Dads Versus the World (Volume 1)
Date: 2016-01-29 05:00:00+00:00
Description: It's not easy being Dad. He took on the grocery store. John would rather sit and watch the game, but his wife needs some things at the store. Can he complete the list and get back in time to see the end of the game? He challenged Halloween. Every Halloween, Chris has the scariest house on the block and gives out the best candy. But, this year, someone is showing him up and he'll stop at nothing to find out who. He went up against Santa. Erik has planned the perfect Christmas for his family. The plan is foolproof, bulletproof and flame retardant. Nothing can undo the hours of planning and prepa
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Rights: All rights reserved (#50871337948)

DADS VS. THE WORLD

Dads vs. Series, Book 2

BENJAMIN WALLACE

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright © 2021 by Benjamin Wallace.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2021 by Benjamin Wallace.

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1523763764

ISBN-10: 1523763760

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I’d also like to thank Ralph, Al, Tim and the countless other
great Dads that have gone before

* * *

About Dad:

He’s the butt of every joke, the fool in every commercial—the dad is corporate America’s only safe target for abuse and defamation. We know/love/hate him from thousands of appearances in movies, TV, radio and more.

He loves and cares for his family, is successful in his career, popular in the neighborhood, can dress himself (often without injury) and is capable of reasonable thought. Demographically, however, he functions like a four-year-old that can’t quite master the intricacies of the potty.

It isn’t his fault. He studied hard and got a college degree. He works hard and earns a comfortable living. But, like all other dumb white husbands, he leads a dual life; competent member of society by day, helpless male by night, weekends and holidays.

He has served for years as the nervous legal department-approved foil of commercials, TV and movies. And, for this service, we thank him. No one has ever cared to look inside the mind of Dad—probably for a fear of what we might find—but, if we took a minute to consider it, we may see that he’s not as dumb as we all think. But, he probably is.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

————

Dad vs. The Grocery Store

Dad vs. Halloween

Dad vs. Santa

Dad vs. The Tooth Fairy

Dad vs. The HOA

Dad vs The Grocery Store

John sat in his favorite recliner with his feet up even with his shoulders, enjoying the breeze provided by the hole in his favorite pair of socks. Sports were about to start and he had prepared by wearing his old college sweatshirt and covering himself with several bowls of salty snacks that spilled whenever he shifted to scratch himself.

Several shifts later and he had found the optimal viewing position. He could see the game between his feet while still blocking the view of the kitchen with his left foot. His weight was distributed across the faux-suede so that no knap rubbed him the wrong way.

The fanfare began and his team took the field. He was comfortable.

“Honey,” his wife, Jenny, called to him from the kitchen.

The game was loud. He could pretend not to hear. He inched down into the faux-suede. The announcers were saying something. He ignored them too. They were idiots.

“Honey? Did you hear me?”

No, he didn’t hear her. He chose not to hear her. It was one of his super powers—like heat vision, but more practical and was less likely to start a fire.

A hand grabbed his favorite sock. Touch was his Kryptonite. His super-not-hearing was rendered useless by physical contact and it was too late to pretend to be napping.

“Honey.” Jenny was still beautiful. After all of these years it was as if she had aged only a fraction compared to him. Long red hair draped over the light fabric of the gray hooded shirt that she always wore around the house. The hoodie was only a shade lighter than her yoga pants.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t hear you.” His lying was less super-powered. He tried to use it less since its effectiveness was iffy at best.

“I need you to run to the store.”

“Sure, yeah, okay, after the games.”

“Games?”

“Game.”

“I need you to go right now. I’ve got to take Sarah to practice later and I won’t have time to get what we need for dinner.”

A protest rose in his throat, but it knew better and receded behind a grunt.

“Just pause the game,” she said.

Damnable technology. Once man’s friend, it had turned against him with the advent of DVR. The ability to pause and record live TV had come into his life bearing promises of instant replay, non-stop entertainment and consequence-free beer runs. Now, it was an enabler of endless errands, honey-dos and trash runs.

“It’s just a couple of things.”

He shifted to look around her. Had sports started yet?

“Or you can take Sarah, to practice.”

A light coat of oil and an occasional vacuuming kept the recliner in pristine shape. It also enabled him to spring to his feet before she had finished the word practice. The game was paused and the shopping list was in his hand.

“I put everything in the order it is in the store.”

He scanned the list. There were a lot of words but only four items: lemons, tomatoes, chicken breast and pasta. Good. It was short enough that he could run to the store, get back, zip through two commercial breaks and be caught up to real time sports. He set the list in the chair. “It’s just a couple of things. I don’t need a list.”

“Please take the list.”

“I don’t need the list.”

With practiced precision he stepped into his house shoes and snatched his car keys from the kitchen table. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let Jimmy change the channel.”

He was two steps from the door when she said it.

“You’re not going dressed like that, are you?”

Though her inflection portrayed a question, he knew it was a statement.

He surveyed his clothes; they were awesome—collegiate pride, comfortable sweats, the best socks? Check. “Sure, why not?”

“What if you run into someone we know?”

“I’ll say hi?”

“John,” she shrugged, gasped and pretended to give up all at once. “You’re wearing slippers.”

“These,” he pointed to the plaid-flannel footwear, “are house shoes.”

“Fine, then they belong in the house.”

“They are in the house.”

He had some fight in him today. It was unexpected. He wasn’t sure where this long forgotten feeling of resistance had come from. He raised his finger to begin counting the differences between slippers and house shoes, but thought better of it. She could have this one. To debate would take longer than finding his sneakers. He shut his mouth and walked to where he had left them.

“Where are my sneakers?”

“I put them away.”

“Why? I was going to wear them again.”

His beautiful wife folded her arms and turned away. “They’re in the bedroom closet where they belong.”

Distance! The fight could have saved him time after all. He sprinted up the stairs, kicking off his house shoes as he ran, shaving valuable seconds off of the time it would take to change footwear.

He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs with the aid of the newel post. Through the bedroom and into the closet he ran. He grabbed his Nikes from the shelf and dropped them to the floor. They landed perfectly—flat on their soles, toes forward, no bounce separated them.

“While you’re in there, change your pants.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my pants.”

“You mowed the lawn in them.”

“And, you didn’t have a problem with them then.”

“Honey, please.”

He looked at his watch. He was losing time. He could make a break for it, but she would be at the door and defending his pants, while totally possible, would take time.

Light blue jeans soon replaced the comfortable sweatpants. But, he wasn’t changing his shirt. That’s where the line was drawn … right down his shirt.

Dashing from the closet he almost knocked over his wife as she was walking into the room holding his house shoes.

“Honestly, John, your house shoes were on the stairs.”

Moving faster than the speed of criticism, he kissed her as he rushed by.

“Don’t forget the list.”

“I don’t need a list,” he yelled back as he swung around the newel post. This time it did not hold. The oak banister came off in his hand and he swung wide into a wall.

His wife ran into the hallway. “Oh, my … John, are you okay?”

He looked up from his place on the floor. He held his head and tried to blink away the pain. Through the blinks he could see her holding one of his shirts.

He bounced to his feet. “I’m fine. Really, fine.”

“What happened?” She saw the newel post in his hand. “Oh, Honey, I told you that the newel post was loose.”

He looked at the post in his hand. “Yep, you were right. How about that?”

“Maybe, while you’re out, you can run by the hardware ...”

He was down the stairs before she finished, and at his size gravity worked with him. Bounding through the kitchen, he grabbed the keys from the table without stopping and threw open the door to the garage.

In the garage was a ’67 Mustang that he would, one day, use to teach his son Jimmy how to change oil. He moved past the antique pony car and jumped into the seat of the family minivan.

The garage door was opening. The four-cylinder engine was purring. He put it in reverse when his wife appeared at the window and plastered the sheet of paper to his window. “You forgot the list.”

He rolled down the window. “I don’t need a list.”

She lowered the list. “What’s on it?”

“Lemons, tomato, chicken breast and … shit!” What was the fourth thing?

“Here you go,” she leaned into the van and pinned the list to his college sweatshirt. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for going to the store, honey. Just get what’s on the list. I’ll do the rest of the shopping tomorrow and pick up anything else we need.”

He sighed. “Make sure Jimmy doesn’t touch the TV.” He pulled the minivan into reverse and backed into the suburban street.

* * *

It wasn’t until he was outside the store that John realized he was still wearing his collegiate sweatshirt. He pumped his fist in celebration and accidentally struck his elbow on the minivan’s armrest, hurting himself only a little.

Nursing his elbow and stepping from the car, he checked his watch. All the dressing appropriately nonsense and the drive had taken him fifteen minutes. If he moved fast he could still catch up to live TV. Several of his friends would call him when the game was over to talk smack. If he didn’t know the outcome when the game was over, he would know it only minutes later.

The sliding doors open as if just for him and he stepped into the grocery store with the list playing over and over in his head: lemons, tomatoes, chicken breast and pasta, lemons, tomatoes, chicken breast and pasta, lemons, tomatoes, chicken breast and pasta.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Sweepstakes!

Right inside the door was a giant lobby display filled with bags and bags of potato chips. In the center of the display, rising from the bags, was a promise to him that he could win a home entertainment center—an ultimate home entertainment center!

A huge 3D-ready LED LCD TV, the latest 3D blu-ray player, a stereo with wattage that read like the specs of a military laser, non-faux-suede home theatre seating, speakers he could be buried in and a remote that, he had no doubt, could launch and land the space shuttle as well as make the Canadarm do high fives in space.

His heart contributed to the excitement with one extra beat for the satellite sports package.

All he had to do was text-to-win. He fumbled the phone from his pocket as he dutifully repeated the code and number, “Ultimate AV to chips. Ultimate AV to chips. Ultimate AV to chips.”

He brought his phone to life and hit the text icon. Never had his fingers moved so quickly across the glass screen.

Send. Entered.

Yes. It was only a matter of time before they would be contacting him.

He glanced once more at the display and noted the instruction to “enter every day.” He would be sure to come back tomorrow.

Before he could place his phone back in his pocket, it buzzed.

A message from his wife appeared across the screen. “Also need milk, cat litter and dog food. <3”

“That’s not less than three,” he said to himself as he dropped the phone into his pocket.

He struggled to undo the safety pin from his chest. She had used one of those really small ones and he found it all but impossible to undo the clasp. He tore the list from his shirt.

After doing some quick math, he winced that the three items from the text would put him over the limit for the five-items-or-less line. He could easily “forget” one of the things on the list. But, two? She would notice two.

“Well played, dear,” he muttered and turned to grab a cart. Thankfully he hadn’t wandered far from the entrance—another point in the chip display’s favor.

The wire carts were stacked tightly together. He knew the drill. The cart on the end, wedged in front with all the force and frustration that a lonely, angst-ridden teen could muster, would refuse to be separated from the line.

John grabbed the front cart on the nearest row and yanked the hell out of it. The cart, this one aberration to the rule of always-stuck-shopping-carts, flew across the lobby, bounced off an ATM and plowed into the chip display. It collided with the glorious snacks and rolled back towards him. Several yellow bags spilled to the ground, their usefulness to man crushing under the force of gravity.

The cart rolled back into his outstretched hand. He turned slowly, looking to see if he had been spotted. Behind him, a woman stood with her arms crossed. She shook her head back and forth but said nothing.

John smiled and bolted for the produce section.

He went through the list in his head again: TV, blu-ray, receiver …

Dammit! He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. The first thing was lemons and specific instructions on how to select them. He grabbed half a dozen and decided that they would be described as “the last six in the store.”

Bag. Spin. Flip. Carted.

Tomatoes. These he couldn’t cheat on. He grabbed four ripe, red tomatoes that were, according to the list “slightly larger than lemon size and not bruised.” With five quick moves he tossed three tomatoes into a produce bag, one on the floor, and a slightly bruised one in the bag.

Spin. Flip. Carted.

Chicken breast. The cart handled corners as well as the minivan. He went wide and pulled to the outside of the refrigerated meat section. Scooping up two packets of chicken breast, he checked the list again. There were no special instructions. This, the item most likely to have salmonella, and, therefore, the potential to kill the entire family, needed the least amount of description. This surprised him because, holy crap, how hard was it to buy spaghetti?

The list said pasta and was followed by specificities:

“Pasta, 1 box—spaghetti type. Barilla brand. This is a blue box. It used to be yellow, but they changed it for some reason. Don’t get the store brand, that’s blue too but it’s not as good because it tends to stick. And make sure you don’t get the whole grain. You don’t like it, remember? It gave you stomach trouble last time. If you have problems finding it, it’s on the same aisle as the SpaghettiOs, so find the SpaghettiOs and then turn around and it should be right there.”

He found the pasta, grabbed sixteen boxes and threw them into the cart.

Milk was behind him. He could see a giant cow over the top of the aisles. He backed up the cart straight and hooked it around in a maneuver that stunt drivers call the J-turn.

John found himself face-to-face with the woman he had seen at the front of the store. She was buying soy sauce but took a moment to shake her head in a clear show of disapproval.

John smiled, made engine noises and pushed his way to the dairy cooler.

The text bore no special instructions. It just said milk. Fine, milk was milk.

He reached the cooler and threw up his arms. Red caps, blue caps, white caps, big jugs, little jugs. What did organic mean? He pondered it a second and decided it meant expensive. His favorite color had always been, when one was required to have a favorite color, blue. Two blue-capped jugs went into the cart.

Pet supplies were near the front of the store next to the pharmacy window because, he figured, old people had cats and prescriptions.

Sixteen boxes of pasta rattled as he took the cart to the top speed that barely-not-running could produce.

The kitty litter weighed thirty pounds. It was a testament to his desperation that he was able to grab it from the shelf without breaking stride, hurting himself only a little.

The dog food weighed forty pounds and didn’t have a handle because the people at Purina were “dicks.” He had to put the large bag on the bottom of the cart since the inside was filled with pasta. It settled onto the lower shelf and he turned the cart for the final dash to the checkout.

The cart struggled to turn under the weight of the dog food, kitty litter and milk. He realized at that moment that his wife always sent him to the store to get the heavy stuff: water, soft drinks, dog food, litter, sack of lead. Never had he been handed a list with marshmallows, bag of feathers, light bulbs or helium balloons. It was always bricks and boulders and such.

Despite the weight, he got the cart moving and trusted the momentum to take him the rest of the way. He built up a good speed as he eyed an open lane. The clerk was just getting there. She hadn’t even turned on the light yet.

There came a rattling from behind him. Another cart entered his field of vision. It was gaining. It was passing. And, it was heading for the open aisle. It was his neighbor Erik.

“Hey, John.”

“Erik,” John quickened his pace.

Unencumbered by pet supplies, Erik took an easy lead.

John, peering into his neighbor’s cart, swore under his breath. It contained only a few items: marshmallows, dental floss, and … were those cotton balls?

Erik took the inside track and got to the counter just as the light snapped on. John strained to turn his cart, ran long and bumped into the magazine rack.

Erik smiled, “Tough break, neighbor, but I’ve only got a couple of things. It won’t take a second.”

John checked his watch. He’d be lucky to catch up by halftime.

“I think those were on sale,” Erik told the cashier as she scanned a box of Q-tips.

“Do you remember for how much?” she asked.

“No. Less?”

“I’ll have someone check.”

“Let me lend you the nickel, Erik.”

“You’re right, it’s silly,” but it was also too late. The page had been made. The cashier had assumed the waiting position—light flashing, back to customer, picking at nails. In a few moments she would apologize for it taking so long.

John sighed just as his phone buzzed. A new text popped up on his screen. “Could you please get me pads?”

John fired back, “Already checked out. Almost home. Sorry.”

“I apologize that this is taking so long.” The cashier didn’t even look up from her nails.

“Sir?” An apron-draped employee appeared behind him. “The self-checkout lane is open.”

John had principles. The first one was let no man touch your junk. This was closely followed by, SCREW SELF-CHECKOUT LANES. They saved the store money by making him do the work. He was a checker in high school. Now, almost thirty years later, after working long hours and kissing big asses to climb to a position of respect in a Fortune 500 company, he would be doing the same job he did at sixteen and not getting paid for it.

But, great men are flexible, in a non-physical kind of way. John backed the cart out of the lane as Erik scrambled to put the few, light items back into his cart. His neighbor was reaching for the Q-tips when a store employee scooped them from the belt and headed deep into the store to check the price. Erik hung his head in defeat as John shouted back, “Don’t feel bad, neighbor. Now you can use those coupons Cindy sent with you.”

Erik opened his mouth, but no insult came out. He simply turned back to the cashier and produced a stack of coupons from his back pocket.

The idiot that had designed the self-checkout lane was an idiot. Bagging area before the scanner? It ruined the flow of his swing. Still, if he moved quickly enough, it could save him some time. He jumped in front of the cart and stopped it with his hip, hurting himself only a little.

Litter. Beep. Set.

Milk. Beep. Set.

Milk. Set.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

“Dammit.” He grabbed the second jug of milk from the bagging area and scanned it again.

Milk. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Spaghetti. Beep. Set.

Each packet of pasta rattled as it landed on the stainless steel tray. He would bag them all at once when he had the receipt in his hand.

Lemons. Set.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

He picked the lemons back up and realized his mistake. Mother nature didn’t use barcodes. He stared in frustration at the machine in front of him. He had beaten Super Mario Brothers at eight. He had mastered the stick shift at fifteen. He had figured out the coffee maker at work within a week of his start date. Now, a machine had finally gotten the best of him.

He stared at the machine and said, “Lemons.”

He was losing precious time.

He held the bag in front of the scanner and repeated it—louder this time—“Lemons!”

“Sir?” The apron-shrouded teen that had first set him on the self-checkout course stood behind him. “Can I help you?”

John turned and thrust forward the produce bag, “Lemons!”

“Just put them on the scale.” The teenager in the apron helped him place the lemons on the scanner and punched in a code.

Beep.

“There you go, sir.” The clerk turned and stepped away.

John grabbed him by the apron strings around his neck and pulled him back. The employee turned and was startled to see another produce bag shoved in his face.

“Tomatoes!”

The teenager set the tomatoes down, entered the code and backed away cautiously.

“Thank you!”

Chicken breast. Beep. Set.

Chicken breast. Beep. Set.

Behind him he could hear Erik speaking on his phone.

“I’m waiting. No, they had to do a price check,” his neighbor said. “Yes, I have the coupons. Oh, I ran into our neighbor and guess what; John got to wear his college sweater … Well, you should be thankful I’m not John … What do you mean? Like bungee jumping off a bridge?”

With frantic abandon, John forced his purchases into bags as he waited for the total.

“Sir.”

John turned to see apron-boy standing behind a central podium that oversaw the self-checkout area.

“Yeah?”

“The dog food.”

John looked to the bottom of the cart and the green bag of dog food that proclaimed to be “now tastier than ever.” He thought for a second about how much he didn’t care if his dog thought the dog food was tastier than ever and then bent down to get the bag.

Halfway down he remembered the scanning gun attached to the checkout. Snatching it from its holster, he pointed it at the oversized barcode on the dog food. Beep.

“Ha,” he spun the scanning gun like a six-shooter and placed it back in the holster.

“Please place item in bagging area.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me! There’s no room in the bagging area, you stupid piece of …”

“Is there a problem, sir?” Apron-lad looked frightened, irritated and sixteen.

John pointed to the bag of dog food. “Really?”

The boy sighed. “Just hit total, sir.”

John did. The machine gave him his new dog food-included total.

“How do you wish to pay?”

He slammed a debit card into the machine and withdrew it fast enough to create a whistle in the air. For all the flaws of the self-checkout line, it never failed to accept money. The machine spit out a receipt—one he would have to lose to avoid being caught in the tampon lie.

The kitty litter went back in the cart. Each milk jug got its own bag. Everything else went into a single sack as the machine pleaded with him to scan his first item.

He checked his watch. He hated to give credit to the self-checkout lane, but it may have made it possible to catch up to live TV by halftime. Dropping the plastic bags into the cart, he jumped behind the bar and gave it a mighty shove to put the Purina-laden cart into motion.

The boy in the apron stepped out in front of him.

John brought the cart to an immediate stop.

“What?”

“I need to see your receipt, sir.”

“Why?”

“I just need to check it against the items in your cart.”

“You watched me ring up every item in my cart.”

“It’s just our policy, sir.” Apron-boy took the receipt from John and put a big check across the itemized list. “Have a nice day.”

John was moving before the receipt was back in his hand. One wheel of the cart began to protest the weight of the dog food, but he pushed on through the doors and into the parking lot. He locked eyes with one driver that was pulling up in front of the store, daring her to play chicken with the eighty-plus pound cart.

She wisely backed off.

John, middle-aged and not in the best shape of life, shoved the cart with full force and hopped into the air. He landed on the bar at the back of the cart and rode full speed through the parking lot, hurting himself only a little.

He didn’t say, “Wheee!” But his face did.

A drag of his toe gave the cart a minor course correction and he arrived at the back of the minivan.

He fished out his keys and tapped the key fob twice. The tiny van chimed as if it were a dump truck in reverse. Taillights flashed and, like magic, the gate opened.

The Caravan had been a necessity. He had hated test driving it, signing for it, paying for it and driving it. But, as far as minivans went, it wasn’t all that bad. It was painted “Brilliant Black” and the doors opened at the touch of a button … exactly like the Batmobile. He had dubbed it the Bratmobile and now dutifully drove it to soccer games and on cross-country road trips.

He tossed the dog food in first and turned to grab the rest of the bags. Alleviated of the forty pounds of kibble, the cart decided to make a break for it. It quickly rolled away just out of his reach. He lunged for it and grabbed the front lip, hurting himself only a little.

He dumped the rest of the groceries into the back of the van, punched the button to close the gate and stepped aside so it wouldn’t hit him on the head—again.

He had parked close to the cart return knowing it would save him precious moments. He whirled the cart and caught it by the handle. A quick alignment and shove sent it flying across the parking lot and into the cart return. The cart flew straight and locked itself into the row of carts with twice the force any frustrated, lonely and angst-ridden teen could muster.

John pumped his fist, stepped toward the driver’s seat and struck his head on the gate. He swore, punched the button on the key fob TWICE and stepped around to the driver’s seat as the minivan chimed and the gate began to close.

* * *

John scared the neighbor’s cat as he pulled into the driveway. He opened the mini’s gate, slid his wrist through the handles of the plastic bags, hefted the dog food on his shoulder, grabbed the kitty litter and carried the groceries to the house, hurting himself only a little.

Inside the door was his recliner, his snacks, his sports and his beer—he’d be damned if he was going to make two trips.

He shuffled past the Mustang and up to the back door.

Carefully balancing the dog food on his shoulder, he reached out with his left hand and fumbled with the knob. Tension started to build within him. He could picture his son wandering into the living room, seeing the TV “open” and changing the channel to something stupid.

The door opened and he grabbed the dog food just as it was slipping off of his shoulder. He rushed inside to the kitchen and let the kibble fall to the floor. He tried to slide the bags off of his wrist, but they snagged on his watch. His hand turned purple as he tried to undo the knot of plastic straps on his wrist. It wasn’t easy. If he could recreate the puzzle that now constricted his arm, he could sell the thing at Cracker Barrel.

Every time he moved a handle another one took its place and seemed to hold tighter. The two gallons of milk now dangled from his arm. He couldn’t feel his hand. Grimacing, he worked his way around the island. The milk caught on the corner and pulled tight against his progress. Was his hand fuchsia?

With his free hand he pulled open the utensil drawer and blindly dug around for scissors or a knife or anything but a rubber spatula. His hand found a handle. He smiled and pulled the tool from the drawer and set to work on the plastic bags.

The pizza cutter wasn’t the optimal instrument for cutting plastic bags from an ensnared wrist but it was easier than finding something else. The blade kept spinning as he sawed furiously at the straps. Placing his thumb on the wheel he was able to make better use of the pizza cutter’s edge and began to free himself from the bags.

The last strap gave way and his hand popped free. It tingled. The contents of the bags spilled across the floor. Thankfully, the milk jugs didn’t leak. They just rolled in two separate directions.

Free at last, he placed the pizza cutter in the sink and ran cold water over his numb hand.

“Jimmy,” he called for his son. There was no answer.

He turned the water off and found a dishtowel.

“Jimmy!”

His oldest child entered the kitchen from the living room.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I need you to put the groceries … What were you doing in there?”

“In where?”

“In the living room.”

“Nothing.”

“Did you change the channel?” John ran past the boy into the living room.

“No. I didn’t touch the TV.”

John stood before the TV. It was off.

John glared at his son. He tried to say things: “I was watching the game. But, the game was on. Your mom promised.” But, only sputtering sounds escaped from his mouth as he stared blankly at the dark screen.

Jenny stepped into the room as words were finally beginning to form. She spoke before he could.

“Relax, John. I just turned the screen off.” Jenny grabbed the remote from John’s favorite chair and powered the TV back on.

The screen hummed to life and revealed the game, just as he had left it. He kissed his beautiful wife, rustled his teenage son’s hair and kicked off his shoes. He felt the carpet through the hole in his sock.

Jenny handed him the remote. “Come on, James. Help me with the groceries.” The pair left the room with only a little attitude from the teenager.

John hit play. His sports team roared to life. He dropped the remote in the chair and quickly gathered his snacks and his drink. He backed up to the recliner, straddling the extended footrest and collapsed into the La-Z-Boy. That’s when his ass hit the remote and changed the channel, hurting him only a little.

THE END

Dad vs Halloween

The cut had only hurt a little, but the blood had been tremendous. He had tried to finish carving the pumpkin before tending to his wound. As a result, the vampire jack-o-lantern was covered in blood. Had it been concentrated on the fangs and chin one would think the embellishment to be intentional. As it was, it just looked like some idiot had bled all over a pumpkin.

Chris Peterson didn’t see it that way. “I’ll bet no other house has real human blood in their décor tonight,” he said as he ruined one of the good dishtowels and put a band-aid on his finger.

The vampire was the last of a dozen pumpkin designs and he placed it in line next to the other eleven horrors of Halloween. He looked at his orange-stained fingers and shrugged. They ached when he bent them, but it was a small price to pay to have the most horrific house in the neighborhood. He wiped his hands on his blue coveralls; the pumpkin juice added to the worn effect of the material.

He dropped the small carving blade in the sink as he glanced out the kitchen window. The sun had begun to set. It wouldn’t be long now. Waiting until the last minute to place the pumpkins in the yard would ensure that they would stay safe from vandals. Another half hour, he thought, and then he would start the smoke machines, strobes and creepy sound effects before placing the pumpkins in the yard.

“How do they look?” His wife was still beautiful, even after all these years. She had somehow kept her figure while he had lost his in a delicious blitz of Oreos, beer and those mints they give out at Sonic. She was gorgeous and her voice still drew his complete attention.

“Huh?” He was counting the pumpkins again.

“I said, how do your children look?”

“Twelve,” Chris said to himself and looked at his family.

His son and daughter stood in front of his wife. Allison was dressed as a perfect little princess, her costumed dress glittered as she frantically waved her wand and smiled. His son was a monkey. Jack’s three-year-old face was surrounded by brown fur, outlined with massive ears and topped with a fez.

“They look … cute,” Chris said. They did. They looked cute. What was with that? This was Halloween, not a precious toddler parade.

“Yes they do,” she stressed to him. She ushered the kids forward. “Go and give your father a hug and then we’ll go trick-or-treating.”

“Yay!” the children screamed and rushed their father. Obligatory hugs were given as he walked them to the front door.

“Seriously? A monkey?”

“That’s what he chose, honey.”

“Not even a zombie monkey?”

“No. No zombies.”

“But …”

“But, he’s three. It’s bad enough I can’t even bring them by our own house once you fire up your lawn of horrors.”

“Yard of Terror,” he corrected her.

“Really, Chris. You take this way too seriously.”

“That may be so, but this year it is guaranteed to be the scariest and best Halloween house on the block.” He reached into a bag and pulled out a piece of candy. “Check it out.”

Rachael took it in her hand. “Full-sized candy bars?”

“That’s right.”

“Chris, these are too expensive to …”

“Damn right they were expensive. These are the Holy Grails of Halloween loot—the king of candy. Fun-size bars are merely Dukes. Tootsie Rolls, but peasants in their eyes.”

“What about candy corn?”

“What kind of asshole gives out candy corn?”

She huffed, “I like candy corn.”

Chris snatched the full-sized chocolate bar from her hand. “Get out of my Yard of Terror.”

Rachael laughed and leaned in to kiss him. “You have fun playing Boogey Man, but, remember, you’re taking the kids around the second half of the neighborhood. They want to go trick-or-treating with Daddy.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“And, I don’t want you wearing your axe murderer costume.”

“Way ahead of you. I’ve got another costume on underneath my jumper.”

“Good, we’ll be back soon.” She turned and walked into the Yard of Terror.

Chris smiled and turned to wave to his kids. “You kids have fu …” His face went white and he yelled, “Kids! Get off the corpse of Eddie Driscoll right now!”

Startled, the children who had been using the rubber body like a trampoline ran to their mother. The monkey and princess each latched on to a leg.

“Christopher!” She embraced them both.

He rushed into the yard to examine the fake body. “What?”

“You scared them.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want them to break the corpse of Eddie Driscoll.”

“You named it?”

“It helps create the fabric of the story. He can’t just be ‘dead body guy.’” He kissed the heads of his children. “I’m sorry, kids. You have fun. Get lots and lots of candy.”

Rachael shook her head and turned away. She tried to calm the sobbing monkey as they wandered down the street.

Chris dropped to the ground and checked the steel cable that would launch the corpse of Eddie Driscoll from his deathly slumber into the face of unsuspecting victims. Everything seemed intact, but he’d have to test it. If the corpse of Eddie Driscoll didn’t rise from the dead to greet trick-or-treaters, the entire Yard of Terror would come undone.

He rushed back to the porch. A web of cables and fishing line sat behind a web of fake cobwebs. He reached into “master command” and yanked the cable labeled “Eddie.”

Behind him, a skeleton burst from a coffin and unleashed a stream of water. The cold blast startled him. He tried to duck away but only pulled the cord harder. The flow continued until his fingers finally released the line.

Chris shook the water from his fingers and reached back into the mass of wires. He pulled the “Eddie” label from the line and swapped it with another that said “Spittin’ Bob.”

With that straightened out, he pulled on the newly labeled “Eddie” cable just enough to see the fake body rise. All was well. Chris wrung his hands together as much in evil glee as to remove the rest of the water from Spittin’ Bob.

He had been working on the Yard of Terror for months: storyline, engineering, research of possible legal repercussions. Ideally, he would have someone at the front of the yard to get parents to sign waivers, but this had to be a one-man show.

He placed the pumpkins throughout the yard and winced a dozen times as he thought that there must be a better way to light a pumpkin candle. He replaced the band-aid on his finger after the first one had caught fire.

The light had faded from the evening sky. Clouds now blocked the moonlight. It was a perfect night for Halloween.

Chris powered on the lights. Six power strips fed into one; the neighbor’s lights dimmed as the Yard of Terror hummed to life.

Two smoke generators blanketed the yard in mist. Screams, shrieks and moans emanated from the bushes. Silent motors whirred and pushed bats and spiders through the trees.

Grinning at the horror he would soon unleash on the unsuspecting children, he pulled on his hockey mask and waited—silently and still—for the first trick-or-treater.

They would come down the path. Eddie Driscoll would rise to meet them. Their panic would drive them into the sudden arms of Kachanga, the miniature giant gorilla. The stench from his fur—an original blend of pickled eggs and Old Spice—would repel them back to the horrendous balloon animals of Bubbles, the axe-murdering clown.

The other cords, cables and lines shook various bushes and trees to keep the victims moving ever forward. Each horror would bounce them closer and closer to the end—a face full of water from Spittin’ Bob and the prize of a full-sized chocolate bar. He giggled to himself as he imagined the fright of the neighborhood kids. The Yard of Terror would be unmatched and he would become a legend. This would totally make up for last year.

Over the screams and shrieks he heard a voice. “Victim number one,” he said and reached his hand up to the steel “Eddie Driscoll” cable. He sat perfectly still.

The trick-or-treater rounded the large shrub at the yard’s entrance. Chris could see that it was a teenager—an older teenager. He grunted inside the hockey mask. Halloween wasn’t for these older kids. But, still they leached candy from the neighborhood every year. At least this one had the decency to dress up. The kid wore an elaborate police costume. Chris could even see the radio transceiver pinned to his shoulder.

He smiled and tightened his grip on the steel cable. “Fine, you want to play Halloween? We’ll play Halloween.”

The trick-or-treater stepped into the story that Chris had painstakingly created.

Chris yanked the cable.

The corpse of Eddie Driscoll shot to life and launched itself at the unsuspecting “cop.”

The cop screamed and drew something from his belt.

Chris saw the flash of the taser mere moments before the leads struck the flying corpse of Eddie Driscoll and the steel cable that had brought him to life—the cable Chris still held in his hand.

* * *

When he came to, Chris was lying on the ground. His wife was smiling at him, the paramedics were packing up their bags and the cop was apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” His voice was young. He was young. He must have been a rookie.

Chris tried to speak but just said, “Hunahmah.”

“I didn’t expect anything to come flying at me like that.”

Despite a mushy and dry mouth, Chris smiled. The cop had been scared.

“Honey. This is Officer Parker. He’s the one that tased you.” His wife stroked her husband’s face as she spoke.

“I’m really sorry.” The rookie officer put out his hand.

Reality came back to Chris as the officer helped him sit up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Behhunn better.”

“It should wear off in a moment. I didn’t …”

Chris put up his hand, “Don’t worry about it. I should have used insulated cables.”

The rookie looked relieved. Chris imagined that a wrongful tasing on his short record would not be a good thing for the career that lay in front of him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Chris smiled only because he was happy to be able to speak again.

“I was coming by for Officer Lewis.”

“Oh.” Chris remembered Officer Lewis. The man was no fun.

“He said that he came by here last year and wanted me to remind you of your deal.”

Chris nodded and dutifully said, “No more pyrotechnics. And I didn’t use any pig’s blood.”

“He just wanted me to check.”

“So he remembered the yard?” Chris smiled. Last year was nothing compared to the Yard of Terror, but it was always nice to make an impression.

“He said he would never forget.” The rookie stroked his brow.

“Oh, come on. His eyebrows grew back.”

“He just wanted to make sure no one got hurt this year.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you came by, Quickdraw.”

“I said I was …”

“Maybe next year he can send the SWAT team to check on me.”

“Sir …”

Rachael put her hand on her husband’s chest. “Honey. Officer Parker was just doing his job. We should be happy we have officers with such quick reflexes.”

“I’ll thank him with every new facial twitch.”

The officer stuck out his hand. “Please, sir, these things happen.”

“How many times has this thing happened?”

“Well, never … that I know of. Still, technically I only shot the dummy.”

Chris gave in. “You’re right, and it was a good shot.” He shook the officer’s hand and noticed a band-aid on the rookie’s finger. “Besides, it looks like I got you as good as you got me.”

“Huh? Oh, no, I cut myself carving a pumpkin this morning.”

Chris huffed.

“Officer Parker, thank you for coming by. I’m sure my husband is just cranky because of, you know, the high voltage.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And, I do need to run. We just got a call about some kids smashing pumpkins.”

“Go get ’em, Lightning.”

Officer Parker walked back to the street. He did not see Chris give him the finger.

Chris wondered how much time had passed since he and the corpse of Eddie Driscoll had been tased. He looked at his watch in disbelief. Either no time had passed at all, or … he shook his wrist … or his watch had stopped.

He looked back up at his wife. “What are you guys doing back so soon?”

“So soon? Honey, you’ve been unconscious for half an hour. We already finished half of the neighborhood.”

“I guess it’s my turn then.” Chris tried to stand. His legs wobbled.

Rachael helped him back into a chair. “Chris, you can barely stand. I think you’re done for the evening.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sitting.”

“Is Daddy okay?” The kids had stuck their costumed heads halfway out the front door. One was stacked on the other like a totem pole of cuteness.

“Daddy’s fine. Come give him a hug.”

The kids rushed onto the porch and embraced their father.

“We thought you were dead,” said Jack.

“We thought you were under arrest,” said Allison.

“No, kids.” Chris hugged them back. “Daddy just had an accident and needs to rest.”

“Mommy, you were right,” said the cute monkey.

Rachael shushed the innocent little boy.

The children smiled at him. His beautiful little girl raised a chocolate bar to her lips. It was huge.

Suddenly alert, Chris jumped to his feet and grabbed the bar from her young hands.

“Where did you get this?”

His daughter began to cry.

Rachael put her hand on his shoulder. “Chris? What’s wrong?”

“King-sized,” he said in disgust as he waved the chocolate bar in his wife’s face. “King-sized; that’s what’s wrong.”

Allison reached for the bar, but her father would not stop waving it.

“Where did this come from?” His daughter would not answer. He turned to his wife.

Rachael pulled the bar from his hand and gave it back to their daughter. The children disappeared back inside, clutching their goody bags tight.

“Where did they get the king-sized bars?” Chris could feel himself getting worked up.

“Some house. Who knows which one? The kids say trick-or-treat, the neighbors put candy in their bags.”

“This is unacceptable.”

“It’s been that way for years, honey.”

“I’m talking about the candy bars.”

“Oh, Chris.”

“Get the kids ready.”

“But, Chris, you’re not …”

“I said, get the kids ready.” Chris ripped off the masked murderer jumper to reveal a modified pirate costume. “Hand me my hurdy gurdy. Daddy’s going trick-or-treating.”

* * *

He had left specific instructions with his wife on how to operate the Yard of Terror. It was a simple pull of the wires. He reminded her of the order: Eddie Driscoll, bushes, bushes, tree, Kachanga, bushes, Bubbles, bushes, tree, bushes, Spittin’ Bob, and then, and only then, candy.

Before he left, he mentioned to let the whole thing slide if anyone came dressed as a cop.

She had nodded in agreement, or shook her head in disbelief, he couldn’t remember. He grabbed his kids by the hands and pretended not to hear his wife when she said they had already done that half of the neighborhood. He kept walking.

His children also reminded him that they were walking the same side of the street that their mother had taken them on earlier. He tenderly reassured them that he didn’t care and walked them up the path to the first house.

The porch light was on, but the decorations were minimal. On the right side of the porch sat a cauldron and jack-o-lantern cut in the traditional style. Above the cauldron was a sign that simply read, “Take one.”

Chris shook his head. It was a lazy set up.

“Okay, kids. Go get your candy.”

“But, Daddy,” Princess Allison began to protest but was quickly cut off.

Chris just pointed to the porch. “Go. And show me what you get.”

The princess and the monkey strolled up the walkway and looked into the cauldron. They came back a moment later.

“So, what did you get?”

“Nothing,” his daughter answered.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“It’s empty,” she said.

“It was empty earlier too,” Jack added.

“What?” Chris ran up the walkway to the cauldron and peered inside. It was empty. At the bottom of the bucket was a note that read, “Sorry. We’re out.”

“This was empty earlier?” he asked.

His son and daughter nodded. Chris knocked on the door.

“What are you doing, Daddy?” The princess took a step back behind her father’s leg.

“You guys would have been the first ones here. It shouldn’t have been empty.”

The door opened. The man behind it was not in costume.

“Chris?”

“Erik.”

“That’s some costume you’ve got there. What are you, a pirate?”

Chris had slung the hurdy gurdy behind him. He moved it back around to show Erik. “I’m a hurdy gurdy man.” He pulled his son closer. “This is my monkey. He dances for nickels.”

Jack proudly held up the tin cup his father had given him once they were out of his mother’s sight.

“You’ve got some nickels, don’t you, Erik?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, Chris.” Erik tapped his pockets. The lack of a jingle proved his statement true.

“Funny,” Chris pointed to the cauldron, “you don’t seem to have any candy either.”

Erik looked into the cauldron. “Nope, we appear to be out.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t care.” Erik began to close the door.

Chris stopped it from closing. “How can you do this to kids, Erik? It violates the spirit of Halloween.”

Erik shrugged. “It was filled with candy earlier.”

“Are you calling my children liars?”

“What do you mean?”

“They came by earlier. They said it was empty then, too.”

“So you’re double dipping? Who’s violating Halloween now, Chris?”

“There was never any candy in it. Was there?”

“It was …”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s enough, Chris.” Erik stepped from the house and shoved a band-aid clad finger into Chris’s face. “Get off my lawn.”

“Fine. We’ll leave your normal, boring, not-scary lawn. But, know this, you’ve cheated these children. And the children that came after. And the ones that came before these children came back.”

“Just go, Chris.” Erik slammed the door.

Chris and the kids turned and walked down the path to the sidewalk. A group of kids turned and passed them on the way.

“Don’t bother, kids. There’s nothing up there except a big crock of nothing.”

“What do you mean?” one of the parents, not dressed up—like a loser—asked.

“He just put out an empty bowl that says, ‘Sorry, we’re out’ on the bottom.”

The parent look stunned for a moment, then answered, “That’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant? It’s wrong!” Why didn’t anyone see that?

“You’re the one who dressed up your child as a dancing monkey.” The group of kids and parents went to examine the cauldron.

“Hey! He wanted to be a monkey.”

Chris took his son’s hand and called for his daughter to follow along to the next house.

“But, Daddy, we already went this way.”

“Look, honey, if you can remember where you got the really big chocolate bar, we don’t have to go to all these houses again.”

“But, I don’t remember.”

“Then we’ll have to check each one.”

She crossed her arms and began to pout.

“Oh, come on. Princesses don’t pout.”

She crossed her arms harder.

“Have I ever told you the story of Princess Pout?”

Allison didn’t respond.

“It’s a story about a princess, just like you.” Chris plucked her under the chin. The pout did not crack. He began the story of princess pout:

“Princess Pout would cry and shout if she didn’t
get her way.

She’d sit in place with a snit in her face and stay
that way all day.

One day by the moat, she decided to mope,
because she didn’t get a doll.

A dragon came by, watched her cry and ate
her—scepter and all.

So don’t be a pout or holler and shout when
things don’t go your way.

A dragon could meet you and then he would
eat you and that would ruin your day.”

His daughter unclenched her arms.

“So, you see. We shouldn’t pout.”

His daughter looked terrified. But, it was Halloween.

“Now, let’s go find that chocolate bar.”

* * *

They stopped at several homes. All of them were giving out crap: Neco wafers, generic chocolate, fun-size bars and Tootsie Rolls, etcetera. One asshole was even giving out dental floss. Chris pressed him about the floss and discovered that the man was a dentist.

When Chris suggested that giving away Jolly Ranchers and a business card would be better for drumming up new customers, he was greeted with a band-aid clad finger in the face and a request to leave.

They had covered half of the neighborhood and encountered nothing like the Yard of Terror. There was no candy to rival his full-sized selection. Perhaps it had been a fluke. He began to question whether or not he had really seen a king-sized candy bar in his daughter’s hand. He had just recently been tased, after all.

He was about to turn the kids around when he heard it. The screams were the same. They were followed by the same groans. Someone was playing the same special effects tape that powered the ambience of the Yard of Terror.

“Come on, kids.” He quickened his pace as the monkey and the princess rushed to keep up.

“Daddy, our legs are tired,” the princess whined.

“We’re almost done, kids.” Chris turned the corner. This had to be it. Smoke covered the yard. Red and orange light lit the fog bank. A strobe shuttered in the bushes. The sound of thunder crashed. Chris ran faster. He reached the pathway. “This has to be it. C’mon, kids.”

Chris turned. His kids would not step beyond the hedge line that ran the front of the yard.

“What’s wrong?”

Allison stood fast. “It’s too scary.”

“Didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Yeah, but it was still kind of light out.”

“You’ll be safe. I’m with you.”

The kids didn’t move and he could tell that there was nothing he could say, give or threaten to take away that would get them to budge. This had to be the place. To come so close to be stopped here by a couple of crybaby toddlers wasn’t fair.

There had to be something he could do.

A squad car rolled by them on the street. The officer waved to the kids.

Chris’s mind, still tingling with extra voltage, worked quickly.

He shouted at the squad car, “Parker!”

The brake lights of the squad car lit up, further enhancing the glow on the smoky yard. The patrol car backed up and the officer rolled down his window. It was the rookie.

“Did you need something, sir?”

“Parker. It’s me.”

Officer Parker looked confused.

“It’s me,” Chris said again. “What’s the matter? Don’t you recognize me without a giant ‘electrocute my ass’ sign across my forehead?”

“Mr. Peterson. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you in the—pirate costume?”

“Hurdy gurdy man. My son is dancing for nickels.”

“That’s terri …”

“I need you to watch the kids for a minute.”

“I can’t do that, I’m …”

“Listen, you owe me, right?”

“Well, I don’t think I owe …”

“I didn’t think so either till I noticed my st-st-st-stutter st-starting.”

The rookie looked scared. But, it was Halloween.

“Look, I just need you to stand with the kids for a minute.”

“Sir, I’m on patrol.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Hey. How do I report a tasing? Should I just call ni-ni-ni-ni-nine one one one one?”

The rookie stepped out of the patrol car and introduced himself to the kids. Chris told them that they would be safe with Officer Parker as long as they didn’t make any sudden moves. He reassured them that Daddy would be right back.

Chris stepped onto the walkway that approached the house and moved down the path.

Spiders and bats moved in the trees. There were no less than two fog machines at work. Chris felt his temper rise. He didn’t even recognize the house. But, this person was getting a piece of his mind.

“Parker.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Hold my hurdy gurdy.” Chris tossed the prop to the officer, rolled up his pirate sleeves and walked into the yard.

One step past the shrubs, all hell broke loose.

He heard a shout from somewhere in the bushes. “Beware the curse of Jerry Holcombe!”

From his left a body flew at him. It had come from seemingly nowhere. The sudden appearance caused him to stumble backwards into the arms of a gorilla. The beast stank, funky, like vinegar. Chris bounced off the primate and tried to brush the stink from his clothes. There was movement behind him. A giant, evil-looking bunny was coming at him with a carrot. Perched like a dagger, the vegetable stopped short of striking him. Still, the attempted herbicide kept him off-balance and he stumbled forward to the porch of the house.

He tripped on the final step. His rage was fully engaged and he stood up to shout at whoever was working the strings of this abomination of a haunted house. He opened his mouth to scream. A goblin popped up from a cauldron and filled his open mouth with a blast of water.

“Hahahaha,” he knew the laugh. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

Chris, blinded by rage, water and the stink of the gorilla, felt a pair of hands helping him up for the second time that evening.

John was still laughing when Chris wiped the water from his eyes.

“What the hell is this?!” he demanded.

John, still laughing, explained, “Welcome to the Courtyard of Chaos. You just met the body of Jerry Holcombe, Tamike, the rabid gorilla and Mr. Sprinkles, the butcherous bunny. Oh, and I almost forgot, Mikey, the goblin fireman.” John pulled a cable and the goblin appeared briefly, as if to take a bow.

“BS. This is my Yard of Terror!”

“What are you talking about, Chris?”

“This is the exact setup of my yard!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Think again, you thief.”

John crossed his arms. “You’ve got a rising body?”

Chris nodded. “The corpse of Eddie Driscoll.”

“And a stinky gorilla?”

“Stinkier. I added Old Spice.”

“And a giant knife-wielding bunny?”

“Well, no. Axe-murdering clown.”

“See, there you go. Your lawn of horror and my Courtyard of Chaos aren’t the same at all.”

“Yard of Terror.”

“Whatever.”

“Hardly. At least Yard of Terror is accurate.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t even a courtyard.” Chris had him on a technicality.

“Oh come on.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m calling bogus on your whole set up. And, you’re just reusing Easter props. Since when are bunnies scary?”

“Donny Darko? Twilight Zone?”

“Oh, I never saw those.”

“Pretty creepy bunnies.”

“Still, this whole thing is a total copy of my yard and I’ll not have you top me.”

“Okay, look, I don’t want any hard feelings between us, so here.” John held out a candy bar. It was king-sized.

“King-sized candy bars?”

“Yeah. Nothing but the best, right? And there’s no topping a king-sized candy bar. Is there, Chris?”

Chris struck the bar from his hand. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. I’ve-got-no-problem-with-plagiarism. There is something better.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

Chris was stumped for a moment, but the answer came to him like the flash of a taser. “Full-sized cakes and pies.”

John laughed, but his expression changed quickly. “You’re not serious?”

“Am I not? I’m heading to the grocery store right now.” Chris turned and stormed down the path. He couldn’t resist one more jab. “By the way, John. Your pumpkins suck.”

John pointed a band-aid clad finger at Chris. “Hey, man. I bled for those pumpkins.”

Delighted in his insult, Chris almost didn’t see his wife coming up the walkway.

“Chris, what the hell is going on?” She looked worried.

“Oh, hi, honey. Hey, I found where the king-size bars were coming from. It was that jerk John. And, guess what. He totally ripped off the Yard of Terror.”

“Chris, I’ve been getting calls from all over the neighborhood about you.”

“What? Like who?”

“The Andersons called to see if I knew that you were making our son dance for nickels.”

“So?”

“So, he’s our son. That’s disgraceful.”

“It is not. Besides, hardly anyone carries nickels anymore.”

“You can’t use our son as a Halloween accessory.”

“Why not?”

She pretended not to hear, or flat out ignored him, as she continued down the list. “Then Erik called and said you got in his face about his lack of Halloween spirit.”

“Yeah.”

“And, Dr. Smiley said you insulted his choice of treats.”

“Bullshit, the dentist’s name is not Dr. Smiley.”

“Yes, it is, Chris. He’s the kids’ dentist.”

“Well, they’re changing.”

Rachael threw up her arms. “And, then I get here to find Officer Parker watching the kids.”

“Okay, I can see where that is wrong, but in my defense, he is a cop.”

“Yeah, a cop that randomly tases people.”

“What was all that about being thankful to have a cop that …”

“Oh, shut up. I just didn’t want him to tase me too. We’re going home.”

“Cool. You take the kids. I’ve got to run to the store and get some cakes to give out.”

“No, you’re going home. You’ve spent enough on your Lawn of Horrors already this year.”

Suddenly it dawned on him and for the first time this Halloween, he was genuinely scared. “The Yard of Terror. If you’re here, who’s watching the Yard of Terror?”

“No one, Chris. I just put the candy in a bucket and left a sign that said ‘take one.’”

Chris couldn’t form words.

Rachael could see him struggling to talk and put her arm on his shoulder. “It’s okay, honey. You just need to get some rest. I think the accident took more out of you than you thought.”

Rachael took him by the hand and led him onto the sidewalk. They collected the kids and put them in the car. Chris sat in the passenger seat, laid his head back and closed his eyes. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did just need to rest.

“Here’s your hurdy gurdy, Mr. Peterson.”

Chris looked up to see Officer Parker passing the hurdy gurdy through the window. “Thanks, Parker.”

“I’m sorry again about the incident, Mr. Peterson. “

“It’s okay, Parker.” Chris was tired and just wanted to rest. But, then he had a thought. “Parker,” he whispered.

The officer leaned in close. “Yes, sir?”

“There was a group of kids in the yard … I think they were about to smash the pumpkins.” He pointed to John’s Courtyard of Chaos.

“How can you tell?”

“Well, one was dressed as a cricket player.”

“So?”

“So! Who dresses like a cricket player on this continent?”

Parker became visibly nervous. “I’ll check it out. Thanks, Mr. Peterson.”

“Be careful. They don’t look very law-abiding.”

“I’ll be careful. You get some rest.”

Rachael started the car.

Officer Parker stepped onto the walkway and past the hedge.

Chris heard John shout, “Beware the curse of Jerry Holcombe!”

There was a scream, a ffzzt and a thump. Chris Peterson smiled as they pulled away.

THE END

Dad vs Santa

The stockings were hung by the chimney with bailing wire. His original plan had called for silver stocking hangers that contained pictures of each family member. It was quickly apparent, however, that whoever had designed them didn’t know how to throw a truly great Christmas.

The weighted silver picture frames had collapsed under the test load Erik had put into the first stocking. He had tried using duct tape to adhere the hangers to the mantle but the five-pound weight he was using for the dry run had proven too much for the legendary adhesive.

After sweeping up the broken glass, it had become clear that bailing wire run through the stockings’ faux-fur collars and affixed to the mantle with a staple gun was the only logical solution. The duct tape still proved useful as he had used it to attach the photographs to the front of the traditional red stockings.

He dropped the five-pound weight into the stocking labeled “Daddy.” The bailing wire held. Erik gave himself a little cheer and pulled the weight from the stocking.

The initial failure of the stocking system had concerned him. It was the twins’ first Christmas and he wanted everything to be perfect. His plan had included everything from Christmas light viewing to an attempt to roast chestnuts, which had, in turn, become an attempt to air out the house. The stockings were just one part of the larger, much more massive plan, but they were a crucial part.

Erik moved into the kitchen to check “re-hang stockings with care” off the list that was mounted on the family project board. The corkboard served as the family’s command center. All important communications were kept here for reference: doctor’s appointments, school assignments, pizza coupons, a leaf his oldest son had picked up a month ago, a shoelace that had to be to something, a key to … he didn’t know what the key was for, but as soon as he threw it out he knew he would need it. So he kept it there, guaranteeing that he would never need it.

His project list dominated the center of the corkboard. It was festive—it was written in green and red marker—and had several items crossed off: hang wreath, put up lights, set up tree, set up train set with real smoke, replace tree, set up new train set, hang stockings with care. Under a Christmas Eve heading there were several more items marked off. He had lit the seasonally-scented candles, opened the little 24 on the advent calendar, lined up the wrapping paper, located the scissors, and complained about there never being tape in the house before his wife showed him exactly where it was—which was “exactly where she said it was.” He had helped dress the three kids and get them out the door to go see their cousins. Now he checked off the square next to “re-hang stockings with care.”

Erik sighed deeply, taking in the smell of the cinnamon candle, and more than he intended of the Sharpie. He coughed and capped the permanent marker and smiled. He had always loved Christmas, but since the arrival of his oldest son, the season had come to mean so much more.

Every year he had strived to make the holiday a memory that his kids would always hold dear. Now, with the twins, he had to go all out.

The next item on the list was “wrap presents.” This simple line item was a daunting task. It was fair to say that he had gone overboard with the gifts. The piles were high but with the rest of the family out of the house, he felt confident he could get it all done. The silence alone would help with productivity.

Silence? It was such an odd sound to him that he had completely forgotten to put on the Christmas music. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed “Christmas with” into the search field. This pulled up two albums, Christmas with Bing Crosby & Frank Sinatra and Christmas with Dino. He plugged the phone into the stereo and turned it up. “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” filled the air and mingled with the scent of the Christmas candle. The swing and the scent put a rhythm in his step. He swung through the baby gate and into the bedroom closet to retrieve the hidden presents.

Several trips were needed—it was the twins’ first Christmas. He upended the bags and toys of all shapes and sizes fell onto the dining room table. They were colorful. They were exciting. His wife had insisted on using the occasion to get the kids new clothes, so there was some of that, too. But, Erik knew that clothes sucked. At least as far as Christmas gifts were concerned. He wasn’t against them in general.

The gifts were sorted into piles: from parents, from siblings and from Santa. He did the same with wrapping paper. He didn’t want his oldest making the connection that Santa and Mommy and Daddy had used the same wrapping paper.

His twins would never guess. But, they were smart; they were already drooling at an eighteen-month-old level. It wasn’t worth taking the chance.

The first gift was a doll for his sweet little daughter. It giggled. It ate. It peed. It pooped. It actually turned its own diaper brown. It made no sense to him why a defecating dolly would appeal to anyone but, then again, he didn’t fully understand girls yet.

Static crackled as he pulled the plastic from a fresh roll of paper. The cling clung to his fingers and he had to shake his hand several times before it released its grasp and flittered to the ground. He rolled out the paper, set the doll in the center and the doorbell rang.

The playlist moved on to a Sinatra song as he stepped through the baby gate and moved to open the front door. The wreath bounced gently as it opened to the brisk winter morning. The cold air rushed in and caressed his face.

“Merry Christmas!” It was Santa. Actually it was his neighbor, Chris, doing a great impression. He had gone way beyond the fake beard and hat. From boots to the bag, the costume looked authentic. The trim on the costume’s sleeves even looked like real fur.

“Ho, ho, holy crap,” Erik laughed back. “That is quite the get up.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Ha.” Chris dug into Santa’s sack and pulled out a fruitcake. “Just wanted to stop by and wish you a happy holidays, neighbor.”

Erik took the gift—a large fruitcake labeled Anderson. “You guys shouldn’t have.”

“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”

Erik began to panic. His perfect plan had not included gifts for the neighbors. His indulgences had been purely focused on his own family. Visions of Ebenezer filled his mind as it began to race for a solution. “You want to come in for a drink?”

“Nah. Rachael’s folks are over, so I volunteered to deliver the gifts.” Chris held up the bag. “If I don't get it done … well, you know.”

“Sure. Okay, uh, hold on just a second. I’ll be right back.”

Erik shut the door and began to rush around the house. The names of baked goods kept rushing through his mind. A plate full of cookies would be the perfect counter-gift if he hadn’t put holiday baking so far down his list of things to do.

He tripped over the baby gate as he moved into the kitchen. There had to be something here. Something. Anything!

His eyes drifted to the fridge and he opened the door. The fridge was filled with food for the Christmas dinner. He rummaged through the contents but found nothing worth presenting. He worked his way up the shelves, touching everything, deciding on nothing. Then he reached the wine. Wine!

People gave wine as gifts all the time. Pulling the bottle from the shelf, he dove to the pantry hoping for something better than a brown paper bag to present it in. There was nothing. Not even a bow. Aha, a bow!

He slammed the pantry door and moved to the kitchen table.

The bag of bows exploded as he tore it open. Festive colors showered down upon him as he grabbed a blue bow out of the air. He started back to the door, tripped over the baby gate and pulled the backing from the bow’s adhesive. He attached the bow to the neck of the bottle and opened the door.

The wreath bounced against the door. The cold air kissed his face.

“Merry Christmas,” he shouted as he presented the wine bottle. “Here you go, neighbor. Happy holidays.”

Chris took the bottle and examined the label, “That’s very kind of you, Erik.”

“It’s our pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. And thank Rachael for the fruitcake. I love fruitcake.” He would throw away the fruitcake. “Have fun spreading the cheer.”

“Oh, I will. It sure beats the alternative.” Chris hoisted the bag over his shoulder, gave a hearty “ho, ho, ho” and headed down the walkway.

Erik closed the door and moved back to the kitchen, tripped over the baby gate, tossed the fruitcake on the counter and returned to the wrapping.

Wrapping the doll was simple. Getting it out of the box would be difficult. Just through the window, he had counted seventeen plastic straps restraining the doll to the packaging as if she were a danger to herself and others. He set the wrapped gift on end and pulled a gift label from the sticker sheet.

He pulled the cap off the Sharpie and the doorbell rang.

He capped the marker, tripped over the baby gate and opened the door.

The wreath bounced. The cold air kissed his face.

“Merry Christmas, neighbor!” The wind had picked up and the couple was bundled against the growing cold and holding out a fruitcake. But, still, through the wool and fur he could tell it was the Johnsons.

“Merry Christmas.” Erik took the offered fruitcake and held up his finger, begging for just a moment. He ducked back inside and ran to the kitchen, tripping over the baby gate as he went.

He tossed the second fruitcake on the counter next to the first and began to panic. He was out of wine. He wasn’t about to give away one of the kid’s gifts. He scratched his head. The gift label, intended for the doll, stuck to his hair. He winced as he pulled it out. He had forgotten it was on his finger. He flicked the hair-covered sticker from his palm. It fluttered and landed next to the fruitcake from the Smiths.

Aha. He peeled a fresh gift label from the sticker sheet and slapped it on the Smiths’ fruitcake. He uncapped the Sharpie, scribbled “The Johnsons” on the label, tripped over the baby gate and ran to the door.

“I’m so glad you guys came by.” Erik smiled and handed the Johnson’s the Smith’s fruitcake, “You saved me a trip.”

“Thank you, Erik.”

“No, thank you, guys.”

“Is Christine in?”

“No, she’s got the kids at her sister’s. I’m wrapping gifts.”

Carol Johnson chuckled through her scarf. “Good luck, then.”

“Oh, it’s easy. I’ve got it.”

Darren Johnson laughed and waved good-bye as Erik closed the door.

He went back to the kitchen and placed a blank label on the Johnsons’ fruitcake.

The “Christmas with” playlist went back to Dean crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

Wrapping the doll had brought back the feel for the paper, the angle of the folds and the snap of the tape. He was certain the presents would be flying now. He rolled out the paper and grabbed another toy from his daughter’s stack. Clothes, tea party accessories and colorful things she could put in her mouth, all of these were wrapped with perfect corners.

The next hour became a steady progression of wrapping, knocking, tripping, label-switching and fruitcake-exchanging. The whole neighborhood came by and they all received a fruitcake.

The Phillips got the Johnsons’, the Ceynars got the Phillips’, the Moores got the Ceynars’, the Sheridans got the Moores’, the Chambers got the Sheridans’ and the Stevens got nothing. He didn’t like them.

The exchanges went well. After the thirteenth or fourteenth visitor, he was convinced that he started to see the same fruitcakes again.

Back in the kitchen, Erik grabbed a toy from his oldest son’s stack.

“Action figure,” he said and laughed maniacally. Baby toys sucked. Four-year-old and up toys were where it was at. The proportions of the figure were exaggerated. But it was still a superhero and not some plush bear, strangely proportioned race car or storybook with chewy pages.

Finally, the toys were getting good. Even their packaging was cool. Dolls came in boring boxes. This bad boy had points and edges. This action figure wasn’t hiding from the world behind a plastic shield, he was out there giving evil the finger of justice—daring them. He slapped the action figure in the paper and began to wrap.

It wouldn’t fold. Well, it wouldn’t fold right. What he had thought were awesome edges on the packaging that brought to mind explosions of awesomeness were actually paper stabbers. Every fold brought another edge through the wrapping paper. He tried to leave more slack in the folds, but this caused creases to appear. The lack of a plastic window made the packaging crumble and tear as he tried to wrap the action figure.

He started over with the same results. Crumpling the paper and tossing it on the floor, he turned the toy over and wrapped it face down. The back of the packaging made it easier to square the corners. He laid the tape across the seam, smiled and turned the gift over. A yellow bat-shaped boomerang jutted from the paper.

He muttered, “Stupid superhero.”

He ripped the paper off. The crumpled ball joined the other two on the floor.

“Arrgh, damn you, Dark Knight.”

Another fold. Another tear.

“Dammit!”

The doorbell rang.

He kicked open the baby gate and stomped to the front door.

He opened the door. The wreath bounced. The cold air bit at his nose.

It was the Millers. They had brought fruitcake. They got a fruitcake.

Erik closed the door and placed his forehead against it. He sighed and went back to the kitchen. He knocked the Dark Knight from the table and moved on to the presents for his younger son. These were wonderfully and thoughtfully packaged in boxes. Corners, edges, solid faces—everything about the stack of gifts was perfect.

The doorbell rang several more times. Fruitcakes and season’s greetings were given and received. Every time he opened the door it got colder and the handwriting on the new fruitcake labels got messier.

Picking up the action figure from the floor, he sighed and looked at the stack of toys for his oldest son. They were all cool—castles, jets, robots—and every one had some strange shape or open face to the package.

He struggled with several possible wrapping solutions: looser wrapping, pre-cut paper, wrapping each angle separately, double paper, sneaking up on it, an improvised envelope, and throwing the paper at the package and hoping it would magically figure itself out. It didn’t.

The “Christmas with” playlist shuffled to another track. He didn’t recognize the song as one of Dean’s or Frank’s. It was more modern. Electric guitar soon followed a haunting … was that a glockenspiel? The tune sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it.

The doorbell rang. Erik grabbed a fruitcake, stormed out of the kitchen, kicked down the baby gate and tore open the door. The wreath banged. The cold stung at his face.

It was the widow Mrs. Howard. She was the sweet old lady that every neighborhood needed—kind, caring and curious enough to call the police if teenagers were wandering around the neighborhood.

He quickly scrawled her name on the gift label.

“Merry Christmas, Erik.” Her voice was weak and warm.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Howard.” Erik tried to let go of the frustrations the packaging had caused and smiled at the kind old lady.

The dainty widow offered a fruitcake.

“Thank you, Mrs. Howard. You didn’t have to do that.” Erik handed her the Millers’ fruitcake.

“Thank you, dear.”

The vocals to the unidentified Christmas song blared over the speakers. The widow’s eyes got wide as Spinal Tap began to sing.

“What is that song, Erik?”

“I believe that’s “Christmas with the Devil” by Spinal Tap, Mrs. Howard.” The “Christmas with” playlist had included “Christmas with the Devil” in its selection and didn’t care who was at the door or how old and sweet she might be.

“An odd choice for Christmas Eve, don’t you think?”

“You’d think so, but it’s growing on me.” The frustration had crept back into his voice.

In her kind way, she looked concerned and not the least bit offended that he had snapped at her. “Is everything okay, dear?”

Erik looked at his feet before apologizing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howard. I’m just a little stressed.”

“No apology necessary. This can be a stressful time of year. Is there something I can help with?”

“No, it’s just. Well, it’s silly.”

“Try me, dear. I’ve seen it all.”

“Well, I’m trying to wrap my son’s gifts and all the packages are ... weird. It’s just … they’re not shaped right.”

The old lady put her hand on his shoulder. It was frail but warm.

“Oh, honey. My grandkids ask for those toys every year and I have to struggle with the packages. As far as I’m concerned Fisher-Price can suck it.”

“I’m sorry?” Did he hear her right?

“Sometimes I have to wrap them two or three times. And with my arthritis ... well it just pains me and I end up saying the most terrible things. But those bastards deserve it. I mean, what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned box?”

“I know. Right? It just keeps tearing!”

“I hate those damn things.”

Suddenly Erik wished he had given Mrs. Howard the bottle of wine instead of someone else’s fruitcake.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, dear. You have a blessed Christmas and say hello to your lovely Christine for me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Howard.”

The widow smiled and moved slowly down the sidewalk toting a large bag full of fruitcake behind her.

Eric closed the door, went back to the kitchen and opened a beer.

* * *

Christine found him amid a pile of broken cardboard tubes and empty tape dispensers. His lower half was covered with address labels. The living room was covered in the paper scraps of failed wrapping attempts.

Ryan, his oldest son, waded through the scraps of paper to give him a hug.

“Careful, son. I lost the scissors somewhere in there about an hour ago.”

“Erik? Are you okay?” Christine asked.

“Hi, honey. How’s your sister?”

“Never mind that. Are you okay?” Christine stood behind the extra long and extra unwieldy tandem strollers. The twins appeared to be sleeping.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“There’s a black cauldron on the front porch that says ‘Take a fruitcake, leave a fruitcake.’”

“It’s a long story.”

“Try me.”

“I got tired of opening the door for fruitcakes.” Erik thought about what he had said and added, “Huh, I guess it wasn’t that complicated after all.”

“Erik!”

“What?”

“That’s not very Christmasy.”

“You know what’s not very Christmasy! Parallelograms. That’s what! What’s wrong with a square, huh? What’s wrong with a rectangle? Even a damn tube is easier to wrap than these toys.”

“Erik!” She covered the twins’ ears. “Okay, it’s nap time.” Christine unlatched each of the twins, put each of the sleeping pair on her hip and walked them down the hall.

“Daddy, we saw Santa!”

“No! Really?”

“Yes! He was on our street and so now he knows where we live. And, he waved to us and we talked to him.”

“That’s wonderful, buddy.”

Christine called from down the hall. “Ryan. Nap time,”

“Good night, Daddy.” Ryan leaned in and kissed his father on the cheek and waded back out through the piles of wrapping paper.

“Good night, son. Watch out for those scissors.”

A moment later his wife returned.

“Erik! What is this mess?”

“I wrapped the presents. Just like I planned.”

“But, what happened?”

“Have you seen this crap? Look.” He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a present. It was twelve sided and wrapped with three kinds of paper. “Look at this!”

“What is it?”

“It’s a multi-faceted experiment in cruelty.”

“What?”

“It’s a dodecafuckinghedron, Christine! What sadistic bastard designs a box like this?”

“You’re getting really worked up. Did you try and install a new stereo or something when I was gone?”

“Ha. Ha. No.”

“It’s just, I’ve never seen you like this unless you’re messing with stereo or Ikea instructions.”

“This is worse. I’ve been messing with rhombuses, and trapezoids, and, I’m pretty sure, I wrapped no less than two double helixes and a mobius strip.”

“It’s okay, honey. You just need to settle down.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Erik sat back down in the pile of wrapping paper and began to rummage around.

“Don’t worry about the scissors. I’ll find them.”

“No, I’m looking for my beer.”

“You lost a beer in that mess?”

“Two. I’m looking for the cold one.”

“Erik. Sit down on the couch. I’ll clean this up. And I’ll finish wrapping.”

Erik beamed and put his hand on his chest. “The wrapping is done.”

“I’ll finish rewrapping then.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” She shuffled through the paper and kissed him on the forehead. “You did great.”

“Yeah, I kind of did. We’ve got all of the shopping done. All of the wrapping done. I can’t believe we did it. We’re going to have the perfect Christmas. Just like we planned.”

“Just like you planned.” She pulled her hand from the pile of paper. “Here. I found your beer. I think you earned yourself a break.”

“I’ll say.” He took the beer and tipped it back. She had found the cold one.

“Oh, by the way, we ran into Chris Peterson.”

“Yeah, he came by here all dressed up like Santa with a bag full of fruitcake.”

“He told Ryan he was getting a bike.”

“What?!”

“It’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not. Did you give him the subtle shake?”

“The what?”

“The subtle shake. You know. The one you give the mall Santa when the kid asks for something that’s not going to be under the tree.”

“Yes, Erik. I shook my head. He didn’t see me.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Except that now we have to get Ryan a bike.”

“No we don’t.”

“So what are we going to tell him?”

“Nothing.” She was bunching up the scraps of paper and not really paying attention to how upset he was. “He’ll be so excited by all of the presents under the tree that he’ll forget all about it.”

“I doubt it.”

“You just watch. He’ll come running around the corner and see all the toys that Santa left and won’t even think about it.”

“Once he unwraps them, I guess.”

“What do you mean? You didn’t wrap the gifts from Santa?”

“I wrapped everything.”

“But Santa doesn’t wrap gifts. He leaves them set up for the kids to play with first thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember last year?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, that’s what we did last year.”

Erik nodded slightly then realized what he had done. “You mean I wrapped all that crap for nothing?”

Christine chuckled. “You’re so cute.”

“This is ...” His swearing was interrupted by a tug at his pants.

It was his oldest son, Ryan.

“What’s up, buddy? You’re supposed to be napping.”

“Santa says I’m getting a bike for Christmas.”

Erik stared back at his wife. She had no response. His ‘I told you so’ face got considerably less practice than hers, but he raised his eyebrows and gave it his best shot.

She walked over and gave Ryan a hug. “We’ll talk about that after your nap, sweetie.”

Christine led Ryan down the hall. Erik grabbed his coat and ran out the door to punch Santa in the mouth.

* * *

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa strolled the sidewalk waving to passing cars full of wide-eyed children and scowling parents.

Erik spotted Chris and shouted from across the street. “Hey, you. St. Dick.”

“Ho, ho, ho, neighbor.”

Erik half ran, half slid across the icy street and leapt onto the sidewalk next to Chris. “We need to talk, Chris. You owe my kid a bike.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You promised my kid a bike. I didn’t buy him a bike. Therefore, you owe him a bike.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Erik. I didn’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter. Now get in your sleigh and bring the boy a bike.”

“Now wait a minute. How was I supposed to know he wasn’t getting a bike? He said he asked for one.”

“Well, he didn’t. And Christine gave you the shake.”

“What shake? What are you talking about?”

“The shake. A barely perceptible shake of the head that all ‘real’ Santas know means that the kid is asking for something that won’t be under the tree.”

“Show me.”

Erik shook his head. It was barely perceptible.

“I didn’t see it.”

“Of course you didn’t see it! You know why? You’re not a pro Santa! You’re just some idiot trying to get out of hanging out with his in-laws. You’re not trained for this.”

“That’s stupid. What kind of training does it take to wear a suit and smile?”

“Uh, the shake for one. How to calm a frightened child. I’m sure mall Santas are even taught to identify the signs that a kid is going to wet in their lap.”

“Erik. I’m truly sorry I promised your kid a bike, but …”

“But, nothing.” Erik shoved some money at Chris. “Get a bike and bring it by the house.”

Chris brushed Erik’s hand back. “I don’t have time to get your kid a bike. My in-laws will be gone soon and then I can go home.”

Erik leaned in close and whispered, “Take the money or it goes up your chimney.”

“What’s wrong with you? You’re threatening Santa?”

“I have spent the last month planning the perfect Christmas for my family. And your weird obsession with dressing up has put that plan in jeopardy. But, you can fix it too. I just had a great idea. I want you to deliver the bike as Santa, first thing in the morning.”

“I will not.”

“You’re going to make this right or I’m going to tell the neighborhood that your dressing up thing goes way beyond holidays.”

“That’s a lie.”

“So? You don’t think a lie will spread?”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“Whatever, Mr. Crushed Velvet and Fur Trim.”

“I’m putting you on my naughty list.”

Both men stared at each other. Neither wanting to flinch.

Chris broke first, “Okay, that didn’t sound right.”

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“Especially in the context of the whole bogus cross dressing charge.”

“Right.”

“I’d like to take it back.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“I’ll just put you on my asshole list instead.”

“That still sounds bad.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s done. You’re an asshole.”

“Whatever. Make the bike happen. And put a bell on it.” Erik shoved the money into Chris’s coat pocket, turned his back to the fake Santa and walked coolly away. He only slipped twice on the icy sidewalk.

Chris shouted after him, “You shouldn’t threaten Santa, Erik.”

* * *

The paper had been cleaned up. The awkward packages had been rewrapped and placed under the tree. Christine was closing up a trash bag full of paper scraps. Erik looked at his wrist and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a watch. “How long was I gone?”

“There you are. Where did you go?”

“Just had a little chat with Santa.”

“Erik, you didn’t.”

“It’s okay. The whole bike situation is under control. That Santa will think twice about trying to make kids happy next year.”

“What did you tell him?” There was concern in her voice. He could hear it.

“Don’t worry. I just explained that we didn’t have a bike to give Ryan. So I asked him to go out and get one. I also explained that he’s a jerk.”

“Erik, we’re way over budget on the kid’s gifts already. We were going to …”

Erik just held up his hands. “It’s going to be the perfect Christmas. That’s my gift to the twins.”

Christine dropped the bag and crossed the room to kiss her husband. “You’re the best daddy ever. You know that?”

“I know that.”

She kissed him gently on the lips. “But, you need to relax. They’re going to have a wonderful Christmas. Do you remember Ryan’s first Christmas?”

Erik laughed. “Of course. What a mess that was.”

“Santa forgot to come.” Christine smiled.

“Yeah. Whoops. Good thing we were able to put him back to bed and start over.”

“And, in the end, he loved it. And the twins are going to love this one. So will Ryan.” She put her arms around him.

Erik hugged her back. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Now let’s make some cookies to go with Santa’s whiskey.”

“Milk.”

“With all the toys I have to put together tonight, this Santa gets whiskey.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the day was filled with festivities that Erik hoped would become tradition. Ryan and Christine baked. The twins drooled. Together they watched the evening Christmas specials. The twins drooled. Erik read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. One of the twins burped. The other drooled.

Each child was tucked into bed and instructed to dream about sugarplums. The twins did not argue. Ryan asked what a sugarplum was. Erik made something up and decided to check wikipedia later to see if he was even remotely close.

The children fell to sleep quickly and Erik set to work on the toys from Santa. The twins were getting bigger and each received a riding toy. The parts snapped into place. The stickers stuck in the wrong place and did not come off easily. Wrinkles and tears bothered him at first, but the whiskey helped. After a glass or two he decided that the perfect Christmas didn’t require perfect graphics. Once assembled, he pictured the twins running around the house at top speed taking the elephant and rocket ship up on two wheels as they rounded corners.

He set out some stuffed animals that would no doubt draw their immediate attention and moved on to Ryan’s toys.

Ages four and up toys were simply cooler than the infant toys with their soft edges and rounded corners. He set up several action figures in various poses. Good guys fought bad guys. Animals stalked the good guys. Planes buzzed. Cars roared.

And then there was the big one. The jungle playset was massive. Trap doors, swinging vines and dangerous creatures haunted every corner. Giant boulders rolled, jaws bit and the quicksand threatened to suck any poor action figure to a watery yet sandy death. A giant idol sat at the adventure set’s center and spit plastic discs that represented fire. Fire. Not just flashing lights or wussy foam darts.

Everything he touched made a sound. Initially he was concerned that Ryan would come out to see what the noise was. But, after several minutes of playing with the set, he decided that the sugarplums, whatever they were, had invaded the boy’s dreams and would keep him asleep until morning. Good. This thing was awesome and he wasn’t ready to share.

The intrepid explorer, Erik the Dauntless was in great peril when Christine walked into the living room with a plate of cookies.

“What are you doing?”

Erik looked up in shock. He had been so busy trying to discover the sacred idol that he had not heard her enter the room.

“Nothing.”

“Are you playing with the toys?”

“No.”

She chuckled. “You’re just a big kid.”

“I am not.”’

“Don’t worry. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

Erik felt himself actually blush. What the hell was that?

Christine held out her arms. “C’mon, little boy. It’s time for bed. Santa will be here soon. I’ll tuck you in.”

Erik stood up and felt his knees pop. How long had he been on the ground? He smiled at his wife. “I hope Santa got me what I asked for.”

“Really?” Her voice was sultry. “And, what would that be?”

Erik took her hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Something with a Hemi.”

“Ha.” She dropped his hands. “No chance. Not while I’m stuck in the minivan.”

Erik huffed. Christine walked into the bedroom and yelled back, “Don’t forget to eat your cookies, Santa.”

Erik turned and surveyed the room. It was the perfect tree lit with the perfect lights. And, under it all, were the perfect gifts. He had done it. He had created the perfect Christmas for his family. And the final perfect touch would happen tomorrow when Santa showed up with the bike for Ryan.

He turned off the living room lights, triggered the jungle lights one last time and went to bed.

* * *

Erik was the first one up. He couldn’t remember at what age he and his brother were up before his parents, but he couldn’t remember a time when they had to wake him for Christmas morning. He crept into Ryan’s room. The little guy was passed out, butt in the air and snoring. It was cute, but it was Christmas and there was a schedule to keep. Presents, breakfast, sledding, hot chocolate, dinner and caroling.

He shook the boy gently.

The toddler’s eyes opened with hesitation.

“Santa came, buddy.”

The boy’s brown eyes shot open. He jumped or fell, Erik couldn’t really tell, out of the bed and bolted for the living room. His screams were delightful.

They tried to contain Ryan’s excitement while they woke and changed the twins. Holding him back from the gifts was a challenge.

The rest of the morning was a blur of squealing and paper ripping. Before the torn strips of paper had even hit the ground, Ryan was shoving packages, boxes and dodecafuckinghedrons in his lap. “Open it, Daddy. Open it.”

“Of course. Just one second.” Erik opened the top of a box and pulled on the toy inside. It wouldn’t give. He pulled harder. He felt the interior packaging bend but it would not leave the box. “What the …?”

He peered into the box. Was that a tie wrap? The giant gorilla was indeed bound to the packaging with tie wraps. The same tie wraps used to restrain electrical cables, crazed drug addicts and mafia capos. What the hell had the gorilla done? It looked innocent enough.

The restraints proved resilient to tugging and swearing, so he got the scissors from the kitchen and cut the shackles. He pulled the gorilla free and had another package set in his lap. This one was awesome—a giant, evil looking anglerfish came packaged with a fishing boat and diving crew. Adventure included. These too were bound but not by tie wraps but silver twist ties. Twist ties, like for bread or trash bags, but way tougher. After untwisting several of the plastic coated wires, his fingers were tattered and sore. He went back to the scissors and cut the toys free.

By the time the last toy was released from its prison-like package, he sat in a pile of cut plastic and silver wire. “What is all this?” He looked to his wife. “Do they think the toys are going to run away?”

She shrugged and burped one of the twins. The infant smiled. It was the perfect Christmas.

Ryan began to cry.

“What’s wrong, buddy?”

“Santa didn’t bring my bike.”

“There, there, honey.” Christine put the baby down to crawl and put her hand on Ryan’s back. “What about all this other stuff he brought you? That’s fun stuff too, right?”

The boy shrugged, “I guess but … Santa’s a liar.” He buried his crying eyes in his hands.

Christine looked up at Erik. He mouthed, “told you” to her and ran to find his cell phone. He thumbed through the contact list quickly and found Chris’s number and dialed.

It was answered quickly with a pleasant, “Merry Christmas.”

“Is it? I’ve got a screaming boy over hear crying about a bike and how Santa is a liar.”

“Oh, hey, Erik.”

“Get over here now!”

“Sure, I’m on my way over.”

“Now.”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Silly voices for gorillas and an introduction to Erik the Dauntless served as distractions while they waited for the doorbell to ring. It didn’t take long. Chris must have already had the Santa costume on. Weirdo.

Erik acted surprised. “I wonder who that could be?” The question came with a wink to his wife.

“I don’t know.” Christine rolled her eyes at her husband, “Maybe Ryan should answer the door.”

Ryan hesitated then stepped toward the door and reached for the handle.

The door opened and the little boy’s face turned red with excitement, or cold. “Santa! Dad, it’s Santa!”

“Ho, ho, ho. Hello, Ryan.” Chris had the voice down. Erik had to give him that. But then again, who can’t pull off Santa.

Chris stepped into the foyer. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

“Merry Christmas, Santa.” Erik’s smile was so fake it hurt. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to see my little friend Ryan.” Chris kneeled and looked the boy in the eye. “Ryan, are you having a good Christmas?”

“Yeah, but …”

“But? But, what?”

“You said I was going to get a bike and I didn’t.”

“That’s right Ryan. I did say that. That’s why I’m here. I’m afraid I have some bad news about the bike.”

“Is that so, Santa?” Erik could feel his upper teeth merging with the lower. “What’s the problem? I hope it’s not a big one.”

“Ho, ho, ho, no. Well, yes. You see, Ryan. I was flying my sleigh last night, taking presents to boys and girls all over the world and, well, do you know what turbulence is?”

“Turbulence! You’re going with turbulence!” Erik began looking for something that would perform the duties of a club.

Ryan said he didn’t know what turbulence was so Chris explained. “Turbulence is rough, bumpy air. We hit some turbulence in the old sleigh and I’m afraid your bike fell out.”

Ryan gasped.

Erik growled.

“I’m afraid so. It fell right out; along with a lump of coal I was going to give your father.”

“You lost my bike?”

“Uh, no. I found it. But another little boy thought it was for him. And he had already put baseball cards in the spokes.”

“Really, Santa? Baseball cards?” Erik was fairly certain, that if swung hard enough, the jungle playset would kill Chris.

Ryan wasn’t taking the news well. His eyes puffed. His lips pouted.

“There, there. I have some good news. The little boy felt so bad, that he wanted you to have his Christmas present.” Santa reached into his bag. Ryan’s eyes grew large with excitement.

Chris dug around the bag. Did Erik hear a whimper?

Suddenly it dawned on him what the bogus Santa was up to. Erik lunged for the man in the red suit, but it was too late.

Chris pulled his hand from the bag. In it was the cutest puppy a four-year-old boy would ever see.

Ryan squealed and threw his arms around the dog. The mixed breed licked the boy’s face.

“Look, Ryan.” Chris reached up and jingled a bell that was on the dog’s collar and then looked at Erik. “It even has a bell on it.”

Erik was red. His son was beaming with love, no sense of responsibility.

“What’s his name?” Ryan’s words were barely audible amid the glee.

“That’s up to you, Ryan. But, if you ask me, I’d call him Kris Kringle.”

“Kris Kringle?”

“Sure.” Chris glared at Erik. “You can call him Chris for short. I’d like it if every time you called your dog … you’d think of me.”

“Kris Kringle. Kris Kringle.” Ryan repeated the name over and over.

Chris stood up. “I hope you had a Merry Christmas, Ryan.”

“The best Christmas ever!”

“Now. I must be getting back to Mrs. Claus.”

“Let me show you the door, Santa.” Erik grabbed Chris by the faux-fur on his collar and pulled him onto the doorstep and out of earshot. “You’re going down, Kringle. I’m telling everyone about …”

“I don’t think you will, Erik.”

“You brought my kid a dog—an adorable little shit machine that I’m going to have to walk everyday. You saw Ryan’s face. I can’t get rid of him. Why shouldn’t I drag you down?”

“Because, next time I’ll bring a kitten.”

Erik’s sneer faded.

“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”

Santa walked down the sidewalk and trudged off into the snow. He laughed. His belly shook and Erik slowly closed the door.

When he finally turned around, he saw his beautiful wife subtly shaking her head at him. Ryan had left the puppy in the middle of the room to go and play with an odd-shaped box.

“What?”

“Kris Kringle left you a present, dear.” Christine turned and left the room.

Erik was left alone with the dog and a shiny Christmas turd.

THE END

Dad vs The Tooth Fairy

“The bastard broke my child’s face!”

“Honey! The ‘bastard’ is only four years old. It was an accident.”

Erik paced the kitchen floor clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Just calm down. Jack was very upset. Chris called and had him apologize.”

“Oh, well, then I guess now it never happened. Now our son never got assaulted.”

“It wasn’t an assault. It was an accident.” Christine crossed the kitchen and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ryan’s a little boy. These things are going to happen. A lot. You can’t blame Jack.”

“He’s the one who threw the Frisbee. Who should I blame? I can’t blame Wham-o. I don’t know where they live. Chris? I can go knock on his door, wait patiently for him to answer and then punch his tooth out.”

“What do you think that will solve?”

“Everybody in this neighborhood has been waiting for an excuse to hit him.”

“And you think it should be you?”

“I want it to be me.” Erik threw up his hands and sat. The kitchen chair squeaked as it slid an inch across the kitchen floor.

The squeak woke the dog. The cool tile always drew the mutt to the kitchen. He walked over to Erik, dropped his head in his lap and strained his large brown eyes toward Erik in hopes of being pet.

Erik scratched at the dog’s ears.

“Everything is going to be fine.” She turned back to the sink and ran a face cloth under the faucet. She let the water run over the cloth, soaking up as much of the cold water as possible.

He sighed. She was right. She was always right. He couldn’t blame Chris or Chris’s kid for this. He looked into the dog’s eyes. The dog’s name was Kris. He felt the frustration build in him again. “But it’s his front tooth. If he loses it ...”

“It could be fine. The dentist just said to bring him in tomorrow and they’ll take a look. He may not lose it at all.”

“But if he does. Everyone will make fun of him. They’ll call him Gappy or Hillbilly.”

“Like who?”

“I would.”

“Erik!”

“I wouldn’t want to but it’s playground law. And, he’s going to talk funny without it. He’s going to eat corn on the cob funny. Kids should make fun of him.”

“He’s your son!”

“And I love him.”

“Then you need to tell him everything will be okay.” She held out the cold cloth. Erik pushed the dog away and took the cloth. Once he had stopped crying, they had left Ryan in front of the TV with another cloth shoved into his mouth. He would need the colder one. Erik stood and walked into the living room.

Ryan seemed unfazed. The cloth was in his lap. His lip was swollen but it didn’t appear to be bothering him.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Hi, Daddy.” His eyes were glued to the TV.

“How’s your mouth feeling?”

“It still hurts.”

“But, you’re not crying.”

“It doesn’t hurt bad anymore.”

Erik smiled. He knew his kid would be tough. “That’s great, buddy.”

“Look, Daddy.” Ryan pulled up his lip to reveal the struck tooth. His gums were swollen and appeared bruised. The young boy put his fingers on the tooth and wiggled it. “Itsh loosh.”

Erik yelled louder than he intended, “Don’t touch that tooth!”

Ryan jumped and pulled his finger from his mouth. His eyes moved into crying position.

“I’m sorry, pal. I didn’t mean to yell. You just don’t want it to fall out.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What?”

“I want it to fall out.”

“Why?”

“So I can get money from the Tooth Fairy.”

“The what ... who told you about the Tooth Fairy?”

“Jack. He said the Tooth Fairy brings his sister money whenever she loses a tooth. And the Tooth Fairy leaves her ten dollars!”

“Wow. Ten dollars. That’s a lot of money.” Damn you, Chris.

“Yeah. I could buy anything I wanted with it.”

“Is that so?” Erik imagined himself stomping up Chris’s walkway, ringing the doorbell and punching him in the face. The doorbell rang.

Erik gave Ryan the cloth. “Here, put this in your mouth. It will help stop the swelling.”

“Really?”

Erik shrugged, “I’ll be right back.”

He stomped across the house and opened the front door. Chris stood on the other side.

“Erik. I’m sorry about the Frisbee. Jack is so upset about it. How’s Ryan doing?”

“Well, Chris. He’s pretty excited about it because he thinks he’s going to get ten bucks from the Tooth Fairy.”

Chris chuckled, “Kids are so gullible. Well, I’m glad everything is going to be okay. Still I’m ...”

“Everything is not okay. My son might lose his tooth. Now he has his hopes up that the Tooth Fairy is going to bring him ten bucks. All because you’re kid made it up.”

“Hey, leave Jack out of this. Besides, he didn’t make it up. That’s what kids get when they lose a tooth.”

“Ten bucks! I got a quarter.”

“Call it inflation. Now it’s ten bucks.”

“That’s ridiculous. Do you know how many teeth these kids have?”

Both men stared at each other for a moment before Chris answered. “No.”

“Okay, neither do I.”

“Thirty-two?”

“I want to say thirty-two sounds right. But, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got three kids. I can’t afford to go dropping ten bucks a tooth.”

“You can’t?”

“I won’t. On principle.”

“You’re a pretty cheap Tooth Fairy, Erik.”

“Just go. And take your diamond-studded tutu with you. You’ve done enough fairy work today.”

“Diamond-studded ... Fine. I just came by to see if Ryan was okay. But, I can see it’s you that’s crying like a little bitch.”

“Go home and teach your kid how to throw a Frisbee.”

Chris gave Erik the finger. Erik shut the door and walked back into the living room. Christine was cuddling with Ryan.

“Who was at the door, Daddy?”

“It was Jack’s dad. He said Jack was really sorry about hitting you.”

“It’s okay.” Ryan put his hand back in his mouth.

“Don’t touch that tooth!”

Ryan jumped. Christine scowled.

“Look, I’m sorry. Just don’t touch it until the dentist gets a look at it, okay?”

“But the Tooth Fairy ...”

“Well, the dentist is the one that calls the Tooth Fairy. So if you pull it out before you see him, you won’t get your dollar.”

“Ten dollars. Okay. I’ll stop touching it. When do I go to the dentist?”

Christine brushed the little boy’s hair, “I’ll call Dr. Smiley first thing in the morning.”

“Bullshit, the kids’ dentist is not named Dr. Smiley.”

“Erik!”

“It’s okay, Mommy. I won’t say it.” Ryan stared silently at the TV but Erik could tell that behind those sweet little swollen lips, he was playing with the tooth with his tongue.

“Good, honey. But, Daddy shouldn’t say it either.” Her scowl deepened. She stood and moved towards the kitchen. She waved a finger for Erik to follow.

“What. I’m sorry. It’s just funny that ...”

“Enough. I’ll call first thing and get an appointment, but I’ll need you to take him. I’ve got a meeting first thing tomorrow.” She pulled the dentist’s number from the fridge.

“Sure. I can do that.”

“I just hope he doesn’t lose the tooth.”

“No kidding. Do you know what Jack told him? That the Tooth Fairy pays ten bucks for a tooth.”

“I was thinking more that I didn’t want him to lose his sweet smile.”

“Sure, there’s that too. But, c’mon, ten bucks.”

“I got five.”

“Five!?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Oh, I keep forgetting you were an only child.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Five bucks would have been a windfall to us normal children.”

“‘Normal children?’ Are you saying I’m some kind of freak?”

“Of course not. I’m saying all only children are freaks.”

Christine huffed. “I’m not going to get into this with you right now. But I have no problem with you giving him ten bucks for a tooth.” She began to dial.

Erik pulled the phone from her hand.

She glared at him. “What?”

“You don’t think I see what you did there?”

“What are you talking about?”

He smiled. She had always been sharper than him. He was man enough to admit that to himself. But he wasn’t man enough to be the Tooth Fairy.

“Oh, I saw it. With one little comment, you made me the Tooth Fairy. I’m no Tooth Fairy, sweetheart.”

“You don’t expect me to ...”

“Oh yes I do.”

“Every time I go into his room, he wakes up. It never fails.”

“I’ll get you some ninja shoes.”

“You didn’t mind being Santa.”

“Santa’s a guy.”

“And the Easter Bunny?”

“Kind of girly but still a guy.”

“How do you know the Easter Bunny is a guy?”

“It’s obvious.”

She just stared.

“I’ll give you that all the skipping might throw you off, but no woman would ever just hide chocolate for people to find.”

“That’s not true. We hide chocolate all the time.”

“Hoarding and hiding are two different things.”

“But ...”

“You want to be the Easter Bunny?”

“Fine. I’ll be the Tooth Fairy.” Christine turned her back and dialed the dentist’s office.

Erik smiled. It wasn’t often he tasted victory. It was sweet and, oddly enough, tasted like chocolate.

* * *

“Oh, this just isn’t fair.”

Dr. Smiley’s office was a wonderland of cosmic proportions. Where there should have been clown paintings, brushing charts and a smiling alligator were aliens with comically large teeth and a force of Galactic Cavity Corps chasing them down to squirt them with fluoride. The chase played out across the entire waiting room. Aliens soared around the room on candy-shaped rockets. Apparently, though focused on decay prevention and the regulation of sugary snacks, the Corps wasn’t too concerned about enforcing intergalactic child labor laws. To counteract the threat to interstellar enamel, the Galactic Cavity Corps had armed a force of children with fluoride blasters and molar shaped jetpacks. A three-dimensional rocket ship sat in one corner and simulated a blastoff every ten minutes. Between lift-offs it played a loop of mindless children’s programming on a large monitor.

Ryan darted off to “mission command” where three video game systems were ready for play. He grabbed a controller and fired up a racing game. He was lost in the screen a moment later.

Erik stepped up to the front desk. Despite the high-tech appearance of the room, the receptionist’s window was standard issue sliding glass. It slid open revealing a cute, young receptionist.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Uh ... yes. Anderson. My son has an appointment to have his tooth looked at.”

“Oh, well you’re in luck. That’s what we do here. Teeth.”

Erik’s wonderment faded. The woman behind the glass slid him a clipboard and a pen with the word Plaxisil emblazoned on it.

“What’s Plaxisil?”

“It’s a medical term that means free pen.”

“I see. So why is it also on that notepad?”

The window slid shut and Erik was left alone in outer space. He took another moment to soak in the environment before finding a chair next to a mother and her child. The toddler was crawling over her as she stared into her phone. He sat and looked around.

“This is amazing, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean, when I was growing up all the dentist had for kids was an old issue of Highlights.”

The woman swept a magazine from the table next to her and handed it to him. Her eyes never left the phone. It was a copy of Highlights.

He took the magazine from her and examined the cover. “Yep, that’s the issue. I think the jumble answer is trunks.”

The woman was not amused; Erik set the magazine down and turned his attention to the clipboard. There were a lot of lines to fill out. He scratched his head and accidentally left a blue streak of Plaxisil ink on his forehead. Some of the questions were really hard. Christine would have the answers but she was in that meeting. He did the best he could.

Several pages of the clipboard were full of relatively accurate answers. He moved back to the glass window. He was never sure if it was a skill required of the position or some magical power that came from wearing scrubs, but, without looking up, she sensed his presence, slid the glass window open and took the clipboard from his hand.

“I couldn’t remember their doctor’s name so I drew a picture of his office.”

As she flipped through the pages he slid the window back and forth on the runners. Smiling at the sound it made, he began to wonder why they were needed in a dentist office. A doctor’s office would be full of germs and he figured the window acted as a sneeze guard with the receptionist playing the role of the protected salad fixings.

“Is this to keep the plaque out? Or the cavity creeps?”

The woman remained focused on the paperwork. “You have ink on your face.”

Erik slid the window in front of his face and peered into the faint reflection.

“Have a seat. We’ll call you. You can read some more Highlights.” She reached up and slammed the window shut.

Rubbing at the ink he wasn’t sure was there, Erik drifted back to his seat. Before he could sit down and ask her about her own theories about the window, the woman with the toddler was called back into the office.

“Good luck.”

She said nothing. The toddler burped. Erik sat.

He looked around; there was no one else waiting. He was bored. He wandered over to see Ryan.

“How’s it going, buddy?”

“Good.” The answer was automatic. There was no recognition of the actual question.

“What are you playing?”

“Good.” The car on the screen was barreled into a wall. A giant red arrow flashed above the words wrong way.

“You’re going the wrong way, buddy.”

“Okay.”

“No, Ryan ... your car is going the wrong way. You need to turn around.”

“Okay.” The child leaned the remote to the left. His shoulders and torso followed.

“No, that’s not what I ...” He looked into his son’s eyes, they were glazed over with a wonderment that Erik had seen only once before when Santa had shown up at their front door. The child had discovered video games. Erik sighed and moved back to his seat and looked for a magazine to read.

There was a pile of them next to his seat and he sifted through it. Women stared back at him from every cover. At first he had dug in trying to find an auto magazine, but as he moved deeper and deeper into the stack he began to silently hope for a news magazine or a newer issue of Highlights.

He reached the table. There wasn’t one magazine for men in the whole stack.

The frustration of not finding a magazine faded when he realized that he was the first man to ever set foot in the waiting room. He was blazing new trails for men everywhere. His actions here today were landmark. He was making inroads for ...

“Mr. Anderson.” Somehow the nurse had slid the sneeze-guard open without it making a sound.

“Yes?”

“Ryan already had paperwork on file.”

“Yes. He’s been here before.”

“So why did you fill out the forms?”

“You handed them to me.”

“Those are for new patients only.”

“I ... I didn’t know.”

The receptionist shook her head and shut the window.

So much for making a good impression. Erik leaned back in his chair and sighed. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his boy from across the room. The red arrow continued to blink. But, it was okay. He didn’t want the kid to understand that he should be frustrated right now. Ryan seemed perfectly happy driving into the wall. Why should it bother him?

It still blinked. It said in big letters WRONG WAY. The boy was doing it wrong.

Erik stood and walked over to Ryan.

“You’ve got to turn around, bud.”

“Okay.” Ryan moved the controller.

“No. Here. Let me show you.”

The boy didn’t protest when his dad took the remote. He merely stared at the screen. Erik turned the car and got it going the right direction on the track. Ryan smiled and reached for the controller.

“Okay, there you go. Just keep it straight.”

The boy took the controller and drove the car into the wall. A moment later the red arrow appeared.

“No. You’ve got to turn around.”

“Okay.” The boy began to turn around.

“Here.” Erik took the controller. He turned the car and floored it.

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Not yet. Let me get you caught up.” The car sped past the other racers. He quickly moved from twelfth to eleventh. He barreled into ninth while causing two contenders to crash. Eighth was in sight.

“Daddy.”

Seventh. Sixth.

“Ryan Anderson?”

Fifth. This is where the race got tricky. They always made the last four difficult to pass. But he would do it. For his son.

“Dad.” Ryan began to tug at his arm.

“Hold on. I’m just going to catch you up, then I’ll give it back.”

“Ryan? Are you ready?”

“Dad.”

There was a throat clearing. “Mr. Anderson?”

Erik turned around and saw the dental assistant standing at the open door. How long had she been standing there?

“I was going to give it back to him. I was just trying to get him caught up.”

“Dr. Smiley will see you now.”

“Oh, right. Are you ready, Ryan?”

Ryan nodded. “Are you?”

Erik set the controller down and grimaced as the other cars shot by him. “Yes. Of course.”

The dental assistant showed them through the “warp portal.”

The space theme didn’t end in the waiting room; it carried through the “warp portal” and into the halls of the entire office. Little green men with big green teeth were resistant to brushing as the Galactic Cavity Corps chased them down with toothbrush-shaped ray guns. One unfortunate alien was lassoed in dental floss as the Cadets surrounded him.

“This place is incredible.”

The assistant ignored him. “So, what brings Ryan in here today?”

Erik rustled Ryan’s hair. “He and another boy were playing Frisbee and Ryan took one in the mouth. There was some bleeding and a little screaming. We just wanted to get it checked out to make sure he wasn’t going to lose it.”

Ryan couldn’t contain his excitement. “I’m going to meet the Tooth Fairy!”

The dental assistant smiled at the boy. “That sounds exciting. Let’s take a look at that tooth and see if you’re right. Hop up in this chair for me.” She pulled a small lead vest from the shelf and placed it on him. “Now I need you to sit really still, okay?”

Ryan nodded as he stared into the tube that was the x-ray machine. “Daddy?”

“Don’t be nervous, buddy.”

“Ryan, this is just going to take a picture of your teeth.”

“How?”

“With this.” She held up a piece of film. “This goes in your mouth. The tube will hum and we’ll be able to look at all of your teeth.”

Ryan reached out for the film.

“No, son. Don’t touch.”

The assistant smiled. “It’ll be fine. Do you want to see it?”

Ryan nodded and reached for the film. The assistant handed it to him.

“Don’t do that. He’s really good at breaking things.”

“Oh, he can’t break anything in here.”

Ryan took the film, examined it once and shoved it into the lens of the x-ray’s tube.

The assistant gasped and tried to reach into the machine.

“I told you. He’s very advanced for his age. He breaks things at a first grade level.”

The assistant dug her fingers into the barrel-shaped lens, “I didn’t think he could ...” frustration showed in her voice as she tried to rip the film out.

“I’ll admit I don’t know much about radiation, but should you be doing that?”

The film came free and she pulled it out. “There.”

Ryan reached for the film.

“No, honey, I think we’ll just take the pictures of your teeth now.”

Ryan shrunk.

“Dad. Do you want to sit with him?”

“No.”

The assistant gave him a stern look.

“I mean yes.” Erik lifted the boy from the stool and sat him on his lap. He held his son tight. “It’s fine, buddy. Nothing to be scared of.”

Ryan held his father’s arm tight.

The tech pulled a heavy lead vest with a large smiley face from a coat rack and draped it across the pair. “Now this is to keep you safe while we take your picture.”

From another room came a scream. It was the scream of a child experiencing fear for the first time— primal, raw and more than a little irritating.

Ryan tightened his grip on Erik’s arm.

“My God, what was that?”

The tech, though she had jumped, remained calm. “Oh, it’s just another patient.”

“Is he okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

Ryan began to squirm.

“Honestly, they’re probably just putting the bib on. Some kids overreact.” She sounded tired. It was obvious she had to explain this a lot. Her tone changed as she spoke to Ryan. “But, that’s not going to happen here. Right, buddy? I’m sure you’re a big brave guy.”

Ryan settled a little and released his grip.

“Now, I need you to sit really still. So I can take your picture.” She positioned the camera inches from the boy’s mouth. “You’re going to hear a whir and a click and then we’re done. Okay?”

Ryan nodded.

“Okay.” The tech ran from the room. A moment later there was a whir and a scream.

Ryan dug his nails into Erik’s arm.

Erik jumped, “Ouch.”

The machine clicked.

The tech walked back into the room. “Okay, that was good. But you jumped just before I took the picture so we need to do it again.”

She replaced the film in his teeth and ran back out of the room.

“You know, buddy, for as fast as she leaves the room, you’d think this wasn’t as safe as she says.”

There was a whir and a scream. Erik jumped as Ryan dug harder into his arm. There was a click. The tech appeared a moment later and pulled another filmstrip from the cabinet. “Now, Ryan. You can’t jump like that.”

“I’m sorry. That was me.”

“You jumped?”

“He pinched me!”

The assistant sighed.

“In his defense, that scream was ridiculous. It sounds like they’re extracting state secrets from the kid.”’

The tech sighed, lined up the camera and ran from the room.

There was a whir, a click, a scream and a jump. The tech came back into the room. This time she was smiling, “Okay, Ryan. We got it. You did great.” She pulled a sticker from the counter and handed it to him.

“You hear that, buddy? We did great.”

“Ryan did great.”

“What are you saying? I don’t get a sticker?”

She pulled the vest from the pair and hung it back on the wall.

“So is he going to lose the tooth?”

“Dr. Smiley will have to look at it. We’ll get you seated in the exam room and she’ll be right in.”

“She?”

“You didn’t know Dr. Smiley was a woman?”

“Actually, with a name like Dr. Smiley, I thought she was a puppet.”

The assistant pointed sharply to an exam room and walked away.

Erik ushered Ryan into the room. Planets and stars dotted the walls and, above the chair, an alien held a TV screen for the child to watch while the dentist scraped away.

“Oh, this just isn’t fair.”

Ryan crawled into the exam chair and leaned back. He was fixed on the screen for a moment but soon became distracted by the tools that lined the room. The boy reached out to grab the instrument that Erik only knew as the “little squirty thing.”

“No, buddy. Don’t touch that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s for your teeth.”

“What does it do?”

“It squirts water.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. “No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

The boy’s smile grew.

“It does. I’m not lying to you.”

“You’re silly, Dad.”

“Look. I’ll show you.” Erik picked up the silver little squirty thing and held out his hand. He pressed the button on top and a stream of water shot into his palm.

Ryan laughed. “Wow.”

Erik hit the button again. Water began to run down his wrist.

“Let me try.”

“No.”

“Let me try. Please.”

Erik hit the button and hit Ryan with a quick stream of water.

Ryan tried to say stop but the boy was giggling too hard.

“Hey. Do you think I could hit the sink from here?”

Ryan laughed. “No.”

“Then it’s a dare.” Erik turned and hit the button. The stream fell short of the sink by a couple of feet.

“See? I told you.”

The stream was a little weak but the gauntlet had been thrown. He couldn’t let his three-year-old tell him so. “Oh, yeah. Watch this. ”

Erik climbed into the examination chair with Ryan and stood. It was awkward. He had to crane his neck to avoid the alien with the TV. He pulled the cord on the little squirty thing to its full length and pressed the trigger. A perfect stream of clear water shot from the tool and into the sink across the room. He held the button and kept the water flowing.

Ryan laughed.

Erik cheered.

The dentist cleared her throat.

Stunned, Erik almost fell from the exam chair. Dr Smiley was standing in the door not smiling. Erik climbed down and put the little squirty thing back in its hook.

The dentist didn’t speak until Erik had taken a seat and awkwardly begun to read an issue of Highlights. “Hello, you must be Ryan.”

Ryan nodded.

She reached her hand out to Erik. “I’m Doctor Smiley.”

He shook. “Ryan’s dad. I mean, Erik.”

She wasted no time pulling her stool up to Ryan and pointing the overhead light into his mouth though she did take a moment to make sure the little squirty thing was still working. “Can you open wide for me, Ryan?”

Ryan opened as wide as he could.

“So you were playing Frisbee, huh?

“Erghuh.”

She poked at the tooth with a wicked looking metal tool and peered around the rest of his mouth with the mirror. Erik swelled with pride as Ryan did everything the dentist asked of him. He had a good kid; therefore, he was a good dad.

“Well, everything looks okay. I’ll have to check the x-rays but there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the gums.”

“Erghyay.”

Dr. Smiley chuckled and had Ryan sit up. She rolled across the room and pulled up the x-rays on a screen. Erik jumped. The x-rays were horrific. Ryan’s precious little baby teeth were under assault from a force of giant adult teeth. And they were surrounded. They invaded from all sides.

“You’ve got some good looking teeth here, Ryan.”

“Really?” the film looked like the poster for a horror movie.

“Yes, his teeth are coming in nice and straight. And, they’re all there.”

“All thirty-two?”

“Thirty-two? Who told you that?”

“Some idiot.”

“No, there are twenty baby teeth, Mr. Anderson.”

“Ah. Okay, I’ll tell the idiot.”

Dr. Smiley studied the images for a minute longer and rolled back over to the boy. She told him to open again and poked around a little more.

“Dad.”

Erik, still horrified by the images he had seen, was a little slow in responding. “Yes?”

“You want to take a look?”

“Sure.” He really didn’t but he knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. He stood over his son as the dentist tilted the mirror.

“Do you see that?”

“Yes.” He didn’t.

“There could be a little nerve damage there.”

“I concur. What’s that mean?”

She sat Ryan up and rolled over to a drawer. She pulled out a sticker and a gold coin and handed them to the boy. “Here, Ryan. This is for being such a good patient. If you take this gold coin to the front desk, you can trade it for a toy.”

Ryan smiled and grabbed the coin. He yelled thank you as he ran out of the room.

“I didn’t want to say it in front of Ryan but it means he could lose the tooth. I didn’t want to upset him.”

“It’s his mother and I that are worried. He’s fine with it.”

“He is?”

“The little boy that hit him told him about the Tooth Fairy.”

Dr. Smiley smiled.

“Can I ask you something, as a professional?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the going rate for a tooth nowadays?”

“What do you mean?”

“The boy also told him that his older sister gets ten bucks a tooth. I got a quarter.”

“I guess it all depends. It doesn’t sound like too much.”

“I got a quarter!”

“Times have changed, Mr. Anderson. We’re old folks now.”

“Ten bucks doesn’t seem like a lot. He’s gonna lose thirty-two teeth.”

“Twenty.”

“He’s gonna lose twenty teeth.”

“If I take it out, it will cost five hundred, so, ten dollars seems like a pretty good deal.”

“Sure, for a dentist. I wouldn’t be surprised if you and the Tooth Fairy were in this racket together.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll bet she’s at all the ADA meetings. I can see it. You all meet to vote on some new gum or something and she tags on an increase for tooth collection. All to feed her tutu habit.”

“You do realize the Tooth Fairy is make believe, right? Like Santa?”

“Don’t get me started on Santa.”

“I have other patients, Mr. Anderson. You’ll have to excuse me. Just watch the tooth. If it turns gray, call me.” Dr. Smiley left the room.

Erik wasn’t done arguing but since he was now alone he decided to leave the empty room. At the front desk he found Ryan wrestling with a vending machine. He helped the boy redeem the token for a fake mustache and stepped over to the desk.

The woman did not look up or acknowledge his presence. “Here’s your receipt. We’ll see Ryan in six months.”

“Thank you.” He took the now mustachioed Ryan’s hand and was about to leave when a thought struck him. “Ryan, you go play your game. I’ll be right out.”

Ryan stroked his mustache and left the desk.

“Excuse me. Do you have any literature about the Tooth Fairy?”

The woman finally looked up. No wonder she always hid her face, Erik thought, she looked confused.

“You mean like a story book?”

“No. Like a brochure or something—something that tells you how to be the Tooth Fairy.”

“Why on earth would we have anything like that?”

“Isn’t that what you do here? Teeth?”

She was not amused. “You take the tooth, you leave the money. Done. What more do you need to know?”

“What do we do with the tooth?”

She tapped a Plaxisil pen heavily against a notepad. “We’re really busy here today, Mr. Anderson.” With this she put her head down and went back to making notes.

Erik just nodded and left the office. He found Ryan in the waiting room driving a car into a wall. He told him to turn around several times before finally deciding that it was time to leave.

* * *

“What did the dentist say?”

The door behind them hadn’t even closed when his wife, a twin in each arm, asked the question.

“Why don’t you go play, buddy?”

Ryan said hi to his brother and sister, laughed and scampered off to the other room.

Erik took his younger son from his wife’s arms.

Once Ryan was out of the room, his wife frowned, “Is it that bad?”

“Yes. She said ten bucks. Well, she didn’t argue with it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tooth Fairy money. Ten bucks a tooth.”

“No. What did she say about the tooth?”

“I told you, ten bucks. I got quarters.”

“Forget the Tooth Fairy, Erik! What did she say about Ryan’s hurt tooth?”

“Oh. There could be some nerve damage and he might still lose it. We’ll have to keep an eye on it and make sure it doesn’t turn gray.”

“What happens if it turns gray?”

“It could fall out.”

“Then what?”

“Ten bucks.”

Christine grunted and crossed her arms. He’d seen this look before.

“Did the dentist say if there was anything we could do?”

“She said she could pull it for five hundred dollars.”

“Why would we do that?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t make much sense to me either. Ten bucks is a much better deal.”

“I hate to think that my baby could lose his tooth. It’ll be years before the other one comes in.” Though she hated to think it, she started to think it anyway. Her bottom lip stiffened and began to quaver.

This never went well, he had to do something now. A list of crying deterrents ran through his head: finding pictures of cute kids missing teeth on the Internet, finding ugly children with multiple missing teeth and playing a quick game of see it could be worse, but he could see that he didn’t have much time, so he went with the surefire way out—“make unqualified promises.”

He moved in to put an arm around her. Twin infants made a lot of things difficult. Even putting his arm around her was impossible, so he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Everything is going to be okay. She just said it was a possibility. She didn’t say it was a sure thing.”

“But, the nerve damage ... my baby.”

“She probably just said that because he broke her x-ray machine.”

“What?”

“Look. I’m sure he isn’t going to lose his tooth.”

Ryan burst into the room; his grin was wide and had a hole in it. “I lost my toof. When do I get money from the Toof Fairy?”

Christine began to sob but tried to match her son’s excitement. Erik just said “Shit.”

* * *

“What are you going to dream about tonight?”

“The Toof Fairy.”

Erik winced and tucked the boy in. The answer to the dream question was always taking a walk to the park. But it didn’t surprise him that the Tooth Fairy would have a starring role tonight. Little else had been discussed since dinner.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“I hope the toof fairy leaves me my ten dollars. ’Cause you know why?”

Erik shook his head.

“I’m going to buy you and Mommy new carsh.”

“Buy us what?”

“Carsh.”

“Oh, cars.”

“Yesh.”

“Well, buddy, that’s nice, but ten dollars isn’t enough to buy a car.”

“Oh, well maybe when I lose more toofs ...”

“It’s teesh, buddy.”

“... teesh I can buy you guys new carsh.”

Erik leaned and kissed Ryan on the forehead. “That’s very nice of you, buddy.”

“And you know what kind of car I’m going to get you, Dad?”

“What kind?”

“One with flamesh on it so will go really fasht.”

“I’d love a car like that.” Erik stood and put his hand on the light switch. “You have sweet dreams.”

“Dad? How will the Toof Fairy get in the house? Are you going to leave the doorsh unlocked?”

“What? Uh, no.”

Ryan’s bright eyes faded. “Well, how will she get in?”

“I’m sure she gets in just like Santa.”

“Through the chimney?”

“Sure. Good night.”

“Dad? Do you think Shanta and the Toof Fairy know each other?”

“I don’t know. Do you think they do?”

“Maybe. Thatsh probably how she knowsh about the chimney.”

“You’re probably right. Good night.”

“Dad?”

Did it ever end? “Yes?”

“I can’t wait to get my ten dollarsh.”

His smile was so innocent. The gap made the boy even cuter than he had been. What was ten dollars, really? He would still hate Chris for it and he would never agree that it was a fair amount. But, maybe this one time, it would be worth it. “I know, kiddo. Sleep tight. Remember, if you’re not asleep when the Tooth Fairy gets here, she’ll fly right on by.”

Ryan smiled and put his head down on the pillow. He closed his eyes tight like he did when he was trying to pretend to sleep.

Erik turned out the light. “Good night, son.”

He’d taken only steps down the hall when he heard the front door open and his wife greet the visitor. He couldn’t make out the words, but whomever it was had been invited in. He heard the door close and the conversation continue. He rounded the hall corner and bumped into Christine.

“Who was at the door?”

“It’s Chris. He wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Is Ryan asleep?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“I wanted to say good night one last time. And make sure I know where the tooth is.”

“The tooth is just where we left it. Right under the pillow.”

“I want to make sure so I can get in and out quick.”

Erik smiled. “Good planning, Tooth Fairy.”

“You’re enjoying this too much. Go talk to Chris.”

He found Chris sitting on the couch in the living room.

“Hey, Erik.”

“Chris.”

“I heard Ryan lost the tooth. I’m sorry.”

“These things happen.”

“No, look. Between Jack hitting him and then telling him about the ten dollars. I ... well.” Chris held out his hand, a crisp ten-dollar bill extended from his fingers.

“What’s that?”

“Look, I’ll admit ten bucks a tooth is ridiculous. I wish I’d never gotten the kids used to it. But when my daughter lost her first tooth, it was just so damn cute, you know?”

“Ten-bucks-cute?”

“I know. I know.”

“You know how many teeth kids lose?”

“I thought we said thirty-two.”

“Well it’s twenty! I was at the dentist today, so I know.”

“I know. Well, I didn’t know twenty exactly, but that’s better, right?”

“That’s still six hundred bucks into my kids’ mouths—not even including braces.”

“Hey, I wish I hadn’t started it. I wanted to be super dad so I gave her a ten and now there’s no going back. We tried once. We gave her a toy instead of the money.”

“It didn’t work?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear her crying over here. She called the Tooth Fairy a big meanie—which you know is a kid’s way of saying ‘stupid bitch.’ The point is, I shouldn’t have put that on you and I’m sorry, so let me take care of this first one.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Please take it. I feel horrible.”

Erik squinted, “That’s not like you. You don’t ever feel horrible. This isn’t your idea, is it?”

“Oh, course it was my idea.”

Erik shook his finger and began to smile. “Your wife sent you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can feel bad all on my own, you know.”

Erik said nothing.

“Fine. She sent me over with the money. But, I do regret putting ten bucks under the pillow. It’s going to cost me a fortune. So here, take it. Let me be the Tooth Fairy tonight.”

“I’m the Tooth Fairy!”

Christine came running back into the room. “What’s going on?”

“I’m the Tooth Fairy!”

“Erik, why are you shouting?” Christine smiled.

“Because, I’m the damn Tooth Fairy!”

“Settle down. No one is saying you’re not the Tooth Fairy.”

Erik pointed repeatedly to Chris.

“I came to apologize, Christine. Rachel and I are really sorry about Ryan’s tooth.”

“That’s sweet, Chris. Please tell Rachel not to worry about it. Ryan’s fine. And, somehow, cuter.”

“Don’t buy that, he was trying to buy us off.”

Chris stood up and put the ten in his pocket. “I should get going. I really don’t want to be here when the fairy here breaks out his tutu.”

Before Erik could speak, Christine showed Chris to the door. “These things happen. Thank you so much for coming by.”

Erik was still fuming when she came back in the room. “The nerve of that guy, huh?”

“What? For coming to apologize?”

“Apologize? Ha. I’ll show him apologize.”

Christine shook her head. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. But, I’ll show him.”

She threw up her hands. “Fine. You show him. Just don’t forget to get Ryan’s tooth.”

“But, I thought you were going to ...”

“No, no. You’re the ‘damn Tooth Fairy.’ Remember?” She kissed him gently on the lips and left him standing in the middle of the living room muttering.

“Ten dollars. Ten dollars. I wish I could cost him as much.” Erik suddenly smiled and ran to Ryan’s room.

* * *

The door squeaked a little and the adage ran through his head—if it moves and it shouldn’t, use duct tape. If it should move and it doesn’t, use WD-40. It didn’t really apply to the squeak but he would have to oil the hinges before Ryan lost another tooth.

Until now, the squeak had been a benefit. An early warning system that the kid was sneaking out of his room. But now it was the Tooth Fairy’s liability. Ryan was a heavy sleeper, but he didn’t want to get caught on his first fairying attempt.

He tiptoed into the room and crouched next to the racecar that served as the boy’s bed. Erik had made grand plans for the bed when they first bought it. He was going to replace the wooden wheels with some chrome rims. He was going to install an instrument cluster to serve as a night-light and a pair of headlights to help run down the boogeyman should he be foolish enough to step into his son’s room. He was going to completely modify the bed into a custom sleeping machine and then he never did.

Ryan breathed deeply. This was going to be easy. Erik slid his hand under the pillow and couldn’t find it. Slowly, he reached deeper under the pillow feeling for the edge of the plastic bag. He couldn’t find it.

“Oh this is just stupid,” he whispered.

He checked the boundaries of the pillow twice more before conceding that it wasn’t under there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He touched the screen and used the light to search the rest of the bed. He didn’t want to risk uncovering the boy. That could wake him.

He checked Ryan’s hands hoping that the boy hadn’t decided to hold on to the tooth. To his relief, it wasn’t in his tiny grasp. Where could it be? Under the bed?

Erik lowered himself on to the floor and shined the light of the phone under the car-bed. Something in the corner by the wall reflected the light back at him. That was it. He grabbed for it but couldn’t reach. He stretched but only hurt himself. His sock feet slipped against the carpet as he propelled himself under the car.

He got his head and shoulders beneath the bed, grabbed the bag of tooth and started to worm his way out. This was harder than getting in. His feet fought for traction as he tried to back out. Turning was of no use. It would just wedge him in further. His useless flailing was getting him nowhere. He was really stuck.

He tried to turn over. He tried to push himself out with his hands. Neither worked. One last mighty shove only resulted in carpet burns on his hands. He sighed deeply and used his flashlight to dial the home phone number.

Christine answered on the second ring. “Erik? Where are you calling from?”

“I’m in the bed.”

“I’m not in the mood, honey. I’m still upset for the way you treated Chris.”

“Not our bed. Ryan’s bed.”

“What?”

“I’m ... just come into his room. Quietly.”

“Okay.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Would that, ‘I’m in the bed’ line have worked if you weren’t mad at me?”

The phone went dead. A moment later the door creaked.

“Erik?”

“Shhh.”

“Where are yo ... oh, my God.” Her laugh was one of the things he loved most about her. When they were dating, he had gone out of his way to make her giggle. Now it grated on his nerves and made being stuck even more frustrating.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, but it is so funny. I’m going to grab the camera.”

“What? No. Grab my feet. Get me out of here.”

“What are you doing under there?”

“The tooth fell down here. I was getting the tooth. Just pull me out.”

She was still laughing as she grabbed his ankles and began to pull. She pulled until his feet were even with her shoulders. She tucked his ankles under her arms and leaned into the pull.

“Ouch, ouch, stop. Don’t pull up. Spines don’t work like that. Pull out. And stop laughing. You’ll wake him.”

She began to laugh even harder.

“Just get me out of here.”

Christine squatted down and yanked.

Erik pushed against the carpet and felt himself finally moving backwards. His wife giggled as she pulled. Soon it was more giggling than pulling.

His shoulders were clear and he breathed a deep breath as if he had been submerged rather than stuck under a racecar-bed. He pulled his head free and rolled over.

Christine was in quiet hysterics as she tried not to wake the boy with her fit of laughter. Her hand was over her mouth. Her whole body shook, but only the slightest laugh escaped her lips.

“Thanks.”

She let go of his legs and rolled backwards, covering her mouth and pointing.

“You can go now.”

The laughter grew the more she tried to suppress it.

He grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet.

“Seriously, go.”

Once the door squeaked closed behind her she burst into laughter. He listened as it faded down the hallway and then pulled a bill from his wallet. He slid the money under Ryan’s pillow and pocketed the tooth. He smiled at the boy and stepped out of the room.

That wasn’t so hard. Aside from getting stuck under the bed. Next time he would know to tape the tooth to the pillow so it wouldn’t slide off like that. It moved and it shouldn’t. He pulled the tooth from his pocket and looked at the tiny thing. Then he got confused.

He could still hear Christine laughing from the other room. Maybe she would know.

She laughed harder when she saw him round the corner.

“Yes, very good. Haha. Listen, if you’re so smart, what do I do with this?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t throw it out in the trash can; he might see it.”

“Throw it out? That’s our baby’s first tooth. You can’t throw it out.”

“You want me to keep it?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” Erik had no idea where to put it. “Why are we keeping it?”

“It’s a memory.”

“It’s a tooth. It’s a part of a human body—like a toenail or something. We don’t keep toenails. Do we?”

“Everybody keeps teeth, honey. I read one article the other day where people are using their kids’ teeth to make necklaces.”

“Okay, that’s just wrong.”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

“Cute? This isn’t Platoon, dear. We don’t make jewelry out of body parts in this house. House rule.”

“That’s a house rule?” The giggling was returning.

“Okay? New house rule—no jewelry from body parts.”

“Fine, no body part jewelry. Just go put it up in the closet.”

“Okay, the closet. That’s where we’re keeping all rejected body parts. Good to know. I’m going to put this up and go to bed.”

“Okay. Don’t get stuck.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

She giggled. “Every minute of it. Good night, Tooth Fairy.”

* * *

The next morning was filled with squealing and delight as Ryan found the money underneath his pillow. The boy ate breakfast quickly in order to hasten a trip to the store to spend the bill on toys, candy and/or new “carsh” for the family. He ate with abandon and was not the least bit hampered by the missing tooth, despite a few moments of laughter when he got a corn flake stuck in the gap.

Erik had agreed to take Ryan shopping with his newfound fortune and kissed his wife and the twins good-bye. Outside, the boy began running through a list of all the things he was going to buy.

“I’m glad you’re excited, buddy. We’ve just got one stop to make before we go to the store.”

“Where?”

“We’re going to go by Jack’s place and show them that you’re all right. They were really worried about you, you know?”

“I know. Can I show them my Toof Fairy money?”

Erik smiled as he buckled Ryan into his car seat. “You’d better believe it.”

* * *

They arrived at the door. Ryan rang the doorbell. It was only a moment before Chris answered and smiled at the boy. “Hi, Ryan. How are you?”

“Good. I lost a toof.”

“I can see that.”

“I wanted to show Jack.”

“Sure, he’s inside.” Chris stepped aside and let Ryan run through.

Erik shouted after Ryan. “Make it quick, buddy. We’re going to go to the store.”

Chris gestured toward the house and Erik stepped in the front door. “I’m glad he’s taking it so well.”

Erik smiled and nodded.

“He doesn’t seem phased at all.”

Erik smiled and shook his head.

“I guess ... okay, what’s the stupid grin?”

“Nothing.” Erik kept stupid grinning.

“What did you do, Erik?”

Erik couldn’t stand it anymore. “Okay, are you ready for this? Right now, my son is showing your kids the twenty-dollar bill he got for his tooth.”

“The what?”

“Yeah, twenty. The price of teeth just went up, my friend.”

“Erik, why would you do that? I told you ten was a bad idea.”

“Well, twenty is twice as bad, isn’t it?”

“You’re an idiot. You have more kids than me. It’s going to cost you even more.”

“I figured I’ve got three years for him to forget about it. Good luck with your six–year-old, though.”

“Ryan won’t forget this.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The other day he forgot how to not crap his pants. And he just learned that. He’ll forget this.”

Chris’s daughter came running towards the door. Her huge smile was already missing two front teeth. “Dad! Dad! My tooth is loose! Look!”

Right behind her was her brother Jack. “Me too, Daddy. My tooth is loose too.”

Each child had a hand shoved into their mouth, shaking whatever tooth they could get their fingers on.

“C’mon, Ryan. Let’s get to the store.”

Ryan cheered and ran down the sidewalk to the car.

Chris turned his children back into the house. “You two. Back inside. Your teeth aren’t loose. Now go.”

“I think I’ve got two loose tooths,” Jack said to his sister as they stepped back inside the house.

His sister squealed, “One came out! Yay!”

Chris hung his head.

“You’re a real dick, Erik. You know that?”

“No I’m not, Chris. I’m the damn Tooth Fairy.”

THE END

Dad vs The HOA

1

John was comfortable. That made him nervous. The world had a way of keeping things in balance: for light there was dark, for good there was evil and for every comfortable husband there was a wife who needed something done.

He, like all men, was attuned to this notion. No doubt a holdover from our prehistoric forefathers, it wasn’t quite ESP and it wasn’t quite the heebie jeebies, although it did seem a byproduct of woman’s intuition. Every wife had the ability to sense a man at rest. Men could sense this sense and embrace the opportunity to flee the area or play dead. The feeling of uneasiness, though familiar, puzzled him. His wife had taken the kids to spend the day with her mother and father. The family would not be back for hours.

He shifted on the chair and tried to shake the feeling but still the sense of sense nagged at him. He tried to burrow into the recliner and ignore it, but faint voices in his head screamed, “Flee!” He sat up and looked at the phone.

Of course. The phone. Telephones made it possible for his wife to make him do things from a distance. Eyeing the device from the recliner, he tried to imagine what harm it could do if it should ring. A litany filled his head, each item worse and less relaxing than the last.

She would be calling any moment.

She must be stopped.

Leaping from the chair, he dashed across the room as his socks fought to gain traction on the hardwood flooring. The nearest phone was in the kitchen. He pictured his wife dialing. No. Not dialing. She didn’t even have to dial. Just saying his name into her cell phone would be enough. He didn’t have much time. The forces of technology were working against him. All he had to do was reach the phone and take it off the hook.

He slid into the kitchen sideways and dove for the phone. It sat in a cradle on the counter pulsing with lit buttons. He slid into the counter and batted the cordless receiver from the charging cradle. It clattered across the counter, struck the rim of the sink and fell to the floor out of sight. He smirked.

Then he yelled as he realized that phones no longer had hooks.

It was going to ring. He had to find it. There had to be some kind of call forwarding or call offing button on it somewhere. He searched frantically and stooped to his hands and knees to find where the receiver had finally come to rest.

An orange glow emanated from beneath the fridge.

“Ah ha.”

He reached under and grabbed the phone and handful of something disgusting and hairy. He pulled both out, stripped the clump of hair from his hand and slid it back under the fridge.

Searching for a do not disturb button made him realize that, aside from answering, yelling at telemarketers and quickly hanging up, he had never held this phone before. His mind raced with options. Unplugging it wouldn’t help. It was cordless. He pulled the receiver closer to examine the keypad and the doorbell rang.

Confused, he studied the phone for a moment. In his panicked state, he considered answering it. He never quite got it to his ear before his was able to tell his hand what his brain already knew. It was the doorbell making the noise.

He stood, dropped the phone on the counter and moved toward the front door. “Did she send someone?”

He pulled open the door to see a young man of about twenty-five. He was smiling. John didn’t trust him. He was about to say so when the young man spoke.

“Hi, John. How’s it going?”

How did he know his name? The stranger must have read his puzzled look. He held out his hand. “It’s Austin. Austin Williams. Your new neighbor.”

John shook his hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Um ... yeah. We met last week.”

John shook his head.

“We brought you a basket of muffins.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“You ate them in front of us.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t remember the muffins.”

Austin pulled back his hand. “Well, it was late in the day. My wife and I just moved here from Chicago. Remember?”

He’d heard of Chicago but the meeting was still a complete blank. “Chicago. Of course. Sorry. Are you all settled in?”

“Not quite. We’re still waiting for one of the crates to arrive. We used that service where they drop off a container, you fill it and then they haul it for you.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“Yeah, well. One crate made it, but the second got lost and it had all of our lawn equipment in it.” Austin let this hang in the air.

“That sucks?”

“Yeah, well. We’re getting settled but the last owners kind of let the lawn go. Now the wife is on me to mow the yard. You know. Wives.” Austin chuckled.

The kid barely looked old enough to drive. How long could he have been married? He probably hadn’t even spent a single night on the couch. What did he know about “wives”?

“So, anyway, I asked around and everyone said you were the guy to talk to if I needed to borrow a mower.”

“Who told you that?”

Austin pointed up the street, “Is it Chris?”

John snorted and pushed the door open. “All right. Come on in.”

Austin stepped inside. John watched as the young man examined the home.

“This is a ...”

“It’s this way.” John led Austin through the house to a set of French doors. They opened without a sound.

The young man gasped and said nothing for a moment. “Wow.”

“Yep.”

The yard was perfect. An emerald green lawn was edged by meticulously manicured rose bushes. Red, white and yellow flowers opened brilliantly to soak up the early summer sun. Crystal blue waters shimmered in the pool at the yard’s center. From there, sitting areas radiated out into the yard. Each was nestled in the shade of a tree. And, even beneath the massive branches, the grass grew green.

John gave Austin a minute to absorb the yard’s beauty before hurrying him along. “Mower’s in the shed.”

The pair crossed the yard on a cobblestone path that John had laid himself. It meandered through flowerbeds and widened as it reached the shed doors.

“This is an amazing yard.”

“Yep.” They reached the shed and John grabbed the combination lock on the door. He spun the dial with familiar precision. He didn’t need to look at the dial, but it was better than looking at the gawking face of his young new neighbor.

Austin had his back to the shed, still soaking in the view. “I’ve gotta say, I’m a little surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

“Everyone says you’re lazy.” Before he had finished speaking, Austin looked to the ground.

“Is that what they say?”

Austin looked away and nodded. “I’m sorry. I ...”

John stared at the kid, “It happens to the best of us.”

“Ha. You’ve done it too, eh?”

“No. I’m better than that. But, it’s all right. I don’t much care what other people say. I’ve never been much for popularity contests. Besides, the reason they sent you to me is because I’m about the only person in this neighborhood that still mows his own yard.”

John pulled open the doors to the shed and watched the amazement wash over the kid’s face.

“Wow.”

“Yep.” John let him gaze.

It was more than a storage shed. The outbuilding held John’s workshop. Tools, each kept in immaculate condition, lined pegboard walls. Bins, clearly labeled, held countless screw, bolts and other fasteners. A workbench occupied the length of an entire wall. There was no clutter to clear, no pile of junk to relocate. It simply sat awaiting the next project.

John stepped into the shed and rolled the mower into the yard.

“Thank you for helping me out here, John. I wouldn’t want to upset the old ball and chain.” Austin chuckled.

John winced. “How long have you been married?”

“Six months. I just took a job out here and ...”

“Six months? She’s got you that scared already?”

“What? No, it’s ...”

“Seems a little quick. I didn’t give up fighting for a couple of years at least. Don’t get me wrong. You’re right to give up. There is no winning.”

“Well, it’s not fighting, it’s ...”

“But, I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Arthur.”

“Austin.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name’s Austin.”

“You from Texas?”

“No. Chicago.”

“That’s right. You said something about that. So your parents were from Texas.”

“No. It’s just a name. The City of Austin was named after a person.”

“And where was he from?”

“What? I don’t know.”

John put his hand on Austin’s shoulder. “It’s important for a man to know his roots. Never forget that.”

“I ...”

“So, here’s the mower. It’s all gassed up and ready to go. Don’t worry about filling it up when you’re done. I know it’s the proper thing to do, but consider it a welcome gift.” The kid would just screw it up anyway.

“Thanks.” Austin looked past John into the shed.

“Is there something else?”

“Um ... is there any chance you have a bagging attachment?”

“It’s a mulching mower. You don’t need to bag anything.”

“Yeah, it’s just ...”

“Mulch is good for your yard.”

“Yeah, it’s just. Look, I’ve got terrible allergies. Grass makes me all puffy. Bagging it really helps keep the watery eyes to a minimum.”

“Grass makes you cry?”

“Well, it’s the allergies. And it’s not just grass. It’s really everything: pollen, peanuts, gluten ...” Austin moved his hands around his face to illustrate exactly where the puffiness would occur. “It’s a pain really.”

“I’ll bet. But, hey, we all have our weaknesses, don’t we.”

“What’s yours?”

“Kryptonite.” John stepped back into the shed and emerged a moment later with the mower’s bagging attachment. It was still wrapped in a plastic bag from the day it went into the box. He stripped the clear sheeting and placed it on the mower.

“Thanks so much, John. I’ve got one of those masks but the attachment really helps keep the dust down.”

“Well, there you have it. Best get going so the wife doesn’t beat you with a switch.”

Austin gave out a nervous laugh. “Right. Thanks, John.”

“No problem, Arthur.”

“Austin.”

“Right. Like the city.”

Austin shrugged and rolled the mower to the gate.

John held it open. The young man grunted as he pushed the mower into the driveway and up the alley. John latched the gate and returned to the shed. He looked lovingly upon its contents, locked the door and went back inside.

2

The summer had been fierce. An unbearable heat had forced many families to hide indoors. John, as always, had dutifully tended to his yard despite the unexpected temperatures.

He killed the mower and surveyed his work. It was perfect. He sighed deeply, reveling in the smell of the fresh cut grass. It occurred to him that he shouldn’t enjoy mowing so much, but there was something satisfying about it. He loved the routine. It brought him peace. Summer always seemed too short. Eventually the lawn would go dormant, the mower would be put away until spring and he would be forced to find another way to escape the house and relax. One never knew how many mows were left before the end. He would enjoy each one.

A well-earned sweat dripped from his brow. John pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his forehead, hands and the back of his neck as he stepped over to the porch where he kept a small ice chest. The neighborhood was always quiet and calm on Saturday mornings which was just how he liked it. He reached into the ice chest and pulled out a can of beer. The can sighed as he pulled the top and raised it to his lips. “A hard earned beer always tastes best.”

“Good morning, John.”

John lowered the can and looked down the sidewalk. The young man walked down the neighbor’s pathway and turned toward John’s yard. As he approached, the young man began to sneeze.

“Good morning, Chicago.”

“Austin.”

John shrugged.

As Austin stepped down John’s pathway, the sneezing became worse. Still the young man smiled as he shook John’s hand. His young eyes turned red and began to water.

“Boy, you weren’t kidding about those allergies. You’re swelling.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here.”

“There’s some ice in the chest.”

“No, it’s not that.” Austin held out a piece of paper.

John took the paper from him. “What’s this?”

Austin sneezed. “It’s a petition for the HOA.” He sneezed again.

“We have an HOA?”

“I’m trying to get them to require the bagging of grass.”

“Pardon me?”

Austin’s faced wretched for a moment, relaxed and then wretched back again before letting out a sneeze. “It’s my allergies. I’m trying to reduce the airborne irritants. I’m sure you understand.”

John read the petition. It was as simple as Austin said—a block of text stated that all residents would have to use bagging attachments when mowing their yards to reduce airborne pollution. Below the text was a long list of signatures.

“You can’t be serious.”

Austin tried to stifle a sneeze but failed. A quick series of three sneezes erupted. John offered Austin the rag from his pocket as he continued to examine the paper. “The whole neighborhood is on here.”

Austin wiped his face. “Ewww, it’s ...”

“The whole neighborhood.”

Austin dropped the rag, “Um, yeah. Everyone’s really nice.”

“I’m surprised Chris was able to sign his own name.”

“They all ...”

“I’m not signing this.”

“John, everyone else is okay with it.”

“Of course everyone else is okay with this. No one else mows their own yard.”

“John, I really don’t need your signature. I’ve got enough there. I just wanted you to be okay with this.”

John shoved the paper back into the young man’s hand. “Well, I’m not. Tear it up. But, not here. Walk down to Chris’s yard and then tear it up.”

A pathetic look came over Austin’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, John.”

Having two teenage children had taught John to perfect a look that said without speaking, “You’d better say that again but choose different words this time.”

“Look at me. I’m a mess. I can’t spend my summers like this. Everyone else ...”

“Everyone else has yard guys. Of course they don’t mind getting behind this.”

“Well, what if you got lawn guys?”

“Excuse me?”

“What if you ...”

“You’re a young guy, Chicago. So, I don’t expect you to really understand this. Maybe with time you’ll grow into a man and get it, but for now I’ll spell it out for you and the other folks in this neighborhood: A man’s lawn says something about his character. The care he puts into it is directly related to the care he puts into himself. Would you let another man groom you? Dress you? Of course not.” He gestured to the yard. “This is no different.” John let the words soak in for a moment then returned to his beer.

He had gotten to the boy, he could tell from Austin’s sniffles.

The kid was silent for nearly a minute before he spoke. “I’m sorry, John. I’ll be submitting the petition this afternoon.”

John nodded slowly, “I admire your conviction, Texas. It’s good for a growing boy to learn conviction. But, know this, if you submit that petition you will drive a stake into the heart of our burgeoning friendship. You’ll kill it before it even truly begins.”

Austin turned and walked down the pathway to the sidewalk without a word.

John watched him go, a little thankful he didn’t have to pretend to be his friend.

3

With each step he felt life’s frustrations fading away. The hum of the four-stroke engine shook through the mower’s handle and into his hands. He could fix that, but he didn’t want to. He liked being connected to his labor.

John made the first pass on his yard, cutting an emerald green wake into the lush green lawn. He turned the mower 180 degrees, stepped behind it with a hop in his step and made his way back again. He would make twenty-six turns before the task was complete.

On the third turn, his concentration was broken by a car. There was nothing special about it. But, he didn’t recognize it. He couldn’t place every car in the neighborhood with its owner, but he knew when one didn’t belong.

This was a Ford Focus and it rolled quietly to a stop in front of his home. John continued to mow, but he kept an eye on the car’s occupant. The driver did not immediately step from the car. It looked as though he was shuffling papers.

“Lost,” John muttered to himself. He continued to mow. Once the man was ready to admit it, John would cut the mower and give him directions to where he was going.

John made two more turns in the yard. This guy in the car was stubborn. The driver’s head had not risen since he pulled up. He looked intently at his lap. John assumed he had resorted to using his phone to find his way.

John turned again.

The man finally stepped from the car. John smiled and turned off the mower.

“A little lost?”

“No, sir.” The man walked across the lawn and put out his hand. “Jack Charles. I represent your homeowners association.”

This guy looked like trouble. Maybe it was the clipboard. You couldn’t trust a guy with a clipboard. Or anyone who wore a suit on Saturday, for that matter. He shook the hand more from reflex than anything else.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this but a couple of months ago there was an amendment added to HOA rules that requires everyone to bag their grass.”

“I heard something about it.”

“Oh, well then I’m not sure I understand why you’re mowing your yard without a bagging attachment.”

“It’s a mulcher.”

“I see.”

“Mulch is good for the yard.”

“Perhaps, but there is this rule.” Jack turned his attention to the clipboard.

It wasn’t the clipboard at all that had made John not like him. This guy oozed pompous ass. “What are you doing there, Jack?”

“I’m sorry but I have to write this up. Don’t worry. It’s just a warning.”

“A warning.”

“Sure, just to remind you about the rule. I appreciate your cooperation. We’re trying to keep the pollution down.”

“Pollution?”

“Yes.”

“It’s grass.”

“It’s an airborne irritant.” Jack continued to scribble on the clipboard.

John reached up and pulled it down to get the man’s attention. “Wait. Let me get this straight.” John bent down and ran his fingers through the grass. “This is grass?”

Jack nodded. “Yes.”

“Green, living, mud-preventing, oxygen-making, life-giving grass?”

“Yes, sir.”

John pulled a handful of grass from the ground and threw it into the air. Blades of green fluttered down to the ground. “Now it’s pollution—like smoke, smog, acid rain?”

“Yes.”

John shook his head. “Okay, you’re going to have to show me the magic that happens between up here and the ground that makes it change.”

Jack shook his head and returned his attention to the clipboard. “The neighborhood ratified a petition that ...”

“I didn’t sign that petition.”

Jack clicked his pen a few times. “Maybe not. But a good majority of the neighborhood did.”

“Did you sign it?”

“I don’t live in the neighborhood.”

“But, you represent the neighborhood?”

“Yes, I represent ...”

“I think you can see my irritation here, Jack.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t live in my neighborhood, but you come down here in your little Ford Focus and try to tell me how to act in my neighborhood.”

“It’s my job.”

“It’s my neighborhood.”

“When you moved in you signed an agreement that said you would act in accordance with the bylaws of the HOA.”

“Yeah, I never read that.”

“But, you did sign it.”

“I signed it under duress. So, it doesn’t count.”

“I don’t understand how ...”

“You see, Jack. My wife really wanted this house.”

“How is that duress?”

“Believe me. It was duress.”

“That’s not my problem, Mr. Matthews.”

“Well, it’s about to become your problem, because, and I’m only going to say this once, if you hand me a warning from that little clipboard of yours, you will unleash the wrath of a man that doesn’t have that much to do in the evenings.”

Jack stopped writing and looked up at John. It wasn’t quite fear in his eyes. John knew the look of fear. It was something else. Annoyance? This twerp was annoyed? Maybe he hadn’t made the threat clear.

The man looked as if he was about to speak but then returned to his clipboard. “All right, Mr. Matthews. I won’t write you a warning.”

“Good. I’m glad we could see ...”

Jack tore a carbon copy from his clipboard and thrust it at John.

John took it and read the yellow paper. It was a fine—a fifty-dollar fine.

“Good day, sir.” Jack tucked the clipboard under his arm and walked back to his car.

John was stunned. He didn’t know if he should feel ashamed of losing the encounter or angry that this prick from out of town had the audacity to fine him for taking care of his yard. He opted for rage.

“You little ... You’d better walk away. You’d better take that clipboard, shove it in your Focus and get the hell out of my neighborhood before I do it for you!”

Jack tossed the clipboard through the open passenger window and walked around the front of his Ford. He sat down behind the wheel and started the engine. Jack waved and pulled out into the neighborhood.

John stood in his half-mowed yard with the yellow fine in his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He wanted to kick something. There was nothing in the yard to kick.

4

Even the kid’s door was stupid. John kicked it, hurting himself only a little. It was not answered within a split second so he pounded on it. A little hand painted sign that said “welcome to our home” rattled as he struck the door with the base of his fist.

There was instantly a yapping from multiple dogs. He could hear their nails scratch and click against a tile floor in the foyer. A voice followed and commanded the dogs to be silent. Their barking continued and the scratching began to run up and down the interior of the door.

John held the yellow paper against the peephole just in case the new guy was paranoid enough to use it.

“Who’s there? Please uncover the peephole.” The voice was faint and annoying from behind the door.

John lowered the page and glared into the peephole. “Open the door, Texas. We need to talk.”

There were a few more commands issued to the dogs that were ignored before Austin cracked open the door.

John could see two miniature pinchers bouncing behind him. Little dogs. Might as well be cats.

Austin slid out and closed the door. The dogs continued to bark.

“What’s wrong, John? What’s this about?”

John handed him the fine. “It’s about fifty dollars.”

Austin examined the yellow paper. “What is this?”

“That’s a fine. Something about me mowing without bagging. Remember?”

“So, what do you want me to do with it?”

“Well, you can either pay it or ... I don’t think you want to hear your second option.”

“Look, John. I’m sorry, but rules are rules.”

“No. Rules weren’t rules, then you moved in and then, and only then did rules that weren’t rules become rules.”

“John, I can lend you the fifty dollars if you need me to.”

“I don’t need your money.”

“But you just told me to pay for ...”

“It’s the principle.”

“Principle cost fifty bucks?”

“Look, kid.”

“And, there it is. You don’t like me because I’m young.”

“Oh please, that’s the least of the reasons I don’t like you. I have bigger issues with your puffy, drippy face.”

“Just because I’m young. Your lectures. You’re pretending not to remember my name.”

“Hey! I know your name, Chicago.”

“I’m from Chicago, you idiot!”

“You told me you were from Texas.”

Austin made some kind of sound that John had never heard before. It was a mix of a growl, a yargh and a gasp. In the end, the kid said nothing. John presented him the bill. “Pay it.”

“You broke the rules. You pay it.”

“It’s your bullshit rule.”

Austin opened the door behind him. “The whole neighborhood agreed to it.”

The minpins tried to run outside. Austin held them back with his foot and began to slide into the house. “The president ratified it. It’s an HOA rule now and there’s nothing you can do.” Austin slammed the door. The welcome to our home sign fell to the ground.

John stood silently. His mind was already working out a solution to his problem. He smiled. “President? Go figure.”

John leaned closer and yelled through the door, “I think your dogs are stupid.” He then turned and walked home.

5

“You’re going to run for president of the HOA?” His wife was beautiful. Age had focused on punishing him and left her alone. Where it had taken his hair and added pounds, it had made her even more beautiful. He gladly made the sacrifice. Jenny was also one of the smartest people he knew. So why was she asking the question like it was a bad idea?

“Yes. I think it’s time I stepped up and served my community.” John was lost in his computer trying to figure out how one runs for president of an HOA in the first place. He had been there for hours. He had tried Wikipedia first and within an hour had learned about ten presidents and that the largest US bill ever printed was the $100,000 bill and that it featured Woodrow Wilson. He then learned about security ink, holograms and other anti-counterfeiting techniques. Then about Allan Pinkerton. The page about Abraham Lincoln had a fascinating entry on how his corpse was stolen in an attempt to hold it for ransom. History was weird.

As the light grew dim outside, he realized that he needed to get back on task. Half an hour and five wiki-entries later, he found a how-to article and set to taking notes.

“Are you sure you want to do this, sweetie? It’s a lot of work.”

“I’m sure. This neighborhood is going to hell and I know I can turn it around.”

“Going to hell? How? It’s safe. We have great neighbors. Home values are up.”

John was lost in the article.

Jenny continued. “Besides. No one ever runs here. Everyone just kind of takes turns.”

John looked up from the screen. “And what kind of attitude is that? It’s time someone stepped up. Someone that cared enough to serve this community. We can’t go on just handing out responsibility to the next person on the list. Imagine how great The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II could be if someone actually cared?”

Jenny smiled. She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Honey. I’m so proud of you. If you really want to serve this community, you can count on my support.”

John smiled back at her. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course. I can’t remember the last time you were this passionate about something.”

She had always been there for him. “Thanks, dear.”

Jenny rubbed his shoulders, “Don’t stay up too late.”

She left the room and John turned back to his notes. He had assembled a fairly comprehensive to do list. It began with a few formalities that included writing a letter to the board and filing some paperwork. Those were to be expected and could be handled in due time. There were other things on his list that required more than good penmanship and he could get started on those immediately.

Every list he found online said he would need a slogan—a catchphrase that would hang in the minds of voters and be a powerful pneumonic that summarized his platform and everything he stood for. John grabbed a pencil, put the tip to his tongue and wondered why people put the tips of pencils to their tongue. It certainly didn’t taste good. He began to write on the page. The moisture from his tongue made everything smudgy.

He wiped off the tip of the pencil and began a list of potential slogans under the header Matthews for President.

“Stay off of my lawn.” It was powerful and to the point. Saying it aloud brought to mind the cocking of a shotgun. He’d vote for him with a slogan like that. He was about to turn in when he realized that, read from the wrong perspective, it could seem self-serving and more about his yard than anyone else’s. While this was true, he didn’t think it would draw votes. Ultimately, he decided against it and crossed through the phrase. “It would probably go better on a flag anyway.”

“It’s not in the bag.” It was a clever twist on a cliché and it made his objection to the new rule clear, but it could be seen as a lack of confidence. Stupid double entendres were working against him.

“The bagging stops here.” Tough. Authoritative. Trumanesque. He liked it.

“Your yard. Your choice.” People liked choice. People were passionate about choice. He underlined this one as a strong possible maybe, despite that it was less about his yard.

Something then occurred to him—this was bigger than the yard. The new guy had been here a short time and already imposed his will on others. This wasn’t simply about yards, it was about freedom. It was about liberty. It was about the new guy not getting his way.

With this newfound inspiration, the pencil danced across the page.

“John Matthews. Leadership for a free The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II.”

“John Matthews. A vote for Matthews is a vote for Freedom.”

“John Matthews. If you like liberty, you’ll love Matthews.”

John began to see himself not only as a candidate but as a patriot. He was a man willing to sacrifice his time and energy for the liberty of others. He, and only he, could stand in the way of the forces that opposed the good citizens of the neighborhood.

“John Matthews. Defender of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II.” He pictured a powerful and striking image of himself on campaign posters shot in profile with him looking off into the distance.

“All evil needs to succeed in The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II is for Matthews to do nothing.” Catchy, but the campaign buttons would need to be huge.

“John Matthews. Tyranny can suck it.”

But was he straying too far from the issues? When it really came down to it, he wanted to promise people that he would use the power of the HOA to make things better, not baggier.

“Oh,” he got excited and scribbled down, “The grass is greener.” Bragging? Maybe. His lawn was greener than any other in the neighborhood. But, it showed a confidence and knowledge that the other slogans didn’t. It promised prosperity for all. It spoke of optimism. It was perfect.

John double-underlined the slogan and circled it. He stood from the table confident and proud. With a slogan like that, what more could he need? Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. His wife was proud of him for the moment and he wasn’t about to waste it.

6

The soil in the neighborhood was dark and rich. This wonderful soil, in addition to a personal blend of grass seed and vigilant maintenance, was what made his yard so spectacular. It also made driving his campaign sign into the ground a fairly easy task. Still, the mallet made it easier and way more fun. He proudly pounded the stake deep into the yard for all to see.

Chris Peterson ran from his home.

“John, what the hell are you doing to my yard?”

“Good morning, Chris.” John stepped back from the sign and admired it. “Looks great, doesn’t it? The printer really brought out the USA in my design.”

Chris looked at the sign. “What is this and why is it in my yard?”

“I’m running for president and I know I could count on your support. Plus, being on the corner lot here, this sign is going to get a lot of impressions. It’s all about impressions.”

“Take it out.”

“What? I just put it in.”

“Take it out!”

“What are you really trying to say, Chris? Can’t I count on your support?”

“No!”

A minivan rounded the corner and passed by the yard.

“Did you see that? That guy looked right at the sign. I told you this is a great location. What can I do for you to gain your support for my presidency of the HOA?”

“Move.”

“That’s not funny, Chris.”

“It’s not a joke, John.”

John nodded. “I see. This is still about that Halloween incident, isn’t it?”

“No, this is about you being a jerk.”

“Me? You’re the one that had me tazed.”

“I’m not getting into this again. Get out of my yard.” Chris reached over and started pulling the sign from the ground. John struggled to push it back in.

The minivan that had passed made a three-point turn and parked in front of the house across the street. Erik stepped from the minivan, looked both ways and crossed.

“What’s up, guys?”

John stopped fighting over the sign. “Erik. Good. I wanted to talk to you. Now, look, you don’t like me and I don’t like you. You’ve done things to piss me off and I’ve said things about your wife, but I trust we can put those things aside for the greater good of the community.”

“I like you just fine, John.”

Chris pulled the sign from the ground. “I don’t like you.”

“Wait. What did you say about my wife?”

“That’s not important right now, Erik. I just need to know that I can count on your support for my candidacy.” John took the sign from Chris and handed it to Erik.

He looked at the sign. “The grass is greener. Nice.”

“Thanks. I wrote it myself.”

“Wait, why are you running for president? Is it your turn?”

“It’s not about turns, Erik. It’s about doing what’s right. Things in this neighborhood need to change and it’s time someone stepped up. This is me. Stepping up.”

“Well, you can count on my vote against you. Now get off my lawn.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Chris. I just can’t abandon you like that.”

Chris shook his head. “No. No. I don’t even care what you’re talking about.”

Erik looked concerned. “What do you mean abandon him, John?”

“Dammit, Erik. Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m glad you asked, Erik. You see, I have recently been the victim of youth.”

“Youth?”

“Youth. I don’t know if you guys have noticed, but we’re getting older. And this generation behind us. Well, it’s sad. They’re weak. I don’t know who or what is really to blame, but they have grown up on a dangerous combination of wussiness and entitlement. They’re soft. Coddled. They’re allergic to things like air. And instead of growing some hair on their chest, they make everyone else change how they live.”

“So, what? You thought you were entitled to put a sign in my yard.”

“Chris, it was wrong of me not to ask. And for that I’m sorry.”

“You’re just saying that because you got caught.”

“That’s true. But, I know that you feel the same way I do. We may not get along but we aren’t that different.”

“Take that back.”

“You know it’s true. You know that it’s because we are so much alike that we don’t like each other so much.”

“He’s making good sense, Chris.”

“Shut up, Erik.”

“Look at us.” John put his hands on each man’s shoulder. Erik stepped in closer. Chris stepped away. “Look at us fighting amongst ourselves. Why should we waste our time with this when we have a real threat living amongst us here in the fine community of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II ready to come into our homes, our lives and our yards and change our very way of life?”

“And what could that possibly be? So far the only person that’s invaded my yard is you.”

“Youth.”

“Youth?” Erik asked.

“Youth.” John’s whisper made it sound ominous. “Youth in the form of young people. They’ve already made their first attack on me. You could be next.”

Chris threw up his hands. “Geez, John. What happened? Did some kids wrap your yard?”

“Worse.” John pulled the yellow scrap of paper from his pocket and held it out for the men to see.

Chris refused to step closer. “I give up. What is it?”

Erik took the paper and examined it. “It’s a fine.”

“No, Erik. It’s not a fine.”

“It’s says fine on the top of the page. Well, actually it says warning but then warning is scratched out and then it says fine.”

“It’s not a fine, Erik! It’s an attack. An attack on our liberty. Our freedom. It’s un-American, that’s what it is.”

Chris took the paper from Erik and read it. “Oh, I know what this is about. That new guy ... what was his name? Dallas?”

John corrected him. “No, he’s from Dallas.”

Chris turned to Erik. “He brought around that petition.”

John stabbed a finger at Chris. “And you signed it.”

“So?”

“So, it was a mistake. Now you can see that and you can help me undo it.”

“What do I care about some stupid bagging rule? So, the yard guys have to bag the grass. So what?”

“I know that you use yard guys, Chris. And now is not the time for me to tell you how much of a man that doesn’t make you. But, the fact remains that I mow my own lawn and I hate bagging the grass.”

“I don’t care.”

“I understand. I know you don’t care about this. But this is just the start. It starts with bagging and continues until the new guy is at the dinner table telling us how many times to chew our food.”

Erik interjected. “You should chew your food forty times.”

“Shut up, Erik. And you, too, John. I’ve had enough of this.” Chris turned to walk back inside.

“What if he’s allergic to fake fog, Chris?”

Chris stopped. “What?”

“This all started because the new guy is allergic to everything. Even gluten, whatever that is. The grass in the air made him sneezy so he went door to door to make it stop. What if he’s allergic to the fog from your fog machines? I know how much Halloween means to you. What would your Lawn of Horror be without fog?”

“Yard of Terror.”

“What if he scares easy? What if he’s a little scaredy pants and gets the HOA to outlaw yard decorations?”

“That wouldn’t happen.”

“He made grass a pollutant.”

“What?”

“That’s how he did it.”

Erik was puzzled. “A pollutant? How?”

“Let me show you guys a magic trick.” John bent down and ran his fingers through the grass. “This is grass.” John pulled a patch of grass from the yard and tossed it in the air. “Hocus Pocus, now it’s a pollutant.”

Chris shrugged.

“I don’t get it,” Erik said. “What happens between up here and the ground?”

“I don’t know, but it costs fifty dollars.”

“A hundred.”

The three men turned to see Jack Charles stepping from his Ford Focus. He strode into the yard and handed John a yellow slip of paper.

John tore it from his hand.

“And whose minivan is that?”

Erik raised his hand. “It’s mine. It’s the only vehicle that would hold two car seats and a booster.”

“You’re Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes.”

Jack scribbled Anderson on his clipboard and tore the yellow carbon copy free. He handed it to Erik. “You parked the wrong way.”

Erik, stunned, took the paper. “There’s a right way to park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I always park that way. No one has ever said anything before.”

“Well, some of the new residents have requested that we be a little more stringent with rule enforcement.”

Chris laughed at his two neighbors.

“And, Mr. Peterson. I understand you had a party here last night.”

Chris smiled, “Yeah. We were celebrating my wife’s birthday.”

Erik looked hurt. “You didn’t invite me.”

“I don’t like you.”

“We got reports that it was pretty loud after dark and I wanted to remind you of our noise policy.”

“It wasn’t loud.”

“We got complaints.” He handed a yellow sheet to Chris who took it with a shocked look on his face.

Jack walked back to his car and saluted, “Have a nice day, guys.” He got in and drove off.

The three men stood in silence and watched the Focus drive away.

Erik finally spoke. “He didn’t even see me park. How does he know I did it wrong?”

John couldn’t speak; he just held up the piece of paper to Chris and shook it as if to say, “See, see, see you stupid ass?”

“Really. How are you supposed to park?”

Chris threw up his hands. “Okay, fine! I’ll help you run for president. All right?”

“I knew I could count on your support, Chris.” John took the sign from Erik and put it back in the yard.

“So what do we have to do?”

“Don’t worry,” John put the sign in the yard and grabbed the mallet. “This should be easy. No one else is running.” He raised the mallet to strike but before he could lay a blow on the stake for freedom, he heard a pounding from next door.

The three men turned to see Austin in his front yard hammering a sign into the ground. It read, “Austin for President. For a better tomorrow.”

Austin waved to the three men, smiled and went back indoors.

The three men stood quietly until Erik said what they were all thinking. “This shit just got real.”

7

John, Chris and Erik sat around a poker table in a darkened room. It was quiet. John had designed the room to be quiet. Only occasionally did the fridge kick on and add a gentle hum to the quiet in the room. The smell of cigar smoke hung in the air from many a forgotten night of cards and a slight scent betrayed that the fridge was most likely filled with beer.

John’s personal trophies lined the walls. His old high school jersey hung encased in shadowbox amid autographed sports memorabilia that he had collected over the years. Boxing gloves, football helmets, baseballs—he had received many as gifts and each found a place in his room.

“I love your man cave, John.”

“Man caves are for boys, Erik.”

“It sure looks like a man cave.”

“It’s not. Man caves are insulting. Why should a man be forced into a darkened corner of his own home and required to give it some stupid name like that? This is my house. This is simply my private space.”

“It sounds like a man cave to me,” Chris said.

“Man caves are a compromise, Chris. They’re pleaded for. They’re bartered for. It’s a sign of defeat in a marriage. I didn’t bargain for this. I didn’t even take it. It’s my home and I set this room up as I saw fit. My family knows that it is my home and they respect my privacy.”

Erik looked confused. “If the whole home is yours, why do you need a special space then?”

“Every man needs a space of his own to think, to plan. This is a great example. If I didn’t have this space, where would we be? A coffee shop? You can’t plan strategy for a campaign like this at a coffee shop.”

“Why not?”

“Too many prying eyes. Coffee shops have ears, you know. Especially in this town. No, every man needs a sanctum, a fortress of solitude where his thinking won’t be disrupted by the meddling of others. This is my sanctum. Quiet. Private. And, no disruptions.”

A bright light snapped on overhead and the garage door sprang to life. The metal door groaned and squeaked as it allowed the daylight to pour into the room.

“Aw, crap. The wife’s home.” John stood. “Help me move this table, guys.”

Erik was startled by the sound of the door.

Chris chuckled. “What?”

“Help me lift the poker table. Jenny needs to park the car.”

“In your sanctum?”

“Shut up and lift, Chris.”

The three men stood and hefted the solid table. They pulled it to the far side of the garage and set it down. They each picked up a chair and placed it out of the way of the car.

Jenny pulled into the garage in the family SUV and parked. The rear door opened first and John’s son stepped out.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

Jimmy didn’t say a word. Headphones covered his ears and, despite the massive foam seals, music seeped into the room. Jimmy stepped into the house as Jenny got out of the car.

“Hi, boys. What are you doing?”

“We’re planning John’s election. We’re his cabinet.”

Chris rolled his eyes.

Jenny smiled. “Isn’t it exciting? I’m so proud of him. I’m sorry I had to park in the middle of your cabinet meeting.”

Chris giggled. John was surprised that a man could do that.

“I’ll leave you alone so you can get back to it.” Jenny walked around the car and gave John a quick kiss. “It’s good to see you making friends again.” With this she stepped into the house, pushing the garage door button as she entered.

The door lowered. Once the squeaking stopped, John could hear Chris and Erik chuckling.

“What?”

Chris answered first, “She thinks we’re your friends.”

“Shut up, you guys. Let’s get back to business.”

The three men sat down at the poker table again, however, this time there was considerably less space and they were forced closer to the table.

“Love your man cave, John.”

“Shut up, Chris. What have you got?”

The two men had spent the week going door-to-door in the neighborhood talking to the residents. In their conversations they had tried to discover the issues of the day.

“Nobody agrees on anything.”

“That’s not true, Erik. Everyone agrees that Austin would make a better president than John.”

“What?” John would have sat up in his seat had the close confines not made reclining impossible in the first place. “How is tha ... he just got here.”

“Yeah, John.” Erik looked at his notes on the table. “But, you’ve been here a long time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Chris tried to shift in his seat, but there was no where to shift to, “that people know you too well.”

“That should work in my favor.” His cabinet was silent. “Shouldn’t it?”

Erik read from his notes. “People consider you a reclusive jerk.”

John was hurt. He had built a fine life in his home and he enjoyed being there much more than being with other people. What was wrong with that?

Chris quickly added, “Those are their words, John. Not ours.”

John felt a little better and nodded.

“Though, if we’re being honest, I probably would have used the same words.”

“Me too,” Erik added.

“Well, not jerk.”

“Me, too.”

John sighed.

“Look, all it means is that we’re going to have to work a little harder to make you likable. We’re going to have to really find out what these people want and promise it to them.”

Erik looked over his notes. He shuffled through several pages. “That’s a lot of different promises.”

“Right. It’s so many promises that you couldn’t possibly keep them all.”

“Are you saying I can’t win?”

“Not on popularity. Not without some help.” Chris smiled.

“You look like you’ve got an idea. Or have to go to the bathroom.”

“Mrs. Howard.”

“The old lady?”

“Yes. The sweet and gentle old widow that everybody likes.”

Erik sat up. “Of course. She’s very sweet and she knows everyone.”

“And everything that’s going on,” Chris added.

“She’s a busybody.” Like everyone else in the neighborhood, John knew Mrs. Howard. She was the perfect picture of the kindly old lady and if she cornered you on the street you’d be stuck for a good thirty minutes listening to tales about her grandchildren.

“But, she could be our busybody. Just think, someone with all that time on her hands. She’s been in the neighborhood longer than most of us. And she’s got the scoop on everybody.”

“Okay. I see where you’re going with this. Can I count on her vote?”

Erik shook his head. “Not at all. She thinks Austin is a ‘nice young man’ with an ‘adorable wife.’” Erik made air quotes where appropriate.

“What does she think of me?”

Erik again used air quotes, “‘A big asshole.’”

“You’re not selling me on this plan, guys.”

Chris crossed his arms and reclined in his seat as far as he could. It wasn’t much. “She has cats.”

“Of course she has cats. She’s a widow.” John was pretty sure he could scrounge up a new cabinet. He couldn’t believe he’d let this one into his sanctum.

“No, I mean, she has a lot of cats.”

“So?”

“Like too many cats. More cats than a certain HOA would allow.”

John smiled. “And, I’m sure Mr. Allergies can’t stand cat dander and wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of a few cats.”

Chris smiled. “She loves those cats, John.”

“Well. Let’s make sure nothing happens to those precious pets. I’ll go and talk to her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She doesn’t like you. Remember the ‘big asshole’ thing.”

“Well then how are we going to threaten her cats and win her over if she doesn’t like me?”

“She doesn’t have to like you. She just has to like your platform.”

“I see.”

“It’s already set. Erik has tea time with her tomorrow.”

“Why me?” Erik had sat quietly for some time.

“She really likes you and your ‘darling Christine.’ And bring the twins. Let her pinch their cheeks.”

“I don’t know if I feel comfortable lying to an old lady. And using my kids to do it.”

“You won’t be lying,” Chris said. “You just need to point out that the current HOA rules don’t allow for so many cats and that Austin really likes rules.”

“Fine. But it still feels wrong.”

“Great. That takes care of that. Good work team.” John started to rise.

“Hold on, John. Getting Mrs. Howard’s support could go a long way but you’ve still got an image problem you’ve got to think about.”

8

Chris and Erik had left after awkwardly standing up from the cramped poker table. John sat in his sanctum for some time thinking about what they had discovered. The people in his neighborhood didn’t like him much. It’s true he had never cared much about what they thought. This callous nature to other people’s opinions had served him well over the years. It had allowed him to be himself and be honest.

Didn’t people appreciate his honesty? Obviously not, if they were calling him a reclusive jerk. He was raised to believe that honesty was the best policy. What a crock that turned out to be. It was now obvious that honesty had no place in politics.

The problem seemed insurmountable. How could he repair years of that much honesty in such a short amount of time? This reclusive jerk business was easy enough to fix. He just had to be more visible in the neighborhood. This probably meant walking.

He hated walking. It was fine for around the house but always seemed a silly way to get around streets. Ever since man could catch a horse he had given up on that walking crap. And, every development since then had focused on not walking: carriages, trains, cars, planes, skis, roller skates, escalators, hang gliders, snowmobiles, boats, those moving walkway things at airports—yet people still found merit in strolling about the neighborhood.

So, he’d hate it but he would start strolling the neighborhood in the evening to show that he wasn’t a recluse.

The jerk part. That would be more difficult to overcome but he would have to prove to everyone that he was really a nice person if he was going to put that uppity new kid in his place.

The real problem was that one couldn’t simply declare himself not a jerk. It was not unlike someone trying to tell you that they’re cool. The non-jerk status had to be conferred upon by others. Others that weren’t jerks themselves. So Chris and Erik were out.

This was a problem. Everyone in the neighborhood thought he was a jerk. Even his cabinet members. The only people in the immediate area that knew he was really a good person was his family. And what could they do?

Of course. There were things his family could do. Everyone loved Jenny. She could tell everyone he wasn’t a jerk. John excitedly stood up slowly so he wouldn’t back in to his wife’s SUV and ran into the house.

He found his family in the living room. His wife was curled up on the couch watching one of her favorite shows. It was about a hospital where all the doctors slept with each other. His son, Jimmy, was sitting sideways on the recliner with his headphones on and his eyes glued to his phone. His daughter Sarah was sitting on the couch on a tablet shopping for things he could never hope to afford.

“Family meeting.”

No one moved.

“Family meeting. Family meeting. Family meeting.” John moved about the room clapping his hands in front of each of them. Except his wife. He was a jerk, not an idiot. TVs were paused, headphones were removed and he had everyone’s attention. This amazed him.

“What is it, honey?”

“As you all know, I’m running for president of the HOA.”

Jimmy raised his hand.

“Question, Jimmy?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, well, I am. And I think it’s time we all started acting more presidential.”

“What do you mean, Daddy?” Sarah was still browsing, still shopping and still dreaming him into bankruptcy.

“Well, if I’m to become president of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II, certain things are to be expected.”

“Like what?” Jimmy was glancing back at his phone.

“Like my son should be an athlete. Jimmy, I need you to try out for football.”

“What!?” He dropped the phone in his lap. “Dad, I hate sports!”

“Which is very un-presidential like. And un-Matthews like, I should add.”

“No way. I’m not doing that. Besides, I’m way too busy with my band.”

“Right, your band. Carcass of Death.”

“That’s not our name any more. We changed it.”

“To what?”

“Defenestration.”

John shook his head. “Can’t you do both?”

“Only if you want Defenestration to have a half-ass bass player.”

“Jimmy! Language.” Jenny was always on top of the language.

“Okay, okay. Fine. Let me ask you this. Can Defenstration ...”

“Defenestration.”

“Can they play ‘Hail to the Chief’?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m going to need a theme song. Maybe you guys could learn it.”

Jimmy shook his head and placed the headphones back on his ears.

“Sarah, sweetie. It’s important for a president’s daughter to be popular. I’ll need you to try out for the cheer team.”

“Daddy, I’m on the cheer team.”

“Thanks, princess. I knew I could count on your support.”

“What do you need me to do, honey?”

“Ah, Jenny. My beautiful bride. My future first lady. You have the most important job of all.”

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“I need you to smile that gorgeous smile, bat those baby blues and convince everyone I’m not a jerk.”

“John. No one thinks you’re a jerk.”

“Recent studies prove that everyone thinks I’m a jerk.”

“Oh, then it would be my pleasure.”

“And, I think you should wear more pants suits.”

Jenny laughed. “No.”

“Pantsuits convey power and authority.”

“Pantsuits convey a baggy ass and a flat chest. I’m not doing it.”

“But you’ll convince people I’m not a jerk?”

Jenny paused. “Yes.”

“Why did you pause?”

“I said I’d do it.”

“But, you paused.”

“Well I had to think for a moment if I could do it.”

“What?”

“Honey, I love you. But, what you’re asking is not going to be easy.”

John sighed. It must be true then. He was a jerk.

“I don’t think you’re a jerk, Daddy,” Sarah said sweetly from behind her tablet.

“Thank you, princess.”

Sarah smiled. “I just sent you an e-mail with a few things on it.”

John sighed again.

“It will be fine, honey. You’ll see.” Jenny smiled at him from the couch.

“You really think so?” But, they didn’t hear him. The headphones were blaring, the shopping was in full swing and one doctor was sleeping with another. John hung his head and left the room.

9

The next couple of weeks saw tremendous progress in John’s image. Erik had convinced Mrs. Howard that John was a cat lover and that he had no issues with her having so many feline friends. In turn she lied and told everyone what a wonderful man John was.

John strolled the neighborhood every night with his wife and the family dog. They stopped and chatted with the neighbors and John even came to genuinely like a few of them.

They talked about the neighborhood and his campaign. Everyone, of course, wanted more for their dues. There had been an empty field in the neighborhood for years. Some wanted to see it turned into a dog park. Others wondered if it couldn’t become a community pool. For the most part, however, few of them had issues with the HOA and were perfectly happy the way things were.

He shook hands, he learned names and he made friends. It didn’t take long before he began to look forward to the walks with his wife.

“This has been wonderful, John. Running for president may be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Even if you don’t win, it’s ...”

“Wait. What do you mean, if I don’t win? You don’t think I’m going to win?”

“Do you really want to? Think about all the stress it will add. Besides, Austin seems like a good man for the job.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, I was talking to his wife the other day, she’s really sweet, and she was telling me all about what he wants to accomplish. It just sounds like a lot of work and if you took it on we couldn’t do this every night.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Well, he promised to get people more active in the neighborhood watch. He’s going to put a pool in the field. He’s promised to lower the speed limit through the neighborhood and get speed bumps put in. He ...”

“Speed bumps?”

“Yes. To make things safer for the kids.”

“He doesn’t even have kids.”

“They’re planning to start a family soon.”

“Stop. Speed bumps? Pools? Where’s he going to get the money for all of this?”

“I guess he’s talking about raising the dues.”

“Oh, that guy is going down.”

“I don’t know, honey. People are pretty excited.”

“You don’t think I can win, do you?”

“It’s not that. Everyone loves you now. It’s amazing. But, people know what he’s going to do. You haven’t really told anyone what your plans are.”

“I’m going to make the grass greener. It’s on my signs.”

“I know, but what does that mean?”

“It means I won’t have to bag my stupid grass. I can’t believe the nerve of that guy. He comes up here from Texas and changes everything. And then, he wants to change things even more! He’s even got me taking stupid walks. Walking! Me!”

“Honey, calm down.”

“This is not the time to be calm, Jenny. I’ve had it with this kid. It’s time to confront him face-to-face.”

* * *

“A debate?” The three men stood in Chris’s front yard.

“Yes, Chris. I want you to arrange a debate with our new friend. It’s time everyone saw him for what he is. We’ll do it right here in your yard.”

“Why my yard?”

“It’s the second best looking yard in the neighborhood after mine.”

“So why not have it in your yard?”

“My yard is not at its best right now. I stopped mowing to protest the bagging rule.”

“So technically, my yard is the best looking yard in the neighborhood right now.”

“So, we can have the debate here.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say my yard is the best looking yard or no deal.”

John cursed under his breath.

“What’s that, John?”

“Fine, dammit. Your yard is, only today, the best looking yard in the neighborhood. Okay? Can we have the debate now?”

Chris smiled and then shook his head. “John, are you sure that’s a good idea? Our strategy was to have you say as little as possible.”

“I know what our strategy was. But I’ve been out there pressing the flesh for the last two weeks and I know everything that our friend from Texas is up to.”

“He’s from Chicago.”

“It doesn’t matter where he’s from. It only matters where he’s not from. Here. The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II.”

Erik agreed with Chris. “I don’t think you should debate him, John.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll lose.”

“Erik’s right. You’ve got passion on your side. I’ll give you that. But, it’s a stupid passion and people will know it. Our plan is working. A lot less people think you’re a jerk now. Even I’m starting to believe it. We can win this on character. We’ve crafted an image for you of the nice long-time neighbor that cares. If you get up in front of everybody that could all come crashing down.”

John wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he had changed. That his walks had given him time to reflect and that he had truly started to care about others. But, he knew Chris was right. His passion would get the best of him and his passion had a way of being misunderstood. But, something had to be done. Then John had a thought.

“What if it was Austin that crashed and burned?”

“What do you mean?” Erik asked.

“Do you remember when Nixon debated Kennedy?”

“No,” Chris answered. “You’re old.”

John sneered. “Nixon wasn’t quite ready for TV. He showed up to the debate unshaven and he looked like hell. Kennedy won big and a big part of it was because he didn’t look like ass.”

“So?” Chris asked. Erik just looked dumb.

“So, we make Austin look like ass.” John rubbed his palms together. The plan was too perfect.

“Between the two of you, you’re the one that looks more ass-like.”

“Chris is right, you know.”

“Shut up, Erik. I’ve got a plan.”

10

Austin had been a little too eager to agree to the debate. Chris and Erik assumed that he had been expecting it and preparing for it. John told them he wasn’t worried. His cabinet assured him that he should be and that Austin would most likely destroy him. John had just smiled back.

He’d seen enough presidential debates to know that the winner wasn’t the one who had the best answers, but the one who sounded best giving answers. And he was sure that Austin was going to have a hard time answering anything.

As he sifted through Austin’s trash, he thought for a moment that he’d gone too far. The truth was he could get what he needed out of anyone’s trash but he loved irony so had crept down the alleyway shortly after midnight to the edge of Austin’s driveway.

Several trash bags sat piled at the end of the drive. This was surprising for a family of two. Jenny had mentioned they were remodeling and that could account for the large pile, but if he found himself against the wall in the debate he could play the trash card.

John approached cautiously, listening for any sign of activity. Austin seemed like the boring type that would “turn in at a proper hour” so it surprised him when a series of lights snapped on and flooded the driveway with what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-trash light. Startled, John dove into the pile of garbage for cover, hurting himself only a little.

His heart raced as he cursed his superior reflexes. Had he not jumped head first into the trash he could easily explain his presence in the alleyway with the “what, you don’t own the alleyway” defense. Now, nose deep in bags of refuse, he would have a hard time convincing anyone that he was just out for a stroll. There was nothing he could say if he was spotted.

He tried to breathe without moving as the image of Austin, standing in some stupid bathrobe, squinting into the night, perhaps holding a golf club for defense, ran through his mind.

It wasn’t until after three minutes of perfect stillness that John started to breathe easier. He sat up and shook his head as he cursed his overreaction. “Motion lights.” He had motion lights on his house. Everybody had motion lights on their house.

Forgiving himself for his jumpiness, he began to poke and prod at the trash bags until he found what he was looking for. He tossed two of the bags over his shoulder and made his way back down the alley, setting off motion lights and scaring himself the whole way home.

* * *

“Practice?”

“Yes, you need to practice for the debate.” Chris was serious about this. John could tell by the way the man had no sense of humor.

“That’s stupid. A debate is all about reaction.”

Chris leaned in across the poker table. “Have you ever been in a debate?”

“I’ve got this. I’ve been in arguments—a lot. They’re just like a debate only louder and with more swearing. ”

Chris rolled his eyes. “No. It’s really not.”

“Shut up. How would you know?”

Chris counted off on his fingers, “Two years of high school speech class. Four years debate team in college. One year as captain. I even helped with the team when I was getting my master’s degree.”

John wanted to chuckle but choked back the urge. Instead he apologized. “I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t know. Sounds like you’re kind of a master at this.”

“Yes. I am, so I think you should ...”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say, you’re a master at this.” John began to smirk.

“Oh, grow up, John. This is serious.”

John lost control of the smirk and laughed out loud at his own joke.

Chris threw up his hands. “There is a good chance you’re going to say something stupid during this debate and we need to do what we can to stop it from happening. We need to practice.”

“I’m not going to say anything stupid.”

Erik stepped into the garage. “Sorry I’m late guys. What did I miss?”

“John was a master debater in college.”

Erik laughed as he sat down at the poker table. “Dork.”

“Shut up, Erik.” Chris handed the younger man a stack of note cards.

“What’s this?”

“We’re going to have a mock debate. You’ll be playing the part of Austin. John will be playing the part of the idiot. I’m going to watch how he reacts and then tell him why he’s stupid.”

“Hey.”

“Do you want to learn?”

John sighed.

“Fine, let’s begin. Erik, you’re Austin. Please read the first card.”

Erik cleared his throat, took a sip of water, cleared his throat, scanned the card, cleared his throat and took a sip of water.

Chris slapped him across the arm. “C’mon!”

Erik jumped and read the card, “Good evening. I’d like to thank everyone for this opportunity to share my vision for The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II.” Erik lowered the cards. “I’m sorry. That was rushed. Let me do it again.”

“That’s okay, Erik. Let John answer.”

“No, I can do it better.”

“Shut up, Erik. John. Respond.”

“Respond? He just said thank you. I can’t even call him a liar.”

“So what would you say?”

“I’d say thank you, too.”

“No. You thank them ...”

“That’s what I said, Chris.”

“I wasn’t done, John. You thank them for taking time out of their day to get involved with their community and that it’s that kind of involvement that makes The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II such a great place to live. It’s not the homes or parks or bylaws that make this such a grand community. It’s the people and their passion that makes you proud to be a resident. All because it gives you the right to call them neighbor.”

The two men were speechless. Surprised to hear such a cunning way to say ‘thank you,’ John had found himself lost in Chris’s answer.

Erik spoke first. “Wow. You’re really are a master debater.”

“Shut up, Erik. Read the next card.”

“Oh, okay.” Erik cleared his throat, took a sip of water and cleared his throat.

Chris raised his hand to strike.

Erik flinched and read the card. “If elected president, I will see to it that the field on Hamilton will be turned into a community center that everyone can enjoy. “

John looked at Chris. He’d never admit it, but he was impressed and was actually interested in what he had to say.

Chris prompted him, “Ask him how he’s going to pay for that.”

John nodded and turned to Erik. “I guess you’re just going to shit a small fortune to pay for it.”

“John, what if there’re kids in the audience?”

“We’ll hand out balloons?”

Chris put his face in his palm. “Do you think young mothers are going to like you saying ‘shit’ in front of them?”

“It’ll be late. Why aren’t their kids in bed?”

“It’s summer.”

“So? It’s still bad parenting.”

Erik raised his hand. “I keep my kids up later in the summer.”

“Shut up, Erik.”

“Austin,” Erik corrected him.

Chris stood and crossed the garage to the fridge. He opened the door and pulled out a beer. “This is going to be a long night.”

11

“It looks like some kind of tribal meeting.” Erik stood in his front yard looking at the debate set up across the street.

Chris had set up two podiums in front of a couple of dozen folding chairs and ringed the area with Tiki torches.

“What’s with the torches, Chris? You got something against lights?” It could have been that John’s nerves were causing him to find fault with Chris’s efforts, but he couldn’t dismiss habit either.

“It’s for the bugs, geniuses. Lights attract them, citronella oil repels them. Do you want your audience to get West Nile?”

“Only the ones that don’t vote for me.” John watched as a legitimate-sized crowd gathered for the debate. He muttered, “I didn’t expect such a turn out.”

“Me neither,” Chris slapped him on the back. “Somewhere along the line, you became an actual contender in this thing. I can’t say if it was your walks, our campaigning or Erik blackmailing the old lady but ...”

“You said it wasn’t blackmail!”

“You threatened to take an old lady’s cats away, Erik. It was totally blackmail. But, it was effective.” Chris stared at what he had created. “Yes. As long as you don’t screw up here, I think we can say, ‘I’ve done it.’”

“You’ve done it?” John and Erik asked.

“Yes. If not me, mostly me. Me and Mrs. Howard’s horde of cats. Now,” Chris straightened John’s suit jacket, “let’s go win this thing.”

The trio stood three abreast and stepped confidently into the street. Proud strides carried them towards their goal. They had overcome adversity amongst themselves and a neighborhood full of people firmly set in their opinions. They had every right to stand tall and walk boldly into the debate.

A car horn sent the trio scattering as a minivan plowed down the road.

Erik ran back to the safety of the curb. Chris and John dashed across the street. Chris hopped onto the lawn. John tripped on the curb and fell to the ground hurting himself only a little.

John yelled after the minivan, “Slow it down! We’ve got kids here!”

Chris helped him to his feet. “You okay?”

“Maybe the kid is right about those speed bumps.”

“Don’t say that. This is no time to start thinking he’s right about anything. What he says, what he wants, how he dresses—he’s wrong. You’re the only one in the right tonight.”

John nodded as Chris brushed the lawn from his jacket.

“Just remember what we practiced and you’ll do fine.”

John smiled and Chris walked into the crowd, shaking hands and helping people to their seats. Erik jogged up next to John.

John let the smile fade. “Erik, you just remember what we practiced and I’ll be sure to win. Everything is in the bushes. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“This kid is going down.”

John walked into the crowd. He shook hands, he patted backs, he smiled at neighbors—all things he would never have done a month ago. As he worked his way to the front of the crowd, he realized that he recognized more than just their faces. He knew names, occupations and even some of their family stories. He was amongst friends now. More than he had ever been.

What surprised him most was that people smiled back. They seemed genuinely happy to see him. They wished him luck as they moved him along to the front of the crowd.

His family lined the first row of folding chairs. Both of his children stared deep into their phones. Sarah wore her cheerleader’s outfit. Jimmy wore a homemade T-shirt featuring the latest name of his band, Mr. Finnigan’s Left Shoe. Jenny sat beside them beaming with pride. She really had never been prouder and he can’t remember the last time the two of them had been so active in the bedroom. Win or lose this election, he had found a new way to make her happy.

The sweet widow, Mrs. Howard, sat next to his family. She stood from her seat as John neared—just as planned. John reached into his pocket and pulled out a large campaign button that read Matthews for President. He held it up for the crowd to see. They grew quiet. John turned to the gentle old woman.

“Mrs. Howard. May I?”

Her voice was still powerful after all these years and it projected over the crowd of neighbors. “Yes, dear. You have my support.”

In his mind, John pictured the popping of camera flashes as the news agencies made the most of this wonderful photo op. He unclasped the button and pressed the pin through Mrs. Howard’s dress and into her chest.

She screamed and slapped his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” John said and tried again. Again the pinhead missed its mark and dug into her skin.

“Ouch. Stop it!”

Chris rushed into help.

Mrs. Howard was now trying to wrestle the pin from John’s hand as he went in for a third attempt. “Get your hands off me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to ...”

“Ouch,” she said as he got her again.

Chris swooped in and grabbed the pin from John. He reached out to Mrs. Howard. She flinched. Chris meowed. The widow calmed down and took a deep breath. Chris pinned the button onto her flowered dress and left the crowd.

John cleared his throat as he realized that the audience was watching the event transpire. “Thank you for your support, Mrs. Howard.”

There was a viciousness in her smile that only John could see. He backed away slowly and made his way to the podium.

Austin was already behind his and flashed a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to our debate, John.”

John smiled back. There was less warmth in his grin.

Chris stepped in between the two men and addressed the crowd. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight and welcome to ... well, my yard. Now, as you know, two of our neighbors are running for the president of the Homeowners Association for The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. What you might not know is that our HOA bylaws say absolutely nothing about debates between candidates. So, we’re kind of making this up as we go along.”

The crowd chuckled at this remark. Crowds liked to chuckle whether a joke was funny or not. Often they would laugh even if a joke was never made. Some scientists theorized that being in a crowd triggered an instinct in humans that formed back when scarcity of food caused them to mistrust one another. Laughing, they say, released dopamine into the nervous system and countered the nervousness felt in a crowd of strangers because, apparently, over thousands of years mankind learned that a funny caveman wouldn’t shank you and take your mammoth steak.

John’s own theory was that people were idiots. That’s why they would laugh at the same lame jokes told at neighborhood gatherings, church functions and corporate meetings. His personal favorite go-to joke for presentations was to mock the size of a presentation deck. People always laughed at that one because deck sounded like dick and corporate crowds loved almost-dick jokes.

Chris continued, “So, since there was nothing, the two candidates have agreed on a fairly informal format for this evening’s discussion. Each candidate will have ninety seconds to explain a plank of his platform and his opponent will have a chance to respond. The speaker will have a chance to retort. This will continue until an hour has passed or we all get bored and go home. There will be an opportunity to ask questions if any of us are still here when this is all over.” Chris turned to the candidates. “Gentlemen, as you recall, we were going to flip a coin to determine who went first. But since no one carries coins anymore ... Austin, you won the staring contest and may make your opening remarks whenever you’re ready.”

Chris took a seat in the front row next to Mrs. Howard as Austin began his speech.

“Thank you, Chris, and before I begin please let me thank you for allowing us to use your gorgeous yard.”

“That counts,” John muttered.

Austin looked over to John. “I’m sorry?”

“That counts as beginning. You can’t get extra time just by saying, ‘before I begin.’ As soon as you said, ‘before I begin’ you had begun. It counts.”

“I was just trying to say thank you.”

“And that’s fine, but you’re doing it on your own time.”

“I think it’s fairly traditional.”

John threw up his hands, “Fine. If you have a tradition of cheating, I’ll let it slide.”

Austin rolled his eyes and glanced at his note cards.

“Good people of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. Boy, isn’t that a mouthful.” The crowd laughed. Austin continued, “I’ve only been here a short time. But, in that time I’ve already come to call most of you friends. You have been so welcoming to my wife and me that it feels like we’ve lived here for years. It defies explanation, but I already feel that this is my home. Not simply where I live, but where I belong. But, the spirit of community that I’ve seen so often in such a short time has not satisfied me. It’s only made me crave more. More time with my neighbors. More time in the embrace of my Sage Valley family. Does this make me selfish?”

“Yes,” John muttered.

Austin pointed to John. “Yes, you’re right, John.”

What? John looked to Chris. What was this kid’s angle?

Austin continued. “It does make me selfish. And that’s why I decided to run for president of the HOA. You have already given me so much, I must give back. I must. But, I can only give of myself. You can rely on me to give with the same spirit and compassion that you have been so generous in showing me ever since I first became a resident here. Thank you for this wonderful opportunity. And thank you for your spirit because, you see, it’s not the houses or amenities that make this such a wonderful place to call home. It’s you. It’s you, the people, and your passion that make me proud to be a resident here, because it gives me the right to call you neighbor.”

John was stunned. Had this kid gone to the same school as Chris? Read the same book? Because that was the same answer Chris had given him in the practice debate. John looked at the notes he had made during that time. Aside from what Austin had basically just said, the notes were mostly doodles of Austin saying ‘I’m a dork’ in caption bubbles. John shuffled these pages as the crowd awaited his response.

“Uh ... I want to thank you too for coming out also.”

Chris sighed and shrank in his seat. Austin just stared at him. Most of the crowd shifted in their seats. John pointed back to Austin, “It’s your turn.”

“Okay. Friends. The best part of living in any community is one another. You already know how I feel about this. I want everyone in the neighborhood to experience this joy, that’s why as president of the HOA I would make it my priority to keep our neighborhood clean and safe and provide a place for all of us to come together. The field on Hamilton has been a field for too long. It’s time we turned it into something the community could use. I propose that we build a community recreation center. This center would be a place for families to gather and even a pool for use by the residents.”

The crowd applauded. Most in attendance knew of his plan and celebrated the effort but many also knew that such a project would cost more than the HOA could afford. This was where John could add a little reality to Austin’s fantasy. He applauded, too. Austin shot a puzzled look his way.

John spoke. “I love pools. I love swimming. And you may be surprised to hear that some of my fondest memories happened under a gazebo. I’d like nothing more than to have a shared pool and community gathering center. But, as I’ve gotten to know many of you over the last few months, I know that many of you agree with me that pools cost money. Gazebos aren’t free. Current dues wouldn’t pay for the hole in the ground. Austin would have to raise dues. That’s more money out of your pocket. That may be fine for a young guy like Austin. But for a lot of us, it means sacrifices. Mrs. Howard here has been on a fixed income for a while now. Many in the neighborhood have been affected by the economy lately. Maybe we’re between jobs. Maybe we have two kids that are spending us into the red. And for anyone that may need to sell their home, try explaining to potential buyers why their dues are twice what they should, just because a new guy moved into the neighborhood and it wasn’t quite good enough for him.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I agree. You’re saying what everyone wants to hear. But, what you’re doing ... have you heard the expression actions speak louder than words?”

“Of course I have.”

“It means that what ...”

Austin snapped, “I know what it means.”

“Well, that’s what’s happening. Everything you’ve done since you moved in ... that’s what I’m listening too. And they all say, ‘I’m not really happy here.’” John let the comment hang there for a moment before adding, “Now, I’ve lived here a long time. And I love this place just the way it is.”

The crowd erupted with applause. Austin tried to respond but had to wait for the applause to fade before speaking. “I understand my opponent’s frustration but that’s because he doesn’t know that we can have progress without raising the dues.”

John scanned the audience. He didn’t see any kids. “I guess you’re just going sh ...” but he did see Chris frantically waving him off so he let the comment drop.

“I propose a combination of fund raising, personal contributions and strict bylaw compliance to raise the needed capitol.”

“Now that’s just a fancy way of saying fines. Isn’t it?”

Austin paused.

Before he could speak, John continued. “I’m not sure if it’s happened to anyone else. But, I know myself and a couple of neighbors have received visits from the HOA’s enforcer. Myself for tending to my lawn. Another for a vehicle parked the wrong way and yet another for celebrating his wife’s birthday. I wonder, has anyone else gotten a yellow slip of paper lately?”

A couple of hands in the audience went up.

“I’ve lived here for fifteen years. I’ve never received a fine. I wasn’t even aware we could be fined. Then, all of a sudden it looks like we’ve been living in our neighborhood the wrong way. ‘Bylaw compliance’ is just another way of saying more fines.”

John looked to Chris. The man was smiling. Austin was shuffling from foot to foot. He had grabbed the podium for support. John smiled—he must be doing something right.

Austin stammered, “Look, we all agreed to live by the rules of the HOA.”

“I want to ask you good people something. We live in the United States of America. Not the United State of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. Yes, we have rules, but don’t the laws of our country supersede a list drawn up by a housing developer to sell more homes? Have we wanted so much to live near good schools that we would forsake our basic freedoms? To live in a place where men with clipboards can walk into our very yards and tell us, ‘You’re doing that wrong’? If we give up this right, how far will things go? Is it worth it? Is sacrificing the heritage of this great nation worth a pool?”

The crowd was silent. Austin was speechless. John could see Chris’s proud smile in the citronella filled Tiki torchlight.

A man in the back row stood up. The audience turned to him. He spoke, “I want a pool.”

A wave of agreement swept over the small crowd. All but Mrs. Howard were talking excitedly about the community center. The widow shifted in her seat. She looked afraid.

“Oh, come on!” John smashed the podium with his hand and silenced the crowd. “Can’t you see what this guy is up to? His ‘selfless’ wish to serve is just to mold this place in his image. He told us how to mow our grass because he’s allergic to ‘pollution,’ he called the clipboard police on a birthday party because it was too loud and too close to his own home. It’s not for some great cause. It’s for his own selfish reasons. Now he’s trying to get you to help build the Austin Williams Community Center.”

“That’s not true. That’s not what it will be called.”

“You’ve probably already got the plaque made up.”

“That ... that is true. And I have it here.” Austin pulled a brass plaque from behind the podium. He did not present the name to the crowd. Instead he walked into the front row and showed it to the widow Mrs. Howard. “Mrs. Howard. Would you please read the name?”

Mrs. Howard reached into her purse and pulled a pair of dainty reading glasses from a velvet pouch. She held them before her eyes and scanned the plaque. Tears formed in her eyes. She stood and gave Austin a hug before turning to the crowd. She smiled and spoke in her powerful voice now broken by emotion, “The Willard J. Howard Memorial Community Center.”

The crowd applauded. Several members wiped tears from their own eyes. John rolled his.

“This guy is allergic to air!”

* * *

That was his cue. Erik turned on the fan and dug deep into a garbage bag filled with grass clippings. He held the pile in front of the fan and the blades blew the ‘pollution’ from the bushes into yard. Another handful was carefully spread before the fan and Erik bent down and grabbed another handful. He dispersed it and dove back into the bag. The bag was soon half empty and his back had started hurting so he picked it up and dumped it in front of the air current.

He giggled as he pictured Austin’s eyes swelling up and the allergy prone man’s sneezing replacing his debate speech. Just as they had planned.

* * *

The grass wafted gently into the yard. No one noticed it at first. The crowd was still cheering. The widow was still crying. John was still yelling. But no one was listening to him.

Austin accepted their adulation with humility and blushed when they told him how sweet he was to name the center after the widow’s late husband. Then he began to sneeze.

The first one was small. Like a girl’s sneeze. Then they grew larger and came faster.

John looked over to the bushes and smiled. It may have been too late to win the debate, but he could still make the bastard miserable.

Austin apologized for every sneeze until the sneezes themselves were interrupting the apologies. He turned from the crowd to spare them the spray.

John rushed over and put his hand on Austin’s back. “Are you okay? We should sit you down.” He led Austin to a chair a la Reagan helping Gorbachev from the car—the older man making the younger look weak.

Austin sat down under John’s guidance. “I’m sorry every ...” he sneezed, “excuse me, I don’t know what came over m ...” Austin pulled a blade of grass from his coat. “Is this grass?”

John shrugged.

Austin stood up and, between sneezes, noticed the ‘pollution’ in the air.

John grew nervous as the kid turned toward the bushes where Erik was hiding. He tried to think of a way to signal him to hide the evidence and run, but blanked.

Austin stopped and peered into the bushes.

Did he see?

“OhmyGod!” Austin dropped to the ground as a giant cloud of grass clippings blew from the bushes, across the yard and into the citronella oil-filled Tiki torches.

If John hadn’t been panicking, he would have to admit that the fireball that formed was pretty awesome. One clipping sparked and popped and caught another and another until a ten-foot ball of fire was drifting across the yard propelled by an idiot hiding in the bushes with a fan.

The embers fell to the ground and began to light the yard on fire.

The crowd panicked and fled.

Chris grabbed Mrs. Howard by the elbow and led her to safety, glaring at John as he went.

John danced around the yard in a panic. He wanted to stop the blaze from spreading but everything he did seemed to make the fire grow. He turned to yell to Erik for help but when he opened his mouth to scream it was filled with a blast of grass. In the light of the resulting explosion, John could see Erik shaking the remains of the second bag into the fan.

John collapsed from the heat. His eyes began to water as he looked hopelessly into the growing flames.

“Don’t worry, everybody.” The voice was Austin’s. “I’m a volunteer firefighter.

12

“That could have gone better.”

The beer they were drinking wasn’t cold enough. No beer could be cold enough.

“You think, Erik? Do you think it could have gone better? Austin comes off looking like a hero. I come off looking like an arsonist. My best friend won’t even talk to me. And, now I’m sleeping on the couch.”

Erik was silent for a moment. “I thought you hated Chris.”

“Shut up, Erik.”

Erik took a sip of his beer and set the can back on the poker table. “Well, you did burn down his yard.”

“You burnt down his yard, you idiot!”

“Me!? The retard’s version of chemical warfare was your idea!”

“I said sprinkle the grass, sprinkle it in front the fan. Not dump an accelerant into the air and point it at the nearest open flame!”

“You stabbed the old lady!”

“You blackmailed her!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

John did. He was all yelled out. In fact, he was completely drained. He wasn’t sure if it was the loss, the fire or just the campaign in general, but he was ready to collapse for a month. He set his head on the table and held the can of beer against his growing forehead.

“I think we may have lost Chris’s vote.”

John groaned. “I think we lost every vote. Austin is going to win and he’s going to make new rules and I’m going to have to bag my stupid grass.”

“Speaking of that. Your yard could use a mow.”

John did not raise his head, “It’s a protest, Erik.”

“How?”

He sighed. “It’s like a hunger strike. I’m trying to show Austin that he can’t win this.”

“Yeah, but how is your not mowing your grass hurting anyone but you? Your yard looks terrible.”

“It’s an old technique. Like non-violent resistance. Gandhi did it.”

Erik nodded and then shook his head. “No. I think Gandhi probably mowed.”

“Shut up, Erik.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. John tried to think of where it all went wrong. Besides the fire. The fire was an obvious misstep, but he had lost the crowd before then. Was there anything that could be done? He leaned back in his chair and took a swig of beer. The can was empty. He crumpled the can and tossed it into the corner of the room. “Even my beer quit on me.”

Erik crumpled his own can. “Mine too.” He stood.

“Get us some more beers.”

“Not for me.” Erik crossed the room and pulled another beer from the fridge. He handed it to John. “I’ve still got to go explain things to Christine. I don’t need my judgment impaired any more than it usually is.”

John cracked open the top and pulled it to his lips. When he lowered the can he was smiling.

Erik smiled too. “What?”

John just grinned.

“What?”

“Erik, you’re a genius.”

“What are you talking about? What did I say?”

“Impaired judgment. It gave me an idea.”

“Really?”

“Yes. So, I take that back, I guess I’m the genius. But, you, you my best friend, were the spark of my genius.”

Erik smiled. “What is it? What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to do what our forefathers did. We’re going to embrace a great American tradition.”

“Out with it.” Erik was on the edge of his seat. Any further back and he would strike Jenny’s SUV.

John ran through the plan in his head, then declared, “It’s got to work. But we’re going to need a couple of things.”

“John, the election is tomorrow. There isn’t time.”

“There is. We just need two things. Your minivan and a shit load of beer.”

13

“Free beer for democracy!”

“Don’t go to the polls parched!”

“Celebrate freedom with a cold one!”

“Ice cold liberty, here. Get your ice cold liberty!”

“Celebrate an American tradition, imbibe before your decide!”

“Vote like our forefathers! Loaded.”

“Before you choose your party, let’s party!”

The Democrinator 2000 rolled slowly down the streets of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II. Erik’s minivan was draped with the stars and stripes, the red, white and blue and the Democrinator 2000 logo that John had painted on a piece of poster board with puffy fabric paint.

Erik was at the wheel but leaned out his window shouting a range of rally cries the pair had developed late the night before.

John was in the back amidst a stack of coolers handing out beers to everyone who stepped out of their doorway. “A vote for Matthews is a vote for more beer. We’ll be around again in about twenty minutes,” he told them as he popped the cap off a frosted bottle. The van rolled on.

They had already made three laps of the neighborhood and a good number of people were now waiting on their front porches for the Democrinator 2000’s next lap. John used every opportunity to try and sway them back to his side of the ticket.

The fire had understandably been big news in the neighborhood. But its actual cause could still be a little muddy if the information wasn’t heard first hand. John was counting on the power of both rumor and alcohol to win the election.

One more lap and the majority of the neighborhood should have a decent enough buzz that their ability to make a wise decision at the polls would be impaired.

A neighbor came running up to the truck and took two beers. “Thanks for the beers, John. This is a lot of fun.”

“You think this is fun. Wait till you see the celebration we have planned.”

“Oh yeah. What’s that?”

“It’s pretty much the same thing but we’re going to put a stripper pole on top.”

The neighbor laughed and walked back to his porch to await the next lap of the Democrinator 2000.

“Don’t vote thirsty!”

“Freedom never tasted so good!”

“Get blasted before your vote is casted!”

John tapped Erik on the shoulder “I think that one’s a little too obvious, Erik.”

“You said it sounded good last night.”

“I was drunk.” He moved back to the rear of the van as another person approached. He pulled a bottle from a cooler and handed it out. “Have a nice cold bottle of democra ... oh, it’s you.”

Jack held the clipboard in one hand and took the beer with the other. “Good morning, Mr. Matthews.”

“Now there is no way in hell that you can tell me there is a rule against this in the HOA bylaws. There is no way that the Democrinator ever existed as a fart in the mind of the stodgy old bastards that wrote them up.”

“You’re right. There is nothing in your HOA’s rules about driving around the neighborhood and giving out free beer to help sway an election. You’ve done it, John. You’ve outsmarted the HOA.”

John smiled. He had done it. And judging by the number of beers they’d given out, he may still win the election.

Jack smiled back at him.

“What the hell are you smiling at then?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Jack took a long chug from the bottle. “I’m just trying to stall you.”

“Stall me? For what.”

Two squad cars pulled up next to the Democrinator 2000.

Erik put the van in park and turned to face the backseat. “Uh, John? The cops are here.”

“Yep. The HOA doesn’t have any rules against it, but the city does.”

An officer got out of each car and approached the van.

“Are you aware of the open container laws, John?” Jack asked.

“Ha. There’s not an open bottle in this car. And Erik and I are stone cold sober.”

Jack handed the beer bottle back to John. John took the bottle before he could tell his reflexes that they were being stupid.

Jack backed away from the car, smiled and got into his Focus.

“Sir, are you aware of the open container laws in this state?” The officers stood before him in the open sliding door.

John finished the beer.

14

The officers had been understanding, if not a little condescending. They had let the pair off with a warning, torn up the Democrinator 2000 sign and sent them home.

John had spent the rest of election day in his sanctum cursing it for being nothing more than a garage. Jenny wasn’t speaking to him. He had managed to erase all of the newfound pride she had for him. She would come around eventually. It was hard to imagine but he knew their marriage had survived him doing dumber things than this.

His friendship with Erik was ruined when he kicked over a case of beer in frustration and several of the bottles shattered and soaked into the Democrinator’s carpet. Still, he couldn’t believe that he was faring any better with Christine.

He was so depressed that he didn’t even want to drink. This was the only fortuitous part of the whole event since the cops had confiscated all of the beer. He dropped his head onto the poker table and tried not to cry.

The door to the house swung open and startled him. He jumped up from his seat and bashed it into Jenny’s car.

Jimmy was at the door. He had pulled one ear free of the headphones. “Dad, there’s someone at the door.”

Before John could ask who it was, Jimmy had replaced the headphones and wandered back into the house, leaving the door wide open as if cold air magically stayed indoors.

John stood and walked through the house. He opened the front door and saw the president of the HOA standing on his porch.

“Here to gloat?”

“No, John. I don’t gloat. You ran a good race and I think we both learned a lot about our neighbors and each other.”

“How so?”

“Well, aside from people whose houses you set on fire, I think you made some new friends. And, I think you learned that I’m not the naive kid you thought I was.”

John nodded. “Fair enough. What did you learn about me?”

“That I’m better than you.” Austin smiled and held out a piece of paper.

John tore it from his hand. “What’s this?”

“A fine, John. Your yard looks terrible. Mow it, or the HOA will get some yard guys to do it for you.” Austin turned and walked down the sidewalk.

“You little ...”

Austin turned back, “Oh, and John. Don’t forget to bag it.”

“This isn’t over, Chicago!”

“Of course not.” Austin waved and turned his back. “See you at the pool. Thank you for your contribution.”

John swore and kicked the doorframe. Hurting himself only a little.

THE END

And the next adventure in the series, naturally:

Dads Versus Zombies

They couldn’t handle the Tooth Fairy.

John, Chris and Erik are neighbors happily living out the American Dream in the quaint subdivision of The Creeks of Sage Valley Phase II.

There were no winners against Santa.

To date, their only real problems have been with one another, raising a family and the draconian rules of the HOA. Although, they may have blown them out of proportion.

Their fight against democracy could have gone better.

A failed run for the HOA presidency has forced them together to work out their differences. Which is the only reason they are together when the dead rise from their graves.

And now there is a zombie apocalypse.

Now these three average dads must reluctantly join together to survive the spreading apocalypse and reunite with their families. Personal fears, long buried secrets and their own personalities threaten to tear the group apart as they make their way across the zombie ridden landscape in Dads Versus Zombies—the natural continuation of the best-selling short story Dad Versus the Grocery Store.

Get it now on kindle, audio or in print on Amazon!

If you liked his zombie apocalypse, read Benjamin Wallace’s bestselling post-apocalyptic comedies,
the Duck & Cover Adventures.

Check out the whole 5-book Duck & Cover series:

Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

Knights of the Apocalypse

Pursuit of the Apocalypse

Revenge of the Apocalypse

Crossroads of the Apocalypse

And, here’s the short stories collection

Tales of the Apocalypse Volume 1:

A Duck & Cover Collection

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Also by Benjamin Wallace

SHATTERED ALLIANCE

Shattered Alliance

Send in the Clones

JUNKERS

Junkers

Junkers Season Two

THE BULLETPROOF ADVENTURES

OF DAMIAN STOCKWELL

Horror in Honduras

Terrors of Tesla

The Mechanical Menace

OTHER BOOKS

Tortugas Rising

SHORT STORIES

Commando Pandas & Other Odd Thoughts

UNCIVIL

UnCivil: The Immortal Engine

UnCivil: Vanderbilt’s Behemoth

About the Author

Benjamin Wallace lives in Texas where he complains about the heat.

You can email him at: contact@benjaminwallacebooks.com

To learn about the latest releases and giveaways, join his Readers’ Group. Visit http://benjaminwallacebooks.com/join-my-readers-group/ to join and get your free book now.

If you enjoyed DADS VS. THE WORLD please consider leaving a review. It would be very much appreciated and help more than you could know.

Thanks for reading, visiting, following and sharing.

-ben

Find me online here: BenjaminWallaceBooks.com

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Untitled
- Copyright
- Untitled
- Untitled
- Dad vs The Grocery Store
- Dad vs Halloween
- Dad vs Santa
- Dad vs The Tooth Fairy
- Dad vs The HOA
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- Zombies
- Duck & Cover Series
- Also by Benjamin Wallace
- About the Author