Closures

By Jeff Boyle

All of life’s chapters reach closures ...

People seek closures, accept closures, or are desperate to prevent closures. Grieved or celebrated, closures are human experiences preceding death, life’s final closure. As the stories in this collection reveal, closures can be positive or negative ... and sometimes both.

Jeff Boyle is the author of the award-winning novel Nam World (2015), the award-winning story collection Hidden Truths (Bold Venture Press, 2016), and the novel The Bookseller’s Secret (Bold Venture Press, 2020). Jeff lives and writes from in the city of Ormond Beach, Florida.

Excerpts from the story ...

“His busy hands were liquid smooth, effortless movements too quick for thought...brushing the leather like a jazz drummer until it sang, snapping the cotton cloth over the surfaces, a maestro conducting a symphony finale.” — The Last Bootblack

“The boys looked to him as a surrogate parent, constantly seeking approval. Leonard, always a mentor but never a buddy, carefully maintained distance. Adolescents struggling with life’s pass-fail tests needed discipline.” — Coach Z

“Out on the flea market aisle, people of every age and shape shuffled by in slow-walk rhythm, tattooed young couples pushing baby strollers, seniors rolling spouses in wheelchairs, ethnic families conversing in foreign languages, somber folks down on their luck looking to stretch a few dollars.” — Mike and the Psychic

“The railroad tracks ran diagonally through the south end of the business district, creating a triangle-shaped public park where a towering tree canopy shaded a small one-story library, a deserted train station, and a bronze memorial listing the town’s war dead.” — 1963

“South Beach, with its iconic art deco buildings, luxury hotels and pool decks is no more, destroyed by permanent flooding of the barrier island. Waist-deep water at low tide has created an abandoned ghost town visited only by looters in small boats.” — Miami Beach, 2050

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Mar 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005630553

Jeff Boyle

Jeff Boyle’s awards for writing attest to his dedication to excellence. The Rutgers Political Science undergrad, who earned his Master’s Degree in Administration from Nova University, exhibited the same excellence in his baseball card business, The Baseball Card Exchange, for more than twenty years. He also served for a decade on the City Commission in Ormond Beach, Florida.Now this Philadelphia native-turned Floridian is dedicated full time to his writing, and Bold Venture Press is proud to present his first short story collection of literary works, each sharing life’s hidden truths.

Book preview

Closures

Jeff Boyle

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

Copyright © 2022 Jeff Boyle. All rights reserved.

Bold Venture Press edition February 2022

This is a work of fiction. Everything is a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, places or events to coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author or the publisher.

Contents

Copyright

Introduction

Closures

The Last Bootblack

Jury Duty

Coach Z

Mike and the Psychic

Misgivings

1963

Once Upon a Forest

My Father’s Son

Covid Confinement

Miami Beach 2050

Acknowledgment

About the author

Jeff Boyle short story awards

More from Bold Venture Press

INTRODUCTION

People seek closures, accept closures, or are desperate to prevent closures. Grieved or celebrated, closures are human experiences that precede death, life’s final closure. As the stories in this collection reveal, closures can be positive, negative, or both.

In The Last Bootblack, a venerable shoeshine man practices a lost art until racism and age force him from his livelihood, as a young newspaper reporter writes his life story. Jury Duty inspires a man’s unrequited longing for an anonymous woman serving with him during a trial.

Coach Z, a high school golf coach, grieves over the death of a former player, believing spiritual forces are at work as his team attempts to achieve its greatest victory.

Mike and the Psychic, chronicles an unlikely romance between a young owner of a successful flea market business and a gypsy fortune teller who will be leaving town at the end of the winter season. Misgivings lead to the unraveling of a relationship after a woman and her partner share a Thanksgiving journey to the distant home of her son and his family.

1963 is about a high school senior celebrating new identity, first love, and youthful innocence shattered by a life-changing moment. Once Upon a Forest, a modern fable, sees a local government condemn a beloved urban forest to make room for a gas station, leaving a community heartbroken.

My Father’s Son traces the lifelong conflict between a father and his first-born son after the father’s strict discipline fails to win his boy’s trust, respect, or love. Covid Confinement describes the self-incarceration of a retired college admissions dean, grieving a wife lost to cancer, as he struggles with living alone during the pandemic.

Miami Beach, 2050 visits a dark future in a 2050 interview with a retired climate scientist recounting decades of human failures as rising sea levels inundate southern and coastal Florida.

The stories in Closures, some loosely based on real experiences, are reminders that each ending, no matter how sad or difficult, provides opportunity for a new beginning. Even in tragedy, life continues, in renewal, optimism, and hope.

Jeff Boyle, February 2022

Ormond Beach, Florida

Closures

The Last Bootblack

Gigi sat in a rear corner of the auditorium, a young reporter patiently doing her duty as the county government meeting stretched into its fourth hour. A sea of unoccupied seats stretched between her and a group of people assembled down front near the podium. They had gathered to voice opposition to a commercial rezoning that would fill acres of wetlands, dig deep water retention ponds, and cover the remaining green earth with shopping center asphalt.

The developer’s proposal was the last item on the agenda. Gigi had already written the frame of the story on her laptop, ready to plug in names, quotes and new information before sending the finished piece to her editor. A year of covering this government had desensitized her to the practiced posturing of the seven elected officials sitting high above the audience on the elevated dais. Radiating self-importance, they kept their eyes on their computer screens, looking up only to respond to the chairman, vote on questions, or praise one another.

They routinely ignored constituent speakers, rising from their seats for short visits to a side room offstage. Gigi’s diagonal vantage point gave her a narrow sightline through the door, where she could see them feasting on a spread of sandwiches, doughnuts, and cookies. She eyed the food hungrily. It would be midafternoon before she could file the rezoning story, dash home and fix herself a late lunch.

Gigi’s reporting covered four other beats: the courthouse, the county school board, city government, and the private university up the street. Danny, her editor, assembled the newspaper at a central office twenty miles east in Daytona Beach. He’d recently assigned her a murder trial, a final vote on a new city attorney, and an in-depth look at a school board contract that eliminated every last custodian. The private company hired by the board had significantly reduced school cleaning costs but money-saving short cuts had left hundreds of classroom filthy.

At one time each of these stories would have been covered by a different reporter but print newspapers everywhere were struggling. Corporate demands for bottom line profits had eliminated, one by one, the positions of her more accomplished senior colleagues. Gigi took pride in every story that appeared under the byline G.G. Roane and wanted to believe she’d saved her job by doing quality reporting. But after factoring in the newspaper cost-cutting and diversity politics, she knew the decision to continue her employment more likely came down to the bargain salary they were paying to a young woman of color.

Idle intervals at these public meetings allowed quiet reflections on her career, life path, and destination dreams. Secure for now, with time to learn and grow, she was happy to be living alone and too busy to feel lonely. A long-departed boyfriend had been a disappointment. Renewing her social life could wait. Someday, after all the assigned reporting on the tired deliberations of institutions and governments, she hoped to be able to write stories about people.

The next-to-last agenda item, parking lot liability insurance, sounded like routine business to be dispensed with minimum discussion. As the manager summarized his report, a surprise issue emerged. A Mr. Charles Jenks was operating a shoeshine stand in a wooden shed out at the edge of one of the parking lots, with no lease agreement and no documented right to be there.

Alerted to a potential story, Gigi grabbed her notepad. The insurance company said they could not write the policy if the arrangement with Mr. Jenks was allowed to continue. The liability risk for accidents and lawsuits could not be quantified. The man was operating on county property with his customers coming to do business with him in cars or on foot.

Several council members supported continuing the sponsorship of a man they knew to be a community icon. People loved him. He’d been shining shoes in the parking lot for more than three decades. No one had ever complained. There had never been a problem. They suggested the county manager look into buying the parking lot insurance from a different company.

Other members disagreed, saying the shed gave the parking lot a bad look. They questioned the optics of an uninsurable individual getting a free ride on the county dime. He was receiving a special privilege denied to others. Government liability was a valid concern in a litigious world.

Citing a lack of urgency, the chairman tabled the matter, directing the manager to report back in thirty days with additional information to enable a more informed decision.

The rezoning debate proved passionate but took less time than expected. The environmentalists had organized a lineup of four people to each talk for three minutes. First, a scientist documented wetlands as vital to species habitat, flood control, and reduced summer heat. A second speaker described trees as serving the same protective functions and stressed the importance of maintaining greenspace. The third individual pleaded against adding to road gridlock, and a fourth challenged the granting of special exemptions from development rules.

The elected council members politely thanked the presenters before praising the project for offering needed goods and services, creating new jobs, and adding to the commercial tax base. The chairman, always the last to comment, declared Economies must have growth, and called the question. A roll call vote yielded unanimous approval.

The meeting was adjourned with a dropped gavel. Thanks for attending, drive home safely.

Gigi’s nimble fingers captured names, quotes, and the substance of the hearing, sequencing and polishing the story as she went, trying to objectively balance both sides. She would give it one final pass when she got home, hoping to reduce the static she knew she would be getting from Danny after he performed his surgical edits.

She rushed out to the parking lot to try to locate Charles Jenks but he was gone for the day, his wooden shed locked shut. A side window invited a look inside. She could see a raised double chair, meticulously arranged brushes, white cotton cloths, and cans of polish.

Next day, Gigi returned at midmorning. Mr. Jenks sat serenely in one of his chairs, eyes closed, hands folded, ear buds connected to an ancient Walkman hooked to his belt. His diminutive figure looked frail, white hair extending to the jaw line and a white beard against aged coffee skin. Polished black boots advertised his professional skill. After capturing his image with her smart phone, Gigi cleared her throat. The man opened his eyes.

Mr. Jenks? I’m G.G. Roane, from the newspaper.

Hello, Miss Roane. Please call me Charlie.

I wanted to talk to you when you weren’t dealing with customers. Did you know the county government is planning to evict you?

No. No one said anything.

That’s disappointing. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.

Charlie’s eyes smiled with amusement. It’s not your fault. I’m grateful to know.

They’ll make the final decision next month. Will you be asking them to let you stay?

No ma’am. I’ll go. After all this time, I’m surprised they didn’t come for me sooner.

How long have you been shining shoes on this spot?

I’m here since nineteen hundred and eighty-three. I had a place downtown, between the library and the post office. One night I got beat up and robbed on my way home. A judge heard about it and arranged for some folks to buy me these chairs and build me this shed.

Sounds like people would be willing to stand up and speak for you at the county hearing.

A black man can’t make noise. I learned that long ago when I was a small boy. An uncle of mine got lynched over in the next county. I’ve been keepin’ my head down ever since.

May I ask your age?

I am seventy-nine years young. How old are you?

Twenty-five. I’m sorry about your uncle.

Lynchings went down back then. Billie Holiday sang about it. Strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar trees. Bad things happened, more than people will ever know.

Were you listening to Billie just now, on your headphones?

No, but I have her cassette, and lots of others. Nobody keeps cassettes anymore. I can buy ’em from the library sale for a quarter. I got all the classics from the fifties and sixties right here. Coltrane, Miles, and the Duke.

What do you charge for a shine?

Why do you need to know? You’re wearing Nikes.

Maybe I’ve got some leather shoes at home that could use your services.

The ladies drop their shoes off, pick ’em up the next day. Five dollars is what I charge.

I’d like to come by sometime when you’re working, take some pictures.

Early mornin’ and lunch time is good. You lookin’ to put me in the paper?

If my editor says I can. Do I have permission to write your story?

I suppose it will be all right, if you let me thank my people for all the years. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m ungrateful. This job has been a blessing, pays my food and rent.

Where do you live?

Got a room a couple blocks from here, microwave, fridge, small TV, everything I need.

Are there any other shoeshine men in the area I can go talk to?

There was a guy over in Orlando, but he’s gone. I’m the last one.

"Okay. I’d better get going. Charlie, I hope we