Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
To start off, I’m at home with Mom, working on some project. She’s young — thirties — I’m young — twenties. Others are present. I’m working on a project. Bustling about (typical Mom style), speaking with others, Mom doesn’t wholly approve. She’s saying I’ve already done too much of that. She doesn’t want any more. I’m laughing her off because I don’t think she understands what I’m doing and doesn’t want to know. I’ve decided I’ll continue in secret and surprise her with the results.
As that’s underway, I’m also given pills to take. These are pale white capsules. Eschewing taking them, I secret them in a drawer. In there, I discover I have a cache of red capsules and blue capsules that I refused to take. It’s quite a collection. I close the drawer before others notice.
I then work on my project. I’m collecting information from the net. I’ve found a great deal that I like. They’re giving me ideas about what to do and how to do it. I collect ideas with enthusiasm, sticking them into the same drawer as the pills, not letting others see.
Food is being served. Pizza! I dislike the pizza being served and mock it. A friend and I go off for a walk. We’re walking through a very busy city, following sidewalks, crossing streets heavy with vehicular traffic, crossing railroad tracks, following traffic-light guidance, talking as we go. My friend is holding a wedge of pizza as we walk and talk. He finally tells me that he’s holding onto it for me. “As you didn’t like the other pizza offered, I thought I’d give you this one to try. It’s very good.”
I’m disinclined to eat more pizza at that point. He keeps on as we’re walking. I finally accept it and take a bite, complaining that it’s cold as I do. The pizza is alright. Nothing I’m not wowed by it, he brings out another piece. “Different pizza,” he says, offering it to me. I’m wondering, “Where are you getting these pizzas?” I’m looking around him, amused, trying to see if there’s a pizza truck or something beside him. He, amused, is evasive, refusing to say, but repeating, “It’s my mission to bring you pizza until you find one you like.”
I’m laughing at that. “What a mission. How’d you get roped into that role?”
“I volunteered,” he replied. “I wanted it.”
We’ve been crossing streets as we speak, careful of the traffic. Now we reach a chain-link fence abutting a white cement sidewalk and stop. The sidewalk looks fresh and new. In fact, that’s the general impression of everything that I see. It’s a bright, sunny day. I’ve been enjoying the walk. We’re both holding a slice of pizza. I take a bite of mine and ask, looking around, “Which direction do we go?”
Dream end.
A friend was taking me fishing. I was ignorant about what to do. He was providing me gear, bait, and instruction.
First, we had to get there. He gave me instructions, but we were driving separate cars. Both were white. It then developed into a quasi-race. Oddly, as we drove, he would sometimes be beside me in his car, and sometimes I’d be beside him in his car, talking, even though we were in separate cars.
We arrived at a place but stayed there only a short period. Being there mostly seemed to amount to me walking around behind him. Both of us were carrying our gear (and wore fishing hats). Smiling people tried talking to my buddy, offering advice, or just wanting to exchange fishing insights, but he was abrupt and dismissive to everyone. After leaving there, we went down a four lane white concrete highway. Parking in a lot, we needed to cross to the other side. He made a comment, “We can do this whenever we want, there’s no time limits, and we’re not racing.” Then he went and crossed. After considering the situation – no traffic was coming – I followed.
We went into a long, low building. Sounds of running water filled the space. Rows of blue plastic seats were set up for fishing. No else seemed to be fishing. A young man had a stack of white things enclosed in clear plastic bags. He offered them to us as we went by. “No,” my friend said with barely a look.
The man called after us, “They’ll give you support.”
I was intrigued, so I stopped. “What kind of support?”
The man explained that they could support your back and shoulder, and held one up for me to see. My friend had kept going. He called back, “We don’t need support, we’re already sitting in chairs.” I thought that made sense, but the young man replied, “This will aid your comfort and remove some of the strain.”
My friend answered, “We don’t need them,” but I said, laughing, “Well, I might need them.” That’s where the dream ended.
The dream reminded me of my father-in-law, Jim. He passed in December, 1991. I met him before I met my wife, his daughter. He and my father were best friends at the time. Dad had been stationed in Germany before being reassigned to DESC in Ohio, which was supported by Wright-Patterson AFB outside Dayton, Ohio. Dad had been assigned there before and had supplemented his military pay by working part-time for Jim at a grocery store.
I met Jim through fishing. He instructed me in my early fishing efforts after I moved in with Dad. I enjoyed fishing with Jim, and will even say that I never enjoyed fishing as much as I did with Jim.
Friends and I were gathering to celebrate. What a great experience, to be with friends, right? Yes. There was fourteen of us. The plan was we’d met the night before, sleep over, and then begin the celebration the next morning. Unfortunately, nine white crocodiles were hampering activities.
The crocs ranged from four to seven feet long. They’d been beaten out of the room before but now they were creeping back in. It was an odd sight: white crocodiles moving forward on plush light blue carpet, trying to hide under beds and chairs. Noticing them getting close to a friend, I called out a warning, then grabbed a piece of wood and beat the croc back.
Other crocs were coming in. I told everyone, “Come on, grab a stick, beat them back. If we don’t, they’ll be there, waiting to get us in the morning.” Finding bats, sticks, lumber in this plush room, we beat the crocs back together.
We left the room to begin the celebration. I kept a stick with me, just in case. We went outside and sat together at a dark green picnic table. A parade was going by. We were honoring MH and MQ. MH was there with us, but MQ had passed away almost six years before. We decided we’d drink something in MQ’s honor. Well, his favorite drink was compardri, someone declared, producing a thick red drink in a champagne flute. I’d never heard of the drink and had never seen MH drink it or mention. Well, whatever, though.
Two women were assigned to assist me. They sat down on either side of me and promised that they’d make sure I’d have things to eat and drink. I thanked them. MH talked about going to get something to eat. The parade was still going on, so we decided to drink more. MH asked me what I wanted to drink. I indicated I’d stick with the compardri.
MQ showed up. I was delighted to see him. He handed me a phone. I didn’t want to talk on the phone and told him. He answered, “I think you want to take this call,” with that gentle voice and smile he often employed.
I accepted the phone and said hello. A woman said, “Thank you for caring about our older people.” She then went into a short but boring speech. As I prepared to hang up, she said, “MQ was given two fellowships, and he’s chosen to bestow one of these on you.” As I realized what was being said, shock hit and I began crying in gratitude. I said, “I don’t deserve this.” MQ, standing beside me, looked at me and smiled. Ed Sherrin’s song, “Perfect”, began playing.
Yeah, weird song to finish with.
Floofmiliar (floofinition) – 1. A housepet who is a close friend or associate to the people living in the house. 2 Housepets who are friends with one another. 3. A demon in the form of a housepet supposedly attending and obeying a witch.
In use: “Her miniature Collies were more than pets or friends, especially Gin-gin. Gin-gin was her floofmiliar, attending every mood and acting as a confidant. Gin-gin was trustworthy and dependable, and never told anyone the secrets that she knew.”
This one dipped into the stream out of nowhere, but reminded me of a friend. A sweet, petite person, I was surprised when I discovered her favorite music came from Danzig and Samhein. She wasn’t as fond of Black Sabbath because she didn’t think they were really head-banging, but she liked Def Leppard and Scorpion.
So, thinking of her, hope she’s having a good day after enduring trying years.
Here’s Danzig’s “Mother”.
Today’s music pops is a 2006 song that popped into my stream courtesy of a friend. I met him in 2006, and we became good friends. Chatting with him today reminded me of this song.
By the Dixie Chicks, there’s a lot of back-story behind this song, “Not Ready to Make Nice”. I know the song because of the previous controversies with the Dixie Chicks and their stands, which I supported and admired. The coverage and events behind the song made it a big hit so I couldn’t help but hear it as went about my life.
Given today’s polarized politics, not just in the U.S., but many other regions, I think the song is a respectable choice for today’s theme music.
Cheers
It’s a fun song in a fun time streaming through my memory. We’re talking about the final stages of a long party, when few lights are on and only a few close friends remain. UB40 with “Red, Red Wine” begins. Smiling, we all sway and sing wherever we were sitting or standing. Yes, I know Marley did it first, but this was 1983 on Okinawa, and that’s what song plays in memory.
Good way to end a party.
This morning found me awakening with a song streaming in my mind. How unusual! I don’t believe that’s ever happened before (*snark*).
The theme du jour was being delivered by Sammy Hagar on vocals as part of the amplified group called Van Halen. The song, “Why Can’t This Be Love”, was released during my formative years. 1986 found me moving from South Carolina to Germany. I was a wee lad of thirty years old, and full of wide-eyed wonder and innocence. My new friends introduced me to this interesting musical genre called rock. That changed my thinking forever.
I really associate this with Randy, though. After Germany, my next assignment took me to California, where I met Randy. Now dead of cancer at fifty-nine, he was a huge Van Halen, Boston, and Atlanta Braves fan. Go to his home, and it wouldn’t be unusual to find him on the patio smoking, windows open and drinking coffee or beer, with Van Halen, Boston, or the Atlanta Braves on.
Crank it up. You know Randy would.
He remembered his bike, and his best friend. His best friend’s name was Mike. The bike was a red three-speed English racer. It was a Christmas present from his mother.
Man, he loved that bike. It was an upgrade from the used, heavy bike he’d previously ridden. He rode it everywhere he could, but often pedaled back to see his best friend. He’d moved away from Wilkinsburg to Penn Hills two years before, but still visited. The two remained close, doing the silly things that twelve year old boys did in America in the sixties. Six miles away, he loved those rides and the visits, looking forward to both.
During one visit, his bike turned up with a flat tire. Unable to fix it, he called his mother and requested a pick-up. She complied, but was angry. It interfered with her plans. Still, he was her son. She came to get him. She couldn’t take the bike, though, declaring it too big for the trunk and herself incapable of helping him. Forced to leave the bike, he locked it with its chain. His friend promised to look after it.
Getting back to get fix it proved problematic. The weather had turned. His mother didn’t want him walking back there, or hitch-hiking, but she wouldn’t give him a ride, either. He finally made it, to discover the bike had been stolen.
“I was going to call you,” his best friend said. “They left a note. They said they were the Blue Globe.”
None of that made any sense. Shit, it sounded like a lie. He made the accusation. An argument ensued. His best friend’s older brother, Donnie, came in.
“I took your fucking bike, and sold it. I needed the fucking money.”
He was speechless. “You had no right,” he finally said.
“Fuck you. It was just sitting there. You should have come and got it. It’s your own fault.”
“My fault. I trusted you guys,” he finally said.
Donnie laughed. “Serves you fucking right, then, doesn’t it?”
“I want my bike,” he said.
“Too fucking bad.”
“I want my bike.”
“Too fucking bad, it’s not here. What are you going to do about it?”
Balling his fists, he attacked.
They crashed across the small kitchen, knocking over the tables and chairs, and moving the refrigerator with the force of their fight. Donnie was older, taller, and weighed more, but he hammered Donnie’s skinny body. Finally throwing him back, Donnie fumbled in his pockets and drew out a switch-blade.
Click. “You better fucking go,” Donnie said, “or I’m going to fucking cut you.”
Ready to be cut, his best friend stepped in, stopping him and yelling at his brother. “Came on, man,” Mike said. “You’re bleeding. You’re all bloody.”
He didn’t want to go anywhere with his best friend. He didn’t want to see or hear him, but he went into the bathroom and washed up his bloody face. Cleaned up, done, he gave Mike a final look and began the walk home. The incident had changed him. He’d lost his bike, but worse, he’d lost his best friend and his sense of trust.
Yes, it changed him. He withdrew. People could no longer be trusted.
Not even if they were your best friend.
Michael Seidel, writer 