THE KISS

                                 THE KISS

                                            BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

     Packing is thirsty business, even when gathering up nothing but the bare essentials, so I stand in the light supplied by my refrigerator and take a swig of soda from the bottle.  This is a childhood habit that I did not or would not outgrow no matter how frequently my wife nagged me to get a cup, to set a better example for our children.  She never has understood that when drinking, I am making no attempt to be a role model.  I’m simply quenching my thirst.

     It is a few minutes past midnight and my house is silent and near pitch dark.  I am frequently awake at this hour, usually not by choice, but due to my body’s frustrating rebellion against sleep.  This situation has worsened considerably in the past few months, probably because I’ve had much on my mind, and troubles do not give respite just because eyes have been closed.  Tonight however, I fully intended to be awake at this late hour.  There is a purpose to my current night crawling.

     As I drain the bottle of ginger ale, I am reminded of an  evening in the distant past.  I was in my first year of high school at the time, and the occasion was my school’s freshman dance.  The cafeteria was serving as dance hall, and the majority of my classmates were exhibiting their best moves in rhythm with the blaring music.  As for me, I was stationed by the punch bowl, snacking on potato chips and downing one glass of punch after another.  Throughout my mindless snacking my gaze remained steady. The object of my observation, admiration, dedication and desperation was Erica Murphy.  I was absolutely crazy about her, had been since the first time I laid eyes on her, and had no idea what to do about it. 

     She was dancing with her boyfriend, a guy who I would have disliked on general principle based on his personality, but the fact that he had claimed the girl who had claimed my heart cemented the deal.   A slow song came on and Mark got to pull Erica closer and hold her swaying body in his arms.  This was more than I was willing to take.  I would not allow my solitude to be taunted any longer.  I would not allow my passion to be made a mockery of.  Plus, I had to pee.  

     I headed to the bathroom.  Once my business there was taken care of, I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror.  I wasn't bad looking.  A few pimples, but no major damage.  If only I wasn't so shy.  If only I had met Erica before Mark.  But "if only" was too depressing a concept for me to deal with.  "If only" never got you anywhere.  It never got anything done.  You either accepted what you were and where you were at, or else you went and changed it.  I chose the former and decided to go home.

     As I was leaving, who should come walking my way but Erica.

     "Hi, Denis."

     "Hi, Erica.  What are you doing out here?"

     "Going to the bathroom."

     "Of course.  So, uh, are you enjoying the dance?"

     "Yeah, it's okay."

     I was quickly running out of small talk.  My heart was beating furiously.  I sensed an opportunity, but for what I wasn’t quite sure.  "The music's pretty good."

     "Yeah, it's okay," she responded.  A few more seconds of torturous silence passed.  I couldn't think of anything else menial to say.  "Well, see you later," Erica said as she headed towards the girls room.

     "Wait a minute."  I noticed that I had grabbed hold of her arm, but I had no idea why I was stopping her.  Then suddenly I did.  I took a step forward, closed my eyes, and kissed her. 

     No dictionary contains the right words to define the sensation of that moment.  Never before had I felt so alive.  My imagination had failed to warn me that her lips would be so soft and sweet.

     "Denis, I ..."

     "Yeah, I know," I said, cutting her off.  I didn't want the magic to be tainted by an "I like you, but as a friend" speech.  I was perfectly content with my initiation into manhood.  And though I had not been transformed into an expert on the ways of women, something about that kiss told me she had wanted it as much as I.

     Time has a way of sneaking by at a pace that would make you nauseous if you were conscious of the speed.  Somehow, some way, twelve years have passed between then and now.  Yet it's crystal clear in my mind, no detail forgotten.  I've gained much since that night when I lost a little of my innocence with Erica Murphy. A diploma, a marriage certificate, kids, career, house. Sometimes I wonder if it was a fair trade.

     I guess I'm done packing now.  Strolling down memory lane has made me hungry, as has the open refrigerator door.  Maybe I should make myself a sandwich for the road.  No, I'm just delaying the inevitable.  I've spent too much time thinking this over.  I thought of every possible reason not to do it, and none were good enough.

     I leave the kitchen and quietly enter the bedroom of my two children, Krystal and Tyler.  It's hard to believe sometimes that I'm half responsible for creating anything this precious.  I fear they will hate me.  If they don't on instinct, my wife will make certain they learn.  Not that I'll blame her.  I'm going to have to take the heat on this one.  No way I squeeze out smelling like a rose.

     I grew up on westerns, so am no stranger to the good guy/bad guy motif.  Every story has to have one of each, and nobody has any problem telling them apart, on account of their hats.  The good guy has it all.  The townspeople adore him, for he's come to save their little world.  He has no guilt complex to contend with, no inner demons to fight, because he has strength of conviction.  That is, he's always sure he's right because right is all he knows.  With such dedication to justice, not to mention a perfect profile, of course he always gets the glory and the girl.  Not a bad job.  But you have to wonder how difficult it is to keep that hat so white.  How much does he have to sacrifice? 

     After eight years of playing the role; loving husband, dutiful father, church going - tax paying - hard working community pillar, I decided to switch hats.  I'm giving up my good guy perks for the piece of my soul I pawned away, and a hat much easier to keep clean.

     Looking at my kids is almost enough to do it.  I'm just about willing to slip back into my marital bed and continue with the facade.  This won't be easy for them.  They won't understand.  From their point of view, hell from everybody's viewpoint, what we had seemed fine.  People have spouses who cheat on them, or abuse them, or commit any number of matrimonial atrocities.  Not so in our case.  Our lives were a Norman Rockwell painting with one invisible flaw.  Somewhere along the line I fell out of love with my wife, and she responded in kind.

     How did it happen?  If I could, I would make a concise declaration illuminating beyond the shadow of a doubt the specific reason for the downfall of our marriage.  No can do.  There was no climactic episode, but rather, a steady progression of moments, infinitesimal on their own, each serving to further widen the rift that had formed between us.

     I fell in love with my wife in one fell swoop.  I fell out of it slowly, steadily, by degrees.  I realized it had happened when I couldn't smile for a picture.  You choose to spend your life with someone because that person makes you happy.  I was all out of happy.  And after trying for a few years to figure out where it had gone and how to get it back, I reached the conclusion I had suspected all along.  It wasn't coming back, and I didn't want to live this way anymore.  

     I cautiously enter the other occupied bedroom in my house.  There she goes, my wife of eight years.  On insomniac nights I have spent countless hours watching her sleep.  But never like this.  Never standing in the doorway with a knapsack wrapped around my shoulder, saying goodbye in secret.  It feels cowardly, but what good would a big teary scene do?  Like any sane man, when I die I want to go in my sleep.  I'm a firm believer in silent exits.

     I walk to my wife's side of the bed and memorize her expression in slumber.  If it's going to haunt me, I might as well get it right.  She's still so beautiful.  As beautiful as when I first kissed her.  I had been right.  She did want it as much as I. It took all of a fourteen year old boy's courage to snatch that first kiss, and another two years romantic labor to earn a second. A long time by some people's standards.  But to me it seemed a worthwhile venture, and time was a commodity I possessed in abundance.

     Without hardly being conscious of doing it, I lean over and kiss her softly.  Her eyes flutter, then snap open.  Her gaze locks onto mine for a moment.  Then her eyes wander over me until something makes them come to a stop.  She has spotted my knapsack.  "Erica, I ..."

     "Yes, I know", she says, giving me grace to skip the speech I don't have it in me to utter, and she can do without hearing.  What can we say in one night that we haven't said in eight years? We've run out of words, out of steam, out of time.  It's almost funny that I had worried about a tumultuous farewell.  The air has been leaking out of our balloon for years, so how could we possibly go out with a bang?

     Erica can afford to be silent.  Everyone will automatically take her side.  Nobody roots for a deserter.  It will be apparent who the bad guy is, so she knows she can save her breath.  In my defense I could explain that I did not terminate our marriage by running away, because you can't kill what's already dead. But what would be the point?  Once you've been seen wearing that black hat, it's yours forever.

     Life seemed perfect on that once upon a time night, standing outside the boys bathroom with my body on fire and heart on a string.  My first kiss almost lasted forever, but not quite.  I guess sometimes not even your destiny is the one.

     There is nothing left to do but turn and leave.  It ended a long time ago.  It just took me a while to follow our love out the door.  No one will believe me, but this is the most necessary thing I've ever done. 

     Still, I am torn apart inside.  She was after all, my first love.  This woman provided the two most potent memories of my life. The first time I ever kissed her...and the last.

pic.twitter.com/aFFHARiYB6

— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) December 12, 2018

HAND ME DOWN LIFE - a short story

Hand Me Down Life

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

            “Why would he do such a thing?”

            Austin expected no response to the question.  Evelyn put a hand on his shoulder.  There was little else his wife could do and absolutely nothing she could say that would bring clarity.  The confusion felt by Austin, like the pain, had been selfishly handed down to him by his brother Allen.  Neither gift could be refused.

            Downstairs, the humble home of his parents was teeming with mourners.  Rather than mingling amongst them at the wake, Austin had brought Evelyn to the bedroom shared by he and Allen in childhood.  The room appeared much as it did way back when.  Their parents were the nostalgic type and had found no better purpose for the space than to keep it as a sort of museum. 

            Numerous sports trophies earned by the brothers in high school gleamed from the shelf their father had built to showcase them.  The dates on Allen’s trophies were all three years earlier than the dates on Austin’s.  For every race that Austin finished first in or championship game his team had come out on the winning end of, he was breaking no new ground, but merely duplicating the accomplishments of his big brother.

            Turning to face his wife, Austin found himself hurtling through a time warp.  Evelyn was standing in nearly the exact same place as when he laid eyes on her for the first time.  It had been love at initial sighting, in spite of the words of introduction spoken by his brother.

            “Austin, this is my girlfriend Eve.  Eve, meet my little brother.”

            “Hi,” she said, capturing his heart and imagination with a single syllable.  But Austin put his desire on hold, for he was given little choice.  This was his brother’s girl, and as it would turn out, she remained so for nearly two years.  After their break-up, nine months passed until Austin crossed paths with her again.  Now that she was finally available, he vowed not to let her get away.  Charming her was the easy part.  They already knew their personalities to be a good match.  Mustering the courage to ask Allen if he had a problem with his little brother dating his ex-girlfriend was considerably more difficult.  But once the words were out, Allen simply tousled his air and congratulated him for landing such a great girl.

            Austin picked up a photograph taken back when he was six years old, Allen half a foot taller at the age of nine.  The height disparity would be bridged in the following years, though Allen did manage to maintain a half inch advantage.  In the picture, Allen was staring straight ahead at the camera with a look of extreme confidence, as if knowing that he would come out looking great, both in the photo and in life.  Austin was captured in profile, gazing admiringly at his big brother, his mentor, his hero.

            Allen wore a red cap, a plaid shirt, and a pair of dungarees.  The outfit was quite familiar to Austin, for these items were among several pieces of clothing that came into his own possession later on.  This was a pattern that would repeat itself throughout their lives.  Allen would acquire something, eventually outgrow it, and then it would be Austin’s turn to walk the same mile in inherited shoes.

            Evelyn was looking at a photograph that was hanging on the wall.  It had been taken when the brothers were grown men.  Even as adults, Austin a family man and Allen a carefree bachelor, the two of them still saw each other nearly every day.  In the picture that had grabbed Evelyn’s attention, the brothers posed side by side in the uniforms of their chosen trade, two handsome young men who fought fires and saved lives. 

Noticing his wife’s gaze, Austin could not help but wonder if she was comparing the two great loves of her life; the very first one who ushered her into womanhood and called her Eve; the latter who gave her his name, fathered her children, and chose to call her Evelyn. 

“It’s amazing how strongly Lucas resembles him,” she said, speaking of their second born son, reminding Austin of how awful a chore it had been to tell his kids that their uncle had died.  There was a brief moment of hauntingly still silence, then Lance erupted with a wail of anguish, echoed a second later by his little brother.  Austin instantly knew that Lucas was crying more in reaction to Lance’s pain than to the sad news about Uncle Allen.  Lucas was too young to fully comprehend the nature of death yet.  He was the lucky one.

“Mandy seems very nice.  What did she tell you?”

Mandy was Allen’s girlfriend.  Neither of them had met her prior to the day of the funeral.  It was Mandy who found Allen’s body hideously splayed on the floor of her walk-in closet, the white carpeting already turned mostly crimson.

“Nothing that explains anything,” Austin answered.  “She said he didn’t seem any different lately.  He didn’t appear to be unhappy.  He was a little withdrawn, a little quiet, but he’d been that way for as long as she’d known him.  I don’t think her shock has fully worn off yet.”

“Has yours?”

“I’ve spoken barely a dozen words to Allen in the last six months.  Things changed between us after the fire at Briarwood Towers.  I don’t think he ever got over it.  Hell, how are you supposed to get over something like that?”

Allen had gotten within eight feet of the three children trapped in the blaze, within a few seconds of rescuing them from the merciless blaze, when a beam suddenly gave way and a large portion of the ceiling came crashing down upon them before his disbelieving eyes.  Shortly afterwards, he announced his resignation from the fire department.  Austin’s last extensive conversation with him had taken place when he dropped by to talk his brother out of the hasty decision.

“Why don’t you just take a long vacation, take some time to get your head together.  You’re great at your job, Allen.  The rest of us all look up to you.  You’re a real live hero, man, and there’s far too few of those.  You did everything you could to save those kids.  There just wasn’t enough time to get to them.  You more than anyone knows the nature of the work we do.  Sometimes the fire gets too big of a head start.  Sometimes the fire wins.”

“Don’t lecture me with my own words, little brother.  I know what I’m doing.  I know why I need to do it.  I’m no hero.  I’ve done nothing to warrant being anybody’s role model.”  Allen then lifted the bottle of vodka he was holding up to his mouth, taking a long swig.  

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.  Didn’t you learn your lesson after drinking yourself out of college?”

“Never you mind what I learned,” Allen spewed.  “That’s your damn problem.  Always minding what I do, imitating what I’ve experienced instead of looking for your own way to live.”

“I’d almost forgotten how stupid alcohol makes you.  First comes the self-pity, then the lashing out at people who love you and have your best interests at heart.”

“Let’s not change the subject.  We were talking about you.  About how you’ve spent your whole life snacking off of my leftovers.  You had good grades in school.  You could have gone to college, become whatever it is you wanted to be.  But instead you followed me into the fire department, just as you’ve always followed behind me.  You’ve never made your own choices.  You’ve never even bothered to search for your own way.  You just hitched onto the tail end of mine.”

“If that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel,” Austin said, hearing the quaver of hurt in his voice, unable to control it.  “How come you never told me you felt this way about me before?  You might have spoken your mind about it a lot sooner.” 

“Why?  To make you stop following me like a puppy dog?  Sure, I could have swatted you on the nose and sent you scurrying away.  But I didn’t want to embarrass you and make you feel like shit.  I kept waiting for you to outgrow it, to finally step out of my shadow and become your own person.  I figured that had to happen eventually.  But it didn’t.  You’ve been content being the poor man’s version of me.”

“Fuck you, Allen.  I came here to give you my support.  I came because you’re my brother.  I love you, and I don’t want you to screw up your life.  The bottle has always made you an asshole.  Don’t put yourself through that hell again.  Don’t put your family through it again.  What happened in that building was a terrible thing.  That fire claimed three innocent lives.  Don’t let it destroy yours as well.  Putting that bottle to your mouth is no different that putting a gun barrel to you head.  It’s only a little slower.”

“Before you start acting holier than thou, make sure you have your facts straight,” Allen said.  “I didn’t start drinking again because of those kids dying.  If you must know, I started back drinking more than a month ago.”

“What?”

“I was drinking the night before the fire.  And I drank earlier that morning too.  I wasn’t completely sober when I was trying to get to those kids.  I was doing my job as well as I could do it under the circumstances, and maybe they would have died on me no matter what.  But there’s no way for me to know for sure.  What I do know is that I won’t ever be able to put on my uniform again without the question coming to mind.  So I won’t be putting it on any more.  I want that chapter of my life behind me for good.  You can have my share of the superhero business.”

“I think you’re being a fool,” Austin said, for he was too stunned to say much of anything else.

“You going to judge me, little brother?  Well if you are, at least have the courtesy to judge yourself first.  Figure out why you’ve spent your life copycatting me.  Figure out just what you’re so insecure about.  Why is it that you can’t take a road unless it already has my footprints on it?  Hell, you even married one of my castoffs.”

The punch that Austin threw with perfect form landed flush on his brother’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.  Allen looked up in a daze as the liquor bottle by his side emptied its contents and Austin walked out of the apartment.

Austin never revealed in full to Evelyn the specifics of the argument.  It was the closest thing to a secret that he had kept from her since the days of not revealing his desire while she was dating his brother.  One week later Allen apologized for his behavior, laying the blame on drunkenness and bad timing.  True to his word, he did not return to work.  From that point on he made his presence increasingly scarce, as if hoping that absence would make the heart grow amnesia.  Austin was convinced that he continued to drink, but had no idea what if anything could be done about it.

Six months passed quietly by.  Then one day Austin received a phone call from his father.  His obviously distraught mother could be heard in the background.  A woman named Mandy had just contacted them.  She said that Allen had been living with her.  She said that earlier that day she had gone out for half an hour to do some shopping.  In the time that she was gone, Allen stepped into a closet with a loaded pistol and shot himself in the head.

A few days later, Austin found himself staring at a photograph in his old bedroom.  It depicted two boys whose lives were ahead of them, siblings often likened to peas in a pod, the younger idolizing the elder.  For as far back as he could remember, Austin had wanted to be just like his big brother.  He emulated Allen’s actions, mimicked his choices.  Allen served as a dependable roadmap, showing a shy child how to be a brave boy, an easily intimidated youth how to become a courageous man.  Yet that map had led to this strange and awful place, so far away from the aura of optimism exuded from Allen’s eyes in the childhood snapshot.

Physically, there was no mistaking Austin and Allen for anything but brothers.  They shared the penetrating eyes of their father, the full lips of their mother, and possessed identical sets of dimples.  But when Austin compared the photo of he and Allen as boys to the one of them as men, he saw that their resemblance to one another was stronger in youth.  This he attributed to a small change in Allen’s features that had not yet occurred at the time of the earlier picture.  The small scar just off to the side of his left eye had been earned when he was fifteen years old.  On that long past but most memorable night, Austin made the regrettable mistake of succumbing to curiosity and examining their father’s prized collection of baseball memorabilia.  He had been told time and time again that the items were for display purposes only, but examining the mythical objects of sports lore up close seemed harmless enough, a victimless act of rebellion. 

Less than fifteen minutes after their father arrived home that evening, he summoned his sons to the study.  In his hand was the top half of a uniform autographed by the great Lou Brock.  The jelly stain unknowingly left behind on the collar stood out blatantly to the boys as they stepped timidly forward.

“Which one of you did this?”

“I-I-I…” 

Austin took a moment to catch his breath.  He had been a witness to his father’s hairpin trigger temper often enough to have a fair idea what was in store for him.  The stutter that he was still years away from overcoming was always at its worst in the unforgiving presence of his father.

“It was me, Dad.”

For a second Austin thought that he had managed to speak without opening his mouth or willing the words to be uttered.  But in the next second he grasped that it was actually Allen who had confessed, even though he was guiltless.      

“Boy, how many times have I told you that these are not toys?”

“Many times.”

The backhanded slap that followed rivaled the swiftness of a cobra’s strike.  It knocked Allen to the floor, and because of the ring on their father’s finger, it inadvertently drew blood.

“Then you should know better, shouldn’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Allen answered.

His lesson taught, their father walked out of the room, dropping a handkerchief on the floor as parting gift.  Austin retrieved it and handed it to his brother, who dabbed at the fresh wound that would mark him for life.

“Thanks,” Austin said.

“Don’t sweat it.  That’s what big brothers are for.”

As grateful as he was for Allen’s playing the part of sacrificial lamb, Austin did not fully understand why his brother had volunteered for undeserved punishment.  Now these many years later, he could not fathom the pain his brother must have been in over the past several months, perhaps much longer.  Nor could he make sense of Allen’s decision to take his own life rather than waiting for better days to come.  Then again, his brother had never been particularly patient.

Tears began to fall onto the picture frame in Austin’s hand.  His father and brother always said that tears were a sign of weakness.  But what did either of them know?  One had no idea how to be a father.  The other quit on things when they got too tough.  These had been Austin’s shining examples of manhood. 

Austin let his tears flow, because crying at least gave him temporary respite from trying to figure out what had gone so tragically wrong.  He had grown uncertain of all things, except for the leaden realization that there would be no more footsteps for him to follow throughout life.  Only open road.

Just because...

A beautiful, and heartbreaking, remembrance of Prince: His original studio recording of Nothing Compares 2 U, set to footage of Prince & the Revolution rehearsing in the summer of 1984 when the song was recorded. https://t.co/5n6K0VFRuA 🙏🏾💜 @therevolution

— Anil Dash Dot Com (@anildash) April 19, 2018

Book Review

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I was vaguely aware that a movie adaptation has been made of this novel when picking it up to read. I have yet to see the movie, but in general when I see that a book has been made into a movie, I figure the book must be pretty good. This way of thinking can prove to be false of course. At most it's probably a solid indicator that the book sold well. We know that plenty of lousy movies have been adapted from far superior books, and perhaps less frequently but it does happen, a pretty good movie sometimes can be the result of adaptation from a so-so book. In the case of Water for Elephants since I haven't seen the movie, I can't speak as to which version I enjoyed best. I can only speak to the novel which I thought was mediocre. It's the story of a man in his nineties living in a nursing home who thinks back on his days spent working as a veterinarian in a traveling circus. The setting jumps back and forth from Jacob being a young man on a train with a bunch of circus folk to being an old man dealing with the erosion of his body and mind. Most of the book is dedicated to his circus days and how he ends up with the woman who would become his wife and mother of his children. These sections are where most of the action takes place. In the present it doesn't get more dramatic than Jacob being cranky about nursing home life, him becoming disoriented sometimes, and family members forgetting to visit him on the one day when a circus happens to be nearby. Yet I found the writing to be more engaging in quiet scenes set in the present where nothing much took place than the portions dealing with circus life. Plenty of elements are in place for intriguing storytelling. We have a circus owner with a complex over not being the Ringling Brothers Circus who is willing to cut losses of human lives if that's what it takes to keep the show going on. There is the paranoid schizophrenic boss who switches from charming to psychotic on a dime. His beautiful headline act wife whom Jacob can not stop thinking about. Also aboard the train are performers, some more freakish than others, and animals, some more dangerous than others, that are in Jacob's care. The scenes taking place during Jacob's youth felt rushed to me. It was as if the author wanted to include as many eventful happenings during this period as could be crammed in, but she dwells on none of them for long because it's already time to move on to the next one. Everybody seemed to be a character sketch of a personality type rather than a fully fleshed out human being. The lone exception is Jacob, but only because the book focuses on him in his senior years along with his adventurous youthful days, giving us a little more time to learn what makes him tick. Water for Elephants is an easy read that covers some interesting territory, but it fell well short of being the greatest show on earth. I wouldn't be surprised if I enjoy the movie more than the book if I ever get around to watching it. I've rounded up from 2-1/2 to 3 stars because I like the title of this book and that's as good a reason as any.

View all my reviews

DOG EAT DOG ROMANCE - a short story

Dog Eat Dog Romance

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.  (Author of Patches of Grey)

(& Matters of Convenience)

This short story is dedicated to the newest member of my household. Rescued on a cold December day from the unforgiving streets of NYC. Tough as a rattlesnake, cuddly as a newborn bunny, feisty as barrel of monkeys, affectionate as Nana greeting her grandbabies, squirrel obsessed, not quite fully house trained but we'll get there, the best Christmas give ever - the one and only SHADOW.

“It’s perfect.  Absolutely perfect.”

“I know.”

“We could look for a million years and not find another place half as nice as this in our price range.  Hardwood floors, beautiful moldings, floor to ceiling windows, a river view, a backyard, a fireplace even.  And look at all this space.”

“I know,” I repeat, for what else is there to say?  Claire is right.  This place is perfect for us.

“Are you sure they wouldn’t be willing to bend their rule about …”

“I’m positive, Claire.”

“So we either give him up to move in here, or else we keep looking.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Would you willing to find another home for him, Adam?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“It’s easier to ask than to answer, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we should flip a coin,” I suggest.

“Over something as important as this?”

“A coin is the fairest judge there is, Claire. No matter how big or small the issue is.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

I pull a quarter from the change pocket of my jeans.  

“Heads we give him up and move in here, tails we find a place that will let us keep Max Two.”

I toss the quarter into the air.  My eyes widen along with Claire's as we watch it rotate – George Washington’s head on top, then the eagle spreading its majestic wings, back to gorgeous George’s profile, the stoic bird of freedom once more.  The quarter hits the floor, bounces up and does its final spin, then settles in place.  We crouch to learn what our decision will be.

The sequence of events leading up to this moment began nearly a year ago.  That was when my best friend Leon went away for the weekend on a business trip.  While out of town, he needed someone to feed and walk his dog, Max.   

By no means was I what you would call a dog person.  As a kid I’d once been chased by a particularly nasty Nazi Shepard for half a block before making a narrow escape from his salivating clutches.  Also, a deceptively timid looking Chihuahua once bit me on the toe, proving that his bite was much bigger than his bark.  I had not been especially fond of dogs or open toed sandals ever since.

I'd spent enough time around him to know Max was well behaved, but this did not make me relish the idea of picking up after him when he did his business on the sidewalk.  Leon loved to go on about how smart his dog was, but if Max was truly intelligent, why couldn’t he be toilet trained?  Him flipping down the lid and flushing his waste away would have impressed me considerably more than his ability to sit, fetch, roll over, play dead, and bark on command.

Yet I agreed to be Max’ caretaker.  My motivation was not exactly selfless.  Leon lived in a one bedroom apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan while I resided in a studio apartment in the middle of a nondescript neighborhood way out on the outer edges of Queens.  Although I would have preferred not to have a furry four-legged roommate, I was looking forward to spending a weekend in the city.  I was still two or three pay raises away from being able to afford rent on an apartment in a desirable part of Manhattan.  Every penny I could get my hands on was being saved for the glamorous future I envisioned for myself.  It dumbfounded me that Leon was actually moving out the following weekend.  He had bought a condo in Westchester that his longtime girlfriend would also be moving into.  Leon had reached a stage where being with Iris seven days a week, cozily nestled in a suburban neighborhood, was more appealing to him than having a bachelor pad in the heart of the greatest city on earth.  To each his own.  My own stage of life was far less advanced.  I didn’t even have a girlfriend, much less plans to cohabitate.

There was a park just two blocks from Leon’s apartment with a fenced in area where people let their dogs run free.  Saturday turned out to be beautiful, sunny and warm without being oppressively humid as August days in New York can be.  I was a little hung over from Friday night revelry with a group of friends I knew from college.  Just like back in our years as undergrads, the pitchers of beers and failed attempts to charm girls too sober for our own good had been plentiful.  Time outside to let the remnants of alcohol in my system evaporate in unobstructed sunlight would do me good.

When I arrived at the dog’s private section of park, there were maybe a dozen people there and roughly the same amount of canines.  But from the moment I took notice of those sea green eyes, her taut showcased abdomen, hip hugging shorts over the shapeliest bronze legs designed by a most benevolent Creator, I only had eyes for Claire.  As luck would have it, Max got all excited over the mutt attached to the leash in Claire’s hand.  Soon our leashes were entangled, giving me a tailor made opportunity to start up a conversation.  I learned her name, that her smile could light up one’s life, and that her laughter was the catchiest tune you ever did hear.  I really liked this girl.  The feeling was instant and irrevocable.  But she was short on time.  She had to go.  Precious minutes after making her acquaintance, Claire was gone.  I had not mustered the courage to ask for her phone number.  Everything had moved too quickly for decisive action on my part.  One minute I’m being tugged down the street by my friend’s dog, the next I behold a vision, hyper dogs knot us to each other, while untangling we speak inconsequential words at a volume not much louder than my pounding heart, and then I am watching her walk away, tragically aware that in all likelihood I will never see her again.

As the days passed I figured I would forget about Claire.  Instead she grew increasingly vivid in my mind’s eye.  I had to see her again.  If we could somehow run into each other and take up where we’d left off, I’d know soon enough if the spark I’d sensed between us had the strength to burst into flame. For sure, I was not the smoothest talking guy.  More often than not, the presence of a beautiful girl would act as Novocaine injected into my tongue.  Somewhere between expressing how I felt and trying to play it cool, my thoughts and words would trip over themselves.  The more I longed to impress, the worse of an impression I made. 

But talking to Claire had been different, easy as getting wet in the rain.  If we spoke a second time, I knew I’d say the right things.  I’d get her number, and I’d call her, and I would take her out, and from there the most wonderful of things would become possible and plausible.  In a city of millions of strangers in countless nooks and crannies, there was only one place I could think of to run into Claire again.

My plan was impetuously drawn up.  I would ask to borrow Max for a while the following weekend and show up with him at the dog park.  No, scratch that.  I remembered that Leon was moving to Westchester in a couple days.  By Saturday he and Max would no longer reside in the city.  I could show up without a dog in tow, but that would make me look a little desperate, make that a lot desperate, stalker-like even.  There was only one reasonable reason for me to show up in that dog park.  I needed to have a dog by my side.  And not just any dog.  I remembered that when Claire had commented on how cute Max was, I grinned and agreed without bothering to explain that he was not in fact mine.  She seemed attracted to the notion that I was a dog owner, so why dispel it?  When she commented that “they really do grow on you”, I moronically responded that “my Max is almost like a son to me, a son with really bad breath.”  This succeeded in making Claire laugh while further perpetuating my little white lie.  I had to have Max with me, or a close enough facsimile. 

The next day I strode into a pet store in my neighborhood, my fourth pet store visit of the day, and walked out after spending a ridiculous amount of money with a carbon copy of Max.  Two days after that …

“Hi, Claire.”

“Hi, Adam.  Hey, Max.”

Max Two strained at his leash, anxious to romp with the other pooches.         

“I was hoping I’d run into you again,” I said.

“Me too.”

Things were going extremely well so far.

“Sit up and beg, Max,” Claire requested.  Max and I had showed off a couple of his tricks to impress her the prior weekend.  Max Two didn’t have a single one in his repertoire, of course.  Not unless I counted peeing throughout my apartment and chewing my Air Jordans to shreds as tricks. 

“Max was performing all morning,” I said.  “He’s tricked out for the day.”  A lame excuse, but the best I could come up with on the fly.  Claire ran her fingers through his thick mane.  I could not have been more jealous of him.

“He’s so cute.  I love Chows.”

“Yeah, Chows are the best.  I’m thinking of getting a second one.”

“No actually, that’s a Chow,” said Claire while pointing at a dog sauntering past us.  “Max is a Keeshond.  I always mix those two breeds up.”  She then looked at me curiously, understandably so, no doubt wondering just how low my IQ was.  “Why did you agree with me when I mistook him for a Chow?” she asked.

“Uh.”  I realized that more than one incoherent syllable would be required here, but a multitude of alternatives were not rushing to occur to me.  “I didn’t realize you were talking about Max  I thought you said ‘I love cows’.”  Clearly I was not the world’s quickest thinker on my feet.

“What?”

“I’m just being silly.  Thought maybe I could earn another one of your lovely smiles.” 

Against all odds my predicament was salvaged as Claire granted my wish.

I undid Max Two’s leash to let him join his fellow beasts before Claire figured out that he was an impostor, much like his new master.  Max Two had tested the limits of my patience during his brief time in my care.  I knew nothing at all about house training a dog, much less getting one to sit up and beg or roll over and play dead.  But Max Two was certainly expert at finding trouble to get into, and at putting me into a state of panic every twenty minutes or so.  And man could he shed.  On every dark item of clothing and piece of furniture I owned was evidence that I was now a pet owner.  Within hours of bringing him home I was convinced that I’d made a huge mistake.  This feeling persisted until I saw Claire again, she said “me too”, and the genius of my plan was confirmed.

“So where’s Daisy today?”  Daisy was Claire’s Pomeranian.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?  Daisy is my friend’s dog.  I was only watching her for the afternoon last weekend.”

So there I stood, new owner of faux Max, solely to impress a girl who for all I knew cared about man’s best friend as little as I did.

Then a logical question occurred to me.  If Claire did not own a dog and was not even watching one today, what was she doing here in the dog park?  This is just what I asked her, to which she replied – “Like I said, I was hoping to run into you again.”

We’ve been together ever since.

One year later Claire and I stand in an amazing rent controlled apartment, staring down at the head of a quarter.  In case you don’t recall, heads means we’re going to take the apartment.  It’s been a month since we decided to move in together.  A big step, but one we’re both ecstatic to be making.  She still lives with her parents and my place is much too small for two people.  So this is where we’ve decided to hang our hats, a great steal thanks to an inside tip from my friend the realtor, who currently lives in Westchester with his girlfriend and their dog, Max.  I'm not getting out of Queens, but with Claire agreeing to move into it with me this is a non-issue. 

As for Max Two, he’s out of luck.  No pets allowed in this palace.  Claire and I turn towards one another and it’s immediately clear what we must do.  Max Two has grown on both of us over this past year, not to mention that he is largely responsible for getting us together in the first place. 

I revealed to Claire long ago that Max Two was a look-alike of the real deal.  Since then I’ve managed to mostly house train him, failed in all attempts to teach him any tricks, and have been through multiple pairs of sneakers, Max Two’s favorite chew toy.  I’ve also embarked on the greatest love affair of my life.

“Two out of three?” I ask.

Claire replies – “Two out of three.”

   

“She told me no and took it from me” 😭 pic.twitter.com/p1Dyt4QCfI

— Spice Queen (@MenkauraB) July 22, 2020

4 of 5 stars to Matters of Convenience by Roy L. Pickering Jr. https://t.co/AxqjZe22e5

— Read In Colour (@ReadInColour) February 9, 2017

DECISIONS - A Short Story

                                          

                             DECISIONS

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

Mike stared at the ebony liquid which had formed the shape of the glass in his hands.  'Should I or shouldn't I?' was the quandary playing tennis in his head.  It had been over an hour since he first sat down and posed this question to himself. He had not moved an inch closer to resolution.

       "It's not a television, it's a drink.  It won't do nothing till you pour it down your throat."

       Mike turned towards the voice that had derailed his train of thought.  Its owner was a dapper looking man in his sixties.  Dapper wasn't a word utilized with great frequency in Mike's vocabulary, but in this case it seemed a perfect fit.  How else would a man in a tweed three piece suit, a bow tie encasing his neck, a derby upon his head, and a walking stick in hand be described?  All that was missing was the British accent.

       "I was just thinking," Mike said in explanation of his meditative pose.

       "That's what libraries are for.  Bars are for drinking, not thinking."

       "How about thinking about drinking?"

       "Are we composing a nursery rhyme?"

       "It looks that way."

       "The name's Dave."

       "Hello, Dave.  I'm Mike."

       Dave ordered himself a beer.  "What has you thinking so hard, Mike?  If you don't mind my asking."

       "I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow.  But now I'm not.  My girlfriend pulled out.  Out of the marriage, out of the relationship, out of my life.  One minute I'm all settled, everything mapped out nice and neat.  Next minute I'm here, wondering what happens next."

       "She give you a reason?"

       "Two.  She doesn't love me and she does love someone else."

       "Pretty good reasons."

       "They are," Mike admitted.  "I don't blame her.  Truth is, I don't think I'm in love with her either.  I'd been thinking about breaking things off for the longest time. But I was never able to convince myself totally that it was the wise thing to do.  So I kept waiting for some kind of sign."

       "Why get married then?  If you don't mind my asking."

       "We were together five years, lived together for the last two.  What else was left?  Our families, our friends, hell, people we hardly even knew kept asking us the same question over and over. When are you two getting married?  We got tired of answering it."

       "So you lost a woman you had already grown tired of?"

       "Something like that.  You get used to a person.  You get comfortable, like a child with his favorite blanket or his thumb in his mouth.  It's tough to let go of your security.  Don't believe me, just ask all the buck tooth people walking around." 

       "That's as good a reason to get loaded as any I've heard."  Dave lifted his glass to toast.  Mike didn't return the gesture.

       "I need to drink to get loaded and I'm not drinking.  I'm just thinking about it."

       "You're starting to lose me, Mike.  What's to think about?"

       "I'm an alcoholic.  Or I was.  Or I might have been.  It all depends on how you look at it."

       "You haven't found me yet, Mike."

       "I used to have a drinking problem.  Well, I don't know if it was a problem.  It didn't cause me any difficulties.  I functioned as well as the next guy.  It was just a habit of mine and when alcohol becomes a habit, society tends to see that as a problem."

       "Society holds many a warped view on many a subject that's none of its damn business."  Dave took a swig of his beer as exclamation point to the statement.

       "Anyway, I decided to quit one day, so that's what I did.  No AA meeting or any psychological mumbo jumbo.  Once I make a decision, I stick with it.  If I'd been an official drunk I wouldn't have been able to stop cold turkey like that."

       "Maybe.  If it makes sense to you, what else matters?  So what made you quit, if you don't mind ..."

       "I don't mind.  I got out of bed one morning, grabbed a brew from the fridge, and sat down to drink it.  About halfway through I realized there was something terribly wrong.  I couldn't recall when, or why, or how I had switched from Wheaties to a cold one.  What made me go from the breakfast of champions to the breakfast of bums?"

       "It sure sneaks up on you, don't it?"  Dave motioned to the bartender for a refill.

       "Actually, it landed on my head like a piano.  The moment I remembered the last person I'd seen having beer in the morning, I knew I would never touch the stuff again."

       "Who would that be?"

       "My dad.  No way I was turning into him.  Now he was a world class drunk.  And a world class jerk.  Not the footsteps I intended to follow."

       "Let me tell you something, Mike.  I've drunk some powerful concoctions in my time.  Once had me some hundred and eighty proof Tennessee moonshine that could have launched a space shuttle.  But I never had anything that could turn me into another person."

       "No need for the lecture.  I figured it out on my own.  I also found out that my dad had more valid reasons than thirst for his drinking."

       "Every reason is valid, Dave.  The second you start judging is the second you start playing God, and I believe that job is taken."

       Mike looked down into his glass, swirling its contents with a swizzle stick.  Some people may have seen it as completely not empty, others as entirely full.  But one fact remained undisputed.  He had yet to consume a drop.

       "I have another question for you, Mike.  If being an alcoholic isn't your problem, and turning into your father isn't the problem, then what is?"

       "He's got a brain in his head, that's all."

       The gravelly voice entering the conversation from Mike's immediate right belonged to another gentleman in his sixties.  The man’s face was covered with a three quarters salt, one quarter pepper beard.  His rumpled attire was considerably less formal than that of his counterpart.

       "Sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," he continued.  "The name's Lou.  Mike, your reservations are well worth heeding.  You have explained away every reason for not drinking, yet you still haven't taken a sip.  Your gut is telling you that having a drink is a step you're not ready to take.  I'll take gut instinct over hedonistic intellectualizing any day."

       "Who died and made you his conscience?" asked Dave.

       "Who made you the serpent in the garden?" Lou asked in reply.

       "Relax guys," Mike refereed.  "What's the big deal?  I either get tanked or I don't.  The world keeps spinning either way."

       "It is a big deal," said Lou.  "You don't want to be a drunk. No matter how fancy he may dress himself up, a drunk is still nothing but a drunk."

       "And a self-important, holier than thou, propaganda spouting, weak willed nosy body is still nothing but a guy named Lou," Dave rebutted.

       Mike couldn't believe that his dilemma was serving as the catalyst for a senior citizen bar room brawl.  "If I do decide to drink, that won't make me an alcoholic," he said, hoping his logic would defuse the situation.  “Not if I have just the one.”

       "But you're not a hundred percent sure of that or else you'd be drunk already," said Lou.  "Gary, I'll have my usual," he said to the bartender.

       "Yeah, I guess you could say that," Mike had to admit.

       "Seltzer," Dave practically spat in disdain as Lou's drink arrived.  "Let me guess your line, old timer.  You're a former drunk.  Got saved by AA so now you want to return the favor by converting the world."

       "I haven't touched a drop of liquor in eight years.  But I'm not a former drunk, Dave.  I'm a drunk, same as you.  Only difference is I'm fighting the demon, you're succumbing to it."

       "A day at a time, right Lou?"

       "Damn straight."

       "Well I'm a former AA member too.  My wife told me to get sober or get out.  So I got sober.  Stayed that way for three years.  I was a die hard just like you, praying to the great dry God."

       "But you were weak and you failed.  That's your problem.  Helping to push this young man over the edge will just make one more ruined life you're responsible for."

       "Hey Lou, have a little respect.  This is my story, I'll tell it.  My wife and I got divorced anyway.  Not because I was drinking, but because it wasn't meant to be.  And the last three years were the worst because I was sober every day of them."

       "Is there a moral to this tale?" Dave asked.

       "Moral is you want to be sober, be sober.  You want to get drunk, drink up.  But a man needs to make that choice, not let that glass do it for him.  If Mike doesn't drink because he's not thirsty, or because he’s not in the mood to get a little light headed, then fine.  But if he doesn't drink because he's afraid, because he thinks the content of that glass is stronger than his free will, then that makes him prisoner to the booze just the same as any drunk on skid row suckling a flask like it was mother’s milk.  A sober prisoner is no better off than a drunk one, Lou.  He’s worse off, actually.  At least a drunk prisoner might be having a good time.  You probably wouldn’t know one of those if it walked up and bit you on the nose."

       Mike cleared his still dry throat.  "I have to admit, I'm afraid of what might happen if I start drinking again.  Maybe it won't be as easy to quit next time.  Maybe I'll screw up my life.  But is a screwed up life better than one lived in fear?"

       "Of course not," said Dave.

       "Hell yes," answered Lou simultaneously.  “Nothing wrong with a little fear.  Nothing wrong with humility.  You do know what excessive pride leads to, don’t you?”

       Mike picked up the glass.  "I miss Angela already.  It doesn't matter that we don't love each other anymore.  I got used to waking up and seeing her there beside me.  I guess I'm just a creature of habit."

       And with this toast said, Mike closed his eyes, brought the glass to his lips, tipped back his head and began pouring the liquid down his throat.  When he placed the now half empty glass down, Lou had already risen from his seat.

       "I'm a creature of habit too, Mike.  That's why I'm here.  Even after I stopped drinking, bars were the only place I ever felt comfortable.  So I'll probably be seeing you around.  Maybe I'll even see you sober again someday."  

       Lou walked away, disappointment registering in his every step.

       "I'd love to stay," said Dave, who had also risen from his seat.  "But I have an appointment to make.  Some other time perhaps.  Good meeting you, young fella."

"Same here."  Mike shook Dave's hand and then watched him walk out of the bar, every bit the sophisticated, gentlemanly drunk. 

Taking in a deep breath, Mike again lifted the glass to his lips and finished it off in one gulp.  He placed the glass on the bar and then walked to the pub's jukebox, removing quarters from his pocket.  He was good and ready to select some "my baby done me wrong" music to accompany his melancholy mood.  Problem was, there were so many top quality sorrowful tunes to choose from.  Whichever he selected would wipe away an equally good alternative, and he had neither enough time nor enough change to listen to all of them. 

That was the thing about choices.  The moment you made one, you also threw another one away.  Mike put the coins back into his pocket and returned to his seat at the bar.  

       "I'll have another one, please."

       "Pepsi, right?"

       "You got it."

       Mike held his newly filled glass before him, staring intently at the soda, wondering if he would eventually switch to something stronger.  If he did, would it be his downfall?  Would that make him just like his father?  If he refrained, did that make him any better off?  Or was abstinence synonymous with lack of belief in his powers of self-control?  He simply didn't know which scenario would make him more pathetic.

       Maybe Angela had a valid point when she said that the end of their relationship was ultimately caused by his ambivalence towards practically every aspect of life.  But what did she know?

       After all, he had firmly chosen Pepsi over Coke. 

Now available at Amazon - MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST - AKA ME (by Bill Gallo)

MADE UP YOUR MIND YET?