Here's a summery , light-hearted tribute to works on turn of the 19th century small--town life

a la humourist Stephen Leacock....Dive in! 

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ALL THE NEWS FIT TO PRINT

 

By

Charlotte H Broadfoot  

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     ”Oh, drat and blazes!”

     A dapper young man was quite the rare bird in this neck of the woods, but lo and behold, a sighting!  A youthful ‘cock of the walk’ could be seen to be preening on the curbside of Main and Central, softly cussing under his breath-- a warning to potential rivals?

    Impatiently making and remaking several lopsided versions, the young fop fiddled with his bow tie until the wings correctly framed his chin, adjusting the attached celluloid collar likewise. Discreetly hitching up his white linen trousers, he managed at the same time to button his striped blazer in a way that hinted at the bold red suspenders underneath. Long slender fingers of one hand, slightly moistened, smoothed down a sparse ginger handlebar mustache whilst the other  lightly patted slicked brown hair brushed back and parted in the middle. A final quick swipe at the light eyebrows  over the deep set brown eyes completed the toilette. The plate glass window of the Conkers Corner Bakery served admirably as a mirror, its old fashioned crescent- shaped signage script neatly framing the man’s image. His head moved vainly side to side, assessing the overall impression. He even turned to look over his shoulder at his posterior view, but suddenly blanched at seeing the streetscape beginning to populate.  He prepared to dash ….

     “Morning Fido. “

     The young man cringed. Blast! Too late!

    “Getting down to business then, there’s a good lad.” The speaker Sam Hurlburt ,  manager of the local Royal Bank of Canada branch,  walked stiffly by nodding curtly. Pompous young buck!

     “Hey Fido, sit.” Harley the shoeshine boy waved a rag, indicating an empty chair at the ‘buffer stand’.

      ‘Hear Fido, come hear,’ exhorted Lawrence Tiddley (local Carnegie Public Library administrator) reciting, as he passed the object of his salutation,  the opening stanza of Emily Dickinson’s In the Library, assuming Fido (due to his profession) to be a like-minded literary soul-mate.

     Nodding to all but fearing any further pleasantries, Fidelis Hickinbottom crossed Main Street in three energetic bounds. Hastily fumbling with the office key dangling from his father’s old watch fob chain, he jammed it in the lock, and was soon safely ensconced behind a yellow double-brick facade.  His red and white ribboned straw boater sailed across the work room onto an ancient coat rack, the gesture signalling both relief and annoyance. Confound that grade school nickname!

     Still standing furtively by the mullioned window frame, two fingers pried open a couple of the old wooden Venetian blind slats. Fido peered out at the town’s dusty main arteries and the morning traffic. A two-horse draft wagon rolled down King Street, with one of Conkers Corners’ few autos motoring up Queen, and on Prince Street he could just make out the flat-bed conveyance from the railroad station. Was it a sin to hope the three might converge unexpectedly, crash spectacularly and hence, require the services of a Roving News Photographer?  Unfortunately, the horses slowly clip- clopped on by after the automobile had passed, and the CPR’s dray turned up Princess Street -- all without incident.

     “Balls to Bedlam; how I hate this town,” he muttered.

     Fido threw himself despondently into the Editor’s chair and scanned  a mock-up of the Conkers Corners Clarion weekly edition. Today was Monday. The copy had to be reviewed by Wednesday night, set for production on Thursday followed by town distribution Friday morning.  The current issue featured nothing more than the usual banal town events:  a baseball match on Saturday between the Conkers Centurions and the rival town‘s Melrose Majors; town council debates; births and deaths; stock advertising etc.  Pshaw!  Bor-ing!

     It wasn’t the Pater’s fault, Veritas Hickinbottom, for dying suddenly of apoplexy only 3 months past. But couldn’t he have waited at least another year?   Fido would certainly have effected an escape from his dreary little hometown by then. He was fed up ‘to here‘  with its stifling conservative provincialism. Determined was the budding photojournalist to flee quaint and picturesque Conkers Corners at the base of the Niagara Escarpment, for the cement sidewalks and omnibuses of Metropolitan Toronto. It was 1900 after all—the world beckoned. Fido was twenty one years old. His destiny lay in the new field of Freelance Photography, and nowhere else!

     In five minutes he’d have to OPEN the office to the Public. He walked over to the waist high hardwood room-divider, drew back the gate portion and threw up the attached counter to slip into the production area. At the very back of the room he kept his second hand tripod and photography equipment, including his newest, most precious purchase, an 1897 Portable Folding Kodak camera. That was the model he hoped to make his fortune with --far away from ‘The Corners,’ he grunted. He lit a cigarette and flicked the match absently in the corner, heedless of an uncapped printer lubricating oil can located nearby.

     The Clarion -- circulation 2078, five cents an issue.  It was Veritas’ profoundest wish , having inherited from his father, who had inherited also, that his only child Fidelis carry on the family business-- being Conkers’  clarion in the flesh. Fidelis sighed. His mother had opportunistically bolted to live with her sister in Little Talbot after his father’s death. A French pox on Filial Duty!  Fido contemplated forlornly the old Franklin printer gathering dust that his Great Grandfather had purchased for the Clarion’s inaugural 50 years prior, and his father’s more recent purchase, a used linotype machine.

     “Well, it just won’t do!”  Thumbs thrust in tailored vest pockets, he paced anxiously back and forth across the wide pine plank flooring.  He needed some excuse to shut down the Clarion once and forever.  A finger lovingly caressed the Kodak, conjuring up a future in the field, more in the tradition of Matthew Brady as opposed to studio work.  It was a new and wide open career path. Toronto. Perhaps South Africa-- the Boer War?  New York?   

     Disheartened rather than energized , Fido returned to the front door, flicked the CLOSED sign over to OPEN, pulled up the Venetian blind and retreated to his desk. He leant back into the oak Krug office chair and commenced blowing smoke rings at the overhanging light fixture, until his reverie was rudely interrupted.

     “Come boy… Fido, “ (Fidelis flinched); “I need to talk to you.” Mayor Runnymede stood before him in a long overcoat and bowler, despite it being mid-summer and sweat running in rivulets down his beefy jowls. (The rotund politician was convinced that the visual impact of dark colours and over dressing conveyed the stolid authority of his position to the townspeople.)  “Just wanted to be sure you‘ll be at the Mayor’s Summer Levée tomorrow night—with your ‘apparatus’?’’

     “Yes, of course, Mister Mayor.”  Fido took his feet down off the desk, reluctantly.

     ‘‘Good Lad. And the weather’s supposed to be top notch, so you should get some good…er… shots.” Mayor Runnymede was obviously proud he’d mastered the technical lingo. “You know where to set up?”

     “I think so,” Fido said dryly.  Where did all the town events take place—the music pavilion beside the rather algae-icky pond in St. George’s Society Park, two streets down?  “Not to worry—7:30 pm ain’t it? “  Fido unfurled and moved to usher Mayor Runnymede out.

     The Mayor testily wagged a finger, apparently not appreciating the bum’s rush. “Fall electioneering’s begun in earnest now, you know Fido. I’m sure you’ll do your duty and report on all the meetings and debates. Things are heating up.  Why, now to think of it, I’d better just swing by the General Store-- chat with Claxton about some matters of mutual interest.”

     Fido ‘s lack of enthusiasm would have been apparent to anyone as  he watched the Mayor bustle down the street.  Suddenly, he perked up. ‘Thank You, Mayor Runnymede!’  He ran to the other side of the room and started pulling out the drawers of the large print-typeset cabinet where old research and editorial notebook files lay along side of back issues of the Clarion curled a fragile yellow. He needn’t look too far back. Bound to be grist for the mill here. Hmm…

     At 7:00 p.m. the following day, Fido trundled his Conley Model B 5x7 Large Format Field View Camera to a position just to the left of the bandstand, not far from the mosquito infested pond he would use also for backdrop. This would do for the large group photographs  that everyone loved to see in the paper, but he would also have time to return to the Clarion to pick up his portable Kodak for the more personal shots he was hoping to take later.

     Coming up silently behind him as he fiddled with older exposure plates, the gentle hand of Miss Becky Milton poked him in a decidedly forward fashion, startling him considerably.  Her tinkling laughter sent shivers up his spine. But no, he was not to be thwarted by her natural rose bud complexion, violet eyes and raven locks.

     “I am rather busy at the moment as you can see, Rebecca—Miss Milton. I hope you’ll forgive me if I complete my preparations here…“   he chided sternly.

     “Piffle!”   (Pouty face response, eyes tearing up.)

     “…after which time,” he continued hastily, voice softening, placating; “I will bring you some cordial from the beverage table.”

     Satisfied, her Cupid’s bow lips quivering in breathless anticipation, Becky minced off towards the shade of century old Elms. An entranced Fido watched her curvaceous figure reveal itself seductively in the full sunlight shafting through the trees  AND  her diaphanous summer garments.

     The Mayor’s Summer Levée   had been a tradition well-rehearsed over the years in Conkers Corners, and nary a minute of the celebration deviated. Past mayors (of which there were 2 others still resident in the town) formed a parade and were honoured in the ceremonies behind the current Mayor.  Ladies’ guilds were responsible for the evening’s catering aspects, and the gentlemen members of the Elks’ and Oddfellows’ clubs looked after the entertainment. The local volunteer fire department proudly took charge of the fireworks preparations and display.

     Townsfolk arranged themselves on plaid blankets, picnic style, chatting merrily and digging into heaping plates of cold fried chicken and home-baked desserts. In the course of the evening, the band struck up The Maple Leaf Forever -- everyone got to their feet, singing lustily the first few bars and mouthing less intelligibly the forgotten remaining verses.  Mayor Runnymede stood in the center of the music pavilion thanking everyone for coming, with especial mention for the volunteers. He managed to sneak in some political rhetoric amid the last few local announcements and program details.

     While all this was going on, Fido reluctantly detached himself from the fair Rebecca, and following his own agenda, took first the formal group pictures expected of him, and later, scampered off to pursue his own objectives.

     The next day, a weary Fido tippled from the Canadian Club Whisky bottle left over in a drawer from Veritas’ tenure –a necessary bit of Dutch Courage. Then he got down to business. All morning he worked in his Darkroom, a cloak room at the back of the Newsroom fitted up with the necessary emulsions and situated handily by the water closet. Whilst the paper copies of his negatives were drying, Fido threw out half of the previous newspaper copy. Interpreting some scribbles he had jotted down the previous afternoon instead, he penned the new text, then typed it out on his Remington 7 for proofing.

     By six o’clock, the winsome Rebecca had stopped by to remind Fido that he was walking her to choir practise at eight.  He assured her he had her father’s (Metcalf Milton, Conkers’ Mayor once removed) permission to call and collect her. The young man’s colour was considerably heightened as he walked her to the door.

     “You look unwell Fido.”

     “I am flushed.”

     “I think I know why, you impertinent boy.”

     “Yes, I am hot Rebecca—terribly hot. “

     “How hot Fido?”

     Fido didn’t understand the question—it was an obvious 90 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade out of doors, and worse in the confines of the office.  Rebecca however, could only assume his emotions were getting the better of him. She dropped her eyes demurely as she suggested a stop at the soda shop after practise.

     In truth, Fido was sweating buckets. Tomorrow, he had to input the completed version of that week’s newspaper on the linotype. Producing and scrutinizing the resulting ‘slugs’ before arranging into columns would take most of that day and he’d probably have to pull an all-nighter too in order to insert his half-toning processed photographs ,  assemble the finalized pages, prep the matrices , mechanize and produce the edition . Friday would hopefully see the final edition of the Conkers Corners Clarion hit the streets.

     The morrow came. Fido drummed his fingers on the desk, watching the clock. He had worked feverishly the night before, and Teddy Arnold, the newsboy, would now be in the process of home delivery and afterward, take up his post by the Town Hall personally selling the edition as was habit.  Claxton’s would have several copies laid out on their counter for customers, the Bakery and Cafe also.

     The ‘bust’ came at 9:20 a.m.  Ex-Mayor Milton ran on to Main Street with the Barber Shop’s long cloth bib still tied around his neck, and only half his face shaved. In one hand he held Friday’s edition, and in the other, a smoking cigar with which he was making rude gestures. Mayor Runnymede came running from the Town Hall in the opposite direction; jacketless, suspenders exposed. (Women gasped!)  His mousey elderly secretary Miss Crabtree toiled after, several Friday editions clasped tightly to her thin chest. Past -Mayor Archibald Lecky also convened outside the Clarion, in an unusual state of disarray; red faced, eyes bulging, threatening.

     “Fido –you come out here. Explain yourself you little runt !  You have a nerve. What do you mean by this ‘article‘  --if you can call it that-- you young reprobate? Your father’d be rolling in his grave. ”

     Fido put on his jacket, rakishly slanted his ‘boater’, inhaled deeply once or twice and opening the door, stepped out to face the Philistines. So far, so good.

      “Gentlemen, this is most unseemly. Why the ruckus? What is the problem? “

     “You young Pup!  What‘s this damnable hearsay about my unchristian attitude towards widows and orphans, hey?  What ledgers are you referring to? Black and white proof you say… directed funds away from the Poor House to the Work Farm and pocketed the produce profits?” Archibald’s bulbous red nose flared like a Lake Ontario lighthouse, demanding a response.

     Even if Fido was intent on answering , before he could,  one prominent farmer in the district belted out: “Whoa there,  it’s  hisself, “ turning away from Lecky toward the cigar smoker. “ Metcalf, did you act'ally use town funds for your dau’ter Melody’s wedding reception? Ist ‘at why the repair of potholes and ruts on my road,County Concession #10, gat deferred: ‘due to lack of funds in the bu'get’ youse said, at the time--ya sidewinding, leprous manjack….”

     Milton tried to yell over the hooting: “I assure you, it was an honest mistake.  The municipal cheque is practically identical to my personal one. I’ll pay back every cent-- just to show good faith, mind. (Glaring at Fido meaningfully.) Rebecca, you damn well come home with me. NOW!” He savagely pulled his barbering bib off and threw it on the ground, grabbing the girl roughly by the wrist and dragging her home despite her digging in her heels and caterwauling all the way.

     The crowd parted like the red sea for Mayor Runnymede, backing away until he stood foremost in the street, alone and facing the cocky young man on the Clarion’s stoop. Just for an instant, a pleading look played across his face. Fido almost  repented…

     “As you know, “ Fido exhorted the crowd, “Mayor Runnymede has served one term already on the basis of integrity and impeccable social morals. The incumbent is running for a second term, but could you re-elect a flagrant Womanizer? (There was a general intake of breath by the ladies in the crowd.) A person who has been seen to come out of Mrs. Jennings Quilt  Shop at all hours!  QUILT SHOP?  It should be renamed, GUILT SHOP!”  (Fido knew Mrs. Jennings would weather the current storm; she had plenty of other ‘gentleman callers’…)   “Is this the sort of ignoble representation you want, heading into the new century? Is it? I think not ! ”

     Red-faced, Mayor Runnymede tried to throw his considerable bulk at Fido, but several citizens of good stature restrained him. Fido turned on his heel and walked back into the Clarion with great aplomb. By this time, the ‘Dis-Honourable Mayors had escaped through the milling crowd, which itself broke off into smaller groups tsking, pshawing, and tittering at Fido’s most recent candid shots of the mayors in various unflattering situations and poses.

    So: Fido’s plan on the whole could be supposed to have worked.  He had managed to antagonize the leading townsmen. Now, he gleefully clapped his hands, he would never be a 4th in The Conkers Barbershop Quartet. Advertising in the Clarion would drop to nil. He’d be thrown off the Conkers Creek Rowers team. Any pending Masonic sponsorship was out the window. He’d be forced to close The Clarion and sell.  Yippee!  The conflagration was well worth it. He’d sleep soundly tonight. Tomorrow he would pack his bags, and by Sunday he’d be on his way to Toronto…

     Except --- ‘The best laid schemes…gang aft agley.’

     After a quick Sunday ablution and dress, Fido shut the door on the old parental abode with a good solid heave-to.  He put the key in his pocket for what he hoped was the last time, picked up his carpet bag, and his boxed Kodak and turned to skip down the wide front verandah and off to the rail road station.  Instead, he was astonished to see the Conkers High School Band gathered in his front yard, striking up ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. The ministers from all 3 Presbyterian denominations (the United Church having  split again recently ) stood on the lawn to the right ; the sole Catholic priest lounged at the back; and a large contingent of male and female citizens, beaming at him with righteous fervor, stood in the center. Rebecca stood in splendid isolation to the left, batting her eyes and basking in the envy of her female friends.

     A spokesman, Henry Claxton, came forward, paper slip in hand. “Fidelis Hickinbottom, this town would like to thank you for a collective ‘kick in the derrière’. (Someone shouted: 'Ladies Present!')  Ahem! Your article Accountability has made us all re-think what direction this town of Conkers Corners should take, going forward. You’ve given back to us pride of purpose and honest values.  We‘d like…Want… We feel…Oh, hang it!  We need you to be our next Mayor. Right everybody?  (A booming ‘Three Cheers for Fido’ confirmed it). Fido, you’ll be Conkers’ youngest one ever. “  Henry stepped forward and laughing heartily, clapped the youthful Diogenes  soundly on the back.

     Fido stared out over the multitude, mouth agape, too parallelized to move. Barricaded in and totally submerged by the outpouring of effusive goodwill, he gulped for breath as a man drowning.  Feeling faint, his eyes grew moist; he scarcely knew whether to laugh… or cry?

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Something a little  less frothy perhaps, seeing that you've got your feet wet-- but  beware, now you're in the deep end....

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Sin Eater

By

Charlotte Broadfoot

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  If he could only stop saying it, thinking it:  the agreement stipulates that you are never to tell anyone; absolutely no one!   God knows what could happen, disobeying that edict. These weren’t just Corporate Giant’s for cripe’s sake, they were Corporate Gods –and he, just a veritable flea on the side of an elephant.

      Larry couldn’t remember walking into the living room. Starting back towards the den, gave it a pass and re-directed toward the kitchen instead. A few minutes more won’t hurt. I’m on time today, no worries.

     He shivered nevertheless. From the fridge he withdrew a fruit-loop square. Once his favourite, the gaudy Easter colours in the confection now made him want to puke. Marjie loved making these things.; so ruddy simple even I could do it.

     He never had of course. He and Marj, with no children of their own to dip Easter Eggs or stage a ‘hunt’, found this a suitable adult substitute. Normally he’d eat a stack in one sitting, Marj protesting but unable to suppress a smile at his over-indulgence, especially when he always added (aping Ralph Kramden): ‘Baby, you’re the greatest! ‘

     Hunger had finally caught up with him.  Larry hadn’t eaten for a very long time and he had no energy to whip up anything else. He tapped the congealed marshmallow confection on the counter, its rock hardness evident. Popping the sugary dessert into the microwave to give it a blast or two would make it malleable, slightly more palatable, though at this point he’d have eaten iron ore.

    A stab of anger coursed through him.  On what those bastards pay me, can’t afford to break any teeth.  The work I do IS damn important, and what do they do for me? Crap wages with no bloody benefits to speak of! It’s laughable. Who’d even credit it, given the scope of the thing? 

     He peered through the appliance window, mesmerized by the treat going ‘round and around on the glass turntable. Just in time he remembered Marjie’s regular scolding over the broken counter outlet---only one socket in it functioned: ‘Larry for God’s sake. If the kettle’s ‘ON’ too (being plugged into the same extension cord as the microwave) you know it’s gonna blow a fuse.’      Give it a few seconds, and sure enough the surge bar (a ‘temporary’ fix on his part, plugged into the one good socket) would go off in anticipation, shutting down both small appliances. Recalling this, he flicked off the kettle immediately, choosing instead to melt the square a bit first, before putting the water back on to boil.

    Happy now Marjie?  Fracking fire hazard. Everything, even the smallest thing--so damned complicated. Larry’s tall lanky frame settled miserably onto a kitchen island stool. What’s that saying? A watched pot never boils?  

    His fingers tapped nervously on the counter, the silence in the place deafening. For a moment, pieces of balled lint on his old cardigan absorbed his attention. He picked at them, frustrated by the abundance. Finally flicking the last one off, it dawned on him that he hadn’t changed his clothing for two days—could’ve been three?  He was too emotionally exhausted to remember. Or care.

     At last. The small repast was ready. Placing the warm gooey treat on a dessert plate and finding a napkin to wipe off the residue (Damn! Sticky fingers!), he devoured the ‘sweet’ in three bites flat. Hardly worth the effort. The sugar rush however, triggered a desire for more. Into a cup of newly made Earl Grey tea, Larry squirted a long stream of golden maple syrup, prompting another of Marjie’s reprimands in his head: ‘That‘s only for baking and pancakes; it’s too expensive for ‘every day’ use. Use the Stevia.’

     Larry shifted his butt on the hard kitchen stool.  He felt guilty, almost disrespectful.  Chopping a bit of ginger methodically into small pieces, he dropped it into the brew—that was how Marjie liked her tea. Clasping the mug with both hands and taking long draughts of the steaming liquid, he argued rebelliously back at her:  Maple Syrup should be an EVERYDAY event. From now on, in this house, it will be.

      He checked himself almost immediately.

     Blasphemy. No, no, no! Everything in moderation. No extremes will be tolerated…. Chapter 8, page 140, line 7 of the Employee’s Policy Manual.

     He was about to spout more of the Credo, when the phone rang. Long thin fingers raked through oily hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in several days. The brittle sound of the b-r-ring echoed off the walls, the grating racket piercing his eardrums. He paced back and forth in front of the instrument before finally capitulating and picking it up.

     “Hello.” he said tentatively.  This is a mistake…should never have picked...

     “Yeah, hi Lar—me, Tom. Up for some Four-Play?” (Dirty chuckle.)

        Larry grimaced.

      “Whatchasay to a game of golf tomorrow, with Ted and Bill? Already booked.”

      Only Tom, the jerk from down the street. Play it cool… Larry took a deep breath and tried to

 assume a natural tone: “Umm, sure why not. Be good to get out, I guess.”

    “Marj going to put up a fight this time? Ya barely made it to the club the last time—thought

you two had gotten up to no good.”  Tom snorted suggestively.

     “No--ooo.  Should be fine. She won’t object. “

     “I can pick you up around 10 –it’s not one of Ted’s early morning ‘Tee’s’ thank God. Bring that driver I like to borrow will ya?”

     “Sure. Will do, but I’ll meet you there--at the club. Have an errand to run before the game.”

      “Can’t ya put it off? I don’t mind dropping ‘round—my turn to drive. “

     “Umm…part of my errand. I need to have something checked on the, ah, (suddenly inspired) alternator, and then I’ll come right on up to the club. “

      “Look, you don’t think you’ll be delayed do you?“ Tom sounded hesitant, like he was thinking ahead to a possible situation; “We really want to start at 10 and do just the 9 holes. I don’t think Ted and Bill would be all that happy if they had to wait. We wanted to play that time slot so’ s to have at least part of the afternoon free. We’ve all got stuff on later...”

      Larry could hear the anxiety building in Tom’s voice. He figured Tom was more concerned with his own agenda —it had nothing to do with Ted or Bill. He replied, laying it on as thick as he dared: “Hmm, you know Tom, I can’t really say whether I’ll be held up or not—been hearing funny sounds in the engine this week and this is really the only time I can take it in. Trouble with having only the one car I guess, but I am kind of concerned, especially if Marjie was to drive the thing.  Sure like to play with you guys though.” Then, pausing for effect he exhaled deeply; “You know, I wouldn’t want to spoil the day for the rest of you fellas--if I did get held up in the shop I mean. Maybe it IS best if I miss this one. I bet you can still get Alex though-- you know how he and Bill love razzing each other. Always good for a laugh.”

      Larry waited with baited breath…

     “Hey, that’s not a half bad idea.”  Tom was obviously relieved his day’s schedule was still intact. (Larry’s lip curled at the fake commiseration that followed.) “Well you look after your car Lar –wouldn’t want any accidents—and I’ll call you up, maybe next week. Think I’ve just got time to catch Alex before he commits to something else. Say ‘Hi’ to Marj for me: Pitter Patter, Better get at ‘er, eh Lar…”

      The double-entendre hung in the air uncomfortably for a long moment before Tom hung up with a coarse laugh.

      Larry put the handset down gingerly on the receiver, much relieved himself although sweating profusely.  Turning away, he stepped back suddenly again, taking the phone off the hook altogether and laying it on the console. Thank God for landlines. No cells for him and Marj—he had absolutely forbidden it and she’d reluctantly agreed: ‘Well if you think clients really will be calling day and night? ‘

      He took a quick look out the front Bay window, standing well to the side of the sheers.

     Car’s in the garage. Lights off at the front of the house. Place to all intents and purposes, unoccupied. So; no more distractions. Get on with it. Get back to work. Got to.

      Making his way down the corridor Larry stopped at the door leading to the basement, still ajar. A slight odour assailed his nostrils. He couldn’t place it, at first. Then he shut the door firmly.  I’ll see to that later, tomorrow. Domani.

     His gaze reverted to his home office at the end of the hall, but still he didn’t move.   Instead Larry looked at a photograph hanging at eye level on the hall wall, willing it to offer the same degree of love and security he’d drawn from Marjie in the flesh. 

    Me and Marj, he sighed, in Mexico. Marj on the beach. Hot that day. Happy.   He tried to conjure up those feelings now, but if anything, the effort intensified the emptiness within. 

           Eventually, he found himself before the threshold of his study.  Larry put one hand on the knob, then awkwardly shifting the mug of tea in the other, both hands. In his mind’s eye, it was like opening the door of a steel vault, with all the heavy resistance of 1000 lbs of dead weight behind it. When the door did swing open however, he was taken by surprise with the actual ease of it. Just a regular door, opening normally. Nothing strange about that. Straight in front of him, the green light on the Computer was blinking away, Gatsby-ish. The machine was ‘ON’ and beckoning, despite the blank screen saver.

      Larry managed to put one foot into the room, then the other. The hand cradling the mug was shaking and tea was spilling on the rug below. Marjie won’t like that.  The office chair swiveled slightly toward him. Before he knew it, it had him in its hard embrace, and his spirits sunk knowing more of him would disappear before he got up again.

      His free hand had landed on the mouse. Unaware he was stroking it,  his gaze fell upon the coffee stained paper he had tacked up facetiously on his bulletin board --- was it really only 12 months ago-- when he’d first been recruited.  It was Spock’s iconic last words to Jim Kirk in Star Trek III: 

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.

Drawn mercilessly to note the time on the wall clock, he grasped on to that piece of trekkie kitsch like a drowning man onto a life raft. Inexorably, he pressed down on the mouse.

      As the relentless screen images flashed in front of him, another part of his brain took on the familiar comforting memories of Narnia’s Stone Table; Frodo; The Lone Ranger?  If he thought long enough about those implied sacrifices, his own might be comparable?

     Images came and went, the sound of the mouse click every 10 seconds permanently saving or consigning to oblivion.  Larry had to remind himself that it wasn’t just one individual, but 10,000 strong, spread out globally like himself -- hidden in plain sight-- keeping the internet clean for the majority of users. The job? To rid the world of the filthy sediment stirred up by bottom-feeding members of humanity –child porn, snuff films, Isis beheadings, sensational lethal accidents-- prurient images of all kinds: stills, videos, oral recordings…

      Us, the Moderators; we’re the real Jedi’s of the Universe.

      He had tried to keep his role in perspective, but gradually over time--- burnout was prevalent in this business—one lost one’s immunity to the horror, even one’s own humanity. This was the price the Moderators paid so others might keep theirs. The world could continue to use ethernets as the utopic communications tool it was originally meant to be, not the degrading morass it would be if men and women like him didn’t patrol the swampy bayous of the Internet, preventing Dark Net penetration or overlap.  

     Click! Click! Click! The rule was no more than 10 seconds, and then make your decision, Delete or Allow. Different cultures, politics, morals all came into play—what should go and what could stay. In the training, he’d had to memorize the thick Manual backwards and forwards in order to make such swift cuts. Once you sat down, you were obligated to finish your shift—an hour stretched into eternity-- and when you logged out, another Moderator assigned to that particular sector, logged on so that there was always 24/7, 365 days of the year monitoring.

      Unfortunately, Larry noticed too late during the last honour killing video (a garrotte and fiery inferno), that he had forgotten to key his office door as he usually did when he left it. Marjie was under the impression---carefully cultivated by Larry---that her husband worked from home as an on-line consultant, and consequently had never seemed to mind that he locked his office.  She SAID she understood that I couldn’t be disturbed.  What good was whinging now?  

      Marj! Was it my fault I couldn’t get it up in bed (for months)?  I tried to live a normal life…

     Larry suddenly realized how she must have seen him, the whole situation. His fumbling attempts to socialize with Tom and his friends, at her insistence. A decreasing ability to connect with the life around him. Any attempts by Marj to   discover the root cause of his growing discontent and depression only provoked anger and resentment. He could not tell her. Indeed, he could unburden himself to no one-- wife, friend, psychiatric counsellor.  Whether he suffered from PSTD or not, he was legally and morally obligated to carry on. He was pretty sure he’d have an unfortunate accident if even a hint of a breakdown reached his anonymous bosses. How he longed to come out of the cold…

     Mega companies like Facemail and Boggle would never acknowledge his own or his colleagues’ existence, although there were rumours beginning to circulate, and leaks of other sorts had precipitated some minor transparency. How could these Titans admit to a more major form of censorship on what was considered THE democratic experience and primary human right of the new century?

      New recruits were forced to sign lengthy non-disclosure policy documents with codicils unwritten but rumoured to carry dire consequences. The ‘Gods’ needed the Moderators to keep individuals and families using the net –not to be frightened off of it.  It was one thing to see fictional scenes of death and destruction at the cinema, another to be confronted by the stark reality of actual torture, dog baiting, satanic practises, captured in HD or 4K for the consumption of any age group at the ease of a Click.

     Often, Larry likened himself to the Dutch kid with his finger in the dyke, championing old values. His head was splitting. Frig it! Still an hour plus to go. He had to finish up his tour of duty. Larry hadn’t missed a day of split shifts since he started. 

     He loathed and abhorred the work, but he was literally bound to do it. If he ceased, who knew what could creep onto Ethernets, what innocent minds would be permanently scarred—Larry knew what it had done to him. It couldn’t happen on his watch. He wouldn’t let it.

     If only Marj’s curiosity hadn’t got the better of her.  He’d been so unforgivably stupid to leave the door unlocked that day. Larry knew she suspected, incorrectly, that he had become addicted to porn (Would that had been the truth); why he no longer was interested in her sexually, their life together.  But, when she stumbled back-- hand to mouth to prevent crying out at what she saw on his computer screen, he knew there was no explanation he could give her, either personally or professionally. Larry rose up in frustrated anger –she was jeopardizing their life, his work--- and grabbing her shoulders, knocked her against the door intending only to march her out of his office, but his reaction had been swifter and more violent than intended.  Mirroring shaking baby syndrome, her head boomeranged back and forth with unnatural speed, smacking so hard against the wood trim that her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed like a rag doll on the floor. He had stared at the blood on the wall uncomprehendingly for long moments, and when he was finally able to drag his attention away from that, to Marj herself lying crumpled at his feet, to his abject horror he found no pulse. His wife was dead. 

     In the moment, Larry had stepped back from the scene abstracted, detached.  His job revolved around similar images. He couldn’t spare the time to deal with ‘IT’ then; his shift wasn’t over for 45 minutes. Instead, after quickly dragging the body to the cellar door and letting it tumble down the stairs like a slinky toy in slow motion, he’d returned to his office, sat back down in front of his screen, and began the automatic ‘clicking’.

      What was she thinking? Goddamit Marjie! Who knows what got on to the ‘Net’ while I was away from my desk?

      He would attend to the disposal later.  Right now, he had more important things to do. 

     Click. Delete. Click. Allow. Click. Allow. Click. Delete. Click. Delete….

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ARE YOU a 'Bobber' ? (*Someone who's head bobbles away while nodding off  on the bus, subway, train or plane ) Want to be able to bury your head instead in small volumes of eclectic short stories or novellas that will divert and engage while waiting to depart, on route, or post arrival ?  Well, you're in luck .

Quick-E's : Yarns Short Enough to Finish in One Sitting

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Expect Quick-E's - Vol. 1: SMORGASBORD  IN  2023.  

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WAIT FOR IT !

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Sorry , unavailable at this time --currently under development . Coming 2023...

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