You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

CON-JOB

HIS MOTHER’S HOUSE

In 1991 I lived in Portland Oregon, in a house located on Mississippi Avenue. An alley which ran parallel to the avenue, behind my house, separating it from a row of houses facing the next street. Across the alley from a from my house was a known drug house. I understood it to be owned by an elderly African American woman. Her son had returned to the hood after serving a prison term for dealing drugs. He had moved into his mother’s home, confined her to a bedroom, and turned the front room into an illicit drug store. My second story bedroom faced the alley and the back porch of this drug house. One night I was awakened by the voices of two men on the back porch. I opened my eyes to see a laser beam tracing around the walls of my bedroom. I imagined it to be the beam of a laser gun sight. I lay flat in bed, out of sight of the porch, hoping that they were just flashing it around indiscriminately, but it continued following a repeated path across my bedroom walls as if urging me to look out the window. I needed to get out of that room unseen. Staying low and out of sight, I rolled out of bed and crawled out of my bedroom. While that scary event was one I encountered regarding that drug house, it was not the last. The more common occurrence was encounters with people seeking a little more cash to score pills for a twenty dollar high.

TWELVE DOLLAR BIKE

On one occasion a man came to my door with a sad story: “Would you please lend me twelve dollars until this afternoon. I need to buy milk for my baby and a few things for my wife’s breakfast. My uncle is coming this afternoon to take us shopping. He will give me the money to pay you back.” As we talked, I noticed a mountain bike next to the steps leading up to my house. I asked, “Is that your mountain bike”. He answered that it was, I said “OK I will lend you $12 but you must leave your bike as collateral until this afternoon when you return the $12. He appeared to be confused at my condition for a loan. If he refused, it would demonstrate that he was trying to con me. But he would have to come back with Twelve dollars to recover his bike. He hesitantly agreed. I gave him $12 and took the bike. After a week, convinced he would not return for it, I called the police to see if the bike had been reported as stolen. An officer came to look at it and said that It had not been reported. A couple of months later, the shop keeper next door, said “ A man came into his store and told me that you have his bike. He wants it back.” I told him about how I came to have it and that if that man comes back you tell him that I agreed to give it back if he returned my $12 the same afternoon. I have stored it for two months and now he must pay $12 for storage in addition to the $12 he owes me. For $24 he can have the bike.” The man never returned. I gave the bike to a neighbor boy.

OUT OF GAS

“Good morning.” I said to the woman who had knocked on my door. “My car ran out of gas. I left my children in the car. It is in the next block up Mississippi.” I need ten dollars to buy gas to get my babies home.” I noticed that she had a neatly rolled Sunday Oregonian under her arm. I assumed that she had visited another house before mine and had taken their paper of the porch. “Ah! You are in luck” I told her, and saw her glum expression brighten. “I happen to have a gallon of gas here which I will give to you.” Now she looked confused as she cautiously said “Oh, ok thanks.” I went to my back porch and returned with a one gallon gas can. She held out her hand to take the can. I pulled it back saying. “I will give you the gas but not the can. We can walk to your car.” “Oh you don’t need to do that. I will return your can.” “It is a sunny Sunday morning. I could use a walk.” I replied. As we approached the end of the first block she said. “Oh it is a couple of blocks farther. And my friend who lives in an apartment across the street has taken my kids to her house for safe keeping.” I knew of no apartment on that side of the street for several blocks. I asked “Exactly how far is it to your car?” “Oh it’s in the next block.” After we had walked a short distance into the next block she abruptly stopped, threw up her arms, and exclaimed. “OH MY GOD SOMEONE HAS STOLEN MY CAR!” “In that case you won’t be needing any gas.” I said as I turned, gas can in hand, and walked back home.

DESPERATE WOMAN

I was awakened at two AM by loud and seemingly urgent pounding on my front door. I jumped out of bed and ran down stairs. She must have heard me come down the stairs. It was dark in the house and on the front porch where she stood. She was pleading “Help! He’s after me, quick let me in.” Before unlocking the door, I turned on the porch light. Looking through the large window in my front door, I saw a panicky looking African American woman. Her panicked expression quickly faded, as she looked through the glass door at the naked white man inside. After a moment’s pause she turned and said “He’s not opening the door. He’s naked.” I heard a gruff man’s voice saying something like “Bitch you blew it.” The man was next to my door, but against the wall where I couldn’t see him. She turned and walked away from the door. As she did, an African American man stepped out of the shadows and followed her down the stairs from my porch. They paused there, arguing. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it was apparent that the man was upset that the woman had dropped her panicked act so quickly.

Had I opened the door, the man was poised to rush in and do something to eliminate me, so that they could freely steal what ever valuables I had in the house. Her shock at seeing a naked white man jarred her enough to drop the act and there by blow their carefully planned burglary. What is the lesson of this story? It must be that when encountering danger, it’s best to be bare.