Whenever my parents fought and I had to stay overnight at my grandparents’ house, Grampa pulled a red book from the shelf and read bedtime stories to me.
They fought a lot, so I was over there once… twice a week.
And a new story each night, one I’d never heard since.
When I was a senior in high school, there was a carbon monoxide leak, and Grandma and Grampa died.
I found the red book of Grampa’s stories, opened it, and saw it was full of the raunchiest pornography I’d ever seen.
I guess Grampa was a good improviser.
Category: My stories
Cries
The baby’s crying. And she won’t stop, no matter what I do.
I remember my mother telling me that there’s no crying over spilled milk, so I rush to the refrigerator, get the milk, and spill some on her.
And, like magic, she stops.
Through the silence, we stare at each other for a while.
She has my eyes, but the rest is so Jason.
I smile, and she smiles… and laughs.
And laughs. And laughs.
She cannot stop laughing.
What did mom say? Ah: “No laughing at the misfortune of others.”
What? How the hell do I do that?
Liquidation
The most important thing to remember when working at The Department of Population Stability is that we do not name the individual cases for liquidation.
When a case number is not practical or available, we will refer to the subject by their location, gender, relative age, position within the social hierarchy, and any distinguishing marks.
Even if various advocates or activists give the individual subject a name, we will not use it ourselves.
So, once again, the subject is Seattle region, white male, elderly, short grey hair, uses cane.
And not “My Uncle Stan.”
We expect a report by Tuesday.
Not yet written
My mother always said that “God has not yet written the future.”
And she was right.
God never writes shit down.
Oh, He may send an angel or a burning bush to harass someone, and they’ll freak out and tell a bunch of people about it. But, really, God doesn’t write anything down.
Ever wonder why?
It’s because His handwriting is awful. Like a child holding a crayon in their fist.
And he’s too cheap to buy a voice recorder, let alone think about starting a podcast or YouTube channel.
So, He created mankind. To write shit down for him.
Myoelectric
Myoelectric: Sensors pick up signals and translate them into motor control.
Signals from the periphery go to the brain as sensory information.
We can replace missing limbs this way.
Let’s take Bob here as an example.
Hello, Bob. Open your hand.
Now close it.
No, don’t fire the rocket launcher.
Oops. That’s okay, Bob.
Put your hand over your mouth and you’re sorry.
No, not the chainsaw. Hand. Over mouth.
Okay, Bob, just sit still.
It looks like we got things wired up wrong.
Everybody, please leave the room quickly.
No, not you, Bob. Stay there.
And sit very still.
No rest for the wicked
The Book Of Isaiah says there is no rest for the wicked.
But I know of a rest stop for the wicked.
It’s in Ohio, along the Turnpike. Just outside of Akron.
All kinds of wickedness happens there.
Children disobey their parents. And eat dessert before dinner, if they eat their dinner at all.
And I know a writer who goes there in the summer to dangle participles and split infinitives.
After Labor Day, we dress in our finest whites and parade around the dog-walking lawn shamelessly.
Not that people walk their dogs there. They poop all over!
Truly wicked!
Assistant Wanted
Remember when she said she’d gotten her dream job? Assistant to that big movie star.
No, not the one always adopting kids. The other one.
Yeah, that one. That’s him.
Didn’t even send flowers. That’s what he had her for, right? To make it look like he cared.
Never had time to date.
Never had time to settle down.
Never took a vacation.
Oh, sure, she traveled, but she never saw the world. Phone in one hand, her boss’ dayplanner in the other.
Did she schedule this, too?
Heart attack.
Die at twenty-six.
Put an ad in Variety: Assistant Wanted.
Survivors
It’s been two hours since the helicopter crashed on the mountain.
Well, not really crashed. It was a rather good landing.
Jacobs disagrees about that. “It was a shitty landing,” he says. “Spilled my drink.”
We’ve got plenty of food, water, and other supplies, but Jacobs insists that we kill the pilot and eat him.
“I’m not eating goddamned energy soy bars,” says Jacobs. “I want a steak, and muscle is just meat, right?”
The pilot tried to yell through his gag.
“I think I hear a chopper,” I said. “They found us.”
“Good,” said Jacobs. “More pilots to eat.”
Penalty Yards
I lay here in my bed, surrounded by family and friends, having lived the best life I could possibly imagine.
I worked hard at everything I did.
I took every opportunity I could find.
I was honest and fair to all.
If I had it to do all over again, I would not change a thing.
I feel my heart beating slower… slower… slower…
And a bright yellow rag hits me in the face.
A clear and steady voice said: “Holding… your mother… ten yards… replay first down.”
I blinked, and looked around.
Bright lights… a doctor’s face…
I screamed.
The Cart
A old, tired Mexican
In a denim work shirt
and faded torn jeans,
a dirty ball cap,
and a makeshift bandage
tied around his knee
Pedaling an unmarked ice cream cart
With a wobbly left front wheel
Up a hill
Slowly
Slowly
I watch him
What is in his cart?
The big white box
With the wobbly wheel
Tamales for the day laborers
Who line the road
Waiting to be picked up
By contractors
In their big shiny pickup trucks?
I hear the rattle of metal
Tools? His tools?
Or chains?
I watch him pedal
Up the hill
And away