The Psychic

The rain kept me indoors, and anyway, I had nowhere to go.

The city wasn't my favorite destination, but I certainly liked it well enough, particularly compared to some of the hell holes I'd been in.  The people here were open-minded enough, an attitude that pervaded the management of the company I worked for this week, and it was in the same time zone as home, so my aging body didn't rebel against the alarm as much as it might on the East coast.  But it was winter here, and that meant rain.  Lots of rain.  The locals didn't seem to mind so much; I was told that you could tell someone from out of town in the winter because they carried umbrellas.  Whether or not it was true, I just chose not to go outside unless I had to.

The hotel I was staying at was an upscale business-class property of my favorite national chain.  My frequent-traveller status with them assured me a comfortable bed and no hassles, which I certainly appreciated.  Classy as the place was, though, the mid-week entertainment at the in-house bar left a lot to be desired.  The previous night's Jazz singer had been good.  Tonight, though, it was some knock-off of The Great Karnak, complete with satin turban and gold-trimmed cape.  I sat in the back, poking at my highball with the little plastic stick it came with and thinking of Amy and the kids.

The show opened with a better than expected comedy monologue that took my mind off the rain and the thousand-mile distance to home.  Screwy get-up or not, the guy could spin a joke.  He wasn't as good as Carson had been in the same outfit, but most in this crowd weren't old enough to draw the comparison, and the schtick stuck.  After a bit, his material expended, he paused and looked at the crowd.  "Well, on to the main part of our show," he said, seeming somewhat unsure of himself.  Was that for effect, or was he new to this game?  Not sure.  He continued, "It says on the sign that I'm a psychic, but it doesn't take E.S.P. to know that none of you believe me."  A few snickers from the crowd showed that he was right about that, at least.  "Well, I suppose I should start with a good demonstration.  As you might expect, I'll need a couple of volunteers..."  He trailed off, looking around expectantly for raised hands that weren't there.  A friend of mine once described for me the art of "practicing invisibility," something I desperately tried to undertake.  Usually I liked that I stood out in a crowd, but this wasn't one of those times.

My spell failed, though, as his eyes fell on me.  "You there, in the back, bald guy with the eye patch.  What's your first name?"  Some psychic.  

"Dan," I said, hoping this wouldn't take long.

"Sam?  It's Sam, you say?"  The people at the table next to me sniggered.  I held my composure to a smile, but wanted to laugh out loud.  "That's quite a dreadful look you have about you, Sam."  Now why would he have used just that word...?  "Okay, I need another volunteer from the audience.  How about you, sir?  Will you join Dreadful Sam in this bit of magic?"  I suddenly felt cold.  That was just weird.  It took a lot to rattle me, but he just had.  Time for me to make an exit.

As I rose to leave, the psychic called, "Dreadful Sam, won't you stay and help me prove my psychic powers?"

"You'll probably never know it, kid, but you just proved it to me.  Good night."

----

The next morning, I sat eating a plate of eggs and hashbrowns, extra crispy, reading the sports section.  The Lakers had won again, putting them two-and-two in the semi-finals against Utah.  Saturday's game should be exciting, and I had tickets.  I contemplated upgrading to courtside; there was this broker I knew who could make such things happen.

A shadow appeared on my paper and a voice said, "Mr. Moran?"  

I looked up into a vaguely familiar face.  Where had I seen him?  Desk clerk?  "Yes?"

"I wanted to thank you for indulging me."  Indulging him?  In what?  I peered closer at him, looking into his eyes for signs of dementia.  His eyes were bright green, possibly contacts, though it was hard to say.  Ah, yes, the psychic.  I nodded a response, still crunching hashbrowns.

He seemed satisfied, and turned to leave.  "Hey, do I know you from anywhere?" I asked, curious about how he knew.  Not that he couldn't, I was just curious how.

He smiled and winked at me knowingly, "Not just yet, no," and was gone.  

You encounter strange things when you travel.  Strange things, indeed.

On writing...

It just struck me, for all it's worth, that development of one's ability to write is analogous to development of sexual prowess. Early attempts at writing usually involve a lot of sweating and grunting in bad light and little knowledge of what needs to be done. At the end, no one really wants to talk about the experience, and just leave the situation with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Most go through life not developing additional skill, while some rise to greatness. Still others languish with little skill, yet, for whatever reason, develop a following of fans. Lack of elegance can bring income, as the baudy brings audiences that line up for the latest edition of the product, and many excellent authors go unpublished.

What does all that say about our society? I, for one, am scared.

Writer on Retreat

My mind wanders aimlessly. Why can't I write anything? Things are really going to fly if I miss my deadline. If old Charlie wasn't such an impatient cuss, I could maybe get some quality work done.

"Just put something down," he says. "People will love it just 'cause your name's on it. Don't worry!"

How can he say that? It's true enough, I suppose, but gads, I didn't ask for that! I've got the perfect setting here; a lakeside cabin miles from civilization, well stocked with the most comfortable furnishings and a very wired computer. Everything is right. SO WHY CAN'T I PRODUCE ANYTHING?

"Hello? Yeah, Charlie, I'm still working on it. A couple more days maybe. I know, I know. Could you maybe extend that revision date until later next week? No? Well, maybe I'll get it right the first time. Uh-huh. Bye."

I should've taken Mom's advice and been a doctor. I mean, who ever heard of surgeon's block?

A Day at the Sea

Practicing "interior monologue."

---

And so it came to pass, on that bright and sunny day, that we took a basket of food and things (the "we" being the wife, two kids, and myself) and went on down to the beach for lunch.

When we got there, the wife took out some things and sent the boys and I ("the boys" being our son and the family dog, whom I previously forgot to mention came along) down to the strand to play.

Well, anyhow, while we were down there playing, she (my wife) and our daughter (the other aforementioned child) prepared lunch for the lot of us. When it was ready, they called us (myself and the boys), and we all ate together.

After lunch, we all pitched in to clean up and then went to play, as a family unit, in the rolling waves of the sea. Great fun was had, and we all appreciated the day spent together.

THE END

Epilogue: The trip home was uneventful.

THE END (AGAIN)

One Day at the Store

This piece was written in October of 1992. I was working at a liquor store at the time.

---

It had been a slow and therefore boring day. Four hours left and I was so bored my teeth hurt.

I was sitting on the floor, putting plastic half-gallon jugs of the kind of gin people drink because they can't afford anything else onto the shelf. We reserve the bottom shelf for just that sort of liquor.

The door stood open to let in the summer breeze. I heard Dick say "Hello," and so I knew someone had come in. There was no response, but that was no surprise; only our regular customers are sociable. Some have been buying their weekly bottle here since before I was born.

What I heard next was a real surprise, though. "Put all the money in the sack with the bottle," said a voice that was definitely not Dick's. The statement sounded so cliche` that I thought it must've been a joke. I thought differently as I craned my neck to look over the freezer and saw the gun.

To the utter surprise of myself and his assailant, Dick, in his seventy-four-year-old "Nothing surprises me" manner, told the gunman that he just couldn't do that. Against store policy, you know.

No one saw me as I stood up, so engaged in their all-important conversation they were. From twenty feet away, there wasn't much I could do. My boxknife was mostly useless, and the only guns we had shot nothing more than price tags.

In an act of desperation -- I had to do something -- I let fly with one of the jugs I was holding, hoping to knock the gun away, and followed quickly with the other. The first jug flew wide, wiping out a bourbon display. The second, though, hit home, connecting solidly with the gunman's ear. The gun clattered across the floor and Dick, quick as anything, knocked him on the head with the bottle that was intended as booty.

The failed thief ran, dazed and screaming, out the door and down the street. We never notified the police, they're swamped as it is. The gun, though, resides right next to the cash drawer in a snug little holster. It shoots more than price tags.

Getting Going

Every now and again I have an idea for a piece of fiction. I never seem to be able to get them down in a fashion that lets me keep writing, and they often get lost in the shuffle of system upgrades, computer crashes, or, in the case of physical copies, the depths of my basement. Sometimes I have an idea for the next paragraph of a particular story, but the latest version is on a computer where I'm not (it's at home, I'm at work, or vice-versa). So along comes blog software. It seems like a perfect fit, and I thought I'd give it a try. No promises for what's here, particularly in the area of quality or freshness. I'll turn on commenting so people can let me know what they think, but I honestly don't expect anything. Actually, I'd be right surprised if someone read it.

Cheers.

JD