Category: My stories

My doctor told me to lose weight, eat less sugar, lower my cholesterol and blood pressure, and exercise more.
So I got a smart scale, a smart watch, a smart treadmill, and a blood pressure monitor.
And for the past few months, I’ve dropped 30 pounds, my blood pressure is normal, and all my numbers are much better.
All those numbers are reported to my doctor’s office.
She doesn’t believe any of it.
“Who did you pay to take all those tests for you?” she asked.
“Nobody,” I said.
And I don’t have enough freeweights to stack on the scale.

Yes, I write. And I’ve been published.
Well, my work has been published.
Me, I prefer a low profile.
Pseudonyms and ghost-writing.
Let someone else take the credit, I just want the money and the challenge of writing.
Sometimes, the people I ghost-write for don’t honor the contract.
They refuse to pay.
So I offer to write for their political opponent or enemy, or go to the press with what they told me.
“The contract includes the non disclosure agreement,” I say.
They threaten lawyers. They threaten revenge.
But they always pay up.
And it makes for a good story.

In baseball, pitchers tend not to be good hitters.
In the American League, they have a designated hitter.
Instead of the pitcher batting, they have someone else bat for him.
Players who don’t field well often are designated hitters.
In the National League, they make pitchers bat.
Or a pinch hitter bats for them, and then another pitcher has to take over pitching for them.
Major League Baseball saw that pitchers were an easy out or would bunt a runner along the bases.
So, they decided to relieve all pitchers of hitting duty.
By locking all of the players out.

The biggest word I’ve ever used is no.
When Enron collapsed and they were taking down the giant letters over the scoreboard at Enron Field in Houston, I was the IT Manager of a television station.
And there was a project to run fiber from the station to the stadium for video and data.
I convinced the crane operators to put the N and O together and I stood in front of them with an angry pose.
Someone took a photo for me, and it looked hilarious.
But over the years, I lost that photo.
I still have the memory.

I don’t pry. I don’t ask.
I find it to be rude to ask too much.
But it’s strange… the less you ask people, the more they trust you with.
Some things are small. Other things are big.
And then there’s the things that are huge.
Too big for them to carry.
So, they tell you, to help them carry.
You might think that the more people who carry, the lighter it is for everyone, that isn’t how it works.
Trust doesn’t work that way.
It’s a lot to carry.
But you will. And they will help you carry yours.

A simple white cross.
Just like thousands more at the cemetery.
Far, far away in a distant land they gave their lives for.
His name. His rank. His hometown.
And the date of his death.
That’s all. Nothing special.
Sure, it is set apart from the others.
A low chain fence, some flagstones.
Some bushes around a small plot of grass.
But no statues of angels, no lights.
No wreaths or flowers.
No cannon.
And no flags.
Just a soldier with his men.
In eternal rest.
Not killed in battle, like so many here.
But a drunk driver, turning left.

People call it a robotic umpire, but it’s a combination of radar guns, cameras, and computers.
The system gathers up all the data and tells the guy behind the plate if it’s a strike or a ball.
It doesn’t scan whether a swing goes around.
It doesn’t judge foul tips.
It doesn’t call safe or out on bases, foul or fair balls, or other important calls that umpires mess up.
Nor does it sue the league for accusations of racism because it gets passed up for promoton.
Which is why it’s still in the minor leagues, calling balls and strikes.

I paid fifty bucks for the pay-per-view fight.
Ordered a bunch of pizzas and picked up a keg.
Moved the big TV to the patio, dragged out the sofa and chairs, and rented some more.
Put out some lawn games, cornhole, that kind of thing.
Put up a chalkboard for anyone who wanted to make any wagers.
Winner. Loser. Round. Knockdowns and knockouts.
People parked in the driveway, the yard, along the street.
Neighbors came over, too.
The fight lasted twenty-six seconds.
But the party lasted all night long.
Help me get everything back inside and take back the keg?

There’s no such thing as a good car wreck
All my money couldn’t change the past.
But it could buy a future of a sort.
After some experiments with holograms and robots, they worked up a simple screen simulation.
“It will be like talking to her over the phone or on a Skype,” they said.
And there she was. On the screen.
My princess.
“It was all my fault,” my daughter said. “I’m so sorry. Stop beating yourself up.”
We cried for a while, said we loved each other.
Then they shut me down and went back to their experiments.

My mother said that when I was a little kid, my terrible twos were truly terrible.
Where my brother was an absolute well-behaved saint, I was a holy terror, and she broke a kitchenware store’s supply of wooden spoon on my ass from all the spankings.
However, the beatings happened long after my twos, and more often for my mother’s transgressions, not mine.
Many years later, my parents came to Texas to manipulate and blackmail me into supporting them.
I disowned them both.
If my terrible twos were terrible to my mother, then my terrible fifty-twos are a well-deserved nightmare.