The Limit

Posted on September 19, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

The limit approached like a distracted driver coming to a stop sign too fast to avoid breaching the crosswalk. Thirty-five people waited; that’s the number of individual body masses. By volume the number was closer to fifty. I stood in the midst of waiting humanity hoping my patience would hold; threadbare, it threatened to snap.

Anticipation ran deep for the attraction; an introduction to scuba diving. Surprisingly there was little preparation. Even so I approached the opportunity with trepidation. Submerging to depths I only reaching accidentally when I was stupid enough to try the three meter diving board I felt panic’s warning. Something bad is going to happen; you know it is. It’s not natural for people to stay under water for so long. What if something goes wrong? The scuba instructor’s direction to breathe normally rattled around in my mind; it served to highlight the growing concern.

Two more people cleared the signup counter. I wondered how I could breathe naturally when I had a breathing apparatus positioned in my mouth; my teeth holding it in place. My nose would be ensconced in the mask preventing me from taking air naturally through my nose. What was so natural about all of this? I wanted to ask the instructor as he droned on about the merits of the undersea world.

One person ahead of me, she stood confidently in her two piece bathing suit – more than a bikini but less than a one piece suit it looked like it was designed for her curves.  She turned and smiled as if to say I know what you are thinking. Don’t think you’re any different from all the other men whose tongue flaps on the floor and their eyes threaten to explode from their sockets.

“Hi.” I introduced myself. Her smile broadened; she’s played this game before.

“Hello.” She winked punctuation.

“You’ve done this before, yes?” I felt like a foreigner, my response spoken like someone with only a tentative hold on the English language.

“I have not, but I’m intrigued by the opportunity. I’ve always wanted to try scuba but I was afraid I might freak out and hurt myself.” She said.

“I know the feeling; I’m hoping this exercise will drive the fears from my mind.” I said. I saw her eyes soften; we connected. It was her turn next. I watched as she moved to the counter; there was a hitch in her gait; it looked painful.

Thirty minutes later we were climbing into a tender. There were ten of us in each and the tender towed an inflatable that held oxygen tanks. We were already connected to most of our gear. I watched as the conversation was light; excitement high. All were first timers.

When we reached the dive spot I watched as the boat’s occupants jockeyed to get first connection. The scuba instructor looked like a cross between fish and man decked out in fins, mask and regulator. He gave last minute instructions before we dove. As we entered the water we tested gear. I wanted to make sure things were in order before I ducked under the waves. I didn’t want some fool to panic and threaten the safety of others (meaning me specifically).

The lady with the painted on swimwear dove first; her fins emerged from the water like the tail of a whale – a tiny whale. Ducking my face into the water I saw her loving quickly to the reef below. Casting caution to the four winds I descended, breathing shallow to counteract the buoyancy that would accompany full lungs.

The scuba instructor caught the exuberant divers, hand signals slowing their descent. Thirty feet was our limit. As I reached the submerge limit the group was moving towards the start of the reef. The lady slowed, allowing the others to pass. She turned and stared at me; I thought I saw her wink. An eerie uneasiness settled over me; the water suddenly cold. Kicking my legs I moved to remain with the group. I moved up on the outside; wanting to stay within sight of the leader. He dropped back as we explored the life that inhabited the underwater garden.

Inhaling deeper my body rose to the top of the reef when I spied a flurry of bubbles. The lead diver was surfacing in an awful hurry. Feeling of abandonment caused me to stop breathing. When I felt lightheadedness settling over me I let out the carbon dioxide rich air replacing it with fresh air. The feeling subsided as I tried to focus on the cause of the commotion. Minutes later the dive leader signaled urgent thumbs up. We surfaced quickly. As the pressure lessened my lungs expanded. When I breached the surface the problem was stark against the backdrop of the cloudless sky.

The dive leader was administering respiratory first aid to one of the swimmers. The others bobbed lazily in the water holding onto the boat’s rail. Concern clouded our collective mind. The swimmer wasn’t responding. The dive leader’s efforts would have scored him a CPR award except that the patient wasn’t coming around.

As we hurried back to shore a pall hung like storm clouds. We had thrown off our gear on the ride back. We helped pull the boat onto the beach as paramedics met us; thank God for cell phones and signal reflection over water.

I looked around; the faces were pale, all except for painted bathing suit. She looked disappointed that the dive was cut short by this little nuisance. She said as much; receiving a look of disdain from the others. I couldn’t believe that someone could be heartless. As we walked back to the scuba shack to return the rented gear I asked her.

“What’s up with your lack of concern?” My voice was flat.

“I hate paying for things that I don’t get. I’m going to get at least a partial refund.” She replied. My expression asked the question I did not verbalize. “Darn right I’m serious. Why should I suffer because of somebody else’s thoughtlessness?” Her voice was indignant.

“Is that what you call someone dying unexpectedly; thoughtlessness? Damn that’s cold.” I said. There was animation in my voice. It seemed to energize her.

“What gives you the right to question me? Do I know you?” She stared steel gray daggers. As I walked away she laughed. I wanted to turn and express my feelings but for the first time in my life discretion took center stage.

Later that day another first time diver succumbed to a mysterious illness. Introductory scuba excursions were suspended indefinitely. The Bermuda police puzzled over the two deaths; the health of their tourist trade at stake.

My painted lady sat by the pool reading. I watched her, the desire for answers itched in the back of my mind.

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Not To Mention

Posted on September 5, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

“There are three times the school closing than there were during the last blizzard, not to mention there are four times as many power outages.” The announcer stated. She was so bubbly and confident. She was oblivious to the fact that she mentioned something she said she wasn’t going to mention.

Do you think she realizes she said she wasn’t going to mention the thing she mentioned? There are two conclusions; either she read exactly what scrolled across the teleprompter or she interjected words that were valueless. In either case those words wasted time; yours and mine.

I don’t know about you… that’s another filler, “I don’t know about you but…” What meaning does it have? Is the phraseology attempting to build a verbal bridge to the person to whom the message is directed?  If the message was indeed a bridge builder how do you build a bridge to the masses? Do we call these phraseologies the Brooklyn Bridge (the bridge that has been sold more times than a hooker’s pleasure) of linguistics?

Of course you don’t know about me, you’ve never asked (or is it axked?). Besides, I don’t expect you to know about me; just tell me what you’re going to tell me. Verbal mercy dictates that you be succinct. Oral diarrhea should be banned. I’ve written about word limits and the blessed silence that would enable us to be alone with our thoughts. Uh oh, that could be a problem. By the expression on the faces of the masses, thought is not even an afterthought.

If the masses are clueless, verbosity could be the solution that saves people from having to engage the thought engine that is probably rusty from inactivity.

Let’s get back to the original lament, shall we? I’m asking you, as if you have input on the story. Okay, you do have the ability to stop reading; that’s your option. I encourage you to read on; you will be amused.

If you are not going to mention something, don’t mention it. If you are going to mention it, then don’t preface the statement with the caveat. I contend that people don’t think before they speak. You’ve probably blurted out “DUH”. I agree; that qualifies as the Mount Rushmore of “DUHs”. So let’s continue.

I guarantee it, another nebulous phrase. What is the “it” you are guaranteeing? That you’ll like the way you look? Smart man, “like” is such a low standard, especially when you look around at how people define “dress code”. I see boys and men walking around wearing black socks and white shower shoes. I see women wearing clothes that reveal more than any of us have the stomach to handle. If a person is comfortable with that I just rolled out of bed and into the clothes that were closest to the bed look then a suit, no matter how baggy, overpriced and devoid of color will make you look fabulous (articulated in the voice of Billy Crystal). Guarantees have become the new promise that is seldom fulfilled. Who’s going to sue to enforce? Is it you? Do you have the time or the inclination?

Where is this leading us? We are meandering on the path to verbal oblivion. More for the money; say more while communicating less. This is the bane of existence for most of humanity. Listen and dissect; you may discover a new form of amusement. Once you arrive you may want to stay a while. You could learn something from those around you; a lesson in expedience.  You can always repeat the salient points. What am I saying? That happens all the time. Pay attention (if the economy doesn’t have you broke).

Next time you engage in a conversation listen. Listening means absorbing, interpreting and understanding. We all suck at listening; some are worse than others. When we allow people to waste our time with amorphous prattle we shortchange ourselves as well as empowering others to buy our time with shills. If you find your time worthless then you should terminate the read and move onto something less telling; devoid of indictment. Let’s hold people accountable for being direct, clear and to the point. Don’t waste my time polluting my pristine verbal landscape with the flatulence of verbosity.

Thanks for reading. This is a Murderous Mondays column. Nobody died in today’s story. What I hope I accomplished is the death of verbosity, of the cattle excrement of terminology misuse and terminology overuse.

Stay tuned, I guarantee more Murderous Mondays replete with exaction, suspense and death.

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Inevitability

Posted on July 18, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

From the minute we suck in that first volume of air, the changeover from a liquid diet to breathing air signals our gradual ascent to the top of life’s maturity curve. Admit it or not, we die slowly every day. Every inhale and exhale cycle carries us closer to the beginning of the end. Or as that great statesman, Winston Churchill said, …This is the end of the beginning. So go ahead and take your breath. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Walking down the street the hybrid vehicle battles with the gas guzzler for the oxygenated air it requires to fire the fuel that causes the pollution that degrades the ozone layer that protects us from the UV rays of the sun that are warming the planet, melting the ice caps that is causing the water levels to rise around the globe.

I watch this ritual – actually I imagine the ritual since you can’t see the air being sucked into the engine’s intake. I wonder why we worry so much about the little things. Are there too many people doing too few things of value? Are there too many foundations willing to dump money into the lap of people who think they should research things that a) they can’t control and b) nobody could refute?

And who are these administrators who approve these ridiculous grant proposals? What prompts them to dole out funding to usurpers, to pretenders? Do they have the faintest of clues as to the motives of the grant writers? Do you really think it is a good use of money to pay some monkey to determine if people eat more if the food is not in plain sight? Really? Some fund administrator approved the application for the grant to work on this for nine months? What’s next? Determining how long a person wears a shoe before odor is generated? Maybe we should fund a grant to determine whether a car can run on human generated methane gas? Or better yet, how long it takes a terd to float down the Mississippi River.

I guess I’m too much the pragmatist. I expect accountability for what you do and how much you spend. I guess I’ll never step back far enough to see the big picture because I believe to see the big picture in this context requires the viewer to be perched atop the bright side of the moon. Maybe I should apply for a grant to take a trip to the moon to see the big picture. That would be a worthy endeavor, don’t you think?

The grant recipients claim they are working for the greater good. What they don’t say (or finish the statement appropriately) is that the greater good is their greater good.  I was a grant administrator. I expected recipients to report quantifiable – measurable – results. You should have seen the look of incredulity that washed across the face of each applicant. They stuttered a response. They told me that quality is more important than quantity. I told them that the only quality I was concerned about was the quality of the quantity of the quantifiable. It was as if I was speaking some alien language.

They tried again to explain why there should be a high degree of trust. My response was that in God we trust, all others show results. You should have seen the comical attempt at a response. It sent me sprawling on the floor laughing until I thought my sides would split. When I recovered, you might think someone stole the last crumb of food from the itinerant person sitting across the desk from me.

It came down to the inevitability of the inevitable. It was inevitable that I would plant my size nine in the buttocks of the wannabe. It was inevitable that he would take vitriolic offense to my objective demands. It was inevitable that I would have the miscreant evicted. It was inevitable that he would attempt to blackball me with cowardly commentary. It was inevitable that I would respond in-kind with clarity of purpose and irrefutable facts. It was unexpected that my car would have been keyed. It was also unexpected that I would receive death threats against me and my family.

The court’s reaction to my plea was inevitable – not guilty by reason of self-defense.

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Mikey’s Dilemma

Posted on June 27, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

He didn’t know why he did it. He didn’t know why he agreed to take the job. Sitting in the car behind tinted windows Mikey looked out into the twilight that crept up on the day. The tree lined street looked surreal as shadows faded and the canopy of trees cast the road into a darkening tunnel. Lights flickered in the house he was watching. As he sat, waiting for darkness to chase the last remnants of daylight over the horizon Mikey fingered the pack of smokes in his breast pocket. He wanted to light up – to calm his nerves. Fighting the urge, his stubby fingers traced the outline of the box in his pocket. Fidgeting, her reached under the seat and pulled out the gun that was hidden there. Bringing it up slowly, he placed it on his lap. Pulling the pin that held the revolver’s chamber in place, he fingered each slot to insure that the bullets he had loaded were still there. The cold steel of the stub-nosed thirty-eight felt good against his hand.

This wasn’t the first time Mikey was called upon to take care of family business. He was good at it. Proficient was the word his Caporegime had used. The first time he heard the word it made him smile. Now he was having second thoughts. He didn’t want to be proficient. He just wanted to be somewhere else.

Perspiration formed on his brow. Absentmindedly he wiped it with the back of his hand. Peering into the rear view and then each side view mirror, he confirmed the lack of activity on the street. How could anybody live in such a quiet place? Mikey thought back to his childhood and how people sat on the stoop at night talking about the happenings of the day. The bustle of activity carried well into the night. Nobody came or went without somebody on the street seeing them. Now he wished that someone would come out and play neighborhood watchdog.

Running a hand through his the thick mane, Mikey fought back the mental demons trying to unnerve him. The first time he killed the demons warned him that he was on the slippery slope to hell. Funny, he thought. It didn’t feel like hell when the Caporegime handed him the envelope with ten grand in it. When he thumbed the bills the rush of adrenaline made him smile. Ten grand for an hour’s work, if this is hell, I’ll take the express next time.

Dusk arrived. A solitary window on the second floor spilled light across the front porch overhang. Mikey thought about the next move. He checked the mirrors again, hoping against hope that someone would appear to delay his action. Stepping out of the car his legs felt like lead. Checking the breast pocket of his sport coat he felt the familiar outline of the gun. Pulling himself out of the car he closed the door slowly, not wanting to call attention to himself. Attention he thought, I don’t think a bomb blast would call attention to me.

Walking up the slight incline from the street to the unpaved strip bordered by grass, he trudged towards the house. Checking addresses, he wanted to make sure he was going to the right place. One can never be too sure, he heard the voice remind him. Pebbles crunched under the tread of his rubber soled shoes. He learned early on to wear quiet shoes. He remembered the story about the guy who wore expensive Italian leather shoes to a job. The stiffness of the leather shoes slapped the ground when he walked. They buried the unfortunate soul in those same shoes.    Two houses down from the target he turned. Nobody behind me. Continuing to walk slowly he cased the house. No movement outside and still only one light on. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he felt that same wetness under his arms. He was glad he had applied an extra heavy coating of deodorant.

Now one house away, he felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Patting the paunch that threatened to overspill his belt, he tried to steady himself. Extracting the gun from the breast pocket, he slipped it into the exterior pocket with his right hand. His left hand was plunged deep into his pants pocket, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his meaty thigh.

When he reached the edge of the property that was his destination something startled him. He turned quickly, trying to act nonchalant. Mikey scanned the grayness for the source of the movement. Standing still, his eyes moved side to side until he spotted the culprit. A black cat crouched by the trunk of an Elm tree watching him with accusing eyes. Damn cats, I hate cats. Mikey remembered his aunt’s cat that clawed him when he was a child trying to play with him like he played with the terrier his parents had gotten him for his tenth birthday. He learned that day about cats and their temperament. The scars on his forearm had faded but the memory of the clawing produced a dull pain in his temples.

Mikey watched the cat as it watched him. When it scurried off he returned to the business at hand. Walking fast enough to not seem suspicious he checked out the front of the house. The porch was dark, the only light coming from the window above it. Circling to the right, he walked along the sidewalk that ran from the front porch around and down the side to the back of the house. He knew it was important not to leave any traces of his visit.

Now around back he spotted the door that led to the kitchen. Stopping for a moment he recalled the last time he was in the house. A birthday party for Johnny’s only daughter. She was lovely at eighteen. Johnny was so proud. He had given her a car and she insisted that Mikey take a ride with her. Mikey was her Godfather. The responsibility of the role weighed on him as he ascended the three concrete steps to the back door.

Extracting a key he inserted it in the lock, the nervousness having left him. As he opened the door he thought he smelled the aromas from the party. Trying to dismiss the aroma of sausage and peppers and meatballs in tomato sauce, he felt his mouth water. Closing the door he stood in the kitchen, eyeing the path to the front of the house.

Johnny, why did you have to do it? Why Johnny? Mikey wished he was anywhere but there. At that moment he wanted to turn and leave. He knew he couldn’t. The oath he took committed him to the act. It was either Johnny or him. Resolved, he stepped into the living room. The carpet was soft. There would be no sound. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and looked up. The faint light spilling from the front bedroom gave him just enough visibility. He heard the sound of voices. Maybe he’s not alone. He wasn’t charged with killing anybody but Johnny. He knew that witnesses would be a problem. He hoped six bullets were enough ordinance to do the job. Stopping on each step he realized it was the television. Relief washed over him.

When he reached the landing he stopped again. Perspiration dripped from his armpits. Extracting the gun he wrapped his fingers around the butt, his index finger on the trigger. Approaching the doorway he spied into the room. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed engrossed in the television show.

Raising the gun, he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his left arm. Johnny’s head was in his sites. Stepping through the doorway he stood five feet away. Johnny turned. Seeing the gun pointed at him the color drained from his face. He wanted to speak. Words formed but his vocal chords froze.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t make this harder for me than it has to be. Get up slowly and lay face down on the bed.”

Johnny moved haltingly. When his victim was in position, Mikey moved to the side of the bed. Picking up a pillow he placed it between the gun and his victim.

“You know why I have to do this.”

Johnny raised his head about to respond.

“It’s a rhetorical question.” Johnny dropped his head into the pillow.

Tightening his grip on the gun and taking aim. Mikey fired one shot; wavering for a second before his body fell across the bed. Johnny screamed as he jumped to his feet. Standing on wobbly legs he looked at his friend’s lifeless body. He knew that his childhood friend had paid the ultimate price for Johnny’s betrayal.

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Eloquence

Posted on April 25, 2011 at 7:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

Are you mechanically inclined? Well, are you?

Let me explain the reason for the question. We have coined phrases that romanticize our preoccupation with people, places and things. We soften the stark light of reality with the veil of eloquence. We use terms such as euthanasia; ‘he was euthanized to stop the financial bleeding his family was experiencing with him in the terminal care facility.’ Another great term is “insurgent” as in ‘the cowardly terrorist is now called an insurgent so that we don’t offend his beliefs’.

Enough of the tangential diatribe; back to the question, are you mechanically inclined? I don’t want to know if you are predisposed towards the inanimate, I just want to know if you think you are adept with the intended utilization of products of the age of mechanization.

If you are, you may want to reconsider your devil-may-care approach to that beloved piece of labor saving device. Take the snow blower; or snow thrower if you prefer a less suggestive moniker. The unit has few moving parts; an engineering marvel in its simplicity and also in its ability to confound its owner. Here’s hapless Hank, the product of Middle America in his four bedroom suburban home with two car garage, 2.2 kids and 1.5 pets. Hank has decided that he will be working at home today. Overnight sixteen inches of powdery joy (soon to become the object of hate by the masses forced to navigate the treachery bestowed upon them in the aftermath of man’s attempt to overcome the cold, wet white blanketing the nether regions of the continent).

Hank trudges into the garage after a jolt of java and a touch of nourishment (if you consider a dip into the cookie jar and two chocolate covered praline cookies nourishment – we’ll address dietary matters in another story). Clad in the battle armor of the frozen warrior he wrestles the red behemoth from its resting place under a protective blanket upon which the kids have piled a collection of toys, shoes and athletic equipment.

Feeling authoritative Hank decides to dispense with the electric start his wife insisted that he install. Preparing himself Hank moves his arms across his body briskly for ten seconds, stopping to catch his breath while reminding himself that he isn’t getting any younger. Pulling the starter cord the engine whines and groans. Hank presses the fuel primer several times and counts to five before attacking the pull cord. After ten attempts Hank is beginning to perspire. A temper flare produces three short descriptive and unflattering words.

Dragging the machine past his wife’s SUV and over to the electrical outlet he takes the extension cord and plugs it into the electric start connection port. Pushing the “Lazy man’s helper” as Hank dubbed the electric start; the engine sputters to life coughing black smoke. Hank adjusts the choke smoothing out the roughness. The engine’s tone shifts to a throaty roar.

Cranking the impeller drive handle along with the drive motor handle the snow blower jumps before settling into slow forward momentum. As it broaches the blanket of powder covering the top of the driveway snow sprays from the chute. Five minutes into the exercise (oh it’s exercise for couch potato Hank) the impeller grinds and snow refuses to exit the chute. Impatient Hank pushes the machine deeper into the bank before realizing there is a problem. Releasing the drive handle he leans over to inspect the exit chute. Snow sits in the chute in a smooth almost perfect cylindrical shape. Scooping the top portion and tossing it the impeller struggles to push more snow out.

Hank watches helplessly, cursing first the machine’s inventor (long dead but in Hank’s estimation sitting just over his shoulder laughing at Hank’s ineptitude) and then Mother Nature’s twisted humor. Digging into the chute he scoops out more snow as the impeller struggles. As he plunges his hand deeper into the opening the voice of his mother cautioning him against working on a running machine makes a cameo appearance.

The tip of Hank’s glove catches the edge of the impeller blade pulling the glove along as the impeller turns. Hank doesn’t realize there’s a problem until dull pain blossoms in the tips of the fingers of his left hand. By the time Hank releases his grip on the impeller drive handle his hand has been sucked into the ejection chute that is presently filled with his wrist and packed snow.

Two blood curdling screams launch before Hank yells for help. His decision to get an early start on the day, out blowing snow at five thirty ante meridian insures that he’s utterly alone. His wife is tucked snuggly in their bed, the humidifier emitting white noise drowning out all exterior sounds, she won’t hear his shouts.

As pain radiates up his arm and spreads to his neck his back spasms; the awkward position leaning sideways over the machine exacerbating the problem. His blood soaked glove begins to leak essential bodily fluid into the snow packed intake. Fifteen minutes later a neighbor two doors down (this is a suburban neighborhood where the houses are separated by fifty feet of open space and each home’s frontage spans one hundred feet) waves as he starts his snow blower. Hank yells for help but his neighbor is engrossed in his own work.

Two minutes later Hank is slumped over the machine the exposed portions of the motor are hot searing the skin on his face. Hank doesn’t feel the pain; he has lost consciousness and a considerable amount of blood. By the time someone realizes there’s a problem it’s too late. Hank is whisked off to the local hospital, his mangled hand dangling from a lifeless wrist. EMS professionals attempt blood transfusions to ward off the visit to death’s door by the courier sent to collect Hank’s soul.

At the hospital the emergency room doctor pronounces the inevitable. Hank’s wife cries over his lifeless body lamenting how he was never one to listen to her cautions.

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The Man in the Next Seat

Posted on April 18, 2011 at 7:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

The morning after carried warm memories of the night before.  The evening’s festivities vainly attempted to insinuate themselves on my singular mental state. I had to get to work early to prepare for a grueling day. Stopping for gas on the way to the train station I was surprised at the cold that bit at my exposed fingers. Back on the road I hurtled towards the train station. Pulling into the parking lot the phalanx of people awaited the train I thought I had missed.

Running for the platform I barely made it as my lungs fought to feed my labored body. Climbing aboard I found my usual seat, opened the laptop and proceeded to review one of my manuscripts; the one I believe should be my next published novel. Typing away I was oblivious to the person in the next seat. I don’t usually focus on anything except my writing, notwithstanding the colorful cross-section of commuters that provide rich materials for my short stories.

Out of character I glance over at the person sitting next to me. Something tickled the files in the file cabinet that’s my memory. Returning to my writing I fight against the intrusion. After a few minutes my attention is encouraged towards my train buddy. The color and style of his slacks; army green with a cuff, slightly tattered at the bottom front and back where the crease ends. The shoes, black with black laces and thick soles with deep tread patterns. Something familiar collected in my psyche.

Returning to my writing the focus on the story slipped away. Not all at once; it was more like the crumbling of a sand castle as the sun dried the sand and the water-glue evaporated. A few more paragraphs of the story and my focus was totally deflected. Curiosity replaced intensity and I found myself staring at the person next to me. Thankfully he appeared to be sleeping; my visual intrusion a non-factor.

As the color of the pants and style of the shoes bubbled memories to the surface of my consciousness I felt compelled to check out his face. Now my movements were conspicuous. I started to thank the gods for placing me in a sectioned off area of the train until I realized it was their doing that placed me directly into the path of killer curiosity. His face was hidden in the folds of the hood of his sweatshirt. I’d never wear a sweatshirt under my jacket. Smugness pulled me back from the brink until I realized that I did wear a sweatshirt; the same pumpkin color. It was the closest color to the Philadelphia Flyers orange I could afford. I felt the little spikes of fear prick at my spine.

Now I had to see his face. His hands were buried deep in his pockets robbing me of the opportunity to determine his skin color. If he was not Caucasian I’d have felt relieved. Looking around I wanted to ensure that prying eyes had not picked up on my movements. I stirred in my seat. That’s an understatement. I flopped around trying to encourage him to either awaken or at least turn so I could get a look at him. The fact that he failed to stir made me wonder. This was somebody’s sick joke. If I bounced around any harder I might have loosened my dental fillings.

Settling again I corralled my anxiety. Don’t think my mind wasn’t working overtime trying to explain away the coincidence. The biggest struggle was my need to rationalize. So what if there was a guy sitting next to me who is wearing the same shoes and the same pants I wore. It’s not like my clothes were designed exclusively for me. If that was the case I wouldn’t have been scraping for nickels during that phase of my life.

The conductor made his rounds. I flashed my rail pass. My train buddy wasn’t displaying his. This was going to be the opportunity; the conductor would have to wake him to get his fare. The conductor checked my pass but failed to check his. I wanted to grab the conductor to lodge a complaint. I paid; you need to make sure he did. Catching myself I remembered the time a friendly conductor gave me a free pass when I forgot my wallet. Maybe that was the case here as well.

The call for the Center City stop startled the morning commuters. The conductor’s voice betrayed amusement as he awoke the sleeping masses. I rose from my seat, waiting as long as possible to exit hoping my seat mate would take the same stop. I waited and watched the entire ride as he seemed to recede into the cocoon his hooded sweatshirt (I refuse to call it a hoodie – too vernacular). I rattled the bench seat one last time as I moved to stand, even dropping my heavy briefcase on the seat for good measure. There wasn’t so much as a hint of movement deflating my curiosity.

As I turned to go searing pain erupted from between my shoulder blades. Unable to stand I lurched forward falling into the lap of the person in the seat across the aisle. The fading sound of a scream fluttered across my mind as consciousness slipped away. I thought I heard “He’s been stabbed” just before I passed out.

When I awoke in the hospital bed discovering I had been unconscious for more than two days; I heard from multiple people that I was lucky to be alive. When I finally asked what happened to me I was told that my riding buddy was a crazed mental patient who stabbed me for staring at him. He had been subdued by several passengers until Transit Police could take control of the situation.

I wanted to ask the obvious question but at that point I was happy to be alive, even if I might regret knowing if there was a mirror image of me wandering around the wards of a mental institution.

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The Blink of an Eye

Posted on April 11, 2011 at 7:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

The blink of an eye; some say it’s so fast even the blinker doesn’t know the blink has occurred. It’s also been said that things can be gone in the blink of an eye. Considering how the day progressed for Constance, she was beginning to believe that things could happen just that quickly.

Walking into the hospital she flashed her security badge to the attendant at the check-in kiosk. He halfheartedly waved her through. Constance (don’t call me Connie because it’s too close to Collie and she had been called “a dog” too many times during middle school and high school) figured he wasn’t into his job enough to really pay attention to the people who passed through the turnstile.

Into the elevator lobby she took her place among the employees dressed in blue hospital scrubs. As she waited she thought about all of the germs that were being transported into the hospital on the threads of the unsanitary hospital garb employees insisted on wearing from home. Constance never wore scrubs as street clothes. Germ carriage was one reason but sadly not the primary reason. The primary reason Constance never wore scrubs outside the hospital was they provided no guidance as to whether she was layering on weight. Scrubs were comfortable; almost too comfortable. Comfort breeds laziness her father always told her. Constance knew that comfort also bred larger hips and thighs. She didn’t need any encouragement to eat – it was how she was raised. Eating was one lesson she wished she hadn’t learned so well.

Stepping out of the elevator on five, she walked briskly down the hall to the nurses’ station. After signing in she chatted briefly with the on-duty staff before heading to the locker room to change. Slipping out of her street clothes she admired her full yet shapely figure in the full length mirror one of the staff insisted be installed in the dressing area. Her boyfriend told her she had the perfect body. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe in perfect but she did think she didn’t look half bad. Sliding into blue scrubs she extracted her medical gear, slipped it into the pockets of her smock, closed the locker, spun the combination lock and turned to leave. Just as she approached the doorway a man with a receding hairline, gray at the temples, stately looking in his white doctor’s coat and professional arrogance blocked her pathway.

“Constance, my favorite Physician Assistant.” He punctuated the greeting with a smile that exhibited teeth too white and too perfect for his near-middle age body. Constance stopped short meeting his gaze with quiet contempt.

“Excuse me doctor, I’ve got rounds to complete.” She watched as he refused to yield.

“Why do you avoid me Constance? My intentions are pure. I’d like to date you. Give me at least the change to get to first base.” His voice sounded pleading. Constance swallowed hard before responding knowing her initial thought would create a chasm between their working relationship.

“I’m not available, I have a steady and we’ve agreed to date each other exclusively.” This wasn’t the first time she spoke those words. She was hoping he would hear and understand this time.

“You won’t even give me a chance. I can’t believe it.” Before he could continue she forced her way by. His hand brushed across her as she passed. She wanted to turn on him but figured a hard slap would serve no good purpose. As she approached the first patient room she composed herself before entering.

Three rooms later the doctor was waiting for her. As she tried to pass he extended an arm to block the doorway. Ducking under his arm she refused to acknowledge her. He followed her in. As he approached she turned on him this time wielding an unsheathed hypodermic.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” He blurted out.

“You want to get up close and personal, let me test my injection technique on you.” She taunted. Turning he stormed out. Satisfied that she quelled his advances Constance continued her rounds. At the end of her shift she returned to the locker room. As she turned the combination lock she heard the tumblers click. As she lifted the handle and opened the locker door a stabbing pain startled her. Consciousness slipped from her grasp. The doctor eased her onto the stationary bench in the middle of the room. Turning he locked the door. Returning to Constance she was out cold although her eyelids fluttered – a side effect of the drug.

An hour later he wheeled her out of the hospital in a wheel chair; the skeleton crew night shift was busy attending to patients leaving the nursing station unoccupied. Coaxing her limp body into his big BMW the doctor drove deliberately to his home. Rounding the last turn a hand flashed, pulling the steering wheel hard to the right. Without thinking he hammered the gas pedal forcing the car hard up and over the curb striking the thick steel shaft of the light pole directly in their path.

In the blink of an eye the airbags deployed. The light pole sheared from its base and crashed directly onto the roof of the car crushing the roof on the driver’s side. Startled to full consciousness Constance struggled with the airbags to extricate herself from the steel prison.

The manufacturer installed emergency notification system summoned the police and paramedics. As Constance looked on they worked to exhume the body of the good doctor, his body crumpled under the weight of the light standard his expensive luxury car had so efficiently destroyed.

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Chipmunk

Posted on March 28, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

“Stuff it friend.” The line flowed like water rushing from a broken spigot. Julius was a transplanted Asian. His given name had more ‘Xs’, ‘Gs’ and ‘Hs’ than a football playbook. Acclimated to Western culture, at least he thought he was, Julius wore an Elvis hairdo complete with long sideburns. He even practiced the hip swivel that had gotten The King censored more than once during his tragic life.

“Look Chink, don’t give me any of your rice bull shit.” Alvin and his friends busted on the foreigner.

“I’m not Chinese, I’m Japanese.” Julius replied in an even voice.

“Okay slope, shut up anyway.” Alvin pushed back. Julius smiled; amused by Alvin’s name. He was named after a cartoon; a chipmunk cartoon no less. And his namesake had a comical voice.

“Something funny slope?” Alvin and his friends inched closer.

“Nothing really.” Julius replied, standing his ground.

“You’re stupid, you know that slope?”

“You keep calling me slope. Can’t you pronounce my name? Try it, it’s Julius. Joo – lee – us.” Julius provoked Alvin with the condescending statement. Alvin’s complexion changed from playful to serious. That change usually spelled trouble. His demeanor change sparked his posse to follow suit.

“You’re in trouble now slope. I don’t like you.” Alvin’s voice rose.

“Really, I like you; especially when you call me slope. I would like you more if you would learn my name.” Julius continued to goad. Alvin’s posse of three formed a four pointed ring around Julius.

“What are you doing? You’re not going to try to beat me up are you Alvin?” Julius eyed each of them as he turned.

“Keep it up and you’re going to need a dust pan and broom to pick up your teeth.” Alvin stated emphatically. The one directly behind Julius pushed him.

“Did your mom name you after that famous chipmunk?” Julius asked his face neared Alvin’s. Alvin pushed him back as the two bullies flanking Julius shoved him back and forth. Julius laughed as his body bounced like a pinball between the four human posts. Just as Alvin hauled off to punch him Julius moved to the left. Alvin’s fist connected with the member of his posse directly in the line of fire. The blow drew a loud scream and a healthy quantity of blood from the victim’s nose.

“You stupid bitch; you moved.” Alvin complained. The two thugs flanking Julius grabbed him as Alvin moved in to attack. Swinging low this time his fist struck Julius’ knee that he raised in self-defense. Two of Alvin’s knuckles shattered when they met Julius’ knee cap. Grabbing his damaged hand Alvin blew expletives in Julius’ direction.

“Mess him up!” Alvin ordered. Before they could act Julius moved like lightning. A sweeping kick toppled one assailant. The remaining assailant flailed at the martial arts expert. Glancing blows caught Julius off guard. Momentarily stunned, Julius covered up as punches struck his torso. Regaining composure Julius lashed out with two accurate blows knocking the wind out of the attacker.

Standing over the carnage Julius anticipated another wave of attack. Alvin, now alone stepped back as if pushed by an invisible force field. “You some karate expert or something?” Alvin asked defensively.

“Just self-defense in case some stupid boys try to screw with me. Maybe you’ll leave me alone now. We can still be friends but that’s up to you.” As Julius talked Alvin’s focus shifted. The fourth assailant was moving; trying to stand. Alvin watched with rapt attention as his friend drew a .22 caliber handgun from his jacket. Watching as the weapon was raised Alvin’s expression changed from guarded contempt to budding fear.

“Billy no!” Alvin barked. Before he could suck in another breath the rapport announced lead’s participation. Julius crouched as the bullet buzzed him before striking Alvin in the stomach. Screams mixed with pain as Alvin slumped. Julius moved swiftly, disarming and disabling the boy with the gun. The other two injured comrades moved to aid their leader. Julius grabbed his cell phone. As he surveyed the carnage he wished he was anywhere but there.

As EMS personnel administered to Alvin their expressions changed from urgent to grave. The loss of blood was significant. His chances of survival were slim. Julius reflected on the words as he sat pondering the events that led to the deadly shooting.

You can’t fight City Hall; and you can’t keep ignorant people from doing dumb things.

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That’s Just The Way It Is

Posted on March 21, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

Sometimes you just give up chasing rainbows. You look at the clouds and wonder whether there is anything to their shapes. Are they random or is somebody playing artist with Mother Nature’s stuff. Life does suck rotten eggs sometimes. That’s Frank’s feeling about today. It didn’t start that way. At one unidentified point the day jumped the tracks and veered off course.

The glory of a holiday found its way into Frank’s psyche when the sun peeked over the horizon like an inquisitive child in grandma’s kitchen. The early hour did nothing to dissuade him from rising. Had it been a work day he would have been reticent; wishing for just five minutes more of sleep; punching the snooze button on the alarm to forestall the inevitable.

But today was different. Freedom from the shackles of the employer was enough to liberate the spirits. As Frank slipped out of bed and into his robe and slippers he left Janet, his better half, asleep. She wanted to celebrate the day off with slumber time. She announced her intention before he turned off the light the night before. Frank knew better than to impinge on her reverie.

Padding down the long hallway to the living area he stood with hands thrust into the pockets of his terrycloth robe wondering what to do first. After a long moment of reflection he determined that catching up on episodes of his favorite program was the second order of business; making a pot of coffee the first. Settling into the sofa; remote control in one hand, mug of steaming coffee in the other Frank flipped through the channels until the familiar faces of his favorite show filled the LCD screen.

The first sip of coffee officially welcomed the day firing up the endorphins that refused to consider physical exertion. Halfway through the program a java refill dragged him to the kitchen at commercial break. Rushing to fill the cup and top it off with creamer he splashed some of the hot brown liquid on his hand. Repressing an expletive he grabbed his mug and retreated to the sofa just as the program resumed.

Thirty minutes later he sat as emotionally empty as when he padded out of the bedroom. A biology break summoned him to the human waste depository. Staring into the mirror as he made the deposit (Janet insisted that there be a mirror behind the toilet – it would bring depth to the room) he focused on the subtle beginnings of bags under his eyes. The shock of mangled hair atop his head was too much to absorb. After flushing he washed hands and face; applying a thick coating of skin rejuvenation cream, middle age scaring him to unvarnished reality.

Slipping into the bedroom he donned sweats and sneakers and set off to run. Maybe regular physical exertion would recapture the youth that slipped away like so many grains of sand through an hourglass. Ten minutes into the run sweat poured out. Five minutes more and he needed a breather. Checking the pockets of the sweat shirt he smiled; the five spot sat patiently waiting to be spent. Three blocks later he stood at the coffee bar at Wawa. The hustle and bustle of the convenience store energized him. Perusing the selection of creamers he selected the Amaretto creamer just ahead of a manicured hand with creamy white skin smooth and supple. Offering it to her she extended her cup and smiled. As her full lips parted her tongue tickled them – at least that’s what he thought he saw. Pouring slowly his eyes met hers. She blinked twice warming him against the chill of sweat dampened clothing.

She watched as he topped off his cup. Extracting two lids he slipped one onto her cup and the other on his.  After a soft thank-you that floated on the voice of an angel she turned away. Contemplating the next move he decided to retreat before something irreparable transpired.

At the register she slipped in behind him and paid for both orders over protests. “You can repay me by spending a few minutes talking outside.” It wasn’t a command but everything about her broadcast that she was not to be denied. As she offered payment and awaited change he checked her left hand; no wedding ring or telltale signs visible. He didn’t wear a ring; nor did his wife. It wasn’t their way. As he considered the potential, he wished they were more traditional.

Following her he pushed the door open; she stepped aside allowing him to cater to her. She smiled at the chivalrous action. At her car MaryEllen clicked the key fob unlocking the doors. He opened her door numb to the problems percolating on the horizon of his consciousness. Walking around to the passenger side he slid in pulling the door closed. As she sipped she played with the buttons on the steering wheel until the sultry sounds of The Love Unlimited Orchestra wafted from the premium sound system.

Looking for a place to station his coffee cup he noticed the center console was lower profile than usual. In fact it could double as a small center seat. She watched before pushing an invisible panel in the dashboard revealing two cup holders. Slipping her cup into the left side she moved smoothly onto the center console/seat taking his cup and placing it next to hers.

“Now I have you all to myself.” She smiled wide enough to touch both ears. He imagined what she could do with a mouth that large. Before he could finish the thought her hands were all over him; her mouth aching to taste him. Overwhelmed by her lust he was helpless to resist. As she engulfed him familiar eyes fell on the couple. After watching incredulously she calmly walked into the convenience store, purchased her wares and returned to the parking lot where the two lovers were rapidly approaching the need for a horizontal surface.

Moving deliberately towards the vehicle Janet pulled back the windshield wiper on the driver’s side until the arm snapped off. Taking the eggs out of the carton she smashed them one by one on the windshield. Startled from their reverie the two occupants stared in disbelief. Dropping the driver’s side window MaryEllen barked, “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing to my vehicle?” The attacker continued her assault oblivious to the question. Turning to her lover-to-be MaryEllen asked, “Aren’t you going to do something or are you just going to sit there while that slut destroys my car?” He processed the question without responding. “Get out and stop that bitch!” Her voice pitched higher with each statement.

Opening the driver’s side door she decided to act as Frank stared blankly at the windshield. “Get away from my vehicle before I call the cops.” Digging into her handbag she extracted a can of pepper spray. “I’m warning you, stop or I’ll spray you with this.” Holding the can at arm’s length she attempted to ward off the attacker.

Janet stared at the can; taking one step backwards. Dropping the balance of the carton of eggs onto the ground she slid her handbag off her shoulder. Reaching in she extracted a small caliber handgun. “How would you like to feel the effects of your stupidity?  Spray me and I’ll shoot down your tramp ass.” The vehicle owner lowered the can, her arm suddenly too heavy. As the attacker smiled she turned towards the vehicle.

“That’s my husband in there. You and him are quite an item. You don’t even have the decency to take it to a private place.” Janet waved the gun while speaking. “How long you been whoring around with that two-timer?”

Unable to form words MaryEllen stared at the one-eyed purveyor of death. “I…I…” She swallowed hard before continuing. “I didn’t know he was married. He didn’t tell me.” Janet contemplated the answer as she held the pistol her trigger finger itching to end the drama. Frank opened the door and slipped out of the vehicle as if in a dream. As his feet touched the parking lot surface his knees buckled. Clawing at the vehicle he couldn’t keep himself from slipping. As he fell he staggered into the path of an oncoming vehicle, its occupants yakking it up to the comic relief generated by radio shock jock. The dull thud and dead bounce elicited a “What the hell” response from the occupants.

Janet turned towards the sounds as the car overcompensated after pinballing Frank into the vehicle he had just exited. MaryEllen sprang; Janet’s shooting arm limp. Depressing the plunger pepper spray blasted from the canister blinding Janet; the backwash driving MaryEllen to her knees. The drama attracted patrons coming and going. A police officer spoke into the radio receiver clipped to his jacket. Approaching the carnage he shouted commands to the two women who were entangled flailing blindly. Spotting the firearm too late hot lead shattered his ankle. Two more shots missed the officer collapsing a vestibule window of the convenience store into a million glass diamonds.

The occupants of the vehicle that struck Frank pulled into an open parking spot. Alighting they surveyed the carnage. One of the passengers approached Frank’s crumpled body. As back up units approached the convenience store the scene exploded into bedlam. Three brain dead teens focused their cell phone cameras recording the unfolding crisis. As they recorded, three burly construction types swiped the phones, dropped them to the ground and crushed them with the heel of their steel-toed work boots.

Howls of protest were silenced with the steely gaze of resolve. The youths were thrown out of the way as the tradesmen moved to assist the wounded police officer and the broken body of the philanderer.

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Tracks

Posted on March 14, 2011 at 9:00 am by Salvatore Grasso

The people lined up on the platform; the announcement board heralded the approach of the express. As they lined up they cast a geographic bet as to where the entry doors would end up when the train stopped. First on usually won the last of the seats for the long run to Thorndale. As the train stopped the conductors filled the ingress points shouting the train’s route and particulars before stepping aside permitting the passengers to board.

Two passengers sitting in the three-wide bench seats left the center slot empty forcing travelers to ask permission to sit. The ritual grated on him like the surface of a brick against his bare ass. There was no way he wasn’t sitting. And there was no way he was sitting in the middle seat. The seats were too close for him to open the laptop and work. If he sat between two people his arms would be pinched and he would not be able to navigate the keyboard.

At the first row the passenger ignored him feigning preoccupation with the book he was reading. It wasn’t until he tapped the man on the shoulder that he looked up annoyance telegraphing from his complexion. The man rose and stepped into the aisle. Brian turned to the person behind and offered the seat before moving to the next row. After three tries the occupant slid over and allowed Brian the outside seat.

Digging out his laptop and rail pass he set to work. There were deadlines to meet as time raced breakneck towards the due date. As he typed the person next to him became interested in his work. Brian turned and stared at the intruder.

”Working?” Came the question in a friendly voice.

“Yep, but it’s not something I am free to share.” Brian replied matter-of-factly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything.” The passenger apologized and turned away. Brian returned to his work, staccato typing; occasionally glancing over at his ride mate to ensure the absence of prying eyes. The story unfolded as words moved from mental genesis to literary creation. As he typed the burden of delivery transferred to the computer. Weighty thoughts transformed into a vibrant story. Checking his watch he realized he had been typing for thirty minutes; there were only a scant few minutes until the deadline. The curse would fulfill its deadly promise if the last words of the story were not written.

Looking up he noticed the woman who he had obsessed over for months only to have his advances rejected. Today she was interested in him. She nudged him until he looked up. Her smile was warm and inviting. Brian’s labored smile hid his preoccupation as he returned to work knowing there would be no tomorrow if he did not complete the story. As the next paragraphs rolled off his fingers she spoke. Trying to focus he murmured something that stopped her. Completing the next paragraph panic erupted in his core. The gears of his mind ground to a halt, a motor seizing due to the absence of lubrication.

When he looked up her gaze was heavy on him. Tension radiated from him; brow knitted and eyes bloodshot. His lips moved devoid of sound. A word croaked from his constricted throat. Returning to his work he reread the last paragraph hoping to spur thought. As his fingers perched over the keyboard he struggled. Two more stops and either the story would end or… The other option wasn’t an option. Tapping out the next few words a thought germinated. He was close; very close as the train rolled into the next stop signaling five minutes until the deadline. Desperation moved him. Misspelled words peppered the final paragraph. When he completed the story he retraced and corrected the errors.

The conductor announced the final stop. Relief washed over Brian; a deep breath and he allowed himself to relax as he enjoyed the shapely legs of the woman standing next to his seat. She began to wriggle as if something had crawled into her pantyhose. As the train pulled into the station he rose. She stumbled and fell into the previously occupied seat. As he watched her face contorted into a horrible question. Hovering over her he watched as she labored to breathe. Calling for assistance he yielded to a medical professional who announced herself. As he experienced the final moments of life abandoning her Brian whispered a prayer for the privilege of life and for his soul’s salvation for transferring the curse to an innocent person.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the city’s homeless population an old gypsy woman stroked the crude doll that she kept close to her heart. Tomorrow she would venture out to claim another victim…

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