SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

Day at the Beach

The beach is my favorite place to relax, breathe the fresh sea air in the warming comfort of the sun’s rays and hear a choir of sea birds underscored by the hum of boat engines.

I sit with my toes blanketed in cozy sand, clad in my protective straw hat and sunscreen and read a good book. But between my pages, I admit; I like to people watch. I find human nature interesting. Sweet and sometimes funny and strange, but never dull.

Seeing kids build sandcastles with such forethought and precision, I wonder if they have a future engineering skyscrapers.

Older kids surfing or bogey boarding astonishes me. They seem to pick it up so fast. But then again, watching adults try their hand is fodder for comic relief. I hate to snicker or laugh, but it’s hard to hold back when they spectacularly wipe out. I see one man walk backwards off the surfboard as if he thought it was longer and then fall backwards wielding his arms like a windmill until he splashes into the water.

Witnessing the strangest collection of characters on the beach, I marvel at the families with a big tent set up, like they’re camping for days.

And then I notice the bronze gods who worship the sun laying out and sweating all day. Until some mischievous kids wait for the girls to remove their straps or pose concealed in the sand without a top, to avoid tan lines, only to be revealed when purposefully sprayed with water or sand. I glimpse some boys unobtrusively walking back and forth in the surf watching with eagle eyes for the moment when the pretty girls get exposed.

But the most shocking set are the northern Europeans with faint and pale skin. They come out the first day with their transparent outer coating and soak in all the sun, unseen in their homeland for months at a time.

Then on day two, the bright and cruel pinkish-red hue crawls all over them and they cover every body part from head to toe and awkwardly walk around seething in pain. And yet they continually seem surprised. I feel for them, but after all, they are self-inflicted wounds.

Tourists are often easy to spot. Besides the obvious burn routines, they either look lost and confused or deliberately ignorant. Disregarding signs that say “Private Beach,” they plop their belongings down and set up their station, until someone kicks them out and they claim they didn’t “see” the signs.

On rainy, windy or cooler weather days, when Floridians, whether native or transplanted, duck and cover, I observe from my beach condo balcony and notice the vacationers frolicking in the surf, regardless. Even sometimes ignoring the red and more dubious colored warning flags as if nothing bad can happen to them while they’re on holiday.

Leaving the beach, I’m rendered hostage by the looky-loos that are a constant source of frustration for drivers as they roam coastal highways in slow motion to take in all the scenery and subsequently block the roads.

And often, my neighbors and I tussle with these beach seekers illegally parked in our private parking lots, regularly overlooking the parking lot signs and despite the large public beach parking lot signage. Although, those who sleep too late will find another sign on those parking lots- Lot Full. Those encounters can be uncomfortable, but overhearing the seemingly genuine spur-of-the-moment excuses can be worth a chuckle or two.

Yes, the beach never disappoints. It’s a combination of a soap opera with a never-ending revolving door of characters and Jackass the Movie. I never know what will happen next. Turn the page.

Press for Human

I love online shopping. A world of goods are right at my fingertips and delivered to my door. But there’s another sharper side to that coin I discovered when I ordered a small futon online.

It arrived on schedule and I eagerly opened it up, read the directions and looked for the pieces to assemble. Except they were not included. So I looked all over the directions and finally found a customer service number.

“Hello this is URF Furniture, how can I help you?” the friendly voice said.

“Yes, I have a question…” I asked, thinking it was a real person. Until I was cut off by the voice.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales. Para Espanol precino numero nueve.”

“No, I need to talk to someone about missing…”

Again, I the voice in the vacuum void demanded.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. But I need to talk to someone…”

“Ok. Press 0 for operator.”

I pressed zero and finally thought I’d get to speak with a human being.

“This is the operator,” a different friendly voice said.

“Great, finally, a person. I have a question…”

But I was interrupted by that ominous, faceless voice.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales. Para Espanol precino numero nueve.”

So I pressed zero again, thinking maybe it didn’t take the first time.

“That menu is not available. Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales.”

In a desperate attempt to change my circumstances and reach a real person, I selected three for sales. Sales would have to be a real person, right?

“Hello Sales,” said a friendly male voice this time.

“Yes, wonderful. I need some help with a missing….” I said confident that I was making progress, but then the same taunting voice resounded the same options.

“You have reached our sales department. Press 1 for customer service, 2 for billing.”

“Ugh!!” I cried in frustration.

“Are you still there? I did not get your selection.” It mocked.

This was too much. I felt like I was pushing buttons that would lead me down the long and winding electronic road to madness. Didn’t Einstein say doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome was the sign of insanity. So I pressed a different number—one.

“Hello, customer service, billing.” Another friendly voice lulled me into a sense of hope.

“Great. Hi, I need some help…” I said, until…

“You have reached customer service. Your wait time is approximately 15 minutes. You are number 350 in our cue. If you can’t wait, press star to go back to the previous menu.”

“350! That will not take 15 minutes.”

So in a vain attempt, I pressed the star button and the voice said.

“If you would like customer service to call you back as soon as we are free, press 4.

“Yeah, you’ll get back to me when hell freezes over,” I said in frustration and pressed star again to go back to the previous menu.

“Hello this is URF Furniture, how can I help you?” a pleasant voice answered.

“Yes, finally a human!” I said, but was thwarted again.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales.”

“Urgh!! What number do I press for human?” I screamed.

So I played my last card and pressed four for the call back.

“Thank you. You will receive a call back in the next 48 to 72 hours. Goodbye.”

NO!!! That’s it. I tried to play fair, but I would not let the machine win. So I picked up the phone and dialed my credit card company.

“Hello, I want to report a fraudulent charge to my account.” I said.

That was my ace card. Let them try to collect their money from the mighty Visa. And I’ll hold their useless futon hostage until they finally call me back.

White Picket Fence

Sandy was tired of her world. Drudging to the overworked menial office job she hated left her little time for a life. And more and more her friends peeled off after getting married and having kids, leaving her alone on her hellish daily treadmill.

The nightmare of dating became an endless game of Duck, Duck, Goose. She’d meet someone at work, in line at Starbucks or through a friend and continue on an endless cycle of first dates without a goose to chase. Only ducks in a bad rerun of one continuous bad date with interchangeable men boring her with their doldrum personalities.

Repetitive explanation of job…blah, blah, blah. Read that book… blah, blah, blah. Watched this movie… blah, blah, blah. Live with mother… blah, blah, blah.

Miserably sitting at yet another bridal shower, she confided in her friend Gail.

“I’ve been dating for two decades. I figured it out. It’s been nearly 2,100 dates. At this rate, my chances of winning the lottery are better than finding a husband. Where is he? Where’s my happy ending?”

“You should try this new website. That’s where she found her husband,” Gail said showing the website on her phone.

“Whitepicketfence.com? Is this for real?” Sandy shot her a sideways glance.

“Yes. It’s specifically designed for singles who want to settle down and not just hookup. She was only on it 1 month and look where we are now,” Gail nodded.

“I hate these online matchmakers, but I guess it’s worth a try. Nothing else has worked.”

That night Sandy spent hours perfecting her profile pictures in photoshop to show a happy, well-adjusted, well-rounded women looking for a home, family and white picket fence.

By the next morning, her DM’s were filled with potential prospects waiting to connect.

“Wow, I must have done a bang-up job on this profile. This can’t be real. It’s too good. There are some really good-looking guys on here with good jobs. And not one mother roommate in the bunch!” Sandy said elated.

It was a whirlwind. For three weeks, Sandy went on a series of first dates until she met Bryan and immediately fell in love with his wit, humor and superhero good looks.

Flying on air, she met Gail for happy hour to tell her over drinks.

“He looks like he was crafted from a superhero mold. Wavy blond hair, square jaw, sparkling blue eyes and six-foot worth of muscles and abs. He sings, dances and the best part… he’s a veterinarian who believes in being at the dinner table every night. Oh and he cooks. It’s insane,” Sandy explained in glee.

“That does good. Lock that down as soon as you can,” Gail urged.

Fast forward 10 years. Sandy and Gail meet again at Saturday brunch.

“You look wonderful Sandy,” Gail said. “Seems like I never get to see you anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But Gail, I’m so happy I can hardly stand it. I’m a busy mom taxi and I love it. Jaden is in soccer and band and Maya is playing basketball and joined a dance troupe. And Bryan took on a partner, so he’s home with us a lot. And here’s a picture of our house.” She held her phone to Gail showing pictures.

“I see you opted for the traditional white picket fence,” Gail smiled.

“Yes, it’s really a wonderful life,” Sandy said.

“Too bad your time is up,” Gail said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“What are you talking about silly. I feel great,” Sandy laughed.

“Huh, you did sign up for the ten-year plan, didn’t you?” Gailsaid.

“What?” Sandy asked.

“On whitepicketfence.com. They had five- and ten-year family plan options. You get your perfect family for ten years and then they go back,” Gail explained.

“You’re putting me on. Where would they go back to?” Sandy laughed.

Gail’s face turned sullen and she abruptly grabbed Sandy’s hand.

“Sandy, didn’t you read the terms and conditions on the site?”

“Of course not. It’s just a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo – they all are,” Sandy said and her eyes grew big. “Right?”

Gail stared directly at Sandy.

“I thought you understood. The deal is a decade of pure happiness in exchange for your soul.”

“Oh, you almost had me going. You bad girl. That only happens in movies,” Sandy laughed.

Gail grabbed both her hands.

“No. It’s real. Look at the website. Natas is the name of the company. N.A.T.A.S is the reverse of SATAN!”

Sandy panicked, grabbing her phone to quickly bring up the website and began furiously reading.

“Oh my God! How is this possible? I bore those children. They’re mine. I have the stretch marks to prove it.”

“The family plan. Ten years of happiness,” Gail said.

“No. I’m not going to do it! I don’t care,” Sandy said running out of the restaurant.

As Gail’s words echoed in her head, Sandy raced back to her home to find her children and husband in their home.

“Oh good. You’re still here. That Gail is a cutup.” She sighed in relief.

“Hi honey. We’ve been waiting for you. Here’s the receipt for the 10-year family plan. We have to go now,” Bryan kissed her on the cheek as he, Jaden and Maya walked past Sandy toward the door waving goodbye.

“No, you can’t leave. No!” Sandy cried out and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes and lifted her head from her cubicle desk and saw her boss standing above her.

“Sandy. I’m not going anywhere, I’m just looking for that report on fence prices,” her boss asked. “Are you ok?”

“No. I’m definitely not ok. I was, but not anymore.” She plopped her head back on the desk.

Pineapple Means Welcome

I was in the bar in the new adult community I recently move to nursing my Jack Daniels and watching the game when I overheard the strangest conversation.

“Are you a pineapple?” the man said.

“I’m a green pineapple,” the lady smiled.

My interest piqued, I couldn’t help but glance in their direction.

“Green aye. Nice.” The man grinned and moved closer to her.

“I used to be a white pineapple, but now I’m green,” she said and shot him a come-hither look.

Trying to figure out what they were talking about, I listened intently, without giving away my interest.

“Do you fly the flag?” he asked.

“Proudly!” She stuck out her chest.

“Good, see ya tonight.” He handed her a card and left with a big grin.

I leaned over and looked at the card. It had a red pineapple on it that said “Welcome.”

Curious, I was tempted to ask her about the card, but couldn’t think of a way to approach it without giving my eavesdropping away. Then she put the card in her purse and left, so I lost my chance.

I don’t know why, but it bothered me for the rest of the day. What were they talking about? So I looked up “pineapple welcome.” One search said pineapples are used in decorating to make guests feel welcome because of their association with warmth and friendliness. But then I scrolled down and another entry said the pineapple emoji is used as a substitute for the word sex.

Then in the sunny daylight of the next morning, I noticed a few golf carts in the parking lot with a red pineapple flag. I’d never noticed one before and yet now there were several in the parking lot, as they discussed in the bar. Given my minimal research, my fascination was bubbling over. Which did it mean? And when I saw a lady flying a red pineapple flag, I blurted it out.

“Does your pineapple flag mean welcome?”

She paused and gazed at me for a very uncomfortable minute and smiled, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes it does.” She handed me a card from her purse and left.

The card had a red pineapple with “welcome” on it, just like the other card. And when I flipped it over, it said 7pm tonight with an address.

All day I contemplated. Should I go? What will I find? It could be a game of canasta or an orgy. I’d heard of these swingers’ clubs in adult communities, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t think “adult community” meant the same thing as an “adult film or bookstore.” But I just had to know.

So I went in completely blind, hoping curiosity didn’t kill me. When I reached the front door to the address on the card, a handwritten sign on the door says Come In. I grabbed the door handle and then hesitated a bit. What if I opened to the door to a bunch of wrinkly old naked people? I closed my eyes to be ready for anything and opened the door. I walked inside and was immediately confused. It looked like a normal cocktail party with people sitting around holding small plates of food and drinks. I scanned the room and found nothing suspicious.

Seeing the woman who gave me the card, I approached her.

“Thanks for the invite, just sit anywhere?”

“Yes, help yourself to a drink, we’re waiting for a couple more and then we’ll begin,” she smiled coyly at me, again making me uncomfortable.

Still bathed in curiosity, I took some food, poured a much needed drink and sat down. The conversation around me was casual and ordinary, considering the circumstances. I was beginning to think this was some kind of mistaken Mahjong club. Then I saw my next-door neighbor. I met her after I moved in and she immediately caught my eye.

She was beautiful with long blonde hair and milk white skin… exactly my type. And a week after I moved in, I accidentally caught her moonlight skinny dipping in her pool. She was definitely a looker. I didn’t know if she was married or not as I never saw a husband or anything.

She walked in the door with a man, but I wasn’t sure they were together. When I made eye contact with her, I thought she’d be surprised, but she just shot me a knowing smile and took a seat across the room when a woman started speaking.

“We’re all adults here for the same reason, so no need to be nervous. We have some new people and some who are former players. The game is simple. There are colored cards in front of you. White is for beginners. Purple is for people who just want to watch. Pink is for those who want to do it with others in the room. So, purple and pink people go together. Blue is for those who are open to playing with anyone, but have limits. Black is for those who are open to anything and anyone, but only one partner of the opposite sex. Green is for those who are not specific about the gender or number of partners. So feel free to take the card that meets your needs and gather with others with the same card.”

I couldn’t believe her frank tone. She said it like she was explaining the rules of Monopoly, not an carnal ping pong. Afterward, everyone stood and took cards as casually as if they were picking scratch-off lottery cards. I got back in the line and observed. It’s a rainbow of colors all mixed up. I’m floored that there are so many adventurous people here.

Then I saw my neighbor take a black card and I took one too and gathered with the few with black cards. She walked up to me and took the card from my hand and pointed her finger to follow me out the door. From that moment, my interest in the group completely diminished. My focus was completely on her as she led me out the door and into her car.

Without a word, she drove down a couple streets and parked along the side of the road. I didn’t know what we were doing. Did she have a thing for doing it in a car. I was willing, but lamented that I didn’t have any time to stretch. I didn’t know how bendy I was anymore.

“What were you doing there?” she accused, catching me off guard.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I reply.

“If you’re here to swing, no judgement,” she said.

Now I was really confused. “Isn’t that was the group is about?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m not one of them. I’m an undercover cop trying to bust senior sex rings,” she said.

“Let me get this straight. You’re undercover?” I said surprised. “Then why did you take the black card? I picked it because you did. Confidentially, I’m attracted to you too.”

“Thanks. I’m flattered and I admit interested, but let’s table that. I have no intention of partaking in this group, but I thought you may know something, so I picked the black card to be alone and keep up appearances. I don’t really know if I can trust you, but I could use some help.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“OK… I just want to know how far you have to go. I’m no prude, but I’m not looking for the Florida version of Gomorrah either.”

She laughed and lightly punched me in the arm.

“No, silly. Usually I try to talk to them at the getting to know you cocktail portion and then take the purple card and excuse myself with an emergency or conveniently get lost on the way. I could use some fresh eyes and ears. The stories and lines are pretty funny. It could be laughs.”

I can’t resist a mystery, so I nodded and she took me back to my car.

“I’ll be in touch.” She smiled and drove off.

Oh, the things you do when you’re in “like” with someone. I have no idea what I just got myself into.

Authors Note – This is based on a preview of Pandemonium at Peacock Perch, the latest in the Secret Senior Sleuth’s Society Mysteries available November 15th.

The Rule of Three

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the story last week, Rule 30 from the sequel to Beck’s Rules, When Walls Talk.

With ideas of green ink, government paper and presidential profiles swirling in my head, I’m ready to get to work uncovering Carrington’s plot.

I rush through the newsroom ignoring the wail of police and fire scanners and the tik tik tik sound of a dozen typewriters clicking their keys in melodious sequence. Normally, that sound is music to my ears. But today, all I can hear are three little words, Carrington, crime, and counterfeit.

With anticipation nearly foaming from my mouth, I plop down on my wooded wheeled seat and nearly whirl all the way around from sheer momentum. But as soon as I place my fingers on the keyboard, I pause and catch my breath. Then I remember; I don’t have any evidence and then I notice my poor nails. I’m way overdue for a manicure.

My hunch combined with the muted tone of a poor perceived loon in the nuthouse would promptly get me booted out of my newsroom to the unemployment line or even the clink. The law frowns on accusing people in the press without a crime. But where would I get proof? And a quick nail appointment?

My dad always taught me motive, means and opportunity are the three elements of a crime. The motive is easy—money. And Carrington certainly has the means to do anything he wants and can easily use his “legitimate” dry cleaners and restaurant businesses to distribute the phony presidential flashcards of Washington and Lincoln. But the how eludes me. To pull off a counterfeit scheme, he would need the government paper, the printing press and the plates to ensure his bills didn’t reveal themselves as Monopoly money.

As my dad’s ink blood runs through my veins, I know I can solve this, catch them in the act, and then nab him. But how? Then I saw Scully out of the corner of my eye. He’s an old timer and always has his ear to the pavement for federal crimes. Maybe he caught a counterfeiter before or heard something now?

“Sully, I got a lead that there’s a counterfeit ring in the city. Have you heard anything about it?” I ask.

“Nah, I wish. I’d really like to sink my teeth into a funny money operation. I haven’t seen one in years,” he says.

“So you caught a counterfeiter in the past?” I ask.

“Oh that was years ago, probably before you were born,” he dismisses.

“Really, I’d like to hear about it.” I hold my breath waiting for the answer.

His eyes brighten like a new penny as he weaves a tale of intrigue and corruption narrating his path of tracking the theft of the plates and the paper from the mint to the local card maker who tried to reverse his fortunes by turning his press into a money making machine… literally.

“How did you catch him?” I ask impatiently.

He laughs and pulls a newspaper clipping from his bottom drawer, then looks around to see if anyone was listening.

“To be honest, I fell into it backwards. I got an anonymous lead, followed up and boom—there it was—easy pickins,” he laughs.

I know I won’t be as lucky. Unfortunately, my informant could only spit out one word at a time, not lead me to X marks the spot.

“Tell me this, where did they get the paper, ink and plates to make the bills?” I ask.

“They knocked over a few loot limos as it transported everything to the mint. It was a highly coordinated operation,” he says.

I thank him and slump back to my desk defeated. I doubt I’ll be able to track those types of armored truck heists. At that level, everything’s strictly hush hush.

Sitting at my desk, I grab my nail file out of the top drawer. Mindless tasks help me think better.

Let’s just say for argument sake, Carrington did get all the parts to make his money machine go. He’d keep it close to the vest for security. And to avoid suspiciously moving the money around, he’d have the presses where he distributes the money—so the dry cleaners, the Irish pub or the Italian restaurant. Carrington has his pot filled all over town. But they’re all in different locations around town. Which one can produce more money exchanges?

With my nails back up to par, I dash out to each place. The only way to know which one is passing funny money is to case the joints.

First, I went back to my house to grab a couple blouses. I don’t want to risk one of my Chanels in case they do a crappy job. But I could sacrifice two of my Marshall Fields’ tops for the greater good. My best friend Kate works there. If they get ruined, I can replace them with her discount.

The time it took the line of three people to get to me gave me a few minutes to unobtrusively look around. The dry cleaners is so small, just me and the other two customers nearly pack the room. And as the serpentine track of clothes moved for each person in front of me, I garnered a look in the back. It’s steamy and small, barely room for the laundry, presses and few workers I saw.

“You have a nice little operation here,” I ask, trying to snoop.

“It’s small alright. We can hardly breath,” he offers, pins a number to my blouse and gives me a receipt. The line’s forming in back of me, so I have to move along.

I leave and walk around the building to see if there could be a back room, but peeking through the open door, I see a mirror of what I noticed from the front. That’s it. There’s no place to put a printing press and stacks of cash.

That day and night I frequent the Italian restaurant and Irish pub and found the same conclusion. No space.

But the next day as I paid for a bagel and schmeer at the truck outside my office, I notice something on George Washington’s head, as I took the bill from my suit pocket. It was nearly invisible, but I see a small detail. The half bow in the back of George Washington’s collar is missing on one bill. I remember because I’ve always wondered what that was. It’s weird. I take out another dollar bill from my purse and it’s there. The one without the bow has to be counterfeit. Scully said the plates could be manufactured by a craftsman, instead of stolen. Maybe there’s little imperfections that most people won’t notice. But May Beck is not most people.

Gobbling up my bagel, I run inside and sit down at my typewriter again. But I froze, realizing I still have no evidence. But at least I know this time I’m right. I got the phony George from one of Carrington’s haunts. I change my purse everyday, but I’m wearing the same Chanel I had on yesterday. It’s new and I need to break it in. So the bill in my pocket is from yesterday.

This is infuriating. How can I get enough to nail him to the wall? He’s clever. I haven’t caught him yet. But this time, a young girl’s life hangs in the balance. This is more than just me or a story and time is of the essence.

Sitting there I think of the steamy dry cleaners and it hits me. I’ll smoke him out. It’s not incredibly ethical, but I’ll put a fake story about counterfeit bills surfacing in the city and cite some sources where they think they got them. It’s partially true and it’ll cover my tracks, but it may be enough to make them slip up. And then I’ll have him—game, set and match to me. And Meg can go free.

I may have to add the rule of three to Beck’s Rules. It came in handy this time.

Rule 30

Author’s Note: This is a sneak peek of the prequel to the cozy mystery novel Beck’s Rules where we discover the origin of hard-nosed reporter May Beck as she cuts her newspaper teeth and develops her skills on the streets of her urban city.

Sometimes being right is an overwhelming burden to bear. But I knew something about this case stunk like a bad fish and Limberger cheese sandwich. They sell those at the food cart down the block from my newspaper, the News Bugle. We call it the Bug for short.

My beat and some would say my obsession is the crusty under belly of the inner city. Gangsters have taken over and it’s my job to flush them out into the daylight of the black and white newspaper. My name is May Beck and I’m a reporter.

I follow the mob’s web of deceit like a black widow spider waiting for the kill. When they make a mistake, I draw it out in ink for my readers.

But one web constantly slips through my fingers, baffling me for years.

Then one of my less than scrupulous informants crawled out of the shadows to give me a hot tip on a crime family I’ve been investigating, the Carringtons.

Their filthy fingers are in every pot and bucket in my city. They own everything from dry cleaners and restaurants to the mayor’s office and I can trace their ill-gotten gains to every lowlife and scum bag who toil in the gutter to make the Carrington mansion in the clouds squeaky clean. That’s why it’s so hard to nail them. They weave their crime syndicate so tight like a loom, it’s impossible to break. Unless… I cut a strand. That’s what I was hoping for when I went to visit an anonymous lady in the nuthouse.

Darkness hung low all over the place in spite of the shiny white linoleum floors and sparkling milky metal cabinets that gleamed in reflection of blinding fluorescent lights. And a bleak sadness filled the air as thick as a London fog, making it hard to see reality.

My tip said this woman named, Meg worked for Carrington’s office and had some information that could give me a piece for my jigsaw puzzle on the big boss. That’s all he could tell me, so I went in blind.

I regrettably turned in my signature smart hat, Chanel suit and slingback heels for a the boring frock and sensible shoes. Add a pair of black hornrimmed glasses and with my hair tied in a bun and my masquerade was complete, perfect for a dowdy do gooder trying to spread a Little sunshine on their dreary day. A lame disguise, but it got me passed the stiffnosed nurses at the front desk.

The recreation room was full of white terry cloth robes and white pajamas so they almost blended with the background. I guess that was the point…if nobody sees them, nobody cares for them.

I carried a basket of little soft chew candies, and roamed around the room handing them out, smiling at the blank faces. Staring back at me were stone, looking through me as if I was a ghost, not even there.

My stool pigeon said Meg was petite and young with black hair and black glasses. Finally there, I saw her sitting in the corner with her head down. At first I thought she was asleep; she was still is a statue. But when I called her name, she looked up.

“Meg, a friend of yours sent me to see how you were doing,” I sat next to her and touched her hand. It was cold as ice.

She barely acknowledged me. I’m sure they had her hocked up on some cocktail of medication that numbed her scrambled brains. So I had to up the ante.

He’s wondering if there’s anything you need. You know him, Michael Carrington, I said, and she pulled her hand away quickly. She knew him all right.

He doesn’t care she mumbled.

So I guess our mutual friend is not on your Christmas list, but I can help you. Did he put you in here?

She paused a minute and moved her head in a slight nod.

Why? I asked not knowing if I was going to get an answer or anything for that matter.

Without looking at me, she took the candy I gave her before, and checked in in her mouth, then she took my hand and put the paper in it.

Paper she muttered.

She knew something, but it was locked tight in her mixed up noggin and I didn’t have the key to get it out.

As I looked down at the sticky paper in my hand, I realized that this was a her way of telling me something but I didn’t understand.

Walking into the midday sun back to the newspaper, I thought about the clue.

Meg worked in his office so she could’ve had access to files that’s paper.

Then I saw some poor sucker trading some George Washington’s for that stinky cheese sandwich and it hit me.

Money is made of paper. Counterfeit money. I suspected the Carrington’s of having a counterfeit operation for years, but had no evidence. Maybe Meg was the key. I needed to find out more of what she did for them.

In the years I followed this family I’ve seen them stomp over people and leave them in their wake for less, but to throw a young woman’s life away to cover misdeeds, that’s the true meaning of collateral damage. And I wasn’t gonna stand for it. I’m gonna get them and I’m gonna save her.

I live by a strict rule of conduct. Beck’s Rule 30, never leave anyone behind.

Click here to read the first/last installment Beck’s Rules

A Place Unlike Home

Author’s Note: What happens to the witch Elphaba when she flees Oz in the musical Wicked? This story developed from a prompt to find a different look at a fairytale story.

Elphaba walked on the dusty road for miles with only tumbleweeds crossing her path.

The dense monochromatic atmosphere made even her verdant skin look gray and lifeless, merging with her surroundings. After leaving Oz under the calculated cloak of her assumed demise, she a Fiyero were separated by a whirling dust storm, leaving her alone glaring into the desolate horizon.

Opposed to the vibrant kaleidoscope vision of the technicolor land of Oz, the landscape was bleak and colorless, filling her with uncertainty and fear of a force that swept them away to this land.

Restless to find Fiyero and concerned for his welfare, she pulled out her spellbook, still hidden in her witch’s cloak.

“I have to find him right away. He could be hurt,” she said hurriedly flipping through the pages. “I’ll try a simple locator incantation. 123. Let me see, find the one who is most special to me.”

Nothing happened.

“What’s going on?” she said nervously, thumbing through the text for a stronger spell.

“I’ll use a lost love spell, it’s more powerful. My eyes are dark. I cannot see, by the powers I wield, reveal my love to me,” she chanted.

Still nothing happened, sending Elphaba into a panic.

“Is it the incantation or me? I do feel drained. What if my powers don’t work here? I know, I’ll do my first spell. If it doesn’t work, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

She quickly turned to the first page of her spellbook and read it in the origin text, to be sure it would work.

“Abracadabra and alacazam.” She yelled, raising her arms in the air. But again nothing happened.

Elphaba fell to ground and hung her head. “I’m powerless. This place has not only sucked the life out of itself, it’s rendered me useless. Without my magic, how am I going to find Fiyero? How am I gonna do anything?”

Lifting her head, she saw an old farmhouse in the distance. It was so pale it blended in with the cloudless vanilla sky, making it seem more like a painting than reality.

“Maybe none of this is reality. Maybe this is a punishment for falling in love with the wrong man or for just being different. This is my own personal hell and that’s why Fiyero‘s not here with me.”

She got up and walked toward the farmhouse. On the mailbox was one word… “Gale.”

“That sounds so familiar to me, but I can’t put my finger on it,” she said and took a deep breath and approached the front door.

Next to the porch, she saw three farmhands in the nearby pigsty feeding the pigs. She watched them cautiously, hiding behind the corner of the house, careful not to startle them with her appearance. All her life, people were frightened by her mere presence.

“Hey there, young girl, you lost?” one of the farm hands said.

Elphaba curiously looked around and realized he was speaking to her. No one ever called her a young girl before. Astonished by their calm reaction, she looked down at her hands again; they were nearly camouflaged by the opaque setting.

Maybe here I’m not scary, she thought to herself and moved toward the men.

“Yes, I am,” she said politely. “If you please, could you tell me where we are.”

“You’re in Kansas young girl,” the farmhand said proudly with his hands on his suspenders.

“The greatest place on the plains,” the other echoed, puffing his chest out like a peacock.

Elphaba glanced around her sphere. Suddenly made sense. Plain is the best description for this area, she thought.

“What are you looking for?” the third one asked, throwing feed to the pigs.

She paused and thought to herself. What was she looking for? Other than Fiyero, she didn’t have an answer.

“I’m looking for my boyfriend. He’s a scarecrow,” she blurted out and the three men laughed heartily, taking her off guard.

“That’s a good one right there,” the man said with his hands on his suspenders again.

She looked at them puzzled. Why was that funny? He could badly hurt. What kind of sadistic people are these? she thought. She summoned her courage and asked.

“Don’t you have scarecrows here?”

“Sure we do,” chuckled the chest puffing farmhand as he pointed to the field.

Elphaba gasped at first from surprise and then took a second look and signed in relief. It wasn’t Fiyero.

Stuck to the top of a pole covered in black crows was a puppet stuffed with hay. Suddenly she realized that their scarecrow wasn’t real. Confused, she shook her head slightly, trying to make sense of everything.

This place is so foreign. Everything was opposite from Oz, she thought.

The kindly farmhand came up and put his arm around her with one hand still on his suspenders.

She shirked a little, then realized his genuine kindness was completely devoid of terror. No one except Glinda and Fiyero ever showed her any friendship. People either used her for her magic or reviled her appearance and feared her power.

This was different. This man didn’t know her, and yet he instantly gave her the consideration she never experienced before.

“Don’t fret, honey. We’ll help you in any way that we can. Why don’t you come inside and have some pie; that’ll brighten up your day. Then we can figure out what to do next.”

As they walked into the house, she looked around again and thought to herself. This land is strange and lackluster in its surroundings but its people are warm and kind. Oz was beautiful and vibrant, but its people were vile and judgmental. Maybe a bland world could be our salvation. If I can only find Fiyero, maybe we could be happy here in a place unlike home, she wondered.

Darkness Within

The dark sky loomed, relentlessly following every step, blocking every turn. I never thought I could feel so powerless.

How could the world twist so out of control that it would target my child?

I’ve always trailed my own unconventional path, but I can’t imagine what it feels like to be trapped in your own shell.

To wear an assumed societal mask in a false existence must wrench the spirit in a quagmire wrapped in chains.

Even creating a safe and loving environment couldn’t stop the waves of darkness and confusion within that tormented each moment.

Finally, a glimmer of light came from a new group of peers filled with acceptance and understanding. For the first time I saw my child burst out of a secret closet and embrace life. It was an emancipation of our souls. We could both breathe and fly free.

Then a tsunami drenched wall of stupidity and vitriol from the outside seeped in and threatened our ascension to the sun. And just like that, our wings were clipped and we fell into the darkness, deeper than before, forced into a chasm of hate.

My heart bleeds but, at the same time, it burns with the fury of a thousand flames for those who dare to judge, leaving me helpless, paralyzed by the world’s soiciopathy.

The venom which spews madness in every word fills me with doubt, losing faith in everyone around me.

Difference should be celebrated not demonized. An exceptional gleam can’t shine if filtered in the dusky gloom of shallow predetermined niches.

What happened to turn the other cheek? Do onto others? I’m left feeling those words spoken in praise are an empty idol of a golden rule only for those who righteously deem themselves holier than thou.

If the crime is difference, shackle me. But the burden can’t transfer. Like others who came before and to be, my child must walk a fearful lonely road in the shadow of intolerance and contempt. My only hope is someday they can bathe in the warmth of humane compassion and not succumb to a hellish evil, swallowed in the abyss of perpetual gloom.

Unhappily Ever After

You may be familiar with my story. I was a poor orphan forced into servitude, and then, with a twist of fate, fell in love with a prince to live happily ever after. That was the real story. The authors embellished it with fanciful inventions of fairy godmothers and pumpkins turning into carriages. That was all for show. I mean really, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo? The fairytale sounded pretty good, but I’ve found life after happily ever after is a whole different story.

After the wedding, life in the castle was instantly foreign to me. I went from scrubbing floors to watching others like me scamper around, ensuring that my glass slippers never touched dirt. It was unnerving. I’ll never get used to having servants. Anytime I try to pick up a dish or even make something in the castle kitchen, I’m scoffed and rebuffed by my new family and the servants I’ve tried to befriend.

And my Prince Charming wasn’t much help. At first we were like a normal honeymoon couple enamored with each other’s constant attention. We walked through the palace gardens and spent hours of alone time wrapped in each other’s arms.

But that only lasted a few months, then he was often attending to affairs of state his father delegated in his preparation to become king someday.

The queen was kind and tried to acclimate me with how to lessons on becoming a queen. I l listened carefully to learn to perform my duties. But it was all so meaningless. This fork can only be placed here and that dish must be exclusively used for this… and not that. Despite its tedious drivel, I attentively studied it like a craft, but it left me feeling empty and shallow.

Clad and jewels and beautiful sweeping gowns, I was excited to attend court dinner parties and dances to mingle with the court aristocracy.

But the parties were full of needless intrigue and strife. It quickly revealed to be a chess game of calculated moves for people in the court to attempt to gain favor with the royal family with the goal of gaining power, money and lands. Most of them were fairly obvious and none were accepting of a poor orphan who hopscotched her way over their heads to a queen-in-waiting position.

They were cordial, of course, but as soon as the king, queen and prince were out of earshot or sightline, I felt their daggered eyes peering holes in my head.

Terribly lonely, I sought adulation beyond the palace walls. My fairytale story was the envy of all in the village and gave hope to the people that anyone could vault beyond their birth position to fortune and love. To the people, I was a hero. From the moment I waved out of my wedding carriage to our post-nuptial balcony appearance, I felt their warm admiration of my fairytale dream.

Yet when I tried to venture out into the village, it was a nightmare. Just walking through the market, I was mobbed. People pushed and shoved to get my autograph and pulled at my clothing to touch me or speak to me. It was horrifying, and soon again I was left in rags, forced to retreat to the safety of the palace. I could only look upon the villagers, who were once my peers, from the balcony or windows of my beautiful solitary prison.

Soon the prince’s duties frequently took him away from me and I began to withdraw and resent him. And I recently found out that the prince has been placing other women’s feet in glass slippers, if you know what I mean.

I’m trapped. My life is meaningless, my husband has been alienated and I’m filled with depression, self-doubt and loathing.

When I first met the prince, I dreamed up a fantasy that had nowhere to go but down. I jumped too quickly, not thinking about life after happily ever after.

And that brings me to you, doctor. I hope you can help me make sense of this. I’m miserable. What do I do now?

Failure to Communicate

A few hours into her rem cycle, Norah tossed and turned in her dream. It started with she and her husband sitting across the dinner table.

“Carol told me we can get together sometime next week. Can you talk to Bob and make arrangements when you golf today?” Norah asked.

He responded in a mumble which seemed affirmative.

Then she’s whisked to an old vaudeville stage. The placard on the easel said “Mumble and Co.” and she and her husband are dressed in matching suits with bowler hats.

“Did you talk to Bob?” she said.

“About what?” he said.

“Going out?” she said.

“Where?” he said.

“You were supposed to make the arrangements?” she said.

“With who?” he said.

“With Bob,” she said.

“For What?” he said.

She released a heavy sigh as the audience responded with booming laughter and applause at the absurdity.

Then Norah is taken to a new scene, her living room, as she and her husband watch a TV crime drama.

“Who do you think did it?” Norah asked.

Silence.

“I’m betting on the husband. He seems guilty,” Norah responded to herself.

Silence.

“That actor seems familiar, doesn’t she?”

Silence.

“I’ll look her up on IMDB,” Norah said.

Silence.

Then the scene changed and she saw a operating room and noted herself in surgical garb with her husband on the table.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, concerned.

“We’re giving him a brain transplant,” the surgeon explained. “He’s lost his attention and memory.”

And as soon as she understood what was going on, she was shown another familiar scene, when she and her husband were driving in their car the day before.

“I need to go to that place,” he said.

“What place?” Norah asked.

“You know, the place with the things,” he strongly asserted.

“What things?” Norah asked shaking her head.

“You know,” he shouted.

Then before she knew it, she was in a prison yard. She was the guard and her husband was in shackles. The warden wacked him with a nightstick.

“Do you understand the words that are coming from my mouth,” the warden said in a sadistic southern drawl.

Her husband was silent.

“If you don’t respond to me, how do I know you heard or understood me,” the warden shouted and knocked him to his knees.

Her husband mumbled.

“I can’t understand what you said. Use words,” the warden screamed and knocked him on the head with the nightstick.

“What words?”

“Now, I don’t appreciate your tone, funny man. That’s gonna cost you.” He slapped his back with the nightstick pushing her husband’s body to the ground.

“You see here. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach.”

Norah woke up abruptly sitting straight up. Wiping her eyes, she shook herself awake.

“That was a weird dream,” she said, answered by her husband’s indiscernible mumbles.

“A likely response,” she smiled sarcastically.

“This is my life,” she sighed.

As she couldn’t get back to sleep, she picked up her book on the nightstand. “Men are from Venus and Women are from Mars,” Chapter 5, Translations.