Bolton Carley

HoW addiction got me here

I can’t believe it’s come to this…

I’ve denied it since the days of big hair and stirrup pants. I’ve tried to focus on other things, but inevitably I fall off the wagon. It’s steadily gotten worse as I’ve aged. Life stresses and old age have put me in a panic. Admittedly, my marriage and job have been chucked into the backseat because my addiction was cozied up riding shotgun. In fact, it’s probably happened on more occasions than I wish to admit. Many a late night, I’ve been up sulking about the house with a drink and my thoughts.

All of it seemed harmless enough; just a hobby or a tension release. Nothing more, nothing less. Everybody else does it, too, don’t they? Apparently, that assumption was wrong. Mid-snit the other night, my husband came home to find me slumped over in his Lazyboy. His words were ones of love, concern, and compassion. He’s always been my cheerleader and keeper. Perhaps he knows better than I do, so I agreed to take this first step.

Now here I am walking into all these seemingly confident, uninhibited strangers. Polar bears are tap-dancing on my heart; my gut instinct is to run. Jesse Owens wouldn’t have anything on me right about now. Why? Why did I agree to do this? What was I thinking? Obviously I did not think through the process far enough to realize I’d be facing a firing line, or at least a circle of addicts claiming they’re no better than myself (of which I know they are stronger and further down the road to success). At this point though, I realize it’s too late to tuck tail and amscray. They’re all staring at me like I’m a piece of raw, fatty, flavorful prime rib in a lion’s den.

A familiar, yet unknown woman is already hugging me as I’m rooted to the stained shag carpet in uncertainty. What happened to a good old-fashioned formal hearty handshake or a new-fangled fist bump? Hugging? Really? Crap. They hug each other here? It must be one big happy family, or at least a family. Is there any chance I’ll fit in? Is there any chance they’ll understand my situation and not judge me harshly? Thank God that woman over there has already taken a seat and just gave me a jaunty, if not half-scared, wave. Maybe this isn’t old hat for everyone. Maybe she’s new, too.

I’m scanning the room hoping I don’t stick out like a sore thumb in a middle finger kind-of crowd. Already I’ve spotted a stocky, charismatic guy grazing at the snack table in back, trading one addiction for another. Another guy is knee-deep in his iPad, paying little or no attention to the rest of the group forming. The long-haired beauty queen with her back to me talks like she’s semi-worried about her children at home with their father. Then there’s some guy with a canary yellow shirt that people are flocking around. Good. Hopefully, they all glue-stick to him so I can slip in over in the corner to watch without notice like an old man at a strip joint. I know I don’t belong here. I won’t fit in with these people. It’s a guarantee. Even before I admitted my situation, people condensed me into nothing more than goat cheese on a vegetarian platter. I told my husband that, and he informed me I needed to give it a chance. I might be surprised at how much I have in common with these people and if not, I shouldn’t worry. He assured me they’d be accepting. How could they not love me? He asked. Yeah, right.

As I gage the situation, I notice they all chat amongst themselves like they’ve known each other forever. Will that be me if a few months? Will I be sharing the intimate details of my life with these people? Will they feel more like family than my real one? I hear it happens. Oh, how I hope they recognize my obsession and welcome me into their fold. Lord knows why it is so important to me, but it is. Perhaps, I am literally and figuratively starting a new chapter.

Now here I sit on the furthest perch I can get on this flowered couch pondering how to properly introduce myself. With all these somewhat anonymous people, how do I cleverly seek their friendship? Do I tell a light anecdote? Do I share why I’m here? Do I give my real name? Do I try a joke? Or maybe it’s best to keep it short and sweet. What’s that old saying about being a fool but by opening your mouth you remove all doubt?

Okay, I can’t get negative. I promised my husband I would give it my best efforts. I will not give up. I’m a fighter. I can do this.

“Hi, my name is Erica and I’m a… writer… or at least I play one on the computer screen….”

© Bolton Carley 2011

Bolton is a farmer's daughter/teacher/attempting writer/author of YA verse novel: Hello, Summer Vacay and blogger of lessons learned the hard way at www.boltoncarley.wordpress.com

Guest Writer: Rod Drake

The Murder Game
A Professor Clue Surreal Mystery

Who killed Mr. Monopoly, the mustached, monocled owner of the famous game that bore his name?

That was the million dollar question. And not monopoly money either. Plus he was only the latest in a series of ruthless game board murders.

But he was by far the most prestigious, and his murder was the most outrageous: crushed under a massive pile of hotels from his own game. Only his crumpled top hat and cracked monocle survived.

The prime suspects were the game next door on Parker Brothers Boulevard. Clue. Somewhat ironic, as that is my name as well. Let me introduce myself; Professor Clue, detective extraordinaire, genius without peer, mastermind of criminal doings. Oh yes, and modest too. My assistant is Quiz Boy, a youthful, high-spirited lad, still under my tutelage, and in desperate need of it, but on occasion, useful.

Quiz Boy had assembled the five suspects in the observatory, a nice, spacious and pleasant room. I believe one of them is the culprit behind the Game Board Murders, as the newspapers have dubbed this sensational crime.

There is Doctor Pomegranate, famed fruit disease researcher and physician; Captain Mayo, heroic military veteran of many wars; Lady C. Gull, the faded and slightly looney silent movie star; Miss Crimson, the sultry heiress to the Chinese Checkers fortune; and Mr. Verde, the adventurer, explorer and big game trapper.

“One of you,” I intoned dramatically, as is my wont, “is a murderer.”

“Oh pish and tosh,” drawled Lady C. Gull, “why would any of us commit murder? What would we have to gain?” She leaned forwarded towards Quiz Boy and whispered, “Where is the camera? Is it getting my good side? Where is that makeup girl?”

“This is not a movie,” I stated in my best Basil Rathbone voice, “but someone will be flashed across the television news, I imagine, in handcuffs.” Lady Sparrow perked up at that, until I said, “But it’s not you; you’re too frail to push those hotels down on Mr. Monopoly.”

“So Miss Crimson is eliminated too then, for the same reason?” Doctor Pomegranate asked.

“Perhaps,” I played with their anticipation. “But she has youth and an athletic body on her side, if I may be so bold.” I tipped a pretend hat at her.

“You may,” she smiled her dazzling smile, crossing immaculate legs, miles of them. “Daily Chutes and Ladders keep me in shape.”

“The murderer, Professor Clue? You said you know who did it. Can we get on with this?” Mr. Verde was impatient, often a telling detail in murder cases.

“Yes, Mr. Verde. You are a likely suspect. After all, Monopoly town and other game cities were crowding the wilderness out of existence, and without it, what good is a big game hunter?” Mr. Verde started to deny it, but I pushed on. “And Doctor Pomegranate, it is well known that you and Mr. M were not close, I believe something about a woman you both fancied—correct, Miss Crimson?”

At that remark, Miss Crimson turned crimson. Doctor Pomegranate looked positively squeezed dry.

Quiz Boy moved into position. “That’s brings us to Captain Mayo. Hero of Battleship, the Jenga offensive and the Mouse Trap campaign. Is that where you lost your eye, Captain?”

He nervously tugged on his black eye patch. “No, it was . . . the Yahtzee raid.”

“Interesting.” I strolled into the circle of the seated suspects. “Also interesting that you seem shorter, and if I may be painfully honest, a bit more rotund than I remember your appearance.”

‘He’s right,’ came murmurs from the remaining four.

“Could it be, that the eye patch is just a way to shield your myopic eye?” Quiz Boy then quickly pulled the patch off, revealing Mayo’s normal eye, “Since you need the monocle to see!”

“Holy Husker Du, Mayo is actually Mr. Monopoly! In disguise!” Doctor Pomegranate stated the obvious. “But,” he turned to me, “Monopoly was killed, we all saw—“

Quiz Boy slapped cuffs on Monopoly. “No, Doctor, you saw a top hat and monocle— Mr. Monopoly’s body was never recovered; it was thought to have been crushed utterly out of existence. That was what began my suspicions as to the ‘murder.’ And my infallible deductions to solve this case.”

I continued on. “Our clever friend here faked his own murder, to throw everyone off his scent after killing the other game board inhabitants. And you assembled here were to be next.”

“But why?” asked a confused Miss Crimson.

“Shall you tell them, or I, Mr. Monopoly?” I offered him the challenge.

“Because as long as other board games exist, I can’t be Monopoly! I’m one of many, and I must be the one and only, a true monopoly!” The police arrived then and took Mr. Monopoly away, as he screamed insanely about Community Chest, the B&O and Park Place.

To sum up this case, using the right vernacular: Monopoly took a Risk and ran his little Operation, but now he is Sorry that he failed at the Game of Life. It will be no Candyland in prison for him. Oh, I just kill myself sometimes.

© Rod Drake 2010

Rod Drake enjoyed tweaking the pulp detective style in this story, which hopefully will become the first in a Professor Clue series. Check out Rod’s other stories in Fictional Musings, Six Sentences, MicroHorror, Powder Burn Flash and AcmeShorts. You can find Cab Ride from Hell, Time to Go, Saturday at the Mall, The Storyteller, and Housefly Lament at Six Sentences, and The Adventure of the Whitechapel Murders at Fictional Musings.