Keep the Change

The frantic midtown Manhattan street was an uproar of busy buses, cranky cab drivers and determined pedestrians. One by one, mom and pop flipped their signs from closed to open, just in time for the blitz of professionals expecting coffee and their morning paper. A delicate fog caressed the tip tops of lonely skyscrapers and drifted swiftly in the breeze that skimmed off the Hudson. Messengers on bikes expertly weaved their way down the crowded street, in and out of the crawl of delivery vans, police cars and construction workers. Doormen hailed cabs for late tenants and shop owners swept the front walks. 7:01:32 a.m. Business as usual. 

7:01:33 a.m. Time stopped. Everything froze. No wind. No sound. No movement at all. Birds suspended in animation. Hot coffee hung like a rope, mid-pour between pot and cup. Even the steam swirling from the manhole covers ceased rising, creating eerie ghostlike shapes over the street. 

Lying on an ancient wrought iron bench, beneath a warn out old overcoat, was a man. A second ago, the man was invisible to the hurried passersby. Just another bum sleeping off last night's whiskey. No one had noticed how or when the man had gotten there. Too busy.

With a swoosh, the man threw off the overcoat, raised it over his head and, like a cowboy about to rope a calf at the rodeo, swung it in a wide circle. He released it and watched as it flew through the air and landed on a woman sleeping a few benches down. The man wore a robe extending down to his feet. A broad golden sash at his waist. His hair was as white as snow. 

He blinked and was instantly across the street standing next to a petrified street vendor who had been about to hand a young woman a pastry cake. The woman was dressed in a couture business suit, a thick briefcase in one hand and the other extended toward the vendor, clutching a five dollar bill. The man with the white hair blinked again and the bill became a hundred dollar bill. The man touched the arm of the vendor and the business woman, whispered something in an ancient language and disappeared. 

Time started again. 

"Thanks, Joe," the woman says as she hastily grabbed for the pastry. 

"No problem," the man replied as he took the bill from her, "Hey, Lucy, I know you're busy and all, but I was wondering if you wanted to, you know, maybe come to my Tuesday night bible study, you know, if you're not too busy or anything?" he asked nervously. 

"Oh thanks, Joe, that's very sweet, but, with the presentation to the board of directors tomorrow morning, I have to really stay focused for the next 24 hours," Lucy said as she began to move backwards. "Keep the change, Joe. See you tomorrow." she added already out of reach of any reply.

Joe wondered why in the world he had decided to ask Lucy to bible study. The notion had never crossed his mind before. It just sort of came out. He looked down at the bill Lucy had given him. A hundred? He looked up to see Lucy taking the first step down the stairs to the subway. 

With the eye of a quarterback, Joe quickly looked over his options. There was a policeman across the street. No, the cop would ask too many questions. How about Vinny the Magician who was setting up shop a little earlier than usual. No way. He'd have the cart broken down and sold for parts in 5.3 seconds. He turned around. Walking towards him was a guy he recognized. He had given the man his leftover pastries a few times in the past. The man walked as he usually did, a slight limp, head down and covered by the hood of his dirty sweatshirt. Joe covered the short distance between them and took the man's arm. 

"Hey brother, I'm kinda in a pickle here. Could you, you know, watch over my stand for a minute?" Without lifting his head, the man nodded and Joe said, "Thanks, man, it'll just take a sec." Joe began to sprint in the direction of the subway. At the stairs, he turned to see the guy standing behind the cart, head still down. Joe took the stairs two at at time, scaling the last four in a single bound. At the bottom of the stairs he excitedly scanned the subway station. He spotted Lucy standing next to a support column to his left. Lucy saw him and waved. He walked to her.

A little out of breath, Joe said, "Hey there, Lucy, you gave me a hundred dollar bill, you know, by mistake." 

Lucy looked down to her purse and noticed that the five she had placed in the clip of her cell phone the night before was still there. She held it up. "Would you look at that? So much for detailed planning." 

They exchanged bills and Lucy said, "Thank you so much, Joe." 

"No problem," Joe replied. 

As Joe turned to walk away, Lucy looked down at the hundred she held. Looking up she said, "Hey, Joe, what time did you say that bible study was?"

Joe stopped, turned around with a beaming smile and replied, "Six-thirty in the old YMCA building at the corner of 42nd and 11th."

Lucy looked down at the bill, then back to Joe, "I'll see you there."

Just as Joe had entered the stairwell to find Lucy, the man behind the pastry cart smiled. He reached up with both hands and lifted the hood from his head, revealing hair white as snow. He grabbed the spatula in one hand and a bag in the other and called out, "Pastries anyone?" 

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A Ghost Story

I have to go so bad. 

I can make it until morning. No I can't. 

I can make it to the bathroom. I kick the covers off one foot. Oooh, that's cold air. Okay, just go. Maybe she won't be there tonight. Maybe she won't turn around this time. 

Last time she turned around. If she turns around this time, I won't make it. I can't. 

It's starting to hurt. It's now or never. I kick off the rest of the covers and run. Out the door. Don't look. I look. She's not there. 

It's next time. 

Check the window. No sun yet. She wasn't there last time. I look toward the door, it's almost shut. Who shut it? I look hard at the door. Green light. Gotta hold it. She's definitely there. 

Morning. Made it. 

Turned down that second glass of milk with dinner. That should help. 

Wake up. Here we go again. I try to remember her pattern. Was it there, there, gone, or was it gone, there, gone? Can't remember. I don't see any green light. What am I scared of anyway? I'm eight now. Big enough not to be scared of ghosts. I slip out of bed. I'm not scared, I think,  as I force my legs to walk. I close my eyes as I round the corner into the hall. Entering the hall with eyes still closed, I know I'm in trouble. The green light penetrates my eyelids and I feel a cold air that can only be her dead breath.  She must be right in front of me. 

I freeze. My eyes open. She's there, but in the chair by the desk where she usually is. She turns. I pee. She stands. I cry. She comes. I run. Forward, because the bathroom door is closer. I slam the door in her face. Green light under the door. Will she come in? She's never come in before. The light fades. I get in the tub and stare at the crack under the door. 

This started when I was six and continued until my family moved to Arizona seven years later. 

I never told anyone. 

Then, one night over dinner, about a year after we left Missouri, we began to discuss reasons why we were glad we had moved. Without thinking, I blurt out, "Well for one thing, there's no ghost at the end of the hallway." My dad and mom both look at me, somewhat amused. 

"Ghost?" mom asks with a smile in her voice. 

"Yeah," I reply, already wishing I had kept my mouth shut. 

"What did this...ghost...look like?" she chuckles. 

"Well...she was green."

"Yeah, and she had a big head!" chimes in my eleven-year-old sister. We all turn to her. 

"What did you say?" I ask.

"She had a really big head, and when I would come out of my room at night she would turn around and look at me." 

In that instant, I realized there are times when you must tell your heart to beat. Times when you must remind yourself to take the next breath and let out the previous one. No more of this involuntary stuff. 

My dad adds, "Well, we did live on a cemetery, you know."

Beat...Breathe in...Beat...Breathe out...Beat...

"Honey, it was not directly on the cemetery. It was more like our backyard was next to the cemetery," mom corrects. 

"In, next to, on. What's the difference? The fact is the kids were being haunted and we lived on, sorry, next to a cemetery."

Of course! The cemetery. This obvious detail had never crossed my mind before now. The ghost must have been from the cemetery. Maybe our house was built on her grave and, in order for her soul to be set free, she had to get us out and burn the house to the ground. Or maybe it was her baby's grave, and she thought my sis and I were little Timmy or Tina. It made perfect sense now. How could I have overlooked the cemetery?

My sister says, "I thought ghosts were afraid of churches. That old church across the street from our house shoulda scared that ghost away."

The church! I forgot about the church. What else had I missed? A creepy motel on the corner run by a guy and his mother? A driverless car with a girl's name terrorizing the Buicks and Chevys left out at night? Did I ever really get to know the neighbors to our right, the ones who painted their house black and the front doors orange? Whoa. What la la land was I living in?

As usual, the conversation turned into an argument between my parents about whether the likely stomping grounds for a green ghost would be a church or a cemetery. 

It's been twenty years since that conversation but I still get the heeby jeebies when I think about it. Sis and I bring up the lady in the hall sometimes, but I like to keep it way down deep. Down with all the other things that should not be. A lot of my friends say they would love to visit their childhood homes. Unh uh, no way. Not interested. Thank you very much, but I'll pass.  

As I sit here writing, alone...in the dark...I look at the street in front of my house. No ancient abandoned church, no weird neighbors, well, not that weird and the only thing dead in the back yard is the ferret buried next to the swimming pool. All is quiet. I yawn, turn the computer off and stand up. Stretching my arms, I turn and walk away from my desk, glad to have gotten the demons out. As I reach the door. I hear the whine of my computer restarting. Funny, I thought I shut it down. Before I can turn around, I feel cold air on the back of my neck and the room is flooded with light...green light.

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Billy "Busker" Branett

As I leisurely make my way along the boardwalk, in neglect of the general, yet burdensome duty to watch where I'm going, I nearly decapitate an older gentlemen crouched near the entrance to The Fabulous Funnel Cakes shop.

"Hey man! Watch where you're going," the dude says in a voice that I have not heard since my "Up In Smoke" Cheech & Chong days. You know, "Hey man, where'd you put the bong, man? I'm gonna need that later, man."

I quickly apologize and bend to peel him off the ground. "I'm so sorry," I weakly offer. "I did not see you there. Are you okay?"

"It's okay, man. I'm alright." As I get him upright and dust him off, which consists of me kind of patting his back and then holding my breath to keep from inhaling the cloud that forms from the guy, I redirect my attention to where he had been when I so rudely laid him out.

On a bench, next to the sign proudly proclaiming Fabulous Funnel Cakes, Voted Ocean City's Best Funnel Cakes, lay the rig of a one-man-band. Instantly, I am replete with delight for, you see, I am absolutely, categorically, decidedly, quite positively and to those who know me, uncharacteristically, crazy about a one-man-band. There is something about the metallic rhythm, the melodic vibration and the carnival racket that comes from the getup.

Trying to subdue my elation, I ask knowingly, "So, do you play?".

"No, man, I just like to carry this thing around for exercise, man." he replies, obviously ready for me to make my way out of his life in the same exuberant and hasty fashion in which I had entered.

"Sorry, brother," I say with as much humility as I can muster. "It's just that I love a one-man-band. When I was a child, my Uncle Tim had a kit very similar to yours. I would follow him to the fairgrounds and watch him and the other buskers perform."

"That's cool, man. Whereabouts did your uncle get down?"

"Down south. Allentown Fairgrounds."

Smoke starts to trail from the music man's ears as memory's wheels begin to grind. "Oh yeah, man, I know the spot. I used to jam with a couple old timers in front of the farmer's market, man."

I can hardly believe my ears. What are the chances?

He continues, "What did you say your uncle's name was?"

"Tim."

"I knew a cat way back when, went by the name of Two-Tooth Timmy."

"That's him!" I scream, realizing that I've scared the crap out of a little girl walking by with her family. "That's him!" I repeat, bringing my voice down a notch.

"Right on, man. How's that busker doin' now, man?"

"Actually, he passed in '87. Got in the way of a Conrail down by the Norfolk Southern Corp. stock yards," I say.

"Oooh, that's too bad, man. Old Two-Tooth loved the trains," he responds.

"Yeah, the trains and the whiskey," I add. "By the way, I'm Jason," realizing I had not introduced myself, "Jason Conti."

I offer my hand. "Billy Busker Branett, a tune for a treasure, at your service." He takes my hand and begins to skake it like there's no tomorrow.

We discuss the good old days for a while as I help him get his rig on and ask again if he is okay. He assures me he is fine. I slip him a $20 and watch him bounce down the boardwalk. I see him, every once in a while, banging away on his bass drum while strumming a guitar and moving his lips expertly between harmoninca and kazoo. Man, I love a one-man-band.

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Abandoned

The desk stands in the shadowed study, oblivious to the knowledge that relies on its strong legs for support. Ideas sit forsaken and scattered, half lives known only to the writer. A brown leather journal, bound with a strap, longs for an entry. A picture lies face down, once the muse, now the block. Crumpled papers litter the dusty floor, evidence of frustrating attempts at perfection. A stack of books leans impossibly to one side, like the mind of the writer, unable to endure the smallest disturbance. The desk, once the birthplace of brilliance, abandoned for peace of mind.

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Delmon and the Dragon

As Delmon walked down the dusty gravel road toward the creek, he began the important task of planning his summer vacation, of which today was the first day. There would be the ordinary everyday things which would include a stroll to the drug store for candy and baseball cards, a game of war with the neighborhood kids and a flip through the latest Avengers comic. There would be the much anticipated trip to grandmama's house for the Fourth of July and fishing for mud puppies at the Blackmore's pond. Mama's apple pies and catch with Dad after work. Maybe even time for little sis. All of these ideas blossomed into a brilliant mosaic of anticipation in Delmon's mind.

The road began to bend in the direction of the aging farmhouses on the far end of town. Delmon skipped off the path to the right and started down the tangled bank of the creek. His target was a lengthy steel tube that spanned the distance from one bank to the other. This was the only spot to ford the creek for two miles in either direction. The duct extended about five feet above the crawl of the black water beneath. Delmon had observed the older boys negotiate the divide by foot, but he elected to manage by straddling the tube and scooting along on his backside.

As he settled himself on the pipe, a disturbance from below captured his attention. At first glance, the part of Delmon's brain that refused to believe that the things that go bump in the night were anything but ancient wood lamenting on time's callousness toward materials of decay, saw only a fallen tree, left behind by the ravages of an arduous winter storm. Nothing more than natures way of renewal. However, this thought was quickly replaced with the ghastly shock of comprehension at what lay below.

The creature had the shape of an alligator. Its scaly jacket glistened with the oily liquid that ambled it's way over and past, polluting everything downstream with the dross of the loathsome monster. The limbs were submersed in the water but, without a doubt, ended in razor sharp talons capable of dissecting with the certainty of a surgeon's scalpel. It's tail coiled into a tight sphere that appeared to lay on the surface of the water, quivering with the current. The savage head was that of a dragon. Two spiked horns rose from its crown flanked by many smaller spikes along both sides of the face. The hideous mouth was partially open revealing columns of bloodthirsty teeth. But by far, the most unsettling of the creature's grotesque appearance were the eyes. They were a deep shadow of red, sunken within the dragon's skull and seemed to convey the torment that undoubtedly followed the nightmare of this alien's wretched existence. These eyes were hungrily fixated on Delmon.

Delmon was unable to move, completely paralyzed by the vexing glare of the demon. It spoke.

"You realize that I am going to eat you?" the dragon seemed to breathe more than speak. Delmon remained silent. "See, I've been waiting for you all winter and I am very hungry." 

Delmon, figuring that, if he is to escape and avoid the terrible wrath of the dragon, he will need to accommodate it with conversation. Accessing a courage he did not know he possessed, he replied in the best Avenger voice he could muster, "Surely there are bigger kids that will come by today and provide you with a larger meal." 

The dragon seemed to ponder this for a few moments. Delmon took advantage of the beast's pause searching the alcove of his recollection for a similar situation wherein one of his comic book heros triumphantly slew the beast and saved the world. 

The dragon spoke again, "Yes...yes, I agree that you are quite small and the warm weather likely will bring more boys and girls to the creek, but you see, I am very hungry and you look soooo appetizing." Delmon shivered. "I would be kicking myself if I let you pass and nothing came my way for several more days."

Delmon began to formalate a plot in his seven-year-old mind. His mother was always telling him that what one fears most, most of the time, does not even exist. If he could convince the dragon that it did not exist, maybe it would just disappear. Delmon said, "What if I told you that I don't think you're real, that you are just and old tree laying down there in the water?" 

The dragon growled and replied, "You can clearly see that I exist and am on the verge of devouring you." 

Delmon said, "No, I think you are an old tree, not a scary dragon. I'm going to count to three and you will be nothing but a dead tree. ONE, TWO..." 

"Wait!" cried the dragon, "let's talk about this a little longer. Assuming you are correct, that I am just a figment of your imagination: what would a lowly dragon like myself have to do to maintain his existence?"

Delmon thought about this for a long time. On one hand, if he just wished the dragon away, that would be that. No more worries. But on the other hand, having your own personal dragon may have extraordinary benefits. Delmon resolved to ask, "Do you promise not to eat me when I pass over the pipe each day?" 

The dragon responded, "Well, I may need to think..." 

"ONE, TWO..." interrupted Delmon. 

"Okay, okay, I won't eat you when you pass each day," blurted the dragon. 

Confident that he had the monster right where he wanted him, Delmon began to scoot across the pipe. The dragon watched with those dangerous eyes, a costant discharge of drool poured from the beast's gape. When Delmon reached the other side of the creek, he turned to the dragon, closed his eyes and said, "THREE!" He opened his eyes and the dragon had turned into a fallen tree. Delmon muttered, "Just in case," and continued on his way, reminding himself to thank mom for the great advice.

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Cyclone

the warm flank unyielding, desperately seeks the heights of cold air necessary for birth. violence spreads my potential over the helpless land below. rotation is my master. my time is not yet. the cycle starts again. i await my chance to destroy. my power builds and pulsates with wicked anticipation. my eye catches a row of silos. wooden staves held together by pitiful nails. ferocious energy courses through my black wind as the cold accelerates toward the ground, fusing with heat. the rain stops and the dismal sky begins its spin. 

birth.

my genesis modest as i gather inches above the ground, plucking shrubs and small trees, testing the turbulence of my vortex. the warm darkness above my engine, fueled by the debris below. my destructive dance begins. i jump over cornfields for a red barn. more fuel. the sound of splintering wood barely audible against my deafening howl. a farmhouse prostrates in submission to my fury. 

growth.

with the savagery of a hungry wolf, i carve my way through countryside. i feel the sudden call of my new master, cold air. i thrash and twist towards the warmth of the valley, but icy wind encircles my core, squeezing life from me. i avoid buildings and seek the welcoming dale, but my time has come. in my final rage, i focus my viciousness on a large water tower. with an unharnessed rage unknown to worldkind, i release a mangled piece of metal and the tower crumples. my wretched existence gives in to the persistence of the cold and i retreat upward to my crypt. 

death.  

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The Shepherds

"Come. That's it. A little further now. Follow me," I say, as we reach the fields of Bethlehem. The animals protest the steep climb. My sheep follow my voice and separate from the flock of my brother as we part at hill's crest. When the flocks are apart, I say, "Stay, rest, eat and I will watch over you." Circling, I count heads and meet my brother between our herds. I see that he is happy. I am happy, too. We have come far and lost little. Tonight we will watch, and tomorrow our flocks will feed off the land of our ancestors. 

As the sun sets, our bellies warm with food and drink, we prepare for the chill that will come with night. I lay rod on the backs of the sheep for a final count. A scan of the valley yields no sign of wild beast. My brother lies down behind a large boulder to sleep. I sit, wrapped in sheepskin, atop the rock for first watch.

I try to focus on the valley, but my mind wanders to the rejoicing that will accompany our arrival. The children will see first and run to meet us. Once news reaches father, a feast will be prepared. My wife! I close my eyes and my mind is filled with her beauty. Soon I will feel the warmth of her embrace and taste the honey of her lips. One more watch. I open my eyes to a man standing not an arms length from my perch.  

Terrified, I stumble backward off the rock onto the ground. Regaining my balance, I put my back to the boulder and shake my brother awake. Suddenly the dark of night is replaced with a brilliant light. My brother sits up and looks to me, his face glowing. I look down at my hands. They also glow. The rocks, grass, mountains and even the sheep are alive with light. With fear and trembling, my brother asks, "Where does it come from?"

"I do not know. There is a man in front of the rock. He has eyes like stars." I am filled with warmth and hear a faint song from the hills and rocks themselves. It is as if they remember the light and have been expecting its triumphant return. From the days of my youth, ancient scriptures float in an out of my conscience and I know what stands in front of the boulder. It is an angel of the Lord. 

"Do not be afraid!" the voice surprisingly gentle. 

My brother looks at me. He too, must have heard the soothing tone of the angel's voice. I nod and motion him to rise. Together, we stand and turn. The angel is clothed in white and wears a breatplate of gold. Save his eyes, which glisten and twinkle like sunlight off still water, he has all of the features of man. 

"Listen carefully, for I proclaim to you good news that brings great joy to all the people. Today your Savior is born in the city of David. He is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign for you. You will find a baby wrapped in strips of cloth and lying in a manger."

As the angel's mouth closes, the valley is filled with an army of angels. Their voices, like a thunderous waterfall, rise to the heavens singing, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among people with whom he is pleased!"

Then they are gone. Replaced by the returning darkness of night.  

As we stand in silence, a cool wind rises from the valley below. For several minutes, we stare into the darkness of the hills in search of evidence. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I see the lights of Bethlehem in the distance. I turn to my brother and say, "To Bethlehem." 

He replies, "To the Christ!"

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