Open Mic at Brands & Nichol

Three other baristas were needed to pry me off the fourth one –a scrawny, pimply-faced redhead of about 19. His name tag read “Donald.” How I managed to vault over the counter and tackle the kid I don’t know. But in 15 seconds I had Donald locked in a combined half nelson and chokehold. My defense is justifiable assault. I don’t know whether they have that in Pennsylvania, but they should.

My mood was already compromised when I approached the snack counter at Brands & Nichol Booksellers in Glenside. The store held poetry readings the second Saturday of every month. First came a featured reader, who droned on for about 30 minutes, and then an open mic, where poet wannabees droned on for “no more than five minutes” apiece. Not to say that there were no talented poets there; Steve Barnes and I were regulars.

My name was fourth on the coveted open mic sign-up sheet, and I had prepared three superior pieces –a sonnet, a pantoum and a villanelle, respectively. Formal, rigidly-regulated poetry frees my creative spirit. Contradictory, yes, but true.

No fewer than three times did the P.A. interrupt my sonnet. “Important” announcements concerning the new prune smoothie available at the snack counter, an upcoming book-signing by some clown who also happened to be poet laureate of a dinky little borough, and ironically, an invitation to “join us every second Saturday for a poetry reading and open mic.” By the second stanza of my villanelle, I was steaming like a café mocha. And strangely in the mood for one.

Gwen Gilliam, our group moderator, suggested a break two poets later. I and a slew of lesser scribes lined up at the snack counter. Steve and I tried to hold a conversation. But Donald the barista would have none of it.

“Excuse me, sir. What kind of milk would you like in your beverage? Non-fat, two percent or whole milk?”

“Uh, two percent, I guess.”

I turned back to Steve. “So I always thought that Langston Hughes was saying . . .”

“We also have soy milk,” Donald interjected.

“No, thank you.”

Again to Steve. “ . . . was that the African American 

community . . . ”

The kid came at me again. “Would you care for cinnamon sprinkled on top?”

“No cinnamon,” I growled. To Steve, “What was I saying?”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but not before Donald opened his.

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“I don’t care.”

“A cherry, perhaps?”

“No!”

“Did you know that if you order a medium beverage next time, you’ll get a card that entitles you to a freebie, after you purchase- Yikes!”

Blast off. Donald froze as my five-foot five, 175-pound frame flew at him. Latching my middle-aged arms around him, I applied pressure.

Steve was horrified. “Adam, what are you doing to him?

I grinned evilly. “I call this ‘the Coffee Clutch.’”

Truthfully, I didn’t really hurt Donald, despite his whining. I just scared him a little.

Well, here comes the guard! Looks like it’s time for my arraignment. I hope that the judge doesn’t ask me too many questions.

Little Wooden Animals

Layla, the white rhino baby, born in the Budapest Zoo in January, 2007. Photo by gentleman75. Wikimedia Commons.

"Henry! Henry, are you still down there?"

From his workbench down in the basement, Henry Frazier stopped what he was doing and looked up. His arm grew rigid, the saw in his hand having gone halfway through the board he was cutting down to length. 

"Yes, I'm still down here," he answered. "What is it?"

"Are you going to pick up those clothes at the dry cleaner's? You were supposed to do it Wednesday."

"I'll get them first thing tomorrow morning," he called back.

"Tomorrow's Sunday," his wife yelled.

"All right, I'll get them on Monday," he replied, annoyed. 

"Dinner's ready -whenever you're finished puttering around down there," she added.

Ignoring this last remark, Henry began sawing again, this time very rapidly, gritting his teeth with the strain. He exhaled loudly as the block of wood fell to the floor with a loud CLUNK! He panted lightly, several beads of sweat trickling down his temples. He seemed relieved.

Henry was in the process of building a small cabinet for his office. He had nearly finished. All that remained to do was nail on the top and smooth out the rough edges. Then he would varnish it. Although a veterinarian by occupation, Henry made a hobby of carpentry. It was a type of escape for him, and when he was downstairs sawing or hammering away, nothing much bothered him. His wife seldom went into the basement when he was at work.

He had made all kinds of things at his workbench, from pieces of furniture to picture frames. But he especially liked making animals, and on a long shelf by his workbench was a miniature menagerie of horses, birds, cows, elephants, cats, dogs . . . They were simply wooden blocks which Henry had fashioned into animal shapes with a hacksaw and then painted. Some people, namely his wife, might have thought this childish but it relaxed Henry. What a man did on his own free time was up to him and besides, it seemed somehow appropriate for a veterinarian.

Presently, Henry put the top onto his cabinet, firmly but carefully hammering each nail into place. He stood up, brushed off his jeans and started upstairs, deciding to sandpaper and varnish tomorrow. Halfway up the steps he paused. He glanced back. Grabbing the broom and dustpan that hung on the wall, he descended the steps and neatly swept up the sawdust which had accumulated under his workbench, then walked back upstairs.

Henry and Theresa ate supper quietly, occasionally looking up from their plates to make a brief comment. The dining room in which they sat was fairly large and well-furnished. On one side was a tall walnut cabinet with glass doors, displaying a large collection of Lennox China, and opposite was a grand bay window with deep purple curtains and velvet sashes. The plush matching carpeting covered every inch of the floor and was immaculately vacuumed. A crystal chandelier dimly lit up the table in the center. On the wall, by the entrance to the kitchen, hung a picture of Henry and Theresa taken at their wedding.

"Pass the salt, please, Henry."

"What?" Henry started out of reverie. "Oh, right," he said. As he was passing the salt shaker to his wife, it slipped from his fingers and the lid came off, spilling a large pile onto the table. A look of quiet exasperation appeared on Theresa's face.

"Sorry, dear," Henry muttered. "I'll wipe it up."

"I'll get it myself," Theresa said, getting up from the table. A minute later she returned with a wet cloth and meticulously wiped up every grain. Henry sat there in quiet embarrassment. 

Several minutes passed. The phone rang loudly.

Theresa stood up. "I'll get it," she said.

Henry heard his wife's voice from the kitchen.

"Hello? . . . Mrs. Who? . . . Hold on."

Henry got up and took the receiver. "Hello?" he began.

The rambling voice of old Mrs. Griggs came from the other end. She was worried because her dog Ollie wouldn't take his medicine.

"Mrs. Griggs? . . . Yes, this is Dr. Frazier. . . Yes, of course I remember . . . That's right, twice a day. Now I'm sure if you'll . . ."

"And I keep trying to tell him," interrupted Mrs. Griggs. "I says to him, 'Ollie,' I says. 'if you don't take your medicine, you're not gonna get better.' But he don't wanna listen, Dr. Frazier!"

" . . . I know, I know," Henry answered patiently. "But you'll just have to make him swallow it, Mrs. Griggs. He's only a small dog. . . Yes, that's right. . . No, I'm afraid I can't make it taste good. . . Okay, Mrs. Griggs. . . You too, Mrs. Griggs. . . Goodbye."

Henry hung up and returned to the table. His wife had sat down again. He placed a bite of liver into his mouth when she said, "Why do these people always call you at home? You shouldn't even give them our home number."

Henry swallowed his food. Setting his fork on the table, he replied with strained demeanor, "I didn't give her our number, Theresa."

"Then how did she get it?"
"How am I supposed to know?" he snapped. "I suppose she called information."

"I'm sick of my meals being interrupted by some stupid old bat who's worried because her cat won't take his pills! We should have an unlisted number!"

"She has a dog," Henry said, his temper slowly rising.

"What?"

"Mrs. Griggs has a dog, not a cat."

"What difference does it make, Henry?" she answered, almost screaming. "You know what I mean! I'm tired of it!"

"They don't call to speak to you, Theresa, they call to speak to me!" Henry hollered.

"Well, they can call you at your office!" she hollered back. "You're there more than forty hours a week!" 

"What is it with this hostility all of a sudden?" Henry demanded.

"All of a sudden?" She stood up. "This has been going on for ten years, darling!" she said, emphasizing the last word. "You are such a fool sometimes!" Turning abruptly away from the table, she marched indignantly upstairs.

"Theresa!" Henry called after her. "Wait a minute!"

There was no reply. The bedroom door slammed loudly and locked.

Henry and one of his veterinary assistants were grappling with a Siamese, attempting to force a pill down its throat, when there was a knock on the door.

"Just a minute," Henry answered impatiently. The woman helping him finally managed to hold the struggling cat's head in one place, whereupon Henry promptly shoved the pill through its maws. He clamped the animal's mouth shut firmly and rapidly massaged its throat.

"Good girl," he said soothingly. "That's a good girl, Ginger."

The cat shrank away from him, hissing. She jumped off the examination table and dashed under a nearby chair.

"I'll get her, Dr. Frazier," the woman said.

"Come on in," Henry called to the person behind the door. His secretary entered, a tall blonde woman in her late twenties.

"Dr. Frazier, your wife called," she said. "She won't be home until late tonight."

"Thank you, Lisa," Henry replied. Lisa nodded politely and left. Henry turned to his assistant, who was holding the frightened cat and gently stroking its fur.

"Close up for me, Mary," he said. "I think I'm going to leave early."

"All right, Dr. Frazier."


Theresa came down the basement steps slowly, her hand sliding gently along the railing. She was dressed in a robe and slippers. Her husband sat at his workbench with a long, thin paintbrush in one hand, meticulously applying the stripes to a wooden tiger. A sheet of newspaper was spread out across the surface and on top of it sat several bottles of paint and an old coffee can filled with turpentine. Henry seemed not to notice his wife. 

"Henry," she began. "Photoperfect called. They said your pictures were ready."

Henry continued painting silently.

"You can pick them up tomorrow. It's seven dollars, they said."

There was a long pause. "Thank you, Theresa," he said.

She turned to go.

"Didn't hear you come in last night."

She stopped. "I-I didn't get in 'til late," she explained. "Maryann and I went to Callahan's."

Henry's tone was calm, unperturbed. "I figured you were with Maryann," he replied. "So I called her house."

Theresa's whole body jerked as if a jolt of electricity had passed through it. She paled.

"I-I was about . . . "

"She said she hadn't seen you in two weeks." Henry looked up at her. "Do you mind telling me where you really were?"

She turned round to face him. "I went to visit my mother, Henry. I figured you wouldn't want to come, so I just went myself. She hasn't been feeling well."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Your mother isn't feeling well? My, what a pity!" He slammed his fist down on the table. "Jimmy Swansen  told me he saw you at Zanelli's with your brother last night. You haven't got a brother, Theresa!"

"All right!" she cried. "So it wasn't my brother. He was just . . . a friend. "Someone I met from high school."

"And do you expect me to believe that?"

"You can believe whatever you want to, Henry Frazier!" she said, and stormed up the stairs. Henry started after her for a moment, then dipping his brush into the jar of black paint, resumed his work.

The rest of the morning and the afternoon were uneasily quiet. The two did not exchange a word for nearly six hours.They were in the bedroom when Henry broke the silence. 

"Theresa."

Theresa, who was fixing her hair in front of the bedroom mirror, slammed the brush on the vanity and whirled around.

"What?"

Henry was mildly taken aback. "Where is my luggage set?" he asked. "The one my brother gave me for my birthday."

"It's in the attic," she replied, puzzled. "Why?"

"It's time I put it to use," he answered laconically.

Walking out into the hallway, Henry seized the knotted rope that was hanging from the ceiling and with both hands, pulled down the trapdoor to the attic. Theresa followed him.

"Henry, what are you talking about?"

Henry unfolded the wooden ladder and started up it. 

"I'm talking about my independence, dear," he replied. Standing up in the cramped, dusty attic, he pulled the light bulb string by his head and looked around. He spotted the luggage next to a pile of old blankets by the window slits on the far side of the room. Crouching slightly to avoid the rafters, he walked over to where the luggage was. With a travel bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase in either hands, Henry started toward the ladder. Theresa stood in front of him, hands on her hips, blocking the doorway.

"Henry, what is going on here?" she demanded.

"I'm leaving you," he answered curtly.

"Leaving me?" She was astonished. "Where are you going?"

"Don't you worry about that. Move out of my way, Theresa."

"Henry, why?" she said, sounding incredulous.

"Because you're an adulterous harlot!" he retorted. "Now get out of my way!"

Theresa looked as if she'd been slapped across the face. Stunned, she stepped aside without a word. Then all at once her eyes flashed, her face flushed crimson.

"It's a lie!" she hissed, enraged. "You can go to hell if that's what you think!"

Turning his back to her, Henry nonchalantly dropped the two empty suitcases to the floor below.

"After living with you for ten years, hell would be like a vacation." He  turned around to climb down the ladder.

Theresa snapped. With a yell of blind fury, she rushed forward and gave her husband a fierce shove. Completely unprepared for this attack, Henry lost his balance and tumbled headlong to the floor ten feet below. Henry gave a short yell as he thudded to the floor, and then was still.

Theresa stared in shock at the inert body of her husband. His head was twisted to one side. There was no sign of motion, no sign of breathing, no sign of life.

"Henry?" she said feebly." "Oh, my God."

"W-we were cleaning out the attic," Theresa told the police, wiping away tears. "He just slipped and fell."

"It's all right, ma'am," the officer told her. "We have no more questions. Will you be okay?"

"I-I guess so," she sobbed.

"I'm very sorry," he added.

The police were gone in an hour, convinced that it had merely been a freak accident.

A week passed, then two. Gradually, the number of neighbors who came to offer their condolences diminished, the dried-out flowers were thrown away and the neighborhood returned to normal. Several people remarked how well Mrs. Frazier was taking the whole thing.

It was a Sunday night. Theresa sat in bed, propped up by a pillow, pleasantly chatting on the phone. Finally saying goodbye, she picked up the magazine lying on her lap and began to read.

Some twenty minutes later, she thought she heard a faint noise coming from somewhere in the house. She put down the magazine and strained to hear. The night was still, calm. From outside the bedroom window, she could barely make out the soft whistle of the wind. Perhaps she heard a cricket or two, as well. 

Shrugging her shoulders, she returned to her article. Several minutes later it came again -a faint, metallic ringing. Ping! Ping! Ping! She stopped reading and concentrated on the noise. The longer and longer she listened, the louder and louder it seemed to get. It went from a tapping . . . to a clanging . . . to a hammering . . . "

"No!" she cried. Hopping out of bed, she dashed over to the window and yanked the curtains aside. There was nothing there. Then it came again, very faintly, taunting her. Ping! Ping! 

The water heater! Of course! She trembled as relief flooded into her. Wrapping her robe tightly around her body, she put on the woolen slippers by the bedside and started downstairs.

She descended the steps slowly and carefully, almost afraid of making any sound. She gingerly crossed the living room and the dining room, her feet padding softly on the carpeting. Entering the kitchen, she turned left sharply and put a hand on the basement door. She paused and listened again. Silence. Maybe it had stopped. Still, it was better to make sure. The whole basement had once flooded.

Theresa opened the door and felt for the light switch on the wall. She heard the click! but saw no light. She flicked it several times without result. Impatiently, she marched over to one of the kitchen drawers, where emergency candles were kept, and lighting one, went down the steps.

The cylindrical steel water heater stood in the far corner of the basement. As Theresa approached it, candle held aloft, it began to emanate its steady Ping! Ping! Ping! sound. Theresa's left foot struck something, knocking it across the floor. She shrieked. It was a block of wood. Theresa became very nervous. Her hand trembling, she grabbed the large green valve on top and turned it carefully to the left. The noise stopped abruptly.

She was about to go when something caught her eye. Theresa froze where she was standing. On the wall, by the water heater was the shelf with her husband's animals. They had never been taken down. Before here were a score, maybe two dozen, wooden figures -a dog, a horse, an elephant, a giraffe, a bear -and countless others. She stood, unable to move, staring at them like a child who is transfixed by a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. The animals stood out starkly in the dim glow from Theresa's candle. She could see the spots, the stripes, the grimaces on their faces. And they stared back at her with their lifeless, painted eyes.

Suddenly recoiling, she drew in her breath with a hiss and viciously knocked the figures off the shelf with the back of her hand. Turning away, she dashed to the stairs and mounted them quickly, not wishing to glance behind her.

Theresa returned to the bedroom and locked the door. Climbing into bed, she picked up her magazine. Her fingers shook as she turned the page. Nevertheless, she continued to read. 

One o'clock came. Theresa closed the magazine and placed it on the nightstand next to her bed. She reached to turn off the reading lamp. Then she heard it again.

She immediately started shaking. No, she wouldn't go down there again. She absolutely wouldn't. But the sound grew louder and louder. It was now a heavy clanging. She couldn't sleep with that. But who or what might be waiting . . . "

"Oh, for God's sake!" she said. She was acting like a frightened little girl. She would go down there one last time, give the valve a few whacks with a hammer, and that would be that. 

She put on her robe hastily, threw open the bedroom door and marched downstairs. 

She descended into the basement one last time, candle in hand, and without thinking, went over to the toolbox by her husband's workbench and took out a hammer. Approaching the water heater, which had momentarily quieted down, she struck the valve several times with the hammer. But it was tightened as far as it could go. 

She shook her head puzzledly. Her glance swept along the wall. She screamed. The hammer fell from her hand. Her husband's animals, which she had knocked off the shelf, were all in place, exactly where they had been. 

Theresa Frazier whimpered. She started for the stairs. Her foot slipped on something and she fell, landing painfully on her hands and backside. The candle, extinguished, rolled out of sight. She began crying frantically. 

OOOOOOOOO! came a loud sound behind her. From where she sat on the cold stone floor, Theresa turned around sharply, a wild look of terror on her face. For a second, she saw two points of light flash from the rafters -green, glowering eyes on a shapeless face.

"No! No!" she wailed plaintively. "Wake up!" she told herself. "Please wake up!"

As if in response, a low snarling came from her left. She turned and stared wide-eyed into the seething darkness.

A barrage of sounds bombarded her ears -hisses, snarls, barks, shrieks, howls . . . Theresa's brain swam. A thousand bizarre images raced through her mind. And the noises grew louder. And louder. 

"No!" she screamed with all her might. "It's not real! None of this is real!"

Theresa scrambled to her feet. Something slithered behind her. Not daring to look, she sped toward the staircase and finding the railing, raced up the steps toward the light from the kitchen. The door was shut. She seized the handle desperately and turned. It wouldn't open! That was impossible! There was no lock on the basement door!

Theresa heard footsteps ascending the staircase after her. She saw the apparition -red, piercing eyes, long snout, glistening white teeth. It trotted up the steps in slow motion, like a horror in a dream. There was something deadly familiar about the wanton smile on its gaping, grinning maws.

Theresa once more pulled frantically at the door. The creature lunged. Theresa screamed. 

Hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat, the man approached the front door of  the old white house, taking steady, measured strides. He hesitated a moment at the door and stood staring at the huge brass knocker. He rapped three times sharply.

A minute later the door opened a crack and the face of an old woman peered out at him from behind a chain.

"Yes?" she said, blinking.

He produced a badge from his coat pocket and held it up for her to see. 

"Ma'am, I'm Detective Marlin from Peoria Homicide," he began. "I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"Homicide?" she repeated confusedly. "Okay."

The door closed momentarily while she slid back the chain. She opened it and stood before the policeman in a robe and slippers.

He began very professionally. "Ma'm, did you see or hear anything unusual recently? Like last night?"

"No," she said uncomprehendingly. "Why?"

The detective sighed. "How well did you know the Fraziers next door?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't know her very well, but Henry was such a darling, God rest him. Why?"

The detective ignored her question. "Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm them in some way?"

"What?" The old woman was startled. "What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

He continued calmly. "Mrs. Frazier was found dead this morning at about eight o'clock. I'm not really allowed to discuss the details; it was . . . very strange. We're not sure exactly what did happen, but it looks pretty bad."

"One of the neighbors heard some screaming last night, but didn't bother to call the police. A friend of hers stopped by this morning and became suspicious when Mrs. Frazier didn't answer her door. Ma'am, what did you know about the Fraziers? Can you tell me anything?"

"Well," she replied. "Like I said, I didn't know the wife very well but I knew him. He always mowed my lawn for me. Becky just adored him, too."

"Who is Becky?"

"Oh, my granddaughter," the woman explained. "My youngest grandchild. Henry was always so kind to Becky. He gave her a rhinoceros once, you know."

"A rhinoceros?" the detective asked.

"Oh, not a real rhinoceros!" she laughed. "Just a toy one. He used to make toy animals and give them to the children sometimes. He loved children, but they didn't have any of their own."

"Hmmm." The detective reached into his coat pocket. "Like this?" He held a clear plastic bag containing a painted wooden figure. The woman examined it closely.

"Why, yes," she said. "That's one of them. Except Becky's was a rhinoceros."

"There was a whole bunch of these in the basement," the detective said. "On a shelf. We found this one on the steps. I don't suppose it means much, but we're just checking out everything. You say Dr. Frazier made them?"

"That's right," she answered. "He made them. Little wooden animals."