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Those of us who worked at The Company still talk about the time when investors negotiated a takeover of our profitable enterprise. We didn’t know it at the time, but these unseen entities were not simply injecting cash for a share of profits in our booming business. This was an acquisition, and things were about to change.

It had all seemed too good to be true, and even the owners seemed dismayed and betrayed by the sudden onset of cost cutting and the rapid purge of amenities. They had spent years building the business and nurturing the loyal employees who helped make them successful and wealthy. They were emotionally invested, but only to a point.

How could we know that our decent pay, high morale and sunlit fourth floor office would soon be darkened by an attention to the bottom line worthy of Jacob Marley’s scrutiny? Gone would be the monthly birthday gatherings in the central conference room, festooned with colors, cake and congratulations. Our weekly chair massages were the first thing to go. The owners were next.

And then the layoffs began; a few at first, and then with greater frequency. The investors could spot a successful business but had no idea how to run one. Morale and relationships begot sales, which in turn begot profits. Once morale tanked and favorite employees began to jump ship, customers shifted accounts to firms more like the one we had once been.

Rumors of an eventual large layoff circulated for weeks in hushed tones around the office. Savvy staff had already moved on, leaving the less seasoned among us to hope for a reprieve, a delay or some good old-fashioned luck. But the ax had been used to sharpen pencils, and spreadsheets were constructed with exquisite detail for review and an imminent blood letting. Friday would be blackened, and it was already Thursday.

Early that afternoon, an email blast appeared throughout the office, here and there accompanied by subtle chimes. Whispers followed, and then scurrying footsteps as staff ran between cubicles to stare together in horror at an attached file that was being saved to local hard drives.

“SHUT DOWN THE SERVER!” came a scream from a Vice President’s office down the hall. But it was too late.

Everyone in the office was in possession of an organized spreadsheet accounting of the next day’s layoff. Column by column, row-by-row, staff was reduced to numbers that told the story of their demise. Salaries, severance and savings, totaled and sub totaled, tallied for the investors and laid out like so much beef in a butcher’s counter, complete with white paper and twine.

As the story unfolded, an email distribution group titled “All Company Management” was alphabetically arranged next to the distribution group more appropriate for company newsletters named “All Company.” The mistake was honest, inexcusable and part of company lore for years to come. One click of the mouse selected the distribution group. A second click sent it irretrievably to everyone at The Company. Lacking a final warning that said, “Are you sure you want to send a note to all staff?” the mistake was one of inattention to detail at a moment when caution was paramount. And the incident changed nothing. The cake had been baked, but was now frosted with a thick layer of shame and humiliation for one of the few who didn’t lose her job that day. She was allowed to stay.

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Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

The Hinges of Hell

My neighbor has a saying for everything. I’m a fan of fun sayings so I thought I’d start a collection. My favorite, spoken frequently by author and radio show host Garrison Keillor is, “The desire to perform is no indicator of talent.”

I’ve repeated that line so many times and in so many places I can no longer categorize its use. It’s a great one for school variety shows, amateur theater productions and chorales, church choirs, political debates and even sporting events. Put me in coach. No, you stay on the bench!

It’s another way of saying, “Just because your head is shaped like a hubcap doesn’t mean you’re a big wheel.” That one belongs to neighbor Jim. I look forward to capturing more of his folksy wisdom. Now that he knows I’m taking notes they’re flying fast and furious.

My grandmother had favorite phrases for lots of occasions. I only wish I’d written them down instead of relying on my memory.

One of hers was, “What falls to the floor comes to the door.” I guess saying this is a nice distraction for clumsy types to get observers thinking about something other than picking errant silverware off of the kitchen floor. Is a knife a man, a spoon a woman? How does that work? Does it ever work? I mean, “I was born at night, but not last night.” Don’t expect me to stand by the front door and await guests every time you lose your grip on a fork.

Another of Grandma’s favorites was, “Friday night dreams come true.” I’ve never tested this, but feel free to keep a notepad on your nightstand and tape your nocturnal imaginings to the refrigerator for future reference. How long does it take for these dreams to materialize? If I master lucid dreaming can I take advantage of this cause and effect?

I’ll be updating this from time to time. Summer is a good time for inside activities like this. To go outside is foolish when it’s “Hotter than the hinges of Hell.” One interesting note: Hell’s Hinges is a 1916 silent film featuring William S. Hart and Clara Williams. Now you know.

I’ll end with a classic line by my favorite humorist, Mark Twain. He said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

With that, I will close my mouth and suppress my desire to perform further.

 

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

 

Packing for a Trip to the Third World

Drafted mentally at 3am on a sleepless night at the Hotel Bambu in Santiago, Guatemala. Completed in a traffic jam on a hill outside of Panajachel after a particularly bouncy boat ride.

I begin this essay with the observation that I’ve never known a rooster to crow exclusively at sunrise. At least three confused cocks interrupted my sleep with what can best be compared to “The Midnight Howl” from the movie 101 Dalmatians. Gallo Frito (fried rooster) is my dish of choice should I decide to hold them accountable.

Eight months of planning afforded this compulsive worrier plenty of time to prepare for the horrors of our descent into the heart of darkness. My Third World checklist resulted from ruminations of car-jackings, robberies, machete assaults, pick-pocketing, volcanoes, earthquakes, cliff-falls and other random surprises over which I have no control. That left me to focus on exchange rates, parasites and a variety of possible rashes. And, yes, I know that it’s never the things you expect or prepare for that deliver your undoing.

My packing list became quite specific. If I can catch jock-itch and athlete’s foot at a health club two blocks from my home, then the devilish Tinea twins can easily stage a third world Cincoanera in my nether regions without an ample supply of Tinactin and Lotrimin. Check.

Hydrocortisone seems an appropriate addition for a variety of potential skin eruptions, not the least of which might be the result of exotic plant scratches and insect stings. And speaking of eruptions, I think it only logical when surrounded by volcanoes and water borne parasites to have a well considered, shall we say, exit strategy.

Seriously, the metaphor of magma exiting my body, jet propelled by an assortment of unaccustomed foods, laced with picante, pico de gallo and hot peppers is a short stretch given my propensity to suffer digestively in travels to my only previous Third World destinations like Round Lake Beach and Peoria. Compounding this is a lifetime aversion to objects falling from my body that harkens back to my toilet training resistance as a child, continuing into middle age with a diet high in beef and output that more closely resembles an Arabian foal. Wet wipes and lidocaine cream applied as needed. Check.

All of this brings me to our painful ride on Lake Attitlan, a water filled collapsed caldera between three volcanoes, in a rustic flat bottom boat not meant for even light chop. Halfway through the slamming ordeal, tossed like our luggage and seat cushions I shouted “No mas testiculares” in a plea for mercy on my gonads and an attempt to sound Spanish. I fully expected to be hurled from a volcanic vent on a Mayan altar like James Mason and Pat Boone after their Journey to the Center of the Earth, but had no such luck. Where is Arne Saknussemm when you need him?

Respectfully submitted should the mosquito bite I suffered on the last day of the trip result in Dengue Fever or something equally awful and untreatable.

But of course it didn’t. Like most vacations, it was extremely enjoyable and utterly amazing – in hindsight.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Shaman Bob

 

Introduction:

 

 

Allow me to introduce a story that can best be characterized as imaginative nonfiction. As the first authorized biography to be written about its subject, much literary tuck-pointing was required to fill gaps in a previously unknown but amazing story. By agreement, no sources are cited, and any legal records that might support the legitimacy of the story have been expunged. But it is mostly the truth, and we leave it to you to decide where that gets in the way of fabrication.

Shaman Bob is a prophet among prophets. He is in human form while he traverses the world through place and time, but suspects himself to be of otherworldly origin. He is a blissful being with a personality too codependent to become angry or vengeful. His influence spans generations and continents. He is wise and all-knowing, though he remains humble and without pretense. In fact, his magniloquence has left others with the impression that he is somewhat obtuse. He claims to be God’s best friend.

Emerging from the ritual purification of Temazcal after consuming numerous Ginkgo-infused Long Island Ice Teas, Bob experienced a series of visions that led him to embrace his destiny as a Shaman. But more about that later. It is important for you only to understand that Shamanism is not a birthright, certification, or online degree from the University of Phoenix. It is a mindset and lifestyle choice adopted infrequently but consistently across human cultures and throughout history. Shaman Bob decided he was a Shaman and that was that.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying Natural Selections on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Worlds at War

The red planet burned in the evening sky and the in dreams of Edward Walter Maunder. He stood in the garden of his London home gazing skyward as he did frequently on clear and moonless summer evenings, mired in a debate over his opinion regarding the true nature of Martian canals. His obsession with the red orb, the most masculine of planets, tested the limits of his scientific knowledge, and he inevitably turned in frustration to the telescope in his greenhouse. It remained there, equilibrated to the outdoor temperature to reduce fogging of its highly polished lenses.

 

It was at one of the early meetings of the British Astronomical Association that Edward crossed paths with Herbert Wells, fifteen years his junior, but a decidedly deeper thinker and consummate debater. Wells and Maunder shared tea frequently over the course of several years as neighbors, developing a deep and intellectually satisfying friendship.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Nothing Good

“Don’t ask,” grunts my contact as he swings open a chain link gate and motions me inside.

Of course, I never ask. To do so would be unprofessional, and if my fledgling business needs anything at this point, it’s a profound level of trust, and a track record that will get me other jobs by word of mouth.

The unsavory nature of my growing list of clientele speaks to my competence, both as a security analyst and as a tight-lipped confidant among night-dwellers in the underground economy. I am generally paid in cash. Hundreds only.

We’ll call my contact Vinnie. Yeah, Vinnie. He ushers me into the compound and promptly chains and locks the gate behind me. We head to the first of a series of storage sheds. Barn sized and windowless metal structures, allegedly protected by “Fang,” an ancient Doberman Pincer who looks up and woofs in our general direction, then licks his balls before lying back down in the dust near shed one. The Beware of Dog sign on the fence has done far more to guard the area than Fang for quite some time. I guess that’s why they need me.

Inside shed one, Vinnie flips on a series of incandescent hummers, caged steel contraptions that immediately attract moths and illuminate airborne dust. 

😎

To read the rest of this story and 50 others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.