There is no greater tragedy in life as when you instantly lose all respect for a person you once held close to your soul and called "friend."

A Quotable Quote by Yours Truly

It's good to know where one stands when seated in certain company.

Zeus ex Machina

Zeus was at his desk catching up on the paperwork he let slide for a couple of centuries when he heard a light rapping on his door. The door opened slightly. It was his assistant, Dave.

“Mr. Zeus, Sir?” Zeus didn’t look up. Dave averted his gaze, lest he be turned into a smoldering pile of cinders like every other mortal who laid eyes upon the god in his natural form.

“Didn’t I tell you that I wasn’t to be disturbed Dave?”

“B-but some individuals are here to see you. They say it’s very important. They said they wouldn’t leave without speaking with you.”

Zeus removed his bifocals. “Fine,” he sighed. “Show them in.” He assumed human form and leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head. Three gentlemen in fine Italian suits walked in. Dave quickly shut the door behind them.

“Ah, Zeus,” said the taller of the three, “a real honor to meet you.” He extended his right hand. “I’ve heard so much about your work.”

Zeus leaned forward, stood up, and met the visitor’s palm with his own. “And you are?”

“Jupiter. And these are my attorneys, Norman Fleishman and Howard Goldfarb, of Fleishman, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Finkelstein.” The two men nodded in the direction of the Greek god.

Zeus sat down and returned his eyeglasses to his face. “Well Mr. Jupiter …”

“Jupiter,” the visitor corrected. “It’s just Jupiter.” He reached for the Scotch Zeus kept on his desk. “Do you mind?”

Zeus shrugged. “Help yourself.”

Jupiter poured himself three fingers worth of the liquor and took a long, hard swallow. “Peaty. Good stuff.”

“Glad you like it.” Zeus leaned back in his seat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Well,” Jupiter said, smiling, “it’s really more like what I can do for you.”

“Not sure I follow.”

“I’m your replacement.”

“My what?”

“We Romans conquered Greece. You didn’t know?”

“Dave,” Zeus shouted, “do you know anything about the Romans attacking Greece?”

Dave shouted back. “Hermes delivered a memo. Didn’t you read it?”

“Memo? What memo?” Zeus rifled through an Olympus-sized stack of papers. Jupiter reached into the pile and produced a bright red piece of paper.

“Here it is. ‘Romans determined to attack Greece.’ See?” He waved the paper in front of Zeus’s eyes.

“When was that sent?” He raised his voice again. “When was this sent, Dave?”

“Not sure. Awhile ago. When you were on vacation,” was his assistant’s response.

“Actually, it was sent in August,” said Norman Fleishman of Fleishman, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Finkelstein.

Zeus rubbed his gray temples. “August? When the heck is ‘August’?”

“It’s a month we Romans came up with. Part of a whole new calendar actually,” Jupiter said, pulling a small calendar from his pocket. “See?” He offered it to Zeus. Zeus ignored it. “Well, it takes some getting used to. But you will.” Jupiter returned the item to his pocket.

“Well, just because some of your people have taken Greece doesn’t mean I need to be replaced.”

Jupiter sat on the edge of Zeus’s desk and leaned in toward the Greek. “Actually, it does. You see, people are tired of the old way of doing things and have adopted our customs now. You would have noticed their discontent if you weren’t out fornicating with every mortal you could.” Jupiter shook his head.

“It’s not against the law.”

Jupiter poured himself some more Scotch. “Look at you. You’re old, Zeus. You’ve let the future slip away while hanging onto the old ways. But your people haven’t. They’re moving on. Progressing. It was inevitable. Change is always inevitable.” He took a sip from the glass. “But I’m here to relieve you of the burden of ruling a people with whom you’ve lost touch.”

Zeus looked at Jupiter and folded his arms across his heaving chest. “Well, I’m not leaving.”

“Come on. You don’t really want to do this the hard way.”

“Who’s going to make me leave? Your lawyers?” Zeus flicked his wrist. Lightning bolts flew from his fingertips and smashed into Misters Fleishman and Goldfarb of Fleishman, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Finkelstein, leaving two pairs of smoking leather Gucci’s where they once stood.

There was a light knock on the door. It opened. Four men in Italian suits walked in and stood where Fleishman and Goldfarb were once standing.

“They’re like the head of a hydra. You kill one, two more takes his place.”

“You mean the Jews?” asked Zeus, low.

“Lawyers.” Jupiter leaned in closely. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for a god, losing your followers, seeing a culture you’ve ruled for thousands of years crumble, but this sort of thing is inevitable. Mortals are finicky creatures. One day, you’re a powerful and vengeful god that they fear and admire, the next, you’re like rotten fish wrapped in old parchment. But I’m offering you a way to exit gracefully. Besides, the changes are already in place. As we speak, Pluto is helping Hades clean out his office, Venus is, um, helping Aphrodite. Heck, even Mars is helping Aires wipe the blood off of his rusty weapons and getting them ready for packing. They know it’s time to move on, to retire.”

“You’re replacing all of us?”

Jupiter smiled. “Makes the transition easier. Speaking of which ….” He stood up, walked over to the door, and opened it. “You can bring it in now.”

Two men in overalls wheeled a dolly of what was a huge statue covered in a cloth into the room. Jupiter pointed at the towering marble sculpture of Zeus slaying a monster standing in the corner of the office by the massive window overlooking the Mediterranean. “You can put it over there.” The men steered the veiled item to where Jupiter indicated and removed the sheet. The statues were identical, except the new one had a small tree sprouting up between god and beast.

“Oh, come on,” Zeus declared. “It’s the same gosh darn thing. We even look alike.”

“Identical, actually.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some gold coins with his face,

Zeus’s face, emblazoned on them. He handed them to one of the men in overalls. “Thank you. You can take the other one away now.” They carted the statue of Zeus out of the room.

Zeus looked at the new statue closely. “I thought you said my people were tired of the old ways.”

“This is different.” Jupiter was pointing at the sculpted tree. “Yours didn’t have this. See? ”

“Seems a bit contradictory, don’t you think?”

“I’m a god. I’m supposed to be ironic. Besides, we need to have the mortals ease into the change. The Babylonians did it with the Sumerians; you guys did it with Troy. I guess it’s really all the same after awhile.”

“Who’s to say someone won’t come knocking on your door to replace you one day?”

Jupiter shrugged. “If it does occur, I hope it’ll happen only after I’ve had the kind of run you’ve had.” He lowered his voice. “And as long as people don’t figure out we’re not needed for them to survive on this planet, I just might get a few centuries out of this job,” he chuckled. Jupiter offered Zeus his hand. “Now come on. Isn’t it nice to know you can relax for all of eternity now without worrying about finding new ways to keep humans in line?”

Zeus nodded. “Finding new ways to enact my wrath does wear on the soul after awhile. People are so petty and annoying.”

Jupiter smiled. “So are gods.”

“Well,” replied Zeus, pointing at the statue, “they do make us in their image. So what happens now?”

“You sign some papers my lawyers have for you to sign, then you retire. Finally get yourself some rest. We have a nice home set up for you in Tuscany. It’s beautiful.” Jupiter put his hand on Zeus’s back and led him toward the door. “Do you want to take anything with you?”

Zeus surveyed the room. “Nah. Keep it all.” They shuffled toward the door. Zeus stopped at the threshold and looked at Jupiter. “Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think we’ll be remembered for, the Greeks?”

“Well, your art. And your alphabet will survive, mostly to identify fraternities and sororities. And the ideals of some of your better-known philosophers, like Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. What else?” He picked at his beard, thinking. “I suppose your plays, the tragedies mostly, when you and the other gods would drop from the heavens and save the day. Oh, and geometry of course. Something needs to frustrate future generations of students.”

Zeus took another step. “Anything else?”

“Olives.”

“Olives?”

They reached the door. Jupiter turned the knob. “Olives,” Jupiter echoed. Zeus stepped into the waiting room. The two gods shook hands. Jupiter smiled. “And anal sex.” He closed the door.

Collision

He lets go of the wheel

and collides with black.

The part of death he feared

unfolds,

opens –

a box filled with unspoken whispers.

Flour and Potatoes

In my day said the grandmother
as she hobbled along the broken frozen sidewalk,
We didn’t have such sadness in the world.
She stopped to catch her breath a second.
We knew pain and emptiness, war and death she said.
But the children did not listen.
They were anxious to push on,
to get back home to supper, where it was warm and safe.
The ache and longing you know in your youth
is something that still hasn’t touched me in here,
she pointed to her broad chest, And I pray never will.
She made the Sign of the Cross,
shifted the brown paper bag containing flour and potatoes
to her right arm, and limped on,
the laughter of children falling gently all around.

Belle of the Ball

Ernst opened the large wooden door. It creaked. He glanced at the corrosion that was swallowing the once-shiny hinges as the dancing glow of the lantern spilled out into the dusk. He took off his wool cap and absentmindedly ran his stubby fingers through his hair.

“You’re lettin’ fleas in,” the woman seated in the kitchen scolded. “Shut the door.”

Ernst replaced his weathered hat. “Sorry Matilda,” he said, limping into the doorway. He closed the door behind him, then stomped the snow from his boots.

“You brought the darn fleas in with you,” the woman in the chair said. She looked at Ernst. “You hear me, Gus? Fleas. But they ain’t gettin’ my blood. They ain’t.” She slapped at her arms.

“It’s winter,” Ernst said, dropping a dead rabbit on the wooden table in front of his wife. “The fleas are all dead and gone till summer.” He retreated to the corner of the kitchen where coats were kept in the winter and muddy clothes from working the fields were hung the rest of the year. Matilda stared at the dead animal lying in front of her.

“Look what you done, Gus. Gone and killed another helpless bunny.”

“It’s our supper.” Ernst placed the .22-rifle against the wall, then removed his defrosting boots. “I know the Good Lord don’t want us workin’ on Sunday, even huntin’, but it’s been four days since we had any meat and we can’t live on just potatoes and biscuits.” He returned to the center of the room and lifted the carcass from the table. He looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall behind Matilda’s right shoulder. “I’ll say an extra Hail Mary ‘fore I get to sleep tonight.” He smiled at his wife, then walked over to the sink.

“Ernst was here again today, Poppa. Him and that ugly dog of his. I think he’s fetchin’ to ask me to the dance.” She cocked her head to one side, fluttered her eyelashes, and smiled. “Do you think I should go with him, Poppa? I mean, if he asks me to go and all?”

Ernst took a knife from the drawer and sliced the dead rabbit’s throat. He raised it so its blood could drip into the drain. “Yes, Millie. You should go. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Matilda stood. “You think, Poppa?” She nodded in agreement. “I’ll be the belle of the ball.” She took a step and curtsied. “Yes, I would love this dance, thank you.” She stood up straight and wagged her finger at Ernst. “But I’ll refuse to go with him, Poppa, if he insists on bringin’ that flea-ridden dog of his. I’ll be Ernst’s date, but I’m not wearin’ my dress just so that gosh-darn dog can ruin it.”

“I’m sure he won’t bring the dog to the dance, Millie.” Ernst turned to look at his wife, as beautiful as ever in the flickering glow of the oil lamp. Even prettier than this morning, he thought. He turned back to the rabbit. “Only a fool would wreck a chance at keepin’ your heart.”

“Well, I sure don’t think Ernst is a fool.” She smiled. “At least I hope he ain’t. I think I really like him, Poppa.”

“He likes you too, Millie.”

“What’re you doin’, Poppa?” The old woman took a step toward Ernst, but the heavy rope tied around her ankle stopped her journey across the kitchen. She stared down at the secure knot as if seeing it for the first time, her eyes tracing the winding flax line back to the other knot affixed to a leg of the heavy oak table.

“You just stay put now,” Ernst said. “I don’t need you wanderin’ off on me again.” Matilda tugged at the rope, sighed, then collapsed back in her chair, pouting.

“But I wanna’ dance.”

“You can dance later,” Ernst replied, “after I fix us some stew.” He had already skinned the rabbit and cut most of the meat from its scrawny body. Matilda grew quiet, and Ernst knew that when she wasn’t speaking, her mind was busy switching between memories, between moments long past. He waited to see which role he would have to play. The sound of Matilda slapping at her arms now filled the room.

“Gus, the fleas are back.” She was now confusing her husband with their old hound dog, as she often did, a dog who died in the fall of ‘17 and was buried near the stone wall guarding the maples just beyond the south fields.

“Whatever you say,” replied Ernst. He licked his chapped lips, then smiled. “Whatever you say.”

After supper, Ernst helped Matilda take off her blue housecoat, the one with the tattered collar and white stripes, and he bathed his wife. He dressed her in her yellow nightgown, then marveled in silence as she brushed her stringy silver hair. “No matter what,” she kept repeating. Ernst knew she was reliving the night of the dance nearly forty-two years earlier, when he stole a kiss from his future wife while her father wasn’t looking, and then whispered in her warm ear, “I’ll always to be there for you, no matter what.”

When Ernst was done guiding Matilda through her evening rituals, he put her to bed, making certain to securely fasten the rope around her ankle to one of the bedposts. He always made sure she had enough room to make it to the chamber pot. It was after she wandered off in June when Ernst realized he had to find a way to make sure his wife wouldn’t disappear again. Doc Riley had suggested putting her in a home over in Springfield, said the staff there was equipped to “handle a case like hers,” but Matilda wasn’t a “case” Ernst protested, “she’s my wife. Besides,” he continued, “ever since our poor harvest, I can’t afford to pay others to care for her, and I won’t take a handout from anyone.” So he came up with the rope idea, which was good enough.

Ernst sat at the table rolling a cigarette. He heard a murmur from the bedroom. His muscles tensed. So far, her patchwork quilt of memories hadn’t led him to any of the horrendous times they’d endured, like the first year the drought hit and not even weeds would grow and Ernst had to shoot their plow horse just to put food on the table. Or when they received word their only child, Orville, named after Ernst’s father, drowned in an ocean of mustard gas in the trenches of France. She hadn’t mentioned the winter the roof collapsed under the weight of three days of snow, or the day escaped convicts appeared on their doorstep, shot Ernst in the leg, and stole their pickup truck, nor when they had to sell half the land to keep the bank from taking the farm. In all the time she was living in the moments behind them, Matilda hadn’t conjured up the dreadful events that were rooted deep in her husband’s mind.

Ernst realized that Matilda was just muttering in her sleep again. He relaxed, put the cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. Matilda always hated his smoking and still would, he was certain, if she caught him.

“It’s a miracle that she hasn’t remembered anything really awful,” he said to the doc when told that Matilda’s mind and memory were only going to get worse. Doc Riley peered at Ernst through his wire-rimmed bifocals and nodded.

“So far,” he replied, a thin, sad smile brushing against his face. "So far." He patted Ernst on the shoulder, then exited through the squeaking door.

For Whom the Ghost Bell Tolls

“Are you ready to go searching for ghosts?” were the first words my friend said when I finally answered the phone. Before I could speak (wanting to answer with a "No"), Michelle continued, “I’ll be there in a half-an-hour. Be ready.” She hung up the phone before I could respond. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. 7:45 in the morning. I realized the book about ghost towns that I gave her for her 29th birthday was coming back to haunt me.

As we began our adventure, Michelle revealed our destination by handing me a map and the book on haunted locations. She had dog-eared one of the pages in the chapter about sites in Rhode Island. My duty was to find out how to get to the Ramtail Factory. I looked through the passenger window of her purple Honda Accord and let out a heavy sigh. Michelle, and anyone with whom I've traveled, knows I cannot read a map to save my life. I have been lost, really lost, in random locations throughout the United States several times because of my inability to decipher maps. After a brief discussion (which entailed her speaking and me listening), she decided that I would give map reading another try. As we headed north on I-95 toward Rhode Island, I had only two hours to study the map and find our target.

The days of mid-September are not as hot and humid in northern New Jersey as the days of summer, but the trees still stubbornly cling to their jade and emerald coats. About an hour into Connecticut I saw maple, oak and birch trees yielding their branches to the gold and amber shades of autumn. I was now, finally, fully awake. I reached toward the dashboard, turned up the radio, and we opened our windows all of the way. We were doing eighty miles an hour, and the sounds and the sights of the highway, and the music of Jane’s Addiction, danced around us within the vortex of wind that the open sunroof and windows had created. I relaxed into this glorious feeling of freedom. The map that I had been carefully studying also got caught up in this eddy of wind and blew out of my window. Although I feigned sorrow at this loss, I was quite relieved now that I was no longer chained to the duty I had been previously assigned. I didn't care that the map was gone, and "Jane Said" it was alright.

Prior to the map’s disappearance, I was surprisingly able to plot the route we needed to take in order to get to the village of Haversham. From this location, the ghost-hunting book gave vague directions to the actual site, so the wayward map had served its purpose. After another hour on I-95, Michelle steered her car onto Rhode Island State Highway 2 and drove toward Haversham. We had obscure directions on where to head after passing through this town, but we possessed determination and several hours of daylight to accomplish our goal. When we found a graveyard eleven miles past Haversham, we knew from the description in the book that we were on the right track. We parked the car and headed into the thick woods. With any luck we would find our way to the site, and then back to the car, before nightfall. Perhaps we would even encounter the ghost of Peleg Walker.

In 1799, the Potter family of Rhode Island started a wool-processing mill near the now abandoned town of Foster. In 1810, after a falling out between the Potter’s and Peleg Walker, their son-in-law, Mr. Walker hanged himself in the mill. The Ramtail Factory’s bell mysteriously rang at midnight for several days after his death. The workers at the factory removed the rope attached to the bell, but the bell still rang every midnight. According to legend, the factory would occasionally start running in the middle of the night with the water wheel spinning in the opposite direction of the flow of the river. The ghost of Peleg Walker was to blame. Soon after Walker’s death, the Ramtail Factory went out of business. The site gained greater notoriety when the 1885 state census listed the site as being “officially haunted.” Michelle and I found the ruins of the Ramtail Factory about two hours after we began our hike. We both thought we heard a ringing bell soon after we found the remnants of the abandoned mill.

Over dinner that night in Newport, Michelle and I recalled the events of the day. The hike into the woods had been refreshing as it had been a long time since either of us had exercised in this manner. We laughed when we recounted how we had to maneuver ourselves across twenty-five yards of stream, both nearly falling into the water after slipping on the exact same slimy river rock. We spoke with wide eyes as we remembered finding the many stone walls and ruins of a once-thriving wool-processing mill. But we sank into more serious tones when we discussed the possible answers as to what could have been the source of the bell we both swore we had heard.

Even though we were driven by the desire to encounter something other-worldly, neither Michelle nor myself are convinced that what we heard was the sound of Peleg Walker summoning the workers to the last place he drew breath: the Ramtail Factory. Perhaps it was the wind whistling through the trees in such a way that the breeze mirrored the sound of a bell. Maybe the sound we heard was the bell from a boat ringing somewhere out in the not-too-distant port of Newport Harbor. Or maybe the bell was actually our over-active imaginations calling to us after having been stimulated by the fresh air of the Rhode Island countryside and our adventure. Whatever the sound was, I am glad that the bell-ringing ghost of Peleg Walker inhabits the woods deep in the Rhode Island countryside, over three hours away from New Jersey.