Jonathan’s Prison Sentence

Roberta waited nervously as Jonathan emerged from the prisoners holding area. He’d been sentenced to fifty years in maximum security for knocking over a phone booth. And that may sound stiff, but the phone booth just happened to be in a bar, where it had landed on top of Sonny Montrose, a small-time gangster who didn’t take it all that well, and although it was Roberta who’d actually pulled the trigger, Jonathan grabbed the gun as soon as it hit the floor, and the rest was history.

He cautiously approached the back row of telephone carrells, making sure they were firmly attached to the floor before finally sitting down. In his left hand, he held a notebook; in his right, a worn number two pencil with only aluminum left for an eraser that he’d borrowed from the guard who led him into the visitor’s area. Roberta picked up her receiver first. Jonathan studied her for five or six seconds before picking up his own receiver.

“It’s been a while, Roberta. What brings you here now, after all this time? Forget how to gloat?” Jonathan always did have a sharp tongue, and a wit to match. “Why don’t you just leave me in here to rot, like you planned all along.”

Roberta didn’t miss a beat. “That’s my prerogative, Jonny. But since you asked, I heard you’re up for parole next week. Thought we could talk about a strategy for getting you out early.”

Jonathan opened his notebook and started scribbling. Roberta couldn’t quite make out his words through the plexiglass window that separated them. He paused for a moment, looked up at Roberta, and then looked back down at his notebook.

“I don’t know, Roberta. I’ve been locked up in here for twenty years. We were just kids when I took the rap for you. I wouldn’t know how to live on the outside. Besides, I’ve got friends in here, and I’ve got my journal to keep me busy. Keeps me out of trouble.” He continued writing.

“Don’t be a putz, Jonny!” she sneered. “Do you really want to spend the next thirty years behind bars, scribbling in a little book? You got a chance to start over. You can be anything you want. Why, you could even be a bartender.” The irony escaped her.

“No! That’s just a bunch of nonsense. Nobody’s gonna give an old guy like me a chance out there. I’m better off in here. It’s where I belong!” Jonathan was writing feverishly now.

There was no reasoning with him, she thought, but Roberta was not one to give up so easily. “Okay, Jonny. But I’ll be back next Tuesday for the hearing. You’ll see.” She looked so smug, so sure of herself.

“Would you just get the hell out of here and let me finish my friggin’ prison sentence?” demanded Jonathan.

Roberta swallowed hard, hung up her receiver, stood up, and turned towards the door.

Jonathan wrote in his journal, “… and then the bitch exited the prison gates, never to return.” He closed the notebook, handed the pencil back to the guard, and returned to his cell.

Life in Summertime

Sweat, rain, sweat.
Hot days,
humid nights.
A bowl of soup,
an ugly dog,
and reruns.

Once Upon a Telephone

Jake was always fiddling with numbers. He particularly idolized the primes, and also enjoyed the irrationals, sorting them in descending order of insanity. Then one day, while calculating reciprocal cube roots to ten significant digits, Jake decided to dial his results on the telephone, explaining his methods to each person who answered, and asking their opinions about the impact of the Mean Value Theorem on modern society.

Most of them were cooperative, and the general feeling was that although society has changed dramatically since the introduction of this controversial theorem, it is still unclear whether these changes can be directly attributed to the mathematical revelation. But one particularly irate gentleman, apparently still upset about the breakup of the telephone monopoly, shouted obscenities at Jake, saying that he had failed trigonometry in high school and was definitely not switching back to AT&T.

Later that evening, Jake, still disturbed by the incident, decided to recheck his calculations. And sure enough, just as he suspected, he had forgotten to carry a two in the seventh column on page four, thus dialing the wrong number by mistake. Jake called the man back and apologized for his mathematical blunder. He then dialed the corrected number, and had a nice, long chat with his Great Aunt Rose.

Rusty Shadows

He never quite got used to the desert air. Working mostly outside year-round had been far easier for Russell back home in Texas, where the humidity inspired sweat glands to perform their natural function: cooling the body. Out here in Nevada, it was a different story. Summer afternoon temperatures at the ranch often peaked in the low 110’s, although the air was so dry that relief was often found only in a canteen or in one of the few shady spots near the main house. That’s where the nickname originated, under the shade of the old barn and various cacti that dotted the lawn of The Lazy Lariat ranch. They called him Rusty Shadows.

Although Rusty was rather handy with a branding iron and a lasso, he honed his greatest skills primarily in the privacy of his bedroom — he had received the guitar for his sixteenth birthday while most of his friends had gotten cars. Rusty made the most of his transportation-impaired situation by practicing every evening and weekend rather than going into town to hang out at the Lonesome Rambler Bar and Grill with the other ranch hands.

Rusty couldn’t read music — he didn’t have to. His ears and hands were so finely trained that he could play back any melody or chord progression after a single hearing. With only the faint sound of Honky-Tonk music coming from the tavern up the river through his bedroom window every night, Rusty learned to pick his way through the timeless choruses of Ernest Tubb, Tex Ritter, and Hank Williams Sr.

With a lot of practice and a little bit of luck, Rusty soon made a name for himself playing at county fairs, church socials, and community picnics. Before long, he was able to save up enough money from ranching and his guitar-playing gigs to buy and restore a rusted old 1979 Chevy pickup. Rusty loved that truck. He named her “Charlotte.”

No longer bound to the ranch on weekends, Rusty drove Charlotte through creeks, up and down hills and valleys, and all over the prairie on Saturdays. He drove her to church every Sunday. And he drove her to gigs all over the state most Saturday nights.

One particular Saturday night in early June, Rusty found himself playing a gig at the Lonesome Rambler in front of the other ranch hands and a burly talent scout named “Big Bo” Baumgartner. After the show, Big Bo introduced himself to Rusty and invited him to come to Nashville for a chance to audition for the Grand Ole Opry. Rusty was speechless. His lifelong dream was to perform on the Opry stage where so many country music legends had gone before him. He thanked Big Bo, shook his hand, and left the saloon. Rusty drove back to the ranch, quietly packed up all his earthly belongings, piled them into Charlotte’s bed, and headed east, never to return to The Lazy Lariat.

Stepchildren Crossing a Ford

There once was a man who got bored.
His second wife kept such a hoard
That wherever she slept,
And whenever she stepped,
She made quite a bang,
Which woke up the gang,
Except for the man, who just snored.

The younger kids went to the park.
Their mother said, “Be back by dark.”
The older kids went
To the river and spent
The day watching an otter
And bridging the water,
Stepchildren crossing a ford.

Once Upon a Microphone

Once upon a microphone, there was a terrible singer. His name was Lefty Fingers. Actually his name was Benjamin Wright, but everyone called him Lefty because he had lost all the fingers – but not the thumb – on his right hand in a most unusual fishing accident, and he had changed his last name to “Fingers” because “Lefty Wright” just didn’t sound right.

On the piano was Shorty McGee. His given name was Francis, and his three older brothers had all gone to college on basketball scholarships. But at only six-feet-two, Francis was the smallest of the four McGee brothers by a good three inches.

On lead guitar was Stan “Shooter” Williams, who at sixteen had gained his fame and his nickname after fending off two knife-wielding would-be robbers using only a Colt 45 (can of malt liquor – not the gun) at the nearby Quickie Mart where he worked after school.

On the bass was “Captain” Lou Baker. The oldest of seven children, Lou was always left in charge of his younger brothers and sisters when their parents went out alone, and they (his siblings, not his parents) mockingly called him “Captain” on those occasions.

And on drums was Clyde Porter.

That Old Bat-Shaped Patch Thing

The very moment Albert walked into the room, she knew it. She didn’t have to say anything. And he knew that she knew.

“Albert Ray Dobbs!” he heard her say, “Of all the shirts you have to choose from, you pick the one with that old bat-shaped patch thing!”

And she was right. He had literally dozens of shirts that would have been suitable for the town council meeting. There was the chartreuse rugby shirt (the one with the hole under the left arm) that was a Christmas present from Uncle Roy in 1964. And the tie-dyed shirt that Billy brought back from Vietnam. Or the one with the spaghetti stain that almost blends in with the polka dots. Any of these would have been fine. He just wouldn’t listen.

“But…it’s my favorite shirt!” he claimed. He has claimed this since three of the buttons fell off after the ’69 Mets won the World Series.

Ray’s Teeth

Everyone on the street used to watch the frogs. Happy pictures of bugs had been painted on the deck in front of the drugstore for all to see in anticipation of their arrival. The frogs had to wait, naturally, for the frost to appear in all five windows of the haymaker’s truck; then the feast began.

Ray was already an old man in the winter of ’78; he was going bald and had a failing memory. But the strangest thing about Ray was that nobody could find his teeth. Had he lost them while shopping for index cards? Had his gardener stolen them? Whatever the case, Ray’s teeth were nowhere to be found.

One day in late December, Ray, being hot, took off his long underwear, and lo, his teeth fell from them to the floor! Everyone was happy and laid some bricks! The frogs jumped up and made an album! Ray’s teeth had been recovered.

A Weird Number of Pencils

Hannah loved her pencils. She carried them with her everywhere she went. In fact, she loved them so much that she had come to be known at school as “that girl with the weird number of pencils.” And it’s not as if she had an odd number of pencils — far from it! She had exactly 42 which, bordering two primes, is as even a number as any other multiple of two under the sun. It’s just that most students carried one, two, maybe up to three pencils, and no more. Carrying a weird number of pencils was simply unheard of until Hannah came along.

And then a strange thing happened. Some of the other students began to follow her example. The week after Thanksgiving, Randall started carrying 19 pens in his backpack. Returning from the Christmas holidays, Caitlin packed 28 felt-tipped markers into her handbag. And just before Spring Break, Juan was spotted stuffing 37 map pencils and a Mont Blanc into his soccer bag! Pretty soon all the kids were carrying around an unprecedented number of writing instruments.

At first, Hannah was flattered. She had started a trend. But she soon realized that the weird number of pencils was the one thing that had set her apart from her classmates. It had made her unique. Now she was just like everyone else. She withdrew into her thoughts and roamed the hallways gloomily for several weeks.

Then one day shortly before Junior Prom, Hannah left the school supply kiosk next to the gym with her arms full of Pink Pearls. She was sure no one had seen her. Later that day, while walking to her Algebra class with a spring in her step, she overheard Chelsea say, “There goes that girl with the bizarre number of erasers!”

Sexy White Chocolate

You make me smile,
You make me laugh,
You make me eggs,
Sexy white chocolate.

Your eyes are brown,
Your hands are small,
Your toes are cold,
Sexy white chocolate.

My eyes are green,
My hands are big,
My toes are warm,
Sexy white chocolate.

I love your smile,
I love your laugh,
I love your eggs,
Sexy white chocolate.