McFarland, Stanley

Stanley W. McFarland was raised in Acton, Massachusetts, and has written dozens of short dramas, primarily aimed at church audiences. He has also written the librettos to three produced musicals, Acton 1775, Light, and Joe and Mary’s Rock ‘N Roll Jellyroll Christmas Story. In 2008, a collection of McFarland’s poetry, Confessions of a Protestant, was published by Marriwell Publishing. Into the Wilderness, the first novel in his "Sons of Simeon" series, is due to be released in late 2013.

Lucky Ted

Stanley McFarland

(February, 2014)

“Damn, I have a lot of money!”

“Yes you do, Mr. Howell,” said the broker with a shy laugh.

Ted could tell the by the tone that broker was thinking about the TV show. He didn’t mind the laugh; he was used to it. He grew up with Gilligan’s Island, and a lot of his friends (and many non-friends,) used to call him Thurston Howell the Third.

Was that why he was so rich – a power of positive thinking phenomenon, or was it just good guessing?\

Ted’s senior year in High School, he had just enough money to go in with some friends on gold futures contract back in seventy-eight. They all made out pretty well, but Ted was the only one brave enough to let it ride. He let it ride for nearly three years of spiraling futures prices only bailing when gold hit six eighty.

The price started spiraling down a week later.

“You were lucky,” said his father who had predicted doom every step of the way. “You don’t build a future on luck.”

Then there was his guess on MCI.

“They’ll never get past AT&T,” his father warned. “You’re throwing your money away.” It wasn’t nearly as successful as his gold speculation. He only multiplied his money ten times.

Then there was Wal-Mart, Apple, Intel, Microsoft, Yahoo, eBay and a thousand others that were less dramatic, but almost always profitable. On a whim he sold his tech stocks and went to gold before the Internet bubble burst in two thousand.

Luck?

He bought back Apple and e-Bay at reduced prices, but instead of buying back Sprint, he bought an IPO called Google.

Finally, after selling most of his portfolio in ‘o eight, to buy gold, he’d jumped back in to triple his money in the market just before gold started to flag.

“That’s a lot of zeros there,” said the broker. “So what’s next?”

Ted didn’t answer. A lot people asked him that question. Three years earlier, the authorities discovered his former broker had been recommending everything Ted bought to his other clients. There was an investigation about insider trading. The broker was in some Club Med federal prison now, and only a sympathetic judge kept Ted from joining him.

“There’s no law against success,” said the judge. “You don’t build a conviction on luck. You’re going to need evidence beyond Mr. Howell’s good fortune.”

You don’t build a conviction on luck – it was almost an echo of his father’s words years before.

What was next? Was Dad right – You don’t build a life on luck?

Now in his fifties, Ted could buy anything he desired. But what did he want? He lived in the house he grew up in. He bought it from his folks when they retired to Florida. It was the only piece of real property he didn’t sell just before the housing bubble burst. It was also the only place he liked being.

He’d tried the Mediterranean, Hawaii, The Hamptons, Carolina’s outer isles. He hated Europe. He felt like everyone was laughing at him. Seeing the ocean made his stomach lurch.

He remembered Dewey back in the eighties. Ted spotted him the money to see if he could break the record score for Space Invaders. Dewey did almost nothing but play Space Invaders for the next decade. Twice he had the top score, but within a week somebody else topped it and Dewey went on trying to re-establish his record.

Dewey died playing Space Invaders. He was thirty-three. Ted was at the funeral. Half the people there were Space Invader freaks; the other half were angry loved ones – angry that Dewey had given his life to such a ridiculous task.

What next?

There was a stretch in the nineties where Ted played philanthropist. He really didn’t have any causes he believed in so he spread it around to different groups. A friend pointed out that dispersing his money that way pretty much cancelled out the effect.

He went on a kick of making dreams come true. He wandered around looking for people that needed money – single mothers, street people, people that needed a medical procedure. He handed out bags of cash; he bought people houses and cars. It was fun for a while, but most of the people he helped weren’t any happier after the fizziness of new wealth wore off. Some seemed even more miserable.

Ted realized that his broker was saying something. Probably preaching the standard broker’s credo – diversification. It was the same thing his dad had told him thirty-five years earlier.

He’d ignored the credo then – no reason to pay attention now.

There were spots floating in front of Ted’s eyes. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

“Are you all right, Mr. Howell?”

“A little woozy,” said Ted.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” The broker left and Ted looked around the room, trying to get his eyes to focus better and to make the spots go away.

He picked up the financial page next to him, skipped the articles and went right to the NASDAQ. Spots dotted to page and moved as Ted scanned for promising numbers.

Sounds were running in his head. They were annoying – brash, but very familiar.

Space Invaders! Ted laughed.

A line jumped out at him from the paper – Vanity Tech. Ted knew nothing about it, but when a line jumped at him like that it almost always paid off. The spots in front of his eyes got bigger. Ted swished the financial page around in front of him, trying to wipe out the spots…

Like in a video game.

The broker didn’t know CPR. The paramedic said not to feel guilty. Mr. Howell suffered what they called, sudden death. There wasn’t anything that he could have done for him. The broker nodded, with a practiced concerned look.

The broker kept the page that Howell had been waving before he died. Maybe he’d been signaling for help – or maybe he found something worth buying!

“What I wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking,” the broker muttered.

Fiction writer, poet, and social commentator, Stanley W. McFarland hails from Acton, Massachusetts. His early experiences, much of it church related led to his first book, Confessions of a Protestant (Marriwell 2009). Sons of Simeon: Into the Wilderness, the first in his series of biblical fiction novels is scheduled for release in 2014. More of his short fiction, poetry, and commentary can be found on his site, Go Figure Reads (gofigurereads.com), and the site blog, Junk Drawer (gofigurereads.blogspot.com).

Sammy and May

Stanley W. McFarland

“She was cheery,” I say. “That’s what people liked ‘bout her. She was pretty as a picture and quick as a whip. She could dance and sing, and she had astounding comic timing for a four-year-old.

“But she was cheery – a chirpy amiable soul that lit the hearts of television audiences from coast ta coast.”

“And she kept your show on the air,” says the reporter.

I nod. I had hoped for a softer interview. “She did,” I agree.

“Weren’t they about to cancel your show when you brought her on?”

“I’d heard something like that.”

“Then you never let her move on.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I grumble. “It was totally her decision – May and her parents. I never tried ta stop her.”

“But you never let her go, either.”

“It was never my decision,” I repeat just as I’d said to scores of reporters over the years – most of them in the weeks after The Sammy King Variety Hour went off the air. May was six then, and a television veteran with years of cuteness ahead before puberty would force her to make the transition so few child stars ever managed.

May never had to deal with that problem. She had only one response to network execs who offered her work – “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” We did a guest appearance on The Muppet Show a couple years later. She hadn’t lost a thing - perfect timing, perfect inflection, perfect cheeriness.

I wasn’t my best. I wasn’t sober for one thing. May carried me through our old routine, but people could tell. We didn’t get any offers.

That’s not true – May got plenty of offers. She even got an offer for a show of her own. Her response hadn’t changed. “I’ll come back when you bring back Mister King.” A week later I got a letter from Eddie at the old network. He offered me twenty thousand dollars to convince May to move on without me.

I burned the letter – almost set the couch on fire, I was so drunk when I did it.

Over the years I kept getting cards from May – on my birthday and at Christmas. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she didn’t get any back from me once my agent dropped me. His secretary always sent out my cards.

“Mister King?”

I didn’t hear the reporter’s question – maybe not the last two or three. Forty years ago, they would have blamed the bottle. Now it’s just that I’m old. I guess that’s better.

“Maybe you better come back another time,” says the large black nurse. I can never pronounce her name. It’s something African, I think.

“I don’t think I have enough for my story,” the reporter says.

“Another time,” the large black nurse repeats. She’s good at that – making people do what they don’t want to do. At least this time she’s not drawing enough blood from my arm to sink a… What would be funny – a row boat? the Queen Mary?

Nah, a lot of people don’t know the Queen Mary anymore. I bet May could come up with something. The kid was quick.

I must have dozed because when I wake the reporter’s gone. I used to do that on purpose sometimes – pretend to doze off when I didn’t want to deal with somebody. Now it just happened on its own. Doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

There’s a letter in my bed and for a moment I think it’s from May. But May never sends cards with address windows on them. I brush it off the bed and onto the floor. It must not be my birthday.

I use my walker to get up from the chair. It takes a little longer than it did a month ago. I shuffle over to the bed and open the drawer in the bedside table.

Someone’s rearranged it again, but I find an old card from May. Her youngest was going off to college. She was proud, but she knew she was going to miss her.

I can’t see so well. My eyesight’s fine, but I’m tearing up. I never used to tear up – not even when I drank. Suddenly I only want one thing in the world. I want May sitting in the chair the reporter was in. I want to tell her how sorry I am.

“Lotta good that’s going to do her now,” I mutter. “What is she – forty-five? fifty? That America’s Sweetheart boat sailed a long time ago.”

I reach up and pull the help cord. I’ve never done that before. I always figured a big gong would sound, or at least a bell. Nothin’. I’m angry but I started laughing. They gave me a damn defective help cord! The world just can’t wait to get rid of Sammy King.

“Mister King?” says the big black nurse as she pushes open my door. I’m still laughing and seeing her looking worried makes me laugh more.

“Can you talk, Mister King?” she asks. “Raise your hand if you can’t.”

“I can talk,” I sputter.

“Are you in pain?”

I hold out May’s card. “I need to call this woman.”

“Mister King,” says the nurse, “if you’re not in trouble, you shouldn’t be pulling the cord.”

“I’m in trouble,” I say, though I know it isn’t true.

“How are you in trouble, Mister King?”

I look into the nurse’s eyes. They’re big and brown like the rest of her. She’s tired and annoyed, and a little bit worried – maybe she’s worried I’m losing it.

“I needa… to say I’m sorry.”

The annoyance disappears. She’s still tired, and worried, but the nurse’s eyes change – they go soft. She takes the card out of my hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

I don’t remember going to sleep. I’m on the bed and the big black nurse is back.

“Mister King?” she says. “I’ve got Ms. Dunbarton on the line.”

Dunbarton? Who the hell is… May – that’s right; I remembered – that’s her married name. I try to sit up, but I can’t seem to get my elbows under me. “Help me… please?” I ask.

I don’t think I’ve said please twice since they moved me in this place. The big black nurse leans over to help me sit up. I stare at her name tag – S.H.A.N.I.Q… What kind of name starts like that?

“Here he is Ms. Dunbarton,” says the big black nurse. She hands the phone to me. I can’t say a word.

“Mister King?” says a voice at the other end. It’s not a child’s voice, but it’s May. “Is it really you? I’m so happy you called!”

“Got yer nose,” I say like I did when we first met. She was too old for that routine even then. May laughs.

“I have a granddaughter now,” she says. “We were watching The Sammy King Variety Hour yesterday.”

“It’s on reruns?”

“DVD,” she says. “There’s a site online you can get it – well, a lot of the shows anyway. I still can’t find some of them.”

“I guess they have everything on the computers these days.”

“Pretty much,” she says. “Megan, that’s my granddaughter loved it. She couldn’t believe that Grandie was that little.”

“You were a tyke,” I say. Whatever May says after that washes over me. She sounds great.

“…of course I had to explain to her who Shirley Temple was.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Our stuff is kinda dated, I guess.”

“They’re great memories.”

“Look, Kid…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a reason I called.”

“I’m so glad you did.”

“It’s just…” I’m hoping for her to interrupt. I want to tell I was sorry, but I can’t get it out. May doesn’t interrupt. She knows better than to step on a line. “You had a career back then,” I finally say.

May laughs. “Part of three seasons – a career?”

“You coulda gone on.”

Silence.

“Kid – I shoulda told you to move on. You had the world at your feet. You were being loyal, and instead of telling you… Well, I shoulda pushed you outta the nest.” Junk clogs up my throat. I start coughing. My damn body can’t even talk on the phone anymore. I reach for a Kleenex and I’m surprised to be handed one. The nurse is still in the room. I grab the tissue and spit out the crap. May is still silent on the other end.

“It’s like this, Kid,” I said. “I was a selfish bastard, and I used you. I used your popularity to help me get back on top again. I sunk my career in a bottle, and then I became an albatross around your neck. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Mister King?” I can tell that May is crying.

“Yeah, Kid?”

“I’m so sorry that you feel bad. It’s all my fault. I should have told you years ago.”

“What’re ya talking about?”

“I never wanted to be the new Shirley Temple.”

“Huh?”

“I loved doing the show with you. I loved rehearsal. I loved the taping. I loved every minute of it, but I never wanted to do another show.”

“What?”

“You were my best friend, Mister King. You were probably the best friend I ever had. We’d play and laugh and make things up. It was the world’s best make-believe, but one thing wasn’t make believe at all.”

I can’t speak. I just shake my head.

“You, Mister King,” says May. “You were my prince, and my jester. You were there with me through all adventures. I never wanted to do that stuff without you.”

“Damn, Kid,” I manage to choke out. “You were a lot of fun yourself.”

I hear her half laugh, half cry on the other end. “I love you, Mister King,” she says.

“Right back at ya, Kid.”

We talk more. Small stuff – memories, laughs. The nurse stays close. She hands me Kleenex now and again. Finally we say good bye and I hang up the phone.

I look up at the nurse. Through the tears I can barely make out her name tag.

“Thank you, Shaniquay,” I say.

She smiles. “Right back at ya,” she says.

The Top

Ten . . .

Sounds That Make Me Smile

Stanley W. McFarland

(January 2014)

1) A baby’s laugh. You see a creature so completely innocent and awe-inspiring – then she pours out wisdom she’ll never top in her life. Was I ever so wise?

2) A train whistle. A doorway to imagination – a train can lead to anywhere, from a grisly battle to an animated wonderland.

3) Rain on the roof. Do I smile because there is so great a sea of water above me – or because the roof keeps me dry?

4) The whirring of an automatic can opener. I think of all the cats I’ve known – poised, wishing, dreaming of that sound.

5) A bat hitting a baseball. Do I love baseball for the sights, smells, and sounds – or the game? Which came first…

6) Playing cards clacking in the spokes of a bike. You almost never hear this anymore. As a child it made me wish I was on a motorcycle. As an adult it makes me wish I was a child.

7) Opening theme music from the 1996 animated version of The Tick. Okay, that might just be me.

8) Dixieland Jazz. Satchmo – I miss you dearly.

9) Crickets, peepers, bullfrogs, an owl calling to its mate. The quiet of the night cleans the noise from the world and leaves the beauty.

10) The heartbeat of the one I love – my head resting on her chest. The rest of the world grows dim.

Fiction writer, poet, and social commentator, Stanley W. McFarland hails from Acton, Massachusetts. His early experiences, much of it church related led to his first book, Confessions of a Protestant (Marriwell 2009). Sons of Simeon: Into the Wilderness, the first in his series of biblical fiction novels is scheduled for release in 2014. More of his short fiction, poetry, and commentary can be found on his site, Go Figure Reads (gofigurereads.com), and the site blog, Junk Drawer (gofigurereads.blogspot.com).

King's Gambit

Stanley W. McFarland

(August, 2013)

I was still young when the king first summoned me. Our nation was small, and it was not too outrageous that a monarch might call for an obscure but promising member of his diplomatic corps.

Of course I was nervous as I arrived at the palace. The chamberlain said nothing to me; he merely beckoned and I followed, past the reception chamber, into the royal apartments, and finally to the king's study. The king was there, staring at a map the way I'd always imagined kings did.

The chamberlain shut the door behind me.

"I want you at your best," said the king. "How do we accomplish that? Wine? Tea?"

"Tea, Your Majesty," I said, struggling to keep my voice even.

There was a brazier in the corner, and the king filled a tin pot with water, and put it on to boil. He pulled a teapot and two cups from a high shelf, and a canister from a lower cupboard. The king motioned to a table upon which was a chess set. There were two chairs at the table.

"Sit," he said, "and shut your eyes."

I did as I was commanded. I could hear the king setting up his tea tray.

"As precisely as you can," said the king, "tell me how far it is to the door by which you entered."

I counted the steps in my mind. "Four and a quarter meters, Your Majesty."

"What color is the teapot I brought down from the shelf?"

"It is white . . . an ivory white, with the royal crest," I answered.

"Are the pieces on the chess board set correctly?"

"Nearly, Your Majesty," I said. "The white king and queen are reversed."

The tin pot whistled. "Then open your eyes, and correct them,"said the king.

I opened my eyes and resisted the temptation to measure the distance to the door behind me. The teapot was ivory white, and the king and queen were reversed. I corrected them as the king poured water into the pot. Then he sat opposite me and moved his king's pawn to the fourth rank. It was a standard opening move. He motioned for me to play.

For an hour we drank tea, and played a challenging game of chess. I almost forgot I was playing a man who could have me executed with a single word, until I looked at the board and realized that the king had left his queen exposed. I studied the board. It wasn't a gambit. He had made an error, one that was not obvious three moves earlier, but was apparent now.

Should I take his queen? He had said that he wanted me at my best. Did that mean my best game of chess?

I took his queen.

The king seemed unaffected, and continued the game for the remaining eight moves before I checkmated him. Then he looked me in the eye. There was no irritation or congratulation in his glance. "I'm sending you to Brussels," he said. "There, you will meet a man named Pierre Dupard. You will be given papers and an appropriate diplomatic title. Dupard will assume you are a spy. You will spend three days in Brussels, observe everything, come back, and report what you've seen."

I waited for more instructions. What was I supposed to look for? Was Dupard an enemy or an ally? The king said nothing more. He rang a small bell, and the chamberlain entered. The chamberlain beckoned, and I followed him out of the palace.

"I was concerned," I told the chamberlain. "The king left his queen exposed. I didn't know if I should take it or not."

The chamberlain led me on silently. I tried again. "I didn't know if the king minded losing at chess."

I didn't think the chamberlain was going to respond to either statement until we reached the palace door. "I have never known His Majesty to win a game of chess," said the chamberlain, as he shut the palace door.

I went to Brussels, and met Dupard. Dupard clearly thought I was a spy, and used several tricks to get me to reveal what I was there to do. As I didn't know myself, there was nothing I could reveal, but Dupard's comments and questions brushed on a number of interesting topics.

Two days after returning, I was summoned again. Again, the king made tea. He asked me many questions about my trip as we played chess. He made a fatal error, which I pounced on, and I defeated him again.

He gave me another assignment. This time he was more specific. He wanted me to assess our trade minister in Bonn--to see if he was open to bribery. I successfully bribed the trade minister, who was then dismissed from his post the day after I beat the king at chess for the third time.

For two years, it was always the same. My assignments and briefings always took place with the king, always over a cup of tea and a game of chess--which I won.

I began to wonder. I knew the king intended to lost each game, but that didn't mean I wasn't the superior player, either. Each game he got my best, but I had little idea about his abilities. It was a small matter, but I wanted to know. Was my king brilliant, or limited?

In University we occasionally played what we called fool's chess. The idea was to force your opponent to beat you. It was a chancy thing to play such games with a king, but I had known him two years, or at least I have spent a great deal of time with him for the last two years.

The game was a farce, and I couldn't help chuckling to myself as blunder followed blunder. The king acted as he always did, asking me question about my last assignment, offering me more tea, and reliably making the worst possible moves. It seemed certain to end in a draw when the king resigned. I felt a surge of victory, as strange as that seems.

He looked me in the eye, as he always did when giving me my next assignment. I tried to keep my expression dignified.

"You will not play in such a fashion again," was all he said, and he rang the bell.

I was not summoned again for three months. In the interim, I discovered a few things about how I was perceived in the kingdom. There had been talk--some of it jealous, some of it fearful about my access to the king. Now that I was obviously out of favor, people who had shown me courtesy and respect in the past openly mocked me. It was a revelation. How could I have been so keen an observer for the king, and not seen how I was seen?

When I was summoned again, I played my best chess. I sipped tea, answered the king's questions, and received my assignment after once again checkmating the king.

For two decades, I did the king's bidding. He grew older as I grew into my prime. The subtle blunders that he made in each game became more apparent. The reasons for my assignment, and the meanings behind the king's questions, became more apparent as well. Perhaps I was improving, growing in my understanding of chess and statecraft. Perhaps the king was aging. He no longer stood so straight when he reached for the pot. In recent years, I noted that the pot and cups were moved to a lower shelf. The tea was already out of the cabinet before I arrived.

It was that way when I was summoned this morning. The king and I played as usual, but his blunder came earlier in the game. I had a commanding lead in material, a rook to two pawns. I worried about the king. If his game was deteriorating so, how soon before the kingdom would suffer?

The king's move was like a lightning bolt. It didn't seem that way physically; the king's arm moved slowly as he captured my bishop with his knight. It didn't seem a particularly good move. His knight was unsupported, and its loss would further expose his queen.

And then I saw it. There was nothing I could do to change it. He would checkmate me in five moves. I looked up at the king.

For the first time in twenty-three years, a tiny smile appeared at the corner of the king's mouth. "It's my game, I believe," he said. Then he looked me in the eye. I tried to put my loss behind me and focus on the assignment the king was about to give me.

The king reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet, sealed with his ring. "You break the seal here, in this room, just before sunset," he said.

Not many people even noticed the ship leave port this afternoon. There was nothing particularly interesting about the old man in workmen's clothing who got on board. I don't suppose anyone bothered to see that his hands were smooth--not a callous on them. It's a detail I would not have missed, not after spending half my life as the king's observer.

The open packet lies on the tea tray. The king's abdication and instructions were inside. The old chamberlain was my witness. He gave me the ring that is now on my finger. My coronation is tomorrow.

There was a particularly promising young woman I noticed at the bureau of taxation. She's misplaced. She didn't show the slightest surprise when they announced the king's abdication in my favor. I've already summoned her.

I reverse the white king and queen on the board, and stare up on the cabinet. I wonder what we'll be drinking tonight--wine, or tea?

Treasure in Your Hand

Stanley W. McFarland

(July, 2013)

“I’m sorry, Mr. Babcock.”

“So you admit it?”

“No,” said the diminutive woman, “I admit nothing, but I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Too late!” Babcock roared. “I have you on tape, or whatever this little gadget records on. You apologized!”

Sandy Flynn, the author of four novels, and numerous short stories, shook her head. “I have hot water on the stove. If you’d like some tea, I’ll explain.”

“I’ll record every word,” said Babcock.

“That’s fine,” said Sandy. “Come in.”

Babcock stepped into the entryway of the untidy Victorian. Stacks of papers, books and mail narrowed the stairway before him. The rest of the room was filled with cardboard boxes and plastic totes. “I keep one room livable,” said Sandy, motioning to an old fashioned drawing room to her left. “Find a seat. I’ll bring in the tea.”

Babcock felt like he was stepping back in time as he entered the drawing room. The room was entirely furnished in antiques. Oil lamps stood on side tables on each end of an elaborate settee. A sleeping cat lay in an overstuffed embroidered chair. Babcock took the rocker by the fireplace. A great stack of wood lay beside him and soot and small burn marks in the oriental rug indicated that the fireplace saw frequent use.

Babcock looked about for any sign of modernity. There were no heating or air vents in the room – not even electrical outlets. An open window let in the early spring breeze, chilling the room. Babcock was tempted to take the half blanket he saw lying on a captain’s trunk and lay it across his legs.

No, he wasn’t here to be cozy.

Sandy Flynn brought tea on silver tray – not two mugs, but a ceramic pot complete with cozy accompanied by matching cups and saucers. She chuckled as she entered.

“You could have removed Louisa,” she said. “She’ll give you a look, but then wander upstairs to sleep on my bed.”

“I’m fine,” said Babcock.