Dad's Friend Charle

            It took a lot to get Dad to open up and once it did, it took just as much to get him to stop. That’s not to say that he wouldn’t talk. There’s a big difference between talking and saying something. He was shy, my mother was the outgoing one between the two.

            This afternoon, two days after Christmas we sat on the back porch drinking beer in unseasonably warm East Texas weather. He took a sip of the Shiner Blonde and licked his lips. All my life he had drunk Miller Lite, but in retirement had expanded his taste in beer.

            “I had a friend named Charlie,” he said, starting his fifth or sixth tale of life in Van Zandt county in the 70s. I didn’t mind. His stories were genuinely entertaining. The stuff the best fiction writers couldn’t come up with. “Charlie was a smart son of a bitch. Van Zandt County was dry back then. There were all these places on the county that sold beer.

            “Charlie, like I said, he was smart. He would take a cooler full of ice to the beer store and he had done the math and knew how far he had to drive from each of these liquor stores it would take to get the beer nice and cold. He had taken into account things like how the beer and ice could react to bumps in the road.”

            A smile began to emerge as Dad told the story.

            “So he would map his route home from each of these places and with his calculations he would know how far he had to drive so that the beer and cold so he could pull over on his way home from the liquor store and have himself a beer.”

            We both laughed.

            “What happened to him? What’s he doing now?”

            The smile slowly disappeared off Dad’s face and he was quiet. I rolled my lips up and darted my eyes across the room waiting for him to speak again. I began to wish I hadn’t asked.

            “He ended up being a real bad alcoholic,” Dad said.

            I eyes dropped to the ground and I tried to think of a way to change the subject.

            “When I was off at college, he hit a kid and killed him. He spent some time in prison. He got out and got a job sweeping up at a machine shop.” Dad went quiet for a moment again and then finished his story. “He only drinks at home now.”

Poem About the First Girl I Kissed (Poetry)

The first girl I kissed didn’t want me to.

Our fate was left to the spinning bottle.

The memory cannot be framed. It’s out of balance.

A focused image of blurred lines.

I lean in.

She pulls away.

To Whom it May Concern

This was one of the first short stories that I wrote and liked. I like it, but it's interesting to note how different it is—at least to me—than the stuff I write now. This story was an honorable mention in a writing contest and was published in Chapparal Magazine in 2018. Enjoy.
Part 1

Mistakes      

My first mistake was not getting that stupid door fixed. The garage door had been screwed up for almost a month. It still worked, mostly. But it wasn’t working now. When I needed it to work more than I’ve ever needed anything to work in my life, it wouldn’t budge. It was a stubborn hunk of crap, it wouldn’t even consider budging. I can cuss the thing all I want, but that isn’t going to get it open. My head is beginning to pound. Christ it hurts. I can rub my temples all I want but it doesn’t seem to do any good. I’d kill for an Aspirin or a Tylenol. More than anything, I’d kill to get out of this garage.

            My second mistake was leaving my cell phone in the house. I always forget the stupid thing. Leave it laying on top of the toilet, or in the kitchen cabinets. It’s always somewhere except my pocket. It's never in my pocket where it should be. And today, when I need it more than ever, it’s sitting on the back of the toilet or on the kitchen cabinet.

            I cuss the garage door like I’m in a Martin Scorsese movie. I’m pretty sure I made half of them up. Why not, no one can hear me. That’s another problem I have piled on my plate right now. I’m at the house, alone. In the garage, no one can hear you scream.

            Mistake three and four, both involve locks. One to the car door and the other to the door leading from the garage to the house, both of them keeping me trapped. In my haste, I didn’t bother to check, to make sure I wouldn’t get myself trapped.

            So, here’s my predicament. I am currently locked outside my car, that in the garage, but I am also locked outside my house because you guessed it, the keys to the house are on my key ring that’s locked in the car. Oh yeah, also the car is running.

            I left that god-forsaken cell phone in the house, so I decided to run inside and get it. But the door was locked when I got to it. So, I walk back to the car but its freaking locked too. So now I’m trapped; trapped in behind a rock and a hard place, or rather, in between a thick wooden door and a busted garage door.

            The garage started acting funny about a month back. It wouldn’t always go up when it was supposed to, but if you kicked hard enough and shook and rocked the thing, you could get it up manually. Not today. My foot hurt from kicking it so many times.

            Back to the car, I know what you’re thinking. Break the window out, get your keys. It’d be better to have to replace a car window than it would be paying for funeral costs. Of course, I wouldn’t be paying the funeral cost; my wife would have to front that bill. Anyway, bust out the window, get the keys and get the hell out of there. Not so easy Jack. See, a while back I took my wife out to dinner in the city, while we were having our fantastic dinner someone decided that my car looked like the kind of car that would have goodies in it. So, some asshole broke out my window and stole a bunch of crap from my car, so when it came time to get the window replaced, I had shatterproof glass put in the car. The most expensive I could find. That’s just the kind of person I am, if it’s not the most expensive then it’s not the best. I had them replace all the glass in the car. Every bit of it; hindsight is 20/20, so they say.

            I don’t have many tools in my garage; I have a workbench that has never really been used as a workbench. I come out here to have a few beers when the wife starts to get bitchy or I just want to spend some time to myself. All I have to even bang on that window was this ten-inch monkey wrench. At least I think it’s called a monkey wrench. It’s one of those that plumbers use all the time. I hit the window as hard as I could. Want to know what happened, this is kind of funny. The damn thing bounced off the glass and flew out of my hand. It landed where my wife’s car would be park had she been home. I tried a few more times, repositioning myself so I can control the recoil. Nothing. I cursed the car and window and wooden door to the house just about as much as I did the garage door.

            I even tried hitting the garage door with the monkey wrench but that didn’t work. I tried hitting the door to the house, but the wrench wasn’t heavy enough for the heavy door. I inspected the garage door like there was something I could do about it. Really, I don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. I went to college so I wouldn’t have to work on my own stuff. I know it sounds, I don’t know, dickish. But it’s true. I don’t like working on cars, or anything else for that matter. So, if that makes me a dick then I admit it, I’m a dick.

            Mistakes, God I’ve made a lot of them, not just today but my whole life. You don’t make it fifty-seven without, you know, screwing people over or whatever. Normally they didn’t cross my mind. Not one at all, just another day, but when you’re facing your own mortality, you kind of get the thinking about that shit. Now, first things first, I’m not a bank robber, or serial rapist or anything. I don’t have a kiddie porn collection and I’ve never cheated on my taxes. Well, fuck it; I cheat on my taxes, but who doesn’t. And if you don’t you should. Those guys are the real pricks. I don’t kill people or anything like that. But I’ve still made my fair share of mistakes.

            Like this garage door. Four hundred-thousand-dollar houses in this neighborhood and I get the one with a messed up garage door. I didn’t buy in some foreclosure deal either. I could afford it so I bought it. Of course, it probably wasn’t messed up when I bought it but that’s not the point. I guess there really isn’t a point in dwelling about the house. It is what it is.

            I looked at the Bentley, hardtop, and silver in color. I wanted a black one. Well, I wanted a red one, but the wife, her name is Jennifer by the way, didn’t like the red one. The only black on they had at the dealership was used, and I don’t buy used. I could have waited to get a black one. But I didn’t want to wait. I know I’m sounding like a dick again, but I don’t care. Think what you will about me. I have enough money that personal opinion doesn’t really matter anymore.

            I look around the room. All the time I spend in this room and I don’t really know what’s in here. No windows, I already knew that though. The attic is on the third floor so no chance of climbing out that way. Other than the Bentley and my small, sad workbench, I call it sad because he doesn’t ever actually get used as a workbench, and the tool that goes with it, there’s not anything worthwhile. I don’t see anything that is going to be what gets me out of this current situation.

            I try to keep my nerves about me but it’s not the easiest thing to do. I cuss the car out again. Then without thinking about it, I kick the driver’s side door. I instantly regret doing it. Not that it really matters I guess. I cuss myself, not so much for locking myself in the garage, but for kicking my car. Hmm, I sit down on my stool shaking my head. I don’t know how long until the car exhaust kills me, and I’m trying not to think about it. What I keep thinking about is that I’m positive when I die I’m going to have a stupid look on my face. I just know, like that woman who works at the gas station where I fill up my car. She’s always got the stupidest look on her face. Sometimes, when I see it, I just want to slap her right across that stupid face of hers.

            That’s not fair. I don’t guess it’s her fault she’s an idiot, doomed to a life of working at a gas station for minimum wage. Forced to live a repugnant life like that, I’d rather stay in this garage than trade places with her. I’ll probably shit my pants when I die, I read that somewhere, that when you die you shit your pants. What’s that old saying? Hope for the best, expect the worst. Well, that’s what I’m doing, hoping someone will find me in here before I choke to death, but I’m expecting to die with a dumb look on my face and shit in my pants. That’s reassuring. I practice the looks I’ll end up with. The look Jennifer will see when she eventually finds me.

            That’s when it hits me. They’re going to think I killed myself. Jennifer won’t get anything insurance money if I kill myself. The thought of that pisses me off. I’ve paid out a lot of money over the years to make sure my family is taken care of when I’m gone and they aren’t going to be paid because I committed suicide. But this isn’t suicide, at least not on purpose. There’s has to be a way to tell them this is an accidental death and not suicide.

            There are a few drawers in my so-called workbench; there might be a pen and paper in there. I swivel the stool around and open the drawer. I have to rummage through it for a minute before I had the pen, the paper I found right off the bat.

            Okay. Let’s do this. I put the pen to the paper, but the words don’t come to me. How the hell am I even supposed to address this letter? To whom it may concern? Dear ladies and gentlemen? Does it even matter? So long as I get the message across that it wasn’t suicide. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Part 2

Death

          How long does it take to die from breathing in car exhaust? I don’t know. I never had a reason to know before. If I had my phone I could probably Google it. What? That’s about the dumbest thing. If I had a phone I wouldn’t Google anything, I’d call someone and get some help. I put the pen back down to paper.

            Dear Everyone.

            Ha. I laugh at that. Dear everyone. I mark it out with the pen and think long and hard for a second. Whatever.

            Dear Everyone. I know it looks like I’ve killed myself but I am leaving this note as my last words. No, I didn’t kill myself. Turns out I’m just kind of an idiot. I left my phone in the house and went to get it but when I did I left the car running and accidentally locked my keys in the car. I am truly sorry and I wish the best to everyone.

            After giving a quick glance over, I am satisfied, or at least as satisfied as you can be with writing a note like that. Now all I can do is sit and wait. Wait for something to get home. I don’t know when Jennifer is coming home tonight. I don’t even know what she is out doing. I guess that makes me a shitty husband, but I don’t care. I’m dying, that’s what I care about. Not to sound mean or anything. Not that it matters anyway, I’m about to die.

            But now that I think about it, I have been mean. Not only mean but I’ve done some pretty bad stuff, I’ve screwed the ones I care for more than once; funny how you can have a clear conscience until you’re about to die. I haven’t been to confession or church let alone, for about five years. Easily, probably longer, hell I don’t even remember the last time I went to church. I went last year but that was for a funeral so I’m not counting that. My head is still pounding, and the coughing is coming a lot more frequently, and violently. Might as well, there are things I can’t take to my grave, my wife needs to know because once I’m gone; she’s going to have quite a shock.

            Jennifer, there are some things I need to tell you. Some things you are going to need to know after I’m dead and gone. First off, you probably don’t need to know this one but I need to clear my conscience on this one. I have never truly been faithful to you. I’ve had numerous affairs, with a lot of women that you know. Not like your sister or anything but I totally would have if I could have gotten away with it.

            Why did I write that? I scratch over it until I’m certain you can see it through all the ink. That wasn’t really the thing I wanted to write but with my pounding head and coughing, I’m started to get a little woozy.

            Cindy, from my office, is the most recent one. But certainly wasn’t the only one. Don’t be mad at the woman. Most of the women didn’t know I was married or I lied to them about our marriage. I would tell them that we were separated or that you were having an affair as well. Second, everything you know about our life is a sham. You can call me a stockbroker or investment advisor or any of those other lines I’ve used before, but in reality, con man is the better word to describe me. It was all a Ponzi scheme. Think Bernie Madoff. So be prepared. It will come out when they find my body. You’ll be all over the news. Everything we own is stolen, so it will most likely be taken back from you. I’m sorry. I got greedy, I wanted to give you the world and I will end up destroying your life. I wish things weren’t like this but it is.

            My head has quit hurting, which is probably a bad thing. I can feel my brain growing lightheaded. I guess it’s better than dying with a splitting headache. Though I’m still worried I will crap my pants. God, I don’t want to crap my pants. But I deserve it if I do. I deserve this death that is fast approaching.           

            I wish I could say that my confessions to my wife were all that I needed to make but it’s just not true. I need to write a note to my brother Chris.

            Hey Chris. So I died, died like a dumbass at that. But there is something I need to tell you before I die. Since I can’t call you, it’s obviously written on this piece of paper. If it seems kind of rambly it’s because the fumes are starting to get to me. On to business. Look, dad didn’t cut you out of the will. I did. Before he passed, when he was in the final stages I had him sign a new will that I drafted myself. I’m sorry, I was pissed that you were never there when he was dying and I wanted you to think he was too. Truth is he was never pissed about you not coming to see him. I know it was hard. He didn’t even recognize me most of the time when I was over there anyway. I would tell you I can give it back to you but it’s not going to happen, everything I own will be seized upon my death. Also, that money I invest for you, it was a scam. Your money is gone. Sorry.

            The room is spinning now. I had to push through the dizzy spells to get all that out to Chris. I think about the note I left for him. I screwed him out of his inheritance and then I screwed him out of the money he invested with me. My own brother.

            I struggle to keep my head up. It’s hard at this point. All I really want to do is lay down. Close my eyes and go to sleep. I fight to keep my eyes open, there’s more I want to get off my chest, though I’m not sure that I can get it all out before I’m a goner.

            Friends and family. I can’t tell you all the things I’ve done to betray your trust. Mostly for money, though not all the time. All of you that have invest money with me, it’s gone. You won’t get it back. I’ve hidden a lot of the money but if I say where it will be taken away but the authorities. Though they will probably find it sooner or later. Christ, I don’t know where to start and where to begin. Aside from money, I probably slept with your wife. I was pretty good at that. I wish I had more time but I think it’s over for me. I think I just coughed up parts of my lungs and I have never been this tired. Good night.

      

            I glance over the note, but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t going to notice any misspellings anyway. I push it off the side and set the pen down. I stand up but quickly lose my balance and fall flat on my ass, which actually turns out to be much more comfortable. I put my hands together and put them under my head. I close my eyes, ready for the big sleep.

            Goodbye cruel world. What a fucking cliche I am.

Part 3

Life

          My eyes flutter open. I’m alive? No friggin way I’m alive. I struggle to lift my head up, but it proves to be too heavy for my weakened body. But I’m alive. I can’t believe. I thought for sure I was a goner. I can feel the smile run across my face. I made it, Jennifer most of come home early.

            Jennifer. Oh, that’s not good. If she found me then she must have found my note too. I open my eyes and see Jennifer sitting in the chair by my bed. I’m in a hospital. My brother Chris is sitting in the other chair, taking a nap. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, and no way of knowing. I try to get out of the bed, but I hear a clang and my hand seems to be attached to the bed poles.   

            I looked over at my hand and see that I am handcuffed to the hospital bed. So, they definitely found that stupid note. When I stirred, it awoke my brother and wife. They both look over to me. Neither one of them seems to be really happy about seeing me. In fact, they look kind of pissed and I can’t honestly say I blame them. Stupid note. Stupid stupid note. Chris got out of the chair and walked over to the door, he doesn’t bother to look at me and I don’t blame him. The door is shut, and he knocks. A few seconds later a man walks into the room. He looks me over and flips me his badge. A detective. Great. He searches quickly through his pockets and pulls out the note I left in an evidence bag.

            “Let me explain.”