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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

It wasn’t too difficult in such a small town to find out who the captain of police was, and where he lived. Since there was noise at his house when Ray went by, he decided to check out the deputy’s house instead. He knew that most police procedure made the officers deposit money in a safe in the police station that had a two key system, so they wouldn’t be tempted to try to use the money themselves. The big problem was with large amounts of money, Ray knew that the regulations usually called for bigger deposits to be made to the local bank. That meant the money could have been transferred to a bank, but Ray was hoping he was quick enough to catch the bundle still in the local police office, since the nearest bank was another town twenty miles away.

He had to find the two keys, and then hoped he would be able to outwit these small town cops. Ray was fully confident he had the experience that they lacked, and with some careful execution of plans, he would have his money before the night was over.

As Ray approached the house where Larry, Greg’s deputy lived, he noticed there was little activity on the street, which could be good unless there was a nosy neighbor waiting around. Since most of the lights were out this late at night, his only problem would be if the deputy was at home. But there was no car in the driveway or parked in the carport, so Ray went around to the back to find a way in.

John Graham couldn’t sleep. He thought he would be able to deal with this money thing better than this. He tossed and turned as Reba slept soundly, not even aware that John was struggling with the fact of hiding something from her. When she had made the off-hand comment about Greg giving them some of the money, the pit in his stomach became a giant sinkhole. He had almost said something twice, but other news items caught her attention, and before he could spit out a word, they were in bed.

Reba was a heavy sleeper. She could fall asleep faster than John every night of the week and usually did. John reviewed the day, got up and read, ate a late night snack, and then tried to sleep again. Often Reba had been sleeping an hour before he was able to nod off.

Tonight was no exception. The gnawing fear of being found out, being accused of stealing money (of stealing stolen money?), of the possible shame that would come to his family was overwhelming. Even if he were able to keep the money, he doubted now that he would enjoy it. He just wanted it out of his life.

He had been so distracted by this fear that he realized, almost an hour later, that he had rebuffed romantic overtures by his wife. She had pulled him close, hugging him from behind and had begun to playfully caress his arm. Unfortunately, Reba was only good for two or three minutes of foreplay without response before she would fall fast asleep, sometimes still holding him tight. This is what happened tonight, and before John got in the mood, the moment had passed. John thought what a problem the money had become when he realized he had passed up making love to his wife to sort out what to do about the money. He should get rid of it tomorrow. Maybe.

Greg was driving slowly over to the only motel in town. He knew he only had a few moments to find out what was happening with Paula tonight, and if he didn’t start now, there might not be another chance. Ever.

“Paula, I’m sorry I assumed you were ready. That was stupid of me.”

Paula sniffed. “You were right to assume. I am ready. I just don’t know if you know how ready I really am.”

Now Greg was totally confused. “Then was I just being a jerk?” He found this was often the answer in his relationships, and he often had to ask.

“Greg, do you remember where we first met?” Paula’s eyes found his as he pulled into the parking lot, turned off the lights and left the car running.

“Yeah,” he lied, trying to think fast. “It was at the O’Malley murder trials.”

“No, that was the third time,” she said quickly, forgiving his lack of focus. “We first met when Harrison, that drug dealer was arrested here in town after being chased through three counties.”

“Oh, yeah”, he said, “and you wanted to interview the local police captain who had nothing to do with the arrest whatsoever.”

Paula giggled quietly. “You were able to coordinate the state cars to help trap him in that dead end road. They could have chased him for another three counties. That’s being involved.”

Greg grunted and wondered where this was all going.

“I’ve never told you this before, but the drug dealer you busted that night was one of my ex-boyfriends. We had only dated a couple of times, but when something like that happens, it really makes you stop and listen to the wise advice of your mother. She had told me not to see that jerk anymore, and when she saw our interview on the television, she pointed out that I could do lots worse than Officer Greg Jones, local police captain.”

“Is that why you’ve been making excuses to cover the southern part of the state more lately?”

“Well, I didn’t plan it this way, but a year later, after another stupid relationship, my mother’s words began to make more sense.” Paula sighed. “That’s when I set my sights on you, and why I find an excuse to call every other week, to visit as often as I have. I have learned to be patient.”

“Just because I am so dense,” Greg lamented.

“It’s not just you, Greg,” she explained, and pulled him closer to give him a good long kiss. “I think it’s really charming that you have been so shy, and all it has done is to steel my resolve and be as patient as you needed. I just got a little sensitive tonight, and it really isn’t anything you said or did. I think I have just built up this night in my imagination so much that there was no way for it to be the romantic time I thought it would be.”

“So when I said I was glad you came to this town…”

“I guess I thought you were thinking there might be other men for me, in every town. But there’s not. There’s just been you for way too long. I’ve been waiting for tonight for two years. And I don’t want you to think I do this in every town I visit. I’m only interested in you.”

“I’m so sorry, Paula”, Greg breathed out, finally understanding what he could do to help this problem get fixed. “I only meant that this small town boy is in love with the uptown girl. I still can’t see what you see in me, but I’m just glad you didn’t give up.”

Paula collapsed into his arms and he wrapped his arms tight around her. She sighed and said, “You big dumb lummox. I love you, too. Next time, I’ll be better, I promise.”

“Well,” said Greg, “now that your secret fascination for small town policemen is out, I’ll have to work on keeping you happy, so you don’t go to the next town and find someone even bigger and dumber.”

They weren’t the most romantic words ever spoken by a man to a woman, but for Paula, after waiting for so long, they were the right words. She kissed him deeply, glad that she had been so patient.

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The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Caleveras County by Mark Twain

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

by Mark Twain

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Angel's, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley – Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley – a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel's Camp. I added that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once:

There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49 – or maybe it was the spring of '50 – I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he was the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't, he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him – any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solitry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you.

If there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush, or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even seen a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him – he would bet on anything – the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he said she was considerable better – thank the Lord for his inf'nit mercy – and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Prov'dence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, "Well, I'll risk two-and-a-half that she don't, anyway."

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare – the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that – and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose – and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.

And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan't worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson – which was the name of the pup – Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else – and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it – not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad.

He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius – I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut – see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything – and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor – Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog – and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.

Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller – a stranger in the camp, he was – come across him with his box, and says:

"What might it be that you've got in the box?"

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, "It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it ain't – it's only just a frog."

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "H'm – so 'tis. Well, what's he good for?"

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "He's good enough for one thing, I should judge – he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

"May be you don't," Smiley says. "Maybe you understand frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you an't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I an't got no frog; but if I had a frog, I'd bet you."

And then Smiley says, "That's all right – that's all right – if you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot – filled him pretty near up to his chin – and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

"Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then he says, "One – two – three – jump!" and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders – so – like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use – he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders – this way – at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw'd off for – I wonder if there an't something the matter with him – he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound!" and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man – he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And ––

(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away, he said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy – I an't going to be gone a second."

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and ––"

"Oh! hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!" I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed.

 

 

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Mark Twain on Biography Out Loud

He said, “I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: "Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together." This great American author did die in 1910 with the next visit of Haley’s Comet, and though he is better known by his pen name, his characters are a symbol of American humor and ingenuity. He was first author to type a manuscript on a new invention called “the typewriter”. In a moment, we’ll become better acquainted with the writer of what has been called “The Great American Novel”--

Today on Biography

Samuel Langehorne Clemens is better known as Mark Twain, a pen name which also takes its meaning from measurements of river depth. Calling out “by the Mark Twain” on a riverboat means the sounding rope is out two fathoms, or twain. This meant there was 12 feet of water in the river. Wherever he came up with the name, Samuel Clemens produced some of the most memorable characters in American Literature in books like “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn” – a book some call the Great American Novel. Working in his youth as a printer’s apprentice after his father’s death, he later worked as a printer in several major U.S. cities. He said, “Always do right. This will gratify some people, and astonish the rest.” In a related vein, he said, “When in doubt, tell the truth” and “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything.”

He then spent two years learning the intricacies of the Mississippi to qualify as a steamboat pilot. He once remarked, “I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.” He convinced his brother to come and work on the river with him.

Clemens had an unusual dream two weeks before the death of his brother Henry, foreseeing how his brother would die in an explosion while working on a steamboat. After the Civil War began, travel on the Mississippi was significantly less, and Samuel Clemens then joined his brother on a trip to Nevada, where Orion Clemens was to serve as secretary to the governor of the Nevada territory. Mark Twain documents his many adventures through the west and his other travels, first becoming known for his short story “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

A very successful writer, Twain was notorious for investing in new inventions and spending all of his earnings. He once said, “I am opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position.”

After a world tour giving lectures, Samuel Clemens returned to the United States in 1900 with his debts paid. He was a promoter of the abolition of slavery, and spoke in favor of granting the right to vote to women.

Famous for his wit, he once said of the government, “Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.”

He also quipped, “Be respectful to your superiors, if you have any.”

He also once said, “The only reason why God created man is because he was disappointed with the monkey.”

Samuel Clemens helped us laugh about the problems of the world, and as he once said, “Against the assault of Laughter nothing can stand.”

When one of his cousins died, reports circulated that Samuel Clemens was dead. He replied, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

Once hearing himself praised in an introduction he said, “I was sorry to have my name mentioned as one of the great authors, because they have a sad habit of dying off. Chaucer is dead, Spencer is dead, so is Milton, so is Shakespeare, and I’m not feeling so well myself.”

Ernest Hemingway once said of Mark Twain, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

Mark Twain’s prediction that he would go out with Haley’s Comet was prescient. He died one day after the comet made its closest approach. Upon hearing of Twain's death, President William Howard Taft said, "Mark Twain gave pleasure – real intellectual enjoyment – to millions, and his works will continue to give such pleasure to millions yet to come... His humor was American, but he was nearly as much appreciated by Englishmen and people of other countries as by his own countrymen. He has made an enduring part of American literature."

Samuel Clemens once contemplated his choice of final destinations and concluded, “..[H]eaven for climate, Hell for society.”

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Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

By the President of the United States of America.

A Proclamation.

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields

and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consiousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the Seal of the United States

to be affixed.

Done at the City of Washington, this Third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the Independence of the Unites States the Eighty-eighth.

By the President: Abraham Lincoln

William H. Seward,

Secretary of State

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A Cask of Amontillado

The Cask of Amontillado

by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is un-redressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally un-redressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him: "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me-- "

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi--"

"I have no engagement--come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp, They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," said he.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length.

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply. For many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi--"

"Enough," he said: "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

"True--true." I replied; "and indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."

"And the motto?"

""Nemo me impune lacessit."

"Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough-- "

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement--a grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.

"Not I," I replied.

"Then you are not of the brotherhood."

"How?"

“You are not of the masons."

"Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes."

"You? Impossible! A mason?"

"A mason," I replied.

"A sign," he said.

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaure.

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi--"

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated--I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re=approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed--I aided--I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said:

"Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo--the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."

"For the love of God, Montresor!"

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:

"Fortunato!"

No answer. I called again:

"Fortunato!"

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick--on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.

In pace requiescat.

 

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Who is the Master?

Who is the Master?

There is no love more true than that of a pet, and for a pet. There is something magical about interacting with a different species, often being the sole source of food and water, love and affection, and attention and care.

I’ve had many pets over the decades, starting with a grey and white Chihuahua. Cece was a wonderful pet, providing many hours of patient love and attention to me. She had puppies which we sold, and I went off to college and left her behind. I seem to have a natural ability to get along with dogs. There really have been very few dogs I haven’t been able to connect with, and pet almost as soon as we meet. There was one Doberman who wanted to bite me once when I was trying to deliver flowers, but luckily I had on tight enough pants the teeth just kept slipping off the denim. And then the owner answered the door.

My children grew up having pets around, and they really were members of the family. Some of them have been purebred, and others were mongrels. We seem to attract cats to our house, and since there are mice running around in the fields, we feed them and that makes them want to stay. I really don’t like cats as much as dogs, but don’t tell the cat who is living with us now. My daughter rescued him years ago from someone who couldn’t have a cat anymore. He stays outside and rubs up against me when I go outside, and likes to be petted. Most cats aren’t really that social around the dogs we nearly always have around.

Really the only dog who has bit the hand that feeds her was a cute little Schnauzer who had just been run over by a car. She was one of the sweetest dogs, and as she was crossing the street, someone who was texting didn’t see her and both my wife and I watched as this poor little dog rolled under the car. I had read you really shouldn’t pick up a dog who is hurt, but when one of your pets is hurt, most of the common sense we have goes away. As I tried to pick up this dog, she firmly latched onto my hand, then bit my wife and bit me again. I told my wife to go get a towel we could wrap her in, and we took her to a vet, but she was too seriously injured and died shortly after the accident.

When the kids have grown and left, sometimes the dogs become the kids. The shock of seeing this small innocent animal killed was too much of a shock for my wife not to replace the dog, and the very next day she drove for several hours to get our newest addition to the family.

The small Maltese has been a wonderful ray of sunshine in our house, though we still miss the other dog. She gets along with the cat, who likes to paw at her, and I think the cat might think this small dog is really a white rat. The other dog gets along with her really well, and though the older dog is a border collie, she thinks she is also a lap dog.

The Border collie only wants to serve, and since there are no sheep around to chase, she often herds me to the backyard where she loves to play. Once this dog learned to catch a Frisbee, there was no stopping her insistence that anytime is playtime. I once tested her while I was watering the garden, and kept throwing the Frisbee, trying to determine how long it would be before she got tired of it. She faithfully brought that plastic disc back every time for over two hours, only stopping briefly to dunk herself in our small pond so she could cool off. I got tired before she did, and I think she would have rather dropped dead from exhaustion than stop catching the Frisbee.

So what does a house with two humans and two dogs look like? I wonder who the master is sometimes. I have to check and make sure there is food and water, and if the food runs out, I am the one who has to go to the store and buy more. When the dogs have been good, they get treats, but I don’t get treats for training them so well. It would be nice to have someone scratch my every itch, but they don’t even worry about if I have an itch. They just want to be scratched and petted, and would like nothing better than a continuous head to toe massage.

I think I want to be someone’s pet. Where do I apply?

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Advanced Placement

Advanced Placement

Sometimes barriers are placed in our way to test our resolve. Obstacles are clearly meant to be overcome, but how we overcome some of the obstructions in our world depends on our own creativity and convictions.

After taking the ASVAB, the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, which tests to see if you know which nut belongs to which bolt and other things, I found out I could be a lawyer. The interest survey included with this test lets students choose the kinds of work they think they would like based on questions about their strengths, hobbies and desires. I think my category told me I was socially oriented, and in that category were teachers, social workers, and lawyers. For no other reason than I wanted to make lots of money and I thought being a lawyer sounded cool, I decided I would be a lawyer. I had no other interest in law before that, and luckily, I ended up as a teacher. I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for all the cash in China. But to get to be a teacher, I had to think I was going to be a lawyer first.

I checked to see what kind of education was necessary for lawyers, and noticed I was not enrolled in the right classes. Tracking is a way schools channel students into various classes, and even though it is technically not supposed to exist, the tracking of students takes place every day. I was a trouble maker in school, so I didn’t really belong in the advanced classes. But to be a lawyer I had to go to college, and I could get college credit while still in high school by taking advanced placement classes. I would have to pass the AP test at the end of the year, but I have always been a good test taker.

Getting into AP history was easy enough, and once I was signed up for one AP class I wanted another. AP English. But I had to take a test to see if I really could be an AP student, when really, it should have been up to me to try and fail on my own. But the entrance test showed I should be able to handle the class, or they just wanted to shut me up, so I was enrolled.

I was a busy senior, acting in plays, doing the morning announcements, even speaking at graduation. But this meant I was not always in class receiving the precious words of wisdom from my teachers, which meant there was no way I would be able to pass the test at the end of the year. Both of my AP teachers told me not to waste my money by taking the test. This only strengthened my resolve.

Think about the benefits of passing the test. If I could get a passing score, I could have 24 college credits on my transcript before my first day at the university. Back then, you didn’t even have to pay to get the college credit; they just added it to your total. Today, most colleges charge what the tuition would have cost for those credits, but at least you don’t have to spend the time. I would get a double free-ride if I passed!

I’m not sure why we discourage people from trying to achieve. Maybe we think the specter of failure will permanently disfigure them. What really happens is most people who are knocked down and get up again gain a valuable lesson. They learn how to get back up again when they are knocked down. It’s really not so bad on the ground, unless that’s where you stay.

I’m sure both of these teachers thought they had my best interests in mind when they told me not to take the tests. But I don’t take that kind of obstruction seriously. Easily overcome, I marched into the tests with my head held high, knowing I was the master of my destiny, and if I failed the tests, I would only be out a hundred dollars or so. But if I passed the tests, I would save myself thousands of dollars and cut time off my degree.

I passed both tests and had 24 credits. After I took some other College Level Examination Program tests, I had tested out of a year of college. I finished a four year degree in three years. If I had listened to the nay-sayers who were sure I wasn’t college material, I would have missed out on all the fun I’ve had since then.

But then again, I was in the work force full-time by the age of twenty-one. Maybe I should have overcome those obstructions at a slower pace. I must really love my work.

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The Cost of Conformity

The Cost of Conformity

Honesty is an interesting concept. There must be more honest people in the world than dishonest people or we wouldn’t be able to function as a society. Some people feel the world is just getting worse each day, but in the long run. I think most people eventually figure out its easier to live honestly in the world than dishonestly. It does seem young people who commit crimes eventually get the message as they get older.

I think the most disturbing part about the whole concept of honesty is we really aren’t honest with ourselves. We are mostly conformists. There are things we do every day which we only do only because other do the same thing. It is a basis for society and for sociability, but it makes me wonder how much of what we do is just because others are already doing it. There is a scene in an old black and white movie called “Metropolis” made back in 1925 which reminds me of how many of us conform.

In this old classic, the workers live underground and march off to work in a big square, with everyone wearing the exact same hat, shirt and pants. It’s an eerie image, and when you seen the second shift walking home from work twice as slow, but still all looking exactly the same. It was an interesting prediction to make 85 years ago, but if you look around today at the number of people wearing baseball caps, levis and t-shirts, that kind of conformity has come to pass.

Are we honest because everyone else seems honest? Do you do things because other people do? If other people are speeding down the road, do you go the same speed even if you don’t want to?

Some of us attend church so we can make a good impression. Do we not shop on Sundays because others don’t? Or do we do what we want when we want because we want to do it?

Conformity is something that takes the individuality out of our lives and denies the world the unique contribution we might be here to make. When we really pay attention to our purpose, we may find a whole new life out there waiting for us. How do we find our purpose? Why would we want to find our purpose?

Finding a purpose can give meaning to what you do in life. It could guide and direct your actions, and give you clear directions for the big decisions you may face. It could break us out of our automatic conformity. It may motivate you to do different things than you have been doing, and help you survive failures. You’ll be able to face rejection if you are truly committed to your life purpose.

Unfortunately, there is no universal formula for finding a life purpose, especially since everyone will have to find their purpose in their own way. It takes time and should be thought of as a lifetime process. Our purpose may change as our lives change. But by identifying our strengths and our passions, and causes in which you believe, you will be on the right path to find something meaningful to do with the time and talents you’ve been given.

Find a way to do some work on those things that interest you. Using your strengths and passions, working on things you think you might enjoy will help you understand if you really are on a path which is right for you.

Real enjoyment happens when we lose ourselves in whatever it is we are doing. Time seems to fly, and when we realize hours have passed, this is a good indication we may be doing something true to our purpose. Some people call this “being in the moment”, and when you are completely present in the moment, everything else vanishes and you are not thinking, doing, but you are just being.

This is what happens when we are going something we truly enjoy. Many people experience this with their favorite recreation. Time doesn’t pass in the same way. My favorite way to make time disappear is gardening. When I am working in the yard, time stands still, but also seems to pass so quickly. I have projects on which I have been working for years, and while they may be done someday, then I will move on to another project which will be completed in its own time.

A real purpose in life can make the difference between a life fulfilled, and a life of misery. Today is the day to start that journey which puts you on the path which will make a difference for you, and for the world. You will never know unless you take the chance to find the reason you are here now.

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Lost or Stolen

Lost or Stolen

I looked on the back of my debit card. It says, “If lost or stolen, please call 1-888-555-1212”. So let me think about that for a moment. If I lose my debit card, I’m supposed to have the number somewhere else so I can call and report it is missing? And if someone finds it, what are the chances they will call in and report they found it? Or would the normal everyday passerby be tempted to see if it worked?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used the card and entered the wrong pin, and then was told by the clerk to just run it as a credit. This means anyone else could do the same thing if they find my card. It doesn’t make me feel secure.

Some people feel like the world is a more dishonest place. I’ve had things stolen from me before, but usually it’s my fault. I remember how excited I was to get a class ring when I was in high school. It was really nice, and they are way too expensive, but what do we know when we are 17 years old? We just know we can’t live without it, so we sacrifice and get it or just have mom and dad buy it.

I was working one summer cutting pine poles, and stopped at a service station on the way to the stand of timber. I took off my ring to wash my hands in the bathroom and left my ring on the sink. I realized later in the day what I had done, and after a long day getting the chain saw to work, dodging falling trees, trimming limbs and hauling logs to the truck, I went back to the gas station later that night and surprise! no one had turned in a lost ring. Who would want a high school ring from another school? No one I went to high school with would have been even close to where I was. It wouldn’t be their school colors. But, nonetheless, the ring was gone and someone had a new trinket.

It wasn’t the last ring I had stolen, although technically, I lost my class ring before someone kept it. My wedding ring was stolen one night when I was in the middle of a performance. For those of you who know who Howard Ruff is, you may be surprised to know he like to sing opera. In fact, I got to help him put on a show called H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan. One of the scariest moments during rehearsals was when Howard had a kidney stone attack. I drove him home in his car and my wife followed me to his house. I knew he was in a lot of pain, but I didn’t know how much until I passed my first kidney stone about five years ago.

So when the performances were finally started, we were all singly mightily on stage while someone else was going through our stuff backstage. They waited until a scene where everyone was on stage. Howard lost a couple of hundred dollars, and they stole my wedding ring.

That’s right. A plain silver wedding ring. Well, really white gold, but I still can’t understand why anyone would want someone else’s old ring. I guess someone was supporting a drug habit and needed some cash. So think about this. Whoever stole my ring has to go to a pawn shop and claim they don’t want their wedding ring anymore. Or the person who usually buys their stolen goods knows better than to ask where the ring came from. Either way, it seems like way more work than getting a regular job.

But this may be where most of us actually are dishonest without really thinking about it. On our job, our employers trust us to give an honest day’s labor for our wage, and if we don’t like the pay we can always go get another job. But as a society, we tend to think our employers owe us more somehow, and taking time off work to do our personal errands seems acceptable. Employers complain about employee theft, but is it really a big deal? The National Retail Security Survey estimated retailers lost $15.9 billion in 2008, and they expected 2009 to see an increase in employee theft. You want abundance?

Listen to what super salesman and marketing guru Joseph Sugarman says about honesty. “Each time you are honest and conduct yourself with honesty, a success force will drive you toward greater success. Each time you lie, even with a little white lie, there are strong forces pushing you toward failure.” Honesty can make us more successful. Dealing with the consequences of being dishonest take a much bigger toll. It may make you fail.

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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

When the news was broadcast later that night, John Graham was sitting in his comfortable living room with Reba, his wife. They were back on level ground again now that the first of the month money fights were over, and watching the local news was their way of winding down the day.

John was not prepared for what Paula Rogers would be reporting that night. He had decided not to tell Reba anything about the money until is looked like he would be able to keep it. Until they would be able to keep it. He was biding his time, but finding the money had added an incredible pressure to his days, as he had to remember not to say anything about the money, then he had to pretend he didn’t know anything about a robbery, and that he hadn’t visited with and turned evidence over to the police.

Paula Rogers seemed to be trying to change all that. “Look, it’s Greg,” Reba said, pulling on John’s shirt sleeve and turning up the television sound. “It’s that nice Paula Rogers girl reporter, too.”

John had a sudden sinking feeling.

Paula Rogers said “One hundred thousand dollars”.

John could feel the knot growing in his stomach. It felt like an empty pit as he willed the pre-recorded event not to mention his name. Would Greg mention where the evidence had come from?

Paula Rogers said “another Paula Rogers exclusive”.

The lump in his stomach softened a bit. Reba turned to him. “Can you believe that? Right here in our little town. Nothing like that ever happens here.” She looked at him and waited for a response.

“Yeah.”

“Is that all you have to say, ‘Yeah’?” said Reba. “Your friend is on the television helping with a major investigation and you say ‘Yeah’?”

Now he was incapable of speech.

“What’s the matter with you?” Reba inquired, leaning toward the man she had been married to for a quarter century. She sensed there was more than she was being told.

“Uh, maybe Greg will be able to keep the money,” he probed for her reaction.

“Yeah, right,” she laughed. “And maybe he’ll give some to us.”

John Graham laughed too, but it didn’t really sound sincere. He wondered if Reba noticed.

Smitty played the flashlight over the murder scene. There was not much blood, but that didn’t make Mike Shepherd any less dead. From what they could see before the officials arrived there was trauma to the back of the head, probably from a sharp instrument.

“This must be the attendant”, Smitty said to the small crowd of officers gathered around the body. “But what is he doing so far from the booth? Why not just kill him and leave him there? There doesn’t seem to be any indication of dragging a body to this location.”

Three other flashlights played over the ground back towards the station. Zabronsky spoke up first. “Maybe the kid decided to take the money back.”

It was likely what had happened. There was some trauma around the face and hands, like a fight had taken place. “But no one’s life was worth the couple of thousand that was probably stolen,” Smitty thought to himself.

The T-Bone was just one of those greasy spoons along the roadway, but since most places like that served some of the best food around, it was always busy. Paula was glad, since that meant she could work on Greg a bit more seriously than if she had to worry about being overheard.

Approaching the booths which had seats covered with red naugahyde, Greg was ready with his favorite first joke at the restaurant. “Makes you wonder just how many naugas had to die to make this bench,” he said. Paula just smiled. It was Greg’s familiar old saw to help him get comfortable, which meant he was comfortable enough to encourage him a bit. She turned away from sitting opposite him in the booth, and scooted him over into the corner and sat on the same bench with him.

“Will you protect me from the wild naugas that invade the restaurant to avenge their dead brothers?” She leaned in close and wrapped herself around his closest arm.

Greg recognized the approach and slowly disengaged his arm from the entanglement. “You really think I live a life of shoot ‘em up adventure, don’t you? Or are you just making fun of the sedentary life I lead in a one-cop town?

Paula was not to be put off so easily. “A one and a half cop town, Officer Jones,” she said seductively. “A man with all that power is irresistible.”

“You are making fun.” Greg was still taking it good-naturedly. “We can’t all live in the big city with all the big important news reporters, you know. Some of us have to live out here in Hicksville, and protect Ma and Pa Kettle.”

“Don’t start,” she said. “I know you love it here and would never move. So don’t start humoring me with bad-mouthing the people you adore. And who adore you.”

She was right as usual. And this is where the conversations of the past had usually led. She wanted adventure and would probably move from city to city as the affiliates raised her salary and counter-offered each other. He would probably be buried up in the cemetery on the hill after living here his entire life. Greg wanted the conversation to be different tonight, so he decided to take charge of its direction.

“I really do want to thank you for the broadcast,” he said to her as she stared into his eyes. “I think it will really help to flush out whoever robbed the bank. There’s a short guy still out there who will be coming to town to find that money.”

There was a short guy just across town sitting with his mouth open. He, too, had just finished watching Paula Jones reporting on the found money, and even as she trying her hardest to seduce the local police captain, Ray was making other plans for Greg Jones.

So the money was here in town, and the local cops were so kind as to keep it safe until Raymond Johnson decided to pick it up. It was almost too easy. This little hamlet couldn’t have more than a few hundred people in it, and that meant the local cop was just a step above the blue-light special cop at the local department store. Ray had enjoyed his past encounters with backwater cops. He had shot a cop or two and could remember the looks on their faces when they realized they were not the fastest draw in the West, that the warm feeling running across their clothes was their own blood, and as they dropped down on their knees, the look of disbelief that crossed their faces just before they died was almost comical. Ray wondered why people, who were pretty easy to kill actually, were so surprised when they found out they were dead.

Maybe someday, he would spend time for the murders he had committed. But he wasn’t above a few more murders before the sentence. He also decided that the risk of getting caught doing this murder was very slim. Probably the state cops wouldn’t even bother to investigate. What did he have to lose, besides 100 grand?

By the time desert came, Paula had messed up Greg’s hair a few times, and by the looks the locals were giving him, they were probably enjoying it more than him.

“Paula…”

“Greg, it’s all right,” she cooed into his ear. “We’re both above the age of consent, and this is nothing most of these people haven’t seen before.”

“I was going to say, let’s go somewhere more private.” Greg’s eyes met hers, and the surprise in her eyes made him laugh out loud. “Sorry, I guess this is kind of sudden.”

Paula didn’t need to be asked twice. She was gathering up her purse as she commented to Officer Jones on his speed. “Yeah, this is really a sudden change of mood, after two years of me chasing you shamelessly, now you are sitting there shamelessly and letting me chase you.”

Greg laughed again. “You’re right. You are the world’s most patient woman. I’m sorry it’s taken two years for me to come around.”

He flipped a twenty on the table and they practically dashed out of the diner.

Anyone investigating Officer Greg Jones house at 11:30 that night would have had an interesting report to file. It would have begun with two people writhing together on the couch. The passion was building, and Paula could feel the objections melting that had stood in her way for two years.

Greg was also aware of the passion that smoldered beneath him. Paula was doing all she could to go slow, because this obviously was not Greg’s usual nightcap. He was being careful, far too careful, but being a patient woman, she was able to wait a few moments more.

A dark figure passed outside the house, and almost tried to twist the front door knob. But then he heard a moan from within the darkened house and he froze in his footsteps, waiting and holding his breath. When he heard some more noise from inside of the house, he lightly stepped off the front porch and left quickly, but as quietly as he had approached.

Inside the house, Paula Jones had decided to speed things up a bit. She grabbed Greg’s broad shoulders and twisted him onto the floor. He was surprised by the sudden movement, but didn’t fight, and rolled onto the carpet with Paula on top of him. Then she raised up, as their hips stayed together.

“Not your usual date, I’m guessing by the shocked look on your face,” Paula said.

“I definitely think I’m in unknown territory here,” he confessed. “Thanks again for bringing the show to town,” he said, but this time he was not referring to the broadcast.

She leaned down slowly and kissed him lightly, then rose back up again, still sitting across his waist. “Glad to oblige”, she whispered. “I’ve visited enough these past two years, it’s about time we got down to business.”

“Thanks for coming to my town to share,” Greg said slowly. He pulled her down towards him. Paula had a strange look on her face, and hesitated. Then Paula leaned back slowly and said, “What was that?”

“I’m just grateful you’ve been so patient with me,” he said, rising up on his elbows. Something was not quite right.

Paula stood up, and he was left lying on the floor.

“No,” she said. “What did you just say about sharing?”

Greg stopped and looked up.

“All I said was I was grateful.”

Paula stepped back. “You said you were grateful I was sharing. What did you mean?”

“I’m not very good at this, am I?” he apologized. “You must be used to guys who are a little more smooth.”

Paula was now at least 3 feet away, and Greg was left kneeling in the middle of the room by himself. She straightened her blouse and pulled at her jeans.

“What did I say?”

Paula turned around and tried to gather her thoughts. This was not turning out how she had hoped, and she was sure this was not what Greg had planned for this evening either.

She sat down on a nearby chair.

Greg was still unsure what he had done. Now it was his turn to bow his head and wonder how to rescue this night.

He could hear her sobbing quietly. He went over and tried to comfort her as best he could, wondering what he could do to make this better. Sitting beside her, he let her have a good cry, during which she turned and sobbed on his chest while he drew her close.

“Let’s just call it a night. I’ll take you back to your motel.” Greg could feel her head nod slightly, and he also heard a sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief, which made him sigh with relief, too.

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