"Look at all this food. How much goes to waste, you think?"
Darcy straightened quickly. Roland noted how she moved and how tall she was when animated. "I know exactly how much! I've been tracking wastage for my college thesis to see if I could come up with a plan to use the throw-aways for local farms or..." She stopped. "Uh, well, I guess that's, uh, not interesting...Store stuff, you know." She looked contrite.
"It's very interesting...to me. Why don't you bring it up to the store manager or someone higher up in the company? It seems like you have a great idea there."
Darcy fumbled for a moment, then mumbled "I'm not sure I should. I'm new here and all..."
Roland plucked a stray strawberry from its bin, looked it over carefully then offered it to Darcy, who found herself taking it and eating it. "Suggest your ideas, Darcy, because it's the right thing to do. Thanks for the warning." Darcy watched him walk to the register, pay a few dollars and walk out, an intriguing man with a small smile on his lips.
A few days later, two envelopes were given to Darcy, from Mason R. Davies. The first had a letter asking her to develop a food reclamation project for the 37 stores in the Davies Corporation chain. The second had a handwritten note that said simply and perfectly: "Dinner?"
Darcy laughed and that special thrill ran through her. Of course the note was signed... by Loopy Doodyhead.
SHADOW HEART
When I was three, I would ride my trike inside the house, from the bedrooms to the living room, peddling madly to get there faster and faster. The frequent stop was my parent's bedroom, with its huge bed and the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall, showing His soulful eyes, holes in His hand and the shiniest heart encircled by thorns I'd ever seen.
I'd mastered turning tightly from corridor to bedroom when, one day, as I looked at the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Jesus turned stage left and left the picture. His shadow, with hand upraised, walked along the back wall to the right side of the bedroom. I watched His shadow disappear into the wall, looked at the empty picture and whirled my trike around for the race to the living room. Jesus reappeared later at some point, I'm not sure when, His soulful eyes a little brighter and that shiny heart looking a little out of place. I wondered why He kept it there, atop His robe, like a meat medallion without a chain.
A few days later, I triked to the bedroom, same angle as before and Jesus lowered His hand, looking a little relieved in doing so and turned stage left again. I watched His shadow make its silhouetted procession once again, disappearing as before. I waited to see if He'd pass the right-hand window, but no, He went elsewhere. So did I. But in the living room, the idea of watching Jesus return popped into my head like the idea of going to see the circus: one moment nothing, then the next "Circus!" and I'm triking down the street, making good time and having a ball until mom caught up with me and smacked me back home.
So "Jesus!" and furious peddling. I almost crashed I was going so fast, my skills fading in the heat of the moment. I'd made it. Along the back wall came Jesus, His shadow stooped more than before, moving slowly, as if tired or sick. I didn't blink as the shadow emerged into the picture, Jesus gaining color, from the brown of his hair to the white of his robe. He turned to face me and I swear He was startled, like a man caught in reverie. I expected Him to smile; He didn't. He raised His right hand, as if suppressing a long-held sigh and became a picture.
Days went by and when I triked, I didn't bother with my parents' bedroom as I was exploring the tight S of the right-hand turn at the end of the hallway and the almost-instant left to go into Grandma's room. Grandma had left to visit somebody so the room was empty, the door now always open and the intricacies of peddling fast and turning tight made me forget Jesus.
That final day, I peddled as fast as I ever had, snaked around the corner on two wheels, the tilt making me almost giggle as I timed the left turn also on two wheels with my sway and ending in a flourish just a foot from Grandma's ancient bed. I was giddy and didn't notice at first that Jesus was walking, in shadow, along a wall of Grandma's room, the one with the big window to the back yard. Surprised, I watched the shadow reach the corner and make a left, to the far wall, and move slowly towards the small bedroom, the one that used to be the stopping point of my trike ride when I rode it straight down the hallway.
I pedaled out of Grandma's room with a quick right and then another. Jesus was sliding into the small bedroom, heading for the narrow window that let light into the room and hall. The shadow went into the window and--appeared--on the other side, making its way along the wall to my parent's bedroom. I got off my trike and walked the final few steps.
Jesus did the window jump again behind the beige curtains mom put up, reached the corner and made a left. I saw Jesus reappear in the picture, immediately looking to his left to see me as I stood there. He knew I was waiting. He turned to face me, his eyes sadder than ever, crossed His arms across His chest, hiding the Sacred Heart and said in my head "She won't be back." We looked at each other for a long time. Then Jesus uncrossed His arms, raised His right hand with the fingers curled just so and became a picture again forever.
I got on my trike and tried to pull the two-wheel double turn again and again and again.
TWITCHY EYES
The words painted on the office door read "Twitchy Dick, Private Eye."
Yeah, I know. But that's my moniker and that's my gig. Snort what you want, but they pay my room and board and the occasional--okay, regular--bottle of milk of magnesia.
Broad walks in, you know the type. Mid-thirties, rounding out after a decade of underfeeding, designer duds in muted grays and tans, real jewels and a walk that says she's off limits to you and you know it. Walks right in since my secretary never got hired, looks around the office like it broke wind not long ago and saunters into the visitors chair like it was going to hug her without a proper invite. I sat forward and waited. I always let the client speak first.
"I believe my husband is cheating on me."
"That makes him a fool."
She smiled, almost warmly. "Nevertheless, he may be and I want to make sure. You did some work for a friend of mine and she recommended you highly."
I chuckled. "You don't have a friend. At least, not a 'she' friend." I leaned back.
She started, then glared for a second. She cooled down quickly. "I don't know why you'd say that, but it happens to be true. But I do have friends...Men friends."
These are the times I wished I smoked. Helps avoid the awkwardness of long pauses. Finally, I stood up and extended my hand. "'I'll take your case, for the usual rate."
She smiled, stood up and shook my hand. Good grip. "May I write a check?" I nodded and watched her use a fountain pen worth more than my car to swirl light blue ink on parchment. She handed me the check and I glanced at it. Lorelei Higgins-Bosch. Address in the primmest real estate in the whole state. A check with a 5-digit number, so I tossed out a guess. "Sixteen years?"
Her jaw dropped, then closed as she pressed her lips in self-anger. "You can be quite annoying. How did you guess?" I shrugged. She held my eyes for a long second. "May I expect a report by the weekend?"
"Depends on your husband and how big a fool he might be."
Lorelei twitched her lips. "You made your point. I'll call you no later than Monday." She walked out, her bearing straight and soft. I sighed and grabbed my coat to go deposit the check.
Took me three nights to make sure Madison Bosch IV was a massive fool, cheating on Lorelei with two other women, one of them a chippy waitress with golddigger written all over her who was never more than ten minutes from Madison. Seventeen pictures, three videos and eleven fast-food meals later, Lorelei walked into my office, her manner quick and sharper than before.
She glanced at the pictures casually and saw only part of the first video, the one where the chip was leading the fool into a ritzy hotel room four blocks from Madison's 33rd floor corner office. Her smile was bitter shorthand. "I guess my husband is a fool after all." Sh
e sniffed dryly. "How much do I owe you, uh..."
Happens all the time, this name pause. "Seventeen hundred," I said. The fountain pen swirled again and the check came to me with a larger number than I requested. I watched the ink dry as she remarked "A bonus for a job well done."
"How much does the chippy waitress get?"
She froze. "What--do you mean?"
I shook my head. "That girl is never far from Madison, is she? Always ready, the little strumpet. How does she manage that, what with being a working girl and all?" I paused: "It's a set-up." The silence hit thirty seconds. "Why have half when you can have it all?"
Lorelei stood up, her face and body aged and slow. She took one, then two deep breaths. "I shouldn't have given you a bonus...or even hired you." She walked out, very slowly.
I shrugged. Sticks and stones. I opened the drawer for a long swig of milk of magnesia.
WHERE THERE’S A WILL
“You must be completely insane to think we can win a war against them!”
Nolan of Bergen blinked. “You must be completely insane to think we have a choice.”
The burly arms of Kanden of Varth thrust out, partly in anger, and partly, the kafeth saw, in despair. “They number six, seven thousand units. We barely amount to 200. We cannot win!”
The kafeth stirred, a low rumble running through the cave’s dark niches. Nolan turned to trace the stirrings, letting his rival’s words sink in. With a mild shrug, he spoke softly. “You say we cannot win. I say we have no choice but to win. Your way means we run until we are hunted down in whatever hole we hide in. My way means we fight to stay alive.” He stopped Kanden by raising his voice. “And we keep hoping a solution appears to end the war in our favor.”
Kanden snarled. “And what if no solution appears? What then?”
Nolan let the stirrings die down. “And what if one does?”
Long past the final debate’s end, the kafeth was already planning. Split into eight saskereth of roughly 25 members each, the groups had plunged deeper into the caves to discuss their plans to defeat the enemy, or plan a way to survive. Lalery of Conat slipped quietly next to Nolan and leaned close. “Did you arrange Kanden’s group?”
Nolan smiled. “No. He did it himself, with his words and fears.”
Lalery pulled her long hair back under the furred hood of her heavy parank. “You know his saskereth left the cave? And they took most of the dried food and water skins.”
Ureg of Bergen squatted next to Nolan. “He knows, Lalery. The foodsacks they took were full of bark and straw. And as for the water skins, they are full of piss.”
Lalery’s mouth dropped open as Nolan shared a laugh with kinsman Ureg. The first action to end the war had begun...but not against the true enemy.
Two of the remaining seven groups were destroyed in the cave-riddled mountains, the strongholds they thought they’d built becoming death traps as the Mecataks sliced rocks to make their kills. Nolan told Lalery that at least three groups needed to survive, to avoid inbreeding creating a much weaker race. Ureg’s group became the third saskareth destroyed when the Mecataks ringed the deep havenath forest of the north. But Nolan’s deep howls of mourning were touched by tones of pride because Ugen’s dormant volcano trap had taken almost 3,000 enemy to a hellish end. Four saskereth left, barely 100 and nearly 2,000 Mecataks remained on the world. Nolan knew the war was near its end, needing but one final action to settle Fate.
A captured Mecatak artifact lay next to an odd array of metal panels and mirrors. With trembling fingers, Nolan flicked the equipment “on” and raced, chest thudding, across the clearing knowing that the attack would come in mere seconds. The first blast landed behind him and he ran in terror, across grass and onto rocks, scrambling as he moaned in fear of death. Another blast tossed him amidst rubble, his chest broken and thus he saw the end of the war. Suddenly the Mecataks above turned to form a circle, landed and mistakenly blasted each other as enemies with actinic rays that sizzled air and earth. In a minute, the remains of more than 600 machines littered the Juvenar Plain. And Nolan smiled into the darkness that blanketed him.
“Sir. Over 750 Mecataks were destroyed. We’re down to 1,154. Planet still shows active indigenous life in several quarters.”
Commodore Langley cursed silently. “Recall the Mecs, Ensign. This planet ain’t worth it. On to the next one and let‘s make it happen, okay?” While I still have a command, he thought.
FOOD FOR LOBO
I didn't catch Booger teasing Lobo, tied across the street, until the night the power went out because of the wind storm and the heat made it difficult for me to sleep, even when I took another two of my red pills. Booger came up to where Lobo, a pit bull/mastiff mutt, was chained. Booger was dangling a long piece of rope in his hand and started whipping the dog with it. Lobo went crazy, snarling and foaming at the mouth, yanking at his chain so hard that he sometimes flipped over backward with a thud. Booger laughed like a maniac, like he did when he was 6 and started becoming the bully he was, a laugh that sounded crazy and silly and at the same time. He beat that dog for a good 15 minutes and when he left, Lobo was left spent, his neck and mouth bleeding. Lobo couldn't bark, but his wounds spoke volumes about what he felt.
Booger came up almost every night. Lobo would get wild when he sensed Booger was near, pulling hard against the chain. Some nights, Booger would just stand there, a few feet out of Lobo's snarling reach, the long piece of rope dangling, unused. On other nights, Booger would beat the dog horribly, snapping the rope with his lanky arm's strength. A few times he tied a big knot at the end of the rope. On those nights, Lobo bled a lot. His drunken owner never saw anything, just slopping the food and water in the dog's bowls and staggered away to get drunk again or sleep.
I'm 94. I live alone, have no car, no phone, no kin, no visitors except for the Meals on Wheels woman who acts like delivering food once a week is penance for wearing too much make-up. I couldn't call the police, nor ask anyone to do it for me. The people near me were afraid of Booger, many of them old and frail as me. To rat out Booger was to ask to be hurt. Or killed.
Once a month, I'd dress up warm and take a very slow walk to Findlay's Groceries, four blocks and two hours away. I did it to buy my own food with a budget that could barely keep a body and soul together, even one as thin as mine. A stock boy once asked me if I had a lot of cats. I lied. That's why I bought my own food: fewer questions that way.
My long walk was nearing an end, the light bags now heavy in my rolling walker's basket. I could see the door to my house and Lobo, across the street, lying in the shade. Suddenly, water drenched me head to toe. A big black car, music thundering from it fit to wake the dead, drove away, Booger at the wheel, his arm thrust out the window and the middle finger rising above it.
I took a chill that lasted almost a week. I thought I'd die, what with no one to care and the Meals on Wheels woman knocking once and leaving the food on the doorstep, where I found it four days later. That same day, before the chill could stop me, I walked again to Findlay's. Bless his heart, Greg Findlay actually came out to see if I was okay, senile maybe, for making a trip back so soon. No, I said, I want ground beef. Two pounds.
He actually looked very sad. Rather than waste a word, I opened my purse and showed him the crisp tenner I had saved for a rainy day long ago. He pursed his lips, got the ground beef himself and even got his manager to give me a ride back. I didn't say no, because my legs were aching something fierce and my head was fit to burst.
It took me an hour to thaw the beef well and roll chunks of it into meatballs. My hands weren't as good as they used to be, but a ball is a ball. With the sun going down and my heart hammering to break a rib, I walked across the street. Towards Lobo.
I tossed him a couple of meatballs and went away. I did that every day, getting closer to Lobo until I gave him the last two standing right next to him. Then he waited patiently as my feeble hands sawed at the thick leather collar he wore, tears of rage at my weakness spl
ashing his matted fur and the fear that I'd faint and be found out. I lost what little strength I had left and had to leave. I had to take four of my red pills because the pain was awful. I was sobbing from the effort. But I was awake and smiling when Booger got the smile ripped off his face by Lobo. I swear I heard that mutt howl with glee.
SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION
The day had passed like too many other days in my life: alone, bored, a yawning ache in my gut where satisfaction should have been. Had past 30, was closer to 40, hadn't been anywhere, hadn't done enough, hadn't met anybody who wanted to be with me for longer than it takes to call a cab and the only person I saw every day was my Aunt Tillie, who owned the house I lived in, the bed I slept in, the furniture I tucked my unstylish clothes in and gave me a twenty ever so often so I could "do a little something."
I looked around her room, dotted with my few things and stifled a sigh. I'd been here for more than ten years, since Ma died and I dropped out of college to come home and sell the house and use that money to make a go of my life. But Ma had left it all to her sister Tillie, the widow with the huge investment dividends. And me? I stayed here, in what was now Aunt Tillie's house, using up the few thousand Ma left me and then I eventually figured out I was just waiting for Aunt Tillie to die.
The street lamp outside my window flickered and I noticed it was time for Aunt Tillie's favorite show, a cop drama with cardboard characters. The sigh came out before I could stop it and I creaked heavily standing up. I got to the door slowly, sighed again and started down the stairs to the always stuffy living room.
I sensed the heat first, a distant wafting on the skin as if an oven had floated up the staircase. Two steps down I felt it, a palpable wave of heat that was ghostlike and clinging, a menacing caress in the dim light.