Jesus is a Socialist?

I recently responded to a post claiming Jesus was a Socialist. In that response, I stated in part:

“He taught us to care for the poor, individually. We must allow God to transform us from within. Our human nature cannot be transformed by an ideal imposed externally, by a government run by corruptible men.”

That response generated this comment from another reader:

“This is my problem with conservatives. The scriptures do not say “individuals” should help the poor. The scriptures say “you” should help the poor. There is no good reason, biblically speaking, for the government to not provide for the poor, especially since Jesus said when you refuse the poor you refuse him.

There is simply no biblical justification for saying only individuals should help the poor. I don’t say this to argue but maybe to have a real discussion.”

I responded to his comment but despite wishing for a real discussion, he has not followed up. Since then, other thoughts have come to mind. I want to respond more fully to him and share my thoughts with a general readership.

Who is ‘you’?

I do not speak or read Ancient Greek or Hebrew or Aramaic. But, many of my teachers know the originals well. They say the ‘you’ Jesus addressed is the believer, the one reading His words and following His direction.

Jesus did not say unbelievers must follow his direction. How could they?

Jesus did not speak to Herod, or Caesar, and barely to Pilate. When talking with Pilate, Jesus did not discuss taxes or the poor but the source of Pilate’s power. Suffice to say, Jesus had other things on His mind than the redistribution of other’s wealth.

In His teaching, Jesus spoke to the man on the street in an earthy everyday context they would relate to. He said, “the poor will always be with us.” He was concerned with our spiritual wellbeing. And though Jesus often spoke about our personal economy, He always pointed beyond our temporal existence.

My respondent is right that Jesus didn’t say the government shouldn’t help the poor. But that was not His point. And that is not my point.

An Economy of the Heart

Taking money from individuals and paying bureaucrats to redistribute that wealth to those the government deems worthy is inefficient. It also invites corruption. From the Great Society onward, our national debt has mushroomed and yet, the poor remain with us.

How is that possible? Imagine if the taxes collected to help the poor had actually been given to the poor, without the government as the middleman. Would we still have poor people among us? Of course.

But Washington D.C. would have fewer career bureaucrats living off the largesse of the American taxpayer.

In Jesus’ time, tax collectors were despised as corrupt (imagine that!) and traitors to their people. When Jesus’ met the tax collector, Zacchaeus, (Luke 19: 1–9) Jesus does not admonish him. He wins Zacchaeus over through the gentle strength of His message. Jesus’ personal appeal converted Zacchaeus to act from his heart, on behalf of the poor.

Likewise, Jesus observed the poor widow tithing “all she had” (Mark 12:41–44). Some claim this criticized the government for allowing a widow to fall into poverty. That doesn’t diminish his main point. She humbly gave from the bounty of her heart while others made a show of giving from their pocketbook.

Who Do We Serve?

Governments may try to help the poor. But governments do not give from their hearts. Governments wield power. Our representatives too often, appear to be the government’s representatives. Many of them seem more concerned with holding that power than with the poor they claim concern for.

It takes a special brand of chutzpah to plead for the poor while washing one’s hands of personal responsibility.

If you, an individual, worry for a poor person, it is absurd to tell him, “I’m so sorry for you. Let me help you. I promise to pay extra taxes so you can get the funds you need to live from the government.” Good luck with that.

Many of society’s ills are traceable to the “let the government do it” attitude fostered by, you guessed it, the government.

Many fret about the separation between church and state. They want religion purged from the public square. Yet they applaud the government becoming the source of all good things. Government as god turns religion on its head. The government will serve you right into slavery.

History records many revolutions waged to rectify the sins of unresponsive governments. Who is accountable when a government lets its citizens starve? Individuals must pull up the slack.

Direct giving is honest and effective. It is good for your soul and benefits those in need. There are also many reputable charities through which you can help the needy.

Jesus said, “What you did for the least of these, you did for me (Matthew 25:40).” Does anyone seriously think Jesus sought a government handout?

A current Democratic candidate for President, Pete Buttigeig, has gained considerable mileage from touting the social gospel.

My Suffering is None of Your Business

Some people want to save the world from suffering. The extremes they will pursue to accomplish this impossible task appear to have no limits.

The implications are sobering.

I first became aware of this in the context of growing concern for suffering people’s ‘quality of life’.

Quality of life issues

If someone is infirm, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, has chronic pain, is alone, is taking up a bed, cannot pay, depression…hangnail… The drift of this is obvious. The solution of choice is rapidly becoming euthanasia. States and countries are finding euthanasia a viable solution to the sea of humanity cluttering up their medical facilities.

These ‘do-gooders’ are applying their one-size-fits-all solution to the beginnings of life as well. If a fetus is determined to be imperfect, i.e. expected to have Down’s syndrome, or other, less than perfect development as determined by statistical arcs, the obvious solution is termination.

After all, so the thinking goes, a fetus isn’t alive. It isn’t even human! So termination shouldn’t ruffle any feathers. And we are saving that potential someone from a less than ideal quality of life. How merciful.

And, voila! What a surprise! Like magic, they have discovered a wealth of healthy human organs suitable for sale for use in transplants and medical study! What a boon!

This is obviously a win-win for everyone. (Well, except for that unfortunate potential someone, with no quality of life.)

You might think I am exaggerating. I am not. And there is more.

Eradicating the world from suffering is a big job. They are just getting started. Yet suffering continues. Suffering may be part of what many call the human condition.

People have a mental illness. Or are wheelchair-bound. People are hungry. People are ignorant (they don’t even know how stupid they are!). People are grieving a loss. Your candidate didn’t win. You ran out of cigarettes. Children fall down and scrape their knees all the time. Where will the suffering stop?

Some people even choose to suffer. Ever give birth? No one does that by accident.

How can anyone eliminate the suffering caused by a young woman’s inability to bear children?

These benevolent savants have so much to do. It will take them time. But fear not. They will get to you before you know it. Have a headache? Keep it to yourself. Stay out of their sights.

We are told daily the world is ending. What would these visionaries do? Kill more people, to improve the odds of surviving (and limit the suffering). Certain intellectuals have proposed cannibalizing babies, again, with the double benefit of feeding the poor and limiting population growth.

Am I falling for some Swiftian satirical fake news? If so, I missed the punch line. These people are efficient to a fault.

Who are these people with such superior knowledge on human suffering? Academics and intellectuals create theories at the drop of a grant. But real people must survive (or not) the practical applications of their untested theories.

It is notable these experts view their work as important. But not so important they would lead by example. They are thinkers, not leaders. They are determined never to leave any sufferer behind. They won’t sacrifice themselves for their vision of a greater good.

I think those wonderful souls who assigned themselves this awesome task are misguided.

Their ideas on ‘quality of life’ may not be the ultimate standard.

I may kill a roach or a fly. And, however ignorant that fly may be of its miserable existence, it will struggle mightily to survive. And here I’m just trying to help.

But my purpose isn’t to save them from a less than ideal quality of life. They are a pestilence. At least I am honest about my motives.

But suffering is subjective. It is ‘MY’ suffering. Back off!

One man’s suffering may be another man’s joy.

How could that be? How could value be found in suffering?

Because suffering is subjective, estimating its value through an objective standard cannot help but deliver false conclusions.

Because suffering is subjective, our attitude toward it must be considered. A change in attitude can change the world. Perhaps my ‘suffering,’ my doing without, improves another’s life? Whatever the trade-off, it may not only be worth it but bring joy.

Would British astrophysicist, Stephen Hawking have preferred his life be shortened due to quality of life issues? How he must have suffered.

How many brilliant minds have been snuffed out pre-emptively, to avoid the possibility of their suffering? How merciful are those seeking to destroy in order to save!

Certainly, Mr. Hawking would have chosen a different life. Or would he? He certainly chose to live the life he had, as long as he had it.

Choice. We all make choices. Choice has become almost a prayer in some circles. And choices have consequences.

Since it has come up, whose choice must be considered? Perhaps an individual chooses to end his or her life. Whatever their suffering, it has become unbearable to them.

This is a tragic situation. But it doesn’t end suffering. It only spreads it out to many more people.

There are so many true believers eagerly easing the transition from life for the sufferers assigned to them. Ever meet someone who survived hospice? Almost rarer than the dodo. Hospice workers are famous for always getting their man. Incentives are a powerful motivator.

But once the government gets in the business of helping people die, mistakes are inevitable. Ever hear of too much of a good thing? Die with dignity. Take that to the bank.

Life is quite short. Do we really want the weight of the government influencing our personal decisions? How can I get a do-over?

I would not presume to ridicule or diminish anyone’s suffering. I pray despair never enters that mix. I certainly don’t know your experience. And you don’t know mine. I honor your experience and would not presume to make decisions for you about it.

Perhaps most difficult is watching another suffer. It is a most helpless feeling. It is their suffering. All humanity has this in common. Perhaps suffering is what connects us to each other. It makes us most human of all.

A change in perspective could help. Suffering can be purposeful.

Dedicate your suffering to something greater than yourself. Don’t let anyone presume to tell you what you deserve, what you ‘should’ do.

Whatever deity you worship, look to the wisdom of the ages to avert suffering. Acceptance and forgiveness are recurring themes. If you think you don’t worship, have you considered how that contributes to your suffering?

God gave us free will. We can choose what to think and feel about our suffering. Our individual suffering could be for a greater good – if we choose. Yes, I suffer AND I will do this anyway.

We can offer our suffering up to God’s glory. Many, many do.

I call for each of us to live. To accept what cannot be changed. And unburden ourselves through forgiveness. And while living, dedicate our suffering to something beyond ourselves.

Tell anyone seeking to relieve you – to keep their bloody hands off of your suffering. There may be worse things than suffering. Don’t sacrifice the power your suffering contains. Use it.

It is ours. We may be indifferent to suffering. Embrace it. Wallow in it. Or rejoice in it.

The Secret

Charlie had some choice words for her. But he didn’t like saying them, even to himself. She deserved them. ‘She’ was his fourth-grade teacher, Miss Margaret Pringle.

‘Miss Pee’, her name being the source of endless humor among his classmates, yelled at Charlie today. In front of his friends, no less. He hadn’t done his homework. He hated homework. He hated her.

Miss Pee made him stay after school to finish it. But Charlie outsmarted her. When she left the classroom, Charlie picked up his backpack and made an ‘exit left’.

“Charlie, are you done with your homework? No video games before homework. You know the rule.”

“I finished it, Mom.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure…”

Charlie’s mother and Mrs. Jensen, their neighbor, shared a coffee at the kitchen counter, a daily ritual. Cigarette smoke rose lazily from the ashtray, a souvenir from his parent’s trip to Vegas.

Charlie sat on the floor by the table playing on his video game console. He liked listening to adults. They would talk away and suddenly use letters instead of words. Whenever he heard them using code, his ears perked up.

“I swear, that woman is out of control.” Mrs. Jensen said. The women exchanged looks and his mother cleared her throat.

“You mean M. P.?”

Mrs. Jensen nodded. “You know what I mean. Kids need to apply themselves. How can they gain the discipline to get a job when they graduate?”

“Careers don’t grow on trees.”

“Unless you’re a lumberjack.” They laughed.

“But I’m talking about her personal life. She’s a mess. I heard… money problems… debt.”

“With what they get paid?”

“Glorified baby sitters, if you ask me. Don’t they teach them anything anymore?”

“And still living with…”

“Well, with one of them…?”

It got quiet at that. Charlie could hear their eyes rolling, though. He knew they were talking about his teacher. They went on and used some words he didn’t know, like ‘bankruptcy’ and ‘repo’. But Charlie got the gist. Miss Pee was irresponsible. And a member of a messed up family. Hoo boy!

Wait ’til she scolds him again. She won’t know what hit her.

Charlie stood and headed for the door. His mother called after him.

“Don’t go far, young man. Dinner at six.”

“Okay!”

Charlie needed to think. He headed to the slough, where the creek passed under the highway down from the school.

Almost dry in the fall, the cattails in the slough grew like mad, reaching eight feet in places. Their thick heads tufted, sending out millions of seeds. A red-winged blackbird sang. A few dragonflies hovered where tadpoles would swim in the spring swell.

When the water was down, Charlie used the underpass as a shortcut walking to school. He hopped from stone to stone in the cool gloom. Charlie passed the cool embankment and remembered once smoking a ‘borrowed’ pack of cigarettes there.

Charlie exited the tunnel. It was quiet except for the wash of traffic from overhead. The stone he threw bounced into the weeds. Someone called his name. Jim approached, walking his dog, Shep.

Charlie said, “What’s up?”

Shep sniffed urgently along the water. The boys threw stones across the trickle of a creek.

“Just walkin’. I’m surprised you’re not grounded after Miss Pee sent that note to your Mom.”

“I tore it up.”

“You’re kidding! Won’t she find out?”

“I don’t care.”

Shep ran into the cattail forest.

“My Dad always says he’ll make me care.”

“They can’t make me.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I know something.”

“Like you’re so smart?”

“I’ve got information.”

“Like what?”

Charlie looked at Jim. He knew secrets told, lost their power.

“Like nothing. It’s a secret.”

“Heard that before.”

“You’ll see.”

Jim called Shep, who came to him with tail wagging and dusted with cattail fuzz.

“Look. Shep’s in love.”

They laughed as they brushed the fuzz from Shep’s fur. Shep loved the attention.

Charlie said, “Why do they say that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just funny. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Charlie watched Jim walk back up the path followed by Shep.

In last spring’s flood, he and Jim borrowed a flat bottomed boat and poled around the slough like Tom Sawyer. They tried to navigate the tunnel under the highway. It got scary when the current sent them spinning and careening off the concrete walls of the tunnel.

They didn’t drown. But they did get into trouble for dinging up the boat. Jim and Charlie didn’t hang out much after that. Parents always blame the other kid’s bad influence.

At dinner, Charlie’s parents talked about their day, boring stuff. Charlie went to his room after dessert and didn’t even watch his favorite TV show.

Later, his Dad knocked and stuck his head in. “You alright, kid?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“You seem kind of low energy.”

“Naw. Just studying. You know…”

“That’s great. Keep those grades up.”

“Yup.”

“Be sure to get your sleep.”

“Okay, ‘night Dad.”

After his Dad left, Charlie found his dictionary. It provided him a better definition of ‘bankrupt’ than he dared hope for.

Charlie put some late effort into getting homework done. He knew he would get yelled at for ditching detention. He had his secret weapon ready, just in case.

Charlie awoke early. He had barely slept anticipating this blockbuster day. How often did a kid get to call out their teacher for the gross mismanagement of personal finances? Hah! Maybe he’d even get her fired. That would show her.

Almost giddy thinking about it, Charlie almost skipped down the sidewalk. He stopped himself from that. He might be giddy, but he wasn’t crazy.

Picking his way through the tunnel, Charlie noticed the little mound strewn with cigarette butts, smoked right down to the filters. ‘That’s one dedicated smoker,’ thought Charlie. Smoking’s allure eluded him ever since Charlie smoked that pack.

Charlie came out of the tunnel and into the cattail forest. He looked up to see Miss Pee stepping down from a city bus. She accompanied an older man wearing jeans, a leather jacket and carrying a backpack on one shoulder.

Avoiding detection, Charlie stepped into the thicket. He watched them hold hands as they descended the embankment towards the tunnel.

Miss Pee put her arm over his shoulder. They spoke in familiar terms as Miss Pee spoke encouragingly to the man. He dismissed her concerns but she insisted. She gave him a go-bag from the Breakfast Hut. He protested while she stuffed folded bills into his shirt pocket.

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just camping out a bit.”

“Things will work out.”

They embraced and she kissed him on the cheek. Before turning to go, she said, “Love you Dad.”

The man waved good-bye and lit a cigarette as he entered the tunnel. Miss Pee wobbled in her dress shoes as she scaled the embankment to the street. She held a handkerchief in her hand.

Charlie waited a minute before walking to the school. Now he had more to work with. Miss Pee would never forget this day. Mission almost accomplished.

Everyone in the playground seemed happy to see Charlie. It was weird. Even stuck-up Dorothy, who never spoke to him, approached Charlie with a big smile on her face.

“Hi, Charlie. You have something you want to tell me?” Some girls standing behind her giggled.

Charlie turned and saw Jim, who looked away with a big grin on his face.

“Naw, I’m okay, Dorothy.” Some other kids laughed as they ran by.

The bell rang and everyone hurried to class.

When Charlie sat at his desk, he felt ready to burst. He knew exactly what to say but needed the perfect moment.

The usual commotion died as everyone settled. Today there seemed to be an unusual amount of laughter. What did Jim say to them?

Charlie turned to Jim, who sat in the desk behind him. “What did you…”

The bell rang and Miss Pee spoke immediately. “Everyone settle! Please get out your homework and pass it forward.”

Charlie held his homework. And he was prepared for that delicious moment.

He felt Miss Pee’s hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him and spoke quietly.

“Charlie, I’m sorry I snapped at you the other day. Please, let’s get a fresh start.”

Stunned, Charlie could only say, “Okay.”

Miss Pee gave his hand a little squeeze as she took his homework and stood. Then she said, “Oh, Charlie, you have a little cattail fuzz on your head. You can go to the washroom to clean it off.”

Jim leaned forward and with a stage whisper said, “Charlie’s in love!”

All the kids burst into laughter, including Charlie. Only Charlie also had tears running down his face.

The Split

David knew big kids eat lunch with big kids. David was a little kid. That’s why his sisters didn’t lunch with him.

When he became a big kid, little kids would eat with little kids.

And anyway, girls don’t eat with boys, no matter what size they are. It’s the way things work. Those are the rules.

David’s mother, Debra, didn’t get it. She worried about David being stuck in a wheelchair. He rarely thought about that.

When making their lunches for the day, Debra always said, “Hey kids, I know you trade and share. But be sure to get something good in exchange. Don’t just eat candy.”

“I don’t trade, Mommy.”

“Then kiddo, you are the first holdout, since sack lunches were invented.”

She wanted David to make friends. As if it were so easy.

David didn’t want to share his lunch. He liked what his mother made for him. But he also knew the path to loneliness included trading with the ‘wheelchair kid’. No one did that. Some kid told him he had ‘cooties.’

Almost every day, when his sisters, Melissa and Emily, entered the lunchroom, Emily stopped to say hello.

“C’mon!” Melissa pulled Emily’s hand.

Emily looked over her shoulder. “Bye, David. We’re gonna eat over here.” Melissa led Emily to the big kid’s table. They were his older sisters. And sisters don’t eat with brothers.

David watched them while he unwrapped his sandwich. Emily made a little wave hello. David waved back.

Melissa always asserted her big sister authority over Emily. Except for this last birthday when Emily got the doll Melissa had her eye on.

A year older than Emily, Melissa’s birthday came a week after Emily’s. David didn’t quite get how that worked.

David remembered Melissa’s look when Emily pulled that doll from the wrapping. Emily loved that doll. She had no idea what Melissa had planned.

David didn’t get the point of dolls. He especially didn’t like it when his Aunt Jane called him a doll. She picked him up and rocked him exactly the way Emily rocked her doll. Only Aunt Jane laughed loud and hard. What a great big joke. David wished he could kick dear Aunt Jane.

One day at school, some kids approached David pretending to be his friends. The biggest one pushed David’s chair, running as fast as he could. Everyone raced down the hall shouting and laughing. David feared falling from his chair more than anything.

The other kids ran alongside. “Faster! Faster!”

David yelled, “Stop!”

When they got to one end of the corridor, the tall boy spun David’s chair around on one wheel and headed back the other way. David gripped the handholds, terrified of careening into the lockers.

Then Melissa stepped into their path and stopped them. “Leave him alone. That’s my brother David. Don’t bully him ever again.”

Some kids protested, saying they were just having fun. But Melissa squelched them. She took David aside. “How are you?”

David couldn’t stop trembling, but he didn’t cry. He only said, “Thanks Mel.”

Melissa didn’t know what to make of David. Though much younger, he didn’t respond to her mature influence. They didn’t talk much, but that incident brought them closer.

After that, David kept a small hammer at his side to defend against people pushing him where he didn’t want to go.

David loved sitting alone, playing with his Legos. He excelled at bringing order out of chaos, piece by piece. Long hours by himself taught him independence.

Sometimes David’s Dad played chess with him. He always complimented David’s superior playing. But David sometimes felt his Dad let him win. He made stupid mistakes and David couldn’t resist taking advantage. He didn’t want charity.

With dinner and homework complete, Debra wheeled David before the TV set. She told his sisters to play quietly so she could ‘regroup.’ But David didn’t watch much TV. He had his Legos.

Melissa and Emily made little dramas with their dolls and stuffed animals. Except lately, their playing seemed more like squabbling. Melissa wanted Emily’s doll.

It started when Melissa called Emily a bad mother.

“I am not. What are you talking about?”

“Look at her. She’s dirty. You never comb her hair.”

Emily grabbed a damp cloth from the kitchen. She methodically wiped down her doll. Emily challenged Melissa with a hard look.

Melissa looked back harder. “Her hair still looks like it got stuck in a vacuum cleaner.”

“That’s her styling. That’s the fashion.”

Melissa mimicked her, “That’s the fashion… Fashion is supposed to make you look prettier…”

“She is pretty.”

“Pretty ugly…”

“Stop it, Mel.”

“If I called Social Services, they’d put her in foster care.”

“Would not.”

“Let me show you.” Melissa reached for the doll and Emily pulled it away. She wrapped it in a little blanket and held it close.

“No one is going to take my baby.”

“I just wanted to see it, Em. Let me show you.”

“No. I won’t let you give it to Socialist Services.”

Melissa laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s ‘Social’, not ‘Socialist’. That’s not even a word.”

“Well, I’m keeping her.”

“Em, let me see the doll.”

“No!”

“I’m in charge. Mom said so. I can fix it.” Melissa reached for the doll and Emily pulled further away.

Melissa changed her tone. She looked at David.

“Em, let’s have David decide. Let him be the judge.” Emily looked at David concentrating on building a Lego spacecraft.

“But it’s my doll. I love her. Why let him decide?”

“That’s what judges do. They look to see what’s fair when it’s none of their business.”

Emily kissed her doll’s face and then offered it to her brother. “David?”

“Just a minute. I’m finishing up this part.” Emily turned to Melissa.

Melissa tried. “Hey, Dave! We need your help.”

David rolled his eyes. “Okay. What?”

“Give him the doll, Em.” Emily handed David her doll. “We need you to decide whose doll it is.”

Emily stamped her feet and tried to get the doll back. “That’s not what we’re deciding!”

“It is now. David, you are the judge. Whose doll is it?”

David looked at the doll and then at his sisters. How did he get drawn into this silliness?

“Why don’t you cut it in half? Then you each can have it.”

Emily let out a wail and collapsed into tears. Melissa cheered. Emily reached for the doll but David held it close.

Melissa stood triumphant. “Should we cut it up and down? Or side to side? Where does Dad keep the saw?”

Emily shouted, “Stop!” They looked at her. Through tears, she said, “Give it to Melissa. Just don’t kill it.”

“Yes!” Melissa danced around the room. She reached for the doll. “Mine, mine, mine…”

David looked at his sisters and then at the doll. He handed it to Emily. “Here, Em. It’s obviously yours. You were willing to give it up, to save it, rather than see it destroyed.” Emily took her doll, smiling through tears.

Melissa shouted, “That’s not fair! You already decided.”

“You asked me to judge. I did decide. Case closed.” David punctuated his decision by hitting the wheelchair tray with his hammer. Lego pieces flew everywhere. David burst into laughter. Emily joined in.

Furious, Melissa left the room.

Emily helped find the missing Legos.

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© John K. Adams 2019. All rights reserved.

From a Balloon

Greta watched the world go by. And yet there it remained.

In her ninety years, she couldn’t understand how the human race continued to exist. Everyone lived through chance encounters, like molecules of air colliding with each other. Yet somehow, things got built. Babies were born. Civilizations rose and fell and were replaced by newer, better, shinier civilizations. How did all this happen?

Greta spent most of her life alone. Even when married, she had felt alone. Was that her fault? Or is that just how things are? The demands made upon her outweighed the benefits received. At least that is how she saw it.

Every day she sat in the park and pondered; how the hell did I get here?

She remembered the days of the blitz in London. She came home from school one day to discover her building and her family gone. Blown to bits by Nazi bombs. Social workers put her with other kids on a bus out of London to safety. She remembered watching the distant smoke rise. And the military observation balloons suspended far overhead.

Those balloons became a model for how she saw things, tethered to earth yet disconnected from everything. She fantasized cutting their cables and setting them free. Did they shoot ten year-olds for being spies?

They brought her to a farm and put her to work. In exchange for her labor, she received room and board. After the war, distant cousins in America took her in. She always felt a barely tolerated guest who had over-stayed. But she had nowhere else to go. Once grown, she and they lost their tenuous connection. She went her way.

It occurred to her that other people had connections to each other, which she did not. Greta felt they must.

Life felt like she rode alone on a train which passed other trains occupied by passengers also surrounded by solitude. Destinations unknown.

Nowadays, she sat in the park watching people. Many, especially children, spent their precious time sitting, swiping away on their smart phones. No real connections there. Yet, someone provided these devices. Someone built them, marketed them, and empowered them to fill the time. Who were those people? Did they have deep connections to those surrounding them?

Young couples strolled by, laughing and talking. The man laid his hand on the woman’s waist. Guiding her where? The woman smiled broadly at him and laughed.

But Greta could see distance in their eyes. She saw they were desperate to connect, unaware connection is a myth. Commercials on TV promise connection if only you buy their product. Greta bought lots of things but never felt connected.

Summing up her life, Greta would say it boiled down to people getting what they could. There might be fair exchanges. Of course, one gets the sandwich in exchange for its price. But she saw nothing more, nothing deeper.

A tree grows and then drops its leaves.

The puddle evaporates, and then it rains. The system seems to work. It always had.

But Greta wanted more. Even though she knew the myth of human connection, something within her craved it. What would it be like?

Who invented this myth? How would anyone conceive of it in the first place, if it were mere fantasy? Just to sell products meant to satisfy a gnawing, but imaginary hunger?

A ball rolled to a stop at Greta’s feet. A young boy ran toward her from a clutch of others. Greta instinctively stepped on the ball to keep him from taking it.

The boy stopped short, surprised. Grownups don’t act like that.

“May I have my ball back?”

“It’s mine. It came to me.”

“Billy accidentally hit it too hard. I couldn’t catch it.” The boy pointed back to the others who watched.

“Billy will learn his lesson, won’t he?”

“Maybe…” The boy struggled to understand. “Please? May I have it back?”

“What will you give me?”

“I don’t have anything. Oh, wait. Do you want some gum?” He reached into his pocket.

“Keep your gum.”

Greta nudged the ball toward him with her foot. “There you go.”

The boy picked it up and threw it toward his friends. He turned back to Greta. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Greta. And yours?”

“Thomas.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“Why would you want to talk to me?”

Under his breath Thomas said, “Kids are kind of boring.”

Greta bit her tongue. “But why talk to me?”

“You’re alone. I thought you might like some company.”

“What would you like to talk about, Thomas?”

“I don’t know. Grown-ups have good stories.”

“They do?”

“Kids don’t know anything. Grown-ups know a lot.”

“So you want me to entertain you?”

“If you want. Or teach me. Or just pass the time.”

“You want to take my time, then.”

“Only if you want. I’ll give you mine.”

“A fair trade then.” Thomas nodded. “Come sit. What would you like to hear about?”

Thomas crawled onto the bench. He thought for a moment. “Tell me about when you were a kid.”

“Now that is a topic… Let’s see. I remember going into the country when I was about your age. There were these giant balloons up in the sky. Big enough for people to ride.”

“Wow!”

“They were attached to the ground with long, uhm… ropes. Yes, ropes.”

“Like giant kites?”

“Well they were balloons. With men up in them. And they could see way off into the distance.”

“That’s cool.”

“I always wished I could go up in one and fly away.”

“Where would you go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Someplace away from… away from all the fighting.”

“They were fighting when you were young? I mean, when you were my age?”

“I think there has always been fighting, Thomas.”

“Oh…” Thomas looked down. “But if there is fighting all over, where would you go?”

Greta paused. She didn’t know how to answer this.

“I guess I’d just keep going up, then.”

“All the way to heaven?”

“Heaven?”

“You know. Where God lives?”

“Oh that place. I don’t know… I doubt if they would let me in there.”

“Why? Were you bad?”

Greta smiled at Thomas. “I may not have been so bad, Thomas. But I’m not so sure I am always so good either. I hear it’s pretty exclusive.”

“Oh… My Mom said that isn’t how it works.”

“Really? What does she say?”

“Well, she says people get it backwards.”

“How so?”

“She says, being ‘good enough’ is like trying to buy your way in. If that’s true, then only the rich would get in. Do you think only the rich get in?”

“I hope not.”

“She says it isn’t how good we are, but how good God is.”

“I don’t know…”

“Once I was bad. For something stupid.”

“Oh come now…”

“I didn’t hurt anyone, exactly, but Charlie, over there, he told me how we could sneak into the movie. But we got caught.”

“Oops.”

“A big whoops.”

“What happened?”

“The usher guy took us to the manager. And he told us he was calling the cops.”

“He could do that.”

“I know. I wouldn’t blame him. But I sweated Mom and Dad finding out, big time.”

“I would hope so.”

“So we apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“And?”

“He made us sweat for a while. But then he gave us free passes, if we promised never to try to sneak in again. We only missed the previews.”

“So, are you telling me, you can’t sneak into heaven? You can only buy a ticket?”

“No. Uhm… Well, what my Mom said, he gave us a pass. And our being good came out of our getting the pass. Not the other way around.”

“Your Mom sounds very wise.”

“Of course, she gave me extra chores…”

Greta laughed. Thomas sat for a minute.

Then he said, “You kind of tricked me, Greta.”

“I did?”

“You were going to tell me about when you were a kid. But you got me talking about getting caught.”

“I did, didn’t I? But your adventures are much more entertaining than mine. I promise.”

“I should go now. You mind if we talk again?”

“I would like that. I sit here pretty much every day.”

“I know. I’ve seen you.”

Thomas stood and thanked Greta for the conversation. He shook her hand, made a little bow and ran off to join his friends.

Greta watched him go. She felt light. Like she had been riding a balloon.

 

 

 

Jimmy the Hammer and the Quality of Mercy

“Our numbers are in the toilet! What do I need to do? Set you on fire?”

Jimmy glowered at his assistants. Shamed, they cringed like schoolboys before an irate coach. They avoided his piercing look. The cramped conference room didn’t offer any shelter.

Jimmy needed a break. The daily grind was getting to him. To see their numbers circling the drain depressed him. Jimmy hated working in collections, with these lunkheads, yet. He couldn’t wait to get to Del Mar.

He continued, “We’re in a rut, guys. What can we do to get things moving? Leon!”

Leon flinched. “I don’t know boss. How about burning their cars?”

Jimmy did a facepalm. “Arson is old hat, people…”

Leon kept going. “But you said…”

Jimmy held his hand up. Leon stopped. Jimmy struck a match and relit his cigar. He flicked the match at Leon who frantically brushed it away.

“We need focus. Personal appeal. How do we get under their skin and get them begging to pay us?”

Mickey mumbled something and caught Jimmy’s attention.

“Speak up, Mickey. So everyone can hear.”

Mickey kept looking down. “I just said, ‘Breaking their thumbs always worked for me.’”

Jimmy cocked his head. “Mickey… Have you heard anything I said? The old strategies don’t work anymore. We want to do better. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good grief! Look at the time! I gotta go. Look, guys, I’m gonna be gone a week. Off with the wife for some much needed R&R. Work with me. Come up with some ideas. Our methods are mired in the past. This is the 21st century. Breaking legs doesn’t make it anymore.”

He shook his head. They didn’t get it.

“Look, guys. This is a great country. But you know what made it great?”

They stared at him, like a bunch of baby chicks with their mouths open.

“Repeat after me, guys… Inn-o-va-tion… We need this… Something fresh… Gotta go. See you in a week.”

He turned to go, shaking his head in frustration. “What am I thinking? Asking muscle heads to innovate…”

Jimmy stepped into his waiting limo. He told the driver, “Swing by to pick up Bunny. Then, the Del Mar Hilton.”

He could jet down and save a few hours in transit. Jimmy was a gambler, but not fond of flying. Besides, he liked the drive through the desert, straight down the I-15. It gave him time to think. Especially since Bunny discovered Facebook.

. . .

They checked into the penthouse. There were flowers everywhere.

The lobby felt like a high school reunion. People Jimmy hadn’t seen in years shook his hand, hugged him and patted his back. Something was off. All too friendly. Had they heard his numbers were down?

Jimmy asked Bunny to count the daggers in his back. She laughed.

But the horses were running. Opening weekend at Del Mar. Sweet.

Jimmy took Bunny to his favorite restaurant. The sunset over the Pacific was spectacular. Jimmy didn’t see it though. He was on his phone. Business doesn’t wait. The golden sunlight on Bunny’s face said it all. She was beautiful.

. . .

Jimmy got up early and headed to the track. It would be a full day. He just walked in. Ticket booths wouldn’t open for hours. Only the grooms were there, up since four. Bookies and handicappers wouldn’t show for hours.

Bunny had a big day planned shopping and sunning by the pool.

It was cool enough to see the horse’s breath as the grooms walked them. Farriers were finishing up. Tack was stowed. Colors were coming out. The tractor dragged the track behind the water truck. They were testing the starting gate.

Jimmy strolled into the immaculate stables. Chico called to him. They’d known each other forever.

“Hey Cheeck! Last time we met, you were barely a bug boy.”

Chico laughed.

“Billy still treating you well? I’m glad he took you off the leaky roof circuit.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Jimmy.”

“I hope so. You are the best. Got any mail for me?”

“We don’t run dogs, Mr. Jimmy.”

“No stall walkers? No rogues?”

“No. They’re all tight.”

Jimmy showed Chico his form. “Who’s the topper in one?”

“Gate Crasher.”

“How’s the track, by the way? Heavy?”

“It’s got a good bottom. The track is good.”

“With all the weather last winter?”

“I’ve been watching. The clockers are happy.”

Jimmy shook Chico’s hand and palmed him a fifty. Chico shoved it into his pocket and grinned broadly.

“Thank you, Mr. Jimmy.”

“You bet, Chico!” They both laughed.

Jimmy wandered a bit, greeted some old timers and got a feel for the place. Del Mar is where he got his start. He was home.

Back at the clubhouse, the bar hadn’t opened. The betting windows were still deserted. A few hard core players had claimed their seats. Cigar smoke sweetened the air. No little old ladies yet.

Then Jimmy spotted him, Bennie Biltmore, known everywhere as a cheap tout.

“Jimmy the Hammer! I thought I’d see you opening day.”

“Hey, Bennie. What’re you selling, more rabbits?”

“Not me, Jimmy. Unless you’re looking for a hot tip, or two.”

“Thanks Ben. I don’t want to get burned. I think I’m covered.”

“Jimmy! I wouldn’t burn you. You think I’m crazy?”

“Not crazy. No.” Bennie moved on.

Jimmy took a seat, lit a cigar and did some paper work. He locked down his favorites and climbed the steps into the clubhouse to place his bets. A few locks and a few long shots, Gate Crasher, Top O’ the Ritz, Shimmy Chamois, Little Shoulder, Run it By Me and Tornado in the sixth.

Where do they get these names? Jimmy thought it should be an interesting day. No maidens today, maybe later in the week.

He entered the bar. More longtime associates greeted him. Everyone glanced up at the wide screen TV. They were lining up for the first race.

The bell rang and they were off.

The races were short. But Jimmy’s day ran long. None of his bets came in the money. Not even close.

He got out the stakes on the last race, doubling down to make up his losses, to no avail. Now he was out of the money by thousands, on margin. Not a problem for him but embarrassing. And everyone gabs.

Jimmy couldn’t believe it. He talked to people in the know, groomed his contacts for years. This never happened to him.

Something was up.

. . .

Jimmy returned to the hotel, made some calls and showered. Bunny was still at the pool. Jimmy didn’t mind. He didn’t feel like company.

Someone knocked at the door.

Jimmy answered it and a bellhop handed him an envelope. Jimmy gave him a ten and shut the door.

The envelope invited Jimmy to room 2300 to meet with Mr. Thompson. Now.

Jimmy got it. So Thompson fixed this. Time to put it behind him. He put on his tie and jacket and grabbed the next elevator to Thompson’s suite.

They’d known each other since the beginning, but never were friends. Always on opposite sides of a bet.

Years ago, Jimmy thought Thompson tried to kill him. Now he’s getting an invite to Thompson’s suite. Had anything changed beside their incomes?

Someone opened door 2300 to reveal the man standing by the bar near the balcony. A couple of Thompson’s men stood by. A woman draped herself over the sofa.

Thompson held up a decanter as an offering.

“Rye, please.” Jimmy kept his back to the wall. He didn’t want the view to distract him.

Thompson poured a couple fingers. He handed it to Jimmy with a broad smile.

“Too bad about your opening day.”

“News travels…”

“Fast. I know. Crazy isn’t it?”

Jimmy sipped his drink and kept his eye on the open balcony door. He always knew where everyone in the room stood.

Thompson got serious. “I have a favor to ask.”

“After today, I’d expect…”

“I know. You’d be asking me the favor. Right?”

Jimmy waited.

Thompson continued, “I think we can help each other out.”

“I don’t remember asking for help.”

Thompson laughed. “Good old Jimmy. You never give an inch.”

“I like to think of myself as a stretch runner.” They both laughed. It sounded like an empty can bouncing on concrete.

“Tell you what, Jimmy. I don’t want you embarrassed by today’s results.”

“I’ll survive.”

“I’ll be straight. Your organization holds paper on some friends of mine.”

Now Jimmy got it.

“You want me to ease off?”

“Nice of you to offer. And in return, consider today’s loss a wash. Forget it.”

This surprised Jimmy. He’d never heard of such a thing. Thompson smiled at Jimmy’s reaction.

“I need names.”

“That’s taken care of. I just need your word.”

“That’s it? No catch?”

“I’m not a jack-in-the-box, Jimmy.”

“That’s most generous. Then, I think we can do business, Mr. Thompson.”

“I knew we would.” Thompson offered his hand to shake. Jimmy switched his drink and shook with the man. He downed his drink and left.

Bunny was showering when he got back to their room. He felt good. In the elevator it came to him. Inn-o-va-tion.

He took Bunny to a new French restaurant he’d heard about. Things were looking up.

. . .

The following week, Jimmy called his team in to talk. He leaned on his desk.

“Whatcha got?” he asked them.

“What about thumb screws?” Leon offered.

“What? We’re going from the Stone Age to the Spanish Inquisition? You had a week, and that’s what you give me?”

They stood in embarrassed silence.

“I tell you what we’re going to do,” said Jimmy. “We’re going to set up a payment plan.”

“A what?”

“Spread the word. Starting next week, these dead beats come up with half their debt? They’re in the clear.”

“But…”

“I know. It’s radical. Listen up. This is what we tell them. If they don’t pay, the following week, they owe the full nut.”

It began to sink in. “And the week after that?”

“Bring out the bats.”

Leon and Mickey cheered.

Jimmy calmed them down. “But guys, the point is to tell them the steps. We want the money…”

“Sooner than later…”

“Now they have incentives to pay up early. Kill ’em with kindness. The bats come out only in a pinch.”

“Got it, Jimmy!”

Jimmy high fived them. “Now bring out the receipt books. I want those open accounts closed. Money on the table.”

Leon and Mickey shut the door on the way out.

Jimmy lit his cigar and blew a beautiful blue smoke ring.

---

Thanks to Reedsy.com for providing the prompts which inspired the story. Do follow: https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/.

Bedtime Story

Dan read to his daughter while sitting on her bed. Phoebe kept on fidgeting so he closed the book, marking his place with a finger.

“What’s wrong, kiddo? Don’t you like ‘Hansel and Gretel’?”

“It’s kind of boring, Daddy.”

“What do you mean? I always read from ‘The Little People’s Book of Fairy Tales’.”

“Is that the same one, when Little Red Riding Hood makes friends with the wolf?”

“Wolves are an endangered species, honey.”

“But so was Little Red…”

Dan cleared his throat. “What’s wrong with Hansel and Gretel?”

“Pro’bly the ending. But so far, isn’t the step-mother supposed to be evil?”

“All step-mothers aren’t evil, kiddo.”

“I know. But it’s the story, Dad. I don’t think Jane is evil.”

“You don’t?”

“She’s annoying sometimes. But that’s just her trying to be a real mom. I liked that she didn’t want them to give Tommy that Ritalin stuff.”

“Me too.”

Phoebe’s older brother, Tommy, rolled over in the bed across the room. He snored lightly.

“Tommy can be annoying too. But I don’t want him shooting up a school like those kids did.”

“No one wants that. How do you know about those other kids?”

“You’d be surprised what you can find on the computer, Daddy.”

“I’m sure.”

“But, like in that Harry Potter book, when something doesn’t have a brain and it orders you around, you have to wonder.”

“Right. You shouldn’t spend too much time on the computer. What about Hansel and Gretel?”

“So far, Gretel seems to be the only one doing anything. Why is Hansel even there?”

“What do you mean?”

“He just stands there until Gretel tells him what to do. Or the witch.”

“You mean…”

“They’re supposed to be in danger. Why doesn’t he help? Aren’t they a team? They should do what they can. He’s such a tool.”

Dan chuckled and then got serious. “Word is, Pheebs, girls are the future.”

“I don’t think Tommy knows that. So, there won’t be any boys? Who will we have to make fun of?”

Dan looked at the alarm clock on Phoebe’s bedside table. “Uhm… Back to…”

“Right… And the gingerbread house. Why isn’t it covered with ants?”

“Later in the story, they explain the witch used a low calorie sweetener to bake…”

“Oh… No offense, but Jane would lose it if I left one cookie on the counter.”

“Some things work in stories that aren’t so realistic.”

“I get it. So when the birds eat the bread crumbs? You know, that they left on the path?”

“Yes?”

“Are the bread crumbs gluten free?”

“They might be. I hope so.”

“I wouldn’t want Hansel and Gretel to poison the birds.”

“Of course not.”

“So, does this story end with the evil witch being, not really evil? Does she turn out to be a kindly, dear old, long lost aunt or something?”

“Let’s read and find out.” Dan glanced at the clock.

“But wait. If it turns out that way, it’ll be so stupid.”

“Why? Don’t you want them to find their dear, long lost aunt?”

“Of course I do. But that’s not the point.”

Dan sighed. “What is the point, Pheebs?”

“I know this is a fairy tale, Daddy. But are fairy tales supposed to be completely disconnected from reality?” Phoebe felt good about getting through that sentence in one breath.

“Well… Phoebe, where is this coming from?”

“I mean, not everyone is a dear, lost aunt.”

“Yeah?…”

“Not all wolves can be pets.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes, we meet people who truly are evil.”

The clock ticked. “Sometimes…”

“Maybe there’s magic, and elves. But it has to feel true.”

“I guess…”

Daddy, if everyone in the story is nice, then where is the story? It’s not very exciting.”

“Maybe the book wants to show there are ways to solve problems that don’t involve pushing people into ovens.”

“Is that how it ends? Cool.”

“I don’t think in this version…”

“Oh. But Dad, if everyone is nice…”

“Wouldn’t that be…”

“But wait, if everyone is nice, then why have Hansel and Gretel at all?”

“Couldn’t they learn to be nice, too?”

“They’re already nice. We’re rooting for them. Aren’t stories supposed to show us how to beat the bad guys? They need to do something.”

“Yes, but… I don’t want to frighten you, Phoebe.”

“Thanks, Dad. But scaring me, in a story… Isn’t that better than something really scary?”

“I don’t want you frightened of anything, ever.”

“But that’s why kids like roller coasters and scary movies. To face our fears.”

“Okay… You are pretty fearless.”

“Kids need to learn to defend themselves. And not be victims. Some things are scary. They just are.”

“But, you’re six. You’re too little…”

“I won’t always be six.”

Dan swallowed. “…Yeah.”

“And there won’t always be grown-ups around to protect me.”

“I know…”

“Believing everyone is my secret, lost aunt, pro’bly isn’t the best way to face the world.”

“Well… Probably not.”

“I know you want to protect me, Dad.  But it’s all around us, if you look.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw a dead butterfly today, on the sidewalk. Nobody cared. It was so sad. I put it on a leaf so no one would step on it.”

Dan turned away from Phoebe and wiped his eye.

“A bug flew into my eye.”

Phoebe touched his arm. “It’s okay, Dad.”

He turned back to his daughter and smiled shyly. “Thanks, Pheebs.”

They looked at each other for a moment, without talking. Dan returned the book to the shelf.

“You know what, Pheebs?”

“What?”

“I think our little talk turned out better than any story I could read you tonight.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a smart kid. You know that? You could write stories.”

“Maybe I will.” Phoebe smiled at her father, showing the gaps where her baby teeth had been.

Dan tucked the covers around Phoebe and kissed her on the forehead. He checked on Tommy, who slept through it all.

“Good night, kiddo. I love you.”

“Love you too, Daddy. Good night.”

Dan turned out the light at the door.

Phoebe called out. “Daddy?”

“What’s up?”

“Tell Jane, I love her too.”

“Will do. Go to sleep now. It’s late.”

“Okay.” Phoebe turned on her side and closed her eyes as the door shut behind Dan.

A little later, Dan lay next to Jane, in their darkened room. He couldn’t sleep. His imagination ran riot. Fiendish faces leered from the cracks in the ceiling. Eyes wide open, Dan watched them morph in the gloom as he stared into the darkness.

His Daddy wasn’t there to chase them away.

Time passed. A prayer drifted through Dan’s mind, forgotten for decades. He mulled the phrasing.

In a little while, he slept.

Flowers

Sarah strolled around her yard, taking in the beauty of the lush foliage. Flowers grew in profusion. Everywhere she looked was a hilarious, exuberant display of life exploding in celebration. Bees seemed to bounce from one flower to the next. Hummingbirds zipped here and there.

Summer had arrived. Sarah always loved spring but now she grasped why summer was so esteemed. She stood in her own paradise. What a blessing.

Wherever she looked, new surprises awaited. A small cluster of Foxgloves emerged from the shadows. Where did this tree come from? Had birds planted it? It appeared to have sprung up, overnight. Even the rare dandelion, eluding Pablo, the gardener, looked so happy.

Morning Glories were everywhere. What did Pabls say again? That they were ‘invasive’? Who knew a gardener to be a master of understatement? The flower laden vines climbed into the highest trees, threatening to smother all but the strongest. These plants go where they aren’t invited and expect what isn’t offered. Sarah needed Pablo to cut them back. But they are so beautiful. Maybe next week.

Ahh, but they are overwhelming the roses. That wouldn’t do. Sarah was especially proud of her roses. She cut several long stems laden with sweet blossoms and buds. They would brighten the dining room.

Coming to the front of the house, Sarah saw a homeless woman picking roses by the front gate. Sarah watched her for a moment. Then the woman saw Sarah and jammed the buds inside her grimy coat. She started away but Sarah’s call stopped her.

Sarah approached her. “Miss? Were you picking flowers?”

The woman stammered, “They are so pretty. I couldn’t resist. I’m sorry.”

“Let me see what you have.”

The woman hesitated, with eyes downcast. Then she pulled the now crumpled blossoms from her jacket. She displayed them in her rough, open hand.

Sarah exclaimed. “They’re so beautiful. Don’t be ashamed. I’m happy to share. God knows I can’t keep them all.”

Sarah offered the woman one of the long stems she had cut from the back yard. The woman balked and then reached into a pocket to find some token of payment.

Sarah smiled at her. “No. You don’t understand. I’m giving you a gift. Take it.”

The woman hesitated.

Sarah insisted. “No, really. You didn’t pay your parents for gifts, did you?”

The woman’s eyes welled with tears. Sarah felt ashamed. She thrust the armful of roses at the startled woman.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. Please take them. Please enjoy them.” Sarah turned from the  woman and walked into the house.

Sarah paced around the house, frantic with shame. How could she be so insensitive? She only wanted to share some beauty.

Sarah grabbed the vase of flowers from last week and threw the bouquet into the trash.
A few days past their prime, she didn’t want them around. Sarah would never understand women keeping awful, drooping, dead flowers in the house. How are they beautiful? Did they hope to gain by comparison? How pathetic.

What she wouldn’t give to keep one perfect and fragrant blossom fresh. To be able to gaze upon its tender petals forever.

Sarah stared out the front window. The woman was gone. And so were the flowers. Sarah burst into tears at how callously she treated that poor woman. What started out as a warm gesture, became an ugly expression of her superiority.

There was no way to repair the damage. The woman was gone. Everything about it was wrong. Of course the woman could pick a flower for herself. It would never occur to Sarah to deny her that small pleasure. Why was she so stupid? So shaming?

Naturally, the woman would expect to pay for the privilege. Isn’t that how the world works? Had others accused her of stealing? Sarah hadn’t seen it from the woman’s perspective.

Tears welled up. They all fade so quickly. Of course she can have some. Take as many as you like. Take them all!

They aren’t mine after all. I just care for them. Sarah wept.

When her tears stopped, Sarah rinsed her face and looked in the mirror. The tears had ruined her face. She needed to start over. But she couldn’t. Not now.

She turned an objective eye on herself. People always praised her beauty. She couldn’t see it. An artist has their tricks, she thought. Natural talent can only take one so far.

But the mouth! She was born with a perpetual frown. She couldn’t stand it. Her mother said everyone’s mouth turns down naturally. The solution was to smile. But spring smiles bring autumn wrinkles.

Sarah returned to her garden. The riot of color depressed her. She sat in a shaded garden chair. The birds constant flurry annoyed her. It was all so oppressive.

They needed to move. She’d tell Paul she couldn’t stand the upkeep any more. The garden was a distraction. It brought bugs. A waste of water. She couldn’t take the time.
Sarah dozed until she heard a mockingbird’s song.

She thought of Paul. He was mad about her. She couldn’t, for the life of her, explain why he would care for such a harridan.

And Sarah also loved Paul. Though she felt she too, received charity, she knew Paul didn’t think that way. That sneaking fear sullied her every pure thought.

Sarah stood from the garden chair and regretted her nap. Who decided such chairs needed to be so uncomfortable? She stretched the kink from her back, with little success.

Dinner would be late.

She made her famous spaghetti sauce, Paul’s favorite. It has lots of secret ingredients that make him love her cooking more than almost anything. Diced onion, green pepper and olives. The list goes on. A teaspoon of molasses cuts the acidity of the tomato sauce. Her mother’s secret.

Paul came home on time. She loved his predictability. Thankfully, he didn’t bring flowers.
He embraced her and they kissed. Then she pulled away, concerned he’ll stain his suit with sauce from her apron. He pulls her back to him.

Sarah turns the lights down. They sit for dinner and he pours the wine. They toast.
Paul laughs as he shares what someone at work said, “Crows live 150 years”.
Immediately Sarah thinks of ‘crow’s feet’. She fears Paul is referring to the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Can you imagine? And if you ever feed one, it becomes your BFF. More loyal than a panhandler.”

She is about to excuse herself when Paul adds, “This expert on all things crow, tells me they mate for life. What an interesting bird.”

Sarah expects a comparison. But none comes forth. She breaths again.

Paul lifts his glass to Sarah and takes her hand in his. “My love, if it is up to me, we’ll mate for a thousand years. At least! I love you so much!”

Sarah clinks her glass to his. They drink. Paul refills the glasses. “By the way, this is the best spaghetti you ever made. How do you do it?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she says. Paul laughs. It’s an old joke. It gets him every time.

Sarah feels a glow from the wine.

Paul helps clear the table and then says, “Oh, I have a surprise for you! Wait here.” He runs to the front porch and returns carrying a large potted pothas plant with a hanger. It is lush with tendrils drooping everywhere.

Sarah is moved to tears by this simple gift. Paul kisses the top of her head.

“I thought, perhaps you were wearying of flowers. Always having to clean up after them and tossing them when they wilt. So I brought you this…”

“It’s beautiful! I’m afraid I’ll kill it, though.”

“You can’t kill them. I’ve seen people try. It’ll be a nice addition to the house. If you care for it, it will grow and grow.”

“I’m always afraid plants breathe up the air in the room.” They laugh.

“Pick a spot and I’ll hang it.”

“Just not in the bedroom. I don’t want those vines strangling me in the night.”

“I don’t think it works that way. But water it and it will keep us company for the next nine hundred years.”

Sarah touched her face to a leaf. “It’s cool. Not poisonous, is it?”

Paul smiled patiently. “I wouldn’t eat it. I think people keep them to look at, like a pet.”

“A pet?”

“A pet you don’t have to take for a walk.”

“Don’t tell me. Its bark is…” They both laughed again.

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

Sarah placed it on the table by the front window. “We’ll try it there and see if it’s happy with the northern exposure.” She embraced him. They kiss. “Thanks guy. I think you must love me.”

“Of course I do.”

They watched TV for a while and then Sarah prepared for bed.

Looking in the mirror, Sarah paused. She thought about Paul’s gift and shook her head. ‘I don’t get it. Maybe he really does love me.’

Blue Skies

 Martha’s boss, Walter, caught her eye as she pulled her pay envelope from her box. “Let’s talk,” he said. He turned and stepped into his office.

Martha didn’t want to miss her bus. When that happened, her whole schedule got thrown off. Ordinarily, getting called into a meeting at day’s end on a Friday would be cause for anxiety. Those meetings were always bad news.

Being one of the newspaper’s best ad sales people, Martha wasn’t worried. They needed her.

Walter indicated the chair when she entered. There goes the bus, thought Martha. He actually wants to talk. She sat, trying to not look impatient.

Walter stood, looking out the window. Martha waited expectantly.

“How long have you been with us, Martha?”

“I started with you in 1933, so, three years? Give or take.” The Depression had limped and groaned for four years and counting.

“You’ve done well, considering the business climate we’re in. You’re a top producer.”

“Thank you, sir. I do my best.”

“How are things at home?”

Martha chose her words carefully. Why didn’t he get to the point? “As well as you could expect. I’m the sole breadwinner, you know.”

“Is your eldest boy working?”

“Fred is on his own. He helps as he can.”

“I see. And your son Carl wants to be a writer? Or was it a big league pitcher?”

“He has big dreams.”

“And they’re all still in school?”

“The three of them, yes. Betty, my youngest, is ten.”

“I remember her. In a few years, ‘hello Hollywood!’”

“She’s a good girl.”

Walter turned and leaned on his desk. He looked straight at Martha and sighed.

“You know how things are, Martha. I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to let you go. There are men who need the work. They need to feed their families.”

“But I need to feed my family.”

“I’m very sorry. It isn’t my decision.”

Martha was stunned. How could this be? He said himself, she’s a top producer.

Walter cleared his throat and stood straight. “Take the weekend. Rest. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Walter turned to the window again. Martha left in silence.

The bus ran late. Fresh snow blew like dust, through the headlights from rush hour traffic. Detroit winters are cold. But even on the bus, Martha couldn’t get warm. What would she do? This had been the perfect job. And now? She couldn’t think straight. What would she tell the kids? She needed a plan. Again.

Martha reminded herself to cancel the dentist appointments for Betty and Roman.

A prayer always calmed her. She repeated it.

Carl, Roman and Betty had eaten when Martha got home. Betty knew the routine and had whipped up some buttered noodles for the boys. They listened to a comedy show on the radio.

Martha hung up her winter coat. She thanked Betty for her help. “Listen to your show. I’ll clean up.”

“Aren’t you going out? It’s Friday.”

“I don’t know dear,” said Martha. “This day about did me in.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing that won’t work out. Just work.”

“You should go to your club. Your friends will cheer you up.”

“I don’t know. Maybe… I’ll be fine.”

Martha looked at Carl. “Are you going out?”

“Of course. It’s Friday night. The Thin Man is playing.”

“It’s freezing out.”

Exhausted, Martha stared at her noodles and the dishes in the sink and wanted only to sit. She wasn’t hungry. Not for noodles. Maybe she would go to the club.

Martha sang. For many, her songs at the club were a highlight. It wasn’t opera. Her voice and easy delivery brought warmth to a cold world.

Her friends said she should make records. That seemed so out of reach now. Four kids ago, she might have had a chance. She didn’t regret the kids. If only she had met a different kind of man.

Martha put the dishes to soak and the phone rang. Her eldest son, Ferdinand called every day.

“Ferdie!”

“How are you, Ma?”

“Tired. But good. How’s your father?”

“He’s out. I think he’s planning a trip back home.”

“Really? Is there work in Warsaw? If you can’t make it in Detroit…”

“He never fit in, Ma. You know that.”

“I thought he was at Ford.”

“’Til last week…”

“Oh well. What can you do?” Fred didn’t answer. “How are you?”

“I’m good. How’s work?”

“Slow.”

“Slow everywhere, after Christmas.”

“We’ll get by.”

“Going to the club?”

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Then I’ll go.”

“See you then. Bye Ma. Love ya.”

“Love you too, Ferdie.”

She hung up the phone. Carl put on his coat. Martha straightened his collar and arranged his scarf. She looked at him. Tears welled up and she looked away.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“You go. Be with your friends. I’ll be alright.”

“Mom?”

“I got laid off.”

Carl didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ll get a job.”

“You can’t. You have school.”

“There’s always work. I’ll work nights. I’ve been thinking about it anyway.”

“I’ll find something. I always land on my feet. You know.”

Carl embraced his mother. “I’ve got to go. Don’t worry.” Carl smiled and gave Martha a thumbs up as he closed the door.

“How can I help, Mom?”

Martha turned to see Roman and Betty looking at her. No secrets with four children.

“Oh, kids.” She moved to embrace them. “It’ll work out. Let’s keep it between us, okay?”

Betty said, “I’ll help out, here.”

“You always do, Cherub.”

“I can sell papers. Jerzy, at the news stand, said so.”

“It’s too cold now, Romie, with your leg. Maybe in the spring.” Roman suffered a mild case of polio a few years ago. But there was still scarring.

“I’m used to it, Mom. I’m fine.”

Martha tousled his hair. “Like Rasputin, you can’t keep a good man down.”

Roman laughed at her old joke. They hugged their mother.

“Thanks, kids. I guess I’ll go to the club after all.” Big band music drew their attention. “Your show is starting.”

They ran to the radio and Roman adjusted the tuning as the theme song rose to crescendo.

The wind had died. Riding the bus again, Martha looked at the false dawn, lights from the busy General Motors factory.

Oscar, the piano player, grinned when he saw Martha arrive. They went way back and he loved accompanying her singing. Her voice fit like a favorite shoe.

Someone helped her doff her coat. A smattering of applause greeted her approach to the piano. Martha greeted old friends with a wave or a hug.

It was a card club, where most played Pinochle and caught up with friends. No booze, due to Prohibition. No one minded.

Martha stepped up to the microphone and someone called out. She laughed with the others at the familiar feeling. How could she not be here, at home?

Oscar smiled, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“But I’m here now. Got to make an entrance, eh?”

“Whatcha got for me?”

“Let’s start with ‘Blue Skies’. But play it slow and blue. Don’t jazz it up. Ride the melancholy.”

Oscar cocked his head. “You okay?”

“I will be.”

Everyone quieted as the piano set the mood. Martha waited for her moment and gently sang her song.

“Blue skies smiling at me.
Nothing but blue skies do I see.
Blue birds singing a song.
Nothing but blue skies from now on.
Never saw the sun shining so bright.
Never saw things going so right.
Noticing the days hurrying by.
When you’re in love, my how they fly.

Blue days, all of them gone.
Nothing but blue skies from now on…”

Martha sang how she felt, simply and from the heart. When she finished, the final chord had almost died before anyone clapped.

It felt good. She sang a few other favorites, played Pinochle and laughed with her friends for a while. Martha left early.

The snow crunched in the cold. Her breath lingered and then was gone. The bus didn’t make her wait.

Already home, Carl waited up for Martha. The others were asleep. He came to her as she hung her coat.

“Ma, I talked to a friend. He thinks he can get me on, part time, nights.”

Martha smiled at her young son, already a head taller than her. “I don’t know, Carl. Let’s see what happens this week. We’ll keep that in our back pocket.”

They smiled and she kissed him goodnight.

Monday morning, Martha got up early, as usual. She got everyone off to school and dressed in her work best.

Everyone in the advertising department looked up as Martha entered. No one said anything. A few eyes met hers. She found Walter giving a tour to a man, her presumed replacement. She never saw Walter so flustered.

“Let’s talk when you finish your tour.” Walter nodded.

In a few minutes, he approached and opened his office door for Martha.

She didn’t sit.

“What a surprise, Martha. Was I not clear?”

“You were clear. I’m giving you an opportunity.”

“You are?”

“Keep your new man. Pay him what you want. But keep me on. Pay me straight commission. You know how good I am.”

“Commission only?”

“Five percent flat. And I’ll do better than anyone.”

Walter smiled at Martha. They shook hands.

Martha did great.

 

 

Resurrection

Jesse drove toward his new warehouse job. He was supposed to start at midnight. This could be his break. Now he could pay bills and get on track for citizenship.

He couldn’t survive in the shadows anymore, dependent on another’s kindness. The police would never be his friends, but with a green card, he could answer their accusations with confidence.

He turned up the road leading to his new job. His headlights swept over three men in hoods, huddled in the bike lane. Someone lay on the ground as they kicked him.

Jesse hit his brights and leaned on his horn. They ran without looking back. When traffic allowed, Jesse pulled over and ran to the man lying in the gutter.

He rolled the injured man onto his back and Jesse understood. It was Officer Kroeger, a cop, hated in his neighborhood. No gun. Jesse only knew him from his badge. His face was raw meat.

Jesse held him. Barely conscious, Kroeger looked at Jesse desperately. He could only gasp and gurgle. Jesse looked around. Where was his squad car? How did he get here?

Their eyes locked. Did Kroeger know him? “Just so you know, I didn’t do this to you.”

But Jesse couldn’t leave him. “I’ll get you to help. Can you move?”

The cop grunted. Together, they struggled to Jesse’s car. Kroeger groaned into the back seat. Jesse guided his head in so he wouldn’t bump it.

Half to himself, Jesse said, “Don’t bleed all over my car, okay?”

He could drop him and not be late for work. The hospital wasn’t too far out of his way.

Jesse swore at the clock on his dashboard. Quarter to midnight. He blew it. Already late.

The hospital glowed a block away. The light changed and Jesse squealed into the ER driveway, slammed it into park, ran in and called for help.

Orderlies emerged with a gurney and pulled the unconscious man from the back seat.

“You need to fill out paperwork,” the intern said.

“I don’t know anything about him. I gotta go.”

He got into his car and gunned it down the drive. “I’m dead if I lose this.”

Jesse ran from his car to the brightly lit warehouse.

The foreman shook his head. “You’re late. Roster’s full.”

Jesse pleaded with him. He told him about Kroeger.

The foreman was unimpressed. “You aren’t listening. I said, ‘come before midnight’. Can you tell time?” Jesse stood, immobile. The foreman looked up from his paper. A hint of humanity. “Try Sunday. Get here early.”

Jesse went to his car. It was going to be a long weekend. He looked at his blood-stained backseat. His clothes were covered with a cop’s blood. What if Kroeger ID’s me? What if he dies? Jesse started to cry.

He went home and burned his ruined clothes. What could he do? He needed to lay low.

Saturday, Jesse called the hospital to check on Kroeger. They wouldn’t tell him anything.

He drove by the hospital and parked a block away. The ER admitting nurse gave him a room number in the main building.

Jesse didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t know what he was doing. He felt exposed. Out of place. No one noticed him. No one cared.

He found Kroeger’s room and stopped outside. Two uniformed cops were in with him. Jesse backed away. He leaned over a drinking fountain and waited. Voices spoke in code over the PA. The cops came out and walked down the corridor. Jesse returned to Kroeger’s room, peered past the privacy curtain and stepped in.

Kroeger looked horrible. Tentacles and tubes running from him to a bunch of machinery confirmed he was alive. Kroeger’s eyes tracked him through puffy slits. Jesse could tell Kroeger recognized him. Was that good?

“I’m Jesse. I brought you here last night. Wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Kroeger didn’t speak. His swollen face was expressionless. “You need anything?”

Kroeger glanced at the bed table where a plastic cup filled with ice sat.

“Want some water?” Jesse grabbed the cup and slipped the straw between Kroeger’s broken lips. He sipped, swallowed and cleared his throat. It looked painful. But the slight groan said ‘relief’.

Jesse set the cup back on the table.

“I should go. You’re going to be fine. I can tell.” Kroeger watched him. “I’m starting a job. I’ll try to check on you.”

Kroeger shut his eyes.

Jesse went home. He tucked some towels onto the back seat to cover the blood stains.

What if they come for me?

Saturday night, friends came, wanting Jesse to party. He begged off, said he was tired. They protested when he wouldn’t let them borrow his car. But they left him alone.

Jesse spent Sunday pacing. He barely slept. He stayed in. He couldn’t sit still. Every time he heard a car pass, Jesse ran to the window. Was it the cops? The guys in the hoodies? Music made him more anxious.

He left for the warehouse early and parked away from everyone else. A food truck did a good business. Jesse bought a churro and a coffee. He sat at the picnic table and took his time.

Some guys in hoodies hung around, joking with each other. One came over and sized him up. “You’re Jesse.”

Jesse looked up but said nothing.

“You were here Friday.”

Jesse pondered a moment and shook his head.

“Yeah. I saw you. You came late.”

“The foreman told me to come today. I just want to work.”

The guy smiled. “Isn’t that what we all want, bro?”

Jesse nodded. He smiled cautiously.

The guy lightly kicked Jesse’s foot. “Come on. They’re making the list.”

Jesse fell into line. When he got up to the foreman, he nodded Jesse in. “Report to Jim. The tall guy, over in Garden.”

Jesse nodded and thanked him. He was in. Jesse felt alive again.