Peace Be With You

Shalom Aleichem!

Peace on earth, and good will to all people!

As-Salaam Alaikum!

Jews are observing Hanukkah and Christians are preparing to celebrate Christmas. The world's great religions recognize all people as brothers and sisters. There could not be a better time to celebrate our common humanity and to share with each other the timeless wish and prayer for peace and good will!   

Disgusting Things

I am not exactly a gallant knight in shining tool belt. The skinned knuckle awards for laudable attempts at repairing old plumbing etc. are now faded memories of a time when I was young enough and foolish enough to fumble away my hours by trying to make such repairs. For me such attempts rise almost to the level of Olympic events. You laugh, but think about it. Most people can run, jump, and throw things, but few people can run fast enough, or jump high enough, or throw things far enough to compete in the Olympics, let alone win a medal there. Coming up short is the frustrating story of my life. Do you want to see how this works? Or, more accurately, how it does not work? All right, lets take an event; it is one in which I still participate on occasion. We will call it the “two handed plumber's snake thrust.” This event is made more interesting by forcing the participant (me) to jam the business end of the plumber's snake into a clogged pipe and through odoriferous material that is far too obnoxious to describe here. Suffice it to say that I live in fear of my nose getting stuck in a crinkled position it often assumes during involuntary rabbit like twitches caused by the offensive odor. Falling short of clearing the obstruction on this occasion has nothing to do with my prowess; it is really a matter of the snake not being long enough. The annoying part about not knowing that before I inserted the snake is that I now have to pull lengths of it back through the filth, out of the pipe, and into the room. Needless to say that I have a strong desire to avoid splashing, dripping is unavoidable.

The question du jour is how long of a snake I need to do the job. My use of “du jour” probably makes you think I am talking about a kitchen drain, but Paris is also famous for its sewers, don't you know? The inferiority complex I am getting from not being handy makes me want to show you that I know something many of you might not know ("du jour" means of the day). Demonstrating a bit of snobbery does a man good now and then, but I digress. The fact that the snake is not long enough to clear the obstruction in the pipe requires a decision. Should I drive twenty miles down the mountain to rent a snake that is long enough? If I do I better rent one that has an electric motor because manually turning one that is long enough to do the job would require the strength of a gorilla - a large, young gorilla. So screw that! I wisely decide that the price of gasoline plus the rental fee would cost me almost as much as a plumber would charge me. I am handy enough to write a check. The only reason I did not think of calling a plumber in the first place is because this house is old enough to require constant attention, and I would rather not adopt a plumber. Where is a marriageable daughter when you need one? All I have are dogs, literally dogs.

So let me tell you about my dogs. One is an ancient dribble dog and the other is an “I can pee anywhere better than you can” beagle. I might add that I feel fortunate when it is only pee. Between the effluent from my plumbing and from my dogs I spend way too much time dealing with disgusting things, and yes, I do say “shit” a lot.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com some time between April and September, 2013.

California Hold It

It is not enough to say it was raining; rain is not just rain. Ken’s vision was obstructed by a light sprinkle. It was a mere spritzing that did not provide enough moisture to let his windshield wipers work efficiently. This was cured intermittently by wind driven deluges striking with a force and volume that made his windshield wipers as useless as they were when there was not enough moisture. And the wind was every bit as erratic as the rain was. It blew at twenty-five miles per hour with roaring gusts of sixty miles per hour. The powerful gusts buffeted his vehicle, pushing it, pulling it, and rocking it until there was a danger of rolling it over on its side. Ken was going slow and fighting the wheel, trying to anticipate the next assault as he negotiated the tight turns of the road. They called this part of the road the rim, and it was really dangerous in this weather. People who fell off of it dropped anywhere from a hundred feet to three thousand feet, depending on where they went over the side and what they hit on the way down. He tried to put the danger out of his mind. He did not want to think about anything other than controlling his SUV. And yet, playing in the background of his mind was the weather forecast. A spring storm, they said, with high winds and heavy downpours turning to snow by early morning.

The highway meandered away from the rim overlooking the bowl of the valley. The trees and slopes rising above this part of the road increased the howl of the wind but shielded Ken from some of its fury. He turned onto a side street. His headlights appeared to be brighter as their beams pierced the thicker cloak of darkness provided by the forest. He let out a sigh of relief as he turned onto his driveway and drove up the steep incline to his house.

This was the strangest year he could remember. There had been no winter to speak of. Now there was this bad joke of a spring that teased the plants into blooming then punished them with ferocious winds, frost, and snow. He was glad that he was not some pour soul who was trying to grow anything commercially.

He got out of his car and ran through the rain to the door of his house. He entered the uncarpeted hallway, removing his wet shoes and his coat before climbing the steps to the main part of the dwelling. Huck, the hound, looked up, barely raising his head. Ken’s wife, Jill, must have fed the dog, and he was not about to leave his warm spot next to the heater. Huck obviously deemed a few lazy wags of his tail a sufficient greeting.

“Is it bad on the rim?”

Jill was answered by a blast of wind that made the roof creak and severely tested the resilience of the trees. Ken added to the answer by stating the obvious.

“It blows.”

“So I hear.” Jill said it with a little laugh. “I hope it isn’t indicative of your day.”

“Another day another dollar, and another round of the usual clichés.” The comment was a bit more cynical than he intended. As dull as his daily routine might seem at times it was not as stale as a cliché.

“Now I suppose you’re going to tell me the only thing that changes is the weather.”

She was teasing him by turning his comment about the clichés into a game. He rewarded her with a laugh. “The fickle weather is definitely making my commute an adventure.”

Her commute was much shorter than his, and she did not have to drive the rim. He was grateful for that. He would have worried about her if she had to travel over that highway in foul weather.

“What you need is a hot meal and a little recreation.” He did not need to ask her what she meant by recreation. The twinkle in her eyes said it all.

He woke up earlier than she did the next morning. This was part of their routine. There was no reason why she had to get up before the sun rose. His breakfast consisted of a sweet roll and coffee. It was still dark out when he finished eating. He refilled his big coffee mug, turned on the outside light, and looked out the window. The snow was six or seven inches deep. “Not bad,” he thought. He walked into the living room and turned on the television to watch the weather report. The forecast was for light and scattered snow flurries as the tail end of the storm made its way east. He now heard the snow plow on the street above. He gulped down the coffee remaining in his mug, turned off the television, and raced out to his SUV. He was in a hurry because he knew the plow would soon be on his street. He started the engine and the defroster. Then he quickly cleared the snow off of the hood and windshield. It was a good idea to clear the snow off of the roof as well, but time was of the essence.

He hit the end of the driveway just ahead of the plow. He honked his horn as he pulled out onto the street. “Not today, buddy. You’re not going to make me shovel snow today!” He laughed and waved at the plow driver, who was a bit miffed because he had to slow down in order to keep from running into Ken. Ken was not concerned about the snow the plow would pile up in front of the driveway now. He was sure the person he hired to clear the driveway would get the job done before Jill had to leave for work. This was going to be a good day.

The highway had been plowed but there were patches of ice here and there. He cautiously eased around a blind corner. Cars were stopped on the road. He lightly applied the brakes, but he was on ice and the SUV started sliding. He let off the brake peddle, turned onto the shoulder, and applied the breaks again. He stopped just short of a snow bank. The problem was that the wheels on the right side of his vehicle had fallen into a shallow trough. He tried to back out, but his tires could not gain enough traction to climb out of the trough. He was stuck. He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and speed dialed the number for Dan’s Towing and Auto Repair.

“Hi, flo. This is Ken. Are you busy?”

“Everyone’s gone ape shit! They’re sliding off the roads faster than we can pull them out.”

“Well, add me to the list.”

“Where are you?”

“At the first corner past the dump, on the downhill side.”

“Oh, so you’re caught up in that mess. I hate to tell you this, but it’s going to take us an hour to clear enough cars off the road to get to you.”

“Damn! Needless to say I’ll be waiting.”

“You and everyone else.”

Fifteen minutes later the coffee came into play. Ken had to pee so bad he was dancing. He walked around to the passenger’s side of his car so that it would shield him from the view of people on the road. He had just started peeing when he heard a car sliding. He looked over the top of his SUV, and he saw the squad car of a deputy sheriff slide in behind the SUV. The wheels on the right side of the squad car fell into the shallow trough and the car stopped just short of Ken’s rear bumper. The deputy turned the wheels and tried to back out of the trough, but to no avail. He got out of the squad car and slammed the door. He walked around the back of the car to see why he was stuck. Ken was zipping up the fly of his trousers. The deputy watched him do this and decided to take his frustration out on Ken.

“License, please!”

“What?”

“Give me your drivers license!”

“Why?”

“I’m writing you a citation for urinating in a public place.”

“Hey, I’m stuck here, and I really had to go!”

“I’m stuck here too, but you don’t see me pissing, do you?”

“No sir.”

The deputy wrote the ticket and Ken signed it. Another car now slid around the corner and onto the shoulder of the road. It came to rest with its front bumper pressed against the left front door of the squad car. Before anyone could react to that another car slid around the corner. This one slammed into rear of the last car in line on the road, thus making it impossible for the car pressed against the squad car to back up. One look at what happened had the deputy uttering some very heart felt expletives. The engine of his squad car was running and all of the doors were locked with the exception of the door now made inaccessible by the car that was pressed against it. Ken was sorely tempted to say, “I hope you enjoyed many cups of coffee with your donuts this morning.” He was so amused by this thought that he had to turn his back to keep the deputy from seeing the grin on his face. It is never a good idea to fan the flames of an angry cop by displaying your mirth.

The deputy berated the other drivers for going too fast for the conditions, but he did not cite those drivers for the violation because he was afraid they would tell the court that the deputy had also lost control of his car. When the deputy finished his tirade, he walked around the corner of the road to stop any cars that might be approaching. Ken got into his SUV to enjoy the heater while he waited. He also called his office to explain why he was going to be late.

The first person to greet Ken when he entered his office was his boss. “I guess I don’t have to ask how your day is going.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh?”

“That was really a long wait for a guy with a full bladder. I walked around to the side of my car so that I could not be seen from the road, but deputy chicken shit still gave me a ticket for pissing in public.”

“That’s a bad ticket. Maybe you should go on line and see if you can find an example of someone who beat such a ticket.”

“Good idea.”

For some reason Ken searched the number of the penal code written on the ticket rather than typing in “urinating in a public place.” The results of the search had him laughing.

“What’s so funny?” his boss asked.

“The asshole wrote down the wrong code number. Is that enough to get the case dismissed?”

“Well, I’m not an attorney, but it sounds like a fatal error to me.”

“I think you’re right. I think those things have to accurate.”

Ken was feeling confident when he went to court. “How do you plead?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty.”

“So you’re telling the court you weren’t urinating.”

“No, your honor. I’m telling the court I did not let any of my farm animals wonder onto my neighbor’s property and damage his crops.”

“What?”

“That is the code section the officer cited. I’ve taken the liberty of printing out a copy of the code section for you.”

“Bailiff!”

The bailiff retrieved the copy and handed it to the judge. The judge then handed it to his clerk. “Look this up on your computer and verify that this is a true and accurate copy, please.”

The clerk quickly typed the search. “It’s a true and accurate copy.”

“Well, deputy, you’ve obviously cited the wrong section of the code. This case is dismissed.” The judge smiled as he added, “and that’s how the cow ate the cabbage!”

Ken laughed over the judge’s humorous quotation of a farm expression that means placing everything on the line. The sheriff’s deputy must have thought his reputation as a cop was on the line, and he was not amused.

As they were walking out of the court he turned to Ken and said, “you better not let me catch you pissing on that cabbage!”

“Don’t worry about that. I now have a special container in my car, and I’ve written the correct code number on it.”

Ken considered that a nice little dig. The deputy surprised him by smiling. “At least you didn’t say you’ve written my name on it.”

Okay, so the deputy had a sense of humor. That was good, but Ken did not think it made up for the unjust ticket that could have damaged his reputation.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Apr. 18, 2012

Elevator Story

It was five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Max walked out of the office to the reception area. Three people were in the hallway waiting for an elevator. One of them was Joan. She was hard to miss because she was seven months along in her pregnancy. The other woman was a pretty, young secretary named Peggy. Peggy’s sandy hair and freckled face made her look even younger and perkier than she was. Her eyes sparkled with good humor, and Max could not look at her without smiling. She smiled back at him. The middle-aged gentleman waiting there was Howard.

“Do you have a rare weekend off, Max?” he asked.

“Yes, and I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

The elevator door opened and Max followed the others inside. Howard pushed the button for the ground floor. The car started its descent, shuddered violently, and abruptly stopped.

“What was that?” Joan asked.

“I think it was an earthquake,” Peggy replied.

“We’re stuck!”

“Yup.”

“But, I mean… we’re trapped between floors.”

“That means the elevators did what they’re supposed to do,” Howard told her.

Joan gave him an annoyed look. “I thought they were supposed to go up and down.”

Everyone ignored her comment. Howard reached for the emergency button, but Max stuck his hand in the way.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because it sets off an alarm, and the bell is louder than hell. Believe me you don’t want it banging in your ears if it’s going to take them more than a few seconds to shut it off.”

“So you’re saying we should let some poor bastard in another car bruise his ears.” Howard smiled. “I like it.”

Joan disagreed. “We have to do something.”

Howard was a man who liked being in charge. “I’m afraid our options are reduced to making ourselves as comfortable as possible while we wait.”

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

This non sequitur made everyone look at Peggy. “What? Haven’t any of you told ghost stories around a camp fire?”

“Do you always begin your stories with a cliché?” Howard asked.

“Everyone’s a fucking critic! Cliché or not, it was a dark and stormy night. Thick clouds blotted out the moon and the stars. The only light came in the form of blinding flashes and streaks of lightning. Powerful gusts of wind hurled half frozen drops of rain against windows that were already rattling from the crash of thunder. All that was missing to make this the perfect cliché was the baying of hounds. The hounds were there somewhere, but they were quietly whimpering as they tried to hide from the fiery blasts of the dangerous storm.”

Joan now interrupted Peggy’s story. “And here I am, a very pregnant lady. A baby is sitting on my bladder, but instead of driving home to a nice, warm toilet-seat, I’m trapped in an elevator with someone who is determined to subject me to the “Hounds of the Bastardvilles!”

A loud alarm bell added an exclamation mark to the end of Joan’s last sentence.

“Okay kids! School’s out!”

“Up yours, Peggy!” Joan was obviously in no mood for comic relief. The voice coming over the intercom indicated that she was not the only one who was out of sorts.

“Settle down, people! We’re trying to contact our technicians. They should be here before long.”

“Trying to contact them! You mean they aren’t here?” There was no reply. Either the intercom only provided two-way communication if the emergency button was pressed or the people at the other end of the intercom were ignoring Joan’s questions.

Howard snorted. “If those bastards left work early it is unlikely that they’ll pull their heads out of their asses to answer a telephone.”

The strain of shouting over the ringing bell stifled any desire anyone might have had to comment on Howard’s unpleasant thought. The next ten minutes seemed like an eternity to the people trapped in the elevator cars. At last, at long last, the ringing stopped.

A cheery male voice now filled the elevator.

“See, it’s better already,” the voice said with some pride over the fact that he or someone, presumably not a technician, had finally figured out how to turn off the alarm. “We should be able to get the elevators running again in thirty or forty minutes.”

This was good news and bed news. At least the damn ringing had stopped, but the thought of spending another thirty or forty minutes in the elevator brought a collective groan.

“This really sucks!” Joan said.

“It blows!” Peggy said.

Howard offered the opinion that it could not suck and blow at the same time.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Max said, “we have a senior partner who can suck on a cigar and break wind at the same time.”

Peggy giggled. “That makes him equally stinky at either end.”

This prompted Joan to express her gratitude for the fact that he was not in the elevator with them.

Max smiled at Peggy. “You know your idea of telling stories to pass the time was not a bad one.” He then looked at Joan. “And your title, “Hounds of the Bastardvilles,” adds a nice touch of humor.”

“But why do scary stories always have to be set in remote locations?” Howard asked. “As I’m sure you can all now attest, high rises can be scary too.”

Nature illustrated his point by providing an after shock that bounced the car off the walls of the elevator shaft and turned off the lights.

“See!”

Joan pointed out the obvious. “No, Howard. The damn lights are out!”

They came back on in a few minutes, but they were not as bright as they had been.”

“I think we’re now on the backup generator,” Howard said.

This meant that the earthquake must have knocked down an electrical line going to the building. There was no telling how long it would take for the power company to re-attach it. Joan expressed everyone’s concern over that by saying: “Well, I hope the generator can provide enough power to get the elevator moving again.”

“I think we need a diversion more than ever,” Max said. “Maybe we can do a Canterbury tales sort of thing by having each person tell a story or joke.”

Joan must have been thinking about the musical version of the Canterbury tales because she said: “If you start singing about your cock I’m going to sock you.”

“No music. I take my Chaucer straight. How I’m hung remains unsung.”

Peggy flashed him a mischievous grin. “That’s not what some of the girls in accounting say.”

Max laughed. “I hope they’re not revealing any proprietary statistics.”

“They didn’t give me the long and the short of it, but I suppose I could ask.”

Joan cleared her throat. “Him or them?”

Peggy looked at Max as if contemplating the question before turning her attention to Joan. “Are you hoping for some show and tell?”

“Are you?”

Peggy laughed off the question.

“If you keep talking like that someone is going to need a cold shower,” Howard said.

Joan rubbed her tummy. “Too late for that.”

Her comment made everyone laugh. A drop of water plopped on Howard’s head.

“Shit!” He stepped to the side and looked up at the ceiling. Everyone else also looked up at the ceiling to see drops of water forming in several in spots.

“Not good,” Max said.

Peggy tried to make light of it. “If the water gets deep enough no one will know who couldn’t wait.”

Joan was showing signs of discomfort and did not find Peggy’s joke funny. “You don’t get invited to many pool parties, do you?”

Howard spoke before Peggy could reply. “If the water gets that deep it will exceed the weight the elevator was designed to handle.”

Max took a visual survey of his fellow inmates to see how they were reacting to Howard’s statement. The last thing they needed was for someone to panic and freak out.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that because it’s unlikely that the doors are water tight.”

“Thank God for small favors.” Howard looked down at his watch. “What time was it when they said the techs would be here in thirty or forty minutes?”

“It’s been about twenty-five minutes,” Joan replied.

Some of the drops of water had now turned into trickles and the trickles were becoming hard to avoid. Within five minutes the carpet was soaked. The danger this presented was not great, but it gave a whole new meaning to term water torture.

“At least the people in the Canterbury Tales were going somewhere,” Howard said.

“And they weren’t standing on a wet sponge with water pouring down on them,” Joan added.

There was now a thud, followed by a jolt that caused the inmates to gasp.

“To avoid a water landing, please press two now car number four!”

Howard mumbled as he reached out and pressed button number two. “He must think he works for fucking NASA.”

The car descended to the second floor and stopped. The doors opened to reveal a crowded hallway. An official looking gentleman was trying to control the crowd there.

“Step aside and let these good people out, folks! Do not get in this car. Car number one is the only car that will take you to the ground floor.”

Joan pushed through the crowd on her way to the ladies’ room.

“I feel bad about being such a smart ass now,” Peggy said. “She really has to go.”

Max took Peggy’s hand. “She’ll forgive you. Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“To the stairs.”

“Good idea!”

The stairs were as crowded as the hall, but the people there were kind enough to make room for Max and Peggy. When they entered the ground floor all of the lights came back on.

“I don’t know if a want to trust another elevator,” Peggy said, “but I don’t want to hike up three flights of stairs to my car.”

“It should be okay now.”

Peggy was obviously nervous when they entered the elevator car in the parking structure. Max pressed button number three and looked at her. She appeared to be holding her breath.

“I’m proud of the way you acted during our ordeal,” he said.

She exhaled. “It was you. You made it easy to remain calm.”

The elevator stopped at the third floor and the doors opened. She quickly stepped out of the car and he followed her.

“I hope this won’t make you afraid of elevators,” he said.

She took his hand and stopped walking. “I’ll get over it.”

They stood there facing each other. Max could feel the magnetism as he stared into her eyes. He was tempted to ask her if she would like to join him for a drink, but he knew she was in a serious relationship. She ended the awkward silence by kissing him on the cheek and telling him to have a nice weekend.

“You too,” he said.

That was the thing about Max. His reputation as a Casanova was exaggerated. He could get away with suggestive banter that would get other men into trouble because he was very observant. He could usually tell who would object to such banter, who would enjoy it, and who was likely to be interested in something more.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Feb 8, 2012

Writing Short (Crappy) Stories

During my latest creative drought I did something I have not done since graduating from college; I read about writing. There are so many people out there complaining about how hard it is to write short stories. Perhaps it is blissful ignorance on my part but the rules seem fairly simple to me: express yourself clearly and try to be entertaining. It takes a lot of thought and hard work to do that, but it does not take a lot rules. The best advice I have received is to keep my stories potty length. Although it is not very appealing to think of people taking a dump while reading what I have worked so hard to create, the important thing is that people are still reading my work product. That beats the hell out of being ignored. So read on my friends, and happy droppings to you.

There are, of course, some people I will never please. Those people will find something in at least one of my posts that offends them, and they are going to be sorely tempted to demonstrate their displeasure in a graphic manner if they are reading in the bathroom. The people who give in to that temptation will soon discover that the paper used in their printers is a lot rougher than the paper designed to be used on their bottoms. They will also run the risk of stopping up their toilets. Nothing can make people yell “shit” faster than being ankle deep in it. “A writer’s revenge,” you say. Perhaps, but I would not celebrate it. While it would be silly of me to think I can please everyone, I do not relish the thought of being the author whose stories clogged up the most toilets. So how do I prevent that from happening?

First of all, I realize that judging the quality of a story is really subjective. The only stories that are really crappy are the ones that talk about crap as I did in the paragraphs above. That can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on whether the reader finds potty humor funny. Most professional writers will tell you to write for a particular audience. I am afraid my blog is not very professional in that regard. Some of my humor is crappy and some of it is not. Some of my posts are about selfish, young men behaving badly or women behaving badly, but I also write about men and women struggling to do the right things. Although much of my writing is intended to be humorous, some of my stories are serious and I often use humor to make a serious point. I also experiment with the form and techniques of writing stories. It is very difficult to build up a loyal following when you are doing what I do. I am afraid it means there are things in this blog to please everyone and things to offend or bore everyone. That is not a good thing for readers, but I cannot seem to restrict myself enough to appeal to a particular audience.

The one thing I tell other writers is that you must be who you are. You can write for a particular audience, but you must be authentic. Doing that increases the sting of whatever criticism comes your way, but that is something you have to endure. A writer has to develop a thick skin and an open mind. Do not be afraid to take some risks. I welcome constructive criticism. I also enjoy receiving compliments, scratching my itchy ego is always appreciated. I would like to hear from you.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Jan 18, 2012

A Difficult Season

The studio apartment had a main room, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. Across from his bed was a rough work bench. A television with a nineteen inch screen sat on one end of the bench, in the center was a computer monitor and keypad, and next to the monitor was a soldering iron and other tools. The computer was under the bench along with a toaster, a blender, and an old radio. The place smelled like stale beer and sweat. Jack did not drink much, but it only took a few drops of beer in the cans sitting in his trash to give off the rank odor. He was still asleep. The bed was made when he retired last night, but the colder it got the more disheveled the bed became because in his sleep he tugged at the blankets to cover his head and wrap more material around his body. It had started snowing last night and the snow was still coming down.

The cold pulled him out of his slumber well before the sum came up. He had to untangle the blankets wrapped around him in order to get out of bed. When this was done he stripped off the sweat clothes he slept in. He sprinted into the kitchen and turned on the coffee pot. The cold tile in the kitchen felt like ice beneath his feet, but it was only a few quick steps back to the relative warmth of the carpet in the main room. His next stop was the bathroom. There he turned on the hot water valve in the shower. Then he stood in front of the toilet. The water coming out of the shower was hot by the time he finished peeing. The hot water spraying his body in the shower felt like heaven. He was tempted to linger there, but he thought about the water bill and kept his shower short.

“Christ, you could store meat in here,” he thought as he entered the main room. He turned up the gas wall heater and stood in front of it as he dressed. He put on his long underwear, both the top and the bottom. The next item he put on was his plaid, flannel shirt, followed by a pair of jeans. He topped off this clothing with a water resistant pair of bib overalls. He glanced over at his boots as he opened the sock drawer of his beat up dresser. The boots were made of rubber or synthetic rubber, he did not know which. They were still water proof but the lining on the inside was badly worn. He took a pair of socks from the drawer. He thought about wearing two pairs of socks, but decided against it. His boots were sock eaters that sucked his socks down to the toes of the boots as he walked or shoveled snow. It was very uncomfortable walking on one pair of socks wadded up under his toes and the balls of his feet. Adding another pair would only increase the wad of material under his feet. After pulling on his socks and his boots he turned down his wall heater and walked into his kitchen. He placed two pieces of stale bread into his toaster and poured a cup of coffee. When the toast popped up he spread peanut butter on it. That was not much of a breakfast for a grown man. At eleven-thirty, however, he would buy two of the egg and muffin sandwiches at a fast food joint. That would tide him over until supper. He only drank one cup of coffee with the toast. He poured the rest of the coffee into a thermos bottle. He would save the coffee in the thermos to have with his egg and muffin sandwiches.

He put on his jacket, his hat and his gloves and walked out to his truck. He climbed into the cab of the truck, placed his key in the ignition, and gave the key a twist. The engine of the truck quickly started. There was a broom with a shortened handle behind the seats. He used that broom to sweep the snow off of the roof of the truck, then off its windshield and its hood. The heater was still blowing out cold air when he climbed back into the cab of the truck. It seemed to take forever for the defroster to heat up enough to melt the thin layer of ice on the windshield. His truck ran well, but the heater either baked his cookies or froze them; there was no in between. He took off his jacket. Then he raised and lowered the plow that was mounted to the front of the truck. The plow was working properly, and he smiled. He turned on the headlights and set about plowing the parking lot. This task was made more difficult by the cars parked there. He was careful not to erect any berms that would make it difficult for the drivers of those cars.

Most people complained about the snow, but for Jack it was a blessing. The snow and his truck provided him with his income in the winter. He had bought the truck with the plow to clear the long driveway of his house. This was back in better times. Jack was working as a foreman for a company assembling televisions back then. He was good at repairing electronic devices and he had a talent for organizing the production. The company he worked for thought highly of him and paid him well. Unfortunately that company was taken over by a larger corporation that moved its production out of the country. Jack was devastated because he could not find any comparable work. The winter was bitterly cold and wet that year. Some of his neighbors offered to pay him for clearing the snow from their driveways. That was the beginning of his snow clearing business, and it provided him with enough income to keep him from dipping into his savings.

The next year was really rough. When the snow stopped falling his revenue stream dried up. Furthermore, he was denied unemployment benefits because his snow clearing operations were considered a business. In desperation, he took the money out of his savings account and started an appliance repair business. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the people who try to get appliances repaired rather than buying new ones could not pay him enough to make his business profitable. After his business failed he tried selling insurance and then real estate. He was not very good at selling and he hated doing it. He became depressed and irritable. The combination of their financial situation and Jack’s bad mood were too much for his wife to bear. She kicked him out of the house and told him not to return until he got it together.

It was now another winter, another time of relative prosperity. He was giving his wife most of what he earned. He did not know how he was going to get by next summer. He tried to put that thought out of his mind. He had to concentrate on the task at hand. He had a lot of shovel work to do in addition to the plowing. It seemed as though his cell phone was constantly ringing as people became concerned about the weight of the snow piling up on their roofs and decks. He did not mind shoveling off the decks that much. The roofs were a different matter. The ones he cleared had a gradual pitch, but it was still a pitch. There were a few times when he had fallen on his ass and slid off the roofs. The soft snow had cushioned his fall, but he could never be sure about what might be under that snow. It was a dangerous job. He did the plowing first, and saved the shovel work for the afternoon. Doing this allowed people to get out of their houses and go to work. The down side to saving the shovel work for the end of the day was that he could not use the plowing as way to get a respite from the shoveling. He had thought about hiring a young man to help him shovel, but decided against doing that. He really needed to maximize his profit. He worked until six o’clock that night. He looked up at the sky and smiled. If it kept snowing at its current rate, there would still be plow work but little shovel work. His aching muscles told him the decrease in shovel work would be a good thing at this point.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Jack was up before the sun, and he was hard at work. By noon it had stopped snowing. He completed his last job by four o’clock that evening. This gave him time to Christmas shop. He really enjoyed shopping for his boys. Most of the toys that were advertised were too expensive for him to buy, but there were still fun things that were in his price range. The parking lot at the department store was full. He saw a lady wheel a full cart up to her car as he pulled into that lane. He stopped and waited for her parking space. She opened the trunk of her car and set about rearranging the things in there. She then took a few packages out of the cart and placed them in the trunk. She rearranged everything in the trunk again before moving the remainder of the packages from the cart to the trunk of her car. She was inconsiderate enough to leave her cart behind the car next to hers. God only knows what she was doing once she finally got in her car. The only thing certain is that she was in no hurry. The driver of the car behind Jack had reached the limit of his patience. He honked his horn. Jack rolled down the window, stuck his out and looked at the impatient driver. It was Santa.

“Move it, dumb ass!” Santa yelled.

“And a Ho, fucking Ho to you!” Jack had obviously reached the limits of his patience as well.

Santa gave him the finger. The women finally pulled out of the parking space and Jack pulled into it. Santa was so busy glaring at Jack that he almost crashed into the back of the woman’s car. He honked at her and gave her the finger. Jack hoped no kids saw Santa do that. He had the brief thought that it would serve the guy dressed as Santa right of some kid peed in his lap or gave him a nasty virus. It was a funny thought, but it was not something he would wish on the poor bastard. You have to be pretty desperate to work for the low wages department stores pay their seasonal help. The man playing Santa was probably late for his shift and pissed off at the entire world. Jack knew how he felt. He believed that he and Santa should be giving each other a hand rather than the finger.

Jack bought his older son, Ron, a safety dartboard that came with blunt darts. He bought his younger son, Don, a battery powered helicopter that flew at the end of the wire carrying current from the battery to the motor. Those gifts alone would make this a meager Christmas, but he knew that his wife, Mary, would buy his sons at least a few of the gifts they had requested. He walked from the toy department to the women’s department to look for some small gift for Mary. He saw a beautiful scarf there. It was the sort of thing she occasionally wore as an accessory so he bought it. By this time his boots had pulled his socks down to his toes. He sat in one of the chairs in the shoe department and took off his boots. The people walking by smiled as he pulled his socks up. Sock eating boots were all too common. He stopped at a candy store on his way home. There he bought a small box of assorted chocolates and a brightly decorated paper sack, in which he put the box of candy and the scarf.

Back at his apartment he heated up a can chili and opened a beer. When he woke up on Christmas morning he looked out the window. The snow had stopped and he knew he would not have to work that day. He celebrated by frying some eggs for breakfast. After breakfast he wrapped the toys. He went to visit his family at nine o’clock. Mary greeted him at the door. She gave him a little peck of a kiss and told him to come in. The boys yelled “Daddy,” and ran up to him. He hugged each of them and gave them the presents he brought for them.

“I have something for you too,” he said handing Mary the sack containing the candy and the scarf.

“I thought we agreed not to buy by gifts for each other.”

“It’s just a little token to say I still love you.”

“All I bought you was this card. I’ll show you how much I love you after dinner if you can stay.”

He grinned. It was a good night. The next morning he looked over at her. She was awake and looking at him.

“God, I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you too. How’s business?”

He knew she was really asking about his prospects for full time employment. Since he had not found anything promising yet he chose to ignore her real question.

“Not bad, and another storm is supposed to push in tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Good.”

This was an awkward moment. He knew she would go to her parents house or they would visit her today. They would ask him about his job search if they saw him. Since he was too embarrassed about still being unemployed he excused himself and went home. On the way home he stopped at the grocery store. There was a dog sitting at the door of the store. He looked like a beagle but was slightly taller. He was also very thin. The automatic doors opened and the dog followed him in. A box boy chased the dog outside again.

“He’s a damned nuisance,” the box boy said. “But I can’t blame the poor thing; he's hungry.”

“Someone must have abandoned him,” the checker added.

Abandoned dogs were becoming a problem. Too many people were leaving their pets behind when they moved out of the houses the banks were repossessing. The dog followed Jack to his truck. Jack put the bag of groceries behind the seat. This was not an easy task because he had to keep pushing the dog away to keep it from jumping into the truck. The dog whimpered as Jack got in the truck.

“Sorry buster, but I don’t need a dog.”

The dog looked up at him with big sorrowful eyes.

“Oh, shit!” Jack got out of the truck and walked back into the store. The dog was beside him, and he had to chase it out of the store. He bought three cans of dog food. The dog jumped into the truck when Jack opened the door. It took several forceful no’s accompanied by some shoves before the dog stopped trying to get at the food.

Back at the apartment Jack fed the dog a half a can of dog food. The dog begged for more. It was better not to feed the dog too much at first if it was starving. Jack took the toaster out from under the bench and set about repairing it. The dog placed its front paws on the arm of the chair and whined. Jack patted its head.

“I know you’re still hungry, Buster. I’ll give you the rest of the can before we go to bed, and a whole can for breakfast. Okay?”

He took Buster out for a walk several times before it was time to go to bed. He did not need a leash. If the dog ran off it would simply solve the problem of what to do with him. He did not run off. He had to make Buster get off the bed in order to retire. The wind was howling and the temperature in the apartment was dropping as Jack dozed off. Buster jumped onto the bed and pressed against Jack seeking the warmth of his body. Jack pushed Buster away. All right, it was cold. Jack turned up the wall heater. He was thinking that would keep Buster off the bed. The next morning Buster was on the bed again, curled up at Jack’s feet. He fed Buster the other can of food, and made himself breakfast. It was now snowing. “Tomorrow morning,” he thought. “People won’t need to have their driveways or parking lots plowed until tomorrow morning.”

He looked over at Buster. He thought about taking him to the pound. He could not do it. The thought of someone killing the hound if he was not adopted within a certain number of days was too appalling. He looked through the phone book for a shelter. The closest one was forty miles away. At least for now, he was stuck with the dog. He bought a big bag of dried dog food and some canned dog food to mix with it. Since he could not leave Buster alone in the apartment he took the hound to work with him the next day. He soon learned the sound the hound made when he had to relieve himself, which was not often. During the day Jack showed how lonely how was by talking to Buster. It was going to be difficult when he had to get rid of the dog. So far it had not barked at the neighbors, but that was probably because it did not consider the apartment its territory yet. On New Years Eve Mary called Jack.

“I’m not doing anything tonight. Do you want to come over?”

“I’d love to come over. What time.”

“I’ll be home at six. We can have dinner and ring in the new-year.”

“I’ll be there.”

He hung up the phone and looked over at Buster. Oh, shit! He had forgotten about Buster. He should have said something to Mary about him. He did not know how she was going to feel about him bringing a dog with him.

Mary hugged Jack when she answered the door. Then she looked down at Buster.

“What’s this?”

“It’s Buster.”

“I didn’t think dogs were allowed at your apartment.”

“They’re not, but he followed me and he was so hungry I couldn’t resist.”

“I know I’m going to be sorry for this, but come in.”

Ron and Don were thrilled with Buster and he shared their joy. They played tug of war with him and chased him around the house. The next morning Mary rolled over and hugged Jack.

“You know, you don’t have to make as much as you did before. You just have to make enough to pay our basic bills, and it has to be a job that won’t destroy that wonderful spirit of yours.”

“I guess a got pretty bad.”

“Yes you did, but I still love you.”

“I love you too.”

They spent the day watching the parades and football games. It was like old times. The kids were out in the yard playing with Buster most of the day. Jack spent that night with Mary as well.

“So what are you going to do with the dog?”

“I can’t keep him. I ‘m really going to miss him, but I guess I’ll have to find a shelter that will accept him.”

“After our kids have fallen in love with him?”

“Are you saying they can have him?”

“Yes. I’m a bit jealous though.”

“Why?”

“They will consider him the best gift of all.”

The next morning Jack was up and plowing early. It snowed like hell over the next few days. He had to plow some places in the morning and again in the evening. He worked late into the night. Then he received a phone call from JC of JC Excavating.

“I hear you do a good job plowing,” JC said.

“I like to think I do.”

“Can you operate heavy equipment?”

“I’ve operated some heavy farm equipment.”

“I need someone to plow out the high school parking lot if you can squeeze it into your schedule. You can pick up the equipment here.”

“How much are you paying?”

“Minimum for a heavy equipment operator because I only need someone for that job. By the time you finish it I’ll be free to do the other work.

“Oh.” Jacks voice indicated his disappointment.

“There is an upside. If you do a good job for me, I’ll hire you full time this summer.”

“You mean for the summer?”

“Yeah, the federal funds have come through for some municipal contracts. I'm pretty sure I can keep you year 'round after that.”

“Mister, you have a new employee!”

This was the miracle Jack had been praying for. Someone must have recommended him. He would have to find out who it was and thank that person. This job was not in the electronics field, but it was something he could feel good about doing. Heavy equipment operators also made pretty good money.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Dec 30, 2011