Simile

This is just for fun.

I’ve been paying close attention to the subject of similes on Nathan Bransford’s blog. While anything can be over used in writing, I’m glad many of the writers defended similes. Reminders of writing blunders are absorbed usually like the criticism was written in stone. :) I’d like to make an observation pertaining to one of my favorite uses of a simile in my writing as well as what I read. I’ve read novels where the author describes a main character as looking or behaving like a very well known public figure, and it fits perfectly for me throughout the remainder of the novel. It’s not because the author was too lazy in descriptive phrasing. The usage fit a need perfectly. They wanted the reader to picture a certain person, many times as I believe they pictured the character while writing. Many times a well placed simile accomplishes what dialogue identifiers do, and readers generally register the comparison as they would an identifier. Just as we don’t really see ‘said’ when we read, other than a guide to who is speaking, readers generally file away the image a simile makes just as perfunctorily. Because agents and publishers read a vast amount of writing samples, and decide they’re tired of seeing certain identifiers or similes, it’s a bit self absorbed to subjectively yank writing tools out of our hands.

The guardians of the publishing universe proclaim no more adverb modifiers, and then no more dialogue identifiers, and now no more similes. Pretty soon, we’ll be writing: ‘See Dick run. Does Jane see him run?’ :)

Rooster

I was making out invoices in the office when a middle nineties Jeep drove up into the shop. Exiting the office, and paying more attention to the shape of the jeep, I missed the customer who had ducked out from the driver’s side. Now at some point over thirty years, just about every example of hair styles, pin cushion faces, and tattoos have stopped by either in a vehicle or walking in off the street. Although I’ve seen mild variations of the hair style my visitor sported, it is the most extreme I’ve seen to date. The kid was probably in his late teens, and just under six feet tall. His head was shaved but for a light colored fan of hair like you see on a pheasant, spiked up in a semicircle from his forehead to the back of his neck, nearly a foot long. I kept thinking he would break out in a cock-a-doodle-doo, and start strutting around, hands on waist. I’ll call my young visitor Rooster Cogburn.

“Can I help you,” I manage to say without cracking even a smile.

“I want you to install hydraulics on my Jeep,” Rooster told me.

“Do you mean wheel cylinders, calipers, and master cylinder on your brakes?” I asked.

“No man!” Rooster looks at me like I just fell from Mars. “You know… those kits for making the Jeep jump up and down.”

“No, I don’t do that type of work, only general repair and diagnostics,” I answer politely. “I don’t do…”

Rooster Cogburn waves me off. He has a call. Rooster turns so I get a profile shot of him as he talks animatedly to someone on his cell-phone, all the while bobbing his head and fan. I was impressed. Rooster tells his phone mate to hang on, and gives me a raised brow look, which is when I first noticed Mr. Cogburn had matching bars through his eyebrows. The hair had captivated me and I missed the face decorations.

“Well… can you do it or not?”

“Not.”

“Fine…” Rooster jumps in the Jeep and leaves, half his hair fan bent into the Jeep roof.

I should have saved Rooster for Layla. :)

Telemarketing

I get numerous telemarketers calling the business every day. As most folks know, when you answer these calls, you get dead air for a time before some machine clicks into the telemarketer. Therefore, people get five seconds to at least clear their throat, and then I hang up. I had a beauty on Friday. While laying on my back putting in a starter for a 1984 Olds, the portable phone rings next to me. I answer with my usual refrain, which gives people plenty of time to talk. Dead air, so I hung up. Five minutes later, the phone rings, same thing. The third time when I answer, an out of breath woman comes on within my acceptable range.

“Hi… there’s something… wrong with your phone,” Telesue informs me.

“Oh, how so? I can hear you fine, can I help you?”

“Your phone keeps hanging up on me.”

“It’s not now, so how can I help you?”

“Is this Bernard?”

I start laughing, because as everyone knows this is how they start their spiel. Is this such and such? How are you today, Sir? I decide to play it a little further though, blog notes ringing in my head.

“Yes, you’ve reached Nilson Brothers Garage, how can I help you?”

“How are you today, Sir?”

Yep. “Fine, can I help you?”

She starts the sales pitch for some web site sales thing-a-ma-jig. I hang up. She calls back.

“See,” Telesue says, after I answer, “your phone did it again, Sir.”

“Nope, that was me. Here it is again.” I hung up.

I know this seems rude; but if I had conversations with every telemarketer so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings, I wouldn’t have time to work. These people are relentless, and the laws haven’t slowed them down at all. They block the caller ID filters, and spam you no matter what you do. The real beauties are the robot callers. Who in the world listens to a sales pitch from some machine; and yet it must be the new craze, because my answering machine is full of them when I come to work. :)

Two Wheels

“Yo!”

Having heard the motion detector, I was already walking toward this guy on a bike, but he continued yelling out ‘Yo’ until I spoke from five feet away. It was then I noticed the ‘Yo’s’ had filled the air in front of him with hundred proof spirits. Miraculously, the bike rider still sat his bike in an upright position.

“I hear you, Sir. How can I help you?” Since I hadn’t turned on the air compressor yet, I was hoping he needed air. He wouldn’t be getting any, because I don’t start up the massive compressor to give out freebie air.

He spoke for a couple minutes, gesturing at his bike, but it might as well have been Russian or Latin. I didn’t understand a word of it.

“I didn’t understand a word you said, Sir,” I informed him, because the truth is always the best path. “Slow your speech down, and speak clearly.”

The bike rider launched again, turning the volume up, but not slowing down or enunciating.

“I’m not deaf,” I cut him off. “Slow down, and speak clearly.”

Two Wheels stares at me with the look of disgust only a guy who has chugged down a pint of something powerful and cheap at ten in the morning can. “My… handlebars. I need you to loosen the bolt so I can change positions.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I give him a parting shot as I go over and get the socket wrench, socket, and extension for doing his bidding.

I loosen the bolt. He sits without moving the handlebars he’s still gripping. I can tell in his eyes, Two Wheels’ morning pick-me-up is really kicking in.

“You wanted to change the handlebar position,” I remind Two Wheels.

“Huh?” Two Wheels slowly focuses.

“The handlebars,” I repeat. “Put them in the position you like and I’ll tighten the bolt up again.”

“What’s wrong… with my handlebars?”

I start laughing, and he does too. I show him he can move the handlebars up or down now, and Two Wheels gets the picture finally. He moves them all over, studiously testing different feels, and then returns them to the original position.

“Yea, man, right there,” Two Wheels says, a satisfied look on his face as he’s holding the handle bar grips. “Tighten it up.”

I tighten the bolt. I’m happy if Two Wheels is happy.

“Thanks, can you loan me a dollar?”

“No.”

Two Wheels nods and turns the bike around with some difficulty. He misses the edge of my big door frame on his way to the sidewalk by a hair of the dog he’d had earlier. I turned to put my tools away, resisting the temptation to watch him navigate the street.

Where’s Layla when I need her? :)

In Honor Of Valentine's Day

A funny walk on the male side of Valentine's Day. I wrote this for my wife, who hates Valentine's Day. Warning! This is not a Hallmark Card poem. :)

A day set aside for all lovers to rock,

Valentine*s Day, what a vile crock.

This sugar sweet con makes me hurl,

Perhaps as a Valentine*s Day mural.

Feminist Icons preach against man,

But on V-Day he must give all he can,

While listening to the hypocrites whine,

Man must lavish gifts, wine and dine.

Oh, the mockery of these evil creatures,

As they mask their disdainful features,

Secretly laughing at the pitiful hope,

Pasted on the face of their male dope.

Soon, instead of tight dresses and hose,

She wears sweatpants and headache woes.

Gone in a flash are makeup and lipstick,

Replaced by wool and curlers real quick.

The poor sap, having delivered the goods,

Finds he might as well sleep in the woods.

His V-Day siren vanished before his eyes,

Leaving a vapor trail of excuses and lies.

She sprang to her bed, without even a whistle,

Dashing his dreams like the down of a thistle,

He heard her exclaim as she dove out of sight,

Happy V-Day to me, now turn out the light.

A Wave In Antarctica

This picture is in a series of shots taken in Antarctica, where the water breaks through and immediately freezes. Breathtaking. Oh yeah, and Layla and Cole #7. :)

“How come you don’t wish us rich and living in a mansion?” Layla asked, leaning provocatively over the Toyota Corolla fender as Cole worked through his lunch hour to get the customer’s front disc brake job done.

Cole straightened from where he had been using a vacuum tank to suck brake fluid from the Toyota’s master cylinder reservoir. His irritated growl evoked an appreciative laugh from Layla.

“I told you, we’ll do something special when our vacation comes up. Stan always closes the shop so everyone goes on vacation at the same time.”

“You ducked the question again.”

“It’s not me, Layla. If you want to live in a mansion, go live in a mansion. I’ll come visit you. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds like I’d get replaced by that cheap tart, Jill the moment I left,” Layla retorted. “I saw her getting chummy with you this morning. Perhaps a few hours rolling around in her ball would…”

“We were doing a wire trace, you…” Cole shut up, and went back to work as Layla started laughing again.

“I so got you, Wolfy,” Layla pointed the forefinger and middle fingers of her right hand at her eyes and then at Cole repeatedly. “Jill and I are getting along pretty well, but I’m watching you.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“Hey, for vacation, why don’t we play American Werewolf in Paris.”

It was Cole’s turn to laugh. He finished vacuum flushing the system, and put the wheels back on the Toyota. After making sure everything was clean, Cole let the Toyota down off the lift, and backed it out. Returning from test driving the Toyota, he joined Layla in the office where she finished the billing. Cole sat down at her desk with a cup of coffee.

“I have an idea. Why don’t we go out at night like superheroes, and get some bad guys,” Cole suggested. “We could be crime-fighters. You’d be entertained, and I’d work out some aggression. Can I wish to be a werewolf whenever I want instead of only during nights with a full moon?”

“You’re joking, right? Having you jump out and scare the crap out of me, along with the apartment smelling like wet dog once a month is plenty.”

“You won’t let me experiment with being Dracula, so…”

“Turn that record over, will ya’? Okay, so if I let you be a werewolf, and we go out like Batman and Robin, what do I get to be?” Layla asked, cutting off Cole’s vampire spiel.

“I don’t know. What can you change into?”

“The only thing I can change on me is my clothes.”

“You could change your abrasive attitude,” Cole suggested.

“Oh… you are so lucky,” Layla shook her head as if mourning a loss. “If you weren’t immune to my magic, you’d be Cole the gerbil so fast your little furry head would spin right off.”

“How about Super-Djinn?” Cole asked, changing the conversational direction. Cole remembered he was verbally baiting a creature powerful enough to change reality. “Or you could be Magical Mamma.”

“Those… those are so lame,” Layla laughed. “I’ll be the Mistress of Menace.”

“Not bad,” Cole agreed.

“You can be Amazing Dog-Boy and my costume will be one of those t-shirts that say ‘I’m with stupid’. I’ll make it with a revolving arrow which always points at you.”

“You’re not taking my suggestion for adventure very seriously,” Cole remarked, as Layla immediately created the t-shirt with fluorescent animated arrow, turning to demonstrate its versatility. “I’ll wish for clothing capable of changing with my form.”

“Why don’t I just take you on a leash? I’ll bring along a rolled up newspaper, and I can train you while we’re waiting for a crime to happen.”

Cole stood up. “Maybe I’ll go see if Jill’s back from lunch.”

“Sit down, you still have fifteen minutes left,” Layla ordered. “We’ll try out your adventure tonight; but don’t blame me when I end up in jail, and you end up in the dog pound.”

Layla

Since I don’t want to be accused of stealing anything in these unhappy times of plagiarism, I wrote this little Genie story from a suggestion written on Jordan Summers’ agent’s Publisher’s Marketplace site. After reading Ms. Ginger Clark wanted any manuscript with a genie, I thought I’d have a little fun with the idea. Anyway, there’s no charge for this, but that’s where the idea came from. :)

The young man walked along the rows of tables at the flea market, his face set in a grim mask of concentration. His fists clenched each time he noticed a table with used tools for sale, and immediately went over to investigate the items. Cole worked for an auto shop, which had been broken into the previous night. All of the employees’ tool boxes had been stolen. Thousands of dollars invested in his chosen profession disappeared overnight, leaving a bitter man hurrying around the area pawn shops and flea markets, looking for his lost tools. Something glinted in the sunlight as Cole passed by a haggard man with items laid out on a beat up blanket. Pausing, Cole searched idly for what he had glimpsed in the bright noontime of a San Jose, California day. What looked like a slim copper teapot lay in the middle of the blanket, catching the beams of light when seen at just the right angle. Cole picked it up, and the forlorn merchant shook his head in warning, gesturing negatively with his hand.

“You don’t want that thing, kid, trust me,” the worn out voice cautioned. “I’m selling it to someone more deserving.”

“Deserving of what?” Cole asked, turning the shiny object over in his calloused hands.

The hunched over old man, with grizzled gray beard in salt and pepper splotches, grinned up at the tall, intense young man. He looked Cole over appraisingly. Lithe corded muscle moved under the young man’s tee shirted form as Cole inspected the dully gleaming object. Pointing at Cole’s buzz cut brown hair, the old man’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted questioningly.

“Seen some action, huh kid?”

“I’ve been around,” Cole answered carefully.

“Saw some myself,” the old man muttered absently, a far off look momentarily making his eyes fade in introspection. Shuddering a little, the old man held out a gnarled sun browned hand. “Name’s Sonny.”

Cole shook his hand. “Cole. How much you want for this teapot, Sonny?”

“It ain’t no damn teapot. It’s an old oil lamp,” Sonny said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“How much?”

“I don’t want you…” Sonny bent over, clamping hands over his temples, as if in the grip of some painful head trauma.

Cole quickly put the lamp down, and helped the old man to his battered lawn chair. Sonny’s pain passed quickly, and he looked up at Cole with fearful compassion, his lip trembling.

“Are you okay?” Cole asked, real concern etched into his features, as he gripped Sonny’s shoulder to steady him.

“Give… give me five dollars… and it’s yours, kid.”

Cole reached into his pocket, extracting a twenty from the small number of folded bills he came up with. He stuffed the twenty dollar bill into Sonny’s hand.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, kid… worry about yourself,” Sonny answered, his head down. “Take it and go before I change my mind.”

“Sure, Sonny,” Cole replied, picking up his purchase. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, boy,” Sonny muttered after Cole had walked away.

At home in his apartment in San Leandro, Cole sat down heavily on a used maroon sofa in the living room. He held the only prize from nearly twelve hours spent perusing back area markets tiredly. The slender spout curved back into the larger body of the lamp. Cole pulled a few Kleenex from the box on his coffee table, wetting a portion with his own saliva. Rubbing the inscribed lamp base, Cole felt the lamp quake in his hands. He dropped it, lurching up from his couch warily. Foggy mist drifted eerily from the spout, forming into what looked to Cole like a storm cloud up at his apartment ceiling. Oval eyes opened in the cloud. Azure colored orbs gleamed brightly down at Cole’s retreating form. He stopped only after backing into his living room wall, gauging the distance to the door. Laughter like small silver chimes on a doorstep at Christmas echoed inside the mist cloud. A pale form, nearly five and half feet tall, took shape as the cloud eyes and mist dissipated.

“Sweet Jesus…” Cole gasped, his mind spinning out of control with mental images from his fictional encounters with magic lamps, both in book form and television.

“Cole, is it?” The raven haired beauty asked, with a voice soft as a whisper, yet resonate as a gale force wind. “I am Layla.”

“You…you’re a Jinn.”

“I can be anything you wish,” Layla said, clothing her form in black miniskirt and high heels, and then instantly into a flowing transparent chiffon, thigh high night gown. Her azure eyes blinked enticingly. “What would you wish?”

Cole stayed silent. He spoke only after five full minutes had passed.

“I saw an X-Files episode where these dimwits get some carpet Genie to grant wishes, which they subsequently destroy themselves with,” Cole stated carefully, as Layla began laughing appreciatively, clapping her small hands together.

“I’m not that kind of Genie,” Layla chuckled. “I saw the episode. Very entertaining.”

Cole smiled. “Let’s cut to the chase. I wish for you to be free of the lamp.”

Layla screamed her mouth and form swirling into a mini-whirlwind before disappearing.

Cole sat down on the sofa, running shaky hands through his close cropped hair.

“I guess old Sonny really was trying not to screw me over,” Cole murmured to himself, leaning back.

“He…he didn’t screw you over,” Layla said, her form materializing where she lay in a heap at Cole’s feet. “Sorry, I turned invisible for a moment.”

Cole edged away from Layla. “You’re free. Look, the lamp’s gone. Why are you still here?”

“As you say, I am free,” Layla said, clutching Cole’s leg, and leaning her head against his thigh. “You… have no idea… it has been thousands of years. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Cole said, feeling as if his leg were on fire where Layla gripped it. “Have a nice life. Good luck to you.”

“I am free to grant you any wish I want, and no tricks,” Layla met Cole’s distrustful gaze steadily. “Let me thank you properly. I will even help you with picking your wish.”

“Okay…” Cole replied, his heart racing. “I’m going with simple. I want you to help me get all the stuff stolen from the auto shop I work at back.”

Layla took Cole’s hand, tilting it palm up, and kissed his palm. “Done.”

Cole stood inside a dingy steel building, filled with every imaginable item. Layla stood next to him in a mini-skirt with white blouse, gesturing happily.

“Your things are here, Cole.”

“Hey!” A gruff voice yelled from across the way, where two men had a table set up at the building entrance roll up door.

The two burly thugs ran across the warehouse to confront their visitors. They were both over six feet tall, and heavily built. When the two saw their intruders were unarmed, and one was a beautiful woman, the crooks stopped twenty feet away. They looked at each other and started laughing.

“Where the hell did you two come from?” One asked finally, as the two spread out, reaching for weapons. “You’re cute, baby.”

With but a gesture from Layla, the two went flying headfirst into the back wall of the warehouse, where they lay unmoving. Layla took Cole’s hand, and they were instantly standing next to a group of toolboxes and equipment. Cole jogged over to one on the right, a nearly six foot high Mac Tools box.

“I never thought I’d see this again,” Cole looked back at Layla gratefully. “I’ll call the police.”

“Call them from your workplace,” Layla smiled, and they were standing inside the auto shop where Cole worked, along with all the stolen gear.

“You’re amazing,” Cole whispered, taking Layla in his arms. “Thank you.”

“We’re even,” Layla grinned up at him mischievously, putting her arms around Cole’s neck. She kissed him, lightly at first, and then with growing passion. She broke away from him in confusion. “I…I felt that.”

“Oh yeah…” Cole reiterated.

“Maybe I could hang around with you for a while,” Layla offered, her azure colored eyes translucent gateways, Cole lost his way into immediately.

Cole put his arm around Layla’s shoulder. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Do you know anything about cars?”

“I can learn,” Layla leaned into Cole with a sigh.

Zombie Queen

Here’s a little post with an in the box heroine, with politically incorrect views, I thought to have some fun with. Hope it gets a few smiles. :)

Jenny sat in English class, bored to tears. Once again her tenth grade English Lit teacher decided to launch into a global warming talk-a-thon, trying to tie the latest environmental money-making bonanza into Ralph Waldo Emerson’s works. Jenny looked out the window toward the high school fenced boundary, idly wondering if her next door neighbor Jim had skipped Algebra II class as he had told her he would. Ms. Kolinsky noticed the one face in the window row not turned toward her.

“Jenny… Jenny!”

“Yes?” Jenny returned her attention to Ms. Kolinsky reluctantly.

“Am I boring you?”

“Yes,” Jenny replied, hearing the giggling undercurrent her words evoked. “Emerson himself would gag if he listened to you trying to pair his individualistic free thinking with this herd mentality global warming con. My Dad said they claimed we were headed for a new ice age in the early seventies, and a lot of sheep bought into it then. Now, it’s global warming.”

“But…” Ms. Kolinsky gasped, swallowing hard, as Jenny’s classmates quieted in anticipation, “what of the polar icecaps melting? Is that a con too?”

“Mar’s polar icecaps have begun melting,” Jenny retorted. “Anyone know of excessive SUV driving on Mars? It’s the Sun, Ms. Kolinsky; and even if the entire world went back into caves, we couldn’t stop the Sun going through this warming cycle. I don’t…”

“Hey… look!” One of her classmates, named Debbie said, pointing out the window.

Screams of terror followed, as the entire class watched the fenced perimeter being breached by slow moving corpses. The rotting flesh tore off wherever caught on the sagging fence as the horrific horde staggered or crawled over the downed obstacle. Jenny clamped her hands over her ears.

“Shut up, you dorks!” Jenny ordered, quieting her classmates to bearable sobbing. “These things move like frozen honey. We beat their brains out, and don’t let them bite you. Didn’t anybody see the myriad zombie movies playing everywhere?”

“What happened?!” Ms. Kolinsky moaned, staring in disbelief at the approaching army of corpses. “This can’t be… it’s impossible… why…”

“Maybe it’s global warming,” Jenny suggested sarcastically. “Hell, they’re blaming everything else on it. C’mon Ms. K, snap out of it. You can’t hold a discovery conference on why we’re being attacked by zombies. We need to take these things out there in the open where they can’t surround us. I only count about thirty of the slugs. Let’s grab something to club them with and take care of business.”

“I…I can’t do this,” Ms. Kolinsky sat down at her desk, head in hands.

Jenny saw some others beginning to get down at the mouth, when the screaming started in earnest outside the classroom, as students and teachers ran around pointlessly in the hallways. Her friend Jim charged into the English Lit classroom, looking around wildly. When he saw Jenny, his whole countenance relaxed. Great, Jenny thought, someone I can count on.

“I was afraid you’d skipped class,” Jim said, taking her hands. “I see you noticed the refugees from Night of the Living Dead.”

“We need clubs,” Jenny told him.

“The gym will have aluminum baseball bats, hockey sticks, cricket paddles…”

“Outstanding,” Jenny pulled him toward the door, while looking back at her stunned classmates. “Jim and I are going to get armed and kick some zombie ass. Anyone interested in joining us, come on along.”

Many kids stayed where they were, huddled in abject fear, staring like deer in the headlights out the windows. Seven others, four boys and three girls, followed Jim and Jenny out into the hallway. Shouting about getting armed and kicking zombie ass, Jenny gathered a small army of students on the way to the high school gym. They found the high school gym teacher hiding in his locked office. It had windows, and Jenny pounded on the door.

“Open up, Mr. Keefer, we need the keys to the equipment locker!”

When Keefer turned away, shaking his head fearfully, Jenny picked up a chair from the outer locker room and smashed it into the office window, shattering it. Jim went through the opening lithely. The over six foot tall Jim, who had played both football and basketball for Keefer, spun the man around.

“Man up, coach. Open the equipment locker!” Jim shouted in the terrified man’s face.

Keefer extended his shaking hand to Jim with his keys. Jim grabbed the key ring and vaulted out the window. They quickly opened the equipment room. The couple passed out everything useable for zombie warfare, including helmets and shoulder pads, making sure everyone with them had something formidable to swing. Jenny led the way through the gym exit, carefully scanning the grounds for errant zombies. With Jim at her side, she led the dozens of grim faced kids around the building. Jenny yelped in delight, waving her aluminum bat, when she saw the zombies had spread out after breaking through the fence.

“Stay in threes!” Jenny called out. “Pick your hitter, and surround each slug one at a time. Don’t waste your time on body parts! Pulp the head! Keep your hitter covered from other slugs until the hitter finishes, and then move on to the next target. I’ll show you how it’s done. C’mon Jim, you and Debbie watch my back.”

Charging ahead, whooping in anticipation, Jenny ran at the first zombie staggering across the lawn toward the building, a full twenty feet ahead of its companions. Jenny circled the slow motion corpse, and swung the aluminum bat at its head, hitting the thing as it tried to turn with a sickening crunch of skull. The zombie pitched forward to its hands and knees. With Debbie and Jim flanking her, Jenny busted the zombie’s head apart. It collapsed unmoving to the ground.

“Get ‘em!!!” Jenny screamed out to her student army, urging them forward with her bat.

In threes, the crowd of students charged confidently after seeing Jenny’s easy handling of the undead zombie. The battle ended fifteen minutes later. Joyful students celebrated their triumph by busting the unmoving corpses into pieces. Jenny let it go on for a time, and then called out for order. With Jim at her side, Jenny spoke in calm terms.

“Let’s go back in the school, and get the sheep inside armed. We don’t know if there are thousands of these things or what. We’ll try and contact people; but for now, we’re on our own.”

“What do we do if they won’t join us,” Debbie asked seriously.

“They’ll join us now, or we’ll threaten to feed them to the zombies,” Jenny answered, drawing laughter from the students. “Let’s go.”

“I bet you were surprised all those zombie movies I dragged you to would come in handy, huh?” Jenny asked Jim, nudging him as they walked toward the school.

“I’ll never doubt you again, Xena,” Jim laughed, putting his arm around Jenny’s shoulders.

Auto Shop Snark

Sitting at the desk, filling out invoices, I noticed a woman walk in from the sidewalk, and my motion detector went off. The woman stood still, about twenty feet inside the shop, looking around from wall to wall. She turned when I left the office and shut the door behind me. Dark brown hair hung loosely around the lady’s face, and she wore a navy blue pants-suit with slate gray knee length coat. Her age could have been somewhere between the late twenties to early thirties.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I moved in around the corner on Dale Place, and I’m looking for a good mechanic,” she explained. “Your shop’s kind of dirty.”

Ouch.

“Yea, it’s an old building, and I have trouble keeping it spotless, or even near spotless. My comic shop you walked past when you came in was completed only a few years ago, and it’s spotless inside.”

“But you don’t fix cars in there,” Ms. Shop Snark points out.

Ouch. 0 for 2.

“Your lighting in here isn’t very good either."

Ouch. 0 for 3.

"It’s almost like a cave when you first walk in,” Shop Snark adds. “I read on the internet when looking for a mechanic, the customer needs to check the general appearance on the inside of a shop, as well as the outside.”

“I’ve read that too,” I reply, since I’m having trouble disputing anything she’s said so far. “I have a lot of customers on Dale Place. If you ask around, you’ll find I make up for my shortcomings in shop appearance with…”

“I did ask around,” Shop Snark cuts me off with one of those smiles best left out of the family photo album. “You do have a good reputation in the neighborhood, and you’ve been here a long time. I notice though you don’t even have car lifts in here.”

Ouch. 1 for 5.

“Yea, I do everything with jacks and stands. Because the building beams are so low, lifts were not feasible when the prior owner outfitted the shop. I don’t do tires here, so I can manage pretty well with what I have for everything else. My electrical and computer diagnostic equipment is all up to date, as is my informational database repair software and tooling. I do everything here except for transmission rebuilding and alignments.”

“And tires,” Shop Snark finishes for me. “Could I have one of your cards? I’ll keep you in mind.”

I give the Shop Snark a card, and she leaves. Wow, I’ve had better times with the Bureau of Automotive Repair inspector. :)

Texting Tina

I drove up this morning, and a woman in a short-sleeved top and pants was standing near my shop’s big rollup door. She clutched one of those mini-pad phones, working her thumbs on the keypad, all hunched up bodily, with complete concentration. I shivered just looking at her, because the temperature hovered in the forty-five degree range. Exiting my old Buick, banging the car door shut, opening the small entrance door, nothing made this lady look up from her texting. Five minutes later, I opened the roll-up entrance door she stood texting in front of (not a silent enterprise). It did not phase texting Tina whatsoever. I went over in front of her; and stood there, trying to get her attention without speaking. I was afraid she’d come out her texting coma swinging. My eight o’clock appointment would be driving up any minute. She finally gave out with a disgusted gasp, and looked up.

“What?!”

“You’re standing in front of my main entrance, ma’am,” I informed her pleasantly. “If you could move a few steps down the sidewalk, I’d appreciate it.”

“Fine!” Texting Tina blurted out, and marched exactly a foot past the entrance opening, and went right back to work.

I watched her for a few more moments, wondering if I should get an old jacket out of the back and drape it over her. My customer arrived though, and I left the dedicated texting waif to her duty. Okay, someone has to say this, so here goes. I understand you may want to text someone when in a location where your voice would bother others; but when on a public sidewalk, why not walk, talk, and flail your arms around like all the other cell-phone junkies? :)