Guerilla Tactics

Caleb sat cross-legged at the head of the damp bed counting the rotations of the belt driven fan. Below his room, at the end of the alley, a Mariachi band played a lively tune, occasionally a hidden voice would call out a name and the band would continue, but, the music never seemed to change.

There was no use trying to sleep. The hotel had not provided a mosquito net and it was too hot to rest without the windows open. The slow moving fan provided only a slight relief in the still air. Caleb tipped his last bottle of water to his lips. Two days prior he had purchased several bottles before boarding a rickety plane out of San Juan. By tomorrow he would be forced to either drink the local water or find a pot to boil the water claimed from a clay pot. “Lord, where is my contact?”

Somewhere in the night angry voices were followed by a gunshot. The music stopped momentarily, a soft laugh bubbled up, then the music resumed with more gusto. Caleb closed his eyes and dozed momentarily. He awakened suddenly to a pounding on his door.

“Quien es?” He shouted into the darkness.

The pounding stopped and only the street music continued.

Seconds later, a head appeared in silhouette in the window. “Senor? You come with me, now, please hurry.”

Caleb grasped his backpack to his chest. “Who's asking?” He had been recruited for a special missionary project and trained in both the Bible and in wilderness survival skills, but he hadn’t considered such a beginning.

A leg propelled itself over the windowsill and a small boy stood in Caleb’s room. “I am Miguel. I am sent to get you. You come with me now, please.”

“Out the window?” Caleb was not expecting a midnight escapade. “Where are we going?”

There was a pause, “I don’t know, but you are to come with me, it is very dangerous here.”

Every bone in Caleb’s body said, “forget it.” But, he walked to the window and watched as the young man scamper out onto the balcony. The music got louder as Caleb followed the boy.

The young man headed down a wooden ladder into a dark alleyway, and then turned and waved for Caleb to follow.

“Well, if it’s robbery, they picked a poor man, I haven’t hardley got the cost of soda.” Caleb grabbed the old ladder and immediately ran a splinter into his hand. “God, get me out of this and I’ll, oh phooey, I already made that deal.” He laughed to himself as he pulled the spinter from his hand and climbed down to the ground. The end of the alley framed the Mariachi band like a picture; the music seemed to swell in the darkness and float into the stench of accumulated garbage.

Caleb followed his young leader through alleys and backstreets until they came to a cluster of small huts; in the background, the city was rocked by a series of explosions that lit the night sky.

Miguel tapped Caleb on the arm, “Your hotel.”

Caleb felt his stomach churn. “Where are we, and why did you come for me?”

Miguel laughed softly and dropped to the ground. Soon, several young men and women joined Miguel, surrounding Caleb. Finally, an older man joined the group.

“Ah, Miguel was able to get you. I was afraid we would have to raid the hotel, but I don’t like to be that close to the army.”

Caleb looked around at the band of youth. He thought he must have had a dismayed look on his face.

The older man laughed and stretched his hand to Caleb. “I'm Juan and welcome, my friend, you have come far, we have work to do.”

“Work?”

“We are guerilla missionaries. The priest who taught these children was murdered, likewise all of our preachers. We have adapted the ways of the people who blew up your building. We come in small numbers, at unexpected locations, and conquer small targets, like the children.”

“Guerilla missionaries?” It finally added up to Caleb, all of the secret and intense training.

“The word of God is a pretty powerful tool.” The older man put his hand on Caleb’s shoulder.

In the background the children began singing a joyful praise song. Caleb thought back to the Mariachis. “This is the sweetest music I’ve heard tonight.”

What's Best

Jason ducked before the flower vase hit the wall.

“Fate is a four letter word.” Heather screamed, picked up another vase and examined the green glass then hurled it across the room at her former boyfriend. “You said meeting her was just fate, bull. Hey, there’s another four-letter word. And you’re full of it.” She had held her fierce temper in check for two months. But, Jason’s news had unleashed her fury. She flipped over a small library table and watched the contents of a single drawer spill out on the floor.

“Heather listen a minute. I just think it’s best for both of us.”

“You want what’s best? Shut up and stay away from me Jason, you started the war.” The ridiculousness of her statement finally stuck her. She was in her former boyfriend’s own apartment and she was the one aggressively breaking up his belongings. He had hurt her deeply and she was lashing out. Nobody breaks up with me, that’s my job. “Get out Jason.”

“I’ll just wait down at the coffee shop till you get your things.” Jason slid down the wall and cracked open the door. “We can still be …”

She cut him off, “Shut up Jason, just leave, I’ll lock the door.”

She wasn’t living in Jason’s apartment, indeed, he was the first guy who hadn’t insisted, something she respected, but while they were dating she had managed to bring over a few of her belongings. “He can keep the stadium cups.” A box on the kitchen counter contained things Heather was returning – a locket, a charm, and a small New Testament. She already returned the flower vases, now in broken glass along the wall.She glanced into the single bathroom, “yuck, I don’t know how he lives like this, this bathroom is the pits.” On a shelf was a can of hairspray she had left one evening. “Pig. I’ll bet his new Christian girlfriend won’t clean this place either.”She considered taking back all the gifts she gave him: a mug, a ball cap, and a sweatshirt. “What would I do with that stuff?”

On his dresser was a photo of Jason and Heather at a lay rally. She grabbed the picture frame and tore at the back. “She was there. Fate he says, sheesh, he’s a sucker for a tight sweater.” She glanced in the mirrored closet door. “I’m better.” Her face flushed. “I gotta get outa here.”

Heather threw the picture frame into the waiting box; then stubbed her toe on an overstuffed chair. “Ouch. Stupid chair.” She flopped onto the soft cushion. “It’s not like I didn’t try to make this work. I did some of what he wanted. Like, going to that insipid rally.” She bolted out of the chair. “But, no, that wasn’t good enough for him. It was church this and church that. And, that woman was always there. Well, they deserve each other. He said he wanted out, well, she can have him, I’m done with the jerk.”

The phone rang and Heather instinctively started to answer it. “Nope, it’s none of my business anymore.” Finally, the answering machine picked up.

“Hey Jason, this is Trudy.”

“It’s that woman, I oughta pick up the phone and give her a piece of my mind.”The answering machine whirred.

“Anyway, Jason, I was hoping you could join us for the praise chorus party and rehearsal at the church Saturday. You haven’t been in awhile; and we really could use your voice. I’d love to see you there. Call me. Blessings.”

“Call me,” Heather mimicked. “Nope he won’t be there,” she started to hit the delete button, “we’ll be…uh, never mind.” She pulled her hand away and knocked Jason’s study Bible off onto the floor. “What’s a guy doing with a Bible rather than some smut? Shessh, don’t know why it took me so long to see the real him.” Mimicking Trudy, Heather hissed, “Blessings.”

The phone rang again and once again the answering machine picked up, “Jason, Trudy again. Sorry to keep bothering you, but the gang is putting together an impromptu pizza party. I’m on my way. If you can, meet me at Mario’s. Blessings.”

“Shessh,” Heather picked up the tiny locket. “He’s thinking of what’s best. Well, Jason,” Heather curled her lip, “here’s to an abundance of what’s best.” The locket dropped to the floor. “I’m gone.”

Monk's Mom

The 55 Chevy roared, demanding respect, while Eddie Williams pressed on the gas. A crowd of onlookers smiled and clapped with approval when Eddie eased off the pedal and motor slowed.

“You do the work Eddie?” Lem Carter leaned against the driver’s door.

“Every bit of it. Dragged this thing out of my grandfather’s barn last summer. Only been a chicken coop since 1956.”

Monk Jones stuck his head in the window. “Who gived ya da money?”

Eddie stared straight ahead. “Worked hard for it down at the Mill.”

“Way I heared it, yer ol man gived ya the money.”

Eddie could feel his ego suddenly drowned. Truthfully, his dad had lent him money for parts, but Eddie was working to repay. Eddie turned and glared out the window, “Get yer hands offa the car Monkey, the paint don’t like grease.”

Jones withdrew his long arms and sneered at Eddie. “Why don’t ya go show Tammy yer ride, I’m sure she’d like it.”

Lem Carter quickly stepped between Jones and the car, thus preventing Eddie from opening door. “That was uncalled for Monk.” Tammy was Jones’older sister and had been riding with Eddie when Eddie’s car hit an icy spot, spun out of control, and rolled down a ravine. Eddie was barely injured, but Tammy was killed in the accident. Though Monk was only thirteen at the time of the accident, he had decided that Eddie was totally to blame for the accident.

“Take the car on home Eddie, you can show it another time.” Carter spoke to Eddie but kept his eyes on Jones. Most of the crowd had walked on to the other cars at the Midtown Car show and scarcely witnessed the ebbing bad blood.

Eddie started his antique car and rolled down Main Street away from the crowd. “Lord, Monk boils my blood. I don’t wanna fight him, I just want him to leave me alone. I know I can’t be forgiven for taking Tammy’s life, but Lord, is this the Hell You have sentenced me with?” The driveway of his father’s two story home came into view and Eddie maneuvered the old car toward the waiting garage opening.

“Brought the car back early.” Eddie’s father was standing in the side door opening when Eddie exited the car.

“Yeah, Monk Jones, was there trying to make a scene..”

“I know. I just got off the phone with Lem Carter. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, think I will just go home and watch some television.”

“Welcome to stay for dinner. Your sister is fix’n chicken and collards. Stinks to high heavens but it’ll be good.”

Eddie thought about his empty apartment refrigerator. “Okay, sure. Tell her to set an extra place.”

“That’a boy. I got something to talk to you about, but later.”

Although Eddie’s father offered the blessing before dinner, all Eddie could think about was his confrontation with Monk.

When all the dishes were cleared Eddie’s father said, “Dottie, would you mind doing your homework upstairs, so Eddie and I can talk.”

“You gonna talk about my birthday present?”

Eddie threw a towel at her. “As if.”

“Okay, but I am thinking of something expensive.”

“Get outahere,” the two men chimed in chorus. She disappeared up the stairs.

Eddie leaned on the table. “I don’t know dad. It’s like God is punishing us.”

“Eddie, God hasn’t handed us more than we can handle. He has given us opportunities to show his love.”

“Love Monk?”

“Absolutely, I bet he is hurting right now. You know, Lem Carter is his uncle, well he told me that Monk's mother has Cancer.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t know. Like Mom?”

“Different, but Cancer just the same. He’s just 16, just about the same age you were when we lost your mother.”

“And I killed Tammy.”

“You didn’t kill anyone, no more than I killed your mother. Sometimes the bad things in our life just happen. But, God comes in and says, ‘lets make this work for good.’”

“I suppose. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Kinda. Eddie, there’s something else I wanna ask you. This will require some committment on your part.

“Wow, dad, that sounds serious, what is it?.”

“You’re AB negative right?”

“That’s right; all the reservists gave blood at Christmas; the Army has me on a list.”

“Monk’s mother is AB negative too, and she is having surgery Tuesday. They need whole blood. You up to it?”

Suddenly, the pent up anger left Eddie and he felt a warm glow on the back of his neck.

“Thanks dad. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Mums

A dark cloud rolled across the skies and a parade of kettle drums accompanied the march of wind and rain. At the inn droplets formed and competed with dust on warped glass windows.

“Molly, be ye goin’ to the faire?” Mary O’Connell stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked into the darkened passage expecting an immediate answer. None came. “Molly O’Connell, aire ya listn’ girl? Her demand was yet to reach the fever pitch of her red hair. Mary pulled a dancing lock from her eyes and shouted up the stairs. “Molly!”

The return greeting of silence both frustrated Mary and worried her. Molly was a typical teenager, who often got engrossed in the latest novel or teenage magazine. Mary regarded the stairs, she was already tired from scrubbing floors, and to climb the stairs one more time was more than she was truly willing to do, however, with her outburst drawing no attention she elected to submit to the incline and track down the stray Molly O’Connell. Molly liked to play in the attic; Mary knew that even her loudest voice would not carry to the third floor.

Mary reached the second floor landing and looked for a light in the teenager’s room, however, no hint of light emitted beneath the door. She glanced toward the lavatory, again no light was seen. Finally, she saw a shaft of light coming from the attic stairway. “Molly!” She demanded.

Suddenly, the door burst open and down the stairs bounded a scantily clad teenage girl. Her short yellow skirt bounced above her waist when she hopped to the landing floor.

“Look at yaself girl, you’d covered in cobwebs and dust. Molly, what were you doing up there?”

“Nothing mum, twas looking through some old trunks.” She began brushing off her arms and dress. “Mum, I need few quid for the faire.”

“You’ll not be goin out like that. Put some clothes on, it’s raining you know, you’ll catch your death you will. Anyway, I thought ye be goin wid your bother today. I put ten pound note on the bureau for both ye.”

“Oh, no mum, Danny, Charlotte, and Liam will be by presently, Liam owes me a quid, I’ll make’m pay. Do we hav to take Micky?”

“Mind ye their mums don’t let em out without proper clothes.” Mary’s voice trailed off. She didn't have the heart to force babysitting off on Molly on a rainy day.

Molly hopped into her room and closed the door. Although Mary had not finished her motherly lecture, she elected to save the bulk of it for later. In front of her loomed the attic pull down stairs. "I wonder what that scamp was into?"

Mary pulled herself up the attic stairs and peered into the darkness. Somewhere her hand found the cotton pull cord of the attic light. “If I find a leprechaun up here I will scream bloody murder I will.” She was used to talking to herself; her teenage children rarely gave her more than a short audience.

She discovered an old chair and rested herself. It had been a year since she was in the attic. Usually, one of the men of the house hauled boxes and trunks up and down the steep attic stairs. “What could interest me Molly so much up here?”

Although hidden in the shadow, a trunk was open on her right. Mary reached over to an attic window and pulled off the dirty brown cloth covering. The room suddenly filled with a gray light. “Rain gonna wash us all away. Whisht, will you. Lookie there.”

Mary spied the open trunk and scattered clothes around an old Bible. The pages were turned to Psalms, and a verse marker was indicating the 135th Psalm. “Mercy.” Mary looked around the trunk then saw the two clean splotches in the dust. Both spots were directly in front of the trunk.

Tears immediately began to run down Mary’s face. “She ad to be kneeln’ here. I shoulda knowed’ it.”

Outside the house laughing voices broke the foreboding silence of the attic. Mary stood to look out the window. Four youngsters were walking in the street. Rain splashed off their plastic rain slickers. From the attic Mary could see the short yellow skirt of her daughter bouncing along under a short rain cape.

“Surely, dear Lord, sometimes it must rain for a mum to know her daughter.”

Scroggins

The mahogany doors swung open wide enough for a chair to roll through. “Stephanie.”

“Yes, Mr. Scroggins.” Scroggins’ administrative assistant looked up from her desk, a pen was poised in her hand.

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, Mr. Scroggins.”

“Where is it?”

“I put it in your coat pocket, your card is attached.”

Scroggins tilted further back in his seat. “Sign it?”

“Yes, sir.” Stephanie beamed.

“Good girl; soon as Smith finishes his briefing I am out of here. It’s pilgrimage night.”

“Are you meeting Mrs. Scroggins? Anything I can do for her?”

“No, she is in the Hamptons, she is making her own arrangements, but thank you.”

He rolled back into the meeting. Minutes later he was standing in his office door putting on his coat.

Stephanie handed him the Wall Street Journal as he passed.

“Have my briefcase sent the house.” He folded down the collar of the London Fog jacket.

“Check. I put your tickets in your briefcase, outer zipper pocket, with your passport. Your appointment book is on the other side. Oh, and I stuck that Berlitz guide in your briefcase too, just in case.” Stephanie checked off a list as she spoke. "And, one last item, here is the check you asked for." She handed him a legal size envelope.

“Great. I won’t talk to you again till Monday then.”

“Monday’s a holiday sir, I won’t be in unless you need me.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I will be flying Saturday, arriving Sunday. The dinner is Monday night. Septh is this a Christmas dinner I am going to?”

“Think so sir, but it is formal, I called your house and had your tux put in. I also called the the hotel and arranged for a hostess gift to be waiting for you.”

“You’re a marvel Stephanie, have a great holiday.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Scroggins.” She sat back down at her PC.

Scroggins stuffed the envelope into his pocket, there it joined the small box previously put in the pocket by his assistant. Minutes later he was in the lobby of the S&G Investment Group building.

Sid, the shoe shine man, saw him approach, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scroggins”

“Seeya Sid.”

A doorman hurried to open the door as he approached.

“Henry, get me a cab.”

The doorman blew his whistle and a yellow cab splashed to the curb. “Where to Mr. Scroggins?” the doorman asked.

“Dix.”

“Dix, interstate drive at industrial,” the doorman shouted at the cab driver.

The cabbie leaned over the seat. “Hey mister, Dix is out of district, I can’t wait there so it will be an extra $40.”

“Go,” said Scroggins.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Scroggins,” called the doorman as the cab pulled away.

The cab finally arrived at the suburban area and pulled up in front of Dix center, a white columned Georgian styled building. A lifesize creche blocked the entrance.

Scroggins tucked the journal under one arm and negociated a path to the door.

“Mr. Scroggins,” a cheery voice echoed in the foyer. “Good to see you.”

“Ms. Rienkov, as I remember.”

“Yes, Sir. Merry Christmas.”

“Hold this.” He handed her his newspaper then reached in his coat pocket and grabbed both the envelope and the small box. “Here's the check,” he laid the envelope on the counter, “I think everything is in order. And put this,” he handed her the small box, “somewhere under that Christmas tree, for Christmas morning or whenever you have the party.”

“You won’t be here this year?”

He looked at her over the top of his half glasses. He had never been there for their little departmental parties. It amazed him that she would ask that same question every year. “I’ll be in Paris, if anyone should ask.”

The woman took the two packages into an office area and emerged with a clipboard. Her cherry attitude had mellowed. “Sign here please, so the official folks know who was in the building.”

Scroggins grumbled and signed the register. “Anything I should know?”

“No sir. You are expected.”

“Fine.” He brushed past Rienkov and walked down a long hall. At the end of the hall he emerged into a wide interior courtyard. At the end of the courtyard stood a tall woman, in the dim light of the room her cheeks, framed by matted gray hair, looked almost hollow. She slowly turned and pulled a shawl higher on her shoulder as he approached.

Scroggins tucked the journal under his arm. “Mother.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Park Bench

Relentless sun beat down, sun hot enough to fry eggs on the pavement so the weatherman claimed. Henderson Wyatt sat on a metal bench underneath a tall Oak, his old eyes barely focused as he watched ducks swim in the park pond. Only an infrequent breeze moved the ducks on the water.

“Hey dude, ya gotta light?” A rash voice interrupted Henderson’s trance.

Henderson glanced up at the gangly young man. “Quit smoking fifteen years ago.”

“Didn’t ask fer yer life story, jes a light.”

Henderson didn’t reply, just crossed his legs and returned to his passive gaze.

“Whatcha sit her do’in all day? I see you here all the time.”

“Good place to watch ducks.” Henderson elected to try a curt reply, hoping the young man would move along.

“Ducks, man ya got some strange in the brain.”

“God’s creatures.” Perhaps he will finally move away. Henderson took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.

“God? I heared of him once. Ma used to drag me to church when I was a kid.”

Henderson looked over the top of his glasses at the young man, he is still a kid.
“Oh,” Henderson replied.

“Ma’s done gone now too, jus like the ol man. Cops got the ol man, but they planted ma last month.”

“Oh. So, where do you live now?” Sheesh, I can’t believe I asked him that, he will never leave, hope he gives up.

“Yer in my liven’ room, sittn’ on my couch. I lives riach here.”

“Don’t you go to school?”

“Naw, after they took ma I moved here. Uh, I'm old enough.” The young man's protest was lost on Henderson.

“Nobody looks for you?” Henderson wiped the dampness from his mouth.

“Ain’t nobody . Nobody even to watch me like you watch them ducks.”

Henderson laughed. “God’s watching you.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t see Him anywhere.”

“You have a radio?” Henderson noticed the tiny black box attached to the young man.

“Batteries are dead.”

“But when the batteries worked, you could listen to the radio, right?”

“Yeah, suppose so.”

“Could you see the radio signal, the airwaves?”

“Nope.”

“Do you believe that the radio waves are here right now if you had batteries for your radio?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“God’s here too, sorta like that, but you don’t need batteries, you can look at the sun, the trees, even the ducks, to know that He is here. He provided it all.” Now, he will run away for sure.

“Yeah, I guess I sees what you mean.”

“I think maybe your mother did a little more than take you to church.”

The young man put a knee on the park bench. “Mister, you a preacher?”

“Nope, just a tired ol man, sitting here talking to God, on a hot afternoon.” Henderson removed his glasses and wiped the perspiration off the lens.

“Talk’n, how you do that? I bet you be pray’n.”

“Kind of, yes, talking to God is called praying.”

“A man prayed at the cemetery when ma died. Didn’t see God there.”

“Oh, He was there, accepting your mother into His house, but they are in heaven and you can’t see heaven from here.”

“Oh, kinda like New Jersey?”

There’s a parallel I never considered. Much further.

“Kin I git there?”

“Sure, but you gotta talk to God about it.”

“I kin do that?”

“Uh huh.” Henderson paused, then said, “You know, in the basement of the big church up on 14th., about two blocks from here, they have free food, and there are folks there that will help you talk to God.”

“Cool, hey ol’ dude you know a lot of stuff.”

“That’s God’s doing. I’m just a mouthpiece for Him, sometimes. Come on I need some iced tea, I’ll walk up there with you.” Henderson stood and began walking toward the avenue. “Coming?” he asked, looking over his shoulder and tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket. Hope the kid follows.

“Sure, why not.”

“Good.” Well, Jesus, here’s one to work on, I’m putting my hope in You. A cool breeze blew off of the pond and seemed to follow Henderson and his unlikely new friend.

Manure Sale

A thousand pounds of fresh manure began to slide off the trailer and onto the street. “Dag nabit Billy, whatcha wanna go and release that hitch for?” Harold Turner stood on the sidewalk watching his nephew trying to force the unbalanced trailer hitch back onto the silver ball. “Especially, with that trailer loaded.”

“I could use a little hep.” Billy pressed his body against the steel arm. “Lord, if’n yer listen’n, send me an angel to hep, cause uncle Harold ain’t gonna.”

About the time he finished his pseudo prayer the last of the load slid off the trailer and onto the street. The balance again shifted and the steel bar slammed down upon the hitch ball. Billy locked it into place.

“Lota good it do ya now,” Harold laughed, shook his head and muttered, “a brick short.”

Billy stood and looked to the back of the trailer. A pile of smelly green fertilizer was resting in the street next to the curb.

“Get a shovel and I’ll be back an hour or so.” Harold started walking toward a corner tavern.

Billy slowly picked up a shovel from in back of the pickup. His uncle was known for practical jokes, and telling Billy to unhitch the trailer was one. Harold often took similar advantage of Billy’s slow demeanor; then Harold would slip into the nearest pub.

Billy scooped the first shovel full of manure and tossed it into the trailer. A dark Buick suddenly pulled up along side of the Billy. “Whatcha doin with that manure? You sell’n it?”

“Well we’us gonna,” Billy did not finish his sentence.

“I need a some for my wife’s roses, I gotta cardboard box in the trunk, do you think I could get a couple of shovel’s full? I’ll give you $20. Fair enough, save me drive’n clear across town to the home improvement store.” The man got out of his car and produced the box which Billy quickly filled then carefully placed the box back in the trunk of the man’s car.

A lady from a house across the street walked over to the old pickup. “You got fertilizer for sale? Let me get the wheelbarrow, fresh manure is hard to come by.” Minutes later she came back pushing a plastic wheelbarrow. Billy filled it then pushed the wheelbarrow back to the lady’s house. “Here you are young man.” She stuffed a twenty dollar bill into Billy’s shirt while they were walking.

When Billy got back to the truck there were three more men with wagons and wheelbarrows waiting. As he filled one, another would arrive. In about fifteen minutes Billy had filled everyone’s request, and not a scrap of manure was left on the street.

“Listen, if you could bring another load by here on Saturday morning, I’m sure lots of folks would appreciate it,” said one of the men as he rolled his wagon away. “I’ll tell the neighbors you’ll be by.”

Billy’s pocket bulged with twenty dollar bills.

Billy walked across the street to the corner bar and saw his uncle sitting on a bar stool. “Hey Uncle Harold,” Billy chimed.

“Boy, don’t you know they don’t allow people like you in bars. Take that truck on over to hardware store, and make sure they give you $15 for thet load of manure, then take yer truck on home, and give ever penny of thet $15 to yer mother. I’ll find a ride. Kin ya find the store?

“But, Uncle Harold,” Billy protested.

“Go on now scat, not another word.”

Billy ducked his head and turned toward the entrance. As he neared the door he overheard his uncle say to the bartender, “the kid ain’t right, he’s slow ya know.”

Instead of going directly to the hardware store Billy took the truck and trailer back to the farm and had another load of manure put on the bed. Then he drove to the hardware store and watched as a crew unloaded the fresh fertilizer into waiting gunny sacks.

“Here’s the $15 I told yer uncle I would pay for a load,” said the store manager. “Bring another one on Saturday.”

“Okay, I’ll be late comin’, I got something to do.”

“That’s fine. Try to get here be noon. You kin find yer way home cain’t ya boy?”

“Yes, sur.”

Billy got in the pickup and drove out of the parking lot. “Lord I didn’t see no angel and I didn’t mean to ask fer so much, and wow, ah certainly didn’t count on prosperity.”

When Myra Sang

Myra tried to look through the stained glass window of the big downtown church. Strains of “Ode to Joy,” soaked through the beautiful colors in the glass. “Oh, love, it will be so wonderful, they will roll a red carpet out for us.” A slight Bavarian accent frequented her words, but only the breeze in the alley way greeted her speech.

“Mercy, aren’t you the darling one.” She placed a hand on a lamp post and swung around. “You sir are so tall and strong. Would you mind helping a lady across the avenue? Will you be in the orchestra?”

“Come on Myra, let’s go back to the park.” A uniformed police officer approached the ragged lady spinning on the light post.”

“Cool it love, it’s the cops.” Myra held tightly to the post.

“Let’s go Myra, I really don’t have time this evening for your nonsense, let’s go.”

“Do you hear love, the young man in uniform is proposing to whisk me away.” She stopped spinning and glared at the officer. “You sir, take the joy out of being alive, why don’t you go to the park and I will stay here and listen to the music.”

“Myra, I’ve had to continually run you away from this church, you worry the good people.”

The officer started pushing her cart toward the corner.

“Take your hands off of my property,” she screamed. “Gestapo!”

The officer parked the cart. “Hush, Myra, if I have call for a car you are going to spend the night in jail, now let’s get you away from the church and off to the park.”

Myra looked at the lamp post. “Do you hear? The uniformed gentleman has offered to take me to the park, you never did that.” Myra turned to the officer. “Very well, we shall be off; if you will just let me listen to the rest of this music they are rehearsing. I promise I won’t take a step toward the front of the church.”

The police officer shook his head. “Okay, but just a few minutes, we don’t want people seeing you here.”

“Listen, the tenor is about to sing.”

From cracked-open window a tenor’s voice was heard singing: “Joyously, / Through Heaven's glorious order…”

“Now the chorus.” Choral voices rang inside the church.

Myra began a low tone then burst into a soprano voice singing in German.
“Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
was die Mode streng geteilt:
alle Menschen werden Brüder,
wo dein snafter Flügel weilt.”

The music came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

Myra took a deep breath. The officer quickly stepped up on the curb. “Come on Myra, your stage days are over. They will probably have us both arrested.”

Myra stumbled down to her shopping cart and bumped it off the curb.

A small man holding a baton rounded the corner of the church. “Wait, wait,” he cried.

“Oh, oh.” The officer stepped between Myra and the man with the baton.

“Please, I must speak to that voice,” the man pled, his eyes budging and tears running down his face.

“We’re just moving along sir, no need to get excited, I won’t let her bother y’all again.”

“No, no, please, she sings as one trained in German opera, please sir let me speak with her.”

“Listen, she’s a little off, you know touched, a street person.”

He shook the baton at the officer. “All the great artists were crazy.” The man peeked around at the grubby woman hiding behind the officer. “You sing for me yes? Where you sing before?”

“Neukoellner, sir.”

“Oh, my. Oh Praise God. My dear where have you been?”

“Here sir, I have no sponsor, my company was disbanded.”

“We will sponsor you.” The small man was shaking with joy. “Officer, take that cart to the back of the church, we will keep it safe, but she is coming inside to the chorus.”

“Yes, yes, oh joy.” The small man reached a hand to Myra.

A dirty hand extended around the officer grasped the hand of the small man. “Thank you sir this is the happiest day I have had since arriving here.”

Note: Many talented artists – music, dance, theatre, are being forced into the street by government cuts and uncultured opinions. It is said that in New York today, one could create an Opera company and orchestra from the homeless.

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