My Other Shorts & Formal Tales Read online

MY OTHER SHORTS & FORMAL TALES

  John Muir

  Copyright © John Robert Muir 2007. John Robert Muir asserts the legal and moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent and permission of the publisher.

  DISCLAIMER:

  These stories are works of fiction. The names and characters are from the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you think the author has written about you, your ego is greater than your imagination or common sense.

  Licence Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the source, and purchase your own copy from your favourite retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Acknowledgements

  The author and publisher wish to thank the many individuals for ideas, editing, encouragement and support. It was only with your wonderful support that I achieved far more sales with my first book than I thought possible, and that enabled this second collection of new short stories to be published. Thanks to Walter Kupa, Foxton, New Zealand for the use of the image on the front cover.

  Paperback published 2012 by Imp Publications

  c/o Agar & Crombie

  P.O.Box 117

  OTAKI 5512, NEW ZEALAND

  Published in EBooks 2013

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  MY OTHER SHORTS & FORMAL TALES

  John Muir

  CONTENTS INDEX

  HUGE

  BRAZIL

  STATIONS OF THE CROSS

  TRAVELLERS

  BIRTHDAY DRINKS

  TECHNOLOGY FOR THE ELDERLY

  COMING HOME

  CLUB CHAMPIONSHIP

  A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER

  MY MOST MEMORABLE MEAL

  RING, RING

  ON THE ROOF

  A HORSE’S TALE

  OLD FELLAS

  THE VISITOR

  PRINCE OF THE PINT CLUB

  THE CLIPBOARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Discover other titles by John Muir

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  HUGE

  The guy was huge. I really mean huge. So close to two metres tall any variation below two metres would fit under a fingernail. His shoulders bulged with muscles hardened from outdoor work.

  He obviously liked to show off his physique. The dirty black bush singlet he wore; stretched tight around his shoulders and seriously broad chest. The possibility of anything other than a washboard ribcage was impossible to believe.

  No fat anywhere. The chest tapered slightly to a strong and solid set of hips covered by dirty black shorts.

  Even the shorts were short and tight to show off his large thighs. The size of his dirty colour-faded work boots matched the rest of his body size.

  Huge. The sheer bulk was threatening.

  But there was a striking anomaly to this body. Though he must have been in his late twenties, he had a rounded baby face, almost soft and puffy. The fair hair was dirty, and uncombed. If properly washed and brushed it would have been an early Beatles style.

  The arrogant aggression on his face was emphasised by a forced down-turned mouth. Forced or not, it was issuing a “don't mess with me” challenge.

  The piped background music was playing 'The Girl From Ipanema'.

  My surprise at seeing Huge enter this bar was matched by every good eye of every patron looking at this enormous man. I say ‘good eye’ because I had noticed earlier that one older man, seated nearby, had a poor quality glass eye. His attempted ruse to cover that disability made it more obvious, rather than less, by the mismatching of colour and size; unless it was his impression of singer David Bowie. I presumed his glass eye could not see Huge.

  After the initial surprise passed, I noticed Huge had two equally dirtily dressed but normal sized male companions. All three had the strong aroma of perspiration. Dust and dirt covered the faces and forearms of all three.

  Even though this was backblocks country, the hotel management had a dress code for the restaurant bar section. People dressed like Huge were meant to remain in the front bar.

  The 80 or so patrons in the dining and bar area, of both sexes, and seated around the tables, were tidily dressed. Many men were wearing ties, with the occasional suit in attendance.

  Several women had donned their finest choices from the deep recesses of their closets to enjoy this evening out.

  “Here’s trouble,” said a male voice. I looked around to see where the comment originated. Obviously the statement was not meant to be heard by anyone other than the commenter’s nearby friends. The utterer had said it louder than he intended and was shifting nervously in his seat worrying whether Huge heard it.

  A few couples rose from their seats, and left their tables, drinks unfinished. Giving Huge and his companions a wide berth; they left the restaurant and bar.

  There were several empty tables with surrounding chairs available. Some just cleared of glasses and crockery from consumed meals. There were now even more where just departed patrons had left. Those tables became the rushed target of a waitress clearing and wiping as fast as she could.

  Huge was not interested in any of those. He walked directly to a booth against the wall beneath a large framed print of wrestler Hulk Hogan in an action pose, red bandanna wrapped around his head. The oblong table beneath had leather bench seats, with shoulder-high leather backs for three patrons each side. Three people already occupied that booth; two patrons on one side, one on the other. All three were wearing well worn leather motor cycling jackets, and clean long blue denims.

  With Huge standing at the end of their table, they carried on their conversation as if Huge and his friends were not there.

  Huge gave the table a nudge with his leg to attract the attention of the seated patrons. They stopped talking and looked up in feigned surprise.

  "This is my table.”

  The three seated patrons looked at each other before looking back at Huge and his companions. They said nothing.

  “When my friends and I come back with our drinks, my table had better be empty."

  Though the face was babyish, the voice was deep, loud and harsh.

  Watched by the three leather jackets, Huge and his escorts turned and walked away. Instead of going to the bar they went through the doors marked with the human figure, without the skirt.

  Several more patrons took advantage of this pause in proceedings, some even leaving partly consumed meals, they quickly gathered their belongings, and left. Not even a brief thought was given to requesting a doggy-bag.

  As my seat and table was next to the leather jacketed patrons, and with the atmosphere suddenly permeating with tension, I took the opportunity to put more distance between myself and the possible trouble area. I went to the bar for a refill, and stayed to sit on one of the comfortable bar stools where anything happening could easily be seen. I had not yet ordered a meal.

  As I left my table, the smell of perspiration still hung in the air as though an animal had left a message to other creatures that it had passed this way.

  The barman was looking around, unnecessarily polishing drinking glasses with a bar towel, lips slightly apart, teeth gritted.

  "Expecting troubl
e?" I asked, immediately realising how stupid the obvious was.

  "Yeah. This big guy often comes in, always looking for a fight. Always claims the Hulk Hogan table as his own. The regulars leave it empty."

  "So the leather jackets aren't regulars?"

  "No. Don't know who they are. They were already here when I started, seem peaceful enough. Had dinner at their table; a few drinks, not many. I wish they'd leave though. I can't ask them to leave, they've done nothing wrong."

  The leather jacket seated alone on one side of the table was slightly older than the two facing him. He looked in his late 30's. Longish clean dark hair, balding in the centre, and a droopy moustache on a darkened face that looked like it had not been shaved for a week. His two companions, seated opposite, had similar hair styles, but not balding, and with clean-shaven faces. Probably in their late 20's.

  "Why don't you warn them?" I asked.

  "If I do and the big guy sees me, I'll end up with a broken arm like the last barman that did that. No, if the leather jackets are wise they'll leave."

  "Why don't you call the police?"

  "This is a small country town. Local Police Station closed three years ago. Apart from this guy, there’s no crime here. Nearest station is 30 minutes away with only three officers. The senior there is this big guy's cousin. If we call him in, for the next six months he'll sit outside the hotel and breath test everyone who comes out. Good for the only taxi in town, bad for our business."

  I looked around and saw the remaining patrons shifting their gaze between the seated leather jackets and the entry to the men's toilet.

  The expected eventually happened. Huge and his companions emerged. Faces and forearms now washed and clean. With theatrics I was not expecting, Huge paused outside the door, hitched his already high shorts even higher, signalled to his two companions to position themselves a metre each side, and a metre behind him. Then with an exaggerated swagger, Huge and his companions sauntered toward the Hulk Hogan table.

  Shades of High Noon, Gunfight at O.K Corral, and all the westerns I had ever seen, flashed into my mind. Where was the dramatic music? The current piped instrumental styling of 'Feelings' was playing. It did not suit the atmosphere.

  Huge's arrowhead formation stopped at the head of the table. This time, the leather jackets watched Huge’s group approach, apparently unconcerned.

  "They call me 'Chopper'," said Huge in a loud and aggressive voice. "I chop down anything that gets in my way or annoys me. I used to think it was because I chopped down trees for a living."

  His companions laughed in reaction to Huge's quip.

  The oldest member of the leather jackets grinned. "I'm sorry if I think it's funny,” he said, “but I've destroyed two choppers in my life. The first chopper was I crashed was an Army Huey helicopter on exercises; the second was a bloody good motor bike I'd only had for six months. Both totally destroyed. Written off. Useless after I’d finished with them."

  Bearded Leather Jacket's friends gave wide smiles at the response.

  Huge’s eyes flicked backward and forward between the three leather jackets.

  "I saw your 'townie wimp' motor bikes outside. One even had a side-car. Which one of you is the girl that rides in that one?"

  The oldest one raised his arm. "I'm the guilty one."

  "Yeah, I suppose you big city bikie-boys think you're tough eh? You're among the real men now."

  The leather jackets looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and all nodded in the negative.

  "Just get off my table you wimps," yelled Chopper.

  Bearded Leather Jacket's two colleagues looked at their moustached senior. He nodded. As the younger two got up to leave one paused and looked at his older friend and said, "O.K. Killer, we're your witnesses that it's self defence again."

  Huge’s eyes again flashed between the three leather jackets. Then he checked each side to verify his companions were still there. They were.

  The younger leather jackets picked up their beer bottles and moved to the next booth that I had just deserted.

  "Well," said the old leather jacket, "If you think you deserve to get this table, why can't we settle it like gentlemen?"

  "Yeah. You aint no gentleman, man. Smashing up a girl like you won’t give me no pleasure."

  "No, I mean I'll arm wrestle you; best of three for the table."

  Huge and his two friends burst out laughing. Huge was feeling confident again after his fleeting uncertainty about the ‘killer’ comment.

  "Jesus old man, you've gotta be joking. I can do 200 full body push-ups, I'll break you're smart-arse arms off and feed ‘em to the wild pigs in the bush."

  "Gee, 200 eh? That's a lot. At my age I can only do push-ups like the girls, from the waist up."

  Huge nodded toward the table. His two friends cleared away the remaining empty beer bottles. Huge sat on the bench- seat opposite the senior leather jacket, and banged the large elbow of his right arm heavily onto the table.

  Arm outstretched and with the massive palm of his huge hand open, he said, "I'm ready, if I don't accidentally crush your dainty little hand first."

  "One of your friends can put his hand over ours,” said the senior leather jacket. “We take up the strain and start pressing when your friend removes his hand. O.K.?"

  "O.K. sissy boy. I'll play your little rules before I break your arm."

  Leather Jacket undid the button at the end of his right jacket sleeve. The sleeve was wide. He rolled the leather back to above his elbow.

  Huge moved his body and arm back noticeably in surprise at thickness of leather jackets wrist, powerful forearms, and broad elbow joint.

  Leather Jacket gently placed his elbow on the table to emphasise some class to his act.

  The two hands locked and both took up the pressure. Though Huge's hands were noticeably bigger, he winced a little as Leather Jacket took a full grip.

  One of Huge's colleagues put his palm over the two fists already quivering under the strain.

  The colleague lifted his hand quickly, and within the first second, Huge's hand had been pushed halfway back to the table. Two seconds later, Huge's hand crashed against the table surface.

  Cheers erupted from the patrons, then, were quickly stifled at thoughts of possible later retaliation from Huge.

  Huge jumped out of his seat.

  "You cheated," he roared, "you cheated. You started before he raised his hand. I wasn't ready."

  Huge walked toward the colleague that had put his hand over the quivering fists at the start, and pushed him powerfully in the chest. His colleague, unprepared, and unbalanced; stumbled backward a couple of steps attempting to recover; failed, and fell on the floor.

  Huge glared briefly at each of the patrons who had remained. The patrons averted their eyes and pretended to show disinterest in what was going on.

  "O.K., I said it's the best of three," said Bearded Leather Jacket. "You've only got to win them both."

  "No, you cheated at the start."

  "See the Grandfather clock,” said Leather Jacket, “it chimes every quarter. It’s nearly to a quarter now. We take up the strain just before the quarter and go on the very first strike of the chime. O.K.? The first strike. Not the end. Agreed?”

  Huge's colleague regained his feet, and Huge had finally regained sufficient composure to become re-seated opposite his protagonist.

  "All right you maggot-brained city-geek. I'll be ready this time."

  "About a minute to go," called one of Leather Jacket's friends.

  The two resumed the position, clasping right hands across the table. Then, adjusting grip for any advantage, it would immediately be reset by the other to counteract any disadvantage.

  Huge adjusted his body position several times to maximise his superior height and arm length. They were both ready.

  Patrons had moved to the sides to see past Huge's colleagues. Leather Jacket’s colleagues had moved, unnoticed, behind Huge's allies.

  The fists of
the protagonists were quivering in readiness for the Grandfather clock chime. The silence was so extreme the sound of the clock pendulum could be heard as though amplified. The pipe music was in silent tape rewind mode. No music was issuing forth.

  The expected chime, when it came, still startled all the patrons, yet their eyes never strayed from the two straining figures looking frozen in a macabre pose.

  The power was being applied by Huge.

  "Are you sure you're ready this time?" asked the seemingly normal and unstressed voice of Leather Jacket.

  Huge did not reply. He was concentrating his power to his arm.

  "O.K. then, I'm starting."

  Huge's fist started slowly to bend over backward at the wrist. Then the arm too started to yield in a steady but noticeable movement towards the table.

  The inevitable happened, although this time it took almost thirty seconds. Huge's fist touched the table and was held down solidly. The patrons cheered and applauded. Huge roared and tried to smash his left forearm over Leather Jackets head.

  Leather Jacket saw it coming, and with quick reflexes his right hand stopped the arm as it descended. Simultaneously his left hand snapped sideways to grab Huge's right arm, which was still flat on the table.

  Huge's two colleagues rushed forward to help Huge. Both were immediately pole-axed from behind by Leather Jacket's allies and found themselves seated on the floor with spinning heads, and held down at the shoulders.

  Huge swore a series of curses as Leather Jacket held Huge's arms flat on the table. Huge responded by spitting at Leather Jacket.

  Whether Huge saw what was coming next, I will never know.

  Using Huge's arms as gripping points, Leather Jacket propelled his body forward, and drove the top of his head into Huge's unprotected face. Then, sliding back into his seat he continued to hold Huge's arms firmly on the table. Huge struggled unsuccessfully to lift his hands to his face. The reason for the scream of pain from Huge was obvious. His nose seemed almost flat against his face with blood streaming out. Blood was also beginning to trickle down from his eyebrows.

  Unable to move his arms, Huge put his face down to his arms. Leather Jacket released his arm holds and grabbed each of Huge's ears and slammed Huge's face hard into the table top.

  Blood was now spurting from his forehead, nose, and lips. Huge spat the bile that accumulated in his mouth. Several broken teeth fell onto the table. He tried to stand, but the dizziness in his head was too great. He flopped back into his seat, moaning in agony. The blood from the splits to both eyebrows was beginning to run into his eyes. He would never look baby-faced again.

  Leather Jacket turned to his colleagues as he rolled down his sleeve.

  "Time to go and get on our wheels I think."

  One younger leather jacket walked to the bar and opened a cupboard. He pulled out a collapsible wheelchair, opened it out, and wheeled it to where Old Leather Jacket sat.

  The young leather jacket faced the wheelchair into the end of the table, locked the brake, and stood back.

  Old Leather Jacket slid along the seat. With the balance of an acrobat, he swung himself into it unassisted. Adjusting his paralysed legs to a proper place on the footrests, he released the brake, and aimed the wheelchair in the direction of the door.

  Grasping the outer ring hand grips, he gave just one powerful push of his arms, and free-wheeled toward the exit door. Raising both arms above his head, he extended two fingers of each hand and gave a Richard Nixon style 'victory sign'.

  The piped music had begun again. It was only when the patrons began to cheer and applaud the departing wheelchair warrior that I recognised the song - Queen's “Another One Bites the Dust.”

  ----------

  A year later I was in the same area, and visited the same hotel.

  It was early in the day, few patrons were around. The barman was the same I had seen that night. I asked him what happened after Huge had recovered.

  "Nothing. It took a quite a few minutes for the big guy to get his head cleared, then wiped much of the blood from his face with the paper napkins. With his colleagues on each side, helping him with his balance, they all left quickly without as much as a sideward glance. They’ve never been back. Apparently they didn't even go back to the logging camp to collect their pay or belongings. Just disappeared. His cousin, the Police Sergeant, says he doesn't know where they went. Nobody believes him. His face turns red; he becomes embarrassed, and changes the subject whenever the incident is raised. Not at all unexpectedly, there were no patrons saying they were in the bar, or witnessed any incident that night. Nobody remembered seeing anybody in leather jackets in the town around that time."

  “Very strange that,” I grinned.

  “Yes it was. Even I was downstairs in the cellar changing kegs. Didn’t see a thing did I? I didn’t see you there either.”

  Now, after all these years, I really wished I had also asked if Old Leather Jacket ever came back.