Summer Shorts-Four Short Stories (5 page)

The new mirror was thinner and lighter than
the old one and had a stylish beveled edge nearly an inch wide. He
installed it in no time; and then gingerly carried the old mirror
out to the garage, leaning it against the wall. "I'll find
something to do with it or else I'll give it away" he resolved. At
first he planned to move on to the next task, but his age and lack
of physical conditioning got the better of him. "Perhaps a little
rest and then I'll tackle the next job" he reasoned, plopping down
into his favorite recliner chair.

If the mirror had been deceitful to him, his
sleep had been downright disparaging. Even his own conscious
internal voice chastised and derided him at every pause in his
mental routine. Self-debasing thoughts chastised him that he was
too old, too slow, too forgetful, too hideous, and too obsolete to
fit in at his job. That was why they had let him go…for no other
reason. His very presence reminded every one of his young bosses
and co-workers that someday they too would wind up like him, and
they found it abhorrent. The ridiculing voices were the last thing
he heard before finally falling asleep, and they were his internal
morning alarm clock.

The voices demanded an end to his internal
torture. His very being was an anachronistic affront to the
youthful, self-worshipping society he found himself in. His
primordial, moth-eaten carcass simply didn't belong. For that
reason, coupled with his horrible batting average at keeping a
long-term career with any company; the voices in his head rendered
their guilty verdict on his lack of relevance to society.

He woke from his nap in the recliner in his
usual post sleep state of self-loathing. He didn't own a gun.
Pills, car crashes, hanging, and jumping off a height: those
methods of suicide all involved too great a risk of failure…and
failure at suicide entailed even more ridicule…not to mention huge
medical bills for his family. The sad irony was that his large life
insurance policy would pay in the event of his suicide since it was
well beyond its two-year contestability period. His health
insurance, on the other hand, excluded benefits for "self-inflicted
wounds, or injuries sustained during the commission of a crime".
Suicide was a felony in his state. For him, there was no room for
failure if he did attempt it.

As his mind cleared, he realized that his
wife would be coming home soon from work and that damned mirror was
still sitting in the garage. He accepted the reality that at the
moment, he had no ideas of other uses for it. "Besides; who would
want the old piece of crap?" he mused. The idea came to him that he
could store it in the attic over the garage. There it would be out
of the way but still accessible in case someone in the future asked
if he happen to have that old mirror available.

Shoving a flashlight in his pocket for use in
the dark attic, he tugged on the string that opened the pull-down
ladder into the garage attic. Carefully, cautiously he wrestled the
four foot by four foot, fifty pound mirror up the rickety wooden
steps of the ladder, huffing and sweating every inch of the way.
Once reaching the opening to the attic, he twisted and turned the
mirror in every combination of directions until he found a way to
push it up into the attic. Using his last ounce of arm strength, he
gave it one last shove and the mirror cleared the attic entrance at
the top of the stairs. It then would not budge.

He pulled, he pushed, he twisted, and he
tugged, but the mirror would not move. It had become wedged on
something in the attic hidden from his view by the darkness.
Reaching for his flashlight, he dropped it and the flashlight
landed at the bottom of the steps, rolling in circles.

"Fuck it!" he exclaimed. "(Mirror), you'll be
the death of me yet, you piece of shit!" With one hand upraised
trying to remain in contact with the mirror, he eased himself
slowly down…reaching with his foot for the next step. His foot
missed it and he slid down the stairs on his butt, coming to rest
on the concrete garage floor. With his hand still outstretched
above his head, he burst into laughter at his fall. It could have
been so much worse. He could have landed on his head. He could have
broken his back by landing flat on the concrete floor.

Glancing up he, added "Or that fucking mirror
could have…"

Then it did.

Derived from "Mephisto Waltz" written by Fred
Mustard Stewart-1969

A ping pong
ball landed in the cup of coffee sitting on the cheap plastic
coffee table splashing coffee onto the clear glass table top.. It
rapidly streamed towards the edge of the glass and underneath it to
the white plastic frame. "Christ, kids!" Craig blurted out, quickly
laying down his laptop onto the coach beside, then dashing into the
small kitchen to grab a towel.

"When your mother gets home, there's gonna be
Hell to pay!" Craig grumbled as he mopped up the spilled coffee;
then realizing his legal pad too had been soaked in coffee, he
added a disgusted "Jesus Christ, guys! I'm trying to find some work
here. Give me a break. Go play in Abbey's room, OK?"

Craig Carpenter was a struggling free-lance
writer. Writing was his second love, but after one too many failed
rock bands and an ill-fated solo act playing guitar and singing in
beef & booze lounges, Craig decided to put away his dream of
making a living as a singer/guitarist. Times had changed, and along
with them so had the youthful public's taste in music. These days
the bar-going kids wanted to hear either country rock played by
people who had never set foot in a cow patty to rappers cursing
about their "bitches, champagne, and bling". After Libby, their
only child, came along; Craig required little coaxing from his wife
Terri to hang up his guitar.

At age thirty-five, he looked somewhat
younger. His hair was still light brown without the tale-tell touch
of gray his friends wore. When he put is guitar away, he put away
his bad habits: the pot, the drinking, the Marlboro cigarettes, and
his penchant for loose ladies. This new domesticated Craig
worked-out daily to help keep his sanity from depression that
haunted him. He avoided bars and the old gang. A big night out for
Craig and Terri involved taking Libby to see a children's movie,
going for a pizza, and then being home in bed by ten pm.

Terri had gone right back to work when Libby
reached five years of age. Although an office worker, she had
worked hard to get her prenatal figure back and she maintained it
well. Her reddish blonde hair was cut short. Craig longingly
recalled the early days with her when she wore it shoulder length,
but he admitted that the short style made her look all the more
saucy and seductive. Yes, she was still a damn good looking woman
and turned men's eyes when she passed.

Terri's job as a secretary provided the Craig
the staying power required to make it as a writer since the work
was nearly as unsteady as his solo lounge act had been. When Craig
did find assignments, the pay was much than anything he made with a
guitar. They lived in a rented two bedroom tract-style house
crammed between to larger houses that had been upgraded from their
similar original tract design. Craig and Terri shared a single car
which she drove to and from work. Craig was a "stay at home dad",
getting Libby ready and walking her to kindergarten a few blocks
down their street.

On this day, Craig was trying to line up a
new assignment while Libby was enjoying a "play date" visit from
the little boy across the street that was in her kindergarten
class. The little boy had brought along a toy cannon that fired
Ping-Pong balls, and the two urchins had decided to ambush Craig
while he was deep in thought.

The living room door swung open and in dashed
Terri; large women's purse in hand along with a cloth tote bag she
used to carry her lunch, bottle of water, and various other
necessities of the office. "I'm dead! One of these days, I'll be
the one sitting on the sofa in a robe at four o'clock and you'll be
the one saying that." Terri admonished Craig. "Damn, I didn't
realize what time it got to be" he offered apologetically, running
his hand across his chin to confirm that he also forgot to bathe
and shave.

"Looks like we also have a guest?" Terri
quizzed hearing the kids playing around the corner in Libby's room.
The small paneled house had such thin walls that it was hard to
miss any sounds. "Yeah, Timmy's mom went shopping and dropped him
off for their play date." Terri frowned "And she saw you looking
like that?" Craig smirked "Well, it's better than when she sneaks
over to peak at me working out in the garage. At least today I had
a robe on." Terri retorted "Who knows, maybe someday she'll
actually catch you dressed and going to real job." Craig, slightly
stung, gently protested "Hey!" Terri stopped him mid-sentence,
saying "Look, I know we have a deal on your writing. It's just that
some days it seems so damned unfair."

Craig stood, took her in his arms and looked
her in the eyes "Someday, this will all change. I swear to you.
You'll be able to tell that broom jockey*adios for good. Now, who's
up for scrambled eggs for dinner?" Craig announced as Libby and
Timmy dashed into the room to greet Terri.

The phone rang. With both kids hanging on her
legs, Terri struggled like a quarterback fighting off a sack from
defenders as she made her way to the phone. "Oh Larry… it's you.
I'll get Craig" she unexcitedly said, holding the phone as far out
from its wall holder as she could. Craig quickly grabbed the phone
from her. He nodded in response and then explained "No, Larry. It's
not you. She's that enthusiastic with all of my friends." Terri
stuck her tongue out and with kids still clinging, made her way
into the kitchen. She assumed that the phone call would put an end
to the hope of her not having to fix dinner.

With several mutterings of "No shit?" and a
final, "Dude…I owe you big time!" Craig concluded the conversation
and hung up the phone back into its holder on the wall. Excitedly,
he grabbed Terri's arm and blurted out "You are not going to
believe this. Larry has a commitment out of town and needs me to
fill in interview and write up at the lake this weekend. And you'll
never believe who the interview is with!" Nonplussed, Terri replied
"Right on both counts. I don't believe it's an interview at the
lake. The last time Larry got you an assignment there it was to
judge a bikini contest."

Taking her by the hand and guiding her to sit
down at the kitchen table (a slightly larger version of the cheap
white plastic coffee table), Craig knelt beside her and explained:
"You know those new multi-million dollar mansions they built in
that exclusive addition on the south side of the lake. He bought
one. He's actually coming here to the lake to live. I get to meet
him and interview him. Me! "

"Who, dammit?" Terri nearly shouted as Craig'
excitement finally infected her. Besides, she hated surprises and
guessing games. Craig stood up and outstretched both arms and
proclaimed
"Phoenix Fucking Gressil! 'Mr. God of
the Lead Guitar'. 'Mr. Black Raven' himself! Greatest rock
guitarist of all time. He's coming to the lake! Can you believe
it?"

Terri shrugged it off, if only slightly. "I
thought he died two years ago?" she mused. "No, that was Ian
Logsden, the lead singer. Gressil can't die!" She chuckled "Oh yes,
he's the one who made the deal with the Devil". Craig quickly added
"So the rumor goes. Larry is emailing me the directions and
details. There is a house-warming party being thrown for Gressil,
and that's when I'm supposed to do the interview. I'll be in and
out in an hour and then back home."

"I know you will. Libby and I will be coming
with you. I'm just dying to see that mansion…couldn't give a damn
about that old rock fossil."

"Okay…just try for once to be respectful. The
man is a legend, for Christ's sake." Craig pleaded.

******

"You'll never know we're there. You know…just like
the way you normally are when you're around your fellow musicians."
Terri chided.

That Saturday on the long drive through the country,
Libby became fidgety. "Are we going to get a puppy? Timmy says his
daddy took them to the country when they got a puppy."

"No puppy. We talked about that. Our house is
just too small for a puppy. Maybe when we get a bigger place, but
no puppy today. Daddy has to see some people, ok?" Craig told the
little girl.

"You and Mommy will go feed the ducks while
Daddy hangs out with his old rocker richies, dear" Terri
quipped.

According to Larry's email instructions, the
sheriff had shut down the drive approaching the Gressil mansion in
order to keep the paparazzi and stoned fans away from the
house-warming. The only way to the house was by chartered boat.
Craig had arrived just in time to catch the last boat going to the
island. Terri protested, hating boats, but Libby was thrilled and
hopped up into her daddy's arms so she could see the lake as they
crossed. She called out birds, fish, boaters and water-skiers.
Terri hid her own eyes in her hand so she didn't get sea sick.

At the mansion's private boat landing, people
mingled all the way up to the enormous deck that overhung the lake.
Although it was May and the summer sun was shining brilliantly, the
party goers were nearly all dressed in black. In her bright sun
dress, Terri felt embarrassingly out of place. "I didn't get the
memo about this being a "Goth" party, she muttered to Craig as they
made their way up to the deck. There seemed to be a hundred or so
people comprised of rock-type crowd. Black leather and black silk
seemed to be the garb of the day. While there were a few younger
rockers, most appeared to be in the late fifties to late sixties.
All appeared to be amazingly pale, which Craig assumed to be due to
their preference to getting up late and staying out until dawn. The
closer to the large patio door leading to the deck Craig got, the
more cautious and suspicious the guests seemed to be, as if they
were on guard for any interloping gate-crasher. It went without
saying that the Carpenters did not fit in.