First Week in The Home by Frank Zahn, a scotch and soda

Sam had just settled into an independent living complex he dubbed ‘The Home,’ a place where the residents shared one defining trait: they were all very old. Yet, despite their creaky joints and silver hair, some were surprisingly spry, although not always in a flattering way. Such was the case when Sam’s first week in the dining room for lunch delivered a trio of encounters so absurdly comical they could have been scripted for a sitcom, each one more laughable than the last.

On day 2, Sam had seated himself at a table, menu in hand, when a woman shuffled up and collapsed into the chair opposite him like a sack of potatoes. Her blouse sagged under the weight of breasts that seemed to be racing gravity to her knees. Without so much as a ‘hello’, she barked her name to him and demanded a bowl of chili from the server before Sam could even open his mouth.

When the chili arrived, the woman dove in like a competitive eater at a county fair. With her nose practically snorkeling in the bowl, she shoveled the chili into her mouth with the speed of a woodchipper, punctuating the spectacle with snorts, gasps, and one loud fart that although mercifully odorless, echoed like a trumpet blast. Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing.

When she finished, she looked up, unleashed a belch that could have rattled the chandelier. Then, after a second even louder belch, she stood, turned, and waddled off. Sam’s suppressed laughter erupted as he watched her disappear from view, but when it earned him curious stares from nearby tables, he suppressed it again until he had escaped to his apartment where he howled until his sides ached.

On day 3, Sam picked a table near the dining room entrance, hoping for a quieter lunch. No such luck. An irritated and authoritative voice shouted from behind: ‘This table is reserved!’

He turned to face a woman so short she could have doubled as a garden gnome, her pudgy frame wobbling under a mop of gray hair that looked like a knit cap stretched over her ears and her face a makeup disaster—foundation caked like plaster, eyeliner smudged like a raccoon’s, and rouge so bright it could guide ships in a fog.

‘I said this table is reserved! Now get up!’ she shouted again, jabbing a sausage-like finger at him.

Sam stood. ‘I didn’t know there were reserved tables,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘I’ll check it out.’

‘You do that! Just don’t sit at my table again!’ she hollered as he walked away and seated himself at another table.

The following morning, he checked it out and was told that none of the tables were reserved unless a reserve sign was placed on them by the management. At lunch time, he was tempted to sit at the table the woman had claimed was reserved for her just to piss her off. Instead, he laughed off his encounter with her, as well as his temptation, and sat at another table, leaving her with her delusion that she was important enough to warrant her very own table in the dining room.

On day 4, Sam sat near the entrance when a man approached, asking to join him. ‘Sure,’ Sam said, unaware he was about to meet a character straight out of a comedy sketch.

The man, a dead ringer for Tim Walz with a grin to match, introduced himself. Sam did likewise, and as they talked, he discovered the man was a hellfire-and-brimstone Christian who could have been plucked from his childhood nightmares. Back then, Sam’s neighborhood called people like him ‘Fundies’—short for fundamentalists—who’d preach at you until your ears bled.

The man was a ‘Fundie’ on steroids. Between chomps of his turkey club sandwich, he launched into a sermon so loud it drowned out the clatter of dishes, declaring himself a Bible expert despite no credentials. Sam felt an attempt to baptize him was imminent.

When Sam asked which Bible version was literally God’s Word, the man froze, his face blank as a wiped chalkboard, before dodging the question and babbling on about Jesus as if they were best friends. Sam’s lips twitched with amusement, and when he mentioned the lack of scientific evidence for the man’s faith-based beliefs, the man puffed up and claimed he was a scientist—again despite no credentials.

Sam nearly choked on his salad at the absurdity. He considered the man’s claim laughable on two counts. The man couldn’t identify any supporting scientific evidence, and he didn’t seem to realize that if there was such evidence, there would be no need for faith, which is simply belief without supporting evidence.

The man’s performance only got wilder when he transformed into a social tornado, waving and glad-handing passersby like a politician at a barbecue. He joked with them and frequently played off a third person, namely Sam, by telling Sam to beware of them for various reasons, mainly differences in their religious and political beliefs from his. Once, the man played off a woman, telling her to beware of Sam because he had been corrupted by a Jesuit education.

No one laughed.

The man introduced Sam to everyone as if they were long time best friends, despite their 10-minute acquaintance, leaving Sam embarrassed and the passersby visibly uncomfortable. Some scurried away. Others lingered out of politeness, their eyes screaming for escape.

Sam considered getting up and leaving. But he stayed, scribbling mental notes about the man’s sermonizing, fake expertise, and over-the-top schmoozing, which he considered comedy gold for a short story that was beginning to take shape in his mind.

On days 5, 6, and 7, Sam stayed in his apartment, writing that short story. It was not only about his encounter with the Tim Walz lookalike and ‘Fundie’ showman but the other two encounters with the chili-guzzling belcher and the gnome-like table queen. All three turned his first week at ‘The Home’ into an unforgettable experience. ‘The Home’ had promised independent living. Nobody said anything about comedy club membership.

About the author 

 

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Back to the Farm at Last by Frank Zahn, a glass of iced tea

 I can still hear my mother talking about it—making things right for us at last by going back to the farm. It was during those days long ago when she felt so helpless because there was little food in the house, if any, for supper.

 

Her face shrouded in worry, she would rock back and forth anxiously in the rocking chair that belonged to her mother—Grandma Abell—and say aloud in earshot of my brothers and me, “Believe you me. I mean what I say as never before. Somehow, someway, I’m goin' back to the farm where we can have good food and plenty of it. Yes, Siree! I'm gonna make sure my family never goes to bed hungry again. I’m goin’ back, and nothin’ gonna stop me. And I mean nothin’!”

 

Holding back tears, she always added with little variation, “No one goes hungry on the farm, and the food tastes better than this stuff we buy in the grocery store nowadays. My mother and dad had thirteen of us children, and we never missed a meal—not one. We had lots of chickens—raised them up from baby chicks in the brooder house that my daddy built. There were chickens for laying eggs. There's nothin’ like fresh eggs for breakfast. And there were always chickens for pan frying and old hens with lots of fat on them for stewing with homemade noodles or dumpling—not just for Sunday dinners but whenever it suited us.”

 

The worry on her face faded as she continued to remember aloud how it used to be when she was young and lived on the family farm just outside of Gardner, Kansas. Tears of joy came to her eyes as she remembered her mother and father—mostly her mother because her mother was one of those women who were always there for anyone who genuinely needed care and a helping hand.

 

Everyone admired and respected Grandma Abell. My dad never said much about anyone—positive or negative, but when Grandma Abell’s name came up in a conversation, he talked about her as if she were a saint—a wise and loving woman who truly lived up to her Christian faith.

 

Mother was a lot like her mother, and my brothers, my little sister, and I admired her for that, even though we had to listen to what had begun to sound like Mother’s empty promise of taking us all back to the farm so that we would never be hungry again.

 

“And that's not all, not by a long shot,” Mother would continue. “I want some fat little pigs—at least six or eight—so that when they’re full grown, we’ll have slabs of bacon and hams smokin’ in the smoke house. A farm’s not a full-fledged farm without a smokehouse. Of course, we’ve got to have a cow for milk and cream for churning butter and a team of horses for plowing a field for a garden. I want a big garden just like the one we had back when I was a girl. We’ll plant and raise cantaloupe and watermelon and all kinds of vegetables. We’ll have tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, bush and pole beans, radishes, lettuce, green onions, cucumbers, and cabbage. And, of course, we have to have green peas. They’re a must. And trust me, they just don’t taste right unless they’re taken right out of the pods when hand-picked in mid-to-late May the way my brothers, sisters, and I used to do."

 

When Mother mentioned the peas, her remembrances aloud always ended as they had begun—abruptly. She would jump up suddenly from the rocking chair and head for the kitchen. Something for supper always occurred to her when she remembered the peas. No one knew why, and when asked, she said she didn’t know why either.

 

More often than not, she ended up fixing fried potatoes and fried eggs in lard and slices of day-old bread with oleomargarine that she bought with money from selling a treasured item in her China closet to a neighbor. Fried cornmeal mush with sugar syrup or baking powder biscuits with milk gravy were frequent last resorts as well.

 

“It's not like dining at the Waldorf, but it's not all that bad,” she would say. “And it will keep us goin’ until I figure out how I’m gonna get us back to the farm. When that day comes, we’ll never have to worry about something to eat again. It’s gonna happen, and I got a feelin’ it gonna be sooner rather than later.”

 

My brothers and I couldn’t understand how Mother could be so positive when there was so little to eat, but if we complained, she told us to be still, eat our supper, and be grateful for what we had. It made no sense to complain further, even though my younger brother Henry couldn’t always resist the temptation.

 

Even with the best of intentions, the short of it is that Mother didn’t make it back to the farm during her lifetime. And she passed away when she was seventy-six years old with only that one regret.

 

In the years to come, my brothers, my sister, and I had families of our own and prospered, and something to eat for supper was never an issue. My daughter Deborah was four years old when Mother passed away, and even though she doesn’t remember her grandmother, as fate would have it, she had her grandmother’s dream of going to live on a farm for the last twenty of her forty-three years.

 

She started her farming experience in the backyard of her home just outside the city limits of Newark, New Jersey. She bought and raised three baby chickens—the legal limit in the area. She named the chickens Freda, Lola, and Roxy and referred to them as the girls. She fed them mash when they were young and introduced them to scratch as they matured into laying hens. She salivated each time she mentioned how delicious the eggs were for breakfast. I seriously doubt, however, if she will have the heart to kill, prepare, and use the girls to make chicken and noodles or dumplings when they become too old for laying eggs.

 

In raised gardens, she also planted and harvested amaranth; beans—bush and pole; beets; broccoli; brussels sprouts; carrots; cauliflower; cucumbers; lettuce; peanuts; peas; hot and sweet peppers; potatoes; pumpkins; spinach; sweet potatoes; tomatoes; and herbs, including basil, oregano, thyme, and tarragon. She planted and harvested small amounts of each because of limited space, and looked forward to having a farm with more space so that she could grow larger quantities and more varieties.

 

“When that day comes, and it will be sooner rather than later,” she said in a conversation we had on the telephone. “I’ll add corn and asparagus to the list of vegetables I grow. I have a fig tree now, and I’ll have one on the farm along with lemon, persimmon, apricot, apple, and pear trees. And, of course, I will grow lots of blueberries and raspberries.”

 

I marveled at how much like her grandmother she had become when she talked about her plans to buy a farm—a small acreage—and become more self-reliant.

 

“Self-reliance is important to me, especially when it comes to what I eat,” she said in an email. “But my dream of living on a farm is not just a self-reliance thing. It’s a health thing. I want to know where my food comes from. Once, when I was shopping in Whole Foods, I had a moment. I felt disconnected from all the food there. It seemed so unnatural. And with large corporations like Monsanto turning our foods into Franken foods—foods that are genetically modified, I want control over the nutrients in what I eat—and the tastes as well.”

 

To that, she added, "Plus, if—or rather, when—the zombie apocalypse hits, I want to be ready." The tongue-and-cheek remark must have been in reference to World War Z, one of Brad Pitt's recent movies.

 

Unlike her grandmother, Deborah has never had to worry about something to eat for supper or any other meal. Nevertheless, she felt her grandmother's need to put herself in a position where she controlled the quantity and quality of food available to her. And each time she talked about it, she became more anxious.

 

Was her grandmother more anxious than her? Yes, of course. Quantity to her grandmother was more of an issue than quality. But control though the self-reliance a farm provides made their dreams the same.

 

Deborah finally realized the dream when she and her husband bought a small acreage in upstate New York recently. The first thing on her agenda was buying baby chickens and raising them, especially those for laying eggs. The second thing was preparing the soil and planting a garden—actually a series of raised gardens for easier tending. What comes next remains to be seen.

 

I've always suspected that in some inexplicable way my mother was behind all this—Deborah's dream, the motivation, and the actual move to the farm. And if Deborah ends up buying some pigs and building a smokehouse, I'll know Mother was behind it for sure. But even without the pigs and the smokehouse, the truth is that Mother finally made it back to the farm in the person of her granddaughter, my Deborah. And I'd be willing to bet that Mother is looking down from heaven with a more than contented gleam in her eyes. She might even sigh once in a while and say under her breath, "Thank you, Jesus. I made it back to the farm at last."

About the author 

 

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Clinton and His Brothers by Frank Zahn, a cup of tea

Clinton Rinehart took off his muddy shoes on the back porch and hurried past Momma Rinehart in the kitchen without a word, his eyes downcast, his hair in disarray, his face puffy, and the pocket of his pullover shirt torn.

Momma followed him into his bedroom. He dropped down on the edge of his bed and stooped his shoulders. Momma raised his chin with her hand. She looked into his sad, brown eyes and smiled.

“Bad day at school, Clinton?” she said.

“I got into another fight. Doggone it, Momma, I can’t seem to get those maggots to leave me alone.”

Momma kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about that later. You git cleaned up for supper, now. Papa will be home any minute.”

“I don’t want no supper. I just want to be by myself.”

Momma patted Clinton on the shoulder. “You’ve got to eat, so do as I say,” she said, then closed his bedroom door behind her and returned to the kitchen.

Clinton grabbed his bag of marbles from his drawer in the bureau and crawled under his bed. He lay on his side with his back against the wall and admired the colors in his favorite shooter.

A few minutes later, Harry opened the bedroom door. “Clinton, you in here?”

“No,” Clinton said from under his bed.

Harry bent down and gawked at Clinton. “What the hell are you doin’ under there?”

“Lookin’ at my marbles and stayin’ out of trouble.”

“You sure are weird sometimes.”

“I ain’t either. I like bein’ under here. It’s quiet and peaceful without any of those maggots up at school lookin’ to pick a fight with me.”

“Why in the hell would you worry about that? You’re big enough to lick any two guys at Hartman and most of the guys at Southwest High School.”

“Yeah, but winnin’ ain’t all that big a deal, especially when the principal and my teacher are always on my back. They blame me for all the fights I git into, and I’m not the one that starts ’em.”

“Well, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. If I was as big as you, I’d kick butts from here to China if anyone messed with me.”

Clinton crawled out from under the bed and dropped down on the edge of it. “I’ll tell you the honest-to-God’s truth, Harry. The only time I’m glad I’m alive is when Papa takes us fishin’ down on the Osage River, which ain’t often enough to my way of thinkin’.”

“Did you hear about the streetcar wreck up the street?” Harry asked.

“No. What happened?”

Harry told Clinton about the accident and his belief that their brother Mark Allen had caused it by putting rocks on the tracks.

“What does Mark Allen say about it?”

“He denies it, of course, but I don’t believe him.”

“With a brother like you, Mark Allen don’t need no enemies,” Clinton quipped.

Harry slapped Clinton on the back of the head. “Hey!” he said. “You may be bigger than me, but I’m older and bolder than you. So don’t lip off.”

“Tell Harry to go jump in a bucket of crap, Clinton!” Mark Allen yelled from the living room.

“I’ll get a bucket of crap and throw it in your face, dipstick!” Harry yelled back.

“I want you boys to stop it, and I’ll not tell you again,” Momma called out from the kitchen. “Papa’s gonna be home any minute, and so help me God, if you don’t settle down, I’m gonna have him give you a whipping that you won’t soon forget.”

Clinton followed Harry into the dining room. He spotted a magazine on the buffet, picked it up, and thumbed through it.

Harry went into the living room and dropped down on the floor across from Mark Allen and Eddie in front of the radio. He stuck his tongue out at Mark Allen. Then he settled down and listened as Frankie Laine belted out his hit song Mule Train.

The boys' younger sister Fanny Louise strolled into the dining room. She picked up Tom, the family’s gray-and-white tomcat, which had been curling itself around Clinton’s leg, and went into the living room. She sat on the couch, placed Tom on her lap, and stroked his back while tapping her foot to the beat of the music.

Clinton tossed the magazine back onto the buffet, walked past Momma at the sink in the kitchen, and went out onto the back porch. He scraped the mud from his shoes with a stick, wiped them with pieces of newspaper, and put them on.

Outside, lightning flashed, and it started to rain again. Rather than run out to the outhouse on the boardwalk and get wet, Clinton peed through the screen door onto the porch steps. After he tucked himself in and zipped up his pants, he stayed on the porch. He watched the rain and longed for the day when he could leave the neighborhood behind and find himself a cabin on the Osage River, go fishing every day, and never have to be around people again.

Harry and Eddie joined Clinton on the back porch. They peed through the screen door, each one arching his penis so that his stream of pee flowed over the porch steps and splattered with the rain onto the boardwalk that led to the outhouse.

“Mine goes out farther than yours,” Harry said to Eddie. “That’s cause my dick’s bigger than yours and more powerful.”

“No it ain’t,” Eddie said. “It’s cause you’re archin’ yours more than I am mine.”

Harry tucked himself in and zipped up his Levi’s. He smacked Eddie on the shoulder. “Face facts, preacher boy. Like it or not, my dick’s bigger and more powerful than yours, and even though you’re taller, those facts make me more of a man than you.”

Eddie tucked himself in and zipped up his pants. “In your dreams,” he said and moved away from Harry, narrowly avoiding another smack.

“Harry, do you really believe Mark Allen put rocks on the tracks and caused the streetcar accident?” Clinton asked.

“Sure as hell do.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Clinton said.

“I don’t think he did it,” Eddie said. “But like I told him, it may not make any difference if the Lord has chosen him to suffer for a higher purpose.”

“Knock it off, Eddie,” Harry said. “The Lord don’t do shit like that.”

Eddie grimaced.

“Whether Mark Allen is guilty or not, every maggot in the neighborhood is gonna be out for his hide,” Clinton said.

“That’s for damn sure,” Harry said. “And cause we’re his brothers, you better believe we’re gonna be in for it too.”

Eddie nodded in agreement.

“Harry what do you think Papa’ll do to Mark Allen when he finds out about it?” Clinton asked.

“Beat the hell out of him, I hope.”

Harry’s attitude irritated Clinton. It reminded him of the kids at school who got a kick out of him being sent to the principal’s office for detention. “Papa might take Mark Allen’s side,” he said.

Harry shook his head. “I’ll bet he don’t, but we’ll find out soon enough. Papa’s due home any minute.”

All three boys went inside. They joined Fanny Louise in the living room, positioned themselves on the floor in front of the radio, and waited for the sounds of Papa’s footsteps on the front porch.

About the author

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Queen of the Lazy Leopard by Frank Zahn, a glass of white wine

Middle-aged single people in Omaha came to the Lazy Leopard every Friday and Saturday night in an attempt to ease their loneliness. It was a dimly lit cocktail lounge with backlit photos of leopards in repose on the walls, an L-shaped bar, round tables with comfy chairs, and a dance floor with overhead star lights. A combo and a singer with quivering cleavage provided forties and fifties music for slow dance and swing.

The woman who everyone called The Queen out of earshot sat at the same table each night. She always dressed impeccably in red, purple, or black silk or chiffon with pearls and sling heels. Although born and brought up in Omaha’s seedy and notorious southside, her fine features, porcelain skin, pampered raven hair, and composure gave her the look of an aristocrat—a queen. And that’s why the moniker, The Queen.

Her most captivating feature was her Mona Lisa smile and glow, which beguiled and drove men to ask for a dance, and while dancing, invariably ask if she would have coffee or maybe breakfast with them later when the music stopped and the bartenders sounded last-call.

The Queen loved to dance, but when a man held her too close on the dance floor or let his hand slip below her waist, she was quick to react. She grimaced and pushed him away with a few caustic words. Then she retreated to the ladies' room to refresh herself and regain her composure.

Her trips to the ladies’ room for whatever reason were always a treat for the men who sat along the long end of the bar. As she passed by, they turned their heads and ogled the sensual movement of her body inside her silk or chiffon attire until she disappeared from view.

Invariably, one of the men would say something like, “Now that’s my kind of woman.” or “I’d give my right arm for one night in the sack with that piece of cake.” or “I’d sure like to be The Queen’s king for a couple of nights.”

Ruthie, who was several of the men’s last resort, Martha, a recent divorcee with attitude and Laverne, an art teacher with beady eyes and loose skin were among the women who came to The Queen’s table to say hello, gossip, and make sarcastic remarks about others in the place, especially the men.

All three of them dressed to impress not only each other but also the short supply of men, especially those who had jobs, didn’t have body odor or dirty fingernails, and acted as if they could be controlled with a home-cooked dinner and a roll in the hay every now and then.

Sometimes, Laverne lingered at The Queen’s table and waited for a man to ask her for a dance other than Tony, a runt of a man from South Omaha with mafia pretensions. When that didn’t happen, she gave Tony the nod to meet her on the dance floor.

The Queen showed no romantic interest in any of the men, except for Michael Rosellini, a tall and broad-shouldered man who always sported a dark suit with a white shirt and a yellow or red power tie. Although he didn’t show up every Friday or Saturday night, she came alive when he did, quickly losing herself in his masterful charm and good-humor. And he was the only man she would leave with after the bartenders sounded last call.

On the Friday night before the Lazy Leopard closed for good and a crew of men brought in a wrecking ball, a man came to The Queen’s table and asked her to dance. She had never seen him before, but he was handsome, trim, and well dressed. So, she obliged.

On the dance floor, the man immediately pulled her close to him and held her tight. She struggled to free herself, but the man would not let go.

Michael, who had arrived and stood at the bar watching her and the man on the dance floor, rushed to her aid. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and said, “Let her go.”

“Get lost,” the man said, dancing away from Michael with The Queen still in his grasp.

Michael followed. He grabbed the man’s shoulder again. “I said, let her go!”

The man released his grasp on The Queen. Then he turned, raised his fist, and took a swing at Michael. Michael dodged the swing and punched the man squarely on the jaw. The man stumbled backward but regained his footing.

The music stopped. The Queen and the other couples on the dance floor backed away from the man and Michael. They looked on in dismay.

Michael lunged at the man, his fists raised and ready to throw a second punch.

Rage filled the man’s eyes. He pulled a revolver from a holster inside his suit jacket, aimed it at Michael, and fired two shots.

Michael grabbed the left side of his chest. He fell backward and collapsed onto the dance floor. Blood oozed through his fingers and quickly soaked his clothing.

The man turned and ran in panic toward the exit, motioning with the revolver for people to get out of his way.

“Call the police!” someone shouted.

“And call an ambulance!” someone else added.

As people gathered around Michael, The Queen dropped to her knees beside him. She cradled his head in her lap.

"I love you, Michael," she said with tears in her eyes. “I love you so much.”

Michael tried to speak but managed only to whisper her name before closing his eyes and taking a final breath.

The police arrived and questioned The Queen and others. An ambulance arrived as well and removed Michael’s body after an okay from the police officer in charge.

Several days later, The Queen attended the memorial service for Michael along with only a few of the people who frequented the Lazy Leopard on Friday and Saturday nights. A couple of days after that, the wrecking ball did its job, and huge trucks hauled away the debris. The Lazy Leopard was no more, and the people who frequented it on Friday and Saturday nights scattered and became part of a dozen other nightspots that catered to middle-aged singles.

The man who shot and killed Michael Rosellini was never found.

And no one saw or heard from The Queen again. She locked herself away in her Old Market condominium and consoled herself with memories of Michael and her Friday and Saturday nights in the Lazy Leopard. She had groceries and the other things she needed delivered and left at her door.

Memories of her faded along with the night the man shot and killed Michael Rosellini. Memories of relationships, places, and events invariably fade into the past. And when the relationships are superficial, as they often are in a cocktail lounge, memories of them fade more quickly.

 

About the author

 

 

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Brothers by Frank Zahn, cola

On the way home from school, Mark Allen Rinehart stopped off at Katz Drugstore in Waldo. Inside, he picked up a magazine on the magazine and comic rack across from the soda fountain and thumbed through it. Kenny Norris and three of his buddies brushed by him. As they did, Kenny shoved him hard against the rack. The rack tipped backward and crashed onto the floor with Mark Allen on top in a heap of magazines and comics.

The store manager catapulted over the counter of the soda fountain. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he shouted, then turned to a girl who worked behind the counter of the soda fountain and called out, ‘Cindy, call the police!’

Mark Allen scrambled to his feet. ‘He shoved me,’ he said, breathing heavily and pointing at Kenny.

Kenny lunged at Mark Allen with clenched fists. ‘Shut your face, Rinehart!’ he shouted and swung his fists wildly at Mark Allen.

Mark Allen fought back, blocking most of Kenny’s efforts to hit him and landing several well placed punches in Kenny’s stomach and face. When it was clear that Kenny was no match for Mark Allen, his buddies joined in to help him.

Battered with blood oozing from his nose and lower lip, Mark Allen was knocked to the floor several times, but he got back up each time and continued to fight, even though Kenny and his buddies were getting the best of him.

People had gathered around to watch the fight. Several of them complained that the fight was unfair—four against one, but they didn’t do anything to stop it. And the store manager didn’t do anything to stop it either; he just watched with arms folded over his chest and a smirk on his face.

Mark Allen’s brothers Harry, Eddie, and Clinton must have heard the commotion the fight was causing because they came running from the rear of the store. They had been looking at a portable radio to give their mother for her birthday. When they saw what was happening, Harry and Clinton rushed to Mark Allen’s defense with the ferocity of charging bulls. Eddie hesitated, but only for a moment before joining his brothers in the fight.

With nightsticks in hand, two police officers burst into the drugstore and came running toward the fight.

Someone yelled. ‘Here come the cops!’

Kenny and his three buddies fled toward the back of the store.

Mark Allen and his brothers brushed their hair away from their faces with their hands and straightened their clothing. Mark Allen grabbed several paper napkins from a dispenser on the counter of the soda fountain and wiped the blood off of his face and hands.

The store manager took a closer look at the damage. The magazine and comics rack was broken in several places. Magazines and comics—some of them torn—were strewn out all over the floor, along with napkins, straws and other items that had been knocked off the counter of the soda fountain.

The store manager pointed at Mark Allen. ‘This kid, this boy knocked over the rack and caused the damage,’ he explained to the police officers. ‘Four other boys accused him of it, so he, and a little later, his brothers, got into a fight with them.

‘Are the four other boys the ones we saw run off toward the back of the store when they saw us coming?’ one of the police officers asked.

‘Yeah, that’s them. There’s an emergency exit back there. So, they’re probably long gone by now.’

‘What’s your name,’ one of the police officers asked Mark Allen.

‘Mark Allen Rinehart.’

‘So Mark Allen Rinehart, what have you got to say for yourself?’ one of the police officers asked.

 ‘One of the guys who ran off shoved me against the magazine and comics rack. It fell over, and I fell over on top of it,’ Mark Allen explained. ‘When I told the manager that, the guy got mad and started a fight. His buddies joined in, punching and kicking me. I was fightin’ all four of them by myself until my brothers came runnin’ from the back of the store and jumped in to even up the sides.’

When the police officers asked several of the people what they had seen, each one refused to comment, saying they didn’t want to get involved.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what I saw,’ Eddie said to the police officers. ‘When me and my brothers Harry and Clinton heard the commotion and came runnin’ from the rear of the store, four guys were beatin’ up on Mark Allen. It was four against one. So we jumped in to even up the score. That’s the truth. Honest. I wouldn’t lie to you.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ one of the police officers quipped.

‘It is the truth, and anybody who says different is a goddamn liar,’ Harry said.

‘That’s enough of that kind of language,’ one of the police officers told Harry.

‘Are you gonna press charges?’ the other police officer asked the store manager.

The store manager hesitated. ‘I should, but maybe not this time,’ he said. ‘The store has insurance to cover the damage.’ Then he turned to Mark Allen and added, ‘But if I catch you or your brothers in my store again, I’ll call the police and see that all four of you are sent to the reformatory at Booneville.’

‘Okay, outside, all four of you,’ one of the police officers said to Mark Allen and his brothers. ‘We’ll take you down to the Forty-Third Street police station and let your parents come and get you.’

*  *  *

Momma Rinehart answered the phone when the desk sergeant at the police station called. After a brief exchange, he hung up the phone and told Mark Allen and his brothers that their mother was going to call their father and have him come and get them. Then he instructed a police officer to take them to a room where they were to wait until their father arrived.

*  *  *

Chuck Long, the gangly young man who worked for Papa Rinehart, drove Papa to the police station in his pickup. It was a little after four o’clock in the afternoon. Chuck waited in the pickup while Papa went inside.

Papa took off his cap and identified himself to the desk sergeant, who sent a police officer to fetch the boys. While waiting, Papa talked with the desk sergeant and the two police officers who had brought Mark Allen and his brothers to the station. The two police officers explained to Papa what the store manager had told them about the fight and the damages in the drugstore. Papa listened calmly without comments or questions, but he looked relieved when told the store manager was not going to press charges.

Papa thanked the desk sergeant and the two police officers for their trouble and left the station with his four sons trailing behind. Chuck drove them home. Harry, Eddie, and Clinton rode in the back of the pickup. Mark Allen rode in the cab between Papa and Chuck.

‘Do you want to hear what happened, Papa,’ Mark Allen said after a long silence between them.

‘I already know,’ Papa said in a stern voice. The two police officers who took you and your brothers to the police station told me.’

‘Yeah, but my guess is they told you the drugstore manager’s version. And that’s not the truth.’

‘We’ll talk later when we get home.’

‘But, Papa. . .’

‘I said we’ll talk about it later!’ Papa said, raising his voice.

*  *  *

When later came just before supper that evening, Papa and Momma called Mark Allen and his brothers into the living room. All four boys had a look of dread on their faces.

‘Okay, Mark Allen, let’s have it,’ Papa said when everyone was seated. ‘Convince me that you and your brothers don’t deserve a good smack on your backsides,’ Papa said.

Mark Allen cleared his throat and explained. When he had finished, Papa said, ‘So, you’re saying the store manager lied?’

‘He did, Papa! I swear to God he did!’ Mark Allen shouted.

‘Don’t swear, Mark Allen,’ Momma said.

‘Why would the store manager do that, Mark Allen?’ Papa asked.

‘For one thing, he’s Kenny Norris’ cousin. And they’re thicker than thieves.’

‘His cousin?’ Papa said with a surprised look on his face.

‘Yes, his cousin,’ Mark Allen said. ‘And he and Kenny have had it in for me ever since I got the best of Kenny in a fight he started after school a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Well, I’ll be. That sure puts a different light on things. In fact, it downright ticked me off. Sounds to me like the store manager needs to be taught a lesson in telling the truth, regardless of how bad it makes one of his relatives look,’ Papa said, then added. ‘But nevertheless, you boys should do as he says and stay out of that store—at least, for now. And in the meantime, I’ll have a talk with Jim Pratt. He’s the district manager for the drugstore chain. I know that because his younger brother works for me.’

Mark Allen and his brothers relaxed.

‘But all that aside, one good thing has come out of this,’ Papa said. ‘You boys stood together as brothers when one of you was in trouble. And if you remember to do that always, people who give you a bad time will soon get the message that the Rinehart boys don’t take shit from nobody.’

Momma grimaced. ‘Papa, for pity’s sake, watch your language.’

‘Trust me, Momma. I am watchin’ it,’ Papa said. ‘From what Mark Allen just told me, and I believe him, I’m not sayin’ half of what I feel like sayin’. If I did, you’d be mad at me for a month of Sundays.’

About the author  

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)