Little Yellow Chevette by Mark Andersen

The plaintive cry of a mourning dove traveled through the air, the soft cooing cracking the otherwise peaceful afternoon. I was eighteen that summer afternoon, just a few weeks before I would venture into adulthood by reporting for duty in the U.S. Army. It had been an uneventful summer up to that day. I was finishing up painting my parents house to earn some cash so I could go out with my friends a few more times before we went our separate ways.

I was a skinny kid back then, skinny and what I thought to be average looking…I did have a car I loved back then, a 1978 Chevy Chevette. People laughed at it and called it a piece of shit, but I loved that car. It gave me a great pick-up line. I would walk up to a girl in the arcade or at the roller skating rink and ask her if she wanted to go for a ride in my “Vette.” It normally went one of two ways, either she would be pissed off when she saw my “Vette” was a Chevette, and not a Corvette, or when she saw my “Vette” she would think I was funny and cute for coming up with that. It worked more often than it did not. Like I said, I loved that car, and not just for its chick picking up capabilities. That car was my first bit of freedom. I could go anywhere, anytime in that car.

The “Vette” cost me eight hundred and fifty dollars when I bought it my sophomore year of High School. I used all of my paper route money to buy it. Money I had been saving since I was twelve. I was paid twenty bucks every two weeks; I would make another couple hundred in tips around Christmas time. Once I got the car I took on two other paper routes so I could fix it up. By the end of my junior year, I had a pretty sweet ride. I rebuilt the engine in auto shop, saved up for some fancy wheels and put new upholstery in, which I was only able to afford by working out a deal with the guy at the upholstery shop. I would work nights and weekends in his shop for free if he would re-upholster my car. I think I got the short end of the stick on that deal; I put in way more hours than the upholstery was worth. About the only thing I didn’t change in that car was the stereo. I bought the car from a guy who worked at a place that sold and installed car stereos. That thing could blast out the Judas Priest and Motley Crue tapes I had back in those days. I was even able to talk my way into a senior’s only auto body class in High School so I could remove the rust and paint the damn thing. It was a sweet color; it was this eye-popping sunburst yellow.

My Friends and I would go cruising down the main drag every Friday night in that car. We normally pulled off into a parking lot to watch the muscle cars race, Trans Ams, Camaros, Mustangs and the occasional ‘Cuda. If we were lucky, one of the guys would talk an older brother or sister in to buying us a six-pack of cheap beer. Six beers between four guys, and would we think we tough guys after drinking a can and a half each. When we started turning eighteen the sky was the limit. We could legally buy beer and liquor, for some reason though we never really strayed too far from a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. On Saturday nights, we would take the car to the Drive-In on the edge of town. There we would either watch a movie or try to pick up girls…we normally ended up watching the movie no matter what.
But that one summer day, a few weeks before I would leave…that was one hell of a day with that car. It started around one in the afternoon. I had just finished painting the house and was cleaning up brushes with a hose out back. My friend Chris came around the house and yelled, “DUDE!! We gotta head out, I just met this chick at the Arcade, she won’t go out with me unless I bring a friend.”

“Uh-huh…and I suppose she has a great personality.” I said.

“I dunno dude, I never saw her, but, we gotta go now.” Chris replied.

“In case you haven’t noticed Chris, I am in no shape to go out, it is ninety-five out, I am hot, sweaty and covered with house paint.” I said back somewhat irritated.

“Jim, just take a fuckin’ cold shower so you can cool off and get the paint off of you.” Chris said.
“Would you watch your language, my Mom is home….Fine, I will go get cleaned up. She better be worth it or I am kickin’ your ASS!!” I said.

Chris and I went into the house; he was going to wait in my room while I showered. That is, he was until my Mom got a hold of him. “Christopher!!” My Mom said in her sternest mom voice, “What was that language I heard you using…” She went on as I turned on the shower, “Good, he is gonna get it, it serves him right.” I said under my breath.
I showered, shaved and got dressed in a pair of cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. When I got out to the living room, there was Chris, looking like a whipped puppy. My Mom had given it to him good; of course, dropping the f-bomb in front of her would be like him swearing in front of his own Mom, we had been best friends since kindergarten and were more like brothers than friends. Chris got up from the couch and followed me out the door.

“Dude, we have to take your car.” Chris said.

“What? You don’t have gas money again?” I said.

“No, I…I have gas money…” Chris said haltingly.

“You didn’t.” I said

“Well, dude, she is hot.” Chris stammered.

“You used my line about the car didn’t you. “ I said.

“Dude, she is hot, I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Chris said pleadingly.

“Alright, we will take my car, but you owe me.” I said.

It was the mid-eighties and arcades were everywhere. We normally hung out at Voyager III on the east side. Not today, Chris had us driving over to Tilt on the west side. A side of town that a couple Blue Collar kids should not be in, I wondered what the hell Chris was getting us into.

We got to the strip mall and parked in front of a bookstore, so the girl Chris was after would not see us getting out a Chevette right away. We entered the arcade, the first time I had ever been into this particular establishment. The first thing I noticed was that it was a lot classier than arcades on the east side. All along the top of the wall were custom neon signs for each game, the one that really stood out was the blue and yellow Pac-Man sign, it looked just like the game screen. The game room was dimly lit, not the total darkness I was used to in the arcades I hung out it in. There was even a snack bar in the back…I could only imagine what they charged for a soda in this place. Chris waved and said Hi to someone I could not see from my vantage point behind him. I looked around nervously and noticed that it seemed as if there was some sort of uniform in the place…khaki shorts and pastel colored polo shirts with the collars turned up. Man, were we ever in the wrong place.

“Jim, this is Sue, and this is her friend Valerie…” Chris may as well have been speaking Swahili at that point. All of my senses were overtaken by Valerie; her jade colored eyes, her scent, the way she flipped her blonde hair back before she offered me her hand to shake and her angelic voice, even twenty-five years later, thinking of that meeting still makes my heart skip a beat. As she reached out her hand, it was everything I could do not to trip over myself. Chris asked me for the keys to the “Vette”, I fumbled around for them in my pockets and dropped them as I handed them to him. Cris and Sue left Valarie and me alone, or as alone as you could be in a crowded arcade. At this point my brain felt like it had the consistency somewhere between cottage cheese and yogurt. What could I possibly have to say to a goddess among teenage boys.

Luckily, she went first, “Hey, want to play Galaga?”

Galaga, my favorite game, not only was she hot, she played Galaga.

I somehow engaged my brain to my mouth and said, “Sure.”

I didn’t dare say much more as I would, without a doubt, say something asinine to this vision of loveliness. She went first and died rather quickly, it was my turn, five levels and forty-thousand points later it was her turn again.

“Idiot, you should let her win.” I thought to myself.

After the game she said, “Wow you are really good.”

“Thanks.” I still could not trust my tongue to do my brain’s bidding so I limited myself to one-word answers.

“Could you show me how to play Galaga like you do?” She asked.

“Sure.” This would require more than one word at a time; I hoped my brain and tongue could get it together.

I popped a quarter in the machine and said, “The game has a pattern, you just have to learn the pattern and then make a pattern around that pattern. On this level you have to stay in the corners when the ships dive, and move to center when they are not diving…on the next le…” I felt her hand on my shoulder, her breath on my neck as she stood on a stool and peered over my shoulder…I never made it past the first level.

She looked at me laughed and then asked, “Do I make you nervous?”

“Uh-huh.” I mumbled, figuring I had blown it.

“I am just as nervous as you are.” She said.

At that point, I saw her as a human being and not the goddess I had placed upon a pedestal.
She then said, “When you touched my hand, I swear I felt a jolt of electricity go through me.”
“My heart skipped a beat when I saw you.” I said.

We were leaning towards each for a kiss when Chris came in and slapped me on the back and said, “DUDE! Let’s head over to the Chocolate Shoppe for Ice Cream.” I could have killed Chris on the spot. I was sure the evil look I gave him would kill him, but, he was either immune to the evil eye or he was oblivious to it. So the four of us piled into the Chevette and headed for Ice Cream.

Once at the Chocolate Shoppe we were able to talk, I learned her Dad was the State District Attorney and she went to the only private High School in the area. She was leaving for Princeton in the fall. I was embarrassed to tell her that my Dad worked in inedibles at the meat packing plant and that the only way I could go afford college was to go into the Army. She didn’t seem to care though.

We saw each other every day those last few weeks I was home. We were in love. The day I had to leave was the hardest day of my young life. At first, she wrote me every day, when she started school it dropped down to a letter or two a week, when I was shipped overseas, it was a letter every couple of weeks. After two years I came home on leave over Christmas, it was like we had never been apart, for that month we were inseparable and talked about our futures, ignoring the possibility of a future together, it was like each of us was avoiding the conversation we needed to have. I reported for duty at Ft. Campbell, Ky. After my leave, another two years to go before my tour was up and I could start college. The letters from Valerie slowed to a trickle, about one a month. Then, in June I received a “Dear John” letter, she had met someone else…the letter basically said, “he is here, you are not, have a nice life.” The last year and a half of my time was sheer hell. If I was not on duty, I was drinking…I had no interest in meeting anyone at that point, my heart would not let anyone close.

My enlistment ended and I went home, I had money for college and could start my life anew. When I got home I tried looking up some old friends, but they were all gone, they had moved away or had changed so much that I did not know them anymore, actually, it wasn’t them that had changed, it was me, I was mature beyond my years, they were still acting like they were in High School. I pulled the tarp off my car; my Dad said, “I turned her over for you once a week…she should start right up.”

I hopped in, started my car up, and just drove around town. I found myself in front of what used to be Tilt, now it was a furniture store.

“Nothing ever lasts.” I said to myself.

I got out of my car and walked past the furniture store to the bookstore. Once inside while perusing a book on motorcycles I heard a voice from what seemed to be a lifetime ago. It was Valerie. My heart skipped a beat…While she was waiting for the clerk to get the book she asked for; she looked around the store, our eyes met. At that point I think I experienced every emotion known to man, anger, hurt, sadness, love and betrayal…to name a few.

She ran across the store and hugged me, she said, “I am so sorry I hurt you, there was no one else. I was confused and scared, and instead of doing the right thing, I did the wrong thing. I hope you will find it in you to forgive me.”

Overwhelmed my emotions, I got down on one knee and asked, “Will you marry me.”

Now today, our kids laugh at me for lovingly maintaining a ’78 Chevy Chevette and they think it is even funnier that on every wedding anniversary their parents celebrate by visiting a furniture store a bookstore and an ice cream parlor….and every time I look in her eyes today, I feel my heart skip a beat…

Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

This is a work of fiction, none of the names are true, nor is any of this based on any real event.

Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over, using a cane and with what combat veterans describe as the thousand yard stare. A gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.

“How Many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was a finite answer, the true answer was too many. He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a flag out of his backpack and placing a flag in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were to young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all to young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.

“What a waste.” He exclaimed while shaking his head.

Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play taps, the mournful sound echoed across the landscape. The forlorn notes brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war. They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.

As he was reflecting on his past life a young man with close cropped hair, a muscular build and the thousand yard stare approached the old man.

“Hello sir, may I help you put those flags out?”

“Well, this is kind of a mission I promised myself I would complete for my fallen brothers. It is something I have done every year since 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete.”

“Sir, I have fallen brethren here as well, it would be an honor to help you.”

“Where and when did you serve son?”

“I was with the Bravo company 1/502nd Infantry Battalion, 101st Airborne Division, I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name son?”

“Troy Miller, sir.”

“Troy, I am Mike Samson, I was with the the 101st during WWII, I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”

“I was Corporal sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir, I was never anything more than a Private.”

The two of them soldiered on, placing a flag in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.

“What are your thoughts on war.” Asked the old man.

“My thoughts on war?” the young man said

“Yeah, what are your thoughts on war?”

“I feel that as a species we have great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live, like you and me, we don’t come home the same. We are broken, yet, we try to hide it as best we can. All the while the great leaders proclaim the young men are heros. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is groomed to go to war for men with big egos. There has to be a better way.”

“You are right on the money son. My only wish throughout my life is that we would someday stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”

The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.

“I have to get going.” Said the young man.

“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”

“I would love to, but I have to go.”

“All right, It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon, he then looked down at the marble headstone,

Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom

The old men wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “What a waste.”

For my Mom

Not the story I had hoped to post....maybe later.

Mom,
Today is my first Mother’s day without you. I am finding it far harder to get through this day than I thought I would. Today I planted a rosebush for you in your honor in my front flowerbed. Everyone will see it when they come up to my front door. I know you will would have loved it. You always did love roses.

As I think of this day and the forty-two Mother’s days we shared together, I cannot think of a single one that stands out more than another. I can remember Dad taking me to Steven’s House of Gifts to get a Mother’s day gift for you. I think we went there every year together until they closed. Even as a teenager Dad would tell me before we went into the store that I could not touch anything in there. Every year we got you bell for Mother’s day...and every year you would act surprised. Even though you knew exactly what you were getting; Dad and I were creatures of habit and always got you the same thing for Mother’s day.

As I was planting my garden today I thought of you often and how much you loved gardening. How you taught me how to garden. It seemed odd planting it this year without asking you what you thought I should plant. I hope I did OK with it. I still remember you working in your garden at the house on Jacobson. You would have one of the neighbors come over with a rototiller every year. One half would be flowers and the other vegetables. You always planted enough to be able to can your own. Something I hope to do this year. I can see you standing up in the flower bed, wiping your forehead after pulling weeds and little Brad Wallom coming over and counting your toes...he could never quite figure out why you only had eight and he had ten.

I can remember all the times I came home from after being bullied and tortured and you were always there for me...you did not know it at the time but the phrase you used to say to make me feel better actually made the pain worse. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I may as well go eat worms.” I know you thought you were being funny and you were trying to cheer me up...but Mom, I don’t think you or Dad ever really did understand what I was going through. I forgive you for it...you could not possibly have known the torture and pain I was going through...I don’t think anyone really did.

One of the memories that has stuck with me the most over the years Mom was when you were sick and in the hospital. You got to come home on weekends, oh how I cried when we had to take you back there...it must have torn you apart to leave me sitting in the car crying while Dad took you to the psychiatric ward...I still shocks me to this day that children were not allowed to visit. There was one time in particular that sticks out in my head. Dad and I went to get you to bring you home for the weekend I was maybe all of five. Dad had to leave me in the car to go up and get you. Oh I cried and cried the whole time Dad was gone...and then you came down with a gift for me. A book called “Fraidy Cat” you had just found out that I had learned how to read while you were in the hospital...and you wanted me to read it to you when we got home. I still have that book Mom...and I still treasure it. It was the first book I ever read to you.

As I write this Mom, the tears are streaming down my face and I realize that I did not cry for you when you passed away. I don’t know why...I do not know if it was the shock of your death, the stress of watching you die, knowing that you were finally at peace and no longer in pain...or that I was so concerned that I would break down while reading your eulogy...I do not know. I do know that today has brought back a flood of emotions...and tears. Mom, you are missed. Today just did not seem right without bringing you flowers and a funny card...and having you make a big fuss about them...even though you knew that is what I was going to bring you...being a creature of habit and all.

I love you Mom.
Mark

I will post more soon...

I am getting towards the end of the semester and am writing papers on Political Rhetoric and working on a research project on end-wser documentation...so not a lot of time to write fiction right now...I am planning on writing a story about the death of a parent, something I recently went through.

Nuts!

This was written at the request of friend of mine...he wanted a story about a dog being neutered...from the dogs perspective...here you go Tom, enjoy.

Nuts! - By Mark Andersen

It was the first really nice day of spring when my best friend called me and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I just about jumped through my skin when he asked. It had been a long winter and I had cabin fever really bad and I could not wait to go out for a ride. I hopped into his car and off we went. The smells of spring were so strong in the air that it was all I could do not to hang my head out of the window and suck them all in.

We drove all over the countryside; there were Robins singing and crocuses blooming everywhere. The grass was just beginning to turn green, the buds on the trees looked like they were ready to burst open and the last of snow piles were melting. It was a sure sign of spring when we saw that the A&W drive-in was open, we pulled in and the teen-aged carhop took our order. There is just something about eating a bacon cheeseburger outside that just makes it taste better.

After lunch we headed back to town, my friend mentioned he had to stop somewhere first. I didn’t mind, it meant a little bit longer outside on this beautiful day. My friend pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript building, I could hear a lot of yelling in the building but could not make out what was being said. I was worried about my friend going into this place. The he said, “C’mon, let’s go, we need to see someone here.”

I was puzzled; I normally never got out of the car and went into a place with my friend. But, if he wanted me to go in who was I to argue with him. He is my best friend and he would never steer me wrong. I leapt out of the car and looked back at him and said, “Well , what are you waiting for.”

Once inside the yelling grew louder; however, I could still not distinguish what they were saying. My friend said he was here for our appointment. Just as I was going to ask him what he meant by “Our appointment” the young lady behind the counter said,

“Right this way sir.”

She directed us to a small room with an exam table in it. “Why is he taking me to a doctor’s office?” I thought to myself. I figured he would tell me soon. Maybe he just needed moral support for a procedure and he was embarrassed to tell me about it. I was just going to ask him when a young man in a white lab coat entered the room. He looked at me and asked my friend if “I was the one.” The one what? What did he mean by that? I tried to ask what was going on, but they just ignored me. My friend said,

“Yes, he is the one. How much longer before you start the procedure?”

“Procedure!” I screamed, “What procedure!?”

My friend looked at me and said, “Quiet, you know better.”

I started looking around the room, looking for a way out. There wasn’t one. There was only one door and no windows. My friend was also holding me so I could not move. I could not even wriggle free of his grasp. What could he be doing to me, and why. Then the door opened, it was my chance for escape. I tried with all my might and I exploded out of my friends grasp. Only to be stopped by the young man in the white lab coat.

The young man asked my friend to help him put me up on the table. Once I was on the table he pulled out a syringe with some kind of fluid in it. He asked my friend to hold me down. I was panicking I did not know what was happening, there was nothing I could do. The young man in the lab coat stuck me with the needle, I howled in pain. I started to get sleepy. I struggled to keep my eyes open, it was no use. I could not stay awake.

I was really groggy and could barely open my eyes.

“How long had I been out.” I thought to myself.

I tried to open my eyes. Everything was fuzzy and out of focus. My mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. I felt awful. After about fifteen minutes the room started coming into focus. I could finally understand the yelling, they were warning me to run away. It was too late now. I could not run. I looked up and my friend was there, patting me on the head. I heard the young man in the lab coat say,

“This should calm him down, you will see a difference in his behavior and he will be less prone to wander off.”

My friend looked at me and said, “Its OK buddy, it was for your own good.”

I mustered up what strength I had and wagged my tail twice, and then licked my friends hand. All the while wondering what was done to me.

Later in the day when I woke up I realized what had been done, he had them cut my nuts off. How could he have done this to me? I will get him back though. He has to sleep sometime...and besides, he can't even lick his own nuts...so he doesn't really even need them.

Insignificant Event

Insignificant Event - By Mark Andersen

Jim Canton had come to see his son play running back in his first varsity game. He sat in the stands on that crisp October night, waiting for the game to start. While biding his time, he watched the marching band play and pom-pom girls warming up the home crowd before the game. The sights and sounds were so familiar to him that for a few moments he was transported back a generation, to a time when he played on this very field. A game that is forever burned into his consciousness even if no one else remembers the calamity that happened on the gridiron on a night eerily similar to this to this one.

He thought back to that game some twenty-five years ago, a pivotal event for his high school team that season, and for his own life. He was just a sophomore, not popular, but not an outcast either. He was one of the average teens in a school of about twelve hundred other teenagers. He played football, and as a mediocre punter, the chances of him moving to the Varsity team before his senior year were infinitesimal. Yet, he still participated in two-a-days in the summer, worked on his technique as a punter and enjoyed the camaraderie of being on a football team, even if he and the placekicker were ignored by their teammates.

The Junior Varsity team played games Friday afternoons after school. While the JV team was playing, the Varsity team would have a light practice, predominantly a stretching session, before the Friday night game, some of the skill positions would do a light workout to make sure they were sharp for that evening’s game, and it was a big game that night, East vs. their archrival, West. The city championship and a chance to go to State were on the line.

During the Varsity practice, a couple linebackers got a little aggressive when the punter was practicing, they tackled him just as he was punting the ball; they broke his leg in two places. Coach Nichols was pissed he stormed over to the adjacent field, like an infuriated hornet, where the JV team was playing.

“Al, I need a punter, who do you have for me that I can have now!” Coach Nichols said.

“Bill, I am in the middle of a game, can this wait?” Coach Nash said.

“Two chuckleheads that used to be my linebackers thought it would be funny to break my punter’s leg.” Coach Nichols said.

“Take Canton, he is my number one punter, I have a freshman backing him up so you can have him now if you really need him.” Said Coach Nash.

“Thanks, and I am sending you over a couple pinheaded linebackers, work ‘em hard for me.” Coach Nichols said.

“Canton, get yer ass over here!” Coach Nash yelled.

The young punter got up from his customary position on the bench and ran over to where the coaches were standing.

“Canton, you are moving up to Varsity, go with the Coach Nichols.”
“What about my uniform?” Jim asked.

“We ain’t got time to get you a Varsity uniform, the JV uniform is close enough and it will have to do.” Coach Nichols said.

Jim Canton had an ear-to-ear grin on his face as he ran on to the varsity field for the first time, running out with the rest of the team between the rows of cheerleaders, the cheering crowd, playing under the lights for the first time. It was an amazing feeling for him that brisk October night.

Jim watched the game from bench, as the game went back and forth; neither defense could stop the offense. It was going to be a long, high scoring game. A battle to the very end, not a punter’s game. At halftime Coach Nichols yelled and screamed, trying to motivate the team, Jim sat in the back of the locker room taking it all in, not paying attention because he knew his chances of getting in the game were slim.

Late in the fourth quarter, East’s defense stopped West’s offense; the Regents punted the ball away and the Purgolder’s got the ball their own one-yard line. The game was tied up with three minutes to go. The first play was a hand-off to the all-state fullback. The fullback exploded eleven yards and a new set of downs. First and ten on the Purgolder’s own eleven-yard line. The quarterback dropped back in the pocket and tossed a pass thirty yards down the sideline to a tall and lean wide receiver. First and ten on the forty-one, at this rate the young punter did not think his services would be needed, all the Purgolder’s needed to do was use the clock well, and then a field goal. The game would be over, without a single punt.

Then the exchange between the quarterback and the center was bobbled; it was all the quarterback could do to fall on the ball. Second and twelve yards to go, the quarterback handed the ball off to the fullback, who ran a draw up the two hole. The fullback was stuffed at the line of scrimmage, third and a long twelve to go. The quarterback got into the shotgun position,

“READY! BLUE, BLUE, 43!” Shouted the quarterback,

“SET!”

“HUT!”

The center snapped the ball; the quarterback dropped back two steps, he looked left, then he glanced to the right, out of the corner of his eye he saw the tight end break free. Just as he threw the ball a defensive end pummeled him. His pass fell five yards short.

“Canton!” yelled Coach Nichols.

Jim ran over to the coach, as he did he felt his stomach go into his throat. He was going into his first varsity game.

“Yeah Coach.” He said he said nervously.

“Canton, get in there and kick me a good punt, call max protect, we can’t afford to have this punt blocked. We need to get them pushed back so we can get this thing into overtime; GOT IT!” Coach Nichols shouted as he held Jim’s facemask.

“Got it Coach!” Jim yelled back

Jim ran onto the field and into the huddle, nervously he called out the play, “Max protect, on two.”

“READY BREAK!” Cried out the rest of the huddle.

The team lined up, Canton was lined up fourteen yards behind center; he did a quick count of men on the field. “Eleven, good.” He said to himself, he felt the bile crawl up his throat, he ran through what he needed to do in his head,

“Catch the ball, take two steps covering four yards, kick the ball, and run down field.” All the while hoping his one hundred twenty five pound frame did not have to tackle anyone.

“READY” Jim yelled out

“SET”

“HUT ONE….HUT TWO!”

The snap came to Canton, he took three steps…he immediately knew he was in the wrong position. Off balance he went made the kick, the leather hit his foot the wrong way, it went straight up, arced backwards, and fell to the earth twenty yards behind him. At that instant, he wanted to crawl off the field, hoping no one noticed what he had done. Around him was mass confusion, East players were running downfield to where the pigskin should have been, half the West players were trying to block the East players from running downfield, a lone West lineman saw where it went, he ran to the ball; picked it up, and ran it in for a touchdown.

Jim looked over to the sidelines, the coach was livid, Jim ran off the field, he tried to avoid Coach Nichols; he failed in that endeavor, “You little PRICK!” Coach Nichols yelled as he grabbed Jim’s facemask. “Get the fuck off my goddamned football field!”
Jim ran off the field, he was too disheartened to lament…he just wanted to get the hell out there. He ran to the JV locker room, he changed as quickly as he could, not even bothering to shower. His insides were tied in knots, he felt like an insignificant microscopic piece of excrement. He had let his team down, his school down and worst of all he had let himself down. If he could have crawled under the turf and pulled it over him, he would have.

Jim dreaded going back to school on Monday. He knew he was going to be taunted and teased. He was the goat; he cost East High School the city championship and a chance for the state title. He wondered if he could transfer to a different school, which was the only way he could foresee that this event would pass by.

Once at school he tried to keep a low profile, he did not go to shithead wall where he hung out. Nor did he go the cafeteria for a cinnamon roll; instead, he went to the library and hid away amongst the tomes that told of bravery and cowardice. The first bell rang and he headed to class, a class that many of his varsity teammates were enrolled in, how he dreaded going to class. When he entered he expected to be jeered and mocked, he was puzzled when he was greeted as he normally was.

Sitting in the cafeteria for lunch, he heard the discussion of several students and
players.

“Who punted for us?”

“I dunno, some freshman I guess.”

“Well, if I ever find out who he is, I am gonna kick his ass.”

“Well, he was wearing a JV jersey, and had his helmet on the whole game. No name on the jersey and I never did see his face.”

Jim decided it would be wise not to say anything, but he knew he could never go back to playing football. While the team practiced, he took his pads and uniform down to Coach Nash's office and left them there. He left a note saying that his grades were falling and he needed to work on his academics. None of his teammates questioned him about his quitting, mainly because they did not know he was on the team. He was the punter; no one paid attention to him.

Sitting in the stands now twenty-five years later, he saw a young man line up behind center; take the wrong number of steps, and have the ball go sailing behind him. The youthful punter ran off the field his head hung low, knowing that he had cost East the game. Jim leapt out of his seat, and rushed down to the locker rooms, outside he saw a teenager in pads and helmet, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jim walked up to him and said,

“Son, don’t worry…no one will remember what just happened.”

“Huh? What do mean?” The young punter said.

“You are the nameless punter, no one, and I mean no one, will remember your name on Monday morning.” Jim said.

“I am not sure I follow you.” Said the punter.

“Twenty-five years ago, I was on that very same field, I lost the city championship, because I did the same thing you just did. I wanted the world to swallow me. And you know what, when I did go back to school on Monday…no one knew that I was the punter.” Jim said.

The young man looked at Jim, shook his head, and said,

“Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I hope you are right Thanks.”

Jim went back up the stands and sat there, wondering how if his life would have turned out differently if he had made that punt. It was then that he realized that even if he had made the punt no one would have known he kicked the ball. He smiled to himself. They started shutting the lights off in the stadium; Jim took that as his queue to leave, he realized, that after twenty-five years, that one event, was not as important as he had thought it was, in fact he realized it was an insignificant event in his otherwise eventful life.

Play Ball

This story is based on memories I had of growing up in a family full of WWII veterans, and how differently I was treated after serving in the Army.

Play Ball – by Mark Andersen

The family reunion, a once a year event in the small Midwestern town where Jim’s grandparents had settled, an event where distant relatives came together to celebrate nothing more than being members of the same clan. Every year glasses were raised to toast those who had passed away, and glasses were again raised to welcome the newest additions to the tribe.

The gathering was at the same park every year; one would find the park hidden away in small forest just on the edge of town. A narrow one-lane gravel road led up to main shelter house. The building was in reality an old barn from the failed farm that was on this site. There was a plaque on the outside wall of the old cowshed thanking the Dickenson clan for nobly donating the land to the city for a park; the reality was that Jim’s grandfather gave up the land to pay back taxes on the farm some fifty years ago. Jim guessed the city fathers felt guilty forty years later when they turned the family homestead into a park.

In the shelter house, there were several picnic tables setup in rows. In the center four tables were lined up end-to-end that were to be filled with food, at the end of this row of tables was a stack of plastic cups, next to the plastic cups in a large blue bucket of ice was half-barrel of beer. As the families arrived, the tables filled with food. Brothers, sisters, and cousins hugged and exchanged pleasantries. The younger children ran over to the nearby baseball diamond to play a pickup game.

As the day wore on and after the meal was eaten, the women gravitated to one side of the outbuilding, while the men gravitated to another side, oddly enough, the half-barrel of beer gravitated to the side of the shelter house where the men were. There was an unwritten rule that children were not allowed on the men’s side of the building. Jim would often sneak as close as he could to listen to his uncles talk; they had amazing stories of war and its glories.

Many of Jim’s uncles were WWII veterans men that to Jim were bigger than life. Men whom Jim wanted to emulate. The regaled themselves with stories of a war that had ended some 40 years before. They all knew everything there was to know about each other’s exploits. Yet, each year they asked the same questions of each other and told the same stories. Two uncles stayed silent, year after year, the wartime trauma still fresh in their minds so many years later.

“Where were you stationed John” he heard his Uncle Kevin ask of his Dad. “I was on the USS Enterprise.”

“Oh Yeah, that’s right, I don’t know how you could go to sea…no place to dig a goddamned foxhole.”

“Like you have room to talk, you were in a bomber over Germany”

“I flew fighters, don’t you dare compare me to one of those goddamned bomber jocks.”

“Pete, tell that story again about how you caught those two krauts taken a shit and you captured ‘em”

“Y’all have heard that one a thousand times, and I don’t know if I can bullshit my way through it the same way anymore”

“Carl, where were you stationed again” his dad asked turning his attention to his brother-in-law.

“John, you damn well know I didn’t go.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, what was it again, flat feet?” Jim’s dad said as Carl got up and walked away, while all of the veterans at the table laughed amongst themselves.

Jim’s father and Uncles held those that had not served on low regard. As the beer flowed, they were not afraid to hold the non-veterans in contempt, even if they were family. Through it all, two of Jim’s Uncles sat drinking their beer in silence. No one asked questions of them, no one bothered them about serving or not serving. Jim knew that his Uncle Robin had been in the Army during the war, but that was about it; Uncle Robin never discussed the war. He was not sure about his Uncle Harry. He thought his cousin Will had said something about him being a paratrooper, but that was about all he had been able to find out.

As the years went by, Jim grew from a child into a man, when he graduated from High School, he wanted nothing more than to join the Army and be like his father and uncles. Serve his country, go to war, become a hero and tell glorious tales. The day before his induction into the army, his Uncles who had served came to town to wish him luck. Absent were Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry.

When Jim arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia for basic training he was no longer Jim Dickenson, he was now Dickenson. He had learned to answer to maggot or any one of a thousand names the drill instructors could come up with to demean him. It was late March; the days were long and physically and mentally punishing. After what seemed like years and tens of thousands of push-ups, sit-ups and miles run, basic training was over. It was time for his advanced training.

Advanced training was really just an extension of basic, he had the same malevolent drill sergeants, the same barracks, the only difference, it was now late May, and the coolness of late spring had given way to the brutal heat of a Georgia summer. In his advanced training, he learned how to kill his fellow man in a much more efficient manner. He played war, honing his skills; he had become adept at his chosen profession. His next step was airborne school; he was going to become a paratrooper.

For Airborne school he moved across post, over by the two hundred foot towers. Just looking at them gave him an adrenaline rush. First ground week, then tower week and finally jump week. Each week was more mentally and physically punishing than the last. The blackhats made the immorality of his drill sergeants a pleasant memory; they were relentless, pushing him right up to the point of breakdown each day. The three weeks of Airborne school seemed to last forever, just as it seemed it would never end Jim completed his fifth jump. His Dad came down to witness his final jump and to pin Jim’s wings on his chest, he was not sure who was more proud, him or his Dad.

It was August; it was finally time to home on leave. He could not go home with his father, as Jim had to wait for his orders. A week after his graduation Jim received his personnel folder; he could not believe his eyes, the 101st Airborne Division, 1/502 Infantry. The famed 101st Airborne…he never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would be assigned to the most famous division in the army.
As he was reading his orders, CNN blared in the background, “Today, Saddam Hussein sent the Iraqi Army into Kuwait…”

His flight from Atlanta finally landed in his hometown; his parents greeted him at the airport. As they drove up to his childhood home there was a banner across the front of the house welcoming him home. Aunts, uncles and cousins came to see him. His uncles Robin and Harry were there…both with a distressed look on their faces. As the celebration wore on Jim had a rare moment alone, when his Uncle Harry walked up to him. His uncle looked at him, in his dress greens, his eyes fell on the patch on his left shoulder.

“101st, that is a good unit.” His uncle paused

“I was with ‘em from ’43 to ’45.”

“You were? I have never heard you talk about it before”

“Some things, cannot be put into words that people who were not there or were not a part of it would understand. And some things, you never want to relive, even though the things you saw and did torment you every single day of your life.”

Jim nodded, not wanting to say anything that would stop his uncle from opening up.

“You, you are now a part of the brotherhood, however, you do not yet have the scars to know the words. I hope this thing in the Middle East is over before you are traumatized the way your Uncle Robin and I have been. We have enough mental wounds to last this family for several lifetimes.”

Those words kept going through his head, what had his Uncle Harry meant. Jim had no idea. It was midnight when Jim arrived at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. He reported to the 20th replacement depot where he went through his in processing, after a week he finally got to his unit and immediately started to prepare for deployment; they were going to Saudi Arabia.

Once in the Saudi Arabian desert, the hours turned to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, where the only war fought was against boredom…then the air war started…he could feel an anxious fear welling up inside him. Then, the ground war opened up. Jim saw and did things, he did not understand, nor could he comprehend. He saw his friends die. He killed the enemy. The enemy almost killed him. His world centered on him, his rifle, and the guys to the left and right of him. Then, as fast as it had started, it was over. It was all a blur to him, images that he could not get out of his head, sights, sounds and smells that came to him in his sleep, tormenting him. He thought to himself,

“My god, what have I done, please forgive me.”

When Jim came home from the war, it was time for the annual family reunion. The number of uncles who had gone to war in the 40’s was dwindling; however, the core group was still alive and as the day wore on they gravitated to the one side of the shelter house, still telling the same stories from a lifetime ago. This time, there was new member in their midst. Jim sat quietly, drinking his beer, sitting next to Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry. Jim said nothing, but he now understood his Uncle Harry’s words. He now bore the same mental wounds as he did. He wondered to himself,

“If only my Dad and uncles knew the true cost of human conflict…if only they knew the absolute madness of man killing his fellow man…they would not be glorifying war.”

He now realized why his Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry never spoke of their time in combat. They knew the boys were listening, and they did not want to glorify warfare. They knew the only way to stop the madness, was to stop glorifying man’s foolish crusades. If young men did not have an idealized, sanitized, John Wayne, Hollywood picture of battle, maybe then the madness could end. Jim stood up and walked out to where he knew his younger cousins were hiding and listening.

“Hey, get your gloves and that bat I saw y’all playing with earlier. Let’s play some ball.”

Missy's Story

There is a little bit of truth to this story...A woman who I re-connected with on facebook recently is the basis for the little girl. We were in grade school and high school together, and she always had Twinkies and would not share them. One day on facebook she had posted a status update that said "Someone tell me a story." So I wrote this for her in about ten minutes. It is short, and I see potential for it to be a longer story.

Missy’s Story - By Mark Andersen

A long, long time ago, a little girl always had Twinkies in her lunch box. A little boy who never got Twinkies coveted those golden spongy cakes. He tried everything to get them from her. He tried trading her his Bologna and ketchup sandwich, at which she turned up her nose. He offered to push her on the swings at recess, she accepted, he pushed, and still never got even a whiff of one of those cream filled delights. He carried her books home for her, and yet never got anything more than a kiss on the cheek, being nine, he would have rather had that wondrous delight from Hostess.

The school year ended, and he never did get a snack cake from the little girl. The next year school started and the little girl was not there. He was heartbroken he had no chance of getting a one now. Just then, his teacher called his name and asked him to come up to the front of the room. His teacher handed him a box of Twinkies, with a note from the little girls mother. Thanking him for being her friend in the last days of her life, and how she made her Mom promise to give a box of Twinkies to the little boy because she felt so bad for not giving him one. The little boy opened the box, and with a tear in his eye gave one to each his classmates, he would never eat a Twinkie again.

Bottom of a glass

This started out as a couple paragraphs a year or so ago. I modified the story several times and ended up with two endings, I am not sure which one I like best. Please let me know your thoughts.

Bottom of a glass - By Mark Andersen

My day of searching for work, any work was finally over; I could finally stop for a desperately needed drink. I had been lucky enough to make a few bucks cleaning an old woman’s gutters today, so I could afford to stop and quell the tremors that were going through my body. I walked into the parking lot of a non-descript building. The only way you knew the place was a tavern was the neon signs in the dirty windows.

I opened the door and the bar patrons squinted in the light of the open door; I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. As I waited for the bartender, I looked around the darkened room. Salesmen were plying their clients with drink to get them to buy more. The lonely woman, whose flower had faded, was clutching the drunken younger man for her shot at feeling fresh and young once again. The younger man she was holding was looking through drunken eyes at a youthful beauty, not a faded flower. Then there was the barfly, who has nowhere else to go, striking up a conversation with anyone about anything, just to tamp down the feelings of loneliness he felt.

It seemed like no matter where I went to escape the rigors of everyday life, these same people were always there. The faces were different; however, they were the same clientele. It did not matter if I went to an upscale bistro, or the lowest dive bar. They were always the same. In some ways, I felt indifferent to the defeated inebriates in the taproom, feeling neither joy nor sorrow for their plights. On occasion I may feel as if I should stand up and shout to the regulars that there is more to life than sitting in a tavern...but then again, who was I to talk...I was also sitting on a stool in a saloon. The bartender, a gruff looking middle-aged man who looked like he had been a boxer in a former life walked up to me and said, “What’ll it be Mac?”

My body shuddered in anticipation of the elixir I would soon be drinking; it was all I could do not to shout out, “Give me a Fucking beer NOW!” instead, in a low calm voice I asked,

“What do you have on tap?” I asked

“Bud, Miller and Schlitz.”

None of those sounded appealing to me, I was hoping for a local craft beer…but in my desperation, I would settle for the leavings at the bottom of the keg.

“Give me a Schlitz.” I said with an edge to my voice.

The bartender brought me a pilsner glass, a tall, slender, tapered 12-ounce trumpet shaped schooner, inside that vessel, a golden colored brew. Like a Pavlovian dog, my mouth watered at the sight of it, perfectly poured with a white foam head. I took a sip, it hit the spot, the shakes would soon stop.

I was not always a drunk spending my last dime on beer; I used to rush home from a high paying job every night to my wife and children. That all changed about six months ago when I came home from work and found an empty house. Nothing but a note lying in the middle of the living room floor, a note that left more questions than answers, the note simply said, “I am leaving you.” I have not heard from her or my children since that day. I called the police; they said they could not force her to talk to me. My lawyer said that it will take time but he will eventually get me some kind of custody agreement. Not sure why I want custody anymore…I do not want my kids to see me as a broken man who can only find joy at the bottom of a glass. I did track down her mother one day to see if she would talk to me. She just looked at me as if I was some kind of monster. I wish I knew what I had done, what I had said to lose everything that was important to me in my life.

I counted the money in my pocket; I had earned fifty dollars today, at four bucks a beer that bought me twelve beers and left me enough to leave a tip. It would be cheaper for me to buy a case at the grocery store, but going to that crappy apartment to drink it alone was even more depressing than drinking it here. The only thing she left me was my clothes. She even took the nails out of the walls that once held the family photos, it only took me a couple months to lose that cold empty house, not that I cared anymore, the bank could have it back, it was nothing more than an empty shell, much like me. At least, in my mind, I could justify my drinking; it was the only thing that would put me to sleep on the filthy carpet in my apartment; alcohol was the only way I could find peace in my life.

My glass was empty, the bartender who was still there asked, “Want another?”

“Yea, I will have another.”

“You drank that first one kinda fast, everything alright?” The bartender asked.

“Yea, everything is alright, just thirsty.” I replied.

“Alright Mac, slow it down though.”

“Alright.” I said, my mouth already watering for another beer.

The bartender set the glass in front of me; I counted out eight singles and paid for the beer. I drank slower this time, savoring the flavor as the amber liquid slid down my throat. My shakes had stopped; I was beginning to feel normal again. Funny, the closer I got to being in an altered state, the closer I felt to being normal.

I was about to order another when she came in and sat beside me…I smelled her perfume first, it was an aroma that did not belong here, a sweet lilac smell that was out of place in a locale that smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Not only was her scent out of place, she was out of place in this hole in the wall dive bar. She was a petite thing, barely coming up to my shoulder. Blonde hair and blue eyes as well as a style that said she did not belong here.

She asked the bartender, “Can I use your phone.”

“Phone is for payin’ customers.” He replied.

She looked close to tears…

“She is with me, let her use the phone.” I said.

“Thank you sir.” She said.

The bartender handed her the phone, she made a call and then hung up without a word.

“No one answered.” She said.

“You look outta place here, is there something I can help you with.” I said.

“I have a flat…I tried calling my Dad to change it, but he never turns on his cell phone.” She said.

“Why, don’t I go out and take a look at it.” I said.

“No, I couldn’t impose. I will just keep trying; he is bound to turn on his phone.”

“Look, I am just having a beer; it won’t take me but a minute to look at it.”

“Ok, I really would appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

I followed her out of the bar, watching he glide across the floor with confidence. For the first time in months, I was actually interested in something, someone other than me. She looked back at me, flicked her hair and smiled at me.

We walked across the parking lot when she said,
“It’s the red one over there.”

We walked over to her car, a newer model Toyota. I could see right away her tire need to changed, she must have driven it flat, the tire was in shreds around the rim, there was no way that tire was being patched.

“Can you pop the trunk so I can get the jack and spare.” I asked.

“Sure.” She said.

I pulled the spare and jack out of the trunk, then walked around the front of the car and loosened the lug nuts, then put the jack under the car. The wheel came up off the ground; I took the lug nuts off the wheel and pulled what was left of the tire off the car. I put the spare on and tightened the lug nuts then lowered the car.

She smiled and twirled her hair around her finger and asked,
“Can I buy you a beer for helping a damsel in distress.”

“No, but I would love to have a cup of coffee with you.” I said.

“I would love that.” She said.


Ending One

I got in the car with her, wondering just what in the hell I was doing. The tremors started a block away from the bar. While she was filling the car with small talk, it was all I could do to nod and say “Uh-Huh.” By the time we got to Starbucks I was visibly shaking from the lack of alcohol.

“Are you Ok.” She asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a reaction to a medicine I have to take.” I said.
Once in the coffee shop the palpitations become stronger, it was as if my body was screaming for demon alcohol. I could barely comprehend what she was saying, let alone respond to her flirtations. It felt as if water was streaming out of my pores as I was sweating so much.

“Are you married or do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.

“I…I am going through a divorce.” I rasped.

“L…L…Look, I have to go, I don’t belong here with you, I…I…Have to go.” I continued.

“Why? I would like to get to know you.” She said.

“L…L…Look, I am no good for you, I am no good for anyone.” I said as I staggered up into a standing position.

“Wait.” She said as I turned around and walked out of Starbucks.

I walked back to the characterless building I had come from; I sidled back in, sitting in the same bar stool. I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a Schlitz, as I drank, the tremors slowed and stopped. I felt at ease. I crawled into the bottom of my glass and a sense of peace came over me. Even though I knew the torment would be back tomorrow morning, at least for now, I was oblivious to the world.

Alternate Ending

I don’t know what came over me at that point…I don’t know if it was her come hither smile, or the way she was flicking her hair. Something in me just snapped. She had become the embodiment of everything that had gone wrong in my life. I swung the tire tool at her head; I made contact, like a batter hitting a home run. Blood sprayed everywhere. I kept hitting her, until her lifeless body lie crumpled on the ground.
I walked back into the bar, covered in blood, tire tool still in my hand. The bartender yelled out,

“God in heaven what have you done?”

“Just get me a fuckin’ beer.” I said in a low growl

“I don’t want any trouble, here ya go.” The bartender said as set a beer down in front of me.

“Call the cops; tell ‘em there was a murder out front.”

The police arrived a few minutes later, the bartender pointed me out…like the cops couldn’t tell it was me who did it…I just sat at the bar drinking my beer.

“Sir, turn around and put your hands up.” The cop said with authority.

“Nah, I am going to finish my beer, then, I will go quietly.” I replied.

“Sir, if you do not comply we will use force.” The cop said.

I stood up, grabbed the tire tool.

“I just want to finish my fucking beer.” I said in low animal like growl

I took a step towards the cop, raising the tire tool above my head to strike him….

That was the last thing I remember. Now, looking down on the white sheet that covers my body, I realize the horror of what I have done, I not only destroyed my life. I destroyed the life of a young woman, her family and my children. The choices I have made will leave them with no tranquility in their lives, and I will have no peace where I am going.

Hello and welcome to my Blog

I have been writing short stories on and off for most of my life. As I became more confident in my writing skills I began to post my short stories on facebook for my friends to read. Now, I am looking for a wider audience. I look forward to sharing my stories with you.