Flat Tire Hissing by Steve Gerson,Whiskey Sour

Flat Tire Hissing

Every time he left home for work, driving his beat-up Toyota, 239,016 odometer miles, exhaust belching like Lucifer in Dante’s 8th circle of Hell, the corroded bumper barely hanging on with frayed duct tape, he felt like he was entering a black hole of no return.  His soul was sucked out and turned to ashes like a cigarette butt picked up off the street and smoked to a burnt nub.  

His windshield was cracked. It looked like the varicose veins of a diabetic. It looked like a labyrinth of roads designed by a dipsomaniac engineer. It looked like an alluvial stream scarred by sea churn detritus. It looked like his psyche.  

His tires were bald, the treads worn out, worn down, weary.  The car's finish was as splotched as
over ripe fruit, rotten to inedible, ready for a dumpster.  

And here he was, driving to a job he despised working alongside people who despised him.  

"Have a great day," his mom said, as he slammed her front door, he an unwanted tenant in her home since his ex-wife had thrown him out like broken eggshells.  

"Black hole, here I come," he moaned quietly to himself, his voice a flat tire hissing.

About the author

 

 Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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The Bathing Machineby Sally Storr, homemade lemonade

The Bathing Machine

I’ve got a nasty skin complaint. It’s really embarrassing.  It’s red and itchy.  I’ve tried everything: camphor oil; infusion of rosemary, elder leaves; lavender.  Some of them soothe, but nothing works for long – the nasty rash keeps coming back.  Fortunately, it’s not really visible, because the long sleeves and high neck of my dress cover the worst patches, but sometimes the burning prickle is so bad I want to pull my own eyes out.  Mother says I’ve got to try sea bathing.  It’s all the fashion, so we’re booked to go to Wells-next-the Sea next Monday, as it’s a Bank Holiday.  It’ll be a lovely day out at the seaside, Mother says, and I’ll come back with no itchiness.  I can’t wait.

The train journey from Fakenham is long and bumpy. It’s full of perspiring, excited people with baskets full of picnics.  It’s so noisy I don’t even try to speak.  Once we arrive at Wells, we have to queue up and take a carriage alongside the harbour to the beach.  I can smell the saltiness of the sea.  It’s a wonderful bluey green, and keeps changing colour as the big and small waves play on top of it, white foam coating them, jostling and bustling in and out towards and away from the shore.  I feel a bit scared.  I’ve never been in the sea.  Mother reassures me it will be fine.  She pats my knee and tells me what’s in her basket for our lunch after the dip: some cold lamb, leftover from lunch yesterday, a veal and ham pie, pound cake and apples, with some homemade lemonade.  Just thinking about it makes my mouth water and my tummy rumble. 

‘Something to look forward to after your swim,’ says Mother. 

But I can’t swim. 

We queue again at the top of the beach for a token for one of the bathing machines. They look like little wooden huts with wheels on them. There’s a whole row of them, about fifty at the top of the beach, ready for use, and another twenty are already down in the water, the horses having pulled them in.  You can’t see behind the huts, but Mother tells me every lady is allocated a Bathing Machine.  When she’s dressed and ready to swim, an assistant, called a Dipper, helps you into the water and you can stay as long as you like.  I’m getting quite hot standing in the queue but it’s only a few minutes before we get to the front and pay our three pence.

‘Number Two, up the end there. You’ll find your bathing costume inside,’ says the cashier.  It’s hard walking in the muddy sand.  It’s quite windy and the waves are still coming and going at quite a rate.

‘It’s alright, my dear.  Just think how lovely you’ll feel after your dip,’ says Mother.  She waves goodbye and leaves me at the entrance to Number Two.

‘Aren’t you coming, Mother?’

Mother shakes her head vigorously. ‘We can’t afford for us both to go, my dear.’ 

The Bathing Machine is constructed from dark wooden panels. There’s a door to go in at one end, and a door to get into the water at the other end. There are no windows, just a little spy hole at eye height, where you can look out and check there’s nobody about. It’s sparsely furnished with a couple of stools, a long length mirror and a dresser, where there’s a pile of flannel navy garments. The Dipper doesn’t say much, but indicates I should sit on a stool.  Then she helps me take off all my layers of clothing.  I feel nice and cool for a moment sitting just in my chemise, before I put on my bathing costume.  I can’t believe how much I have to wear.  There are voluminous bloomers, a corset, a long, baggy gown with buttons down the front, long sleeves and a high neck, almost as much as I’ve just taken off.

‘You’ve got to be modest, young lady,’ says the Dipper.  ‘Your Bathing Machine will be a least one hundred yards from the men, just in case they see you.’

I gulp.  I’m already feeling over-heated and flustered.

‘No worries.  You’ll soon cool down once you get in.  I’m going to open the door for you to go down a few wooden steps into the water.  I’ll make sure you don’t fall over if a wave comes along.  Are you ready?’

I nod.  I wish I hadn’t come.  This is no treat.  No wonder Mother didn’t come with me.  I take a deep breath as the door swings open and I can see the water below.  It looks calm enough.  I step tentatively down the first stair. I’m up to my ankles in the sea. The water’s freezing.  I scream.

‘Here you go,’ shouts the Dipper as she pushes me down the remaining steps.  My head goes under and I’m drawn down into the icy turbulent water. In shock, I suck my breath in so quickly that my nose and mouth immediately fill with the strong, saline liquid.  I flail about with my arms and desperately try to find the sea bed with my feet, but just keep going under.  My clothes are so heavy they pull me back every time I come up and take a breath.  I’m going to die.  I’m going to die.  I’m all alone and nobody cares.  Mother must have wanted to kill me.  My eyes are full of stinging, salty water so I can’t even see where I am.  I can only feel the angry water tossing me about.  It’s all over.  I’m drowning. 

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ The Dipper roughly pulls me up to standing by my arms and the water reaches up to my armpits. I can see the horizon.  The sky is still there. I’m alive.  My clothing is still tugging me down, but the woman is strong and she shoves my whole body back towards the Bathing Machine.  I burst into tears.  She steers me up the steps, back into the Bathing Machine.  I can’t stop crying, as she strips off my bathing costume and towels me roughly dry.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she shouts.  ‘You’d better not let your mother see you crying.’

I’m shaking as I leave the Bathing Machine.  What a horrible experience.  Never again.  I don’t even want my picnic.  But my skin has stopped itching. 

(1,070 words)

About the author 

 

Sally Storr recently retired from her work as a coach at The Open University. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

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A visit from Samuel By Jane Spirit tea and ginger cake

 

No, it hasn’t been a good day, to be honest, Samuel. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. You won’t mind me if I’m a bit quiet, will you? Yes, of course, you can stay. You’re always welcome here, you know that. Put the kettle on if you want a drink. Just help yourself.

Yes, OK, I’ll have a cup of tea too. Thanks for that. Just put it down here on the table. Whoops, let me make some space. There you go. Have a seat for a bit. Sorry I was a bit down just now. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me when one of the residents dies. It’s hardly unexpected after all. It’s hard to explain, but I guess it’s a bit like having children. You always want to keep them safe, and you try to see the good in them. Well, if not the good, at least some unique spark that marks them out. Getting old doesn’t change that, though it sometimes makes it harder to understand and maybe make the resident light up from time to time. It’s hard work, finding a way through their silences or listening patiently to them repeating a phrase endlessly. And even then, how well can you really get to know someone whose had nearly a lifetime of experience. Even so it always seems odd to come into what was their space and see just an empty bed, the chair they liked to sit in, and the few belongings ready for the family to collect already stashed on the bedside table. Sadness always catches me in my throat. Then I make myself carry on, for the others you see. They need getting up, washing, dressing, brushing and combing too so I just keep moving.

Great tea, thanks. Help yourself to some of that ginger cake auntie left if you want some. It’s in the kitchen; silver tin. Yes, you’re right, I should probably eat something. Maybe cut us both a piece? Thanks. And sorry for talking at you about my problems. I’ll be fine now and I’m sure my favourite nephew hasn’t popped by just to listen to me going on? I thought not. OK, of course you can look through my photos again if you want to. Over there on the bottom shelf. Yes, those big albums. Is that why you’ve popped by after school? Your mum mentioned you were thinking of taking photography at college. That will make two photographers in the family, she said. Made me smile. Only thing is, Samuel, I think your mum may have bigged me up a bit too much to you and your sister. I think it must be a little sister, big brother thing. You wait, Samuel, you’ll feel the same way when Sasha looks up to you just for being at college. You’re laughing now, but you’ll be amazed when it happens!

Hey, what do you think of the playground pictures in my portfolio? I had a lot to learn when I took those of course; like how to take a decent picture ha-ha! I’m glad I’ve made you smile now too. Can you find yourself in any of them? Yes, look, there you are in the kiddies’ play area near the flats. You know I still like those old black and white prints a lot. Stark and simple with the geometric lines of the climbing frame towering over you and your friends. Now look at you, taller than me and doing so well. Sorry to be the boring uncle, amazed that you’re almost grown up. Look, I don’t want to put you off, Samuel, but don’t get carried away with it will you? I’m never going to make it as a photographer, you know. I do okay out of the weddings if I can get them, but look at me, I’m still working at the care home. I’m never going to be famous like I wanted to be when I was your age. Even so, I can’t lie to you. There is something exciting about finding you’ve taken a decent picture. When you look at it and maybe let yourself believe that for once you got it almost right. I’d like to have had more of that, Samuel, made a habit of it, even a lifetime of it; standing back to witness the world with an eye to what my next picture would reveal.

Can I show you another photograph now, if you’ve got time? It’s tucked at the far end of the top shelf. Yes, that’s it. I’d like you to see it. Just between you and me, I haven’t said too much to your mum about it, in case she goes boasting to everyone about me being in it. I’m still a bit shy I suppose.

Oh yes, the photographer who took it won lots of prizes. You can tell he knows just how to set up a picture, can’t you? He sent me that copy as a thank you for being included in that picture when he came to take some portraits in the care home. This one made his next exhibition. Not that many people at work were interested and I don’t think management were thrilled with how it showed the place. The rooms have had a makeover since then; out with the comforting chintzy wallpaper and in with clean emulsions and luminous feature walls.

Yes, that’s right, it was taken on the floor I still work on. It was George’s room at the time. And you see that out of focus hand top left, just above George’s head? Well, that’s mine bringing the comb towards George’s head to tidy his hair a little. I think my blurry hand is only in it to give an impression of some action, as a contrast to George. He’s the centre of attention; an old man sitting upright on a simple wooden chair with the floral-patterned wall behind him. His eyes are almost closed, do you see? That’s nothing the photographer asked him to do. It was just what he did when I tidied his hair. It was as if he was shielding his eyes from the stray hairs that might fall loose. Or maybe he was remembering the gentle rhythm of his mother combing his hair now that it was light and soft as a baby’s again. Or perhaps he was dreaming for a moment of some long-ago lover who had teased their fingers through his once abundant locks. He seemed to like being groomed in any case. And he always welcomed my helping him to get into the clothes we chose together from his mahogany wardrobe, which was over there, out of shot. That day he was wearing his favourite combination; grey tailored trousers and a gold-coloured jumper embossed with diamond shapes. Both were a little too large for him. George would be adjusting the trouser belt and pushing up the jumper cuffs repeatedly all day as if reassuring himself through their touch. I could only suppose he had shrunk a little in his old age, though the clothes themselves were smart and seemed almost new.

A year or so later, I visited the exhibition and read the caption placed alongside the life-size photo-portrait of George. That’s when I found out that George had shared his life with another man for sixty years. He had feared that his partner, ailing with dementia, would not be treated well if the relationship had been declared, and so he had nursed him alone at home rather than risk being separated from him by officialdom. When his partner died, he’d moved into our care home.

 

I stood for a long time absorbing the blown-up image of him alone on its white wall, wondering whether he had never felt able to mention the love of his life to me for fear that he too might be rejected, even ousted from his safe space. I wished that I had succeeded in gaining George’s trust enough to truly know him. And I listened to all the things people were saying about him sitting calmly there in the picture. Some even commented on the presence of my blurred hand as I edged the comb towards his thin white hair. The image seemed to commemorate his dignity; compliant in the morning ritual of hair combing whilst dressed for comfort in his deceased partner’s clothes. Even so, the picture alone would never be able to tell his whole story without the words being displayed next to it, filling his silence. And my blurred hand seemed to me to carry the same inadequacy. How could the fleeting presence it represented begin to tell my unspoken story; relieved as I was to be employed, but knowing I would never be bold enough to pursue my dreams openly? 

Don’t worry about me when you get home though, Samuel. I’m content with my life, I really am. Tomorrow I will get back to it. I’ll try to keep the residents as happy as they can be, to delve into their stories, to share in what memories I can glean from their conversation. I see that as no small achievement. And I still get to take photographs from time to time of smiling people in their wedding clothes, touching hands, happy in their moment. I capture images for them of the joy that life can bring, if only for a day. That is quite something too, Samuel. Yes, as your mother would say, it is all worth celebrating. Think about it as you’re heading home; could an ordinary life still be one you should aspire to?

about the author

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. With the encouragement of the local creative writing class she has been writing stories over the past few years, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

he Murders of the Hospital Social Workers Part 2

The Murders of the Hospital Social Workers Part 2

At lunch, Mary ordered a hamburger patty and asked for a steak knife to cut it. She said it was cooked too well done and hard to cut.

When dietary asked if they could take away her tray after lunch, Mary had removed the knife and had wrapped it in a napkin and hid it under her blanket. Gloria’s turn was tonight. Instead of a fork in the neck, Mary planned to stab her in the back as hard as she could. She had regained much of her strength and at 5’6’, 160 lbs., she was sure she could overpower the petite Gloria, if necessary.

 Oh joy, oh joy, revenge is so sweet. I don’t care what they do to me if they catch me, but these two bitches will be gone…gone forever so they can’t put people like me into nursing homes ever again. I know they are doing it for profit and not because they care or because it is in my best interest. I heard the nurses talking that most of their patients are put in homes. Not me. No way. I’m doing the world a service by getting rid of these parasites that are feeding off of old people and their assets.

##

            ‘Hey Joe,’ said Kelby. ‘Something does not add up.’

            ‘Like what?’ replied Miller.

            ‘I’ve been reading though the last six months of Rose’s files and the majority of her patients were sent to rehab or nursing homes. They weren’t discharged to their own homes. That seems odd to me.’

            ‘I noticed the same thing, partner. Maybe they have a high percentage of people needing that kind of care?’

            ‘There should some kind of means where a percentage are above and a percentage are below. I calculated eighty percent and that seems awfully high.’

            ‘I agree.’

##

            ‘It was a few minutes to five. Mary strolled down the hall past Gloria’s office. Another murder was about to be committed. Another crooked social was about to get axed.

            Mary quietly walked in the room and pushed the door closed. She used a cane now not a walker. The knife was in her robe pocket; her hand on the handle. She got behind Gloria as she wrapping up a phone call. Gloria didn’t see her as she put the receive down. Mary took the knife out of her pocket and with both hands, as hard as she could, shoved it into her upper back area near the neck. Gloria was so surprised she couldn’t call out. In a fit of rage, Mary pulled the knife out and stabbed her again this time in the neck causing Gloria to fall on her desk, dead.

            Mary left the knife in her neck and threw the gloves in the trashcan. She opened the office door and casually walked out into the hallway. Mary saw she had a few drops of blood on the front of her robe. When she got back to her room, she went into the restroom and washed it off.

            ‘Your dinner is here, Mary,’ said the dietary technician through the lavatory door.
            ‘I’ll be out in a minute. Just leave it on the tray table.’

            Mary was able to rinse the blood drops off, then flushed the toilet, and went to eat her supper. She enjoyed her favorite food which was chicken breast, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, cake, and coffee for dessert.

            It wasn’t long after Mary started eating that Gloria’s body was found. From the sound of it, her boss found her dead, slumped over her desk. Within an hour the commotion was back with the police and all the technicians roping off the area and walking back and forth. Mary finished dinner; dietary took the tray away and she got back into bed, turned the TV on low and fell appeared like she was asleep. Two down and one more to go. I must get the bastard responsible for this situation. That’s the big boss himself, Bob Rousseau. The cops will have a hard time figuring out who killed that parasite social worker. If they have half a brain, they we’ll see that both these women were on the take and that made for a lot of suspects.

##

            Miller and Kelby walked around the latest murder scene. It wasn’t much different than the first except the murderer used a knife instead of a fork and it was shoved it in the victim’s back first and then pulled out and shoved into the back of the neck. The common thread was they both were social workers. Neither Miller nor Kelby wanted to state the obvious which was someone hated social workers so much that they are going around killing them. But why? This time, they would need to pull all of Gloria’s files and go back to the office to see if there is something that tied both murders together.

##

            ‘Kelby…I’m seeing the same pattern with this one that I saw with the first murder. A high rate of home and rehab placements,’ said Miller.

            ‘I am convinced it’s a patient or a family member of a patient who did this,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘But for what reason. If the patient needed to be in a facility, then why?’

            Ah…but what if the person didn’t need to be institutionalized. What if they received a bad report from Physical Therapy and/or Occupational Therapy and was put there against their will? What if this was small but organized group doing this?’

            ‘But what would the social worker gain?’

            They both looked at each other and shouted, ‘Money!’

            ‘We need to pull their financials and see if they had received some kind of monetary gain and if so, how much,’ said Miller.

            ‘They’d be stupid to put in the bank,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘No one said they were smart, greedy yes…smart, I don’t think so. Besides, if they were getting kickbacks, they could be paid off in cash or in items that were not cash related. Either way maybe they were living a lavish lifestyle. I think we are going to see that their spending habits do not match their income.’

            While Kelby checked into their bank accounts, what kind of car they drove, and where they lived, Miller called Dr. Delmonico to run some ideas by him.

##

            ‘Good evening, Joe. What can I do for you tonight?’ said Dr. Delmonico.

            ‘We just came from Van Nuys Hospital where two social workers have been murdered over the past two days.’

            ‘A second one? I read about yesterday’s murder in today’s paper, but now you are saying there’s another death. Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A woman.’

‘How was it done?’

            ‘The first was with a fork to the side of the neck and this one was a knife in the upper back first and second thrust was in the back of the neck.’

            ‘It sounds like the person is evolving, becoming more violent. The first murder was quick. A one-shot deal. The second was two strikes. More anger here. Like take that, and that. So, tell me do you know if your suspect is a man or a woman?’

            ‘That’s the thing. We don’t have a clue. We think it’s a patient or a patient’s family member because we know that both social workers had a high rate of placing patients into nursing homes and rehab facilities.’

            ‘Well…I would say based on that, I’d say it’s anger or revenge… someone went into a home against their will or someone is going into a home and a family member or the person themselves isn’t too happy about that and they are about to have their assets confiscated to pay for it. They are taking it out on the social worker. You mentioned that there was a high rate of placement by these two workers into homes. How high?’

            ‘The first one was 80 percent. The second one we haven’t figured out yet. We don’t know anything yet as the murder was just committed but it looks like it was just about as high.’

            ‘I think you have a kickback scheme going on between the home and the social workers.’

            ‘Kelby and I thought the same thing.’

            ‘You need to do a cross check which homes and rehab facilities were used. I know this will be a lot of work but you need to see if all the placements went exclusively to these facilities and if so, pull the records of the facilities. They will try to write the kickback off under office supplies, remodeling, cash, or miscellaneous. You need to go back through the records at least six months with the facilities and unfortunately you will need a court order. They will try to pull patient confidentiality as a reason for not giving you the information. Good luck.’

            ‘You think the person will continue to kill?’

            ‘How many more social workers are left at the hospital?’

            ‘On the floor with the two dead women were found? Only their boss is left.’

            ‘Then I predict he’s next. Someone and I think it’s only one person was pushed over the edge will try again tomorrow. The person believes they are ridding the world of scum. This person was told he or she that they would have to go to a facility…and she or he said no and decided to take revenge… Joe?’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Both social workers were killed within a day and they worked on the same floor. I think you need to look for a patient that is not in a facility yet but has been slated to go…against their will.’

            ‘When do you think the person will strike?’

            ‘There is no reason to think the murderer will change their modus operandi. He or she will want to strike tomorrow at the same time. You need to be in control of the next situation because this person will try again.’

            ‘Thanks Dr. Delmonico.’

##

            ‘So, what did Dr. Delmonico say?’ said Kelby.

            ‘There will be another murder tomorrow night at the same time,’ replied Miller. ‘He thinks it is a current patient who these social workers were trying to shove into a home and he or she will be going after the boss. We need to get their first,’ replied Miller.

            ‘How do you want to play it?

            ‘Let’s go to the property department…I’ll explain on the way.

##

            I am doing my physical therapy just like I’m supposed to. Nobody knows I’m strolling by the big boss’s office in order to check everything out so I can rid this place of vermin and the poor victims of the last of the stinking dirty slime. The three of them were nothing but blood suckers. Funding their lavish lifestyles off the backs of the disabled and old people. The nerve. They should be ashamed. All of them. They can all die…die. Tonight, the last one will join them…The ringleader. I bet he lives in a mansion and drives a Mercedes. Well, too bad, so sad, for him. He’s going to meet his maker soon…very soon. 

##

            It was three o’clock when Miller and Kelby returned to the hospital. They spoke to the Bob Rousseau and explained their plan. At 4:30, he was to leave his office, and placed in police protection for his own good. Miller got a mannequin from the property department and dressed to look like Rousseau and put him in his chair. His back was to the door: the same position the women sat. The dummy had the phone in his hand, a tape recorder in the drawer with his voice talking like he was on the phone. The scene was set. Now everyone must wait to see who showed up. Miller was in Rousseau’s private bathroom walkie-talkie in hand; Kelby was in the closet. Would the person come back and try it again? If he or she doesn’t, then the person would get away with two murders.

            It was five to five. Miller and Kelby heard footsteps outside the door. Miller said, ‘All positions, hold…I repeat…hold.’

            The door silently opened. Miller could see a figure on a cane but that was all. Kelby couldn’t see anything.

            Then, the figure took a knife and shoved it into the head of the dummy.

            ‘Alright, freeze…drop the knife,’ said Miller.

            Mary stood upright…surprised that she hadn’t killed the boss.

            She yelled, ‘You must let me get him too. Don’t you understand? He’s no damn good.’

            Kelby came over and grabbed Mary’s hand. They both saw a frail older woman on a cane and for a moment, he felt pity for her…only for a moment, but she was a murderer. Kelby couldn’t forget that…nor could he forget that the social workers she killed and the situation drove her to this. Bob Rousseau would be arrested too. Numerous charges from accepting kickbacks to tax evasion to whatever else they could dig up plus all the nursing homes and rehab facilities and the fraud that was committed. Mary inadvertently discovered a whole ring of thieves but instead of bringing it to the proper authorities, she took the law into her own hands. Maybe it was her being scared that she would go to a home…who knows? But this house of cards just fell.

            Mary was still a patient. She was escorted to her room by a police woman. A guard would be posted.

            Bob Rousseau was escorted out. ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ said Kelby.

            ‘I want my lawyer,’ said Rousseau.

            ‘That will be arranged.’

            Miller stood there as his partner walked him to elevator. He watched as Mary went back to her room and got into bed. Miller shook his head. He felt sorry for Mary even though she was a murderess. She came into the hospital to get better and resume her life and now she faces two murder charges and attempted murder charges.

            Miller and Kelby solved the case but all they felt was sadness for Mary and anger for this den of thieves. It shouldn’t have ended this way…but it did.

About the  author

 Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com.