Category: My stories

The toughest thing in the world is a dying cat.
If you take the cat to the vet, you distress the cat.
And most of the time, the vet can’t or won’t do anything.
But if you don’t take the cat to the vet, you are letting the cat suffer.
Whatever you do, you feel guilty.
For doing something. Or not doing something.
And after your cat is dead, you feel stupid for doing what you did.
Or guilty for not doing anything.
A few hundred… or thousand dollars poorer.
And what do people do?
“Would you like a kitten?”

The Voludani hid outside of our sensor ranges, sat, and listened.
They got to know us. Better than we knew ourselves.
They put together their plans, and surprised the hell out of us.
A perfect replica of Jesus, Moses, and the Twelfth Imam appeared.
Along with the messiah of every other religion or cult.
They announced that these were The End Times, and they assembled their armies.
Every nation, every community, and every culture were turned upside down and against each other.
Fire, blood, and death swept over the globe.
The Voludani cheered, and flew off to the next show.

We called our first maid Jane.
I don’t remember what her name was, but we called her Jane.
She wasn’t a very good maid, so we replaced her.
We called that maid Jane, too.
As the family grew, we hired more maids.
We called all of our maids Jane.
It didn’t matter which maid came, as long as one came to do what we wanted or needed.
The maids called us Master or Miss.
It didn’t matter, really.
Divorces and deaths, births and marriages.
We’re all the same to them, in the end.
It’s just a job to do.

When I was little, I wore pajamas to bed.
Bright-colored pajamas with racing cars and trains and zoo animals on them.
As I grew up, or the pajamas wore out, I’d get new pajamas.
And the old clothes ended up in the rag basket.
For wiping up spills in the kitchen or drying my dad’s car after we washed it.
I’d pick out the familiar tatters out of the basket and remember wearing them.
These days, I don’t wear pajamas.
And I use sponges and paper towels for spills.
And use the automated car wash at the gas station.

put on your pajamas
brush your teeth
drape tomorrow’s clothes
over the back of the chair
lay your slippers on the floor
and get into bed
i will read you a bedtime story
kiss you on the forehead
fluff your pillow
and smother you with it
no more goodnight moon
or little red riding hood
or three little pigs
tomorrow, we’ll put your body
in the old wooden trunk
strip the sheets from the bed
wash out the filth
tidy up the room
greet the van from the orphanage
and welcome a new little boy
or new little girl
welcome home

I grew up in the Shermer of John Hughes’ movies.
Deerfield, Upper Arlington, Glencoe, and Northbrook.
There was a great Chicago Dog place called Ira’s in Northbrook.
The ketchup bottles at the counters were there for fries.
Just fries.
And you did not dare get ketchup near the dogs.
You got yelled at by the owner if you put ketchup on the dogs.
Ketchup was on the menu, between relish and mustard.
But you never asked for it. Ever.
When I go to Minutemaid for a game, I’ll get cheese and onions and mustard.
Maybe chili.
But never, ever ketchup.

The Morton Twins were always pretending to be the other.
It started off innocently, with simple cases of mistaken identity, but things got ugly fast.
Pete would rob houses and hide the loot in Paul’s room.
And the things he did while babysitting the neighbor kids are too horrible to mention.
Paul visited his brother in jail, right up to the execution.
When Pete got to Hell, he’d tell others that he was Paul, and he bragged about the things he did.
When Paul died and got to Heaven, he completely forgot about Pete.
“Mercy.”
The angels smiled and winked.

The old woman in 6G pays the mailman to slip her mail into other people’s mailboxes.
Her family is long gone. She doesn’t get any visitors.
Neighbors used to bring up her mail, she’d offer them tea, and they’d sit with her a while.
And suffer her long and boring and sad stories.
Now they just slip her mail under her door. Or throw it out.
She called the super about a gas leak.
“I’m not falling fir it,” he mumbled. “She’ll talk my goddamned ear off.”
After an hour, he smelled smoke.
The fire department couldn’t save the building.

While Heather lay unconscious in her hospital bed, the alumni boosters prepared a deal for her.
Hospital bills paid. A full scholarship.
Whatever she wanted.
Just tell the police that it was a mistake. Or an accident.
Daunte Washington, star quarterback and Heisman candidate, her boyfriend, never laid a hand on her.
There were rumors, but nobody could prove a thing.
Nobody would talk. Booster cash buys silence.
The police closed the case.
Daunte won the Heisman, got a huge contract and lots of endorsements.
Heather never woke up.
He paid for her funeral, and they buried the ugly truth.

Wandering Jack wandered from town to town with a stone and a bullshit story about how the stone was part of a recipe for the greatest soup in history.
He kept the scam going for years, convincing townsfolk to gather together and bring the actual ingredients for the soup.
Until Portsbend.
Everybody in Portsbend showed up with their own stones.
“No,” said Jack. “We need potatoes and corn and lettuce and beef bones and…”
“Well, why don’t you go get them yourself?” the townspeople said.
“That’s not how it works!” Jack shouted.
Jack fell screaming under a hail of stones.