Blogs by John Morris Benson | Octogenarian Writer

But wait! I’ve been notified of another rejection, thus number 19 in this series of those not accepted by journals for publication.
Lest anyone feels I’m dejected by rejection, I’m not trying to earn a living by writing. I’ve already done that in another era of my life. FYI, my technical writing time was financially productive.

Body Paint

“What should we do with the body?” Philip Parker didn’t usually ask before starting a project, but his cousin Bobby Behr’s reply was, “I asked Ennis Flint’s fiancé Kelly Moore and she suggested black for the body. Metallic green would probably be best for the restored fenders we have for the Ford.”

“You always suggest some kind of green, Behr. Don’t you know there are other colors? And I don’t think green was one of the stock fender colors for the 31s.”

“I was being facetious with the metallic. I know this is a serious project for a high prize in the show, Parker. We should have the car club meeting early and take a consensus. I’ll call co-chair Akzo Nobel if you’ll call Benjamin Moore and have them call a meeting with Sherwin Williams. Sher can go over the books with them to see if the club can afford to repaint both the body and trim.”

“OK, then, Behr said. “I’ll call Farrell Calhoun and get the history on Model A trim. He and Yancy Yenkin did a study after Andria Axalta challenged him a coupla years ago on 20s and 30s Chevy colors.”

Secretary Denelda Dunn-Edwards read the minutes of the most recent meeting after the co-chairs Noble and More harmonized the call to order and opened the Miller City Dyestuff Car Club special meeting. Kenny Kansai moved that approval of the minutes be tabled until the next regular meeting. Victoria Valspar seconded the motion, and the vote was in favor.

The co-chairs harmonized the question: What should we do with the body and trim colors?

Ennis Flint was first to chime in. “We just painted it last year! I say we just Simonize and call it done!”

Vincent Vogel stood saying, “I move to strip it to raw metal, re-prime it and use original formula product.”

The co-chairs harmonized, “Is there a second?”

Hans Hentzen seconded the motion.

Co-chair Nobel said, “Explain your reasoning, Vincent.”

Co-chair More echoed, “Explain your reasoning, Vincent.”

Vogel said, “We can help ensure a prize by being very close to authentic with Black for the body and maroon for the fenders and trim stripe. Yancy told me that he and Farrell found the Ford formulas when they researched the car colors. But we’ll have to make our own paint, because none of the paint companies I contacted will make a onetime run.”

After a number of colorful comments, the vote was unanimous.

As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder.
Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
It is a fact that I have opinions – or is it?

I’ve decided to let anyone interested, or even those disinterested to know the status of my writing and other projects.

I’m reasonably sure this post will be interpreted as post-posting some of my short stories. Yup, it is! However, ¹Did anyone notice that I use ‘however’ quite frequently? I am compelled to mention that the 18 I’ve most recently posted are rejections, but I’ve written more. To paraphrase the TV show 60 Minutes, ‘those stories and more’ will be in a book probably called A Collection of Shorts: But Not Clothing of a Certain Length.

I also have a historical novella/novel ²borderline word count in beta reading status: the story of a young Russian set in the early 1800s history of the American North Pacific Coast and events that lead to the settlement of Ft. Ross, CA.

Deadlines are approaching for a short I’ve started for The First Line Literary Journal and one for its sister The Last Line. And I’m strongly considering responses to a pair of Chicken Soup for the Soul callouts.

I’ve not set a timeline to finish the started collection of short story book or the ‘in beta’ book. However, there is another time-user facing me. Pears and grapes will not put themselves on hold for me or anyone. As stated, the ripening cycle has no respect for time allocated to humans of any age. Not complaining, but I’m ready to comply with nature.

Here is a recent true story:

This is the link to my August 15 “Everybody Has A Story” in the Vancouver Columbian.

Oh dear, what do I post about next?
As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder.
Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
It is a fact that I have opinions – or is it?

It’s my current opinion ³Kawho! It is a fact! that I should avoid stating my opinions so no one gets a feeling that I’m presenting a deliberate misinterpretation of a noun’s ⁴The object of ‘of’ could be common or proper. meaning. So now, I’m asking myself, “Self, can an inanimate object such as a word without further definition possess something?”

Of this I’m sure; well, as sure as an octogenarian can be; my posting ⁵notice the gerund protocol blogs will be random again.

I

This is part six of the 18th and final post in this series of those not accepted by journals for publication.

Sham

Part Six

I mulled around the office in a slump about my pair of careers. I certainly had little to write about my being a PI. I tried a direct call to C-gibs and after the response I expected, ring-ring-ring, I sent another text and E-mail. Same old, same old!

The rent was due. I recognized the lesson in bad economic practices I was having and transferred the amount from savings. On the way to the micro-brew pub I gave Mr. Fender a check from my personal account.

A pair of blue tarp acquaintances were pushing their bikes up the street, so I decided to get to know them better if they allowed it. Neither hesitated at my invitation to get burgers or anything within reason from the menu. I ordered a house IPA and made a hand gesture indicating it was OK for them to order a drink also.

The Nam vet Guild said, “That’s part of what got me where I am. But I’d appreciate any cola.”

Martin ordered a house light, saying, “Don’t like beer much, but it’s something to sip so no one questions why you’re in their booth. They were both light on my pocket by ordering a mid-price cheeseburger with all the free toppings.

Guild told me, “For calorie intake, guys like us top with all the free condiments available.”

Neither Martin nor Guild played out a sad story to me and I didn’t ask questions. I just wanted to observe and bridge a little trust. I knew word would get around and might be helpful if I did need more ‘on the street’ information.

The dressed for attention at Sam Malone’s bar server asked, “Seconds on drinks?”

Almost in unison our heads nodded no, and she presented the ticket to me as I’d asked earlier. As soon as she was on to the next booth, Guild asked me, “Mind staking us to coffee to go?”

“I’ll make it three so it doesn’t look awkward for you,” I told him. After having the paper cups delivered, I left cash with 20% over and we left.

Outside, Martin asked, “Still looking for that missing girl?”

Guess I might have gained some trust, I thought.

It wasn’t, as you’ve read, what I was hired for, but I said, “yes,” anyway. “How’d you know about that?”

“Mr. Fender,” Guild said. “He said his Mrs. told him.

“You know him…”

“Sort of. He lets us park out back of the place because we keep an eye on things during the night. He gave us a flip phone to call with if there’s anything suspicious.”

“But,” Martin added, “We didn’t say anything to him about that man coming out of your place and being picked up in that more than a year’s pay for most workers Lexus.”

I asked if they saw the driver. Neither did.

After a month, I was resigned to the fact that C-gibs was into me for a Grand of expenses, and the probability of getting it was like betting against Usain Bolt in a foot race. Good thing is that having to take only two marshaling trips I’d made rent and paid myself for the month I’d taken from my personal account.

Remember my telling you that the case would take a turn no one could have expected. I learned much later about names playing into the events. I’ll probably never know if C-gibs ever knew there was a duet by Gibson and Gretsch.

After Philip Gretsch and I separated at Dulles, he met Carver Gibson by the Reflecting Pool. “Have any trouble,” Gibson asked, “getting out of town?”

“No,” Gretsch said, “but I was a little concerned because that nose Cassie hired was on my flight. Good thing she pointed him out at the graduation, otherwise I wouldn’t have recognized him. How are the Fenders playing out for you?”

“Fred arranged for us to meet with Taylor and Rickenbacker for data on the startup rollout,” Gibson replied.

“The Seagull involved?”

“Could be,” Gibson said, “But I know for sure that Paul Reed Smith was tuned out and said he couldn’t get here.”

Washburn approached and blended into the conversation, “What a flight. Weather impact either of you? Think we’ll get any kind of Ovation for just showing up?”

Gibson took the lead saying, “I don’t credit my ESP, but it’s not likely. The brass doesn’t seem to appreciate us.”

Are you still wondering about the missing girl?

Her Mariachi band caught a flight to Cabo San Lucas where she’d be playing her Lucida Guitarron in a paid gig the day after the graduation she skipped. Any guesses who bought tickets for the band and wasn’t available to answer calls, etc.?

I sure was strung along in the sham. How about you?

-end of the sham-

As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder.
Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
It is a fact that I have opinions – or is it?

This is part five of the 18th in this series of those not accepted by journals for publication.

Sham

Part Five

I called the Federal Air Marshal Service to get back onto the on-call roster and was given a flight the next day to DC. (Forgive me for not mentioning my part time job earlier.)

The FAMS supervisor didn’t give me a specific person to be watching, “just do the basics.” My surprise was intense as seeing a gator in a Minnesota snowbank when I saw who was boarding ahead of me – Phillip Gretsch. I had a bucket full of questions I’d not ask aloud. Could I report his being on the flight and bill C-gibs for my time on the flight? Would his daughter Melissa be on the flight? Should I report to TSA and FAMS that I had an oral contract to watch Gretsch for another reason.

I boarded with the first-class paying customers and went to my aisle seat two rows behind Gretsch. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, I hit the restroom so I could do a video with the camera mounted in the frame of the nonprescription glasses I wore for the flight. There was an auto upload to FAMS, but I could have a tech friend get me a truncated copy for proof to C-gibs that I was on the job for her. A little later, when the first-class restroom was busy, I walked the aisle of business and coach class glancing side to side to get an answer to one of my questions. I didn’t see Melissa, but I’d only seen a picture of her so my recognition would not necessarily be positive.

Being conflicted when landing at Dulles is an understatement. FAMS required check in immediately after the flight, but my contract with C-gibs was to watch Gretsch. Well, Gretsch didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave the deplaning gate immediately. I took a genre watching scenario with a folded USA Today to see if Mellissa deplaned with the coach class and joined him.

My FAMS dedicated ringtone, Chet Atkins’ Mr. Sandman, interrupted my observation activity. FAMS paid me a little under $500 for the flight to DC and return home via Boston, St. Louis, and Denver. It doesn’t take an Einstein to do the math difference if I could count the hours just to DC at the rate I’d quoted C-gibs.

Upon arrival at the office and catching an extended full night of Zs, I sent C-gibs a text and E-mail. I got no response, but I slept 12 hours.

As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder.
Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
It is a fact that I have opinions – or is it?

This is part four of the 18th in this series of those not accepted by journals for publication.

Sham

Part Four

C-gibs showed no overt signs of recognition when I walked up the stadium stairs next to “the Hatfield and McCoy” and took a seat on the aisle two rows above where they turned to sit. She and her ‘body part Phillip’ took their seats in near silence. I moved down one row so I could hear their conversation if any. The camera wasn’t the attention getter I thought it would be – the stands were full of parents with equipment some of which made mine look like C&W amateur night with $10 guitars.

There was a tap, tap, tap, from the overhead speakers and a man wearing a black robe and multiple sashes spoke from behind a school-colors podium, “Welcome parents, honored guests, staff and graduates. I’m Superintendent Yamaha.”

He continued after introducing each of the people seated on the platform, “The Chowder River High School Brass Band will accompany the class to their seats with its rendition of the traditional procession Pomp and Circumstance. If you look to my right, CRHS Vice Principal Ibanez will release students four abreast from the home team locker area. Post ceremony event locations are on the back of your programs. Please stand to honor their accomplishment as they pass in front of you.”

Melissa didn’t enter the field and her name wasn’t called. When C-gibs and her former rushed out before the recessional, I suspected the daughter’s not showing was something significant. I had no idea how to find out if Melissa had been dropped by the school or if she’d just taken off.

I recognized Ibanez from her part in the ceremony and thought I had an answer to my question. I did a bold-face, saying, “I didn’t see my niece Melissa Gibson in the procession and didn’t hear her name announced. Did she perhaps get her diploma under her birth name Gretsch?”

“Can’t discuss that,” she said, “but the rest of your family is talking to security in room S31 down the hall to the right.”

The VP left and had conversations with several as I moved like a slug after morning lunch to where she’d directed me. I could only imagine the atmosphere in the room where combatants were seeking the same answers from campus security. Two regular officers passed me in the hall and knocked on the door. I left knowing I’d just have to wait for C-gibs to make contact.

After two days, I didn’t know anything except what was in a news article about the girl being missing. Considering that the family would be involved in a search, I didn’t expect an immediate call from C-gibs. Two days later, I sent her an E-mail asking if I could help with the search in any way. She didn’t respond to a text either. The micro-brew pub crowd talked about the incident for two more days of IPAs and burgers then I heard no more.

I wondered if Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, and Philip Marlowe, were more than the imaginations of Hammett, Spillane, and Chandler when the authors let them solve their first real cases. Whatever the shamus’s experiences before going private, has escaped my memory if it was ever mentioned at all in any episode. Like I said before this was just my second paying venture.

A noise in the office woke me with a start. My mind flipped. Wonder if someone tougher than I will beat me up and like one of the book PIs, I’d recover fully in an hour or so. I reached to the nightstand for my heater, gat, roscoe – I hadn’t yet decided what to call the 5-round snub-nose .38 revolver I’d picked up the day my PI license was approved. I’d already called the Walther CCP 9mm Roscoe, so that was out until I got rid of it. (My usual carry is a Glock 19, but I wanted something a little smaller. Nah! I just liked the idea of having more than one heater.)

The creek of the floor where I stepped echoed like a 100 ft. fir crashing in the forest – well, I thought it did. I heard my apartment/office door close and footsteps on the stairs as I slipped past the dividing screen in my boxers.

My alarm system should have worked. If I had been more careful reading the instructions, I would have known it could be disabled remotely. But it was tied to my phone and laptop. Well, my being too loose on passwords was probably an issue, but how could my simple IamPIcaf3# be used by someone else.

-end of part four-

As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder.
Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
It is a fact that I have opinions – or is it?

Short Story 19 of …

Body Paint

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Well Then, …

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Short Story 18f of …

Sham

Part Six

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Short Story 18e of …

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Part Five

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Short Story 18d of …

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Part Four

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Body Paint

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Sham

Part Six

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Part Five

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Part Four

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