Collection of Four Short Stories Page 2

  “It’s all I got,” he said with finality. “Anyway I am too tired to think about it anymore. She’s passed out by now. I’m just going to go to bed and worry about things tomorrow.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and turned to leave.

  “But Steve, “ she said. “What will you say to her in the morning?”

  Steve gave a short mirthless laugh.

  “What difference does it make Mom? She won’t remember a thing.”

  With that he turned and disappeared into the hallway.

  Boot Camp Camp

  In the summer of 1973 Merv Griffin was involved in a conspiracy to kill me. I don’t know to this day what Merv had against me. Sure I watched Dick Cavett and Dinah Shore sometimes, but that was no reason to kill me. In the summer of ’73 I was a normal Middle American boy in a normal Middle American family. My mother was a stay at home mom, as were all the women on the block, I had two sisters and an older brother. What about a father you ask? Oh I had one of those too. He was normal too up until Merv turned him against me. Up until then he would pass me the ball occasionally, pat me on the head, and dispense fatherly advice. It was a humdrum existence, but up until then my life had not been in any danger. All that changed in an instant.

  In those days The Merv Griffin Show was on during the early evening and my folks watched sometimes. Of course they also watched Beat the Clock, but there’s no accounting for taste. At any rate Merv, who had an eclectic guest list, had on an author who was a former Marine Drill Instructor. He had written a book on raising boys the Marine way. He called it Boot Camp Camp. He essentially counseled parents to become drill instructors to their male offspring during summer break in the hope that through physical exercise and verbal abuse they would somehow turn out to be superior citizens. The logic escaped me frankly, but I could tell that my previously normal father was intrigued. I suggested that we change the channel to a rerun of The Perry Mason Show, but was shouted down. As the former Marine spoke I could hear my father grunt with approval. I glanced in his direction several times and was vaguely disconcerted by the gleam in his eye. I went to bed that night in the bedroom I shared with my older brother and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Sometime before dawn, the trauma of the events prevents me from giving an exact time, the door to the bedroom was flung open and my father, or at least it appeared to be my father, burst through the door banging a spatula on a trash can lid.

  “Alright outta bed you maggots!” he shouted.

  Now at the tender age of ten I can assure you that I had never been referred to as maggot in my life, later when I married I was called many such names, and was a bit perturbed that my own father would call me such an unflattering epithet. I could think of no reason for this and then it dawned upon me. The book! Oh my goodness he had taken it to heart. My father rushed us out of bed and into our gym shorts and tee shirts. Apparently we were to begin the day with a bit of a leisurely constitutional. The next thing I knew my brother and I were jogging down the street with my father beside of us on my brother’s bicycle calling out a cadence. Block after block he drove us. My legs felt heavy and I staggered on hoping for some sort of reprieve. Just when I felt I could go no further I realized that we were in front of our house again. Dad had taken us in a huge circle and I had somehow survived.

  I fell to the grass in our front yard and pledged to lead a life of pious good works as thanks for my life being spared. My reprieve was short lived however. As my brother and I lay gasping for air our father came out of the garage. I had hoped against hope that he had abandoned us, but he had merely put the bike away.

  “Calisthenics!” he screamed. “I’ll make Marines of you yet.”

  Now I did not want to be a Marine, but when I mildly pointed that fact out to the creature inhabiting my father’s body he seemed nonplussed and the calisthenics continued unabated. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, push ups, repeat. I called upon resources I did no know that I had. Unknown reservoirs of energy kept me going. Dad’s constant use of negative reinforcement was no help, but he seemed to believe he was inspiring us. I could feel sweet death approaching and was anticipating seeing all my dead relatives. There was a light. Faint at first, but then brighter. I could feel myself being pulled towards the light. I was half unconscious and just as I reached towards the light I heard my father’s voice.

  “Alright maggots that’s breakfast. Hit the showers and then chow.”

  As I was jerked back to full consciousness I realized that the light was merely the break of dawn. The cruel sun had fooled me, but at least the torture was over. In the years ahead I was certain my brother and I would look back on this morning and have a good laugh.

  A hot shower somewhat revived me, never underestimate the recuperative powers of a ten year old, and I sat down to a breakfast of my mother’s pancakes and bacon with toast. Dad hadn’t turned me into a Marine, but I imagined I was eating with the appetite of several enlisted men. My dad was eating his breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the paper. Order was restored and the insanity had passed. I had read about unstable characters who occasionally became mad for short periods, perhaps that was what had happened to Dad. At any rate he seemed reasonably lucid again and as his dutiful son I was willing to forget the entire ugly episode and return to sitcom like happiness in our little family unit.

  My father finished his meal as usual, arose to leave for work as usual, kissed mother as usual, and announced that boot camp would resume that afternoon upon his return. That was not usual. A cold shiver ran down my spine. The madness would continue. I feared for my survival and suspected my father of murderous intent. My brother’s eyes and mine met in the sympathetic gaze of condemned men. After father left for work I appealed to mother hoping to find succor. Instead of giving any aid or sympathy she said she was certain father knew best for us boys this summer. After all we would only get into trouble if we were idle for three months. Now three months of idleness was just what I had been hoping for. I was a somewhat lazy child and hoped to turn it into a full time career as an adult.

  Dad came home that afternoon and the ritual began anew. The exercise routines continued along with the ritual name calling.

  “Come on you slime pick up the pace…Ten more push ups maggot…Sit-ups until you puke numbskull.”

  June was a blur as the days began to run together. Up before dawn to train and then training in the afternoon until dark. I found muscles that I had never known that I had. Of course the reason I had been previously unaware, even blissfully unaware, of these muscles was because they had not previously ached twenty-four hours a day as they did now. July brought a new horror as Dad constructed a rudimentary obstacle course in our backyard and side yard. There was now a new gauntlet to endure in between our so-called hikes and our calisthenics. Dad had brought some tires from the local dump for us to run through, a piece of privacy fencing as a wall to climb over and repel down, and a chin up bar in case there were any muscles left that we were not abusing as of yet.

  Right around this time I noticed Dad in conference with some of the other fathers in the neighborhood. This did not bode well I was certain and soon enough some of the other boys in the neighborhood were joining our boot camp experience. If looks could kill I would have died that summer. For some reason they saw me not as a fellow victim, but rather as an unindicted co-conspirator with my father. My former friends glared at me with an expression that said noogies, wedgies, and cherry bellies were in my future if not outright schoolyard beatings.

  On and on the abuse went into August and I was near death several times when one day my mother informed us she was taking us shopping for school clothes. The safety of school seemed unimaginable and I nearly wept at the thought of escaping my father’s sadistic clutches. That Friday Dad announced boot camp was over. He solemnly shook our hands and congratulated us on our graduation. Once again unmistakable signs of sanity were present in his eyes. My nightmarish summer was over and by the next summer father had forgotten all about
Boot Camp Camp.

  I had beaten the evil Merv Griffin. Oh I know he went on to great success with Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, but if must have stuck in his craw that a little boy in Ohio had bested him. In spite of his best efforts I lived through that summer and for the rest of my life I became a fervent follower of the Mike Douglas Show.

  The Ennui of Helen

  It was remarkable how alike yesterday was to today for Helen. As far as she could discern the only obvious difference was that she was another day older and another day closer to becoming that most hated of words.

  “Spinster!” she fairly spat out under her breath.

  If her father heard her he made no indication as he entered the room. Helen’s father was a gruff looking man of sixty. The years weighed heavily upon him. Helen remembered when her father was a genial man who was quick to smile and to laugh, but those days ended with the untimely death of her mother Julia years earlier. Her father now seemed aloof at best and sad and angry at worst. Not that either of them spoke of the shade of death that still seemed to hover over the household. Helen knew she was all her father had left in the world, but she wished her own life with marriage, children, and her own home. Had her mother lived all of that would have happened by now. Helen remembered that her mother loved to entertain and that the young men came calling often for tea and stayed for games and conversation. That chapter closed with Julia’s death and now seemed like the memory of another world. It was obvious father did not want her to marry and she could not without his permission.

  She poured his evening whiskey and soda for him in silence as he sat at the table. The room was a typically Victorian one and if asked Helen’s father considered himself to be a typical Victorian age man. He was steady and provided a comfortable household with servants for his daughter and saw to her every want, as he perceived it. The furnishings were all first rate at the time of purchase yet, he had replaced nothing since the death of his wife. The furniture and the home and even the people of the home seemed shabby and second hand. Even so he would have been taken aback at any implication he was depriving her of anything. She was his life as he often said. He glanced at her and realized how much she reminded him of her mother. With that revelation he fell into a brown study.

  Helen replaced the whiskey and soda bottle and stood to the rear of her father’s chair. She tried to hide the emotion in her voice as she essayed a frequent request.

  Father,” she said with a weak smile. “Peter has sent his card and wishes to call upon us.”

  “Peter?” her father replied, as he was startled out of his reverie.

  Helen held her tongue for an instant before replying.

  “You know Peter Father, he is the Masterson’s nephew. We met him last summer at the theater”

  “Oh yes,” her father replied somewhat absentmindedly. “Nice enough chap I suppose. A bit of a dreamer as I recall. A musician or some such nonsense if I remember correctly”

  “He is a painter Father,” she replied patiently. “He has just returned from an exhibition in Paris that was quite well received, as I understand.”

  Her father grunted and fell back into silence. Helen took another breath as she recognized the familiar ballet that they often played.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well what my dear?”

  “May I tell him he may call upon us tomorrow?

  He father fidgeted in his chair for a moment and fished a cigar from his vest pocket.

  “Tomorrow.” he muttered as though the word was new or foreign. He let it roll around on his tongue several times and looked up at the ceiling.

  “I believe this room could use a coat of paint,” he said with some authority. “Yes that is just what we need to brighten this room up. It looks positively gray do you not agree my dear?”

  “Father,” Helen began, but her father was warming to the subject.

  “Yes. I new coat of paint and perhaps new drapes also,” he continued. “That is just the tonic this room needs.”

  As he looked down at his drink he seemed to find some humor in it and grunted a short laugh. He rolled the cigar between his fingers and patted a pocket for something.

  “Yes Father I will take care of that for you. I have asked for months to redecorate this room as you well know,” she said. “But we have not settled the issue of Peter calling. May I send him a note granting your permission to call upon us?”

  Her father made no reply for a long moment and then seemed to rouse himself.

  “Us?” he said querulously.

  “Does he wish to call upon me? No he does not,” he went on in a rush not waiting for a reply. “I wish no callers. I do not feel well and I need you. Perhaps next summer.”

  “But Father that is what you said last summer and the summer before that.”

  Her father went on as if he had not heard her protest.

  “Yes we will have a bit of a coming out party for you next summer. I will surely feel better by then. Do not worry my sweet we will find you a nice young man next summer. Yes next summer.”

  The tone in his voice was a familiar one to Helen. She knew this tone meant no further conversation on the subject was to be tolerated. He had already turned his back on her and was patting his pockets again.

  “My poor helpless father,” she sighed. “Do you ever have a match?”

  She lit a match from the box on the mantle and he leaned over and puffed on his cigar until it glowed. He let out several puffs of smoke and leaned back in his chair completely satisfied. Helen observed his withdrawal into his own thoughts and entered hers as well. Peter would not wait of course, just as Michael, Steven, and her other erstwhile suitors had done when encountering her father’s obstinacy in the matter of her courtship. She wondered how different her life would have been had God spared her mother. Surely she was needed more here than in Heaven, but Helen was not the sort of girl to question her own father much less question the wisdom of God.

  Another evening with father silently drinking his whiskey, smoking his cigars, and reading the bewildering financial news was in front of her. Helen felt a great weight upon her shoulders and leaned against the mantle to ease her burden. Her eyes fell upon the portraits of her mother that adorned the walls and she fell into her own brown study. Time passed slowly, but perhaps Father would relent next summer. She hoped and for a moment forgot all the hopes that had previously been dashed.

  Blackout and Fade Out

  Ghouls and vampires seemed to be out in force and yet Don was unworried and quietly sipping a beer as his new buddy Joe was fishing a fresh cold one from the cooler. It was a clear All Hallows Eve and young children, even teenagers, were prowling the town’s sidewalks in search of candy. Most of the costumed beggars quickly passed the seedy motel they were staying at, but a few of the more hardy, or more foolish, paused to glance at the pair ensconced on lawn chairs with beer at the ready. The pair did not appear to be likely Halloween patrons and so far no children had approached.

  Don grimaced as the latest potential beggars quickened their steps and continued down the street. Don had bought candy for the occasion and even purchased identical hockey masks for Joe and himself that morning in anticipation of handing out some treats, but the masks were just sitting on the bed now. At 21 he was young enough to remember how special this night was for kids, but the image of he and Joe guzzling beer had been enough to discourage any visitors. Don felt bad about the children, but there were plenty of other places for them to get all the candy they needed or wanted. Joe had laughed when he bought the treats, but Joe had also been worried that they would disappoint the kids if they had nothing to hand out. Joe belched loudly and scratched his stomach.

  “I told ya nobody trick or treats motels.”

  Don nodded and looked up at the stars and wondered if any of them were lucky. As he was looking for a particularly lucky star Joe continued.

  “I’ll tell you one thing though,” Joe said as he smothered another belch. “These kids got
the right idea. At least once a year you can get something for nothing. At least if you’re a kid and you got a costume.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Don as he glanced over at Joe. Joe didn’t have much schooling, but he was a bit older than Don and seemed to have given a lot of thought to life and philosophy. At least Don thought so. Joe treated him like a kid brother, and to Don, Joe seemed to have been everywhere and done everything. He had even done a prison stretch.

  “I mean only chumps work for a living. Look at us. Slaving away at the construction site for what? What do we have at the end of the week?”

  “Joe, its not bad money. I mean there are folks making a whole lot less.”

  “Just because there are bigger chumps in the world don’t make us smart. At the end of the week, after food, this lousy motel room, and gas, what have we got, I ask ya?”

  Joe paused, took a long pull from his can of beer, and looked directly into his young friend’s eyes. He seemed to be waiting for Don to reply, but Don knew well enough that Joe was on a roll and would answer the question himself. Don nodded and waited for Joe to continue with a hopeful and quizzical look on his face.

  As expected, Joe picked the conversational thread and continued.

  “We ain’t even got enough money to spend at the bar. We have to pick up beer at the store and drink it staring at a parking lot like a couple of high school punks. What do think the guys who own the construction company are doing tonight? They’re drinking champagne and lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills, that’s what they’re doing. What do you think the guys who own this motel are doing?”

  “I think he’s sitting in the office, Joe. I saw him there when we rolled in,” Don said helpfully, nodding towards the front of the motel.

  “That ain’t the owner you dummy. He’s just another working stiff like us working so someone else don’t have to work.”

  “Well what are guys like us supposed to do then?” Don asked. “I ain’t got no rich relatives and I ain’t heard you talk about none either. Money ain’t gonna just fall in our lap, is it”