Living in a retirement community can put you at the mercy of scammers who prey on seniors. You have to be cautious.

 

When the phone rings, you should be sure you know who’s on the other end of the line before divulging personal information. This could be the case in . . .

 

 

Hello, Grandpa

 

     It had been a long day. I’d made the decision to go through the files of the important papers—taxes, insurance, and others—my wife, Jenny, and I had collected during our forty-five years of marriage. Since I was the keeper of the files and ran the shredder we recently purchased, it became my responsibility to make the major decisions on what stayed and what got chewed to bits. This activity left me bushed.

     I made my way to the bedroom to get ready for bed. As I removed the bedspread, the phone rang. I reached over and grabbed it off the nightstand and said, “Hello.”

     “Hi, Grandpa,” a male voice chanted.

     I have three grandsons between the ages of fourteen and twenty-one. They all sound alike to me, their hearing impaired grandfather. “Who is this?” I asked.

     “It’s Marcus, Grandpa.”

     Now, Marcus, the twenty-one year old, has never called me. He’s away at college and doesn’t seem to know his grandmother and I exist. The other boys aren’t much better. “Well, Marcus, it’s nice to hear from you. What’s up?”

     “Grandpa, I need your help.”

     “With what?” The line became silent. Being a bit suspicious, as this appeared to be one of those scam calls, I said, “Are you still there, Marcus? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to hang up. I’ve had a long day and I’m very tired.”

     “I’m still here, Grandpa. I don’t know how to say this, but . . .”

     “Marcus, just tell me what’s on your mind. I’m you grandfather and I love you.”

     “I love you, too, Grandpa. But . . .”

     “But what, Marcus?”

     “I don’t know how to tell you.”

     “Just spit it out already.”

     “I did something I shouldn’t have done and I need you to send me . . .”

     “You’re not my grandson. This is just one of those crazy scams targeting old people. If you call again I’m going to call the police. I’m hanging up, now!”

     “Grandpa, please. It’s not what you think. I . . .”

     Before he could utter another word, I hit off and tossed the phone onto the bed. I’d had it. I may be old, but I’m not dumb. I began to shake. The call unnerved me.

     I tried to pull myself together. I held my head in my hands. Then I heard Jenny calling to me.

     “Larry, what’s going on? Are you all right?”

     “I don’t know. I think so.”

     “You think so?”

     “Yeah. Did you hear the phone ring?”

     “Yes. Who was it?”

     “I thought it was one of our grandsons. But then he asked me to send money. At least, I think he did.”

     “Did he or didn’t he ask?”

     “I don’t know. He started to, but . . .”

     “But what?”

     “Oh, just forget it. I was almost conned, but I hung up before anything happened. I’m going to wash up and go to bed. Tomorrow’s got to be a better day. Good night, Jenny.”

     “Good night, Larry.”

     I had a restless night. The phone call kept bugging me. When I awoke for the fifth time, the sun shinned through the partially open blinds. I turned toward Jenny, but she wasn’t there. I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on some clothes, and headed to the kitchen.

     “Good morning, sleepy head,” Jenny said, with a broad grin on her face.

“Are you in a better place today?”

     “I’m not sure. I’ve only been up a half hour, so I’m not jumping to any conclusions yet. But it is a new day, and it has got to be better than yesterday.”

     After breakfast, I went into my home office and plopped down in front of the computer. I perused the Dock at the bottom of the screen and noticed I had one text message. Since I don’t text, I don’t pay attention to this, but this morning it jumped out at me.

     With my curiosity piqued, I clicked on the icon. When it opened, I was blown away. I saw the words, “Grandpa, why did you hang up on me? I need your help. Call me at . . .”

     But there was no number. Now what do I do, I thought.

     Things got more complicated later in the day. I was reclining on the living room couch trying to clear my head when the phone rang. I hesitated for a moment and then reached for it and said, “Hello.”

     “Hi, Dad. How are you doing?”

     “I’m as good as can be expected under the circumstances.”

     “What circumstances?” Tracy asked, somewhat concerned. “Are you and Mom all right?”

     “Well, Mom is. But me, I’m not sure.”

     “Dad, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

     “Marcus called me last night. He wanted me to send him something, but he didn’t say what. Thinking it was a scam call, I hung up on him. The whole episode left me confused and uneasy. Then this morning I got a text from him asking me to call, but there was no phone number.”

     “Has Marcus called you before?”

     “No. Never.”

     “So just ignore it, Dad. I hear this kind of thing is happening a lot, especially with seniors.”

     “Then you don’t think it was Marcus?”

     “No. I don’t believe he even has your phone number. But I can ask him if you want.”

     “Since you don’t think it was him, let’s just let sleeping dogs lie. How are you doing?”

     “Good. Really good. Could you put Mom on? I have a question to ask her.”

     “Sure. Hey Jenny,” I yelled down the hall. “Pick up the phone. Tracey wants to talk to you.” I saw “Conference” light up on my phone. “Bye, Tracy.”

     “Bye, Dad.”

     I put the phone down and breathed a sigh of relief. I avoided a scam and everything was fine with the world.

     That evening Jenny and I relaxed on the couch, watched a movie, and played Yahtzee. The game was enjoyable, even though I lost—big time. When we finished, Jenny looked at me and said, “I’m going to take a bath. The phone is on the end table.”

     I got up off the couch and went into the kitchen to get a couple of shortbread cookies to snack on. As I walked back into the living room, the phone rang. I grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

     “It’s me, Marcus, Grandpa. Please don’t hang up.”

     Oh, my God! It’s happening again. What did I do to deserve this? “I told you I’d call the cops if you called again and I meant it. So hang up!”

     “But I need your help, Grandpa.”

     “How did you get my number?”

     “I took your number and a couple of others from Mom’s phone before I left for college this year, so I’d have them if I needed them.”

     “What’s your mother’s name?”

     “Oh, come on. You know it.”

     “But do you? Just say it.”

     “Tracy.”

     I was at a loss for words. How can I make sure he wasn’t a scammer who did his research? And then it hit me. I sputtered, “Marcus, what did I give you for your twenty-first birthday and what did I say in the card? You have 20 seconds before I hang up.”

     “That’s easy, Grandpa. You gave me two hundred dollars and told me I was a treasure who had a bright future ahead of me and I should use half of the money to make someone else happy.”

     I gasped, “It is you, Marcus. My precious grandson, how can I help you?”

     “You need to forgive me for what I did?”

     “What did you do that was so bad?”

     “I went to the casino near the college and gambled with the money.”

     “So you lost my gift and can’t pay it forward, as I requested. Do you want me to send you more money?”

     “No, I still have the two hundred dollars and I know who I’m giving half of it to.”

     “Then what’s the problem?”

     “I won $3,000.”

     “That’s great!”

     “I thought you’d be upset.”

     “Why? You won. Now, if you had lost, that would be something else. But I still don’t understand what you want from me.”

     “Mom made it very clear that when I turned twenty-one I shouldn’t set foot in the casino. She can’t find out that I did.”

     “Okay. But what do you need me to send you?”

     “A note promising you will not divulge my secret.”

     He left me dumbfounded and speechless.

     “Hello, Grandpa,” he yelled. “Are you still there?”

    

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You want to have children, but your physician explains to you that this is impossible.

 

You explore other options, but then something unexplainable occurs to change your life, as you will see in . . .

 

 

The Book Of He

 

     What I am going to tell you may be beyond belief. But I assure you it is true. I am Assad Chumari. And this is a story about my brother, Amad, and sister-in-law, Shirah.

     I am a scribe of note in our land, an observer of behavior—the wishes and desires, which drive the human spirit. It is with this in mind, I urge you to come on my journey and experience the glory of life as it is told in my words in “The Book of He.”       

     On our Island, in the middle of a balmy ocean, many miles away from the mainland, lived a devoted childless couple—Amad and his wife, Shirah. Shirah looked at Amad and whimpered, “If I could have any gift in the world, it would be that of a beautiful baby boy.”

     Gently, Amad caressed her long raven hair and whispered. “If I had the power of creation, I would use all the strength in my body to grant your wish, for I love you with all my heart.”

     But Amad did not have such power. He was a simple, honest man of modest means. He and Shirah had tried for years to conceive, but without success. Their plight was known throughout the island, as no secrets could be kept for long, and word of the couple’s dreams spread like wildfire.

     Then one summer’s day, the phone rang in their modest home. Amad, reclining on the living room couch, reached for it and in a soft voice said, “Hello.”

     “Is this the Chumari residence?” A deep, gravelly voice grumbled.

     “Why, yes,” Amad stammered.

     “Mr. Chumari, a gift will be bestowed upon you and your wife within the week. Care for it and love it, as parents love a child.”

     The caller hung up, leaving Amad confused as to what the true meaning of the message was. Since it might be joke, a prank of some kind, Amad chose not to share the caller’s words with Shirah.

     Two days passed and nothing happened. Amad muttered to himself, “I am indeed a foolish man to think I would be the benefactor of a gift. I let my imagination run wild. For the words of the gentlemen on the other end of the line led me to believe we might receive a child to adopt. Oh, . . . I am a very foolish man.”

     That night, Amad tossed and turned as he slept. The saving grace was that Shirah would never know how foolish he had been.

     The next morning there was a rap on the front door of the small cottage. Shirah, murmured, “Amad, dearest, did I hear a knock at the front door?”

     With sleep still blanketing his world, Amad responded, “I do not know. But I will go see.”

     As Amad opened the door, he stood and stared in awe. There on the porch was an infant in a small, golden cradle, wrapped in a soft white blanket with a blue bow. He knelt down beside the child. The baby boy’s black hair gleamed in morning’s first light. It was a marvelous sight. And so it was, to a devoted childless couple came an infant, a gift of a generous benefactor—one that the couple would grow to love and treasure.

     With the future before him, the boy played with fervor and chased each day’s dream. His passion for life, his need to dissect the intricacies of a complex world, made him stand tall among others of his age. The truth was his to discover, to interpret in a way unique to this very special child.

     The challenges of growing up were of minor consequence to this magnificent young lad. The child took it all in stride, which in the eyes of the beholder brought intense joy. His parents marveled at the exuberance with which he approached life. His energy was boundless.

     With all batteries charged, the child took on each task and his accomplishments mounted. Studying long hours was not a problem, for the youngster needed little sleep to succeed. Of strong body and sharp wit, the youth was equipped—a fine-tuned machine, a technological wonder. A wunderkind—his magic unmatched as he marched to a tune others could only dream about playing.

     Amad and Shirah made his life comfortable. However, they were somewhat concerned, for he was almost too perfect and systematic in his approach to life. Amad lamented one evening, “I wish our son showed some emotion. He never smiles or cries. There is no laughter, no joy.”

     Shirah murmured, “But Amad, he is not all that perfect.”

     “How so?” Amad queried.

     “He is ill at ease with his peers. He does not make friends easily. His rigid manner makes it difficult for him to be accepted by others his age.”

     “Have we been too controlling, too structured?” Amad wondered aloud.

     “But that is what the note we found tucked in his cradle instructed us to do,” Shirah responded to Amad’s musing. “We were told to be strict, to enforce the rules, which govern his physical and intellectual growth and behavior, and to nurture his development and protect him from failure.”

     As the years passed, the child wanted more and more freedom from his parents’ control. He began “pushing his own buttons,” wandering from the designated path, deviating from his structured role.

     His circuits seemed crossed, his brain somewhat befuddled. This left Amad and Shirah bemused. As an adolescent, he was becoming his own person. “But is not this the path all children take?” Shirah asked.

     “But the note?” Amad queried.  “We have followed the instructions, as stated. This should not be happening. He is voiding the rules, which outlined the structured life he is to lead. What do we do?”

     Neither Amad not Shirah had an answer to this question, so as parents of other children often do, they stepped aside to give their son the space he needed to grow and develop in the manner of his own choosing. They did this with some apprehension, as the note with their “gift” had indicated this should not be permitted to happen.

     With the reins now loosened, their son made up his mind he would be neither a robot nor a societal droid, but would lead his own life without fear of repercussion. As a result, the young man became an adult of great renown and spoke with authority none could refute. His memory banks were solid and full of ideas. He moved in earnest—his mission, to recruit a legion of followers to help him make things better in our island paradise.

     This troubled the creators who had given him life and placed the beautifully wrapped package on Amad and Shirah’s doorstep, as a gift to be nurtured in the way directed. However, this deviation was not what they had planned. They knew this development would not be to the liking of the leaders of their beautiful island, who had empowered them to provide the child to the Chumaris.

     Action had to be taken, and taken soon, before “He,” the brainchild of the land’s powerful leaders, became too independent, too strong. Yes, “He” was the name they had chosen for him—the name his parents were told to use.

     The gathering of troops who admired his growing strength and courage was a cause for great concern for the island’s leaders. They thought a coup to depose them was in the making and “He” was at the helm. This was wrong and must be stopped.

  Once a social misfit, this young adult was now the favorite son of the rank and file, and they hung on his every word. The fear felt by the powers above was growing, as it appeared their rule now was being threatened.

     On the floor of Congress, the mantra was heard throughout, “We are the chiefs, the dictators of right and wrong, not ‘He.’” A motion was made and a vote taken. The outcome was unanimous. “He” was a threat to the land and its leaders and had to be dealt with to prevent an uprising of the people.

     After the vote, a security force of the highest caliber was assembled to capture the now labeled fugitive, “He.” The force searched far and wide throughout the land, but to its dismay, the fugitive was nowhere to be found. But, how could this be? This perturbed both Congress and President Elias, who now had become very much involved. A man such as “He” shouldn’t be allowed to remain free to spread his discomforting thoughts about the government. Thus the mystery of his whereabouts must be solved.

  The ideas, which flowed from “He’s” mouth could drive the economy down, draining the power of the president and his cohort. This predicament was turning into a real witches’ brew. A man of their design was now attempting to destroy what they supported and had to be stopped.

     “’He’ be damned,” President Elias shouted.  “A machine, a confounded machine, is threatening our power and way of life. This tyrant must pay the price for speaking his mind and causing much strife in our land.”

     But, from behind the scenes, invisible to those who sought to catch him, “He” continued to run amuck in dizzying fashion, flaunting his prowess for all to see. This enemy of the state was out of control—or was “He?” Was this just a ploy to confuse those who wanted to thwart his attempts to bring those in power down?

     Then one spring day, from out of nowhere, “He” resurfaced, in disguise, at a government rally at which President Elias was to speak. His parents and I were in attendance, as we knew one of the topics to be addressed was my nephew, their son.

     However, it was not the president we saw making his way through the crowd, but a figure cloaked in black. With little fanfare, this presence mounted the steps of the capitol building and motioned to the huge crowd, which stood before him. The guards dared not stop him for fear of incurring the wrath of those assembled.

     Not much for addressing large throngs, “He” mustered up the courage and began to speak. “My fellow citizens, we must unite and make our wishes known to the powers above. Stand together with me to fight for the freedom that should be ours.”

     This was not the presentation of a droid, but that of a man drawing from deep within to express himself. The emotions “He” felt were real. His voice, no longer mechanical in resonance, reverberated throughout the crowd in a sincere fashion that all could feel. “If those who govern us do not comply with our demands, we must bring them to their knees. We, the people, must speak our mind. We must take control. We must free ourselves from the repressive government forces.”

     His appeal was eloquent and moving and the crowd responded by pledging support for the cause. It was clear they were behind his preaching independence and the right to be free and showed their appreciation through robust applause. Having accomplished his mission, “He” descended the steps, as the appreciative citizenry gave him pats on the back.

     As “He” made his way through the crowd, his movements seemed labored. Something was wrong—evidenced by a complete lack of energy. “He” was fading and fading fast. This strong man seemed to be melting away, getting smaller and smaller, much more compact.

     Amad, Shirah, and I made our way toward him. I could see the panicked expression on the faces of my brother and sister-in-law, as they watched their son shrink before them. However, we could not get to him in time. And, if we had, I’m not sure there was anything we could do. As the crowd dispersed, all that was left at the bottom of the steps was a square metallic-looking box, a simple artifact.

     That evening, two large, muscled men lifted the box onto a wheeled platform and rolled it to a place of prominence in the town square. There, it would remain for all eternity for the citizens of the island to see and remember the “man” whose thoughts and feelings they came to share.

     And so, the story is told time and again, as the years pass, of how the people’s eyes were opened and their hearts set free. The failsafe mechanism installed to prevent “He” from becoming a leader who would seek freedom for the people had been triggered, but too late to stop the damage his words already had done to those in power. “He,” the man, was looked upon as a savior and praised for his steadfast leadership. This is the way it is remembered and recorded for all posterity, bound with love, in “The Book of He.”

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

At times, we have dark thoughts, but try not to share them with others.

 

Sometimes, however, we do. As a result, there are consequences we may not have anticipated. So we ask . . .

 

 

Can we . . .

 

be held accountable

for what

we thought

about doing,

but didn’t do?

Who makes

the decision?

Yes, I’m asking you.

How can I find

the answer?

 

What?

You say

I have the answer.

But that’s impossible.

That’s why

I’m asking you.

 

I’m lost

and need

your assistance.

Please—

help me.

 

Is that your hand?

May I

take it?

I can’t.

But why not?

Aren’t you

supposed

to help me?

 

Don’t I deserve

a second chance?

I didn’t pull

the trigger.

 

Yes,

I thought

about doing it,

but I didn’t.

And you

know that.

Don’t you?

 

You were there.

You’re always there.

So now,

what am I

supposed to do?

 

What?

Accept

my punishment.

But I’m

innocent.

 

You can’t

be serious.

I should

have known better.

 

I’m not

a murderer.

I don’t

even own

a gun.

How can I

be guilty?

 

Thinking about

doing it

is not a crime.

Is it?

 

Yes,

I did share

my feelings

with her.

But I

didn’t tell her

to do it.

 

Where are you?

Did you leave?

Say something.

You have

to help me.

 

It’s getting dark

in here.

The lights.

Where

are the lights?

It’s pitch black.

Where am I?

And why

aren’t you listening?

 

I’m feeling

closed in—

trapped.

I can’t move.

 

I need air.

I can’t breathe,

I’m drifting.

 

But where?

But where?

But where?

But where?

But . . .

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.