Browse Category: Stories

They Have Beards, All Over!

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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

Down from the sky in swooping madness descends THE MOTH, that foul fuzzy demon of the nighttime environs, compulsively and endlessly drawn to the light… for the sole purpose of terrorizing and disgusting the human folk.

Why? Why, shaggy lunar beast, must you be seen even in the day? Why with your under girth displayed through our window, fiendishly clinging to sheer glass by your infernal moth magic, do you bring your fearful specters to our waking hours? Is it not enough to badger us with flitting flights around our porch lights and stealthy enterings into our kitchens?

Two of my children, grown children no less, have an inordinate fear of moths, and most other insects. But their fear of moths, especially, is comical to me. Just let a moth flit in their direction and they are ducking and covering, running and screaming, reaching for weapons of moth destruction. Both the girl and the BOY display such responses to these harmless night butterflies. It makes no difference, mid-conversation, mid-dinner preparations, mid-carrying a newborn baby, they are tossing their arms in a panic and diving for cover. It’s only a fuzzy moth! Save the dramatics for the day scorpions fly.

Recently, I asked my daughter, “Why are you so afraid of moths? They don’t bite. They don’t sting. They don’t hunt you. They are pretty much like butterflies.”

Her response: “I don’t care much for butterflies either. But moths are creepy. They have BEARDS. ALL OVER!”

I pointed to my chin saying, “Hey! What’s wrong with beards?” adding, “That’s a cleverly creative way to describe these creatures. I’m going to use that one day.”

There. I did.

Bugs don’t freak me out. They and I have a Don’t-Bug-Me-And-I-Won’t-But-You policy. If you aren’t evil or poisonous, if you don’t bite or sting, I will usually assume you have good intentions and leave you alone. If you happen to wander into my house, I will escort you out and set you free 9 times out of 10.

Now, I am no hero. There are a few insects that are executed on sight, no warning, no fair trial, just SQUASH. Heading the list in this regard is the disgusting, filthy, hideous centipede, of whom I am insanely terrified. Once, one charged me as I sat barefoot on the edge of my bed. It tore across the carpet at top speed. I yelled, jumped and bashed the living daylights out of the evil-legged worm with a shoe repeatedly.

One of my daughters, startled, ran into the room asking, “What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!”

I, crazy-eyed, shoe in hand, breathlessly answered, “Centipede!” as a hundred legs scattered about my bare feet still twitched.

So what’s my point? I don’t know. That centipedes suck but moths aren’t so bad? That we all have our phobias?

No, the moral of this story is that beards are cool, even if you happen to have them all over.

(The moth in the photo was on a window at my office this afternoon. See, moths are cool. This one gave me inspiration.)

Once Upon a Smoke Break

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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

It’s been almost 8 years since I first began writing online. Eight years. Eight. Huh. How about that? I’ve been missing it lately. I need to do it more frequently again. Lord knows I still have plenty of stories to tell.

Like this one:

Occasionally I enjoy a good cigarette, a dirty little tendency I’ve picked up over the past several months. There’s nothing like a little nicotine buzz when you’re stressing over so many things that sooner or later you realize aren’t worth your time, energy or health stressing over. Ignoring the health issue for the moment, there is something satisfying in flicking your finger at life, flicking your Bic for a light, and taking a moment for yourself.

I have noticed that my desire to indulge the tendency increases in direct proportion to the level of stress and bullshit I have to cope with on any given day. However, the Big Corporation I work for does not allow any smoking on their premises. You can’t smoke in your own car on company premises. You either have to walk out to the road and make sure you stand off their grass or take a drive to smoke.

Being that I do not like the smell of smoke on my clothes or in my car, the driving option doesn’t work well for me, unless I stop somewhere and get out.

And here’s where the story gets freaky.

One afternoon, bright and sunny, I went out. A quarter mile from the office is a simple road which passes a few farms and a handful of houses. There are numerous wooded lots along the way. I turned down this road, did a u-turn in a driveway, stopped by some woods, still fully on the road, not on anyone’s property. Key point – NOT on anyone’s property. I stood on the road.

No sooner had I lit my organic American Spirit cigarette when I heard a crashing noise in the woods. I expected to see a deer coming through. Instead, here came a man bounding through the brush in nothing but cut-off shorts and boots. He was running full speed through branches and weeds. And he did not slow down until he ran around the back of my car and straight up in my face.

“CAN I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING?” he asked in what to me would be categorized as a deranged way. With a hint of menace.

Startled, I replied, “No, I’m okay.”

Taking a step closer and leaning towards me, he sneered, “SO YOU WERE JUST LEAVING THEN?”

“Wha….? What? Yeah, as soon as I smoke this cigarette.”

“NOT HERE!!!!!” inching closer, flexing his chest and clenching his fists.

I thought, this dude is gonna hit me! Here it comes. I am going to get beaten to hell on this country road with no witnesses before I even get to take my second drag. The surgeon general’s warning is right. Smoking kills! It looked like my time was up.

Despite the queasy nervousness in my belly and that elementary school I’m-gonna-piss-my-pants quivering in my groin, I somehow managed to calmly, maybe even cheerily, say, “Okay, man, no problem. Sure. I’ll go somewhere else.” I wanted to pull off one of those scenes like John Cusack, Jack Black, and Todd Louiso in “High Fidelity.” If only I had two other guys with me, and a phone to smash this guy in the mouth, and an air conditioner to pull out of a window and drop on his face. (No, don’t even tell me you didn’t see that movie.)

I bounced into my car and pulled away, smoke in my interior, smoke on my clothes. Damn it.

But what the hell just happened back there?? Was the guy on crack? Or was he just pissed off at too many people stopping to smoke near his property because Big Corp. won’t let us smoke on theirs? Was he in the process of murdering someone in his shed and didn’t want me to hear the hacking and sawing? Dressed the way he was, I have a sneaking suspicion he was filming porn in the back yard.

I drove over to a parking lot off of the main road. I stood by my car wondering about the incident and still attempting get a hold of my groin. (Take that as you like.)

What the hell is that in the weeds?

An abandoned toilet! A toilet?

I raised my hands to the sky, looking up to ask, “What the hell is going on in this world?” Only to spot a pair of old boots hanging from a branch above my head.

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Of course, the way my mind works, I instantly imagined some guy exploding off that toilet in the weeds and losing his boots as he shot through the sky. It’s every bit as plausible as the guy rocketing through the woods to greet me moments before.

So, I will try to resist the bad tendencies and give in to the good ones by writing more stories online. Like the one about the time I mistakenly went into the women’s room at my daughter’s high school graduation. Or the one about the time I dropped my 16-pound bowling ball on wind-up on a night the bowling alley was packed. Or the one about the time I threw up all over the library floor after eating fruit cocktail. Oh, I wrote about that already. Don’t worry. I have others. Be prepared.

DADIATOR

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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

“Et tu Brute?”

“Desmond Tutu, Brute?”

“Nice tutu, Brute!”

So, here I am pictured in my stunt double outfit for the movie “300”. Let me tell you. Those helmets make your head sweat!

Okay. You’re smart enough to realize it’s a plastic helmet and I’m not much of a stuntman. But I am one heck of a trick or treater! (“treatOR” in Old Latin) Those Greeks in “300” may have marched through mountain passes and challenged the monstrous Persian army, but I, Samuelus Caesar, flew all the way to Georgia to confront my enemies. Well, sort of. My ex-wife was there. But I intimidated her with my red plumage and she left me alone. Thank Zeus! No tricks. Just treats. The treats of seeing my daughters and “Roming” around the neighborhood pillaging and plundering in a confectionary sort of way.

Over the past few years, my employment arrangements have become flexible enough to permit me to work while visiting my daughters. I was here last year and dressed up as a prisoner. The funniest part of that was when a little girl didn’t realize what I was and with wide eyes said, “Hello zebra!” as she and her father passed by me. Children are delightful and the things that come out of their mouths sometimes is happily revealing of their enviable simplicity. My youngest daughter, who is almost 12 now (what??), said that this year I was her “dad in plastic armor”! Where did she get that sense of humor? Hmm…

For trick or treating, I took command of a troop of four boys, three girls, and two other dads. One of the dads dressed up. The other didn’t. I court marshaled him for being out of uniform while on patrol in enemy territory. A few of the boys were dressed as football players. Two girls looked like gypsies or something. My daughter was a cat. (My other daughter was a rock star, but too cool to hang with us. She went with her 13-year-old friends in a different housing development.)

The people in Georgia, or at least in this part of Georgia, participate in Halloween more than the folks back in New Jersey do. I don’t know if that is due to “Southern hospitality” or the warmer weather here or that I’ve just lived in the wrong parts of New Jersey. Down here there were people out having a grand time! Granted, we’ve already had frost back home and down here the people panic at the first chill breeze… while I’m sweating in short sleeves (and plastic armor)! Case in point: I am writing this while sitting in a coffee shop late in the afternoon. It’s over 70 degrees outside. They have a fireplace burning in here! I kid you not, soldier’s honor, cross my breastplate and hope to die, stick a javelin in my eye. Now I know why the Confederate Army lost the Civil War. They were cold!

The kids had a great time going door to door for candy. It was hard to keep up with them at times! With so many kids and parents out and about, it was hard to keep an eye on all the kids in our group. At times, one or two got lost in the melee and I nearly dispatched the other fathers on search missions. But I was able to keep the troops together and on course. However, after an hour, grumblings within the ranks began: “My feet hurt.” “My legs ache.” “I’m tired.” “I don’t want to walk anymore.” The terrain was quite hilly. But, in the tradition of Alexander the Great, Samuel the Awesome roused their loyalty and ambition, leading them home with their spoils in bulging pillow cases. Victory was sweet!

Now, as various and sundry pressing duties require my attention, I must sign-off.

“Ave et vale.”

“Caveat Emptor.”

I command thee to Google it if thou doth not understand.

“Ha ha.” (Latin for “laugh”)

THESE WINDING ROADS

Originally posted on the website:
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“Daddy, I hope that none of our friends come to our new house to visit at night and have an accident on these winding roads.”

“Yes, there have been many accidents on these roads and people have been killed. I myself had two accidents on this particular road when I was in high school.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, the first was in Pop’s car, an old 1967 Volkswagen. I was driving too fast in the rain and tried to go around that curve by the farm at 70 mph.”

“Wow! That’s crazy!”

“Yeah. I spun out and ended up off the road. Luckily, the car wasn’t damaged and I wasn’t hurt. I never told Pop about it until years later!”

“What was the other accident?”

“I was driving my own car. It snowed the night before, just a little. I went around that other bad curve there. I hit some snow on the side of the road and started to slide. Your aunt was with me. I said, ‘Hold on!’ We slid off the road and into the ditch. The force of it made me slide clear across the seat up against your aunt. I calmly said, ‘Hi. How ya doin’?’ She started to cry.”

“Wow. You’re lucky nothing serious happened in those accidents.

Such was our conversation on our way to the new house that my kids and I are moving into. It’s in the “country” near where I grew up. It’s “home.” In fact, when I was ten years old, I played football with other kids in the yard of the home in which we are moving. Funny how life goes around. I have so many memories of days spent in this area as a kid. I have a feeling the move will inspire me to write about many of those memories. We will be living across the road from where a childhood sweetheart of mine lived. Her name was Debbie. I was so in “love” with her when I was ten. I used to daydream about having a super cool, green colored Kawasaki dirt bike that I could come riding down the road on to whisk her away to do ten-year-old romantic things, like maybe hold hands and carve our initials into a tree. Ah… those were the days!

I was nine when my parents divorced. My mom and sister and I rented a small home, more like a tiny cabin, a mile down the road from where I will soon be living. I spent hours riding my sort of cool 10-speed bike around the winding roads there, sometimes nearly wiping out in the loose gravel as I tried to take turns too quickly. But I never crashed.

My son followed me to the new place in his car (my old car) last night. We unloaded several boxes I brought with me. We will be renting the house from one of my friends. He has given us permission to start moving our things in. My current landlords agreed to shorten my lease. So I will be moving by the end of March or sooner if they find a new tenant. The kids and I spent just a short time at the house last night, discussing how we were going to arrange the living room. We hadn’t eaten dinner yet. My daughter remembers that it was 9:16 when we left there. Instead of going back the way we came, I said, “Follow me. We’ll go the other way to the store to get something easy to make for dinner.” My daughter jumped in the car with me.

We were in a happy mood as we started down the road. Regina Spektor was playing on my iPod. The song was called “Flying.” The road was too winding for us to be flying. But our spirits were flying at the thought of living in our new place soon.

Within a few short moments, our light conversations abruptly changed to short statements of concern. As through the trees we saw speeding headlights approaching the turn ahead of us, we both knew that danger was rapidly approaching. It was apparent that the oncoming car was traveling too fast to manage the sharp curve. I said, “Hold on! Hold on!” I slowed down as quickly as I could and headed for the shoulder of the road. Unfortunately, that shoulder was narrow and bordered by a wooded bank. The other car came sliding around the curve sideways in our lane. Everything was happening in slow motion as I attempted to avoid the out of control maniac. But there was nowhere for me to go. “We’re going to hit! We’re going to hit!” At the very last second, when I knew there was nothing else I could do to avoid the accident, I covered my face with my arms and ducked my head.

Slam! Bang! His car smashed into the front of mine. The air bags in my car exploded into our faces. The first thing I saw when we stopped was the passenger air bag deflating before my daughter. The interior of the car was filled with a choking smoke. “Are you okay? Are you okay?” “Daddy, my face! My face hurts! Daddy!” “Something’s on fire! Roll your window down!” I can’t get my door open! The other car is in the way! “Are you okay in there? Are you okay too?” I have to back up. Shit! His car is rolling with mine! I have to back up! Someone’s knocking on the passenger door. I’ll unlock it. “Are you both okay in there?” It’s my son. “Take my phone. Call 911!” My door’s open now. Wait. Make sure it’s in neutral. Let the clutch out. Pull the emergency brake. Put the four way flashers on. Turn off the iPod. No sense letting the battery go dead.

The next thing I remember was running to my son’s car to turn on his flashers. He was tending to his sister. “Tell that other guy to turn his flashers on before another car comes and slams into us!” Some girl with a Russian accent stopped to see if we were okay. “Don’t let her move her neck! Tell her not to move her neck!” Then she got back in her car and left. Thanks. I guess.

A police officer came. An emergency squad member arrived. The ambulance was there. Then fire trucks. Another ambulance. People all over. The road was closed. “Who was driving this black car?” “Oh, that would be me.” “Are you okay sir?” “Yes, I feel fine. My daughter is hurt though.” “We’ll take care of her.” Give my story to the police. Give my story to a squad member. They’re putting there equipment all over my brand new car. “Oh man! I didn’t even have a scratch on it before this! I haven’t even had it for two months! Why the hell are you cutting my battery cables?? Fuck! My car!”

The trip to the hospital in the ambulance with my daughter was a dream. As we were pulling away I saw a car in the road that looked like mine. “Hey, there’s my son! What’s he doing here? Man, I think I’m going to throw up…” I think I was somewhat in shock. I don’t remember most of the ride to the hospital. Then I found myself giving all my information to a grumpy emergency room worker while my daughter was wheeled away for a CT scan. My hand was x-rayed. It was only a bruise. After what seemed like an eternity, we got word that my daughter’s scan was fine. We could go home.

What a thin line separates us from this life and the next! If I was only 50 yards further down the road… If I was distracted and didn’t notice the oncoming car as soon as I did… If the car didn’t have air bags… If I was speeding like I normally do… If… If… If… We may have “gone home” for good. It was that close. The fact that we avoided a head-on collision and all walked away with only minor bruises is something for which to be sincerely thankful. Possibly we were at the right spot at the right time to break the crash of a young, speeding high school boy who before that moment most likely thought that he was indestructible, very much like the high school boy who years before nearly wrecked his father’s Volkswagen on a similar risky curve a few miles back on the same road. All is well that ends well. Cars can be replaced. The same can’t be said for people.

Here are a few photos of both cars.

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SUICIDE MOUNTAIN

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

The teacher called it “a little disturbing.” But she gave him a good grade. I think it’s pretty funny and creative. I laughed hard when I read it. The students were told to write a creative story in class when presented with a photo of a kid on a sled. Here is the misfortune of Bob, Bill, Ben and Brian. A short story by my son Tim…

THERE WAS this nice winter day. All the kids were out riding their sleds down big hills. But eventually the hills they usually ride on were not as exciting as they used to be. So they went in search of an even bigger hill.

The kids walked and looked for hours but didn’t find any hill that gave them even the slightest rush. Until… they walked to the top of “Suicide Mountain.” Now they were thrilled at how steep, how high, how windy, and how fast this hill, or rather, mountain would be.

There were four kids that went up there that day. Their names were Bob, Bill, Ben and Brian. They all argued about who would go first. Bob was the bravest of them all and volunteered to do it. Then Brian said, “Oh! I’ll go second.” Ben said that he would go third. Bill said that he would meet them at the bottom. He said that he was walking back down the trail because he was scared.

All of a sudden, Bob went flying down the mountain screaming, “YEA!!!! This is fun! Woooo! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Then Brian came flying down right behind Bob, screaming with excitement. Lastly came Ben right behind Brian. Everything was going great!

UNTIL…

Bob splattered his face and everything in his head up against a beautiful evergreen tree at an amazingly high speed. It was horrible! It was like a reenactment of Sonny Bono, but on a sled.

Brian, being right behind Bob, witnessed the whole thing. He had to avoid hitting the tree as Bob did. So, he made a sharp turn. Ben was right behind him and followed his trail. What they didn’t see was that they were heading off the side of a cliff. Before they could do anything about it, they were flying through the air, about to be exploded on the concrete below.

Bill had just made it to the bottom of the mountain and was waiting for the others to finish. Out of nowhere, Bob and Ben both landed on top of Bill, killing him and themselves instantly.

So, I guess that is why they call it “Suicide Mountain.”