TABU - A short story in honor of Halloween

The odor of burnt coffee and moldering souls clung to Justin Garner as he walked the narrow grey alleyways to his cubicle. As he’d done every weekday for the past two years, he stowed his empty briefcase, turned on his laptop, and silently counted off the twenty-three footsteps to the coffee room. The carafe sputtered angrily when he pushed the top down, announcing to everyone nearby that he needed to make a new pot or spend the rest of the morning suffering the furtive glances of agitated coffee addicts.

Next door, in the only cube facing Justin’s, sat Allan Solarno, his bulky upper half tilting in toward his monitor, thick fingers ticking away on the keyboard. The two young men had only known each other for a month, but were already bonded tightly by their contempt for their employer, Moffett Medical Supply, and the nearly unbearable emptiness of their personal lives. Allan leaned back and clasped his hands around the back of his head. He was already sweating and it was only 8:40 in the morning.

“Justin,” said Allan without turning. “What is the thing that you fear most in life?”

“A Friday morning call from HR?”

“No, I mean like zombies or a killer clowns or Freddy Krueger?”

Justin covered the Reddit page he was reading with his internal email window and swiveled toward Allan. “Somehow, I think telling you my most terrifying fear would be a huge mistake.”

Allan turned and leaned in. “I’ve got a second job. I’m going to work at a haunted house through the end of October.”

“Wow,” said Justin, not sure whether to laugh hysterically or feign being impressed. He hit a Seinfeldian middle note. “A haunted house….”

Allan rummaged through papers on his desk and then handed Justin a letter. “The thing is, this isn’t just any haunted house. Read that.”

“Dear Mister Solarno. Not many people know of Dunbar Manor, as it is the best-kept Halloween secret in Chicagoland. Situated in a secluded corner of Evanston, we are the metro’s most exclusive haunted house featuring something that no other attraction can claim: actual ghosts.

You read that right. Dunbar Manor is really haunted. Those living souls brave enough to spend a half-hour in the candlelit parlor of the manor are treated to orbs, shadows, ghostly voices and the icy cold touch of the dead…and it is all 100% authentic.

Our ticket price is steep ($200) and our clientele is by invitation only, but we guarantee that if your visit isn’t one of the most memorable experiences of your life, we will return your ticket cost. In the ten years we have been in business, no one has asked for a refund.

Since you expressed an interest in working here…” Justin turned to Allan. “You did?” Allan shrugged. “…we would like to extend an offer of employment. Please email us at the address below if you are interested. The job starts September 12th. Thank you.” Justin handed back the letter. “That’s today.”

“I know. I start tonight at nine thirty. Dude, it’s $300 a night. For four hours of work. Can you believe that?”

“No. Do you even know what you’re job is?”

“Not exactly. They said I would be hosting people, whatever that means. Hey, for three hundred a night, I’ll throw in a blow job at no extra charge.”

“You’re a class act, Allan. It’s some kind of scam.”

Allan’s plump face crumpled. “No, man. It’s legit. I drove by the place and it really is a creepy old mansion. And they have a web site. It’s the real deal.”

“Actually haunted? You can’t believe that, can you?”

“Hey, I don’t know. And neither do you. How could they stay in business if it’s fake? They’d be giving back money left and right.”

“Maybe. I don’t know, but something’s seriously messed up about it.”

“You know what, Bro? As long as it isn’t illegal, I don’t give a shit. I’d ask you to come over and check it out for yourself, but it’s invitation only.” Allan turned back to his desk and pretended to work.

Justin shook his head and swiveled back to his laptop. Three hundred a night would be a nice chunk of change, he thought, but the whole thing has to be bogus. Really haunted? An excel spread sheet filled his monitor screen and he started cross checking inventory, leaving Allan to his delusions for the rest of the day.

With a broad, vacant smile, the waitress set beers in front of Justin and his brother-in-law Juan Ruiz. Fleetwood Mac and the crack of pool balls filled the void lingering between the two men hunched over drinks at O’Malley’s.

“What’s bothering you? You get dumped again?” asked Juan.

Justin gave Juan a sideways glance. “No. I didn’t get dumped again. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” Juan considered the question for a moment. “Well, I was raised Catholic in Guatemala, but there were a lot of people in my village who believed in spirits that dwelled in places, like mountains and caves and sacred objects, and even sometimes people.  I don’t really believe in that shit anymore. Why?”

“This guy at my job is going to work in a haunted house for Halloween, but he thinks the place is actually haunted…I mean with real ghosts. I’m like, what the fuck, that’s impossible. And listen to this. It’s invitation only. Really? Invitation only? It’s all just too weird. He starts work tonight, so I guess I’ll find out about it tomorrow.”

 “Why wait? We could go drive by it tonight. See what’s going down.”

Justin smiled. “I like the way you think, compadre. Let’s finish these and go.”

It was 11:15 when the two cruised past the Welcome to Evanston sign. Justin had located the Dunbar Manor website on his IPhone and they were now following GPS instructions.

            “Turn right in 100 yards. Turn right now.”

            Several commands later Juan inched his car down an unusually narrow, dark street.

            “Where are the street lights?”

            Justin looked around nervously. “I don’t know, but there…there’s the house up on the left.”

            “The last one?”

            “Yeah.”

            Juan pulled the car over to the curb and they both gaped at the massive, brooding Tudor revival framed by spindly, scoliotic black trees. There were no lights on in any rooms, but an expensive Lexis was parked in front of the house, its highly polished finish glimmering under the half moon above them. The men looked at each other.   

            “So what now?” asked Juan.

            “Damn, as long as we’re hear, I guess I should go see if Allan’s working.”

            “Really?”

            “Well, why did we come here?”

            “Go on, Homie. Check it out.”

            “Are you fucking with me?”

            “No, man. Seriously. Go on.”

            With little enthusiasm, Justin opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Standing up straight and facing the house, he inhaled the cool night air and a tinge of something sweet that he couldn’t quite identify.

            “Hey,” called Juan, leaning across the seats of his car. “Let’s go, man. Lisa’s going to kick my ass if I don’t get home pretty soon.”

            Having experienced Lisa’s wrath many times as her younger brother, Justin knew that was a true statement. He made his way around the front of the Escalade and strode toward the large overgrown trellis entryway. Scanning the shadowy yard, he took a breath and opened the gate, walking warily to the porch steps and up to the large, ornately carved front door. I’m a grown man, he thought to himself, and knocked firmly on the black wood.

            “Who’s there?” called a man’s voice from the other side.

            “Allan? Is that you? It’s Justin.”

            “Justin?”

            “Yeah, man. It’s me.”

            “Dude, you’re not supposed to be here. It’s by appointment only.”

            “Yeah, I know. We were just out driving around and—“

            “Go, please. You can’t be here now.”

            “Allan—“

            “Do you want to get me fired on my first night?”

            “You sound pretty stressed. You okay?”

            “Dude…”

            “Okay. I’m going.”     

            Justin backed away from the door and jogged back to the car.

            “So what’s up?” asked Juan.

            “Seriously, I don’t know. He’s in there, but he’s all like, ‘You can’t be here or I’ll get fired.’ It was strange. He actually sounded kind of scared. Come on. Let’s head back.”

Justin sat at his desk the following morning lost in columns of numbers until he stood up to get coffee and noticed that Allan hadn’t shown up yet. On his meandering journey to the break room he learned that his nametag was upside down, Obama was building concentration camps in Nevada and that Allan was unaccounted for. Must have been a helluva night at the mansion, the thought as he returned to his desk.

The email icon indicated he had a new message. The subject line was “Congratulations.” He assumed it was junk mail, but couldn’t help himself and opened it. Maybe he’d won the Irish lottery, again.

“Dear Mister Garner. Not many people know of Dunbar Manor, as it is the best-kept Halloween secret in Chicagoland. Situated in a secluded corner of Evanston, we are the metro’s most exclusive haunted house featuring something that no other attraction can claim: actual ghosts.

You read that right. Dunbar Manor is really haunted. Those living souls brave enough to spend a half-hour in the candlelit main room of the manor are treated to orbs, shadows, ghostly voices and the icy cold touch of the dead…and it is all 100% authentic.

Our ticket price is steep ($200) and our clientele is by invitation only, but we guarantee that if it isn’t one of the most memorable experiences of your life, we will return your ticket cost. In the ten years we have been in business, no one has asked for a refund.

Congratulations. You have been selected out of tens of thousands of area residents to experience the frightfully unique haunting of Dunbar Manor. Your appointment is for 10:30 tonight, September 13. Please arrive a few minutes early. See details below for payment options and waiver.

We look forward to having you as our guest.”

            Whoa, thought Justin leaning back in his chair, Allan must have pulled some strings. Excited and apprehensive, he had a difficult time focusing on work and spent most of the day poking around on the web for anything related to Dunbar Manor. He didn’t find much. The house was built in 1912 by Enoch Dunbar who made a fortune investing heavily in the company of his college roommate, George Eastman. Other than that, there was no mention anywhere, other than the Dunbar Manor website, of the house being a haunted attraction.

            Evanston was a fifteen-minute drive north from his apartment near Loyola Park. A light rain started falling as he cruised past malls and through upscale neighborhoods toward his Evanston destination. He reached Dunbar Manor five minutes early, and took the time to check the small pocket-sized recorder he had with him to make sure it was queued up. Real ghosts? We’ll see about that.

            The house looked as uninviting and cold as he remembered from the previous night. He turned on his recorder then tapped on the front door and waited. Gradually, the heavy door swung in and he stepped across the threshold into a dark entryway illuminated only by a single candle flickering in a wall sconce. The door closed behind him and Allan stood in the shadows wearing what looked like a monks habit. His face was completely dark.

            “Justin. Glad you could make it.”

            “Dude, I’m freaked out already. You look…insane.”

            “You’re probably going to think I’m acting weird, but I’m supposed to always stay in character when I’m working. Kind of like Disneyland. Come this way.”

            “Sure.”

            Allan was speaking very slowly and in a much deeper voice then Justin was used to, but he understood the whole thing about keeping in character. They walked past a wide central staircase to a room on the left of the main entryway. “So, Dude, do you still think the place is actually haunted?”

            Allan opened the door and then stepped back. “It’s haunted all right. I guarantee it.”

            “Better be $200 worth of scary,” said Justin, smiling and winking.

            “There’s a leather chair in the middle of the room,” said Allan. “Please sit there and we’ll begin.”

            “Okay. Hey, you’re doing great… really freaky.”

            “We can talk more when your session is over. Enjoy.”

            With that Allan closed the door behind Justin. The parlor was large and illuminated by two candles at each end of the rectangular room. There was barely enough light to find the chair, but not enough to clearly see the rest of the furniture surrounding him. Justin sat nervously, not knowing what to expect.

            Soon, a small white ball of light entered the room from his right and danced playfully in front of him, circling and diving like Tinker Bell on a bender. As it danced, a murmur of whispering voices grew gradually louder and more intense. From this cloud of noise he was able to pick up words that at first made no sense, but which he quickly realized were bits and pieces of his life.

            “He’s so precious…pee’d his pants…go away…little wussy…I’m proud of you, son…wow, a bike…I like you, too…you’re father died last night…I already have a date…you cheated on me?...thanks for being a friend…there’s always community college…It’s Alzheimer’s…wanna come up?...

            It went on and on and rolled by faster and faster until he pressed his hands on his ears to keep from reliving some very painful moment of his life. It stopped suddenly. The orb disappeared, and the silence was frightening. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something run in front of a candle. A shadow moved to his left. Footsteps came from one corner of the room and stopped at his chair. He wanted to speak, but was afraid to open his mouth. Small quick steps behind him and then a child’s laughter. He was turning anxiously in the chair, trying to pinpoint the sounds that were all around him now, as if he was at a party wearing a blindfold. Then a familiar aroma infused the air. It took him a moment, but he realized it was the perfume his mother always wore. It was called Tabu, and he knew that because he had given it to her as a Christmas present more than once. His face flushed and he started to tear up, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Everything that was happening was related to his life, his past. How could they fake all of this? His mother’s fragrance grew stronger and he imagined she was standing right next to him, but no one was there. Then he felt a hand brush the back of his head and he instinctively yelped and swung around.

            “Who’s there?” he whispered.

            “It’s me, Honey” came his mother’s distant voice.

            “Where are you?” he asked, twisting and turning in the chair. “I can’t see you.”

            “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he could feel her presence dissipating.

            “Sorry for what? Don’t go. I…wait…” The sense of loss as she drifted away was profound, and he put his face in his hands and sobbed. A door opened at the opposite end of the room from where he’d entered. Allan stood quietly near the threshold as Justin wiped his eyes and slowly exited the room. He found himself in what must have been the library. Shaken and emotionally exhausted, Justin leaned against a table for support and was soon joined by Allan.

            “I…I didn’t expect anything like that,” said Justin, trying to slow down his breathing.

“I know. It can be overwhelming.”

            “My…my mother. She was standing right next to me. I know it. I could feel it.”

            “Crazy stuff.

            “She said she was sorry, but I don’t know what for? Jesus, I need a drink. When do you get off?”

            “Late. There’s an opening for another guide here.”

            Justin looked perplexed. “Here? You mean work here?”

            “Three hundred a night. Hey, you can see it’s not that hard.”

            “I don’t know, man…”

            “What you experienced tonight? When you work here that happens all the time. You can be in constant contact with the people you love.”

            “Are you serious?”

            “I have to go greet the next guest.” Allan started backing away slowly. “Think about it.”

            As he watched his cloaked friend fade away into a dark corner of the room and disappear into a doorway, he had to admire Allan’s ability to get into his role. He was definitely creepy.

            Bleary-eyed and a little hung over, Justin sat at his desk the next morning staring blankly at the monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if waiting for inspiration. Last nights adventure had him questioning his sanity as he arduously tried to rationalize the incident from every angle. Can I believe my own eyes and ears? Is it by invitation in order to give them time to research a person’s background? In the battle for clarity, his rational side finally gained the upper hand, and he soon convinced himself that it had to be an elaborate, extremely sophisticated hoax, and that pissed him off. No one should be allowed to play with a person’s emotions like that. He wanted to confront Allan about the charade and force him to admit the truth, but his neighbor was out again. How convenient, he thought. A new email popped up with the subject line “Job offer.”

“Dear Mister Garner…” began the now familiar Dunbar Manor boilerplate section of the letter. The last paragraph was new. “Since you expressed an interest in working here we would like to extend an offer of employment. Please email us at the address below if you are interested. The job starts September 14th. Thank you.

            P.S. Hope you’ll join us. Allan.”

            Justin’s first instinct was to delete the email and put this episode of his life behind him, but then he had a small epiphany. What better way to expose the fraud behind Dunbar Manor than by working there? Once in the fold, they would let him in on the secrets used to create their special effects and show him how they dig up so much personal information on their guests. It was perfect.

            Justin replied that he would love to work at Dunbar Manor and received a confirmation email in minutes.

            At 2:30 that afternoon, everyone in Justin’s division was called into the building’s main conference room. There was the typical buzz about layoffs or the company going under, but the dour vice president Jack Clayburn, Justin’s boss several steps up the food chain, stood stiffly at the front of the room and gave no hints as he waited for everyone to be seated. After everyone settled in, Jack walked to center stage, his hands in his pockets.

            “This is going to be a very short meeting, but I wanted to speak to you all before any unfortunate rumors started circulating throughout the company. Some of you knew Allan Solarno, for those of you who didn’t, Allan started with Moffet about a month ago as an inventory account specialist and was a part of Jan’s group. Uh, there’s no delicate way to segue into this, but police found Allan’s body this morning and he apparently committed suicide.” A murmur rose and ebbed through the room. It took Justin’s mind a few moments to catch up with what was just said. “The police tell me that it must have happened a couple of days ago based on the…body. There’s no need go into details—“

            Justin rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Mr. Clayburn, but that’s impossible. I spoke with Allan just last night.”

            “And you are…?

            “Justin Garner. Allan had the cube next to mine.

            “I’m really sorry, Justin. I’m just passing along what the police told me. Apparently they can tell these things based on the, uh…condition of the body.”

            “But it’s impossible,” said Justin, his voice trailing off.

            “Okay. Thanks. Uh, so that’s it. Thank you, everyone.”

            Justin continued standing as his colleagues shuffled out of the room and back to their desks. His reality and Clayburn’s announcement had just been involved in a head on collision. There was no conceivable way Allan could have been dead for two days. The police must have made a mistake. Was someone playing an elaborate hoax on him? Was he going to find himself on YouTube that evening? There was a tap on his arm and he jumped. It was Jack Clayburn wearing an irritated expression.

            “Pull yourself together, kid. These things happen. It’s not good for morale if you’re going to be in a funk all day, so take some time off. Just make sure you record it as ‘unpaid’ on your time sheet.”

            Justin nodded. What else did he expect?

            He’d rarely experienced driving back to his apartment in the middle of the day and he made it home in record time. Bright sunshine filled the sparsely furnished apartment. He set his briefcase down, pulled a beer from the refrigerator and fell back into his favorite chair. Nothing made sense. How could Allan have been dead for two days? The guy was excited about starting the haunted house gig and not at all suicidal. What the fuck was going on?

            The tape recorder. Justin jumped up and went to the hallway where his jacket was hanging and pulled out the small machine. How could he have forgotten about this? He returned to the chair and hit the play button. The sound quality was poor, but he could hear himself knocking on the door, and then talking.

            “Dude, I’m freaked out already. You look…insane.”

            So, Dude, do you still think the place is actually haunted?”

            “Better be $200 worth of scary.”

            Justin stopped the tape and rewound it, hitting play again. It wasn’t a glitch. The only voice it captured was his.

            The car bounced violently as a tire jumped up on the curb during Justin’s drunken attempt to park in front of Dunbar Manor. With a six-pack under his belt, he was beyond caring about such trivial matters as correct parking procedures. He finally found the door latch and got out of the car, walked unsteadily along the dark path to the porch and then rapped on the door several times. The door slowly opened and Justin took a wobbly step into the shadowy entryway. Dressed in his hooded robe, Allan closed the door behind Justin and stepped back.

            “I’m glad you decided to take the job.”

Justin pointed his finger at his friend. “What is going on? Huh? They said you were dead, that you died two days ago. My tape player didn’t record your voice. What the fuck is that all about?”

            “I’ll explain everything after your interview. It’s just a formality, but an important one.”

            “Interview? Jesus Christ, Allan, I’m drunk as shit. I can’t take—“

            “No, listen, it doesn’t matter. I’m serious. Come on.” Allan guided Justin to a door on the right side of the massive stairway where they stopped. “Don’t worry. It won’t take long.”

            Justin started to complain again when Allan opened the door and gently nudged him into the room, closing the door behind him. A single candle shuddered and danced in the center of the room. As his eyes adjusted, he could see there was something just below the candle’s glow and he took a few steps closer. Barely outlined by the flickering light was a red satin pillow with a silvery handgun resting on it like a beauty queen’s tiara. Stunned, Justin turned and retraced his steps back to the door, twisted the knob and pulled it open. And then he stopped. Instinct was eclipsed by something even deeper than fear. His shoulders slumped forward and he rested his forehead on the cool wood. “Where am I going?” he asked aloud. There was no answer, which was the answer. Resignation turned to resolve, and Justin pushed forward on the handle, easing the door shut. The latch clicked and the air was suffused with the scent of Tabu.

The plot sickens

"We're not going to be disrespected. We have to get something out of this. And I don't know what that even is."

No, this isn’t a quote from Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon. This is what Rep. Marlin Stutzman (R-Ind.) told The Washington Examiner in an interview yesterday. Sure sounds like an extortionist to me.

Stutzman

Yeah, we put a gun to the head of the United States, but you’re not cooperating. You simply want us to put down the gun. Are you crazy? We’re not letting go of this bitch without getting something. You understand?

Sgt. Reality

Millions of people are suffering because of you. The majority of Americans think you’re insane. No one’s on your side except for FOX News and a few grumpy old white men.

Stutzman

Obamacare is a socialist plot. We are trying to save America from a communist takeover.

Sgt. Reality

You and about 0.00001 percent of the population actually believe that. The rest of us just want to get on with our lives. You’ve made your point, whatever that point was, now you’re actually hurting your fellow Americans.

Stutzman

It’s for the greater good, and quitting now would make us look weak and foolish.

Sgt. Reality

You’re going to bring America to its knees to save face.

Stutzman

It’s all Obama’s fault!

The terrorists among us

Republicans sure do hate America. They’d rather destroy this country than allow democracy to work as the Founding Father’s envisioned it. They’ve shut down the government in a childish attempt to stop or postpone Obamacare, which is already a law that goes into effect no matter how long they hold their breath.

A new poll puts Congress’s approval rating at 10 percent. In other words, getting a colonoscopy from Satan ranks higher in favorability than the U.S. Congress. What I cannot understand is why Americans complain so much about Washington, but then turn around vote for morons like Darrell Issa of Texas, Michele Bachmann of Minnesota, Steve King of Iowa and John Boehner of Ohio. How can you complain about their performance when you helped them get elected? You want a more productive Congress? STOP VOTING FOR ULTRA CONSERVATIVE REPUBLICANS.

The Republican Party is going to be in dire trouble in the future if it continues to allow the Tea Party faction to define its brand. These aren’t people who want to make government better, they want to destroy government and replace it with…what? I’m not even sure. Feudal society? They are anarchists.

Not all terrorists walk around with bombs strapped to their chests. Some wear suits and use their voting power to bring down the government from the inside.

Unlucky in Love: A Short Story

“What’s wrong with you? Stop calling me, Gwen. Just STOP.” The breakup was a week ago, the text was three hours old, and her response was already percolating.

An agitated Gwen Lundgren shuffled through design printouts next to her laptop as she waited for a Skype call scheduled for 9:30 Minneapolis time, 3:30 London time. After several seconds, the ruddy, smiling face of Tykon’s International Marketing Director Erick DeMint flittered up on the screen. He was a personable, handsome thirty-something with vibrant hazel eyes and an unruly shock of straw-colored hair. And although she had never seen the entire man from head to toe, that didn’t stop her from fantasizing. There was something different about the background today.

            “Gwen? How are you?”

            His accent made her shift positions in her chair. “Erick, I’m great. Happy Friday. Where are you?”

            “Took a day off. Can you believe it? So I’m working from home. This is my lovely office. Out that window is my lovely yard where I plan to spend the rest of the afternoon. And later my brother Timothy is coming over for dinner. Oh, and tomorrow morning my wife and I and Samantha are going north to spend the week at a country inn we love near Northampton.”

            The mention of his wife and daughter grated what she hoped was an imperceptible degree of enthusiasm off her voice. “You’re a busy person. Sounds great. How old is Samantha again?”

            “Nine, but of course she thinks she’s nineteen. Had the nerve to ask us if she could get her eyebrow pierced the other day. Nine years old.”

            “My sister is going through the same thing with her two girls. They both want to be Miley Cyrus when they grow up.”

            Genuine laughter. “God, no. Tell her we feel her pain.”

            “I’m sure you’re a great father.”

            “Oh, I have my days, but thanks. What about your weekend? Taking the boyfriend out on the town?”

            “Unfortunately there’s no one special in my life right now. Well, there was, but….I don’t know. Not the luckiest person in the world when it comes to relationships.”

            “An attractive young woman like you? That’s hard to believe. Stay positive. You’ll find someone or someone will find you.”

“Thanks. Well, so, should we go over the concepts I sent? You’re making me feel guilty about talking business on your day off.”

            “Don’t worry about it. This was on my calendar long before I decided to…” Erick turned in his chair and then turned back. “Sorry. Thought I heard something. Anyway, back to the concepts. Okay. I really liked number three. Nice work. I felt it captured what we were trying to….” He turned again. “There. Did you hear it that time?”

            “Sorry. Is anyone home?”

            “No. Kara’s at work and Samantha doesn’t get home… I apologize, but let me go check. I’ll just be a second.”

            “Not a problem.”

            One of life’s great mysteries was solved as Erick stood up and walked to the office door. He was trim with a very cute butt, just as she had imagined. She could hear his footsteps as he walked through rooms in the house and conjured up an image of him coming out of the bathroom wearing only a small white towel and a tender smile, approaching the bed and…Erick popped back into the room shaking his head.

            “It’s an older home,” he said, sitting down. “I know it doesn’t sound very macho, but sometimes I get a little freaked out when I’m here by myself. Okay, where was…I was commenting on design number three and why I was really drawn to this one.”

            Although her attention was focused on Erick’s face as he talked, Gwen caught a glimpse of a quickly moving shadow cross the window over Erick’s right shoulder. Most likely….obviously a bird, she concluded, and chose not to say anything. She really didn’t want to be distracted from the praise he was lavishing on her design, her abilities to capture just the right tone, how clever she was to distill a complex concept into a few beautiful images. She was wading in his warm words.

            There was a distant clang, as if something metal like a pan had fallen to the hardwood floor. 

            “I heard it that time,” she said.

            Erick’s expression became one of concern and he turned around several times. “I…I think someone’s in the house. I can hear footsteps.”

            “You’re sure your wife didn’t come home early?”

            “Duh. That’s probably it. Like I said, I get a bit spooked here sometimes.” He turned and called out. “Kara? Hey, is that you?” There was a muffled but discernable “Yes,” from another room in the house. Erick’s body relaxed and he smiled nervously. “Sorry about all the drama. I’m just going to see what’s going with my wife and then we can finish up here. Hold on.”

            As much as she enjoyed her conversations with Erick, this was taking longer than she had planned and it was bumping into another meeting that was about to start. Gwen leaned back in her chair and toyed with a pen while waiting. A shadow moved across the hallway beyond the office threshold followed by a murmur of voices and then two loud thumps, which sounded like someone pounding a fist on a countertop. She leaned forward, eyes now zeroing in on the hallway. There was another flitter of a shadow and then a door closed somewhere in the house. This was followed by unnerving silence.

“Erick? Hey, what’s going on? Erick. Are you okay?” Gwen took in a breath and held it. Someone sneezed in a nearby cube and her muscles clenched up as if she’d been stuck with a pin. “Erick?”

“No. I’m okay. Everything is fine.” It was Erick’s voice coming from somewhere in the house. “Made a mess I need to clean up.”

She waited a minute, her heart racing, then called Erick’s name several more times, but there was no response, no movement in the house at all. Do I call 911, she wondered? What’s 911 in London? Maybe he just decided to go…no. He didn’t…he wouldn’t just leave me hanging. Would he?

            A passing cube mate made the un-asked for observation that she looked pale and asked if she was okay. Distracted, Gwen nodded and then, part hurt, part still concerned, terminated the call. The screen went dark and there was only her own vague image floating in the blackness of the monitor. An hour passed, then another. Too unnerved to work, she began making inquiries as best she could from another country. She was finally able to track down Erick’s boss at Tykon, who said he’d gone on holiday with his wife, which was actually a plausible explanation after what he’d told her, but still…. 

Three weeks passed. Gwen emailed and called Erick every day, but received only “out-of-office” replies or was dropped into voicemail. Her time at home was spent checking London newspapers online for any crime that might relate to Erick or his family. She knew that something was not right with Erick’s sudden disappearance, that possibly a crime had been committed, but she had no evidence and could not find anything concrete on which to base her feelings. She called his boss again and was told Erick had taken a brief leave of absence for personal reasons. Personal reasons? Like being dead?

            It was a chilly late fall afternoon as Gwen strode along Nicolette Mall in downtown Minneapolis in the direction of the Dakota when she heard a familiar voice rise above the din of traffic and call out her name.

            “Gwen.”

            She spun around and to her astonishment saw Erick walking across the mall in her direction smiling and waving. He was wearing a long black coat with a red scarf around his neck and his hair was shorter, but she knew it was him from the instant their eyes met. Stunned, she stood like a boulder in a river of pedestrians flowing by, her attention fixated on the approaching man.

            “Oh, thank God I found you,” he said, putting his arms around her and squeezing tight.

            For a moment, she was too shocked to react, but then quickly wrapped her arms around him and pulled him even closer. “My God, Erick. What the—“ Before she could finish he put his lips to hers and kissed her passionately. She responded without hesitation. Several moments later they separated, and Gwen tried to formulate a coherent question from the dozens that were swirling around in her head.

            “What’s going on, Erick? Why are you here? What about Kara?”

            “There’s plenty of time to talk about all of that. Right now, however, I would like to take you to my hotel room.”

            Two hours later Gwen sat on the edge of a bed, a sheet draped over her naked body, pleasantly exhausted, but still shell-shocked. The sex had been loud and satisfying, but perhaps lacking a degree of…intimacy. She looked toward the bathroom door where Erick was taking a shower and tried to imagine various scenarios that ended with Erick coming to Minneapolis from England alone to find her after having disappeared for three weeks. None of them made any sense.

            Wearing only a white towel and a wicked grin, Erick set down on the bed next to Gwen and kissed her cheek.

            “That was unbelievable,” he whispered.

            Gwen blushed, but remained guarded. “Can we talk about what’s going on, Erick?”

            “Over dinner. I promise. Let me get dressed and we’ll have a quick drink from the mini bar and then go downstairs. I’ll tell you everything. Promise.” Eyeing him sideways, Gwen got up to dress.

            The bored waiter set their entrees in front of them and walked away without a glance. “Bloody moron isn’t very interested in a tip, is he?” said Erick just a bit too loud. “How’s your martini?”

            “Too good. I might have to order another one. So….”

            “So. Well, it’s not really all that complicated, although it is rather depressing.” His expression darkened. “That day of the call—“

            “The video call?”

            “Right, video call, Kara came home early, as you know, and then confessed to me she’d been seeing another man for several months and that she wanted a divorce. That was, of course, a huge shock. I felt like I’d been run over by a tram, but the part of her story that sent me entirely over the edge was that the other man was my brother. The…bitch had been screwing my brother. Well, I was in complete and utter insanity mode. It’s horrible to say, but I wanted to kill them both. Honestly, I had no idea this was going on. Call me stupid or blind or whatever, it came as a total shock. Anyway, I simply couldn’t deal with it and left the house immediately. I’m so sorry, Gwen. I’ve just been in a state of absolute inner turmoil the past few weeks, I can’t even tell you. But then I thought about you and the feelings I had felt whenever we talked and realized it was the perfect opportunity to get out of London for a while and see if my intuitions about you were correct. And it seems they were.”

            “Wow. So where’s your daughter?”

            “Samantha's with my Mum until I get back.”

            Gwen looked down at her salmon and shook her head not quite sure that all the dots connected, but considering the man of her dreams was sitting across the table from her, she swept her doubts into a dark corner of her mind and looked up, meeting Erick’s piercing eyes. “I’m terribly sorry for everything. It must be a nightmare.”

            “It was,” he said. “Until now.”

            Staggering and laughing arm in arm down the hallway of her apartment complex, Gwen and Erick made up lyrics to “The First Cut is the Deepest,” which had been playing in the elevator on the way up. “The first cup is the cheapest….” A wobbly Gwen apologized for the mess as she led Erick through her apartment to the living room. She dimmed the lights, poured them both a glass of wine and joined him on the couch, curling up next to him and nuzzling his neck.

            “What are you thinking?” she asked.

            “That I’m so glad I found you,” he said.

            They talked for another half hour until Gwen heard a familiar ping coming from her bedroom.

            “Sorry,” she said, gently brushing the back of her hand across his cheek. “Need to use the bathroom. Would you pour us another glass?”

            Erick smiled. “I’d like nothing better.”

            Not sure why she thought she needed a subterfuge to check her computer, she slipped into the bedroom, sat at her desk and tapped the space bar. The screen quickly brightened and up popped a news alert. She opened the email and scanned several recent headlines from The Telegraph. One caught her eye.

Murdered Family Members Identified

London — Scotland Yard was finally able to positively identify the remains of three family members brutally murdered in their Hampstead residence three weeks ago. The victims were 35-year old Erick DeMint, 34-year old Kara DeMint and their daughter, 9-year old Samantha DeMint. The police still have no solid leads….

A shadow enveloped Gwen from behind.

            “Don’t turn around.”

            “Erick? What’s going on?” she asked with a growing sense of alarm.

            “Remember several weeks ago during your little teleconference or video call or whatever you call it when I said I had a mess to clean up?

            “Yes.”

            “Well, I’m taking care of that now.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Erick told you he had a brother. What I think he failed to mention was that he has…had an identical twin brother.”

            The razor-edged knife slid effortlessly through Gwen’s neck muscles in a long red arch, releasing a burbling cascade of blood that flowed down her chest like warm red honey. Grasping a handful of her hair, Timothy held her head back until the spasms ended.

            “Erick was quite fond of you, Gwen. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid you had a crush on the wrong man.”

A 9/11 question

I’m just randomly throwing this out there because it’s my blog and I can.

On February 26, 1993, a truck bomb was detonated by terrorists below the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York.

Fast-forward eight years to September 11, 2001. Terrorists again attack the World Trade Center, this time using planes. However, numerous people including firemen, policemen and other first responders, heard explosions in and around the lower floors of the towers just before they collapsed.

Now, forget for a moment about conspiracy theories. Bearing in mind that terrorists had already used explosives once, is it not conceivable that a second attack on the WTC might involve a coordinated effort using planes and explosives? Considering the number of people who heard explosions (and some even claimed to have seen explosive flashes), doesn’t it seem reasonable to at least investigate the possibility that terrorists planted bombs in the building to be detonated at the moment the planes hit?

It didn’t seem reasonable to the 9/11 Commission. The possibility of explosives being used in the terrorist attacks was never investigated. Make sense to you?

“Welcome to Burger King. How can I kill you today?”

In their never ending quest to find unique new methods for delivering artery clogging trans fats into your bloodstream, fast food companies are really stretching the limits these days. Burger King now has the French Fry Burger, a hamburger topped with, you guessed it, French fries. On the plus side, you never have to lose the precious .01 seconds it takes to ask, “Does it come with fries,” because it is fries. On the negative side, it’s insane.

Can you imagine what must have transpired in Burger King’s R&D department?

“What’s that, Smith?”

“I dumped my fries on top of my burger and I’m eating it.”

“Good God Man, that’s brilliant.”

Why don’t they just marinate it in Coke and call it Meal-In-A-Bun? It’s like serving a steak with mashed potatoes slapped on top. Wait, forget you read that. I gotta call Outback Steak House.

The U.S. ignores history’s lessons

Syria. Here is my question: Why was our first reaction on hearing about the gassing of Syrian citizens to propose dropping bombs? Weeks later no one is completely certain who was responsible for the attacks, yet we were a hair’s breadth away from raining down destruction on a country already wracked by civil war. 

It doesn’t take a brilliant person to understand that there were ulterior motives at play here. Most likely to me is that this was an excuse to try and tip the civil war in favor of the rebels, who, we are beginning to find out, aren’t exactly a bunch of Boy Scouts.

Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible idea that, unfortunately, Obama is still keeping as an option. As we reflect today on the attacks of September 11, 2001, we need to remember that acts of violence always have long-term repercussions. The President keeps telling us that any bombing in Syria would be a quick, one-time deal as if it’s something we shouldn’t even worry our pretty little heads about. Innocent people will die. Terrorists will use it as an excuse to attack us again. Our image around the globe will diminish even further. Despite the size or length of an attack on Syria, the ramifications would be profound.

The media, as usual, has reduced the complex issues at play here into a simple hawks versus isolationists paradigm. Those of us who oppose bombing Syria are not isolationists, in fact we are just the opposite. We want the United States to be an involved, responsible member of the world community and work with the UN and our allies to come up with a unified response to whoever was responsible for the chemical attacks. In fact, America isolates itself every time we take it on ourselves to conduct ad hoc military actions.

One thing is certain. Our leaders have not learned from our past, and seem intent on repeating previous mistakes.

Leaked audio transcript: President Obama meets with congressional leaders on Syria

September 4, 2013

Oval Office

Cantor: I’m on board with you, Mr. President. Let’s face it, bombing shit is cool.

Obama: Every other president got to bomb something. Bush got to start a couple of wars. I want to bomb something. Okay?

Pelosi: We want video.

Obama: Are you kidding? We’ll have camera’s all over that shit.

Clyburn: What about civilians? These targets are in highly populated areas of Damascus.

Obama: Jimmy, come on, man. Bring it down a notch. There’ll be a few casualties, but it’s all for the bigger good. Right?

Boehner: Can we get one of those cool “situation room” photos with us watching the whole thing go down live?

Obama: Hell yeah. Just don’t start crying, John. [laughs]

Clyburn: But Sir, the American people are not behind this. Shouldn’t we listen to our citizens?

[Silence for several seconds and then uproarious laughter.]

Obama: That’s good. Whoa. Someone get Jimmy a drink. I didn’t know you were such a funny guy. Let’s go golfing one of these days.

McCarthy: Speaking of golf, I’ve got a tee time in 45 minutes. We about done here?

Obama: We all on the same page? Jimbo? Good. Okay. Peace out.

Who cares what the American people think? Not our government.

House Speaker Boehner and President Obama can’t agree on economics, health care, taxes, social security, welfare or the color of the sky, but they can agree to interfere in a civil war going on thousands of miles away and drop bombs that will do little to solve anything. Boehner has come out in support of the idea, which, in case you weren’t convinced before, means that the idea is a very bad one.

No one is listening to the American people, who overwhelmingly oppose bombing Syrian targets. We also never wanted a secret surveillance program that would listen in on our calls and emails. Time after time the will of the American people is overruled by politicians with agendas that have little to do with serving citizens and everything to do with worshiping the industrial/military complex in hopes of large reelection checks.

The proposal sent to Congress from the administration outlining the rationale and tactics for bombing Syria is vague and fool of loopholes, yet many representatives already seem to think it’s okay to go ahead and pull the trigger, and this includes a lot of Democrats. Again, no one is taking into account the wishes of the majority of Americans.

Nothing good will come of bombing Syria. It will either be totally ineffective or serve as the catalyst for a much larger war in the region and further U.S intervention. Either way, innocent civilians will die as a result. It’s a lose/lose situation however you look at it.

George W. Bush will be remembered, but probably not for the reasons you think

I predict that George W. Bush, our 43 president, is going to play a far larger role in American history books of the future than many expect and than he would like.

We all know the obvious blunders during his two terms, the war on Iraq, tax changes that benefited the wealthy, an economy in a nosedive, creation of the surveillance state, destructive educational policies, but these aren’t his most lasting legacies. I think what historians are going to look most closely at is how he and Cheney and his advisors drastically altered the presidency itself and opened a Pandora’s box of real and potential abuses of power for generations to come.

In the weeks, months and years after 9/11, Bush, Cheney and others demanded and got more and more power handed to the executive branch. One could argue that in the immediate wake of 9/11 the president needed the authority to make decisions quickly and without burdensome oversight. However, the new powers were granted, but they were never repealed. A spineless, ineffective Congress allowed the President to keep his new executive powers without challenge.

A lot of people, myself included, thought that the election of Obama would somehow bring more balance to the three branches of government, that this self-proclaimed agent of change would refuse to abuse his authority in the same way Bush did. How wrong we were. The promised transparency never happened. Sketchy surveillance programs were expanded instead of stopped. Administration officials lied to Congress without repercussions. Drone killings increased. Guantanamo stayed open for business. And now, against the will of most of the world, Obama is going to drop bombs on a foreign country that does not pose a direct threat to the United States.

All of this was made possible by a congenial dullard from Texas and his nearsighted puppeteers who saw an opportunity for a power grab and took it. They let the genie out of the bottle, and no future President, however well intentioned, is going to willingly put it back in. 

The legacy of Bush lives on

So bombing Syria is now going to happen, it’s just a matter of time. Great. The thing that is so maddening about the Obama Administration’s arguments for violence is that it is presented as the only possible option. Not true. We could be in talks with world leaders and the UN working on a truly global response to the use of gas by Assad. Bombing isn’t the only answer, and from what I’ve been reading over the past few days, many military experts don’t believe this kind of “tailored” attack is going to prove effective.

Bombings always result in collateral damage and it will surely lead to civilian deaths, which is supposedly what we are trying to prevent. In addition, our unilateral action will further inflame anti-U.S. rhetoric in Muslim countries. Assad should be punished for using poison gas on his people, but not by the self-appointed world sheriff, but by an actual worldwide consensus.

Why do we keep making the same mistakes over and over again? It’s almost as if George Bush never left the White House. 

Top 10 Reasons Why We Should Bomb Syria

10. Will definitely bolster U.S. image in the region

9. CNN has a name and rockin’ theme song for the war

8. Drones are so last week

7. Assad tweeted that he liked Miley Cyrus’s performance at the VMAs

6.Widespread enthusiastic support from the American public

5.Summer doldrums

4.Killing civilians with bombs to stop them from being killed by poison gas just makes sense

3. NSA revelation fatigue

2. Military Channel needs more “B” roll

1. Iraq and Afghanistan; huge wins