HOGAN: Short Stories

By Daniel R Hogan Jr

Mother Project
The Dancer
The Caller
Forever
The Fence
The Flight
Nouveau
The Runner
Father and Son
Going Home
The Stadium
The Bourbon Swimmer
Destination Earth
Crabbing
Golf Day
A Newman
The Final Analysis
The Choice
Reality
The Visitor

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823020237

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HOGAN

SHORT STORIES

DANIEL R HOGAN JR

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2024 Daniel R Hogan Jr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/02/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2024-4 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2023-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024900031

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

One Mother Project

Two The Dancer

Three The Caller

Four Forever

Five The Fence

Six The Flight

Seven Nouveau

Eight The Runner

Nine Father And Son

Ten Going Home

Eleven The Stadium

Twelve The Bourbon Swimmer

Thirteen Destination Earth

Fourteen Crabbing

Fifteen Golf Day

Sixteen A Newman

Seventeen The Final Analysis

Eighteen The Choice

Nineteen Reality

Twenty The Visitor

About The Author

ONE

MOTHER PROJECT

The wind is howling. The house is creaking. Slices of wind sneak inside through cracks, openings, windows, and doors. The house shakes and moans. Sections of the roof is being ripped away. The electricity is out. There is no power. Candles flicker in the spasmatic wind. Sisters and brothers all huddle together beneath the kitchen table. Mother is close by looking worried, praying the Rosary. Father is about doing the useful, capable, necessary things to hold the wooden walls together. The flickering St. Joseph candle illuminates mother’s countenance as she says the Hail Mary. Glimpses of Father’s emotionless stone face are caught as the hand-rolled cigarette is lit within cupped hands. There is no fear reflected in his eyes, only interruption to the family tranquility. Inconvenience is unnoticed. There is only the awareness of the absence of time. ‘When will this be over.’ The eyes of the children reflect anticipation but confidence that Dad will protect them. Mother’s concern was dissipated with full faith in Father’s strength, will, and determination. All is right here. The world is as it is. The Hurricane passes.

Many dwellings were destroyed, many were displaced. But they and countless others were soon to find themselves in the newly constructed, red-bricked government housing. The ‘Projects.’

The recollections of Red-Brick housing endure a lifetime. Memories are not all bad, in fact not bad at all. Social acceptance and present day realities call for such memories to be harsh and hard but they were not formerly so. An inner strength delivered, a calmness, a persistence, would become a dominant lifeforce. Stemmed not from the unyielding sameness of government housing but rather from the fragile undaunting will of its dwellers especially within the children. All drew their inspiration from the pragmatic determination of the Mother figure in their lives.

It was her unconquered spirit which instilled in offsprings that they were valued. That they must be constantly striving, never to give up, for a better life. A life they deserved and will be earned by effort. A competitive drive which will overflow into adulthood. A positive outlook drawn not from the stern redbrick housing but from the steel will of a Mother who was overcoming adversity to provide a better life for her loved ones.

The projects had become a dwelling place void of men. It consisted of many women and more children. The average ratio appeared to be three children for every woman.

Where were the men? Many households were broken families. A smaller percentage had deceased fathers, often due to the war, and some were even in prison. What men there were would be working or seeking work during the day. Out of necessity, due to government regulation, they were not official tenants otherwise their families would not be allowed residency for lack of hardship. Consequently what few men there were, they were invisible during the day and had little impact on the children.

However even to the children the nocturnal increase in the male population did not escape their attention. At night vehicle parking spots were at a premium. During the day they were empty as a mouth with missing teeth, but at night the mouth had too many teeth. Visitors were identified and linked to apartments by the make of the car rather than facial recognition. The drivers were seldom seen and always viewed in darkness.

Friday nights seemed to be the most popular. They would start to arrive early, often when the Sun still shined, carrying bags of groceries and beer. These evenings were always special for the children as they were allowed to remain outside longer, after sunset. They would be mostly engaged in large group games throughout the project’s courtyards. During these times they had more freedom as their Mothers were otherwise occupied. Other times the women were much more attentive sharing a common trait of assuming responsibility for each other’s children. Eventually the familiar sounds of Mothers calling the names of the children would pierce the night air. It was always between 7:00 and 8:00 PM with the street lights already on. When one started all the Mothers seemed to join the ritual. The first call never received an immediate response from the playing children. Soon individual names were being sporadically yelled out and the children began to disperse.

Fewer remained outside making these moments more precious in the warm summer nights. Shortly the final calls were emanated, and all proceeded homeward not so much out of fear from Mother’s wrath but due to the realization that they needed a bathroom visit.

By Monday morning most of the cars were gone. Once again the parking lot smiled with its toothless grin.

*

God is good. I can’t believe we are going to live in such a nice place, a strong new brick building with a porch and a yard. An apartment with a refrigerator and stove. No Hurricane is going to blow it down. God is good. Thank you Blessed Mother. Tonight you will all bath in a new bathtub and sleep in your own rooms, one for the girls and one for the boys, and one for me and your father when he returns.

How long will he be on the boat this time, Mom?

A few more weeks. Can you and your brother handle carrying the sofa up those stairs?

Sure Mom. We’ll get it up there. There is no one else anyway.

Don’t forget your sister’s wheelchair. Look at all those kids in the courtyard. You will have plenty friends here to play with. I will have friends, neighbors, and other Mothers. God is good. Thank you Blessed Mother.

*

Why don’t you play with the other kids? Your sisters have friends. Your brother has friends. Why don’t you have any friends? That Mendoza boy is nice. The Geihart boy, and those nice Maurice boys, I am friends with their Mothers. Go play with them.

Mom, I’m too old to play.

Too old! Too old. You’re not too old. You a little boy, eleven years old, Go and play with them.

I was never a little boy.

What?

Nothing Mom. OK, I’m going out to play.

Be home for supper when the street lights come on.

Yes mam.

*

Your Uncle called. He’ll pick you up at 10:00AM to go to the lake and play baseball.

Great.

He said to be ready and waiting for him downstairs in the back.

Okay.

11:20AM:

What are you doing?

Waiting for my Uncle. We’re going to the lake to hit some balls.

Can I go?

I don’t know. Yes sure, he won’t mind.

12:30PM:

When is he going to get here. My Mom said if he is not here soon to come home for lunch.

"He be here soon. Something must have come up. He will be here soon.

He is a pretty busy guy. Drives a convertible."

Yes I know. I’ve seen it in the parking lot."

He be here soon.

1:45PM:

I got to go home. I’m hungry. Mom says so. He is not coming.

"I guess something came up. See you later.

Mom, Mom did Unk call?"

No. I thought you were gone.

He didn’t show.

I hope nothing is wrong. I hope he’s not in an accident.

I don’t think so Mom. He just didn’t show up again."

That’s a shame. He shouldn’t do that to you. There must be a good reason.

It’s all right. He is a busy guy. See you later Mom. I’m going to the Circle.

Want a sandwich?

No, I am okay.

Don’t be too late. Supper will be ready when the street lights come on.

*

Who’s that.

Who? Him? That’s Ben Logan, Benny.

Why don’t he run with us?

He just don’t, that’s all. Did once. Real tough. He just don’t want to hang anymore, a real loner. But a straight shooter. You can always count on him. Always know where he stands. He’s got a code. Some personal code. I don’t know what it is, but he only does what he thinks is right. No matter what anybody else thinks.

Don’t look so tough.

"Don’t mess with him and you’ll never have to find out. Leave him alone. He’s different. Different than the rest of us. You never see him just goofing off.

He once helped my Dad with something. I don’t know what. But my Dad said he was all right. That I should hang with him instead of you bums. Dad said he was for real.

I don’t know what he did but for my Old Man to say that it had to be something more than changing a tire or lending him a saw-buck for cigarettes.

Anyway, everybody knows him, and everybody leaves him alone.

Hell even the old ladies like him. But the cops don’t, and the project supers don’t either. They all shit-heads anyway. Since most of us are now 18 years old, they want us out. Can’t live with Mama anymore. We are no longer tenants, project rats, but visitors.

Remember Grego, he’s long gone. His mom still lives over in the other court. He was a real bad-ass. But he stood up for Benny. He would kill for him. Seems like one night a while ago Benny saved his ass when three or five guys from the other project was whipping the shit out of Grego. Nobody knows how, but Benny got them to quit and haul the hell out of here. Benny did that, and the story goes that he wasn’t even hurt or bleeding. Shit, he wasn’t even dirty.

He’s tough. Don’t mess with him. Maybe he’ll talk to you someday.

*

How long you been on that stuff?

What’s it to you?

Get off of it.

Duck off.

Can’t do it, huh.

If I want to.

No you can’t. You’re a coward.

Coward! Not me man.

Yes, you. You the one that beat up on old man James. Stole his social security money. Big dope-head beat up on a little old man.

Don’t hit me. I’ll kill you. I’ll call a cop.

"Big man, call a cop. Beat up on an old man. Take his money to buy dope. Rob old woman coming from the grocery. Punch out you own mother.

Call a cop, I bet. I am going to bust your ass."

Leave my mother out of it.

Your mother cries every day. Not because you beat her but because she gave birth to scum.

Don’t hit me.

"Here the score punk. Get off the junk. Get a job. Quit punching out old people and your Mother. Do that or take off.

If I were you I would take off. You not man enough to be a decent human being.

Take a hike. Because the next time I see you, I’m going to kill you."

* * *

TWO

THE DANCER

The sun seemed to lessen its harsh stare as the day waned. They were concluding their visit to the zoo with a solitary walk behind the large, hooved animal enclosure. The father was with his two small daughters, aged ten and eight, feeling content, happy, and proud. The young girls were experiencing wonder, excitement, safety, and timelessness.

The father, being young himself at age 30, felt the little boy within. He noticed a small, low hanging chain barring their path, and leaped over it with a grandiose manner, showing off to his beloved little ones. They, choosing to emulate their hero-dad, rushed to do likewise. With no thought of fear and caution, for their world was on the other side and no harm could possibly befall them. They prepared to follow.

The oldest went first. Already tall, lean, and graceful as the nearby gazette, she flung herself over the chain, landing elegantly without need of assistance. She still sought the security of her father’s embrace and approval at the termination of the jump.

The younger, still cushioned in baby fat, with total abandonment and oblivious to all fear or rationale to whether or not the feat could be done, rushed into the act impetuously and wide-eyed.

Before the father finished savoring the moment with the oldest, all his attention was turned upon the youngest. She was in full run. He released the first with urgency, for fear filled him as the jump was beyond the little ones ability at this time.

She was in the air, as he swiftly moved in her direction. Thoughts of the harm which would befall her seized his mind as she would endeavor with unquestioned faith and confidence to light up his face as her sister had done.

Her leg hit the chain. The wild gleam in her eyes and the wide brightness of her smile dimmed, as if to say I don’t understand. What is happening?

His hands, outreached to catch her fall, were too far away to stop the disaster. His face revealed the greater fear of her confidence and trust lost rather than the physical injury. Her little hands were now outstretched not upwards to embrace her father but downwards toward the unknown.

Almost immediately he was upon her as the once friendly path now hardened to receive her frail body. Her cry was beyond the pain of the scuffed knee, cut hand, and bruised cheek. It was for the lost of innocence and trust and the father’s sadness that this would only be her first.

He rapidly seized her adding to her fright as he lifted her high as far away from the injuring earth as able. He held her tightly, then loosely, drying her tears, and rubbing her wounds.

After determining that she was physically intact, he proceeded to restore her belief that she was fine, and all was still wonderful. He hugged her replaying the courageous leap in his mind.

Relieved the hurt was superficial he smiled now able to enjoy the humor of the incident. He pulled the oldest into their embrace and the youngest tears turned to low laughter.

They joked about the jump. The oldest, with the ego and pride of seniority and recent accomplishment, with affection called the younger a ‘klutz.’

The father silently thought of ten years to come, as Merlin remembering the future, of his little klutz. After hard work, practice, pain, sweat, tears, and sacrifice, she beautifully danced upon the stage with grace, poise, and maturity beyond her years.

He was happy and proud.

* * *

THREE

THE CALLER

Father, why do they come? Why do they always come? What do they want?

They will always come. There are those who will always want what we have, not just perceived richness, but our contentment, our way-of-life, our togetherness.

Father, we are not rich.

"No, not in the material sense, not in abundance nor extravagant selfishness. Yet it is true that we have more than most. We have worked and produced more than most. We value and appreciate what is ours, while others despise us for it and desire it.

They have neither the spirit, discipline, nor talent to do likewise. And if the recipient of charity, they do not possess the ability to cultivate and retain the gift much less appreciate it. If obtained by arms, they do not have the pride of possession of self- achievement. Therefore they lose all.

Child, the ones who come, as this one, singularly, calling, issuing challenge is seeking something else. Whereas it is true they are not plunderers. The usurpers, the cowards are sinisterly watching his uninvited challenge for my demise. They will ravage the fruits of this challenger’s efforts and fight among themselves over the spoils.

If such was to be, his shield would not hang honorably upon the road as is so many previous callers. Mine would be on the road to be trampled by the greedy mob. The uninitiated looters will descend and not being able to possess what is ours will destroy all."

But Father, why must you answer the call? Why must you go beyond our walls?

My child, I go out to beat back the looters not simply to defeat this mis- intentioned noble challenger. His defeat or dismissal keeps the pack at bay from our door. With each defeated caller, their cowardice swells as does their ranks.

Father, you speak of this vile caller yelping at our drawbridge to combat in honorable terms. Does he not mean you, you, and I, harm.

My child, he is errant in his ways and thoughts. He means no harm. He desires no riches. He foolishly seeks glory, not realizing that he lust for death either now or in obtaining what he seeks.

Father, as I have witness with tribulation so many times, you mount your horse adorned in white armor to do battle once more. Will I dine with you this evening? Will you return to my love and embrace? Will you kiss me to bed this night?

"My child do not agonize. Do not make this ride any different than the others. This caller is no more special than previous challengers. I always return to you.

No my precious love, no different this day. I will venture forth, and if the confused bur perhaps noble caller is of the right sort, I will, as always, invite him to lay down his arms and partake with us at meal this night. If not, his shield will hang in the company of those callers who have previously declined our invitation and we will dine alone.

I will not be long.

* * *

FOUR

FOREVER

Have I awakened? Where? Different? No light. Darkness. What place? Why different? Where was I? Where am I? Asleep? Awake? No, neither. I recall something. What? Life! Life! Is this death? Death, am I dead? Was I alive? This is something different. A different place. A different state of being. I am. Where am I coming from or going to? I am alone. In life and dreams I was not alone if such was life or dreams. If this is death or life, why alone? If this is afterwards, where are those who have gone before? Is this after or before? All is dark but not black.

A light, small and distant, is coming closer. No. I am going toward it. There is no sense of motion. It is here. I am there. Where? All is light, not bright but white. New, yet familiar and comfortable. Still alone. No one, why? Where am I? What is this? What is real. Is this real? Was before real? Was before life? Am I now real? Is this death? How long was before? How long is now? Timeliness, there is no sensation of time. There was before, I believe. Not now. No, not now. Is this now or yesterday, tomorrow, or no day? Does it matter?

Figures in the distance. Coming closer or is it I going closer? Who is moving. There is no sense of motion. They are like me. Do they see me? Do they hear me? I do not hear me. Going by, me or them? Where am I going? Am I motionless, am I moving? From dark to light. I must be moving, or is all about me?

Has this been forever? No, I remember different. A life, a reality, but so brief! Hardly a passing thought. But there were others. Where are they? I long for them. It was brief. Too brief. Was that living? Is this dying? Is this the forever eternal and that the existence transitory?

Is this in-between? Reincarnation? No! There is one life, only one temporal life. Was that it? So quick! So quick!

Still alone. Why alone? More figures passing, no recognition, no communication. More, stopping, Who? Me or them? Recognition, they are loved ones. Loved ones! But different. How? They or me? No matter. It does not