Boomerang

From Short Story, Feed the Chickens. He spent days in bed, rolling over and spending the nights there too. It was hot that summer, a “dry heat” as people sometimes praised it, but even in the cool breezes of a swamp cooler, he sweated the sheets to a soak. He struggled to sit up, could not dress himself nor move a chair. His children asked when he was going to be well again, and their mother said, “Soon”. A friendly barber, Red Cameron, came to the house to cut his hair and make conversation about town gossip, and they laughed at the stories of the day. His brothers and sisters also tried to rally his spirits, but he grew tired quickly, laughed less heartily, slept too easily. His wife now attended the chickens. His weakness, his diagnosis, his aimlessness left him silent on matters of life or death, yet she knew that she had to make contingencies. His dismal prognosis put her and the children at economic risk. Whatever the disease’s progression, their futures were intimately linked to it, and they needed to talk about it. But how? From Short Story, The River. He first saw her up close at the River, a narrow ribbon of water than ran fitfully and sometimes not at all across his end of the valley. If left unattended, it would sojourn into an apparent lowland then abruptly turn north and ooze its way up ancient waterways gathering finally to rest in the Tulare Basin. Its flow, perhaps knee deep in early summer, could fill quickly with the emptying of great rain pockets in the mountains to the east, growing strong and dangerous. Receding, it left humid, scented air hanging heavily above its banks, a refuge from the sagebrush and alkaline flavored dirt through which it ran. From Short Story, Conversation With a Cop. “You’ll be back,” the cop said, “Punks like you always are.” He said this with disgust on his face and a challenge in his voice. He handed Walt Farmer his watch, wallet and change, muttered another comment about going down the wrong road, and sent him on his way with, “See you again in what, about a month?” After a long night of restless tension, Farmer was getting out of jail. He was in no mood for insults, and some quick responses floated across his mind, but he said nothing. Whatever the words of the cop, he did not want to be in jail ever again, not ever. From Short Story, California Leavin’ In the outskirts of Albuquerque now, his mind refocused on driving. Eyes weary, he needed to rest a bit. He parked on the city square in front of the jail, hauled himself out of his well-worn seat, locked the doors on the Merc’ and lay down to doze on the lawn. Cool earth supported the entire length of his body, comforted it really, and Walt could feel in his weariness the little prickles of grass brushing up against his neck, reminding him of the uncertainty that lay at the end of this road. Far better than the future likely packed into the lives of those whose voices drifted down from the jail. What was he leaving? Small town culture, local friends, college roommates, family, home town work---all comfortable, but known. Leaving always meant arriving, and Peggy said that she was waiting. One could find any landscape in California, but his had been desert sagebrush and lizards, night time raids on gasoline field tanks, fog in the bogs, sprawling colleges, adolescent memories of fools and foolishness, even that night in jail, all best left behind. For him, California crumbled a little with every mile he covered. From Short Story, A Knock On the Door. Friendships can start in the middle of the night, and they can end there too. This one played out its life span on a small Boulder street which, in the form of a U, wound itself around a gently sloping curve, then emptied into a larger commonly used avenue. Lined with unfenced, ticky-tacky houses, occupied by middle-class families, its sidewalks held many chalk outlines of children’s games. Daily litter included scooters and tricycles, and scuff marks made by the twin tracks of twenty pair of skates carrying kids around the curve and down to the intersection. So far, no one had died. From Short Story, Let’s Do Lunch She was lying. Barry Swanson hoped that he was wrong but no, she was lying. Just another question, “Want to get some lunch?” and the response equally casual, “No, … I think I’ll just work through today.” Rejection didn’t give him pause. Her voice did. He sensed a slight difference in tone, an almost imperceptible hesitancy as she searched for words that should have been flowing. He heard the slightest idiom of distance and he did not believe her. Five minutes later, he was in his car, driving six blocks across town and parking where he could see the entry/exit to her office building on the Parkway. He waited. From Short Story, Stain the Earth. Denver had a new citizen, a transplant from Boulder who liked to charm women and dismiss men. He taught English at night for the Air Force, earning a living but not a life, and he was bitter. When he lost his university job, his house, his wife and his two toddling children to scandal, he was rootless. Only the attentions of his friend, Jay Wolfe, kept him from disappearing into the streets. Then, an intense affair with Amanda Kingsley gave him that electric thrill that seemed essential for his sense of well-being, and when it failed, with her betrayal not his, he left Boulder, sank into a lethargy which saw him put on an extra 20 pounds. For weeks now, he had mulled through many nights of restless sleep trying to learn how he came to be viewed as litter in a city filled with landmarks.