Grizzled Old Warrior

I strutted into the saloon, pushing the creaking ancient wood-slat swinging doors aside as I came in from the brightness of the outside. Every eye in the place fell on me as my own adjusted to the dimness of the interior. The heavy planks on the floor were unfinished and worn over from all the boots dragging over 'em, but the bar was polished and shone like water. The great mirror over the wall behind it reflected my silhouette backlit by the hazy gray light outside.

It was overcast and chilly in the mid-November day. There was a howlin' wind whippin' tumbleweed and rattlin' shutters through the town. It helped shake the dust from my clothes and hair. My dry lips and parched throat wanted whiskey, and plenty of it. My purse told me maybe one or two shots was about it.

It'd taken me a week to get here from my home in Oklahoma, but I heard he was the best there was. Perched himself in Kansas, just south of Witchita. I'd bested every gun I'd come across, and I was ready to prove that I was the finest around. But he stood in my way.

He was known through the west. Steely nerves, steady hand, quick slappin' and lightning aim. Hadn't had to actually pull the trigger in over a decade, they said. He'd just get the drop on ya, no matter how fast you thought you were. He'd have it there ready, just in case you wanted to push the issue, take it all the way. Some said he wasn't human; too fast to be a man, they said. Must be some wraith, or spectre haunting the prairies. All I know is, without gettin' here to try it, my name'd never be higher than second on that list of the best. I wanted to see if he was everything he's supposed to be for myself, and let the chips fall where they may.

Ol' Stan Lichtner, on one o' his trips through town, told a couple of us down at my local waterin' hole that he'd seen 'im in action, in person. Some young gun come into town lookin' to gun 'im down, and wouldn't take no one's word about his speed. So that young boy found him right here, in this very saloon where I was just now steppin' through the door, sittin' on a corner stool and just watchin'. The madam offered the treats of her girls, the bartender offered booze -- nothin' was going to sway the young 'un from his mission. He just kept at the old man, then started threatenin' everyone else. Said he'd shoot someone everytime the old man told him "no," and when everyone in the bar was dead, he'd start goin' through the streets.

Well, I guess that done it for 'im, 'cause Stan said he got up, fixed 'is hat tighter on his head and strode out the doors behind the kid. They faced off in the street, and the kid got all jacked and edgy, ready for the deed. When the madam said "draw" all the kid heard was a whisp of worn leather and the click of the gun metal. He was staring down the barrel of the old man's cannon before he could get his own rig free from the holster. Old man just eyed him, raised his eyebrows to ask the question. You know, making sure the kid had the belly for it an' all. He didn't. He put up 'is hands and left town with 'is tail 'tween 'is legs like a whipped dog.

Everybody knew Stan Lichtner was a lyin' piece o' shit, and nobody believed nothin' he said, but we all hung on every word of that story. Right then, I knew I was comin' to Kansas to find this man an' see for myself.

I eyed the crowd real careful, lookin' over each face. I didn't have a picture of 'im or nothin', but I figured he'd stand out. I held them doors open for a long while when someone patted me on the shoulder. I about jumped outta my skin but didn't yelp. I had to stay cool.

"'Scuse me," a gravely voiced murmured next to my ear, "you're blocking the door, stranger."

I turned around deliberate and slow, and stared into the coldest, blackest eyes I'd ever seen. They were sparkling and lively, but deep as the night sky in the high prairie. The deep lines webbed his eyes, nestling them softly under his bushy white brow and light, wispy hair that rode across his forehead like those frail, thin clouds in an autumn sky. The heavy lines around his mouth showed me he knew how to laugh, and the creases up and down from his lips told me he knew how to smoke. The strong, firm, gnarled hand on my shoulder conveyed both strength and control. His smile told me he didn't worry, and the badge that winked the light spilling from the deepening clouds piling overhead told me he didn't have to.

It was HIM. I didn't need a picture to know him. His every move, every breath, every heartbeat told me this was the man I'd come lookin' for.

He eyed me for a moment, and as I stared back with as little expression on my face as I could manage, the smile slowly faded from under his mustache and beard. He drew a long sigh and stepped back just a hair, settling his weight when he knew he wasn't goin' into that saloon.

"I guess you come lookin' for me?" he said slowly, and his voice was softer than I thought it'd be. It was gentle, and almost kind. I don't know what I was expectin', exactly, but this wasn't it. He seemed like he might actually be ... I dunno. Nice, maybe. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I nodded slowly, never takin' my eyes off him. I half-smiled at him. "You'd guess right about that, then," I said. "I come up from Oklahoma to find you. I heard you're the best."

"Lemme guess," he said, sneering into the distance between us, not really focusing on me, "YOU wanna be the best, right?"

I snorted and shook my head. "No," I said, "I reckon I AM the best, and I'm here to prove that."

He burst out laughing then, and I could hear the shuffle of feet over that dry, dusty wood floor inside the bar as curiousity overcame their distance and distrust. They were startin' to crowd inside so they could see us just on the boardwalk outside under the eaves, the wind just kissing us cold.

"Kid," he said, "I ain't the best. Best at what? What's there to be the best at?" He shook his head again, then leveled his eyes at me. "The best at what YOU want is the Reaper, and none of us get away from him for long. Eventually, he comes for us all. I got mine comin' same as you an' everyone else."

I looked down, adjusting my worn and weathered old hat on my head, keeping my long hair out of my eyes. "Well," I said slow and soft, tryin' to convey calm, "until I beat you, I can't be counted where I wanna be. I figure you and I had a date with destiny from the beginning, and today's that day."

He just shook his head again, slower, and turned his mouth up snidely.

"Well," he said at length, "I guess I can stand here all day and debate this with you, but seems to me your mind is set. Do you want a whiskey first? You look like the road's still on you."

I felt the cracking of my throat when I swallowed. "If it means you ain't gonna try and wiggle outta this thing, then yeah, I'd like a whiskey. Otherwise we can do this right now." I wanted to make sure he knew he wasn't getting away from me.

"All right, then," he said, "let's get a shot first. I ain't run from a man in all my years. I don't reckon I'll run from you either."

I nodded and he gestured like a genteel southern man for me to step inside. I did, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight on end. I was tight and listening for ANY indication that he'd draw on me with my back turned.

He didn't. I figured out later, he wouldn't've. Never.

We stepped up to the bar, and every eye was on us. I was used to it by now. The man behind the bar, with his long waxed mustache and tight vest, thinning hair slicked back against his scalp, came up when we leaned against that polished surface, thumping our soles on the brass foot brace running under the stools.

"Whiskey, Jed," he said smoothly to the barkeep, "for both of us."

"On the tab, Will?" the barkeep said, and he nodded.

I learned two things right then: his name was Will, which didn't seem to sit right on him somehow, and he was confident he was comin' back to pay that tab. I nodded approvingly; the surer he was, the more he'd be surprised.

The barkeep slid two shots at us from down the end of the bar, and I snatched one as it passed and let the second go on. He caught it smooth as silk and never spilled a drop.

I turned to face him when I caught his motion out of the corner of my eye. He raised the tiny glass to me.

"To life," he said. "May it be long and happy."

I dipped my head in acknowledgement of his toast, and we threw back the shots together. It went down slick and warm, and spread through my empty belly and lit the life fire back in me. I'd been on the road lean and hard, and the liquid washed down like I'd swallowed a beam of sunlight. It soothed every nerve in me as it settled into me sound.

He licked his lips politely, tasting the last of the droplets, then stared at the bottom of the glass for a moment.

"Well, then," he said softly again, "I guess you'll be wanting to get this over with."

I didn't reply. He drew a long breath in through his nose and hitched his gunbelt up, pushing his coat tails back at the same time, expanding his chest with air. Then he looked at me dead in the eye, and those laughing, dancing eyes I'd seen before were now as cold as a grave in winter.

"Let's go," he said, his voice emotionless and stony.

I dipped my head again, and he turned and walked without hurrying out those swinging, creaky doors, with me a step behind him. He paced in a practiced, rehearsed stride out from under the common eaves that ran in front of the street front buildings, and into the dusty dirt road that spanned through the town. He continued to walk toward one end of the street, and I instinctively went the other way. Eventually, we stood squared off from each other in the center of that powdery road, tiny dust devils playing up from our heels as we strode, the jangling gear of our gunbelts rattling in time with our steps.

He pushed his coat tail behind the heavy wooden handle that gleamed in what sunlight was left under the dense overcast, and he rested his hand in a habitual way on it.

"You sure you want this, son?" he said, and even though he spoke softly, it was like the wind carried the breath of his words to me. I thought about it, just then -- and only then -- for a second. No more.

"Yeah," I said firmly, and it was only then that I noticed the crowd that had spilled onto the street under the eaves on both sides of the road. They stood safely away and out of the weather, the cool air wet with rain that hadn't fallen but would.

He sighed again, and I heard him as well as if he'd been right next to me. "Maddy," he called, and one of the whores from the bar stepped to the front of the crowd from the saloon. She was short, but her bosoms spilled nearly out of the tight bustier, the big feather on her head whipped in the breeze, and her skirt was cut up the front so that her milky, rich thigh showed.

"Yeah, Will?" she yelled back.

"You start it off, hon," he said quietly, and she nodded.

I spread my legs, pushing my coat back behind my holster and out of the way of my hand, and my fingers instinctively twitched over the familiar cold handle of my piece. I felt my heart racing and willed it to slow down, settle into a rhythm. I felt my breathing get controlled and deliberate. My ears were ringin' with the adrenaline in my veins. I hunched down just a touch, cat-like and ready to spring.

He just stood there calmly, his face completely blank and his hand hovering over the handle of his own shinin' silver unit. He never twitched, and I swore he didn't even BLINK.

"Ready?" Maddy called.

We both dipped our heads slightly to acknowledge her.

"DRAW!!" she screamed.

What I thought I saw was impossible. I was moving FAST -- faster than I'd EVER moved. I pulled the gun free and my arm swung in the same smooth motion as it raised the barrel toward him. Watching in slow motion, like time was standin' still, his hand snatched his piece out of the holster and his arm bent and locked dead on me before I'd finished getting my weapon in position.

But I wasn't going to make the mistake the kid that came to town before me made. I wasn't goin' home with my tail 'tween MY legs.

I squeezed the trigger.

I knew I'd missed the instant I fired. It was too soon, but he was on me already, impossibly, incredibly fast, blindingly fast, like lightning from a summer storm. The bullet whizzed by and tore the fabric of his coat just next to his ribs, but I didn't kill anything but the coat. The INSTANT I fired he squeezed one off too, and he was ON target.

It hit me in the side, barely above my gunbelt, and I felt the hot metal burn through me like fire, the force of the lead spinnin' me on my heel and takin' me down. It didn't hurt as bad as I figured, and I wondered for just a second why he didn't hit the head or the heart -- he could've had his pick of targets.

I felt my mouth filling with dust and realize I'd fallen onto the road. Embarrassed, I struggled to stand, but only realized then that my body wasn't workin' right. I couldn't heft my weight up off the ground. My hands went under my shoulders but I couldn't muster the strength to push myself up. My head was still laying on the dirt, and just then, drops of rain started hittin' around me. There was an odd sound, through the ringin' in my head, and I realized it was the rain beatin' down on my coat back. I couldn't get up.

I heard his footfalls comin', and the crowd goin' back to whatever they were doin' before I got here. I knew then he was goin' to finish the job. I turned my face to one side and with everything I had in me, I rolled over, the fire rippin' through my side again like I'd been shot a second time. I lay there, pantin' like a horse for water, mouth dry and full of dust, and stared at the gray sky and the rain falling right into my face.

Then he stood over me and shielded my waterin' eyes from the light, his outline distinct and his black, shinin' eyes staring at me from under his hat, through that web of wrinkles in his face.

I couldn't speak, and he settled just beside me there, and lowered onto his haunches.

"Nah, I ain't gonna kill ya while you're down, young blood," he said softly. "In fact, I ain't gonna kill ya at all."

I was confused, and tried to form words, but he shushed me quietly. "Don't try to talk, now. I'll get Doc and he'll fix ya up. It ain't bad. I made sure it wouldn't be."

I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at him.

"We're all going to face the Reaper, son," he said. "You're good. You're as fast as I've ever seen, and with just a hair more time, it'd be me down there 'stead of you. You're going to take my place here someday, and you'll have to face the endless line of young bucks that want to make a name for THEMselves comin' after YOU."

I was fading, slipping toward what I thought was death, and he put his hand gently on my shoulder and squeezed.

"You did fine," he said, "and you'll have your day. It will come one day soon, and you'll be sorry you had it. Just like me. There is no joy in sending a young man to see the Reaper before the Reaper comes looking for HIM."

I slipped into sleep then, with his words echoing through my head.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction

Dingle Balls and Outhouse Walls

Sometimes revenge is the sweetest dessert.

My parents were always the type of people that never had a good thing to say about their own kids, and didn't mind insulting us in front of our friends. They also liked to embarrass us whenever they could. My dad would say how great this kid was at soccer, or how tough that kid on my 8th grade football team was, or how smart that kid over there seemed. He never had a kind word to say about me that I can recall. My mother, on the other hand, was the one that would take the thing you were most embarrassed about and bring it up in front of your friends. You know, like how much your ears stuck out, how bad your teeth were, your hair was a mess ... stuff like that. Whatever the weak spot happened to be. That was her thing. She would say insulting things about you and if you dared mouth off back, you got slapped -- or punched -- in the mouth.

A long time ago she had some kind of surgery. I don't remember if it was gall bladder surgery or what, but she couldn't hold a bowel movement to save her life. Everything was a diarrhea attack. It meant rushing home at break-neck speeds and having to listen to her inhale sharply in fear and pain as each successive wave of Hershey squirts pressed against her very weak sphincter. She'd sprint into the bathroom and lock the door and be in there for what seemed like forever. It was a regular occurrence in our lives.

When we lived on Bell Avenue in Georgia, things got real interesting, because there was only ONE bathroom. That meant if she tied it up taking a big splasher, we all had to hold it ... whatever "it" might've been. There were times I felt like I was going to wet myself before I got to go in there and whiz, and of course, there was always that charming aroma lingering behind her when she finally did give someone else a chance.

During our time there in Georgia, my parents bought a boat. I have no idea what make of boat it was anymore, but it was a 20 foot inboard ski boat. I think I found out about it one day when they showed up at school with it hitched to the back of the baby blue Oldsmobile Cutlass, pressing that poor old car's rear end toward the street under its enormous weight. It was blue, too -- kind of a sky blue from the bottom of the gunwale down. The top of it was white, like a lot of boats are. It had blue seats and a deep blue carpet inside, and the hold held all of our vests and bumpers for docking. In the deck there was a storage cabin for my mother's water skis and of course all the other boat cubby holes were in place too.

When we lived in California, we lived along the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, at the wide, dirty delta where they joined to dump into the San Francisco Bay. In Georgia, though, we were close to Lake Chicamauga. It was a huge lake that runs near Chattanooga, Tennessee, and is chock full of fish, especially large-mouth bass. So it was a boon for both parents; my mother liked to fancy herself a "skier", and my old man liked to fish. After my mother got enough skiing, or got too drunk to safely continue, the old man would fish. We'd spend the days out there and usually end up back home after dark sometime, exhausted and sun-dried.

Out on the water, the smothering wet plastic sheet of the humid southern air wasn't as bad. We had to watch for summer storms, but they were usually pretty evident in a short time. We'd be able to get to a safe pier somewhere along the lake and dock, find a restaurant and eat, and wait it out. You could fold out the seats in the boat and make little beds if you really needed to sleep a night on the water. It was pretty cool, but it didn't have a lot of amenities. It was essentially a ski boat, a boat you'd spend a day in, and then head back for the night.

So anyway, we'd spend a lot of time out on the water during the days when my father didn't have to work. He worked in shifts for the M&M/Mars plant in Cleveland, Tennessee, and every once in a while he'd end up with a string of time off, and we'd go boating. Mom would ski, Dad would fish, and the kids either did their homework or sat there trying to figure out what to do with ourselves. If it got really hot, we'd swim for a while. My mother always wore a light windbreaker jacket and jeans with those ridiculous tennis socks that just barely cover the foot in the shoe and have that stupid fuzzy dingle-ball hanging off the back over the mouth of the white tennis sneakers she had.

We were out once, cruising the lake, just doing the weekender thing. It was summer, so we didn't have homework, and my brother Ryan and I spent our time annoying each other and trying to see if we could reach down into the water from our seats and let the lake drag against our arms. We were out near the middle of the water when suddenly my mother inhaled sharply, making a loud hissing noise, and sat bolt upright in her chair, hands clutched to her chest, face drawn and gaunt.

My father looked over at her. "What?" he said, concerned. I didn't even know why he had to ask after so many years of marriage. She just looked worriedly back at him.

"Oh, diah?" he said, turning back to watch what the hell he was doing.

She looked away, then inhaled hissing again, stiffening her body. "Oh ... please ... " she pleaded with him.

"All right, hold on," he said, and punched the speed control of the boat full-throttle.

The boat's plane rose then flattened out again as it accelerated over the smooth water. My brother and I sighed in the back of the vessel; now it was a race to see if we could find a bathroom or a restaurant.

"OH!" my mother shouted suddenly, "OH MY GOD! I'MNOTGOINGTOMAKEIT! OHMYGODI'MNOTGOINGTOMAKEIT!!"

This drama wasn't unusual, but we took her more seriously when she suddenly stiffened her body rigidly, tightening her ass cheeks to try and help her rectum hold the flood in. My father swung the boat desperately to the port, heading into a cove, and didn't slow as he plowed through the bay toward the far end. It bent around and there was a tiny, naked dock ahead ... and standing a few yards back from the water's edge was a Port-a-Potty. An outhouse.

Any old Port-a-Potty in a storm, though. He cut the engine and let it glide into toward the dock, my mother whimpering and making gasping little desperation noises, squeaking about not being able to stand. My dad stood on the boat's gunwale and grabbed the cleats of the dock as the boat pushed forward, fighting hard not to let the boat slam into the dock. Me and Ryan were ordered to throw the bumpers over the side to cushion the blow, and finally my mother scrabbled over the top of the deck and jumped onto the silver-wood dock.

"Mom, I have to go too!" Ryan whined. "I need to go bad! Can I come with you??" He was whiny like her.

She rushed forward, just waving him on, and he waddled after her, jerking and twisting his life jacket as he ran. My mother pounded into the tiny plastic coffin and slammed the door behind her, leaving Ryan standing outside doing the crotch-pinch potty kid-dance.

My father sighed heavily and slumped down in his seat. It wouldn't behoove him to speak to me, so I stared off into the woods, the water and the sky alternately. Minutes rolled by. My brother began calling to my mother to please hurry, please hurry, he really had to go, please hurry. More minutes went by. Even though we were some distance from them, he could clearly be heard begging her again to hurry up, hurry up, he's gonna pee his pants, hurry. I shook my head, wondering why he didn't just go behind a bush somewhere, but Ryan was too stupid for that.

Finally, the door creaked open, and my mother came out, her face twisted into a grimace of disgust. I figured the outhouse was nasty, full of fecal-urine stink and hotter than an oven out in the naked spot of the lake shore. She walked away from the little latrine, and Ryan smashed in. I heard him yell "OOOOOHHHHHHH ..." in relief right through the building, then my mother's harsh "whisper" to be quiet. In a couple of seconds, he came out and was laughing hysterically.

"Somebody threw their SOCKS in there!" he bellowed, his voice booming and echoing over the surface of the water and being amplified. "It was GROSS, man!! There's poo all over 'em!!"

My mother, her mouth tight and drawn, grabbed his arm viciously and spoke into his ear, dragging him along with her as she headed back to the boat. She pushed him forward angrily and he clambered in, and she stepped up onto the gunwale to climb aboard, my dad reaching for her hand to help her.

And I noticed she wasn't wearing those stupid tennis socks.

"What happened?" my dad said, looking at her face.

"Nothing," she said tersely. "Let's get going, please."

"What is the matter?" he pressed.

"Nothing, I said!"

"What're you so pissed about?"

"There wasn't any toilet paper and it was disgusting, okay? Can we leave please?" she snapped.

I struggled with all of my might not to burst out laughing. Ryan was sitting on the other side of the inboard motor housing from me, staring at his lap. He never said another word, but I knew what'd happened. We all did.

She used her socks to wipe her diarrheic ass in a public outhouse. Ryan saw them in the putrid septic pool when he pissed on them, and bellowed her shame to the entire lake. Of course, no one was around to hear, and I never brought it up.

We motored on as though nothing ever happened, and I'm sure my mother thought that her secret was safe with her and my father. But, like I said, revenge is the sweetest dish sometimes. Now EVERYONE knows.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction, life, kids

Night Fishing

“Night fishing” is a euphemism from the south.

I don’t know what the heck it means; my father used to laugh about it with his cousin Gerry, who was Chubs’s dad. Gerry’d come over, kind of on a regular basis, and he’d sit out in the yard with my dad and mom and laugh, joke, and drink beer. My mother, of course, wouldn’t be outdone. She’d keep pace beer for beer with ol’ Gerry, and pretty soon she’d be hammered and slurring. Swaying and sloshing her way inside, she’d finally pass out on the bed or something. I don’t remember directly, but I guess this usually took place on weekends, because my father would stay up with Gerry after my mother lost consciousness and they’d laugh some more. Eventually, somehow, Gerry drove home.

Sometimes, Chubs would come with him. He’d hang out with my brother and me, and we’d try to find things to do to keep ourselves occupied. It was harder when it got too dark to stay outside. We had to find something we could do in the dark or in the house, and it was never any fun to be in the house with my slushy drunk of a mother. You never knew what she’d do when a few beers were in her.

One time Chubs and Gerry came early in the afternoon. His nasally little whining sister Missy didn’t come with them, usually. Ryan, Chubs and I spent our day getting around Bell Avenue’s surrounding neighborhood, heading south and across Greene Lake Road, just before it became Oak Avenue, and into an empty lot on the far side.

It was a hot day -- all of them in the south are. The Cicadas buzzing in the thick, lush trees rimming the area only made it feel hotter. My brother Ryan and I, not knowing what they were actually called, just called them “heat bugs.” It seemed like the more they screamed, the hotter it got. The lot bordering Greene Lake Road was overgrown with tall grass, bramble bushes and dense, malicious undergrowth that tore at your pants and feet as you tried to plod through. It left burrs, seeds and insects deposited all over your denim, and I could only feel sorry for anyone dumb enough to wear shorts. They might've been cut to the bone.

Twigs snapped beneath our feet as we pushed through, me leading the way with Chubs close behind and Ryan on his heels. It felt like I was exploring the African savanna, and the thick, wet air, dense with humidity falling from the Cadet-gray sky and dripping over everything like molasses, refused to let the sweat evaporate that pooled out of our skin. The sun, never clearly visible to my eye in the southern sky, hid behind his vaporous veil and taunted us as we tried to reach the point of our journey: a tiny, green pond in the middle of that empty lot.

It was tucked carefully behind brush and scrubby little trees, but I’d spotted it from the car one day on the way home from somewhere. So that day, after Chubs, Ryan and I couldn’t figure out what else to do with our times, we decided to go check out the pond.

At least it was a way for me to get away from home.

As we approached the pond, swatting at buzzing invisible insects and debris from the dusty lot, we heard a distinct sound. It was one that made all of us stop and stare at that murky green water.

A splash.

We watched the ripples roll away from the center of that little body of water where a single white patch of froth was dying, and we knew.

“A fish!” Chubs called out, grinning. “There’s a dad-dang ol’ fish in that pond!”

“Let’s catch it!” Ryan said merrily.

I nodded. “It’s too hot right now though. He’ll stay deep. We have to wait until later.”

“Yeah,” Chubs said, “let’s go night fishin’!” His thick Georgian accent made it sound like “naht fishin’.”

“Yeah!” Ryan bellowed, and just as he did, the water broke again and a new set of ringlets gradually moved apart on the water.

“Okay, let’s get our gear together. We have to wait until the moon’s high,” I said authoritatively.

I have no idea who made me an authority on night fishing. At that point in my life I’d probably caught a grand total of three fish, and none of them had been large enough to keep. And I’d absolutely never been night fishing before.

But, both of the others nodded in firm agreement.

A final pop of the water and a silent ring testified to the idea, and we were bound for home.

Ryan was about seven at that time. Have you ever tried to make a 7-year-old wait for something? It’s a nightmare. He whined, he complained, he made me want to smack him. The sun wouldn’t set fast enough for him. My mom and Chubs’s dad, meanwhile, were getting happily stupid as the hours rolled away. My mother was always easier to be around while drunk if someone else was there; just make sure you stay out of her way so you don’t piss her off. And God only knew what was going to piss her off, because my brother and I sure didn’t. So we stayed as far away from her as we could, but no matter where we went we could hear her cackling, loud-mouth laugh and we watched the sun sink on the horizon.

Eventually, we needed to eat. Still the sun hovered, seeming to grip the sky like a man hanging from a cliff, refusing to fall over the horizon. We played outside some more. We tried to watch TV, but in the days before cable, there wasn’t jack on during the summer and early evening. We tried to read comic books, but I only had a couple, and they were boring to me. I’d read them a thousand times. We played with our dolls -- I mean “action figures”. We drew pictures. Nothing worked, though. The earth had stopped spinning and it felt like the damned sun wouldn’t ever set.

We were chatting in our room about something when Ryan suddenly blurted, “Hey, it’s dark out!!”

We all bolted to Ryan’s bed, positioned just under the window facing north out of our bedroom. There was one facing west, too, but that one was buried beneath the smothering tendrils of a monster bush intent on world conquest.

Outside, the tiny bulb in the lonely streetlight cast a yellowish ring of warmth on the asphalt beneath it a few houses down the road. Houses had glowing amber patches set against the frames of pitch dark to mark their presence along the street, and the Cicadas had given way the to feverish chirping of crickets.

Night had fallen when we weren’t looking, and it was time to go fishing. After hours of tortured agony enduring endless strands of time waiting for this moment, we had enough time to prepare and then make our way through the thicket of the lot to that shiny, stagnant mega-puddle.

We raced out of the room and charged the kitchen. I quickly checked, as cabinet doors and the refrigerator banged open and closed, whether anyone was in the house.

My mother had passed out, nude from the waist up, face-first on her bed. She was loudly and wetly snoring so I opened the bathroom door wide, which meant I was closing the door to her room. Shaking my head, I watched as Chubs and Ryan were slapping bologna sandwiches together at a fever pitch.

“How many you want, JD?” Ryan asked as Chubs passed him another slice of bread. He slathered a load of mayonnaise on it and then set it beside him.

“I guess two,” I said, and joined the assembly line by slapping a slice of bologna on each set of sandwiches. I closed them all one by one as I did, and soon we had food for the three of us to go long into the night.

“Okay, that’s good, get some drinks,” I told Ryan. He was only too happy to obey instructions when it meant something for him, so he hurried back to the fridge and grabbed a few more cans of soda pop, one for each of us.

Chubs was putting everything into a grocery bag, which at that time were all paper. The loud rustling of the heavy brown bag was noisy and I put my finger to my lips to silence him.

“Quiet!” I said softly. “C’mon, let’s get our stuff and get going.”

My brother and I each had a pole, and we found a clunky old spare for Chubs among the others stored in the “spare room,” which was really a storage locker full of boxes and sundries that hadn’t been unpacked, weren’t able to find a place for, or simply weren’t needed in the rest of the tiny green asbestos-armored house. Without really thinking about it, I grabbed the tackle box, too -- a collection of fishing equipment and supplies my father had from when I was a little boy.

With Chubs carrying the bag of food, Ryan carrying the bag of drinks, me carrying the tackle box, and all of us armed with our fishing rods, we set off toward that mysterious pond on the far side of Greene Lake Road. As we crossed the yard, the glow from the fire at the end of the cigarettes our fathers were smoking turned our way.

“Where y’all goin’?” I heard Gerry ask.

“Night fishin’,” Chubs said. “Up the road here a piece.”

That brought a round of wheezing, uproarious laughter from both men. “Oh, night fishin’, huh? Well, good luck then.” I could tell by the way my father spoke he was being facetious and condescending. I decided not to retort.

“We’ll be back before morning,” I called over my shoulder.

“I’m sure you will,” he said, and more laughter chased us up the street as we set off for the pond.

We headed up the hill south and crossed Greene Lake Road for the second time that day, and as we watched the full moon crest over the trees in the distance, we started across that empty lot.

We’d had to work hard for it in the light. At night it was downright hazardous.

Ryan kept shouting “Ah! Ah!” every time his foot fell farther that he expected into holes or divots. Chubs and I kept shushing him, but he’d just whine that he couldn’t help it. Big clods of dirt reached out of the black and tripped us, making us stumble. The tangles of dense, malevolent undergrowth that had slashed at us during the day slithered around our ankles and bound us at night. We fought for every inch, scanning every so many steps for the reflection of the moon in the pond, listening for the splash of the fish in its cooling muck-filled waters.

I saw a clearing ahead, and I whispered that it was probably the pond. The water would be the only place where the thicket would be clear. Chubs craned his neck and Ryan stood on tip-toes, trying to follow my pointing finger into the blackness.

Finally they said they could see it, and they moved off ahead of me toward the clearing.

Distances are deceptive in the dark, though.

Ryan was ahead of Chubs and had taken about 10 steps when he screamed and flailed. I heard a slick, slopping sound and his grunts of disgust before he started screaming for help, he was falling, help, catch him, helphelphelp!

Chubs burst out laughing his hyena’s lilting laugh, but Ryan caught his wrist as he toppled, and the next sound I heard was a series of splashing into ever-deepening water. There was a wailing screech as Ryan sputtered and spat slimy pond water out of his mouth, and a split-second later I heard the water’s surface break again followed by more sloppy, mucking footfalls and rushing water as it pours off a wet body, then the wails of Ryan mixed with Chubs’s laugh.

“What happened?” I said.

“The dad-danged pond’s right here,” Chubs told me, trying to stop laughing. “We were past it before, I reckon, so me ‘n Ryan walked right into it.”

“I need to go home,” Ryan whined, fighting back tears, “I got mud in my socks and I’m all wet. I need to change clothes and get dry underwear.”

Chubs couldn’t stop laughing. “I cain’t change!” he giggled. “This is all I brought with me!”

The slip-slop, slip-slop, slip-slop of their footsteps all the way back home marked our passage back to tiny green house. When we got to the yard, the two men started laughing.

“Hey, you’re back,” Gerry spoke through his wheezing laughter. “An’ jus’ in time; c’mon, Chubs, we got to go.”

“Catch anything?” my father said, wheezing his laugh right along with Gerry. I guess the way you laugh in Georgia is just like Muttley in the cartoons.

I didn’t say anything as I put the tackle box and my rod away. Ryan made a B-line for the bathroom and closed the door behind him to get out of his sopping clothes.

I sat down on my bed and just laughed. I laughed and laughed for hours, until I finally drifted off to sleep.

I’ve never been night fishing again. And I still don’t get the joke.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction, life, kids

Bill vs. the Carp

Lake Berryessa is a big lake formed by the Monticello dam just east of California's Napa Valley. When I was a kid, my parents used to spend time with Bill's parents boating and fishing on Lake Berryessa, in an area known at the time as Spanish Flats. It had a dock, a bait shop and general store with a pier for boat fueling, a gravel road that led to those things, and I'll be damned if I can remember anything else about it.

When I was a kid, summers usually meant at least one extended trip to Lake Berryessa. It probably wasn't more than a few days, a week tops, but it always felt like a really long time. And the ride up there seemed long and boring too. We took long, winding roads up through the Napa Valley, passing under tree-canopy covered roads lined with ancient oaks and other deciduous trees. It was up and down hills all the time, my father towing our red Caravelle ski boat behind us with the big V-8 engine of the Bel Air station wagon laboring over the meandering blacktops.

I don't remember the sweltering heat, but I know it was there. The lake can get warm in summer -- like, 75 degrees, so you know the sun just bakes the water. That was a drought time for California, complete with water conservation mandates and penalties. We were even asked to recycle bath water, if you can believe that, and to avoid showering whenever possible in favor of baths. The legislature also wanted us to bathe less frequently, but most folks just flat ignored those stupid things.

I wasn't more than 8 or 9 at the time. I didn't know how to swim yet, so the summers were spent in either a Mae West style, bright-orange choker of a life vest, or, if I could convince my parents to allow it, in one of Bill's ski vests. The foamy interior was covered with a thick, paint-like covering to keep it water tight, and the pressing of the non-breathable surface on my skin made me sweat and itch. My swim trunks were usually not well-fitting either, so every time I stood up or sat down there was a ceremony of adjustment that had to take place.

During that time, there were still rumors and discussions about the specter of the Zodiac killer, who murdered a young couple on the lake a few years earlier. He'd never been caught, and many of the trips to the lake were tainted for me by the fear that my overly-paranoid mother exuded. She was particularly afraid of the prospect of sleeping on the boat, but the lake offered no other alternative. It wasn't like there were 5-star hotels rimming the area or anything. So many a night I drifted off to sleep with every sound shooting a startled burst of adrenaline through my veins. The pitch black and deathly quiet finally would overtake me and I'd sleep. In the morning, I'd awake, still alive and with both parents whole and intact.

Most of the time on the lake was pretty enjoyable, though. My mother's alcoholism hadn't really started to be a problem for me yet. At least, I can't remember it being one. Maybe she was less of a raging lush when she was there, or something. All I know is, Bill and I would do things and hang out there and have a good time.

Fishing was a major thing for my dad. He would go off by himself, either to the end of the dock where the boats were moored, or by the shore somewhere in a relatively secluded area. The Spanish Flats area was in a lagoon off the main lake, so you could wander past the dock and get to a little bay where the road didn't run. Sometimes he went there to fish. My mother was more of a skier, though, so he didn't get tons of time to fish. He had to drag her around behind the ass of the boat and watch to make sure the idiot didn't drown or lose a leg on a log.

One day, Bill and I spent our afternoon fishing too. We went to the bait shop, got some worms or nightcrawlers, and headed off to a quiet place to cast our Zebco-equipped rods out into the stillness of the no-wake area of the resort. Of course, neither of us knew a lot about fishing. Bill was mostly a city kid, from the urban sprawl that is supposed to be San Francisco's southwest suburb area. I was a goofy, unathletic dork who couldn't manage to hook a fish even when I did get a bite. So needless to say, we didn't catch much but the blistering rays of that blazing sun. We ended up coming back to the dock with a styrofoam container full of dead worms and a better tan, Bill with his well-muscled bare chest and me pulling and adjusting the sweaty life jacket and tugging endlessly on my shorts.

Bill was complaining about it to my father, parroting things he'd heard from his father -- the water level was too low in the cove, the pollution was up from all the boats, the fish population was down due to whatever ... stuff like that. The dusty, dry wood of the dock kind of echoed his sentiments under his bare foot while he tapped his toes impatiently, sort of ticked that we got nothing.

My father just chuckled at him. "You want to catch a fish, Sweet William?"

My father called Bill "Sweet William" as long as I could remember. I have no idea why, and I don't think Bill did either. Most everyone else called him "Billy", but my dad always had to be different. They teased each other and Bill would play practical jokes on them -- that's probably where the nickname came from now that I think about it. Bill was always doing something shifty and mischievous.

"Well, yeah, that's why I fish," he said, being ever the smart-aleck.

"Well, I can get you a fish, then," my dad said. Bill looked at him suspiciously.

"How? I told you nothing bit. Nothing."

"Need the right bait," my dad said wryly.

"Worms aren't the right bait?" Bill said, even more suspicious. "Don't all fish eat worms?"

"Not all of 'em," my dad said. He was sitting on one of those aluminum framed chairs with the nylon webbing that you saw at picnics and beaches, the ones that folded down into a small footprint to fit into the car, and pinched the hell out of your fingers on their way. Beside him was the cooler full of our food for the trip. Just a short car ride away was a general store, so for extended visits you could go get more supplies, but we usually lived out of the coolers when we were there. He was rummaging around in there for something, and when his hands emerged, wet from the melting ice inside, he held a piece of white bread and a can of 7-Up.

"What's that for?" Bill said, his attitude becoming curious and inquisitive. My dad had his attention now. Mine too.

"This is your bait, boy," he said patiently. As he spoke, he took the bread and mashed it violently into a tiny ball of dough that was so compressed and mushy it held its spherical shape in his palm. Bill leaned over to watch as my dad took his rod, found the hook, and poked it through the doughy glob. Holding the hook over the water, he pulled the tab of the can of pop off the 7-Up and poured the fizzy, clear syrup over the ball of bread. When the bubbles died he did it again, and finally a third time. The little doughy ball was wet and sticky with the soda.

"There ya go, Sweet William," he said. "Take this and cast it off the dock just about anywhere, and I guaran-damn-tee ya you'll catch somethin'."

Bill looked at him sideways. "You sure? With this?"

My dad nodded slowly. "With that."

Bill shook his head incredulously. "Okay ... if you say so."

My dad settled his bulk into the tiny chair more fully and it complained about it while Bill strode down the dock a few paces to an empty berth. He looked at me, and I shrugged. He shrugged back, then he pressed the line release button on the Zebco and the little ball of dough dropped into the water and vanished into the murky, aquamarine water. Just a few feet below the surface it vanished from view.

Bill sighed and sat down at the edge of the berth, plopping his chin in his palm with an I-feel-like-a-complete-idiot-for-fishing-with-a-dough-ball look on his face. "This is so dumb. How can you catch a fish with a --"

He never finished his sentence because his line snapped violently taut and the Zebco screamed as line was torn viciously out of its spool.

Quick as a wink, Bill jumped up and took the rod in both hands to steady his grip. "HOLY SHIT!" he burst out, "I've got a BITE!" I stood with him, eyes wide through my thick, horn-rimmed glasses, adjusting my ski vest over my skinny torso and fixing my swim trunks again.

He tugged on the line, firmly but not too hard, trying to set the hook. The instant he did, whatever was on the other end fought violently back, bending the tiny rod into a parabolic U-shape that dipped sharply toward the still surface of the water.

"Damn!" he cried, "it's heavy! Doyle, help! Help, Dad!" he was calling for the men to assist him. I knew then that, whatever he'd caught, it must surely have been the size of a Buick. If Bill couldn't handle it alone, it was Monstro the Whale.

His father poked his head up from the deck of their boat, and watched. "Whatcha got there, Will?" he said, smiling.

My father sauntered over with his hands in his pockets, laughing. "Got a bite, Sweet William?"

"Holy crap, what IS this thing?" Bill said, "I can't even reel it in!!"

My dad reached for the fishing pole. "Here, give it here," he said. Bill obediently passed him the rod, and he watched as the line swirled and zig-zagged over the surface while whatever was hooked frantically swirled about to escape.

Slowly, patiently, my dad began to draw the line up. He would allow the pole to dip toward the surface, then draw the pole back up and simultaneously wind the reel and retract some line. He'd repeat the process, and tell Bill and I to let the fish get some slack, then tighten it so he can't go back toward the bottom, then do it again. Some kind of redneck crap like that. We weren't really listening. We just wanted to know what the hell it was.

Finally, with a dramatic and heart-stopping splash, the mysterious captive breeched the surface of the water and showered us all with spray. Bill was shouting excitedly as my father handed him the pole again.

"You bring 'im in, Willie," he said, smiling. "He's a big 'un."

Bill was all grins as he struggled with the beast, its flashing scales and spiny fins breaking the water's surface as it fought to dive to the safety of the deep again. Bill pulled heavily, grunting with the effort as the big fish rolled over on its side as it tried to sound, its brass-coloring gleaming in the midday light. He called to his dad who was bringing a net, saying to hurry, his arms straining against the struggling giant that would not surrender.

His dad got on one knee, laughing and shaking his head, and my father was rolling in hilarity next to him. Bill's dad scooped down with the fishing net, and when he tried to gather the monster in, he stopped laughing.

It wouldn't fit in the net.

It was too big. Bill was panicking, his body leaning back as he struggled to hold the pole, still bent over and occasionally touching the water's surface.

"Dad, Doyle, what do I do? What do I do?" he said urgently. "I can't hold it up much longer!"

I put my hands next to his on the pole and offered whatever pathetic measure of strength I had in his effort to keep the fish from ripping the pole out of his hands. I could see the sweat dripping from his hairline in exertion, and he smiled briefly at me, grateful for the help.

My father and Bill's dad reached down together, and with one of them holding the end of the rod and the other clutching the line tightly, they grunted and heaved.

And Monstro finally cleared the surface of the water.

As they lifted it free, Bill wound the line in, making it possible for them to set the huge fish on the dock's shaded surface. It arched its body frantically, its empty, staring doll's eyes staring blankly as it bent into a C-shape and then suddenly contracted into a U-shape, slapping the slimy, spiny fins and tail on the dry wood.

A monster carp, lurking just below the dock the whole while. Not an eating fish, but certainly fun for sport.

Bill was ecstatic! He shouted victoriously as he stared at the leviathan. It was three feet long if it was an inch, and was so thick the body breadth came nearly halfway up Bill's shin. The scales were the size of thumb nails, and the sharp fin splines could puncture skin. The raw-meat red gills fanned out then collapsed as the fish gasped for oxygen and from exertion. My dad bent down and somehow managed to remove the hook from the fish's lip. Its tiny mouth worked opened and closed as if in relief from the pain.

"There ya go, Sweet William," my dad said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Thanks, man!" Bill said, "I'll never doubt ya again! You really know your fish!"

My father laughed. Bill's dad rumpled his hair affectionately. "Good work, son. Let me get the camera and we'll take a picture of you with it."

It was only a moment before he was back with an old camera (even at that time) in his hands. He fussed with it for a moment, the fish continuing to pound against the dock angrily with its arching, straining body.

"Okay, Will, hold the fish up so we can have a look at it," his dad said.

"I can't," Bill said disappointed. "It's too heavy."

"All right, then put your foot on it instead. That'll help give it some scale."

"Okay," Bill said happily, and he dropped the pole on the dock next to him. I moved aside so the shot could be just Bill. I was always camera shy anyway.

Bill balanced on one leg, lifting his right foot off the ground gingerly over the fish. He slowly and gently lowered the sole of his bare foot onto the slimy skin of the hefty fish.

The fish didn't like the victory celebration.

It slapped faster than ever before, faster than lightning, and when it did, the spiny, sharp tail poked Bill's foot hard. He yelped as blood oozed from the tiny wound, and the fish lashed out again. He wailed in fear and jumped aside.

The fish twisted its huge body in mid-air, in an amazing display of strength and athleticism, and with an effort that cannot be defined in earthly terms, it literally danced on the dock, flipping back and forth from one side of its body onto the other ...

... and managed to get off the dock and back into the water before any of us could react.

There was a huge splash, a whipping of the water into a frothy foam, and then silence. Bill watched, his face fixed in horror and shock, mouth agape.

We stood there watching for a long time before my dad came back over.

"There are other fish, Sweet William," he said.

Bill just nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction, writing, kids

Riffling through My Mind ... Again

I haven't really been keeping up with journaling; sorry about that.

I did some deciphering of my history today, and I have to say, I'm a little surprised at what I found. I was doing some chronological checking to make sure I wasn't off my nut doing my Georgia Kids Life blog stories, and I discovered that I've got an interesting time line of events running right through my life. Funny how I didn't notice any of them.

For example, the Vietnam war ended while I was in the 3rd grade. I don't recall any of it, really. I know it was the first broadcast war in history, and was on every night, and all that crap. I guess I was just shielded from it somehow. I never had really politically involved parents, and my father had already served his time nearly 10 years before the end of the conflict. I had an uncle in the military at that time, but he really didn't have a lot to say about it. He was on the USS Kittyhawk, so I don't think he saw much of the Vietnam that we've come to associate with that time. He wasn't in the jungles and surviving harrowing village scouting trips ... nothing exciting like that.

I do remember the oil crisis, but can't remember what year(s) that covered. It was in the Carter administration, so it had to be around '76, right? Or was it the Ford administration, which would have been between '72 and '76? My wife is much better at these things than I. I remember the bicentennial celebration of '76, and the tall ships sailing off New York (or was that DC?) on TV. I can remember things like Mark Spitz at the Olympics, and some of the Super Bowl games that were played (Steelers vs. Cowboys, Vikings vs. Raiders, Cowboys vs. Broncos, Redskins vs. Dolphins, crap like that in no particular order). I can remember movies ... Jaws, The Exorcist, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Star Wars, Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Rocky, The Legend of Boggy Creek, The Hills Have Eyes, The Black Hole, Alien, Star Trek: The Movie (or Motion Picture, or whatever the hell the title was), The Godfather I and II. And I can remember some great TV shows too. Things that are part of our culture now, but were only a dim memory for me until I was older: The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Happy Days, Gilligan's Island, M*A*S*H, Night Gallery, The Night Stalker, The Love Boat, Love: American Style, The Greatest American Hero, Spider-Man, Kimba the White Lion, Speed Racer, Ultraman, Johnny and his Giant Robot, The Banana Splits, Laugh-In, Hee-Haw, The Lawrence Welk Show, Saturday Night Live, and the whole plethora of Saturday morning cartoon shows that were composed entirely of 7-1/2 minute shorts. Not a single half-hour show among them.

I can remember snippets of things from my childhood -- some of them good, some not so good. Most not so good, actually. I can remember wetting my pants in 3rd grade because I was afraid of the teacher. Her response to children asking to go to the bathroom, and insisting they do that at recess, always seemed unreasonable to me. And her name: Mrs. Smith. She seemed like a nice lady, but I guess that was a peeve of hers. I actually did it twice before confessing it to my mother. She then had a meeting with the teacher, who changed the way she responded to me from that day until the end of the year. I'll never forget her, because after that, she didn't seem so scary, even though she was a tall, imposing woman that towered over my mother ... and probably my father, too.

I can remember being spanked once in first grade by the teacher for being out of control and fooling around, making people laugh. Can you imagine such a thing now? Hoo-hoo, the lawsuits! But it was fine then. And I remember my parents gladly signing the permission slip to provide corporal punishment as needed when that became a requirement not long after that. I never got spanked again, but I did that once. I can't remember the first grade teacher's name anymore, but I remember her face. If you're still alive and reading this, thank you. It made me a better behaved child in school. If you're not ... well, there it is.

I can remember Mrs. Mac(Farland) in 2nd grade; she was a large, lump of a woman that was matronly and kind despite her troll-like appearance. Nothing outstanding there to recall, I guess. I can also remember Mrs. Malloy, whom I had for both 4th and 5th grades. She was a "pressure-phobe." She didn't want to teach fractions, or have us participate in Science Fairs or Spelling Bees, because her daughter was forced to be in a Spelling Bee once and nearly (or did) suffered a nervous breakdown. She was kindly, and sweet, but my education sort of started to suffer at that point. Other students in the school were better spellers and farther along in mathematics, and when I visited a private school in 5th grade -- which I attended the following year -- I was completely lost in the concepts they were studying. When I brought this up -- because I was made a spectacle of and asked about my "visiting day" when I returned to my public school -- her answer was "Yes, we should be studying fractions, but really, how often do you need that? How often, really?" I don't know, Mrs. Malloy -- daily, maybe? Go figure.

Because of that, I never really grasped math. I think there was too big a leap for me somewhere along the way and I never fully caught up. I don't, of course, blame Mrs. Malloy for that, but if the foundations had been properly laid, perhaps things could have been different. On the other hand, my brother got the same opportunities I did, and the benefit of more years of private schooling than I did, and he's a dumbass, so maybe that had nothing to do with it. Anyway, I was very fond of Mrs. Malloy, and after that it was off to private school with me.

The concept of changing classrooms for different subjects, and having structured "periods", was odd to me. It took a lot of getting used to. After a time,of course, I didn't have to think about it anymore, because it was all dictated for you. Go to the room you're supposed to be in for your next class when this one is over, and that's it. High school was a new adventure in that, though. Despite the tiny size of the school, both structurally and in student body numbers, it took me time to figure out where I had to go and I always dreaded having to learn a new route to my classes. I guess, despite what I may have thought about myself, I've always hated and resisted change. I like my routines, evidently, and I don't like going new places, meeting new people and doing new things. Even today, I hate driving in a strange town or state, God forbid country, without at least someone to pass the time with or assist with road signs and map reading and such.

In 6th grade I made new "friends", which I supposedly had through high school, since a lot of us went to the same school as a logical jump to the next stage. Once a parochial school boy, always a parochial school boy. I found them to be nice, but things changed quickly for me after a short time. I was an outcast, and not widely accepted by most of the other kids. It wasn't as bad as it was in high school, where I was anonymous and sort of a loner in a school of only about 500 students, but it was always that way for me. I was just ... never able to fit it.

So many things ... so many. And yet, I struggle to find something to write in my blog. I think most of the problem is that I don't believe a lot of it's worth reading (maybe an audience would disagree, but I'm pretty boring overall). The rest of it is that I don't remember a lot of it clearly. I don't know if that's due to the chemicals I've ingested over my lifetime (I was a sickly kid and took no less than one experimental medication for it) or because I just don't want to remember a lot of it.

Hopefully, this post will spark something interesting. Tomorrow's the 4th of July, and so being off, maybe I can reflect tonight and let my fingers probe the darker recesses of my brain and see what I can find there that would be worth sharing -- and that I don't mind sharing.

See you all then, hopefully.