Monday, May 02, 2016
Three Words
Three
Words
by
Phoenix
Hocking
The
priest stood before the mound of dirt that covered my girlfriend's
body. “May God grant you rest,” he intoned as he made the sign
of the cross in the air, “and may you find contentment in Heaven,
as you never did on earth.”
He
looked straight at me then, and I shivered.
I
hadn't meant to kill her. Truly. I only meant... I only... Oh
hell, I don't know what I meant. It doesn't matter now anyway.
Oh,
I didn't actually kill her
kill her, if you get my drift. I mean, I never held a gun to her
head or a knife to her throat, but still, I feel as responsible as if
I had. If only I hadn't encouraged
her in her madness, in her obsession, maybe she'd still be alive
today. Maybe... well, maybe a lot of things might have turned out
differently.
After the service I sat on a nearby
bench, brooding. It was a beautiful day, the kind Madelyn loved.
The sky held just enough wispy clouds to block the worst of the sun,
and birds twittered in the trees next to her grave. Butterflies
danced among the gravestones, filling the cemetery with flying bits
of color.
I fell in love with Madelyn the
first time I saw her. I was seven, she was six, and her family had
moved next door to mine. She was thin, even then, with long, red,
curly hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall. She wore a
green dress and black Mary Janes, that first day.
She'd stood in front of her mother,
and Madelyn had one hand out and the other hand on her hip, saying,
“I want more!” Her mother gave her another sweet, told her to go
find someone to play with, then continued moving things into the
house.
Who she found to play with was me.
And I was soon to learn that those three words, “I want more!”
would come to rule her life.
In all the years I knew her,
Madelyn was never content with what she had. She always wanted more.
She got A's in school. I never once knew her get a ninety-nine
percent on a test. She only got perfect scores. It was not enough
that she was the best speller in class, in school; she had to go on
to regional, state, and national championships, and win them all.
She was brilliant, and she knew it.
In high school she was class
president four years running, valedictorian at commencement, Prom
Queen. In college, she was president of her sorority, and graduated
in three years instead of four.
She never wanted to marry, or have
children. I asked her to marry me once, and she just laughed. “Oh,
Steve,” she said, “that would ruin everything!”
“What
do you mean ruin
everything?”
I asked, crushed at her refusal.
“Marriage and children are just
roadblocks when you're on the fast track,” she replied.
And on the fast track she was.
Straight out of college she took a position at a well-known company
as a sales associate. By the end of the first year, she was top
salesperson. At the end of three years, she was managing the branch.
At five years she was president of the company. At seven, she was
the owner.
She started out with a used Toyota,
which soon became a three-hundred thousand dollar Ferrari. She
started with a one-bedroom condo in a middle-class neighborhood,
which became a multi-million dollar home on twelve acres.
And still, she was not content.
She wanted more. She could not have just one dog from the pound.
No, she had to have a thousand-dollar pure-bred, which eventually
became a kennel full of pure-bred dogs. Her single horse became a
stable of thoroughbreds. Her garage became home to six expensive
vehicles, each larger than the last, or at least more costly.
And all this time, there I was,
cheering her on, encouraging her to go farther, reach higher, do
better than everyone else. I thought she was the most ambitious
person I'd ever met. But under that ambition was madness, pure and
simple. Utter and complete insanity.
But, in my own defense, isn't that
what we're taught? That more is better? That a Cadillac is better
than a Vespa, or a vacation to Europe beats a trip to Disneyland?
That steak is better than hotdogs, and a bottle of Dom Perignon is
better than Coors? No, we must have more. More money, more
prestige, more power, more everything. More, always more.
In retrospect, I suppose it is
strange that I still considered her my “girlfriend,” since we
hadn't really been an item for many years. Just as one of anything
wasn't enough for her, one boyfriend wasn't either. We remained
friends throughout the years, though, and I liked to think that I was
the one person she could count on, could trust, could share her
dreams with.
What a fool I was! I saw the
person she wanted me to see – the same ambitious, successful,
powerful, rich woman the rest of the world saw. I never saw the
madness hidden beneath the facade. I don't think any of us did.
One day, she and I were sitting on
her veranda, looking out over her acreage, drinking a very fine port.
The sun was just beginning to set behind the distant hills, and her
land was bathed in golden light. She was unusually quiet, and I
asked her, “Madelyn, are you all right?”
She looked out over the property
she had bought, taking in the horses in the field, and the dogs
romping nearby. “No,” she replied. “I want more.”
“More?
Good Lord, Madelyn, what more
is there?”
She
waved a hand. “See this? It's all stuff.
I don't want more stuff.”
“Then what do you want?” I
asked.
She set her glass of very expensive
port on the very expensive side table next to her and leaned forward,
eyes focused on something only she could see. “I want God,” she
said.
“God?!” I almost dropped my
drink. “What do you mean? You've never been a religious person.”
“I know,” she answered. “But
maybe that's what's missing in my life.”
“What are you talking about?” I
snapped. “You have everything anybody could want. Why isn't
anything enough for you?”
“I don't know,” she answered.
“I wish I did. But all of this...” and she waved a hand over the
scenery. “All of this is going to go. I'm going to join a
convent.”
And then, I really did drop my
drink.
For once, I tried to talk her out
of something. Not that I tried to talk her out of God, no, not that.
Of course not that. But out of her next move, her next crazy,
foolhardy, insane move, that I tried to persuade her against.
She didn't listen to me.
She joined the convent anyway. She
sold everything she owned and gave the proceeds to the church, free
and clear. Gone were the fancy cars, the stable full of
thoroughbreds, the kennel full of pure-bred dogs. Gone were the
beautiful dresses, the expensive jewelry, the company she owned.
I kept in touch after she joined
the convent. We corresponded all throughout her years as a
postulant, her years as a novice.
For once, though, she could not
move forward any faster than anyone else, and I know it chafed at
her. But once she made her final vows, she rose in the ranks, just
as I knew she would. She became the youngest Mother Superior her
Order had ever had.
And there she stopped, as there was
nowhere else for her to go.
The tone of her letters during
this time changed. She began to ramble on about the state of the
world, expressing disappointment with God for allowing evil to
continue. Abruptly, the letters changed again to hopeful optimism,
and I hoped perhaps she had finally found her happiness, her
contentment, her joy. But I was wrong.
She wanted more.
I felt someone sit on the bench
next to me, and glanced over to find Father Richard at my side. He
looked at the mound that covered the woman we both loved, though in
different ways, and sighed.
“Do you think she's happy now?”
I asked, the words sticking in my throat.
“I think she's in for a big
surprise,” he answered sadly.
You
see, he and I had received copies of her suicide note. “It's not
enough,” she had written. “All my life, I have wanted more, and
I find myself thinking Is
this all there is?
I still want more, but I realize that I'm never going to find the
More that I want in this life. I want God, but in order to find God,
I have to go where He is, and once I get there, I'm going to take His
job.”
There
was more to the note, faint ramblings of a disturbed mind, disjointed
accounts of how she would change the world to suit her. It was sad,
and disturbing, and somehow her letter made me angry. Angry that I
had never seen the pain beneath her striving, never seen the madness
behind her obsession with more.
I smiled as a butterfly came and
hovered briefly over Madelyn's grave. “You may be right,” I said
to the priest. “But I don't envy God keeping Madelyn in check,
even in Heaven.”
Father Richard chuckled and shook
his head. Then he rose and held out a hand. “Come on,” he said,
“let's go have a glass of port in memory of an extraordinary woman,
shall we?”
As we left the cemetery, out of the
corner of my eye, I saw a shaft of light filter out of the clouds and
illuminate Madelyn's grave, where a hundred butterflies were now
flying in circles.
Friday, November 07, 2014
Ghost of a Chance
Ghost of a Chance
by
Phoenix Hocking
I never
expected to see my husband again, certainly not six years after he'd
been murdered. But there he was, standing at the end of my bed,
grinning that stupid smile he used to wear when he'd been out
drinking too late.
"Hey
there, Sweet Cheeks," he said, using his pet name for me.
"Holy
crap!" I started up in bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin.
"What the hell? You're dead!"
"Well,
of course I'm dead," he said, floating toward the side of the
bed. He sat down next to me, though the mattress didn't seem to know
that. "You killed me, remember?"
"I
did not!" I protested. "You and I both know that I did no
such thing."
"Oh, settle down, Sweet Cheeks," he soothed. "You know and I know, but everybody else seems to think you're guilty."
"Hmmmph,"
I grunted. "That's true. But there was never enough evidence
to convict me, though I have to admit, I haven't missed you much.
What are you doing here anyway?"
He
looked upwards. "I've come to save your soul," he intoned
righteously.
I
couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "Save my soul?
Now, that's rich. Your soul is the one that needs saving, you
low-life scum."
"That
would be 'no-life scum' to you," he chortled, then fell silent.
He was
quiet for a minute, which gave me a bit of a chance to study him. He
looked surprisingly good for a man who'd been dead for six years. If
anything, he looked better than he had the last time I saw him, which
isn't surprising, since the last time I saw him he was covered in
blood. His hair seemed to have grown back to its lush and luxurious
state, and his wrinkles were noticeably diminished. His chin still
had that little cleft in it that drove me wild, and his eyes were
still a deep-sea blue a girl could drown in. All in all, he looked
damn good, for a dead guy.
"Really,
Pete, why are you here?" I asked.
He got
up, and the mattress didn't even sigh. He floated toward the window
this time, and made as if he was looking out. Since it was
pitch-black outside, the effect was kind of ruined. Or maybe he
could see in the dark, like a bat. I shivered.. I could see right
through him, and that was more than a little disconcerting.
"To
tell you the truth, I don't know," he answered. "Maybe I'm
here to save my own soul. I'm not quite sure what the assignment
is."
I got up
and threw a robe on. "If this is going to be heavy, I'd better
get a drink."
"Ah
ha!" he exclaimed. "That's part of it. Your drinking."
"Oh
Jeez," I said. "We're not having that old argument again,
are we?"
"Look,
if you hadn't been drinking, you wouldn't have been suspected of my
unfortunate demise, now would you?"
"Hmmmpf,"
I snorted. "Your 'unfortunate demise,' as you call it, was all
your own stupid fault."
"I
know that," he started, "and you know that . . ."
"Yeah,
yeah, yeah. So, how do we go about clearing my name?"
"I'm
not sure. I'm not even sure that's what this is all about."
"So,
you don't know who killed you?"
"Nope.
I just know you didn't."
"And
how do you know that?" I asked.
"Because
you were passed out cold. You couldn't have killed a fly if it had
landed on your nose."
We had
made our way into the kitchen. I reached into the cupboard to
retrieve a bottle of Jim Beam.
"Well,
that's helpful. I guess I'm out of luck trying to clear my name
then."
"I
guess so. Like I said, I don't think that's what this is about
anyway."
I
attempted to unscrew the cap on the Jim Beam, but to no avail. It
was like the lid was screwed on so tightly, it would take a
jackhammer to get it off. I looked up to see Pete holding one finger
on the cap.
"Are you doing that?"
"Yeah.
Pretty cool, huh?"
"Not
from where I'm standing." I slammed the Jim Beam back on the
counter. The bottle shattered and I cursed. I grabbed a towel and
swept the shards of glass into the trash, then wrung out a sponge to
clean the mess off the sink. When that was done, I spun around to
see him watching me, a satisfied expression on his face.
"Fine,"
I said. "Let's talk."
"Okay."
He drifted to the kitchen table, sat down, and crossed his legs.
"So,
why are you here? And what's
it like, being dead?"
He
pondered that for a minute. "Well, as to the second question,
it's boring as hell. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't actually DO
anything, except your basic poltergeist stuff, and that gets old
after a while."
"What
about the white light and all that crap?"
He
shook his head and placed his hands on the table. "Nope, not
for me. No light at all, white or any other color. No 'dear
departed' family members standing on the other side, ready to greet
me. No devil either. So, I'm not in heaven, but I'm not in hell
either, so I guess that's good."
I
stretched my fingers out and looked at them. Yep, just as solid as
they ever were. His, on the other hand, were clear as glass, and I
could see the coffee stain on my kitchen table through them. It was
creepy.
"So,
the Sisters were right about Purgatory?" I asked. Now, that
was a frightening thought. In Catholic school we were taught that
every soul needed to do time in Purgatory before they were allowed
into Heaven, but we could buy something called indulgences
to help them get there faster. I didn't think God worked like that,
but now I wasn't so sure.
"Nah,"
Pete said. "It's not like that."
"Crap!
Can you read my thoughts, too?"
"Sometimes,"
he admitted. "Not all the time."
"I'm
liking this less and less." I thought for a minute. "Back
to question number one. Why are
you here? And what do you care anyway? You never gave a damn about me
when you were alive. Why give a rat's behind about me now?"
Pete
got up. Well, Pete's ghost
got up, and began to float around the room, swirling dust as he went.
He seemed agitated. Then he settled down, and sighed back into the
chair.
"I'm
sorry, Sweet Cheeks," he said. "I really am. I treated
you like crap when I was living, and now . . . well, now I know
better."
"What
brought you to this realization, o wise one?" I asked, smirking.
He
was quiet again, but then said, "I've had a lot of time to
think, over here. A lot of time to look back over my life. It's like
. . ." he paused. "It's like being in a huge room, and it's
just me in there. No God or angel looking over my shoulder. It's
just me, looking at my whole life. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
I have to tell you, Sweetie, the bad and the ugly far outweighed the
good. I felt, you should pardon the expression, like shit. Forgive
me?"
Something
in me melted, something cold and hard, a frozen resentment I hadn't
known I'd been carrying around for six years. I felt tears well up in
my eyes.
"Yeah,
you big lug. I forgive you." I wiped the tears away. "I'd
hug you if I could."
The
atmosphere in the room changed. The apparition that resembled my
husband's body began to shift and swirl and dance around the room.
Suddenly
there was a bright light, and a Presence entered my kitchen. It stood
next to Pete, who was staring open-mouthed at it.
"Are
you God?" Pete whispered.
"No,
I'm Michael, and I've come for you."
"Michael?
As in SAINT Michael?" I asked.
The
Presence smiled at me, and I hit my knees, right down on my kitchen
floor. I bowed my head, but no words came.
"Are
you ready?" St. Michael asked Pete.
"Yes,
Sir," he said. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
When
I looked up, they were gone.
The
next morning, when I woke up, the first thing I thought was, Man,
that was a helluva dream I had last night.
I
went into the kitchen to make coffee. The whole room stank of Jim
Beam, and the remains of the bottle were in the trash.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
The Last of His Kind
The Last of His Kind
by
Phoenix Hocking
He was the last of
his kind.
He knew this; it
came as no surprise. Every generation had been smaller than the
last, until only he was left, with no female to mate with, no progeny
to raise.
He was alone.
He was ugly; he knew
that, too. On the occasions when he found relatively clear water in
the gutters to drink, he closed his eyes so as not to see his reflection staring back at him. If any were so unfortunate as to see
him on the street, they would shudder and turn away. Sometimes, they
tried to kill him, but always, he had escaped. A huge head, a long
body, tiny legs, dark bristle for hair, deformed. Ugly. It had
always been thus, and even more so now.
The world had grown
dark. There had been a bright flash, then darkness, choking dust,
and silence. He could still see, though, and that was a blessing.
At least, he thought it was a blessing, though the sights he saw as
he made his way through the darkness made him sick to his stomach.
The bodies became
green and bloated, putrid things he avoided. Hunger might have
driven him to partake, but no. He would not stoop that low. He
would not.
For now, he rested
in an alleyway where he had made his home of late. It was dark here,
too. The rainwater crept down the side of the building, dropping
filthy wetness into the gutter. Usually there was nothing else to drink, so
he drank it.
He knew things. He
knew that when the wind came from the north, to burrow into the hole
he had made behind the trash bin. He knew to hunker down when the
wind came from the south, bringing with it dust and debris and the
stench of rotting bodies. He'd learned that when the bodies were removed, there would be fire.
And he knew that he
carried within his body both life and death. He felt it as surely as he knew to dread the sun, for with
the sun came warmth, and with warmth came feet.
He didn't like feet.
The feet were attached to giants, and giants liked to kill. So far,
he had avoided them, but now, he didn't care. After all, now there
were no females for him to mate with, no progeny to raise. He was,
as was said before, alone.
Sometimes he
wondered if the giants were as they were because of the bright flash,
or the darkness that came after. Were they born of the chaos the
world had become, or had they always been, and he had simply never
noticed?
He was resting when
he felt, rather than saw, a shape come toward him. This creature,
too, had feet, but they were not the feet of the giants. Well,
perhaps they were, but if so, then it was a small giant, with small
feet. Perhaps this generation of giants was growing smaller, just as
his own had grown smaller with each passing generation. He burrowed
more deeply into his hole, waiting for the small giant to pass.
It was singing. He
poked his head from the hole to listen.
Ring around the
rosies, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, all fall DOWN!
And
the small giant fell with a crash into the street. Not thinking, he
left his hiding place and scurried to where it lay. It
was still for a moment, then began to laugh - a strange sound,
coming from the creature. It laughed and laughed and laughed, then
began to choke and sob.
Compassion
for another, even another species, still dwelt within him, deformed
and ugly though he was. Gently, gently, so as not to frighten
the small giant, he reached out to stroke the strange skin.
Startled,
the small giant screamed, and brushed the place where he had stroked
her, flinging him onto the cobbled stones. Frightened, the small
giant began to call and cry. A large giant rushed to the creature's
aid.
"Molly,
Molly, what's the matter?"
"Something
was crawling on me!" the small giant cried.
The
large giant looked around and saw his ugly, mutilated body, quivering
in the dust. It brought a huge foot down upon him. "There,
I've killed it. Now come in the house for supper."
From the shadows watched another. She was the last of her kind . . . .
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Parable of the Chocolate Kiss
PARABLE OF THE CHOCOLATE KISS
By
PHOENIX MARYGRACE HOCKING
Once there were a man and a woman who fell in love and got married. They loved each other very much and spent most of their time together. Even when they were working they would call each other on the phone and when they were at home they could hardly stop looking at each other long enough to get anything else done!
Every morning the bride would awaken to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and when she came to the table she would find one single chocolate kiss beside her coffee cup, and a love letter from her beloved.
And they talked! Oh, how they talked! They shared all of their joys and all of their sorrows. They laughed over the silly things they saw on their walks together, and discussed the things they read. Every morning and every evening found them deep in conversation and their lives were full of love.
They both went out of their way to find ways to show the other that they were loved. Every day the bridegroom left a chocolate kiss and a love letter beside the bride’s coffee cup, and throughout the day he sent her flowers, or music she particularly enjoyed, or some other token of affection. She felt very loved, and for her part she made every effort to spend quality time with her husband. She savored the chocolate kiss, and read every single line of the love letter.
But, a sad thing happened. As time went on, the bride became busy with the everyday business of life. The cares and worries of her job started to occupy her thoughts and she didn’t make as much time to be with her husband the way she used to. One morning, she barely had time to gulp down the cup of coffee he had prepared for her. She didn’t notice the chocolate kiss at all, and thought to herself, “Oh, the letter can wait. I’ll read it tomorrow.”
And after a while the conversations dwindled down to the point where they just didn’t happen any more. Sometimes the bride would rush out of the house and never even say Good Morning to her husband, and sometimes when she came home she would eat a quick supper and not even say a word to him, who sat across the table from her, just waiting for her to acknowledge him. It seemed, and I almost hate to say it, but it seemed as though she had forgotten he even existed.
In the bride’s life, busy and stressed and full of things that didn’t matter, she found that the joy was gone, and her life was empty and dull and void. It was just life, but the relationship that made life worth living had been forgotten. And the chocolate kisses remained on the table, unseen and unappreciated.
Then one day, while she was on her break at work, a friend came by and dropped a chocolate kiss beside her coffee cup, and she remembered. She remembered her husband, and her heart sank at the way she had neglected him. She told her boss she wasn’t feeling well and she had to leave, then got in her car and rushed home.
Now, if this were a normal tale, a cautionary tale, I would say that she came home to an empty house. I would say that the bridegroom got tired of waiting to be noticed and just left.
But it isn’t. This is a tale of love, unconventional, unconditional, supernatural love.
The bride rushed into the house, so afraid that her husband would be gone. But instead she found him sitting at the table, and on the table were a freshly brewed cup of coffee, a single chocolate kiss, and a love letter.
“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m so sorry!”
The bridegroom held her close while she cried, and wiped away her tears. “I never left,” he said. “Don’t you know that I will never leave you nor forsake you? I have called you by name, and you are mine. Nothing in this earth will ever be able to separate you from my love.”
The bridegroom, of course, represents Jesus Christ. And I confess that sometimes I have been like that foolish bride. I have let the cares and worries and busyness of everyday life get in the way of my relationship with Him. And I have gone days without thinking of Him even once, and weeks without picking up His love letter to me.
But Christ is faithful, even when I am not. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.
And yet, perhaps there is a note of caution in my tale after all. For when we forget the Life that makes life worth living, our lives become empty, and instead of the kisses of God, we are left holding an empty silver wrapper, wondering where the joy went.
So, when Christ sends you kisses, receive them with thanksgiving, savor them and enjoy them, and remember that there are always more where they came from. He has an inexhaustible supply. And don’t forget His love letter, in which He promises “I will never leave you, nor forsake you.” Rest in the joy of His love because, unlike ours, His love never changes.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
The Mystery of the Stolen Panties
The Mystery of the Stolen
Panties
by
Phoenix Hocking
Pug O'Donnell's life of
crime began when he was just a lad, and out of necessity. Well, he
considered it necessary anyway.
It was hunger that drove
him to his first filch. Times were tough. His mum worked two and
sometimes three jobs, but with six children there often was not
enough to share and Pug was the youngest. He would watch as the bowl
went 'round the table to the older kids first, and when the bowl came
to him it was often empty, or nearly so.
So Pug learned to steal.
At first, Pug only stole
food. Sometimes he stole money to buy food. The problem was, he was
good at it. If a housewife left a pie on the window sill to cool, it
was gone before the steam from the pie had a chance to dissipate. If
someone dropped a penny or a nickel, it was gone almost before it hit
the ground. Any wallet left unattended for more than a moment was
considerably lighter when the owner next lifted it, if Pug was
around.
So, Pug grew up, stealing
food, or money, and then whatever he felt like stealing. What was
born out of necessity became a hobby, then a game, and then an
obsession.
In the summer of his
fourteenth year, Pug discovered girls. He watched them constantly.
He liked to see how they moved, what they did, what they talked about
amongst themselves.
There was one girl he
particularly liked to watch. Her name was Amanda and she was
beautiful. She was outgoing and smart. She had long, curly red hair
and a beautiful figure. Her laugh was like an angel singing and her
smile lit up the room.
Pug loved her. He loved
her with all the love and devotion a fourteen year old boy can
muster. He followed her when he didn't think she was watching. He
knew where she lived, what time she got up in the morning, when she
went to bed at night.
Amanda, for her part, knew
nothing of being stalked by Pug. To her, Pug was a child, a harmless
child who had a crush on her. And Amanda was sixteen, and far too
old to even notice someone like Pug.
Pug became obsessed with
Amanda. And if he couldn't have her, he at least wanted something
that belonged to her. He wanted something intimate, something that
had touched her skin in that most private of places. He wanted her
underwear.
He watched, and he waited.
He almost got caught sneaking into the girl's gym while she was in
the swimming pool, but sneak in he did, and snuck back out again with
his prize clutched close to his chest inside his shirt.
The story that someone had
stolen a girl's underwear out of the locker room took the school by
storm. Who would do such a thing? And why? The Principal had each
student open their locker, but the underwear was never found. How
could it be? Pug kept them inside his shirt, close to his heart.
Eventually, the hubbub died
down. It was fluke and everybody went about their business. Pug was
good at thievery, you remember, so nobody even suspected him.
Pug took his prize home.
The panties were yellow and lacy. He would sometimes take them from
his hiding place and just look at them, running his fingers onto the
silky fabric, and dream.
One day, a few weeks after
his theft of Amanda's underwear, he thought perhaps he'd been found
out. Amanda had begun to look at him strangely. When she thought
Pug wasn't looking, she would just look at him, with a quizical look
on her face. Pug was afraid. What if she turned him in? Boys who
stole a girl's underwear would be looked at as some sort of pervert.
He didn't want that.
But what could he do with
the panties? He couldn't destroy them; that was simply unthinkable.
He couldn't bury them, and have them be defiled by dirt and mud. He
certainly couldn't give them back. And he couldn't keep them any
longer.
On his way home from school
one day, he saw a store. It was a cute store, a ladies store. And
then he knew what he would do. He wanted somebody to take care of
those panties, even though he couldn't do it himself any longer.
So, one morning, early,
early, before he went to school, he stopped by the store and put
Amanda's panties on the door handle, then ran away.
When the proprietor of the
store came to work that morning, she found the underwear hanging on
the handle of the door. Later, she posted a photo on Facebook,
saying, “Someone left their panties on the front door of my job.
This is a new one for me. I don't even know what to say about this.”
Well, now you know.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Rich man, Poor man
Rich man, Poor man
by
Phoenix Hocking
“Well, ma'am,” said the old gentleman as he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, “I've been rich and I've been poor. To tell you the truth, except for the not having any money part, I think I like being poor better.”
Clara took a sip of her coffee. She had been coming to the free meals at the Senior Center a couple times a week for the past month or so. She had hated coming in the beginning; it was simply one more reminder of how far she had fallen from what she considered “the good times.” But now she looked forward to chatting with the other “po' folk” she found there. Their stories never ceased to amaze her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Oh, the usual,” he replied. “My investments went in the toilet and government regulations pretty much flushed them away.”
The chatter flowed around them like a stream, carrying snippets of conversations. The aroma was an odd mixture of cooked food, overpowering Jean Nate' from the lady behind Clara, and unwashed body from any number of folks nearby.
“What do you mean by 'rich?'”
“Oh, I was pretty well off.” He took a hanky out of his pocket, blew his nose then wiped it back and forth. He stuck the hanky back in his pocket. “I had a nice house on the Bay and a vacation home up in the Catskills. A Mercedes-Benz in the garage, thank you very much. Never did have a yacht, though. Didn't have time for it. Too busy making money.”
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“It was good. Or at least I thought so at the time. When I was rich, though, I worried all the time. I was afraid of burglers. I was afraid of kidnappers. I was afraid of losing it all. I never knew my neighbors. We all just got in our cars in the morning to go to work, and sometimes we might nod to each other on the way past, but I never even knew most of their names.”
Clara thought about who her neighbors had been on either side of their tract house. She was surprised that she couldn't remember any of their names. Now that she lived in low-income senior housing, she knew more people there than she had when she lived with her husband in their modest middle-class home on Mulberry Street.
“I understand that,” she told the old gentleman. She stuck out her hand. “My name is Clara.”
He shook her hand, firmly but not overpowering. “And mine's Chet,” he said. “Short for Chester.”
“Oh!” Clara's eyes brightened. “Like on Gunsmoke! I used to love that show!”
Chet sighed. “I get that all the time,” he said, and grinned. “I don't mind, though. Chester was one of the good guys, and now that I don't have any money, I like to think I'm a good guy, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, man,” he said, “I used to think I was so all-fired pure. I'd give a buck to a bum on the street corner and think I'd done my good deed for the week. I never once looked past the dirt to see the person inside. Turns out those people was just me, waiting to happen.”
Around them, people were picking up their trays and moving towards the door. The volunteers were wiping tables and chatting amongst themselves.
“Now, see that one gal over there? The one with the gray hair and the bun?”
Clara looked and picked out the one Chet had indicated. “Yes.”
“She used to own “Molly's,” downtown.”
“Molly's?” Clara was incredulous. “I used to go there all the time. I was so bummed when they went out of business. What happened?”
“Her husband up and left and she couldn't keep up the payments on the place any more. Then she couldn't keep up the payments on the house any more. And then she couldn't keep up the payments on the car any more. She lives in a boarding house across the street.”
“Wow.”
Chet picked up his tray. “Yep. She volunteers here four days a week and eats here every day. I hear she's looking for work, but who wants to hire an old lady any more?”
Clara picked up her own tray and followed Chet to the tray drop off window.
“Well, Miss Clara, it was nice talking with you.” And Chet went out the door and picked up the sign he had stashed beside the building. “Homeless. Need help.” That's what the sign said.
Clara got in her car and started it, feeling incredibly rich, and more than a little blessed.
“Thank you, God,” she prayed, “for all the blessings you continue to shower into my life. Thank you for new friends and for people who love me. Show me, Lord, how I can be of service.”
She sat for a while with the engine running, then turned it off. She went back inside and found a volunteer worker.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can get a volunteer application?”
End
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Hard Times
Hard Times
by
Phoenix Hocking
Clara Martin had fallen on hard times. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that hard times had fallen on Clara Martin! Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard had more food than hers, and she was understandably depressed.
Now, Clara was not a slacker nor someone who spent a lifetime taking advantage of “the system.” No indeed. Clara was a hard worker, a college graduate (only an AA degree, but still . . .), and until recently, had worked her whole adult life.
She was single, having also recently lost her husband. Now, why do people say that, she thought. Why do people say “lost” as if their spouse has simply been misplaced somewhere? Charles is dead; and I know where he is.
And at that she smiled, picturing her Charles in Heaven, where she knew him to be at this very moment.
But that didn't help her current situation. Clara was still alone, broke, almost penniless, and there was no food in the house to speak of.
She had met someone in the parking lot of her apartment complex who told her about a food bank where the woman volunteered. Never in a million years had Clara thought she would find herself at a food bank. She had always worked. She and Charles had owned property, had nice things, traveled.
But Charles was dead, and when he died, the property, the nice things and the travel died with him. She was left to live on his Social Security survivor's benefits, and sometimes there was simply too much month left at the end of the money.
I can't possibly go to a food bank, Clara said to herself. I'd be too embarrassed. What if somebody I know sees me? I would just die! I can't do this. I can't!
But just then, her empty stomach spoke to her, and she plucked up her courage and said aloud, “Well, Clara old girl, you have to eat. You may not like it, but you have to do it.”
So Clara put her pride aside, got into the old clunker (that still ran, for which she was very grateful) and went to the place her neighbor had told her about.
The experience wasn't nearly as horrible as she had feared. The line was longer than she anticipated, but the people in the line were friendly and helpful. The lady at the intake window was kind and didn't spew her information all over the room, but instead spoke in low tones, with respect.
She received her yellow tag, went to the window designated, then went to stand outside in the shade while she waited for her box. A very nice young man came out and carried the box to the car for her.
“Have a good day, ma'am,” he said. And he smiled at her.
When she got home, she unpacked the box, grateful for the bounty. This is what she got:
1 dozen cookies,
1 loaf Italian Herb focaccia bread, 1 pkg white corn tortillas,
1 pkg blackberries, 1 pkg brussels sprouts, 1 lb hamburger,
1 container Philadelphia cooking creme (Savory lemon herb flavor),
6 bananas, 1 head of cauliflower, 1 large chili pepper, 1 artichoke,
2 avocados, 2 yellow bell peppers, 2 nectarines, 3 tomatoes,
1 large white onion, 1 18 oz bag of Oat Blenders cereal,
1 bag white rice, 1 15 oz container of Naked pomegranate acai juice,
1 can corn, 1 can fruit cocktail in heavy syrup, 2 cans tuna,
1 can Mild green chile enchilada sauce, 2 cans tomato sauce,
2 Jello Temptations pudding (French silk pie flavor), and
7 small cans of ????? No label.
Well, thought Clara. This is quite a haul.
She set about making something for dinner. She cut up the onion and put it in a bowl, then added one of the bell peppers. She chopped a tomato and threw that in. The hamburger was frozen, so that was out, but she had a hot dog left from her latest trip to the 99¢ store, so that went in as well.
The focaccia was hard and stale, but there was nothing green on it, so she cut off a slice and cut into chunks, then put the bread on a plate. She had some butter left over from her days of wealth, so put some of that in the skillet and added in all the ingredients. She let it saute' for a while and thought, This is going to be awfully dry.
She looked at the expiration date on the Philly. It was two months out of date, but it hadn't been opened and when she sniffed it, it smelled okay. Just for kicks, she decided to open one of the cans that had no label. It was as she thought, canned peaches. Oh, what the heck, she thought, and in that went as well.
When the goulash in the pan had cooked she covered the chunks of bread with it, sat down at the table, said grace, and dug in. It was surprisingly good.
And when she was done, she opened the container of cookies and had two for dessert.
Well, she thought, I guess I can do this after all.
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