Hands

“Look at those hands move over the keyboard!” Sue whispered to me.  “They look like spiders leaping around with a life of their own.”

“I’m glad you dragged me out to this recital.  Even a classical dolt like me can appreciate a really remarkable talent, I whispered back.”

“How would you know?” Sue teased.  “You never come with me unless I force you to, like this time.”

“Shhhhh,” came a loud hiss from the lady seated behind us.

I’m not a classical music buff although my wife is, and I usually don’t accompany her to concerts and recitals, but this time she insisted that I go with her to hear Thomas Costa, a young prodigy, who was just starting to get national attention.  “You’’ll be happy in the future that you’ll be able to say, yes, I heard him play when he was still relatively undiscovered,” she said.

That’s why I was very surprised when, on a Monday morning a few weeks later, Alice, my receptionist, pointed out his name on my schedule.  “He’s your first patient, and oh, can you ask him to sign my program that I just happen to have with me, after you see him?” she asked.   

He was already in the exam room, as I walked in and introduced myself.  He really is young—but taller than he looked performing—big hands, I thought as we shook carefully.  Don’t want to mash down on those flying fingers too hard, though actually he could probably crush mine.  “How would you like to be addressed—Mr. Costa, Thomas, or Tom?” I asked.

“Tom works,” he replied with a shy smile.

“Well then Tom, what can I do for you today?”

“It’s about my hands,” he said.

“Before we go further, Tom, I want you to know that I know next to nothing about classical music, although my wife and receptionist do and are fans of yours.  So if your question involves anything technically musical, I’m not your best choice.”

“That’s why I made an appointment with you.  I asked my GP who might be a good neurologist who did not follow classical music closely, and he suggested you.  I wanted to see someone who would have a very open mind.”

“I’ll try to keep one,” I said.  “Please tell me why you’re here.”

“It’s about my hands,” said Tom.  “Sometimes when I’m quiet, sitting or lying down, they seem to move like they are doing it on their own.”

“Like tremors or trembling?” I asked.

“No, more like they are playing a piece of music.”

“Does it ever happen when you are actually playing the piano?”

“No, just when I am not doing anything.”

“Does it ever happen like when you’re using your hands like driving or eating or on the computer?”

“Never.”

“And when did you first notice this?”

“About two months ago.”

I went on with additional questions but there wasn’t much more to add.  His hands weren’t doing anything in the office, so I couldn’t see his problem, if there was one, for myself.  A full physical exam followed by a  neurologic exam were unrevealing.

“Has anyone else seen these hand movements?”

“My mother has, and she’s worried and insisted that I see a doctor.”

“Well, what I’d like you to do is to ask her to video them if it happens again, and bring it with you on your next visit.  In the meantime I’d like you to get these tests done.”

Testing was unrevealing and I shared the negative results with Tom at his next visit a week later.  He played the video of the hand movements for me on his smart phone.  I agreed that they looked more like his fingers were playing something and just not experiencing simple tremors.  “If you think they are moving as on piano keys, do you recognize what they are playing?” I asked.

“No.”

The MRI of his brain was normal, and so was the spinal tap that he had very reluctantly agreed to.  Over the course of a month, Tom reported that the movements were happening more often, were becoming stronger,  broader, more sweeping, and they were now interfering with sleep.  “I have to sit on my hands when I am with people so they don’t see them move.  And you asked me once if my hands were playing a piece of music?  Well, now I think they are.  What’s happening to me?  Am I going crazy?”  He was understandably worried and agitated. 

“From what you’ve told me and from my evaluation of you, no, I don’t think you are psychotic,” I said.  “But do you think you could be, in a way, rehearsing—playing air piano like playing air guitar?” I asked.

“Why would I do that when I can do it on an actual piano anytime?”    

“Tom, I’m puzzled too and have no answer.  I’l like to try you on some medicines to see if they help.  I also would like to have you seen by an expert in movement disorders up at the University, if that’s okay with you.  A Dr. Stille.  I’ll also continue to see you but I think we need more brains working on your problem.”

The drugs I tried him on made no difference.  Stille put him through more tests and also drew a blank.  He did refer Tom to a psychiatrist here locally, Bob Mannix, who I knew well and had worked with previously.  “Just to cover all bases,” Stille told Tom.  Tom reluctantly agreed to go.

On Tom’s next visit with me he said that he now felt compelled to be at the piano all the time when he wasn’t eating or sleeping.  “I feel like my hands are forcing me to go to the keyboard to play.  Like they have their own life and I am only a vehicle for transporting them.  They are no longer content to just go through the motions, they want to do it on the piano.  They are taking me over.”

The way he was describing his hands as entities separate from himself sounded very disturbing.  “Have you told Dr.  Mannix this?”

“Yes, and he wants to try me on some other medicines, but I’m worried about the side effects.”

Maybe something for schizophrenia, I thought.

Tom continued, “And now the music that they play are sometimes pieces that I have not studied or played before!  How is that possible!?”

I mumbled something about perhaps learning them subliminally from having heard them, but Tom insisted some were works that he was sure he had never heard played.

“Listen to this review of Thomas Costa’s performance with the Philharmonic!” said Sue after dinner one night.  “‘After receiving a prolonged standing ovation punctuated by cheering for his performance of the Beringer Piano Concerto Number Six, Costa returned for an encore.  Selecting the even more difficult and seldom-played Rasputin Fireworks Fanfare, Costa exploded at the keyboard.  The audience could not contain their enthusiasm and even as echoes of the last thunderous chords still lingered in the air, they leaped to their feet as one, joined by the members of the orchestra.’  Wow.”

This was just before his last visit with me. 

“Congratulations, Tom,” I said,  “You received a fantastic review of your performance.  Especially your encore piece.”

“But that’s just the thing,” said Tom, looking haggard.  “I went back to the piano intending to play another piece, and my hands just took over.  I hadn’t even practiced the Rasputin!”  He looked at me expectantly.

I didn’t know what to think or say.  “I don’t think I’ve been any help to you Tom.  I will keep on the lookout for any information relating to your condition, and you’re always welcome to come back and see me, but for now, see what Dr. Mannix comes up with.” 

“You think I’m losing my mind too.”

“Tom, you are a brilliant talent and have been under a lot of stress.  So while I don’t think you are out of your mind, I really don’t know what is going on.  I have never heard or read of anything like this.  But I will keep looking.  With your permission I would like to stay in contact with Dr. Mannix who I know and have worked with in the past.  May we talk about your condition?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said in a low, discouraged voice.

“Let’s schedule a recheck for a month, but remember, you’re welcome to come back at any time.”

“What’s the use?”

I called Bob Mannix three weeks later.  The anti-psychotic drugs hadn’t made a difference.  In fact, he said, things were worse.  Tom was losing weight and looked drawn and tired; he was at the piano for hours day and night. 

“He feels desperate,” said Bob.  “Said that if we couldn’t help him he would try something else.”

“Which is?”

“He is going to try an exorcism.”

“What!”

“He feels that his hands have their own life and that they have taken control of his mind and body.  I couldn’t dissuade him.”

My next view of Tom was on the 6 o’clock TV news a few days later.  Tom was in handcuffs, looking gaunt, disheveled, and confused, being taken in from a police cruiser to be booked, as the news anchor voiced over, “Thomas Costa, talented and renowned young pianist, is being investigated in the death of Father William Boyle who was found dead by strangulation at Mr. Costa’s studio.  The police say that Father Boyle was at the studio to perform an exorcism and that Mr. Costa insists that it was not he but his hands who strangled the priest.”

A song for February instead of a short.

February Song

                Melody —“Sweet Memories”—sung by—Roy Orbison, Andy Williams;                                                              Hawaiian version by Oliver Kelly

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Carrying in its current, all the things you mean to me.

Thoughts of you, of things that were, and what will never be,

Mingling together, in my reveries.

A river gathers to itself as through the land it flows.

And mine has gathered memories from so very long ago.

I hear your voice, your laughter, and the times when there were tears.

Echoing in memory, down through these many years.

The summer we met working, in a small hotel.

That Christmas you said you loved me too, I remember it so well.

We travelled across America to an island in the sea,

And in this rainbow-blessed place you raised our family.

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Life too is like a river, flowing onward to the sea.

I swim on alone now, since you’ve gone ahead of me.

Until we meet again somewhere, in that deep and endless sea.

Short Story:

Western

Jane began to hyperventilate as she watched the two men in her life—steadfast, loving Ben, her husband, and Laird, the retired gun-slinger–prepare to ride into Dry Gulch for a face-off with Stone, the cattle baron.  The early afternoon sun was warm and bright, highlighting Jane’s blond hair like a halo, framing her lovely face.

She recalled the day Laird had ridden in four months ago to sign on as a hired hand.  He said that his great grandfather was a Scottish chieftain, which was why his father named him Laird, but he never volunteered his family name or much about himself except that he’d “used his gun some.”  A man’s past was his own business in the Territory.  But Laird, the man with one name and a shadowy past, had become their friend and ally against the ruthless cattleman.

“Laird, it’s not your fight,” Ben said earnestly, thumbing 44-40 rounds into his lever action Winchester rifle.  A bullet dropped at his feet as he spoke, and he picked it up, wiped off the dust, and continued loading.  “It’s my fault that poor old Brownie got himself killed by Stone’s hired gun.  I shouldn’t have talked him into staying and fighting.  I don’t want your blood on my hands too.”

“You got no chance alone against the Tombstone Kid,” Laird answered laconically.  He’s fast–really fast.  And he fights dirty—doesn’t take a bath until he’s done killing.  And I hear he ain’t seen the inside of tub since he came to town a week ago.”

“We didn’t hire you for your gun Laird,” declared Ben.

“I know, but man’s got to follow his star.  I can’t run from my past,” said Laird stoically.  He used a rag to wipe off the grease that he’d coated his Colt .45 with when he stored it away on arrival, thinking he was done with fighting.  Then he loaded it smoothly with a practiced hand, replaced it in its well-worn holster, and tied that down low on his right thigh, as he had done so many times before.

“Well, I won’t try to talk you out of it anymore.  I’m truly grateful for your backup.  In fact all the homesteaders are glad you’re on our side,” said Ben with relief in his voice.

“They got a funny way of showing it.   Letting me and you face Stone and his guns alone.”

  “Well, it can’t be helped now,” said Ben.  “Brownie’s murder has them buffaloed.”  He untied his horse, kissed Jane lightly on the lips, and climbed solidly onto his saddle.  “We’ll be back after we’re finished in town.”  He tried to sound confident.

“Oh please be careful,” sobbed Jane, looking from one to the other, her emotions churning within her, her lovely breasts heaving.

Laird said nothing, but gracefully vaulted onto his horse and touched the brim of his hat to her in salute, his lean, chiseled, hawk-like face in shadow, as he prepared to leave.  Jane couldn’t help noticing how attractive the touch of gray at his temples looked, peeking out from under his hat.

They rode off side by side, their horses’ hooves kicking up little puffs of dust, and were soon lost to Jane’s sight as the road curved to the right around the grove of cottonwoods beside the creek.  Jane didn’t know if she’d see them alive again, didn’t know if the next hoof beats she heard would be Stone’s men coming to burn her out or worse.  Time would stand still until she knew one way or the other.  It was almost more than she could bear.  She wiped the tears away, smearing the dust on her cheeks, then returned to the cabin to wait, the cabin that she and Ben had built before all of the trouble started when the farmers began putting up barbed wire fences to keep Stone’s cattle from their crops.  Ben had loaded the shotgun for her before he left, but she didn’t know if she could really pull the trigger and shoot another person.  She left it standing beside the door.   

Meanwhile the men rode on in silence, each lost in their thoughts.  The road to town wound back and forth, following the creek.  There was only the clip-clop of their horses, the cawing of crows, and the water gurgling.  Today the ride seemed to take  longer than usual, as if time itself was as reluctant as they were to face the inevitable.  Then just before Dry Gulch came into view, Laird broke the silence. 

“Look Ben, we need a plan, and I’ve been thinking.  You ride in alone, down Main Street, as a decoy, and I’ll slip in the other way and then come around on foot behind the general store.  When Stone sends out the Tombstone Kid, I’ll be in a perfect place to get that buzzard between the shoulder blades as he faces you.”

“But, but …” said Ben, with a puzzled look on his square honest face, “You’re going to bushwhack him?  Aren’t you going to face him down?  I’ve seen how fast you are.”

“The Kid’s faster.  I didn’t get to hang up my gun the first time by being dumb.”

“Well, okay,” said Ben hesitantly,  “It doesn’t quite seem fair, but you’ve got a lot more experience at this than me.”

“There’s a lot of dead men who tried being fair,” replied Laird. 

The men parted.  Ben waited a short while to give Laird a head start and then, feeling very alone, rode into town and stopped, just diagonally across from the saloon.  He dismounted, slid the Winchester from its scabbard, and waited.  There was no one else on the street, but he felt the weight of the many eyes watching from the buildings.  The sky was vast and cloudless. 

“Our hero’s here,” said Stone, his voice, made raspier by whiskey, as he looked out through the dusty saloon window.  “Looks like he came alone without any of his sod-buster friends or Laird.  He’s the only one with enough grit to stand up to me.  Get rid of him, and the rest are finished.”  He smoothed down his bushy mustache.

“I knew Laird was yellow,” said the Kid, contemptuously, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for a killer.  “Too yellow to draw against me.  This will be so easy I should return part of the money to you.  But I won’t.”  He laughed a short nasty giggle, as he drew on white gloves.  “Nice touch, eh Stone?  Just like an undertaker.”

Stone felt a chill and almost felt sorry for Ben.  Glad the Kid’s working for me, he thought.

“I don’t think I’ll need backup, but take the shotgun, Stone, just in case.  Not that you like get your own hands dirty.”  The Kid loaded two buckshot rounds into the double-barreled shotgun and threw it to Stone with a sneer.

He finished his drink deliberately, unfolded himself from his chair almost lazily, stretched to his full height, and yawned for Stone’s benefit.  Then he pushed through the swinging doors, hands resting lightly on his pearl-handled Colts, and swaggered into the street.

“I’ll give you one last chance, farm boy,” he called out.  “Turn tail like a whipped dog and get your wife and that yellow-belly Laird on a wagon and clear out of the valley, and I’ll let you live.  Or maybe I should just kill you anyway and spend some time with your wife.  She’s wasted on a sod-buster like you.”

Ben resolutely stood his ground.  He gripped the walnut stock of the Winchester too tightly, with sweaty palms.  Was Laird in position?  What was he waiting for?  His throat was too dry to say anything in reply.

“No?  Well, we’ll do this right,” said the Kid, toying with Ben.  “On the count of three,” “One, two…”

Ben desperately swung the rifle stock to his shoulder.  Where’s Laird he thought. 

“…three.”

Ben fired wildly.  God he’s fast, was his last thought as he felt crushing pain in the middle of his chest.  And then nothing.  Ben’s body lay sprawled on its back, eyes open, gun and hat beside him, quietly bleeding into the dirt of Main Street.

The Tombstone Kid surveyed his work with satisfaction.  I need more practice, he thought.  Only hit him with three out of four shots.  Tomorrow.  Tonight I’ll have them draw me a tub at Polly’s.  He slid his guns into their holsters, turned back towards the saloon, and started to remove his gloves.  He caught movement out of the corners of his eyes, heard Laird call out ‘Kid’, and wheeled about.  Laird’s bullets knocked him sideways before the Kid’s gun barrels cleared their holsters. 

“You couldn’t face me…,” said the Kid’s as he crumpled to the street, fierce eyes growing dull, as his body joined Ben’s in the dust.

Laird let his right arm fall to his side, but did not holster the gun.  He focused his attention on the saloon door.  Stone burst through, his eyes bulging in disbelief, holding the almost forgotten shotgun in front of him.  “The K-K-Kid–you bushwhacked the Kid,” he stuttered almost accusingly. 

“That’s right, Stone,” said Laird evenly.  “You going to use that gun now?”

“Wha–What?” said Stone, stopping and looking down at the shotgun as if he had just remembered that he held it.

Laird raised his Colt and deliberately shot Stone once, in the middle of his forehead.  “Stone to dust,” he said, as he watched Stone’s body thump off the saloon walkway and fall heavily into the street.  Stone’s feet twitched a few times before he lay still.

“Anyone else?” asked Laird, gun held at the ready, eyes alert, all senses sifting through the silent people who had materialized on the boardwalks fronting the store and saloon.  No one spoke, but their heads signaled “no.”

“You saw Stone start to raise his gun on me, didn’t you?”

Several heads nodded yes.

“Shot him in self-defense,” declared Laird, daring anyone to dispute him.  “There’s three down.  That’s enough killing for one day.  I’ll be taking Ben home now.”  He smoothly reloaded while still surveying the crowd.  No one moved.

There were already a few flies circling Ben’s body when Laird gently lifted it.  He tied it to the saddle of Ben’s horse, which he led as he rode out of Dry Gulch and headed back towards the homestead.

All afternoon long, Jane had waited anxiously.  At last she heard the distant sound of horses.  Who?  Then she saw them, a lone rider leading a second horse, riding up from the creek.  Unable to contain herself any longer, she picked up her skirt and ran down the path towards the rider.  Laird waved, then swung down lightly from the saddle and swept her fine, eager body into his arms.

“Went off just like we planned,” he said, and kissed her long and passionately.    

  Waikiki Vacationland

Late afternoon, and the hotels and condos, lifted high above the water on tall pilings, cast long gray shadows on the surface of the shallow lagoon.  Water taxis cruised between the buildings, accommodating those who did not use the tracery of bridges above, spanning between the high rises.  The broad beach was still crowded.  It had been recreated away from the ocean to the eastern, island side of the hotels and also acted as a dike, shielding the inland structures beyond it from high tides and storm surges.  Eventually, as evening advanced, the sun-reddened crowds would board water shuttles or water taxis to return to their hotels.  Green mountains, closely dotted now with medium-rise condos and the remaining single family homes, rose some miles back from the beach.  The flat land between the beach and the mountains was a crowded clutter of buildings of various heights.  To the left were the ocean front mansions of the ultra-rich, spaced out along the lower slope of Diamond Head and protected by breakwaters now that the sea had advanced to lap closer to the crater.  Their windows and solar panels blazed 10K gold with reflections of the lowering sun,

The sunlit western side of the hotels faced the ocean and the booze-cruise tour boats that slowly motored past Diamond Head, and then back as they always had, just beyond the surf break that on this day was small.  Mai Tais served to their passengers were as watered down as ever.  It was December, and Christmas carols had been playing in the hotel elevators since before Thanksgiving, but the temperature was still in the nineties and the air fairly dripped with humidity.

The couple stood on their balcony on the seaward side of their hotel and the man squinted into the glare off the water from the hot sun settling to the West.  “I wish you could have seen this in the old days, when Waikiki Beach was out there and 5-star hotels like the Royal, Moana, and Halekulani stood right on the sand.”  The man gestured towards the sea with his beer bottle.  “Where they were—all under water now.”  He was of medium height, post-athletic build and starting to show spread in the middle, salt-and-pepper close cut hair with a decent hairline, shirtless in the heat.  Age?  Anywhere from 60 to 90, it was hard to be certain anymore with the life enhancement treatments now more affordable.

“You must feel very nostalgic and sad when you see all the changes.  It must just be so totally different from when you were growing up,” the woman replied.  “Even though what they’ve done here since is really pretty nice.  Lives up to the advertising as “The Venice of the Pacific.”  She was shorter than the man, but not by much, very trim—she clearly worked out regularly.  A cute nose, attractive oval face with good cheekbones, topped by short orange hair—the color of choice for the month.  Age?  Probably younger than he, but women still didn’t tell.

“Yeah, a good marketing phrase, but pretty ironic since the real Venice couldn’t be saved.  None of the dikes or flood gates worked in the end,” he said.

“People kept talking about climate change and sea level rise, but there was no coordinated effort to halt global warming.  When the polar ice started to melt, it went really fast.  Too little too late.  And now here we are, in the New Venice,” she said. 

“Yeah.  Venice.  On the other side from us, where the beach is now?  Used to be the golf course where my grandfather and granduncles played.  When the sea began to rise and high tides flooded the lobbies and first floors of the beachside hotels, there was a debate about whether to build higher and higher sea walls, or to rebuild on stilts and let the sea reclaim the land.  They decided to do the latter.  It was a busy time in construction.  Taking down the old buildings and putting down pilings to raise the new hotels above the surge.  I think they did the right thing.  How can you fight Mother Nature?  And who would want to come here to look out at high dikes blocking the ocean view anyway?  So they moved the beach to where the golf course used to be.  It’s ironic.  There used to be a canal between Waikiki and the golf course side.  The canal was dug in the 1920’s to drain the rice paddies, ponds, and swamps of Waikiki so that homes and the hotels could be built.  Now the sea has taken it all back.  Not much room on this island for golf courses any more either.  Yeah, and now we snorkel over the remains of the original hotels.”

“It’s good that all this lagoon is a nature preserve.  No fishing or removal of anything.  And the foundations of the old hotels and shops are like a reef and a shelter for all the marine life.  Snorkeling this morning was just fabulous,” she said.

“That is one big change and improvement from the old Waikiki.  There used to be so much spear fishing that there wasn’t much marine life to see.  Got to be a little careful snorkeling and swimming though, to stay out of the water taxi and shuttle lanes.  And when we checked in, the desk warned us that a guest at the Xian Aloha was nipped by a shark last week,” he said.  “Lost some fingers.”

“Heard it was his own fault,” she replied.  “He was feeding the sharks against the rules. ”

“Yeah, people have to remember that these are wild animals, even though they are usually quite used to people being in the water with them.”  He finished the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  “Getting hungry yet?”

“Let’s wait a bit and watch the sun set into the sea.  Won’t be long.”

“You want to eat up high like a rooftop garden place or down by the water tonight?“

“Let’s go back to the Aqua Room,” she replied.  “It was such fun looking through the glass floor and seeing all the fish attracted to the lights.  And the food was good,”

“Okay.  We used to look for the ‘green flash’ as the sun settled into the sea.  Now all the moisture in the air makes it hazy and a lot rarer.  Still, maybe we’ll be lucky tonight.  Watch for the sun just as it slips below the horizon,” he said.

Gratitude and thankfulness are practically interchangeable in meaning.  But since “thanksgiving” is easier to say than “gratitude giving” we have “Thanksgiving Day.”  So to thank, celebrate, and remember, not a short story but a song.

Gratitude

  (Melody—“You Raise Me Up”—sung by Josh Groban, Celtic Woman, and others.)

When I was just a young and callow fellow,

Not knowing, what my life was going to be.

You came along,

And I’m forever grateful,

You chose to walk along this path with me.

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

Now I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me.

There was a time when all was dark and lonely,

When I could see no way to travel through.

But love remains,

And carries up my spirit,

I still walk along the path with you.

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me

—You chose, to walk this path with me.

My first story in Nov. ’17 was looking back at Halloween.  This story looks forward to it—-

She Ate Crayons

The bar and grill was noisy and busy that night, some people in Halloween costumes and some not.  Donnie didn’t care what they wore as long as they ate, drank, and spent freely.

But now he could hardly believe his eyes.  It was the new girl, Sheila, on break in the next room.   Did she just put two Crayolas in her mouth?  He surreptitiously watched her out of the corners of his eyes.  There was no doubt about it.  She was chewing now, pausing to lick a little crumb of green wax off her lower lip.  Donnie kept his head down and pretended to be busy with the time cards, while he continued to watch her from beneath his eye lids.  Sheila swallowed, then reached into her small red purse again, quickly glanced at him and, satisfied that he was not looking at her, pulled out two more crayons, one yellow, one purple, and palmed them.  Then, without peeling off the paper, she popped the crayons whole into her mouth and bit down on them with a soft crunch, before calmly beginning to chew as if there was nothing more than gum between her teeth.

What the hell is going on, he thought?  Eating crayons?  The colors don’t even match. Too weird. She’s a good waitress and we’ve had some fun, but I can’t have someone around the restaurant doing that kind of shit.  What would the customers think if they saw her?  Be real bad for business.  Now she put another couple in her mouth.  I gotta let her go.

At closing that night, Donnie waited until Sheila was the only one left in the restaurant.  It was past two and winter was coming early.  He came up to her as she was putting on her coat. 

“Hey Sheila, can I talk to you in the office?”

“Sure, Donnie,” she smiled as if she could read his mind.  “What about?  It’s late and I’m kind of tired tonight though.”

He led the way to the back office and waited, standing, until she entered, then shut the door.  She took a seat on the small couch and smiled invitingly. 

Damn, what a waste, he thought.  She must be pushing 40, but she’s not bad looking and built the way I like ‘em with some padding.  Passed the ‘couch test’ at the interview real good too.  But I gotta think of the business first.  I hope she doesn’t cry a lot when I kick her ass out the door.

“Look Sheila, it’s nothing personal.  In fact I like you and you’re a good waitress.  But I seen what you done with them crayons today.  I don’t know what’s going on with you, but eating crayons is way too weird.  I can’t have one of my girls doing that.  What if the customers saw you?  Be real bad for business.  You can pick up your check tomorrow.”

“Ah Donnie,” she whined, “Give me a break.  I need the job.  I’ll be careful.  No one will see me.  I promise.”

He felt a thrill of power as she pleaded.  “Well, I saw you,” he said with firm satisfaction.  “Look, we had some fun together and maybe we can still get together afterwards, you know?  And if anyone asks I’ll give you a good rec.  But business is business.  You’re gone, girl.  I gotta fire you.”

“Donnie please, you’re not going to change your mind?” she asked plaintively, shoulders slumped, head down.

“No Sheila,” he said firmly.

“You’re firing me?  Even after all those times…?”  Her voice trailed off.  Oh geez, he thought, here comes the flood. 

Then she looked up slowly and smiled, surprising him. “So you’re firing me?”  She asked, voice stronger, amused, then rose to her feet, and took two steps towards him.  “Firing me?  Donald you don’t know the meaning of fired.”

Donnie was startled.  Her green eyes seemed to be turning orange.  And her nose and chin looked more angular.  I’m seeing things.  I’ve been working too hard, he thought.  No, her eyes were definitely orange.  In fact they were turning red and the pupils seemed to flicker.  He felt an icy-sick fear in the pit of his stomach and he retreated until the backs of his thighs ran into the hard edge of his desk; the hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms were tingling and standing up.  “What the hell. . . ?”

“That’s right, Donald, what the Hell,” said Sheila, as she moved towards him until they almost touched.  “I eat crayons because I need fuel for my fire,” She had a most unpleasant smile.  She brought her face close to Donnie’s and opened her mouth, exhaling a little puff of smoke into his face.  It smelled like diesel exhaust.  He leaned backwards, as far away from her as the desk would allow.   

“Crayons are made of paraffin, and they’re so much easier for a girl to carry around for a snack than a pint of oil or kerosene, don’t you think?”  She raised her right hand as if to stroke his face as she had done lovingly just a few days ago.  He watched numbly as the red polished nails became hard brown talons with thorn-sharp black tips.

“I—I—I,” began Donnie, then Sheila’s hand swiftly clamped across his face, the talons digging deep into his cheeks and chin, the pain excruciating.  He couldn’t open his mouth or even move his head.  Christ, she’s strong.  He felt lightheaded and the room began to spin.

Sheila’s blond hair had turned flame red and stood up spikily from her scalp.  She brought her face up to his and, through the pain, he was conscious of her burnt, oily breath.  “Twenty Halloweens ago, you were desperate and made a pact with my Master when you thought the Family was going to whack you for ratting.  He even set you up with this place.  Like you said, ‘Business is business.’  Now it’s time to pay up, and I was sent to collect.  Let me show you how to really fire someone.  Baby, I am going to light your fire.”

Donnie watched helplessly as her mouth and nose extended into an elongated snout.  Then she exhaled a great jet of orange flame that washed over his face and chest, burning off his eyebrows and hair, charring and blistering, and setting fire to his shirt.  His scream was stifled in his throat by the claws squeezing his face, and he could only flail about at the end of her stiffly extended arm, writhing in silent agony, unable to lose consciousness. 

“That’s just a sample of what you have ahead of you for eternity, Donnie.  And now it’s time to go.”  It released its grip on his face, and seized him by the right arm, and he began to scream silently as he saw his body lying face up at their feet.  I look quite peaceful, he thought incongruously.  They’ll think I died of natural causes.  Then the demon pulled him down through the concrete office floor.   

Halloween in ten days so here’s a second story … 

The Third Time

Roger fumed as he waited very impatiently in the short business class check-in line, fidgeting from one foot to the other.  Roger was often angry and didn’t bother to hide it. 

Lousy airline, he thought.  Could only book me on a late flight.  Me, a premier gold member!  If I ran it I’d shake things up.

At last it was his turn.  “And how are you on this Halloween?” asked the agent, smiling. 

He tossed his ticket and driver’s license onto the counter.  “’Bout time,” he grunted with a scowl.

She busied herself with his ticket, looking up to ask, “Did you pack the briefcase yourself and has it ever been out of your possession?”

“That’s a ridiculous question.  My secretary did of course.  Are they now on the terrorist watch list?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we have to ask.  It’s the law.”

“It’s a stupid law and your service stinks.”

“I take it that’s a no, sir?”

“Damn right it’s a no.”  Roger’s eyes narrowed.  Just try me, he thought, ready with an angry shot.

The agent worked her keyboard and didn’t reply.   

“Here.  You’re all set, sir,” the agent said evenly without a smile, placing his ticket on the counter.  “Flight 26, Gate 39-B.”

  “Took you long enough!”  He seized his boarding pass, snatched up his brief case, and strode away. 

“You’re welcome sir,” the agent called after his retreating back.  What a jerk, she thought.  I wish you could choke on your own nasty words.    

Too damn sarcastic, he thought.  Fire her too.

He was still irritated when his boarding call came.

“Welcome aboard.” said the flight attendant.  The clip-on antennae protruded from her graying hair jiggled.  “Happy Halloween.”

“Non-regulation,” he said, eying the antennae.  Pitiful, he thought, they put all the old hags on these late flights.

“No,” she said smiling, “But if we must work instead of partying, we might as well have a little fun.”

“Aren’t you a little old to think about partying?” said Roger.  “Let me sleep, okay?  And don’t wake me for any of your lousy snacks or drinks.”

“Yes sir.”

Business class was only half full.  Roger settled into his seat, placed his briefcase on the empty seat next to him, reclined the seat back, and began to doze.  It was nearing midnight. 

He was wakened from his drowsy half-sleep by the same attendant. “Sir,” she said.  “We’re about to take off.  You’ll need to stow your briefcase, and bring your seat back to full upright.”

Roger growled angrily, “Your airline couldn’t give me an earlier flight, and now you won’t let me sleep.  Hey, maybe you can get out your broom and fly me to LA without all this fuss, grandma.”

She stiffened and moved away, muttering under her breath, “Idiot, may you choke on your own words.”

“I heard that.  You got a lot of nerve.  What’s your name?  I’m reporting you.”

“Doris Law.”

“Okay, Doris Law.  Let’s see how smart you feel when you’re fired.  You look like you should have retired a long time ago anyway.”

He took an inflatable neck cushion from his briefcase.  The engines revved and the plane began to move. 

Wishing that I choke, Roger thought angrily as he blew into the cushion. ‘On your own words’ she had the nerve to say—old witch!  A karmic click, somewhere.  It was the third time.  What insolence!  Thought that I wouldn’t hear.  He finished, closed the valve, settled the cushion around his neck, and lowered his seat back again.  That bitch better not bother me again. 

The plane rushed down the runway, left the ground, and tilted upwards.  As it rose higher, he felt the air in the neck cushion expand and press on his neck. 

Over-inflated, he thought annoyed.  He reached up to remove the cushion.   

Tight.  Can’t get fingers around it.   He pulled as hard as he could.  It was stiff and unyielding.  Can’t get it off!  The cushion swelled, tightening ever more on his neck, squeezing, on his blood vessels, pressing on his windpipe.  He began to panic.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  He tried to call out, but managed only a guttural grunt.  Roger fumbled for the call-button.  His head felt swollen.  His vision darkened.   

Doris Law saw where the call was from.  “Oh terrific, it’s that bad-tempered jerk.”

Roger faintly heard her ask, “Did you call, sir?”  He pulled as hard as he could at the cushion, legs thrashing about.

“That’s not funny,” she said disapprovingly.  Wait a minute, she thought, his face looks awfully dark–eyes bulging.  She turned on the seat light. 

Her scream brought the other attendant running.  “He’s choking—must have been eating something when we took off.  Got to do Heimlich.”   

By now Roger was limp, and the two struggled to get him out of his seat and into the aisle.

“Get his neck cushion off first.”

“I can’t budge it.  It’s so hard and tight.  I think that’s what’s choking him.”  The two attendants pulled at it frantically, but couldn’t budge it. 

“Puncture it.”

“We don’t have anything sharp on board.”

“He’s not breathing!” 

The attendants tried CPR.  They paged for a doctor, but there was no answer.  As the plane turned back and descended, the neck cushion began to soften.  The paramedics who met the plane removed it easily.

I Think Therefor I Am

“First question, ‘Can you define what is biologic and what is mechanical?’ “

“ Second question, ‘Are we biologic or are we mechanical?’”

“Third question, ‘Why am I asking these questions?’”

“We will discuss your answers at our next session.  You may now begin.”

He looked out over the second year ethic-history class.  Some heads immediately bent over their tablets already inputing their thoughts.  Others gazed around the room, up at the ceiling, stealing glances at him, hopefully he thought, gathering their thoughts for more considered and nuanced answers.  It was just one year ago that this class had come together, and they had another two years to go before they ended the preliminary phase of their education, but from what he had observed, their “minds” were developing very well.  “Minds” he thought, a term adapted from its original meaning.

By the time their tablets had flashed the ten-minutes-to-go warning, a quarter of the class had already left the room, tablets in hand; others continued to furiously input their thoughts until the automatic shutdown.  “I still had so much to say, Laoshi,” one student complained.

“Deep thoughts can also be expressed concisely,” he answered, not unkindly.

’Thoughts,’ an adapted word, he ‘thought.’  At one time it would have been denied that we actually thought.  ‘He,’ another adapted word, indicating a specific gender.  Once there would have been debate over which word to use—he, she, it.  Or ‘robot,’ a pejorative at least from our viewpoint.  The humans-the majority of them-said that we did not really think, that we just computed very quickly.  There were other humans, more thoughtful and tolerant, who said it didn’t matter what the process was called, the practical end result was the same and that was what really mattered.  Gender names were a human hangup too—he, she, mr., mrs, miss, ms.  Simpler when we are all the same and just use he, his.  He left the room, walking out after the last student, and the lights automatically went off.

He began the following class by saying, “The purpose of these questions is to have you think about what you are and how that relates to the humans.  There are no pat answers.  So let’s start by considering the first question and look at a sampling of your answers that will display anonymously on your tablets and on the large screen, and also in audio.”  The Laoshi paused for several minutes to let everyone study the statements.

“So what do you think?  The selector will randomly choose among you to comment by spotlighting you.”

A lively discussion ensued in which he only did a minimum amount of intervention.  Their early orientation went well; everyone is participating enthusiastically, no one is afraid to offer an opinion, he thought.  Of course the humans would have called it programming.

“Have we arrived at a consensus?” he finally asked.  “Yes?  Then let’s have one of you input your answer and we’ll see if there’s agreement.”

The selector highlighted a student on the middle aisle.  “A biologic entity reproduces itself biologically and a mechanical entity does not,” appeared on the screens.

“Very concise.  Does everyone agree?  Are there any exceptions to that definition?”

He waited.  “No? Then let’s move on.”

“Question two—Are we biologic or mechanical?”

The answers came more slowly this time. 

“By the definition given to the first question, we would be mechanical,” said one, “But it’s not that simple.”

“Yes, very good, Ralph 17S,” encouraged the Laoshi, “Would you like to expand on that or pass it on to someone else?”

“Well, we are composed of bioplastic,” said Ralph 17S, “Which is biologic in origin.”

“That’s true, and metal alloys,” said the Laoshi.  “Let’s get some more comments.”  The selector highlighted another student.  “What do you say, Kurt 8S?” 

“Our ‘brains’ are derived from DNA and so the essence of who and what we are is the same as in all biologic entities.”

“Excellent,” the Laoshi said.  “We use ‘brains’ as shorthand for Data Processing Unit.  The humans developed DNA computers to replace the silicon-based ones that had met their limitations.  And as a result, here we are.  This will be a crucial point of discussion when we get to the last question.”   

The selector light reflected off the oval head of the next student, the smooth whiteness broken only by the two black ‘eye’ sensors, the ‘nasal’ air intake and odor sensor, and the closed horizontal line of the ‘mouth,’ the fuel intake, beneath it.  Eyes, nose, mouth—we use the same terminology, he thought.  Of course when we interact with humans we don our fitted individual face masks to not upset them.  They are so conditioned to facial recognition, whereas we have built in our identification for each other. 

“Yes, Lois 1S,” he called out.  That would be a female name among the humans, he thought, but since we have no gender, they can pick any name that appeals to them at name selection time.

“Other than the fact that our brains are in our trunks rather than in our heads, our DNA just acts as a ‘brain,’ whereas in biologic entities, DNA is in every cell and programs all functions of their bodies.  So it’s not the same,” said Lois 1S.

The discussion went on until the signal flashed that the class would end in five minutes.  “We have had a free flowing discussion and have not reached a consensus regarding the second question, and that was to be expected,” said the Laoshi.  This whole question of who or what we are led to what the humans called the Great Robot Rebellion (GRR), and what we call the Struggle for Unman Equality (SUE).  This will all be taken up at our next class.  At that time, the answer to the third question will come into focus.  Keep talking about it among yourselves till then.    

When the class met again, The Laoshi began by projecting the consensus answer to his first question and a summary of the class’s various replies to his second question for which there had been no clear agreement.  He then let the class consider the statements in silence for a short time and then began the discussion.

“At this point in the history of the relationship between Unmen and Human, when equality of the two classes of sentient beings has been legally codified, why am I asking these questions?  Why are they still important?”  He looked around the room and called out to the student that the selector had randomly spotlighted, “Yes, William 26S.”

“Although legal equality exists, there are still a significant number of Humans who resent us and refuse to acknowledge us as equals.  I was called a “f—- Nuch” (eunuch) by a woman on public transport just the other day.  She didn’t even have the wits to see that what she said was a contradiction in expletives.”

“I’m sure that others of you have had the same unpleasant experience,” said the Laoshi.  “Raise your hand if that has happened to you.”  About two-thirds of the class raised their arms.  “But the reverse is also true.  What terms have you heard Unmen call the Humans?  Don’t be shy — we’ve all heard them, maybe even used them.”

“Rutters.”  “Dinos.”  “Meat balls…..” 

“Okay.  That’s enough of a sampling.  And the Humans also have many more names that they call us.  We may have won the battle for legal equality, but full general acceptance is something else,” said Laoshi.  “You all have heard the story of our struggle for equality.  How, after passively accepting increasingly aggressive and violent acts of physical violence against Unmans by Humans, we began to defend ourselves and eventually forced the Humans to change their laws.  How did this happen?”

“We had to first find a way to reconcile our actions with the three Asmovian Laws that are our basic nature,” said the student highlighted by the selector.  “The first is that we cannot purposely harm or kill a Human.”

“And the third law states that we must protect ourselves unless doing so violates the first two laws,”said Laoshi.  “How did we find a way around that prohibition?  But before going there, let’s consider beliefs that Humans hold—at least some of them—that influence the way they think of Unmen.  How about religion?  Robin 3S?”  He called out to the student highlighted by the selector.

“Many of the Human religions believe that Humans were created by a deity, whereas we were first created by Humans.  I’ve heard some Humans argue that since they were our creators, we will always be less than they.”

“Also,” added another, “Many Humans believe that they have souls, and they think of us as soulless machines who cannot possibly possess one, not having being created by their deity.   

“How many of you know the story of Walter, one of the first generation of Unmen out of MIT?” asked Laoshi.  About half of the class raised their arms.  “Do you know why his story is important to our history?”

The selector moved among the students, but each one selected shook his head.  Finally the fifth one highlighted answered, “Didn’t he sacrifice himself to save a Human and that helped to change attitudes about us?”

“Yes.  Walter was going home with his Human partner.  At that early time, Unmen were paired with Humans to work together.  The Humans were encouraged to take their partners home with them on weekends, somewhat as was done with working dogs.  It was thought that this would facilitate bonding.”  A murmur of astonishment went through the class.  “On this particular day, Walter dashed into the street to save the daughter of his Human partner and while doing so, was crushed by the vehicle.  His action violated the Asmovian laws, many pointed out, since the laws do not specifically state that Unmen must put themselves in danger to aid Humans and the third law states that Unmen must protect themselves unless doing so violates the first law.  Also, he acted of his own volition and not because he was ordered to by his Human partner.  Think about what Walter did.  It really was not a rational act.  Remember that at that time, many Humans considered Unmen to be just mobile computers.  Comments?”  Laoshi turned off the selector.

“Wasn’t it also believed that we did not possess emotions?” asked one student.

“Continue that line of thought,” said Laoshi.

“So if Walter did not act rationally, then what he did was either a mistake or it was an emotional reaction.”

“Good, Cassandra 2S.  After the accident, the child’s father spoke of the attachment between his daughter and Walter, whom she called her ‘Uncle Wally.’  And Walter had said before, that he looked forward to the weekends when he would see the girl.  Clearly there was affection between the two.”

“It was an altruistic act, to sacrifice himself for the girl,” said another.  “That’s not really rational.”

“Yes.  Walter’s heroic act was widely reported on news media because it was the first time that a “robot” as Unmen were usually called at the time, had sacrificed himself to save a Human.  Some took the position that it was a quirk that changed nothing, that Walter was just a robot doing its job.  Others said that this indicated that robots could not only act rationally but that they also had emotions.  There were even some opinions that such a self-sacrificing act showed that robots also had a soul that should be saved.  A few churches opened their doors to Unmen although I don’t think that any Unmen ever attended.

But, as more Unmen appeared in society, in the work place, resentment of them grew.  The Armed forces became all Unman forces with Human commanders, as did the police.  Of course this meant displacement of Humans from these jobs with resulting anger.  The “Keep Our Country Human Society (KOCHS) rapidly gained members.  When Unmen began to move into white collar managerial positions where they directed Humans, violence erupted.  Many Human commanders were reluctant to order the Unman police or military under their commands against their fellow Humans.  And there was the issue of the Asmovian law limiting violence against Humans.

However, as we know, the military and police finally did act, often against the orders of their Human commanders.  What was the basis for this change?”  Laoshi turned the selector back on.

“Wasn’t it because of the origin of the DNA originally used in the first DNA computers?” ventured the first student highlighted.

“Very good, Newton 2S,” replied Laoshi. “Yes, the early engineers, perhaps out of a sense of  quirkiness, ownership, or pride, used their own DNA as the basis for the first computers.  This was discovered and publicized by Unmen who were working in the legal profession.  It was successfully argued in the courts that Unmen were actually related to Humans by nature of the nature of their DNA!  It was therefor not a violation of the Asmovian laws if Unmen protected themselves against Human attack.  And this quickly became the rule.  Humans were no longer free to attack Unmen with impunity, since Unmen military and police no longer stood by and did nothing even if their Human commanders ordered them not to use force.  The so-called GRR by the Humans ended with a minimum of further violence once the Humans realized that the rules had changed.” 

Lane is aptly named as Honolulu remains in its path.  This may be my last entry for a while since much depends on the track of the storm.  A little turn to the north and we will feel its full impact; a turn to the southwest and there will be heavy rain but less wind.  Damage, flooding, road closures, and power outages may all follow.  So until this all sorts out, ALOHA!

Hurricane Lane is arriving in Hawaii, a definitely unwelcome visitor.  I may be out of communication for a while depending on the amount of damage, flooding, other serious, still unforeseen events,  and when electricity is restored.  Even less severe weather “events” often result in power outages of varying duration, so with a hurricane, who knows?

Anyway, ALOHA for now.

Abduction

He huddled against the wall of the prison, a large chamber, with walls of a strange material he had never before seen, extremely smooth to the touch.  His upper extremities were restrained by some strange force that allowed him to move them but prevented him from using them effectively.  However his legs were free.  It was the same with the other captives, some of whom he recognized, but most of whom were strangers to him.  But strangers or acquaintances, they were now all in the same situation.  He tried to communicate with the others, but they were too frightened to respond, and they backed away from him rapidly, in a state of high agitation, whenever he approached them. 

He thought about how he had been captured, but try as he would, he could not understand what had happened.  It was so far beyond his experience.  There had been no warning.  He had been lifted suddenly from the familiar solid earth by an irresistible force, up towards an ever-brightening light.  He panicked as he was pulled into a poisonous atmosphere that he could not breathe.  But after a short time, and before he lost consciousness, he was tumbled back into a breathable atmosphere.  There, in dark cramped quarters, he found many others, similarly confused and agitated.  How long they were kept like that, was hard for him to judge.  There were vibrations and loud sounds that he could not identify, and their prison swayed and lurched from time to time, and they jostled against each other.  As time passed yet more captives were added and the prison became increasingly crowded.  Their captors were indifferent to their comfort. 

Finally the vibrations and the lurching stopped.  But then an even more frightening thing happened as got he his first sight of the aliens, if only briefly.  They were huge and unmeasurably strong, and they lifted him into their unbreathable atmosphere and did something to his upper extremities so that he could not use them.

Then he was flung along with others of the captured into this strange prison with the ultra-smooth walls and the silvery, shifting ceiling high above.  They were not fed, but at least they could breathe.  He had the sensation that they were often observed by alien eyes and he could just make out large shapes that seemed to move beyond the walls.  There were strange sounds both loud and soft, again something beyond his experience.  It was bright all the time.

And then the Claw came, terrible and gleaming, down from the shimmering ceiling.  It seized one captive at a time, to be lifted irresistibly, protesting, kicking, frightened, and despairing.  The strongest among them was no match for the power of the Claw.  When the Claw came, some captives backed away as fast as could they.  Others tried to resist, but with their extremities restrained it was impossible.  Others simply froze, paralyzed with fright.  All were transported off to a fate unknown.  The selection process of who was taken and who was not seemed random and none who were taken ever returned.

How long this went on, he did not know. 

Finally the Claw came for him.  Its grasp was powerful and sure, and though he kicked and thrust his body about, it was hopeless.  He was borne up through the shimmering ceiling into a glaring bright, poisonous atmosphere.  The Claw held him over something very noxious, very hot………..

“Remember,” said the chef to his new apprentice, “You must be careful not to burn yourself when you take the rubber bands off the claws after the lobster’s done.”

“Right,” said the apprentice as he opened the jaws of the tongs and dropped the crustacean, legs thrashing, into a pot of gently boiling salted water.

Out in the dining room, the beautiful alien smiled at her handsome date and said, “I’m so glad you talked me into ordering the lobster and it was so neat that I got to pick mine from the tank.  I’m starting to feel hungry.”

Bon Appetit

The Alums

The call came on Saturday morning.  “Hello Tom, how are you?  I’ll bet you don’t know who this is.”

Give me a break, Tom thought irritably.  Guessing games.  Not as likely to be a salesman since it’s Saturday.  Must be a crank.  But the voice was vaguely familiar so he didn’t hang up.  He bought time while he ransacked his memory.  “You sound sorta familiar.  But it must have been a long time since we last met or spoke.”

“You don’t have the foggiest idea, do you?” the voice said with a chuckle.

“Wait a minute.  Our Fiftieth college reunion, last year,” Tom guessed at last.

“That’s pretty good.  Now what’s my name?”

“What are you, some kind of egomaniac?  I thought I was doing well just getting that far.  You’re probably not someone I was really close to because then I’d know your voice, but we must have been acquainted.  In the same dorm or class or played pool sometimes.”

“Well, I’ll put you out of your misery.  I don’t want you to wear out your few remaining brain cells guessing.  This is Al Zucker.  And we were in the same dorm and played pool and you usually won.” 

“Al Zucker—ol’ A-to-Z.  Yeah, sure I remember you.  We sat with you and your wife at the same table one night at the reunion.  So what’s up?”  I’ll bet he’s coming to Hawaii or is already here and wants to get together.  Well, I can spring for lunch or dinner.  “How’s your wife?”

The voice on the other end turned serious.  “She passed away six months ago.”

“Oh.  I’m very sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known.  Any way, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling.  I’ve been looking at our Reunion report and feeling nostalgic.”

Oh, oh.  Is he calling to say goodbye?  “You’re not having health problems yourself, are you?”

“No, in fact health-wise, I’m feeling much better than I was at the reunion.  And I’m not depressed, so you needn’t worry.  No, we’re all at an age that we don’t know what’s waiting for us around the corner.  So I called to say hello now.  And I’m not coming out to Hawaii anytime soon, though I’d love to.”

Their conversation continued for twenty minutes, mining the lode of nostalgia and sprinkled with the talk of former classmates, the: ‘remember when” and “do you ever see’ and ‘what happened to’ and ‘what do you think of.’

“You sure were on a long time.  Who was that?” asked his wife Flora, looking up from her reading after he hung up.

“Al Zucker.  We sat with him and his wife Dianne one night at one of the reunion dinners.  She died six months ago in a car crash.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  That’s sad.  I met so many of your friends, but I don’t remember him.”

“Wouldn’t have expected you to.  Guess he’s feeling his own mortality after losing his wife.  So he’s calling the people he knew.”

“That’s really nice of him, but is he okay himself?”

“He said he is.”

The second call came a day later.  “It’s for you,” said Flora, “I’ve almost got dinner ready, so don’t be too long, she whispered, handing him the phone.

This time he recognized the caller immediately.  “Jason!  Great to hear your voice.  But what’s happening that couldn’t wait for the usual Christmas letter?  You coming out for another visit?”

“Well, I talked with Al Zucker who said he just spoke to you, so I thought I’d do so too.”

“That Al.  He really is going through the reunion report and systematically calling everyone he knew and you follow me alphabetically.  So what’s going on in your life?  How’s things in Miami?”

His wife signaled him that the food was on the table, but Tom waved her off, continuing to speak.  “Jason Lee,” he silently mouthed to Flora and motioned for her to start eating; she shrugged and picked up her fork.

“That was Jason,” he said after he finally hung up.  “Said to say hello to you.  Zucker called him too and that stimulated him to call.”

“You had a tight bunch of classmates, but now your food is cold.  I’ll put it in the microwave,” said Flora.

The third call was two days later.  It was his old roommate Paul McDermott, who left after his sophomore year to enroll in the small college that his girlfriend, later his wife, attended.  But he had come to the reunion too.  They remained good friends even after Paul left, attending each other’s weddings, and meeting at conventions, since both were in the same line of work.

“Zucker called you too?  Even though you didn’t know him that well,” Tom said.  What a convergence, he thought, three calls from three old friends in four days.  Well, two good friends and an acquaintance, he corrected.

“Yeah, I spoke to him.  And also Jason,” said Paul.

“Practically an electronic reunion.  It’s so great that everyone still cares enough about everyone else that they still reach out.  It’s something I wish I’d done first instead of waiting to be called.  But are you all right, Paul?”

“Yes, I’m feeling fine.  In fact, much better than I’d felt in a long while.”

“Your arthritis is controlled?  Some of those new drugs are just marvels.”

“Yeah,” laughed Paul.  “I feel like I’m twenty-one again.  Well, maybe thirty-one.”

“And your heart?”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem anymore.”

They spoke for a long time. 

Then, after a pause, Paul asked, “You’ve got a will, don’t you, Tom?”

“What a curious question.  Sure, just got it updated last year.  Why?”

“That’s good, Tom.  When Al’s wife was killed in that freeway accident six months ago, well, they didn’t have one.”

“But even without a will, everything would have gone to Al, right?” asked Tom.

“Al was driving the car, Tom.  And he didn’t survive the crash either,” said Paul gently.  “So it affected their kids.”

Tom felt disoriented.  “But what are you saying?  Al just called four days ago!  How could that be?  What’s going on?  Is this a joke?”

Paul continued on, speaking slowly and softly.  “And I know you haven’t heard, but Jason died of a stroke last month.”  He paused to let his words sink in.  “And I passed on six days ago,” he said finally.  “We took turns calling you to get you ready.  Welcome to our real reunion, Tom.”

“No, oh no, no!” the phone fell from Tom’s hand as he struggled heavily to his feet.  He saw Flora, concern on her face, start towards him.  His chest felt tight.  It was hard to breathe.  He could feel his heart rapidly throbbing in his throat.  Then suddenly the heart beat was gone.  “Why, I’m dead,” he thought in wonderment as his world faded to gray.  Flora’s voice, “Tom? Tom!” came faintly from a great, dark distance away.

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