Travels With Sadie 11: Teamwork

13 Monday Oct 2025

Posted by petersironwood in pets, psychology, Sadie

Tags

dogs, fiction, GoldenDoodle, life, pets, politics, short story, truth

Typically, I take Sadie for a walk in the morning and again in the evening. Last evening, Sadie went over to an aloe plant on one of our usual routes and stared at it. Then, she tried to stick her nose in it. I should mention that both edges of each aloe leaf have a row of fairly sharp thorns.

(This is the aloe plant in question but I took the picture this morning in full daylight.)

She backed out and stuck her nose into another spot. I went over and saw that there were two tennis balls stuck near the very center of the aloe plant. I knew from her orientation and from her previous behavior that she was after what we call “The Special Ball.” Instead of being a monotone yellow/green, “Special Balls” have two colors. They are also slightly softer. I also have reason to believe that Sadie can smell the difference.

The tennis club uses them for beginners under the theory they are easier to learn with. Being somewhat of a doubting Thomas, I wonder whether there is any empirical evidence of that. Anyway, I hypothesize that Sadie prefers them because they are chewier. It’s also possible that she prefers the smell/taste of them. They also provide a focus for our play.

For instance, if we have three “normal” tennis balls and one “Special Ball,” Sadie likes to keep the “Special Ball” in her mouth and chase after and “corral” the other balls with her body, head, and paws rather than catching them in her mouth. Alternatively, she drops the “Special Ball” and I pick up all four and throw them one at a time for her. I save the “Special Ball” till last. In this version, Sadie will catch each ball in turn and then immediately drop them—until the last throw. She likes to “keep” the “Special Ball” for a time.

Anyway, on the night in question, I told Sadie I would try to get the “Special Ball” for her. She backed off and I tried to thread my hand in between the close-growing thorny leaves to retrieve the ball. Sadie couldn’t safely reach the ball with her snout, but I couldn’t safely reach it with my hand either.

I told Sadie that I would look for a stick to use as a tool. You may think she has no idea what that means, but I have used the word “tool” in conjunction with many instances of trying to reach something I can’t otherwise get. I’ve applied the term to the tennis racquet, the grabber, a long stick, a rake, a back-scratcher, a crutch, and a net for the pool. In each of these cases, the “tool” has been used to get an otherwise hard to reach tennis ball.

On a few occasions, I’ve used the word “tool” in other contexts; for instance, I’ve cautioned both dogs to stay away from the stove top and told them I don’t touch it directly because it’s hot and would hurt me. That’s why, I explain, I use a spatula. I’ve also applied the word “tool” to oven mitts and to knives for cutting.

I have no idea how general her understanding of “tool” is, or whether, indeed, she has any at all. But she consistently backs off trying to reach an out of reach tennis ball when I tell her I will reach it with a tool. And she does that in many contexts. Tonight, she seemed to wait while I looked for a stick. The dusky light fooled my eyes into thinking I had spied a stout stick but closer examination proved it to be merely a holy semi-cylinder of Eucalyptus bark, far too flimsy for the job. I reported on all this ideation to Sadie as it occurred.

In the semi-dark, this looked like a sturdy stick, but alas, no.

Then, I saw a slender bamboo pole. I doubted it was up to the task, but I gave it a try. Unlike most “store-bought” tools like a hammer or machete, I was quite aware that even pushing a tennis ball was going to be pushing this thin pole to its limits. I gave it a try. I gently rolled the ball from one of the center most leaves onto a more peripheral one and repeated this ploy again. Now, Sadie could see that the ball was within her grasp and she snatched it with her teeth. She carried it for a time in her mouth but then I told her I could carry it in my pocket and that I would give it to her when we got home. How much of my assurance she understood from words, from tone, and from body language I have no way of knowing, but she relented and let me store the ball in my pocket till we got home. Of course, I gave it to her once we got inside.

On the walk back, I told her that we were a team and that working together to get something done was called “teamwork.” I have long been in the habit of recounting the highlights of our morning and evening walks to Wendy. I described our little adventure and again used the word “teamwork.”

Does Sadie understand the word “teamwork”? Probably not. Not yet, at least. But if she hears it in enough different contexts, I think her brain will begin to operate appropriately, at least statistically (somewhat like ChatGPT). She seems to understand a lot more than she did when she was one or two years old.

I speak to her much as I would to another person, but I slightly exaggerate as I might if I were on a stage. I also try to use the same terms. For example, I sometimes tell her: “I am going to work on my computer for a while now.” With a person, I might sometimes say, “Now, I’m going to use my laptop” or “I have to get on the MAC now.” With Sadie, I try to use the same wording and intonation each time.

If I want her to accommodate me, I need to accommodate her.

Teamwork.

——————

Author Page on Amazon

A Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Travels with Sadie 10

Turing’s Nightmares: Ceci n’est pas une pipe.

06 Monday Oct 2025

Posted by petersironwood in AI, family, fiction, story, The Singularity, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

AI, Artificial Intelligence, cognitive computing, fiction, short story, the singularity, Turing, utopia, writing

“RUReady, Pearl?” asked her dad, Herb, a smile forming sardonically as the car windows opaqued and then began the three edutainment programs.

“Sure, I guess. I hope I like Dartmouth better than Asimov State. That was the pits.”

“It’s probably not the pits, but maybe…Dartmouth.”

These days, Herb kept his verbiage curt while his daughter stared and listened in her bubble within the car.

“Dad, why did we have to bring the twerp along? He’s just going to be in the way.”

Herb sighed. “I want your brother to see these places too while we still have enough travel credits to go physically.”

The twerp, aka Quillian, piped up, “Just because you’re the oldest, Pearl…”

Herb cut in quickly, “OK, enough! This is going to be a long drive, so let’s keep it pleasant.”

The car swerved suddenly to avoid a falling bike.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Geez, Brooks, be careful!”

Brooks, the car, laughed gently and said, “Sorry, Sir, I was being careful. Not sure why the Rummelnet still allows humans some of their hobbies, but it’s not for me to say. By the way, ETA for Dartmouth is ten minutes.”

“Why so long, Brooks?” inquired Herb.

“Congestion in Baltimore. Sir, I can go over or around, but it will take even longer, and use more fuel credits.”

“No, no, straight and steady. So, when I went to college, Pearl, you know, we only had one personal computer…”

“…to study on and it wasn’t very powerful and there were only a few intelligent tutoring systems and people had to worry about getting a job after graduation and people got drunk and stoned. LOL, Dad. You’ve only told me a million times.”

“And me,” Quillian piped up. “Dad, you do know they teach us history too, right?”

“Yes, Quillian, but it isn’t the same as being there. I thought you might like a little first hand look.”

Pearl shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Yes, thanks Dad. The thing is, we do get to experience it first hand. Between first-person games, enhanced ultra-high def videos and simulations, I feel like I lived through the first half of the twenty first century. And for that matter, the twentieth and the nineteenth, and…well, you do the math.”

Quillian again piped up, “You’re so smart, Pearl, I don’t even know why you need or want to go to college. Makes zero sense. Right, Brooks?”

“Of course, Master Quillian, I’m not qualified to answer that, but the consensus answer from the Michie-meisters sides with you. On the other hand, if that’s what Brooks wants, no harm.”

“What I want? Hah! I want to be a Hollywood star, of course. But dear mom and dad won’t let me. And when I win my first Oscar, you can bet I will let the world know too.”

“Pearl, when you turn ten, you can make your own decisions, but for now, you have to trust us to make decisions for you.”

“Why should I Dad? You heard Brooks. He said the Michie-meisters find no reasons for me to go to college. What is the point?”

Herb sighed. “How can I make you see. There’s a difference between really being someplace and just being in a simulation of someplace.”

Pearl repeated and exaggerated her dad’s sigh, “And how can I make you see that it’s a difference that makes no difference. Right, Brooks?”

Brooks answered in those mellow reasoned tones, “Perhaps Pearl, it makes a difference somehow to your dad. He was born, after all, in another century. Anyway, here we are.”

Brooks turned off the entertainment vids and slid back the doors. There appeared before them a vast expanse of lawn, tall trees, and several classic buildings from the Dartmouth campus. The trio of humans stepped out onto the grass and began walking over to the moving sidewalk. Right before stepping on, Herb stooped down and picked up something from the ground. “What the…?”

Quillian piped up: “Oh, great dad. Picking up old bandaids now? Is that your new hobby?”

“Kids. This is the same bandaid that fell off my hand in Miami when I loaded our travel bag into the back seat. Do you understand? It’s the same one.”

The kids shrugged in unison. Only Pearl spoke, “Whatever. I don’t know why you still use those ancient dirty things anyway.”

Herb blinked and spoke very deliberatively. “But it — is — the — same — one. Miami. Hanover.”

The kids just shook their heads as they stepped onto the moving sidewalk and the image of the Dartmouth campus loomed ever larger in their sight.

Author Page on Amazon

Turing’s Nightmares

A Horror Story

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Destroying Natural Intelligence

Welcome, Singularity

The Invisibility Cloak of Habit

Organizing the Doltzville Library

Naughty Knots

All that Glitters

Grammar, AI, and Truthiness

The Con Man’s Con

The Agony of The Feet

23 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, essay, politics

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, nature, politics, short story, Travel, truth, USA, writing

Apparently, everyone else knew I was supposed to go head first.

The instructions, however, were far from clear.

And, although I didn’t know much, four billion years of evolution had taught me to take a few things rather seriously—such as: “Gravity is real!” And: “Don’t dive hard onto something head first.” So, the vague instruction to come out head first made no sense.

I considered whether feet first seemed a sensible option. I decided “yes” but only for someone with a well-developed set of quads and a months of practice in balancing. Otherwise, a being such as myself would simply topple over and smash their head anyway.

Thinking about it as best I could, coming out butt first seemed by far the most sensible way to enter this world.

The only problem was that I didn’t fit that way. So—I was at odds with authority figures such as my mother and her doctors before I was even born.

After 72 hours of labor, I finally let them win that argument and came out head first.

All of us could have been saved a lot of time and effort had the instructions been clearer to start with.

Is that why I ended up with a career in “Human-Computer Interaction” AKA “Human Factors” AKA “User Experience”?

Probably not.

More likely, it has something to do with the agony of the feet.

I inherited “flat feet” and that has been something of a life-long inconvenience. For example, beneath my ankle is another bone that sticks out much more than it does for other people. That bone often rubs against the side of my shoes and boots and that causes a source of both bruises and blisters. The lack of a working arch also contributes to my never being able to jump very well. In high school, when I was very fit, I was capable of jumping up high enough to touch the bottom of a basketball net. On my best days.

I never got close to being able to jump and touch the rim, let alone being able to dunk the ball.

Nonetheless, I spent many years of enjoyment while on my feet—playing basketball, tennis, golf, table tennis, football, baseball, softball, racquetball, running, and walking. Running speed was never a strong point but I do have good eye-hand coordination and know how to concentrate and adjust my play to the opponent(s). As I sometimes like to say, I’be been violating expectations since 1945. I’ve enjoyed every sport I’ve ever tried. I’ve also seen many people with much more natural talent than I have enjoy sports less. That’s one reason I wrote “The Winning Weekend Warrior” which discusses the “mental game”; that is, “Sports Psychology.”

http://tinyurl.com/ng2heq3

I’ve also discovered some things about mitigating the negative impact of the feet I was born with.

For one thing, I never buy shoes without trying them on.

Another surprise is that all hard surfaces are not equally damaging. A basketball floor, a dirt track, an asphalt road, concrete, and steel all seem pretty damned hard. But it turns out that running on concrete sidewalks is much harder on my arches (and shins) than running on asphalt.
It also turns out that standing still for a half hour is harder on my arches than is walking for an hour.

I’ve learned a number of obvious things like: losing weight helps a lot! Strengthening the legs helps. Having good supportive shoes helps. Wearing cushy sox helps. Avoid (when possible) walking on stone, concrete, or metal.

I’ve tried a number of supplements too. For me, the ones that seem to help slightly are: turmeric, ginger, and sour cherries. I find that B12 seems to worsen joint pain. Elevation seems to help and so does ice. Of course, the trade-off is that ice and elevation are typically things that limit mobility.

I also use acetaminophen. I also use arnica gel which seems to help.

If there’s a real “solution” though, I haven’t found it. I was born with a bad design.

Everyone is.

Life is not, never was, and never will be about a “perfect design.” The environment keeps changing and organisms who adapt to the environment are always changing. That happens at the cellular level, the learning/behavioral level, and on a longer time scale, at the evolutionary level.

Not only that: change begets change. If, in response to one change in the environment, you make one adjustment, you might cause another problem. It’s the same with the design of physical artifacts, software systems, user interfaces, social systems, games, strategies, tactics, poetry, stories…

One can use knowledge to shrink a design space. Of course, there is always the chance that by shrinking the space, you are deleting the part of the space that has the very best designs. It took evolution billions of years to create multicellular organisms. Our own human bodies have a large variety of different types of cells. Within many of those types there are sub-types and sub-sub types.

Even within a sub-sub type, no two cells are precisely identical. They have different histories and they have different environments.

The feet that are “bad” are only “bad” in a certain set of circumstances. I’m sure that there’s some circumstance in which it’s better to have flat feet and pronated ankles. For example, it’s probably only a matter of time before there’s a top-rated “reality TV” show dedicated to the implications of odd body parts. That would be a show I would get to try out for because of my feet.

Recently, I got hearing aids. That’s a whole different story for another time, but they fit quite snugly and comfortably behind my ears. But we’ve all seen people who look like Alfred E. Newman from Mad Magazine. What do they do about hearing aids? Do they need a different type? Do they tape them behind their ears? What would be the best genre for the show about unusual feet or ears? Doctor Odds? Opera? Shure-Vivor? America’s Got Metatarsals?

Needless to say, we would have to make it extremely competitive and a little bit cruel. Maybe people with broken feet could run a race and the winner would live for another week and face a greater challenge the following week. The whole thing would be set in someplace chosen to be especially challenging for those with sore feet; e.g., uneven cobblestones, slippery concrete, on fallen tree trunks. Gorse, of course. Background music would be composed to add to the drama. Or, if the budget doesn’t permit human composers, we could ask an AI system to copy some Puccini or Bizet and change it just enough not be sued for copyright infringement.

The formula importunes for interviews. They need to be short, shallow, but filled with rage or tears. “So John, when did you first learn that your feet were…what is the PC term here?…Different? Weird? Horrific?” Before each competition, the contestants would be introduced with fireworks and flashing lights along with extremely loud and echoing words of exaggeration. We should get the same kind of introduction once reserved only for “Professional Wrestling” but now common in introducing contestants in Golf and Tennis. Why not insanely dramatic foot-offs in “America’s Got Metatarsals!”

It might be a bit expensive, but we can always cut costs to the bone. And then, just keep cutting!Who even needs real contestants? They can all be CGI. That, in turn, means there’s no need to limit contestants to the kinds of variations that actually occur. Flat feet? Okay. We’ve all heard about that. But how about flatiron feet? Elephant feet? Eagle feet! Grizzly bear paws! Duck-billed platypus feet! Amoebic pseudopods! Insect legs with pollen sacs!

Why stop there? Mice with elephant ears! Elephants with mouse ears! Whales stalking their prey on the Savannah, cleverly camouflaged in the tall yellow grass!Tigers leaping on Great White Sharks! It’s no more out of place than putting a thoughtless human being in a safari hunt And, the best part of CGI players is that we can interview them regardless of species and regardless of their native language. At long last, we can entertain ourselves to death while the actual ecosystem around us is being destroyed by the greediest members of the greediest species who ever existed.

What happens when greed exceeds needs and vital functions of society are left to the unfit, untrained, uncaring, uncouth, criminals? They’ll be about as effective as the Whales of the Serengeti and the Elephant-Eared Mice of Siberia.

Or, me trying to dunk a basketball.

————-

The Orange Man

At Least he’s Our Monster

Essays on America: The Game

Siren Song

The Ailing King of Agitate

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Poker Chip

Peace

Imagine all the People

Dance of Billions

Where do you draw the line?

Trumpism is a New Religion

Destroying Government Effectiveness

The First Ring of Empathy

Travels with Sadie

The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way

Author page on Amazon

A Day at the HR Department

18 Tuesday Feb 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, fiction

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, politics, short story, truth, USA

Large eucalyptus trees in the early morning fog

I worked in Corporate America for many decades. Something that always brought a smile to my face were conversations like this snippet of dialog.

“Hey, I know we’re supposed to meet at 9 am but I need to drop by HR and discuss something for a couple minutes.”

A slightly more realistic but still insanely optimistic version which I also heard numerous times:
“Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes. I just need to deal with an HR issue.”

The people who made these statements were not irresponsible. Nor were they stupid or uneducated. These were generally people with Ph.D.’s who had also worked in corporate America for years. They weren’t newbies by any means. How could their time estimates be so completely absurd? I suspect that part of the answer was that they had a very simple representation of both the problem and the solution in their head. Sometimes, a very complex problem can be posed quite simply.

The “Four Color Theorem” comes to mind. This is a major reason I decided not to pursue a degree in mathematics. Once I heard the problem, I was immediately convinced I could solve it. Then, I couldn’t sleep for about three days because I couldn’t “turn off” thinking about the problem. Finally, my body took over for awhile.

If even straightforward mathematic problems can be simply stated but difficult to solve, it might seem obvious that the same can be said for most issues involving people and organizations. That’s not to say people won’t try a seemingly simple solution.

For a time, I worked as a “Knowledge Management Consultant” at IBM. On one occasion, we visited a well-known and successful pharmaceutical company. They wanted us to design a computer system that would make their chemists share information more readily across their organizational silos. They wouldn’t change the organization. They wouldn’t provide any changes to motivate people to share. They wouldn’t give any time or space for people to share. But they were convinced that we could simply plunk down a computer system and — voila! — knowledge would be shared across the silos! Talk about a miracle drug!

Like other organizational functions, the people in HR varied considerably in their skills and ethical standards. I met some very good people in HR. And, sad to say, I also met some who were not so good. But I never met any as inept as the one in this purely fictional story.

Dealing With The Problem Child

Mr. Low-Cee belched loudly. He leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers, and put his feet up on the table. He felt a slight tickle in his amygdala. He had read somewhere that showing the bottoms of your shoes to someone from an Arab country was disrespectful. He scratched the tickle away with the stick of his well-used rationalization, Well, hell. Ishaaq isn’t really in an Arab country, is he? He’s right here in the God-Damned US of A and I’m doing him a favor anyway.

“So, Ishaaq, tell me more about this person you refer to as your ‘Problem Child.’ I’m sure we can find a spot for him somewhere. What are his qualifications, his background, his accomplishments?”

Ishaaq frowned. He pursed his lips. “That’s just it, Mr. Low-Cee. He doesn’t have any accomplishments in the usual sense of the word. He did manage to avoid the draft on numerous occasions. He managed to lose a ton of money that he inherited from his dad. He’s certainly famous. He’s sexually assaulted a lot of women. He’s cheated on his taxes and he ran a fake university and he ran a fake charity for kids with cancer. He managed to drive a casino into the ground financially and, as you may know, that’s not easy to do. They are legally set up with games designed to insure that the House wins on average.”

Mr. Low-Cee belched again. He vaguely wondered whether he was allergic to blueberry muffins and whether anyone was allergic to blueberries. He thought: Lots of people are allergic to strawberries. But then, why not blueberries? Interesting. “So, Ishaaq, I’m curious. Have you ever heard of anyone being allergic to blueberries?”

Ishaaq blinked a few times. “You mean…is our ‘Problem Child’ allergic to blueberries? I have idea. What does that…does it matter?”

Mr. Low-Cee shook his head vigorously. “No, no. Never mind. Was this so-called ‘Problem Child’ a good student?”

Ishaaq sighed. “I really have no idea. He says he was but he won’t share any of his official records. I don’t see how he could have been. But who knows? He likes to talk a lot. That’s for sure. He doesn’t always make sense, but he makes a lot of faces when he talks and he shouts a lot. Maybe a clown?”

“That’s an idea. Any other special qualifications? Anything?”

Ishaaq winced. “Well, he is a felon. So there’s that.”

“A convicted felon and a serial rapist. Challenging. Challenging.” Mr. Low-Cee hammered himself in the sternum and let out the largest belch so far. “Ah! Now, I feel better! And, I had a thought! How about a position as Figurehead? He sounds perfect for that! I’ll tell you why it occurred to me. Just this morning, I had a surprise call from none other than Vlademort Putrid. He wanted to talk about installing Elong Muskrat as POTUS. Muskrat has the perfect qualifications. He’s run a couple major companies into the ground and, like ‘Problem Child’ avoided paying taxes and lied about test results. Elong wants to come in like gangbusters and steal all the information and money from America and destroy the country for Valdemort, but Elong has no interest in kissing babies, traveling to disaster areas, etc. Maybe your guy would be just right for that? I’m just spitballing here, but it might be a good fit. What do you think, Mohammed?”

Ishaaq tilted his head. “Mohammed?” He turned around to see whether there was someone else in the room. He turned back and frowned. “I’m Ishaaq, not Mohammed.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Ishaaq. Ask your guy whether he’s okay with…hey! I had another brainstorm. Don’t even tell him that he’s applying for Figurehead. He doesn’t sound like a detail-oriented guy. Just tell him we want him to be POTUS! Elong, you, me, and Vlademort will know he’s a Figurehead, but why tell anyone else? What do you think, Isaac?”

———————

Essays on America: The Game

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie

What About the Butter Dish?

Corn on the Cob

The Self-Made Man

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Poker Chips

The First Ring of Empathy

Tools of Thought

A Pattern Language for Collaboration

The Dance of Billions

The Four Color Theorem

As Gold as it Gets

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 30 Comments

Tags

fantasy, fiction, karma, short story, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!” Nikki screamed.

Adam looked about him and wondered aloud: “Where the hell…?” He shivered from the cold. The fallen leaves were powdered with snow. He heard no-one. Saw no-one. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no-one.

A faint path led to a briar bush and beyond that a faded, mottled blue and teal door stared out from a stone wall. Apart from that, the woods seemed to stretch forever in all directions. Adam mumbled, “I must be in some weird-ass dream. Whatever.”

After convincing himself it had to be a dream, he found himself acting more bravely. He strode up to the door and pulled the knocker up and let it fall upon the heavy door. Three times he did this, not really expecting any result, but what the hell. It was something to do, he reasoned.

Adam jerked back as the door swung open. Inside, a huge room opened up. It was filled with light. He looked down at his well-polished rattlesnake boots. They gleamed more brightly than ever before. He squinted. He mumbled, “This is definitely the weirdest dream I have ever had.”

Adam found a single chair. He sat. Before him, a hazy golden figure loomed.

“Hello, Adam.”

Oh, my God! Adam had never heard such a resonant voice. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Generally, Adam considered himself to have been blessed with the gift of gab. But now, he was speechless.

“It’s all right, Adam. Everyone is taken aback at first. I’m St. Peter.”

“What? The St. Peter? Like…like, I’m in heaven?”

“Well, let’s not jump the gun, Adam. You and I need to have a bit of a chat first. Before we choose your next chapter.”

Then, just like, St. Peter popped the most dreaded question of every job interview: “So, tell me about yourself.”

“St. Peter, I’m happy to meet you! I’m Adam. Adam Smith.” Adam smiled his most winning grin here. “Not the invisible hand guy, but my parents named me after him. And, indeed, Sir, or Saint, I am indeed a businessman. I did quite well. Took care of my bit…my bit of the business which was management quite well. Last year I was voted best dressed pim…pimple-free, and handsomest self-starter in all of LA. City of Angles! I should be here! I’m rich. I’m powerful in my own way. Know what I’m saying. Given your name and all that, I don’t know whether you’re interested — you got the whole ‘Saint’ thing going but your name is ‘Peter’ so — but anyway, if you are interested, I could fix you up real good if you know what I mean. I know you get a lot of applications for heaven and you can only take so many, but I’m a self-starter. Right? And I can help out. What do you say? Heaven. Okay?” Now, Adam smiled an even bigger grin. His cheeks hurt.

St. Peter asked, “And what is your idea of heaven, Adam?”

“Well, easy! Kind of like on earth, but better. Everything gold! Unlimited wealth! Everything gold! No cops! What say? Am I in like Flynn?”

St. Peter, and the bright room, and the door Adam entered all disappeared. In its place, Adam found himself on a street of golden mansions! He looked to his left — elegant mansions as far as he could see. He looked to his right — elegant mansions as far as he could see. Ahead of him was a well-appointed gold mansion with his name emblazoned on a huge sign. He walked up and sure enough, the front door opened at his touch. Inside, he feasted his orbs on the sight of gold floors, gold walls, gold furniture, and gold ceilings. His jaw literally dropped. “Now, this is more like it!”

Adam sat in a golden chair. He picked up the remote, also gold, and turned on the TV, also gold. It showed pictures of golden mansions. On every channel. “Wow! This place is cool! What do you think, now, Dad? Thought I’d never amount to anything. Hah! Here I am in heaven! Hear that, old man! I’m in fricking heaven!. A heaven of gold!”

The next morning, Adam grew bored. And hungry. In his beautiful golden kitchen, beautiful golden dinnerware sparkled in golden drawers. No food though. It wasn’t clear exactly how this works, thought Adam. That’s all right. I’ll figure it out. He went out the front door and turned right; walked up the sidewalk to his neighbor’s front door and knocked. No answer. He peered in through an unfrosted window and saw that his neighbor’s interior was solid gold like his.

“No-one home, I guess” said Adam to no-one in particular. As he walked back out toward the street, he noticed for the first time that his neighbor’s mailbox matched his precisely. He walked over to at least find out what his neighbor’s name was.

He read the name: ‘Adam Smith’. “What the hell?” said Adam.

Then, he noticed that the address was also the same.

666

Adam ran down the street, knocking on every door.

No-one answered.

Adam looked at every mailbox.

They all said the same thing: “Adam Smith, 666 Streets of Gold.”

He screamed. To no-one in particular, “What kind of heaven is this?!”

He sat in a lump on one of the identical porches. He looked at his lap. He turned over his hands and noticed that scrapes and bruises decorated his white knuckles with red and blue.

Adam said, to no-one in particular, “I’ll just keep knocking on every door till I find someone.”

In high school, Adam had not paid much attention in any of his classes, but math class he especially despised. He had no idea what the hell the teacher had been talking about when she started talking about infinity. It seemed like an abstraction with no meaning whatsoever in the world of Ghetin High School.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Now, however, Adam would have plenty of time to discover the true meaning of infinity.

Karma: A Horror Story

Who Speaks for the Dead?

Plans for us; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head into a Brick Wall Doesn’t Make you a Hero

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling!

18 Monday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

America, Democracy, environment, fiction, school, short story, sociopath, sociopathic, truth, tyranny

Photo by Pragyan Bezbaruah on Pexels.com

[NOTE: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to characters alive or dead is purely coincidental.]

“Children, let’s all clap our hands together. We want to congratulate Marcy for winning a Blue Ribbon for winning the Spelling Bee.”

Donnie rolled his eyes. He had never liked Marcy. Her skin was dark, for one thing. Not as dark as a N——- but too dark to be a real person. Maybe she was “Port of a Rico” or something. Who cares, thought Donnie. Stupid spelling bee anyway.

3FD2750C-F9ED-46B3-9197-5563412C5E21_1_105_c

The teacher, Miss Galore, noticed that while most of the kids in her third grade class were clapping, Donnie was grinding his teeth and pounding the table and rolling his eyes.

“Is everything all right, Donnie? You seem upset.”

Donnie made himself smile pleasantly. “Oh, I’m fine, Miss Galore. Thanks for asking. I’m so pleased as punch for Marcy. What could be better than winning a Blue Ribbon for a Spelling Bee?”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re okay. But since you brought it up, there is another contest coming up. This month will be a Science Fair. Let me see the hands. How many of you would like to enter the Science Fair?”

Everyone’s hand shot up, even Donnie’s.

Then, the bell rang. But Miss Galore ran a tight ship. The children knew that even though school was basically over when the bell rang, it would be impolite to leave until they were dismissed by Miss Galore.

“All right, class. I’ll tell you more about the Science Fair tomorrow. For now, Class Dismissed.”

The kids all began chattering with their friends, and walking out toward the place were parents were lined up in their air conditioned cars.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Donnie grabbed his books and walked over to Marcy. “Hi, Marcy! That’s really swell that you won the Spelling Bee! That Blue Ribbon looks very cool! Can I see it?”

Marcy didn’t really trust Donnie, but his voice sounded sweet, so she handed him the ribbon.

Donnie’s teeny hand shot out like a striking snake and he snatched the ribbon. He turned and dashed out of the room as fast as he could. He skidded around the corner and slapped into the door to the boy’s bathroom. He dashed over to the nearest stall, threw the ribbon into the toilet, and closed the stall door. Then, he flushed the toilet. He gathered his books back up, and opened the stall door slowly. He peered out. Only one other boy, Billy, was in the bathroom. Most of the kids were outside lining up to get picked up by their parents or chauffeurs, he thought. Billy, like an idiot, thought Donnie, is looking down at his thingie to make sure he doesn’t pee on the floor. Who gives a damn? So, Donnie pushed open the door to the boy’s bathroom. On the far side of the hall, only about ten feet away, Miss Galore and Marcy were both staring at him.

Marcy’s bottom lip was trembling and there were tears on her cheeks. A big smile lit up Donnie’s face. That won’t do. He pushed his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to create a look of concern on his face instead. He had practiced for hours in front of a mirror, so that his look of concern was remarkably genuine looking. Now, he needed the voice to match.

“What’s wrong, Miss Galore? You look troubled.”

Miss Galore took a few steps closer. “Marcy tells me that you took her Blue Ribbon.”

“Oh, yes, I did look at it. It’s wonderful. You should feel very proud, Marcy!”

Marcy tried to make her voice sound strong, but at that, she failed. “You took my ribbon though! Give it back! I didn’t even get to show my Mom and Dad yet!”

Donnie looked over. She was on the brink of squirting out more tears. Sort of like peeing on your own face, when you thought about it. I’ll never do that. What an idiot she was. If she didn’t want me to take her ribbon, why hand it to me, he asked himself. Stupid bitch deserved to lose her ribbon.

“Miss Galore, I did look at Marcy’s ribbon for a moment. I gave it right back to her. What’s wrong? Did you lose it, Marcy?”

“NO! I didn’t lose it! You took it!”

“Oh, Marcy, I’m so sorry you lost it. We all lose things some times. As I’m sure Miss Galore will tell you — you have to be careful not to lose things —- especially things you like a lot.”

Marcy was now screaming: “YOU TOOK IT! GIVE IT BACK! IT’S MINE!”

Miss Galore noticed more kids were gathering round to see what was causing the commotion. She said calmly, “Donnie, can you please give me the ribbon?”

Donnie looked affronted. “Oh, I don’t have it. I just had it for maybe — one minute — not even a minute — maybe fifteen seconds. And then, I handed it right back.”

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c

Marcy held back her tears, but barely. “Why did you take it in the bathroom?”

Donnie put a look of puzzlement on his face. “Why did I go to the bathroom? I had to use the toilet, Marcy. Isn’t that why you go to the bathroom too?”

Now, Miss Galore looked back and forth between the two children. Donnie didn’t look upset at all. But Marcy certainly did. She wondered whether Marcy could have simply misplaced it. “Do you think it might still be back in the classroom, Marcy? Maybe we should take a look?”

“NO!” Marcy screamed. “I didn’t lose it. Donnie asked if he could see it and then he snatched and he ran out of the room and into the boy’s bathroom. I don’t have it. He has it.” She pointed at Donnie.

“Well, I don’t have it. I will swear on a whole stack of Bibles. You can search me. Search me good. I don’t have your blue ribbon Marcy. I’m sorry you’re upset. I know it makes me angry too when I lose things. But you shouldn’t go blaming other kids when you lose something.”

“ARGH!” said Marcy. “I did not lose it! You took it! Make him empty his pockets, Miss Galore. I know he has it!”

Miss Galore frowned. She couldn’t really do a thorough search of him. Maybe she could get one of the boy counselor’s to do it. She glanced around. Luckily, the teachers still stood out among the students. “Oh, Mr. Graham! Mr. Graham! Can you please come here a moment?”

Miss Galore explained the situation quickly. Mr. Graham frowned. “I’m not doing a strip search of the boy! How about this: write a note and ask the parents to search him when he gets home. Donnie, turn your pockets out.”

“But Mr. Graham, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon. I looked at it. It’s — I have to tell you, it doesn’t look that nice up close. Her little medal isn’t even real gold. I don’t have anything bad in my pockets.”

“Donnie. Do it now! Turn your pockets out,” said Mr. Graham who could pretend to be genuinely outraged over nothing and he genuinely didn’t like back-talk from students.

Donnie shook his head and appeared very reluctant, but he turned out all four pants pockets Except for a pack of Kleenex, and what appeared to be the wings of a dragonfly, his pants pockets were empty. Mr Graham nodded. “Thank you, Donnie. Hand me your backpack.”

Donnie shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Graham, my driver, Pom-Pom is going to be mad that I’m so late. It’s just books mostly.” He handed the backpack to Mr. Graham who searched the inside and turned each book upside down to see whether there was a ribbon hidden between the pages. He turned to Miss Galore. “Nothing.”

“You see?” said Donnie. “I told you I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon! She’s such a liar! She probably cheated to win the ribbon in the first place!”

Miss Galore wanted this to be over. “Okay. Okay. You two get over here. I want you to apologize and shake hands. Marcy, you apologize for accusing Donnie. And Donnie, you apologize for … not making sure that when you handed the ribbon back to Marcy, that she didn’t drop it. I don’t know. Anyway, just shake hands and I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’m sure your ribbon will turn up, Marcy.”

Photo by Designecologist on Pexels.com

——————————-

That evening at dinner, when he had eaten his fill and Fred Senior seemed to be in a reasonably decent mood, and not yet drunk, Donnie casually said, “Say, Sir, did you know that there are N——-s at my school?”

Fred Senior, sputtered through his mashed potatoes. “WHAT? Are you sure?”

Donnie looked at the ceiling and pretended to think. “No, but I think so. She might only be half N——. I don’t really know. She has dark skin though. I never paid much attention but today she told a lie to try to get me in trouble at school.”

“What the F*** are N****s doing at your school? I’ll talk to the Principal tomorrow and get this straightened out. Are they teaching you kids anything useful at that school?”

Fred Junior said, “Yes, Father. I am learning algebra. That’s useful.”

Fred Senior smirked and snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it, but the main thing is you’ll get into a good college.”

Donnie added, “I’m going to win a Blue Ribbon in the Science Fair. I’ll find out more about it tomorrow.”

Fred shook his head. “Christ! What rot. Anyway, how about desert?”

Mary brought over a large dish and placed it proudly into the middle of the table. In it were little scoops of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew. There were slices of apple and banana as well as some ripe strawberries all arranged quite artistically to Mary’s eye.

Fred Senior grimaced and shouted, “What the F### is that? Seriously, Mary, have you gone nuts? I asked for desert! Not a f###ing salad!”

Mary swallowed hard. The A/C was out. It was hot as hell on this day in mid May. She had remembered that fruits were so much better for you than pies, cakes, and cookies. She thought maybe it would nice to have a cool fruit salad on a warm and sultry night. She had thought. That was her problem. She should never think. She should just do whatever Fred tells her too. Her mind raced. What could she get to assuage her husband quickly.

Fred Senior glared at her. He had stopped yelling though, thought Mary. His voice instead had that soft, sweet, syrupy sound that it made…whenever things were going to go terribly badly for her.

Fred Senior did indeed speak in a soft, controlled voice. “Children. Go upstairs now and do your homework. I need to have a little chat with your Mother. You know. Big People stuff. You wouldn’t be interested. Boring really. So upstairs. Go on. Up. Now.”

The children pushed their chairs back and looked straight down at the ground. They had been taught that, even a glance at each other or at Mom or Dad could — would — be considered as a reproach to their Father. So, they all tip-toed up to bed and immersed themselves in a book; they learned that if they did it well enough, they could ignore the noises — whatever they were — that would be coming from the kitchen and dining room.

All, but Donnie, that is. His procedure, was to go up with the other kids and then sneak back down and watch. It was one of the biggest risks he ever took in his entire life. But he couldn’t help himself. He loved the way Daddy made Mommy so weak and pathetic. It made his Daddy so much bigger and stronger and manlier. He would be that way some day. He would be just like Daddy! And, next week, I’ll win a Blue Ribbon in Science!

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

————————————————————-

True Believer

14 Thursday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

ethics, fiction, mystery, preacher, religion, short story

Photo by Dominika Gregušová on Pexels.com

“Walllll,” began Grandpa; as he always did, with a long pause and a sucking of false teeth as he held that final labial consonant, “yep, there marched time, quicker than you believe, conceive…” (He had that oh-so-annoying habit: rhyming terminal words). The rain pitter-pattered on the canvas of the huge gray tent. Alabama’s like that: sunny days; drenching night-ways.

He gobbled another greedy shot of Jack Daniels. Spat. Rolled eyes to skies. (Oh, Lord, not me too.)

“…when Earth hung lower on firmament’s edge, and all of us’ns believed in the Testament. AMEN!”

His glory days as child wonder preacher got juiced up with juice. Even in those glory days, that sad, dark, wooden church held a few dozen and that was on special occasions. But it didn’t matter. Because in his mind, he was preachering before the congregation of a magnificent cathedral if not God’s own thrown.

“A-MEN!” he repeated, as though this one AMEN was the one that would put us over the top and headed toward the Promised Land. He said ‘Amen’ as though his life depended on it, and perhaps he really thought it did.

I could see Light, Holy Light, rekindle in his eyes. “We BELIEVED! And, God so loved the World of Alabama that He gave his only begotten Son, who won, the One thing that is Done. AMEN!”

Well, he foamed in fine form for this night, I thought, shaking my hanging head slowly, perhaps, showily.

“And, Oh, Dearest God, what have you revealed, concealed from your flock, your true stock?”

The crowd began to sway and have its say, “AMEN!” came the shout above the rain, explode the brain.

“The Ghost, the HOOOOOOOLY Ghost…will enter you and make Him Yours and He makes you His. Yeah! It’s the Way! Can I hear you say Yeah!?”

Shouts all around. Surrounded in sound, I found myself hoping for a Sign, a Line, a Find of Mind. I die. I see the Lie, but cannot fathom Why. Oh, Why?

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c Author Page on Amazon

If Only: short mystery about a chance meeting on Tower Bridge around 1900.

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man.

A Mere House of Mirror

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bias, Carnival, COVID19, empathy, fiction, Fun House, insight, Mirrors, prejudice, racism, relationships, religion, short story, truth

Chapter One: Mere Mirror

809B3BC6-E2BA-46A2-9FA1-4C782EE55D27_4_5005_c

The hot, humid, cloudless August day offered not the slightest breeze of comfort. The girls had finished their snow cones only three minutes ago, and they already felt the stifling heat. They looked around for some shade. Jean jumped up and down and pointed excitedly at the large wooden structure ahead of them.

“Jean, I don’t want to go in there. I hate Fun Houses.”

“This one’s cool, Wilm. Totally! Outstanding mirrors.”

The sun shimmered on the Rye Playland sidewalks. Sweat beaded on Willamette’s forehead. “Some old pervert’s always trying to grab at you in there.”

Photo by Harm Jakob Tolsma on Pexels.com

Jean nodded and then laughed. “Maybe some cute young guys too. Ever think of that? Come on!”

“I don’t want to be groped by anybody, Jean!”

“No, me either. But, you know we might meet some cute guys. What say, Wilm?”

Willamette half-smiled in surrender. They sauntered over, trying to time their arrival to coincide with any nearby hunks. Sure enough, a couple cute guys were about to get in line behind them when two white trash hillbillies slid in first.

Willamette rolled her eyes, knowing that some stupid skeleton would flash in front of her and make her scream and she told herself she wouldn’t but she always did anyway. She wondered why she had let Jean talk her into this.

This time was no different. She screamed when the skeleton jumped out, just as she knew she would. She cursed at herself for it. Then, she nearly fell flat on her face when they stepped onto the stupid steel rollers. She was about to protest to Jean that she still hated these places. But Jean had disappeared. Willamette could see the house of mirrors around the corner. At least, she thought, this part won’t be scary.

Willamette looked in the first mirror. Her eyes Zombied. In the mirror in front of her stared a horrified old man with pasty white skin and unkempt dirty black hair. What an illusion! She laughed. But the laugh that came out was an old man’s whisky-roughened laugh. Her eyes slowly gazed down at her hands.

Her hands were gone.

In their place were the gnarled fingers of an old man, white skin, blue veins, dirty fingernails.

She screamed.

And, then she screamed at the gravely sound of her own voice.

—————————————-

Chapter Two: Mirror, Mere

BCAA0C2B-9EA0-4A13-92E0-3A4031D84334_1_105_c

“Come on, y’all’ll enjoy it.”

“Sounds stupid. Ain’t been in a ‘Scare Houses’ since I was twelve.”

“This here one’s great!” Jay-Bob snickered and winked at his buddy, Willard. “’Sides, you can cop a feel.”

Willard’s pale skinny finger fluttered toward the facade. “Looks like the same stupid grinnin’ clown and the same ugly witch as back in ‘Bama.’ What’s so special about this’n?”

“These New York dudes got themselves some whiskey cool mirrors.”

“One’s thang’s for danged sure. These here Ryeland tickets costs ’bout ten times our state fair for the same danged rides.”

“Come on, Willard, give it a go.”

“Fine.” Willard spied two teenage girls joining the line, and sidled in behind them. One had tight slacks but the other wore a loose cotton dress. Didn’t she know about that blast of air? Or, maybe she did. Liked, in fact, showing off her panties. Pink? Black? He wondered to himself.

The dark, the pop-ups, the rollers. Willard’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The youngsters eyes adapted much faster and they immediately sped ahead out of groping range. What’s next? Stupid House of Mirrors. Willard turned the corner. Where the hell was Gene?

59146AB0-B3FE-4EBE-B528-DACBC40F6353

“Screw him,” he muttered aloud and wondered whether he’d be a beanpole or a midget.

He looked in the mirror.

Willard didn’t want anyone else to hear his question so he used a stage whisper — though he had no idea what that term meant.

“What the — ! Gene, how they do that?”

But Gene had disappeared.

Willard blinked again at the cute, black teenage girl gaping at him in the

mirror; blinked; stared down to see skinny black hairless arms and the bluely

sparkled fingernails; screamed in that high girly voice; watched the ample

heaving breasts.

Then he screamed even louder at the sound of his thin soprano voice.

————————————————-

Chapter Three: Mirror, Mirror

“So, how’d we do, Gene?”

“Mmmm. The conditions were there, but no insight. No change. No enlightenment. Frankly, I think we’re in trouble, Will.”

“Drat.”

“Maybe the thing with human beings is…. I don’t know. If they’re too freaked out, they can’t reflect on their own prejudices. In fact, I don’t think they can reflect on anything. They just become scared bunnies.”

“But if they are too comfortable, they never change. They just sit and — whoa! — Gene? What was that kind of trumpet blast sort of noise?”

“What do you think? We’re being called into judgment.”

“Already? Where? Over there? It’s so damned bright!”

“God is light. No surprise there. Hey, we gave it our all.”

“Small comfort, Gene, when we both fry to embers. I can’t see a thing.”

“It’s too bright. There are brilliant lights omnipresently. All places seem to be light, bathed in light, reflecting light. I can’t see where I’m going.”

“All paths lead to the one path.”

“What? Oh, great, we’re about to be fried and you’re waxing philosophical. Not to mention Zen. Wrong religion. What is it about you people?”

“We what people? Black people? Is that what you mean? People of color?”

“Christ, Will, how many millennia have you known me? No, of course I don’t mean because you’re black! I mean, ‘you people’ as in you intuitive types. You have to learn to think things through logically.”

“Excuse me, Gene, but you have to learn to listen to your intuitions! God IS ZEN.”

“COME HITHER!” trumpeted God.

6D58577A-D98C-4100-8325-EA90BE444CE0_1_201_a

———————————

Chapter Four: Mere, Mere

59F746D3-44C7-4058-AB5B-69DF3980C697_1_105_c

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re the real black.”

“You’re the real whitey.”

“You’re just a youngster.”

“You’re old.”

“You’re a thievin’ female wench. Give me my body back!”

“You pervert dirty old man! Your body disgusts me!”

“You stole my body!”

“Man! What?! Why on God’s green earth would I covet this ancient body? Why? I had my whole life ahead of me. I hate crappy wrinkled fingers — fatty yucky sides!”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Yeah, well I miss my –. Never mind. I liked bein’ a man.”

Photo by Avonne Stalling on Pexels.com

They sat on very separate stumps in an unending forest of stumps. Overhead, the sky shone pale blue. No crows cawed in the distance. No planes vapor-trailed. No faraway cars hummed along the Interstate. They stared into the infinite horizon of flat waveless ocean. They sat silent for a long, long time.

Finally, s/he spoke. “Does it really matter? I mean, here, does it matter?”

“Maybe it don’t. You might have a point.”

They sat for a moment looking out silently at the endless sea.

“Did it ever really matter? Really?”

“Dunno. But we need water. Fer sher. Not sea water. Fresh water.”

FDC90856-D493-4828-80DE-853D923627CF_1_105_c

“Check. I’ll search that-away. Yell if you find anything. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Willamette and Willard took ten steps apart; turned back simultaneously, stared, shook their heads in unison and laughed. It can’t be truly said that it was a hearty laugh, or even a pure laugh, but it was a laugh. It was a beginning.

How to find water? If water reflects sky, might not sky reflect water to those with open eyes and open hearts …when human survival depends upon it?

One may hope. One may hope.

7551D277-6606-4C1B-9E06-5E4E44C81A64

—————————

Essays on America: Labelism

Pattern for Collaboration: Find and Utilize Diversity

America

Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

14 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 23 Comments

Tags

bully, childhood, crime, criminal mind, cruelty, Dictator, fiction, psychology, short story, sociopath, story, tyrant

Photo by Juris Freidenfelds on Pexels.com

“No, Donnie, I told you. You’re not getting a dog until you show me that you can handle more responsibility.”

“But Mommy! I’m ‘sponsible! Watch! Look! See! I’m not peeing my pants any more!”

She turned away from the sink and checked the front of Donnie’s pants. “I know, Donnie. That’s a good thing. Believe me, Fred and I are very proud of you for that. But neither one of us has time to take care of a dog. You have to help out around the house.”

“But, I don’t like housework, Mommy. It’s for bitches. Not for young men.”

Mom sighed. She shook her head. “Do I have to wash your mouth out with soap? Don’t use that word!”

Donnie pretended not to understand. “I’m not supposed to say, ‘housework’? How come?”

Mom said, “Donnie, there’s nothing wrong with saying ‘housework.’ Or, doing it, for that matter. But don’t say ‘bitch.’ It’s not nice. If you talk like that no-one with an ounce of sense will make friends with you. It shows a lack of self-control.”

“How about ‘son-of-a-bitch’ — is that okay, Mommy?”

“Donnie, no. Just no. Can you dry the dishes for me? That’s something a ten year old should be able to do.”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO! I’m doing that! It’s for bitches! Sorry. I mean, it’s for pussies. Daddy never dries dishes.”

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

“Where did you get such a filthy mouth anyway? I don’t talk like that. Anyway, if you can’t even help me do the dishes, how do you expect me to think you’ll take care of a dog. I told you. It’s a lot of work.”

Donnie smiled. Suddenly, he was afraid he was going to laugh. He stuck his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing at how stupid his mommy was. “I do lots of work!”

Mom put the last dish on the drying rack. She turned to look at her son. “Donnie, you don’t do any work. I asked you yesterday to rake leaves. You didn’t do that. On Monday, I asked you to weed the garden. You didn’t do either one. I’m not getting you a dog.”

“I’m not peeing my pants! And I did rake the leaves. I couldn’t weed the garden because my hands would get dirty! Then what?”

Mom took town a dish towel and begin drying the dishes. “Donnie, Junior raked the leaves. Not you.”

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

“Is that what he told you? What a liar! He just told you that after I raked them! He’s a liar! Why do you let him get away with that? Why Mommy? Is it because no-one loves me?”

She stopped drying the dishes. She wiped her hands and turned to look at her son. “Donnie, of course, we love you. We all love you. But you did not rake the leaves. Why do you say you did?”

Donnie yelled, “HE LIED! HE LIED! I HATE FRED JUNIOR! HE LIES! HE TAKES CREDIT AFTER I RAKE THE LEAVES!”

“Donnie. Do you see the picture window in front by the dining room table? I sat right there and polished the silverware and watched Junior rake the leaves. You went over — twice — and tried to wreck up the stack he was making. You did not help at all.”

“That was me doing the raking, Mommy! I was the one who raked the leaves! Junior was trying to wreck up the stacks. Maybe we — I think we were wearing each other’s coats. That might have confused you. Did you have your glasses on?”

She sighed. What the hell…? “Donnie, he’s a head taller than you. He wouldn’t even fit in your coat. I know what I saw.”

Donnie saw it was time to shift gears again. “It may have been really foggy. I don’t know how you got confused. But you only know what you think you saw. I was there and I remember the leaves, but let’s not fight. I love you. I don’t want to upset you. I just want a dog. What do you think?”

Photo by Steve on Pexels.com

“Donnie. No.” It was exhausting to deal with this kid. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Maybe a boarding school is the answer. Maybe a dog would teach him some responsibility. But it wouldn’t work. I’d just end up picking up the poop, feeding the dog…”I’ll tell you what, Donnie. I’ll talk to Dad and see what he thinks about getting you a hamster. If you take care of that for a year, on your own, then we can talk about getting a dog. How about that?”

Donnie thought about it. A hamster is better than nothing. Not as much fun as a dog. But maybe I could trade it for a dog. Susan might be that stupid. Or Lindsey. They’ll believe anything. Worth a try. “Oh, Mommy, that sounds great! Can we go now? Can we get it NOW! How about now!”

Mom was already beginning to regret her impulsive offer. “Donnie, I told you that I was going to discuss it with your father. If he’s okay with it, we can go to the pet store on Saturday morning. But I’m not taking care of it. You have to feed it and provide water and clean its cage. Understand?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy! I understand. I’ll do all the work. Or pay someone else to do it. I mean if I’m out of town or something.”

—————————————

Sure enough, that Saturday, Donnie went to the pet store to get a hamster. It was teeny and pathetic. He could easily crush it with one hand. It hardly counted as a weapon of protection. But maybe if I take care of the hamster, he reasoned, they’ll get me an attack dog later.

macro photography of mouse near brown wooden cage

Photo by Ellie Burgin on Pexels.com

It was a bright sunny day out, so he took the cage out. Junior and Maryanne were off with their friends. Mommy had said to stay in they yard, but she wouldn’t mind if he went next door to the vacant lot. There were some things he needed to check out about his hamster. Things he wanted to do in private. He didn’t even know yet whether it was a boy or a bitch. There was a nice little grassy spot in the sun on the other side of the fence. He put the cage down and stuck his hand inside. Stupid Hamster was easy to catch. At least, in the cage it was. Maybe “Stupid” is a good name for him. Or her, he reminded himself. The pet store people had said it was a male, but Donnie had his doubts. He didn’t notice anything hanging out down there. Well, this time, he’d get a good look, away from prying eyes.

He pulled back the fur and looked everywhere. Nothing. If the Hamster did have a thingie it was even teenier than his own. That made Donnie feel good. And feeling good reminded him of tearing apart grasshoppers. And that made him wonder whether he could get the Hamster to eat a grasshopper. Now, that would be fun to watch. He scanned the nearby area but didn’t see any grasshoppers. He could look by the tall weeds, but that was too much work. All of a sudden, it hit Donnie that while a hamster was a lot less work than a dog, it was also a much stupider pet. Not only would it not protect him. It wouldn’t fetch. It wouldn’t go on walks. What good is a stupid hamster, with such a teeny thingie you couldn’t even see it.

He wondered if it’s little paw fingers would break off like the grasshopper’s legs. That might be fun. But the grasshopper was hard. This hamster was soft like a snot rag. You couldn’t really break a snot rag. So…? It wouldn’t be that much fun. But people could break bones. So, maybe I could break hamster’s bones. It wouldn’t be as much fun as pulling its legs off, but it would be some fun. Then, he suddenly remembered his magnifying glass! The teacher had just had one of her boring science classes but one thing was cool. She had started a fire just by focusing the Sundays onto a piece of paper. And the paper had burned to a crisp when so many Sundays all came at once. Donnie could relate. Sundays were always boring.

selective focus photo of magnifying glass

Photo by fotografierende on Pexels.com

Donnie decided it would be fun to see how the stupid hamster reacted if he set different parts of it on fire. He took the magnifying class out of his pants pocket. He grabbed the hamster and held it tightly in his left hand. Then he took his magnifying glass and played it back and forth to focus on the hamster’s nose. That would hurt! But the stupid hamster kept wiggling and wouldn’t hold still. “HOLD STILL you stupid bitch! OUCH!!” Donnie dropped the hamster onto the grass.

The hamster bit him! How dare he! I will burn that bitch to a crisp, he thought.

“What, in God’s name are you doing?”

Donnie jumped and screamed in sudden surprise at a voice so near. He jerked his head and saw Junior standing there with a frown. “Junior! Just in time to help me. My hamster jumped out of its cage and it ran away. Help me look. Help me find him! Look over there by the tall weeds. I’ll look this other direction. He can’t have gone far. Please! Help me! Mommy will kill us if I lose it the very first day!”

Fred walked casually toward the tall weeds and asked, “Why were you yelling at it?”

“Let’s find him and I’ll explain it all.” Donny ran off across the property line and leaped up the stairs to the back porch. He flung open the door. “Mommy! Mommy! Junior threw out my hamster! He’s lost! We can’t find him! Oh, Mommy. Mommy. Come help us look!”

Mom was growing slightly more skeptical of Donnie’s claims, but her first instinct was to believe her own son. “Why would he do that, Donnie? Are you sure?”

“Come help me look! Quick Mommy or will never find him. Junior said he never had a hamster so why should I get one. And then…” At this point, Donnie put both hands over his face and pushed it into a sad face. But it wouldn’t stay. He’d have to keep it covered, he decided. “Then, he took the top off. I thought he just wanted to pet my hamster. But no! He threw it in the bushes! I’m scared a wolf might eat it! Or, a bear!”

They quickly strode out to the vacant lot. When they got there, they saw Junior hunkered down staring into the tall weeds. Mom yelled out, “Junior! Why did you let Donnie’s hamster out?”

“I didn’t let his hamster out. He dropped it.” Unlike Mom, Junior was onto Donnie’s tricks, or at least some of them.

Mom opened her mouth, but before her lips even parted, Donnie began his fake crying, “No, Mommy. No. That’s not true. I was petting it inside the cage but Junior said he would show me. And he took my hamster and threw it over there somewhere.”

Junior looked at his mother and shook his head. “Why would I care if Donnie has a hamster? Really? Seriously? And why would I look for it if I threw it out. And if I did throw it over here and Donnie saw me then why did he go “looking” the other direction?”

Mom looked questioningly at Donnie who smiled his biggest possible smile. “Mommy? Can I please have a dog now?”

DCA8FC9A-F229-4538-9EA2-D9E13D4796EB_1_105_c

—————————————

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man!

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Donnie Visits Granny!

Jennifer’s Invitation

22 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, story

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

assertiveness, birthday, fiction, gift, grade school, life, love, party, relationships, short story, shy, shyness, story

Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

When I grew up in Northeastern Ohio, my birthday came in the spring — real spring. This business about three months of spring is absurd. In Ohio, spring lasts about three weeks — the time from the first onion grass, crocuses, and daffodils shoot green through bare black dirt, through the greening of the willow switches, the white exploding dogwoods and cherry blossoms, till at last, every tree’s gold and red has turned dark green — that takes three weeks. And, square in the middle of nature’s renewal comes my birthday. At the age of nine — now more than sixty-five years ago — it seemed so lucky — yet, so right that this my birthday fell in the springtime! Perfect.

The only thing more perfect would be having Jennifer come to my birthday party. Jennifer! Her family, Gunnerson, was from Scandinavia and she looked it. Long, light blond hair, deep sky blue eyes, pale white skin. Best of all, she liked me — kind of. I lived nearly a world away from her — three blocks — but luckily she lived on the way to David Hill Elementary School so I could walk part-way to school with her. We could continue up residential Davies Street, littered with maple-seed helicopters, or cut over to Archwood. Urbane Archwood Street held the branch public library and even a filling station.

Photo by fotografierende on Pexels.com

Mom had promised me a party this birthday and I could invite whoever I wanted. Or, so she said. Actually, her friend from the bridge club had two daughters that I definitely did not want to come to my party, but my mother, of all things, had promised that they could come. Really! Imagine! I never told her she had to invite Jennifer’s mother to her bridge club! Actually, it wouldn’t have been a bad idea, but I didn’t think of it at the time.

No matter, so long as I could get Jennifer to my party. The tricky part was — how to get her there. Of course, you might think: “Well, hey, why not ask her?”

You might think that if you were born in New York or California or have forgotten what it’s like to be a nine year old boy totally overwhelmed by the goddess beauty of a nine year old girl. No, just walking up and asking her was definitely not an option.

woman in white sleeveless dress near green plants

Photo by Alex Fu on Pexels.com

Instead, I hit on a brilliant idea, bound to succeed. I made a newspaper. It had three or four articles on the front page and three or four more articles on the back page. It only took me one week-end to make. And there, right on the back of page two, in the lower right hand corner was the story of my upcoming birthday party, complete with a list of invitees. That list included Jennifer!

Now, for part two of my foolproof plan! The very next day, I contrived to walk home from school in front of Jennifer. I slowed down till she was only twenty paces behind me and “accidentally” dropped my newspaper. I continued to walk, but held my breath, heart racing. Soon, I heard the soft, bell-tones of her voice call out that I had dropped my paper. Yes! She handed it to me. I dully muttered “thanks,” as I stared into those infinite blue eyes for a clue.

Nothing.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Hadn’t she read it? Hadn’t she seen her name right there on page two? Was she blind, and I didn’t know?

I scurried on ahead. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed. I dropped my paper again. Again, I heard her call out my name! She had seen me drop the paper. I waited for her to catch up with me. She handed me the paper. I swallowed hard. I looked in her eyes. She looked at me. I said, “Well…did you read it?”

“Oh, no!” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh,” I said, and turned, crimson glowing hot on my cheeks.

I thought about dropping my paper a third time, but what was the point? She took it as an invasion of privacy to read my private paper. I’d have to come up with something else.

I did.

I got pneumonia and the party was canceled. I did get a record and a book as presents from my mother’s friend’s two daughters but I didn’t read the book or listen to the record. It wouldn’t be … right.

The next year, my parents moved to a new house and a new school district and I never saw Jennifer again. Except in dreams. Where her blond hair is still blond and her young smooth skin is still flawless. And, spring — spring lasts forever.