Short Shorts #15

I have never been one for sports. In fact, for much of my life I have had far less than an interest in organized sports. I have however always had a fascination with games, a very subtle distinction lying between the two. In high school, I and a bunch of friends created a horribly strange version of golf. Yes, golf. Often maligned as one of the most boring sports on record (and I'd be likely to agree), we decided to take this old game and liven it up for stupid self-endangering young tastes. Equipment was simple, you needed a set number of brightly colored balls, a single iron of your choosing, and a helmet. An athletic cup was not required, but we all knew many of us were sporting them each afternoon. The game had harsh penalties for breaking rules, or just having horrible luck. The worst penalty being that you had to stand ten feet in front of the next person's shot. All in all, the main goal was merely to get your ball from the starting line to the end zone first. The challenge? The game was entirely played in the thick underbrush of the woods. And so it came to be known as ATG. All-Terrain Golf.

Short Shorts #14

During semester breaks in college, I would often go work on a small farm a few hours from town. As humorous as the sight of me doing any manual labor is, nothing is as funny as me atop a large tractor. I did odd jobs around the place, from cleaning the house, tending to the dogs, and mowing the fields. The warm moist summer had allowed the fields to overgrow quite quickly, it was then my task to keep it at bay. I soon learned the ins and outs of attaching the mowers to the tractor, deploying the blades, and maneuvering around the various landmarks in the field.

One day while working the fields, I was watching carefully before me as I drove the tractor forward into the grasses. A small dark object darted between the plants. I stopped the machine quickly and watched. Again there was movement and I spied a tiny furry creature huddled in fear beneath the grass. I turned off the mowers and stepped down from the tractor. Reaching into the grass I pulled up the frightened creature, a small black shrew. I thought about what it was like to be a tiny creature, trying to survive in this massive empty field, when such a horrendous clattering beast came upon you. My mind also wandered to the image of being pulled into the giant spinning blades. I could not continue with my duties on the farm. Though asking for other tasks to take on, it was quickly apparent this was not the place for me. Understanding the full impact of everything that I do in life, became of great significance to me from that day on.

Short Shorts #13

One summer, when my cousin was visiting, we decided to go and hang out with some girls I knew from school. We had done the local fair, and were looking for something of interest to do around the neighborhood. We walked a number of blocks to the nearby shopping center to goof around. Grabbing a couple shakes at the Dairy Queen, and leaving before our raucous laughter wore out our welcome. Walking over to the Co-op, we began meandering the aisles. Now my cousins would often keep tabs on each other during trips, or when spread apart at home, using walkie-talkies. Not the cheap toys we all had as kids, but decent, long range radios. Being the boyish trouble-makers we were, we covertly tucked one of these radios behind a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal. Stowed away in the next aisle we waited for some unsuspecting shopper to come around. As an old lady approached, reaching for a box of her own cereal, we spoke into the radio, with a poor Scottish accent.

"Help me, it's da cap'n! I'm stuck in da box o'Crunch!"

It gave the woman a start and she nearly dropped her own box, looking around the empty aisle to see if anyone else had heard the sound. Not strangely enough, we were soon forced to pick up our radios and ejected from the store. Our departure was hardly our concern as we laughed and moved on to other adventures. But I often wonder if anyone did stop to help the captain.

Short Shorts #12

Right after high school, I went on a summer long road trip with two of my cousins. Starting in Oklahoma, we travelled to Colorado, Arizona, Nevada and finally to San Diego California, before turning around and returning home. After a long day of slowly driving down the rocky peaks of Colorado we made our way into Arizona, and the mercury quickly began to rise. It would come to be one of the hottest summers I have ever been through (and trust me, you don't feel the heat until an entire night sleeping in a rather small car in the Nevada desert). Driving through the streets of Flagstaff, our breaks suddenly went out. Thankfully our car waited until we were out of the slopes of the Rockies, and thankfully the car we rear-ended belonged to another cousin of ours. The car trouble was a minor setback and soon to be the least of our worries. Though temporarily without a car, we still did our best to enjoy our time in Arizona. Upon the car's restored return we continued our journey westward. But soon we realized something was wrong. The car was filled with a horrible smell. A smell we could not seem to clear. It did not take much searching to find the source of the problem. At the time of the accident, a cooler sat in the trunk filled with snacks, luncheon meats and other things. Sitting unattended, without ice, in the over forty-five degree (Celsius) temperatures of the Arizona summer. Despite a humorous attempt at cleaning out the foul cooler, and scrubbing down the car, even filling the cab with multiple air fresheners, the "funk" just would not dissipate. Just when we would think it was gone, the horrible stench would once again arise from the vents of the air-conditioning. That entire trip will always be memorable, but the "funk" will stick in my mind for far too long.

Short Shorts #11

When I was seven years old I enjoyed the cartoon series  Darkwing Duck. A purple clothed, masked duck who would protect the streets of a large city in the same fictional universe as the classic Duck Tales series (I still to this day wonder why Donald, Scrooge or any of the nephews never made a guest appearance). After a few years of loyal following, I saw a chance to receive an official DW magnifying glass by sending away boxtops from my favorite cereal. Though it was nothing like the one depicted in the television series, I loved this bulky, oversized lens. The purple plastic toy enjoying many hours as I pretended to be the Great Mouse Detective or spent a Saturday nearly blinding myself as I burned holes into paper and blocks of wood. I kept that dopey magnifying lens all those years, until finally giving it to a Salvation Army when I went away to college.

Short Shorts #10

I think every devoted fan of reading eventually begins to believe that they too can write something. I have loved the written word since I could recognize the letters. But my true love affair was with stories. The tales those books could tell. Truth or fiction, or somewhere in between. When I was little, my babysitter and I would write short stories and put together illustrated books. I even still have one of these nearly thirty year old relics, with its lunchbag dragon on the cover. Thus began my secret career as a mediocre writer. Taking every excuse to write something, my grammar school years were filled with bizarre spy fiction and strange scifi tales collected in well worn Trapper-Keepers. As middle school and eventually high school came and went, my writing shifted to surrealistic prose and symbolist poetry. And like every well qualified writer-hobbyist, it isn't about those stories that others see or get published. It's about the stacks of unfinished fantasy manuscripts poured over for years, the overly researched but never written historical short stories, and that one elusive novel that you struggle to find the time to finish over the next decade. But for a lover of the story and a true mediocre unpublished writer, all those other things hardly matter. The story still exists, even if it's only in your own imagination. 

                                  

Short Shorts #9

When working one day in a shoe store, helping customers reach boxes from the top shelf or explaining the difference between a running shoe and a loafer, I happened upon this short customer as she browsed the shop.  She was rather small in stature but ample bosomed, and wore a somewhat inappropriately low cut shirt. As I tried to help her, and find the shoes she was looking for (or something similar to it) she became rather curt with me.

"...and stop looking down my shirt!" she said.

"I honestly wasn't ma'am, you're two feet shorter than I am and I'd ask you not talk into my navel."