The SoapBoxers

Note: the topic of this story is gay marriage.  While the story itself is positive in tone, I do realize that this is a controversial subject.  If you feel that this story may upset you, this would be the time to stop reading and peruse another of the many articles at The Soap Boxers.

Kate Kubek took a moment to gather her thoughts. Today, the day she would marry her best friend, had been reached after a long and winding journey.

Kate remembered peeking through the curtains of her parents’ house, watching the Mayflower van pull into the driveway next door. Her parents forbid her from visiting the new neighbors until they were settled in their house. Kate dutifully obeyed her mother and father, but kept up on the drama by manning her station near the window. Almost immediately, her excitement had been intensified by the presence of a young girl in pigtails – a girl who seemed to be about seven years old, too.

After waiting for what seemed like years (but was actually just a few days), her parents allowed her to go next door to visit. She carried a plate of her mother’s chocolate chip cookies as a “welcome to the neighborhood” present. The girl next door – Robyn – was excited to meet a girl her own age, and thus began a wonderful friendship.

During the summer, they spent countless hours in the warm sun playing tag, hide-and-go-seek, and even trying their hand at croquet. Their croquet matches were an utter failure when judged by the quality of the execution – but a rousing success when judged by the decibels of their laughter.

As the leaves began to display vibrant hues and the wind began to blow with cold intensity, they retreated behind the brick walls of Robyn’s house. Winters were spent playing Candyland and Chutes and Ladders, as well as that rite of passage of every young girl – Barbie dolls.

The girls quickly became inseparable. Kate’s parents had a standing invitation open to Robyn, and the Murphy family reciprocated by welcoming Kate into their home at every opportunity. Kate and Robyn even took summer vacations together.

When the girls finally were old enough to date, it was only logical that they would double date. They would help each other with their hair and makeup and chat excitedly about the fun they would have on their dates.

However, regardless of how handsome, smart, and charming the boys were, neither of them ever felt that magic feeling of being in love. Some day, surely, their princes would come.

Kate slowly began to realize that she had feelings for Robyn that went beyond friendship. She was scared at first – scared that unrequited love would mean the end to a friendship that meant the world to her. Finally, in their dorm room late one night during their freshman year in college, Kate broke down and told Robyn about her feelings. Robyn began to cry. Between sobs, Robyn told her that she felt the same way. As they held each other and shared a first kiss, they finally experienced the electric feeling of love.

They kept their relationship a secret for nearly a year before they could no longer hold it in and confided to their parents. Their parents were in heavy denial at first. Eventually, however, they couldn’t help but see the love that Kate and Robyn felt for each other, and in time the families grew to accept their relationship and eventually to support them fully. Kate and Robyn knew that they were incredibly fortunate to have such supportive families – many other lesbian couples experienced hatred from within their own families.

A loud squeak interrupted her thoughts.

“Kate, honey,” called out her mother, “It’s time to go. You don’t want to be late for your own wedding.”

Kate smiled, got to her feet, and followed her mother up the stairs.

As an extra long version of “Here Comes the Bride” played, Kate took her father’s arm and walked up the aisle toward the front of the church. Butterflies began to flutter slightly in her stomach. She looked toward the front of the church – there were three bridesmaids on each side, with Robyn standing in the middle.

When they reached the front of the church, Kate stood next to Robyn and held her hands. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, they each felt the power of the love they felt for each other, amplified by the support of the family that had gathered to share their special day.

Today was the first day of the rest of their lives. What a wonderful life it would be.

Make sure to read part 1 of this story before reading the conclusion!

“What concert might that be?” asked Kristi, and she received a kick under the table from Mac.

“Kristi Smiley is in town,” replied the waitress. “What a great voice – and she also does a lot of charity work. Just a great person. I’d love to go the to the concert,” she said with a sigh.

“Why aren’t you going?” asked Kristi.

“I just can’t afford the tickets. Hey, enough about me. I’ll grab your drinks and give you a few moments to look over the menus.”

Kristi studied the menu intently. She was trying to remember the calories for each ingredient, in an effort to maximize the calories in her pizza. She put on a high energy show every night and burned calories at an incredible rate.

Sarah, the waitress, returned with their drinks, and Mac and Kristi were ready to order. Mac ordered some sort of abomination with all sorts of green crap on it. Kristi ordered a thin crust pizza with hamburger, Canadian bacon, sausage, and bacon.

“Geez, Kristi,” Mac exclaimed. “That stuff is going to kill you some day.”

“Take it easy, Mac. I’m getting a salad, so it basically cancels out.”

Mac rolled his eyes and sipped his pop.

Sarah was back in a few minutes, carrying their salads. Mac ate his salad dry, while Kristi smothered hers in a lake of French dressing. Mac gave her a dirty look, which Kristi pretended not to notice.

The pizza was extremely hot when it arrived, and Kristi singed the roof of her mouth when while trying to inhale the first piece.

“Slow down, girl,” Mac warned. “Protect those vocal cords.”

Kristi ignored him again and focused on enjoying the pizza. The meats and cheese blended together to produce a culinary symphony in her mouth. It was great to be in the midwest, where people really understood how to make a great pizza.

The ever-attentive waitress topped off their beverages as slow poke Mac was finishing up his veggie pizza.

“Can I get you folks anything else?” asked Sarah.

“Just the check,” replied Mac.

When they were ready to leave, Mac caught Sarah as she was passing the table.

“It looks like a couple people in our group aren’t going to be able to make it, so we have a couple extra tickets to the concert. We’d like you to have them,” he said, as he handed her an envelope along with the money for their meal.

Sarah was stunned speechless by the gift, and Kristi and Mac quickly left the restaurant to avoid attracting more attention.

Later that night, Kristi was preparing for the show back stage and saw Sarah being introduced to some of the other musicians. Kristi walked up to the group and introduced herself.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Sarah. “It’s you – the girl from the restaurant. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice at the time.”

“Mac,” said Kristi, “this poor girl has been on her feet all day. See if you can find her a chair.”

Mac managed to find a tall, three legged stool, which he set up on the side of the stage. This became the lofty perch from which the most popular waitress in town watched the first – and most memorable – concert of her life.

Kristi’s voice filled the empty bowl of the arena as she finished the last verse.

“That’s a wrap,” said Mac Radel, formally ending the walkthrough for tonight’s show.

Whistles erupted from the upper level, as two teenage boys indicated their approval of Kristi’s singing. Certainly, the boys had no legitimate reason to be in the arena, but Kristi always appreciated a fan.

“Howdy, boys,” she said, blowing a kiss in their direction.

“You certainly do have this country wrapped around your little finger, Kristi.”

“Aw, shucks, Mac. You know me. I’m just a girl who likes to sing.”

“Sure, and the gold records mean nothing.”

“They’re nice to have, Mac,” she grinned, “but I’d still be singing for free in the church choir if the record deal hadn’t come along. I’m famished. Let’s run into town and get something to eat.”

Mac laughed. “Hon, there is absolutely no way you can show your face in town – you’ll be mobbed by fans, and we need to get back here to tweak the details of the show. I’ll send a roadie into town to pick something up.”

“Aw, Mac,” she pouted. “You’re worse than a parent. Just once, I want to eat in a normal restaurant, where I can actually see some real live people instead of just music people. I’ll go incognito. Pleaaaaaaaaaaase?”

Mac sighed. “This is a bad idea, Kristi. You have one of the most recognizable faces in the country. Someone is bound to see through your disguise. I can see you’re going to be a grouch if you don’t get your way, though, so we’ll give it a shot.”

Kristi hugged Mac and raced into her motor coach. A few minutes late, she walked out wearing a baseball jersey, a well-worn baseball cap, and some dime store sun glasses.

Mac and Kristi picked out a pizza place near the town square. They had just settled into their booth when Mac nearly had a heart attack – someone looked at them with a flash of recognition.

“Hey, I know you,” said the slender man in the John Deere hat. “You’re Mac Radel! Could I possibly get your autograph?”

Mac sighed inwardly with relief and signed the man’s napkin.

“Hey, who’s the gal with you,” asked John Deere Hat. “I suppose she’s your daughter, learning the ropes of the industry from the master?”

“Er, yes,” replied Mac. “This is my daughter, Christine.”

“Glad to meet you, Christine. My name’s Dustin.” The man in the hat smiled broadly at Kristi before walking toward the door.

Kristi kicked Mac under the table.

“Christine? Very creative, Mac.”

“Sorry, Kristi. The guy really caught me by surprise. Why on earth would anyone recognize a manager?”

“He probably recognized you from your previous job.”

“Oh, yes,” Mac replied. “Songwriters routinely have their pictures on the covers of magazines.”

The teenage waitress took their drink order. Mac ordered a caffeine free diet soda, while Kristi ordered her drunk loaded up with lots of caffeine and sugar.

“Ya’ll aren’t from around here,” observed the waitress. “You in town for the concert?”

To be continued – come back tomorrow for the conclusion of “Superstar”

As we hit the Major League non-waiver trade deadline today, we also reach the conclusion of our story.  Pleased read part one first (see the link in the table of contents at the top of the article).

Buzz immediately grab his phone and called Prescott Williams.

“What now, Bismarck?  You trying to get Blanchett for thirty cents on the dollar?”

“I’m actually calling about Ray Mitchell.”

“Ray Mitchell?  Why on earth would you want him?  He’s a sieve at third base – your guy is a much better all around player.”

“Yours is not to wonder why, Prescott.  I’ll give you Oscar Bishop for him.”

Prescott Williams pondered for about ten seconds before snapping up the deal.

Next,  Bismarck dialed the number of George Peyton.

“George, this is Buzz.  I have that right handed power bat yu have been looking for.  Ray Mitchell.”

“Ray Mitchell?  I’ve been trying to pry him away, but that doodoo head Williams was insisting that they were in the race and needed to hang onto all of their core players.”

“They’re no longer in the race, George.  Al Blanchett took a liner off his leg.  From the sound of the impact, he has a fracture and he’s done for the year.”

“Shit.  I hadn’t heard that.  When did it happen?”

“About five minutes ago.”

“And you jumped in like a piranha,” laughed Peyton.  “OK, Mitchell would definitely give us some thunder, though we’d probably need to DH him.  What are you looking for?”

“Vance Barcone.”

“I’ll have to check with the boss and get back to you.  Barcone is one of our better minor league pitchers.”

“Mitchell is the bat that can get you into the playoffs, George.  If you don’t want him, others in your division will.  Fish or cut bait.”

“Just give me five minutes,” begged Peyton.

“You have three minutes,” replied Bismarck, as he hung up.  The key, as always, was to keep the pressure on and force the other team to act more quickly than they wanted to.

Buzz chomped a handful of corn nuts, swigged some Coke, and burped violently.  Two and a half minutes later, his phone rang.  Peyton was able to pull the trigger, and Vance Barcone was a member of the Jackals.  Buzz quickly went to work on pushing Barcone out of the Jackals organization and onto his final destination.

It was a mere ninety minutes before the trade deadline when Buzz was able to reach Gordon Auth.

“Gordo,” exclaimed Bismarck.  “If you’re still looking to deal Travis Wolf, I might have a deal for you.  I just nabbed Vance Barcone from the Rhinos.  I could bundle him with Lewis Burke.”

“From a talent perspective, that’s about right,” replied Auth.  “How much cash are you willing to throw into the deal?”

“Cash?” replied Bismarck, with a tinge of shock entering his voice.  “We’re taking Wolf’s salary off your hands.  We’re already helping you  with your finances.”

“We’ve been having some bad financial times, Buzz.  You know that.  You’re going to have to sweeten the pot with a few million bucks to get the deal done.”

“No way,” replied Bismarck.  “I have another deal brewing to get Blanchett from the Sharks.”  Bismarck was bluffing, praying Gordon Auth hadn’t heard the news of the injury to Blanchett.

Gordon Auth sighed audibly.

“Can you throw me some sort of a bone, Buzz?  I’d like to be able to tell the boss that I was able to get at least a bit of cash in the deal.”

“Tell you what, Gordy.  I could include two million in the deal if you throw in that Willewaldt kid.”

Bismarck could sense the uncertainty on the other end of the phone.  Auth tended to have a good handle on the players at the upper levels of the minor leagues, but had the tendency to ignore all but the elite prospects at the lower level.  Bismarck doubted that Auth was aware  of the metrics that indicated that Willewaldt was a considerably better player that his raw stats indicated.  There was a distinct possibility that Auth was completely unaware of Willewaldt.  Getting Willewaldt for two million would be a steal.  Buzz went for the kill.

“Gordy, I have Prescott Williams on the other line,” he lied.  “We’re very close on the parameters of a deal for Blanchett.  What should I tell him?”

The game of chicken had come to a head – and understandably, the weaker GM succumbed.

“OK,” replied Auth.  “I’ll send in the paperwork.”

Buzz hung up the phone and released a celebratory fart.  With Travis Wolf on board, the Jackals had a very strong chance of making it to the playoffs.  Not only that, but he had bought Willewaldt for considerably below fair market value.   The day wasn’t over, though.  He still needed to submit the paperwork to the league office.  He hammered away on the keyboard of his laptop until the documentation had been filed.

Buzz grabbed his phone for one last call.  He reached Commissioner Jaylene Wrigley to inform her of the trades – just in case the technology failed.  As Bismarck listened to her voice, he could not help but be reminded of that weekend in Vegas when too much tequila had caused Jaylene to make some rather poor decisions – much to the benefit of the league’s Don Juan, Mr. Buzz Bismarck himself.  After his mild flirting had been rebuffed, the call ended.  Buzz turned on the TV, and flopped down on the futon in the middle of the office, where he promptly fell asleep.

In the spirit of the Major League non-waiver trade deadline on Friday, I am writing a two part story about a GM trying to make a deal so that his team can make a playoff run.  You’ll get the first half today, but you’ll have to wait until Friday for the conclusion – just as the suitors of Roy Halladay must wait.  (At press time, Halladay had not been traded.)

Buzz Bismarck munched on a mid-afternoon donut as he stared at the list of possible targets. The Jackals were on the cusp of contending for the playoffs. With so many teams still in the race, it had been difficult to find a willing trade partner. It had already been a long day. Many donuts had been eaten since he got into the office at 5 AM.

Buzz kicked off his shoes, put his feet on his desk, and called the GM of the Sharks.

“Hey, Prescott, this is Buzz.”

“Buzz, I keep telling you, Blanchett is not on the block. This team in right in contention.”

Buzz sighed internally. The Sharks were nine games out of the wild card spot. They had caught every lucky break possible this season, and when the luck turned against them, they would quickly be eliminated from the race. Prescott Williams refused to wave the white flag, however, and a fine pitcher like Al Blanchett would pay the price – languishing on a Sharks team that would fade into a second division club instead of leading the Jackals into the playoffs.

“I do like that catcher you have down in the minors,” commented Williams. “What sort of price would it take to acquire Bishop?”

Bismarck made a non-committal response that left a door open. Oscar Bishop wasn’t in the long term plans for the Jackals, and he would be a good fit for the Sharks, whose starting catcher was aging quickly. However, this sort of deal could wait – he had bigger fish to fry. Buzz asked a few quick questions about Prescott’s family. To be honest, he didn’t really care about the answers, and paid scarce attention.

Buzz took a brief respite from the phone and sniffed in the general direction of his feet. One of his scouts had told him that his feet smelled like dead fish. The was clearly not true. Live fish, perhaps. Dead fish, no.

The phone rang and Buzz broke from his reverie to grab it.

“Buzz Bismarck,” he grunted into the phone.

“Buzz, good to hear your pleasant voice again,” chirped the always-pleasant GM of the Rhinos, George Peyton. “We’re still looking for a good right handed power bat. Is there any chance Larry Morrisson might be available?”

“Sorry, George,” replied Buzz. “We really need to keep Larry Mo in the mix in our outfield. We could make Maloa available if you’re interested.”

“We’re not as interested in Maloa. His power has been sliding for the last couple of years.”

Peyton was right, of course, which was why Buzz was trying to dump him.

“OK, George. I’ll let you know if I can figure out a mutually beneficial deal.”

Bismarck grabbed the phone again and chatted up the GM of the Hyraxes. Hyrax pitcher Travis Wolf would be a good fit for the Jackals, but Gordon Auth wanted two good young pitching prospects. Lewis Burke was the sort of guy he was looking for, but none of the other pitching prospects in the Jackals organization interested the Hyraxes. Bismarck sighed once again, and hung up the phone.

Buzz grabbed the remote and flipped to some random game on the idiot box. The Sharks were playing, and Blanchett was on the mound. Bismarck was distracted by his thoughts, but a sharp crack made his head jerk to an upright position. It was not a good sort of crack.   It was the sort of crack bones make when they break.

The batter had driven a line drive off Blanchett’s leg, and the pitcher was in obvious pain as the medical staff tended to him.

(Some of you already have sneak preview copies of the eBook … sorry, no new content for you today.  Read a few more stories in the book, if you haven’t finished.)

Note – this is a partial story – regular visitors will be able to access the full story – instructions at the bottom.

Key Relationships

Zach hefted his suitcase to the top of the stairs and rang the bell. He had packed a lot more than he typically would for such a short trip, but Kevin and Robyn had been very secretive about the details. All he knew is that they were leaving on Friday morning and returning late in the day on Sunday. They had been told to pack for any situation, so Zach had packed a mixture of casual and dress clothes.

Zach heard the distinctive clicking sound of high-heeled shoes crossing the hardwood floor toward the door. Robyn opened the door and invited him in.

“Hey, Zach, come on in and grab a seat. Now that everyone is here, we can get started.”
Zach was pleasantly surprised to see that his friends had left the comfy brown recliner unoccupied. These guys were the absolute best. He settled into the chair and Kevin started to talk.

“OK, guys. Robyn and I promised you a fun trip this weekend. Well, that’s somewhat true. There will actually be three trips this weekend, though, instead of just one.”

Zach was a bit confused. A quick glance around the room confirmed that he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t following along. Brooke gave him a quizzical look from the couch. Zach could only shrug his shoulders in response.

…

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This particular story will NOT be available on the blog!  It will only be available as part of an eBook that I am giving away to my most valued regular readers.  Don’t worry, it does not cost any money, not do you have to give up any personal information.

If you are a regular reader through the web site, look up at the blue bar at the top of the screen.  You should see the text “Free eBook” toward the right edge of the bar.  If you don’t see this, then you’re just a wee bit shy of being a “regular reader”.

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Clicking on either of this links will get you to the correct page to download the eBook.  The eBook contains sixteen stories.  Fifteen of the stories have been featured on The Soap Boxers.  The first story in the eBook – Key Relationships – cannot be found on the blog, and it is much longer than any of the stories that have appeared in the blog (24 pages long, in fact).

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If you aren’t a regular visitor, you can get the eBook by simply subscribing to the RSS feed – or simply look around the site and read a few stories.  Before long, we’ll think of you as a regular visitor.

If you run into any problems, just send me an email at kosmo@observingcasually.com

“There you go, Mr. Casey,” I said, ripping the check out of the checkbook.

The car dealer glanced down at the check.

“It was good doing business with you again, Mr. Maxwell.  I’m sorry that we couldn’t work out a finance deal this time.”

“Maybe you’ll have that zero percent deal the next time I need to buy a car,” I replied.  I shook the man’s hand and walked out of the dealership.  Car dealers can get a bad reputation, but Casey was a straight shooter and didn’t put people through the ringer like some other dealers did.  He ran a small family dealership – he lived comfortably, but was not rich.  Perhaps he could have lived a bit higher on the hog if he was more heavy handed in his negotiations, but Casey seemed rather happy with his life.

Seventeen days later, I received my statement from the bank.  Oddly, the check for the car had not cleared.  I was concerned that Casey had somehow misplaced the check, so I gave him a call.

“There has been no problem, Mike,” he replied.  “We received the funds on the eighth.  There’s no problem on our end.  It sounds like this might be a bank error.”

I got off the phone with Bob Casey and immediately called the bank.

“I’m looking up your account, Mr. Maxwell,” replied Miranda Johnson, the teller.  “I’m not seeing any checks to Casey Auto.”

“How can that be?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s really not that unusual,” she said.  “The federal reserve acts as a clearinghouse for checks, and sometimes there is a lag.  It seems that the one half of the transaction has been completed, but the other half has not.  They typically fix the problem within a few weeks.  I’m certain that it will be straightened out soon.”

Miranda’s words allayed my fears, and I put the matter out of my mind.

A month later, when I received my next bank statement, the check to Casey Auto had still not cleared.  Even more puzzling, not a single check had cleared my account.  I immediately grabbed the phone and began calling the companies who had received the checks.  Like Bob Casey, all of them had received their money.

This time, even the unflappable Miranda Johnson was a bit flapped.

“This is definitely a bit unusual, Mr. Maxwell.  I have never seen it take this long for the fed to fix a problem – and the fact that none of your checks cleared is especially troubling.  I’ll give a call to my contact at the Fed and see what she can find out.”

Miranda’s colleague, unfortunately, was also not able to find the root cause of the problem.  From the perspective of the federal reserve bank, the checks had never existed – and yet, payments had been received.

Three days later, a gentleman from the FBI was at my door when I arrived home.

“Mike Maxwell?” asked the man in the suit.

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied.

“I’d like to ask you some questions about a grand larceny that was committed.  May I come in?”

“Grand larceny?” I asked, confused.  Agent Brisbane followed me into the house.

Once inside the house, Brisbane pulled several photocopies out of his briefcase.

“Do not recognize these?’ he asked.

“Of course,” I replied.  “Those are some checks that I wrote.”

“Indeed,” he replied.  47 checks for a total of $44,318.41, drawn on the account of a Ms. Rose Tinsdale.”

“What?” I replied.  “Rose Tisdale?  Clearly this check was drawn on my own account..  See, that’s my checking account number.”

Indeed, it was my account number.  However, the bank’s routing number was wrong.  Somehow, the printer has transposed two digits, and my checks were being drawn against the account of Ms. Tinsdale.  Ms. Tinsdale had been in ill health and had not kept her finance current.  It was only when she died that her children realized that someone was “stealing” money from her account and notified the FBI.

It was 11:18 PM when the refrigerator door closed for the final time. The occupants of the fridge waited 15 more minutes, just to make sure. Then they finally started to unwind.

“Man,” said Leftover Pizza, “I really thought I was a goner. She was eating my slices pretty fast. At least there’s still a little chunk of me left in here.”

“Eh, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” replied Orange. “I’ve been in here for three months. It’s always too cold and the lights are always off. Plus, Limburger has horrible BO that fills the entire fridge.”

“Speak for yourself,” shot back Limburger. “I’m not so sure that you’re not the cause of a lot of the smell. You’ve got mold spots that are older than me.”

“Hey guys, cool it,” said Cucumber. Cucumber was unflappable and served as the referee for these battles. “Limburger, stay in the dairy section. Orange, stay in the produce drawer. No more trash talk, guys.”

“Yeah,” piped up Ketchup. “Some of us are trying to get to sleep.”

“Man,” piped up Eggs “you are no fun at all, Mr. Ketchup. Not even midnight yet and you’re already going to sleep. We have a short life span, we need to party as much as we can!”

“Oh Yeah!” said the Kool-Aid pitcher. “Time for a party. Who brought the tunes?”

“There are no tunes, you numbskull,” retorted Fresca. “Just the incessant sound of that stupid compressor. Day after day, night after night, year after year.”

“The rest of us should be as lucky as you, Fresca,” said Ranch Dressing. “The life span for my species in this habitat is less than a month. How long have you been living in these parts, Fresca?”

“Since 1992,” said the old geezer. “It was touch and go for a while, but then grandpa died, and grandma doesn’t like my flavor – but she hates to throw anything out, so I still sit here.”

“Yeah, good old grandma,” said the Container of Food with an Indeterminate Origin. “She has already forgotten what I am, so she’ll never want to throw me out until she remembers what I am.”

Milk sighed. “You guys are so lucky. She barely leaves me in here a week past my date. It would be so great to have the shelf life of Fresca.”

“The cold does get to you after a while, though,” replied Fresca. “Sometimes I long to be squirreled away in a closet somewhere, enjoying tropical climates all year.”

“It could be a lot worse, though,” piped up Butter. “Someone could have drunk you years ago!”

“You speak the truth, my fine yellow friend. You speak the truth. My life may not be a paradise, but it is a life nonetheless. Better to have lived than to have died, I always say.”

“Hey guys,” yelled Limburger. “Watch me light my farts!”

“Limburger, cut that out. Cheddar, grab that lighter from him. Let’s settle down, guys. Let’s play a quick game of twenty questions and then go nighty night. Carrot, it’s your turn to pick the object. Orange Juice, you can ask the first question.”

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” asked Orange Juice.

“Vegetable,” answered Carrot.

“Don’t tell me it’s a carrot” asked Celery.

“Yup,” replied Carrot.

“Aw, man, you suck at this game.”

“OK, that’s wrap. Time go grab some ZZZs,” said Cucumber, in her most authoritative voice.

Tears streamed down the face of Beth Page, smearing her carefully applied makeup.  She stood by the side of her husband’s grave, the very picture of the grieving widow (although perhaps her black dress was a wee bit too low-cut for the occasion).

It was no surprise that she was convincing in her grief.  After all, she had practice.  This was the third husband she had buried.  With each death, a few more dollars had gone into her coffers.  The trick, of course, was to make the death appear accidental.

The death of her first husband, Zach, nearly was accidental.  Beth and Zach college sweethearts.  On their honeymoon, they decided to go scuba diving off the coast of Florida.  The couple were accomplished divers, and they took turns inspecting the equipment before each dive.  On the fateful day, it was Beth’s  turn to check the equipment.  She noticed a problem with Zach’s gear.  She very nearly pointed it out, but she was still a bit upset over a comment he had made the night before, so she kept her mouth shut.  Zach’s oxygen tank malfunctioned, and Poseidon claimed another victim.  The life insurance had been more than generous.  Even after paying Zach’s funeral expenses, Beth had a sizable pot of money to work with.  Beth kept a low profile for a year, before telling her friends and Zach’s family that she was going to pull up stakes and move back to the midwest, where her family lived.  Boston simply had too many memories of Zach, and she was overwhelmed with emotion.  That was her story, in any case.

Instead of going back to her non-existent family in the midwest, Beth spent the next few years lying on the beach, getting a tan, reading Danielle Steele novels, and flirting with cabana boys.  She also invested some of the insurance money in herself, using an augmentation to increase her cup size.

The breast enlargement turned out to be a rather profitable investment, netting her a second husband, Phil.  Phil was a Manhattan investment banker.  Beth had tired of Phil within a few weeks of meeting him, but she was intrigued by his collection of art, as well as his portfolio of stocks.  Her lust for his riches made it tolerable for her to consummate the marriage.  Soon after they were married, Beth began plotting against her husband.  In the end, it was not terribly difficult to kill him off.  The man was a slave to his cell phone, and she made a habit of calling him when she knew he would be jaywalking across busy streets.  She would intentionally draw him into arguments until her actions eventually had the intended effect.  A taxi cab hit a distracted Phil as it drag raced with another car, efficiently separating him from his precious cell phone and ending his life.

Beth spent another year among grieving family and friends before once again declaring that she was moving back home to be near her own family.  This time she had enough money for Maui.  Beth was carefully stalking her third victim within hours of landing in Hawaii.  Eldrick had more money than Zach or Phil – perhaps enough money to allow Beth to sustain a pampered lifestyle.

The bodies were starting to mount, so Beth had to excercise caution when killing off Eldrick.  This had to appear as an obvious accident.  She couldn’t risk a clumsy attempt such as cutting the brake lines in his car.  She eventually decided to engage an accomplice.  Beth ensured herself of an alibi by heading out to a night on the town with her friends at the same time that Eldrick was heading off to the course for a solo round of twilight golf.  It was the next morning when they found his body on the 9th green.  His death was ruled a cerebral hemorrhage.  The impact mark on his head indicated that he had been struck by a Titleist ball moving at a very high rate of speed.  Someone had neglected to yell “fore”.

This is a bit different from my other stories, lacking the “edge” that I typically try to include.

Of all the benefits offered by his company, Andrew found that he valued one benefit much more than any other – the presence of his co-worker, the lovely Charisse.  Not only was Charisse a very attractive girl, but she was smart, had a great personality, and had a laugh that Andrew could listen to all day.  On days when Charisse wore a short skirt, Andrew’s concentration would go completely down the drain, and his productivity would be nearly worthless.  Unfortunately, Andrew was painfully shy, so he adored Charisse from afar.

Charisse enjoyed her job.  Most of all, she enjoyed working with Andrew.  Andrew was a smart guy who was often able to find a creative solution to difficult problems.  He also went out of his way to compliment the works of other members of the team, unlike many of the corporate ladder climbers who were more than happy to stab someone in the back to get to the next level.  Andrew was a great guy – Charisse kept waiting for him to ask her out.

Charisse had no shortage of men asking her for a date.  At first, she declined, in hopes that Andrew would ask her out.  Eventually, it became clear to her that this was not going to happen.  It appeared that Andrew thought of her only as a friend.  Charisse began saying “yes” when men asked her out.  Charisse had enjoyable evenings with a several of the guys, and had a few second dates.  She had been dating George for the last month.  George was a great guy, but there just wasn’t the spark that she was hoping for.  Charisse was trying to find a way to let George down gently.

At work, it seemed that Andrew and Charisse were spending every moment together.  They had a great working relationship, and their manager was smart enough to take advantage of this synergy by having them work together on projects.  They had many working lunches together, and often Andrew would run out and bring back a pizza to share during a late night work session at the office.  Sometimes, they would even hang out after work.  However, to the dismay of both of them, neither of them showed outward interest in taking their friendship to the next level.

On a Friday in May, Andrew and Charisse had finished up a long day and were headed out to the parking lot.  They jumped into the elevator for the trip down to the main floor.  As they chatted about their plans for the weekend, the elevator started downward, then lurched to a stop.  The light inside the elevator flickered and went out.   Darkness enveloped them.

At the moment that the light bulb went off in the elevator, a bulb went on in Charisse’s mind.  She could “accidentally” bump up against Andrew so that they were face to face.  If Andrew didn’t return the kiss, Charisse could simply claim that the collision was an accident.  At the moment that Charisse was finalizing the thought, she felt Andrews lips upon hers – the exact idea had come to him.  For a moment, Charisse’s heart was stuck in her throat.  Then she returned her kiss with the passion that had been building inside her.  She clung tight to Andrew in the darkness of the elevator.

A moment later, Andrew and Charisse felt the earth move.  More accurately, the elevator resumed its downward motion.  They reach the bottom, exited the building, and walked outside into the beautiful spring day and toward a new life together.