New England Sketches by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Zoar Gap Trap

by Mike Bozart

© 2024 Mike Bozart

Northwestern Massachusetts, only 4.444 miles as a beak-becoming-frozen raven flies south of the Vermont state line.

A seven-shades-fey-gray stone overlook on Negus Mountain (elevation: 1,647’; 502 meters). A form-hugging blanket of snow carpets the fallen leaves and exposed bedrock from yesterday. It’s a cold-but-not-crippling-frigid, mostly sunny winter weekday (Thursday, January 6, 2022). A mid-20-something interracial couple gazes downslope at Zoar Gap on the Deerfield River, 1,001 feet (305 meters) below. What a death-slide this would be. Sploosh! Sink. Hide and sink.

Deeper. / It’s now a year since that crazed mob tried to overthrow the US government. Never could have imagined such when we immigrated here. [in 2008] Thought we had escaped from attempted – and successful, sadly – coups.

Nope, not even in this exalted nation. Oh, this world! Ok, stay positive, girl; get back on track. Sure would hate to stumble and tumble. Wouldn’t end well. Not at all. Wow!

There’s a train on the tracks waaaaaaaay [sic] down there.

“Look!” Mirlande, an attractive Haitian American female, shouts with excitement, leaving a visible exhalation of condensation in the semi-dry air. “A [Norfolk Southern]

freight train is chugging northward towards the Hoosac Tunnel.” Chug-a-lug. Lug-a-chug. Hug-n-plug. She really does know how to satisfy a guy. Thoroughly. Best cowgirl ride ever. The sausage is still sore from three nights ago.

Hmmm … How many has she fucked? Probably in double digits now. Are you kidding? For sure! Don’t be so naïve.

“Ah, yes, I see it,” sepia-bearded Jack states. “They’re still using that old, streamside, single-track line. Well, for freight only; passenger service ceased many decades ago, [in 1954] according to my train-fanatic stepdad.” Wonder where his biological dad is now. Did they have a falling out? Was it a nasty divorce attached to a vicious child-custody battle? A seedy, unethical lawyer? And a dubious, impartiality-challenged judge? Resulting in a bitterly aggrieved sore loser? Place on hold for now. Maybe ask him later. Nope.

Don’t even think of it. Could ruin the day. Or the whole week.

Is his real dad dead? Sure wish mine were still alive. Tu me manques, papa. [translation from French: I miss you, dad.]

There is a must-get-these-rapidly-sprouting-thoughts-in-line, 37-second pause. Where will we be in 2032? Or, even 2023? Is she long-term material? Am I? / Can tell that his

brain is working overtime. Is he a schemer? Seems genuine.

But, why did his previous relationship end? Hmmm …

Mirlande breaks the contemplative silence. “I heard that the Hoosac Tunnel is haunted. Have you ever been in it?” Does she really believe in ghosts? No, don’t ask. Not now.

“A couple of years ago, me and some buddies walked about 200 feet [61 meters] into it from the east portal,” Jack discloses. “But, we soon turned around. It gets dark fast; it’s clammy; and, guess what, it’s almost five miles long.” [4.75

miles; 7.64 km] 5ive, 4our, 3hree, 2wo, 1ne. 0ero. Zero no work. [sic]

“Sounds like a hair-raising and perilous shortcut to North Adams.” [MA] For sure.

“You could ride a motorcycle through it, adventuress, [ sic]

but it would be bumpy as hell. Hard on the butt plate. Not really worth it.” ‘Adventuress’? Huh? ‘Hard on the butt plate’?

Would never even consider such. If a train were coming, you then have to get the heavy motorcycle out from between the rails. Quickly. No freaking way! No thanks, René.

“So, when was the tunnel finished?” Mirlande asks with an inviting smile. She really is so gorgeous. Must not screw up this budding relationship. Please no, not a replay of the last one. Uggghhh. Stay positive. [internal groan]

“It was completed in 1875, princess. It took 24 years to complete. There were many accidents, and about 200

deaths [195 work-related fatalities] from blasting gone awry.

They were using nitroglycerine. One nitro-blaster named Ringo Kelley set off a blast a wee too soon. Two coworkers paid the rock-crushing price. But then, sometime later, they would find Ringo strangled in the tunnel. And, get this, there were beetles crawling on his corpse. Get it? Ringo of The Beatles. [chortles] Some say that ‘revenge ghosts’ now occupy that long horizontal shaft. Cell reception cuts off quickly. There are emergency phone boxes in the tunnel, but the one that I ran across had been stolen. Just cut-off wires and a stack of stones, almost like a miniature pyramid. Oh, by the way, Hoosac means ‘place of stones’ in Algonquian.

There are twenty million bricks lining the walls. I counted them all. One by one. Twice. [chuckles] Joking! Oh, it has a

nickname: ‘the bloody pit’. I know, how lovely.” Bet he was a nerd in middle school. Then completely out-of-bounds in high school. Perhaps. Not. Hope he doesn’t have an episode out here today. [Jack is schizophrenic. Though, he has been in remission for 29 months, since while alone in a barn near Peru [MA] when he thought two horses were talking to him in some equine-cum-hominid language.]

“Thanks for that book report, monsieur je-sais-tout.”

[translation from French: Mr. Smarty-pants] Hope Susie

[Mirlande’s Balinese long-haired cat] is doing ok. Hope she hasn’t attacked the blinds again. Those damn birds torment her mercilessly, knowing that the pane of glass shields them from attack.

“The River Seine empties into the English Channel at Le Havre. La canal de la merde, [translation from French: The channel of shit,] according to Marcel. [a friend] Chunky and slimy; yes, you get booth. We are feeling generous!” Ew, gross! Why did he say this? Is he starting to slip? Away?

Maybe just play along.

“An odor so bad it’s nonpareil,” Mirlande responds.

“A smelly braaaaaap,” [ sic] Jack blasts.

“Whatever, dear boyfriend, Jack the Wack of Pittsfield.” [MA]

Dear boyfriend? Won’t reject that. ‘the Wack’?

“Girlfriend, want to get lost on a cold-day hike?” Girlfriend?

Yes! Get lost? In the cold? No way!

“What?! Are you crazy?! No, don’t even answer. We both know the answer. Hey, I’m joking! Lighten up, dude.”

Mirlande chortles unabashedly.

“Just to recap the commencement of this to-be-recalled-on-some-unknown-future-date Superday. [ sic] There was limited parking at the Negus Mountain Trailhead at Zoar Gap. We were lucky to snag a spot. The steep-in-spots hike was 2.9

miles. [4.667 km] We ascended mostly northeastward after starting out WNW. The elevation gain was 1100’. [335

meters] The Mt. Negus summit elevation is 1,745’ [532

meters] with great views of rocktacular [ sic] outcrops.”

WNW? ‘ Rocktacular’? Oh, please! Cease!

“You sold me when you said that, Jack. Your monotone delivery with that all-is-swell look. How romantic of you.

Truly. Sincerely blown away.” Oh, please. An obvious farce.

She’s just running with my lure. And tying it around a half-submerged log. But, let’s play along. And chill the hell out.

“You know, sexy girl, they say if you give a young, brash man enough rope …” What?! / Ballerton!

“I’m blowing the whistle. This match is over.” But, why? Was it not just getting started? Maybe she was afraid that the word play would get slippery. Quick-sliding astray.

“Was I drifting out-of-bounds?” Jack asks with a serious look.

He almost seems like an AI [artificial intelligence] creation at times. Kinda creepy. Though, he’s definitely not a robot.

“It was getting too nonsensical, dear,” Mirlande asserts.

“You were circling the shoals.” Was I? Maybe I’m going off the rails. Again. Soon. Darn. Oh, well. / Not sure what he wants to do. Seems quite high. Wonder if he secretly took something when I took a pee. Bet he did. Sneaky weasel.

“Ok, let’s engage in productive discussion. Suppose that you had to create a short story based on Zoar Gap, far down below. How does it start, my love?” My love? Wow!

“A couple, very much like us, is kayaking on a summer day.

They make it through the Zoar Gap rapids ok. Then they decide to take a break on a small, pebbly beachlet. All is fine initially, as they merrily eat and drink.” Life is but a dream.

“But then an angry black bear suddenly emerges,” Jack interjects. “It turns out that the couple are in between mama bear and her three cubs. And, as we certainly know, this aint a good place to be.” Not at all.

“I like that unforeseen twist, Jack. Good one. So, now it’s my turn. How to advance the story from here? Ok, I got it. The motionless couple yells loudly. Mama bear stops. Then the couple slowly gets back in their kayaks and paddle swiftly away from shore. Mama bear just gives them a menacing stare. You’re turn, partner.” Wonder where he sends them?

Over a waterfall?

Jack dramatically clears his throat. “There was an intense thunderstorm the night prior. A large oak toppled and is now completely blocking the river.” That should get her gears churning. Can almost smell the smoke. / Nice try, boy.

“The couple notices the fallen tree. They paddle to the north bank, disembark, and pull their kayaks ashore. They both sigh with relief.” Got out of that Zoar Gap trap.

“Congrats, you got them out of that Zoar Gap trap,” Jack commends. Like he was reading my mind! Unreal. Maybe we are meant to be. Together. Matrimonially. Someday.

“What did I win?” Mirlande earnestly enquires.

“It’s coming to me. Still processing all of this input.”

Mirlande leans over and kisses Jack. Then breaks away and looks into his cobalt-blue eyes. “I like how you’re not afraid to be yourself around me.”

“Likewise, my muse,” Jack replies. Muse? Wow! Will certainly remember this day forever. Hope he stays true.

“So, mama bear and her cubs get reunited and live happily ever after. But, what about the couple on the north shore?”

Should I lob a meta-grenade into it? Can’t resist.

“They just vanish,” Jack asserts. “They had accomplished their mission, and there was no more script for them. Their time was up. There were no hard feelings or protestation.

They had read the fine print on the contract beforehand.

They knew this was the probable outcome.” WTF! Need to reel him in. Before he floats away.

“So, they were aware that they were fictional characters?”

Mirlande posits. What an exercise in futility.

“Not at first, girlfriend. They arrived at that realization on the north shore of Zoar Gap. The scene begins to fade. Then it’s a black screen with small, italicized, white text: fini.

[translation from Italian: finished] What do you think, kewl gurl? [ sic] Are we on the cusp of a mega-downloader?” He thinks I’m a ‘cool girl’. How nice! ‘mega-downloader’? What

does that mean? 20 free digital copies? Is he thinking that some social-media influencer will read it and push it? That’s highly unlikely. Need to keep him grounded in reality.

And it went on like this for an hour and change. Then they got up and hiked back down the mountain. Mostly in silence, not out of displeasure, but from increasing exhaustion.

The descent is without incident. Jack’s 2014 silver Dodge Grand Caravan is still there. And undamaged. Though, there’s a note under the left windshield wiper.

Mirlande grabs it, looks at the indigo-ink cursive, and reads aloud: “You may be in a Zoar Gap trap right now.” Yikes! Is this supposed to scare me? Why? Is he not who I assumed?

“That’s nutso!” Jack opines.

“You cleverly set this whole thing up,” she insists. “But, exactly when did you place that note on the windshield?”

Didn’t he start out in front?

“It wasn’t me!” he emphatically declares.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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Connect-I-Cut by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | late Aug. 2024

Connect-I-Cut

by

Mike Bozart

© 2024 Mike Bozart

“Ah, the super-sleuthy, award-winning, insured-risk analyst has arrived right on the eight o’clock [PM] dot,” a 48-year-old, dyed-black-hair, stout, Italian American male broadcasts from the hotel bar. “How was the trek up from New Haven?”

[CT] Woah! Over! Seems he’s already downed a few shots.

Bet he’s been here for a half-hour. A whole hour?

“Not bad, Tony,” a 47-year-old, slight, silverish-blonde-haired Polish American states. “Not bad at all. The forty-seven minutes of rail time whizzed by. I even got some work done. No issues. None at all. And it was just a four-minute walk from [Hartford] Union Station. Very convenient. Perfect, really.” No way will I be held captive again on a stinking train.

There’s no way to make it go faster. / Know that Tony is unimpressed with that mode of travel. He’s a car-foremost/shun-mass-transit kind of guy. Even hates planes for long distance. Would rather drive a dozen hours. To each his own.

“Excellent, Stan. Great to hear. So, what are we having on this toasty, mid-August [2022] evening? Beer, wine, or liquor? Liquor gets to the issue quicker. I’m buying the odd rounds.” ‘The odd rounds’? Oh, dear. Hope he stops at three, but doubt he will. Five, I bet. Six? What is ‘the issue’?

Guess I’ll soon find out. Hope it’s not another hurry-up-and-get-in-on-the-ground-floor-right-now business opportunity.

Please, not another MLM [multi-level marketing] pitch.

Anything but that.

“Yeah, a mixed drink to start is fine,” Stan assents. “A martini with extra vermouth.” Start to finish. ‘Extra vermouth’? Bleh!

“Yo, bartender, two martinis, please,” Tony barks to the 33-year-old, cutely petite Philippine American female bartender.

“Double up the vermouth in my friend’s. You know how these New Haveners are.” What is he getting at?

“Sure, coming right up,” she acknowledges. Bet this guy gets drunk as hell. And obnoxious. Seems the type. Why’d I take this shift? Another mistake. Ughhh …

“New Haven is ok, Tony. It’s not the Athens of the upper Mid-Atlantic, but we have white clam pizza that will shuck your socks off.” ‘Shuck your socks off’? Gimme a break!

Cease and desist.

“You’ve also got arrogant Yale [University] pricks, bougie-flexing douchebags, and dangerous derelicts: an emetically toxic mix,” Tony ripostes. ‘ Yale pricks’? They’re some of the smartest folks on the planet. ‘Bougie-flexing’? ‘Emetically toxic’? Sensing a bit of an inferiority complex. Should I? Yes.

He tripped the trigger.

“So, tell me, Tony; how are the Whalers [Hartford’s former NHL team] looking this upcoming season?” Bastard! / Zing!

“Fock [ sic] you!” Tony blasts. His face flushes. Though he soon manages a faux-harmonious chuckle. “Just kidding, pal. We’re over it. We’ve moved on. Screw [Gary] Bettman’s National Haughty [ sic] League.” That’s not what I’ve read online. Major interest in the relocation of the [Arizona]

Coyotes.

“Sorry, I guess that was below the belt,” Stan concedes.

Yeah, whatever. What a snide remark. I’ll get him back before the night is through.

Tony sighs and recomposes. “So, what were you working on while on the train?” I’m sure he’ll love it. Not! / The next great American novel? Ha! More like literary Sominex, I’d eagerly wager. Sure hope that baseball [MLB] parlay comes good tomorrow. Way overdue for a nice haul.

“A little word game that is similar to Scrabble, but has some along-the-way quirks, and ends like chess,” Stan states matter-of-factly. WTF! From Scrabble to chess? Do Ks become kings? Q = queen? R = rook? B = bishop? P =

pawn? Hmmm … And N = knight?

“You’ve piqued my interest, pal. Show me what ya got.” No telling what Stan has come up with this time. Though, perhaps it gives me a marketing idea.

Stan then extracts an Apple iPad tablet computer from his leatherette portfolio. He quickly switches it on. Soon the glass screen is displaying a 7 x 7 grid. Some of the 49 small squares are randomly (it seems) shaded light blue. There is also some text on it. [image below]

“Ah, the old ‘[you] connect; I cut’ gag on our state’s name,”

Tony remarks. “Were you secretly born in New York, Stan?

Tell me the truth.” Tony casts a sealed-lips smirk. Then cackles. What a guy. Was he dropped on his head as a baby? Was he tormented as a toddler?

“No, I’m a native nutmegger, Tony. Was born in Milford.”

Whoop-de-doo.

“Relax. I believe ya, Stan. So, what are we doing? Making more words and claiming new territory?” Make and stake.

“Yeah, basically that’s the run of play, Tony. However, in addition to the addition of letters, there is some subtraction going on, or the better term might be spatial reduction. After creating your word, you black out one of the aquamarine squares – your pick – but the shaded squares with letters get knocked out first, then the letter-less ones. You only black out a blank, white square – your choice – once all the aquamarine squares are gone.” Eliminating chunks of the field of play? Weird. ‘In addition to the addition’? ‘Spatial reduction’? He’s always been a bit on the quirky side.

“Ok, game creator extraordinaire, just instruct me on what to do, and not to do,” Tony demands with a hint of perplexion.

“Add a word that is two to seven letters long using at least one letter that is already on the grid. Horizontal or vertical, but no going diagonally. There is no scoring. Though, like in Scrabble, when you add a letter it must make dictionary-defined words both horizontally and vertically when applicable. The game is either won or lost when the table gets clogged with letters. The first player who cannot create

a word loses. Unlike chess, there are no stalemates. It’s victor and vanquished.” Sounds like the game should be called Word Jam. V or V? Madness. Wait …

“Ok, I think I’ve got this somewhat figured out,” Tony declares. He takes the iPad and adds six letters onto the leftmost column and blacks out the second N in CONNECT.

[image below]

“Perfect!” Stan applauds. “Nicely done, Tony. Very incisive.

So, you want to slice my innards up later?” Stan titters.

“Slice and dice,” Tony volleys with a wide, unnaturally white, dental-implanted grin. Are his new teeth micro-lithium-ion-battery-illuminated?

“Ok, my turn,” Stan says as he retakes possession of the tablet computer. “Let’s see here …” Hmmm …

“Is there a time limit?” Tony inquires. Overlooked this.

“There probably should be a letter-placement clock,” Stan concedes. “What do you think? One minute? Two minutes?

Five?” Five minutes! Way too long for this setting. Though, maybe in a championship match.

“Two minutes sounds good for us,” Tony decides. “You’re officially on the clock, partner. Go!” 119, 118, 117 …

Stan studies the table for eleven seconds. And then adds a seven-letter word down the rightmost column and blacks out a shaded letter. [image below] So much for my P.

“Here are your drinks, gentlemen,” the Filipina bartender announces. “Sip; don’t slurp.” Why would she say that? / Do we really look like unrefined ruffians?

“It’s my move,” Tony informs the bartender as he shows her the current state of the Connect-I-Cut gameboard. “See a possible word? Oh, what might your name be?” Bet you’d like a phone number, too. Aint happening, dodong. [Visayan for older male] Bad move.

“I’m Helen,” she answers sans emotion. “Looks like there are numerous possibilities.” She would be a great possibility. /

Seems Tony has taken a liking to her. Once a hound, always a hound. No wonder his third wife divorced him. Too.

“Indeed there are,” Tony concurs.

“Got to check on something,” Helen abruptly informs. “Back shortly.” Code for ‘I need to use the bathroom’? / Bet she senses an unwanted advance coming. Wish Tony would just chill the hell out. But he can’t. Not in his nature.

“Don’t worry; we’re not going anywhere,” Tony assures.

Even if you do dash off, I’ve already run your credit card.

Helen soon disappears. Wonder what her story is. [She moved to Hartford from Bridgeport for a fresh start after a relationship imploded (cheating mate); the guy was a Manhattan-commuting upper-cruster from Stamford.]

“Ok, you’ve got forty seconds,” Stan states like a TV game-show emcee. Think, think, think …

“Ok, I’ve got it. Here ya go.” Tony slides the 10.2-inch (25.9

cm) tablet computer back to Stan. [image below]

“Good one, Tony. Bravo! A nice four-letter word on the top row. And a pair of reverse-twin, two-letter, vertical words to boot. You’ve already got the hang of this. I’m impressed.

Sure is hard to imagine snow on a day like today, but it will soon be here once again. So nice at first. Then so disgusting from dirt and exhaust by day three. The snow will come, and the snow will go.” ‘Reverse-twin’? Gonna surprise him.

“But, will she still blow?” Tony blurts. Gosh, how rude. Glad Helen wasn’t around to hear that.

“You certainly are in a class of your own, sport,” Stan replies.

Classlessness. / Delicate ears all of a sudden? Oh, please.

“You’re on the clock, pal. Tick, tick, tick.” Tony simpers.

What a guy.

Thirty-seven, lying-in-wait seconds later, Stan returns the silver-edged tablet of contention to Tony. [image below]

“One hundred twenty seconds,” he announces like a retiree-referee.

“A sweet-n-sexy, king-size-mattress-spanning, seven-letter gem there, partner; major kudos are in order,” Tony commends. “So, you’ve got sex on the brain, too. Is the wife still wild and willing? Still waking up the neighbors at 3 AM?”

What in the world?! How brash! He’s already intoxicated.

Obviously. ‘King-size-mattress-spanning’? Whacked. This might not have been a good idea. Too late now. Ride it out.

“Yeah, all good in the bedroom, Tony.” Sincerely doubt that, but won’t challenge him. It all goes south after five years.

Seven years tops. / Still can’t believe Tony said that.

After eight, measly, soon-expired seconds, Tony pushes the increasingly fingerprinted, round-cornered rectangle back to Stan. “Here ya go, word-meister.” [image below] He’s in trouble now.

“Ah, employing the two-letter-word tactic already, I see,”

Stan confirms. And he chose to black out the A in LACIEST

as opposed to the N in SNOW. Or the second L in SCALPEL. Is his mood changing? Becoming sullen? Maybe

I can end this soon. Before he gets surly. Nah, I’ll just play small-ball, too. Well, for now. I’ll lay the ace of spades on him in due time.

“Caution: It’s a strategic trap,” Tony chirps. Bet that rattled Mr. Wordsmith. / What?! He’s bluffing. Still way too much open space. Word possibilities and permutations galore.

Stan re-examines the grid meticulously. After fifty-one, mind-meandering, near-silent seconds, he is pushing the tablet computer back to contender Tony. [image below] “Two can play the tiny-mot game.” Does he now go long? Doubt it. /

‘Moe’? Sure, pal. ‘Tiz fine by me. Now, watch this. Hold on tight, desk jockey.

After a pensively tense minute, Tony swiftly slides the aluminum-encased tablet computer back to Stan on the recently polished oak-slat bar. [image below] “A man’s gotta eat – eat pussy,” he brazenly asserts. And slugs down half the martini. Wow! Where is the hyperspace button? Need to wrap this up. Quickly!

“Well, I think we just lost our G rating,” Stan states, still stunned. “Ok, I’m already done. Here ya go, power pumper.”

[image below] What?! Stan is just jealous of my prowess.

Always has been. Life’s too short for timidity. The meek die miserable. And that’ll never be me.

“Ah, 3.14159 slices of pie,” Tony chimes wittily. “Well, we’re now entering crunch time, partner.” Dagger time. Time to claim the crown. Too bad Stan is going to lose at his own game. An epic, unforgettable, first-match loss. Bet he’ll claim that it was just a trial run and the result doesn’t really count, like a preseason game. Whatever.

“Yeah, we’re nearing the end of this intriguing, informative, initial match,” Stan replies. ‘Informative’?

Tony then slides the tablet computer, which could use miniature wheels, back to Stan. [image below] The noose incrementally tightens.

“Going in through the out door like Zed Leppelin,” [ sic] Stan commentates wryly. This is about over. Hope I can manage a word. Somewhere. / Dyslexic humor? Oh, please. Out you go, Stan. Finito Frito! [sic]

“1979,” Tony chirps.

“Not 1980?” Stan questions.

“Nope.”

After a sigh-filled, quasi-interminable, ninety-seven seconds, Stan slides the iPad back over to Tony. [image below] “Aa is lava that has a rough surface. I learned this on a trip to Hawaii – the big island – nine years ago.” The pressure’s really on now. Bet ol’ Tony is squirming upstairs. / Damn! Is this over? Nope! Found it. Whew! Close call. Think I got this wrapped-up now.

Forty-three tautly knotted seconds later, Tony is sliding the tablet computer over to Stan. [image below] “There’s no shame in graciously resigning at this point, comrade.”

What?! Mr. Overconfident is in for a shock. / Time’s up.

After a mere nineteen seconds, Stan slowly slides the tablet back to Tony. [image below] “Yes, ‘caca’ is now a bona fide English word. Aint that some feculence.” Stan giggles. Then sips his martini for only the second time. Hope Tony falls for it. Either way, he’s doomed. Wait a second. Does he still have a chance to close this out? No, he is forced to black out the first A in CACA. Whew! That was close. / I got this. The

‘great’ game maven gets slayed in the inaugural match. I’ll have him buy the next three rounds.

“Life’s a gas,” Tony proclaims after only thirteen seconds.

And then farts. “Read it and weep.” [image below] He swiftly slides the tablet computer 18.5 inches (47 cm) to his left.

“Oh, I’m just joking, Stan. It was a great first-ever match. I really like your new game. It truly tested – and titillated – my wits.” Tony then slugs down the remainder of his now-olive-less martini. “I think the victor needs another drink.” So malodorous. The victor? Ha! This is going to be so good. /

Soon-to-be-crestfallen Stan. Poor fellow.

Stan types one consonant and voids the lower-right aquamarine box. [image below] “Pilus is the last word, my friend. You lost by a lone hair. La-la-la.” What?! Oh, hell no!

“Hold on a second,” Tony counters. “Is ‘lapi’ not a word?”

Asp.

“Nope,” Stan answers. Darn it!

“How about ‘laki’?” Tony quickly asks out of increasing desperation. Ask.

“It’s a proper noun; it’s a volcanic fissure in Iceland that begins with a capital L.” Goddam!

“Ok, how about ‘lahi’?” Ash.

“Negatory.”

“Alright, ‘lasi’ – l-a-s-i?” Ass.

“Sorry, Tony. Game over.” Pompous patoot!

Tony is fuming. He gnashes his teeth. Can feel his blood boiling. Need to settle him down.

“Hey, good match, Tony. Make that, great match! I truly enjoyed it. Immensely. I never expected this to be so razor-close. You were a stellar first-time opponent. Tell you what, I’ll still buy the second round. I’m a gracious victor with true class.” Maybe went overboard there. / ‘True class’? Gimme a break! Conceited turd! Vanquished by sheepish Stan. This focking [sic] sucks! Bigtime!

“Fock [ sic] you and your false benignity, Stanislaus! You can take your ridiculous game and shove it up your yin-yang!”

Time to go.

“Sir, please quiet down, or I’ll call security,” Helen warns.

That’s not going to work. He sure is mega-irate. Something is seriously amiss in his life.

<smash> Shards of broken glass litter the tile floor behind the bar. Holy cow! Can’t believe Tony did that. / Hunch confirmed; knew this guy was going to be trouble. He’s just like John. [Helen’s first boyfriend]

“Listen, I didn’t mean it,” Tony emphatically insists. “The glass was slick. It slipped out of my hand. Really. It was an accident. Where’s the broom? I’ll sweep it up.”

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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Friday, May 17, 2024 in Newport, Rhode Island. It’s a now-sunny-after-the-morning-pall, marvelously mild, lost-robin-in-the-breeze afternoon on Aquidneck Island. Inside a hep-to-hip coffeehouse on Broadway, an assorted nonad of digital nomads scrutinize the screens of their laptop computers.

And the 20-something staff studies them. Wonder if anyone uniquely intriguing moseys in here today. Though, please not Warren from Warwick [RI] with his pet snake. ‘Meet Rosy the rosy boa.’ No thanks! All ‘comfort serpents’ prohibited!

Should I make a sign? Nah, Gertrude [the owner] might have another pissy-hissy fit.

“And, what have we here?” [image below] the sexy, 24-year-old, brunette-with-cinnamon-streaks British American barista flirtatiously asks, peering over the 26-year-old, handsome, mustachioed and goateed, long-haired Asian American’s left shoulder. Nice cologne, dude.

“This is what led me here – to Newport,” Leonard states while looking at the list of select American cities. “It’s a table of what I call ‘grade F days’. And, like golf, the lower the number – in the far-right column – the better. Well, no surprise that San Francisco came in first with two other coastal California cities taking silver and bronze. What was surprising is that when I ran the numbers for Providence, which is now my once-a-week check-in city, it came in third for all the eastern US cities. And then, just on a loaned lark, I ran the numbers for Newport. Lo and behold, it came up as the top US city east of the Pacific coast. I wasn’t really expecting that.” ‘On a loaned lark’? Is that a translated saying specific to Thailand? Or Burma? Hmmm … Wonder where he moved from. Hong Kong? Singapore? Maybe ask him. Or, maybe he soon reveals. Does he have a virtual stash of crypto-dough? Wonder what he does for a living.

Hope he tells. If not, must divert the conversation.

“And, what is a ‘grade F day’, if I may enquire?” amber-eyed Sally asks for clarification. Does she like me? Why is she over here? Is it a hint for me to move on? Or to move in?

[internal chuckle] Have I overextended my one-mug stay?

Order a scone to extend seatage for 37 more minutes? 37?

“Oh, sorry, a grade-F day to me – and I do readily realize that I am in the miniscule minority – is a day in which the high temperature rises above 80° Fahrenheit [26.67°

Celsius] or the low temperature drops below 20° Fahrenheit.

[-6.67° Celsius] Don’t get me wrong; I like four seasons. Just don’t care for extremes.” Is he just a mellow marshmallow?

“Hey, your grade-F criteria is similar to mine; however, I set my bars a little higher, or warmer, I should say. On the upper end, I can go as high as 28° Celsius – that’s 82.4°

Fahrenheit – and on the lower end, I deem anything below

-2° Celsius – 28.4° F – as a frigid fail. This still allows for snow days. A winter should have some frozen precip – not just chilly rain. Well, that’s my preferred 30-degree-Celsius range.” Still using Celsius in the US? Ill-advised. Millions of Americans don’t even know what 0° Celsius [32° Fahrenheit]

equals. Maybe she’s a recently arrived college exchange student. 2-4-8. Our numbers are not that far off. Is she ‘the one’? Let luscious play her hand.

“I totally agree,” Leonard concurs. “There’s a price for that Mediterranean climate: summer wildfires, longer heatwaves and droughts due to global warming; on the other end, you’ve got dreary, soggy winters with flooding and massive landslides because the geologically-young-unconsolidated-soil-retaining vegetation got burnt off. Say, what’s your name?” He finally asks. Yey! Is he a geologist? / Sure went a while without getting names.

“Sally. I was born on the west side of Chester – the Chester in England – almost on the border with Wales. Mum is Welsh and dad is English. The family moved here when I was seventeen.” Knew that wasn’t an American accent.

“Chester? Is it near London?” He is genuinely unsure. “Oh, my name is Leonard.” Mi Leonardo de Suavo. [sic] Seems all Americans only know London. Though, that Jamestown

[RI] customer last week mentioned going to Falmouth

[Cornwall, England] last August. Probably a sailing regatta. /

What happened to the Cheshire cat? Whereabouts has that grin migrated? Poof!

“It’s 30 kilometers [18.64 miles] south of Liverpool. Mind if I take a seat?” Hope he doesn’t think that was too forward. A bold move? / Sure, let’s continue this chat. ‘Kilometers’? Bet she’s received some eye-rolling for not using miles. Might kilograms be next? Keep pounding! [internal guffaw]

“No, not at all; go ahead,” Leonard consents. “So, Liverpool FC supporters?” Worth a guess. / Partially correct, dude.

“A split house. Mum and younger brother root for Everton; dad and I root for the mighty reds. You have a favorite club?”

“Not really. But whenever a Liverpool FC match is on TV, I find myself pulling for them. That [Jürgen] Klopp guy is one great manager.” You aint kidding, dude.

“We’re going to lose him soon,” Sally replies. “ It won’t be the same at Anfield.” [LFC’s stadium]

“No doubt,” Leonard agrees. Has she been to Anfield? How many times? Maybe ask her on Sunday.

“Sunday is the final match of the season against Wolves,”

Sally informs. “I’m going to have it on the TV in the back corner – on mute. Can’t have any volume, or we lose the sit-sip-and-chill-in-the-cozy-coffee-shop vibe. Feel free to stop in and watch it.” With me. / Chill-a-dilla [sic] vs. Godzilla.

“Will do,” Leonard confirms. “Already looking forward to it.”

Me, too. But, don’t run off just yet, Lenny boy.

“So, you got to select where you work. Lucky for you! I’m envious.” Sally makes a quasi-pout expression. Ah.

“But, you’re in the sweet spot of the Atlantic coast,” Leonard responds. “I plan on staying here for several years. Maybe more. Who knows?” Forever roaming? There’s something vaguely odd about him. Something ulterior? Hmmm …

“I’d like to live in California someday,” Sally divulges. “Not forever, but for a spell. You know, just to experience it.”

Would love to sexperience [sic] her. Don’t see any wedding/engagement rings. No interlocked heart pendants.

Yeah, bet she’s single. She sure acts like it.

“I’ve lived in Los Angeles and in San Francisco, and endured a long, gloomy, drizzly/sleety winter in Seattle,” Leonard informs. “Cali certainly has upsides aplenty, but there are downsides as well. Horrific traffic for one. And the homelessness situation is way out of control. Very unsanitary. Los Dungeles and San Franfecal. [ sic] Yes, I’ve actually heard those epithets. Oh, it’s also very expensive –

the rent, the groceries, the …”

“Hey, it’s expensive here!” Sally blurts. “Do you live in Newport?” If so, he’s probably loaded.

“I’m renting an associate’s, semi-converted, tall-attic apartment down by the lighthouse,” Leonard discloses.

Wonder if it has its own bathroom. One way to find out.

[internal giggle]

“The Castle Hill Lighthouse?” Sally asks to be certain. Is there another one in/around Newport? Need to check a map later. / Doubt it’s Goat Island. But with him, who knows?

“Yeah, that’s the one, Sally.” Nice to hear him say my name.

Could really get used to that.

“Nice score, Leonard. I live near Kingston – a little west of here. This is just a seasonal gig. I restart college [University of Rhode Island] in early September. The final year. Finally.

Some starts and stops. Parents less than thrilled. They say I got Americanized – and not in a good way – too fast. But, the finish line is in sight. Just need to stay focused.” Though, I’m focused on you at the moment. Be ‘the one’. Please.

“Excellent, Sally. You’ll make it. You’re almost there. So, what’s your major if I may ask?” Meta-psychology? / Ask away, dude. I’m an open book. And feel free to whisper between the pages. Lick that index finger. And then …

“English language and literature,” Sally answers with a grin.

“And, I know, that should be a piece of cake for someone like me. I’m a bit of a slacker.” And a male-prey attacker.

“Oh, a funny thing about this grade-F-weather list,” Leonard interjects. “I fully expected the Florida and Texas cities to wind up in the basement with Phoenix and New Orleans –

no shock there. However, I was stunned to see Honolulu take the cellar crown away from Miami. I had always thought that the typical seaside Hawaiian day had a high in the mid-70s – not the mid-80s. The Fahrenheit scale of course; no, wasn’t including the rim-periphery of active volcanos. So, while most Americans would choose Hawaii over any other state, not me.” ‘Rim-periphery’? Gosh, beneath that Paracel-pirate-like veneer, he's a science nerd. Cool. He's got a high-functioning brain, too. Bonus. A huge bonus.

“Sally!” a 22-year-old, long-sable-haired Belizean American female employee shouts from the cash register. “Need some help behind the counter. Thanks.” Time’s up. / She’s all into that mystery man. Wonder what the deal is. Dope?

Sally whips her head around and sees the queue of seven customers. “Got to go. Great talking to you. Enjoyed it immensely.” ‘Immensely’? Really? She likes me.

“Likewise,” Leonard replies. “I have to run along now.”

Where to? No, don’t ask. That would be prying.

“See you Sunday morning?” Sally asks with an alluring smile.

“Absolutely, Sally,” the lean, cryptic-tattoo-on-inner-right-forearm gentleman enthusiastically responds. “See you then.” He then begins to gather his items as Sally walks away. I’m gonna love tapping that. / Bet he’s thinking about having sex with me. His eyes are burning holes in my clothes. And underclothes. Hee-hee. Hope he’s STD-free.

Saturday passes uneventfully for both Sally and Leonard.

Sally works a five-hour afternoon shift and then watches a neo-noir flick on a streaming service. She is asleep by 11

PM. Meanwhile, Leonard spends the whole day further researching Newport. He is happy to learn that it became one of the first secular democracies in the Atlantic realm.

Several intercepted thoughts: But those poor African slaves.

[internal groan] Did Anne Hutchinson ever think to herself on an overcast November day on Narragansett Bay: ‘ Why are we such problematic primates?’ Hoxsie’s Hoax. [George Hoxsie was the 2nd Castle Hill Lighthouse keeper] How’d I miss this earlier? Must check it out tonight. Buy some strong rope. Change shoes.

Sunday morning at the AlethiCup coffee boutiquery. Sally switches on the small, strategically hidden from the main seating area, flat-screen TV at 10:53. Leonard is not present.

The match kicks off seven minutes later. Still, no Leonard.

Where is he? Thought we made a connection. Just another sly charmer? Does he already have a girlfriend? Sure looks like it now. Oh, well. That’s life.

Eight ho-humming-ho days later, Mónica, the also-quite-attractive Latina coworker, discovers in her local newsfeed that Leonard died from a fall. She immediately texts Sally.

But, there is no reply.

Sally would pass away (a side-swipe collision on the Jamestown Verrazzano Bridge) eight minutes prior.

Opening/Closing Remarks First off, thanks immensely for your valuable mind-time! I know that you could be indulging in many other things besides reading this thought-laden half-dozen.

Secondly, some short stories set in New England were way overdue. My apologies. The first one, Maine, Mainly, takes place primarily in Bar Harbor. Such an atypical, starkly scenic, rocky coast for the American Atlantic. The second one, Jōhatsu to Portsmouth?, is actually short enough to qualify as flash fiction. So many intentional self-vanishings. I wonder if such a person reads this one. If so, wishing you all the best. No easy life. The third one, Eudaimonia in Vermont, is set just northeast of Burlington. Must be nice.

Maybe one day. The fourth little tale, Zoar Gap Trap, takes place in the Berkshires of northwestern Massachusetts. A winter hike that gets very bizarre. In the fifth spot is ConnectI-Cut, which takes place in Hartford. It’s more of a word game than a story. Well, until the end. Smash! The closer, Newport in the Sweet Spot, begs the question: Fate or just incredibly bad luck?

I have written many other tales (over 200 short stories) similar to these six. Back in 2013 I penned a suspenseful, thought-filled, unpredictable, film noir-esque, erotic e-novel ( Gold, a summer story). Two novellas ( To Morrow Tomorrow and Mysterieau of San Francisco) and three novelettes ( Kron by Night, Foxfire, and Lost in Lost Cove) followed. All of these titles are on numerous websites – and the vast majority are absolutely FREE to download – just search for

‘Mike Bozart e-books’.

Mirth and mystery,

Mike

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