Brisk Little Stories Read online

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  I am an old man.

  Eventful was my life. The memories I have of my young self are vivid and complete.

  Sometimes I wish for the memory issues that seniors sometimes experience at my age. To forget some of the things I have done would be a vacation from my conscience.

  Then again, there are the memories that I should learn to bask in. There are the secrets that I have learned, which some would kill for.

  I remember when I was hired to eliminate a man named Mike Wells. He was a smalltime politician who had begun to make a name for himself in uncorrupted ways.

  After doing my homework, I learned everything I believed necessary to complete the job. One key piece of knowledge was that Mike Wells often required the services of a company, Tomorrows Mechanics Inc.

  The television was turned to a newscast when I entered one of the many rooms of the Mike Wells’ estate. I wore the beige jumpsuit and held the tool bag of a Tomorrows Mechanics employee.

  The room had nine-foot ceilings and polished oak floors; there was a large window with heavy, red curtains draped over it; and surrounding the television were four white-cushioned chairs that had wooden trim and armrests.

  “Good.” The voice of Mike Wells was whiny and boyish.

  I turned as the average height man walked into the room. He had on black slacks but no shirt. I raised an eyebrow and suddenly wondered what the services of Tomorrows Mechanics were.

  “I need this fixed immediately,” Mike Wells said, “I’ve an important engagement tonight.”

  Before I could respond, Mike Wells turned around.

  The tool bag left my hand and made a heavy thud when it dropped onto the oak floor.

  “Does it look that bad?” Mike Wells asked, “How long will this take.” He did not turn back around.

  A glass door on his back concealed a circuit board with switches and lights that wildly blinked and flashed.

  “These crazy lights claim my processor is in mayhem,” Mike Wells whined, “Although I do not feel any different for it.” He shrugged and heavily sighed.

  I covered my mouth with my left hand as if to keep myself from screaming.

  “Well?” Mike Wells stood there, barefooted and shirtless. He turned to face me and I dropped my hand from my mouth. For the first time in my career, I was dumbfounded. “Well?” Mike Wells asked again.

  But I was not stupefied. “It looks worse than it is,” I said while hoping that I knew enough to at least reset Mike Wells.

  My job was to eliminate humans, not robots.

  Fifteen minutes later, I took my leave and was just about to close the door when I heard the volume on the television increase.

  “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  I shook my head and closed the door.

  This is one of those memories, one of the secrets that I’ve learned, which some would kill for.

  END

  It's a Numbers Game

  I was returning home to face the nightmare.

  Merging onto the I-405 heading north/west from LAX, I was going home for the first time in nine years.

  I tried to remember my Malibu, CA home; the house was easy, but for so long I had pushed its beautiful views from my mind. The vast blue; the rushing of waves that crashed onto the beige sands; the seagulls that often made our yard their home; the salty, seaweed-scented air…

  The place scared me to death.

  I shook my head, “I’m over that.” I told the emptiness of my rented wagon.

  It was blue with gray exterior and vinyl seats. It matched my blue shirt, gray shorts, and vinyl shoes. “It was just a dream.”

  My knuckles were white and I loosened my grip of the steering wheel. “It’s just the summer heat that’s making me uneasy.”

  It had been fifteen years since that nightmare and I felt ridicules for having held onto it so tightly, for having ever believed that my own brother was going to kill me.

  The nightmare had come to my seven-year-old mind on the night of his birth, a night terror that began with my walking on the beach just in front of my parent’s house. I did not know my age, but I knew that I was a man and not a boy.

  It was a clear, still day; light waves flapped against the shore to my left; the sun shone from directly above; I was barefooted and could feel the warmth of the sands.

  I came upon some seaweed and squinted down at it, “What?” The seaweed spelled out, u r it.

  I looked up and there stood a man not five feet from me.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked. He stood not a foot taller than my six feet but was thin. I could feel the sturdiness and bulkiness of my body, and see the scrawniness of his body even through his oversized shorts and white t-shirt.

  “Who are you?”

  He faced the ocean but looked at me, “Jim, don’t take it personal,” he said in a light toned voice. His brown eyes were two small for his square face and sat too close together. His hair fell in straight, brown strands to his shoulders.

  “How do you know my name?” I took a step back, “Don’t take what personal?”

  “It’s a numbers game, brother.” He sighed, “The way I see it, I double my profit by removing you from the game.”

  “Brother?” My parents had told me what his name would be, “Vick?”

  “Jimmy-Jim, you should run.”

  I saw the glitter of the knife in his right hand as he turned toward me. “But you’re my brother.”

  He smiled a slanted smile, “Jimmy-Jim, it’s a game.” He lifted the knife and I decided to heed his advice.

  I ran across the shoreline of Malibu, CA and knew my brother was pursuing me because I felt the stings of slicing at my back.

  With every sinking step I took, I heard the words, “You are it.”

  It was ridiculous to believe that the dream would become true. When I left California, my brother was a chubby 11-year-old boy. He had short wavy hair and a cute rounded face.

  My reflection in the rearview mirror showed more of the square faced, straight haired young man I had seen in my dream. However, I had short, straight brown hair; my hazel eyes were large, not the eyes featured in my nightmare; and I was far from the scrawny knife wielding predator that my dream had warned me about.

  I had hoped that I would grow up to be the bad brother, the jealous and mentally imbalanced brother so that I could commit myself to an insane asylum before hurting somebody.

  “Breath,” I told myself, “It was a dream.” I stood beside my rental just outside my parent’s cute white and lilac bungalow.

  Around the back of the house was the deck that met the sands of Malibu. I decided to sneak a quick look at the view.

  That was when I saw him. Holding a surfboard and wearing black swim shorts was a scrawny young man returning from a day out in the waters. He stood a foot taller than me with brown eyes that were two small for his square face and sat too close together. His hair fell in wet, brown strands to his shoulders.

  He paused for just a moment when he saw me standing on the deck. A look of disbelief came over him, “Jimmy-Jim, is that you?”

  “Vick?”

  “Brother,” he dropped his surfboard and started for the deck, “You should have told us that you were coming home?”

  But what I heard was, “Brother, you should run.”

  And I did.

  I ran right pass my rental and kept going until I found a rare standing payphone at a gas station and called myself a taxi.

  It was then that I realized it, when I read the embroidered letters on the cab drivers green baseball hat, “It’s a numbers game.”

  “It’s a game,” I said, “And I’m playing it wrong.”

  “What?” the old cab driver asked.

  “That was my mistake in the dream,” I think I was scaring the old guy, but I was brainstorming. “I ran when I should have stayed and played the game.”

  I had the taxi drop me off in front of my parent’s house a
nd paid him double. “Thanks, you just saved my life.” He gave me a strange look but said nothing.

  “Jimmy-Jim,” I turned as the taxi drove away. “What happened?” Vick was leaning against my rental, still dressed for the beach.

  I looked him over and swallowed hard. “I forgot something at the airport.”

  “Um, whatever,” he smiled a slanted smile as I made my way over to him.

  “Welcome home bro.”

  I smiled, “Thanks,” and gave him a playful slug on the shoulder,

  “You’re it.”

  We’re still playing the numbers game.

  END