Gun Control

A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback.  

Gun Control

It was a slow week at Billy Bronco’s, a local watering hole.

Last week, there was a shooting. There was an argument about gun control.

Three guys came into the bar: Joe, Hank, and Pete.

After the argument, their views changed dramatically.

Joe said he didn’t think guns should be in the hands of private citizens.

Hank immediately began quoting the second amendment. Of course, Joe said that was open to interpretation.

Pete didn’t care one way or another so Joe and Hank asked Pete to be the arbiter. They presented their arguments with passion and reason. So much so that Pete could not declare one the winner over the other.

“You are both my friends,” Pete said. “Your arguments are persuasive and articulated well. I just can’t make up my mind.”

“What do you mean you can’t make up your mind?” Joe said inches from Pete’s face.

“I mean what I said,” Pete said, backing away.

“You’re a coward not to take a stand,” Hank said, backing Pete off his stool.

“That is my stand,” Pete said. “It pleases no one.”

Hank reached inside Joe’s coat and pulled out his concealed handgun. Hank fired one round through Pete’s foot.

Pete screamed. “You idiot! You argued for gun control!”

“Yes!” Hank said. “To keep guns out of the hands of idiots like me.”

The police and rescue squad were called.

Joe was arrested for carrying a weapon without a permit. Hank was arrested for discharging the weapon and shooting Pete. Pete was taken to the hospital, treated, and released.

It has been six months since the shooting. Pete walks with a limp and carries .45. He swears if he sees Joe or Hank, he’s going to put a bullet through their foot. But it will be controlled; “I’m shooting feet only.”

The Squirrel Hunter

“Didja git yer squirrel?” Maude said looking up from her cup of coffee. She crossed her legs beneath the kitchen table and waited for Tom to answer.

Tom leaned his rifle against the wall next to the kitchen door and walked over to the stove. He grabbed the coffee pot and poured a cup.

“Well?” Maude said. “Ya been gone long enough. Ya shoulduv gotten a half dozen or so.”

“Didn’t git any,” Tom said. He blew the steam from the cup and sipped.

“What were ya doin’ all that time?” Maude said.

“I tromped around for a while and didn’t see any squirrels,” Tom said.

“That woods is full of squirrels,” Maude said. “I betcha I could go out there and shoot me a few b’fore noon.”

“I ‘spose ya could,” Tom said. “Ya always was good at huntin’ squirrels.”

“But there ain’t nobody as good as you,” Maude said. “Ya losin’ you’re touch?”

“Maybe,” Tom said.

“I told ya, ya need glasses,” Maude said.

“It ain’t that,” Tom said. “I kin still read a license plate from the mailbox to the curve in the road.”

“Must be the sights,” Maude said. “I told ya they was off.”

“Sights are good,” Tom said.

“Then what is it, ya lose yer taste fer squirrel?” Maude said.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Tom said.

“When it comes ta food on the table, ya better sure want to talk about it,” Maude said.

“Ya sound like we’re livin’ during the depression or somethin’,” Tom said. “If we want meat we got a freezer full.”

“I know that but ya like huntin’ squirrel,” Maude said. “And I like fixin’ it fer ya.”

“I know,” Tom said, “but—never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“This sounds deep,” Maude said. “And I ain’t leavin’ ya alone until you fess up.”

Tom sipped the coffee again. He stood in front of the kitchen sink with his back to Maude and looked out the window. An oriole fluttered to a nearby tree and danced along a limb. Two white butterflies darted playfully just above the tall grass at the edge of the woods.

“I was walkin’ out there and I stopped a good aim from a tree full of squirrels. They was a barkin’ and chatterin’ like a hen house with a fox in it but those squirrels was havin’ fun; the time of their life. I sat against a tree and waited for a clear shot. There was so many squirrels in that tree I could have spent the whole morning there. I was watchin’ and before long my eyes go heavy. I dozed off. I don’t know what woke me; I think it was the quiet. I looked just beyond my feet and there was this curious little squirrel. Well, he wasn’t little—good eatin’ size.”

Tom turned his head halfway toward Maude. “Are you followin’ me so far?”

“Sure,” Maude said, “but I’m not so sure you know where yer headin’.”

“There’s something ‘bout the woods,” Tom said turning and gazing out the window again. “Ya kin be havin’ a bad day at work, ya come home and take a walk in the woods and it’s all gone; every bad thing, dark thoughts, every curse, every clinched fist—ya just let it go. I read where the leaves absorb CO2. I think they absorb other things—things of the mind—things only felt and not seen or measured. Do you understand me?”

“Have ya been wathin’ that public channel?” Maude said.

“That squirrel looked right into me and saw everything about me and yet he was willin’ to spend a moment to give me some joy. I slowly raised my rifle to my shoulder and took aim. He was maybe 15 feet away. I watched him through my sights. I wrapped my trigger finger around the trigger. I smiled a bit. My trigger finger trembled. I relaxed my finger. I sat the rife down. That squirrel came up to me and sort of nudged me with his nose as if to say move over.”

“Well?” Maude said.

“Well, what?” Tom said.

“Didja move over?” Maude said.

“Of course,” Tom said. “It’s his territory. He roots around a bit and digs up an acorn. He brought it over to me and dropped it in my hand.”

“That’s a crazy story,” Maude said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Maude,” Tom said. “I don’t think I can ever kill another livin’ creature.”

Three Ways To Win A Fight

Doug and Woody were burr-headed recruits far from
home just walking into a noisy smoke-filled beer hall that was saturated with the stench of cheap booze.

They bought a mug of beer each at the bar and looked for a table. They spotted one and hurried to it before somebody else claimed it.  They sat and had a couple of sips of beer. They scanned the room.

“I think we’re the only guys in basic training in this place,” Woody said. “We don’t have a stripe or a medal.”

A Marine corporal in a form-fitted khaki shirt and pressed pants walked up to the table Woody and Doug sat. He had enough ribbons to name a building after him. He held a mug of beer with a hand the size of the mug. He had the face of a clean-shaven bulldog.

“You two are going to have t leave,” the marine said. “I got some buddies comin’ and I said I’d have a table for them.”

“We could all sit together,” Doug said. 

The Marine smirked, “You got to be kidding me. We ain’t sittin’ with Army recruits. That’s funny.”

“But we were here first,” Doug said. “We’re willing to share the table with you.”

“And we all become buddies,” The Marine said sarcastically. 

“What’s fair is fair,” Doug said.

“My god, boy, did you just come off the playground, ‘What’s fair is fair?’” The Marine said. “How ‘bout might makes right? Get up and find some corner to drink your beer in.”

Woody started to stand.

 “No, Woody,” Doug said, “we ain’t movin’.”

Woody was caught between a stand and a sit. His last swallow of beer was about to meet the one he held in his mouth.

“Sit,” Doug said.

“Have your way, ya grubs,” the Marine said. “I’m sitting my mug down. I’m going to take a leak. When I return the only thing at this table better be this beer. If not, I’m going to show ya what it’s like to have a real ass kickin’.”

The Marine sat the mug down and walked away.

"There are three ways I can win this fight," Doug said just above a whisper to Woody. 

The sat motionless and sipped the beer. 

“Let’s just spit in his beer and leave,” Woody said.

“He won’t start anything,” Doug said, “besides I got three ways to win this fight.”

"I don't think so." Woody said. “Did you see him making his way through the crowd as if a bulldozer? Everybody in this place is afraid of him. I don't think we could take him together." 

They sipped some more and waited.

Woody’s eyes searched for the nearest exit and nodded toward one. "Let's sneak out." Woody whispered.

"He's got his eyes on every exit," Doug said looking at the Marine standing at the doorway of the latrine. "If we make a move for one of them he'll nail me."

"Go over and say something to the MP," Woody suggested.

"What am I going to say,” Doug said and feigned wiping tears from his cheek. “’That big bad Marine is going to whip my butt?' To which he’ll reply, 'Ya mind if I watch sweetie pie?' No thanks. Let’s just go."

“Nah,” Doug said. “He’s bluffing.”

"Why didn't you just let him have it?" Woody said

"Didn't think he would take it so personal," Doug said.

Woody whispered, "What are the three ways?"

“What three ways?” Doug said.

“You said there were three ways to win this fight,” Woody said.

There was no time to answer. The Marine sat across the table from Doug. "Well let's finish our beers and take it outside. My buddies will be here before long and I want a table for them," he said coldly.

"Look man can't we just forget this," Woody said smiling anxiously trying to be reasonable. "Are you sure we just can't all sit together?" 

The Marine motioned with his head toward Woody, smiled, and said to Doug, "Do ya powder his behind before ya lay him down for beddy-bye?" He said it as if reciting a line of poetry. He tilted the mug to his lips and drank without taking his eyes off Doug.

He looked over at Woody and ordered, "Hold the table for me and my buddies while me and this recruit step outside."

While Woody affirmed the command, the final gulp of beer from Doug’s mug passed his throat. He squeezed the handle of the mug as if trying to choke the life out of a snake. With a swing, he drove the bottom of the mug squarely against the jutted jaw of the Marine. There was a loud crack like a bat hitting a baseball. The Marine fell to the floor and his chair squirted across the room. Everyone expectantly rose to their feet.

"He passed out," Doug said helplessly to the beer hall crowd.

Doug looked at Woody whose eyes bulged. "That's the first way."

“Now what?” Woody said.

They left the beer hall faster than they arrived.

A few steps from the beer hall, Woody asked, “What were the other two ways?”

“I don’t know,” Doug said.

Sad-Eyed Lady of the Low Lands

 "We were robbed," Carl said slamming his fist on the kitchen table. The salt and pepper shakers and utensils rattled.

Jen jerked and squinted at him. She finished drying dishes. Slowly she walked to the table and sat across from Carl. "What do you mean?" She said calmly sensing some inner frustration.

"Look at us! We're over sixty and live in 1950 something trailer in the middle of nowhere. We have no friends, no kids, nothing."

"How were we robbed?" she said.

"We both could have gotten degrees when we were in school, taught someplace and be retired, but we listened to idiot radicals like Dylan, Baez, Lennon. We thought we would all become one. We thought we could all live as equals. We bought their music, went to their concerts, and swallowed their ideology. They were nothing more than rainmakers, frauds! They all ended up with millions and we ended up with nothing."

"That was long ago," she said. "We had plenty of time to do things differently."

"But we really believed," he said emphatically. "You made and sold bead necklaces and I sold vegetables at a roadside stand. Was that supposed to show 'the establishment?' We found a better way?"

"We thought we were doing the right thing," she said.

"We should have known when we went to San Francisco to hear Dylan," Carl said. "I saw him on the street a couple of days after the concert and I asked him what was the meaning of Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands? He looked at me like trash and said 'Whatever you want it to be,' and then said, 'Get away from me.' I idolized him so much that it didn't occur to me that I was a nuisance."

"We talked about this before," she said. "He probably thought you wanted an autograph."

"I had no pen or paper," Carl said. "He was afraid I wanted a hand-out."

"You might have scared him," Jen said. "Look what happened to Lennon."

"Yeah if Lennon would have lived how many more lives would he have ruined and how many more millions would he have made?"

"Take it easy," Jen said.

"We know the truth, Jen," he said. "We know the truth. That was the day I knew we was robbed. They took our money and my dignity."

"But we have each other," she said stretching her arm across the table and holding Carl's hand.

Carl looked into her green eyes not noticing the weather-worn wrinkles surrounding them. "You are my sad-eyed lady."

"We were young, full of hope, and idealism," she said. "Weeks became years and years decades and here we are." She sighed and admitted, "Sure, we were robbed."

Carl patted Jen's hand and smiled. He got up and walked to the door and turned. "But I still have you." She watched him walk outside and work in the garden. Jen sat at the table, smiled, and began stringing beads.

Mundane Mildred Mahoney

 Mildred Mahoney—what a mundane life she led. She never married. When the local elementary school first opened its doors, they hired her as the secretary. She was barely beyond her teens.

She was not what you might call attractive. Plain best described her. Hardly anyone knew she was around. One might say a picture on the wall; eventually, it goes unnoticed.

About five years after being hired, the school janitor, Fred Seymour, asked for Mildred’s hand in marriage. She thought about it for a month. And when she told him, yes. He informed her he was going to marry the third-grade teacher, Tilly Yoeman.

Mildred quietly did her job. There was not a student’s name she did not know and the same with their parents.

When in the fourth grade, I was all lined up to receive a paddling. It was to be administered by Miss Crowley, the principal. She was a brutish woman who wore a scow like men wear a mustache—permanently.

I sat in the chair next to Miss Mahoney’s desk. It was like sitting on death row—waiting, waiting, waiting. Wonder about the hurt. And promising myself, no matter how it hurts, I would not cry. Truth is, I already started to cry.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Miss Mahoney said.

That was the first time I heard her voice. It was sweet and tender. I thought it was an angel.

“No,” I sniffed and pouted.

“It will help,” she said.

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“It will take your mind off things,” she said.

“No it won’t,” I said.

“What happened?” She said.

“I hit a kid,” I said.

“Who?” She said.

“Tommy Baldridge,” I said.

“He’s older than you, isn’t he?” She said.

“He’s in sixth grade,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” she said.

“You know everything, don’t you?” I said.

“Not everything,” she said, “except about everything that happens in this school.”

“Yeah, nothing gets by you,” I said.

“Can I tell you a secret,” she said, “and you promise not to tell no one else—not ever.”

“I suppose,” I said.

“No, I suppose,” she said, “you got to promise and never tell anyone. If you do, I could get fired.”

“I don’t want you fired,” I said. “You don’t talk much but you’re nice to everybody.”

“So you promise?” She said.

“Swear to God and hope to die, poke a stick in my eye.”

She looked around as if to make sure nobody was within earshot. “Miss Crowly won’t do a thing unless she clears it with me.”

“You make all the decisions?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then you’re the boss,” I said.

“Not exactly,” she said, “but she thinks she is.”

“Can you help me out?” I said.

“Tell me about your scrap with Tommy?” she said.

“He’s been pushing me around all week,” I said. “He shoved me down and kicked me in the butt. When he walked away, I picked up a rock and clunked him on the head. He started crying. I really felt bad. I didn’t want him to cry; I just wanted him to leave me alone. And that’s the truth; swear on a stack of Bibles.”

“I know,” she said. “I heard some of the other kids talking about it.”

The clop of Victorian lace two-inch heeled shoes echoed from the hallway outside the office. I swallowed. My fate was sealed.

“Don’t worry,” Miss Mahoney said. “I got this. But look terrified.”

“I am terrified.”

“Look more terrified.”

I began to shake and whimper. It was easy to do.

Miss Crowley walked into the office. I felt as if in the presence of a corpse. She frowned at me so tight I thought her face might cramp.

“Fetch my paddle from the wall,” Miss Crowley ordered.

I stood.

“The boy has heaved a few times waiting on you,” Miss Mahoney said. “I’m afraid the board might cause him to go into convulsions.”

“I think it should bring him out of it and bring him to his senses,” Miss Crowley said.

I walked over to the wall and removed the paddle from the nail it hung on. It was shiny and smooth with three rows of holes.

“You know what the holes are for?” Miss Crowley said.

“No,” I said.

“Well it’s not to make the sound of a whistle during the swing,” Miss Crowley said. It’s there to sting.”

She grabbed it from my hand.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Miss Crowley said as if she were about to enjoy something.

“Miss Crowley,” Miss Mahoney said, “Did you not understand what I told you about the boy’s condition.”

“Yes, and did I not tell you my position,” Miss Crowley said. “His conduct must be addressed.”

“But you haven’t heard him,” Miss Mahoney said.

“I saw a boy with a gash and stitches,” Miss Crowley said. “That’s all I needed to see.”

I was holding onto my ankles waiting. It seemed as if all my blood ran to my head. I thought I might faint.

“Oh, by the way, Miss Crowley,” Miss Mahoney said, “your housemate, Miss Carmichael said to pick up some sherry before coming home.”

“Stand up,” Miss Crowley said to me.

“What!” Miss Crowley said to Miss Mahoney.

“I think you heard the first time,” Miss Mahoney said.

Miss Crowley squinted cruelly at Miss Mahoney. “My personal life is no concern of anybody.”

“So far, since you have been principal at this school,” Miss Mahoney said, “you have paddled twenty-one boys and no girls. One might think you favor girls over boys.”

She handed the paddle to me. “Hang it up.”

“Miss Carmichael and I are friends,” Miss Crowley said.

“It’s nice to have friends,” Miss Mahoney said. “And I tell folks Miss Carmichael is a cousin you have promised to see after.”

“People talk?” Miss Crowley said.

“Yes, they do,” Miss Mahoney said.

Miss Crowley nodded toward me. “What about him? What will he say?”

“He is a good boy,” Miss Mahoney said. “He knows how to keep secrets.” She turned to me. “Isn’t that right?”

“Do you mean, you want me to tell kids I got the board but I really didn’t?” I said.

“No,” Miss Crowley said.

“Oh,” I said, “you don’t want people to know about your cousin—she can’t make it on her own.”

“Come to think of it,” Miss Mahoney said. “If anybody says something about Miss Crowley and the woman living with her, set them straight.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Run along,” Mrs. Crowley said.

For the next few years, I was confused about the events of that day. Everyone found out about Miss Crowley’s and Miss Carmichael's relationship. I kept my word. Everyone else just thought I was naive.

So here I am, fifty years later, walking up the sidewalk to Miss Crowley’s little house a block from the old elementary school. She sat on the porch in a wicker chair. Older now but I’d recognize her in a crowd.

“Hello, Miss Mahoney,” I said walking up the steps to her porch. “Do you remember me?”

“Sure I remember you,” she smiled. “Come here and have a seat and tell me what you’ve done with your life.”

I sat on a wicker chair next to her. I smiled and said, “No one in my life had greater influence on my life than you have.”

“Oh come on now,” she chuckled. “What happened, did you just make parole?”

“You don’t know how many times I wanted to tell Miss Crowley’s and Miss Carmichael's secret, but I never did.”

“So for a boy who keeps secrets so well, what did you do, work for the CIA?” she joked.

“I became a lawyer, a good one,” I said. “A good lawyer keeps secrets.”

“Whatever happened to Tommy Baldridge?” She said. “You remember him, don’t you? A good lawyer has to have a good memory.”

“Strange you should ask,” I said. “He came to me early in my career. He was up for manslaughter. I got him off, not guilty. I owed it to him. After all a kick in the butt is hardly equal to a gash and stitches in the head—still had the scar.”

“Was he guilty or innocent?” Miss Mahoney said.

“I can keep a secret.”

Jumpin' Jeremiah Johnson

 Uncle Walt died. He was my favorite uncle. For that fact, he could have been everybody’s favorite uncle. He was kind, generous, and just plain good. I always hoped to be like him but never made the grade. So the drive back from Florida loomed seriously morose.

I visited him six months earlier. I could tell his health was failing but not his spirit. He always had the right words to say. “You can take the bitterest fruit and make a refreshing drink,” he told me once. “Look for the good in all people. It’s there. And the man who finds it has found a treasure.”

I decided to take the State Highways back home. They offer more, especially when you’re in no hurry and you want to reminisce.

I stayed in an out-of-the-way motel Saturday night. Sunday morning I crossed into Alabama. There’s nothing lonelier than an Alabama highway on Sunday morning.

I found a small restaurant open. The Sunday crowd had not yet arrived. The eggs, sausage, and potatoes were tasty and greasy.

Near 11:00 AM I spotted a church the size of a small school. On the sign at the driveway, it read, “Pastor Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson.”

“Could it be?” I mumbled.

I turned the car into the driveway and a well-dressed man waved me to an open parking space.

I started first grade with Jerry Johnson. When he was 10, he told everybody to start calling him by his given name, Jeremiah. It seems he was saved and the Lord spoke to him when it happened. He told him he was destined to be a preacher and his name would be Jeremiah.

Of course, we all wanted to believe, because that’s what fifth graders do.

Changes occurred in Jeremiah. He stopped sneaking smokes, peeking in the girls' locker room, and saying bad words. He was quick to condemn the rest of us. He soon became an outcast.

Jeremiah’s only acceptance was basketball. He was good. The best we had. He was only good by virtue of his god-given ability to jump, thus Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson.

This had to be his church. What a coincidence.

Like my Uncle Walt used to say, “That boy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a handful of stones, But he could touch the top of the barn door without using a ladder.”

I was one of the last ones into the pews. Two older men tried to usher me to the front. No way, I dressed in jeans, a sports shirt, and sneakers.

After a long prayer by the associate pastor, a nasal dweeb in his mid-twenties. The choir sang a rousing rendition of The Old Rugged Cross and One Day At A Time, Sweet Jesus. The dweeb instructed the congregation to turn to song 104 in the hymnal, Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.

After the song Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson stood before the congregation with nothing but a Bible and his bombastic self-righteousness between him and the gathered sinners.

It was him alright. Still looked in good shape. He had a lot more hair than I remember. It was black with streaks of gray and combed backward in waves. As he preached the hair flopped in his face and he would brush it back. Everyone leaned in on every word. Hallelujahs were like applause lines.

He preached folks in and out of hell with a twist of a phrase. He was clever, much more clever than I remembered.

During the sermon, I could not help but return to those glory years when we were the representatives of our school battling in athletic competition for the honor of our community.

Jeremiah was a member of the team but not a part of the team. To him, if Jesus was not a part of the conversation, it was not a worthwhile endeavor. It was a struggle to be around him.

He considered that Catholic schools we played a part of the Antichrist. A nearby school was known for the number of bars in such a small town. He called them all heathens. Unfortunately, that was all they needed to beat us by 20.

Although his condemnatory ranting and arcane theology did not satisfy my need, it was nostalgic for me in a sentimental way. Good memories rose like balloons at a party.

At the end of his sermon, he said, “I’m Jumpin’ Jeremiah Johnson and I’m gonna ring the Lord’s bell.

He stepped to a small bell hanging on the back wall. Underneath hung a rendering of Jesus on a cross.

“Eleven feet!” he said and jumped.

He was short by less than an inch.

“That’s only happened one other time,” he said. “It’s when I had a twisted ankle.”

He jumped again and missed by more than an inch.

“Third time’s a charm,” he smiled uncomfortably.

He missed again. He swallowed hard. His face turned red.

Despite any bitterness I had toward him, he was a teammate. I could not help but feel the burden of his humiliation.

I removed my sneakers and walked up the aisle toward Jeremiah. I held out the sneakers. “Nobody can jump in those shoes. Here, try these on.”

Jeremiah smiled. He grabbed the shoes and put them on. He jumped and rang the bell.

Everyone praised Jesus. There was a song and a prayer.

The church cleared empty leaving Jeremiah and me. We stood in front of the altar.

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said.

“Nothing I wouldn’t do for an old teammate.”

“The Lord sent you to me today,” Jeremiah said.

Jeremiah destroyed the moment with his self-indulgent piety.

I twisted my head and gave him a disappointed half grin. “You’re the one who couldn’t ring the Lord’s bell.”

I walked away.

Like Uncle Walt used to say, “Look for the good in all people. It’s there. And the man who finds it, has found a treasure.”

Just not today.

Ivan The Not So Terrible

 

Ivan’s hair and jacket flapped in the breeze as he hurried away from the bank. He held tightly a backpack full of wrapped bills. His heart pounded and he dared not look back.

He caught the cross-town bus and settled into a seat near the rear door. Half of a dozen passengers stared into oblivion. He got off at the corner of Highland and Bristol.

He walked to the Highland Terrace Apartments. He pressed the buzzer and the electronic door clicked. He walked in and knocked on the door of apartment 107.

The door unlatched. Ivan opened and walked in. He walked by a tall hefty man with a baby face oozing with evil. A narrow hallway led to a living room.

A man they called The Baboon sat on a couch with a TV remote flipping through the channels.

“My name is Ivan. I’m Omar’s brother.”

“Omar, the bread man,” Baboon said. “Always brought us the bread. We got his name from a faded sign painted on the side of an old grocery store. Seems like there used to be an Omar Bread. They call you Ivan The Terrible?”

Ivan grinned. “Omar was the black sheep. I’m the Ivan Not So Terrible.”

Ivan tossed the backpack on the coffee table in front of The Baboon.

“Is it all there?” The Baboon said still flipping through the channels.

“There’s a lot there,” Ivan said. “I didn’t count it. I was kinda rushed for time.”

The Baboon lifted the backpack by the straps. “That feels like enough. Do you want to stick around while we count it?”

“You’re kidding,” Ivan said. “Can’t any of your boys count that high?”

“Careful,” The Baboon said, “some of my guys are sensitive about their lack of education and opportunity, so I’d be careful.”

“This pays off my brother’s debt, right?” Ivan said.

“In full,” The Baboon said. “Pleasure doing business with you and your brother.”

“My brother won’t be working for you anymore,” Ivan said.

The Baboon continued and found a cartoon channel and stopped. “The old ones were funny. The ones now are crap. You know, that superhero crap, demons, explosions. The stuff is unreal.”

“And talking cats, dogs, and mice?” Ivan said.

The Baboon chuckled at something on the screen. “You’re right about your brother; he tried to settle his debt on his own. Didn’t go so well. So his debt became your debt. And now your debt is paid.”

“Good day, sir,” Ivan said and walked down the hallway. The big man opened the door and let him out.

Ivan reached the sidewalk and walked toward the bus stop.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed The Baboon.

“Yeah,” The Baboon said.

“This is Ivan. Where’s my brother?”

“The bottom of a stone quarry east of town. He lost his footing.”

“What’s the difference between a Baboon and a bomb?” Ivan paused. “Don’t know, do ya? One is a baboon and the other is ba-boom! Yeah, not clever or funny. The backpack is about 12 ounces heavy. That’s the ba-boom. Now that’s funny.”

Ivan pushed the button on a remote detonator in his jacket pocket. He heard an explosion. A window in apartment 107 shattered and propelled violently outward.

“Not so terrible,” Ivan said.

Harvest

 I’m new here (A to Z Writing Challenge) and have been looking for a daily writing challenge since the old days with the WordPress sponsored Daily Writing Prompt. It’s hard to say what happened to it, it was very popular.

So, here I am, Byron Lehman. I wrote under the pseudonym Kenton Lewis in my WordPress days.

H! Here we go.

Harvest

It was time for the bean harvest. Rain kept us out of the fields. The price of wheat went up a bit so Pa and I shoveled two wagons full of wheat and slung a canvass tarp over each and headed for the elevator.

I didn’t particularly want to go with Pa but he insisted. The novelty of going to the elevator wore thin by the time I reached my teens and now I was two months shy of sixteen.

The elevator was in a small village three miles from us. I sat in the cab with Pa. He drove. It was a good mile before he spoke.

“Don’t like this, do ya?” Pa said.

“Not really,” I said.

“What would you rather do?” Pa said.

“I wanted to go over to Steve’s and play some pool,” I said.

“Steve has a younger sister, right?” Pa said.

“Yeah,” I said, “Debbie.”

“How old is she now?” Pa said.

“She’s about to turn fourteen,” I said.

“You are in the best years of your life,” Pa said. “It may not seem like it to you. It didn’t to me but I had a lot of fun when I was your age.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“You know what makes them good?” Pa said.

“Hard work?” I said.

Pa grinned and slapped me on the knee. “Yes, but it’s good times with your friends.”

“So why didn’t you let me go to Steve’s?” I said.

“I wanted you with me,” Pa said. “It’s a lonely drive.”

“You really wanted to talk to me about Debbie, right?” I said.

“Man to man,” Pa said.

I looked away, hoping the tractor would somehow speed up.

“I’m not going to say anything embarrassing, son,” Pa said.

“But you are anyway, right?” I said.

“Trust me as you have never trusted me before,” Pa said. “Real men know their limits. They set them. And they keep them.”

We must have driven another mile.

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s all a man needs,” Pa said.

“Are you saying I’m a man?” I said.

Pa grinned and nodded.

That harvest sticks in my mind as if it happened yesterday. That was the best harvest ever. It was Pa’s last.

A Guest For Supper

 Lucille stepped from her apartment for the first time in over a year. Groceries and necessities were always delivered. What led to her self-imposed isolation had little to do with COVID. That came along as a convenience.

Indeed nervousness and anxiety made her quiver inside, however, she was determined to reacquaint herself with old friends. She wanted to see the old neighborhood. The friends she acquired over the years and the young folks who kept her thinking young and challenged her wit danced in her mind like a grand ball.

In fact, on this first day she planned to do something she had not done in quite some time; have a guest for supper.

Her first stop was no more than two doors away from her apartment building, Benson’s Grocery.

She grabbed a small cart and started down one of the aisles of the small store. She placed a number of items in the cart. The feeling of actually shopping excited her; seeing, examining, and choosing.

Closer to the far end of the store the white refrigerated meat counter stretchered the entire width of the store. She pushed towards it excited to see Mr. Benson. “I shall invite him and his wife,” she thought and smiled.

“Next please!” Benson said.

“Hello, Mr. Benson,” Lucille said. “If you had to pick something to eat tonight what would it be?”

“Look, lady,” Benson said, “I don’t have time for twenty questions. I got work to do. What is it you want? I got chicken on sale.”

Lucille forced a smile. “Yes, I can see you are busy; I’ll take a rump roast.”

He wrapped it, weighed it, marked it, and handed it to her over the counter.

“He’s a busy man,” she thought and smiled to herself making her way to the cashier.

“Margie, the cashier,” Lucille thought and smiled. “I’ll invite her.”

Lucille placed the items on the counter. Without looking up, Margie scanned and placed them in bags.

“Can you have these delivered, Margie?” Lucille said.

“Sure, Lucy,” Margie said. “where?”

“Lucille, Lucille Martin, two doors east, two ten.”

“Sure, will have them there in thirty minutes,” Margie said.

“That will be forty-five twenty, Lucy,” Margie said looking out the front window.”

Lucille removed the billfold from her purse and said to herself, “She’s not even sure of my first name. She wouldn’t make a good supper guest. She’d be embarrassed to know my name is Lucille.”

Lucille paid and left. She strolled and stopped to window shop. “Wanda! At the dry cleaners,” she thought. “She’s such a delight. I should have brought some dry cleaning. Never the mind, I’ll stop and invite her.”

Lucille walked into the dry cleaners. Behind the counter stood Wanda, the cheerful bundle of smiles and joy that brightened up the gloomiest of days.

“Hi, Wanda,” Lucille said.

“Hi, Lucille,” Wanda said not cracking a smile. “Where have you been, Petersen’s around the corner? He raised his prices; now ya comin’ back ta us. Ya know when he opened up they cut my hours.”

“I had no idea,” Lucille said. “I’ve been staying inside a lot lately.”

“You could have sent out, ya know,” Wanda said.

“I just saw no use in sending out when I wasn’t using anything that needed to be dry cleaned.”

“For two years?” Wanda said.

Lucille forced a smile. “It’s been just a little over a year.”

“Seems like two,” Wanda scowled.

“Well,” Lucille said, “I just came by to say hi and cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said and smiled with her mouth only. Her eyes could have melted steel. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, I’ll bring some dry cleaning soon,” Lucille said and left the store.”

“My,” Lucille said meandering along the sidewalk, “I don’t think Wanda is in the mood for supper, at least with me.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lucille thought. Her chest felt free and relaxed. “My sweet sweet Melinda. We’ve been friends since grade school. I was her bride’s maid. She named her daughter after me. She and Robert for a meal; oh my, just like old times. She can catch me up on the ole gang. Those wonderful bridge nights. And the book club. Oh yes, the book club; hours of talk. We never wanted to leave. And Melinda was such a gifted reader. I think she could have been an actress. Robert’s, Robert’s Florist Shop. I loved going there; curious little gifts. My apartment is full of their little knickknacks and gifts; even when there was no need. I always found a place for them or they made such wonderful gifts. I can’t wait to hug her. And Robert, his warm smile and a full mustache, so manly and warm. They are such great fun.”

Lucille opened the door the Robert’s Florist Shop. The tiny little bell above the door tinkled. Familiar odors greeted like a warm fire on a chilly damp evening.

Melinda sat behind the counter. She smiled and sprung to her feet. “Can I help you?”

“Melinda, it’s me, Lucille.”

Melinda reached for her glasses hanging from her neck. She squinted until they firmly rested on her nose.

“Can I help you?” Melinda said.

“It’s Lucille,” Lucille said. “I’ve come to visit.”

“Visit!” Melinda said. “You could have visited when Robert died.”

“Robert died!” Lucille said. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. But you see, I’ve been ill. It’s hard for me to explain but I’ve just been sick.”

“Sick, ha!” Melinda scoffed. “The least would have been a card or phone call. Some friend. Are you in for the friend-to-friend discount we always gave you?”

Lucille’s eyes fell to the counter. To the side, a small hoya plant sat with wilted leaves. In a strange sort of way it immediately reminded Lucille of herself.

“How much for the hoya?” Lucille said. “No friend to friend discount. I think it will make a wonderful house plant.”

“Just take it and leave,” Melinda said.

“Thank you, my dear Melinda,” Lucille said. Her smile was not forced but as sincere as she felt in a long time. She clutched the plant and left through the door with the little tinkling bell.

Walking back to her apartment building she cradled it in her arm next to her chest.

“You look only a little neglected. You will make a wonderful guest for supper this evening; just a little water and some conversation, that’s all you need, and you’ll spring back to life.”

Innocent Bystanders? Thursday Morning at the Jittery Goat Café

 “Coffee,” Wilbur said.

Newt poured a coffee. “What’s new?”

“Same ole same ole,” Wilbur said. “What about you?”

“Just saw in the news six people were shot up in some bar in LA or New York or Detroit or it might have been Chicago,” Newt said.

“Any survivors?” Wilbur said.

“Nah,” Newt said. “They said the shooters were aiming to shoot only two guys; terrible, four innocent bystanders.”

“When did it happen?” Wilbur said.

“Midnight,” Newt said.

“Innocent bystanders?” Wilbur said.

“Yeah,” Newt said, “just customers, the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“They were in the wrong bar at the wrong time? Nobody’s innocent being in a bar at midnight,” Wilbur said. “Ya can’t be thirsty at that time ‘cause ya already have had a couple of hours of drinkin’ behind ya. The only thing left is lookin’ for loose women or trouble. By midnight you’re so buzzed you’re susceptible to any sort of human degradation that walks into the place or enters your pickled brain. Never seen a guy come into a place at midnight and say I’m lookin’ to do some good. Anybody know some clean jokes? Hey, what’s your favorite Bible verse. What usually happens is some guy thinks, I think I’m gonna flirt with the babe sitting next to the biker dude. What is this a gay bar? Everybody looks queer. Or sometimes a guy just might say to the guy next to him that he looks like the guy he chased out of a bar last week—a real jerk. Are you that jerk? You sure remind me of him. He may say he’s lookin’ for a good time but he’s not lookin’ for good. Good walked by the place hours ago and didn’t even look in.”

“You tellin’ me everybody who’s out at midnight ‘s guilty of something?” Newt said.

“Sooner or later,” Wilbur said. “Anybody going out that time of night is likely gonna find trouble. They always say nothing good happens after bedtime. Nobody’s innocent that time of night.”

“What’s bedtime?” Newt said.

“At least two hours before those guys got shot,” Wilbur said.

Finding Andy Defresne

White-capped waves gently broke on the white sands of western Mexico. The sun to my back lit the blue Pacific like polished, shimmering tanzanite.

There he was sitting on a log washed up from the sea.

“You’re Andy Dufresne, aren’t you?”

He stared at the sea as if nothing was there. “Are you a U. S. Marshall?” Andy said.

“No.”

“Then who are you?” Andy said and turned to examine me closely.

“I heard your story and wanted to meet you.”

“I’m Andy,” he said. “Who did you hear my story from?”

“Family. My father was in Shawshank when I was born.”

“Shawshank. Do I know him?” Andy said.

“No, he said you were hard to get close to.”

“What is it you want?” Andy said, turning back to the sea and letting the wind part his hair.

“I just want to know how you’re doing?”

“You care?” Andy said.

“Sure, why do you think I came all this way?”

“Then let’s walk for a while and talk,” Andy said.

Andy stood, and we walked along the shore.

“Dad said you weren’t much of a talker. He said you were a man of deep things, things that no one could touch.”

“That’s right,” Andy said.

“I don’t want to touch them. I just want to know what they are.”

“Your father is dead,” Andy said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“What you really want to know is your father’s deep things, right?” Andy said.

“Yes, that’s what I really want to know.”

“Then we shall walk, and I will tell you,” Andy said. “There is hope, and there is love. Love keeps hope alive.”

A minute or so passed as they walked along the beach.

“Is that it?”

“Now tell me about your father,” Andy said. “Maybe I do remember him, but I’m certain we are brothers.”

I stopped, and Andy walked on for another two or three steps.

“You’re going to string me along aren’t you?”

Andy grinned an old man’s grin with deep, carved wrinkles. “If your father were my brother, that would make you my nephew. You have been the only one to visit me. That makes you my favorite nephew. Come on, walk next to me, let me tell my story in my own way.”