“Can I borrow your car?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Mine’s not reliable,” he said.

“Which one?” I said.

“What?”

“Which car do you want to borrow, the Subaru or the Infiniti?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

My son was being polite.

“Your choice,” I said.

“The Subaru then,” he said. “I’m in charge of the music at the wedding. You’re coming, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“The wedding’s at Log Haven in Millcreek canyon,” he said. “It might snow.”

“The Subaru is a good choice then,” I said. . .

The wedding was lovely. We left after the bride and groom danced, but before they cut the cake.

The road was covered with snow on the trip up the canyon, but it was clear as we started back down. I wasn’t driving fast, no more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. We came around a corner, and I felt the car losing traction, I knew instantly it was black ice, and not just a little. It was like finding yourself on an Olympic sized ice rink when you thought you were in an easy chair just watching the show. I was having trouble keeping the car on the road. The car skidded to the right, I steered right, the car skidded left I steered left, but still no traction. We continued to gain speed. Gravity, and the ice were working together and not to our benefit. A car came around the corner up the canyon. I could see the terrified look on the passenger’s face as we passed just inches a way. I thought we might end up in the creek. I thought we might even roll if we went over the embankment. I thought, this is serious.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join together this car and this bridge abutment.

We survived. The damage to the car was considerable while we escaped with minor injuries. The seat belts may have saved our lives.

A county sheriff told us we were the only ones to have trouble with the ice. He came down the canyon just minutes after us and didn’t encounter any black ice. We should have stayed for the cake cutting.

The news of our close call spread rapidly. A few days later I heard from my cousin.

“I heard you were in an accident,” she said. “ I’m so glad you are ok. Do you remember the tale Granddad B liked to tell about black ice?”

“I don’t,” I said.

Dad was coming home and hit a patch of black ice, slammed into a cow that rolled over the windshield, smashing the roof on its way over. By the time he got home, a neighbor had already gotten through on the party line to tell Granddad about the accident. ‘Course the tale had been a bit garbled by the time Granddad heard it. In the version he heard, it was a guy was hit.

Dad came home, and was asked “Is it true Son? Did you hit him?” My dad laughed and said, “I think it was a she, but yep, I sure did. She rolled right over the windshield, and she’s sure enough dead all right!” He laughed again, and said, “but it’s ok, the car’s a bit dented but drives ok.”

I went to the salvage yard today to recover some personal items from the Infiniti. The insurance company said it was totaled. The change was gone, but the CDs, a sunshade for the windshield, a scrapper for ice and snow, miscellaneous receipts, an air gauge, and a Swiss army knife were still there. It was opening the trunk when the memories flooded back. The bumper sticker told the story. Obey Gravity it’s the law.

I picked up a new car today a Hyundai Elantra, the bargaining was fierce. I offered, he counter offered, I added features that he should include at the same price, he agreed but only on the condition that I buy him a box of Twinkies®.

“What color have you decided on?” he said.

“I’d go with the red, but police ticket red cars more often than others,” I said.

It’s a myth, he said.

“Okay, red then,” I said, “but you pay for any tickets.”

I returned a few days later to complete my part of the bargain, the Twinkies®.

“Thanks,” he said and laughed. “How are you liking your car?”

“I like it,” I said.

“Got any tickets yet?” he said and smiled.

“No, no tickets,” I said, “but a patrol car has been following me ever since I left your lot last week.”

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“Can’t believe what?” he said.

“I’m getting gray, my hair is turning gray,” she said.

He reached out and touched her hair, “I know,” he said.

“Yes of course that, but also down there,” she said, and looked down.

“Down there,” he said.

“Yes down there,” she said.

“I guess our hair turns gray wherever it is,” he said. She laughed.

He laughed and started singing—the old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be. . .

She frowned, and then she smiled, and then they laughed.

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Have you ever worked on a farm or delivered a newspaper? What do you think of if I say moving pipes? Have you ever received a call from a collection agency? Did you shoot birds with a bb gun when you were younger? Do you still shoot birds? When you were a child did you know anyone who hung a cat from a clothesline? How did he turn out? Was his name Jeffrey? Have you ever propelled your body through water using your limbs? Have you done it in a canal, a river? Do you even know how to swim?

Do you ever wonder where George Bush is at this exact moment? Do you care? Is Barack Obama doing a good job? Do you think Hillary would have done a better job? How about John McCain? Have you ever doused yourself in gasoline and threatened to set yourself alight? Do you ever think about what it would be like to stand on Sarah Palin’s front lawn and look at Russia? Would you buy a used car from Sean Hannity? Would you shack up with Ann Coulter? If you wouldn’t buy a used car from Sean Hannity would you buy one from Joe Liebermann or Claire McCaskill?

Do you use the phrase “begs the question” when you mean to raise the question? Do you understand the term bad faith as it applies to existentialism? Do you substitute playdough for Plato when speaking of the Greek Philosopher? If I say Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates can you place them in the proper chronological order? Are you tired of all the questions? Do you wonder what prompted this silliness, this interrogative mood?

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The Magpie is a very intelligent bird. It is reported to be able to recognize itself in a mirror. And so when my Grandmother told me that if my zipper was ever down a Magpie would see it, I believed her.

“It’ll be on you in a flash,” she said

“It has a long sharp beak,” she said.

“Mark my words,” she said.

I think she was fibbing about the beak being long, but I had no doubt that it was sharp.

I wasn’t going to take any chances. I knew I’d rather wet my pants than pee outside, and skinny dipping and streaking were out too. Streaking is a loser’s game. Who thinks they can run faster than a magpie can fly?

Years later, I’d overcome the fear, but I still kept an eye out for magpies. I was also leary of crows— they’re close relatives of the magpies. You never no what information they might share at their family reunions.

It’s a father’s duty to protect his children, to pass on important knowledge, and so I’ve recounted the story of the Magpie to my two boys. But, I think I’ve told it too many times.

“Oh no, not the Magpie story again,” they say.

“It’s important,” I say, “wisdom for the ages.”

“Dad”

“Yes”

“Just zip it.”

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My accidental entry into a life of crime started ordinarily enough. . .

“Do you need anything from the store?” I asked. “We’re out of diet-coke. I’m going to get some. I’ll pick up some bread and cat litter too. Anything you’d like me to add to the list?”

“Buttermilk,” she said in an uncharacteristically insistent tone, “A small carton of buttermilk. And if you come home without it you’ll be taking me out to dinner.”

I sometimes forget an item or two when I go shopping.

I like going out to dinner, but I didn’t want to go today. I was reading “How to Breathe Underwater” a collection of short stories by Julie Orringer and wanted to get back to it.

When I got to the store, I headed straight for the dairy department and put the buttermilk, a small carton, in my cart.

Next, I headed for the bakery department. Everyone’s favorite place. And today the scene of the crime. When I got there, it was gridlock and no traffic cops in sight. There were carts parked everywhere.

I parked my cart walked over and picked up a couple of loaves of bread. I went to the next aisle and picked up some cat litter. I skipped the paper products and frozen food sections and turned into the beverage aisle and picked up the diet-coke.

As I left the aisle, an old lady, a loaf of bread tucked under her arm, came around the corner without her cart.

She walked straight to the nearest store employee, poked him in the arm, and said, “Someone stole my cart.”

“What?” he said.

“Are you deaf,” she said. “Someone stole my shopping cart, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll help you find it,” he said. “But we might have to get you a new one. Someone might have accidentally taken it.”

“What kind of an asshole steals an old lady’s cart?” she said, and poked him again.

I started laughing. Yes, what kind of asshole would steal an old lady’s cart, I thought.

I finished up in the produce department adding Brussels sprouts, broccoli, oranges and bananas to my shopping cart and headed for the checkout.

When I got home I put the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and headed back to my favorite chair and to my book.

A minute later my wife said, “Where’s the buttermilk?”

“It’s in the bag,” I said. “Are you blind?”

“No it’s not,” she said “and since when did you start buying Metamucil?”

“Metamucil, I didn’t buy any Metamucil,” I said.

“Then what’s this?” she said. “And come in here and show the blind lady the buttermilk.”

I reluctantly got up and went into the kitchen.

I looked in the bag. There was no buttermilk. There was however a canister of Orange Smooth Texture Sugar Free Metamucil, 220 teaspoon doses.

“You’ll never believe what happened,” I said.

“You can tell me at the restaurant,” she said.

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The squares are each designated by a letter and a number, sixty-four squares. The rows are labeled “a” through “h” and the columns “one” through “eight.” The square in the lower left is a1 while the one at the top right is h8

They’re tough streets. Just last week a Bishop was slain at the intersection of Avenue C and 4th Street. And a few days ago, my son, Chris, was there. He got there through the Internet Chess Club portal. I was watching him play.

The Internet Chess Club attracts the best players in the world, and it attracts the rest of us too. Chris was playing a fifteen-minute game. His position was better than his opponent. His opponent had a light square weakness. Chris was exploiting it nicely.

I was watching, and commenting as the game proceeded (talking to myself). Chris couldn’t hear me, but the game would have turned out differently if he had.

The game reached a critical point. His opponent played his Knight to e4 blocking his Queen’s defense of critical light squares. Chris didn’t hesitate, he immediately played his Queen to f3 threatening mate on g2.

His opponent moved his Knight to g5 attacking the Queen and the Bishop, and preventing the mate on g2.

The move Queen takes the pawn on f2 checking the White King followed.

The King forced to retreat moved to the only legal square, h1, allowing a forced mate.

I was talking out loud again.

“Queen f1 check,” I said. “Rook takes Queen. Rook takes Rook mate.”

He didn’t play it immediately. “Queen f1,” I said, a little louder. I was trying to stay calm—it wasn’t working. “Queen f1,” I shouted.

I kept thinking: He must see it. Why isn’t he moving? What’s he waiting for? He has 12 minutes on the clock, if he’ll just take a minute he’ll see it. It’s a simple calculation—it’s a Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess position.

Finally, he made his move.

“No! Damn I can’t believe you missed that,” I said, as I watched him retreat the Bishop. I couldn’t watch anymore. I disconnected from the chess server, but continued yelling at him. Asking him what the hell was wrong with him.

My wife, hearing the commotion, hurried into the room.

“What’s the matter,” she said, “are you okay?”

“It’s Chris,” I said.

“Is he hurt, what’s wrong,” she said.

I quickly assured her that he was okay.

“He had an easy mate and missed it. I can’t believe it. Two moves I couldn’t watch anymore,” I said.

“A chess game?” she said.

It took me a minute to calm down.

I said, “Chris is coming over later tonight for dinner and a movie. Why don’t you call him and see what he wants to eat. Oh, and while you’re at you could say this. . .”

I wrote down a list of the moves he missed along with my comments, on a slip of paper, and handed it to my wife.

“I have no idea what the moves mean, she said, “but I get the point, he screwed up.” She laughed, picked up the phone and dialed.

“It’s your mom.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Jesus Christ Chris, Queen f1 check!” she said. “And Rook takes Queen, Rook takes Rook mate! What were you thinking?”

I had to laugh. What must my son be thinking, “What fucking game is she talking about? It has to be the one I played on the internet earlier. Dad must have told her what to say.”

“Funny, real funny, mom” he said to her. “Oh and tell dad two can play at this game.”

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I picked up the keys to our room at the front desk, consulted the map of the identical buildings that make up the Virgin River Resort complex, got back in the car and made the two-minute drive to our room in 10 minutes.

I got out of the car and handed the key to our room to my wife, and then pushed the button to open the trunk. I wish I would have taken the key from the ignition to open it, but I pushed the button opening it remotely. The trunk popped open. I got out of the car, took the suitcases out, set them on the ground and closed the trunk. I went to the driver’s door pushed the button to engage the locks and closed it. The key was still inside.

We decided to call a locksmith, pay the price, and then bitch about it on our way home. I consulted the phone book in the room and found the one listing for a locksmith, and called. I explained the problem, gave him our room number, he repeated it, and said he would be there in 45 minutes.

He arrived right on time in his Ford 250 pickup.

“I’m a Chevy man,” I said. I was just making conversation, trying to connect in some way.

He looked at my car, an Infiniti. “You have a truck?” he said.

I didn’t get his point for a minute and then realized that if I was a Chevy guy and my car was an Infiniti I must have a Chevy truck.

“Well, no” I admitted. “When I was younger I liked Chevrolets. The 1955 Bel Air was my favorite.”

” And now you drive a foreign car,” he said. The emphasis was on foreign.

” I do,” I said, a little sheepishly.

His wife was sitting in the cab of the truck. She was staring at the back of my car. I followed her gaze and then looked back at her.

“End Corporate Rule,” she said, pointing at my bumper sticker.

“Right,” I said reading from the sticker “End Corporate Rule, Reclaim Democracy.” I smiled.

She gave me a you-dont-think-you’re-one-of-us look and said, “You don’t look too working class to me.”

“What?” I said.

“You look more like one of them corporate rulers,” she said.

“Oh no,” I said, “I’m very sympathetic to the working class.”

“That’s why you drive—she spit it out, her venomous tongue flickering—an Infiniti.”

Her husband finished unlocking the car. “There you go,” he said, “that’ll be $60.00.”

I handed him three twenties.

“Thanks,” I said.

My wife and I watched as they drove away.

“Do you think he overcharged us,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Sixty dollars seems about right to me, $40.00 for the service, and $20.00 for our union dues.”

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She was angry, really angry. Mom never got angry, not like this, and she never cried, but she was crying.

“What’s wrong Mom,” I said, “you know I’m a good swimmer.”

“That’s not the point, I told you not to go swimming and I expect you to obey me,” she said.

Mom always had good reasons for her rules, she said it was dangerous but wouldn’t say why and being a boy, when my friends asked I went swimming anyway.

It was the year I learned what fear looks like in a mother’s eyes.

The day I went swimming was hot, 90 plus, the year was 1953, and I was eight years old. It was the year polio arrived like a freight train out of control, mowing down thousands of kids, kids my age with paralysis and worse. But, I didn’t know anyone who had the disease and it was hot.

A few years passed and so did my naïveté. Friends contracted the disease, I participated in a trial of a vaccine that would silence the nasty virus, though I had to get vaccinated twice, once in a trial and later when I found that I’d been given a placebo.

It wasn’t so bad, I didn’t get polio and Mom was not quite as worried as she might have been. She told herself that I had the real vaccine.

I called him Davey; the other boys called him gimp. His twisted limbs made walking difficult for him, and painful to watch. He had polio. The disease twisted his legs, and it took a steel brace to make it possible for him to walk.

Note to self, when Jimmy and Joey ask you why you are hanging out with the gimp, tell them he’s your friend, and that his name is Davey. They will laugh at you and tease you, but you don’t care. When Davey wants to join the pickup baseball game, choose him, there are more important things than winning.

The years passed, and I lost track of my friend, and forgot about the handicap he dealt with every day. A few years later I saw him again in high school. The memories flooded back when I saw him “walking” down the hall, the brace still in place. High School was different in some ways. The open taunts were gone, but were replaced by snickers from those who didn’t understand that it could have been them.

We went our separate ways after high school. I saw Davey a couple of times after that, but didn’t stop to talk. And now 40 plus years later I see his obituary in the local paper, his life over, undoubtedly shortened by the disease we all feared so much.

But we never learn, I see well meaning people blaming vaccinations for autism, and other ghastly things. They have no evidence, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They are taken in by the woo. They are taken in by the liars who make their livings catering to fear, not the fear we felt in the fifties before there was a vaccine, but the fear that paralyzes with inaction.

They are afraid, but have learned nothing from the past. They follow the woomeisters. The result is predictable. The childhood diseases are returning, and this time there is no reason for it.

Note to self, it was scientists not movie stars who found the answer to polio. It was scientists who did the hard work to develop the vaccines that time has demonstrated are effective and safe. They are the men and women who understand that correlation is not causation. And now they are being replaced by the woomeisters who haven’t learned the lessons of the past. They are the ones that make their appearances on the TV talk shows spouting bullshit. The celebrities who fancy themselves as experts in fields they know little about. They practice their make believe not just on the screen but where it can destroy lives. They are the ones we need to fear not the vaccines they rail against. If my friend Davey were still here, he would tell them.

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“It’s a wandering eye,” he said.

“What?”

“A wandering eye, I saw you staring. My eye is always looking this way or that, it’s out of sync with the other eye. It’s always been that way,” he said.

“No, I was—”

“Yes it sometimes looks in a different direction, unnerving isn’t it?”

“No, I wasn’t looking at your eye,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he said, “everybody does. No need to feel embarrassed, I’m not. Yep pretty strange looking that. Some people think it’s Lazy Eye but that’s different. That’s Amblyopia, wandering eye is classified as Strabismus, mine is unilateral Strabismus.”

“Can I ask you a question about your wandering eye,” I said.

“Sure, no problem. Education is the key, right? Go for it.”

“Well, I was wondering if your wandering eye can see that bit of spinach stuck between your teeth?”

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He was a salesman who knew he’d lost the sale, but who kept on talking, beseeching the client to listen. He tried to meet the client’s objections, but it was clear his competitor simply had the better product. He knew it was over, but he kept talking.

“Please he said let me tell you, yes I know, yes, but our price, yes but, hold on I have the information right here.”

He popped his briefcase open.

“Yes, what, well, here’s what I can do. Yes I know, no wait.”

He shuffled papers, he didn’t find what he was looking for, his eyebrows raised and his brow rippled.

“We’ve been your supplier for 10 years,” he said, “loyalty.”

He shouted the word.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, let me see what I can do and get back to you. Please, well I’m sure I can work something out. No, we don’t have; yes I understand they do.”

“Please I have a family, yes I know we all have families. Look, what? Please don’t hang up let me do some research and get back to you. Please.”

He sat and looked down at his phone. There would have been a dial tone, but his was a cell phone. He didn’t even get a damn dial tone when he lost the sale, just a mind-numbing silence. He slowly gathered up his papers, put them in his briefcase, looked around to see whether anyone saw that he was crying, and left.

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