Category: My stories

Every Friday night, every Summer, we’d go down Highway 6 and catch the double-feature at the drive-in.
It’s more than just a movie. It’s a celebration.
We bring a keg. We bring a big pit smoker.
Sometimes, we dress up for the special events.
And there’s dancing. And singing.
It feels like the Summer lasts forever.
But it doesn’t.
Every Fall, as we went back to school, the drive-in closes down.
Until the next Summer comes around.
School’s out, the drive-in’s open again, and everybody can’t wait for Friday night, when we go down Highway 6 to catch the double-feature.

Half a world away, our boys were fighting and dying in a war.
So, we tried to stop the war.
We went out into the streets and protested the war.
We made banners and signs and chanted and blocked the recruiting centers and broke into the bases.
So, they killed our heroes.
They killed MLK. They killed RFK.
We escaped into our music.
Where they couldn’t kill us.
Even if they sent us to the war, we could bring our music with us.
When we went home, alive or dead, the music came back.
And through it, we live on.

I’ve lived in this complex for twenty years.
At the end of the street, there’s a corner convenience store.
They sell the basics: beer, milk, candy, and chips.
They used to sell gas, but they had the pumps removed.
Back in the day, the place just looked run-down, but now, it’s downright seedy.
I walked down there for a jug of milk, and it was closed… not just for the holiday, but closed.
A truck and trailer out front, filled with wood and debris.
Peering through the window, the place had been gutted.
Oh well. I’ll have my coffee black.

The song says that in Heaven, there is no beer.
There’s wine and whiskey and ouzo, and pretty much everything else, but there is no beer.
You can’t even smuggle it in. The angels will catch you and confiscate the beer.
Do the angels drink it?
No, they pour it out in the street.
That’s why we sneak out at night.
There are a bunch of breweries and bars right outside the gates of Heaven.
And because we’re already on the list, we can get back in again.
Even though St. Peter always goes “You look familiar.”
And he winks.

Let the punishment match the sin, says God.
We, the punishers, keep a list of sins.
And their matching punishments.
With social and technological advances come new sins.
And new punishments.
We catalog them all, and debate new opportunities for each sin and punishment.
Some sins are not as sinful these days, meriting lesser punishments.
And with various medicines and surgeries, remedies can be employed in the place of punishments.
And for the greatest sins of all, we just leave them be.
Encased in glass for all to see.
The memory of their sin and its consequences is punishment enough.

We couldn’t afford our own baby, so we bought a used one on eBaby.
It arrived in a box, preassembled.
The instructions said to put a layer of paper towels on a baking sheet, and to warm it up in an open oven at minimum temperature for 10 minutes.
We set the timer, and ten minutes later, we heard the baby’s cry as we pulled out the baking sheet.
That’s when we noticed… we’d forgotten a step. An important step.
After five minutes, turn the baby over.
Oh well. Maybe we can trade it in for another. Or a puppy.

Rico was King of Salsa Dancing, but he only had enough sequins to put KING OF SALSA on his jacket.
He started a dance school, King’s Salsa School, and taught couples how to Salsa dance.
Rico ran afoul of Jack, King of Salsa.
The condiment, not the dance.
Jack didn’t have a jacket with sequins on it.
Instead, he had sold his company to a major food conglomerate, and they had a lot of attorneys.
Bankrupted, Rico had to close his school and stick to posting lessons through YouTube videos.
After that, the bitter man only ate chips with queso.

Mommy warned me that if I made a face, it would freeze that way.
“For the last time,” said Mommy. “Don’t do it.”
So, I made a face.
Mommy saw it, and she picked up her remote and clicked Freeze.
I was unable to move. Mommy had frozen me in place.
I could still see. And think.
And feel Mommy’s screwdriver removing the screws from my faceplate.
She pulled it off, disconnected the power and sensor cable, and set my face on the shelf.
“I warned you,” said Mommy, shoving my body into the closet and slamming the door shut.

Three Laws Safe.
You see that sticker on every robot we sell.
It’s not only our motto, but it’s the law.
If a robot causes so much as a scratch or a stubbed toe, we take it to the shop and tear it down.
Bad programming? Corrupt files?
A bit flip, caused by a cosmic ray?
Those used to happen a lot.
A one flipped to a zero can cause all kinds of mayhem.
So we put in triple error-checking. Everything runs three times.
Two out of three calculations wins the argument.
Comic rays don’t strike twice, or, do they?