First fiction piece: The Shell Station on Highway 41

The Shell Station on Highway 41

Maddie sat in the hot car with the windows up watching the guy next to her tend to his Harley. He had filled the tank, made sure it didn't drip, wiped the cap and replaced it, folded and stowed the rag, checked to be sure his bag was bungeed, zipped up his windbreaker, climbed on, balanced the cycle with his legs and was donning his gloves, pushing each finger in mindfully.

Donnie was in the convenience store paying for gas for the poor car. He was no doubt buying another eight-pack, too, and their cans would soon join the empties and other trash littering the floorboards, front and back. Even the back seat was cluttered. He had taken the keys so she couldn’t listen to the radio, much less open the windows. Such an asshole.

Maddie opened the door and stepped out into the noise and confusion that was a holiday weekend at the biggest gas station in town. Bells dinging, engines running; eight bays and all of them with cars and trucks being filled. It was going to be a hot one, and the cold blue waters of three different springs beckoned.

All she had with her was her driver license and a little cash: fourteen dollars and some change. She walked up to the Harley and caught the driver’s attention. He looked at her with a question in his light blue eyes. It wasn’t an unkind look at all, just curious.

“Can I come with you?” she asked. What the heck was she doing?

He paused and searched her face. What he saw there must’ve convinced him, because he smiled. It was the sweetest thing she had seen in ages.  

“Sure,” was all he said, and he reached into the saddle bag and handed her a helmet and a windbreaker like his, only smaller. She put both on as he stepped down on the starter. The machine came to life with a smooth rumble. He settled into the seat, nodded and she climbed up behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle. He was small, probably no more than 5’6” and thin, but she could feel his muscles moving as its owner guided the motorcycle effortlessly onto the highway headed south. They took off. She laid her head on his back and let herself cry.

***

Dave knew his mother was going to have a fit when he showed up with a girl—one he knew nothing about. Hell, not even her name. He’d been divorced for three years now, and it had been at least that long since he’d been home. He was only going there now because his brother insisted. “You better come now or it might be too late,” Mark had said. Maybe just trying to scare him, maybe hoping to borrow some money, knowing Dave wouldn’t say no face-to-face. Not to his little brother.

But, forget his brother. What was the girl’s story? And why him? Dave had seen the car parked beside him. Nineteen-eighty-eight Mustang convertible. It was a mess. A pretty cool car underneath all the neglect—even a good washing would have helped, but it needed more TLC than that.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the passenger until she stepped out of the car. She looked to have been neglected, too, what with her wrinkled, soiled clothes and scuffed up sneakers. Even so, there was something in that look, staring at him with those eyes. Eyes a guy could drown in.

Maybe that explained why Dave said “Sure." Nothing else did. Was she being abused? Did she need help? Or, was she going to murder him some miles down the road when they had to stop to sleep? Hell, she didn’t even know how far he was going. She might want off way before Key West, so no need to worry about Mom’s reaction. The surprise passenger would surely be long gone by then.

Maybe just a ride out of there was all she wanted. Possibly some cash. No sense in trying to know what couldn’t be known. Never had much success figuring out people’s motivations anyways. Sometimes even they didn’t know why they did what they did. Like himself. Like right now.

*** 

The weather report had promised rain, desperately needed. They'd promised it before and been wrong, but they were right this time. It started with a sprinkle, then increased to a solid, diving rain. No sense in pressing on. She had to be wet to the bone with just his ex-wife’s windbreaker covering that thin cotton blouse and her torn jeans. Dave wasn’t doing much better. The all-weather gear was tucked safely in plastic zip-locks in the saddle bags, and he had started to shiver.

He pulled off the road into what looked like an ancient motel—little yellow cottages in a semi-circle, four of them. There was a lighted sign that no doubt said vacancy, but so many of the letters were missing, it just boasted “can y.” He rolled under the overhang in front of a door labeled office and shut down the beast.

They both got off, and even though he’d felt the girl’s presence for the last seventy miles, it was the first time since she walked up to him, asking to come along, that he saw her face. Poor kid looked scared. Probably having second thoughts—thoughts like maybe he was going to kill her instead of the other way around.

 “Listen, I’m not...” He started.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

She sighed and looked down as if gathering some information from the stones on the ground. “I just know.”

It looked like that was going to be the sum total of her communication, but then she looked up. “I watched you.” Her gaze was intense.

“When?”

“While you were getting ready to take off. You’re careful and a little bit fussy. You want everything to be just right, and you make sure it is. You take care with things. I saw how you looked at Donnie’s car, too. I could see that you felt sorry for it, and you were right. He never took care of anything. Not like you do.”

“You do know that doesn’t clear me as a potential serial killer, don’t you? I heard Ted Bundy was pretty fussy, too, but he was a bad dude.”

Then she smiled. “Maddie,” she said, and stuck out her hand.

He pulled off his glove. “Dave. Pleased to meet you.”

*** 

That was their story, and they never deviated from the script. Not one word of it. Their kids had asked them to tell it nearly every year on anniversaries—twenty first this year. Their daughter, the youngest, or sometimes one of the boys, had earlier pressed for more details, like did they make it to Key West, was his mother really sick then, did Uncle Mark want to borrow money, stuff like that. None of it mattered, but they told it anyway.

They made it to Key West. They took their time. By then she knew just how to make him laugh—and blush—and he knew he was never going to let her get away. He introduced her as his fiancée, and his mother who was nowhere near dying was thrilled. In fact, Momma stayed alive long enough for all three of her grandkids to know her and call her Nana. By the time she passed, both boys were taller than Dave, no huge feat, and their baby girl was in fifth grade.

His brother Mark did want money, and Dave gave it to him and never saw a dime of it back, but Maddie said it had been a gift all along. Uncle Mark was godfather to their first born, and by then he was married for the third time. That wife managed to last the longest. Mark told them not everyone could find the love of their life—in a gas station or anywhere else.

Donnie the asshole was never seen again, even though Maddie and Dave went back to North Florida and settled on Dave’s fifteen acres. They often got gas at that same station and both of them wondered if they might see the guy. Dave wanted to buy his Mustang, and Maddie thought she maybe owed him an explanation. What had Donnie thought when he came back and she wasn’t there?

When the story got told, Dave and Maddie always warned the kids that no one on God’s earth should ever, ever, do what their mother had done. Or their father either for that matter. It was foolish and dangerous and could have ended very differently. Very differently indeed. Still, the kids couldn't miss the look their parents gave each other every time they told it.

The End

2019 Decision

I think I'm going to start posting some (maybe all) of my short stories here. I may or may not ever see them in print, but at least here my friends and visitors to my blog can read them if they like. I'll still add my pithy comments and complaints and essays from time to time, but if you're not interested you can skip them. I'll identify the stories as fiction and pick one today to post. If you read anything here, let me know, please. It keeps me going.

Happiness is Overrated

I read a letter to an advice columnist from a guy named Jamie. He had decided he needed to jettison some friends from his life – friends who weren’t making him happy. It made me think, and of course thinking makes me write. 

Oh, Jamie, 32 years old and deciding that happiness is the most important thing and that you can afford to kiss friends goodbye who don’t make you happy? Phew. Just wait until you’re 62 or 72 or 82 and see how much that perspective has changed. If life, for you, is still about having your washing and ironing done and your bills paid, I’d be surprised. Your little run-in with some illness issues might have frightened you, and I get it – at your age, that is a shock. A little later, a blink of the eye really, no longer surprised by illness, your cabinet stocked with little amber medicine bottles, you might wish for more, not fewer friends. Let me explain.

At 78, I have widened, not narrowed, my circle of friends and am richer for it. I have friends much younger than I – maybe even twenty years younger. We talk about the kinds of things I don’t talk to my age-appropriate peers about. One of my younger friends is dating again after being a widow for quite a few years; it’s so much fun listening to her analysis of the dating game in her early fifties. Another recently had a hysterectomy and is concerned at how her sex life will be affected.  I enjoy honest conversations with both of these gals about something I have long since stopped worrying about.

I have book club friends and we rarely talk about the book; we talk about grandkids and retirement and ill loved ones and ongoing insecurities. We meet for lunch every couple of months.

I write, so I have a writer’s group. Four of us are old enough to remember JFK’s assassination. We love to read each other’s musings. Would I call these people friends? Of course, but they are in my widened circle.

I have online friends. Some are Facebook friends – people I knew once personally and have moved away from, or they me, so we manage to stay connected this way. But then there are some I met at an online writing symposium. We connected immediately and have stayed in touch sporadically for over a year. They, too, are writers, so they are articulate and expressive and you wouldn’t believe some of the things we are able to talk about, teach each other about, having never physically met.

The smaller circle contains my old, old friends – some since junior high school, some since college, and some since my days as a career woman. There are a few I have distanced myself from, granted, since our views on the weightier issues are in direct contrast, but if they were to call me with a sick husband I would be there. I don’t give up on friends; I don’t pitch them from my life if they don’t make me happy. Sometimes things that make me sad are at least as meaningful to me as the things that make me smile.

Some of my best friends are dead, see, and I feel their loss. I miss them and realize how fleeting life is. I stand in my kitchen and use something one of my now departed friends gave me or I remember buying it with her there, and it hurts, but I love it that I have that memory. My life is so much richer for having had those much-loved friends in it.

And the tighter circle yet? My family, of course: My husband and two kids and their spouses and the two babies. Yes, babies. At 75 my 38-yr.old daughter had her first – the love of my life, a grandson – and two years later she had another – my nine-month old granddaughter. They make me happy and sad, I worry about them and fret over them, and hurt when they hurt, but they are what give my life purpose, and that, my young friend matters so much more than happiness. I have a purpose. I’m Nana. It’s not my only purpose; I have a less-than-hardy husband who I take care of, and I edit technical texts for my son. And I write my novels and stories that no one has ever heard of. Purpose.

Not for all of us does life become about happiness and reducing stress. And everything will stop being fun eventually, trust me, but you won’t be able to just leave. And overthinking can’t really harm you; you never know, you might find enlightenment in one of those thinking cycles. And some day the only time you will have is spare time; busy-ness will be a thing of the past.

I’m doing end-of -life thinking right now – making arrangements, as they say. I’m de-cluttering and writing letters to loved ones letting them know what they meant to me. Is it fun? I suppose I would call it fulfilling; maybe that’s a mature form of fun. These times are meaningful and sometimes tearful. Some of my friends are going through awful stuff and they aren’t any fun to talk to, but those talks help me grow and help them feel heard. Growing and being of service beats happiness, hands down.

Every relationship I’ve ever had has taught me something – about myself, mostly. Even the negative ones—maybe especially the negative ones. I had one person in my life – a really close friend – who drained my energy. She could be cruel and narcissistic and self-righteous, and so I let her go. But my anger at her fueled me to write a novel – I ended up writing three of them, actually, probably just to show her. She called me one day and I didn’t answer. Two months later her son called me to tell me she had ended her life. I don’t blame myself; I know what her demons were, but I wish I had answered the phone. Was I so delicate, so fragile that I couldn’t take whatever hurtful thing I thought she was going say? Now I’ll never know and that haunts me. If you let go of friends because they are difficult and challenging, you might just not learn what they have to teach you.

My advice would be dive into the fray. Live fully and with passion and purpose. Don’t aim for a stress-free life, one that is mellow, one that honors only self-preservation. Take risks – in friendships and in life. Open yourself up to people. Widen your circle; don’t narrow it. Embrace prickly. Comfortable isn’t always the best way to be. Comfort breeds complacency. Sometimes discomfort is a great motivator. Don’t try to decide what kind of person you want to be – just be it. And drag some friends along to talk to as you go.

Hair

I decided to stop coloring my hair. I mean, after all, it was ridiculous the money I spent to stay a brunette every five or six weeks, and six was too long. The worse thing was that we had moved to north-central Florida from south Florida, and even though we had reasons to go back (Ed’s mom was still alive) it felt crazy to have my hair cut and colored by my favorite stylist, a four hour drive. Talk about a major inconvenience.

So, here I am, nearly all of the insane things I did to my hair (highlights, lowlights, toner, you name it) have nearly been shorn by my new stylist, Melanie. I said I was trying to ease into this final stage of life rather than just let it happen. Denial, I think they call it. Melanie is great with short, short pixie cuts, so all my efforts to stave off aging have fallen onto the parlor floor, been swept up and tossed out. And my hair, most of it, is white now. And I mean white. When people talk about race and call themselves white? Let me tell you: no one is truly white. My hair is.

I almost gasp every time I look in the mirror. We drove to Tampa to see some friends we hadn’t seen in a while, and my girlfriend said, “Oh, my.” I know, I know. It will take some getting used to. It’s got to be harder on the people looking at me than it is for me; I only have to look in the mirror once or twice a day. I can’t imagine her dismay as we sat and talked for hours. Poor thing.

I swear, I think my husband doesn’t even know I have hair. I used to do drastic things to my then brown hair and he never said a word unless I asked, “How do you like my hair?”

“It looks nice,” he would say, I know no doubt asking himself what was different about me. Clueless.

I feel like I should get a decent photo of me like this and post it on Facebook and Google for email because every time I look at my profile picture, I feel like a fake. All the selfies I’ve taken I’ve deleted. They make me look old. I keep saying that when it all grows in pure white I’ll do it or have someone professional do it. But for now when you go to my Facebook page or get an email from me, I want you to know: I don’t look like that anymore. Soon I'll get around to changing my profile picture, even here on my blog.

It made no sense! I live in the woods – five acres in a tiny town a half hour from a decent-sized city. My three-year-old grandson still asks me to get down on the floor and play with him, and my baby granddaughter studies my face with serious concentration, makes some kind of decision, and throws herself from her mother’s arms to reach for me, so I guess I’ve managed to impress the only two people in the world I care to dazzle.

I was working before and wanted to keep the illusion that I wasn’t an old person who still needed to work. So I dyed my hair. I’m not working any longer – well not for pay and not anyplace that I can’t just stay in my pajamas to do what I do. Those of us who are good with words will always be able to “work;” in fact, we’ll never be able to stop. Writing is a blessing and a curse. I’m driven to write. Just look at this little silly thing about me going gray. I couldn’t stop myself from putting it down on paper. Such a dork. And now I’m one who looks her age.

Going to borrow something someone else wrote, that I might have embellished just a tad, but something I feel needs to be said. It's political. Posted by a Christian Pastor, James Lyttle, on September 17, 2018:

“I remember the day after the 2016 Election, a friend of mine who happens to be white, remarked on social media that he “finally wasn’t embarrassed by America and our President.” Others claimed they had "suffered" during Obama's presidency.

Since then I’ve heard those sentiments echoed by more white folks than I can count: supposed relief at once again having a leader who instills pride.

Since I don’t have the time to ask each of them individually, I’ll ask here:

What exactly were you embarrassed by?

Were you embarrassed by Barack Obama's lone and enduring twenty-five year marriage to a strong woman whom he’s never ceased to publicly praise, respect, or cherish?

Were you embarrassed by the way he lovingly and sweetly parented and protected his daughters?

Were you embarrassed by his eloquence, his quick wit, his easy humor, his seeming comfort meeting with both world leaders and street cleaners; by his bright smile or his sense of empathy or his steadiness—perhaps by his lack of personal scandals or verbal gaffes or impulsive tirades?

No. Of course you weren’t.

As as for how you suffered, how did you suffer when the American Auto industry broke sales records, or when clean energy doubled, or when the deficit was cut, or when unemployment was cut in half, or when Osama bin Laden was eliminated or the stock market tripled or when he won the Nobel Peace Prize, or became Time Person of the Year?

Honestly, I don’t believe ever suffered by being embarrassed. That word implies an association that brings ridicule, one that makes you ashamed by association, and if that’s something you claim to have experienced over the eight years of having Barack Obama representing you in the world, I’m going to suggest you rethink your word choice.

You weren’t “embarrassed” by Barack Obama.

You were threatened by him.
You were offended by him.
You were challenged by him.
You were enraged by him.

But I don’t believe it had anything to do with his resume or his experience or his character or his conduct in office because many of you seem fully proud right now to be associated with a three-time married, serial adulterer and confessed predator; a man whose election and business dealings and relationships are riddled with controversy and malfeasance. You’re perfectly fine being represented by a bullying, obnoxious, genitalia-grabbing, Tweet-ranting, Prime Minister-shoving charlatan who’s managed to offend all our allies and insult distinguish world leaders, National public servants, and local authorities. And you’re okay with him putting on religious faith like a rented, dusty, ill-fitting tuxedo and immediately tossing it in the garbage when he’s finished with it.

None of that you’re embarrassed by? I wonder how that works.

Actually, I’m afraid I have an idea. I hope I’m wrong.

Listen, you’re perfectly within your rights to have disagreed with Barack Obama’s policies or to have taken issue with his tactics. No one’s claiming he was a flawless politician or a perfect human being. But somehow I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about here. I think the thing President Obama did that really upset you, white friend, was having a complexion that was far darker than you were ever comfortable with. I think the President we have now feels much better, decidedly whiter.

Because objectively speaking, if what’s happening in our country right now doesn’t cause you great shame, I don’t believe embarrassment is ever something you struggle with.

No, if you claimed to be “embarrassed” by Barack Obama but you’re not embarrassed by Donald Trump, I’m going to strongly suggest it was largely a pigmentation issue.

Been away too long...

I'm so sorry to have neglected my blog; I need to think of it as a journal that someday I will be able to look back on--hopefully fondly rather than with embarrassment. Honestly, what has taken my attention is the political situation in our country. I see that it has been a year since I've been here, and I'm sure I've ranted about our miserable excuse for a leader on Facebook and to my friends, and in the meantime the grands are growing and becoming more amazing by the day. It's not that I don't notice that because I do. I'm present to both of them and delight in their newly emerging personalities nearly daily, at least weekly. I feel very lucky to be able to have this opportunity at my advanced age to have these little folks to love. 

On a less positive note, I am so distressed at our country's devolving into a crass, boorish exclusionary mood because of the antics of our man-child president. He is bringing such humiliation to the office of president, every day. Here it is 11/11/18 and he flew to France to honor the soldiers who died there, along with Germany's Merkel, France's Macron, and even Canada's Trudeau, and he stayed in his hotel room rather than get rained on while the rest of them stood in the rain to honor the brave men and women who fought to their deaths in the mud. I'm so ashamed, as of course he should be, but Trump knows no shame, never felt it.

I've also been writing, so I have something to show for this past year. Now I'm in a quandary about what to do with that writing. I have revised my novel Carved In Stone and it's probably ready for a real edit. I have written several - maybe a dozen short stories that I think have promise, and should enter them in contests or something, but just don't know where to go next. 

Oh, and my friend Jean and her crisis have kept me involved with her. More about that later. 

I just wanted to put this short note here, and make a promise to do better from now on.

Luv, Pat

Well, our little granddaughter is going to be three months old on December 31, and our grandson Wyatt will be nearly two and a half. She's getting more and more personality, smiling a lot and laughing. He is very articulate and verbal and seems to be aware of what he's saying, in fact he "practices" what he says by repeating it as if he wants to be sure he has it solidly in his mind and repitoir of expressions. His world, to me, is just grand. Every day he gets to do something he likes. Mindy (his babysitter) takes him to the park or the library or to the giant activity place (Stay N Play) or to Get Air, the trampoline park. Or in nice warm weather, she has taken him to her place to swim in her pool. She has a dog, Toby, and Wyatt says they go to Toby's house. When we have him, I pick him up around 9 and either take him some place (I'm really not comfortable taking him to a playground yet because I'm not able to climb up with him, and I worry that he will fall), or more often bring him back to our place, he calls it Papa's house. He always wants to know if Papa is in the truck and if not, if we are going to Papa's house to see Papa, "and Penny, too," (the dog) "and Baby, too" our adopted kitten. When we come here we have five acres to explore and end up "taking Penny for a walk" and just enjoying being outdoors, which he seems to love. Sometimes we take him to the mall playground (soft surfaces) and then to Chic-fil-a. for lunch then home for a nap then more play then I take him to "the office" where Mindy picks him up from Corey and helps her get through the dinner, bath, bedtime routine which has become quite the challenge with two. He doesn't have a boring life and I think he will be so much richer for all the diverse stimulation.

Oh, yes, we have an adopted kitten - a calico who was either born under the house or was abandoned there. She was about two to three weeks old when we heard her, and I enticed her out with tuna. Then she wormed her way into our lives, won Penny over (more or less) and then figured out how to get out the dog door and ultimately got pregnant before she was five or six months old, had an abortion and got spayed, recovered for about a week, then started going out again - at night only - she sleeps all day and hunts all night, most nights and has brought us two dead mice and one very alive baby squirrell who got away from her and we caught it and took it back outside when "Baby" wasn't around. No name has really stuck with her, so I told the vet it was Bibi. I tried JodieFoster, but that was silly.

On a more serious note, my extended family has decided I am a disgrace to my country - and to them - because of my Facebook posts and they want nothing to do with me. So, I guess once again, my mouth (or my words, at least) have gotten me into trouble. I'm not inclined at this point to stop saying what I believe to be true, to stop standing up for what I believe, and actually I have nothing to lose at this point. If your family will "divorce" you for your political/moral stand on something because they disagree with you, I think that's sad. What is a life worth if a person can't defend his or her belief system, can't say so when he/she sees something as unjust or unfair or outright wrong? Did it do me any good? I don't know; people said it did, but then they were people who agreed with me but didn't post as stridently as I did. I'm actually okay with strident. At 77 years old, I'm grateful I'm still able to be strident, and I'm not about to cow-tow to someone else's feelings about how I should live my life or speak my truth. If you're not making a difference, even a small one in your own little circle, then you're just taking up space. I'm indignant about this president and I'm allowed to be indignant, as they were allowed to be indignant about Obama. I admired and respected Obama and I didn't argue with them or decide I couldn't be around them when I knew they "hated" him. I just changed the subject. If they didn't like what I said about Trump, they didn't have to read it. My mother-in-law, I know, would be broken hearted to know of this rift. She won't hear about it from me. We plan to see her at the end of the year, and it has been too long since we saw her last. She will be 105 on December 28th, for heaven's sake. It's way too long to live for anyone so crippled up and deaf. She's totally immobile and cannot hear at all, so she's shut out from the world and in constant pain or is asleep. No one would want her fate, I'm pretty sure. 

Okay. I posted. Not my finest hour, but maybe next time...