Jesus Is Watching

By Ken Lord

Here are eighteen short stories from the "pen" of Author Ken Lord. Some are rooted in others' experiences, such as The Angels of Dog Creek and Thanks For Your Time. The same is true of the title story, Jesus is Watching. Despite its title, this is not a religious book.

Sometimes an idea will come from something historic. A book on the founding of Australia trigged the character of Bartholomew Kelly. The Septic Tank One—Fire Engine Zero story came from someone who was involved in it. The Large Mouth story was developed around the tales of a man whose biography I ghosted. The Incident at Dead Man's Dip is about something that purportedly happened in rural Maine.

Somewhere in Arizona right now an "old solder" is eating himself to death. I tell you about him in Suicide by the Pound. And on the subject of the paranormal, you may wonder about the endings of Enraged and Nearsighted.

It is said that authors should write what they know. The Whizzer is built around my teenage angst that home and routine was stifling. The story of the Rake has been dredged from my subconscious from 70 years ago. I tell you about getting my driver's license in Curb, and about one of my dogs. It isn't exactly "Old Yaller," but you may enjoy Moose.
In the book are two essays. I take on the school system in The Student, The Teacher, The Principal and the Taxpayer. And I offer a solution to the problem. I highlight the actions of a woman whose resources have been stretched in And The Thief Was.

I explore science in A Day in the Life of a Capillary. You may not like how that one ends. And the craft of writing itself—I'm not sure that I like that one either. But you may.

I envy the person with the fertile imagination and the skill to present what he conjures. In the meantime, I've done what I could with what I have. Enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Lord
• Release date: Jul 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476363912

Ken Lord

Author of more than 60 works of nonfiction, fiction, biography, historical fiction, and YA. Senior citizen living in suburban Syracuse, NY. 40 plus years of computer experience and a comparable amount of adult education. ABA and BSBA from University of Massachusetts Lowell, EdM from Oregon State University, and doctoral credits from the University of Arizona. And, are you ready for this? An Avon representative for nearly 18 years, a top seller, well awarded, and "the cutest Avon Lady" in Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

Jesus is Watching

Short Stores, Memoirs, and Essays

By: Ken Lord

Smashwords Edition, Copyright 2012

INTRODUCTION

This book began as a project for a writer’s group, of which I was a member: I was invited to submit a short story for their contest. A short story. One!

Of course, multiple submissions would be welcomed, so I decided to write two. Two became three, and before you knew it, there were sixteen. What was that about overkill? \ I learned something about writing the short story: it isn’t easy, especially if there is an upper word limit. In this case, the maximum size mandate was 2,500 words. Some of the presentations in this book push or break that limit. Among the lessons learned: one must spend more time polishing than writing.

Here are eighteen short stories from the pen of Author Ken Lord. Some are rooted in others’ experiences, such as The Angels of Dog Creek and Thanks For Your Time. The same is true of the title story, Jesus is Watching. Despite its title, this is not a religious book.

Sometimes an idea will come from something historic. A book on the founding of Australia trigged the character of Bartholomew Kelly. The Septic Tank One—Fire Engine Zero story came from someone who was involved in it. The Large Mouth story was developed around the tales of a man whose biography I ghosted. The Incident at Dead Man’s Dip is about something that purportedly happened in rural Maine.

Somewhere in Arizona right now an old solder is eating himself to death. I tell you about him in Suicide by the Pound. And on the subject of the paranormal, you may wonder about the endings of Enraged and Nearsighted.

It is said that authors should write what they know. The Whizzer is built around my teenage angst that home and routine was stifling. The story of the Rake has been dredged from my subconscious from 70 years ago. I tell you about getting my driver’s license in Curb, and about one of my dogs. It isn’t exactly Old Yaller, but you may enjoy Moose.

In the book are two essays. I take on the school system in The Student, The Teacher, The Principal and the Taxpayer. And I offer a solution to the problem. I highlight the actions of a woman whose resources have been stretched in And The Thief Was.

I explore science in A Day in the Life of a Capillary. You may not like how that one ends. And the craft of writing itself—I’m not sure that I like that one either. But you may.

I envy the person with the fertile imagination and the skill to present what he conjures. In the meantime, I’ve done what I could with what I have. Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Jesus is Watching

Jesse Unrue had cased the joint for two days. Word was that the owner of the split-level home on Evans Street had come into a fortune. Somewhere in that home, according to what he’d heard at the bar, was a safe containing at least a hundred thousand. The thought of that money caused him to lick his lips. It would take him far from this dump, and if he were careful, he’d be able to get into the house, open the safe, and get out before anybody knew.

That the money was in a safe didn’t trouble Unrue. He’d had practice cracking safes. Locksmithing was a skill the state prison system had given him, as if he’d been rewarded for that incident in which he’d stolen a car and taken it on a joy ride. For the theft of the car, he’d received a sentence of a few months. In the process, however, he had hit and killed a pedestrian—and left the scene. Had he been stopped, he’d have failed a Breathalyzer test.

The pedestrian was a vagrant. When the police finally caught Jesse and brought him to trial, they found that Eben Eezer— his street name—had no family. He lived in a large cardboard box beside the underpass. Thousands passed daily, and all took notice of the encampment, but if Eben were there, drivers averted their eyes and passed on. Accepting that running down the old man might have been unavoidable, for the man had stumbled into the street near the bypass¬ drunk as he most often was—Jesse Unrue was charged and convicted of vehicular manslaughter for leaving the scene. He spent three months in the county jail pending trial and awaiting appeal, but at the end of that time, he was transferred to the state prison at Florence.

Jesse wasn’t bad, as youngsters go. He wasn’t even misunderstood. He’d made it to his late twenties without an education or purpose in life. He’d run away from home—somewhere in Missouri—he never told anybody where that was—at age seventeen. While he was underage, he’d been such a rebellious youth since he dropped out of school the year before, that his parents—only partly with regret—let him go. He’d make his way in the world, his father said; they had done all they could.

With little education, Jesse was not able to keep even the most menial of jobs. He felt he was better than that and nobody would give him a chance, unaware that he had thrown his chance away. With what earnings he had, he began to drink. Had the bartenders carded him, they’d have found he was not legal for several months. Drinking led to bad companions, and bad companions led to trouble. He was involved in several small burglaries—he wasn’t caught, and the joy of not being caught caused him to drink more and to escalate his risk.

He was drunk the night he hit the elderly man. While he had driven away from the accident scene, he kept the stolen car—the one with the damage on the right front fender that had snagged Eben Eezer’s clothes. Two nights later, Jesse was driving the car when a police patrol stopped him for speeding. A check of the plate, and Jesse became a guest of the City of Tucson, housed in the Pima County Jail.

Judge Ernest Trombley gave him three to six years, and he would be a guest in one of Arizona’s fine incarceration facilities. About all he could be thankful was that this had happened in Pima County, and not Maricopa County, where the Sheriff is considered a holy terror.

While time in the state prison wasn’t easy, it had compensations. For whatever time he’d be there, he’d be fed and housed. Perhaps now would be a good time to write to the family, and the opening of his letter was a parody of an old Laurel and Hardy routine: Now look what a fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten us into, Ollie! Jesse had been gone nearly ten years. The terse note he received from his brother was that his mother had died, his father was in a nursing home, and none of his siblings had any interest to travel to Arizona to visit him in prison. You made your bed; now lie in it, was how his brother had put it.

Jesse decided then to get out early for good behavior and to learn a skill. He worked in the prison industry, stamping license plates, as inmates the country over have done for years. He had his choice to improve both his academic and vocational education. Of the four years he spent at Florence, he spent the first year and a half attending General Education Development classes. Completion of that program gave him the equivalence of a high school graduate.

Instructors at the prison tried to interest Jesse in an effort toward a higher degree, but Jesse had little interest in English Literature, Economics, Accounting, or Art Appreciation. He expressed an interest in further education, but preferred a vocational education. He tried carpentry, and while he could cut wood and hammer it into place, he decided that it was too hot in Arizona to be out climbing the rafters and building a roof. He sat for several sessions in a few classes on auto mechanics; that interested him more than carpentry, but not much. The same was true for plumbing, heating, and air conditioning. He might have liked that, but he cut his hand on some sheet-metal ducting and spent a week in the prison’s infirmary. His hand was three months healing.

One day an instructor was having some difficulty opening a padlocked toolbox. Jesse knew nothing about locks, but offered to assist. In a few seconds he opened the lock, to the instructor’s amazement. Next time, you’d better get a Master Lock, Jesse said. These cheap Japanese knockoffs are simple to open.

Why don’t you take a locksmith course? the instructor asked.

I dunno, said Jessie. It doesn’t seem to be an educational program that the state would offer at a prison.

It’s not, but there are correspondence courses about it. You could take one of those, and when you get out, perhaps you can find a locksmith to work for.

And that’s what Jesse did. The warden allowed him to obtain educational materials and training exhibits. He learned to assemble and disassemble door locks and there were illustrations about the various kinds of household and automobile locks a practicing locksmith encounters. Among those materials were instructions about opening safes whose combinations were not known. If the prison staff had seen those, he might not have received them, but they didn’t. He read the materials completely and memorized what they said. Unfortunately, there were no combination locks to practice on.

He was released from Florence for good behavior, and caught a bus to Phoenix, looking for a job. He had enough pocket money to rent a room for a few days, and he began to canvass the lock repair shops looking for work. With no luck. Because he was an ex-con. His explanations of his foolish life notwithstanding, employers were reluctant to take him on.

He happened to be visiting the Pasadena Lock and Key, going through the usual frustration, when the telephone rang. The owner listened for a moment and began to tell the customer that he was alone on this day and couldn’t arrange a service call, when he paused and looked at Jesse.

Can you open a locked car?

Have you a jimmy bar?

Of course.

Then I can open a locked car.

The owner asked the customer for directions, handed the keys to the company truck to Jesse, and gave directions on how to get there.

Open the guy’s door, collect $25, and call me on the radio.

Though he was not familiar with Phoenix streets, the owner’s directions were clear. Jessie found the stranded car, opened the door, collected the fee, and radioed his success. Now he had a question to resolve: he had money and the truck. The temptation not to return was strong. He remembered the four years in Florence and decided he didn’t want to repeat the experience. Not for twenty-five bucks and a clearly identifiable old truck, anyway. If he were to take such a risk, the