It's 9AM

Are You Done With the News Yet?

I’m going on a diet for the rest of the summer.

A news diet.

I like to know things, so I’m a skimmer.

I skim headlines from a lot of places every day, but hit some of the major outlets too.

Just to look.

Just to keep an eye on the pulse of things.

And this morning I noticed a word.

It popped up six times in six hooks.

That word was problem.

He’s got a problem.

They’ve got a problem.

We’ve got a problem.

And my first reaction to almost any problem is, we can figure out a solution.

Except I know what they’re doing.

It’s called a hook for a reason.

The editors are trying to reel in my eyeballs and get my brain agitated because of all the “problems” in the world.

A long laundry list of dastardly deeds and acts being committed across the globe.

Bad things.

Bad things that are supposed to make me worry.

Make me afraid and concerned and ready.

But…

Ready for what?

It feels like a perpetual state of crisis.

Which may be true.

Or is it.

Because today, the sun is supposed to shine.

The sky is blue.

There’s a happy hour after work with discounted drafts and a free music concert in the plaza downtown.

Bring your lawn chairs and leave the coolers at home.

There’s a long day of work today, and that’s no different than most others.

There’s yard work tomorrow and a weekend off from baseball before we head to State and Regionals, and then pick up on some Invitationals as a guest player.

It’s summer time and the living is easy and all that really matters is warm weather and good vibes.

It’s okay to be aware, it’s safer that way.

But when I lived in Florida, I skipped the news for almost eight years and still, here we are.

I bet there were some of the same headlines even.

I know there were some of the same worries.

The world going to hell, and the news needing you to read it or watch it or listen to it.

And if I think back, the same thing was happening when I was younger.

Sure, the names change, but not the hooks.

Not how they reel you in.

Because one thing is always certain.

We can’t get our fill of fear.

Maybe I’ll just change what I’m consuming for the diet.

Work on getting a svelte attitude and approach to life.

Especially one where there’s no room for fear.

Would you give up something to change your mind?

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When the end of the world happened, it wasn’t a big bang.

There weren’t bombs or explosions or even a here/gone event.

You know, one minute you’re here, and the next you’re gone.

The world ended, and the thing was, no one knew it at the time.

“Did you pay the light bill?” Colin Hay flipped the switch up and down six or seven times as he stared at the dark bulb in the ceiling fan.

“What?” Tina called down from the bedroom.

“I said, did you pay the bill,” he muttered and didn’t bother to answer any louder.

She was burrowed in the covers, waiting for him to leave for work, as was her habit.

Habit now, he thought as he grabbed the coffee carafe from the maker and filled it with water.

He dumped the grounds from yesterday out of the basket, muttering again about Tina’s role in housework while he was out earning money.

Then he put in a new filter and two large scoops of double caffeine dark roast.
He slid the basket home, clicked on, and glared at the machine.

No power, it finally hit his brain.

“Fuck!” he yelled.

“What?” Tina called down again.

“I said Fuck,” he yelled up at her. “As in that thing we haven’t done in over a year.”

“Fuck you,” she shouted down.

But he didn’t hear her get out of bed.

No steps on the floor, no angry slam of the door.

No hopping in the shower, turning it on extra hot and inviting him up to work off all their frustrations in a soapy sweaty mess and try to put right all the wrongs in their marriage in one humping swoop.

Nope.

None of that.

Not even that he expected it, though to be fair, getting laid might help with his level of frustration.

Too bad he believed in the vows and the sanctity and all that crap, he grunted, poured the water into a pot and put it on the gas stove.

At least there was that, he thought.

No lights, no electric for the coffee maker, but there was fire and he could boil water.

He waited until it bubbled, looking away from the pot because his mother always told him what happened when you watched it, then poured it over the grounds he already used in the drip basket.

Sure, it took a few minutes longer, but even without the power, he got to enjoy a pot of liquid gold.

Nectar of the gods.

He went upstairs, ignored the lump in the bed as he got dressed for work, blue jeans, heavy flannel over a thermal undershirt, because it was supposed to cool off today when a cold front came in.

He tromped down the stairs, working hard to stomp out extra noise because it annoyed the shit out of Tina, then filled a thermos with the rest of the coffee, and tied on his work boots.

He didn’t think about opening the garage until his fingers found the button and nothing happened.

Colin stowed his coffee in the passenger seat of his truck and lifted the door by hand.

When the truck wouldn’t start, he sat behind the wheel, sipped his coffee and wondered just what in the hell was going on.

CHAPTER

He thought their night couldn’t get any worse when the bass player didn’t show up.

Shaw was wrong.

The bass player was just the start of it.

When some drunk cowboy threw a beer bottle that shattered on the chicken wire and sliced open his cheek under his eye, he thought that was it.

This was worse.

Then the lights went out.

No neon soaked windows buzzing through the cigarette smoke haze.

No blinding floods highlighting them on the stage like bulls eye targets for cowboy’s rage.

They were playing one minute and the next, the only sound was the angry buzz of a confused crowd.

Darkness has that effect on people.

Maybe it was because way back in the cavemen days, right before there were cowboys, the dark was where the danger lurked.

Some part of the lizard brain still associated with it, so pitch dark beer hall’s packed with scared angry drunks sent atavistic alarm signals all through his mind.

Shaw ducked.

Ducking was good.

It made for a smaller target, even in the dark.

Because bottles started breaking and beer started spraying and people started screaming just moments after everything went out.

Some folks screamed for order, some screamed for calm.

Others screamed in fear and rage.

There was a lot of other noise too, shuffles, scuffles, breaking sounds that could be barstools or bones.

Shaw wasn’t sure.

He only huddled on the edge of the stage in the darkness, keeping low and quiet and hoping he wouldn’t have to use his guitar like an axe if someone decided he was where they needed to be.

Doors screeched open and the two oversized oil workers doing side hustle work as bouncers began ushering people out.

There was more noise as protesting voices huffed and hollered in protest, no one wanting to move from the dark of the inside to the moonless dark of night outside.

Yet they managed.

Shaw was too scared to be impressed as the noise inside settled into a buzzing hum coming from the parking lot through the doors.

Trucks wouldn’t start, so fights did instead.

Shadows boxing shadows, grunts and shrieks and when the pop clap of a little gun went off, Shaw shifted to the floor.

Just in case an impartial bullet came through the open door.

“Ya’ll still up there?” the manager drawled.

Shaw grunted.

“I was gonna pull out a flashlight, but I think those darn fools out there might just start shooting, so I’m gonna wait,” he explained.

Shaw grunted again.

It just seemed safer.

“Ya’ll just hold tight up there til we get it sorted out down here first,” the manager said.

No need to answer, so Shaw didn’t.

He just lay on the sticky floor by the edge of the stage, back pressed against the wood section that once lifted him fourteen inches above the crowd.

He clutched his guitar and wondered why people were the way they were, and thought he might could make a song out of that thought.

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