A Visit To The Dentist or How Tyler Got His Breath Back by Henry Lewi, ice cold water

Dr Christos Cadmus had arrived in London on the coat tails of the many Old Gods of Olympus who had relocated from their ancient home in Greece to the modern bustling City of London.   A well trained and highly skilled Cosmetic Dentist and Surgeon he had set up shop in a suite of rooms on Harley Street alongside his cousin Apollo, the God of Medicine, serving The Rich, The Beautiful, and The Famous.  

  In his plush and very fashionable clinic, Dr Cadmus provided not just basic Dental Hygiene, Dental Implants, and Facial Cosmetic Procedures; he also skilfully performed the very, very complex, difficult and extremely exclusive Drakontos Odontes Procedure. As would be expected his practice flourished as Gods, Nymphs and Satyrs, as well as Humans and Centaurs, all seeking the perfect smile who were all numbered amongst his patients.

   One dreary Thursday morning he was visited by a patient who gave his name as a Mr Tyler P. Hones who had run into a bit of a problem after losing his four front teeth in a fracas in Las Vegas.

  ‘Bit of an issue,’ lisped Mr T.P. Hones, ‘I run a 24hour poker game at the Devil’s Playground Hotel in Vegas.  There was a brawl when a bunch of very, very rich CEO’s lost their entire fortunes in the poker game at my table.  I may have lost my teeth, but you should see the other guys; I need your services ASAP, the best and most exclusive you can offer.’  

   Dr Cadmus was no fool, he had recognised his patient, knew who he was, and knew how much power this so-called Tyler P Hones could still wield, despite the loss of his teeth.

  ‘Absolutely no problem,’ said Dr Cadmus, thinking for a momen. ‘I have the perfect answer and can provide you with the ideal implants for someone of your status.’

 So Cadmus sat Tyler P Hones down in his Dental Chair, arranged for his dental nurses and technicians to lay out his instruments, draw up the local anaesthetic and specified which implants they should select out for their patient.

  Three hours later the somewhat complex procedure was complete, the new four teeth implanted using his exclusive Drakontos Odontes Procedure, which, as Cadmus knew would be a perfect match, and with a mirror showed his patient the results.

  ‘Perfect,’ replied Tyler P Hones as flames shot out from his mouth. ‘What the f**k? he said. 

 ‘Drakontos Odontes, Drakontos Odontes, Dragons Teeth, my friend’ replied Dr Cadmus, ‘most appropriate for your needs and requirements, certainly for someone of your reputation and standing isn’t it Mr Tyler P. Hones, or should I now correctly address you as ‘Typhon’, thought I recognised you, you’re that old Fire-Breathing drinking buddy of Zeus.  All you need now is to re-learn how to control the flames, simple really, it will certainly add something to your reputation.’

   ‘Perfect, Perfect, Perfect,’ said Typhon the Old Olympian Fire-Breathing God with a broad smile, the flames sputtering out from his mouth, ‘Absolutely Perfect.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ replied, Christos Cadmus, the once Ancient King of Thebes.

  ‘You know, before I used them for dental implants I used to plant those Dragons Teeth to grow the Warriors necessary to defend my Kingdom; a much better use of the Teeth, don’t you think?’ 

About the author 

 

Henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site 

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.)

Make It Rain by Héctor Hernández, a glass of water

‘You'll have to do it,’ my wife said.

I hesitated. My brother had said the same thing almost fifty years earlier. I shook off that almost-forgotten memory and focused on the present.

I had removed my wife's fentanyl patches the day before because she needed to be lucid for this moment. The pain had been too much for her, though, and I had to practically drown her in morphine every couple of hours throughout the night.

She was now in the bathtub. Water as warm as a summer day.

That day nearly fifty years ago had been a summer day.

‘We'll have to kill them,’ my brother had said.

He had been fifteen—two years older than me.

The morning had been cool. Later it would give way to a hot summer sun.

‘They'll probably die before nightfall, but it'd be wrong to let them suffer any longer.’

There had been the rhythmic sound of a rubber ball striking concrete.

‘We should put them out of their misery.’

Next door, nine-year-old Katie had been playing Two Square with her little brother, Connor.

‘How should we do it?’ I asked.

My brother and I were crouched in our backyard, staring at what we had teased out of the thick weeds.

‘We'll have to come up with a humane way,’ he said. ‘I'll get the shovel. After we dig a hole, we can figure something out.’

The abrupt roar of a lawn mower spooked us. A neighbor, hoping to finish yard work before the air turned heavy with a sticky heat, was getting an early start.

‘I know how we can do it,’ I told my brother when he came back.

‘How?’

‘Let's dig the hole first.’

The dry, clay soil had been stubborn, but taking turns, we eventually carved out a little grave.

‘The best way to kill them,’ I said, ‘is with a guillotine.’

My brother knitted his brows.

‘It would be quick and painless,’ I said.

‘You're right. A guillotine would be a good way to do it. But where would we get one, Einstein?’

‘You're holding it,’ I said.

He looked puzzled, staring blankly at the shovel in his hand. But then his eyes lit up. He understood. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, bringing the blade up to his face and running his finger along its flat, sharp edge—the perfect instrument for cutting off small heads. ‘This could work.’

‘Since there are two of them,’ I said, ‘you do one; I'll do the other.’

He nodded. ‘Okay.’

We had found a litter of abandoned kittens. Three were dead, but two still gripped life with needle-sharp claws. Their silent mouths opened and closed in a grotesque imitation of mewing. They couldn't have been more than a week or two old, but they looked so much older—centuries older.

Their patchy fur was stretched taut over sharp bones, their limp bodies practically flat, like they'd been run over and left out to bake in the hot summer sun. They could have been roadkill. And just like roadkill, they had ants and maggots swarming their flesh. Nature had gotten an early start.

Cancer had gotten an early start on my wife. It was everywhere. Her skin stretched just as taut over bones just as sharp. Her body just as limp and flat. No ants or maggots swarming her body, though. She'd at least been spared that insult.

Using the shovel, my brother scooped up one of the kittens and moved it over a few feet, away from its sibling. Could one sense what was about to happen to the other?

My brother was now ready. With the blade facing down, he tightened his double grip on the shovel's smooth wooden handle. My own fingers clenched in response. He pulled in a deep breath, and I did the same. He raised his arms high, and I felt the arch of his back in my own.

But before he could thrust that hard, sharp blade into soft, dull flesh, our neighbor finished cutting his lawn. The abrupt silence rattled my brother, as if a voice had shouted out, ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?’

My brother held that shovel a long time. I could tell he was having second thoughts. He finally lowered it. ‘I can't do it,’ he said, shaking his head.

I couldn't believe it. My brother had chickened out. It wasn't like him.

He held out the shovel. ‘You'll have to do it.’

My wife held out the razor blade. ‘You'll have to do it.’

That blade had become Plan B when we realized Plan A (end-of-life medication) would be an impossible task for her. She wouldn't be able to swallow the three-ounce cocktail of Diazepam, Digoxin, Morphine Sulfate, and Amitriptyline in two minutes, not without gagging anyway. Surgeons had aggressively manipulated her throat during her two surgeries to remove cancerous vertebrae from her neck. Swallowing was painful. If she swallowed only a portion, she  might simply end up in a coma—worse than dead.

I took the shovel from my brother, intending to show him how it was done, but I couldn't do it either.

I had shot house sparrows, prairie dogs, and field mice with my .22 for no other reason than sport. Why couldn't I now kill for a legitimate reason, a humane reason?

My brother and I took the cowardly way out. We put those two miserable creatures back into the thick weeds where we had found them and left it to nature to finish what it had started.

I accepted the blade from my wife, held it between my fingers. I thought of those kittens. Mercy had been on the horizon for them, a gentle rain falling in the distance. But that rain never reached them.

My wife extended her arm, a pleading pouring out from her eyes. It tore at my heart. Had fifty years been enough to give me the courage to make it rain?

About the author  

 

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and is now retired. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five Minutes and Literally Stories. 

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.)

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Story by Dawn Knox, a bowl of water

Previously: An unusual stranger has shaken up the neighbourhood. Gladys, Elsie, Minnie, Daphne, Cyril, and Gladys’s dog, Robert Louis Stevenson, have all witnessed the exotic man. This is Robert Louis Stevenson’s story…

 

Robert Louis Stevenson nudged the leaflet and business card Mr Johnson had placed on Mistress’s coffee table with his nose. They smelt of Mr. Johnson. That wasn’t surprising, but there was another smell mingled with his stink, and Robert Louis Stevenson rifled through his sniffer library to identify it.

Strangely, the scent was the same as that of the screeching, unclothed man Robert Louis Stevenson had tried to bite the other day. The one who’d leapt over the fence from Mr Johnson’s garden into Robert Louis Stevenson’s territory without a by-your-leave. After a little canine persuasion, the intruder had scrambled over the wall into Bathsheba’s garden and then, after being sprayed with water by Bathsheba’s mistress, he’d escaped into someone else’s garden. If the odours of both men were on the leaflet and card, it suggested Mr Johnson knew the creepy man.

Robert Louis Stevenson growled.

‘Good dog,’ Mistress said, and patted him on the head. ‘That’s enough now.’

‘You indulge that dog,’ Mr Johnson said. ‘You’re not doing him any favours, you know.’

Mind your own business, Robert Louis Stevenson thought, but he stopped growling anyway. Mistress was remarkably keen on the next-door neighbour. If it came to a choice, Mistress would choose Robert Louis Stevenson – although he wasn’t completely convinced. And each time she saw Mr Johnson, the odds she’d pick the next-door neighbour over her dog increased.

Why couldn’t she see there was something dodgy about Mr Johnson?

If only Robert Louis Stevenson could read, the leaflet and business card might give him a clue. For a dog, he had a large vocabulary and understood many of the words his mistress used, but reading the squiggles that crawled across pieces of paper had so far evaded him. Talking in Mistress’s language was also proving challenging. He knew what he wanted to say, and the words formed in his mind, but when they came out of his mouth, they all sounded the same. ‘Woof.’

Of course, his woofs were understood by other dogs, but Mistress wasn’t a dog. When he barked to tell her something, she often told him off for being noisy. Robert Louis Stevenson tiptoed to his favourite spot behind the sofa and settled down. If he couldn’t understand the information on the paper, he’d listen to the conversation.

‘So, I’m relying on your support, Gladys,’ Mr. Johnson said.

In a giggly tone that Mistress never used for Robert Louis Stevenson, she replied, ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. Riding Road has some gifted gardeners, and it’ll be fun. It’ll also be a good rehearsal for the competition against Creaping Bottom and Upper Chortle next year. Have you any ideas for themes?’

Still eavesdropping, Robert Louis Stevenson learnt about the Parish Council meeting that had been called by the Reverend Forbes-Snell. It would take place the following evening in the hall at All Saints’ Church, where Mr Johnson would reveal his plans for the ‘Best Kept Street in Basilwade’ competition. Robert Louis Stevenson also learnt that Mr Johnson called Mistress Gladwags, and she called him Trevikins.

Robert Louis Stevenson crept out of the room into the kitchen. There were some things a dog didn’t need to know. He shook his head to dismiss the memory and sauntered into the garden to listen for the sound of Bathsheba from next door.

‘Are you there?’ he barked.

In her clipped German accent, she replied, ‘That depends on who iss asking.’

‘You know jolly well it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.’

She sniffed. ‘And I should care because…?’

‘Well, listen to this,’ he said and explained about the leaflet and small card that had smelt of Mr Johnson and the unclothed man. Bathsheba’s bark changed from disdain to one of interest.

‘And vot can ve do about it?’

‘I’m going to try to be there,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mistress might take you too?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Her mistress shouted at her to stop yapping, and Robert Louis Stevenson heard Bathsheba trot up the path to the patio. His heart swelled with joy. He had a date.

Well, almost.

He’d have to ensure Mistress brought him to the meeting and hope Bathsheba’s mistress took her, too. Even more challenging was the fact that Bathsheba couldn’t stand him. It was a shame because his body quivered with longing every time he thought of her.

Unfortunately, the next day, he had so many conversations with Bathsheba in the garden, filling her in on the coming meeting that Mistress became fed up with his noise and shut him in the kitchen.

That evening, Mistress got ready to go out but didn’t fetch his lead.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she said. ‘And keep quiet while I’m out, your barking is getting on everyone’s nerves.’

Robert Louis Stevenson went rigid. Did she intend to leave him behind? Surely not.

He dropped to the floor, his eyes rolling and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Mistress crouched next to him.

Well, he hadn’t lost his acting abilities.

He whimpered and looked up appealingly. If only he could talk, but he dared not bark again.

Mistress checked her watch. ‘Oh dear, I’ll have to take you with me. I can’t leave you like this.’

Robert Louis Stevenson couldn’t help it; the tip of his tail repeatedly thumped the kitchen tiles.

He waited until he’d got to the end of the garden path before perking up and trotting along happily beside Mistress.

‘Perhaps you just needed some fresh air, boy?’

Robert Louis Stevenson looked up and nodded his head.

In the church hall, he would have to be on his best behaviour. He’d even consider allowing the odious Reverend Forbes-Snell to tickle his ears without biting him. After their last meeting, it was unlikely the vicar would try to pet him, but just in case, Robert Louis Stevenson decided he’d grit his teeth and endure it if it meant he could meet up with Bathsheba. He would willingly make any sacrifice to be with her.

Mr Johnson had saved Mistress a seat in the front row and Robert Louis Stevenson settled down between her feet. He risked an exploratory sniff at Mr Johnson. Somewhere on his clothes, there was a hint of the unclothed man, although the scent wasn’t strong. Lifting his nose, he sampled the air in the hall for Bathsheba, but there were so many smells, Robert Louis Stevenson’s head spun.

Perhaps Bathsheba would be able to smell him. Her nose was more sensitive than his, and at the thought of her, he began to tremble.

Mistress patted his head and said to Mr Johnson, ‘Oh dear, he’s having another funny turn. I might have to take him to the vet tomorrow. He doesn’t seem himself.’

‘He is exactly himself,’ Mr Johnson said, unsympathetically.

Robert Louis Stevenson tried to stop thinking of Bathsheba and took control of his body.

But where was she?

Finally, he heard her delicate paws tip-tapping on the hall floor. He knew she was behind him, although he couldn’t see her.

The Reverend Forbes-Snell stood, a pompous smile on his face as he waited for the hubbub to die down. Surprisingly, silence fell quickly. For some reason, people appeared to be in awe of the ridiculous man. They must see something Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t. Or perhaps he could see something they couldn’t.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us and foregoing your night’s television viewing.’ He laughed, but his eyes were hard, and Robert Louis Stevenson suspected he wasn’t tolerant of people’s TV habits.

‘The Parish Council and I…’ He stopped to extend one arm to the right and one to the left, indicating those who were with him on the dais. ‘We have some exciting news to share, and we also have a guest speaker to tell us more.’ He waved his pudgy hand towards a woman who was sitting in the front row.

She got up and stepped forward as Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes. ‘Ah, um, this is…’ He ran his finger down his list and looked up. ‘Sheila?’

‘It’s Doris,’ the woman snapped.

Even Robert Louis Stevenson jumped at her tone. Nobody spoke to the Reverend Forbes-Snell like that.

The vicar looked down at his notes and frowned. ‘I…um…I was expecting Sheila.’ His voice was plaintive.

‘My name is Doris Scuppet,’ the woman said.

Reverend Forbes-Snell drew back slightly as the woman stomped towards him in sensible flat shoes. ‘Of course you are. Ah, I see. Sheila couldn’t come and you have replaced her?’

The woman reached the seat that had been left for her, and the parish councillor next to her shuffled away, his face pinched with fear.

The woman’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘My name is Doris Scuppet. I belong to SHEILA.’

‘You belong…?’ The vicar’s brows rose in alarm. ‘Surely you don’t mean you belong…?’

‘Yes.’ Doris’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Reverend Forbes-Snell as if defying him to interrupt her again. ‘As I said, I belong to SHEILA, the Society of Horticultural Excellence In Local Areas.’

The Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes and sat down. Obviously, the guest needed no further introduction.

 

Doris took over.

A competition, blah blah.

Next year, blah blah.

Make the villages and towns beautiful, blah blah.

More blah, blah.

Robert Louis Stevenson yawned. Facing the front of the hall, he knew Bathsheba was somewhere in the audience, but she was behind him and, therefore, out of sight. Slowly, he shuffled his bottom, and by moving his front paws to the right, he turned slightly. Doris had apparently finished and there was unenthusiastic applause, during which he swivelled around and lay down. Now he could see through people’s legs, and he spotted Bathsheba two rows behind. Not that she was taking any notice – she looked in all directions except towards him, although he suspected she knew he was there.

How magnificent she was.

Robert Louis Stevenson began to quake, and he wondered if Mistress would notice if he slid silently – or as silently as one could slide with a jingly name tag attached to his collar, towards Bathsheba.

He should have known better. Mistress spotted him and bent to check he was all right. At the same time, Mr Johnson rose to go to the dais and Doris was on her way back to her seat.

Robert Louis Stevenson turned to face the front. He didn’t want Mistress to take him home because she thought he was ill. He needed to steady himself, and he couldn’t do that while he was looking at Bathsheba, so he turned and stared at Trevikins. Robert Louis Stevenson sniggered. At least it would take his mind off the beautiful, sassy sausage dog behind him.

Mr Johnson told everyone about the ‘Best Kept Street’ competition and appealed to people to organise themselves with their neighbours and to sign up on his website, so he knew which streets were entering. The winners would then assist him in preparing for the inter-town competition next year.

So far, so dull.

That was, until Mr Johnson mentioned that Riding Road’s committee, headed by him, would comprise Gladys Winterbottom, Daphne Didcott, Susan Stibthorpe, and he’d like another volunteer.

If Daphne Didcott was part of the committee, then it was possible Bathsheba would be at any meetings, too. Joy! He began to tremble again.

 

Finally, the meeting was over, and everyone had left the hall. The first meeting of the Riding Road Best Kept Street committee was due to meet at Mistress’s house two days later. Robert Louis Stevenson was desperate to know if Bathsheba would come with her mistress. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be a disaster – he’d simply go into the back garden and hope she was in hers.

But he needed to be more careful. While Mr Johnson had walked Mistress home after the Parish Council meeting, he’d suggested she take Robert Louis Stevenson to see the vet.

‘There’s something wrong with that dog, Gladwags.’

Mistress had agreed.

Perhaps Robert Louis Stevenson had overdone it earlier with his pretence of being ill. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen Bathsheba, nor heard the good news that their mistresses would soon be meeting.

He’d wagged his tail and peered around as if he was super-perky. Surely Mistress wouldn’t take him to the vet if he appeared well.

Unfortunately, Elsie had caught up with them as they’d walked home, and he’d forgotten his resolve to keep his body in check. He’d leapt at Elsie’s pink velvet tracksuit-clad leg and clung on before Mr Johnson had prised him off. Elsie had shrieked. Mistress had told Robert Louis Stevenson off and Mr Johnson had once again urged Mistress to take him to the vet.

‘That dog is always barking. He’s constantly harassing my poor Horatio and, as for his disgraceful behaviour with Elsie…’

Well, all dogs bark, so get used to it, Trevikins. And dogs chase cats, especially the sneaky ones like Horatio, who like to taunt dogs but pretend they’re victims. And as for ‘disgraceful behaviour’, Robert Louis Stevenson wasn’t sure what that meant, but since Elsie had been mentioned, presumably, it had something to do with losing control when she was around.

But there was nothing wrong with any of that and certainly nothing a vet could do about it, even if Mr Johnson had mentioned straightening Robert Louis Stevenson’s card.

The only card he could think of was a business card.

That just proved how ignorant Mr Johnson was. Just because he had a business card didn’t mean everyone else did. Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t own a business, so why would he need a business card? Numptie.

Later that day, Robert Louis Stevenson shot out into the garden. He could hear Bathsheba sniffling next door.

‘It iss you, Robert Louis Steeffenssen?’

He loved the way she pronounced his name. Not that she often said it, but when she did, it sent shivers through him. Was she warming to him? Her tone suggested she’d been waiting for him to go into the garden.

‘Will you be coming to Mistress’s meeting in two days’ time?’ he asked.

‘No, my mistress vill leave me here, but I vill be in the garden. I vill see you then.’

He would have skipped if he’d known how. He had a date. How marvellous! And she was still there in the garden talking to him.

‘I hear you are going to see the vet?’ she said.

‘Possibly. Mr Johnson is trying to persuade Mistress, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He thinks I’ve got a business. How stupid is that? He said my business card needs straightening. If you ask me, he needs to mind his own business.’ He sniggered. That was a good joke. He hoped it impressed Bathsheba.

There was silence for several seconds.

‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

‘Ja,’ said Bathsheba slowly. ‘Vot did he say exactly?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Voz it possible he said you should be card-straightened?’

‘Could be.’

‘Vot about car-straighted?’

‘Possibly. Whatever it was, didn’t make sense…’ Why was Bathsheba so interested?

‘Only you may be in for a very nasty shock if you go to the vet to be car-straighted.’

‘Why?’

She explained.

At first, he didn’t believe her, but she appeared to know what she was talking about with all the biological names. Finally, he was convinced.

So, it had nothing to do with being straightened out, nor with cards. It had plenty to do with relieving him of vital parts of his body. How could those bits even be removed? He felt sick at the thought.

He tiptoed back into the house, his back legs knocking, and crept into Mistress’s living room, where she was watching television. Wagging his tail, he attempted to look the picture of health.

‘Robert Louis Stevenson? Are you well?’

He opened his mouth in what he hoped resembled a smile and tried to make his eyes even brighter. His tail wagged so fast, his bottom wobbled.

‘Thank heavens. You look a lot better,’ said Mistress, patting her lap.

Robert Louis Stevenson leapt onto the sofa next to her and settled down as she tickled his ears.

It suddenly occurred to him that Bathsheba might have been joking, although that would have been rather cruel. The more he thought about it, the more he supposed she’d been wrong. What would she know?

However, when the subject of vets came up again, he’d certainly be on the alert. Until then, he’d be a perfect dog. He looked up at Mistress again and smiled.

She patted his head.

Robert Louis Stevenson snuggled closer to his mistress. He didn’t want to think about business cards or gardening. He didn’t want to think about Mr. Johnson. He definitely didn’t want to think about Bathsheba and Elsie. And as for the vet… No, no, no.

He would concentrate on keeping quiet and keeping his bits intact.

 

To read the previous stories:

Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html

Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html

Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html

Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html

Elsie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/07/elsies-story-by-dawn-knox-tea-and-buns.html

When Sally met Cyril (And Roger) is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/09/when-sally-met-cyril-and-roger-by-dawn.html

About the author 

 Dawn’s four previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’, 'The Crispin Chronicles' and 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles', published by Chapeltown Publishing. You can follow her here on 

https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

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.)

King of the Dunk Tank by Louis Kummerer, water

The dunk tank, that’s what I do. Every weekend I’m someplace different: a church festival in Sandpoint, Idaho; a county fair in Lonoke, Arkansas; a fundraiser in Waterbury, Vermont. I sit on a narrow plastic seat above a tank of water. The locals pay $5 for three balls and they take their shot.

That’s how I make my way in this world. That’s my job. And, to be honest, it’s not a great job. It’s not even a good job. I live pretty much hand to mouth. No benefits, no paid vacation, no retirement plan, no future.

But I’m not complaining, because at least I know why I’m here.

There was a time long ago—back before Mattie—when I thought that maybe I was serving a larger purpose in life, that maybe I was ever so slightly nudging the world towards more goodness. Because occasionally one of the locals would hit the target. I’d suddenly drop into the cold water and emerge dripping wet with a shocked look on my face. The crowd would laugh riotously, and for those few, short moments, the sadness in their small lives receded. That was my singular contribution towards the betterment of humanity.

All of that changed after Mattie showed up.

I’m at a county fair in Sandusky, Ohio. My night’s over and I’m outside the dunk tank, still wet, shivering in the early fall air. I’m bent over, arranging my gear in a metal trunk when a tall, well-dressed woman with an almost palpable aura of self-confidence walks up.

“Hi there” she chirps, as soon as we make eye contact.

Before I can answer, she extends her hand and says “Mattie.”

“I saw you in Payson, Arizona last week,” she explains as we shake hands, “And in Urbana, Illinois the week before that. And also in Skowhegan, Maine.

I frown and give her a suspicious look.

“I’m not stalking you,” she says with a dismissive laugh, “I’m just a fan of dunk tanks. And I have a suggestion on how you can get better at this.”

“I sit on a seat and wait to fall in the water,” I reply, “How can I get better at that?”

“Ponder those words for a moment,” she says.

She pauses as if she were waiting for a light-bulb to go on in my head. Instead, I simply shrug. She sighs and continues.

“Look, you just sit and wait. Right? You’re not in control. And life is all about control.”

She leans in close to me as if she were about to divulge a dangerous secret.

“Accuracy,” she whispers in my ear, “is a function of mental focus.”

Then she steps back and says, “Well, gotta run. Nice meeting you.”

She abruptly turns and walks away, but she looks back at me from a distance.

“Think about what I said,” she shouts.

I do think about what she said. I think about it a lot. She’s right, I decide. I could be doing better. Her mental focus remark wasn’t just an idle comment. It was a vital piece of information, a key to taking control of my job, maybe even my life.

I spend several days mulling over her suggestion, running through various options in my head. Finally, I come up with an idea.

The following weekend in Bend, Oregon, I’m sitting in the dunk tank surveying the crowd, seeing if there’s anything I can use. A young man steps up and pays $5. I carefully assess him as he picks up the first ball. Late teens. Cocky. Eager to show off for the attractive young woman he’s with.

“Hey, buddy,” I shout, “Hope you impress that pretty, young thing, because, honestly, she doesn’t look that impressed right now.”

He sneers, winds up, and throws a fastball that sails just a little too high.

“Ohhh, disappointing,” I yell, “Kinda like last night, am I right Miss?”

His face tightens into an angry grimace and he hurls two more fastballs that woosh past the target and slam hard into the canvas backdrop. Five dollars in the cash box, no payout.

The next guy is in his early twenties. Tall and gangly. He’s wearing a tee shirt with a high-school baseball logo. He looks like he might have been a pitcher once, maybe a good one. But he seems nervous in front of the crowd, maybe a little worried about living up to his high school reputation.

“Oh, boy! We got a ringer here, folks” I yell, “You probably already know this guy’s good. So pay attention, because he’s probably gonna do something you don’t see very often. He’s gonna go three for three. Mark my words.”

Three more errant pitches. Another five dollars in the cash box.

In the following weeks, I continue tweaking my strategy, honing my skills. Event after event, small town after small town, I’m slowly getting better. I rarely get dunked anymore. I’m no longer just sitting there waiting for one of the locals to drop me into the water. I’m luring them in now, sizing them up, playing with their minds, and taking their money.

Word of my uncanny success spreads. Eventually, I sign with an agent who begins billing me as King of the Dunk Tank. He books me into larger venues: Texarkana, Arkansas; Columbia, Missouri; Pueblo, Colorado. I’m the main attraction at every event. Kids want my autograph, women give me their cellphone numbers. I’m traveling first class, staying in nice hotels. I’m no longer pushing humanity towards more goodness, but I’m making a lot of money.

Battle Ground, Indiana. I’m midway through my night and still dry when a scrawny middle-aged man with thick glasses and a determined look on his face steps up to the line.

I survey him casually. He’s small, maybe 5’6”, spindly legs, short arms. He’s wearing suspenders and a long-sleeve shirt buttoned at the collar. He’s so weird that I can’t get a good read on him, so I wing it.

“I don’t think this guy can even see me,” I shout, “Let alone throw a ball this far.” The crowd bursts into raucous laughter.

Sploosh! I suddenly find myself submerged in water. A little shocked, I reset the seat and climb back on.

“Congratulations, Shorty,” I yell to him, “You’ve just proven that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.”

He immediately launches his second ball and I hit the water again. He dunks me once more with his third ball, then without saying a word, puts down another $5 and dunks me three more times. He goes three for three again on a third round. Finally, he collects his payout, gives me a farewell salute and disappears into the crowd.

I’m rattled and the rest of the night doesn’t go so well.

“Off night for the King of the Dunk Tank,” the cashier says as she counts the returns.

“I guess even a king has a bad day once in a while,” I respond.

“I just wish the king’s bad day would have been on somebody else’s watch because we’re barely breaking even here.” she sighs, “By the way, that guy that really wailed on you left his card.”

She hands me a soiled and wrinkled business card. The only words on it are: “Mr. Apophis, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower”

The next weekend in Pierre, South Dakota, I’m ten minutes into my evening when he shows up again. He puts down $15 and he dunks me nine times. Then he smiles at me and points at the King of the Dunk Tank sign. He shakes his head and laughs as he turns and walks away.

The rest of the night is a disaster. I get dunked eight more times and we end up losing money. The event sponsors grumble; my agent is getting nervous. I realize that I’m going to have to take control of the situation before things get any further out of hand.

When he shows up the following week in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I’m ready for him. After he dunks me the ninth time, I emerge from the water and immediately pull myself through the trap door in the back. Dripping wet, I step into the street. He sees me and begins scurrying off, his bandy legs churning like an eggbeater as he weaves through the crowd. He’s surprisingly elusive and I struggle to keep up with him, but when he ducks into a dark alley, I catch him. I grab his arm and shove him against a wall.

“Who are you?” I shout.

“I’m Mr. Apophis…” he says in a thin, high-pitched voice.

“Yes, I know, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower,” I say, giving him another shake, “Why are you here and what do you want with me?”

“You’re hurting my arm,” he whines.

I release his arm. He shudders slightly and recomposes himself.

“Don’t take this personally," he says, “But this whole thing is ridiculous.”

“What whole thing?” I ask.

“You, your kind,” he sighs and pauses, then continues in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You’re really not very bright, you know, even the best among you. None of you get what’s going on here and you never will because you lack the mental horsepower. Worse yet, you don’t understand how profoundly ignorant you really are. So you strut around as if you’ve figured everything out. All of it.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s so annoying.”

“Oh. And then…” he slaps his forehead in astonishment, “Then, to add insult to injury, that insufferable twit Ma’at, or whatever she’s calling herself these days—I think it’s Mattie now, right?”

I nod, suddenly realizing who he’s talking about.

“Mattie,” he makes air quotes as he says her name, “Flits around like a drunken matron at a neighborhood block party, stoking your arrogance with her absurd notions of control.”

From the confused look on my face, he can tell that I’m not following, so he dumbs things down for me.

“It’s like this,” he continues, “You people are obsessed with this simplistic cause-and-effect idea. You always want to know why. Why are you a dunk tank target instead of the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys? Is it genetics? Environment? Character?”

“What all of you are too dull to comprehend is that, in every case, the answer is blatantly obvious and always the same. For instance, in your case, do you know why things are the way they are in your life?”

Not willing to risk an answer, I simply shake my head.

“Because!” he bellows.

“Things are the way they are because that’s the way they are. There is no order, no reason, no cause-and-effect. The universe is chaotic. It’s fueled by randomness. The problem with so-called Mattie is that she convinces people like you that you can throttle the universe, put a saddle on it, ride it as if it were a horse that can be broken and bent to your will.”

“You want to know why I’m here? Well, that’s why. I’m cleaning up the mess Mattie’s made. I’m putting things back to normal.”

Suddenly a crowd of people enters the alley, laughing and talking loudly as they walk towards us. I turn to look at them momentarily and when I look back, Mr. Apophis has slipped away, disappeared back into the night.

I don’t see him again but evidently he succeeded in putting things back to normal because I’m getting dropped into the water regularly now. I’m no longer billed as King of the Dunk Tank. I don’t have an agent anymore, I’m not a main attraction, I don’t travel first class. I’m not playing with anybody’s mind. I’m not even pushing humanity towards more goodness. I’m just sitting there in the dunk tank, letting the locals take their shots.

That’s the way things are now. Back to normal.

But that’s okay. I may be one of the dimmer luminaries in a species that was never very bright to begin with, but at least now I understand why I’m here.

I’m here because I’m here. That’s just the way things are.

About the author

Louis Kummerer is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bristol Noir, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words.

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.)