If you find yourself single in your senior years and are looking for companionship, what should you do? 

 

Loneliness can cause you to explore the singles world in different and sometimes daring ways. See how the story unfolds in . . .

 

 

Life Tributes—The Whole Story

 

     We sat on my plush brown living room couch—three men staring off into space. Not a word was uttered. I don’t know what was going on in Herb’s or Godfrey’s mind. But my mind wandered in and out, wondering if I was meant to spend the rest of my life alone.

     I’d been married forty-six years when Sheila passed away suddenly one evening, as she sat in bed reading a novel by her favorite author, Karen Bridges. The cause of death—a heart attack. Twelve months have gone by since I found her with her head propped up against the headboard. The doctor said she went quickly—little or no pain.

     “Hey, Marv.” No response. “Earth to Marv.”

     “Huh, what do you want Godfrey?”

     “I thought we were going to do something this evening. Go out for a drink. Try to meet some women. It’s been more than two years since Stella left me. I think it's time.”

     “Me, too,” Herb mumbled. "Been a year and a half since Clara and I parted ways. We didn’t have much of a marriage for over seven years, but it still blew my mind when she told me she was leaving. But now it’s time to get on with my life.”

     “So, it seems we’re all in agreement,” Godfrey chanted.

     “Hey, not so fast. It’s only been a year since I lost Sheila, and I wasn’t prepared. Unlike you guys, I had a good marriage. It’s different.”

     “It may have been different when it happened, but it’s not any different now,” Herb spouted. "We’re all in the same boat—but alone. So unless you want to sit here moping around forever, I suggest we get our act together, put the past behind us, and move on with our lives.”

     “Let’s not jump into this. I think we need a plan,” I stated, with a slight spark of enthusiasm.

     “A plan? We’re not going to rob a bank. We’re just going to pick up some ladies. So choose a place and let’s go already. It’s almost nine o’clock. Women our age will be in bed soon . . . and not with us,” Godfrey emphasized.

     “You really think you’re going to wind up in bed with a lady this evening?” I quipped. “You’re seventy-six years old and you had a crappy marriage. When was the last time you had sex?”

     “You know, my friend, it’s none of your business. At least I know I still can get it up.”

     “Yeah, with a two-by-four as a prop,” Herb shouted.

     “Come on fellas, this line of reasoning isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said. “Maybe, rather than going out this evening, we should each put an ad in next week’s personals section of the Sacramento Bee.”

     “Are you serious, Marv? You do know that newspapers got rid of the personals section years ago. It’s all done by computer now,” Godfrey pointed out.

     I gaped at Godfrey with a weird expression on my face. It was painfully obvious to my two friends that I still lived in the dark ages with regard to modern communication. I looked at him and then at Herb. “No, I didn’t know. I had no reason to. However, I do know you can do it on the computer, but I had no clue newspapers have done away with personal ads. For God’s sake, that’s how Sheila and I met. And I’m not about to do it on the computer.”

     “You’ve got to get your head out of the sand, Marv,” Herb said, shaking his head in dismay at my reluctance to enter the computer age to find my perfect match. “Since it doesn’t seem we’re going anywhere tonight, I’m going to explore a fifty-five and over website they’ve been advertising on TV. What about you, Godfrey?”

     “Guess I’ll do that too—maybe.”

     Well, that was it for the evening. It was almost ten and we’d accomplished nothing. The guys dragged their aged, tired bodies over to the door. We said good-bye. I let them out and locked up for the night.

     I contemplated what might happen over the next two weeks, until our next Saturday evening get-together. Would Herb and Godfrey have the guts to visit the fifty-five and over website? And what about me? What would I do? Probably nothing.

     Tuesday morning I sat at the kitchen table thumbing through the Sac Bee. I still wasn’t convinced they no longer had a personals section. However, finding none, I started flipping back through the pages. And then it happened. A light bulb went on in my balding dome. I knew what I was going to do.

     Saturday evening of the following week arrived all too soon, but I believed I was ready to prove my point—that technology is not the greatest way to find your perfect match.

     The doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw Herb standing there with a smug look on his face. “You’re not going to believe what’s happened to me,“ he gushed.

     “Okay, let me have it.”

     “No, let’s wait until Godfrey gets here. I didn’t see his car. I want to share my new entrance into manhood with both of you at the same time.”

     “I guess I can live with that. Go sit down in the living room. There are snacks on the coffee table. Just leave some for Godfrey.”

     “If he gets here late and they’re all gone, that’s his problem,” Herb said, with a grin on his face.

     Before I could close the door, Godfrey appeared in the doorway, with a sheepish look on his face. “All right, tell me what’s on your mind.”

     “Is Herb here?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Good, I’ll tell you both together.”

     I closed the front door and guided him into the living room. We joined Herb on the couch—three men smirking at one another . . . closely guarding secrets they wished to unveil when the timing was right. Each man’s eyes moved to that of another, but nothing was said. And then . . .

     “My God! I can’t hold it in anymore,” Herb screamed. “I’ve got a girlfriend! Well, that isn’t entirely accurate."

     “Why isn’t it accurate?” Godfrey asked, somewhat dismayed.

     “Uh . . . because . . . actually . . . I have two girlfriends.”

     “In just two weeks. That’s unbelievable,” I stated.

     “I told you guys that fifty-five and over website was great.”

     “So who are they? Anybody I know?” Godfrey shouted.

     “I don’t think so. They’re Jenny and Claudine. Jenny’s a blond and Claudine’s a brunette.”

     “Okay, how old are they?” I asked.

     “You’re not going to believe me.”

     “Why not? Are they minors?” Godfrey and I said in unison.

     “Close,” Herb responded. “Claudine’s sixty.”

     “My God, you’re seventy-seven. She could be your daughter,” Godfrey stated, incredulous at the age difference.

     “Uh, Jenny’s only fifty-six,” Herb mumbled, somewhat afraid of what we might say.

     “Well good for you Herb. I’m proud of you.” Herb let out a sigh of relief. “And what about you, Godfrey? You said you had something to share.” A moment of silence came over the room.

     “Uh, well, I did visit the website. But I couldn’t get into it. Then, just when everything seemed hopeless, my daughter, Christy, called and asked if I’d go to church with her and her family last Sunday. I’m not big on church, but I told her I’d go. Turned out to be the best decision I ever made.

     “After the service, they served refreshments. One of Christy’s friends, Katie, brought her mother with her. Her name is Sarah. She’s my age, seventy-six, and we have so much in common. Neither of us is a great churchgoer. We’re both divorced and lonely. And we like old movies. We’ve seen each other three times this week. It’s really special.”

     “That’s great. I’m so happy for you, Godfrey,” I stated.

     “Yeah, congratulations, man. Make sure you invite us to the wedding. But give me some advance notice, so I have time to decide which date I’ll be bringing,” Herb laughed.

     Then they both stared at me. Their eyes cut through to my very core. “Why are you looking at me that way?” I inquired.

     “What are you waiting for?” Herb asked. “It is your turn.”

     I thought for a minute before speaking. This had to come out right. “Uh, I ran an ad in the newspaper.”

     “But they don’t have a personals section anymore,” Herb said, appearing somewhat confused. “Did you place the ad in the ‘Help Wanted’ section?”

     “Not quite, but close.”

     “What did it say?” Godfrey asked.

     “Well, this is what it said, ‘Sheila Gast, age 72, died one year ago. She was a loving wife and mother to Tommy Gast and Sharon Winston. Her husband, Marvin Gast, age 73, continues to miss her, but realizes he needs to move on with his life. Sheila would have wanted this for him. He knows others of you are in the same position, so please contact him, at 1-555-660-7923. He is anxious to meet a wonderful lady with whom to play cards, dance, go to shows, and travel.’”

     “That doesn’t belong in the ‘Helped Wanted’ section,” Herb said, a bit bewildered.

     “No, I placed it in the ‘Life Tributes’ section of the Bee.”

     “The obituary section!” Godfrey screamed. “How could you do that?”

     “Eight ladies have called me in the past two weeks. So I must have done something right.”

     “That’s amazing, Marv. But it’s still not as good as the dating website,” Herb stated.

     “How did you come to that conclusion? My ad in the ‘Life Tributes’ section got me eight replies to your two. That proves that the ‘tried-and- true’ is still the best.”

     “Man, you’re missing the point, Marv. I’ve already gone on four dates, with two different women, and Godfrey’s accidental meeting of a lady at church got him a real woman—not just a bunch of names.”

     “Accidental?” Godfrey yelled. “”Meant to be’ is the better term.”

     “All right, ‘meant to be,’” Herb said. “But you’ve got nothing Marv. For all you know your ladies are playing you.”

     “You know, I’ve had it with you, Herb. I’ve got a proposition for both you guys. One month from today, you are cordially invited to a Saturday night social gathering at my house—a date required. And Herb, that means . . . one woman.”

     “Why not my two?” Herb asked, somewhat forlorn.

     “You heard me—one! All in favor say, ‘Aye.’”

     “Aye,” Godfrey said.

     “And you, Herb?”

     “All right, ‘Aye.’”

     “See you in a month, my friends, dressed to the nines, with a beautiful woman on your arm, for a great Saturday evening affair.” I showed them out and went into the kitchen and sat down at the table and just stared off into space.

     “Okay, what do I do now?” I murmured. I have to make a decision as to which of the eight women who responded to my “Life Tribute” should be my date. When they replied, I asked each of them a series of questions I’d prepared in anticipation of the call I might receive. But after that, I didn’t call any of them back.

     I pulled out my notebook where I’d made notes on each lady—their age, interests, family background, employment history, etc. “God! I thought, I must have bored them to death, with my inquiry. Maybe that’s why all but one, Julie, asked me any questions.

     I grabbed the phone off the table and dialed her number. It seemed like it rang forever. And then . . .

     “Hello.”

     “Julie, this is Marv—the guy whose ‘Life Tribute’ in the Bee you responded to.”

     “Hi, Marv. I was hoping you’d call.”

     “You were?”

     “Yes.”

     “Why?”

     “Because I wanted put you through the same agony you put me through.”

     “Agony?”

     “You asked me so many questions, you drove me crazy. I almost hung up on you.”

     “Why didn’t you?”

     “In all honesty, you sounded just like me. I would have done the same thing.”

     “Then can I ask you one more question?”

     “All right, ask away.”

     “Would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow night? Or is that too soon?”

     “No, it’s not too soon. And I’d be honored to go out with you.”

     “Great!”

     “You can pick me up at my house at six. You already have my address.”

     “I do?”
      “Yes. “That was one of your questions.”

     “See you tomorrow evening, Julie. Bye.”

     The next night I pulled up to Julie’s house, promptly at six. She was standing outside. She looked amazing—perfect in every way. Before I could exit the car, she came down the driveway and opened the front passenger side door.

     “You must be Marv, my Uber driver,” she sung out.

     “Yes, I am. And where may I take you, ma’am?”

     “To the most exclusive restaurant in town.”

     “ Yes, ma’am. Please get in.”

     To my surprise, she closed the door. Then and she opened the back door and slid into the seat. “Why didn’t you just get into the front seat?” I queried.

     “I never sit next to the hired help,” she said, chuckling.

     The drive was short and no words were exchanged. We pulled up in front of the Roadhouse. “Will this do?” I asked.

     “I’m hungry, so I guess it will have to.”

     “We can go someplace else if you want?”

     “No, the place I’m thinking of is too far away.”

     “Where?” I asked.

     “Another question? Paris, if you must know.”

     “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

     “If you have to ask, then this date is over.”

     “Do you want it to be?” I inquired.

     “Maybe after we eat. This place’s food is too good. I’m not turning down a free meal.”

     The meal was excellent and I enjoyed Julie’s company. We had a lot in common.

     “When we talked on the phone, you said you liked playing . . .”

     “Cards, yes—pinochle, in particular.”

     “And watching . . .”

     “Movies. I love comedies. As you know, laughter is the best medicine. But it’s addictive, and I’m addicted.”

     “You also . . .”        

     “Said I enjoyed dancing and traveling.”

     “Aren’t you going to let me finish one . . .”

     “Sentence? I guess you have your answer.”

     Well, even with her finishing my sentences, the date was wonderful. She was beautiful, bright, and witty. I couldn’t ask for more. My heart beat in anticipation of my Saturday social event with the guys and their dates.

     I tried to get to sleep, but I couldn’t get my mind off the evening. The next morning I called Julie.

     “Hello.”

     “Hi, Julie. It’s me, Marv.”

     “Marv, I can’t talk now. I’m on another call. I’ll call you back in a little while.”

     “Okay. Speak to you soon, Julie. Bye.”

     “Sarah, I’m back. That was Marv—the man of my dreams. Told him I’d talk to him later.”

     “I’m so happy for you, Julie. I’m glad things are going as planned.”

     “Yes, Sarah, the set-up is going so well. The evening was amazing and I was in control.”

     “That’s the way we women have to do it. I landed Godfrey that way. His daughter, Christy, arranged for her dad and me to meet at church, without him knowing—another set-up. It wasn’t long before I knew he was the one for me.”

     “That’s so sweet, Sarah. When did I become a part of this plan?”

     “On our third date, Godfrey told me he had a friend who needed to get back into the dating scene and he asked me for my help. He knew I had lots of women in my social circle and thought I could assist. I agreed. And you were my first choice, since you told me you’d been looking for the right man for a while.”

     “You’re the best Sarah. But how did Godfrey know Marv would create an obituary—a weird way to find a woman.”

     “From the conversation with Marv and another friend, Herb, about the dating scene, he had a gut feeling Marv would try to place an ad in the paper, since that’s what he did to meet his first wife. However, he had no idea which section it would be in.

     “So how did he find out?”

     “He didn’t, until much later.”

     “I’m confused,” Sarah.

     “Bear with me. Godfrey has a friend whose son edits the Bee’s classified, help wanted, and obituary sections of the paper—probably Marv’s only choices. His buddy asked his son to keep an eye out for Marv’s submission, which he did.

     “All right. Then what?”

     “When Marv contacted the Bee, it was Godfrey’s friend who helped him edit and create the perfect obituary piece.”

     “That’s amazing, Sarah. But why that section?”

     “I guess it was the best fit.”

     “Wow!”

     “When Godfrey’s friend called him to let him know it was done and where it would appear in the paper, he called me. Then I contacted seven of my lady friends, all of whom are happily married, and asked them to do me a favor—respond to Marv’s request in the obituary when it appeared, but keep their conversations brief.”

     “Interesting ploy.”

     “After that, I called you, my single gal pal in need of love, and told you about the obituary and strongly suggested you give Marv a call, which I believed you would. And I knew you wouldn’t keep it short.

     “You’re so clever.”

     “Well thank you. . . . After Marv told Godfrey and Herb about the eight women he’d spoken with, they gave him a hard time about whose method of meeting women was the best. This pushed him to set up a bring a date social gathering at his home to prove his was, even though he didn’t know who he’d be bringing. But since you were the only one who’d made an effort to answer his questions, I was certain you’d be the one he’d call.”

     “Then I guess I need to be Marv’s date and convince the guys he was right. Adios, my friend, I have to call Marv back.” I dialed his number and . . .

     “Hello.”

     “Hi, Marv.”

     “Julie, I wanted to ask you . . .”

     “If I’d be your . . .”

     “Date for my party . . .”

     “To convince . . .”

     “Godfrey and Herb my way . . .”

     “To get the girl . . .”

     “Is the best, and . . .”

     “Yes, I will . . .

     “Be my . . .”

     “Wife!”

     “What?!!!”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life can be a struggle. Sometimes the support you need isn’t there.

 

However, unexpected things can happen. And you realize . . .

 

 

It’s Been A Long Time

 

     Uncle Marcus stared at me in a way that made me quite uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do. So I just sat in the chair in the living room in silence.

     Then words came rumbling out of his mouth that shook me to my core. “You friggin’ asshole, Aaron,” he screamed. “You’re a damned loser. I don’t know what to do with you. You’re on a path to nowhere.”

     That was twenty years ago and I still couldn’t get it out of my mind. I was only fifteen years old at the time. My life was a mess. My parents had been killed in a car accident, leaving my sister and me as orphans. None of our relatives wanted to care for both of us. So Janet went to live with Aunt Tilly in Chicago. And Uncle Marcus reluctantly became my guardian, . . . but not angel.

     I could never do anything right in his eyes. I was a piece of trash that he never wanted, but didn’t have the right to throw away. I prayed that three years would pass quickly, for at eighteen I could walk out the door of his apartment—a free man.

     One morning, he staggered into my room, holding a glass of booze. He peered at me, in a way that made my skin crawl, and blustered, “What’re you doing?”

     I’m getting ready for school,” I replied

     “You can’t go. I need you to clean up the mess in the kitchen, you friggin’ jerk.”

     “What mess? I didn’t make a mess. And can’t it wait until I come home?”

     “When I say now, I mean now!” he yelled.

     Well, I did clean it up. It took me over two hours to get it to where he was satisfied. Then I turned toward him and asked, “Can you write me a note explaining why I’m so late for school?”

     “That’s not my job, you idiot!” he blurted.

     I held my tongue, trying not to make him angrier, for my future already was looking bleak. But this couldn’t continue. I had to turn my life around.

     When I became sixteen, I made a pledge to myself. As awful as my home life was, I’d make great efforts to do well at school and succeed. I had a dream of a promising future, and it was going to happen, in spite of the way Uncle Marcus treated me.

     After the “clean up the mess” incident, I tried to keep my distance from him and, for the most part, he did the same. He’d lock himself in his room. Making contact with him was difficult. If I needed to see him, he said, “Just knock once—no more.” So this is what I did. And then he’d yell, “Not now! I’m busy, you moron.”

     Busy with what, I wondered? He spent all day in his room. What went on behind that closed door boggled my mind. I had no idea how he made money to pay the bills. Yet, the refrigerator was stocked with food. And he drove a late model Lexus.

     Also, providing me with clothing and school supplies was not a problem. But he remained distant and I knew the love I’d wished for would never become a reality.

     Graduation day was approaching. I didn’t want to do this alone, so one afternoon, after school, I knocked once on his door. There was no response. I started to walk away when . . . the door opened.

     “What the crap do you want?” he shouted.

     “May I ask you something?”

     “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until dinner?”

     “Uh, I’m graduating from high school in two weeks.”

     “Does that mean I’ll be through with you? You’ll be leaving?”

     I’d already turned eighteen last month, but I doubted if he knew or cared. “I don’t know. Since I don’t have money to pay for college. I’m going to get a part-time job and attend the local community college. I’d need to live here. Would that be possible?”

     “Anything’s possible.”

     “Does that mean I could?”

     “Why aren’t you going away to college—like a good student would? Get a scholarship.”

     “I wanted to, but, as my guardian, I needed you to provide me with your income information and other data to fill out the application, but you wanted nothing to do with it.”

     “You never asked.”

     “I knocked on your door, but you never answered.”

     “Is this why you knocked on my door today?”

     “No.”

     “Then why?”

     “My graduation is on June 4^th.”

     “So?”

     “Would you go with me?”

     “You need a date?”

     “No, . . . a father.”

     “I ain’t him, so you’re asking the wrong person.”

     “I don’t want to go alone.”

     “What am I? An escort service?”

     Well, that ended the conversation. I knew I had to get out of the house and away from my “loving” uncle, as soon as possible. So two weeks after graduation, I left—forever. And we never said good-bye.

     After leaving, it seemed my luck might have begun to change. My high school guidance counselor put me in touch with the Groundskeeping Department at Bethany Community College. They were happy to offer me a job as an assistant groundskeeper. It only got better after that. One of the groundskeepers offered me a room in his house, for what I felt was very reasonable rent.

     I did well at Bethany, made some friends, and went home each night to a welcoming “family.” My new life would be the foundation for a great future. After graduating from Bethany with an Associate in Arts Degree, I transferred to the University of Allentown and two years later received my Bachelor of Arts in Business Management.

     With a business degree in hand, I went to work for a business-consulting firm and worked my way up the corporate ladder. Today, at age thirty-five, I’m a successful small business consultant.

     The wounds of the past still hurt. I think about Uncle Marcus from time to time, but have no interest in reaching out to a man who wanted nothing to do with me.

     One morning, I sat at my desk thinking about how I could help a small firm I was consulting with to grow its business. It needed a $500,000 loan to develop a unique product with the possibility of bringing in a lot of money. However, none of the conventional loan companies were interested in taking the risk.

     I picked up the phone and called my boss, Pete Castle. It rang twice and he answered.

     “This is Pete Castle, how can I help you?”

     “Pete, it’s me, Aaron.”

     “What’s up, Aaron?”

     “I have a small start-up company as a client. They have a product idea that has great sales potential. However, they need $500,000 for its development and none of the mainstream loan companies want to get involved. Do you have any suggestions as to who might?”

     “Aaron, there is one agency, or should I say individual, who is up to almost any challenge. He’s not the most hospitable person, but he knows how to make things happen. I think he’s your man. Are you interested?”

     “Yes, I am.”

     “Let me touch base with him first and open the door. If he’s up to the challenge, which I believe he will be, I’ll tell him you’ll be calling.”

     “Thank you, Pete.”

     Five minutes passed and my phone rang. “Aaron, I just got off the phone with the loan guy. He’s very interested in this opportunity, but he has to be in control. So he’ll be calling you.”

     “What’s his name?”

     “All I know is that he goes by “Money Man.” He says he knows you and you’ll understand.”

     “Understand what?”

     “I don’t have a clue, Aaron.”

     “Well, if it means my client gets what he wants, so be it.”

     I hung up, leaned back in my chair, and awaited the call. The phone rang and I answered, “This is Aaron Shelton.”

     “Hello, Aaron. This is Uncle Marcus. It’s been a long time.”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Siblings can be hard on one another. Pranks may play a significant part in their life together.

 

One may dominate the other in torturous ways, causing the other to employ an . . .

 

 

Undercover Cop

 

     The evening was cold and dreary. I could hear the sound of rain on the roof. I fidgeted, as I sat on the living room couch. And then . . .

     “It’s alive,” I screamed.

     “What’s alive, Peter?” Jackson asked.

     “The thing,” I replied.

     “The thing?”

     “Yeah, the thing. It fell out of my book onto my lap and then crawled down the side of the sofa.”

     Jackson rolled out of the plush leather armchair to the right of the sofa. “Which side of the couch?” he inquired.

     “That side.”

     He dragged his tired body passed me to the left side of the sofa and bent down. “Don’t know what you saw, but there’s nothing there.”

     “But it’s got to be there. It crawled across the cushion and over the left arm of the couch.”

     “Well, it must have been a bug of some kind. It’s gone now. So let’s just go to bed.”

     “Ugh, a bug—a slimy insect. I hate bugs. They’re yucky. They terrify me—creep me out.”

     ‘“Hell, you’re not going to die from a stupid little bug crawling over you.”

     “How do you know?”

     “I know little brother. I am wise beyond my nineteen years,” he stated, while laughing right in my face.

     Jackson is my older brother, by one year. He has taken care of me, whether I like it or not. Sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass. But tonight he probably was right. So I grabbed my book, Spider-man’s Revenge, and followed him down the hall to our respective bedrooms.

     He and I share a small two-bedroom house, owned by our parents, on the east side of town. We attend Paramount Community College. I’m a Psych major and Jackson, well, he’s still searching. Says he has plenty of time to decide what he wants to be when he grows up. That is, if he ever grows up. 

     The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight, the signal telling me I should have been in bed an hour ago, because I needed to be on campus at eight o’clock sharp. So I wiped thoughts of my wonderful big brother out of my mind and got ready for bed.

     After washing up in the bathroom, I went into my bedroom, put on my pajamas, and shuffled over to the bed. As I pulled back the covers, I let out a loud scream. For there, under the blankets, lay a picture of the ugliest insect I’d ever seen. This turn of events pissed me off. I raced out of my room and down the hall to Jackson’s hideaway, yelling at the top of my lungs, “You idiot! You unfeeling, uncaring jerk!”

     I crashed through his door. Jackson stood there with a smirk on his face. “I found your bug little bro. Nice pic, don’t you think?”

     I stood there speechless. Nothing I could think of seemed to say what I wanted to say, so I kept my mouth shut. Back in my room, my stomach churned as I thought, I’ll get him. I’m not going to let him get away with this. He’s such a creep.     

     Well, sometimes things just pop into your head when least expected. I chuckled, as a vivid picture of what I needed to do to get back at Jackson appeared before my eyes.

     Neither of us was into girls. I just didn’t care about getting involved with them, but for some reason I never understood, they freaked Jackson out. Well, now I knew what I was going do.

     I grabbed my laptop and located a sex website named, “Female Cops and Robbers.” I found a phone number and called. Within minutes, my plan fell into place. Everything would be ready to go before Jackson arrived home from school tomorrow.

     He played soccer after his college classes and came home sweating like a pig and would always jump in the shower before dinner. As I sat on the couch watching TV, I heard the key in the front door lock.

     Jackson came charging into the living room and tossed something small into my lap. “Oh, my God!” I screamed. It was a dead bug in a tiny plastic case.

     “Got you again, little bro,” he chanted. “Gonna go take a shower.”

     I regained my composure, relaxed, and waited for the moment of truth to arrive. I heard the shower door open. And then . . .

     Jackson yelled, “What the hell!” and came running naked into the living room, followed by a beautiful nude woman wearing a police officer’s hat, with a badge on a chain hanging around her neck, and a bedcover draped over her shoulders.

     I glared at Jackson and laughed out of control. “I see you met our undercover cop, big bro.”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Are you ever alone, as you move through life? Do you have a confidant with whom to share your thoughts?

 

Who may this be? And have they said,

 

 

“I’ll Be Watching Over You”

 

Come with me, I’ll show you the way.

Don’t hesitate, for there is a price to pay.

I’ll help you navigate life’s path, if you listen to me.

At the end of the road, the sun shines bright, as you will see.

Take a chance; it’s the way to win.

You’re not alone; ignoring my words is a sin.

 

Come with me, I’ll show you the way.

Don’t hesitate, for there is a price to pay.

The world may be confusing, not easy to understand.

Just suck in your gut, by your side I will stand.

I’ve watched you develop through all your years.

I’ve helped you overcome your many fears.

 

Come with me, I’ll show you the way.

Don’t hesitate, for there is a price to pay.

The wind blows in all directions; you can go with the flow.

However, where you end up, you may never know.

Pray for direction, listen to the words from above.

Honor them by showing compassion and love.

 

Come with me, I’ll show you the way.

Don’t hesitate, for there is a price to pay.

Be a person with dignity, one who knows right from wrong.

Treat others with respect; show them they belong.

Don’t be afraid to take the turns in the road.

Believe, on you, praise will be bestowed.

 

Come with me, I’ll show you the way.

Don’t hesitate, for there is a price to pay.

The costs may be high, if you break your word.

Not hearing my voice may prove to be absurd.

Believe in your heart and free your soul.

I will guide you, as you perform your role.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

What happens in the classroom can be unpredictable. You may not be prepared for what occurs.

 

You think you know your students, but then one day you are stunned by . . .

 

 

An Amazing Confession

 

I learned a lesson from my inspirational teaching session that led to a most intimate confession.

 

It was an expression of guilt, which left a lasting impression, one I had not experienced before in my profession.

 

A young man, appearing to be in a state of depression, exhibited signs of aggression that I needed to confront with discretion.

 

His suppression of feelings lessened and his obsession with something hidden beneath his desk made me hesitate to ask him a question.

 

What he might have in his possession bothered me and my digression from the day’s lecture triggered his manic depression.

 

He began to scream, his self-expression over the top, and then a procession of words flowed in succession.

 

His indiscretion apparent, he yelled out, a clear expression of regret, “I did it, I killed him,” an amazing confession.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Most body features change over time. These changes can have an impact on how we live our lives.

 

At times, the unexpected can occur. This is the case in . . .

 

 

Hair Apparent

 

     You wonder if you might inherit something during your lifetime. However, if you do, it may not be what you hoped for. A strange “inhairitance” may become yours when you least expect it.

     I grew up in New York and was close to my extended family. On my father’s side, no one was in need of hair. Curley locks flowed. And family members had plenty of facial and body hair, as well. When I was about eight, my dad looked at me and said, “Alan, you need to get a haircut this weekend.”

     “Every two weeks,” I moaned.

     “If you think that’s bad now. Wait until you have to shave every day.”

     “I wish I was a girl!” I screamed.

     “He looked me in the eyes and said, “You know, if your grandmother had a mustache, she’d be your grandfather.”

     I stared at him, with a strange look on my face, and muttered, “But she does have a mustache.”

     The next significant hairy experience in my life occurred when I was twelve. Saturday morning, my father came into my bedroom and said, “It’s time.”

     “Time? Time for what?” I asked.

     “Your haircut. You’ve been putting it off long enough. It’s growing over your ears.”

     As an almost teenager, I dreaded this moment. My long hair didn’t bother me and I hated sitting in the chair as the barber snipped away at my mane, my hair flying everywhere and going into my shirt collar and down my neck and back. It itched like hell.

     However, it was not my choice to make. Dad handed me a $1.25 and said, “Thank heaven, you still qualify for the children’s haircut.”

     I stuffed the money into my pocket, left the house, and walked the three blocks to the barbershop. When I entered, there was one barber who didn’t have a client. I’d never seen him before. He just stood by his chair looking off into space.

     “Sir,” I said. “I’d like a children’s haircut.”

     He turned and looked at me and started laughing. “A children’s haircut? You’ve gotta be kidding,” he said.

     “But I’m only twelve,” I pleaded.

     “Yeah, right. With all that facial hair you gotta be at least fifteen. Thirteen is the limit for a child’s haircut.”

     “But, I am . . .”

     “Then show me your birth certificate,” he snarled.

     Just as I thought I was going to take off running out of the shop, the owner, whom I’d known for years came through the front door. I breathed a sigh of relief and got a children’s haircut.

     My hairy life didn’t get any better as I got older. Now I was in the eleventh grade. I was running late getting ready for school and didn’t shave. As I entered my chemistry class, Mr. V took one look at me, pulled a razor from the drawer in his desk, and said, “Young man, we’ll welcome you back when you’ve cleaned up your face.”

     As I exited the classroom, with head bowed, I felt like I’d been charged with a crime. And the laughter coming from the other students was overwhelming.

     In 1970, at the age of 26, I grew a “circle beard,” a type of goatee. I was proud of what I’d done and held my head high. What I didn’t expect is that back then people didn’t always see guys with beards as trustworthy. Now living in California, I walked into a small clothing store in Los Angeles. A female salesperson perused me in a manner that made my skin crawl. She followed me around the store, making sure everything I picked up I put back, and then counted every item I took into the dressing room to try on, counting them again when I checked out and left the store. After this experience, I avoided tiny clothing shops for a long time.

     I started teaching in 1969, while working on my doctorate at UCLA. At Moorpark College, where I taught, my beard seemed to be acceptable. In 1971, I completed my doctoral dissertation, had it typed by a professional, and made copies on a brand new Xerox machine at the college. It looked great. I did all this to impress the librarian who had to approve my dissertation for publication and placement on a shelf in the UCLA library.

     Everything was ready to go, and then a fellow doctoral student told me that he’d heard that Mrs. Welch, the librarian, was very conservative and my beard could cause her not to accept my dissertation for publication. Not wanting this to happen, I shaved my beard off.

     The day arrived and I entered the room in the library where my creation would be scrutinized. I stood in a long line with others hoping for approval and waited my turn, and then slid my dissertation down the table to Mrs. Welch. I awaited her words of acceptance, when she looked at the clean-shaven young man standing before her.

     As she turned the pages, what I heard made me feel good. “This is fantastic, so well done, everything is in the right place. This meets my expectations. Approved!” she stated, and moved on to the next thesis. To my surprise, she never lifted her head to look at me.

     That weekend I went to visit my parents, in Orange County, to share my good news. I thought my mother would be ecstatic about my accomplishment, but even more excited when she saw her clean-shaven son, as she’d been telling me for months I needed to lose the beard. I knocked on the door. It opened. Mom took one look at me cried out, “Grow it back!”  And I did.

     Over forty years passed and my beard remained an important part of who I was. However, both my son and daughter had never seen me without it. My son longed to know what I’d look like if it was gone. So, as a computer professional, he photoshopped my picture and sent it to me. I gasped when I saw it. My face was naked and I had the widest chin I’d ever seen.

     In 2018, retired for ten years, I felt it was time to see if I could grow a long full beard. To my surprise, I did. What amazed me was that I began to make new friends—people who’d never paid attention to me before—homeless men, tattooed men and women, guys with ponytails and braids, and those with beards longer than mine.

     My wife and I went to Oregon that summer and the tire of our Nissan Murano went flat outside the office of the motel where we were staying. I called AAA and within minutes “my best friend” arrived. He had a short beard and long ponytail and more tats than I could count.

     He said, “Let’s get the car up on my truck and I’ll take you to the tire shop where they’ll fix it.” After the car was loaded, he ushered me into the front passenger seat, and stated, “We’re going to take the scenic route, so I can show you where I’m taking my wife on our anniversary.”

     We talked about everything under the sun until we arrived at the shop—almost twenty-five minutes later. He stayed with me until he was sure my tire would be repaired. Then he shook my hand and said, “To get back to the motel, make a left when you leave the parking lot, then a right at the light, and a left at the stop sign. It should take you about five minutes.” I stood there stunned, as he got into his truck and drove off.

     In November of 2022, I decided it was time to become my old self again, so I clipped my beard—full but short—“hair apparent.” Those new friends haven’t approached me anymore, but the old ones remain, with praise—telling me how good I look.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.