His Whole World

Luke killed the engine of his ‘85 Ford pickup, silently praising the truck for lasting one more day. A long day at work—but not really long enough. There was still so much to do in the fields. He’d had to lay off 3 of his workers a month ago because money had gotten so tight. Their absence left him pulling their weight of the work himself.
Opening the door against the wind, he stepped out of the truck and looked up at the dark sky. A storm was definitely thinking about happening. But he didn’t mind; summer thunderstorms meant rain—rain was good for the crops. After grabbing his lunch box from the bed of the truck, he plodded toward the front porch with the burden of a man older than his 28 years.
The wind chime hanging from the overhang on the porch chimed out a frenzied cacophony in the wind. On the other side of the porch, the little Coke can airplane’s propeller was spinning. He chuckled, thinking that, had he loosed it from its wire, it would have sailed away. To where? he wondered. As he stared at the plane, slowly, he realized that he was stalling. Stalling to go from one storm into another.
He stepped up onto the concrete porch at the door, leaned against the posts, and kicked his boots against the top step to knock the mud from them. He wouldn’t be called a ‘careless slob’ twice. The door was unlocked and once inside he untied the boots and left them sitting beside the stacks of newspapers and dead potted plants in the foyer. As he walked into the kitchen, he hoped that she’d be waiting for him. He always hoped for that, even when there was never nourishment for his hope. But tonight, maybe. After all, she hated storms—especially being alone in them.
Instead, he predictably found the little light over the sink left on in the empty kitchen. Releasing a heavy sigh, he trudged across the dirty linoleum to the microwave. Inside, he found a covered plate of a casserole and steamed broccoli. He pressed the minute button and walked to the fridge. Pulling a glass from the dish drainer, he weighed it in his hands thoughtfully—one of his parents’ cups. He filled it with milk from a Tupperware pitcher in the refrigerator then turned to look out the kitchen window. The curtains writhed in the breeze coming through the screen. It was dark, but by the dusk to dawn light, he could see the branches of the oaks bouncing in a frantic rain dance.
“It’s looking bad out there.” Her soft words behind him sounded a bit scared, a bit angry—as if blaming him for the weather. When he turned, his wife was hugging herself, standing barefoot in boy shorts and one of his old t-shirts which was falling off one shoulder. Her hair was pulled back sloppily in a ponytail. She walked over to the beeping microwave, opened the door and stuck her finger in the casserole. Satisfied with the temperature, she set the plate down on the table and sighed. “Come eat, ‘fore it gets cold.”
Enough things are already cold in here, Luke thought. He didn’t move toward the table, watching as she turned to go back in the bedroom.
“Sade.” He felt desperate for her presence. “Will you sit with me? Please.”
She stopped, standing with her back to him long enough to make him doubt that she would concede. Finally, she walked back to the table.
He pulled a chair out for her and she sat down stiffly, staring down at her fingers.
He sat on the other side of the table and smiled a bit unsurely, feeling as if they’d just made a step toward—something. He stuck his fork in the casserole and took a bite. “Mmm. This is really good, sweetheart.” The words sounded contrived, as if he were flattering a stranger; the compliment was met with silence. So he took another bite. Why’d I think it’d be any different from any supper for the past 8 months? Or had it been longer? He’d lost count of the time since he and his wife had stopped almost all communication except for the absolute necessities. She slept upstairs in the guest room—she had moved her stuff up there one weekend while he was out of town for a conference. It hadn’t really surprised him—they’d stopped touching months before that—right after the doctor confirmed what Sade said she already knew: her body would never bear the children she carried in her heart.
She’d turned inward, refusing to let Luke hold her while she sobbed, curled up in the bed next to him. Some days she stayed in her room, only getting up to fix him meals which were usually left in the microwave. When she did laundry, it was left in piles on the living room floor for him to sort through. He knew she blamed herself for something where no blame was due. Somewhere in the darkness she’d been wandering around in, he knew that she had begun to blame him too.
Looking at her now broke his heart. She looked tired, her eyes hollow, but he couldn’t take his gaze away from her.
She picked at a string on the hem of the t-shirt, took a deep breath and launched the words, “Luke—I—I want a divorce.”
He had known it was coming. It’s not like he hadn’t had warning. But somehow the sudden proclamation pummeled through his heart, leveling the little mounds of hope, restoration, and determination he had built.
“I don’t want it anymore. And I don’t know how to want it. And—you say you do, but—” her lower lip started trembling when she looked up at him.
He could tell she couldn’t bring herself to accuse him of that. Without looking at her, he set down his fork and took a sip of milk to wash the food down around the lump forming in his throat. Before setting the cup down he held it at eyelevel, remembering his parents and the hope they’d had for his and Sade’s marriage. Dad had lifted one of these glasses at their first anniversary dinner—hoping for simple things to keep them happy. That had been 3 years ago—6 months before his mom died from breast cancer and a year before his dad died from a heart attack in the field. Sade and he had moved from their little apartment in Birmingham into the old farm house soon after his dad died so that Luke could take over managing the farm. Had he hoped that moving into his parents’ house would somehow give him and Sade the happiness that his parents had? As if happiness had been left behind like a glass flower vase beneath the sink.
No doubt, their marriage had been pocked with grief—the death of his parents, the unexpected responsibilities that no young couple should have to accept, the disappointment of barrenness. But happiness had been there—once. He was sure of it.
At least in the beginning.
They’d met over 10 years ago at the county fair in East Birmingham. He was inside one of the livestock exhibits with Edith, a heifer he had raised since she was a calf. Now she was getting ready to give birth to a calf herself. Though they always tried to plan when the heifer would deliver, it had just been sheer luck that it happened on Tuesday of the fair. Luke hated making Edith a spectacle, but the people loved the live birth exhibit. He had posted signs commanding silence and had enforced it. But when the calf slid out, the crowd applauded, breaking the silence. He set the spindly calf in the clean straw and looked up at the surrounding people that he had, for the most part, tuned out. That was when he saw her standing at the front of the crowd, right up against the fence. She had tears in her eyes, focused not on the newborn calf, struggling to figure out what strange place he had been deported to, but at Luke, his shirt soaked and arms slick from the amniotic fluids and blood. Her hand covered her mouth as if to dam emotions that wanted to overflow her heart. Finally, coming to herself, she held up her camera as if to ask for permission. He waved his hand toward Edith and the calf; they were the show after all. As she snapped pictures, in that moment, Luke knew he wanted her, if for no other reason than because he didn’t know why.
He turned to Edith, soothing her and patting her flank, thankful that someone was appreciating the animal almost as much as he. When he looked back, the woman was gone. He frowned and stood, grabbing a towel off the fence at the back of the pen.
“Good timing.” His dad came in behind him and put his hands on his hips, looking down at the calf. “Did it come easy?”
“Yes sir,” Luke wiped his arms on the towel, grinning. “She did good. It’s a little bull.”
“You did good, son.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “Go get cleaned up. I think your mama hung some clean clothes for you in the back of the truck.” He began moving straw around with a pitchfork.
“Dad—would you mind if I walk around for a little bit?”
“Sure son.” His father looked over his shoulder. “Did you see something you wanted?”
“Yes, sir.” Luke grinned and took off for the truck.
While he cleaned his arms and pulled on the clean shirt, he practiced his lines. What would he say when he found her? Or what if he didn’t find her? He pushed that option from his mind. He would find her.
And he did—she was inspecting the flower display not far from their exhibit. When he finally got up the nerve to start a conversation, he forgot all the lines he had practiced—and it turned out he didn’t need them. The conversation was easy, like two old friends who had always known one another. A corndog and a cliché Ferris wheel ride later, he had her number. Sade was her name. Her eyes were the color of clover, and freckles spattered her nose and cheeks. Her mane of auburn hair hung in a messy bun. And with her turquoise sequined top and designer jeans, she was a sparkly trinket he wanted to take back to show his mama.
She said she’d fallen in love with his passion for what he was doing and his joy for when life started. And two years later when he took her out to the dock by his parents’ pond and told her he didn’t have much but proposed anyway, with fireflies as witnesses, she had said he would be all she’d ever need.
Unlike Luke, she had gone to college, getting a degree in Cosmetology. Though a city girl, she was adaptable to their visits to his parents’ farm, while he struggled to fit in the traffic of Birmingham, and never quite nailed the pronunciation of macchiato. She had built a clientele of people who wanted her to style their hair, and was planning to start her own salon in Birmingham. A week after his dad died, when Luke announced that they needed to move to the farm, Sade had been reluctant to uproot herself. It was too far for her to commute from the farm back to her beloved Birmingham.
Maybe that’s when the darkness began to rise. Maybe it had been the overload of grief remaining still in this house with all the furniture left from his parents. Maybe it was the cultural shock of moving from all her friends and Starbucks in Birmingham. Maybe—
A bolt of lightning cracked outside, slicing through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present storm.
Sade walked to close the window. He watched her in silence, waited for her to continue.
She stood leaning on the sink, her back to him. “This isn’t what I wanted. It’s not what you promised—”
“I promised you that I’d take care of you and love you—”
She whirled around. “That translates to me nice things, a nice life. ” She threw up her hands “Not 4 o’clock milkings, and hand-me-down 100 year old farm houses.” She gazed at the table furiously, “and ugly old glasses.”
Luke wrapped his hand around the glass at the side of his plate.
She crossed her arms and they fell silent as she tried to gather her thoughts. She breathed shallow breaths, as if not wanting to stop now that she had started. “And time, Luke. I thought that love meant time. But you’re always so busy with the farm—”
“Sade, this farm is our life.” He was trying to stay calm. “It was Dad’s life—”
“But Luke you’re NOT your father. You haven’t been able to make this farm run like him—”
Enraged, Luke slammed his fist on the table. “I’m trying. Okay?”
She blinked at his sudden ferocity, and then fell sullen. “It’s easy for you.”
“Easy?” His voice tightened. When did he ever once make his life seem easy? Picking up where his dad left off—trying to keep not just a farm but a legacy from folding—none of that was easy.
“We have one truck and you take that with you every day. I can’t even leave the house.” Her voice raised into a whine. “Why can’t we move closer into town?”
“You KNOW why I don’t wan—why we can’t move. This farm and this house—”
She interrupted him, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes. “There you go again. This farm. This house. Those things mean more to you than I do.”
He stared at her, a disgusted feeling rising in his stomach. Perhaps he had been simplistic in his planning of bringing her out here. Idealistic for believing her when she’d said he would be all she’d ever need. He figured they’d start a family—that she’d be the sexy barefoot mama of his children. But when they moved out here, and rather than children came grief, and the farm started falling behind with him working to keep up, let alone get ahead, he realized that his wife didn’t know what to do with herself. He had just assumed she’d be happy hanging laundry on the lines. That she’d want to learn to can and quilt like his mama had. But even after 5 years of marriage she didn’t know even half of what his mama had known about sacrifice—about what really mattered. And somewhere along the line he hadn’t had time to show her.
But he couldn’t stay angry at her for her selfishness. This pathetic person was not the Sade he knew—it was a monster formed in the darkness of grief, self-pity, and blame. And he was determined to tame it with patience.
“I never promised you that this life would be easy when I brought you out here.” He reasoned.
Her voice was raspy and tight. “You never told me it’d be this hard,”
He turned back to his plate and said softly, “Things will look better tomorrow.” Wanting that to be the last word, he shoveled a fork full of broccoli in his mouth.
“That’s what you always say.”
He clinched his teeth tightly for a minute, and then set the fork down and turned to her. She was looking at him as if a bit scared that he would erupt. He took a deep breath and smiled. “You’re right, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll go into town tomorrow evening; we’ll have a nice dinner, and figure this out.”
She stared into his eyes for a minute, as if surprised by the kindness. Then she unfolded her arms and shuffled back toward the bedroom, wearily. At the doorway, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Luke. I think we both wanted something different out of life. We need something more—”
“More than what, Sade? Each other?” He saw tears pooling in her eyes. Her breathing was rigid.
Slowly, she nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the next room.
Luke ran a shaky hand through his hair. Her confession had shaken him to his core. How could it all be over just like that? But it wasn’t just like that. He’d seen it coming. He could have done more. But what—
A bolt of lightning exploded, making him jump. Tumbling clatter let him know the wind was kicking the trashcans around outside. Walking over to the window to inspect the back yard, he heard the cows mooing in the barn. He needed to calm them. After putting on his boots, he barely got the screen door open against the wind. He braced his body against the force of the gusts assaulting him all the way to the barn. Once inside, he began murmuring to Edith and the other two heifers and the chickens that were clucking their concern. Edith walked over to him, her brown eyes wide with fear.
“Shhh, girl. It’s okay. You’re safe in here.” He patted her nose, rubbed her neck trying to imagine what life would be like without the farm or the animals or land. Honest living, his father called it. Though Luke wasn’t so sure he’d call what he’d been doing living. This farm had meant so much to his dad and his dad had meant so much to him.
“She doesn’t understand, girl.” he murmured to the cow who seemed comforted in his presence even though the wind was still rushing over the roof. “Whatcha think? Is she’s right? Should we call it quits?” the cow bobbed her head about. Luke chuckled, grabbed a pitchfork and started spreading some fresh hay in the stall. “Dad and Mom would be disappointed, you know. But the truth is, I can’t imagine life without the farm.” Suddenly, he thought of what Sade had said about the farm being more important to him than she was. He leaned against the pitchfork, realizing deeply what he had thought he already knew. “But I can’t imagine life without her, Edith.” He set the pitchfork against the wall and walked back over to the cow. “No matter what that means, I can’t imagine not having her in my life.”
Something thumped against the wall of the barn and he realized he needed to get back inside before the rain started. He gave the cow one last hard pat on the flank. “Y’all’ll be all right in here. Storm’ll be over soon.” Opening the barn door was strenuous. The wind’s shoulder pressed against it. Debris swirled in the air—leaves, hay, branches. He discovered one of the shutters from the house had blown against the side of the barn. Shielding his eyes with his arms, he pressed toward the house.
But over the wind roaring through his ears and the clatter of the wind chime on the porch, he heard it. A louder roar somewhere in the distance.
He stopped and looked toward the noise that seemed to be all around him. What he feared was illuminated by another bolt of lightning. A swirling funnel cloud was racing toward the barn, a massive pillar of strength and terror.
Luke broke into a run, yelling, “Sade, Sade, get out here.” As he opened the screen door, the wind caught it, tearing it off its hinges.
“Luke,” She was already racing out toward him, squinting in the wind blowing through the open doorway. “What’s going on—”
“It’s a twister. We’ve got to get to the storm cellar now.” He grabbed her hand and ran out the already opened doorway. Out in the wind with debris flying all around them, he knew they’d never make it around to the back of the house and get that cellar door open and closed against the suction and pressure of the wind. He held her to him, shielding her with his body and pulling her toward the only other place of shelter he could think of, the big front porch with a crawl space under it. “Get under the porch. Hurry!”
She clambered into the tiny opening, wailing in fear as the roar got closer. Luke looked back toward the barn one last time, the dust slicing at his eyes.
Sade screamed his name under the porch, pulling at his legs. Tearing his gaze away from the barn, he pulled himself under the porch and felt for her, pulling her to him, stroking her hair. “It’s all right baby, it’s all right.” She was sobbing and he felt her heart pounding through her back. “It’ll be over soo—” Suddenly the yard light went out, leaving them in the pitch black. He squeezed her tighter as he heard the sounds. Wood splintering. Creaking metal. The cows bawling.
She sobbed, “Luke, The animals—”
“It’s all right.” He spoke around the lump in his throat, past his breath shortened by fear and adrenaline. “Sade, whatever happens. I love you.” He pressed his face into her hair.
“I-I love you too.”
And then they it was upon them and they heard the sound of life being uprooted right above them as glass shattered; the ground rumbled beneath them. Things collapsed around them, on top of them.
She screamed.
He held her for what seemed like forever.
And then the roar was passed.
“Wh—what’s going on?” She whimpered.
He listened for a moment before assuring her, “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s over. You okay?”
He felt her nod, and then she began sobbing again. “What are we gonna do?”
“Shh. It’s okay. We’ll stay under here for now. We don’t know what’s out there and don’t have any light to see by.”
She drew a shaky breath, begging him to do what he’d wanted to do for months. “Hold me, Luke. Just hold me.”
They sat silent, neither asking questions that they knew neither had the answers to. At some point, weariness pressed them against the cool earth, and they slept.

The sun sliced through the darkness of their cavern. Luke woke, stiff and aching, unsure of when he fell asleep and halfway forgetting where they were. Then he remembered. Eager to survey the damage outside, he leaned over and smoothed his wife’s hair back from her face, murmuring in her ear, “Sade. It’s morning.”
Her puffy eyes opened and she gazed around confused.
“Remember? The twister?” Seeing recognition on her face, he continued, “We need to get out of here.”
She sat up and watched him as he looked at the side opening, obstructed with branches and wooden poles that he recognized from the porch. He kicked at them, shoving an opening large enough for them to squeeze through. When he had crawled out, he helped her stand then straightened to look around.
The view caught his breath. What had been the barn lay in mounds on the back field. What had been their home was strewn across the yard, and collapsed in a heap—the porch roof had fallen directly on top of the porch they were under.
Sade covered her mouth with a shaky hand, stifling tears. “What are we gonna do?”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.
Somewhere in the branches of a toppled tree, a bird welcomed the new morning over the wreckage. Luke let his gaze pan once more over what he had thought would be his future, now just wood, glass, wires, steel, hay strewn all about.
Then the rising sunlight glinted off something by the clothesline post. He stared at it for a moment before realizing what it was: one of his mother’s brown glasses, unbroken, pristine, full of clear rain water.
Luke breathed in deeply, remembering his wife’s question. He gripped her shoulders against him and felt her—his whole world in her form. Quietly, he said, “We’ll just have to start over.”

Life skies

Some friends are like the moon—-reliable, unmovable so that you can set the seasons of your life by them. Others are like those constellations that come and go, consistently illusive, but there nonetheless. But some, a few, are like shooting stars—-brilliant and real, but fleeting-—a flash of light across the sky of your life. And there’s something about those that you’ll never forget.

Discover the Moon

My nephew some months ago, in the amazement and curiosity that only a two year old can display, pointed at the moon, wondering “What is it?” When his parents told him ‘that’s the moon,’ he spent the next weeks with his little neck craned back, his finger pointed, calling its name, as if it were his very own Easter egg, hidden in plain sight.
“Where moon?” he asked frantically, when a tree or building obscured the lunar sphere as they drove in the evenings. When it became visible again, he’d smile with relief and say, “Oh, there moon.”
At night, he refused to go to bed, perhaps for fear that if he stopped watching, it would disappear. Or maybe because he was just so fascinated by it, that he couldn’t tear his wonderful little gaze away from the window.
For two years he had benefited from its light. Two years it had beamed without his acknowledgement. But he was thrilled to find it—as if his discovery was necessary, somehow, for its existing, as if no one had ever discovered it before, as if we hadn’t already walked upon it.
A child is the bravest of explorers. Everything is something to be discovered. He has no fear, sets no boundaries for his creativity. The world is a very old new place, much like the moon. It’s born anew with each child born.
Just like my nephew, I want to discover the moon, to wrap myself in a two year old’s curiosity and encounter the world for the first time. For only then will I find in this very old world the new vision of things to write about.
But unlike my nephew, the intrepid explorer, my discovery is often impeded by fear. Too many others have already found the things in the world— every subject has been touched, every emotion plumbed, every idea expounded. I’m too scared of being embarrassed to gape at things I’ve lived beneath, around, for 25 years. I’m terrified that others will find my discoveries too simple, will laugh at my ponderings and personal enlightenments.
Far too often, I long for material to write yet am too proud to discover my world and all the wonderful routine subjects in it for the first time. I’m afraid of what it will cost me—settling to find my awe in what I know in the here and now instead of the what might be and what I don’t know.
But the truth is that first I must discover the moon, before I will ever walk on it.

.

Accident Report

Clint enjoyed his job as general manager of Bass Pro Shop. Really, he did.
He’d started working as a sales associate when he was 20. Six years later, (on a recommendation from his retiring manager “for his responsible and capable tendencies and ability to adapt to and manage any given situation”) he’d been offered the position of general manager. He hadn’t been sure if he was ready for it—after all, he’d never really been the kind of person to like confrontations, or unpredictability. And it was only AFTER he accepted the position did Jim, the manager that Clint had inherited this job from, give him two pieces of advice.
“Clint,” Jim had said, wrapping his arm around Clint’s shoulders and steering him toward the carp pond as if they were father and son discussing life matters, “this is a recreational facility. A big boy toy store. So don’t take your job too seriously.” Then he stopped walking and looked Clint in the eyes. His voice deepened.. “But take your customers seriously, son—always. And never underestimate what they’re capable of.” Though it sounded dramatic, like instruction for dealing with big game, Clint had followed it to the letter and it had worked for a year now.
But in that year, Clint had seen exactly what Jim was talking about. Customers presented him with all species of situations not addressed in his managerial protocol handbook. Once, a woman brought a trapped raccoon into the store because she thought the Bass Pro Shop could take it off her hands. But when Clint kindly explained that they weren’t an animal refuge, the woman opened the cage, with a spiteful smirk, let the animal loose and then sashayed out of the store. The coon clambered to the top of the mountain goat exhibit, and sat there hissing while Clint helped the animal control people wrangle it into a cage.
Another time, he helped revive a woman who fainted when she was caught off guard by the taxidermied cottonmouth in a display by her foot. Clint had cleaned up a pile of deer guts that had fallen off the back of a pick-up truck in the parking lot. He had fished flip flops out of the fish pond. Had politely asked men who were casting lines from the fishing department over to the women’s clothing section to stop.
In other words, customers themselves were about as unpredictable as any of the big game or hobbies that his store helped them to dominate. And in a place where testosterone raged sometimes out of control and bragging rights were not merely unwritten law, but a constitution to live by, Clint had never quite overcome the fear. The fear of the overpopulation of an unpredictable, sometimes aggressive species of customers. It stayed with him when he was drinking coffee in his office and the phone rang. It twisted his gut every time his name came over the intercom. It assaulted him when he heard a customer say ‘excuse me’ right behind him. He even had nightmares of worst case scenarios. Making and keeping his customers happy was Clint’s lifelong goal. ‘Cause at his core, he assumed that really, he simply feared confrontation with corporate and the consequences of unhappy customers.
Incidentally, confrontation and consequences were all that Clint could think of right now as he stood holding an accident report form. He watched the woman sitting at the table across the café with her back to him, her arms crossed as if she were cold. Her short brown ponytail still dripped, forming a small puddle on the floor behind her. A sack of wet clothes sat by her chair.
“Hey, Clint.”
Clint jumped slightly as Brad, one of his floor clerks, walked up next to him holding out a fleece Coleman blanket from the camping section. “Here’s that blanket you wanted. Oh and this.” He held out a plastic bag containing a digital camera still seeping water from the cracks in the camera body. “She doin’ okay?”
“Yeah.” Clint released a sigh that sounded pitiful even to him.
“Don’t worry about it, man.” Brad said, as if he could sense Clint’s tension. “It’s not like this is the first time somethin’ like this has happened. Remember those idiots a couple years ago on Youtube?”
“Yeah, but they meant to do it.” Clint rubbed his hand across the auburn goatee on his chin, a gesture he reserved for times when he didn’t know what to do. “Man did you see how scared she was?”
“Could be worse.” Brad grinned. “She could be dead.”
Clint shot him a death glare and grabbed the blanket and bag out of his hands. He nodded toward the girl. “Who knows what in the world she’s gonna say—or want.”
“Eh, maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. Bite the bullet and get it over with.” Brad clapped him on the back. “Good luck, boss. And let me know how this one turns out.” With a chuckle, he walked back to the camping department leaving Clint alone with his cramping stomach.
Clint stood for another thirty seconds, trying to determine his approach. Overcompensate. If we give her what she wants upfront, maybe that will hold off a lawsuit or even out of court costs. He remembered from his days of watching Davy Crockett as a boy that with enough charm, you could tame a grizzly. So with a well-rehearsed smile spread across his face, he approached her table. “Hey there. Look what I’ve got.” He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders “This’ll help warm you up. It was Robyn, right?”
She nodded, accepting the blanket eagerly. But her face remained sullen.
A bad sign. “You doin’ okay?” He pressed, settling in the seat next to her, hiding the plastic bag with her camera under the table.
“I’m fine.” She fingered the price tag dangling from the blanket just beneath her chin. Wincing at the price, she dropped the tag as if it were hot. She tried to recover by looking over at him. “Um, thanks for the change of clothes.”
Marlene from the ladies clothing section had fixed her up with a dry pair of jeans and a t-shirt. “Do they fit okay?”
“They’re perfect. But, um—” She looked down at the outfit, “how much will all this cost me?”
Clint stared at her blankly, not wanting to underestimate the simplicity of the question, yet marveling at its innocence. “Oh! No, no. You can keep those. No charge. In fact, is there anything else that I can get for you?” He looked around for something else to offer her and spotting the snack bar, asked, “Are you hungry? Want some water?”
“I think I’ve had enough of that for today.” She coughed, as if a few drops of water still remained in her lungs.
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or apologize. She was either severely disgruntled or just sarcastic. Gotta feel her out a little more.
“Oh, and—” she gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry about—the fish.”
Clint sat up straighter and blinked. A customer was apologizing to him? “Oh, d-don’t worry about it.” He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “We’re gonna mount him and put your name on the plaque as the fisherman who caught him.” He saw her smile slightly. Charm boy, charm. Works every time. “Although, I gotta say, your technique ranks right up there with throwing dynamite in the lake.”
“Yeah, well, technique wasn’t exactly on my mind at the moment.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t.” This seemed like a good enough transition into what he was really there for. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and clicked it open. “Look, I need to fill out this accident report. Can you tell me what happened?”
She groaned, putting her head in her hands. “It all happened so fast. I was taking a picture from above the tank, but my foot slipped on the waterfall spray and then— ” She stopped, as if she couldn’t bring herself to repaint the scene. “And then splash.”
He pressed a little harder on the pen as he wrote, hoping that she’d overlook the fact that technically it was their fault that she went over. He’d been telling corporate that they needed to redirect that waterfall spray. It settled right there on the floor at the landing.
Her sharp gasp pulled him out of his reverie. “I just remembered. Did my camera—?”
He stopped writing and set the plastic bag in front of her. “Sunk to the bottom of the tank. We dipped it out, but it’s probably dead.” He hurried on. “But we’re gonna take care of that for you too.”
Lifting the bag to inspect the camera, she shook her head. “It was a 300 dollar camera! I don’t expect you to pay for it.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been through a lot. We want to take care of you.” He jotted down the expense of the camera in the margin of the report.
She set the bag down and eyed him for a minute. “All right,” she smiled, as if resigning to this and any future kindness. “Thank you.”
Her smile made him feel better. She was small and, well, cute. Some mascara was smeared around her eyes and— Focus Clint, focus. He cleared his throat and went back to filling out the accident report. “So why did you come in to the Bass Pro Shop today?”
She chuckled, remembering the simplicity of her visit. “I was looking for a pink Browning buckmark for my car. But you didn’t have any.”
A buckmark? She looked so unassuming. As if she might have a hobby making jewelry or scrapbooks. That’s right. Those were the ones Jim told you to watch out for. Better keep her happy. “Well, we’ll get you a pink buckmark, even if we have to special order it.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nah, we want to take care of you.” He slid the paper over to her. “Here, can you fill out this top information for me?”
As she concentrated on filling in her phone number and address, he asked, “So what do you want with a buckmark? You hunt?”
“Me? Hunt?” She burst out laughing. “No. I just like the fact that I’m making a statement.”
“What kind of statement are you trying to make?”
She filled in the last space before passing the pen and paper back to him and then smiled coyly. “I support the right to bear firearms. And I like to keep people guessing.”
“About what?”
“Most of them don’t think of me as a buckmark kind of person.”
You got that right, Clint thought. “So what kind of a—”
“Good grief, do they really have to stare?” She put her hand up to block the side of her face closest to the people in the café. “I should have sold tickets.”
Clint looked over his shoulder. A twenty something year old guy, who looked as if he sincerely didn’t realize that capitalizing on someone else’s trauma was ethically in question, pointed to his high-tech phone screen and laughed. “I was filmin’ the fish tank when you fell in,” he yelled over to her. “I got it ALL on video. Just uploaded it to YouTube.” As if this were meant to calm her.
“Great.” She squinted at him, her voice brittle with sarcasm. “Thanks for lettin’ me know.” She pulled the blanket closer around her.
Clint moved his chair around to block their view, and reached out hesitantly to touch her arm. “Hey, don’t worry about them. They’re just ignorant rednecks.”
“That’s redundant.” She snorted. “Ignorant. Rednecks.”
He loved the way her intonation barely changed with each statement, no matter what her emotion was. “That’s right. So give ‘em a break.” He grinned. “Besides, I have to admit, watching you cling to the side of that tank, screaming, ‘Will they bite?’ was pretty darn hysterical.” When she cut her eyes over at him, he hurried to clarify, “NOW—of course—it wasn’t THEN.”
“Well this IS Bass Pro Shop.” She snapped. “Aren’t y’all supposed to have exotic stuff in here? I mean, you could have had piranhas in the tank for all I knew.
“They’re Grouper.” He said, dryly, attempting to keep the conversation light. “Grouper don’t bite. What cracks me up is that you were in a 10 foot tank and you can’t swim, but you were scared of the fish?”
“How did you know I can’t swim?”
“Because in between yelling about the fish, you were also screaming, ‘I can’t swim.’ And then there were the tell tale signs of the sinking and struggle and gasping and—”
“All right, all right.” She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin. “I have an overactive imagination. The only thing more mortifying than falling in a fish tank at the Bass Pro Shop is being systematically stripped of my flesh in front of an audience. A docile death like drowning didn’t occur to me as a worse option.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“Eh, you either laugh or cry. Why waste the body fluid? Things like this just happen to me.” She reached up and loosened the ponytail, casually. A trickle of water splashed onto the floor. “I’m always looking for an adventure, but catastrophe usually finds me first.”
“Are you a connoisseur of near death experiences?”
She thought for a minute then shook her head. “I think today was the first life threatening one. But you know, the petty little things. Flat tires, getting lost in the bad section of Atlanta, being accosted by angry herons—that kind of thing.”
He grinned, hoping she had more stories to tell. Anything to give him an excuse to—Clint, get a hold of yourself. She’s a customer. Get her in, get her out before she suits you. Business, boy. Business. His smile disappeared. “You could have drowned you know.”
“Ya think?”
He ignored the sarcastic comeback and suppressed a grin, trying to remain professional. “That wouldn’t have looked good for Bass Pro.”
“I think people would have thought worse about the retard who fell into your fish tank.” She looked down at the tag she was fiddling with again.
“Y-you’re not a retard, Robyn.” He assured her softly. “Anyway, we’re really glad you didn’t drowned.” There that sounded professionally distant.
“Glad I could help you out.”
He needed to get out of this conversation while she was still in such a compliant mood. Looking down at the accident report in his hand, he said, “Well, I think I’ve got all the info that I need here. So if you need someone to drive you home or if your clothes need to be dry-cleaned, or if you want to stay around for lunch at the Islamorada—anything—you let me know and we’ll take care of it. My office is right through those doors.” He patted the table once and stood. “Have a great day, Robyn.” Well, that was easy. Letting out a sigh of relief, he headed out of the snack shop.
“I could suit your butt off, you know.” Her voice still held the same almost bored intonation.
Clint was sure that he lurched from stopping so fast. Whoa. Where did THAT come from? Slowly, he turned to face her, his stomach cramping, his mouth bone dry.
“That water up on the floor—” she cast a glance toward the waterfall ledge “clear violation of safety code. I know I slipped on it.” She crossed her arms and let silence punctuate her meaning. “I’m seeing emotional damages out the wazoo.”
The almost exotic unreadability that had intrigued him so much before, seemed almost dangerous now as he tried to gather some thoughts, some response. Respect the customers—they’re intelligent creatures. With this one especially, he knew he couldn’t bluff any longer. And surprisingly, he realized that he didn’t want to.
Pulling the chair back out, he sat down. “You’re right. It was our fault.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her. “And if you want to—pursue this further, here’s my name and number.”
She took the card and looked at it for a minute, then slid it back across the table with one finger. “Good thing you’re takin’ such good care of me already.”
He sat there confused, searching her eyes, as if they were a compass that would tell him exactly which direction this entire scenario had just taken.
Finally, she grinned. “You need to chill, Clint. We aren’t all out to get you. Besides—I mean, I got a new outfit, a Browning buckmark, a new camera—possibly lunch and anything else probably short of carting home one of those boats you got out back. What more could a girl want?”
Clint wasn’t sure why he wasn’t more annoyed at her obvious strategy to unnerve him. Nor did he understand why he proceeded to say, “I really do want you to know how much I’m sorry. I’ll never forget the way you held onto to my neck like a wet cat when I pulled you outta that tank and carried you to the back room.”
She laughed, brushing a strand of now almost dried hair behind her ear.
“No, honestly. I’ve never seen anyone that scared and embarrassed before. You shouldn’t have had to go through that.”
“And yet, you’ll go home and watch the video on YouTube and laugh your stinkin’ head off.” She predicted, shaking her head in disapproval.
“Oh, yeah. Probably go back to my office right now and watch it. Probably post it on Facebook and show it at the company Christmas party, too.”
“Do I get compensated for supplying the entertainment?” She twirled the piece of hair around her finger.
He thought for a minute about his comeback. It wasn’t professional, but then again, very little in the past fifteen minutes had been. “I live by the bay,” he blurted out, pushing the business card back toward her. “Why don’t you call me sometime and you can come over and let me teach you how to swim just in case any of your other adventures take you around water?” He held up his hand as if swearing. “No piranhas or flesh-eating trout or vicious grouper or hidden YouTube video cameras.”
She fingered the card. “Promise?”
“You bet.” He winked. “And if there are—I’ll take care of you.”
“And what about YOU?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you dangerous?”
He wasn’t even sure where, but somewhere along the way the game had changed. Like those hunters who tell stories of becoming the hunted. And, strangely, he didn’t mind the swap. Because for all that this girl talked about wanting adventure, Clint had a feeling that she was herself quite an elaborate adventure. She was unpredictable. Risky. And for once in his life, he didn’t turn and run or offer more amenities, bribing the impulsive moment to pass him by. This girl looked as if she’d be extremely displeased if he answered, ‘no.’ And since customer satisfaction was always his goal, he leaned forward, rested his arms on the table and smiled confidently. “Oh, you’re in luck, ma’am. I’m one big adventure just waiting to happen.”

Love

I fell in love a few weeks ago.
The moment I stepped from the van, my heart commenced its love affair with the lusty salt smell associated with the sea. There are stories in this place, I thought as we walked across the gravel parking lot. Inside, I hugged myself against the chill of the freezers, as I pressed my way through the crowd of people gathered around the front cases. And there I fell in love—with fish heads, their milky eyes staring pitifully at me through the glass; miniature squids, resembling some kind of rubber bath toys; slabs of scarlet salmon and metallic-skinned tuna; and brilliantly colored fish eggs—orange and green, shining like plastic beads on a dollar store necklace. I cheered on humongous lobsters fighting their way to the top of the tank, climbing over others who, resigned to their fate, lay on the bottom. I stared for an unacceptable length at the large-nosed Italian man perched against a stool, calling order numbers into a microphone and thanking customers at full volume for their loyalties. Yes, I fell in love with a seafood market.
I’d heard the name of the place in many conversations, each time hearing others rave about the seafood market and its restaurant. As an avid seafood lover, it seems strange that my reason for finally visiting was far from purchasing my favorite food. Instead, I visited the shop under the most curious of intentions—not to buy seafood, but to sample scoops of gelato, the smooth and marshmellowy textured Italian ice cream. If it weren’t for my world-traveling friends who knew of Italy’s delectable desserts, I’d have never gone. I certainly wouldn’t have guessed to find such a delicacy in a place like that.
Patty and I surveyed the tubs of dazzling colored gelato and sorbets: pistachio, raspberry, hazelnut, butter pecan, peach, coconut, and all the average flavors. We sampled several, and then ordered a scoop each, she savoring raspberry and I the fresh white coconut.
At the check-out counter, I flinched at the young cashier’s rudeness when she snatched the ticket angrily out of Patty’s hand. Eyeing Faye, I took a step back, feeling an awkward moment about to unfold. Faye rarely tolerates rudeness and the fallout of her intolerance can range anywhere from mild scolding to cruelty. Surprisingly, she said nothing.
The more I watched the woman, the more I realized that she wasn’t an everyday-run-of-the-mill rude worker. There was a world behind the counter that I knew nothing of and I felt distinctly as if we were being punished for the crimes of others. In addition to us, she took out her frustration on her bubble gum, smacking it, gnashing and chomping it. Her eyes looked sunken, tired, as if she’d forgotten to put on eye liner—or just hadn’t cared to. Then, from no apparent provocation, she began to delineate her trial of the snowbirds.
How she hated snowbirds who hauled their old selves and money down South—the way she talked—with the express purpose of tormenting her.
“They threw their trash in my tip jar.” She lamented, picking up the plastic container much like the one holding my gelato only with ‘Tips’ written in pastel marker across it.
Patty and Faye had walked away by now. But as I stepped up to the counter, the woman was far from finished. “One lady was looking at the shirts and then she came up here and said, ‘I’d buy a t-shirt if it was a ‘reasonable price.’’ She grabbed my gelato container, scanned it into her register and then slammed it down on the counter and said through clinched teeth, “I had to get this—“ She reached under the counter and for the briefest moment I pictured her pulling out a super soaker squirt gun or an Uzi. Instead, she held up a hardcover book and pointed to the title.
“Just to keep me from killing them.”
I read the cover silently: “The Love Revolution by Joyce Meyer.”
She shook her head wearily and stuffed the book back under the counter. “$1.25.”
Unsure of how to respond, I held out my money and smiled, happy to have been a sponge to absorb some of her frustration. I wished her well in her quest for patience and hoped for a swift migration of her invaders. Then I walked away to join my friends out at the van.
Love will always call you back. And it did. A few days later I returned to the market. I browsed the same route—staring in at the fish; watching the lobsters who had yet to figure out a way to escape the tank. Then I made a wish list of crab dips, and cheeses, seasonings from the world over, and exotic flavors of hummus. I tasted a sample of pistachio gelato, the color of a million smooshed peas. Then tasted the hazelnut—and predictably ordered a cup of coconut.
At the counter. I smiled to see that she was working again. She didn’t remember me, but when I asked, “Are the snowbirds gone?” her eyes lit up with recognition.
“Well, they’re gone, but now we’ve been invaded by spring breakers.” She sighed and swiped my deli ticket under her scanner. “I figured out that I’m just burnt out on this job.”
“How long have you been working here?”
She scrunched her face as if calculating. I expected her to reply with a copious length; perhaps she was in the owner's family and had been working there since she was a little girl, or—
“A year.” She replied. “I’ve been here through two tourist seasons.”
I fought back a snicker at her lack of endurance, until she explained, “I’m getting ready to start college and the personality test I took said I didn’t have a personality for being a cashier.” She threw her hands up. “There you go.”
“What are you going to college for?”
“To be a dental hygienist.” She beamed, as if she had told me she’d been accepted to some elite university where she would learn to cure the common cold.
My mouth fell open for a moment while I tried to formulate a way to tell her what I was thinking. “I can’t explain it, but you LOOK like a dental hygienist.”
She looked at me doubtfully.
“No, really. I’d let you clean my teeth.”
This time she laughed;
So excited that I’d fulfilled my mission, I said, “See you later,” and started walking away.
“Hey.” She called. “You forgot your gelato.”
Rolling my eyes at myself, I grabbed the container. “Thanks.”
I walked out of the store, smiling because she had no idea that the gelato was only an excuse for what I had really gone back for—to see if she was there, to hear more of her story. Just outside the door, I sat down at the table and took a bite of the cool gelato, content that I’d found what I went for.

Cereal Therapy

He sat across from her looking as if he’d be more comfortable in a plastic booth at Whataburger than a leather chair at this Olive Garden table. But he had told her to choose her favorite restaurant. So here they were.
Staring at the menu, his brow was furrowed as he gnawed fervently on his lip. She couldn’t tell if he was nervous about pronouncing those Italian dishes or if he was calculating the price of the meal.
It was her job to make him comfortable, so she folded her menu and asked, “What looks good to you?”
“Um, not sure.” Seeing that she had already put down her menu, he scanned the menu more feverishly. “Geez, you know what you want already?”
“I usually get the same thing every time. Lasagna Fritta.” She sipped her water.
“I’ll uh, probably just get the spaghetti and meatballs.” He laid down his menu and fell silent, looking down at his overturned wine glass, as if wishing it were full.
“So, Billy tells me you work on cars, Dusty.”
“Um, yep.” He picked up the straw wrapper and started fiddling with it.
“I think that’s one of the most enduring occupations ever because people will always need to drive and cars will always break down. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
"Um, yep. That’s what I always say.”
“I always wanted to learn how to fix my own car. I mean a good mechanic is hard to find. They usually try to trick you into getting a new motor when all you needs is an oil change.”
“Yep, some of ‘em.”
He was trying to be involved in the conversation, she’d give him that much. But even she was bored of her own conversations. To spice up the conversation, she decideed to mention her occupation. That always seemed to work. “I work at Victoria Secret.”
“That’s real nice.” He looked out the window, unfazed by the information.
Good grief! Billy had sent her on pity dates before, but this was by far the worst. That girl must’ve torn his heart out; he practically had a DNR tacked on his forehead. It wasn’t as if she ever thought it would work out between them. Or even that she had come out with him under those pretenses. She smirked, looking out at the parking lot. No, nothing would work out between them, not with that monstrosity of a truck he drove.
This guy was clearly in distress and needed something more than small talk to get his mind off his problems. He needed therapy.
She needed to perform a test to see just how bad it was. First, the silence endurance test: see how long a stretch of silence could go before it bothered him. She sat back in her seat and watched him patiently, like a lab worker might observe a specimen.
After three minutes passed, he still just stared out the window. It was clear that this would go on for as long as she decided to remain silent. He wasn’t initiating conversation anytime soon. Next came the observation test.
“Look at that rain coming down.” She grinned.
“Uh, huh,” he nodded.
“Cats and dogs.”
“Mm hmm.”
She shook her head, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the blind. Her diagnosis was complete.
Just then the waiter walked up. “Y'all know what you want?”
“Yes. We do.” She stated matter-of-factly. “We’re leaving. Come on, Dusty.” She gathered her purse and opened it, handing the waiter a couple dollars.
“But, but—“ Dusty sputtered. “Look. I’m sorry I’m not good company—”
“Dusty, it’s all right.” She laid a hand on his arm across the table. “Any man who can’t tell a rainy day from a sunny one is clearly still in love and needs to talk about her. C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”
He followed her, weaving in between the tables to the front door.
“Wh-where are we going?”
“To my place. I’ve got a box of Cap’n Crunch at my house. Cereal is a comfort food.” She stopped to let him catch up. “And a bowl of cereal on my back porch definitely isn’t a date. You need to talk. I’ll listen.”
When he had helped her climb into his truck and gotten in himself, he looked over at her still a little confused. “H-how did you know?”
“Apart from the obvious signs?” She chuckled softly. “Billy always sends his buddies my way right after one of them breaks up. I generally know how to help them get over their girls. But you—you’re just hurtin’.” She reached over and patted his hand.
“Let’s go. The Cap’n’ll help you feel better.”
For the first time that evening, he smiled.

Boys

At times Cam hated hanging out with them—-times like, oh, right now, when, as seniors in college, Troy and Jeff were flirting with the high school girl making sandwiches behind the counter at Arby’s. Ty was making stupid comments to the girl at the register who clearly had heard every line a frat boy had to offer.
Cam wondered sometimes what it would be like to walk into a restaurant and sit down to have intelligent conversation with his friends—he smirked, Having intelligent conversation with them would be as awkward as wearin’ a burgundy sweat suit to an Auburn game.But these guys—the Core Four as they called themselves—had been his buds since grade school, through high school and now college. They hadn’t grown up that much since high school. But instead of abandoning them and going in search of that bridge from boyhood over to manhood, Cam stood in line at Arby’s in the middle of Auburn, Alabama, listening to Troy and Tyler try to extract from Jeff exactly how long it had been since he had changed his underwear.
Lucky underwear is a subjective term, Cam thought—seeing that the only lucky person involved was the party who hadn’t exerted the effort to change it. A day count didn’t matter past a certain intensity of odor—one that he was familiar with since Jeff had ridden over here with him.
Cam had tried to understand why he couldn’t bring himself to separate from them. Maybe he felt that he’d lose his identity—and yet he didn’t want to be identified with them. Maybe because he was afraid that if he left them, he’d never find anyone else who would ever accept him the way they did—but they didn’t accept him when he started talking about grown-up things like making a budget or getting a Master’s degree or making a resume. He wasn’t sure what made him stick with them. But more and more he felt that they were a burden, more like an eternal babysitting gig than his friends.
He ordered his number 3 in an apologetic tone to the woman at the register. When she handed him his receipt, he thanked her to compensate for his friends’ inconsideration and walked over to fill his cup with Dr. Pepper.
At the drink island, the underwear conversation was still in progress.
“You wearin’ your lucky boxers?” Jeff asked him. He grabbed too many cup lids in his hurry and flippantly tossed the extra four in the trash can.
“No, Jeff.” Cam sighed. “I stopped wearin’ them our sophomore year and funny thing—the Tigers have done just fine.”
“But it’s the principle of the thing, man.” Jeff clapped his hand down on Cam’s shoulder. “You do it for the team. Where’s your Tiger pride?”
“It might as well have been you that poisoned the oaks.” Tyler chimed in.
Cam had learned over his three and a half years in the communication disorder major at Auburn University that if you ignored people, they’d stop talking, eventually. In theory this always worked. With these guys it was a fifty/fifty success rate. This time, an Auburn game on the TV saved him, since anything with orange and blue caught his friends’ attention like red catches a bull’s. They went to sit in a booth along the back of the restaurant to wait for their order numbers to be called.
Ignoring the ensuing conversation about the game, Cam surveyed the restaurant. For a Sunday evening, the place was busy. A family still in their dress clothes from their Sunday evening service sat right behind the drink island, with a screaming three year old smashing curly fries in her hair.
A group of black ladies in red hats congregated by the door, waiting for their orders and talking noisily among themselves in animated conversation.
Another table of college students occupied a table in the corner, involved in conversation that elicited eruptions of laughter every so often.
The TV blared sports news above the din of the small restaurant.
But there by the window, right under the TV sat a young woman in jeans and a t-shirt; she was probably about his age or a little older—Cam couldn’t tell. She was alone, eating her curly fries daintily, tearing each coil in half before dipping one end in ketchup and popping it in her mouth. While she chewed each bite, she turned her attention to a small notebook on the table beside her sandwich wrapping. She scribbled something in it and then reached for her beef and cheddar again. Each time the sauce touched her fingers, she wrinkled her nose in disgust and reached for a napkin which, once desecrated, she would ball up to join the snowstorm of napkins surrounding her at the table. Something about her solitude in the middle of noise struck him with an emotion he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t strong enough to be desire—maybe the cousin of desire—jealousy. Her ability to be alone, but confident, to exude a maturity in identifying with herself intrigued him.
After taking the last bite, she stretched her legs out to rest on the seat across from her and concentrated fully on the notebook.
Cam jumped, startled when the other three friends burst out as the Tigers scored a basket.
The girl turned to look over her shoulder at the boisterous table, smiled, but then repositioned herself in her seat so that she was turned even farther from them, as if their noise were offensive to her solitude.
“Cam—hey man. Did you see that? Cam, hey. Where are you?”
Cam blinked and turned to look at Troy. “Uh, I’m right here.”
They looked toward the girl he’d been staring at and Troy let out a loud painful sounding snort. “REALLY, man. REALLY? Her?”
Cam attempted to nonchalantly defend himself. "What are you talking about?” He picked up his cup and drained it of the soda as his friend snickered to one another.
“Order 97.” The woman at the counter called the familiar number.
“That’s my number.” Cam jumped up, greatful for the escape.
“Looks like the shortest way up there is beside her table.” Ty laughed.
“Wait—someone get him a pen.” Jeff threw a napkin at Cam. “Don’t forget to ask for her number.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cam grabbed his empty cup and made sure to walk around the other way to the counter. He gathered his tray, but when he turned around, his heart jumped to see that the girl stood throwing away the wrappers and napkins into the trashcan. She stopped right next to him at the drink dispenser, waiting to let him fill his cup first.
“No, you go ahead.” He insisted.
She stood on her tiptoes to watch the cup fill with Dr. Pepper, and when it had almost flowed over onto her fingers, she pulled it off and pressed the lid back on. “Thanks I, uh, hope your Tigers win.” She nodded toward the TV, and smiled.
Before he could tell her just how disinterested he was in the game, she called a cheery ‘Thank you,’ to the workers behind the counter and bounced—that’s what it was, as close as he could describe it—bounced trot out of the restaurant. Making sure that the guys couldn’t see him past the small divider between the drink island and the seating area, he craned his neck to watch as she backed out and pulled away. He grinned when he saw in the corner of her back window a Crimson Tide A. I wonder what else we’d disagree on?
Walking back past her table, he spotted the closed notebook with a pink and yellow design on it lying on the chair next to where she had sat. She must have left it when she was gathering her wrappers. Glancing back at the guys to make sure they were preoccupied with the game, he picked it up, trying to decide what to do. It was above him, of course, to snoop and read another person’s private writings. But he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted—no, needed to know what had preoccupied her in the silence. As if something written in that notebook could teach him about breaking free.
The pages were filled with penciled words in wide, loopy handwriting. Opening to the first page, he saw a plan for a budget. Surely that wasn’t what had preoccupied her. Let it go, boy. Take the notebook to the counter. You’re better than this. And yet he flipped further into the book. He found a list of books about writing labeled “to read.” Maybe she’s a writer. He flipped to the back of the notebook, searching for the last entry. He found the beginning of a journal entry.
“I’m sitting in an Arby’s in Auburn. Been a long weekend—visiting the family in South Carolina and realizing how much I’ve changed and they’ve changed since I last saw them. It’s kind of funny—I’m listening to a group of 20 year old guys up at the counter talking about how their friend hasn’t changed his underwear since last week. Silly boys. I wonder if they’ll ever grow up. But they’re cute.”
Cam stopped reading, his face turning red. He felt as if someone had taken a snapshot of him picking his nose and displayed it in the middle of Times Square. As if he’d stumbled upon someone replaying a video of his life that he hadn’t known they had recorded.
But these thoughts were confined in a stranger’s notebook—not plastered on Good Morning America or the front page of the National Inquirer. Why should he care what a random woman had thought of him? Why should it matter what she thought of him?
But it did matter. Snapping the book shut he walked over to the table and sat down, ripping open packets of sauce and squeezing it onto his sandwich. How could she not see that he had been standing off to the side? That he hadn’t been flirting, or giving input in the loud underwear conversation? I’m not even dressed like them. He looked over at his three friends wearing baggy shorts and t-shirts in contrast to his khaki pants and a polo. The more he thought about it, he fumed, unsure of the object of his anger.
Jeff jerked him out of his mounting fury when he kicked him under the table. “Look, Cam! Your girlfriend’s back.”
Jeff nudged Troy with his shoulder and they both burst out laughing.
She looked a bit frantic as she walked over to the table where she had been sitting, looked on the drink island, and even pressed open the trashcan, searching for what he knew he had already found. She hurried over to the lady behind the counter, and when the woman shook her head and the girl looked as if she might cry, as if her worst nightmare had just come true. She stood for a moment in the middle of the room looking lost, then in resignation she bit her lip and turned toward the door.
Cam gripped the notebook on his lap, struggling to know what to do next. But just when she reached the door, he made the decision.
Springing out of the booth, he called, “Hey, is this yours?”
She whirled around with relief on her face until she saw who the rescuer was. She blushed, horror tightening her jaw when she saw the guys behind him snickering.
“I just found it over—”
Before he could explain, she snatched it out of his hand, angrily. “Glad I could show you guys such a good time.” She called past him to the others, “Laugh it up, losers. You're just like your stupid Tiger team.” She shot Cam a sarcastic gaze before spitting out, “Thanks a lot.” Then turned on her heels—and this time, trotted out of the restaurant.
He stood in place by the drink island, wishing that he could explain that he wasn’t like them.
And then as if he’d finally diagnosed his problem it settled in. He was them. He was with them. His presence condoned them.
“Dude, what was HER problem? Callin’ us losers.” Troy stood from the booth and started toward the door. “I’ll show her who’s a loser.”
Cam grabbed his arm as he marched by. “Let her go, Troy. She probably thought we read her notebook.”
“Let go, man.”
Cam tightened his grip and raised his voice. “It’s not like you would do anything to her if you caught her anyway.”
Troy turned his anger on Cam. “You’re always actin’ like you’re so much better than us.” He jerked his arm out of Cam’s grasp. “And you know what? I’m about sick of it. What’s your problem?”
“My problem? You want to know what my problem is?” This was it—the moment Cam had been stashing inside for a long time. But he decided to speak slowly. “I’m a senior in college. I’ve got a full time job to get myself through. I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do when I graduate in May. But I have three idiots for friends who don’t seem to care that life is coming faster than they can grow up. Okay? So there. That’s my problem.” He felt the need to clarify a step farther. “You guys are my problem.” The words felt horrible coming out, but once he’d said them the truth felt so good that he continued.
“And another thing. I’m a communication disorders major, but I don’t need a degree to diagnose what you guys have.” He pointed toward Troy. “You—you’re obnoxious.” Looking at Tyler he said, “You’re immature. And you, with your lucky underwear—” he wrinkled his face in disgust at Jeff, “you’re just gross.”
Without bothering to gather his food, he pushed out the door and climbed into his Jeep, processing through the anger and emotion of the scene. He had just peeled off what had been his best friends since childhood. Had just left behind the best part of his boyhood and teen years. And it hurt like ripping a band aid off a hairy arm. But—wasn’t that the point? If becoming a mature adult meant making painful or uncomfortable choices, then let this be the first.
He backed out of his parking space and pulled around the side of the building, driving slowly past the window where he could see them, stuffing their mouths with fries, eyes glued to the TV as if nothing had happened. Almost as if he had never even been a part of them. He shook his head and drove off. I wonder if they’ll ever grow up?

Survivor

This evening was wonderful—-rather than going out to eat or going to sit at the pier to read, I decided to indulge in some domesticity—-laundry, casserole, and cleaning. First, I slipped out to Dollar General for paper towels. I wore a ratty t-shirt and jean skirt, my hair in a pony tail—-in that get up I sort of felt like a housewife, minus the five kids screaming in a mini-van out in the parking lot. It felt good, somehow.
I came home and put together a tater tot casserole, stuck it in the oven and proceeded to take out two loads of laundry and clean my entire house. As I was folding the laundry, a former student called me and we chatted for a while—-what I’m trying to say is that the evening was going wonderfully.
Until I walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark piece of something on the floor in the spare bedroom, right outside the bathroom. Having just vacuumed, I took another look. When the dark ‘something’ darted toward me, I jumped back. A roach!!
Recovering quickly, my single woman survival instincts kicked in-—I grabbed a cup from the bathroom and lunged, clambering after the roach that was making a beeline for the crack under my roommate’s bedroom door where she was already asleep. I slammed the cup down once, but the little fiend evaded capture. About a foot from her door, I caught him, pressing the cup down as hard as I could into the carpet.
At once he began searching for an escape, scratching at the sides of the plastic cup. I held the cup there for a minute, trying to catch my breath. When it seemed that he had calmed down a bit, I stood up, taking pressure off the cup slowly, making sure that it stayed pressed down in the carpet. Everything was silent for a moment as I stared at the cup. It was as if the roach and I were waiting for one another to make a move. He made the first move and started scraping the sides of the cup again, rocking the cup back and forth! I jumped back, muttering to the thing and trying to decide what to do. I thought of just leaving it there and waiting for my roommate to deal with it in the morning. But she would probably come out and accidentally kick the cup over and then we’d be back where we started with a roach on the loose. I thought about texting her or sliding a note under her door, but I didn’t want to wake her up-—she’s been sick and needs her rest.

I, however, wanted back up. I scrolled down the numbers in my contact list, searching for someone, anyone I could call to come over and kill the thing or at least be moral support while I dealt with it. As always, a good man is hard to find so I snapped the phone shut.
“Suck it up, girlfriend.” I growled to myself walking back out to inspect the little red cup. Of course, the obvious thing to do would be to slide something flat under the cup, flip the cup over, and dispose of the varmint. But what if he managed to squeeze out under the cup while I was sliding the paper under and crawl up my arm and entangle himself in my hair? What if he escaped and scurried into my roommate's room?
It takes me a while, but I can eventually talk myself into doing just about anything, given enough time.
I ripped the cover off a phone book and took a deep breath. Then yelped again when he resumed his escape attempts. “Stop that!” I snapped at him.
Now, I can’t fault him for wanting to be free; I didn’t expect him to accept defeat so easily—-think of how boring life would be if bugs carried little white flags. After all, I have long been a defender of bugs, roaches, in particular. Ever since I made a peace treaty with the one that nearly scared me half to death last year when I found him sitting on my toothbrush, watching me while I washed my face. Yes, I hate roaches as much as the next woman, but I believe they’re grossly misunderstood. They’re not fiends—-except the ones that hiss (but who’s to say that isn’t just communication, like a purr or a puppy sigh?) They don’t come to harm us-—why do you think they run away so quickly? Yet we’re bent on killing them when they’re really only little victims of circumstance, entering our homes searching for water or food, and instead encountering shoe soles or streams of Windex or (like my little buddy here) the reddish confines of a red Valentine’s day cup. I had almost decided to let him free downstairs, once I managed to get this cup turned over.
But then he did something that negated all sympathy in my heart, that ruined his chances of ever seeing his crunchy family or little roachy residence again. As I slowly moved the cup onto the paper, he stuck his antennae out from under the cup and started waving them at me. Oh, that was low!! I held back a scream, bit my lip and pressed the cup down a little harder on top of the paper, severing his feelers from his head.
I had come this far-—it was either him or me and I think that outcome was pretty obvious. Even the weakest of us (namely me) will fight to survive. Married women have the luxury of calling their husbands to come kill their pests—-creating a twofer chance to be rid of the bug and boost their husband’s ego. Single women have their pride—-not to be bested by bugs or have their homes infested by them. We’re survivors, in other words. So there was no way that roach was getting the better of me.
My determination to wrangle that piece of paper under the cup was commendable. But the problem came when the carpet bunched up under the cup and I knew I might have to lift the cup a bit to get it all the way onto the paper. I could see his dark shape through the cup, crouching, ready for even the tiniest slit of light to reveal a crack for him to squeeze under. Not willing to afford him that chance, I got an idea. Gingerly leaving the cup, I walked out to grab boxing tape from the kitchen drawer. I’d tape the cup to the paper and that little sucker would have no escape.
I bent over, refusing to sit on the floor because if he should make a break, I could spring away out of his path. Pressing the cup down with one hand, I attempted to wrap the tape around the base of the cup with the other. Instead the tape wrapped around my fingers. I couldn’t let go of the cup because he was scratching around again. So I stuck my finger in my mouth and tried pulling the tape off, (If my actions in certain parts of this narrative don’t seem logical, it's because. . . eh, I have no defense. They weren't.) The only thing that could have made it anymore hilarious would have been for my roommate to have opened that door with me bent over, trying to rip the tangled boxing tape from my fingers, and my shorts riding up to a scandalous level.
When, at last, I wrapped the final piece of tape around the cup, I scooped the whole package—cup, paper, tape and roach—into a trash bag, sealed the bag and threw it out onto my porch. I bet he’s still out there scratching around.
But me, I’m sitting in here with muscles that I didn’t even know I had, screaming at me as if I had just completed a P90x workout, rather than having captured a roach. I’m also reflecting on how this encounter has made me feel.
Finding a roach, in and of itself, is not what disturbs me. What bothers me is that I’m sure he represents others that I just don’t know about. And now for days, I’ll look both ways before I cross the hallway. I’ll see imaginary roaches out of the corner of my eye. And I’ll find a renewed determination to make at least one male friend who lives close to my apartments. One that seems likely to be a willing hero in the future should any other pestilence show their faces in my house.
Here I sigh, because there’s nothing like a roach to remind me of how much I wish I had a husband. Then again, how exciting would it be to simply scream for my roach slayer while I climbed atop the nearest chair to watch him execute the invader? Where’s the fun in that?
So I suppose I’m thankful to be in the trenches, vigilant and eager to guard my apartment by my own womanly means.
Besides, I only see a roach in here maybe once a year. I can handle that. I just need to stock up on little red cups and boxing tape.

Honest

I was innocent—honest.
So when I clopped into the court house this past June, I had every confidence—-that flimsy commodity we whip out when we want something to go our way—-that justice would prevail.
I had almost wet my pants when the officer pulled me over for a 6-month-expired registration: my first brush with the law. I had no idea that it was due for renewal on my birthday in December. And I was almost positive that one of those DMV courtesy reminders had never come in the mail.
So, at the prodding of many well-meaning and court-savvy friends, I brought my little law-abiding self downtown to the court house, walked through the metal detectors, and settled very conspicuously into the motley crowd of petty felons waiting just outside the courtroom doors.
I wedged myself into a corner, as far away from the long haired, heavily tattooed man looking very much as if he needed a cigarette.
Though I didn’t mean to, I think I sniffed my disdain-—no need for a trial; they were probably all guilty. I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only one wearing professional clothing. Most had dropped in from work in their mud-caked boots, scrubs, or grunge. I had dressed to the nines as someone suggested—-black sweater, tweed skirt, and my very high black blister-factory heels.
Finally, the bailiff opened the doors and issued us into the room. I took a seat on the bench, crossed my high-heeled leg daintily and waited, moving ever so slightly to let the scraggly, tat covered cig craver step over my legs to sit in the seat next to me.
I watched as one by one the officers walked in the front door of the room, each of them scoping out who had called them away from their normal routine. I tried not to look at the masculine female cop who had her hair pulled back into a tight pony tail just as she had on the day that she strutted up to my window. I tried to think the best of them. Tried to ignore the comments I had heard about how cocky these law enforcers were. Tried to think of them as the human beings I had seen on CSI and Law and Order—-public servants with understanding, uncynical hearts.
When at last every cell phone user had been exposed, and the bailiff had finally persuaded the shoeless black woman out of the room, the judge walked in. I noticed at once a fact that settled my stomach a bit—-he looked very much like Tom Bergeron from AFV.
Each defendant that stepped up to the stands was clearly evading his just dues, lying through his teeth, holding out hearsays, keeping back facts, and losing his composure. I kept my eyes on my wrist watch, remembering an hour into the thing that I only had 2 hours on the parking meter. What irony to walk out of this to find another ticket on my car. Silently, I willed the bailiff to cart the rest of the people out of the room and into the nearest cell for cronies. Could they arrest someone for stupidity? Surely there is a place somewhere in this great land of equal opportunity where an idiot can be incarcerated for no crime other than being an idiot.
But the courts of justice listened to the man in the Hawaiian shirt who had brought in a lawyer to defend him against a 20 dollar parking fine. And to the tattoo guy who stormed out of the room with curses, promising that he would be back with his lawyer.
When the bailiff called me forward, my hands started shaking. My voice went quiet, and I tried not to exude a brittle confidence like those retards who think they’re actually on Judge Judy’s good side until she calls them down. I approached the podium, barely able to see over it, my voice seeming diminutive, tinny, almost annoying as I forced my words above a whisper to take the oath and state my argument.
Tom blinked, almost kindly, staring over his glasses at me. “I’ve lived here my whole life and they’ve always sent out courtesy reminders. I’m going to keep the fine at 114 dollars. Plus the 20 dollar court cost.”
I blinked back at him. It was quick and painless. In fact, I didn’t even realize that he had called me a liar until I was outside in the heat.
Mentally, I kicked every friend and relative who had encouraged me to take my case to court. In my simplistic little mind I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t have believed me, if for nothing else my shaky hands and airy voice and clearly innocent eyes.
I had taken an oath, for crying out loud. Did I look like a perjurer? Why in the world would he have dismissed my testimony as a lie—
My self-righteous steps slowed a little bit as I remembered that all of the other people that I had been judging so harshly had taken the same oath. But that judge could no sooner take my word than he could have taken the other peoples’ who were ‘clearly’ lying. Without a scrap of evidence, I had nothing to stand on. My words weren’t worth the lint in my pocket-—and I didn’t even have pockets. My oath, a formality, had meant nothing. Because it was founded on nothing.
In a society that doesn’t believe in a God to swear by, there is no assurance of truth. As if on cue, the lines from an essay came back to my mind. The lines are from George Washington’s farewell address as he left the presidential office. With much foresight and wisdom, Washington stated, “Of all the dispositions and habits, which lead to political prosperity, Religion and Morality are indispensable supports. . . Let it simply be asked, Where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths, which are the instruments of investigation in Courts of Justice? And let us with caution indulge the supposition, that morality can be maintained without religion.”
Walking back to my car, I felt a strange insecurity, as if the instability of this world shifted suddenly beneath me. It felt like I imagine it would feel to find out that there is no gold to back the paper money in my hands. That it was just that-—paper. How poignant a realization that our country’s system of justice is bad and that it’s just going to get worse because we keep ignoring the One who made it great to begin with.
I cringed as I crossed the street, straining my neck to search for a flash of white tucked under my windshield wiper. Seeing nothing but splattered bugs, I sighed with relief. If justice wasn’t just, it was, at least where my parking meter was concerned, blind.

Reflexes

I saw Will today at the college. As always, my hands began to shake at the first sighting of him ambling down the sidewalk. When his brown eyes caught my gaze, my stomach turned inside out and lay there burning. My lungs emptied and refused to be filled, sending my heart into oxygen deprived spasms.
We talked for almost one whole minute, engaging in conversation of the ‘how are you?’ variety. I don’t think we’ll ever look at each other that we won’t exchange a hungry stare—longing to say more than we're saying.
Sometimes I feel twinges of longing to sit in some coffee shop with disregarded cups of coffee steaming in front of us as we talk until the curly headed barista ushers us out to the curb so that he can sweep up the crumbs and cover the pastries with plastic wrap. I can’t help it, sometimes--despite the past, despite the pain and the misunderstandings--I just want to be with Will.
But I know that given the chance to spend an evening together, we would both leave frustrated or hurting, and I know that I would come back and sob myself to sleep with guilt and regret.
And I know that these pains of longing, these twinges of desire are just somehow reflexive, like the ghost pains in an amputated leg, or the involuntary muscle jumps of the dead.

Yo-yo Will

O
I long to release this strand I cannot afford to hold, to fling
it into the great expanse of what I do not know
and to watch it land, once and for all,
into Hands that know the tricks of the string
so much better than
I.

The Other Side of Me

I’m like a book.
Closed.
So much to keep in;
So much to keep out.
Hybrid of all things good and evil,
Heroine and villain all at once.
The cover, all you see,
A faint synopsis,
Misleading at best.

Just behind these green panes
curtained with my thoughts,
Another side of me exists,
Unknown to those not searching for it.
Like the deep part of the sea-
Only bravest adventurist
Able to stand supreme pressure
Can enter the clandestine chambers
Of my heart.

There my eyes light up with dreams
held captive to fears your side contrives,
And I'm not the paper doll some believe you can clothe, bend as you please
Or the paper Mache you assume
Can be broken, or wielded which way you assign.
You resign me to teeter on a book spine
You post me at a blender,
while I stir up recipes for passion in my soul.

The other side of me cheers cowboys on bucking broncos and
bungee jumping bridges.

Peer inside,
over my shoulder in a moment that the cover’s undone.
You’ll find me chasing stories, in New York,
clad in of blazers and heels, Pulitzers and such.

Strolling through a butterfly blossomed meadow,
watching the moon, make its sleepy upward drift so
maddeningly close to my fingers.

I watch your world,
and you,
from the windows of my soul,
wondering if you care to know
the other side of
me.

Unaware

Caleb let the dressing room door shut quietly, and looked around. Good; no one in the store had noticed him step out of the dressing room where he had appeared.
He strolled past the racks of shirts and shorts, trying to avoid the attention of the perky sales clerk ambling toward him.
“Would you like to try on some of our bright and bold polos for summer?” she beamed. “We’re having a great sale.”
“No thank you.” Caleb continued to the front of the store, smirking as he glanced around at the displays of turquoise, yellow, and green polo shirts displayed around the store. Bright and bold? These colors paled in comparison to the radiance of Heaven, as did all of earth’s details.
When Caleb reached the front of the store, he paused beside a rack of shirts to look out the display window into the mall.
A voice rumbled behind him. “We are far from the Holy City are we not?”
Caleb turned to see Machaia, smiling.
“That is quite an understatement.” Caleb grunted, crossing his arms across his chest. “You are here, too, are you?”
Machaia nodded. “There are many of us today.”
“But you are not shrouded?” The angel hadn’t clothed his spirit in human form as Caleb had. To human eyes, Machaia was invisible.
“I was informed that it isn’t necessary for my task.” Machaia scanned the store. “Where is your charge?”
Caleb pointed past the stream of shoppers walking by the display window. “In line at Starbucks, as always.”
Amusement lit Machaia’s eyes. “If she is able to find mischief while she is standing still, she must keep you busy.”
“I never know what to expect from her.” Caleb thought of the bum that had almost grabbed her in an alley last week. She’d had no business walking alone downtown after dusk, but Caleb hadn’t left her side and the unsuspecting assailant hadn’t stood a chance against the dumpster lid which had met him head on. “She’s simple at times. So childlike; trusting.”
A smile tugged at Machaia’s lips. “The Almighty likes that.”
Caleb’s gaze remained fixed on the crowd of people laughing and swinging shopping bags as they passed the window; his senses detected their lust or covetousness, the unkindness, selfishness and all other manner of disobedience to the Almighty’s commands. “She’s too fragile to live in a world such as this.”
As if he knew where the conversation would lead, Machaia reminded his fellow
guardian, “That is why we are here to protect such as her against the evil.”
Clenching his hands at his side, Caleb muttered, “If only we could fight, rather than merely protect.” His voice shook with passion. “If only we could direct their choices, change their course, we could annihilate evil—”
“The Almighty has given us orders to guard them, my friend, not to guide them. Their choices are their own.” Machaia’s eyes filled with empathy. “I know how you long to battle. You always were a zealous one.”
Caleb stared out the window as the memories came back. Though millenniums had passed, it seemed like only days ago when he had fought Satan and the rebels in the great uprising in Heaven.
After the battle, when earth and humans were created, the Almighty had issued assignments to the remaining angels. Some were appointed to be messengers to reveal His supernatural signs on earth; some were assigned to praise Him; others, like Caleb and Machaia, were sent to be guardians of the Almighty’s chosen ones. But then there were the Defenders, those chosen to deliver answers to prayer, who fought the Prince of the Air and his forces. Though Caleb battled his own desires to rectify evil as a Defender, he knew his assignment of Guardian was of no less importance.
“No matter.” Pushing aside his thoughts, Caleb glanced down at the watch on
his wrist. “Well, we are now subject to time.”
“Yes, we should see to our charges.” Machaia gave one last glance at Caleb before passing through the wall.
Caleb walked out the door to join the surge of men and of angels swarming in the mall’s food court. Hundreds of humans, their arms full of bags and boxes, stood in lines to order pizza, burgers, pretzels, or coffee.
He made his way slowly toward the long line of people just outside of Starbucks. Watching the humans push past him, oblivious to their own depravity, Caleb felt a twinge of pity. Perhaps, ignorance was their greatest sin.
A woman wearing a low cut tank top paraded by and looked him over slowly, her intent
clear even to an angel. Caleb didn’t even see the teenage boy until he slammed into Caleb’s shoulder as he passed.
“Watch where you’re going, dude.” The boy sneered over his shoulder as he strutted away.
Watching him go, Caleb felt his frustration rising once again.
How could the Son have lived for thirty-three years among these that refused to acknowledge their need for righteousness? Immediately, shame gripped his spirit at his thoughts of condemnation. Only the Almighty who was gracious enough to come to them was holy enough to condemn them. But deep inside, Caleb would never understand such mercy.
Since receiving his order to be guardian, Caleb had protected the best of humanity from the worst of humanity. His current charge was Bethany. For all of her eighteen years he had guarded her, mostly from her own oblivious ways. Now, Caleb shuffled into line behind her, smiling at the sight of her blonde pony tail swaying slightly when she gazed around at the bustling atmosphere.
Why she enjoyed exploring new places and traveling alone, he would never understand. He did know, however, that she was captivated by the excitement of the world viewed through her innocent eyes, unaware of the ever present evil endangering her.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants and looked around, meeting the gazes of fellow angels, shrouded and invisible. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he hoped it would happen soon; he didn’t like standing around doing nothing.
“It’s really busy in here today, isn’t it?”
Bethany’s words caught him off guard. He raised his eyebrows and looked away, hoping she would stop talking, but knowing that she wouldn’t.
“As long as this line is, you’d think that people needed coffee to live.”
Caleb cleared his throat. “That’s how it would seem.”
“Well,” she grinned, fidgeting with the debit card in her hands, “I say that, but
I’m standing here too.”
The plastic card presented an interesting question: if the line ended before his task were finished, how was he supposed to pay for whatever it was they were standing in line for?
“What do you usually get?”
“What?”
“What kind of coffee do you usually order?”
He decided to be vague, but honest. “I’ve never been to—” he pointed up at the sign, “Starbucks before.”
“Really?” She turned to face him, green eyes opened wide. “Are you from a different planet or something?”
The irony made him laugh. “Something like that.”
She pressed her lips together, a sign Caleb had come to realize meant that she was thinking. Finally, she blurted, “Would you let me buy you your first Starbuck’s coffee? Please?”
He smiled, knowing that rejection would be futile; Bethany would not stop until he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”
“Let me tell you, the best thing to get is the java chip frappachino. I get one every
time I come here. I guess I should try something else, there are so many. . .”
Bethany’s rambling dwindled to a hum in Caleb’s ears as he felt the sensation of danger prick his spirit. Craning to see around a pretzel stand, Caleb spotted him, a young man pushing through the glass doors into the food court.
And he wasn’t alone. At his side strode one of Satan’s minions.
Caleb watched the demon’s malicious glare sweep over the crowd as it whispered into the young man’s ear. The man smiled, looking both smug and disgusted as he touched the side of his trench coat.
Then Caleb understood. It wasn’t just Bethany in danger today; possibly every human in the food court would be affected by the wretch’s alliance with evil.
His heart began to race. This had happened not so long ago at Columbine, Virginia
Tech, and countless other places where humanity’s disregard wasted the Almighty’s gift of life.
Although he hadn’t been at those places, Caleb was here now and this didn’t have to happen; he could stop the man before the shooting started. But he didn’t have much time. Time— he hated time.
He looked back at Bethany who was still chattering, her pristine eyes sparkling with excitement. And Caleb made his choice.
Ignoring Bethany’s protests, he darted from the line, and pressed toward the table area as the young man edged closer to the center of the court—center stage for the farewell performance of atrocity.
Zeal burned within Caleb and his heart pounded against his ribs as he felt power surging within him—the power he had held back for so long.
He stood, facing the murderous duo, until the demon met his gaze. Throwing its head back, the demon released a victorious screech not so unlike the sound of metal scraping on metal. In rage, Caleb lunged forward.
But the grip on his shoulders pulled him back as Machaia’s voice rumbled close to Caleb’s ear. “It’s not for us to right their evil. He can still choose to say no.”
Caleb breathed deeply, watching as the demon whispered lies, prodding on the young man’s rage.
“Think of Bethany.” Machaia urged, his grip tightening. “You don’t have much time.”
Caleb looked at Bethany, then lowered his gaze, and nodded. He sprinted back to where Bethany stood and pressed back into line.
A smile spread across her face. “There you are! I didn’t know where you had—”
“Is there not a different coffee shop just over there?” He pointed up the corridor.
“Barnies.”
He nodded; it hardly mattered. “Yes, that’s it. I doubt that the line will be as long as this one. Come on.”
Unsure of his sudden urgency, she hesitated for only a moment before complying. Walking briskly to match Caleb’s urgent stride, she chattered, “Actually, Barnie’s is better, but I’ve just always come to Starbucks, just because—”
Caleb cringed, hearing the first burst of automatic gunfire. He pushed her to the floor and crouched over her, shielding her body with his own.

An eternity of thirty seconds later, the firing stopped.
When Caleb’s spirit was free from the sense of danger, he stood over Bethany, who remained huddled on the floor, her screams fading to a whimper as she looked up at him. Before she had time to ask the questions forming in her terror-stricken eyes, Caleb backed away. Entering the chaotic scene of screaming humans and soulless bodies lying in pools of blood and broken glass, he laid aside the human form and disappeared from sight.
In the same area where he and Bethany had been standing only minutes before, he found Machaia hovering over the lifeless body of his charge, a middle-aged man.
Caleb shook his head, his face darkened in anger and grief. “How long until justice reigns?”
“Soon, my friend.” Machaia jutted out his chin, his voice sure. “Very soon.”
Caleb scanned the crowd of humans; some were racing around, while others silently stood in tears. He knew that it would be one of those stories in the newspapers the next day. Many of the guarded would accredit luck or coincidence. Had they not happened to be delayed in traffic, had not some random stranger wanted to chat, had they not been just thirty seconds late, their stories would have been completely different. That was how the Almighty had meant for it to be.
Even thinking of what might have been, Caleb silently praised the Almighty for the chance to bring Him glory and for His command to watch from a distance, guarding until the final judgment, hidden with the rest of them.