Southbound

Southbound

Harry B. Sanderford 

Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. Over the river and through the woods, she thought watching the snow west of Interstate 95 melt away into skinny pines and palmettos. 

Brunswick 2, Jacksonville 70, slid by on a green rectangle. 

 It had been fifteen years since she’d been south of Atlanta, twenty since she’d been home. A lifetime she thought, shifting position to stretch her legs. As a young girl her curiosity and ambition had been far too great to be contained in any small town. Maggie grabbed her diploma, loaded her Corolla and left Middleburg and everyone in it behind like shoes that no longer fit to run barefoot out into the world. She flipped a coin at Interstate 10 to choose between Hollywood and New York City. Heads the Big Apple, tails Tinseltown. Heads it was, so she stayed on 95 North and headed for the Empire City. She did ok there too, better than most. A pretty girl and smarter than some, she found work right away. She modeled for catalogs at first. An agent spotted her in J.C. Penney Ready To Wear and soon a couple of local commercials, then a part in a sitcom pilot came her way. From there, she was off and running. The good life came easy, but it did not come free. 

 Big Talbot Island State Park, I-10 Baldwin, Maclenny 2. 

Maggie arched her back and rolled her head side to side working out a kink. She’d been to so many exciting places and met so many new people. She’d fallen in and out of love maybe a time or two more than she cared to recall. In the end, how much of it really mattered? Her name was short for Magnolia, not Margaret like most guessed. All those winters spent with the terribly cool and sometimes down-right cold had taught her not every tree is meant to drop its leaves and stand stoically awaiting the arrival of spring. 

 Lakeside, Middleburg 3.  

Florida was a coin she tossed. How could it now be burning a hole in her pocket? All she knew was the closer she got, the more she just missed home. She wondered how home might feel about her. She had not called ahead so nobody met her at the depot. It wasn’t so far now. She picked up her suitcase to walk the last leg of her journey down the dirt road that led home. At the crossroads where her daddy’s property began she sat down on her suitcase and lit a cigarette. Maggie had seen the foot-lights on Broadway, the bright lights of Time Square on New Year’s Eve and surely the lights of Paris brought a tear to her eye but it was a thousand feet of Christmas lights strung on a barbed wire fence in the middle of nowhere Florida, that finally made her break down and cry.

 

                                 Merry Christmas 🌲

Batter Up!

Betty Lou Batters was a legend with an egg beater. Her cakes rose higher and her cream whipped up the fluffiest. Rumor was she could whip whiskey to soft peaks. Betty Lou wasn't always tied to the whipping post. As a barefoot youngster she honed the skills that would win her countless County Fair blue ribbons and a more reasonable number of young mens hearts by winding in near about every catfish in Crater Lake with her Zebco 202. The same motor skills and muscle memory that conquered the Crater cats made the egg beater a natural extension of her body. Lumps stood nary a chance in her batters, sauces and gravies. It was all second nature but sometimes, when she was in the zone, she really had to fight the urge to set that hook.

Got A Match?

An orange tabby with white tape on her paws sat up where she knew she shouldn't be. Her tail swept the counter like a windshield wiper while her head poked inside the pie safe licking merengue from a slice of lemon pie. Ordinarily Hank would have shooed her away, smoothed the divot in the merengue with a fork and thrown the latch to foil future attempts. Today though he was hunkered over the calculator with a folder full of receipts trying to swing Ruby's estimate. The cafe was decades overdue for paint and a new roof.

Hank met Ruby for a beer at the Lonesome Whistle to break the news he would have to wait a little longer. Ruby reminded him she could probably save him a third if he went with tin instead of shingles. Hank said he'd consider it but he wasn't crazy about the idea of Tennesee's tender paws on a tin roof come summer.

Gray-Bar Suites

Barry Tuttle worked as a guard. For twenty seven years, Monday through Saturday with a rotating day off midweek, he'd worn the butternut uniform more than a few guests of the Hastings Women's Correctional Facility claimed complimented his eyes. This morning when he looked in his closet those duds were missing. Six brand new uniforms, if they could truly be called uniforms, hung in their place. They consisted of a crisp white shirt, white dress slacks and a matching jacket. I'm your ice cream man, stop me as I'm passing by. Barry's stomach clenched, Diamond Dave he was not.

He'd seen it coming for a while. Privately owned correctional facilities had been gaining market share over Public/Federally supported institutions over his entire career. With privatization comes competition and once Amazon got involved, things got a little weird. Amazon's interest tipped the Lion's share of the penal pay-dirt to the private sector. Focus would no longer be on wresting control away from the feds but rather on cannibalizing competitive counterparts.

The new uniforms came with a new title for Barry: Host. All part of Amazon's new, "Destination Incarceration" promotion. The botched burglary, assault or common assortment of Saturday night offenses that usually led to three hots and a cot were small potatoes. Leave those to Canada. Extras and add ons were where the real dough was to be made. The mess halls would now be bistros. Greens would still be served on Sunday but now kale instead of collards. Orange would no longer be the new black. A choice of understated ensembles from J. Crew would be available for purchase for those settling up societal debt imbalances. Thread count counts, and as always, membership has its privileges. If you can in fact afford to do the time, then by all means, do the crime. And don't worry. If you have Prime, we'll leave a light on for you.

.  

Little Shopping Horrors

Wexler stopped his cart in men’s toiletries and had to marvel at the sheer volume of product space devoted solely to the elimination of whiskers. So many complicated choices for such a simple product. The cheap, plastic, multi-blade disposables were of little use and easily ruled out. The single edge jobs he settled for the last time had occasioned a couple of close shaves. They were sturdy but bulky and had proven risky. Those were out too. Wexler came to his selection and tossed it into the cart. He crossed "razors" off and saw "produce" was last on his list. He drew a line through that as well and steered his cart away convinced that you really couldn't beat the way a good, old fashioned, Wilkinson Sword double edge blade virtually disappears when pressed into a shiny red apple.

Cat Tale

Daddy says Sissy an' me can go swimmin' once I skint this mess o' cats. Mama asked how many we caught.  Daddy cyphered up one for near about every finger and toe and reckoned upwards of a dozen. Mama said, “Well I swannie, we got plenty lard but Sissy’s goin’ need to run yonder for more corn meal if y’all want hush puppies.”

Well of course we want hush puppies. Sissy’d tore halfway out the yard before mama could call her back to get two dollars. She gave her a extra dime to get her and me a chick-o-stick for dessert.


H.O.W.
Canvas Prompt No. 36
Photo by David Lovin

Whistle Wile

“So Bob, what line are you in?”

“I head up complacency and acquiescence for The Department of Unrelenting Toil.”

“Ahhh, that must be fascinating work.”

“Actually, fascination is frowned upon at the DUT.  Spirit, general enthusiasm, even keen interest are just the sort of things I’m hired to keep a lid on.”

“I had no idea.”

“Oh yeah, those things can only lead to pride. And as we say over at the DUT, pride goeth before a stall. Haha! But seriously, left unchecked satisfaction from a job well done can lead to high fives, chest bumps, even spontaneous hugging. If you don’t nip it, you can wind up dealing with a full blown Joy Spike. Under my watch we have over 800 elation free days. Exuberant outbursts are essentially a thing of the past."

"Uh…congratulations?" 

"Thanks, we make it a full 3 years and I'll be kicked upstairs to an office, with windows.”

“Well, good luck with that. I mean, if it makes you happy. I suppose though, celebrating your promotion would fall counter to your occupational agenda.”

 “Oh, not to worry. Level three office windows are all bullet proof.”