Category: Fiction Factor

Micah and Sherri sat across from the coffee table – as they always did this time of year – and peered into the bowl.

Inside it were five small, folded pieces of paper.

Sherri held a quarter.

“OK,’ she said. “You call it in the air.”

She launched the coin with her thumb, and as it fluttered end-over-end Micha shouted, “Heads!”

The quarter landed on top of Sherri’s left hand, she covered it, and then took a peek.

“Heads it is,” she said. “You get to pick.”

Micah carefully eyed the bowl, stirred the paper slightly with his right index finger, pulled out a piece, and then unfolded it.

He let out a long sigh.

“Show it to me,” Sherri said, smiling.

He handed it over and revealed the word scribbled in pen, “illness.”

Sherri shrugged.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked. “That’s perfect, actually.”

Micah rolled his eyes.

“That’s the one we used last year,” he said. “I told my family I had food poisoning, and you told yours you had the flu. It’d be a little too convenient if we did that again.”

Sherri disagreed.

“Not at all,” she said. “It is the cold and flu season – November is always the cold and flu season. And food poisoning? It can happen any time, any place. Ever heard of gas station sushi? Really, this is the best excuse of all of them. It’s sure as heck better than the one I drew two years ago.”

It was 2021 when Sherri won the toss and picked a piece of paper with the word “car trouble.”

“We could’ve made the car trouble excuse work,” she said. “But somebody screwed that up royally, didn’t they?”

Micah grimaced.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah … I should’ve said we had car trouble in North Dakota or some place like that,” he said. “I never thought Uncle Lou would drive over and pick us up.”

“Oh, but he did,” Sherri said, wagging her finger at Micah. “And the man always smells like roasted broccoli. I used to love roasted broccoli until I got a whiff of your uncle.”

Micah chuckled.

“I think you’re being kind,” he said. “There’s the smell of roasted broccoli, and then there’s the smell of the flatulence that follows the consumption of roasted broccoli. I’m pretty sure Uncle Lou had let a few rip before he picked us up.

“The best part, though, was sitting in the corner of the kitchen and watching Aunt Eunice toss back those deviled eggs. It was gross, but in an artful kind of way.”

The couple called their annual ritual the “Introvert Society Thanksgiving Day Charade.” Knowing they would be invited to several different holiday gatherings – and knowing they were both painfully shy and got nervous in large crowds – they would draw from the “Excuse Bowl” to come up with a ruse.

They loved their families and treasured their friends, and it’s not that they wanted to lie – it’s just they’d rather lie than leave the house and dive into a sea of humanity.

They had done the paper draw for more than 10 years, and the five excuses were “illness,” “work,” “argument,” “car trouble” and “Federal Witness Protection Program.”

The last one was a joke.

Maybe.

“I can’t believe that over an entire decade we’ve never picked WITSEC,” Sherri mused. “That would be awesome. New names, new jobs … new lives in a new location. Of course, after a while we’d probably make new friends, and they’d invite us over for the holidays.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, I suppose.”

Micah reached for his cellphone.

“So, why don’t I call my family and tell them I have the flu, and you can call yours and say you have food poisoning,” Micah said. “No, wait … maybe mix it up and say you have strep throat.”

Sheri walked over to Micah and gave him a big hug.

“I love you,” she said. “You, me, our three cats, one goldfish, in the den, eating a pizza from the freezer and watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles – just like every year. “It’s my favorite Thanksgiving tradition.”

Keisha had already brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas and crawled into bed when her mother walked into the room.

“Are you ready for nite-nite?” asked her mom, placing her hand on the light switch.

“Could you tell me a story first?” Keisha said. “I’m not sleepy yet … at least not real sleepy.”

Her mom smiled, climbed onto the bed and snuggled close to her daughter.

“Sure, sweetheart,” she said. “Do you want me to read you one or tell you one?

Keisha answered immediately.

“Tell me one!” she said, excitedly. “Tell me Secret Holiday again. That’s my favorite.”

Her mom laughed.

“OK … here goes.”

The bell rang right at 3 p.m. on Wednesday, sending most of the kids at Pinckney Memorial Grammer School into a frenzy.

With Thanksgiving the next day and another day off scheduled for Friday, there would be a long holiday weekend for the students and teachers.

Ava heard her friends talk of the road trips they were taking – or the visitors coming into town – as well as all the baking activity leading up to the feast.

She smiled politely when they shared their excitement, although she could muster none of her own.

November was hardly a joyous time at her house, and things got even worse when the pumpkins and hay bales were replaced by lighted trees and stockings.

Her parents’ arguments often drowned out the holiday music blaring from the stereo. With all the fighting, she could never understand why they even bothered to play holiday music at all.

And if she wasn’t locked away in her room covering her ears in an effort to mute the insults being volleyed between her mom and dad, she was nervously sitting through a silence that made a cold home seem even colder.

She clearly remembered one time when her folks didn’t speak to each other at all for more than three weeks.

She called such times “The Darkness,” and as each holiday came and went, it seemed to grow bigger and darker, practically engulfing her.

Ava was sad most of the time, it seemed, but it was the holidays that made her the saddest of all. She knew they were supposed to be happy times, but they weren’t – at least they hadn’t been for her.

Then one day, Ava had an idea. What if she created a Secret Holiday – a holiday no one knew about but her?

It could be any time she wanted it to be – and last as long as she wanted it to – but only she would know about it.

The first Secret Holiday she remembered came on a summer day when she heard her parents laughing – something she didn’t here nearly enough. She imagined the living room decorated in bright colors, and that night when she ate dinner, she pretended the baked beans and sliced bread was a festive meal only served during special, joyous times.

When she was at school and saw other kids laughing, she pretended they were celebrating their own Secret Holiday, and it made her happy inside.

In fact, she figured that anytime a person was laughing, smiling – or sometimes just sitting on a bench with nothing but a book and a pleasant expression – they were celebrating something.

And she decided to celebrate with them.

They didn’t know it, of course, but they were part of her Secret Holiday, and those were the times that were the absolute best of times.

Weeks turned into months and months turned into years, and Ava grew up.

She got a job, worked her way through school, fell in love, got married and started a family.

Turns out, there were more Secret Holidays than she could keep up with.

The day she brought a kitten home from the shelter was a Secret Holiday.

The time she carried her neighbors’ groceries into his house was a Secret Holiday.

Best of all, the sad months she had experienced as a child – November and December – didn’t seem so sad anymore because they were always full of Secret Holidays.

Oh, there were bad times, to be sure … that’s part of living. But the greatest thing of all about Secret Holidays is that they’re secret – and that means “The Darkness” can never find them.

Keisha had already fallen asleep by the time her mom reached the end of the story. She eased off the bed, tiptoed toward the door, and turned out the light.

It marked the end of another wonderful Secret Holiday.

The spotlight locked in on the 14^th floor of the glass and steel skyscraper in Rickman Plaza, with the police cars below creating their own flashing, red and blue light show.

Professor Purloin – rocking a magenta fedora, lime green tactical suit and small black mask – had expected some of the men and women of law enforcement to make the first move in an effort to stop his latest crime wave. On this night he was looking down on the crowd while standing behind three bound and gagged hostages with a high-tech laser weapon.

Once the police had been foiled, he’d then be forced to deal with either Spectacular Man or Frau the Fearless – or maybe both.

It was a dance he’d done many times, and one that made the Intrepid City High Security Prison his home away from home. In any moment, he figured he’d be greeted by a hostage negotiator who’d make a futile attempt at convincing him to surrender.

But when the door to the office he had commandeered opened, there was no sign of an arbiter.

Instead, it was an older gentleman adorned in a beige newsboy cap, baby blue polyester jogging suit, shiny white support sneakers and orange sunglasses.

Professor Purloin raised his weapon and took aim.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The man cupped his right ear with his right hand.

“Could you say that again? My hearing isn’t so good.”

Purloin shook his head.

“I said … who the hell are you, old man!” Purloin shouted.

“Yessir, that’s me,” he answered.

Purloin frowned.

“That’s you?”

The man smiled.

“I’m Old Man. That’s what they call me now,” he said. “You know … because I’m old. I used to call myself Pinto Man. You know why? Funny story … about 50 years ago – or it might have been 60 – no, it was closer to 50 years ago because that was the same year I got my yellow Ford Pinto and was recruited by the Integrity Alliance of America. I’ll bet you’re too young to even remember Pintos, aren’t you? I got some whitewall tires for mine and had a Keep On Truckin’ sticker on my back bumper and I thought I was something else.”

Purloin lowered his weapon and stared at Old Man.

Was this some kind of joke? Did the guy walk away from an assisted living facility and get lost?

“Listen, Old Man,” he said. “I’ve never heard of you. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and you obviously have no idea who I am – or who you’re dealing with. I’ve fought all your superheroes – and none of them have been able to keep me locked up. Now what you need to do is just walk on out of here, go watch a Matlock rerun and then you don’t have to get hurt. I’ll just sit tight until the big guns arrive.”

Old Man laughed.

“Oh, I love Matlock,” he said. “I’ll bet you don’t know this, but Don Knotts made 17 appearances on Matlock. It was always good to see him and Andy Griffith together. Of course, it wasn’t as funny as when they were on The Andy Griffith Show. And if you ask me, that show was never the same after Barney left. Barney Fife was who Don Knotts played, by the way. And Andy Griffith played Andy Taylor.

“I guess because he was the star – Andy, I mean – he got to use his first name in the show. It’s probably best that Don Knotts didn’t use his. Don Fife isn’t as funny as Barney Fife. This is something though … I went to grammar school with a guy named Barney Knotts, and …”

Purloin unleashed a long groan.

“Holy crap, will you just shut the hell up!” he screamed. “You’re boring me to death, Old Man. I mean, I’m starting to get sleepy just listening to you drone on and on and on about … about … about …”

Purloin was overcome with a wave of confusion and dizziness, and felt the feeling start to drain from his arms. Suddenly he had the urge to simply close his eyes and go to sleep.

He dropped to his knees and the weapon fell from his hands, which seemed to involuntarily open.

Moments later he lay on the floor frozen – unable to speak – yet fully aware of everything going on around him. It was as though he was in a state of suspended animation.

Old Man briskly walked over to the hostages, untied them, and told them to take the nearest elevator down to the first floor where police and paramedics would be waiting for them.

He walked toward Professor Purloin and eased down on one knee.

“I don’t imagine you remember me,” he said. “I’ve been following you around for weeks – ever since you escaped from prison. Found out where you bought supplies, where you were holed up – pretty much knew your every move. About 10 days ago, I bugged your hideaway.

“And last week I was that old fellow who bumped into you on the street. I also injected you with a slow-acting paralytic. If you think back, you might recall feeling a little stick. It’s my own recipe … I have an IQ of 297 and a knack for designing chemicals. Intelligence is my superpower.”

Old Man slowly rose, cracked his back, and walked toward the window.

“You know how I caught you so easily?” he said. “Because you overlooked me. People like you always overlook people like me – older people. It’s like we don’t exist … we’re practically invisible. And because of that, it allows me to play up all the cliches and lull you into a false sense of security.

“I was ‘boring’ you on purpose because I needed a little more time for the paralytic to kick in. But I’ll tell you the truth … I do enjoy Matlock. And I get to watch it a lot because I just do this superhero stuff part-time.”

The police captain and several officers arrived in short order, cuffing Professor Purloin, dragging him to his feet, and taking him away.

“Good job, Old Man,” the captain said, patting him on the shoulder. “I gotta tell you, though … I was getting a little worried that you might not show up on time. You cut things pretty close.”

Old Man grinned.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” he said. “I had to eat first so I could take my pills.”