Breakdown

Breakdown By Darryl Brooks Annie Tucker was cruising along US-1 in the no-man’s land between Jacksonville and Daytona Beach, Florida. Her ML430 cruised effortlessly at 75 MPH with the sunroof open and Tom Petty blasting on the stereo. She loved her new Mercedes and all its toys. She watched the GPS navigation display on the dashboard – the arrow pointing south, showing she was about ten miles from St. Augustine, the country’s oldest city. It was past midnight. She hoped to make Daytona Beach and find a hotel with a vacancy. As Tom Petty stopped singing about an American Girl and Bruce Springsteen began belting out Thunder Road, the GPS blinked off. She just had time to wonder what was wrong when the lights flickered on and off several times, then stopped completely, along with Bruce. “Shit!” she screamed as she pulled off the road. She hit the emergency flashers. Nothing. “Shit!” she yelled again. She grabbed her cell phone and flipped open the cover. No Service. “Dammit!” She turned off the engine and got out, walking around to the shoulder and away from the car, hoping to get at least one bar, but there was nothing. The only thing she could do, she decided, was to make it to the next town without lights and call for service in the morning. She got back in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. “Oh, God, no,” she whispered, trying again. Nothing. It was completely dead. She was trying the cell phone again when she saw a headlight in her mirror. She hopped out and stood behind her car waving her arms in the moonlight. When it got a little closer, she heard the roar of the engine just as she realized it was only a single headlight. She didn’t have to think long about an encounter with some biker out on a dark highway. She got back in and hit the door lock button – nothing happened. She reached around and hit the manual lock just as the motorcycle pulled up behind her. She watched in the mirror as a man got off the bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, just a bandana wrapped around his bald head. He looked as big as a mountain as he approached her from the driver’s side. “Hey, lady, got a problem?” “No. I’m fine. Thanks” He pulled off dark glasses and looked at her with smiling, yet cold, eyes. He said, “I thought I saw you waving.” “No, just stretching my legs for a minute. I’m fine. Thanks, anyway.” She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. The man was huge, his muscular torso straining at the black t-shirt under the leather vest. The vest covered with patches and pins, a silver cross dangling from his right ear. “Lady, if you’re broke down, I’d be happy to give you a ride,” he said, “no helmet law in Florida. Just hop on back and I’ll take care of you. There’s a little roadhouse up the highway a bit. You make a call; I’ll buy you a beer. The name’s Jax.” “No, really, I’m fine. Just resting a minute and I’ll be on my way.” She held up her cell phone. “I just stopped to call my boyfriend. He lives close by.” “Yeah, whatever. Not many people take this road at night with the Interstate so close, but if you say you’re okay, I’ll be scootin’ down the road. You change your mind, I’ll be at the bar, about two miles down on the left.” With that, he turned and walked back toward his motorcycle. Annie gave a yelp as he slapped the side of her car. When he reached his bike, he hiked one leg over and put his sunglasses back on. With a push of the starter, the bike roared to life. As he passed, he tossed a casual wave with this left hand and she could see a patch on the back of this vest – Southern Cruisers. A few seconds later, his taillight disappeared over the rise. Annie realized she had been holding her breath as she let out a sigh. This was followed by fear as she remembered she was still in the same predicament. Getting out of the car, she tried the phone again – nothing. She thought briefly about walking somewhere. But where? There wasn’t likely to be cell service this far from the interstate until she got close to St. Augustine. She hadn’t passed anything since a crossroads about five miles back. Walking to the bar didn’t seem any smarter than getting on that bike. No choice but to wait for another car. The truckers all stuck to I75 off somewhere to the west. Why the hell did she decide to take ‘the scenic route?’ About fifteen minutes later, she saw the lights of a car coming from behind her. She waited until it got closer. It was definitely a car with one person in it, so she stepped out into the road again and waved. As the car came to a stop behind her, she saw it was a man in an old Volvo. “Miss, are you having a problem?” the man asked as he came around the front of his car. “Yes, please. My car died and my cell phone won’t work. I need to call for service or get a tow truck.” The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it briefly. “I’m not getting service either. I can give you a lift into St. Augustine, if that will help. My name’s Chuck.” he said, smiling pleasantly. She thought for only a second, what choice did she have? The man was slim with a neat haircut, wearing a sports-coat over a dress shirt and jeans. He stood back a respectful distance, letting her decide. “Thank you very much. Let me grab my purse and lock up.” She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She got her purse off of the floorboard. She was just about to reach for the key when she heard the man’s cell phone ring. She started to turn back toward him and say, “Hey, I thought you said –“ She didn’t get any further as the man clubbed her under the chin with his fist. She dropped her purse as her head banged back into the door’s window. “No. Please. I just –“ “Shut-up lady.” The man’s hand clamped over her mouth and forced her back against the door. “Not a word.” He flipped open his phone, “Yeah?” Yeah, I’m on the way, but I got sidetracked.” He leered at her. “I stopped for a little package I think you’ll like. We’re going to have us some fun tonight. I’ll be there in about a half hour.” He flipped the phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. Then he brought his hand up around her throat while he let go of her mouth with the other one. “We can do this easy or hard. We walk back and get in my car. I’ll wrap a little duct tape around your wrists and you can ride in the front. Or I can truss you up like a turkey and stuff you in the trunk. Your call.” “Wh-where are you taking me?” “We’re going to visit some friends of mine. They’re going to love you. We’ll all have a real good time.” “I’ll go quiet. Please don’t put me in the trunk. Let me get my purse.” “That’s a good girl. Nice and easy, grab it and let’s go.” She bent down to get her purse. As she started to stand up, she straightened her knees with all the force she could and sprang at the man. He was caught off guard, and stumbled back a step. It was enough for her to swing the purse with all her might and slam it into the side of his head. Before he could react, she was around the car door, running up the side of the road. She hadn’t gone far when she felt him catch up with her. He grabbed the back of her neck and shoved forward, causing her to lose her balance and fall. Her knees and palms were scraped and bloody as she tried to rise. Before she could get up, he had her by the back of the head and slammed her forehead down. “Well, missy, I guess you’ll be riding in the trunk after all.” He slammed her head into the ground again. She couldn’t hear anything as first a buzz, then a roar sounded in her head. She felt her body rise as he lifted her to her feet and started walking her back with a grip on her neck and arm. “Don’t say anything or I’ll snap your neck.” She realized then that she could hear and the roaring was real. She tried to turn her head, but he had her in a vise-like grip and propelled her forward as the roar got louder. As they neared his car, a dozen motorcycles came thundering up and stopped, surrounding them and both cars. She thought her nightmare would never end as the engines shut down and they got off their Harleys. Were these bikers Chuck’s ‘friends’, or was she about going from bad to worse? The huge, bald brute that had stopped before got off his bike and walked over. “Lady, you don’t look so good. Is this the boyfriend you was talking about?” “That’s right, I’m her boyfriend,” said Chuck, “We’re just having a little spat. No problem. Everything’s okay. I’m going to take her back home so we can kiss and make up. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” The man nodded her head with the grip on her neck. One of the other bikers, a small grizzly haired man with more grey than black in his mane, walked over with her purse. “Found this over yonder,” he said, handing it to the one called Jax. Opening it up, Jax pulled out her wallet and looked at her license. “What’s your girlfriends name, Sport?” he asked and grinned at Chuck, who was holding Annie by the neck and arm. “Look guys, you don’t understand. This isn’t any of your business. If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to take my girlfriend home.” the man said and started toward his car again. Jax glanced right and four bikers spread out between the Volvo and Chuck. He stopped and turned back. “No. You don’t understand,” said Jax, “we ride this highway. We’re sorta like the sheriffs around here, and this looks like a damsel in distress. Don’t it boys?” Some of the bikers laughed – some just stared, a cold smile on their faces. Annie began crying. She hadn’t cried yet, but now she was being fought over by a maniac and a gang of bikers. Jax looked to his left, “Doc, take the lady back to her car and see what you can do with her. “No, please. Can’t you all just leave me alone?” The one called Doc, grabbed a bag off his bike and started toward Annie and her captor. Doc was short with a huge gut. His hair was long, but bald on top. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and looked like a demented Ben Franklin. As he approached the pair, Chuck said, “Now, look-“ That was all he got out. Doc shifted his bag over his left shoulder and shot out with a straight right arm, catching the man in the neck. She felt both hands leave her body as the man stumbled backwards, a gurgling sound coming from him. In almost the same motion, Doc’s right arm cradled her shoulders and began gently moving her toward her car. As they got to her passenger side, he set her in the seat and took the bag off his shoulder. “Settle down, girlie. I really am a doctor. Was anyway. Forty-Third Medical Group. Got my training a long time ago in a little paradise in Southeast Asia. All those boys are Vets and they’ll fix your ‘boyfriend.’” He began taking gauze and antiseptic out of his bag and handed her a tissue, “Clean up your face and quit blubbering. We ain’t gonna hurt you.” “He’s not my boyfriend, he- “She jerked as she heard a howl like a wounded animal. “Easy,” said Doc, as he began cleaning dirt and blood from her scraped knees. “That’s just the boys educatin’ that feller. We knew he weren’t your boyfriend. Jax got to the tavern, said there was a lady broke down back a piece and got a few of us together to come see if we could help.” She heard her driver’s door open and someone reached in and popped the hood. She looked around and saw two more of the bikers under her hood with flashlights. The noises from the Volvo had stopped. Doc finished cleaning and bandaging her wounds and helped her back up. He held her elbow gently and walked with her back toward the Volvo. Jax was standing in front of it looking at the car. “That’s good enough, boys. The State Patrol will come along after while and take care of our friend here.” She looked at the car and saw Chuck stretched out on top, his clothes stripped to his underwear and his body duct-taped to the hood. His head thrashed from side to side trying to scream through the tape across his mouth. Just then, she heard her engine turn over and start. The two bikers who were looking under the hood walked back toward Annie. “Had a bare wire in your battery cable. Shorted out the ‘lectric system. We wrapped a little duct-tape around that, too. Should get you by ‘til you can get service.” The one talking looked at the Volvo and grinned. “Duct-tape, good for just ‘bout anything.” This time, she joined the laughter, the adrenaline draining from her body. “Well,” said Jax, handing her purse back, “we got your car started and Doc’s patched you up. I guess you’re good to go. We need to get outta here before the law turns up. They might have an objection to the way we handled that clown back there.” She took a card out of her purse and handed it to Jax. “If the police ask anything about what happened here, you have them call me. But before I go, I owe you an apology. How about we run down to that roadhouse you mentioned and I’ll by a couple of rounds of beers?” “You hear that boys? Saddle up, ladies buying!” With even more noise than before, the bikers all jumped on their bikes, revved the throttles, and roared south back down the highway. Annie got in and followed at a slower pace, vowing never to travel off the Interstate again.

The Box in the Attic

Many people start writing at a young age, maybe writing stories in high school or working for the school paper. Or they go to college pursuing a journalism degree, maybe take some creative writing classes. I wasn’t one of those people.One day, I thought, I have something to say; I think I’ll try to write. I have read thousands of other peoples stories, and I’ve done many interesting things. So one day I opened the dusty attic of my mind and all these thoughts and stories come pouring out.At first, they came out in sort of a jumble. I didn’t know quite how to put anything in words the correct way, but there was plenty of help for me on that. The main thing is I start capturing it all as it streamed out through the open attic door.After a while, the stream slowed to a trickle and I climbed up into the attic and started poking around. I had to explore the attic a bit and look for the stories. There were still a lot of them up there, but they were just not quite as easy to find. Some of them were even hidden under years of dust and neglect. I pulled aside an old musty tarp and was confronted with something I’d never seen or thought of before, or something I had completely forgot about. So I wrote about that.Any time I am stuck for something to write, I climb back up here and look around again, going deeper and deeper into the attic each time. But there is one corner of the attic I didn’t go into. Over in that dark, dusty corner, hidden from view is a tiny little box. The box is called, Maybe I’ll Write a Book.I was up here one day, and a someone tapped me on the shoulder and pointed over into that corner and said, “Hey, what is that? Maybe you should look over there.” I looked the other way and pretended I didn’t hear what they said. I acted as if I was looking someplace else, cleaning and polishing another story over in the opposite direction. But before I turned away, I caught a glimpse of the box.The problem is that now I have seen it, and it seems to be getting a tiny bit bigger each time I come up here. The corner it is in is not quite as dark as it used to be. Many of the cobwebs that used to shroud the box aren’t there any more.I’m not any where near ready to open that box, or even venture into that corner of the attic yet. But I know it’s there now, so I won’t be able to ignore it forever. Eventually, it will get so big that I will have to do something about it. At least I know I won’t have to pick it up by myself, and I can get some help carrying it down into the light.

38 Seconds

I had a plan. It wasn’t a great plan, but a plan nonetheless. I was going to break 2:50 in the New Orleans Marathon and qualify for Boston. If I made that, I was going to hire a coach to train me for Boston with hopes of breaking 2:22 and making an Olympic Trials qualifying time. Of course, dropping 30 minutes in 2 months was a fairly absurd idea, but we runners are nothing if not dreamers. In Atlanta, I spent a lot of time at the old Phidippides at Northlake mall and had discussed coaching occasionally with Benji Durden (1980 Olympic Marathon Team), and Lee Fidler. Both runners had admonished me on several occasions about incorporating more rest into my training. I didn’t know at the time that both runners would be at New Orleans; Lee to run the Marathon and Benji to run the 10K. I had a previous best of 3:10, so I only needed to take 20 minutes off. I had been training for about 8 weeks, and my average weekly mileage was 50 – 60 miles. I had put in four or five 20 milers, so I felt I was prepared for this effort, anyway The race ran across the Lake Pontchartrain causeway, the longest bridge in the world, so it should be flat and fast. I needed to break 6:30 per mile for 26.2 – I don’t know why I thought I could, but back in the day, I ran most races on guts and dreams, rather than any solid scientific data or recent accomplishment. As I stood at the start with 2300 other runners, I wished the wind would quit. The temperature was close to freezing and the wind was blowing at around 20 miles per hour. It would be a tail wind for 24 miles of the race, but I was cold and miserable, and just wanted to get on with it. At the gun I took off, running at what I thought was a good pace. I’m sure it was pushed along by the wind and my desire to get warm. About 3 miles into the race, I heard a familiar voice and turned to see Benji running up from behind – obviously a slow day for him. “Hello, how’s it going?” I huffed out as he came along beside me. “Not bad,” he replied, going on to explain he was there to run the 10K. I don’ recall if the 10K was later and this was a warm-up, or it was the day before and this was just a training run. “How about you, what are you trying for today?” he asked. I told him I wanted to qualify for Boston, and was about to spring my plan to ask him about coaching, when I saw the incredulous expression on his face. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “You know you need a 2:50 for Boston, right?” “Yeah,” I said. “You know that’s just under a 6:30 pace, right?” “Where is he going with this?,” I thought, as I puffed out another, “Yup.” “Any idea how fast you are going?” Assuming he wasn’t about to tell me I was dead on a perfect pace, I said, “No.” “Well, the tail wind makes it tougher to estimate, but I’d guess you’re doing about a 5:45 mile right about now. You better slow down. “See you,” he said as he trotted off into the distance. Oh %#*&, I thought as I tried to assess my pace. I kept trying to slow down, but the weather, other runners, and the tail wind kept pushing me along. At five miles, I was still under thirty minutes – not far off my 10K pace. “I’m going to die,” I thought as I continued to try and get my legs to obey my brain. The middle miles turned into the same mind-numbing mush that all marathons are reduced to. I tried to do the math in my head as I hit the 10 and 15 mile split, but it was too much. I remember thinking that whoever told me the far shore never gets any closer was right, the jerk, and oh God, would I ever get off this bridge? The brain and most other functions shut down one by one as my body was depleted of every nutrient it could suck out of each and every cell. I hurt and wanted to stop, but every time I started walking it hurt that much more to start running, but I can’t just keep on running, so I’ll walk one more time, please get me off this bridge. As I approached the next split, I finally came to a complete stop and leaned against the rail. I kept thinking I didn’t know if I had another 6 miles in me, and tried to figure out my pace, but my brain would no longer do anything more complicated than right foot, left foot. Completely broken, I took off in another slow-footed shuffle toward the…what? What does that sign say? 25 miles? That can’t be right? When did I pass the 20 mile split? What time is it? 2:43 something. Can I make it? Once again, I tried to do the math in my head. I don’t know, but just maybe, I can make it. I got the infamous second-wind, and picked up the pace a bit. If I could think clearly, I would have given up, but delirium has its advantages. Within the space of just a few yards, the far shore suddenly loomed close and we ran off the bridge. I kept looking at the road, looking at my watch, looking at the road – maybe. I finally got in site of the finish line and started focusing on the clock. It said 2: something, what is it? As I got closer I could see it said 2:50 and some seconds, but where is the clock? Where is the finish line? In my mind I had convinced myself that I crossed the finish line before I saw the clock and maybe had hit my goal. I could hardly walk, but I stumbled around for a bit trying to find someone who could give me my finish time. The pain was setting in with a vengeance, and I was getting chilled as the woman who would become my wife helped me out of the way and into a warm car where she gave my legs a much needed massage. Of course, I hadn’t quite made my goal and my finish time was 2:50:38. 224 men met that goal that day – I was number 227. Even though I finished in the top 10%, the if-onlys started beating on me and I was in a funk for days. The reality is that I hadn’t trained for that kind of speed, I hadn’t paced myself properly, and I hadn’t kept the mental game in play long enough to keep myself in the race. 38 seconds.

Pigwell

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. That’s how I know when the weekends come and go. There isn’t as much trucking between Dilley and Carrizo Springs on the weekend, but at night, you can hear them run up and down I-35 to Laredo and back. My Ma and me still have to get up before dawn every day and tend to the hogs and goats and chickens we keep, weekends or not.

For a while, I could tell it was the weekend ‘cause Ma’s new boyfriend was laying around the house, or sitting under the mesquite tree drinking beer with his buddies from town. He worked at the new Wal-Mart up to San Antonio and told Ma that ‘he work hard all week and ain’t gonna get up on no weekend to tend to no pigs.’

‘Course the town isn’t really called Pigwell, but Big Wells don’t seem right since the oil rigs all dried up around here back in ’84 – the year I was born. Since about all any body does around here is raise chickens, goats, and hogs, folks started calling it Pigwell. Ma didn’t want to raise no goats, said they ain’t fit for food and they tear up everything. But she said they eat any old thing and there ain’t much upkeep, so she finally got a pair. The Kelsy’s down the road raise goats and they sell them down in Mexico. The Rio Grand’s closer than San Antonio and Ron Kelsy says they love their cabrito down there. We got about a dozen now and Ma say’s she might run down to Piedras Negras with Mr. Kelsy soon and sell them all.

I was only four when my Daddy run off, so I don’t remember him so good. Ma tells me he said the ‘awl bidness’ was the only thing he knew and he was going over to ‘Loosyana’ and try some wildcatting. Told her he’d be back for us when he made his stake. Well, that’s coming on twelve years now, so I guess he ain’t made it yet.

I was eight when they came out and P&A’d the well – that’s plug and abandon. Ma sold all the iron rigging and casing out of the well for scrap. Used the money to buy a pair of hogs and a truckload of chickens to get her started. Then they come in and poured the hole full of concrete and that’s all she wrote. They say back in the old days, they used to drive a tree trunk in the hole to plug it, but them folks at the EPA raised a stink over that. They said the oil was seeping into the ground water and polluting the Nueces. Hell, everybody in Dimmit County knows you don’t drink out the Nueces. We still fish out of her, but you got to cook them bass real good.

Me and Ma’s been saving hard so I can go up to San Antonio College when I get out of high school. I study right smart when my chores are done so I can keep my grades up. Ma says if I keep it up we can get me a scholarship to help out with the tuition. Her boyfriend, Luke wasn’t helping much with that. He brought his paycheck home every other Friday, but I think he drank and gambled it all up and then some. They always squabbled about money. That’s why I like it out here with the pigs afore sun-up. Even with their squealing and grunting, it’s peaceful here in the pens, watching the eighteen wheelers rolling up Hwy 85.

Ma’s always talked about me going off and getting me an engineering degree or something in computers. I like studying computers, but there ain’t none in Big Wells and there’s only three up at Carrizo Springs High School where I go. There are just 700 people in Pigwell, so we have to ride the bus 20 miles to go to school. I try to get some of my studying done on the bus so I don’t have to stay up so late. Lately, Betsy’s been sitting next to me on the ride, so it’s hard to get any studying done. Ma tried to get Luke to drop me off at school on his way to town, but he said, ‘I ain’t gonna get up a hour early when they’s a damn bus stops right by the mailbox. That’s what I pay my taxes for.’ I didn’t want to ride with him anyway and since Betsy been sitting next to me, I don’t mind the bus a bit.

Problem with them computers now is they got that Y2K thing that’s coming. They say that’s going to shut ‘em all down just like the oil rigs shut down in the eighties. Then they’s going to be a whole bunch of new folks looking for work, so I don’t know about that. Maybe I better stick with the engineering. There’s always folks looking to get something built and somebody’s got to figure out a way to build them.

I wouldn’t mind just getting up every morning and tending to the hogs and chickens, but Ma say’s that ain’t no life for me. For a while, Luke was trying to talk her into selling the farm and moving to San Antonio. I kept asking her what about when Daddy comes back from Loosyana, but she just shushes me up. I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing the world. One day, I might even go to Houston or Dallas if I get that engineering degree.

Sometimes I talk to Betsy on the bus about what we’re going to do when we get out of school. She works in the beauty parlor sweeping up after school and says she wants to be a beautician. She sure is pretty enough. Smells good too, like fresh soap. I’m kinda embarrassed about how I smell, but she say’s it’s fine. I try to wash up after my chores, but some mornings there ain’t time before the bus comes. Ma used to tell me it was a waste of time; I didn’t need to be all clean to go to school. One day, she seen me getting off the bus with Betsy and walking down the highway a piece towards her house. Since then, she hasn’t said nothing about me wanting to clean up and sometime looks at me kinda funny. Like she’s smiling and crying all at the same time.

Then one day, I got off the bus with Betsy and we was kinda holding hands. I acted like I was just helping her down off the steps, but once she was down, I didn’t let go and she didn’t pull away. It was kinda nice. I looked to see if Ma was watching, but she was over in the side yard feeding the chickens. She was holding herself sort of funny, so told Betsy I had to go and started up through the yard. That’s when I saw Luke’s car under the mesquite tree. He usually didn’t get home til way after dark when he’d got his fill over at Big John’s.

I went to Ma, and she was throwing the feed with one hand and holding her side with the other. I asked her what was wrong, and she said it weren’t nothing, but I could tell she’d been crying. I asked her what was Luke doing home, and she said he got laid off and to ‘not say nothing about it to him, cause he’s right touchy on it.’ Then she winced and grabbed her side again. I took the feed bag from her and told her I’d finish the chores so she could go lay down. She didn’t go in the house though, just sat down in the porch swing and stared off down the road.

A few days later when I got off the bus, there was a sheriff’s car and a tow-truck was hooking up Luke’s car. Luke was out in the yard just raising cane at the sheriff and Ma was nowhere around. I figured I didn’t want to go up to the house just yet, so I walked Betsy all the way to her house. She lives next door, but her driveway’s about two miles from ours.

I got back about an hour later and I could hear Luke screaming all the way from the road. The sheriff and tow truck was gone. So was Luke’s car. I went up the porch steps and into the front room and there was Luke just yelling up a storm at my Ma. He had ahold of her arm and was just wailing on her, calling her no count and saying it’s her fault he couldn’t make the car payment.

I ran up behind and grabbed his arm and told him to let my Ma go or he’d be sorry. He just quit wailing on her long enough to backhand me. About knocked me clear across the parlor and I landed on my butt in the fireplace. He didn’t even slow up none, just kept beating my Ma and calling her all sorts of filthy names, ‘and your puling whelp there too.’ Ma was crying and trying to pull away and then started telling me to run, to get out of there.

I wasn’t just going to let my Ma get beat by him though. I stood up, brushed the soot off my britches, grabbed the poker out of the fireplace set, and went back at it. I come up behind him and whacked him on the back. He howled like a stuck pig and turned to backhand me again, but I was too quick and spun out of the way. Ma was yelling at me to stop, but he just punched her in the face with his right hand without even taking his red, drunken eyes off me. He tried to take another hard swing at me, but I ducked again. He swung so hard, he turned all the way around with his back to me and I brought that poker down on the back of his head, like I was splitting cord wood.

It sounded kinda like I was splitting wood too. The hook on the back of that poker stove his head with a thunk like driving a wedge into a stump. He turned half way around with his eyes all bugged out and trying to grab the back of his head. Then he just dropped to his knees and keeled over sideways.

My Ma let out a wail, like he was still hitting on her and sat on the floor. She just kept crying and rocking and saying, ‘my baby boy, what have you done’ over and over, hugging herself. I went to the kitchen, got a wet dishcloth, and tried to clean her up where he had been hitting her. She finally just stopped crying all at once and looked at me. She stared at me hard for a minute, and then just said, ‘We got to fix this. We got to clean this up.’

That was three months ago, and I’m still worried that someone will come looking for Luke. Ma says he don’t have no family and don’t have no job and won’t nobody ever look for him. If they do, she says we tell them that he just took off and ain’t been back. We cleaned the floor good enough you can’t hardly see nothing, but Ma got a braided rug and throwed over the spot. She told me that next weekend, she was going to run down to Mexico with Mr. Kelsy and sell them goats, ‘and that’ll be the last of Luke.’

Deadline

The deadline was fast approaching. January 15th was less than two days away and he still sat and stared at a blank monitor. He had been writing his monthly column for twenty-nine plus years and never missed a deadline, but 25 hours remained and he had nothing. Not a spark. It’s not as if there weren’t enough current affairs on which to write. President Ford, Saddam Hussein; hell Britney Spears fell asleep New Years Eve. There was a headline screaming for print.

He knew what the real problem was. It was that -other- deadline. January 15th he would also post his last article before retiring. He had begun his career in that post-Vietnam and Watergate heyday of the late 70’s. His first article was framed over his desk, “The Day The Music Died.” Elvis and Lynard Skynard. The Iranian Hostage crisis, Lebanon, Granada, Desert Storm – he’d covered them all. From Carter to Clinton and now Bush II, the sequel. He had written about wars, politics, entertainment – even those silly-ass stories on Y2K.

Now, what was he going to do? Finish that damned book? Twenty-seven thousand words and he still had no idea where the hell the plot was headed. Did the world need another book about some ex-military guy saving the world from terrorism? Maybe he should just scrap the thing and start over. Three-hundred something articles, he ought to have something he could turn into a book. Or two.

It’s not as if he didn’t know how to handle idle hours. One column a month for thirty years hadn’t exactly filled his calendar. Outside of speaking engagements and public appearances, he still had plenty of time left over to wreck two marriages, and write six articles from inside a rehab clinic in Arizona.

And for what? To end up sixty years old, in a three-room walkup above a dirty bookstore, with a view of the airport, staring at a blank screen. He watched as the little clock in the corner of the monitor clicked over to 12:00. Okay, one day left, and no ideas. He picked up the remote and began clicking through the stations again, searching for inspiration. Letterman, Leno, and Law & Order repeats. Christ, there ought to be a Law & Order channel. People never been to New York probably think people trip over dead bodies every time they go for a walk.

He turned off the tube and threw the remote in the corner. Leaning back, he propped his bare feet on the windowsill and stared up at his wall of shame. Pictures of him with celebrities and politicians he had interviewed. The one in front of a New York nightclub with his arms around Boy George and Joe Strummer. No memory of that night other than the picture, his column, and the rose tattooed on his ass.

Appropriately, that hung next to his last article before the little holiday in Phoenix. The result of an all-nighter on March 15, 1987, swilling Nyquil and Robitussin in that fleabag on River Street in Savannah, Georgia. Two nights before the second largest St. Patrick’s Day celebration in the damned country and you couldn’t buy a bottle on Sunday. He still read that column from time to time and wondered what he was trying to say, who Agnes was, and what happened to the goat.

Below that, the shot from the ’91 Grammys with Neil Young and Joe Cocker. What a pair to be stuck interviewing sober. The living, breathing semi-coherent personification of better to burn out than fade away, and a gravel-voiced bad impersonation of John Belushi. So, Joe, how long did it take you to write, ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On?’ Wait, let me jot this down. I don’t want to miss a freakin’ word.

He slammed his chair back down on the floor and swiveled around to face his old Royal typewriter. Wished he were still working on that thing. He could have the satisfaction of yanking the blank paper out and balling it up on the floor with the rest of the night’s abortions. He remembered the first article he tried to write on his old Apple IIe. Man, he fell in love with that spell-check and search and replace crap. Turned out a brilliant phosphorescent green narrative of Pulitzer class commentary, turned it off and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the righteous and just. Got up the next morning and learned all about saving your work on those five-inch floppy disks. Before you turn it off.

Well, those days were sure as hell gone, he thought as he swiveled back toward the twenty-one inch, 256 color, blank screen of nothing in front of him. With his tower system, laptop, PDA, and Blackberry, he could file his story at the touch of a button from anywhere. He could screw the pooch at a hundred terabytes a second, whatever the hell that meant. Old Billy Gates could explain it to him. Should have asked him in that interview in 2000. Guess he was too giddy at having survived the end of the world. Boy that was some smug son-of-a-bitch. ‘Course if he could turn his hobby into a hundred billion dollars, he’d be smug too. Despite that one season on the Denny’s Pro-Bowling tour, there wasn’t much chance of that.

He flipped idly through his old-fashioned Rolodex looking for a possible interview. Glancing at the clock again, he gave up on that idea. “Hey, Hillary, I know it’s one a.m., but could you spare a few quotes – it’s my last column.” He could wait until the morning, but there wasn’t any point in calling up his contacts if he didn’t know what he was going to ask. And this was the last one. He wanted to go out with a bang, not a thud. After that, there’d be nothing left.

He wondered how long before he would quit waking up on the 15th each month in a cold sweat. The same nightmare every time. He wakes up absolutely sure that he hasn’t filed a story and has nothing to say. Kind of like now, he thought, tapping on a few keys.. It would take some time to get used to not having any deadlines to face, though. The life of a retired writer. Hunter S Thompson didn’t raise the bar very freaking high on that one, did he?

Most people looked forward to sleeping late then hanging out all day in their underwear, but he already had that action nailed down pretty damned good. Maybe he could take up fishing. Sit on a cold, wet lake bank and try to fool a fish into biting his hook so he could drag it out of the water, asphyxiate it, and then cut it up for food. Nah, he’d just run down to Esca and order the catch of the day. As long as they let him run a tab. How fast would his celebrity status last?

But all this crap about retirement wasn’t getting it done. He still had one more column to write. 2500 words. He looked back at the screen and noticed he had typed one. Today. Today, what? Today was the first day of the rest of his life? Today was the day he wrote the greatest article of his career? Today was the last time he would do anything meaningful, spending the rest of his days as a pathetic has-been? End up on some damned Whatever Happened To show with Danny Bonaduce and Gary Coleman. I don’t freaking think so. He banged the backspace key five times.

He pushed back his chair a bit and stared at the screen again, the spark of an idea coming to him, just as it always did. He swiveled around and took a long look at his wall again; the stories he had written and the famous and infamous he had interviewed. Finally, settling once again on the picture of him with Neil Young, he swung back again and faced his nemesis – the word processor.

He placed his hands over the keyboard and paused there a moment. He knew from past experience, once his fingers touched the keys, they would not stop until the column was done and the story was told. He rarely wrote a second draft. When he typed his byline at the end of the piece, he pushed the send button and that was it. Slowly, he allowed his fingers to come to rest. asdf jkl;. Taking a deep breath, and glancing at the clock once again, he began to type:

I hope as you sit there reading this article, you will take a few moments to mourn the passing of one of the more prolific columnists of our generation. He died alone in his apartment at approximately 3 a.m. on the morning of January 15th, taking his own life after writing his final piece….

Rejection

Last summer, I was in the local sports arena watching a track and field competition. This is frequently like watching a three-ring circus, but I was focused on the 400-meter relay. I wasn’t so much watching the runners as the guys that were waiting to run. They stood there poised, their calves and shoulders tensed and ready. You could feel the desire and craving for release. And then, finally, the baton was slapped into their hand and they launched forward, no looking back.
To me, a rejection letter is like slapping that baton in my hand. Sure, I write every day, and I submit almost as often. But every submission is like a new leg in a relay race. I may give in to a moment’s disappointment when I open the SASE and see the nicely formatted form letter, but not for long. I have been poised and ready for weeks or months waiting for the baton to come back to me, and now it has. Immediately, I spring forward back in the race, “Where can I send this next? Who might want to publish this article?” And then no looking back; I’m tearing down the track resubmitting to a new market.
There are many great articles and books out there on this craft of writing. They all basically say the same thing, “Writers Write.” That is the anthem, the mantra, and the litany. Writers Write. But published writers submit. And resubmit. And submit again. As I said above, I try to submit daily. I don’t let that take the place of writing in my day’s schedule, but I don’t ignore its importance either. If I just wanted to write for myself, I’d set up a blog and post my stuff online. But that’s not my only goal. I also want to be published, to see my byline in print, to, gasp, make money at it. So I submit. I submit when I finish writing and polishing a piece. I resubmit articles that have been published. I resubmit articles that have been out there for too long without a reply. But I always, always, resubmit immediately on getting a rejection letter.
So here I stand, poised and ready at my corner of the track. I pull the familiar envelope out of the mailbox and see that it has my name and address printed as both the sender and recipient. I tense as I rip open the letter and zero in on the single phrase that sums it up. Regretfully. Not right for our… While we enjoyed… And then I spring forward, the next market in mind, printing a SASE, slapping on postage and getting back into the race.
Because sooner or later the runner will just sprint on by and finish the race. The envelope will have a publisher’s return address. Or there will be a personal email saying, “We would like to publish…” Then the crowd goes wild, and that’s partly while you do it. So you can take a quick victory lap and bask in the glory. But don’t take too long. The next race is warming up.

The Chain

The man on the dock was gagged and duct-taped to his chair. Several loops of chain wrapped around him and the chair, disappearing into a coil at his feet. A cinder block shackled to a length running out of the coil was sitting on the edge of the dock.
I sat on a bench at the edge of the dock, trying to keep warm and waiting for my quarry to wake up. It was the dead of winter and everything was quiet around the lake – all the summer homes locked up for the season. I had come looking for the man in the chair the day before, tracking him to this cabin on the shore of Carters Lake, about fifty miles north of Atlanta.
My mind drifted back to the day my client, Betty Austin, walked into my office.
“Are you Vince Diamond?” she said tentatively as she stuck her head in my office door. I don’t have a receptionist, or anywhere to put one if I did. I lease a one-room office in a small office park in Dunwoody, just north of the city.
I thought of some clever quip, since my name is on the door and I was the only one around, but the woman looked so distraught, I decided to play it straight. “Yes, I’m Vince Diamond, can I help you?”
“I hope so. I don’t know where else to go. I got your name from Mike Holst at the DeKalb County police department.”
Mike Holst worked missing persons for DCPD. He occasionally gave out my name to people when they wouldn’t or couldn’t help. The police won’t even file a report until someone was missing at least forty-eight hours. If they are an adult, and there was no sign of foul play, the police could do little. “Please, sit down and tell me what I can do. Let’s start with your name”
“I’m sorry. My name is Betty Austin, and my husband is missing. I have a picture,” she said and laid a photo of a good-looking man in his forties on my desk. “His name is Mark, Mark Austin.”
I took out my pad and started taking notes. “I assume the police couldn’t help?”
“No. They took a report and said they would file it and order a lookout. Detective Holst said that without some evidence of a crime, they couldn’t do any more. They say he may have just taken off on his own and he would come back when he was ready. But Mark wouldn’t do that. He’s never done that.”
“How long have you two been married?”
“Only two years. We met on vacation in the Caymans. We got married here a few weeks later. We’ve hardly been apart since then, except when Mark goes away on business.”
“And you know he’s not away on business now?”
“No. He would have told me. He doesn’t just leave without telling me.”
“Okay. Tell me what happened.”
“He called me from his office three days ago, Friday morning. We were talking about how we would spend the weekend. He interrupted to tell me he had another call coming in that he had to take. That was the last I heard from him.”
“Where does he work?”
“He works for himself as an independent investment counselor.”
“Could one of his clients called him away suddenly?”
“No. He still would have told me. He would have come home to pack. Besides, he hasn’t answered his cell phone. It’s been three days. I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay, I’ll take a look, but the police have a lot more manpower. If we can find a reason to, we’ll want to get them involved.”
I took some more information and filled out a standard contract. I arranged to meet her at her husband’s office in an hour. She left and I called Mike Holst.
“Mike, it’s Vince. I wanted to call and thank you for the referral.”
“And pump me for information.”
“And pump you for information. Did you guys look into this at all, or turn up anything interesting?”
“We checked out his office. Did a quick search of the airlines, hospitals, and other local police. We came up with nothing. His car’s gone. No reason to believe he didn’t just drive off somewhere. We’ve got a BOLO on the car, but there’s not much else we can do.”
The Be-On-the-Look-Out would most likely turn up something. If that went out to all metro police departments, it would cover eight counties and seven major interstates. Meanwhile, I drove over to Sandy Springs to meet Mrs. Austin.
She let me in with her key, disabled the alarm, and accompanied me inside. Mark Austin’s office was very similar to mine but with nicer furniture. It was one room with a waiting area in the corner. A massive oak desk took up the bulk of the floor space, which was almost clean except for a computer.
“See anything missing or out of place?” I asked her as I started the computer.
“No. Wait, yes, my picture. There was a picture of me in my wedding dress on his desk. It’s gone. He must have taken it don’t you think?”
I didn’t comment on that as I went to work searching his computer files. Fortunately, he didn’t have a password on his system. I guess he thought the lock on the door and security system were good enough. I was scrolling through the files created on February tenth, the day he disappeared.
“What time was your last phone call with him?”
“About two in the afternoon,” she answered, “Did you find something?”
“Not yet. How about have a seat in the waiting area and let me go through this. It won’t take long.” As she turned to head over to the corner, I put my flash drive into the USB port. I copied all the files from the last two days onto the card. I would have better luck working through them without the distraction. He saved the last file at one fifty-five. There was also a temporary file that he didn’t save stamped about fifteen minutes later. I took that, and then copied his calendar, email, and contact list for good measure.
I shut down the computer, and then spent a few minutes going through his desk drawers and file cabinets. Not much there – he obviously kept most records on his computer. I walked out with Mrs. Austin and waited while she locked up.
“Let me get started looking into this. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. Either way, I’ll call you by the end of the week and give you a report.” I got a look that told me I would hear from her long before the end of the week. She went to her Volvo sedan, I got into my dusty Jeep Cherokee, and we parted ways.
I drove back to my office and booted up my computer. Inserting the memory key, I started looking at Mark Austin’s last files, beginning with the temporary file. Many computer programs create a temporary copy of a file while you are working on it. When you exit the program and save the file, the temporary file is deleted. If the computer crashes for some reason, the temp file is left behind so the file can be recovered. The fact that this file existed probably meant that Austin had turned his computer off in the middle of working on it, indicating he left in a hurry.
The file was a termination of services letter between Austin and someone named Al Bowden. There wasn’t a phone number, but there was an address off Fulton Industrial on the west side of town. I drove out there and found the address. It belonged to an old Tudor style house set in the trees, sheltered from the commercial area that surrounded it. I rang the bell and an attractive woman in her forties answered the door.
“May I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Vince Diamond and I’m looking for Al Bowden.”
“I’m Mrs. Bowden. May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into the disappearance of Mark Austin. He apparently is a business associate of your husband. I’m just trying to get a line on what he was working on at the time of his disappearance.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t keep up much with my husband’s business.”
“Can you tell me what sort of business he is in?”
“Real estate development and speculation. Some stock trading. Mostly he’s in the business of making money.”
“Yeah, aren’t we all? Can you tell me where he is or how to contact him?”
“He’s out of town. He has a cell phone, but he hasn’t been answering it. I wouldn’t give you that number anyway unless he said it was okay.”
“Is that unusual? Him not answering his cell?”
“Not really. When he’s tied up in a deal, he’ll turn it off. He also visits some fairly remote areas, looking at land development. And we have a cabin up at Carters Lake that doesn’t get service, but he rarely goes up there without me. Not in the middle of winter.”
“Well, thanks for your time.” I handed her my card. “If you hear from him, could you ask him to give me a call?”
That might have been another dead end, but whether she was worried or not, there were still two men missing at the same time. I don’t believe in coincidence.
I called Mike Holst again from my cell on the way back to my office. He wasn’t in, so I left my number. I was just pulling into my parking lot when he returned my call.
“I hope you’re calling me to report a crime. Otherwise, I’m busy.”
“Mike, thanks for calling me back. I was wondering what the chances were you could get me Mark Austin’s phone records for the day he went missing.”
“You’re breaking up, Joe. I thought you just asked me a very stupid question about something you know I can’t get without a court order.”
Oh well, I took a shot. I went into my office and got back on the computer. Scrolling back through the files I downloaded from Austin’s computer, I opened a bills folder and found a cell phone bill he had downloaded last month. Using that, I went online and got into his account.
I scrolled through the list of recent calls. There were none for any time after four o’clock on the day he disappeared. The last inbound call was at 2:17 from a 706 area code. The same number was his last outbound call at 4:02. 706 was a large area code covering most of North Georgia outside the Atlanta area. It was beginning to look like I might be going to Carters Lake. I decided to stop for the day and head home.
The next morning, there were four messages on my office phone. Three were from Betty Austin wanting to know if I had made any progress. The fourth was from Alicia Bowden. She sounded worried and asked that I please call her as soon as I got in. I called Mrs. Austin first and let her know that I was working the case, but hadn’t developed any leads yet. I assured her again that I would call her as soon as I had some news.
Next, I called Mrs. Bowden. She was frantic, but I finally got her calmed down enough to tell me what was going on. Her husband had called her the night before to tell her that he was in Chicago on business and would be gone for a few days. She said he sounded very nervous, almost scared, but he had finally assured her that everything was okay. He said he loved her and would be home Friday.
“So why do you think that there’s a problem?”
“He just didn’t sound right, but he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I couldn’t sleep all night worrying about it. This morning, I thought to check caller ID on the phone in the den – he was calling from our cabin. He’s not in Chicago. I’ve been calling the cabin all morning but nobody answers. I’m afraid something is terribly wrong, and I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s the number for the cabin?”
She gave me the same number as on Mark Austin’s cell phone bill. I got directions for the cabin and headed into the North Georgia Mountains.
Carters Lake is a 4,000-acre lake just south of the Chattahoochee National Forest. I got to the area around noon and went into the nearby town of Ellijay to find some lunch and a room for the night. I spent the afternoon finding the cabin and scouting the area. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but I didn’t think it was going to be good.
Late in the afternoon, I drove back to town and had some dinner. I went back to my room to change and grab my duffle bag. My bag contains an assortment of items I have found useful over the years, including binoculars, night-vision goggles, some rope, a Mag-Lite, a K-Bar knife, and my Browning 9mm pistol.
It was dusk as I pulled into the drive of the cabin three down from Bowden’s. From my scouting that afternoon, I knew that almost all of the cabins were empty. I went behind the cabin and down to the lakeshore following it around to the Bowden’s cabin. Behind the next cabin, I had to use my flashlight to circumvent a small construction site. Someone was building a dry-dock for a large boat out of cinder blocks. There was a block and tackle, and a large coil of chain resting on the path around the lake.
It was full dark as I approached the back of the cabin from the lake. I stopped as I heard a loud splash in the lake. I put on my NVGs and waited for my eyes to adjust to the pale green landscape. As I topped the rise where the cabin was located, I saw motion to my left. I slipped behind a low hedge and waited. A large man wearing a sweat suit was raking the leaves on the dirt path that led around the cabin to under the back deck. A large wheelbarrow rested there with a rolled up rug lying in it. I had no idea why someone would be doing yard work at this time of night in the winter, so I crouched down and waited.
After the man finished raking back up to the house, he disappeared around the front. After a few minutes, lights came on in the cabin, so I took off the goggles. I went under the deck and climbed up a supporting post, hoisting myself onto the deck where I lay flat and looked in the sliding door.
The man I had seen was at the kitchen sink scrubbing his hands with a brush and a bottle of bleach. The sweat suit had spatters of what looked like blood all over the front. He was not the man in the photo that Betty Austin had given me, so I assumed it was Al Bowden.
The man went to the laundry closet and stripped off the sweat suit, putting it and a large quantity of bleach into the washing machine and starting it. He then went to the bar; poured himself a tumbler of Wild Turkey, sat down in a chair in his shorts, and began to drink. I watched and waited while he continued to drink until he finally passed out. Then I went to work.
****
The man in the chair slowly came awake. When he became aware of his situation, he began to hyperventilate with fear.
“You need to calm down – you’ll be able to breathe easier. You only have to be afraid if you don’t tell me what I need to know, or lie to me. In those cases, you have to fear sinking to the bottom of the deepest lake in Georgia and staying there until that chair rots off your bones.”
The man looked wildly around, trying to scream through the duct-tape. I walked over and slapped him hard. “When you calm down, I’ll remove the tape so we can talk.”
His breathing slowed down and got deeper as he tried to compose himself. When I thought he was ready, I ripped the tape from his face. “Who the hell…”
I slapped him again, and he shut up. “Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them. If I can’t get the information I need from you, I don’t need you, and I kick that block into the water and walk away. There’s no one around to hear you scream, or to hear the splash when you hit the water.”
After that, he became more cooperative.
“What’s your name and what were you doing in that cabin?”
“That’s my cabin. My name is Al Bowden. I’m up here on vacation. My wife will be back any minute.”
I kicked the cinder block. It fell over and hung a few inches off the edge of the dock. Bowden’s eyes locked on it in fear.
“That’s one. The next lie and the block goes in the water. I’ll find out what I need with or without you. What were you doing at the cabin and where is Mark Austin.?”
I could see his mouth form the word ‘who’ as his eyes cut back to the block.
“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt him. We were just talking, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Talking about what?”
“I’m about to close on some land next to I-75. They’re cutting a new exit over by Dalton. The land’ll be worth ten times what it is now to developers. He’s doing the financial planning for the family that owns it and was going to tell them. He was dropping me as a client – said it was a conflict of interest. I couldn’t let that deal slip away.”
“So how did you get him up here?”
“Called him on his cell. He said he was just typing up a termination letter to me. Then he was going to see his client. I talked him into coming up here first. I told him we could work out a compromise where everybody makes out. It wasn’t far out of his way.”
“So you got him up here, then what?”
“I tried to talk some sense into him. This deal was worth a hundred thousand – profit. Told him I’d split it with him, but once the people that owned the land knew about it, they wouldn’t need us any more. We had to move before the DOT started talking with landowners.”
“But he wouldn’t listen.”
“No. Who the hell does he think he is? He just shook his head and turned away. I grabbed an old conch shell of the table and whacked him in the back of the head. I didn’t mean to hurt him – I just wanted him to stop and listen.”
“And where is he now?”
“In the crawlspace under a tarp. I threw the shell into the lake last night and cleaned up the cabin. I was trying to figure out what to do with the body last night. I don’t know what happened after that.
“After that, you passed out. I loaded you into the wheelbarrow that held your bloody rug and hauled you down here. I borrowed some equipment from next door and waited until morning.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“First, I want to thank you, Al, you’ve been very cooperative. I’m just going to leave you now with one thought.”
With that, I stood and walked over to the edge of the dock. Looking back at him, I kicked the cinder block into the water and walked away as it started dragging the chain into the lake.
His screams grew hysterical while I walked up the path from the dock where I parked my car. He leaned and knocked his chair over, hoping to stop the chain’s progress. The screams drowned out the sound of the chain hitting the water, but I turned and watched as the last of the links slid off the pier into the lake. He screamed on for a few more minutes before he realized the splashing had stopped and he was still on the dock. He finally looked around and saw that the chain attached to his chair hadn’t been attached to the cinder block.
I got in my car and drove back to his cabin. Someone would find him eventually. I had some very unsettling phone calls to make.

The Burial

The first time she entered this room seven years ago came flooding back. She had just turned sixteen. She had just met her uncle for the first time. She had just buried her mother and father.
“Welcome to your new home, child,” Uncle Paul said, “Put your bags down and come have a seat. If you are going to be living in my house, you need to understand the rules.”
No one had called her ‘child’ in a long time, and she had no intention of following any rules.
“Just tell me where my room is. I’m going out.”
She was shocked by the speed with which he crossed the room, and even more so when the back of his hand struck her face.
“You will do as your told, young lady. Despite the fact that you are my namesake, I never intended being a parent at this stage of my life. However, your parents named me as legal guardian and I intend to honor their wishes. As you will honor mine. Now sit. You may go to your room when you are dismissed.”
She walked toward the old Queen Anne sofa and sat, her mind in a haze. Paula’s uncle towered over her, the hand an unspoken threat.
“The first rule of course, is that you will always obey me without question. You will serve yourself breakfast before school, and return home promptly afterwards and attend to your studies…”
His voice was reduced to a buzz in Paula’s brain has the rules droned on. The only thought in her mind was how did she get into this situation and how was she going to get out of it. Paula hadn’t got along great with her parents, but it was normal stuff about homework and boys. They had never hit her.
The days and weeks passed in a blur, the only constant was her misery and isolation. She wasn’t allowed out with her friends, and she was afraid to have them visit her. One day, her uncle picked her up after school.
“We’re going to pay a visit to my lawyer. Your parents made me your guardian, but we need to tidy up some loose ends. Your parents left you quite a sum in trust and you need a will. I will become your heir and you will be mine.”
As she entered the law offices of Coben, Koontz, & King, her mind wrestled with this new information. She didn’t want him to be her heir, but she had no one else, and besides, she was afraid of arguing with him.
During the discussion with her uncle’s creepy lawyer, Mr. King, she discovered something about her parent’s death that had been kept from her before. She knew they died in a traffic accident on the coastal highway, but until now, she didn’t know that an unknown driver had run them off the road.
After that, she noticed a change in her uncle’s treatment toward her. He acted kinder, but behind the act was a predatory malevolence. He would cook her meals, and take her on long drives along the coast. At sunset, he would frequently take her on walks along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific.
It was on one of these walks that she learned the truth about her uncle. As he turned to point out a cypress tree clinging to the cliff’s face, he bumped into her forcing her toward the abyss. Only her teenage agility saved her as she twisted and clung to the cliff’s edge. Her uncle reached and pulled her up, apologizing, but he had a look that was more regret than distress.
From that moment forward, she exercised extreme caution at all times. She had discovered his true nature and intent, and suspected the truth about her parent’s ‘accident’. She kept her distance on their walks and was very careful about what and when she ate. On her eighteenth birthday, she packed her belongings and walked out of that house for what she thought was the last time.
Now, returning from another burial, as she looked around the musty living room, she thought, “I outlived you, you bastard.”

The Games II

“Anybody want to grab a bite to eat?” I asked.
“No, I think I’ll just go home.”
“No thanks, we have an early flight tomorrow.”
“We’re going to wander over by the stadium.”
And like that, it was over. I had worked over three-hundred hours in a little over two weeks, and some time between 6:30 and 7:30 on Sunday, August 4th, 1996; It. Was. Over.
I was too keyed up to drive home and I honestly wasn’t sure what to do with a free evening, so I just sat down in one of the folding chairs in the muster tent and thought about the preceding two weeks.
I had been working for two years to prepare for my role as a security supervisor in the 1996 Olympic Games, but they began in earnest two weeks earlier on Friday afternoon. That’s when I walked into this tent for the first time to meet the crew of a hundred-thirty or so volunteers. I parted the flaps of the massive white tent that afternoon and was greeted by a group of about two dozen. I then did the same thing I would find myself doing many times each day after that; tearing up the plan and winging it.
My post was called Olympic Center Perimeter, and was just that - The perimeter around, and the public areas within the Olympic Center. This included the three largest venues, The World Congress Center, The Georgia Dome, and the Omni Coliseum. It did not include Centennial Park or the Olympic Stadium where track and field would be held, as well as the opening and closing ceremonies.
That was the source of part of my problem that evening. Many of the volunteers had decided to go the opening ceremonies. Fortunately, that’s where everyone else was also, so we decided to lock down most of the site until the next day, when the actual games began.
The next morning, I showed up at 6 a.m. to meet what I hoped was a better group of volunteers. When I arrived, I still didn’t have as much help as had been promised – a problem that would continue for another week. I had just enough people to adequately man all my posts, so I began doing just that. This is where I ran into my second major command problem – why was I in charge?
Myself and several dozen other supervisors scattered throughout the Olympic Games had come from a local group providing volunteer security for the Georgia Games. This was an annual event that was similar to, but much smaller in scale, to the Olympics. For this reason, ACOG (The Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games) had selected us to help them prepare for, recruit and train, security for the Olympics. The rest of the many thousand volunteers came from all over the country and the globe. Many of these were current and retired law enforcement personnel of all kinds.
I worked directly under retired Secret Service and F.B.I. agents. Under me, I had a police chief from Basalt Colorado and a police officer from the Miami school system (whatever that meant.) I had corrections officers, regular police, army personnel, Interpol, and police from most European countries and Sydney, Australia. Why were they taking orders from a guy with absolutely no law enforcement experience?
For most of them, plain old chain of command worked. They did what I said because I had the stripes on my shoulders. For one crusty old Interpol officer from Sweden, that wasn’t good enough. He made it clear that he didn’t think it was right to have to answer to someone with no law enforcement experience. I couldn’t necessarily argue with his logic, but the fact remained that I was the boss and he wasn’t. One of my busiest gates was the approach to the venue from Centennial Park. Many tourists came through here and it was also the main approach to the press area in the World Congress Center. To make matters worse, it was just across the street from a sports bar that had an outside patio and attracted huge crowds throughout the games. This was the time when the Macarena was very popular and that bar played the damn song twice an hour.
I decided to kill two birds with one stone. On the second day of the games I took the Interpol officer to this gate and made it his. I told him to radio me if he needed anything, but otherwise it was his to command, and he wouldn’t see me unless there was a problem or he called me. I would swing by once or twice a shift with water and supplies, but otherwise I didn’t have to hear him gripe or the Macarena.
One of the primary focuses for security personnel was watching out for unusual or abandoned packages of any kind. It was on my first full day that I encountered the first package of many. We had heard of a bomb being found and safely detonated in the mail area inside the World Congress Center earlier in the day, so we were already on high alert.
I was working one of the gates, standing several yards in side the gate watching my crew work the crowd. Picture the security checkpoint at a major airport, except outside are just huge unorganized mobs coming in waves, and you’ll get the picture. We had people searching packages, watching the magnetometers, and wanding individuals. I would watch to make sure the people in charge of the gate were staffing and rotating personnel and handling the flow of people as much as possible.
After a bit of observing I turned to head to the next post, when I saw it. In the middle of a grassy square, isolated from most pedestrian traffic was a small box about the size of a shoebox, but more square. I radioed the command post and had the CO get a visual using the many security cameras in the area. He immediately sent Atlanta Police to help with crowd control and alerted the bomb squad. A couple of Atlanta PD officers and I blocked off the area forcing pedestrians to walk in a wide perimeter around it. We constantly had to fend off questions about why they couldn’t walk straight from point A to point B. A week later, we would stop getting this question.
The DOD bomb squad showed up and went through their routine, using robotics, and shielded armor. They couldn’t detect any sign of explosives, so finally one officer in the bomb suit approached the package and slowly opened it.
“Sushi!”
“What? What did he say? Sushi?”
One of the rules of the games was that no outside food was allowed. We were supposed to check at our gates, but it wasn’t a priority. The security they would pass through to actually get into a venue would check more thoroughly. A spectator had apparently been turned away at the Omni and instead of finding a trashcan, just dropped his box of sushi in the middle of the green.
We would spend quite a bit of time and effort over the next two weeks protecting people from all manner of suspicious packages. The seriousness of that wouldn’t hit home to most until the events of the following Friday night. They wouldn’t hit for me personally until a few nights later than that.
Meanwhile, my eighteen hour days pretty much blended into one another – the memory one long single event broken up by many, many highlights and low points. I met celebrities and politicians, performers and athletes. I also worked with some very memorable people. Some groups, like the Border Patrol, you could just give direction and get out of their way. Others, like the Army, required a bit more hands on direction. This could be both useful and entertaining.
Late July and August in Atlanta, Georgia is hot. Very hot and humid. There were days when we couldn’t get enough water and ice to keep my people safe and comfortable. One day, I had had enough of asking. I grabbed a young Army corporal and one of his men. I gave them a golf cart and an order.
“Find me some ice, lots of ice.”
“Where do you want me to get it from?”
“I don’t care. Improvise. But don’t come back without ice.”
About half an hour later, he calls me on the radio to meet him back at the Command Post. I beat him back there and watched him pull up, the golf cart loaded to capacity with dozens of bags of ice. I helped him load it into the cooler and water tanks.
“Do you want to know where we got it?”
“No. But I want you to know where you got it. We’ll need more.”
This was one of the better examples. The army does a great job, but the one thing they train the soldiers to do is take orders – and nothing else. If you tell one to breathe in, you’d better not forget to tell them to breathe out. One day, we had one of the many heat related incidents by a spectator out in the public areas. I had an ambulance coming in and I didn’t want any holdup at one of the vehicle security checkpoints – which was manned by army personnel.
“Hold all radio traffic for an announcement. C.P. to gate 86. I have an ambulance coming in hot and I don’t want it stopped. Clear the gate and let it pass.”
A few seconds of silence passes.
“Gate 86, did you copy?”
“This is gate 86.”
“Gate 86. Did you copy? Come back.”
“This is gate 86. You said to hold all radio traffic.”
“Gate 86. This is C.P. Did you copy my announcement about an ambulance?”
“This is gate 86. I don’t know about that, but an ambulance just came through hear and it didn’t stop. We tried waving it down, but it just kept going. Is that okay?”
Stories like these were abundant during the games and would be shared among volunteers, friends, and family. Others would be held a little closer, a little longer, and brought into the light a little later. As most everyone knows, a week into the Games, a bomb exploded in Centennial Park, killing one and injuring many. It also injured the spirit of the games and made the second week of the event a much more serious, somber affair for those of us in the trenches.
Early one evening, a few days before the end of the games, I was called by my Commanding Officer back to the C.P. Clearly, there was something going on that couldn’t be handled over the radio. He took me and a major with Atlanta Police into his office.
“We have specific, credible intel of a bomb threat outside the Omni coliseum. We have a description of the suspect and the package and a timeframe of between eight and nine.”
He gave us both the descriptions he had received. The police major left to deploy his men. The C.O. told me that the Colonel in charge of our army personnel would meet me outside to give me a squad to aid in the search. I grabbed a couple of radios and walked out to meet the colonel. He was just going through roll call and pointed to one row of men.
“You eight. Report to Mister Brooks and follow his orders. Fall out!”
With that, the eight men followed me to the Chevy Suburban I had commandeered. Amazingly, we all squeezed inside for the short drive to where the bomb was supposedly going to be placed. Once we were all inside and about to take off, the sergeant in charge of this unit asked, “Where are we going?”
I looked at him in disbelief. I am always reminded of this when I see the closing scene of the first half of Fellowship of the Ring, when Pippin, the youngest of the hobbits, having just convinced the council of Elders to allow him to go along on the quest, asked this same question.
“Didn’t the Colonel brief you on the mission?” I asked.
“Negative. He said follow you. We’re following you.” Great. This left me the job of briefing this SUV full of kids on what we were about to do.
“We have a description of a person and a package. Supposedly this person is going to leave the package and detonate it outside the Omni between now and twenty-one hundred. We are going to patrol that area. Hopefully, between security, army, and police personnel, we scare him off. Meanwhile, we look for the man and look for a package matching the description. We are not allowed at this point to shut down the venue or evacuate the area. You need to spread out, keep moving, keep looking, and report to your sergeant, who will report to me.”
They didn’t look too excited about the prospect, but they would follow orders. We got to the Omni and started deploying around the area. I went over the description one more time with police, and that is when I found out that the clothing description included a jersey with 32 on it. Shaq Oneal. I only saw about half a dozen of these in the first five minutes. I decided I would concentrate more on the package – a blue duffel bag, and let the police look for the suspect.
On my second round of the area, I came across my army guys – standing together in a bunch in the middle of the concourse.
“What part of spread out and keep moving did you not understand?” I asked. They looked at me with the same, who’s this guy look I had gotten used to. I tried a different tactic. “Okay, sergeant, get on the radio, call the C.P. and tell the colonel to send me a different squad. Explain your problem to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
I didn’t have to talk to them again, so I left them to the task and continued my patrol. You would think that looking for a specific bag in a limited area would be easy, but this was anything but. There were many tourists wandering about, most with bags. There were dozens of street vendors set up, all of whom had brought their wares in various bags and boxes. Many of these also had their tables draped with cloths that had to be looked under. In addition, there were dozens of stairwells, doorways, trash receptacles, and plantings.
As nine o’clock approached and I was checking a series of doors once again, the thought finally occurred to me. It hadn’t before this. I had concentrated on the task at hand and done the job. I had been doing this for almost two weeks, eighteen hours a day, and I just reacted to the situation. Now, as I tugged on a locked door, it came to me. What if it had been real? What if the device was there and had been detonated?
As nine o’clock came and went, and we were told to stand down, I pulled out my cell phone and called my wife. I told her that I missed her and just wanted to talk. I had done this often enough over the course of the event that she didn’t think anything about it. But the reality was that the adrenaline had left and I was drained. I just wanted to hear her voice. I had three hours left on my shift, but I was ready for that day – and for the event – to be over.
A few nights later it was, and I sat in my chair and remembered the jumble of memories from the previous two weeks. I would never have another experience similar to this, and I smiled to myself thinking, that’s okay – once is enough. As I left and walked toward my car to go home, I passed my C.O.
“If I work Salt Lake City, I may give you a call,” he said, shaking my hand.
“If you do, bring a checkbook. My volunteer days are over.”

Christmas in Prison

It’s Christmas in prison.
The food would be better on Christmas. You’d get ham and turkey, cranberry sauce, potatoes with gravy, and pie. We never get pie.
The other thing about Christmas were visits. Your family could visit instead of just one person, and they could bring presents. Not wrapped, and it had to be on an approved list, but it was something.
My visit was Wednesday, just before Christmas. The guards escorted us into the visitor’s room. Normally, you didn’t go until your visitor arrived, but they had decorations and punch and cookies, and it was special.
Some families were already there. A new prisoner was with his wife and son. It was the first time he had seen his baby so this was a good thing. I grabbed a paper cup full of punch and waited, watching families brought in one by one from the guardroom. They were being searched and their gifts checked, so it was a slow process.
Then I saw Billy, the guard from my block, come in. He spotted me, then walked over. I could tell something was wrong.
“Your visit’s cancelled.”
“What do you mean cancelled?”
“Calm down. There was a problem with a gift they brought in.” He put one hand on my shoulder. “Your son brought a tie. You know that ain’t on the list. We tried explaining that, but he got upset, started crying. Then your wife got mad and began raising hell at the guards. We escorted them out. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! You made my kid cry? Johnnie! Maria!” I began yelling for my wife and son, struggling toward the guardroom. Billy held me back while two other guards came over.
“Johnnie! It’s okay son!” I yelled as the guards restrained me. I made one more lunge toward the door and a guard put a baton against my throat as the others pulled me toward the cellblocks. I jerked one arm free and punched the guard with the stick. That’s the last thing I remember as he raised it to strike me across the head. I woke up in solitaire, my head bandaged. Nothing to mark the passage of time, but the rotation of the lights and the meals. I think I’ve been here four days now, so today’s Christmas. I’ve never been in the hole on Christmas. I wondered if I would get ham and turkey.

Rage

I got the penny on our honeymoon. I’ve worn it around my neck ever since – never took it off for anything. That penny meant more to me than my wedding ring. Then some bastard went and stole it from me, so I killed him.
We went to New York City, and it was the first time either one of us had ever been much of anywhere. It was February, and we walked all over the city in the snow, amazed at the size of the place and all the buildings and people. We went to the top of the Empire State Building and waited in line to go out onto the observatory. That’s where I bought penny.
They had this machine, and you put in a penny, and it stamped a little picture of the Empire State Building into it and punched a little hole in it. We went to a sidewalk vendor in front of a bodega off Times Square and I bought a silver chain to hang it on. It’s hung around my neck ever since then until this scumbag over in C block yanked it off coming in off the yard.
I been in here for three years on a five year stretch for a smash and grab at a jewelry store down in Hapeville. I shoulda got off on account of the cops didn’t read me my rights before they popped me in the ribs with their wand, but the PD they gave me was a moron. Since I been in, I’ve been in a little drama so they keep taking away my good time. I’ll probably do the whole nickel. No big deal – my old lady’s waiting on me. She comes every month and for Christmas I might get a conjugal.
Anyway, there’s this big biker asshole named Lowside. We got into it a couple times out in the yard, but the bulls broke it up before it got serious. He’s had it in for me since I was the FNG. Seems I was sitting on his spot on the benches when he came out for his yard time, and I didn’t give him his propers, so he starts buggin’. Hell, I didn’t know it was his spot, but you can’t back down, not when you’re the new guy.
Mostly, I just make sure not to turn my back on him or get caught alone on the block. He runs with those Aryan punks, but they’re not making no thing over it, it’s a personal beef. I just don’t want to get shanked if I can help it. They threw me a blanket party that first week, but nothing much since then. That’s when they catch you off guard and throw a blanket over you before they beat the shit out of you, so you can’t
Anyway, I’m coming in from the yard while he’s going out, they got this new rotation now. We’re passing in the lockdown cage and just as they open the door and start herding us back to the blocks, Lowside reaches out and snatches the chain off my neck. His buddies close ranks and the bulls are pushing us in and before I can anything about it, I’m in lockdown and he’s in the yard.
It was two days later in chow before I saw him again and I charged in. His whole table stands up and fronts for him, and I couldn’t do nothing then neither. He just smiles that crooked tooth grin of his, his tattooed arms crossed over that potbelly he carries around. He says, “What Chain? I don’t know nothing about no chain, fish.”
“Fish, hell. I been in here longer than some of your bald buddies here, Lowside. You get my penny back, or I’ll do the rest of my nickel in D-Seg for doing you.”
“Well, now, you just bring it on, fish. I think you’re outnumbered.” He laughed. “You shoulda joined the brotherhood when you had a chance. Those old-school boys you hanging with just doing they time. Ain’t going to do nothing to help you.”
The guards were starting our way, so I turned and went back to my table. Lowside was right about one thing. The convicts I was hanging around were not going to do anything to bring attention to them. When I first got in, I had been approached by the Aryan Brotherhood and turned them down. I didn’t believe in what they stood for and didn’t’ want to do my stretch being a part of that. Instead I had chosen to hand out with some of the old-timers; convicts who had earned some respect and were for the most part left alone.
I was sitting with one of them now. Montana had landed a plane full of pot in a field surrounded by DEA agents back in 1975 when that sort of thing was taken a lot more seriously than it is now. The sentence then was fifteen to forty and Montana pulled the whole stretch. He had always worn this belt that said Montana across the back and that’s the only name he was known by.
“Why are you squaring off against those peckerheads?” asked Montana.
“Lowside stole something of mine and I want it back.”
Montana chuckled. “You’ve been in here, what… three years? And you still a fish. Don’t you know possessions are what got us all in here? And in here, they don’t mean nothing. You just got to do your time and get out.”
“You don’t understand, Montana. That penny he stole is all I got of my wife. I need it to get me through my time.”
“You the one don’t understand. Everything you need to get through your time is up here.” He tapped his head. “I been here thirty years, and I’m up for parole again this spring. How you think I did that? By holding onto some thing that I had on the outside? Hell, no.” He tapped his head again. “I did it by living up here. Up here, I’m still a free man; I can still see the outside and breathe free. That’s how I did it, and that’s how you gotta do it. If you don’t, that nickel going to be a dime before you get through.”
In my heart, I knew he was right. Montana had become like a father to me in here. He took me under his wing the first week and showed me the ropes. My first week, I was being escorted to the block with the other new prisoners. I kept looking around, scared and fascinated by the sights and smells; oh God, the smells. I looked at each inmate as the jibes and catcalls got louder, wanting to be tough and not show fear. That’s when I first saw Montana, standing in his cell shaking his head, a sad smile on his face.
Later that week, I was standing by myself in the yard looking out the fence when he walked by.
“You got to keep your eyes still, boy.”
“What? What’re you talking about?”
“You’re walking through the block with your head spinning around like a lighthouse. Like you’re at the circus or something. And you look scared. You got to cut that out. Look straight ahead and don’t see nothing. Your eyes got to go dead, like they ain’t nothing or nobody else around. That’s lesson one if you want to make your time.”
And that was lesson one. Little by little, he taught me how to go along and get along. Some of the other old-timers gave him a hard time for working with the new guy, but he didn’t seem to mind. And it didn’t seem to matter to him. Like most of the old school convicts Montana had earned the respect of the rest of the population and the guards. Nobody much messed with them.
The next time our group was passing C block going to the yard, Lowside whistled. When I looked over, he pulled his shirt collar down, and I could see my penny hanging around his tattooed neck. I knew then that it was going to be hard to listen to Montana’s advice, but I also knew that I had to try. I talked to him about it that day in the yard.
“I don’t know if I can let it go, Montana.”
“You have to, fish. You got two years left. It’ll eat you up inside. You have to focus on what’s waiting for you on the outside – at least you have that. I got nobody waiting on me. Everybody I used to hang with is either dead or in the joint. But I’m still living for the outside. Every day, I get up and think about what I’m going to do when I’m free. I can’t get my pilot’s license, but I was a heck of a mechanic. I’m going to set me up a little shop at Peachtree-Dekalb airport. Right now, it’s looking like I’m going to be out before you are. You come look me up when you get out, I’ll hook you up with a job. How’d that be?”
“That sounds good, Montana. I appreciate it. I’ll try to forget Lowside and work on doing my time. Thanks, man.”
The next day, I was on work detail, raking the track that runs along the fence. I looked over in the yard and saw Montana talking to Lowside. It looked like they were going at it pretty good. Montana poked a finger in Lowside’s chest and one of his homeboys gave him a shove – hard. Montana went down. I say him get up and dust himself off. He got right in Lowsides face and said something, then walked away. I decided to ask him about it next time I had the chance.
The next morning at chow, the lockdown alarm went off. That meant something had happened and we all had to get back to our cell. As I walked past, I asked the guard on my block what was going on.
“They found Montana on his bunk this morning. He had a shank stuck in the side of his neck.”
“Ahh, man. Do they know who did it?”
“Nobody saw anything. You know that. They found a penny on his chest. That mean anything to you?”
I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head and continued on to my cell. I was solo right then – my last cellmate had got a transfer. As soon as I got to my bunk, they hit the buzzer and all the doors clanged shut on my floor. I sat on my bunk and thought about Montana. It had been a long time since I cried, and I was grateful I was alone then, so I could.
We stayed on lockdown for twelve hours, the evening meal slid through the slot on the floor. Lights out came early, and I lay there in the dark. I had already decided what to do; now I only had to figure out how and when. After things quieted down, I got up and went to the toilet. I pulled the lid off the tank and removed the lift arm that ran between the flush handle and the stopper. In prison toilets, this was a piece of plastic, but it would still serve my purpose. Usually, nobody used any toilet parts for shivs, because it would become obvious quickly that it didn’t flush anymore. When the guards found out, that was an automatic solitary, but I figured, I was headed for the hole anyway.
I worked the piece of plastic against the floor of my cell until I had a point on one end. I wrapped a strip from the tail of my shirt around the other end and put the shiv in my sock. It was a week before I had the opportunity to use it.
Lowside and his boys were lifting weights. He was spotting for somebody doing bench presses. I strolled along the fence until I was behind him then slipped up from behind just as he took the weight bar in both hands. I looked around to make sure I would have time, then bent down and pulled the shiv from my sock. As I straightened up, Lowside started to turn, but not quick enough. As I shoved the blade into his head, just behind the earlobe, I whispered into the other ear. “This is for Montana.”
He screamed and grabbed the side of his head as he fell, but he was dead before he hit the ground. The alarm sounded and guards were on the run before his buddies could react. As he hit the ground, I reached down and inside his shirt. I grabbed the chain that held my penny and yanked it away, just as the guards pulled me off.
When they got me to the hole, they through me in and bolted the door. As they turned out the lights plunging the small cell into total darkness, I could feel the penny still grasped in my hand. And I thought of my young wife and Montana, both free and on the outside.

Fighting Spam

What is Spam
According to recent statistics, 60% of all email is spam and another 25% are viruses. That’s 85% of this essential communication tool clogged up with wasteful and harmful messages.
Many people have only recently become introduced to spam, but in reality, it has been around since the mid ‘90s – before many of us even started using email. There are conflicting stories on who actually started spam, and most of the conflict lies in the definition of the word. Therein lies a major problem in reducing or eliminating spam. Someone’s marketing material is someone else’s spam.
The closest metaphor to the spam problem lies in your mailbox at home and the junk mail we have been receiving all our lives. Is the catalog that will almost certainly be in your mailbox when you get home junk mail? It depends. If it’s from someone you want to do business with, it’s a useful catalog – if not it’s junk mail.
People have complained about junk mail as long as there has been a postal service, but what could you do about it? Ban junk mail and you won’t get that catalog you want for Christmas shopping or the pizza coupon you are going to use this weekend. The same issues exist for spam – you first have to define it.
Many companies do legitimate mass mailings of email. Weekly, I receive an email from several vendors with which I do business. I quickly glance at them, decide if there is anything useful and either file or delete them. But what would happen if I suddenly decided I didn’t want one of them any more? They would immediately become spam! The email hasn’t changed, only my attitude toward it.
That’s fine, you say, but nobody wants to buy the Viagra, or get the new home mortgage, or the stock tips that clog our inboxes. Well, that’s just not true. If they weren’t making money for someone, they wouldn’t exist. Someone is buying this stuff, if even just a few people. And that’s where the metaphor with junk mail breaks down.
It costs real money to send junk mail through the postal service. There has to be a decent return on the investment to make the effort worthwhile. But millions of emails can be sent for pennies, so the risk is so low that any return is worth the investment.
What about the Can-Spam act? It’s a great effort and a reasonable direction to take. The problem is that it only affects people in this country. The majority of spam comes form the Far East, India, Europe, and Canada. And it still doesn’t do enough to define spam or have tough enough teeth behind it.
How did they get my email address?
There are many answers to this. First, just as with postal junk mail, legitimate companies sell their address lists. Any time you give your email address to any company, you are taking the chance that they will sell it someone else who may in turn sell it to another party.
More often it is a less than reputable company fishing for email addresses under false pretenses. It may be a contest or drawing, a free sample or a request for information. Regardless of what the pretext is, any time you type your email address into a web page, you are saying send me all the junk mail you want to. Besides simply avoiding this practice, there is more advice under the heading - How Can I Stop It.
Also, if your email address is on a web site anywhere, say associated with your business or work, it is subject to abuse. There are computers running robotics programs out there that search through the internet looking at page after page and copying any email address they find on those sites. There are ways to foil this, but not quite as easily.
Then there are programs that simply make up email addresses. To start they have a database of company names. Then they run a program against this database, making an assumption about the domain name used (say the company is Microsoft, they will assume Microsoft.com). Then they append common names to the front of this using various combinations. Remember, it’s not costing them anything extra to send out millions of bad emails. So this machine my create johna@microsoft.com, johnb@microsoft.com, etc. Unless you have a very unusual name and/or company name, sooner or later one of these robots will get also. You can’t avoid these, but you can keep from making it worse if you get one.
Viruses, which are like spam but more dangerous usually get your address a different way. If someone has or runs a virus on their computer, most of them will open and read that person’s address book and start sending itself to everyone on that list. In this way, the email address looks like it comes from a friend or coworker. What should be a tip off however, is that the subject line and body of the email will usually not make sense. If you’re not expecting the email and it looks strange, delete it! If you’re not sure, call or email this person and ask if they sent it to you. Under no circumstances open an attachment unless you are absolutely sure of the sender, the file, and its purpose.
How can I stop it
Regardless of how they get your address, there are ways to minimize the problem to a certain degree. The first line of defense is when and how you give out your address. Minimally, you should have two email addresses, one for work, and one for everything else. MSN, Yahoo, and many other websites let you create email addresses for free. Use the Yahoo or other public email address for anything that is not work related. If you never use your work email address at public websites, you will greatly reduce the risk of getting spam.
Ideally, create two or three of these public addresses. I have three. One I use at sites or for people that I really want to get email from, and I trust the site or person. The second, I use for sites where I probably want their email, but I don’t necessarily trust them not to sell it. Third, is an address I use when I don’t want anything from the company, and never plan on reading it if they send it. This third address, I never even go to. It can fill up with spam for all I care. The second address gets a lot of spam, but I still look at it occasionally and clean it out looking for legitimate mail. The main public address I clean daily and am very careful about when and where I use it.
As for robots that scan websites farming email addresses, they can be stopped but with more difficulty. What these programs are doing is looking for something that looks like an email address, so you have to make the email address look like something else. One way to accomplish this is to simply explain on the site how email addresses are created, if there is a standard form. For instance, state at the top of the page that all email addresses at this company are first name, last initial, followed by @company.com. Then you need only supply a list of names and a human can determine your email address where a machine cannot.
Another lesser-used method is to change the address so that even if it is harvested, it is useless. For instance, use the word at instead of @, or add a space in the address. Humans can figure it out, but machines can’t.
The bottom line in all this is, protect your email address. The more you use it and give it out, the more spam you will get.
What happens when I get it?
Okay, you’ve done the best you can, but you still get spam. What can you do? First, let’s look at what not to do. Don’t reply to spam. I know it’s tempting to hit the reply button and type in some vulgar reply, but all you are doing is validating that they have reached a legitimate address. This will only flag your address for more spam.
The same goes for clicking on any link in the email, including something that will allegedly let you opt out of future emails. Think about it. If the company were that legitimate, you wouldn’t be getting the spam in the first place.
One major problem with this is setting up an out of office message when you are on vacation. If there isn’t some way of specifying who does or doesn’t get the reply, then you will increase the spam threat. This can’t be helped, but it does increase spam.
So what do you do? Simple. Just delete it. Trust me. Anything else is going to take you more time and be less effective. Want to do something anyway? Okay, we will take a brief look at filters. These are rules you set up in your email program that handle certain pieces of email. How this is done is different from system to system. We will use Outlook Express in the examples below. Your system may be different, but this should give you some guidance with which to get started.
In Outlook Express, you would click on Tools, then Message Rules. Here, you will set up the Condition, and the Action of the rule. In other words, on what mail do you run the rule, and what does it do. The bottom window is where you will give this rule a name. We’ll do a couple of simple examples. First, let’s say you get a spam from somebody@somewhere.com.
Highlight the message and click on the Message menu option. The simplest thing to do would be click on the Block Sender option. The problem with this is one of the many reasons that spam filters don’t work. This email may come from somebody@somewhere.com. The next one will come from somebody1@somewhereelse.com, and so forth. But, there is little to lose, so go ahead and click on Block Sender.
But we want to actually create a rule for this message, so open the Message menu back up and click on Create Rule From Message… This will open up a New Mail Rule window with one option already selected. In the top window, Where the From line contains people, is already checked and the sender is filled in the third window. If you checked Delete It in the second window, you will be doing the same thing as blocking the sender.
So instead, uncheck the box in the first window and check the Where the Subject line option. Notice this changes the verbiage in window three. In the second window, rather than delete it, check the option to Move it to the specified folder. We don’t want to start deleting messages until we are sure of what we are doing.
Now in the third window, we have to specify what we are moving. Click on the blue link that says, contains specific words to bring up another window. Now in the top box, type in words from the subject line of the email that would trigger it as spam. Be very specific and careful. For instance, Viagra would be a good choice. Doctor may not be unless you are sure you are never going to get a legitimate email from your doctor. Also, note that this is going to have the same problems as trying to block a sender. This rule will block Viagra, but not vi agra, or vi-agra, or any other variation. When you type in the word(s), click Add and then Okay.
Now click on the specified link. If you don’t already have one, click on New Folder and create on called junk or spam. Move all your suspected junk mail here until you are sure you aren’t getting rid of good mail. Then you can change the rule to delete it.
Notice in the top window there are many different ways to identify the mail you don’t want to see. You will need to experiment a bit to find what works best. Before clicking OK to finish the rule, drop down to the fourth box and give this rule a name, like Viagra spam. This way you can find it easy later, (under the Tools, Message Rules menu) to change or delete it.
What’s Next?
No one knows yet. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. There are a lot of very smart people spending millions of dollars trying to fight spam. But there are just as many creating it, and every time a tool gets invented to fight it, another gets invented to work around that tool. The Can-Spam act is a good start, but it isn’t global enough or tough enough.
Meanwhile, we can all do our part to prevent the spread of spam as much as possible. Protect your email address to protect your sanity. Don’t reply to spam and never click on a link inside of a spam email. If we all do our part, maybe we can put spam back on the shelf where it belongs.
Darryl Brooks is fifty years old and a lifetime resident of Atlanta, Georgia. He has been a computer expert for twenty years and recently began writing technical articles, short fiction, and book reviews. His article, ‘38 Seconds’ was recently published in Runner’s Journal. His fiction article ‘One Day’ won 2nd place in the ACW monthly writing contest. His drabble, ‘The Three Moons’ has been selected for publication by Between Kisses.