picFictions by Michael hughes
Introduction to a Yellow Huffy
Sammy walks out of the nursing home.
He stops everyday to see his Grandma Ruth.
People call her Ruthie or Big Ruth at the home.
She is big compared to him, short and picked on.
The same bright yellow bike stands out front
locked with a black cable to a bright white stand
three thick curving arches of pipe bolted down.
It’s a girl’s bike, brown weave basket on the front
rack on the back, perfect for a backpack.
He wonders what she looks like, bets she’s pretty
probably about his size, it’s a small bike.
Maybe he’ll wait on one of the benches.
He drifts into the daydream of meeting a new girl.
“You sure look comfortable soaking up the sun.”
The loud voice startles him awake but instead of a girl
he sees an old man, shorter than him, with grey beard
and fierce eye brows that arch and roll off his head.
He’s carrying a paper bag and a cane with the bark still on.
“Sorry to startle you. Mind if I sit?” And he does.
“You visiting someone?”
“My Gramma.”
“And who might she be?”
“Gramma Ruth. Ruth Fenway.”
‘Ah, Big Ruth. She happens to be a friend of mine.”
“”Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes. My wife is right across the hall, Margaret Thayer.
Seems like she’s mentioned a boy your age.
You come pretty regular, she says”.
“I go to school across the street, in 5th grade.”
“I’m here everyday too. Surprised I haven’t seen you.”
“I usually leave by now but I stopped to look at this bike.”
“She’s a beauty. A Huffy, 24 inch Nel Lusso Girl’s Cruiser.
I call it daffodil yellow. One speed but a good ride for sure.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. So you like bikes huh? Or maybe
you’re waiting to see what girl comes out to ride this one?”
“Well, actually – actually I was.”
“No need to turn red, young man. I’ve done the same thing,
sometimes to good effect. But I don’t think a girl is coming.
What’s your name by the way?”
“I’m Sammy Perkins.’
“Pleased to meet you Sammy. I’m Joshua Thayer, and today’s
a good day to learn something new.”
He stands up and sets the paper bag in the basket.
Then he straps the cane on the bag rack with a length of rope,
taps the keys on the combination lock, takes the cable off
and coils it to fit over his head and one shoulder.
“You mean this bike is yours?”
“It sure is, and I’d guess you’re surprised I’m not the girl of your dreams.”
“Well, I – I mean, well why do you have a girl’s bike?”
“Why do you think? Take a guess?”
“‘Cuz it’s easier to get on a girl’s bike than a boy’s?”
“That’s one reason for sure. I’m short, and I’m old
so that’s important to me. One other reason I learned early on.
Got another guess?”
“I bet you get teased when you ride it?”
“Sometimes I do but that’s not a reason to ride
unless you like being teased, of course.”
“No, I definitely don’t like being teased.”
“I suppose not. But I find it easier to do what I want,
or what I need, and then deal with the teasing.
I expect that might be hard for you right now.
No, the other reason I ride this one is because
I learned to ride on my brother’s bike, years ago.
He had a boy’s, with the bar across the middle.
When my foot slipped off the pedal, I never felt anything
hurt so much. Think about that one.
Hope to see you tomorrow, Sammy Fenway Perkins.”
Sammy heard his laughter and watched the old man
ride down the block and around the corner.
He had forgotten about the girl who never came out,
thought instead he might like to see Joshua Thayer again.
Michael Hughes
A Little Boost from the Bagman
I stand in an airport terminal, Seattle to Traverse City, Michigan,
the crowd quieting their hugs and laughter.
Frustrated and tired, I scan the room for my father
knowing he again has forgotten. Is this going to get worse?
Hello. You seem to be looking for someone, same as me.
Lost my luggage in Chicago. Trying to make do. What’s your story, eh?
A tall man, thickly built, carrying a black plastic trash bag
twisted at the neck, stuffed with perhaps clothing.
He’s wearing new hiking shoes, bright orange leather,
laced five holes up with a decorative leather flap over each bow.
I feel like he’s handing me a line but can’t see the trick yet.
My father was supposed to meet me and hasn’t shown, so here I am.
Well, there you have it. You wouldn’t know where a fella might get a pint?
A pint?
Oh, right. A beer then. You Americans call it a “cold one” I believe.
A beer? Sure. There’s a bar just down that way.
Why don’t you join me? Doesn’t look like standing here
will produce your Dad, will it? Here we go.
And off he goes, dark navy rain slicker flapping largely behind
blue nylon pants slumped over shoes and creased front and back.
O’Malley’s Irish Pub? Might find a decent drink here. Not keen on the Irish, mind. Fought in Northern Ireland, new recruit, caught a bullet in the arm. No I don’t need to see Ireland again soon. What are you having mate?
We bump our way through the crowd to a back table by a window.
He talks a steady stream from leaving home as a boy, to the R.A.F.
to sailing across the Atlantic, the pond,he calls it. I forget myself, easily
entertained by this character. I feel the anxiety in my chest rise up and evaporate. I relax into his weathered face, bushy grey beard, thick hair to match.
A bulbous ruddy nose and savvy eyes tell me he’s seen a lot,
happy to wear out hard and early.
After his fourth beer to my two, he asks if I know where the loo is.
He stands, picks up his bag, and ignites my suspicions.
The loo?
Ah right. The bathroom, although I’m not really interested in a wash.
By the way, you never told me your name.
Howard. The name’s Howard.
He looks directly at me for an intense moment as though reading my thoughts.
Well Howard, I’ve enjoyed visiting with you, so this time the drinks are
on me. But next time
Oh bugger off Yank. Do you need a translation for that?
I hold up my middle finger silently, and he shares a broad grin.
As he turns to leave, he asks, By the way, what’s your name?
Howard, I reply.
He barks a loud laugh as he turns to leave.
Bugger off, Yank.
and he’s gone, hiking down the concourse like he has a destination.
I sit for a while, mellowed with the last of my beer. Howard, and I smile.
Picking a familiar number from my phone, I click to make contact.
Hello Father. This is your son. What have you been up to?
Michael Hughes
Riding Shotgun
Sitting at a table in a beer garden, hot summer afternoon
trying to come up with a subject for a free-lance piece
on the nature of independent thinkers and their lives.
I’ve had this idea in mind for weeks.
Roar of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot: I look up and stop.
A shiny bike, plenty of chrome with a custom made sidecar: I blink.
In the sidecar is the tiniest horse I’ve ever seen, or could be a pony?
As a man swings off the bike, the sheet metal back door of the sidecar
flips open, the pony backs out and shakes itself like a wet dog: I stare.
The animal can’t be three feet tall but seems perfectly proportioned.
The man gets a small pack out of a metal box strapped behind his seat
while the horse pushes the door shut with its hind foot.
A pinto, mostly white with reddish brown patches, a white mane
and brown blaze on the face, it has no halter, blanket or tack of any kind.
The two walk side by side, one hand resting familiar on the horse’s back.
The man is tall and slender, wearing a fedora with the brim flattened down,
jeans and boots, and a denim jacket, sleeves cut off high at the shoulders,
showing a simple black line drawing of a horse’s head outside his upper arm.
Nodding my way with a grin, he asks do I mind if they take the near table.
"No, that’s fine,” I manage, my expression probably open-mouth dumb.
He smiles, drops his hat on the table, stretches and shakes out a brown ponytail. The horse stands beside his chair, looks around, then stares at me.
He chuckles, “Don’t worry. We get this all the time, especially from folks
who haven’t seen us before. My name’s Henry, and this here
is my friend Henrietta.”
I shake his offered hand, and look at the horse. She bobs her head up and down.
I can’t stop my laughter. “Well, you have to admit, this is kind of unique.”
“I appreciate the choice of words. We get a lot of weird, odd, or spooky,
so unique sits just fine.”
A server comes over, and Henry orders whatever’s on tap for himself
and a Guinness for Henrietta, adding “she has her own bowl, thanks.”
“Your pony drinks beer?”
“Well, first off Henrietta is a miniature horse. She doesn’t mind pony
but prefers to be called what she is. And she doesn’t drink just any beer,
it has to be Guinness. Next to Murphy’s Irish Stout, that’s her favorite.”
“And you know this – How?” I can’t keep incredulous out of my voice.
He massages his shoulders one at a time, and then leans back,
hands behind his head.
“Are you really interested or just pulling my chain?”
“No, I’d actually like to know how you communicate with a horse.”
He puts his arms down on the table and leans toward me.
“OK, here’s the deal. Henrietta obviously has no spoken language like we do
although some of her vocals get pretty strong, but she seems to understand what I’m saying. Don’t ask me how. Then she answers with whatever abilities she has as a horse. Actually, as far a communication goes, I think she’s more advanced than I am.”
“Why did you name her Henrietta?” The horse lifts its head from the bowl of beer, and gazes directly at me again, as if trying to decide what to do with me.
“Well, she was a rescue horse, and no one knew her name. I’m Henry, so I thought she could be Henrietta. Of course when she’s really being a butt, I call her Henry.”
Henrietta stomps her hoof twice on the cobble stones and looks at Henry.
He signals the server for another round for them both.
“See what I mean about communication?”
“How much does she drink? I wouldn’t think that would be good for a horse.”
“Oh, two’s her limit. She actually helped me slow down when we first met.”
“That’s amazing. Look, my name’s Joe Berk. I write stories for a living, and focus on real people and events. Would you be willing to let me do your story with Henrietta?”
“Well that would depend on what kind of story you had in mind.
We’re not interested in being thought of as freaks.”
“No, that’s not what I do. I write what people call human interest stories. I approach my subjects in a straight forward way, trying to show how they live by following their own special voice or beliefs. I have found that to be more fascinating than anything I could make up.”
“We’ll have to think about that one. Sounds like it might work, if you’re to be trusted, that is.”
He says this in such a nonchalant way that I can’t be offended. I hope he will agree.
“It’s been nice talking with you, Joe, and we’ll let you know. Now it’s time for us to be getting on.”
He drops money on the table and stands to leave. As I signal the server for another, and get up to follow them out, Henrietta looks at me intently and slowly closes one eye. I am stunned, with the momentary feeling of entering some kind of dream, but also believing I am on to something.
We approach the motorcycle. Henrietta grabs the rope handle on the sidecar door with her teeth and gives it a pull. The door opens. She steps up into the car and kicks a lever on the inside of the door which quickly closes.
Henry laughs out loud at my expression. “You don’t want to get too close when she does that. Just might get kicked, accidentally of course.”
Henrietta turns her head back to me, lifts her upper lip to show a broad row of yellow teeth, and lets out a high pitched bray that sounds like a staccato donkey.
“Well I’ll be,” laughs Henry again. “You’ve just been given the official raspberry. We might be interested in your proposal after all. Tell you what. We’re here most afternoons. If you’re serious, you know where to find us. But we read everything you write in advance, and have the final word on what gets in print. That’s the only deal we’ll make.”
I tell him I’ll be in touch, and watch them roar off into traffic, turning a lot of heads as they go. I know I’ve been handed something special but also suspect I’ll have to be more careful with Henrietta than her partner.
I go back to my table to make some notes and drink my second Guinness, also my beer of choice, next to Murphy’s, and once again consider how unexpected life is, how often I have wanted something, made my intention known, and the possibility comes together, which in itself, I find as amazing and real as a tiny, talking horse riding a motorcycle.
Michael Hughes