Tag Archives: fighting

Spring-Breakers Are the Worst!

The challenge from my Florida writers’ group was to begin a story with an unnecessary, declarative sentence, and to focus on a theme. The theme of this story is that actions speak louder than words. The story is an adapted excerpt from a crime novel I’m working on, Unsafe For All Time.

They were right there, staring at each other. 

As he carried two strawberry margaritas back from the Beach Hut bar, Jake saw the guy talking to Jessie.  Dressed in khaki shorts, a faded blue T-shirt, and sandals, he looked to be about Jake’s age, well-built, slightly taller.  

“Can I help you?” Jake asked him, glancing at Jessie in their booth.  She rolled her eyes as if to say the guy was a jerk.

“Don’t think so, Chief!” the guy replied.  “But Jessie here is gonna be joinin’ me an’ my friends over there.  She’s a friggin’ bomb!”  He pointed to a booth on the far side of the beachside patio, where two similarly-dressed guys were watching.  “You might as well run off home.”

Jessie was indeed a prize in her tight-fitting tank-top, cut-offs, and scuffed cowboy boots.  Ten years older than Jake, and divorced, only the fine wrinkles around her eyes kept her from looking like she could be his college classmate.  They’d met when he’d dropped off a form to the Dean’s office at Florida State, where she worked as a file-clerk.  They’d been seeing each other for a month now, and both were still enjoying the novelty and the sex.

“What’s your name, pal?” Jake asked.   

“Name’s Bobby…not that it’s any of your business.”  But before the guy could say anything further, Jake flung the contents of one of the drinks in his face.  The sticky, pink strawberry liquid stung Bobby’s eyes, splattered the front of his shirt.

“Hey!  What the hell!” he spluttered, jumping back in surprise.  Jake tossed the second drink in his face, then stepped to one side and kicked his feet out from under him.  Bobby fell backwards, sandals flying off his feet, and his head bounced hard on the wooden deck when he landed.  Jake set the empty glasses down on the table in front of Jessie.

The guy’s two friends immediately clambered out of their booth, but before they could get to Jake, two beefy bouncers intercepted them.  While one held them at bay, the other told Jake he’d better leave.  “I know why you did it, man,” he said, “but you an’ the lady gotta go.  Now!”

When Jessie slid out of the booth, gathering her long, blonde hair behind her neck, the bouncer gave her a long, appreciative, up-and-down look.  Bobby was trying to sit up, rubbing the back of his head groggily.  Jake took Jessie’s elbow, steered her toward the door.  “You gave that asshole your name?”

“Yeah,” she said, “right before I told him to buzz off.  An’ then you got back with the drinks.”  She chuckled wryly, then added, “What a waste of good booze!”

Minutes later, they were headed for the highway a mile from the restaurant, a plume of dust from the gravel road swirling behind Jakes’s ten-year-old convertible.  “Too bad that hadda happen,” Jessie said, adjusting her makeup in the vanity mirror.  “I never been to the Beach Hut before, was lookin’ forward to dancin’ under the stars.”  Snapping the mirror shut, she leaned back and gazed at the nighttime sky, hands raised above the windshield to feel the onrushing air.

“You hungry?” Jake asked.

“I could eat,” Jessie said.  “An’ y’know what?  I feel like a cheeseburger, so how ‘bout we hit a Steak ‘n’ Shake?”

Jake was watching headlights coming up fast behind him.  “Got trouble, I think,” he said.

Twisting in her seat to look, Jessie asked, “You think it’s them?”

“Most likely,” Jake muttered, coasting to a stop on the side of the road.  Leaving the engine running, he opened his door and climbed out.  “Stay in the car,” he said.

“No friggin’ way,” Jessie declared, reaching into her bag for the small can of Mace she carried everywhere.

The other car pulled over about twenty yards back.  Jake and Jessie had to shield their eyes in the glare of its high-beams, but they heard two car doors slam, saw two vague shapes slowly approaching.  “Hey, Chief!” a voice called out, “you messed up Bobby pretty good back there.  They hadda take him to the hospital.  But what’s worse, you took that sweet-lookin’ babe with you when you ran off.  Now it’s time for a little payback.”

Jake popped his trunk, quickly unrolled a worn blanket cocooning a shotgun, a well-used Mossberg 500.  Racking it loudly, he aimed it at the headlights.  The metallic kascheeek-kaschunk of the slide cut through the night, freezing the two men where they were.

Marvelling at the ease with which Jake handled the gun, Jessie stood to one side, eyes wide, the Mace clutched tightly in one hand.

“Hey, wait, man!” the same man said, his tone suddenly a lot less belligerent.  “No need for that!”

“One!” Jake called out.  Nothing else could be heard for a second or two, save for the eternal serenade of crickets and bullfrogs in the humid darkness, and the surf rolling in to the beach beyond the trees.

“Two!” Jake said.

Without another word, the men scrambled back to their car, and moments later, two doors banged shut again.  The driver immediately cut his wheels into a U-turn, but there wasn’t enough room on the narrow road.

“Three!”

The back-up lights pierced the darkness as the driver reversed to make room for what was now a three-point turn.  And then he stalled the car.

“Four!” Jake yelled.

As the engine roared back to life, the driver spewed gravel from under his wheels and the car leapt into its turn and headed back up the road towards the restaurant.

“Five!” Jake whispered.  When he pulled the trigger, the back window of the fleeing car exploded and one of its tail-lights blinked out.  The vehicle fishtailed violently a couple of times before straightening out and accelerating away, dust rising high in its wake.

“Holy frig, Jake!” Jessie exclaimed.  “You don’t fool around!  You coulda killed ‘em!”

“Don’t think so,” Jake said calmly, returning the shotgun to the trunk.  “Not at that range usin’ coarse birdshot.  I’m surprised it blew out the window.  Woulda messed ‘em up some if they’d kept comin’ for us, though.” 

A half-hour later, they were seated close together in another booth—Jessie with her cheeseburger, Jake with a plate of fries he was sharing, both with a thick, creamy milkshake.

“Chocolate’s my favourite,” Jessie said around a mouthful of burger.  “I tried one like yours once, but the crap they put in it kept gettin’ caught in my straw.”

“That’s why they give you a spoon,” Jake laughed.  He’d ordered a Rocky-Road-cookie-dough-caramel something-or-other, but secretly wished he’d stuck with chocolate.  “You got some mustard on your chin.”

Jessie wiped it off with her napkin.  “You think them guys know who we are?  You think they’ll come after us again?”

“Doubt it,” Jake said.  “They looked like spring-breakers to me.  Gonna have a story to tell when they get home, wherever that is.  Prob’ly Daddy’s car that got shot up.”

“Spring-breakers are the worst!” Jessie said.  “How come you got a gun in your trunk?”

Jake waited several seconds before replying.  “Hey, any guy who goes out with a babe as hot as you is gonna need a gun!  There’s assholes like Bobby all over the place.”

Jessie grinned at the compliment.

“He was right ‘bout one thing, though,” Jake added.  “You are the bomb!”

Swallowing the last of her burger, Jessie said, “Bet your ass I am!  But the only one I’m gonna go off on is you!”

“Can’t wait!” Jake grinned.

”Me neither,” Jessie grinned back.  “But first, are you gonna finish them fries or what? I’m still hungry.”

Lying? No, Storytelling!

“What’s the most interesting thing that happened to you today?” he’d ask.  My grandpa, puffing on his pipe.

Pleased to have his attention, and anxious to keep it, I’d rack my brain for a response.  Growing up in the suburbs in the 1950’s was pretty mundane.  Nothing of great interest ever seemed to happen to me.

So, I’d make things up.  Not lying, exactly.  Storytelling.

“I fell in the creek today,” I might tell him.  “Tried to walk across the log, but my foot slipped off .”

kids-crossing-a-river_1308-616

“How’d you get out?” he’d ask, wisps of smoke curling around his head.

“Wasn’t deep,” I’d say.  “But don’t tell my Mum.”

“Nope,” he’d say.  “Be best not to go near the creek anymore, though.”  And he’d give me a broad wink.

On another occasion, I might tell him that my bike got stolen, but I managed to get it back.  Heroically.

“Wasn’t it locked” he’d ask.

“Yeah, the lock was across the forks of the back wheel.  But the guys who took it just picked it up and carried it.  That’s how I caught up to ‘em.”

“What did you say to them?”

“Nothin’ Grandpa.  When they heard me comin’, they dropped the bike and ran away.  I guess I scared ‘em off.”

“Sounds like,” he’d say.  “Maybe you should fasten your wheel to the bike rack from now on.  Be hard to take that.”  His blue eyes would sparkle, and I’d love that I made that happen.

He never tired of asking the same question, and I never got tired of answering.  I might have told him how I won the game for our team when I made the game-ending catch of a long fly-ball in centrefield.

“Jus’ like Willie Mays!” I’d say, omitting the fact that I had actually stumbled and fallen, slid to an ignominious stop, only to have the ball land on my stomach, where I frantically clutched it.

ballplayer

“Mays is one of the greats,” he’d say.  “You caught it over your shoulder, like he did?  Wish I could have seen it.  Next time, though, try to keep the ball in front of you.  Those over-the-shoulder catches are pretty rare.”  And he’d flash me a knowing smile.

As a grandfather myself now, I know he knew I was padding the truth.  But I didn’t know back then.  I thought it was okay, because it brought us closer together.

He lived to a ripe old age, and in the last few years before he died, he was slowed considerably.  When I’d visit with him, it seemed our roles were reversed.  Now it was I asking the questions, and he searching for answers that would keep me there longer.  I always asked the old chestnut.

“So, what’s the most interesting thing that happened to you today, Grandpa?”

He no longer smoked his pipe, but he’d stroke his mouth as if still holding it, and I could almost hear the gears meshing inside his head.

“Nothing much today,” he’d say.  “But did I ever tell you about the time I saved your father from drowning?  Fell off the dock while we were fishing at the lodge up near Bala, no life-preserver.  I reached down, grabbed his collar, and hauled him straight out of the water.  Poor little guy cried like a baby.  That was pretty interesting, I’ll tell you.”

dock3

I’d heard the story many times, of course, and my father had debunked it every time.  “The water was shallow,” he told me.  “I jumped in, and waded ashore.  And I did have a life-preserver on.  Dad loves to tell the story, though.”

Of course, I never let on that I didn’t believe what my grandpa was telling me.  I remember hearing how he met the King, back in 1939, when he and the Queen, on their tour of Canada, visited the hospital where my grandpa was recuperating from surgery.

“I had a picture of the two of us,” he’d say.  “Don’t know what ever happened to it.  Your grandma must’ve thrown it out.  But that was really interesting!”

Grandma would only smile when I asked about that picture.  “Grandpa was in the hospital in 1937,” was all she’d say.

I heard about the lawn-bowling championship he won, the skip of a Dominion championship team in 1909.  According to him, the mantel clock that still sits in my home was the prize awarded for the victory.

clock2

“There’s no plaque on it, Grandpa,” I once told him.  “How come they didn’t put your name on it?”  The wistful look he gave me made me wish I hadn’t asked.

“Ah, they gave us all a letter,” he said.  “Signed by the prime minister, Mr. Borden.  That’s why your father’s middle name is Borden.  No idea where that letter is now.  But that’s pretty interesting, don’t you think?”

I nodded in agreement, and was circumspect enough not to mention that the prime minister in 1909 was Wilfrid Laurier.  My father was born in 1911, right after Robert Borden’s election.

By then, my grandpa’s eyes no longer sparkled as in days of yore.  But he’d still wink at me while telling his stories, and smile whimsically.  Kind of like my smile now, when I listen to my own grandchildren telling me about the momentous events in their lives.

And when they ask me about the interesting things in my day, I try not to lie to them.  Elaborating is not the same as lying.

“Nothing much today,” I tell them.  “But did I ever tell you about the time I saved my brother from the big kid across the road who was beating him up?  I ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye, but that kid never picked on my brother again.  That was pretty interesting.”

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“Really, Gramps?” they marvel.  Or pretend to.

Of course, I don’t tell them the real reason my brother was safe afterwards; the kid’s family moved away.

To this day, I have a warm feeling inside when I remember my grandpa, and those conversations we used to have.  And I love the exchanges now with my grandchildren, swapping tales about our lives.

Not lying, exactly.  Storytelling.

Which is what I do.

Resurrection Relevance

Another Christian observance of Easter is upon us, with its celebration of the resurrection of Christ, the man whom many consider to be the Son of God.

cross

During his brief time on earth, Jesus preached peace, tolerance, faith, forgiveness—and, perhaps most importantly, love for all humankind, even one’s enemies.  In return, he promised eternal life for all who believed and acted in accordance with these precepts.

As a child, I learned quickly that one of my mother’s interpretations of his teachings was that I must not fight with other children.  She was very firm about this.  During my early school years, it seemed like good advice; I was a friendly little guy, and others seemed to like me just fine.

schoolyard

As I got older, however, I learned that not every kid subscribed to her viewpoint.  Some of the classmates I encountered in the older grades were quite aggressive, to the point of being bullies, and for a while I was at a loss as to how to cope.  That was one of the reasons, maybe, that I became a fast runner.

Alas, it was not always possible to escape the marauders, so fighting became the only alternative to being pummelled and punished repeatedly.  It was safer to stand up to the bullies, even if I lost the fight, than to do nothing.

My father quietly helped me with the dilemma of disobeying my mother by suggesting that, although her sentiments were correct, fighting back when attacked was okay.  Starting a fight was really the thing to avoid.

I still remember an occasion in my mid-teens, when my mother agreed to accompany my father to watch me play a hockey game, the first time she had done so.  About halfway through, I became involved in a fight on the ice, not one I started, and was ejected, along with my opponent.  My mother was, by all accounts, aghast.

hockey fight

Although I played recreational hockey for another forty years, she never attended another of my games.

That incident shapes my outlook today when I consider the state of humankind on the planet we all inhabit.  Christ was not the only person to preach peace and love; many devout prophets professing other faiths have advanced the same messages.

But just as not every Christian follows Christ’s teachings obediently, so, too, do some adherents of other religions also stray from their prophets’ words.

The situation is complicated by the fact that there are also false prophets from all religions, who have preached a wilfully-distorted or violent version of the message, demanding their adherents forcefully convert everyone to what they call the true faith—and failing that, to kill them.  They have existed under many guises—the Christian Crusades, Islamic jihad, radical Zionism, the Hindu saffron terror, and so many more.

They survive even today, in a god-eat-god world.

'Its a god eat god world.'

If we assume that the vast majority of people alive right now want to live in peace and harmony—perhaps not anxious to love their neighbours, but at least happy to leave them alone—then why is there so much warfare and bloodshed across the globe?  Are we being driven to demise by the bloodthirsty minority, the zealots, and (as a friend likes to call them) the lunatic fringe?

As a questioning Christian at yet another Easter (believing in the wisdom of Christ’s teachings, but unsure about the promise of a heavenly hereafter), I see benefit in acknowledging, if not a literal resurrection, at least a continuing relevance of his message.  And further benefit in acknowledging the similarities between that message and those of other great prophets of different faiths.

Back in that long-ago schoolyard, there was ample space for me to run from those who would harm me.  On this increasingly-crowded planet Earth, however, whither can we flee from the radicals and fanatics seemingly bent on our destruction?

Shall we turn the other cheek, perhaps to be slaughtered?  Shall we fight back, perhaps ensuring mutual annihilation?

Or shall we continue to do what we can to spread those universal messages of peace, tolerance, faith, forgiveness—and, perhaps most importantly, love for all humankind, even our enemies?

love

It is up to all of us in the end.  Or it will be the end of us.