Note

I never said I'd proof-read these.

Another Get Rich Quick Scheme

Hurricane Cassie was called a Category 4 by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration or NOAA (No-ah) for short. Moogie had no idea what NOAA was until his wife, Tessa, had brought it up, calling them ‘a bunch-a skinny pencil neck geeks with nothing better to do than put a ruler on a swirling cloud.’ Moogie did know who Noah was, though, and at the moment he felt a certain kinship with the man, particularly now that the storm waters were raging down Main Street and through his socks and shoes.

Tessa had gone off on a tirade, not two hours ago, about how NOAA didn’t know nothing about no hurricanes, how ‘Category 4’ was just some geeky science talk, and how Moogie had made her a promise, and god damn, you big sissy-ass, can’t you keep a promise now and again? At the end of a solid Tessa tirade, and lord, how there had been many, poor Moogie often found himself at the raw end of a good deal, or some half-baked scheme. It was getting harder to call this particular instance a half-baked scheme, though, what with Moogie looking through the tiny window of the Winn-Dixie basement, as light poles as lawn furniture hurtled down the street at 70 miles an hour. This was very far from being half-baked. This idea hadn’t even made it into the oven.

Of course Tessa wasn’t here with Moogie, because “here” was the middle of Jacksonville Beach, ten minutes from the eye of Cassie. It was 10am but there was no sun in the sky and Moogie could hardly breath with the wind forcing the air down into his lungs. Sand and debris pelted his neck and the palm of his hands shielding his face. He would shut the window, but a mailbox had busted out the glass, and all the stood between him and the raging world outside were a few iron bars.

But maybe this would all pan out. He looked across the street and saw there, still aglow, the ATM machine wobbling in the parking lot of the Redstone Credit Union. Behind the building, beyond the pier, the heavy body of Cassie kissed the wild sea and sent it into horrible torment. Moogie tried to remind himself this was his idea in the first place.

Visualize. That’s what the self-help book from the library said. So Moogie visualized. He visualized Cassie swirling two blocks down. He saw the winds picking up that ATM, swooping it up into the air and bashing it down onto the concrete. He saw it splitting open like a eggshell. Then he saw himself running out in the middle of all that wind, a magician in a bubble of calm, sweep up all those bills into his grocery bag and whistling off down the block.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw a VW Van cartwheeling down the center of Atlantic Boulevard. There was a sudden bolt of lightening and before he heard the thunder of it, all the lights in on the block when dead.

Well, he thought, there were worse ways to get rich.

Bucky, Hero of Ocean World

There stood Buck, hero of Ocean World, the man who brought in three thousand visitors a day. Bucky, they called him. It said so on his belt buckle, shining in the high noon glare of the employee cafeteria. He had his thumbs hooked in his wranglers, his eyes fixed on the dwindling supply of macaroni and cheese as he slowly inched forward, person-length by person-length toward the buffet. I hoped he didn’t feel my gaze burning at the back of his head. I hoped he didn’t suddenly turn and catch my wide-eyed admiration. What would I do if he did, I thought. Suddenly look to the soda machine behind him? Run out the door? Duck behind the, Lisa, whale trainer?

As he grabbed a tray, I sidled up next to him in line. I felt incomparable: him in his his rodeo spurs, two water pistolas on his hips, the gold embroidery and pearl buttons of his western shirt; and I in my khaki shorts, my peach fuzz, my polo, and name tag. He was everything I could never be: a star, an entertainer, a smile on the lips of Ocean World patrons. And here I was finally next to him. I could smell the fish chum on him. I breathed it in.

I had seen his show fifty times since I started my job at Ocean World. Every day I studied his technique. It was masterful to watch. At the start of the show, the announcer would say his introduction, say his name, and Bucky would dart out on stage, whooping and hollering. There was something in his energy in those first few seconds that made even the most cynical teenager pay attention. He had a force of charisma that would pulse and wash over the audience like waves of the sea. It was something steady, reliable, and sublime. By the time the audience waddled out of the auditorium, some never evening knowing of him before they entered, some soaking wet from all the splashing, each one smiled like a kid.

Somehow, while I was preoccupied with my own thoughts, I had pulled out a pad and pen from my back pocket and he was staring down at me. What was I doing? Was I trying to get an autograph? Why couldn’t I stop myself? I didn’t want him to think I was just another star struck shlub. Oh, but here I was, holding the pad and pen up to him, an offering, a plead.

My throat was trying to form words: “M-m-Mister . . .”

“I can’t give autographs to employees.” His glare beat down on me. “Sorry, kid. Company policy.”

I nodded and I felt my pen and pad slipping back into my pockets at the behest of my now completely autonomous hands.

The whole room was staring at my right then. I was sure of it, even though I could barely to look up from my own tray. I felt every eye in the room beaming disapproval at this, this idiot kid who dared ask a favor of the great Bucky. My stomach felt like lead bricks and I suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of eating the three helpings of chick peas I had mashed on my plate.

Then, suddenly, I was saved from the humiliation:

The exterior door swung wide and inward. A gust of hot summer breeze blew it against the wall and it thundered against the brick. We all turned, all of us in cafeteria, and saw the figure of a man standing there, the shifting light of the shark tank outside silhouetting him.

Everyone was still as he stepped forward into the fluorescent light and the harsh, jagged lines of his face became visible beneath the shadow of his fedora. His black eyes with their black pupils were fixed on one man and one man only: Bucky.

“Douglas Winster?” the man called out from across the cafeteria.

A moment passed and then Bucky replied, matching the other man’s tone with his own: “That’s me.” The look in his eye said: ‘what of it?’ and his right hand dangled down to the pistola at his hip.

“You the man they call, Bucky?” He stepped forward, crossing the open space in the center of the room. He had a strange step, like his feet weren’t quite put on right. Soon he was right up next to Bucky, and right up next to me. “Bucky, the Dolphin Wrangler?”

The man had stained teeth, and I could smell the tobacco and energy drink on his breath. I could feel Bucky tensing next to me, all the muscles in his body coiling up and preparing to spring into action.

Bucky nodded, slowly, the tip of his hat bobbing. “Yeah. So?”

The man reached into the breast pocket of his coat. I suddenly felt the impulse to leap over the salad sneeze guard and throw myself to the floor. Nobody in the room had taken their eyes off either man, no one had drawn a breath.

“Served,” the man handed an stuffed envelope to Bucky. He jabbed his thumb at another man, one I hadn’t notice, standing at the entrance. “ . . . and witnessed. You’re wife says hello.”

The men left. Bucky and I took our food, and sat down. He never opened the envelop, just shifted the green beans from one side of his plate to the other until he noticed me staring at him again.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Its alright,” he said.

When lunch was over, he left, put his tray over on the garbage cabinet, walked out the door, and past the shark tank. It was the last, I or anyone else ever saw of Bucky The Dolphin Wrangler, hero of Ocean World.

A New Lease on Blogging

I have a new project: every day I’ll post a new short story, short short story, or really really short short story. We’ll see how long this lasts. Ready? Here we go . . .