J-Lo Hemingway, a short story

J-Lo Hemingway

By Steve Sheppard

“I don’t feel confident anymore,” Claire said on the phone to her brother Rick, “I don’t feel like anyone cares what I do. Everybody’s critical of me, and so am I. And worse yet, my kids are disobedient.”

Rick answered, “When you said that last part, I knew right away. You need a blessing.”

“A blessing?”

“Yes. No one has ever blessed you.”

“But what about sneezes?”

“That’s different. You need a real blessing. It makes you into the person of your dreams.”

“Where can I pick one up?” She said.

“Have you heard of Blessings R Us?”

“No.”

“They sell blessings.”

“You can buy a blessing?”

“Where do you think they come from?”

“I don’t know. I just thought some people were blessed, and some people were cursed.”

“Nonsense. Come to Denver and I’ll take you.”

So Claire came to Denver and they got into Rick’s Jeep and drove downtown to 15^th and Iris Streets, where Blessings R Us was located in an old Gap store. It was right by the park, and Claire noticed beautiful people throwing Frisbees to their Australian Shepherd/Border Colley Mixes.

“See? That’s what I mean,” Claire said.

“What?”

“Those people. They look blessed. I want that.”

“They look happy.”

“I don’t have time for a dog and a Frisbee and a park. All I do is work and solve problems. A blessing would make me more like them. I’d make time for dogs and Frisbees and parks. I’d make time for a mountain bike. I’d get rid of my Escort and buy a black Audi A4 with a Thule rack system on top, and get a better job. Right now I can’t do any of those things.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Rick said.

Rick and Claire went into Blessings R Us and approached the girl at the counter. She was young and wore expensive jeans, and a cool t-shirt with an angry remark. The perfect edges of her tattoes were only slightly visible under the sleeves, and she had a nose ring, some rings on her thumbs, and perfectly messy hair.

“Excuse me, we’d like to see some Women’s Blessings?” Rick said

“Upstairs,” she said, quickly scanning the two. Her eyes kept talking, saying “That girl needs a blessing. Look at her clothes, look at her hair, look at her sadness. I’d better not think what I think about them, or they’ll see it in my eyes. Whoops.”

“She looks like she shops here,” Rick said, privately, to Claire.

“Why do you say?”

“I don’t know.” Then he turned to the girl, “What blessing do you have?”

Walking away, the girl said, “Jaded-Emo-Model.”

“Hmmm.”

As they entered the elevator, there was a giant display, a mannequin dressed as a painter, painting a large mural. It said: REMBRANT

“You sure know a lot about blessings,” Claire said.

“I’ve studied them for years. Do you realize you can make your own?”

“I thought you said they only come from stores.”

“Well, I did, but like anything, you can make one yourself, by experience. It’s not as good as store-bought, but it’s cheaper; and besides, I hear store-bought blessings aren’t even real.”

“Not real?”

“It’s too complicated to explain. But don’t worry, you’ll never know the difference.”

Just then, the elevator opened and there was a big sign. “This must be the directory,” Rick said. “Let’s see, Career Blessings, Life-Of-Service-Toward-Humanity Blessings, Married-in-Six-Months Blessings, Perfect Body-Forever-Blessings–”

“Perfect Body-Forever-Blessings! Let’s go!” Claire said, grabbing Rick as she went.

The Women’s Blessings department was so beautiful. Each blessing had it’s own chart with mannequins portraying how the blessing looked in six months, twelve months, etc. The décor was exquisite, like the store was designed by the best interior designers in the world. “Do you think this was done by an Interior-Designer blessing?” Claire said.

“No ma’am,” said a voice. It was a man with a giant key-chain, pushing a mop cart. “They only use natural-blessed folk for that.”

“Natural?” Claire said. Rick shrugged his shoulders.

They strolled into the Perfect-Body-Forever blessings, and noticed one at the same time. It was a simple Perfect-Body-Forever blessing but came with People-Attractor and Literary-Talent blessings.

“I need look no further,” Claire said.

“May I help you?” said a woman. She was blonde and slender, but wore thick glasses.

“I’m Rick Carter, and this is my sister Claire. We have some questions about your blessings.”

“Call me Emerald. Hmmm. Impressive. Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes. She’s talking about my blessing,” Rick said.

“You can tell just by looking?” Claire said to the woman.

“Oh, yes. You read the eyes. He’s got a selfless confidence with a bit of courage and some explorer. How did you make the explorer?”

“A month in the Boundary Waters, some Yosemite, but mostly fixing my Jeep on mountain trails. That spills into courage.”

“I’d love a copy. There’s a lot of demand for explorer here in Colorado.”

“You copy self-made blessings?”

“As easy as synthesized drugs.”

“I’m not sure you’d want it. The thing is, I’m unhappy.”

“That’s okay, unhappy’s really hot right now.”

“That so,” Rick said.

“I see you’re admiring our newest arrival,” Emerald said.

“She’s in great shape, but has literary genius,” Claire said.

“We call her J-Lo Hemingway. Just came this month. She has the courage and stamina to complete a literature PhD. Plus the perfect bod forever.”

“Can I try it on?” said Claire, at which Emerald laughed.

“This must be your first visit. Blessings cannot be tried on or returned. You have to know what you want. But who wouldn’t want to be J-Lo Hemingway?”

“But how can you be sure it works?” Rick said.

“I have this one myself,” said Emerald. “I’m in my first month. Already have a book deal with a major CBA publisher, and my Youth Pastor boyfriend is talking marriage.”

“Sheesh,” said Claire, shaking her head.

“That’s impressive,” said Rick.

“It’s a simple process. Simpler than anyone would think.”

“How does it work?” Claire asked.

“Well, I can’t tell you much, but we use a Scientific Surrogate Proxy-Parent. Usually male with women, female with men. The SSPP reads a scientifically prepared scientific script to the customer. That’s if the parents are out of the picture. If not, we use them to read the scientifically prepared script. Then, after a certain period estimated by science, the customer adopts new behavioral patterns, like kayaking, climbing, computer programming and dog-walking and Frisbee.”

Rick turned to Claire, “What do you think?”

“What about mountain bikes and black Audi A4’s and Thule rack systems?” Claire said. Rick laughed.

“All included. Anything’s possible with your blessing,” Emerald said.

“How much and can I make payments?” Claire asked.

“Actually, our blessings don’t cost anything.”

“You mean it’s a free government service?”

“Not quite,” said Emerald, “we give you the blessing, and we take something.”

“Nothing’s for free, Claire,” said Rick.

“So what do you take?” Claire asked.

“Curses.”

“Curses?” both said.

“Yes, curses. You see, in order for you to come in here, you must have a curse, or you would never want a blessing. All we charge is your curse.”

“Like a trade-in,” Rick said.

“But what would you do with a curse?” Claire said.

“We make good use them,” Emerald said. “Actually, curses are really just malfunctioned blessings. For example, a man came in and traded I-Can’t-Draw-Worth-A-Bucket-of-Warm-Spit for Unlimited-Ideas. He’s doing great, getting lots of ideas for things to do. We turned around and gave I-Can’t-Draw-Worth-A- Bucket-of-Warm-Spit to another client, who went on to become a famous artist. It turned out that I-Can’t-Draw-Worth-A-Bucket-of-Warm-Spit was just a virus, a curse mixed with an artistic blessing.”

“I see,” said Rick.

“Anyway, we cleaned up I-Can’t-Draw-Worth-A-Bucket-of-Warm-Spit, renamed it Rembrandt, and it’s one of our best-selling blessings. Thomas Corncade has a new slip-cover series because of it.”

“I have them,” Claire said, “they’re soft.”

Rick looked at Claire. “What do you think? Wanna give J-Lo Hemingway a try?”

“What curses do I have?” she said.

“We can’t tell until we clean it out, and by then we would have already replaced it with your new blessing.”

“Can’t you repair the blessing that’s inside of her? Maybe it’s a good one that’s just malfunctioning. Can you do that?” Rick said.

“I wish you could, but it’s impossible. Let me put it this way: Can you take the brain out and repair it and put it back again? I don’t think so. Taking your curse out and not putting in a blessing would leave you soulless, like a dog. I’m sorry. It’s just science.”

“Do you care if we talk privately, Claire and I?” Rick said.

“Please do. It’s an important decision, and you should be absolutely certain. Go into that J-Lo Hemingway promotion brochure and video room, that should be private enough.”

Rick and Claire went to a fitting room instead, because the store used to be a Gap years before. They tried the door but it was locked.

“I’ll get that,” said the man with the giant keychain and mop cart. Sure enough, he had the key.

“Thank you,” said Claire.

“Which one you going for?” he said.

“We’re thinking of J-Lo Hemingway.”

“You know where that came from don’t you?”

“Tell us,” said Rick.

“I knew J-Lo. Her real name was Jenny. She was a beaut! She wanted to write children’s books, and be an aerobics instructor, and a model and an actress and a bartender, and be on Elimidate. And she could have been all those things, but somebody cursed her. He said, ‘you won’t amount to much, and your ankles are thick.’ I talked her into getting a blessing, and she did, but it didn’t take. Her calling fought it. You see, then can never take that away.”

“Her calling?” said Claire.

“It’s what you’re born with. Blessings come after. They just help the calling. It’s all scientific,” he said.

“What blessing did she get?”

“Business-Acumen-Killer-Instincts. She’s trying to do international real estate stock brokering in Hong Kong, but she’s unhappy.”

“I hear unhappy’s really hot right now,” Rick said.

“Hush!” said Claire. “How do you know so much about Jenny?”

“She’s my daughter.” He said, leaning on his mop.

“I see.”

“Hey, why don’t you get a blessing?” Rick said.

“I was gonna get Wise-Old-Man, but don’t guess I deserve it,” he said, laughing.

“He doesn’t need it, Rick,” Claire said, “He’s got it self-made.”

“Thanks. Same to you,” the man said.

“Not really, but thank you. I need J-Lo. I’m loaded with curses.”

“I thought for sure you already had Problem-Solving and a little Rembrandt. Are you an interior designer.”

“Thanks. You’re very kind,” Claire said, and the man with the keys left.

“He’s right,” said Rick.

“Maybe, but what does he know about interior design? He’s just a custodian.”

“I don’t know. I’ll go get Emerald.”

Rick brought Claire back to Blessings R Us several times for her treatments. He could see the difference. She brought her kids to Denver and they began to obey more. She bought a really cool dog and applied at several new jobs in the city. She worked at Starbucks and enrolled at Front Range Community College. The blessing worked swell, and soon, Claire’s treatments were over.

Then Roland Carter, Rick and Claire’s father, came into Starbucks one day. Neither had seen him in years, and for good reason. He was a real curser. It wasn’t his fault. “He was cursed, too, so that’s all he knows,” Rick always told Claire.

“I heard you were doing quite well for yourself. Do you keep your house clean? That’s important. A clean house makes you feel good,” Roland said. “This isn’t a bad job. You know a good career I heard of you ought to try? International real estate stock broker. You buy stock in real estate all over the world, and you can travel and get rich.”

“Hello? Emerald? This is Rick Carter, Claire’s brother. We had a little problem. Can I bring her in tomorrow.”

Rick and Claire met with Emerald.

“She’s suffering a Parental Breach. We offer an emergency treatment called Scientific Indirect Blessing, or SIB. Instead of speaking directly to Claire, we have the SSPP talk to someone posing as her father. He tells him how wonderful Claire is doing, and how proud he should be, and so on. It takes about an hour, and I recommend once a day for two weeks.”

“Does it work?”

“Most of the time. PB’s are tough, so it’s hit and miss. The best thing is to come in after you’ve had a PAP.”

“A what?”

“Parental Apology Procedure. Getting him to apologize in person. But those are rare.”

“Not gonna happen. How much are the sessions?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred dollars?”

“Wait,” Claire said, “I thought it was free.”

“J-Lo Hemingway is free, but you have to pay if she gets damaged.”

“Criminy,” Rick said.

“You should warn your father next time he curses you, you’ll sue. You can recover the costs of repairing your blessing. We offer lawsuit insurance.”

“This is crazy.”

Claire went into the blessing room, and the SSPP opened a door, and left it open while he bragged about Claire to someone standing out of sight, and, looking closely, Claire could see it was the man with the keys. Claire felt better. She returned to work at Starbucks and Rick went to see Roland Carter.

“Dad, you need to stay away from Claire for a while,” he said.

“What do you mean? I have every right to see her. And I’m unreasonable and in denial.”

“I realize all that, but you have to give her space. Figure it’s like she’s wet paint.”

“Space, what the hell does that mean? Don’t you people appreciate having a father?”

“Just do what I ask. She’s vulnerable to everything you say.”

“Vulnerable? How long? Can’t I see my grandkids? What’s going on?”

Eventually, Roland agreed to drive home to North Dakota, and Claire progressed. She went on to complete her Associates Degree and got a new job. Within a year of purchasing her new blessing, she got her black Audi with the Thule rack system, and taught their new dog, J-Lo, how to play Frisbee at the park, and took up mountain biking.

Life was swell.

Then Claire called Rick up, on a Wedneday. “Do you think I should move to a bigger city,” she said, “and get a better paying job. I’m not happy here. My co-workers are jealous back-biters and this whole town is just a large, metropolitan version of Jerry Springerville. I’m sick of the Midwest, and my life is full of problems. Would you go with me to an East Coast city? Ever since I graduated, I wanted to move back east and be an angry, unappreciated essayist.”

Rick was silent. Then he said, “What about J-Lo, and the kids? What will you do with them?”

“Dad always wanted to see them more. Maybe he can come to Denver. I don’t know. I just know I’m not happy. This blessing is great, but so limited. I wonder what they did with my curse. Do you think they renamed it and it became a bestseller?”

“Anything’s possible,” Rick said.

Copyright © 2005 Steve Sheppard

Whisk

Whisk

By Steve Sheppard

Lee and Kerry Grimes weren’t really married, but would have been considered common law spouses because they lived together and shared their bills and a house and a bed. They lived down Highway 12 about five miles from the Martinelli’s. Lee was a VW mechanic and Kerry raised and bred and groomed Golden Retrievers, which were really just Goldens mixed with Labs. They were hard people who lived ranch lives and did ranch things.

And it came about, partly because the Martinelli’s had a male Retriever and a female Lab, and some horses, and some old vehicles, that Lee and Kerry worked for them on occasion, babysitting, grooming, working in the barn and fixing stuff. And the Martinelli boys interchanged between home and the Grimes’s whenever it was convenient for the adults.

Kevin Martinelli was at the Grimes’s watching Lee work on a VW engine one time. He was tightening the output shaft with both hands until it stripped.

“There it is. There it is. That stupid, baby raping son-of-a-bitch!” Lee said.

That was the first time Kevin heard “baby-raping,” and he thought it was a pretty cool cuss-word, and as they became more familiar, the Martinelli boys saw Lee Grimes mad more often. “When you meet somebody,” Kevin thought to himself, “it’s like you go through his front door, and the more you get to know him, the more of their house you get to see.”

On the first floor of the Grimes’ were the impressive rooms, the rooms you may see through a window. Lee could lift an entire engine block and carry it across his yard, and most people knew that, and he knew a lot of fun poker games, which was common. Kerry looked like Gwyneth Paltrow in Wranglers, was sweet and smiled a lot, and never narced when the Martinelli boys said bad words, as long as they were “well placed.”

But deeper into the Grimes house were a few questionable rooms. Jordan, Kevin's older brother, came home from school and saw Lee Grimes on the porch smoking a joint. “Hey, boy. You need to mow this lawn,” Lee said, as he scuttled the evidence. The drug, put with this situation, made him giggle uncontrollably.

“That’s Kevin’s job,” Jordan said, seeing a chance to talk back. The Grimes boys were hard working, but also knew how to negotiate.

“Fine.” Lee’s pants were down. “Tell him when he gets home not to take such a wide cut with the mower.”

Jordan told Kevin all about it that night, when they took showers. “Lee said, ‘fine,’ and I said, ‘cause I don’t have to do what you say, fatso!’ Then I Jeet Kung Do’ed his ass!”

“Liar. So he was smoking a ‘J’? What did he do with it?”

“I don’t know. But they probably both get high.”

“Are we gonna tell Dad?”

“No. Don’t say a word or I’ll kill you.”

He was right. Mr. Martinelli was stern and fair and never wasted time, or left things unpunished. He liked the Grimes’s but wouldn’t let them around if he knew they were stoners. Before leaving on a trip, Mr. Martinelli held a family meeting in the master bathroom. “Keep the grass mowed, feed the dogs, and do whatever Lee and Kerry say,” he said. He was sitting on the pot when he held this meeting, and the smell drove the point home to Kevin and Jordan.

“Fine,” Kevin said, “I won’t say a word.” And they went downstairs. Lee was waiting for dinner, sitting in Mr. Martinelli’s chair, which was an old, antique smoker facing the TV. Kerry cooked Rigatoni, Lee’s favorite.

“Are we playing poker tonight Lee?” Jordan said. Silence. Lee’s eyes never left the 6 O’Clock News. The Grimes’ brought company that night, which was good and bad, Kevin thought. New people bring others back to their foyer, so the exploration of the Grimes’ lives was on temporary hold.

“Dinner’s ready,” Kerry said, and they sat down and ate. The guest was Rance Roullard, a friend from Lee’s rougher days who didn’t seem to be of the bathing strain of humanity. He wore ironed jeans, however, and a belt, and tucked his snap-shirt in, and wore a leather vest. He was boney and long, with a deep voice and a walrusy mustache that blended back to his ponytail. Kevin figured he was a biker who didn’t own a bike.

Lee leaned over to Rance. “How’s the Rigatoni?”

“Perfecto!” said Rance. The two started giggling, then laughing. Rance’s eyes were puffy and thin. Jordan glanced over at Kevin with a look that said, “I told you so.”

There was an awkward silence that only Kevin, Jordan and Lee could detect. Rance was in his own world, eating and drinking. He finished his beer in one gulp and slammed the mug down, then let out a belch that shook the silverware on the table.

“BURRRRPPP!!!”

Laughter broke out. Hysterical laughter.

“’Scuze me,” Rance said, wondering if he might have done something wrong.

“It smells like beer,” said Kevin, adding in. As the laughter died down, Lee leaned back and admired the Martinelli boys, swirling his wine in the glass.

“You guys ever play Whisk?” Lee said. “It’s pretty easy. You just play a game of Seven-card, but instead of low-club-in-the-hole-splits-the-pot – ”

“Are you staying to play, Rance?” Kevin said.

“Yeah.”

“But!” said Lee, “the difference is, the winner plays a side game of Whisk – or best out of five – with the low-club. One down, three up, one down. The low-club bets out of the pot.”

“Sweeeet,” said Jordan.

“Winner takes all.”

“Yeaahhhh – ” the boys said. Lee was in the red from getting high, but won back pole position by his sheer coolness. This game was sure to go past nine. It was clear to Kevin why Jordan didn’t want to tell on him. Kerry started clearing the table.

“The boys will get the dishes,” Lee said, looking at his wine.

“Sounds like a great game,” Rance said.

The Martinelli boys did dishes with lightening speed while Lee and Rance set up poker. Mr. Martinelli kept a basket full of change and a couple decks of cards high on an end log. They played Whisk, a couple rounds of No-Peek, and some Indian Poker. Somehow, even though Lee had great hands, Jordan always came out ahead and won, and a new understanding came between them.

After about a month, they found a pot plant growing in back of the house, below where Lee was smoking. No one cared, and then it disappeared.

Lee and Kerry stayed over again. There were no drugs or wine, no Rance or rigatoni. Lee cooked sirloin steaks with lots of pepper and there was a tense mood in the house. Kevin could do nothing right, and he and Jordan were under Lee’s microscope.

“I want you to re-mow the grass. You’re taking too wide a cut,” Lee said.

“Too wide a cut?” said Kevin.

“You’re cutting too wide. With the mower, you dumb bastard!”

“Okay.”

“Look at that. You see the lines? The piles of grass? Go down there.”

“Leave him alone,” Kerry said.

“I’m not talking to you!” Lee said, with a feral look in his eye.

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“Go down there, right now,” Lee said to Kevin. Kevin went out and down the steps of the porch to the grass. “Kick over that grass,” Lee said through the window screen, “you see? More grass that hasn’t been cut. I want you to re-mow the grass.”

“Now?” Kevin said. Lee’s eyebrows raised up and he started toward the door, looking at him fiercely. Kevin ran to the barn, looking back to his brother. Jordan stood on the porch in shock.

“Did you feed the dogs yet?” said Lee.

“I’ll do it now,” Jordan said. He went down the steps, bending away from Lee’s reach, and followed Kevin to the barn. Later on, when Kevin was trying to start the lawnmower, he heard a loud BOOM. He looked and there was Lee in a window above his head holding one of Mr. Martinelli’s antique shotguns. A blue jay dropped, lifeless, out of the oak tree. Kevin never saw anyone but his father handle the guns.

“They eat hawk eggs,” Lee said, slithering back into the house like a snail to it’s shell. Kevin was terrified.

Something was wrong between Lee and Kerry. At dinner, Kerry said something Lee didn’t like, and he smacked her leg with his VW engine block-lifting arm. She screeched, then slammed the plate down and ran out of the house, got in her ‘73 Bug and drove away. That was a long week for the Martinelli boys, and their previous silence to Mr. Martinelli was tested.

“I know much more about Lee than I ever wanted to,” Kevin thought to himself.

That fall, Kerry came over without Lee. They’d split up, and the boys were glad to see who their dad leaned towards. And lean he did, for she accompanied the family on a two-week trip to the East Coast. They were going out to pick up the horses they bought that Spring, which were too young to transport. Mr. and Mrs. Martinelli flew ahead and Kerry and the boys took the fifth wheel. The trip was a blast for the boys, and Kerry enjoyed getting away too.

“You want to drive?” Kerry said to Jordan.

“Drive?” Jordan said. She may as well have said “do you want to kiss?”

“Yea, I’m tired,” she said. Both boys were familiar with driving, having learned when they were eleven. Jordan was fourteen now, and Kevin twelve. Their eyes were wide at the prospect.

“Sure,” Jordan said.

“You won’t tell your father?”

“Are you kidding?”

So Jordan drove, from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, 320 miles. Kevin was co-pilot.

“This feels manly,” Kevin said.

“Don’t be a gay rod,” said Jordan as he rolled down the window to hang his arm out. Kevin found sunglasses for both of them in the glove box. Jordan kept it at 55 all the way, then exited into a truck stop and parked right by the pumps, like a truck driver would do. They never saw a cop once. Kerry slept in the back seat under her windbreaker the whole time, like she was sleeping off a hangover.

They got home on a Sunday at around 3PM. The Ford was blocking the barn doors, so Jordan went up to the house to get the key. Stepping in the front door, he heard men talking, then silence. He froze, looking out the window where the pot plant grew in back of the house. There was a black VW Bug, not Kerry’s. Kevin looked down the hall into his parents room and saw the gun cabinet was open, and all the guns gone.

His heart thumped loudly and he thought he’d been heard. There were people in the house, burglars. His body wouldn’t move, so he stepped out of it to say, “you’re the guy who has to do something, so do it.” Then, he remembered where Mr. Martinelli kept a loaded gun. It was in a secret compartment under the waterbed. He found it, a .300 Savage, a good deer rifle, with a scope.

Outside, Lee Grimes and Rance Roullard ambled toward the car. Each carried an armload of guns, holding them like firewood, but neither one noticed Kevin on the porch behind them. He was perched, his elbows nailed to the rail, aiming the .300 Savage right at Lee’s heart. Lee turned and nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Freeze, you baby-raping-son-of-a-bitch!” said Kevin. Lee froze like a damned soul. Rance put up his hands, a gesture he was akin to, dropping the guns in all directions.

“Kevin!” said Lee, “I thought you were coming back tonight.”

“Shut up!” Kevin said, “I just called 911.”

“Look, just let us go and we won’t say nothin.’”

Kevin was terrified, but had his sunglasses on, and all the men could see was an unhinged teenager with hunting rifle. The way Lee saw it, his best chance was in Police custody.

“We’re gonna play a little game called Whisk. Ever heard of it? It goes like this: If you move, I’ll shoot you. If Rance moves, I’ll still shoot you.”

Within minutes they heard sirens. Kevin laughed.

“What’s so funny?” said Lee.

“If you came yesterday, you could have got away with it.”

“So?”

“So. You cut it too wide.”

The cops came and the men were arrested. A basket full of change was recovered from the Bug, as well as all of Kevin and Jordan’s records, some fancy dishes of Mrs. Martinelli’s, some cash, and 27 guns.

A man named Detective Mike McMurtrie came around a few times. The boys loved him because he was big and had a ponytail and earrings, and looked nothing like a cop. He gave Kevin his mirrored sunglasses, a gift he cherished more than being in the newspaper. “They’re probably worth five bucks,” Jordan said, but Kevin knew he was just jealous.

Kerry moved to town and the boys saw less of her. They ran into her and Detective Mike McMurtrie in a restaurant in town, one night. “Hey Mike, Kerry,” Mr. Martinelli said. As with everything, he already knew about them being engaged. Mike’s beard was huge, and he had new sunglasses which he mounted on his forehead in a cool way. It turns out he looked the way he did so he could infiltrate drug outfits, but he occasionally worked robberies when drugs were involved. Kevin and Jordan were pleased to see Kerry had a new squeeze.

“He can eat a VW engine block and then pick his teeth with the output shaft,” Kevin told Jordan in the car later, “then jackhammer Lee’s house down with his fists. He probably knows Jeet Kung Do.”

“Whatever,” Jordan said.

That was the last time the boys saw Kerry before she moved to Arizona with Detective Mike. They kept their secrets about driving across New Mexico, and the joint, and Lee’s temper. Kevin thought, “Lee’s house came down, but Kerry moved into a mansion.”

Three very short stories

Groucho Marx

I sit in my cheap leather chair, watching a black and white TV episode of some old quiz show filmed in 1961, starring dead people who thought $2,500 was everything, and a trip to Honolulu was the berries, and I wonder: “can they still get credit for this? Are they in some holding pen somewhere, hoping someone tunes in to one of their TV shows and is changed for the better, and finds God, so they can attain to some higher position, or even get into heaven at all, or be spared from hell, because someone watched their TV show 44 years later. Is Groucho Marx in limbo, and if so, what should I do, seeing his TV program now, to free him into heaven? Should I say, “this touched my life?” Or do I just go on, flipping channels? I think Conan’s on.

Bradburn Row

There are always balloons where I drink coffee because the sales agents use them to attract potential buyers of these overpriced homes near the place where I drink coffee. Something about the marriage between multicolored rubber and helium has a bewitching effect on home shoppers. The balloons are purple, pink, green and silver/pearl. The silver/pearl balloon is the newer color, and gives the feeling of newness, and makes you think these homes and condos are newer and progressive. If you see them, you will probably want to buy one, so you’ll go to the office and the sales agent will give you a ride in her pettycab.

Christo’s Fence

Back in the days when artists had balls, Christo Javacheff built a 24 mile fence across Northern California. We saw it on Hwy 101, down near San Rafael area. My grandmother always pointed it out. She respected art and admired the artist like a higher being within society. Christo’s fence was white and tall and made of one piece of woven acrylic, and it took five years to build. It was eighteen feet high. Everyone opposed the idea. Everyone but other artists. Now it’s gone, but who remembers anyone doing anything like that? It’s against the rules to build a fence across California like that anymore. People can only look back at Christo’s fence and that’s all they have. So he was right.

Our first new car was a...

1972 Honda Z600 - a masterpiece in engineering.

Blue Hand

Blue Hand

When I was new to Grass Valley, I joined the DeMolay’s, hoping to make some friends. It was a small organization where geeky boys wore ties and recited long poems in front of each other, and very old, geeky old men sat in approval.

In the winter, though, the DeMolay’s had an angle on getting snowmobiles. An ex-member ran a big equipment outfit in the city, like one of those Caterpillar tractor places, and had two Ski-Doos he didn’t mind us using, however brutal we treated them. So we packed up and went to Bear Valley Lodge to ride the snowmobiles around in Bear Valley for a day.

The lodge was old and large, built for miners or something, but very old and very large. There was a huge fireplace in the center, with mangy, duct-taped couches around it. I sat by Jim Warnke all the way up to Bear Valley. He had an extra few measures of testosterone for thirteen, giving him instant popularity and adoration from girls and envy from some guys. He dressed in O.P. pants, shirts and shoes. I was hoping to bond.

“I’ve got the best room for us. I heard it’s right by the door and close to the fireplace. It’ll be warm, but there’s a way to sneak out too,” I said.

“Cool,” Jim said.

I convinced him to bunk with me, not that I would benefit by his popularity up in the mountains, hours from school, but knew it might pay off someday. We got there and the lodge smelled like mold and pine. Tony Portola and Pete Martinez found a better room right away, and ours was not as nice as I had described.

“This room sucks,” Jim said.

“I thought it was better than this,” I said.

“Let’s move across the hall.”

Our leader, Mongo, pulled out some #10 cans of chili from an old closet and, when he opened them up, they had an inch of hard, bright orange grease on top. Mongo swore it would be tasty. The closet was also full of candy that was for sale, but since the M&Ms had white spots from old age, we thought they should be cheap. Jim gave Mongo a buck and grabbed a whole handful of M&Ms bags, and that became the price.

Jim had a natural authority and beauty. At school, nerds were like his pets. One time, in English, he sat on a desk between Mark Hoofnagle and Jake Graversgaard, chewing an entire pack of Bubble Yum, and tousled their scalps, singing “balls itch, ball’s itch, baaaaall’s itch; ball’s itch, ball’s itch, baaaall’s itch.” It was barely enough to occupy his mind and sate his need to demean lesser boys.

Jim and I ate spotty M&Ms and some chili Mongo gave us in the kitchen. We were buds for now.

Later on, we explored the Lodge. The further you got from the central living room, the more broken down and dilapidated it was, and the colder it got. Whole sheets of ceiling had warped and fell, causing protrusions of the old bark insulation above. Condensation dripped and formed puddles on the floor. Blue and black mold made designs on the walls like dried watercolor paint. There was a furnace that they couldn’t get running, so we wore jackets, hats and gloves around to keep warm, and came close to the fireplace only when the fun died down.

Jim’s gloves, being a city boy, weren’t necessarily good for snow. They got wet when we had a snowball fight, because they didn’t have Gore-Tex, and when he took them off, his hands were dyed blue.

“We have to find some way to scare Tony and Pete,” I said.

“Let’s go to the attic,” Jim said.

On the second floor of the lodge was a secret ladder to the attic and we crawled around in there for a while. There was a hole down to the rec room where some kids were shooting pool, and it was directly above the pool table.

“Stick your hand through.”

Jim did. We were giggling hard, but trying not to make noise. Below us, in the rec room, they were shooting pool and talking. It went silent.

“What is it?”

“Somebody’s hand.”

“Is it alive?”

“I don’t know.”

Jim laughed.

“What?” I said.

“They’re poking it with the pool stick.”

I laughed, too.

“Shhhh!” he said, as the voices below stopped. We heard movement. They all left.

“They’re getting Mongo,” I said.

“Let’s go!”

We ran across the rafters and down the ladder. It was so dark. Jim put on his gloves and we went outside and around the lodge to the front entrance. By the time we made it back up to the rec room, they were playing pool like nothing had happened.

“What’s going on?” Jim said.

“What do you mean?” Tony answered.

“Someone said you saw a hand.”

“Yea, it was you,” said Pete.

“How do you know?” I said, but it was over and I was already dwelling on it. Tony challenged Jim to a pool game and I went down to the main area, where the fireplace was, to get warm. That night we ate more chili and watched a movie on the Alaskan Pipeline.

When we took the sleds out, the valley was smooth and white, like Cool Whip, and completely untouched. We had it all to ourselves. Mongo exercised his right to drive each sled off the trailer and tool around. He was the first to draw on the Valley floor. By noon, we’d scribbled all over it in no recognizable pattern but the dictations of whim.

Pete jumped one of the snowmobiles about seventy-five feet and broke it. I remember his face to this day, which I saw while he was in mid air. He looked confused and scared.

“Are you alright?” Mongo said.

“Yea, I guess so.” Pete said.

“That was killer!” I said.

Pete was a quiet guy who didn’t like me much, and didn’t know why anyone else could. I was a sperm introduced into a very content egg back in those days.

Some riders rode in patterns, forming trails which hardened the snow and enabled a faster ride. One trail had a sharp curve and that’s where I tried to pass Tony and landed on top of him. I was on the broken sled, which we had temporarily repaired, but now it was even more beat up. One of the skis was bent upward, like Daffy Duck’s bill when Elmer Fudd shot it. Some elected to keep riding “Daffy” even though it spat snow up from the ski, and pulled hard to the right.

The next night at the lodge was quiet. Like kids should, we became bored of the usual distractions. There was nothing left to explore, so we found ways to compete with each other at what we were doing the night before. We had a pool tournament, watched another film on Jacques Cousteau, and turned in early.

That Monday I saw the guys on the at school. Tony and Jim turned slightly to let me in the circle. Pete walked away.

“Come on, man. He’s cool,” Jim said.

I got out a pack of Bubble Yum and passed it around, like a burnt offering.

“Don’t you have M&Ms?” Tony said. I was in.