Bikes Up!

It's April 18^th. Spring in Upstate New York is off to a late start. About 1 month late to be exact. I was just talking to a lady who is in Buffalo and she's watching snow falling outside her office window. Our weather comes from the West, so..... Here, in Sanitaria Springs, it's a cloudy 52 F. and there's an edge to the damp air that makes you think it could snow here tonight. It also makes you think about a lot of things you could be doing inside the toasty house. Or, things you could be doing out in the garage.

Outside, in my garage, awaiting the sun and warm ambient temperatures we're all hoping for, are my 2 Hondas. The CX500 has been out already. Twice. There were a couple of 70ish days at the end of March and beginning of April, and I couldn't wait to shake something down. Probably myself more than the bike. It wasn't much fun on those 65-70 degree days. The air was crisp, like an oddball warm day in Winter. The chilly air stung anything that wasn't well covered. Sure, a wind-breaker was enough to keep me warmish, and gloves were a must. Are anyway, really. Just for protection. My face, however, suffered from the biting 55 mph wind. Well, maybe a bit faster than that, 'cause like the Red Rocker says, “I just can't drive 55.” The same temps, once the weather finally breaks, will be perfect for riding. That's what makes a warmer ambient temp such a desirable thing. The weather really wasn't good enough yet to justify hauling out the big V65 Sabre. “Soon come, mon. Soon come.”

In a very real sense, this day each year is like a holiday. A genuine annual celebration day. It's never the same date every year. Too many variables involved. But there is a day, every year, that my new license plate stickers come from the Utica DMV office. That's where we Southern Tier folks have to send our mail-in renewals.

Naturally, they will get lost if I don't install them on the bikes immediately. That being the case, I grab the Windex and paper towels and head out to the garage to do the joyful deed. Joyful, because it means that there's another Summer of riding approaching, and now I'm ready for it.

First there's the ritual spraying and wiping down of the plates. Pay special attention to the 2011 sticker. It's got to be especially clean, 'cause that's where the new Mylar tag has to be placed. Even though the '11 stickers are starting to lift a bit at the corners, they can't be removed. Well....they could be. I just don't. I like to see how many I can stack up before the state forces me to buy another color plate. That happens every so often, and I've always had every sticker I got during that color series, still on the plate when it gets replaced.

Many old yellow plates, and previously issued white ones, are up on the wall of my garage. Their job is to keep many happy years of biking memories alive. Now and then I'll look at a certain year's plate and go back to that particular Summer in my mind. Bike memories are unlike any others I have. Even the big crash of '73 brings a smile to my face. The story that goes with that is stuff fiction writers can only wish they had to work with. Oh, yeah!

You think stacking stickers is quirky? Let me tell you quirky, buddy. As the accompanying pic shows, I put my registration stickers on upside down. I always have. Why? How the hell do I know. I'm not a shrink. If I was, I wouldn't go there in a million years. My mind is a labyrinth of tunnels that really don't deserve having anyone poking around in. Probably has something to do with being noticed or being different than the other kids. Look it up in your freakin' freak reference books. Save yourself some time and energy, though. Don't write and tell me what you find. I like my annual stickers installed the way I do it, and I'm not going to change a thing.

All these decades of upside down registration stickers have never been mentioned by the cops. With me setting my own speed limits, I can't say they haven't had their opportunities. Now and then a friend or new acquaintance will notice the inverted sticker and mention it. I just smile and tell them I must have been drinkin' when I put them on. It may seem like an indictment of my character, but nobody has ever argued the point.

I look at it this way. If I'm ever upside down in a ditch, the cops will immediately note that my bike is legally registered. They'll know I was a thoughtful rider........ before the crash.

Draw Blood

“It looks like you haven't had blood work since '07, Mr. Winfield. I'm going to order it before your next appointment.” Dr. A. eyed me critically but his soft Middle Eastern accent soothed like honey oozing down a sore throat.

That ominous declaration started a real life sit-com that somehow seems to typify my current life phase. Dr. A. wrote a lab order sheet and handed it to me. I dutifully took it along with my co-pay receipt, prescription for an increase of my main blood pressure medication dosage, and my cell phone. I had obediently turned it off upon entering the exam room. Paraphernalia in hand, I trudged to the receptionist to 'check out'. I grinned inwardly at the irony of having a desk marked “Check Out” right outside a Cardiologist's door. You need an appointment for that too, these days?

I made a follow-up appointment, allowed appointments to be made for me at an Osteopath and a Dietitian. Knees are going and I've just learned I'm too fat. This getting old means there's a lot of appointments to keep. Apparently it's time to pay the piper for dancing with wild abandon, nearly non-stop for over half a century. They assure me I'll be a better man for it.

Blood work was ordered to check my triglycerides. Surely a fictitious concern. I'm supposed to go the next morning but when it arrived I realized I'd forgotten to fast. Ha! I got to stay home. I was probably subconsciously screening my true feelings. I didn't want to go to a vampire in Johnson City at 6:30 AM, anyway. Fasting is hard when you're used to eating the best things in life every waking hour of every day. You don't want to know what my typical diet consists of. Let me just say that it's every kid's dream to eat what I eat in the frequency and quantity I eat it in. Dr. A says I need to stop eating like a kid and eat like an adult. I'll have to find more adults to observe. I still use the old knife, fork, and spoon method my mother taught me. I conveniently forgot about the blood work.

Life goes on and after awhile I visit the Osteopath. He's in the same building as my cardio guy and that reminds me that I've yet to get the blood siphoned off. A month has passed and I still haven't found the lab paperwork, so I see Dr. A's receptionist. She calls downstairs for my chart and....SURPRISE! The original lab order is still in my chart! Unbelievable. I've looked everywhere and then looked everywhere else, repeatedly. I think the receptionist put it back in the chart just to goof on me. Make me think my marbles are untethered, or something. Well, the joke's on her. I didn't misplace it after all, and I'm not telling Dr. A. his receptionist is responsible for raising my blood pressure. He might think she's too hot for his patients to handle.

Between searches for my bloodwork order, I managed to make it to the Dietitian. She laughed and joked, talked about Jimmy Buffett and Parrot Heads. Her brother is one. I didn't judge. I left her my card. In the end I left her with an 1800 calorie diet that sneaky old Dr, A. told her to give me, and many more tips on cutting salt out of my life than I'll ever remember or wish to use. So he wants me to lose weight, eh? Guess he didn't have the stones to tell me I'm fat to my chubby little face. He doesn't know how easy going I really am.

The big evening arrives! NPO after 6 P. That means not to stick anything but a toothbrush in my mouth from dinner until after the next morning bloodletting. I told my wife to tackle me if I headed toward the kitchen or one of the several stashes of Reese's Big Cups, Mason Mints, Gertie Hawk's Smidgens, or the tray of huge muffins I picked up at Sam's Club. She told me I'm on my own. I have never been able to rely on my will power before, so why would she think I could this time? After all these years you'd think she'd know me better!

Made it. I awoke at 5:00 AM, famished. It took at least 10 seconds to realize why I felt so weak and puny. Some diminutive Pakistani was starving me, and probably laughing all the way to the bank.

Stumbling downstairs, I made a pot of coffee. No need for my wife to suffer because of my life of debauchery and disrespect for the temple that is my body. A glance in the mirror shows the temple has become more of a ragged old tent. With a monumental display of strength, I managed to avoid stuffing my face with any of the numerous available goodies. By 6:00 AM I've ultimately lurched my way to Johnson City.

The Lab Tech doesn't look reliable at this hour. She smells of sex and stale booze and has obviously missed her third cup of coffee. I probably look as hazy to her gaze as she does to mine. She rallied rather well, though. After excusing herself for a few minutes to compose herself, she returns to the lab smelling of Febreze and Altoids. She's ready to look at my paperwork. “Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Winfield,” she groaned, staring at my lab slip in disbelief. “It doesn't say what work he wants done, and Dr. A. hasn't signed it.”

“You mean I starved myself for days, left my warm bed in the middle of the night, dragged my dog out of the house to keep me company, and the sheet is blank?”

“Well, not blank,” she mumbled. “They put your file information sticker on the top,”

“I feel bad I bothered you with this sorry lack of preparation,” I purred convincingly. “I hope someone else shows up for blood work this morning so you won't be sitting here all alone.”

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “You came such a long way, and after all that starvation and trouble, I'll just take it. I'll draw the usual amount and if I don't get enough or they want something weird, I'll just call you back in.”

“Oh. You can do that?” I asked with surprised innocence. “I don't want you to get in any trouble.”

That sealed it. Hell and high water couldn't have kept that girl from draining my vein at that moment. She'd show them all how resourceful and responsible she is, and they'd be damned proud to have her. It wouldn't hurt that now I probably wouldn't mention her sad condition to her supervisor, either.

Minutes later I was tempting death on the J. C. Circle, heading back to Sanitaria Springs for a cup of fresh ground Kona coffee. Almost three years in the making, and involving a string of comedic errors rivaling a“Seinfeld” episode, it was over. Now I had only to wait for the news, good or bad.

When the results came back, I had the last laugh. Yes, I'm 35 pounds overweight. Sure, my knees need chemicals to keep the bones from rubbing together. But! Here's the rub........perfect cholesterol numbers, and my triglycerides are great. I can eat all the junk I want. Plus, I hear the lab tech has decided to start getting some rest and a shower before her early morning blood lettings.

Happy Birthday Jordan Lynne Winfield, 3/25/2011

My son Chris and my beautiful daughter-in-law Jaime, had their first child about 8:15 this morning. I was sitting here dazed by the wonder and joy of it all, and moved to putting my thoughts on paper. These aren't my exact thoughts, of course. I am incapable of expressing them. But, I hope these words say what a truly wonderful and joyful day this is for this unworthy grandpa. Welcome to the planet Earth, Jordan. May your heart be filled with your mother's and father's love, spirit and determination. Don't let gravity or anything else ever hold you down.

Jordan Lynne

The sun was bright on that cold March day

We knew Jordan Lynne was well on her way.

No news of any kind had our hearts on the edge

But no news is good news it's said by the hedge.

Grandmas and Aunties were all so aflutter

Impatiently awaiting to click every shutter.

She'll be the most loved child on the planet

Years before, that was hammered in granite.

Hair chestnut brown and eyes of bright blue

“She looks like her dad, no she's really more you”

As the relatives gathered around and opined

Deep in their hearts she became more entwined.

She's here, she's here for all to love and hold

From birth to adult, even when she grows old.

She's already the most loved child on the planet

Everyone can see it's hammered in granite.

A "Purposeful" Party

It was no place for the faint of heart or anyone reluctant to party hearty. Who would have thought that staid olde Windsor, CT would be the scene of a massive 4 day party of wild Trop Rock phans?
Only about 500 souls, suffering from the great Northeast's frigid winter induced 'cabin fever', that's who.
From February 24th to the 27th, the Marriott in Windsor hosted this huge phlock of Parrot Heads. They caroused, drank, ate, stayed up all night, and spent their money to further the causes of several charities. After all, it's mainly about helping your fellow man if you're a true Parrot Head. That's why the organization's motto is "party with a purpose". There's no rules saying Parrot Heads can't have a wild time while raising funds for local and national causes, so they do. In fact, they do on a tremendous scale.
It can be described, but not in a forum such as this. It takes participation in the Parrot Head nation known as Parrot Heads in Paradise, Inc. and one of the affiliated clubs in your local area, to get the full impact of how much can be done and the amount of phun to be had.
Raising funds and having a great time doing it were the main thrust of the 4 day party in Windsor. However, to put perspective on this convention and differentiate it from any other you may be familiar with, think about this. The main business conducted here was to plan the next several New England Parrot Head Conventions. It becomes a party to plan the next party! Cool!
Party on Parrot Heads!

Pat the Cashier

If one of the cashiers decided to show up they’d keep the lights and gas pumps on and do business until the next shift either did or didn’t appear.

If nobody replaced them by the end of their shift, they simply shut the pumps off, locked the doors and left. That's how it went until Pat came to town.

Pat had a different way of doing things than her co-workers generally did. She was a responsible person who would stay at the register and make calls to her fellow cashiers between customers, trying to find one to come in and work the next shift. She frequently had to work doubles, and usually counted on being in the store from 5:00 AM until 11:00 PM before going home. Pat was used to not getting any breaks, but she has certain regular customers who would watch the counter for her while she went to the restroom, or took a minute or two to restock the diary case. If a customer came in, the regular would call out to her and she'd come ring them out. Soon, Pat was promoted to Store Manager.

Everyone, including her boss in the Albany office wondered why Pat was so loyal, and such a hard worker. Only her Albany based supervisor knew her gender, as she dressed and groomed with a metro-sexual androgynous look.

That only deepened the mystery surrounding her, and Pat usually took quiet pleasure in the whispered questions she often heard her customers asking one another when they thought she couldn't hear.

“Do you think Pat's a man or a woman?” someone would ask.

“I think Pat's a dude,” another would say. “I saw him loading full LP cylinders into the rack yesterday. He wasn't straining or even breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah, I don't picture any women around here doing that. LP tanks are heavy, and that top shelf is about 7 feet up,” the first customer replied.

“Pat never has make-up on, and that short hair doesn't give anything away,” the second customer said. “Those flannel shirts and baggy jeans don't tell you anything. That's for sure.”

********

Pat grew quiet and her chest tightened whenever she overheard those conversations and comments. Sometimes she felt like she couldn't breathe and she'd fall silent as her memory flashed to a balmy summer night three years earlier.

It was a hot night in Tuscon. The late news had been unremarkable. The usual urban happenings: Auto accidents, house fires with families and pets trapped inside, both failed and successful convenience store robberies, and the standard hit-and -runs. They had no interest in national or international news so she and Marty had gone to bed at 11:30. The newlyweds made love and talked for a half hour before kissing good night. The conversation had mostly been about school and recreation for Marty's seven year old daughter from his previous marriage.

Since they got divorced, Marty's first wife, Rosie, had been arrested for selling crack cocaine to an undercover Arizona State Trooper. Her plea bargain had bought her a year in the county lock-up, and five years probation. After her arrest, Marty had no problem gaining full custody of Amy Lynn, and she lived with Pat and Marty in their comfortable home.

Once Rosie was out of jail and landed a job, the family court judge had ordered her to pay Marty $200.00 a month for child support. Marty had told the judge he didn't need or want any money from his ex-wife, but judge Barbara Hemingweigh secretly wanted to make Amy Lynn's mother suffer a bit more for her misdeeds.

The drugs and criminal lifestyle had made the former Mrs. Lightner a dangerous woman. She hated that Marty had married Pat and was raising Amy in a nice suburban home, while she was still immersed in a profane life of drugs and hand to mouth living.

********

2:45 AM No sound awakened Pat or Marty. No stealthy footsteps across a floor, or light in their eyes aroused them.

A deafening explosion. Pat awoke, scared and disoriented, bolt upright in bed. A flashlight wagged side to side in the darkness and a man's muffled voice mumbled, “there, the bastard won't need any more child support.” The sound of a heavy weight hitting the ground outside the window, then footsteps running down the walkway toward the street.

Later, Pat would realize that the voice had a Mexican accent, and that the flashlight's beam was very bright with a blueish hue.

Right now, she was frozen in place. Time stopped and Pat reached for the bed side lamp in slow motion. Her thoughts and movements felt like her mind and body were encased in heavy liquid, slowing down her every process.

Pat was momentarily blinded by the light from the reading lamp, but she blinked and struggled to see. She flung herself out of bed and onto the floor when she saw the bloody mass of raw meat that had been Marty's handsome face only a couple of hours ago. Screaming, Pat ran down the hall to Amy's room. The child was still asleep, causing Pat to think the worst had happened, but a shake awoke the little girl, and Pat grabbed her out of the bed. Quickly wrapping the child in a blanket, Pat dashed out the back door and ran screaming through the unlocked rear entry of the house next door.

********

Three years later, and 2500 miles away, Pat had another life in Plain View, NY. The convenience store was a haven from her memories of that horrible night and all that had happened in the aftermath.

Pat's recollection of the Mexican accent, the LED flashlight, and the window escape, had helped detectives amass a mountain of forensic evidence to catch the killer. To lighten her own sentence, Rosie had rolled over on her boyfriend, telling the DA it was all his idea. Rosie had coerced him into murdering Marty, but she struck an excellent plea bargain. For her testimony, Rosie had only 3 years tacked onto her probation, and she was a free woman.

With Marty dead, Amy Lynn's custody was awarded to Marty's mom and dad. Only in their early 50s, they were young enough and successful enough to provide Amy with a good life. Pat was happy for Amy, but missed the little girl every day, wishing she could raise her in Marty's honor.

Pat's early life, and all signs of her upbringing in Arizona no longer existed. Jessica Marie Toffman had been born Valentine's day 1981, in Phoenix, Arizona. Her parents had been proud when she received a sheepskin from the University of Arizona, proclaiming her to be a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. But her new Social Security number and drivers license proclaimed her to be Pat O'Hearn, and her birth certificate now said she was born in San Fransisco, California.

Life in rural Upstate New York was peaceful. There was little chance that Rosie could ever find Pat and make good on her promise to hunt her down and kill her for “stealin' my man, and takin' my daughter away from me”, as she alleged. Her own life of crime had sealed Rosie's fate, and though Pat was innocent, she was serving a life sentence. Some days, a certain voice, or a fleeting glimpse of a woman entering the store or pumping gas outside, still sends a chill up Pat's spine. For now, it's better to be safely obscure in her sexuality and gender as the hard working, mysterious loner who manages the Hess Mart in Plain View, NY.

Another Way to Get There

This short essay is by Mel Chaplin an American who resides in Brazil. I think you'll be entertained by Mel's thoughtful contributions, so his work appears from time to time on this forum. Enjoy!

In preparation for my sailing trip I had made a list of tools. On this list was a buffer/sander. It would save a lot of elbow grease when cleaning and polishing the boat. I was looking for a deal, so I went to one of those big box super lumberyard/ tool/hardware/garden stores. A secret mission was in my heart when I sauntered into the sanctum sanctorum of “guy-dom”; the tool department.

I strolled slowly up and down the aisles. It was a Mitty'esque day dream. I walked, unhurriedly, by the saws, screwdrivers, drills and wrenches that surrounded me. What satisfaction! I was in the midst of a grand collection of gadgets that would warm the heart of any handyman. Tools were all lined up on the hooks in their tidy rows. My finger reached out to touch the lightly oiled metal of a pristine drill bit. What a great sensation feeling the bit's sharpened flutes. These tools, sorted by size, make and type, lived there begging to escape to live in someone's cozy tool box. At the hammer display, my pulse quickened at the sight of their gleaming wooden handles, unscathed by use. The heads shone, not yet marred by the collision with the first nail. I lifted one, swinging it slightly, feeling the weight, noting its balance and sensing how that cold hardened steel head could drive a small spike home with ease. There were so many different sizes, weights and shapes. From small slim tack hammers on one side, graduating up to hefty five-pound hand sledges at the far end of the rack. Moving onward there were hand saws, miter boxes, clamps, sandpaper and pry bars. My euphoria grew as I went around the corner and on my right, spotted the large table saws, drill presses, band saws and lathes. They were all lined up, standing at attention like soldiers on parade.

On the left were electrical hand tools saws, drills, and routers. Finally, right there in the corner next to me, were the disk sanders/grinders. I had never owned one, but now that was about to change. A half-dozen brands were on display, but my eye instantly went to the one marked "CLEARANCE! DISPLAY MODEL". It was a Black and Decker. The little information chart, like the ones posted in front of all its brothers, was gone; Not even a price. This was the last one. It was maybe 9:00 AM, and not many buyers had yet graced these hallowed halls. The "associate" was not otherwise occupied so I beckoned to him for assistance.

“This is the last one, how much?” I queried.

He came over and looked at it. He flipped it over and found the model number. We ambled along to his computer terminal. "Well it was originally $49.95, but if you want it, how ‘bout $39.95?" He gave himself away with the "how ‘bout". I knew I could do better.

"Well, yeah! If you've got the box and papers and other stuff," I said. Figuring if those things were lost, he would be willing to negotiate further.

High above the hammers and drill bits, etc. are shelves. They are hidden behind facades covered by graphics. Mr. “Associate” gets the sliding ladder and proceeds to look through each and every section for the box and other accouterments. The buffer's box was not in the first section, nor the next, and so forth till the very end when he say's, "looks like it’s not here”.

"I don't know, without the warranty and wrench, it's kinda risky.” I responded thoughtfully.

"Well, what about $29.95?” he replies.

That was the kind of number I was waiting to hear. ”OK,” I said.

To change the price he had to get an override number. After a consultation with his co-associate, the correct code was indexed, and money exchanged. I left with a smile on my face, a warm glow in my heart, and a new buffer/sander in my bag.

The moral of the story is: The second best way to a man’s heart is through his tool box.

Stepping Up at Christmas

There's a big storm blowing it's way up the coast

It'll be here today and it's kids who'll cheer the most.

Around here they close down the schools at first sign

Of a snowflake flying in the air, no matter how benign.

Today's the biggest Internet shopping day of the year.

We'll go online to order and they'll ship 'em over here.

With the hard part of Christmas all but in the bag

We've little else to do so time will start to lag.

There's time to think about what Christmas means to me

Kicked back with feet up, admiring the decked out tree.

My wish for this Holiday Season is that at least a few

People will take the time to consider me and you.

Did you do something charitable for your fellow man?

Did you pass the Salvation pot putting naught in the can?

How about that handicapped parking space out front of the store?

Did you put the Buick in it to scorn the crippled and the sore?

How about that neighbor who couldn't find his cat?

Did anyone help him? Did they think to do that?

The family on the back street has no smoke coming out

Of their bent little chimney and it's rusted little spout.

Will someone stop by houses on the other side of town

To ask the better off to lay a few dollars down.

It's one less eight dollar drink with the office crowd

A gesture that will make your heart very very proud.

It's Christmas time! Draw you loved ones warmly near.

Give a little more, dear ones, it's only once a year

It's Christmas time! Let's do the most we can.

To love each other freely and bring joy to every man.

It's Christmas time! You say you can't do very much?

Just give a little of yourself to everyone you touch.

A Gnarly Pyrate (Yo! Ho! Ho!)

Don's Christmas Gift to You - Enjoy!!!

Long time readers of this blog may recognize the story of Bob The Elf from last Christmas. Here it is again, with an updated title, to uphold the Christmas tradition of having a little something non-traditional served up for Christmas. After all, December 25th is Jimmy Buffett's birthday, too.

THE GOLD BUTTON
(How a Florida Crow Saved Christmas)
by Don Winfield

From a thousand feet above, the shiny object looked like a shimmering jewel glistening in the noonday sun. It caught Ralph’s eye so he tucked his wings in and dived down for a closer look.

It was a warm and sunny south Florida day, and Ralph was flying alone as usual. He’d been following I-95 looking for something to eat or pique his interest. He was busy picking up shiny objects and passing time until someone threw the last bite of a burger or some greasy fries out of a car window. He was really wishing for a stale bit of glazed doughnut. The other crows in the flock gave Ralph the bird equivalent of the cold shoulder. He looked and behaved different than they did so the other birds usually shunned him. He never preened, didn't like road pizza, and had a few curiously red tipped feathers on the very top of his head. Ralph tried to not let his estrangement from the flock bother him. He knew he was as good as any other crow, and suspected he was a lot smarter. “Why would anyone want to eat that nasty road stuff?” he thought.

Ralph zeroed in on the shiny object, and as he zoomed nearer he realized it was under the heavy mesh of a storm grate. He landed on the grate and immediately found that the shiny thing was a few inches out of his beak’s reach. Ralph cocked his head to one side and gave the gold button a closer look. “That looks like an engraving of Earth with a trimmed Christmas tree on it,” he mused. “I wonder where it came from?”

********

In a chilly workshop far north of Ralph’s nest, a short, round, fresh faced, and very worried little fellow in a green suit and pointy red hat, rubbed his neck worriedly. Softly, he kept repeating, “oh me, oh me, oh my.” Bob was a very minor cog in the gears of Santa’s well oiled Christmas machine. The little elf had just made a shocking discovery. Bob thought he should run and tell his boss. Petunia Elfson his pretty, red-haired, and often snippy supervisor, needed to know what he’d just learned. The big sleigh was scheduled fly away in fifty-nine minutes, but suddenly everything had gone horribly wrong.

Yesterday, December 23^rd, a frantic e-mail arrived from a gi-normous toy factory in Taiwan. It was the worst possible news to the North Pole. Every single Wobbleezer Action Figure had to be pulled in. The recall was urgent and all-inclusive. Toy testers in a rural village in northern Ireland had easily disassembled a Wobbleezer and eaten 13 small pieces. Both four year old researchers were being closely observed, and the tiny parts were expected to pass within a day or so. Nonetheless, danger lurked within every Wobbleezer, and they all had to go back to Taiwan for repairs. Bob knew that this meant they’d all be scrapped at the toy stores that collected them and replacements would be rushed out from the factory. This time of year even a rush shipment would take about five weeks. That would be about five weeks too late for Christmas.

Although Bob was worried he decided not to panic. After all toy procurement was Horner’s job. Horner was an old elf that had worked for over 200 years in Santa’s Workshop. Horner knew all the procedures. He would handle the Wobbleezer problem. Horner could remember when he and 10,000 other elves labored all year long to make enough wood and metal toys for all the children of the world. Now, a couple of decades of computerization, various cutbacks and downsizing, had reduced Santa’s workforce to sixteen harried, nervous, and overworked elves. Each of the sixteen had a very specific job, and none overlapped. Days were long and stressful, but Horner was at the top of his game.

Santa's Elves don’t get sick and the last injury was almost 100 years ago when Mrs. Claus accidentally sat on Moe. She had heard news of an escalating war in Europe and was very worried about the children there. While parking her oversized posterior in a loveseat near the radio, she failed to notice Moe who was napping before his shift. Poor Moe suffered a broken leg and was out of work four weeks starting in late October 1914.

********

The always cheerful Horner had happily tackled the latest disaster and was feverishly making arrangements to get new toys to replace the defective Wobbleezers. Old Santa was in his usual laid back condition with wisps of smoke encircling his head and a cheery smile on his round face. Nothing seemed to bother the man in the red suit, as long as his pipe was lit and smoke kept filling the air.

With the toy recall problem now in Horner’s capable hands, Bob had another extremely pressing issue to worry about. Santa’s sleigh was also being recalled. A small company in India had recently bought out the failing Japanese carriage maker that had been making Santa’s Sleighs since the early eighteen sixties. Things hadn’t gone well since Toyota and the rest of the Japanese manufacturers took over the auto industry late in the twentieth century. The tiny sleigh maker just got sucked into the vortex and disappeared. Now, at 11:01 PM on Christmas Eve, an urgent call from India had caused a real disruption in the Christmas delivery schedule. Santa’s one and only sleigh absolutely could not fly tonight! The flaw which Indian quality control testers found in its construction was terminal. The Quality Control Manager at Happy Sleigh Works in Scalpur, grimly stated that even one attempt at landing on a rooftop would certainly kill Santa, his reindeer, and maybe even some innocent children. Bob could not build a whole new sleigh. With no solution in view, Santa was have to be grounded.

“Oh me, oh me, oh my,” Bob repeated. “What ever will we do? Santa surely must make his appointed rounds.” It seems that elves often talk like that.

As Bob was thinking there was no solution in sight, the lovely Petunia saw him standing in the workshop with a frown on his face and his head hanging down. “Bob, you must go fetch Santa’s red outfit. We need to get him suited up, no matter what,” she shouted. “Santa’s journey has been happening for 2009 consecutive years, and it won’t be stopped by a couple of silly little glitches!” Bob shot off as fast as he could run for the climate-controlled closet where the internationally famous red suit was kept. He pulled it off the rack with great care. The big hand made wooden hanger always seemed to keep the suit perfectly pressed and ready for action. The little Elf noticed something amiss. “That’s strange,” Bob thought to himself. “It's never hung up with one button left undone.”

“Oh me, oh me, oh my!” Bob wailed. “Things keep getting worse and worse! How could this possibly have happened?” Beads of perspiration ran into his eyes and his fingers trembled as he held Santa’s splendid red suit up to the light for closer inspection. There was no doubt about it. There were only seven gold buttons. The eighth button was missing!

Hearing Bob’s exclamation, Petunia dashed into the huge closet with a worried look on her chubby pink face. “Whatever is the trouble, Bob?” Then, quickly seeing the problem, she cried out, “oh my stars! The Christmas Tree button is missing!”

The two elves were stunned. They just stood there in the humidor staring at Santa’s only red outfit in total disbelief. How could this have happened? Every precaution is always taken. Nobody ever touches The Suit until it’s time for Santa to go out on Christmas Eve. A thorough search of the otherwise empty closet was completed in less than ten seconds. The red Santa Claus Suit is the only thing ever kept in the climate-controlled room, and the floors and walls are kept immaculately clean to avoid contamination of the nearly two thousand year old garment. The button truly was missing.

********

Bob didn’t know why Petunia was so upset. He didn’t know that Petunia was the only living being who knew how important the missing gold Christmas Tree button really was. Without that button, there would be no Christmas presents for millions of children and adults around the globe. That button did many of the usual things that buttons do. It fastened Santa’s pants to his big red coat so they wouldn’t fall down when he’s exiting chimneys. It held Santa’s coat closed to keep him warm on the cold winter night. It also did something else that only Petunia knew.

The missing button was the one and only Magic Button! It was the talisman that made Santa’s big night possible. Its globe and tree engraving gave that button the awesome power to carry Mr. Claus around the world in only one night, bringing happiness, wonder, and gifts to the billions of children who believe in the magic of Christmas.

********

In a Christmas Palm south of Miami, Ralph the finicky crow was roosting atop his latest prized possession. It had taken Ralph a lot of time and patience to finally get his beak on the shiny object he’d spotted in the storm drain. Shiny things were his weakness and near downfall. Many times Ralph had barely escaped being electrocuted while landing on high power lines to inspect something he’d seen reflecting the bright Florida sun. On several occasions he’d nearly spent a second too long sitting in the center of the fast lane on I-95 trying to pry some glistening bit of this or that out of the melted tar. It’s hard to judge the speed and closing rate of an 18-wheeler when your attention is fixated on a ‘must have’ bauble.

Hundreds of short trips from the saw grass to the drain grate had done the trick. Slowly, Ralph had put enough grass and sticks in the grate so that a road crew making a routine drain inspection had to remove the grate to clean it out. Ralph watched patiently perched high in a nearby palm, waiting for the right moment. The second the workers paused for a quick water break, Ralph swooped down from his branch. In a flash he grabbed the button and minutes later Ralph was admiring his latest prize in his cozy nest in the top of a Christmas Palm.

********

The hands on Santa’s Ready Room clock were a blur. It seemed like the last 49 minutes had passed in 49 seconds. At 11:50 PM the alarm bell on the tall overhead doors leading into the workshop storage area started ringing. The doors slowly opened. Outside stood a line of eighteen wheelers loaded with enough Wobbleezer replacements to please every child who’d asked for one. These were labeled “Wabbleezers” but the subtle difference in spelling would not be noticed by the excited children. The kids of the world would be very happy to have the safer and longer lasting copies manufactured in Akron, Ohio.

Elfin magic filled the air, and in a flash, the Wabbeleezers were wrapped and stowed in the faulty sled. Nobody told Santa of the recall or that he would soon be airborne in a dangerous toy laden sleigh.

********

Bob’s fingers were bleeding. He’d chewed his fingernails beyond the quick and was still gnawing like a beaver on a mission. His nervousness did not escape Petunia and Horner alert eyes. They couldn’t do anything to make Bob feel better about the things he was sure were going wrong all around him. He knew the sleigh was dangerous and may harm Santa and many innocent people. He knew that the missing button was important, but not how necessary it really was. Horner didn’t know the button was missing, but he’d seen the sleigh recall. Horner also knew that Petunia would never put Santa or children at risk, so he was just calmly waiting to see what would happen.

Quickly, Bob glanced at the clock once again. 11:59 PM. Santa laughed a jolly “Ho, ho, ho,” as he bounded out of the green room and jumped into his waiting sleigh. Eight tiny reindeer snorted and pawed at the warehouse's concrete floor, waiting for the doors to open and let them fly. Santa grabbed a handful of reins and started calling each reindeer by name.

********

In south Florida, a black crow with a red splash of color on the top of his head was suddenly thrown high into the air above his Christmas Palm nest. Disoriented, he flipped over and over barely getting his wings spread in time to avoid a serious beak plant in the sand. As the stunned Ralph glided to the ground under his palm tree, he wondered what had blasted him out of his tree so suddenly. The confused crow slowly shook it off. Finally gathering his senses Ralph flew back to his nest to check the damage. He was hysterically happy when he saw that the nest was fine but seconds later his little bird heart saddened as he realized his prized gold button was gone.

********

Meanwhile from a secret village near the Arctic Circle, a jolly old man, eight tiny reindeer, and a very sturdy sleigh rose into the starlit North Pole night. The jolly old elf was toasty warm. His pants were secure, and all eight buttons of his coat were intact. The gold Magic Button had miraculously reappeared at the stroke of midnight, its magic making everything perfect for Santa’s big trip.

Petunia moved silently to Bob’s side and took his hand. As he smiled into Petunia’s shining blue eyes, the elf named Bob breathed a huge sigh of relief. Santa was safely on his way. The children of the world would get their presents again this Christmas just as they had every year for the last two hundred years.

RESTARTING - AGAIN (a poem)

RESTARTING - AGAIN

2010 Don Winfield

A grim future was but a fable

Of another person’s life.

Now it’s come to the table

Sure as the kids and wife.

Yesterday seemed like a window

Where man was his own master

It became a surreal doorway

Open on the path to disaster.

Madoff took a lot of dreams

Ground them to pieces small

GM lost the auto brands

And Wall Street took the call.

Good news from Obama

We’re good to go it seems

They’ve finally found Osama

But only in their dreams

If we all stick together

Hold each other to stay warm

The welfare line seems cozy

No work but what’s the harm?

Another year is dawning

Resurgence is on the way

Two thousand ten is waning

New lives for all, they say.

A GUEST CONTRIBUTION

Today's short story is a special one. This unedited short is from an old friend of mine who currently is nurturing orchids in Brazil. Mel is deservedly living the good life with his lovely Brazilian wife. I'm sure you will enjoy this story. I know it will make you think, and possibly it will invoke thoughts of some unique occurrence in your own life. Enjoy!

The Wedding Guest
by Mel Chaplin

He watched her as she turned.
She and her buddy moving off into the distance.
He just stood there.
Reflecting and absorbing the conversation, like a dream that had just transpired.

A woman and a man in their mid-40's approached him.
Holding hands and smiling.
Short. Chubby. Dressed in black suits. Wearing black wigs.
Here, at Amy's wedding, where he thought he would know no one.

She had simply said, "Hello, you are Mel Chaplin, aren't you? You may not remember me!
You were responsible for giving me the most exciting adventure of my life".

...the MOST exciting adventure of my life.
Now that was an interesting opening statement
said even in the presence of this little chubby man,
who he thought must be her husband.

Yes. He took them both in with his eyes and mind.
They were definitely a couple.
The kind of couple that seem to grow to resemble each other, as some couples do over time.
In fact, maybe they do resemble each other right from their first meeting and that's what draws them to each other.

And he returned to the conversation which was just taking place in this lobby next to the Louis XV reproduction table flowing with flowers and candles and half empty glasses of champagne.

She gave her name maiden name and introduced her husband.
She's right.
He did not remember her.
He was looking at her after she had made this amazing confession and wondering,
Who is this woman and where is this conversation going?
He composed himself. Smiled.
And responded. "Oh, Really?"

She had seen him at one of the tables.
He was with a group of people, but also alone.
How long had it been?
He had aged. Gray, Balding and bearded but still...she knew him instantly.
His face was also a bit worn, with a straightforward-look-in-your-eye pride.
His aura was unmistakably recognizable. Still the same features.
This was the countenance of the young man she had spent hours thinking about... starting when?
Over 30 years ago.
And if the truth were known, yes, even now into the present.
Wondering... what had happened to...
Wondering... what if she had only...
And there he was.
In this room.
At this wedding reception.

Was he alone?
What events had shaped his life?
In fact, at this moment in his life, who was he...really?

Did he need to know about the memories that he had provided her?
Did he need to know that over the years those memories had given her spiritual being
wings to endure those humdrum moments, those realities, which comprised her life?
Did he need to know that she still returned to the thrill of that night,
that place, as her greatest moment of adventure?

She watched him throughout dinner, unobtrusively of course.
He looked dapper.
Suspenders.
A charming little bow tie.
Cufflinks shimmering and bouncing light.
Tortoise shell glasses.
Ruddy cheeks.
A cultivated look.
A statement.

He smiled and laughed and spoke with people at the table.
He looked around the room.
He looked at her.
But when he looked at her it was the same look he had when taking in the wooden trim on the door, or the way the rays of light were dispersed from the chandelier. And the way he visually absorbed most people in the room who took his interest.
Taking them in while his mind was elsewhere.
She saw that when he looked at her.
She saw that as she watched him looking at others and his surroundings.

Was he married?
Where was his mate?
Did he have a partner?
What had happened to him during those three decades?
Would she ever know?
In fact, what did she really know about him at all?

He had wandered into the lobby, looking around at the pseudo-artwork hung on the walls, statues mounted in prominent locations and a large bowl of flowers on the table in the center of the room.

She thought... he should know how important the memories he had provided her with had been to her, to her entire life...since that one night.
She also thought that this moment of contact, even if it were just for a few moments,
would allow her to measure her memories against reality.
She felt comfortably that she could do this now.
She needed to hear the cadence and timbre of his voice for more than just a few seconds.
For longer than the few seconds she had heard his youthful speech. The only time she had heard him speak..
She knew she needed to see his facial and physical response to her confession.
She knew this was childish. She knew the confession would more than likely have no meaning for him whatsoever...
She knew he would walk away and never give that night...her memories...this confession...one other thought.

But she also knew she was here, hand in hand with her husband, Mr and Mrs "X".
While he was alone.
If she didn't catch her breath and allow this moment to happen...make this moment happen...there would never be an opportunity again.
Yes, she thought.

Yes she responded.

Her mind returned to those memories of over younger days and she wasn't even nervous for one second, as she thought she would be.
Her speech just flowed as she recreated that night.

"You lived on Stenton Ave. right near the drug store. My girlfriends and I walked to that drug store every night in the summer. When was it? I was 15. It must have been '62 or '63. After we got the soda at the Deli, we shuffled through the magazines at the drug store and we left. We killed time. We crossed the street and there was your house. That was part of the planned route. Your motorcycle was parked outside. It was beautiful. Shinny silver and black, big and totally out of place in 'our' neighborhood. We would just stand there and stare at it and wonder about who owned it and where the owner was and make up stories and giggle."

"We know this motorcycle was very well taken care of...the kind no one had better even touch. And we didn't. Until that summer's day...on a dare. I walked up to it. I touched the leather seat, it was not as I expected, it was firm. How do I mount it. I rested my foot on the rubber peg. swung the other leg over and there I was perched upon it."

"A second later you came out the door.
I slid off the seat and expected you to be upset.
Instead, you just said, wanna go for a ride?"

"Go for a ride? Wow!
The idea of really riding on a motor cycle was about as real for me as going to the moon. And about as scary. But my girlfriends were all standing there waiting for my response. You had just asked the question any one of us had dreamed you would ask but you asked me.
My head throbbed.
My heart pounded.
The sweat beads gathered on my eyebrows.
I could feel my thigh tremor but the only possible response was , "sure!".
You got onto the bike.
Fiddled with some controls, and with a few deft kicks the engine roared into life.
You gave me a helmet and I got on behind you.
I sat hugging your chest.
Scarred to death."

"Out onto Stenton Avenue we headed. Dust and wind stung my face. I held on tightly, with sweaty hands. We turned onto a winding road and as the bike tilted from right to left going thru the turns I felt a thrill and fear, I've never known since.Ten minutes later we were back to the corner of Stenton & Durard."

"What happened afterwards?" Hubby wanted to hear more - maybe.
"Nothing", she responded.
"My friends were on the patio, where you parked the bike, waiting for me when we returned.
I got off the bike. You got off the bike. We all said good bye and that was it!"

He looked at her and she thought she heard him wonder...why didn't you come back for more?

"We continued to walk to the drug store and then across the street past your house, the parking lot, your motorcycle...every night for the rest of the summer.
I never saw you again.
Then you moved and I went away to college...
And I still always think about that ride every time I see a motorcycle actually lots of times."

"Hmmm...You're right I don't recall that, but I've got a poor memory.
But I'm sure it happened. I'm glad that evening was able to provide you with so much excitement and memories over the years. Thanks for sharing that ."

They walked away.
She didn't know him one bit more than she did before she shared this filled with meaning and emotional confession of her life. But sharing it had been easier than she had thought.
And now she was...she was... liberated from herself.

He watched their chubby short bodies diminish as they waddled away.
He once again became absorbed in the sounds and sights of the people the movement in the room and the dynamics of the interactions. Chatting amicably with other strangers

Mr and Mrs "X", they were out of his space. And he reflected.

Yes, he remembered.
Maybe not her specifically...but the general feeling.
Asking a girl to go for a ride on a motorcycle..
Smelling the robust scents of summer of the city...
Of summer...on bare skin.
Sensing the changes of temperature as day turns into dusk and pockets of cold air surprise you,
even on the hot nights.
The sensation of the power of the machine becomes a part of you with a twist of the throttle.
The oneness with the landscape as it hurtles by.
Feeling the tightening of her bare arms around your firm stomach.
Feeling your chest tighten.
Feeling your groins dig into the bike.
Feeling the balls of your feet push into the pedals.
Feeling the softness of her breasts
and the firmness of her young nipples pushing into your back.
Feeling her warm breath on your neck.
Feeling the wind sting your face.
Moving forward and fast.

Peanut Brittle Run

In line at the neighborhood Eckerd's Pharmacy, things were getting a little tense. The 'church lady' looking woman being served at the register was there for the long haul. She made her third request for the cashier to go check a price, run down some Aspirin, or sort through the available stamps for just the right picture, when the gentleman three spots behind me cleared his throat. "B-itch", he hacked! The other five of us in the line glanced quickly in his direction, and most gave him an approving nod. I was late as usual for my Monday afternoon guitar lesson, and getting a bit antsy, myself. Just behind me, a little old lady in a brown knit cardigan and a matching knit beanie with two frolicking puppies embroidered on it, poked me in the back. I half turned toward her with a raised eyebrow. I couldn't wait to hear what she had to say about the unhurried shopper ahead of me.
"I'm going to pretend to faint", she whispered. "Catch me, and in the confusion the man behind me can push that woman out of the way".
That made me laugh right out loud. I thought I was the only one who got cranky when someone did their year's worth of business at the only open register with a long line behind them.
I shook my head 'no', and offered a suggestion. Turning toward the line which was now nine shoppers long, I said. "Listen folks, it looks like it's going to be a little while longer. The shopper ahead of me has just noticed that five of her items that are not marked correctly. How about we have a rousing sing along?"
That broke the ice. At least four shoppers wanted to sing songs. One suggested "Bringing In the Sheaves". Another thought that "Koumbyah" was appropriate, while two others wanted to sing sad songs of death and destruction. One guy just swore. We finally settled on "Margaritaville", a song everyone knew. After a verse of two of that, we had attracted a crowd of wide-eyed employees and shoppers. Most importantly, it accelerated the time it took the 'church lady' to decide she didn't need the disputed items. She paid and left the store.
The cashier thanked us profusely and the gathered employees and shoppers applauded vigorously.
I paid for the two boxes of peanut brittle I'd picked up, and went to my lesson.
It just goes to show you. Sometimes you can turn a bad situation around if you can only look at it from another point of view.

A PIRATE'S CHRISTMAS

Pirates say “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

What’s a Pirate to sing when Christmas is come?

Ye rattle yer sword and jingle yer bell

Deck all the decks and wish 'em to hell

Yer cohorts and mates are welcome to beer.

The rest of 'em dogs ain't getting' no cheer.

No grog, no grub, and no drinkin' rum.

These pirates 'll not, no never feed scum!

We'll show 'em the 'cat'! Walk ‘em into the sea

Grab our booty ya will? No quarter for ye!

Pirates sing “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

Time to dance on the deck. Christmas is come!

So sing “Jingle Bells” and “Oh Holy Night”.

Keep yer pint of rum in yer hand real right.

It's Christmas under the bones and the skull,

Honor yer mates at the Holiday lull.

Now we'll sail away in this ship of wood,

The gov'ner 'll catch us if his headin' is good.

We'll binge and frolic in much warmer climes,

No more plunderin', pirates. It's Christmas time!

by Juan da Pyrate

The Game

The Connecticut Committee met Thursday evening. They decided that immediate action was necessary. Barbara O'Reilly caught the next plane to Australia. A week later, she was still in Sydney, lunching al fresco at the Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.

People moved along the sidewalk toward Bondi Beach or heading back downtown. Few took notice of the tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air. Barbara watched each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes alert to every detail. Blending well, she was just another thirty something business woman having lunch.

Her waiter returned with Barb's check. She carefully laid out the exact change for the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she didn't wish to stand out. Her watchful eyes soon saw what she was waiting for. The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost imperceptibly to an old woman shuffling along the opposite side of Campbell Parade. He dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and quickly slipped inside the cafe'.

Barbara took one last swallow of Perrier and stood. She slowly arranged some items in her purse, smoothed her skirt, pushed her chair in, and casually stepped into the light flow of sidewalk traffic. Barb and the ancient woman were both heading downtown.

Barb strode gracefully along the street, keeping her subject in sight. The crone seemed unaware that she was being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dank alley, her back against the rear entry of a closed haberdashery. After moving ahead of her subject, she'd stopped in a public toilet and disposed of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now, she was a tall statuesque redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow vest, and designer blue jeans. Her right hand held a small silver revolver.

The target entered the alley from the street. Her now youthful pace quickly carried her to within a few feet of Barb. Suddenly the door of the abandoned store burst open, slamming Barb into the alley's opposite wall. She managed to stay on both feet. Instinctively, Barb raised the Colt and fired. The waiter froze in mid swing, the stiletto's long blade missing Barb by less than an inch. A dark hole appeared between his eyes, looking like a squinting third eye as he crumbled to the damp bricks. Barb's gloved left hand deftly retrieved the waiter's dagger. The young man disguised as an old woman had no time to change his course. The thin blade slipped silently between his ribs and through his heart. His last few seconds were wasted trying to understand his fate. "Allah Akbar" he whispered.

The untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. His plot would be exposed and his bombs destroyed during the investigation. Amin's jihad was over.

Jimmy Buffett music from her iPod filled Barb's ears as the 767 lifted into the warm Sydney night. "Next week," she thought. "Another game."

The Barber's Chair

“Good morning, Charlie,” said the tall, dark, and plain stranger. He sauntered into the one chair barber shop and eased into the only empty on deck spot. “How's that sore on the old Johnson?” he queried. “Did you use that ointment I told you about?” He picked up a copy of “Field & Stream” and thumbed casually through a few pages.

Peter, the barber, cast a bent eye toward the stranger and wondered who he was. “Huh?” Pete asked. “How ya doin'? Don't believe we've seen you in here before.”

“Funny man, Charlie. You know who I am,” the new arrival said softly. “How are things with you and that gorgeous blond wife of yours? You two were actin' like 'next stop no-tell' Saturday night. Ken and Barbie's night out.”

“Say what?” Pete the barber sputtered. “Not me! You got me mixed up with someone else, pal.” Pete noticed the other customers suddenly getting interested in street traffic. Nobody was looking at Pete or the stranger.

“Maybe. But you weren't too mixed up about what you wanted Saturday night. Come to think of it, the deeper Blondie's hand got in your pants, the more confused you looked. Everybody at Ollie's Oysters was real focused on that hand,” the man grinned.

“Wha, wha, what the hell you talkin' about?” Pete stammered.

A pretty face with a mane of auburn hair poked around the corner. Green eyes flashed with great interest in the conversation. Caroline Postal didn't say word.

Noticing the flash of red from the shop's office cube, Pete loudly threatened to toss the tall man out. “Bob and Roy here will back me up, so don't give me any shit, buddy!” Pete nodded toward the other two customers who were trying to look busy.

Roy, a paunchy middle-aged customer sitting in the chair nearest the door said, “What the hell! What are you sayin'? Pete was with me Saturday night, just like he always is. Yessir! Texas Hold-em at my place, every Saturday.” Roy pushed his sliding horn rims back up his rather large nose.

“Sorry guys,” the stranger said. “Roy, I won't ask you about that young 'pretty boy' you were checking out at the bar.” The tall man scratched his chin and continued. “I'll admit I thought you two were gonna slip out and hook up in the parking lot.”

"You son of a bitch!” Roy screamed, jumping to his feet. Bob's grab nearly missed, just barely snagging Roy's belt loop, and yanking him back into his seat.

“Settle down, Roy, this guy's just having some fun with you boys”, Bob said quietly. “No need to make a big fuss about it.”

The latest exchange between the barber and his patrons brought the red headed woman out of the office. She stood larger than life, hands on her hips in the middle of the shop. Feet set shoulder width apart and green eyes flashing dangerously, she was looking for some answers.

“I don't know who you are mister, but what you're saying sure adds up,” she said. “Every Saturday night Pete, who you know as Charlie, goes out saying he'll be at Roy's playing poker. When I call his cell, it's never on. When I call Roy's house the machine's turned off. It’s always the same for Bob's. I can't reach him 'til he stumbles home at four or five AM!”

“Callie, honey,” The barber stammered. “You can't believe this guy! Every Saturday, it's poker at Roy's. We shut the phones off so we don’t get interrupted.”

“Hey, I'm sorry if I've made trouble for you dudes,” said the stranger. “I didn't know about all the secrets around here.”

“How about you, Bob?” he went on. “Is that chunky little brunette you were with your wife or another secret? You had your hand on her ass all night.”

Now Bob was hot too. His wife was, in fact, a chubby brunette whom he'd been begging for years to lose weight. His 5'7”, 210 pound body left Bob with little room to squawk. No matter. He felt since he'd married a shapely 102 pound prom queen fifteen years ago, she ought to stay thin forever. As unrealistic as that fantasy was, Bob clung to it. Hearing some stranger call his wife fat was more than he could take. Angry, Bob lost control and lunged toward the cocky stranger swinging like a windmill.

Pete's shapely 6' 3”, 150 pound wife, Caroline Postal, stepped calmly between them. Afternoons in the tanning salon had bronzed her body; a lucky gene pool gave her beauty, and two hours at the gym every morning kept her fit and athletic. With her glistening auburn hair flowing past her collar and her carefully shaped eyebrows giving her a permanent sultry look, Caroline could have stopped Bob the pudgy accountant with a glance. Extending a long, tanned arm, Caroline quickly halted Bob's lunge toward the tall stranger. She flicked him backward into the chair he just jumped from. The wooden chair splintered as he landed. Bob foolishly rebounded to continue defending his hefty wife's honor. Teetering, still dizzy from the sudden change of direction provided by Callie Postal, he lost his balance and fell back into the rubble. Old and dry, the chair had exploded into a hundred pieces. A broken spindle held one leg upright, waving in the air. Bob landed in the exact same spot he'd just vacated. Unluckily, as he fell, the chair leg was perfectly aligned to Bob a painful eight-inch goose. This unfortunate insertion caused Bob to shoot back to his feet screaming. Running blindly to escape the pain, he missed the doorknob and flew through the plate glass onto the sidewalk. Bob was bleeding from his face, hands, and butt. The broken chair leg sticking out of his backside. Howling like a wounded wolf, Bob ran down Mill Street toward the traffic light. At the corner of Mill and River, chair leg wagging like a Labrador Retriever's tail, Bob hung a right and disappeared. As he rocketed passed the bus stop, the wino on the bench raised his brown bag.

“Evenin' Bobby,” he mumbled. “What's the rush?”

Back at the barber shop, Caroline had a laser eye on her roving husband and his lying pal. “Bob'll be alright,” she said. “That's what he gets for being a part of your filthy scheme.”

The barber and Roy looked like they'd just seen The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Heavy emphasis on the ghost.

“Wipe those stupid looks off your faces, you imbeciles!” Caroline hissed. “I'm going to divorce your raggedy ass, Peter Postal, and MY next call after the lawyer will be to your wife, Roy. I'm sure Reggie'll be ecstatic to finally have a reason to take you for everything you own! Serves you right. I'm sure you and your 'boyfriend' will be very happy together!”

Stunned, Roy and Pete stood like the statues on the Courthouse lawn. Neither knew what to say and was not really sure of what had just happened. Fifteen minutes ago life was perfect. Now, both could see nothing but years of misery ahead.

“Get out of my shop! Both of you!” Caroline said.

For tax purposes, Pete's wife already owned their barbershop and everything else they had. In his infinite smugness, Peter Postal had insisted on setting up their financial affairs in this manner, making his wife the sole owner of everything. He was her only employee. It occurred to Pete that he might have just been fired. He was right.

Roy loved his wife beyond anything he could even imagine. He was devoted to making her every waking and sleeping hour nothing but paradise. So blinded was he by his own idealistic feelings about his wife and marriage, Bob had no clue about Regina's reality. He worked twelve hours a day, selling worthless stock to retirees to provide luxuries for Reggie. While he swindled geezers, his highly overpaid gardener, Raul, was trimming Bob's wife's golden bush into a delicate astrological sign. Not her sign, but if she'd ever let him see it, Bob wouldn't have known it was Raul's.

Caroline Postal knew that the stranger's information was just what her friend was praying for. Now Reggie could grab the proverbial diamonds in the mine and give good old Roy the shaft.

The tall, dark, and oddly less than handsome stranger slowly rose to his feet. He glanced around at the trashed barber shop.

“Well,” he said. “It looks like I can't get a haircut here today.”

As he made for the door, he reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out his iPhone, and quickly typed in his password. He hit “Survey/Results” on the touch screen menu. It lit up instantly and he punched in; “Barbershop: Reactions recorded/Survey complete.”

Smiling as he reached the sunny sidewalk, the stranger decided to hit the nearby tiki bar. Time to enjoy a boat drink on the way to his downtown campus psych lab. The report could wait a couple of hours. Strolling easily down Washington Street, he suddenly broke into laughter.

“Rod Serling,” he thought. “Eat your heart out.”