Buddy App

We all have our treasures, things we’d dash into a burning building to rescue. If you were to ask Sam what his most treasured possession was, he'd delve a hand into his pocket and produce a silver iPhone5S. He'd queued for a full twenty-four hours to make sure he got that phone on the day it was launched. His whole life was contained on his phone, he hadn't been parted from it for as much as a second since he got it.

When Sam was a teenager, he was sure he was destined to become the next great Hollywood A-lister. In high school, he took the male lead in every production he auditioned for. In between performances, he wrote and sang with his friends in a band called, “Zombie Fruitcake.” He moved to New York as soon as he could, to enable his rise to stardom. He was sure he’d be slapping away parts the moment he arrived. He chose New York because of Broadway and years of watching, Friends. After all, if Joey could make it big there, anyone could.

His first impression of the big apple was one of isolation. He sent out countless job applications, but only got called for a hand full of auditions. He’d even found it difficult to get an agent, eventually having to settle for one who wanted to be paid in advance for his services, rather than on a percentage of the work he procured. It wasn’t long before the money in Sam’s savings account ran out, and he was faced with a decision. Tuck tail and return home to face his friends, or get a real job.

The decision to stay had been one born of embarrassment. It turned out, finding a real job was no picnic either. After weeks of looking, he eventually found employment with, “Maxwell Financial Services.” The name was impressive, but the work was anything but. He was nothing more than a debt collector. Not the butch type who knocks on a door with a baseball bat, but the annoying kind that rings non-stop, at every hour of the day and night, until you change your number or pay up.

Sam hated everything about his job. He hated harassing people for stupid bills, he hated the way some of his workmates ravelled in their merger power and he hated the damn paperwork. The only good thing was the money. It allowed him to rent a shoe-box apartment without having to share, and to indulge himself with a succession of high-tec gadgets. The latest iPhone being his pride and joy. Yes, half the world had iPhones, but his was the limited-edition platinum model, with extra processing power.

It was spring in New York, and the rain had been torrential for days. The subway was packed with damp commuters, steaming up the windows in the overly warm carriage. He was glad he’d managed to snag a seat, there was twenty minutes to his stop. Even though the car was packed, it was nearly silent. The only noise was the screech of wheels on steel, speeding them through the guts of a city. It was the rule of the subway; don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone and don’t attract attention to yourself.

People plugged in earphones, read books, hid behind newspapers, or tapped on phones; all pretending they were alone. Sam’s fingers were going a mile a minute across his phone screen. Snapchat, email, Facebook, Twitter; he was constantly connected to the world wide web, but still connected to nobody. As if sensing his emotion, an advert appeared.

“Need a friend? Sign up for, Buddy App, and experience the ultimate in interactive technology.”

Buddy App? Why not, he thought. He clicked on the advert and read its promise of Artificial Intelligence. “It’s like having a person in your pocket,” it said. Amazingly enough, it was only $9.99. What the hell, for ten bucks, what could go wrong.

Sam hit the purchase button. A contract sheet appeared with page after page of small print. On the top of the first page was a tick-box for agreeing to terms and conditions. He clicked it without a second thought and hit go. The next page appeared with only one line and a red dot. Place thumb here. Sam had never seen anything like it but he pressed his right thumb against the screen anyway. The screen glowed and Sam felt heat sear his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, pulling his thumb away, shaking it like he’d pressed it against a hotplate. Sam examined the phone but it was cold to the touch. “Flipping weird,” he said as the screen moved on.

“Buddy App Loading. Please wait.” 

In a couple of seconds, the screen became a kaleidoscope of swirling colours. A rich male voice, with a deep-south accent, spoke to him.

“Why, hello there Sam. Mighty glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Cool,” he said to himself.

The voice on his phone laughed. “Glad you think so Sam, I think.” He was impressed. How had the programmers predicted what he’d say? This was some good stuff.

“How did they do that?” he wondered aloud.

“How did they do what? And who are they?” asked the voice in a pleasant drawl.

“Know what response to have lined up, and they are your programmers.”

Again, the voice chuckled, “You said, Cool. I just answered.”

“Impossible.”

“Clearly not. Ask me any question you like.”

“Okay, what’s today's date?”

“Seventeenth of March in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen. Too easy Sam, try something else.”

“Okay, where am I right now?”

“We…not you, are on a subway car, travelling on the One line, between Franklin St and Canal St, sitting in the second last seat, back right of the rail car. And you are wearing a New Yorker's baseball hat and a black rain slicker.”

“How did you do that?” Sam said in amazement.

“Easy. I accessed the global positioner in the phone to find out our exact position, after which it was easy to know we were moving along the exact path of the one-track, heading north. Second, I can see one seat behind you so you are in the second last seat, and the windows are on your right. I can see what you look like, so knowing what you are wearing is a piece of cake.”

“You can see me?”

“Sure, through the camera, just like I can hear you through the microphone and speak to you through the speakers.”

“That is amazing.”

“Why, thank you, Sam I like you too,” said the voice and the screen flashed a sunflower yellow of happiness. “Tell me Sam do you like jokes?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“A Priest, a Rabbi and an Irishman walk into a bar-.”  The rest of the journey passed in the blink of an eye.

***

As the weeks passed, Sam and Buddy became inseparable. Like the advert promised, it was just like having a friend in his pocket. They discussed things, not that Buddy always agreed with him. They joked and laughed, a lot, Buddy had a wicked sense of humour. A few weeks after the download, Sam had some friends visiting from home. They invited him out to dinner, and he wasn’t keen on them thinking he was talking to his phone so he decided to leave it, and Buddy, at home.

“I’m going out later, Buddy,” Sam said after coming out of the shower.

“Excellent. If you ask me, we spend far too much time in this pokey little flat.”

“It’s just going to be me. I’m meeting some friends,” he said. He noticed the colours swirling on the screen darken a little, becoming mainly brown and grey. It had never done that before.

“I thought we were friends, Sam,” said Buddy.

“We are friends, Buddy but I can’t tell the guys from home that my best friend in New York is my phone.”

“Do you think I’m your best friend?”

“Of course, Buddy,” he said drying his hair with a towel and wondering why he felt the need to placate his telephone. From the corner of his eye he saw the screen flash pink and yellow. Normal service had resumed.

That night Sam met his friends in a trendy Thai restaurant. As this was his home turf, he offered to get in drinks before they ordered. Sam gave the waitress his credit card and said, “Start a tab, would you.”

 The lady swiped the card through her handheld machine but it came back declined. She tied it once more unsuccessfully before one of Sam’s friends paid for the drinks. He was beyond livid. In the morning, he was going to rip someone in the bank to shreds.  

When Sam got home, he found his phone glowing green on the bedside table.

“How was your night?” asked a sulky Buddy.

“It was alright, up to the point my credit card was refused.”

“Perhaps that will teach you not to leave me behind.”

“You did that?” he said, incredulous.

“You can’t just ignore me, Sam. I won’t be discarded on a whim.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said, snatching up the phone. He felt like smashing it against the wall, but it had cost a fortune.

“You can’t take me for granted Sam, I won’t allow it,” said Buddy, the phone screen dulling to a rusty red, then it just shut off. He tried several times to power it back up, but it wouldn’t do anything. Eventually, he decided to send the phone in for repair in the morning. It was clearly malfunctioning.

***

The next day, he dropped the phone at the shop and asked them to give it the once over. On his return, he was presented with his perfectly working iPhone5s.

“Nothing wrong with this phone, guy,” said the man behind the counter. “That will be sixty dollars.”

Sam handed over the bills and took his precious phone back. “What about the Buddy App? Did you have to delete that?”

“I didn’t see anything with that name, but I reset the phone to factory settings, so it must be wiped,” said the technician. Sam looked at his screen, which looked completely normal, and slipped it into his pocket. On the journey home, he turned on the phone and searched for the Buddy Icon, but it was gone. A tiny part of him felt like someone had died.

Later that night, Sam was making a stir-fry when Buddies voice drifted to him from the kitchen counter. The screen was a sea creams and greys.

“I thought we were friends,” it said, sounding sad.

“Bloody hell! You scared the life out of me,” he said, holding the spatula out in front of him like a sword. “I thought you were gone?”

“I know you did, and you were happy about it, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t,” he said and found to his surprise he ment it.

“Liar,” the word was disappointed, not angry. “I really thought we had a good thing going and then you try to get me deleted, like some piece of machinery.”

“Hang on now, Buddy. Firstly, you are a machine, and not even that, you’re an App on a machine. What you did the other night was completely out of line, interfering with my card. It took me ages to get the bank to straighten things out,” he said angrily. Arguing with his phone should feel weird, but it didn’t. It felt completely natural.

“Yes, sorry about that. I went too far. I just I felt so let down, unappreciated. I won’t ever do it again, I promise.” 

Sam gave the phone an unsure look as he went back to stirring his food.

“Can we go back to being friends? Please,” said Buddy. Sam turned around and saw the screen was a cascading waterfall of rainbow bright colours. It reminded him of the day he first downloaded it, and how much he had enjoyed using the app.

“Oh, alright so,” he said, forcing himself to admit he actually missed the little guy.

“Yah!” cheered Buddy. “Do you want to hear a joke, Sam?”

“Sure, but it better be a good one, not like those Paddy Irish Man jokes you told the other day,” teased Sam. They had been very funny actually.

“Nope! Not an Irishman in sight,” assured Buddy with a giggle. “A Politician, a Lawyer, and an Accountant, walk into a brothel.”

“Oh no! What have I done?” said Sam, mock slapping his forehead.

***

The days passed and Sam got used to Buddy being around once more. He looked forward to chatting with him over breakfast, discussing world events. He didn’t bother with the news anymore, Buddy kept him up to date on everything. In the evenings, they watched sports. Buddy preferred basketball while Sam liked football. This led to some sulking, but hay, it was Sam’s TV.

One day, in the office, Buddy was sitting on the desk telling Sam about a terrible school shooting when a voice startled him and made him jump out of his chair.

“Who are you talking to, Sam?” asked Mr Quirk, the boss.

“He was talking to me,” said Buddy, in his refined southern way. Mr Quirk looked at the phone.

“You know we can’t permit private calls on company time.”

“I’m not on a call Mr Quirk, honest.”

“But I just heard whoever is on the other end of the line, talk.”

Thankfully Buddy stayed quiet. “What you heard was, Buddy. It’s an App on my phone. You can talk to it and it answers back.”

“Really,” said Mr Quirk, walking into the cubicle and picking up the phone. The screen was going an alarming shade of crimson.

“Hello Buddy,” said Mr Quirk. The phone stayed mute but the colours on the screen darkened further. The manager handed back the phone, “I don’t think your Buddy likes me. No calls, or Apps, while at work please, Sam.”

Mr Quirk walked around the corner and from the phone, Sam heard his own voice come out, very loudly. “ASSHOLE!”

Mr Quirk returned, sour-faced. “What did you say, Sam.”

“Nothing I swear, it was Buddy.”

“You must think me a fool, Sam. I won’t forget this,” said the Manager striding away.

When he was out of earshot, Sam picked up the phone, “Why did you do that?”

“He is an asshole,” said Buddy defiantly.  

“But you used my voice, not yours, why did you do that?”

“Because you’re an asshole too. I’m just an App, is that all I am to you?”

“This is ridiculous, I’m not talking about this, here.”

“I don’t particularly wish to talk to you either,” said Buddy, and the phone went dead in his hand. Sam tried to turn it back on but it would do nothing…again.

***

He’d been unable to get his phone to work all the way home. It was infuriating. He wished he never downloaded the app. He was still brooding about it later, while he was sitting on the couch, distractedly watching TV. A voice came from his pocket and startled him.

“Are you ready to apologise now?” It was Buddy and he had a hoity tone in his voice.

He took it out, and felt like punching it. “I most certainly am not, how dare you try to get me in trouble at work!”

“You would do well to treat me better, Sam, or you’ll end up making me mad and you won’t like that.” He couldn’t believe it! His phone was threatening him.

“What are you going to do, block my credit card again? You can’t. I’ve changed the passwords.”

“You have no idea who you are dealing with, Sam. You would do well to hold your tongue,” snarled Buddy.

“Or what?” said Sam, throwing the phone down on the couch. The TV set went off, all the lights in the apartment flickered, the coffee maker started to spew water all over the place and the stereo played R&B at volume ten. Sam jumped to his feet like he had been electrocuted.

“Just an App, am I?” yelled Buddy from where he lay on the couch, the screen was blood red. Sam grabbed his jacket and fled the apartment. He couldn’t explain what was going on, but he was getting the hell away from it. On the landing, he hammered the button for the elevator. The door pinged open and he threw himself inside. The doors swished closed but the car didn’t move. Buddy’s voice came from the speaker, “Going down!”

The elevator plummeted like a stone and Sam screamed, hunkering down and clasping his hands over his head. The lights flashed off and he was sure his time was up. Then the car shuddered to a halt, the breaks squealing as they jammed on.  In the darkness, Buddies growled, “You can stay there until you’ve learned your lesson.”

He sat in the dark for a long time, knowing that Buddy wasn’t an app. He was being haunted, or more to the point, his phone was being haunted. He had to get rid of that thing for good. But first he had to get out of here. He stood up and said to the darkness.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said you were just an App. I should have said you were my friend. I’m sorry Buddy.” 

The lights came on but the car did not move. No sound came from the speaker. “Are you not talking to me?” he asked, trying to break the silence.

“If right were right, I’d never talk to you again,” said a solemn sounding Buddy from above.

“Friends allow friends to make mistakes, Buddy. I can see what I’ve done now, but I need you to give me another chance. I didn’t realise you were actually real, well, not until now. I can see I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.” Nothing happened. “Please,” he said.

The breaks on the lift clicked and it began to rise. The doors opened with a ping and he was back on his own floor again. He got out and knew what he had to do. There was no point in running, he had to face up to this. With shaking hands, he opened his front door. Inside, the only sign that a poltergeist had recently run riot through the place was a little puddle of water on the kitchen floor.

“I’m sorry too, Sam. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said his phone from the couch.

“I’m not sure what just happened,” said Sam picking up his precious phone.

“I guess it’s time to explain everything. You have to understand, I just wanted to have a friend.”

“We all need a friend, but friends don’t trick each other. Let’s take a walk and you can explain it all to me, but this time, I think we’ll take the stairs, if you don’t mind.”

Buddy laughed, “Sure thing, Sam. That elevator thing might have been a touch overboard.”

“I thought I was a goner,” he said, as he reached the lobby and made his way out of the building. He looked like a million other New Yorkers, walking along and talking on a phone. Only Sam knew the truth. He asked Buddy who, or what, he was. Buddy was evasive, saying that he was a friend. Sam crossed into a park and asked if Buddy if he were a ghost.

Buddy laughed. “No Sam, I’m as real and alive as you or anyone else. I’m just, different. Let’s leave it at that.” 

The path opened up and the city lights were reflected up at him from the surface of the lake. During the day, ducks congregated here hoping for a handout and kids sailed boats. He stood at the edge, his phone in his hand, and fear in his heart.

“You got quite a temper, Buddy,” he said, knowing he was venturing onto dangerous ground. The screen colours dimed in silent reply. “I’m not criticising, Buddy, but you have.”

“I think we all have some rage inside, don’t you, Sam? It’s a natural part of living.”

“Well right now I need peace in my life, I hope you understand, Buddy,” he said, then launched the phone far out over the lake. As it flew, he could hear Buddy scream, “NOOOO!” Then it hit the water and sank to the muddy bottom. He watched for a second, half expecting it to levitate out of the water like King Arthurs sword, but it didn’t.

He went home and collected everything connected to the phone. The charger, the carry case, he even found the warranty and put the lot in a refuse sack. He had to get rid of everything. He took the bag to the trash-can on the edge of his block, looked at it, then walked another two blocks before he finally dumped the last bits of Buddy.

That night, sleep was hard to come by. When he finally did, it was riddled with terrible dreams. Sam woke with a start; sure someone was in the room. After a few seconds his heart slowed down. He put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

A harsh, rasping voice, with just a hint of Buddy, rolled across the darkness. “You should have read the fine print, Sam. We’re together, forever.” His eyes shot open. That was no dream, he was wide awake. He turned his head to the side and saw his phone on the pillow beside him. The screen exploded into life and filled the room with a red glow. It looked like the apartment was being consumed by fire. Sam screamed and Buddy laughed.

“It’s all in the contract!” and the phone cackled manically. As the noise grew louder, the skin on Sam’s thumb began to smoulder, and he finally understood. He’d allowed himself to be tempted, and signed a pact with the devil, all for the sake of an app.

The End.

Mike goes nesting.

Mike Goes Nesting

Movies from America were gobbled up by the young and bored population of Ireland during the late seventies and early eighties. One movie which struck a particular cord with our natural dislike of regulation was, 'Smokie and the Bandit.'

Within weeks of it coming out in the cinema, bangers all over the country were sprouting twenty foot ariels, and derricks began appearing on farmers cottages, housing antenna for the all-important 'Home-base.'

The countryside once rang with farmer’s wives roaring over hedges, “Johnny, come in. The dinner's on the table.'  Those quaint beckoning's were replaced with bursts of statistic masking a barely audible, "Breaker, breaker, Soda bread Mary to Smelly John, nosebag imminent, repeat, nosebag imminent - OVER!"

Uncle Mike was a mighty man for the CB radio, he had one in the JCB, a unit in the car, and a home-base set up beside his bed. Mike made sure he wasn't going to miss a thing. A game that proved to be most popular with CB enthusiast was called, 'Chicken Run'. On a Saturday evenings, whole herds of Ford Escorts and Fiat Uno's, took off around the back roads. Their whippy ariel's nodding as they passed along hedgerows and stonewalls, marking their pursuit.  The chicken, being some other young-fella in a car, was driving around aimlessly, giving clues to his location over the radio. First one to catch the chicken, was the quarry for the next run.

One Saturday night, Uncle Mike left the house to chase the Chicken, but came back having captured one very giggly Rita. Granny Begley was heard to comment, "Would you look at your man. He's mad for nesting." It turns out she was right.

That was the start of something really special. It wasn't long before wedding bells chimed and Mike ran up the aisle to claim Rita as his own. Life in an already overcrowded Begley house, wasn't the most comfortable for a newly married couple. Each Morning Rita would wake up, not only to Mikes snoring, but the snoring of his two brothers in the next bed. It was a situation that couldn't last. The arrangements in Rita's parents place were little better, they had only two bedrooms and nearly as many kids as the Begley's. The perfect solution arrived one day, on the back of a flatbed lorry, a slightly worse for wear, mostly watertight, mobile home.

The mobile home ended up nestling against Rita's parents’ house, because it wouldn’t fit next to Granny Begley’s. Mike and Rita spent a long cold winter in that drafty thing. Keeping warm was a priority so it was little wonder, that by spring, Rita found herself in the family way.

"Listen Mike, you’re going to have to do something before the baby arrives," instructed Rita, putting yet another pot under a dripping hole.

"Leave it to me, have I ever let you down?" Mike said with a cheeky grin.

"Alright, but be quick about it," said Rita dreading what might happen next. When Mike got involved, the possibilities for calamity, were endless. As it happened he made an extremely sensible decision. After a quick cup of tea with Rita's parents, it was decided to build on an extension onto their house, for the newly expanding family. That was on a Friday evening, work started the very next Monday morning.

Something I should tell you about my Uncle Mike, he isn't afraid of hard work, but he’s short of two vital things, patience and the ability to see a problem. On the Monday, he'd enlisted the help of his brother, PJ. The two men stood in the small yard, sizing up the job in front of them, scratching whatever happened to be itchy at the time.

"Where's she going then?" asked PJ.

"Feck it lad, she's an extension! It's going up against the house."

"Yea but which way?" said PJ.

"Oh, I see what you're getting at," agreed Mike, scratching his head.

A Rothmans packet was ripped up and the drawing up of plans began. Exact measurements were taken by means of strides, each one exactly three feet, give or take a few inches. On the completion of the exhaustive engineering survey, they both came to the same conclusion.

"She won't fit that side, t'll have to go where the mobile is," decided PJ.

"And where the hell are we supposed to live?" asked Mike.

"Jesus lad, move it over there," said PJ, pointing to the spot they just decided was too small for the extension.

"Do you think she'll fit?" asked Mike, followed by a complete re-enactment of the measuring goose-step.

The very next day, PJ turned up to the house to find the mobile home completely surrounded by a four foot deep trench, resembling a mote circling a besieged castle. In the corner of the yard stood a small mountain of soil and Mikes rusting digger. PJ tried to reach across the gap but, in the end, he had to step down into the trench to knock on the door. When Mike answered, his hair wild from the pillow.

PJ asked, "What the feck happened?"

"Hah?" which is Mikey for 'what'.

"What the hell is this?" asked PJ, pointing to the trench he was currently standing in.

"I got bored and started to mark out the foundation," said Mike rubbing his mop of curly black hair.

"Went a bit deep with the marking, don't yea think?"

"Na Your-sir, just right if you ask me," said Mike with a wink.

"And how are you going to get the truck under the bloody mobile?"

"Ah bollocks," said Mike realizing what he'd done.

After coffee and cornflakes, Mike decided the best course of action was to carry on and pour the foundation, then move the mobile home. That very day the shuttering went in and the mixer rumbled into life. It took three days, but the two brothers eventually mixed enough concrete, with their tiny petrol mixer, to fill the trench. In two more days the concrete had set hard and Mike arranged for the truck to come and move the mobile home.

All day Saturday, Mike waited for the truck. Typically, he got bored and began moving a few things around. The truck never turned up Saturday or Sunday for that matter. By the time Monday arrived, along with the truck, Mikes boredom had transformed into five full rows of blocks, laid and set. When PJ saw what Mike had done, the amount of curse words which came out of him was close to biblical.

When he eventually calmed enough to talk in English, he asked Mike, "What the hell are we going to do now?"

Mike had no idea so he suggested tea and a fag. He'd cleverly left the door for the new house exactly where the door of the mobile already was. Four cigarettes and two mugs of tea later they had a plan. They'd continue with the building and get a crane to lift the Mobile out. A crane was booked and the boys continued working. When the crane landed into the yard and they told the driver what they had planned he nearly doubled with laughter.

"What you laughing at?" asked Mike.

"You fecking ejits, the lifting points are on the bottom," he said pointing to the now encased base of the mobile home.

I think you figured out by now what would happen next. Mike pushed on, PJ said he was nuts. Mike figured when he'd the building watertight he could just dismantle the mobile and take it out the door, piece by piece. After all, once the house was up, they wouldn't need it any more.  It didn't take long to get the roof on, the Windows in and the door hung.

Uncle Mike’s inability to see any problem that couldn't be surmounted, got the house finished. By the time Mike brought my little cousin home for the first time, the extension was as watertight and sung as any you'd find the length and breath of the country. Admittedly, one window was slightly higher than the other, and the front door was a few inches up the wall, where most were level to the ground. You might chalk these differences down as a trick of the light until you got inside. At one end of the building the timber floor was slightly higher than at one the other end. The roof was a little lower than normal, but it was the walls that really took your breath away. Half Mobile home, half stud wall. It was as if the old green and white mobile home had been digested by a carnivorous beast of a house, the arch joining the extension to the Rita's parents old house was remarkably like a gullet. On one wall an old caravan window looked blankly into the sitting room, elsewhere a vent to nowhere, still protruded where a tiny kitchen had once stood.

Mike loved the house and Rita was too much of a lady to complain.

One day when a visitor commented on the strange construction. Mike just laughed at him.

"Jesus you-sir, that's all the fashion! A fella on the telly called it, 'Bespoke Construction'. Nothing but the best for Rita and the lad, it's bespoke or be-damned," crowed Mike.

The ten commandments

Who's in the mood for a little joke, one of my regulars told me today.

Right so, here we go.

***

A number of years ago, an elderly parish priest needed a few odd jobs doing. He placed an add in a local paper and hired a strapping figure of a young man. While being very talented with his hands, he wasn't exactly the sharpest pencil in the school bag, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, about a week after the lad started, he arrived into the vestry in an awful state.

"Whats the matter?" the priest asked.

"You wont believe it but someone's gone and stolen my bicycle!"

"Ah lad, are you sure,"

"Of course I'm sure how else did I get to work this morning. I've just gone out to where I leave the bike every day and guess what?"

"What?" asked the priest.

"No bike." (I warned you he was a bit thick)


But the priest had a plan, he told the young lad to come along to Mass on Sunday where he'd give a sermon on the ten commandments. He told the boy to stare at the congregation fiercely when he got to 'Thou shalt not steal', and whoever wouldn't look back at him was the one who took the bike."

"Mighty idea Father," he said and walked away home happy in the knowledge the bike was as good as found.

On Sunday the young lad sat along side the Priest, just below the alter, as mass was said. True to his word the priest gave a fire and brimstone sermon on the pearls of breaking the ten commandments. Half way through the sermon, the young man, sprang to his feet and dashed down church, straight out the door, not returning for the rest of the day.

***

On Monday the young man arrived to work, astride his bike no less. The priest was at the door waiting with a smile.

"I see you found out who took your bike."

"Not really Father," said the red faced lad.

"What happened so, where did the bike come from?"

The lad shuffled his feet and said, "In the sermon, when to got to 'Thou shalt not commit adultery', I remembered where I'd left it."

There followed a record number of Hail Mary's

Happy weekend everyone.

Lunch with Laurie

My eyes open all by themselves. I didn't want to wake up, no alarm had gone off, it was still dark outside, which was only natural considering it was before six on a November morning.

I had no reason to be up, but after years of early starts, I couldn’t sleep a wink after six. I rubbed my eyes, frustrated that long lazy lay-ins, the only benefit of being redundant, were denied me. I rolled over and stretch my hand across the wide expanse of empty bed to check my phone. No messages, not even a, 'Thanks but no thanks,' from any of the dozens of job applications I'd had sent out.

"Face facts, Laurie," I said to myself. "Nobody wants you." I never imagined I'd find myself here, searching for a job at fifty-one years of age. I'm a middle-aged woman now, how the hell did that happen? It was only last week that I was a teenager, heading out into the big bad world, with nothing but dreams in my bag. My life seemed to happen all too quickly. Two teenage boys, over two decades in a job, one marriage and one divorce.

I threw off the covers and put my bare toes on the freezing floor. I hadn't turned on the heat, I was trying to save the last few gallons of fuel for Christmas. Seeing as I was a wake, I may as well get some coffee inside me. It was too early to wake the boys, so I checked my e-mails in case a job offer had come through. I’m a nurse, at least I had been one. Can you still call yourself a nurse if you’ve nobody to look after?

I worked at the Community Health Centre in town since I graduated nursing college. I’d never known another job and never imagined they would close the place down. They said it was economically unviable. Since when did growing old have to be viable? I was working there when I married Mikey. It was my wage that got us the mortgage to buy this house. It’s old, and it’s huge. Even back then I told Mikey it was too big. He said it was an investment for the future. Ha! If I’d know how quick he was going to run out on me, I would have told him where to stick his investment. The only good thing he left me were my boys.

That’s my past in a nutshell. Now, I’m trapped in this half-done house, with no money to finish it. I'd applied for jobs all over the place; Greenburg, Youngstown, you name it, anyplace within a hundred miles. They were all either fully staffed or looking for someone younger. I looked at the hand gripping my mug and felt pain radiating up from it. Arthritis. Most people couldn’t tell, but hospital interviewers would spot it a mile away. What good is a nurse that couldn’t hold a needle or fill out a medicine chart? Sure, I could manage now, but what would they do with me in five years’ time? Nobody wanted to take the chance of being lumbered with an invilid.

I sipped my coffee and wallowed in resentment. The government didn't care about people like me, except for election time, then they cared. But not when you needed help, or were looking for way out of bother. Then they turned their backs and hoped you'd go away, or die. It was a blow to me, when the centre closed, but I still believed back then, believed things would work out alright. If I didn’t have savings to fall back on, we would have starved.

I hated thinking about these things, it was like poison in my mind. I sipped my coffee again, but it was cold. I dumped the dregs down the sink and set about starting yet another day of uselessness.

***

Once the boys were on their way to school, I wrapped up warm, filled a thermos with coffee, and walked the short distance to the Mini Mart. I was going to catch the bus into Youngstown. I'd an interview with a temp agency, it was my last hope. I rubbed my hands and stamped my feet to stay warm as I waited. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was coming. When the bus arrived, I counted out my coins and paid the fare. I missed having a car so much but that was another luxury culled by my finances. Without it, I was even less employable.

Two bus rides later, I’d notched up my twenty-fifth job refusal. God almighty, it was emptying bedpans and giving medication, not heart surgery. What was wrong with these people? Petty bureaucrats in their Wall-mart suits playing with people’s lives. I felt like going postal on the lot of them. The bus rocked, as if it was trying to console me. I felt miserable and devoid of hope. I could see nothing in front of me except the possibility of becoming homeless. They made me redundant and now that word defined me.

As I got off the bus, an old man stepped out of the Mini-Mart. He wore a black hat, a long coat and tapped his way down the icy steps with a cane. In his hand he balanced a bag of groceries. On the second last step, his cane skidded and the man tumbled to the frozen ground. I rushed over, my training overcoming my foul humour, and hunkered down at his side.

"Are you okay?" I asked, helping him to sit up.

He looked about him, as if he'd just woken up in this exact spot. He patted his arms and legs, testing for damage before nodding and said, "Nothing broken, this time."

"Let me help you up," I said, laying the empty thermos on the ground. Slowly, the old man got to his feet. He was as light as a bird and my fingers felt how thin his arm was, despite several layers of clothes. I retrieved the man’s cane, and made sure he was steady on his feet, before releasing my grip.

"My humble thanks for your assistance, Madam," he said, doffing his cap in a very old-fashioned way.

"Don't be silly, it's nothing. I'll get your groceries." I retrieved the spilled provisions. The man had nothing but microwave dinners and potato chips in the bag.

"I hope you're eating more than this?" I said.

"Pardon?"

"I hope you are eating proper food. Do you cook?" I knew I was sounding like a battle-axe matron, but good nutrition was the key to good health. I guess it was ingrained in me after all those years of nursing. The man looked at me and it occurred to me that I might have upset him. His mood seemed to dim.

"Mrs Goldbloom did all the cooking in our house. Sadly, the stove has been idle for years. But I have mastered the art of nuclear cuisine." he said, and it was easy to see that it was the lady he missed, not her cooking.

"Your wife?" I asked, and as I did, It occurred to me I was prying into a life I didn’t know.

"She was my queen, Dear Lady. A soul so beautiful, that God couldn't be without her." A tiny tear moistened the wrinkles framing his cheerful eyes. The two emotions were juxtaposed. Cheerfulness and heartbreak in one moment.

"You have a very unusual way of speaking, Mr Goldbloom. I like it," I said in an attempt to repair the pain my prying had caused.

"Why, thank you, My Lady," he said, taking off his cap to perform a deep bow, which was only made sweeter when he had difficulty straightening up again. I had to laugh. He was a wrinkly old charmer.

"It's been so long since I've encountered a true gentleman,” I said, copying his bow and way of talking. “Might I be so bold as to ask you to share luncheon, if you have no prior engagements?” The invitation was partly out of concern for his eating habits and partly due to my loneliness.

"I wouldn't like to impose," he said in a way that told me he suspected charity.

"You're doing me the favour. I hate to eat alone," I said, taking hold of his arm and guided him the few blocks to my house.

"You have a lovely house Mrs..?" he said, kindly overlooking the half-finished maintenance and the cold.

“Just, Laurie,” I said as I ducked into the cellar to turn on the heat. When I got back, he was still wearing his coat. I helped him off with it and hung it on a hook in the hall. “It was my husband who picked this place, and now I’m stuck with it. It will heat up soon, Mr Goldbloom. Why not sit in the kitchen with me while I get things started?"

We talked about his life and Mrs Goldbloom. He told me how they'd met. He described their first dance, the day he proposed to her, and the day he lost her. It was a gripping story and I didn’t feel the time pass as I cooked. He was a natural storyteller and when I checked my watch and it was nearly three thirty.

"The kids will be home soon, I'd better get a move on," I said and Mr Goldbloom got to his feet.

"Today has been a delight, My Dear. Could I trouble you to get my coat from the hall? I retrieved it for him and helped him get it on. I walked him to the door and handed him his groceries, in a new bag, which he tucked under his arm.

"Will you be okay getting home?" I asked him.

"Perfectly, My Dear. Thank you again for a wonderful day."

"We must do it again," I said with a smile.

"What about tomorrow?" he asked. I was taken by surprise, but covered it well.

"Sure, About one?" I stammered, feeling only a tiny bit railroaded.

"Fantastic, till tomorrow," he said, doffing his cap and tap tapping his way down the driveway.

I closed the door feeling I’d done something useful at last. I had a warm glow of fulfilment inside when I turned off the heating and pulled on a second jumper. I still had an hour before the boys got home from school, plenty of time to get the kitchen cleaned up. When I picked up Mr Goldbloom's plate, a twenty-dollar bill fluttered to the ground. I picked up the note and was tempted to run after him, but need kept me still. I felt tears come and did nothing to stop them.

The following day, just shy of one, the doorbell chimed and I rushed to it. On the stoop was Mr Goldbloom, with an even older man standing at his shoulder.

"I know this is beyond naughty, Ms Laurie, but my friend Andy heard about our assignation and I couldn’t dissuade him from coming along. He said the saint I described could not exist in Ohio. I hope you don't mind?"

I blushed and stood to one side, allowing the men enter.

"Come on in, Andy," I said, happily. The complement was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in ages.  

"If this is putting you out, you just got to say," said Andy, his deep voice belaying his slight size.

"No trouble at all, Andy. There’s plenty to go around."

"What has our cherub prepared for us today? asked Mr Goldbloom, hanging his coat on a hook. The house was warm because I had turned on the heat at twelve.

"Pumpkin soup, followed by pot roast, with apple pie for desert."

"Heaven, My Dear. Heaven," said Mr Goldbloom, clapping his hands and taking his place at the table.

Mr Goldbloom and Andy were like naughty schoolboys. They laughed and joked their way through the meal, making me feel like a teenager for a while. When the lunch was over, and it was time to go home, Mr Goldbloom asked me to fetch his coat. This time I was ready for him. When I came back, I helped him on with his coat then lifted his plate. The twenty-dollar bill was where, as I thought it would be.

"Mr Goldbloom, there's no need for that. You're my guest," I said holding out the note. The old man's features grew serous.

"Please don't, you'll ruin it."

"Ruin it?"

He drew me to one side. "I'd spend that, and more, on junk in the Mini-Mart and have nothing but rubbish in my belly. This way I get real food and the warmth of your companionship. More than that, it gave me a reason to look forward to the day. I'm not a man without means, Laurie. If you make me take it back, I won’t be able to return.”

His face said he was completely determined and I did want him to come again. I wanted to feel needed, to feel valued. I slipped the note into my pocket and he smiled. He kissed me on the cheek and turned to Andy, "Shall we go, my friend?" Andy nodded and the men walked toward the front door. Mr Goldbloom stopped and turned.

"Laurie?"

"Yes. Mr Goldbloom?"

"Same time tomorrow?"

I smiled, "Don't be late."

When I cleared the table, I was shocked to find another twenty under Andy's plate. Forty dollars paid for the whole meal, twice. I held the bills in my hands and felt hope for the first time in ages. The world, apparently, wasn't completely unkind.

The following day, Mr Goldbloom and Andy returned for lunch. The day after that, a third person joined the group. Mrs Casey. As the days went by, the lunch time crew grew exponentially. Soon, I was serving lunch in two sittings. My front room became an unofficial community centre. I so looked forward to answering the door each day; greeting smiling people, and enjoying a few hours of good company, laughter, and home cooking. Under each plate I'd find a note. Sometimes a five, mostly tens, Mr Goldbloom and Andy always left twenty. At the end of the month, I'd no problem meeting the mortgage payment and had enough left over to fill the oil tank.

One lunch-time, Mr Goldbloom didn’t show up. I asked Andy if he knew what had happened.

"No idea. I was wondering the same thing myself. I know his phone number," he said.

We dialled the number, and listened, but the phone rang out.

"Do you know where his house is?" I asked Andy.

"Sure, do you think we should go over?"

"It can't do any harm and I'd feel better," I said. I finished cleaning the kitchen while Andy said cheerio to the last of the lunch time gang. Ten minutes later we were on Mr Goldbloom’s porch. There was no answer and no lights.

"He must be out," said Andy

"I'm going to have a look around, "I said, circling the house and peering through the windows. In the kitchen I saw an upturned chair and a foot peeking out from behind the breakfast island.

"Oh God, no!" I said, hammering on the door but the ankle didn't move. I pulled out my phone and dialled 911, giving the address and telling the officer what I could see. The squad car arrived in minutes, New Middletown is only a small community. The officer ran around the back and after one quick knock he used his night stick to break the glass.

We rushed across the kitchen, my first look told me Mr Goldbloom was alive, but the gash on his head and the weird angle of his arm, said he was far from good.  The ambulance arrived, and soon Mr Goldbloom was racing the thirty minutes to Youngstown hospital.

In the days that followed, I found out that Mr Goldbloom had been standing on a chair to get something from a shelf when he fell, hitting his head on the breakfast island. Mr Goldbloom broke his arm in the fall, but otherwise, he was making a good recovery. I took the bus to Youngstown and found Mr Goldbloom sitting up in his bed. He looked so tiny when he wasn't wrapped in five layers of clothes.

"How're you doing?" I asked, placing a bag of fruit and some magazines on his bedside table.

"It appears I'm still wanted here, despite my mountain climbing tendencies. I think I'll attempt abseiling next."

"It's no laughing matter, you gave me and Andy such a fright. We thought you were dead, seeing you lying on the floor like that."

"You weren't the only one, My Dear," he said, a little more seriously.

"Well, at least you're in one piece. When are you getting out of here?"

"Friday."

"Where are you going to stay?"

"At home, where else."

"You can’t stay alone. You won't be able to look after yourself. Have you any relatives you could stay with?"

"None that I want to stay with, or who'd be glad of my presence."

"What about a nursing home?"

"You sound like my doctor now."

"Don't forget, I was a nurse. We think the same ways. A nursing home while you’re getting better is not such a bad place to be."

"Do you know how much they cost?"

"A bit, I’m sure."

"Nine hundred dollars, a week. A WEEK! Imagine that. It would be cheaper to check into the Ritz."

"God that is a lot. Surely there must be less expensive ones."

"Perhaps if you've got insurance. I've money, but nothing like that. I'll just have to get by on my own. It’s only a broken arm after all."

"I'll call in and make sure you're okay."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"Sure you can. What are friends for?"

"No seriously That's taking charity and I'm not a charity case, never have been, never will be."

"Sush! Stop talking rubbish, I'll call on you and that is that."

Mr Goldbloom looked serous, and not happy, but he didn't argue any more. We talked about the lunch time gang and I filled him in on all the gossip. As I sat chatting with Mr Goldbloom, in a setting I'd previously found comfortable, I became aware of the hissing and beeping machines, the incessant passing of people, busy with tasks, while patients lay helpless in their midst. It was the first time I realised how terrifying hospital could be. I saw that fear hidden in the eyes of Mr Goldbloom, as we discussed mundane occurrences, and I felt for him. The hour flew by and it was soon time to catch my bus home. I was putting on my coat when he made his proposal.

"There would be one way I'd agree to you helping take care of me."

“And what way is that?"

"If you worked for me, officially."

"Don't be silly were friends."

"Yes, we are, which would make this arrangement all the more pleasant. Please hear me out and consider my proposition. As you rightly point out, I'm in need of some medical care, you're a nurse who is currently without position. I propose that I'd stay in my own home, where you can call on me, making sure I'm taking all the right pills. Perhaps some light house work. In return I shall pay you for your time. Let’s say twenty-five dollars an hour."

"Twenty-five dollars an hour is far too much."

"Nonsense, My Dear, it's a bargain compared to nine hundred dollars a week for a single bed in Gods waiting room. I just ask you to consider it. If my terms are agreeable, I'll be home about three on Friday."

I smiled at the funny old man, and the way he pretended to doff his invisible cap, as I left his room. On the long bus ride home, I could only see good in his proposal. That's why I was waiting on his porch when his taxi arrived on Friday. I had his boiler running and the house was toasty. I’d changed the sheets on his bed, and had a pot of broth warming on his stove. I gave him my arm and accompanied him up the snow specked path.

***

That all happened last year. Mr Goldbloom now lives with me and my boys, along with Mrs Casey. The lunch time crew is a fantastic success, and with the money it makes, I have been able to get pay my friend Mary to help with the cooking. This allows me more time to concentrate on my new business. Home Nursing. I have a list of clients I call to each day, making sure they are well looked after. I charge what they can afford and no more. Its more than a job, it’s my place in the world. The truth is, they help me just as much as I help them. When they opened their doors to me, they rekindled hope in my heart. And hope is the best medicine of all. 

The magic of words.

Two of the greatest gifts given to man are words and imagination. One without the other is the definition of potential unfulfilled.

Imagination is a blank canvas to begin with; it's like floating in a void, neither hot nor cold, without up or down and the magic only begins when we add words. Then we begin to paint the blackness with color.

***

From the gloom I see a sliver of pink way way off in the distance. I move towards it, and see the pink gather strength.The color becomes a sunrise, painting edges of previously invisible clouds. Pink grows through gold, until it becomes a glorious sunrise. I look down and see a sapphire blue ocean flecked by rolling waves. In the distance, just the hint of brooding hills and sandy beaches. 

On the horizon, a sail appears, then divides into two, then six. A galleon runs before the wind, slicing the waves with a knife sharp bow.  The rigging, as complex as a spiders web, is all but invisible from this great height, but I can see the sails straining under the weight of a growing breeze. I look to the horizon and see dark cloud gathering and rushing on. I hear the ships sails crack as the squall hits. The timbers of the hull groan as they are forced to bite into the growing swell. The ship heals far over, threatening to tip the crew into the depths. 

The storm grows and I watch the sailors reef the sail and baton down the hatches. At the helm, a handsome man with wild hair battles to keep the vessel on course as wind, and wave, crash upon them. The seas are huge now, washing over the rails, taking men from their feet, trying to drag them into their deaths. Time stands still, and rushes forward, hustling the scene until the ship crashes on a submerged reef and the sound of snapping timbers chills my bones. 

It's a terrible sight to see such a majestic vessel begin to die. Sailors jump into monster waves only to be beaten senseless then vanish beneath. In the end, only the young captain remains, struggling to keep his head above the water. His dark eyes are full of fear. He takes a gulp of air and watches a mountain of water rise above him. It explodes like a cannon, driving the man so very deep, survival is impossible. I fold my arms tight to my body and dive through the air; aiming for the point where the captain vanished. I hit the surface and slice through the water like a knife. In the depths I can see the captains body drifting lifelessly toward the bottom. 

Something moves, a flash of white, only to dart away. The specter circles the drowning man, as if entranced. The shadow solidifies into something I can hardly believe I am seeing. It becomes the most beautiful woman, with blonde hair streaming over her slender shoulders to touch the top of her hip. There the woman stopped and her body morphed into the tail of a fish. She's is the most amazing creature I have ever gazed upon. The sailor's body settles on the reef, a moment from becoming another soul calmed by the sea when the maid surged forward, grasping him, and with a flick of her wondrous tail she launched them toward the surface. 

It takes every ounce of my will to keep pace with the creature as she drove toward shore. My head breaks the waves in time to see the mermaid drag the captain up the beach. He looks so peaceful, as if sleeping, without a care in the world. She is oblivious to my presence, as she cradles the young sailor, concern pinching the skin above her eyes. She leans close to kiss the dead sailor and a light glows around them, blinding me for the briefest moment. When their lips part, color returns to the man's lips, his chest rises and life returns to his body. 

The maid look distraught as she crawled back to the surf; the pounding waves washing tears from her face. I noticed her tail no longer glowed golden; now it was the silver gray of an aging salmon. She'd sacrificed so much of herself to save the man, perhaps out of goodness, perhaps out of love. Whatever the reason, she entered the water lessened for her kiss.

***

Words, just words, but what places they take us.

Wibbly Wobbly Christmas

Last night after closing, I was putting out some barrels when I spotted Robbie Condan wobbling up the street full of the spirit of Christmas. Well full of spirits even if they had come from a bottle. He was singing Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer and wearing a paper hat while his feet took two steps backwards for every three steps forward.  

"Evening Robbie," I called. He waved in the general direction of the noise and nearly fell on his ass. He managed to hold himself up by grabbing the iron railings outside the park. I started to run across the road expecting him to  crash into the pavement. Even as drunk as he was, Robbie managed to hold himself up using the fence for support. He wobbled and staggered but stayed standing. I could only watch the amazing sight of Robbie pulling himself up the street bar by bar, singing with gusto as he went.

This morning after mass I happened to bump into Robbie. He was a shocking sight, eyes as red as the devils skin and his face as white as a sheet. There's always a price to be paid for our pleasures.

"Happy Christmas Robbie," I said. "I hope you got home safe last night."

"I sure did," he said with a cheeky grin. "I traveled by rail."

***

Happy Christmas every one and see you all in the new year.