u/Marcmakesupstories

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Lust at first sight. I circled twice, hands folded behind my back, studying those luscious ebony curves from every angle. It was too soon to touch. The thought of revving her up had my neck vein throbbing—a sure tell.

The salesman chewed his lip as I told my sad story. “I’m so sorry your wife passed. I’m sure she’d want you to have this keepsake to enjoy in her memory.”

I’ll bet he was thinking rich widower as he spoke.

Before I knew it, the car was mine. Lost in a labor of love, beads of sweat ran down my forehead while I stroked Onyx with a microfiber cloth. My neighbor peeked through his blinds to catch a glimpse of us in my driveway. Onyx was my reward for thirty years of struggling to take Ed's Appliances from start-up to success.

After my wife, Maddie had passed, I'd buried myself in work, trying to harvest the fruits of my labor. Since selling the business, I've been going crazy sitting around the house. Onyx could bring passion back into my life. Maddie would have wanted me to do this.

Better the car than a girlfriend. No one could replace my Maddie.

I finally have my dream car with no place to go. Maybe it's time to bury the hatchet and visit my son Mark. It's been over twenty years, and he's only a few hours away. I could show him what could have been if he joined my business. Nah, we’d have a lot of damage to repair.

But it's a perfect day for a top-down trip to nowhere. So, I'll just get lost for a few hours and enjoy my new toy.

With six hundred horses to feed, I'd better fill 'er up first. After spending two hundred grand, the dealer generously threw in a quarter tank of gas. I pulled into Jack's Chevron, my old school gas station—no groceries or roller-hotdogs, just gas and repairs.

The service attendant, Greg, mouthed, "Oh my God," when Onyx eased up to the pump. His jaw dropped when I stepped from the car and shook his hand. "I didn't recognize you in this rocket." He looked at his greasy fingers in horror and threw me a clean rag. It was the first time I ever heard the kid stutter. "B-beige leather. G-got to keep it clean!"

I hadn't seen him this excited since the Phillies took the World Series. I presented the car, feature by feature and spec by spec. I blew a speck of pollen from the door sill. "How 'bout I come back after your shift, and we take her for a spin."

His grin grew as his eyes devoured my beautiful Onyx.

Here was another opportunity for some fatherly advice. "This is why you should keep at it in school. I broke my balls at my store for decades, but you're going to succeed the easy way. With your brains, you'll have one of these babies long before you're an old fart like me."

Still shaking his head, Greg waved as I left the station. I gunned it and shot up the hill. The sun was intense, and I clicked on the air-scarf feature, an optional thousand-dollar neck-facing fan. It wouldn't help my already terrible gas mileage. No matter. This was my splurge, my last hurrah.

 

****

 

Shrouded behind an ominous “Road Closed” sign, The Blue Route was designed to skirt the city when driving from my suburbs to the airport. Wealthy townships in its path launched legal battles and the highway was obsolete before it ever opened. This road to nowhere had a virgin surface; a perfect place to see what Onyx could do while getting acquainted with its large screen computer display.

I pressed the Map button on the navigation menu and hung a right onto the road. The screen went black. Jesus, do I stop and read the manual? Ahh, that’s what I get for using a non-mapped road. Today's a get-lost adventure, and this proves it. Thanks for the hint, Maddie.

Wow, Saturday morning with no cars in sight. I overrode the traction control and nailed it. Onyx spun in a circle, tires filling the air with smoke. I nearly shit myself. This thing was dangerous. Don't ever do that again. That's why God created Positraction.

Her engine was insane, but today was meant for laid-back cruising, so I took it easy. The lazy white clouds seemed to keep up with me while ghostly heat lines rose in the air ahead. I daydreamed.

After my high school classes, instead of doing homework, I'd spend hours watching my friend, Jay, soup up his '57 Chevy Bel Air. He was a natural mechanic, and I'd envied his skills. I was a klutz who could only offer my company and hand him tools. I talked a good game, knew all about engines, just couldn't fix one. Jay would tease me, but we had a great time bullshitting while he worked, mostly about girls and cars, in that order. What would my old buddy think of Onyx?

On my right, cliffs overlooking the Pacific lumbered by, pulling me from my reverie. That was the view Maddie and I enjoyed on our last trip together—before her diagnosis. We crossed the country in a rented convertible. As is often the case near the end, Maddie looked vibrant. Her tossed hair glimmered in the sun while she presented her open palm to the wind. She never looked happier.

Then, things happened fast. Like so many blessings in my life, I had taken her for granted. When the business had slow years, she kept me level. When Mark and I got into it, she tried to mediate until I’d throw one of my rages.

Mark. In a few miles I turned off, following the arrow on the “Hospital” sign. I parked and found the room where my son was born. My mind stretched back to a fast midnight drive. In the delivery room, I tasted tears of joy, while Maddie held our perfect baby.

Sighing, I felt forty years younger as I retraced my way back to the Blue Route, grateful for the reminder of that glorious day. Maddie?

In a few minutes, the road was bordered on both sides by palm trees and beach. Onyx had morphed into an open-air Jeep, and I had a beautiful twenty-year-old Maddie by my side. The smell of hibiscus and coconut opened my soul to Miami. This was our honeymoon, one of the happiest times of my life. I was ready to tackle the world with the army behind me and only a shit stockroom job. With Maddie by my side, I pulled a breath of salt air and never felt more confident. A twenty-four-year-old version of Ed winked at me from the rearview mirror.

This was all so weird. On my right was my old high school, looking just as it did in '64. My heart raced as I took the exit, wondering what happened to my aches and pains. My mirror now reflected a teenage Eddie as Onyx cornered onto Drexel Avenue. Jay lived three blocks down.

I teased the gas pedal and rumbled into the alleyway, garages on my left and row homes on my right. The deep exhaust notes echoed, not the tinny machine gun burst from the day’s aftermarket mufflers but a refined thunder reverberating in my chest. I reached inside of my shirt. Hairless.

A seventeen-year-old Jay poked his head out of the garage, eyes popping, as I rolled closer. "Eddie! What the hell is that?"

"This, asshole, is the future. What do you think?" I swallowed hard. It’s also a time machine.

He wiped his hands on his pants and leaned in on the passenger side. "It's like a spaceship. No door latches or window cranks?"

I touched a switch, and the window raised his arm. He jumped back. "Shit. I've shopped the midnight auto supply plenty, but this... You bust into the auto show?"

This would take some time. I parked on the side of the alley and got out.

He cocked his head. "What the hell you wearing?”  In the pre-jeans era khaki work pants were in style. Nothing qualified as a tee-shirt unless it was plain white with rolled sleeves. And sneakers were just for gym class. But my get up was also about three sizes too large.

I grabbed a beer from his garage fridge and pulled up two milk crates. "It's a long story. Sit."

How do you tell a high school gearhead you're from the future? With that car in the alley, it wasn't hard.

At the end of my short version, he chugged his beer and howled, "So, you came back in time from two thousand, and when? And your car stayed the same, but you got younger?"

I was on my second beer. "Yeah, I know. I have no idea how it happened. But there's a road that connects here and there."

He cracked his knuckles and rose from his crate. "I’ve gotta see it. Take me back to there." He gazed back at Onyx, shook his head, and walked to his back door. "I'm gonna put on some clean duds. Be right back."

Shit, what am I doing? How will this work? If he ages on the way, he could even die..

Jay was back in under five minutes, with fresh clothes and slicked do-wop hair. I'd forgotten how skinny we were back then. His dark eyes and pre-mature black stubble attracted girls like a magnet. I couldn't resist testing the combination of Jay and Onyx at the local drive-in. Besides, I spent decades searching for a better burger than Gino's, and I was starved.

They say you can never go back. The burger was skimpy and greasy. The girls reminded me of my friend's daughters, and I wanted to move on. Jay seemed antsy too.

“I put my hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Buddy. I’m taking you home. Live your life. I can’t mess with it.” We jumped into Onyx and I cranked up her  seventeen speakers. Chick Correa's Spain filled the air.

Jay covered his ears. "What kind of noise is that? It's hurting my brain."

I'd forgotten that my taste had matured like the rest of me.

Before I changed my mind, I gave him a big bear hug and tore out of his alleyway, making a beeline to the Blue Route.

All the way home, I kept my eyes on the road, resisting the urge to turn off or look in the mirrors My aches and pains returned. Destiny was destiny.

In less than an hour, I cruised past the exit where I got on. Lightheaded, black squares blocked my peripheral vision. Ahead, a barricade closed off the highway. I skidded to a halt just in time.

On the other side of the barricade, a wheat field bathed in a soft white glow came into focus. Maddie and Jay mouthed words that dissolved in the air while waving frantically for me to turn back.

It wasn't my time yet, but I'd soon see them again. I stared for a few seconds, blew a kiss to Maddie, turned Onyx around, and drove home. With a little mental math, I estimated that the end of my line was maybe six months away. I had some important loose ends to tie up and not much time.

 

****

Jack's Chevron was just closing. Greg ran to greet me wearing a clean uniform. "I was about to give up on you. Must have been some ride."

“You have no idea.” If the clock was right, I had been gone about ten hours. The kid had waited for at least two hours after his shift. I moved over and patted the driver's seat. "Jump in and take her for a spin."

Greg's face reddened. "If I put a scratch on this thing, I'd never forgive myself. Just give me a lift home."

How should I put this? "No. You’re driving me home. I'll explain on the way."

While he babied Onyx out of the station, white knuckles on the steering wheel, I struggled for a credible story. "Lately, I haven't been feeling well." That was no lie. "Yesterday I saw my doctor and the news wasn't good."

Greg's face scrunched, and his lower lip quivered. This was not what I wanted.

"I might live for a long time, but with my medical problems, I shouldn’t drive. I'll get more pleasure seeing you drive Onyx than some spoiled jerk. I'll take care of the expenses, and you give me a lift when I need it.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “One condition. You can't let up at school."

He smiled sadly as he pulled away from my house. Then he stopped at the end of the block and lowered his head. I couldn't watch. A good cry and he’ll be fine.

I went inside, poured myself a scotch, and called Mark. After five rings, his voicemail answered with a carefully recited message. "This is Davie. The Sharps are not at home. Please leave a message. I promise my mommy or daddy will call you back."

A little boy. I had no idea. The words stuck in my throat, and I hung up. Two drinks later, I called back, ready to leave a cute answer for Davie but Mark picked up.

My heart throbbed. "Mark. It's Dad. Don't hang up.” Silence. "I was so wrong about everything. Now I just want to make it up to you─while I still can.” It was his fault too, but I was desperate.

I could almost feel his long exhale through the phone. "Davie's not my only kid. There's Madeline too. Looks just like Mom."

Tears wet my phone. "When can we get together?

****

We met with long hugs, and the rest of the night was pure joy. God, how could I have trashed all those years?

The next morning, I made my famous pancake breakfast—the one where I keep flipping 'em into whoever's plate is empty. The grandkids squealed like they were at the circus.

As we cleaned up, Mark took me aside. "When you called, you said something about doing things while you still can. How’s your health?"

"Can’t say for sure but trust me. I know something’s coming."

"Then sell your house now. We have a guest room and a lot of catching up to do. My kids need to get to know their other grandpop."

That was over a year ago. Maybe my math was a little off. Still, I'm living each day as if it was my last.

Lust at first sight. I circled twice, hands folded behind my back, studying those luscious ebony curves from every angle. It was too soon to touch. The thought of revving her up had my neck vein throbbing—a sure tell.

The salesman chewed his lip as I told my sad story. “I’m so sorry your wife passed. I’m sure she’d want you to have this keepsake to enjoy in her memory.”

I’ll bet he was thinking rich widower as he spoke.

Before I knew it, the car was mine. Lost in a labor of love, beads of sweat ran down my forehead while I stroked Onyx with a microfiber cloth. My neighbor peeked through his blinds to catch a glimpse of us in my driveway. Onyx was my reward for thirty years of struggling to take Ed's Appliances from start-up to success.

After my wife, Maddie had passed, I'd buried myself in work, trying to harvest the fruits of my labor. Since selling the business, I've been going crazy sitting around the house. Onyx could bring passion back into my life. Maddie would have wanted me to do this.

Better the car than a girlfriend. No one could replace my Maddie.

I finally have my dream car with no place to go. Maybe it's time to bury the hatchet and visit my son Mark. It's been over twenty years, and he's only a few hours away. I could show him what could have been if he joined my business. Nah, we’d have a lot of damage to repair.

But it's a perfect day for a top-down trip to nowhere. So, I'll just get lost for a few hours and enjoy my new toy.

With six hundred horses to feed, I'd better fill 'er up first. After spending two hundred grand, the dealer generously threw in a quarter tank of gas. I pulled into Jack's Chevron, my old school gas station—no groceries or roller-hotdogs, just gas and repairs.

The service attendant, Greg, mouthed, "Oh my God," when Onyx eased up to the pump. His jaw dropped when I stepped from the car and shook his hand. "I didn't recognize you in this rocket." He looked at his greasy fingers in horror and threw me a clean rag. It was the first time I ever heard the kid stutter. "B-beige leather. G-got to keep it clean!"

I hadn't seen him this excited since the Phillies took the World Series. I presented the car, feature by feature and spec by spec. I blew a speck of pollen from the door sill. "How 'bout I come back after your shift, and we take her for a spin."

His grin grew as his eyes devoured my beautiful Onyx.

Here was another opportunity for some fatherly advice. "This is why you should keep at it in school. I broke my balls at my store for decades, but you're going to succeed the easy way. With your brains, you'll have one of these babies long before you're an old fart like me."

Still shaking his head, Greg waved as I left the station. I gunned it and shot up the hill. The sun was intense, and I clicked on the air-scarf feature, an optional thousand-dollar neck-facing fan. It wouldn't help my already terrible gas mileage. No matter. This was my splurge, my last hurrah.

 

****

 

Shrouded behind an ominous “Road Closed” sign, The Blue Route was designed to skirt the city when driving from my suburbs to the airport. Wealthy townships in its path launched legal battles and the highway was obsolete before it ever opened. This road to nowhere had a virgin surface; a perfect place to see what Onyx could do while getting acquainted with its large screen computer display.

I pressed the Map button on the navigation menu and hung a right onto the road. The screen went black. Jesus, do I stop and read the manual? Ahh, that’s what I get for using a non-mapped road. Today's a get-lost adventure, and this proves it. Thanks for the hint, Maddie.

Wow, Saturday morning with no cars in sight. I overrode the traction control and nailed it. Onyx spun in a circle, tires filling the air with smoke. I nearly shit myself. This thing was dangerous. Don't ever do that again. That's why God created Positraction.

Her engine was insane, but today was meant for laid-back cruising, so I took it easy. The lazy white clouds seemed to keep up with me while ghostly heat lines rose in the air ahead. I daydreamed.

After my high school classes, instead of doing homework, I'd spend hours watching my friend, Jay, soup up his '57 Chevy Bel Air. He was a natural mechanic, and I'd envied his skills. I was a klutz who could only offer my company and hand him tools. I talked a good game, knew all about engines, just couldn't fix one. Jay would tease me, but we had a great time bullshitting while he worked, mostly about girls and cars, in that order. What would my old buddy think of Onyx?

On my right, cliffs overlooking the Pacific lumbered by, pulling me from my reverie. That was the view Maddie and I enjoyed on our last trip together—before her diagnosis. We crossed the country in a rented convertible. As is often the case near the end, Maddie looked vibrant. Her tossed hair glimmered in the sun while she presented her open palm to the wind. She never looked happier.

Then, things happened fast. Like so many blessings in my life, I had taken her for granted. When the business had slow years, she kept me level. When Mark and I got into it, she tried to mediate until I’d throw one of my rages.

Mark. In a few miles I turned off, following the arrow on the “Hospital” sign. I parked and found the room where my son was born. My mind stretched back to a fast midnight drive. In the delivery room, I tasted tears of joy, while Maddie held our perfect baby.

Sighing, I felt forty years younger as I retraced my way back to the Blue Route, grateful for the reminder of that glorious day. Maddie?

In a few minutes, the road was bordered on both sides by palm trees and beach. Onyx had morphed into an open-air Jeep, and I had a beautiful twenty-year-old Maddie by my side. The smell of hibiscus and coconut opened my soul to Miami. This was our honeymoon, one of the happiest times of my life. I was ready to tackle the world with the army behind me and only a shit stockroom job. With Maddie by my side, I pulled a breath of salt air and never felt more confident. A twenty-four-year-old version of Ed winked at me from the rearview mirror.

This was all so weird. On my right was my old high school, looking just as it did in '64. My heart raced as I took the exit, wondering what happened to my aches and pains. My mirror now reflected a teenage Eddie as Onyx cornered onto Drexel Avenue. Jay lived three blocks down.

I teased the gas pedal and rumbled into the alleyway, garages on my left and row homes on my right. The deep exhaust notes echoed, not the tinny machine gun burst from the day’s aftermarket mufflers but a refined thunder reverberating in my chest. I reached inside of my shirt. Hairless.

A seventeen-year-old Jay poked his head out of the garage, eyes popping, as I rolled closer. "Eddie! What the hell is that?"

"This, asshole, is the future. What do you think?" I swallowed hard. It’s also a time machine.

He wiped his hands on his pants and leaned in on the passenger side. "It's like a spaceship. No door latches or window cranks?"

I touched a switch, and the window raised his arm. He jumped back. "Shit. I've shopped the midnight auto supply plenty, but this... You bust into the auto show?"

This would take some time. I parked on the side of the alley and got out.

He cocked his head. "What the hell you wearing?”  In the pre-jeans era khaki work pants were in style. Nothing qualified as a tee-shirt unless it was plain white with rolled sleeves. And sneakers were just for gym class. But my get up was also about three sizes too large.

I grabbed a beer from his garage fridge and pulled up two milk crates. "It's a long story. Sit."

How do you tell a high school gearhead you're from the future? With that car in the alley, it wasn't hard.

At the end of my short version, he chugged his beer and howled, "So, you came back in time from two thousand, and when? And your car stayed the same, but you got younger?"

I was on my second beer. "Yeah, I know. I have no idea how it happened. But there's a road that connects here and there."

He cracked his knuckles and rose from his crate. "I’ve gotta see it. Take me back to there." He gazed back at Onyx, shook his head, and walked to his back door. "I'm gonna put on some clean duds. Be right back."

Shit, what am I doing? How will this work? If he ages on the way, he could even die..

Jay was back in under five minutes, with fresh clothes and slicked do-wop hair. I'd forgotten how skinny we were back then. His dark eyes and pre-mature black stubble attracted girls like a magnet. I couldn't resist testing the combination of Jay and Onyx at the local drive-in. Besides, I spent decades searching for a better burger than Gino's, and I was starved.

They say you can never go back. The burger was skimpy and greasy. The girls reminded me of my friend's daughters, and I wanted to move on. Jay seemed antsy too.

“I put my hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Buddy. I’m taking you home. Live your life. I can’t mess with it.” We jumped into Onyx and I cranked up her  seventeen speakers. Chick Correa's Spain filled the air.

Jay covered his ears. "What kind of noise is that? It's hurting my brain."

I'd forgotten that my taste had matured like the rest of me.

Before I changed my mind, I gave him a big bear hug and tore out of his alleyway, making a beeline to the Blue Route.

All the way home, I kept my eyes on the road, resisting the urge to turn off or look in the mirrors My aches and pains returned. Destiny was destiny.

In less than an hour, I cruised past the exit where I got on. Lightheaded, black squares blocked my peripheral vision. Ahead, a barricade closed off the highway. I skidded to a halt just in time.

On the other side of the barricade, a wheat field bathed in a soft white glow came into focus. Maddie and Jay mouthed words that dissolved in the air while waving frantically for me to turn back.

It wasn't my time yet, but I'd soon see them again. I stared for a few seconds, blew a kiss to Maddie, turned Onyx around, and drove home. With a little mental math, I estimated that the end of my line was maybe six months away. I had some important loose ends to tie up and not much time.

 

****

Jack's Chevron was just closing. Greg ran to greet me wearing a clean uniform. "I was about to give up on you. Must have been some ride."

“You have no idea.” If the clock was right, I had been gone about ten hours. The kid had waited for at least two hours after his shift. I moved over and patted the driver's seat. "Jump in and take her for a spin."

Greg's face reddened. "If I put a scratch on this thing, I'd never forgive myself. Just give me a lift home."

How should I put this? "No. You’re driving me home. I'll explain on the way."

While he babied Onyx out of the station, white knuckles on the steering wheel, I struggled for a credible story. "Lately, I haven't been feeling well." That was no lie. "Yesterday I saw my doctor and the news wasn't good."

Greg's face scrunched, and his lower lip quivered. This was not what I wanted.

"I might live for a long time, but with my medical problems, I shouldn’t drive. I'll get more pleasure seeing you drive Onyx than some spoiled jerk. I'll take care of the expenses, and you give me a lift when I need it.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “One condition. You can't let up at school."

He smiled sadly as he pulled away from my house. Then he stopped at the end of the block and lowered his head. I couldn't watch. A good cry and he’ll be fine.

I went inside, poured myself a scotch, and called Mark. After five rings, his voicemail answered with a carefully recited message. "This is Davie. The Sharps are not at home. Please leave a message. I promise my mommy or daddy will call you back."

A little boy. I had no idea. The words stuck in my throat, and I hung up. Two drinks later, I called back, ready to leave a cute answer for Davie but Mark picked up.

My heart throbbed. "Mark. It's Dad. Don't hang up.” Silence. "I was so wrong about everything. Now I just want to make it up to you─while I still can.” It was his fault too, but I was desperate.

I could almost feel his long exhale through the phone. "Davie's not my only kid. There's Madeline too. Looks just like Mom."

Tears wet my phone. "When can we get together?

****

We met with long hugs, and the rest of the night was pure joy. God, how could I have trashed all those years?

The next morning, I made my famous pancake breakfast—the one where I keep flipping 'em into whoever's plate is empty. The grandkids squealed like they were at the circus.

As we cleaned up, Mark took me aside. "When you called, you said something about doing things while you still can. How’s your health?"

"Can’t say for sure but trust me. I know something’s coming."

"Then sell your house now. We have a guest room and a lot of catching up to do. My kids need to get to know their other grandpop."

That was over a year ago. Maybe my math was a little off. Still, I'm living each day as if it was my last.

I'm looking for some feedback. Did you read the complete story? If not, where did you stop?

Standing next to my wife, Kim, on the deck of our new Florida beach house, I watched the sun peeping over the horizon. My memory raced through our exhilarating rollercoaster ride from struggling post-docs to insanely rich bastards. I never thought I’d own a place like this.

 I pictured a muggy summer night, almost two years ago, in 2020. By ten that night, all who remained on Temple University’s city campus were the sorry handful of poor bastards—indentured graduate and post-doc students.

I poured my tenth coffee of the day, or maybe my twentieth. Walking back to my desk, I stopped to say hi to our trolley-mice, the showcase of our neurochemistry lab. Their little steel helmets, screwed into their teeny skulls, secured bundles of fine wires and micro tubing as the fuzzies went about their mousey business, in their large glass cage. An intricate network of overhead tracks kept the tethers from tangling.

My colleagues thought up ways to mess with the little fellers electrically or chemically while sampling and analyzing droplets of brain fluid for changes in their neurochemistry.

I stared down at a lucky critter who’d been dosed with marijuana metabolites—all in the name of science. He stared back as if to say, “Pass the popcorn.” Amazingly, the government sponsored these studies, and our department was rolling in funds.

My interest in pot was limited to an edible or two at bedtime with my girlfriend, Kim, to help us contrive other applications for neurochemistry. Eventually, we came up with a doozie.

That night, I was photographing my new experimental rig when my phone vibrated an emergency campus alert. I read the scrolling message: 9:30 p.m.-Armed robbery at McGonagle Hall. Avoid area until further notice.

Temple's main campus was growing more dangerous by the semester. Community outreach programs were well intended, but these gangs surrounded the school and were better armed than the police.

I sighed and continued snapping photos of my neuro-electrochemical reactor. It looked deceivingly simple; a foot-high glass cylinder with wires and tubing exiting each end. The filtration disks, electrode plates, and chemical sensors were neatly hidden inside the endcaps. Who would’ve guessed what we learned from the mice could be channeled into a new source of electric power.

Hurried slaps of sneakers on linoleum and yells of, “Police. Stop!” echoed in the hall. The footsteps stopped at my lab.

Three out-of-breath kids, barely in their teens, ran past me and dove behind my desk. I held my breath when the tallest one slid a gun from his belt and glared at me. A few seconds later, two guards poked their heads into the room.

In between gasps, the older guard yelled, "Anyone come through here?"

Trying my hardest to ignore the gun, I forced eye contact and shook my head. "Just me and those mice here tonight." I hoped that my trembling voice was just in my head. A can of mace set in my jacket pocket hanging over my chair just out of reach.

The guard raised an eyebrow at his partner, and they turned to leave. "Keep alert. There's been a robbery at McGonagle Hall. The thieves ran towards this building." I suspected that for their fifteen bucks an hour, these guys did not want to find anyone.

The adolescent thugs stared at me with wide eyes for several long minutes rising from the floor. They seemed as scared as I was. The one holding the gun on me asked for my money.

I gave up all seven bucks and turned my pockets inside out. "Sorry, Dude, I’m just a poor student." Wrong thing to say- this kid knew poor better than I ever will.

He slapped the desk. "Phone!" I slid it over to him.

On their way out, another one grabbed my laptop and said, "Tell anyone, and I'll be back."

Then, he smiled and said, "You have a nice day now." 

It wasn't a nice day. I paced the lab. My throat was dry, I was dripping with sweat and scared shitless. I was out of there.

Like a front-line soldier, I jogged to my apartment, a can of Mace at the ready. The same Mace that was useless five minutes ago. I imagined a Temple News headline, "Dummy Dies with Mace Can in Hand.”

At Tenth and Diamond Streets, I continued past the night B-ballers heating up the community court. I usually joined in, despite being short and jump-challenged. These kids put me to shame, but I did make some friends. Sammy and Georgie gave me a reassuring wave as I passed. I held my hand up and charged past them.

The streets were well lit within a block or two of campus perimeters. But there was still a shadowy stretch between me and the safety of my building. I walked past the campus police phone, shaking my head as I imagined the rescue-wait music that played while callers were on hold. To say that security was understaffed was an understatement.

Kim met me at my front door with a kiss and a plate of cold pizza. "Hey, see tonight's alert? Third one this week."

"Oh, you might say that. Three punks hid from the guards in my lab with a gun on me. They thanked me by taking my phone and laptop. One threatened to come back if I reported it."

Kim handed me a beer. "You had a gun pulled on you? I would have shit myself! Thank God you weren't hurt. This stuff’s getting more common. You know, if our project takes off, we should move it to the Drexel Science Incubator. Get an apartment near the rich kids from Penn."

"Thanks for the beer. My hands are still shaking. Got a straw?" After tonight, our success was even more critical.

We discussed our plan to get a supply of fresh cadaver brains. Kim’s lab was part of Temple's Hospital system. If anyone knew brain physiology, it was her.

She rubbed my shoulders and sat next to me on our bed. "I did a ton of paperwork to get us chain of custody approval. One wife joked that her hubby's brain was finally being put to good use."

I finished my beer, reached into my bedstand cookie jar, and pulled out two gummy-monkey edibles. Pointing to the ceiling, I said, "At least the proposal draft and photos are safely floating in the cloud. I needed a new laptop anyway. Let's try to get some sleep. It’s a long shot, but with this first feasibility test, tomorrow's a big day."

#

The following day, we were back in my lab with a cooler full of dry ice and two recently deceased brains. I resisted making smoothie jokes as I fed slippery slices, along with the nutrient solution, to our lab blender and turned it on.

Kim recorded the procedure with her phone as I poured the grey slime into the reactor, turned on the power supply, and chattered on with technical details. I was hyped, even if the video would put many listeners to sleep.

Kim stopped the recording. "I hope this shit works better than you explained it. We'll need something in plain English for our non-nerds."

I laughed. "How 'bout We're keeping cadaver brain cells alive and collecting their electrical output. They can't think but they can still make brain zaps as long as we feed them."

She glanced at the prototype reactor. “I hope we’re not getting into more than we can handle.” Frowning at the monitor, she said, "So far, nothing."

I reset the power supply. "I'll give 'em another tickle." Still no response. "Fuck it. Let's get breakfast and give it a chance to respond. What do brains know anyway?"

It was Saturday morning, and only half the food trucks showed up outside of our building. I sat at a picnic table and checked my calculations between bites of egg burrito. Kim worked on a word puzzle, a tell of her nervousness. She looked up. "Are you sure the sensors are calibrated?"

I was about to give her a snarky answer when I realized I'd missed calibrating the oxygen sensor. Instead of confessing, I sprinted back to the lab and clicked the calibrate O2 icon. A solenoid valve snapped open, oxygen bubbled, and the reactor's output slowly rose. By the time Kim got there, it was up to four milliamps. Over the next hour, it leveled off at 6.75, almost theory. I hugged Kim tightly while watching the steady readout behind her. This was a banner moment. Our first benchmark.

We spent the afternoon fleshing out our proposal, leaving space for what we hoped would be earth-shaking results. Every ten minutes, we checked the output, staring at the screen in disbelief.

The output was suspiciously steady but had just enough noise to be feasible. I had been fooled before by experiments with a ruler-flat signal. "If this continues for a week, I'd call it proof of concept."

Kim said, “Even if it craps out, we’re onto something.” She picked up her phone.  "This calls for a splurge. I’ll reserve a table at Cuba Libre for tonight."

#

The reactor had been running for a week, but the output has been steadily dropping. Kim was working on a mountain of paperwork to justify another twenty-five cadaver brains for our scale-up.  

 We shut down and did a post-mortem. The reactor's platinum electrodes were coated with a brown, non-conductive film. It tested positive for nutrient metabolites. “Hmm. Looks like the brain cells are taking a crap all over our collector plates.” 

Kim scratched her head. “What if we put a purifier in the loop?” 

Grinning like a cat who ate a trolley mouse, I sauntered over to administer my best shoulder rub. "Yeah, something like a dialysis cell.” This was a standard purification technique used in biomedical research. 

 The following day we tried it. It worked.

Kim went back to her paperwork. She bit her lip. "And what should I say about that weird blue haze this thing gives off?" 

"Say that we think it's due to electromagnetic radiation. Based on the faint smell of ozone, it's probably an ionization by-product—like the Aurora Borealis. It does look cool with the lights off. Throw in a photo to grab the committee's interest."

Across the lab, Scott, the leader of our neurochemical research group, stared blankly at his helmeted furballs and shook his head.

I couldn't help myself. "And on track three is the favorite, Scottie Boy. Place your bets."

He aimed that disgusted face at me again and yelled, "Don't mess around. These guys might have had one dose of THC too many. They're all in a permanent mellow. Might have to replace the whole bunch. What a pain in the ass."

He's really upset. Scott and his team were great lab mates. None of us minded a little quip now and then, but this wasn't the time.

He looked at Kim and pointed to the mice. "Your boy Alex didn't mess with these guys, did he?"

She tapped her chin for a minute. "No. That would be too much. Even for Alex."

*

The next six months flew by while we did more scale-ups and plowed through our Phase I grant money. I shared an office in the Chem Engineering building with Kim, consulting with construction teams on a kilowatt pilot reactor to be built in the room next door. It would power a section of the building to demonstrate our reactor’s reliability.

I wanted to slow things down, but the project had snowballed. Our days were filled with engineers, hungry for parameter details. And the promise of a new, cheap source of green energy drew dozens of news reporters to our lab—globally.

That morning we fought our way through a group of demonstrators waving signs in our faces. Most had a picture of Frankenstein with the caption: “We know what happened there.” Another had a picture of Jesus and said, “Brains are for thought only.”

Never mind those thousands of donors pledging organs to science every day. It wasn't like we were re-inventing The Matrix. These brains were dead. Homogenized for good measure.

Our tests showed that other sources of brains were not feasible—too weak a neuron signal, low synapse density, or both. At least we didn’t have the animal rights groups out there.

Our start-up day had hardly a hitch. A couple of tweaks, and the reactor attained our projected power. We had even given it a name—The Brain Trust. A group of university big shots, including the President, stood around the six-foot-high steel reactor, watching the bubbly grey mixture circulate past a curved viewing slot.

After reciting a Cliff's Notes version of the reactor's theory, I nodded to Kim, and she killed the lights. I swear a vacuum formed as everyone simultaneously inhaled.

An awesome disk of blue light emanated from the quartz window, touching every wall in the room. My heart fluttered as our audience was bathed in the glow, mouths and eyes opened wide. Kim's warm hand squeezed my cold, clammy one.

It was time for Kim's magic. I switched on the lights, and she cleared her throat for attention. "We were as intrigued with this mysterious haze as you are. I analyzed the radiation patterns around our prototype reactor. It was a  high-frequency theta waveform—like those observed when a sleeper begins to dream. This one, however, was different. It continuously repeated just one simple pattern. What the pattern means is still a mystery, but we have a hypothesis."

Our audience sat at attention, and Kim held up a poster-sized photo of Scott's trolley-mice. "Lab mice were stimulated to invoke aggressive behavior. Then we moved our reactor near their cage, and they instantly relaxed. We measured an increase in brain fluid endorphins as well. The energy radiating from Brain Trust induced a sense of calm.”

The room buzzed with hushed conversation. "These are preliminary results, but definitely worth noting. We'll watch for more evidence as our pilot phase progresses."

I realized more than ever what a great partner Kim was.

 

#

 

After a year of near-perfect pilot scale performance, word of our reactor had spread. The next level of scale-up was way beyond our skill set, but that didn't matter. We'd applied for the patent through the university and were listed as co-inventors.

I had noticed that over the past year, violent crimes around our campus decreased by an order of magnitude. It was no surprise that neighborhood aggression dropped. The shocker was that it might be due to our pilot reactor. It was still too early to say but there were those lab mice…

Kim and I split our time between the Medical School and the Engineering Building. We did less hands-on science and more consulting. Pilot reactors were built in Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle—in neighborhoods where violent behavior flourished. In each case, street crimes slowed to a halt. But there was one big hitch.

#  

Today, I awoke in our Washington DC hotel to Kim’s softs sobs. Still half asleep, I scooted over and hugged her from behind. She pulled away and sighed, "This was not what we signed up for."

Kim was right, but I made my case. "That's evident from our patent. Everything will come out in tomorrow's hearings. It’s crystal clear we did not claim a cure for the evils of mankind. Besides, we'd never shut down a large reactor before. Chicago’s riots could have been an anomaly.”

She sat up and shook her head. "Were they? The signs were there from the beginning."

I gave her a tissue. "Scott said those mice had been over-tested and ruined. That's why we laid low until half of North Philly broke out in peace. Even then, it was just a theory."

"But there should have been more testing before everyone jumped on the bandwagon. We could have done more to avoid the horror show in Chicago."

Kim was getting to me. I walked onto our balcony and inhaled the cool air to wake up. "Who told them to shut the Chicago reactor down? The politics were insane.”

She followed me and leaned against the railing. "I should have known better. Rebound effects are well known."

Her sobs grew to a full cry. "We saw it the morning after we shut our lab reactor down."

I could no longer avoid that scene. I closed my eyes. The trolly-cage walls had been smeared with bloody fur. Empty helmets had been scattered next to piles of bones and teeth.

 

I'm looking for some feedback. Let me know if you finished the story or if you stopped, why.

"Cut!"

The gargoyle director swung his megaphone in my face when he yelled. He stood two heads taller than me when he wasn't on all fours. His fanged smile was both warm and menacing. With a wincing smile, I took a defensive step back and bumped into a set of golden elevator doors. As they slowly opened, I realized how I got here.

Bladder cancer had ended twenty-seven seasons and 5000 episodes of my TV show. After tearful goodbyes to my family and friends, I took my last breath. My hospital room flashed blindingly white, then black.

#

I found myself waiting in a hallway outside of what looked to be a standard, mid-level corporate executive's office. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, the vague outline of my hulking host came into focus. He sat behind a large desk, with his back to me, facing a deep crimson velvet curtain. Without a word, he pointed over his head toward the oversized red leather armchair on my side of the desk. I sat.

Downlit by a single candled sconce, a partially unwound scroll, burnt around the edges and splotched with faded reddish-brown stains, caught my eye. It looked biblical. On the desk was a picture of two red-faced kids with pointed buckteeth and unnervingly crossed eyes. Not just a little, I'm talking nose-staring-crossed, each sporting the wickedest grin I've ever seen. I decided to avoid discussing his family unless he insisted, and I hoped he didn't.

It seemed like hours while we waited for each other to speak. My socks were drenched in sweat, and my mouth turned to cotton as the heat rose from the old plank flooring. It couldn't be from one of those fancy radiant floor heaters.

I dry-gulped as my hand traced rows of fingernail grooves etched across the desktop that trailed off the edge. My eyes flit from a red glow flickering through the square of floor cracks around my chair to the long, gold handle protruding from the right arm of his chair. A chorus of tortured screams came from behind the curtain.

This office could belong to only one guy. I wasn't happy.

Like a well-rehearsed schtick, he slowly swiveled his chair to face me, accidentally brushing the curtains, releasing a blinding red-orange flash of light. It quickly diffused through the gray dusty air, casting a menagerie of shadows, some inching towards me. He was ruddy-faced with slick-backed ebony hair. Casually examining his long, curved fingernails, he uncrossed his legs and revealed a glimpse of cloven hooves over the desktop with a lightning-fast chair aerobics maneuver. I dreaded what might come next.

He toyed with the tips of black stubs protruding through his golden crown. "Oh, nothing to dread." I couldn't tell if his heavy black coat was made of wool or had sprouted from his thick, scaly skin.

His eyebrows rose to the crown. "That show earned you a bad reputation, but I know it's all an act." He stood and extended a claw. "The Jerry Springer. I'm quite a fan, quite a fan."

I swallowed hard and gave it a fist bump.

He pointed a finger gun at me and winked. "Got lots of bad ones down here, and you have such a flair for presenting them at their worst─and I mean that in a good way. I called in some favors to borrow you before you head up there." His brows knitted, and his lips pressed into a frown as he looked upward.

His eyes darted manically as he sprang to his hooves. "We don't have much time. Read these notes for your final show, and we'll get to it. Dancing out of the office with a low-pitched, slow-motion laugh, he left me to worry and prepare. Bizarre as it was, this grand finale was quite fitting. Some might say I deserved it.

Thankful for the smell of sulfur, I eased out a long-held fart in small installments, taking care not to cause a flame-up.

My last show! It was only an audience of one, but what an audience it was. With this cast of characters, it should be fun. Hmm. Up there, now that's some great news. I got busy studying the script. This was one guy I didn't want to piss off.

An hour later (maybe it was five or six?), my host returned. "I think you're ready now."

"Yes, I am," I quickly replied with a great deal of respect.

"I know you are. I just said so," he bellowed, giving me an evil look that sent chills up my spine. His voice softened. "You must be hungry. I'll have something brought in. You like spicy food?"

I guessed the right answer to that one. "Yes. Extra hot, please."

"My chef is The Genghis Kahn. The dude usually cuts a chunk from his horse's neck for a fast bite, but he can also do a stir-fry to die for." My host was very animated, jabbering and waving his claws. "After the nosh, we'll be off. The cameramen are queued, and our people are all in place."

#

After lunch, a weird little guy, half goat, led me to the studio.

The stage was ready to go. A red backdrop curtain behind yellow flames was a great touch, especially with real fire! And was that genuine brimstone I smelled? The sofas carved out of the cave granite weren't comfy but perfect replicas of those on my set. Behind each was one of those Minotaur creatures, maybe eight feet tall. You know, with the bullheads and 'roided biceps. They stood there with their hairy arms folded over their bulging chests, smirking as if to say, "Yea… go ahead."

It was showtime. He sat in the third-row center with his hooves up on the seat-back two rows ahead. My audience. From the thick hazy air, a voice proclaimed, "It's the Jerry Springer Show." My host started clapping, whooping, and waving his hands in the air, prompted by an audience participation sign.

My show-biz instincts kicked in. "Today, I have a very, very special show for a very, very special audience."

A thunderous disembodied applause filled the room, and a big, cheeky grin spread over The Evil One's face. I adlibbed a strong but unoffending intro while keeping my sphincter in check. He had that effect on me, and the stir-fry didn't help.

"And for today's show, all the way from an engagement in the Garden of Eden, I have the original Adam!" A phantom audience of male voices cheered, met by an equal measure of feminine boos and hisses. My first guest materialized onto the stone sofa to my left, careful to dress his fig leaf as he grinned and waved to the audience. Adam was not what I had imagined. There was an out-of-shape, middle-aged redneck with a blonde and brown mullet. He hadn't shaved for days, and I could smell beer clear across the set. "So, what's your side of the story," I asked.

"Well, it's like this, we were just plain out, a bad match. You know? It's not like I was looking for anyone else, you know? And she was so needy. 'Adam, it's too cold. Adam, I'm hungry. Adam, your rib itches me.' She just drove me crazy. The last straw was old Jake, the snake. I knew I couldn't trust that one. So, finally, it was like, 'So eat the damned apple and leave me alone.'"

I feigned my best look of intrigue. "I see. That sounds rough. Now, let's hear the other side of the story."

Out from behind the curtain came a sight I thought would give me cataracts. Eve came slinking over to the cave couch, her low-cut leaf-halter top accented by the amateurish snake tattoo above her right breast. Someone backstage gave her a pair of pink, heavy-duty-booty tights that looked like a sack filled with cellulite potatoes. She wore way too much make-up, and her short, black, spiked do, completed the unhappy hooker look.

"He lies like a thief," she said between cracks of her chewing gum. "All the time, he'd tell me it was pure kismet. He'd always look at me down there and then at himself and say, 'I think we were made for each other.' It was creepy. A one-track mind, I tell you." Out came the female cheers and the male boos with an occasional taunt of 'Bitch'.

"And don't let that big fig leaf fool you. Trust me, ladies, I know. You know too. I hear you laughing."

The audience looked restless, so I moved on. "Well, whatever your problems, you seemed to make you-know-who angry and wound up down here. Once He got over the embarrassment of his awkward first try, He replaced you two and tried again. I think He named them Bob and Fran. Now, those guys worked out much better."

Eve rolled her eyes. "That was after this no-good weasel knocked me up six times! Who would be interested in me after that? Anyhow, I hear the foster parents set a much better example than us, even though they were stuffed shirts."

"A great example of nature vs. nurture," I added to segue into my big surprise. "Guess who else has come to visit? Your boys Cain and Able! Eve slapped her hand over her mouth, and Adam stared at the floor, shaking his head. The air was magically filled with hundreds of hoots and whoops. The two came from different sides of the curtain, looking like they had just stepped out of Better Farms and Meadows, glaring at each other.

Suddenly, Able lurched across the stage at Cain, only to be stopped by one of the bouncing bulls. "You son of a... You jerk! They brought me down here to tell you off, but I'm at a loss for words.

"Well, I'm not, asshole," Cain yelled. "You got what was coming to you. Mom always liked you best, and besides, you weren't the goodie-two-shoes everybody thought you were. You might have fooled the family, but ooh…. if those sheep could talk."

This was getting out of hand. Trying to avert a here-after-disaster, I interrupted. "After all this time, you guys haven't learned anything. Every generation after you has a little Adam and Eve in them, but luckily, their Bob and Fran keep them in check. Now shake hands. How 'bout we all go out for a little stir-fry and hash things out? Y'all like spicy food?"

My horned host held up two daggered thumbs, then pointed to that golden elevator beside the gargoyle director.

The walls of the Unitarian Universalist Church closed in on me as I squirmed on the cold, hard, pew. Trying to ignore the grand piano glaring at me from its spot by the pulpit, I scanned the recital program for my name. My nerves knotted while the place filled with the chatter of fellow students, their families, and friends. My wife, Dianne, squeezed my hand to ease my apprehension.

You'd think I'd be more relaxed after six recitals in the five years since I started lessons. Still, I asked, At the age of seventy-six, do I need this shit?

My inner seventy-one-year-old replied. You've finally retired. Now, your priority is battling Father Time. You notched it up at the gym and started piano lessons for your vintage gray matter. "Go crazy and learn some jazz. You've been a fan ever since college."

Our conversation was interrupted by dissonant guitar tuning and a clattering drum kit setting up in the background. My nerve knots tightened.

That young version of me had a point. Time and some indiscretions had taken many of my good brain cells, and I didn't want to lose the few that were left. So, I took up writing and piano lessons.

The writing was fun, except when words temporarily escaped me. Thank God for Google. "What do you call that thing under a turkey's beak?" A snood, that's it! Or maybe a wattle?

Easy.

The piano was not easy. I joined Duke's School of Jazz, paid a fortune for private lessons, and practiced for hours each week for five years. As hard as I tried, though, my old brain circuitry didn't fire like it used to. If I stretched my right pinky to hit a high note, my left pinky sympathetically went low. Plus, the limited hand speed. And the memory challenges.

I was listed on the recital schedule—an old white guy nestled between two jazz prodigies. I'd follow a thirteen-year-old girl doing her own ten-minute arrangement of Alica Keys' "Girl on Fire." After me, a seven-year-old boy was down for a twelve-minute improvisation of Ray Charles' "What I Say."

… and I was doing a two-minute intermediate version of "When the Saints Come Marching In."

 

My turn to perform charged at me like a rabid pit bull.

By the time the girl's two-minute standing ovation ended, even my hemorrhoids applauded. And my heart rate had doubled.

I was on. Dianne, who'd always accompanied me to school events, leaned in and whispered, "You've got this."

Feeling woozy, I stood and steadied myself against the pew in front of me. Its shelf was lined with gospel songbooks, a reminder that Duke played his soulful hymns here every Sunday. My controlled breaths, slow and deep, helped me pace the twenty-foot walk to the piano. It felt like a mile march to the electric chair. I waited for Duke, in his powerful baritone, to introduce me before lowering myself onto the piano bench and opening my copy of "Intermediate Jazz, Rags, and Blues."

I received polite claps while I adjusted the sheet music on the stand with an unsteady hand.

I took one last look and positioned my fingers on the piano, asking myself, Do I really want to play a lame version of this great song? That improvisation I'd come up with at home wasn't bad. Nothing too fancy—some simple blues chords and melody riffs that sounded pretty good. After all the great jazz I'd listened to over the years, some of it must have sunk in by osmosis.

I closed my music book and went for it.

Hands sweating, I played the song through once from memory. I looped through it again, a little jazzier this time, channeling some of the masters: Peterson, Hancock, Monk, Evans, Corea, Batiste.

Something magical happened. Chills passed through me as my fingers connected directly to my soul, and a solo improv came to life.

I closed my eyes, and the church transformed into New Orleans' Preservation Hall. The cocktail-clutching audience was properly buzzed, heads bobbing and toes tapping. Oldsters in suits, kids in cut-off jeans, and fellow musicians on break from other clubs all drifted through the open doorway and into the back of the hall as if in a trance.

I ran the keys, overlaid syncopated rhythms, found chords I hadn't known existed … and did it all as fast or slow as I chose. Everything I tried sounded amazing. I thought to myself. All you had to do was let go.

Five minutes later, I opened my eyes and glanced at big old Duke, hoping he wasn't pissed. All two-hundred-fifty pounds of him stood, mouth agape, eyes raised toward the heavens—like he'd had a religious moment.

I felt bad for the kid following me and gradually slowed down for the last measure…Go-March-ing-in.

As motionless a Sphinx, Dianne had recorded my performance on her phone. I must have really done something special. The rest of the audience appeared to be mesmerized, too. Some were still shaking their heads to my groove.

More polite claps, longer this time, but no one stood. Must have been stunned.

I slowly rose from the bench. Duke came to my side and thanked me, squeezing my shoulder. The big guy had no idea of his strength.

While the last three students played, my mind raced through the highlights of my performance.

At the end of the recital, the aisle cleared for Dianne and me to exit, as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea.

 

As we left the church, Dianne chuckled. "What got into you in there?"

I grinned. "I just let go, and it happened."

She sighed as we got into my car and held out her phone. "Want to watch a replay?"

Before I could answer, the phone blared Duke's introduction. Impressively absorbed, I studied my performance. The standard part of the song was so-so. As I broke into my fantasy solo, my stomach lurched. Instead of what I imagined while playing, it was the worst noise I'd ever heard. A pair of feral tomcats fighting on the keyboard could have done better.

I pictured Steve Martin's awkward, rhythmless, poor black child sequence from the movie The Jerk. It was that bad.

So bad we broke into hysterics.

When we stopped laughing, I dried my tears, winked at Dianne, and said, "But it felt so good."

She kissed my cheek and whispered. "Let me buy you a drink."

The walls of the Unitarian Universalist Church closed in on me as I squirmed on the cold, hard, pew. Trying to ignore the grand piano glaring at me from its spot by the pulpit, I scanned the recital program for my name. My nerves knotted while the place filled with the chatter of fellow students, their families, and friends. My wife, Dianne, squeezed my hand to ease my apprehension.

You'd think I'd be more relaxed after six recitals in the five years since I started lessons. Still, I asked, At the age of seventy-six, do I need this shit?

My inner seventy-one-year-old replied. You've finally retired. Now, your priority is battling Father Time. You notched it up at the gym and started piano lessons for your vintage gray matter. "Go crazy and learn some jazz. You've been a fan ever since college."

Our conversation was interrupted by dissonant guitar tuning and a clattering drum kit setting up in the background. My nerve knots tightened.

That young version of me had a point. Time and some indiscretions had taken many of my good brain cells, and I didn't want to lose the few that were left. So, I took up writing and piano lessons.

The writing was fun, except when words temporarily escaped me. Thank God for Google. "What do you call that thing under a turkey's beak?" A snood, that's it! Or maybe a wattle?

Easy.

The piano was not easy. I joined Duke's School of Jazz, paid a fortune for private lessons, and practiced for hours each week for five years. As hard as I tried, though, my old brain circuitry didn't fire like it used to. If I stretched my right pinky to hit a high note, my left pinky sympathetically went low. Plus, the limited hand speed. And the memory challenges.

I was listed on the recital schedule—an old white guy nestled between two jazz prodigies. I'd follow a thirteen-year-old girl doing her own ten-minute arrangement of Alica Keys' "Girl on Fire." After me, a seven-year-old boy was down for a twelve-minute improvisation of Ray Charles' "What I Say."

… and I was doing a two-minute intermediate version of "When the Saints Come Marching In."

 My turn to perform charged at me like a rabid pit bull.

By the time the girl's two-minute standing ovation ended, even my hemorrhoids applauded. And my heart rate had doubled.

I was on. Dianne, who'd always accompanied me to school events, leaned in and whispered, "You've got this."

Feeling woozy, I stood and steadied myself against the pew in front of me. Its shelf was lined with gospel songbooks, a reminder that Duke played his soulful hymns here every Sunday. My controlled breaths, slow and deep, helped me pace the twenty-foot walk to the piano. It felt like a mile march to the electric chair. I waited for Duke, in his powerful baritone, to introduce me before lowering myself onto the piano bench and opening my copy of "Intermediate Jazz, Rags, and Blues."

I received polite claps while I adjusted the sheet music on the stand with an unsteady hand.

I took one last look and positioned my fingers on the piano, asking myself, Do I really want to play a lame version of this great song? That improvisation I'd come up with at home wasn't bad. Nothing too fancy—some simple blues chords and melody riffs that sounded pretty good. After all the great jazz I'd listened to over the years, some of it must have sunk in by osmosis.

I closed my music book and went for it.

Hands sweating, I played the song through once from memory. I looped through it again, a little jazzier this time, channeling some of the masters: Peterson, Hancock, Monk, Evans, Corea, Batiste.

Something magical happened. Chills passed through me as my fingers connected directly to my soul, and a solo improv came to life.

I closed my eyes, and the church transformed into New Orleans' Preservation Hall. The cocktail-clutching audience was properly buzzed, heads bobbing and toes tapping. Oldsters in suits, kids in cut-off jeans, and fellow musicians on break from other clubs all drifted through the open doorway and into the back of the hall as if in a trance.

I ran the keys, overlaid syncopated rhythms, found chords I hadn't known existed … and did it all as fast or slow as I chose. Everything I tried sounded amazing. I thought to myself. All you had to do was let go.

Five minutes later, I opened my eyes and glanced at big old Duke, hoping he wasn't pissed. All two-hundred-fifty pounds of him stood, mouth agape, eyes raised toward the heavens—like he'd had a religious moment.

I felt bad for the kid following me and gradually slowed down for the last measure…Go-March-ing-in.

As motionless a Sphinx, Dianne had recorded my performance on her phone. I must have really done something special. The rest of the audience appeared to be mesmerized, too. Some were still shaking their heads to my groove.

More polite claps, longer this time, but no one stood. Must have been stunned.

I slowly rose from the bench. Duke came to my side and thanked me, squeezing my shoulder. The big guy had no idea of his strength.

While the last three students played, my mind raced through the highlights of my performance.

At the end of the recital, the aisle cleared for Dianne and me to exit, as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea.

 

As we left the church, Dianne chuckled. "What got into you in there?"

I grinned. "I just let go, and it happened."

She sighed as we got into my car and held out her phone. "Want to watch a replay?"

Before I could answer, the phone blared Duke's introduction. Impressively absorbed, I studied my performance. The standard part of the song was so-so. As I broke into my fantasy solo, my stomach lurched. Instead of what I imagined while playing, it was the worst noise I'd ever heard. A pair of feral tomcats fighting on the keyboard could have done better.

I pictured Steve Martin's awkward, rhythmless, poor black child sequence from the movie The Jerk. It was that bad.

So bad we broke into hysterics.

When we stopped laughing, I dried my tears, winked at Dianne, and said, "But it felt so good."

She kissed my cheek and whispered. "Let me buy you a drink."

Eric’s Gift

 

"People with developmental disabilities are only handicapped by how much we underestimate them." — D. Kirk

Eric Lungrun stood near the top of the world in the center of a concrete rocket landing pad. As a cold wind blew through the tangles of his curly blonde hair, he inhaled deeply, and his chest swelled with pride. Never mind that his task for today was to sweep bits of gravel and leaves from the pad; he was, in fact, on the Esrange Space Center team, the pride of the European Union.

Just three years ago, like many other locals, he'd labored at the iron mines in his hometown of Kiruna, Swedish Lapland, two hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle. He was devastated when stripped of its copper, they closed the mines. That turned out to be a blessing. He worked hard on the Space Center's janitorial staff and attended Esrange's evening classes. Tomorrow, he'll graduate and start his new job.

At the end of the day, he zipped up his fur-lined jacket, wishing he had something a little less bulky, and headed for the bus stop. It was late November, and ever since he was a kid, there'd be a foot or two of snow piled at the curbs by now. But this year, the only snow he saw was a steady drizzle of fine wet granules that melted as they hit the ground. A dozen other passengers collected in the glass-enclosed pick-up station, mostly engineers and communications techs. No one spoke to Eric, yet he didn't mind. He'd be one of them one day—then they'd all have long discussions.

Fifteen minutes later, he was in his mom's room at the senior center, holding her hand. He rolled her wheelchair to the window overlooking the abandoned strip mines. She looked up at Eric and squeezed his hand, managing a crooked smile—a vestige of her stroke. He squeezed back. "At the end of the week, the X-9 Mars probe will land at our site. Since I've had the course, I've been assigned to the washdown team." Her eyes twinkled as she rubbed her flannel bathrobe sleeve against his hand.

He searched his pockets twice before producing a graduation announcement and read it aloud. He sighed wistfully and added, "Whenever I had trouble in school, you kept me going." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Thanks for that."

He wiped a tear from her cheek and continued, "Ursala says 'Hi.' Tomorrow, we're having dinner at her hotel restaurant to celebrate. Her boss is treating us as a graduation gift. He says she's the best chambermaid at the hotel." They sat and gazed at each other silently for a few more minutes. He kissed his mom on the forehead and left to visit his other love.

The Hotel B-10, where his girlfriend, Ursala, worked, was only a fifteen-minute walk. The streets were nearly empty and eerily quiet. This strange, barely freezing snowfall had been continuous for the past two weeks. Tonight, it seemed to hang in mid-air. In the silence, he imagined hearing footsteps behind him, but no one was there whenever he turned. He shook his head. Since the mines closed, the quiet of Kiruna had often creeped him out.

As he approached the parking lot, the lines of halogen lamp posts automatically switched on. The cedar-shingled, two-story A-frame was not very fancy, but the B-10 was the best hotel in town. At this time of year, the hotel was mostly vacant. Yet by January, it would be jammed with adventurous guests coming for northern lights tours, the famed Ice Hotel, and the village of the indigenous Sami People in nearby Jukkasjarvi.

Ursala was laughing with the front desk clerk when Eric entered the lobby. She turned and met him with a long hug. "How's my Class…. What are you again?"

He grinned. "Class Three Sanitation Technician." A blush spread from his collar and engulfed his face.

She was still in her uniform and, as usual, make-up-free, yet her hair shimmered, and her laugh melted his heart. Eric walked her home in the dark, and they kissed goodnight, then he jogged two blocks to his house. The velvet silence of the night no longer scared him. He hummed an unnamed tune his father used to sing to him all the way home. Tonight, he was the luckiest guy in the world.

He entered the modest eighty-year-old home where he grew up. Its cedar exterior was well-weathered, but inside was a treasure of well-preserved memories. In his antiquated kitchen, Eric made a cup of coffee, pan-boiled like his mom used to do it, and ate a bowl of oatmeal. He winced as those painful memories of grade school returned. The taunts. They called him stupid, even in front of Ursala. Of course, they teased her much worse because of her Down syndrome.

He snapped out of it and gave himself one of those good talking-tos. He had this great new job and would do whatever was needed for success at the Space Center. And in his heart, he knew Ursala was his perfect match. He'd known her since kindergarten; someday, they'd get married and show them all.

****

In the morning, Eric put on his best work clothes and left the house early for his new job. He knew the way to his boss' office. He'd cleaned it many times. The door was open, and the short, stocky man in khaki pants and a blue dress shirt, sporting a warm smile, waved him in. "Hello, Eric." He extended a hand that Eric nervously shook. "I'm Will Albart. Welcome aboard. I'll get us some coffee while we wait for the other two."

He scanned the office when his boss left the room. It was small but meticulously tidy. The certificate on the wall was from Uppsala University. The guy had a Ph.D. in materials engineering. Whatever that was. The computer's screensaver displayed Esrange's latest spacecraft. Eric daydreamed of having an office like this, and he'd just taken the next step.

Soon, his two workmates, Sven and Trad, joined them, and Dr. Albart introduced them. Eric filled with a warm glow. For the first time in his life, he felt like a professional.

The boss pointed to his monitor. "Gentlemen, our X-9 Mars probe will land here in three days. We expected to have our automated washdown system ready but had some last-minute problems. So, we'll have to go back to our old procedure."

They were given their bio-hazard suits and watched training videos. The following day, they practiced the washdown procedure. The task seemed simple enough—spray down every centimeter of the craft three times and chase the rinses down the center drain. Then, the analytical collection team would take it from there before unloading the Martian surface samples.

He hardly slept the next two nights, imagining the excitement of the landing and the TV cameras that would be there at touchdown. Maybe they'd film his team as they emerged on the platform—something to show his grandkids. Ursala and her friends would be watching from one of the hotel rooms. It might even be on TV at the nursing home.

****

It was almost touchdown time, and things happened quickly. Everyone on the team double-checked each other's bio-hazard suit closures while they waited in front of their bunker's viewing port. The TV trucks were in place, and the sun hid behind the clouds. A pinpoint of light flashed in the western sky, expanding to a blinding glare slowly approaching the area. A buzzer sounded in their bunker, signaling five minutes to touchdown. They fastened their helmets and lined up at the door. After the perfect vertical landing, Eric expected to see a bright silver rocket on the pad, but most of it had a bluish tint, with a few scattered black char spots.

The buzzer sounded again, the bunker door opened, and Eric's team was on. As rehearsed, they pulled the stainless-steel-clad hose up the steps to the pad. Eric was second in line. He stopped for a second to catch his breath as he realized the significance of this moment. He was standing under something that had just been to Mars.

During the washdown, the wind gusted, the dreary clouds persisted, and it was colder than usual at minus two degrees Celsius. Yet sweat ran down Eric's right arm. They sprayed off each other's suits before going back to the bunker. He couldn't wait to get into the shower. That sweaty arm was itching.

As he undressed, Eric saw the slightest gap in the seal of his right glove. Maybe Sven messed up when he checked my sleeve clasp. He shivered with doubt and fear. That might not have been sweat he felt on his arm. Something like this could ruin his career, maybe his whole life. He decided to keep quiet, at least for now, and thoroughly soap up in the shower.

The next team had taken over, removing instruments and taking close-up photos of the rocket's skin. Eric's crew was allowed to leave. He pushed his worries aside and took the bus to the hotel to meet Ursala for that special reindeer steak dinner. It was her favorite.

They met in the lobby. The day's excitement caught up to him, and he was starved. Andre, the hotel manager, and the receptionist walked them to a window table. Only one other couple was dining, and they joined the staff in applauding the new local celebrity, Class Three Tech Eric Lungren. All of the big shots were celebrating at the Space Center. This party was just for them.

Throughout a delicious dinner, his crystal glass was always full of Akavit, the water of life. None for Ursala, though. Eric quickly cleared his plate, and a surprised waiter brought seconds. The meal ended with a magnificent dessert of cloudberries and cream.

On the walk home, tiny air-borne ice kernels looked like parade confetti under the streetlights. A great end to a great day.

Once they were at his house, he couldn't undress fast enough. As Eric kicked off his shorts, Ursala lay on the bed naked, her arms outstretched. They had tried to postpone sex until their wedding, but who knew if or when that would happen. So, they kept it to special occasions and never told her parents. Usually, at this stage, he'd be holding back his climax, but tonight, his little buddy was out cold. Too much booze.

This had happened only once before for the same reason, and he was so embarrassed because he had forgotten. But his Ursala said she understood now, as she did then. She sat up, smiled, and kissed his arm. "What are all those dark blue veins? Do they hurt? No wonder Wild Willy's asleep."

"No, they just kind of tingle." He looked down at his legs. A similar pattern was blooming on his thighs. He burped up a sour version of cloudberry, realizing he'd have to report this to his boss in the morning.

****

On the walk back to Ursala's house, they discussed their favorite subject, wedding plans. Although he'd eaten an enormous meal, his stomach growled as he returned home.

At his doorstep lay Orange, the neighborhood stray cat that sometimes visited. Eric stooped down, scratched behind the tabby's ears, and she purred. He brought her in, poured her a saucer of milk, and got ready for bed. Instead of returning to the door, Orange disappeared from sight. That was unlike her, but he craved the feline's company tonight.

At four in the morning, his stomach was still growling. His feet felt heavy as he went to the kitchen and ate a sandwich. He stopped at the bathroom on his way back to bed. His reflection was shocking. He was much thinner, and his whole body was laced with bright blue veins. He rubbed his eyes and gasped. His pupils had elongated to vertical slits. His strength was draining, and he shuffled to his bedroom window in time to see the sky erupt with misty blue and green northern lights. The windowpane was in the way. He threw on some clothes and stood on his front lawn. As he soaked in the mystical aurora, his strength returned. The heavenly plasma reinvigorated him like food no longer could.

Then he ran to the Space Center.

****

Ursala woke from a sound sleep when her mind took another one of those detours. This one was different. She heard Eric's voice echoing in her head.

"Please, know that I love you. Always will. Our hearts are one, so I know you can hear me. I've been chosen to deliver an important message. I'm changing fast and need to get to work while I still can. Remember, I'll always be with you if I don't see you again. Please look after my mother and take care of Orange."

She cried herself back to sleep, picturing how proudly he smiled during dinner*.*

****

The guard at the Space Center lobby awoke from his nap to a banging at the entrance doors. In the dim light, a somewhat familiar figure pulled an employee badge from his coat pocket and held it to the glass. The door buzzed open, and when the guard got a closer look, he backed away, nearly falling over his desk. The visitor growled, "Get me Dr. Albart."

The guard grabbed his phone and directory, ran into an office, locked the door, and furiously dialed the phone. As Eric paced the lobby, cars filled the parking lot as if it was four hours later.

Soon, a team of hazmat-suited doctors rushed Eric to an operating theater. Behind the glass partition sat more scientists and doctors. A robotic system approached and measured his vital signs as Eric motioned toward the microphone suspended above him. The theater speakers clicked on. Without moving a muscle, he spoke in a gravelly version of his former voice. "Your space probe returned to Earth with an urgent message, and I'm the messenger. I have little time left, so please listen carefully." Every observer was transfixed on the non-threatening visitor who had commandeered Eric.

"We ruined Mars eons ago and don't want you to make the same mistakes. You've seen the early signs of climate change, but everything is about to cascade. Three years from now, Earth, as you know it, could end." Everyone murmured and squirmed in their seats. "Here's what is needed."

In the corner of the gallery, a printer spewed a twenty-page document. The gruff voice continued, "This method produces an ultra-light, nano-porous, activated silica powder of tremendous surface area. It can trap up to ten thousand times its weight in gaseous carbon compounds. Seed the atmosphere with it. When the particles are saturated with pollutants, they'll cluster, and it will gently rain fertile sand to enrich the soil for faster crop growth and renewed forests. Once it's depleted of organics, the powder can be re-activated and recycled."

As if a fireworks fuse had burned down, an explosion of blue and yellow sparks filled the operating room. When the last spark died and the smoke had cleared, only a pile of grey ash occupied the gurney.

****

Six months later, Albart and Professor Sorrenson, his doctorate advisor at the University of Uppsala, stood at the edge of a nearby farm, looking up as crop dusters broadcast a fine white powder a mile above their heads. Within fifteen minutes, grey-brown sand drizzled down.

Albart was on the phone with the Space Center's imaging satellite team. He clapped loudly. "Our infrared spectroscopy verified a drastic reduction of atmospheric carbon compounds. We're on."

Later that year, Eric's gift to the world won a Nobel Prize.

****

One night, during one of her regular visits, Ursala stared out the nursing home window as she brushed Eric's mom's hair. "I'll bet he's out there somewhere. Dr. Albart said the air's getting cleaner because of Eric. I miss him badly, but I'm so proud."

The old lady smiled and petted Orange, who sat quietly on her lap. The tabby, now the nursing home's mascot, brought comfort to all of the patients, but she favored this room.

The cat jumped to the floor as a spectacular indigo blaze lit the window and filled the room. Thinking of Eric, Ursala crouched to give Eric's mom a hug. Like magic, she touched Ursala's arm, smiled her crooked smile, and spoke for the first time in three years.

"It's him."

In honor of The Kentucky Derby.

Simon won the state lottery for the first time in his life—two hundred sixty thousand bucks after taxes. Upon learning this, even though it was midnight, Simon immediately called his most trusted friends, Alvin and Theo. “You gotta come over.” … “Not over the phone. Hurry, you won’t believe this shit.”

At twenty-four, living at home embarrassed Simon, as did his grade-school nickname. The silly labels stuck, shaping the group’s bond.

Simon didn’t earn much working at Theo’s used comic book store. Now he could move into his own place. But this meeting at his mom’s house was a good precaution. While not the brightest guy in the room, he knew that such a windfall could not be mentioned in Alibis, the corner bar.

Fifteen minutes later, Alvin and Theo spread out on a paisley sofa covered in thick plastic. Four rounds of bourbon shots later, they’d ruled out: cryptocurrency, no one understood it; mutual funds, no one trusted it; exotic sports cars, they argued about which was fastest.

After a fifth round, Simon offered a more practical option—buy a racehorse.

Simon’s rich uncle, Jim, owned Quicksilver Farms, a training center in Kentucky. He was a straight shooter who could provide the advice they needed. Simon called and switched to speakerphone.

Uncle Jim had somehow developed a thick southern accent since moving from the Bronx. He answered with a growl: “Goddamn, Simon, it’s one in the morning! This better be good, boy.” Jim’s mood definitely sounded angrier with the drawl.

Simon summoned his best attempt at a sober apology. “Sooo sorry, Uncle. Won all this money and thought of you right away. I wanna buy a racehorse.”

Jim’s tone magically changed. “Wait. How much did you win?”

“Over a quarter million,” Simon whispered for no good reason.

“Dollars?” Jim whistled. “That’s the right neighborhood but owning a stakes-quality horse ain’t easy. How ‘bout you come on down? I’ll show you a few nice steeds, and we can talk about what you’d be getting yourself into.”

Everyone in the living room raised their eyebrows and shot glasses. Simon’s voice jumped an octave as he blurted out, “Thanks a million, Uncle Jim! I’ll book a flight first thing in the morning.” He looked at his friends and grinned. “Uh, can I bring my buddies, Alvin and Theo? They might wanna chip in too.”

“You can bring Minnie and Mickey for all I care. Just try to sober up before you come. You sound a little hammered."

 

 

*

 

The next day, they rented a red Mustang convertible at the airport. Their top-down drive up the dirt road to Quicksilver covered them in dust. Uncle Jim stood proudly on his porch, tending to his Big Green Egg grill.

He gave a big wave and yelled. “Gonna treat you to my famous BBQ. Don’t worry, it’s not horse.”

After a great smoked brisket meal, they all adjourned to his country-style parlor for some deliciously smooth Kentucky Owl Confiscated Bourbon, a far cry from the gut-rot they drank at home. Jim tucked himself into his easy chair and kicked up the footrest. Everyone but Jim rushed through their drinks and sat in a thick silence, until he finally spoke.

He swirled his glass and inhaled the fumes. “You guys know anything about thoroughbreds?”

Simon mirrored Jim’s actions but with an empty glass. “Not really. “We were hoping you’d teach us.”

Jim poured each of them another inch of amber. “Well, buying a stakes-quality horse is just the beginning. You have your boarding fees, training fees, country fair circuit expenses, track costs, vet, and farrier charges. Hell, you can easily piss away another hundred grand a year.” He waved at his red-faced visitors, adding, “I hope you three are well-healed. Heard there’s a fortune to be made in comic books.”

Theo sucked some stuck brisket from between his teeth. “I own the business and barely make a living after paying these two. Most of our sales are online. I’m thinking of closing the store.”

Jim bit his lip. “On-line, huh?” Under another heavy silence, he topped off their drinks.

Simon leveled with his uncle. “I didn’t win this money in a casino. It was a five-dollar lottery ticket. We don’t have any real money after that.” His stare dropped to the floor. “Sorry to waste your time.”

Jim patted Simon’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. “Y’all look beat. Let’s sleep on this, and we’ll kick an idea of mine around in the morning. The group’s faces brightened.

*

At five a.m., Simon woke to a rooster’s medley that lasted at least ten minutes. He tried to sleep, but the scene with Uncle Jim played with his mind. What new idea would Uncle present to them? Was it an opportunity, or another embarrassment in front of his best friends?

That damned rooster must have brought others for harmony. Simon couldn’t take it any longer. He rolled out of bed and looked out the window.

A crescent moon cast a glow onto the path from the front lawn to what looked like a large barn. Uncle Jim stood midway, his back to Simon. Head lowered and shoulders shaking, Simon couldn’t tell if Jim was crying or laughing.  

 

Either way, looks like Uncle is losing it. Not a good sign for Jim’s new proposition.

 

Simon dressed and set out to see what Jim was up to at this ungodly hour. A balmy breeze carried a hint of manure—definitely a stable.

 

 

The main door was ajar, and Simon peeked inside. His uncle crouched in front of the stall on the far end of the building. Now, arms waving, Jim appeared to be having a conversation. Although Simon couldn’t make out the words, one detail knotted his stomach: Jim addressed the wrong end of the horse. When the tail draped over the stall fence, Simon made a hasty retreat to the house, his hopes for Jim’s idea withering with each step.

 

*

 

Simon tried to shower away his hangover and any trace of horseshit while waiting for a civil hour to wake his friends. How would he explain his crazy uncle to Alvin and Theo? This might not be the investment he was looking for, but it would make for a classic story. He should have consulted his mom. It was her brother. She had to have known Uncle was becoming unhinged.

Later that morning, as Simon finished dressing, there was a knock on his door. His two friends were dressed but looked like the Old Kentucky Owl had kicked their asses.

“Can we get some caffeine?” Theo begged. Simon was glad to postpone talking about his Uncle and nodded.

They descended the staircase, following the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee mixed with bacon grease. Jim greeted them, fork in hand. “Mornin' gents. I hope y’all slept well. This country air’s healthy but can tucker you out.”

Jim plated breakfast and poured the coffee with the same smile he left everyone with last night. He swallowed a bite of scrambled eggs and said, “I’m guessin’ you all gave up on owning a racehorse.”

The three would-be investors glanced at each other and shook their heads. Theo said, “I don’t see how we could afford it.” His friends didn’t argue.

Jim yawned and stretched. “You’ll have to excuse me. Been up most of the night. Too keyed up.”

Simon and his friends sat quietly, waiting for more.

“Let’s go to the stables. There’s something you need to see to believe.”

Intrigue trumped hunger. Abandoning their breakfasts, everyone followed Jim down the path toward the stables.

Uncle led them past the most muscular specimens of horses they’d ever seen, albeit only on TV shows. He bragged, “These guys are my bread and butter. They’re worth anywhere from fifty grand to over a million bucks.”

He continued walking to the last stall and pulled a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket. “Come ere, Genius,” he yelled.

He turned to Simon. “Old boy’s hard of hearing, but that brain’s amazing.”

The geriatric swayback turned a full 180 degrees, revealing a sorry pile of fur-covered bones awaiting the glue factory. Jim fed him the sugar. “Sugar’s off limits to the youngbloods, but old Genius here has earned his keep.”

Alvin asked, “Was he a champ back in the day?”

“Never won a race.” Jim patted the steed on the nose. “Back in his prime, we had experimented with some chemical enhancements. He was our guinea pig. Nothin to lose.”

Simon squinted. “You want us to invest in this?”

Jim entered the stall and winked. “Watch this.” He turned Genius around, tail facing his audience, and yelled. “Two plus two!”

The horse raised his tail and, clear as can be, tooted four distinct times.

The three burst into laughter but quieted when Jim yelled, “Three times two!”

Another correct answer silenced the group.

“Square root of twenty-five!” Without even a pause to think, five farts replied.

Simon poked Uncle Jim in the chest. “OK. What’s the trick?”

Jim nodded. “I know. I know. It’s amazing. One of the performance drugs we gave him. He’s no Mr. Ed, but I’ve made a small fortune on barroom bets.”

Theo crossed his arms. “You trying to sell us this horse, Jim?” His tone was wary.

Jim pointed to a barn door. “Smells a little ripe in here. Let’s take this outside.”

They sat out back on bales of hay, and Jim continued. “I’m not going to be greedy. For only one hundred thou, we can all be partners in Genius. Put the rest of your money to good use—maybe government bonds or somethin.”

Simon took a deep breath of fresh air. “Mom always said if it sounds too good to be true…”

“Here’s what I want from you guys. You seem to know your stuff with the internet. I’m a dinosaur. How can we make old Genius here an internet star?”

Theo elbowed his friends, and they all answered in unison. “TikTok.”

Simon gave a fist salute. “This horse will go viral.”

*

A year later, Jim built an estate on the farm for his three partners, featuring a full recording studio for Genius. The horse was world-famous, and nobody even cared if he was actually doing math.

 

As Uncle Jim put it, “Even a horse’s ass can make a fortune if he’s also a stable genius.”

 

Story idea- An underground coal fire that's out-of-control, breeds a novel virus that can survive surface temperatures and threatens the world. Maybe it's been seeded by something that has existed in the earth's mantle for ages waiting to escape.