38. If You Dig Too Deep

            The light was just right. The wind had died down as Sam Jones positioned his feet on the railing.

            Darla Collins, his date, relaxed on her iron patio chair, pink drink in hand, listening to the band. The Willows, a harbor side restaurant, though pricey, was a common dinner place for the couple. Sam, president of his family operation, a chain of Jones Hardware Stores, could afford the occasional nice night out.

            Her eyes drifted from table to table as she analyzed the clothes and affect of fellow diners. She turned her head to the right to watch the sea birds flying overhead when she saw him.

            Her rapid intake of breath caused her to aspirate her juice-laced rum. The coughing explosion she couldn’t prevent hindered her from calling out to him. Sam, overweight at 31, was walking the railing 150 feet above the jagged granite boulders on the beach below.

            Darla’s frantic pointing to the spectacle alerted patrons and staff. Sam walked oblivious to the crowd with his face turned outward to the water. He reached the end of the rail and turned to the patio. The crowd gasped as he bent forward, certain he was falling. Sam’s hands grasped the railing on either side of his feet. He rolled forward. When his feet were above the pavement he let go, landed, and walked back to his table.

            Later, at home Darla held a pillow to her chest as she related the scene to her fourth friend on the phone.

            “No, he acted as if nothing had happened. I got us out of there as soon as I could and tried to get him to explain it to me. He still insists he wasn’t up there. He’s over 230; he can’t climb like that!”

            When her anxiety was spent Darla went to bed for sleep filled with nightmares.

            At work on Monday Darla got a grip and faced her twenty-seven fourth graders. She didn’t have a moment to think. She brought her class to the auditorium at 1:30 for a short presentation about the perils of smoking. The entire school was in attendance.

            At 1:47 Darla rose from her chair at the end of the aisle. She strode purposefully to the stage and joined the presenters who were in the middle of a skit about fending off peer pressure and cigarettes. She took a microphone from a stand.

            “When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day! When you’re a…” sang Darla with decent singing voice and a good command of tune.

            “…You’re never alone, you’re never disconnected…You’re…”

            The audience sat in stunned silence as Darla belted out the song. The faces of her fourth grade were radiant in their mouth-gaping, open-eyed surprise. Miss Collins sure could sing!

            Darla concluded and even got some ragged applause. She replaced the mike and returned to her seat. The players on stage regrouped and finished their performance. When the students were settled at their desks, the Assistant Principle beckoned to Darla to join her outside of the classroom.

            Mrs. Jenny Carthwaite seemed shaken as she proceeded to question Darla about the incident.

            “What were you thinking?” she asked nervously, barely able to look Darla in the eye. “What possessed you to sing in the middle of a school assembly, and especially that song; it promotes smoking cigarettes!”

            “Jenny, are you sure you’ve got the right person? I sat and watched the presentation just like everybody else. I…”

            Darla looked at pictures of herself on stage on Jenny’s phone.

            “The principal is gonna want an explanation. Better think of something,” whispered Jenny hoarsely.

            That evening, Jenny wrote in her journal with a mug of chamomile tea. Outside the window her half-tilled garden bed waited for her to resume planting. She stared into space, ruminating about the odd event in school but also about a conversation with her brother, Sam Jones, the prior day at a coffee shop. He insisted that she had done something that she had no memory of. He said she had gone to one of the family hardware stores and bought six cans of spray paint. When the manager closed the store, he discovered a mural freshly painted on the wall on the side of the building. It was a painting of a magnificent snarling black panther balancing on the limb of a tree.

            Her denials were countered with her signature to the side of the art work. They examined her car and found the six empty spray cans in the trunk.

            The evening grew darker. Jenny, Darla, and Sam, each in their respective homes, brooded over inexplicable actions they were told they had taken. What they did not recall were the random thoughts in their minds the moment before acting, thoughts of a ‘what if’ nature.

 In Jenny’s garden where she had been turning over the earth in a flower bed before going to the hardware store, a pale glow was visible. Mingled with the pungent scent of soil was the effluence from an organism, disturbed. Jenny was the first host.

           (857 words) 

37. Friendship: Constant, Amateurish Psychoanalysis

            She knew the signs.  Irritability, loss of appetite, jumpiness.  He seemed to anticipate the slightest sound, as if someone were sneaking up on him. It had to be love.

            Holly kept a close eye on Elliot. She noticed that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the accounting supervisor, Mallory. And why not? He confided that his loneliness since his break-up with Perla two months prior was unendurable. He liked long hair. Mallory was unattached and had hair past her shoulders. Perfect match!! Now to draw him out.

            “I watched those hilarious horse pranks on You Tube that you mentioned. Who knew horses were so devious? You should tell Mallory about them. I heard she rides.”

            “What? Nah, I can’t just drop over to her desk and order her to watch something. I barely know her.”

            Shy. How cute.

            “And speaking of horses, she’s got a nice mane of hair herself. So thick and glossy, and long.”

            Elliot rolled his eyes at her and turned back to his spreadsheet.

            That weekend, Holly confided to a friend she’d known since college, Elizabeth, that she had just two real friends, Elizabeth and Elliot. Elizabeth decided that this was her chance to finally reset her thinking on this oft returned-to subject.

            “Oh come on. You have more friends than that.”

            “No, I really don’t. I don’t know how to get things started.”

            “Okay, here’s something I heard on a radio interview. You’re supposed to be fearless and unassuming when you approach people. You know, like a friendly dog.”

            “Is that right! Thanks for that! I should be a dog.”

            “Yeah,” said Elizabeth realizing this wasn’t going well. “You know. Dogs aren’t stiff or competitive. They just wanna get to know you.”

            “So I’m stiff and competitive. Huh. Thanks some more.”

            “No, no, no. When you’re a dog you can make someone like you right away, regardless of what you look like or say. Not that dogs say anything…”

            “I’m also not too good looking, and I should not talk. Got it.”

            Holly got off the phone shortly after that. Elizabeth chewed her lip.

            Back at work Holly mused that after that noxious phone call with her supposed old friend it was a good thing she had Elliot. She gave a warm hello when he arrived at his desk.

            Elliot grunted in reply and buried himself in his work.

            This response convinced her to execute her little plan. If Elizabeth was going to be unsympathetic, and Elliot was too dam busy, she’d just have to branch out and find new people. She’d be bold and daring yet unpretentious and down-to-earth. She took lunch early and ‘bumped into’ Sherry from IT in the company ‘dinateria.’

            “Hi Sherry, I noticed that you usually eat alone at the corner table. Mind if I sit with you?”

            “Sure. No. Not at all. Come sit.”

            What Holly hadn’t noticed was that Sherry always brought a section of the Times to lunch with her. Lunch proceeded with short answers from Sherry in between longing looks at her crossword, and awkward attempts at conversation by Holly.

            As each went back to her own department Holly thought Sherry needed some of that dog advice, and Sherry decided to eat at her desk.

            Holly saw Elliot talking to Mallory. They were walking into the meeting room. Aha! Then she noticed a message from her meet-up group on her phone mail.

            “Hey Holly, we’re gonna meet at the Bear Mountain trail, south of the turnpike this Saturday at 10 AM. Bring lunch and binoculars. Western tanagers and Mountain chickadees are astir in the woods. Don’t forget your tick spray! Bye!”

            Holly smiled to herself. Now she had plans; she didn’t need her less-than attentive friends.

            Friday rolled around and Elliot, used to the near-constant asides from Holly across the aisle, realized that she hadn’t been as interactive as usual. He thought she was a typical needy single woman. But now that she was silent, he missed her chatter. He got two coffees and waved them under her nose. She started, so engrossed was she in her work.

            “Let’s get some air,” he said.

            Outside on Madison Avenue, breathing the sweet, exhaust-congested air of temporary freedom, Elliot made attempts at idle chatter. Holly seemed subdued.

            “See that bird perched on the curved street light?” she said. “He may look like a sea gull to you, but actually he’s a drone commissioned by a talent scout to find the next new stars for the ‘Hunger Games’. Quick, suck in your cheeks. We may have a shot.”

            At first, Elliot played along. Then he caught on.

            “Why are we talking about a sea gull? You talk about incidentals when you’re avoiding something. What…”

            “I just want to point out that we’re being watched, that’s all,” said Holly a bit defensively.

            “What’s really on your mind?”

            “Did I ever tell you that my cat, Sunshine, dips her paw into my glass of ice water and licks it off her fur? How many times you think I didn’t know she did that and drank from that glass? Hasn’t killed me yet!”

            “Holly...”

            “What time we got? If I smoked my cigarette would be finished by now!”

            She turned, tossing her paper coffee cup into a trash can. Elliot followed her through the heavy glass doors of Grassi and Co.

            At home, Holly ignored three phone calls from Elizabeth in succession, just as she had neglected to answer several texts during the day. She began the Zen-preparations of baking an apple coconut monkey bread to bring to share with her meet up group. A glass of wine furthered the disconnect from minor disappointment, subtle rejection, and loneliness that she often felt on Friday night.  She had a date with Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter after all. “The Long Utopia”, their literary collaboration, had her transfixed.

            On Saturday morning, Holly stuffed her loden green pack with the essentials of a bird-watching hike, grabbed her red sun visor and joined the bird lovers. She wore the club tee shirt which was sapphire blue with white splotches across the shoulders, and the embroidered bird with binoculars logo on the left side. She was completely surprised to see Elliot standing to the side of the collective, conversing with the group leader. When he saw her he strode over.

            “I know you’re surprised to see me here but I remembered that you joined this group and looked it up on line.” Holly opened her mouth to speak, closed it without a sound and smiled up at him. “Whoa, is that bird shit on your tee shirt?” he asked laughing as he glanced around. “Looks great on you.”

            Holly swatted his arm and said, “If you prove yourself worthy you too may someday sport the colors of those who have their eyes on the birds.”

            The dulcet strains of Vivaldi’s lute concerto in D, second movement, emitted from her phone. She waited and heard the guitar riff that indicated the caller had left a voice mail. She listened and heard, “Holly, I miss you. No one endures my crap like you do! Call me!”

            “That was Elizabeth. She needs me. Later. Ever see a mountain chickadee? It’s just breathtaking. Way better than any old drone sea gull…”

           

  (1,215 words)          

36. Not Over-ratted

April 4^th. World Rat Day.

            “How stupid is that?” thought Ben.

            He drove to work that Friday morning and saw it. A giant blow-up rat on Jericho turnpike. It was seated on its haunches. Its eyes were red, its claws and fangs were chalky white and menacing.  He couldn’t read the sign near its snaky tail.

            “I hate coincidences,” he muttered. 

            In his safe little cubicle he read the morning’s email.

            “Monthly rattings of cubicle cleanliness will be posted in each department,” read the memo.

            “Rattings?” thought Ben. Isn’t spell-check hard-wired into Office Web email?”

            He waded through a third of his work load until he received a text:

            “Impromptu Party: Wine and cheese to celebrate “World Rat Day.” Prize for best rat reference. Tonight at The Dirty Pigeon in Huntington Village. 7:30”

            He laughed. Not surprising that his friend, Dave, would want to go to anything bizarre.

            Driving home after work Ben noticed that the Wisconsin license plate ahead of him read, “WRAT 09.”

            “It’s a sign.”

            The Dirty Pigeon was known for its Spider Bite beer and pigeon décor, pigeon motifs everywhere.

            Ben leaned toward a girl with soft brown hair and said, “Pigeons, rats, the owners of this bar seem to like animal themes.”

            She waved her Spider Bite at him in agreement.

            “I went to the Dolphin and Anchor last week.  They had a karaoke contest of fish songs.”

            Ben groaned. “How many versions of Mack the Knife can people stand?”

            She gave a throaty chuckle. Just then a waitress wearing gray spandex, round ears and a long slinky tail stood in front of a small curtained area with a mike in her hand. Ben saw that it was a tiny stage.

            “It’s time for our Best Rat Reference Contest,” she stated in her rather high-pitched voice.

            “What’s the prize?” someone shouted.

            “Anything on the The Dirty Pigeon menu,” she said. “Dinner for two.”

            “I wouldn’t’ have the pigeon pot pie!” shouted the girl with the Spider Bite in Ben’s ear as the crowd cheered.

            “Or the bird’s nest soup,” he shouted back.

            “Or the chiffon cake, light as a feather,” she responded.

            Ben learned her name, Alena, and they found two bar stools with a good view of the stage. He was starting to like the place. The drinks were reasonable, the patrons were friendly and the waiters and waitresses had one of the best theme-related uniforms around. Only the MC was dressed as a rat. The rest had on dark blue tee shirts with small white splotches on the shoulders and down the front and back. He thought they made a design until he got it.

            “Too damn funny,” he said to Alena. “They’ve all got bird shit on their tee shirts.”

            Alena took a look and they both doubled over with laughter.

            The first contestant was on the stage. He had a brown fedora pulled over one eye.

            “You dirty rat,” he was saying in his best James Cagney mobster impression.

            Applause.

            Another contestant sang a song parody about the rat race to the tune of Jingle Bells.

            Laughter and applause.

            “Wow, these people really want to win,” said Alena. “Lot’s of effort here.”

            Finally, the rat MC asked if there were any more entries. Ben surprised Alena by rising with his arm in the air.

            He stepped onto the stage platform and faced his audience. Alena gave him an amused grin.

            “I have to say, those are some of the best rat references I’ve ever seen.” (low laughter in the background) “I will finish off the night with my entry. Rat names.”

            Ben fished a folded paper out of his jeans pocket.

            “First off, if I had a rat I wanted to name after a movie star, I could name him Rat Damon.” (snickers) “A singing rat would be Rat King Cole.” (crickets) If my rat lived in a cage on my dresser, I would name him Bureaucrat.” (some laughs) “An albino rat would be named Non-rat Milk.” (good-natured laughter)

“Then there’s John Ratzenburger from Cheers of course, but since that’s his real name he may not count.” (murmurs of assent) “So there you have it. Happy Rat Day.”

            Ben bowed to enthusiastic applause. He headed back to Alena and she hugged him.

            “Con GRAT tulations, she articulated. You’re very brave.”

            Ben didn’t win the contest. The bar favorite was the tall blonde who had explained how a bouffant hairdo was created in the 1950s with a stuffed nylon bag called a ‘rat’ hidden under teased hair. She then proceeded to pull a rubber rat out of her own up-do, perfectly fine with ruining her polished appearance for the sake of a laugh.

            Ben had no doubt he had won nonetheless.

            “I’m getting hungry. Dare we try the hot wings?”

            (800 words)