The Hunter (with apologies to Anton Chekhov)

It is a seductively hot day. There isn't a single cloud to be spotted in the sky. The sun-bleached grass looks depressed, dreary. Perhaps there will be rain soon, but it seems as though it will never be green again. The forest is still, quiet, perfectly motionless. It's as if the trees are bearing silent witness.

A tall, thin man of about forty to fifty years of age in a plaid red shirt, army green camouflage pants, and knee-high boots nonchalantly saunters into the clearing and down the trail. To one side, there are the green trees of the forest, and to the other side, stretching all the way to the horizon, is a golden ocean of ripe wheat. He is sunburnt and sweaty. A blue baseball cap sits on his blondish-gray head as if it were a crown. A large leather bag hangs over his shoulder, a dead goose residing within it. The hunter carries a double-barreled shotgun. He squints his eyes at his old, thin dog as it sniffs the ground and bushes. It is so quiet...every living thing is taking refuge in the shade, away from the heat of the midday sun.

The hunter suddenly hears a woman's soft voice calling his name.

Startled and perturbed, he turns around. In front of him, as if having suddenly materialized from the air around him, is a pale, red-haired woman, about thirtyish. She holds a scythe with a long, polished wooden handle that glistens in the sun. She smiles, almost bashfully.

"Well hello, Penelope," replies the hunter, slowly putting down his rifle. "What are you doing here?"

"The women from town are working out here, so I'm here with them. I'm the hired help now."

"Hmph," the hunter quietly grunts. He turns away from her and slowly continues on down the trail. Penelope follows him. They wander on for a few minutes or so.

"I haven't seen you for such a long time," she finally says, breaking their mutual silence as she gazes tenderly at his back, admiring the slow, graceful movements of his shoulders. "You stopped by the cottage for some water on Easter Sunday, and we haven't seen you since. Of course you were drunk. God only knows how you even managed to walk. You cursed me, smacked me, and left. I've been waiting for you to come back ever since. I've been looking and looking and looking out for you, but I suppose you couldn't be bothered to come back just once."

"What would I do with myself at your place?"

"There's nothing for you to do there, obviously, just, anyway...there's the household...things that need...that need...looking after. You're the man of the house, after all. Why, just look at you, you've shot a goose! Here, why don't you sit down and take a rest?" Penelope laughs like a smitten schoolgirl as she looks up at the hunter's face, with her own face radiating pure joy.

"Sit down? Sure, why not?" asks the hunter indifferently. He sits down on a stump between two saplings. The old dog slowly lays down beside him and lowers his chin to the ground, his sad-looking eyes fixed on Penelope. "Why are you standing?" the hunter asks Penelope. "You should sit, too."

Penelope sits some distance away in a patch of grass. She is almost ashamed of her happiness in this moment, covering her smile with her hand.

"If only you'd come once, just once, just one little time," Penelope says wistfully.

"What would be the point?" The hunter heaves a sigh and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. "There's no reason to screw around with you for a couple of hours, get you all hot and bothered. And a little piece of my soul dies with every passing hour I spend in that godforsaken town, you know that. I'm spoiled rotten. I like a nice firm mattress to sleep on, a cup of freshly brewed, piping hot coffee, and nice, quiet conversation. I want to have all the good things of life, and that town is drowning in poverty and filth and meth-heads. There's no way I could live there another day. If they passed a law that said I had to live with you, I'd blow up the whole town or kill myself. It's just the way I am, can't help it."

"Where do you live now?" Penelope asks.

"At the Ivins place. They let me live in their coachhouse, I furnish fresh game for their dinner table. Mr. and Mrs. Ivins are big on keeping their food as local as possible."

"That doesn't seem very dignified, Mr. Good-Things-of-Life. Trudging around the woods, killing animals for another man's table. That's what most men do for fun, but here you are doing it for your living."

"You don't understand," says the hunter, gazing thoughtfully at the sky above them for a moment. Then he looks at her, right into her eyes. "You couldn't ever possibly understand who I am, what kind of a man I am. To you, I'm a crazy, lost soul, but everyone else knows that I'm the best damn shot in at least three or four counties. Even the rich fancy people like the Ivinses know that. There's even been a story published about me in a sportsmen's magazine. Nobody can ever even hope to match me toe-to-toe when it comes to hunting. And if I don't want to have anything to do with your towny ways, it isn't because I think I'm better than everyone else. It's just that I've never known anything else but guns and dogs since the day I was born. Take the gun out of my hands, and I suppose I'll just grab a fishing pole and do nothing but fish for the rest of my life. Take away the fishing pole, and I'll just start hunting with my bare hands. Of course, I traded horses for awhile. I went around to all the county fairs whenever I had some spare change in my pocket. You've seen it yourself, when any of these farm boys fall in with horse traders or hunters, it's good riddance to the tractor and combine. Once a restless man's soul gets the taste of freedom, there's no way he can ever forget it. It's like when a rich kid goes off to the city to become an actor, or some other kind of artist, he doesn't want to try his hand at anything else. He doesn't want to try and run some company, or become some kind of muckity-muck in politics--"

He notices a small, lonely tear trailing down Penelope's cheek.

"You just don't understand."

"I understand," she quietly answers.

"Then why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," says Penelope as she turns away so that the hunter can't see her tears. "I'm not. It's just...it's just that...you could spend at least one day with me, one little, frickin' day. It's been twelve years since we got married, and...and...I don't think there's been a single day of love between the two of us, not one."

"Love," mumbles the hunter as he lifts the cap off his head and scratches his scalp. "That's impossible. We're husband and wife in name, but that's about it. You think I'm some rootless, aimless wild man, and I find you a simple woman who doesn't understand anything. We're a fine couple, aren't we? I'm Mr. Footloose-and-Fancy-Free and you're...you're a, uh...you're a...farm laboring...peasant woman of some kind. I fancy myself a master of the hunt, and you feel nothing for me but pity."

"We got married...in a church. Before God and man and everybody!" sobs Penelope.

"Not so fast, Penelope. You've left out a few details, haven't you? Go give Judge Platt a big hug and a kiss and thank him for this situation. He'd always been jealous that I was a lot better shot than he could ever hope to be, and so he took me out and got me drunk. And one thing led to another, and it turned into a thirty-day bender, of course, as can sometimes happen. A man lost in the bottle can be talked into all sorts of things. He can be talked into converting to a religion he's never heard of before, or getting married, even. And so out of the sheer spite of his envy, he married me, the best shot in five counties, to you, a...a, uh...a, um, cow girl, or...whatever it is that you are. You could plainly see that I was falling down drunk, so why the hell did you go through with marrying me? You're not a slave, you could've said no! Of course, a farm girl is awful lucky to snag a great hunter for a husband, but you should've thought a little bit more about what you were getting yourself into. Well, anyway...go ahead and suffer and cry. It's all just a big joke to the judge, but go on and sob your face off. Go beat yourself in the head with a hammer if it makes you feel any better."

A moment of stone silence passes, as if a quiet angel is flying by.

The hunter and his dog suddenly notice three or four ducks flying overhead. The hunter's eyes follow them as they trail off into the distance, slowly shrinking into a cluster of little specks over the horizon.

"How are you making ends meet these days?" asks the hunter as he turns back to Penelope.

"Between the field work and a little babysitting here and there, I manage to get by," she answers.

"Well...good," replies the hunter.

Another quiet angel passes. The faint sounds of women singing from off in the distance can be heard now, even in this oppressive heat.

"They say you built a new cottage for Alicia," says Penelope. The hunter is quiet. "I guess that would mean--"

"I suppose that's just the way it goes for you, eh? You've got yourself a new cross to bear now. Anyway, I think we've said all that we can say to each other. Time for me to get back on the trail." The hunter stands, stretches a little, and slings his rifle over his shoulder. "Always got to remember to stay on the trail. Just have to remind myself from time to time."

"When are you coming back to town?" she asks quietly.

"Doesn't matter. I'd never walk into that town sober, and it's no good for you when I'm drunk. I'm an awful drunk. I get so angry."

"Good-bye."

The hunter slaps his ball cap back onto his head and whistles to his dog, who lazily rises on all fours. They go on their way. Penelope stays right where she is and gazes at his back as he walks on down the trail. She admires the movement of his shoulder blades as he lazily saunters off. She feels the sadness fill her eyes and tenderly caresses her arms as her eyes stroke the long, lanky figure of her husband. For a moment it seems as though he feels her gaze on his back; he stops and looks back at her. He says nothing, but judging from the look on his face, it seems to Penelope as though he wants to say something. She meekly walks up to him, her eyes begging for him to finally say whatever it is he has to say.

"This is for you," he says, handing her a wad of bills, which she takes into her hand almost robotically. He quickly turns away and resumes his walk down the trail, the dog at his heel.

"Good-bye, husband!" she calls out.

He and his dog continue to walk down the long and winding path. She remains standing where she is, perfectly motionless like a marble statue, and closely studies his every step. Soon, the redness of his shirt seems to merge seamlessly with his camo pants, and then not long after that he can barely be seen, the old dog virtually indistinguishable from his boots. Only the blue of his cap can be seen now. Then he suddenly makes a sharp turn in a distant clearing and fades from her view.

"Good-bye," she whispers. She hoists herself up on her tiptoes in a last ditch effort to at least see the blueness of his cap one last time.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Richard Pevear's and Larissa Volokhonsky's translation of Anton Chekhov's short story "The Huntsman," originally published in 1885, served as the guide and template for this newly updated version that I offer here. Their translation appears in Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov, copyright 2000 by Pevear and Volokhonsky.

On the Occasion of His 123rd Birthday

Walt reflected on his long life as he sipped the green tea his great-granddaughter had poured for him. "Green tea is so good for you!" she exclaimed. "So many antioxidants!" He quietly replied with a pleasant smile.

His hand trembled a little, as it usually did, as he raised the cup to his lips.

"Here, let me get you a straw."

"No, it's OK. I'll be fine."

"I'll get you one anyway, just in--"

"No, thank you," he replied, rather firmly. "I'm fine."

Today was Walt's 123rd birthday.

"One hundred and twenty-three years," he muttered to himself.

"That's right, Gobby!" exclaimed Lucy. "Gobby" was what she called him ever since she was barely a toddler. She sputtered out the word the first time she tried to call him "great-grandpa." The family found it charming and affectionately adopted it as his nickname. Walt was already closing in on a hundred years of age at that point and found the new moniker a little annoying. He was fond of his great-granddaughter--she had grown into a smart, charming young woman, though she had a habit of asserting opinions on things that she appeared to know very little about--but he still winced inside every time she called him that.

"And now that you're one hundred and twenty-three years old, do you know what that means?"

"I don't know, what?" asked Walt.

"It means that, as of today, you are the oldest person in the entire world who has ever lived, Gobby!"

"Oh, right. Of course." It suddenly returned to Walt's mind that Lucy had arranged for a reporter or journalist of some kind to come talk to him, a lady reporter about Lucy's age. She would probably have a photographer with her to snap some photos of the world's oldest human being.

"That record had previously been held by a lady in France. She lived for one hundred and twenty-two years, Gobby! Well, one hundred and twenty-two years and one hundred and sixty-four days, to be exact, so technically you already broke her record several months ago, but I just think it's better to celebrate your new world's record on the day of your birthday, it just feels more fitting. Anyway, she died a long time ago, way back in the 1990s--which means that she was born all the way back in the 1870s, Gobby! I mean, ohmygosh! That also means she was, like, a young woman of about twenty years old at the time you were born! Just a little younger than I am now! And we're part French!"

She smiled at him as though she had just shared the greatest discovery with him. "You know what else, Gobby? I just found out online that not only are you the confirmed oldest human being who has ever lived, but of the entire list of the world's twenty oldest living people, you are the only man! All the rest are women! Isn't that something?"

He just looked at her for a moment. He took in her face through the thick lenses of his spectacles, studied it. A quick slideshow of hundreds of photographs played in his mind. It stopped on the image of his mother, which he then superimposed onto Lucy's face. It fit almost perfectly. She had always reminded Walt of his younger sister, Catherine, who was the spitting image of his mother. Catherine had died young, killed by the Spanish flu that swept across the globe and killed hundreds of millions in 1918. It was the first great heartbreak of his life. But at this very moment, Lucy looked much more like his mother than his sister. It dawned on him that it was the shape of the eyes, and just the way her smile curved across her face. He decided that those details were much closer to his mother's face than Catherine's, reversing a previous assessment he had made some years before. Perhaps he would change his mind again.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Walt.

He saw the smile on Lucy's face slowly fade away. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"I, um...I just...," she finally began to mutter.

"What are you doing with your life, Lucy?"

She just stared back at him, dumbstruck.

"I don't give a single goddam how many years I've lived, why should anyone else? What the hell does it matter how many years I've been alive? How many years a person's lived matters about as much as a pile of cow dung. Never mind about me, what are you doing with yourself these days? I know you've gone back to school so many times I've lost count. You graduated with one degree, and you've been going back over and over ever since. I guess that's why they call it 'graduate school.' It's a school for people who graduate college once but then they never want to leave it. Maybe it's high time you stay the hell out of school and get out in the world more. I've lived one hundred and twenty-three years now, and there's a hell of a lot I never tried my hand at, and now I never can because even if I lived another hundred and twenty-three years this body is just too damn old and shopworn to give those things a try."

His bespectacled eyes focused intently on hers as he leaned into her face. "Lucy, I'm going to tell you right now, the only thing that could be worse for you than dying in the next five minutes is to live to be my age--to live for more than a hundred and twenty years--and have it dawn on you after all that time that you ain't done jack shit with yourself, not really."

He saw the gears behind her eyes begin to grind, and her face began to change, almost transform, after he uttered those last words. Then her eyes darted from his. Her posture changed. Her mouth parted as if to admit some new spirit or soul to take up residence in her body. She rose slowly from the kitchen table and walked over to the window. She gazed outside, quietly meditating.

The doorbell rang. She looked back at Walt.

"Oh, oh...that's them! The reporters!" She quickly darted out of the kitchen. Walt then heard her answer the door, her voice chipper and excited, followed by a muffle of strange voices.

Walt took another sip of his tea and braced himself. 

This Mortal Coil

"Hey, Lloyd, can you come to my office at your earliest convenience? Thanks."

Lloyd stared at his boss' e-mail for a good five minutes. He racked his brain for any semblance of a recollection of something that may have pissed him off. But after five minutes of intense mental searching, he concluded that he had done nothing wrong and so his boss must be asking to talk to him about something benign.

Or perhaps you made a mistake, said The Voice.

"Or perhaps I made a...oh, shut up," Lloyd whispered. He looked around to make sure his office door was closed. It wasn't, so he got up and closed it, and then returned to his desk. Now he could converse softly with The Voice without anyone taking notice. Lloyd frequently took such precautions whenever The Voice initiated a conversation with him.

You get careless sometimes. Sometimes, you're just plain lazy. You probably screwed something up during one of your lazier moods. 

"Speak for yourself," answered Lloyd. "What do you do all day but talk...crazy talk. All damn day."

He thought for a moment, looking at the framed photograph of his wife and dog that sat on his desk.

"Sure, I could've screwed something up. But if I did, it was an honest mistake and so I have nothing to be afraid of. Everybody makes mistakes. And Mark is a fairly easygoing guy. Not that he overlooks or excuses carelessness, but he is a fair man. Whatever it is, it can't be all that serious."

Don't be so sure about that, said The Voice.

Just a few minutes later, Lloyd was seated across from his boss' desk. Mark had waved him in while typing at his computer, and he continued typing for a good three or four minutes after Lloyd sat down.

That's so annoying, said The Voice.

Mark suddenly stopped typing and whirled around in his chair to face him.

"So. Lloyd. Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"Sure," answered Lloyd.

"I just wanted to talk to you about the little gathering we had in the break room yesterday for Liz's birthday."

"Okay."

"Um...do you remember what you said?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, come on, Lloyd. That crack you made about her age."

"I'm sorry...what?"

Yeah, that was pretty crass, said The Voice. Really insensitive.

"You said, of course I'm paraphrasing, but you said, after she answered how old she was, that her life was more than half over so she'd better make the best of the rest of it, because the odds are, at this point in her life, that almost anything can happen to her now since she's been very lucky so far. Or something to that effect."

"Well, I don't recall that that's exactly what I said--"

It's pretty close. So rude.

"You may have noticed the long, awkward silence that followed your remark, and the pained look on Liz's face...?"

"I...didn't notice any...uh, no."

"Right. Well, the whole damn office has been talking about it all day today, how...utterly shocking your remark was, and how upset Liz was. They say she was practically sobbing at her desk for just about all of yesterday afternoon. And as you may know, Mr. Clark practically thinks of her as a daughter. He was best friends with her father, who just passed away last summer."

"Yes, I know," said Lloyd. "Look, Liz hasn't said anything to me about--"

Mark stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Well, I can tell you, Mr. Clark wasn't too happy when he heard about what you said. He called and gave me an earful this morning. So, after having some discussion with him and with HR, we all decided that you need to attend some sensitivity training."

Absolutely. I'd say it's for the best, chimed The Voice.

"I'm sorry...what?"

"You heard me, Lloyd. I've already got you signed up for the classes next week. It's just two four-hour sessions, one on Tuesday and--"

"Eight hours? Sensitivity training' takes eight whole hours? I mean, what the hell?"

"That's not exactly the kind of reaction I was expecting, Lloyd. Surely now, upon some reflection, you realize that your remarks were very upsetting. Liz only just turned fifty, for crying out loud. How old do you think I am? I'm fifty-four."

"Well, you're more than half way through your life, too," said Lloyd.

Oh boy.

Something flashed in his boss' eyes.

Looks almost like...desperation, doesn't it, Lloyd? 

"I mean, think about it," said Lloyd. "You're a few years past the half-century mark, though you appear to be in relatively good health for a man your age."

"I have...no major complaints," said Mark. "I feel--I feel--p-p-pretty good."

You smell blood, don't you?

"Even so, what are the odds for you from here on out? Sure, people overall are living longer and better quality lives than our forebears, but the additional years only means increased odds of something happening. Something...bad and life-threatening."

Your ability to empty half the glass simply amazes me.

"And it could be anything...a sudden autoimmune disorder, for example. Or, diabetes. High blood pressure, leading to a stroke. I mean, your job is fairly stressful, right? In middle age, that makes you a prime candidate. And of course, there's always the 'Big One,' the 'Big C.' And there are some cancers that are way worse than others, like the ones that don't manifest any symptoms at all until it's way too late, not until it's metastasized and spread to all the major organs."

Lloyd leaned back in the chair, a deep sigh slipping from his mouth. "Yeah. Sure would suck if something like that happened."

There was perfect silence. Lloyd noticed that Mark's lower lip was quivering.

"Ah, forget about sudden illness striking you. I mean," and here Lloyd paused for two or three seconds just to make sure his next point would really hit home, "there's always the possibility of some kind of accident."

Oh for God's sake, give it a rest. Can't you see the man is nearly a basket case already?

"Have you ever been in any kind of automobile accident, or has someone ever nearly run you over with a car, or have you ever been on a flight where it looked like things were getting really scary because of some nasty weather, anything like that?"

"Never had anything worse than a minor fender-bender," muttered Mark.

"Really? Wow. You've been on this Earth for more than half a century and you've never been in an especially bad accident?" Lloyd chuckled. "That's some damn good luck. You just might be about due, then."

Your cruelty is truly a thing to behold. Don't you know when to stop?

"A drunk driver might suddenly swerve across the road and sideswipe you on your way home one night, and send your car sliding across a few lanes to crash into some other car."

Jesus H....

"I heard we're supposed to get some rain early this evening, just about the time we're all headed home. Who knows? With all the hydroplaning and all, you might be the one who ends up swerving across the road, sideswiping someone else, or you might end up spinning into another lane and into the path of an oncoming semi-truck or something."

There was another long, still silence as Lloyd pondered whether he he was finished or not.

"Yeah, it's a real cosmic shooting gallery out there. Who knows what can happen?"

Lloyd just sat quietly for nearly an entire minute. Mark was quiet, too.

"So. I'm scheduled for that sensitivity training next week?"

"Yes," Mark answered almost in a whisper as he stared down at his desk.

"Which days? Tuesday, and...?"

"Tuesday and...Th-Th-Thursday."

"What time?"

"One to five."

Lloyd let out a long, deep sigh.

"Okay. I'll be there."

Lloyd got up and walked back to his office.

It's been a long time since you've felt this good, hasn't it? asked The Voice.

Lloyd didn't answer. He just whistled along to the tune that he was playing on his computer as he typed. A Buddy Holly song. He always loved the oldies.

It was true, though. He never felt better.

Auld Lang Syne

He stopped reading as he paced by the window. He looked out at the busy street below. Downtown was bustling with people. Lots of drunk people. He had spotted only a few of them stumbling about a few hours earlier, but now there were herds of them. Some of them were laughing and shouting--he was more than a dozen floors up, with the hotel room's windows closed, and still he could hear their "conversations" and loud gales of maniacal laughter from the streets far below.

Look at all those poor suckers. Just look at them. Obliterating themselves for the evening, erasing the painful cognizance of their meaningless, painful, tragically brief existence with drink, drugs, and only God knows what else. That's what New Year's Eve is for, after all, right? 

He checked his mobile phone. 7:15.

She should be here any minute.

The evening was still somewhat young, but not exactly getting any younger. He turned his attention back to his book.

**********

His world was turned upside down two and a half hours later.

They had talked. And talked. And talked. Then there was a long silence between them. He couldn't take any more of it, and so he finally decided that the silence needed to be broken.

"So...that's that? You don't want to have anything to do with me anymore?"

"Don't make me sound like that," she said. "You make me sound so cruel."

"Well I'm very sorry." He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth, as he could taste their bitter, sarcastic tone. The last thing he wanted to be at this moment was bitter and sarcastic. He needed her in his life, and he knew that sarcasm was not the way to persuade her to stay in it.

There was another long moment of awkward silence. He finally decided to break that one, too.

"Look, I don't want to...take over your life, you know."

"I'm sorry, I have to go." She turned around and headed for the door. "I'm meeting some friends--"

"Wait...hey, look..." She stopped just as she was about to put her hand on the door handle. But he had no idea what to say next. He struggled to spit out some words, any words, that would stop her.

"I know that we haven't known each other--really known each other--for all that long. I mean, I know that a couple of long conversations over a lunch and a dinner, or a couple of drinks, don't exactly mean anybody's obligated--"

"What?" She laughed with a hint of mockery and contempt. "Who talks like that? 'Obligations'? You just don't--"

"I'm sure your mother told you all sorts of unflattering stories about me. And they were probably all true. But that was twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years. That's a whole quarter of a century! I'm a completely different man now."

"Yes, she told me some very unflattering stories about you. She told me everything. Everything."

He wracked his brain. He filed through years of memories to pinpoint anything that would particularly cast him in a poor light in her eyes. She had vaguely alluded to something early in their conversation, but he couldn't tell what--

And then she was out the door.

He almost called after her, almost ran after her. But he let her go.

It was probably better that way.

From 'Harribald Flortheimer's Books of Maxims' (Vol. XXXVII, Chapter XII, Lines 432-33 [G])

"Should a single penny drop into a toilet, there will be many cries, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth; but not a single soul shall notice that the house is burning down."

The Polite Society

Max Carver broke into as fast of a run as he possibly could when he spotted the northbound bus behind him. It was barely half a block south and Max's stop was at least a block and a half or so north. If he didn't get to it before the bus did, there would be no telling how much longer it would be until the next bus came along. He was already late enough for the office as it was.

He felt every day of his forty-odd years of walking the Earth as he sprinted toward the bus stop, constantly looking back over his shoulder. The bus was hurtling down the street at increasing velocity. Meanwhile, the faster Max ran to his bus stop, the farther away it seemed to be.

"How is that possible?" thought Max.

The bus was gaining, gaining, gaining...

He finally reached the stop and nearly ran right smack into an elderly lady with a little pushcart full of groceries. She reflexively shrunk away at the oncoming onslaught of Max Carver hurtling toward her, with a frightened yelp escaping her mouth. The bus arrived at just that moment.

"Watch it, jackass!" snapped the old lady.

"I'm...I'm...I'm so...I'm so...so-...sorr...so sorr...," wheezed Max. "So sorry!" Max was relieved that he stopped just in time, just before he would've completely plowed into her. He meditated for a brief moment on what an incomprehensibly ugly scene that would have been.

The bus driver gave Max a strange look as he stumbled onto the bus behind the old lady, panting heavily, and paid his fare.

He plopped into an empty seat and continued his labored breathing. After taking a good ten minutes or so to catch his breath, he pulled out a book from his messenger bag.

HOW TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS AND BEND OTHERS TO YOUR WILL

by 

DON HARVARDLY

Max had been spending the better part of the past month working his way through the book, taking notes on all the advice it offered, in order to, as the title suggested, make new friends and bend others to his will. His uncle had suggested he read it after hearing Max complain about his lot in life, which he found disappointing and unsatisfactory most of the time. 

"Best decision I ever made, reading that book," his uncle informed him. Though his uncle was never what anyone would consider to be a successful man, Max took his suggestion and laid his hands on a copy at the local library. (His uncle was unable to locate his own copy after a thoroughly rigorous search of his home and garage that took the better part of two or three days, or so his uncle said.) Reading was slow going, as Max had a very hard time deciphering what exactly the author was advising. It seemed to be written in a strange jargon wholly invented by the author himself. Max had begun to wonder if the whole thing wasn't some kind of joke. 

Max suddenly thought he heard the man sitting in the seat across from him say something to him. He looked up from his book and locked eyes with the stranger for a moment, but his fellow passenger was silent. Having decided that he was hearing things, Max went back to his book.

"A man don't need to be ignorin' another man who is just tryin' to have a polite conversation."

It was the man sitting across from him. This time Max heard him quite clearly.

"Beg your pardon?" asked Max.

"I said--a man don't need to be ignorin' another man who is just tryin' to have a polite conversation."

"I'm sorry, did you say something to me before? I must have been--"

"All I did was ask you about that book you was readin', if it was a good book or not. But you seemed fixed on ignorin' me."

"I apologize, I--"

"Damn right, you apologize."

Max and the other man continued to look at one another for a good thirty seconds. Then he heard the automatic attendant announce his next stop. "Thank God," he thought to himself as he put his book back into his bag and rose to get off the bus.

"Have a nice day," said his fellow passenger.

"Hey, you know what? You have a nice day, too! Okay? Have a really, really nice day!"

"Thank you. I will."

It was at the very moment the bus door opened, just as Max was about to step off, that he heard the man say, "Prick."

Incredulous, Max turned back to face him. Max looked him right in the eyes.

"Go be a prick on your own time," the man advised Max.

"Prick." Max heard the charge one last time as he stepped off the bus.

It echoed in his mind throughout the rest of his day.

The Master Plan

I had come upstairs from the laundry room. My wife had a frightened look in her eyes, which bugged out of her head like a pair of extra large hard boiled eggs.

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" she asked.

"No, I guess not," I answered, removing my earbuds. I like to listen to music and podcasts and such while I'm doing laundry.

"There was a man standing out there, he looked like he was probably homeless," she said, gesturing to the kitchen window that looked out into the back yard. "He was right by the garage, leaning on the gate." She hesitated a moment. "He was looking right at me, like he was looking right into my eyes." She paused a moment. "He had dead eyes."

"Where'd he go?"

"I started to open the window and he walked away into the alley."

I decided to take a drive around the block to see if I could find him. Sure enough, I spotted him on my second pass around. He was walking down the alley that ran behind our apartment building. He was a fairly large man, well over 6', 4", easily 230-250 lbs. He wore a navy blue hoody with some kind of red poncho or blanket draped around his shoulders. There was a slow, lumbering gait to his walk. He sauntered into the street that dead ended at the river. Then I saw him sit down on some kind of a post in the cul-de-sac that separated two industrial buildings. It appeared as though he was planning on making himself at home for awhile.

I drove a ways down the street and parked the car. I decided that this may not be a very good situation. There were children in the neighborhood. Who knew what this guy's story was. Was he dangerous? Mentally ill? The little nook where he was sitting was an area that neighborhood kids frequently played at, including my young son. It's best not to risk it, I thought, so I called the police on my cell phone and explained the situation to them. I waited around until they arrived.

I got out of my car when I saw the police cruiser drive to where the homeless man had situated himself so I could see what was happening, but I made sure to keep a safe distance. I was still close enough to overhear the conversation.

"Come on, Carl, you know you can't stay around here," I heard one of the cops say to the homeless man. "You're spooking the neighbors. There are kids here."

"Go to Uptown," said the other cop. "Nobody cares up there. You'll blend in fine."

A few minutes passed as the cops and Carl just stared at each other.

"Fine," Carl finally said, clearly annoyed.

He started to walk away from the cops, but then he saw me. He stopped about ten or fifteen feet from me. Our eyes met. He gave me this huge, weird smile.

"It's all good," he said to me. "It's all part of my master plan, anyways." He chuckled and pointed to his head. "I have a master plan up here. It's very detailed." His chuckle turned into sustained laughter as he walked right past me toward the nearest main street.

As he stumbled on his way, laughing, he turned back to me one last time.

"It's all part of my master plan! You! Them! You're all part of it! You're all part of my master plan!"

As he walked away, his voice echoed and reverberated with "My master plan!' and his boisterous laughter.

"My master plan-an-an-an-an-an...!"

The sound of his laughter slowly died off as he grew smaller with the distance.