Category: My stories

When I was little, my parents compiled a baby book.
It had photographs and report cards and vaccination records.
And some Bank of Israel bonds from a rich uncle that would mature when it was time for college.
Both were for ten dollars.
Two pizzas on a weekend. Gee, thanks.
But the page with the gift list mentioned three bonds, not two.
So, I dug around the closet and found the third one.
It was for a hundred thousand dollars.
My parents had tried to swindle it.
So, I swindled it back
And it paid for a lot of pizza.

I worked at a place that offered free lunches, free snacks, a free gym, and free power charging for electric cars.
Oh, and free cheap cell phones.
They didn’t pay great, but with these perks, they added enough to the compensation to make it worth staying.
When the pandemic hit, they didn’t offer a lunch stipend, sent out three small boxes of snacks over two years, and that’s it.
People who asked about the perks were made to feel like shit by management, so they left.
They tossed their free cheap cell phones into the gym.
And went to lunch.

You know, I used to bite my nails.
Don’t remember a time when I didn’t.
Therapists told me that it was a form of self destruction.
I said the suicide attempts were more important signs of that.
I stopped biting my nails after Piper died.
For some reason, promising a cat that I’d stop biting my nails worked.
Aside from a rare pruning when I don’t have a kit nearby, every few months or so, I’ve stopped.
Of course, the cat’s death provoked the last suicide attempt, but the gun jammed.
Probably on a fingernail clipping, knowing how karma works.

When Bobby Brown died, he went to Hell.
No waiting in line for Bobby.
A bodyguard at the gates with a clipboard, unclipping a velvet rope gate and saying “This way, sir.”
A line of gorgeous women waited for him. With baseball bats.
Bobby staggered along the line, suffering blow after blow, feeling bones crack, skin split, muscles tear, and blood flow and spurt and ooze.
And at the end of the line, Whitney watched. And waited.
At first, she enjoyed the spectacle. She knew Bobby was suffering.
But she wanted her chance at revenge.
Waiting. Waiting.
And suffering, too.

It’s a sad thing when you have to bury your own child.
The last time, I got a sore back, using a shovel in the back yard.
So, that’s why I called around and the neighborhood showed up with shovels.
One guy got a backhoe from a nearby road construction crew.
That was nice of him.
We made a block party out of it.
With lemonade and cookies and music and a volleyball net.
Everyone had a blast.
“Same time next week?” I asked.
The crowd cheered, and I patted the dirt down.
And called the foster agency for another.

I have a good job.
With a corner office on the top floor.
And a good parking space to charge my car.
Good perks: free lunches, fully-stocked breakroom with tea and snacks.
I can work from home when I need to.
But why would I want to?
Well, with the pandemic, I need to.
I still have my job.
But I work from my living room, not my nice corner office.
I don’t drive my car to that spot with the charger.
And any lunch or tea or snacks are bought on my own.
That’s okay for now, I suppose.

Every day, we have a team meeting.
And when we go around the table… well, go around the list, since we’re not at the same table while we work remotely… we say what we did yesterday, what we’ll do today, and what blockers we have that need resolving.
Then we leave our microphones on all day while working on whatever we’re working on, saying something if we need assistance or want to demonstrate something.
Repeat until it’s time to go home… well… we’re already home, so shut off the laptops and fire up the war games.
When we truly collaborate.

I fired my doctor and made an appointment with a nearby clinic with testing and other departments that will be a lot more convenient for referrals.
A year since my last checkup is way too long, especially with the cholesterol meds running out of refills.
And weight gain. And other things.
I should walk more. And eat less.
I don’t drink, in spite of what my former doctor thought.
People lie about that kind of thing.
But when beer and liquor cause kidney stones, you stop.
Trust me on this.
Or don’t. But if you’re my doctor, well, you’re fired.

Politicians lie.
It’s what they do. It’s the job.
Stacy said one thing before she ran for for office.
Then she campaigned on the opposite.
Claimed she never said what she said in the first place.
After she won, she denied having said either.
Then admitted it, but said she’d learned more since taking office.
Evolving her position to suit the needs of the people.
Journalists printed her lies about her lies.
And fact checkers claimed it was all true.
When she ran again, she touted her experience.
But the only experience she had was with lying.
The perfect politician.

Rufus Washington was the greatest standup comedian without actually standing up.
He did his routines from a wheelchair, spinning tales from the ghetto on the other side of the tracks.
Drug dealers, hookers, pimps, corner stores instead of grocery stores.
Now, he traveled in a limo or a tour bus, with gorgeous assistants to help him into the chair… or bed… or the shower.
When the limo got in a wreck, Rufus woke up in the hospital, screaming that he couldn’t feel his legs.
Turned out, he’d been faking his paralysis just for a schtick.
Also, he’d faked being black.