Phone to Heaven

 Alas, out of a field of nearly 1300 for Furious Fiction March 2021 I did not win, nor make the short nor the long list. There is always next month.

These were the complete criteria for March:

500 words or fewer.

Each story had to include the pictured setting (below) at some point.
Each story had to include the following “MAR-” words: MARKET, MARBLE, MARVELOUS, MARSHMALLOW.
Each story’s final sentence had to contain dialogue – i.e. someone speaking.

Phone to Heaven

Henry’s mother died three years ago. He’d had a hard time coming to grips with it. He’d wake up in the morning and then have the sudden realization that his mother was no long around and he’d feel this tremendous burden. He went through the motions of daily life like an automaton. He had but one goal now and that was to contact his mother and tell her he loved her. Something he’d never done in her lifetime.

Henry tried psychics and séances, but despite all of their marvelous trickery he was never convinced. After numerous attempts he gave up. Henry had nearly exhausted every possibility when he heard about a psychic fair happening the day before his birthday. It was about a two hour drive, but he was determined to try everything.

The day was brilliant and the tents had banners fluttering, the air was festive, but Henry felt troubled. There were palm readers, crystal worker, aura readers, tarot card readers, what ever you wanted in abundance. Henry couldn’t believe there was such a large market of people like this.

He made the circuit seeing what the offerings were. He’d come to the conclusion they were all fake. At the far edge of the fairgrounds there was a tent that had seen better days, it was a bit faded and you could see where it had been patched here and there. This tent intrigued Henry, it didn’t have the glitz of the rest of the fair. Could he have stumbled on the real deal?

As he approached the tent a bent figure emerged. She seemed to be well into her eighties, but still had a spring in her step. She beckoned Henry in. The inside was just a shabby as the outside with a small round table and chairs in the center with a threadbare green velvet tablecloth. It was missing some of it’s tassels.

Henry sat down. She asked to see his palm. Reluctantly he presented his hand. She examined it, then, looked at it again and said, “You are seeking a loved one who has passed on. I may be able to help you.”

Henry waited, expecting an upfront fee.

She spoke again, “About two hours south of here is a small fishing village. There is an old red Phone booth there. You can call your loved one from there. You owe me nothing, unless it works out.”

Weird, no charge. Was she legit? It was too late today for another two hour trip. He’d have to postpone it till tomorrow, his birthday.

There it was just like she said it would be, but there was a woman on the phone. She came out of the booth smiling but with tears running down her cheeks. He approached the booth with trepidation. Opening the door his olfactory senses were overwhelmed by the smell of a fresh baked chocolate marble cake with marshmallow icing, his favorite birthday cake. He lifted the receiver and dropped in a coin. “Hello, Mom?”

Death is a tough business

 

Tomorrow Vince turns fifty-five. He thought that if he made it to fifty-five that he would retire. He was single and had lived well within his means for many years. Most men in his profession, never made it to retirement age. It was the stress, the law, or some other extraneous issue that got them.

Vince was a hit man for hire and he was the best there was. After this last job he would go to confession and then quietly disappear. He had enough money in off shore accounts to live comfortably the rest of his life. All of the documentation he would need to establish a new identity, and that had cost him a bundle. One last job, and he was gone.

The hit was some big time drug lord that he’d never heard of, but most of his jobs were unknown to him. The drug lord was suppose to be at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town (why do they always pick abandoned warehouses?) at eight o’clock.

Vince showed up at five o’clock after parking a mile away and walking up to the warehouse. He reconnoitered the place and found the ideal location on the catwalk. High ground, good vantage point but hard to retreat quickly, but if he had to kill them all so be it. Now the waiting began.

Vince saw the headlights of a car as it pulled into the warehouse, and just as he was getting into position for a shot he heard something behind him. Before he could turn around he heard a shot from a silenced pistol.

When he came to, he was no longer on the cat walk, in fact he wasn’t sure where he was. He was disoriented and trying to make sense of where he was and what happened. It was then he noticed a figure standing in the shadows as if waiting for him to come to his senses. Instinctively Vince reached for his weapon, but it wasn’t there. The figure glided forward.

Vince saw what appeared to be some one in a grim reaper outfit, albeit a very realistic one. The figure lifted his arm and pointed a bony finger at Vince.

Vince said, “great costume.”

The figure threw back the hood of his robe and exposed only a skull with empty eye sockets. At this point Vince figured he must be dreaming.

Death looked at Vince and said,”Vincent Francis Deluca, your soul is now forfeit and I am here to collect it and escort you to Hell.”

Vince, said, but I’m a good Catholic, I go to mass and confession, in fact I went to confession just before this job. I’ve been absolved of all my sins.”

“That’s what they want you to think Vince, but it doesn’t work that way. The ten commandments say Thou Shall not Kill, there is nothing in there about going to confession. You need to come with me now.”

“But I was going to stop after this job. This was the last one, then I was going straight.”

“Well you got part of it right, it was your last job. I’ve got a tight schedule to keep, let’s go.”

“Wait, I can pay you I have a fortune stashed away.”

“Your money is worthless here Vince, but there may be something you could trade.”

“What, anything, what do you want?”

Death paused for a moment, stroking his bony chin with an equally bony hand. Then he seemed to make a decision.

“Vince, I was once in a predicament similar to yours and I was given a choice. I could take the job as one of the messengers of death, there are many of us due to the world population. Even death cannot be everywhere at all times, but I digress. I was offered the job for a thousand years and my tenure is about up and I had to find a successor. I think you will do fine. I have a few more days to show you the ropes and them … we’ll see if you work out. What do you say?”

“Let me weigh the options here for a second, work as the messenger of death for a thousand years or go straight to hell. I’ll take the job.”

Instantly Vince was transformed into a mirror image of his mentor. Death handed Vince a list of names with just a thumbs up or thumbs down beside the name.

Vince asked, “So how do I find these people, there isn’t even an address or anything?”

“All you have to do is think of the person’s name and instantly you will be there, once you have collected their soul so to speak, you you must accompany them to either the portal to Heaven or the Portal to Hell, by the way they look identical so even if you are taking them to Hell and it makes you feel better you can pretend it”s Heaven. You also get to the portal just by thinking of it. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Any questions?”

“I guess I just need to know when we start.”

“Now.”

In the twinkling of an eye they were at the bed side of an old man who had a thumbs up beside his name. Vince was glad his very first was going to Heaven. He took the old gentleman's arm and thought of the portal and sent him on through. His next was a serial killer on the lethal injection table. Vince had no qualms leading his soul to the other portal. It was as death said, the portals were identical.

This went on for what seemed like years to Vince but was in reality only a couple of days. Death explained to Vince that time was kind of funny on this side of the veil. The day had come for Death to depart.

“Well Vince, it’s time for me to go. I’ve taught you all there is to know, it’s not that hard, it just gets tedious after a while.”

As he said that his grim reaper visage transformed into that of a middle aged man with thinning gray hair, and a bit of a paunch.

The next instant they were both standing in front of a portal.

Vince said, “So now that you’ve done your time, you get to go to Heaven.”

The man formerly know as Death, just shrugged his shoulders. That was never part of the contract, I have no idea what waits me on the other side, but I must go now.”

With that he stepped through, leaving Vince to wonder.

Homeless

 I need to preface this with a story about the story. As I hadn't written anything new this week I took a dive into the archives and found this story that I'd written about 10 years ago according to the date stamp on the file. Anyway I read through it to make sure it was OK and I got to the end and there in parentheses was one sentence that summed up the ending. Either I didn't like the ending or couldn't be bothered to finish the story for some reason. I believe it was the former, because I wasn't thrilled with what I'd left myself to work with. So I wrote the ending to this story today and the beginning 10 years ago. A first for me. (a bit longer than most of mine, I hope you like it.)

Homeless

 

    Andy Reese had just been to a funeral, nobody he really knew, just a friend of the family. His parents had died in a car wreck and he’d been going to friends of the family funerals ever since, he guessed as repayment. 

    As he approached the lane that led to his trailer, he saw bright lights and flashing red beacons. A policeman waved him over as he tried to turn into the lane. Andy pulled to the shoulder and got out. It was then the acrid smell of smoke hit his nose and he saw the glow of the fire.

“My trailer, I’ve got to get up there.” he said.

The policeman stepped forward and asked. “Sir, are you the owner of that trailer?”

“No, but I rent it and all of my stuff is in there.” There was just a touch of panic in his voice.

The policeman continued unperturbed, “I will need some information from you, can I see some ID please.”

“Sure,” he said as he fished his wallet from his back pants pocket, “but …”

“Are you the only occupant of the trailer Mr. Reese?” he asked as he was looking at my ID.

“Yes, but what about my trailer, I’ve got to get up there.”

“Mr. Reese, the fire department is doing all they can, it’s pretty isolated up there and was burning for some time before the neighbors saw it and called 911.” As the cop said this he headed back to his car saying over his shoulder, “could you just wait in you car for me please.”

Andy went back to his car and slumped down in the seat, sitting there in shock and disbelief. The cop came back a few minutes later and said,” Your license checks out. Where were you today?”

“I’m just getting back from a funeral”, Andy said. Before the cop could reply Andy pleaded, “When can I get up there and salvage my stuff?”

The cop just shook his head and said, “Son, I don’t think there is going to be anything left.”

     At this point Andy just folded his arms on the steering wheel and laid his forehead down. Before he knew it great streams of tears were running down his cheeks. He found a couple of fast food paper napkins in the glove box and blew his nose and wiped his eyes. This was no time to fall apart; he needed to figure out what he was going to do. He took stock of what he now owned. One good suit that he was currently wearing, dress shoes, about $27.00 in cash, a gym bag with workout clothes and sneakers, lastly he had a bag of dirty laundry from the week, that he planned on washing tonight. Last time he checked he had about $200.00 in his checking account. He also had about that much stashed away in the trailer in case of emergency. That almost made him laugh, the tears came again instead. Funny he hadn’t cried at his parent’s funeral or any of the funerals since, but now he was crying over a stupid trailer. That wasn’t entirely true, it was more than a trailer, a big chunk of his life was in there. It was also dirt cheap because it belonged to a friend of his father.

    That all happened in the early summer and now it was the end of October. Things had just unraveled since then. Andy lost his job due to down sizing, his unemployment had run out and he was living in his car. He was getting by on food stamps and recycling aluminum cans. When Andy thought of the future it was no longer full of possibilities, in fact he no longer looked more than a day ahead. There was one exception to this, for two weeks he’d had his eye on a coat at Good Will.

    Today was the last Saturday in October and Andy was out in front of Good Will waiting for the doors to open. He peered through the windows and could see the coat still on the rack way back in the men’s department. He’d been in once and tried it on and it fitted him like it was tailor made. When he had looked at the price tag it was forty dollars and beyond his meager means. That was why he was at Good Will now; the last Saturday of the month is half off the price of all clothes. He thought he could swing twenty dollars for a heavy wool overcoat. Andy had scrounged aluminum cans from the break of day until it was too dark to see for two weeks the get the extra twenty dollars.

    By the time the doors opened there must have been twenty five people waiting. Andy was in the forefront of the crush of people getting into the store. He weaved his way through the scattering of people and clothes racks the where the overcoat hung. It was charcoal gray, thick and had a high collar that you could turn up against the wind and cold. Just as Andy put his had out to grab it, the coat disappeared on the other side of the rack.

    Andy dashed around the rack to see an older gentleman with his coat. The older man began to shrug the coat on. Andy came up behind him and said “Let me help you.” The older man thanked him and walked over to the mirror to admire himself in his new coat. Andy stepped up to him with another coat draped over his arm and said, “ That coat looks a bit tight across the shoulders for you, it’ll be worse once you get a suit coat on.” The elderly gentleman looked at Andy and then back at his reflection and said, “you might be right.”

    Andy said, “I was going to get this herringbone coat, but it’s a bit big for me. Would you like to try it on?”

“That’s kind of you young man.”

Andy helped him off with the first coat and into the herringbone coat. It was actually a little bit better fit and did make the old guy look dapper. Andy said, “It looks great on you and it’s only $15.00 with today’s discount.” That was enough to clinch the deal. After many thanks the old guy tottered off to buy his new coat.

    Andy took his coat to the register, paid for it and headed to his car. He had the coat over his arm and kept hearing something crinkle like a piece of paper. When he got to the car he went through all of the pockets and found nothing. He patted the coat down, there it was again, crinkle, crinkle. He finally narrowed down the piece of paper in the lining of the coat. He had felt a hole in the right hand pocket and slowly moved the piece of paper up to the hole. When he got it out it was a crisp twenty dollar bill. He laughed, the coat had been free.

    Andy noticed there was something written around the border of the otherwise pristine bill.

    It said, “If you bought this coat and found this bill, today maybe your lucky day.” then there was a phone number. Andy turned it over a couple of times in his hands looking for any other writing, but there was nothing. He was intrigued, maybe things were looking up. 

    Andy tracked down a payphone and dialed the number, after the second ring a woman answered.

“Grandville White and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

Andy didn’t know how to answer, so he said, “I found this twenty dollar bill in a coat I bought and it had this phone number on it.”

The receptionist on the other end said, “Please hold for Mr. White.”

“This is Grandville White, I hear you found my twenty. Would you be free for lunch today? I’m buying. Do you know that little diner just off of Maple?”

“Uh, yeah, I know the diner, but what's this all about?”

“Meet me at the diner at eleven-thirty so we can avoid the lunch rush, I’ll explain everything then, and if nothing else comes of our conversation you at least get a free meal. Oh, and wear the coat so I can recognize you.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you there Mr. White.”

     Promptly at eleven-thirty Andy stepped through the door of the diner. He’d used the remainder of the morning trying to make himself presentable. He’d gone to the YMCA and showered and shaved and put on his one and only suit. The shoes were a bit scuffed, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d also pulled his long hair back in to a pony tail away from his face.

   The moment he walked in the was a gentleman sitting at a booth and he waved him over. As Andy approached the man stood and stuck out his hand and said, “Grandville White, it’s a pleasure to meet you, And your name is? I’m sorry I forgot to ask on the phone.”

“My Name is Andy, Andy Reese.”

“Well Andy, have a seat, here let me take your coat for you.”

Andy said, I’ll just keep it on thanks, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

Andy was still trying to figure this guy’s angle.

“Fair enough. Let’s order and then we can chat.”

   Andy looked over the menu and when the waitress came he said, “I’ll have the club sandwich, fries and a Coke.”

“I’ll have the same.”, Mr. White said before the waitress had time to ask.

So with their orders in it was time to get to it, what ever it was.

Mr. White began, “I may have a job for you if you’d be interested.”

“What would this job be doing exactly?”

This guy looked legit, but notes on twenty dollar bills was hardly the way to conduct business.

“First tell me about yourself, what you’ve done, what your dreams are, how you came get the lucky coat. Tell me everything.”

Then Mr. White just sat back and folded his arms and waited.

     For some reason Andy who for the most part was reserved, opened up to this man. He told him about his parent’s deaths, about the fire, about the laundry list of jobs he’d had in the past. About how he scrimped and saved to get this coat.

     By the time he’d finished, the food had arrived and they both dug in and said no more until the last french fry was gone.

    Andy said, “That was good, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper lunch like that.”

     Mr. White finally spoke, “You have had a time of it haven’t you young man. From some of your resume it sounds like you’re an all round handyman. That’s what I’m looking for as well as an occasional driver, and gofer. If it’s something you'd be interested in the pay is only three thousand a month, but we also provide health insurance.”

     After living on the streets for months, three thousand a month sounded like a fortune until Andy thought of the current rental prices in the area. He could find a dive some where, it was better than living in his car.

     Mr. White spoke up again interrupting Andy’s musings, “I forgot to mention you’ll need to live on the grounds. There is a gardener’s cottage that you can have, it’s small just two bedrooms and a bath. It’s a stone cottage with a slate roof, so it’s basically fireproof. I am the trustee of the estate that the house is on and have free reign on hiring and firing. You can take the job just to get back on your feet and then move on, but if everything works out after ten years you will be vested with a retirement plan and employment for as long as you are able to work.”

     Andy wasn’t sure what to say, he had a lump in his throat and tears were beginning to gather in his eyes. He managed to croak out, “Thank you so much, I’ll take the job, but why me?”

     “Well Andy, fate dealt me a crummy hand to begin with too, and somebody helped me out a long time ago, this is just my way of paying it back and fate chose you, not me.”

Two Wheels Move the Soul

 (Late acknowledgement of International Woman's Day, loosely based on my mother who rode motorcycles and pinstriped bicycles by hand. Story from my current book Dead People From the Attic)

 

 

Two Wheels Move the Soul

There were only two women in the motorcycle club and Jane was one of them. She had read somewhere – “Four wheels move the body but two wheels move the soul.” She firmly believed it. She was thirteen when her brother, after much nagging on her part, had let her ride his Indian Scout. Even though her toes barely touched the ground and it almost fell on her once, she was smitten. From that time on her goal was to own a motorcycle - not just any motorcycle, but an Indian just like her brother’s.

It took Jane five years of relentless scrimping and saving to come up with the money to buy a fifteen-year-old Indian Scout. The bike had seen better days, but she had been hanging around the fringes of the motorcycle world for five years and had picked up a lot of information along the way.

Her brother Elliot was a mechanic and had his own garage so she had access to all the tools she would need. He also had an unused bay that he used to store tires, oil and what not. She talked him into letting her use the bay to work on her Indian. Little did he know when he gave her permission that she was going to nearly live there for six months. Somehow she had acquired a maintenance manual for her bike and planned to tear it down all the way and rebuild it.

Jane was not for doing something half way. Once she had it fully dis-assembled, she took the frame, fenders and gas tank to the local bicycle shop. She had worked for Mr. Small during the war painting and pin striping bicycles. Since all steel was being sent to the war at that time, new bicycles didn’t exist. Mr. Small’s shop would tear down an old bicycle, then re-chrome the handle bars, strip the frame and fenders and the lacquer them.

The final touch was to add the pin stripes on the fenders. It looked like a new bicycle when they finished with it.

Mr. Small took on the project and didn’t charge Jane anything. He had some fire engine red lacquer ready to go. All Jane had to do was strip off the old paint and get it down to the bare metal. After everything was dry she used her pin striping talent to do some fancy flourishes on the fenders.

There was still the matter of rebuilding the engine and re-assembling everything. Jane got a little help from her brother, but most of it she did in her free time when not working as a switchboard operator for the telephone company. She could have gotten her Indian back in shape sooner by paying to have the work done, but she wanted the satisfaction of having done it herself. She’d bought it in October and figured if she had it on the road by spring she would be happy.

Word had spread about this cute girl working on a motor- cycle over at Hancock’s garage. Her brother didn’t encourage a bunch of motorcyclists hanging around, but he really couldn’t chase them off either. They bought gas, oil and tires, so it was good for business. Besides, pretty soon it would be too cold and the guys would have packed away their cycles until spring. By then Jane should have her bike back together and be out of the storage bay.

Well, April rolled around and Jane unveiled the Scout. It was gorgeous. She had polished all the chrome and waxed all other surfaces. It nearly sparkled in the early April sunshine. Then she kick started it – it fired off on the first kick. It had a low throaty purr. She put on her helmet and took it for its maiden cruise.

Elliot was envious of her “new” motorcycle. Even though his was newer, her bike looked like it had just rolled off the assembly

line. She rolled back in and asked Elliot if he’d like to take it for a spin. Elliot didn’t want to look too eager but thought it might be a good idea to make sure nothing was wrong with it.

Elliot took it out and opened it up on the straight-away

going out of town. He hit eighty miles per hour before he slowed down. It was perfect; no vibration, no hesitation. He had to admit it, she’d done a damned good job.

For the next month or so she took it out to every speed trial she could find. Every time she won, beating all other bikes in her class. Of course, she had tweaked it just a bit. She’d polished the cylinder walls, adjusted the fuel to air ratio to be optimal and a couple of other things that she was keeping to herself.

Word began to get around and many of the guys that had poo pooed a woman motorcyclist were eating their words. They were even coming to her for mechanical advice.

Jane realized she was spending too much time on other people’s bikes and not having any time for her own. Something had to give.

Jane went and had a talk with Elliot and they came to an agreement. He would let her use half of the storage bay and his tools, free for six months. After that if she thought there was enough business he would start charging her rent, otherwise she would close up shop. They shook on it and the next day she turned in her resignation at the telephone company.

After the first month, she had a waiting list of customers for her service. After six months, she was paying Elliott rent and was happier than she had ever been. The business grew until she had to move to her own garage. At this point she was able to hire some up and coming mechanics, including one woman. Her reputation grew and she could be seen from time to time at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah consulting with one team

or another. She was there in 1967 when Burt Munro broke the land speed record with his modified Indian. They were to become good friends and corresponded regularly until his death in 1978.

Jane never broke any speed records, but may have had a hand in some of them. Although she could now afford any motorcycle that she wanted, she continued to ride the Scout that she rebuilt. As parts wore out it was getting harder and harder to find them, but she always managed. She was seventy-three when she had a stroke. The doctors said if she hadn’t been on that motorcycle at the time she may have lived.

She had made prior arrangements so that her headstone was engraved with a picture of her beloved Indian Motorcycle and the words “Two wheels move the soul.”

A Casual Conversation

Photo credit Alan Levine
 

A Casual Conversation

He was sitting at the counter drinking his coffee and reading the paper when he heard a key in the back door. It was a weekday and he should have been at work, but he was playing hooky. He took a quick peek over his paper to see his wife coming in the door. "So, you're back.” he said without looking up from the morning newspaper.

You would think he’d say more; after all she had been gone for four months. You’d think he’d ask if she was OK, where she’d been, was she back for good, but none of those questions crossed his lips.

She said, “I wasn’t expecting you to be home. I just came back for a few of my things. This time when I leave I won’t be coming back.”

“There’s some fresh coffee in the pot, if you want some.”

The whole while he had not ever lowered the paper to look at her. He turned the page and was absorbed in the next tidbit of information.

“I had to leave. I had to figure out who I am. I needed my space.”

“There’s a stack of mail for you on the hall table, I opened the bills and paid them.”

He turned another page in the newspaper.

“I know I should have let you know where I was or at least that I was alive.”

“There was a postcard from your sister and her husband, they went to Hawaii and said they were having a wonderful time.”

He reached around the newspaper and picked up his coffee mug.

“You sure you don’t want some? I always make more than one person can drink.”

She winced at this; he always got up early and made the coffee so she would have a cup ready for her.

“I can’t undo the last four months. I’ve grown, I’ve spread my wings. I’m going to file for divorce. I want it to be amicable, deep down I still love you. I just can’t live with you.”

“All of the clothes that were in the hamper are clean and should be hanging up in the closet.” he said turning another page.

He wasn’t sure what she expected him to do. Did she want him to get down on his knees and beg her to stay? Had there ever been a time when he had changed her mind once she had made it up? No, better to let her do what she needed to do. After all, he still loved her and wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with him.

“I only need a few things; most of the stuff is from a past life now.”

“What should I do with what’s left?

“I don’t know. Give it to the Salvation Army, have a yard sale, burn it, I don’t care. It’s isn’t another man if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything.” he said turning another page in the newspaper.

He wasn’t thinking anything. That was a hoot. The man’s mind went nonstop as long as he was awake. Had he already thought up all of the scenarios and discarded them?

“You’re always thinking something. You’re always analyzing something. You’re always holding something up to the light and turning it this way and that. You’re always coolly calculating the effect one thing has on the other. You have no soul, you show no emotion. Look at you sitting behind your newspaper drinking your coffee, not even looking at me. I’ll send for my things, I’d forgotten what it was like.”

She slammed the back door on her way out and her favorite picture fell to the floor.

He heard her pull out. The newspaper he’d been using as a shield began to quiver. He slowly lowered it to the counter. He put his tear stained face into his hands and began to sob.