I am an engineer by training and began to really enjoy my passion for writing after retiring to Cape Cod, MA a few years ago. I hope everyone enjoys reading my stories as much as I enjoy writing them.
Wendy’s baked potato with shredded cheddar cheese. Plays a prominent role in my story.
Getting behind in posts again. This one was written for the Chatham Memoir Group prompt to write a story with a joyful, or happy ending.
Ode To Joy
It’s a Friday night. My wife, Barb, asks, “What time is it?”
I look at my watch and reply, “11:45.” As in 11:45 PM.
“I’d really like a baked potato. Would you like one too? Do you think you can make it to Wendy’s before it closes?”
The answer to Barb’s question comes in the form of screeching tires as I zoom out of the driveway and leave a trail of burning rubber smoke as I race to get to Wendy’s before they close at midnight. I’m exaggerating a bit here. The car in this memoir is the 1981 Buick Skylark I wrote about previously. The four cylinder, four speed stick shift model was an engineering marvel that was designed and built as the antithesis to the word “cool”. The only rubber that would be left on the road for this car was if one of the wheels fell off. But I did race, rather chug, over to the Wendy’s and arrived with 7 minutes to spare to get our baked potatoes. The look on the faces of the crew members, who had begun to clean up before closing, was priceless, dripping with disgust. I was happy to have parked the Buick in a well-lit area, or I may have been waylaid by a Wendy’s employee.
It was the Summer of 1984, Barb was pregnant with our first child and the pregnancy made her a real night owl. The Stop & Shop near us was open 24 hours, it is amazing how few people are shopping at 4:00 AM. Barb mostly shopped there alone I did tag along a couple of times. The Pathmark grocery store was also open 24 hours, but it was quite the opposite of the Stop & Shop. We made one 4:00 AM shopping trip there and felt like we had walked onto the set of a Fellini movie. People were just around hanging around, talking in the aisles, not shopping. There were a group of teenagers playing in the seasonal goods department, playing basketball with beach balls. I never saw anyone dribble an inflatable ball so deftly, even to this day. I think they were all there to enjoy the air-conditioned store on a sticky summer night.
The craving of the Wendy’s baked potato with butter and shredded cheddar cheese also began that summer. We became regulars at the one on Dixwell Avenue in Hamden, close to our home, and I made several visits in the minutes before closing. The crew at the store began to expect my frantic entrance and began to greet me with smiles and ask how Barb was doing. I think if Edward Hopper were still alive, he would have made another Nighthawks painting set in a Wendy’s.
Through that summer into the fall the baked potato cravings led us to many Wendy’s along the I-95 and I-91 corridors in Connecticut. On a mid-September trip to visit Barb’s parents in Vermont, a baked potato craving led us to a Wendy’s in Enfield, CT, right off the highway. After satisfying the craving, we resumed our journey to Vermont, unaware of the drama yet to unfold. Arriving at the home of Barb’s parents, we were just settling in to relax when she realized her purse must still be in the car and asked if I could get it. The purse was not in the car! We must have left it at the Wendy’s in Connecticut! Using directory assistance, I got the restaurant number and spoke to the store manager. He said they did find a purse and asked me to describe it. It was Barb’s purse! Happy, I hung up the phone and said I would drive back to get it. My father-in-law cheerfully said he would go with me. I managed to disguise my scream as a cough. I looked at my wife and she saw my entire repertoire of facial expressions: shock, horror, fear, despair, resignation. I croaked out a weak, “OK.” Four hours in the car with my father-in-law, I felt like I was going on a mission that I had small chance of returning from.
The story has a happy ending. The purse was, indeed, my wife’s. The round-trip ride with Barb’s Dad was surprisingly uneventful. The happiest ending was the arrival of our son Geoff 5 weeks later, on Halloween night. A true Ode to Joy!
A scene from the movie “Beau Geste”, the Algerian desert is the setting for my story.
The prompt for the Sturgis Library Writing Group was “A Cabin In The Dunes”. I set my story in the Algerian desert before the start of World War I. My characters are in the French Foreign Legion.
The Cabin In The Dunes
Sergeant Dagineaux lowered his binoculars, wiped the perspiration from his brow and passed them to the man lying on the ground next to him.
“Between those two sand dunes, Corporal Reynaud, at about one o’clock, tell me what you see.”
Reynaud peered in the direction Dagineaux had pointed to. He pulled his head back, blinked several times, and peered through the binoculars again. He passed them back, a puzzled look on his face.
“I see a bloody cabin, Sergeant! It’s not a mirage, our eyes aren’t playing tricks on us. What’s a bloody log cabin doing in the Algerian desert?”
“Well Corporal, we need to find out now, don’t we?”
Dagineaux and Reynaud stood, unslung their rifles and cautiously approached the cabin. As each step brought them closer, the strange building became clearer in the shimmering reflections of the sun off the sand. It was indeed a log cabin. Nestled as it was between the two dunes, they hadn’t seen the well and small garden flanking the cabin with the binoculars. Vegetables were growing in the garden. Standing exposed, there was no place to hide in the desert, but they didn’t sense danger. It was surreal, Dagineaux felt compelled to knock on the cabin door. He and Reynaud were startled to hear a voice croak, “Come in.” The Sergeant slowly opened the door, its hinges squeaked in protest. An ancient looking man was seated at the head of a table. A broad toothy grin appeared in his bearded face. “Ahh! My relief has arrived! Sit gentlemen, sit! We have much to discuss, and very little time to do it in.”
Completely baffled, Dagineaux asked, “You were expecting us?”
Pointing to a thick book on the table in front of him, the old man replied, “Yes, of course, the manifest states Sergeant Claude Dagineaux and Corporal Victor Reynaud, of the French Foreign Legion, will arrive to assume my duties on the ninth of May, 1905. That is today gentlemen.”
“But we must return to our fort in Adrar, sir. A member, or members, of our patrol drugged the Corporal and I, then deserted. Taking six camels and all of our supplies. We have to report this to our commander.”
“None of that is necessary now, Sergeant. A higher power has deemed you’re needed here. It’s all in the manifest.”
“Umm, what is it we are expected to do?” asked Reynaud. He thought he would humor this man, who was obviously daft.
The old man stood, every joint in his body cracking with the effort. He motioned for them to follow him to a desk in the corner of the cabin. An even larger book sat on it. Books of similar size were arrayed on shelves lining the wall. Each book had what appeared to be a range of years stenciled on the spine, 1875 – 1900, and so forth, back to the 1700’s. He opened the book on the desk to a marked page. “From time to time, you will have visitors, seeking to go through that door,” he pointed to a padlocked door on the wall opposite the desk. “You must ask them their name. If it doesn’t appear in this logbook, they can’t go through that door. Send them on their way, no matter how much they protest.”
Dagineaux and Reynaud looked at the names listed in the columns on the open page. “Parks, Robert”, was the last name in the column. “That’s me,” said the old man, “When I am done here, you will unlock that door and let me pass to the other side.”
“And where does that door lead?” asked Dagineaux.
Before the old man could answer, the door to the cabin swung open. Another legionnaire stumbled in.
“Gastineau! You bastard!” howled Reynaud, “You left us to die in the desert!”
The old man put his hand on Reynaud’s shoulder to calm him. Gastineau had a bewildered look on his face. “I’m sorry. Something went terribly wrong, Berber tribesman ambushed us…,” looking at the locked door he continued, “I assume I pass through there?” He took a step towards it.
“No! You’re not in the register. Run along now, go back the way you came.” ordered the old man.
Gastineau sobbed, dropped his head and shuffled back out the front door, closing it behind him. “It’s as simple as that,” said the old man. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Dagineaux. “Unlock that door please, it’s time for me to go.” The Sergeant complied. When the door was open, a bright, golden light bathed the room. There was a stairway on the other side of the door. The old man stepped into the light. He was no longer old! He appeared as young and robust as the two legionnaires. “It’s the stairway to Heaven, my friends, guard it well.” He paused for a moment and smiled, “Stairway to Heaven, I envision someone writing a song about it someday. Goodbye my friends.” And with that he dissolved into a cloud of golden dust, the door slammed closed.
Dagineaux reattached the padlock and turned to look at Reynaud, “Bloody h….”
“Don’t swear Sergeant! You sure don’t want to scotch this sweet assignment.”
Yankee and Rebel pickets meet on the Rappahannock River at Fredericksburg, Virginia. The setting of my story.
Two summers ago I joined a fiction writing group that was designed to provide guidance and insight for writers intending on creating a novel. Over that summer I wrote six chapters of what I hope to become a historical novel set during the American Civil War. Besides needing to get back to that effort, I have written three stand alone stories using the same characters. The prompt for the Tuesday Sturgis Library Writers Group was “I Heard That…”. I went back to my historical novel characters and wrote a fourth stand alone story, which could be incorporated into the novel. I italicized and emboldened the prompt in the following story.
The Picket Line
Fredericksburg, Virginia, December 12, 1862
The waning Gibbous Moon illuminated the rutted path to the Rappahannock River crossing. The temperature had dropped as the sun set making the path icy in spots. Fearing his horse may slip, the rider dismounted, tied its reins to a sapling and walked the rest of the way to the river.
A voice with an Irish brogue called out of the shadows of the trail, “Halt! Who goes there!”
“Captain James Bartlett, Corp of Engineers, and aide to General Burnside.”
The guard called for Bartlett to approach. After exchanging salutes, Bartlett noted the brass numbers and letters on the guards’ cap, “69th New York Volunteers, cheers to the Irish Brigade!”
“Thank you, sir. How can I be of service?”
“Can you direct me to the sergeant of the guard?”
“Follow the path to the river sir, Sergeant Quincannon’s ‘is name.” Bartlett thanked the guard and continued towards the river. Soon he could hear the river gurgling over the stones at the crossing. The guards at the crossing had lit a small fire. There were blankets tied to the tree trunks and branches to conceal its flickering flames. Quincannon, sitting near the fire and sipping from a tin cup, stood and saluted Bartlett, then offered him a cup of tea. Inquiring about the Captain’s visit, Bartlett answered, “I heard that men on the picket lines engage in commerce with our Rebel opponents across the river.”
Quincannon stammered, “That’s against regulations sir.”
Bartlett chuckled and said, “Don’t worry Sergeant, I know it happens. I need to get a message to a friend on the other side. How do I arrange for that transaction?”
Quincannon hesitated a moment, leaned out from the cover of the blankets and called into the dark, “Corliss, you over there?”
A voice called back, “Howdy Quinn, what can I do fer ya’ll?”
“There’s an officer of engineers here says he needs to get a note to someone, can you help?”
“And what’s this officer of engineers have to offer us to be his messenger?”
Quincannon gave Bartlett a questioning look. “Coffee and some brandy.”
Quincannon called back, “He’s got coffee and brandy Corliss.”
“I’ll be damned! Send him over Quinn.” Corliss told the other Rebels with him to not shoot.
Bartlett splashed across the cold, shallow river and walked into a circle of rather seedy looking Rebel soldiers. Corliss stepped forward and gave a lazy salute. Bartlett saluted back and handed over the brandy and coffee. The circle of Rebels gasped. Reaching into his coat pocket, Bartlett withdrew a letter and asked Corliss if he could get it to a cavalry officer named Captain Redmond Downes.
“T’aint no cavalry here Captain”, said Corliss.
“I know there is, I saw them from the observation balloon today,” replied Bartlett.
Corliss was astounded. “You were in that thang? I saw it today! What’s it like to be so high up?”
“Scary as hell when it’s windy. But you can see for miles. Please get this letter to Captain Downes,it is about a mutual friend of ours. A young woman named Lizz.. Miss Elizabeth Haw.”
Balloons filled with hydrogen gas were used by the Union Army for aerial observation in the Virginia Theater of War until May of 1863. It was cumbersome transporting the balloons and gas generating equipage.
Corliss’ eyes narrowed, then his mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Mutual friend, eh? Soon to be closer to one than t’other I’m guessin’.”
“Please see that he gets it Mr. Corliss. I’d also like for him to know that I am still alive.”
Corliss became serious again, “I am sorry Captain, I was just joshin’ with ya’all. I’ll do my best.”
A Rebel burst through the brush startling everyone. “Officers approaching”, he blurted out breathlessly.
Corliss turned to Bartlett, “You have to scoot sir. I’m gonna to count to 10 and then we will fire off a volley. Tell Quinn we’ll be shootin’ high, we’d be much obliged if ya’ll return the favor.”
Bartlett slipped, tripped and scrambled his way back to the Yankee side of the river, counting to 10 as well. Reaching for Quincannon’s outstretched hand he told him what was about to unfold. Sure enough, a volley rang out from the Rebel side of the river, the bullets humming through the branches high above their heads. The Yankees aimed high and fired off a volley into the heavens over the Rebs. A few insults were hurled back and forth.
Catching his breath, Bartlett thanked Sergeant Quincannon for his help. Reaching into his sack, he handed the Sergeant a flask of brandy.
“Be’Jesus, you’re a saint sir. You surely are!” Sergeant Quincannon exclaimed.
Bartlett shook the Sergeant’s hand and walked up the moonlit trail to his tethered horse.
The prompt for the Chatham Writers Group this week was to write a piece that includes the following words: envy, beauty, hatred, insecurity, icon, compromise, reconciliation. My brief tale follows, I emboldened the words we needed to include. Also, I am working on trying to improve my skills writing dialogue, so this story is largely a dialogue between two people in a coffee shop, an actress and an entertainment reporter.
Sisters
The couple sat in a corner booth in the coffeehouse, away from the lights over the counter and entryway. The air was rich with the fragrance of hazelnut coffee and cinnamon rolls. The other patrons thought the woman looked familiar, but all they could really see was her back as she leaned forward to talk to her companion. Then she would lean back and disappear into the shadow of the booth wall. The man she was with would take a sip of his coffee, then lean towards her, a bemused expression on his face. They were not really a couple, he was asking questions, then jotting things down in a little notebook.
“So, tell me, why were you and your sister not on speaking terms?”
“I never said we were not on speaking terms. We exchanged birthday wishes, holiday greetings, things of that sort. We spoke.”
“Superficially though.”
“I suppose…”
“Were you envious of each other? I don’t understand why that would be the case. You are both confident and accomplished actors, of equal beauty.”
“Perhaps, there was some envy…”
“But why? You’ve each been awarded two Oscars, been nominated two other times….”
“Three Oscars.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“My sister has three Oscars, she co-wrote a screenplay and won an Oscar for that.”
“Uh, oh, I’m sorry, I had forgotten…”
“Two Tony awards, and Emmy, Golden Globe..”
“So, are you envious of her achievements then? I mean, you have been recognized as a leading actress for several years now. Your sister has never had a leading role. She has primarily been cast in character actor roles, or as a supporting actress.”
“She is SO DAMN GOOD in those character actor roles. She is a greater scene stealer than Alan Hale ever was. He was her favorite actor! She got such a kick out of watching him steal scenes from Errol Flynn in all those old westerns and swashbucklers.”
“You acted together in one movie. Did her presence, her being in the same scenes make you feel insecure?”
“I suppose. Her comedic timing is precise, she is as skilled as a neurosurgeon in those comedy roles.”
“But that was a wonderful movie, you both displayed great comedic timing, you played off each other so well. The roles of two women who were the play-by-play and color announcers of a minor league baseball team became iconic roles. It led to a TV series and a Broadway musical. What was the problem?”
“She stole my scenes! I was trying to use a dry wit to describe the incentives in the game program magazine. What the fans would win if a player hit a home run in a specific inning, like a meat tray from a local deli. Then it would be her turn to describe incentives there were if the players on the home team accomplished a certain goal… like ‘Any Royalton Yankee who pitches a no-hitter, will win a free, rebuilt fuel pump from Tarducci’s Junk Yard’. But she did it with such great flourish. She got all the laughs! I hated her for it.”
“Why? That seemed insignificant. And you were both nominated for Oscars. You were both great.”
“That was her screenplay Oscar. Do your research.”
“Ummm… I, …”
“Never mind. I felt she wrote the best jokes for herself.”
“So that led to the falling apart.”
“I suppose.”
“What happened next?”
“A major studio expressed an interest in reviving the characters. The two women had become so popular, they made it to the major leagues, broadcasting Pittsburgh Pirate games. The city and team were all in for it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Our publicists and agents met and attempt to get us together for the roles. I was reluctant, I promised to never star in another role alongside my sister.”
“Go on.”
“A compromise was reached. My sister wrote the entire script this time and mailed it to me. I was blown away. The story line kind of paralleled our lives. The two characters had gone through a falling out over a minor slight. They reconciled and teamed up again, even better than they were in the minor leagues. My character had become cynical and tough with the male ball players and coach. I have some really good lines!”
“Wow. That is fabulous news.”
“Ahh, here comes my sister now, I’ll let her fill you in on the plot details and when filming begins.”
The prompt for the Monday Chatham Writers Group was to start your story with the words “Good Bye”. My fictional piece follows.
Good Bye
“‘Good bye.’ Those were the last words she said, just good bye.”
“Wow, with great finality it sounds.”
“I suppose.” Detective Jerry Mullins shrugged and glanced at his wristwatch. He reflected on the past two hours. He had entered the hospital cafeteria, his detective shield clipped to the pocket of his sports jacket. A woman in uniform waved to him. Next to her on the table was a cap with the familiar black and gold checkerboard pattern above the bill. Pittsburgh PD. He walked over to her table and introduced himself. She had a firm handshake and said her name was Fran Parker, a Sergeant in the Oakland Precinct. The Sergeant’s name sounded familiar to Mullins, but he couldn’t recall from where.
He noticed there were two coffee cups on the table in front of her. She pushed one in his direction and asked him if he was working a case. When he answered affirmatively, Sergeant Parker asked if he could tell her about it. He looked around to make sure there wasn’t anyone who could overhear them. The cafeteria was nearly empty save for a group of hospital staff huddled at one table too engrossed in their conversation to pay attention to anyone else. Nonetheless, Mullins leaned in a bit closer and laid out the details of the case to Sergeant Parker. It was a white collar crime case and it involved a childhood friend.
He told Sergeant Parker his friend had introduced him to Laura, his new girlfriend. “She was stunning. Now mind you, Curt’s a super guy, however he makes Steve Buscemi look handsome. The new girlfriend seemed to really like Curt.”
“I sense a but here, Detective.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Mullins, “a couple of days ago we received a bulletin from the Cleveland PD to be on the lookout for a con artist who’s MO was to establish relationships with men in order to obtain their financial info and empty their bank accounts. The photo that accompanied the bulletin was Curt’s new girlfriend. Different color hair and wearing glasses, but it was definitely Laura, which apparently was one of the five names she used.”
“So did you tell Curt?” asked Sergeant Parker.
“Yes. And, Oh God, did he fall apart. The timing was great because he was ready to give Laura 25 grand. Tonight as a matter of fact. Curt told me where Laura was staying and my partner and I went to arrest her.”
“That was tonight?. How’d it go?”
“Laura, or whatever her real is, was a great actress. She feigned innocence, then she hugged herself as she was crying real alligator tears. Suddenly looking up and laughing maniacally, she pointed at me, a glint of metal, then, “‘Good Bye’. Those were the last words she said, just Good Bye’.”
“Wow, with great finality it sounds.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“So what’re you doing here at the hospital?” asked Sergeant Parker.
“Waiting for word on a gunshot wound victim.” Mullins took a sip from his coffee cup. He thought, “When did I get a refill?” Looking at Sergeant Parker, he asked, “So, what are you doing here?” Before she could answer, it dawned on Mullins where he had heard her name before. “I know who you are…” his voice trailed off.
“I’m always here detective, but you have to leave now, you’re going to be alright.”
“Wait, Sergeant Parker, what did you say?”
“Glad to see you’re awake! I said you’re going to be alright Detective Mullins. You’re going to have a bad headache, but your going to be alright. Who’s Sergeant Parker?”
“Who are you?” Mullins groggily asked.
“I’m Doctor Sinclair, the one who removed the small caliber bullet from your skull. Instinctively, you put your hand up for protection. It absorbed most of the impact otherwise we wouldn’t be talking. Now who’s Sergeant Parker.”
“She died in the line of duty last year, but I saw her in the cafeteria.”
Doctor Sinclair nodded, “Get some rest Detective Mullins. You’re going to be alright.”
This story is loosely based on an actual incident that occurred to a friend of a friend. An attractive woman tried to bilk this guy out of thousands of dollars. Although the guy truly would make Steve Buscemi appear like Brad Pitt, he was no dope and figured out what the deal was. The woman who tried to grift him did not have an APB out on her – at the time, who knows now – and this happened over 40 years ago. Nobody was shot, there was no police involvement, the dialogue was made up. I fell back to the familiar haunts of Pittsburgh to set the background for my story.
The Old Bethel AME (African-American Episcopal) Church in McClellanville, SC. A historic landmark built in 1872, The site of my story. (Photo taken by me in February, 2022).
I selected the photo of the Old Bethel AME Church as the topic for the Monday, 3/13/23, meeting of the Chatham Writers Group. I tried my hand at writing creepy, horror type stories this week (see Philadelphia Alley). I started writing my story and got carried away. I had several characters, some deaths and more gore, a couple of different locations, etc, and was approaching 2000 words on a story that was supposed to be no more than 1000 words. I eliminated characters, body count and scenes to concentrate on events at the church. At the end of my story, there will be a brief history of the Old Bethel AME Church.
The Old Bethel Church
Sheriff’s Deputy Claire Simmons shifted uncomfortably in her chair and glanced at the business card in her hand, “Bennett Sisters Consulting”. There was a phone number, and a satanic symbol with a red X through it.
She made a quick inventory of the two African-American women sitting opposite her. Identical twins, they appeared to be in their early 50’s, and were dressed almost identically with light blue denim shirts, jeans and walking shoes. The only difference was one sister wore a navy blue bandanna around her neck and the other wore a pink one. “And what type of, um, consultation do you provide?”, she asked.
The sister who had identified herself as Mae answered, “My sister, Lena, and I consult on matters of the occult. We provide a cleaning service of sorts in that we remove demons, phantoms, those sorts of things. They sometimes take over abandoned places of worship. What’s your story Deputy Simmons?”
Choking back her emotion, the Deputy described how her Dad and his friend were walking past Old Bethel Church on their way to the pond to fish. Her Dad suddenly stopped and started acting strange. He was looking at the church and told his friend he needed to talk to someone, said to go on, he’d meet him at the pond. His friend looked to where my Dad had been looking and saw the back of a man wearing overalls go into the side door of the church. When my Daddy didn’t show up at the Pond, his friend went to look for him and found him behind the church with his throat ripped open.
“Coroner said it was a rabid dog, but I believe the man in overalls had something to do with it. Something ain’t right with that church.”
“And your father’s friend didn’t tell his story to anyone else?”
“He was terrified Miss Bennett, so he only told me. The man in the overalls didn’t appear to be real, he kind of shimmered. My Daddy is buried in cemetery alongside the church. When I go to visit him, the church seems to be mocking me. I hear laughing and whistling coming from the slats on the belfry. I told my Aunt, my Dad’s sister, she told me about the two of you, and here we are.”
“Well, let’s go have a look see then.”, declared Lena.
“Now?” Deputy Simmons was incredulous.
“No better time than now.” The three of them piled into the Bennett’s old Range Rover and drove off.
A pine tree lay across the dirt road that led to the Old Bethel Church. The Range Rover clattered to stop and the three women climbed out to look at the tree.
“The pine must have fallen during the night,” said Deputy Simmons, “the road was clear when I patrolled it yesterday.”
“It knows we’re here.”, said Mae.
The Bennett sisters opened the tailgate of the Land Rover and removed a few items. Deputy Simmons was startled to see Mae carrying a viola case and Lena with a guitar gig bag slung over her shoulder.
Without a word, the Bennett sisters climbed over the tree, and trudged down the dirt road. The Deputy scampered over the downed pine and followed behind the twins. A gentle breeze picked up, the moss draping the oaks that lined the road began to sway, seeming to beckon the three women to the church.
The dirt road ended at a clearing. Confronting them was the Old Bethel Church. Deputy Simmons shivered, the air had gotten noticeably cooler. “I feel it,” she said, “that church is looking at us.”
Not only did she feel as though the church was staring at them, she swore she could see it breathing. The red tin roof and sides of the old building appeared expand and contract. She sensed movement to the right of the church, shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Did those headstones just turn to look at us?” Deputy Simmons inhaled deeply, she could see her father’s grave, his old fishing cap resting on it’s headstone.
“We’ll take it from here Deputy Simmons. You need to walk a ways back down the road,” ordered Mae.
“You’re kidding!”, exclaimed the Deputy. Mae stood holding a Super Soaker. From her gig bag, Lena had assembled a 5 foot chrome rod with a cross on top and a spear point at the bottom. Reaching for her pistol, Deputy Simmons said, “You’re gonna need more than a damn Super Soaker and a steel bar. I’m going with you.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mae calmly, “You can figure out later how to explain what ya’ll will see. And put that away, it won’t work,” she added, pointing at the officer’s pistols. “ This Super Soaker has a mix of Holy Water and salts blessed in the Holy Land. Lena’s rod is pure silver. These things are demon killers.”
The side door flew open and slammed against the building, momentarily startling them.
A figure wearing blue overalls appeared in the door. Two bright, yellow orbs glittered in the shade cast by the wide brim hat on its head. Waving a dismissive hand, the figure went back into the church. The women looked at each other, then stepped through the door. They stood for a few moments waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Deputy Simmons thought the inside of the church had a metallic smell similar to that of a dead deer found along the side of the road. Snapping on their on their flashlights, they circled the pews. Lena broke away and began to move up the center aisle, holding the cross topped staff in front of her. Mae and Deputy Simmons continued along the wall. A shuffling noise came from behind them. Simmons turned her beam in the direction of of the sound. She gasped. The form shuffling towards them was her father, or what used to be her father. A gaping, raw wound ran from his throat to just under his ear. The dried blood from the wound had left a huge brown splotch on his fishing jacket. His fishing hat, laced with lures, sat tilted on his head.
“Daddy?”, her voice choked with emotion.
“Claire! You’ve come to help me! Help me…” the apparition groaned and extended its arms.
Mae shouted, “No!”, and yanked the Deputy back. The father/demon opened its mouth to reveal jaws lined with long piranha teeth, and began snapping at them. Releasing a high pitched, fiendish giggle, it rapidly approached them. The spear end of Lena’s silver staff jabbed through the front of its shirt, cutting off the laugh. The demon looked down in surprise at the spear. It turned a parchment brown color, broke apart and fluttered to the floor like tree leaves.
A long howl ripped the air. Lena aimed her flashlight toward the front of the church. Caught in the beam of light, the yellow-eyed thing in bib overalls howled again, exposing a line of those piranha teeth.. It jumped from the pulpit and raced towards them, bounding along the backs of the pews, snarling. Mae let loose a stream of the Holy Water concoction from her Super Soaker and stitched a line across the creature from right hip to left shoulder. Without another sound, the thing fell apart in two pieces, dissolving into a pile of parchment leaves as well. Except for the sounds of their rapid breathing, the church was silent.
Two days later, Deputy Simmons and the Bennett sisters visited her father’s grave in the Old Bethel Church Cemetery. The church was silent, the cemetery peaceful. Her father’s fishing hat rested on his headstone. They were not certain if it was because of a sudden puff of wind, but it seemed as though the hat tipped, grateful for what they had done.
Fishing hat on headstone in the Old Bethel AME Church cemetery. Photo taken by my wife in February 2023.
The Old Bethel AME (African-American Episcopal) Church is the first AME Church created in McClellanville. With the end of the Civil War in 1865, former slaves were now allowed to build their own places of worship and the first congregation met under an oak tree in MClellanville in 1867. The Church was constructed in 1872, damaged by a hurricane in 1916, repaired and continued to host services until 1979, when a new Church was built for the growing congregation. In 1986, the Old Bethel Church was lifted off its foundation by Hurricane Hugo and almost all of its stained glass windows were shattered. It was supposed to be converted to a community center in 2002, but for some unexplained reason, it never happened. Old Bethel Church was used as a backdrop for a 2019 min-series called “Lowcountry”, but then was vandalized. The remaining windows were boarded up and it has remained vacant.
Philadelphia Alley, Charleston South Carolina. The steeple of St. Philip’s Church rises above the wall to the right. The setting for my story
This week’s prompt for the Sturgis Library Writing group was to write a story/memoir/poem using the photo of the alley shown above. My tale of mayhem follows.
Philadelphia Alley
Sergeant-Major Poe stood at the parapet of Fort Moultrie, jotting down his observations of Sullivan’s Island in a notebook. Shortly after his arrival at the Fort, the local inhabitants told tales that the pirate, Captain Kidd, had buried a substantial treasure somewhere along its shores. The tales had given Poe an idea for a short story and he had begun to create a plot line. To help potential readers develop an image in their minds of the story’s setting, he wanted to provide a description of Sullivan’s Island. Poe stopped writing for a moment and gazed off to the west across the wide expanse of Charleston Harbor at the city of Charleston itself. In the setting sun, he could just make out the stately homes on Battery Street and the tall spire of St. Philip’s Church. His line of concentration was interrupted by the approach of one of the post’s orderlies. He snapped Poe a crisp salute and pulled a folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, from his leather messenger bag. “Lieutenant Griswold’s compliments Sergeant Poe, he asked me to pass this order to you.” Poe thanked and saluted the orderly. Breaking the seal and folding open the note, he read that he was being ordered to Charleston the following morning to oversee the unloading of munitions from a supply ship and to ensure their delivery to Fort Moultrie. He would be met at the docks by Monsieur Paul Douxsaint and would be a guest at his house. Poe signed the log book acknowledging receipt of the order and proceeded to his quarters to prepare for the trip.
The unloading of the supply ship began mid-afternoon and ceased at dusk. As Poe stepped from the gangplank on to the dock, a rather well dressed man in top hat and carrying a bejeweled cane approached and introduced himself as Monsieur Douxsaint. Gregarious and possessing a delightful French accent, he invited the sergeant to dine with him at a private club called the Vendue. By the time they completed their dinner, darkness had fallen and the streets were illuminated by flickering gaslights. Walking along Queen Street on the way to the Douxsaint house they had reached the intersection of Philadelphia Alley when their conversation was cut short by a horrible scream that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up. It was a woman’s scream and it came from somewhere in the Alley. As they stared into the darkness, a second scream made them jump. Poe started to make his way into the Alley but Douxsaint grabbed his arm.
“Sergeant Poe, please, do not enter they Alley, it is dangerous.”
“But it sounds like a woman is in trouble Monsieur, she needs our help.”
“It could be a ruse to lure us in, Sergeant Poe. We will be discovered in the morning with our skulls bashed in, our money and valuables taken.”
Women’s screams and the hoarse shouts of men disrupted the darkness of the Alley.
Poe retrieved a pistol from his valise and drew his sword. “Tell me what’s down this Alley, Monsieur. Someone is in desperate need of help.”
“A few apartments, the entry to the church cemetery on the left. The Barnwell Mortuary on the right.”
Poe disappeared into the darkness. Douxsaint uttered a curse, and began to shout for the police. He gave the jeweled head of his cane a twist and pulled it, extracting a short sword from its hollow body. “Wait for me Sergeant!”
The two of them crept slowly along Philadelphia Alley, listening. The shrieks and shouts had stopped for the moment. A door swing open and slammed against the wall, making them retreat a few steps. A shaft of light from the other side of the door broke through the darkness in the Alley. They gasped as a man staggered from the door, the handle of a knife protruding from his neck. Falling to the ground, blood from his severed jugular sprayed the Alley. Poe and Douxsaint ran to the fallen man, but they saw he was beyond help. Douxsaint stood and began to shout as loudly as he could for the police, anyone, “Murder! Murder!” he yelled.
Readying his sword and pistol, Sergeant Poe went through the open door. What he saw revolted him, his dinner gave a huge roll in his stomach. On the floor lay the body of another man, mouth open, empty eyes facing the ceiling. It appeared he had been stabbed in the heart. On a table was the body of a third man, but it was clear he was being prepared for burial. “The morgue,” thought Poe.
“Oh Mother of God!” exclaimed Douxsaint when he came through the door.
Shouts and screams from two women came from somewhere else in the building. They pushed through a set of doors into a wide hallway. To their left was a staircase leading to an upper floor. The sounds seemed to be coming from there. Bolting up the stairs they stopped to listen. A struggle could be heard from a balcony behind them, in the front of the building. Racing out to the balcony, they saw a woman gripping another woman by the throat with one hand, while trying to plunge a knife into her chest with her other hand. The second woman was using both of her hands to keep that from happening. Poe could hear the sounds of police whistles from the street below.
“Madame, please, put down the knife,” Douxsaint said softly.
The quiet French accent had an effect on the knife wielding woman. She looked at Poe and Douxsaint, blinked and dropped the knife. “They killed my husband,” she sobbed, “they cut him open down in that room.” Looking at her blood stained hands and clothing, she gasped, “What have I done?”
Police officers boiled out on to the balcony. Quickly assessing the situation they escorted the knife wielding woman away. From the woman who had been attacked they learned the knife wielder’s husband had died of consumption the previous day. The morticians were in the process of preparing his body for burial when the distraught wife burst in. Seeing her dead husband displayed on the table made her go berserk. She grabbed a dissecting knife and stabbed one of the morticians in the heart then jammed the knife into the neck of the second mortician. Then she grabbed another dissecting knife and came after her. Gesturing at Poe and Douxsaint, she said, “The gentlemen arrived in time to save me.”
Before giving their version of what they witnessed to the police, the gentlemen were asked to provide their full names and occupations.
“Monsieur Paul Douxsaint, shipping merchant.”
“Edgar Allan Poe, Sergeant-Major, Company H, 3rd United States Artillery.”
The police completed their questioning and allowed Poe and Douxsaint to leave. Sipping brandy in the parlor of his home, Douxsaint shuddered. Looking at Sergeant Poe he said, “My dear Edgar, this has been a truly horrific night. I don’t know if I will ever see another restful night of sleep. God, I will forever rue the night we came upon the murders at the morgue.”
Edgar Allan Poe looked at the brandy in his glass and swirled it once. “Murders? Rue? Morgue? Hmmm…” he thought.
A drawing of Edgar Allen Poe in his uniform at the time he was at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island. The stripes on his sleeve are not those of a Sergeant-Major, he didn’t achieve that rank until later in 1828.The house of Paul Douxsaint on Church Street in Charleston, S.C., built in 1725, still standing today. My story ends in the parlor of this home.Saint Phillip’s Church. Philadelphia Alley runs behind the Church, the Douxsaint home is a block away.
I took some creative license in writing this story, what is factual follows:
Edgar Allan Poe was a member of Battery H, 3rd U.S. Artillery at Fort Moultrie S.C. from 1827 to 1828. He wasn’t promoted to Sergeant-Major until after his transfer to Fort Monroe in Virginia in December, 1828.
For some some reason, Poe enlisted in the army using the name Edgar A. Perry, perhaps to disguise his age? He said he was 22, but was really 18 when he enlisted. He resigned from the service near the end of 1828, at which time he revealed his real name and age.
Poe did use the setting of Sullivan’s Island and the rumors of Captain Kidd’s treasure as the inspiration for his short story, “The Gold Bug”.
St. Philip’s Church was built in 1836, 9 years after the time line of my story.
Paul Douxsaint was a real person, his home still stands, two blocks from St. Philip’s Church & Philadelphia Alley. He built his home in 1725, so he would never had met Poe.
The Vendue is a boutique hotel on Queen Street in Charleston, but didn’t exist at the time my story takes place. I thought it was a cool name to use.
Ernie Stricsek, The Sturgis Library Writers Group, March 15, 2023
I am getting behind on my story posts! The prompt for the Sturgis Library Writing Group last week was to write about a piece of mail you received, in any genre. A couple of years ago, I began writing writing a series of fiction stories, based on true events, using a young reporter working for a fictitious Pittsburgh newspaper (The Manchester Press & Journal). This young reporter hopes to someday become a sports writer covering his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers. But in the mean time, because he is relatively new, he keeps getting assigned to a hodgepodge of stories. The only “sports” type story he wrote about was a pigeon race held at a place called “World of Pigeons”, located in a small town in the north central Pennsylvania coal region. My story is sprinkled with Pittsburghese, a language I became fluent in. At the end of my story, I will reveal the real events this story is based on.
The Whistleblower
Sly from the mailroom interrupted my line of concentration in crafting a brilliant story about the cow patty bingo tournament I had witnessed at the Washington County Fair.
“Yo Rookie! Looks like yinz got a fan. There’s a real letter, addressed to you personally, mixed in with this stack of junk mail.”
Even though I have been with the Manchester Press & Journal for almost three years now, Sly still referred to me as “Rookie”.
“Thanks Sly. Even junk mail is typically addressed to me, though.” I called the mailroom guy Sly because he was anything but Sly. He liked me calling him Sly, but he wasn’t sly enough to note it was a slight.
Stuck in the fold of an ad telling me if I could draw the pictured lumberjack I would be eligible for a scholarship to some obscure art school, was a plain white envelope. The address was from someone named Hamilton in Strabane Township, about 20 miles SW of Pittsburgh. It seemed to me that most people from the Strabane area called Pittsburgh “Picksburg”, and I wondered if they spelled it that way. Seeing Pittsburgh spelled correctly on the envelope dispelled any doubts I had.
I debated opening the letter, was it hate mail? I wasn’t in the mood for hate mail. But my curiosity got the better of me so I slit the envelope, pulled the contents out and began to read. Astounded by what I read, I had to read it a second time and went from astonished to mystified. The letter was sent by a fellow named Steve Hamilton. He said he’d met me when I wrote a story about an industrial accident that occurred in the factory he worked at. I vaguely remembered him. In the body of his letter, he was essentially blowing the whistle on his company, specifically on a co-worker and a few people on its management team. He was accusing them of stealing raw material and scrap and selling it for personal gain. He referenced an incident where 10 tons of cobalt strip shipped to a company in Ireland for conversion into industrial diamonds never arrived. When the crates were opened, they were full of sand. That story did jog my memory, but I didn’t realize it involved the company Steve worked for. He said about two months after that disappearance, two managers bought up-scale homes in Canonsburg and his co-worker was tooling around in a Datsun 280Z. He said he would like to meet to show me some Polaroid photos he took as evidence and gave me a phone number to call, and a specific time to call, which made me believe I’d be calling a pay phone. Making the call at the requested time, the traffic noise in the background confirmed the pay phone guess. Steve asked if we could meet in “Picksburg” he didn’t want anyone he worked with seeing him talking to a stranger, much less a reporter. I suggested we meet at my favorite dive bar, The Three Deuces at 222 Federal Street. They had great kielbasa sandwiches and Wednesday was pierogi night. I asked him if he wanted to talk to the police, I was good friends with a couple of Pittsburgh’s finest and assured Steve they would be discreet. He hedged a bit, then agreed. It being Monday, we would meet in two days on Pierogi Wednesday.
The Three Deuces, 222 Federal Street on Pittsburgh’s North Shore. A favorite meeting place for my characters. Sadly, the Three Deuces was torn down several years ago.
A visit to Three Deuces is an experience that ends in sensory overload. Directions to it were easy, cross the Roberto Clemente Bridge and the bouquet of kraut and kolacz will draw you to its doors. The air in the bar was so dense with smoke from the grill and cigarettes, it would have resisted a chain saw. I found the bar by bumping into it and was greeted by Eddie Stanko, the owner of Three Deuces and now a good friend.
“There’s a guy with a big rent in his head askin’ for yah. He’s in the booth you reserved. I don’t mean to be nebby, but will the detectives be joinin’ yinz?”
“Yes,” was all I said.
Eddie jammed an ice cold Iron City in my hand and said, “Try not to stare at the gash in his head, it might make him self conscious.”
“Thanks, like that’s all I’m going to see now.”
Sure enough, Steve had a big cut on his head and a black eye. Asking if the thieves were on to him and roughed him up, he said, “Nah. My wife and I were at dinner celebrating our anniversary. I said I wanted a divorce and she hit me with an ash tray.”
“Nobody will ever accuse you of being a romantic Steve. That’s for certain.”
“My crook co-worker is her brother-in-law. She knows what he’s up to and has dished up huge quantities of grief on me for not getting involved. It’s gotten really bad. I am not a crook, so I wanted out. This is my reward.” He pointed at the cut on his head.
My Pittsburgh PD friends, detectives Pat Martin and Jack Rowan, joined us. Their eyes flew wide when they saw Steve’s horrible head wound, but they said nothing.
We listened intently to Steve’s tale. He laid out a dozen Polaroids he secretly snapped of his co-worker sneaking Cobalt scrap out to his car. He had another batch of photos showing the two managers overseeing the loading of coils into a curiously unmarked truck. When asked why he didn’t go to the higher authorities within the company, Steve said he thought they may be involved as well. His wife had let something slip about the plant manager buying a summer home in the Outer Banks. Suspicious of everyone, he felled compelled to reach out to me.
After hearing Steve’s story, Pat & Jack sat back, deep in thought. Jack leaned forward and said he and Pat were going to have to run this past the Chief of Police. Federal laws were violated, this was under the purview of the FBI. Pat looked at me and said, “We can’t say anymore, your involvement ends for now. If a story breaks, we will do our best to make sure you get the scoop.” Thanking Steve for his bravery and me for involving them, they disappeared into the smoke.
Out of the fog appeared Eddie holding a tray with a plate of pierogies and two frosty Iron City beers.
The FBI did conduct an undercover operation and sure enough, the corruption not only involved the plant manager, but also the regional sales manager and group vice-president. True to their word, Jack and Pat did pull strings for me to scoop the story and I made the short drive to the factory to interview other management and hourly personnel.
While hammering the plant controller as to how he could have missed the large quantity of unaccounted materials and revenue, a motion outside the picture window in his office made me pause my line of questioning. It was Steve Hamilton sprinting past. A woman was chasing after him, but her high heeled sandals hampered her pursuit. Picking up a rock, she screamed “You bastard!” And threw the rock at Steve, catching him between the shoulder blades. Roberto Clemente would have been proud.
The controller turned to look back at me. His eyes were bulging and his mouth agape. He was trying to form words.
“They’re getting a divorce,” I said.
*Notes*: this story is based on true events. Forty two years ago, a work colleague was terminated for stealing and selling cobalt scrap for personal gain. The majority of the earth’s cobalt is mined in the Republic of Congo. Civil War erupted there in 1980 and the price of cobalt skyrocketed, almost quadrupling in price. The guy I worked with tried to cash in on the boon. Although he was never caught red handed with the goods, there were strong eyewitness accounts that led to his dismissal.
The story of the guy Steve (not his real name) getting brained with an ashtray after telling his wife he wanted a divorce is true. I was the first one to see him when he arrived at work and he told me his story. A short time later I saw him sprint past my office window, his wife chasing after him pelting him with rocks. Those decorative, white landscape type. She had a good arm!
The prompt for this week’s writers group was to write about something you had doubts about, but went ahead and did it anyway, and what was the outcome. My story follows.
Yet another citizen of Brainards, New Jersey, meets an untimely end.
Reunion Doubts
To hear my grandmother tell it, half the townsfolk of Brainards perished in the Delaware River. Those who didn’t get swept away by the swift currents, or swallowed by whirlpools came to an untimely end in the quicksand bogs on the trails that bisected the thickets along the banks of the river.
Each summer my father’s side of the family held a reunion at my grandmother’s childhood home, which sat on the edge of town, atop a bluff overlooking the Delaware River. In the week leading up to the reunion, my grandmother would relate a story each day to my siblings and I, about the lives claimed by the treacherous waters of the river and the quicksand bogs. Then there was the railroad bridge that many a careless soul toppled off of. Those that didn’t die in the fall fell victim to the whirlpools swirling around the abutments. If, by some stroke of luck people managed to survive and reach the Pennsylvania side of the river, there was an abandoned quarry, now a deep pond, that presented a menu of pitfalls to claim the unwary.
For some reason, I was fascinated by the quicksand and peppered my grandmother, who we called Mamie or Mame, with questions. “Where was the quicksand?”
“It could be anywhere,” replied Mamie, “on any dirt road or path in the woods after it rains.”
“In one spot?”
“It comes and goes.”
“How does someone know that a person died in the quicksand? Is there a hat floating on the surface?”
The answers got snippier, “I don’t know, you just didn’t see them anymore.”
“Does the quicksand look like oatmeal? You know, like in those Tarzan movies? I think we would notice it then.”
“I don’t know!” Mamie would snap, “You, your brothers and sister need to just stay in the yard so we can see you all the time!” That was the signal my grandmother was no longer taking any questions from the press, interview over.
So it is understandable why we harbored doubts about going to the family reunion. Mamie’s childhood home, now inhabited by her brother and his family, sounded like an oasis in a sea teeming with peril. It would appear the most prudent course of action would be to stay home. Our parents could go to the reunion, I trusted them to be safe. After all, my father had visited Brainards many time, had survived unscathed and, thus, should know where all of the hazards were. Except for the mysterious peripatetic quicksand. My brothers and sister would be safe. With all of the Sunday morning kids programs, afternoon movies and toys to play with, we wouldn’t even have to leave the house. But, because we ranged in ages from six years old to 4 months old, we had no choice in the matter, our doubts carried no weight so we were piled into the car and off we went to meet our fate.
The trip always seemed to take forever. There was not yet a major highway traversing that region of New Jersey so our drive took us through a network of backroads winding through forests and pastures, past picturesque lakes, farms and Burma Shave signs. Cruising down the Main Street of Brainards I was always struck by how deserted the town looked, but recalled my grandmother’s tales of carnage. Arriving at our destination, the second thing that I always struck by was the number of people at the reunion. There would be almost 50 people there. How many more would’ve been there if not for whirlpools or quicksand?
As we pile out of the car and stretch our legs after the long trip the words of caution begin to flow in a steady stream:
My mother, “Now be careful, don’t get your clothes dirty.”
My grandmother, in a panic, “Butchie! (my nickname) Where are your brothers? Jezis Kristus! Are they down by the river? There’s quicksand!”
“I thought the quicksand was in the woods?” I asked.
My brothers come around from behind the car, my grandmother is relieved, “Jezis Kristus! Don’t go down by the river!”
“Don’t leave the yard now.” Don’t go in the garage.” “Don’t go down by the river.” “Go sit at the picnic table.” “Don’t let your brothers out of your sight.”
There was absolutely nothing to do for anyone under the age of 13. Keeping a close eye on my brothers, we went into the house and drifted in the direction of the den where the TV was. The antenna pulled in three channels, two of which displayed test patterns. A couple of my second cousins were watching the grainy 3rd channel. There was some nature show on and, ironically, two guys in jungle fatigues were pulling a gazelle out a quicksand bog! We didn’t linger in the den though, my father’s Uncle John stormed in, turned off the TV and growled, “What are you doing? Watching TV on such a nice day. Go out and play!” We went outside to watch the older kids play.
My brothers and I decided we would creep stealthily around the perimeter of the yard, peering into the woods, and pretended to be scouts looking out for river pirates. We saw a small clearing about 10 feet into the woods and debated investigating it. My grandmother saw us and yelled, “Don’t go in the woods Butchie! The quicksand! Cline Huff’s family lost a cow in the quicksand!” So we wandered back to the middle of the yard and decided to do something safer, like playing with the Lawn Darts game, back when lawn darts had tips like spears. I tossed a couple of darts and it became obvious the safest place for anyone to stand was around the target ring. Someone yelled at us to put the lawn darts down, they’re for the older kids to play with. My brothers and I wandered around the yard some more and spotted another path leading into some tall grass. I saw my grandfather and asked him if rattlesnakes would be hiding there. “Yeah, of course. You better stay outta there.” he said with a mouth full of fried chicken.
I had my doubts about the reunion, we went, this was how it turned out. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The prompt for the Monday Chatham Writers Group was to write about things in your refrigerator. Everyone in the group had a lot of fun with this prompt and the stories that were read were entertaining and funny.
A well stocked refrigerator, the setting of my story. Note: this is not my fridge!
The Tart
Resentment. Envy. Jealousy. No undercurrents, all exposed, laid bare, making the already cool atmosphere even chillier. Voices in the darkness, a hissed “Temptress”, made her laugh. However, laughing further infuriated her detractors. “Harlot”, “Shameless Hussy”. These cut a little deeper, her almond eyes flashed in the direction of the voices. The darkness was a blessing, those hurling the insults couldn’t see they had gotten under her crust.
“Tart,” spat another voice.
She really laughed at that one, “Finally, one of you hit the nail on the head!”
Life in the refrigerator was not all peaches and cream. She knew the insults were coming from the crisper drawer, the fruits and vegetables hangout. The celery sticks and snap peas were green with envy, strawberries and raspberries red with resentment. The blueberries were always, well, blue. Depressed about one thing or another. The carrots were the worst though, bright orange with jealousy, they felt they were superior to everything else in the fridge because of the wide range of menu items they could be used for. Soups, cakes, salads, snacks. In your eye cilantro! She didn’t mind the Narragansett Beer guys on the top floor. They played cards and, when in their cups, would reminisce.
“I remember the good old days, when we were the Kings of Fenway Park, the official brew of the Red Sox,” one would start.
Another 16 ouncer would chime in, “Yeah, that was the life. But when Quint chugged a ‘Gansett and crushed the can, that was the best scene in Jaws. The highlight of our history!”
Quint crushing it.
“Crush it like Quint!” They would shout in unison. The only time there was any friction was the first visit the guys from Nantucket made to the top shelf. The ‘Gansett’s called the blue cans Whale’s Butt Pale Ale, instead of by their real name, Whales Tail Pale Ale. But after awhile they developed a respect for each other. No, she didn’t mind the beers at all, they were decent folk.
Then there were the smells! Fish! She could never figure out why the people in the house liked fish. The forgotten cucumber or pepper would begin to rot, but she would smile inwardly with glee knowing that another arrogant vegetable got its comeuppance.
It grew silent inside the fridge. There were noises on the other side of the door. The voices were muffled but snippets could be discerned. Words like hungry, picky, could be heard. The vegetables groaned because a male voice on the other side of the door said they wanted something sweet.
The fridge door flew open, the light came on, temporarily blinding its inhabitants. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they saw the Mom & Dad of the house searching the shelves.
The jar of martini olives shouted, “You guys look like you could use a drink!”
“Crush it like Quint, bro!” Called the ’Gansett guys.
The Mom and Dad began to push things around in the fridge, searching. A wizened baby carrot, brown and wrinkled, rolled out from behind the cocktail olives. In an ancient voice, it croaked, “Now you find me. I laid behind this jar of olives for weeks, beseeching you to take pity and make me useful. Now I am only good for the trash.” His words were for naught and he was rolled behind a container of hummus.
Bookbinder was next to cry out for mercy, “Good God man! It is January, 2023! Look at my expiration date! June of 2020! Alas, I am but a mere jar of horseradish, not a Twinkie. Please. I beg you. Please! Just throw me away.” Bookbinder began to weep.
While all this was going on, the one called the temptress, the tart, sat biding her time. She heard the Dad say he wanted something sweet. As Dad’s gaze fell on her plastic package, she flirtatiously blinked her almond eyes, completely beguiling him. Dreamily, the Dad asked, “Hey honey, how about we share this almond tart.”
The shouts and screams from the crisper drawer went unheard. The olive jar sighed, “A martini doesn’t go well with an almond tart. Another day for us lads.”
The ‘Gansett and Whales Tale guys just shrugged and returned to their game of whist.
As the almond tart was being lifted from the refrigerator shelf, she cast her eyes on the arrogant carrots, “Ahhh… what’s up Doc?” Then she laughed like Cruella DeVille. Their curses were cut off by the closing of the door.
From the top shelf, one of the Narragansett’s called to the carrots, “Hi Neighbor, lights out, pipe down now.”
The Chatham Packet 