“The Tweaker’s Tenancy” by Dostoevsky’s Firing Squad

Posted on August 20, 2013 by writer

Prompts:
An animal trainer
Cornfields
Doughnuts
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4
Owls

***

The Tweaker’s Tenancy

By Dostoevsky’s Firing Squad

You might say that people lived at the house on 52^nd Avenue. They watched TV, they smoked, they ate meals from 7-11. They were trained to the darkness. If the people of the house on 52^nd Avenue went out in the day, they received glares, indifference, were overwhelmed by the pace of the day. Leaving the house meant leaving two shaky and incontinent Chihuahuas. The Chihuahuas couldn’t use the backyard, which was a field of invasive ivy that would bury them alive. The front yard was against a commuter street, so if the dogs were able to hobble or more likely fall down the steps, they could easily be ignored and crushed. Rescued from hobos, the dogs had been trained by hobos. They were used to being ignored and relieving themselves anywhere, even squatting on the living room rug.

Cheryl owned the house on 52^nd Avenue. The two Chihuahuas were her compassionate tether to humanity. She needed the Chihuahuas to balance the darkness of the roommates she had taken since her husband died 10 years ago. Her roommates were her siblings. Her sister Cynthia was the alcoholic witch in the basement, folding clothes and smoking. When Cheryl’s husband died, her brother Jason moved in and took over tinkering with the tools in the basement. Later he moved the tools to his bedroom. He was a fan of the glue gun. Glued to his bedroom wall was a big book of Romio Shrestha as a shrine, bowls, and ornate metal jars. He glued a whole chest of drawers to the wall. He glued speakers to the wall, which buzzed when the stereo was off. Jason was also a fan of electrical wire, motherboards and old machines. Geiger counters and telephones were stripped, wires were used to make crack pipes of glass bulbs, tape and paper tubes. Cheryl said she didn’t care what her brother did, as long as he paid the rent. But she must have wondered why he took his door knob with him to work.

My wife and I met Jason the first time we were shown the house on 52^nd Avenue by our realtor. The house was falling apart, ready to be set aflame by dangerously old connections, and the sewer to burst adding stench of human waste to human waste, Chihuahua waste and cigarettes. The roof was ready to collapse, both of the house and a structure that would be called the garage, except it no longer qualified due to erosion of one wall. The dust in the house never settled, the particles in continuous deflection, a squalid snow globe. Cheryl had no money. She owed taxes several years back. We took the bait and met the family. In most showings of homes, anybody living in the home will vacate. Cheryl, her siblings and her Chihuahuas did not leave.

Cheryl opened the door like a surprised but sedated rat. Our realtor explained we wanted to see the house. The flies on the porch came in with us, attracted to the smell of urine. Cheryl replaced herself in the threadbare chair facing the TV while the two Chihuahuas yapped and 60-year old Cynthia perched unstably on the radiator with a can of Molson Ice. My wife and the realtor talked between themselves while I entertained Cheryl and Cynthia. Cynthia was attracted to me because I didn’t discount her. She showed me all she bought at Goodwill for her sister. In her diseased mind, the $4 vase and $20 synthesizer, which remained unused, made up for not paying rent.

Jason was locked in the second bedroom. He was a strange clown at a circus. He was lying under a couch mounted on end tables. The top of the couch was missing cushions, instead set with steel loops threaded with leather rope. Under the couch, under Jason, was garbage. Empty boxes of Lemonheads, used tissues, unopened mail from the Department of Justice, bent business cards, neckties, wire clothes hangers, broken glass, nails, staples, empty paint cans, and other things including a jug of lighter fluid. Under the couch, Jason was concentrating on working a needle-and-thread onto a transistor motherboard, fantasizing that he would show it to a woman he knew at work. He alerted to a knock on his bedroom door, stopped and watched the door knob. Would they go away?

Huh? The police? How did child support find me?

Jason crawled out from under the couch, knees crunching glass. He riddled the door knob. He pulled the door open a crack toward his body. His forehead and eyes peeked around the side of the door, watching us.

Why is that man grinning at me? He can’t be official. Can I shut the door? I’m going to shut the door. I have to shut the door now. They might want to come in.

Jason shut the door. We saw only there was certainly a space behind the door, and it contained some oddness.

Against the advice of our realtor, we made an offer. The offer was quickly accepted and began the events that always happen when people adopt and become keepers of land and home. We looked past the black mold in the corner, the piss plumes, the matted and tarry dust from decades of smoke, cracks, stains and evidence of mice infestation. The mice probably had a more orderly life than the people in the house on 52^nd Avenue. The mice had passages, sources of clean bedding, cat food that was continuously spilled on the floor and cabinets for private defecation. We never saw a cat, but there was a litter box. Maybe Cynthia was the cat who no one trained, “Don’t eat that.” The mice slept through the day and awoke at night, as did the people. When we had the house inspected, Jason was not home. He took the door knob with him.

Jason was a night owl. Owls are mysterious and scary as you don’t know when they will appear. The neighbor told of yelling at Jason one night for trying to shove a whole printer out his bedroom window. He must have finished stripping its wires. The dude I bought my first and last Harley from was knocked off his bike by an owl he had scared into flight while driving at night. He said the only thing that saved his ass was the thick leather wallet in his back pocket. I once attended a writing workshop in the middle of nowhere. I awoke city time 4 am and walked the blackness. I wrote and walked in the darkness, past cornfields and one night I stopped to ask what the sound of my writing resembled. I thought mouse scratching. I was fearful of cougars. As I looked up, I saw the winged expanse of an owl silently fly over top. He too thought I was a mouse.

By law, we were the owners of the house, and the land, but what is law? What is ownership? The day we were handed the keys, Cynthia met us on the porch, smoking cigarettes and drunk in a bikini, looking for an imaginary cat. Cheryl and the Chihuahuas were gone.

“We tried to move all our stuff,” she complained to me, then grew defiant, “I am not leaving without my cat.”

I promised Cynthia a phone call should the cat appear. She called the next day saying she saw the cat in the window, but we never saw a cat and never heard from her again. Cynthia had moved on.

Having the keys did not give full ownership or access to the house. Jason was not home, as his bedroom door knob was gone. He left his window cracked open. I moved a table from the porch to the side of the house, stood on it, and squeezed through the window. As my eyes adjusted to the dim of Jason’s room, I heard my wife from the other side of the bedroom door.

“Are you OK? What’s in there?”

I was stunned into silence. I listened, and looked around quickly. I was not certain I was alone. I pulled aside heavy blankets stapled to the window frame to let in light. I invented Jason sleeping or dead atop the makeshift bed of a couch that was only heaped with clothes. But the room was unoccupied. I could not open the door from the inside, and crawled back out the window.

The locksmith came. Jason had left everything in his room, as if he didn’t want to leave.

By rescuing this house we were rescuing ourselves. Rescued from failed marriages, boring jobs and mundane lives. The first thing I did was rip out and wrap up two layers of urine-soaked rug and carpet padding. I dragged the dead rugs down the front steps and into the yard, my forearms rubbed raw and saturated by their foul odor.

A few days later, someone smashed in a basement window. We had not yet moved anything in, so I didn’t inventory what might have been missing. My wife called the police. She noticed dirt on the floor and a screen removed from the crawl space. I thought it was Cynthia looking for her cat. The police identified the fingerprints as Jason’s.

Despite eight contractors and dozens of doughnuts hired to replace the plumbing, the electrical, the sewer, the roof, the garage, and finish floors, we worked for weeks scraping off lead-based paint, removing paneling and slowly becoming proficient at scraping, mudding, sanding and painting. The hundred-year old lath and plaster was unforgiving. We painted the interior shallot bulb green, tore out the toilet wall and installed a claw foot tub on top of tiny white and black tiles.

The second break-in was more disturbing. We had replaced the basement windows and added bars for protection. Jason simply kicked in rotted wood at the back door. In his old room, two foot holes fractured the lath and plaster and across the wall in chalk, “Where’s my coins?” In removing Jason’s belongings from the house, we had not found any coins except a couple of dollars in small change. Could that motivate him to break in? The police found Jason’s prints, but were unable to find Jason. Using the internet, I began my own search for Jason, plotting our confrontation.

After a month of our rescue, we had finished painting, and the last detail was blasting and repainting the old radiators. My wife was becoming familiar with the house, ready to forget the past. We had garbage service, ate at the neighborhood food carts and rode the bus that stopped outside our house.

Then one night we came home to find fire at our house. The firemen had arrived and told us we were lucky, we only lost the back porch. My wife thanked them, but I was silently seething they let the arsonist get away. Perhaps the three-foot trench I had dug to wire the garage to the house stopped the fire from spreading.

After the investigation found it to be arson, my wife abandoned me and the house to stay with her mother. Ownership of the house was no longer a legal battle. The police told me they found Jason in Seattle, but without proof, they could only get a restraining order. For me, it was about ownership. I was ready to reclaim the house. I was ready to extinguish Jason.

The break-ins and the fire had occurred days after Jason got paid his father’s social security income. I knew because I was still getting his mail including direct deposit slips. Each night after he got paid, I waited outside the dark house, watching late into the night for Jason to appear. Some nights, I sat in the backyard on a stump. When he came, I was waiting for him. This time he was carrying a can of gas. He did not hesitate to pour gas onto the side of my house. I did not hesitate to smash his head with a baseball bat. He dropped to his knees as if praying, and moaned, “Motherfucker…”

“What coins?” I asked him, heart pounding and braced to hit again.

“My dad’s coins,” he mumbled, “Cynthia hid them in the crawl space.”

The crawl space had been dug out for a new sewer line. Nobody had found any coins.

“There are no coins, you sold them for crack, you fucking tweaker,” I spat at the burglar, the trasher, the arsonist.

He stood and turned, his face sunken and when he spoke, all I could see were unclean teeth or spaces where unclean teeth had been. I saw the owner of the house, his craze daze.

“Where are my coins?” he asked.

I hit him hard. Sometimes ownership is by force, especially from tweakers. With my boot, I rolled him into the trench and filled it in. I hoped my wife would join me to search for coins in the crawl space.

Filed under: 2013 Submissions, Portland, Team | Tagged: Christa Helms, Kevin Nusser, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

“Bucket Boys” by Team Wonderbra

Posted on August 20, 2013 by writer

Prompts:
An animal trainer
Cornfields
Doughnuts
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4
Owls

***

Bucket Boys

By Team Wonderbra

This was the third one.

Peter traced his fingertips over the symbol notched into the wooden sign post to verify it was real. The mark was simple – two “U”s side by side, encompassed in two circles; a Bucket Boy mark. Seeing it now shook Peter to his core. He felt Fitz’s presence inside the lines, half expecting to feel a pulse in the etching.

He couldn’t ignore a third one. It was the third one in six months.

The first time he saw it, Peter mistook it for a fluke. It could have been one of the many that Peter and Fitz carved together on the road. But Peter knew that Fitz had never been on this rail with him.

It was common for the hobos and tramps in the area to create monikers for themselves using the simple symbols developed by the migrant workers over the years to represent their hobo names. Most travelers couldn’t read, but they could leave signatures.

In the years following the Great Depression, hobo culture sprang to the forefront out of necessity. Both boys had been born into this society of the downtrodden, Peter’s mother dying when he was six. After that, Peter traveled with his father, a tie loader for the railroad company. Peter did odd jobs for his father’s crew and for the farmers that lived outside each town. He traveled with men much larger and hungrier than him, following the railroads in droves, searching for scarce employment and even more scarce food.

Peter only remembered a different life as a distant memory when his mother was still alive. Warm beds and hot soup seemed like a fading dream. He’d learned enough of the road rules from his father. He’d learned the codes and signs, but nothing he’d experienced fully prepared him to navigate the dangers of living tramp life. In addition to the gnawing hunger that seemed a constant companion, brutal railroad security Bulls were a constant threat.

He got lost in the tracing, closing his eyes tight. Peter remembered the first time he saw Fitz; the small boy had been in charge of water running to the fields for farmers. Peter paused his fruit picking and watched the tired boy struggle up the hill, his full buckets sloshing over his shoulders. The boy teetered and lost his balance, dropping both buckets and collapsing in defeat. The water welled up at his feet, mixing with his tears as it seeped into the ground.

“No sense in dehydrating yourself over spilled water. Get up, kid. I’ll show you a better way to carry these. Can’t let the rest of us die of thirst.”

The young boy raised his head, tears still spilling.

Peter softened, “Come on, Kid Simple. Ain’t got all day!”

Fitz met Peter with a grateful smile and followed him back to the well. He was Peter’s shadow from that day forward, and they became each other’s family.

They called themselves the Bucket Boys after their first year working as fruit tramps and begging at back doors. They’d pretend to be pirates and marauders to pass the time between their odd jobs. One morning, while riding the rail to the next town, Fitz pulled a coal piece from his pocket and drew two “U”s on the inside of the rail car.

“Bucket boys!” Fitz declared, as he circled the first U.

“We’re tramps now. Together forever,” he explained, as he drew another circle around the second U. He beamed at Peter and took his hand.

They were just boys then. When Peter’s father died, they quickly had to become men. Peter knew to find an old timer who would take them under his wing in one of the big jungle camps. King Junky Bat Man was eccentric, but his life as a traveler provided a wealth of survival education. He taught the boys the hobo codes and symbols left to help fellow travelers on poles, trees and gates along the rail line to find work, shelter, food and most importantly, avoid danger. A smiley face meant the farm up ahead would allow you to sleep in the barn. A circle with an X inside indicated there was food available. Two overlapping circles meant hobos would be arrested on site. Being fluent in hobo code enabled the boys to survive, and they began to feel at home on the rail. The orphans no longer felt alone; now they belonged.

It had been two years since Fitz went missing, and Peter hadn’t used the Bucket Boys sign since. It stood for Peter and Fitz, and now it was just Peter.

The night of the bull raid, they’d fallen asleep outside a farm camp, listening to the owls in the night. Fitz always fell asleep first. Peter liked it that way. Peter was drifting off when they heard the sound of the railroad Bulls stomping into the camps to clear out the travelers and prep the tracks for the next run of workers. Everyone scattered into the night, the sounds of screaming and gunshots echoing into the sky.

Fitz always circled back around and found Peter, but that night, he never came. When Fitz didn’t materialize after a few days, the other travelers declared Fitz dead. After that, searching was pointless; Peter had given up. Fitz wasn’t going to come back.

Now, standing in front of the Bucket Boys sign again, Peter allowed himself the luxury of hope. It was clear as day, written under the regular cross that meant, “church will give food.” Sometimes, it was written under an upside down Y, which mean “danger in this town.” It began to always accompany two rectangles, which meant, “afraid.” Looking back, Peter had realized he should have paid better attention to the surrounding monikers. Seeing a third sign meant Fitz was still alive – this realization washed over him in a wave of relief and joy and settled determination to find his dear friend.

The signs had become Peter’s new code. His map. He spent the summer picking strawberries in Bedford and followed his sign to Cooperstown during the apple season. It was fall now, and the only work to be made was a bucket or fire runner for another railroad. The fruits of summer were packed away, being sold to girls and boys with clean hair and hemmed clothes. He was tired. Carrying the buckets became harder this season. Peter had ignored the stories of where the work was and only followed his symbol. His belly ached and his legs became weak and tired. No matter how old or painted over his signal had been, it was a way to keep Fitz with him during his travels. He’d scratch an infinity symbol every time underneath. “Don’t give up.”

The markings were fading, as was his memory of Fitz. By the time he’d found them, fence markings had been painted over, grass had grown around the base of the tree where he’d last seen the carving. It had been too long. Maybe Fitz really was dead.

The infinity signs were harder to mark onto the wood. Fitz hadn’t left these signs for years. Peter was chasing a ghost at the expense of his own survival.

The last time he found it, Peter realized he had to travel back to Chadwick, right outside of where he had lost Fitz. “To find something you’ve lost, start where you last saw it,” his father once said. The easiest way was to take a cannonball, an express train that stopped in the larger cities to get medicines out to smaller towns by delivery truck. Cannonballs moved faster, but there was one every couple of days. Problem was, they were harder to hop. He knew the physical dangers of rail riding were just as prevalent as any Bull. It was common for hobos to fall under the wheels when attempting to hop the trains. If a guy was lucky, he’d lose a limb. Unsure footing meant he lost everything else.

He was consumed with the search. The long hours riding the trains gave him plenty of time to roll over the posibilies of Fitz’s wherabouts. He’d heard hobo folklore from the jungle cats about the fate of missing travelers for as long as he could recall. When he was younger, the tales of Bulls capturing young tramps and selling them at the ports to slave on ships and plantations terrified him. The road kids exchanged boogeyman stories about kids being disfigured and set on display in traveling sideshows. He remembers a particularly horrific interaction shouted at him by a old nutty lusher, “The Bull’s gonna get you street urchin, they gonna sell ya to the circus and the cats will eat yur bones!”

As he grew older, he’d dismissed the stories as old wives’ tales. He had enough real threats to worry about. He was still careful about taking food and drink from unknown jungle rats for fear of getting a lump laced with knock-out-drops. Travelers disappeared every day. Ever since the railroads had pumped up the security Bulls, life on the rails was significantly more dangerous. The older hobos spoke fondly of a time where no one bothered the travelers and they were even welcomed with open arms in farming towns. When the Bulls first were brought on by the Railroad companies, they would just round up travelers and jail them. That was before Peter’s time though. These days the Bulls seemed like more of a firing squad. The tough economic times only amplified the danger. Hunger can make people do things; bad things. Peter had even heard stories of starving boozehounds, their minds gone from Corn Bourbon, cannibalizing travelers. Now Peter revisited the boogeyman stories with a new horror.

It took only three days to get to Chadwick. After hopping off in Augusta, he

began the final walk into town, past miles of cornfields. Chadwick was the last place the Bucket Boys were together. He’d hoped to never return to this place. Losing Fitz had put a crack in his spirit…it was an emotional straw that had nearly broken his back. The knot in his stomach wasn’t from hunger alone — something about this place stood his hair on end. His senses were piqued as he scanned for hobo marks. The marks seemed ominous and he wanted to turn around, hop a train and never return. However, he was determined to find out Fitz’s whereabouts. The answer was here; he could feel it. He saw the mark for “unsafe place” directly over the sign for “man with gun”. He had to travel carefully. Less then a quarter of a mile down the road he saw more danger marks, one indicating that he should “be ready to defend”, and another urged him to “get out fast.” Just outside of town, he settled under a tree, unrolled his bindle have a bit of breakfast and gather his thoughts. As he forced down a lump of food, two small figures appeared on the horizon. Peter crouched down and soon could make out an old negro bicycle tramp and a small black and brown wirehaired mutt. The dog wore a bell that sang as he trotted down the road. Peter decided to take his chances and shouted out,“Hey Bo! Good morning to you friend!”

The old man seemed startled, and it wasn’t until the fellow closed the gap between them and stopped his bicycle that Peter saw why. His milky white eyes were those of a Blinkey. He was either nearly or fully blind.

““What business you got here, boy?”

“I’m looking for my brother. He went missing two seasons ago in Chadwick.”

The old man hesitated for a moment.

“Ain’t no lil ‘uns in Chadwick, and if you go to the place, you gon’ be gone too.”

Peter cleared his throat and willed his voice to stay steady.

“What happens to the little ones in Chadwick?”

“Some things ought not to be talked about, son.”

“I have a twenty cent that says otherwise.”

The old man pondered for a moment and shoved out his hand.

“The Aklalov place. North of town. They farm sheep. You get answers there, but God save your soul. ”

Peter listened to the bell growing fainter and fainter as he headed north. He followed the dusty roads until he saw a shack in the distance, pockets of white nestled in the hills.

Peter hunched behind the shack, but had a clear sight of the inside from a window above the storm doors. He always knew how to move with the shadows. He recognized the smell of potatoes in stew. A giant woman stood over the pot carefully, preparing dinner for what seemed like a family that wasn’t there.

What Peter recognized more than the stew was the thick footsteps of a burled man as he approached the door.

It was a Bull – his whip looped around his buckle, his hulking arms. He remembered those arms raising the whip as Peter scrambled toward the woods.

This time, his arms didn’t carry his whip. He was dragging a child behind him and tossed him in front of the woman with the missing family as he burst through the door.

The giant woman wiped her hands on her apron and said nothing. She only looked the boy up and down.

“I not give you more than four dollar. This boy hasn’t eaten in weeks. What am I to do with this?”

“Feed it. His size is not my problem.”

The boy was made of bones, his elbows jutting out from his skin. He wore his hunger on his face, eyeballing the bread on the table as the two adults bickered over him.

“Roger said five dollars. And the boy is willing.”

The plump woman stared him down.

“Boy. You can lift cart?”

The boy said nothing, continuing to stare at the bread.

“You don’t eat that. Bread not for boys with no manners.”

The boy sounded like a titmouse. He squeaked his words.

“I’ll carry anything you need carried.”

The woman sighed and tossed him the bread, watching as he inhaled it.

“Boy no better than food for tiger. He won’t even survive trip to Greenville.”

The bull shifted his legs.

“Like I said. Not my problem. He can be the Temple Circus’s next lizard boy. I heard you’re missing one of those.”

The woman reluctantly shuffled to a box in the corner and shoved money in the bull’s hand. It was an otherwise plain box with a red bear on its lid.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.” His whip creaked around his buckle as he pocketed the money.

It was the bull from the night of the raid. Peter wanted to burst through the window and strangle him, as the thought of Fitz being thrown across the woman’s kitchen floor and sold to her disregard filled him with fury. But that wouldn’t get Fitz back. There weren’t any options. You don’t fight a bull. He had to head to the Temple Circus.

Greenville was seven counties over and trains didn’t run often enough. It’d be truck riding and foot to get there.

By the time Peter arrived in Greenville, his feet were blistered. He was hungrier than usual. He’d become accustomed to the feeling, but the pains in his side were roaring instead of a quiet murmur.

The townspeople had poured out into the dusty streets of Greenville to watch the red tops erect even in the distance. With so many of them out in the streets, Peter had to keep to the alleys and shanties. He hadn’t seen any signals as to whether Greenville was friendly to tramps.

Peter had never seen a circus. Tents should be easy enough to slip, with railroad hopping under his belt.

When the tents were staked into the ground, it was easier to slip in and out unnoticed. People were too busy staring at the elephants and the painted clowns, clutching their children’s hands and getting the little ones to stop squealing. The smell of lemons, roasted peanuts and cake doughnuts filled the air.

Peter found a spot toward the back, hiding under a railing. He noticed he could catch falling peanuts from the rows above him if he paid enough attention. It was dark underneath the railings, but the lights would occasionally gleam into the shadows, and digging around for them would have pinched him for sure. He stayed still, moving his arms carefully to catch the forgotten food.

Elephants danced in circles like ballerinas, and bears were kept as pets. A man smiled at the crowd, throwing back the curtain and leading out a giant orange cat. Peter had never seen such an enormous cat, its black stripes stretching around its massive muscles. A man came out and uncurled a whip to the ground, commanding the cat to stand up and bear its long teeth. The whip was longer than the ones he’d seen the Bulls use, and hearing its crack, his stomach churned, feeling sorry for the cat. But the cat listened, bearing his teeth with a roar as he’d been trained to do.

Then men crossed ropes at the top of the tent, throwing a boy from swing to swing in the air. The boy couldn’t have been a year older than Peter – his red curls reminded him of Rusty Tiptoes. Rusty had been the best car hopper in 30 counties. Peter remembered camping with him years ago, as Rusty told stories of how many cars he’d hopped, shifting his feet in the dark to change his direction, any time he pleased. East to West. From South to North. Back and forth, like the boy in the sky. Rusty had told him over the campfire that the trick was to never be afraid of falling.

The boy in the sky spun through the air and hopped on the bar quickly, lifting his toes. Tiptoes. Peter’s breath became shorter in that moment. Rusty Tiptoes, the best car hopper in 30 counties, wasn’t jumping cars anymore.

Peter slipped into the crowd as it emptied from the tent. There would be plenty of places to sleep for the night – barns and camp tents covered the plain. He picked a hay bale behind an old barn away from the rest of the action, but he could still hear the animals in the distance. There had been no Fitz. He wasn’t being tossed in the sky; he wasn’t selling peanuts. Peter wanted to resolve himself to never seeing him at all, but hope was a tricky thing, and he remembered why he had avoided it for so long. It had a hold of him now.

He had to go back. The crowds were too thick and the expanse of the circus to big for him to call it quits.

The next morning, Peter slipped into the boundary tape and walked. He’d pick up trash from time to time to look at though he was hired to do it – it was the oldest trick he had.

Crowds gathered again as the posters unfurled above a stage. The Mermaid Girl. The Bearded Lady. The Half Boy. They almost sounded like hobo names.

A man with a wax mustache called out to the crowd, enticing the ladies and gentlemen to move closer to the stage. The Crocodile Man. The Snake Charmer. The Sword Swallower.

The sword swallower was next. His amazing feats would be sure to astound.

It wasn’t a large man with muscles that entered stage left. It was a boy, younger than Peter, who stood silently as he surveyed the crowd and waited patiently for the caller’s instruction.

The blond curls, the lanky figure. A littler taller now, but Peter knew the shape has well as he knew the two “U”s in all the sign posts.

It was Fitz.

Fitz waited patiently for instruction and for the anticipation of the crowd to grow. He pulled a sword from the stage floor and inserted it down his throat. Peter wanted to gasp, but the air was gone.

The sword comes out of Fitz’s throat and he bows, shuffling behind the curtain as the crowd screams with wonder.

“Now, you fine ladies and gentlemen, who would like to come see the sights of the macabre, the morose, the stunning and the stupefying?

A fat man shoves his way in front of Peter, his coins outstretched to the stage, hungry for entertainment. Peter feels around in his pocket for his harvest money. It is his winter insurance, his blanket – all he has left. He fills his hand with all the currency it will hold and throws it in the air.

“ME! I DO!”

The caller sees the wad of bills in Peter’s hand and pauses his breathless liturgy. He points directly at Peter and makes clear that Peter is the boy from the crowd he wants to see.

“YOU, my fine young man, step right up! Come this way! Now this is what we call a hungry kid! Hungry for a show!”

Peter moves through the waves of people as they push him along, the din getting quieter as he felt his pulse. He’s lifted onto the stage as the caller shakes his hand and pulls him close and whispers into his ear.

“Congratulations, kid. I’ve never seen a better shill. You spend all the time you want back there.”

Peter slips behind the curtains, the smell of fish hitting his nostrils. He moved his way down the dark corridor, until he came to the first exhibit. He gawked at the figure. A half figure, actually. He locked eyes with the legless boy as he moved down the hall, quickening his step. He moves past the Mermaid lady, with similar disinterest, this time avoiding eye contact. He almost could have caught her confused stare.

As he approaches the next exhibit, his heart pounds. He leans against the rope.

“Fitz,” he struggled to keep his voice low.

Fitz was standing on a platform, and it took a moment for his eyes to meet Peter’s. Fitz’s eyes grew wide with recognition, and he jumped from his platform at the same time Peter crossed the rope.

They met in a hard embrace, tears streaming down Peter’s face.

“Let’s go. I’m getting you out of here.”

Fitz balked and seemed conflicted.

“Fitz, let’s go! What’s wrong?”

Fitz only stared.

“Come on! What’s wrong?”

Fitz opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again.

“Fitz! Talk to me! We don’t have much time.”

The sword swallower locked eyes with his friend, his eyes welling up with tears. He opened his mouth wider and stepped toward Peter into the light.

Peter stepped back in horror as he looked at the gaping hole where Fitz once had a tongue. His voice shook as he demanded, “What have they done to you?!”

Fitz walked over to the stage and picked up the sword and began to write in the dusty ground.

He etches out the symbol for “safe place” in the dust. Then “food here.”

“There’s food elsewhere, Fitz! I can take care of you.”

Fitz pauses for a moment and carves again in the dust.

Peter stares at the symbol scratched into the dirt.

“End of the road.”

“I’m not leaving you. We’re family.”

Fitz carves the symbol into the ground again. .

He looks Fitz in the eyes, and whispers,

“Bucket Boys.”

He takes the sword from Fitz’s hand, drawing their moniker into the dirt. Two “U”s inside of circles. He drops the sword at Fitz’s feet.

Peter takes a deep breath and pulls his jack knife from his pocket.

“Together forever. I hear they’re missing a Lizard boy.”

Peter pulled his tongue from his mouth, and with one fluid motion, sliced his tongue in two.

Filed under: 2013 Submissions, 2013 Winners, Portland, Team | Tagged: Danielle Nichols, Denise Mullenix, Nathan Davis, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

“Untrained Circus” by Kandi McGilton

Posted on August 20, 2013 by writer

Prompts:
An animal trainer
Cornfields
Doughnuts
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4
Owls

***

Untrained Circus

By Kandi McGilton

Running away was easy; it was putting a roof over her head at only fifteen that was the hard part. After eight months on the road she found her home in the traveling circus and even there she felt like an outcast, unwanted, and strangely like a normal human being. There were all types of weird and unusual people on board the train, Sullivan’s Circus’ permanent traveling home. After only four days as janitor, she’d already created enemies. During last night’s show in Colorado, she may or may not have been the cause of the tent falling down on the entire clown routine. She tried to explain that it had been one of the animals, but since she didn’t know which one, no one believed her.

Frilly costumes and props of all shapes and sizes swung above head and clattered to the rhythm of the train as it cut through the mountain side. Cece had to hunch and duck out of the way to avoid another egg size knot on her forehead as she maneuvered to the front of the car. It was only her first week, but she’d already managed to make that mistake a half a dozen times. Making it through the next three to the food car without incident was a miracle in itself. She was starving and knew that the box of doughnuts she’d been eating from just wouldn’t cut it anymore. Brushing leftover crumbs off her lap, she opened the door and the aroma hit her right in the gut. At the same time as silence that filled the cramped space. All eyes were on her and suddenly she’d lost her appetite, the car was full of the clowns who all hated her now. Glancing at the prices, she thought there was no way she was spending $4.00 on a hobo sandwich.

Pulling her from her thoughts, “Who found her anyway?” One of the clowns whispered loudly to his neighbor. She couldn’t match a name to the face since he wasn’t wearing any of his required clown makeup.

Hasn’t she ruined enough for one night?” Another said as he pushed his meal away.

Cece hung her head and turned around to leave but as she reached for the handle, something bounced onto her back and pulled her hand away.

“Hey!” she looked over her shoulder to see the money who had already wrapped itself around her torso. Smiling, she scratched the top of its head and asked to no one in particular, “What’s his name?”

The animal trainer of the circus stood up and was already stomping towards her. “His name is Doughnuts and you give him back right now!” The whites of her eyes shone up at the man as she tried to protest that she hadn’t taken him to begin with. He was a tall, broad man and had she not seen him only hours ago sticking his head down the mouth of a lion, she would have assumed he was the one who claimed to be the strongest man on earth. His wide hands reached forward to procure his animal and that was when all hell broke loose. Again.

Doughnuts screeched at his trainer and in one mad dash, flung himself from Cece and onto Derek, knocking her tiny body back against the door. One minute she was standing there, the next she was flat on her ass, a welt forming at the back of her skull. It was hard to focus on one particular thing in the room because it felt like everything was spinning. The screeching, screaming, and all out panic didn’t help Cece regain her focus. She jumped when she heard glass shatter and her eyes shot up to the far left window just above the cook.

“No!” Derek yelled as he hurled himself over the counter in a failed attempt to capture the crazed monkey as it jumped through the window. She stood up and was surveying the mess and dazed patrons whose shock must have mirrored her own. Outraged, he turned and shoved his way through the wreckage that had become the dining area and jabbed his finger against her collar bone. “This is YOUR fault!”

Baffled, Cece shouted back, “Excuse me? How is this my fault?” She waved at the tornado like wreckage. “That was YOUR monkey, not mine!”

“Because every time you walk into a room, something bad happens! You’re nothing but bad luck!” He turned to the group of clowns who were all a mess, food and drinks covered their clothes, some with ripped shirts, and one even missing a shoe. “I say we drop her off at the next town and say good riddance! Who’s with me?”

The small mob shouted back in unison, “Yeah!”

Spinning on her heels, she pulled open the door and swung it open hard. In the same moment, it connected to Derek’s nose and he flew back against the other men, his nose completely shattered, blood spewing down his chin. Without looking back, Cece ran towards the front of the train, adrenaline and fear pumping through her as she stumbled from car to car.

As she reached the ringmaster’s quarters, she stopped. It was forbidden for anyone to enter. Cece held onto the railing as she tried to catch her breath. Her long, auburn hair whipped around her in the wind, and she was suddenly chilled to her bones as she realized there was nothing but darkness and clear skies above her. She glanced through the tiny window behind her and saw no trace of the men who wanted her gone. How was she to blame for all of this? It wasn’t her fault the monkey had suddenly gone crazy.

“I don’t belong anywhere.” She breathed to the sky and then let out a yelp as the tiny face of the monkey popped into her line of sight, obstructing her view of the galaxy. She grasped her heart and yelled at it. “Oh, you stupid monkey!” It made a sound as if mimicking her voice and she let out a frustrated grunt at it swung down from the roof of the train and onto her shoulders. It began digging in her pockets and down her sweater.

“Hey! Stop that! That tickles!” She squirmed and tried to push the monkey off her and when he finally let go she saw that he had shoved something into its mouth. “What the?” Just as she was about to reach for him, the whistle sounded. She covered her ears and then stumbled forward into the rail as the engineer began to break. “That’s going to hurt in the morning.” Cece muttered as she held her ribs and stepped off to the right to see why the train was stopping so suddenly.

“This is your fault you know.” She accused Doughnuts as he swung in front of her as if looking too. He stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry at her before climbing to the top of the train only to disappear once more.

Shaking her head, she continued to watch as to cold mountain air began to warm up, and realized that somewhere back there, they had cleared the mountains altogether. As the train slowed, and her vision adjusted, she noticed the tall wisps of wheat and grains and taking a deep breath, a smile curved her lips. She’d made it to the country side.

“What’s all that noise out there?!” Cece gasped at the ringmaster’s voice, and did the only thing she could think to do as she heard all of the locks clicking open. She climbed the ladder and hid.

“What’s going on out here?” Sullivan yelled to no one as he flung his door open. His frown deepened as she looked around at nothing and with a disgruntled shake of his fists, he barged into the car and proceeded to yell again. She could hear him moving though this one and to the next and didn’t dare climb down until he was well gone.

As she peeked through the window, there wasn’t a soul to be found. She looked at Sullivan’s door that gently bounced to the sway of the train. Open, unlocked, unoccupied… forbidden. She was about to turn around, to chase him down to explain when Doughnuts pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

“Shit!” On gut instinct, she rushed in after him and then froze in her tracks. Treasures from faraway places she’d never even dreamed about covered every nook and corner. It was stuffed so full she couldn’t even tell where that damn monkey had gone until she passed the little table and chair where he had been hiding; waiting it seemed, for the right moment to grab her hand. She yelped and then growled at him. “Would you stop doing that? Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here!”

Ignoring her, the monkey climbed on top of the table and began popping grapes into his mouth.

Stop, don’t eat that!”

She tugged at him and to her surprise, he went willingly. She got to the door and swung it open and that was exactly when the train came to a complete stop. It jolted her, slamming her into someone. As her green eyes looked up, it wasn’t just anyone. Sullivan’s ice cold glare told her he’d already been informed of the mess back in the food car.

“So you think you can steal from me?”

“What? No! I wasn’t… It was Doughnuts!”

“Liar! Then what do you call this?” He pulled a ruby necklace from her pocket and she gaped back and forth between the him and the monkey now hanging on her hip.

“I swear I’d never steal anything! It was him!”

“Tell that to the authorities!” Sullivan reached for her but suddenly Doughnuts was between them, growling and clawing at the man. As if matters couldn’t be worse, she held her breath and leapt from the train. Her knees gave way and she hit the dirt rolling, the monkey tumbling to her side. Aching, she began running away from the train, from her accuser, and the rest of the circus that seemed to come spewing off the train in an attempt to catch her.

Cece had to shield her face as she ran through the cornfield. She knew it was just fear, but it seemed as if the stalks were grabbing at her, slicing at what bare skin was showing trying to slow her down. The voices seemed to shout from all around her and she came to a stop when everything went silent. The blood pounded in her ears, only the quiet hooting of owls could be heard in the distance.

Owls… owls needed a place to perch. Trees, a barn perhaps. Shelter.

“I’ve got the monkey, forget the girl!” Cece whipped her head in the direction of Derek’s voice and almost turned back around. Somehow she felt she owed it to Doughnuts to go back. Just as the thought crossed her mind, he heard the man yell not two minutes later, she was tackled to the ground. Wide eyed, she looked up at the crazy monkey and without a word, scrambled to her feet and began running again.

Two months later Cece found herself sitting outside a doughnut shop, her pet sitting next to her as they attracted customers inside. While she had been fine getting paid minimum wage, her monkey thought he got the better deal, being paid with his favorite treats. As she watched him bite into his afternoon payment she laughed.

“We’re going to have to give you a better name…” She had to duck from the piece he threw at her and shook her head, holding her hands up in surrender. “Alright, Doughnuts it is, Doughnuts it shall be.”

Filed under: 2013 Submissions, Individual, Out-of-Towners | Tagged: Kandi McGilton, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

“Three Owls Diner” by Gretchen Wehmhoff

Posted on August 20, 2013 by writer

Prompts:
An animal trainer
Cornfields
Doughnuts
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4
Owls

***

Three Owls Diner

By Gretchen Wehmhoff

James pulled the last nickel out of his pocket, wiped off the lint and laid it with the rest of his change – two crumpled bills and a handful of coins. Four dollars and seventeen cents. Spending a portion of his last four dollars on a grilled cheese sandwich seemed irresponsible, but standing outside in the downpour was the uncomfortable alternative. The walk over from the bus stop had soaked him. Here, inside the diner, he was dry. He opened the sports section of the newspaper he found by the door when he had come in. Three of the four pages covered local prep football in the southern Iowa town.

The diner was fairly quiet, a couple of men wearing John Deer hats and Carharts sat at the soda bar drinking coffee and providing occasional bursts of boos or fist pumps directed at the ball game on the large television mounted behind the bar. Two women spoke softly at a table in the corner. One ran a hand slowly through her hair while fidgeting with the straw of her soda with the other. She seemed to listen to her companion, but looked deep in her own thoughts.

The only other customer in the Three Owls Diner was a young woman occupying the booth in front of James. It was a corner booth. She sat quietly, nearly invisible, nurturing a cup of coffee. The waitress had filled her mug twice since James had sat down. She looked up long enough to say thanks, then looked back down at her hands. James thought she seemed tired, defeated. Her light brown hair hung in damp, uncombed strands. Not tangled, but certainly not brushed recently. She wore a dark, knitted stocking cap and a green raincoat over a dark hoodie. James had watched her off and on between innings.

“Do you want anything else, hon?”

The waitress held a coffee pot in one hand and James’ check in the other. A cup of coffee could extend his stay in this dry, warm haven.

“How much for a cup of coffee?”

“Today it’s free. It’s Tuesday. Free coffee on Tuesdays at the Three Owls.” she said, waving the pot. “Not sure what’s so special ‘bout Tuesdays, but the coffee is on the house today.”

James indicated he’d have a cup and took note of her nametag.

“Thanks, Connie.” he smiled.

She grabbed a cup from a nearby table and filled it for him. Her dark, graying hair stayed up in a bun behind her head, a pair of worn, but sturdy shoes kept her moving. Connie was all business. She stopped by the next table and topped off the woman’s cup.

The young woman looked up long enough to see James’ gaze then quickly focused back on her hands.

On the wall above her, a thumbtack held a promotional calendar similar to those companies hand out to clients. The theme must have been something to do with farming or seasons. The month of August displayed a brilliant blue sky outlining a field of strikingly even, green rows of corn. James had grown up around cornfields in Nebraska. He and his brothers used to run through the neighbors fields playing capture the flag until the neighbor lost his sense of humor. The boys spent the next three days hauling and husking corn for the community picnic. James knew there were machines to do the work, but this small amount of discipline had made a difference. He held a greater respect for hard work and the beauty of a healthy cornfield. The rows seem so perfect. Life should be so easily sown. He could use some work now. Husking corn actually sounded desirable.

“Excuse me,” the quiet woman motioned Connie over. “Do you have a job application?”

Connie nodded and headed to the cash register. James stopped her, “do you mind grabbing one for me while you’re there?”

The woman in the booth smiled at James. “Can’t do much else, might as well work.”

James smiled back. “I’m James.”

“Kari”

“Good to meet you, Kari.”

James looked down at the back of the check Connie left for him. A picture of three, horned owls resting on a tree branch in front of a wooden sign was printed on the back. Why three owls? Why not two owls? The center owl had a strange gaze. It was looking at him. He turned the ticket over and looked at the menu in the holder on the table. The front of the menu showed the same picture, only in a photograph. How did someone get three owls to sit still for a photo in the daytime? The center owl in the photo had the same, strange gaze, looking into his eyes with an, eerie, knowing focus. It knew the truth. Be wise, it’s eyes expressed. Be wise.

“Here you two go. Need some pens?” Connie dropped a pen off at each table. “Have either of you worked in a restaurant before?

Kari nodded, “Back home, I worked at a Howard Johnson’s before they closed up” She didn’t tell her she had only run the cashier and scooped ice cream.

James smiled, “Not in a place as nice as this, but I used to prep for a place back in Nebraska. Did dishes, chopped onions, stuff like that.”

Connie gave a nod with her lips drawn in a curious smile then walked back to the kitchen window and spoke with a man in a white t-shirt and ball cap.

James looked back to Kari. She quickly put something in her mouth then wrapped the rest of her snack in plastic wrap and stuffed it in the front pocket of her hoodie. She caught James’ curious look.

“It’s a doughnut,” she said quietly. “I haven’t eaten in a day or so. I grabbed this from the gas station.” She saw his face change to sympathy. “I really need a job.”

James picked up his sandwich and coffee and moved to her booth. He reached a long arm over the back of his seat to grab his application and pen.

“Here, have half of this. I’m full,” he lied, pushing the plate with half a grilled cheese across the table.

Kari looked at the sandwich. “No, it’s yours. I’m fine.”

Before the sandwich shuffle could continue, Connie reappeared with the man in white from the kitchen.

“You two looking for work?”

Nods from the table indicated they were not only looking for work, but they could also use some food.

“Well,” the man in white continued, “I’m not sure what you’re made of, but you came by while I’m in a tight spot. School’s startin’ next week and I’m gonna loose my kitchen help and one food server to the football season. If you two want to give me a day to see what you’re made of, I can give you two meals and any tips you get by the end of the day. If it works out, I can put you on part time for a bit.”

Kari looked at James, then turned her face up to smile at the man in white, “I’m Kari and I’d love to give it a shot.”

“Same here,” said James, rising from his seat to shake the man’s hand. I’m James.”

“Harold, but you can call me Hal. Most folks do,” he drawled. “So, which one of you wants to work with me in the kitchen?”

James grabbed his backpack, ready to work. As he left the table the center owl kept him in its gaze.

Three hours later Kari was crying. Who knew chopping onions could be such a tearful experience. She had two more to go then she’d be working on the line with Hal. Kari was sweaty, hot, smelled of onion and felt content. She’d found a pair of clean black pants in her backpack. Her mother had told her that a woman who wanted to work should always have a clean white shirt and a pair of black slacks. She wore an oversized white apron and a baseball cap with her hair tucked away from her face and the food.

The service window looked out from the kitchen into the dining area. A series of heat lamps hung over the stainless steel counter between the cooks and the servers. A round, metal turnstile hung to the left with clips for holding paper tickets. Two orders had come in – teriyaki burger and a jalapeno burger. The jalapeno burger ticket was written in beautiful cursive, with the name “Jerry” circled on it. The teriyaki burger was written in clear, box letters like one would see in a cartoon.

The new guy, James, seemed to be having a good time talking to customers. If this was a bar and he was a bartender, he’d probably be hauling in the tips, thought Kari.

James had borrowed a shirt from Hal and changed into a pair of tennis shoes. Connie took him through the steps. Keep the coffee going, place the order, take out the drinks, then the food, then deliver the check. She’d handle the cash register. This was good – and a great deal more fun than husking corn.

The door opened and a tall man in cowboy boots entered, removing his hat.

“Hey Jerry!” called Connie. “The usual?”

Jerry nodded, smiled and sat down next to the men in Carharts. They had gone through two pots of coffee and the game was in the eighth inning.

A few minutes later a small woman in a leather coat and high heals bustled in. Connie motioned her to a front booth and nodded to James. James took his cue and filled a glass with fresh ice water.

“How are you today?” he asked the woman, setting down the water in front of her. She was older, maybe in her mid sixties. Her hair was a bold, natural looking auburn red, curled to just below her ears. She set her coat next to her and removed her driving gloves.

“I’m fine, dear,” she nodded, “I’ve been driving for quite awhile and thought I’d take a break.

“Oh, where you headed?”

“Chicago,” she looked up, “I’m headed to the national dog show. I’m one of the judges.”

“Wow.” James was impressed, “how do you get to be a judge at the nationals?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve been training dogs and other animals since before you were born. This is my ninth year as a judge.”

James smiled and gave her some time to look at the menu while he visited the other tables. Circling back he took her order – a teriyaki burger, coleslaw, no fries and a chocolate milkshake. This was a good day. He wrote the order clearly and slipped it in next to Connie’s order for that other guy, Jerry.

Back in the kitchen Hal chuckled when he saw Jerry’s order. He disappeared into the cooler and returned with a handful of small, green, narrow peppers.

“Old Jerry keeps telling me our jalapeno burgers aren’t hot enough. I’ve been waiting for him. These are habanero chili peppers. They pack a punch so hot he’ll melt a hole in the stool.” Hal diced two of them up, mixed them in with the fresh ground beef patty and dropped it on the grill.

“You take the next one.”

Kari looked at the order, dropped a patty on the grill and checked the recipe notebook for the details. She found pineapple circles in the cooler and teriyaki sauce on the line. Two buns were toasting. Minutes later the burger was done. She placed the meat on one bun, decorated the other with lettuce, onions and the pineapple, set it on the shelf and rang the bell twice, indicating James had an order. Hal was just finishing Jerry’s burger and setting it on the shelf when James came up. At the last minute Kari realized something was wrong. She pulled her plate back and ran to the cooler.

James grabbed the plate on the counter and took it to the red-haired animal trainer.

Connie came to the window. “Hal, what’s keeping Jerry’s burger?”

“It’s right in front of….hell, where’d it go?”

Kari came out of the cooler, dropped a scoop of coleslaw on the plate and set her plate back on the counter. James was coming back for the coffee pot and heard Kari call his name.

“Here it is, James. I forgot the coleslaw.”

Connie’s jaw dropped. She looked at Hal, then turned to James sputtering, “you took my jalapeno burger!”

James froze. He saw the burger on the counter and Kari smiling, albeit a little confused with everyone’s reaction to her finishing her first burger. “Oh shit!” He turned to the red-haired woman across the diner.

“Don’t eat that!”

James flew over the counter. Condiments shot everywhere, coffee spilled and there was a sound of breaking glass. He reached the table, grabbing the hamburger out of the woman’s hands. A confused look crossed her face. She had already taken a bite.

“Oh man! I am so dead,” moaned James, under his breath. This was not a good first day. The burger in his hand drooped with the weight of the meat. Five or six habanero peppers fell to the floor.

The red-haired woman’s face raged a deep red, her nose winced in pain and her eyes held back tears. She wasn’t sure what was in her mouth, but it wasn’t teriyaki. She grabbed her only napkin and spit out a semi-mashed mouthful of meat, bread and habanero peppers.

“I am so sorry, Ma’am. This wasn’t your burger. “ He grabbed the napkin concealing the regurgitated mistake and the woman’s plate. “Let me bring you your dinner.” The woman could hardly speak. “Hot!” She whispered. “Hot!”

“Here’s some milk, dear. That should help.” Connie set a tall glass of whole milk in front of her. The entire room had turned their attention to the new waiter and his redheaded customer. One of the men seated at the bar wiped a dark stain off his pants. Hal emerged from the kitchen and took to wiping down the bar and handing out free coffee. Kari brought out the woman’s teriyaki burger, and set it down gently.

It took a few minutes before the woman could speak. She downed the milk and ate a piece of bread Connie had set down. Water only made it worse. She took a few bites of the coleslaw and that seemed to make a difference.

“I am so sorry, Ma’am,” It’s my first day, but I should have known that wasn’t the burger you ordered. I don’t know what I was thinking.” James sat in the booth across from her. “Hal said dinner is on us, tonight. I hope that helps.”

The red-haired woman took another sip of milk, focusing her eyes on James. “What’s your name, son?”

“James.”

“Well, James. I have to tell you. I stopped in to wake myself up a bit before I drove on to Chicago. You certainly did the job. What kind of peppers where those?”

“Habeneros. The hottest damn pepper you can find,” said a deep voice from the bar. “Hal was trying to make me sweat, and I think you ended up in the hot seat.” Jerry grinned.

“Well, James, I’m Lena,” she smiled. “Thanks for the excitement.

No more customers came in. The television displayed red bulletins across the bottom of the screen warning people to stay off the roads, there were flood warnings and the highways were ripe for hydroplaning. Lena had stopped driving at the right time, if you take away the burning hamburger mistake.

The diner was empty. Lena found a room in the motel next door and the two women in the corner headed out into the rain, as did the men in Carharts. The game was over and their team had lost. Jerry grabbed his hat, waved good-bye and went out to his sixteen-wheeler and the bed in his cab.

Kari came out of the kitchen, taking off her apron. Hal was locking up the coolers. She had just finished mopping the red tile floor. James sat in the booth counting out four different colors into sugar holders; white, pink, blue and yellow. He lined them up neatly, like rows of corn.

“Where you staying,” Kari asked. She didn’t recall James from around here.

“I guess where I stay depends on if I still have a job,” He answered.

“Oh, honey, I think you did fine,” Connie said from the next booth. “I’ve never seen anyone jump across the counter. I don’t think I ever have. That was entertainment.”

James smiled. Looking back it was pretty funny. “Thanks, Connie. You know Kari, I may just treat myself to a room at the motel if they’ll take …. thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents,” he says, counting his tips.

“No need, young man,” called Hal from the kitchen. “If you don’t mind a hard bed, I have a bunkhouse out back. You can use my shower. You earned it. I think that animal trainer was sweet on you.”

Kari laughed. Things seemed to be lining up. She tossed the remainder of her day old doughnut in the trash. James wiped down the menus and stacked them near the cash register. He could have sworn the middle owl winked at him.

Filed under: 2013 Submissions, Individual, Out-of-Towners | Tagged: Gretchen Wehmhoff, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | 1 Comment »

“The Main Attraction” by Becky Benson

Posted on August 20, 2013 by writer

Prompts:
An animal trainer
Cornfields
Doughnuts
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4
Owls

***

The Main Attraction
By Becky Benson

Prologue
I’m not sure one really sets out to ‘run away and join the circus’. Well, not usually a thirty-four year old many anyway, at least not a sane one. Not that it was really a circus, some would consider Wall Street more of a circus than this. The funny thing is, I think about running away now more as an adult that I ever did as a child. Anyway, I guess some would say I was running away. To me though, it feels like coming home.

***

Robin Bixly was growing tired of his posh penthouse office. Growing sick of steak tartare luncheons and late night business meetings entertaining potential clients. Even though everyone said it suited him, much like his custom made Armani, he always felt out of place. His sixteen by sixteen foot, window lined walls were closing in on him. His own persona was strangling the life out of him. It’s not the he didn’t recognize himself when he looked in the mirror, it’s that this guy was all he could see, he didn’t recognize the person he used to be. He was an outsider in an inside world who’d somehow managed to worm his way in. In the rise of the late 90’s dot com boom he was in and out before the collapse and suddenly had a tract record of achievement behind his name. It wasn’t long before the start-up investment firm; Steinbeck House took notice the young prodigy and snatched him up. In the fourteen years he’d been with the company he’d changed.

The final straw (or so he thought) was being backed into a corner by his boss, who’d agreed to entertain one of their newest potential clients by escorting her to P. T. Barnum’s Live Siberian Extravaganza in Las Vegas (by her request, and definitively one of the more eccentric they’d encountered). Just imagine how coincidental it seemed that Andrew Steinbeck’s Hampton cottage had been the only house along that particular stretch of shore hit by a rogue tidal wave the very day before the trip, and as such he’d passed along the escorting duty to his “Star Player”.

Now, at five o’clock Robin found himself packing little more than three garment bags and an overnight kit, and hailing a cab to take him to JFK for the eight o’clock flight to Las Vegas. Truth be told, he wasn’t that out of sorts over the trip itself. The reason was though, that he’d let Andrew know he’d be staying out of town an extra two days to make a visit back home since he was coming practically all the way across country anyway (in reality he just needed to clear his head away from the perpetually fast paced noise that was Manhattan).

Portland, OR had always been home. His center. His rock. The quaint farm house he’d grown up in and the pine crisp air always refreshed his senses. Once he got there he’d venture down to the Burnside Bridge to meander through the market, then over to Voodoo Doughnuts for the classic bacon maple bar. Then he’d end up back home with mom for some of her Sunday night goulash. By far better than any steak tartare or yellow fin sushi he’d ever had.

The house was old, built in the 1920’s as a dairy farm. His parents had owned it for forty years now. They’d long since sold off the herd of cows that came with the twenty four acres once Tillamook stopped putting out small local orders, and for the last thirty five years it had been a sort of wild life refuge/abandoned animal shelter. He didn’t mind the discolored wood floors or the dirt driveway. It felt real to him, better than suits and high -rises. He wondered how a boy from the Great Northwest ever got mixed up in any of that Manhattan High-rise mumbo-jumbo anyway.

The house, the trees, the doughnuts would have to wait. First he had to meet Mrs. Evangeline Wallis at the New York New York. See, even when he was getting away from New York he couldn’t get away from New York. He’d be in and out. Wheel her, deal her, wine her, dine her, seal the investment, and he’d be off.

“Mom”, he chirped. “I’ve got great news! How’d you like to get a look at your long-lost son in a couple days?”

“Oh Robbie, are you visiting?”, she squealed. “I can’t wait. When will you be here?”

“Sunday afternoon, I’ll fly in at four o’clock.”

“Perfect, I’ll make-”

“Goulash, right, mom?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a wild guess. See you soon.”

“See you soon, Robbie.”

He handed his ticket to the airline attendant and proceeded to take his seat in row 2, seat B.

“When the company pays”, he mused to himself as he ordered a vodka tonic.

Ok, there were some things about this corporate life that weren’t all that bad.

Four and a half hours later they landed in Las Vegas and after he’d picked up his bags he was off to his room for what was left of the night. He would meet Mrs. Wallis for brunch at the Belagio and then remain with her throughout the day and evening discussing business (which meant flattering her in every way possible), then ending their day of business by escorting her the tiger show. What was it about Vegas and tigers? Why in the world did the two seem to go hand-in-hand? For right now though, he was tired, and parched. Not that he didn’t get his fill of vodka tonics on the plane, dehydrated was more like it. He looked around his room. The bottle of Figi would have to do, although truth be told, he didn’t mind spending $4.00 on a bottle of water when, once again, it was on the company tab.

Awakening the next morning, Robin got up, showered, dressed, and strolled his way down to the Belagio where, having never seen her before, he instantly recognized Evangeline Wallis immediately. Wearing a long leopard print tunic over ankle length black leggings, her red cat-eye sunglasses stuck out along the edges of her face almost as far as her hot pink nails grew past her fingertips.

“Vegas, baby!”, he muttered to himself with a chuckle. He could see, now how the tigers fit in.

“Dahling, today you are my best friend!”, she quipped with a raspy excitment, and stretched her arms open wide to embrace this man she’d only just laid eyes on for the very first time.

“Mrs. Wallis, it’s good to meet you.”

“Oh, you must call me Evvie. I’m so happy to have you accompany me today. Tell your Andrew how sorry I am to hear of the issues with his home. I hope it will all be alright, but today we will not let anything dampen our spirits. I am excited for you to see the show this evening.”

“Thank you, Evvie. I’ll make sure to let him know of your concern. I also want you to know that Steinbeck House we will take care of-”

“Oh, no no no no no. No business just yet. We have all day, let us enjoy the atmosphere of each other’s company. We have so much to see today.”

“Certainly. Shall we eat? You must be famished.”

“Wonderful idea”, she agreed.

It was quite late into the day, and although they were going for brunch it was really lunch time by now. Robin had a feeling Evvie kept these hours in general though. They took their window seats in full view of the fountains that were just beginning their dance for the day. It really was a spectacular sight. He ordered the eggs benedict, and found out then that Evvie sustained herself on little more than the decorative fruit that accompanied her seltzer water.

“Do you know why we are going to see the Siberian Extravaganza this evening?”, she asked.

“Well, I assume it’s a wonderful show”, he replied.

“It is! But that’s not why.”

“No?”, he asked.

“No. It is because my husband trained those majestic creatures himself. He worked for many years as an animal trainer and he contributed to the production of this show, and many others. He loved the tigers. They were more than just animals to him. They were his passion. He brought some of them over to the United States many years ago on a cargo ship when he came from Russia as a boy. They once belonged to a Czar, but he had grown tired of theme and cast them off. Others he rescued from the wealthy who thought they could own a creature such as these as merely a pet. You simply cannot do such a thing with this beauties. They have their own ideas, their own thoughts and feelings. You cannot control them, only seek to understand them, and my Yuri did. He would get them healthy again, but these tigers can never go back into the wild. It’s sad for them, living such a life they were not meant to live. They cannot change their stripes, you know. ”

“That’s amazing”, Robin genuinely replied. “I had no idea. What a wonderful story. What an interesting life I can imagine it has been. My family owns it’s own little animal rescue/sanctuary outside Portland, Oregon. We’re a much smaller operation though. Mostly dogs, cats, horses. We did have an owl for a while. She had a broken wing when we found her. My mom nursed her back to health and she was like a pet for a while, but when she was strong enough we had to let her go. I was only six and my brother was eight so it was hard for us. We wanted to keep her. My mom explained that she wouldn’t be happy here and she needed to fly.”

“Your mother is a very intelligent woman. She understands these creatures are not here to be our possessions. And your father?”

“My father is the one who turned our farm into the animal retreat. He was kind of an animal whisperer himself. It was a dairy farm when my parents bought the place. He passed away six years ago. It was pancreatic cancer. Advanced and aggressive.”

“I am sorry for your loss. Loss is hard. No matter what or who you have lost, loss is hard. It’s been two years since my Yuri passed. Two years and everyone is telling me that it’s time to tie up the loose ends with his business affairs. I don’t want any part of it, to be honest. I just want someone who can handle it for me and let me know how it’s going from time to time. Speaking of such affairs, Manhattan is a long way from Oregon, Robin. How does a boy raised on a farm get to Wall Street?”

“I have a gift for numbers.”

“And do you have a passion for it?”

His inner self imploded. He suddenly realized that in fourteen years, he had never once asked himself that question. He guessed that he’d just assumed that having a gift for something begat a passion for it. He knew right then and there that this is where his discontent came from. It had been a kettle bubbling up to scream since the beginning. He admired Evvie. He could tell, knowing her now for little more than an hour, that she lived deliberately, and that everything she did was with passion. It seemed like a wonderful life to him. Although, it also occurred to him that he was there to secure her as a client.

“I think I have many passions. Well rounded, I hope.”

“And these numbers, they are one of those passions?”

Geez, she really was backing him into a corner. How to address this, he wondered.

“I suppose in a way, they are. I like many things about numbers, most of all, what I can do with them.”

Good, he thought. That sounds like something a money-hungry Wall Streeter would quip. It sounded like someone who would invest wisely, right?

“I’d imagine so”, she replied with a slight airy laugh. “Now, when we meet again this evening I do so hope you will be ready to be thoroughly entertained.”

“Of course”, he replied, “But there is still the matter of us discussing the business we are meeting here for”.

“Already done, my dahling. I now know everything I need to know. See you at six.”

With that she floated up from the table and sauntered away.

Had she really just called him out on his career choice? Was she calling him a fake? He wasn’t sure, but he did think that she seemed to like him. Now that he had the majority of the afternoon to himself he decided that while he waited out the hours until his final meeting with Evvie Wallis, he should do a little more research into those business affairs so he would properly understand how to woo her into investing them with Steinbeck House. Now that he’d met her he would figure out exactly what needed to be said to meet the demands of her personality in just the right way so that the firm would win her over and she would comfortably trust them to take care of her assets.

The problem was, that he didn’t care about it now. Now that she had pointed out that he had no passion for the life he had created he ultimately realized the facade was sucking the real life right out of him. He thought of his father. His father, who had told him many times while he was growing up the stories of riding the rails. One day he just decided to ride. What today many would call an aimless drifter, to him, it sounded so romantically exciting. He remembered the tales of the salt air bristling his father’s face as the train steamed along the coast. He remembered how he told of the dessert so vast you couldn’t see a beginning or end, and how magnificent it was that they could have built all these railways through such a seemingly desolate place. His mind wandered to the acres of waving wheat in Nebraska and forest like storied cornfields of Iowa where, as everyone in his family knew, was when he’d hopped off looking for a piece of apple pie in a diner and wound up meeting the waitress he’d wed just three months later.

That was passion. He wanted to run away just like his father and find himself in the middle of nowhere. To create a life he could be proud of in terms of anything other than numbers. Not only did he not have a passion for numbers, but he was beginning to despise them. Even his brother, Mark who, though he had no interest in animals still wasn’t selling his soul the way he was. Mark lived somewhere near Berkley and was a professional beat poet. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to be back home and with the animals he’d loved so when he was growing up. His mother had recently told him how she’d found a fawn with a broken leg on the edge of the property lying in a ditch. Most likely the little doe had tried, unsuccessfully to cross the road. Then there were the rabbits, and the chickens, and the horses, most of which had been turned over to them, some anonymously when the price of feed got too high for people look after them any longer. Thank goodness the mortgage had been paid off for years, but still, he knew that even with the 4-H clubs, bake sales, donation cans, and ‘suggested’ care offerings for anyone surrendering an animal, his mother was running out of options in keeping the growing number of the needy furry friends.

He decided to stroll around the stores that the world famous shopping area of Vegas has to offer. Maybe he’d bring something back for his mom. Still feeling a little guilty for missing out on Thanksgiving last year, no doubt. In his defense, he did think spending time with Fiona’s family and getting to know them better seemed like a good idea. At least when he thought they were moving in the direction of marriage. Turns out she was, just not with him. Not two weeks later he received a modern day ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ in the form of an email, nonetheless.

He took a look around. Ferigamo, Tiffany’s, Coach; this was clearly not prime shopping for a farm woman in her late sixties. Maybe he’d ask Evvie what a nice haven’t seen you in a while/coming home present for his mother would be. She looked about ten years older than Nancy Bixly, but he assumed that she’d have a better idea than he, and that she’d appreciate the question. Speaking of Evvie, it was time to head back to his room and change into proper dinner attire.

Even tying his bowtie nauseated him now. He was actually looking forward to the evening at hand, because to be honest, it was the most interesting thing he’d done in, well he couldn’t remember since when. He felt oddly like high society about to attend an opera, and reminded himself that he was actually in Las Vegas about to go see the Live Siberian Tiger Extravaganza.

Upon meeting Evvie he wasn’t surprised to see her in her flowing lime green Grecian garb complete with some sort of silver loafer. Interestingly enough, it set off the silver in her hair quite nicely. This woman knew who she was, he thought, and she makes no apologies for it.

The ate rather quickly, her of her watercress salad, and he of the croque au vin, and spoke mostly of the impending show. Soon thereafter, they made their way to the entrance and took their seats. Robin was expecting more of a circus like ambiance. There was no tent and surprisingly, the whole arena was quite sophistically decorated with wine colored drapes, complete with gold tassels, and tables, not rows of bleachers. There were balconies and servers, and even programs like it was a broadway show. There was still a curtain, and in the center of the stage, as the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed, and the announcer called for the opening, was the main attraction.

Six white Siberian tigers sat perfectly still in pyramid formation while the Grand Marshal (complete with top hat) quickened his pace as he ran around them gesturing for applause from the crowd. The magnificent creatures each got heir turn in the spotlight entertaining the crowd with acts of juggling, leaping, and growing with open mouths. They were beautiful and well cared for. Their coats shined under the lights, and their eyes glistened.

Robin peered over at Evvie to see her watching with baited breath in complete amazement and adoration. She gasp along with the rest of the crowd at every amazing feat the regal animals displayed. Again and again she grinned widely in appreciation. He saw her love for these tigers, and her love for her husband. When the show was over the crowd sprang to their feet and the applause was near deafening.

“Marvelous”, Evvie cheered. “Bravo, bravo”.

They left the show and Evvie glowed. Robin wished he had such a spark, a zeal in life for anything the way this woman did.

“You must tell me, Mr. Bixly. What made you decide to escort me to this show this evening, aside from being assigned the duty by your firm, of course?”

“I thought it seemed so outrageous that it would be astronomically entertaining.”

“Wonderful! And how do you feel now?”, she asked.

“That is was more entertaining, and informative than I ever could have imagined”, he replied.

“I’m glad you came she let him know.”

“Me too”, he said. ” There’s just one problem”, he told her.

“Problem?”, she asked. I thought our meeting was going very well.

“It is”, he laughed. “Too well, in fact. You see Evvie, I’ve decided I’m not going back to Steinbeck House after this trip. Actually, I don’t think I’ll be going back to New York at all. I’ve decided to stay in Oregon and help my mother with running the sanctuary, and tending to the farm itself. I was thinking we could turn it into a hobby farm. Sell the eggs, and have birthday parties, and a petting zoo. I think I could really help her revitalize the place. I did want to ask you on thing though. I was looking for a little coming home present to bring to my mother. What would you suggest?”

“Are you kidding, dahling? You, of course! All a mother needs is her children, and maybe a tiger!”

They both erupted in laughter.

“Well how fitting that you are not returning to New York. I was going to have to tell Steinbeck House that I have decided not to invest my money with them anyway.”

“You were?”, he asked with an air of shock.

“Yes, you see I have enough money to last me eons and I’ve recently decided I don’t need to the using it to help the Ritchie Rich’s of Wall Street get any righter, especially since I’ve found out about a nice little business I think I can partner in creating which would allow me to indulge my passion. Furthermore, the young gentleman who is starting it is quite passionate about animals they way I am and I think he will be able to pour his heart into his work and do some good with is new hobby farm. Now we shall celebrate! Let us go and eat. How about steak tartare? I’ve always wanted to try it.”

“No Evvie, don’t eat that! Don’t ever eat that!”

Filed under: 2013 Submissions, Individual, Out-of-Towners | Tagged: Becky Benson, prizes, Sledgehammer, writing contest | Leave a comment »

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