A FLASH IN THE PAN
By: Yvonne M Remington
Copyright 2014 Yvonne M Remington
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
Table Of Contents
Night Shadows
Lucky...Hell!
Goodbye, Bud
The Mango Theft
Mid-Life Crisis
Christmas Vacation Gone Wrong
Time Tripping
Green Eyed Monster Strikes Again
Waiting...
Solitary Traveler
Cruel Destiny
About The Author
Night Shadows
The ominous gray shadows of the night emanated from the burning scented candle that played an eerie dance around her sparsely decorated studio apartment on Dauphine Street
"What have I done?" Marie whispered to herself as she walked toward the open window.
An icy chill swirled around her body, lending shivers to her pixie-like frame. She stared out the poorly painted timeworn window into ugly nothingness. The only view of the outside world extended to a deserted and deteriorated warehouse a block away.
In her youthful haste to experience new adventures and impatient with small town life, she moved to New Orleans without looking back. That was two months ago.
"Why am I here, I should be home with those who care about me? I left behind friends and family all for this?''
One AM arrived and found Marie still without sleep. Her mind raced as she fought the demons of the dark.
Her apartment skirted the fringe of the French Quarter. Rumors claimed The Quarter never slept. Rumors she believed to be true. The closer to the heart of the Quarter, the more expensive the rent. Her meager studio was the best she could afford and she loved being near the action.
She decided to venture from the confines of her retreat and step outside to the courtyard for some fresh air. The hall light was out again, demanding her to grope her way gingerly down the tattered carpeted stairs until she reached the landing. A full moon cast shadows, lining her way to her destination. The rusted wrought iron gate to the courtyard moaned if disturbed. Closing it as quickly as possible, she heard a human sound like a person clearly their throat. Standing perfectly still, she attempted to decipher the direction of the sound.
"It is not my intention to frighten you so I think I had better make my presence known." The shadow spoke. A fichus bush standing next to a garden bench shaded the man behind the voice.
"Thank you. I appreciate your courtesy. You are a gentleman." Marie sighed.
He rose and walked towards her, keeping a conservative distance.
"The name is Martin Richter from 3A."
"Marie Kohler, from 2C. Could I be too forward as to ask if you would like some company? I don't mind if you say no."
"Please, join me. I could use some conversation about now. You moved in last month, correct."
"I did, but I'm not dealing well with some of the choices I've made."
"Want to talk about it?" He had a pleasing and welcoming tone to his voice.
"Yes, I guess I do. Do you mind?"
"Not at all. I'm a technical writer and my life gets boring some times. Especially for someone like me who has a history of being a good listener"
"How long have you lived here?"
"Do you mean New Orleans, or here at this apartment?"
"Both."
"I've lived in New Orleans for six years and at this address for two. The rents reasonable and it's close to everything. I can walk anywhere or take public transportation."
"Yes, that is a plus. This old renovated warehouse makes a miserable excuse for an apartment. Needs a lot of work, but I guess I can adjust".
"So, tell me, what's brought you down to the garden at this hour of the night, talking to a lonely old stranger in need of human interaction."
"Okay, here goes, stop me if I bore you." She took possession of the space next to him on the bench. She studied Martin's face briefly through the shadows. Not being a great judge of character, she believed him to be in his fifty's and grandfatherly in appearance.
"I am twenty-one as of last month. I moved from Toledo because I wanted to see more of life and I've always felt I was born too soon. I have since been second-guessing my decision. I first thought I was homesick, but I'm not sure if that's it or not."
"Do you think about going back to Toledo?"
"I've thought about it a lot but when I left, my friends threw a huge going away party. I am the one who got away and made the break. You have no idea how boring Toledo can be for a young single person. Everyone back home thinks I have an important job with the government. Truth is I'm a mailroom clerk for the city. I'm too embarrassed to admit defeat."
They sat in silence and listened to an owl hooting in a near-by tree.
"I'm not one for giving advice. My life hasn't been exemplary. I've been through three marriages, made and lost two fortunes and am a convicted felon. However, that's a story for another day. Let me ask you something, child, do you know what you want? Not so much out of life in its entirety but for tomorrow. Life has to be taken in chunks. If you look at the big picture, you'll lose your mind."
"No. I've never given it much thought."
"Then, I have a challenge for you. Find something that you've always wanted to do and just haven't got around to, yet. It can be something as small as to read a book. Set yourself on a path to accomplishing it. Then meet me back here tomorrow night and let me know how it is going. Can you do that?"
"I can, but I'm not sure one day is enough."
"It can be if you work on it. Don't take too long, just start on the journey and the rest will take care of itself."
Then he evaporated into the shadows and she was alone. The next day she asked the caretaker about Mr. Richter in 3A and was told that unit was being renovated and had not been occupied for over two months.
Lucky, Hell...
Nelson arrived early every day at his job washing dishes at a local restaurant. This morning, sitting in the break room, he picked up the paper and checked his carefully selected lotto numbers. He checked them twice. His mouth transformed into a scorching desert, his eyes stared wide in disbelief, and his hands went clammy and began to shake. His legs dissolved to putty as he grabbed a chair and sat down. Andy, the resident cook entered the and immediately observed Nelson's distress.
"Say, Nelson, you okay buddy?" Andy cooked for the restaurant for over ten years and befriended Nelsen, knowing in his heart, he did not belong in the position of dishwasher.
"Yeah, I'm fine, why?" Nelson remained glued in place.
"Cause you look like you saw a ghost, that's why." Andy sat down next to him. "Anything I can do?"
"Andy, what would you do if you won a large lotto jackpot? I mean a really large lotto jackpot. Like in the millions?"
"Well, I'm sure everybody who buys a ticket thinks about that at one point or another. I don't dwell on it much. However, the missus and me would buy a bigger home and a new car. You know, stuff like that."
"Thanks, Andy. What would you do if your wife didn't know how to handle m
oney and you knew she would blow it all, say in a year?"
"Gees, Nelson, I don't know. First off, the chances of winning are through the roof, second my wife is the penny pincher in our family, and third I guess I'd have to say I'd enjoy it while it lasts. After all half of it would be hers' to do with as she sees fit."
"You got a point there, friend. Thanks for the talk. I got to get to work now." During his shift, thoughts swirled through his head. It was real, no doubt, but what to do next.
Neither Nelson nor his wife Diane knew how to budget money. After he made probation for a conviction on accumulated traffic violations, jobs were hard to get and eagerly took the job washing dishes. They rented a singlewide mobile home in a rundown park and paid on a weekly basis.
Nelson knew coming into that much money would bring new issues for their already troubled marriage...Knowing Diane went through his wallet without warning; Nelson safely tucked the winning ticket in his locker at the restaurant.
Diane's thick naturally blond hair, icy blue eyes and curvy figure won his heart over their petty arguments. Her complexion, nearly flawless, needed little makeup to make her appealing. Until then, Nelson considered himself a confirmed bachelor and a womanizer and though not handsome, he considered himself manly and rugged and enjoyed his bachelorhood.
Diane worked as a nail tech at an exclusive day spa. She made substantial tips and they lived on those tips daily leaving nothing for tomorrow. Nelson rode an aged and self-repaired bicycle to work the three miles to the restaurant, allowing Diane the ten-year-old beat-up sedan.
Diane entered, later than usual that night, threw down her purse and product bag from the spa. She kicked off her shoes and plopped in the overstuffed easy chair in front of the TV.
"Do you know a woman yelled at me and called Sheila out because she said I did sloppy work and refused to pay for a complete do-over?"
"Is she a regular?"Nelson asked as he handed her a bottle of cold beer from the refrigerator.
"No. Never saw her before, and probably won't again. Of course that means I'm out the sale as well as my time."
"Baby you know we can't keep this up. I need work shoes, and the car won't last forever. I wouldn't mind, but your job is costing us more than you bring home."
"I keep telling you that if I stick with Sheila she will make me a manager of her new spa. I believe her."
"You've been saying that for months. The woman is using you. She is ripping you off. She takes way too much out of you for supplies and overhead. We can't keep living on promises. We need help now. You know that I can't do anything better right now while still on probation."
"You don't understand. It's a cutthroat business and I have to keep up with the latest styles or I'm out. That spa brings in a lot of rich customers and we have expectations to meet."
"If you are happy living like this, fine but you would do better going back to waitressing. You made more money."
"No. I love what I'm doing. You'll have to be patient."
The next day Nelson was quiet and withdrawn. He knew that no matter what he decided, Diane deserved half the money
Diane walked through the door late again that night. "Had a last minute client that wanted the works and was totally obnoxious."
"Great, hopefully she gave you a decent tip."
"No, that's the kicker, she stiffed me. Can you believe that?"
"Diane, sit down, we need to have a serious talk. We have some decisions to make about our future together." He told her about the winning lotto ticket and they discussed what to do. They talked for hours but could not come together on a decision.
"Diane, do you want to split the money and go our separate ways?"
"No! That's the last thing I want."
"Then here is how it's going to be. You have handled the household finances for the last several years. I am not going to fault you. However, I will be making the decisions about the money from here and as long as we are married, I will take over running the finances and the decisions about their future. I appreciate your opinion but so far it has not helped us get ahead financially and I do not want to be back in this position in another year."
"Yes, dear."
Goodbye, Bud
Bud was quickly creeping up on ninety years of age, but no longer enjoyed living. His life had been full. Fuller than most people his age. He never married. He joined the navy at eighteen as the United States entered World War II. He worked his way up to becoming the ships' engineer and served in The Korean Conflict. He served his time in the military, and then joined The Merchant Marines. He was a perfect poster person for the campaign to 'Join the Navy and See the World.'
He once showed me a map of the world with gold stars placed strategically in points he visited. I was awe struck. The map was glittered with gold. There had to be hundreds of stars. The man was amazing, always a new story to tell.
It has been almost fifteen years ago that I purchased the home next to his. I accepted a position as English teacher at Poseidon High School. My husband of twenty-two years passed on several years before and I no longer felt it necessary to maintain my four-bedroom home in Winter Terrace outside Orlando.
I moved into my new home in July, giving me ample time to adjust before I report to my new assignment. Bud's house appeared deserted. I thought it was vacant. Poseidon is a small community. It thrives in the winter when the 'snowbirds' are down. However, in July the heat and humidity drives people into air-conditioned comfort. It wasn't until November when Bud returned from the north that he and I introduced ourselves. He became a good neighbor; quiet, friendly, likeable and certainly interesting. Each June, before hurricane season he loaded up his pickup truck and headed for the upper peninsula of Michigan where he has a cabin, primitive and miles from town. He would then return in November when the snow started and hurricane season ended. It sounded like a perfect solution to me.
Over the years, Bud volunteered for the sheriff's department. He was a charter member of their Voice program. Volunteers drive around in specially marked vehicles and patrol the area in search of possible emergencies. The residence of Poseidon knew Harry and he was well liked and respected by the community.
Bud came and went with the wind. He answered to no one. In his lifetime, he saved every penny he made, lived frugally and invested well. He was proud of the fact that when he was in the Merchant Marines and his ship arrived in an exotic port, he would stay on ship while his peers would go into town and party. I once fought the urge to ask the man what he was saving it for, but I never did.
The only family he had was a niece and nephew, both living in and around Poseidon. The nephew Tom, being a professional fisherman spent most of the year on the water. When on land, his love of the bottle kept him without possessions and a loving family.
Bud's niece Sheila was his beneficiary and legal caregiver. Now that Bud was nearing the end of his life cycle, he was getting crotchety and demanding. Senile, he was not. Glaucoma had taken most of his vision. He took a fall off a ladder several years ago and broke a bone in his back. He had survived prostate cancer but is now on so many medications for pain that his body is breaking down. He takes one pill to counter the effects of another.
Only in the last six months did he give up his driving privilege. Those of us who knew him best felt hat this was when he really started to fail. He now has to depend on other people and that did not set with him.
Then the hospital trips started. He complained he couldn't go to the bathroom. This was actuality true. I took him once; Sheila took him once. The doctors would get him pumped up with fluids and nutrients and sent him home, but he never stayed long because other than being cranky and old, there was nothing left for him.
He agreed to assisted living. The place he chose was ill equipped to handle his needs and he soon ended up in the hospital again. He refused his medication and complained about the food, the people and the service. The doctors told Sheila if he didn't take his meds he would be dead within six
weeks. Bud understood. The hospital gave permission, and they transferred him to hospice.
"Maude, there is a living memorial service tomorrow at hospice center for Bud. I know he would be thrilled if you could be there."
"Oh course I will. Is there any change in Bud?" I didn't know what else to say.
"No. He's still giving the nurses a hard time." Sheila expressed in dismay.
It wasn't until we concluded the conversation that I realized; I had no idea what a 'living memorial' was.
A peer of mine from the school informed that it was a celebration of one's life before they die. What a nice idea, I thought. Not too many people can truly say their goodbyes in advance.
I walked in to Bud's large private room in the hospice facility to a host of military uniforms surrounding his bed. As he lay in his bed, smiling, Bud proudly wore his favorite hat, decorated with gold braid and displaying his military honors. He never went anywhere without it. His face beamed with joy. His vision allowed him shapes and shadows only, but his keen mind allowed him the pleasure of comprehension.
Sheila sat in a chair nearest him, holding his bony, ice-cold hand.
In a semicircle surrounding his bed, from left to right included the captain of the Poseidon police force, a sergeant from Hillsborough's sheriff's office, the dispatcher he worked with at VOICE in full dress uniform, a captain from the Navy, one from the Marines with an aide also in dress uniform and the regional president of the Merchant Marines. Several other civilian's I did not know lined the wall. It was standing room only,
Each officer had an award, a special pin or a plaque for Bud, honoring his lifetime achievements. They presented a liberty lap blanket of red, white and blue, knitted for veterans I looked at Bud's serine face and the tears escaped my eyes without my control. Each person had his or her chance to say something. I had no need for words. I simply went over, took his hand, kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear "Thank you". A smile was all I needed and I got it.
The uniforms gave his a military salute and left. I promised to come back soon. That was the last time I saw Bud.
A person can only stay so many days in hospice care. Bud exceeded his welcome and Sheila found a woman who cares for bedridden patients in her home. He lived almost two more weeks. The news of his passing was no surprise but I will miss him, with his death goes part of an era.
When he died, the newspaper displayed the usual obituary but no other memorial service took place. Call me old fashion, but there seemed like something was missing.
The Mango Theft
"It's gone!" I exclaimed in horror as I peered out the window in the lanai.
"What are you talking about" My husband responded indifferently from the living room?
"My mango, it's gone!"
"You're not making any sense." He walked to the lanai to see what all the fuss was about.
"My solitary mango from that tree we planted last year. I've been watching that little tree and babying it since we planted it.
"You're being ridiculous. That ‘thing' was no bigger than a tennis ball. It probably wouldn't have been edible if it had been allowed to grow up to be an adult." He chided.
Living in Southwest Florida for fifteen years, we stopped growing anything outside. We did have a thriving herb garden inside the house. Between the bugs, the summer heat and the poor soil, we resolved to buy whatever was in season.
Our local nursery had a sale on fruit trees last fall and in a moment of weakness; we decided to adopt a mango tree; a spontaneous experiment in futility. The odds were in our favor because mango trees grew well in our tropic climate
"You don't get it." My voice was coming down by octaves as I continued my dirge "That lonely piece of fruit was a symbol a hope, a dream, my responsibility. It's been taken from me before it's time."
"There will be others. Besides, the first fruit of a tree's life is usually premature. Next year there will be thirty times that amount." I could tell that he wasn't taking the situation seriously.
I began to take the crisis in stride but I was not happy. I saw my husband's point of view, but I couldn't let him get away by dropping the subject that easily. His even temperament annoyed my high-strung nature at times.
I found the remains of my mango later that day. As expected, a squirrel pilfered the goods. The existing fruit had been carefully removed through a hole. Skin peeled back then devoured and tossed hap-hazardously into the street on its' quick getaway after the dastardly deed was complete.
My husband was correct, as usual, there were many more fruit to take the place of that first mango, but a mother never forgets her first.
Mid Life Crisis
Carl Whitaker's long time desolate marriage was over. The kids moved away long ago, and all possessions sold or dispersed in mutual agreement. Carl got his treasured Corvette; his wife got the family house. She moved on with her life while he stayed stranded in his delusions of the past.
He signed a lease on an overpriced condo on the upper east side of town. Starting over was not part of his dream for the future. He searched for a new purpose for his half-spent life as he approached his fiftieth birthday.
Matt Brower, a financially successful bachelor friend appeared from his past. A stunning blonde-haired woman attached to his arm.
"Carl what you need is to become a 'chick magnet'". Matt exclaimed, while his blonde appendage ran her fingers through his hair.
The words made Carl cringe. "Matt, I have no idea what a chick magnet is or how to become one. I am not even sure I like the sound."
"Don't you worry, friend, I wrote the book on dating." Matt snorted. "I have all the answers; you use charm and show confidence. You make women laugh and always look interested". Advice flowed from his mouth like water over the slippery rocks of Niagara Falls. Carl inhaled all the words and tried to remember everything he was told.
Matt arranged a blind date along with a list of do's and don'ts for the night's prearranged festivities.
The date started well. Her name was Sylvia and she was extraordinarily attractive with thick wavy burnet hair that swept her shoulders and a curvaceous body. Without warning after a time, Carl's tongue twisted into a pretzel and he couldn't think of anything to say.
All the advice Matt gave him vanished from his memory bank. Somewhere floating above his head there are all those rules, none making any sense, except to be himself. That wasn't hard. His date appeared disinterested and he didn't blame her.
He remembered to be polite not a problem. Let her have the lead; she did that just fine. When the night ended, he did his best to assure her he had a good time.
He would like to see her again - she appeared not to care. He bid her goodnight and headed for home feeling his despair deep in the pit of his stomach.
The next day he walked around in a grey cloud of doom. Matt called to check on his progress.
"Carl these things take time. There are plenty of women out there, you just need to have a good time and lighten up. It's not the end of the world but just the beginning. Enjoy the fruits that are his for picking." Matt reassured him.
Carl's only thoughts were for the good old days when he was married and lived in the home on First Street watching the woman he no longer called his wife in the kitchen baking a cake.
Christmas Vacation Gone Wrong
"Ms. Herrington, this is Captain Snodgrass from Key West Marina. I show that you reserved "Mystic Rose" for the week of December 20. I wanted to let you know that I sold that boat yesterday and will be returning your deposit."
Bertha Herrington stood in her kitchen, clutching her wall phone receiver with white knuckles and gapping mouth. The words just spoken finally registered, "Is this a joke? Did Cousin Ernie put you up to this? Surely I am hearing wrong."
"No, Ms. Herrington. This is not a joke, I am terribly sorry for any inconvenience this might cause you."
"No you're not. If you were, you wouldn't do this to me. Isn't there something else you
can rent me? At this late date, I won't be able to find alternate arrangements" My voice leaped an octave and my blood pressure climbed three flights of stairs.
"Ms. Herrington, I did check other marinas in the area, and you're correct, there are no other boats available."
"This is crazy; you can't do this to me. My family is depending on me. I can't entertain them for a week. People are flying in from all over the country. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Bertha took a moment to regroup, took a deep breath and contemplated her next move.
"Ms. Herrington, I am sorry...."
She cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "Quit saying you're sorry. If you were sorry, you would have made provisions with the new owners to honor our agreement. I suggest that you continue to work on a solution to this problem while I do the same. This is not over."
Bertha slammed the phone done before she said something she would regret. It was December 3 and her family, including her in-laws was flying in from Wisconsin for this vacation. On a good day, Bertha had a problem with her hypochondria and her husband's chain smoking and beer drinking. The Herrington's tiny condo would not stand the stress fractures of a week together.
After numerous long frustrating phone calls, she too found there wasn't another boat available for rent during Christmas week anywhere in the state. Her choices were limited to having the family changing flights into Key West to Daytona Beach for a week on the beach. She found a cruise available that would entertain them all for those days and still fly into Fort Lauderdale. The extra cost, she was sure would be absorbed from her pocketbook. She located the bottle of tequila stashed in the bottom drawer of her home office where she was a successful copy editor for a large publishing house. It took two stiff belts before she wormed her way down off the ceiling.
Not ready to confront the family yet, she called her spouse at work to go over their choices. After reviewing all possibilities, they excluded the option about moving and going into the witness protection program, they considered the cruise leaving from Ft. Lauderdale. At least the flights would be the same and she was able to book the rooms immediately.
Before ending the conversation, the decision was to call her mother-in-law to get her feedback and permission to make the change before committing to the cruise. Before acquiring the courage necessary to make that call, she downed another shot of tequila to numb the senses. She would need it as soon as she heard her mother-in-law's voice. Not that she didn't get along with her, she was only happy to be living twenty-five hundred miles apart. She stared at her cell phone, formulating the words in her head preparing for the scathing reprimand she would receive for letting this happen.
When the cell phone rings she recognized the number as Captain Snodgrass. She answered with fire breathing from her nostrils.
"Ms. Herrington, I am able to get the new owners to honor the rental agreement."
She thanked him politely, hung up the phone and broke into hysterical laughter. She was relieved that no one was home to observe her moment of insanity.
Time Tripping
The telephone call came from a cousin three times removed advising me that the last living sibling of my parents died at the age of 95. I had no desire to rekindle long suppressed memories of my childhood, but it looked like a trip to Michigan was in order. My name is Sophia Peoples. I am 54 years old, divorce and self-employed as a boutique owner in Clearwater Florida. Florida was in the middle of a typical August oven-baking scorcher and until the northerners returned in October, business was dead. I have a good life. I was not thrilled with the idea of dredging up my dysfunctional family history. However, out of some sense of misplaced duty, I made the necessary arrangements to fly into Detroit, rent a car and drive to the northern town of Royston where the funeral would take place.
I purposely planned to arrive a day ahead of the funeral to explore my old stomping grounds. An error at the rental car agency resulted in an upgraded vehicle. With the smell of leather and ‘new car' aroma wafting through my nostrils, I drifted in time and luxury and exited Interstate I-75 onto M-59. With a smile, light heart and pleasing thoughts, I followed the signs along the winding tree-lined country road, arriving without warning at the aged cider mill. Time had not stood still for this enterprise. The latest machinery brought the mill into
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