Stephen Shaiken's Blog, page 13
June 2, 2021
If You Like Shakespeare, You’ll Love This Story
Shakespeare was right about “neither a borrower nor a lender be.”
Her’s a short story with a story of its own.
Courtesy, National Gallery of Scotland 
Public Domain 
Courtesy, wallpaperit.com Every writer has a story they love, but no one else does. Sometimes the piece can be reworked,; more often, it ends up stuffed in a drawer, or hibernating in cyberspace.
This is one story I haven’t been able to let go. I refuse to accept the possibility it is a bad story..
“A Borrower Be” first light of day six years ago, as an attempt to write a short story in the vein of John Cheever or John Updike. I thought perhaps a dash of Louis Auchincloss, though my characters exists a few levels below his aristocratic New Yorkers of a bygone age. When I first published it on this blog back in February of this year, I retitled it, for reasons that are currently unclear. The original tile is far better than the short-lived interim version. (“Shakespeare Was Right: Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be”. Does it get more ponderous? No wonder no one read it!
The story is thematically and structurally different from my other work in several ways. It is rare that I use an affluent suburb as a setting, despite having lived in Marin County, California for over thirty years. Aside from one unfinished story from when I started writing again eight years ago, none of my fiction is set in the suburbs. I decided long ago the milieu was best left to the masters cited above.
My writing group in Bangkok, panned the story, advising me to stick with what I did best, whatever that was, insisting it be placed in the author’s equivalent of the medical DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) category.
I refused to follow their advice, even after receiving three rejection notices the same week. (One reason this didn’t stop me: my sci-fi short story, SURVIVORS , was rejected by a dozen magazines over two years; it is one of the most popular posts on my blog. .
“A Borrower Be” diverges from my other writing in another consequential way: there are no minorities, no people of color, not even one of the Jewish-Americans whom populate so much of my fiction. (Even SURVIVORS, set in a remote Southwestern town after an apocalypse, has a character identified as Jewish by name; of course, he’s the last criminal defense lawyer.) Every single character in “Borrower” is presumed a WASP. This was neither contrived nor negligent; it was the characters as I imagined them. I didn’t know enough of such folks well enough to try and be anything close to accurate; this is all made up. No intended political or social comment, just a story about characters living in a community the author created for them. There is no mention of politics, race, history, or other topics I favor in my fiction.
I drew from one part of real life in crafting this story. I practiced criminal law for decades, and the young federal prosecutor is an amalgam of many I met during my career. So is Harry, everyone’s nemesis, but I don’t want to give anything away, so that’s all I’ll say.
I like the characters I created, and was unwilling to let go of them.
There have been significant tweaks and edits over the years, so I feel entitled to claim the current year as my copyright date.
Enough banter. Here’s the story. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to share your thoughts.
The following is work of imaginative fiction, and all characters and events are such creations. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
A BORROWER BE
( c ) Stephen Shaiken, 2021
Kreston was balancing his checkbook when he heard the knock. He rose from his desk chair, shambled across the living room, and opened the front door.
He stared into Harry Harper’s face. Harry moved to the neighborhood four years ago, five years after the Kreston . The relationship with Harry was more acquaintance than friend. Kreston knew little about Harry, not certain what he did for a living. Whenever the subject was broached, Harry explained he “did a little of this, a little of that,” or, in more expansive moods, “Consultant, business strategies.” Kreston never saw Harry on the commuter train, which he did not resent, and in fact caused him to admire Harry.
A smile stretched across Harry’s broad face this evening. His dark eyes shined in the dim light of the porch.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “The wife and I were planning a barbecue, and wondering if we could borrow your grilling tools.
“Of course we’ll have them back Sunday morning,” he added.
Kreston nodded.
“Come on in. I’ll get them from the yard,” he said, grateful for the diversion from the bills, which always exceeded his earnings, a fact his wife repeated as often as possible.
“If you would just get that MBA, you would make more money,” she hectored Kreston weekly. “You can do it on line now.”
“I have no interest in an MBA,” was his standard reply. “Instead of adjusting income to suit lifestyle, maybe we can adjust lifestyle to income.”
“Just do it for me,” she would implore.
“I will think about it,” was his only promise.
Harper remained in the living room as Kreston opened the sliding door to the backyard. A minute later he returned with the barbecue implements in a black oilskin bag, which he handed to Harper.
“Thanks a ton,” Harper said as he grabbed the bag.
“By the way,” he added, gazing at a coffee table in front of Kreston’s couch, “I see you have the new Greg Sloat novel. Mind if I borrow it for a few days? He’s always a quick read.”
“I just got it and haven’t opened it yet,” Kreston replied.
“I’ll have it back by Sunday, Scout’s honor,” Harper said with a smile and a wave of his hand.
“Well, I guess so,” Kreston answered. “But make sure it’s back by Sunday.”
“You got it,” Harper said as he reached for the book.
“By the way,” Harper called out as he headed for the front door, “Looks like I’m going to need that bicycle pump again, the one I borrowed from you last month.
“I like to ride with my daughter Saturday mornings and the tires are kind of low. I’ll get it back with these babies,” he explained, shaking the black bag as he started towards the door.
Kreston returned to his desk and checkbook. Harry stopped a few feet from the door.
“Would it be too much trouble to get me that pump before I leave?”
Kreston left the desk, went into the garage and returned, bicycle pump in hand.
“I must have it back by Wednesday,” he said. ” I ride every Thursday morning before work. And I check the air the night before.”
“Wednesday’s a world away,” Harry declared as he reached for the pump.
Kreston saw Harry to the door and opened it for him. He watched Harry walk down the street, barbecue tools in one hand, bicycle pump in the other. He never saw where Harry put the book.
I forgot to ask him about the martini pitcher he borrowed last month, he thought as he returned to his accounting.
#
Kreston sorted his golf clubs in preparation for his regular Sunday game. Billy Waldup always joined him, often with one or two others. The morning talk shows blared in the background. He heard his wife’s voice struggling to be heard over the talking heads.
“Honey, I invited the Gordons over for dinner this Saturday, and I’ll need our cut crystal salad bowl. Glenda Harper borrowed it last month and hasn’t returned it. Could you pick it up later today?”
Kreston pictured Glenda Harper, an overweight woman with doughy upper arms and a deeply lined face that made her look years older than her age, which Kreston estimated to be early forties. He recalled that Harry once mentioned in passing that, “It is tough being married to a trust fund princess.”
She doesn’t look like a trust fund princess, Kreston thought, recalling the permanent frown on her well-weathered visage. She paid little attention to her physical appearance or her clothing. She was the polar opposite of Harry, with his well cut hair, gleaming white teeth and athletic build. Harry’s clothing always looked expensive and fit him perfectly. Glenda bespoke thrift shops and discount outlets.
“I’ll do it now,” Kreston called back to his wife, shouting to be heard over the talk show. “Harry’s got that new five iron you got me for my birthday.”
It was a warm April morning. Flowers bloomed among the carefully manicured front yards along the pleasant street where he had lived these past nine years. The homes were all two stories, white or gray, with slate roofs and a mailbox where the front walkway met the curb. All had wide garages, and many sported basketball hoops above the garage door.
The Harper home lay across the street, two dozen houses to the left of Kreston’s. As Kreston walked, he heard the familiar sounds of doors opening and closing, dogs barking, voices calling softly, and the hum of German automobile engines. When he reached Harry’s house he rang the door bell. There was no answer. He tried again, with the same result.
Kreston dialed Harry on his cell phone. After three rings, Harry picked up. Kreston dispensed with formalities.
“Say, Harry, I was hoping you would be around real soon so I can pick up that five iron I loaned you a few weeks ago. Got a round scheduled over at the course in a little over an hour.”
“Sorry, but we won’t be back for a few hours,” Harry replied cheerily. “Just about to start our ride. Have to squeeze it in before dinner. But I’ll swing by with the club soon as I get back.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without it this one time,” Harry added.
Kreston was about to ask about the salad bowl and the pitcher when the call ended.
Kreston went home, grabbed his golf bag, and set off for the links. He had a bad day, misdirecting nearly every long drive.
“You’re way off your game today, ” Billy Waldrup remarked as they loaded their bags into the cart after the eighteenth hole. “Where’s that five iron that was supposed to make a new man out of you?”
“It”s with Harry Harper,” Kreston replied, the words dripping from his mouth.
“He’s returning it later today,” he added. “He promised me.”
“Well, tell him to bring along my best putter,” Billy said. Kreston caught a slight scowl on his friend’s face. ”I had to borrow one from the clubhouse, and it doesn’t feel right. He’s had it for three weeks, for God’s sake.”
Billy was a mild mannered bond trader by week, and a strong and confident golfer on Sunday. They met riding to work on the 7:32, and when Billy learned that Kreston had played on his high school and college teams, he insisted they meet on the town links. That was over eight years ago, and they played every Sunday morning unless one of them was out of town. Kreston was grateful for the municipally owned links, as it would have been a struggle to pay dues for the private course.
“I’ll remind him,” Kreston assured his friend.
“Remind him to bring along my martini shaker as well,” Billy said. “My brother and his wife are coming over for drinks before we take in the theater next Saturday, and you know Bud’s a fanatic about his martini. As bad as you,” he added with a chuckle.”
“Will do,” Kreston assured him.
My pitcher and Billy’s putter and shaker, he thought. Maybe we all ought to go to Harry’s for martinis.
#
His wife was in a foul mood when Kreston walked through the door. She was often in a foul mood, rarely in a good one these days.
“Your friend Harry dropped by an hour ago,” she said as he lugged his golf bag into the garage.
“He left your club, the one I got you for your birthday, but no salad bowl.”
“I take it no pitcher either,” Kreston replied. Then he remembered he hadn’t yet asked Harry for Billy’s shaker or his putter. Or Kreston’s pitcher, for that matter.
“Call him. I need that bowl.”
“I’ll have to speak with him,” Harry advised her. “I have a ride scheduled with Billy Waldup and Fred Grant early Thursday morning. I have to get the bike in shape the night before. And I really need that nine iron for next week.
“I’ll go over right now and get everything back,” he called out as he headed towards the front door.
“Salad bowl,” his wife reminded him.
#
Harry answered the door, a martini glass in hand.
“Come on in,” he said loudly. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Kreston followed him into the living room. Kreston’s pitcher sat on the coffee table, half-filled with martini.
“Sure, I could use a drink after the game I had today,” he replied.
Harry filled a martini glass and handed it to Kreston. Billy’s shaker sat on the bar that divided the living room from the kitchen.
“Wife sent me over for the salad bowl,” Kreston said has he settled onto the couch.”He sipped his drink.
“As long as I’m here, might as well grab my pump as well.”
“Maybe the pitcher too,” he added.
Harry stared at him.
“I still have a few drinks left,” he declared as if addressing a subordinate. You surely wouldn’t want to deprive a man of his Sunday afternoon cocktails now, would you?”
“No, I guess not,” Kreston replied sheepishly.
“That’s my boy!” Harry cried out as he went into the kitchen, returning with the salad bowl, which he placed on the coffee table.
“Do you think I could have my pump back as well,” Kreston asked softly.
“Love to, but afraid not today. Sprung a flat on the ride earlier, have to patch the tire and fill it with air. Won’t be able to do it all until tomorrow or Tuesday,” he explained.
“Well, then, why don’t I just expect you to come by Wednesday in the early evening, and you can include the pitcher and my book? ” Kreston asked, each word dripping onto the next.
“Absolutely!” Harry exclaimed.
Kreston drained the last of his martini, placed the glass on the table, and stood up. He picked up the salad bowl and nestled it in the crook of his elbow, gripping the rim tightly with his fingers.
“Well, I’ve got to be going now. See you Wednesday.”
From corner of his eye he saw Harry pour himself another drink as he shook his head and smiled. He forgot to ask about Billy’s martini shaker or putter.
#
Kreston found Mondays the most depressing day, a full week of work ahead. At five p.m. sharp he grabbed his coat, bolted for the door, and power-walked to the train station.
An hour later the train pulled onto his home station. Kreston spotted his neighbor, Fred Martin, a producer at a radio station, and they walked together to the nearby lot where they parked their “station cars,” used only to drive to the train. Kreston spotted Billy Waldrup and his tax attorney friend Tony Fletcher a few paces ahead, with third man he did not recognize. The stranger was in his early thirties, a good decade younger than Kreston and his friends.
Fred saw Kreston and Fred as they approached.
“Say fellows,” he called out, “We’re about to stop by Kensington’s for a quick pop before dinner. Care to join us?”
Fred said ‘yes’ before Kreston could open his mouth. He thought it a fine idea in any event. A good martini would be a fitting end to a boring workday.
“By the way,” Fred said as he turned to the strange man, “This is Hank Davis. He just moved into town. Bought a place a stone’s throw from you,” he said to Kreston.
“He’s the number two guy in the U.S. Attorney’s office. So keep mum about your insider trading deals.” Davis smiled sheepishly.
Wonder how he can afford a house up here on a government salary, Kreston thought as Hank Davis extended his hand. Probably married well or inherited.
Minutes later the five men were seated around a table. Kensington’s was filled with returning commuters, an equal number of men and women, many sitting in mixed groups. Kreston wondered why his was always men only. It wasn’t as if they disliked women. Kreston knew he certainly liked them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Kreston turned around and faced Grace Maxwell. Her blonde hair was shoulder length, longer than when he had last seen her. Her ice blue eyes focused on Kreston. Her dress hugged her body perfectly. She looked remarkably similar to Kreston’s wife.
“Good to see you,” she said. “Glad to know you’re still alive.”
“Barely,” Kreston croaked, shifting his eyes to the floor.
“Nice to know that,” she replied, and walked away.
The other men were engrossed in conversation and ignored the encounter.
Kreston realized that Tony Fletcher was speaking to him, his voice filtering through the mist that had descended on Kreston’s mind when he saw Grace.
“Hank’s a golfer like you and Billy,” Tony said. “Won a few trophies in college in fact. Don’t be modest” he said to Hank as the younger man blushed.
“My dad brought me into the game when I was in high school,” Hank explained. “I’ve been nuts about it ever since. Lucky to have found a wife who doesn’t mind the competition,” added with a smile.
“Better than a mistress,” Fred Grant said, as Kreston squirmed in his seat.
Ignoring Fred’s remark, Kreston turned to Hank.
“Why don’t you join us this Sunday over at the Town course,” he asked? “We have a regular time slot reserved and there is always room for one more. It’s usually just Billy and me, sometimes a third or even a fourth. Love to have a real golfer with us. Only makes us better.”
“I would really like that,” Hank said as he beamed a wide smile. Then he paused as his smile contracted.
“I just need to make sure I have my favorite wedge back in time. I never set foot on the course without it. My father had it specially made for me just before he died five years ago. I usually guard it like the Crown Jewels.”
“What happened to it?” Fred asked.
“I met a fellow at the gym last week and we got to talking, and of course the subject turned to golf,” Hank replied. “Anyway, he wound up dropping by my new house and borrowing the club. I haven’t been able to reach him to get it back.”
A silence settled over the group. Tony Fletcher’s voice broke the quiet.
“And who might this fellow be? he asked.
“Fellow named Harry Harper,” Hank replied. “Lives not too far from me.”
“Seemed like a nice enough guy,” he added, but the way he emphasized the word ‘seemed’ revealed doubt
“You loaned your special club to a total stranger?” Billy Waldrup gasped.
“At least this is one time the government is not giving away someone else’s stuff,” Fred interjected.
“He had this way about him,” Hank said softly. “I didn’t want to, but he made me feel like I couldn’t say no. Like I would be a jerk if I refused.
“I’m new to the area. I just wanted to be like everyone else, I guess.”
“Oh, you are,” Kreston assured him as he motioned the waiter for a refill. The others raised their glasses to signal they too were ready for another.
The five men made the smallest of talk as they nursed their second round. By unwritten agreement, talk of work was off limits. This was fine with Kreston, who had no interest in discussing his job. Once the men had exhausted all that could be said about sports, children, home prices and train delays, it was time for the last slug of alcohol and a retreat from Kennington’s.
Fred and Kreston walked to the parking lot side by side.
“Hope you’re not angry with me,” Fred said softly.
“It’s okay,” Kreston replied. “But be a little more considerate from now on,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Scout’s honor,” Fred responded, with more exuberance than Kreston found suitable.
“Sounds like all of us have a similar problem with Harry Harper,” Fred remarked as they approached Kreston’s station car, a ten year old Ford Taurus. “Even young Hank is already on the list.”
“What do you mean, on the list?” Kreston asked.
“Just an expression,” Fred explained.
“It’s the price of friendship,” Kreston said, his voice trailing off at the end of his sentence.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Fred countered.
Kreston placed his hands in his pockets and gazed downward for a moment. He nodded slightly, raised his head to look at Fred, and continued.
“I hardly know anything about the guy, except that he borrows everything and anything. Other than that he’s a mystery. I don’t even know when and where he uses these clubs he borrows.”
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Fred said with a slight chuckle. “We should have paid more attention to Shakespeare in college. Have a nice evening.”
#
Kreston trudged his way through Tuesday, and endured Wednesday. He felt a mild sense of relief when the clock read five. He read a newspaper for part of the trip home, wishing he had his Greg Sloat novel.
I hope Harry came by with that pump, Kreston thought as he reached his station.
#
After dinner, Kreston and his wife sat down to watch a reality show to which they were addicted. He sat on the couch, she on the love seat, and few words passed between them. Kreston broke the silence during a commercial.
“I’m expecting Harry Harper to drop by with my bicycle pump. And our martini pitcher.”
“What about the Greg Sloat novel you told me you loaned him,” his wife asked sharply. “I’m dying to read it. You told me he would have it back today.”
“I’m sure he will,” Kreston replied, his voice tailing off.
“He better,” his wife snapped. “I’m sick and tired of being inconvenienced by the Harpers. Especially that wretched wife, who calls me only when she needs something. You would think drugstores won’t sell her aspirins, or she can’t figure out where to buy cooking Sherry. And I hear from Cassie Grant that she inherited some sort of a trust fund. I was hoping you would give them a piece of your mind and put an end to this borrowing business.”
“Oh, I will,” Kreston replied, waving his hand as the show resumed
Harper had not arrived when the episode ended at nine.
Kreston went to the phone at his desk and dialed Harry’s home number. There was no answer, and when it went to voice mail, he hung up and dialed Harry’s cell phone. There was no answer there either.
Where could they have gone on a school night? he thought.
“I’m hopping over to Harry’s” he called out to his wife as he grabbed a windbreaker and headed out into the brisk evening.
There were no people on the street. Most homes were dark or dimly lit, the glare of television sets visible through living room windows. A crescent moon cast a soft glow.
Harry’s house was completely dark. No porch light, no lights along the footpath, no motion detectors.
Kreston rang the doorbell. There was no response. He lifted the door knocker and let it drop several times with no result. He listened in vain for the sound of footsteps coming to the door.
Kreston was about to surrender and leave, when a voice called out through the darkness. He recognized it as Kenny Daliwell, Harper’s neighbor. Daliwell was a retired high school football coach who had lived in town long before home prices rose beyond the means of a high school teacher. One way or another, the old man made it a mission met every one in town. Kreston detected the odor of cheap pipe tobacco in the air, and recalled that the older man usually held a briar clenched between his teeth. Kreston encountered Daliwell around town a few times over the years, and when they noticed each other at the station or the shopping mall, they would exchange pleasantries, or if at a distance, a nod or wave.
“If you’re looking for your friend Harry, forget it,” Daliwell snapped. “He’s gone with the wind, and took my antique pocket watch with him,” he added. The way he spit out the last few words told Kreston the older man wanted to appear nonchalant despite his anger.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Kreston asked. “And what is he doing with your pocket watch?”
“Borrowed it a few days ago. Said he needed it for a presentation he was making to his kid’s class. Loaned it to him like the dumb sucker I am. Thing’s been in the family over a hundred twenty years. Worth a pretty penny, I might add.”
Daliwell moved closer to Kreston. By the soft light of the crescent moon, Kreston saw the pained look on the old man’s face.
“But where did he go?” Kreston asked.
“He’s not anywhere near here,, you can bet your bottom dollar on that,” Daliwell replied.
Kreston leaned against one of the porch columns.
“You mean a guy and his family just walked away from their house, their furniture, everything they own? With no warning? No goodbyes?
Daliwell took his pipe in his left hand, and a small spurt of smoke streamed from the corner of his mouth.
“Their house? Their furniture? Heck, that all belongs to someone else. Harper was just a glorified house sitter. Place belongs to Tommy Cranwell. You don’t know him, he grew up in the house and moved away before you ever got here. His parents are both gone, and he went off to teach college in Asia. He had some problems with tenants a few years back, and somehow this Harper fellow signed on for a short stint as the house sitter. Lived rent free and Cranwell even paid the utilities. Four years later and he was still there.
“Don’t ask me how,” he chuckled as he placed the stem of his pipe back between his teeth. “I guess Cranwell is still in Asia. Haven’t heard from him in years.” Kreston detected the soft sound of smoke being sucked from the pipe’s bowl, through the stem, to Daliwell’s mouth.
“Figure Harper had to leave in a hurry,” the older man added, speaking with his pipe clamped in place. “Seems like he had an unpleasant visit from a few fellows yesterday. Investigators of some kind. Heard a bit of it while smoking my pipe outside. Something about Harry claiming to be Tommy Cranwell and borrowing against the house. He told them it’s all part of his arrangement. They told Kreston that Tommy hasn’t been heard from in years, so how could he take a mortgage? Harry tells them he’s done talking and his lawyer will call them. They left and Harry went back inside. That was the last I saw or heard of Harry Harper, until real early this morning when I heard a car door slam, looked out my window, and saw the Harpers driving off.”
Kreston moved away from the column on which he had been leaning. He shook his head.
“I had no idea Harry didn’t own the house. I just assumed he did,” he told Daliwell. “This news is quite a shock.”
“Not the first time our friend’s been using what belongs to someone else,” Daliwell replied. “Month ago the cops were by to talk to him. He wouldn’t let them in so they spoke outside and I was again enjoying my pipe out of their sight. Heard every word. Seems like that fancy BMW Harry drives is registered to someone else and they couldn’t find that guy. Came up when Harry got pulled over for a speeder. He’s been paying for insurance in the owner’s name. Really fishy if you ask me.”
“He’s got a bunch of my stuff somewhere in there,” Harry said after absorbing the shocking news. “Is there any way you could put me in touch with this Tommy Cranwell? Maybe an e mail address? I hope he would let me in to get back what belongs to me.”
“Like I said, haven’t heard from him in years. But when Tommy took off for Asia, he left me a key. I’ve never had to use it before. I’ll go in with you. Maybe we’ll find my watch.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kreston replied, thinking about the bike ride coming up in slightly more than eight hours.
“Wait right here,” Daliwell commanded as he disappeared into the dark, the scent of his pipe tobacco lingering in the cool evening air. Kreston leaned against the front wall of the house for the few minutes it took Daliwell to return with a key attached to a long stick. The older man pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and flicking it on, found the keyhole, and opened the front door. He led the way in, Kreston a step behind.
Daliwell felt for the light switch to the side of the door inside the house, and the two men were able to see. Kreston’s martini pitcher sat on the coffee table, just where it was when Kreston had come by the other day.
“This is mine,” he explained to Daliwell as he scooped it up.
The coach said nothing.
“Mind if I look around for my bicycle pump and my book?” He asked politely.
“Fine by me,” Daliwell replied as he reached into his pocket for a lighter. He flicked it on and sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe.
“If by any chance you see a pocket watch, bring it to me,” he added.
Kreston found his way to the garage and located the light switch. There were several open suitcases strewn about, some half full, some empty.
They really left in a hurry, he thought.
He spotted his pump in the center of the garage, and picked it up.
“All I need now is my book and we can be out of here,” he told Daliwell as he reentered the living room. The older man was sitting on a couch smoking.
“Take your time,” he replied, pipe in his hand. “Wife hates when I smoke in the house, which is how I came to be out in the dark and found you.”
Kreston searched methodically, scouring the tops of the dining table, the bar that separated living room from dining room, and a bookshelf in the living room. He did not find his novel.
He spied a cluttered desk in an alcove to the side of the living room. He walked over and turned on the desk’s reading lamp.
There was no novel there.
As he was about to turn off the reading lamp, Kreston saw a spiral notebook with a yellow cover. Written across the front in a black felt tipped marker were the words “People and Things.” Curious, Kreston picked it up and flipped to the first page.
The page was divided into two columns. The left side contained the names of people and the right side listed belongings.
Kreston recognized some but not all of the names. He spotted the name “Billy Waldrup” and to its right in the ‘things’ column was written “Putter. Martini shaker. Chain saw. Large pruning shears. Underwater camera.”
Kreston turned to the next page. He spotter Tony Fletcher’s name. Next to it was inscribed “Pick up truck. Boom box. Silver polish. Chinese cookbooks. Trail guides. Metric wrenches.”
Shaking his head, Kreston scanned the next two pages until he found his own name, and beside it, written “Bicycle pump. Martini pitcher. Salad bowl. Squeezed in by pencil were the words “Five iron.”
It went on for several more pages with some names he recognized and others he did not. The very last entry was for Hank Snow, and it listed several golf clubs and goose down sleeping bags.
Kreston pulled the notebook close to his body and closed his eyes. Then he walked back to Daliwell.
“Couldn’t find the novel he borrowed, or the or my friend’s martini shaker or putter,” he said. “Just the pump.” He said nothing about the spiral notebook.
“And sorry, no pocket watch.”
“All’s well that ends well, at least for you,” the old man countered. “Time for me to hit the hay. I can look some other time.” They walked out the front door, which Daliwell locked. Once outside he tapped the bowl of his pipe agains the ledge of the porch. Satisfied that it was clean, he walked down the steps and Kreston followed.
“Thanks for your help,” Kreston said as he turned to walk home.
“No problem,” Daliwell said. “Feel free to come back any time to chat,” he added. “I’m out about this time every night enjoying a good night smoke.”
“Oh, you’ll see me again,” Kreston promised, thinking that would probably not be very often.
Walking home, Kreston realized he hadn’t found his wife’s salad bowl.
#
Three months later Kreston spotted an article in the local paper as he was sipping his early morning coffee before driving off to the station in time for the 7:32.He enjoyed the ride with his friends, even if he didn’t enjoy the destination. Tony was always eager to chat during the ride. Billy read the Wall Street Journal much of the ride. Hank Davis had become a regular on the train, and was a good conversationalist.
The words in the article practically assaulted Kreston.
FORMER RESIDENT CHARGED WITH FRAUD
A former Town resident has been arrested on federal charges alleging fraud, theft, forgery and perjury.
Harry Harper, 47, lived in the area for four years. He and his family dropped from sight in April of this year, without notice. When Harper was arrested, they were using assumed names.
Count One of the indictment alleges Harper stole a new BMW from a dealer by taking it for a test drive and never returning it. The indictment alleges that he provided false identification and documents to the dealer and the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Harper is also alleged to have misrepresented himself as the owner of a residence, and attempted to secure a mortgage against the property. He is charged with identify theft, mortgage fraud, and perjury.
Also charged are thirty counts of larceny by taking property under false pretenses. Police searched Harper’s last known residence in Town, and recovered numerous stolen items, including a valuable custom-made golf club belonging to a senior federal prosecutor. Receipts recovered during a search of his home showed sales by Harper of other expensive golf clubs, cut-crystal glassware, and an antique pocket watch.
Harper, currently detained on $500,000 bail, claimed indigence, and his case was assigned to the Federal Public Defender.
Kreston nearly spit out his coffee. He read the article again, then hurriedly dressed to the station.
#
Two weeks later Kreston saw another article in the newspaper. Police attempted to contact Tommy Cranwell. After all trails proved cold, they searched the house again. Bloodhounds detected human remains buried behind the garage. The remains were tested and the Medical Examiner determined they were Tommy Cranwell. Harry passed the day in an uneasy and unpleasant trancelike state. He left work early.
#
Four months later, Kreston was walking about the neighborhood in the chill of a mid- December evening. He found himself walking outside with increasing regularity, to clear his mind with fresh air .
He walked a few hundred meters past darkened houses when he smelled the tobacco.
“Hello, Coach,” he called out as Daliwell emerged from the darkness of his lawn. “How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine, fellow. Good to see you again.”
“Getting some new neighbors real soon,” the old man announced. “With Harry pleading guilty and being sentenced, Tommy Cranwell’s estate was able to list it. Sold in a day.”
Kreston nodded. A few weeks ago Billy Waldrup had called and mentioned another article in the paper. Harry had plead guilty in federal court to mortgage fraud and perjury. He was sentenced to six years but no charges were brought against Glenda. State prosecutors offered a plea to manslaughter and a twelve year sentence to run concurrently with the federal sentence. Due to the differences between between state and federal law, Harry would be out when he finished his federal time.
“Could have gotten life, you know,” Billy had said, and Kreston suspected was Billy was unhappy he did not.” Would have been hard to prove who killed Tommy and why.”
“Your young friend Mr. Davis will also be leaving us, I hear,” Daliwell said.
“Yes, poor Hank skated on the bar inquiry and on the Inspector General’s review over at Justice.” Kreston’s voice was downbeat. He liked Hank. So did Kreston.
“But it was unthinkable that they would allow him to stay on as Number Two in the federal prosecutors office, when he had been fleeced by a guy they just sent away,” Kreston said wistfully. “A murderer to boot. Hank had to resign. No nibbles yet from the private bar.”
“I figure right now Hank Davis is not the name big time law firms want to be associated with,” Daliwell said.
“I guess not,” Kreston replied. He bid the old coach good night.
#
“You could have been killed too,” Kreston’s wife said one night. “He might have thought you were pushing too hard, and was afraid you would find out what he really was.
“I’m glad they caught him before anything like that could happen,” she added, and hugged Kreston. He was surprised but pleased. He had committed himself to repairing their relationship.
“Any progress on the MBA?” she asked.
“I’ll get to it,” he promised.
THE END
April 18, 2021
JORDAN PETERSON: THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING
Photo courtesy of CBS 
Photo Couresty of The New Republic 
A BIT OF BACKGROUND
When I started this blog, almost four years ago, the idea was to promote my fiction writing, by putting up stories, news about work in progress, and a little bit about myself.
I quickly learned that all blogging, like all writing, is really about the writer. There is no way for an author of anything to keep themselves out of their work. Who wants to shut themselves out of their creations?
I’m a very political person, quite opinionated, a proud progressive Democrat, a member of the Hillsborough County Democratic Executive Committee. I’ve been active in politics my entire life, so it comes as no surprise that my views wind up on my blog pages. (In my novels as well, which pleases some, displeases others, but always gets a response, which is the idea, of course!)
I also happen to be Jewish, and proud of my heritage; my wife is a naturalized Filipino-American and our grown daughters are Jewish Asian-Americans, and we’re equally proud of that heritage. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out why so much of my writing addresses the threats from white supremacists, neo-Nazis and other antisemites, xenophobes, misanthropes, and misogynists. We are living in an age where Jews are murdered at prayer in synagogues, just as African-Americans at prayer are murdered in their churches. Asian-American have become an open target for racists of all stripes. Consequently, I become very disturbed when I encounter the kind of intolerance and hate propagated by a charlatan masquerading as a scholar and deep thinker. If anyone ever fit that bill, it is Mr. Peterson.
THE FIRST PETERSON POST
I first posted about this Canadian avatar of the Extreme Right in November, 2018. (EXPOSING JORDAN PETERSON, PSEUDO-INTELLECT SUPREME OF THE FAR RIGHT AND WHITE NATIONALISTS). It immediately became the second-most popular post on my blog, second only to a post about fiction writers dealing with suicides in their work, in light of the spate of celebrity suicides at the moment. (WRITING ABOUT SUICIDE IN FICTION).
My intent in the first Peterson post was to raise awareness of Peterson’s role in mainstreaming radical ideas of the far right, with dark undertones of racism, xenophobia, and misogyny. My concern was that naive and vulnerable young white men would actually believe that there was a rational, scientific and documented basis for any of Peterson’s wild ideas. (Essentially, he’d like to turn back the clock to a time before we had those pesky civil rights laws that grant equality to all races, all genders and identities, and he extolls a mythical set of “Anglo-Saxon” or “Western European” values that bear no resemblance to anything most of us ever want to see again. But please, read the indicated posts, and the sources cited within, to gain a greater understanding.)
The popularity of that post has been a very pleasant surprise. I had no idea so many people were interested in the subject, and was delighted to have an entry point to my fiction and other posts.
SECOND PETERSON POST
Like any good blogger, when I saw the response to the first Peterson post, I couldn’t wait to write another. Unfortunately, Mr. Peterson refused to cooperate, and simply disappeared from sight.
Almost three years later, I had good occasion to update my readers on this unpleasant man and his dangerous views. (Updates: BLM Protests,Exposing Jordan Peterson, Works Of Historical Fiction). Mr. Peterson, the proponent of male “toughness” and “bucking up and taking what comes” had indeed disappeared, and when discovered, it was revealed that he had been treated for mental illness and drug addiction! The man who touted the most stringent drug laws refused to apply them to himself! The man who claimed his philosophy would displace the need for left-wing therapy, needed plenty of it himself.
Even more surprising was his choice of Serbia for kicking his addiction to anti-depressants and other mood-altering drugs. Canada is far more equipped to treat this illness, and he would have been in his own environment, not to mention it would be covered by Canada’s national health insurance. A psychologist like Dr. Peterson should have known this. In any event, no one has seen any medical records, including his claim that he survived COVID 19; all news about his health comes from his daughter, an unlicensed and untrained self-styled “nutritionist.”
This time, I didn’t have to wait almost three years for more to write about this bizarre character. Mr. Peterson is again back in the news, again for very bad reasons. Mr. Peterson mysteriously disappears from sight every so often; then, like a mythical island of folklore, arises from the deep and murky sea from which he and his fellow travelers submerge when the spotlight is on them.
THE LATEST BIZARRE PETERSON EPISODES
If Peterson’s remaining followers thought his reemergence would restore his stature, they were sadly misinformed. As of today, the Canadian Crackpot is embroiled in a very bizarre incident in Belfast, involving the tragic death of a young boy, and is simultaneously lashing out at publication of a comic book he claims ridicules him by using his face as the skull image of a Nazi enemy of Captain America.
A. Death of Young Boy in Belfast & Any Relation to an Instagram Message From Peterson
The more serious matter, of course, is the question of what involvement, if any at all, Peterson had with a fourteen year old Belfast boy who turned up dead, shortly after receiving an Instagram message (not a posting), purportedly from Peterson. The young man was found drowned in a drainage ditch, and there was no evidence of foul play. He had copy of one of Peterson’s books in his backpack.
The content of the Instagram message has not been revealed.
Peterson spent time in Belfast last year.
There is no suggestion of wrongdoing by Peterson.
Aside from the above facts, all we know is that last month, the Belfast police investigating the boy’s death asked the Toronto Police Service to speak directly with Peterson, who was at his home in Toronto. This was not done. This disturbed the Belfast police, and at a Coroner’s Inquiry proceeding in Belfast last week, the local police asked the Coroner to follow through on this request, as did the lawyer for the boy’s family.
The Coroner replied that the Instagram account may not have been personally handled by Mr Peterson.
The police told the Coroner that the ongoing inquiry had not “satisfied” their line of inquiry, upset that as of today, the controversial author has not been interviewed.
Peterson’s spokesperson stated that there was never any contact between the author and the deceased boy, and noted that “there are many impersonator accounts.”
It is important to note that there is at this time no evidence of any wrong doing by Peterson, or any causal link between the mysterious Instagram message and the boy’s death.That does not mean there are no serious questions remaining.
It is significant that the investigating police officers were upset Peterson had not been questioned, and they essentially berated the Coroner, and more or less pressured him to insist the Toronto Police honor their request.
It is difficult to understand why the Toronto Police would not assist their fellow officers across the Pond, especially since both are subjects of the Queen. Wouldn’t we expect better cooperation from a fellow police department within the British Commonwealth?
It’s equally unfathomable why the Coroner did not feel compelled to follow up on his own regarding the Toronto inquiry, as opposed to needing local police pressure to act.
There is no explanation as to why Peterson’s spokesperson raised the issue of “impersonator” accounts, when all that was needed was to open Peterson’s Instagram message file and see if any message was sent on that day. Sharing such information with the investigators would be of enormous assistance to investigators. It is obviously the most relevant piece of information at this point. It could clear Peterson completely, if it is as his spokesperson claims. It would also help the boy’s family find closure, and rule out one possible basis for an apparent suicide. The failure to prove the message did not come from Peterson’s account only raises suspicions about the source and content of that message.
There is no explanation given for Peterson’s refusal to speak with police.
When all is said and done, it is highly unlikely that there will be evidence of any specific wrongdoing by Peterson that could be linked to the boy’s death. I doubt that is what Peterson and his remaining acolytes fear. It is the embarrassment at once again having Peterson’s philosophy tied to confused young white men, and leading them astray. Certainly, it doesn’t say much for Peterson’s philosophy, if that’s where it leads.
You can read an article about this inquiry here.
B. Jordan Peterson vs. Captain America
I wouldn’t say this episode demonstrates Peterson’s danger, but it definitely displays his sheer idiocy.
Dr. Peterson believes that renowned writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, who has been authoring the current incarnation of Captain America comic book, is using his image for the infamous “Red Skull”, a Nazi villain who first appeared in Captain America comics back in 1941.
Okay, so yet again, Peterson is wrong on the facts. Nothing new; his academic flaws and sloppiness are evident in his books, articles, and speeches. This whole kerfuffle could have been avoided with the most minimal research, but facts are not Peterson’s style, and don’t interest him. Yes, we are persuaded once again that Dr. Peterson does not know what he is talking about. All of this still begs the question:
Why on earth is such a self-promoter, claiming status as a philosopher, sociologist, anthropologist, and of course psychologist, choosing to engage in a battle over a comic book character? Why does he see himself in the image of a Nazi criminal? Where does he dream these things up? Does he still suffer from mental illness? Is he still hooked on drugs? Does it seem like his Serbian treatment was effective?
He’s not even an American. So why is he so obsessed with our culture, right down to monitoring comic books? Shades of the nineteen fifties!
I cannot help but conclude that this current obsession with Captain America comics is tied to the current far-right hysteria about what they see as impermissible vandalizing of American icons. We saw insurrectionist, white supremacist Republicans like Ted Cruz and Josh Hawley -two of Peterson’s fellow travelers-become as twisted as pretzels when the Mattel Company decided to combine Mr. Potato Head and Mrs. Potato Head into one package. These extremists, like Peterson, oppose any changes that advance groups other than White Christian Men, so from where they stand, racism, homophobia and sexism are good things. (Peterson has long railed against feminism, LBGTQ rights, secular humanism, and most offensively “identity politics.” Peterson and his ilk believe only white people can have an identity which must be acknowledged.) We observed the fulmination from the far right when the Estate of Dr. Seuss withdrew six of his books because they contained offensive racial stereotype.
Whatever the reasons, they do not comport with the image of a scholar and deep thinker Peterson wishes to portray.
Of course, no one in their right mind currently sees Jordan Peterson as either a scholar or a deep thinker. He’s an extremist nut-job, who has gone completely off the rails.
Let’s hope his remaining followers get this message.
s
April 15, 2021
TRANSGENDER SCHOOL GIRLS ARE THE LATEST TARGET OF REPUBLICAN HATE
Times file photo of the transgender pride flag. [ TAILYR IRVINE | Times ]By Kirby WilsonPublished YesterdayUpdated Yesterday TALLAHASSEE — In one of the most contentious votes of the legislative session, the Florida House voted Wednesday to ban transgender athletes from women’s and girls’ scholastic sports.
The bill passed by lawmakers, HB 1475, is aimed at maintaining the competitive balance in women’s sports, its supporters say. Detractors say it’s a thinly veiled attempt to marginalize already vulnerable transgender kids. The legislation is part of a national effort on the part of Republican state lawmakers to remove transgender athletes from girls’ and women’s sports. Florida is one of at least 30 states debating such a bill.
After an emotional hour of debate, it passed the House Wednesday by a vote of 77 to 40, with just one Democrat supporting the measure. No Republican voted against it.Jaime Jara, the mother of Dempsey, a nine-year-old transgender girl, has been following the issue closely. Dempsey, who began her social transition to girlhood when she was five years old, wants to run cross country like her older brother once she gets to middle school. If Governor Ron DeSantis signs HB 1475 into law, she would have to compete on the boys’ team.
In that case, “she just won’t play at all” Jaime Jara, of Kissimmee, said in an interview. “That’s not who she is, so that’s not even an option for her.”
HB 1475, sponsored by Rep. Kaylee Tuck, R-Lake Placid, would enact a blanket ban on transgender athletes competing in scholastic girls’ and women’s sports in Florida. Transgender athletes would still be allowed to compete in boys and men’s sports.
The bill, which is modeled after an Idaho law that was temporarily struck down by a federal judge last year, allows a school or competitor to lodge a complaint about an athlete competing in a girls’ or woman’s sport. If the party complaining suspects the athlete was not assigned the female gender at birth, the athlete in question will have to prove their birth gender — via a genetic test, a test of their testosterone levels or an examination of their reproductive anatomy by a medical professional — in order to compete.
It’s unclear how precisely the complaint process would work. The bill leaves it up to the the State Board of Education to create precise rules. (Tuck’s father, Andy Tuck, is the chair of that board.)Supporters of the bill say the measure ensures women and girls have a chance to compete in female-exclusive spaces. They note that transgender girls won several track and field state championships in Connecticut starting in 2017 — arguably, they say, taking titles and opportunities from their female competitors.
“This particular bill is not about exclusion, and it is not about discrimination. This bill is about a biological and scientific difference between men and women,” said Dana Trabulsy, R-Fort Pierce, who voted for the bill.
However, the bill’s supporters have pointed to no competitive equity issues in Florida. The Florida High School Athletic Association and the National Collegiate Athletic Association have policies allowing transgender athletes to compete in sports in a way that aligns with the athlete’s gender identity. The NCAA requires athletes to undergo at least one year of medical testosterone suppression treatment. The Florida High School Athletic Association requires athletes to, among other steps, obtain a note from a health care professional who will attest to the athlete’s gender identity.
If history is any indication, the language of the bill passed by the House would affect few student-athletes. A spokesman for the Florida High School Athletic Association said that since the organization adopted its transgender participation policy in 2013-2014, just 11 athletes have applied to compete according to its provisions.But many transgender people say the bill goes beyond the playing field to harm transgender kids.
“I ask that you read this bill and recognize the threat to privacy and lack of legal protection potentially facing female athletes,” said Andrew Coleman, a transgender man who’s a student at Florida State University, at a Wednesday press conference at the state Capitol. “Read this bill and recognize the perpetuating harm this legislation has to kids who just want to live.”
Wednesday’s vote came the day after a nearly four-hour hearing on the House floor in which Democrats tried to amend the bill 18 different ways. The policy tweaks offered by Democrats ranged from exempting elementary school children from the bill’s provisions to allowing children to prove their gender with a birth certificate. Each amendment was voted down by Republicans — almost all of them after no debate from anyone in the majority party.
One of the few amendments which provoked commentary by a Republican was a tweak which would have exempted out-of-state athletes competing in Florida from the bill’s provisions. Rep. Kristen Arrington, D-Kissimmee, who offered the amendment, said she did so in part to discourage the NCAA from boycotting Florida if the bill passes.
That sports organization issued a statement Monday saying it could pull championships from states which pass bills limiting transgender participation. Florida is set to host more than 40 regional or national NCAA championship events between the next academic year and May of 2026.
RELATED: If Florida transgender sports bill passes, NCAA says it could pull championshipsOn Tuesday, Rep. Chip LaMarca, R-Lighthouse Point, pointed out the organization’s recent failure to offer equal accommodations to men and women at the Division I basketball championships. He argued the NCAA is in no position to lecture the Florida Legislature — an argument which has been repeated by other Republican proponents of the bill in recent weeks.
“The NCAA is not the moral authority that some in this chamber have set them out to be. They simply do not treat women’s and men’s sports equally,” said Rep. Chris Latvala, R-Clearwater, on Wednesday.
With the passing of HB 1475 in the House, all eyes now turn to the Senate, where a similar measure, SB 2012, is being debated.
That bill was scheduled to be heard in a committee Wednesday, but its sponsor, Sen. Kelli Stargel, R-Lakeland, postponed that discussion.
When asked whether the hearing was postponed because of the potential for the NCAA to pull championships from Florida, Stargel responded with one word:
“No.”
April 4, 2021
A SIMPLE TWIST (A Provocative Tale of Hate)
Photo courtesy of Zach Vessels, Unsplash. A SIMPLE TWIST OF HATE
By Stephen Shaiken ( c ) 2021
This is a work of fiction and creative imagination. Any similarity to actual people or events is purely coincidental.
Max walked down the empty street, heading home from the plant, focused on the cold beer awaiting him, when he noticed a man holding a clipboard heading towards him. The man stood out, as there was no one else on the street, and he wore a suit and tie, not common in this section of town. Strangers were noticed in this working-class neighborhood where everyone knew each other. Max was born and raised there and looked it, with his open army surplus jacket over a plaid flannel shirt, old jeans, and a well-worn baseball cap. An uncombed beard tumbled to the edge of his collar bone. A pony tail hung out the back of his cap, and like the beard, a blend of black, gray and white. When the stranger was within ten feet of the Max, he addressed him.
“Can I have a minute of your time?” he asked. He spoke slowly and softly.
Max found the man’s presence unusual. Strangers rarely trudged these streets, aside from election time, which was not until next year. Aside from politicians and detectives, not many men wearing suits came to visit. As Max neared the stranger, he saw he was in his late forties, around the same age as Max. Unlike Max, he was clean- shaven, with a haircut more expensive than Max could afford. Manicured nails graced the hand holding the clipboard.
Probably asking me to sign another petition to protect our gun rights, Max thought. Those folks do come around every once in a while, he recalled, but they dress like the rest of us. I’ll just tell him I’m an NRA Life Member and move on to my beer, he decided.
“I’m Tom Parsons,” the man said, extending a smooth, manicured hand. Max gripped it with his own, rough and calloused, and gave his name. Parsons’ handshake was weak, not firm like the men at the factory.
“I’m looking to recruit a few good men,” Parsons said, showing the clipboard, which held a paper with signature lines, few of which were filled in. “For the European-American Association,” he explained.
“Never heard of them,” Max replied.
“Not surprised to hear that,” Parsons said as his smile flashed a set of perfect gleaming white teeth. “Mainstream media’s doing all they can to keep good folks like you from hearing about us. That’s why I’m out here today. Just finished canvassing the next street over.”
“What’s this bunch all about?” Max asked, as much from curiosity as courtesy. It wasn’t often that he spoke to men in suits. He recalled being questioned by some lawyers about an accident at the plant, but that was a few years ago.
“Glad you asked,” Parsons replied. “I’ll send you some literature, if you’ll just write down your name and contact info. For now, let’s say we stand up for the rights of those of us who are of European stock. White people. Like you and me.”
“Someone trying to take away our guns?” Max asked. Don’t look like much chance of that happening. And I ain’t European. I’m American.”
“Guns are the least of our worries, my friend. We got all we need. It’s our heritage, our culture, and our souls they want to steal. And by the looks of you, my friend, no doubt you’re of good Northern European stock. What are you, English? Scots Irish? German?
“I was born right her, just like my Daddy and my Mommy,” Max replied. Grandparents all born here too.”
“Sounds like you’re just the kind of man we’re looking for,” Parsons said. “A good old- fashioned American, whose life and culture are under attack.”
“What are you talking about?” Max asked.
“You look just old enough to remember what America was like before they started letting in the world’s riffraff and garbage,” Parsons replied, anger creeping into his voice. “Now they’re trying to tear down everything we believe in. Every damn religion but ours gets respect, and every culture but white Europeans has special rights these days. Muslims and Mexicans waltz in like they own the place, killing white folks whenever they feel like it. You willing to fight for your rights, and your family and your culture?”
Max thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure where this man was going. He didn’t think men in suits talked this way.
“I fought in Iraq, 1991,” Max finally said. Did my four year enlistment then joined the union. Machinist. You been in the Service?”
“I don’t fight for Jews,” Parsons replied.
Max stared at Parsons. He didn’t understand what he was talking about.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” Max said. “I was in the U.S. Army.”
“You talking about the ZOG Army?” Parsons asked. Seeing the puzzled look on Max’s face he added “Zionist Occupied Government. I can send you some stuff that explains it all.”
“I really got to be going,” Max told him. This is too weird, he thought.
Parsons kept talking, rambling on about black helicopters, racial mixing, communists, Obama, and homosexuality. Max paid his words scant attention, more attracted to the music flowing through the open window of a second story apartment. It was a favorite song of his father, a Vietnam veteran who died of Agent Orange a decade before. An old Chuck Berry song that told the love story of a teenage Cajun couple who married and lived happily ever after. It was called “You Never Can Tell,” and Max’s father taught him to pronounce the Cajun-French saying “say-la-vee,” as his father learned from a Cajun GI he served with in Vietnam.
Max forgot about the strange man before him, and allowed the music to wrap itself around him, as thoughts of his late father drifted across his mind..
Parsons looked up at the open window from which the sounds emanated, and shouted, “Turn off that nigger music!” Parsons scowled and muttered something under his breath as the music kept playing until the song ended.
Parsons’ outburst outburst reminded Max of a guy named Campbell, who worked at the plant and a few years ago, and said some of the same things as Parsons. Campbell had a few friends, but most of the guys on the shift thought he was a jerk. “Even if you think that way, you don’t say it,” the shift supervisor had told Campbell on more than one occasion. One day, Campbell wasn’t working there anymore. This man was talking just like Campbell, with no inkling other might think it wrong.
“I don’t like to join anything,” Max said. “Good luck to you but I’ll be on my way.”
Parsons stood directly in front of Max and looked him in the eye. The friendliness was gone. The smile was gone from his face, and his blue eyes cast a chilling stare.
“Max, you don’t understand what I’m saying. Your people need you. Our race is under assault. Nigger music blasts onto the streets any time of day or night. Spics stream across the border to rape white women. Muslims and Asiatic hordes swarming our nation, trying to turn us into them. Max, one more generation and this nation will be a sewer like most other places on this planet. Total sewers, unfit for white people.”
“Spics?” Max asked, sounding as though he had never heard the word.
“Yeah, spics,” Parson replied. Those tortilla-eating bastards who fill up our jails and wreck our schools and hospitals. Almost as bad as the niggers. If a white man won’t stand up to them, who will? Just fill out your name and contact info, and you’ll be hearing from us.”
Max sighed as he motioned for Parsons to hand him the clipboard. A pen dangled on a string, tied to the top. The finely-tailored man smiled as he handed it to Max.
“Just write in you full name, address, phone and e mail, and we’ll be in touch. We’re having an informational meeting next week,” he said, giving the name of a nearby neighborhood where the event would be held. “Plenty of food, beer and white music for European-Americans,” he added.
Parson started to say something, when the clipboard hit him full force in the face. He was pushed back against the wall of the building they stood before. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. “What the…” were the only words he was able to utter before Max shoved him face-first into the brick wall of the building. The blood in his mouth muffled his cries, and flowed onto his fancy shirt and suit. Max grabbed Parsons from behind, threw him to the ground, and dragged him ten feet to a nearby garbage can. Parson’s expensive suit was torn in several places. Max removed the lid of the garbage can, lifted Parsons from under the shoulders, and dropped him into the can. Parsons sank into the putrified garbage that filled half the can. Max placed the lid on top of the can and walked away quickly. He turned the corner at the end of the bloc and took his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and spoke.
“Hola, Maria. Maximo. Estaré en casa dentro de quince minutos. Conocí a un amigo y habló durante unos minutos.” (Hello Maria, this is Maximo. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. I met a friend and we spoke for a few minutes.)
“Tal vez tu puedes tener una tortilla listo para mí tener con mi cerveza,” he added as he laughed. (Maybe you can have a tortilla ready for me to have with my beer.)
As he walked on he could hear the faint sounds of music coming from the same window as before. It was the same Chuck Berry number about the Cajun couple. Max smiled as he continued walking home.
My Dad loved that song, he thought.
THE END
Where hate belongs. AUTHOR’S COMMENTS
I generally don’t go into great detail about my stories, other than to note when and why they were written, and what role, if any, a story played in my development as a fiction writer. In this case, I feel compelled to discuss the story- behind-the story in greater detail.
I wrote the first draft of “A Simple Twist” back in 2018, and ran it by KEYBANGERS BANGKOK, the writing group to which I am so deeply indebted for their guidance, support and friendship. At the time, I was outside of America, watching nightmares like Charlottesville and the increasing racist presence everywhere in the country. The piece needed more work, but I was deep into editing my first novel, Bangkok Shadows, and set it aside. (All writers know what the means.)
As racial and ethic tensions in America heightened, I thought about returning to the story, but I was then busy with my second novel, Bangkok Whispers, so rewriting was again passed over.
African-Americans were being unjustifiably killed by police throughout America, and those who protested this inequity were often assaulted and threatened by racists and police alike; urban racists made false police reports against Black men in highly publicized cases. Jews were murdered at prayer in Pittsburgh and outside San Diego. Latinos were targeted en masse at a Walmart, among other places. Now, violence against Asian-American has reached crisis level.
In the face of all this, I was naturally drawn back to this story. Being a Jewish family, my wife and grown daughters Asian-American as well, the issue is certainly personally relevant, as well as nationally important.
I believe my hesitancy in returning to “A Simple Twist” had to do with the violence at the ending. I may have subconsciously feared that the story might be mistaken as a call for violence against racists. Nothing could be further from my own views. Dr. Martin Luther King is one of my heroes, because he refused to meet violence and hatred with the same, and instead, relied upon non-violence, compassion, and love.
A fiction writer’s role, however, is not simply to declare their own views, be they social, political;, spiritual, or philosophical. Our job is to stir emotions, get people to think and feel in response to our creations. I hope I stirred more than a few thoughts and emotions with this story.
The “twist”, of course, is that Max is not the person Parsons believed him to be. Looks can be deceiving; as the saying goes, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” (Though authors know almost everyone does!). Max is not much different than urban working people of any background. He lives in a working class neighborhood where he grew up, works in a plant or factory, dresses the part, seems to have no issue with gun ownership, and essentially just wants to get home and enjoy a beer at end of a long day. Max seems like a level-headed, salt-of-the-earth American worker, the people who built this country and still make it great. (Max and his father both served in the military during time of war.)
So why the violent ending? Max didn’t just lose his temper and punch out Parsons; he beat the crap out of him, and humiliated him by dumping him into a garbage can. Is that consistent with the teachings of Dr. King?
Of course it isn’t. Then again, I write fiction, not stirring civil rights speeches or sermons. I am not trying to get people to take concrete action; I hope to get them to think about the subject of my stories. In “A Simple Twist,” a Latino man is confronted by a virulent racist organizer, who does nor realize Max is an ethnic minority. Max is a working man, not a scholar or a philosopher. He served his country, and his father died from his similar service. Yet Parsons does not consider them to be Americans, or even human beings. It is certainly not out of the question, not by any means, that such a confrontation might well lead to a sorry end for the racist. Perhaps the story goes a bit further than the punches that might be the limit in real life, but after all, this is fiction, and I’m trying to get a response.
Were I a high school English teacher assigning this story, I imagine the questions I would ask my students would be along these lines:
1.) Were Max’s actions justified under any view of the circumstances?
2.) Is it ever appropriate to meet hateful words with violence?
3.) Did Max’s response accomplish anything?
4.) What do you think Max should have done?
I am definitely not a high school English teacher, but I do have one question for my readers:
Whatever your feelings about violence, did you feel better when Max beat up Parsons? (Be honest, now!)
AND ABOVE ALL, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF “A SIMPLE TWIST.”
Sincerely,
Stephen Shaiken
March 1, 2021
MY CITRUS TREES HAVE FLOWERED
Taking a break from writing to admire the beautiful flowers on my citrus trees in Tampa, Florida. I’ll be a better writer for it. (Clockwise from upper left: orange, Persian Lime, Kalamandi, calamansi.)
February 26, 2021
IT’S THE FILIBUSTER, STUPID!
February 16, 2021
If You Like Shakespeare, You’ll Love This Story
Shakespeare was right about “neither a borrower nor a lender be.”
Her’s a short story with a story of its own.
Courtesy, National Gallery of Scotland Public Domain Courtesy, wallpaperit.com Every writer has a story about a work they love, but no one else does. Sometimes the piece can be reworked, and find some love; more often, it ends up stuffed in a drawer, or hibernating in cyberspace. The story posted here is one I haven’t been able to let go, because I steadfastly refuse to accept it is a bad story..
This piece saw the first light of day almost six years ago, as my attempt at a John Cheever or John Updike story, maybe a dash of Louis Auchincloss (though my characters exists a few levels below his New York aristocrats.) I originally titled it “A Borrower Be”, since the protagonist was a chronic borrower and freeloader whose persona hints at something not right.
The story is conspicuously different from my other work in several ways. It is rare that I use an affluent suburb as a setting. I lived in Marin County, California, more than thirty years, and have many friends in the affluent suburbs of New York City and elsewhere. Except for one unfinished story I began when I restarted my writing eight years ago, none of my fiction is set in a suburb. I never found the people or the cultures to be interesting, and decided the milieu was best left to the established masters cited above. Of course, I now understand that a good writer can create a compelling story in any setting, suburbs included, as they did.
My writing group at the time, in Bangkok, panned the story, advising me to stick with what I did best – whatever that was- and insisted it be placed in the author’s equivalent of the medical DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) category.
I couldn’t follow their advice, even after it was submitted to three magazines, all sending rejection notices the same week. (One reason this didn’t stop me: my sci-fi short story, SURVIVORS , was rejected by a dozen magazines over two years; it has become one of the most popular posts on my blog, and I’ve gotten several compliments, and no negative feedback. ( Click on the link to decide for yourself.) There are a lot of readers out there, and if the work is any good, some will like it.
This story diverges from my other writing in one very consequential way: there are no minorities, no people of color, not one of the Jewish-Americans whom populate so much of my fiction. (Even SURVIVORS, set in a remote Southwestern town after an apocalypse, has a character identified as Jewish by name; of course, he’s the last criminal defense lawyer.) Every single character in “Shakespeare” is presumed to be a WASP. This was neither contrived nor negligent; it was portraying the characters as I perceived them, or more accurately, as I imagined them. There is no intended political or social comment, just a story based on how one writer imagines the characters he created, living in the community he created for them. There is no mention of politics, race, history, or any of the topics I favor in my fiction.
I did draw upon one part of my real life in crafting this story. I practiced criminal law for many decades, and the young federal prosecutor is an amalgam of many I met during my career. So does Harry, the nemesis of the others characters, but I don’t want to give anything away, so that’s all I’ll say.
I like the characters I created, and was not willing to let them suffer the death of the unread and unnoticed creations.
The story was originally titled “A Borrower Be”. In view of its new lease of life, I’ve retitled it “Shakespeare Was Right (Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be)”. There have been a few minor tweaks and editing over the years, so I feel entitled to claim the current year as my copyright date.
Enough banter. Here’s the story. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to share your thoughts.
The following is work of imaginative fiction, and all characters and events are such creations. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
SHAKESPEARE WAS RIGHT (NEITHER A BORROWER NOT A LENDER BE)
( c ) Stephen Shaiken, 2021
Kreston was balancing his checkbook when he heard the knock. He rose from his desk chair, shambled across the living room, and opened the front door.
He stared into the face of Harry Harper. Harry moved to the neighborhood four years ago, five years after the Krestons. Kreston’s relationship with Harry was more as acquaintance than friend. He knew little about Harry, not for certain what he did for a living. Whenever the subject was broached, Harry explained that he “did a little of this, a little of that,” or, in more expansive moods, “Consultant, business strategies.” Kreston never saw Harry on the commuter train, which he did not resent this, and in fact admired Harry for it.
A smile stretched across Harry’s broad face. His dark eyes shined.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “The wife and I were planning a barbecue, and wondering if we could borrow your grilling tools.
“Of course we’ll have them back Sunday morning,” he added.
Kreston nodded.
“Come on in. I’ll get them from the yard,” he said, grateful for the diversion from the bills, which always exceeded his earnings, a fact of which his wife repeatedly reminded him.
“If you would just get that MBA you would make more money,” she hectored him weekly. “You can do it on line now.”
“I have no interest in an MBA,” was his standard reply. “Instead of adjusting income to suit lifestyle, maybe we can adjust lifestyle to income.”
“Just do it for me,” she would implore.
“I will think about it,” was his only promise.
Harper remained in the living room as Kreston opened the sliding door to the backyard. A minute later he returned with the barbecue implements in a black oilskin bag, which he handed to Harper.
“Thanks a ton,” Harper said as he grabbed the bag.
“By the way,” he added, gazing at a coffee table in front of Kreston’s couch, “I see you have the new Greg Sloat novel. Mind if I borrow it for a few days? He’s always a quick read.”
“I just got it and haven’t opened it yet,” Kreston replied.
“I’ll have it back by Sunday, Scout’s honor,” Harper said with a smile and a wave of his hand.
“Well, I guess so,” Kreston answered. “But make sure it’s back by Sunday.”
“You got it,” Harper said as he reached for the book.
“By the way,” Harper called out as he headed for the front door, “Looks like I’m going to need that bicycle pump again, the one I borrowed from you last month.
“I like to ride with my daughter Saturday mornings and the tires are kind of low. I’ll get it back with these babies,” he explained, shaking the black bag as he started towards the door.
Kreston returned to his desk and checkbook. Harry stopped a few feet from the door.
“Would it be too much trouble to get me that pump before I leave?”
Kreston left the desk, went into the garage and returned, bicycle pump in hand.
“I must have it back by Wednesday,” he said. ” I ride every Thursday morning before work. And I check the air the night before.”
“Wednesday’s a world away,” Harry declared as he reached for the pump.
Kreston saw Harry to the door and opened it for Harry. He watched him walk down the street, barbecue tools in one hand, bicycle pump in the other. He never saw where Harry put the book.
I forgot to ask him about the martini pitcher he borrowed last month, he thought as he returned to his accounting.
#
Kreston sorted his golf clubs in preparation for his regular Sunday game. Billy Waldup always joined him, often with one or two others. The morning talk shows blared in the background. He heard his wife’s voice struggling to be heard over the talking heads.
“Honey, I invited the Gordons over for dinner this Saturday, and I’ll need our cut crystal salad bowl. Glenda Harper borrowed it last month and hasn’t returned it. Could you pick it up later today?”
Kreston pictured Glenda Harper, an overweight woman with doughy upper arms and a deeply lined face that made her look years older than her age, which Kreston estimated to be early forties. He recalled that Harry once mentioned in passing that, “It is tough being married to a trust fund princess.”
She doesn’t look like a trust fund princess, Kreston thought, recalling the permanent frown on her well-weathered visage. She paid little attention to her physical appearance or her clothing. She was the polar opposite of Harry, with his well cut hair, gleaming white teeth and athletic build. Harry’s clothing always looked expensive and fit him perfectly. Glenda bespoke thrift shops and discount outlets.
“I’ll do it now,” Kreston called back to his wife, shouting to be heard over the talk show. “Harry’s got that new five iron you got me for my birthday.”
It was a warm April morning. Flowers and trees bloomed among the carefully manicured front yards along the pleasant street where he had lived these past nine years. The homes were all two stories, white or gray, with slate roofs and a mailbox where the front walkway met the curb. All had wide garages, and many sported basketball hoops above the garage door.
The Harper home lay across the street, two dozen houses to the left of Kreston’s. As Kreston walked, he heard the familiar sounds of doors opening and closing, dogs barking, voices calling softly, and the hum of German automobile engines. When he reached Harry’s house he rang the door bell. There was no answer. He tried again, with the same result.
Kreston dialed Harry on his cell phone. After three rings, Harry picked up. Kreston dispensed with formalities.
“Say, Harry, I was hoping you would be around real soon so I can pick up that five iron I loaned you a few weeks ago. Got a round scheduled over at the course in a little over an hour.”
“Sorry, but we won’t be back for a few hours,” Harry replied cheerily. “Just about to start our ride. Have to squeeze it in before dinner. But I’ll swing by with the club soon as I get back.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without it this one time,” Harry added.
Kreston was about to ask about the salad bowl and the pitcher when the call ended.
Kreston went home, grabbed his golf bag, and set off for the links. He had a bad day, misdirecting nearly every long drive.
“You’re way off your game today, ” Billy Waldrup remarked as they loaded their bags into the cart after the eighteenth hole. “Where’s that five iron that was supposed to make a new man out of you?”
“It”s with Harry Harper,” Kreston replied, the words dripping from his mouth.
“He’s returning it later today,” he added. “He promised me.”
“Well, tell him to bring along my best putter,” Billy said. Kreston caught a slight scowl on his friend’s face. ”I had to borrow one from the clubhouse, and it doesn’t feel right. He’s had it for three weeks, for God’s sake.”
Billy was a mild mannered bond trader by week, and a strong and confident golfer on Sunday. They met riding to work on the 7:32, and when Billy learned that Kreston had played on his high school and college teams, he insisted they meet on the town links. That was over eight years ago, and they played every Sunday morning unless one of them was out of town. Kreston was grateful for the municipally owned links, as it would have been a struggle for him to pay dues for the private course.
“I’ll remind him,” Kreston assured his friend.
“Remind him to bring along my martini shaker,” Billy said. “My brother and his wife are coming over for drinks before we take in the theater next Saturday, and you know Bud’s a fanatic about his martini. As bad as you,” he added with a chuckle.”
“Will do,” Kreston assured him.
My pitcher and Billy’s shaker, he thought. Maybe we all ought to go to Harry’s for martinis.
#
His wife was in a foul mood when Kreston walked through the door. She was often in a foul mood, rarely in a good one these days.
“Your friend Harry dropped by an hour ago,” she said as he lugged his golf bag into the garage.
“He left your club, the one I got you for your birthday, but no salad bowl.”
“I take it no pitcher either,” Kreston replied.
“Call him. I need that bowl.”
“I’ll have to speak with him,” Harry advised her. “I have a ride scheduled with Billy Waldup and Fred Grant early Thursday morning. I have to get the bike in shape the night before. And I really need that nine iron for next week.
“I’ll go over right now and get everything back,” he called out as he headed towards the front door.
“Salad bowl,” his wife reminded him.
#
Harry answered the door, a martini glass in hand.
“Come on in,” he said loudly. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Kreston followed him into the living room. His half-filled martini pitcher sat on the coffee table.
“Sure, I could use a drink after the game I had today,” he replied.
Harry filled a martini glass and handed it to Kreston. Billy’s shaker sat on the bar that divided the living room from the kitchen.
“Wife sent me over for the salad bowl,” Kreston said has he settled onto the couch.”He sipped his drink.
“As long as I’m here, might as well grab my pump as well.”
“Maybe the pitcher too,” he added.
Harry stared at him.
“I still have a few drinks left,” he declared as if addressing a subordinate. You surely wouldn’t want to deprive a man of his Sunday afternoon cocktails now, would you?”
“No, I guess not,” Kreston replied sheepishly.
“That’s my boy!” Harry cried out as he went into the kitchen, returning with the salad bowl, which he placed on the coffee table.
“Do you think I could have my pump back as well,” Kreston asked softly.
“Love to, but afraid not today. Sprung a flat on the ride earlier, have to patch the tire and fill it with air. Won’t be able to do it all until tomorrow or Tuesday,” he explained.
“Well, then, why don’t I just expect you to come by Wednesday in the early evening, and you can include the pitcher and my book? ” Kreston asked, each word dripping onto the next.
“Absolutely!” Harry exclaimed.
Kreston drained the last of his martini, placed the glass on the table, and stood up. He picked up the salad bowl and nestled it in the crook of his elbow, gripping the rim tightly with his fingers.
“Well, I’ve got to be going now. See you Wednesday.”
From corner of his eye he saw Harry pour himself another drink as he shook his head and smiled. He forgot to ask about Billy’s martini shaker.
#
Kreston found Mondays the most depressing day, a full week of work ahead. At five p.m. sharp he grabbed his coat, bolted for the door, and power-walked to the train station.
An hour later the train pulled onto his home station. Kreston spotted his neighbor, Fred Martin, a producer at a radio station, and they walked together to the nearby lot where they parked their “station cars,” used only to drive to the train. Kreston spotted Billy Waldrup and his tax attorney friend Tony Fletcher a few paces ahead, with third man he did not recognize. The stranger was in his early thirties, a good decade younger than Kreston and his friends.
Fred saw Kreston and Fred as they approached.
“Say fellows,” he called out, “We’re about to stop by Kensington’s for a quick pop before dinner. Care to join us?”
Fred said ‘yes’ before Kreston could open his mouth. He thought it a fine idea in any event. A good martini would be a fitting end to a boring workday.
“By the way,” Fred said as he turned to the strange man, “This is Hank Davis. He just moved into town. Bought a place a stone’s throw from you,” he said to Kreston.
“He’s the number two guy in the U.S. Attorney’s office. So keep mum about your insider trading deals.” Davis smiled sheepishly.
Wonder how he can afford a house up here on a government salary, Kreston thought as Hank Davis extended his hand. Probably married well or inherited.
Minutes later the five men were seated around a table. Kensington’s was filled with returning commuters, an equal number of men and women, many sitting in mixed groups. Kreston wondered why his was always men only. It wasn’t as if they disliked women. Kreston knew he certainly liked them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Kreston turned around and faced Grace Maxwell. Her blonde hair was shoulder length, longer than when he had last seen her. Her ice blue eyes focused on Kreston. Her dress hugged her body perfectly. She looked remarkably similar to Kreston’s wife.
“Good to see you,” she said. “Glad to know you’re still alive.”
“Barely,” Kreston croaked, shifting his eyes to the floor.
“Nice to know that,” she replied, and walked away.
The other men were engrossed in conversation and ignored the encounter.
Kreston realized that Tony Fletcher was speaking to him, his voice filtering through the mist that had descended on Kreston’s mind when he saw Grace.
“Hank’s a golfer like you and Billy,” Tony said. “Won a few trophies in college in fact. Don’t be modest” he said to Hank as the younger man blushed.
“My dad brought me into the game when I was in high school,” Hank explained. “I’ve been nuts about it ever since. Lucky to have found a wife who doesn’t mind the competition,” added with a smile.
“Better than a mistress,” Fred Grant said, as Kreston squirmed in his seat.
Ignoring Fred’s remark, Kreston turned to Hank.
“Why don’t you join us this Sunday over at the Town course,” he asked? “We have a regular time slot reserved and there is always room for one more. It’s usually just Billy and me, sometimes a third or even a fourth. Love to have a real golfer with us. Only makes us better.”
“I would really like that,” Hank said as he beamed a wide smile. Then he paused as his smile contracted.
“I just need to make sure I have my favorite wedge back in time. I never set foot on the course without it. My father had it specially made for me just before he died five years ago. I usually guard it like the Crown Jewels.
“What happened to it?” Fred asked.
“I met a fellow at the gym last week and we got to talking, and of course the subject turned to golf,” Hank replied. “Anyway, he wound up dropping by my new house and borrowing the club. I haven’t been able to reach him to get it back.”
A silence settled over the group. Tony Fletcher’s voice broke the quiet.
“And who might this fellow be? he asked.
“Fellow named Harry Harper,” Hank replied. “Lives not too far from me.”
“Seemed like a nice enough guy,” he added, but the way he emphasized the word ‘seemed’ revealed doubt
“You loaned your special club to a total stranger?” Billy Waldrup gasped.
“At least this is one time the government is not giving away someone else’s stuff,” Fred interjected.
“He had this way about him,” Hank said softly. “I didn’t want to, but he made me feel like I couldn’t say no. Like I would be a jerk if I refused.
“I’m new to the area. I just wanted to be like everyone else, I guess.”
“Oh, you are,” Kreston assured him as he motioned the waiter for a refill. The others raised their glasses to signal they too were ready for another.
The five men made the smallest of talk as they nursed their second round. By unwritten agreement, talk of work was off limits. This was fine with Kreston, who had no interest in discussing his job. Once the men had exhausted all that could be said about sports, children, home prices and train delays, it was time for the last slug of alcohol and a retreat from Kennington’s.
Fred and Kreston walked to the parking lot side by side.
“Hope you’re not angry with me,” Fred said softly.
“It’s okay,” Kreston replied. “But be a little more considerate from now on,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Scout’s honor,” Fred responded, with more exuberance than Kreston found suitable.
“Sounds like all of us have a similar problem with Harry Harper,” Fred remarked as they approached Kreston’s station car, a ten year old Ford Taurus. “Even young Hank is already on the list.”
“What do you mean, on the list?” Kreston asked.
“Just an expression,” Fred explained.
“It’s the price of friendship,” Kreston said, his voice trailing off at the end of his sentence.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Fred countered.
Kreston placed his hands in his pockets and gazed downward for a moment. He nodded slightly, raised his head to look at Fred, and continued.
“I hardly know anything about the guy, except that he borrows everything and anything. Other than that he’s a mystery. I don’t even know when and where he uses these clubs he borrows.”
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Fred said with a slight chuckle. “We should have paid more attention to Shakespeare in college. Have a nice evening.”
#
Kreston trudged his way through Tuesday, and endured Wednesday. He felt a mild sense of relief when the clock read five. He read a newspaper for part of the trip home, wishing he had his Greg Sloat novel.
I hope Harry came by with that pump, Kreston thought as he reached his station.
#
After dinner, Kreston and his wife sat down to watch a reality show to which they were addicted. He sat on the couch, she on the love seat, and few words passed between them. Kreston broke the silence during a commercial.
“I’m expecting Harry Harper to drop by with my bicycle pump. And our martini pitcher.”
“What about the Greg Sloat novel you told me you loaned him,” his wife asked sharply. “I’m dying to read it. You told me he would have it back today.”
“I’m sure he will,” Kreston replied, his voice tailing off.
“He better,” his wife snapped. “I’m sick and tired of being inconvenienced by the Harpers. Especially that wretched wife, who calls me only when she needs something. You would think drugstores won’t sell her aspirins, or she can’t figure out where to buy cooking Sherry. And I hear from Cassie Grant that she inherited some sort of a trust fund. I was hoping you would give them a piece of your mind and put an end to this borrowing business.”
“Oh, I will,” Kreston replied, waving his hand as the show resumed
Harper had not arrived when the episode ended at nine.
Kreston went to the phone at his desk and dialed Harry’s home number. There was no answer, and when it went to voice mail, he hung up and dialed Harry’s cell phone. There was no answer there either.
Where could they have gone on a school night? he thought.
“I’m hopping over to Harry’s” he called out to his wife as he grabbed a windbreaker and headed out into the brisk evening.
There were no people on the street. Most homes were dark or dimly lit, the glare of television sets visible through living room windows. A crescent moon cast a soft glow.
Harry’s house was completely dark. No porch light, no lights along the footpath, no motion detectors.
Kreston rang the doorbell. There was no response. He lifted the door knocker and let it drop several times with no result. He listened in vain for the sound of footsteps coming to the door.
Kreston was about to surrender and leave, when a voice called out through the darkness. He recognized it as Kenny Daliwell, Harper’s neighbor. Daliwell was a retired high school football coach who had lived in town long before home prices rose beyond the means of a high school teacher. One way or another, the old man met every one in town. Kreston detected the odor of cheap pipe tobacco in the air, and recalled that the older man usually held a briar clenched between his teeth. Kreston occasionally encountered Daliwell around town a few times over the years, and when they noticed each other at the station or the shopping mall, they would exchange pleasantries, or if at a distance, a nod or wave.
“If you’re looking for your friend Harry, forget it,” Daliwell snapped. “He’s gone with the wind, and took my antique pocket watch with him,” he added. The way he spit out the last few words told Kreston the older man wanted to appear nonchalant despite his anger.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Kreston asked. “And what is he doing with your pocket watch?”
“Borrowed it a few days ago. Said he needed it for a presentation he was making to his kid’s class. Loaned it to him like the dumb sucker I am. Thing’s been in the family over a hundred twenty years. Worth a pretty penny, I might add.”
Daliwell moved closer to Kreston. By the soft light of the crescent moon, Kreston saw the pained look on the old man’s face.
“But where did he go?” Kreston asked.
“He’s not anyone, you can bet your bottom dollar on that,” Daliwell replied, the old coach telling his player an unpleasant truth.
Kreston leaned against one of the porch columns.
“You mean a guy and his family just walked away from their house, their furniture, everything they own? With no warning? No goodbyes?
Daliwell took his pipe in his left hand, and a small spurt of smoke streamed from the corner of his mouth.
“Their house? Their furniture? Heck, that all belongs to someone else. Harper was just a glorified house sitter. Place belongs to Tommy Cranwell. You don’t know him, he grew up in the house and moved away before you ever got here. His parents are both gone, and he went off to teach college in Asia. He had some problems with tenants a few years back, and somehow this Harper fellow signed on for a short stint as the house sitter. Lived rent free and Cranwell even paid the utilities. Four years later and he was still there.
“Don’t ask me how,” he chuckled as he placed the stem of his pipe back between his teeth. “I guess Cranwell is still in Asia. Haven’t heard from him in years.” Kreston detected the soft sound of smoke being sucked from the pipe’s bowl to Daliwell’s mouth.
“Figure Harper had to leave in a hurry,” the older man added, speaking with his pipe clamped in place. “Seems like he had an unpleasant visit from a few fellows yesterday. Investigators of some kind. Heard a bit of it while smoking my pipe outside. Something about Harry claiming to be Tommy Cranwell and borrowing against the house. He told them it’s all part of his arrangement. They told Kreston that Tommy hasn’t been heard from in years, so how could he take a mortgage? Harry tells them he’s done talking and his lawyer will call them. They left and Harry went back inside. That was the last I saw or heard of Harry Harper, until real early this morning when I heard a car door slam, looked out my window, and saw the Harpers driving off.”
Kreston moved away from the column on which he had been leaning. He shook his head.
“I had no idea Harry didn’t own the house. I just assumed he did,” he told Daliwell. “This news is quite a shock.”
“Not the first time our friend’s been using what belongs to someone else,” Daliwell replied. “Month ago the cops were by to talk to him. He wouldn’t let them in so they spoke outside and I was again enjoying my pipe out of their sight. Heard every word. Seems like that fancy BMW Harry drives is registered to someone else and they couldn’t find that guy. Came up when Harry got pulled over for a speeder. He’s been paying for insurance in the owner’s name. Really fishy if you ask me.”
“He’s got a bunch of my stuff somewhere in there,” Harry said after absorbing the shocking news. “Is there any way you could put me in touch with this Tommy Cranwell? Maybe an e mail address? I hope he would let me in to get back what belongs to me.”
“Like I said, haven’t heard from him in years. But when Tommy took off for Asia, he left me a key. I’ve never had to use it before. I’ll go in with you. Maybe we’ll find my watch.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kreston replied, thinking about the bike ride coming up in slightly more than eight hours.
“Wait right here,” Daliwell commanded as he disappeared into the dark, the scent of his pipe tobacco lingering in the cool evening air. Kreston leaned against the front wall of the house for the few minutes it took Daliwell to return with a key attached to a long stick. The older man pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and flicking it on, found the keyhole, and opened the front door. He led the way in, Kreston a step behind.
Daliwell felt for the light switch to the side of the door inside the house, and the two men were able to see. Kreston’s martini pitcher sat on the coffee table, just where it was when Kreston had come by the other day.
“This is mine,” he explained to Daliwell as he scooped it up.
The coach said nothing.
“Mind if I look around for my bicycle pump and my book?” He asked politely.
“Fine by me,” Daliwell replied as he reached into his pocket for a lighter. He flicked it on and sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe.
“If by any chance you see a pocket watch, bring it to me,” he added.
Kreston found his way to the garage and located the light switch. There were several open suitcases strewn about, some half full, some empty.
They really left in a hurry, he thought.
He spotted his pump in the center of the garage, and picked it up.
“All I need now is my book and we can be out of here,” he told Daliwell as he reentered the living room. The older man was sitting on a couch smoking.
“Take your time,” he replied, pipe in his hand. “Wife hates when I smoke in the house, which is how I came to be out in the dark and found you.”
Kreston searched methodically, scouring the tops of the dining table, the bar that separated living room from dining room, and a bookshelf in the living room. He did not find his novel.
He spied a cluttered desk in an alcove to the side of the living room. He walked over and turned on the desk’s reading lamp.
There was no novel there.
As he was about to turn off the reading lamp, Kreston saw a spiral notebook with a yellow cover. Written across the front in a black felt tipped marker were the words “People and Things”. Curious, Kreston picked it up and flipped to the first page.
The page was divided into two columns. The left side contained the names of people and the right side listed belongings.
Kreston recognized some but not all of the names. He spotted the name “Billy Waldrup” and to its right in the ‘things’ column was written “Putter. Martini shaker. Chain saw. Large pruning shears. Underwater camera.”
Kreston turned to the next page. He spotter Tony Fletcher’s name. Next to it was inscribed “Pick up truck. Boom box. Silver polish. Chinese cookbooks. Trail guides. Metric wrenches.”
Shaking his head, Kreston scanned the next two pages until he found his own name, and beside it, written “Bicycle pump. Martini pitcher. Salad bowl. Squeezed in by pencil were the words “Five iron.”
It went on for several more pages with some names he recognized and others he did not. The very last entry was for Hank Snow, and it listed several golf clubs and goose down sleeping bags.
Kreston pulled the notebook close to his body and closed his eyes. Then he walked back to Daliwell.
“Couldn’t find the novel he borrowed, or the pitcher or Billy’s martini shaker” he said. “Just the pump.” He said nothing about the spiral notebook.
“And sorry, no pocket watch.”
“All’s well that ends well, at least for you,” the old man countered. “Time for me to hit the hay. I can look some other time.” They walked out the front door, which Daliwell locked. Once outside he tapped the bowl of his pipe agains the ledge of the porch. Satisfied that it was clean, he walked down the steps and Kreston followed.
“Thanks for your help,” Kreston said as he turned to walk home.
“No problem,” Daliwell said. “Feel free to come back any time to chat,” he added. “I’m out about this time every night enjoying a good night smoke.”
“Oh, you’ll see me again,” Kreston promised, thinking that would probably not be very often.
#
Three months later Kreston spotted the article in the local paper as he was sipping his early morning coffee before driving off to the station in time for the 7:32. Tony would be eager to chat during the ride. Billy would read the Wall Street Journal as usual. Hank Davis had become a regular on the train.
The words in the newspaper article practically assaulted Kreston.
FORMER RESIDENT CHARGED WITH FRAUD
A former Town resident has been arrested on federal charges alleging fraud, theft, forgery and perjury.
Harry Harper, 47, lived in the area for four years. He and his family dropped from sight in April of this year, without notice. When Harper was arrested, they were using assumed names.
Count One of the indictment alleges Harper stole a new BMW from a dealer by taking it for a test drive and never returning it. The indictment alleges that he provided false identification and documents to the dealer and the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Harper is also alleged to have misrepresented himself as the owner of a residence, and attempted to secure a mortgage against the property. He is charged with identify theft, mortgage fraud, and perjury.
Also charged are thirty counts of larceny by taking property under false pretenses. Police searched Harper’s last known residence in Town, and recovered numerous stolen items, including a valuable custom-made golf club belonging to a senior federal prosecutor. Receipts recovered during a search of his home showed sales by Harper of other expensive golf clubs, cut-crystal glassware, and an antique pocket watch.
Harper, currently detained on $500,000 bail, claimed indigence, and his case was assigned to the Federal Public Defender.
Kreston nearly spit out his coffee as he read the article. He read it again, then hurriedly dressed to meet Tony at the station.
#
Two weeks later Kreston saw another article in the newspaper. Police attempted to contact Tommy Cranwell. After all trails proved cold, they searched the house again, hoping to find clues. Bloodhounds detected human remains buried behind the garage. The remains were tested and the Medical Examiner determined they were Tommy Cranwell. Harry passed the day in an uneasy and unpleasant trancelike state. He left work early.
#
Four months later, Kreston was walking about the neighborhood in the chill of a mid- December evening. He found himself walking outside to clear his mind with fresh air with increasing regularity.
He had walked a few hundred meters past darkened houses when he smelled the tobacco.
“Hello, Coach,” he called out as Daliwell emerged from the darkness of his lawn. “How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine, fellow. Good to see you again.”
“Getting some new neighbors real soon,” the old man announced. “With Harry pleading guilty and being sentenced, Tommy Cranwell’s estate was able to list it. Sold in a day.”
Kreston nodded. A few weeks ago Billy Waldrup had called and mentioned another article in the paper. Harry had plead guilty in federal court to mortgage fraud and perjury. He was sentenced to six years but no charges were brought against Glenda. State prosecutors offered a plea to manslaughter and a twelve year sentence to run concurrently with the federal sentence. Due to the differences between between state and federal law, Harry would be out when he finished his federal time.
“Could have gotten life, you know,” Billy had said, and Kreston suspected was Billy was unhappy he did not.” Would have been hard to prove who killed Tommy and why.”
“Your young friend Mr. Davis will also be leaving us, I hear,” Daliwell said.
“Yes, poor Hank skated on the bar inquiry and on the Inspector General’s review over at Justice.” Kreston’s voice was downbeat. He liked Hank. So did Kreston.
“But it was unthinkable that they would allow him to stay on as Number Two in the federal prosecutors office, when he had been fleeced by a guy they just sent away,” Kreston said wistfully. “A murderer to boot. Hank had to resign. No nibbles yet from the private bar.”
“I figure right now Hank Davis is not the name big time law firms want to be associated with,” Daliwell said.
“I guess not,” Kreston replied. He bid the old coach good night.
#
“You could have been killed too,” Kreston’s wife said one night. “He might have thought you were pushing too hard, and was afraid you would find out what he really was.
“I’m glad they caught him before anything like that could happen,” she added, and hugged Kreston. He was surprised but pleased. He had committed himself to repairing their relationship.
“Any progress on the MBA?” she asked.
“I’ll get to it,” he promised.
THE END
January 14, 2021
MY VACCINATION DAY
January 11, 2021
January 3, 2021
2021 To Be A Big Year For My Writing
My cat, Curious, who keeps me company as I struggle to create. A welcome goodbye to 2020.
We have just bid farewell to the worst year America has endured over my lifetime, and I was born during the second Truman Administration.
2020 ended with numerous new historical records we’d hope to never see: a raging, worst-ever, out of control pandemic, a brutally blundered and mismanaged vaccine rollout, greatest number of jobs lost, greatest number of food deficient people since the Great Depression, more Americans facing eviction or foreclosure than ever before; hospitals overwhelmed everywhere, resorting to triage. Did I mention the Russians are wandering about our cyber-secrets as if they owned the place. (With Donald J. Trump in the White House, they sort of do-but for only sixteen days more.)
It is no surprise the American people elected a new President; what is unfathomable is the number of Americans who refuse to accept this, and spout delusional conspiracy talk that Trump’s landslide victory was denied him by Venezuelans, some deceased, and conservative Republican officials.
Amidst the death, illness, and suffering, there wasn’t a great deal to applaud in 2020. Knowing there are vaccines, and that a rational government is being empowered in two weeks, was certainly a more uplifting end to a dismal year. Tampa Bay sports fans have been thrilled with the Bolts winning the Stanley Cup, the Rays making into the Series, and the Bucs…well, they have Tom Brady, what more need be said?
Since the pandemic gave us its first slap in the face back in March, yours truly has been pretty much isolated. I’ve kept in touch by Skype, Zoom, and Whats App, and used some of the free time to improve guitar (no place to go but up.)
I also spent more time on my writing. Bangkok Whispers, the second novel in the NJA Club series, was released in late August, and since then, the first book, Bangkok Shadows, has dramatically improved in sales and KU readers. What I care most about is having readers, and hearing from them in some form. I’ve given away thousands of free downloads of both books, and it’s worked well, each promoting a sale of the other. There has been a big jump in reviews and ratings on Amazon and Goodreads, overwhelmingly favorable, very few unhappy. Readers enjoy following the adventures of American expat lawyer Glenn Murray Cohen, and his mysterious friends from Bangkok’s strange NJA Club. That’s good, because I assure, you, some time this year, the third NJA novel will be released. Glenn, The General, Sleepy Joe, and Oliver will face new and equally dangerous challenges, in what the author describes as “exotic noir thrillers”.
Over the last few months of 2020, post release of Bangkok Whispers, I began working on a very different kind of novel, set in New York City in the late sixties and early seventies. I’m not giving away much more right now, other than to say it is best described as “literary” or “historical” fiction. (The latter genre was discussed in WHAT MAKES WRITING “HISTORICAL FICTION” ? ) This untitled and unfinished novel will be released sometime this year, after the third NJA book. It will be interesting to see if readers of the Bangkok series are drawn to this new and different novel, and if readers of the new book are drawn to the NJA series. Quite likely both, because while the settings and genres may be different, the author’s voice remains the same.
Looking at 2021.
A goodly chunk of 2021 has been discussed above: the release of a third NJA novel sometime this year, to be following several months later with the release of the work-in-progress. I will be doing a lot more as well.
It is my intention to engage more with readers. This blog is one avenue, and there will be more posts, both literary and political subjects, plus travel, once we are able to do so again. There is also a plan to expand my email list, sent a few times a year when there is a new work or other news to report.
2021 will be devoted to novel writing, rather than short stories. Until I wrote Bangkok Shadows, short stories were all I’d written; one or two half-hearted attempts at novels went nowhere. Less time than before will be spent on short stories. Novel writing requires an intense concentration, especially where there is some research required. Getting short stories published requires a considerable investment of time: researching the right publications, sending them off; sometime the magazines will allow simultaneous submissions, but others want the exclusive option, which prevents others from looking at it while they take their time. They won’t even let you post your story on your own website until they say you can! The author is likely to submit to several places, and wait months for a reply, then, if accepted, months to see it published. After all of this, unless the magazine is a well-known and well-read publication, total readership of the piece never exceeds a few score, if that many. More people read my stories on this blog, and they are always available. I have a healthy backlog of stories, most ready to be published, or close to it. I will periodically put one up on this blog, secure in the knowledge that shortly after pressing the send button, people will be reading it. However, I am eternally grateful to small publications that first published my post- retirement work, and send them stories to consider, because I like them and respect their mission of publishing unknown as well as recognized writers.
It would be most pleasing if these efforts yield more interaction with readers, which includes anyone reading this post! There’s a comment space at the end of this post, in addition to posting on Amazon or Goodreads.
Please scroll to the bottom right of this page. At the very bottom, you will see white boxes where you sign up for the newsletter. Above that is a separate box to enter your email to subscribe and receive new posts on this blog.
Make 2021 the year you share your thoughts with this author.
There is nothing an author wants more than to hear from their readers. It’s the only way to really know how their work is received. Sales might be a result of a good book cover, good will from prior books, effective promotion. Who knows how many actually read it cover-to-cover? Readers telling you what they liked or didn’t like, what they’ like to see more of, or just to weigh in on literary, political, or travel thought expressed by me-that is what any author hopes to experience. After all, we write for our readers, and would love to know what they thought. It can be a comment on this blog, or a rating or review on Amazon or Goodreads, whatever works. I just want to har what you thought of my work or my posts.
Wishing all a safe, healthy, and prosperous 2021!
In 2021, let’s beat the pandemic once and for all, and restore the economy and sanity in America and elsewhere.
It’s no secret that I’m a progressive Democrat who believes Donald Trump belongs out of the White House and into the Big House. Whatever one’s political beliefs, we must all strive towards this goal of beating the pandemic. In a matter of two weeks, the lies end, the anti-science drivel will be replaced by Dr. Fauci as Chief Medical Adviser, and the hard-hearted willingness to let people die for the Dow or Trump’s reelection gone back to the sewers from whence they sprung. Since the pandemic emerged, I’ve been regularly tweeting the hashtags #TrustScience, #FollowThe Fauci, #VoteBlue4Ever.
I see little reason to discontinue those hashtags.
Things we all look forward to this new year when we beat COVID:
Hugging loved ones. Dining out. Traveling the nation and the world. Attending concerts, sporting events, going to clubs and coffeehouses to hear live music in small venues. Museums. Going door-to-door and setting up tables to advance my politics. Attending religious and cultural events.
Going to the gym and yoga classes. Playing music with others. In person writing groups.
Putting my masks in the souvenir section of my closet.
