My Writing

• What should my next story be?
• What would you do if a loved one crossed over to another dimension?

The Bike Path

  A comical piece I wrote in 2021

A local bike path in my city gives me great enjoyment during daily exercise runs. The path follows the river. Referring to it as a river is a terrible description since it hasn’t rained in so long that there isn’t any water within its banks. Having grown up in the east, I disagree with calling any waterway a river, unless you can sail a ship in it. At its highest watermark, I’d call it a creek.

So, the bike path, seven feet wide paved blacktop, is placed atop a berm that holds in the hundred-year flood; again. The man-made raised mound gives the ability to fall off either side. It has a yellow line painted down the middle, starts at the Pacific and travels eight miles eastward, with mile markers.

Weekends and holidays are less fun as crowds of people force themselves to exercise. I enter at the four-mile mark, from a bridge that crosses the creek, onto a lane crowded with bike riders, joggers, dog walkers, dog joggers. Dog bikers dressed in vinyl jackets wearing bandanas; an insult to any Pug’s heritage. Senior citizens walking, teens skateboarding, Peloton cyclers, Marine platoons, electric bikers with electric speakers blasting out everything from rap music to Classic Vinyl; even Cat Stevens’ songs. Can you imagine having to listen to Cat Stevens while stuck on a frozen treadmill going nowhere?

I search for a spot to merge. Seeing dog walkers approaching, I start to pedal. Their dogs snarl. I squeeze through the westbound and turn left onto eastbound traffic. The traffic is moving at a very slow pace, in both directions. I get half a pedal before I hit the brakes as the column of citizens comes to a halt. I’m looking forward, trying to see what is holding up the line.

Wow, that woman is bigger than the lane.

A skateboarder shoots into oncoming traffic, only to get hit by a surfer carrying his board, heading toward the waves. They’re down. Westbound traffic also comes to a stop. Eastbound people are asking west bounders, “Can you tell what’s the stoppage on our side?” Rumors persist of a wheelchair with a flat. Then someone suggests the tricyclist. Maybe the same one I told to not ride this path yesterday. “It’s not built for tricycles, buddy. Get yourself out on the street.”

A traffic helicopter swoops down low, giving us a temporary breeze.

Ding, ding, ding, ding. A police officer on a bike, ringing his bell, pushes his way down the centerline. The crowd jostles past a woman pouring water over her head, then she shakes and whips her hair as if she is in the Flashdance movie, angering those in the splash zone.

“If you say ‘It’s the Interstate 405,’ one more time I’m gonna shove this bicycle pump up your ass.”

Somebody, move forward, please.

I spy a neighbor coming from the other direction. I drop my head, lean to the right, only to have the dog next to me growl, signaling me to keep up the pace.

“Hey Frank, it’s so nice to see you,” she shouts out. I feign happiness, “Glad you’re out here too,” I mumble.

She broadcasts, “Have you heard the Robinson’s are buying a new car. Their son, Godspeed, is getting his driver’s license. He’ll be on the road with the rest of us. Won’t that be a gas? On the road, ha ha, with us.”

I keep my lips pursed and think, hopefully, not on the bike path.

“It’s gonna be good having him grow old with the rest of us,” she continues. “It’s like the street raised him. He’s a child of the village. It took a village, and we did it.”

I say to myself, with a little help from the village idiot. I try not to hear her cackling voice as she walks out of distance, telling everyone the names of my family members, where I work, my home address and the ages of my children. Oh, joy! Now the surrounding people are calling me by my first name.

I’ve been straddling my bike this whole time. I swing my leg over the seat, kicking two people as I get off the bike to walk.

“Hey buddy, you’re taking up too much space,” someone yells from behind me.

We approach the scene of a wheelchair leaning to the side of the path. Six bicycles lined up on the side, with their riders trying to remove the wheelchair tire using bicycle wrenches, while the disabled person sits on the side watching the ignorant good Samaritans. A woman in nursing scrubs is wrapping the disabled rider in a foil blanket. The police officer is ten feet away, jotting on his note pad.

“Hey Frank, that lady said you are a mechanic. Shouldn’t you stop to help?”

I lower my head, knowing seven can’t improve what six are not accomplishing.

It’s twelve noon, and I haven’t worked up a sweat yet.

I spy my doctor in the crowd. I nod acknowledgment and feel satisfied that during my next office visit, he’ll know I exercise.

Reading the painted mile marker on the pavement, I consider a U-turn. I strategically step to the left, coming very close to the shoe tops of a jogger. The yellow line under my tires, I wait for a break in oncoming traffic. I make my move, swerving and yanking the bicycle to the left, fearful of falling off the paved berm.

“No U-turns, you old fart,” screams an in-line skater.

Westbound traffic doesn’t have the broken-down wheelchair slowing us and I’m able to swing my leg over the seat and ride the bike. First gear is barely enough to keep me upright. The in-line skater rolls past, slapping my shoulder. “Move over, you old fart.”

“Quads are the only good skates,” I yell, trying to belittle him. “You can’t dance on those punk.” Just before I grab his shirttail, skater boy squirms between two moms with strollers. He is so lucky. I realize I am trapped behind the moms and again disembark from the bike, standing on one pedal and eyeing my bridge exit in the distance, pushing with my free foot, hoping my heart rate rises above sleep level.

Spying a branch on a tree with a line of magpies sitting in a row, watching. I know they laugh at us humans. Scanning the scene ahead of the two stroller-pushing moms, though I’m uncertain they are moms, hoping to make a pass. They might have Pekinese pups in their strollers, making them dog walkers. America has gone crazy elevating dogs to celebrity status.

Ahead is a homeless man. His non-showered smell is wafting back towards us. He is moving at an agonizingly slow speed as he tows a stolen shopping cart. Because of the anti-theft device, the front wheels are frozen. A break opens in oncoming traffic and one stroller-pushing woman jumps out and passes the hunchbacked homeless man. Oncoming traffic lurches as she merges back onto our side. I time the slow pace, seeing my exit ahead. I just lay back, away from the offending odor. My bridge is open, as is the street in my neighborhood. Second, third, then fourth gear before I reach my driveway, thankful I’ve completed another day of exercise.

The Drones

2021

The Drones

Our quiet neighborhood, an enclave with only one entrance, is close-knit and friendly. Most of us know our neighbors by first name. We meet at the mailbox or the grass corner where so many dog owners go to let their pets relieve themselves. We stop and talk for a minute, discussing the weather, work, the property manager or sports. We offer an opening statement, permitting a reply, and share a moment of exchanging amicable feelings.

One local neighbor and I have become a pair, as some say, troublemakers; we prefer to believe we are protectors. As retired gentlemen, we have plenty of time on our hands to get into trouble. It made sense to keep watch on our neighborhood. We survey the traffic from the pool area next to the clubhouse, while sitting at picnic tables sipping drinks.

We want to protect our peace and security, which translates into increased property values. We walk the streets, observing and asking others to keep an eye out, to maintain our quiet, peaceful neighborhood.

It was quite noticeable to us two and other neighbors when one home, occupied by a long term reclusive elderly woman, began having many guests.

“Ol’ lady Kravitz has been getting visitors again,” I mentioned.

“I hope those visitors are helping her with her daily needs,” Carl replied.

As a few weeks passed, we noticed a routine of the same vagrants, day after day. We raised the issue with friends and dog walkers, seeking others’ opinions to make sure our thoughts were in the majority. We prodded each other about becoming conspiracy theory believers.

We talked, joked, and drank a few beers. We discussed how we could stop the seedy characters who started hanging out at that house. What if they are using her home as a drug den? What if they are cooking and selling meth from her house? We’ve watched ‘Breaking Bad.’ We can imagine.

“We need to keep the trash out of our neighborhood. This garbage is walking onto our clean, quiet block.” Carl remarked one day.

 We talked to our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kravitz, who claimed everything was fine. No need for us to check on her, she explained.

“But why have a dozen visitors a day?” Why are vehicles stopping by for a quick moment, then driving off into the night?”

She shut her door.

We contacted our local sheriff’s department; they showed no concern. They said they would drive by occasionally, but we have not seen them.  We followed their suggestion of a neighborhood watch program. We downloaded a package of PDF’s, which centered on educating citizens about suspect identification.

I’m not kidding, it included this information within the PDF documents:

Hair, color, length, wig, cap, hat.

“Seriously! We’re not the police, why are we doing your job?”

Height, approximate weight and build or posture.

Mask, Style

Sex or Gender

Age ~Approximate

Scars, Marks, Tattoos, Amputations, Deformities 

I’m glad you included ‘mask’ as I may not report someone wearing a mask, three-hundred sixty-four other days of the year. The same thought for ‘amputations.’ “It was the one-armed man.”

 Eye Color–Glasses (color and style)

Race–Color of Skin

Nose, Lips, Teeth, Ears, Hearing Aid,

Facial Jewelry Facial Hair

Voice–Language, Accent, Lisp, Other Speech characteristics

Right or Left-Handed–Rings, Bracelets, Watches

Weapons or Tools–Gun, Knife, Club

Clothing–Colors and Styles, Shirts, Coats,

Pants, Hats, Shoes, Gloves, etc.

What are they carrying?

Backpack, Duffle, Purse?

Transportation–Walking, biking, driving?

We had an afternoon six-pack while we made up stories about how ignorant these police and sheriffs could be. Had they spent weeks in the station house teaching themselves how to use computer programs to put this information together for the ‘neighborhood watch-program’ details?

“And we give guns to these people.”

Carl felt the ‘Neighborhood Watch-program’ was pointless. Still, we had fun characterizing our neighbors according to the “suspicious character” list.

One day, just for fun, I bought a drone. I flew it to Carl’s house and hovered it outside his living room window. Then I dialed his phone to see if he noticed. He answered with a scream, yelling that someone was spying on him. When I stopped laughing, I told him it was my new toy. He demanded his privacy for one sentence, before he said he would buy one himself and spy on me.

“Do it! But, prepare yourself for a boring episode, there is nothing going on in my house. Can’t you understand why I got one? I’m trying to find some entertainment.”

Within two more sentences, we realized we should try spying on old lady Kravitz’ house.

The following day I had my drone flying around the neighborhood when I saw through the video feed that one of the daily visitors had parked at the clubhouse and was walking to Ol’ lady Kravitz’. I followed him with the drone, flying about twenty feet above him. He stopped and looked up. The drone stopped and hovered. He started running. The drone started flying. I had the drone stop at Ol’ Lady’s house and watched the suspected dealer run in the home and peak out the window.

I phoned Carl, who was reading the instructions about his new drone. I filled him in on the spying mission and asked him to take over the surveillance while I recharged my batteries.

Together, we watched on the video feed as Ol’ Lady Kravitz’ guests peeked out through closed blinds.  They opened front and back doors, looking up at our hovering drone. It became one of our most entertaining moments. One pusher we nicknamed Tweaker, always seemed nervous, and was assumed to be the gang leader. I could see him peeking through the blinds as he made one of his thugs go outside and report on the drone. Once Carl had his drone flying, we could drive them batty by buzzing both the window and the guy on recon outside in the yard.

The traffickers got crafty and designed a long-handled butterfly net, hoping to catch a drone. It was designed as we expected from a team of druggies. The top piece was a fisherman’s hand net. This was duct taped to the kitchen sponge mop which was duct taped to what appeared to be a three-foot section of floor trim. Our imaginations flourished with ideas of how the floor trim came off the wall.

Carl and I laughed hysterically as we had both drones buzzing the addict who obviously was hopped up on meth, prancing around the yard, swatting his net while the drones flew well out of reach. We played with him, having one drone hover at the fronds of a Royal Palm and the other drone dive-bombing from the other direction. The butterfly net fell apart rather quick. He ran in the house, sharing the open slat with Tweaker.

Carl and I became more emblazoned in our quest to use paranoia to chase out the hooligans. We printed up flyers describing the newly formed ‘Neighborhood Watch Program’. Then delivered the flyer to the front porch, with the drone, while they were watching through the window. Then we hung a sign from one drone and hovered it outside a window. The video feed showed as they peeked through the slats, reading the sign, “We are watching you!”

Our adventures ended after we filed an official report with the Sheriff’s department, claiming the deputies were ignoring our requests for help. We explained the entire story of Ol’ lady Kravitz and the drones to a Sergeant. He suggested that we were breaking privacy laws. Also, that he would forward his report to the District Attorney for review.

The paranoia transferred.

Ol’ lady Kravitz still has her daily visitors. The couriers still come and go multiple times a day. The cars still stop by at night, with a quick exchange through the car window.

Now, two old coots are shaken in their belief in safety in today’s society.