Sunday, April 28, 2013

A Short Story

My father-in-law, Dave Hesse, sent me something he had written -- something that had come from a dream he had. It was somewhat familiar, sort of similar to an old short story I had written some years ago. In that spirit, I share it with you all.  -- R

The Audit
by
Rory McClannahan









Redmond Gardner stared at the letter under the glow of the fluorescent light. His Cheerios were going soggy in the green bowl his wife, Maggie, had bought the day before. At first he thought nothing of her buying bowls, they needed new ones. But that was before the letter had come in the mail later in the day. It was marked: U.S. Government, Department of Taxation and Revenue. He was being audited. He stared at the letter informing him in its bureaucratic efficiency that there was a problem with the return he had filled out the month before, and to please go to the nearest center at his earliest convenience—as long as it was before the end of the month. He was also informed to bring all relevant paperwork. That’s how he knew he was screwed. He didn’t have the relevant paperwork because he told a couple of little white lies.

“It will be ok, Red.” It was Maggie, up earlier than usual. He looked at her. Her eyes were still a magnificent green even though her brown hair had been replaced by silver when she was in her forties. Her worry lines looking a little more worried this morning.

“I don’t know, Sunshine. I think I’m in real trouble this time.” He said, getting up and throwing the soggy Cheerios down the sink and turning on the garbage disposal.

“What do you mean?” she asked, the lines on her forehead becoming crevasses.

“I lied on the paperwork.” He knew she would want to know why and he wasn’t sure he could explain it so she would understand. Hell, he didn’t understand it very well. But after 30 years of marriage, she knew him well enough to know that he still did some stupid things in the name of principal. Especially when the government or some large corporation wanted to know personal information about him. The government or corporation always claimed the information was private and wouldn’t be used by anyone except people who were authorized to use it. Red knew that could add up to a few more people than he cared to think about. Maggie always laughed at him when he put the wrong telephone number on a magazine subscription or the incorrect social security number on a bank account. It was harmless. But now his principles got him in trouble. He never figured the government would audit him.

“How bad?” Maggie tried to remain calm.

“I’m in big trouble.” Her eyes turned red almost immediately and he knew what was coming. She never liked it when she cried, always called it a stupid female thing to do, but sometimes that couldn’t stop her. The tears came flowing out and Redmond Gardner went to his wife of 39 years. Maggie Gardner held on to him as tightly as she could.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he lied.




“Mr. Garner. Is this some kind of joke? Don’t you believe the government is serious when it asks you to fill out these forms according to the instructions included in the booklet.” The little man with the ponytail, earring and funny little beard looked hard at Gardner. Red was mad this little bureaucrat couldn’t even read his name correctly off the computer screen which turned the man’s complexion an off-white.

“The name is Gardner,” Red said in a steady even tone. “You people never get my name right. And yes, I know what I was doing. Did you know that your instruction book is fifty pages long for the short form?”

“Irregardless,” the annoying young man said, and before he could finish his dramatic pause, Red had to say something.

“That’s not even a word.”

“What isn’t?” The little man had lost his train of thought.

“Irregardless,” Red said and he sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair he was forced to sit in and crossed his arms. The bureaucrat took off his little round granny glasses wiped them on his tie, replaced them to his peanut head and directed his attention to Red.

“Irregardless, Mr. Garner. You are bound by law to fill out a return every year. And the return must be filled out according to the instructions.” Now the bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and looked smugly at Red.

“You have no right to judge me,” Red said, leaning forward in his chair. He could feel a lock of gray hair falling down on his forehead. He knew it made him look like a lunatic, but right now he felt like one. “You don’t even know my name and when I walk out of this building, you won’t even know my face.”

“I think you’re a little confused Mr. ...” he man with the little beard looked at his screen. “Mr. Garner. I don’t need to remember your face. All relevant information about you, including photos are in our data base. I can access information about your work history, your wife’s favorite perfume and how many times you’ve had sex in the last 10 years.” The little man leaned toward him, as if talking to a confidant. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. I think you told lies on your return. And you should be old enough to know that you shouldn’t tell lies to the government. If everyone did that, our society would break down.” The man leaned back, winked at Red and began twirling the little diamond earring in his right ear. The bureaucrat was trying to communicate something to Red, but he had no idea what it was. Red didn’t know if he was being mocked or come on to. But whatever it was it was making him angry.

“Can we just get on with this?” Red grumbled.

“Of course.” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen and punched several keys. “I just want to check some of these things before we get to the meat. You’re 63, right?”

“Yes.”

“Retired?”

“Yes.”

“A little young to be retired, don’t you think?”

“Not really.” The bureaucrat grunted.

“Married, one child. Does your son live with you?”

“I thought you know everything about me?”

“I do. I was just making small talk.” The bureaucrat tapped a few more keys and then leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.

“Here we go,” he said cheerfully. “Now here on your return, you claim to have worked 20 hours a week of community service at a place called the Silver Springs Country Club. What sort of organization is this?”

“It’s a country club.”

“I see, I see,” the bureaucrat punched a few keys. “And what exactly did you do there in the form of community service?”

“I checked the golf course for gopher holes and to see if wind was a factor in club members enjoyment in golfing there.”

“And is it?”

“Not really.”

“And you did this service for free?”

“Actually I paid them for the privilege.”

“That is impressive Mr. Garner,” the bureaucrat said, punching a few more keys.

“Okay, on to something else. Do you love your son?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, Mr. Garner. I don’t like to argue with you, but we have indications that you don’t. When we cross reference your account with that of your son’s, we find that one of you is lying. He says you didn’t spend enough time with him when he was younger. What do you say to that?”

“I spent plenty of time with him. I never missed any activity he was involved in.”

“Yes, but you didn’t encourage him to play soccer and he says that may have damaged him for life.”

“Is it that important?”

“Every child should be given the opportunity to play soccer.”

“I didn’t know.” Red sat back and rubbed his chin while the bureaucrat tapped some more on the key board. The tension was mounting as he would type in something and sit back and stare at the screen, then lean back in and type some more. Finally, he turned to face Red.

“Here’s the problem,” he started with no real emotional connection. “By your last return you can’t justify your existence. You added several numbers incorrectly and that didn’t help your case. Plus, there just isn’t much use for old men anymore. Computers have stored our knowledge so we don’t need your brand of wisdom anymore.” The bureaucrat got up and went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a form.

“Now here’s what you can do,” he said as he sat back in the chair facing Red. “You can take a government supplied cyanide capsule and do yourself in, you can have the police come and shoot you or you can appeal.”

“I’ll appeal,” Red said.

“Yeah, I thought so. What you have to do is fill out this form and return it here within 10 days. Do you have a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll need one. A hearing officer will schedule a hearing within a year. Any questions?” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen assuming Red wouldn’t have any questions.

“How long does this usually take?” Red asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. We haven’t had to terminate anyone yet. The appeals office is backed up. Some cases are almost 20 years old. Have a nice day Mr. Garner.”

Red smiled. Maybe the government wasn’t so bad after all.



Sunday, April 21, 2013

Great Day, but too much work

Yesterday was a good and busy day. I participated in the Read "Write" Adult Literacy Program's Author's Event in Moriarty.
I sold a few copies of "Blind Man's Bluff" and met a lot of good people, and actually won a Kindle Fire in a raffle. I've had a Nook for awhile, so it'll be interesting to compare the two. So far, the Nook is winning.
Anyway, with a full day yesterday and chores to do today, which include starting on a final read through on my next book, "Time in the World" -- which will be out in June, I hope -- the desire and ability to write a posting is low today.
So instead, I offer you all, again, an older column from the Mountain View Telegraph. Which actually led to a short story I've written. (I'd post the story, except I'll be trying to sell it soon. Stay tuned for when and where it will appear.)
This was written right before the Mayan calendar was set to expire.
R



Depending on who you are talking to, the world is scheduled to end tomorrow.
This is according to the Mayas, who created a 5,125-year-long calendar that ends Dec. 21, 2012 — 10 full days before the 2012 At-A-Glance calendar on my wall expires. I guess the Mayas were ahead of their time.
Just about everyone with half a brain is not really concerned about this — most of us lived through Y2K and numerous other world-ending predictions without any problems. Still, I made sure not to do any Christmas shopping yet, just in case. However, this alleged apocalypse is supposed to be on Friday, a day after my wedding anniversary, so I didn't get out of that one.
The whole Mayan thing has had me thinking about surviving the apocalypse.
A contemplation that springs to my mind is would I want to know the end was coming. And if I did, what would I do?
Obviously, you'd want to spend what time you had left with those closest to you. I suppose, though, after we've told each other what we want to say in that sort of circumstance, there might still be a little time before "the end." I suppose we'd play Monopoly then. Maybe cribbage. We'd certainly make some popcorn and hot chocolate.
But what if this apocalypse is more of a Hollywood type end-of-the-world scenario where an event occurs that leaves us all fending for ourselves. In reality, when faced with this sort of thing, most of us wouldn't last very long. But in our minds, we are all part of a small band of survivors fighting off mutant zombies and what-not.
In this scenario, the first place I'm heading is to Walmart, which I would turn into a fortress and my followers would dub me King Rory.
The Walmart is an obvious choice to hole up in the first months of the apocalypse — there is enough there to keep a small group of people going for quite some time. There also is enough goods to trade for the essentials, such as gasoline for the generators — available in automotive — to run the freezers and other electrical needs for the fortress.
The only problem is that I may not be the only one who has thought of this and wrestling possession of the store away from those folks — some whom probably would have worked there — would not be an easy task.
While tamping down any insurrections would require a certain ruthlessness, I would be a fair ruler and reward loyalty. Most current employees would be invaluable to maintaining my domination. The folks in lawn and garden, for instance, would be necessary for constructing a defensible perimeter around the building.
The electronics department would be essential for establishing contact with the outside world and communications within the fortress. The pharmacy would be important, as well, for maintaining the health of my loyal subjects.
From the safety of our castle, we would be able to wait out the rise and fall of the mutants while noshing on frozen pizza cooked in toaster ovens. We would be ready to emerge and rebuild in the post-apocalyptic world.
As you can see, I've given this a lot of thought. That's what happens when someone tells me things like the world is ending.
And if the apocalypse doesn't occur on Friday, at least I've got a good start on my Christmas shopping list.



Sunday, April 14, 2013

A Conspiracy


My bed is trying to kill me, I think.
I'm not sure of its motivations. It's never mumbled a word about oppression, or said anything about dissatisfaction with it job. But I'm suspicious. What makes this worse is that I don't think the bed intends to kill me quickly. No, I believe there is a conspiracy afoot with my pillows and bed sheets to take me out slowly; although the bedsheets seem to want to finish the job quickly – many a time's I've woken in the middle of the night to find the sheets wrapped around my head. I'm not sure if the sheets merely intend to smother me or are making an incompetent effort to choke me.
The comforter, I'm convinced is not in on the plot – it seems to slink away as quietly as possible.
I became aware of this plot about a year ago when I woke one morning to a throbbing pain in my left wrist, as if someone had spent the night bending it backwards. Within weeks, the assaults came at my right wrist, both my elbows, my knees and hips and my neck. Each attack seemed to be coordinated to coincide with the healing of the previous battery. I began to wear all sorts of preventative devices to bed – wrist braces, knee braces, elbow braces. For a while, the assaults would abate, only to pick up once I gained confidence that it wasn't the bed at all, but that I was “just laying the wrong way.”
I know now that this was part of the bed's evil plan; a way to lull me into complacency and to keep me from taking refuge with the couch. Then, the bed ratcheted up its attacks against me, twisting my ankle nightly until I could not walk. I see now the plan:
Injure my ankle just enough to make walking painful, then wait for an “accident” to occur in the middle of the night. The bathroom door has been complacent in this scheme, but not entirely resistance to the cause; sometimes standing wide open while at other times being closed. This, I know, is done to confuse me. I'm fearful as to what might happen if the toilet cannot resist and must join the revolution.
I'm not sure what I did to the bed. When it was welcomed into our home five years ago, everything seemed wonderful. It was a top-of-the-line bed, with the ability to adjust each side for firmness or softness. I would make the adjustment and everything would be fine. Those were the days – or should I say nights – of great sleeping. Then slowly, the bed started to rebel. It would lose air pressure in the middle of the night and I would sometimes wake to find myself in a bowl, my body lying on the flat hardness of the “boxspring.” Other times, during the day, the bed would inflate itself to its full capacity so that when I went to sleep, my throbbing knee would wake me in the middle of the night.
Now it seems like there is no relief from the onslaught, and I know my pillows are in on the plans. Why else would they jump out from underneath my head while I slumbered? I'm not sure how much more I'll be able to take. I'm ready to talk, but the bed remains silent on its demands. Does it want a pillowtop? A ruffle along its base? Is it upset we've never gotten it a head board?
I just don't know.
I do know that I'm at my wits end and think it might be time to move on; to get rid of this bed that made claims of a 10 year lifespan after only five years. If it hadn't cost so damn much, I probably would have been rid of it long ago. I keep going though, finding some relief in the middle of the night on the sofa.
The horror; the horror.

Friday, April 12, 2013

Stories I Tell, Part 1


You can pick your friends, but you are stuck with family. The thing about family, though, is that you get lots of stories to tell over a beer with those friends you chose so well.
This story is about my grandparents on my father's side – my Gramma and Grampa Mac.
As children, we grow up wanting to please our parents, and by extension our grandparents. I was no different, but you learn the hard way that what's important to a child may not seem that big of a deal to a parent. My father is not culpable in this story – in his own way, he has shown me that he is proud of my accomplishments. My grandparents, though, were a whole different ball game. I'm sure neither of them – or even my mother's parents – really understood what motivated me, what was important to me. And I could say the same about them. They lived in a world completely foreign to mine.
So, I suppose a little background is needed. Charles McClannahan, my grandfather who everyone called Mac was a plumber when I knew him. His youth and life was one of tragedy followed by struggle. His father died in the Flu Epidemic in 1918 and his little brother died not much later of lockjaw, long before tetanus vaccinations
Grampa Mac
were invented. My grandfather spent his life working with his hands, but he was the smartest, most intimidating man I've ever known. His free time was spent reading and understanding the world around him.
He had once asked me if I had read Machiavelli's “The Prince.” When I said I hadn't, he accused me of not knowing anything. I suppose I didn't in his eyes.
My grandmother, the former Helen Dixon, was the daughter of a dance instructor and from what I saw in the old photos, something of a flapper. She also was a die-hard Republican who could not cook, although I don't believe the two are related. And ... well … she didn't seem to like kids very much, which is kind of difficult to understand if you are a kid.
Gramma Mac
By the time my grandparents were in their 70s, they had retired to southern New Mexico and would make occasional trips up to Albuquerque to see a doctor, or whatever it was they did. For the most part, though, if I wanted to see them, I'd have to drive down there. Which I did, but probably not enough.
I plead guilty of not seeing my grandparents enough. My excuse was that I was a young man who was doing as much as he could to enjoy life. One of those things was acting.
I was playing at the idea of being an actor, but not really. If I had wanted to make a go of that, I should have been living in L.A. or New York; not Albuquerque. I did it because it was fun. You get to pretend to be someone else and your talents can move an audience to laughter or sadness or anger. If you are an insecure person, there really is nothing like the ego stroke of someone gushing over a performance you gave. As an actor, though, I'm a pretty good writer.
Another reason, and probably the main reason I was into the Albuquerque theater scene, was the girls. That's where I met my wife, but that's another story and we're still on the subject of my grandparents.
It came to pass that I was cast in the Neil Simon comedy “StarSpangled Girl” at the Wool Warehouse Dinner Theater with my best friend Gary and my other friend Connie. It was a challenging production from the beginning – there was a bit of theater bitchiness involved that I honestly don't fully remember. But we made the best of it; and, despite the external factors, we had fun. People who participate in sports understand the pure joy of being part of a team, especially with your friends. It's not much different being on stage with your friends and making an audience laugh. Nothing can compare.
As with any other show in which I appeared, I invited my friends and family. Usually Dad would come, he actually enjoys live theater. With this performance, though, he wanted his parents – my grandparents – to see me on stage. Honestly, I was thrilled and I worked it out that they had great seats and got the deluxe treatment for the dinner. I was planning to bring them back stage after the show and maybe even go to the bar after that and have a cocktail.
Then the whole thing went off the rails.
My grandparents didn't want to leave their dog at home or with a neighbor while they came up to the show. So they
The Wool Warehouse  
brought the dog along and left it in their truck parked out on the street. With dinner theater, the dinner is served first. The actors and tech folks are usually backstage getting ready for the performance. For me, that usually meant going over my lines and trying to calm my nerves.
Jennifer, the theater manager came back stage with a funny story. She said she had stopped an old man from taking a plate of food out the back door. She said he explained that his dog was in his truck and he was going out to keep the animal company and eat his dinner. Everyone got a good laugh out of this, but I didn't say anything. I peeked out of the stage door and into the lobby to see if I could find out what was going on.
In the lobby was my father. We made eye contact and he kind gave an exasperated shrug. He waved me off and I went back to getting ready for the show. The curtain went up and we started the first act. I don't remember much about my performance, but I imagine I was a bit off – my family was sitting right in front and all of them had a somewhat disinterested look on their faces.
The first act of the show lasted about an hour, I think, and my character wasn't on stage for the last 15 minutes. During this time, I would be back in the green room listening on the speaker to the show progressing. That matinée show was not a good one for any of us, and I found out at intermission what the problem was.
Connie came into the green room after the curtain dropped for intermission nearly in tears. She'd been holding in laughter and let it out once she was safely out of the audience's earshot. Gary followed in much the same condition.
“What?” I said, grinning at the thought of fit of stage giggles. I'd been part of those events before – yes, that's another story – and I wanted to know what had happened.
“Did you see the old lady?” she asked. “The one right in front? She feel asleep, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open.”
I knew the old lady but didn't say anything, the blood rushing to my face in embarrassment.
“She was snoring,” Gary said with a guffaw.
They thought it was that much funnier when I informed them that the snoring lady was my grandmother. Although there was some hurt feelings on my part, I did realize that it was pretty funny.
At least that's the way I look at it. There are too many times in the course of a day where it is easy to be offended by something someone says and does; and it can hurt even more when it's someone you are close to. I still get offended and I still sometimes get angry about comments directed at me. In the end, though, it doesn't make much difference and I try to remind myself that the truth of the matter is that most people are simply unaware their actions are offensive. I'll have my bursts of anger, and then I let them go.
Besides, I spent the second half of that performance doing everything I could to interrupt my grandmother's nap, and I succeeded a couple of times. She was a pretty heavy sleeper.
You can pick your friends …