Cereal, Milk, and a Bank Loan (Part 2)

purple-wig-with-bangs-3This is part 2 of a remembrance. Part 1 can be found here

The idea of going to a psychic was like a dozen Christmases! This was my most wonderful time of the year, Andy Williams! And this wasn’t just any pretend psychic like on a 1-900 line, but one that my boss (the person who kept me employed and paid me) swore up and down was completely legit. I was giddy, giggling throughout the week up to my appointment like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Yes, I had to make an appointment, this psychic didn’t meet with just anyone. She also wanted to talk to me on the phone for ten minutes before agreeing to the meeting. It was an awkward conversation (which I did in the branch office with my manager looking on), almost feeling like I was attending a job interview. Of course here my soul, not my resume, was under review.  Finally, she said that I was okay and she would meet with me.

 Merry Christmas!

This, by the way, is not to say that I really believed any of this kind of stuff. But… But… But if this was an actual, real psychic like in a movie and I was about to have an experience like that? Well, just imagine that!

Quests have begun with lesser moments than that! By the way, that is the problem with having my imagination, it can carry me away just like a bear with a picnic basket. And at this point, it was a very wonderful picnic basket, full of magic and possible future joy and success. I couldn’t help but get excited by the fantastical possibility of it all.

Yes, I am in many ways a cynic and a realist, but a part of me has always wanted to believe in more than what I can see in front of me. I want to believe in a destiny and purpose, even though in my heart I know it is all a bunch of baloney. Continue reading

My Lost Years in Trucking (Part 2)

full moonThis is part 2, part 1 can be found here.

We were the shadow people.

The lost boys and girls. The six of us who worked third shift were not invited to meetings or parties. No one sung Happy Birthday to us or bought us a cake. We were the forgotten souls that haunted the trucking halls after everyone went home. Yes, I know what it is like to be a ghost.

There was a certain level of mad freedom that came with working this late shift. For all of the rules were nonexistent for us. They disappeared in a poof of smoke once the day people left to continue their real lives.

  • No internet? Sure (until the boss left).
  • No music? Of course (until the last car drove away).
  • Scheduled breaks and lunches? Yes (whatever).

Before I began this job I used to consider myself a good worker, trustworthy. But when thrown in an occupation I had no interest in, I seemed to be a lot more questionable than I ever imagined myself to be. It seems I am somewhat a rebel. James Dean. Marlon Brando. Go figure.

We did have a supervisor, but we rarely saw him. There was a good reason for this actually. He was having an affair at the time and checking in with us was one of his excuses for meeting up with his mistress. I never had to answer a call and make an excuse to his wife (who, by the way, was home with a baby), but other employees did. If I did ever get his wife on the phone, I am almost a hundred percent sure I would have told her.

The mistress was a secretary from the day shift, and oddly in that office this affair was not too surprising for me the longer I was there. Right from the first day sitting with Marian I could sense the amount of flirting going on around. In many ways it was like an uninhibited high school. No teachers or parents here to tell you no! And we night owls knew everyone’s secrets. Continue reading

Upon The Ground: Downsized

A new short story is up at Green Spot Blue from my collection Upon The Ground.  This time it is the story, “Downsized.”

Here are the first few paragraphs from the work.


He hated how his mind worked. For some unexplained reason he can remember every bad thing that ever happened to him vividly. It was saved on a video in his head for him to replay over and over again in perfect detail. And yet when he tries to remember the good times all he could remember were little things, glimpses. For example, when he thinks back on his wedding all he can remember are her eyes before he kissed her at the ceremony and the feeling of happiness.

Feelings… Yes, the good moments survived in him more as feelings. Glows. Different hues of times that speckled his heart. His daughter’s birth was more of a bright red. His wedding was more of a clear blue like the color of her eyes.

But when he thought back to the day his dad died it was like turning on the TV or stepping right back into that day. He could see it all around him again. He ran into the white hospital room late. Only his mother was there, holding her husband’s hand. Ted knew what was happening quickly. The room was heavy with death and all the little noises from the outside world were all strangely echoed and empty. He ran over to the bed and stood behind his mother. He laid his hands on her shoulders.

His father looked up at him and he could read it all in his face. The pain. The time. He could see it all there as his father fought something to try and stay. The last struggle of clear desperation. He wanted to stay so badly, so badly… That expression haunted his dreams for many years and sadly became his strongest memory of his father. Only the memory of his father slipping away right before his eyes and there was nothing either of them could do.

You can read the rest of the story here. I hope you enjoy it.  Previous stories from the collection can be found via the links on the Upon The Ground page.