Have you ever had a relative who made your life miserable? No matter what you did, this bothersome individual always seemed to get the best of you.

But then one day, you try to turn the tables on this person, only to discover the outcome may not be what you wanted, as you will find out in . . .

Imaginary Friends?

     As usual, a cloud-covered sky obscured my view of Tacoma, Washington on this chilly December 28 morning. I had awakened late and sat alone at the kitchen table in my brother-in-law’s and sister-in-law’s home eating my breakfast, a scone leftover from dinner and a glass of orange juice. I stared at the Seattle Times lying beside me on the table. The headline on the front page intrigued me. It read, “The Ghosts of Christmas Past Appear.”

     I began to read the article. It piqued my curiosity. I became engrossed in it. Then, my sister-in-law, Janet, entered the room. Looking down at me with my head buried in the paper, she said, “I feel bad, Lee, that you have to eat breakfast by yourself.”

     Something strange came over me. I looked up at her and muttered, “But I’m not eating alone.”

     She glared at me in utter amazement, as she saw no one occupying the other three seats around the table. Flustered she moaned, “But there’s nobody else here.” The puzzled expression on my face confounded her.

     “You don’t see my three good friends?” I exclaimed, while trying to keep a straight face. “Let me introduce you to them.”

     “To them? You’ve gone mad. I don’t want to meet your imaginary friends. Ghosts of your past, I suppose,” she groaned. “I tried to be nice and you give me this silliness. I’m not up to your crap this morning.”

     “My past,” I quipped. “No, not the past. These are friends in my future.”

     She appeared to be at her wit’s end with me, but I continued my tirade to her dismay and disgust. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to Frederick, Hans, and Dominic,” I announced with enthusiasm.

     “You have got be kidding. You are, aren’t you?”

     She seemed worried about my state of mind. Guess she wondered if I did believe what I said. I think she felt certain I’d become delusional. However, I’d gone this far, so why not continue my ruse.

     “Well,” I sputtered. “Let me tell you about these extraordinary fellows you see before you.” I went on as if I knew what I was talking about. “These gentlemen live in our future and possess knowledge most of us would find interesting and necessary to be successful in life.”

     I watched Janet’s face as I rambled on. She became more and more annoyed with me. If I wasn’t a lunatic, she was certain I had taken this joke a bit too far. However, I couldn’t control my ranting about the “three illustrious souls” sitting around the table.

     Transfixed, she looked me straight in the eye and screamed at the top of her lungs, “So enlighten me, my ‘crazy’ relative.”

     I stood up, waving my right arm in an upward, sweeping gesture and blurted, “To my right is Dominic, an eminent teacher of young people, a man who will help our children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren fulfill their dreams.”

     Now, Janet had an even stranger expression on her face. I had trouble interpreting what it meant, but I still decided to continue.

     “And sitting in the center chair is the spectacular Hans, a dramatic artist of note, who will nurture our heirs in the fine points of expression. Because of his teachings, our future offspring will be able to sweep their audiences off their feet.”

     Janet started to interrupt, when I exclaimed, “You haven’t met the last of my three future friends.”

     She gasped in horror at my arrogance. “You’re exasperating. Go ahead, get it over with,” she shouted in dismay.

     I hesitated a moment before continuing. I thought about stopping my farce, but was having too much fun at Janet’s expense. In a loud voice, I proclaimed, “And last, but not least, I give you Frederick, ‘Mr. Fred,’ as he is known in the fashion industry—a fashion designer’s designer. In our future, he is the one who will turn the industry on its ear. He will clothe the world in a rainbow of exquisite creations.”

     My eyes focused on Janet who had a menacing grimace on her face. It appeared as if she might attack me, if not physically, at least with a verbal barrage of words that could not be repeated in mixed, or for that matter, any company.

     For my part, the game had ended. I had accomplished my mission of frustrating her, something I had never been able to do before. It always had been the other way around.

     The rest of the day Janet and I avoided each other. When we had to be together at dinner, we didn’t exchange more than a few words. During the evening, I spoke to my brother-in-law, Russell, and Janet spoke to my wife, Kathy. Janet and I did our best to freeze each other out, even while sitting in the same room while watching TV.

     The next day, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law drove Kathy and me to the airport to catch our flight back home to Sacramento, California. Janet seemed to have recovered from my craziness. We said our goodbyes and wished each other well.

     Kathy and I had a routine flight home and landed at 8:10 p.m. Our baggage came down the chute faster than expected. And the tram to the long-term parking lot seemed to be waiting for us. When we arrived at our Honda SUV, I opened the hatch and shoved our baggage in. Then I slipped in behind the wheel and, with Kathy tucked into the passenger seat, drove to the exit and paid the parking fee. Our drive home from the airport was uneventful. When we arrived, we unpacked and prepared for bed.

     Still a bit restless from the trip, I decided to read The Sacramento Bee before turning in. My neighbor, Harry, had been putting it on our kitchen counter while we were away. I grabbed today’s paper from the top of the stack. As I unfolded it, the headline in the middle of the front page caught my eye, “Future Leaders Identified.” I scanned the article. Feeling a little uncomfortable with what I saw, I backtracked to the beginning and read it aloud, focusing on each detail.

     “Six young people, ages fifteen through eighteen, have been projected to have wonderful and prosperous futures.” I took a deep breath and then continued. “A recent nationwide competition selected young men and women who will be our nation’s future leaders in the fields of science and mathematics, education, the fine and performing arts, business and industry, the social sciences, and fashion and merchandizing.”

     As I further perused the article, I began to get a strange feeling, as if I already knew this information. The first youngster recognized was a young woman who had designed a scientific process that could change the field of genetics. While this fascinated me, the second portrait, which focused on a young man, sent chills through my body.

     It read, “Dominic Dimateo, a seventeen-year-old junior at Harris High School has been selected as a future teacher who will change the lives of our children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.” My body began to quiver and I almost stopped reading.

     Kathy called from the bedroom, bringing me back to reality. “Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

     “I’m in the middle of reading a story in the paper. I’ll be in as soon as I’m finished,” I replied. 

     Proceeding with caution, my eyes moved back to the article on future leaders. I almost fainted at what jumped out at me next. “Hans Freidkin, eighteen, from Washington High School, wowed the audience with his dramatic portrayal of ‘King Lear.’ His prowess in public speaking and the dramatic arts will make him a role model for young people now and in the future.” I felt cold and clammy.

     My eyes flew over the rest of the article, looking for what I didn’t want to find. Then, I felt as if I’d hit a brick wall head on. There on the page, the last category recognized, “Fashion and Merchandizing,” pushed me over the edge. I felt a pounding in my head. My heart skipped a beat as I read, “Frederick Berkenmeyer, a sixteen-year-old entrepreneur from Dudley High School of Fashion, designs clothing, which will change the future of the fashion industry.”

     I gulped and almost choked on my own saliva. This can’t be happening. Somehow my joke on Janet had come back to haunt me. It appeared once again she had gotten the upper hand and was paying me back for what I put her through with my imaginary friends. But how this could happen was a mystery to me. The only other explanation was crazier than the first. I had seen the future.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Growing up can take its toll. It’s not always easy to understand what’s occurring in your life.

At times, you feel all alone. But then something amazing happens. And you know you’re not, as you will see in . . .

My Special Angel

I’m trembling,

but I don’t know why.

She tells me

I shouldn’t be scared,

but I am.

I want to believe her—

my wonderful, special angel.

She has never let me down,

but this seems different.

I can’t put my finger on it—

it’s so hard to describe.

With dark, black clouds overhead,

gray shadows pervade my world.

Graceful ghostlike figures dance

to a tune I’m unable to hear.

They motion to me to join them,

to become a part of their show.

The trembling gets worse,

tears form in my eyes.

I want to run away

and hide from the things

I don’t understand and can’t explain.

But my angel tells me I must not.

“It’s just part of growing up,”

she declares.

“You have to face your demons,

conquer your fears,

and develop into a strong person.”

“But I’m only twelve years old,”

I cry out in frustration.

“I know,” she says,

placing her hands on my shoulders,

as she turns to go back

to the front of the classroom.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

So you want to be a big shot. “I’m the man,” you say. “I’m destined for greatness.”

The world, as you see it, is yours to control. But sometimes, life has a way of knocking your feet out from under you when you least expect it, as will become apparent in

. . . art History

Let me paint a picture of what my life was from the start.

It will be a portrait I am sure will touch your heart.

Putting brush to canvass, on our magnificent journey, we will now depart.

I had a mission to accomplish, to be better than others, to stand apart.

From the outset, on life’s great stage, I was not satisfied with playing a bit part.

I had to be strong, knowledgeable, and aware, so others, I would be able to     

     outsmart.

In the center of the canvass, I will paint a large circle that will become a pie chart,

A breakdown of the key sectors of my world, the information I wish to impart.

I will divide this circle into four areas, the first being brilliance, that is, how I  

     became so smart.

Committed to being better than my peers in school, my performance was off 

     the chart.

While intelligence played the major role in my quest for superiority, athleticism  

     became its counterpart.

A standout in sports from an early age, whether at football, baseball, or track, 

     I always had a head start.

To complement these first two components, I was strong of will and able to  

     handle all challenges—a true lionheart.                                             

Now some called me a showoff and others a braggart, but my strength of 

     character would not let me fall apart.

And finally, one cannot be counted a true success without being handsome 

     beyond reproach, and I was a true work of art.

This was all so perfect, until one day, in my eighth grade class, I bent over and 

     let out a loud fart.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

TV news stories paint the world as falling apart and ugly—a struggling economy on the brink of collapse, people killing each other at alarming rates, and “Big Brother” wanting to get rid of Social Security, upend Medicare, and make us all live green.

Freedom—myth or reality? It is a question that plagues many of us. Can we make our own decisions or are we just puppets, whose strings are being pulled in the direction our leaders want us to go? The answer may be found in . . .

The Social Experiment

“A Story Based on a Real Experience”

    “Ladies and gentlemen, please take out a sheet of paper from your notebook.”

     Jose Ortega groaned, “Oh no, a surprise quiz.”

     The rustling of paper produced the perfect backdrop for the beginning of my class in social psychology at Morris Community College in Southern California. More rustling and a sprinkling of side conversation elevated the noise level.

     “Let’s settle down. Turn your attention to the front of the room, please.”

     At last, the din dissipated and I began. “People, write your name in the top left hand corner of your paper. Place today’s date, October 6, 2008, in the top right hand corner. Now fold your paper in half.”

     The students followed my precise instructions, as I knew they would. But now the real test commenced. Each student focused on my every word. However, what they thought might happen, didn’t.

     “Everybody, stand up,” I instructed.

     I heard some grumbling and sensed a degree of confusion, but all stood. Then I began to rattle off, in quick succession, a list of what must have seemed ridiculous directions.

      “Pick your paper up and crumple it into a ball. Throw it at the person to your right.”

     Students looked at me in dismay. I could see bewilderment in their eyes, but not a word emerged from their lips.

     After taking a short breath, I continued. “Now stand on one foot—now the other. Walk around your chair three times. Sit down. Stand up.”

    I watched as they stood at their desks with all eyes focused on me awaiting the next order from on high. So I pushed them some more.

    “Mr. Adams, come to the front of the room.” Adams plodded up and stood face to face with me.

    “The rest of you, get into line behind Mr. Adams.” All complied.

     “Mr. Adams, you are the leader of this very important parade to nowhere. Start walking to your left around the classroom. Everybody, follow Mr. Adams. Faster! Faster!

     "Now reverse direction behind Ms. Kane. Melanie, you are our new march master.”

     This ridiculousness went on for over ten minutes. Nobody looked happy, but no one posed an objection to the endless array of orders coming from their teacher in front of the room.

     An eerie silence pervaded the classroom, as my students performed as directed. Then, I instructed them to return to their desks and stand next to their seats.

     When all had done so, I screamed in my most commanding voice, “Attention!”

     To my amazement, thirty-three students positioned themselves in perfect military formation in front of me, their eyes peering straight into mine. Nobody waivered. Nobody said a word—all sheep in this flock ready for the grand finale—the epitome of learning.

     “My children, my obedient followers, please pay homage to me, your almighty leader. Bow down to me in tribute to my infinite wisdom and greatness,” I ordered.

     With my arms outstretched in front of me, my subservient flock bowed before me. Not one of them objected. All stayed in position with heads lowered.

     My gut ached at what I saw. I hadn’t expected such obedience. It appeared I had power beyond anything I’d ever imagined—but why?

     These compliant troops remained in position awaiting my next pronouncement. Not a soul moved. This scared the hell out of me. I gathered up my strength and motioned to them to sit down, and they did so without hesitation.

     No one spoke. They focused on me and waited for my next order—one they no doubt would obey without thinking.

     I took a deep breath, thus calming my nerves and the queasiness in my stomach. Watching them as they sat before me in a trancelike state, I spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, “Ladies and gentleman, do you know what has happened?”

     Not a word uttered. Even those who talked in class all the time seemed reluctant to respond to my query.  

     Somewhat flustered, I posed a more direct question. “Why did you do what I asked you to do?” Still, no response. “Didn’t some of the directions I gave you seem ridiculous and maybe even irresponsible on my part?”

     Jared looked at me. He shook. His voice quivered as he spoke. “Yeah. I didn’t understand why, but you’re my teacher, Mr. Watkins.”

     I looked at the class. “Did you hear what Jared said?”

     There was a lot of head shaking.

     “Does being your teacher give me the right to make you do outlandish things?”

     “Well, I thought you must’ve had a reason,” Rebecca exclaimed.

     Sal, seated behind her looking bemused, muttered, “Your lessons always are making some point. I thought you would get to it sooner or later.”

     My next questions produced shocked looks upon the faces of my students. “How far could I have gone before you rebelled? What would have pushed that final button?”

     Anita looked around at her fellow classmates for support before responding. “Mr. Watkins, you wouldn’t do anything that was wrong or would hurt us. Would you?” she murmured.

     “I don’t know,” I replied. “Would I? How do you know how far I’d go? Did you ever expect me to put you through what I did today?” No immediate response. They sat there with blank expressions on their faces. Then a hand went up in the back of the classroom.

     “Yes, Louis.”

     “But you’re the teacher and we’re supposed to do what you say or . . .”

     “Or what? Pretend that I have a switch in front of me that will launch the bomb to blow up all of Northern California. The next command I give you Louis is to flip the switch. Would you do it?”

     He sat there, mustering up his strength, and said, “No. I don’t think so.”

     “But you did bow down to me. Isn’t asking you to do that overstepping my bounds as your teacher?”

     Before anyone could answer, I noticed the time on the clock on the wall in the back of the room. My fifty-minute hour was up. I felt awful as I dismissed the class. I didn’t know if they’d gotten the point of “The Social Experiment.” Could they see that authority has boundaries that leaders try to push all the time, usually to the detriment of those they lead?

     As the students filed out of the classroom, Louis turned to me and blurted, “Yeah, man, I’d flip the switch.”

     I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. “You would,” I gasped, as he left the room without saying another word. And I didn’t know if he was kidding.

Copyright © 2011 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Should the punishment fit the crime? Some say, “Yes.” But what if you didn’t do it?

How do you prove your innocence? It is not always easy. And if you can’t, you may have to serve your sentence in . . .

The Glass Cage

     Eyes. Eyes staring at me. What can I do to avoid them? How can I keep my sanity? Will this ever end?

     Flashback—one year ago. I sat at my desk in my small, but well-equipped office at Trenton University, thirty miles from Vegas, in the middle of the desert. Data flowed across my iMac computer screen—sensitive information meant for only a few chosen specialists in the field of “Human Manipulation.”

     I perused the statistics dancing before me. My concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Who’s there?”

     “James, it’s Brad. We need to talk.”

     “Okay, come in.”

     The door opened and Brad, the chair of the Department of Human Exploration entered, shutting the door behind him. “What do we need to talk about?”

     His head bowed, he spoke in a whisper, “We’re being investigated and you’re the main target.”

     “Investigated? For what?”

     “Misuse of secret government property.”

     “You’re joking? Aren’t you?”

     “I wish I was. You knew when you took this position at the university that your research would be subject to federal scrutiny. Well, they’ve accessed your computer files and discovered you’ve been manipulating the lives of six influential politicians for your own benefit.”

     “I’ve been doing what? What are you talking about? My research has nothing to do with the government or political officials. And you know that.” Brad stood there in silence. “Wait a minute. You’re not setting me up, are you?”

     “Well, somebody has to take the fall. And you knew there would be risks. You’re low man in the department and we have to give someone up to save our sixty million dollar research grant.”

     Flashback—eight months ago. I stood in a courtroom facing a stern looking judge. He glared at me with a scowl on his face. “Mr. Woodson,” or should I say, “Professor Woodson? You have been accused of committing quite serious crimes against six federal representatives that involve human manipulation, which compromised their ability to make their own decisions. How do you plead?”

     Before I could respond, my federal appointed defense lawyer rose from his seat and bellowed, “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

     “But your honor,” I yelled.

     “Sit down now, Professor. Since you admitted you committed six crimes against the state, we will proceed immediately to sentencing.”

     “But your honor, I didn’t do any of those things. I’m being . . . “

     “Sit down, Professor, or I’ll have to order the guards to shackle and mute you.”

     Two guards pushed me back into the chair, as the judge continued. “I’m sentencing you to twenty years, for each of the six crimes committed. These sentences will be served concurrently. Since the punishment should fit the crime, you will be housed at the Twenty-Nine Palms Glass Cage facility.”

     “Glass what? But your honor, I’ve done nothing.”

     Ignoring my comment, the judge proclaimed, “Take him away. Next case, please.”

     That was eight months ago. Prison would have been a reward for what they said I had done. However, for exposing the secret lives and lies of our political elite to the public, my twenty-year sentence would be served in what they termed a “total transparency environment.” And this has been much worse than serving time in any prison one could imagine.

     My days are unbearable. I can’t interact with anyone in a normal way. I have little to do and nowhere to go. My clothing has been stripped from me and every hair on my body removed. I live in a glass cage, in a compound open to the public—a human zoo, where my every move can be observed. And to make things worse, new technology has allowed my keepers to tap into my brain and read my thoughts, which they then display, like a closed captioning function on TV, for all to see.

     My only means of communication with my keepers is a yellow pad and pen, placed on a small wooden table, with a bench attached, which also serves as my sole place to sit. It’s anchored to the ground so I have to face the visitors who gape and then attempt to elicit a reaction from me. I tried once to use the writing supplies to alert my viewers that I needed help, but as I raised a sheet of paper to the glass, electricity zapped my body and I fell with a thud to the ground. When I awoke, a message on the “closed captioning display” read, “Don’t ever try that again.”

     For the past eight months, I’ve languished in my cage. Although I’ve tried to get a message to my so-called attorney, I’ve been told, he doesn’t want to speak to me. I submitted a request for new counsel, but this request fell on deaf ears. So here I exist, with my life placed in total view of gawkers and stalkers who wish to get their jollies from watching a man perform his basic life essentials in the public eye.

     What will my future bring? Will I live long enough to again enter the outside world? I yearn for a life—getting married, having a family. But for now, I live in a world of my own making. I pretend that the people who “visit” are my friends who have come to share themselves with me. I wave and they respond in kind. Some days, I can say I’m almost having fun. I work out to keep my body in shape. For I’m on the set of my own one-man reality show every day, but not in costume, so I have to look good.

     Flashback—three months ago. I stood staring at an empty courtyard surrounding my glass enclosure. Not a soul in sight. I started to turn away from the glass, when I saw a beautiful blond woman walking toward me. It seemed strange to see a woman approaching alone. This hadn’t happened before. She came right up to the glass and pressed her face against it. I don’t know what possessed me to follow suit, but I did. It was my first real personal encounter since I arrived at Twenty-Nine Palms.

     Today, three months later, as I watched as onlookers eyeballed me, I wondered what had happened to that woman. Drifting off, I became lost in thought, when all hell broke loose in the compound. People ran like crazy to escape something. But what?

     Then I saw a cavalcade of police, followed by what looked like a throng of reporters and cameramen. Lights flashed everywhere. Then from out of the crowd, the attractive blond I had “met” three months ago approached. She held something in her hand as she reached for the door of the glass cage, pressed some numbers into the door’s keypad and inserted a gold key into the lock. As the door swung open, she motioned to me to step outside. I shivered in the frigid air, the temperature at least twenty-five degrees less than inside my glass enclosure. A man in the group raced toward me and draped a robe over my naked body. However, it still took a couple of minutes for my teeth to stop chattering.

     The woman embraced me and then planted a passionate kiss on my lips. Amazed, I just stared at her. I wondered what this was all about. Then she moved her mouth to my ear and whispered, “I saw you eight months ago in the courtroom.”

     “You did?” I mumbled, still shaking a bit from the cold. “Why were you there?”

     “I was a law student. I came to observe the case. It sickened me to witness the crime committed.”

     “My crime?”

     “No, their crime. They never gave you a chance to prove your innocence. You had a fool or a politician’s puppet for a lawyer. So I vowed, when I passed the bar, I would work on your behalf. And that happened three months ago.”

     “What happened?” I asked, still confused by this whole situation.

     “I passed the bar. That’s when I came to see you. And when we pressed our faces close together, I knew I had to prove your innocence.”

     “You did? But how did you, a new attorney, accomplish this?”

     “Let’s just say it doesn’t hurt to come from a wealthy family with a father whose legal practice specializes in overturning unfair convictions. I went to work as a lawyer for his firm and you were my first case. In front of a new judge, who had few political affiliations, I succeeded in getting the case thrown out of court.”

     “Well, what do we do now?”

     “Simple, we get the creeps who set you up, I become a great defense attorney, and you and I get married.

     “Get married?”

     “Why not? You do know you have a gorgeous, sexy body?”

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Aging happens as a matter of course and not choice. As we age, we reach a stage in our lives where we question our purpose.

While old, we still seek to be worthwhile members of society. Finding our place is at times hard without the help and support of others, as is expressed in . . .

I Am Old Now

I always wished for a long life.

But now that I have reached my twilight years, I wonder why.

I dreamed a dream the other night.

It made me mad.

Yet now I try to recall it,

but I cannot.

Life’s memories no longer linger,

and that saddens me, too.

I used to be able to do so much,

with a sharp mind and a youthful body.

My strong body held me erect,

as I walked with pride through the neighborhood.

But now I am quite bent over.

I need a cane to get around.

I am depressed a lot of the time.

Old friends are gone—leaving me alone.

It is a struggle to get up each morning.

To face an empty life leaves me cold.

I have trouble finding something to do each day,

for I have few meaningful options.

Yes, I am old now and cannot see well.

Yes, I am old now and cannot hear well.

However, I am very proud of the life I have led

and want to be a part of the life I am in, but I do not know how.

There is not much I need, but I still do have a lot to give,

if only you would ask.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

During Read Across America Week this year, the first week in March, I signed up to read to a fifth grade class at Creekside Oaks Elementary School in Lincoln, CA. As a writer, I asked if I could read some of the stories I’d written. The answer was a resounding, “Yes.”

But then the difficult part. What story should I select to read first? Having trouble deciding, I began to write a new tale about one of my weirdest experiences as a fifth grader, which became . . .

My Fifth Grade Nightmare: A True Story

“Many, Many, Many Years Ago”

 

     The alarm clock on the nightstand next to my bed blared. I hit the button on the clock so hard it fell to the ground with a thud. Guess I better get up, I thought. But I really didn’t want to. I stayed up late last night celebrating my grandpa’s fifty-seventh birthday. I had a great time. Mom bought strawberry shortcake for the occasion. I’d never eaten strawberries before. They tasted different—all right, but not great.

     Still half asleep, I rolled out of bed, washed up, dressed, and headed to the kitchen to eat breakfast. As I entered, Mom looked at me with a frown on her face. “Alan, you’re going to be late for school. So sit down and eat your Cheerios and drink your orange juice.”

     I shoved the Cheerios into my mouth so quickly and with such force, it made me gag. Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes.

     “If you don’t slow down, young man. You’re going to choke to death.”

     I took a deep breath, finished my cereal, slipped into my jacket Mom had put on the back of the chair, grabbed my book bag and the brown paper lunch sack, and raced out the door to the bus stop.

     The ride to school was uneventful. Arriving, I exited the bus and headed to class.

     Mrs. Young was a good teacher and a nice person. However, today, her history lesson on the Civil War was boring. I couldn’t wait for the morning recess bell to ring. I sat and fidgeted with my glasses, paying little attention to the words that flowed from her mouth.

     And then, . . . ding, ding, ding, ding. “Okay, everybody, it’s time for recess,” Mrs. Young announced. “And Alan, please take the basketball and make sure you bring it back.”

     Recess was great, but too short. We ran laps, shot some baskets, and played with the hula-hoops lying by the side of the basketball court. Ding, ding, ding, ding, the bell sounded. Everybody stopped what they were doing and ran toward their classrooms.

     I started to follow, but remembered I had a job to do—bring the basketball with me. But where was it? I searched all around, but didn’t find it. Just as I thought I’d have to come up with a good excuse for being late and not having the ball, I noticed it under the garbage bin. I scooped it up and rushed toward my classroom.

     As I went in, Mrs. Young pulled me aside. In fear of what she was going to say, I cried out, “I’m not late and I have the basketball.”

     She gave me a weird look. “Okay, good,” she responded. “But why is your right eye swollen shut? Were you in a fight?”

     “Uh, no,” I stammered.

     “Alan, please tell me the truth.”

     “But it is the truth.”

     “I’m not so sure it is,” she said. “But whether or not it is, you need to be seen by the nurse. Here’s a hall pass. Go now. I’ll call and tell her you’re on your way.”

     I left the room and trudged down the hall to the nurse’s office. As I opened the door, she took one look at me and said, “Oh, my! Have you been in a fight? Both your eyes are almost swollen shut.”

     “No, I haven’t,” I whined.

     “Well, you have no other cuts and bruises, but you still need to be examined, but not by me. I’ll call your mother so she can take you to the doctor.”

     “Not my mother!” I screamed. “She won’t believe me either. You’ll get me in trouble.”

     “Well, maybe that’s what should happen, since you don’t seem to be telling the whole truth.”

     “But I am.” Not listening to me, she dialed my mom’s phone and explained what she thought had happened and told her to come to the school, as soon as possible.

     Fifteen minutes later, Mom came charging into the nurse’s office and yelled, “Oh, my God! You look like you’ve been beaten up badly. Both of your eyes are swollen shut, your lips are puffy, and I see bumps on your hands. That must’ve been a big fight you were in.”

     “But I haven’t been in a fight,” I pleaded.

     “We’ll get to the bottom of this later. But first, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

     She grabbed me by the arm, thanked the nurse for calling her, and dragged me to the car. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the doctor’s office.

     When we walked through the door, the receptionist stared at me and shouted, “Wow! You must’ve been in a big fight.”

     I didn’t say anything. Mom told her we didn’t have an appointment, but needed to see the doctor right away.

     She said, “You’re fortunate he had a cancellation, so he can see you now.” She picked up the phone off her desk and buzzed him. “Doctor, I’m sending Alan and his mother in so you can examine the bruises he received from his fight at school.”

     All I could think of was I didn’t want one more person telling me I must’ve been in a really big fight. As we entered the examining room, Dr. Bulger looked me up and down. Then, with a broad smile on his face, he asked, “What have you eaten recently that you’ve never eaten before?”

     My mother had a puzzled expression on her face, as she heard me reply, “Strawberries. They were on the top of my grandpa’s birthday cake last night.”

     Dr. Bulger laughed. “You definitely weren’t in a fight. You’re allergic to strawberries. You have a kind of skin rash called ‘hives.’ Go to your pharmacy and get an over-the-counter antihistamine. The pharmacist can direct you to the right one. In a few days, all the bumps and puffiness will be gone. And stay away from strawberries.”

     Well, the case was closed. And I wasn’t a criminal who would go to jail for being in a fight. But I would have to give up eating strawberries. However, I didn’t like them very much anyway.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.