Another great master storyteller uses a tale-winding technique as old as Shakespeare’s tales: A story within a story. However, there is a twist in this author's writing. The two stories are related.
       This tale presents the love of two people for their profession, the publishing business and their approach to their ideas of professionalism. The difference, in both stories, is the obvious differences between two generations. This story is fiction but could become fact and could be considered ‘Dark Fiction’.


Presenting .....an Excerpt......

       Her breath darted around her face and her eyes teared from the chill morning air as Katie hurried to the office. I hate this weather this time of year, she mumbled as she glanced at the empty street. Her complaints occupied her thoughts. Nobody who works in publishing is working today. No cabs, no people on these icy streets. Everyone in this company is older--over sixty, except me. And I’ve got a headache.
        She shuddered and lowered her head to avoid the air. She held her collar closed around her neck as she stepped lively against sharp cold wind gusts. Must be near zero. Her face was cold to her touch and she cursed Harvey as she avoided patches of sparkling ice. If only I had gotten fallin’ down drunk at the party last night. Wish I had stayed longer and flirted more. She longed to be in her large bed, cozy and warm, instead of fighting a December chill on her way to work.
        A street clock chimed the hour. Seven o’clock. This is ridiculous! Dammed weather! Damned Harvey! Damned boss!
        She screamed without opening her mouth, wiped her tearing eyes, and felt the chill on her face. She looked up at the tall buildings on publishers’ row that rose into the dark clouds. Who, with any sense, is working today? Christmas Day! Hate that old lecher! Harvey! Go to hell! Hate Chicago! Wish I were back in Iowa....That little outfit left you alone on Christmas Day.
        She stopped and listened to a high pitch sound as it got louder. A woman screamed and pointed upward. A white stream of large icicles trailed by powdery snow crashed onto the sidewalk showering the area with ice and water around her. She screamed and jumped backward as a passerby bumped her arm and excused himself.
        “Close call,” he said.
        Understatement of the year. Katie frowned at the man and looked up again toward the top of the building as a steady stream of snow continued falling and floating to the sidewalk. She wiped water from her face and coat. Her heart pounded. That ice could have killed me. And on Christmas day.
        She turned into the tan building and read its name: Burton Building, 1904. Small snow drifts covered the brass trim of the revolving door. Gray drifts lay against the doors’ bottom edges. Doesn’t look like anyone has used this entrance today.
        Katie laid her shoulder against the door, pushed with flat of her hand and grunted. It moaned and revolved slowly. Why doesn’t maintenance silence the scraping and creaking sounds? The door rotated slowly. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the rush of warm inside air, shook melted snow off her coat and hat, and stamped across the green marble floor to the security desk. I should have worn my snow boots. “Morning Miss Hurd,” the elderly man said. “What was that ruckus out there?”
        Katie looked up at the stranger’s face, his sparkling blue eyes and noted the bill of his cap almost touched his nose. Shadows covered his face. I don’t recognize this guy. Wonder where Charlie is? Funny. He knows who I am.
        As she picked up the long black pen to sign in, she said, “It looked like a ton of ice crashed from somewhere on the building. Could be dangerous. I can’t see your face under your cap, Mr...?” She bent over the register and peeked under his cap and saw a wrinkled face.
       “Do I know you, sir?”
        “Joe Carpenter is my name, ma’am,” he replied.
       He waited.
       “You’d best be careful, ma’am. Winter’s a dangerous time!”
        “Oh, Mr. Carpenter, sir!” she said. “You’re telling me it’s dangerous? Especially mornings. I shall be careful. You can believe.... Merry Christmas, I guess.” She signed the register, pushed it toward him and walked toward the elevators. As she walked backward, she shouted, “Where’s Andrew? He’s usually here in the morning. And how is it you know me?”
        “Old Andrew’s around somewhere, Miss Hurd. We both have to work today.” He turned the register to read it her entry. “Miss Hurd. We’ve been expecting you, that’s all,” he shouted, listening to his echoes. He didn’t smile.
        Of course. Harvey probably told him I would be in. What a mean face this old guy has. “Sorry you had to work today, Carpenter!” She didn’t sound sorry. “Which elevator should I take?”
        “Number four, Miss Hurd. It’s the only lift running,” he added, tipping the bill of his cap. He picked up a telephone. “Yeah. She’s on her way up.” He hung up.
        Katie smiled, hastened toward number four, and pressed the button. The doors whisked open. The elevator shook.
        “Board, please.” She looked at the small speaker. “Express run is not operative. Please state your destination floor number.”
        Katie stepped into the elevator and pressed her body against the rear railing. She ignored the voice’s repeat message and rubbed her arm to get warm. As the doors closed, she unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and pressed the button for floor fourteen.
        The elevator lurched and tickled her body. She stared at the bright, blurred lime green LED floor indicators as the elevator rose. The indicator showed fourteen as the elevator stopped. She shivered and enjoyed the feeling.
        “Fourteenth floor,” the voice said, as the doors opened quietly. “Thank you and watch your step!”
        “You’re welcome! I wish there were an eager muscular body to go with that voice,” Katie said, stepping out of the elevator into the hallway. This job has me talking to myself. She listened to the only sounds in the hall: her heels on the marble floor and eerie echoes. She had never walked this hall when it was vacant. Hate these damned walls, ceilings and floors. Terrible colors. Need redecorating. She burst through the swinging glass door and noticed the company logo: Winner Magazine.
        Her heel caught the edge of a thick, beige carpet as she hurried past the receptionist’s desk. This company’s a winner alright. She glanced up and down the empty executive hallway, noted the pungent aroma of floor wax, rushed past empty exec offices, and headed toward the door labelled: Private, Harvey, The Publisher. She rolled her eyes, pressed her lips together and adjusted her hat. What an egotist. Unbelievable! That old has-been!
        She pushed the door with the flat of her hand banging it open. As she puckered her lips and swaggered through the doorway, she glanced at the empty desk.. Karly! Are you really Harvey’s assistant? Then why aren’t you here today. I am. She enjoyed her sarcasm. Karly! Where are you when I need you! She’s probably home in bed, sound asleep. She hummed and noted Karly’s neat desktop. Karly isn’t here but her cheap lavender perfume is. Awful stuff! Only an old woman would wear that junk. That’s right. She must be sixty something going on ninety. Harvey’s door seemed taller and wider than she recalled. She tapped the wide, dark, oak door and rubbed her knuckle. Why the hell am I knocking? she asked herself. Nobody’s here but us loonies!
        “Come in,” Harvey said. “Coffee?” he asked pointing to the tray.
        She poured a cup and stirred a teaspoon of sugar into it “Good coffee. A little b and a little bit bitter, too--“
        “And thank you so much for taking time off,” he added cutting her off. “We need to talk--”
        “This is really grade B coffee, Harv. Now, please,” Katie interrupted.
       Harvey’s eyes widened. She walked to a large high back chair in front of his desk. “Just cut the crap, Harv.” She threw her coat and scarf in the chair and adjusted her hat. “What in hell--”
        “Tut tut,” Harvey said, interrupting again. He used a tone she hadn’t heard. As he walked behind his desk, he held a saucer in his hand and sipped coffee. The aroma of mocha and rum surrounded him. He strolled and talked in rhythm with a self- assured cadence.
        His manner annoyed Katie. What’s he up to? His tone is condescending. Think’s he’s maintaining control. Katie couldn’t take her eyes off his red Christmas tie. I won’t compliment him. She squinted as he continued talking and began to brush her jacket sleeves.
        “I’ve been looking over a few recent story submissions, Katie.”
        She stepped forward, opened her mouth and stroked an eyebrow. “Yes? Why?”
        “Now, now. Before you say more, Miss Katie, just remember who is in charge here.” He smiled and narrowed his eyes.
        “Oh?” she said and frowned. She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. “I sure don’t know where this conversation is headed. And, frankly Harvey, why are we here this morning?” She breathed heavily again and uttered, “Why are we talking about who is in charge? In charge of what? Why are you talking about stories? We’ve--”
       “Let me explain.”
        She straightened her jacket and guessed she was running a temperature. As she waited for Harvey to continue, her eyes caught every object in the room except Harvey’s face. He walked and talked softly, slowly, occasionally glanced at Katie like a cat circling a cornered prey.
        “You have dutifully signed all the weekly sheets, noting the possibilities for publication and the rejects: articles, poems, ads, etc. Right?”
        “Yes! Yes!” Katie said, shifting her stance. “I do know my job, Harvey, even though there are those employees who don’t seem to be able to cope.” She took a deep breath. What is his point?
        “The galleys, art work, ads and layouts for the next six months are completed and you’ve approved them, including the January issue?”
        “Yes, Harvey!” She yawned. She tried to understand Harvey’s expression. His manner caused her to shift her weight. She guessed he would ask her to make an important business decision. Maybe he’s gonna promote me. Maybe.
        “Katie. Tell me. Did you pay any attention to my comments, last November, with respect to a short story: The Big Kids by Connor Stars? I thought it had merit.”
        “Harv,” Katie started. She rubbed her forehead and started pacing. At times, she dragged her fingers along the mirror finish. “We don’t print short stories! Remember?” She whirled and stared at him. “Harvey! Hello! Remember?” She waved her hands and finally faced him. She leaned over the desk. “You do remember, right?”
        He turned his head toward her and glared without speaking. Then he squinted, held his breath, and pulled his head backward slowly standing tall. He looked like a cat that had decided not to make the a kill. She watched him move and massaged her temple as she decided she had made the wrong statement.
        “I won’t dignify that comment with a response,” he said, his voice echoing in the room. “Who in hell do you think publishes more crap than we do?” He threw manuscripts across his desk.
        “Crap?” she shrieked as she stood back. “Crap, you say?”
        “Crap, crap and garbage!” he said, throwing his cup and saucer into the unlit fireplace. Bits of china flew across the room. Pieces landed on the small carpet in front of the fireplace. Coffee sizzled in the embers and streaked the white and green marble hearth. Harvey blushed and pressed his lips together.
        She grew more unsure of her response. She hesitated. “I thought you approved of what we published,” she said, softening her tone. She set her cup and saucer on the desk, moved her coat aside, sat in the brown leather armchair and crossed her legs. Air from the cushion rushed around her as she settled back.
        “What about my comment, Katie? My comment?” He walked around and in front of his desk, frowned, pulled his pant legs up and sat on the edge. He pushed himself back waiting for her to speak.
        “What about your comment?” Katie asked, swinging her leg. She looked directly at him. His eyebrows arched into a 'V’ showing furrows in his forehead. What the hell is he talking about? I don’t remember any comment. He always just initials those damn sheets. Hardly ever comments. “Harvey?” she said shaking her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking--”
        “I directed you to publish The Big Kids short story in the Christmas issue due out next week.”
        “But, we don’t publish--”
        He flushed. “Don’t say what you’re thinking again or you will regret....” Harvey Dudjeck looked down at his hands, stood up, loosened his trousers at the waist, glared, and walked behind his desk.
        Katie watched his stiff manner, sensed anger in the way he moved and bit her lip as he looked back at her. She glanced out the large windows and watched clouds darken the sky. Snow darted against the large windows and she began to squirm. She had a bad taste in her mouth, for the first time told herself she hated her job as Chief Editor, and had doubts about working much longer for Winner magazine. With some encouragement, I could hate this place. She tried to appear relaxed.
        He looked at her and asked, “What did you think of the story?”
        “What story?” she asked. She took a hanky to her nose; dabbed her cheeks. “What do you mean?” She turned in the chair, looked down at her lap and glanced up at Harvey. “Big Kids? I didn’t read it.” What’s he gonna’ do now? Lose it? Explode, fire me, smash his knuckles against a wall? Throw me out the fourteenth floor window? He’s stunned by my reply. She chuckled. Her smile quickly faded.
        He said in a deeper voice, “Read it! Do you understand English? Read it! Read that short story. Read it!” He raised his hands over his head and shouted. “Read it now!” He jumped up. “Reeyuuuud it!” His voice went to a whisper.
        The phone rang. “Yes?” Harvey said. “Yes. In about an hour. Yes. Everything’s in order. Thank you.”
        Katie pressed her back and shoulders into the chair. She wished she could get lost in it. “I don’t know where to get a copy--”
        “Here!” Harvey said. He threw the manuscript to her. It fell at her feet.
        “Read it.” He opened a small drawer of his desk, took out a Kleenex, wiped his face, and turned the volume up on his desk radio.
        “...jingle bells...jingle bells... ”
        “Go to your office, read the story and be back here in an hour,” he said,forcing a smile.
        Katie grabbed the sheaf of papers, looked at the title, The Big Kids, and walked quickly out of Harvey’s office. Who is Connor Stars? I’m certain he’s not in the index of regular writers. She stomped through his outer office and hurried down the hall to the reading room, her coat trailed behind. She pressed her hand to her chest as her heart beat rapidly. She perspired.
        She pushed the door open, banging it against the wall, flipped all lights in the room on, and walked to one of the long reading tables. Ceiling and wall lights flooded the room but she turned on the green shaded reading lamp on and threw the manuscript on the table. Mumbling, she pulled her chair closer and put on her glasses. She read the title and mumbled. “Who is Connor Stars? Never heard of him!”

The Big Kids by Connor Stars A Short Story

        Harley and Loveley Matucek arrived at their daughter’s house to celebrate Loveley’s sixty-fifth birthday. Harley steered the Thunderbird close to the curb and waited to hear a gentle scraping before he touched the brakes. He winked at Loveley as lightning, followed by an oppressive roll of thunder rocked the car from side to side canceling the sound from the radio. “ ...And I love that song, too“ he shouted.
        “Me too,” Loveley said in a lower voice. “Sometimes.” She held her chin in her hand.
        Katie nodded as she read. What d’yuh know? She penciled the beginning and tapped her finger, thinking about it. She had a hunch the writer might be saying something Winner’s readers’ would enjoy. She eagerly awaited character development and turned the page. She pushed her hat back on her head and pulled her chair closer to the table.
        “That lightning hit somewhere close, Har,” Loveley said, wincing from the crashing sound and brightness of the lightning. It faded in the distance as Harley cautiously maneuvered forward and backward closer to the curb, Loveley glanced at Marta’s house. Still could use a good coat of paint, she thought. The rain sounded more like BB shot than water drops on the roof of the car. Loveley surveyed each of the front windows of the house as the car crept to a stop. Lightning, then thunder, shattered the neighborhood again. They both cringed. She covered her eyes while Harley set the gear shift to park and turned off the ignition.
        “Maybe we should wait a while,” he said. Loveley turned and looked at him.
        “I guess,” she answered, turned her head away from him then looked out of her window again. “Look!” she said raising her voice. “I thought I saw Michelle standing in one of the upper windows!” She glanced at her husband. Her words were unsteady. “Our granddaughter wasn’t supposed to be here today, right?”
        “Can’t be Michelle! Can’t be her, Love,” Harley said peering into the sky and trees as umbrellas of rain water splashed and danced in the street, exploded upward, then disappeared into puddles and gutter water. “She had some pajama party to go to,” he said under his breathe, sounding hostile. “Your birthday, my darlingest, doesn’t matter,” he said matter-of-factly. “You should know that by now.” He settled back in his seat. “Besides, it’s best considering what we have to do, get it right and now is the time! We can’t waiver—”
        “Are you sure?” Loveley asked interrupting her husband, asking about a subject they both understood and had known for the past year. “Are we? Are they absolutely certain?”
        “We’ve been through this enough times,” Harley said, pushing backward into his seat. He looked squarely at his wife.“I thought you were ready.”
        “I am. I am as ready as...” she said, wrinkling her forehead. “We’ve got to do it.” She paused and looked sideways at her husband. “Somehow it still seems like a bad dream. Like it’s not real.”
        “But it is real and a nightmare. Not only a bad dream, it’s a bad scene as those idiots would say.”
        Loveley knew Harley meant Marta and her friends. She glanced at Marta’s house again, covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. Lightning cracked and thunder rocked the car. “The worst storm this year! Wow!” Harley exclaimed, changing the subject. He turned his neck left then right to relax. Loveley knew that he was upset about what had to be done. They had talked it out in detail. The whole episode. The way it must happen. “Strange, though,” she thought. “It’s really their fault. That damned life-style. What gall! What disregard for life and grace and charm.” Loveley cleared her throat, thought about more pleasant times but couldn’t control her emotions: she scratched the metal of the door panel.
        “Now mother,” Harley said, looking at his wife and the lines on the door. “No more recriminations. Everybody’s doing it. It’s not our doing! So we’ll go ahead and get it over with.
        “I know exactly what we have to do,” she said, getting a lace handkerchief from her purse. “It just seems like a damned waste, if you’ll forgive my French. She stomped her foot on her floor mat.”
        Loveley turned again and looked toward her daughter’s house. “Oh God, Harley, she’s standing in the doorway! Can you believe it.” Loveley poked her head forward, almost against the window pane, to see her daughter better. “My God! She’s beckoning to us to come in.” Loveley lowered her window. “What?” she yelled to Marta. “Can’t you see it’s raining! We can’t hear you!”
        Over the sound of small raindrops on the car’s roof they heard, “I said. Come on in, you won’t melt!” Marta shouted. “Dinner will get cold.”
       Harley and Loveley slowly turned and looked at each other.
       “Do you get the feeling that maybe, and it may be a longshot,” Loveley said, “she may not be ours?”
       “That would explain many things, love,” Harley said. He sighed. “Many things, indeed.”
       Loveley turned and looked at Marta again. She could recalled past words and knew she thought the same words now.
        You won’t melt. Your aches and pains aren’t as bad as you make them seem. It’s all part of life; part of growing up. Loveley heard comments her daughter had made to her. How in hell would she know. Wet clothes won’t do me any good either. “God,” Loveley said to Harley. “That Marta is the dumbest....” She rolled her window up without answering her daughter. “Who gives a damn if the dinner rots,” she said looking at Harley. “Her dinners don’t get cold, they die of lack of interest.” Harley chuckled and caused Loveley to giggle. “If it weren’t pathetic...”
        “Be serious, Love,” Harley said. “This whole damned thing ain’t gonna be easy, and you know it.”
        The time between raindrops hitting the roof increased as Loveley put her handkerchief inside her new pocketbook. “Let’s get going, honey,” she said and opened the door.
        Harley jumped out of the car, slammed his door shut, hurried around to Loveley’s side, and helped her to stand up. He shut the door. She stepped forward onto the grass and then the sidewalk stamping her feet. “I really like your new dress and the purse is perfect as well as the shoes. Blue is your color, Love.” They walked arm in arm toward their daughter who stood in the double doorway of her large, white, two story colonial. He blew in Loveley’s ear and they giggled.
        “Hiyee!” Marta said.
        “Hiyee!” Loveley said, mocking her daughter.
        Marta bent forward and kissed the air next to her mother’s cheek. “Ummah!” she gushed, not touching her mother.
        “Un-huh!” Loveley said, walking past her daughter into the front hallway. She’ll never change, Loveley thought as she wiped her feet on the small shag rug. Still the same phony. Lousy cologne, too. She turned, held her purse with two hands and waited for Harley to step into the house.
        “Hi there, big guy,” Marta said to her father as she pretended a kiss. She looked at her mother and knew that Loveley waited for a compliment. “Now, Mumsie,” Marta said, closing the door. She knew that her comment would irritate her mother. “Is that a new dress or have you reworked an oldie I don’t remember?”
        Loveley clenched her jaw ignoring Marta’s sarcasm. If you only knew, you spoiled brat. She looked and pressed the flat of her hand against her breast as Jasper called from the kitchen. Marta wasn’t dull enough by herself. She had to marry that jerko professional student. I know he wears dirty underwear.
        “Be right with you. Make yourselves at home,” Jasper called.
        If you must. Harley grabbed Loveley’s arm.
        How lucky can we be? Harley knew Loveley’s thoughts by her expression. He smirked as they strolled into the living room. “You don’t want to give me your sweaters?” Marta asked. She belched.
        “No, I’m comfortable,” Harley said, as he sat in an armchair streaked with dirt and grease stains. He stuck a finger in a torn seam in one arm, pulled his trousers up and crossed his legs.
        Loveley sat down in the matching chair across from her husband, laid her purse next to the chair and added, “It’s cold in here, Marta. What’s your thermostat set at? I think I’ll keep my sweater on.”
        “Now, mother. It’s not as cold as you think. Besides, blue isn’t your color and it will, well, it will clash with the place settings at the table.”
        I’ll be so glad not to hear these homilies anymore. She shot a disapproving glance at Marta. The way she’s furnished this house I thought she was color-blind. “Try to manage, will you Marta.” She smelled dust as she settled into the armchair. She slapped her purse and arched an eyebrow. When was the last time she cleaned this room?
        Marta stood directly in front of her parents, folded her hands and bent them up and down. “What are we having today?” she asked. “We have...”
        “Anything but white wine, Marta,” Loveley said, shifting in her chair. She ran her finger down a thin slit in the chair’s material. “If I hear or have white wine again—ugh! Gads! They have no imagination on TV.”
        “Hey, I know what!” Marta said, pretending a revelation. She didn’t notice Loveley’s discovery of the tear. “How about some good Martinis?”
        The one thing Jasper does well, Loveley thought. Make a strong drink. She knew Harley liked Jasper’s Martinis, too. Loveley smiled at Harley who brightened and stopped opening and closing his legs rapidly.
        “Sounds good to me,” Harley added as he chuckled. Loveley knew from Harley’s tone that he preferred drinking with Jasper than talking to him.
        Marta turned, bowed slightly and left the room at a near skip.”Can you believe it Harl?” she said. “This time she may even find her way back to the kitchen?” Their bellies bounced as they laughed aloud.
        Harley picked a magazine from the table and flipped through the pages. Loveley watched him for a while as she tapped her purse. Blue isn’t my color. I’ll give her a color. Without thinking about it, she opened her purse and her fingers felt the small vial that could have passed for a perfume sample. Harley looked at her out of the corners of his eyes and confirmed she had it.
        “I was gonna ask about that,” he said pointing to the vial with his head. “Oh yeah. I’ve got it,” she replied. She looked away from him and wondered why Jasper had not come into the front room to greet them. He could hear Jasper and Marta bickering and swearing in the kitchen.
        Harley went back to flipping the pages in the man’s exercise magazine. He hoped to find something interesting to read. Wonder why publishers think the world is interested in child abuse, homosexual rights, feminists, and rationale for why drive-by shootings occur? What a waste of paper.
        Harley sat silent for a time. By the silence of the roof, he guessed It had stopped raining. The pendulum clicking in the large grandfather’s clock in the entrance pierced the silence. Harley screwed up his face as he flipped pages of muscular young men.
        He frowned as his thoughts wandered back to the morning his neighbor and best friend, good old Charlie, had approached him with a question that would change their lives and the lives of millions. Harley gardened in his backyard as Charlie walked up to him. He recalled how Charlie had wrung his hands as he talked.
        Harley wiped his forehead, pushed his cap back on his head and looked up Charlie. “What’s up, Charlie?” he asked digging in the dark soil. He turned over several worms.
        “The world is going to hell in hand basket,” Charlie said, as he knelt down on the ground next to Harley. “I’m disgusted. Mainly disgusted with my son, Mark.”
        “What’s wrong?”
        “We thought the gal Mark was going with would be a good influence on him,” Charlie said.
        “Yeah?” Harley said. He arched his eyebrows and sat back to listen. “You mean she isn’t?”
        “I guess she isn’t,” Charlie said as he slowly knelt down.
        “What happened?”
        “It seems she’s either running or involved with a call girl racket, for starters,” Charlie said, “if you can believe it.”
        Harley cocked his head. “No kidding? You mean Sharon? She seemed like such a nice—”
        “Yeah, Sharon,” Charlie said. “It’s still hard for me to understand. But it’s true. I know.” He pressed his lips together.
        “And?’ Harley said.
        “It would appear she’s also a doper, pushing and selling, I understand.”
        Harley coughed and shook his head. He patted Charlie’s shoulder. “That is hard to believe. But kids today.” He looked at Charlie’s face. “She seemed like a nice, sensible person. I thought she was—”
        “We all did,” Charlie said not waiting for Harley to continue. “Grace was so upset when she heard it she told me to have a good talk with Mark. She told me to tell ‘our son’ she was not about to have a daughter-in-law high on anything most of the time and also a madam.” Charlie shook his head in disgust. “She was ready to break off relations, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t tell her about Mark,” he said. “I just couldn’t. She’d explode.”
        “You mean the cocaine thing?” Harley asked. “Yeah,” Charlie said, shaking his head.
        “I don’t know how much money it’s cost me to get him into and out of that damned detox, but it’s been considerable.”
        “Is he OK now?” Harley took off his worn gloves and slapped the dirt from them against his leg.
        “I guess he’s OK until the next time. I really don’t know. The doctor said it could come back. Nightmares, I think he called it. The kid sees things that aren’t there.” Charlie looked at his friend. “Nonsense is what I call it. They’re useless to their families and the world.” Harley nodded.
        The scene faded in Harley’s mind as Jasper bounded into the room, juggling Martinis. He wore a soiled college track sweat shirt.
        The athlete,Loveley thought.Spare me!
        Harley moved a piece of food in his mouth as Jasper stood in front of him and extended his hand. “Hi Pops,” Jasper said. Harley had given up trying to persuade Jasper that he didn’t like the term Pops. They shook hands. “Don’t get up, Pops,” Jasper said laughing. “You must be tired.” He handed a Martini to Harley and then to Loveley.
        “I won’t get up if you tell me you’ve got something on underneath your sweatshirt.” He waited.
        Jasper giggled and raised his shirt. “See? Nothing there but me and these thinclads.”
        “Talk about thin. You’re showing your jockstrap. Is that the intent”
        “Oh, you know, Pops, when I’m running nobody notices. I’m comfortable in these shorts.”
        “We can nearly see everything,” Loveley added and sipped her drink. “Why should Harley be tired?” Loveley asked. “Are you tired?” She held her drink away from her. “This is a lousy Martini, Jasper!”
        “Not me,” Jasper shot back. “I’m not tired. In tiptop shape here: the highest degree of excellence. But Pops here could use a good diet.”
        This guy really knows how to win friends, Harley thought. He watched Jasper hike an imaginary football, play quarterback and throw a pass. “Another glorifying touchdown!” he shouted.
        “I thought you were a track man,” Harley said and agreed with Loveley. “Quite bad,” he said glancing at his Martini.
        I wonder if he can actually follow the ball? Loveley giggled at her thought. She frowned at Harley as Jasper continued his athletic exhibition. Dope makes you do funny things and see funnier things, she said whispering. Harley nodded..
        Unbelievable, Harley said to himself, and started flipping through the magazine again.
        Jasper pulled his shorts up tighter exposing all his curves. “Got to get back to the dinner,” he said. “We’re having Loveley’s favorite: wild turkey!” he shouted and guffawed all the way to the kitchen.
        “My favorite, yeah right,” Loveley said, glancing at the ceiling. Cobwebs all over the ceiling. Looks like a thatched roof. She stared at a floor lamp and noticed the layer of dust on the shade and a few slowly swaying webs. Wild turkey is your favorite, Jasper, not mine. She wished her daughter had not married Jasper. She cleared her throat to get Harley’s attention. He glanced at her. “This is all really your fault, you know.”
        “So you keep telling me.” He laughed.
        “We should have done something about him before the wedding.”
        “Right.”
        Loveley looked at her wristwatch and rotated it toward her to read it. Two o’clock. I wish it were four. She slapped the arm of her chair and scowled as Jasper shouted and Marta screamed. He had to be pawing Marta again: a routine performed often. She shook her head and shrugged.
        Harley leaned back in his chair and recalled his last meeting with Charlie. His voice rose and fell as he shouted and then spoke softly again. “Meet me there at that ice cream parlor at two. We need to talk. You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you.” Harley still heard Charlie slam the phone ending the short conversation.
        Charlie fingered the pamphlet in his hand to quote statistics. “It looks like the results of these studies indicate that those who have used any type of drug from peyote to those designer types, speedo, free-base or whatever, have brain damage. The users’ actions can be explained, and more than that Harley, they give examples.” He touched Harley’s arm for emphasis. “I found one typical case, an example, that sounded exactly like Mark; another that fit Sharon: sounded exactly like her. Maybe it was. And, Harley, don’t be offended, but you know as well as I do that Marta did her thing in college.”
        “What do you mean?” Harley asked.
        “Here. Read this,” Charlie said and handed Harley the pamphlet. Charlie touched his hot dog and felt his coffee cup. “Everything’s cold already.” He pushed the hot dog away.
        Harley read lines in the pamphlet Charlie had marked. He raised his eyes and frowned at Charlie. “My God,” he said. “This does sound like Marta: her problem.” He finished reading and gave the pamphlet to Charlie. “What are we gonna do?”
        “That information is coming,” Charlie said. He returned the pamphlet to Harley. “Here. This is yours to keep. You’ll need the info. They’re saying that further study indicates irrational behavior will, in a few years, lead to criminal activity that the kids won’t be able to control themselves. Psychological studies indicate that, based on certain drugs used, close family members are logical targets to them. They’ll kill for more money, kill anyone who gets in their way, just to get hooked again.” Charlie rubbed his face. “It’s terrifying, Harley.” Putting his elbows on the table he covered his face with his hands, sighed, then spoke through his fingers. “An unbelievable nightmare.”
        Charlie lowered his hands. “They will let us know. Just call the number at the end of the pamphlet, and they’ll put you on the info list.”
        “Who’s they?”
        “I’m not sure. I have confidence though.” Charlie rubbed his forehead hard and cussed. “We’d better eat our lunch now,” Harley said. “Calm down.”
        “Who’s hungry?” Charlie asked. He stood up, picked up his hot dog and cup, walked over to the waste receptacle and tossed them inside. “I gotta go, Harley. This whole damned thing has me upset.”
        “I know what you mean, Charlie,” Harley responded.
        He had dialed the number at the end of the pamphlet when he got home and became fearful as he talked with various persons connected with the organization that remained nameless. He had hired investigators to check out the validity of the people involved and learned that the organization was comprised of medical and technical researchers with heavy credentials who were well thought of among colleagues. The only connection with reality was the name of a Dr. Bonham. At a meeting, he heard a research fellow from a western university say, “If you want good research done, then you go to Dr. Bonham. His results are valid because the models he uses aren’t skewed or biased to begin with.”
        Harley had not understood everything he learned, but he did know that the information the organization was forwarding to him rang true, based on his own experience and observation, and the danger became more frightening with each new package of information.
        He shuddered and wiped perspiration from his face as he remembered the day the last document arrived. It was coded. He heard the voice on the telephone tell him there would be no further contact: no more pamphlets, no further comforting and consoling conversations. The deadline approached. He was told to watch the 3 A.M. television program the following Monday and was tutored by a professor relating a story detailing information about famous codes that had been used by different governments in war and peace. The program clandestinely informed its listeners how to decode the pamphlet they had received entitled, Your Last Chance.
        Harley read his coded Christmas catalog. He marvelled at how that television program turned a simple document into instructions on how to handle the next generation: what to do, how to take final care of them before all control was lost. His heart beat rapidly when he learned that the target group, in time, would use euthanasia against the young and his generation. He pounded his desk and cried knowing drugs caused a generation of human beings to be dangerous. He assumed it was worldwide.
        He had bit his lip and cringed when both Marta and Jasper insisted on their position and opinions in a discussion that was meaningless to Harley and Loveley. He recalled Marta had said repeatedly, “Remember, big guy, we’re the big kids now.” Jasper agreed and between hiccups mumbled, “Yeah. The big kids.”
        Harley had wanted to punch Jasper but refrained: they were using drugs. He was saddened as he thought about the conversation, and it was the first time in their long married life that he had heard Loveley swear. As he put thoughts from his mind, he glanced at Loveley and wondered how she was handling what they must do.
        Loveley ran her fingers over her purse and remembered the day she had walked into “their” computer room. Marta had said, “If I’m not home when you get there, use your key, go in, occupy yourself.” Occupy yourself, Loveley thought. She should have told me to make myself at home. Loveley walked through Marta’s house: thick dust on furniture and film on the window panes. She climbed the stairs, strolled into the computer room and stared at the PC. “Play with the computer, or something,” Marta said. “I’ll be there before you know it.” She didn’t know I took PC lessons. And Miss smarter than thou doesn’t know I can operate it.
        She walked to the desk and pressed the surge protector switch. She sat in the desk chair as the PC booted. Wonder what software they have on this PC? She scanned various directory and software titles, selected a file entitled, yes, frowned, and invoked the word processor. What an imagination, that Marta has. She probably has a file called no, too. She retrieved the file: yes and stiffened as the software asked for a password. That’s easy. She laughed as she typed: mine—Marta’s favorite word. She pressed the “ENTER” key and began to read the text on the screen.
        Loveley scrolled as she read. She began to shiver and wanted to telephone Harley. She tapped her foot, thought about Marta and Jasper and didn’t want to believe that their irresponsibility included vile deeds against her generation. Loveley completed reading, wiped her mouth and wanted to slap Marta.
        She returned to the end of the text and read aloud. “The time has come to ’putaway’ those in our society...” I can’t. I can’t, she thought, read the plan again. She would never forget the phrase: “for the good of the world.” What world? She stood tipping her chair. Not my world!
        She cried as she drove home. Harley had been right all along. She hated the world, hated the people in it, and most of all she despised the “next” generation.
        Loveley sniffled and touched her nose. The aroma of baking turkey, dressing and gravy caught her attention as she looked around Marta’s living room. She didn’t see the “Waterford” painting she had given her daughter as a birthday present. She heard what Marta told her at the time, “It’s old-fashioned.” Resentment rose again as Loveley experienced Marta’s rejection. She never knew I saw the painting in her garbage can. Loveley stared at Harley and felt her pulse pound in her temples. She massaged her head.
        Harley stopped looking through the magazine and threw it down on the coffee table. When in hell are we going to eat? He rubbed his chin, looked at Loveley, and watched her tap her foot. Nothing changes. Every time we come here, the situation gets worse.
        Thinking about his own feelings, Harley concluded that Marta and Jasper were typical of that generation: selfish and rude. They had no class. They are different! Marta and Jasper are uncaring people. He had given up thinking about his daughter and son-in-law in family terms. They had become two other people and he didn’t like or appreciate either person.
        Harley looked at Loveley again. “What time do we eat?”
        “They’ll be late for their own funerals,” Loveley responded. She paused, thought about her words and gasped. “Harley, I’m sorry,” she added. “I didn’t mean...”
        “It’s OK, mother,” Harley responded. “We’re beyond that feeling .”
        He thought about other conversations with Charlie about the consequences of the articles, heard questions he asked Charlie: where he got his pamphlets and information and their authenticity. He shifted his position as he recalled his attempt to dissuade Charlie from thinking seriously about the organization, recalled when he became convinced the organization was flawed as he and Charlie discussed the three questions Charlie said the organization suggested asking, if one had any doubts about dangerous attitudes.
        Harley’s skepticism, about the organization’s validity, vanished when he repeated the questions to Loveley and asked her how she thought Marta and Jasper would reply. She said she knew exactly what they would say: ’yes’ to all three questions. And indeed she was correct. He realized that Loveley understood Jasper, as well as she understood Marta, when Jasper also responded ‘yes’ to the questions and added a disgusting ‘generational’ diatribe without a present company excluded statement.
        Harley slapped his ankle as he glanced around the living room then stood and raised his arms high pretending to touch the ceiling. Putting his hands in his trouser pockets he walked slowly toward the hall and into the dining room. The long maple dining table was bare and laden with dust. One of their gifts, an expensive silver service, remained unwrapped in the china cabinet. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ate with their fingers most of the time. He shuddered. We should have saved our money! Maybe they’ll pawn that silver service, too!
        He turned back toward the hall and was startled to see Marta was staring at him. He looked at his daughter and felt as though he had never really known or understood her. He was shocked that the organization was correct when he had read, “People who use drugs exhibit no feeling of warmth and no rationality with respect to issues important to the other people.”
        Marta said, “We’re ready, now,” as if Harley were a stranger. She turned, crossed the hall and beckoned to Loveley. “Come on, Mumsie!”
        Harley knew Loveley swore. She hated the word, Mumsie. He walked back into the hall. Loveley met him, grabbed his arm, and they walked into the small kitchen together.
        “Did you expect us to eat in the dining room?” Loveley asked.
        “Yeah. I sorta did,” Harley said, looking angrily at his wife.
        “Fooled again,” she replied. He squeezed her arm sensing her uneasiness.
        “Not much longer, though,” he said.
        They agreed as they walked into the kitchen, looked at the small corner dining table and noticed the service for four. Jasper hummed as he finished dressing the salad.
        “Thought we’d serve cafeteria style,” Marta said as she pointed to the square working area next to the sink.
        “Why not?” Harley said. “We’re still able to serve ourselves.”
        Typical. Loveley wasn’t sure she would control her anger. She lifted and adjusted the strap on her slip. Either serve yourself or starve!
        Marta handed her parents plates and asked if they wanted coffee.
        “When will you learn your father doesn’t drink coffee, Marta?” Loveley asked as she placed turkey on her plate. “He hates it!”
        “Just asking,” Marta responded. “Gee, Mumsie!”
        Just asking, Loveley mocked to herself. God spare me! “What do you want to drink?” Marta asked, pointing to Loveley.
        “Water is fine for me,” Harley said, “and your mother too.” She added cranberry sauce to her turkey, potatoes, gravy and dressing.
        Marta rolled her eyes. “Awful lot there, big guy,” she said, glancing at Harley’s plate.
        “He’s cut down more than you know,” Loveley interjected.
        Marta hummed, ignoring her mother and placed water at their places at the table. Harley helped Loveley sit and walked around to his chair. He pulled himself close to the table.
        Marta came to the table, and Harley started to pull her chair out. “Nobody does that anymore,” she said, ignoring his gesture. “That died with your generation,” she added. Loveley watched Jasper fumble with the salad.
        The answer to question four, Harley thought. He looked quickly at Loveley who shook in disbelief. He noticed she had placed her purse next to her chair. He saw Marta had more space on her plate than food.
        “Dieting again?” he asked. Jasper came to the table with the large salad mixing bowl, handed it to Loveley and sat down.
        “No, just not too hungry today,” she offered. She took the salad bowl from Loveley, placed salad in her plate and handed it to Harley.
        Loveley didn’t approve of service that lacked salad bowls. She put salad on her main plate, smothering the turkey. Harley handed the salad bowl to Jasper.
        “Good Martinis,” Jasper said opening his eyes wide. “Strong,” he added as he set his glass on the table and coughed.
        “Well, what’s new?” Jasper asked Harley as he took the large bowl.
        “You’ll soon see,” Harley responded. “We have a pleasant surprise for you!”
        “Oh?” Jasper and Marta responded in unison.
        Already they sound as if the surprise isn’t good enough for them, Loveley thought. The damned turkey’s tough!
        “After we’ve finished eating,” Harley began, “you must go into the front room for a few minutes while we prepare your presents.” He had caught their attention. “Then we’ll call you back in for the surprise.”
        “I hope it’s money!” Marta said. “Really! I hope it’s money.”
        Harley looked at Marta and made no comment.
        Loveley chuckled inside. “It’s something to do with a long trip,” Loveley said. She smiled at Harley.
        “Now, mother,” Harley said. “No clues, please!”
        “I couldn’t resist it,” Loveley said.
        Marta and Jasper ate rapidly while Harley and Loveley pushed their food around. Marta stood up and shouted, glaring at Jasper, “I’m done!”
        Indeed,Loveley thought.
        “What do we do now?” Marta asked Harley.
        “Well, go into the front room and wait until we call you back,” Harley said.
        Marta walked around the small table. Jasper stood up and the two walked quickly out of the kitchen. “I’m surprised they’re not jogging into the living room,” Harley said in a low voice.
        Loveley took a small sample bottle of wine from her purse, held it so Harley could see it. They stared at each other. Time seemed to stop. “Well?” Harley asked.
        “Is this what we must do?” Loveley said.

End of Excerpt from Big Kids
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