Communication

The next four blogs are a collection of articles that I wrote in the mid 90's for a singles magazine in Portland, Oregon. They were a loose response to the book; Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus.

Everett

HARSCH REALITY

By David Harsch

Men are from Earth Women are from ?????. A series of articles intended to help men understand why they don’t understand women.

I have read many books and articles on the problem of communication between men and women. The authors of each of these publications claim to know what the problem is and how to fix it. Well the simple truth is that they don’t know what the problem is and they can’t fix it.

The Harsch reality is that men see things from a man’s point of view and a women see them from a woman’s point of view and never the twixt shall meet.

The problem, you see is not in the understanding but in understanding that there is no understanding. Are you confused yet?

Let’s start this series by trying to understand communication itself. A communication is defined as a message sent by a sender or the speaker and received by a receiver or the listener. Seems pretty simple and it is if a man is talking to a man, but when a man says something to a woman the woman hears the words the man says, but the communication she receives is clouded by everything that she has ever heard from every other man she has ever known. So the message that she receives is not necessarily what the man sent. And they’re just talking about cleaning the living room.

Men are raised to say what they want without regard for the impact on any woman who might be around. Women on the other hand are raised to be careful about what they say so that they will look like ladies and not offend. Women are also raised to believe that men know what they want and will provide it with out being told or asked. This teaching however is false since men were not taught to know what women want and often don’t know even when told.

So if you women want to communicate with your man just listen to what he says and stop trying to interpret the hidden meaning because there probably isn’t one.

This article is written by a man using the statements made by men without women present.

In future articles I will discuss the communication problems as they relate to topics such as; Sex, relationships, control, manipulation, friendship, dating, and any other subject that may raise the ire of men and women alike.

Have a good understanding.

Dave.

David Harsch is a pseudonym for a single Portland Man who believes that men are from Mars and women are from someplace else because we know where Venus is.

Shark

The dim outline of the big fish is just barely visible as Pepper strains his eyes to be certain of what he is seeing. The water at 100 feet is dark even at mid-day and the shadowy figures of coral and other bottom things can make you think that you are being eyed by some big predator even if you're not. As he moves toward the surface the shadow turns and moves toward him at a casual pace. Pepper stops to analyze the direction that the shark is moving in and then descends to the sunken ship where he had been playing earlier.

Moving inside one of the hatch openings he turns down into a once dry passageway that is now encrusted in barnacles and anemone attached to the various surfaces. Once on the lower deck he moves out through the now algae and sponge covered hole that had caused the sinking of the old ship. The ship is now simply fish habitat and a playground for SCUBA divers. It also makes a good sanctuary for the small fish that are trying to stay out of the food chain.

Outside now he swims easily to the lower side of the derelict and then, stopping, he watches for the shadow that has been stalking him for the past ten minutes. Several small fish and a lone crab crawling sideways across the sandy bottom near the bow of the ship are the only movements that he can detect. With a kick of his fins he moves rapidly toward the forward end of the ship and then stops once again. There is still no sign of his nemesis.

Swimming around to the side of the ship that is near the shore side he tries to use it as a shield to escape the vigilant predator. Moving around the bow of the ship and toward the bottom to avoid being detected he skims along the sandy bottom moving a few sea snails, a lone starfish and some sea pens out of the way with his wake. Reaching the stern he slows a little and looks again for the shadow. With no sign of the shark in sight he moves toward the surface, and safety.

When he reaches sixty feet the shadow re-appears. The Shark must have been waiting for him to come out into the open again. Pepper continues to move toward the surface but the shark continues to move toward him. He can feel its intent; even with its mouth closed he can visualize it licking its chops. Chops are a pretty good description for the Blue shark's mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Teeth that can rip an appendage right off, teeth that are prepared to rip into Peppers young body.

Pepper knows that a shark is not a vicious fish; its only interest is food. So there is no malice in it as it slowly stalks Pepper, stalks a meal. Pepper stops in the water and hangs there for a moment, trying to decide whether to go back to his sanctuary at the bottom, or to make a run for the surface. Air supply being a factor he chooses the surface.

As the shark gets within sight it veers away slightly perhaps trying to make Pepper think that it is not really interested in him. But Pepper knows that he is the shark’s only target. Then ten yards out it turns back it is looking out of the side of its hideous non-head toward Pepper, he is sizing him up for the kill.

As the shark turns Pepper turns also, but away from the shark, perhaps he can stay far enough ahead so it will tire of chasing him and give up. He knows that a shark will not persist in the pursuit of a healthy target for long. Terror enters Peppers mind for the first time as he turns in time to see the first attack begin. With lightning speed the fish aims for Peppers mid section but as quickly Pepper gives a kick of his fins and arches his body moving it out of the way. And the rows of extended teeth miss their mark. With a little time gained due to the shark’s wide turn Pepper moves toward the surface a little more and prepares to make a rapid ascent in hopes of finding some of his absent family. The family that he should never have left in the first place, but the young will often opt for play without thinking of the danger. The shark finishes its turn and propels itself toward the fleeing Pepper, who is now wishing that he was older and stronger or at least that his father were here to rescue him. The shark brushes Peppers belly with his dorsal fin as he passes under him and then makes another turn.

With all of the speed that Pepper can muster he moves toward the surface in an attempt to escape the same fate that many a tuna fish had experienced by his own jaws. At thirty feet now he needs a little more speed.

The shark is now very close and Pepper can feel his presence even though he cannot see him. Just then another shadow appears. It is above him and between him and the surface. Then another appears to his right. And then another in front and above him. They are moving toward him at high speed. He is caught between the shadow behind him and the ones moving toward him from the surface.

There is now no place to hide and no more chance to run. One of the shadows passes him at high speed to his right, another to his left. Neither is after him, they are heading for the shark.

The first bottle nosed Dolphin hits the shark full force just aft of his gills and the shark is slowed to a near stand still. The second dolphin hits it on the other side as the big fish tries to turn out of the way. Pepper turns to watch the battle just as a third and then a fourth dolphin pass him on their way to join the fray.

Whump, the impact is audible and the shark begins to bleed. He tries to flee but he is no match for the speed of the fish like mammals.

The first animal is back now plowing into the sharks gills very near the place where he had hit it before. Then the second hits it again, and then the third.

Each dolphin takes its turn hitting the shark where it is the most vulnerable, in its gills. Over and over again they hit it until it is helpless and nearly motionless in the water.

The once blue green atmosphere is now starting to turn crimson from the bleeding shark. The predator has become the victim.

With their job completed they turn and head toward Pepper. He watches intently as they close the gap between the battle ground and his vantage point. The first dolphin moves up beside him and then moves off toward the surface. The second follows the same pattern and then the third. Each appears to check Pepper out before going on. The fourth comes up to him and nuzzles his side, shaking her head as if scolding him. She then moves off toward the others.

And then, as he should have done in the first place, Pepper follows his mother and the other members of his pod toward the surface and the continued search for food.

---

[1] Copyright (C) 1990 Everett Ede

Fastball.

The sun is covering half of the field as Ron O’Halloran walks back to the pitchers mound. The infielders can see pretty well from their position but if they have to take a high pop up they could lose the ball in the sun. The outfielders are standing in full sunlight so they have to strain their eyes to see the hitters.

It’s the bottom of the ninth inning, the score’s tied and John ‘Home Run’ Fowler is the lead off hitter. Fowler is the last batter that Ron wants to face in this situation. He is currently hitting .390 with 47 R.B.I’s and twenty six home runs.

Ron Picks up the rosin bag and dries his throwing hand while he thinks about the three times today that he has faced Fowler. He struck Him out in the first inning. Walked him in the fourth and then watched him score on a double. Ron fouled him out to the third baseman in the sixth, each time Ron was able to avoid the use of his favorite pitch, and Fowler’s, the fastball.

Ron knows that using a fastball against Fowler is like playing Russian Roulette, if you get it past him your OK but if he gets hold of it... Every fastball that Fowler has hit this year has gone out of the park.

Finishing his warm up pitches Ron Hears the umpire holler, “Batter up.” Fowler steps into the batters box and takes a few practice swings. Ron watches his opponent as he does this and marvels at his size. His arms are so big that they seem to be trying to escape from his jersey by tearing it every time he swings that big bat he uses. Ron eyes his catcher intently waiting for a sign. The catcher calls for a fastball but Ron shakes it off. He knows that he doesn’t have the strength left to get a fastball past Fowler and it would certainly go out of the ball park. The next sign calls for a slider. He takes this one and with all of the intensity that he can muster, winds up trying to look like he is going to throw the fastball but slides his fingers down the side of the seam causing it to spin downward taking the ball out of the strike zone.

Fowler watches as the ball comes off of Ron’s fingers hoping that the pitcher will try to run a fastball past him on the first pitch. He tightens his grip on the bat and begins to swing at the expected point of arrival.

“Strike One!” The umpire hollers, as John’s bat catches only empty air.

Ron’s feeling of relief is brief as he receives the ball from the catcher and starts thinking of his next pitch. If he tries the fastball now Fowler may not be expecting it, but the catcher calls for a curve. Ron accepts the change in thinking and puts both fingers on the right seam. Winding up he raises his left leg high in the air to gain momentum and to shield the ball from the hitter.

Fowler is concentrating on the delivery and waits to see the ball as it passes Ron’s shoulder. Anticipating the curve he watches as it spins to the outside of the plate. He is still watching as it passes.

“Ball one!”

To throw the batter off of his thinking Ron now chooses to repeat the curve. This time he puts emphasis on his delivery to feign the fastball.

Fowler watches this one pass also.

“Ball two!” the umpire hollers.

This is the first time in two months that Ron has pitched an entire game and the task is starting to tire him. He steps off the rubber and walks to the back of the mound again picking up the rosin bag. Perhaps he should call a conference and give the ball up to a relief pitcher. No, he decides, he can beat this guy. Just don’t throw him anything that he can put out of the ball park. Like.. a fastball. A sinker thrown like a fastball will make him swing again he thinks. Getting the right sign from his catcher he winds up and delivers.

“Ball three!” Comes the answer from the umpire as the ball gets away and drops out of the strike zone.

Well now Ron has his team in a big hole. Being behind the best hitter in the league is bad enough but now he’s worried about putting the winning run on base with a walk. The next hitter is too good to ignore, because he scored Fowler in the forth after a walk. Ron has to get Fowler out.

Ron watches the sign from the third base coach to Fowler out of the corner of his eye. With three balls and one strike they may want him to let a pitch go by. Believing that He may do this makes this a good time to catch up with another strike. Now seems the time for the one pitch that he didn’t want to use. The pitch that Fowler is waiting for, the fastball.

Ron is desperate and he knows that Fowler will be waiting for him to try to blow his favorite pitch past him. He can see Fowler tensing up, digging his right foot deeper into the sand at the back of the batters box, his big arms stretching his sleeves to their breaking point. He pulls his power hand to the very bottom of the bat as he gets ready for what is to come.

Ron pulls all the power that he can muster from his tired body. With his fingers tight together and throwing his leg high in the air to get every ounce of energy left in him, he expels the ball from his hand. With a loud....Umph! The fastball is on its way.

CRACK!

Lottery

Here is a story

LOTTERY

BY

EVERETT EDE

The sun was high in the morning sky when John awoke. Actually, it was the sun shining in his face that caused his waking. He pulls his right arm from under his head and using a dirty index finger from the same hand, cleans the sleep from his eyes. He then pulls himself into a sitting position and then leans back against the bridge abutment that had been his head board the previous night. The acrid smell of human urine finishes the job of waking that the sun had started just a moment ago.

"Fuckin' god damn bums!" He mumbles. "Why can't they walk outside to do that?" He, staggers to his feet and then leans on the cement abutment for a moment before walking slowly down the bank. He moves toward the sidewalk and then turns West on Oak Street. He has only taken a few steps when he notices a woman walking toward him on the building side of the sidewalk. He moves over so that he is now on a collision course with her. She moves to the street side but John also alters his course.

"Excuse me." She says as she tries to walk around him.

"Mam could you spare a quarter?" He asks, still blocking her path.

"No! Get away from me." She says in a strong voice that indicates she will take none of his guff.

"Well fuck you miss hoity toity." He reacts to her.

She turns and looks straight at him with a scornful look but says nothing. He turns and skulks away like a chastised dog.

He walks two more blocks to an area that is known as restaurant row. Turning left down an alley that separates two of the better places he sees garbage cans lined up in a neat, orderly row. Their galvanized lids, neat concentric circles and prim little handles, seem to say to him, open me first. John lifts the lid of the first one that he comes to and begins his daily routine of rummaging for food.

This has been the way his days have started for over five years. Before that he had been a successful Real Estate Broker with a wife and three great kids. Then his drinking got out of hand and his late hours turned to play instead of work. His wife left him about seven years ago and it was then that he let his depression take him to the street. His reputation on the street has been that of a belligerent, sometimes violent, drunk. John had never been arrested before he hit the streets and has been in jail five times since. In short he has become a pretty wasted individual. If you can use the term individual on someone who has no self worth.

"Hey! Get out of there you fuckin' bum." A busboy yells as he comes out of the kitchen with another load for the cans.

"Fuck you. You're just throwing this stuff out and I need something to eat." John yells back, as he continues his quest for breakfast.

"I'm going to call the cops." The young man counters.

"Why?"

"Because you're not supposed to be here. Why don't you just get a job?" The boy stops before he gets too close to the disgusting man.

"You going to give me a job?" John taunts as he opens a piece of waxed paper exposing a piece of pastry that is stuck to it.

"I just work here," The boy excuses, "but my boss might."

"Right." He swallows the pastry piece together with a piece of the paper, and then pulls a tin can from the garbage and examines it for something edible.

"I'll go ask him, but you get out of the garbage." The boy speaks as he disappears through the door to the kitchen.

"Is he serious?" John speaks as though to some person. He looks toward the fleeing boy and thinks how his oldest son might look just like him by now. Closing the lid on the unproductive can he moves to the next one and repeats the procedure. This time finding some ham on a bone and some uncooked artichoke leaves. If he could just find a restaurant that didn't have a garbage disposal, he thinks to himself, he could find some good food.

"Hey." The boy is back.

"Leave me alone. I'm not bothering anyone." John defends his bone as a dog would by pulling it around to protect it from his attacker while keeping his eyes on him.

"Come on my boss is going to fire me if I don't keep you away from here."

"Did he give me a job?" John taunts.

"No."

"Maybe he'll give me yours after he fires you."

"Come on man. Here is a sandwich that I made for you. Now take it and go somewhere else." The boy holds out a tentative hand with a neatly wrapped package in it.

Without hesitation John grabs it and then looks at the startled lad with immense curiosity.

"You know if you look for positive energy you will find it." The boy says suddenly.

"What?" John looks at him with a look that is as puzzled as his mind.

"I said that if you look for positive energy in your life you will find it. That means that if you expect life to give you a break then it will."

John continues to stare at the boy and then looks down at the fresh sandwich. "Your boss'd fire you if he knew you did this for me."

"I know." The boy answers as he turns to re-enter the kitchen. "Positive energy." He says as he disappears through the screen door.

"Positive energy." John repeats as looks again at the fresh sandwich. He opens the wrapping and lifts the bread to find fresh roast beef, lettuce, mustard and a tomato. When John was a broker he used to give a seminar to his sales people about the belief in self. The name and the subject matter of that seminar was; "Positive Energy.", and he raised his kids on that same belief. "Positive energy." He says again as he takes a bite and then moves off toward the street.

Every day for the past few years John has moved along this street and never looked at the people who passed him. But, today he has his eyes up. Eating his sandwich and smiling at the people who pass him. Most just avert their eyes, but some smile back. This is great, he says to himself, these people know that I'm here. After he passes a few more who smile at him, he musters enough courage to speak.

"Hi." He says shyly to a man in a suit.

"Hello." The man says.

"God this is great." Taking another bite out of his sandwich he picks up his step a little.

"Hi there." He says to a young man.

"Hi." The man says back to him.

John looks in a window as he walks by and is aware of a smile on his face. A smile that had not been there for a very long time. He stops and looks again. He feels good.

The window is on the front of a restaurant. He looks inside and then without hesitation walks through the front door.

"Can I help you?" A young woman asks as he enters.

"Yes. I know that you probably don't really want me in here, but I would like to wash some dishes or the floor or something for some breakfast. Do you have any work for me?"

"Well, I do need a replacement dishwasher, but you're going to have to clean yourself up first."

"That's great! Can I use the bathroom to do it?" He can't believe his own enthusiasm.

"Go ahead, I will see what you look like when you come out."

"Thanks." He says as he jaunts toward the door marked "Men."

Taking off his old jacket and throwing it in the waste can he then removes his shirt. Turning on the hot water and then jiggling the handle on the soap container, he releases its powder. He washes his hands up to his elbows, then he washes his face and beard and dries himself using paper towels. He then puts his shirt back on and straightens it out and brushes his pants as smooth as he can. Looking at himself in the mirror he thinks that he looks pretty good. As he turns to leave he remembers his teeth. Looking around the small room he finds nothing that will work well enough to clean them. So the soap will have to do. Using his finger like a tooth brush he scrubs his dirty teeth. He then rinses his mouth and spits the bitter soap into the sink.

"Is this good enough?" He asks the lady at the cash register when he finishes.

"Well...not ordinarily, but I need dishes washed and you seem anxious to work. Come with me."

After working for four hours rinsing and washing every dish in the place at least twice. John sits down on a plastic soap bucket and leans back against the stainless steel counter where he had been working. He was feeling good.

"What's your name?"

He looks up to see the lady looking down at him from the doorway. "John." He answers.

"John What?"

"John Smith. I know, you don't believe me, but that really is my name.

"Do you really want to work?" She, quizzes.

"Yes," he says with a definiteness that hasn't been in him for awhile. "It's time to get off the street."

"Good answer. Come out here and have some food and then finish the day for me. I will pay you in cash so you can get some decent clothes. Then, if you show up tomorrow, I will hire you. The job pays $4.25 per hour. You will have to bus the tables but the waitress will share 5% of her tips with you for that. OK?"

"OK!"

The rest of the day goes by quickly and then he has $34.00 in his pocket.

Standing on the street in front of the restaurant he looks first one way and then the other. What to do now. The mission, that's it. I can get cleaned up at the mission, he says to himself. Walking briskly down the street he turns toward the old stucco building where the street people line up for a meal and a bed If they can get one. Walking through the door he goes directly up to the window.

"Hi." He says confidently to the man behind the counter.

"How did you get in here?" He says.

"The door was unlocked." John answers.

"Well You'll have to wait outside until opening like the others. There will be plenty of food."

"Look I got a job and I need to find some clean clothes and get a shower." The man looks up at him but doesn't say a word. "I have some money." John continues.

"Where is your job?"

"Washing dishes at the Harvest House."

After a long pause the man picks up the phone and dials a number. "Hi, this is Doug at the mission. Did you hire a dishwasher today?" He waits while the unheard conversation continues. "No there's no trouble. He is in here looking for some help and if you hired him I'm going to help him." Another pause. "What's your name." He directs the question at John.

"John Smith, really."

"Yeah that's what he says." He responds to the telephone. "OK, thanks." He hangs up and then says, "alright John Smith, If you want off the street I'm going to help you."

"Thanks."

"Hank." The man hollers into the empty hall.

"What?" A voice comes from the corner.

"Take this guy down to the goodwill and help him get some clothes and then bring him back in here."

"OK. Come on guy." The two men walk out the back door of the mission.

The next morning freshly scrubbed, clean shaven and dressed in a new used shirt and pants and wearing a clean pair of shoes. John Smith walks into the Harvest House Restaurant.

"One sir?" The waitress asks.

"No. I'm the new dishwasher." He responds.

"Oh, do you know where to go?"

"Yes." He says as he walks toward the kitchen.

As he moves toward his work station the lady from the day before looks at him and says, "John?"

"Yes mam."

"Lookin' good John. Do you remember what to do?"

"Yes mam." He says confidently and she smiles as he continues into the kitchen.

At the end of the day he is more tired than he was the day before but he is feeling good as he starts to leave.

"You did a good job today John. I am going to need your social security number. Do you have one?"

"Yes but I don't have the card anymore."

"That's alright just give me the number and I will order a lost card for you."

He gives her the number and then asks. "What are you doing with those things?" He points at what looks like register tapes.

"Oh those are lottery ticket numbers that I made a mistake on and I have to buy them."

"I'll buy some. How much are they?"

"Well let's see, this one is only a dollar."

"OK." He feels like he is helping her.

He hands her one of his remaining dollars and puts the lottery slip in his pocket. "How much am I going to win." He asks.

"If you win that one you will win three million dollars."

"Wow." He says as he walks out the door.

1,7,14,23,33 and 42 are the numbers on the top line of the ticket and 3,5,7,15,28 and 38 the numbers on the second line. He squeezes it in his hand. "Positive Energy, positive Energy." He repeats as he remembers the boy from yesterday.

The next two days are full of clear thinking and excitement for John. The last time he felt this way was many years ago when he was still married and he had his kids to love. He can hardly believe that he is feeling like coming back out of the gutter. He is feeling so positive about everything.

"Got a quarter buddy?" A voice from a rumpled form on the sidewalk.

"Yeah." He says as he hands the man a quarter. "You know if you look for positive energy it will find you." He misquotes the boy’s words.

"Fuck you asshole." The man on the sidewalk responds.

John walks on thinking about how receptive he had been to those words, and how this person would not even smile back at him for saying it.

As he walks into the restaurant the lady asks. "How many numbers did you get John?"

"What?" He says.

"Lottery numbers. How many did you get?"

"How do I find out?" He asks.

"It's in the paper here. The article says somebody won it."

"What are they?" He says as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the slip. "Positive energy." He says as he does so.

"What?" She says.

"Positive energy, if you believe that something good will happen then it will, Positive energy."

"Well John you old metaphysical person you."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Do you have your ticket out?"

"Yeah, I'm ready."

"1,7,14,23,33 and 42." She, reads.

He looks at the numbers on his ticket and repeats the numbers.

"1,7,14,23,33,42."

"That's right, how many did you get?"

"Positive energy." He says.

"What?"

"1,7,14,23,33, and 42. How much do I win?"

"Let me see that." She says in disbelief.

"1,7,14,23,33,42. Son of a Bitch!"

"How much do I win?" John asks again, as he takes his ticket back.

"Three million dollars."

"That's good." He says as he puts the ticket back in his pocket, and walks toward the kitchen.

"What are you going to do John?" The lady asks.

"Well, first I'm going to wash dishes, and then I'm going to go get my money. And then....then I'm going to go find my kids.

"Your kids?"

"Yeah. My kids they need to hear about positive energy. I love my kids. I'm going to go find my kids." Then he turns and walks into the kitchen, picks up his apron, and mumbles to himself.

"Positive Energy."

that I wrote on a bet with another "writer".. The bet was to write a story with a little twist in it. Apearantly my twist was a little too subtle because the judges missed it completely. see if you can catch it. CAUTION!! it has profanity in it so if you are sensitive to it better skip it.

This one is not really a story but I wrote it so you get to read it. The inspiration for it was a trip home at 4 AM after cleaning my father in law's bar after it closed. While stopped at a stop light I saw a person laying in a doorway and seemed to be trying to cover themselves with the old sport coat that they were wearing. I went home and wrote this down.

THE STREET

Raindrops make a pattering sound on the sidewalk in front of an abandoned doorway. A steel door that once provided an entrance to the old hardware building has been permanently bolted so that no entrance or exit is any longer possible. The brick walls that make up three sides of the alcove protecting the door are dirty with the dust that has attached itself to urine stains that start waist high and then run down the walls to the concrete porch. All of this has become the habitat of a lonely creature wearing an old sport coat, black work pants and a tattered pair of tennis shoes who lies sleeping in that portion of the opening that he has designated as his bedroom. But for the occupant of the small man made cave there would be no need for this opening or for the building that surrounds it for that matter. The current owner has talked about tearing it down but that doesn't make economic sense because there is no demand for a new one on the site and razing it would be cost prohibitive. Besides there is still a little bit of depreciation left in it.

A car makes a whooshing sound as it travels through the water on Burnside Street a block away. During the day you wouldn't hear a single car that far away but there isn't a lot of sound in the city at 3 O’clock in the morning. If you listen closely you do hear a lot of little noises. A train whistles from the east side somewhere, some people arguing a couple of blocks away and the occasional automobile on one of the main streets. The bundle in the doorway doesn't care though, his two sedative bottles lay empty on the sidewalk just outside his abode. One is a quart of Thunderbird the other’s label simply says; 'wine'. He moves a little bit trying to put his hand under his head in order to use it for a pillow. But, alas, he can't pull it up far enough; the old sport coat is caught under his hip and is restricting the movement of his shoulder. He tries one more time and then the movement stops.

A lone figure walks out of the adult book store across the street, stopping just long enough to see if anyone is watching, then, satisfied that he has not been seen he walks down the street, with his head down, to his waiting car. He drives down the deserted side street to a main avenue that will take him to his home and his warm, dry bed. His visit to the dark side is over.

The neon sign on the front of the store, the street lights at every second telephone pole and a security light from the furniture warehouse a half a block away provide the illusion that it is still day. The street, however, is empty of traffic and of parked cars, leaving the unused parking meters standing in a uniform row along each side of the street. A motorist would salivate at the sight of an empty ninety minute space if it were daytime, but now no one cares. Certainly not the creature in the cave, but then he doesn't care during the day.

He, there isn't any indication that the pronoun fits, but if one were to analyze the unmoving bundle in the doorway there likely would be no need to assign a name to it no matter how general it might be. There are hundreds of these 'street people' visible during the day. So what happens to them at night? The lady with the Safeway shopping cart walks to the Morrison bridge ramp and pushes her cart between the concrete abutment and the loose wire of the fence designed to keep her out. She carefully parks it at the far side of the enclosure so that no one can steal her prize possessions. She carefully pulls some folded plastic material from the bottom rack of the cart and spreads it out on the ground, taking care that nothing is left under it, and then places a half a dozen paper grocery bags end to end on top of it. The completion of this task constitutes the turning down of her bed. She doesn't need the wine sedative of the doorway person. All she needs is a lullaby, which she provides herself. A few soft choruses of a tune that she used to sing to her children barely gurgles from her throat, a lump forms and a single tear provides the only emotion left in her. And then; sleep.

The man known as 'chief' simply lies on his side next to the foundation of a building nearest to the spot where he gets tired. The other street people call him chief because he is obviously an Indian. No one knows what kind, or really cares. Chief may not remember himself. A sixteen year old boy finds refuge behind the shrubs of the downtown library, a group of men walk down the stairway on the East side of the bridge to lay on the dry dirt under it, and two fellows who have known each other for some time walk down a trail through some blackberry vines in Sullivan’s gulch to their cottage; a conglomeration of boards, cardboard, plastic and paper that they have built surreptitiously over time and under the cover of the brush.

The rain is falling harder now, washing the streets. Streets that have not had a sweeper on them for a week. Rinsing the urine from the doorways and sidewalks, washing the dirt, paper, leaves and excrement down the drains, making them clean again.

Rain, it is the only clean thing that happens to this part of town, the only cleansing that these people can get. But they're missing it, they are hiding from it. Under their bridges, and in their doorways, in their makeshift shelters and under their bushes, they're missing it. They're missing the shower that could make them clean. Well, they don't have towels anyway, how would they get dry? I guess that they'll just stay dirty, on the dirty streets, under the dirty bridges, in the dirty doorways, in this dirty part of town.

So who really cares about them anyway???????

By Everett Ede

I have been silent for too long. So now I will inundate you with my previously written short stories and when I run out of them I will start making up new ones.

The first one was written many years ago when I was taking creative writing in college. I got an A and it was included in the school publication. No money though.

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

BY

EVERETT D. EDE

It's two A.M. on a Sunday morning. The state of the world is of no concern to me because I am sleeping soundly in my very comfortable bed.

"Ring. Ring. Ring!" I roll over and instinctively turn off the alarm. "Ring! Ring!" Its the telephone. I sit up on the bed and reach the distance across the night stand for the receiver. Lifting it to my ear; "This better be good!" I say into the receiver.

"Uh, Dad?" A meek voice on the other end sounding vaguely familiar.

"There are two possibilities of that being a correct statement. Either one of them will spell disaster for the person on the other end of this line." I say angrily

"I know I'm in trouble, but I need a ride home."

"Home? But, Ethan you are home. You're in your bed right now."

"Come on dad, I'm having enough trouble without dealing with your sarcasm. Will you come and get me?" The stress in his voice relieves my anger and replaces it with concern.

"Where Are you?"

"I'm at the intersection of 148th and Stark."

"Okay". I say with just a little disgust. "I'll be right there."

"I don't know what I'm going to do with that kid. First he skips a grade because he is so bright and now that he is a senior in high school he seems to have turned into a moron. From a 4.0 GPA to a 2.0 in one year." I am mumbling to myself since there is no one else here to listen to me. "A single parent raising a teenage son should get combat pay." I say with a little disgust.

"My son went into combat when he was a teenager."

The voice startles me. I turn on the light and am ready to defend my household to this intruder, but.... There isn't anyone in the room. I must have been dreaming.

"You're not going to listen to me now either are you?" the disembodied voice says.

"What in the hell is going on here? Who's there?" I wonder if I am talking to myself.

"You know, Everett it's actually kind of fun watching you deal with the problems that Ethan is having. It's kind of like deja vu, but not quite because, I'm dead so the term doesn't fit."

Now I see the image of my father sitting on my bed, his right hand stroking his van dyke beard and the light shining off of his bald head. He is thin but not as thin as the last time I saw him in the hospital. He was dying of cancer and had no substance to his body at all then.

"Did you miss me?" He asks in his normal satirical manner.

"Uh, This isn't happening."

"Well actually it is, but you won't acknowledge it now or later. But let’s cut the bull shit and get down to the problem. My grandson sneaked out of the house and took your spitfire for a joy ride."

"Is he all right?" What am I saying? This isn't real so how would he know if Ethan is all right.

"He's just fine", he says. "Are you going to get dressed so that we can go get him or are you going to go like that?"

"Well since I am naked I guess it would be a good idea to get dressed."

My father has been dead for six years and I'm talking to him in the middle of the night, I think that I've finally gone off the deep end. I continue to look at the bed as I get dressed hoping that I won't see anything, but he is still sitting there looking just like I remember him. He has even retained the ornery gleam in his eye.

"Okay let's go." I say to him and then wonder why I am talking to him at all. Maybe it's the stress that Ethan has just put on me. It must have done something to my psyche.

In the car now and driving toward the appointed intersection.

"What are you going to do to him?" He says.

"Well he is going to be grounded for the rest of the year and I am going to take his drivers license away from him."

"Ooh, that's original. Do you think it will work?"

"It better work or he'll be sorry."

"Did it work when I did it to you?"

"What?"

"I said did it work when I did the same thing to you for doing exactly the same thing to me?"

"This isn't a dream is it?"

"Answer my question first."

"No it didn't." I say remembering now of the time that I sneaked out of the house when I was a junior in high school and took my fathers car out for a joy ride. "Is this something that Ethan is going to have to deal with when his son is in high school?"

"Maybe not the same incident, but yes he will. You see son Ethan has reached an age where it has become important for him to become a man, and since he isn't allowed to be a man yet he has to sneak out to do the things that men do."

"But I am letting him grow up." I say sincerely.

"No your not, you only think that you are."

"Are you telling me that I am treating him in just the same way that I was treated when I was his age?"

"For the most part you are. You do some things different due to conscious thought and others because you didn't think that I was right in what I did."

"Well then what do you think that I should do about this incident?" As long as he's here I might as well get some advice.

"I think that you should talk to him, without yelling at him and let him know that you know that he is becoming a man that he needs to be more responsible in order to get some of the privileges that he wants to have as a man."

"You mean just like you used to talk to me?"

"God! I don't know where you got that sarcastic tongue." He reacts to my jab.

"Then it must have been from mom right." My mother is the most passive and gentle person on the face of the earth and he knows it.

"No doubt," He says, trying to skirt the subtle attack.

"Okay I'll talk to him and I won't yell at him. Say since you knew that Ethan was in trouble you probably know other things too. Right?"

"Yes I can see the future. Why?"

"Who's going to win the super bowl?"

"Good bye son."

"Don't want to tell me huh? Well that’s okay I'll think of something else. Dad? Dad?" He's gone. Right out of the car. What am I talking about he was never here. I was just imagining everything.

I turn the corner from Stark street onto 148th and see my spitfire in the closed service station parked next to the gas pumps as though waiting for gasoline and the hood is up indicating engine trouble. Ethan is sitting in it, arms folded across his chest and his head down as if in prayer. His hair is messed and his jacket is beside him on the seat as though he has been having a rough time with the car. He doesn't move even as I get out of the car and walk over to him.

"Nice night?" I say with just a touch of sharpness in my voice.

He looks up at me without saying a word and then gets out of the car.

"What happened?" I ask.

"I don't know! It just quit." His defenses are up as high as he can get them.

"You have to put gas in these things to get them to run."

"I know that. Do you think that I'm stupid?"

"No Ethan I don't think that you are stupid. I think that you are extremely intelligent and that's why I find this incident as well as some other recent problems that we have had so puzzling."

"What do you mean?"

"I know that you are growing up and I know that you want to get out of high school and on with your life but logic should tell you that you can't avoid the rest of your teenage years just because you want to."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I went thought exactly the same things that you are going through. I survived them and so did my dad. You will get through it and so will I and then you can do the same thing with your son. And through all of the arguments and disagreements we can all still love each other."

"You mean that you're not mad at me?"

"I am madder than hell at you. But I still love you."

"Am I grounded?"

"No. but you have to come back here in the morning, get my car, get it home and then you have to fix it."

"Yeah. Okay". He says excitedly. And then... "Are you all right dad?"

"Yes Ethan I am just fine. Let's go home. I'm tired."

As we get in the car to leave I notice a man standing at the bus stop, which seems strange since the buses quit running about two hours ago. I glance over at him as we drive past and I see my father smiling at me. I look at Ethan and when he looks back at me I pass the smile along.