Category: My stories

The Second Commandment says not to make graven images or likenesses of things in heaven above, earth beneath, or in the water.
But what exactly is heaven above? Does that mean Heaven, or does that mean the air?
Scholars and rabbis pondered this for years.
“It probably means the air,” the Head Rabbi concluded. “But, Yahweh’s a smart cookie, and would say air if He meant it.”
The Head Rabbi also happened to like clouds and birds. So, paintings of clouds and birds were fine.
And naked women on trampolines. He liked those a lot, too.
“Bounce higher,” he said.

The lot across the street used to be a credit union.
After that, they made it an ATM outlet.
And now, it’s an empty lot.
Parking for the truck that hauls in wrecked beemers and benzes.
Or a place for cops to write tickets.
I had a dream of buying it, razing it, and making it a park.
But that’s a dumb dream.
Because people would just bring their dogs to shit in it.
When they’re not letting them shit on the apartment complex sidewalks.
Some carry plastic bags and pick up after.
Some are respectful.
But too damn few.

The first thing I do when I plan to leave one job for another is to refill all of my prescriptions.
Who knows how long it will take for the new company to start insurance for me.
Or, if I’m doing contract work, then I’ll end up having to pay for my own insurance.
Might as well stick the old job with the cost of the pills before it goes on my tab.
And I have to fight with the new insurance plan to reimburse me for the expense.
Which makes worse the high blood pressure these prescriptions are for.

Cobblestones and gaslamps, old brick buildings back when they were new.
Fog-filled alleyways, whores in corsets and skirts,
The time machine is like a glass-bottomed boat, a window into the past.
A keyhole into history.
The danger is, if there’s too many watchers poking holes in the fabric of time-space… the birth of Jesus, D Day, Jack the Ripper… the fabric will rip apart.
There’s no way to sew the fabric back together, so we turned our time machines to one moment:
The invention of the time machine.
History repaired itself quickly, but the future broke apart like shattered glass.

Oh no. You forgot to announce you’re back.
You forgot to email a followup for a case.
Or sign and turn in every report for the week.
Does it matter? You’ve turned in your notice.
In two weeks, you’re out of here.
And with every slight transgression of procedure, policy, and rules, you should laugh.
What are they going to do… fire you?
This should be going through your head every time.
With a cackle.
A loud, throaty cackle that echoes off of the walls and rattles windows.
One that invites the gods to bring clouds, thunder, rain, and lightning.

My first real job has a lot of fucked up shit about it.
And I would bitch about that fucked up shit at my next job.
Then, when I got another job, I’d bitch about the fucked up shit at the previous job, but I’d bitch less about the fucked up shit from the first job.
Job after job, I’d bitch about the fucked up shit, but over time, I’d bitch less and less about the earlier jobs.
Until I totally forgot about that first job’s shit.
Because of all the fucked up shit from the other jobs I’ve had.

Ever glide your finger across the trackpad and the cursor doesn’t move?
Tap it. Double tap it. Three finger wipe.
Nothing at all.
You type on the keyboard and text doesn’t appear, and you’re all DAMMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT and type all kinds of angry shit on your keyboard and nothing’s appearing.
You switch it on and off, still nothing.
Then you realize you’re using your work keyboard and trackpad, not your personal keyboard and trackpad?
And you look over at the insane crap you’ve sent to your team’s Slack channel on your work system and think “Time for a break.”

I don’t like to drive Downtown, so I take the bus to the train, which takes me to the ballpark.
The transfer is at Houston Community College, and the stop is across from a bar.
I check my bus system app for times, and I’ve got 30 minutes to wait for the next bus.
So, I head into the bar, get a coke, and relax in a leather chair.
Others sit at the bus stop, in the heat, on an uncomfortable concrete bench, or standing around.
My watch rings, I pay my tab, and go outside for the arriving bus.

The new girl wore one of those whole body cloaks and long gloves, and a hood over her head.
She had a note from her parents.
Bobby says it was something about a skin condition.
“You’re so full of shit,” said Lisa. “It’s religious.”
Instead of gym, she read books in the library.
And she never ate lunch with us or rode the bus.
A black van dropped her off and picked her up.
Bobby said he’d try to see what she looked like.
Five minutes later, we found him in the hall.
Breathing heavy, eyes glazed, pale and cold.

The protests started over White actors playing Hispanic roles.
“Only Hispanic people can play Hispanic roles,” said The Hispanic Actors’ Alliance.
So, Hollywood consented.
Similar protests erupted over Chinese roles, German roles, Fat roles, Gay roles, and every other demographic imaginable.
Casting for movies, shows, plays, and commercials became more complicated.
“Only real witches can play witches!” demanded the Witches Acting Coven. “And the depiction better be a positive one!”
Things got out of hand when the dead demanded to play dead historical figures.
Moaning and shambling around Hollywood Forever Cemetery, their agents and publicists trying not to get eaten.