Whichiswhich

By R. Harlan Smith

A selection of thirteen short-shorts, short stories about people and animals. 

Some, paranormal. Some, fact. Some, fiction. The reader is left to decide which is which.

A great addition to collectors of short fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Harlan Smith
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498960274

R. Harlan Smith

I write, for the most part, in the paranormal genre. Ordinary people with extraordinary abilities make for more interesting, character driven stories that have greater appeal than plot driven stories.  My settings are usually in and around Gary, Indiana where I attended Lew Wallace high school, and lived the better part of my younger years through the 50's. My tendency to overdo descriptive passages comes from my fondness for the suburban areas south of Glen Park, the southern most part of Gary. The years I spent in Los Angeles also contribute to my settings. My characters are modeled after people I have known, and are rarely simply contrived, so everything I write is somewhat autobiographical by virtue of the setting and my relationships with the actual characters. My interest in the paranormal arises from my own personal experiences which led to researching them and finding some explanation for them from authors such as Carlos Castaneda and Jane Roberts, as well as my education (BA Behavioral Sciences). I will tell you truths you won't believe and fictions you'll embrace like the gospel, but I won't tell you which is which.

Book preview

1

Love Story for a Poisoned Cat

Where do you think knowledge comes from? Teaching is a sacred communion. There should be no damage in the delivery.

Meaningless events? There are no meaningless events. Each is a cosmic presentation. Each is the seat of wisdom.

Behold the Motherhead (The Book of Beliefs) ca. 30,000 B.C.E

Transl. Arlen Frankenstein

Good evening, my little friends. Here we are again. I always wonder which of you are boys and which are girls. We humans need to know such things. It helps us to determine how we communicate across the sexes. Humans have many more roles to play than a pigeon has, especially toward the opposite sex. And as I promised, I have muffins. I'll break them up for you.

It has occurred to me just lately that everything I have ever learned of any value I have learned from the opposite sex, with some rare few exceptions. It may have taken a procession of them, each hammering in the same message rather than just one

Nagging me for a life time, but that’s the way it’s been. Who

knows why?

Every once in a while there is an event, or a series of events, that will take place so quickly you'll get caught up whether you like it, or not. My friend, Arlen Frankenstein, calls them cosmic presentations. You don't have a chance to see what's happening. You can't pay attention. And you don't realize these cosmic presentations are actually pulling you in until it's all over. You are literally swept up and dropped off. Then you sit stumped and vacant, trying to figure out what hit you. You are left wondering. The occult wisdom of the Book of Beliefs states: Any decision you make during this wondering will change your life.

I'll tell you about five females who came and went through my life like a whirlwind in only a week’s time. And I never saw either one of them ever again. During those days I was working for a veterinarian here in South Pasadena. I was privileged as his assistant to live in a small studio apartment attached to the clinic. It was close to the banks, the restaurants, the grocery stores – it was very convenient. I favored one coffee shop in particular nearby. I liked to arrive a bit late during the dinner rush. It meant waiting for one of the tables at the back wall, but it was worth the wait. It gave me a full view of the room.

One evening an attractive young couple caught my attention. They were white-collar types, well groomed and nicely dressed. I could see right away they were lovers. It was all over their faces. They always took a window booth and held hands across the table, charming each other, sparkling, talking about everything. I saw them only occasionally over a period of months, but as time passed I noticed a marked change in their responses to each other. The voltage had ebbed and the courtship had obviously run its course. Her stomach had swelled. Sadly now his hands were lost from hers. Their conversation became lackluster, narrowed to the business of marriage. She seemed always to be searching his eyes. What had been a sweet intimacy of two had become the business of running a household. The dad had become boorish and egotistic, but the mom's facial expressions and mannerisms had won me over. I had become a secret admirer. She and I had come to acknowledge each other with a nod and a discreet smile.

The last time I saw them was on a Monday evening. They let the hostess seat them at a table in the middle of the room. The mom was carrying an infant and a carpet bag that held the entire industry she needed to attend to the child. She had put on a little weight.

The restaurant was busy. The kitchen had reached a sizzling pitch. Waitresses were rushing about, scribbling orders, and setting up side dishes. The din of bussed china and human chatter filled the room. It was Milton's pandemonium with all the quack and clatter of a crowded, popular restaurant.

The infant remained sound asleep until the bus boy ravaged their table like Kublai Khan taking a village. The mom winced and pressed her little bundle to her, patting it gently. The baby became squirmy, refusing its pacifier. The mom coddled it, whispered to it, bounced it a little, rocked it a little, all to no avail. Dad read the sports page. I wondered why did he bring them in here? He had once been so so attentive, so full of her.

He was so sweetly in love with this wonderful young woman whose eyes saw nothing but him. Now he sat with a barrier between them. A mom and her child sat abandoned in a busy restaurant. The baby was telegraphing its mother's feelings. She didn’t want to be there. I knew it as sur as if a voice had spoken

in my ear.

And then, the same voice, a bit louder, said, Wouldn't you say?

I hadn't noticed the young woman who had been seated at the table next to mine. She, too, had been watching the mom. Actually, I think every woman in the room and most of the men were tuned in. I said, Wouldn't I say what?

The wee one, she said. Mom's a bit low. It's telegraphing mom's feelings.

Oh, yes, I said.

We watched as the waitress stopped for a few words with the mom who pulled a baby bottle from her bag of tricks. The waitress rushed off with it.

The girl beside me said, And look at dear old dad, will you? Himself and his holy sports scores. His woman knows the score, alright.

I know, I said. I've been watching them eat here since they met. Mom's knight in shining armor had become Sir Mediocre. I feel sorry for her. She's stuck with an absentee husband and a kid on her hip.

She said, Oh, there's no need to feel sorry. Moms are resourceful. This one's a survivor, she is.

An interesting point of view, I thought. She was awfully sure of herself. She was nice looking, too. She was as brunette as you can get, but she had the annoying features of piercing blue eyes that meant business while the rest of her face seemed amused. Her name was Aran Finney – she shook my hand politely – and she was twenty-two, a professional nanny with a family here in South Pas. She like to call it 'South Pas'. And, yes, to answer my question, she had come from Ireland. It was some kind of

exchange program that left my head as soon as she explained it.

It was my turn. I'm Robert.

Robert, she said, as if she were trying on a hat. Yes. You look like a Robert, as well.

I wondered if there were consequences if I had not 'looked like a Robert, as well'.

We turned to our dinners and I learned Aran Finney had left a broken hearted lad behind in Belfast. He was terribly unhappy about losing his lovey to the U.S. for a year. What if she took a shine to some Yank? He wept, she said, and vowed to wait. The poor man had no idea his worst nightmare was in the making. And neither did I.

We watched the waitress return with the warmed up baby bottle. Both mom and the waitress tested the milk on their wrists and agreed it was just right. The infant took the bottle and refused it and took it and coughed, but the bottle wouldn't do. It continued to fuss and squirm. The situation was hopeless. She held the tormented child to her and let it cry. Dad turned a page.

Aran and I talked back and forth, getting acquainted over the noise. We hardly noticed the gradual silence spreading over the room. Then the entire restaurant became so quiet so quickly we both looked up in time to hear the mom singing in a sweet, hushed voice. There was only the smooth 'OOOOM' of the fan over the grill as the mom ended her song: 'I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see.'  The restaurant simmered down, the quiet lingered, and the infant slept. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

I said, I think we've just witnessed a miracle.

Aran pouted her lower lip and nodded matter of factly. Mom is learning to communicate. The wee one is teaching her. And look who's still busy with his sports news. Dad's lessons will come later when he and the child will see who gets wrapped around who's little finger.

Aran suggested we share a booth the following night. Of course, I agreed. She was good company and, aside from her attractiveness, I was interested in getting to know someone from Ireland. She was a fresh, unique personality.

There was, however, no electricity between us, no libidinal lacing in our conversation, which I found a little disappointing. I was certainly attracted to her, but our usage of the language was slightly different. I thought maybe our social cues were different as well, and I was hopelessly missing something. It was curious. A man likes to think there is something or some part of him that is commonly attractive to all women. His ego demands it. I attributed it to our different cultures and let it go at that.

So, that had been the tone of our relationship all along, including Tuesday, the following night at the restaurant, when she asked if she might ask a favor of me. She was looking at me with that intense and amused and annoying look. I thought nothing of it at the moment. I thought she might have needed a ride home.

I said, Sure.

Our waitress hovered, smiling, and topped off our coffee. She might have been pleased to see us together. Waitresses see everything.

Aran waited until the waitress finished hovering and hummed away, and she said, Will you make love to me, Robert?

Now, I've seen the pigeon's pretty courtship dance, the bowing, the posturing, the puffed up feathery display. Among pigeons a guy knows what to expect. But among humans, when the guy isn't dancing, he doesn't expect the female to ask any such favors. Just as I began to wonder why she thought of it as a favor, she said, I'm a virgin.

She looked at me, intense, amused, annoying.

I retreated with a grapeshot volley of reasons for why her doting lad in Belfast should have that privilege. I knew I was babbling, but I couldn't stop myself. I had no history with this annoying young woman. I hardly knew her. What greater intrusion could there be on her boyfriend, not to mention her family? I could almost feel her parent's eyes on me, equally piercing, equally annoying, and by no means amused.

She spoke calmly, quietly. I know how you are, Robert. I've had my eye on you. You're the man I want.

I said, Isn't there some old Irish curse, or something, when you offer your virginity to a man you don't love, leprechauns and forest people, or something?

She sighed. That's silly, Robert.

She stood and dug a two dollar tip out of her jeans and picked up the check. The curse is in having to find the right man to begin with. Give it some thought, won't you? Good night, Robert.

I was chuckling to myself as she paid the bill and left the restaurant with a quick, finger fluttering wave. The whole idea was preposterous. I would not let her impose her virginity on me. Who the hell did she think she was?

Still, I was failing to hold back a grin as she jumped into her car and drove out of the parking lot. I felt like an idiot, sitting alone in a crowded restaurant with a grin on my face. I was tee-heeing to myself like a small boy. It hadn't occurred to me that the cosmos had presented me with something extraordinary. I had failed to respond with the dignity and grace worthy of the presentation.

It doesn't seem fair; you make a fool of yourself in an instant and it takes decades to realize it.

I called Frankenstein.

He said, I don't get it, man. I've been working on this chic in Research for weeks just for a coffee date, and you, you're being stalked by virgins in South Pasadena.

I described my situation and I described Aran. He wanted to hear more about Aran. I told him I needed a few sound reasons for why I should not be Aran's first lover.

He said, There's only one reason, man. You're not ready.

I'm not ready?! I thought he'd be on my side.

He said, If you're dumb enough to pass up something like this, you're not ready, man. You're right, though. It's a cosmic presentation. You're stuck with it. You have to act it out. You know the drill. Even if you're a virginaphobic.

Virginaphobic?!

Yeah, man. What other minor miracles are going on around you that you're not noticing? These things don't happen alone. They usually come in bunches. Look, man. Why is her virginity more important to you than it is to her?

My mind went blank.

Robert, this isn't just some random free sex thing that any lunk head would jump to. It isn't just sex out of wedlock. She has her own personal mission, that's true, but it's not the sex. It's the choice she's made. She wants it to be with the most ideal guy she can find. You're it.

Oh, please.

"Look, man. I’ll tell you about virgins. Virgins are like altars

where all of Mankind makes their best or worse offering to all of Womankind. My advice, pal, whatever you do, make a good impression. Every woman you've ever known would expect that of you. Case closed. How you gonna act?"

If Frankenstein was right, how could I make a good impression if I was lacking the desire? I couldn't allow some strange woman to sit down beside me with, I'm a virgin. Do your stuff. I didn't have any stuff, and I told her that.

It was the following night, Wednesday, at my place. She dropped in uninvited. She sat at the foot of my bed