Daughter Dearest and I returned from vacation to find Spring #3 ramping up. It quickly got to be nearly as warm as it was in Florida last week — but both of us had our priorities in order: 1) Mom and Solar-bro; 2) 550 miles from the chicken houses; 3) The weather. Monday was productive; I gathered up a bunch of firewood that had been at least partially cut and The Boy did most of the splitting while I stacked. Mrs. Fetched deemed the resulting stack “impressive.” I’m going to do a lot of cutting this spring, then we’ll have (mostly) dry firewood come next fall.
But Spring #3 can be the wild one of the bunch, even if it’s going to be the “real” spring this year (we might get a Winter #4, but it would have to be mild and short). DoubleRed and I came home this evening to a TS02 in progress, with Mrs. Fetched sort of refereeing and Mason watching with frank interest. Snippet finally huffed off and went upstairs, leaving The Boy (who had been simmering in the lounge chair) to fill me in on the details. Apparently, this has been something that’s been going on for a while — maybe since the big TS02 over Valentine’s Day (VD) weekend. Mason was a bit more concerned than he let on; he let out a loud squawk of relief right in my ear a few minutes later.
I should have expected something like this: Snippet dropped SN05, SN08, and SN09 errors on me just this morning; The Boy has been throwing TB22 and TB25 errors a lot as well. Turned out that the day after DD and I vacated, Mrs. Fetched lowered the boom on them both — and they both straightened up and took care of business (and Mason) much better than before. It carried forward, as The Boy did pretty good with the firewood.
Speaking of Mason, I noticed a couple changes when we returned — his hair is a little thicker and his face a bit chubbier. He also caught a cold, poor guy. I had him yesterday afternoon and he started getting fussy… making “I’m hungry” complaints. I made some formula, used about half of it in a bowl of cereal for him, and started feeding. He took four or five bites and started crying like he’d been slapped — I checked to make sure he hadn’t gotten pinched in the high chair — then got him out. As usual, by the time I got to the bedroom he’d stopped crying… but he started moaning a little, which is his “I’m tired” noise. Shortly after, the “hungry” noises began and DoubleRed offered him another spoon of cereal. He clamped his mouth shut, so I asked her to make another four oz. of formula and add it to what I’d made. This made a full 8 oz. bottle; I offered that to Mason and he started chowing… and chowing… and chowing. He finally dozed off when there was a couple thimbles of formula left — whew! — then slept for two hours. Smart kid, he knew he needed his fluids.
Yesterday, I did something I probably don’t do enough of — exercised grandparent’s prerogative. I had Mason in the lounge chair, standing in my lap, when he bent over and started grunting. The radiation alarms went off a few minutes later, and I gave him (and his atomic diaper) to Snippet to decontaminate.
The Boy’s band — 22s at 7 — will be playing at the Masquerade (in Atlanta) this weekend. He really wants me to come, but with money as tight as it is I told him he might have to buy my ticket. :-P They spelled the band’s name wrong on the ticket, which I suppose is a rite of passage for new acts, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Well, it’s back to the office tomorrow. I checked my email yesterday evening and the place hadn’t caved in yet, so tomorrow and Friday will be spent on some administrivia and maybe even getting some work done. Will Snippet leave The Boy? Will The Boy finally land that music career he’s wanted for over half his life? Will Mrs. Fetched ever get some rest? Stay tuned…
Wednesday, March 10, 2010 5 comments
Monday, March 08, 2010 5 comments
White Pickups, Episode 25
Contents
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The vote went as Charles predicted: a few voiced doubts, but in the end everyone voted to leave for Laurel Hills. They deployed extra sentries for the night, in case Joseph returned with friends, but only the pickups disturbed them. Tim joined the sentries after a few sleepless hours, and stayed with the shifts through dawn.
After breakfast, Cleve (who had slept little better than Tim) accompanied Tim to the bicycle shop. Each of them carried their damaged bicycle, weapons, and a pack. A twenty-minute walk brought them to their destination, Midtown Velo. The previous owner — or last employee — had left the door unlocked, and Cleve pushed it open as Tim watched the street.
“Clear,” Cleve said. “Nothing’s changed since Friday.”
The cash register had been rifled and left askew on the counter, but otherwise the place seemed unmolested. Tim lit a lantern, cleared a space under the counter to stash the cash register, then assembled a camp stove from his pack.
“What’s that for?” Cleve asked.
“Coffee,” said Tim, lifting a small kettle and a jar of instant coffee out of his pack. “Not exactly Jamaica Blue Mountain — but after last night, I’m gonna need it to get through the day.” He filled the kettle from two water bottles, set it on the stove, then lit it. “I brought us a couple mugs, just in case there’s no styrofoam cups here.”
“Good idea. I’m gonna need some of that too. What are we gonna do while we’re waiting?”
“Take inventory. Find us some new wheels. I think our tires and tubes are okay, I’ll just swap ’em over.”
Tim found the shop both well-stocked and well-equipped; he quickly found suitable replacement wheels for his own bike and Cleve’s. After swapping the tires and straightening brake levers and shifters, he rode them up and down the street and pronounced them fit for service.
They found some folding chairs in the work area, and took two out to the sidewalk with their coffee. They sat, watching the sun try to burn through the clouds as the occasional pickup whispered by, doing their best to enjoy the coffee. “I never did get used to drinking this stuff black,” Cleve said, taking a cautious sip.
“Aha,” Tim said, digging some packets out of a pants pocket. “I knew I was forgetting something. Cream and sugar?”
“Red, you are a lifesaver!” Cleve grinned, tearing open several packets after giving them a bare glance. He sloshed the contents around and took a second sip. “Ahhh. Much better!”
Tim poured a creamer packet into his own cup. “Yeah. Stuff’s almost palatable now, huh?” He yawned, blew on the coffee, and took a big gulp.
They sat for a while, quiet except for slurping and the occasional yawn. “You ready for the tune-up group?” Cleve asked at last, lifting the walkie-talkie.
“Sure, bring ’em on. I can get another cup while they’re coming,” Tim said.
Fifteen of the city folks already had bicycles, with various amounts of riding experience; they arrived in groups of three. Tim went over each bike, adjusting brakes, shifting, and spokes, and replacing the rare worn part. A few of the occasional riders requested and received upgraded components. After breaking for lunch, which Charles brought with the last trio, it was time to tackle the eleven newbies. Many of them had not ridden a bike since their teen years; the oldest two were unsteady enough or lacked enough confidence that Tim gave them adult trikes. This took the rest of the afternoon and Tim finished with his last three customers around 6 p.m. Tim picked out a new cargo trailer from the shop’s stock and loaded it with enough spare parts to refit several bicycles before he and Cleve escorted the final group home, riding slowly and giving them pointers.
After supper, Tim gulped down another mug of coffee and addressed the entire group: “You have a twenty-mile ride ahead of you tomorrow. That sounds like a lot to some of you, but an easy pace would get you there in two hours without stops. We’re going to make it a really easy pace — I’m expecting the last of us to arrive about four hours after we begin, including rest breaks every five miles or so. That means if we leave right after breakfast, we’ll be there in time for lunch.” That drew a few laughs, and broke a latent tension among the newbies.
“For some of you, this ride will be no big deal. You could get there in an hour, maybe a little longer, if you know where you were going.” More laughs. “But I’ll need at least one of you experts to accompany Cleve and me with the newbies. We’ll be pulling trailers with extra water, spare parts, and tools. Before, this wouldn’t have been so important — but now, we’re all we’ve got. No sweeper van to carry extra stuff or pick up breakdowns, no family to call on if there’s trouble.
“So when you pack your things, think of what is absolutely irreplaceable. Suburbia is well-stocked with the junk of everyday life, so you can leave nearly everything here. If you haven’t been using it the last few days, you probably won’t need it. The lighter you travel, the easier it’s gonna be on all of us. Don’t forget to take your potassium tablets in the morning; we don’t want any leg cramps.
“The people who are used to riding will go with Max and Charles. Cleve and I will lead the second group. The two leaders in each group will always be first and last, so we don’t lose anyone. We will stay together, which means everyone in the group will ride no faster than the slowest member. If you’re in the first group and feel you’re slowing the others down, you can drop back and hook up with us. But let Max and Charles know so they won’t come looking for you!
“We’ll take breaks every five miles or so, unless the entire group wants to push on. Don’t pressure someone who wants a break, and if you need a break, don’t be shy about saying so. You will all need to stretch, drink some water, and get off your butts for a few minutes anyway. Some of you will be sore afterwards, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Yeah, that already happened!” someone shouted. The others laughed.
“Right,” Tim continued. “Sore butts will heal. The ride will finish at the clubhouse, where Sondra and our hosts will have a ‘welcome home’ cookout for us, after which you’ll pick your new homes.
“We leave right after breakfast tomorrow. Each rider will have a bag with water, energy bars, and directions to Laurel Hills in case of trouble. Any questions?”
“What if it’s raining tomorrow?” one of the newbies asked.
“We ride anyway,” Tim said. “You won’t sweat as much, or overheat, so it might be better if it does rain. You can always wear a poncho.”
Nobody asked a second question. “Let’s get some sleep,” Tim said. “We’ll need all the rest we can get.”
continued…
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The vote went as Charles predicted: a few voiced doubts, but in the end everyone voted to leave for Laurel Hills. They deployed extra sentries for the night, in case Joseph returned with friends, but only the pickups disturbed them. Tim joined the sentries after a few sleepless hours, and stayed with the shifts through dawn.
After breakfast, Cleve (who had slept little better than Tim) accompanied Tim to the bicycle shop. Each of them carried their damaged bicycle, weapons, and a pack. A twenty-minute walk brought them to their destination, Midtown Velo. The previous owner — or last employee — had left the door unlocked, and Cleve pushed it open as Tim watched the street.
“Clear,” Cleve said. “Nothing’s changed since Friday.”
The cash register had been rifled and left askew on the counter, but otherwise the place seemed unmolested. Tim lit a lantern, cleared a space under the counter to stash the cash register, then assembled a camp stove from his pack.
“What’s that for?” Cleve asked.
“Coffee,” said Tim, lifting a small kettle and a jar of instant coffee out of his pack. “Not exactly Jamaica Blue Mountain — but after last night, I’m gonna need it to get through the day.” He filled the kettle from two water bottles, set it on the stove, then lit it. “I brought us a couple mugs, just in case there’s no styrofoam cups here.”
“Good idea. I’m gonna need some of that too. What are we gonna do while we’re waiting?”
“Take inventory. Find us some new wheels. I think our tires and tubes are okay, I’ll just swap ’em over.”
Tim found the shop both well-stocked and well-equipped; he quickly found suitable replacement wheels for his own bike and Cleve’s. After swapping the tires and straightening brake levers and shifters, he rode them up and down the street and pronounced them fit for service.
They found some folding chairs in the work area, and took two out to the sidewalk with their coffee. They sat, watching the sun try to burn through the clouds as the occasional pickup whispered by, doing their best to enjoy the coffee. “I never did get used to drinking this stuff black,” Cleve said, taking a cautious sip.
“Aha,” Tim said, digging some packets out of a pants pocket. “I knew I was forgetting something. Cream and sugar?”
“Red, you are a lifesaver!” Cleve grinned, tearing open several packets after giving them a bare glance. He sloshed the contents around and took a second sip. “Ahhh. Much better!”
Tim poured a creamer packet into his own cup. “Yeah. Stuff’s almost palatable now, huh?” He yawned, blew on the coffee, and took a big gulp.
They sat for a while, quiet except for slurping and the occasional yawn. “You ready for the tune-up group?” Cleve asked at last, lifting the walkie-talkie.
“Sure, bring ’em on. I can get another cup while they’re coming,” Tim said.
Fifteen of the city folks already had bicycles, with various amounts of riding experience; they arrived in groups of three. Tim went over each bike, adjusting brakes, shifting, and spokes, and replacing the rare worn part. A few of the occasional riders requested and received upgraded components. After breaking for lunch, which Charles brought with the last trio, it was time to tackle the eleven newbies. Many of them had not ridden a bike since their teen years; the oldest two were unsteady enough or lacked enough confidence that Tim gave them adult trikes. This took the rest of the afternoon and Tim finished with his last three customers around 6 p.m. Tim picked out a new cargo trailer from the shop’s stock and loaded it with enough spare parts to refit several bicycles before he and Cleve escorted the final group home, riding slowly and giving them pointers.
After supper, Tim gulped down another mug of coffee and addressed the entire group: “You have a twenty-mile ride ahead of you tomorrow. That sounds like a lot to some of you, but an easy pace would get you there in two hours without stops. We’re going to make it a really easy pace — I’m expecting the last of us to arrive about four hours after we begin, including rest breaks every five miles or so. That means if we leave right after breakfast, we’ll be there in time for lunch.” That drew a few laughs, and broke a latent tension among the newbies.
“For some of you, this ride will be no big deal. You could get there in an hour, maybe a little longer, if you know where you were going.” More laughs. “But I’ll need at least one of you experts to accompany Cleve and me with the newbies. We’ll be pulling trailers with extra water, spare parts, and tools. Before, this wouldn’t have been so important — but now, we’re all we’ve got. No sweeper van to carry extra stuff or pick up breakdowns, no family to call on if there’s trouble.
“So when you pack your things, think of what is absolutely irreplaceable. Suburbia is well-stocked with the junk of everyday life, so you can leave nearly everything here. If you haven’t been using it the last few days, you probably won’t need it. The lighter you travel, the easier it’s gonna be on all of us. Don’t forget to take your potassium tablets in the morning; we don’t want any leg cramps.
“The people who are used to riding will go with Max and Charles. Cleve and I will lead the second group. The two leaders in each group will always be first and last, so we don’t lose anyone. We will stay together, which means everyone in the group will ride no faster than the slowest member. If you’re in the first group and feel you’re slowing the others down, you can drop back and hook up with us. But let Max and Charles know so they won’t come looking for you!
“We’ll take breaks every five miles or so, unless the entire group wants to push on. Don’t pressure someone who wants a break, and if you need a break, don’t be shy about saying so. You will all need to stretch, drink some water, and get off your butts for a few minutes anyway. Some of you will be sore afterwards, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Yeah, that already happened!” someone shouted. The others laughed.
“Right,” Tim continued. “Sore butts will heal. The ride will finish at the clubhouse, where Sondra and our hosts will have a ‘welcome home’ cookout for us, after which you’ll pick your new homes.
“We leave right after breakfast tomorrow. Each rider will have a bag with water, energy bars, and directions to Laurel Hills in case of trouble. Any questions?”
“What if it’s raining tomorrow?” one of the newbies asked.
“We ride anyway,” Tim said. “You won’t sweat as much, or overheat, so it might be better if it does rain. You can always wear a poncho.”
Nobody asked a second question. “Let’s get some sleep,” Tim said. “We’ll need all the rest we can get.”
continued…
Friday, March 05, 2010 3 comments
As the Sun Slowly Sets on Vacation…
And so it winds down… a week just isn’t enough time to do everything you’d like to do, but in the end it’s enough. It’s enough. I was talking to Mrs. Fetched last night and realized that I was ready to go home.At the same time, I really needed this break, and so did Daughter Dearest. It wasn’t warm enough to lie on the beach, but she isn’t the lie on the beach type anyway. It was warm enough to get out though, not always the case on Planet Georgia last week. It’s going to be warmer both here and there next week, so I expect I’ll be outside a lot at least until I have to go back to work on Thursday.
We did get a trophy — a walker for Mason — and I got plenty of pictures. DD got some clothes for various things, and a lot of rest. I’m a little bummed about not getting a chance to meet up with Beth; I was looking forward to talking about writing and boring DD to death. ;-) But there will be other chances.
Mrs. Fetched sounded pretty tired… I’m sure Snippet hasn’t been holding up her end of things with Mason, and The Boy never has, so it’s all down to her. I figure on Sunday, it will be Mrs. Fetched Rests Day and I’ll let Mason cruise the manor in his new walker.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010 2 comments
Splashing along
Daughter Dearest and I have reached the halfway point. So far so good — as always, plans one makes on Sunday get a little squishy by Wednesday, but we’re still hoping for a meetup with Beth while we’re here… maybe Friday.It’s interesting how quickly a routine has developed: I tend to get woken up by sunlight leaking through the blinds around 7:30 each morning, so I just go with it and try to get in bed by 11:30. I got out on a walk with the camera on a sunny Sunday, and managed to catch a sailboat going through the drawbridge, a gorgeous sunset, and various birds. This duck was beating the water with its wings, I think in response to a second duck walking along the shore — MY pond!!! Eventually, it climbed out, dried its wings off, then took off low (making it hard to get an in-flight shot, but I think I managed).
The wind has really gotten up, and it has been fairly cool here (low 60s). People here seem to think that’s cold, while for DD and I it’s shirtsleeve weather as long as you’re moving around — a good 20 degrees (F) warmer than at home. Even more important, it’s over 500 miles from the chicken houses, so who cares about the weather?
Otherwise, I’ve been doing a lot of reading and a little writing. I took the original Daughter Dearest to the original Hooters on Gulf-to-Bay (this has been a running joke for us for some years), and bought her a new t-shirt to replace her old one which is wearing out. Her old one was black, with a printed vine running along one side and the logo sneaked in — very subtle, and she wore it to school many times without anyone (in authority) noticing. The new one is a more Gothic design, not as subtle but still not the full-on “delightfully tacky yet unrefined” like the waitresses wear. We saw a baby-sized shirt that said “Hooters Girls Dig Me,” which we’ll get for Mason when he’s big enough to wear a 2T.Her take after observing the waitresses was interesting: “I’d never work there. They’re all really jealous of each other and they don’t seem to think much.” Being hungry, I wasn’t paying that much attention to the waitresses. I remember the name of our server, mainly because she was named after a camera (Yashica). :-P I couldn’t talk DD into posing outside, but whatever. We had a good lunch and a good bit of fun along with it.
Solar was over here once, and should swing by tomorrow night. Too bad he won’t be here tonight, I’m making pizza starting in an hour or so, after I get back from a photowalk…
Monday, March 01, 2010 5 comments
White Pickups, Episode 24
Marching into March!
Contents
Joseph tried to fling himself through the crowd, but snagged the cords tying his ankles together and he fell into Max. Max wrapped him up and yelled, “Grab him!” The mob surged forward and took hold of him. He struggled, but cords and hands held him tight.
Tim came running back to see what was happening. “Hey, what’s going on?” Nobody listened.
“Jesus! Not that!” Joseph yelled, looking at Cleve. “Help me!”
“Hey,” Cleve said, moving to stand between them and the street corner. “You sure you want to do that?” A white pickup rolled by. “Remember what happened to Sondra? She just stuck her arm in one.”
“Why not?” one of the others spat. “He’d-a killed you and Red over here, if he coulda. Back off, Cleve!”
The crowd tried to carry Joseph to the curb. Cleve moved to block them, but others pushed him out of the way.
“Tim!” Cleve yelled. “This ain’t right — tell ’em!”
Tim sprinted around the crowd to stand next to Cleve. “Wait a minute!” he shouted, waving his arms. We don’t know what those things do to people. We could just shoot him, if it comes down to it.”
“Eight! There’s eight of us!” Joseph yelled. “We’re holed up in the Marriot Suites in Midtown! We got deer rifles and shotguns!”
“Eight, including yourself?” Tim asked.
“Yeah! Oh God, please don’t let ’em do that!”
A white pickup rolled up to the stop sign at the corner. “Throw him in the bed!” someone yelled, and the people holding Joseph hustled toward it. Tim and Cleve moved to stop them, Charles moved but not quickly enough; all three were pushed aside. Joseph screamed in terror.
A voice thundered from behind them, “See that ye do it not!” They hesitated; the truck turned and rolled away. Everyone turned to see a short man in a frayed suit marching toward them. His bald white head reflected the overcast sky.
“This doesn’t concern you!” one of the men holding Joseph shouted.
“Your hate and fear should concern you,” the newcomer responded. “For as you give yourselves to it, you become like the man that you would sacrifice to the Eater of Souls. Is that truly your wish?”
A certain tension began to evaporate, and a man holding one of Joseph’s legs let go and stood aside. “Let him stand on his own,” the newcomer said, and it was done. They parted to allow the newcomer to approach Joseph.
“Who— whoever you are,” Joseph stammered, hands still wired behind his back, “thanks.”
“Thank the Lord, upon whom you called in your extremity,” the newcomer said. “For you have sinned, no more and no less than any of those here, and the redemption you and they are offered is one and the same.” He swept a hand across the crowd, but spoke to Joseph. “Your hate has led you here, nearly to your destruction. You must now put aside that hate, and enter the synagogue of Satan, from whence your hate flows, no more.”
“I don’t understand…”
“I mean, if you would save your soul, you must find another place to go. Woe, I say, woe unto you if you return to the so-called friends from whence you came! Truly, it would be better if they were to give your soul to the Eater!”
“So we’re supposed to let him go?” Max said. “What’ll stop him from coming back?”
Charles moved to stand near Joseph and waved his hands for attention; he paused for a moment and everyone waited. “We’re leaving anyway,” he said at last. “You all know as well as I do that nobody’s gonna vote to keep us all here, or stay behind when everyone else leaves. Even if he or his friends come back, there won’t be anyone here for them to bother.”
“You got another place to go, Joseph?” Cleve asked.
Joseph thought a minute. “Yeah,” he said. “My uncle has a place outside Alpharetta. I guess I can go there, it’s as good as anywhere else. If he’s not there, he’d want someone in the family to keep it up.”
“You know how to get there from here? Go that way,” Cleve pointed down the street, “keep going until you get to Monroe. It’s the first main drag. Go right on Monroe, and follow it to Piedmont. Take another right, follow Piedmont to Roswell Road, and that’ll take you to Alpharetta. You might want to grab a bicycle on the way.”
“Yeah, I’ll manage,” Joseph said. “If someone unties me.”
Cleve stepped behind Joseph and unwrapped the lamp cord, Joseph’s gun still on his shoulder. “Now you ain’t gonna pull anything on me, right? I gave you my word and I kept it. Time for you to give me yours.”
Joseph looked at the short man, then back at Cleve. He looked at the gun, then shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m done. I’m outta here.” He turned the way Cleve had pointed him, rubbed his wounded arm, then bent to untie his ankles before walking away. He did not look back.
“Who are you, anyway?” Tim said to the newcomer.
“I am one called to ministry. The gay man, beaten and left for dead, the drunkard shaken in the grip of his addiction, the man shot, the woman raped, the tourist mugged — I hold their hands, pray over their hurts, bind their wounds, and give them comfort until the ambulance arrives. Jeremiah Fortune Patterson was the name given me at my birth, some in my youth called me Jerry, but men and women such as you will ever call me Preacher.” Several in the crowd laughed.
“Tonight, you must make an important decision,” Patterson said. “I will leave you to make that decision. Go in peace. God willing, I will see you again.” He turned and left, walking the way he came.
continued…
Contents
Joseph tried to fling himself through the crowd, but snagged the cords tying his ankles together and he fell into Max. Max wrapped him up and yelled, “Grab him!” The mob surged forward and took hold of him. He struggled, but cords and hands held him tight.
Tim came running back to see what was happening. “Hey, what’s going on?” Nobody listened.
“Jesus! Not that!” Joseph yelled, looking at Cleve. “Help me!”
“Hey,” Cleve said, moving to stand between them and the street corner. “You sure you want to do that?” A white pickup rolled by. “Remember what happened to Sondra? She just stuck her arm in one.”
“Why not?” one of the others spat. “He’d-a killed you and Red over here, if he coulda. Back off, Cleve!”
The crowd tried to carry Joseph to the curb. Cleve moved to block them, but others pushed him out of the way.
“Tim!” Cleve yelled. “This ain’t right — tell ’em!”
Tim sprinted around the crowd to stand next to Cleve. “Wait a minute!” he shouted, waving his arms. We don’t know what those things do to people. We could just shoot him, if it comes down to it.”
“Eight! There’s eight of us!” Joseph yelled. “We’re holed up in the Marriot Suites in Midtown! We got deer rifles and shotguns!”
“Eight, including yourself?” Tim asked.
“Yeah! Oh God, please don’t let ’em do that!”
A white pickup rolled up to the stop sign at the corner. “Throw him in the bed!” someone yelled, and the people holding Joseph hustled toward it. Tim and Cleve moved to stop them, Charles moved but not quickly enough; all three were pushed aside. Joseph screamed in terror.
A voice thundered from behind them, “See that ye do it not!” They hesitated; the truck turned and rolled away. Everyone turned to see a short man in a frayed suit marching toward them. His bald white head reflected the overcast sky.
“This doesn’t concern you!” one of the men holding Joseph shouted.
“Your hate and fear should concern you,” the newcomer responded. “For as you give yourselves to it, you become like the man that you would sacrifice to the Eater of Souls. Is that truly your wish?”
A certain tension began to evaporate, and a man holding one of Joseph’s legs let go and stood aside. “Let him stand on his own,” the newcomer said, and it was done. They parted to allow the newcomer to approach Joseph.
“Who— whoever you are,” Joseph stammered, hands still wired behind his back, “thanks.”
“Thank the Lord, upon whom you called in your extremity,” the newcomer said. “For you have sinned, no more and no less than any of those here, and the redemption you and they are offered is one and the same.” He swept a hand across the crowd, but spoke to Joseph. “Your hate has led you here, nearly to your destruction. You must now put aside that hate, and enter the synagogue of Satan, from whence your hate flows, no more.”
“I don’t understand…”
“I mean, if you would save your soul, you must find another place to go. Woe, I say, woe unto you if you return to the so-called friends from whence you came! Truly, it would be better if they were to give your soul to the Eater!”
“So we’re supposed to let him go?” Max said. “What’ll stop him from coming back?”
Charles moved to stand near Joseph and waved his hands for attention; he paused for a moment and everyone waited. “We’re leaving anyway,” he said at last. “You all know as well as I do that nobody’s gonna vote to keep us all here, or stay behind when everyone else leaves. Even if he or his friends come back, there won’t be anyone here for them to bother.”
“You got another place to go, Joseph?” Cleve asked.
Joseph thought a minute. “Yeah,” he said. “My uncle has a place outside Alpharetta. I guess I can go there, it’s as good as anywhere else. If he’s not there, he’d want someone in the family to keep it up.”
“You know how to get there from here? Go that way,” Cleve pointed down the street, “keep going until you get to Monroe. It’s the first main drag. Go right on Monroe, and follow it to Piedmont. Take another right, follow Piedmont to Roswell Road, and that’ll take you to Alpharetta. You might want to grab a bicycle on the way.”
“Yeah, I’ll manage,” Joseph said. “If someone unties me.”
Cleve stepped behind Joseph and unwrapped the lamp cord, Joseph’s gun still on his shoulder. “Now you ain’t gonna pull anything on me, right? I gave you my word and I kept it. Time for you to give me yours.”
Joseph looked at the short man, then back at Cleve. He looked at the gun, then shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m done. I’m outta here.” He turned the way Cleve had pointed him, rubbed his wounded arm, then bent to untie his ankles before walking away. He did not look back.
“Who are you, anyway?” Tim said to the newcomer.
“I am one called to ministry. The gay man, beaten and left for dead, the drunkard shaken in the grip of his addiction, the man shot, the woman raped, the tourist mugged — I hold their hands, pray over their hurts, bind their wounds, and give them comfort until the ambulance arrives. Jeremiah Fortune Patterson was the name given me at my birth, some in my youth called me Jerry, but men and women such as you will ever call me Preacher.” Several in the crowd laughed.
“Tonight, you must make an important decision,” Patterson said. “I will leave you to make that decision. Go in peace. God willing, I will see you again.” He turned and left, walking the way he came.
continued…
Thursday, February 25, 2010 12 comments
Ain’t Gonna Play Sun City
A recent BBC article on “America’s original active retirement community” got me thinking. As many long-time readers know, the FAR in FAR Manor means Forget About Retirement — but I try not to. Hey, I might get lucky after all. Besides, I’m on vacation, the original mini-retirement.
What jumped out at me were two quotes near the middle of the article. In the first, one resident said that retirement previously involved (among other things) “waiting to die.” The developer heard many variants of “I raised my own children, and I don’t want to have to raise my grandchildren.” To me, the first seems myopic, the second outright selfish.
Next week, I’ll be going to Florida, which seems these days to be one humonguous retirement community (active or otherwise) overlaying a normal economy, which in turn overlays a tourist economy. The desire to move somewhere that’s warm all the time, or at least cold very rarely, is certainly understandable… although there’s a long brutal summer to contend with as well. Too cold sometimes or too hot sometimes, pick one.
So why would retiring in the community where you worked, with or without family nearby, be “waiting to die”? After all, you already know where the good restaurants are, which fishing spots are best at any given time, which golf courses offer reduced greens fees on weekday mornings, where the good walking/biking/hiking trails are. Unless your friends have all moved away, you know where they are and when they’re available. Unless you live in some backwater hole in the hills, and even on Planet Georgia there are great hiking and mountain bike trails just a few miles from the manor, there should be plenty of recreational opportunities for an “active retirement.” Why go somewhere that you have to figure all this stuff out all over again, when you can enjoy it right where you are?
Then there’s the other side of the coin. I for one mostly enjoy helping to raise Mason, even when I have to work for a living. He’s off with Snippet for an overnight at her mom’s, and even with him waking up twice a night (teething) I’m going to miss him. I’ll really miss him next week when I’m gone. I can understand long-standing friction with your (nominally) adult children — The Boy really gets on my nerves sometimes — or the resentment at their presumption that they can just dump their own kids on you while they work or have fun, but I can’t understand not wanting to be a part of your grandkids’ formative years. You don’t punish the kids for the sins of the parents, after all. Besides, with multi-generational households becoming a trend once again, you should be able to expect the kids to support you as well: you take the grandkids fishing or bike riding while they’re working, they come in and you pop out to the golf course. Sounds like one way to have the best of both worlds, anyway.
What jumped out at me were two quotes near the middle of the article. In the first, one resident said that retirement previously involved (among other things) “waiting to die.” The developer heard many variants of “I raised my own children, and I don’t want to have to raise my grandchildren.” To me, the first seems myopic, the second outright selfish.
Next week, I’ll be going to Florida, which seems these days to be one humonguous retirement community (active or otherwise) overlaying a normal economy, which in turn overlays a tourist economy. The desire to move somewhere that’s warm all the time, or at least cold very rarely, is certainly understandable… although there’s a long brutal summer to contend with as well. Too cold sometimes or too hot sometimes, pick one.
So why would retiring in the community where you worked, with or without family nearby, be “waiting to die”? After all, you already know where the good restaurants are, which fishing spots are best at any given time, which golf courses offer reduced greens fees on weekday mornings, where the good walking/biking/hiking trails are. Unless your friends have all moved away, you know where they are and when they’re available. Unless you live in some backwater hole in the hills, and even on Planet Georgia there are great hiking and mountain bike trails just a few miles from the manor, there should be plenty of recreational opportunities for an “active retirement.” Why go somewhere that you have to figure all this stuff out all over again, when you can enjoy it right where you are?
Then there’s the other side of the coin. I for one mostly enjoy helping to raise Mason, even when I have to work for a living. He’s off with Snippet for an overnight at her mom’s, and even with him waking up twice a night (teething) I’m going to miss him. I’ll really miss him next week when I’m gone. I can understand long-standing friction with your (nominally) adult children — The Boy really gets on my nerves sometimes — or the resentment at their presumption that they can just dump their own kids on you while they work or have fun, but I can’t understand not wanting to be a part of your grandkids’ formative years. You don’t punish the kids for the sins of the parents, after all. Besides, with multi-generational households becoming a trend once again, you should be able to expect the kids to support you as well: you take the grandkids fishing or bike riding while they’re working, they come in and you pop out to the golf course. Sounds like one way to have the best of both worlds, anyway.
Monday, February 22, 2010 12 comments
White Pickups, Episode 23
Contents
“Whoa,” Cleve said. “Don’t kill him. Not yet.” Their captive pulled his knees up to cover his abdomen, wincing at his arm but doing his best to cover himself.
“Why not? He would have killed us if he had the chance. Right, asshole?”
“Just go check the damage. I doubt he did more than bang ’em up a bit. He doesn’t look smart enough to know how to destroy a bike with his bare hands, and I don’t see anything else he could have used. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Tim feigned another kick, then turned and stomped away to assess the damage. Cleve squatted down and whispered, “I’m gonna ask you a couple questions. Nothing you need to worry about, as far as giving away anything, but personally I’d like to address you as something other than ‘Asshole.’ You got a name?”
He said nothing for a moment, then licked his swollen lips. “Joseph,” he whispered.
“Okay, Joseph,” Cleve said, “I know I shot you and smacked you around a little, but I saw wounds like that in Afghanistan and it ain’t gonna kill you if you don’t let it get infected. You think you’re up to walking a couple miles, especially since you disabled our transportation?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll just leave me here.”
“If you were smart, you wouldn’t have made all that noise down here and let us know we had company. And you wouldn’t have come alone. Your buddies would have come a-runnin’ soon as they heard the first shot, right?”
Joseph said nothing.
“You were right,” Tim said. “He just wrecked the wheels and dinged up a few things. Nothing that can’t be repaired, but we’ll have to carry them back. Or make him do it.”
“Good.” To Joseph, “I assume you would prefer to live, given a choice, so I’m gonna ask you one more question before I tell you a couple of things. You gonna try anything stupid, like yelling for help?”
Again, Joseph said nothing, but finally sighed and shook his head.
“Good. ’Cause if you did, I’d have to shoot out your knee. That would make a lot more noise, and your friends might get lucky and rescue you, but you’d never walk right without major surgery — assuming your leg didn’t come off. And I don’t see too many doctors outside a truck these days, do you?” Joseph shrugged.
“So this is how it’s gonna go. You’re gonna walk, and you’re gonna be quiet about it. You’re gonna go left when we say left, and right when we say right. But you also ain’t gonna be anybody’s bitch, I give you my word — as long as you don’t give trouble. What else happens to you, I can’t make any guarantees. Fair enough?”
“Where in Afghanistan were you?”
“Bagram. 455th Aerial Evac.”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah. I won’t give trouble.”
“Good.” Cleve lifted Joseph to his feet one-handed, keeping his other hand on the pistol. “Tim — can you carry both bikes, or do I need to take one?”
“I can get ’em both,” Tim said, “but I’ll have my hands full. You think we should each take one so we can have our shooting hands free?”
“Yeah. Okay, Joseph goes first. You’re gonna tell him which way to go, and —”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him where to go.” Tim looked grim.
“Just play it straight,” Cleve snapped. “You watch him and our front, I’ll cover our backs. If he tries anything, kneecap him.”
“You mean shoot out his kneecap?”
“Yeah.”
“That I can handle,” Tim said. “We got time for a pee break first?”
“It’s only four. We can be home in an hour. Go ahead.”
Tim slipped into the stairwell. “Your friend has an attitude,” Joseph said.
“Yeah. His girlfriend lived upstairs in the apartment we came out of. She killed herself. Pain pills. He’s looking for a reason to take it out on you.”
Joseph looked away. “Damn. My wife jumped in one of those trucks… I guess I know where he’s comin’ from.”
“Yeah. So don’t even let him think you’re trying to give trouble.”
Tim stepped back into the foyer, and Cleve got them moving. Outside, the truck’s whispering seemed to grow louder, perhaps sensing Tim’s distress and Joseph’s fear. All of them stood and stared, unwilling but listening: Join us. No sadness. No death. No fear. Leave all cares behind. After a long moment, Joseph spat, breaking the spell. Tim lifted a middle finger, from the hand wrapped around his damaged bike, then turned away.
It was a long hour’s walk, even with no incidents or trouble from Joseph. The sentries did a double-take, then waved to the others. Charles met them at the end of the block.
“What happened? We were about to send some people out after you!”
“Ran into a little trouble,” Cleve said. “We handled it.”
“Doesn’t look like the bikes did, though,” Max said. “What happened?”
“Our friend here had a little fun with them while we were upstairs,” Cleve said.
“So did you find her?”
“Yeah,” Tim said. “But not soon enough.” He glowered at Joseph one last time, took Cleve’s bike on his other shoulder, and walked away.
“Not good, then,” Charles said.
“Nope,” Cleve said. They stood quietly for a moment as some of the others gathered around. “So we caught this little redneck. What do we do with him?”
Charles looked Joseph over. “You wanna tell us anything about your friends?”
Joseph blinked. “Hell no.”
“He’s nobody’s bitch,” Cleve said. “I promised him that.”
“Well, what good is he? He won’t help us out, and nobody would want him for that anyway. What do we do with him, then?”
“Toss him in a pickup?” someone suggested. Some onlookers nodded or voiced agreement.
Joseph turned pale. “You’d do that? That ain’t right!”
“You and your buddies tried to kill us.”
“Yeah,” someone else said. “You came off the street like the pickups. Why shouldn’t you go away in one?”
continued…
“Whoa,” Cleve said. “Don’t kill him. Not yet.” Their captive pulled his knees up to cover his abdomen, wincing at his arm but doing his best to cover himself.
“Why not? He would have killed us if he had the chance. Right, asshole?”
“Just go check the damage. I doubt he did more than bang ’em up a bit. He doesn’t look smart enough to know how to destroy a bike with his bare hands, and I don’t see anything else he could have used. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Tim feigned another kick, then turned and stomped away to assess the damage. Cleve squatted down and whispered, “I’m gonna ask you a couple questions. Nothing you need to worry about, as far as giving away anything, but personally I’d like to address you as something other than ‘Asshole.’ You got a name?”
He said nothing for a moment, then licked his swollen lips. “Joseph,” he whispered.
“Okay, Joseph,” Cleve said, “I know I shot you and smacked you around a little, but I saw wounds like that in Afghanistan and it ain’t gonna kill you if you don’t let it get infected. You think you’re up to walking a couple miles, especially since you disabled our transportation?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll just leave me here.”
“If you were smart, you wouldn’t have made all that noise down here and let us know we had company. And you wouldn’t have come alone. Your buddies would have come a-runnin’ soon as they heard the first shot, right?”
Joseph said nothing.
“You were right,” Tim said. “He just wrecked the wheels and dinged up a few things. Nothing that can’t be repaired, but we’ll have to carry them back. Or make him do it.”
“Good.” To Joseph, “I assume you would prefer to live, given a choice, so I’m gonna ask you one more question before I tell you a couple of things. You gonna try anything stupid, like yelling for help?”
Again, Joseph said nothing, but finally sighed and shook his head.
“Good. ’Cause if you did, I’d have to shoot out your knee. That would make a lot more noise, and your friends might get lucky and rescue you, but you’d never walk right without major surgery — assuming your leg didn’t come off. And I don’t see too many doctors outside a truck these days, do you?” Joseph shrugged.
“So this is how it’s gonna go. You’re gonna walk, and you’re gonna be quiet about it. You’re gonna go left when we say left, and right when we say right. But you also ain’t gonna be anybody’s bitch, I give you my word — as long as you don’t give trouble. What else happens to you, I can’t make any guarantees. Fair enough?”
“Where in Afghanistan were you?”
“Bagram. 455th Aerial Evac.”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah. I won’t give trouble.”
“Good.” Cleve lifted Joseph to his feet one-handed, keeping his other hand on the pistol. “Tim — can you carry both bikes, or do I need to take one?”
“I can get ’em both,” Tim said, “but I’ll have my hands full. You think we should each take one so we can have our shooting hands free?”
“Yeah. Okay, Joseph goes first. You’re gonna tell him which way to go, and —”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him where to go.” Tim looked grim.
“Just play it straight,” Cleve snapped. “You watch him and our front, I’ll cover our backs. If he tries anything, kneecap him.”
“You mean shoot out his kneecap?”
“Yeah.”
“That I can handle,” Tim said. “We got time for a pee break first?”
“It’s only four. We can be home in an hour. Go ahead.”
Tim slipped into the stairwell. “Your friend has an attitude,” Joseph said.
“Yeah. His girlfriend lived upstairs in the apartment we came out of. She killed herself. Pain pills. He’s looking for a reason to take it out on you.”
Joseph looked away. “Damn. My wife jumped in one of those trucks… I guess I know where he’s comin’ from.”
“Yeah. So don’t even let him think you’re trying to give trouble.”
Tim stepped back into the foyer, and Cleve got them moving. Outside, the truck’s whispering seemed to grow louder, perhaps sensing Tim’s distress and Joseph’s fear. All of them stood and stared, unwilling but listening: Join us. No sadness. No death. No fear. Leave all cares behind. After a long moment, Joseph spat, breaking the spell. Tim lifted a middle finger, from the hand wrapped around his damaged bike, then turned away.
It was a long hour’s walk, even with no incidents or trouble from Joseph. The sentries did a double-take, then waved to the others. Charles met them at the end of the block.
“What happened? We were about to send some people out after you!”
“Ran into a little trouble,” Cleve said. “We handled it.”
“Doesn’t look like the bikes did, though,” Max said. “What happened?”
“Our friend here had a little fun with them while we were upstairs,” Cleve said.
“So did you find her?”
“Yeah,” Tim said. “But not soon enough.” He glowered at Joseph one last time, took Cleve’s bike on his other shoulder, and walked away.
“Not good, then,” Charles said.
“Nope,” Cleve said. They stood quietly for a moment as some of the others gathered around. “So we caught this little redneck. What do we do with him?”
Charles looked Joseph over. “You wanna tell us anything about your friends?”
Joseph blinked. “Hell no.”
“He’s nobody’s bitch,” Cleve said. “I promised him that.”
“Well, what good is he? He won’t help us out, and nobody would want him for that anyway. What do we do with him, then?”
“Toss him in a pickup?” someone suggested. Some onlookers nodded or voiced agreement.
Joseph turned pale. “You’d do that? That ain’t right!”
“You and your buddies tried to kill us.”
“Yeah,” someone else said. “You came off the street like the pickups. Why shouldn’t you go away in one?”
continued…
Sunday, February 21, 2010 3 comments
Typical and Not-so-typical Manor-isms
Thursday wasn’t the best day I ever had… there was a Dilbert strip a long time ago when he was trying to explain that he had to work and to only bother him for emergencies. What they heard was something like: “I am at your disposal. Killing spiders is my speciality.” And the spiders heard, “The house is full of crippled flies.” The last three weeks that I’ve tried to work at home have been like that: whether it was the in-laws (Big V wanting me to help pull her husband’s 18-wheeler out of a ditch with a pickup truck, somehow it worked), Mrs. Fetched (“I need you to replace an outlet at the chicken house” which turned out to be burned wires just north of the outlet), or The Boy and Snippet (any ridiculous thing they can think of), everyone seems to think that I should be thrilled to drop everything and take care of their problem. That the job I’m doing, or trying to do, is at least partially supporting all of them doesn’t seem to register on them. So about 5 p.m., I got fed up with it and bailed for a while. The indie coffee shop was already closed, so I went into the Kroger and got a Starbucks. After taking my sweet time quaffing it, I wandered the store and picked up a few items I knew we needed. But when I get back from vacation, if this stuff keeps up I won’t be working at home anymore.
The Boy pulled a pseudo-TB03 — he didn’t come home last night, knowing we wanted him home, but he did have the good grace to call and give us a slightly plausible story of “we trying to get the sound right on this one song.” More than likely, he and his band-buddies were getting 'faced, but he swore up and down that wasn’t what was happening. He also promised to be home by 9 this morning to help Mrs. Fetched with the chickens, and showed up about 12:30. That was pretty much the last straw for him borrowing our vehicles.
Fortunately, I have an 18-pound anchor to keep me sane. Mason is usually a very good-natured baby, and is getting to where he doesn’t have to have attention every minute… although he enjoys, and gets a lot of, interaction with the Big People. He’s at the point where he gets on his hands & knees and rocks — the precursor to crawling. We’re thinking about getting him a walker so he can cruise around the manor. Of course, that means we’ll be baby-proofing the place in short order.
Spring #2 arrived on Planet Georgia yesterday, just in time for the weekend. I went out to the treefall and cut some more firewood on Saturday; today we hauled, split, and stacked it. Cousin Splat pulled up with The Boy and Snippet in tow as I was getting started splitting; after a few minutes, he started stacking the wood I’d split and tossed aside, then The Boy saw this and joined in. The wood rack in the garage is now heaped over, and one of the pallets out back has about as much wood stacked and covered — maybe enough that anything we cut from here on out will be there for us this fall. There’s plenty more at the treefall; I finally got all the branches cleared away and can work on trunks from here on out. Kobold got an old 22" Husky saw running, but the chain’s worn out. When I resume cutting, I should get a new chain for that one (and remember the ear plugs, Huskys are LOUD).
At least I’ve got vacation starting later this week. Daughter Dearest and I are heading to Florida to visit my family… hooray! I’m hoping to get some writing done on White Pickups; maybe the change of venue will help. Progress is being made, but it’s slow progress.
The Boy pulled a pseudo-TB03 — he didn’t come home last night, knowing we wanted him home, but he did have the good grace to call and give us a slightly plausible story of “we trying to get the sound right on this one song.” More than likely, he and his band-buddies were getting 'faced, but he swore up and down that wasn’t what was happening. He also promised to be home by 9 this morning to help Mrs. Fetched with the chickens, and showed up about 12:30. That was pretty much the last straw for him borrowing our vehicles.
Fortunately, I have an 18-pound anchor to keep me sane. Mason is usually a very good-natured baby, and is getting to where he doesn’t have to have attention every minute… although he enjoys, and gets a lot of, interaction with the Big People. He’s at the point where he gets on his hands & knees and rocks — the precursor to crawling. We’re thinking about getting him a walker so he can cruise around the manor. Of course, that means we’ll be baby-proofing the place in short order.Spring #2 arrived on Planet Georgia yesterday, just in time for the weekend. I went out to the treefall and cut some more firewood on Saturday; today we hauled, split, and stacked it. Cousin Splat pulled up with The Boy and Snippet in tow as I was getting started splitting; after a few minutes, he started stacking the wood I’d split and tossed aside, then The Boy saw this and joined in. The wood rack in the garage is now heaped over, and one of the pallets out back has about as much wood stacked and covered — maybe enough that anything we cut from here on out will be there for us this fall. There’s plenty more at the treefall; I finally got all the branches cleared away and can work on trunks from here on out. Kobold got an old 22" Husky saw running, but the chain’s worn out. When I resume cutting, I should get a new chain for that one (and remember the ear plugs, Huskys are LOUD).
At least I’ve got vacation starting later this week. Daughter Dearest and I are heading to Florida to visit my family… hooray! I’m hoping to get some writing done on White Pickups; maybe the change of venue will help. Progress is being made, but it’s slow progress.
Monday, February 15, 2010 9 comments
White Pickups, Episode 22
Contents
Cleve heard the banging downstairs as Tim grew quiet. He locked the apartment door and hurried back to the bedroom.
“Red!” he rasped. “Someone’s downstairs!”
Tim looked up at Cleve from the floor and shook his head.
“Dude… listen. Do you think Rebecca would have wanted you to just give up like that? We’ve got trouble!”
Tim shook his head again, but pulled himself up, bracing against the nightstand as he stood. He brushed the empty pill bottle with his hand; it rolled off the nightstand to the floor. Tim picked it up, gave it a sour look, and threw it into the closet. It buried itself in her clothes then fell. “I didn’t want her to give up, either.” He looked at Rebecca, reaching down to stroke her brown hair one last time.
“Yeah. Plenty of time to think about that later.” A door slammed shut from down below. “Whoever it is, they just found the stairwell,” Cleve said. “We gotta get on this like now.”
“Whatever,” Tim said, looking at Cleve again. “They won’t be coming straight here, will they?” He paused a moment. “Decoy.”
“What?”
Tim stood, crossed the room, and yanked a full-length blue dress out of the closet, kicking the pill bottle into the corner. “Get down to the far end of the hallway. I’ll hold it out the door with a broom handle. He’ll focus on the dress, you take him down.”
“Damn. That might work.” Cleve ran to the front door and watched the hall as Tim plodded into the kitchen for a broom. “Yeah, he’s still on the second floor. Keep your bod out of the hall, okay?”
“Sure.” Tim unscrewed the broom from the handle, then ran the handle through the arms of the dress. “There’s a stairwell on the other end. Make sure he doesn’t come up behind you.”
“Gotcha!” Cleve ducked and bolted down the hallway. Tim hung the dress out the door and waited.
After a long minute, the stairwell door they had come through slammed open, followed by a shout and gunfire, too loud in the confined hallway. The dress puffed backward, as in a wind, and Cleve returned fire: two shots, a yelp, and a clatter.
“Don’t try it!” Cleve yelled. “Red! C’mon!” as he dashed past the dress. Tim dropped the handle and stepped out, pistol up.
A skinny guy with dirty blonde hair and a scraggly beard leaned against the stairwell door, holding his bleeding left arm and scowling at Cleve. He wore jeans, boots, and a Harley t-shirt. A ball cap lay upside-down on the floor, near a deer rifle. Cleve kicked the gun away, not taking his eyes or his pistol off him. Tim hurried to join Cleve.
“Red,” Cleve panted, “I’m gonna cover this little shit. You run back and grab three electrical cords. Don’t matter what they come off of, or if you have to rip ’em off whatever they’re attached to, just get ’em. And a towel.”
“Um — right.” Tim hustled back to Rebecca’s apartment to fetch the requested material. Her PC and monitor provided two of the cords; he took the third by cutting it off the desk lamp. The bathroom had a towel that still smelled of Rebecca… he let the grief have its way for a few seconds, then hurried to rejoin his friend.
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Cleve said. “On the floor, asshole. I’m gonna bandage your arm first. You just stretch it out from you.
“Red: you cover him. Put your pistol on his neck. If he tries anything funny, just shoot him.”
“I ought to let you shoot me,” the attacker said, still standing. “Better that than letting you faggots have your way with me.”
Cleve’s left fist slammed the man’s head into the stairwell door; his knees buckled. “Watch your mouth,” he said. “Some of my best friends are ‘faggots’ — and none of ’em would want to dirty themselves on you. Now. Lay down.” The attacker shook his head, but sunk to the floor.
Cleve dragged him face down, then nodded to Tim and pointed at the man’s neck; Tim jabbed his neck with the muzzle. Cleve stretched out the wounded arm, cut a strip from the towel, then used the strip to bandage the wound. As he worked, he checked pockets and relieved the gunman of a spare ammo clip and a boot knife. Then he used the lamp cord to bind the gunman’s hands behind his back, then tied the two computer cords together and to his ankles. “That should do it,” he said. “Now he can walk, but he can’t run.”
“Are we gonna carry him down the stairs?”
“Yeah… unless you wanna drop him out a window. Or just throw him down the stairs.”
“Why go through all the trouble of bandaging him or tying him up if we’re just going to kill him?”
“’Cause we ain’t.” Cleve picked up the rifle; it looked like a military replica. He slung it over his shoulder. “We’re taking him back with us. Roll him over onto his back… yeah. Now we each take an arm, and we’ll drag him. His boots can bounce on the stairs for all I care.”
They hoisted the wounded attacker, still groggy from Cleve’s punch. Cleve pushed the stairwell door open, pointing the pistol up then down, and peered down. “Clear. I think it was just him. Let’s go.” They dragged him down the stairs, his boots clunking on each step.
Nearing the ground floor, the captive started to struggle. Cleve reversed his pistol and tapped the man’s lips with the butt, lightly. “You wanna lose what’s left of your teeth?” The man shook his head. “Then you won’t start yelling or give us any kind of trouble, right?” He shook his head again. “Good. Let’s go.” They pushed through the door and into the lobby.
“You son of a bitch!” Tim said, dropping the captive; Cleve’s grip slipped and he dropped to the floor. “Our bikes!”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured he was doing,” Cleve said, looking at the wreckage. “Looks like he stomped the wheels and threw the bikes around a bit.”
Tim kicked the captive, who grunted and cursed. “I oughtta kill you right here and now for that!” He kicked one more time, then pointed his pistol at him. “You think this is funny? I had four grand in that bike!”
continued…
Cleve heard the banging downstairs as Tim grew quiet. He locked the apartment door and hurried back to the bedroom.
“Red!” he rasped. “Someone’s downstairs!”
Tim looked up at Cleve from the floor and shook his head.
“Dude… listen. Do you think Rebecca would have wanted you to just give up like that? We’ve got trouble!”
Tim shook his head again, but pulled himself up, bracing against the nightstand as he stood. He brushed the empty pill bottle with his hand; it rolled off the nightstand to the floor. Tim picked it up, gave it a sour look, and threw it into the closet. It buried itself in her clothes then fell. “I didn’t want her to give up, either.” He looked at Rebecca, reaching down to stroke her brown hair one last time.
“Yeah. Plenty of time to think about that later.” A door slammed shut from down below. “Whoever it is, they just found the stairwell,” Cleve said. “We gotta get on this like now.”
“Whatever,” Tim said, looking at Cleve again. “They won’t be coming straight here, will they?” He paused a moment. “Decoy.”
“What?”
Tim stood, crossed the room, and yanked a full-length blue dress out of the closet, kicking the pill bottle into the corner. “Get down to the far end of the hallway. I’ll hold it out the door with a broom handle. He’ll focus on the dress, you take him down.”
“Damn. That might work.” Cleve ran to the front door and watched the hall as Tim plodded into the kitchen for a broom. “Yeah, he’s still on the second floor. Keep your bod out of the hall, okay?”
“Sure.” Tim unscrewed the broom from the handle, then ran the handle through the arms of the dress. “There’s a stairwell on the other end. Make sure he doesn’t come up behind you.”
“Gotcha!” Cleve ducked and bolted down the hallway. Tim hung the dress out the door and waited.
After a long minute, the stairwell door they had come through slammed open, followed by a shout and gunfire, too loud in the confined hallway. The dress puffed backward, as in a wind, and Cleve returned fire: two shots, a yelp, and a clatter.
“Don’t try it!” Cleve yelled. “Red! C’mon!” as he dashed past the dress. Tim dropped the handle and stepped out, pistol up.
A skinny guy with dirty blonde hair and a scraggly beard leaned against the stairwell door, holding his bleeding left arm and scowling at Cleve. He wore jeans, boots, and a Harley t-shirt. A ball cap lay upside-down on the floor, near a deer rifle. Cleve kicked the gun away, not taking his eyes or his pistol off him. Tim hurried to join Cleve.
“Red,” Cleve panted, “I’m gonna cover this little shit. You run back and grab three electrical cords. Don’t matter what they come off of, or if you have to rip ’em off whatever they’re attached to, just get ’em. And a towel.”
“Um — right.” Tim hustled back to Rebecca’s apartment to fetch the requested material. Her PC and monitor provided two of the cords; he took the third by cutting it off the desk lamp. The bathroom had a towel that still smelled of Rebecca… he let the grief have its way for a few seconds, then hurried to rejoin his friend.
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Cleve said. “On the floor, asshole. I’m gonna bandage your arm first. You just stretch it out from you.
“Red: you cover him. Put your pistol on his neck. If he tries anything funny, just shoot him.”
“I ought to let you shoot me,” the attacker said, still standing. “Better that than letting you faggots have your way with me.”
Cleve’s left fist slammed the man’s head into the stairwell door; his knees buckled. “Watch your mouth,” he said. “Some of my best friends are ‘faggots’ — and none of ’em would want to dirty themselves on you. Now. Lay down.” The attacker shook his head, but sunk to the floor.
Cleve dragged him face down, then nodded to Tim and pointed at the man’s neck; Tim jabbed his neck with the muzzle. Cleve stretched out the wounded arm, cut a strip from the towel, then used the strip to bandage the wound. As he worked, he checked pockets and relieved the gunman of a spare ammo clip and a boot knife. Then he used the lamp cord to bind the gunman’s hands behind his back, then tied the two computer cords together and to his ankles. “That should do it,” he said. “Now he can walk, but he can’t run.”
“Are we gonna carry him down the stairs?”
“Yeah… unless you wanna drop him out a window. Or just throw him down the stairs.”
“Why go through all the trouble of bandaging him or tying him up if we’re just going to kill him?”
“’Cause we ain’t.” Cleve picked up the rifle; it looked like a military replica. He slung it over his shoulder. “We’re taking him back with us. Roll him over onto his back… yeah. Now we each take an arm, and we’ll drag him. His boots can bounce on the stairs for all I care.”
They hoisted the wounded attacker, still groggy from Cleve’s punch. Cleve pushed the stairwell door open, pointing the pistol up then down, and peered down. “Clear. I think it was just him. Let’s go.” They dragged him down the stairs, his boots clunking on each step.
Nearing the ground floor, the captive started to struggle. Cleve reversed his pistol and tapped the man’s lips with the butt, lightly. “You wanna lose what’s left of your teeth?” The man shook his head. “Then you won’t start yelling or give us any kind of trouble, right?” He shook his head again. “Good. Let’s go.” They pushed through the door and into the lobby.
“You son of a bitch!” Tim said, dropping the captive; Cleve’s grip slipped and he dropped to the floor. “Our bikes!”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured he was doing,” Cleve said, looking at the wreckage. “Looks like he stomped the wheels and threw the bikes around a bit.”
Tim kicked the captive, who grunted and cursed. “I oughtta kill you right here and now for that!” He kicked one more time, then pointed his pistol at him. “You think this is funny? I had four grand in that bike!”
continued…
Sunday, February 14, 2010 4 comments
Mason and a Slew of TB/SN/TS Errors
Amazing sometimes, how the baby can be what keeps you sane… (video by Daughter Dearest)
We can pretty much count on The Boy giving us a TB03 error every weekend these days… he claims to have “band practice” on Saturday night but we often don’t see him until later on Sunday or even Monday. Most of the time, we don’t know for sure, but we can assume a TB22 during those “outings.” Snippet kind of gave away the plan yesterday: she said something about going to a birthday party. Mrs. Fetched nixed it, but they most likely went anyway… seems like they have a “birthday” party to attend just about every weekend.
Last night, however, a TS02 led to an error that has happened before but I had neglected to categorize: a TB28 (calls us at 3 a.m. having an emotional, probably alcohol-fueled, meltdown). He texted and called my phone twice before I woke up enough to answer it. “Come and get me,” he wailed, “I don’t want to have anything to do with these drug addicts.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
He managed, on the second attempt (a personal best), to give me coherent directions that would at least get me somewhere.
“What about Snippet?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” There was more, but suffice it to say a TS02 had happened.
As I was getting ready, he called Mrs. Fetched’s phone and he poured out all his issues to her while I got dressed and loaded my pockets. About the time I was ready to leave, Mrs. Fetched held her hand out at me and mouthed, “Wait.” The Boy has inherited his mom’s penchant for jerking people (especially me) around, first “needing” me to go somewhere, then canceling about the time I’m ready. The upshot was, he would stay because he didn’t want the drug addicts getting vindictive somehow, and would call us in the morning when he was ready to get moving. And of course it’s 6 p.m. and we haven’t heard from him yet.
The good part about this was, I finally got smart: instead of getting gas Friday, I simply drove home, figuring if he wanted to take my car anywhere he’d have to put gas in it. He and Snippet managed to get Cousin Splat to drive them to not-band practice. We have a little gas in the detached garage, so I’ll just dump it in the car when I need to go somewhere then tank up later. Since tomorrow’s a holiday, it’ll wait for Tuesday.
The error codes list…
We can pretty much count on The Boy giving us a TB03 error every weekend these days… he claims to have “band practice” on Saturday night but we often don’t see him until later on Sunday or even Monday. Most of the time, we don’t know for sure, but we can assume a TB22 during those “outings.” Snippet kind of gave away the plan yesterday: she said something about going to a birthday party. Mrs. Fetched nixed it, but they most likely went anyway… seems like they have a “birthday” party to attend just about every weekend.
Last night, however, a TS02 led to an error that has happened before but I had neglected to categorize: a TB28 (calls us at 3 a.m. having an emotional, probably alcohol-fueled, meltdown). He texted and called my phone twice before I woke up enough to answer it. “Come and get me,” he wailed, “I don’t want to have anything to do with these drug addicts.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
He managed, on the second attempt (a personal best), to give me coherent directions that would at least get me somewhere.
“What about Snippet?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” There was more, but suffice it to say a TS02 had happened.
As I was getting ready, he called Mrs. Fetched’s phone and he poured out all his issues to her while I got dressed and loaded my pockets. About the time I was ready to leave, Mrs. Fetched held her hand out at me and mouthed, “Wait.” The Boy has inherited his mom’s penchant for jerking people (especially me) around, first “needing” me to go somewhere, then canceling about the time I’m ready. The upshot was, he would stay because he didn’t want the drug addicts getting vindictive somehow, and would call us in the morning when he was ready to get moving. And of course it’s 6 p.m. and we haven’t heard from him yet.
The good part about this was, I finally got smart: instead of getting gas Friday, I simply drove home, figuring if he wanted to take my car anywhere he’d have to put gas in it. He and Snippet managed to get Cousin Splat to drive them to not-band practice. We have a little gas in the detached garage, so I’ll just dump it in the car when I need to go somewhere then tank up later. Since tomorrow’s a holiday, it’ll wait for Tuesday.
The error codes list…
Wednesday, February 10, 2010 11 comments
Xtreme Beige G3 Makeover
I mentioned last week that my MacBook was going in for a new LCD. Well, it went as expected: I got to the Apple Store, they looked at it, and sent it off.
“How long?” I asked, already getting the shakes (it was an hour past lunch time and my sugar was crashing).
“Worst case, five to seven business days,” said the Genius. “We’ll ship it back.”
So my beloved Lapdancer went on to Memphis, and I went to get some lunch and tried to figure out how I was going to spend the next howmanyever days without a laptop. I decided it wasn’t like losing a limb… more like spraining an ankle; really painful, but it would be better in a week. I had some White Pickups stuff on Google Docs, and it worked with Mrs. Fetched’s G4 dualie, but it whined about the outdated Firefox. Then it hit me: I have a beige G3 in the room where DoubleRed sleeps, except that she’s been at her dad’s place for a while, and it has an old Linux on it — maybe I could update that to something more recent. I then wouldn’t have to worry about waiting for Mrs. Fetched to get stuff done, and The Boy and Snippet could use it to access Facebook and not have to bump me off my own laptop. Turned out the last time it had been used much was when Daughter Dearest’s pal from Norway came and wanted a Linux box so he could connect to the cluster under his bed back home… nearly a year and a half ago.
Looking at some of the options, I settled on Xubuntu as it combined at least “community” support for beige Macs and I found a how-to for getting it going. I burned a “live” CD Monday night, knowing it only worked on non-beige boxes, and the G4 dualie did a fine job of booting and displaying. Just for grins, I tried it in the beige box and it got as far as loading the RAMdisk and couldn’t find the CD. I downloaded and burned the “alternate” CD, which doesn’t try to do fancy stuff with graphics until after you have it installed, and found that the G3 wouldn’t even recognize it. I threw up my hands and went to bed.
Yesterday, I suddenly remembered that Daughter Dearest’s G4 PowerBook was laying around waiting for a new hard drive. I thought, why not just boot the live CD on that and use it? FAIL… I got it to boot after several attempts, but couldn’t get it to start the wireless interface. Not much use in having a laptop without wireless, especially when the place you’re using it doesn’t have easy Ethernet connectivity.
Then I remembered… Xubuntu is a Debian derivative, and I net-installed Debian on an ancient NEC laptop many years ago. Why not just net-install the G3? So I went hunting, found some directions, and soon had the beige box chugging away at the DSL and pulling down its packages. I decided to allocate a couple of existing Linux partitions to it, saving my old home directory, and let ’er rip. It ran on past 1 a.m., but that’s when I figured I could finish my end of it in the morning and went to bed.
And that’s exactly what I did. I had to copy the kernel and RAMdisk from the /boot directory back to the Mac partition, but that was fairly easy and I soon had it cleanly switching over to Linux. Firefox 3 is rather slow on this computer, mostly for typing, but I can type into a text editor and paste as needed. Snippet used it to check out her Facebook stuff and it did a fine job of pulling down and displaying pictures from her friends. “It’s a little slow,” she said, “but not that bad.” Considering this computer was new in 1998… not bad at all.
With the beige box now providing a reasonable backup for keeping up with my blog-buddies and getting some writing done, I decided to check the repair status of my MacBook. Lo and behold, they got it Monday, fixed it Tuesday, and put it on the plane for Wednesday delivery! It arrived back at the manor around 5 p.m. Apple replaced the LCD (still looked a little fuzzy, but it got better after a couple hours), the top cover, and cleaned the keyboard… it looks (and smells) like a new computer now, even being nearly three years old.
Now to get the PowerBook fixed.
“How long?” I asked, already getting the shakes (it was an hour past lunch time and my sugar was crashing).
“Worst case, five to seven business days,” said the Genius. “We’ll ship it back.”
So my beloved Lapdancer went on to Memphis, and I went to get some lunch and tried to figure out how I was going to spend the next howmanyever days without a laptop. I decided it wasn’t like losing a limb… more like spraining an ankle; really painful, but it would be better in a week. I had some White Pickups stuff on Google Docs, and it worked with Mrs. Fetched’s G4 dualie, but it whined about the outdated Firefox. Then it hit me: I have a beige G3 in the room where DoubleRed sleeps, except that she’s been at her dad’s place for a while, and it has an old Linux on it — maybe I could update that to something more recent. I then wouldn’t have to worry about waiting for Mrs. Fetched to get stuff done, and The Boy and Snippet could use it to access Facebook and not have to bump me off my own laptop. Turned out the last time it had been used much was when Daughter Dearest’s pal from Norway came and wanted a Linux box so he could connect to the cluster under his bed back home… nearly a year and a half ago.
Looking at some of the options, I settled on Xubuntu as it combined at least “community” support for beige Macs and I found a how-to for getting it going. I burned a “live” CD Monday night, knowing it only worked on non-beige boxes, and the G4 dualie did a fine job of booting and displaying. Just for grins, I tried it in the beige box and it got as far as loading the RAMdisk and couldn’t find the CD. I downloaded and burned the “alternate” CD, which doesn’t try to do fancy stuff with graphics until after you have it installed, and found that the G3 wouldn’t even recognize it. I threw up my hands and went to bed.
Yesterday, I suddenly remembered that Daughter Dearest’s G4 PowerBook was laying around waiting for a new hard drive. I thought, why not just boot the live CD on that and use it? FAIL… I got it to boot after several attempts, but couldn’t get it to start the wireless interface. Not much use in having a laptop without wireless, especially when the place you’re using it doesn’t have easy Ethernet connectivity.
Then I remembered… Xubuntu is a Debian derivative, and I net-installed Debian on an ancient NEC laptop many years ago. Why not just net-install the G3? So I went hunting, found some directions, and soon had the beige box chugging away at the DSL and pulling down its packages. I decided to allocate a couple of existing Linux partitions to it, saving my old home directory, and let ’er rip. It ran on past 1 a.m., but that’s when I figured I could finish my end of it in the morning and went to bed.
And that’s exactly what I did. I had to copy the kernel and RAMdisk from the /boot directory back to the Mac partition, but that was fairly easy and I soon had it cleanly switching over to Linux. Firefox 3 is rather slow on this computer, mostly for typing, but I can type into a text editor and paste as needed. Snippet used it to check out her Facebook stuff and it did a fine job of pulling down and displaying pictures from her friends. “It’s a little slow,” she said, “but not that bad.” Considering this computer was new in 1998… not bad at all.With the beige box now providing a reasonable backup for keeping up with my blog-buddies and getting some writing done, I decided to check the repair status of my MacBook. Lo and behold, they got it Monday, fixed it Tuesday, and put it on the plane for Wednesday delivery! It arrived back at the manor around 5 p.m. Apple replaced the LCD (still looked a little fuzzy, but it got better after a couple hours), the top cover, and cleaned the keyboard… it looks (and smells) like a new computer now, even being nearly three years old.
Now to get the PowerBook fixed.
Monday, February 08, 2010 5 comments
White Pickups, Episode 21
Contents
Tim had to constantly remind himself to keep his pace down. Cleve Isaacs seemed to be a pretty good guy, but he was still getting used to bicycling everywhere. The big black ex-cop was a little out of shape, as he readily admitted, but Charles recommended him and Tim had no objections.
“Here we are.” Tim braked and slid alongside the curb on the left side of the street, Cleve behind him, in front of a parked white pickup. They dismounted and lifted their bikes over the curb. Tim stopped, turned, and spat at the truck. It continued to whisper as they carried their bikes up the walkway.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Cleve said with a grin. “Couple miles. Just have to do it ten times, and we’ll be there, right?”
“That’s a good way of looking at it. We’re not in any hurry — if we leave after an early breakfast we can be there by lunch. I’m expecting to take plenty of breaks to let the people who aren’t used to riding rest their butts. But if you’re not used to it, you’ll still be sore after a twenty-miler.”
“Yeah, I guess. Well, let’s see what’s going on up here.” They carried their bikes inside and left them in the alcove.
Rebecca’s apartment was on the third floor of a five-story building. The ground floor was devoted to a small lobby with art deco revival styling, a mail alcove, and a few offices. There had been little here to attract looters, so it was relatively unmolested. The lobby smelled of stale air with a trace of unplugged refrigerator behind it; the only sounds were from outside. Cleve, out of habit, walked toward the elevator and nearly had his finger on the button before he remembered and laughed. “Guess we’re taking the stairs, huh?”
“Yeah, I always took ’em, it’s only two flights. Faster than waiting for that elevator.” He grinned. “Especially now.” Tim showed Cleve to a short hallway leading to the stairway door. Small windows gave enough light to see in the stairwell, but little more. “Let’s go.”
“Whoa! Red! We gotta stick together! I can’t take those steps four at a time!” Cleve rasped. Tim stopped at the landing and waited for Cleve to catch up. “You never know, there might be people waiting up here.” He pulled his gun and pointed at Tim’s holster.
“How do we do this?” Tim whispered, drawing his own pistol.
“Side by side. That way, they can’t take us with one shot. You watch our backs.” They crept up the next flight, Tim looking back. “No windows in the doors. Good and bad.”
“They can’t see us, and we can’t see them?”
“Right. Two more flights?”
“Yeah.” They continued up the stairs to the third floor.
“Okay,” Cleve said, “this is a steel door. You pull it open quick, and cover yourself with it. I’ll look down to the left. If that’s good, I’ll give you the thumbs-up, and you peek around the door and check the hallway.”
“What about the hall to the right?”
Cleve knelt next to the door, pistol ready. “I’ll make sure of that too. Ready? Go!”
Tim yanked the door open, walking it backwards as Cleve snapped his gun down and watched. He stood, peered to the left, then gave Tim a thumbs-up. Tim ducked down, then peeked around the door. “Nothing.”
Cleve dived into the hall, landing with a muffled grunt on his left side. “It’s clear,” he whispered. “What’s her number?”
“308. About halfway down.”
“Okay. You lead, I’ll watch our backs. Side by side again. Look for doors that aren’t shut all the way.”
They worked their way down the hall to 308, making nearly no noise walking on the shabby grey carpet. Up here, unplugged refrigerator odor took center stage, crowding aside the musty stale smell of unoccupied living space. “Shit,” Tim whispered. “Her door is ajar.”
“I thought it was a door,” Cleve whispered back; Tim rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Don’t tense up. Doesn’t mean there’s anyone behind it.
“Okay, time to make some noise. Stand beside the door, knock, call for her, and tell her it’s you. If she’s there on a hair-trigger, she probably won’t shoot unless you really pissed her off — she’s your ex, right? Best case, she tells us to come in. Second best case, nobody’s there. Worst case, we alert anyone else in here to our presence, if I didn’t do it with my dive through the door. But it’s too quiet in here, I don’t think anyone’s home. I’ll watch the hall. You look for changes in the light, shadows, whatever might indicate movement behind that door. If your knock doesn’t push the door open, go ahead and push from where you’re standing. We’ll make it up from there.”
“That’s encouraging,” Tim whispered. “Okay, here goes.” He knocked on the door and called as it swung open. “Rebecca? It’s Tim! Tim Petro. Don’t shoot!”
Except for the door bumping its stop, there was no sound from the apartment. “Now what?”
Cleve ducked around Tim to the other side of the door and looked inside. “Go in low, I’ll cover.”
“I sort of remember the layout of the place,” Tim said. “The kitchen and dining nook are around this divider. The living room and bedroom have windows. If there’s anyone lying in wait, they’ll be in the dining nook. Maybe the kitchen.”
“Maybe. You go in low and cover that stuff to the left. I’ll come in high and watch the rest.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Tim dived, imitating Cleve’s dive from the stairwell, but landing on his right side. Cleve slipped in behind him, taking in the entire place. Nobody greeted them or opened fire.
“I think she’s flown the coop, buddy,” Cleve said.
“Yeah. Jeez, her refrigerator stinks. But we still have to check the bedroom and bathroom.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Off the kitchen. It goes through to the bedroom.”
“Fine,” Cleve said. “We’ll check the bedroom. Same drill as before.”
They approached the bedroom door, standing half open. “Damn,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose. “The toilet backed up or something.”
Cleve only grunted.
“Rebecca?” Tim called, pushing the door open. Then, “Rebecca!” He ran in; Cleve cursed under his breath and hurried to cover him.
Tim stood over the bed, shaking a woman lying face down on the bed, calling her name over and over. Cleve checked the bathroom, looked out the window, and walked to the nightstand. “Hey. Tim. I think she’s gone.” He lifted an empty pill bottle. “Hydrocodone/acetaminophen… not hers, but I guess that’s one way to do it. Here, let’s turn her over. Might as well make sure it’s her.”
“It’s her,” Tim said. “See that?” He lifted her hair and pointed to a cross tattooed on the back of her neck. He looked up at Cleve, tears on his cheeks. “She was Catholic. When it came down to that or me, she chose it. I wouldn’t convert.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “How long? She’s cold.”
“Not long after the power went out, I’m guessing. She left a window open, and it isn’t hot. In a couple days… well, never mind that. Check the other side of the bed, she might have left a note.”
Tim walked around, stooped, and brought up a piece of paper. “She did!” He read:
Tim dropped to the floor and sobbed. Cleve laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then slipped into the living room to watch the hallway and give Tim a little privacy.
continued…
Tim had to constantly remind himself to keep his pace down. Cleve Isaacs seemed to be a pretty good guy, but he was still getting used to bicycling everywhere. The big black ex-cop was a little out of shape, as he readily admitted, but Charles recommended him and Tim had no objections.
“Here we are.” Tim braked and slid alongside the curb on the left side of the street, Cleve behind him, in front of a parked white pickup. They dismounted and lifted their bikes over the curb. Tim stopped, turned, and spat at the truck. It continued to whisper as they carried their bikes up the walkway.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Cleve said with a grin. “Couple miles. Just have to do it ten times, and we’ll be there, right?”
“That’s a good way of looking at it. We’re not in any hurry — if we leave after an early breakfast we can be there by lunch. I’m expecting to take plenty of breaks to let the people who aren’t used to riding rest their butts. But if you’re not used to it, you’ll still be sore after a twenty-miler.”
“Yeah, I guess. Well, let’s see what’s going on up here.” They carried their bikes inside and left them in the alcove.
Rebecca’s apartment was on the third floor of a five-story building. The ground floor was devoted to a small lobby with art deco revival styling, a mail alcove, and a few offices. There had been little here to attract looters, so it was relatively unmolested. The lobby smelled of stale air with a trace of unplugged refrigerator behind it; the only sounds were from outside. Cleve, out of habit, walked toward the elevator and nearly had his finger on the button before he remembered and laughed. “Guess we’re taking the stairs, huh?”
“Yeah, I always took ’em, it’s only two flights. Faster than waiting for that elevator.” He grinned. “Especially now.” Tim showed Cleve to a short hallway leading to the stairway door. Small windows gave enough light to see in the stairwell, but little more. “Let’s go.”
“Whoa! Red! We gotta stick together! I can’t take those steps four at a time!” Cleve rasped. Tim stopped at the landing and waited for Cleve to catch up. “You never know, there might be people waiting up here.” He pulled his gun and pointed at Tim’s holster.
“How do we do this?” Tim whispered, drawing his own pistol.
“Side by side. That way, they can’t take us with one shot. You watch our backs.” They crept up the next flight, Tim looking back. “No windows in the doors. Good and bad.”
“They can’t see us, and we can’t see them?”
“Right. Two more flights?”
“Yeah.” They continued up the stairs to the third floor.
“Okay,” Cleve said, “this is a steel door. You pull it open quick, and cover yourself with it. I’ll look down to the left. If that’s good, I’ll give you the thumbs-up, and you peek around the door and check the hallway.”
“What about the hall to the right?”
Cleve knelt next to the door, pistol ready. “I’ll make sure of that too. Ready? Go!”
Tim yanked the door open, walking it backwards as Cleve snapped his gun down and watched. He stood, peered to the left, then gave Tim a thumbs-up. Tim ducked down, then peeked around the door. “Nothing.”
Cleve dived into the hall, landing with a muffled grunt on his left side. “It’s clear,” he whispered. “What’s her number?”
“308. About halfway down.”
“Okay. You lead, I’ll watch our backs. Side by side again. Look for doors that aren’t shut all the way.”
They worked their way down the hall to 308, making nearly no noise walking on the shabby grey carpet. Up here, unplugged refrigerator odor took center stage, crowding aside the musty stale smell of unoccupied living space. “Shit,” Tim whispered. “Her door is ajar.”
“I thought it was a door,” Cleve whispered back; Tim rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Don’t tense up. Doesn’t mean there’s anyone behind it.
“Okay, time to make some noise. Stand beside the door, knock, call for her, and tell her it’s you. If she’s there on a hair-trigger, she probably won’t shoot unless you really pissed her off — she’s your ex, right? Best case, she tells us to come in. Second best case, nobody’s there. Worst case, we alert anyone else in here to our presence, if I didn’t do it with my dive through the door. But it’s too quiet in here, I don’t think anyone’s home. I’ll watch the hall. You look for changes in the light, shadows, whatever might indicate movement behind that door. If your knock doesn’t push the door open, go ahead and push from where you’re standing. We’ll make it up from there.”
“That’s encouraging,” Tim whispered. “Okay, here goes.” He knocked on the door and called as it swung open. “Rebecca? It’s Tim! Tim Petro. Don’t shoot!”
Except for the door bumping its stop, there was no sound from the apartment. “Now what?”
Cleve ducked around Tim to the other side of the door and looked inside. “Go in low, I’ll cover.”
“I sort of remember the layout of the place,” Tim said. “The kitchen and dining nook are around this divider. The living room and bedroom have windows. If there’s anyone lying in wait, they’ll be in the dining nook. Maybe the kitchen.”
“Maybe. You go in low and cover that stuff to the left. I’ll come in high and watch the rest.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Tim dived, imitating Cleve’s dive from the stairwell, but landing on his right side. Cleve slipped in behind him, taking in the entire place. Nobody greeted them or opened fire.
“I think she’s flown the coop, buddy,” Cleve said.
“Yeah. Jeez, her refrigerator stinks. But we still have to check the bedroom and bathroom.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Off the kitchen. It goes through to the bedroom.”
“Fine,” Cleve said. “We’ll check the bedroom. Same drill as before.”
They approached the bedroom door, standing half open. “Damn,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose. “The toilet backed up or something.”
Cleve only grunted.
“Rebecca?” Tim called, pushing the door open. Then, “Rebecca!” He ran in; Cleve cursed under his breath and hurried to cover him.
Tim stood over the bed, shaking a woman lying face down on the bed, calling her name over and over. Cleve checked the bathroom, looked out the window, and walked to the nightstand. “Hey. Tim. I think she’s gone.” He lifted an empty pill bottle. “Hydrocodone/acetaminophen… not hers, but I guess that’s one way to do it. Here, let’s turn her over. Might as well make sure it’s her.”
“It’s her,” Tim said. “See that?” He lifted her hair and pointed to a cross tattooed on the back of her neck. He looked up at Cleve, tears on his cheeks. “She was Catholic. When it came down to that or me, she chose it. I wouldn’t convert.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “How long? She’s cold.”
“Not long after the power went out, I’m guessing. She left a window open, and it isn’t hot. In a couple days… well, never mind that. Check the other side of the bed, she might have left a note.”
Tim walked around, stooped, and brought up a piece of paper. “She did!” He read:
I can’t do this. It keeps calling to me, night and day. I can’t sleep for its jabber. But I WON’T GO. I heard gunshots Friday and Saturday, and I hoped someone was killing the trucks. But nobody came.
My final confession: bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have cursed the trucks. I have stolen food from other apartments, knowing the people will not come back. I have wished to die. I will die by my own hand, for this I pray your forgiveness. But if I live, the trucks will take my soul, and better Hell than what they would do. I have seen it. Blessed Savior, forgive my sin and receive my soul this night, so the trucks will not devour it. And if Tim Petro has not been taken, I pray to Our Father that he will come to know You.
Tim dropped to the floor and sobbed. Cleve laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then slipped into the living room to watch the hallway and give Tim a little privacy.
continued…
Thursday, February 04, 2010 4 comments
So Happy It’s Thursday
It’s been a week, and it’s not done yet. ;-) After the TS01 error that they managed to not clear from Friday night until Tuesday morning (technically Tuesday morning, 1:30 a.m.), today brought on a TB21/SN06. Snippet especially claimed to not have been able to sleep until like 3 this morning; The Boy pretended to have had the same issue, and they both laid around in bed well past noon. I brought Mason up to them on a couple occasions, since I was supposed to be working at home today and had stuff I needed to get done. Now I can bring myself to believe someone could have trouble sleeping — I’ve been up to 3 a.m. myself a couple of times — but that doesn’t excuse the need to get up and get on with your life. Unless it’s a chronic problem, you shouldn’t have much trouble getting to sleep the next night.
Not long ago, I mentioned that Panda found a more lucrative position than helping Mrs. Fetched with the chickens. Well… that didn’t work out so well. Panda tells us that the guy worked him for two days, then neglected to pay him. So he’s back to helping with the chickens. Good timing — they needed some wiring done, and I was going to have to do it Saturday.
Mason continues to bounce along. Yesterday morning, I was holding him on my lap while working the computer one-handed… I thought he was getting kind of quiet when his head dropped and he sagged out. I put him on my shoulder, and he was limp — yup, he went to sleep without my even trying, and slept most of the morning away (kind of like his parents, huh?).
He’s working really hard on turning that scootch thing he does into mobility. I put him on the bed this evening, and he was trying to move around. I got on my hands and knees and showed him how to push both ends of himself up, and he at least tried it. He’ll be 5 months old on Saturday! He’s getting to where he can work the bouncy swing pretty well — he was hopping all over the place this evening while I was getting some pizza on the table. He also has a high-swing that plays music… when The Boy was his age, he had a high-swing that you wound up, no batteries required. 'Course, it didn’t play music and stuff either. High tech is a wonderful thing…
Until it starts getting wonky. For a while now, I’ve thought my eyes were getting a little boogly during the evening. I assumed it was my eyes working their way out from under my glasses prescription, but Tuesday night I noticed that the screen was only blurry along the edges and sharp in the middle. Thinking it was dust, I wiped it off with no change. Fortunately, the MacBook still has a month or two left on AppleCare (can’t believe this sucker’s almost 3 years old now!) and I put in a trouble report on the website. A few minutes later, Kendra was walking me through a few steps and then got me an appointment at the Apple Store Saturday afternoon.
So the good news is I can expect to have this thing fixed… the bad news is that it may or may not take a while to get it back. I backed up the most important stuff — photos and writing — to the outboard drive that used to be in my iBook, then copied the next four episodes of White Pickups and some in-progress stuff to Google Docs. So there shouldn’t be any interrupt in postings, and (I hope) very little interrupt in further work. I guess I should make sure that Mrs. Fetched’s G4 dualie (running an older OSX) can work Google Docs with Firefox. I know I can blog from there, anyway.
Funny thought… everyone was once up in arms over Amazon’s “one-click” patent, but what’s really costing them in terms of publicity — and perhaps financially as well — is an ill-conceived attempt at strong-arming a supplier, followed by a bone-headed blog post over the weekend that the legal beagles didn’t have a chance to vet. I’m not exactly planning to run out and buy an iPad, although I plan to play with one while I’m at the Apple Store on Saturday, but that couldn’t have happened at a better time for Apple. Now all I have to do is hope I come home with a good sharp LCD display this weekend…
Not long ago, I mentioned that Panda found a more lucrative position than helping Mrs. Fetched with the chickens. Well… that didn’t work out so well. Panda tells us that the guy worked him for two days, then neglected to pay him. So he’s back to helping with the chickens. Good timing — they needed some wiring done, and I was going to have to do it Saturday.
Mason continues to bounce along. Yesterday morning, I was holding him on my lap while working the computer one-handed… I thought he was getting kind of quiet when his head dropped and he sagged out. I put him on my shoulder, and he was limp — yup, he went to sleep without my even trying, and slept most of the morning away (kind of like his parents, huh?).He’s working really hard on turning that scootch thing he does into mobility. I put him on the bed this evening, and he was trying to move around. I got on my hands and knees and showed him how to push both ends of himself up, and he at least tried it. He’ll be 5 months old on Saturday! He’s getting to where he can work the bouncy swing pretty well — he was hopping all over the place this evening while I was getting some pizza on the table. He also has a high-swing that plays music… when The Boy was his age, he had a high-swing that you wound up, no batteries required. 'Course, it didn’t play music and stuff either. High tech is a wonderful thing…
Until it starts getting wonky. For a while now, I’ve thought my eyes were getting a little boogly during the evening. I assumed it was my eyes working their way out from under my glasses prescription, but Tuesday night I noticed that the screen was only blurry along the edges and sharp in the middle. Thinking it was dust, I wiped it off with no change. Fortunately, the MacBook still has a month or two left on AppleCare (can’t believe this sucker’s almost 3 years old now!) and I put in a trouble report on the website. A few minutes later, Kendra was walking me through a few steps and then got me an appointment at the Apple Store Saturday afternoon.
So the good news is I can expect to have this thing fixed… the bad news is that it may or may not take a while to get it back. I backed up the most important stuff — photos and writing — to the outboard drive that used to be in my iBook, then copied the next four episodes of White Pickups and some in-progress stuff to Google Docs. So there shouldn’t be any interrupt in postings, and (I hope) very little interrupt in further work. I guess I should make sure that Mrs. Fetched’s G4 dualie (running an older OSX) can work Google Docs with Firefox. I know I can blog from there, anyway.
Funny thought… everyone was once up in arms over Amazon’s “one-click” patent, but what’s really costing them in terms of publicity — and perhaps financially as well — is an ill-conceived attempt at strong-arming a supplier, followed by a bone-headed blog post over the weekend that the legal beagles didn’t have a chance to vet. I’m not exactly planning to run out and buy an iPad, although I plan to play with one while I’m at the Apple Store on Saturday, but that couldn’t have happened at a better time for Apple. Now all I have to do is hope I come home with a good sharp LCD display this weekend…
Monday, February 01, 2010 4 comments
White Pickups, Episode 20
Contents
There were no incidents on the ride down, just an endless parade of white pickups filling I-85 as the three riders pedaled along the shoulder of the freeway. Tim played the tourist and took several snapshots with his digital camera. Charles set a much more sedate pace than Tim was used to, which gave him plenty of time to stop for an occasional photo then catch up. After crossing the Perimeter, they shifted to surface streets; the pickups were on parade here too.
After a few hours of riding, Charles led them into the Virginia Highlands district and to the block where his group had gathered. Everyone poured out to greet them, with comments like “Hey Sondra, what did you stick your head in this time? Your hair turned red and you grew a beard!” “Hey Max, how was suburbia? Same as always, I bet! Hahahaha!” “Any trouble?” “What’s going on?”
“Is everyone out here?” Charles called. “Bring everyone out, I want to do this once if possible.” Everyone milled in the street, welcoming Tim and peppering all three with questions. Runners brought the last few people outside.
“Okay, everyone is here, except for Sondra,” Charles said. “She’s fine — better, even. I’ll explain that in a moment.
“My ex-wife and daughter, and a few other people, are living in a subdivision called Laurel Hills, out in Gwinnett. They have invited us to join them — there are plenty of houses available, and they’re making sure they’re livable as we speak. I strongly suggest that all of us accept the invitation, for several reasons. But the biggest reason of all is that their subdivision is fenced in, and there are no pickups inside.”
As Charles expected, this news created a stir. The hubbub died down only when a white pickup glided down the street and waited for everyone to shuffle to the sidewalk. The pickup rolled on by, oblivious to the glares.
“Nothing like that to deal with out there. Sure, they’re everywhere in suburbia, just like here, but not inside the subdivision. Sondra’s arm got less numb away from the pickups, so you can imagine she decided to stay regardless of what everyone else here agrees to do. She also seems to have found a boyfriend, which may also have something to do with it.” That drew a few laughs. “You won’t be surprised when you see him — they’re like two matched bookends — but he’s been very resourceful and helpful.
“Second, today is the first day of fall. We’ll be getting into colder weather before long, and we don’t exactly have abundant supplies of firewood for keeping our houses warm — but most of us don’t have fireplaces anyway. There’s enough townhouses for all of us there, and plenty of detached homes, but we’ll want to huddle together when winter comes. Each townhouse has a fireplace, and we’re going to look for fireplace inserts to improve them.
“Finally, it’s been relatively peaceful so far. Tim here has been the only one of them to run into any trouble; he shot a drunk who broke out the window in his bicycle shop, and that was Saturday night. The fences make the subdivision a little more defensible, and as I said they’ve already gotten rid of the trucks. It probably won’t stay peaceful there, but we’ll be in a better position to defend ourselves when trouble comes again. I’d like all of you to think about this today and tonight, and we’ll gather tomorrow morning to vote on it.”
“I’m ready to go now!” yelled Johnny Latimer. Most of the others sounded agreeable.
“Sure, but we just got in and I’d like to rest,” Charles said. “Now Tim might think this was a short jaunt — he’s hardcore — but I’d rather wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Early!” Johnny said, then waved and walked away.
“Actually,” Tim said, “I want to make two side trips while I’m here. I need to check out that bike shop — it’s going to take time to make sure everyone has decent gear and repair parts for the ride out — and I’d be more comfortable spending all day tomorrow on that, and anyone who wants to come with us can head out on Friday.”
“I understand,” Charles said. “What’s the other side trip?”
“Rebecca’s apartment is just a couple miles from here. I want to go by and see if she’s there. If not, maybe I’ll find out what happened to her.”
“Odds are she drove off.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know that.”
“Fine. But remember, nobody goes anywhere alone here. Depending where you’re headed, you might have two people going along. Got it?”
“Yeah, I remember. How soon can we get going?”
“You mean like right now?”
“Yeah. Twenty miles isn’t a long trip for me, and you guys weren’t exactly setting a hot pace.”
Charles sighed. “I’ll find someone who wants to go with you. It might take an hour or so. Give yourself a quick break… I really doubt an hour or two is going to make a difference.”
“Whatever. Where am I staying while I’m here? I might as well drop off my pack.”
“I have a spare bedroom. You can leave it there.” Charles gave directions. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen if you need a snack. I sure need one.”
“If you’ll go find my riding buddy, I’ll grab you something while I’m at it — how’s that?”
“Fair enough. I have some granola bars in the cupboard above the sink.”
continued…
There were no incidents on the ride down, just an endless parade of white pickups filling I-85 as the three riders pedaled along the shoulder of the freeway. Tim played the tourist and took several snapshots with his digital camera. Charles set a much more sedate pace than Tim was used to, which gave him plenty of time to stop for an occasional photo then catch up. After crossing the Perimeter, they shifted to surface streets; the pickups were on parade here too.
After a few hours of riding, Charles led them into the Virginia Highlands district and to the block where his group had gathered. Everyone poured out to greet them, with comments like “Hey Sondra, what did you stick your head in this time? Your hair turned red and you grew a beard!” “Hey Max, how was suburbia? Same as always, I bet! Hahahaha!” “Any trouble?” “What’s going on?”
“Is everyone out here?” Charles called. “Bring everyone out, I want to do this once if possible.” Everyone milled in the street, welcoming Tim and peppering all three with questions. Runners brought the last few people outside.
“Okay, everyone is here, except for Sondra,” Charles said. “She’s fine — better, even. I’ll explain that in a moment.
“My ex-wife and daughter, and a few other people, are living in a subdivision called Laurel Hills, out in Gwinnett. They have invited us to join them — there are plenty of houses available, and they’re making sure they’re livable as we speak. I strongly suggest that all of us accept the invitation, for several reasons. But the biggest reason of all is that their subdivision is fenced in, and there are no pickups inside.”
As Charles expected, this news created a stir. The hubbub died down only when a white pickup glided down the street and waited for everyone to shuffle to the sidewalk. The pickup rolled on by, oblivious to the glares.
“Nothing like that to deal with out there. Sure, they’re everywhere in suburbia, just like here, but not inside the subdivision. Sondra’s arm got less numb away from the pickups, so you can imagine she decided to stay regardless of what everyone else here agrees to do. She also seems to have found a boyfriend, which may also have something to do with it.” That drew a few laughs. “You won’t be surprised when you see him — they’re like two matched bookends — but he’s been very resourceful and helpful.
“Second, today is the first day of fall. We’ll be getting into colder weather before long, and we don’t exactly have abundant supplies of firewood for keeping our houses warm — but most of us don’t have fireplaces anyway. There’s enough townhouses for all of us there, and plenty of detached homes, but we’ll want to huddle together when winter comes. Each townhouse has a fireplace, and we’re going to look for fireplace inserts to improve them.
“Finally, it’s been relatively peaceful so far. Tim here has been the only one of them to run into any trouble; he shot a drunk who broke out the window in his bicycle shop, and that was Saturday night. The fences make the subdivision a little more defensible, and as I said they’ve already gotten rid of the trucks. It probably won’t stay peaceful there, but we’ll be in a better position to defend ourselves when trouble comes again. I’d like all of you to think about this today and tonight, and we’ll gather tomorrow morning to vote on it.”
“I’m ready to go now!” yelled Johnny Latimer. Most of the others sounded agreeable.
“Sure, but we just got in and I’d like to rest,” Charles said. “Now Tim might think this was a short jaunt — he’s hardcore — but I’d rather wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Early!” Johnny said, then waved and walked away.
“Actually,” Tim said, “I want to make two side trips while I’m here. I need to check out that bike shop — it’s going to take time to make sure everyone has decent gear and repair parts for the ride out — and I’d be more comfortable spending all day tomorrow on that, and anyone who wants to come with us can head out on Friday.”
“I understand,” Charles said. “What’s the other side trip?”
“Rebecca’s apartment is just a couple miles from here. I want to go by and see if she’s there. If not, maybe I’ll find out what happened to her.”
“Odds are she drove off.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know that.”
“Fine. But remember, nobody goes anywhere alone here. Depending where you’re headed, you might have two people going along. Got it?”
“Yeah, I remember. How soon can we get going?”
“You mean like right now?”
“Yeah. Twenty miles isn’t a long trip for me, and you guys weren’t exactly setting a hot pace.”
Charles sighed. “I’ll find someone who wants to go with you. It might take an hour or so. Give yourself a quick break… I really doubt an hour or two is going to make a difference.”
“Whatever. Where am I staying while I’m here? I might as well drop off my pack.”
“I have a spare bedroom. You can leave it there.” Charles gave directions. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen if you need a snack. I sure need one.”
“If you’ll go find my riding buddy, I’ll grab you something while I’m at it — how’s that?”
“Fair enough. I have some granola bars in the cupboard above the sink.”
continued…
Sunday, January 31, 2010 5 comments
Score One for DoubleRed
Late last winter, Mrs. Fetched started noticing mold spots in the ceiling above our shower, shortly followed by water coming through there. The assumption at the time was that the upstairs shower drain was leaking, so we simply told The Boy and Daughter Dearest to take their showers down here until we could get it fixed. The problem went away with the cold weather, and we didn’t give it much thought for a while.
But then it started up again, and Mrs. Fetched called the plumbers. They went up, had a look, and said, "It’s coming out of the furnace, not the shower drain. You need to call an HVAC person.” To be helpful, they cut through the damaged sheetrock to reveal what was underneath. After Mrs. Fetched got tired of the water dripping not always into the shower, and I got tired of hearing her complain about it, I tacked a nail into the joist and hung a bucket up. The bucket would fill up twice a day, and I usually ended up emptying it morning and night.
So… one day last week I was working at home, and DoubleRed came rolling in. “Hey,” she said, “I just remembered something. We had the same problem at a place I worked at up in Blairsville, the furnace condenser was leaking. They told us that it was algae building up and blocking the drain, and to pour a cup of bleach in it. We never had a problem after that.”
I’d never heard of such a thing, and said so, but wasn’t completely incredulous. I tried to get DoubleRed to describe the inlet where the bleach was to go, but couldn’t get much beyond “it’s just an opening.” It took another week and a half, but after Mrs. Fetched got wind of it, she was on me to climb into the attic and have a look. Fortunately, going through Daughter Dearest’s closet, there’s a light switch with a light right above the furnace. I thought it was burned out, but when I flipped the switch there was light, so I pocketed the flashlight and worked my way down there. You can see what I saw: an open water pipe right at the corner of the furnace, brimming over with water (and the blue bucket underneath).
Knowing what I needed to do, I came back down to gather materials. “You find it?” Mrs. Fetched asked.
“Yup. Just need something to siphon the water out and a cup of bleach to pour in.”
“Great! I’ll see if we have any bleach.” Great time to be checking, I thought, but figured we had some and went out to get some line. I knew we had some air lines from back when Mrs. Fetched had a couple aquaria; they were covered themselves with dried algae but I got some soap on the end and scrubbed off enough to get my mouth on it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched located the bleach and put it in a cup for me.
Once more into the breach. I sucked water out of the opening, let it siphon down into the bucket, then poured the bleach in. I got most of it in… then it bobbed up and down a couple times before it went glurk-glurk-glurk and drained away. I poured in the remaining bleach and called it good enough.
So DoubleRed gets the gold star for this one. The proof will be when the bucket is empty tonight… then we’ll have to figure out how to patch up the ceiling. Always something.
But then it started up again, and Mrs. Fetched called the plumbers. They went up, had a look, and said, "It’s coming out of the furnace, not the shower drain. You need to call an HVAC person.” To be helpful, they cut through the damaged sheetrock to reveal what was underneath. After Mrs. Fetched got tired of the water dripping not always into the shower, and I got tired of hearing her complain about it, I tacked a nail into the joist and hung a bucket up. The bucket would fill up twice a day, and I usually ended up emptying it morning and night.So… one day last week I was working at home, and DoubleRed came rolling in. “Hey,” she said, “I just remembered something. We had the same problem at a place I worked at up in Blairsville, the furnace condenser was leaking. They told us that it was algae building up and blocking the drain, and to pour a cup of bleach in it. We never had a problem after that.”
I’d never heard of such a thing, and said so, but wasn’t completely incredulous. I tried to get DoubleRed to describe the inlet where the bleach was to go, but couldn’t get much beyond “it’s just an opening.” It took another week and a half, but after Mrs. Fetched got wind of it, she was on me to climb into the attic and have a look. Fortunately, going through Daughter Dearest’s closet, there’s a light switch with a light right above the furnace. I thought it was burned out, but when I flipped the switch there was light, so I pocketed the flashlight and worked my way down there. You can see what I saw: an open water pipe right at the corner of the furnace, brimming over with water (and the blue bucket underneath).Knowing what I needed to do, I came back down to gather materials. “You find it?” Mrs. Fetched asked.
“Yup. Just need something to siphon the water out and a cup of bleach to pour in.”
“Great! I’ll see if we have any bleach.” Great time to be checking, I thought, but figured we had some and went out to get some line. I knew we had some air lines from back when Mrs. Fetched had a couple aquaria; they were covered themselves with dried algae but I got some soap on the end and scrubbed off enough to get my mouth on it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched located the bleach and put it in a cup for me.
Once more into the breach. I sucked water out of the opening, let it siphon down into the bucket, then poured the bleach in. I got most of it in… then it bobbed up and down a couple times before it went glurk-glurk-glurk and drained away. I poured in the remaining bleach and called it good enough.
So DoubleRed gets the gold star for this one. The proof will be when the bucket is empty tonight… then we’ll have to figure out how to patch up the ceiling. Always something.
Saturday, January 30, 2010 No comments
Winter #2 and Other Stuff
Winter #2 arrived last night, after a very nice send-off from Spring #1 on Wednesday. We’ll be back in the cold soup for a while, judging from the 5-day forecast. Actually, there’s plenty of ice around FAR Manor, but a half-mile down it was pretty much clear, with spots of ice on and off all the way to town. I had to go pick up my meds, and Daughter Dearest wanted a locking doorknob for her room, so we headed out. No problem. The roads are wet, but they’ll get pretty slick tonight as the temperatures drop.Our first official error code of the 2.0 era is TS01 — last night, they thought “it would be safer if we spent the night at [a friend of Snippet’s], then I’ll be able to get to work tomorrow.” I knew they would do what they wanted, regardless of road conditions (the roads have been fine all along) and told them so — they wanted to come back to the manor to get some stuff, but I told them if the roads were bad they should either stay put or come back and stay put. They elected to not come back, naturally.
I have to wonder about them sometimes… with such a good-natured, adorable baby in their lives, why would they want to go anywhere but where he is?Mason continues to develop. He’s stopped doing his squats, I guess because he figures his legs are strong enough now. His attention span continues to get longer, he’ll sit quietly on my lap while I’m checking out my blog-buddies, sometimes looking out the window, sometimes getting interested in the clutter on or around the desk. He pushes himself up like in this picture, or gets his knees under him — but he hasn’t quite realized he can do both. Once he figures that out, he’ll be crawling all over the place.
I finally got unblocked somewhat on White Pickups — but at a high price I can’t discuss without giving away too much. Olga, my BDSM muse, mounted up on Thursday while I was walking to lunch and impatiently waited for me to get some freedom at 10:30pm — then rode me for 2400 words until midnight. When I got to thinking about it afterwards, I remembered a (still unwritten) scene that just didn’t make sense without this stuff for context. But things are moving again. I’m still not sure how all this comes together, but the characters have assured me I’m on the right track (they’re telling the story, I’m just writing it down)… I have to trust them to tell me more at the right time.
Tomorrow is White Knuckle Sunday, but with the ice I’m not sure if there will be anyone there for me to preach at — or even if I’ll get there myself.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010 4 comments
White Pickups, Conversations: Charles Ball and Max Wright
Contents
Charles: This isn’t what I’d expect as a venue. Blank white room?
Why is it a white room? I’m in my bedroom. Wall panels some weird grey/green color, dirty white carpet…
Max: Well, if you don’t mind having two gay men with you in your bedroom… I’m sure you wouldn’t have any trouble explaining that to Mrs. Fetched —
Then again, the bedroom is a major mess. Blank white room it is. ;-)
Max: Haha, gotcha!
Charles: The banter is amusing, but maybe we should get started?
Sure. Is it Dr. Ball, or what?
Charles: Professor Ball. I had my Ph.D., but it wasn’t a formal environment. “Charles” is fine now. Standing on ceremony is last week’s news.
Max: Literally!
Right. So what is you guys’ relationship?
Max: Best friends, mostly. When Charles came out, all hell broke loose in his home life. Someone else at the campus sort of referred him to me.
Charles: Yeah. He counseled me, in a way.
Max: Nothing formal, I don’t have any kind of certificate or anything. But short answer: no, we never slept together. Suits us both just fine.
Charles: Max introduced me to some other people going through a lot of the same thing — it’s rough, just coming out to yourself when you’re nearly 40. Maybe you can imagine what it’s like dealing honestly with other people for the first time. We called it the “Coming Out Party.” Gallows humor, but it fit.
What was the catalyst for you?
Charles: To come out? I don’t think it was any one thing. Tina had her career, and I had mine, and we both stayed involved in Kelly’s life as much as we could — but we let our own relationship dry up. Over time, I started looking for more than what I had — but the strange thing to me at the time was, the people I was attracted to weren’t women. That’s when I started really thinking about all the things I’d taken for granted about myself.
Self-examination can be tough.
Charles: Tell me about it. Tina noticed something, put two and two together, and confronted me — she asked me if I was seeing another woman. I could honestly tell her “no,” and that bought me a little time. In fact, I went on for six more months, trying to decide first whether I really was gay or just having a midlife crisis; second what I should do about it. Kelly was twelve when I finally couldn’t hide from myself anymore. I went to her first, told her I loved her and would always be there for her, but I was gay and I had no idea what her mom would do when I told her. She cried a little, but then said she been wondering about that for a while and I was still her dad. That meant a lot to me.
Then I went to Tina… that didn’t go so well. Tina told you about her parents, they raised her with certain assumptions about the world and a person’s role in it. She rejected a lot of their teachings, but sometimes even the rejection is only skin-deep. I said I was willing to stay married to her, and not have a relationship outside the marriage, but she wasn’t listening at that point. I ended up grabbing some essentials and bailing to a hotel for the night. After she went to work, I rented a pickup truck — it wasn’t white, though — then came back and got the rest of my things. After she cooled off, we got a no-fault divorce and agreed to joint custody of Kelly, but Tina really didn’t want to have much to do with me.
Max: She thinks she made you gay, on some level, you know.
Charles: That’s… well, it’s silly. And Tina doesn’t do silly well.
Max, what’s your story?
Max: In some ways, I had it easier than Charles. I always knew I was different, even when I was in kindergarten. I was always a pretty big kid though, so even if the other kids didn’t like me being different they didn’t bother me too much. I realized what kind of different I was in middle school… when most boys start thinking about girls, I thought about boys. I had some relationships through high school, but Georgia being Georgia we had to keep them under the table. I hated that. I wanted to be able to show off my boyfriend like they showed off their girlfriends.
College was a lot more tolerant, and that’s when I joined the fight for equal rights. You know how some people are: they have to have someone they can feel superior to. Fifty years ago, that was blacks. Now — or until last week, anyway — it was the GLBT folks. So I was working to make the hate go away. The haters drove off instead… well, most of them did.
So Sondra was dating your nephew… sounds like you guys had some friction there.
Max: I won’t try to say everything was wonderful between Philip and me, but he respected me personally even if he didn’t like “the gay” in general. He was like any high schooler — really sensitive about his identity — so I tried to cut him a little slack in return. He lived up in Marietta, she was in Druid Hills, and I’m really not sure how he met Sondra. Maybe it was online. He brought her over, and they ended up spending a lot of time with me, so I got to know her pretty well. She also got along well with the neighbors, so she was still coming around to visit even after she stopped seeing Philip. She’s not a bad person at all, even if she did break up with Philip over nothing… then again, Philip was known to shade the truth a bit if it would make him look better. Maybe I ought to get Sondra’s side of the story.
So do you think it’s her fault he drove off?
Max: No. My sister called me Wednesday night, asking if he was here, and he wasn’t. By late Friday, it was a reasonable assumption that he’d driven off — his parents stopped answering the phone early Friday evening too. But grief is a funny thing sometimes — Sondra was around, and Philip wasn’t, and I put two and two together…
And got 22?
Max: Something like that. Her aunt and uncle drove off some time Friday afternoon, we think, and she came over here because we were easier to reach. Her grandmother probably drove off too, but Sondra wasn’t too sure about that.
Charles: I think we’re digressing a bit here.
Yeah. So what do you think happened?
Max: Maybe the Rapture didn’t turn out quite the way they expected.
Charles: I’m not sure. I’ve never been much of a spiritual person, but this suggests the supernatural. If Scotty beamed them up, what’s with the pickups?
Max: Good point. All the cars turning into pickups and people disappearing… yeah, supernatural.
Now what?
Max: What do you mean?
What do you think you’ll do now?
Charles: Live. Try to build something better than we used to have.
Max: I guess we’ll end up taking one for the team.
Huh?
Max: We’ll need to contribute to the gene pool, there’s not enough people left for us to stay with our preferences. One-nighters, whatever.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. ;-) Do you think it’ll be socially unacceptable to be gay in the future, just because of the population issue?
Charles: I for one can’t have a long-term sexual relationship with a woman. Believe me, I tried already. But things being how they are, I suspect that reproductive arrangements might be a bit loose for a few generations. We’ll cope. It’s our grandchildren I’m worried about, assuming we have any.
Back to Episode 19…
Charles: This isn’t what I’d expect as a venue. Blank white room?
Why is it a white room? I’m in my bedroom. Wall panels some weird grey/green color, dirty white carpet…
Max: Well, if you don’t mind having two gay men with you in your bedroom… I’m sure you wouldn’t have any trouble explaining that to Mrs. Fetched —
Then again, the bedroom is a major mess. Blank white room it is. ;-)
Max: Haha, gotcha!
Charles: The banter is amusing, but maybe we should get started?
Sure. Is it Dr. Ball, or what?
Charles: Professor Ball. I had my Ph.D., but it wasn’t a formal environment. “Charles” is fine now. Standing on ceremony is last week’s news.
Max: Literally!
Right. So what is you guys’ relationship?
Max: Best friends, mostly. When Charles came out, all hell broke loose in his home life. Someone else at the campus sort of referred him to me.
Charles: Yeah. He counseled me, in a way.
Max: Nothing formal, I don’t have any kind of certificate or anything. But short answer: no, we never slept together. Suits us both just fine.
Charles: Max introduced me to some other people going through a lot of the same thing — it’s rough, just coming out to yourself when you’re nearly 40. Maybe you can imagine what it’s like dealing honestly with other people for the first time. We called it the “Coming Out Party.” Gallows humor, but it fit.
What was the catalyst for you?
Charles: To come out? I don’t think it was any one thing. Tina had her career, and I had mine, and we both stayed involved in Kelly’s life as much as we could — but we let our own relationship dry up. Over time, I started looking for more than what I had — but the strange thing to me at the time was, the people I was attracted to weren’t women. That’s when I started really thinking about all the things I’d taken for granted about myself.
Self-examination can be tough.
Charles: Tell me about it. Tina noticed something, put two and two together, and confronted me — she asked me if I was seeing another woman. I could honestly tell her “no,” and that bought me a little time. In fact, I went on for six more months, trying to decide first whether I really was gay or just having a midlife crisis; second what I should do about it. Kelly was twelve when I finally couldn’t hide from myself anymore. I went to her first, told her I loved her and would always be there for her, but I was gay and I had no idea what her mom would do when I told her. She cried a little, but then said she been wondering about that for a while and I was still her dad. That meant a lot to me.
Then I went to Tina… that didn’t go so well. Tina told you about her parents, they raised her with certain assumptions about the world and a person’s role in it. She rejected a lot of their teachings, but sometimes even the rejection is only skin-deep. I said I was willing to stay married to her, and not have a relationship outside the marriage, but she wasn’t listening at that point. I ended up grabbing some essentials and bailing to a hotel for the night. After she went to work, I rented a pickup truck — it wasn’t white, though — then came back and got the rest of my things. After she cooled off, we got a no-fault divorce and agreed to joint custody of Kelly, but Tina really didn’t want to have much to do with me.
Max: She thinks she made you gay, on some level, you know.
Charles: That’s… well, it’s silly. And Tina doesn’t do silly well.
Max, what’s your story?
Max: In some ways, I had it easier than Charles. I always knew I was different, even when I was in kindergarten. I was always a pretty big kid though, so even if the other kids didn’t like me being different they didn’t bother me too much. I realized what kind of different I was in middle school… when most boys start thinking about girls, I thought about boys. I had some relationships through high school, but Georgia being Georgia we had to keep them under the table. I hated that. I wanted to be able to show off my boyfriend like they showed off their girlfriends.
College was a lot more tolerant, and that’s when I joined the fight for equal rights. You know how some people are: they have to have someone they can feel superior to. Fifty years ago, that was blacks. Now — or until last week, anyway — it was the GLBT folks. So I was working to make the hate go away. The haters drove off instead… well, most of them did.
So Sondra was dating your nephew… sounds like you guys had some friction there.
Max: I won’t try to say everything was wonderful between Philip and me, but he respected me personally even if he didn’t like “the gay” in general. He was like any high schooler — really sensitive about his identity — so I tried to cut him a little slack in return. He lived up in Marietta, she was in Druid Hills, and I’m really not sure how he met Sondra. Maybe it was online. He brought her over, and they ended up spending a lot of time with me, so I got to know her pretty well. She also got along well with the neighbors, so she was still coming around to visit even after she stopped seeing Philip. She’s not a bad person at all, even if she did break up with Philip over nothing… then again, Philip was known to shade the truth a bit if it would make him look better. Maybe I ought to get Sondra’s side of the story.
So do you think it’s her fault he drove off?
Max: No. My sister called me Wednesday night, asking if he was here, and he wasn’t. By late Friday, it was a reasonable assumption that he’d driven off — his parents stopped answering the phone early Friday evening too. But grief is a funny thing sometimes — Sondra was around, and Philip wasn’t, and I put two and two together…
And got 22?
Max: Something like that. Her aunt and uncle drove off some time Friday afternoon, we think, and she came over here because we were easier to reach. Her grandmother probably drove off too, but Sondra wasn’t too sure about that.
Charles: I think we’re digressing a bit here.
Yeah. So what do you think happened?
Max: Maybe the Rapture didn’t turn out quite the way they expected.
Charles: I’m not sure. I’ve never been much of a spiritual person, but this suggests the supernatural. If Scotty beamed them up, what’s with the pickups?
Max: Good point. All the cars turning into pickups and people disappearing… yeah, supernatural.
Now what?
Max: What do you mean?
What do you think you’ll do now?
Charles: Live. Try to build something better than we used to have.
Max: I guess we’ll end up taking one for the team.
Huh?
Max: We’ll need to contribute to the gene pool, there’s not enough people left for us to stay with our preferences. One-nighters, whatever.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. ;-) Do you think it’ll be socially unacceptable to be gay in the future, just because of the population issue?
Charles: I for one can’t have a long-term sexual relationship with a woman. Believe me, I tried already. But things being how they are, I suspect that reproductive arrangements might be a bit loose for a few generations. We’ll cope. It’s our grandchildren I’m worried about, assuming we have any.
Back to Episode 19…
Monday, January 25, 2010 9 comments
White Pickups, Episode 19
Our heroes — some of them, anyway — have another long day ahead of them…
Contents
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Cody unscrewed the milk cap and sniffed. “Smells okay,” he said. “You wanna eat here, or go down to Tina’s? Either way’s fine with me.”
“They’ll have coffee at Tina’s, won’t they?” Sondra grinned. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee. We don’t wanna go there.” She patted her holster. “Especially when I’m armed.”
“Fine with me,” Cody said. “I’ll grab eggs and bacon, just in case they’re missing that stuff. We can take the cereal too.”
“Hey, look who decided to join us!” Tim said as Cody and Sondra walked in.
“Beware, geek bearing gifts!” Cody said, hoisting his bags. Sondra made a beeline to the coffee pot.
“Did you bring eggs?” Tina asked. “Oh, thank God! I don’t know how I ran out of eggs and didn’t notice.” She took the bags. “Bacon and milk too? I think I have those, but thanks for thinking about it.” She lowered her voice. “So… what happened last night?” She glanced at Sondra, stirring her coffee.
“Nothing,” Cody said, shaking his hair back. “Nothing like that anyway. We’re wearing the same clothes we had on all night.”
“Talking about us?” Sondra said, slurping her coffee and crossing the kitchen. She hugged Cody with her free hand, making him grin. “Not like there’s much to talk about, so far.”
“I got that,” Tina said. “You guys want to give Kelly and Sara a break and help me cook this up?”
“Sure.” Sondra took another swig of coffee.
“Great. Can either of you cook? Both of you?”
“Yeah, I can fix breakfast,” Cody said.
“My grandmother was Italian,” Sondra said. “She wouldn’t let me see my tenth birthday before I learned to cook.”
“Oh… pancakes, eggs, and bacon for eight, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Hmph,” Cody snorted as Tina left. “What happened to helping her?”
“No problem,” Sondra said, kissing Cody’s cheek before letting him go. “We have more room to maneuver, and I’ve got a direct line to the coffee!” She finished her first cup and poured another. “Do I need to save any of this for you?”
“Nah,” Cody said. “I never got into drinking the stuff.”
“Give it a couple years — you’ll want it, and there won’t be any. You want to do the pancakes, and I’ll take the bacon and eggs?”
“Sure.”
Charles, Max, and Tim mounted up after breakfast; the others gathered to see them off. Charles hugged Sondra and whispered, “Try to forgive Max. He knows he was out of line, and he did apologize. And thanks for not poisoning his eggs.”
“I’ll try. You guys be careful. Don’t let Tim get too far ahead of you.”
“Hurry back, you guys!” Sara called at Tim.
“Weather permitting,” Tim said. “You know what we need? Someone to get a knee injury, so they can tell when the bad weather’s coming.” Everyone laughed. “Now watch, it’ll be me.”
“Remember to bring everyone to the clubhouse when you come back,” Tina said. “We’ll make sure everyone’s fed and gets a place of their own.”
“Morning’s getting away from us, folks,” Charles said. “Welcome to the first day of fall. Let’s get rolling.” Cody pushed the exit gate open; the three men rode through and Cody pulled it shut behind them.
“Hey, watch those trucks!” Cody yelled after them. They waved, coasted around the corner, and disappeared.
“Okay, we’re back to five, for now,” Tina said. “We’ve got a bunch of townhouses to air out and lots of food to gather in the next few days. Let’s get at it. I figure we can work in teams again to clear the units, each one will go quicker that way. We’ll need to feed pets as we find them, and go around to the houses we checked yesterday morning. Sondra, would you be able to put down unfriendly dogs?”
“If I have to.”
“Tim had to put one down yesterday morning. Do what you have to to be mentally prepared.”
“Okay.”
“Good. We went over this with Charles and Tim last night — we’ve decided to concentrate on the townhouses near the clubhouse for settling the newcomers. That means we’ll be focusing on Clubhouse Drive today. Tomorrow, we’ll go hunt some more groceries. We’ll have to start focusing on what they used to call ‘staples’ — flour, sugar, and the like — because baked goods will be going stale soon. Rice, beans, potatoes, onions, anything that will keep.”
“Maybe we should get the groceries today and tackle the houses tomorrow,” Cody suggested. “We’ll need carpet cleaners if a dog peed on it. Or the furniture.”
“I was counting on some groceries being in the houses,” Tina said. “If we don’t know what’s already in the pantry, we won’t know how much we’ll need.”
“But we’ll need it all, eventually,” Sondra said.
“But we can’t carry it all home right now anyway, even with the trailers,” Sara pointed out.
“Good point.”
“I’m all for putting off the cleaning,” said Sara, “but there’s probably cleaning stuff in the clubhouse, if the houses don’t have any. Besides, if we put it off another day, it might be worse tomorrow. If we can get the dogs outside now, they won’t cause any more damage.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Cody said. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Kelly and I can do one unit, you three can take the unit next door. That way, we’ll be close together in case we need… expertise.” She waved a hand at Sondra’s holster.
Kelly shrugged. “Works for me,” said Tina.
The townhouses (actually condominiums by another name) were built with their entries facing each other across a hallway. The units on each end had three bedrooms, and all five of them attacked those units and split up to work on units across the hallway from each other. The townhouses were stacked two high: a total of four three-bedroom units, twenty two-bedroom units, and eight one-bedroom units. They held few surprises — just smelly refrigerators and the occasional pet cleanup. All the dogs were small and either friendly to — or at least intimidated by — the intruders. The worst incidents were when two cats bolted out one door and kept running. Several doors were locked, but not deadbolted; Cody used a portable drill to neutralize the locks. “We’ll get some new doorknobs from the Home Center, if we have to,” he said, looking pleased. They rolled a generator to the townhouses and ran extension cords through windows for lights and vacuum cleaners.
Kelly was burrowing under a bed, sliding boxes of random personal belongings into the walkway, when Sara asked her, “Are you doing alright?”
Another box skidded out from under the bed. “Sure,” Kelly said, her voice muffled. “Why?”
“Oh… I just thought you seemed a bit down since yesterday afternoon.”
Silence for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“Well… you didn’t seem that interested in getting to know Cody, but you didn’t like it when Sondra swooped in and carried him off. What’s that about?”
A box careened out from under the bed, traveling nearly halfway across the room, followed (more slowly) by Kelly. “I don’t know,” she said, standing and straightening her hair. “Why should I care who he runs around with?” She shook her head and looked at her shoes. “But I do.”
continued…
Conversations: Charles Ball and Max Wright
Contents
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Cody unscrewed the milk cap and sniffed. “Smells okay,” he said. “You wanna eat here, or go down to Tina’s? Either way’s fine with me.”
“They’ll have coffee at Tina’s, won’t they?” Sondra grinned. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee. We don’t wanna go there.” She patted her holster. “Especially when I’m armed.”
“Fine with me,” Cody said. “I’ll grab eggs and bacon, just in case they’re missing that stuff. We can take the cereal too.”
“Hey, look who decided to join us!” Tim said as Cody and Sondra walked in.
“Beware, geek bearing gifts!” Cody said, hoisting his bags. Sondra made a beeline to the coffee pot.
“Did you bring eggs?” Tina asked. “Oh, thank God! I don’t know how I ran out of eggs and didn’t notice.” She took the bags. “Bacon and milk too? I think I have those, but thanks for thinking about it.” She lowered her voice. “So… what happened last night?” She glanced at Sondra, stirring her coffee.
“Nothing,” Cody said, shaking his hair back. “Nothing like that anyway. We’re wearing the same clothes we had on all night.”
“Talking about us?” Sondra said, slurping her coffee and crossing the kitchen. She hugged Cody with her free hand, making him grin. “Not like there’s much to talk about, so far.”
“I got that,” Tina said. “You guys want to give Kelly and Sara a break and help me cook this up?”
“Sure.” Sondra took another swig of coffee.
“Great. Can either of you cook? Both of you?”
“Yeah, I can fix breakfast,” Cody said.
“My grandmother was Italian,” Sondra said. “She wouldn’t let me see my tenth birthday before I learned to cook.”
“Oh… pancakes, eggs, and bacon for eight, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Hmph,” Cody snorted as Tina left. “What happened to helping her?”
“No problem,” Sondra said, kissing Cody’s cheek before letting him go. “We have more room to maneuver, and I’ve got a direct line to the coffee!” She finished her first cup and poured another. “Do I need to save any of this for you?”
“Nah,” Cody said. “I never got into drinking the stuff.”
“Give it a couple years — you’ll want it, and there won’t be any. You want to do the pancakes, and I’ll take the bacon and eggs?”
“Sure.”
Charles, Max, and Tim mounted up after breakfast; the others gathered to see them off. Charles hugged Sondra and whispered, “Try to forgive Max. He knows he was out of line, and he did apologize. And thanks for not poisoning his eggs.”
“I’ll try. You guys be careful. Don’t let Tim get too far ahead of you.”
“Hurry back, you guys!” Sara called at Tim.
“Weather permitting,” Tim said. “You know what we need? Someone to get a knee injury, so they can tell when the bad weather’s coming.” Everyone laughed. “Now watch, it’ll be me.”
“Remember to bring everyone to the clubhouse when you come back,” Tina said. “We’ll make sure everyone’s fed and gets a place of their own.”
“Morning’s getting away from us, folks,” Charles said. “Welcome to the first day of fall. Let’s get rolling.” Cody pushed the exit gate open; the three men rode through and Cody pulled it shut behind them.
“Hey, watch those trucks!” Cody yelled after them. They waved, coasted around the corner, and disappeared.
“Okay, we’re back to five, for now,” Tina said. “We’ve got a bunch of townhouses to air out and lots of food to gather in the next few days. Let’s get at it. I figure we can work in teams again to clear the units, each one will go quicker that way. We’ll need to feed pets as we find them, and go around to the houses we checked yesterday morning. Sondra, would you be able to put down unfriendly dogs?”
“If I have to.”
“Tim had to put one down yesterday morning. Do what you have to to be mentally prepared.”
“Okay.”
“Good. We went over this with Charles and Tim last night — we’ve decided to concentrate on the townhouses near the clubhouse for settling the newcomers. That means we’ll be focusing on Clubhouse Drive today. Tomorrow, we’ll go hunt some more groceries. We’ll have to start focusing on what they used to call ‘staples’ — flour, sugar, and the like — because baked goods will be going stale soon. Rice, beans, potatoes, onions, anything that will keep.”
“Maybe we should get the groceries today and tackle the houses tomorrow,” Cody suggested. “We’ll need carpet cleaners if a dog peed on it. Or the furniture.”
“I was counting on some groceries being in the houses,” Tina said. “If we don’t know what’s already in the pantry, we won’t know how much we’ll need.”
“But we’ll need it all, eventually,” Sondra said.
“But we can’t carry it all home right now anyway, even with the trailers,” Sara pointed out.
“Good point.”
“I’m all for putting off the cleaning,” said Sara, “but there’s probably cleaning stuff in the clubhouse, if the houses don’t have any. Besides, if we put it off another day, it might be worse tomorrow. If we can get the dogs outside now, they won’t cause any more damage.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Cody said. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Kelly and I can do one unit, you three can take the unit next door. That way, we’ll be close together in case we need… expertise.” She waved a hand at Sondra’s holster.
Kelly shrugged. “Works for me,” said Tina.
The townhouses (actually condominiums by another name) were built with their entries facing each other across a hallway. The units on each end had three bedrooms, and all five of them attacked those units and split up to work on units across the hallway from each other. The townhouses were stacked two high: a total of four three-bedroom units, twenty two-bedroom units, and eight one-bedroom units. They held few surprises — just smelly refrigerators and the occasional pet cleanup. All the dogs were small and either friendly to — or at least intimidated by — the intruders. The worst incidents were when two cats bolted out one door and kept running. Several doors were locked, but not deadbolted; Cody used a portable drill to neutralize the locks. “We’ll get some new doorknobs from the Home Center, if we have to,” he said, looking pleased. They rolled a generator to the townhouses and ran extension cords through windows for lights and vacuum cleaners.
Kelly was burrowing under a bed, sliding boxes of random personal belongings into the walkway, when Sara asked her, “Are you doing alright?”
Another box skidded out from under the bed. “Sure,” Kelly said, her voice muffled. “Why?”
“Oh… I just thought you seemed a bit down since yesterday afternoon.”
Silence for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“Well… you didn’t seem that interested in getting to know Cody, but you didn’t like it when Sondra swooped in and carried him off. What’s that about?”
A box careened out from under the bed, traveling nearly halfway across the room, followed (more slowly) by Kelly. “I don’t know,” she said, standing and straightening her hair. “Why should I care who he runs around with?” She shook her head and looked at her shoes. “But I do.”
continued…
Conversations: Charles Ball and Max Wright
Friday, January 22, 2010 3 comments
The Boy, by the Numbers (v2.0)
With this week’s TB02, I figured it was time to update the error codes. Here’s a link to the old error codes.
TB01: Left home (again)
TB02: Came home (again)
TB03: Said he’d be home, stayed out, hasn’t returned
TB04: Had a tantrum, broke something
TB05: Caught in a lie, insisting on his version of things
TB06: Talks about getting a job, no follow-through
TB09: Blames everyone else for his problems
TB21: Spent all morning in bed
TB22: Got drunk
TB23: Talks about quitting smoking/drinking, no follow-through
TB24: Talks about getting his own place, no follow-through
TB25: Band is about to be signed (again)
TB26: Not checking glucose/taking insulin
TB27: Said he'd help, disappeared/kept sleeping
TB28: Calls us at 3 a.m., emotional meltdown
Code TB07 (GED talk) was retired as he actually did get his GED. TB08 (band signed) has been replaced by the more accurate TB25 (about to be signed).
And in interest of fairness, Snippet deserves her own collection of error codes:
SN01: FATAL ERROR: Lobbed F-bomb at Mrs. Fetched or Daughter Dearest
SN02: Asked to sleep for “10 more minutes,” still in bed an hour later
SN03: Caught in a lie
SN04: Drinking (claims to be allergic to alcohol)
SN05: Blames other people for the friction in her life
SN06: Spent all morning in bedNote 1
SN07: Says she'll help, no follow-through
SN08: Says something monumentally weird
SN09: Says she wants to get her GED, no follow-through
And finally, some error codes take two to tango:
TS01: Abandoned Mason to us with little or no warning
TS02: Had a fight
TS03: Brought some weird friend to the manorNote 2
Note 1: Implies SN02. Often occurs in conjunction with TB21.
Note 2: Some of Snippet’s weird friends are pleasant to look at, but I wouldn’t want to keep them…
I expect that TB21, SN02, and SN06 will happen so often that it won’t be worth mentioning most of the time beyond just flagging the codes. On the other hand, they’ll be the ones getting up with Mason through the night, so I’m just a little inclined to cut ’em some slack there.
TB01: Left home (again)
TB02: Came home (again)
TB03: Said he’d be home, stayed out, hasn’t returned
TB04: Had a tantrum, broke something
TB05: Caught in a lie, insisting on his version of things
TB06: Talks about getting a job, no follow-through
TB09: Blames everyone else for his problems
TB21: Spent all morning in bed
TB22: Got drunk
TB23: Talks about quitting smoking/drinking, no follow-through
TB24: Talks about getting his own place, no follow-through
TB25: Band is about to be signed (again)
TB26: Not checking glucose/taking insulin
TB27: Said he'd help, disappeared/kept sleeping
TB28: Calls us at 3 a.m., emotional meltdown
Code TB07 (GED talk) was retired as he actually did get his GED. TB08 (band signed) has been replaced by the more accurate TB25 (about to be signed).
And in interest of fairness, Snippet deserves her own collection of error codes:
SN01: FATAL ERROR: Lobbed F-bomb at Mrs. Fetched or Daughter Dearest
SN02: Asked to sleep for “10 more minutes,” still in bed an hour later
SN03: Caught in a lie
SN04: Drinking (claims to be allergic to alcohol)
SN05: Blames other people for the friction in her life
SN06: Spent all morning in bedNote 1
SN07: Says she'll help, no follow-through
SN08: Says something monumentally weird
SN09: Says she wants to get her GED, no follow-through
And finally, some error codes take two to tango:
TS01: Abandoned Mason to us with little or no warning
TS02: Had a fight
TS03: Brought some weird friend to the manorNote 2
Note 1: Implies SN02. Often occurs in conjunction with TB21.
Note 2: Some of Snippet’s weird friends are pleasant to look at, but I wouldn’t want to keep them…
I expect that TB21, SN02, and SN06 will happen so often that it won’t be worth mentioning most of the time beyond just flagging the codes. On the other hand, they’ll be the ones getting up with Mason through the night, so I’m just a little inclined to cut ’em some slack there.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010 5 comments
Mason and a TB02
Well, it’s official: The Boy has moved back in. They cleaned out the apartment yesterday and finished cleaning it up today. To “honor” the occasion, I’ve decided to update the TB error codes and add some SN codes for Snippet. I’m sure they would say I also need FF, MF, and DD codes to round out the list, but tough rocks. We’re not as consistently flaky. I’ll post the new codes Friday.
Mason reached several milestones this week. Mrs. Fetched made him up some rice mush Monday evening and fed it to him, and he did pretty well with it. Sure, it was a sloppy mess, but he got more in him than on him (even if the picture doesn’t suggest that). He’s been getting a little bowl of it late in the evening, in hopes it will stay with him longer than the bottle does. He often refuses getting the bottle late in the evening, because he knows it puts him to sleep… but only if we’re sitting with him. If we’re standing up and give it to him, he’ll take it.
I also noticed earlier this week that he’s starting to anticipate — if I’m tickling him, for example, he’ll start laughing before I actually get his ribs/neck/leg. And the big one: he’s starting to figure out self-propulsion. Last night, I laid him face-down on the carpet and watched… after a minute of struggle, he got up on his knees, pushed himself forward a foot, then did it again. He may or may not figure out crawling; neither The Boy nor Daughter Dearest did much of it. They were both walker babies (no stairs going down to contend with) and started walking around age 10 months. Mason’s legs are strong enough to walk now, but his balance isn’t there yet. The other thing he’s figured out is how to grab stuff. I may put off getting new glasses for six months or so.
With Spring #1 giving us cool and rainy weather, I throttled back the firebox quite a bit this morning. After choir practice, I brought in an armload. “It’s probably out,” Mrs Fetched said, “I didn’t get to it all day.” Au contraire, it was still good and hot when I approached, and there were plenty of coals and even a couple sticks left inside. I tossed in what I brought, left the door propped open for the bellows effect, and got some more. Now it’s throttled back again and should keep the living room warm all night.
I’m seriously considering dropping out of the church choir after Easter. I don’t enjoy the draggy-twangy music that the rest of them adore, and they’re not much interested in doing anything new (or, except for the choir director, a little difficult). Mrs. Fetched has already pretty much detached herself from church, mostly due to the chicken houses but she has a few issues of her own with how things are going. Then again, once Mason is consistently sleeping all night (and so am I), I might pull out of it and change my mind.
Mason reached several milestones this week. Mrs. Fetched made him up some rice mush Monday evening and fed it to him, and he did pretty well with it. Sure, it was a sloppy mess, but he got more in him than on him (even if the picture doesn’t suggest that). He’s been getting a little bowl of it late in the evening, in hopes it will stay with him longer than the bottle does. He often refuses getting the bottle late in the evening, because he knows it puts him to sleep… but only if we’re sitting with him. If we’re standing up and give it to him, he’ll take it.I also noticed earlier this week that he’s starting to anticipate — if I’m tickling him, for example, he’ll start laughing before I actually get his ribs/neck/leg. And the big one: he’s starting to figure out self-propulsion. Last night, I laid him face-down on the carpet and watched… after a minute of struggle, he got up on his knees, pushed himself forward a foot, then did it again. He may or may not figure out crawling; neither The Boy nor Daughter Dearest did much of it. They were both walker babies (no stairs going down to contend with) and started walking around age 10 months. Mason’s legs are strong enough to walk now, but his balance isn’t there yet. The other thing he’s figured out is how to grab stuff. I may put off getting new glasses for six months or so.
With Spring #1 giving us cool and rainy weather, I throttled back the firebox quite a bit this morning. After choir practice, I brought in an armload. “It’s probably out,” Mrs Fetched said, “I didn’t get to it all day.” Au contraire, it was still good and hot when I approached, and there were plenty of coals and even a couple sticks left inside. I tossed in what I brought, left the door propped open for the bellows effect, and got some more. Now it’s throttled back again and should keep the living room warm all night.
I’m seriously considering dropping out of the church choir after Easter. I don’t enjoy the draggy-twangy music that the rest of them adore, and they’re not much interested in doing anything new (or, except for the choir director, a little difficult). Mrs. Fetched has already pretty much detached herself from church, mostly due to the chicken houses but she has a few issues of her own with how things are going. Then again, once Mason is consistently sleeping all night (and so am I), I might pull out of it and change my mind.
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