Ken's Shorts

By Ken Nash

The book Ken's Shorts is both entertaining and edifying as it is a series of short stories and documentaries—and perhaps a tad irreverent, judging by its title and cover design—that seems to strike a perfect balance between funny and entertaining with educational.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646287413

Ken Nash

Ken Nash is an illustrator, animator and songwriter. Ken’s work (illustrations, cartoons and writing) has appeared in numerous publications. Ken runs the Prague Drawing Group, an open collective of professional and amateur artists. He is the author of the short fiction collection The Brain Harvest (Equus Press 2012) and Life Raft (Equus Press 2019). Ken lives in Prague with his dog Waffles. You can follow his urban sketches at Instagram.com/iamkennash and learn more about his work at kennash.com.

Book preview

Chapter I

A Little Town in the Wild Wild West

Brooksville is a nondescript little town straddled along the farthest corners of the Wild Wild West. It is located at the extreme northwestern corner of Arizona adjacent to the confluence of the Nevada and Utah borders along the Virgin River. Perched nine miles south of the Utah border with a population of just under two hundred, Brooksville is nominally a village. Rising like a phoenix atop miles of trackless desert and prairie, Brooksville resembles a habitation that time forgot amid its xeric environs. It istanding atop miles of empty, trackless, thankless desert of the great American outback.

The town’s most conspicuous and feistiest daughter is Amanda Chandler, wife of Morton Chandler—Brooksville’s proudest son and its sheriff. As of late, their marriage has been put to the test by the First Lady of Brooksville’s nagging demands to address woman’s suffrage, specifically of the need to extend the vote to the women of Brooksville. It was a radical concept in nineteenth-century American West where testosterone rules by the saddle. Or more succinctly by the barrel of a revolver. In Brooksville, as in all the other parts of the Wild Wild West, there were no shortage of revolver twirling misogynistic dinosaurs on horseback. The odds were clearly stacked against Mrs. Chandler.

1880 was a presidential election year throughout the U.S. All forms of political office holders including sheriffs of small towns were running to be elected or re-elected. When late afternoon segued into early evening, as the rays of the setting sun reflected off the posters of Presidents Rutherford Hayes and his rival James Garfield.

At the town saloon, Mrs. Chandler or Amanda sat at the piano and belted out a number of tunes, including Roll Out the Barrel, amid the smoky, convivial atmosphere dominated by half-drunken cowboys singing along while holding a mugful of draft beer in one hand. The fun, laughter, and frivolity soon turned to a discussion of politics and the upcoming election as the smoke began to clear.

Rutherford Hayes will soon be finished as president, emphatically stated a half-drunken cowboy in a slight slur. Surely, Garfield will become president come November.

Suddenly, a wave of excitement splashed over the sheriff’s wife as her icy-blue eyes darted furtively in impishly girly excitement like the dumb blond she was. Shirley Garfield! A woman president! This is wonderful! she exclaimed. It’s about time we had a woman president.

No! No! No! impatiently countered the half-inebriated cowboy. When I said surely—oh, never mind.

God saves the union, shot back a cowboy. A woman president? Now that would be disastrous for the country. Remember that Eve in the Garden of Eden. Like her, she wouldn’t be able to make the right choices.

Pouting, she countered angrily, Oh pooh, that’s just so much like you and men. Grabbing a beer-filled mug, she removed the cowboy’s hat and continued, Here, take this, brute, as she poured the amber-colored liquid on his head. Like being under a cold shower, the cowboy writhed in discomfort.

A cowboy roared with laughter at the sight of his buddy made wet. Let that be a lesson—never to mess with womankind, he prudently advised.

Brooding, he took a swing at the offending cowboy, and soon a fracas ensued. Luckily, Amanda emerged from the brawl unscathed amid screaming ladies, smashing chairs, and flying tables. It was all in a day’s work. She primped and casually walked out of the saloon like it were just another day and went home for a good night’s sleep.

Chapter II

She’s Been a Bad Girl

The next morning, Sheriff Morton Chandler was furious with his wife for having made short work of the saloon and the expenses that would inevitably ensue. I may be the sheriff of Brooksville, but I’m still going to have to pay for the damages incurred! he exclaimed angrily as he furiously paced back and forth in their bedroom while his wife brushed her hair in front of a vanity dresser.

So what are you going to do, honey? Spank me? she chortled. Besides, the saloon could use a little renovation. I guess this is the only way I could get you to do it since you’re so damn cheap.

The angry lines on the sheriff’s face rustled like the churning sea. Are you accusing me of being parsimonious? he shot back. How dare you.

Amanda got up to face her sheriff husband and replied, No. I’m only accusing you of being cheap and not a flower. But I guess that shouldn’t be a problem. The people of Brooksville will fix that come November-ta-ta.

Amanda brushed past him, wearing an elegant bodice and bustle dress with a matching parasol. He could only stand there with a gaping mouth in speechlessness. He was still reminded that in the last election, he had won by a single vote cast by his brother-in-law. He was fully aware that his wife had the capacity to make or break an election.

* * *

Emerging from the two-story apartment, she passed a phalanx of parked horses tied to stand, fronting a block full of buildings. It was not long before she ran into a distinguished-looking older man with white hair and beard.

Howdy, ma’am, my name is Bo Dobbs, he introduced himself with a chivalrous tip of the hat. I am Goodwin’s campaign adviser.

Nice to meet you, and I’m—

No need to introduce yourself, interrupted Bo, wife of the sheriff of Brooksville, with a twinkle in their eyes. They shook hands.

With an embarrassed chuckle, she replied, Of course. How silly of me.

I know that Goodwin is your husband’s opponent for sheriff, but how would you like to work on our team to defeat your husband’s reelection bid in November?

Work against my husband? I can’t do that. That’s unethical.

It’s ok-k-kay as long as your husband doesn’t know about it, explained Bo with eyes wide in excitement. So how about it, Mrs. Chandler?

Gee, Mr. Dobbs—

Call me Bo.

Bo, I really don’t think I can do that. He’s my own husband after all.

Bo Dobbs sweetened the pot and said, I know you’re in favor of extending the vote to the women of Brooksville. Well, that’s all Jeb Goodwin’s campaign pledge for sheriff. S-s-s-sssso how’s about it?

Amanda’s eyes lit up. I think I could help out, she affirmed. Together, we could make history. Brooksville could become the first town in America to extend the vote to women!

Mr. Dobbs was agreeable and liked what he heard.

That my girl! Now that’s what I wanted to hear.

So when could I get started?

Well, we could get started now. Just tag along with me, and I’ll get you started.

Chapter III

Working Against Her Sheriff Husband

Amanda followed Mr. Dobbs into Jeb Goodwin’s campaign headquarters, which was just a stone’s throw from her own domicile. While inside, the inevitable formalities ensued as Bo introduced Amanda to members of the campaign staff.

This is Matthew Hoss, Ulyssis Hunt, Lon Sher, and Chet Garner.

How do you do?

Nice to meet you, ma’am.

I’m afraid the main center of attention here has been detained, Mr. Dobbs apologized. Mr. Goodwin is in the town of Littlefield. He won’t be back until tomorrow. But we could tell you what you can do to get started. Gentlemen, I know you recognize Mrs. Chandler here as the wife of our opponent. Well, she had secretly come over to our side to help unseat her incumbent husband in November.

That’s just fine, said one of the men on the staff. But it can’t be kept secret for long if she’s going to be seen coming in here.

Mr. Dobbs offered an idea as his brows furrowed, and the old proverbial light bulb lit in his head.

To keep things inconspicuous, she could make a short trip to Littlefield, where we have our main headquarters for any one of our strategy sessions.

Amanda’s pretty little face lit up at the idea. I think I could do that. I could slip out of my apartment during the small hours of the morning when my husband is still sound asleep!

P-p-perfect, stammered Mr. Dobbs. We can send out a stagecoach for your convenience.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, what is exactly that you want me to do to help get your candidate elected?

Mr. Dobb’s brows furrowed at the question. Suddenly, there was a flash of recognition, and he answered, D-d-d-do you have any t-t-talent for drawing and painting?

Amanda put on the look of cool and confidence and replied, I’ve been known to dabble a bit.

Excellent. Now we can have you commissioned to design some election posters for us.

Oh, that should be fun.

I’ll tell you what, Amanda, I’m going to give you homework for tonight. I would like for you to make several campaign posters and have them brought here tomorrow morning for Mr. Goodwin to look over. Do you think you can do that?

Amanda replied tersely with a hint of excitement in her voice, Sure. No sweat.

Good. Now I would like f-f-for you to listen carefully. I would like for you to bring a white sheet, along with your artwork.

Why would we need a white sheet? asked Amanda.

We need that as a backdrop for the posters, explained Mr. Dobbs. You see, I’m going to take photographs of them for Mr. Goodwin to look over.

She replied in the affirmative, A white sheet. Okay, I think I can remember that.

Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Same place, same time.

Same place, same time. Goodbye, Mr. Dobbs. It was nice meeting you.

Likewise.

Goodbye, y’all. She bid the staff farewell.

Goodbye, Mrs. Chandler came the chorus.

That night, with a brush in hand, she set to work on her artistic contributions to the election campaign in her bedroom behind lock and key. She never imagined her avocation could quite possibly influence the direction of an election. History was being made that night in the Wild West. A woman was contributing her two cents to an election campaign.

Morton Chandler was knocking furiously at the door. Oh c’mon, honey, unlock the door and let me, will you? he pleaded to his wife.

Just half an hour more, honey. I’m almost through, she hollered. I’m creating an absolute masterpiece here, and I cannot be disturbed.

But you’ve been in there now for four hours, and I need my sleep.

Just thirty minutes more, honey, please.

Mr. Chandler caved in, All right, honey, thirty minutes more.

Thank you, dear.

Half an hour later, she placed her watercolor paintings into a well-worn terra-cotta folder and opened the door only to see her husband sleeping and snoring while standing up like a horse!

Amanda contorted her pretty little face in a cute expression and said, You can come in now, Mr. Morton Chandler, the horse.

Wha-wha-what? stammered her husband as he snapped back to life. What time is it? Is it already morning?

No, it’s time to hit the sack like an animal with two legs, answered Amanda with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

Chapter IV

The Moment of Truth

Bright and early the next morning, Amanda stepped off the sidewalk constructed from wooden boards, that fronted her apartment building and walked across the dusty unpaved street toward the campaign headquarter. The morning sun beating strong, making the parasol bloom. It was the sort of sultry late summer heat that would make the eyes squint to a sliver and leave the lips chapped and bleeding. It was the sort of searing heat one only gets in the desert southwest. As she walked across the dusty, unpaved street, she helped kick up the dust everywhere. It was a beautiful morning with hardly a cloud in the sky.

Gingerly watching her step, she walked across the coarse, scratchy wood of the sidewalk that was ingrained in pale desert dust, clutching her worn folder and mint-conditioned parasol as she sauntered into the election headquarters.

Ah, there you are, Mrs. Chandler, greeted Bo Dobbs.

Welcome back. I see you’ve brought your homework.

Hello there, Mr. Dobbs, and indeed I have.

Great. Now we can t-tack them u-up on the wall and take photographs of them for Mr. Goodwin to look over.

Amanda’s manacled hands went to work, opening up the dilapidated terra-cotta folder that looked as though it had seen better days and laid out the watercolor election posters on Mr. Dobb’s desk.

His face lit up in satisfaction, and he liked what he saw. Hey, these are quite good. You look as if you were b-b-born w-w-with a paintbrush in your hand.

Why, thank you, Mr. Dobbs. I’m happy you like them.

No, please call me Bo.

Bo.

Now that we’re on a first-name basis, it looks like we’re on the advent of a wonderful relationship.

A faintly childlike delirium washed over her at the news of the beginning of a wonderful platonic relationship.

Good. Now I’m really into politics. She was sure.

Come November, we’ll knock that no good husband of mine off his perch.

Now that’s what I like to hear.

From there, they took the task at hand of taking photographs of Amanda’s artistic endeavors.

Let’s now take those photographs, he told her, and out came several pieces of light-gray canvasses from her battered folder.

I couldn’t find any white bedspreads at my home, she apologized. So I’ve brought these white artist’s canvasses as a substitute.

Mr. Dobbs stood there for a moment in numb silence as if he had seen an apparition.

Are you all right, Bo? Did I do good?

When I said white sheet, I didn’t mean bedspreads. I meant a white sheet of p-p-paper.

While having a forehead-slapping moment, her menacled hand produced a canvass, and she told him, We could still use these white canvasses for a backdrop, can’t we?

That’s not white. That’s gray, he pointed out. Now I’ve brought my c-c-camera with me today for nothing.

I’m sorry, Mr. Dobbs, um, Bo. I’ll buy a sheet of white paper today. I promise.

Very well then. We’ll try again tomorrow morning. So why don’t you just run along to the main provision store and buy yourself a big sheet of white paper?

Gladly reassured, Amanda replied, Thank you, Bo, so I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.

Yes, he replied in the affirmative. Same time and place.

Goodbye, Bo.

Goodbye, Amanda.

With Amanda safely out of earshot and in the street, Mr. Dobbs turned to a colleague and remarked, Not only is she dumb, but she’s also color-blind. I don’t know how we’re going to hit it off with her. All I can say is God save our election campaign.

* * *

Meanwhile, the sheriff of Brooksville, the honorable Morton Chandler, was on the job wearing his customary cowboy boots, Stetson, and revolver, looking every bit like the hotshot he was. Taking five, he slouched back in his chair and rested his feet on his desk.

My wife has been acting mighty strange lately, he told an aide. And whatever it is, I intend to get to the bottom of it soon. His eyes were full of malice.

You don’t believe she’s trying to involve herself in politics, surmised the aide. Perhaps by forming a woman’s party.

Not a chance! She has the intelligence of a goony bird! came his blushing reply.

* * *

Early that evening, Morton raised the issue of his wife’s strange behavior as they sat down to a dinner of salt pork, beans, biscuits, and coffee.

Honey, tell me, you’re not trying to involve yourself in politics, are you?

Amanda cringed at the question. Heavens no! I’m a woman, and a woman’s place is in the kitchen, not in politics. You know that, honey, she innocently replied.

Well, I don’t know about that, honey, because you’ve been acting mighty strange lately.

I couldn’t possibly involve myself in politics, she assured him. I’m just the inconsequential First Lady of Brooksville, she said as she poured beans onto her husband’s plate.

He warned, Our marriage may be in jeopardy if there is anything of the sort going on.

You can have my word, honey, came her disingenuous reply. Nothing of the sort will ever happen. My word is my bond.

* * *

As if promises were made to be broken like piecrusts, Amanda slipped out of her domicile without a peep at the crack of dawn to commit her perfidious deeds behind her husband’s back. She returned that morning to Goodwin’s campaign headquarters with a large sheet of white paper in hand.

Good morning, Amanda, Bo Dobbs greeted her that bright morning. I see you’ve brought the wh-white sheet.

Good morning, Bo, she reciprocated and continued with a little play on words, and I believe I’ve brought the right white sheet.

He chuckled and replied, Well, I’m glad we’ve finally got that one right.

So is Mr. Goodwin here today? inquired Amanda.

Filling his pipe with tobacco ever so thoughtfully, he replied, No, I’m afraid he won’t be coming to Brooksville for a while. We thought he’d be here yesterday. But he will be at a political rally in Littlefield during the small hours of the morning. It would be nice if you could come so you could finally meet the b-b-big…uh…f-f-fish.

Her eyes lit up in an expression of wonderment and excitement. Sure, I would love to.

Good. Then we’ll have a stagecoach expedited for your convenience.

What time will it be?

Taking a few puffs of his trusty pipe after striking a cowboy match, he answered, About 2:30 a.m. sharp…but don’t ask me why he holds these rallies at such ungodly hours.

* * *

The steely silence of those wee hours was suddenly broken by the soft whir and click-clocks of an approaching stagecoach that screeched to a stop in front of Amanda’s apartment. With her husband sound asleep, she slipped outside, wearing her best bodice and bustle dress.

Speaking just above whisper, Bo Dobbs said, I’m glad you could make it, Amanda, as he chivalrously helped her aboard the stagecoach.

Drive on there, buddy! he commanded as the stagecoach was restarted.

From there, it would be four miles’ worth of whirs and click-clocks heading east before arriving in the town of Littlefield. Littlefield beheld the same pace and ambiance as Brooksville, only slightly larger in area and population. Had the Virgin River not snaked across the parched Mohave to slake the thirst of adventurous interlopers making an insouciant foray into these desolate, forbidding parts. Littlefield would probably never exist. In about an hour, they had arrived at the lonely outpost near the river with the name that means pristine helped build. Perched atop the western banks of the Virgin River, Littlefield would remind any bible aficionado or scholar of the fabled city of Babylon with the Euphrates rivers running through it. Save for the absence of any towering walls, Littlefield would