming at you about things. But you do know how disappointed I am in you, right?”

Rodney looked her in the eyes for the first time. “I do.”

“Okay, go to bed. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

Rodney left the kitchen, snuck past the den, and raced up the steps to his room.

That night, he heard his parents arguing in their bedroom until very early in the morning. When he entered the kitchen for breakfast, neither one of them were speaking. Even Beth sat uncharacteristically quiet in her high chair.

“Your father and I were talking,” Stacey began, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “And we both agree that you have to come clean.”

“I know,” Rodney said. He glanced over at his father. “Sorry about that, Dad.”

Carl shrugged. “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

“So,” Stacey continued, pouring herself another cup of coffee, “you and I will go down to talk to Mr. Jamison together after you eat.”

“What about school?” Rodney asked.

“You’ll have to skip classes this morning, but don’t forget to get the assignments you missed from your teachers.”

“Okay,” Rodney said. “But what about the police?”

Carl cleared his throat. “Let me handle that. I have a few contacts in law enforcement and maybe we can get the charges dropped.”

“Really, Dad?” Rodney asked eagerly. “Thanks!”

“Hey, I’m not promising anything,” Carl replied. “But there’s a good chance.”

“You’ll still have to pay Mr. Jamison back out of your college fund,” Stacey said.

Carl frowned with those words but clamped his mouth shut.

“I deserve that, I guess,” Rodney said.

Stacey stared him in eyes. “One more thing…no more chatrooms. None. If I catch you even lurking in one of them, I’m taking away your computer and you’ll have to go to the library to do your homework. Got it?”

Rodney nodded and settled down to eat his breakfast.

A week later, Carl announced he was able to keep Rodney out of legal jeopardy. In fact, the companies affected by the hacking were so happy that someone found holes in their security they wanted to express their appreciation by paying Mack Jamison back themselves.

“So it all worked out?” Rodney asked, not wanting to believe his ears.

“It looks that way,” Stacey said. “But if I were you, I would walk on the other side of the street if you see Mr. Jamison coming in your direction. Hell, he might not even let us shop there anymore!”

“Good riddance, we’ll just order from Amazon like everyone else does,” Carl scoffed.

Rodney excused himself, saying he had to catch up on his homework. After making sure his door was locked, he plugged in his Linux thumb drive and navigated to the chatroom app.

When he couldn’t find his chatroom in the list, he fired up email and shot a quick note to Lotta to find out what happened.

Moments later, a reply came in. She explained that the board host shut them down, and said that if they ever reassembled, the authorities would be contacted.

She ended the note with her apologies for guilting him into confessing. In the end, she said, no one fared well as a result.

Rodney thought about replying to her one more time but remembered his mother’s warning to him. He decided to accept this as one important lesson, not only about how his actions affected others in myriad and unknown ways, but which of his parents really was his hero.

“Thanks, Mom,” he murmured as he erased the thumb drive.

#pranks #grocery_store #lessons_learned

I remember the first time I met my father. My job took me to New York City once or twice a year, usually during the warmer months. Most mornings, unless the rain was too heavy, I would try to get over to Central Park to people-watch and maybe grab lunch from a street vendor.

If you never ate hot dogs out of a Sabrett’s cart, you don’t know what living is all about. The snap of the fleshy meat, the tang of the mustard, the give of the soft bun… just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

This particular day, the line in front of the Sabrett’s guy was at least thirty people long and I didn’t have time to wait and still be able to enjoy my wiener without feeling like I had to scarf it down. With a heavy sigh, I bypassed that cart and moved down the sidewalk looking for something suitable I could get to and still have time to take a leisurely stroll back to the office.

Just as I was about to give up and turn around, I spotted the sunlight glinting off the sides of a shiny chrome cart across the street. I checked traffic and hurried over to check it out.

As soon as I got within a foot of it, I could smell the savory goodness of sausages being grilled. The guy who ran it, perspiring a little from his labors and the growing summer heat, stood turning the meat, his head down and eyes fixed on his work.

“Sausages ready?” I asked, stepping in front of him.

He didn’t even glance up at me. “Four minutes, five tops.”

“That’s good, I’ll wait.”

He nodded and kept working. While he did his thing, I decided to step away and lean against a nearby wall. Pedestrian traffic wasn’t as busy on this side, giving me ample opportunity to watch the guy ply his craft.

I like to play a game when I meet strangers. It involves observing them and then forming a little profile about them, completely fictional and I’m sure nowhere close to the truth. I smiled as I looked at him, preparing to do this right now. This one would be a good one, I predicted.

He stood about five-foot-six, but while not tall, he had a broad chest and thick arms matted with dark hair much like my own. His dark eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, and even though he wore a white cap, I guessed the hair on his head, if he still had any, shared the same hue.

I hadn’t yet seen his face yet, but I didn’t need to yet. I already had an idea forming about his profile. He was the son of a Greek or Italian immigrant and had lived in New York his whole life. Like his father before him, he sold food on the streets of Manhattan or maybe Brooklyn, I wasn’t sure. Brooklyn sounded more ethnic, so maybe there.

In my fictional world, the guy was married with two daughters and maybe one son. The daughters were the apple of his eye but disappointed him because they were still unmarried and wanted to move away. The boy, however, was a hard worker, yet did not want to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wanted something more, something that would give him an opportunity to travel. The boy wanted to make his unique mark on the world.

I was still in this reverie when I saw him waving to me. After checking my watch to confirm I still had time, I hurried over to him.

He handed me my sausage in an aluminum foil wrap, not even looking at me.

“How much?” I asked reaching into my pocket for my wallet.

He pointed to the sign delineating the prices for what he sold. A sausage sandwich was five dollars, which to me was a bargain for New York.

I handed him ten and he gave me five ones in return. I noticed a tip jar in front of him and I slid two bucks into the jar. He nodded his appreciation and kept his eyes on the grilling meat laid out in front of him.

“May I ask you something?” I said.

For the first time, he looked at me straight in the face. Right away, something in his eyes looked familiar to me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall from where.

He said nothing, but he stared at me with such impatience I found myself stammering out my question.

“Are you from New York?” I finally asked, expecting him to confirm he was.

Instead, he gave me a quick shake of his head and his gaze returned to the sausages.

“Where are you from then?” I pressed.

He shrugged, but that was all I could get out of him.

“Okay then, thanks for the sausage,” I said, raising the aluminum pouch I held like a toast.

He grunted an acknowledgment and nothing more.

I left his cart and headed back down 5th Avenue toward my office. I had less than twenty minutes to get back before my next meeting and I had already wasted enough time trying to find something to eat.

The rest of the afternoon I keep thinking of the guy and the familiarity I felt looking at him, puzzling over where I had seen him before. At first, I thought it was because he resembled the late actor John Belushi so much and maybe that was all it was.

But the longer I pondered it, the more I thought that it had to be he reminded me of someone in my past, but I couldn’t think of who.

The next few days, I stopped by his cart for a sausage sandwich and another chance to see his face. Like before, he said little to me and only gave me fleeting glimpses of his face.

By my last day in town, I had grown frustrated that I couldn’t figure out the mystery. Some of the local staff invited me to join them for a departure lunch, but I begged off, telling them I had to meet a friend.

I hurried up 5th Avenue and crossed the street to the Sausage Guy’s cart, as I began to call him. Unlike previous times, he had a couple of people in line ahead of me, but that didn’t bother me. I had a few hours until my departure flight and had nowhere else to go until then.

After the previous customers left, I stepped forward. He looked up at me and nodded.

“Same?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He nodded and turned over a sausage nearly ready to be served. While I waited, I peered into his face again, tilted as always toward the grill’s surface. He noticed me doing that and faced me.

“You keep doing that. Why?” he said, his voice a cross between a growl and a purr.

I played dumb and shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Every day you come here and order the same thing. I watch you. You look at me like the police do.”

“You have problems with the cops?”

He shook his head. “No. But you act like they do. It’s not right.”

We stood in silence for a few minutes while I considered a response. I already asked him if we met before and he denied it. Maybe he didn’t know we did.

“Where are you from?” I asked out of the blue.

“The USA.”

“Okay, but where? Specifically?”

He flipped the sausages on the grill again and said nothing at first. Then he finally spoke up, obviously annoyed.

“I grew up in Los Angeles, okay?” he said.

“That’s where I live.”

He shrugged. “A lot of people live there.”

“I know. You got a family?”

Instead of replying, he took one of the finished sausages and tucked it into a bun. He then wrapped it in aluminum foil and handed it to me.

“Five dollars,” he said.

I pulled out my wallet and fished out a five and a couple of ones. I slipped him the former and tucked the latter into his tip jar.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure thing,” I said. I turned to leave and then stopped. “Do you have kids?”

He flipped a couple of sausages and moved them to a place on the grill to keep them warm.

“Well?” I said.

“I did,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

The guy looked me in the eye again. “A long time ago, okay?”

With those words, I began to feel like I had a bead on this whole thing, like I didn’t have to make up a story about him now. The guy had his own tale to tell. He watched me with curiosity as though he could read my thoughts.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

He didn’t answer for a long minute. By then, customers had formed a line behind me.

“I have to serve these people,” he finally said. “Come back in a couple of hours. We’ll talk then.”

“My flight back to the West Coast leaves soon. I have to get to the airport early or may not make it.”

He shook his head like it wasn’t any skin off his nose and pointed at the customer behind me to take her order. I stepped aside, trying to decide what I would do.

After a few moments, I moved away from the cart and found an empty spot on a bus bench. Keeping an eye on him, I ate my sandwich and contemplated what my next moves would be.

Fifteen minutes later, I had finished eating and balled up the foil and other trash to take to the waste can. I walked by the man as he worked. His stiffness reminded me of someone who only dealt with bad news with insufferable, silent annoyance.

Even though he was still filling orders, I had to say something before I left.

“I’ll see you again next trip,” I said, tossing my trash into the can next to him. “Maybe then you’ll be willing to talk to me.”

He didn’t say anything, but I could tell my imminent departure put him on edge. I didn’t care. I had a home to return to.

The flight back too LAX was uneventful. I slept part of the way and the rest of the time I did work. I had the entire row to myself, giving me the opportunity to get comfortable for the long trip cross-country.

It wasn’t until I was in my car driving back home that the thoughts of the “Sausage Guy,” as I labeled him, returned. It helped me while away the time during the long commute and for that I was grateful. But whether I was tired or just distracted by the traffic, my mind eventually moved on to more important things.

A few times I even tried to find him online, searching the web using phrases like “sausage seller on 5th” and “sausage cart Central Park,” but I had no results worth pursuing. Sidewalk vendors didn’t garner enough of a fan club to earn space on the internet, I guessed.

Over the next few months, whenever I would have a hot dog or sausage sandwich, I would think about the guy. By then, most of the brief time spent with him had become a distant memory, but the intensity of his eyes never left me.

In November, I drove up to Ojai to visit my mother for Thanksgiving. She had moved up there from Los Angeles after she retired and now she made a small living painting wildlife canvases and selling them at arts-and-crafts fairs.

Because of the distance and my job, I only got to see her during the holidays. Since I was had to travel back to New York on business during Christmas, this would be the only time we would visit for the rest of the year.

As usual, Sue, my mom, invited a dozen of her artists friends, most of them retirees in similar circumstances as Sue. They all felt grateful to have survived the rat race in the big city and now were spending their golden years making pretty things.

We spent the day swapping stories, many of them featuring my mom, who joined in with the gentle teasing, only stopping to interject a story or two about my adventures as an unruly child and her raising me as a single mother.

All her friends knew how my father had run out on us the day I was born and neither one of us had heard from him since. Still, the inevitable questions about him came at me as they always did.

“Did you ever see that bum in your travels, your father?” a man named Arthur asked.

Arthur was blind in one eye thanks to a degenerative disease that was slowly taking the rest of his vision. That didn’t stop him sculpting some of the most beautiful art pieces I had ever seen an amateur create.

“No, never, Arthur,” I said with a smile. “I don’t even have a picture of him, so I wouldn’t know who to look for even if I was in the same room with him.”

“I told you what he looked like,” Sue said. “Just like Grandpa Joe, but with more hair.”

Joe was my father’s father. He and Ruth, my grandmother, played a prominent role in my life as they tried to fill the void that my erstwhile father had left in my life.

“I know, Ma. Still, Grandpa Joe looks like a lot of other guys. Besides, what are the odds I’m ever going to meet him?”

“He’s right, you know?” an elderly woman named Peggy said, her shaking hands held in her lap.

Peggy had Parkinson’s, but her paintings boasted of a creative eye and a steady hand despite the tremors. I loved her for her practical view of life and always enjoyed her company.

The conversation then moved onto more mundane topics. While they talked, I got up from the table and walked into the living room. There on the fireplace mantle sat a dozen framed pictures, many of me throughout the different phases of my life.

I hadn’t looked at the photos in a long time, so I spent a few minutes examining each and trying to recall the events that led to the moment being captured on camera.

One featured me at five years old wearing a light blue cap and gown, holding up a rolled diploma, a big grin on my face. Kindergarten graduation, my mother told me one time. I had no memory of that. Another showed me playing basketball, a high school snapshot that somehow ended up in the local newspaper.

I was near the end of the line when I stopped in front of a picture I had completely forgotten about. In it were Joe and Ruth on their wedding day, standing in front of a huge cake and smiling at the camera.

I bent closer to examine their faces. There was Ruth, her blonde locks hanging down across her shoulders, looking out at the crowd watching her, a big grin on her face.

And then Joe, his dark hair combed back in a pompadour, his hand clenching that of his new bride, a smile that told everyone how happy this conjoining made him and spoke of endless promises of a long life together.

Just then, I heard someone approaching me from behind. It was my mother.

“You okay, honey?” she asked, standing next to me. She touched the framed photo and smiled. “They looked so happy, didn’t they?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to see Grandpa Joe’s face when he was younger.”

“He was a handsome man,” she said. “I miss them both.”

“Me, too, Mom,” I said, putting my arm around her.

We stood like that for a long while and then something dawned on me. I leaned closer to the photo and peered into my grandfather’s face.

“What, dear?” my mom asked me.

“Grandpa’s eyes… something familiar about them.”

“He had very expressive eyes, didn’t he? Unique. Just like your father’s.”

I turned to her. “Dad’s eyes are the same.”

She nodded. “Exactly the same. You have my eyes. Why do you ask?”

I pointed at the photo. “I’ve seen these eyes recently. Back in New York.”

I quickly explained to her the source of my mini-obsession. She kept quiet until I finished and then smiled.

“I doubt it’s him, but it wouldn’t surprise me he’s selling food,” she said. “He wanted to be a chef in a fancy restaurant someday. Unfortunately, he could only get a job as a dishwasher at a greasy spoon until…”

Her voice trailed off, but I knew she was going to say “until the day he ran out on us.”

She shook off the temporary cloud that passed over us and smiled. “Come on, time for coffee and pie. I made sweet potato, your favorite.”

“Sounds good, Ma. I’ll be back in a second, okay?”

She patted me on the shoulder and left me alone.

I looked at the photo one more time and then pulled out my phone. I took several snaps of the image and then went back out into the dining room. I had a plan.

I arrived back in Manhattan a few days before Christmas. As usual, the company put me up in one of the four-star hotels near midtown. By the time I had checked in and unpacked, it past eight at night and too late for any street vendors to be out working. I’d have to bide my time.

As it turned out, my co-workers insisted on taking me out for lunch my first full day in the office, so I never got a chance to go over to the Park as I planned. By the time I made it there after work, no food carts were in sight. Disappointed, I headed back to the hotel.

The week ended up being busier than I thought. Each day, we’d have so much work going on that we would order lunch to be delivered and then we would leave until well after dark.

It wasn’t until Friday, the day I was scheduled to return home, that I got a chance to break away for lunch. Making sure I had the photos I had taken queued up on my phone, I headed up 5th, keeping an eye out for the sausage cart.

I stopped at the place where I had last seen the guy, but there was no sign of him. Undaunted, I continued my search for a few blocks, but to no avail. He wasn’t there.

I only had to walk down a couple of blocks before I spotted a food vendor. I found myself almost jogging as I approached it, but soon saw it was only a Sabrett’s cart and not the sausage guy.

Frustrated, I continue moving down 5th Avenue to check out the other carts, but one by one I passed them by as the target of my search had apparently disappeared in a big cloud of greasy smoke.

Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a shiny food cart parked at the corner of 5th and 79th. I hurried over to him and waited behind the short line of customers getting their food.

Finally, it was my turn. I stepped forward and smiled a greeting. “Remember me?”

He didn’t even look up from his grill, he just shook his head. “What do you want to eat?”

I pulled out my phone, turned it on, and held it up in front of him. At first, he ignored me, but curiosity got the better of him. He looked at the photo for a long moment. Then he stared at me.

“Damnit,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it.”

“It is you,” I said, my voice rising. “You’re my father, right?”

He looked down at his sausages and nodded, but said nothing.

“I have a question,” I said, my voice quieter now.

“What?”

“Why?”

At first, I didn’t think he would reply, but he realized he had no choice. Other customers began to line up behind me and soon he’d have to get me out of there or risk losing a lot of money.

“I’m no father,” he said. “I told your mother that before she got pregnant, but that didn’t stop her.”

“Hey, you had something to do with that.”

This time he looked up at me, his face a mixture of anger and anguish. “It was her job. She told me she had it covered.”

“Yeah, but accidents happen,” I said, my teeth clenched. “You couldn’t man up when it all came down, could you?”

He shook his head. “I’m no father, like I told you.”

“Did you ever remarry? Have other kids?”

“No. I’ve been alone my whole life.”

With those words, I suddenly understood my compulsion to meet this man. Despite the fact my mother and grandparents raised me and I grew up to be a happy, successful man, I still lacked the one thing I need in my life — a father. Even if that father was the most imperfect man in the whole world, I would have appreciated knowing he was out there.

“What else can I say?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the customers grumbling in line behind me.

“Did you ever think about us? Me?” I asked.

He didn’t reply for a long time and then he nodded. “Tried not to think about you too much. I just hoped you grew up happy and healthy without me. It looks like you’ve done okay.”

I nodded. “Mom is the best mother. And your parents helped, too.”

He smiled for the first time. “They’re good people.”

“They were good people. Both of them died years ago.”

I heard him sigh then. An expression that sounded so plaintive that it almost broke my heart.

“Look,” I said. “I know you have customers. Can I see you again? I fly out here a few times a year. Maybe we can, you know, become friends or something.”

Part of me hoped he’d say no, because I didn’t know if I really wanted this kind of complication in my life. To my surprise, though, he nodded and I realized that was the only answer I wanted.

“Come see me the next time you’re in town and we’ll go out for coffee or something,” he said.

“I will. Thanks.”

I moved to the side to let the next customer order. As I watched him work, I couldn’t help but think of how much this would change my life and maybe even my mother’s, too. But I thought that if I’m going to move forward, I needed to step back just a little and find a piece of me I lost so long ago.

I could only hope it would help him do the same.

#New_York_City #food_carts #family #reunion #NYC

She sent me an article about a woman who was fired by her boss, an oral surgeon, after she told him she had cancer. He expressed concern that due to the magnitude of her disease, the woman would be unable to perform her work duties because the treatments she would have to endure would be too debilitating.

“That’s why they fired you,” she told me. “I had cancer and it impacted your work.”

“No it didn’t,” I said. “I was working fine. I had barely taken any time off.”

“But you were stressed.”

“Sure, I was stressed. The job stressed me out. Traffic stressed me out. My family stressed me out. Your cancer was just one more on the list.”

“I’m sure they fired you because of me,” she insisted.

“Why do you keep saying that? I’m telling you they let me go because I was an expensive asset and they could move my work under someone much cheaper. It was simple economics.”

She shook her head. “No, it was my fault. My treatments cost too much. I was too much of a liability.”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “They wouldn’t have done that.”

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “You really believe that.”

I lowered my eyes. I had to believe it.

I told her she'd be surprised to see my name in lights someday. She giggled in that high-pitched, snarky laugh she learned from her college friends. I never knew her back then. A snooty sorority girl is how I pictured her. No fraternities for me, none of that get-drunk-until-you-drop nonsense. No, I was too serious ... a GDI, they called me. While the floor of my dorm partied until the break of dawn, I sat on stiff library chairs, stuffed in a tiny study carrel, Mr. Studious.

Now, years later, she sits in wait, anxious to see me fail yet again. Sure, I've had my string of failures, but I've had my successes, too. I'll always have the library.

I stare at the blank page, wishing for an idea to come to me. So many thoughts, so many words, yet none of them coherent. What is Prose ... or prose, for that matter. I seek acceptance, yet I want to be exceptional. How do you make words scream -- to turn someone's head away from their electronic flavor of the moment? I won't dance for your shekels. I'm not that desperate for your attention. And yet, here I am ... writing on this empty page. Will I press the Publish button or will I choose to abandon this nonsense and move on to more mundane activities, like laundry or counting my change in that big plastic bottle I keep in the bottom of the closet just across from where I type this message.

I need direction.