Timothy C. Hobbs's Blog, page 6

Chapter 6 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and the accident turned into a job opportunity to drive for their service. After signing an employment contract he has second thoughts about working for his new boss, Margery. Only she has a bizarre control over his body and a mean disposition to hurt him to get him to do what she wants. He will have to work for her or suffer the consequences.

The training CD ends just as I pass the Downtown Colorado Springs exit, where I usually get off the highway to head toward my mom’s house. Most of the lesson nearly put me to sleep, going on and on about traffic safety, company policies and legal crap I don’t even remember. I suppose they have to cover their ass, in case a driver does something stupid. Toward the end of the CD the narrator warned about ‘potential dangers,’ in particular, large white birds that attack the vans. At first I figured it was some kind of a sick joke. Why would any animal with half a brain fly at a speeding van on purpose? Then I think of Margery and the burns that disappeared on my chest. Anything seems possible anymore.

There’s an explosive pop. The van swerves amid speeding cars and blaring horns as I struggle to turn the wheel away from traffic. By the time the van comes to a halt in the median, I realize I’ve been holding my breath and gasp for air. I can’t seem to calm my nerves. My hand quivers as I remember to press the emergency button, assuming this qualifies as one of those emergencies Margery mentioned.



Two accidents in one week? Really? How much worse can my luck get? At least I didn’t cause a twelve car pileup.

Without delay, Margery’s voice pipes in through the stereo speaker system in the van. “About time you called me, honey. Tow truck’s on the way to change the tire.”

“How did you know?”

In place of an answer, there’s an audible click and Margery appears to have disconnected.

I lean against the head rest, figuring I have time to catch a catnap, but before I can even close my eyes, there’s a knock at the window. I jump and turn to meet double D cleavage heaving out of a white tank top. It’s a female mechanic and a damn tall one at that.

“Open the window,” she tells me.

I jiggle the electrical control, but the window doesn’t move.

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Start the van.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, I turn the key then lower the window.

“You must be new,” she says.

“Yeah, first day.” I catch myself staring down at her cleavage again, but rectify my rudeness by shifting back to her eyes. What is it with me an boobs today?

“Tires fixed. Get back on the road.”

“Already?”

She turns and leaves.

I watch her walk back to the tow truck through the side mirror. Not very friendly, but she’s got a nice ass.

* * *

Five exits later, my phone announces an incoming call from my mother. Because I didn’t call back last night, I figured she’d call every chance she gets until she talks to me. Might as well get it over with now, I think and answer, “Yeah, Mom.”

“Barry, my one and only love, where were you last night?”

As usual, her tones sweet with a hint of phony. “Busy,” I tell her.

“Sweetie, you know I worry.”

“I was home all night, Mom. Besides slipping in the shower while jacking off—”

“Barry. Eugene. Carter. White. Must you be so vulgar?”

I detest my full name and she knows it. So, as much as I want to retaliate by telling her that being vulgar is my master plan to get her to stop calling twenty times a day, I don’t. Instead, I grovel like I always do and tell her, “Sorry.”

She named me after the singer Barry White, because, as she continues to remind me, Can’t Get Enough of Your Love Baby was playing on the radio the night I was conceived out of wedlock. By naming me after the singer, she says it’s been a constant reminder of the evils of one-night stands, and, I’m guessing, a deterred from ever having sex again in her lifetime.

“Were you on your computer last night?” she asks.

I sigh. This is code for, ‘Son, were you hacking into websites?’

Fourteen years ago, when I was thirteen, she turned me in for hacking into an online store and charging five thousand dollars worth of computer equipment to unencrypted credit card accounts. It ended up costing her twelve thousand dollars in legal fees and fines in the end. So, as always, I ignore her question.

As always, she changes the subject. “Did you find a soft tester job yet?”

“Software tester, Mom, and no.”

My mom had insisted I attend Denver University, and considering the school’s high tuition, she seizes every opportunity to remind me I’m wasting her money by not working in my chosen career. She also figures I’m less likely to hack my way back into trouble if some company pays him to try to break their software.

“Did you get a haircut?” she asks next.

“Mom, I’m driving. I don’t have time for twenty questions.”

“When are you going to visit and pick up your suit?”

“I told you I don’t have to wear a suit to interviews.”

“But you do need a haircut. Come home this weekend? We’ll go to mass on Sunday, and I’ll buy you brunch and a haircut afterwards.”

“I can’t.”

“Barry,” she says sternly.

“I’ve got a work call coming in. I’ll call you later.” I hang up, throw my phone onto the passenger seat and cross my fingers she’ll leave me alone until I at least reach the warehouse in Trinidad.

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Chapter 5 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and the accident turned into a job opportunity to drive for their service. After signing an employment contract he has second thoughts about working for his new boss, Margery. Only he finds that she now has a bizarre influence over his body and he will have to show up for work or suffer the consequences.

By the time I jerk open the OTG office door, just like Margery promised, my gut is back to normal. I walk inside carrying Margery’s coffee.

“I said no announcements!” Margery’s voice rumbles like thunder over a throng of chattering men and women. “Get the fuck on the road!” There’s a momentary hush before everyone scurries off like Margery pressed the fast forward button on a remote control.

I pivot on one heel, watching all the unfamiliar robot-like faces around me pass from sight out the door until the room is empty except for me, Margery, and a fifty-something-year-old guy with a bad comb-over. The stranger rests one hand in the pocket of his kaki-outrigger jacket, the other hand holds a fat cigar stub, which emits an almost pleasant aroma of cedar.

“Well. What are you waiting for?” Margery says from where she stands, arms crossed, beside her table.

I point at my chest with eyebrows raised, wanting to know if she’s talking to me.

“This the new kid?” The old guy sizes me up while he combs greasy strips of black and gray hair over his clammy scalp with the hand holding the stogie. “How’s the diarrhea?”

I feel my face turn red, but I figure it’s better to keep my mouth shut, at least with Margery in the room.

“Lighten up, honey. You’re not the first driver to fake an illness to get out of working for old Margery,” she says. “Some of you idiots even try it a few times before you wise up.” Margery tilts her head back and barks out a cough while she laughs. Her mood then shifts in an instant and a wave of heat spreads across the room. “Why are you still here, Vern? Get the hell on the road.”

I back away, not wanting find out if she’s part dragon and thinking the woman gives new meaning to hot head.

“You,” Margery wiggles her long wrinkled fingers at me. “Bring me my coffee.”

I hold the cup out as far as I can, hoping to not only avoid third-degree burns but another nasty shock from her touch. She takes the cup and I snap my hand back.

“You learn quick.” She winks and gives me one of her now familiar crooked grins.

Waiting for her to make the next move, I’m all at once distracted by the picture of Trisha’s bouncing boobs in my head. It reminds me to tell Margery, “Some girl named Trisha says, ‘Hi.’”

Margery spits out her coffee with the force of a fire hose and the splatter lands on my face and shirt.

Vern freezes just short of the exit, his hand resting on the door handle.

“Damn,” I say and wipe my face on the shoulder of my t-shirt. My eyes are still on Margery while I wonder what I said wrong and worry that her angry stare might burn a hole through me, literally.

“What did you just say?” she demands.

“I met her in the coffee shop.” My voice rises in pitch like I’m fourteen again. “She said to tell you—”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why’d you ask?” I remind myself to think before I speak.

Margery rushes at me as if she’s floating on air. “You stay away from her. You hear me.” With each word, she pokes at my chest with unbelievable strength and speed, and her finger scorches holes in my t-shirt like she’s burning me with a cigarette. She doesn’t stop until I’ve lost my footing and crack my tail bone on the floor.

“I hear you. I hear your.” I lift my arm up to protect myself from any further abuse. My heart is racing and I’m a little surprised I didn’t piss my pants.

Margery shakes her head, kicks me hard in the leg, and sighs. “You’re pathetic. Get up.”

I turn to my side and struggle back up to my feet as fast as I can, the whole time bracing myself for the next beating. Only her mood swings to Glenda the Good Witch as she reaches up and wipes ashes off my chest.

Dang, the woman could use a little Prozac.

“Let’s get you on the road, honey.” She smiles like she’s happy. Margery leaves me standing in the middle of the room and steps toward a giant bulletin board that covers the entire wall to the left of the entryway. She unhooks one of the last three sets of keys and a clipboard and throws them at me.

I manage to catch the clip board, but have to lean over to pick up the keys. I grunt from the bruise she put on my leg, but bite my tongue, not wanting to show any sign of weakness.

“You’re only driving to Trinidad and back,” she says while handing me a pen. “And of course you’ll stop at the warehouse down there to drop off the cargo.” She taps her finger on the clipboard at the bottom of a column for signatures.

I sign my name so fast it’s nothing but scribble. When I try to give everything back to her, she walks away. I put the clipboard back on the wall myself and limp after her, only my leg doesn’t hurt anymore. Neither does my chest. I look through my t-shirt and see that my skin isn’t even red. Is anything real around here? Or is this the longest dream of my life.

We go outside and race through a cloud of Vern’s cigar smoke he obviously timed to exhale during our exit. I cough as I chase after Margery.

Margery growls and turns her head back to Vern “I’m not paying you overtime.”

When we reach one of the van, Margery opens the driver’s side door and waves for me to get in. “Go ahead and start it up,” she tells me.

I hop up behind the wheel. Hell yeah, I think as I breath in the aroma of new car smell. I turn the key and the motor purrs.

“Driver training’s on the CD in the player, honey, and the GPS will get you to the warehouse down in Trinidad. You’re a geekie guy. Figure it out.” Margery turns to leave but stops and holds up two fingers in a peace sign. “Sorry, honey. Almost forgot to mention the two rules. One, never go in the back of the van. Two, never hesitate to press the emergency button above the GPS if something goes wrong.”

“Like what?” I ask.

Margery takes off at a jog and hollers out, “You’ll know.”

Is she kidding? That’s my training?

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Chapter 4 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and when he called the courier service to let them know, it resulted in a job offer he accepted over the phone. He signs a contract to work for his new boss Margery, but doesn’t remember doing so. When Barry fails to show up for work the next morning, he finds Margery has the ability to manipulate his body and make him sick. When Margery convinces him to show up for his new job or face a worse fate, she also tells him to pick her up a cup of coffee on the way.

Sleigh bells hanging on the inside of the Coffee Hut’s door announce my entrance. The pungent aroma of dark roast is like a punch in the face. It turns my stomach just when I thought the gut wrenching, I’m now convinced Margery caused, had ended. I don’t know why anyone drinks this nasty stuff anyways. An energy drink is more my speed.

The place is deserted, except for the clerk behind the counter. The guy drops a rag onto the butcher-block counter then dries his hands on the dirty apron hanging below his Metallica t-shirt. Sporting a nose ring, earlobe plugs and arms covered in black and white tattoos, the guy looks like he headlines in his mother’s garage, playing guitar with his buddies.

The clerk leans over the counter and smirks. “Can I get you something?”

“Picking up for Margery?” My tone wavers, a little unsure I was in the right place.

The guy jerks, like a whip’s been cracked across his back. He skips to the end of the counter, grabs a tall capped-off cup and rushes back. “Five twenty-five.”

My eyes widen. “She expects me to pay?”

“Five twenty-five,” he repeats and rolls his eyes as he places the cup beside the cash register. “Trust me, you don’t want to show up without her coffee.”

The cost of the coffee is about all the money I have to my name. Bitch better pay me back. I sigh while reaching into my back pocket for my wallet.

The sleigh bells sound off, announcing a new customer. The coffee jerk’s eyes pop-out and the toothy grin on his face makes him look like a pervert.

I peer over my shoulder. Too gorgeous to notice a guy like me, is the first thing I notice about her. Messy though, dressed all in white with bare sculpted legs stretching out from under a wrinkled mini-skirt. Her blouse is only partly tucked-in and her long brown hair is untidily tousled up into a clip. It looks as if her boss had chased her around his desk before he sent her out for coffee.

“Morning, Trisha. In for an espresso boost already?”

The guy’s openly ogling her chest now. What a dirt bag.

“Too hot today, Harvey. Frozen cappuccino, like yesterday.”

Now I get it. She bounces on the balls of her feet while she speaks and I’m not sure she’s wearing a bra. A welcome distraction from the whiney, high-pitched tone of her voice, which seems to have failed to mature past the age of five.

“One minute,” Harvey says, then turns up his palm and demands payment from me, the smirks back in his expression.

I dig in my wallet, reach in for my last five, but instead pull out a twenty-dollar bill. I wrinkle my forehead. “I know that wasn’t there yesterday.”

Harvey reaches over the counter and snatches the bill out of my hand. “You don’t know Margery, do you?” he asks while he counts out change from the register.

“Margery?” Trisha backs away.

I hate to admit this is a common reaction pretty women have around me. This time I’m sure it’s not all me, even so I give her a dirty look before reaching for the coffee and the change.

“Good luck,” she says then she and Harvey burst out laughing.

Not wanting to be a part of their inside joke, I back away and turn to leave.

She calls after me, “Tell Margery, Trisha says, ‘Hi.’”

I keep forward and let the noisy sleighbells announce my departure.

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Chapter 3 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and when he couldn’t find the driver he called the courier service and was offered a job. When he shows up at OTG Courier, he meets Margery, a bizarre tiny and old lady who will be his boss. She gets him to sign a contract, but he doesn’t remember doing so and is burping up smoke. She warns him he’d better show up for work in the morning.

The clock reads 4:40 a.m. and I’ve been staring at a crack in the ceiling for the last forty minutes. This is probably the earliest I’ve ever woken up in my life. No longer able to fight the overwhelming urge to take a leak, I roll our of bed. Slumped over, I rub crust out of my eyes and shuffle down the hall to the bathroom. I think how it’s way too dark for anyone to be awake.

After taking a long piss, I scratch my protruding ribs, turn away from the toilet and headed for the kitchen to fix a bowl of fruity flavored cereal. Five steps later, I collapse down on my rock hard couch, a graduation gift from my mom when I earned my Master’s degree. She calls it a divan and it’s uncomfortable for a reason, as in ‘Don’t get too settled in your apartment, son. Your place is with me.’

The cereal bowl clinks when I put it down on the glass top coffee table. I reach over an empty pizza carton and game controller for the TV remote. It rings and vibrates in my hand; I jump and drop it. Oh, I think when I realize I’d picked up my cell phone instead. Not sure how I made that mistake.

The word ‘Margery’ is on the display. How the hell’d she get her number on my phone? She’s wasting her time. I have no intention of driving one of those damn red vans for her. Still, my body further stiffens the longer ‘Useful Idiot’ plays on my phone. When the voicemail doesn’t pick up, I holler, “Shut up!”

The music stops.

“Barry . . . Barry, is that you.” It’s Margery, calling out through the unanswered phone in her usual irritated tone.

I jump backward on the couch, kick up one foot and whack my shin on the corner of the glass table. “Shit,” I call out, then cuss some more in his head. While rubbing the throbbing welt, my eyes are transfixed on the glowing cell phone, hoping she will just go away, give up.

“Honey, I can hear you breathing.” Her voice turns baritone and slows, like a vinyl record played backward. “Get your ass to work.”

I put the phone to my ear, but don’t speak.

“Pick me up a coffee on your way, Coffee Hut, a block before Revere. Tell ‘em you’re picking up for Margery.”

My heart races, pissed off at her nerve. Who is this woman? I wonder then blurt out all I can think to say, “I’m sick.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s wrong? Got the flu?”

“Yeah. The flu.” Instantaneously, my stomach churns and gurgles. I hold my palm against it and wonder if Margery’s somehow responsible when I hear her cackle.

“Tell me it’s not the diarrhea? I hate the diarrhea.”

“Been up all night with it,” I lie. This time, sharp gas-pains stab at my bowel and sound off like a growling Rottweiler.

“Well, honey, I tell you what. Come on down to the warehouse and I bet your flu goes away in a hurry.”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty bad.” I lean to one side and pass a long audible wave of burning gas that turns damp.

“I guarantee it, honey. Besides, I know where you live, and if I have to send someone after you, it’ll be much worse than a little Montezuma’s Revenge.” Margery’s laugh turns deep and ominous.

At that moment, my bowels loosen out of control. I jump to my feet, still clutching the phone as I run for the bathroom.

“Don’t forget my coffee.” Margery yells through the phone, right before the call disconnects.

Chapter 2 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry was cut off on the highway causing him to rear-end a courier van. When he can’t find the driver he calls the phone number on the back of the van and ends up accepting a job offer over the phone instead of exchanging insurance.

Up ahead, I spy a red warehouse, off to the right, just like Margery had described. A huge OTG Courier logo covers half the building, so it’s obvious, I’m in the right place.

Three of those huge car carriers with half a dozen OTG vans on the trailers are blocking the parking lot behind the warehouse. The vans that had already been delivered were parked every which way across the lot, leaving no place close from me to park. If my luck gets any worse today . . . .

I get out of my truck and zigzag through the mayhem until I reach the office entrance. I can see through the door that the place is deserted, but Margery said she’s always here so I go inside.

The place is like no post office or an overnight delivery drop-off I’ve ever seen. Instead, it’s like I’ve walked through a time warp, into a kitchen during the nineteen seventies. The place reminds me a little of my grandmother’s basement, decorated with dark brown paneling on windowless walls. And the dark, stained cabinets make the place appear dimly lit despite the overhead florescent lighting.

I have to squint to read the labels on the bottles on the gold-colored counter top, right beside a dented green refrigerator. Are those what I think they are? Liquor bottles? Maybe that’s why Margery didn’t understand I’d hit one of her vans. She’s drunk. By the look of the oblong table in the middle of the kitchen, papers scattered across the surface, the place could be run by a drunk. That and smoke rising from the ashtray atop the messiness is evidence she’s the sort to have bad habits.

“Barry. You made it.”

I jump, nearly out of my skin.

To my left, I glance downward at a hunchbacked crone with flaming red and orange streaked hair. It’s combed upwards, similar to a troll doll, adding a few inches to her less than five feet of height. The woman likes orange, also the color of her spandex pants and oversized Broncos sweatshirt.

“Margery.” She reaches out to shake and I take her hand. An electrical shock crackles and surges up my arm and I clutch up at first, then pull backward and retract my hand.

She winks. “You find the warehouse okay?” A crooked smile turns up one side of her puckered mouth, revealing dark nicotine and coffee stained teeth.

I nod my head while stroking my still vibrating knuckles. I can’t stop myself from staring into her yellowish, bloodshot eyes, lined with charcoal and smeared up to the eyebrow with a bright green, greasy-looking eye-shadow.

Margery points in the direction of the kitchen and leaves me standing alone.

I pause. All the paper that had been scattered across the table is now a neatly stacked half a foot high with a pen on top.

“C’mon, have a seat,” she says forcefully.

There was something about her annoyed tone, the same as it had been during our phone conversation, that made me want to comply. I scurry to join her at the table.

The remnants of the still smoldering cigarette butt falls into the ashtray. Margery picks it up like it’s a joint, places it between pursed lips and inhales deeply. The bright orange tip crackles and snaps until it fires against her index finger and thumb. Only when there’s no more smoke to draw in does she drop the butt into the ashtray and tamp her thumb down on the red-hot tip. I wave away the aroma of tobacco mixed with burning flesh that fills the air.

“Before you can work for us, you’ll have to agree to a few employment terms and sign our standard contract,” she says, then pauses and licks ash off her blackened fingertips with a long, thin tongue much like a serpent’s. “All our drivers sign ‘em.”

Bile rises to the back of my throat. I swallow hard. “That’s the contract?” My voice squeaks as I point at the tall stack of paper.

“What else would it be?” She sighs, then falls back in her chair and laces her fingers together over her stomach.

“It seems excessive. What sort of employment agreement?”

“Standard stuff for salary, liability and such.” She takes a drag from a newly lit cigarette that must have appeared out of nowhere. “Top copy’s for salary, fifty an hour and time-and-a-half overtime.”

Fifty an hour just to drive a van. I’ve never earned that much testing software and I’ve got a Master’s Degree in Computer Science. Something’s off. I don’t like the idea of signing so much paperwork just to drive a van. “What sort of liabilities?”

“Nothing to worry about honey. We just want to make sure things are taken care of in case something happens.”

“You mean accidents?”

“Driving for us can be dangerous, among other things.”

“So these are like insurance forms?”

“Sure, honey. Like insurance forms.” That creepy grin curls up one side of her mouth again while the cigarette hangs off the other.

“So, if anything happens to me, I’ll be taken care of?”

“Oh Yeah.” She picks up the pen and holds it out. “We’ll take care of you.”

I lift my hand but hesitate to reach out and take it at first. I want to ask her about the potential risks that come along with driving for OTG. On the other hand, I would sell my soul to the Devil rather than move back in with my mother.

Margery impatiently waves the pen in front of my nose. “Right there at the bottom, honey, sign your name.”

I can’t reach for the pen or even move though. My eyes remain focused on the nib as it continues to sway left and right like a pendulum. In the background, Margery duplicates into two hovering heads, then three, then four as if I were peeping through the hole of a kaleidoscope. The more she multiplies, the blurrier my vision gets, until all the color merges into a hollow blackness.

* * *

All at once, the room comes back into focus.

“All done,” Margery says as she pulls the tall stack of papers to her side of the table.

“I signed?” As I speak, I let out a loud, wet and smoky belch from deep down within my gullet. It’s the same feeling I get after eating an entire large sized pizza. I jump to my feet, knocking the chair backward to the floor. “What did you do to me?”

Margery stands and picks up the contract. “Be here tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp.”

“I don’t think so,” I tell her, coughing-up more smoke.

“We’ll see about that.” Margery dashes through a nearby door and slams it shut behind her.

Chapter 1 – Call for Obstruction

Call for Obstruction is the first part of my novel series that was published last year by a small indie press that shortly there after closed their doors. After taking a long hard look at how I changed the format for the original publisher, I’ve decided to restore it to the original 1st person point of view of the main character, Barry White—no, not the late great singer, although he was named after him.

The Courier Series is about Barry White, a twenty-something computer geek with an overbearing mother, no prospects of finding a girlfriend, and an unemployment record that has made him pessimistic he’ll ever be happy.

In Call for Obstruction, Barry has just lost his fourth jobs in the past year due to corporate downsizing. Desperate for employment, he jumps at the first position he’s offered over the phone, driver for OTG Courier Services. Shortly after meeting his new boss, a tiny yet fiery old lady named Margery, she coerces him into signing a questionable employment contract he soon regrets.

The Courier was originally written as a twitter novel at @TheCourierNovel in 2009, the same year it won the Textnovel Writing Contest. The first novel is still available on Twitter, minus the ending. I do plan to return to tweeting, if you don’t mind reading backward, along with posting the restored story here. Two additional books were written in 2010 and 2011, and it’s about time they all release so I can finish the fourth, fifth, sixth . . . books.

All the business needs to start up Visionary Press Cooperative got in the way for a few months, which is why this story went on hold. Now it’s Barry’s turn to get some attention. To keep me on track, I’ll post a chapter a day until the first book has been re-released here. Every Sunday I’ll release all the parts released in a week on the Friday Frights website. Oh, and converting between tenses is a bloody pain in the butt, so if you see any boo boos, don’t be afraid to point it out in a comment. I hope you enjoy the story!

Wendy Howard
Author of The Courier Series
Friday Frights Creator

“Why today, why today?” I chant while pounding my forehead against the steering wheel.

Not a minute ago my truck had screeched to a halt in the far right lane but not in time. The corner of my bumper nicked the rear end of a red courier van as it weaved through traffic and made a sudden dart to avoid another car.

The accident happened less than thirty minutes after I had lost another job. My fourth this year.

I’d been working as a customer service rep at a cable TV company in Downtown Denver, that is until the entire department was laid-off. They outsourced our jobs to India or some other country where they’ll work for rice or peanuts. The manager who handed out final paychecks entered the call center in his best suit and a forced sympathetic smirk. What did he care. The smug jerk still got a job.

When I left the building carrying a measly two-hundred dollar kiss off check, all I wanted was to get home, down a few shots, play a few hours of Halo then sleep until noon tomorrow. Now here I sit with no insurance wondering how I’ll pay for the damages.

I’m not responsible for the accident. A blonde in a German hybrid, tapping out a text message with neon-red fingernails, was in the car the van tried to avoid. Only, she’s long gone. I doubt the driver of the van or a traffic cop will consider my excuse anyway.

While getting out of my truck, I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves then push my horned rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of my nose. Hopefully the other driver is a feeble old guy with poor eyesight. What am I saying. I don’t have that kind of luck.

Sure, I’m nearly six-feet-five but as thin as a rail and, from previous experience, not at all intimidating. Some might call me the quintessential computer geek. My first home is cyberspace, and a job is only necessary to pay for hardware upgrades and a place to plug in my gaming PC.

On the back of the van there’s a sign-painted advertisement. The words ‘Drivers Wanted’ bulges out from the surface paint-job like a 3D movie. Freaky. I bob my head like a pigeon and open my eyes wide to focus until the lettering fixes and flattens. It’s the hottest day in June for the past fifty years; it must have been heat-haze rising off the asphalt.

Then I wonder, what are the chances? I’m out of work and I’ve run into a job opportunity, literally.

I wait at the rear of the van for a moment or two. When no one emerges, I approach the driver’s door hesitantly. The cab is empty. And a quick search around the vehicle proves that not a single person, besides myself, stands in the median.

The voice in my head reminds me it’s wrong to leave, not to mention illegal, and being out of work is enough trouble in my life right now. So, I return to my truck to find my phone, which I last saw on the dash. Of course, it’s not there. The hard slam on the brakes must have sent it airborne. Annoyed, I scan the truck cab.

The phone chimes Tool’s ‘Useful Idiot,’ giving away its location on the passenger seat, beside a mini-box of fruity cereal, a remainder I didn’t finish my breakfast. The display tells me my mom’s on the other end. “Shit,” I say out loud, then clenched my teeth tightly. It’s the fifth time in the past hour she’s tried to reach me. She’s the last person I want to talk to, because unless I find a job in the next week, I’ll be moving back in with her.

I ignore the call and count to ten in my head. She always calls twice, and as expected, the phone announces another incoming call from Mom. I hit the ignore button repeatedly while thinking, Leave me alone! with each thumb tap.

After a long sigh, I motion to punch the 800 number from the back of the van into the keypad, but stop short when I notice the phone had already dialed through, by itself? And there’s a faint voice through the receiver.

“OTG Courier.”

I hesitate, then hold the receiver up to my ear.

“How may I help you, Barry?” a voice says.

The woman on the other end has a gruff tone with a pronounced New York City accent. Her voice is unrecognizable, not to mention I have a restricted number. I check the phone display, as if that will explain how her call got through and how she knows my name. When no apparent answer comes to mind, I put the cell back to my ear. “Did you just call me Barry?”

“What, honey? Barry? Is that your name?” Phlegm gurgles in her throat, giving away her three-pack-a-day habit.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, Barry, how can I help you?”

“Help me? Didn’t you just call me?”

“Honey, why would I call you?”

For a moment, I contemplate hanging up and calling the police instead.

“Hello?” she says. “You still there?”

“I hit one of your vans and I can’t find the driver,” I tell her quickly.

There’s a deep hacking cough on the other end. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got the emphysema. Did you say you’re calling about a job?”

I frown then yell into the phone, “No, I hit one of your vans.”

“I’m not deaf, honey.”

“Sorry . . . Ma’am.”

There’s an awkward silence between us while I think of what to say next.

“You got a valid driver’s license?” she finally says.

“Sure,” I answer while fumbling to pull my proof of insurance out of the glove compartment.

“How about an aversion to heat?”

Huh? I think then study the back of the red van. What the hell kind of packages do they transport?

“Can you tolerate heat?” Her tone is slow and irritated this time.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me hitting your van.”

“Have you killed anyone?”

“What?” I gasp. “I said I can’t find the driver, not I killed the driver.”

“Don’t worry about that one,” she says. “You speak Latin?”

Is she senile? I wonder.

“Can you come down to the warehouse and sign some paperwork? We can start you tomorrow morning. Will fifty an hour be enough?”

“Listen lady, I’m not calling about a job. I’m calling to tell you I hit one of your vans. I can’t find the driver.”

“So you don’t need a job.”

I pause. My eyebrow raises.

“Honey? You still there?”

“You really want to hire someone who just smashed into one of your vans?”

“I need ten new drivers by tomorrow. If you want a job, I’m hiring.”

Is this really happening? Maybe I have a concussion; I’m unconscious and dreaming. Any way I look at it, I need a job and she’s offering . . . . “I’m in the Tech Center, approaching Arapahoe. How do I get there?”

“You’re close,” she says. “Get off at the next exit. We’re in a red warehouse off of Arapahoe and Revere.”

“What about the van?”

“What van?” she says then adds. “Oh, never mind.”

The van pulls back onto the highway.

“I can . . . be there . . . in ten minutes.” I say with a tone of confusion in my voice.

“Ask for Margery. I’m always here, in the office.”

The Wife with No Hands (Part 2)

Read Part 1

Or, in summary, Larry and Theresa are about to lose their butcher shop to the bank. Enter Jimmie Chick, a dangerous mobster who has been in love with Theresa since they were all teenagers. He bullies Larry into making a sucker bet for all the equipment in the back room of the butcher shop, or so that’s what Larry thinks Chick wants. Larry is afraid of what Chick might do to him and Theresa if he doesn’t make the bet. Figuring they still have insurance on the shop, he thinks he has nothing to lose, so he reluctantly makes the bet with Chick.

The next morning, Larry drove down the alley leading to the back entrance into the butcher shop. Theresa sat beside him in the passenger seat sipping a cup of coffee.

“I hope we can sell the rest of our stock before noon and take the rest of the day off,” Larry said before he caught sight of a limousine parked in his usual spot.

“Is that Jimmie Chick again?” Theresa asked, her tone half annoyed, half fearful. “I hope you didn’t do something stupid yesterday.”

As Larry parked behind the limousine, he made no attempt to respond to Theresa. Instead, he thought how quickly Chick collects on a bet. Larry pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them to Theresa. “Go inside.”

Larry approached the limo and cautiously opened the door. Every part of him shook with fright as he got inside and sat beside Chick. He thought he might have a heart attack when the door lock clicked.

“Mornin’,” Chick said.

“Morning,” Larry replied, a high pitched squeak in his voice. He cleared his throat and placed his hand on his left knee, hoping to hide a nervous jitter.

“I’ll get right to it, Larry. That sure bet turned out to be . . . not so sure.”

Larry’s eyes widened and fixed, staring into space. He nodded his head in a slow motion, fully aware that this was coming, but the shock of the situation was just now setting in.

“I’m here to collect. I figured the sooner the better.”

“Sure, but can’t you come back tonight instead? Give us a chance to sell some more of our stock?” Larry winced before adding, “I could leave the back door open and if it looks like a robbery, I can collect the insurance.”

“A robbery? What are you talking about?”

Larry frowned. “The equipment in the back room, in the kitchen. You know, payment for the lost bet.”

Chick laughed so hard he choked. When he could finally catch his breath and speak, he said, “Kitchen equipment? Why would I want used equipment from a butcher shop?”

Larry’s frown deepened. “Then what did you want?”

“Have you forgotten that Theresa was in the back room when you made the bet.”

“Are you crazy!” Larry reached for the door handle and yanked at it frantically to make a hasty exit, forgetting that Chick had locked him in.

“Don’t be such a sore loser. I won her fair and square.” Jimmie Chick opened a small refrigerator beside his feet and pulled out a bottle of champagne. “Now go and get Theresa so we can toast to my win.”

“You can’t have my wife, you bastard.”

“Careful,” Chick pointed his finger at Larry in a darting motion.

Larry twitched while he said, “She won’t go with you.”

“Well, you’ll just have to change her mind.”

“Seriously, she’d kill herself before she—”

“You lose the bet and you insult me like that?”

Larry didn’t respond.

“I’ll tell you what.” Chick said, “I’m a fair man. And neither of us wants Theresa to do something unfortunate, like take her own life. Still, you owe me at least a part of her for losing the bet. So . . . I will accept your wife’s hands as payment for your debt and you can keep the rest of her. Otherwise, you give me all of her.”

Larry’s jaw dropped open. “You are crazy.”

“I’m not going to warn you again, Larry. You bring me your wife or her severed hands by noon, or I will kill you both.” Chick grasped the cork on the champagne bottle and yanked it out. “Now get out of my car.”

* * *

Larry found Theresa stocking the display case. He stood watching her, wishing the moment could last forever and he would never have to break the news to her about Chick’s ultimatum.

“There’s not much left to sell,” Theresa said. “I think we may be out of here by noon like you were hoping.” Theresa stood straight up, and when she looked into Larry’s eyes, the smile on her face turned flat and unsure. “Larry, are you okay?”

Larry hung his head.

“Oh my God, what did you do?”

“I was trying to save us, but I made it worse.”

“Save us? From Jimmie?” Theresa’s face turned white. “You know he gets whatever he wants.”

“Except you,” Larry said then added in his mind, Until now.

“Just spill it.”

“He tricked me into making a bet.”

“A bet for what. We don’t have anything.”

“I lost you.” Larry hung his head in his hands and cried, “I lost you.”

“You can’t lose me. I won’t go.”

“That’s what I told him. He said he’d kill us unless I either delivered you or your severed hands to him by noon.” Larry laughed and cried at how insane he sounded.

“You think this is funny?” Theresa snapped then ran to the kitchen.

Larry ran after her. He broke through the swinging doors to find Theresa holding a meat cleaver. She’s lost it, he thought and approached her cautiously, not sure if she intended to use it on him or herself. “Give me the cleaver,” he said and to his surprise, she handed it to him without arguing.

Theresa put her hands down on the butcher block. “You lost the bet, you cut them off.”

Larry held back a chuckle. She had to be joking so he thought he’d play along. “Honey, it’d be easier to use the band saw.”

“You’re right,” she said and ran to the saw and turned it on. “I can even do the first one myself. Get some towels and call nine one one. In a minute, I won’t have fingers to do it myself.” She held one hand in the other and aimed her wrist at the blade.

“Stop it!” Larry yelled and ran to her.

“I’d rather live with you without hands than die with you. Promise me you’ll finish the job.” Her legs buckled as she pushed her wrist forward.

A Chance Encounter on Twitter

I’ve been trying to decide on another feature for the blog and the lightbulb went on this morning.

If you spend any amount of time on Twitter or Facebook, you’re inundated daily with random posts of ‘try this INSERT PRODUCT’ whether it be books, films, or other products, which I’ve learned to gloss over like most people. I’m terrible about only paying attention to recommendations from my own little world, as I believe word of mouth from trusted friends is still the best method of networking. Doesn’t stop all the people with something to sell from flooding social media with spam they post themselves or allow some app to post to their account from someone/something elses account—scary!

I’ve decided to lighten up and think of all the advertising as displays in a shop window. Once a week I’ll search using a hashtag and randomly choose a tweet that catches my eye. I’ll follow the link and try out whatever the tweeter’s advertising, then provide an honest review of product. Let me repeat, honest. This may get me in serious trouble.

This week I chose the #SciFi hashtag because we opened up to Science Fiction submissions over at Visionary Press last week. Here’s the random tweet.

Cynthia Woolf ‏@CynthiaWoolf

Well-developed characters. Unique paranormal twist RED NIGHT by Michele Callahan #SciFi #Romance http://amzn.to/JrdbQ8 

Red Night ((Book 1) Timewalker Chronicles)

Deception…Luke Lawson is walking into a trap. Brilliant, dedicated, and haunted by strange visions, he guards his mistake well, determined to eliminate anyone or anything that threatens to unleash…

This book is only around a hundred pages. I bought the book, will read it by next Monday and post my review along with the next random tweet I find. This should be fun!

The Wife With No Hands (Part 1)

From behind the refrigerated display case, Larry looked around the butcher shop his family had owned for three generations. He sighed at the thought of their legacy coming to an end. In five days the bank would own the building and auction off everything from his great grandfather’s hand crank meat grinder to the brand new industrial sized band saw he had financed two years ago.

On the day the final notice had arrived, after Larry realized he could not meet the requirements outlined by First National to save the business, he guessed his great grandfather had rolled over in his grave. His stomach turned every time he thought about it. And he still didn’t have the heart to tell his mother, not that she’d remember. Her Alzheimer’s was getting worse, and she sometimes didn’t recognize Larry or his wife Theresa.

Larry released the cash register drawer and it slid open, hitting him in the stomach. The same fifty dollars in change he had put in it that morning still sat untouched. Not one customer had entered the shop all morning despite the words Going Out of Business Sale he had painted in big colorful letters on the store window.

He slammed the drawer shut on his thumb. “Fuck!” he screamed, but more out of a need to express his frustrations.

The swinging doors to Larry’s left burst open. His wife Theresa entered from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice just as sweet as it always was.

Larry held up his throbbing thumb and pursed his lower lip into a pout.

“My poor baby.” Theresa rushed to him and took his hand in hers. She kissed his thumb ever so gently while looking into his eyes with compassion, and at the same time a wink of flirtation. “I’ve got just the right medicine to fix that.” She arched her back and leaned her hips in closer to her lover.

Larry was wanting to surrender to her gesture for a little play time in the office but held back. “There’s no one to watch the shop,” he said before giving in to his impulse to kiss her passionately.

They broke their embrace only when they heard the sensor on the shop door ring, announcing a customer. As they turned to see who had arrived, Larry felt Theresa’s fingers dig into his forearms. “Go in the back,” he whispered to her at the same time giving her a slight nudge.

Theresa silently returned to the kitchen.

“Mornin’ Jimmie,” Larry said, “what brings you in?”

Jimmie Chick pointed backward with his thumb in the direction of the shop window. “I hear ya gotta pretty good sale going on,” he replied, his voice deep and commanding.

“Oh, yeah.”

The man stood scowling at Larry, his hands held up at chest level, positioned with fingertips to fingertips to show off four similarly oversized diamond horseshoe rings. All together with a wide gold bracelet hanging off his wrist, Larry jokingly thought that he might be blinded by the glare from the florescent lighting, reflecting off the jewelry. Larry also struggled to maintain his poker face while he wondered why any man would consider wearing a purple suit.

Chick approached the display case and looked inside. “Slim pickin’s,” he said.

“Well . . . going out of business and all.” Larry let out a nervous snigger and hoped the horseshoe rings wouldn’t end up crossing his jaw.

“I told you I could help you with that.” Jimmie Chick’s voice shifted to annoyed.

“I couldn’t put you out like that, Jimmie.” Larry thought how the man owned enough of the neighborhood thanks to lost bets and unpaid loans people had made with the thug. He’d rather gouge out his eyes than be indebted to Chick in any way, especially considering he fancied Larry’s wife.

Larry and Theresa had known Jimmie Chick since they all attended high school together. Larry remembered how Theresa had two unique qualities back then: she was the prettiest girl in school and she had no interest in Jimmie Chick. No matter how hard Jimmie tried, he could not win Theresa heart. She wanted Larry instead.

For ten years, Chick had tried to steal Theresa away from Larry countless times. When the man finally realized he was fighting a losing battle against Larry—the respectable man—he had done everything in his power to destroy Larry’s reputation and ability to care for Theresa. Larry worried Chick was winning.

“What if I let you in on a sure thing,” Chick said, “a bet you can’t lose?”

“You know I don’t gamble,” Larry replied.

Chick frowned. “I tell you what. I make this bet for you and if you do lose, you don’t have to pay me back.”

Well, that’s a sucker bet, Larry thought, then cautiously replied, “I don’t know, Jimmie. I can’t expect you to take a loss like that.”

Chick paused and scratched his chin. “Then how about if you lose, I take what you have in the back.”

So that’s what he wants, Larry thought. My equipment. So he can sell it for a profit. Larry put two and two together and suspected Jimmie had offered the same bet to the Williamson’s, young newlyweds who had owned a hair salon three doors down from the butcher shop. He shivered remembering the rumors about the couples unfortunate luck, showing up with bruises they insisted were from a car accident one week and having their shop ransacked and robbed a week before they had gone out of business.

Larry’s eyes widened. He now realized, Jimmie will hurt us if I refuse the bet.

No matter what, he would not let Jimmie hurt Theresa. And there was still an active insurance policy until the bank took the shop. “That’s all you want?” Larry asked.

“If that’s what you’re willing to give,” Jimmie winked and held out his hand.

Larry winced as he shook on the bet.

To Wine or Not To Wine

I’ve had two down days of feeling like a cold or flu is coming on. So I’ve had to contemplate canceling Wine Wednesday in between popping zink tablets. Then, in my cloudy state of mind, I wondered if a glass or two will actually be harmful or helpful. After all, wine is good for the heart. Off I went to Google and found this.

It has been found that those who drink a glass of red wine daily are about 20% less likely to contract the flu. It is believed that this may be related to the vitamins and antioxidants, like resveratrol, present in red wine (but largely absent in white or blush wines). Although alcohol tends to depress the immune system, drinking a glass or two of red wine when sick with a cold or flu is probably not detrimental and may prove beneficial. Other studies have shown a daily glass of red wine is beneficial to the heart, and lowers the odds of developing Alzheimer’s disease and other types of age-related dementia (probably due to the resveratrol). Excessive alcohol use, however, is definitely detrimental to health.

I found a number of other articles on the subject, agreeing that red wine can help combat a virus, especially a cold. One article said a study showed that 14 glasses of wine a week decreases your changes of getting a cold by 40%. Well, I’m a wino, but that’s even too much for me to drink. So, HELL YEAH, we’re having red wine tonight!