January 2015 Issue of 

The Scribblers Newsletter

Happy New Year and welcome to the January 2015 issue of The Scribblers.  I apologize that, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was not able to publish the December issue.  However, we can start fresh in this brand new year.  

In this issue we have new writing prompts, the Washington Posts 10 best books of 2014, and the New York Times 20 fiction bestsellers of 2014.   

Since we've never done an issue about writing for kids, we have a list of free resources to help you tailor your stories for children and a short, short story that was my contest entry to a children's writer's e-zine a few years ago.

Please feel free to submit your writing for publication in the newsletter.  All you have to do is email it to Colleen.  It can be fiction, non-fiction, short story, poetry, essay, memoir, etc.  We'd be happy to include it in the next issue.  And if there is something you'd like to see in the newsletter, email me at the same address and we'll do our best to accommodate you.

January Writing Prompts

Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use to generate stories. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story.  Above all, have fun with it.  

1.  Ignoring the advice of friends, a famous weather reporter gets married on a whim.

2.  On vacation for the first time in years, an out-of-work writer is reunited with a long-lost twin.

3.  While suffering a crisis of faith, a night watchman uncovers a hidden family secret.

The New York Times 20 fiction bestsellers of 2014.   

1.  Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

2.  Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline

3.  The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

4.  The Martian  by Andy Weir

5.  Dark Places  by Gillian Flynn

6.  Sharp Objects  by Gillian Flynn

7.  Fifty Shades of Grey (Fifty Shades Trilogy #1) by E L James

8.  The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry  by Gabrielle Zevin

9.  The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

10.  The Strange Library  by Haruki Murakami

11.  Americanah  by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

12.  Sycamore Row by John Grisham

13.  Captivated by You (Crossfire Series #4)  by Sylvia Day

14.  Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

15.  The Light Between Oceans by M. L. Stedman

16.  The First Phone Call from Heaven by Mitch Albom

17.  The Best of Me by Nicholas Sparks

18.  What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

19.  The Best American Short Stories 2014 by Jennifer Egan

20.  The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

The Secret Hallway

by Colleen Weikel

Some old lady came into my room tonight.   She wasn’t even quiet.  She made enough noise to wake the dead.   Didn’t she see we were sleeping? 

 

My friend Keyboard was spending the night, my first night in the new house.  The house was old, but new to my family.  We just moved in this morning.  

When the old lady woke us up, we saw her go into my closet.  She still hasn’t come out!  So here we are, Keyboard and me, huddled under a blanket on my closet floor with just a tent shaped fold sticking up to look through and breathe through.

My name is Jackson Stone, but all my friends call me Stoney.  Keyboard and me are only 10 years old, but pretty adventurous.  So if someone is going to come into my bedroom and disappear in my closet, we’re going to find out who and why.  And we’re staying here until she leaves, or my mom calls us for breakfast.  Nothin makes me miss breakfast…or lunch… or, yeah, dinner.

Right now I wish my other buddy, Catfish, was here.  Not that me and Keyboard are scared or anything.  She’s a really, really old lady with a hunched back and a walking stick.  Looks kind of like the witch in Snow White, but I’m not going to think about that right now.

I checked my watch.  We’d been here about 15 minutes and we were bored.  I threw off the blanket and grabbed my flashlight off the shelf and flipped it on.   In the back of the closet was an opening.  I can see it.  Beyond the opening there was a long, narrow, dusty looking hallway.  Keyboard and my dog, Baxter, followed me down the hallway.

Keyboard tugged at my shirt and whispered, “What do you think she’s doing?”  He crept silently along the corridor.

“You got me!  But we’re going to find out,” I said. 

 “Look over there,” I pointed to a shadow that was getting larger on the far wall, “what is that?”

“I d-don’t know, but we better HIDE!”  He took a couple of steps forward and disappeared.

“Keyboard?  Where’d you go?” I whispered, panicking.  I knew the old lady had got him.  She probably turned him into a potted plant or a garden gnome.

Just then a hand shot out from around a corner and grabbed my wrist.  I knew the witch had me now. 

 She’d probably boil me in oil or bake me into a cookie or something.  When I felt the hand on my arm shaking, I realized it was Keyboard how had grabbed me.  He pulled me into a dark little room and we hid until we were sure the old lady wasn’t after us.

“Did you see that?  I thought we were goners for sure,” Keyboard whispered.

“Me, too,” I played the flashlight beam around the room.  We spotted a rickety little desk in the corner near the window.  Above the desk hung a framed picture of Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob with the Peanut Gallery in the background.  Carved on the desktop were the initials VW.  In the drawer a dead rubber band held a stack of report cards together.  The student’s name was Vincent Weatherby.  The dates were sequential from 1956 through 1968.

“Stoney, these are 1956 all the way to 1968!”

“Who the heck is Vincent Weatherby?” I mumbled.

“Tell you in a sec,” Keyboard pulled out his smart phone, pounding on the keyboard.  “Aha!” he said, sounding like he’d just discovered fire or air or something.

“Hah?” I said.  “What do you mean by aha?” 

 Sometimes Keyboard was overly dramatic and it worked on my nerves.  This was one of those times.

“Ok.  Vincent Weatherby, born and raised here in this house.  Honor student through high school.  Mother’s name Violet, father William.  William died shortly after Vincent graduated.  Violet still lives here?  I don’t’ get it.  This is your house.”

“Yeah, since this morning.  Maybe the internet hasn’t caught up with me yet,”

I said, laughing.  “Call Bill Gates and let him know I moved.”

Keyboard glanced out the window and called me over.  The old lady was standing on what my mother calls a widow’s walk, holding a kerosene lantern and slowly turning in a circle.

“What’s she doing?” I asked

“Let me read the rest of this to you,” Keyboard said, turning back to his phone.  “Vincent Weatherby disappeared in 1975 when the fishing boat he was working on capsized 5 miles from shore.”

“Wow!  So it’s his mom shining that light hoping he’ll see it and come home?”

A shadow fell across the window.  “Here she domes!  Dive!  Dive!” I whispered to Keyboard and slid under the desk.

Just as Keyboard dove in beside me the window opened and the old lady stepped through.  She set the kerosene lamp on the desk and walked out of the room.  We gave her a head start and followed her back to my bedroom and out of the closet.

She never looked back.  She marched through the bedroom and down the stairs.  I heard the kitchen door close softly and watched Mrs. Weatherby walk away.

“Are you gonna tell your folks?” Keyboard asked.

“Nah.  She’s just an old lady who misses her son.  Like our moms when we got lost in the woods last year.”

The End

Free Resources for Children's Writers

1.  Rachelle Burk's RESOURCES for CHILDREN'S  WRITERS:

http://resourcesforchildrenswriters.blogspot.com/

2.  Aaron Shepard’s Kidwriting Page:  http://www.aaronshep.com/kidwriter/

3.  Write for Kids:  http://writeforkids.org/

4.  Deborah Freedman's Resources for Writers and Illustrators of Children's Books: http://www.deborahfreedman.net/information/resources-for-writers.html

5.  Children's Writing Resources:  

http://www.writerswrite.com/childrens/links.htm

6.  Marisa Montes Sites for Teachers & Children's Writers Has a very good list of sites for Children's Writers: 

http://www.marisamontes.com/sites_for_childrens_writers.htm

7.  Every Writer: http://www.everywritersresource.com/childrens-book-publishers/

8.  Writing World:  

http://www.writing-world.com/children/

9.  Resources for Writing Chapter Books:  

http://www.childrensbookacademy.com/mondays-with-mandy-or-mira/resources-for-writing-chapter-books-plus-a-free-webinar-and-contest

10.  Ten tips for aspiring children's book writers:  

http://www.wvculture.org/arts/Artworks/Fall01/childrens.html

The 10 Best books of 2014 According to the Washington Post

1.  A BRIEF HISTORY OF SEVEN KILLINGS

By Marlon James

2.  FOURTH OF JULY CREEK

By Smith Henderson

3.  THE NARROW ROAD TO THE DEEP NORTH

By Richard Flanagan

4.  THE PAYING GUESTS

By Sarah Waters 

5.  STATION ELEVEN

By Emily St. John Mandel

6. BEING MORTAL

Medicine and What Matters in the End

By Atul Gawande

7.  BERLIN

Portrait of a City Through the Centuries

By Rory MacLean

8.  EMPIRE OF SIN

A Story of Sex, Jazz, Murder, and the Battle for Modern New Orleans

By Gary Krist 

9.  THE SIXTH EXTINCTION

An Unnatural History

By Elizabeth Kolbert 

10.  TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh

By John Lahr 

And Finally...

We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter. Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to Colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.

If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email Colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.

November 2014 Issue of 

The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the November issue of The Scribblers. In this issue we have new writing prompts, part 7 of Sisters by Jamie Baker and a look at author Wayne Stinnett. 

November Writing Prompts

Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use to generate stories. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story.  Above all, have fun with it.  

1.  Looking for a simpler life, a weary intelligence agent assumes a new identity.

2.  While writing an autobiography, a gossip columnist uncovers a hidden family secret.

**For those of you who like to write from prompts, and we hope you do, I have found a book called The Amazing Story Generator.  It makes developing your own writing prompts quick and easy. 

Sisters

Part 7

by Jamie Baker

The others were just 2 blocks from the apartment when Ken and Penny Crow pulled up in their VW bus, Ken tapping a couple of short blasts on the VW’s signature horn.    

“Hey, hippies,” Ken called out the driver’s window, “we’re on our way to a party.  Climb aboard.”

Penny reached back and unlatched the side door, sliding it open with a strong push.

Ginger and Marci flopped onto the rear bench seat, while Cartwheel packed their shopping bags into the space between the two front seats and crouched behind them.

“Where’s the party?” Ginger yelled over the whine of the engine.

“Your place, of course,” Penny laughed back, dangling a small bag of pot over Cartwheel’s head.

Ken and Penny are cousins, the son and daughter of Denny and Lincoln Crow, a pair of brothers who married a pair of sisters, Rose and Charlotte.  Ken and Penny look nothing alike, surprising since they are cousins both maternally and paternally.  Penny is blond and dimpled, rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed.  Ken is built similarly, only an inch or two taller than Penny, but his coloring is startlingly different.  With thick black hair and deep-set dark eyes on either side of a hawkish nose, he looks Mediterranean compared to Penny’s Nordic looks.   They grew up together, their respective families living only blocks away from each other, and now in their early twenties, they share a small cottage a few blocks from the University, where Penny is an early childhood development major and Ken works in the maintenance department.   It’s rare to see one without the other somewhere close by.

Penny, Ken and Carol crowd into a corner of the kitchen, around an old 1950’s dining set.  The Formica top is scarred with scratches and a few cigarette burns and the vinyl seats are split, but the tubular chrome legs look like they could last another 50 years.  Carol, closest to the window that looks out onto the courtyard, pulls the curtains closed. 

Penny nods at her, “Good idea.  I’m Penny and this is Ken.” Penny dumps the bag of pot into a shoe box lid that Ginger pulls from one of the kitchen cupboards. 

“That’s Carol,” Marci calls from the living room where she is flipping through a stack of LPs.  “She lives upstairs in number 32.” A few seconds later, Cream’s Strange Brew cranks up on the turntable.

“Jesus H. Christ, turn it down,” Ginger, at the sink filling a large pot for spaghetti, yells.  “That’s all we need,” she says to the stream of water, “the neighbors bitching and moaning and calling the cops.”

The decibel level drops significantly.

 

“Mellow out,” Ken says, handing her a joint and matches, “here light this.”

“What’s the H stand for?” Carol asks when Ginger hands her the joint.

Ginger holds her breath for several seconds before answering. “Herbert.”

Carol laughs a blast of smoke through her nose. 

The joint passes from hand to hand and for a few minutes the only sounds heard over Ginger Baker are the whistling pull of inhales and strangled coughs. 

Cartwheel hands the joint to Carol, turning back to the counter where he is slicing a fat loaf of sour dough for garlic bread.

“I guess our steak connection fell through,” he says through wisps of smoke he tries to hold back.

“Oh, shit,” says Marci, “I forgot about Roy.  I wonder what happened.”

“Who cares,” says Ginger.  She gets up and pulls a quart bottle of tequila out of an upper cupboard.  “Get the shot glasses out of that cupboard, Cartwheel.”

“We saw Roy on our way over here.  Over on Grant.  He was talking to some straight dude, so we didn’t stop.”

Ginger pushes mismatched shot glasses around the table and then reaches the bottle out and fills each one.

“What straight dude?” Cartwheel asks.

“I don’t know, just some block head with a crew cut.  He reminded me of that recruiter who came to our high school.”  Ken says.  He leans back in his chair and downs the shot with a quick twist of his wrist.

Penny takes a big sip of her shot and shivers.  “I remember him,” choking a little on the tequila.  “All ‘Uncle Sam wants you’ and patriotic and shiney.”

“I doubt Uncle Sam wants Roy ‘Reno’ Brown.” Ginger says.

“How come you’re so pissed at Roy?” Marci says.

“Because he’s an asshole.  Look at that shit he pulled in the store.”

“Well, just because he’s a shop lifter, doesn’t make him an asshole.”

“Not a shop lifter, a steak lifter.” Carol volunteers and the others laugh.

“Look,” Ginger says with a grimace, downing her shot, “he could have got us all in trouble.  And Carol is a minor.   I’m sure she doesn’t want the police knocking on her parent’s door.”

“Gees, Ginger lighten up; they didn’t even know Roy was with us.” Marci says.  

       

“Besides, he’s an asshole because he’s such a bull shitter.   Thinks he’s such a lady killer.  He puts the moves on every girl he sees.    I bet he even tried to hit on Carol and she’s a kid.  I wouldn’t fuck that dick weed for a million bucks.”

“For a million bucks?” Marcie is leering suggestively.  “Hell, I would.”

“Too late, you already did.  And for free.” Ginger said, pouring out another round of shots. “And from what I’ve seen, once Roy ‘Reno’ Brown’s got your notch on his belt, he’s done with you.”

A Short, Short Story

This is more a brief scene than a short story

The Party

by Colleen Weikel

The party had just gotten underway when Frank and Janet arrived. They were the perfect couple, always teasing each other, doting on each other.

I met them in the foyer, "Hi, you two! Come in. Have a drink and mingle."

"Can I bring you a drink, Honey?" Janet asked, gliding toward the bar, almost out of earshot by the time Frank responded.

"Please." Frank turned to me smiling a friendly smile. "So, how is Steve? Still making the mega bucks?"

"Steve is wonderful, but he's gone so much," I replied.

"That's too bad, you must miss him. Maybe he'll take you along on his next trip," he smiled again.

"Perhaps," I replied as Frank touched my hand, "He's leaving Friday for London. He'll be gone two whole weeks," I said, breathless, watching Frank's expression. 

He looked toward the bar where Janet was standing, waiting for their drinks and talking to Ben Miller, our neighbor who fancies himself a ladies' man. Frank reached behind me, lightly brushing my shoulder, and leaning against the door frame, smiling down at me.

"London? Nice city," he smiled, "I suppose you'll be working on the fundraiser for the football team while he's away?"

I almost laughed, "Of course. Steve's absences give me a chance to really concentrate on my favorite causes."

His hand found the small of my back and rested there. "What time is he leaving? Maybe I can drive him to the airport."

"He must be there by 9:00 a.m. With all the new regulations since 911, one must check in very early at the airport when going overseas."

Frank tipped his head ever so slightly to the left and, looking directly into my eyes, said, "one must."

A Look at Wayne Stinnett

Last year I found a series of books on Amazon.com by author Wayne Stinnett.  They are very different from what I usually read, but I've read and thoroughly enjoyed all 5 in the series and became curious about the author. 

Wayne Stinnett has 5 novels to his credit, his first published in 2013:  Fallen Palm, Fallen Out, Fallen Mangrove, Fallen Pride and Fallen Hunter.  I have read and enjoyed all of them.

Wayne Stinnett was born in West Virginia. At age 12 his family moved to Florida where he grew up in a town called Melbourne. There he and his brothers explored the Indian River lagoon and all of the waterways that flow into it . At 16 he began exploring further and soon found that long island chain known as "The Keys". 

Graduated from high school in 1977, he enlisted in the Marine Corps.  He visited northern Europe and the Far East, but returned to Florida.  Spending much of his free time scuba diving and fishing, he wrote fictional short stories in the early eighties and compiled an extensive list of beach dive spots. He has explored many shipwrecks along what us known as the Treasure Coast.

After his second marriage failed, he bought a sailboat and lived on it in Boot Key Harbor in the Florida Keys. He has also lived on Andros Island in the Bahamas and on Isla de Cozumel in Mexico for short periods while working as a divemaster.

He now lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains near the small town of Travelers Rest.

After working for twelve years as a truck driver and writing in his free time, he published his first novel, Fallen Palm, in 2013.  The story was based on short stories he had written in the 1980's.

Married for the third time in 2001, the Stinnetts have four children, three grandchildren, two dogs, and a flock of parakeets. They also grow much of their own food in a garden behind their house.

Stinnett still gets down to Florida every now and then, but often it's via his imagination as he writes. 

Set in the Florida Keys, the protagonist of all of his books is a retired Marine, Jesse McDermitt, a charter boat Captain who lives on a small island north of Big Pine Key where he explores, dives, and fishes the Florida Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. 

Glimmer Train New Writer Contest

New Writer Award: 1st place $1,500 & publication in Issue 96. Deadline: 11/30. click here

This category is open only to emerging writers whose fiction has not appeared in any print publication with a circulation over 5000. (Seven of the last eight 1st place New Writer winners have been those authors' first print publications.)

Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $500/$300, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700. Winners and finalists will be announced in the February 1 bulletin, and contacted directly the previous week.

Most submissions run 1,500 - 6,000 words, but can be as long as 12,000. Reading fee is $15 per story. Please, no more than three submissions per category. Writing Guidelines: click here

And Finally...

We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter. Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to Colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.

If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email Colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.

October 2014 Issue of 

The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the October issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts, part 6 of Sisters by Jamie Baker, Sir by John Matthews.

September Writing Prompts

Each month we try provide prompts for you to use to generate stories. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story.  Above all, have fun with it.

 to

1.  Max stepped off of the train bumping into another passenger.  When he looked up, it was like looking into a mirror.  Who was this guy?

2.  Ben slammed the door as he left the house for the last time and all Ann could think about was how glad she was that he was gone.

3.  Fourteen year old Kellie was on her way home.  It was dark and there was thunder and lightening all around her.  Through the sounds of the storm, she could hear footsteps getting closer to her.  She began to run.

Sir

by John Matthews

(This story was written as an entry to the iStory contest sponsored by Narrative magazine.)

     John never addressed anyone as “Sir.”

     Not doctors, not ministers, not even traffic cops in the process of giving him a speeding ticket. 

     He was a polite person otherwise, and was often addressed as “Sir” by waiters, bank tellers, and even traffic cops in the process of giving him a speeding ticket.

Nano

   But the use of the term always seemed to John as part of an insincere script.  He never considered it a term of respect. 

     His feeling began during his stint as a Navy officer.  At one duty station each morning he passed by the desk of a sailor who was awaiting orders for his discharge. 

     “Good morning, Abbott.”

     “Good morning, sir.”

     “Get your orders yet?”

     “Not yet, sir.”

     Each day, the exchange was the same until one day,

     “Good morning, Abbott.”

     “Hi, John.”

    “Got your orders, then?”

     “Yep.”

Nanowrimo is Almost Here!

     National Novel Writing Month is almost upon us so now is the time to start thinking about what our novel-in-a-month is going to be about.  To sign up go to:  nanowrimo.org and get started November 1st.  You have 30 days to bring your novel to life.

Sisters

Part 6 by Jamie Baker

After the Christmas holidays, my life suddenly got a lot better.  My brothers started going to the Boys club after school and Mom got a waitressing job at Sizzlers.  While the boys did all their yelling and screaming at the Boys club, I had the apartment to myself.   Mom left notes for me almost every day, chores she wanted done and instructions for simple dinners.   Dad picked up the boys on his way home from work and helped me make dinner.  After dinner I cleaned up the kitchen and then I could do whatever I wanted until 10:30.   That was when Mom usually got home.

One evening, down at Marci and Ginger’s apartment, Roy Brown was there and another guy everyone called Cartwheel.    Marci said she needed to go grocery shopping, so we all went down to the Safeway a few blocks from the apartments.

Walking across the parking lot to the store entrance, we stopped to get a cart. 

“I feel like having a steak.” Roy said, yanking a cart out of the cart corral.  “I think I’ll get one.  Maybe a nice New York strip.  Anybody else want steak for dinner?”

Cartwheel put his hand on Marci’s arm, “Get your own cart, Marci,” he said and pulled a second cart out of the line.

“Carol,” Ginger said, hanging back with Marci and Cartwheel, “stay with us.”

Rolling up and down the aisles, the four of us goofed around, laughing and being a little rowdy.  Marci left a package of sanitary napkins in the bread section.   I didn’t see Roy Brown again until we got to the meat section.

Cartwheel was holding up a package of foot long hot dogs and waving it at Marci.  We were all laughing.  Roy was at the other end of the meat case.  His cart was almost empty.  He picked up a wrapped steak, checked the label.  Glancing down the length of the case, he saw me and winked.  He put the package back in the freezer, picked up another one and shoved it down the front of his pants, where it was hidden by his flannel shirt.   An involuntary bark of laugh chirped out of me.  I was both shocked and thrilled.   

“Let’s keep moving, chicks,” Cartwheel said.

A few minutes later, with Cartwheel pushing Marci’s half-full cart, we made our way towards the checkout counters.  Roy Brown was already there, in line behind a stooped old man who was carefully placing each of his items on the conveyor belt.  Cartwheel went to another register, getting in line behind a couple with two little kids.  The conveyor belt was crowded with disposable diapers and boxes of breakfast cereal. 

We were still in line when Roy Brown sauntered to the exit, his near empty bag swinging from his hand.  A beefy guy in a sports jacket stepped up to him, gesturing towards the back of the store.  I could hear his voice, a low buzz, but I couldn’t make out the words.  Roy glanced towards the exit but the man stepped in front of him.  Roy’s face got red and then he walked towards the back of the story, the beefy guy on his heels.   I turned back to the others.  Cartwheel looked at me and shook his head slightly.  We stayed quiet until we were back outside in the parking lot.

“Will they bust him?  Do you think they’ll call the cops?” Ginger asked.

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t,” Cartwheel said, “Fucking Roy Brown.  Always thinks he can break the rules and get away with it.”

“He wasn’t always like that.  Not when we were in school.”

“You went to school with him?” I asked Marci. “I thought he was from Reno.”

“His Dad’s lives in Reno, he’s a pit boss there.  Mostly, Roy grew up here, lived with his mom and his grandparents, over on Seven Hills Road.    We went to school together.  Third grade right through high school.” Marci answered.

“Yeah, he was a little runt and a crybaby.  Couldn’t play any sports for shit.  Then in high school, he got a weed connection and suddenly he was all cool.”

“Kind of a late bloomer, huh?” Ginger laughed.

“Yeah, but I think he’s gonna peak early.” Cartwheel said. 

Roy ‘Reno’ Brown let himself be corralled by the store cop.  At the door to the manager’s office, he glanced back and watched while the others left the store.  

“They’re leaving without me,” he thought, “slinking out, nice and quiet, like they don’t even know me.  Hey, that’s cool.”

The store security man crowded him into the office, shut the door hard and then pushed Roy down into a chair in the corner furthest from the door.  Keeping his eyes on Roy, he stepped around the desk and picked up the phone.  Neither broke eye contact while the store cop dialed the phone.

“Mrs. Petris?  This is Gerald, at the store.  Sorry to bother you, Mr. Petris left for lunch, any chance he’s at home?”

After a short pause, Gerald spoke into the phone again.

“Hey, Mr. Petris, this is Gerald.  I’ve got a shop lifter here.  He’s got a steak shoved down his pants.  Took it out of the freezer case.  Must be freezing his balls off by now.”

Another short pause and Gerald turned away from Roy and lowered his voice a notch.

“Of course, I’m sure, I watched him through that one-way glass right over the freezer case.”

 

While Gerald was turned away, Roy reached up and with a sharp tug ripped open the shoulder seam on his flannel shirt.  When Gerald’s head swiveled back at the sound Roy was sniffing and scratching at his nose. 

Gerald continued speaking into the phone.  “No Bernie didn’t see it.  He was wrapping some meat at the back counter.  You want me to call the cops?” Another pause.  “Ok, then, I’ll wait for you.”

He hung up the phone and sat down at the desk, pulled open one of the drawers and propped his big shoes on it.  Leaning back, he fished a pack of Winstons out of his jacket pocket.  Roy and Gerald sat looking at each other while Gerald smoked.  Finally, Gerald spoke.

“The boss is coming back from lunch.  We’ll call the cops then.  We prosecute shop lifters.  Every time. No exceptions.”

“Yeah?  That’s cool.  I guess if you think you’ve got a righteous bust, you do what you gotta do.”

“Your package must be shriveled up like a salted slug.”

“No, my package is just fine, but thanks for asking.”

 “Don’t try pulling that out of there, we’re waiting for the cops.  The boss likes to have an official witness.”

“Sure, I understand, you need to follow evidentiary procedure.”

Ten minutes later, the door opened up and the store manager stepped in.  Mr. Petris was a first generation Greek, with a ruler-straight part in dark thinning hair.  His white short-sleeved dress shirt was clean and crisp, his tie solid black to match his pants.  Gerald stood, sliding the desk drawer closed.  Gerald had begun to worry about this bust.  The shop lifter hadn’t shown any discomfort, not even worry.  With a piece of frozen meat shoved down the front of his pants, the guy should be shivering by now.  But he’d just sat there, relaxed, even friendly in a quiet way.  Hadn’t tried to make conversation or even bum a cigarette.  

“I’m Mr. Petris, the store manager.  What’s your name?”

“I’m Mr. Brown, the store customer.”

“Let’s call the cops now, Mr. Petris, this wise acre has wasted enough of my time.”

Mr. Petris held up a hand to Gerald, a gesture to stop.   He addressed Roy.

“Mr. Brown, have you taken something from this store that you have not paid for?”

“No, Mr. Petris, I have not.  My purchases are in this bag.  I have nothing else.”

“Tell him to open his pants.  I saw him put that steak down his pants.”

Roy stood up and pulled his shirt up to show the front of his pants and his bare torso.  A leather belt and a silver buckle in the shape of an up-ended horse shoe cinched his jeans tightly at his hip bones, 3 inches of white jockey shorts exposed above the belt. 

“Please do call the police, Mr. Petris,” Roy said, “so that I have an official witness when I can press charges against Gerald here.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gerald stepped past Mr. Petris and bolted at Roy, stopping only when his face and chest were only an inch from Roy’s.  It was Gerald’s face that was red now, a purplish beet red that flared from the back of his bull neck, up across his throat and face and into the short hairs of the greased flat top above his high forehead.   Roy stepped back as far as the chair would allow and reached up to the torn shoulder of his shirt.   Pulling the flannel fabric down, he exposed a tattoo on his upper arm.  It was of small cartoon worm, standing upright on its hooked tail.  It had short little stick arms that ended in white stubby hands, one holding a fat cigarette, the smoke curling up around the worm’s top hat.  The hand held the ace of diamonds.   Underlining the worm was tattooed ‘Reno Brown #21.’  This tattoo was red and inflamed, obviously infected and painful. 

“Gerald shoved me around in here.  He tore my shirt and irritated this fresh tattoo.  Call the cops and we’ll both tell our sides of this story.   But I’ll be the only winner.”

“This is bullshit.  I never touched him.”

Mr. Petris opened the door and gestured to Gerald.  “Gerald, take your lunch break.”

“But Mr. Petris, I’m telling you, I know what I saw.  Check his pants for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s ok Gerald, I’ll handle this.  Go get lunch.”

Gerald grabbed his cigarette pack up from the desk and glared at Roy as he passed him.

“I better not see you in here again, asshole.”

“You probably won’t.  But that’ll be my choice, not yours.  Have a nice day, Gerald.”

Five minutes later, Roy was strolling across the parking lot, two $20 bills folded into the coin pocket of his jeans.

“For the inconvenience, Mr. Brown, and for a new shirt.”  Mr. Petris had said.

A few watery red drops were just starting to splatter onto the pavement with each step of Roy’s right foot, where the 12-oz New York strip was fastened to his cowboy boot with 2 thick rubber bands.

“By the time I get back to Ginger’s place,” Roy thought, “my dinner should be defrosted. Perfectly.”

And Finally...

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