#a toaster bath has been sounding real good lately

[warrendemachokeme]

The closer I get to my preop and surgery the more I'd like to run away cos I'm overwhelmed.com

[horseyfuture]

Lockdown Horrorscopes

Welcome, horrendous mortal, to your mind-rending Lockdown Horrorscopes. It has been some time since you last graced my tent with your questioning buttocks. No, do not cross my palm with silver, we use contactless now. Just press it on that bit of the window there. Excellent. Your payment has been accepted. Let us discover what the universe needs you to hear...

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Aries: After many weeks of lockdown, you are beginning to have conversations with inanimate objects around the house. In the middle of a one-sided argument with the toaster, a small, flint-hard piece of green-tinged pitta bread joins the debate, taking the toaster’s side and calling you a “scruffy tossbag”. You may be hallucinating, though also, that pitta bread has been there QUITE A WHILE. The pitta is chewy, but stops talking after a while. A little time later the room becomes a little sloshy, like gravy in a bowl. The fruit bowl pipes up as you walk past. It calls you a wanker.

Taurus: To fend off the tedium, you decide to play a joyful round of “how many chairs can you put on a chair”, to which the answer turns out to be “six, before getting a face full of chair”. While bleeding gently onto a chair, you consider that future sources of entertainment might be more wisely centred around (say) pillows, or kittens, or candyfloss. You do not own any of these things, sadly, as you sold what you did have to get more chairs, very much failing to anticipate the sorts of items commonly found to be of use in a lockdown. Oh well. You sigh resignedly and begin to put a chair precariously on top of some other chairs.

Gemini: Having had more Skype calls with family than anybody can healthily defend, you decide to take a long, relaxing bath. Unfortunately, you are running low on soap. Also, you forgot to stock up on bubblebath last time you went to the shop. And water. Additionally, you do not own any towels. Or a bath. Or the room for a bath. A bathroom, if you will. Still, not to be held back by trifling inconveniences, you diligently strip off and scrub yourself vigorously all over, while sat naked on the kitchen floor. Eventually, the people who own the house return and a Series of Exciting Conversations follow.

Cancer: Because you are so wildly creative and unique, you decide that among your already proven range of wondrous skills, such as writing crap poetry, making crap fan art for mawkish period dramas and attaching small pieces of technical lego to a crap hat, you will blow the minds of your friends by becoming... a baker! Yes. This will mark you out as a trend setter. You carefully go to the shop, observing social distancing except when you aren’t which is always and buy ALLLLL the ingredients for bread making. Literally all of them. So nobody else can make bread. Returning home, you valiantly point your wild intellect at the problem and, with a little help from a BBC recipe guide: YOU MAKE BREAD. It is crap.

Leo: You receive an unexpected parcel. The parcel contains mostly lizards. As well as the lizards, there is a bright red jewel which sparkles enticingly. You discover that the jewel allows you to control the lizards. And also, to see through their eyes. You, furthermore, hear their lizardy thoughts, although to be fair, their minds are fairly quiet and their thoughts are mostly “Woohaar! I’m a lizard!” With your newfound powers, you decide you will finally be freed from your virus-laden lockdown. No longer will you be caged by a mere four walls. You send your lizard army forth to bring you new sights, sounds and experiences. Unfortunately, almost everything is shut and the outside world is pretty dull. After a bit, one of the lizards politely asks if they might have their minds back, to which you accede. They agree to pop round on Thursdays. They’re good lizards.

Virgo: The Gods smile upon you today. The Gods wink at you, also. The Gods send you a direct message asking you how you’re doing today and mention that you’re looking great in that recent profile photo. The Gods say they’re doing alright, you know, but feeling kinda lonely since Karen left, so hey, did you ever get back together with Steve? No? That’s a real shame, you were a sweet couple. The Gods ask if that means you’re still single, then? You are? Oh, baby, there ain’t no justice. What you need’s a real man. You sure do. You deserve one. Or maybe even better. The Gods wonder if you’ve ever made it with a deity. The Gods wonder how come you went so quiet. The Gods say aw, come on, don’t be like that. The Gods themselves go quiet for a while. The Gods send you unsolicited photographs of their genitalia. You block the Gods.

Libra: As you open your kitchen cupboard, a wizard appears before you and tells you that of the two remaining cans of soup, one of them contains not just soup but truly endless riches: the meaning of the universe and an infinite lifespan granted to the opener, with which to explore and enjoy the myriad beauties to be found in a boundless cosmos. In the other can: SUFFERING. Problematically, though, one of the cans is tomato soup from a fairly reputable brand and the other is leek and celeriac, which your weird aunt sent you about four years ago and seems to have been manufactured by ancient Welsh hippies. You go to open the tomato and the wizard winces and whistles through his teeth. You reach toward the leek and celeriac. The wizard smiles and waggles his eyebrows. Bugger this, you open the tomato, the wizard disappears and your arse immediately falls off. You have no regrets and the soup’s pretty good.

Scorpio: You are the twat that took all the toilet roll. Helpful. Aren’t you a good little pandemic pixie? Getting up at shithead o’clock in the morning and nicking all the stuff that your neighbours might have wanted. They suspect you. They saw you carrying your many, many bags past their windows and into your flat. But what they don’t know is that you’re not using it the way they imagine. You haven’t done a poo in over five weeks now. Not since you superglued your bum together. They’d think you were crazy, but you had to. To save the toilet roll for Greater Things. The pains come again, as your tummy heaves and you try to poop through a blocked up bum, but you breathe deeply and in time this passes. Now you are free to return to your great work. Your 20ft high pornographic sculpture of the Queen, made entirely from papier mache. Your Majesty looks down on you in erotic approval.

Sagittarius: Carnival tiiiiime! It’s carnival time! CARNIVAL TIME! Oh boy, oh boy, you can’t wait! You LOVE carnival time! You’ve been waiting so long, and they said you weren’t going to have carnival time because of the virus, but you weren’t gonna miss out! CARNIVAL TIIIME! There’s a strange knocking sound. That’s not usually part of carnival time. You follow the sound to the door, which you open gingerly. Who? Ah. OK. Right you are. I see. Yup. Yup. I will. No, you’re right. I’ll do that. I will. I’ll put it back. I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s not a real one, it’s just a, no, OK, I’ll get rid of it. And the fish. I got it online. I’ll look after. OK, no, I understand. I know. I will. I’ll wipe it off. Yep. I will. Right away. Sorry. OK. Bye mom. So. Uhhh. Yep. Yeeeep yep. It is definitely not carnival time.

Capricorn: You begin to suspect that there is something going on with your neighbours next door. There are animal sounds late at night and you’re certain they have no pets. Sometimes you hear a tapping, it seems rhythmical. Almost like Morse code. How you wish you’d remembered the symbols they taught you for that when you were at school. One morning, you wake up and sit bolt upright as the sounds of a plaintive, strangled scream are quickly drowned out by a guttural groan of ecstasy, as if something huge and ancient had been satisfied in a way that only demons would commend. Sullen red illumination fades from the windows and all becomes silent once more. You resolve to ask the vicar if he’d consider wearing headphones on his Zoom calls in future.

Aquarius: You decide that you will spend the week not wearing a bra. Why not? Why shouldn’t you at least enjoy some of the more free and easy aspects of long term self-isolation. After the week, though, you sort of miss the bra, so you start wearing it again for a few days. Yeah, actually, this is kind of better. And if this is better, how good would two bras be? You try it out. Feels amazing. Why didn’t you try this before? How could you not have realised that the problem wasn’t tight bras or ill-fitting bras, or always having to wear a bra, the problem was: Not ENOUGH bras. You immediately add a third bra. Holy crap, this is the life. Five or six bras in, you’re starting to slow down a bit, not least because of the underwiring, but you feel incredible, and the SUPPORT is off the chart! The door bell rings. You clatter to answer it, now a somewhat difficult proposition given all the bras. Delivery guy leaves a large parcel on the floor to maintain social distancing, which makes picking it up a little tricky. Again. All the bras. You hobble inside and manage to pop open the parcel. Ah yes. More bras. Perfect.

Pisces: Day 37. You miss your partner. It’s been weeks now and while the occasional saucy video call has kept some semblance of intimacy together, you have needs and an itch you cannot truly scratch. Your hamster runs noisily in its catch, the wheel squeaking. The hamster gets more exercise than you these days. If only you hadn’t sold that treadmill. You feel a kinship to the hamster, tinged with guilt. Now you yourself are confined in your house, you feel bad for locking up little Hammy. In fact, you decide to let Hammy out. You share a strange kinship with Hammy now, fellow prisoners in life’s lonely cage. So lonely. Just you and Hammy. All alone. Nobody else around. Poor little Hammy. All alone, just like you. Day 38. You look at Hammy. Hammy looks at you. Tired, but loving, Hammy’s eyes seem to say a lot of things to you and you feel a different kind of guilt now, looking into them, albeit mixed with gratitude. You put an extra helping of food in the cage, fill up the water bottle and think about where you find yourself in these strange times. You glance back up at the cage and think. “They’re going to make me marry that hamster”.

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YES! The vision is complete. The skies briefly whirl, the oceans dance then subside and the stars cease their jagged oscillations abruptly and settle down with some snacks to watch Netflix. You have heard the universe’s dark narrative and your brain structures are indelibly marked with what must come. Now go. And tell nobody you visited me today. The police regretfully do not consider this to be classed as an essential journey.

[placingglaciers]

Stray Happiness

Title: Stray Happiness

Genre: AU, Platonic, Fluff

Word Count: 1, 376

Warnings: None!

Description: In which Dan has been taking care of a stray black cat in secret for three weeks now and Phil, his roommate, hates cats and the very idea of having a pet and finds out.

Author’s Note: I’ve been dormant lately (as you could probably tell), so I thought what a better way to come back than to write a fic based off of a simple one-act play I had to write in my creative writing class last semester! (Please remember that this is fiction.)

Perhaps it was the way that the morning sun painted the immense sky with warmth, or how the toaster browned his bread just right this time, or even how the irksome repetitive barking from the dog next door seemed to have…stopped. The spring birds chirped in the trees above; their absence went on for far too long, but their presence becoming a sign of something new, something welcomed, something finally beginning. The air was comfortably warm; a thin blanket you wouldn’t mind being wrapped up in after climbing out of bed from a restful slumber. The smell of rain was in the air, but that wouldn’t be for until the afternoon when everything was hazy and minutes disguised themselves as hours. But for now, the orange juice was cold, the toast was buttered, and the morning silence was just loud enough to complete this little world. This was a Monday morning. A pity that no one would take the time to appreciate.

               For nearly half an hour, this little stoned back patio would be Daniel’s. Philip didn’t have his photography class until ten, so he was still in bed. The old green and white webbed aluminum chair supported Daniel as he sat, patiently waiting. He was wearing a floral orange kimono over his pajamas—a color he suddenly found intriguing and exciting. Soon all that was remaining of the toast was crumbs and the orange juice still had a bit to go. He thought pouring it in a wine glass would make him seem fancy. Why not? Was there a rule against it? He took a deep breath and sighed, appreciating the blue, cloudless sky above him. In this little window of time, he could do anything he wanted without being bothered or questioned. Every morning he tried to use it to his advantage.

               Daniel set his orange juice down on the round glass outdoor table and stood up. He walked over to the wooden bench on the side of the patio and lifted its seat to the storage compartment. He took out a small paper bag of dry cat food and a slightly discolored Tupperware bowl. He set the bowl down and poured the food, hoping the sound would summon the cat. Once everything was put away, he sat back in his chair again and waited.

               Only a few minutes passed and rustling from the tall bushes in the corner of the small yard could be heard. Daniel had to laugh to himself for how disproportionate the loud sounds were to the size of the small cat. Soon, a furry black figure emerged from the shadows and meowed all his way toward the food bowl. The cat only ate a few bites before visiting Daniel, rubbing its body along his pajama pant legs. Daniel reached down and petted the cat, of which he enthusiastically responded. Daniel smiled widely and said a few sentences filled with love and curiosity. After a few seconds, the cat returned to the food and Daniel was once again filled with some sort of happiness.

               “Alright, I’m leaving!” Philip’s voice could be heard from inside. “I’m going to be late.”

               Daniel’s eyes widened and his body froze in the chair. His eyes darted toward the oblivious cat who was finishing the remainder of the food. Quickly, Daniel got up from the chair and walked toward the screen door.

               “I was wondering, what do you—” Philip walked out onto the patio but stopped speaking once he saw Daniel’s ashamed demeanor.

               “I-I thought class didn’t start until ten,” Daniel stammered and carefully wrapped his kimono around himself and retied it again.

               “I’m meeting with a few friends first to study,” Philip said slowly, trying to see what Daniel was hiding.

               Daniel let out a laugh, “it’s photography, what do you need to study for?” His words slowed once he noticed Philip caught him red-handed.

               “What is that?” Philip asked him sternly.

               Daniel backed away slowly and protectively toward the cat and swallowed, trying to be calm. “Shelby is a who, not a what.”

                “Shel—it has a name?!”

               “Shelby is a he, not an it,” he responded just as calmly as before. This was it now. This was where it all ended. How did things become so messy all of a sudden? If only Philip minded his own business every now and then, things would still be orderly and predictable.

               “When were you going to tell me this?” Philip had his hands on his hips. Undoubtedly his study date was no longer a priority. “How long has this been going on?”

               Daniel picked up the black cat and held him in his arms. Shelby purred in response. Daniel kept his eyes on the cat. “I was going to tell you…eventually,” he confessed sincerely, “but you’re never really here and you don’t really care about anything I do, so I thought it wouldn’t matter anyway.” He finally looked at Philip in desperation, eyes wide and his breathing fast. “Look, Shelby needs me. He was barely alive when he first got here!”

               “And when was that?”

               Blood rushed to his cheeks, “three weeks ago.”

               Philip’s eyebrows rose and he took a step back. “You need to start telling me these things! Because before we start having a pet—”

               “Shelby is a friend, not a pet.”

               “Well, whatever he is, he can’t stay here. Cats are mean and selfish and expensive and they pee indoors, and they tear up the furniture, and, and this one especially is bad luck!” Philip ran his fingers through his dark hair and sighed, “Besides, I’m allergic.”

               Daniel tightened his lips and rolled his eyes. Hot anger boiled up inside him. Why wasn’t Philip on his side? Weren’t they best friends? Couldn’t he tell how much everything has changed in the past three weeks? Life didn’t hurt so much anymore. “It’s a good thing you don’t take care of him then! Shelby hasn’t done one thing to you! You haven’t even noticed him until now.” He decided to put down the cat and brush off the black hair on his kimono. “Don’t you…don’t you have class or something?”

               Philip quieted down once he saw how distressed his best friend was. “I’m sorry. I’m just really surprised. I wouldn’t exactly consider you as a caregiver-type.”

               Daniel shrugged and kept his eyes on the fluttering birds in the trees. A few butterflies were about, enjoying the flowers in the warm sun. He squint his eyes up at the bright sky. “Maybe I found a purpose. Is that such a bad thing?”

               Philip remained quiet and stood closer to Daniel. He wasn’t as angry as he was before, just…bothered. He noticed the cat giving himself a bath in the grass and he quickly averted his eyes to their neighbor’s tacky outdoor décor. “Is that true?”

               Daniel glanced over at Philip and then back at Shelby. He was enjoying this abrupt honesty. This usually didn’t happen unless it’s late at night or when either one of them were drunk. It felt nice and real. “I-I don’t know. I just know that waking up is easier now.”

               “What if…what if he starts bringing all his friends?” Confliction was coated in Philip’s words. Daniel could tell he was really fighting the idea, but he had a feeling he was going to win. “We’re not becoming a bed-and-breakfast for cats, Dan.”

               “Well, that’s the problem,” Daniel said sincerely. “I don’t think he has any friends.”

               Suddenly, Shelby came running back to them, this time rubbing against Philip’s legs. Philip hesitated and then slowly lowered his hand down toward the cat. Shelby sniffed it and rubbed his face against it. A smile creeped along Philip’s face, but he tried to conceal it from Daniel. His allergies were beginning to act up, but he ignored them for the time being. “You’re happier now?”

               “I don’t know what I feel,” Daniel shrugged. “I just know it’s different. A good different.”

               “Well…” he sighed and glanced over at the pathetic cat bowl. “I think we need to get him something different to eat out of. That Tupperware belongs to my mother and she would not appreciate that.” He then smiled genuinely at Daniel who could only smile back in return.

[danbily]

A Night in Scranton

We all take jobs that lead us far off our intended career path.  Mine started in the summer of 1973 as a newly minted Greyhound bus driver, trying to make extra money while teaching school in Buffalo, New York.  I answered their help wanted ad in the Buffalo Evening News out of curiosity and as more of a joke than anything else. What does an elementary school teacher have to offer a bus company known for a dog as its trademark?  They explained at the interview that teachers made the perfect fill-ins during their heavy travel times. We appeared clean cut and were polite with the traveling public. I bought their pitch and signed up for a new driver school that started in March.  I was all of 24 and eager to make extra money to supplement my abysmal teacher’s pay. My wife and two infant daughters were my main concern in this venture into transportation.

In 1973 the highway buses all shifted with manual transmissions.  This seemed like a piece of cake for me since I drove a VW Beetle with a four speed.  I was soon in for a surprise. The industrial transmissions used in buses required a technique known as a double clutching between gears.  The entire month of March was devoted to our mastery of the elusive art of timing our gear shift movement to the speed of the engine and that of the bus. Each shift required two presses of the clutch, not one as in a car.  It was a mechanical ballet that needed perfect timing in order to avoid the ugly and annoying sound of grinding gears and a lugging diesel engine. The clutch was also industrial and needed a lot more effort than my little VW.  I went directly from Greyhound class to soaking my left knee in a hot bath at home.

By April, they’d culled out several of the teachers for their inability to master the art of the double clutch transmission.  I felt fortunate to still be in the running. We were now onto the many other issues involved in driving a forty foot long highway bus. Tight roadways and heavy traffic are not your friend.  Weather is always in the back of your mind. A bus will hydroplane in a heavy downpour. The wind can force you into another lane of traffic. Snow and ice are the food of legendary driver room stories.  Slowly, I was becoming a bus driver, sans the rough edges of a Ralph Kramden. I was to be the Greyhound model of the trade.

This all led up to my night in Scranton.  The regular driver on the run from Buffalo to Scranton was Ron Perry.  He was in his early thirties and sported a modified Elvis haircut very much out of date by the seventies.  He’d been assigned to train me on this difficult run and he instructed me to sit in the first passenger seat on the right, take out my route schedule, and keep notes.  

As we broke the state line into Pennsylvania, the road narrowed and the shoulder rose up on one side.  “Deer will leap off those banks at night,“ Ron remarked, “My buddy had one come through the windshield and kill the lady sitting where you are.”  Perhaps the extra money no longer sounded so enticing. This was a real driver speaking without the Greyhound PR department providing the script. I knew from teaching that nothing equals the wisdom in the trenches. What was I in for?

We rolled into Scranton around five and turned the bus over to a Philadelphia driver for the remainder of the run.  Ron walked me through his log book entries and took a brief peek at my notes. “Hopefully you won’t see much of this run,” he said, which didn’t sound very encouraging.  “Wait till you see the Jeremy Hotel, only the best for Greyhound!” As we walked from the bus depot into downtown Scranton, I suddenly became aware of the old coal town’s state of decay.  Soot ran in streaks off window sills. The brownstone and brick buildings were blackened like fire ruins. The sidewalks were devoid of activity and many of the local shops were already closed.  “This is the only diner open. I like their fried baloney plate for three bucks.” Mr. Perry was not a man of complicated culinary needs. We went inside and sat at the counter as the heavy scent of the fryer filled my nostrils.  “Two coffees and a menu for the new guy.” The waitress pointed to the board above the short order window. “It’s all there, hun, and if you don’t see it, just ask.”

Lo and behold, there it was. Charbroiled liver and onions with the side note “new.”  Charbroiled was new in the seventies and I couldn’t imagine what it could do to rescue liver and onions from the bottom of my list of edible disasters. Knowing that Ron would soon have that baloney plate special in front of him, I didn’t want to be outdone in the search for politically incorrect food.  Liver is high in cholesterol and acts as a filter for an animals toxins. If the road didn’t kill me, the food sure would. “I think I’ll try your liver and onions tonight,“ I said. The waitress jotted down our orders on her pad and hung a copy on a little stainless steel wheel for the cook to view. Ron smirked and remarked that he was glad we had separate rooms.  

I actually enjoyed the charbroiled liver and onions and finished my entire plate before Ron got through with his fried baloney.  We both ate for less than our Greyhound dinner allowance of five dollars and off we went to the Jeremy Hotel across the street from the diner.  The Jeremy had once been the grand residence of downtown Scranton in the days of coal. Hard times and hard traffic had left a worn track in the once plush carpet from the entrance to the clerk’s desk at the rear of the lobby.  “Hey Ron, another new driver tonight?” the clerk asked. He obviously knew his regulars and my uniform left little to ask about my profession. “Did Ron tell you about our TV policy?” I’d never heard of a TV policy and shook my head.  “They’re portables you carry up to your room. The black and whites are two dollars a night and the color ones are three dollars. Greyhound has your room charge but you need to cover your TV out of pocket.” Ron handed the clerk his two bucks and grabbed a small black and white portable from a closet behind the clerk’s desk.  “I’m beat, forget the TV. I’m hitting the hay,” I said. Then the clerk said the oddest thing. “Radio is free. It hangs on the wall above your bed and has five local stations. Oh, did Ron tell you about your bathroom?” This was getting really strange. “You share it with your neighbor. You lock him out when you enter and unlock him when you exit.  Please don’t forget this, especially in the middle of the night.” A shared bathroom? A radio with five stations that hung on a wall? What year was this? Was I still in America?

Ron hit the stairs with more wonderful words of advice.  “Use the stairs, you’ll wait forever for that old elevator, sometimes it sticks between floors.  We need to meet down here in the lobby at five AM. Don’t be late.” My training experience had just hit a new low.  What if they stuck me in this shithole all summer? I didn’t think this old fire trap even had AC. I was writing my resignation letter in my mind as I climbed the worn wooden staircase that led to my second floor room.  I was holding a large skeleton key. I’d only seen this type of key in old movies and at my grandmother’s house years ago. The hallway leading to my room smelled of years of stale cigarette smoke and spilled booze. Did anyone pay good money to stay here?  Greyhound corporate needed to hold its Christmas party here.

I entered my room like a thief, cautious yet curious at the same time.  It was clean but dark in all aspects. The walls had been painted a dark green and the furniture was made of dark wood, an old design from before the war.  The head of the bed was pushed against the far wall and there was a strange art deco metal box the size of a toaster one foot above the headboard. What in the dickens was this contraption?  I moved closer and could plainly make out a small speaker in the center and two knobs on each side near the bottom. One knob had a pointer attached and was labeled with the letters A-E. The other was circular with “volume” written in small print above the knob.  So this must be the free radio? My God, I was born in 1948 and I’d never come across such a strange device. I carefully turned the volume knob and sure enough there rose that distinctive low fidelity sound of an AM station. I flipped the selector knob through the remaining alphabet.  Each letter brought another station with two of them smothered in static. I knew from an earlier job in broadcasting that these were most likely not local stations. What an odd device, and it still worked. I’d bet most guests had dismissed this little box as a joke left over from the glory days of booming downtown Scranton in the 40s and a hotel so broke it couldn’t afford to remove useless junk from the walls.  

At that moment, I could hardly wait to see the shared bathroom I’d been warned about.  I knocked lightly on the dark wooden door and twisted the old glass knob, and, there it was, a bathroom right out of the Great Gatsby era.  Small white hexagonal ceramic tiles on the floor and shiny square white tiles on the side walls. Halfway up they ended in a black ceramic border that ran the perimeter of the room.  On one side was a massive claw hammer tub and exposed brass fixtures with white ceramic handles labeled hot and cold. A chain with a rubber stopper hung from the overflow drain. A strange oval shower curtain hung from the ceiling.  Opposite the tub was a pedestal sink flawed with eggshell like age cracks and again sporting two large brass faucets with white ceramic handles. A small hotel soap labeled “The Jeremy” was neatly placed on one side. The purchasing agent must be in a time warp or have a strange sense of humor.  Would anyone want to be found with that bar of soap in their travel bag? The toilet sat next to the sink and was a good six inches higher than my new one at home. It sported a black wooden toilet seat of the horse collar style. The brass attachments had long ago turned green from missed aims. I locked the guest door at the far end and drew a bath.  I didn’t trust the shower and I felt like a good soak was a better choice.

I’d done plenty of shifting and my left knee ached.  I sat down in the oversized tub and laid my head back on a rolled towel.  I felt like I was 24 going on 60. My doubts surrounded me like the bath water.  How did one make a career out of this type of work? Why spend three nights a week away from your family in a run down shithole in the middle of nowhere?  Whatever good thoughts I had of a Greyhound career died that night in Scranton. I heard a knock on the guest door and shouted that I needed five minutes to clear out.  

Back in my room, I stared at my bed and the small grey box above the headboard.  Let’s see what this living antique has to offer, I thought.  I switched through two stations and heard a familiar voice from my youth.  It was Rod Serling introducing a radio play on the Zero Hour. I’d loved him when I was younger and decided that this was what I’d settle on.  The play was about the Bermuda Triangle and the possible reason for its mysterious goings on. I laid there and listened, and I found myself enjoying it.  I could visualize every detail in vivid color. Radio was perfect for storytelling, and I felt fortunate that I’d foregone the television and saved three dollars in addition.  The play ended with the explanation that the Triangle was a space port for aliens. Rod signed off in his distinctive deep voice and I went to sleep early.

Years passed and I left both Greyhound and teaching behind for a far more lucrative career in sales.  I traveled to many parts of the world, always eating at fine restaurants and staying at five star hotels with all the amenities.  Of those experiences, I can’t recount one as fondly as I can that night in Scranton in 1973.