Honest Bob

 “Who is this?”

“It’s Bob from Express TV.”

“Bob, I have Saucer TV.”

“I can save you money.”

“Bob, How much money?”

“$25 a month, that’s $300 a year.”

“What would that be for two years, Bob?”

“We overcharge the second year and get our $300 back.”

“So, Bob, why should I change from Saucer TV to Express TV.”

“I’ve been honest.”

“What if I take Express TV for a year and cancel, Bob, what will it cost?

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing. But we will make your life miserable.”

“How can that be, Bob?”

“We’ll ruin your credit and hound you the rest of your living days.”

“So once again, Bob, why should I change from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’m honest.”

“Tell me, Bob, how is the reception and service?”

“At first it’s really good.”

“Then what happens?”

“Problems.”

“Bob, tell me what kind of problems?”

“Big problems. It will be days before you get reception again.”

“So if that’s going to happen why should I switch from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’ve been honest.”

“What about the service, Bob?”

“You want to know about the service?”

“That’s what I said.”

“There is none. The last time you’ll see anything that resembles service is at the installation and poof! They get deported or have to serve out the rest of their sentence for parole violation.”

“Okay, Bob, so if that’s going to happen why should I switch from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’ve been honest.”

“Have you lied to me about anything during this phone call?”

“My name is not Bob, it‘s Bill”

“I can’t trust you Bill: here, I thought all along, I was talking to Bob.

"Goodbye.”

Lobe

Jennifer needed an account representative. She was halfway through all the candidates. She walked to the lobby and smiled at a young man. “Carlton Jones?’

“Yes,” he said.

“This way please,” she said and he followed her to an office.

“Have a seat,” Jennifer said and she sat behind her desk.

“I see that you included adding your nickname, Lobe, to your application, Mr. Jones,” Jennifer said. “Why is that?”

“Yeah,” Lobe said. “I got named Lobe when I got them stretched and I want people to feel comfortable enough around me that they’ll call me by my nickname rather than Carlton.”

“Does Carlton bother you?” Jennifer said.

“Oh no,” Lobe said. “It just seems formal and I want people to relax around me.”

“Have you always been that way?” Jennifer said, “wanting people to feel relaxed around you.”

“Oh yeah,” Lobe said. “For as long as I can remember. Honesty has always been important to me.”

“Than this will likely come as no surprise to you,” Jennifer said. “Your application and resume are satisfactory, but your appearance is disturbing. That stretched earlobe is distracting and disturbing. It will turn clients in the other direction.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with it?” Lobe said.

“To the contrary of what you indicated about wanting people to be relaxed around you,” Jennifer said, “the stretched earlobe makes people squeamish, painful, and uncomfortable.”

“People like that are not accepting and tolerant of differences,” Lobe said.

“No they aren’t,” Jennifer said. “They are normal.”

“Tell me what normal is?” Lobe said.

“How can I explain normal to you?” Jennifer said. “Clearly you have some sort of issues that have driven you to distort your appearance, you could never understand what normal is.”

“Look,” Lobe said. “I’m tired of people judging me for how I look. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“That expression comes from a time when all books had the same cover,” Jennifer said. “There were no graphics or pictures on the cover. When I see blood, chainsaws, tattoos, and stretched earlobes I know what’s inside; you’ve told me.”

“But I’m kind and gentle,” Lobe said.

“Don’t believe it for a moment,” Jennifer said. “You like grotesque so much you decided to do it to yourself.”

“Your so closed-minded,” Lobe said. “Ted Bundy looked normal.”

“Ted Bundy deceived,” Jennifer said. “I will give you one thing, Lobe, you are honest.”

“I would never harm a fly,” Lobe said.

“But you would stretch your own earlobes beyond recognition and a large enough to pass a quarter through them.”

“You are discriminating, you know?” Lobe said.

“The whole idea of an application, resume, and interview is to discriminate,” Jennifer said. “Go protest in the streets, Mr. Carlton.”     

Don't Fix Me

 Hank met Gregg for coffee at a quiet coffee shop not far from Gregg’s work. They ordered the usual. They sat near the window to stare at the falling snow.

“I like the snow,” Hank said. “It reminds me of my childhood.”

“It reminds me of shoveling our driveway all day long,” Gregg said. “Hard work, that’s what it reminds me of.”

Hank sipped his coffee and thought for a moment.

“But there was always a pleasure in accomplishing it,” Gregg said. “One must take pleasure in his accomplishment, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly,” Hank said. “Otherwise everything is drudgery. The coffee is really good this morning.”

Gregg pulled the cup from his lips. “That’s why we go here. The coffee is always good.”

Hank smiled. “The baristas take pride in what they do.”

“I read your blog this morning,” Gregg said. “It seemed depressing to me.”

“Yes,” Hank said. “I wrote it last night. I wasn’t feeling all that well.”

“You should have given me a call,” Gregg said. “My wife and I would have delighted to have you over for company.”

“That’s kind of you to say that,” Hank said. “But I would have been best by myself.”

“You seem to put a lot of time into your blog,” Gregg said. “Who reads it?”

“Well for one,” Hank said, “you do. But I think it’s more important that it is written rather than read.”

“Blogging seems so impersonal,” Greg said. “You sometimes spill your emotions to those who don’t care.”

“Like I said,” Hank said. “It’s good just to say things without bothering those who you know. You don’t always want or need help. Sometimes friends want to jump in and fix something and they end up breaking something. So I just write.”

“Don’t you want to be fixed if you're broken?” Gregg said.

“All of my friends and most importantly me, love the broken me,” Hank said. “Who knows what the fixed me would be like. I may not like snow or coffee.”

Duck Hunting And Poetry

 Witherspoon and Dudley sat quietly in their duck blind on Bagley Pond five miles from town. Witherspoon cared little to be with what he considered his half-witted cousin, but did so out of a sense of family obligation and tradition; they hunted together at least once a year.

Witherspoon wanted the morning to end quickly. So with sunrise and the first sight of ducks overhead he took a steady aim.

Witherspoon missed his first two shots at a duck.

“Go ahead. try it one more time,” Dudley said to Witherspoon. “Third time’s a charm.”

Witherspoon dropped his rifle to his side and glared at Dudley. “That is the stupidest thing that has ever been said. The third time has just as much of a chance as the fourth time and so on, as it does the first and second time. You did nothing but distract my next shot.”

“Now ya got to start over,” Dudley said. “You’ll shoot left, then right, and the third time right in the middle. That’s why the third time’s a charm is scientific. It’s a fact. Besides, it‘s poetic.”

“What if I get it on the second try?” Witherspoon said.

“Hit it the second try, you got a good eye,” Dudley affirmed.

“I can’t believe I’m hunting with you,” Witherspoon said. “But I got to ask, what about the first try.”

“You’re flat out lucky,” “Dudley said. “You get it on the first try, you’re lucky as pie.”

“I thought it was easy as pie,” Witherspoon said.

“That doesn’t even begin to make sense,” Dudley said. “It takes skill to make and bake a pie, but if ya get a pie without workin‘ for it you‘re lucky; lucky as pie.”

As the sound of ducks came from just over the trees, Witherspoon lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He slid the rifle back down to his side. “What if I miss on the third…”

Dudley interrupted. “That makes you a turd.”

Witherspoon gathered all his contempt for Dudley into one stare. “What about five?”

“Who do you think I am Robert Frost?” Dudley said. “It’s not for me to continually feed your literary and intellectual needs. Next time go hunting with a poet.”

God And Fish

 Diego and Manuel had just laid down their nets in the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez.

“Now we rest. In the old days fish jump in boat. They glad to get out of water. It was too crowded.” Manuel said. “Now, we wait for the fish. Do you know a fish song, Diego?”

“No songs from me today,” Diego said. “Don’t want to scare fish away. Maybe we should talk about things that make us happy; like our net full of fish.”

“Fish hear that and that not make them happy,” Manuel said. “That scare them away. This is not your day to come up with good things to catch fish.”

“What do you have?” Diego said.

“I tell secret,” Manuel said, “and fish come near to listen.”

“What is secret?” Diego said leaning close to Manuel.

“Here is a secret,” Manuel said. “It is a proud day when you become a father. It is a beginning.” Manuel stopped. His face tightened and finally relaxed and tear rolled from his eye.

“But why do you cry now?” Diego said. “Your son is all grown.”

“I work hard to make him a good man,” Manuel said. “I pray too. I think, I worry. I pray more and more again. I not good example. He really need God’s help. Can’t do it on my own.”

“So what is the secret,” Diego said. “Everybody know it is a proud day when you become a father.”

“The secret is when he becomes a man,” Manuel said, “when he succeed.”

“Your son make you that proud?” Diego said.

“And I cry because God help,” Manuel said. “I can no do it on own. And God give you a good son you don‘t deserve.”

Diego laughed. “We did many foolish things when young. God must have forgiven you.”

“Yes,” Manuel said. “It was foolishness… that gave me a son. But you grow up or give up.”

“But you grow up real quick,” Diego said.

“I just pretend,” Manuel said. “I still foolish at heart, but my son, he is a good man. He is more of a man than me.”

“You cry again, Manuel,” Diego said.

“Yes,” Manuel said. “Because a good son means God has forgiven you.”

“Look! Manuel,” Diego said. “The fish are many. They like to hear good stories about good sons.”

“Yes,” Manuel said. “And God was listening too.”

“Yes!” Diego said. “God and fish like good stories. He tell the fish where the good stories are told. They come to listen.”

For Love And Seashells

 As a youth, Leo called his home “The Rock” as in San Quinton. His father was a lighthouse keeper on a small island off the coast. Except for a few summer residences, there was isolation. It was just his father, mother, and him.

He was either at his mother’s side or his father’s. Difficult for them to have intimate moments so they sent young Leo hunting for seashells. By the time he left the island, there were several piles along the pathway from the beach to the lighthouse.

As much as he disdained his youth and living there, over the years he began to romanticize about the place.

“Leo,” Abe said. “I see you scheduled vacation for next week. Where ya goin’?”

“My childhood home,” Leo said. “A little island off the coast. I think it's abandoned now.”

“Island!” Abe said. “Like Coney Island or Long Island?”

“No,” Leo smiled. “A real live island, surrounded by water.”

“I don’t think you ever told me about it,” Abe said. “What’s it look like?”

“My home was a cozy cottage on an island manicured by nature as perfect as any landscaper could only imagine or accomplish. The cottage was white, pristine, and full of charm and life. Waves gently lapped the beaches on the south side of the island as waves crashed the north side. Day after day is spent in undisturbed beauty observing nature and the sea in all its splendor. Every day is unlike the other, full of enchantment, wonder, and solemnity. A place to renew your purpose and explore new vistas.”

“I was raised in Queens,” Abe said. “I can’t top that. If you explored, you got worked over.”

The next week Leo motored in a rented boat two hours to the island now abandoned. The lighthouse was now automated and had been that way for decades.

He ran the boat up near the beach, cut the engine, and tossed the anchor. Overgrowth had consumed the island. The entrance to the pathway leading to the house and lighthouse had grown shut. He climbed a rock to spy on his old home and the lighthouse.

Growth surrounded the house. A portion of the roof had caved in. The porch’s pillars had all collapsed. It was weather-beaten beyond recognition like a bruised, battered, and bleeding boxer sitting defeated in his corner.

He found a way to the house and poked around a while, recalled some fond memories, and found what remained of the pathway back to the beach. Walking along the path resurrected and invigorated long-lost memories.

He was satisfied as he approached the end of the pathway. He could now put everything to rest and come to grips with the fantasy he lived regarding this place. It truly was a rock, yet he did not want to allow himself to be bitter.

As a final gesture and note of finality to the place he would never return he must have honest and good words to leave it with.

He turned to gaze upon the house. “Rustic,” he said. “That’s the best I can do.“

His eyes followed the pathway from the house to his feet. He walked a few steps back the pathway. He parted the tall grass. There was a pile of seashells. He walked further and uncovered three more. He smiled thinking about his parents. “Rustic and a place for lovers.”

Three Ways To Win A Bar Fight

 Doug and Woody were far from home burr-headed recruits sitting at a table in a noisy smoke-filled beer hall that was saturated with the stench of cheap booze.

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

"I don't think so." Woody sized up the brawny Marine decked in dress khakis at the bar. "I don't think we could take him together." His 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. "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. I'll take the beatin'."

"What did you say to him?" Woody asked nervously looking around.

"When you went to take a leak he told me to get up,” Doug said. “He had thee buddies that were coming and they wanted a table. I told him to get lost."

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

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

The Marine held a bottle of beer in his hand as he pushed his way through the crowded beer hall full of recruits back to where Dough and Woody sat.

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 bottle 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 soldier 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 audience of recruits.

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

“Now what?” Woody said.

“We better go,” Doug said. “I lied—that’s the only way I know.”

Real Love

 Tabby knocked at Harry’s door.

Tabby carried a small Schnauzer pup in the fold of her arm. She was a girl in her mid-twenties and a bit on the idealistic side; not overbearing so but more concerned than anything. For some time she worried about Harry. His wife passed six months earlier and to her, he seemed lonely.

Unknown to Tabby, Harry’s days were full. In the quiet of his garage with the door down, he repaired bicycles found on curbsides and junk piles. Some customized into small motorized bicycles. Harry sold them by word of mouth or online. Money never being the object just passing time doing something he loved.

Harry answered the door and smiled broadly. “Tabby, it’s good to see you.” He reached out to the small dog and with his finger brushed it under the chin. “What do you have here, a dog for your protection?”

“No,” Tabby said, “he was a gift from my boss. His dog had a litter and he didn’t want to go through all the aggravation of selling them so he started giving them away.”

“Well, he’s a cute little thing,” Harry said. “It will make you a good dog.”

“I didn’t get it for me,” Tabby said. “It’s for you. You need a pet,” Tabby said. “He’ll be a great companion.”

“I need a companion ss much as I need a pile of poop in the backyard,” Harry said.

“Pets give you unconditional love,” Tabby said. “when humans won’t.”

“Humans crap and flush,” Harry said. “At least the ones I know. To me, that’s real love.”

Freedom To Think

Chad was about the finish his first year as an account advisor at Westminster Farthington Bank.

It was a good place to work. Within a year he was near the top of his division in production. There was little doubt that during his second year he might be at the very top. And soon beyond, likely a division supervisor. Normally a position not open for advisors until five years of employment, but Chad worked and studied hard, he put in extra hours, and took advantage of all the extra training offered by Westminster Farthington.

He was near the time of his yearly review. He looked forward to it because he expected to be considered for the supervisory training program.

Roxanne stopped by Chad’s cubicle and rapped on the panel.

Chad looked up and smiled. “Roxanne,” he said. “Come in have a seat.”

She sat in the chair next to his desk.

“Remember the Langston account?” Chad said.

“Don’t tell me,” Roxanne said. “Did it close.”

“Yes,” Chad said excitedly. “And they said their satellite offices will come on board.”

“You’re kidding me,” Roxanne said. “That will put me over projection for the year. Thanks, Chad. You really worked hard on that. I hope I can repay you someday.”

Roxanne started to stand. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said settling back down in the chair. “I’m inviting you to my wedding. My partner and I are getting married this weekend. I’m inviting just a few friends and family; those who are open-minded and not living in the dark ages.”

“That’s kind of you to think of me,” Chad said. “But I’m afraid you will think of me as being close-minded.”

“I thought you had no problem with it,” Roxanne said.

“Maybe I should clarify something,“ Chad said. “I have said what people do in their private lives is not my concern. Do I think gay marriage is okay? No. Will I protest against it or hate gay couples? No. My view is private. I don’t force it on anyone else.”

Roxanne immediately stood. She dug her fists into her hips. “If you’re not for us then you’re against us.”

“I’m sorry, Roxanne,” Chad said. “It is something I cannot conscientiously participate in.”

“I never thought of you as being so closed-minded,” Roxanne said.

“Recall at our diversity seminar a few months ago,” Chad said. “You were very vocal and articulate about defending the conscience of others. You used an example of conscientious objectors being exempt from military duty so why should Westminster Farthington ever demand a person to do something that would not be illegal, yet a person might find conscientiously objectionable. You used an example of extending loans to cigarette companies. In fact, Roxanne, I was inspired by your passion.”

“This comes down to a basic human right,” Roxanne said. “It’s different.”

“I’m not objecting or protesting your marriage,” Chad said. “I’m just not coming.”

“This will not look good on your yearly review,” Roxanne said. “I will out you as a bigot and hater.”

“Roxanne,” Chad said. “Do you think I really hate you?”

“That’s not the point,” Roxanne said.

“Than what is the point?” Chad said. “Please, tell me.”

“You are just a hater,” Roxanne said.

“Roxanne,” Chad said. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes!” Roxanne said. “I got the right to hate you.”

“Your acceptance and open-mindedness extend only as far as your own cause,” Chad said.

“And what about your cause?” Roxanne said.

“I don’t have one, other than please let me have freedom of thought,” Chad said.

No Questions

 Evan was back in town. He happened to see one of his old high school English teachers at a local restaurant. After separate meals, they chatted in the parking lot afterward.

“I have followed you over the years,” Mr. Carter said.

“Followed me?” Evan said.

“Brandon Phelps,” Mr. Carter said, “you remember him, don’t you? He was in your class.”

“Sure,” Evan said. “Tall kid with enough hair to tuck in his pants.”

“Now he’s the overweight and bald bus supervisor,” Mr. Carter said. “He’s amazing, keeps up on everybody from your class. He keeps me informed. I’m very proud of your accomplishments.”

Evan smiled uncomfortably and moved the conversation from himself. “So you still teach English?”

Mr. Carter recognized Evan wished not to talk about himself. “They call it Language Arts now,” Mr. Carter and added sardonically, “they thought the label was the problem.”

“As much as I hated English,” Evan said, “I think I would have hated Language Arts more.”

“Maybe it was the teacher,” Mr. Carter said.

“No,” Evan said, “it was me. You know that.”

“There are times I wonder if I’m really doing anything other than teaching sentence structure, nouns, and verbs,” Mr. Carter said. “You kind of want to reach the kids with more.”

“Believe it on not, hardly a day goes by without me thinking about your class,” Evan said.

“Really?” Mr. Carter said, “or are you just trying to make me feel good?”

“You were pretty tough on me,” Evan said. “Made me work. Threatened to expel me.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Carter said, “I do remember that. To be honest, I was blowing smoke. I didn’t have the authority.”

“Yeah,” Evan said, “but it got my attention.”

“So what happened right after you graduated?” Mr. Carter asked.

“Trouble,” Evan said.

“And then what?” Mr. Carter said.

“I remembered something you said,” Evan said.

“Here it comes,” Mr. Carter said, “what stupid thing did I say.”

“Every action and word must be preceded by a thought and every question must wait or search for an answer,” Evan said.

“I remember saying that a few times,” Mr. Carter said. “I always thought of it as filling in time between thoughts.”

“It meant a lot,” Evan said.

“I have a third-period class,” Mr. Carter said. “If you are in town tomorrow could you drop by toward the end of that class and share with them what that meant to you?”

Evan paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “I owe it to you.”

“Maybe take a moment to explain how you got to where you are now,” Mr. Carter said.

“My profession is full of ego and bloviating talk,” Evan said. “I’m really uncomfortable talking about myself. I’ll come across worse than the most braggadocios of my brood.”

“I certain you won’t,” Mr. Carter said. “If I recall you had the most unique way of communicating. I recall you’re book report given to the class.”

“You mean The Old Man and The Sea?” Evan smiled.

“Precisely,” Mr. Carter said.

“Short book, short report,” Evan said.

“I think you would have reported War and Peace with the same brevity,” Mr. Carter said.

“Let’s see,” Evan said, “War is hell when you live in Russia and so is peace. It’s just a tough place to live no matter. The climate is miserable and so are the people.”

“Can you come by?” Mr. Carter said.

“You can count on it,” Evan said.

Mr. Carter smiled and shook Evan’s hand. “I’m glad we bumped into each other today. Frankly, I was thinking about retiring at the end of this year. I thought perhaps I missed my calling long ago. My dad ran a hardware; I wondered if I should have taken up that.”

“Not a bad occupation,” Evan said. “I can’t tell you how many questions I’ve asked my hardware guy. He always has an answer; got me out of a lot of jams. Those guys are geniuses.”

“Still trying to make me feel good?” Mr. Carter said.

“Well,” Evan chuckled, “I am in the feel-good business.”

“See you tomorrow,” Mr. Carter said.

“For certain,” Evan said.

“I’ll let it be a surprise to the class,” Mr. Carter said.

“What do you want me to talk about?” Evan said.

“Something they’ll remember,” Mr. Carter said.

“That’s a tall order,” Evan said.

“Well I remember you,” Mr. Carter said. “And that’s been 25 years ago.”

“Yeah,” Evan said. “But it was not for academic achievements.”

“I’ve never have had a student with the ability quite like yours,” Mr. Carter said. “You made a Tootsie Roll look exactly like dog poop.”

“What Tootsie Roll,” Evan said.

Mr. Evan shook his head. “See you tomorrow.”

The next day Evan waited in the hallway outside Mr. Carter’s room until he waved him into the classroom.

“The last five minutes of our class I thought I’d like to surprise all of you with one of my former students, Evan Reading.” Mr. Carter gestured for Evan to step to the lectern that sat on the top of the desk.

“Do you have any questions?” Evan said.

The class was silent. Eyes wandered around the room for something to amuse. After a minute the class began to squirm; looked around to see who else squirmed but remained mum.

Evan looked at his watch and smiled politely. He glanced at Mr. Carter sitting at a chair to the side. Mr. Carter raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Evan tapped the lectern and waited. He looked at his watch and the clock on the wall.

“Well,” Evan said. “Our time is just about up and no one had a question. Nobody even asked who I am. No one was curious as to who Evan Reddin is or more importantly who Evan Redding was. It was 25 years ago I sat in Mr. Carter’s class. I didn’t have any questions. I had no curiosity. You know why? Because I thought I had all the answers. Just remember this day; it was the day you had no questions. By the way, I’m an ex-convict—five-year sentence, served two, got out for good behavior. My first week in prison, another inmate came after me. I stabbed him. It was then I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life cutting people. I got out, went to med school, and became a surgeon. I had a lot of questions.”

The bell rang and the students filed from the room.

Mr. Carter stood and walked over to Evan and shook his hand. “Very nice, Evan,” Mr. Carter said. “After your name is Googled, it is likely a spirited discussion will ensue tomorrow.”