Larry's blog

I was about to pull my van into the interstate after making my final delivery of the day. There was a raging thunderstorm going on, the kind that instantly floods the roads and highways. They happen frequently in the Spring in this part of Kentucky. My eyes fell upon a forlorn figure beside the dimly lit road in a raggedy raincoat and little else. No hat or umbrella. Just a raincoat, a small knapsack, and his hand up with his thumb pointed out. I don’t usually stop hitchhikers, and I had a million reasons not to this time, foremost were that it was late, and I was tired and hungry. But something about that sad figure in a driving rainstorm made me stop. “Where are you going mister?” I yelled out of my partly rolled down window. “Shelbyville,” he shouted back. “Shelbyville?” I replied. “That’s got to be at least 100 miles away.” “I know,” the man replied. “I would be grateful if you can get me a little closer. Maybe I can get out of this storm. It looks like it’s clearin

The sign on the door seemed fitting for the last bar in a dying resort town in upstate New York nestled in the Catskill Mountains. In its glory years, the town was filled with glittering hotels where New York City residents came to escape the summer heat. Then cheap airfares offered vacationers more glamorous locales and the tourist dollars dried up along with the town’s prospects. As the last watering hole on the once bustling street downtown, the bar known as “The Last Resort” was the refuge of the dwindling population that had nowhere else to go. The core of the regular inhabitants would drown their sorrows in cheap whiskey and lifelong resident Fred Reed was happy to have one of the few steady jobs left in the town, having been the chief bartender since the joint took over a shuttered barber shop twenty years ago. Fred took pride in his ability to measure out just the right ingredients in a cocktail and know just how much to shake or stir a drink to please the veteran drinkers

Rick Lambert walked into the executive conference room holding his binder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He greeted the three people already sitting at the foot of the oblong, mahogany table that filled the room. “Good morning,” he said, as he settled into the seat at the other side of the table, “thanks for coming in today.” Across the table to his left sat Jen Morillo, a serious looking woman in her late thirties, her dirty blonde hair tied back in a bun, and wearing a cream-colored pantsuit. A slight smile curled the sides of her tight lips and she briefly looked up at Rick, but then went back to the paper she was staring at before he came in. To her left, Gary Williams sat in his three-piece charcoal gray suit, looking a bit nervous as he fidgeted with his pen with his right hand. This was his first big professional job interview at 25, and he was immaculately groomed, with his thick, straight black hair combed back, glistening with hair gel. You could smell h

“What’s your name son?” asked the varsity baseball manager. “Johnny Buzhardt, sir,” replied the young hopeful. “Johnny Bizarre?” “No, Buh-ZART." Nevertheless, his teammates referred to him as Johnny Bizarre. Since Spring training began, he certainly lived up to his nickname. No one at school seemed to know this kid. Even students in his classes were barely aware of him. Yet he showed up on the first day of Spring training claiming he wanted to be a pitcher. He made an unlikely athlete, tall and gangly, all arms and legs, and a string bean of a body. One thing he could do is throw the ball hard, really hard. As a fifteen-year-old sophomore, he threw harder than most college seniors. The first time he threw the ball, heads turned as the ball hit the catcher's mitt with such force that it sounded like firecrackers going off. After about 10 pitches, the catcher had to walk off the field and take off his mitt because his hand was red and swollen from the impact

When One came home from school and entered the house, his parents Four and Seven were waiting for him. His father, Seven, looked at him sternly. “What’s the matter?” said One. “What did we tell you about hanging out with negative numbers?” his father asked. One looked down sheepishly. “We were just hanging out after school for a little while. What’s the big deal? They are just like us.” “Just like us!” the father roared back. “There are no such things as negative numbers. Everyone knows you start counting at one. You should be proud that your number comes first. Now these numbers claim they come before you. Have you ever started counting with a negative number? Have you ever seen a negative distance or measured a negative time? No! Distance has to be positive and time always flows forward. The nerve of these negatives to claim to be real numbers like us. Why, in my day we never even heard of them. But there they go, moving into our neighborhood, brazenly carrying the

The long and winding road seemed endless as it snaked around a lake. Was I just going around in circles? I looked in vain for a street sign or some indication of whether there was someone who lived on this road. When I was just about to give up and retrace my steps back to my car, a figure appeared in the distance. It appeared to be an old man in overalls holding a rake, heading in my direction. When he got close enough, he nodded in my direction, with a look of surprise on his face, as if he didn't expect to encounter someone on this road. "Howdy," he said, can I help you?" "This here is private property." "I'm sorry," I replied in an apologetic voice. "I didn't see a sign. I didn't mean to trespass, but I was looking for a house on Robin Lane. Is this the road that leads there?" The man with the rake smiled and said, "Oh you're looking for old man Robertson. "Lots of folk come here looking for him.

I came out of the night shift at the electric plant on an ordinary Wednesday evening, walked to the corner and made the usual left turn heading for the bus stop and a groggy 45-minute ride home. There was a full moon out and the streets seemed lit brighter than normal this evening. I figured it was due to the full moon until I realized the unusual illumination was from the light in front of a building I never noticed before. When I got closer, I saw the sign in front of the door which said “Museum of Alternate History.” I never heard there was a museum scheduled to open around the corner from the plant. I figured it must not have opened yet, and even if it did, it must be closed by 11 pm. I looked at the door for a list of hours or an admission price. There was nothing on the door, just a glass pane from top to bottom. My curiosity was piqued, so I gingerly turned the handle and was surprised to find I was able to open the door. There was eerie silence that greeted me as I slo

The prosecutor stared down at the defendant, steely eyed, for a long moment. The defendant, Dan Rosinsky, fidgeted in his seat, but never blinked as he stared back at Robert Jackson, the prosecutor in a Marin County courtroom. Finally, he answered in a firm voice, “No, I did not plan to kill Jane Orman that night at our knife throwing performance. It was a freak accident, something that can always happen despite our best preparation. The act was real. Everything happens just as it looks – no optical illusions, fake knives, or sleight of hand. Naturally there are some risks with this kind of act.” The trial began earlier in the day. Dan was charged with second degree murder of the woman who is known in the industry as a “target girl.” A target girl is a female assistant in "impalement" acts such as knife throwing. Jane would stand in front of a target board while Dan threw knives that would hit the board and just miss Jane, often by a fraction of an inch. They had

Ron Stander left his office near midtown at 5 PM on a sunny, pleasant Wednesday afternoon. As an executive in the music industry, his interest in R & B and the delta blues belied his conservative, button down looks. People often assumed he was a WASP, but his ancestry also included an Afro-Caribbean mix on his mother’s side, though he looked like the English/Welsh descendants on his father’s side. A man in his mid 40’s, he often wore horn rimmed glasses and was partial to three-piece suits. Though he lived in Manhattan for over twenty years, his musical tastes were influenced by his childhood in northwestern Mississippi, and he still retained a trace of a southern accent as evidence of his origin. He turned the corner on West 59th Street and took the N train downtown. His destination station at Times Square often featured street musicians hustling a few bucks on the platforms. He sometimes tipped them on his way out the station, but rarely stopped to listen. The music almos

George Martin finished his miserable shift at the usual time and took the same bus that made 23 excruciating stops until it reached his station in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn. Then there was the 14-block walk in the blistering July heat until he reached the humble, bungalow style house he had inherited from his mother a few years before. The house was aging and crumbling much the way he was at 57-years old. He looked and felt a lot older than his years. Forty years of manual labor will do that to a man, as his craggy, weather-beaten face will attest to. After forty years, he didn't have much to show for it, staying as the same job he started as a teenager. The kind of job usually done by immigrants from Latin America and the Caribbean who were generally, much younger, faster and stronger than him. It was only a short matter of time when he couldn't do it anymore. Then he would have really nothing left, no family, friends, or money to live his few remaining years i