The Story Bridge

(In this 2,700-word story, I've tried to offer an updated take on the "magic shop" type of story.)

After typing “creative writing groups” in the Google search box, Susan Plume sat back in her leather office chair and awaited as the magical algorithms cast their cyber nets, hauled the bounty to her iMac, and displayed them on the 20-inch monitor. Susan blinked, and within the nanosecond her eyes were closed, more than 5 million possible answers to her search queued in the search engine.

Susan Plume had stories to tell. At 35, and after working seven years as a stockbroker, she was starting to feel her true calling was slipping past her. She believed she was destined to write, to be an author, a storyteller. In college, Susan had done well in her creative writing courses, but business was her major, and after graduation, the lure of big money over road her creative dreams. But dreams have a way of resurfacing as years pass, and like a biological clock; Susan’s need to create life out of words had resurfaced like a long-dormant seed. Now, she felt she needed support, encouragement, and nurturing to coax out and polish her tales. She could have enrolled in a writing class at the local college, but preferred to seek help online, anonymously, with veterans and tyros alike.

At first, five million possibilities seemed daunting to Susan. How could she possibly choose a group that was right for her? With so many sites available, some were undoubtedly scams, set up to bleed dreams dry. Susan had done well in her business, making herself and her clients rich. Selling and trading stocks, bonds, and commodities required good research, but the crux of the business was intuition, you put your money down and let the wheel spin. Susan allowed her intuition take over, and on the fifth page of the Google search, an entry titled “The Story Bridge” jumped out at her and wrapped its arms around her head. “We help make your stories come to life,” promised the short description following the title. Susan clicked on the link and was taken to a web page featuring a dark blue background, a graphic keyboard, and an invitation to fill out a form to be considered for membership. The form was simple, aside from basic information such as name, e-mail address, and experience, it asked for a sample story and an answer to the question, “Why do you want to be a writer?”

Susan decided to go ahead with the process. She filled in the basic information, and then pasted in a short story she had written in college about a swimming pool; it was titled “The Swimming Pool.” Before she answered the “why do you want to be a writer,” question, Susan thought for few minutes then wrote, “So I can create new worlds.”

After clicking on the “send” button, a new screen appeared which bore the message: “Thank you for submitting your application to The Story Bridge. Please give us a few days to process your request for membership.”

During the course of the next few days, Susan Plume checked her e-mail more frequently than normal, hoping to hear something from the writing website. In high school and college and in her career, Susan had been popular, athletic, and self-confident, but since sending off her application, she had more empathy for those kids in school who were the last few hoping to be chosen when sides were picked for games and sports. Finally, on Thursday at 3:17 p.m., Susan’s computer notified her she had received a message from The Story Bridge. She clicked on the e-mail and read:

Dear Susan,
Your application has been accepted. Welcome to The Story Bridge. Although your story, “The Swimming Pool,” contained a number of punctuation errors, we thought it was interesting and compelling. We feel you could also use some work on your descriptive language.
The next step in the process for full membership is for you to submit an original story--no more than 5,000 words--to us by Monday afternoon. This will give you four days to write your story. Once your story is posted, our members will review and critique it within two days. Good luck in creating your “new world.”

Sincerely,
H.P.

Susan did not expect a second audition and felt a bit of ire rising within her. It did not last long. She decided this development was a good thing; after all if the group was this picky about its membership, it was probably a place where she would learn to hone her chops. Before she left her office for the day, Susan told her boss she was taking Friday and Monday off.

New worlds moved through Susan’s head the rest of the afternoon, making it hard for her to concentrate on her work. Her mind was searching for stories, not stock deals. That evening, in her apartment, she sketched out plots and scenarios and characters, discarding some, retaining others until she felt she had aligned the right sequence of literary DNA that would help her create a formidable tale by which her critics would judge her. After a glass of Pinot Grigio, Susan fell asleep and let the chemistry of creation bubble away in her mind.

Friday morning, fortified with yogurt, toast, and strong Columbian coffee, Susan Plume pulled words out of her head and deposited them on the keyboard of her iMac. With a clear picture of the finished product in her head and the tools of a writer’s trade on her desk, Susan spent the next two days crafting her story. The magic of writing engulfed her. The art of giving an idea life took hold, and she pursued it doggedly.

By late Sunday afternoon, Susan Plume had given birth to a 4,700-word story. It has all its limbs and fingers and toes, and it seemed healthy. It would, however, need to be cleaned. Susan spent Sunday night and Monday morning scrubbing her story, washing away unnecessary bits and pieces and dressing it in the right punctuation.

At 12:27 p.m. on Monday, Susan typed “The Crash” at the top of the first page of her story, and then sent it off to The Story Bridge. Immediately after she hit the “send” key, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and confidence. Susan ordered in Chinese food to celebrate, but by the time it arrived, her confidence level had dropped dramatically. It irritated her that she wanted to please a group of people she didn’t know; they could be a group of high-school students after all, or, the group might not be a group at all, just some weirdo with the initials H.P. But the fact remained, she did want to be accepted into the group; she wanted to be—even at a distance—among people who bled words.

Susan puttered about her apartment the rest of the afternoon tidying up and doing laundry, anything to keep her from thinking about the story and whether it would be accepted. A little past 7:00 that evening, after a light meal and a long bath, Susan decided to catch up on some correspondence and returned to her computer. Upon opening her mailbox, she began scanning her inbox. The third entry, just below an offer of penis enlargement and above a notice that she had won the Swedish lottery, she saw the words, “The Story Bridge.” This was highly unexpected; the last e-mail from H.G. stated it would take two days for the group to read and critique her story. She was sure this was not a good sign. Click.

Dear Susan,
Thank you for submitting your story, “The Crash.” Although we normally take a few days to assess submissions for full membership, we found your story to be exceptional and would be honored to have you as a member.
In less than 5,000 words, you’ve managed to create a compelling magical-realism thriller, complete with finely drawn characters. Using a timely subject such as stock market manipulation to explore the depths of evil even the most altruistic of us can descend was brilliant.
Congratulations for a job well done. We are going to publish “The Crash” tomorrow. Welcome to the writer’s world.

Best of luck,
H.G.

Susan Plume was stunned. She was going to be published. She was a real author. Of course, she thought, there was no mention of pay, but that doesn’t matter for now. What mattered to her was people who knew good writing had accepted her, and now she was considered by them to be a peer. “Brilliant” was the word H.G. had used to describe her story. It was then that Susan knew in her heart it would not be long before she would make the transition from stockbroker to fulltime author.

Buoyed by her success, Susan spent the remainder of the evening e-mailing friends and family about the news of story being published. She attached a copy of “The Crash” to every e-mail she sent. By the time midnight rolled around, Susan had written and sent 47 e-mails and drank a bottle of Yellowtail merlot. She undressed and floated beneath the sheets on her bed, soon drifting off to dream of book tours.

At 10:02 Tuesday morning, Susan Plume opened her left eye and swiveled it towards the nightstand next to her bed. She blinked. She blinked again. A third blink wiped away enough overnight eye slime for her to see the digital readout on the nightstand clock. “Damn,” she yelled, “I’m late for work.”

Speed dressing and rapid makeup application were not Susan’s strong points, but after a quick shower, she completed both tasks as rapidly as possible. Grabbing her briefcase, she left her 12th floor apartment, waited briefly for the elevator to arrive, and made it out of the building and into a taxi. By the time she reached the offices of Bricklin & Sutton, the brokerage for which she worked, it was a few minutes shy of 11:00. As Susan rushed past the reception area of the firm, Tina, the receptionist, called out, “Anna, there are two policemen waiting in your office. They’ve been there for a while.”

“Anna? Who is Anna?” thought Susan as she stopped by the coffee machine long enough to fill a Styrofoam cup with late-morning java dregs. When she opened her office door, Susan stopped short. There were two men sitting inside. One of them, a slender, redhead with hollow cheeks and a cheap suit was sitting at her desk scrolling through her computer files. The other man, dark, bulky and seemingly asleep was in one of the chairs in front of her desk. At the sound of her entrance, the redhead looked up.

“What, what the hell is going on here?” demanded Susan. “There are confidential files on that computer. Who are you people?”

The redhead looked at her for a moment. “I’m Agent Bellflower, and that’s my partner, Agent Cano. We’re from the Treasury Department. Have a seat next to my partner Miss Caffington. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Puzzlement flooded Susan’s face. “Please, Anna,” said Bellflower, “this is quite serious. Have a seat.”

“I think you have the wrong person,” Susan tried to explain. “I’m not Anna Caffington. I’m Susan Plume. This is my office. I don’t know any Anna Caffington.” As Susan spoke those words, something at the back of her mind began to itch. “It’s the wine,” she thought, remembering last night’s celebratory bottle of merlot. God, I must have the worst hangover imaginable; I’m hearing things.”

“Save the B.S. Anna,” said Agent Cano, who still appeared to be sleeping. “We know who you are. Now sit down.”

“You guys have made a hell of a mistake, or someone has put you up to this, but I am not this Anna person. Now this is my office, and I’ve got work to do, so please leave.”

“What does it say on your office door, Anna?”

The door was still open, and Susan turned her head to look. About five feet from the floor, in the middle of the door, was a brass plate that read, “Anna Caffington, Stockbroker.” Susan’s mouth dropped open, and the itching got worse.

Confused, Susan closed the door and sat next to Agent Cano. It was Agent Bellflower who delivered the next bit of news. “We know who you are Anna. In fact, we know all about you. For instance, we know you’ve been having an affair with your boss, Jeremy Steiner.”

Susan started to tell them her boss’s name was Roger Twain, not Jeremy Steiner, and Roger was gay. However, the name Jeremy Steiner sounded familiar, so she waited to hear what was coming next.

Agent Bellflower casually leaned back in Susan’s leather chair. “We also know Steiner conspired with three sub-prime lenders, an administration official, and two of the most powerful banks in the country to manipulate the stock market and cause financial devastation for millions of people. We know for a fact that Steiner illegally profited to the tune of 4 billion dollars.”

All this information was coming too fast. In her hung over condition and with no morning coffee, Susan was having difficulty processing all of it. What was worse, some of it rang true.

“One other thing we know is Jeremy Steiner is dead. He was shot through his right eye with a small caliber weapon in his bedroom, sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Interestingly enough, his wife was out of town and has a solid alibi. Luckily for us, Mr. Steiner’s eyes were open when he was shot. Although the right eye was decimated, the boys from the Federal Department of Memories were able to scan the left eye and should be able to tell us in a day or two who was in the bedroom with him.”

Susan shook her head. “You are absolutely crazy. Department of memories? There’s no such thing. As for the rest of your story….” Susan halted in mid sentence.

“Tell us Anna, where were you Saturday night?”

Susan’s mind felt like it had rubbed up against poison ivy. “I, uh, uh, I was at my apartment writing. I was writing a short story about…. Oh my God!”

“Can anyone verify you were there? Did you have anyone over; did you go out to eat or to the grocer’s?”

Susan was afraid to breathe, afraid to make the slightest movement. Finally, closed her eyes and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” replied Agent Cano.

“If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home and call a lawyer.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “Ok, Anna, you can go for now,” said the redhead. “Agent Cano will drive you.” He produced a folder. “This is a federal warrant. It gives me the right to go through all your computer records and anything else I find in your office. We have also applied for a search warrant for your apartment, so well be visiting you at home soon. And Anna, please don’t get any ideas about leaving the city. That would end badly for you.”

On the way back to her apartment, Agent Cano tried to ask more questions, but Susan refused to answer, keeping her eyes shut, and chanting the mantra, “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

As Susan was exiting the federal agent’s car, he leaned over and said, “You know Anna, I don’t really care that this guy Steiner is dead. His greed will probably cause a stock market crash that will shake the financial foundation of this country. What I don’t like is murderers, especially those who murder for money.” As Susan started to turn, Agent Cano winked at her and added, “You have any offshore bank accounts Anna?”

Inside her apartment, Susan threw her briefcase on the sofa, ran into her home office, and powered up the iMac. While waiting for the machine to come alive, she said over and over, “I just wanted to create stories, not a life.”

When the iMac was operational, she typed www.thestorybridge into the address box. Within seconds she was taken to a plain, white page on which the following words were displayed, “Error 404. This page does not exist.”

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The Test

Last night, as I lay in bed surrounded by six softly snoring dogs, I decided I was going to take a test. Unlike the tests I’ve seen posted on various Internet blogs, the test I was going to take would be able to tell me far more than what percentage hermorphaditic, gypsy arborist I was. It would go far beyond telling me if I was a cartoon character, a liberal spelunker, or a well-regulated sexual gymnast. This would be a test that would absolutely define me in all aspects.

The test promised to inform me of things known and unknown to me. The test would tell me about my character, my health, my prejudices, my desires, my fears, and my altruism. I would find out if any of my actions have led to the death of another person or enriched someone’s life. It would examine the good in me…and the evil. It would evaluate my perceptions, it would test my loyalty, and it would see how well I dealt with joy and tragedy and stress and pain and pleasure.

The test would be long, but there would be a time limit. Many of the questions would be repeated over and over. I could go back and make some corrections, but I still had to beat the clock. There are a lot of study guides available for the test, but many of them are contradictory so, at best, they are unreliable. You are not allowed to speak with anyone who has taken the test, and from what I understand, it probably wouldn’t do you any good if you could. There is really no way you can cheat on the test. You can lie, but that’s part of the test. No, this test is a solo effort.

I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept thinking about this test I was going to take. I got out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and went into my office to prepare for the test. The dogs followed me. When I sat down in front of my desk with a hot cup of coffee, I glanced over at Roxie, my canine friend that is dying. She was doing well this morning, and as I looked at her she walked over and put her head in my lap, hoping for a morning head rub. As I looked at her, something began to dawn on me: I was already taking the test.

The test, of course, is Life. I couldn’t tell you how well I’m doing; I have no idea who is scoring it. I just hope I don’t run out of number-two pencils for a while.

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Soldier on the Rim

Read on, and it will quickly become evident that I am not a poet. However, I was challenged to write on from a list of words (in bold).

Identity revoked
He walked an unknown horizon

Consumed with rage at a land he loved
exempt from freedom

Provide and they will consume
and the years will run out.

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Helen's Robe

Helen's silk robe felt cool in his hands as he lifted it from the hook on the back of her closet door. He turned toward their bed and brushed the soft, copper-colored materiel against his right cheek; memories bloomed, emotions stirred.
The bedroom was a minimalist work of art, decorated by Helen. Earth-colored pastels and low-key lighting bathed the room, and a hint of Gia Flora perfume lingered in the air. It was their modern castle keep, a place where the world was held at bay and life began.
He undressed and, with some difficulty, he gently slipped into Helen's robe. She was petite; he was not. He walked to the bed and sat on the left edge, resting his hands on his knees, trying not to think. He closed his eyes and listened to the low murmur of the air conditioner; "womb noises," he thought. A body ripple ran through him.
He lay back on the bed and gathered the hem of the flowing robe in his hand, swiftly bringing it to his face, and covering his head. Helen's fragrance danced through his nostrils and into his brain, igniting pain and pleasure in his being. He cried dry tears as Helen's robe held him.
Hours passed, a night of sleepless hours. When the morning broke, he returned to Helen's closet and disrobed. "One day at a time," they told him, "You just keep on one day at a time."
He put on Helen's little black dress and went grocery shopping.

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Pathetic Bob's Holiday Fiasco (Part One)

Pathetic Bob’s Holiday Fiasco

It was four days before Christmas when the call came at two in the morning. “Hey Em, it’s me, Pathetic Bob,” said the voice on the other end of he line.
I sat up, cleared my head and said, “Bob, this isn’t funny. Did you steal my cell phone again?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Listen Em, you’ve got to drive down to Laredo and bail us out of the Animal Control facility. They are holding us here for the Homeland Security people.”
“What!” I yelled. “Who’s ‘us,’ and how did you get to Laredo?”
“It’s a long story Em, just get down here as fast as you can. I’ve got Sophie, Judy, Zipper, Lily, and the two cats with me. Oh, bring the station wagon, we’ve got 22 squirrels with us.” The phone went dead.
I was fairly sure Bob was screwing with my head again, but upon searching the house, none of the animals could be found, so I called the pound in Laredo. I quickly obtained the number from information and soon found myself on the line with an Officer Garcia. “Excuse me officer,” I began, “but I just got a phone call from one of the dogs that live with me saying he had been arrested and detained in your facility. I know it’s probably a hoax, but I thought I’d better check.”
“Well,” Garcia laughed, “we got a lot of dogs here, but not many who speak English. What does your dog look like?” I could hear laughter in the background.
“He’s, uh, skinny, brown, has a pointed nose, and he’s a real smartass. He goes by the name of Bob.”
“Yeah, I think we got your dog. He came in an hour or so ago with four other dogs and a bunch of squirrels, and he hasn’t shut up since. He keeps demanding a lawyer and is threatening to ‘sue our asses.’ The Homeland Security boys brought the whole crew in on charges of smuggling, violating air space, counterfeit visas, and several other charges. They impounded their vehicle and cargo, too.”
“What vehicle and cargo? Bob doesn’t even drive. What the hell is going on down there?”
Officer Garcia got all official-like and said, “Listen Mister…uh….
“Em,” I told him.
“Yeah, right. Listen Mr. Em, I think you better get down here fast. This whole gang is in a world of trouble, and the feds are going to want to question you, too.”
“Me?” I stammered, “I didn’t do anything. Why do they want to question me?”
“Just get down here, OK, we’ll see if we can get this thing sorted out.”
I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Em, so I wrote her a note and told her what was happening, and then started out on the long drive to Laredo. Along the way, I played out several scenarios in my head, all of them ending with my unfortunate incarceration in a federal prison. Damn that Bob, if he didn’t get jail time, I was going to whack him.
Two and a half hours after I began the trip, I pulled into the parking lot of the Laredo City Animal Shelter. I got out of the station wagon, stretched my legs, and then knocked on the metal door. A slender man of medium build opened the door and asked what I wanted. After I explained who I was and why I was there, the man smiled and said, “I’m Officer Garcia; I’ve been expecting you.”
Garcia had a pleasant smile for such a stern-faced man. I had a vague notion I’d seen him before. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “All us Mexican-Americans look alike to you gringos.”
“Great,” I thought, “I just got in the door, and I’m being accused of being a racist. This does not bode well for gaining my animals release.”
Then it hit me. With his pencil-thin mustache and soul patch, Garcia was the spitting image of Edward James Olmos’ character in Blade Runner. I explained why he seemed familiar, and he said, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I steered the conversation in another direction. “Anyway, what the hell is going on with the dogs and cats and squirrels? Bob wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, and you weren’t much help, either.”
“Just calm down Mr., uh, I forgot your name.”
“Call me Em.”
“M?”
“No, Em.”
“Em…hmmm…that sounds like some kind of code name. If I were you, I’d make up another name when you talk to the feds.”
“The feds are here?”
“Yeah, they’re in my office interrogating your dog, Bob, and he keeps demanding a lawyer and roast beef. The other dogs, the cats, and the squirrels are on the cell block screaming ‘Attica, Attica.’”
“What are they being charged with?”
“Well, see, as far as I know, they haven’t been officially charged with anything…yet. The immigration guys are saying they may have entered the country illegally, but some Mexican officials have called to complain the animals entered Mexico illegally. That’s all up in the air right now. Homeland Security seems to be suspicious they may be part of some kind of weird terrorist plot. The geniuses from the DEA think Pathetic Bob could be a narco kingpin who was smuggling drugs into Mexico hidden in an assortment of nutshells. Now, I’m not as brilliant as these federal drug cops, but I’ve never heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Mexico. If you ask me, I think your dog is a pain in the ass, but I don’t really see him as some kind of master criminal. I think you’d better get in there and try to talk some sense into him.”
I gave a sad smile to Officer Garcia, who I was beginning to like more and more. “First of all, he’s not really my dog; he just lives with me, and I finance his lifestyle. And, although Bob is an educated dog and speaks several languages, all of his sense lies in his nose, eyes, and ears. His brain seems to function in some weird dimension.”
“I can believe that,” said Garcia, “but if you want to save him and the other animals, you’d better think of something fast. Come on, I’ll take you to see him and the federal agents.”
As we headed to Garcia’s office, my nervousness increased, and I could taste fear on the back of my tongue, brought on by my natural instinct of not trusting governments or government agents.
Officer Garcia knocked on the office door then ushered me into his small, dark office, which was crowded with men and women in suits and uniforms. Pathetic Bob sat on a gray, metal desk in the center of the room; a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling directly over Bob’s head. As I entered the room, Bob turned to me an cried, “Em, help me. These ignorant bastards are going to waterboard me and send me to Guantanamo prison. I haven’t done anything wrong, but these idiots think I’m working for Osama Bin Laden or the Mendoza drug cartel. That moron over there,” he growled, pointing at a rotund, bald man in a La Migra uniform, “is accusing me of being an illegal alien. They won’t tell me what they’ve done with the other dogs and the two cats. They’ve even illegally detained Randy and Milo and their friends. This is a city pound, not a place for squirrels.”
“He’s right,” offered Officer Garcia, “we’re not supposed to put squirrels in the kennels.”
At that moment, all the government androids began talking at once, causing a din of babble.
“Hold on!” I yelled. “I can’t understand a damn thing with all of you talking at once.”
The noised died, and I continued. “Look, before I talk to any of you people, I want to talk to my client…uh…I mean the dog. For now, I’m representing him, so I’d like you to leave while I confer with him.”
Although there was a chorus of objections, it was finally agreed I could have 15 minutes alone with Bob. I watched the feds file out of the room, and then I turned to Bob.
“Em,” he said excitedly, “you’re not going to believe what happened.”
I stared hard into the dog’s eyes. “You are absolutely right, Bob, I’m not going to believe what you tell me happened. In fact, I know you are going to embellish the hell out of the truth. But, before you begin your pathetic explanation, I want you to know I’m pissed. I’m really pissed. It’s not just that you made me haul my ass out of a warm bed at two in the morning and drive a hundred and fifty miles; living with you has taught me to expect things like that. I’m not even that upset that you’ve managed to involve the other dogs in whatever weird adventure you’ve undertaken, although leading a puppy astray is a new low for you. I’m surprised Milo and Randy are part of this, and I can’t imagine what you did to induce them to participate. As for the 20 other squirrels, hell, that’s really got me stumped, but I can live with it.”
Pathetic Bob’s tail was like a windshield wiper on high as I was talking. As I took a breath, he tried to jump in. “But Em, I….”
“Quiet,” I demanded, “I’m not finished. You’ll get your turn when I’m finished. You see Bob, I can handle all the stuff I just mentioned, but this time, you’ve gotten my involved with government agents. Government agents Bob! We could all end up doing hard time in six-by-eight cells with roommates with names like “Torpedo” or “El Diablo.” This is serious stuff. We could be held without charges for years; they could screw with your dog license or take away my library card. That’s why I’m pissed Bob, really, really pissed.”
Bob blinked his doe eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Can I talk now?”
I sighed, pulled up a green, metal chair, and sat with my head in my hands. “Ok, go ahead, let’s hear it.”

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Pathetic Bob's Christmas Story

I’ve been trying to get festive. According to the song it’s supposed to be “The most wonderful time of the year,” so Pathetic Bob and I decided to go out in the real world today and see what was so damn wonderful. I put Bob’s guide-dog outfit on him and grabbed my white cane and dark glasses and we hopped in the car to began our Christmas cruise.
Our first stop was North Star Mall, the largest mall in town. As we were doing the blind-man-and-dog stroll (an unfortunate ruse we must perpetrate or else Bob would not be allowed inside), we came across a gaggle of little children standing in line to have their pictures taken with Santa and tell him all the useless crap they want for Christmas.
“Hey Em,” said Bob excitedly, “Who are those little people?”
“They’re kids, Bob.”
“Very funny mistletoe breath, I know they are kids. Who are those other little people?”
“Well Bob, they are dwarves, also known as little people. They are dressed up to look like elves, mythical little toymakers who serve their bearded master.”
“Can we go meet one? Can we? Can we?” Bob whined.
“I don’t think so Bob. They’re busy working. Maybe after Christmas, when they’ve been laid off.”
“You mean once Christmas is over, all the dwarves will be unemployed?”
“No, I was just kidding,” I said
“”Well,” shot back Bob, “you shouldn’t kid about stuff like that.” He circled the Santa exhibit, and then came back and sat next to me on one of the benches. “You know Em, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think you could be right. It seems the only time you see dwarves is at Christmas time and in fantasy movies. It just doesn’t seem right. I mean they are just short people right?”
“That’s true Bob.”
“Well, Tom Cruise is short, and he’s a flaming nut case, too, but he’s in movies year round. I’m getting a little pissed Em. I don’t like dwarves being exploited this way. I gotta do something.”
“But Bo….” Before I could finish my sentence, Bob ran off and darted through the mass of children and jumped and Santa Claus’ lap. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but suddenly Bob yanked the fat guy’s beard off and began growling at him real loud. Next thing I knew a posse of mall security droids swarmed the Santa exhibit. I dashed over and busted through the wall of mall caps to defend Bob. I picked him up and made a beeline for the exit; we almost made it. Unfortunately, I tripped over a very old woman in a wheelchair, and the security guys grabbed us.

Pathetic Bob and I were taken deep into the bowels of the mall and held for questioning in brightly lit, small room that had a one-way mirror. “Dammit Bob, look what you’ve done. Now we’ll probably end up in jail and the pound.”
“Just calm down Em,” Bob said. “Invoke your right to silence. I’ll do the talking.”
Just then, the door slammed open, and in walked a uniformed mall Nazi with wire-rimmed glasses and a gut bigger than Santa’s. “Well, well, well,” he said sarcastically, “so you like to impersonate a blind person and have your dog attack people. Well mister, that don’t fly around here.”
“But officer,” I began, and never finished because Bob butted in.
“Hush Em. Look Barney Fife, we know our rights. We want a lawyer.” Bob just loves cop shows.
The security guy stopped in his tracks, shaken. He looked at me and said, “That dog can talk.”
“Of course I can talk scrotum gut, now let me talk to your boss,” demanded Bob.
The guard retreated from the room, and a few minutes later the door opened, and in walked…a dwarf. He was dressed in an Armani suit and carried a two-way radio. Pathetic Bob turned to me and grinned from ear to ear.
Bob explained to the dwarf, who happened to be the security chief, the whole incident was a misunderstanding and he was just trying to stand up for human dignity. Mr. Belamario, the chief, just nodded, looking at me from time to time. When Bob finished his oration, he wasn’t sure the chief was buying what he had to say so he turned and pointed at me and said, “It’s all his fault.”
Luckily, Mr. Balermario had a sense of humor, and he let Bob and me off. Before he had us escorted from the mall (with instructions we were never to return), he pulled Bob aside and had a few words with him.
Once we were safely back in the car, I asked Bob what Mr. B had said.
“He told me that if I ever got tired of living with you, he and his wife would gladly take me in.” He then added, “It is a wonderful time of the year, isn’t it Em?”

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Zipped Up

“We’re not getting another dog,” said my wife when I asked her to accompany me to the Hilltop Nursing Home for my monthly pet-therapy visit. “We already have four, and that’s enough.”

“I didn’t say anything about getting another dog; I just asked if you’d like to go with me today. Since I’ve been spending a lot of time volunteering at the shelter, you’ve mentioned you might like to do some volunteering also, and I thought today would be as good a day as any to see if you will like it. We’re just going to take a dog to see some senior citizens. Come on, you might have fun.”

“Well, Ok, I’ll go with you, but no new dogs.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “we’ll just do the therapy thing and then help out at the shelter a bit, and come home.”

When we got to the ADL—the largest no-kill shelter in the southwest—LaTrenda, the volunteer coordinator had Zipper ready to go. The previous day, I had taken Zipper to an elementary school to give several presentations about dog care, and I had arranged for him to go with me today.

I introduced Zipper to my wife Linda, and we took him to the car, where he hopped in the back on command. My wife was impressed. I told her what I knew about Zipper’s past: he is a two-year-old, mix-breed stray, that a policeman brought to the shelter after he saved him from an attack by two mastiffs. Zipper was cut and bruised and had his eye torn a bit. In addition, Zipper was positive for heartworms and was undergoing treatments. He had been at the shelter since September 1.

During the ride to the nursing home, Linda kept turning around and stroking his head and speaking much sweeter words to him than she ever does to me. At the nursing home, I let her take him around for the old folks to pet, and she remarked frequently about how gentle he was. One old lady, deep into senility, was especially fond of Zipper, and he seemed to draw her out of her inner world. As we were getting ready to leave, the old woman began to cry. I gently held her in my arms, and sensing he was needed, Zipper came over and laid his head on her lap. I think it was then my wife fell in love with him.

When we returned to the ADL, Zipper went back into his kennel, and Linda walked around visiting other dogs while I went to the office to do some paper work. When I finished, I came and found Linda standing in front of Zipper’s kennel. “Did you notice,” she said, “that he never barks?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that before. He’s really a great dog. He’s very curious, and he’s a four-eyed dog.” (Four-eyed dogs have darker markings above the eyes that look like eyebrows. The Native Americans of the Southwest believe four-eyed dogs are special and have great insight.)

“I wonder how long he will have to be treated for heartworms?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask Heike, the shelter manager.”
Heike is a tall, blond walking encyclopedia of dog knowledge and an extremely dedicated champion of animals. She filled us in on the details of Zipper’s treatment, and then said, “Why don’t you take him home for the weekend and foster him and see how he gets along with your other dogs.” I didn’t tell her I was not allowed to get another dog.

Linda looked at me, and I could tell there was some kind of struggle going on in her lovely head. Finally she said, “Yeah, sure, why don’t we do that.”

Two hours after we returned home with Zipper, he had made four new dog friends and met a cat who seems to like him. Two hours and one minute after we returned home, Linda had me take her to the pet store to purchase Zipper a bed, a collar, a leash, a dog bowl, and some toys. Zipper is here to stay.

A short while ago, my wife said, “I just realized, you knew we were going to get that dog when you asked me to go with you this morning.”

In my defense, I told her, “Well, that’s not exactly true. Yesterday, Zipper told me he was going to get us.”

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