Category: Fiction Factor

The old woman slowly raised the spoon to her lips, took a long, noisy sip of soup, then lowered the spoon to the bowl, clinking the tip twice on the rim. She repeated the process several more times, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the cornbread muffin resting on a small plate beside the bowl.

“Excuse me, mam,” said the young man. “My friend and I noticed you were eating alone, and wondered if you might like some company.”

She looked up at the smiling fellow, who was quickly joined by a slightly older gentleman. Although she had seen the pair sitting at a nearby table, she hadn’t paid them much mind.

“Why, that would be lovely,” she said. “It might be nice to have someone to talk to.”

The men, both wearing dark windbreakers and blue jeans, pulled up chairs and introduced themselves as Jerry and Mike.

“Jerry and I have been coming to this diner for quite a while now,” Mike said. “I don’t think we’ve seen you in here before.”

She smiled.

“Oh, I don’t get out too much,” she said. “And I feel a bit guilty coming here to eat when I have plenty of food at home. I live alone and sometimes I guess I just want to see people – besides the people I see on the TV. They’re like my companions now.

“My name’s Hazel, by the way.”

Hazel – with toffee skin and  shock of white hair – was a small, thin woman, adorned in a modest amber housedress and nursing shoes. What caught the attention of Jerry and Mike, however, were her gold earbobs and a huge diamond ring on her left hand.

The men asked what kind of soup Hazel was eating, flagged down a waiter, and ordered the same. Following some lighthearted chitchat, Mike’s tone turned serious.

“I’ve got to tell you Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “Those earrings and that big rock on your hand really make you stand out – and not in such a good way. I’ll let you in on a little secret … Jerry and I are private detectives, and there have been a lot of senior citizen robberies in this neighborhood the last few weeks. Some got kinda violent and ladies like yourself got hurt.”

Hazel’s eyes widened.

“My goodness,” she said. “You had me fooled … I figured private detectives would be wearing suits like you see on those police shows. My jewelry is about the only things I own that have any real value. I don’t spend much money these days, I’ve just tried to save most of it since my husband died a while back.

“In fact, I keep it in an old cardboard box in my bedroom closet at home. Last I checked I had nearly $13,000 in there, mostly 100 and 50-dollar bills. Don’t really trust banks, not with the way the world is.”

Mike and Jerry darted their eyes at each other.

“I’m afraid you’re the perfect target for people like that … bad people who prey on senior citizens. I tell you what, when we’re done here, why don’t we give you a ride home? We can offer you some safety tips to make sure you don’t become a victim.”

Hazel leaned over, grabbed her purse and placed it on the table. She reached inside and retrieved a bulging, red-checkered napkin.

“You boys are being so kind,” she said. “When I go out, I always make sure to carry some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with me. I want you to have them.”

The men each took a cookie and gobbled it down.

“These are delicious, Miss Hazel!” Mike said. “Jerry, why don’t you pull the car around while I pay the check. We’ll meet you out front.”

Hazel shook her head.

“No, no …. It’s my treat,” she said. “I’ll pay.”

Once outside, Mike escorted Hazel to a grimy white van with an engine that sounded as though it was in dire need of a tune-up.

“It’s not much to look at, Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “But when you work undercover like Jerry and me, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

Hazel chuckled.

“At least you have a vehicle,” she said. “If I go anywhere, I have to take the bus … or walk. I just live around the corner, though, so it’ll be a short drive.”

The trio arrived at her garden home in less than a minute, pulling up in the gravel driveway and shutting off the engine.

After Mike helped Hazel out of the van, he put his left arm around her and stuck a gun in her ribs with his right hand.

“Don’t say a word, lady, and you won’t get hurt,” said Jerry, who had bolted from the drivers’ seat and was shielding Hazel and his partner from the view of anyone standing on the street. “Just be really quiet and take us inside. Give us what we want and we’ll be gone in a flash. And you can start with that ring.”

Hazel, to her credit, didn’t seem frightened. In fact, she had a gleam in her eye when she took off her ring and bobs and placed them in Jerry’s hand. After reaching the front door she took out a key, opened it, and walked into the den with Mike and Jerry so close behind they seemed like dual shadows.

Standing in the middle of the room were 11 other women, all around Hazel’s age, and all wearing bright orange robes.

The men froze – and that isn’t a figure of speech.

Once they stepped foot in the house, they were immobile, able to hear but not move and see but not speak.

Hazel closed the door behind them.

“Ladies,” she said. “This is Mike and Jerry, and they were going to rob me. They’ve been on quite a crime spree lately. Of course, now that they’ve eaten our delicious cursed cookies, they aren’t going to do much of anything ever again.”

Hazel plopped down in a chair, cracked her knuckles and sighed.

“I know it’s not demon-hunting like we used to do back in the day,” she said. “But it’s still a good service – and one the whole coven should be proud of.

“Now, who wants to help me carry these boys to the backyard and heat up the cauldron?”

Gary Tancred glanced at his wife, Gertie, and gave her a wink before handing a card to the host at the Crimson Crustacean.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re here for the end-of-life planning seminar and complementary meal.”

The Tancreds had received an invitation in the mail a couple of weeks earlier, one sent by the Heavenly Meadows Memorial Gardens Mortuary. It stated that if they attended “an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allows you ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” they would be rewarded with a delicious dinner.

Why not? Even though they were both in good health, they were also in their mid-70s. And one can be plowed over by a bus at any age, so there is never a bad time to prepare for the inevitable big sleep.

So, they put on their Tuesday best and headed out for date night.

The Crimson Crustacean was decorated in a distinct nautical theme, with life preservers and oars tacked to its ruddy red walls and a shipwreck display situated just outside the entrance to the main dining area. The host, wearing a sailor cap, navy blue pea coat, white slacks and black sneakers, cheerfully escorted the couple to an area designated “Grub Ahoy.”

Once inside, they joined several other couples at a long table – one adorned in a white, plastic tablecloth dotted with cartoon anchors. Standing at a podium a few feet from the table was the family service counselor at Heavenly Meadows.

“Hello, I’m Steadman Wilshire, and I’d like to welcome everyone to the Crimson Crustacean,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I know that you’ll enjoy the wonderful dinner and I trust you’ll find our program quite informative.”

Gary raised his hand.

“Hate to interrupt, Steadman, but we don’t have any menus,” he said.

Mr. Wilshire forced a smile.

“Actually,” he said. “The meal is already pre-planned. Each of you will receive a fish filet, baked potato and dinner roll, as well as your choice of iced tea, soda or water.”

Gary furrowed his brow.

“Well, that’s unfortunate, Steadman,” he said. “I was gonna order the Endless Lobster Trap with fries, and one of those cheese and jalapeno biscuits they’re always talking about on TV. Now, the fish plate is fine for Gertie – this is my wife here, Gertie – because she’s allergic to shellfish. But even if she wasn’t, she wants no part of a lobster.

“See, when she and her sister, Agnes, were teenagers, they went on a family vacation to Maine. They were on a pier horsing around and the damnedest thing happened; a lobster somehow got loose and attacked Agnes. Bit off her left nipple. We never knew if it was a random attack or a targeted one, or how her nipple even found itself in harm’s way, but you never forget something like that. At least I haven’t, and I wasn’t even there. Just imagine … losing a nipple. Mine are getting tender just talking about it.”

Wilshire didn’t know quite how to respond.

“I, uh, I’m sorry about all that, sir,” he said.

Gary interrupted.

“Not your fault at all, Steadman,” he said. “I mean, unless that was your lobster that got loose. In that case you don’t need to apologize to me, you need to apologize to Agnes and her good nipple.”

Wilshire’s eyes widened.

“We really do need to get on with the program, sir,” he said. “And as you can see, the food is already being placed on the table.”

Gertie raised her hand.

“One thing real quick, Steadman,” Gertie said. “I know funeral homes will do things like embalm you and put you in a coffin, or shove you in a furnace and cremate you. I guess all those are standard. But do you have, like, a Thelma and Louise plan? I mean, say if Gary and I both die and we’re willing to pay for it, is there a way you could put us in a convertible and drive us over a cliff? That just seems like it would be a fun send-off. I know our family would get a kick out of it. Especially Agnes, poor thing. Oh, even better, maybe get Susan Sarandon or Geena Davis to do the eulogy. If you could just talk a few minutes about those options, we’d really appreciate it.”

Wilshire was now red-faced and his once low voice grew higher.

“You two are being very disruptive and, frankly, wasting our time,” he said, practically spitting out his words. “We’re here to have a serious discussion and you … well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

Gertie produced a couple of Styrofoam containers from her oversized purse, and she and Gary raked the food inside them.

“Well, Steadman, you’re the one who sent the invitation saying we were in for an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allowed us to ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” Gary said. “And you never even answered the question about the Thelma and Louise option. We’ll just be taking our complementary food to go, thank you very much.”

The pair hurried out of the dining area and made a beeline to their car. After Gary cranked it up and pulled out of the parking space, both of them erupted in laughter.

“That was fun, Gertie,” Gary said. “Date nights with you are the best. And I gave ‘em a fake email address and phone number, so we don’t have to worry about any follow-up. What do we have next?”

Gertie opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small stack of invitations.

“Let’s see,” she murmured. “OK, next Tuesday at Cowpokes there’s a financial seminar. Free steak dinner.”

Gary smiled.

“Financial seminar, huh?” he said. “That’ll be fun … I’ll do the bit where I start talking about the Irish Republican Army when he brings up IRAs.”

Gertie howled.

“I love that story,” she said. “Especially the part where your cousin loses his right nipple in a friendly fire incident. Anyway, let’s get home and eat  before the fish gets cold.”

“Oh, no … not again.”

All Freddie Cullen wanted to do was have a nice, relaxing day at the ballpark.

He’d drink a beer – maybe two – wolf down a pretzel, and enjoy some High-A baseball courtesy of the Asheville Tourists. But it was also a bit of “quiet time.”

Sure, there’d be the crack of the bat and the chirp of the umpire, and he’d hear all of it since only a smattering of fans would show up for an 11 a.m. Wednesday start. But that was the beauty of it … he could enjoy it all without having to make conversation.

However, as he glanced over at Row 3, Section GG of McCormick Field – where his seat was – he saw “Talking Guy.”

Just a couple of weeks earlier he and his wife, Maisie, had gone to a South Atlantic League game between the Tourists and Greenville Drive. Season ticket holders, they were quite comfortable in their perch to the right of home plate and were used to different people occupying the spots around them.

During this particular game Maisie had a non-chatty young woman to her right, while Freddie was stuck with a “talker” to his left – one of those people who couldn’t resist commenting on every ball and strike.

And it was as though he had a form of baseball Tourette syndrome because he’d be yammering away at Freddie about an unrelated subject and suddenly shriek.

It was weird and unsettling, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely comfortable cozying up to strangers.

“Yeah, I was here back when they were the Double-A Asheville Orioles along, oh, about 1973,” said Talking Guy, embarking on a stream of consciousness dialogue. “I pretty much came to all their weekend games because I was a big fan of Rob Andrews, who batted over .300 that year STRIKE ONE! and – of course you know Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager – then they moved and came back in ’76 in the Sally League as the Tourists THAT WAS OUTSIDE BUT WE’LL TAKE IT! and they’ve been affiliated with the Rockies for more than 20 years SHOULDA BEEN STRIKE TWO, BLUE! But they were hooked up with the Rangers for a while, too, so over time you learn to follow the players to the bigs and kinda STRUCK HIM OUT … SAT HIM DOWN!”

Freddie thought of himself as a relatively friendly person but this man in particular just really, really got on his nerves.

By the third inning Freddie hoped either he or the talker would have a fatal heart attack. Didn’t matter which one … it’d be a relief either way.

And today – during what used to be called “Businessman’s Special Day” – he wouldn’t have his wife to bail him out of any unwanted chats.

Of course, he could sit almost anywhere due to the sparse crowd, so maybe he’d just ease his way over to Section MM and watch the game from the third base side.

Yep … that would solve his problem.

Rather than going to his regular seat, he instead went the other direction and plopped down on the general admission aluminum bleachers.

“Hey, Mr. Cullen,” said Randy, a longtime usher at the park who knew Freddie was a regular at the ballpark. “You’re not in your usual spot today.”

Freddie shrugged sheepishly.

“I hope it’s OK,” he said. “I figured it wouldn’t matter on a day like today.”

Randy nodded.

“Oh, no … it’s fine. I doubt there’ll be 300 people here. Besides, you moved from a $25 seat to an $11 seat. It’s not like you traded up”

Freddie chuckled.

“Just between you and me, I didn’t want to sit by that guy over in GG,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a nice old fellow and all, but good grief … he never shuts up. He nearly talked my ear off last time and I’m not really in the mood today.”

Rex walked over to Freddie and sat down.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Friedman,” Randy said. “Years ago, he used to come to all the games with his wife and daughter. He was always cutting up with everybody, and anytime he saw a group of kids he’d buy ‘em all snow cones or ice cream helmets. He does like to talk, there’s no doubt about that.”

Freddie stood up and looked over at Talking Guy, who had Section GG all to himself.

“You said he used to come with his wife and daughter,” Freddie said. “Does he not bring them anymore?”

Randy shook his head.

“He lost both of ‘em a while back,” Randy said. “I don’t remember what happened exactly, but they both died the same year. Seems like it was around 2017, 2018 … sometime along in there. I think he’s just lonely, that’s probably why he talks so much.

“Anyway, I better get up here and get back to my post. Shiner’s pitching for us today and it might be the last time we see him. I imagine he’ll get called up to Corpus Christi before too long. Enjoy the game, Mr. Cullen.”

Freddie – feeling like a monumental jerk – sat in silence for a moment and once again glanced over at the man he now knew as Mr. Friedman.

He got up, trudged to the concession stand, bought two draft beers, and made the trek over to Row 3, Section GG.

“I don’t think I introduced myself last time we saw each other,” he said, handing Mr. Friedman a beer. “I’m Freddie Cullen. So, I remember you saying something about the time Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager here …”