Sketches of Ron Gosip and Others, Page 2

  Cleri:   (unintelligible)

  Dad:   What?  Oh, you’ve read that one already, maybe.   Here is the best one -- Planet of the Apes.  See? It's short, but with a surprise ending.  I bet you won't guess how it ends!

  Cleri:   I bet I won't either.

  Dad:  (after thinking) Then I bet you will!  Come on... I'll bet you...

  Rainy Day Simpleton

  #8

  On a drizzly Sunday morning, three were inside the leather upholstered crew cab; Dad in front, two smart teenage daughters in back. Their new truck was stopped momentarily at a traffic light, and the two girls were taking turns creating jabs -- insults that the young man outside could not hear. Perhaps 20, with an old 10-speed bicycle, he waited at the same light for his chance to cross the street. He wore a restaurant uniform and cap, and no rain-coat. His back was especially wet from the water flung up by his bike’s rear tire.

  “Hey look at the loser!” said one girl to the other. “Don’t you love his clothes? Maybe when he gets promoted they’ll give him a name tag.”

  “Just look how cool his bike is,” said her sister. And so on, until the light turned. Then as they passed him, the girls waved good-bye to the young man (who wasn’t looking). One held her hand in the shape of an “L” against her forehead; the other made the sign for “call me.” Neither considered that her actions might be visible to their driver as he glanced up at the mirror.

  The girls’ conversation turned to other teenage concerns; Dad drove one block, then pulled to the curb and stopped. “Stay here,” was all he said before he got out and walked to the back of the truck. There he flagged down the approaching cyclist, and insisted on giving him a ride due to the rain. The cyclist reluctantly accepted, and his bike was loaded carefully under the pickup’s topper. The young man was instructed to ride in the back seat with the girls, who, now silent and wide-eyed, scooted over as far as they could.

  “Where are we headed?” asked Dad of the new passenger, who named the restaurant and explained that he would be working the Sunday brunch, bussing tables. Dad introduced his daughters to the young man, and in the remaining short trip invented a half-truth about their church requiring a good deed each week as a form of tithing, a way to learn to give. The purpose of his story was to explain why each girl would be donating $20 from her allowance for the young man to put toward bicycle maintenance. The cyclist refused at first, but Dad insisted, once again, and handed over the cash in the restaurant’s parking lot, where the grateful young man said “good-bye” to the helpful family.

  Back inside the truck, the girls remained wide-eyed. “Dad, what’s all this about tithing?” asked one.

  Neither could remember when they had seen Dad more serious than when he replied to them, “Girls, don’t ever, ever, judge others by what they have or don’t have. Do we understand? Cleri? Curriel?” Still scooted-over, the girls nodded quickly, each answering yes, in turn.

  “Very well,” said Dad with a wink, “I’m proud of you for helping him out.

  Both girls were away to University, and it was a warm Saturday night, five years after they had “donated” money to the cyclist. Dad, now on his own, was treating himself to a rare night out at a fine restaurant. While waiting for his meal, he watched a young man in a suit walking out of the kitchen and conversing with employees, the way a manager would. Dad recognized the man as the cyclist from that drizzly day, and he wondered, with a little pride, whether he and his daughters had played a role in the young man’s success. As the girls’ mother used to say, one should never underestimate the power of a kind deed.

  The suited man made his way near Dad, who got his attention. “I remember you, sir, from that day when we gave you a lift.”

  The young man paused, but just as he recognized Dad, another man, also dressed formally, entered and interrupted, “come on, fellow fry cook, get your paycheck and let’s go.” Dad realized from their ensuing conversation that success had not come yet for the cyclist, that he was simply dressed for a wedding reception, and was still a low wage earner.

  On the drive home, Dad thought again of his wife. She was the one who had turned his life around many years ago. He remembered another of her favorite quotes, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

  “The young man probably just needs one more break,” said Dad to the empty passenger seat.

  Arriving home after dusk, he parked in his roomy, neat garage. There, a very old 3 speed, all that a dish washer could afford, hung on the wall. Mechanically, it was still in good condition. If not for the rainy forecast, Dad mused, he would even ride it to Sunday service in the morning.

  About to exit the garage, he paused and looked once more at the bike. “Been a while,” he said to himself. “Better check the tires.”

  Room with a View

  #6

  “Would you mind? Can you open that window again, Mister?”

  “No,” he replied to me, “you don’t need to hear this part. Concentrate only on what concerns you. Besides, look at them -- in there, talking about the same things over and over. Who cares about that? Now, let your mind drift to… whatever. Okay?”

  “Well, no,” I said in protest, “I think I should be in there with them. Just open it.”

  “If you say so.” Ssshhh. He slid the window open again.

  This guy was becoming a nuisance. He had not been invited; he simply showed up mid-meeting, bringing along a big slide-by window. Curiously, he reminded me of me, somehow… “Hey,” I said suddenly, “you’re shutting it again! Stop. Now keep it open, please.”

  “Fine, fine.” But he was lying. Ssshhh. The window closed. “Let’s look at this from your standpoint,” he said to me with a smile. “You are tired. Just getting off the night shift?”

  “No,” I said. “It was a black-and-white classic, with Barbara Stanwyck,” I explained.

  “Same result, though,” he said. “Now, if you can just tune these guys out for one second, you’ll feel better. Good, that’s it. Now rest your eyes...”

  My eyelids lowered. “NO! Close my eyes? What the heck. Open! And leave it!”

  “Alright,” he said, “you win -- this time.”

  Big Ed and Little Popeye

  #0

  (Contributing Canine: Willow Kaine)

  It was four years, to the day, since Edwin, (known as “Big Ed,”) had turned 55 and started his heart-healthy program. So, he felt like celebrating. But he no longer marked birthdays, or any other occasion, with treats. His diet had been paying off, so he stuck with it. So on this day, he would follow his normal routine: feed Popeye first, then make a proper meal for himself.

  The tiny 3 year old was a piebald, Terrier-mix. She finished eating quickly, then sat patiently, studying Big Ed as he fixed a salad. Iceberg lettuce, Romaine, baby spinach, chopped walnuts; olive oil and a dash of red wine vinegar. Standing at the breakfast nook to eat, the now-Not-so-Big Ed selected a dark green leaf by the stem and, as always, tossed it to his waiting companion. She caught it mid-air, carried it to her corner, held it in her paws, and began gnawing.

  “That-a-girl, Popeye,” said Big Ed between bites, “Strong to the finish.”

  Vain Martyr Not

  #3

  (Commentary on a famous trial)

  The court was in session. The defendant listened to the testimony against him. All lies. He had not attacked Mr. Carpenter, nor reached for Carpenter’s gun. He wanted to testify, but it would not be allowed. That was according to his Counsel -- actually Junior Council, or simply J.C -- a Man who was not even a lawyer (he once was, ironically, a carpenter).

  Surely, thought the defendant, the jurors still would not find him guilty. They could not possibly believe Mr. Carpenter’s story “beyond a reasonable doubt”.

  But then Junior Council reminded him, “The jurors only have to believe you would have attacked him, or that you could be a ki
ller.”

  As the “guilty” verdict was read, the defendant saw his mother cry. He wanted to be with her, but that, also, was not allowed. “Why has this happened?” he asked J.C., “Don’t get me wrong; I only want to know.”

  “I’m sorry, Son,” He replied, “There is much work to be done. Very much work.”

  Three Birds

  #8

  The text message that Ron was waiting for Friday evening came after midnight. It said simply, “staying with friends.” Not exactly the news that Ron wanted, but at least he could sleep, knowing that his daughter was okay. The last child to “leave the nest”, she was now home on break from college, and was staying out too late, too often, for Ron’s liking. Although she had always been a good kid, her interest in school was slipping, and Ron’s recent heart-to-heart talks with her had not seemed to help.

  Perhaps, he thought, if he had spent more time with her during her childhood, she wouldn’t be straying now. Instead, he had built a business, and “success” had too often kept him away from his family. Even now, Ron had two separate lives, and his “work” life came first.

  That is not to say he was selfish. In fact, his employees universally loved Ron -- some he had mentored; one or two he had saved from “the streets”. He was known as a giving person, yet in the case of his daughter, perhaps he had failed to give enough of what mattered most – his time.

  Always an early bird, Ron was working in his yard the next morning when his daughter came home and walked directly over to him. “Dad, I have something to tell you. I’ve decided that I don’t need – I don’t want -- the nightlife anymore; I’m going to focus on school. After last night, I realize now, I’ve been losing sight of what’s important.”

  Surprised by her statement, Ron looked at his daughter. He could tell that she was serious – he knew her that well, at least. “So, you’re finished with the party scene, are you? That’s fantastic. What brought this about?”

  “It’s a long story, Dad,” she said. “I met some unusual people out last night – ‘unusual’ to say the least. They were older than me, and they gave me a glimpse of, well, how your life can go when you’re on the wrong path.” She smiled. “There was this guy with a pet parrot – a nice guy, but I don’t think he was “all there.” He kept saying things like, “Don’t do crime, or you’ll do time.” Then, there was this lady -- she had some stories to tell. She really made an impression on me. And their friends, they all seemed to be telling me the same thing – that I need to get my act together, that I need to focus. It felt like…like an intervention, even though we all met by chance.”

  At work Monday morning, Ron called a meeting and announced that he would be delegating many of his duties, “so that I can spend more time with my family.” He did not explain further, except to say he’d been given a second chance, and he wanted to make the most of it.

  Ron and his staff spent the day reassigning responsibilities. Everyone was upbeat -- the office manager, now promoted to VP, had a smile on her face that outshone the lines from her harder days. And the foreman, now superintendant, was still light on his feet at closing time. He smiled too, as he turned out the lights. “And that’s the name of that tune,” he said to himself.

  The Shooter

  #10

  This short story about deer hunting is non-typical. That is, it makes no mention of Pope and Young, Boone nor Crocket, drop tines, amazing marksmanship, or even deer camp. Instead, this is a story about the simple harvesting of a deer for venison, and the unremarkable day that most hunters, even most accomplished hunters, experience now and then.

  For many, deer hunting is all about shooting the right whitetail. Such hunters take only bucks of a certain advanced age. By estimating the spread of the antlers, they can determine whether a buck is a “shooter.” This method, they say, improves the health of the deer herd.

  But Noah believed there were also good reasons for shooting antlerless deer. Bucks tend to be on higher alert, rarely giving the hunter a still target, leading to misses and wounded deer. The doe will more often give the hunter a sure shot. Plus, venison – well, you can’t eat the horns, as they say. And, ironically, while a taxidermist’s mount of a trophy buck looks great in the living room, the female whitetail deserves even greater admiration, in Noah’s opinion. She carries her young through the winter, then rears and protects them, while the buck roams free. Indeed, Noah had seen whitetail does display valor and strength unmatched by any buck.

  These were some of the thoughts and opinions that Noah had considered when preparing for the deer-gun season, for which he had a doe permit – a tag he planned to use if given the opportunity. On opening morning, that opportunity presented itself.

  The big doe had been spooked by hunters in the next parcel. She raced to the edge of a clearing, skidded to a stop, and stood with her head raised, her body broadside to Noah at a distance of about 75 yards. “There,” thought Noah to himself, “no big buck would have stopped like that.” He sighted her in his scope, and slid the safety off with a “Click.”

  She had, perhaps, heard him, and turned her head directly toward his stand. For the next second they studied each other. Though she was barely into the open, Noah had a clear view of the deer’s body -- it would be an easy shot. Then… “Click.” He slid the safety back on, and lowered the muzzle of his rifle. The doe was out of danger.

  Three seconds after appearing, the deer bounded back into the cover of forest, to skirt around the clearing instead of running through it. Noah watched her as she made her way into the trees. Then, for the first time, he saw the small deer following her. It was her half-year-old fawn, whom she had kept away from the clearing, and out of the line of fire. Perhaps, thought Noah, it was a buck fawn, and in a few years it would sport a fine set of antlers.

  Breathin’ Room

  #6

  Warning: This story is written in the 2nd person viewpoint, and therefore seems to be addressing you, the reader, though it is not. Readers who may find this disconcerting, or who suffer from scopophobia, should skip this entry and proceed to the next.

  Good Morning. So, it’s you again. You have that look -- the puzzled, worried look. Unable to solve the mystery. How long have you had this blog, how many years? Yeah, quite some time. So, how can there be a ghostwriter – without your knowledge? If this gets out, you will have no explanation, and it seems there is nothing you can do about it. You’re beginning to feel trapped, boxed in.

  You call yourself a teacher, yet you no longer want your thoughts to get out. You try to keep them to yourself, because someone is using your ideas here. You’ve been trying to find that person.

  It’s your own fault; you come up with a concept, an idea, then let it slip out – just a word or a phrase, or maybe a question. The next day on this blog, submitted for everyone to see, is a story based on your idea. The author, this author, never identifies himself or herself. It has to be a student, you think. But you know how each of them writes, and none has a matching style.

  By now, as you read this, you are feeling tired and confused, the way you feel every morning. You can’t think, so you will retreat to your study with the big windows that let the air in. Yeah, that’s right, fresh air. Where do you think you go in the middle of each night when your meds have you walking in your sleep? Think about this: You tell your students not to use the 2nd person point of view. How, you ask them, can the writer know the reader’s thoughts? Unless… one is referring to oneself.

  Even Up

  (Commentary on a commentator)

  #3

  My grandmother, as a young woman, was a newsroom assistant for a network television anchorman. One of her duties was to file the anchor’s notes after each newscast.

  Now, Grandmother was very particular, and it would bother her immensely when papers were not perfectly in order. So after several days of being given notes that were
shuffled, misaligned, and upside-down, she had to say something. As the anchor was handing over yet another mess, she complained, calling him sloppy and disorganized.

  Suddenly realizing what she had said, and to whom she had said it, she froze with fear and waited for the inevitable words “You’re fired.” But those words never came. Instead, she heard, “I’m sorry,” and the anchorman went through his notes to make sure each sheet was in its place and perfectly straight.

  From that day on, that anchorman’s final act of each newscast was to put his papers in their proper order, and align the stack perfectly by tapping it edgewise on his desk -- a habit that became one of his trademarks.

  And Grandmother never complained again.

  Befler, Ipson, & Gosip

  #8

  Lou Ipson checked his phone -- a text from his boss. He addressed the other committee members, “Let’s take a break. I’ll be back in 15.” The group adjourned, and Lou walked down the hall to Donald Befler’s office.

  Mr. Befler started. “Lou, do you know why I brought you along with me twenty years ago, when we left Aster and Barnes?”

  Lou still at times addressed Mr. Befler, the venerable senior partner, as “Sir” (especially when responding to “See me.”) He began his answer, “To be the first junior partner in your new firm, Sir, and…”

  “Yes,” interrupted Mr. Befler, “that’s true. But…” He paused, then changed course, “Lou, do you remember Ron Gosip from those days?”

  “Ron? Well sure, he helped me on my first few assignments. He taught me a great deal. But as I recall, his cases were never very significant, revenue-wise.”

  “Yes, also true.” said Mr. Befler, “Indeed, others often pointed that out. That was the culture there; everyone liked to point fingers at each other. Except for Ron. He refused to take part in hearsay of any kind. And those cases – for which he volunteered – brought him much satisfaction, if not bonuses.”