Category: My stories

Myst likes to go outside.
Especially when it’s raining.
She comes back in soaking wet, and we take her into the kitchen to dry her off with paper towels.
She purrs while we towel her off. She likes it.
Then, she goes back outside, and after a while, comes back in soaking wet.
We do this over and over again.
Is she the stupid one for getting wet over and over again?
Or are we, for letting her go outside in the rain?
I think we are the stupid ones.
Because paper towels are wasteful. Use a cloth towel instead.

Back in World War 2, American forces recruited Navajo speakers to act as messengers.
The Japanese couldn’t crack the code.
A similar strategy was used in the Vietnam War, but with Hebrew speakers.
The problem was, the rabbis at either end of the conversation mistook the coded messages for an actual discussion of the Talmud, and they broke out into a heated argument.
The chain of command broke down quickly.
Mess halls served chicken soup. Airstrikes were called everywhere.
Snipers threw down their rifles and opened shoe repair shops.
Ending the war was easy… it’s ending the argument that’s hard!

My old buddy Nardo died on February 28th.
I call it St. Nardo’s Day.
To mark the anniversary of his passing.
I go to the local Cajun restaurant.
And get a bucket of crawdads.
Nardo loved the smell of crawdads on my fingers.
And whatever I couldn’t eat.
I’d peel and bring home in a cup.
He’d snap them up and beg for more.
“All gone, all gone.” I’d say.
He still wanted more.
Myst and Tinny doesn’t like crawdads.
So whatever leftovers I have this time.
I’ll toss in the grass.
For the strays to enjoy.
In his memory.

Normal blood wasn’t good enough for some athletes, so a research lab quietly developed SuperBlood.
It transported oxygen and hormones more efficiently than regular blood.
When they tried to test for SuperBlood, it showed up as normal blood.
Instead of banning SuperBlood, the leagues licensed it.
Athletes signed sponsorship deals.
High school kids got back-alley transfusions, and some bled out or got contaminated or fake batches and died.
There was an AIDS and Hepatitis D scare there, too.
Eventually, Yamaha developed artificial muscles that performed great regardless of blood.
If only scientists spent so much effort making people less stupid.

There’s a dog park across the street.
People who live in apartments bring their dogs to the dog park.
They walk with their dogs, play with their dogs, and let their dogs meet other dogs.
There are rules for the owners and their dogs.
Play nice, or go home. No unattended dogs.
Some people abandon their dogs at the park.
They’re bad with children. Or they can’t afford them. Or keep them because they lost their home, or are too old to care for them.
We collect them.
Not for adoption.
With a little teriyaki sauce, they make excellent jerky.

It took years, but we overthrew the dictator.
Then, we overthrew the dictator that replaced him.
Another dictator took over, but we overthrew him.
The first dictator came back to power, but we overthrew him.
The next dictator was overthrown by the second dictator, who was then overthrown by the first.
After that, the dictators kept popping up and overthrowing each other.
Pretty soon, it was a daily event. You could set your watch by it.
We stopped paying attention, and got along just fine.
I couldn’t tell you who the current dictator is if you asked.
Maybe, it’s me.

You see a painting. I see so much more.
I can appreciate the chemical research and experimentation that resulted in the pigments.
The shadows, the light, the vibrant colors in between.
Mixed and layered with absolute precision.
I can recognize the quality of the canvas, and the intricacy of the frame.
The foundation upon which a work is built.
I can admire the skill and patience of each brushstroke.
The angle, the weight.
I can study the genius of the proportion and composition.
Each element in balance with every other.
A true masterpiece.
Even if the painting is utter shit.

Aspirin.
Aches. Pains.
A pill a day helps reduce the risk of heart attacks and strokes.
Some call it a miracle drug.
But that’s for people who set low standards for miracles.
Cargill Labs comes up with true miracle drugs every week.
Cures for everything. Cancer, diabetes.
Even old age and death itself.
The problem is, they’re cures.
Cures cure the disease.
You can only sell a cure once.
It’s bad for business.
Where a remedy, you can sell over and over.
Still, having cured old age and death, they have plenty of time.
To work on their less-miraculous miracles.

Brent’s last words were “I’ll never talk again.”
And, to his credit, he’s kept his word.
He hasn’t said a single thing since then.
Technically, he could use that text-to-speech robot voice that Stephen Hawking uses, but he doesn’t.
Nor has he written anything.
Not even his signature. He just draws a scribble when he has to sign for something.
He doesn’t type or text or email. Not even with those stupid emoji pictures.
He just picks up his cue, runs the table, and picks up his winnings.
What is there to say? Money talks, shit walks.
And winners win.

Losing someone so suddenly is hard.
Losing someone slowly, one memory at a time, is harder.
They’re still there.
The same face. The same smile.
The same voice.
Asking who you are.
Not knowing anymore.
Somewhere in there, they love you, you hope.
And they do. They just can’t say it sometimes.
The things they do, they test you.
And you try. And you try not to get angry.
It’s hard. But you have to remember for them.
What if… what if they…
What if they were gone.
It’s their suffering you want to end, not yours.
For them. Right?