The dame with the hat stepped back and pulled the .38 snub nose from her pocket, “The packet, give me the packet,” she demanded.
Without hesitating, my new found friend kicked the pistol from the dame’s hand and punched her in the nose. The dame fell back into the makeshift bar, spilling peanuts and knocking the plank off the crates. Drinks tumbled to the dirty floor, and the bartender did not look happy. The dame was knocked out cold. Then the blonde Rambo turned to me, and kissed me again.
I said to her, “I kinda understand that you’re my contact and you kissed me to ward off the dame but what was that last kiss for?”
“Me,” she said and kissed me again.
*
Cleve Sylcox is the author of six books with many more on the way. To read his short stories and poems check out his blog,
http://csylcox.wordpress.com
*
The Call
Corrie Fischer
(Based on a True Story)
I suppose I should start from the beginning. How does one define such a point? Does it truly start at conception or perhaps at birth? Of course the question here is not where life began. No, it is something far more. Where did the pain arise? For that, we must go back to my first memory.
It was a cold November morning and I was four years old. I do not remember playing in the gym’s daycare. One may hypothesize they did not have memorable toys there. It was most likely filled with donated objects that scattered across a plain, ordinary carpet. The scene must not have been within my mental capacity to hold dear.
Debra arrived there to get me. My mother, Nancy, was standing behind her, yet she was a world away. I cannot picture their faces or the words they spoke to me. The thoughts simply vanished from my young mind. All I have of the missing pieces is their own, distorted accounts. After all, memories are a tricky, fragile thing. This is part of what makes eye witness statements so unreliable. One person may see a red ball cap while another swears it was a tan cowboy hat on the suspect. The causes of such distorted recollections have baffled scientists for years. They have theories of course, but that is what they remain. They are hollow speculations to provide answers to one of humanity’s greatest phenomenon. Of course, I am getting off topic.
From what their combined memories recollect, the three of us ventured into the gym parking lot. Arriving in front of the beaten, blue car, it was obvious my mother could not drive. Something was wrong with her, something very wrong. Debra plucked the keys from her hand and helped her into the passenger side of the metal contraption. She opened the door for me, but I refused her help and crawled in of my own will. They always said I was stubborn. The fact is certainly true in recent times.
The vehicle began to move. I cannot recall how long it traveled or the number of turns it took to reach our destination. I would like to believe I asked my mother if she was okay. I hope that I told her how much I loved her and that everything was going to be alright. Unfortunately, I was only four. My mind was unable to process such complex thoughts. One can only assume I sat in the back, playing with some now irrelevant toy that meant the world to me then. Isn’t it funny how things change like that? At one point in life, a simple object can be everything. It is lovingly carried from one place to another, attached at a child’s side as though it was a section of their soul. If anyone attempted to remove such a thing, they would be hated, revoked as horrible and most likely subjected to a terrible tantrum. At the moment in that car, my mother would have probably welcomed such torture compared to the daunting reality of what came next.
Then it happened. The car stopped in front of the familiar house where my mother, father, and I all lived. I knew the place well. From this point forward, I may alas, speak of my own memories. I must warn you though they are certainly not pleasant things, not in the slightest. By the time I stepped out of the car, my mother was already halfway up the porch steps. My attention was drawn to her and the sight of my father standing at the top of the concrete structure. He was waiting for her, he was ready. Or was he?
The sights and sounds that followed have haunted my memory for years and can never be forgotten; never be erased. In that moment, it filled my soul and cut through my young core. I did not hear the words my father had spoken. Even if I had, my forming mind could not comprehend their full meaning. I will tell you what I do remember. I remember my mother and that sound, that horrible aching noise. In that instant, I watched as her knees buckled and she fell onto the cold concrete below. A scream of sheer terror and agony flowed through the air like a sonic boom, sending sound waves across my ears. The words that left her lips will never leave my mind. They still often arise in my nightmares. After all, this was the day I lost my mother. This was the day everything changed.
*
Her workout was proceeding quite nicely. Debra raised the treadmill level up a notch as she continued to gossip with her beloved friend Nancy. The woman on the neighboring piece of equipment cranked her own device up a level. Both women were truly competitors at heart. It was a commonality that had brought them together, among other things. Everything was as it should be; nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just another November day in the gym. She could have never anticipated what would come next.
Debra watched as a gym employee approached, staring right at them. The woman looked fully prepared to interrupt their exercise routine. Debra felt annoyed. The young, blonde walked straight up to the two ladies. Debra had seen her here before and sized her up as just another bimbo with a nice, young figure. Debra’s defensive state caused her to push the treadmill to a higher pace. As she watched the girl’s expression, her own attitude changed.