Independance Day From the Past

With our nation celebrating its 250th Anniversary, I recalled a piece I had written for a contest, "Way Back When."

Writing for various contests is a process many writers use to get their "legs" under them in the writing world. These contests generally have a set of guidelines such as theme, word count limits, and style.

For this 2008 contest, the theme was "Old Story with a New Twist." The maximum word count was set at 1000 words. That alone would be a challenge for me.

The following is what I submitted. Enjoy!

5-25-08

Dallas Mackenzie and the case of the "Independence Crisis."

It wasn't the most romantic way to spend a warm Saturday night, sitting with my feet on the desk, reading the alphabetical list of the deceased in the less-circulated local paper. Sometimes it helped me pay a bill if I could interpret what wasn't explicitly written. Today, I noted a forty-two-year-old plaster figurine salesman who died in a crash involving his recreational vehicle hitting a bridge abutment, and a woman in a coma who died after life support was withdrawn. What caught my interest was the fact that the last names matched records I already had.

As I worked to drain the last of what was ceasing to be called drinkable from my Notre Dame coffee mug, I had the sickening feeling that always signaled a larger problem on the horizon. Almost on cue, proving my instincts seldom falter, there came a knock on the office door. I gave my warmest "Don't you know it's Saturday night" tone in my response that the door was open, and I waited to see what walked in.

"Dallas Mackenzie?" queried a voice so sultry that I had to remove my reading glasses and assume a more formal posture.

"Mac", I replied. "Mac to my friends and those with whom I am more intimate, and right now I would like to include you on at least one of those lists."

I may have slept through anatomy back at the academy, but this was a woman I would have stayed after class with for extra credit. I watched her coyly chew the lower of a pair of perfect ruby lips, considering her next words, but only eyeing the chair opposite the desk as if speaking more from an upright position was impossible. 

"How rude of me…please."

I stood, signaling to the chair. As she approached to sit, I noticed the tan line on her left ring finger and the way her jade-green dress clung to her curves like a Porsche on a mountain road. She was someone's, at least until recently, since the ring that kept the sun off her finger was gone. As she settled closer, I thought about how this Saturday night was unfolding. Wanting to avoid unnecessary introductions, I moved the conversation forward.

"And you are?"

"Anita," she began replying softly. "Anita Cox."

"Well, Mrs. Cox…" I said as I sat on the edge of my desk, gazing at her green eyes that matched her dress and strawberry-blonde hair. Perhaps a lingering juvenile trait, but I can't help but openly admire a woman's beauty unless they object or dismiss the attention. Some might see it as crude, but I take pleasure in appreciating women. In fact, my career now involves tackling the most challenging issues these women face and helping restore their lives.

"Ms. Cox," she pressed back with a smile, thus altering my formality to one more befitting the tan line. "The divorce was final yesterday."

I smiled and nodded kindly to the correction. 'Well, Ms. Cox, what brings you to my office at this hour on a Saturday night?'

"I had hoped to save confronting this with you until Monday morning, but if I had to wait until then…" She paused and gained a desperate tone. "I…well, I would just explode!" She does appear ready to specify what brought her to me, and she continues as a tissue is removed from her clutch and dabs at the corner of her right eye.

"The world awaits Ms. Cox," I press to get to the point at her earliest convenience.

She hears the severe turn my tone is taking, and before she can object, I continue. 

"Let me go out on a limb here: you tried to experiment with it, and it just did not meet your expectations. Tell you what, just leave it with a number where I can reach you, and I will see what I can do."

For a long moment, she just stares with those big, green eyes, and then she stands and removes a small card from her clutch and lays it on my desk, leaving the bag beside the chair. Not a word offered as she turns on those long, shapely legs and makes her exit the way she came in with only a pause to check her make-up in the glass's reflection. I place the card in the bag with the box, move it to the shelf with the others, then return to my chair and the paper.

Life can be rough as the night manager in the 'Small Appliance Repair' department when women want to have their food processors fixed for the potluck reception after the July Fourth Fireworks. Now, back to the Beetle Bailey comic.