authorjeffbaker

Cold War

By Jeff Baker

The two men sat on the park bench in the snowy dusk.

“Snow everywhere, just like in Russia,” said Illianovich.

“Snow like in New Jersey,” Meader said, idly brushing snow off the edge of the bench. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but it was still cold.

“I don’t remember the snow fifty years ago,” Illianovich said.

“We had other things on our mind,” Meader said with a smile. “But the first time we had a meeting here was in September that year.”

“That building across the street wasn’t built yet,” Illianovich said pointing. “And there was a stone building by the pond at the end of the park, remember?”

“I remember. I thought it looked like a mausoleum,” Meader said.

“Appropriate,” Illianovich mused. “Considering what we were a part of.”

“I know,” Meader said. “If we’d each played our intended parts it would have been death on a grand scale.”

“But I was a new father,” Illianovich said.

“So was I,” Meader said. “And we sat right here, shared a bottle of vodka…”

“I remember the vodka!” Illianovich said. “And we wondered what our governments were fighting about.”

“Politics.” Meader said, flicking snow off the bench with a finger.

“Politicians.” Illianovich said.

“We were just cogs. Cogs in a machine,” Meader said.

“Small, unnoticed, pivotal cogs,” Illianovich said, raising a gloved finger. “We were Gabriel blowing his trumpet. Yes, I knew who Gabriel was back then!”

Meader had looked at the other man in surprise.

“But we met, knew who the other was.” Meader said. “We talked.”

“And talked,” Illianovich said.

“And talked,” Meader said. “And your government never knew?”

“That I was colluding with the enemy? And that we were telling our governments what they needed to hear? No.” Illianovich said.

“To avoid Armageddon,” Meader said.

The two men sat in silence in the growing dark.

“When did you come to America? To stay, I mean?” Meader asked.

“1971,” Illianovich said. “I asked for asylum.”

“Mmmmmmm…” Meader said.

“Enough of this chit chat,” Illianovich said. “Did you bring the vodka?”

Meader laughed. “My doctor told me it wasn’t good for me, so I don’t drink anymore.”

“Pity. It would have kept us warm,” Illianovich said. “Well, I’m going home. My wife is with our great-grandchild.”

“Wonderful!” Meader said standing up.

They shook hands and the two old men walked out of the park as light snow began to fall.

—end—

Author’s Note: I know of at least two incidents, one during the Cuban Missile Crisis and one in 1983 where Russians in charge of launching missiles and effectively beginning a nuclear war refused to do so. There were probably a few other incidents we don’t know about. This story is for them. —-J.S.B.

A Line in the Sand

By Jeff Baker

“Okay,” Chad said, scrawling with his finger in the sand as they sat on the beach. “The coffee table’s here.”

“That doesn’t look like a coffee table,” Gary said.

“It’s rectangular, it’s in the living room, it’s a coffee table.” Chad said. “Now, we go in through here…”

“Where?” Gary said.

“The back door. Don’t grin like that. I’ve got the key. They never got around to changing the lock on that one.” Chad said.

“Then what?” Gary asked.

“We check the fridge, see if there’s room,” Chad said, drawing a small square next to where he’d drawn the line to represent the back door.

“Ooooo! I love what you’ve done with the place!” Gary said, leaning over Chad for a better look.

“Shut up, you!” Chad said playfully hanging his hat on Gary’s face. The two of them laughed and Chad stretched out his leg and ploughed through his diagram in the sand.

“Awww, look!” Chad said. “I should have brought my tablet!”

“Okay, we’re giving your folks a surprise party, you don’t have to plan it like it’s the Normandy invasion,” Gary said.

“Yes, I do.” Chad said. “Planning is the whole…”

Gary shut him up with a kiss.

“You plan too much!” Gary said when they pulled apart. “It’s what I get for marrying an Army Ranger.”

“Yeah,” Chad said, kissing him again. “Think my folks will be surprised with this anniversary party tomorrow?”

“Considering their real anniversary isn’t for four more months, I’d say yes.”

—end—

                                    No Room at the Inn

                                        By Jeff Baker

            The weather was bitter cold, the stars were a glorious spread of winter colors and the lights on the idling trucks were orange. The two men stood in the early-morning dark there in the warehouse.

            “I found this the other morning when I started up the trucks,” Dayton said.

            “Where?” Greg asked.

            “In truck 307,” Dayton said. “Propped against the passenger side door.”

            Dayton was holding a pillow. Not huge, medium-sized. Not fluffy, more like a Styrofoam cushion. Something that could be bought at a thrift store. Cheap.

            “Find anything else?” Greg asked.

            “Just the usual,” Dayton said. “Papers, pens, candy wrappers, half-full bags of chips, undelivered catalogs.” He shook his head. “These drivers really need to start cleaning out the cabs of their trucks more.”

            “So, you think someone’s living in there?” Greg asked. “Using the cab of the truck as an apartment?”

            “What I think is somebody is climbing over the fence and getting into one of the trucks after you and the loading crew leave for the night. When did you get out of here last night, anyway?” Dayton asked.

            Greg thought for a moment. “About ten-thirty,” he said. “I think. Set the alarm and left.”

            “Okay, sometime between eleven and five in the morning,” Dayton said.

            “What makes you think one of the drivers didn’t leave it in there?” Greg asked.

            “All the crap people leave in the trucks I wouldn’t be surprised,” Dayton said. “Listen, you get here same time I do, right?”

            “Usually before you do,” Greg said.

            “Try getting here a little earlier the next few mornings,” Dayton said. “See if we can catch this guy. If it’s a guy.”

            “I’ll do that,” Greg said. “Let me have that pillow, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

            They started walking back into the warehouse.

            “Look at those stars!” I love it when it’s cold like this,” Dayton said.

            Greg said nothing. He was making a mental note to set the alarm on his cellphone for a half-hour earlier as he felt for his toothbrush and razor in his pocket. He was; at least, glad to get his pillow back.

                                                    —end—