Ames, Catcher
Don’t Have A Cow
Catcher Ames
(September, 2013)
The principal glanced from the janitor to the two boys standing in front off his desk and said, "Okay, let's hear your side of the story."
Neither boy spoke.
“You heard Mr. Chizek. He saw you two hanging around the back of the main building late last evening. You appeared to be fiddling with the rear service door, which was then found to be taped open. Duct tape across the bolt so it wouldn’t lock. Old fashioned but effective. About an hour later, he saw you running away from the school.”
Tommy Lee brightened, as if he’d just had a brilliant thought. “All of that is circumcisional evidence,” he said.
Mr. Thompson got up from his desk to fetch a dictionary from the shelves on the wall. He plunked it down in front of Tommy Lee. “Some day you will undoubtedly be a fine lawyer. Or at least a politician. However, circumcision and circumstantial are not quite the same thing. Look it up.”
“Now?” Tommy Lee said, staring at the dictionary.
“As good a time as any. At least you will remember it from now on.”
Tommy Lee looked it up. He blushed. He said, “Oh.”
“So you think all this is circumstantial?”
“We didn’t do it.”
“So, we have a very large cow in the cafeteria, knocking over chairs and tables, defecating on the floor, and mooing her head off in loneliness. But you two have nothing to do with all of that?”
“We had to sneak back into the building to fetch some homework. From Mrs. Stevens. I forgot it and left it in my locker. And it’s due tomorrow.”
Mr. Johnson looked at the other boy, Bobby Ray. “You have nothing to say?”
Bobby Ray glanced at his partner in crime and said, trembling, “I-I was helping him.”
“You didn’t forget your homework, too?”
“I-I was helping him.”
Mr. Thompson leaned back in his swivel chain and motioned to Mr. Chizek that he could leave; he would handle the incident from here.
Mr. Chizek did not budge. “I ain’t cleaning up the mess.”
“We’ll sort that out,” Mr.Thompson said.
Mr. Chizek slammed the door behind him.
“He seems angry,” Mr. Thompson said. “I would be, too, if I had to clean up cow shit from the nice linoleum floor that I just washed earlier in the morning. Mr. Detweiler, the owner of the cow, is angry, too. He is the very nice fellow who owns the farm just across the highway. He is accusing you, or whoever herded the cow in through the back door and up the stairs into the cafeteria, of rustling, theft, animal abuse, property damage, and alienation of affection.” Mr Thompson hesitated for a moment before adding, “I guess he likes his cows.”
‘We’ve never had nothing to do with aliens,” Bobby Ray said.
Mr. Thompson reached over to take his dictionary back. “There is nothing in there that is going to explain that to you.”
“We didn’t do it,” Tommy Lee repeated.
“Aside from the damages and the mess, the signs hanging off the cow are very offensive. Oh, and Mrs. Longweiler reports theft of materials from her art cabinet. Paints, brushes, and art boards.”
“We didn’t do it.”
“If I find you are lying to me, you will be detention after school every day until the year ends.”
“I-I can’t do that,” Tommy Lee said. “I’ll miss most of football practice.”
“Who do you think we are? Notre Dame? Yes, you are our star running back. But the star running back on a high school team that lost eight out of ten games last year isn’t really going to be missed. You’ll probably learn more reading books in detention. Or maybe studying the dictionary while you’re there.”
“But…”
Mr. Thompson steepled his fingers while leaning forward over his desk. “I have a compromise.”
The boys waited.
“Go up to the cafeteria and clean up the mess. I will tell everyone that you volunteered to do it out of your own good will and that we are still looking for the culprits. Also, out of your own good will, you will ask Mrs. Longweiler how much it will cost to replace her art supplies, which you are offering to replace in your status as concerned students.”
“What’s a ‘culprit’?” Bobby Ray asked.
“Look it up, in your own dictionary, on your own time.”
Tommy Lee raised his hand, as if asking permission to speak. “But if we clean up the mess, people will think we did it.”
“A distinct possibility.”
“People will be mad at us for those signs.”
“Oh, you know what the signs say, do you?”
Tonny Lee shook his head, “No. no. Just guessing.”
“The cheerleading squad is very angry about them. As are Mrs. Longwieler and Mr. Davis, the cafeteria manager. A good thing you didn’t do this, otherwise you would have a lot of people very angry at you for a very long time.”
The boys knew better than to respond.
“Do we have anything further to discuss? If not, ask Mr. Chizek to give you cleaning buckets and mops and get to it. And I thank you for your fine volunteer efforts of the behalf of the school. The first step, though, should probably be to get the cow out of there and back to Mr. Detweiler across the highway. I don’t care what you do with the signs.”
Mr. Chizek was not very gracious about giving them his cleaning materials. His only comment, in a menacing tone, was, “I’m gonna remember you two.”
The cow was waiting for them. Her big moon eyes followed their every move. She aimed her snout at them and said, “Mooooo,” as if asking them to help her out of there. She was hungry and missing her sisters.
The sign around her neck said PORTRAIT OF MRS. LONGWEILER. The sign hanging down from her side, with the arrow pointing at her udders saidCHEERLEADER LEFTOVERS. The sign over her tail said LIFT AND INSERT ONE QUARTER FOR FRESH CAFETERIA SNACKS. They started pulling the signs off but stopped when they saw a large part of the student body standing in the three doorways that led into the cafeteria, taking pictures and videos of them with their smart phones. The girls looked angry. The boys were laughing their heads off.
Bobby Ray turned away from the crowd and sullenly said, “We’re never going to live this down.”
In contrast, Tommy Lee smiled widely and waved to the crowd, “It was worth it, dude. It was worth it.”
I don’t exist. I am an author avatar, or what used to be known as a pen name. My writer does this when he writes fun or silly stories. He keeps the really good ones under his own name. I am 0 feet 0 inches tall, with 0 colored eyes and hair. I don’t weigh much either. But I get a lot of writing in as he likes to play around with weird ideas rather than to sit still writing something serious. But, as I have no body, I also have no ego. So enjoy the story.
Catcher Ames was an inveterate fibber when he was a young child. These small fibs turned into little white lies as he got older. In his teens he became known for his outrageous exaggerations. As a young man no one knew if he was telling the truth or not and his parents were very worried about him. And then, to everyone’s relief, he discovered fiction, and no one ever questioned him again. After all, he was now a writer and that explained everything.
Papa’s Big Day
Catcher Ames
(February, 2013)
Mama always woke early on special occasions. The morning was grey and sullen and she could sense that the humans were coming. They would be here soon. She reached over to tap Papa on the butt with her paw. “Time to wake up, Papa.”
He squirmed away from her touch and snuffled into his fur. “I’m sleeping.”
“You’ve been sleeping since late November.”
He responded with a snore.
She tapped him again, harder. “Wake up, Papa, before they come.”
He sighed but did not open his eyes. “What time is it?" he grumped.
“February.”
“Already?”
It was the same every year. If he wasn’t awake and ready, they would reach into the hole to grab him and he would awake with a start, then get angry and bite the fingers that were trying to pull him up. But they would just come back, wearing heavy gloves the second time, and he would continue to bite and struggle but they would finally pull him out. But during the fight the dirt in the tunnel into their hole would crumble and collapse, dropping into her eyes and face and into her fur. Then the cold would blow in through the rest of February and March and keep her awake. Worst of all, that fallen dirt would mat into her fur and it would take all April for her to shake it out.
“Get up, Papa,” she growled, starting to get angry. She poked his butt with her sharp claws. He hated that.
“Hey, that hurts!”
“Then get up.”
“Why don’t they pull Junior out of his hole. He’s just on the other side of the field.”
“They want you. Junior is too small and scrawny. They want your chubby furry body, your plump cheeks and your big fat butt.”
He opened his eyes and smiled at her, “So I still look good to you, huh, after all of these years?”
“You’re perfect, Papa. Everything that a groundhog should be.”
“Can we go back to sleep, then, after they leave?”
“We can snuggle and snore until April.”
“But you’ll wake me in time, right? I’ll be hungry by then.”
Papa was now fully awake. He, too, could hear them coming. A big crowd this year. Cars and trucks being parked on the far side of the field. The voices quiet and hushed as if they wanted to surprise him.
“Don’t forget the treats,” Mama said. “Tuck some into your big pouchy side cheeks and bring them back to me. Promise?”
“I forgot about the treats,” Papa said rubbing his paws together.
“Promise?”
“Yes, yes, I promise.”
“Smile and look bright. Cheerful and alert. They like that.”
“I forget. Do they want me to see my shadow? Or not?”
Mama shrugged. “Who cares? We’re going to go back to sleep either way.”
A hand came down the hole. Mama could see Papa’s grin. He was enjoying this. He always did. But the mischievous glint in his eye told her that he might just nip the man’s fingers, just for the fun of it. But he relaxed at the last minute and let himself be pulled up. She let out a deep sigh of relief, not realizing she had been that tense. She was always afraid that he might be hurt if he struggled too hard against them.
“You’re a star, Papa,” she called after him.
“I’ll bring back the treats for you, I promise,” his voice trailed back to her.
She snuggled warmly into a corner. Every year was the same thing. Every year. Ground hog day all over again.
Catcher Ames hibernates between writing gigs, with his wife occasionally pulling him off the sofa to push him back to the computer keyboard. He will accept treats, if offered.
Just Business
(Featured author, January, 2013)
She felt conspicuous sitting in the food court at the Mega Mall waiting for a killer. What was she supposed to do? Watch for a mean looking son-of-a-bitch with a gun in his hand and then stand up to wave and shout, “Yoo-whoo, over here”? Like that would be cool.
But she had the props placed on the table that he had asked for, the novel with the bold title KILL ALEX CROSS and a single red rose. Double back up. Any middle-aged broad might have the Patterson novel on her table or maybe even a single red rose, but what were the chances of someone else having both of them. Spy craft. That is what it was. She remembered the word from the old John LeCarre’ books. She hadn't thought about the term spy craft in twenty years.
Single men came and went. Some sat down for lunch at adjacent tables. Some looked directly at her but that was not surprising; she was a good-looking woman, for her age. She liked that shit, for her age. The next man who said that to her was going to get the Alex Cross novel shoved up his ass. And she was going to let it age up there.
The table next to her was empty, thank goodness, but a couple was weaving through the maze of chairs and tables as if they couldn't live without this one. One hundred tables in the food court and you have tosit here! It was in the back, by the wall, in a corner. What are you? Recluses? You don’t want anyone to see you slurping Singapore noodles?
“Mrs. Doris Johnson?”
She looked up, confused.
The man pulled out a chair for the woman to sit down.
“I thought…”
“That I’d be alone?” the man said.
“Yeah. That you’d be alone.”
“It’s easier this way,” the woman said, “No one ever expects an older couple.”
“You…are…Mister… Thornton?” Doris asked.
“That will do nicely,” Mr. Thornton said.
“Yes, that will do nicely,” the woman repeated.
Doris pushed the book and rose at them. “Do you want these?” she asked lamely.
The man pushed the book back. “They were just for show.” But the woman reached across to take the book and the rose, saying, “Why not? I haven’t read the book, yet, and it is a shame to waste a perfectly beautiful rose.” She brushed the rose against her cheek and smiled at the alleged Mr. Thornton. “I can pretend you bought this for me.”
Well, ain’t that just sweet? Doris thought.
Mr.Thornton ignored the woman. His wife? His mate? His partner? His cover? His what?
“To business, dear Mrs. Johnson, to business. You want us to kill someone.”
Doris blinked, not believing she heard the words. Being spoken. Out loud. She had waited for this, had searched for this, had planned this, but it was surreal to hear the words actually being spoken. Out loud.
“Yes.”
“Who?” the woman asked.
Doris slid the photo across the table to the woman. “Who is this?” Mr. Thornton asked, not bothering to look at the photo.
“Miss Claudia Duncan”
“May I ask why?”
“She is my husband’s girlfriend.”
The woman nodded. “Girlfriend or mistress?”
Doris went blank, not understanding the nuance of the question, finally saying, “What’s the difference? To you, I mean. Why would you care if she was one or the other?”
“The price, my dear,” Mr. Thornton said, “One of the categories is more expensive than the other. A girlfriend is someone that your husband bangs from time to time or maybe even quite often. But a random thing, thus a random expense. A mistress is someone your husband is keeping in an apartment, giving her a car, you know, keeping her. Indicating a large fixed expense, i.e., a better income. More money.”
“She’s his girlfriend.”
“We can verify, you know,” the woman said.
“Girlfriend,”Doris repeated.
The woman flipped the photo over to see the address, phone number, and e-mail address on the back. “Hers, I presume?”
Doris nodded dumbly.
“When?” the man asked.
The woman smiled at Doris and spoke before Doris could respond, “ASAP, darling, ASAP. Mrs. Johnson has made the decision and it is up to us to carry it out as soon as possible.”
Mr. Thornton smiled at his lovely wife/mate/partner/cover and said, “Then we should discuss a price with Mrs. Johnson, shouldn’t we?”
* * *
Claudia Duncan watched Roger through the window as he walked to his car. She was already feeling lonely. It was 7 pm on Friday night and she would not see him again until next week. He said he was going home to his family but she knew he was lying. He had a new girlfriend on the line and he wanted to spend Friday night with her. Big night out with the new hot stuff. Claudia wondered how he explained all of this to his wife, to Doris. He was going to leave Doris, he promised. But was he ever going to, really? And if he did, would it be for her? Or for the new bitch on the block? He waved back at the window just before he climbed into his car. She waved back at him. You son-of-a-bitch. The car left.
The phone rang.
An older male voice said, “We need to talk.”
“Who is this?”
“It is about life or death.”
Claudia’s first reaction was to hang up, a crank call, but the voice added, “Your life or death.”
“What are you…”
“We need to meet.”
* * *
A park bench. In January. A few joggers going past, patches of snow, some dog walkers, but no one else. It was cold and grey and no one was out just enjoying the park.
Claudia pulled her cloth coat tighter around her. This was creepy. Life or death, the man had said, your life or death.
A woman sat down beside her. Where did she come from?Claudia hadn't even seen or heard her walk up.
“I’m sorry,” Claudia said, “But I am waiting for someo…”
“Claudia Duncan?” the woman asked.
Claudia stared at her without speaking.
“You’re waiting for me.”
“But-But I spoke to a man – on the phone?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re waiting for me.”
“What do you want? The man said life or death?”
“Someone wants to kill you.”
“To kill me?”
“Doris Johnson.”
“Oh shit.”
“So you know why.”
“Oh shit.”
“How is Roger?”
“Oh shit.”
“Is he worth it?”
Claudia fell silent.
“How much is he worth to you?”
“What?”
“How much is he worth to you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Doris Johnson has paid us $15,000 to kill you.”
“Us?”
“Never mind about us. Can you match that?”
“$15,000? Not to kill me?” Claudia said in a small scared voice.
“No. $15,000 to kill Doris Johnson.”
“Oh shit.”
“You don’t have to give us a definitive answer right now. We will give you time to think about it. Not much time, but some. How about one day? That will give you the time to make up your mind… and to determine if you can round up the money.”
“And…if I can’t?”
“Doris wins.”
Claudia didn't dare look at the woman. She focused on a tree, black against the grey sky, barren of leaves, on the far side of the park.
“Don’t think of calling the police,” the woman said in a sweet voice. “They have no trace of us. We will just disappear. And poor Doris hasn't a clue how to get back into touch with us. You will just look silly accusing her of something that never happened. But we will be back, sometime in the future, to finish the job, to fulfill the contract so to speak.”
“This is…unreal.”
“Not to us.”
“I-I don’t understand. She paid you $15,000 to kill me. But if I pay you $15,000 you will kill her instead?”
“Its called doubling down. If we do her, thanks to you, we earn $30,000. If you can’t match it, we do you. $15,000 our original tab. We win either way.
“How can you be so callous?”
The woman patted Claudia on the shoulder and stood up to leave. “It’s just business, dear, nothing personal. One day to think about it.”
“How-How will I get in touch with you?”
But the woman was already walking away.
* * *
They sat in the parking lot of the Brooks Brothers outlet, two rows behind the victim’s car. “Who’s going to do it?” the man asked.
“I think I should,” the woman said.
The man handed her the small Smith & Wesson .38, “Don’t forget your gloves. Best to make it look like a suicide, if you can. One shot on the side of the head. But don’t take any chances. Leave the gun in the car. The serial number has been filed off. The cops will never be able to trace it. I bought it off a doper last month and it probably went through a dozen hands before it got to him.”
The woman smiled, “And you will be here waiting for me.”
“As always, dear.”
They saw their victim walking to the car.
“It’s time, dear.”
The woman stepped out of their car and approached the victim on the blind spot of the automobile in front of her, behind and on the right side. The door opened and the driver threw in a shopping bag and started to crawl in behind the steering wheel.
The woman moved quickly, blocking the driver’s door. Roger Johnson turned his head to see what was happening but he was too late. The woman jammed the barrel of the gun against the side of his head, an inch above his ear, and fired. He slumped sideways into the passenger seat. She wrapped his left hand around the gun, closed the door and walked away.
The man drove them carefully out of the lot, not hurrying, not drawing attention to their car. They would ditch the stolen vehicle ten blocks away, then drive away in their own car, just in case surveillance cameras caught everything on tape.
“That went well,” the man said.
“It did.”
“An easy $30,000.”
“Was the shot too loud? Did it attract attention?”
“Sounded like another car noise. No big deal.”
They rode for a couple of blocks in silence before the woman added, “I am glad the girls got together. That Claudia called Doris. He really was the bastard in all of this, wasn't he?”
“Don’t get emotional about it, dear. It’s just business.”
The
Top Ten . . .
. . . Favorite
Words
by
Catcher Ames
I would never use these in a story as they are too erudite and snobby for the kind of nonsense that I write - but they are fun to use in letters (remember those?) and e-mails. But they are useless in twitters and texting as they are all more than one syllable: Too much for the semi-illiterate.
10. Eponymous – The word sounds kind of mushy, sponge like, imitating something that already is something. Why would you name something after something (or somebody) that already has a name?
9. Ubiquitous – This sounds like a fancy mustard, spreading its way into everything.
8. Egregious – The very word sounds like something really bad.
7. Oxymoron – Doesn’t this word just roll off your tongue? But it sounds idiotic. Why would smart people use a word that sounds idiotic?
6. Copulate – As a sometime crime writer my first reaction is to think this means “Hey cop, you’re late” but I don’t think that’s correct. But I’m just screwing around on this.
5. Pillage – I think this was a Viking thing. But it was just a way to make a living.
4. Intersect – I think my list of words is finally coming together.
3. Intestate – My first reaction is to hold my groin when I hear this word. But I don’t have the will power to look this word up.
2. Shopaholic – This damn word nearly drives me to drink.
1. Verisimilitude - I can't even pronounce this word, but I love the way it might be pronounced. It has a true ring to it, like something real I saw or felt before. One of these days I might even look up the meaning to see if there is any veracity to it.
Do You Love Me?
by Catcher Ames
(November, 2012)
"You know that I love you?" he asked.
She looked out the window. Silence.
"You don't love me?"
"I didn't say that."
"You might love me?"
She sighed. "I might."
He laughed. "You might? You just might?"
She sighed again. "I do. I guess I do."
"You guess? You don't know. You just guess?"
"I guess I do."
"That isn't good enough."
She was surprised by the anger in his voice. "I thought . . ."
"You thought. You guess. You might."
"I-it;s hard for me. Can't you see that?"
"Then maybe we should just leave it the way it was."
"Maybe we should."
The Basement
by Catcher Ames
(October, 2012)
Something was wrong. The dots did not connect. The size and location of the basement apartment was exceptional: The building was on Lexington Avenue, a block from his office at Rockefeller Center...for only $600 per month? There had to be a catch, something the super wasn’t telling him. Constant flooding? Radon gas? Rat infestation? A perennial cockroach resort? Something.
The entry was underneath the front steps of the building. No hint of a garden or greenery. Inside, the windows were high on the wall, giving limited light, but the room was spacious and obviously refurbished to make it livable. A small kitchenette was squeezed into one corner and the bathroom in the other.
The super turned on the hard sell. “You could call it a loft. I mean, just look at all of this space. Look at the iron beams on the ceiling. The open brick walls.”
“Lofts are on upper floors,” Dennis said. “This is a basement.”
The super wasn’t phased. “So call it a basement loft. The start of a new category. You could be the leader of a new trend. On the ground floor, so to speak.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Dennis asked. “What are you hiding?” In spite of being in the basement, with poor lighting, it was still a steal but Dennis didn’t want to mention that.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with it. What kind of question is that? Is that the way you wanna begin our relationship?”
Dennis gestured at the size of the room. “An apartment this size, in mid-town Manhattan, going for $600 a month?”
“You wanna pay more?”
Dennis sighed. He didn’t want to pay more. He could barely pay the $600. Recently divorced, with two kids in college, carrying a lease on a car he couldn’t afford, that was now parked in a space here in the city that was more expensive than the mortgage payments on his old house in New Jersey, his “cash flow” was looking like a dry river bed populated with large rocks.
“So you gonna tell me what’s wrong with this place or are you going to dance around it all afternoon?”
The landlord held up his hands in surrender, “Okay, Okay. I can’t keep the place rented. No one stays for more than a week. They break their lease and walk out, telling me to sue them, they don’t give a damn.”
“Why?”
“It’s haunted.”
“It’s haunted?”
“I didn’t know we had an echo in here.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me, rather than trying to be a comedian?”
“It’s an old building. So it comes with a ghost. “
“The whole building?”
“Just the basement.”
Dennis stared at the man in disbelief, “And you can explain why? There’s a story that goes with it? Right?”
“No. I don’t have a clue. Nobody has ever explained to me. Anybody who might know has left, sold the building, or died, I don’t know. It just is.”
“And you yourself have seen it?”
“No. But it’s a she. Everybody who has seen it said it’s a she. But I ain’t come down to see it, or her, or whatever the hell it is. I take their word for it. They all come in, happy as a clam that they are stealing a great apartment from me with a cheapo rent, just like you, then they move out in a few days, madder than hell at me.”
“Scared or mad?” Dennis asked. The use of the word mad rather thanscared seemed unusual to him.
The landlord smiled, appreciating that Dennis picked up on the wordmad. “Yeah, that puzzles me, too. They go away mad, not scared.”
Dennis shrugged and took the apartment. For $600 he could risk getting mad at the guy. He moved in later that week with the few pieces of furniture that his ex-wife had left to him, mainly a child’s fold out bed, a wobbly wooden table, three canvas field chairs, and a chest of drawers that once belonged to his great-aunt Emma. He went to the Goodwill Shop to purchase plates and silverware and a black and white TV that appeared to be built in the 1950’s. But it was cheap and it worked.
The ghost came into the basement the very first night, just as he was turning off Monday night football.
“We can’t afford a colored television?”
Dennis spun around, nearly tipping out of his canvas chair, to see a whispery, grayish, female form standing in the center of the room. The hairs on his arms and neck stood straight up as if reacting to static electricity.
“Oh, mygod, mygod, mygod, it’s true,” he said, more to himself than her.
“What’s true? We can’t afford a color television?”
“N-No. That you’re here!”
“Where the hell should I be?” the ghost replied, then added, “Ah, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
“Y-You’re really here.”
“You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you.”
Dennis blushed, “It’s just that…”
“What were those blurry white lines on the TV? They seemed to trail the football players whenever they made a move?”
Dennis looked from her to the set, then understood what she was talking about. He was almost embarrassed to explain it, “Oh, They-They’re called ghosts. That’s because the reception down here is really bad.”
“Can you imagine that? Being stuck inside a TV? It’s bad enough being stuck down here in this stupid basement.”
“You-You’re stuck down here?”
“Your conversation is not getting any better. And you stutter. With a little luck, you ain’t going to last too long down here, just like all the others.” She fluttered her hands in front of her face to fan herself and said, “Do you find it hot in here?”
Dennis said, “No. In fact it’s a bit chilly. I was gonna talk to the landlord about that.”
“I think I’m having hot flashes. And my feet hurt. I think they’re swollen. I feel bloated, too.”
Dennis looked down at her feet, at least where he thought her feet should be, but couldn’t see anything distinct. “Do you want me to run you some warm water so you can soak them?” That was a little weak but it was all he could think of to say.
“No foot massage, huh? Thanks for the sympathy.”
“What do you want from me? I’ve never met a ghost before.”
“Lucky me.”
“I thought ghosts were supposed to be scary?”
“Wrong basement.”
“So, instead, I get a ghost with a bad attitude?”
She walked, or more like floated, across the room to sit in the other folding chair. “I’m just in a bad mood. But then, I am always in a bad mood.”
Dennis was about to reply when she interrupted him, “You know, we ought to re-arrange this furniture. It just doesn’t look right in here.”
“Re-arrange the furniture? I have three chairs, a table, one TV sitting on a orange crate, and a chest of drawers, and you want to re-arrange the furniture?” Dennis stared at her for a long moment. This all sounded too familiar. Then he burst out laughing, before he could stop himself, “Jesus, I’m living with a menopausal ghost!”
“Hey, You think this is funny? I didn’t ask to be stuck down here at this age. It just happened. You shoulda seen me when I was young. I was a looker.”
“You couldn’t tell it now, could you?” Dennis said, surprised at his own rudeness.
“You have a problem with the way I look?”
“You trying to pick a fight with me?” Dennis replied.
“Don’t take that tone with me!”
Dennis sighed, then stood up from the canvas chair, “I’ve been through this before and I don’t need a repeat. Hang around and ghost up this place or whatever it is you do, but I’m going out to a bar to have a drink and then coming back to go to bed. Don’t wait up!”
There was no response as he went out the door but he heard the banging of pots and pans and deep sighs and the shuffle of feet walking around the apartment. That, too was a repeat of what he had before. But she was gone by the time he came back to the apartment and went to bed.
He thought about the basement all the next day while at work, trying to decide what to do. Should he leave? Give up the great location and low rent? Go to a church to call in an exorcist? Or just put up with it?
He made his decision that evening on his way home from work. He put a small bag of groceries on the kitchenette shelf and yelled, “Hi honey, I’m home,” pleased, in spite of himself, to have company in this dismal basement; someone who was going to hang around, no matter what, even if she was annoying. Hell, if he learned how to massage her feet, she might even do some house cleaning.
Catcher Ames does not believe in ghosts…or wives.
Carjacking
Catcher Ames
(March 2012)
Jason and LeShawne were in an ugly mood. No one would give them a ride to the mall. They finally had to take the Metro bus, slouching low in the seats so no one would see them.
The massive parking lot and the hot sun put them in an even surlier mood as they looked in vain for a vehicle to boost, something sleek and slick that would impress their homeys.
A dude walked out of Macy’s, going straight for a black Dodge Viper but their timing was bad. He backed out of the parking space before they could get there. The car blew out of the lot in a screech of tires and grey smoke, laying a strip of rubber all the way to the exit. Jason and LeShawne were outraged. They didn’t get the license plate number but they agreed the next time they saw a black Dodge Viper, the driver was in trouble. The car was gonna be theirs for sure, but they were gonna trash his ass, too.
Once more around the parking lot, in the hot sun, righteously pissed. They were not having a good morning. By mutual agreement they were not going to do any more sports cars. Gonna go for something big, instead. Something oversized. Something that would take up space back in the 'hood, something they could party in.
And there it was - a Chevrolet Suburban. Huge sucker. As long as a van but flashy like an SUV. Three rows of seats on the inside. They could get wasted in there; smoking, drinking, playing with the sisters, trashing the interior, remembering it as a truly great night.
Gotta have a plan: Retreat to the shade at the side of the mall, wait for as long as it takes, and don’t take any shit from anybody.
The wait wasn’t long wait. They didn’t see where she came from, but one of the side doors opened and shut, then a woman walked around to put packages in the back. Jason and LeShawne barely reacted in time. She was almost to the driver’s door before they could intercept her.
Jason motioned for Leshawne to take the right side while he sprinted around to grab the woman. If he was too slow Leshawne could jump in the passenger side and push her back out, right into his arms. But he caught up to her just as she was climbing up behind the steering wheel.
He grabbed her by her shirt collar and yanked her out. Good looking white woman. Fairly young. Short blonde hair, white dress shirt, blue jeans, Nikes without socks. Her eyes went wide in panic.
She had nothing in her hands. Her purse was probably in the seat. Jason yanked the silver watch with the expandable band off her wrist and over her hand, then gave a vicious shove, saying, “Beat it, bitch!” slamming her hard against the adjacent car.
He swung up into the seat with easy athletic grace. The keys were in the ignition. LeShawne was already beside him, yelling, “Go! Go! Go!”
They blasted backward out of the parking space, whipped around towards the exit, laying rubber just like the black Dodge Viper, only slower, already laughing at how good they were and at the shocked look in that woman’s face.
LeShawne looked back and reported, “Oh man, is she pissed. Really pissed. She’s waving her hands and yelling at us. Now she just pulled her cell phone from her jean pockets and is hitting the numbers.”
“Calling 911,” Jason said, then slipped into mimicking female voice, “Oh officer, officer, my car has been stolen. My precious Chevrolet Suburban has been stolen. Please help me!”
Then they heard a phone ringing in the back seat.
“What the hell is that? The stupid broad’s calling her own car?”
“No. It’s mine,” a timid voice said from the back seat.
Jason and LeShawne both looked around to see a small boy hiding low in the back seat.
“How did you get in here?” Jason asked.
“I-I climbed in, before you grabbed Momma.”
“I didn’t see you getting into the car.”
The boy just shrugged.
“How old are you?”
“Ten. But I'll be eleven next month.”
“Sh--!”
“Can I answer my phone? It’s Momma.”
“Give me the goddamn phone. I’ll talk to Momma!” LeShawne said,
reaching back to grab the phone from the kid. He turned to Jason to ask, "What we gonna do? This is freaking kidnapping. Carjacking is no big deal but kidnapping a kid? They’ll get their nose all out of joint about that!”
Jason nodded. “Dump him out. Give him back his phone so his momma can find him or call her back yourself and tell her he’s at Fulton and 10th Street and she should come get her goddamned kid.”
“I can’t find Herman,” the kid said.
Both Jason and LeShawne glanced back at the kid.
“You’re baby brother’s here, too?” Jason asked.
“I don’t have a baby brother.”
“So who the hell is Herman?”
“My snake.”
Jason smashed on the brakes, fishtailing the Suburban, almost getting hit by a Ford Taurus behind them.
“You got a snake in this car? You got a loose snake in this car?”
“His box tipped over when you were taking those hard turns at the mall.”
“What kinda snake is it?” LeShawne asked.
“Who gives a f--k what kinda snake it is! It’s a snake!” Jason shouted, slowly edging back into traffic.
But LeShawne had more questions, “How big is it? Does he bite?’ he asked, raising his feet off the floor to plant them high up on the dashboard. Jason noticed the gesture and was very conscious of having his feet on the pedals, with nowhere else to put them, thinking that he should make dumb ass LeShawne do the driving.
“Six feet. But he only bites when he is upset. Then he gets real mean.”
“Six freaking feet? That’s taller than I am! How do you know when he‘s upset?’
“He gets upset when there is a lot of noise and shouting.”
“Like now?”
The boy nodded and repeated, “Like now.”
“Why can’t you find him?” Jason asked, frantically looking around at the back.
“He’s six freaking feet. Ain’t he laying on the floor or the seat?
“No. He does this all the time. He finds a hole and climbs into the seats or the side panels to hide. Then he wiggles from one seat to another or climbs into the vents and comes out somewhere else.. He does that at home, too, hiding in the sofas and heating vents.”
“Sh--,” LeShawne said.
“My Momma hates it when he does that.”
“No sh--.”
“Screw this. Do something, LeShawne,” Jason ordered.
“And just what the f--k it is that you want me do, big man? Climb
around the freaking seats looking for a freaking six foot snake? Pull my freaking gun out and shoot through the freaking seats or into the freaking side panels and hope that I hit him? Or we gonna dump the kid and drive off and maybe look for the snake later tonight, just to be sure I got him? And who is going to pull him out? You or me?”
“Oh, man.”
“I’ve had enough of this sh--,” LeSwawne said. “Just pull over and let me out, NOW. Then you and the kid can deal with Mr. Herman, the 6-foot- hidden-I-don’t-know-what-kind-of-pissed-off-snake. I’m outta here.”
Jason pulled over the curb and both of them got out, not bothering to turn off the engine, slamming the doors hard in disgust.
Timothy watched them walk away, yelling at each other, gesturing wildly, occasionally punching each other on the shoulder. He waited to be sure they were not coming back, then dialed Momma. He knew she would be scared and worrying about him and he was afraid they had hurt her when they pushed her away from the car like that. He would just tell her they got angry when they found him in the car and decided to leave him alone and go away.
He was not going to tell her about making up the story about having a snake in the car. Momma always got angry with him when he made up stories.
Catcher Ames writes a mixture of crime, mystery, and fantasy stories and has been published in a variety of on-line and print magazines. He is currently working on a novel. He is a long term resident of Bethlehem and belongs to both the Bethlehem Writers Group and the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.
The Prom
Catcher Ames
August 2012
Being the high school Vocation Counselor in East Jesus, Texas, (school motto:We’ll roll your rock) was not a great job. With few exceptions, most of the boys just wanted to be ranchers or to ride rodeo (“I don’t need algebra to talk to a cow”). Most of the girls, also with a few exceptions, wanted to be a rancher's wifes or to ride a rodeo rider (“I don’t need algebra to talk to someone who’s talking to a cow”).
But being a chaperon at the senior prom was worse. It was an added non-voluntary duty that went with the main job. Unfortunately, by tradition, our seniors considered the prom to be a final exam in sex education, a subject we did not offer at school. Being farm kids, most of them knew the mechanics well enough; personal performance was the question. The exam was Pass or Fail - no grading, except for discussion in the bathrooms and at the smokers’ door; faculty not consulted.
As a chaperon, I had four principal duties: 1) Protect the punch bowl from alcoholic infection; 2) remind participants that slow dancing required both pairs of feet to be moving at all times; 3) prevent illegal use of hands; and 4) guard the back door of the gym against surreptitious exits.
Little Johnnie Gruber, only a sophomore, caused the first crisis of the evening. Little Johnnie was one of the exceptions to the rancher mind set. We thought he was gonna be a big time Texas entrepreneur one day but tonight, without consulting any one, he had set up kiosk outside the front door of the gym, with a big sign that said FRESH PANTIES - DON’T LET YOUR MOMMA CATCH YOU WITHOUT ONE – ONE SIZE FITS ALL. I was hurrying out to shut him down but Ms. Grindle, our Art/Social Studies/English teacher pulled me aside to say, “He did this last year, too. Their Mommas kinda like it.”
“So they go out wearing a tiger thong and come back home wearing a granny panty?”
Ms. Grindle gave me a shy smile, “It’s one of them ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ things, you know what I mean?”
I poked my head out, nor surprised to see that he was doing good business. Little Johnnie grinned at me like a Cheshire cat and said, “You having a good time, Mr. Dylan?” He then winked at Ms. Grindle and nodded his head, as if she should get in line. We both backed away, embarrassed.
Ms. Grindle suddenly said, “Oh my God, the back door!” Sure enough, with this moment of distraction, the back door had been pulled open and couples were slipping through.
“Where are they going?”
“Old Mr. Detweiler’s cow pasture. It’s close to the gym but far enough to be away from the lights.”
“They’re making out in the cow pasture?”
“They’re teenagers, for godsakes.”
But we were too late to ward off catastrophe. Six couples were out there in the field when old Mr. Detweiler’s bull heard noises in the dark and jumped the fence to see who was screwing with his cows. Most of the kids heard him snorting and chuffing, and managed to get their pants up (boys) or remembered little Johnnie’s kiosk in front of the gym (girls) and took off without looking back.
Except BJ Pratt and Prudence Johnson. This was BJ’s first non-solo sex experience and he thought that snorting and chuffing was coming from his classmates who were having a better time at this than he was. That big old bull started to give BJ a bovine colonoscopy but BJ got the point and took off like a scalded cat, shedding his pants as he ran. He never come back to the prom. Forever after, that old bull was nicknamed “Old Proc.”
Prudence rolled away in the other direction and managed to clear the 4 foot fence by 3 feet. I made a mental note to recruit her for the track team in the spring. S went into the convent after graduation, saying she “had enough sex to last me until the cows come home.”
Shortly after that Mr. Townsend, the principal, came to fetch me, handing me a wooden stake. “Come along, Mr.Dylan. It’s mattress time.” Anticipation swept the room. The other chaperons and the students still inside the gym trooped along behind us to the parking lot.
Being in rural Texas, most of the boys drove open bed pickup trucks, the key words being open bed. But none of the girls were keen to recline on the hard metal floor of a pickup truck, even if it had been cleaned of hay and horse feed. So the boys (in another East Jesus tradition) spent the prior week salvaging any and all mattresses they could find, raiding dumpsters, roadside ditches, and the East Jesus Thrift Shop. The trucks now had wall to wall mattresses. Maybe not clean, but softer than hard metal floor beds.
Mr. Townsend and I walked along thumping the sides of the pickups with the wooden stakes, yelling, “Mattress time, mattress time.” There was a lot of squealing and scrambling for clothes as the couples jumped down to get away from us. Photoflashes and mobile phones registered the scene for local recorded social history and future Youtube entries. The other boys, now in the spirit of things, helped us haul out the mattresses, pulling them across the parking lot to dump them into an organized pile. Someone set the fire. Within minutes sparks from the great pyre lit up the Texas night sky. Kids started dancing around the bonfire, howling and singing and carrying on like the teenagers they were. Some of the girls pulled off their panties (or purchased new ones from little Johnnie) to fling them high in air, watching them float down through the heat as they lazily settled on the flames.
“Damn good prom,” Mr. Townsend said with satisfaction. “Glad you’re with us, Mr. Dylan. Damn glad.”
Catcher Ames never wrote a serious story in his life –and doesn’t plan to.