Two Questions By Mike Freeman

 Two Questions

By Mike Freeman

Is life fair? Are our laws always just? In one day, I discovered the answers to these critical questions.

My high school water polo team attends a tournament in Visalia, California. Both varsity and junior varsity teams are playing. Our long, hot, summer drive concludes with a team meeting in an air-conditioned hotel room.

Towards the end of the meeting, our coach turns to me and says, "I have good news and bad news for you."

Everyone looks at me. They know this is a setup. I am a sophomore trying to make the varsity team. I cannot show nervousness or fear to my upperclassman teammates.

With fake bravado, I respond, "What's the good news?"

Our coach says,"You are the starting varsity goalie for the entire tournament."

"That's great," I say with shaky confidence.

"What's the bad news?"

"You are the starting goalie for the junior varsity team for the entire tournament," he replies.

None of my fellow goalies are on this trip. All canceled at the last minute. One is sick. Another is on a two-week family vacation. A "mystery" injury claims another. The injury occurs when my goalie teammate finds out his girlfriend's parents are out of town during the tournament weekend.

It is common for a water polo team to play two games in a day during tournaments, sometimes three.

I look at the tournament schedule for both teams with trepidation. I begin to comprehend the upcoming nightmare of playing five water polo games on the first day. I will emerge from the pool a human prune wearing a Speedo! Between warm-ups and games, there will be no breaks the entire day.

The entire team is laughing. I am not.

"You always wanted more playing time," the coach chuckles.

My team is giggling with him. I am not.

The tournament starts the next day. We win the first varsity and junior varsity games. Visalia has a semi-arid climate. Our coach tells us to stay in the shade as much as possible. The temperature is in the mid-to-high 90s. After a game, everyone immediately scampers for shade. I don't. I go to the warm-ups for the next game.

"How does it feel to be such a water polo stud?" one of my underclassmen teammates yells at me in mock sympathy.

"Something you will never know!" I reply. Many upperclassmen laugh. Managing team banter is important.

By the end of the third game, I am starving. I cannot eat and stay out of the pool for the 30 to 60 minutes afterwards to avoid stomach cramps. So I starve. I feel like a living skeleton wrapped in wrinkled skin.

Many of my teammates have time for lunch. They eat in the shade while some shout encouragement to me.

"Come up on deck and have a hamburger," they say. They know I can't.

One of the junior varsity players yells, "I will share my French fries with you!"

I calculate if I have enough time before the next game to climb out of the pool and start shoving French fries up his nostrils. The game buzzer saves him.

Sun exposure is becoming another issue for me. It takes a toll living a  shade-free life and looking into sun-reflecting water. I have to drink water to stay hydrated while playing in water. How ironic is this?

I can't wear sunglasses. An opponent's shot might hit me in the face resulting in a bloody mess. My arms and face are starting to show sunburn. The invention of sunscreen is a decade away. A little zinc oxide on the nose might help but that only protects the nose. It makes me look like a scarecrow.

Our opponents for the fourth game are finishing their warm-ups. I notice their goalie is wearing a baseball catcher's mask. This is not good. It sends a strong message to my team that he is afraid of being hit in the face with the ball. Not a good fear for a goalie.

Some of my team members notice the goalie and mask. There is mumbling and some giggling. Nothing coherent is said. Everybody understands what needs to be done. By halftime, we have a dominating lead. Now the fun begins.

There is significant halftime betting on which of our players will cause the goalie's mask to come off with a shot. The goalie might as well put a bull's-eye target on his face. The pounding is immediate and relentless. Finally, the goalie rips the mask off his face and throws it out of the pool. This is the first intelligent thing he does the entire game. My teammates relent.

This entertaining game temporarily distracts me from my misery. I have one game to go. Exhausted, wrinkled, starving, and with sun-crinkled skin, I survive it. Time to eat!

The rest of the team thinks they are starving. I know I am. Our coach reads our minds and takes us to Sir George's "All you can eat!" Smorgasbord. I salivate for the upcoming 8,000-calorie mega-meal.

The team sits down in a long line of tables. We get up to fill our plates. I build a mountain of roast beef on top of mashed potatoes and gravy, sprinkled with vegetables, and crowned with a roll. I am more interested in quantity than quality. My first plate of food disappears. I don't remember tasting it. My belly says I ate it.

I fill up my second plate with food that I didn't get on my first plate. I remember tasting it more. It starts to take the edge off my stomach pains. The rest of the team joins me in feasting.

The rest of the team, appetites satiated, starts choosing from the dessert table. Two to three desserts per person is common.

"The restaurant owner is losing money tonight." I think.

With the third plate of food, I become more thoughtful about choices. I select items I enjoy the most in massive quantities. I enjoy eating this food immensely.

I get up for my fourth plate of food. A man appears over my shoulder.

"Excuse me, I am the restaurant manager."

"Good food," I say while walking towards the buffet.

He stops me.

"I am sorry. You have had enough food," he says.

"The sign says all you can eat," I reply.

"That doesn't mean you can make a pig of yourself."

The entire team is watching now. A few customers join them.

I turn to the manager saying, "Your sign says all you can eat and that is what I'm going to do!"

"Sir, you need to pay your bill and leave. Now."

My teammates are finishing their desserts and refreshing their sodas in anticipation of the upcoming entertainment. There is a sputter of laughing and murmuration along our team bench. More customers are paying attention.

"I will not pay my bill until I have eaten all I want. Just like the sign says." I am escalating my voice to ensure his customers witness his actions.

The manager retorts saying, "Pay your bill now and leave. Or I will have Mabel call the police."

I turn to look at Mabel. She is an elderly woman with gray hair and glasses. She is approximately 300 pounds of feminine fury piled on top of a barstool by the cash register.

"I'd pay the bill, son," Mabel advises me.

I am done with this day and all of its aggravation. I have no more patience. I only want to attend to my hunger.

"Shut up, Mabel, and call the police!" I say with self-righteous volume and tone.

My teammates are aghast. They are getting much more entertainment than anticipated.

Some of them back me up, exclaiming, "He's right!"

A few customers sitting around our team bench agree. New restaurant patrons walk in during our argument, turn around, and leave. The manager is now losing the crowd and money.

Mabel calls the police. They arrive in a few minutes.

The manager and I tell our stories. People gather around to watch and share opinions. I am confident I am right. This is clearly false advertising. I half hope they handcuff the manager and lead him away as his clientele throws food at him. Maybe they bring a forklift and take Mabel too!

The two policemen turn to me and say," You have to pay your bill and leave."

I am appalled. My teammates in the crowd join me. How can this be fair? It's clearly false advertising. How can this be happening?

I go up to Mabel and pay my bill. My teammates and several customers follow me out to the parking lot.

"We will never eat here again!" they say.

Several adults in the parking lot encourage me, saying, "Son, you were right to do what you did."

The police look at me explaining, "A business manager has the right to refuse service to anyone. We are sorry. We know it does not seem fair but it is the law. That restaurant manager is a fool. He lost more money arguing with you than he would've letting you eat."

The police get in their car and leave. My team piles into cars returning to our hotel. The crowd in the parking lot dissipates, never returning to that restaurant again.

I learned two important facts that day. The world is not fair. Our laws do not always result in justice. Why did I ever think otherwise?

Turning Points by Ricki T Thues

 Turning Points

I am sitting with my favorite drink in my rocker, looking east from my patio in Aguanga. The eastern clouds are painted pink as a 360° sunset wraps around my cabin on the hilltop. A cool onshore summer breeze shivers the Mesquite tree. The Cypress buzzes. An owl hoots.

My mind wanders.

Walking into my second-grade classroom, I am oblivious of a turning point in my life, a new vector wholly unexpected. The teacher shuffles papers. I place an apple on her desk… my mother made me do that. I put my books under my desk and settle in for who knows what.

“OK class,” says Miss Abernathy. “Who wants to give their speech first?” My jaw hits my desk. A vague memory of a forgotten assignment flutters just out of reach. “Remember, this will be an informative speech about something you know,” the teacher added. I am terrified. Wanting to get it over, I raise my hand. “Ricki. Please begin.”

I look desperately around and see my stack of books. I pick up the three books, set them on my desk. I stand up.

“Books are put together in different ways,” I begin. “This one is glued together. This one has staples in the middle of it. This last one has a squiggly plastic thing on the edge.” I glance around the room at surprisingly attentive students, smile, and sit down. “Very good Ricki,” says the teacher. You were very well prepared. Who is next?”

A raven soars up from the valley on the westward wind. It drops a stick from its beak. A fellow raven swoops upside down to catch the stick. My thoughts switch to the third grade.

I am gazing out the classroom window at the traffic. There is a droning noise behind me, drowning out the sound of cars honking. 

“Ricki! Mister Ricki! I asked you to read the paragraph from our book. What is so interesting out there that you cannot participate in class?” 

“Oh nothing, mam.”

“So nothing is more important than this class. Turn your desk around to face out the window. You can look at nothing until you decide to rejoin the class.”

Clueless, I spend the next four months looking out the window. My mother and I are called into the principal’s office.

“Mrs. Thues, your son is going to fail this grade,” said my teacher.

“Why is that?” asked my mother.

“He has not completed any of his homework, nor has he participated in class.”

Mother looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Teacher made me face outside to punish me.” 

Looking past the teacher to the principal, Mother says, “This is unbelievable. This is what is going to happen. She is going to give Ricki all the work he missed. In the remaining month of school, I will keep him on track to complete all the assignments, and if he can, you will advance him to the next grade.” The principal agrees. I do the work and surmount the odds. My confidence in myself soars.

A covey of quail scurries along the ridge of my property. The senior male hops up to a sentry position on the park bench and calls his approval of the spot. The female and all the chicks scratch for ants and seeds. When I clink my drink down on a side table, the sound sends them running.

In eighth-grade junior high, I am struggling with books as I try to open the classroom door. Mark, the class bully, pushes me aside, knocking the books to the ground. “What’s the matter Poindexter?” he says. “Never learn how to open a door?” 

“Have you ever learned anything?” I quip.

“Smart guy,” said the bully, getting angry. “Meet me on the field after class and I’ll teach you something. Better show up!’

There is a small crowd in the field after class. I walk up to Mark. He pushes me in the chest. I close my eyes and swing my fist in a wild roundhouse that connects to the side of his face. Mark is shocked. He shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips, and winks at me.

“You’re OK Ricki.” For standing up to Mark, we became friends for the rest of the year.

A woodpecker is tapping holes in the oak tree. I imagine the squirrel hiding his acorns in the holes. He will only find about 25% of the acorns he hides, but there are other woodpeckers and other squirrels and plenty of acorns if only you look.

I begin my career as a woodworker working in my future father-in-law’s shop. He teaches me where everything is and how to turn it into kitchen cabinets.

“Where are the carriage bolts?” I ask.

“In the carriage bolt department,” says Fred.

I leverage my knowledge of cabinetmaking into a job at Walter and Cline architectural mill. There, we transform raw wood slabs into bookmatched cabinet doors, curved wood doorway heads, and newel posts for staircases. This knowledge prepares me for a job at the Disneyland Fantasyland remodel project. Old timers teach me how to modify and improvise an eight-foot lathe to make barley twists for the Dumbo Circus Calliope. That project vectors me into the Tradeshow Exhibit business, where the combination of woodworking, electrical, plumbing, and graphics prepares me to be the Ombudsman at GFB Exhibits. My job there is to coordinate designers’ dreams with salesmen’s promises, builders’ practical requirements, and accountants’ payables. I curate the company’s profit.

A flock of house finches flies into the acacia tree, chattering about the day’s adventures.

“I saw a swarm of no-see-ums in the puddle,” says one.

“This is a really good tree.”

“You are a pretty little thing.”

“It’s good to rest my wings.”

I think back on my time as a computer consultant.

My motto is “I can teach you half as much about a computer as your kids know.” Early on, I decide to teach instead of tell. The job of a consultant is to translate Geek into English. I am troubleshooting a problem with a client, explaining the solution. “If I enable you to fix this problem the next time it happens, then you will not have to call me to come out again.”

“But won’t that reduce your future business?” asked the client.

“No. You will tell your friends and family what you learned, and they will call me when they need help. You are now part of my salesforce.” My business grows on that policy.

Over my shoulder is my little red retirement house. The barn red has turned to burnt sienna in the sunset light. Colored clouds reflect in the windows. The last of the finches dart in and out of the tree. They begin to quiet in their roosts.

Memories of skydiving come to mind. From the first breathtaking step out of an airplane to hard-fought world records, skydiving has changed my life. Bucket list items, like skydiving in every state, have been fun and rewarding. There have, however, been events that feel more like work than fun. 

One day at a large skydiving formation, I realize that I am trying too hard. My flying is not smooth. My focus is not focused. I yearn for the no-pressure company of my casual skydiving friends. The words of a mentor come to me. “If you are not having fun skydiving, there is no reason to do it.” I decide to focus on fun jumps with friends and stop chasing records and achievements. Skydiving has never been better.

The light starts to fade as the clouds around me burst into brilliant reds, golds, and purples. It feels like the color of my retirement.

My life experiences have taught me to plan, outline, and make lists. The list we made when Paula and I were looking to buy this house was the following:

• Rural
• 3000’ elevation or higher
• Small house on 3-4 acres
• In our budget to buy outright
• 1 hour or less to a skydiving center
• Beautiful view

Check, check, check, check, check, check.

This list has made all the difference.

The sky falls into darkness as the Milky Way is flung across the sky. I take one last drink and retire into the house for the night.

Turning Point by Don Taco

                                                                                           

      Turning Point       

by Don Taco

  The assignment was to write a short story that has two turning points, a major one and a minor one. It didn't specify what order they occurred in. And I was fresh out of ideas. Wasn't even sure, in literary terms,what a turning point is. I've been out of academia a great many years, and I wasn't a great student of literature even when I was supposedly studying it. God alone knows how I ended up in the Arts, much less as a songwriter and a teller of short tales. So, I cheated. I fired up ChatPCH, which is a lesser known cousin of ChatGPT that is strictly geared to those who live along the Pacific Ocean. Have you ever noticed that every 'C' in pacific ocean is pronounced differently? ChatPCH knows the lyrics to every surfer song ever recorded. Not just by Jan and Dean or the Beach Boys. Did you know there's an entire genre of music produced by people who love the sound of 'surf guitar' such as Dick Dale, but neither live near nor celebrate the ocean? It's called Desert Surf. It's a category name that had to be invented to describe something that developed but didn't fit previously established genres. Similar to the category of Celtic Soul that had to be invented to describe Van Morrison.

  So I asked ChatPCH about literary turning points. After a brief but invigorating discussion of John Mayall's genre-bending brilliant acoustic live album, and an equally brief but far less interesting foray into the Industrial Revolution, ChatPCH suggested that I consider that moment when a rippin' breaker crosses paths with its own reflection off the jetty, setting up diffraction patterns that make your ride unpredictable and sometimes damned interesting. Cowabunga. Dude!

One Single Moment by Don Taco

 

One Single Moment

by Don Taco

 We were a family of seven, fatherless due to cancer, living in the heart of the middle class, but well below 'poor' income levels. We weren't eating dirt, except for Bill, who couldn't be left alone near the garden until he was about four. But we certainly weren't eating caviar.

  In spite of that, our mother manged to afford a piano. In those days, you could get a decent playable instrument for $100, same as a car, though you'd be well-advised to get it tuned regularly, also the same as a car.

  Being the oldest, I was given the choice of taking piano lessons. It would have been difficult to fit them into my schedule. I wasn't going to quit the chess club or soccer to struggle with a task that I didn't believe I had the motivation or the dexterity for. And I still think I was right about that, though I can see that an introduction to theory and a grasp of the keyboard would certainly have been valuable. No regrets.

  All the other five children had no choice. They sat down to their lessons. Not a single one of them plays piano today. It did lead Bill to the guitar, though, so it wasn't completely wasted effort.

  When all the children had left the nest, and the five sets of lessons were no longer being paid for, our mother sat down and started to learn to play herself. Which, in retrospect, was probably her primary motivation in the first place.

  Time went on, and she reached a certain level of introductory play that just didn't seem to improve. She could run through a small number of pieces that her children were sick to death of hearing, and, in fact, I believe that even she was tired of. But she refused to be a quitter. She struggled and applied herself and tried to stretch the boundaries of that plateau for about five years beyond the point that she could see she'd never get any better and would never achieve the goal fo playing the piano anywhere near the ability level she'd hoped for.

  Then one day she said, "Fuck it! I am not a quitter. I tried." She stopped trying, got rid of the piano, whose primary purpose by now was to display Avon products for sale, and never looked back.

  However. And this was a Big Deal. She told us of a moment in the middle of this process, a moment that changed everything. One day, struggling along at the keyboard, between one heartbeat and the next, the squiggles and dots on the page in front of her stopped being notation and turned into music. She had learned to read music. And as a singer, this was quite a valuable skill shift.

  I don't think she valued this as highly as it deserved, since it seemed to her such a lower goal than what she was aiming for. But she did receive a reward for all that effort.  And it happened in a single moment.