Monsters Live Among Us

 

By Patrick Best

“We stopped checking for monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside of us.” –Stephen King

You should have done something, dammit. You should have ripped open his door, dragged him out into the street and punched him until the police came and arrested you both. You should have done something.

That’s the thought that's been echoing in my head since last Tuesday. Something happened on my ride home from work that night, and I can't seem to shake it.

I'm the editor of a small weekly newspaper, and we have to send our pages to the printer every Tuesday in order to hit the streets by Wednesday afternoon. This week was a rough one - our most popular columnist missed her deadline and a couple of advertisers dropped out at the last minute - so we didn't get everything done until after 11 p.m. My drive home takes about 40 minutes, so it was close to midnight by the time I rolled into Conyers. I was beat, and I had that little twitch I get in my shoulder when I’ve had too much caffeine and smoked too many cigarettes. I was stopped at the red light on West Avenue in front of the railroad tracks when it all started.

The Rush Limbaugh-wannabe I was listening to on one of the AM radio stations was ranting hysterically about welfare mothers when something caught my attention in the rearview mirror.  There was a beat up old Mustang idling behind me. The driver was a musclehead around my age who had a high-and-tight haircut that made him look like a Marine. He was yelling at someone about something, and his lips were peeled back in a way that reminded me of photograph I’d recently seen of a coyote in National Geographic.

The woman in the passenger seat next to him was staring forward, her head moving ever-so-slightly back and forth. Back and forth. Her eyes were puffy and her board straight bleach-blonde hair was stuck to her tear-soaked cheeks.

I couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but the look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He was angry as hell, and he wanted the world to know it. He was looking into his rearview mirror, too. As I watched, he lifted one of the big fists - that had been tightly wrapped around the steering wheel - and started bringing it down hard and fast onto something in the backseat. His arm was all over the backseat. Up. Down. Up. Down. He looked like he was playing that carnival game Whac-a-Mole. But instead of a soft black mallet, he was using his sledgehammer of an arm and fist to wop the moles back into their holes.

I hadn’t seen anyone else in the car, but, after watching for only a second or two, I caught a brief glimpse of the man’s target. For some reason, I’d figured it was some kind of animal - a yapping little dog that had peed on the backseat. It was a little boy. He was eight or nine and he was moving from one side of the car to the other to get out of the path of the man’s blows. He was fast, but this seemed to make his attacker even angrier because he turned more in his seat worked that hammer even harder. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

The light changed to green and the bright color reflected off my hood and filled the cab of my truck. I reached for the door handle, my eyes still focused on the horror movie that was playing on mirror. I was ready to jump out and run to the boy’s rescue. I wanted to make that man – that piece of human garbage – pay for what he was doing. The crying woman dropped her face into her hands as I watched and started crying convulsively. This made the man turn his attention to her, moving his big blocky head right next to her ear as he screamed. She made no sudden movements. ‘She knows better,’ I thought. ‘She’s been down this road before.’

I put my car into Park, gripped the door handle and pulled it. Before I knew it, I was standing next to my truck, staring through the windshield of the Mustang at the man who looked like a pissed off drill sergeant. He must have felt me staring at him because he turned away from the weeping woman and looked at me. His eyes were as big and round as the silver dollars my grandfather gave me when I was a little boy. And while he pointed a thick finger at me and screamed soundlessly through the thick glass that separated us, I could see a hint of embarrassment on his face.

Visions of my own family filled my head – my wife, my son, my daughter. ‘What if he has a gun?’ I thought. ‘What if you try to be a hero and end up dead?’ I’m in the newspaper business, so I read stories like that all the time. Some sees a bad situation, tries to do the right thing, and he gets a bullet right between the eyes as his reward. I took one step toward the Mustang, then I froze. My hands were balled into fists, and I truly believed in my head and heart that I could take down that abusive bastard. ‘But what if he has a gun?’

The Mustang’s engine revved and inched closer to the bumper of my truck. Sgt. A-hole’s face was blood red and his square chin was pushed out over the steering wheel. I couldn't hear him, but I imagined he was saying something  a new recruit would hear on the first day of boot camp: "What are you looking at, maggot?! You think you can kick my ass?! Well, go ahead and try!"

‘Get his license plate number and call the police,' I thought. 'Get back in the truck and go home to your own family. Let the police handle it.’ I took a deep breath and I got back into my truck. When I looked back into my rearview mirror I could see that he had a big grin on his face. A "shit-eating grin" as my dad would say. I felt like I had acid in my stomach.

He inched closer to my bumper, flashed his headlights and punched his horn over and over. It sounded like a trumpet player who’s having a coughing attack. Hunh. Hunh-hunh. Hunh-hunh-hunh. I wanted to throw it into Reverse and silence that stupid instrument forever.

He must have been reading my mind because the next noise I heard was the Mustang’s squealing tires as the slammed on this accelerator and pulled around me. I tried to see his license plate, but he was moving fast and he took a left on the road just beyond the tracks before I could get a good look at it. I saw the top of the boy’s head through the side window and this filled me back up with some of the rage and courage that pushed me out onto the pavement a minute before.

I hit the gas and roared after him. He made a right turn a hundred yards down the road, so I took the street straight ahead because I knew would eventually be able to cut him off using the little side streets in the neighborhoods. My nerve had returned. My heart was back in charge. All I wanted to do was wipe that grin off his face once and for all.

When I got to the intersection where I figured we’d meet up, I quickly rolled down my windows and listened for the sound of his exhaust system and big muscle car engine. I heard nothing but the sounds of two dogs barking at each other through backyard fences. He must have turned off on another road. I missed my chance to stop him. He's still out there.

A shorter version of this story was published in Atlanta Press in April, 2000.

Teenage Drinking Problem

 

This story is excerpted from a chapter in the yet-to-be-completed book I'm writing about my childhood. I'm not sure this goofy little memory nugget is going to make the final cut, so I figured I'd at least let it out of its cage to roam around in the blogosphere.

by Patrick Best

"Here's to alcohol: the cause of, and answer to, all of life's problems." -Matt Groening

My friend TJ and I rode our bicycles down to the Phillips 76 station off Highway 231 that was less than a quarter mile from his house. We wanted some beer for a camping trip we had planned for that evening, and we figured we could easily find a trucker or ex-con down there who'd be willing to help us out. We were 15, but we'd been drinking at least a few times a month for a couple of years.

We didn’t want the store’s only employee to see us creeping around and get suspicious, so we put our kickstands down on the side of the cinder block building and sat on the curb near the entrance to the putrid restrooms. We had to hold our noses and breathe out of our mouths to deal with the stench, but it was the only place we could be out of sight from the cashier and still have a good view of the customers in the parking lot and at the pumps.  

We’d only been there for about five minutes when I saw a woman walking toward the front door to pay for the gas she’d just pumped.

“I bet she’ll do it,” I said as I nodded in the direction of a tall, thin woman in a short blue jean skirt, white tube top and red high heels. She had bleach blonde hair, really skinny legs and the leathery jaundiced-looking skin of one who’s smoked too many cigarettes, drank too much brown liquor and spent way too many hours in a lawn chair covered with baby oil and south Alabama sunshine. She looked like the kind of gal who spent a lot of time in bars where George Jones and Conway Twitty songs dominated the playlist on the jukebox. She was smoking one of those long, thin Virginia Slims cigarettes that I always thought made the women who held them look wealthy and mysterious. She dressed like she lived in a trailer park and her car was 1970-something blue Chevy Nova with a dent in the back quarter panel, but her long, fancy cancer stick still made me think of Joan Collins, Linda Evans and John Forsythe from “Dynasty”.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. My cheeks were hot and my palms were sweating. “Would you mind doing us a favor?”

“Ma’am?!” she shouted and placed a hand on one of her nearly non-existent denim-covered hips. I noticed that her fingernail polish almost matched the color of her heels. Almost. “Just how OLD do you think I am?!”

“I’m sorry. You don’t look old at all.” My heart was racing and my eyes were as big and round as the Frisbee TJ and I had been tossing around an hour before. “My momma makes me say ma’am to anyone who’s older than me.”

“Riiiiiight,” she said sarcastically. “I asked you a question. How OLD do I look to you?” She expected an answer.

“I… I really don’t know, ma’am. I mean… shit.” She looked several years older than my mother, but she was dressed like a teenager.

“Come on. I want to see how close you get,” she said, insistently.

“No older than 36…” I searched her eyes for a reaction. She looked to be in her early 40s, so I figured I was giving her a compliment without going so low that she’d know I was full of it. “I’m going to say you’re 35…”

She didn’t react. She just stared at me. No, glared.

“I think you’re 23 or 24,” TJ said in the syrupy sweet tone of a very bad ass-kisser. 

“Thanks,” she said to him, flatly. “Now what’s this favor?” I could tell she wasn’t happy with either of the numbers we gave her.

“I was just wondering if you would be willing to buy us a six-pack of beer if I gave you the money. Busch Light.” My voice was shaky, and I thrust out a five and two ones toward her like she was holding me up at gunpoint and all I wanted to do was get away. “You can keep the change, too.”

She stared at me, then at TJ, and took a long drag off her cigarette. Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a smile that wasn’t the least bit friendly or cheerful. Smoke drifted out of her mouth and nose in thick twisting streams that looked like they were dancing as they disappeared above her head. She now reminded me of Cruella Deville from “101 Dalmatians”.

“You want ME to buy YOU beer?!” she said with a chuckle. “And I get to keep the change?”

“We’re going camping tonight and…” I managed to stutter.

“How old are YOU?” she said. “13?”

“15...” I said self-consciously. “16 next month.”

“I have a 16 year-old daughter,” she said. “But she looks a lot older than you two.”

“I’m already 16,” TJ lied. “What’s your daughter’s name? I might know her.”

“You don't know my daughter,” she said through tight lips that were covered with lipstick the color of an over-ripe watermelon. She snatched the money out of my hand and stuffed it into her big brown purse. She then turned and walked toward the front door of the store, leaving TJ and I standing outside confused and excited all at the same time.

“What the hell was that?” TJ asked. “Is she going to buy the beer, or what?”

“I think so,” I replied. “Even though she totally saw through your ‘you look 23 or 24’ bullshit.”

“Whatever, man. You’re lucky I was here to save your ass. She bought it hook, line and sinker.”

“Whatever, dude," I said, shaking my head.


“She probably wants me,” TJ said with a smile.

“Huh?! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

We moved around the corner of the store and peeked through one of the big windows that covered the front of the building. The woman walked to the cooler, grabbed a twelve-pack of Budweiser and carried it toward the counter.

“Check it out, Pat!” TJ said with excitement. “You see that?! She grabbed a twelve-pack!”

“She is totally hooking us up!” I yelled. "Maybe she does want a date with you."

“Hell yeah, she does. Because I am Kid… DYN-O-MITE!” TJ did his best JJ Evans impersonation, the character played by Jimmie Walker in the ghetto sitcom Good Times. He did it a lot. It was so bad that I couldn’t help but laugh every time.

“You’re an idiot,” I said and punched him in the shoulder.

We watched as the woman said something to the guy behind the counter and they both laughed. She reached over and patted his hairy forearm as he handed her back her change.

“Why do think she acted all pissed at us before she went in?” I asked as we watched her walk toward the door with the cardboard suitcase full of beer.

“I don’t know, man,” TJ said gleefully. “But she’s obviously not pissed now.”

When she came through the door she stared straight ahead like we were completely invisible to her, like the conversation we’d had just minutes before had never happened. Just as I was about to call out to her, she said, “Y’all wait around the corner of the store. I’ll drive around the side and meet you.” She strutted across the parking lot as cool as one of those hot chicks from ZZ Top’s “Legs” music video.

“Yes ma’am… I mean… okay,” I said as TJ and I quickly moved toward the side of the building and out of view of the cashier and the other customers who were pulling up to the store. We grabbed our bicycles and moved out a little toward the road that led to TJ’s neighborhood. We wanted to be ready to roll when she handed off the goods.

“Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine,” TJ sang. “Man, I love Prince. I don’t care what anyone says… Prince is the man!”

“Totally,” I agreed. “He’s a weird-looking little dude… but he’s totally the man.”

We watched from the side of store as she got into her beat up Chevy Nova, cranked it, put it into drive and sped down Hwy. 231 and out of sight. We stood there straddling our bikes without saying a word for at least 90 seconds.

“Damn,” TJ finally broke the silence. “Guess we’re not drinking beer tonight.”

“Nope. Guess not.”

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dorothy Hamill, the Boy Scout and the Attack of the Yellow Jackets

By Patrick Best

I rode my bike up to the Stark’s house to see if Dean and Lucy wanted to play. It was the summer of 1978 and I had just celebrated my eighth birthday. They had a sister a few years younger than me named Traci, but I had no interest in playing with her because she was in kindergarten. I'm surprised I even remember her name. Dean and Lucy never wanted to play baseball or jump ramps on their bicycles, but I still enjoyed hanging out with them. When you’re a kid who lives in a town with a population of 1,500 or so, you learn to deal with differences or you’ll spend a lot of time talking to your imaginary friends.

The Stark family lived up the street from my grandfather’s house on Washington St. in Ft. Gaines, GA. They had a nice little yellow house with fresh paint and trimmed bushes and flower beds that were tended with care. Dean was in the Boy Scouts, and, for some reason, always seemed to be in his uniform. Always. I don’t know if he had meetings every night of the week, or if he just really liked wearing that tan and green get-up with the yellow neckerchief. I went to one meeting with him and I knew within five minutes that I wasn’t a merit badges kinda guy. I have nothing against the Boy Scouts, but tying knots and lighting fires with sticks wasn’t - and still isn’t - my idea of a fun Friday night.

Lucy had a haircut like Olympic gold medalist figure skater, Dorothy Hamill, and a smile just as bright. Unfortunately, Lucy was not blessed with Hamill’s coordination. Watching her weave and wobble down the road on her bike with its over-sized wheels and fat cushiony seat made me crazy. We were friends during my I-Want-To-Grow-Up-To-Be-Evel-Knievel stage, so anyone who couldn’t ride a never-ending wheelie down the sidewalk was prone to get the occasional eye roll and slow condescending head shake from me. My fascination and adoration for Knievel was off the charts. I had the toys, posters, t-shirts and the patented Evel Knievel red, white and blue number one license plate that I attached to the front of the handlebars on my bike.

“Let’s go into the woods behind the house,” Dean said. “I need to get some leaves from different kinds of trees.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Scouts,” Lucy said, exasperated. "He needs to get the leaves for some Scouts thing."

“Oh,” I replied. “Okay, fine. Let’s go into the woods.”

Dean, Lucy and I jumped the fence behind their house and walked into the trees. Dean was our leader because he was the oldest and in uniform. 

“We can’t go to the stream today,” Lucy said as she walked. “I’m wearing my new shoes and Momma will kill me if I get them wet.”

“You should have changed before we came out here, Lucy,” Dean barked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Hush, Dean. I wanted to wear them!” Lucy snapped back. “I’m still out here, aren't I?”

“I hate new shoes,” I said. “They make my feet hurt.”

“My new shoes feel just fine. They make my feet feel good - a lot better than my old shoes.”

“I want to go to the stream, so you’ll just have to stay away from the water,” Dean said emphatically.

“Fine,” Lucy said. "We'll do whatever Dean wants."

We got to an area of the woods where the trees were so close together that it was impossible to walk. Lucy and I got on our hands and knees and started crawling underneath the branches.

“What are y’all doing?” Dean said. “We can just walk around if we go that way a hundred yards.”

“It’s okay,” Lucy said as she trudged through the leaves. “I got my shoes off the ground.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I added, careful not to put my face into a spider's web. “This is the faster way.”

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Lucy shouted. She sounded like a pistol firing three times in a row, but instead of “Pow!” she was said “Ow!”. The quick little gunshot sounds were followed by a blood-curdling scream that scared the bejesus out of me. I jerked my head up and struck a branch that was just above me. When I opened my eyes, wincing from the pain caused by the knock on my noggin, I saw Lucy flailing her arms in all directions. She was slapping at her face and neck like she was possessed by the devil.

“Yellow jackets! Yellow jackets! Lucy! Get out of there!” Dean shouted from behind me. The first stings I got were on my face and neck and it felt like I was being pinched with needle nose pliers that were being slowly twisted to increase the pain they inflicted.

"Shiiiiiit!" I yelled. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

The world became a blur as I began to hit myself and shake my body in much the same way I’d seen Lucy reacting to the yellow and black attack. Dean grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward him. I didn’t make it easy for him to drag me out. It was if the yellow jackets’ stings were injecting paralyzing venom into me that made my arms and legs dead weight.

Dean had dragged me out for enough for me to stand and run away, but I couldn’t get up. I watched as he bravely moved to where I had been under the branches and grabbed his sister’s legs to pull her away from the mass of yellow and black demon bugs that were dancing from side to side in the in the air around Lucy’s head. There were so many around my body that I was able to grab hands full of them and smash them in my palms. No matter how many I knocked away there were more behind them.

“Go!” Dean said as he lifted Lucy off the ground. “Go, Pat! Run!”

I stood up as they moved past me, Dean dragging Lucy like an old rag doll that’s stuffed with cotton that’s become clumped and hard from being thrown in the washing machine too many times. I started running toward their house as fast as I’ve ever run in my life. I could feel thorn bushes tearing the skin from my shins and thighs, but I didn’t pause or look down to see the damage that was being inflicted. We were all screaming as we ran. Not words. Horrible, animalistic howls of agony and fear.

The yellow jackets were still with me, still buzzing in my shirt and hair. I could feel the skin on my face swelling and tightening. Dean and Lucy got to the fence that separated their yard from the woods, and they were climbing over together as they bellowed for their parents to come out and help them. For some reason I thought I could jump the fence. I was eight years old, and the top strand of barbed wire was at least four feet high, but I never slowed down. I ran and leaped like a hurdler. Believe it or not, I almost made it. Almost. My front leg made it over, but the fence caught my back just above the ankle of leg number two. In an instant I was hanging upside down, the barbed wire holding onto my blue jeans with a death grip. A few yellow jackets were inside my shirt and straining to get free from my heavy sweat-drenched hair. I hung there, weak and whimpering, for what seemed like an eternity.

“Help!” I called out weakly. “Help me!”

Dean and Lucy’s father burst out the back door and ran over to me. His voice sounded frantic... on the verge of hysteria. “You’re going to be okay, son. We need to get you kids inside. You’re all going to be okay.”  He lifted me up and away from the fence. I closed my eyes and hugged him as he rushed me into the house.

“Take off your clothes,” Mrs. Stark said, her eyes filled with tears. Lucy was standing next to a window unit air conditioner in just a t-shirt and white cotton underwear, her arms lifted at her side. She looked like a baby bird whose about to jump from the nest and test her wings for the first time. Her face and neck were swollen and red and she was making a wheezing noise that scared me. She marched in place and looked at me with the blank stare of a blind person.

“Take off your shirt!” Mr. Stark said to me. “We need to make sure they’re all gone.”

I didn’t move fast enough, so he grabbed my shirt and pulled it over my head. My arms flung up in the air then flopped back down like a marionette whose body parts are being controlled by a toddler puppeteer. He knocked away the remnants of a few yellow jackets that were on my back and chest. I could feel my pulse in my eyebrow.

“Do you feel any of them on your legs?” he said as he kneeled down and stared at my face. “Do you have any in your pants?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I could feel the wetness of the blood sliding down my shins thanks to the thorn bushes and barbed wire, but I didn’t want to take off my pants. “I wanna go home.”

Dean was standing next to me with his shirt off. He was crying, but it wasn’t for the same reason as me and Lucy. We were crying because we were in pain. He had been stung a lot, but Dean was worried about his sister.

“Is Lucy okay, Momma?” Dean said through sobs.

“Yes, Dean,” she said as she patted a wet wash cloth on Lucy’s cheeks. “Everyone’s fine now. Don’t worry.”

I saw him in a completely different way than I had before. He had saved us. He was a hero. He had dragged Lucy and I out of the brush even though he was getting stung, too. I still didn’t want to be a Boy Scout, but my opinion of them had definitely been elevated by his actions. 

We were all taken to the hospital and treated by my grandfather and his nurses. He gave me a shot that made me sleepy and a little less worried about the painful lumps all over my body. I don’t remember going home, but I do remember Momma helping me out of my clothes and into my bed.

“You poor thing. You were stung more than 40 times, Pitter,” Momma said as she rubbed my head. I liked when she called me Pitter. Made me feel special to have a nickname.

I could barely see her face - both my eyes were nearly swollen shut. Momma was sitting on the bed next to me and it felt so good to have her there, no matter the circumstances.

“Is Lu-pee okay?” I asked. My lips and the inside of my mouth had been stung several times, so my speech was being affected. I sounded a lot like Mushmouth from the Fat Albert cartoon.

“She’s going to be okay, baby,” she said with worried eyes. “Your Papa said she was stung more than a hundred times, but she’s going to be just fine.”

“Hunbred times?” I said. This probably sounds crazy – and I still feel guilty about it all these years later - but I was a jealous of Lucy at that moment. She was in the hospital getting treated by my grandfather and the nurses, and I knew the news of our incident in the woods would spread around town quickly. ‘Did you hear about that poor Lucy Stark?’ someone would say down at Hall’s Drug Store. ‘She got stung more than hundred times by yellow jackets,’ another would say at the City Market. ‘That boy who always wears the Boy Scout uniform and Patrick Best got stung a lot, too… but Lucy’s still in the hospital, bless her heart.’ Dean and I would be an afterthought. Forty is a lot, but it pales in comparison to more than 100.

“Are wu sure I onwee got stun forbee times?” I asked.

“Only? That’s more than most people get stung in their whole life, sweet boy. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Momma continued to stroke my hair as the medication dragged me toward sleep. My jealousy was fleeting.

“Lucy’s going to be fine, baby. You rest now.”

“Don’t leeb me, Momma," I said sleepily, but desperately. "Stay wib me.”

“Momma’s right here. I’m not going anywhere.” She smiled at me as she bent down and kissed me lightly on my forehead. She stroked my hair, and even though it hurt just a little when she touched the places on my scalp where the yellow jackets had been, I didn't say a word. I would have taken 1,000 stings if I could have guaranteed that feeling would last longer.

‘Is this why momma’s always sick?’ I thought.  ‘Does it make her feel as loved as I feel right now?’

“I lub you, Momma,” I said as I closed my eyes. “I lub you more dan any-ting.”

“Momma loves you, too, baby. More than anything.”

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Turn Out the Lights, The (Pity) Party’s Over

By Patrick Best

Every once in a while I need a swift and hard kick in the butt. I start feeling sorry for myself, and I go from being the Smiling, Joking, Extroverted, Look at Me, Look at Me Patrick to the I Want to Close the Blinds, Eat Ice Cream and Listen to James Taylor’s Greatest Hits Patrick. This doesn’t happen very often, but, unfortunately, it happened this week. Susie has always been good about breaking up my pity parties before I have to get prescribed anything heavier than two beers and some loud rock-n-roll, but this has been one serious woe is me get-down session.

When I got up this morning I didn’t want to go to work. I started coming up with illnesses and car problem stories as soon as I opened my eyes. Nothing felt right. My coffee wasn’t hot enough, my breakfast bar was too soft, and the water coming out of the shower head felt like a million little needles sticking into my body. I had a couple of pretty big meetings scheduled today, so I sucked it up, put on my dress shirt that had too much starch in it, black suit that didn’t seem to fit me right anymore, and drove to my office.

My biggest meeting of the day was in the afternoon. It was a rescheduled presentation to a potentially large client who’d emailed me the day before our meeting last week to tell me he had to go to New York. Strangely, I started getting into “one of my moods”, as Susie calls them, around the time I received this brief email:

“Hey Patrick. I’m going to have to postpone our meeting tomorrow. Going to be in NYC. Next Tuesday at the same time okay with you?”

I took a deep breath, flipped a bird at my computer screen, rearranged some things on my schedule, then responded with “I totally understand.” and “I hope you have a great trip! See you next Tuesday!” I learned long ago that if you’re going to be successful in sales you sometimes have to smile and say “I totally understand”… even when you totally don’t understand. 

He seemed distracted from the moment I started my presentation. I went over some things we’d discussed over the phone a few weeks ago – average spend of each customer, areas of his business he wants to grow, what makes his business different from his competitors – as he sat in his chair with his arms crossed, occasionally sneaking a peek at the very large Rolex watch he wore on his left wrist.

“You told me that you estimate each new customer you acquire will spend about $500 with you in year one,” I said as I pressed the button to move the PowerPoint presentation from page two to three. His cell phone rang - the annoyingly loud sound sent shivers through my whole body.

He quickly stood up and reached into the pocket of his dress slacks, fished the phone out quickly. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to take this call,” he said as he walked to the door and left the room. “Hey honey,” he said into the phone as his accidentally slammed the door behind him.

‘Great,’ I said to myself. ‘What a freaking waste of time.’ I’ve been in advertising sales for about two decades, so I can usually tell whether a person’s going to buy from me in the first minute after a meeting starts. I knew within 10 seconds that I wasn’t walking out with a contract today.

He had a pained look on his face when he came back into the room. I couldn’t tell whether it was the “I really don’t want to listen to a sales pitch from a guy I’m not going to buy from today” face or the “I just heard something in that phone conversation that really screwed up my day” face.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yes... sorry about that,” he smiled. “Where were we?”

I quickly went back over page two again and he acted as though it was the first time he’d heard any of it. That’s because I’m fairly confident it WAS the first time he’d heard any of it. Since I knew there was no way this guy was going to sign on the dotted line, I moved through some of the pie charts and bar graphs pages like a guy who’s had some bad Mexican food for lunch and wants to get back to the office before the Tijuana fireworks started blasting.

“I’m sorry. Gotta take this…” he stood and stared at the face of his iPhone with wide, hungry eyes.

“I totally understand,” I said with a smile.

“Hello,” he said into the phone, paying no attention to my response. “Yes, this is Craig.”

He left the room again, but this time he didn’t close the door. I tried not to listen to the conversation, but I’m a sales guy… and good sales guys listen. “Yes, yes, Monday and Tuesday are fine,” he said with more than a hint of urgency. “Should I go ahead and book flights for us for Monday morning?... Uh huh… That’s not a problem… We’re prepared to come anytime.”

I was ready to pack up and leave. I didn’t have his attention, so I wasn’t going to make a sale. I wasn’t the priority… the subject of the phone call was the priority. ‘Never be the sales guy who sticks around longer than he’s wanted. That guy doesn’t get invited back.’

When he walked back into the room he looked like a man who’d just witnessed a terrible car accident. I was packing up my computer and preparing some leave behind materials I’d put together for him. His face was whiter than when he’d left the room, his hair a little messy from where he’d run his hand through it. The inside of his right front pocket was peeking out of his pants from when he’d pulled his phone out. The phone was still clutched in his hand.

“I’m really sorry about not being engaged today,” he said. “My son is really sick.”

“Oh no…” I said. My face felt flush and the sympathetic words and thoughts that were in my head and on the tip of my tongue stayed right where they were.

“He’s in pretty bad shape,” he said. He paused and bit his upper lip with bottom teeth. “We took him to New York last week to see a specialist, but nothing seems to be working. I was talking to another doctor about getting him back in early next week.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Five minutes ago I wanted to slam my fists on the conference room table and tell him that he was an inconsiderate jerk. Now I wanted to give him a hug.

“He has diverticulosis. It’s supposed to be treatable… but the doctors can’t figure out why he’s not responding.” He looked up to the ceiling like he was either hoping for divine intervention or trying to keep the water in his eyes from spilling over his eyelids. When he lowered his head and looked at me again, I came to the conclusion that it was probably both.

“I’m sure he’s going to be okay, Craig,” I said weakly. “I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.”

I thanked him for his time and told him at least three more times before I left his office how “truly sorry” I was to hear about his son’s illness. I drove back to my office with my cell phone and radio off, thanking God out loud for the health of my children and chastising myself for not counting and recognizing my many blessings. If you happened to see my driving down 285 talking to myself today, please don’t be worried about me. I’m not crazy… I was just responding to my most recent kick in the butt.

The Runway Model from L.A. (Lower Alabama)

By Patrick Best

When I was 16 years old I became infatuated with a girl named Christi Ross. She was almost six foot tall, had long brown hair and her skin was so perfect I compulsively said things like the following when I looked directly at her: “Wow, Christi, you sure do have pretty skin.” This made me sound eerily like one of the crazed serial killers in the horror movies I watched on Showtime late at night, so I started looking at the ground or at the back of my hands when I talked to her.

Christi literally looked like a runway model. This is one of the many reasons why I couldn’t understand why she had any interest in me. I was poor, I hung out with the wrong crowd, and my wardrobe said homeless runaway more than it did New York Fashion Week. I wore wrinkled concert T-shirts that were screen printed with band names and pictures that usually included blood or flames or both, and my only pair of high top tennis shoes were covered with grass stains from the occasional lawn-cutting job I did to earn walking around money.

My hair was long and straight, and I had an annoying habit of blowing my bangs out of my eyes every 10 or 15 seconds. It drove my step-father absolutely nuts. “Woo! Woo!” my step-father would mimic me as he blew air toward the sky through his puckered, beard-surrounded lips. “That’s all I hear when I’m around you! Woo! Woo! Get a haircut, for god’s sake!” A bulging, crooked vein would appear in the middle of his forehead and I’m convinced he seriously considered grabbing a steak knife out of the kitchen drawer and sawing off a couple of inches of my hair. I didn’t care. I liked my long hair. And, more importantly, Christi Ross liked it.

“You have really cool hair,” she said to me during one of our phone conversations. “It’s really shiny.”

This simple compliment made me obsess over my hair in the morning before school. I started getting up earlier every day so I could wash it and blow-dry it and stare at it in the mirror. I turned my head from side to side so I could get the lights to gleam off the shampooed, conditioned and thoroughly brushed strands. 

For a few glorious weeks in the early fall of 1986, Christi and I talked on the phone all the time. We also chatted at school in the hallway.  Even better, she invited me over to her house a couple of times to watch movies. I remember being impressed – and more than a little intimidated - by her beautiful house with the expensive furniture and the big T.V. in her living room.

“Do you want some chips, Patrick?” Christi’s mother asked me politely as she opened the pantry doors in their kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied eagerly. Christi was sitting on the couch next to me so I was staring down at my fingertips, checking for the little white spots that I’d heard appear on your nails if you don’t have enough calcium in your diet.

“Plain, barbecue or Doritos?” she asked.

“Doritos, please.” There were no white spots on my nails. I surmised that it must have been all the milk I consumed in the two or three bowls of Crunch Berries cereal I ate each day.

“Would you like a Coke?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a smile.

“How about a chocolate chip cookie?” she added as she handed me a big bag of Doritos and a cold can of Coke.  “I made a bunch yesterday.”

“God, Momma,” Christi said as she laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to give him a stomach ache!”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I love chocolate chip cookies.” ‘Did you really just say that? I love chocolate chip cookies?! Really?! You are such a dork!’ My internal dialogue was constant when I was in uncomfortable situations, and this was definitely an uncomfortable situation for me. I probably spoke more words to myself than I did to Christi during my time at her house.

I spent a lot of my time away from high school drinking cheap beer and getting into trouble with my friends, so most of the mothers of the girls I liked stared at me with raised eyebrows and accusing eyes. Christi’s mom talked and looked at me like I was a kid whose parents belonged to the Ozark Country Club and had his picture in the newspaper for making all As and not missing one day of school since kindergarten. I liked it… and I liked her. But, alas, my relationship with Christi and her mother wouldn’t even last a full month.

My friend Justin and I were riding around in his silver Chevy Chevette one day after school. We were both around 6’3, so we looked pretty ridiculous crammed into the front seat of that little car. We didn’t care. If one of our friends had a car that worked, we were going to be out riding around in it until the gas tank ran dry and we were all out of money. We had just come through town and were sitting at a stop sign when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. I could see my little house on East College Street from where we were sitting, and there was a car in the driveway and people standing in the yard.  

“Who is that?” I asked Justin, pointing in the direction of my house. We were a couple of hundred yards away, but I could tell there were three people talking on my front lawn.

“How the hell do I know?” he responded sarcastically. “I don’t have binoculars for eyes, ya know.”

“You don’t have to be such a jerk about it,” I said. “Drive by real quick and let me see what’s going on.”

“Really, dude?! Who cares? Let’s just go over to TJ’s and pick him up. He’s waiting for us.”

“Just ride by real quick. It won’t take two seconds.”

Justin reluctantly turned the steering wheel, grinded into first gear and pressed the accelerator. The little tin can with wheels lurched forward like a cat trying to push out a giant hair ball, and we slowly moved up the street toward my house. I recognized Christi first. Her arms were crossed, her head was down, and she was standing in the middle of my front yard. Her mother was a few feet in front of her and she was holding my mother’s out-stretched hands.  

“What in the hell?” I said with astonishment.

“Dude, this does not look good,” Justin said gravely. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. How do they even know where I live?” I said as Justin pulled up in front of the house. I opened the door and leapt out onto the curb before the car came to a complete stop. Christi looked up when she heard the creak of the door. Her face turned beet red, then she dropped her eyes back down to the dandelions and clover that had overtaken our yard.

‘Dammit. I knew I should have cut the grass yesterday,’ I thought.

“Hey, baby,” my mother said before I could get out any of the questions swirling in my head. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

I completely ignored her and spoke to Christi. “Is everything okay, Christi? What are you guys doing here?”

Christi said nothing. She shrugged her shoulders slowly like a child who’s just been caught lighting matches behind the sofa. She was wearing navy blue shorts and a white designer shirt. She looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of the new Macy’s catalog.

My mother’s voice broke the silence. “Christi tried to call you this afternoon and she kept getting the message that our phone had been disconnected. She got worried about you, baby, so her and her sweet momma came over to check on us.” She paused, then added, “And Christi, you’re even prettier than Patrick said.”

Christi smiled politely and nodded her head, but she didn’t look up or say a word.

I could tell my mother had been drinking because the sides of her mouth were turned down in a frown and her eyes looked a little sleepy behind the big red eyeglasses that looked just like the ones TV’s Sally Jessy Raphael wore every day on her talk show. My mother always spoke with a Southern accent, but after two stiff drinks she would channel Scarlett O’Hara during her melodramatic scenes with Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind. ‘And when I think of myself with everything I could possibly hope for, and not a care in the world... And you here in this horrid jail... and not even a human jail, Rhett, a horse jail!’

“What’s wrong with the phone?” I asked as if I was shocked by this news. I already knew it had been cut off because we hadn’t paid the bill, but for some reason I felt I might get another explanation from  my mother if I asked the question with conviction.

“I told Mrs. Ross that we’ve been having the hardest time keeping up with our bills,” she said as reached out to touch Mrs. Ross’s forearm. “And, bless her heart, Mrs. Ross has offered to pay this month’s bill. Isn’t that sweet, Patrick? Isn’t she just a blessing?”

“What?!” I yelled. The volume of my voice made everyone jump. Even Christi looked up at me for a brief moment before returning her eyes to the weeds. “She’s not paying our bill, Momma.”

“It’s fine, Patrick,” Mrs. Ross said cheerily, reassuringly. “I told your mother she can pay me back whenever things get better. Y’all can’t go without a phone. It’s just not safe.”

I could tell by the look in her eyes that she felt pity for me. I felt like I was on fire all over.

“Go in the house, Momma,” I said calmly. “Let me talk to Christi and Mrs. Ross.”

“Isn’t she just as nice as can be, Patrick?” my mother said, her hand now patting Mrs. Ross on the shoulder. I could almost imagine her twirling a parasol and wearing a dress made out of curtains.

“Go in the house, Momma,” I repeated, this time through tightly gritted teeth. My mother seemed to notice for the first time at that moment that I was angry. This recognition seemed to immediately sober her up, like the sight of my red cheeks and furrowed brow was the equivalent of a cold shower and a double shot of espresso. She turned around and, without saying another word, walked up the concrete steps and into our house. She slammed the front door behind her. I felt a pang of guilt for the way I had talked to her, but my feelings of embarrassment and frustration were much more powerful.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Mrs. Ross said. “I…”

“You didn’t cause any trouble,” I interrupted. “We don’t need you to pay our phone, Mrs. Ross. My step-father has the money to pay the bill.” I lied.

“Oh… good,” she stammered. She wasn’t buying what I was selling, but she didn’t know what else to say.

I didn’t even look at Christi. I already knew she was going to be out of my life. Our relationship didn’t have enough history to hold heavy moments like disconnected phones and drunk mothers. Moments like that sit on immature young relationships and crush them like an elephant on chairs made for toddlers.

“Well, you give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help you,” Mrs. Ross said as she reached out to give me a hug. I hugged her back, but we didn’t say anything else to each other. When she let me go, she stepped away from me and smiled.

“Come on, Christi, let’s go. I need to stop by the grocery store before we go home,” Mrs. Ross said in an upbeat tone as she walked toward her car.

Christi muttered “See you tomorrow” in my direction and quickly moved toward the passenger door of her mother’s car.

“Sounds good,” I replied flatly. “See you tomorrow.”

Justin’s car was idling in the road in front of my house. When I opened the door and slowly folded myself back into that tiny death trap of a vehicle, my knees slammed against the handle on the glove compartment. “Dammit, this car is not made for people like us,” I said, grimacing with pain.

 Justin looked at me quizzically. “So… you gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

“You’re not going to believe it. Our phone got cut off… and Mrs. Ross was offering to pay to have it cut back on.”

“Screw that!” he said. “You told her to go to hell, right?”

“Basically,” I replied.

“Good for you, dude. You don’t need their charity,” he said as he aggressively pressed down the clutch and guided the little stick shift into first gear.

“I sure as hell don’t,” I said as I turned up the stereo. The sound of loud guitars and pounding drums blared from the speakers and chased away the remainder of the conversation.

I watched as the Ross girls backed out of my driveway and headed back to a life that didn’t include me.  The next day at school a friend of Christi’s told me she didn’t like anymore. This filled me with a mixture of emotions that included pride, anger and a little bit of sadness. I never talked to her again. Not one word. I acted like I didn’t see her when we passed each other in the hallways, and I didn’t call her when our phone got turned back on a couple of months later. It’s just as well. I was definitely the wrong guy for her if she couldn’t handle a little family drama every once in a while. Besides, if I kept going over to her house to watch movies, her mom would have eventually turned me into a diabetic. Things happen for a reason.

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

One-Way Ticket to a Better Life

By Patrick Best

(Written January 16^th, 2013)

Please send thoughts and prayers in the direction of my dear friends Perry Willis (Britt) and Mike Willis tonight. They lost their wonderful mother, Sheila, today after a long illness. She was a generous and loving woman who welcomed me into her home and her heart like I was one of her own. She was one of the people who helped keep me optimistic and hopeful during some fairly dark days in my teenage years, and, for that, I will be forever grateful.

I was fortunate enough to get to visit with her at the hospital for a couple of days last week, and her warmth and sense of humor were just as strong as they were when I first met her 28 or so years ago. One of the many things I will always remember about Sheila is that she always listened to everything her sons and their knucklehead friends had to say. Really listen. That's a rare and valuable thing to a teenager. She didn't always agree with what we had to say (or did, for that matter), but she made us feel like our opinions mattered.

Some of my fondest teenage memories happened at their little house off Hwy. 231 just past Deloney's IGA. I can still see her sitting in their livingroom with her legs pulled underneath her in her comfy chair, her reading glasses on, and a brand new paperback romance novel in her hand. I'm convinced that Fabio was able to pay for at least one chest wax and a Botox treatment per month thanks to Sheila. We would crash through the front door right past her like wild animals, crank up the stereo or turn on the TV, and all she would do is smile, peek over the top of her glasses, exhale slowly and dryly say "Well... helloooo." or "Welcome home, boys.".

Sheila was the person who bought me the one-way Greyhound bus ticket that got me out of Ozark, Alabama and into a better future. If she didn't spend that $87, I would have never met my wife, I wouldn't have my two beautiful children and I probably wouldn't have the strong relationship I have with my father, step-mother and brothers today. The world was definitely a better place with Sheila in it, but I know she is in a better place for her tonight.

Jenny's Wrong Number

By Patrick Best

I fell asleep at about 10:45 last night. I had a big dinner, a few drinks and I was out. That’s all folks! Happy New Year! Around 3 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of our house phone ringing. It rang only once, but it was enough to shake me from my dreams of collard greens and black-eyed peas. I struggled to sit up, my body feeling heavy like I was wearing one of those lead vests they make you put on when you get an x-ray. Susie got to the phone first, but when she picked it up she stared at it like it was some strange object that had just fallen out of the sky.

“Who was it?” I said with a thick tongue, my eyes opening and shutting over and over like a ventriloquist dummy.

“I don’t know. Hold on a second.” Anyone else who heard her tone would have thought she was angry at me. After nearly a quarter century of waking up next to her, I knew she was still trying to shake out the cobwebs. She’s kinda like a momma grizzly bear when she gets disturbed unexpectedly: she bites first, asks questions later.

“Check the Caller ID,” I said urgently. I had that same weird, nervous energy I get in a bad storm when I know it’s time to head for cover.

“I am!” she said, now very much awake and a bit perturbed with me for stating the obvious. “It says the last call came from the Publix Pharmacy… yesterday morning.”

I grabbed the phone to see for myself, but, of course, the display screen told me the same thing. Concern and questions wrestled in my head like a Georgia Championship Wrestling bout between Wildfire Tommy Rich and “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. ‘Who called? Why did they call? Are the kids okay? No one calls our house phone anymore except telemarketers… and the Publix Pharmacy. No one calls at this hour unless there’s trouble. This can’t be good.'

We both grabbed our cell phones to check to see if we’d missed any calls. We hadn’t. Zach and Morgan were not at home, so our minds went to them first. We knew Zach was out ringing in the New Year with his childhood friends, and Morgan was in Moultrie visiting with her boyfriend and his family. My mind went to Zach first. Last year’s New Year’s Day morning found me at Rockdale Hospital emergency room with him while he got stitches in the area between his upper lip and his nose. It wasn’t a great way to start 2012.

Susie checked Facebook to see if there might be any indicators of trouble there. Zach had made a couple of posts after midnight, so we were pretty sure he was probably still out celebrating. Morgan had made no posts.

“You call Morgan and I’ll call Zach, Susie.” I said totally engaged and in Dad mode now.

“No. It’s after 3.”

“Fine!” I said. I’m the Nervous Nellie in our relationship, so I knew I had to call them both if I was going to be able to go back to sleep.

Morgan finally answered after about six rings. “Hey… Dad?” she said sleepily.

“Hey sweetie. Did you call the house phone?” I asked stupidly.

"No," she replied. Of course she had not called the house phone. She was asleep. We talked for no more than 45 seconds and said our goodbyes.

When I called Zach he answered after one ring. That’s unusual – it usually takes at least four rings for him to decide whether he wants to pick up or not. I’m sure he was just as concerned to see my name pop up on his phone that late as I was when I pressed Send on his number.

“Hey! What’s up?” he said in a voice that sounded surprised, worried and very much awake.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yeah, why? You okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. Someone called the house phone and hung up, so we were worried about you…” My tone immediately changed from concerned to chipper. Well... probably a little more goofy, awkward school girl than chipper. I asked him what he was doing, who he was with, said ‘Happy New Year’, and got off the phone feeling embarrassed, but relieved.

I couldn’t go back to sleep for hours after that call. I racked my brain to come up with who else would have called so late. Family? Nah. They wouldn't have just let it ring once if something was wrong. I have a friend who sometimes drinks too much beer and calls in the wee hours of the morning, but he’s not the kind of fellow who lets it ring once and hangs up because he notices the time. When he calls late at night it’s because all the clocks in his world have stopped and he wants – no, needs - to talk about rock-n-roll and the crazy things we did together in the 1980s.

Maybe they called the wrong number, I thought. Maybe it was someone who was calling a friend to come pick them up because they were too drunk to drive, but they were off by one number. Maybe they noticed that errant digit as they stared blurry-eyed at the display on their iPhone and pressed End just as the first ring on our house phone occurred. I’m sure that girl – for some reason I imagine it’s a girl named Jenny – felt terrible about possibly waking the person she accidentally called. I pictured her clenching her teeth, squinting her eyes and waiting for her own phone to ring. She expected to answer and hear an angry man’s voice say “I just received a call from this number. Do you know what time it is?!”

I’m sure Jenny will wake up sometime this afternoon and look at her phone. She’ll notice our number and remember when her clumsy, drunk fingers dialed it at dark thirty this morning. She’s a nice girl with lots of friends and parents that she loves dearly, so she’ll feel a pang of guilt in her stomach. She’ll want to call our number to apologize and explain to us that she’d had a few too many martinis and ‘just wanted to get home safe’. Instead, she’ll take two Advils, drink a glass of orange juice and lie on the couch and decide that it’s best just to let it go. She’s pretty sure she pressed End before the call went through anyway.