Charles Mellon Hocksworth
Charles first struck upon the idea of living in the snow pile on the Northeast corner of the Walmart parking lot on a cold, windy night just after he had been asked to leave the men’s shelter because of an altercation he started and finished with a rum soaked, foul smelling resident there. The fight wasn’t his fault, really, the man known as ‘Junk’ had taken Charles’ pillow and refused to give it back. Charles convinced him in the only way he knew how - a ferocious right hook. The powerful blow knocked out Junk and probably broke his toothless jaw, but Charles didn’t really care, not even a little. Junk had been stealing things from him ever since Charles had landed in the men’s shelter, and the pillow was just the last item that Charles was going to let him get away with. Charles had tried the, ‘turn the other cheek’ routine, but his patience had run out and he explained to Junk in a manner Junk would understand. But, that action made life for Charles suddenly far more unpleasant.
Ron, the night manager at the shelter escorted Charles to the front door, handed him his belongings, meager but adequate, and slightly pushed Charles out the door, carefully watching him in the off chance Charles wanted to take a swing at him.
"Sorry, Charles, but the rules are rules and we can’t have any fighting here at the shelter," Ron explained, in an, almost, apologetic tone.
Charles didn’t say anything, knowing that any attempt to ask for mercy would be in vain. He pulled his hood up over his ball cap against the wind that was blowing small pellets of snow, and walked down the street, not sure of where he would go. He had a sleeping bag tied to his back pack, a vestige of his working days, and was prepared to sleep outside if it came to that. His parka would keep him warm for awhile, but the temperature was dropping and would probably be down near zero before the night was over. His boots, old and worn, weren’t up to the task of keeping his feet warm unless he kept walking. The thought of walking all night in the pending blizzard didn’t strike Charles as one of the more brilliant ideas he’s had. There wasn’t another shelter within ten miles and he didn’t feel like trying to make it there during a snow storm, especially with the wind kicking up like it was, probably blowing in a blizzard. He had seen too many homeless men found dead after just such a storm and he didn’t plan on being a statistic just yet.
He knew there would probably be a fire in a fifty five gallon drum down near the tracks under the bridge that crossed the river, but he wasn’t up to walking that far tonight, plus, the idea of sharing the fire with a bunch of drunks, junkies and crazies didn’t get Charles too excited. He walked a few blocks trying to get his thoughts clear. He turned a corner and saw the lights of the Walmart parking lot and just naturally walked toward the light, like a moth looking for it’s bearings. Plus, he knew he could wander Walmart for awhile, warming up, before they sent him back into the cold.
Charles approached the parking lot from the South, just to the right of the large pile of plowed snow. It must have been twenty five feet high, piled up by huge front loaders. He stopped and stared at the pile, a germ of an idea budding in his cold brain. He looked the pile over, walking around it as he surveyed the immensity of it, enlarging his small idea as he walked. A brief smile crossed his cracked lips as he scratched his whisker covered chin with a bare hand.
He made a quick decision, turned and walked across the parking lot and entered the store. He still had a few dollars left from his last job, washing dishes at a café north of town until the owner’s grand son returned from school.
The owner, Jim, had tried to explain why he had to let Charles go, but couldn’t look Charles in the eye as he attempted some justification for firing him.
Charles walked to the sporting goods section and found the items he needed - a small backpack shovel, a candle lantern, a pack of small, flat candles for the lantern, a plastic tarp, and a small, folding cot.
After checking out, he pushed his cart filled with his new furnishings and headed for the snow pile. He parked his cart on the side of the pile opposite the store. A large berm covered in spruce trees and topped by a six foot fence were at his back as he began digging into the snow pile. He tried to pace himself so that he didn’t work up a sweat, knowing that any moisture that dampened his clothing would lower his core temperature when he stopped working. He dug a small opening, in the South side of the pile, just big enough for him to crawl into, that connected to an entrance hall about four feet in length with a slight turn in it to keep any wind down to a minimum. From there, he began to dig a larger room, one about four feet high and approximately six feet across in all directions. He wanted to keep it as small as possible so that he didn’t have to use much energy to heat it.
Once the hole was dug to his satisfaction, he pulled in his new furnishings to arrange them in his new home. He cut the tarp in half and fashioned a make-shift door from one half and used the remaining half as a rug. He set up his cot, dug a small ledge for the candle lantern and lit the candle. He now had light and heat. With no wind, the heat from the candle was enough to take the edge off the cold. In fact, his new home was becoming quite comfortable. He rolled out his sleeping bag, pulled off his boots and slid into bed. The snow, in addition to stopping the wind and acting as insulation, was also blocking all sound from the outside world. For once, in a long time, Charles could enjoy silence. It sounded good. He extinguished the candle, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He awoke the next morning having one of the best nights sleep he could remember. Not since he had found himself out on the streets had he had such a great night’s sleep. Sleeping in shelters, he had to keep one eye open most of the night to keep track of his things. In the ‘Pile’ as he had come to call it, he was alone, unmolested, safe and secure from the outside world.
He poked his head out to find a new, two inch, layer of fresh snow. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the opening, pushing some snow over the tarp to conceal it from anyone who might be prying around the pile. After making sure his new home wouldn’t be disturbed, he headed off to the soup kitchen to see if he could get something to eat.
As he walked to the soup kitchen, he had a new bounce to his step. He was a home owner now. Sure, it wasn’t really a conventional home, but it was close, and it performed as one. Besides, he thought, he didn’t have to mow the lawn or shovel the walk, some major pluses when you consider home ownership. He would have to find a way to get a radio so that he could listen to some tunes while he lounged around his new home.
He had just finished eating when Victor, a small, Hispanic man with silver hair and a ready smile, sat down next to him.
"Hey, Charles, I heard about the fight last night you had with Junk. Way to go, man!"
Charles nodded at Victor. "He stole my pillow," Charles explained.
"They had to haul his butt to the ER after you left. He had a broken jaw. They wired it shut so now he’s eating out of a straw," Victor said, lauging.
"He had it coming"
"Yeah, he probably did. I never liked him too much, ya know?" Victor said.
"Me too," Charles added.
"Hey, Charles, where are you staying now? Victor asked.
"I got my own place," Charles said, smiling slightly
"Your own place? How did you do that?"
Charles realized he’d said too much already and didn’t want to add to the mistake by saying more. He just shrugged his shoulders and moved the toast crumbs on his tray around with his fingers.
"Come on, Charles, what you got goin’?
"Nothin’"
"Nah, you got somethin’ goin’ on." Victor bent his head down to look Charles in the eyes. "You’re not gonna tell an old buddy?
Charles stood up. "Nope. There’s just room for one, and that’s me." He headed for the garbage can to dump his food. "Sorry, Vic. I’ll see ya around."
Charles realized he’d have to be more careful so that no one would find out where he was staying and steal all his belongings. He didn’t look back to see how Victor was taking the news. He just didn’t care if Victor liked it or not. It was a matter of survival and having people like you didn’t contribute to survival on the streets. Being smart and tough mattered and that was all. Charles was both tough and smart, and he was sometimes brutally honest when it came to dealing with his fellow man, especially the other homeless men he encountered on the streets. He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush and try to spare anyone hurt feelings. If they couldn’t get over it, then to hell with them. He didn’t expect any thing different in return.
Charles had been on the streets for the last six years, ever since he was discharged from the Army in 1973. After two tours in Vietnam, a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart, all the Army could do for Charles was some money for school and occasional free medical care. They really didn’t have an answer to the nasty little habit he’d picked up in the jungles and back streets of ‘Nam. He, as well as many of his fellow soldiers, had found their escape from the brutality and senseless killing in various and assorted drugs. That was the good news, the bad news was that the habit followed them home. Some of the lucky ones rid themselves of it and the unlucky ones, like Charles, suffered the consequences regularly.
Six years of being on the streets, still fighting many of the battles he wished he’d left in country. But, Charles knew the responsibility for his condition lay at his door and none else, and he accepted that. He, somehow, knew he’d find a solution out of the darkness that had engulfed him and get his act together. He had to. He had seen too many of his fellow ex-soldiers die on the streets to want to spend all of his life homeless and hopeless. But, the puzzle was how one went about getting off the streets. As of that cold, sunless morning, Charles had not found that piece of the puzzle. He wondered if he ever would find it. Maybe he’d just walk the streets until they found him huddled under a bridge some day, frozen stiff like Speed, the meth freak who was found just a week before, frozen harder than the concrete he was laying on.
Charles shuddered at the thought of Speed laying on the concrete, just a lump of frozen flesh.
"Aw, crap," Charles muttered under his breath as he dismissed the thought of Speed out of his mind.
Charles walked back to the Pile and, after making sure no one was watching, slipped into the entrance and lay down on the cot. He didn’t light the candle, letting the ambient light leaking in from around the tarp across the opening light the small room.
It was after noon when he awoke. He hadn’t planned taking a long nap, in fact, he hadn’t planned a nap at all, but the comfort of his happy home had overtaken him and he slipped off. He crawled out of the entrance and , after covering up the tarp, walked over to Walmart to use the bathroom. The wind was picking up forcing Charles to pull his hood up over his head. It looked like another storm was blowing in.
To be continued.....
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Bank Robber- a cautionary tale
He stepped inside the second set of glass doors and took a furtive look around, hoping not to see an armed guard. A quick exhale of air signified his pleasure at not finding one. There was still the pesky cameras, but he felt his disguise was sufficient to render him unrecognizable to anyone that might know him, or try to identify him later. To his dismay, the bank was busy and there was a line of people waiting to get to the counter. He wasn’t ready to step up to the line, so he hurried over to a small ledge attached to the wall next to the door where a pen was attached with a chain and several small forms were stacked in their respective compartments, ready to be filled out by bank customers. He grabbed one of the forms, turned it over and wrote his robbery note on it. He waited, hoping that the crowd would thin and he would be able to do his dirty business without having to worry about some citizen trying to be a hero. But, his luck wasn’t holding and the people continued to wander in the door.
He folded his note, held it in his left hand, turned and stepped into line behind a young woman with a little girl in tow. The little girl kept staring at him, making him nervous. Two old women walked in the door and stood behind him as he stared back at the little girl hoping that would make her turn around and stop looking at him. Standing on one foot, she swayed back and forth hanging on to her mom’s arm and sticking the fingers of her other hand in her mouth. His ploy of staring back wasn’t working, in fact, it seemed to make it worse.
The two older women behind him were talking about the up coming bingo game at the living center and wondering if Gladys would try cheating again. Then, almost in mid sentence, they switched to hair coloring , pros and cons, and then off to the best laxative on the market. He was trying to think of a way to move the line faster so that he didn’t have to listen to the talk about hair color and laxatives and be stared at by, what he thought was, a disturbed little girl.
Unfortunately, the line didn’t move and he was getting nervous. His fake beard was starting to scratch his skin and the sweat began to pour down his face from under his hat and wig. He had worn a down filled vest under his coat to make him seem heavier, aiding in the disguise, and the combination of vest, wig , hat and beard were causing him to become extremely hot and uncomfortable. He looked up ahead to see what was holding up the line. There were only two cashiers and one was helping an old man try to count the change he had brought in to deposit. They had to start over twice due to his forgetting where he was in the count. The second cashier was helping a young woman making a merchant deposit. She had checks, cash, coins and receipts scattered over the entire counter. It looked like he was in for a long wait.
The two women behind him began to argue about who had the most aches and pains. He wanted to turn around and tell them to shut up, but he didn’t want to bring any unwanted attention to himself so he just took a breath and tried to relax, which was becoming increasingly more difficult with each inane remark from the two old women.
Two men, dressed as if they might be construction workers stepped into line behind the old women. He was thinking perhaps his idea of robbing the bank wasn’t such a good one, when the line actually moved. The old man finally got his money counted and was hobbling out the door and the young woman and the little girl had moved to the counter, making him next in line.
His heart beat began to accelerate. He was next and it looked like the woman making a deposit was about to finish. She thanked the teller, stuffed her cash bag into her large purse and stepped toward the door. The teller looked at him and smiled. Well, here goes nothing, he thought.
"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" the teller asked, still smiling.
He said nothing, sliding his note across the counter toward her, his hand shaking as he pushed the note.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking the note in hand. She read it to herself. " I’m afraid I don’t understand," she added as she examined the note.
He pointed to the note and looked sternly into her eyes trying to will her to give him the money in her drawer.
"It says ‘give me all your money and act normal’. I don’t know what you mean by acting normal," she explained.
He couldn’t believe what she was saying. Could she actually be that dense? He pointed to the note one more time hoping it would sink in that he was trying to rob the bank. She looked at him with a blank stare.
"Did you want to make a withdrawal?" she asked.
He nodded, not wanting to talk, making identification even more difficult.
"Ok, what is your account number?"
He stared at her, not believing what he had heard. Again, he pointed to the note, this time with a thud as his finger forcefully struck the note.
"I have to have an account number in order to help you make a withdrawal," she explained trying to be helpful. "If you’ll give it to me, I can check your account." She waited for him to speak.
He decided to try to disguise his voice and get her to understand he was robbing the bank. "Put all your money in a bag and act normal," he said in a hushed, husky voice.
"I’m not sure what you mean by normal. This is normal. Wouldn’t you consider this normal?"
"Just put the money in a bag!" he said, becoming more agitated.
"Then I guess you consider this normal. Do you have an account here?" she asked again.
"No! Just do as I ask and no one will get hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I would hope not," she added. "But, if I don’t have an account number, I won’t know which account to debit, now, will I?"
"Don’t you get it, just put the money in a bag ," he said, trying to be as quiet as possible and still be heard.
"I’m sorry, sir, but if you don’t have an account here, I can’t help you," she explained, looking past him. "Next"
"No!" he yelled, turning around and looking at the two old ladies. "Stay back. I’m not finished yet!"
"Well," one of the two huffed, "how rude."
He turned to the teller and pointed at the note. "Just put the money in a bag and continue as you normally would." He had given up on trying to disguise his voice.
"No, I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do that," she said, adamantly.
He stood and stared at her. He decided to play his ace. "I have a gun."
She looked at him, looked down at his side, then back into his eyes. "Next, she said, looking past him at the old ladies."
"Look, Mommy, the man is leaking," the little girl standing next to him at the counter said, pointing .
He was sweating profusely, it dripping off his nose and beard. The young girls mother shushed her and pulled her back next to her side.
"See, Mommy, look," the young girl insisted, pointing up at him.
One of the old ladies stood next to him. "We’re next," she said looking up at him with a furrowed brow.
"Just back off!" he shouted at the old lady. "I’m not finished yet."
One of the old ladies spoke. "She said you were." Indicating the teller with her gloved hand, a purse hanging from it.
"No sense being rude," the other old lady chimed in.
"Hey, what’s going on?" One of the construction workers asked.
He stepped aside. The first old lady stepped up to the counter in front of him. He stepped back another step.
"How can I help you ladies?" the teller asked.
He backed up a few steps, trying to get his head straight. Somewhere, the whole transaction had unraveled and he was no longer in control, if he ever was. He crumpled up the note, threw it down and almost ran out of the bank.
One of the old ladies watched him leave the bank. "What is his problem?"
"He wanted to rob the bank." the teller answered, smiling.
THE END
He folded his note, held it in his left hand, turned and stepped into line behind a young woman with a little girl in tow. The little girl kept staring at him, making him nervous. Two old women walked in the door and stood behind him as he stared back at the little girl hoping that would make her turn around and stop looking at him. Standing on one foot, she swayed back and forth hanging on to her mom’s arm and sticking the fingers of her other hand in her mouth. His ploy of staring back wasn’t working, in fact, it seemed to make it worse.
The two older women behind him were talking about the up coming bingo game at the living center and wondering if Gladys would try cheating again. Then, almost in mid sentence, they switched to hair coloring , pros and cons, and then off to the best laxative on the market. He was trying to think of a way to move the line faster so that he didn’t have to listen to the talk about hair color and laxatives and be stared at by, what he thought was, a disturbed little girl.
Unfortunately, the line didn’t move and he was getting nervous. His fake beard was starting to scratch his skin and the sweat began to pour down his face from under his hat and wig. He had worn a down filled vest under his coat to make him seem heavier, aiding in the disguise, and the combination of vest, wig , hat and beard were causing him to become extremely hot and uncomfortable. He looked up ahead to see what was holding up the line. There were only two cashiers and one was helping an old man try to count the change he had brought in to deposit. They had to start over twice due to his forgetting where he was in the count. The second cashier was helping a young woman making a merchant deposit. She had checks, cash, coins and receipts scattered over the entire counter. It looked like he was in for a long wait.
The two women behind him began to argue about who had the most aches and pains. He wanted to turn around and tell them to shut up, but he didn’t want to bring any unwanted attention to himself so he just took a breath and tried to relax, which was becoming increasingly more difficult with each inane remark from the two old women.
Two men, dressed as if they might be construction workers stepped into line behind the old women. He was thinking perhaps his idea of robbing the bank wasn’t such a good one, when the line actually moved. The old man finally got his money counted and was hobbling out the door and the young woman and the little girl had moved to the counter, making him next in line.
His heart beat began to accelerate. He was next and it looked like the woman making a deposit was about to finish. She thanked the teller, stuffed her cash bag into her large purse and stepped toward the door. The teller looked at him and smiled. Well, here goes nothing, he thought.
"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" the teller asked, still smiling.
He said nothing, sliding his note across the counter toward her, his hand shaking as he pushed the note.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking the note in hand. She read it to herself. " I’m afraid I don’t understand," she added as she examined the note.
He pointed to the note and looked sternly into her eyes trying to will her to give him the money in her drawer.
"It says ‘give me all your money and act normal’. I don’t know what you mean by acting normal," she explained.
He couldn’t believe what she was saying. Could she actually be that dense? He pointed to the note one more time hoping it would sink in that he was trying to rob the bank. She looked at him with a blank stare.
"Did you want to make a withdrawal?" she asked.
He nodded, not wanting to talk, making identification even more difficult.
"Ok, what is your account number?"
He stared at her, not believing what he had heard. Again, he pointed to the note, this time with a thud as his finger forcefully struck the note.
"I have to have an account number in order to help you make a withdrawal," she explained trying to be helpful. "If you’ll give it to me, I can check your account." She waited for him to speak.
He decided to try to disguise his voice and get her to understand he was robbing the bank. "Put all your money in a bag and act normal," he said in a hushed, husky voice.
"I’m not sure what you mean by normal. This is normal. Wouldn’t you consider this normal?"
"Just put the money in a bag!" he said, becoming more agitated.
"Then I guess you consider this normal. Do you have an account here?" she asked again.
"No! Just do as I ask and no one will get hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I would hope not," she added. "But, if I don’t have an account number, I won’t know which account to debit, now, will I?"
"Don’t you get it, just put the money in a bag ," he said, trying to be as quiet as possible and still be heard.
"I’m sorry, sir, but if you don’t have an account here, I can’t help you," she explained, looking past him. "Next"
"No!" he yelled, turning around and looking at the two old ladies. "Stay back. I’m not finished yet!"
"Well," one of the two huffed, "how rude."
He turned to the teller and pointed at the note. "Just put the money in a bag and continue as you normally would." He had given up on trying to disguise his voice.
"No, I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do that," she said, adamantly.
He stood and stared at her. He decided to play his ace. "I have a gun."
She looked at him, looked down at his side, then back into his eyes. "Next, she said, looking past him at the old ladies."
"Look, Mommy, the man is leaking," the little girl standing next to him at the counter said, pointing .
He was sweating profusely, it dripping off his nose and beard. The young girls mother shushed her and pulled her back next to her side.
"See, Mommy, look," the young girl insisted, pointing up at him.
One of the old ladies stood next to him. "We’re next," she said looking up at him with a furrowed brow.
"Just back off!" he shouted at the old lady. "I’m not finished yet."
One of the old ladies spoke. "She said you were." Indicating the teller with her gloved hand, a purse hanging from it.
"No sense being rude," the other old lady chimed in.
"Hey, what’s going on?" One of the construction workers asked.
He stepped aside. The first old lady stepped up to the counter in front of him. He stepped back another step.
"How can I help you ladies?" the teller asked.
He backed up a few steps, trying to get his head straight. Somewhere, the whole transaction had unraveled and he was no longer in control, if he ever was. He crumpled up the note, threw it down and almost ran out of the bank.
One of the old ladies watched him leave the bank. "What is his problem?"
"He wanted to rob the bank." the teller answered, smiling.
THE END
Monday, February 1, 2010
Let's get bummed!
Well, dear reader, there are several resolutions that I have already missed, one being that I would write something interesting at least once a week. In reality, I’ll be lucky to write something interesting once a year. But, at least you’d think I’d write something at least once a month, interesting or not. But nooooooooo! I can’t even manage that.
I could talk about the weather, but one of my unwritten resolutions long ago was to not swear, and I intend to keep that one , so I can’t talk about the weather. Even though, we are in the abyss of winter, the black hole of the year that sucks out every ounce of life from any unsuspecting person caught in the northern latitudes. But, I’m not going to talk about the weather! Because it is tooooooo depressing. Just having to think about the lack of color, the bone chilling cold, and the insufferable snow, that just keeps coming and coming and coming until one is moved to tears and wants nothing but to scream and fall into a snowbank sobbing. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about how tired I am from lifting forty tons of frozen water that piles up on my driveway and sidewalk, and all the other sidewalks and driveways I am responsible for. And, there doesn’t seem to be an end to it. It is unrelenting. And, the lack of sunshine and the accompanying loss of vitamin D has created an unyielding depression that has caught me in its icy grasp and I am helpless.
And that is why I’m not going to talk about the weather. Not even a little bit, not even once! Nope, not this guy. No weather. And no politics, which is equally as depressing and useless to talk about because we can’t do anything about either. Well, how about religion? No thanks, I’ve got one. So, now, dear reader, you may have a sense of why I’m not posting in this blog every week.......I have nothing to say!
I suppose I could subscribe to the mindless drivel that runs rampant on Facebook, but, I can’t bring myself to sink to that level - yet. Maybe next month when the weather has cleared.
This is one of the good things about winter, a happy snowman. This is one that Katie and Jake made on our front yard. Their grandma lives across the street and she could see this guy out her front window.
I could talk about the weather, but one of my unwritten resolutions long ago was to not swear, and I intend to keep that one , so I can’t talk about the weather. Even though, we are in the abyss of winter, the black hole of the year that sucks out every ounce of life from any unsuspecting person caught in the northern latitudes. But, I’m not going to talk about the weather! Because it is tooooooo depressing. Just having to think about the lack of color, the bone chilling cold, and the insufferable snow, that just keeps coming and coming and coming until one is moved to tears and wants nothing but to scream and fall into a snowbank sobbing. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about how tired I am from lifting forty tons of frozen water that piles up on my driveway and sidewalk, and all the other sidewalks and driveways I am responsible for. And, there doesn’t seem to be an end to it. It is unrelenting. And, the lack of sunshine and the accompanying loss of vitamin D has created an unyielding depression that has caught me in its icy grasp and I am helpless.
And that is why I’m not going to talk about the weather. Not even a little bit, not even once! Nope, not this guy. No weather. And no politics, which is equally as depressing and useless to talk about because we can’t do anything about either. Well, how about religion? No thanks, I’ve got one. So, now, dear reader, you may have a sense of why I’m not posting in this blog every week.......I have nothing to say!
I suppose I could subscribe to the mindless drivel that runs rampant on Facebook, but, I can’t bring myself to sink to that level - yet. Maybe next month when the weather has cleared.
This is one of the good things about winter, a happy snowman. This is one that Katie and Jake made on our front yard. Their grandma lives across the street and she could see this guy out her front window.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
New Year's Resolutions
1. Don’t eat yellow snow. (Why wasn’t I told this as a child?)
2. When a large, hairy guy says shut up and you think he said stand up, clarify before taking action. (I wish I'd made this one last year.)
3. No Detox in the year 2010. (See post of November 2009)
4. Become filthy rich. (I’m half way there!)
5. Write something interesting in this blog every week. (Messed up already. Drat!)
6. Try to get a novel published.
7. Try to write a novel.
8. Read a novel. (Much easier.)
9. Find out who Lady GaGa is and why Mr. and Mrs GaGa named their little girl, Lady.
10. Buy Cher’s greatest hit.
11. Find out what aftershave Tiger Woods uses.
12. Buy new aftershave.
Well, dear reader, there they are, the Dirty Dozen, my New Year’s resolutions. And, may I say, I am resolute in keeping these this year. Perhaps I’ll update my progress as the year goes on, but, since following through on resolutions wasn’t one of the twelve, perhaps not. I hope these will inspire all who read this to set there own resolutions. Good luck!
2. When a large, hairy guy says shut up and you think he said stand up, clarify before taking action. (I wish I'd made this one last year.)
3. No Detox in the year 2010. (See post of November 2009)
4. Become filthy rich. (I’m half way there!)
5. Write something interesting in this blog every week. (Messed up already. Drat!)
6. Try to get a novel published.
7. Try to write a novel.
8. Read a novel. (Much easier.)
9. Find out who Lady GaGa is and why Mr. and Mrs GaGa named their little girl, Lady.
10. Buy Cher’s greatest hit.
11. Find out what aftershave Tiger Woods uses.
12. Buy new aftershave.
Well, dear reader, there they are, the Dirty Dozen, my New Year’s resolutions. And, may I say, I am resolute in keeping these this year. Perhaps I’ll update my progress as the year goes on, but, since following through on resolutions wasn’t one of the twelve, perhaps not. I hope these will inspire all who read this to set there own resolutions. Good luck!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Detox - A study in torture
Before I start, let me caution the parents that may be reading this. Send the children out of the room. What follows is so horrible, so scary that it is not for the faint of heart or for those under the age of twelve. I’ll wait until they are gone...............ok, we can continue.
The Martin family, or to be more accurate, Mikki, Katie and me - Jake is left out of the fun since he is playing football and needs his strength - have embarked on an epic odyssey, though that may be redundant. We have adopted a new diet that promises to bring health, happiness and prosperity to all those who would dare to attempt its rigor. Not wanting to back away from a challenge, we stepped to the plate, ready to take our swing at the fence.
The name of this program is "The Food Lovers Fat Loss Diet". It appears to be a very sensible, reasonable plan that incorporates real food and is based on the concepts of Nutrisystem, with a hint of Richard Simmons’ Deal a Meal utilizing real food we eat on a regular basis. It all sounded good until the first six day detox plan was explained to me. I was incredulous when I heard what was expected of me. At hearing the directions, I was immediately taken back to those days of pledging for a fraternity and the infamous "Hell Week" that every upperclassman looked forward to with sadistic glee. "I have to do what?" was my first reaction, my second being going to my room and brooding for several hours.
After coming out of my room, I reluctantly, and against all reason, acquiesced to the regimen and now find myself in the middle of the second ‘Hell Week’ of my life. What follows is the daily detox plan:
Upon waking, I am immediately, or at least ten minutes after waking, given a glass of water laced with Pysillium husks that has the equivalent fiber rating of a large ball of twine. After ingesting the fiber bomb, I am then administered a glass of water mixed with chlorophyl. For those of you who may not be familiar with chlorophyl and its many uses, let me elucidate. Chlorophyl is touted as an internal deodorant. I can now rest from my concerns that my insides may possibly stink. In addition to its deodorant characteristics, it is also extremely green. When I say extremely green, I am not exaggerating. It is so green that even the Irish refuse to use it. And might I add that everything it comes in contact with is instantly turned green. After the greening and deodorizing of my insides, I am then given a capsule of cascara sagrada that just adds to the truckload of fiber that I have already consumed.
Now for some real food? No! A blender of blue berries, protein powder, banana and apple juice, deceitfully labeled as breakfast, is then chocked down and I am out the door, armed with a field of green fiber and fruit, sitting like a ticking bomb in my gut. What could possibly go wrong with that?
At ten in the morning, I’m allowed a cup of apple juice and at lunch I get another shake with either blueberries or strawberries and protein powder. My afternoon snack consists of a choice of a soup mix of carrots and potatoes thrown into the blender so as to render them unrecognizable both in taste, texture and looks, or a cup of chicken bouillon. The evening meal is a repeat of the morning regimen of fiber, fruit and chlorophyl, and then all we have to look forward to is our evening snack of chicken bouillon or mystery soup. With these two, one has to choose between the needed calories of the mystery soup, or the welcome taste of chicken bouillon, which is devoid of any appreciable calories. So, death by starvation or wanting to die because of a dearth of taste.
As any reasonable, thinking human being would anticipate, the combination of a bushel basket of fiber mixed with fruit may have a significant impact on ones regularity. That thinking human would be more than right, in fact, he would be spot on. Now, those of you who are a bit squeamish or faint of heart, may want to turn away at this part, or at best, avert your eyes. To say there were frequent trips to the bathroom would be a gross understatement, and to add insult to injury, so to speak, the offerings at the porcelain throne were St Patrick’s Day approved. (You can reference the above description of the characteristics of chlorophyl). And to think I only have to endure this for SIX DAYS!!!!
As I write this, I am in the middle of ‘Hell Week’ and it would appear that, with any luck, I’ll survive this ordeal and will make it to the real food part of the program. This initial stage is, as I mentioned, the detox portion of the program and is designed to rid my body of all the toxins I accumulated over the years from the regular food I was eating. I’m not sure how the toxins got into my food, but at least I am now spewing them out of my body at an alarming rate and will, in three days, be toxin free. How many other men can say that?
I am sure this program was initiated by the CIA in or around the confines of Gitmo for the interrogation of terrorist and other miscreants that are housed there. However, all of my phone calls to Langley have not been returned, so we will never really be sure.
Rumor has it that this program was also rejected for use in training by the Navy SEALS as being too rigorous, onerous and just plain mean spirited.
In closing, may I, at this time, give my thanks to all those who have sent their condolences through cards and flowers in sympathy to my plight. They are deeply appreciated. Fiber on, dudes.
The Martin family, or to be more accurate, Mikki, Katie and me - Jake is left out of the fun since he is playing football and needs his strength - have embarked on an epic odyssey, though that may be redundant. We have adopted a new diet that promises to bring health, happiness and prosperity to all those who would dare to attempt its rigor. Not wanting to back away from a challenge, we stepped to the plate, ready to take our swing at the fence.
The name of this program is "The Food Lovers Fat Loss Diet". It appears to be a very sensible, reasonable plan that incorporates real food and is based on the concepts of Nutrisystem, with a hint of Richard Simmons’ Deal a Meal utilizing real food we eat on a regular basis. It all sounded good until the first six day detox plan was explained to me. I was incredulous when I heard what was expected of me. At hearing the directions, I was immediately taken back to those days of pledging for a fraternity and the infamous "Hell Week" that every upperclassman looked forward to with sadistic glee. "I have to do what?" was my first reaction, my second being going to my room and brooding for several hours.
After coming out of my room, I reluctantly, and against all reason, acquiesced to the regimen and now find myself in the middle of the second ‘Hell Week’ of my life. What follows is the daily detox plan:
Upon waking, I am immediately, or at least ten minutes after waking, given a glass of water laced with Pysillium husks that has the equivalent fiber rating of a large ball of twine. After ingesting the fiber bomb, I am then administered a glass of water mixed with chlorophyl. For those of you who may not be familiar with chlorophyl and its many uses, let me elucidate. Chlorophyl is touted as an internal deodorant. I can now rest from my concerns that my insides may possibly stink. In addition to its deodorant characteristics, it is also extremely green. When I say extremely green, I am not exaggerating. It is so green that even the Irish refuse to use it. And might I add that everything it comes in contact with is instantly turned green. After the greening and deodorizing of my insides, I am then given a capsule of cascara sagrada that just adds to the truckload of fiber that I have already consumed.
Now for some real food? No! A blender of blue berries, protein powder, banana and apple juice, deceitfully labeled as breakfast, is then chocked down and I am out the door, armed with a field of green fiber and fruit, sitting like a ticking bomb in my gut. What could possibly go wrong with that?
At ten in the morning, I’m allowed a cup of apple juice and at lunch I get another shake with either blueberries or strawberries and protein powder. My afternoon snack consists of a choice of a soup mix of carrots and potatoes thrown into the blender so as to render them unrecognizable both in taste, texture and looks, or a cup of chicken bouillon. The evening meal is a repeat of the morning regimen of fiber, fruit and chlorophyl, and then all we have to look forward to is our evening snack of chicken bouillon or mystery soup. With these two, one has to choose between the needed calories of the mystery soup, or the welcome taste of chicken bouillon, which is devoid of any appreciable calories. So, death by starvation or wanting to die because of a dearth of taste.
As any reasonable, thinking human being would anticipate, the combination of a bushel basket of fiber mixed with fruit may have a significant impact on ones regularity. That thinking human would be more than right, in fact, he would be spot on. Now, those of you who are a bit squeamish or faint of heart, may want to turn away at this part, or at best, avert your eyes. To say there were frequent trips to the bathroom would be a gross understatement, and to add insult to injury, so to speak, the offerings at the porcelain throne were St Patrick’s Day approved. (You can reference the above description of the characteristics of chlorophyl). And to think I only have to endure this for SIX DAYS!!!!
As I write this, I am in the middle of ‘Hell Week’ and it would appear that, with any luck, I’ll survive this ordeal and will make it to the real food part of the program. This initial stage is, as I mentioned, the detox portion of the program and is designed to rid my body of all the toxins I accumulated over the years from the regular food I was eating. I’m not sure how the toxins got into my food, but at least I am now spewing them out of my body at an alarming rate and will, in three days, be toxin free. How many other men can say that?
I am sure this program was initiated by the CIA in or around the confines of Gitmo for the interrogation of terrorist and other miscreants that are housed there. However, all of my phone calls to Langley have not been returned, so we will never really be sure.
Rumor has it that this program was also rejected for use in training by the Navy SEALS as being too rigorous, onerous and just plain mean spirited.
In closing, may I, at this time, give my thanks to all those who have sent their condolences through cards and flowers in sympathy to my plight. They are deeply appreciated. Fiber on, dudes.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Fifty items of gratitude
"And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things." D&C 59:7,21
I have listed fifty items I am grateful for so that if the event I should ever feel as if life is picking on me or dealing me a bad hand, I can look at my list and realize that regardless of my current circumstance, I have been bountifully blessed. Even if one or several of the items on my list have been altered or removed, I still have all the others to be thankful for.
I have to admit that I am a bit chagrined that it took some thought to reach fifty. I had assumed it would be easier than it turned out to be, but a great exercise in having to really think about what I have been given. I have included some brief explanations and some commentary as well. Believe me, it is in no way complete or extensive - each item could be an essay in and of itself - I just wanted to give a brief commentary. I also need to mention that these are not necessarily listed in order of importance.
I would like to offer a challenge to all that read this - compile your own list of fifty items. You will probably use some of the same as I did, which is great, but you will, no doubt, have many that are original to you. Good luck!
The List
1. A loving Heavenly Father
I am blessed to understand the love He has for me and how involved in my life he is.
2. My Savior, Jesus Christ.
Without His atoning sacrifice, I would not be able to return to my Heavenly Father. Jesus is an example I can use in every aspect of my life.
3. Mikki, my wife.
She is my best friend, without whom I would be lost. She is everything to me. My coat from the cold (she’ll understand that reference.)
4. Tyler
5. Zach
6. Katie
7. Jake
(I listed my children separately because they are each, in their own way, a blessing to my life.)
8. My Mother
She brought me into the world, sacrificed continually for me as I was growing up, and continues to love me.
9. The promise of an Eternal family
I can be with my family forever. What a blessing that is!
10. Freedom.
Freedom allows me to enjoy all the rest of what I have.
11. Life
Just the blessing of being alive. That is, indeed, a great gift.
12. Love
13. Prayer
14. Sight
To see the beauty around me.
15. Hearing
16. Intellect
I have a mind that enables me to understand the world, to earn a living and to interact with others.
17. Speech
18. Smell
I smell good? :)
19. Mobility
I can walk, run, use stairs, etc.
20. Extended Family
21. Health
22. The Plan of Salvation
The plan that Father in Heaven gave me to allow me to return to Him someday with my family.
23. Friends.
24. A home
A place of safety from the world, a refuge from the storm.
25. Scriptures
26. Church
27. Modern Revelation
28. The United States Constitution
29. Beauty in all forms.
30. Music
31. A sense of humor
32. My talents
(Yes, it is plural)
33. Nature
34. Food and water
35. Memories
These seem to be fewer as I age.
36. Art
37. Knowledge
38. Heroes (Military, Police, Firemen, etc
39. Upbringing of values
40. Time
41. Modern Medicine
42. Science
43. Leaders
44. Employment
45. Safety
46. Technology
47. Business opportunities
48. Great books
49. Recreation
50. Transportation
So, there it is, my list of fifty things that I am grateful for. Let me know what you think of it and some of the things you would have had on your list.
I have listed fifty items I am grateful for so that if the event I should ever feel as if life is picking on me or dealing me a bad hand, I can look at my list and realize that regardless of my current circumstance, I have been bountifully blessed. Even if one or several of the items on my list have been altered or removed, I still have all the others to be thankful for.
I have to admit that I am a bit chagrined that it took some thought to reach fifty. I had assumed it would be easier than it turned out to be, but a great exercise in having to really think about what I have been given. I have included some brief explanations and some commentary as well. Believe me, it is in no way complete or extensive - each item could be an essay in and of itself - I just wanted to give a brief commentary. I also need to mention that these are not necessarily listed in order of importance.
I would like to offer a challenge to all that read this - compile your own list of fifty items. You will probably use some of the same as I did, which is great, but you will, no doubt, have many that are original to you. Good luck!
The List
1. A loving Heavenly Father
I am blessed to understand the love He has for me and how involved in my life he is.
2. My Savior, Jesus Christ.
Without His atoning sacrifice, I would not be able to return to my Heavenly Father. Jesus is an example I can use in every aspect of my life.
3. Mikki, my wife.
She is my best friend, without whom I would be lost. She is everything to me. My coat from the cold (she’ll understand that reference.)
4. Tyler
5. Zach
6. Katie
7. Jake
(I listed my children separately because they are each, in their own way, a blessing to my life.)
8. My Mother
She brought me into the world, sacrificed continually for me as I was growing up, and continues to love me.
9. The promise of an Eternal family
I can be with my family forever. What a blessing that is!
10. Freedom.
Freedom allows me to enjoy all the rest of what I have.
11. Life
Just the blessing of being alive. That is, indeed, a great gift.
12. Love
13. Prayer
14. Sight
To see the beauty around me.
15. Hearing
16. Intellect
I have a mind that enables me to understand the world, to earn a living and to interact with others.
17. Speech
18. Smell
I smell good? :)
19. Mobility
I can walk, run, use stairs, etc.
20. Extended Family
21. Health
22. The Plan of Salvation
The plan that Father in Heaven gave me to allow me to return to Him someday with my family.
23. Friends.
24. A home
A place of safety from the world, a refuge from the storm.
25. Scriptures
26. Church
27. Modern Revelation
28. The United States Constitution
29. Beauty in all forms.
30. Music
31. A sense of humor
32. My talents
(Yes, it is plural)
33. Nature
34. Food and water
35. Memories
These seem to be fewer as I age.
36. Art
37. Knowledge
38. Heroes (Military, Police, Firemen, etc
39. Upbringing of values
40. Time
41. Modern Medicine
42. Science
43. Leaders
44. Employment
45. Safety
46. Technology
47. Business opportunities
48. Great books
49. Recreation
50. Transportation
So, there it is, my list of fifty things that I am grateful for. Let me know what you think of it and some of the things you would have had on your list.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Poison - A Short Story
(Note: This is a short story I wrote for a new site that is publishing short stores online. This one was longer than the 1500 word limit, so I thought I'd "publish" it here. Let me know if you enjoy it.)
Wally Huddleston, a thirty something, balding, terrible excuse for a man, sat in his cocoon like cubicle at the Americas Insurance Company, munching his twenty fifth potato chip. He knew it was the twenty fifth because he counted his food as he consumed it, obsessing over every bite, every crumb, every swallow. Wally was overweight and given his love of food and the pleasure it contained, would probably be so for the rest of his life. Besides, if people didn’t like him the way he was, then he figured they could just take a flying leap.
Wally’s love affair with food, the only affair he was ever likely to have, was all he really had in his life. He hated his work, wasn’t too fond of his fellow workers, disliked his life, or lack of it, and with one exception, despised everyone he met. The one exception, the one bright spot in Wally’s drab and pointless life, was Becky Pearce, who worked five cubicles down from Wally’s and whom he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. Becky, of course, had no idea Wally had any feelings for her, as they rarely exchanged more than simple greetings, and even then, Wally would never look at her as he mumbled good morning to her. She had smiled at him on the day she started at Americas and from that day on, Wally was in love.
Becky’s bubbly personality and infectious laugh had won over all the men at Americas from the very first day she set foot in the drab halls of the Americas Insurance Company, perched on the 65th floor of the Allen building. The fact that she was drop dead gorgeous, added to her popularity with the men on her floor, with Wally, no exception to her siren call.
He would often fantasize about her and what their life together could be, how she would dote on his every word, bringing him his slippers as he returned from work, fixing him fabulous meals after which they would make mad, passionate love for hours, and how she would coo soft words of love into his ear afterwards. He could see himself combing his fingers through her long, blonde hair, pushing it away from her flawless, tanned skin. He kissed her forehead and touched her large, blue eyes, softly caressing her eyelids, marveling at her long, full lashes as they touched his finger tips. He sat back and looked at her, soaking in her beauty, admiring her taut, athletic figure, her long, perfectly formed legs, her small feet with designs painted on her toenails. He loved every perfect inch of her, everything worthy of admiration.
Wally was in the midst of one of his fantasies, when Larry Rissen swung around the cubicle opening and grabbed the bag of chips Wally was saving for after lunch.
"You don’t need these, do you Puddlebutt?" Larry said, opening the bag and grabbing a chip. He had started calling Wally, Huddlebutt, but morphed it further from his name into Puddlebutt. Wally viewed Larry as the most obnoxious, foul person to ever walk the earth, but was afraid to say anything to Larry as he was large, fit and, in Wally’s opinion, extremely aggressive.
Larry had made a point of taking some of Wally’s food every day, explaining that he was just trying to help Wally lose some weight and that Wally should be thanking him for his trouble. Wally, of course, didn’t see Larry’s thievery as any kind of help and had even thought of filing a complaint, going so far as to fill out the form and stick it in an envelope. The envelope sat on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it in the trash. He binged on an entire cherry cheese cake and two dozen cookies to celebrate his spineless lack of courage.
"Why bother asking?" Wally responded.
"No hard fellings, huh Puddlebutt?" Larry said as he wandered off down the hall of cubicles.
"Right, no hard feelings," Wally mumbled under his breath, the sarcasm dripping.
That was the day Wally started planning Larry’s death. There was more to the rivalry between Wally and Larry than the food pilfering. Wally, having overheard the braggart talking to some coworkers about what he wanted to do with her, knew Larry had designs on Becky. Wally had tried to defend her.
"That’s not the way you should talk about a woman," he had said, looking down at his shoes as soon as he spoke.
"What does someone like you know about talking about a woman," Larry had said, derisively. "Come on, give us the benefit of your many years of experience with the fairer sex, Puddlebutt" he had added, laughing and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder.
Wally’s anger boiled up inside him, but he said nothing.
"Well now, look at Puddlebutt get all red," Larry had said, mockingly. "Maybe we should all stand back before he blows!"
Wally hurried back to his cubicle and opened a bag of Fritos and filled his mouth with a hand full. Somehow, he vowed, he would get even with Larry for all the times he’d been humiliated and bullied by the blowhard. Somehow, but how? Wally was not the perfect specimen of manhood one would envision when thinking of an avenging angel to go and do battle with the evil that is in the world. He had a massive comb over, held in place by a combination of pomade and hair spray, dark, heavy rimmed glasses that were best described as Coke bottle bottoms. His mass was centered at his belt line, pushing the limits of what anyone could expect from any belt, and all this was set on a five six frame, balanced on small, flat feet.
Wally planned. He planned the rest of the day and well into the night. His plan was foolproof; one that would offer him relief from the bullying and the incessant teasing, and with the bonus of no one knowing he was the instrument of death. His precise research was finished and all he had left to do was implement the plan. He began the following Saturday.
Wally rushed around the city gathering the various parts essential to making his plan work. The first item, a syringe, was readily available in the dumpster in the alley behind Wally’s apartment building where the junkies gathered to shoot up all sorts of nasty things into their veins. His next item was more difficult to find and purchase. It required extensive research and even more correspondence, but, in the end, was the key to making the plan work. Wally had emailed a small research facility in Caractao, Brazil, requesting a sample of the excretion from the p. terriblis , or more commonly known as the poison dart frog. He explained he was a scientist working on a medicinal use for the poison, going into sufficient detail that they agreed to send a vile of the poison. They explained that the poison was extremely toxic, resulting in a gruesome, ugly death withing seconds of ingestion. Wally explained he was aware of the deadliness of the toxin, but was willing to take the risk. He had them send the secretion via next day mail, costing him an entire week’s pay, but, in his mind, well worth the cost. He now had all the ingredients to make his plan work. The following Wednesday, he was ready to implement the villainous project.
Wally was up early, rushing around his small apartment, preparing the bait - a banana - chosen for its ability to mask the slight odor and taste of the poison. He was almost giddy as he went about his preparation, humming as he injected the frog secretion into the banana, laughing at one point as he imagined Larry eating the banana and instantly falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth, contorted in pain. He tried to act as natural as possible as he entered the office and walked to his cubicle. He sat the banana in a conspicuous place on the end of his desk, anticipating Larry’s arrival. He didn’t have to wait long.
Larry walked up to the opening of Wally’s cubicle.
"Say, Puddlebutt, whatcha got for breakfast? How about this banana? You don’t need it, do you?"
Wally didn’t want to seem to anxious for Larry to take the banana so he started to protest.
"Yeah, I do want it, Larry," he said, not looking at Larry.
"So do I, it will make a great gift," Larry said, grabbing the banana and walking off toward the common area.
"Fine," Wally said, under his breath, a faint smile on his thin, purple lips, "Very fine, indeed. Consider it a gift then"
Wally sat back in his chair and waited for the event he had waited and planned for. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a scream. He jumped up and headed toward the common area, trying to look surprised and interested so as not to draw any suspicion towards himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Jutting from behind a desk, on the floor, were the legs of Becky. He knew they were hers because of her shoes, the little red pumps she always wore with the blue pinafore and white stockings. He knew most people by their shoes since he was always looking down rather than in people’s eyes. No question, it was Becky. Larry must have meant the banana was a gift for her, not him. Wally had killed the one thing in his life with any meaning.
He turned away from the death scene and walked out of the large room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof where he usually ate his lunch. He walked around the hulking air conditioning unit, where he customarily sat in the shade, directly to the edge of the building. He never hesitated, he just stepped off the edge and fell.
The tickle in his stomach stopped after about fifty feet. For the rest of the fall, Wally was calm, finding the rapidity of the descent mesmerizing. The ground approached much faster than he had anticipated and he covered the eight hundred and five feet in just a few seconds, smashing into the cement just behind two women in town early to miss the rush of the other shoppers. He didn’t feel a thing, finding death the instant he hit. He bounced once then landed in a messy heap, surrounded by blood and brains and other gooey stuff that comes our of a body when it suddenly stops and nearly explodes.
No one understood why he jumped. Certainly it couldn’t be the unexplained and sudden death of Larry Rissen, or the fainting collapse of Becky Pearce as she witnessed the ugly death of Larry. It was just one of those unexplained mysteries. And wasn’t it a shame.
Wally Huddleston, a thirty something, balding, terrible excuse for a man, sat in his cocoon like cubicle at the Americas Insurance Company, munching his twenty fifth potato chip. He knew it was the twenty fifth because he counted his food as he consumed it, obsessing over every bite, every crumb, every swallow. Wally was overweight and given his love of food and the pleasure it contained, would probably be so for the rest of his life. Besides, if people didn’t like him the way he was, then he figured they could just take a flying leap.
Wally’s love affair with food, the only affair he was ever likely to have, was all he really had in his life. He hated his work, wasn’t too fond of his fellow workers, disliked his life, or lack of it, and with one exception, despised everyone he met. The one exception, the one bright spot in Wally’s drab and pointless life, was Becky Pearce, who worked five cubicles down from Wally’s and whom he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. Becky, of course, had no idea Wally had any feelings for her, as they rarely exchanged more than simple greetings, and even then, Wally would never look at her as he mumbled good morning to her. She had smiled at him on the day she started at Americas and from that day on, Wally was in love.
Becky’s bubbly personality and infectious laugh had won over all the men at Americas from the very first day she set foot in the drab halls of the Americas Insurance Company, perched on the 65th floor of the Allen building. The fact that she was drop dead gorgeous, added to her popularity with the men on her floor, with Wally, no exception to her siren call.
He would often fantasize about her and what their life together could be, how she would dote on his every word, bringing him his slippers as he returned from work, fixing him fabulous meals after which they would make mad, passionate love for hours, and how she would coo soft words of love into his ear afterwards. He could see himself combing his fingers through her long, blonde hair, pushing it away from her flawless, tanned skin. He kissed her forehead and touched her large, blue eyes, softly caressing her eyelids, marveling at her long, full lashes as they touched his finger tips. He sat back and looked at her, soaking in her beauty, admiring her taut, athletic figure, her long, perfectly formed legs, her small feet with designs painted on her toenails. He loved every perfect inch of her, everything worthy of admiration.
Wally was in the midst of one of his fantasies, when Larry Rissen swung around the cubicle opening and grabbed the bag of chips Wally was saving for after lunch.
"You don’t need these, do you Puddlebutt?" Larry said, opening the bag and grabbing a chip. He had started calling Wally, Huddlebutt, but morphed it further from his name into Puddlebutt. Wally viewed Larry as the most obnoxious, foul person to ever walk the earth, but was afraid to say anything to Larry as he was large, fit and, in Wally’s opinion, extremely aggressive.
Larry had made a point of taking some of Wally’s food every day, explaining that he was just trying to help Wally lose some weight and that Wally should be thanking him for his trouble. Wally, of course, didn’t see Larry’s thievery as any kind of help and had even thought of filing a complaint, going so far as to fill out the form and stick it in an envelope. The envelope sat on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it in the trash. He binged on an entire cherry cheese cake and two dozen cookies to celebrate his spineless lack of courage.
"Why bother asking?" Wally responded.
"No hard fellings, huh Puddlebutt?" Larry said as he wandered off down the hall of cubicles.
"Right, no hard feelings," Wally mumbled under his breath, the sarcasm dripping.
That was the day Wally started planning Larry’s death. There was more to the rivalry between Wally and Larry than the food pilfering. Wally, having overheard the braggart talking to some coworkers about what he wanted to do with her, knew Larry had designs on Becky. Wally had tried to defend her.
"That’s not the way you should talk about a woman," he had said, looking down at his shoes as soon as he spoke.
"What does someone like you know about talking about a woman," Larry had said, derisively. "Come on, give us the benefit of your many years of experience with the fairer sex, Puddlebutt" he had added, laughing and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder.
Wally’s anger boiled up inside him, but he said nothing.
"Well now, look at Puddlebutt get all red," Larry had said, mockingly. "Maybe we should all stand back before he blows!"
Wally hurried back to his cubicle and opened a bag of Fritos and filled his mouth with a hand full. Somehow, he vowed, he would get even with Larry for all the times he’d been humiliated and bullied by the blowhard. Somehow, but how? Wally was not the perfect specimen of manhood one would envision when thinking of an avenging angel to go and do battle with the evil that is in the world. He had a massive comb over, held in place by a combination of pomade and hair spray, dark, heavy rimmed glasses that were best described as Coke bottle bottoms. His mass was centered at his belt line, pushing the limits of what anyone could expect from any belt, and all this was set on a five six frame, balanced on small, flat feet.
Wally planned. He planned the rest of the day and well into the night. His plan was foolproof; one that would offer him relief from the bullying and the incessant teasing, and with the bonus of no one knowing he was the instrument of death. His precise research was finished and all he had left to do was implement the plan. He began the following Saturday.
Wally rushed around the city gathering the various parts essential to making his plan work. The first item, a syringe, was readily available in the dumpster in the alley behind Wally’s apartment building where the junkies gathered to shoot up all sorts of nasty things into their veins. His next item was more difficult to find and purchase. It required extensive research and even more correspondence, but, in the end, was the key to making the plan work. Wally had emailed a small research facility in Caractao, Brazil, requesting a sample of the excretion from the p. terriblis , or more commonly known as the poison dart frog. He explained he was a scientist working on a medicinal use for the poison, going into sufficient detail that they agreed to send a vile of the poison. They explained that the poison was extremely toxic, resulting in a gruesome, ugly death withing seconds of ingestion. Wally explained he was aware of the deadliness of the toxin, but was willing to take the risk. He had them send the secretion via next day mail, costing him an entire week’s pay, but, in his mind, well worth the cost. He now had all the ingredients to make his plan work. The following Wednesday, he was ready to implement the villainous project.
Wally was up early, rushing around his small apartment, preparing the bait - a banana - chosen for its ability to mask the slight odor and taste of the poison. He was almost giddy as he went about his preparation, humming as he injected the frog secretion into the banana, laughing at one point as he imagined Larry eating the banana and instantly falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth, contorted in pain. He tried to act as natural as possible as he entered the office and walked to his cubicle. He sat the banana in a conspicuous place on the end of his desk, anticipating Larry’s arrival. He didn’t have to wait long.
Larry walked up to the opening of Wally’s cubicle.
"Say, Puddlebutt, whatcha got for breakfast? How about this banana? You don’t need it, do you?"
Wally didn’t want to seem to anxious for Larry to take the banana so he started to protest.
"Yeah, I do want it, Larry," he said, not looking at Larry.
"So do I, it will make a great gift," Larry said, grabbing the banana and walking off toward the common area.
"Fine," Wally said, under his breath, a faint smile on his thin, purple lips, "Very fine, indeed. Consider it a gift then"
Wally sat back in his chair and waited for the event he had waited and planned for. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a scream. He jumped up and headed toward the common area, trying to look surprised and interested so as not to draw any suspicion towards himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Jutting from behind a desk, on the floor, were the legs of Becky. He knew they were hers because of her shoes, the little red pumps she always wore with the blue pinafore and white stockings. He knew most people by their shoes since he was always looking down rather than in people’s eyes. No question, it was Becky. Larry must have meant the banana was a gift for her, not him. Wally had killed the one thing in his life with any meaning.
He turned away from the death scene and walked out of the large room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof where he usually ate his lunch. He walked around the hulking air conditioning unit, where he customarily sat in the shade, directly to the edge of the building. He never hesitated, he just stepped off the edge and fell.
The tickle in his stomach stopped after about fifty feet. For the rest of the fall, Wally was calm, finding the rapidity of the descent mesmerizing. The ground approached much faster than he had anticipated and he covered the eight hundred and five feet in just a few seconds, smashing into the cement just behind two women in town early to miss the rush of the other shoppers. He didn’t feel a thing, finding death the instant he hit. He bounced once then landed in a messy heap, surrounded by blood and brains and other gooey stuff that comes our of a body when it suddenly stops and nearly explodes.
No one understood why he jumped. Certainly it couldn’t be the unexplained and sudden death of Larry Rissen, or the fainting collapse of Becky Pearce as she witnessed the ugly death of Larry. It was just one of those unexplained mysteries. And wasn’t it a shame.
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