Lockdown Blues
SECOND COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES
BY JACK CARBEE:
THINKING, JUST THINKING
Lockdown for the virus has made it difficult for me to explore ideas that randomly explode into my somewhat demented brain. (I’d donate it to science, but that discipline is stretched to the max with more worthwhile projects at the moment.) So you, my loyal readers, will simply get another sample of the stories which will be released later this month in Thinking, Just Thinking. In a recent post I introduced you to several of the collection. Here are several more.
One of my personal favorites is Fishing with Grandpa, a memoir of sorts. It’s definitely a work of fiction, but the impact of my Grandfather on my life was significant. His patience and generosity during my formative years instilled a lasting love of fishing and of the Canadian wilds. It begins…
My grandfather was special. Every kid thinks that his grandfather is special, but mine kicked all their asses. Billy Carmichael’s ‘Bompa’ ran a salvage yard and brought neat hood ornaments from ancient Cadillacs and Hudsons home. Billy would bring them to school for show and tell mounted on a plywood frame. Even the girls thought that was all right. Emily Sue Tillman seemed to be sweet on Billy, but I was certain she just wanted to get the Packard one which he had nailed to a slab of polished oak.
Johnny Small’s grandpa owned the tiny grocery on the corner where all the farmers gathered on the steps and complained about the weather and the price of corn while their wives stood before the meat counter glaring at each roast and slab of bacon. Johnny was always good for a cold grape NeHi on hot August afternoons. We stood outside the cooler while he went inside to grab us each one, and when the door was open, the cool blast lifted the weight of Iowa humidity.
Scotty Pearsall’s was the minister of the Methodist Church. We tried to avoid him. He was a good man, but to get an orange Popsicle, we had to pretend to listen to his stories from The Bible. When he told about Daniel in the lion’s den or Jonah being swallowed by the whale, it was really pretty neat, but too often he strayed, forgetting that we were not the Ladies Aid Society.
My Gramps was a retired railroad engineer. Just the fact that he drove those huge steam engines pulling hundreds of cars loaded with coal or grain was enough to brand him as special. His stories were legendary. The other old retirees sat on the bench outside the small café leaning intently forward and snapping their suspenders as he wound tales through the hills and fields, across the rivers and creeks, and into the faraway places where horns honked and people yelled profanity from the windows of their Fords. And when Grandma baked, my friends and I would sit for hours on the big porch, washing down chocolate chip cookies with cold milk while Gramps entertained us.
While I coached in high schools, I taught English classes. During these years I had the pulpit to introduce young minds to some of my favorite literature. Along the line I used several poems as inspiration for stories. George Gray from Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters always was a great way to bring out the concept of living life to the fullest in order to eliminate regret in old age. I have tried to apply that lesson to my life and it inspired Cursing George Grey.
Far below the rim of the canyon, the waters danced in a swirling ballet of mist and foam. He squinted into the afternoon sun and closed his eyes. Gently, a southern breeze played across his cheek, and he felt a shivering sensation build from the small of his back until it crept to the hairs on the nape of his neck. The only sound in the hushed quiet was the distant hiss of the river as it frolicked over and around boulders on its journey to the quiet pool almost a half mile downstream.
Jim Bernard opened his eyes and stared into the blue haze of the horizon. He turned his head slightly and fixed his gaze on two vultures riding the thermals far below him, but high above the turmoil of the rapids. The lines on his face were more evident in the bright sunlight than they normally were. His closely cropped graying hair suggested careful grooming, and his clothing and boots indicated a recent introduction to the L.L. Bean catalogue. No longer could he brag of youth, and it was evident that at no time in his life had he been very active. His glowing reddish complexion hinted that this present excursion into the sunshine was an unusual event in a normally sedentary existence. He was not impressive in stature, and the body secluded behind the clothing was obviously soft.
‘What the hell am I doing? Goddamn George Gray anyway!’
Jules’ favorite from my collections is The Marketplace. I have puzzled over what must go through the mind of a suicide bomber just before the device is detonated. This story is my answer.
He squinted into the sunshine. The dark eyes slowly scanned the skyline above the stalls. The sky glowed. Never before had it been so blue, so bright. Had he ever witnessed that deep hue? His mind searched desperately. Was that it? When he was eight his family visited the shore. Maybe it that special moment when his toes felt the gritty tingle of the sand as the warm waters of the Persian Gulf massaged his feet and ankles?
Memories arose flooding his consciousness. What triggered them? Why had they remained dormant covered by layers of life only to emerge from the mold unexpected, unsolicited, and unexplainable? His oldest brother carried him screaming into the waves. The laughter of his father echoed. His mother’s pleas, his brother’s gentle taunting and the cries of the gulls melted into one moment of terror and then calm enveloped him like a warm blanket on a cool desert night. The strong arms of his brother sheltered him. The salty buoyancy of the waters lifted him into the blue heavens and the moment froze, forever recorded on the tape of his life.
He wrinkled his nose to chase away a fly. The reality of the moment returned. The scant chest rose and fell. Squatting in the doorway provided a perfect perch from which to witness the throb of life.
The last excerpt - it’s almost cocktail hour, which seems to arrive earlier every day during lockdown - comes from a story written several years ago. I’ve always been fascinated by language and the impact of strange forces on ever expanding vocabularies. War has been one of the most significant contributors.
“You know, Phil, when I first got started, most of my articles were about little things that pissed me off.” Jeffrey Hilmer leaned back in his chair and stared momentarily at the ceiling. Slowly his long bony fingers ran through the thinning gray hair perched atop an elongated face. “But as the years passed, the world changed. Simple small town speed traps and incompetent civil servants seem like mere pimples on the ass of the world today. Goddamn nearly every day brings new and more bizarre revelations. Societies throughout the world are completely screwed up. Each leader is more corrupt. Each decision is more skewed. Each conflict is more goddamn stupid than the last.”
“Yes, and each of your articles gets more biting. Very soon you will have pissed off every politician, every overpaid athlete or coach, every overhyped off-key singer, and each and every collagen soaked actor and actress in Hollywood.” The voice paused and a pair of scuffed Hush Puppies were raised and plunked unceremoniously on the disheveled desk. “Some days I fear for you. Most of your targets are pretty damn rich and powerful people. They deserve every blade you stick into them, but when you twist it and draw blood, someone is likely to really take offense. Vengeance is one of the oldest motivations known to man. People have been killed for less.”
I hope this will encourage you to want to read further. The target date for release is December 1. It’s time for a beer.