'Tis the season forgiving by Don Taco

 'Tis the season forgiving                                                             copyright 2025 by Don Taco                                                                                                            

  It was the night before christmas, and all through the house, the damned mice WERE stirring. You can hear them in the walls, which are paper-thin in a decrepit old trailer like mine. It gets really bad, like this, when we have a sudden, severe cold snap, which isn't that common. The weather in Oregon is temperate, even, easy-going, almost friendly. As long as you don't mind the fact that it rains every day. It does, you know. Now, it doesn't rain all day every day. That would be biblical. It rains a bit every day, and a lot some days, and a middling amount on other days. Which means grey, overcast, often gloomy days at least half of the time, and rare appearances of the stars. When the meteor showers are announced, we dutifully peek our heads out at the appointed hour, take a quick glance upward at the cloud cover, with no expectations, and go back inside. The children of the sun rapidly move away again to other, shinier states.

  So, it's christmas eve, and it's raining, lightly, and the mice are doing whatever the hell it is they do that makes that scratching sound, in the wall by the front door, near enough to my desk to be annoying. I suspect the noise is them chewing on things, absoluely anything, but what can you do about it? Pounding on the wall stops it for just about long enough to get back to the desk and sit down again, and that game gets old really fast.

  The scritchy noise seemed odd tonight, and after a minute I thought, "Is that coming from outside?" I went over to the front door. The top half is glass. Pulled aside the cheap vinyl blinds and looked out. There was a scruffy-looking shaggy-haired individual, all dressed in red, sitting on the steps of my front porch, with his back to me. I quickly deduced that he was using the bottom step to scrape mud off his boots. Then I realized he wasn't dressed in red, but wrapped in red. A Pendleton blanket, very much the worse for wear. I don't know how popular, well-known, or common a Pendleton blanket is in the rest of the world, but here in the Northwest, they are as identifiable as they are ubiquitous. The Pendleton Woolen Mills have been supplying us with blankets, shirts, and sweaters since the pioneer days. Quite recognizeable patterns. The saying goes, here in Oregon, that 'Sunday best' means a clean flannel shirt. They seem to be everywhere because they are everywhere. I own several, and I never wear wool, because I'm one of the people that find it so itchy that I can't stand it.

  He continued assaulting my lowest step with his ratty footwear. I opened the door and stepped outside. "What the hell?" It startled him. He whipped his head around and said, "Oh shit. I thought no one was home." All my cheesy 1970s double pane windows are packed full of bubble wrap, the cheapest insulation available, and covered inside with thick plastic sheeting, so he can be forgiven for thinking no lights were on. He jumped to his feet and turned to me, wobbling a bit. I immediately assumed he'd been drinking. I had, myself. It was a cold winter night.

  I said, "Who the hell are you?" Why his identity, or even his name, would be important information to me, I have no idea. I opened my mouth and that's what I blurted out. "I'm Santa Claus," he stated, not slurring the words too very much. Now that made me laugh. It takes some chutzpah to claim you're Kris Kringle with only a week or so of scruffy beard stubble. Me, I have the beard, but no one accuses me of being Saint Nick, because, well, I'm not jolly. The word you want, I think, is 'acerbic.' Plus, even at this age, I'm scrawny. In fact, as I reach a ripe old age, I'm shrinking again, in height and girth. So be it. I wasn't born to be glamorous, or photogenic, and I accepted that long ago.

  "Okay, Mister Claus, " I said. "I'm going to have to ask you to move along. I can't have grubby strangers hanging around on my porch. Not in this neighborhood. People will call the cops, and I don't want to chat with them any more than you do." And that's completely true. Some of the neighbors seem to think I myself am a homeless bum, even though they know where I live. He looked out into the rain, which was falling a little harder now. "C'mon man," he said. "It's christmas." Ever the pedant, I replied, "No, man. It's christmas eve." He took a few steps, to the edge of the overhanging roof, then stopped and turned to me again. "You wouldn't happen to have a couple of bucks for a bottle of wine, would you?" he pleaded.

  Now I was really tickled pink. You can't stop at a highway rest area anymore without finding at least one bum settled in, with a cardboard sign sttesting to their woes, and need for assistance. And even in a tiny burg like the hamlet I live in, busy street corners are being worked by individuals and their cardboard announcements. And those stories are all lies. Out of gas. Wounded veteran. Family of eight. Unfairly evicted. And so on. All lies. They write whatever they think will gain the sympathy of the folks who actually have some empathy. And loose change.

  So his unexpected and candid honesty was a rare treat. Ordinarily I'm not someone who gives money away. I don't have any to give. And if I did, there are causes I support that are far more important to me than the homeless. Plus, I want my tax break if I'm going to make donations. That's why I refuse to round up for the charity'du'jour at the grocery store. Why should a mega-million supermarket get a tax deduction using my money. Let them donate their own.

  Chuckling, I got out my wallet. I don't carry much cash. I put everything on the card, and write one check a month. I'm lazy. All I had was a five, so I gave it to him. He lit up like the Madame LaRou pinball. He'd hit the jackpot. I don't have any kind of idea what wine appeals to him, but five dollars wouldn't even buy a small bottle of anything I'd consider drinkable. Not him, apparently. He muttered profuse thanks and headed out into the drizzle and down the street.

  After a minute, I got to thinking. And I ducked inside, shrugged on my coat and doffed my rain hat, then started down the street after him. It took about a block and a half for him to notice. Then, for the next two blocks, he kept glancing back over his shoulder, looking more nervous all the time. I followed. It's not my fault that I look menacing in a trench coat and fedora. That's what I wear.

 I caught up to him at the stoplight. It's a tee intersection, and the bulk of the traffic is turning to the right, so it's worth your life to try to scramble across without waiting for your proper walk signal. He confronted me, whining a little. "What's going on, man? Why're you following me?" I leaned in close, and told him, "I just want to make sure you don't waste any of that money on a burger or a cup of coffee or something."

Reputation by Mike Freeman

Reputation

By Mike Freeman

I start the night out innocent. It is my senior year, and I look forward to the high school dance that evening. This last year of high school is full of lasting memories. Some I will tell my future children about. Others will be remembered and exaggerated upon by my classmates at reunions.

Servite is a Catholic, all-boys college prep high school. We have an affiliation with three all-girl Catholic high schools. We like the three-to-one odds. So do the public school boys at our dances.

I enjoy attending this social event. We twist and contort our bodies to the rhythms of the live band. During the band's break, I talk to several of my friends. My friend, Joe, approaches Ralph and me mid-conversation. Ralph is one of my water polo buddies and the student body president.

"Are there any parties tonight?" Joe asks.

Parents leaving their homes for the weekend take a significant risk. Their high school children tend to invite a few friends over for a small party. Word spreads like a supercontagious virus at sporting events or social occasions like dances. Invitees almost always tell their closest 100 friends of the original, secret, small party plans. All of a sudden, Woodstock is happening in your parents' living room.

Homes occasionally get trashed. Sometimes neighbors call the police. The party thrower spends Sunday cleaning up the house and bribing their neighbors to be silent.

Parents almost always find out, especially over time. Returning to a home that is "too clean" is one clue. A trash can full of empty bottles is another one. Maybe a neighbor spills the beans. Someone eating a pet goldfish and leaving an empty bowl full of water is hard to explain.

Tim, another of my water polo buddies, is having a small, secret gathering of our water polo team at his parent-abandoned home. Our discreet gathering requires asking a few cute girls from the dance to attend. Joe is not an attractive girl by any stretch of the imagination. I tell him about our party anyway.

"I know where to get wine for the party," Joe states matter-of-factly.

I am ecstatic about inviting Joe now. He says he can get it from a nearby liquor store. For free!

How does a young Teenstupid male say no to this proposition? We are years below the legal drinking age. Obtaining alcohol for parties is always a challenge.

There has to be a catch. Something fishy is going on. The opportunity to obtain free alcohol overrides any rational or ethical concerns. We tell Joe we will help him get it.

We pile into my Volkswagen bug, and we drive down the street to the liquor store. There are people in it conducting various business transactions. There is an alley behind the store. We park my car across the street from the alley. Joe exits the vehicle.

We watch Joe cross the street to the back of the liquor store. Ralph and I start talking. I turn and see Joe enter the back door of the liquor store. He comes back out carrying two bottles of wine and whistles to me. I get out of my VW and go to Joe. That's when I notice he is behind a fence enclosure. He hands me the two bottles of wine through the wire fence and says he will get two more. I return to my car with the wine and get back inside with Ralph. We start talking again. Then it happens.

A police car with bright headlights drives down the alley towards us. I see Joe hiding behind some stacked boxes by the liquor store's back door. The car stops. A flashlight comes out, shining its light directly on Joe. He is a prisoner inside the fenced area. Then a gun comes out, pointing at Joe!

There is nothing we can do to help him. There is something I can do to help us. I start my VW bug's engine and drive away.

Ralph looks back and says, "They are not following us!"

We quickly disappear around the corner and zigzag our way through a neighborhood, ditching imaginary police cars. We return to the high school dance with two bottles of wine and no Joe. Full of panic, we try to blend in with the dance crowd. A few minutes pass.

Murmuring starts. People start leaving the dance. I go out to the gym front door overlooking the parking lot. People are getting in their cars and going somewhere. I have a bad feeling. It quickly gets confirmed.

"Somebody is sitting in the back of a police car at the liquor store down the street." One of my classmates says, walking by. That is where people are going.

Being the clever criminal, I return to the scene of my crime by hopping into a car with other friends. We drive to the liquor store.

A crowd is growing in the liquor store parking lot. I loiter around the rear. I want to see without being seen.

Joe is sitting handcuffed in the backseat of the police car. His head bows down. I can't imagine what he is thinking.

My heart beats wildly. My brain is wild with nonsensical thinking. There is no way to help Joe. There is no way to help Ralph or me.

One of the police officers asks loudly, "What are the names of the other two people?"

Another police officer responds with Ralph's and mine full names.

Joe will later claim he suffered police brutality before he gave them our names. I dunno, maybe.

"We are so screwed!" I think.

The high school crowd murmurs in recognition of the names. I begin to feel the walls of prison closing around me. What to do? I leave the parking lot before too many people recognize me. Back at the school dance, I try to develop options for action.

Surrendering myself to the police at the liquor store parking lot is never considered. I am a condemned man with Teenstupid thinking. My decision is final. I will go to Tim's party and enjoy my last few hours of freedom. Ralph makes the more mature decision. He goes home.

I try to enjoy myself at Tim's party. My two bottles of wine quickly disappear. Others can enjoy them. I am not in the mood now. People approach me and offer sympathy for my predicament. I feel like I am on death row, and it is my last day.

Tim comes up and tells me Ralph telephoned. There were no cell phones or contact lists in those days. Phone communications are done house-to-house on landlines. We memorize our friends' home phone numbers. I go to Tim's kitchen phone and call Ralph. The Anaheim police called his home and want him and his parents to come to their station the next morning at 10 AM. They will arrest him. They tell him to pass the same message to me.

I hang up the phone and say goodbye to my friends. Everyone thinks serious jail time is in front of me. I don't know when I will see them again. The drive home is solemn.

My parents are out for the evening. I sit at our kitchen table and wait for them to come home, trying to come up with excuses and stories that make me appear innocent. The effort fails. It is time to tell the truth.

It seems to take forever for them to come home. They finally do. I greet them in the kitchen. Right away, they know something is up. I never stay up late to greet them.

"The Anaheim Police Department wants us at their headquarters tomorrow at 10 AM." I start.

"Why is that?" My dad cautiously asks. Mom stands in wide-eyed silence.

I tell him the story. They both have a curious look on their face. It is a look I have not seen since I enjoyed smoking a cigar in front of them at the age of five.

I end my mostly truthful story. It is quiet.

"We will see you in the morning. I am sure things will work out." My dad quietly says.

I toss and turn all night. Am I going straight to jail after my arrest? Will I be in this bed tomorrow night? What happens if the school finds out? Questions with no answers bounce around in my head. The relief of morning arrives.

We get up and go to the police station. The car ride is quiet. Once we arrive at the police station, we go to a small room and wait. A detective enters and introduces himself. He sits down and asks me what happened the previous night. My parents lean forward as they listen.

"Thank God I told my parents the basic truth last night," I think.

I tell the detective the same story I told my parents. He takes notes as he listens.

He says, "Your story lines up pretty well with the other two boys. All three of you have a clean record. We are arresting you for petty theft, which is a misdemeanor. That is better than the original charge of felony burglary. You are on probation until you turn 18. Then your juvenile record is sealed. You will start life as an adult with a clean record."

I have never been so happy to be 17! So are Joe and Ralph. Our parents are more relieved than we are. There will be no jail time. Hallelujah!

There is more conversation with my parents as we drive home. They tell me they are disappointed in what I did, but happy I told the truth. I will also do extra work around the house for the next few weeks as penance. They make it clear they never want this to happen again. I agree.

A few weeks later, I am with my friend, Greg. His parents are out of town for the weekend. He decides to host a poker game with several of our classmates. I call home to my parents to ask if I can spend the night at Greg's. They say it is OK, but I need to bring the car home that I drove to Greg's. They need it the next morning.

I drive my car home. Greg follows me in his car. We drop my car off and start driving back to his house in his car. I roll down the front passenger window of his car as we converse and make jokes.

A car drives up and comes alongside us on the passenger side. The driver is very agitated and rolls down his driver's side window.

"The next time I see you lurking around my apartment, I will beat the crap out of you and call the police!" The angry driver screams.

I look at him and say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The driver grows in his fury and says, "You know what I'm talking about!"

I motion for the enraged driver to go away as I roll up my window.

"This conversation is over," I think.

Greg and I exchange questioning looks as we continue driving. We have no idea what the guy is talking about. We start to laugh. The other car veers away and disappears.

We share our story with our friends at Greg's house. They were playing basketball in Greg's home driveway while we were away. Randy, Joe, Rick, Mike, and others join us as we start dealing the cards for poker. We buy poker chips with our money. One of us makes a joke about the police arresting us for gambling with money in Garden Grove, Greg's hometown. We laugh and continue playing our illegal activity for a couple of hours.

There's a knock at the front door. Greg tells one of us to answer the door. He is busy dealing the cards. Rick gets up and answers the door.

Rick says, "Greg, you'd better come here."

It is the Garden Grove police department. They are asking for Greg Amendola. He goes to the door.

"Were you driving your car a few hours ago in Anaheim?" They ask.

Greg answers in the affirmative.

"What were you doing there?"

Greg tells them our story. They ask for me. I go to the door. They ask us to step outside. It is lightly raining.

There are a few police cars in front of Greg's home. Some of his neighbors are starting to pay attention.

The police informed us about a complaint they received. It states that two men in a car attempted to burglarize an apartment in Anaheim. The apartment's occupant gave chase to the two escaping men. The getaway car matches Greg's car description and license plate. The license plate number leads them to Greg and his home address.

We tell them our story. We admit to our interaction with the driver of the other car. We have no idea who he is or what he is talking about.

One of our friends, Randy, comes out the front of the house carrying two jackets. He wants to help protect us from the rain. He begins to approach the officers and us.

"Stop right there!" One of the police officers yells.

Randy stops, raises his hands, and says, "They are only jackets, I don't have anything else!"

A few policemen approach him and inspect the jackets. I hope Randy examined the jacket pockets before coming out. They grab the jackets from him and give them to us.

The police ask us to sit in the back of a police car while they attempt to figure things out. At least we are out of the rain.

Greg and I sit in the back of the police car. Our high school buddies stand in front of the house after putting away the poker chips.

Greg and I know we are innocent. We believe in our criminal justice system. Exoneration will come soon. We are not worried and find the situation hilarious. Our naïveté is dangerous.

We get bored sitting in the car waiting for the police officers to determine our innocence. Our Teenstupid minds start to work. We begin to wonder if they are secretly recording our conversation.

We speak into the car door handles, headrests, and interior lights, saying, "Testing, testing, one, two, three."

One of the police officers sees us and opens the door, saying, "What are you guys doing?"

We go silent as he closes the door. We start to laugh. Police custody is fun this time around.

A few minutes later, a Garden Grove police officer approaches. I am uneasy about the look on his face.

"Since the incident took place in Anaheim, we have been talking to the Anaheim Police Department. They informed us that a Michael Freeman has a police record for petty theft. Are you that Michael Freeman?"

The fun of this situation is gone. I gulp as I answer in the affirmative.

The police officers confer. It takes a while.

They decide to release us and tell us, "We will be in touch."

We join our classmates and go into Greg's home. The police disappear, and things seem to return to normal. We pull out our poker chips. Our game continues into the night.

The next day, I get home and tell my parents about the incident in Garden Grove. They do not seem worried.

A week later, I am driving my green-and-white 1959 Rambler station wagon with the large fins with my friend, Mike. We are taking a shortcut through a Fullerton neighborhood to get to our destination. I make a wrong turn and have to turn around. I do not want to drive all the way to the end of the cul-de-sac. It is far away. I look for a convenient place to do a U-turn in the narrow neighborhood street. I notice a house with a U-shaped driveway and turn into it. I figure this is the easiest and fastest way to turn around. As we get to the top of the U-shaped driveway, we see a few adults and children working in the garage.

Mike and I give them a friendly wave as we drive by and disappear down their driveway to the street. We turn onto the street and drive on to our Fullerton destination.

The next morning, I wake up and go up the stairs to our family kitchen.

My mom says, "The police department called today."

"Which one," I ask, "Anaheim or Garden Grove?"

"Fullerton!" She says.

I am flabbergasted. What is going on?

"Is there something you need to tell your dad and me about?" She sadly asks.

"No," I reply.

The Fullerton Police Department wants you to call them at this phone number this morning. She hands me the kitchen phone. I dial their number.

She and my dad listened in on my conversation. They tell me there have been a series of burglaries in that neighborhood. Mike, I, and my car generally fit the description of the burglar's vehicle.

"Yeah, right!" I think. "There must be dozens of green-and-white 1959 Rambler station wagons with large fins driven by long-haired teenage boys in Fullerton!"

I explain to them what happened. They used the Rambler license plate number to track down the registered owner, my dad. Since we live in Anaheim, they checked with the Anaheim Police Department and uncovered my recent arrest. They put two and two together and arrive at five, thinking they had their man. Me.

The conversation proceeds for a few more minutes. The Fullerton police officer says he will be in touch as things develop.

My friend, Mike, tells me he will never drive with a convict again. I am not sure if he is serious.

I learned two critical life lessons. Speaking the truth is best, and reputations can be as sticky as contact paper. It takes a long time to deserve a good reputation, and a few seconds to earn a bad one.

No police department calls my parents and me again.

And then I had teenage sons.

 

Caruso by Ricki T Thues

Caruso

 

Caruso loved everyone he met. His interest in you was genuine and focused.

Sometimes it was hard to learn about Caruso, so understated his ego, so intent his interest.

 

When Caruso questioned himself, he often knew the answer. He was like losing a twin brother at birth and acquiring both the dominant and the deferential personalities of both. In conversation, you never knew who was in control. Was it you as the center of attention or Caruso as the puppeteer?

 

I met Caruso at a local bar. He walked up to the bar and took the stool next to me. He was dressed in a smart suit and well-groomed. His disarming smile was immediately captivating.

I turned to him and said, “Hi, I’m Thomas. Do you come here often?”

“Yes, I’m a local businessman. Nice to meet you, Thomas… or do you prefer Tom?”

“People call me Thomas.”

“Names are important, Thomas. I once read a novel that included a conversation with a tree. It took the tree twenty days to say its name. Do you like fantasy?”

“Oh yes. I love to read Ursula LeGuinn.”

“Which book is your favorite?”

“Actually, three. The Earthsea trilogy tells the story of a wizard from his birth to his death and his relationship with a dragon.”

“Tell me more,” said Caruso. He had me retelling the highlights of the books I love so well.

 

In the middle of my story, a friend from work walked up and sat on my other side. I gave him a nod and finished my thought.

Dillan listened to my story and said, “How can you like those fantastical tales? You should be more grounded in reality.” I gave him a Spock eyebrow.

“Oh Dillan,” I said. “This is my new friend Caruso.”

Shaking hands, Caruso said, “Hello Dillan. Speaking of grounded, what types of books do you like to read?”

“I like biographies, especially about people in my field.”

“That’s a great way to get ahead. When I am learning a new skill, I always seek out an experienced mentor who is already adept. Who do you admire in your field?”

“I am in AI and computing sales, so I look up to Jensen Huang of NVIDIA.”

Caruso asked me, “Wouldn’t it be fun to ask an AI to write a fantasy tale starring Huang as the hero?”

“Should he be a knight, a king, or a wizard?” I quipped.

“What do you think, Dillan?” asked Caruso. “When it comes down to it, fantasy is about human beings. Do you think your AI could write that story?”

The rest of the conversation was Dillian musing about what kind of wizard Jensen Huang would be.

 

Dillan can sometimes be abrasive. There were people at the bar who I wouldn’t think a good fit for Dillian. One of them was Sally. She is quiet, the definition of a wallflower. When I saw her across the room, I waved and told Caruso, “Sally is shy, but an excellent AI engineer.” She was dressed plainly, her hair pinned up in a utilitarian do. Her eyes shone with a pretty, intelligent sparkle. She hugged her hand to her side and gave me a small palm wave. Caruso looked at me with raised eyes. He struck across the room with a focused intent. People instinctively parted to let him through. I watched as Caruso shook Sally’s hand, chatted briefly, then led Sally back across the room to my growing circle of friends. Dillan and I stood and the four of us sat at a table nearby.

 

Dillan knew Sally. “How’s the geek squad?” he said in a mild taunt. She hung her head a little and managed a stuttered “F-fine.”

“Sally is the finest coder I’ve ever met,” I said.

Caruso asked, “What kind of project are you working on, Sally?”

Her eyes lit up as she said, “It’s a specialized chatbot that will write magazine articles. We call her MagChat.”

“Dillian was interested in an AI writing a fantasy story casting Jensen Huang as a wizard. Is that something your bot could do?” asked Caruso.

“Well, yes,” she said, now excited. Turning to Dillian, she said, “If you can describe the characters and the plot, my chatbot can write the story. Just use facts you know about Huang’s management style and personality, and MagChat will do the rest.”

“Sorry about the geek squad comment. I was just joking,” Dillan said to Sally sheepishly. “This sounds like a fun story.”

“Come by Engineering sometime and I’ll show you the system.”

Dillan asked Sally if he could buy her a drink. As he stepped up to the bar, Sally let her hair down. Caruso gave me a wink.

 

Caruso wove himself through all the conversations. He would throw out a tidbit of himself as a catalyst to bring out the best in others. One of the men at a table near our group stood up and smiled down at us. “My name is Fred, call me Freddy. May I join you?” I motioned to the empty chair and Freddy said, “Sorry to eavesdrop. I used to work as a hardware engineer at NVIDIA and knew Jensen Huang pretty well.” Freddy sat down.

“I know a little about fiction plot lines,” said Caruso. “I’ve done some writing and know that solid characters are essential in a story. How would you cast the Huang fantasy story Freddy?”

“Well, I like Huang as the wizard. His engineers can be his acolytes. I would cast the ChatRTX AI as the dragon. The NVIDIA LLM expert, Nancy Agrwal, will be the princess who was kidnapped by the sorcerer Elon Musk for her engineering expertise.”

 

Sally took out her tablet and asked Dillan for a few details about Huang. She added the cast of Freddy’s characters. Then she asked MagChat for an outline of a fantasy story. The following appeared on her tablet:

 

Title: The Wizard of Silicon Vale

I. Setup

•           Silicon Vale: A magical kingdom powered by enchanted circuits.

•           Huang Jensen: The wizard, guiding engineers as his acolytes.

•           RTX: A dragon whose power can reshape reality.

•           Agarwa Nancer: Princess and LLM sorceress, key to controlling the dragon.

 

II. Conflict

•           Villain: Sorcerer Muskrat Nole, rogue technomancer seeking Agarwa to exploit her knowledge and enslave the dragon.

•           Inciting Incident: Agarwa is kidnapped, angering the dragon and threatening the kingdom’s magic.

 

III. Quest

•           Objective: Rescue Agarwa and restore balance.

•           Challenges:

•           Firewall Mountains (glitches and rogue programs)

•           Desert of Deprecated Spells (forgotten, dangerous magic)

•           Mechanized Fortress (Elon’s enchanted hacking machines)

•           Dragon’s Role: A powerful ally, but only responsive to Agarwa’s guidance.

 

IV. Climax

•           Huang confronts Muskrat.

•           Agarwa deciphers the dragon’s language, freeing it to defeat Muskrat’s schemes.

 

V. Resolution

•           Agarwa returns as princess. She becomes an apprentice of Huang, mentoring acolytes and guiding ChatRTX.

•           Kingdom stronger, with foreshadowing of future adventures.

 

Sally passes around the tablet. Dillan’s mouth drops open. He stammers, “T-This has such a real-life parallel.”

Caruso smiled, “Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.”

“Just barely,” said Sally. “Let’s meet in my Engineering office tomorrow, and you all can help me turn this into a fleshed-out story. MagChat will be thrilled to give it a go.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

“I would love to join you, if that’s all right?” asked Caruso.

We told him the address of SpecialTech and agreed on a time. Caruso ordered another round of drinks.

 

The party started to wind down. Caruso asked, “Anyone want a bite to eat? I know a nice little restaurant right down the street.”

Everyone in our circle chimed in with an enthusiastic “YES.”

 

We followed Caruso out of the bar and strolled down the street. The night was young and our little group was famished.

 

Caruso stopped in front of the Green Table, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a beautifully painted emerald green door and a lighted light green lace-curtained window. He bowed and gestured toward the door with a flourish of one arm. Magically, a Maître d’ opened the door and invited us in. Alfred was the picture of quiet authority, polish, and hospitality. He was formal in his black, finely tailored tuxedo jacket, bow tie, and crisp white dress shirt. There was the requisite linen towel over his left forearm. Alfred looked at Caruso and said, “Sir?”

“These are my friends, Alfred. Please prepare my table. “It is ready, sir. Please follow me lady and gentlemen.” He turned on a heel and we all followed him into the classy restaurant and through a back-room door.

 

The room was a scene out of The Godfather: old-world refinement, linen tablecloths, subdued lighting, polished wood, and a sense of exclusivity. As we were being seated, Caruso said, “Alfred will take care of you. I couldn’t run this restaurant without him,” then turned and disappeared through a side door. Alfred took our drink orders and disappeared as well.

 

“What a surprise,” I said.

“Who is this guy anyway?” asked Dillan

“I like him,” said Sally.

Freddy said, “He owns this place?”

 

Alfred returned with our aperitifs.

 

Just then, Caruso came through the kitchen door, arm in arm with the chef.

“This is Graham. He is the heart of the Green Door. Graham, some new friends, Sally, Freddy, Dillan, and Thomas.”

“My pleasure,” said Graham. “I would like to prepare one of my gourmet favorites, Salmon en Croûte. Would that please the table?”

We all nodded and Graham disappeared.

 

The Salmon en Croûte arrived at the table like a small ceremony. The pastry was burnished and golden, its surface lightly blistered, giving way beneath the knife with a soft, buttery sigh. Steam escaped, carrying the scent of herbs and sea—dill, lemon, and the faint sweetness of the salmon within. Inside, the fish was pale and tender, held in quiet balance by a layer of greens and cream, protected and ennobled by its crisp shell. It was a dish that spoke of patience and restraint, of warmth carefully contained, and of elegance achieved not by excess, but by craft.

 

An after-dinner digestif was served. The gentle herbal sweetness of the yellow Chartreuse echoed the subtle herbs of the salmon. When everyone finished sipping the Chartreuse, Caruso said, “The dinner check is covered. Thank you all for a lovely evening. I look forward to our meeting at SpecialTech tomorrow.

 

The next day, we all arrived at SpecialTech. Sally fired up MagChat. With subtle nudging guidance from Caruso, we disparate five pitched in to create a gripping fantasy story. 

 

Sally pulled some strings with Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine. The story was published the following month, bearing MagChat’s and all five of our bylines.

 

The night of the publication we all met at the Green Door. We had a delicious dinner that couldn’t be beat. Our pride of “The Wizard of Silicon Vale” was tangible. The evening was filled with celebration of our new friendships.

 

Caruso raised his glass. “To all of you.”

“And to you, Caruso!”