Taxi

a short story

by Chip Kussmaul

I wonder how many dreams have ultimately condensed down into driving a taxi. A young suburban high school graduate hits the city, planning on making it big. Acting, writing, painting, musician, who knows what. The city is where their dreams will come true. Actors and singers audition. Writers and painters submit to galleries and contests. They all take classes, intending to make connections as much as to learn.

But in no time at all their savings are gone, spent much more quickly than they anticipated, so they drive a taxi between auditions and classes. Time goes by, and after a while it’s more like they’re auditioning and taking classes in between driving a taxi.

When they first came to San Francisco and people asked them what they do, they said they were an actor. Now people ask them what they do, and they tell them they drive a taxi. But the dream is always there.

I drive a taxi but that’s not me. I was going to be a jet pilot. I was going to go to college, qualify for the Air Force and literally rise above it all.

But things don’t always go according to plan.

Me and Sue. We met in high school, in Mill Valley, back in the nineties. That’s a great age, high school. They used to say, “Old enough to know better, too young to care.” That was us. We were all sure we had control of our future, that dreaming it would make it so. Sue was an actress, starred in every school play. When I think of it, she was always on stage, all the time. She lived with her mother and sister, her father having departed for points unknown.

Something about her. I suppose if you look at just the facts, Sue wasn’t so different from many of us. But she was gorgeous. OK, there are other gorgeous girls. It was just something about Sue, some unfathomable combination of natural born star and girl next door. She could wear her black hair down, all wavey, and wear the latest trendy clothes, and make you think she came from royalty, that you were not to speak to her unless spoken to. Or she could put her hair in a ponytail, wear jeans and a tee shirt, and make you think of her like a sister. She was whatever she wanted to be, whenever she felt like it.

There were about eight of us who hung together, smoking pot and shooting shit. Wherever adults were absent, that’s where we were. Parents’ basements, behind the bleachers. A lot of time at Buster’s Restaurant. Buster was cool. We could spend hours there and spend only a little money. We would discuss our futures, where we were headed. We couldn’t wait to blow out of this little town, go someplace, and make our mark in the world. The world was anxiously awaiting our arrival, helpless without the benefit of our intentions. If talk was all it takes, we’d have ruled the world before we graduated.

Dreams. We all had them. We all talked, reinforced each other, I guess. Blind leading the blind, really. What did any of us know?

We kind of took turns being each other’s boyfriends and girlfriends. It got tense at times, minor skirmishes among the boys, and the girls had their girl issues. We were all learning the ropes, and nobody took any of it too seriously. Sue was a prize worth seeking, but the other girls were just fine, too. We were all building our resumes, I guess, for when we invaded the real world.

But I felt like me and Sue were special. We were too young for a reliable perspective, but I felt it, anyway. I never tried to force it, but I always figured that, in the end, it would be her and me forever.

I said I was going to be a jet pilot. That was my dream. I took some classes at the local airport. I figured I’d be a licensed pilot even before I got to college, and be well on my way to the Air Force after college. But pot got in the way. I took two lessons at the airport, from Buddy Miller. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me. He was ex-military and couldn’t quite adjust to life in the real world. And, well, maybe I couldn’t, either. He smelled pot on me on my third time out and just sent me home and told me to not come back. What an asshole.

But I guess it’s on me. I was going to find somewhere else to train, but it never quite happened. After high school, when I went to college, I’d find a place to train.

We graduated. I look back now, with a little more perspective, and see that we were nothing more than the usual high school kids, doing more dreaming than preparing. Still, those were some great years. Sue moved to LA to hit the bigtime. She had no idea what she would face. Still, she was gorgeous and knew how to draw a crowd, and we figured she’d be a star soon enough. And when she became one, she promised us she’d have us all to her place in Beverly Hills for one hell of a party. I think we all believed it. I know she did.

Me, I went to City College to study applied science. I figured that would impress the Air Force. I was short on funds, and found a job driving a taxi in San Francisco. The trouble with college, and especially applied science, is that you have to study to do well. I never really gave up my party attitude, and I suppose that was the biggest problem. Same for flying lessons. Five more lessons, at a different airport. I was getting pretty good, but they invited me to not come back. Like Buddy, they had a problem with me being stoned.

So, I went to school less, flew less, drove a taxi more. After all these years I can’t pretend I’m a student driving a taxi to get through school. The Air Force is beyond even imagination. I’m a taxi driver. That’s it, that’s all. The funny thing is, my driving record is perfect. I really could fly a jet.

Life goes on, is all. They say that life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. I get it, but the plans slowly evaporated away and now it’s just life, with no plans. But listen to me. I like what I’ve got. I have good friends who know how to party. Various girlfriends who don’t demand too much. I’ve got a good life, even if things didn’t go according to plan.

Anyway one evening, a Saturday, about ten pm, I picked up a fare. It was raining, hard to see, but a middle aged woman flagged me down at the corner near the Hyatt. She got in, sort of water logged in spite of the umbrella. She backed in, bringing the umbrella in after she closed it. She gave me the address in Pacific Heights, and I pulled away from the curb. The light had just turned green, and I had to let a few cars get past me, and then I pulled into traffic.

There was a strange quiet inside the cab. Not noiseless, what with the rain and the sound of tires sloshing, but quiet. The cab interior seemed like a world removed from reality, outside distractions were meaningless in here. In the mirror I saw that the woman was in a rather poor state, makeup a little off, maybe because of the rain. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, in spite of the no smoking sign. It didn’t matter to me. I studied her face in the mirror, finding moments in between watching the road. She was staring blankly out the window.

“You look familiar,” I said. “Have I seen you before?” She could easily have been a star.

She continued to look out the window. “No, I don’t think you’ve seen me before.”

A few moments later, she turned her head and our eyes met in the mirror. We studied each other a moment. In that moment, we recognized each other. It was only a second, but so much passed between our eyes. Her expression changed.

“Sue?” I asked.

“Harry!” she responded. There was a twinge of sadness.

“How long’s it been?” I asked. “Every bit of twenty years.”

She exhaled a steady stream of smoke. “Twenty years...” Something caught her attention outside the window for a moment, then her eyes returned to the mirror. “Things happen in twenty years, don’t they?”

“They sure do.” She was no longer a close friend that I could say just anything to, but what the hell, “So, I was expecting to see your name in lights. I’ve looked for your name, haven’t seen it.”

“No, you haven’t,” she said wistfully. The smoke from her cigarette wafted in front of her face. “I came to LA full of hope. The trouble is, there’s thousands of us, full of hope. I got some parts, but was more of a waitress than an actress. I was sure my career would take off. Maybe it would have, but I got tired of it. I just couldn’t keep trying.”

“Well, you know you tried.”

“Yes, I guess…So, what about you?”

Why was I picking up fares in a cab instead of flying a jet, was what she was asking. “I don’t know. My life got in the way of being a pilot. It started off good. I went to City College to study applied science. And I took some flying lessons. I really can fly a plane, I just don’t have a license.”

She smiled and exhaled all at once. “That would be a problem, I imagine.”

“Turns out, it is. Turns out you have to jump thru a lot of hoops that I’m just not made to jump through. Ability is only part of it. The ability to play the game, go along. That’s the skill I don’t have. I guess I never will.”

She stubbed out the cigarette in something she had in her purse, and closed it up. Considerate. Others would have stubbed it on the floor of the cab. “Play the game,” she repeated absently, looking at nothing in the window. “I guess that’s a skill I didn’t have enough of. I played it, all right. Played and lost. I went to all the right parties, did all the right things, but others played it better. I guess I was never going to be more than a minor leaguer. Sooner or later, you just decide to quit the game.”

I glanced in the mirror. I saw sadness and resolution. She looked at me looking at her. She was exposed in a way she never had been in all the time I’d known her. And she looked better for it. “Life goes on,” is all I could think to say.

“Life goes on,” she confirmed.

We were silent for a moment as I negotiated my way around an accident.

“So, did you ever marry?” Sue asked.

“Yes. Twice. Divorced twice. Perfect record. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m married. Been married for ten years. To a surgeon.”

“That explains the Pacific Heights address.”

She laughed. A sad sort of laugh. “Sure does.”

I waited for more, but she didn’t offer it. So I asked. “How did you end up with a surgeon?”

“How do you think? I needed surgery. Gall bladder, of all things.”

“Most woman who get their gall bladder removed don’t marry the surgeon.” I grinned thru the mirror. “I think you’re leaving out a few things.”

“Less than you might think. I’m attractive, he has money. I wish I could make it sound better than that, but that’s what it is. Don’t get me wrong. We have a good relationship, but my looks and his money are the glue that hold us together.”

Sue said this, and I sensed that she’s said it to herself many times before. At any rate, she was comfortable with it. What more can you ask?

We rode quietly, digesting our discussion. Dreams. Can they come true? Or are they just some opiate that gets us thru a life we never thought of? In the end, we are who we are, all day, every day. Our dreams are not of who we are but of who we wish we were. Sue and I have learned a lot in twenty years. You can’t go wrong with knowing who you are, and living by that instead of by dreams.

The rain had finally stopped as I pulled into her driveway, thru the gate, drove perhaps 250 feet to where the drive circled around a large, tiered fountain. I stopped at the front double doors of the three story mansion.

“Thanks, Harry,” Sue said as she placed her card against the reader.

“If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have started the meter.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She left me a fifty dollar tip. I should have declined it, but I could use it, and she doesn’t need it. “We should get together, talk about old times,” she said.

But she offered no number, and I knew that we wouldn’t. “Yes, let’s get together. Anyway, it’s been great talking with you. Looks like things worked out for you, even if not the way you planned.”

She was out of the cab, looking back in at me, then up at the mansion that dwarfed both of us, and then back in at me. “No, not the way I planned...Take care, Harry.” She closed the door and I pulled away. I could see her in my review. She stood motionless, except to give me a final wave. Some dreams never die.

__________________________________________________________________

People with a certain number of miles on their odometer might recognize this story line. This story is my interpretation of Harry Chapin’s song, “Taxi,” from 1972.

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Laura

a short story by Chip Kussmaul

“Laura, mix me a vodka Collins, would you please?”

Laura regarded Tim with a bit of exasperation, but complied. As she was mixing the drink she looked over the counter at Tim, sitting in front of the TV. His taste in television did not meet her tastes. “Haven’t you had enough of golf for one day.”

“I don’t know why you never learned to like the game. It’s a great way to get out, enjoy some air.”

Laura brought the drink over to him, handed it to him and sat on the companion stuffed chair beside him. She had made herself a vodka Collins and sipped it. She watched a drive off the seventh tee. It carried far and straight. “I can’t imagine bothering to hit that little ball, much less watching someone else hit that little ball.”

The ball made it to the green, rolled a bit past the hole. “I like to watch because I can appreciate what it takes to make a shot like that. And then I like to go out and try to make shots like that.”

“Sounds like a closed loop to me.” Laura took another sip from her drink.

“I suppose it is. But what the hell.”

“I just get tired of seeing the same golf tournament over and over. Sure, I know it’s a different tournament, really, but to me, it’s the same tournament, over and over.”

Tim was distracted by her comments. This wasn’t the first time, and it was getting worse, more frequent. He didn’t want to be distracted during the tournament. Was that too much to ask? “Look, why don’t you find something else to do for now. After this, I’ll take you out. We can have fun together then.”

Laura walked quietly away, went into the kitchen. Good, thought Tim, maybe she’ll fix dinner...Things were just not working out. Two months, it had been. Tim understood the software as well as anyone. The whole idea was to have a droid with a mind of its own. The original models were completely docile, and that made them too predictable and uninteresting. Great effort had gone into creating droids with wills of their own, counterpoints to their master’s will. They had personalities, human-like to a fault. Tim had been told that Laura was not even aware that she was a droid, and he should never let on to her that she was a droid. It could cause problems. Today’s modern droids were essentially indistinguishable from humans. And that’s not all good.

Tim took few more sips from his drink as he watched the last putt drop on seven. He should send Laura back, he thought. He’d given her every chance, and it just wasn’t working out. He needed a droid that wasn’t quite so independent. He thought he might almost prefer one of those older models, the acquiescent ones. He could probably get an older model as a nearly even trade for Laura. He should never have let Robert talk him into taking Laura. Looking back, he could see that Robert was just trying to make a sale, and to hell with meeting Tim’s needs. Tim decided he was definitely going to contact Robert and give him a piece of his mind and insist on an even trade. Let somebody else deal with trying to sort out the bugs in the new models; he’d just take a good old reliable one.

Laura had her good points. Tim guessed that he would even miss her, in some ways. But it had to be done. He would call Robert in the morning.

And his drink was empty. “Laura! I’m a little dry over here,” he called out. “Could you get me another vodka Collins?”

The words were barely out of his mouth, when Laura reentered the room. With Robert.

“Robert!” Tim exclaimed. “I was just thinking of you. I think we’ve got a problem here.”

“I think we do” said Robert. “Laura called, and I came right over.”

Tim gave them both a confused look. First at Robert, then at Laura. “Is this the latest thing? Software that knows it’s deficient, and calls itself in? Laura, did you do that?”

Laura looked kindly at Tim. And sadly. “Tim, I think the world of you. You’re a nice guy. But you have simply failed to meet my expectations. I’ve tried. I’ve given you time. But it’s not working out.”

Tim looked to Robert. “What on earth is she talking about? Can you straighten her out, or what? I knew there was a problem. I was going to call you tomorrow.”

Robert took a step and sat down in the chair next to Tim. He looked kindly at him. “I suppose this is my faut, Tim. We offer the most lifelike experience and, well, that meant making you think you were human. Somehow you got it in your head that Laura is the droid. She’s not Tim…You are.”

Tim stared, disbelieving what he was hearing. He looked up at Laura, and she gave a slow nod, confirming Robert’s words. He looked back at Robert. They were all silent. Then Tim said, “I see… In that case I can see where I haven’t performed up to reasonable expectations.” Tim looked up again to Laura. “I’m sorry, Laura. Sorry to have let you down.”

“It’s OK, Tim,” she said. “You have your good points, but it’s just not working.”

“Of course not.”

“Tim,” said Robert. “Why don’t you come with me. A little reprogramming and we can have you good to go. You’d make a great dog walker.”

“Yes. I suppose so… Whatever you think is best.”

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This story was previously posted at Individualists Unite!

Python

There is an old African legend. Two pythons attacked the same prey, an antelope, and each started to swallow it, one from each end. They met each other in the middle. Pythons can not unswallow; their teeth only allow for them to keep swallowing. After a moment contemplating the conundrum, the larger python kept going, swallowing both the antelope and the smaller python.

Is it a true story? Does it matter? Legends, like fables, teach a lesson. It is the lesson that is true. Count on it.

Honestly, I never figured to be much. People have fantasies of being rock stars and such. And I’ve had them, too. Others will chase those dreams, but not me; there is too much inertia in my spirit. I can hope and dream with the best of them. I don’t try and fail. I don’t try.

That is just a recognition of reality. I’m not coming down on myself, I’m just recognizing the truth. I’m comfortable with it. No stress, no mess.

And let’s face it, I have nothing to stress about. My name is Larry Cantrell. Yes, those Cantrells. I’m not in a direct line with the big man, Arnie Cantrell, I’m his nephew on my father’s side. Close enough. I’ll never have to have a real job.

Sure, I go into the plant, pretend to research improved production methods, and talk occasionally with the production manager, Walt Mathews, who pretends to think that anything I say matters. It’s all a game, but it suits me.

I’ve lived in this town most of my twenty-eight years. Except for two years at a party school upstate. OK, we’re already upstate, but the school is even farther upstate. This town, Lakemont, is nice enough; too small to be a city, too big to be one of those towns where everybody knows each other. But not by much. I suppose I know half the people in this town. And everybody knows the Cantrells.

I was looking forward to an easy enough life, but then a strange, unexpected thing happened. My uncle died. All things considered, apart from the fact that I kind of liked the guy, and he always liked me, his death shouldn’t have upset the apple cart too much. He hadn’t been directly active in the business in years; everything would be all right. His son, my cousin, had been running things, and doing it well for years. Small towns can sink or swim based on one main guy and his ability to run things. But we all knew that the town could carry on without Uncle Lou.

So, no particular angst at his death, but it was something of a surprise, since he had been healthy, and he was only in his sixties. Que sera, and all that. The surprise to me was, Uncle Lou left me a small fortune. I was happy enough to have a secure, do-nothing job for the rest of my life. I never expected an inheritance. That changes things. What should I do now? Just keep on plugging? Move? Travel the world? All of that requires initiative; I was figuring I might not change anything, even with the choices I had available.

Uncle Lou’s will was not public, but in a small town, everybody knows. I got some congratulations; I bought some rounds at the bar…I bought a LOT of rounds at the bar. I was always fairly popular, but now I am more popular. And here, I think, is where it started going to hell.

“Cherchez la femme”, they say. Well, how about two femmes? I had dated Michelle, back in high school. I kind of liked her, but she wasn’t the type to get too attached. She played with me for a while, discovered that my last name didn’t get her anyplace much, so she moved on. I’ve always had a soft spot, but she’s just not the type you want to try to get attached to. I knew it then; I know it now. And now, she’s interested in me again.

And suddenly, Mary wanted to know me better. She was the school ‘good girl’. She was the head cheerleader, student council president, and all-around do gooder. She got married, had two kids, but then got divorced. I really think it was his fault, but then Mary can be a bit much. It must be hard to live with a woman who wants everything to be perfect and will work relentlessly to achieve it. I think, with the divorce, Mary had to adjust her priorities all the way down to becoming interested in me.

That’s right, I have two women chasing after me. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been a loner and I’ve never had a problem with women. They come and go from my life, but then again, I come and go from theirs. It all works out. Life moves on.

I couldn’t resist when Michelle approached me in the bar. I was sitting with some of my usual cohort of friends, and she pulled out a chair and sat beside me.

“Buy me a beer.”

I hadn’t bought her a beer in years. There had been no reason to. Anyway, I bought her a beer. The others at the table smirked. They could see it coming.

“Long time, no see, Michelle,” Mike said. “At least at this table.”

Michelle sucked on her beer and then smiled. “I guess I’ve been busy. Anyway, it’s good to visit with you guys again. We have some catching up to do.” Michelle turned to me. “Right, Larry?”

I glanced at Mike and the others, who were more amused than anything. “Right,” I said. What else was there to say?

So, the evening ended as one might expect when two former lovers rediscover each other. I’m a reasonably intelligent guy, and I’ve been around. But perhaps I can be forgiven for not seeing what I didn’t want to see, even when I should have known better. Who can resist the reigniting of an old flame?

Mary. What a perfect name for such a perfect woman. Even with my family name and the status that it always imparted to me, I always felt like a lesser person in the presence of Mary. She was the real deal. She took charge of her life and of the situation around her, while I simply faked it. She may be the only person I ever knew who attached no significance to my family name. It may even have diminished my standing in her eye.

We went on a date, once. We were still in high school. Mary intrigued me. Forbidden fruit, or some such. OK, maybe it wasn’t so much of a date. It was the mixer after one of the games, but I invited her ahead of time and Mary accepted. We spent the evening together and had a nice time. We talked of all her plans, of her causes. Her ambition knew no bounds, and I was cowed by it. Even as a high school kid I knew that I could never be like her. I didn’t have it in me. I didn’t even want it in me. Life is fine, if you don’t work too hard at it.

But now, these many years later, Mary wanted to get to know me better. She had invited me to her house for dinner as a result of a brief conversation we had at the grocery store. I met her two kids, Biff and Buffy. Just kidding, David and Sarah. They’re six and eight. Doesn’t matter which is which, and they are as polite as you could want two kids to be.

It’s been a year since I became an instant millionaire. I keep my job at the plant, even if I don’t need the money and I’m not good for much there. Force of habit? Feeling of being part of something useful even when I’m not? I don’t know. Why stress? I’ve never felt like quitting, so I haven’t.

I bought a house, at least. I probably shouldn’t have. They’re way more trouble than an apartment. When things go wrong, you don’t just call the manager, you have to figure out who to call, and then handle it all yourself. I did find a guy, Phil. He can handle most things, fix leaks, mow the lawn. And he’s just that kind of guy, a guy who knows how things work, and hangs with other guys who know how things work. So, if he can’t fix a problem at the house, he knows who can. Great guy to know.

He laughed at me once, while we were BS-ing in my kitchen. “Those two women are going to eat you alive. What are you thinking?”

“What? I’ve known both of those girls since we were kids in school. I don’t keep secrets. They know about each other. It’s cool.”

Phil laughed some more. “What planet are you from? Those two are like oil and water. They don’t mix. The only thing they have in common is they want what your money has to offer.”

I was offended, a little. “Since high school,” I said. “There’s some depth, here. You make it seem shallow.”

Phil laughed yet again. This whole thing was amusing to him. “Whatever. But if the money goes, they go. It’s as simple as that.”

I knew he was right. I‘ve always known it. But why be over analytical when you are having such a good time? If I could change anything, I would change nothing. I am not stupid. I’m getting in deeper with two women that I thoroughly enjoy. This is the best time of my life. But can it last? No. Mary wants me to be a father to her two kids. She wants a stable home, my home. She takes me to events that I would otherwise avoid, but I go along because it does make me feel like a better person. And because she wants me to.

Michelle? We hang with the old gang, pretty much. I pay for drinks all around, pretty often. What the hell, I can afford it. And we go off-roading, and to parties and such. It’s a good time. There’s drugs, but we’re all pretty careful about it. Mike OD’ed, but recovered.

But it is occurring to me, I can’t keep living both these two lives. Which one is mine? Both? Neither? Can these two woman continue to share me, unconcerned about each other? In my dreams! No, it won’t stay like this, it can’t. But I’m not smart enough to know what to do about it. So, I just carry on, a day at a time, like I always have. That’s always worked before.

A python’s teeth are one-way. They can’t back off. How rare is it, that two pythons both devour the same prey, one from each end? I wonder about the final thoughts of the goat, or the antelope, or whatever it is that pythons eat. I guess they just accept it. What else can they do?

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The Last Laugh

Everything described below actually happened.

Well, pretty much of it…

They laughed at the Wright brothers. “Stick with what you know,” they said. “Bicycles.”

What kind of a world would we have now, if everyone stayed in their lane?

“That’s a lawn mower engine,” I said, quite accurately. “It was made specifically for lawnmowers. You can’t make a hovercraft with it.” That was my advice to my brother, Wes.

“Think about it,” Wes advised. “A lawnmower is halfway to being a hovercraft. You just attach a propeller instead of a blade, and instead of the lawnmower, you build a big frame with a plastic lining, mount the engine on top of it, attach a propeller, and you’ve got a hovercraft.”

Wes had a way of making absurd ideas seem reasonable. We were in our early teens. He was perhaps fifteen, and that would have made me thirteen.

“Does that engine even work? And even if it does, where are you going to get a propeller?” I liked to challenge Wes, but he always had an answer.

“Bobby’s father just got a new lawnmower, and was trying to get rid of the old one. He was giving it away! So, I took it, and pulled the engine off it.”

Free stuff! I’ve always been attracted to free junk. You just never know when you might find a use for it. Free stuff represents opportunity to the imagination, opens both window and doors. Sometimes it is the windows and doors.

“Well great. But who’s giving away free propellers?” I was sure I had him this time.

“Ralph’s uncle is an airplane mechanic at the airport. He works on those little planes, not the big airliners. He’s got an old propeller he doesn’t need.”

Wes is like that. How many people do you know who, at the age of fifteen, could come up with a free propeller? Lawnmower, maybe, but a propeller?

“OK,” I said, “But how does an airplane propeller attach to a lawnmower engine?” It was a rhetorical question. For all I knew, they bolt right on.

“No problem,” Wes said. “I’ll work it out.”

Wes was always working things out, sometimes succeeding, but never discouraged.

I won’t go into the boring details, but Wes took some old plywood left over from when my father had an addition put onto the house, cut it into curved shapes that only his imaginative mind could conceive, and ended up with a framework, about four feet by four feet, lined it with leftover vapor barrier plastic, also from the addition, and mounted the lawnmower engine onto the top of it. And yes, somehow he got the propeller attached to the engine.

It wasn’t elegant, this hovercraft. But it looked like it might work. Now, for the moment of truth. With the hovercraft sitting in our driveway, Wes started the engine. And it worked! The hovercraft lifted an inch or so off the driveway and, well, hovered.

Imagine the sense of accomplishment that Wes felt, but also the nagging question, ‘Now that I’ve built it, what do I do with it?’ And that takes me back to the Wright brothers. They couldn’t let go of the idea that they could make a machine, a flying machine (the term ‘airplane’ did not yet exist). And just what, exactly, did they think they were going to do with it? Did they anticipate 747s and huge airports, and air freight and flying to the other side of the world in hours, rather than sailing for months? Probably not. They were just convinced that they could build a flying machine, and that was enough.

So, what to do with this hovercraft floating in our driveway? Wes’ first thought, of course, was to have someone climb on and ride it. There were only the two of us. Wes volunteered me.

“I’m going to have my butt just inches away from the propeller. What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong. The hovercraft is just an inch off the ground. Even if the engine quits, no problem.”

That was a very reassuring answer, which in no way addressed the question. What about my butt? Just inches from the propeller? But he’d been talking me into things my entire life, so why stop now?

At this point, I should fill in a few details. Our driveway was flat, but our street was on a hill, a fairly steep hill. That’s a factor, here. When I was about ten, we had had an ice storm one winter, and that street, on the hill, was slick with ice. What do we do on ice? We skate, of course. So, I put on my skates and tried skating down the hill. Only after I had gotten up to speed did it occur to me that I had no way to stop. There was a moment of terror, but then the skates hit a rough spot, I fell and rolled down the hill aways, but was unscathed. So, now I know what happens when you skate down a hill and have no way to stop. Valuable knowledge, wouldn’t you say?

If only I’d learned. But my sister got a skateboard a couple of years later. You’ll never guess what I did. Having never before been on a skateboard (they were a new thing back then) I decided to skateboard down the hill. Some people never learn, even when they have the knowledge! Only after I’d picked up speed did I realize that I had no idea how you stop a skateboard. Down I went, this time with a sprained ankle.

“Come on, get on,” Wes said. It was equal parts suggestion, command, and challenge.

“Look how fast that propeller is going,” I pointed out.

“You’ll be fine.”

The truth is, I wanted like hell to get on that thing and experience ‘flying’ on a hovercraft. But I’m no fool. I didn’t get on right away. First, I talked myself into it, and then got on. It was just the sort of experience that a thirteen-year-old boy craves. Huck Finn had nothing on me!

We both celebrated the moment. Wes could push the hovercraft, with me on it, in any direction, and it easily glided on its cushion of air. I think we were experiencing the same feelings that the Wright brothers experienced. Fundamentally, it worked! But now what?

“I’m going to push you out to the street and see how it goes down the hill,” Wes proclaimed.

Should I have known better? Yes. Had previous experience taught me all I needed to know? Yes. But was I going to pass on this chance to ride the hovercraft down the hill? Hell, no!

Wes pushed me out to the street. We had anticipated no possible consequences. We were boys, thirteen and fifteen. It’s in our genes.

I took off on the hovercraft which, in no more than a second, had reached a speed that precluded me from climbing off. Wes was chasing after me, but couldn’t hope to catch up.

Here’s the good news. As fate would have it, the hovercraft ran over a sewer grate. The cushion of air went down the grate, and the hovercraft stopped. Wes caught up in a few seconds, and killed the engine. Of course I could have killed the engine, but had neglected to think of that.

That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, people say. Apparently, it doesn’t necessarily make you wiser. Three trips down that hill, and not once did I stop and consider. But I lived, so what the hell!

They laughed at the Wright brothers. The Wright brothers could easily have failed, have gotten themselves killed. A loose bolt, a failed weld, any miscalculation at all could have meant the end of the Wright brothers. And they did initially have an accident. But they stitched the machine back together, made some adjustments, and carried on.

Two young bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio thought they could build a machine that flies. Some people thought they were crazy, and perhaps they were. Perhaps it takes just the right blend of crazy, luck, and persistence to succeed at things others have never even considered. A broken cable, a shift in the wind, and the Wright brothers might have been killed, rather than become known to the world as the inventors of the flying machine. They might then have become a cautionary tale, been compared to Icarus, as a lesson to discourage anyone from daring to take on the impossible.

Someone else would still have found a way to fly. It was going to happen. But they could never have anticipated what it would mean. We can never know those things. We can only push limits and see what happens. So, here’s to all the damned fools who should’ve known better, but didn’t.

Thanks for reading. If you missed the previous installment of Chip & Wes’ adventures, click The Legendary Donut Stomping Incident, below.

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The Legendary Donut Stomping Incident

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Building a Life

short story by Chip Kussmaul-The Radical Individualist

The old man looked at me as if he knew me. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He smiled at me knowingly, and I couldn’t fathom what it was that he might know. I gave a sort of half smile back and turned my head away from him. I felt it might be better to avoid him since I didn’t know what he was about.

I was in the checkout line at the big box store. It was Saturday morning, and on occasional Saturdays I help my next door neighbor with projects that need to be done to keep his house up.

He’s up in years and can’t really handle things like he used to. He lost his wife two years ago and his kids are out of town, and they don’t see too much of each other, although they video call often enough. I asked him if wanted to move closer to his children. He said this was his and Carrie’s home. He would stay.

It was early spring, that one time of the year when mundane chores seem desirable, offering the opportunity to do things outside during the first decent days of the year. My neighbor’s deck needs some attention, some new PT lumber, and some caulk and weather stripping around the back door.

My own house is in great shape even though it’s over 100 years old. Renovating old houses is what I do, and my house stands as a testament to my abilities. Things are different now though. I started out 25 years ago doing it all myself, being a one man show. Now I have three crews and spend most of my time in the office running things. I do miss those days when it was just me and a customer shooting the breeze as I worked.

That’s part of why I like working on my neighbor’s house. It takes me back to a time that I have to admit I miss. Maybe a person can have too much ambition. I’ve never missed a chance to move farther ahead, and now I look back with fondness on a time I have willingly given up. Things are a whole lot more complex now and I do appreciate, even thrive, on the challenges. But it occurred to me a while back that striving and stress are two sides of the same coin. You can’t have one without the other.

So, I guess I have various motives for working on my neighbor’s house. I get to relive my life from 25 years ago, doing relatively minor work and having the owner stand there and hand me tools as we carry on conversations about the state of the world or whatever we feel like discussing. Back then it was more like a relationship, less like a job. Not only does working next door take me back, it sort of shows me my future. Perhaps 25 years from now I’ll be my neighbor’s age. I will see that my end is not far off. Ambition and perseverance does not earn you more years. I’ve gained insights from my neighbor, how he’s delt with the deaths of loved ones and with the imminence of his own death. He is not maudlin about it. You cannot truly love life, he says, while denying death. This sounds so dark as I discuss it, but our conversations are rich. I’ve learned a lot from him.

Sometimes I question my motives. Do I want to position myself to purchase his house when…? I would love to have his house. On the one hand I could make relatively inexpensive repairs and flip it and make a sizeable profit. But I might prefer to keep it. Perhaps I could convince my daughter and her family to live there. The contractor in me has to think those thoughts. But really, I enjoy these times at my neighbor’s house, channeling my past and glimpsing my future, all at the same time. And I’m meeting a need for its own sake, not for profit.

Anyway, I had scanned all my items at the checkout and processed my credit card. I began rolling my cart out into the parking lot to load my items into my van. The old man joined me, walking quietly beside me. It seemed odd, but comfortable. We said nothing for a few steps, but then I asked, “Do I know you?”

We kept walking as he answered. “I believe you do. Certainly, I know you.”

“How do you know me? When have we met?”

He smiled that enigmatic smile. “I was at your wedding.”

That was not possible. Jan and I were married in a wooded area in a park, with only immediate family and a minster. I told him that.

Again, the smile. “Do you remember how you felt? Unsure even of who you were, much less of marriage? You could not explain to yourself what you expected in a marriage with Jan. Yet you knew it was right, ordained even. As you said your vows, you felt something within yourself that you had never felt before, a sense of fulfilment that transcended daily experience. You knew that your marriage involved something greater than just the two of you” He paused a moment even as we continued to walk. “I was at your wedding.”

This guy was intriguing. But maybe he had made a few lucky guesses. Maybe he knew me from the past and was teasing me.

“Do you remember when your daughter was three years old and had surgery? She was still partly under the anesthetic when you saw her. She barely recognized you and could not speak. Entirely helpless, even for a three year old. You cried. You felt more helpless than her. You would have done anything for her… And she came out fine.”

Tears came again to my eyes. He smiled knowingly, “I was there.”

Was this my imagination? A hallucination? Could it really be? How could it be?

“I was there when your mother died. You all knew that it was her time. She knew. You saw her lying in bed, barley responsive, and at peace. There was nothing more to do but to let her go. And you knew that her love continued to live, in you, and in all whom she had touched. She is in you now, as am I.”

What was I supposed to think? We had reached the back of the van. I quietly loaded my things into the van as he stood and observed. Then I closed the door. These are the things I know to do, physical things, automatic, done a thousand times before, and will do a thousand times more. Then I looked at him. He looked at me. I laugh at myself now, but I didn’t know what else to do. So I reached for my wallet and pulled out the only cash I had, a twenty dollar bill I keep in case there is a time or place where a credit card won’t work.

I offered it to him. “The things that I desire cannot be purchased,” he said. “Give that to someone who can use it.”

I put my wallet away, and put the twenty in my shirt pocket. I resolved to find someone who could use it before I reached home. “What do I do now?” I asked.

“You’ve been doing it,” he said. “Perhaps you could do just a little more of it.” And that smile.

I smiled back.

I hope you enjoyed Building a Life.

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This story appeared previously on Individualists Unite

Precipice

by Chip Kussmaul-The Radical Individualist

“You take life way too seriously.” Larry said things like that often enough.

“We can’t all be rolling stones,” I answered back.

Larry took a swig of his beer, and I did too, as we sat on the rock by the edge of the quarry. We’ve been coming here since we were kids, off and on. There used to be a bunch of us, now it’s usually just Larry and me. I turned my head slowly as I gazed out over the expanse. The trees have slowly gotten taller over the years, but the old quarry is mostly unchanged. It is still, save for the occasional sounds of birds or other creatures. There is a tranquility to it, an immortality to it, as if we can come here at any time and undo the changes that pursue us elsewhere. It is, almost, like going home again.

“If you do everything the same, every day, then you’ve really only lived one day, over and over,” Larry mused.

I laughed. I tapped my bottle against his. “If you drink beer every day, you’ve really only drunk it once, over and over”

Larry liked that one. “Over and over. Yeah, you make a point. Some things bear repeating.”

This is about as deep as our thoughts ever get. We were momentarily silent, drinking our beer and gazing out over the landscape of the old quarry, as we have so often done before. Well, when we were kids, it was soft drinks, not beer.

“Linda and I broke up last night,” Larry said. He could as easily shave aid, “It rained last night.” He conveyed the information only, not the feelings. Not surprising. Sure, Larry has feelings. But feelings seem superfluous to him. The quicker he can disregard them and move on, the better.

We gazed out over the quarry, as if it might provide some answers. “Linda is a good woman, Larry,” I said. “You should learn how to appreciate what you’ve got.” I turned my head toward him but he continued to regard the quarry. “You just aren’t able stay in one place. You always think there’s something better around the corner. You lose women. You lose jobs. Where’s it get you?” Friends can say things like that, but I sensed that this time Larry didn’t want to hear it.

“You know me. Linda started taking it all a little too serious. She knows me. She should know better. I never lied, never came on with the usual BS. It was good times, that’s all I ever promised.”

I smiled a little. “Maybe someday you’re going to want to make a bigger promise. Look at me and Brenda. I was afraid to make that promise, but then I did. It’s a whole different life, now. You should try it.”

Larry was silent, pondering. Unusual thing for Larry to do, pondering. I’ve never seen him be anything but impulsive. Live for the moment, and move on. But Larry was pondering.

We both sat silently, contemplating the inscrutable expanse of the quarry. He turned to me, regarded me for a moment, then he turned back to the view. “Yeah, you and Brenda. And the kids.” He laughed. “Your home is a nice place to visit, but I’m not sure I’d want to live there.” I laughed with him, but said nothing. He stood up, walked the few steps to the edge. and studied the expanse. “I don’t know,” he continued. “Maybe I’m missing out. Maybe I should invest myself more. I think about it. Sometimes. I see in myself, now that I’m older and just a little bit wiser, that I’m just not the type to take those risks. I thought that day would come, the day I settle down and live that same day over and over.” He took a swig as he gazed out over the quarry. “Maybe I’m afraid. As soon as I see that there’s something to lose, I get out. It’s safer that way. Easier. As soon as someone owns a little piece of me, I’m gone.” He emptied his bottle, and flung it into the quarry. I heard it splash below.

I was still working on my beer. “Not the type to take risks? That’s all you do is take risks.” I took a swig of my beer, and addressed his back as he continued to regard the quarry. “I’m the one who took the safe, secure way. No surprises. And I like it that way.”

We’ve grown a lot, I think, yet here we were, the two of us sitting on the same rock we’ve been sitting on for twenty years. Sometimes it seems like nothing has changed, but it has. I married the girl that I’ve known that whole time. Day after day, over and over. Larry had a point.

Still, it works for me. Would Larry come around? Should he come around? What is there to say, when it’s the same conversation, over and over? “Well,” I said, “You’ve got what you want, and I’ve got what I want… And we’ve both got this rock.”

I finished my beer and threw the bottle, letting it join with Larry’s in the infinite clutter of beer bottles beneath the water in the quarry.

Larry turned, got another beer, opened it and walked back to the edge. He looked down, over the edge, at the water below. He made short work of his beer, and added the bottle to the collection at the bottom of the quarry. I’d gotten another beer, and retook my place on the rock. I drank more slowly and watched as he downed his and threw the bottle out over the water.

It’s at least a thirty foot drop. We used to swim down there. Nobody knew for sure how deep it was. No, we didn’t jump; we walked a snake-like path through the woods to the level of the water. When we were kids, there were sometimes ten or fifteen of us messing around. We’d dare each other to jump, but none had had the guts to do it. Today, I would call that a rare case of good judgment among adolescent boys.

I’ve barely stayed in touch with most of those kids, but somehow, Larry and I find reason to keep coming back here.

“We should have jumped,” Larry said. “What the hell. You only live once.”

“And that once should last awhile. Jumping off cliffs tends to shorten lifespans.”

“Turtles live for centuries. Would you like to be a turtle?”

“Well, no. They don’t have beer.” I took another swallow of mine.

We were silent for a minute. I can’t even remember what I was thinking.

“I’m jumping!” Larry suddenly declared.

“Don’t be an idiot. If you make it, what does it get you? If you don’t, you lose it all. Just sit your ass down and we can talk about it just like old times.”

Larry was stripping down to his shorts. “Old times my ass. These are new times. This is a brand new day! Day one of the new Larry! I know no fear!”

Larry’s impulsiveness generally had few serious consequences, but now I was concerned. “I said don’t be an idiot! Just once, don’t be an idiot! Tell you what. Put your clothes back on and we’ll just tell everyone that you did it. I can live that lie.”

Larry stood at the edge, looked down, looked back at me, smiled that strange smile of his, turned back, and dove. I didn’t want to go look, but of course I had to. I walked the few steps to the edge and looked. There were the ripples where he had gone in, but Larry was gone. For a moment. But then he boobed back up. He looked up at me, laughing his ass off.

“Nothing to it. All you have to do is jump. Come on in, the water’s fine!”

I contemplated for a moment, processing thoughts. But I knew I wouldn’t do it.

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