SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

The Question

Looking through the glass window, Cathy paced on the floor, sat down and tapped her pencil on the table waiting. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“This is taking forever,” she complained, got up and looked through the window again.

“What are they waiting for – divine inspiration,” she barked and sat down again, tapping her pencil. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Impatient, she got up and looked at the window again. “You’d think I asked them solve the meaning of life. Even a Rubik’s cube would take less time.” She yelled and sat down again, tapping. Tap tap tap.

“Cathy, here’s some decaf, give them a moment, this can be a difficult question to answer,” Rick said calmly handing her a cup.

The warm coffee helped for a minute. Cathy swirled it around in her mouth, trying to identify the flavor du jour. Since her ad agency only offered focus group participants coffee and donuts, both had to be pretty good. They gave a variety of sugar-topped cake donuts, cream and jelli-filled frosted selections and the most popular glazed donuts in town. And a gourmet coffee house in the area provided a different unique blend of coffee every day.

“Sometimes I think they take so long just so they can suck up the coffee and donuts,” she barked again and began pacing. “After all, they have nowhere to go.”

Cathy was anxious; this account has been a difficult challenge. As a 30-year-old marketing assistant, she couldn’t get her head into the fifty-five-plus brain to figure out how to sell to them. She successfully marketed everything from sneakers and cell phone cases to beer and perfume to her age group and was bucking for a promotion to marketing manager, if she could come up with a good campaign to sell to this target market.

“What do they want? Don’t they know what they want?” She said sitting down and tapping her pencil again. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Here you go,” Jean said opening the door and handed Cathy a stack of surveys.

“Finally, let’s get some answers,” Cathy handed some of the papers to Rick and excitedly sifted through them.

With each paper, she anticipated more and more and was satisfied less and less.

“Where did we find these people – asleep in a nursing home?” She tossed the papers across the table. “Grandchildren! More free time! Reading! Playing Mahjong all day? This was a useless waste of time.”

“Now, wait, there are some good ones here,” Rick console her. “Here’s one that says more money.”

“That just says they can buy, but it doesn’t tell us how to sell them ultra-caffeinated energy drinks!” Cathy objected. “All we asked them was the best thing about getting old is________? How hard is that?”

Their client sold caffeinated energy drinks to a younger market and wanted to expand into the senior market by only changing the packaging, branding and advertising, but leaving the drink the same.

“If you ask me, I think our biggest problem is the warning labels,” Rick added. “After you remove diabetics, heart and cancer patients, and people with varicose veins, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and gout, there’s not a lot of people this age level in the buying pool. We don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Some of these people have to be active,” Cathy said feverishly looking through the papers again.

“I know, Rick said. “What about this for a slogan…Drink Caffi energy drinks…you’re not dead yet!”

NEW RELEASE: The Sailor and the Songbird

Just released the first in A Timeless American Historical Romance series, The Sailor and the Songbird. The Timeless series of American historical romance novels follows members of the McIntyre family who find love amid the backdrop of pivotal times in American history.

Pin up woman vintage. Beautiful girl pinup style portrait in retro dress and makeup, manicure nails hands, red lipstick and polka dot dress, surprised face

FOR A LIMITED TIME THROUGH JUNE, I will be offering the ebook FREE to anyone who wishes to read it and give an honest review. If you are interested, contact me at suzanneruddhamilton@gmail.com

This book features Red McIntyre, a young, charming red-haired sailor with emerald eyes in the 1940’s World War 2 era who falls in love with a young USO singer. Their whirlwind fifteen-month romantic journey pushes and pulls them from boundless romantic glee and excitement to the farthest depths of utter loneliness and tear-jerking sadness.

The songbird, Suzy arrived in New York City in January 1944 with starry-eyed hopes and dreams for stardom. That all changed when she locked glances from her USO stage with Red.

War is hell. Heartbreaking separation is worse. Follow Red and Suzy and their experiences in 1940’s wartime with Red battling at sea in the Pacific aboard the aircraft carrier USS Franklin and Suzy’s rise to singing stardom in the USO . From meet-cute to their touching sweet romance is lovingly conveyed with every feeling and thought through their letters to each other and Suzy’s letters to home. Can heart-warming true love triumph over the tragedy of war to give these soul mates the forever life they long for together?

The Sailor and the Songbird: A Timeless American Historical Romance by Suzanne Rudd Hamilton is available on Amazon and Kindle. The paperback has been discounted through June.

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The Hum

A friend came over for dinner and we watched what I call a scary movie. I’m not a fan, but she liked it, so I went along. After it was over, I was less scared and more confused at the unbelievable actions of the characters. I mean, if you’re scared, you run away, not investigate and go toward danger. Who does that?

My friend left and I was cleaning up the remnants of our impromptu fondue platter. It was not my finest cooking hour. Then I heard a strange dull humming sound. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. Like maybe the refrigerator running? I didn’t think much of it and just continued my clean up duties.

When I took everything into the kitchen, I was puzzled. I couldn’t hear the hum anymore and there was the refrigerator right there.

Looking at the piles of mess in the kitchen, I decided to finish the bottle of wine and watch a little TV. The old Dick Van Dyke Show was on and it was my favorite episode, the one with the walnut aliens. That show was a laugh riot with a funny take on aliens. Why do aliens portrayed in media always take on a weird vibe and shape?

Oh well, the wine spent for the evening, but I still wasn’t tired. So I decided to read a little. There it was again. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. But this time it was a little louder and sounded like an engine. I thought maybe a motorcycle was passing and looked out the window. There were no lights, but I did see some bugs buzzing around the window. That’s it, bugs, I thought.

I continued to read, but the sound kept getting more intense. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It almost had a rhythmic cadence. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It seemed mechanical, but the sound kept getting louder and softer, louder and softer. Maybe it was the TV? I hoped.

I don’t mind admitting, I was a little freaked out now. I needed a distraction, so I decided to do the dishes. I turned up the water and clinked the dishes and glasses as loud as I could to drowned out the sound, but I couldn’t quell the moaning noise in my head. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

I went back into the living room and heard the sounds of rain. I scolded myself for my silliness. I let that stupid movie get into my head. I was imagining things everywhere.

So, I sat down to read again, but after a minute or so, it started again. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was louder now, haunting. And I could swear I heard breathing too. I focused on the noise. It was under the couch – right under me. It sounded like a cat purring. But I didn’t have a cat.

Maybe something got in when my friend left. Could be a cat or even a bobcat? I heard sightings of some recently in the area.

I shirked back to the corner of the couch huddled in pillows. I was afraid. No, I was petrified. It was taunting me. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was getting louder.

I wanted to run, but I was trapped-paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t move. It was getting faster, egging me on, tempting me to look. I didn’t want to look, but I had to.

Ok. Think, be smart. I needed a plan. I’d drop my book and the loud noise will coax it out. Good. Ok now drop it, I told myself. But then I hesitated, do I really want to know? I was fighting with myself back and forth in my mind. Yes, I had to know. I couldn’t stay on the couch cowering forever. It would not rule my life. Then, the humming was softer. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was telling me I should look.

1-2-3, I dropped it and quickly retreated to the top of the couch. Nothing happened. Curious. Now I really had to know. I dropped the remote. Nothing-just the Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

This is getting ridiculous. I can’t go on like this. Now I was mad. I needed a new plan. A proactive approach. Defense. I took a few of the pillows on my lap and quickly shoved them under the couch for a barrier. Still nothing.

I saw my phone next to me and stuck my phone down under the couch to take a picture between the pillows and see what was there. There was a glow-like two shining eyes.

OK, I was dealing with a wild animal or something. They always say when dealing with an animal, you need to seem confident. They smell fear. So I yelled aloud Get out! Get out! to inform it of my presence. Still nothing.

Now I had to act. I armored up by wrapping myself in the afghans on the couch, grabbed the metal art piece on the side table and the lamp next to the couch, removing the shade. With one swift move, I told myself, I needed to poke at it and then I could hit it with the heavy art. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was a plan. It had to work.

With catlike agility, I jumped from the couch to the floor screeching like a warrior and stabbed underneath the couch to and fro. Nothing.

So I sliced with the lamp like a sword sweeping it under the couch and heard a swirl and a thud. I got it. I darted my eyes toward the wall and saw my offender. I couldn’t believe it. There it was creepily grinning at me from ear to ear with blue eyes and a big red nose. How could I be so stupid? I shook my head and picked it up. It was a clown doll my niece left the last time I babysat. The batteries were running out. That was the Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

I plopped back on the couch laughing at the fuss I made. I guess I’m one of the idiots from the It movie I watched earlier. I went toward the danger. But I know one thing for sure. Yes, I definitely hate clowns.

Mad About Mars

I just can’t believe we’re going to Mars. Aren’t you excited? We’ve been watching the coverage of this ever since the first shuttle brought tourists 10 years ago. Of course, we, that’s my husband Marty and me, waited to make sure it was safe…and when we could get a reasonable Groupon rate. No, we aren’t the first people to do anything. We just got our first microchip phone, the IOS 2000 and the 2124’s just came out.

“Passengers, please clasp your harnesses and put on your oxygen inhalers, as we are descending into the Mars atmosphere,” the shuttle pilot said.

This is so exciting. I just got this inhaler. Its designer Fauci – well, it really says Fuci, but who notices. Ya gotta breathe, right? I got it in the back of a van in New Jersey. It has faux leopard vinyl skin. That’s the second best kind, since real faux leopard skin is nearly extinct.

Where are you staying? We looked at all the resorts, but we decided to stay in New Vegas. They have a really fun package there – tours, gaming and concerts. It’s the green-man group’s tenth farewell tour. We’re staying at the NANASA resort. We wanted to stay in the Mars Rover building, but it is down for repairs. We are staying at the Curiosity building. At least we’ll get to go on the Mars Rover roller coaster inside the resort. People say it breaks down a lot, but I don’t believe that.

I’m looking forward to the Mad about Mars tour the most. Two days of really digging into the history and colonization of Mars. It shows how happy the Maritain people were to have their planet turned into the biggest planetary resort in the galaxy. They are so much better off now. I mean, they all have jobs as servers, maids and hover drivers now. We really made a difference in their lives.

“Madge, come on, we’ll miss the front seats on the tour hover,” Marty said.

It was nice talking to you; we start our tour right away. Have a good time.

“Thank you for visiting Mars. Our Mad about Mars tour starts with the beginnings of ancient Mars and brings you right up through the first contact with Elon Musk and the colonization of the people through the Space Force initiative and building of the largest luxury resort playground for humans with Trumptopia,” the tour guide turned into the gates of a sandy area.

“This is where first contact took place and where the great Elon Musk and the tribal Martian leader J’onn XX shook fingers for the first time. Before SpaceEx and Space Force took control of the planet, the Martians lived in caves like this one.”

Marty, look at this cave, it’s so primitive. Stand next to that Martian, I’ll take your picture like you’re entering the cave with Sir Elon exploring. Marty, make believe you’re giving him the sign of peace.

“And here we have some ancient Martian hieroglyphs. We think they are a pictorial representation of that first meeting. Since the native language is now extinct, no one can translate it, but it’s great to have the historical record. Let’s move onto the first groundbreaking of the Space Force Trump landing area, which is now the largest fast food court in the world,” the tour guide said.

Hey Marty, take my picture with the ancient carvings. I wonder what they say. Google, translate this picture from Martian to English.

“Ok, according to the twentieth edition of the Mars English dictionary, the translation says Eat at Martian Joes,” the computer voice said. Oh that reminds me, I wonder if they have that green Martian milkshake I’ve heard about. I have a coupon for that. Let’s go.

Falling

There it was watching me haunting me. That 4 foot by 4 foot cavern in the stage floor daunted me with every pirouette and every chace. In my head, I knew the orchestra pit was stationary but it seemed to follow me all over… upstage, downstage, stage right, stage left like a shadow taunting my every move.

When I joined the DuSable Dance Company in Chicago 3 months ago I was thrilled. While I danced for years, this was my first professional dance company. That’s where I met him. The Danseur. He was tall, muscular and just gorgeous. With every step, he moved with the grace of a swan gliding across the boards as if aloft. I have to admit in my daydream state, my eyes see him dancing as if perched on a floating cloud.

My first few performances in the dance afforded me the vantage of watching him from my upstage ensemble view. As if on autopilot, my feet danced, but my eyes couldn’t leave him. I breathlessly gazed his every step and each adagio. A few times, I nearly summoned the bravery to talk to him. But every time, my voice left me. I couldn’t utter a word.

Then the prima ballerina broke her ankle and they ask me to go on for her. I couldn’t believe it. I get to dance with him in the Pas de Deux, the dance for two. My head was so high in the clouds it could have hit a rainbow. I will be in his arms. We will dance as one. Then we’ll look into each other’s eyes and he’ll fall hopelessly in love with me. I was locked in my own fantasy. It was like falling through a trapdoor.

First lift. I am in heaven soaring with gilded wings. All I can see is him. 2nd lift. Perfection. All I see is his eyes. I am drowning in their blue pools. 3rd lift. He’s starting to swoon. We’ll be engaged by the curtain call. And now for my final big Grande Jeté leap…aaaaaiiiiiieeeee. I was so lost in the rapture I created, I fell right into my nemesis, the orchestra pit trap door. A broken leg and arm will give me plenty of time to replay every one of those moments in slow motion. A cautionary tale. Don’t fall in a lovetrap on stage or you could fall into the trap door, literally. When your head is in the clouds, you can’t see where your feet are.

Deception at the Copa

My name is Rico Bonacucci. And yes, that’s my real name. I know, do you like my diamond? Those scumsucking nurses didn’t want to let me keep it on in here, but I told them what for.

I am not a man of many words, but I wanted to set the story straight before I die. That’s where you come in doll face. Write down everything I say.

It happened many years ago, when I used to have a club in New York called the Copacabana. It was a great club. Music, dancing, a mirrored ball, a great bar and showgirls…yeah real showgirls who showed their kiester and everything. Nothing dirty, mind you, just the backside. You see more on the beach these days.

But I digress… I loved that club. That’s until they walked into it – Lola and Tony. Ah Lola, what a looker. She could put a smile on that American Gothic farmer guy with one shake of her yellow tail feather. She was something else. I usually never mix business with pleasure, mind you, but she turned my head around and around. Yeah, we went out, so what? I was really into her and it was mutual.

That’s until that rat punk Tony came into the picture. Che palle! He was a lowlife scum from the gutter, but he looked good and the women seemed to like him. So, I gives him a chance behind the bar. I didn’t expect him to last long. He couldn’t even make a decent drink if all he had to do was pour it from the bottle into a glass. He’d even screw that up. But he kept the broads coming back and drinking. I made money, he made money, everybody’s happy.

I even looked the other way when he started getting’ chummy with Lola. They would laugh a little, yeah, I thought they were friends. So what? Figurati! I knew she was my woman and that’s that. Really, were affianced. I gave her a ring and everything. I would’ve done anything for that dame.

One day I overhead them talking. They didn’t see me because I was in the secret room behind the two-way bar mirror. It was there since prohibition for gambling. We use it as an office now. I run a clean establishment. Anyways, I was counting the dough from my numbers racket and I heard them talking about cuts. Then he gave her some money and she kissed him. Yeah, the kiss hurt my feelings, but the money, that made me really mad. No one steals from Rico Bonacucci.

So I put a tail on that pretty-boy Tony. Can you believe he was working for the Russo gang? He was the grandkid of Russo himself. He got a job at the Copa to spy on me and report back to his Nonno so he could muscle in on my business. That scumsucking dirtbag.

Now, again, I run a clean and successful operation. No gang owns Rico Bonacucci. That’s why they wanted to take it over. And that little stronzoa, he was not only shorting the till, and kissing my woman, but he was paying Lola to tell him where I was, so they could take me out. Well, they had another thing coming. I heard their whole plan. Basta! Enough.

That Friday night, Lola was doing her show and I was in the front row, as usual. She always comes and sits on my lap after the show to give me some sugar. I always thought she wanted to mark her territory in front of the other girls. Cause, ya know, I’m a catch. Now usually I’m not packing. I’m a lover, not a fighter. But since they were planning to rub me out, I gotta be prepared. When she hugged me, she felt the gun, screamed and jumped up.

Then that stronzoa Tony comes sliding over the bar and points a gun at me. Well, yeah. I took him out. You don’t point a gun at a Bonacucci unless you got a date with St. Peter. Ya know what I mean? Fongool to both of them.

That was that. But when the cops showed up, Lola and the girls made up this story about how I was inappropriate with Lola and her boyfriend Tony tried to defend her and then I shot him in cold blood. They even hid his gun. I mean, please, I do not have to try with the ladies. I am a love magnet. But they were all out to get me.

So, here I am doing 30 in the cooler for nothin’. Now I’m about to kick and I wanted my besmeared name cleansed. I am innocent.

Hah, but I got a little revenge. I hear Lola still sits at the Copa every night crying in her cocktail. And she got old, wrinkly and ugly. Hah! She’s got nothing. Niente!

I guess we all lost that night, though. Him, his life; me, my freedom, and she lost her mind. Now I can meet St. Peter with a clear conscience. Arrivederci, toots, you make sure to have that printed tomorrow under my obituary. A full page in the New York Times.

Author’s Note: This story was an exercise to retell a popular song. This is a different way to look at the Copacabana 70’s song.

Experiment Breakdown

Darla was dreading the bachelorette party of her younger sister Dede. Several years apart, the sisters couldn’t be further from each other in every way. Darla was an introverted scientist who based her life like a series of chess moves, all based in science, probability and fact.

Dede was the extreme opposite as she moved through life without forethought, immediately acting on every whim and desire floating through life without a care in search of instant gratification. Dede fell deeply and unapologetically in love with every man she encountered. The trysts lasted days or weeks and satisfied Dede’s sense of adventure and amorous view of every aspect of life. Darla once saw Dede grab a man off the street and passionately kiss him, just because she felt like it. This is why she was equally surprised at the shotgun pace of Dede’s wedding to Ricky after ten weeks of dating, yet predicted her lifelong talent to get exactly what she wanted without delay.

As ying to her yang, Darla was very shy and too focused on her studies to even consider dating until after grad school. After several years of friendship, she carefully waded into the dating field with a work colleague who shared similar empirical interests. Following a few more years of dating, Darla’s boyfriend Ralph asked her to marry him, but she countered his proposal with an offer of cohabitation as a relationship experiment to methodically ascertain if all the variables were considered to achieve success before entering into such a binding contract.

Darla didn’t understand her sister or her sister’s friends, who she named Twaddle Troupe, and couldn’t condone their nonsensical way of drifting through existence sustained by shopping, boys, and parties, which made her dread each and every one of the giddy activities of the bridal and prenuptial events.

As forecasted, the bachelorette party was a series of excruciating nonsensical tasks for Darla to endure. Darla decided to make an experiment of the day to support her hypothesis about her sister’s way of life. An artist’s studio began the day when donning white hooded jumpers, glasses and gloves, the aim was to create works of art by randomly chasing each other and throwing paint balls. Check one for frivolity.

From there, the girls visited a bar where a mixologist tutored them on proper drink-mixing techniques to create their own personal signature drink. Learning was integral to Darla’s DNA, but when the event deteriorated into indiscriminate shot drinking and giggling, she just shook her head and prayed for a swift end. Check two for instant gratification.

The final stop of the night was a psychic. For Darla, this was the most ridiculous and lowest blow. As a women of science, she found the idea of metaphysical presence and prophecy to be a mix of mere theatre and grift by practitioners who prey on weak minds. This woman by looks was no exception. Her dark exotic good looks and gypsy costume with the backdrop of the tented red and gold brocade fabric walls and incense-laded room ticked every box to create the phony atmosphere. For an hour, she sat in the back of the room crossarmed rolling her eyes while the Twaddle Troupe ooed and aahed over every word from the charlatan’s mouth.

Darla’s turn came at the group’s insistence and despite her half-hearted cooperation, the madam gasped when she looked at Darla’s palm.

“The pyramid of your life is about to crumble because of a betrayal,” The madam mysteriously said and offered to cleanse her ora amid an orchestra of shocked ooos from the twaddles.

Check three for nonsense, Darla thought. Since she didn’t believe in oras, the con for additional services proved her theory that her sister and crew would constantly succumb to impulse and could not have a meaningful existence due to lack of foundation.

As they piled into the pink stretch limousine SUV with loud music and dancing lights, Darla was counting the minutes until the day ended and she could regain her calm logical life. When the girls decided to go to a club, she faked a headache and walked the few blocks home. She felt instant gratitude for the peaceful quiet as the party bus left her behind.

She walked through the door of her townhome and saw a red and gold brocade fabric shawl draped across the couch. She picked it up and winced wondering how Ralph could buy her such a tacky present. Since she only wore solid earth colors, she appreciated the idea, but was confused as his most inappropriate mistake.

“He should have known better,” she said shaking her head.

To return the favor, she decided to take his favorite tea up to the bedroom for a nightcap and discuss his kind error. As she walked up the stairs, she began to smell a strange, but familiar aroma. She smelled the tea and then her clothes and concluded the steam from the tea kettle activated the incense on her clothes from the psychic.

When she opened the bedroom door, she found Ralph entwined with another woman. Startled she dropped the tea set which crashed on the floor. They looked up and she recognized the woman as the psychic with the same gasp she heard earlier.

Without hesitation, Darla went into the closet safe, took out Ralph’s handgun and shot them both dead. She carefully wiped off the fingerprints, put the gun in the woman’s hand and walked back to the club, telling the girls she changed her mind.

The police deemed the crime as a murder/suicide for an affair gone wrong. The Twaddle Troupe was Darla’s alibi as in their ultra-inebriated state, they said she was with them the whole time.

Darla’s experiment in dating was a failure, but she began a new hypothesis about a life of instant gratification.

The Perfect Crime

It was the perfect crime. Now, I didn’t come to it easily. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life. I don’t even jaywalk; guess there is a little larceny in everyone.

But I really had no choice. I need to explain that right up front. I lost my job as a bank underwriter in the pandemic. I hate to admit, but I even went to a food bank once or twice in a pinch. I know there’s no shame, but for me, it was a big change. After eight months of depleted savings, I finally got a job through my cousin as a blackjack dealer in the local casino.

The casino was an interesting place. My customers were all locals. Sometimes it was a girl’s night, bachelor or bachelorette party, or just a night out for weary parents. But since this casino was miles away from a highway or anywhere tourists would want to go, most of my customers were regulars. Just everyday people who came in to get away from their day-to-day lives and reach for that pot-of-gold dream at the end of an ace, king, queen or jack blackjack.

The Goldrush casino was in a remote location of Wisconsin and was supposed to be run by the local Menominee tribe. I say that because very soon after I started work, I noticed several nefarious dealings in the casino.

Like I said, we served locals and regulars, so anyone else stuck out like a sore thumb. The first was two rather “big-boned” gentlemen who came into the casino every Tuesday and Thursday at 1pm like clockwork. These men wore a lot of gold chains and spoke with New York accents. Let’s just say, it was obvious that they weren’t from Wisconsin. They were in and out in less than a half hour, which seemed odd.

Then a few weeks ago a different man came to my table during the day. He seemed like a local and he said came during the day because he liked to play alone against the dealer. He brought cash to change for chips, but that was fairly common. Some people went to the cashier, some didn’t. He played for about an hour or two and left. He was a normal better and probably broke even, so I didn’t think much of it. He came in for a few weeks about three times a week. Then one day he came in on a Tuesday about two o’clock. But right before he sat down, I saw him sit at the bar next to the New Yorkers.

Then he sat down at my table and his game play immediately changed. He placed unusually high and risky bets, one after another. And he lost – a lot. He was pulling tons of cash from this brown paper lunch bag and he was doubling down and splitting everything. And he kept hitting all the time, even when he had nineteen. I kept asking him if he was sure, but then the pit boss came over and stood next to me, so I shut up. We’re not supposed to help or give advice. I just didn’t want him to lose his shirt. When he was out of cash about an hour later, he thanked me, tipped me and left. But the strangest thing of all was the pit boss took my bin and said he would do me a favor and cash it out right away because it was full. It was full, but that was still very unusual. Why would the pit boss come over for just one guy in the middle of the day. Curious.

He came back on Thursday and then again the next Tuesday. Everything was the same. Each time he lost, he just grinned and said oh well, not my day. I knew there had to be some connection. My former job made me a very suspicious person, almost like a detective. Something was up.

I nosed around a little and talked to my cousin about the casino. She said she didn’t know how they lasted through the pandemic. There was limited capacity and even then there were hardly any people visiting, but they stayed afloat and even hired more people afterward when the customers came back.

Suddenly it all clicked together. They were laundering money by hiring shills to lose the money at the tables. I kept my mouth shut, because I needed my job, but each week it became more obvious.

Then the dairy plant had a fire. A few people were hurt and equipment was ruined, so they had to shut down for three months. It was almost worse than the pandemic. Most of the town was out of work and going to the local food bank that was barely restocked from the pandemic strain.

I wanted to do something. They helped me when I was down. One day it all unfolded in front of me. If I took little bits of the laundered cash, no one would be the wiser. They wouldn’t miss small amounts. I sewed a pocket in my vest and could slip it in unnoticed. Only question was how to get the money out after my shift, as we had to leave our uniforms every night. Then I remembered the brown bag. It was poetic to have the money go out the same way it came in. So each day at my dinner break, I left some fruit or chips or something to legitimately take home my brown bag and slipped the money in.

The first night I was so nervous, I went through the door clutching the brown bag for dear life. But each day it got easier. Every detail was planned. No one would know.

After a week, I bought a small amount of canned goods at the store with my own groceries and left them at the food bank delivery door. Not a ton to be suspicious, but every night like little elves, they would just appear like magic.

I kept this up for three months until the plant reopened, then stopped gradually. No one ever knew. And the people in town didn’t go hungry. Like I said, it was the perfect crime, stealing from criminals and giving to those in need. By the way, I didn’t introduce myself; my name is Robin.

Scramble

I saw a pile of Scrabble tiles in a Facebook picture recently on my 5 minute social media break, otherwise known as my bathroom break, and thought, what if you could turn up the tiles you wanted in life, instead of the random ones you pull out of the bag.

If you have you ever played Scrabble and wanted to will certain tiles onto your rack, but got other ones, you understand my life. I have 3 kids, 2 dogs, 1 cat, 2 jobs, 2 elderly parents and 1 husband. It’s crazy.

Each morning, I wake up early, take the dogs for a walk, make breakfast and ensure my kids get dressed in something close to a human wardrobe. I’m pretty flexible, but when my 1^st grader wears underpants outside his clothes because Superman does it, doesn’t fly with me. My 3^rd grader keeps trying to wear his favorite shirt and jeans every day. He saw a commercial for Febreeze and thinks he can just spray and go. And my 6^th grader daughter wants to dress exactly like her favorite Instagram pop stars. So I need to make sure there are no crop tops or makeup smuggled into her bag for a quick-change later. Apparently more than one of my children wants to pretend they are someone else. It’s not a bad idea, I’d like a secret identity – sanity.

Then I drop all three kids off at their three different schools. Thanks to overcrowding and lower school budgets, the school district separates kids by grade level and my kids just happen to fall into the grade categories that are in different buildings, lucky me.

Then I go to my parents’ house and make sure they eat, take pills and take them to whatever doctors or therapists they need. They want to be independent, but they’re older and have some physical needs and a lot of denial issues. I was a change of life baby and my two older much older siblings live in different states, so I need to check on them. After nearly 70 years of marriage my parents have figured out one thing – they love each other, but don’t really like each other very much. I think they are playing the one up game to see who can annoy each other the most. He refuses to bathe for days at a time, so she sprays the house with perfume. She won’t cook or do laundry for him anymore, so he makes messes everywhere in retaliation. Part of this job is to make sure they don’t kill each other.

Then I go to my first job as an aerobics instructor and personal trainer. It doesn’t pay a lot, but the hours are flexible, so I can get everything else done.

At 3pm, I need to pick up my kids from their schools and take them to soccer, music lessons or whatever else we’ve signed them up for so they are well-rounded people.

Back to my parents to cook them an early dinner and clean up a little. I hired a cleaning lady for them, but they argue so much, many of the services won’t send anyone because they’re uncomfortable. They use new people like pawns in their war of the roses.

Pick up the kids, make dinner and do homework until bedtime. Then walk the dogs again and do my second job as a medical transcriber until I fall down asleep. And start all over again.

My scrabble tiles read run, cook, clean, drive, work and sleep.

My husband helps when he can, but he’s in the Navy and spends a lot of time deployed, so he’s gone for months. When he’s home for a couple weeks here and there, I get a little breather, but I really want to spend time with him too.

I had a lot of plans when I was a kid for a professional career as a nurse or even a doctor, but those aren’t the tiles I picked. Falling in love young and a prom night pregnancy gave me tiles of 19-year old motherhood and the rest you know. Maybe when my husband retires after 20 years, I can go back to school. Maybe not. We’ll see what tiles I get.

Steps

There are step programs for everything in life today to cure what physically or mentally ails you. After all, you have to take one step at a time to get anywhere. But despite all the dead spouse support group jargon absorbed and subsequently regurgitated over the last nine months, Melissa still had no idea what she was doing.

It was supposed to be their best life. Retire and have fun. A two-step program to happiness. Nowhere did it say cancer, death and widowed.

Since her husband died, Melissa was in an oarless boat floating aimlessly on her way to nowhere. She followed all initial the steps in the grief program brochures, but after acceptance, the navigation was a little foggy and the waves were a little choppy. So, she started a new series of steps on living life.

Keep Busy, the program said, so, she threw herself into project after project. Painting, adult color books, puzzles, karaoke, and she even learned to play the ukulele. The result was a bust – tried, abandoned and eventually chucked in the forgotten closet one by one to collect dust.

Make New Friends, the support group encouraged. So, she went to every event offered in her town and neighborhood from movies and casino trips to dances and game nights. All were fun, but a glaring example of being uncoupled in the sea of coupledom.

Get a New Hobby, another pamphlet espoused. Learning from others, Melissa decided becoming a gym-rat taught self-reliance and could be performed as a single and with other singles. Power walking, jogging, and marathon-training all became obsessions to fill the days and make her too tired to care about lonely nights. This worked for a while, but sore and uncooperative limbs made this pursuit un-pursuable on a long-term basis.

Veering from the stated programs preached in the acceptable mature groups, Melissa took the page from another book called experimentation. After some research and a trip to the dispensary, Melissa had a smorgasbord of products to begin. CBD oil, edibles, a bong, and just old-fashioned smoking, proved an interesting investigation into her inner psyche, resulting in too many mornings waking up with a cricked neck and papers stuck to her face from sleeping anywhere. These were accompanied by puddles all over the house as retribution from an unhappy un-walked dog. Ultimately, she found a balance in creating some mild and delicious baked goods that did the trick. Just enough to allow uninterrupted sleep, but not too much to recreate hungover college Monday mornings.

And that triggered a revelation. Just like the oarless boat, she needed balance to keep steady. Melissa realized looking for the one answer, she threw herself headfirst and charged into all manner of activities, just to fill the days and nights, without regard to any of them. Maybe there wasn’t one answer, she thought. Her boat could stop at many ports of call on the way, but as long as she could keep rowing keep the boat steady, it didn’t matter the destination, enjoying the journey along the way could be the goal.

Opening the forgotten closet, Melissa looked at the bounty of dusty projects and activities with just one more problem. What to do first?

Author’s Note: This is a characterization for an upcoming Contemporary Women’s Fiction Novel coming in late 2021 called Control, Alt, Delete. More to Come Soon...