Political Correctness

One thing you have to say about law firms is that they really know how to cover their asses. They look at things such as sexual harassment suits, and they do what is necessary to minimize the likelihood of someone filing such a suit against them. In the case sexual harassment this is not as easy as it might sound. The problem is that the people working for large law firms spend so much of their time at work that the only people they interact with for any length of time are their fellow workers. There are always rumors about who is sleeping with whom, and much of the gossip is based on fact. There are exceptions, but the affairs themselves are not that much of a problem in regard to the firm’s liability. If there is going to be a problem, it usually occurs when a man is trying to determine whether a woman at the firm would be interested in having an affair with him. That is why the law firm Max worked for required everyone to take a class about sexual harassment.

Such classes always go beyond the common sense advice one would expect. In fact it would be more accurate to describe them as gender sensitivity classes. There is always the same canned speech that includes suggested gender-neutral terms to replace words such as mankind, chairman, etc. It is at this point in the speech that a man’s attention usually begins to wonder. This is not to say that men cannot understand why women object to the gender bias in our language; it is just that a male does not have the same emotional reaction to it. For him the avoidance of gender specific words often seems awkward at best. Max was doing his best to look attentive. He almost laughed at Jim’s struggle to stay awake. After the class, Max, Jim, Gini, and Allison went to lunch together.

“Pardon me, ladies, but this whole political correctness thing is getting to be a bit too much,” Jim said. “Please, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. There are obviously some religious, ethnic and/or gender terms that are so loaded you would have to be a complete bigot to use them. I also agree that we should eliminate gender bias, but the objections have become so picky that it makes a guy feel like he has to tip-toe barefoot through the brambles of over-sensitivity.”

“Since you used the word ‘guy,’ I assume you’re talking about the class we just took,” Allison said.

Allison was a second year associate. She had a law degree from Harvard and was very competitive. Her statement made Jim realize that he had just stepped in something very unpleasant.

Max tried to come to the rescue. “It’s not what the instructor said, but the length of time it took her to say it. Giving one or two examples of the male bias in our language and offering suggested changes was certainly appropriate. As attorneys, however, our primary tool is language, and going beyond one or two examples seemed patronizing to me.”

“Damn right,” Jim said. “We’ve always called man holes, man holes. Calling them unisex holes is bizarre, and calling them person holes isn’t much better.”

“You seem to be attaching some sexual significance to those holes, and you’re doing it because women are the ones who are objecting to making them gender specific,” Allison said.

“Are you accusing me of sexual harassment?”

“No, I’m saying you’re a chauvinist.”

Jim denied the accusation. No one seemed to know what else to say.

Max interrupted the silence. “Change never comes easy. Words such as chairperson or person holes don’t involve grammar. I think what people find more awkward are sentences such as, ‘everyone should do his best to avoid gender bias.’ Adding ‘or her’ seems particularly awkward. I prefer substituting ‘his’ with ‘their.’ While it may not be grammatically correct, it offers some consistency in regard to being inclusive.”

“I agree,” Gini said. “Ours is a living language, and grammar has changed over the years. Many irregular verbs have become regular, and the rule against double negatives only came into being when people decided to make the language more consistent with the rules of math.”
 
“So here we are still beating the horse about how to remove the gender bias,” Jim said.

“Okay, so maybe I was wrong about lawyers not needing more examples.”

The women smiled. Max excused himself and went to the men’s room. He had a big grin on his face when he returned.

“I hope you weren’t that amused by what you were holding in there,” Jim said.

Both women groaned in disapproval of Jim’s joke.

“You’ve been around Max too long,” Allison said.

“What do you mean?”

“It sounds like something he would say.”

“No, I would have said, ‘I don’t know what you were shooting at, but the look on your face tells me you must’ve hit it.’”

Both women laughed. “Boys and their toys.” Allison said, bringing still more laughter.

“That’s the other thing about sexual harassment,” Jim said. “It’s so damned subjective. My joke was no worse than his was. Why can he get away with making comments that will get other guys in trouble? Is it a matter of looks?”

“That might be part of it,” Gini said, “but I think it’s more a matter of personality. Max is very funny and observant. He is able to determine who will laugh at such comments and who will object to them.”

“But you can’t rule out his looks,” Allison said. “Many of the women start the banter, and at least some of them hope he will hit on them.”

“So the peacock with the brightest tail gets the prize, and you call men shallow,” Jim said.

Gini decided to defuse the situation by changing the subject. She looked at Max. “What did you find so amusing?”

“The splash screen in the urinal had ‘Say No To Drugs’ emblazoned across the front of it. This raised the questions in my mind. Should I pee around it and risk getting splashed, or should I ignore the implications and give it the full stream?”

“Full stream ahead,” Jim said. He was rewarded with laughter.

“It doesn’t look like you got splashed,” Allison observed.

“As Jim will tell you, there is a line a man will draw when it comes to being politically correct. If you wanted to have some fun with the urinal screen, you could put a piece of litmus paper below the message and a sign on the wall saying, ‘Look for the drug detecting strip to change color.’ Can you imagine the reaction of someone who is stoned when he sees that strip change color?”

“I’d hate to be the one who has to clean the wall,” Jim said.

The women laughed again, and Jim was feeling much better about how they were relating to him. He silently congratulated himself for not saying: “Can you imagine the reaction of the cleaning woman when she sees what he did to the wall.” He was certain that he had just avoided another argument about what he thought a woman’s role should be, and he was glad they were returning to the office as friends.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtailfarms.com on Jan. 6, 2010

A Good Thanksgiving

It was spring, which is the rainy season in southern California. Thunder rattled the windows and struck such a hard blow to Jim’s eardrums that it shook his brain. His eyes sprang open to behold a world that was far too bright in spite of the overcast. His head ached and throbbed. It felt like someone was trying to push his eyes out of the sockets from the inside. His stomach seemed to be churning a batch of molten lava to toss into the air when it reached the right consistency. He was hung-over again. He wanted to go back to sleep, but his bladder was strained to its limit. He gingerly walked into the bathroom and relieved the pressure. A hot shower would probably help, but first things first.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. No beer left. He knew better than to check the cupboard. The whiskey was long gone. No hair of the dog this morning. He took two aspirins with a full glass of water. He had to re-hydrate. He set up the coffee pot and turned it on. Then he climbed into a hot shower. Hot was the operative word. The water stung a bit at first. His bathroom soon resembled a sauna. He took a deep breath through his nose, hoping the steam would clear his sinuses. Re-hydrate, sweat out the poison, and clear the sinuses; those were the first steps. He was not much of a drinker before his wife died. Now he was a self-proclaimed expert on hangovers.

He had to pass the spare room on the way to his bedroom. The door of the spare room was always closed because he did not want to look inside. It did not contain anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it was almost stark from its lack of adornment. It was furnished with a single bed, a dresser and two night stands. That was his doing, or overdoing according to his wife.

“It’s supposed to be a nursery,” she objected.

“There’s still room for a crib and such, and the rest is ready whenever he is.”

“Or she.”

They both laughed, but it was not to be. They underwent a battery of tests. The tests revealed that she could not have children. It was selfish, but he was glad it was not a problem with him. At least that was one thing he did not have to feel guilty about. His wife was very religious. She pronounced it God’s will, and she would not defy God’s will be going to a fertility clinic or anything like that. He suggested adopting. She did not like the idea at first, but her desire to have a baby finally made her agree to do it. Who would have believed that adopting would be so difficult. He had reached a mid-management position with an Aerospace company, and she was a secretary. They were not wealthy, but they made more than enough to provide for a child. They were also good, church going people. The problem was that she did not want a child. She wanted a baby, the younger the better. It also had to be a white baby whose mother was not addicted to drugs or alcohol.

“It’s not that I’m prejudice,” she said. “I just want a baby that looks like ours, and one that’s not starting out with a lot of problems.”

She settled for an ungrateful cat that died of old age and over-eating.

He finished dressing and walked into the kitchen. There he drank another glass of water. He then buttered a slice of bread and forced himself to eat it. If he could hold it down, he would be on his way to recovery. He poured a cup of coffee and took it into the living room. Wind driven drops of rain were pelting the windows. He turned on the television, thinking that the modulated voices of the news anchors would provide enough background noise to make the thunder seem less jarring. There was a flash and a bang as he plopped down on the sofa. The warmth of the coffee cup he held in his shaking hand was soothing. He took a few sips before setting the cup on the end table. He closed his eyes seeking sleep. Precious, healing sleep. God, how he wanted to heal!

That was when the nightmare started. The worst part was that the dream was too true. It was like a videotape of the tragedy. He had survived the layoffs that had reduced his company to a mere shell of its former self. He only had two years to go before he qualified for an early retirement and could start drawing money from his 401K without incurring a penalty. The company was kind enough to try to hang on to him for that long. Then there was the merger. The new company was cutting costs by outsourcing jobs. He had heard the speech before. It was the same speech used during the initial round of layoffs. “You have valuable skills that will transfer well to other industries, but don’t let prospective employers know you worked in Aerospace.” What the hell was he supposed to tell them? “Hi, I’m Jim. I’ve just spent the last eighteen years twiddling my dick, but I can do wonderful things for your company.”

Jim tried to put on the happy face. He went to an employment agency. He read the want ads and the financial page. He even tried pounding the pavement. He went to companies unannounced and delivered his resume in the futile hope that someone would be impressed. No one was. He either did not have the experience prospective employers wanted or he was over-qualified. “Over qualified” was a phrase he learned to hate. It reached the point where he wanted to throttle anyone who used it. His wife accused him of not trying hard enough to find a job, and that made him want to throttle her.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked her.

“Find something, anything. Anything’s better than nothing!”

The anything he found was Walmart. It was minimum wage and only part time work, which is how they got away with not providing even the most basic benefits. The fact that it was part time allowed him to continue his frustrating search.

He and his wife were going over the bills. There was always a heated discussion about which bills to put off and which ones had to be paid immediately. She started gasping for air. She had suffered from shortness of breath before, but nothing like this. She could not seem to get enough air into her lungs. He raced her to the emergency room. He thought it was an asthma attack caused by the stress, and so did the doctors. They were wrong. It was a heart attack, and it killed her. In spite of all their recent bickering, she was the love of his life. Now she was gone. Why did she have to leave him at a time when their relationship was so strained? Did she know he still loved her? He felt guilty about the fact that he did not have the chance to tell her he did.

He thought about taking another mortgage out on the house. Fortunately, her life insurance paid enough for the funeral. It also provided enough for the last car payment and the next mortgage payment. With his car now paid for the rest of his expenses might be manageable. He quit Walmart and went to work at a convenience market. They did not pay any more than Walmart did, but it was full time. He worked as much over time as he could get. It was more than the need for money that made him work so many hours; it was also the void. His house was lifeless, and his life was empty. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion and then he slept. He applied for social security early. He stopped working for the convenience market as soon as the first check arrived. He was also going to start drawing money from his 401K, but he was too late. The stock market crashed and his retirement account was wiped out. The only saving grace was that he had not refinanced the house or borrowed against it. This was a good thing because his present mortgage had a very low fixed rate. Banks were now failing and the ones still in business were hiking the variable rates through the roof.

This was when Jim started drinking. Why not? He had nothing else to do. There were no good jobs. There was no one who depended on him. There was no one to share his joy, or encourage him, or be disappointed with him. He woke up with tears in his eyes. He thought he heard something scratching at his front door. He got up from the sofa. That was when he heard a faint whimper. He opened the door to find a little black dog. This mutt was just a little larger than a cocker spaniel. It was soaking wet and shivering. It was also very thin.

“Did you get abandoned by someone who had his house repossessed?” Jim asked.

The dog looked up at him with big, sorrowful eyes. “Oh, what the hell.” Jim moved out of the dog’s way. “Well, come on.”

The dog entered cautiously. Jim went to get a towel. He was moving slowly because of the hangover. The slowness of his movements seemed to put the dog at ease. He even let Jim dry him off. “You’re nothing but skin and bones,” Jim said.
 
He scrambled four eggs. Two were for him and two were for the dog. Jim was feeling much better after breakfast. So was the dog. The dog curled up in front of a heater vent. Wet dog was not a pleasant smell, but it was no worse than the smell of the stale beer. The news was over and the networks were now in full babble mode. Jim switched to CNN. The dog was now at his feet sniffing his legs. Whatever the dog detected must have been all right because he jumped up on the sofa. He did this warily. He stood as far from Jim as possible. It was as if he was waiting for Jim to yell at him. When it became apparent that Jim was not going to yell the dog approached him. He gave Jim a rather thorough sniffing before sprawling across his lap. This dog was the first living thing that wanted to be close to Jim in a long time. It was only a dog, but Jim already felt a strong affection for him. He decided to call him stormy.

Jackson was hiding in a gym locker. He waited for the custodian to finish the floor and lock up the place before coming out. The mats were rolled up against the wall. The rolls were loose enough to let him get between the folds. It made a warm bed and kept him concealed. The problem was that it meant he could not scrounge around for anything to eat. It also left Rufus alone to fend for himself. But this was a cold night, and it looked like it was going to rain.

Jim made breakfast for himself and Stormy. After the news he and Stormy chased each other around the room. In the afternoon, Jim decided to buy Stormy some dog food. There was no need to go to the market. The liquor store charged more, but it was still cheaper than driving to the store. He cut off a rope to use as a leash and tied it to Stormy’s collar. It was a leisurely trip with many stops for tree sniffing and marking. A half a can of dog food was all that a dog Stormy’s size needed. Jim picked up two cans, and a large can of refried beans for himself. This would not leave him enough money to buy beer. He tried to do the calculations in his mind. What would he have to put back in order to afford the beer? He finally decided he did not need the beer. He had already gone one night without drinking himself to sleep. He would now try for two.

School was out, and Jackson was looking for Rufus. Sometimes Rufus would beg in front of convenience stores and fast food places. Jackson knew about a pizza place in a neighborhood that was mostly white. This meant a lot of uneaten crust. There was also a liquor store there, and its roof hung out far enough to shield Rufus from the worst of the rain.

Jim and Stormy were on their way back from the liquor store. They had just reached Jim’s front yard. Jim turned at the walkway to his front door, but Stormy turned the opposite direction. He was tugging on the rope. There was a black boy running down the sidewalk toward them. He was wearing what Jim called doofus drawers, meaning those baggy shorts that came down to the calves. The kid also had a large tote bag strapped to his back. Judging by the way he was running, the bag must have been pretty heavy. The kid stopped on the sidewalk in front of Jim’s house.

“Rufus!”

Jim let go of the rope. The dog ran over to Jackson and danced. It was obviously a joyful reunion.

“Is he your dog?”

“Yeah, he still is. Momma’s boyfriend kicked him out of the house and won’t buy food for him, but I feeds him when I can.”

The kid was as thin as the dog was. His clothes were filthy. Jim thought he probably had lice.

“What about you? Does he buy you food?”

“The mother fucker don’t like me, but I do okay. Guess Rufus and me be outcasts.”

The boy could not have been more than twelve years old. Hearing that profanity from such a young mouth was jarring. It was harsh language for a harsh world. Jim tried not to judge him.
 
“I guess I’m sort of an outcast too,” he said.
“Yeah, right.”

“I was going to feed the dog and have dinner. Are you hungry?”

Jackson had already revealed more than he wanted to tell. This could have consequences. He also knew enough to be leery of strange men.

“You ain’t some kind of molester, are you?”

“No, and you have Rufus to protect you.”

The boy looked like he was going to laugh, but he held it in. “I guess dinner wouldn’t hurt none,” he said.

Jim fed Rufus. He then made scrambled eggs, which he covered with refried beans and cheese. He would have added salsa, but he could not afford it this time. The boy was actually cleaner than Jim realized. He even washed his hands without Jim telling him. Cleanliness was not much of a problem. Jackson showered every day at the school after Gym class. Finding a place to wash his clothes was more difficult. His mamma would wash them for him sometimes. She also gave him small amounts of money when she had more than she needed for her next fix. That was not often. She had gotten pretty bad lately. Jackson would stay at the apartment with her when her pimp was not around. That was not often, either.

“You eat like a Mexican,” he said. “Pretty good with the eggs and cheese though.”

“The Mexicans know what they’re doing. The beans are filling and provide a lot of energy.”

“But they make you fart.”

“That’s not so bad. I save mine up. If someone tries to mug me, I use them like an afterburner and choke the mugger on my exhaust.”

This had done it. He had finally made the boy laugh.

“Why’d you name your dog Rufus?”

“Cause he’s black like me. Was gonna name him Rastus, but momma said that was going too far.”

“I agree. If I named a black dog Rastus, people would think I was a racist.”

“Just because white folks deny it don’t mean they ain’t.”

“You’re not calling me a racist, are you?”

“You is good enough to invite me for dinner. I thanks you for that.”

Jim suddenly realized that this kid was a lot more sophisticated than he wanted people to know. It was amazing for someone his age. It was also sad.

“What’s in the tote?”

“School books mostly.”

The kid was still going to school. Jim’s initial thought was that the boy probably did it because of the free lunch, but there had to be more to it. He must like learning. Why else would he bother to lug around those heavy books.

“If you had spare clothes with you, you could put the ones you’re wearing in my washing machine.”

Jackson was thinking it over. He had a pair of jeans, one pair of boxer shorts and a pair of socks in the bag. They were not any cleaner than what he was wearing. Maybe he could wash what he had in his tote plus the sweat shirt he was wearing over his tee shirt and his jacket. It would be good to have clean clothes. He finally said “okay.”

Jim watched him empty the bag to get to the clothes. One of the books was surprising. It was The Red Pony by John Steinbeck. It was difficult for Jim to remember what he was capable of reading and understanding at that age, but Steinbeck seemed pretty advanced for a twelve year old.

“Want me to show you how to use the washer?”

“I can figure it out.”

Jim picked up The Red Pony on his way to the sofa. “Jackson Douglas” was written on the inside of the cover, and there was an address under the name. Rufus jumped up on the sofa and curled up next to him. Jim had just set the book on the coffee table and turned on the television when Jackson entered the room.

“It seems strange to use a washer that doesn’t take your money.”

“I guess it would. By the way, I’m Jim.”

Jackson glanced over at the book on the coffee table. “You probably already know I’m Jackson. The library was getting rid of old books so taking it was no big thing.”

“I wasn’t going to ask about that. It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve read that book. Can you refresh my recollection?”

The look on Jackson’s face said that he knew Jim was testing him. “I’ve just finished the first story. It says adults aren’t always right and don’t know as much as you might think.”

Now it was confirmed. Jackson had purposely used bad grammar. He had been putting Jim on. “What you know depends on what you’ve studied and how much thought you’ve given things. If you’re smart, you never stop thinking or learning.”

They sat there silently watching the news. Jackson got up to put his clothes in the dryer.

“The Lakers game will come on after the news,” Jim said. “You like the Lakers?”

“I love the Lakers!”

At the end of the first quarter Jackson said he was surprised that Jim was not drinking beer.

“I had to choose between it and food this week.”

“So you’re poor.”

“I told you I’m an outcast.”

“But you fed Rufus and me.”

“I can afford to do that, but it means eating a lot of beans.”

Jackson laughed. “Look out Muggers!” He got up and walked out of the room. He came back wearing his clean clothes. “Hope you don’t mind if I wash the ones I was wearing.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m glad you’re not getting drunk. You never know what a drunk’s going to do when his team loses.”

“I just swear a bit, but the Lakers are going to win this one.”

The Lakers did win, and Jackson repacked his tote bag.

“You can save yourself a walk home by using my spare bedroom if you want.”

“Aren’t you afraid my momma will be worried about me?’

“You can use my phone and decide what to do after talking to her.”

The response was obvious, but it still took Jackson by surprise. It told him the old dude knew he had been sleeping on the street. That was not good. There was always the chance he would be one of those do-gooders who would contact child services or something. There was no sense in making up a lie about his mother thinking he was staying at a friend’s house. Jim would know better.

“Maybe I should see the room and decide.” They walked into the bedroom. “Can I lock the door?”

“Yes, and Rufus can stay in here with you.”

Jackson was gone by the time Jim woke up. Rufus, however, was still there. He was begging for something to eat.

“I wish someone was feeding your master breakfast,” Jim said.

If nothing else, the dog gave Jackson an excuse to come back for another meal. He would probably use the place as a crash pad as well. So now Jim was going to have two more mouths to feed. He laughed. It beat being alone all the time. Maybe he could get his job back at the convenience store. The convenience store did not have an opening, but the liquor store did. He was warned that the hours could be irregular, but he would not have to work a lot of overtime. Tomorrow he would be on the day shift, and the owner would be there to train him.

Jackson did not show up that night. Jim was worried about him. He thought about looking for him, but he knew that a tough, smart kid like Jackson would resent it. A small desk and a table lamp were among the items cluttering Jim’s garage. He placed the desk and the lamp in the spare bedroom so that Jackson would have some place to study if he decided to spend the night again.

When Jim returned from work the next day he found Jackson sitting on the front steps.

“Thought I’d visit Rufus. Where’ve you been?”

Jim opened the door and Rufus bounded out of the house. “I’ve got a job at the liquor store.”

“Be careful. I don’t want you getting shot.”

“I will be. Are you hungry?”

“Beans don’t sound too bad.”

“I thought we’d have chicken.”

“Sounds even better.”

“Have you done your homework?”

“At the library. It’s easier now that you have Rufus. I don’t have to keep checking on him.”

“Then I guess you won’t need the desk and lamp I put in the bedroom.”

“I might use them, but I hope you didn’t buy them.”

“They weren’t doing anyone any good sitting in my garage.”

“Good. Feeding me now and then is more than enough.”

“I get tired of eating alone.”

Jackson smiled. “So do I.”

“Yeah,” Jim thought. “When you’re lucky enough to find something to eat.”

Jackson spent the night and was gone by the time Jim woke up. Jim came home from work to find him sitting on the steps again. There was a trashcan liner sitting next to him.

“I thought I could wash more clothes, if you don’t mind.”

Jim waited until they sat down for dinner before asking. “Have you done your homework?”

“I did most of it while waiting for you.”

“I’ll leave the back door unlocked for you.”

Jackson stayed for ten days. Then he left a note saying he was visiting his momma. He returned two days later.

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s been better. I always stay with her around this time of month. That’s when the bastard isn’t there.”

This told Jim more than he wanted to know. “God damn.” He should not have said it, but it slipped out before he could stop himself.

“You shouldn’t fuck with the man’s name like that,” Jackson said.

“What?”

“Reverend Cass said God doesn’t like it when you use his name like that.”

“You could have just told me not to use God’s name in vain.”

“But it wouldn’t have made you laugh.”

Now Jim was laughing. “Okay, but don’t say things like that in front of other people.”

“I don’t in front of teachers or preachers or mom.”

“So she used to take you to church.”

“She wasn’t always like this. She cleaned other people’s houses. She worked long hours to keep us fed. She’d be dead tired, but she always made me dinner. I guess she couldn’t keep it up. She couldn’t do it any more.”

“There are a lot of ways to give up. Drugs and booze are the worst.”

“That’s how she’s doing it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Jim had thought about talking to Jackson’s mother. He had hoped there was some way he could help. Now he knew there was nothing he could do. There was no way a black woman on drugs was going to listen to some honky son of a bitch regardless of his good intentions. He could not help wondering how many Jackson’s there were, and how many girls (black and white) were doomed to the type of life Jackson’s mother now lived, if you can call that living.

Jackson dropped all pretenses about coming by to visit Rufus. He was now living at Jim’s house full time, except on those two or three days a month when Jackson stayed with his mom. She was often too stoned to know or care that he was there. But there were those moments when she would hug him or smile and call him her precious boy.

Jim tried to take Jackson to church once. He chose a different church than the one that he and his wife used to attend, but that did not help. The church still reminded him of his wife and what he had lost. It brought him sadness rather than comfort. Jackson had another reason for not wanting to go to church. He could see the other parishioners staring at him and Jim, and that made Jackson uncomfortable.

“It may be God’s house, but it’s also the house of those people. You know they’re thinking the worst of us,” he said.

Jim was tempted to say that Jackson should not be so quick to judge them. He was tempted to say they should get to know those people. But he did not say those things. Instead he said: “The hell with them. We be outcasts.”

Jackson laughed. “You’d make a horrible black person.”

Jackson started sharing his graded homework with Jim. There was only one B. All of the rest were A’s. “Too bad about the B,” Jackson said, “but I think I can still get an A in that class. Mr. Carter said someone might pay for me to go to college if I get all A’s. He said I could become someone important.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that you will. I’m really proud of you, Jackson!”

It had become almost a father and son relationship, but Jackson was older than his years. He did need much guidance or supervision. The one thing that bothered Jim was Jackson’s social life. He did not seem to have one. He would occasionally play basketball at the school, but that was it.

One Sunday Jim took him to the beach and they fished off the pier. Jackson had never fished before, and he was thrilled with the few fish he caught. Jim used some chicken broth, onions and rice to make a thin fish soup. He also added some cheep white wine. Jim had a glass of the wine with the meal. He put the twist on cap onto the bottle and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. It was the only time Jackson had seen him drink. Jackson had never known anyone who stopped at a single glass before. It was a good lesson.
 
The school’s budget was tight, but it still offered a few advanced summer courses. Jackson was well qualified for those classes. The problem was that the students had to buy their own books. Jim offered to buy them for him. Jackson was also growing out of his clothes, and Jim offered to buy him some clothes and shoes as well.

“It’ll mean eating more beans for a while, but that’s okay.”

“I’ll still be eating better than I did before I moved in here. Better let me buy the clothes and shoes.”

“Why’s that.”

“I know where I can get them cheap, but it’s in my old neighborhood. I’m afraid of what people might stir up if they see me with you.”

Jim agreed. When Jackson returned he was wearing new shoes and a new jacket. He was also carrying a bag of clothes. Jim could not believe how much the kid got with so little money.

“They’re not exactly cool, but they’re passable,” Jackson told him.

Time went by fast. It was nearly thanksgiving. The owner of the liquor store gave Jim a small raise. Jim celebrated by buying a six-pack of beer and a six-pack of soda for Jackson. These were luxuries they could not afford very often.

“I think it’s time for us to give something back,” Jim said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there are a lot of people who have it harder than we do. I volunteered us to help serve turkey dinners to the poor.”

Jackson smiled. “I was the one being served before.”

“You still will be, only this time you’re a paying customer. I donated twenty dollars, and they agreed to serve you a turkey dinner too.”

“What about you?”

“I’m covered.”

The place was packed with people seeking a free meal. The families there really saddened Jim. He could not help thinking this might be the only good meal some of them might have all year. He worked the serving line while Jackson worked in the kitchen. That is where Jackson also ate his dinner. There were very few empty seats in the hall, and he did not want to risk sitting next to someone who smelled stronger than the turkey did. He had already done that far too often during his young life.

They barely had enough food to feed everyone. Fortunately, there were enough scraps for Jim to make a turkey and stuffing sandwich for his dinner. As they prepared to leave, Jim noticed that Jackson was carrying a plastic sack.

“What do you have?”

“Bones. They said I could take them. Do you know how to make turkey soup?”

“I can figure it out.”

“No need. Momma taught me.”

Jim smiled. “So you’re an expert on cooking bones,” he teased.

“When bones are what you have you learn how to make the most of them.”

Jackson put the bones in the refrigerator when they got home. “I’ll start boiling them tomorrow night.”

“You know what I’m thankful for?”

“Turkey soup?”

“That’s one of the good things in life, but no. I’m thankful for you.”

For a brief moment, Jackson looked like he might cry. “You’re the father I always wanted.” He said it quietly, as if he was embarrassed about the emotion behind it.

They both stood there. Neither of them knew what else to say or do.

Jim finally raised his hand. “High five.”

“High five.” They slapped hands, and Jackson went into the bathroom to prepare for bed.

Jim took a beer out of the refrigerator. He took a sip and let the liquid sit in his mouth for minute to savor it before swallowing. It was his first and last beer of the night. His legs were tired from standing in the service line for so long. He sat on the sofa and leaned back. Rufus jumped into his lap and demanded his attention. Jim kissed him on the top of his head. “I can’t believe how much time I’ve spent wallowing in my misery,” Jim thought. “Now I have something resembling a family. Who knows, I might even find another wife.” It was a good thanksgiving.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Nov. 24, 2009

Fickle Winds of Change

The winds of change are fickle. No one can predict what will be swept away and what will thrive. You simply do the best you can and hope that you will be able to see the changes coming in time to adjust to them. That is what the town historian wrote, and with good reason. The original name of the town was Micah. The first white settlers called it that because they were farmers who were displaced by land and water frauds in a more fertile frontier to the east. They were a surly lot and tough as nails. They had to be. They fought like hell to secure the water it took to establish cattle and sheep ranches in a place most people would call a desert. Then small traces of gold were found nearby, and the place boomed for a short time. Saloons and a bordello were soon doing a thriving business. There was even a hotel of sorts. The gold rush crowd did not care for the biblical name of the town, and they dropped the h. The Landers arrived during this boom time. They wisely built their general store a good mile away from the debauchery. Like so many gold rush towns, Mica was destroyed by a fire. All that was left behind was one saloon and the general store. Most of the prospectors were ready to give up on the meager gold deposits anyhow, and they moved on.

The store was passed down through the Landers family until it was sold to Bert Jones some thirty years ago. The property was divided at that time, and the Landers family retained their ownership of the house behind the store. Since Bert still needed a place to live he bought a plot of land next to the store. He built his house at the back of that property, thinking he could use the space in front of his house as a parking lot for his customers. He was being too optimistic. Although there were times when people parked their cars in his front yard, it did not happen very often. He rarely had more than six people in his store at a time, and there was enough room to park that many cars in the street if they headed straight in rather than parking parallel. Fortunately, the street was wide enough allow that. Bert thought the unpaved expanse in front of his house added to the rustic appearance of both his house and his store. He found that rustic appearance so appealing that he even reinstalled the hitching posts in front of the store. He also enhanced the illusion of a more leisurely time by placing some benches on the front porch. The porch had been a loading dock back in the days when the store’s inventory had included animal feed.

Gordon and Ben were sitting on one of the benches. Mica was still a small town, but it was growing rapidly. That growth was probably what motivated a corporation to open one of those new super markets on Main Street. Bert was really upset when that market opened. The supermarket could offer a larger variety of products at a lower price than he could. “But it won’t extend credit,” he warned. “It’ll hurt me with the townies, but many of the ranchers still need credit. Furthermore, it doesn’t have anyplace where men can sit down together and talk.” It was the last point that made the difference to the old codgers. They always bought at least one cup of coffee and some tobacco from Bert. Then they sat on the porch, whiling away the morning in idle conversation.

Gordon was reading the local paper. There was an article in there about Bob Cantwell. Mr. Cantwell bought wool from the sheep ranchers and hides from the cattle ranchers. He owned the stinking tannery he had inherited from his father. He shipped the tanned hides and the wool back east for a very good profit. When people complained about the stench of the tannery Mr. Cantwell would always quote his father as saying, “to you it’s stink, to the ranchers and me it’s the sweet smell of money.” The sweetness of the aroma must have seemed rather faint to the ranchers because they frequently called Bob Cantwell the stingiest son of a bitch in the county. “He can’t do well by anyone,” they said.

Gordon looked up from his paper in time to see Miss Lilly climb the steps to the store. The one thing that kept Bert’s general store from becoming one of those convenience markets was that he still carried bolts of cloth and other items women could not get at the super market.

Both Gordon and Ben said good morning to Miss Lilly.

“Good morning,” she replied. She entered the store without further adieu.

Gordon set the paper in his lap and tapped it with the index finger of his right hand. “It says here old Can’t-do-well just got himself appointed traffic commissioner.”

“I didn’t know we had a traffic commissioner.”

“We do now. The city council just created the position.”

“And the Mayor appointed Cantwell?”

“That’s what the paper says.”

“They’re up to no good,” Ben said.

“Probably, but it might not be that bad. You know he contributes a lot of money to their campaigns. They’re probably giving him money for doing nothing. I’m guessing it’s their way of making us return some of the money he spends on them.”

“I hope that’s all it is, but you know Cantwell. He’s going to find some way to make that position pay him more than the city’s paying him.”

Ned made a sharp left turn from the dirt road onto Main Street. He then made a sharp right turn and pulled into a parking space in front of Bert’s store. He was still laughing about what he had seen.  He climbed out of the truck and slammed the door. He was one of the regular front porch codgers, and he was about to explode from the merriment inspired by what he was about to tell Gordon and Ben.

“You’ll never guess what I just saw!”

“What?”

“Well, I was driving down Sheep Trail as usual. There off to the side of the road was Cantwell’s car. He was standing in front of it, taking a leak when the wind kicked up a dust devil. That little whirlwind slammed right into him. It mixed the dirt it was carrying with the dew falling from his lily, and it splattered the front of his pants with the mixture!”

There was an “um umm” from the doorway of the store. Miss Lilly was standing there. “Be careful about how you’re using my name, Ned.”

“Sorry, Miss Lilly.”

Her only acknowledgment of Ned’s apology was a little giggle. The men were almost doubled over in laughter. They watched her climb into her car and drive away.

“She’s a hoot!” Ned said. “And about as cute as they come.”

“I guess old Can’t-do-well will have to go home and change his fancy duds.”

“I’d love to hear him explaining it to his laundress,” Ben said.

Gordon smiled. “If he were honest, he’d tell her it’s hard to keep from pissing into the wind when it changes and swirls on you.”

Ned tossed the words over his shoulder as he entered the store for his morning coffee. “And they say God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Ben spat. “But Cantwell isn’t honest, and he doesn’t have to be. She won’t dare to ask him what happened to his pants, and he won’t bother to explain it. That’s how things work for men like him.”

One of the things Mr. Cantwell was doing became apparent a few days later when a road crew blocked off the area in front of Bert’s store. Gordon and Ben would have parked in the space Bert had created in front of his house, but the road crew was also blocking their access to the driveway. So the old codgers parked across the street. The road crew was not working on the road. They were tearing down Bert’s hitching posts and replacing them with parking meters.

“Don’t tell me you have to block this entire side of the road in order to install those damn meters.” Ben said.

The foreman told them he had to have room to dig the holes and move the cement mixer into place.

Ben, who was not happy about the parking meters, thought this was a lame excuse. He gave the foreman the finger before walking into the store.

“They’re planting Goddamn parking meters out there,” he told Bert.

“I know. It looks like I’ll have to pave my front yard so the ladies won’t have to walk through the mud when it rains.”

If only it were that easy. Mr. Cantwell had anticipated Bert’s reaction, and Bert was served with a Cease and Desist Order the moment he signed a contract to have his front yard paved.

Miss Lilly was running late. She did not have time for breakfast. Although it was two miles out of her way, she decided to stop at Bert’s general store for the cup of coffee and the sweet roll she would take to work. She drove past Mr. Cantwell’s smelly tannery. The Mexicans he employed were already hard at work. She did not want to think about how little he paid them. She smiled as she turned onto Main Street. She thought Mica was a pleasingly quaint little city. In spite of all the recent construction, the only modern looking building on Main Street was the super market. The image of the super market rolled out of the peripheral vision of her side mirror. The sun then glinted off the silver decorating the gaudy saddle in the window of Cantwell’s Equestrian Emporium. The name of the place was as pretentious as the man was. Bert’s general store was now in sight. This simple, unassuming building was a functional survivor of the fickle winds of change. A narrow street separated it from the business district. From a commercial point of view it was as though someone had hit the space bar before adding the period to end the sentence. Miss Lilly had a more romantic view of it. She thought the setting for the store was perfect. On the other side of the store were some old houses. The properties on which those houses sat could not be called ranches, but most of them held a chicken coop, maybe a horse, and some sheep or cows. To her it was a comforting scene in which the past and the present merged to validate who we are and what we inherited.

She parked in front of one of the new parking meters. The meters were an unpleasant surprise. She dug through her purse until she found the dime she inserted into the meter. She then entered the store. It smelled of coffee and pickles and licorice candy. Except for the beer and soda cooler, it looked very much like something one would find in the late eighteen hundreds. Among the items it contained was a pickle barrel, hand labeled jars of olives, appliances and gadgets that were now considered antiques, and bolts of cloth, including gingham and calico. There were also the beautiful, hand stitched, quilts some of the ladies made as a hobby. Although Bert had a modern phone under the counter, he left the hand-cranked phone hanging on the wall as a decoration.

Miss Lilly poured a cup of coffee and put a lid on the cup. She paused for a moment then she poured another cup for her father. She knew he would be waiting for her to make a pot of coffee when she arrived at the office.

“Good Morning, Miss Lilly.”

“Good morning, Bert. I would like two sweet rolls as well, please.”

He wrapped the rolls in waxed paper and put them in a paper sack for her.

“It sure didn’t take them long to install those darned parking meters,” she said.

“Did you know about the parking meters?”

“No, and I don’t like them.”

“That’s not the worst of it.”

“Oh?”

“Look at this.” He handed her the Cease and Desist Order.

She scowled as she read it. “You might want to talk to daddy about this.”

Her father was Craig Lawrence. He was a prominent land and water rights attorney. Miss Lilly was his secretary, but she had recently enrolled at the law school. She would start attending classes there in the fall.

“I just might do that,” Bert said, but he knew that an attorney of Mr. Lawrence’s stature charged very high fees. He would go to city hall and see what he could do on his own first.

The only person he could find at city hall was the city clerk. Her glasses sat on the end of her nose, and her head was tilted down towards the Cease and Desist Order sitting on the counter. In answer to his question about what it meant, she stated the obvious. “It means cease and desist.”

“How can they tell me what I can or can’t do on my own property?”

“Zoning law, it’s a residential zone.”

“How can that be? My store is right next door to it.”

An exception was made for the store because it’s been there so long.”

“And I’ve been letting people park in my front yard for thirty years.”

“But you haven’t designated it store parking or marked parking places or anything like that, have you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So it isn’t a parking lot.”

“Even though people have been parking there for years?”

“You’d have to talk to the city attorney, but I don’t think that makes any difference.”

Bert snatched the order off the counter and quickly read it again. It did not say he could not let people park their cars in his front yard. What it said was that he could not carry through with his plan to construct or make a parking lot there. Not being able to pave the parking lot was bad, but not that bad. If the old codgers and other frequent customers could park in his yard, they would take their time in his store. That was good. People usually buy more things when they do not feel rushed.

That afternoon Miss Lilly took several pictures of Bert’s house and front yard. She then took pictures of the front of the store. She walked inside.

“Do you mind if I take some pictures in here?”

“Not at all, Miss Lilly. But why the sudden interest?”

I guess the parking meters and the order you received from the city made me think about how unique and special your store is.”

“Thank you for saying that. I’ve talked to the city, and I think it’s going to be okay.”

She had this horrible feeling that something sinister was happening, and that it was not going to go away. It took some effort to keep the concern out of her voice. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She had intended to talk to her father about Bert’s situation, but her father had to rush off to court. He was there all day. It was probably just as well. “I’m probably making far too much out of this,” she thought. The problem was that her foreboding was like a pebble she could not shake out of her shoe. She finally called her father at his home and told him what the city was doing.

“I can see why you’re concerned,” he said. “Those scoundrels are up to something. Take some time off tomorrow, and find out if anyone’s trying to buy the property near him.”

She took the morning off and started knocking on doors. She did not think about calling people on the phone. “If you want the truth, you’ve got to get face to face and look directly into their eyes.” Her father had told her this more than once. She arrived back at the law firm at noon. Her father took her into his office and closed the door.

“Well?” he asked.

“No one has made an offer to buy yet, but the city sent out notices saying farm animals can no longer be kept on residential property within the city.”

“There’s the stick. The carrot will follow.”

“You know the Mayor and the members of the council have to be getting something out of this.”

“No doubt.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if you can prove a quid pro quo or some other financial nexus.”

“And you’re thinking that won’t be easy.”

“I’m thinking a lot of hard work has to be done before I’d be willing to stir things up.”

Mr. Lawrence was a great poker player, but he could not fool his daughter. She did not know why, but he was withholding something very significant. She turned to leave his office, but paused in the doorway.

“By the way, I wasn’t able to contact the Johnsons.”

“I’ll take care of that,” he said.

She thought that was good. She thought it meant that he was going to get involved.

Eight of the thirteen people who received the notices prohibiting farm animals showed up at the next council meeting. They raised so much hell that three of them had to be physically ejected from the chamber. This was unpleasant but not unexpected. The city council was well prepared for it. Many of the people who kept farm animals in the city did not receive the notices prohibiting those animals. As the mayor explained, the prohibition only applied to the people in the path of progress, meaning the expanding business section of the city. “The properties in the more remote parts of the city are still zoned for some farming, and the people living there don’t have to worry about it.” This explanation kept the protest from spreading. Who could argue with progress? Particularly when it is achieved at someone else’s expense.

The one person who was about to argue with how that progress was achieved was Bert. He had just received a threatening letter from the city attorney. The letter said that allowing shoppers to park their cars in his front yard was a violation of the Cease and Desist Order. It also called the dust and noise from those cars a public nuisance that had to be abated. The letter demanded a response or compliance within ten days. Bert quickly called Craig Lawrence’s Law firm.

“Pardon my language, Miss Lilly. But those bastards are trying to keep me from running my business by cutting my legs off at the knees!”

“I’m presuming that you’re talking about the mayor, members of the city council and perhaps Mr. Cantwell because the only defense for using that word is truth.”

Her comment had the desired effect. It made Bert laugh. “Why don’t you come in this afternoon for a consultation with Mr. Denton?”

“I was hoping to discuss the fees first.”

“We bill Mr. Denton out at a much lower rate than daddy, and there’s only a fee if we decide to represent you. You can discuss the fee at the consultation. I’ll try to get you discount.”

“You’re the prettiest and kindest girl in town. What time?”

“Can you make it at three-thirty?”

“I’ll be there.”

Bert walked into the firm, and Miss Lilly showed him the way to Mr. Denton’s office. It had already been decided to charge Bert half of the hourly fee they normally charged for Mr. Denton’s time. Bert and Mr. Denton emerged from Mr. Denton’s office a half hour later.

“What should I do now?”

“That’s up to you, but you don’t have to comply with the order or letter until I receive a reply.”

Bert smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Denton. Thanks, Miss Lilly.”

They both said you’re welcome. Mr. Denton returned to his office. Miss Lilly put the pictures she had taken of the store into an envelope addressed to a friend who was now working as a junior editor for a magazine. Miss Lilly could remember her father saying that Judges and juries were unpredictable. “Whenever you can get what you want without going to court, do it,” he advised. Her idea was to publicize Bert’s store. If she could get it designated as a historical building, it would really put the screws to anyone who wanted to tear it down for some fool development.

Mr. Denton handed her a dictation tape. “Please transcribe this for me, Lilly.”

“My pleasure,” she replied.

It was a letter to the city attorney. Mr. Denton argued that allowing people to park their cars in the “parking lot” was not a violation of the Cease and Desist order, which did not address that issue. Furthermore, he said the parking lot fell under the same exception as the store and so did the sign above the store. He also demanded some offer of proof regarding the allegation that parking cars in the parking lot constituted a public nuisance.

When Miss Lilly finished the transcription she took the letter to Mr. Denton for his signature. He signed it and looked up at her.

“Don’t bother to put a stamp on the envelope,” he said. “We’ll have a messenger deliver it at five o’clock on the day before it’s due.”

He was obviously trying to buy Bert as much time as possible. The city attorney, however, was in a real hurry. His reply arrived at the firm one day after he received the letter from Mr. Denton. The city attorney rejected each and every argument, and he demanded complete compliance with the Order and the letter he had previously sent to Bert. This prompted Mr. Denton to file the appeal that is a required step in bringing any legal action against the city. Since Mr. Lawrence was still tied up in court Mr. Denton did not consult with him regarding the appeal.

The mayor was furiously puffing on his cigar. “This is getting dangerous,” he said. “The city attorney just told me the Lawrence firm filed an appeal.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Cantwell replied. “It was signed by that Denton whelp.”

“Well, you’d better believe that Lawrence knows about it, and he’s one smart son of a bitch. I’ll never forget how he screwed us on that land deal. He bought it right out from under us, and we couldn’t do a damn thing about it because it was between our land and the utilities we had to run.”

“He was just lucky. He still thinks he got the better of Benson on that. He didn’t even bother to investigate.”

“That’s because he didn’t have a reason to. This is different. This is a lawsuit, and he hates to lose.”

“It’s not a suit yet.”

The mayor almost bit off the end of his cigar. “It will be!” he shouted. He took the cigar out of his mouth. “We don’t really need the Jones’ property. It’ll cut down on our profit a bit, but we might want to think about doing without it.”

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“Don’t worry about my feet. You better concentrate on my ass. Make damn sure it’s covered!”

“I have all our asses covered.”

“They better be, or there’ll be hell to pay!”

The trial was now over, and Mr. Lawrence returned to his office. “Sit down!” he said.

Mr. Denton sat in one of the chairs in front of Mr. Lawrence’s desk. “I see where you’ve filed an appeal on Bert Jones’ behalf.”

“They’ll deny it, of course, but it paves the way for a suit.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing, but we’re not going to file a suit.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think we can win it, and I don’t want Bert to pay for a losing effort.”

Mr. Denton was disappointed. He was really looking forward to investigating the cozy relationship between the developers and the politicians. But he knew that arguing about it would not do any good. So he left Mr. Lawrence’s office and told Miss Lilly what happened. The news obviously made her angry.

“Damn it,” she said. “We can’t let them get away with this!”

“I know, but once your father makes up his mind that’s it. The argument is over.”

Mr. Denton was right, but that did not mollify Miss Lilly. She kept in touch with the property owners. The appeal was promptly denied. Two weeks went by with nothing happening.

Gordon and Ben walked into the general store for their morning coffee.

“Good morning, boys.”

“Good morning, Bert.”

“I was afraid the meters had driven you away.”

“We’re not parked in front of the meters,” Ben said.

“Williams is so pissed off at the city, he told us we could park on his property,” Gordon explained. He was rubbing his butt.

“That’s good,” Bert said.

“Yeah,” Gordon agreed, “but I don’t know how long I can put up with his damn goat butting me in the ass.”

“The first cup is on me,” Bert replied.

Miss Lilly had some news. She walked into Mr. Lawrence’s office to deliver it.

“Two of the property owners have sold out,” she said.

“Who’s the buyer?”

“That’s the funny part. It’s Citadel Land Management. I’ve never heard of them.”

Mr. Lawrence grinned. “I have. They’re a front for one of the large department store chains.”

“Why would a department store need a front?”

“Because if people know they’re the buyer, the price of the property goes up.”

“You don’t seem very concerned about it.”

“This is in the strictest confidence, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. Do you remember when the Johnsons moved away?”

“Yes, it was after Mr. Johnson lost his job, and they were going through some pretty tough times.”

“That’s right. He was offered a job in another county, but he couldn’t raise the money for the move. He didn’t want to sell his property here, and it was so heavily mortgaged that no one would give him another loan on it. I loaned him the money with the stipulation that I had the right of first refusal if he decided to sell.”

“And he’s decided to sell?”

“I matched the department store’s offer, and I talked him into not replying to any of their letters.”

“That’s right in the middle of the land they’re buying. When do you think they’ll approach you?”

“When I put it in escrow.”

“When will that be?”

“I’m waiting for them to buy three or four more parcels. I want them heavily invested by the time they have to deal with me.”

She laughed. “So you stand to make a good profit.”

“A very good profit.”

“What about Bert.”

“We don’t have to worry about him. We’ll just let things run their natural course.”

It would have been easy to question Mr. Lawrence’s motives at that point, but Miss Lilly was not that hasty. Within a week the department store bought six more properties for its proposed mall. That was when Mr. Lawrence put the Johnson property into escrow. It was only a matter of days before Citadel contacted him to set up a meeting.

“It’s a fair offer,” Mr. Quinn said.

“Fair for residential property.”

“But it is residential.”

“Only until you get the zoning changed.”

“All right. I’ll add two thousand dollars, but that’s my final offer.”

Mr. Lawrence stood up. “I don’t think so.”

He turned and walked out of the room. There was no reason for him to stay. He knew that Mr. Quinn went as high as he could go until someone higher up the ladder authorized a better offer.

Mr. Quinn then paid the mayor a visit.

“What do you know about Lawrence?” This question was more than it would appear on its face. Mr. Quinn was thinking he could sweeten the pot by hiring Mr. Lawrence to use his reputation as an attorney to convince the other property owners that it was in their best interest to sell.

The mayor did not know that, but he interpreted the question as a request for biographical information. “He’s the smartest attorney in the county, and he’s clean. He never crosses that legal line. He’ll push you right to the brink of breaking off the negotiations. Then he’ll take a half step back. Believe me, he’ll get the most you can possibly pay him.”

“How will he know what that is?”

The mayor laughed. Now that Lawrence was going to make a tidy profit, he would have no reason to investigate the politicians.

“He’s diligent as all hell. He knows who you represent and the highest amount they’ve paid for a comparable piece of land.”

Several days later Mr. Lawrence received another call to set up a meeting. Mr. Stewart now took over the negotiations for the department store. He shoved the sales agreement across the desk.

“That’s it. Your research should tell you that’s as high as we’ll go.”

Mr. Lawrence took his time in reading it. He then pulled out a pen and wrote something on the agreement. “Not quite,” he said.

“Your already on the brink. It’s time to take that half step back.”

Mr. Lawrence pushed the last page of the agreement across the desk to Mr. Stewart. “Why don’t you read what I’ve written?”

Mr. Stewart read it. “No way,” he said.

Mr. Lawrence stood up. “Think it over.”

The next day Mr. Stewart invited Mr. Lawrence to continue the negotiations. This time Mr. Cantwell was also there. It was really a bold step.

“You know, the city could use imminent domain to take the property,” Mr. Cantwell said.

“You might want to think very carefully before you go down that road,” Mr. Lawrence warned. “I can’t speak for the newcomers, but the other residents are cut from the same cloth as the gun toting, anti-government ranchers. If you start seizing property, they’ll want to lynch you!”

“Is that a threat?”

“I never threaten. I’m just making an informed observation as someone who is concerned about your safety. Incidentally, this little ploy just added a thousand dollars to the price.”

Cantwell’s face was as red as a beat. The city attorney said the precedent for using imminent domain for this purpose was not well established. “It may or may not fly,” he warned. Furthermore, the mayor was opposed to the idea.

“It’ll cause a firestorm of anger,” he said, “and I would like to get reelected.”

Mr. Cantwell had taken it upon himself to make the threat. He had gone too far, and Mr. Lawrence had just called his bluff.

“God damn but you’re a hard man to deal with,” Mr. Stewart said. “I’ll add two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Five hundred and you accept the changes I’ve made to the agreement.”

“The changes you made are expensive. I should actually lower the price rather than raising it.”

Mr. Lawrence stood up.

“All right. Three hundred.”

“Plus the changes.”

“Plus the changes,” Mr. Stewart agreed.

“Done.”

A new copy of the agreement was then made. Mr. Lawrence read it carefully. He let the pen hover over the page. He looked Mr. Cantwell straight in the eyes. “And the city will stop screwing with Bert Jones.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“I find it very interesting that you’re here, Bob. Maybe I should take the time to find out why.”

“Everyone’s concerned about the city’s development,” Mr. Cantwell said. “I guess Bert will also benefit from it.”

Mr. Lawrence took that to mean that the city would stop messing with Bert. Both parties then signed the agreement.

Mr. Lawrence walked into his law firm with a big grin on his face.

“I take it you made out like a bandit,” Miss Lilly said.

“I wouldn’t say that, but I turned a good profit.”

“What about Bert?”

“The city will stop screwing with him now, and the department store is going to pave and mark his parking lot.”

“You couldn’t put not screwing with him into the written agreement.”

“No, but once the property is rezoned they will lose their legal justification for forbidding the parking lot. We’ll file for the rezoning on Bert’s behalf to speed up the process.”

“What about the other property owners?”

“They got a fair price for residential property.”

“So they got screwed.”

“No more than usual. There’s a lot of cheap land here, and they got enough to relocate. So they’ll be okay.”

“I wish we could have given the corrupt bums what they really deserve.”

“You have to pick your fights, sweetheart. It’s better to get the good guys what they deserve.”

“I worry about how Bert is going to do with the added competition from the department store and other businesses that’ll move into the mall.”

“So do I, but that’s not something we can change.”

They did not need to worry about Bert. He had a little secret. Actually, it was not secret; it was just that no one had given it much thought. For years he had been going to the ranches and other places. His purpose was to buy old items they might want to sell. His garage was now stuffed with antiques and collectables. Buying and selling those items had become a rather profitable hobby. He still kept his general store as a general store, but many of the antiques and collectables now had price tags on them. Thanks to Miss Lilly’s article, quite a few tourists were visiting his store, and they were buying the antiques and collectables.

The old codgers had considered the tourists a nuisance at first. The tourists, however, were a fresh audience for the funny stories the codgers had told to each other far too often. A travel magazine wrote another article about the store, and the old codgers were mentioned in that article. This made them one of the attractions. They even developed an act of sorts. Bert gave them free coffee, tobacco and sodas.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Oct. 29, 2009

Shopping With Mom:

One of the first things a mother learns is to leave her male child at home during her major forays into the market place. His restlessness is not good for her peace of mind or his. Unfortunately, there are some instances when she feels compelled to bring him along. I suppose one of those instances involves the availability of baby sitters and such. Another instance is the onset of the school year. The kid grows, and she wants to make sure that what she is buying for him is going to fit.

I cannot say that I was always enthused about shopping for school clothes. I have to admit, however, that I loved the smell of new jeans, and the snap of the rubber on new tennis shoes always made me feel like I could jump a little higher and run a little faster. Those were good things. Shopping for them was merely the price I had to pay for them. Furthermore, a modern department store always contained wonderful things to behold. Not that my mother was foolish enough to take me near the toy section at such times. She was far too wise for that. “Do your best to avoid anything that will distract the kid and make him want what you can’t afford,” was her unspoken motto. It was a sentiment that had the wholehearted support of my father. Not that he was foolish enough to join us on shopping trips. Like most men, he did not have the patients to shop, particularly with kids in tow. This was a task he gladly delegated.

When reading my descriptions of the wonderful things to behold at modern department stores the reader should bear in mind that I am talking about the BC era. Forget the arguments about “common era” as opposed to designating time periods as being before Christ and after Christ. The BC I am referring to has nothing to do with that. In spite of what a younger generation might think, I am not old enough to give a first hand account of that BC era. The BC era I am referring to is before computers. The greatest technological marvel of that time was nuclear energy. Now that the genie was out of the bottle, scientists were eager to put him to use. Doctors and dentists were using x-rays, and department stores were using a device called a fluoroscope. Oh, how modern! The advertisements proudly touted the use of this device. “It takes the guess work out of buying shoes, and it assures you of a perfect fit,” the advertisements said. Well, it sort of did. Perfect fit can be a subjective term when it comes to buying shoes for your children.

I put on the shoes mom thought she wanted to purchase for me. I then slid my feet onto the platform beneath the lens of the fluoroscope. Voila! There were my feet, clearly visible on the screen in front of me. Mom and the shoe salesman were staring intently at the same screen. They were engaged in a discussion about how much room there was for growth. There was a delicate balance that had to be struck here. The shoes had to be small enough to keep from slopping around on my feet when I walked, but they also had to leave enough room to keep me from growing out of them too soon.

“Wiggle your toes!”

Seeing my toes wiggle made me giggle. For a brief moment I was superman with x-ray vision that allowed me to see through my shoes. I wondered what would appear on the screen if I slid my butt under the lens. If my butt was facing up, could people see me break wind? I knew better than to ask. It would have embarrassed mom. She did not approve of talk about farting.

No one thought much about the price the genie might by charging for his services. I am told that people of my generation did not receive enough exposure to be detrimental. It was the shoe salesmen who were exposed to enough radiation to pay the genie’s price. For me the fluoroscope was simply a wondrous thing. The next wondrous thing was not so technically advanced or potentially harmful. Most adults knew how it worked, but it was really magical to a child. It was the pneumatic tubes. The pneumatic tubes transported containers holding checks and other documents describing the items being purchased. Ah, but those vehicles were not merely containers. The salespeople called them cars. It seemed like a silly thing to call them. They did not even have wheels. I would have called them bullets or rockets or something like that, but who was I to question what adults call things. I did not question what my dad called his car when it fell off the jack while he was trying to change a tire, but I did learn some pretty useful words from that event.
 
One of the cars arrived at the cashier’s station with a thud. This was followed by the ding of a bell, as if the thud was not enough to alert the cashier. The cashier placed mom’s check and some other paper into the car. He then placed the car into the tube, closed the tube, and pressed a button. Whoosh! The car shot straight up into a pipe and disappeared.

“Where’d it go?” I asked.

“To an office somewhere,” mom replied.

I did not tell her so, but I found that hard to believe. The car was far too amazing to go to some ordinary office. My dad had an office. He was powerful but not that amazing. The car had to have shot up to a castle tower or some place like that, and there had to be wizard there. A few minutes later there was a thud and a ding. The cashier opened the tube and then opened the car. He removed some paper that looked very much like the paper he had put in the car. Did the car simply make a round trip? Subsequent events proved that there had to be another answer. The wizard must have waved his wand at it as it flew by. He must have granted mom’s wish because she was allowed to leave the store with her purchases. I can remember wishing that the tubes and the cars were large enough to take me for a ride. The ride would have been scary but fun. I really wanted to know where those cars went, even if it meant meeting a frightening wizard.

The next stop was the five and dime, or the ten cent store as it was sometimes called. As mom explained, the department store charged more for school supplies than the five and dime did. The first thing that hit you when you entered the five and dime was the smell of popcorn. They were always popping corn there. This made my mouth water, and that made it difficult for me to keep from fidgeting as mom was buying pencils, erasers, paper and such. I never asked mom to buy me popcorn. I knew she had something better in mind. She always bought both of us ice cream cones. Mine was a reward for behaving myself. I thought hers was also a reward to herself, but she might have been following the adage about not grocery shopping when hungry. I like the idea of it being a reward better.

At any rate, the grocery store was our next stop. Although she tried to get me involved by asking me if there was something special I wanted for dinner, I still did not like grocery shopping. The one cool thing about going to the grocery store was the produce section. It was not the produce I found so appealing; it was the sprinklers the store used to keep the produce fresh. Mom told me the sprinklers were on a timer. They would go on for a few minutes and then they would shut off for five minutes or so. Even though I did not have a watch I got pretty good at timing them. I really enjoyed watching people reaching for a head of lettuce or something. The look on a lady’s face when the sprinklers came on and soaked her arm was priceless. Watching people at the produce section became a game. If one of my sisters had been there, we could have had a contest. Does this lady have the sprinklers timed or will she get her arm wet? You could not tell that from a lady’s age. It really had more to do with how often she shopped at that store.

I did not know much about other grocery stores. Mom was and still is a creature of habit. She likes going to places where she knows the layout and the people there know her. Did other stores have their sprinklers on timers? Did other stores have sprinklers? If they did not have sprinklers, someone probably had to dampen the produce with a hose. That was far too primitive and no fun at all. I would have gladly waited at the produce section while mom did the rest of her shopping, but she always insisted on me traipsing through the store with her.

Once we were home I went outside to test my new tennis shoes by running and jumping. The first day of school meant seeing friends I did not see during the summer, and I was looking forward to showing them how much faster I was in my new shoes. That was kind of exciting. It did not take long for the excitement to wear off. We spent a lot more time in the classroom than we spent at recess, and there was homework. I was not much of scholar, but that is another story.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Oct. 7, 2009

Lies and Manners

Everyone lies. That is what prosecutors and interrogators will tell you. People lie to promote themselves, or to cover up their mistakes, or to sell a product or a cause. Some people lie to take unfair advantage of other people. All of those are bad lies. I write a lot of fiction. The fiction is not a lie because there is no deception involved. You know from the outset that I am making up all or part of the story. I also write non-fiction, which I try to make as accurate I can. Some of the things I write are based on facts but contain embellishments or exaggerations. The little white lies we tell to keep from hurting someone’s feelings or to make someone feel better are the most common lies we tell, but embellishments and exaggerations come in a close second. Embellishing a story or exaggerating certain aspects of it are natural things to do. There is no harm intended and no harm done. We are simply adding a little fiction for the sake of entertainment.

A fart in church is never a mere pfft. If the fart produces any sound, it is always a thunderous roar that rattles the windows and turns the pages of the hymnals. It is only by the grace of God that the preacher is able to continue his sermon and that members of the choir are able to hold down their robes. In this case the fart lifted the flatulent person two inches above the seat of his pew. I am presuming that it also roused him from his slumber. He had to have done it in his sleep. A person experiencing the pressure from such an internal storm will invariably sit there holding it back until his eyes bug out. When the bloating becomes unbearable he will walk out of the church as quietly as possible, and he will close the door behind him. After blowing the leaves off the trees outside he will re-enter the church. He will try to make his entrance as innocuous as possible, so as not to disturb the congregation. Normally, he will offer the preacher an embarrassed smile and a little wave of the hand as an apology. The return already tells the preacher it was not his sermon that caused the departure, but the wave and smile are still a nice touch. Those are the rules, and most folks try to abide by them. It was the town drunk who unwittingly violated them in this instance. I have to say unwittingly. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. It is the Christian thing to do. He did not come to church very often, but I find it hard to believe that he would intentionally blow away the reverie of the congregation.

My dad said he thought Mr. Thompson must have been sick drunk the night before. “I’ll bet he had the dry heaves and vowed to come to church today if God got him through the night,” dad said. “He probably woke up this morning with a great resolve to keep his promise to God, but little good comes from such resolutions. You either drive other people nuts while trying to keep your resolution or you feel guilty about breaking it.”

It was not the first time I had heard dad make this statement about resolutions. The other time I heard it was when he broke his resolution to quit smoking. He got grumpy as all hell while trying to keep that resolution. I thought his feelings of guilt were a small price to pay for our peace and well being. After thanking God for making dad break the resolution, I also offered a little prayer for dad’s health. I did not think it was too much to ask.

Part of my preparation for going to bed on the Sunday of the fart was to kneel down and say my prayers. Mom was waiting for me to finish and climb into bed. She listened to my prayers only on Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays. That was about as long as she could hold on to her religious fervor. I was grateful for the short duration. Too much of a good thing is still too much. I will try to spare you from too much of a good thing by giving you an excerpt rather than the full version of my prayer.

“…Please bless mom and dad, my brother, my sisters and everyone else, except for Jack Tanner.”

“Don’t ask God not to bless Jack,” mom said as she tucked me in.

“But he’s a bully!”

“I know, but asking God not to bless him is like asking God to send him to hell. And you know that’s wrong, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now promise me you won’t do it again.”

I had to promise her. What else could I do? She kissed me good night and turned off the light on her way out. Ah, but I did not have to ask God not to bless Jack. All I had to do was change my prayer a little. I just had to ask God to bless all the “good” people in the world. Since Jack was not good God would know what to do with him. I also decided to please mom by not calling Jack chicken plop, doodoo head, and other bad names. I would give him the finger instead. If you give someone the finger, you have to do it right. You cannot hold three of your fingers down with your thumb while extending your middle finger. People will laugh at you if you do that. The easiest way to learn how to do it right is to slide a pencil down the knuckle side of your middle finger but in front of your other fingers. You then wrap the other fingers around the pencil while leaving the middle finger extended. After you have done this for a while you can dispense with the pencil. Your fingers will remember how it is done, and it becomes very easy to extend your middle finger while leaving your other fingers folded. I had just learned how to do that, and I was pretty good at it. I know mom would not have been pleased with me giving Jack the finger, but it would be a shame to waste such a skill.

The next day I said, “Hey, Jack!” I waited for him to look at me then I flipped him off good and proper. He said he was going to pound me, but he was too slow to catch me. Thinking about it now, I do not suppose Jack was as bad as I thought he was. I cannot say we became friends. What I can say is that he stopped picking on me. So I stopped giving him the finger. I am not sorry about flipping him the bird before that; he deserved it. But I would not want God to send him to hell. Since Jack and his family moved out of town by the time I entered high school I cannot tell you how he turned out.

I know what I just described is not very mannerly. But the puppy pack has its own rules. Learning the more refined etiquette of the adult world is an important part of growing up. Learning those manners and learning the reasons behind them, however, are two entirely different things. Some of them seem rather inconsistent. It is all right to cough or sneeze in public as long as you cover your mouth when you cough and you cover your nose when you sneeze. It is not all right to belch in public even if you cover your mouth with your hand. Nor is it all right to fart in public even if you cover your butt with your hand. I can understand the rule against farting because of the smell, but the rule against belching puzzles me a bit. It is all right to open your mouth wide when singing or laughing, and you do not have to cover your mouth while doing those things. So why are you supposed to cover your mouth when yawning? An open mouth is an open mouth, and yawning is input rather than output.

One thing I can tell you about sneezing is that everyone thinks he or she sneezes harder than the next guy. “My sneezes blow holes in the strongest paper tissues and wave the curtains on the other side of the room, don’t you know?” I understand you are now supposed to cough and sneeze into your sleeve rather than your hand. I do not know about you, but I do not care much for the idea of blowing snot on my sleeve. Most places have a restroom where you can wash your hands. Most places do not have a washing machine where you can wash your shirt. Muslims call the left hand the dirty hand and the right hand the clean hand. Maybe we should do the same. That way we could cough and sneeze into our left hands. The left hand would then be the germ hand and the right hand would be the touching hand. Whatever happened to handkerchiefs and facial tissues? I guess the cover rules are sort of a fall back thing you can do when you are unprepared for the coughing or sneezing.

Although we cannot always figure out why some things are considered polite and others are considered impolite, there are reasons for those rules. Some of those reasons are better than others, and manners have been known to change with circumstances. In the days when people tossed the contents of their bedpans out of their windows a man was supposed to shield the woman by walking between her and the buildings. Taking shit for her was a chivalrous thing to do, and a high value was still placed on chivalry. With modern plumbing there is no longer any reason for a man to do that. Now a man is supposed to walk between the woman and the street in order to protect her from dirt and water kicked up by the cars. Taking dirt and water for her is not as chivalrous, but that is fine with me. Some aspects of chivalry were greatly over-rated. I suppose a charger is now a credit card, and you do not have to be a nobleman to please a woman with your use of it. That, however, falls into the area of romance. I guess I should stick to the subject. The more recent the rule the more likely we are to know the reasons behind it. While it is nice to know the reasons, it is not that important. One of the things about becoming an adult is that you are expected to abide by the rules even if you do not know why. It is the considerate thing to do, and being considerate is the primary rule of all etiquette.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Sep. 29, 2009