Taking It

Looking up at the Statue of Liberty

“He just hit on me again…” She shook her head in disbelief as she sat down the phone receiver. “The man comes in with an STD and then wants my phone number so we can hook up after he finishes the medication.”

“Again? Did he hit on you when he was here?”

“Yep. Twice.”

“Was he disrespectful?” I caught myself. What constitutes disrespect? He didn’t call her a cunt or force himself on her but then isn’t continuing to ignore her refusal as sign of disrespect? Particularly given the context.

“I don’t guess so…”

“I can fire him or have the office manager call him up and tell him to stop.”

“No. That will affect our survey results… likelihood to recommend practice and friendliness of the medical assistant….” Her pay raises and evaluations were linked by the healthcare system to those patient satisfaction measures much like 5% of my income depends on meeting certain thresholds for patient satisfaction.

“Well, you already told him no. That’ll affect it, too.”

“True.”

I think back on all of the times I have laughed off unwelcome advances over the years, people who really and truly crossed the line, and I said nothing. I stood tall and laughed it off, not showing my displeasure.

What will he think if I tell him to back off?

“It doesn’t happen often does it?” people ask. 

Depends on if you meet their definition of “pretty” or not. Then there is the question how often is too often? How far is too far?

Admittedly, “Doc, you sure look nice today,” is a far cry from “I’d like to fuck you.” 

Complements are nice. 

Harassment is not.

It isn’t like my medical assistant wears short skirts and low cut blouses. She wears baggy scrubs. I wear professional attire. Pants. A skirt to at least my knees. A blazer. Maybe jeans on a Friday. We don’t flirt with patients. We aren’t asking for it.

In the past, I have considered these sorts of encounters a part of the job. Now I want to tell this man that what he is doing is crosssing a line but is that going too far?Maybe no one ever said anything to him before. Maybe no one ever will. Maybe he will become the president of the United States or a powerful media mogul in Hollywood. Maybe I am just being overly sensitive. 

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Princess Panties

Doors at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC

“Mommy! You’re wearing princess panties?!??!??” My daughter’s squeal of delight reverberated off of the metal walls of the stall. 

She stared in awe.

The overly crowded movie theater bathroom seemed to fall deathly silent in an instant.

“Shhhhhh!”

“Mommy. They are so beautiful! I want some.” She reached out reverentially to touch them as I hovered over the toilet seat doing my business. I swatted her hand away.

“Not until you are much, much older.”

We washed our hands then headed back out into the hallway where her brother and her dad and the dozens other men were standing, waiting on their female companions.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she called loudly as she skipped happily over to him. “Did you know Mom is wearing princess panties?”

So much for the element of surprise.

And from that moment forward, my lacy underwear was known as “princess panties.”

Deflowering

Close up of a rose
“Who hogs the sheets at night?”

The bride and groom hesitated. A room full of reception guests held their breath waiting for the answer.

Awkward silence dragged on.

“Uh, we don’t know?” The bride offered, finally.

Mercifully the MC seemed to sense the faux pas and appeared set to quickly move on to the next question. The relief in the room was palpable until he got the next question completely out. 

“So who snores the most?”

Another awkward silence. The bride and groom turned to look at each other in disbelief.

Granted, it was a second wedding but there were four (yes FOUR) pastors present at the reception plus two sets of parents in their 70’s and 80’s, deeply religious people. Three fourths of the room sat frowning disapprovingly, their arms crossed. The rest leaned forward grinning in amusement, not wanting to miss a single word. 

Always know your audience….

OMG. What A Day….

Some days are just…. just a crazy mad dash to the finish line. I am exhausted but I promised one of my most favorite people in the whole world, Craig Boyack, that I would invite him over to talk about his new book The Enhanced League.

I’ll let him tell you all about it while I draw myself a nice warm bath and soak my weary body in some lavender bubbles. 

*****************************************

Thanks for inviting me over today to talk about my newest book, The Enhanced League. This one is a little different than anything I’ve released before, and I’m kind of excited about it.

One short story, called The Enhanced League, was on my list when I wrote my second Experimental Notebook. I wrote it and intended to include it in that book. It had a nice twist ending, and almost a Twilight Zone feel about it.
The story wouldn’t leave me alone. When I assembled the Notebook, I left this one out and placed it in a new folder. I knew The Enhanced League had more to offer than just this story. I started making a new list of story ideas about one year in the professional baseball league where almost anything goes.

One day, while commuting to my paycheck job, I was listening to MLB Radio on Sirius-XM. They had a kind of spoken word anthem, narrated by Tommy Lasorda. If you’ve followed baseball much, Tommy is one of the legends and he has a distinctive voice. If I told a baseball fan to read the rest of this post in Tommy’s voice, it would immediately come through like that.

The piece was wonderful, but MLB Radio chopped it into sections with broadcast highlights. I wish they’d left it alone. I heard it a few more times, but never without the interruptions. This attracted my Muse, and I decided to do something on my own.

I sat down and wrote out a baseball anthem in a kind of second person point of view, just like Tommy’s. I liked it, and decided to keep writing them. Then it occurred to me that the broadcast interruptions were a kind of message to me.

The broadcast interruptions were intended to enhance Lasorda’s spoken word poetry. I don’t know what it was, so I’m calling it an anthem, and I called mine anthems too.

After I wrote the first one it became easier. My own imaginary Tommy Lasorda just wandered in, took a seat on the couch, and started talking. All I had to do was write down what he said.

My blog followers and regular readers know I’m always up for something new. These anthems were fun, and I think they enhance The Enhanced League. I peppered them throughout the book, and think they really add some fun human elements to the story. I hope you enjoy them too.

Oh, and I still can’t read one without hearing it in Tommy Lasorda’s voice.

***

cover

Blurb: The Enhanced league is a collection of short stories and anthems centered around a year in a fictional baseball league. It has a slight science fiction background. This league has a lot more pomp than you might be used to, and nobody seems to care if the players use performance enhancing drugs.

Stories involve existing heroes, up and comers, and falling stars. While there are the obvious stories that take place on the field of play, there are also human interest stories that take place around the baseball gyrations. These stories involve scouting, trades, ruthless business decisions, and even relationships.

I enjoyed researching and bringing you The Enhanced League, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. — CB

Click here to purchase!

boyack
I was born in a town called Elko, Nevada. I like to tell everyone I was born in a small town in the 1940s. I’m not quite that old, but Elko has always been a little behind the times. This gives me a unique perspective of earlier times, and other ways of getting by. Some of this bleeds through into my fiction.

I moved to Idaho right after the turn of the century, and never looked back. My writing career was born here, with access to other writers and critique groups I jumped in with both feet.

I like to write about things that have something unusual. My works are in the realm of science fiction, paranormal, and fantasy. The goal is to entertain you for a few hours. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Craig

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Fertility vs. Virility

Gerber Daisy in a pot

“I need help,” she pleaded. “I don’t know where else to turn.” 

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I’m pregnant.”

She was newly married. They were recent college grads, just starting their first jobs and their lives together.

“Congratulations! How exciting!”

Her face crumpled and she began to cry great body wracking sobs. I braced myself. Had he left her? Was she being abused? Was there something wrong with the pregnancy? Had she lost her job somehow?

“My health insurance excludes coverage for birth control. The pills make me so nauseated and the depo provera shot just made me bleed and bleed. I couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket for other forms of birth control. So we used condoms. We tried to be careful.” She whispered hoarsely, “I don’t know what to do.” There was terror in her eyes. “My insurance policy excludes coverage for pregnancy. We made calls. All of the OB’s in the area want at least $10,000 up front in cash. We don’t have that kind of money. We have student loans and a mortgage!”

Could health insurance DO that? Exclude coverage for both pregnancy AND birth control? Oh, yes. Yes they could. And it was always hidden in the fine print. It was the young women starting out in life that didn’t know what to look for, the ones most likely to end up pregnant. 

It made me angry for her. What kind of misogynistic world did we live in where this was allowed? Where women are punished for possessing a functional uterus? The United States of America. The bastion of freedom and democracy.

We talked about her applying for Medicaid. 

It felt wrong, though. A woman… married, employed, insured (sort of, apparently) having to apply for Medicaid. That was not what Medicaid was intended for, was it? Once her dates were calculated, the pregnancy predated her employment contract and would have been considered a preexisting condition anyway, even if she did have pregnancy coverage. No matter what kind of policy she had, she was screwed. Literally and figuratively.

The other thing, which no one talked about out loud, was that the OBs who took Medicaid in the area were typically so awful no one with real health insurance would ever willingly use them. There was a huge stigma attached to it all.

So what happened to her, you ask?

She had an abortion.

Despite what you want to believe, hers was not an isolated story.

What a relief it was when the Affordable Care Act worked to changed that. No matter whatever else you felt about the ACA, it was a powerful step forward for women but even it did not go far enough. We all deserve comprehensive medical care that takes care of our entire bodies, not just the parts that correspond to our male counterparts.

But here we are with some people thinking it would be great to go back to that alternate kind of reality.

Well…

Be careful what you wish for.

A Discourse on Intercourse

Philadelphia building

“Doc, I just want her to have sex with me. I come home after working hard and I want to make love to my wife but she’s not interested.”

I went into my usual discussion about wooing and foreplay and questions about their relationship but I was getting nowhere fast. It always feels incredibly silly for me to be giving anyone marriage advice, as if I have everything figured out, but here I was. Again. 

“Wait. Don’t you work out of town all week?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“Look, you and she have four kids under the age of eight and five out of seven days out of any given week she is a single parent also working a full time job. You come home Friday night and want to get busy when she is exhausted and really just wants to finally get some good sleep? That is not math that is going to add up.”

“Can’t you just give her a pill?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then can you tell her she needs to lose some weight? Start exercising?”

I looked over at her, sitting silently in the corner. She was not obese. She sure did tired. She rolled her eyes.

“Tell you what, here is the name and contact info for a good marriage counselor…”

Impact: Chapter Eight

img_9880

*Adult content warning…*

I knew what I needed to do next and it did not make me happy.

Not one bit.

Whipping out the phone, I tapped at it fiercely only to remember that it no longer functioned. It had been years since I had seen an actual payphone anywhere and good luck getting someone to let me “borrow” their phone, especially when I started to explain to him what I needed.

A groan of frustration escaped my lips. I was going to have to go to his office. Or apartment. But no. I needed to keep things professional. It would have to be his office.

I groaned again and chucked the useless thing into the trash can. It made a satisfying crunch against the metal canister as it made impact. I could imagine the spider web of cracks that must now stretch across the screen.

Good.

The sharply dressed middle aged woman walking past me at that very moment paused slightly, looking hard at my contorted face, while clearly debating internally whether or not she should check to see if I was OK. She ended up talking herself out of it, going on her way instead. That was good. I didn’t want to have to deal with a do-gooding stranger’s concern.

What time was it anyway? I glanced around for a clock somewhere, anywhere, and found none. He was a few blocks away. I could get there quickly, certainly before five, if I left now.

I started to walk down Jackson Blvd.

Everett Haydar

My buttocks burned at the thought of his name, feeling the echo of the stinging slap of his hand followed by a lingering caress before the burn of the next strike.

Why does memory have to be so physical?

He was protective but he was also controlling. I was not the naive, docile, sweet woman he wanted from me but he was physically attracted. Very strongly so. As was I. So much so that I was willing to play the role. Those neurochemicals are incredibly hard to resist once you get a taste of them. As such, we pushed and pulled each scrabbling for the upper hand, for control of the relationship, never quite getting what we desired from the other but trying harder and harder still to get it, working up to a fevered pitch that could only culminate in intense lovemaking.

The fact of the matter was that if he started undressing me even now, I would not stop him. I would gladly offer my body up to him. Even now I wanted him to posses me physically. I just could not allow him to possess my soul. I remembered the delicious wetness of him on my thighs afterwards, the heady feeling of power that came from knowing that even while tied up, I could make him do things….

Powerful things.

We were on a dangerous path, he and I. It had to end. We each wanted to believe we pulled the plug but in truth, it was mutual and it hurt in a way I was not prepared to accept. The sting of the memory even now was worse than that of his hand on my backside.

In the end I found that I could not stomach making love to anyone else.

So there had been no one else.

People didn’t like him, people that I knew at least. They did not like how he spoke to me, how he hovered and yet seemed to look through me rather than at me.

What do you like about him, anyway? 

liked having my nipples crushed between his thumb and forefinger but that was not the answer anyone wanted to hear. It was not the kind of relationship I could explain to friends, so they drifted off and away. Here I was in the giant city of Chicago, a place full of people of every type, and I had no one else I could turn to for help.

No one but him.

Maybe he had won our battle of wills, after all?

I stood at the foot of his building, at Wacker Street, squinting to block out the glare of the sun as I looked up to the 62nd floor. Right there at the corner was his office. He had pointed it out to me from the outside one day. A strange mingling of dread and desire rose up from within, making my heart pound and my fingertips tingle as I strode into the lobby working hard to maintain a facade of confidence that I did not feel.

The speed of the elevator always surprised me. 62 floors in as many seconds. The force pressing down on my shoulders always made me feel heavier than I really was.

A trim dark haired woman in a black dress glanced up as I entered the reception area through the thick glass doors. I recognized her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, Laura. No, I don’t have an appointment.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You know he won’t see you.”

The sentence was not even completely out of her mouth before I was down the hall, turning the handle on his office door.

My breath caught.

Him.

There he was, standing at the window looking out over the city, hands clasped behind his back.

He chuckled a bit then turned around.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

And then I knew.

———————————-

Want to know how we got to this point? Check out the other chapters of Impact:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Take Me Higher

Entrance to St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican.
The young woman glanced down at the distinguished, gray haired gentleman propped up on pillows as she hung the bag of potassium from the IV pole at the head of the bed. 

He was more handsome in person than he appeared on TV, she decided.

“This might burn going in,” she murmured. “The computer says your level was a smidge too low.” They were piloting a new AI program that made treatment decisions instead of doctors. It was said to be more effective and more reliable, better outcomes.

The patient looked up at her from his newspaper and nodded, winking. “Thanks for the heads up.” A great wracking cough rattled through his chest at that moment, leaving him gasping for breath. He sat down the paper. There was his face on the front page in an article talking about his admission to this very hospital for pneumonia.

“That sounds… better?” It was a statement and a question. She looked at him hopefully.

“Oh, believe me, I do feel better than I did yesterday.” He spit out the great glob of yellow phlegm that had caught in his throat, then wiped his mouth.

“On the mend, then!” She smiled down at her VIP patient. Her shift was approaching its end and she felt some degree of melancholia about that. Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous was quite fun.

Illness was the great leveler, after all.

She couldn’t wait to tell her fiancé! 

And her mom. 

And her best friend. 

Technically she was not supposed to tell anyone about this fellow, privacy laws and all that, but how could she be expected to keep a secret like this? She had really met him, spoken to him, touched him. The part she would not tell anyone about was the number in her pocket. He had slipped it to her after telling her she was beautiful and that he would like to hook up sometime. She patted her scrubs absently to make sure the paper was still there. Not that she would ever take him up on it, mind you.

Power was sexy…. but phlegm? Not so much.

She walked out of the room and back to the nurses station where she charted her activities of the past hour or so in the EHR. She caught sight of the man’s wife getting off an elevator and she found herself watching with envy. The woman was beautiful in a way she herself could never hope to be. His wife walked purposefully, a blue coat draped elegantly over her arm, a slight smile curled on her lips. No one at the hospital had ever seen her smile before. They were all warned to stay out of her way.

He must have called to tell her he was feeling better.

The nurse glanced back at the computer screen. There was a new order for another six bags of potassium for the fellow in room 432. 

How odd.

A quick check of the blood test results reassured her. His potassium level was indeed very low.

She checked her watch. It would be another 30 minutes before she could hang the next one. The next shift would be kept busy, that was for sure.

*********************************

The papers and news stations all shouted about his death. Across every front page. Leading every news program.

He was dead.

She couldn’t believe it. How? He was getting better.

Then fear. 

Did she do something wrong?

*********************************

The voice on the other line spoke a greeting in Russian. 

“It is done?” she asked.

“Da,” the voice said gruffly then hung up.

She smiled to herself as she dropped the burner phone into the crackling fire and poured herself a glass of champagne.

Yes. Of course it was done. A simple hacking right under their noses and no one would ever know. Cardiac arrest from a potassium overdose. In the hospital. They would do everything possible to keep it hidden if it were discovered. No one wants to be the hospital that killed someone like him…

It was a beautiful, elegant thing.

There would be no other women. 

Getting Harder

Forge and anvil in black and white

“Doc, I just want to die.”

I nodded my head sympathetically. At a certain age, all patients say that. She was in her 90’s…. 

“I am so tired of hurting.”

She groaned and worked her way through her usual litany of aches and pains starting at her head and working all of the way down to her toes. She had pain medicine she could take for the arthritis so I knew that wasn’t really the issue. Not all of it, at least.

“I pray every day that the Lord just takes me away.”

She’d had a gentleman friend at the center. For a few months she positively glowed. He sent her roses for Valentine’s Day, bought treats for her little dog, left her love notes, told her she was beautiful. Never mind that he was twenty years younger than she was. 

At that age, what does twenty years mean? Nothing. It means nothing at all.

“I think they might be having sex…,” her granddaughter said. “Can’t you make them stop?”

My patient was not demented. She was not handing over her life’s savings. She was a consenting adult in an assisted living community who met another consenting adult and while there were significant physical challenges to a sexual relationship at her age if she really were having sex, who was I to meddle?

Then, he died. 

Here she was, left behind again. Sure, she had aches and pains but the real issue was this last man standing thing, or in her case last woman standing. She had already buried two husbands. Now this man. She could not bear to lose anyone else.

But what do you do? Give her a pill? Tell her to get counseling? Pat her on the hand and tell her the sun will come out tomorrow? What do you do for a grieving woman in her 90’s who wants to die but is not suicidal?