J. Allen Wolfrum's Blog, page 2

Ridin' for the Brand - Part II

I crested the hill on the east side of the Bar-T ranch and looked down into the valley over Georgina’s floppy ears. The cowhand living quarters looked vacant, same with the pasture, only a few of the big Percheron draft horses remained. The only activity seemed to be coming from the cook’s quarters.

It appeared that the men responsible for the throbbing pain in my head weren’t lying, at least not about the ranch hands scattering to the winds. It was hard to blame them for leaving, they were wanderers and their reputation was the only currency they could claim. No cowboy wanted their name associated with an outfit accused of stealing cattle.

I rode down to the barn and turned Georgina out in the pasture with the Percherons. I gave Georgina and the Percherons fresh hay and water before heading to the bunkhouse. I found the inside empty as I suspected. It looked like the rest of the hands left in a rush.

I headed over to check in on Sam, the Bar-T cook.

Greenhorn cowboys tended to look down on the cook on a cattle drive. I knew better than to treat the man responsible for making my meals with anything less than respect. My belief held especially true for Sam. Sam's a grizzly old man with gray hair down to his shoulders and a long gray beard to match. He walked with a pronounced limp in his left leg. To the untrained eye, he doesn’t look like much other than a broken down old man. Sam had no problem helping himself to an extra serving or two of apple pie and it showed.

On my first cattle drive with the Bar-T, I noticed that there was more to Sam than what was on the surface. That suspicion was confirmed when we ran into trouble on a cattle drive through Kansas. A few local cowhands threatened to cut a hundred head of our cattle for grazing on their land. Their claim had no merit and they figured we would back down at the threat of violence, they figured wrong and it was their last mistake. During the gunfight I watched Sam jump down from the chuck wagon, unsheath a Sharps rifle, and knock a man from a horse galloping at three hundred yards. Not many men could have made that shot. It’s one thing to hit a tree trunk in a calm environment at that range. Killing a man riding a galloping horse at three hundred yards in a gunfight is another thing all together. I never confronted Sam about the incident, out here in the West, every man has a past, and asking personal questions is a quick way to find trouble. All of us came West for a reason, and it sure wasn’t because we were comfortable and happy with our lives back East.

I opened the door to the cook’s quarters, the smell of beans and bacon filled my nostrils. “Howdy Sam,” I shouted over the noise of clanging pans and boiling water.

Sam’s voice boomed from the back of the room, “Well … I’ll be damned if that isn’t Clayton Daniels. I should have known that you’d stick around. I figure you ran into some cowboys from the Four-Sixes while you were out herding strays.”

“Sure did, and they weren’t carryin’ good news,” I replied.

“No I don’t suspect they were. A few of them stopped by here and scared off all the hands with rumors about Mr. Jacobs and Bill Nelson rustling cattle. Of course Mr. Jacobs and Bill were off in town, they're due back in a few hours. And you were out herding strays. No salty hands around to keep the rumors from running wild. A few of the skittish hands got the greenhorns spooked and convinced them all to take off before trouble came.”

I nodded my head. “Figured as much. I checked the bunkhouse. Empty.”

Sam sighed. “None of those stories are true. Mr. Jacobs, Missy, and Bill should be back from town this evening, they’ll settle it once they get back.”

I felt a hollow pit in my stomach. “Missy went to town with them?” I felt the blood rush out of my face.

“She did … you feeling okay? You oughta sit down.”

I steadied myself on the chair. The thought of an innocent girl getting mixed up in this nonsense made me sick to my stomach. “The Four-Sixes hands that I ran into said that Mr. Jacobs and Bill Nelson were being held in the Durango jail for cattle rustling. If that’s true, I don’t even want to think about what happened to Missy.”

Sam untied his apron and threw it on the counter. “I figured they were just rumors, didn’t know there was any weight to them.”

I nodded and held up a hand. “Let me do some scoutin’ before we jump into a heap of a mess. You willing to stay here in case Missy makes her way back?”

Sam took a breath and nodded, “you’re right, I’ll keep a lookout here at the ranch. If I don’t see you by tomorrow evening, I’m coming to town.”

“Understood,” I shook hands with Sam and walked down toward the pasture to let Georgina know that we weren’t going to be resting for long. Town was an hour ride from the ranch and I planned on traveling the last half mile on foot.

I waited until dusk to head out for town, I needed the cover of darkness on my side. I rode Georgina and brought along one of the Percherons for company. I wasn’t sure if I’d be coming back alone, a spare horse couldn’t hurt. I hobbled Georgina and the big Percheron in a small pasture with good grass. They were both happy to rest for the evening.

I needed to keep the element of surprise as long as possible. I set out for town on foot, not knowing what type of trouble I was going to find.

I approached town from the Northeast on a coyote trail, my route was hidden from sight by oak trees and thick brush. Carrying a rifle in town was bound to draw more attention than I wanted. I left my Winchester and a cartridge belt hidden in a scrub bush, if I needed my rifle, I was sure to need the extra ammo as well.

I squatted next to the oak tree to let my eyes adjust to the lamps that lit up the saloons on main street. I carried three revolvers, a .44 caliber Smith and Wesson Schofield on each hip, and a short barrelled Colt in the small of my back. I preferred the inconvenience of carrying a spare pistol to the nerve racking experience of reloading in the middle of a gunfight.

As a safety precaution and matter of habit, I only carried five rounds in each pistol, leaving the hammer resting on an empty chamber. Before leaving the cover of the oak trees, I added the sixth round to each revolver and hoped that I wouldn’t need them.

I quickly moved across seventy five yards of open land between myself and the back alley of town. I slowed my gait to a walk, and caught my breath. I headed toward the Red Bird Hotel in search of news about Mr. Jacobs, Bill Nelson, and Missy.

I knocked on the back door of the Red Bird three times and waited for a reply. A few seconds later the door cracked open.

“Miss Eleanor says all business goes through the front door tonight. If you want a turn, you’ll have to pay full price.”

I recognized the voice stuck the toe of my boot in the door jam. “Kate, I need your help.”

“Clayton is that you?”

The door opened and Kate greeted me with a hug and a kiss. The whiskey on her lips gave me goosebumps. She pulled me inside and closed the door to the alley.

Before I could regain my bearings Kate slapped me across the face. It was a playful slap, but it still stung a bit. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks, and you promised to take me to the hot springs.”

Kate didn’t allow me to answer, she grabbed me around the waist and kissed me again. Then grabbed my hand and started toward the stairs. I didn’t move my feet, she flipped up her dress and looked over her shoulder at me with a smile, “well let’s go cowboy, you’re gonna have to make it up to me.”

I sighed. It isn’t often than a man in the West runs across a woman like Kate. We were what a more educated man would call ‘kindred spirits’, I just figured we were sinners. Kate and I both had problems, but somehow we meshed together. Yes, Kate is a lady of the night, but I have my own flaws and see no point in making judgements. Things just felt right when we were together, I'll leave it at that.

I squeezed her hand and pulled her back toward me. “Kate, I need your help.” I watched her expression change when she looked into my eyes. “I heard Mr. Jacobs was arrested for cattle rustling and is in the jail. Is that true?”

Kate nodded. “That dirty bastard Sheriff Anderson rode in with him earlier today. There were two others with them. An older man and a younger girl. Rumor is that they’re going to hang the two men tomorrow..”

“Without a trial?”

Kate replied, “I told you, Sheriff Anderson is a bastard. He’s an evil son of a bitch and for sale to the highest bidder.” She spat on the floor.

“Okay, what about the girl?”

“They’re keeping her across the street at the Bird Cage.”

“Thanks Kate,” I looked her in the eye, “don’t tell anyone I was here,” I smiled and grabbed her by the waist, “but I’ll be back. Don’t you worry.”

She kissed me on the lips, hiked up her skirt, wrapped her arms around my neck, and jumped on me with her legs clamped around my waist. She hopped down after a moment and patted me on the rear. “Go on, do what you need to do … but you had better bring that cute bottom back here.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Woman, you’re sure to be the death of me.”

Kate raised her eyebrows, “quite possibly.”

I shook my head and walked out the back door into the alley. I needed to make sure Missy was safe before dealing with Sheriff Anderson and the boys from the Four-Sixes.

 

P.S.

Normally the short story of the week gets posted on Tuesdays at 8 a.m., due to the observance of Memorial Day (read: Instead of writing, I decided to drink beer and reflect, a dangerous combination of activities), I pushed it back a day this week. I'll be sober and back on schedule next week.

Life on the Catranch is moving along well. Rich and Pam are happy. We have a new cowskin rug for the living room and Pam loves to chase the string across it. It's just enough traction for her to gain speed then slide across the cow hide.

As for other writing endeavors ... mehhh ... but I think I finally turned the corner and I'm optimistic. All I can do is keep laying it down on the page and eventually something good will happen.

On another note, I really enjoy writing these Western stories.

-jerad

A few pictures from the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, CA this weekend. I spent at month training up there in 2002, it was a surreal experience to visit it again sixteen years later. Corporal Wolfrum of 2002 would not recognize the Jerad of 2018, which is probably a good thing, but maybe not. I guess it depends on your perspective.

Levitt Training Area - Marine Corps Assault Climbers Course

Ridin' for the Brand - Part I

I woke to the familiar smell of steel and gunpowder. I stayed still, kept my eyes closed, and listened for a moment. There were at least two men, one behind me and to the left, the other in front of me and also to my left. A smart move on their part, if there was some shootin’ to be done, no chance of them getting caught in a crossfire. A gunfight in the dark at close quarters was dangerous business and apt to get messy in the blink of an eye.

The metallic click of the hammer being pulled back on a Colt was my cue to open my eyes. I couldn’t see the man holding the pistol, from the sound I figured he was about three feet behind me. I stayed calm and was extra careful to keep my hands in plain sight. It didn’t take much for a nervous man to accidentally pull the trigger on a cocked revolver.

The moonlight was bright enough to get a good look at the man in front of me, he wore a pair of moccasins, long overcoat, smooth leather chaps, and a black bandana. His brown shaggy hair hung just over his ears. He must have left his hat with his horse. He held a shotgun in his shoulder, both barrels pointed at my chest.

The man behind me asked, “You Clayton Daniels of the Bar-T outfit?”

I replied without moving a muscle other than my lips. “Sure am. Who am I speakin’ with?”

“Don’t worry about who I am. All you need to know is that it’s time to quit the Bar-T. That outfit is finished. You understand me?”

“Did you clear that with Mr. Jacobs? I don’t remember him sayin’ anything about selling the outfit.”

“Son, this is your first and last warning. Starting tomorrow morning, this land and any cattle grazing on it belong to Mr. Burnett.”

“Whelp. Given that you’re holding a shotgun to my chest. There isn’t really much I have to say about it,” I replied.

“This isn’t a conversation. I’ve seen you workin’ the cattle drives into town, you’re a good hand with a horse and I thought you deserved a fair warning. Don’t get any ideas, there won’t be a second chance. We told the rest of your outfit last night. They should be gone by the time you get back.”

The situation didn’t make any sense to me. Mr. Jacobs owned that ranch fair and square. He settled the territory just after the war and was one of the first ranchers in the area fighting off the Ute Indians. Burnett was a newcomer and rumor was that he was run out of New Mexico a few years back.

“Where is Mr. Jacobs? Not that I don’t trust you fellas, but I’d like to hear the news straight from the boss.”

Both men chuckled. “Your boss, Mr. Jacobs is safe and sound in the Durango jail. He’s about to go on trial for cattle rustling.”

“Cattle rustling? Says who? Mr. Jacobs is as honest as a day is long,” I replied, continuing to keep my hands in plain sight.

“Well that ain’t what the Sheriff says. Sheriff Anderson came out to investigation and found a hundred and fifty head of cattle with the Four Six brand. I don’t need to tell you, that’s Mr. Burnett’s brand. Shut and closed case.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.” I hardly finished the sentence before I felt the butt of a pistol smash into my temple. I was only unconscious for a few seconds and woke up just in time to watch the man in the long overcoat with the shotgun take the hobbles off Georgina, my mule. He slapped her on the hind quarter and fired the shotgun up in into the air, which was more than enough to send Georgina galloping through a clump of trees and across the creek.

I heard the men gallop away on their horses and reached up to check the wound on my head.I felt a decent sized lump forming but there was no blood. At least the butt of his pistol didn’t cut me. I spent enough time on cattle drives to acquire a healthy fear of head wounds. A few years back on a cattle drive, I watched Jake Reynolds, the best cowhand I ever had the privilege to work with, die from a deep gash on the side of skull that we couldn’t get to stop bleeding. Jake’s horse spooked coming out of a creek crossing and he hit a tree branch with the side of his head. Before he could get off his horse, the whole left side of his shirt was covered in blood. Jake was a hell of a cowhand. You just never know what’s going to happen on the trail, could have happened to any of us, damn shame.

The throbbing in my head picked up and I could feel my heart beat through the lump on the side of my forehead. I took inventory of my gear, they left my saddle, pistols, and rifle. I guess they figured that by the time I came around they’d be long gone. And they were right. I was in no mood to chase them down.

I was a good three hour ride from the ranch house and I needed to find Georgina. First thing was to find my boots. I gingerly walked across the dirt and rocks in my bare feet, hoping they were nice enough not to steal my boots. I didn’t think finding Georgina was going to be a problem but riding her back to the ranch barefoot was more of a challenge than I wanted.

I found both boots sitting nicely against a tree. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing any of my grub with those boys from the Four Six ranch but they weren’t all bad in my book. I put my boots on and walked out from the clump of trees in same direction as I last saw Georgina headed. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled for her. I heard her deep whinny in reply almost immediately. She came up out of the creek bed about two hundred yards away and trotted toward me.

I smiled at the sight of Georgina’s long ears flopping in the moonlight. Every cowboy I rode with questioned me about riding a mule. I didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the times Georgina saved my bacon. Mules have a bad reputation because they won’t allow themselves to be mistreated, they’re a heck of a lot smarter than horses. You can beat a horse and get it to follow your orders. That doesn’t work with a mule, a mule is your partner. You treat them right, and they’ll respect you. They’ll also keep you out of trouble on the trail. A horse will put itself in a precarious position on the trail without knowing it, then spook at the first sign of danger, not caring whether you stay in the saddle or not. A mule on the other hand will rarely get itself into a bad situation, they’ve got more trail sense than any cowboy I've ever met.

I rubbed Georgina on the neck and promised her that we were headed home. I saddled her up and we headed back the the Bar-T ranch house. I needed to find out what the hell was going on. Mr. Jacobs was no cattle rustler.

****

Ridin’ for the Brand - Part II - Next Week

Hiking for an Answer

Five months ago, in the dead of winter, Erin agreed to go on a summer camping trip with James, her husband. James brought up the idea on a cold February evening, when she was in the depths of a mid-winter Michigan depression.

For those that aren’t familiar with the steely gray skies, bitter cold temperatures, and short days of a Michigan winter; from November to March, you go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, and for more days than you want to remember, below zero temperatures make simply walking outside of the house a painful experience.

It’s worth noting that there is a flipside to the depression that comes with winter in Michigan. The Summer in Northern Michigan is nothing short of magical. The sights, smells, and sounds of a carefree summer day spent in Northern Michigan are permanently embedded in the memory of anyone fortunate enough to experience the phenomena.

When James asked Erin if she wanted to go on a camping trip along the shores of Lake Superior on that cold February evening, Erin's thoughts filled with childhood memories of Summer in Northern Michigan. She was all in, anything to escape the dreary winter.

****

July 17th, Grand Marais, MIHi: 75F Low: 59FSunny

 

Kuussshhhh, James cracked open a beer.

Forty-five minutes into their nine mile hike, Erin regretted her decision.

Erin felt her face heat up and she thought to herself, keep it together, now is not the time to start a fight. She took a few deep breaths and counted backward from twenty in silence. She tried to force her mind to focus on the beautiful birch trees and green ferns along the trail. No luck, the anger continued to build.

“You’re breathin’ kinda heavy … everything okay back there?” James asked.

“Ohh Me? I’m fine … ,” she was too worked up to get it all out in one breath, “and clearly so are you.”

The sarcasm and irritation was impossible for even James to ignore. He reached into the side pocket of his pack and grabbed another can of Bell’s Two Hearted Ale. He smiled and thought, god bless the saint who green-lit the idea to sell Bell’s in cans.

James turned, kept walking forward, and offered the beer to Erin. “You want one?”

“No! It’s 9 A.M.,” snapped Erin.

“So what? We’re on vacation,” James continue walking down the trail.

“That’s not the point,” replied Erin.

“Okay … Uhh … we’re not supposed to have fun on vacation ... I don’t get it … then what’s the point?”

“The point is nothing,” replied Erin.

James exhaled and flapped his lips. “Okay, nothing it is.” James turned around, continued walking down the trail, and began whistling the tune, “Don’t Worry Be Happy” as loud as possible.

Erin shook her head in disgust. She slowed her pace and let the distance grow between them on the trail. A few minutes later, she was fifteen yards behind and could still hear James whistling. She shouted, “do you wanna know why I’m mad?”

James stopped, turned toward Erin, and took a long slug of beer. “Maybe ... you going to stop being crabby and enjoy the rest of the day if we talk about it?”

Erin stopped on the trail. “I’m mad because when we were packing you made a huge deal about me not taking my book. You made fun of me for wanting to take a book because it was tooooo heavy and there wasn’t enough space. But you seem to have made room beer.”

James dropped his arm to his side. “If I remember right, I wasn’t against you bringing a book. I was against you bringing the hardcover copy of War and Peace, which is thirteen hundred pages and takes up a ton of room in a pack. I offered to download it on my Kindle, but you shot down that idea because …”, James made air quotes with his hands,  “you don’t like reading on a Kindle, it’s not the same as a real book ... Am I remembering that correctly?”

Erin shook her head, James was right but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

James put his free hand on his hip. “Well if you want to read War and Peace, it's on the Kindle in my pack. And in case you get tired of trying to remember three hundred Russian names that all end in ‘ovski’, I also put a couple of cat murder mystery novels on there for you too." James paused to catch his breath. "We’ve got another seven miles to the campsite. We need to get moving or it’ll be dark when we get there.”

James turned and continued walking down the trail. Erin followed and kept her distance. She stayed a good ten yards behind him for the rest of the day.

They made it to the campsite with about thirty minutes of daylight left. James gathered kindling and got the fire started while Erin organized their cooking gear and food for the night.

After they ate dinner, Erin and James sat on opposite side of the small campsite fire. The orange flames lit up their faces in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” said Erin.

“No need to apologize, I wasn’t being very nice,” replied James.

They locked eyes, then both stared at the flames in silence for a few moments.

“Should we talk about it?” Erin asked.

James broke his focus from the flames and looked at Erin. “It?”

“Yeah, It.”

James sighed. “Yeah It ... You need to make a decision, huh?”

“Not me … WE need to make a decision. It impacts both of us.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right. So what do ya think?”

“I think .... I don’t know what to do,” replied Erin.

“Well, neither do I. Did you talk to your dad?”

“My dad? Why would I talk to him about this?”

“Well he’s a Doctor. Seems like he could at least give you the options,” replied James.

“He’s not that kind of Doctor and the options are pretty clear. There are two choices. Either do something, or do nothing,” replied Erin.

James shrugged. “Yeah good point. That's kinda true ... we could go to Mexico?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard people go down there all the time for this kind of stuff.”

“We are not going to Mexico,” replied Erin.

James titled his head in agreement. “Fair enough. Well … we could just let things play out. See what happens,” said James.

Erin raised her eyebrows. “You mean just do nothing?”

“Yeah … like you said, it's an option. We don’t have to do anything.”

Erin shrugged her shoulders. “You’re right, we don’t have to do anything … If we do nothing, you know whats going to happen.”

“I mean … either way … things are going to change. Even if we try to do something about it … there’s no guarantee that everything turns out okay,” replied James.

Erin took a deep breath and exhaled. “You’re right, definitely no guarantees on either side," Erin paused and looked down at the fire, "I think we should just let it go and see what happens. You okay with that?”

James bit his lip and thought for a moment. “Yeah, I’m good with that. C’est la vie.”

Erin locked eyes with James. “C’est la vie.”

They both watched the flames crawl over the logs in the fire.

James smiled. “Come on over here and sit next to me.” He patted the ground next to him.

Erin smiled and sat down next to him. James put his arm around her and took a swig from his beer.

“You want one?”

“No … maybe just a sip of yours,” replied Erin.

Lust for Life

Ian pulled into the parking lot of the Arqia corporate headquarters building at 9:15 a.m. on a Wednesday. He opened the car door and took a deep breath of fresh air, the smell of apple blossoms calmed his mind for a moment. He reached into the backseat for his laptop case and pulled the zipper open a few inches, one last check before going inside.

Ian walked through the parking lot toward the building entrance. When he got to the front door of the building, he saw the elevator door open and a group of people go inside. There was only one elevator in the building, he knew it would be another seven minutes before it came back to the lobby. He picked up the pace of his walk, today was not the day to be late for work. When he made it to the elevator, the door was half way closed. Todd, Ian’s manager stood inside the elevator in front of the control panel. Todd made no effort to hit the ‘Open Door’ button, he shrugged his shoulders and smirked at Ian.

Ian watched the door close and heard the ding of the elevator arriving on the second floor. Taking the stairs would have been an option but the management company in charge of the building deemed them a security risk and kept the stairwells locked, you could only go down the stairs, not up. Ian was stuck in the lobby waiting for the elevator to come back down.

He looked down at his laptop case again, the extra weight tugged on the shoulder strap. He opened the zipper again, it was still there. He tried to get the image of Todd’s face out of his mind, no matter, this would be the last day Todd had the opportunity to focus the anger from his own poor life decisions on Ian.

Ian took a deep breath and exhaled while counting to ten, he repeated that exercise five times. After getting his heart rate back under control, Ian ran through the scenario of the morning in his mind. His plan was simple, but nothing Ian had ever imagined himself doing, so he rehearsed his lines and the physical movements. He assumed that once the time came to execute the plan, he would freeze from fear, if that happened he wanted muscle memory to take over.

While waiting for the elevator Ian had plenty of time to think through his life. A video stream of his life had been playing in a loop inside his mind for weeks. As much pain as the video caused him, there was no way to change the past. The pain was not from traumatic or violent events, it was from a series of decisions that Ian made. At the time Ian believed he was making the “safe” or “adult” decision. None of the decisions Ian made at crucial points in his life were wrong or even decisions that a normal person would consider bad, they were perfectly logical. That was the problem, they were too logical. Those logical decisions Ian made created a snowball of unhappiness and somewhere in the last few years the snowball of unhappiness hit a major down-slope and picked up speed at an alarming rate.

The ding of the elevator snapped Ian out of his thoughts, he stepped inside with four other people. They all stared at the elevator door in silence. Ian looked down and examined his wardrobe, cheap brown dress shoes from the clearance rack, light brown khaki pants a little too big, bright blue collared dress shirt in a box complete with matching tie. Todd required the IT Desktop Support team to wear collared shirts and ties, the excuse he gave for the dress code was that he wanted his team to look respectable. The real reason was control. Over the last eleven years, little things like the dress code wore down Ian’s resolve and slowly ground his soul into a fine dust.

The door opened on the tenth floor, Ian smiled and thought to himself, there’s a last time for everything. He walked to his cubicle and sat down with his laptop case across his legs. He was careful to take out his laptop without anyone else seeing what else was in the bag. He didn’t want to arouse any suspicion before the 9:30 a.m. weekly team meeting.

A head popped over the cubicle wall, Ian looked up at a smiling face with the frizzy brown hair and black glasses. “Good morning sunshine! Happy Wednesday!”

Ian nodded. “Happy Wednesday, Denise.”

“Did you see that email from Dave Jackson, the Director of Sales?”

“Haven’t had a chance to open my laptop yet. What is it? I just helped him set up the automatic rules to categorize his email. What else can he want?”

Denise raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “Well apparently he isn’t happy about it. He’s saying that you made him lose some important customer emails. He CC’ed the whole department complaining and named you specifically.”

Ian nodded. “Sounds like a problem.”

“Sounds like your problem. Let’s go. Don’t want to be late for the team meeting,” replied Denise.

“I’ll be there in a minute. No need to wait for me.” Ian set his laptop in the docking station and set his badge and parking pass on top.  He did a quick scan of his cubicle, he spotted a pen with the Arqia logo next to his keyboard and stuffed it into his pocket.

Ian walked into the “Ten Million by 2020” conference room at 9:29 a.m., all conference rooms at Arqia were named after company goals, the names alone took a small chunk of soul from every Arqia employee. Ian sat down at the corner of the conference room table near far end of the room.

Eleven members of the Arqia IT Desktop Support team were seated at the conference table, another three team members dialed into the meeting. Every meeting at Arqia started with every person in attendance stating a piece of “personal good news” and a piece of “professional good news”.

Todd, Ian’s manager, looked around the room and took the phone in the center of the table off mute. “Good morning everyone. Who do we have on the phone?”

“Jeff’s here.”

“This is Melanie, hi Todd.”

“Hi Melanie. Adam are you there as well.”

Todd stared at the phone for a moment. “Adam if you’re talking, you’re on mute.” Todd paused again.

“Hi this is Adam. Sorry, I was on mute.”

“Adam why don’t you get us started, with good news personal and good news professional,” said Todd.

Ian sat through the incredibly painful recital of good news from each team member. It was the in person version of scrolling through the carefully curated Facebook timeline of a friend whose real life is a complete and utter train wreck. 

Finally it was his turn, Ian heaved his laptop case on the table and took out a plain manila folder with a stack of papers inside. Each document had three quarters of a page of text. Ian got up from his chair and began to hand them out to each team member.

While walking around the table Ian let out a sigh. “Good news personal. It’s a beautiful Wednesday morning, the apple trees are blossoming, the weather --”

“Ian, this portion of the meeting is strictly for good news personal and good news professional. I have to ask that you please respect the rules and structure of the meeting. If you have something you want the team to discuss we can handle it later,” said Todd.

Ian smiled. “No problem, Todd. The paper in front of you is my professional good news.”

Ian watched Todd’s face twist with confusion as he read the document in front of him.

“Ian, I don’t understand what this is. It’s titled ‘Ian Roberts, Obituary’. I don't get it. And you haven’t done any of the things listed here.” said Todd.

Ian nodded. “Very perceptive, Todd. I haven’t done any of the things listed in my obituary, so I’m starting today.”

Ian turned and left the conference room. In the elevator he took off his bright blue collared shirt and tie. He stuffed the shirt and tie combo into the trash can on his way out the front door, his cheap brown dress shoes and socks went to the same grave.

Ian rolled up his pant legs and walked to his car in bare feet. He pulled out of the parking lot and cranked up the volume on the radio. Lust for Life by Iggy Pop filled the warm spring air.

Replaced by Shadows

There are no humans in my world, I walk among shadows. The humans faded into shadows five years ago. A meteor didn't collide with the earth, there was no flu pandemic, and artificial intelligence robots did not turn the human race into batteries. If one of those scenarios happened, Bruce Willis, Dustin Hoffman, or Keanu Reeves would be there to save us.

When the first shadows replaced humans I tried to discuss the situation with friends, family, co-workers, and anyone else who would listen. My concerns were dismissed with the shrug of a shoulder, as if they didn’t see the shadows taking over.

In the beginning there was no pattern in the humans that were replaced by shadows. It seemed random, one day it was the man standing in line next to me at the grocery store, then a woman at the coffee shop, and so it went, every day more shadows crept into my life. The shadows are not ghosts, I see them as humans, they act like humans, but I can only see them in a faded black and gray.

The most disturbing characteristic of the shadows is that their faces show no emotion. A face with no emotion seems innocuous on the surface. When you tell a joke or share good news, there is no smile from the shadow. Set aside the other human emotions, just imagine a world with no smiles, it quickly becomes a very lonely place.

On several occasions I tried confronting the shadows. I asked questions such as, I know this sounds strange but I see you in black and white, do you see me in black and white? I don’t see any emotion on your face, can you smile? Or frown? Do you see me in black and white? I’m smiling right now, do you see it?

I quickly realized that the shadows believe they are human beings. I also learned that if you press the issue too far, the police are likely to become involved. I found it quite awkward to explain to a police officer why I was asking someone if they saw me in black and white. I feared that I might be taken to a mental institution for evaluation so I stopped asking questions and accepted the existence of shadows.

 

Yesterday was the first time in several years that a feeling of hope entered my life. A hope that the shadows will disappear and humans will return. The day started with breakfast at Lestat’s Coffee House, just like every other morning. Despite the name, Lestat’s is a delightful, bright, and happy place to start the day.

I walked up to the counter, “good morning, Claire. I’ll have the usual.”

“Avocado toast with a fried egg on top and a large dark roast drip?” Claire asked with no emotion.

I smiled and nodded. “You got it. Thanks Claire”

“You’re welcome, Mr. James. Coffee will be just a minute.”

Claire hustled behind the counter to get the drip coffee started before taking the next customer’s order. Make no mistake, Claire is a shadow, her face shows no emotion and she appears in black and white.

I waited patiently at the end of the counter for my coffee. I read the chalkboard of daily specials to pass the time. Each evening near closing time, one of the baristas would erase the chalkboard and replace it with the specials for the next day. Some baristas would add their own artistic touch to the chalkboard by drawing flowers, trees, or some other light hearted landscape on the edge of the chalkboard. I admired the artwork from last night’s barista, a desert landscape of bright green cactus, red rocks, and roadrunners.

“Mr. James, you’re drip coffee is ready,” Claire said.

I grabbed my coffee off the counter. Claire was on to her next task before I could thank her. I turned and scanned the room of black and white shadows for an empty seat.

On second glance, I spotted a woman with an odd looking machine on her table. I walked in her direction and stopped at the empty chair across the table from her, “excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

She nodded. “If you don’t mind the noise, you’re welcome to join me.” The woman slapped the metal arm to the left and the machine responded with a loud ding.

I pulled out the chair and sat down. Not wanting to point out the obvious, I stayed silent and did not comment on her use of a typewriter. I had grown used to the strangeness of dealing with the shadows, but the sight of a woman using a typewriter in public was completely foreign to me. I looked around at the other shadows in the coffee shop, their eyes were buried in screens, there was no conversation, each was in their own world.

The click-clack of the keys on the typewriter stopped for a moment and I mustered the courage to ask a question. “Why do you use a typewriter instead of a computer? Isn’t it easier to make corrections on a computer?”

The woman raised her eyes above the paper and looked at me. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Sarah.” She extended her hand across the table.

I reached over the table and shook hands with her. I felt my cheeks flush. Since the shadows took over, I had made a habit of keeping to myself and my conversational skills declined. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me. I’m Ryan James.”

“Nice to meet you Ryan. You’re right, fixing mistakes is much easier on a modern computer. I use a typewriter because I want to feel the words as I type them.”

My embarrassment turned to curiosity. “What do you mean by feeling the words as you type them?”

“Ryan, have you ever used a typewriter?”

“No. We always had a computer in the house. I’ve only seen them in antique shops and old movies.”

Sarah nodded. “Hmm. The connection between myself, the muse, and the story gets lost when I use a computer. It’s more about the distractions that come along with the computer, not the keyboard itself.”

I took a moment to reply. “I believe that I experienced a similar phenomena when I used to read the print newspaper. After they quit distributing them about five years ago, I stopped keeping up with the news, seems too impersonal. I wish they would start printing the papers again.”

“Yeah, I think you’ve got the idea. I feel the same about paperback books, fortunately those are still around.”

I didn’t believe my eyes. I closed them, counted to five, and opened them again. I saw the same thing, Sarah now wore a yellow shirt; the rest was back and gray but the shirt was in vivid yellow. I stopped breathing and frantically looked around the room. All shadows, no people, only Sarah’s shirt appeared in color.

I swallowed and struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern. My past encounters with shadows and the police stopped me from asking Sarah about the color of her shirt. My brain scrambled frantically for a method to find out whether Sarah was human.

I finally stopped on a question about her writing. “What are you writing about?”

Sarah paused and looked down at her typewriter for a moment. “I don’t think I should talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“It’s okay. Stories are all about made up things anyway.”

“I’m writing a story about shadows.”

I smiled.

Sarah smiled back.

The Call Center Memo

The voices in your head are real. They are not what you imagined them to be, but they are real. You might ask, what makes you so sure? Well, I’m the one responsible for the voices, my name is Erick. To be clear, I might not be responsible for the voice in your head, I’m only assigned one thousand customers at a time.

That’s right, customers. It’s the best analogy that I can find for what we do, my job is similar to working in a call center. From the outside it appears mundane, we’re even organized in cubicles. Not the most visually appealing work environment but you get used to it.

Sorry, I should back up and explain the business landscape in the Spiritual Guidance industry. Like I said, those voices in your head, they are real, but they don’t come from your brain. When you hear that voice in the back of your head, it’s really coming from a group of competing companies. I work for Enlightened Path Incorporated (EPI), a Spiritual Guidance Provider. I know, the name is a bit one the nose, don’t shoot the messenger, I just work here. EPI is not the only company competing to be heard as the ‘voice in your head’, there are hundreds of other companies doing the same thing, each has their own strategy to differentiate themselves from the other competitors.

EPI is consistently ranked in the Top 10 Spiritual Guidance companies in terms of quality. Companies that deliver Quality Spiritual Guidance are referred to as QSG’s in the industry. Quality is measured by the amount of long term success gained by customers who follow the Spiritual Guidance provided. Being a quality provider of Spiritual Guidance doesn’t come with millions of dollars and a new Tesla. Quite the opposite, Spiritual Guidance companies get paid in full when their advice is followed and receive a partial payment when their advice is considered. When a customer ignores our positive guidance and says, “Fuck it, I’m drinking another glass of wine and eating this pint of ‘Truffle Kerfluffel’ ice cream,” we don’t get paid at all. As you can imagine, most Quality Spiritual Guidance gets ignored.

The business of giving quality spiritual advice is tough. It has a similar feel as working for a non-profit organization, you won’t be driving your Ferrari to meet your billionaire friends at ‘Cars and Coffee’ on Saturday mornings, but you will be able to look yourself in the mirror and sleep at night.

On the other side of the business are the companies that specialize in providing what is referred to in the industry as ‘Short Term Spiritual Guidance’ or STSG. Companies specializing in STSG tend to be highly profitable and then quickly flame out just like their customers. For example, this is a relatively benign example of STSG advice, “Who cares about a 401k? Downpayment for a house? Those are things old people talk about. Your internet marketing side gig is going to pay off any time. You can afford the lease payment on a 5 Series BMW, go for it. Upgrade to an M Class? What’s the point of buying a BMW if isn’t an M Class?” You don’t need much imagination to see how far the most nefarious companies stretch the definition of Spiritual Guidance.

STSG companies use the Statue 145 of the Spiritual Guidance Regulations, also known as the ‘Happiness Clause’ to justify their guidance to customers. The clause stipulates that guidance provided to increase the happiness of customers is legal. An awfully broad interpretation in my opinion. Good luck finding the politicians responsible for passing the Statute, they're resting easy on the docks of their villas on Lake Como.

There is another caveat to this business that we should talk about. The Spiritual Guidance you receive or as you better know it, ‘the voice in your head’ is primarily driven based on your past actions. Often you hear multiple competing voices. The volume or importance given to those competing voices by your brain is based on the voice you have most frequently listened to in the past. Timing and frequency are the heaviest weighted factors in the algorithm. For example, if for the past six months you have been listening to a QSG’s guidance, that company’s guidance will be the loudest in your brain and you will likely continue to follow that QSG. On the other hand if you have been listening to STSG, those voices will be the loudest are you will likely continue down the path of sacrificing long term happiness for short term goals. You probably have heard the descriptions this phenomena referred to as ‘Cycle of Depression’, ‘String of Bad Luck’, or on the positive side ‘Perpetual Bliss’ or ‘Zen’.

I’m almost out of time, but there’s one more aspect of the business that you need to understand. Every Spiritual Guidance company is required to maintain an active and functioning Karma Department. The mission of the Karma Department is to track the Spiritual Advice followed by each person over time. They do this by keeping a simple tally, every piece of Spiritual Guidance followed from a QSG company is a +1 and each piece of Spiritual Advice followed from a STSG is a -1. Every person has a running tally, the Karma team at each company determines the point where a customer’s Karma score is set back to zero. Resetting a customer’s Karma score involves a great deal of judgement on the part of the team members in the Karma Department which results in frequent backlogs. As customers you know this process by the phrases, ‘building up my karma bank’, or ‘karma gets everyone in the end’.

I had better get back to work. More to come.

Cheers,

Erick

The Spiritual Guidance Call Center Memo

The voices in your head are real. They aren’t what you imagined them to be, but they’re real. You might ask, what makes you so sure? Well, I’m the one responsible for the voices, my name is Erick. To be clear, I might not be responsible for the voice in your head, I’m only assigned one thousand customers at a time.

That’s right, customers. It’s the best analogy that I can find for what we do, it’s sort of like working in a call center. From the outside, the job itself appears mundane, we’re even organized in cubicles. It’s not the most visually appealing work environment but you get used to it.

Sorry, I should back up and explain the business landscape in the Spiritual Guide industry. Like I said, those voices in your head, they’re real, they just don’t come from your brain. When you’re hear that voice in the back of your head, it’s really coming from a group of competing companies. I work for is Enlightened Path Incorporated (EPI), a Spiritual Guidance Provider. I know, the name is a bit one the nose, but don’t shoot the messenger, I just work here. EPI isn’t the only company competing to be heard as the ‘voice in your head’, there are hundreds of other companies doing the same thing, each has their own strategy to differentiate themselves from the other competitors.

EPI is consistently ranked in the Top 10 Spiritual Guidance companies in terms of quality. Companies that deliver Quality Spiritual Guidance are referred to as QSG’s in the industry. Quality is measured by the amount of long term success gained by customers who follow the Spiritual Guidance provided. Being a quality provider of Spiritual Guidance doesn’t come with billions of dollars and a new Tesla. Quite the opposite, most Quality Spiritual Guidance gets ignored. Spiritual Guidance companies get paid in full when their advice is followed and receive a partial payment when their advice is considered. When a customer ignores our positive guidance and says, “Fuck it, I’m drinking another glass of wine and eating this pint of ‘Truffle Kerfluffel’ ice cream,” we don’t get paid at all.

As you can imagine, the business of giving quality spiritual advice is tough. It has a similar feel as working for a non-profit, you won’t be driving your Ferrari to meet your billionaire friends at ‘Cars and Coffee’ on Saturday mornings, but you’ll be able to look yourself in the mirror and sleep at night.

On the other side of the business are the companies that specialize in providing what is referred to in the industry as ‘Short Term Positive Guidance’ or STSG. Companies specializing in STPG tend to be highly profitable and then quickly flame out just like their customers. For example, this is a relatively benign example of STPG advice, “Who cares about a 401k? Downpayment for a house? Those are things old people talk about. Your internet marketing side gig is going to pay off any time. You can afford the lease payment on a 5 Series BMW, go for it. Upgrade to an M Class? What’s the point of buying a BMW if isn’t an M Class?” You don’t have to use much imagination to figure out how far the most nefarious companies stretch the definition of Spiritual Guidance.

STPG companies use the Statue 145 of the Spiritual Guidance Regulations, also known as the ‘Happiness Clause’ to justify their guidance to customers. The clause stipulates that guidance provided to increase the happiness of customers is legal. Awfully broad in my opinion, I have no doubt that there is a politician resting easy on the dock of his vacation home on Lake Como.

There is another caveat to this business that we should talk about. The Spiritual Guidance you receive or as you better know it, ‘The Voice in Your Head’ is primarily driven based on your past actions. Often you hear multiple competing voices. The volume or importance given to those competing voices by your brain is based on the voice you have most frequently listened to in the past. Timing and frequency are the heaviest weighted factors in the algorithm. For example, if for the past six months you have been listening to a QSG’s guidance, that company’s guidance will be the loudest in your brain and you will likely continue to follow QSG. On the other hand if you have been listening to STSG, those voices will be the loudest are you will likely continue down the path of sacrificing long term happiness for short term goals. You probably have heard the descriptions this phenomena referred to as ‘Cycle of Depression’, ‘String of Bad Luck’, or on the positive side ‘Perpetual Bliss’ or ‘Zen’.

I’m almost out of time but there’s one more aspect of the business that you need to understand. Every Spiritual Guidance company is required to maintain an active and functioning Karma Department. The mission of the Karma Department is to track the Spiritual Advice followed by each person over time. They do this by keeping a simple tally, every piece of Spiritual Guidance followed from a QSG company is a +1 and each piece of Spiritual Advice followed from a STSG is a -1. Every person has a running tally, the Karma team at each company determines the point where a customer’s Karma score is set back to zero. Resetting a customer’s Karma score involves a great deal of judgement on the part of the team members in the Karma Department which results in frequent backlogs. As customers you know this process by the phrases, ‘building up my karma bank’, or ‘karma gets everyone in the end’.

I had better get back to work. More to come.

Cheers,

Erick

Muddy Footprints ... A Short Story

Muddy Footprints ...

Kyle walked down the Creek Canyon Loop trail with a jump in his step. The inspiration to take up birding as a hobby came from a documentary on the Travel Channel. The television show followed a beautiful brunette in the mid thirties traveling around the globe as she explained the various species of birds to the audience.

There was no possible avenue for his wife to complain about him taking up the hobby of birding. Environmentally conscious, check. Good exercise, check. Low cost, check. Not associated with coming home late and reeking of booze, check.

Kyle stopped for a moment to take in the scene. He was amazed at the silence, or least what he thought was silence. After a moment he realized that the forest was not silent, it was alive with the small sounds of birds, squirrels, and chipmunks.

He put the binoculars up to his eyes and the stresses of marriage, kids, and work faded away. His right arm ached from the weight and unfamiliar position of the binoculars. He held them to his face with his left hand for a moment, then let go and they hung from his neck by the strap. He smiled, it was his first genuine smile in years, the pain of that reality showed on his face. He was far too young to have gray hair and wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

Kyle walked along the trail for another hundred yards, he saw a pair of muddy footprints leading down the ridge toward what he thought was a small creek. Earlier in the morning it had rained, making the footprints look fresh to Kyle. He had only been on the trail for fifteen minutes and in that short period of time he had seen no other signs of people. According to the shopkeeper where he bought his birding guide and binoculars, this was a popular trail for birding enthusiasts. There were supposedly several hidden trails that only the experienced birders in the area knew about. The locations were closely guarded secrets to maintain the habitat of the rare birds that were often seen on those trails.

Kyle wondered if the footprints were made from a fellow birder earlier in the morning. If they led to one of the hidden trails, he might get to a chance to see one of the rare birds. He cared much more about telling the story of seeing a rare bird than actually seeing the bird itself. Kyle took out his trail map and attempted to figure out where the footprints would take him. His best guess was that the footprints led down to a small creek and then out to a larger river.

He shoved the map back into the pocket of his brand new birding jacket and followed the footprints. He made it down to the creek bed with no problems. The trail was well worn and looked like it was used frequently, no chance of getting lost. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. He looked up at the ridge-line and a small amount of regret crept into his mind. He quickly dismissed the thought and looked down at his watch. Still plenty of time to make it back for Emily’s soccer game.

The trail hugged the edge of the creek, never more than twenty feet away from the water. Kyle thought about dangling his feet in the water. He walked closer to the creek, reached down, and stuck his hand in the stream up to his wrist. The ice cold water shocked him and he pulled it out immediately. He dried his hand off on his pants and kept trudging along the trail, he figured another half mile at the most until he reached the main river.

The trail turned around a bend and the smell of wood-smoke hit Kyle’s nostrils. He stopped and looked to the sky, his first instinct was to think it was a forest fire. He saw a thin and light colored stream of smoke just ahead, his panic subsided for a moment before returning. Kyle thought to himself, is that smoke coming from a chimney? What the hell is a cabin doing this far back in the woods.

Curiosity pushed Kyle further down the trail toward the thin stream of smoke. He got close enough to see the cabin, then the fear pumped through his veins. He looked around and saw no movement. He stood still, a moment later he heard the giggle of a woman’s voice and the splashing of water. Kyle cleared his throat and in his deepest voice yelled, “is anybody there? I was just following the trail … didn’t mean to intrude.”

Kyle heard more giggle and water splashing. He thought maybe two voices but wasn’t sure.

A woman’s voice echoed through the woods. “No worries. Come on over. Just follow the trail you’ve been on. We’re about to have breakfast.”

Kyle hesitated before responding. He scanned the woods. “Umm … ok, I’m headed your way.” When Kyle got within thirty feet of the cabin, two women walked out from behind a cluster of rocks. Kyle froze.

“We’re about to have lunch, care to join us. We’re having fresh fruit and cheese with red wine. Or whiskey if you prefer.”

Kyle felt like her blue eyes were pulling him toward her like a tractor beam. He heard the faint sounds of reggae music coming from the cabin. For the second time in years, Kyle smiled.

-----

“Remember when you went birding a few weeks ago?” Kyle’s wife asked.

Kyle froze for an instant as the memories flooded back in his mind. He spilled milk from his spoon back into his cereal bowl. “Yeah.”

“Where was it that you went? You told me but I forgot.”

“Creek Canyon, about thirty minutes away out on I-94 ... Why?”

“There’s an article in the paper about those trails.”

Kyle put his spoon down in the bowl of cereal and looked at his wife.

She folded the paper down and looked at Kyle. “Gruesome story. They caught two serial killers about a mile and a half from the trails. Two women set up a camp out by the river and were luring men into their camp. Paper says they found five bodies buried in the hillside.”

Kyle wiped the sweat from his forehead and ate a spoonful of cereal. He swallowed, “sounds like a crazy story.”

Kyle's wife raised her eyebrows. "They're still looking for another suspect." She turned to the Home&Garden section of the paper and started an article about remodeling a Victorian house.

Kyle went back to eating his cereal in silence.

P.S.

As you noticed, I decided to shake things up and write a short story instead of the usual format. I'm going to give this a try for a couple of weeks and go from there.

In case you were wondering where the idea came from, I found a list of short story prompts on Reedsy.com and picked one. The prompt I chose was, "While on a stroll through the forest, you find strange footprints. Do you follow them?"

Also, Rich and Pam are doing great. With warm weather comes lizards sunning themselves on the back porch. Pam is all about it.

Signing off from the Catranch. -jerad

Full Steam Ahead

Writing:

Full steam ahead. I'm finally on a roll and making solid progress. By next week I should be done with the first quarter of the book, fourteen'ish chapters.

The Story Grid podcast this week was great. Shawn gave some fantastic insights on the foundations of story structure and the movements between order and chaos.

Reading:

While we were in Paris, I picked up a copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus. Camus is a famous French philosopher and author, so I thought why not read his book while in France.

It was interesting and I think there was a deeper meaning to it, but it didn't resonate with me. The book is about a young man who commits a murder that may or may not have been in self defense. During the trial, the prosecuting attorney harps on the fact that the young man was not disturbed by his mother's death and was not close to his family. And in the end, he gets convicted and sentenced to death. The book is a lot deeper than my two sentence description, but still not my favorite.

I started reading Transfer of Power by Vince Flynn, which is the first book in a series about CIA Agent Mitch Rapp. The action scenes are great and it hits all the marks for a political thriller. What I don't like is that the main character, Mitch Rapp, doesn't go on a hero's journey. What I mean by hero's journey is this, the hero needs to leave the tribe, take his walking stick and go into the woods. While he (or she) is in the woods, fight some dragons, and eventually bring back to the tribe either an elixir or a piece of knowledge.  The hero comes back a changed person, and the tribe benefits.

In Transfer of Power the main character moves through a series of challenging missions and eventually defeats the bad guy. Which is totally entertaining but it's missing the element of change. I could be way off the mark and a bit cynical but I think part of reason why these characters don't change is because if they do change, you can't write 15 books in a series because one person can't change that many times. In order to write a 15 book series, the main character needs to essentially stay the same, the scenarios may change but the main character is very well defined and reacts as the reader has grown to expect.

Life:

Rich and Pam are doing great. Pam is getting her teeth cleaned today. Apparently it's not possible to communicate to a cat that they need to keep their mouth open and stay still, so they have to go under anesthesia for dental cleanings. La Doctora has it under control, no worries. I'm keeping my head down and full steam ahead on writing.

-jerad

P.S.

Update on my 'to-do' to find a theme for this blog. I made a small amount of progress. The realization I came to is that no matter what, I need to put more effort into writing the blog. There is no free lunch, for the blog to be better, I have to put in more effort. I have a crazy notion in my head about writing a Western. Maybe I can work that in somehow. We'll see.

Lessons from Paris

We spent a few days in Paris this week for vacation. I thought it would be best to gather my thoughts with a list. Clever sentences are beyond my grasp this week, I'll blame it on the jet lag and lack of sleep.

Pastries are amazing. I mean off the charts amazing. I could eat Pain au Chocolat (chocolate croissant) and Pandolce Genovese (bread with bits of chocolate in it) for breakfast every day. We took some time each day to get away from the tourist spots and find a local bakery. Each one was slightly different but the pastries and bread were off the charts good at every bakery. The food overall, I would put on par with American. The caveat being that we didn't eat at any fancy restaurants. If you're into high end cuisine, maybe it's a different story. But there are some really good dishes that you don't find here. Croque de Madam is a great bar snack, a ham and cheese sandwich with and egg on top.I'm Fat. No further explanation required.I Dress Embarrassingly Bad. The men and women in Paris dress well, which is not a surprise to anyone but me. It's still winter in France, and apparently the season dictates the clothes you wear? The San Diego version of that is, in the winter if its cold, you wear a sweatshirt and maybe a beanie. Below is a bullet point list of a typical French mens wardrobe. I'll spare you the gory details of my attire. In general Americans and Brits stand out like a sore thumb, but the Brits are a slightly better dressed than Americans, not much, but a little.Dark Blue or Black Designer Jeans.White Collared Shirt with Gray or Dark Sweater.Custom Black Leather or Very Dark Brown shoesDark Gray, Dark Blue or Black PeacoatDark Colored Wool ScarfOlder Gentlemen wear either a dark colored wool fedora or a dark colored Irish driving hat.French culture is it's own thing. 

Thats all I've got for now. Back to sleep

-jerad

P.S.

I don't know how this skipped by my radar but the Brittish tv show Downton Abbey is off the charts amazing. Great combination of good premise, excellent writing, and even better acting.