Category: My stories

It was really hot out yesterday, and our office building was caught in a rolling brownout.
The generator failed, and the air conditioning went offline.
We all went home.
Today, the office building is as cold as an icebox. They had jacked up the air conditioning to the max.
So, I’m in my office, wearing a throw blanket like a serape, trying not to get frostbite in the middle of August.
I pull out my electric blankets and plug them in.
When those blankets blow the circuit breakers, the air conditioning will stop, and it will be warm enough again.

Jack and Molly have been together for fifty years.
People ask them how they’ve stayed together for so long.
They don’t know. Or, they don’t remember.
Jack has Dementia, Molly has Alzheimers.
Neither is sure who the other is.
Or who they are. Or where they are.
They spend a lot of time with each other, though, that’s for certain.
“If my husband finds out about us, he’ll kill us,” says Molly.
“That’s okay,” says Jack. “I’m not married.”
We don’t correct them anymore.
I mean, what’s the harm?
Unless another of our residents imagines they’re Molly’s husband, I guess.

I keep a large glass jug in my office, and I make batches of herbal iced tea on Monday.
At the end of the day on Friday, whatever’s left in the jug gets dumped out in the breakroom sink, and I wash out the jug.
So it’s ready the next Monday for another batch of tea.
I like to try different blends and flavors, but whatever I enjoy on Monday, I’m sure to get sick of by Friday.
And whatever I hate on Monday, it will grow on me by the time I’m ready to dump it out on Friday.

Once upon a time, there was a shaggy dog named Maguffin.
He lived in a doghouse made of unobtanium with two other dogs named Jack and Doyle, whom I will never mention again.
In this doghouse, there was splotlight in each corner, so Maguffin cast four shadows on the walls.
His owner, who kept a loaded rifle by the door, fed him cans of red herring, which he enjoyed very much.
One night, a glowing object appeared in the sky.
Maguffin looked up at it and barked.
Then, the object disappeared, and Maguffin went back into his doghouse to sleep.

Carlos Correa is a hard-hitting shortstop for the Houston Astros.
He also gets injured a lot. Spends a lot of time on the injured list.
But most importantly, he appears on local grocery store commercials with several other Astros.
At one point, all of the players appearing in the commercials were on the injured list.
I don’t think it’s a good sales pitch to have a bunch of injured athletes peddling ice cream and steaks and other unhealthy crap.
Instead, have them peddle ice packs and bandages and the pharmacy.
Oh, and curbside delivery to save them some heavy lifting.

People still find bits of bone in the field.
A button here. A bit of metal there.
From a belt? The lock of a rifle, the wood rotted away?
The grass grows on and on.
Over the low, rolling hills.
The living, the veterans, the survivors, with their medals and crutches, walk over them, remembering this, pointing here and there.
Telling their wives and children what had happened.
What they had done. And what had been done to them.
As the sun sets and the moon rises, and the wolves and ghosts come out.
History sleeps, and we grow forgetful.

Sometimes I think about the people who had made plans for last night, but never got around to them because they died.
Or the ones who made plans for this morning, but died in their sleep.
You could conclude from these observations that you should make the most of what life has to offer, and that every day is precious.
Which I do. By not making any plans.
Because a whole lot of people who make plans appear to be dying, and I plan on living for a very long time.
Of course, that’s also a plan… oh well, I’m fucked.

Back when I delivered pizza, people would prank call in the strangest orders.
Hold everything but the crust. Lots of crust.
Make it square so it will fit the box.
Use seven of those little plastic stands to keep the lid from sticking to the cheese.
That kind of thing.
“Your mushrooms,” asked a caller, “are they magic?”
Yes. Yes they are.
Sometimes, they spell out things, like LOUSY TIPPER or FAT FUCK.
Honestly, we just scatter them on the pizza before we put it in the oven.
Must be magic or something.
You fat fuck who gives lousy tips.

The girl next door had some kind of immune disorder.
She was homeschooled and worked on her model train set.
I saw it once. I had to put on a surgical mask and gloves.
She showed me every detail… the town, the forest, the Polish death camp.
The boxcars full of the condemned.
“I like the History Channel,” she said, using a magnifying lens to show the detail on the barbed-wire fences.
After she died, her family gave the train set to the local Holocaust museum.
They put it out on display, but without Hitler’s speeches playing in a loop.

Emily’s patients loved her so much, they didn’t ever want to leave the hospital.
They’d hide from the orderlies with the wheelchairs and discharge papers.
Or, even worse, they’d hurt themselves just so they could stay.
Emily needed to clear the beds before the administration cracked down, so she brought in a tattoo artist.
“Every day you stay, we’re tattooing a Hello Kitty on your ass,” she said. “When we run out of ass, they go on your face.”
All of the patients checked out that day.
Except one. Who loved Hello Kitty.
She was moved to the psych ward.