Bonus Room

by Bill Mullis

His footfalls echo hollow in the empty space. It looks bigger inside, now that it isn't so crowded. Most everybody has already packed up and left, cleared out their lockers, had their mail forwarded. The desks are bare like the hardwood floor. This has been a working space, things have been created, lives have been changed, the world made a little better.

Looking back, he sees that the door he entered through is now closed, locked, vanished, gone. He smiles a little at how fitting it is. You think you can just stick your head in a door, pop in for just a bit, visit for a while. But you find, eventually, that you can never go out the same way you came in. Because while you were inside, the world outside has changed, blatantly or subtly; or, perhaps, it's you who have changed, subtly or blatantly. But the changes are there, and the way back is gone forever.

Still, he can close his eyes and hear their voices murmuring in the air. There's still laughter, and bickering, a few tears when sadness or joy was shared. And the frustration when the words just wouldn't come out right, when the deadline loomed and the world was insistently butting its nose in. He can walk along the row of desks and feel the spirit still inhabiting the space.

And there they'll be forever, he says to himself. They'll all be gone, like he'll be gone, all gone to other things, to other words, other spaces, but they'll always be here, too. Even when the works are no longer plastered in the storefront window, they'll be here. Even when the storefront isn't here any longer.

Well. Time to go.

They say that when one door closes another opens. That's only partly true. There's never just the one door, and it's never open when you find it. So he walks the length of the room, past the desks, the coffee maker, the chocolate fountain, further back than he's been before, and sees the doors, featureless, set off only by exit signs. He doesn't bother to count them; odds are the number would change every time he tried. They're all identical, but the ritual has to be observed. He passes before each of them, brushing his fingertips against the dark, polished wood, and isn't surprised to feel only that there is in fact something on the other side.

He adjusts his hat and slings the backpack over his shoulder. He raises his cane, pokes it at a random door, and starts to laugh.

Of course. The door he picks wasn't isn't the door he intended. And he's fairly certain it wasn't there a moment ago. And though he has no reason to think so, it's obviously the exact right door.

One last look around, to imprint it on his memory. One last nod to the ghosts of the living. And he turns his back on the room and opens the door. And smiles.

Bonus.


Bill Mullis's own personal door is in the South Carolina Upstate. His online presence is currently limited, but you can reach him at www.facebook.com/bill.mullis or via email at kodbill[at]gmail.com.

Maybelline

by Bill Mullis

 

Maybelline was a tabby cat,

A tabby cat was she;

With a stripey, speckled, charcoal coat,

And green eyes like the sea —

The Carolina coast, that is,

Not Caribbean blue —

That gazed upon the world around

With full impunity.

Maybelline was a quiet cat,

A silent cat in fact.

I ne’er before nor since have heard

Such quietude and tact.

No purrs, no rowrs, no sad meows,

And not a single mew —

The world not worthy of her voice,

And so her voice it lacked.

Maybelline was a tricksy cat,

The evidence abounds.

When coming home I never knew

Just where she would be found.

Up on the lamp, or in the door,

Once in the Fridgidaire;

And on the stage as Jones the Cat,

She brought the whole house down.

Maybelline was an easy cat,

As freely I’ll attest.

Her dining needs were almost nil,

And easy to digest.

Not from a can, not from a bag,

No carcass on the stair;

The cheapest cat I ever knew

Which makes her — yes — the best.

Maybelline was a cardboard cat,

I say it without guile.

She never made my roommate sneeze,

Nor practiced self-denial.

The perfect pet, the perfect cat,

And not a whit of care!

She stood and watched and ne’er complained,

And never lost her smile.

But now I’ve had my share of cats

Of bloody tooth and claws.

And I have loved and cared for all,

With all their quirks and flaws.

I’ve scooped the poop and popped the top;

I’ve had their cross to bear.

And what I want is a Maybelline,

A cardboard cat of cause.

Film at Nineteen

by Bill Mullis

The theatre was already dark when I sidled in, full of nervous, guilty adrenaline. There was a scattering of patrons, not many, but about what one would expect for a Wednesday night.

As I found a seat, isolated but not obviously so, I congratulated myself on my planning and execution. I chose this movie house because it was not in a part of town where I was likely to be recognized. It was the middle of the week, so there’d be fewer people who would actually see me. I timed my arrival for the few minutes before the picture was supposed to start.  I had bought my ticket without letting my voice quaver (though I couldn't force myself to actually meet the ticket-seller’s eyes), and I looked neither to the right nor to the left as I navigated my way through the multiplex, ignoring the added temptations of the concession stand.

I hunkered down in my seat and watched the commercials and announcements. I felt like a bad, bad boy in a terribly rebellious mood, and I was certain that at any moment the Voice of God was going to rip the roof off the theatre and lay my sins bare to all the world.

The screen went dark. There was a pause, and then...

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

Perhaps I should explain.

To put it briefly, once my grandmother rediscovered -- rather over-zealously -- the religion of her youth, the movie theatre was a thing of my past. For her, going to a movie was like dancing, or swimming with the opposite sex, or playing cards: an unsavory activity in an unsavory place, where Bad Things happened on an alarmingly regular basis. It simply wasn't done. If it was done by other kids at our church, won't no skin off her teeth. Them younguns just weren't raised right.

So, from the ages of about 12 to 19, in the Dark Age before video rentals, if it wasn't on Monday Night At The Movies, it was a rumor, something I heard the kids at school (or at church) talk about, but of which I had no personal knowledge. It chafed at me at first, but I really wasn't enough of a rebel to want to risk disappointing my sainted Grandma, and by nineteen I had convinced myself that if I ever  went to a movie, Jesus would pick that exact time to come back, and what excuse would I have for being in such a place?

But the idea of Star Wars had stirred my blood, and I risked the wrath of the two greatest powers in the universe — God and my grandmother — to see if the fuss was worth the effort.

As it turned out, Jesus did not return that night. Neither did the voice of doom echo through the den of my iniquity. Luke and Leia saved the Rebel Alliance, the stirring theme music swelled while the credits rolled, and my journey to the Celluloid Side was complete.

After which I scooted out of the theatre and drove home as quickly as the Rambler would go, and hid in my room to avoid meeting Grandma’s steely gaze.

But it was a beginning -- for a mission from God.

Bill Mullis blithely goes to the movies any chance he gets. He loves that stuff.

My late wife

by Bill Mullis

In the middle of July, 

The air was hot and humid.

The bride was nowhere to be found;

The groom was getting groomèd.

His beard was not as gray back then,

His aches were less insistent;

His hair, though less than years before,

Was basically existent.

He dressed himself as best he could 

In what garb he remembered.

His tie he borrowed from a future 

Former family member.

And as he dressed he watched the road - 

For time was running out - 

For signs of his belovèd, though 

In truth there was no doubt.

Well, maybe just a little one:

There's always just a chance

That her intelligence will trump

The blindness of romance.

And so he tied his borrowed tie,

And wiped his sweating brows,

And stole a glance or two or three

While practicing his vows.

But timepieces were being checked,

Though surreptitiously,

By people wishing she’d arrive

More expeditiously.

“Has the woman changed her mind?”

The bystanders all wondered.

“Oh, surely not,” was the reply,

“that’s one chance in a hunderd.”

And then - at last! - the glint of sun 

Shone from the auto glass.

In his relief he sat down hard

Upon his... fundament.

For in the middle of July

The air was hot and sticky.

But his relief was mighty, ’cause

His bride was not that picky.

Bill Mullis often thinks in bad verse in the Upstate region of South Carolina, where he continues to live in marital bliss with Amy, and hardly ever has to wait for her for very long.

Bus on the Lot

by Bill Mullis

A couple of eons ago, I was enjoying a lazy summer afternoon playing on the grill at the local gourmet hamburger restaurant. As per normal for a slow afternoon, I was keeping a minimum of meat on the grill, three rows of four patties, keep ‘em moving, pop the leading row off when it gets too done and replace it with fresh, all on the off chance somebody would come in for a late lunch. The manager was doing paperwork in the closet they called an office, and the cashier was cleaning the dining room.

That’s when the bus pulled in.

We had a Standard Operating Procedure for buses. It did not start with waiting for the riders to come in and order. This particular franchise had a habit of timing the service from the moment the cashier hit Total to the moment the last item was placed on the customer’s tray.

So I yelled, “Bus on the lot!” and went into action. I loaded the grill with forty-eight patties, then turned a half-circle and dropped four baskets of fries. All told that took me about a minute. Meanwhile the manager had rushed in from the office and took over at the register, freeing Becky, the nominal cashier, to make sandwiches as the orders piled in. We were manned and ready.

Noticing a distinct lack of customers, I stuck my head out the drive-through window. The bus was still there, its windows dark, its diesel engine idling. Finally I could hear the pneumatics as the door opened.

“Here they come,” I informed the crew, and went back to my grill, where the first line of patties was ready to turn.

The dining room door opened, and a guy came in, walked up to the counter, and ordered a shake. To go.

I looked at the grill, where twelve pounds of fresh ground beef was slowly becoming burnt hamburger. I looked at the fry station, where four baskets of fries were about to go ding! I went to the drive-through and watched the man with his frozen dairy dessert board the bus. I listened to the engine rev and watched the bus pull away.

The manager joined me at the grill. He smiled and put his arm around my shoulders.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said.

When he’s not responding to situations before gathering sufficient data, Bill Mullis lives and writes from the Upstate of South Carolina. Actually, even when he is responding thusly, he still lives and writes from the Upstate of South Carolina.

Feral Faucets

By Bill Mullis

(Based on an actual conversation, which was, in turn, based on actual events. That's my life: A reality show gone horribly wrong.)

Mr. Thomas? Hey, this is Bill Mullis. Yeah, the duplex out in Sugar Tit. Fine, fine, thanks for asking. Yes, sir, it's been a while. Well, I hate to disturb you at your office, but there is an issue. See, the thing is, the hot water faucet in the shower's been dripping, and I was thinking, You know, I could save Mr. Thomas a few bucks and myself some aggravation...Yes sir. I thought I'd -- Well, I said to myself, How hard can it be?

You're exactly right, Mr. Thomas. That was a stupid question, and I did find the answer.

Well, to begin with, did you know there's no shut off valves for the shower? Exactly. I really wasn't expecting that. So I borrowed a water key and shut off the supply to the house. Yes, sir. The whole house. Both apartments, kinda.

Now, I did give Judy next door a heads-up.

Um. About three hours ago.

See, there's a funny story about that. I was trying to unscrew the faucet, and it was being kinda stubborn, you know how faucets can be, so I kinda gave it an extra twist with an extension on the wrench. It did move, yes. The faucet. And the pipe. Together.

Mr. Thomas? Are you there?

Oh, good. I thought we had been disconnected.

So anyway, the pipe seemed intact -- mostly -- so I thought I'd better leave well enough alone and give you a call before you heard about it on the news.

Yes, sir, pretty funny. Except, actually, we haven't got to the really funny part yet. Yes sir, there's more.

Are you OK?

Well, I didn't want to leave the water off for everybody, and it's not like we couldn't use the hot water, so I thought I'd turn the water back on. That's when I heard the thud. Where was I? Up by the road at the meter. The thud? That was from the house. So anyway, I went back in to investigate....

Hello? Mr. Thomas? We must have a bad connection. It keeps getting real quiet on your end....

The good news is we won't have to replace the tub itself. The dent is really barely noticeable, and the faucet missed the mirror by a good foot when it ricocheted. And I can spackle over the hole in the wall, no problem. Also, the tub contained the water just fine, so there wasn't any water damage, either.

And I doubt the dog's going to be drinking out of the toilet any time soon, even when the knot on his noggin's gone down.

Right now? The water's back off. Yes sir, to the whole house. Believe me, Judy's fully aware of the situation. My wife? Hard to say, since she's not really speaking to me at the moment.

Yes, sir. I understand.

Well, I'll be here whenever the plumber's ready to come over.

Well, thanks for being so understanding, Mr. Thomas.  I'm sure we'll look back and laugh one day. I know I will.

'Cause today I put a wrench on my pipe and broke it.

Bio: Bill Mullis has a long history of destroying apartments piece by piece. He accomplishes this, and many other things, in the Upstate region of South Carolina.

On Being a Pro at Cons

by Bill Mullis

So your boyfriend -- or, perhaps, girlfriend -- has invited you to your first science fiction convention, and you’re a little panicky. You've heard all about these sci-fi weirdo types, and you’re not sure you can hold a conversation with Coneheads. There are some strange folks out there. You should know. Apparently you're involved with one now.

But he’s different. You wouldn’t hang out with a weirdo. It’s all the other nerds you’re worried about.

I'm here to help.

On genre and costumes

You will encounter a wide range of subcultures at your typical con, both in and  of costume: Trekkers, Jedis, Transformers, barbarians, Hobbits, elves, furries. The undead will likely be there, along with Browncoats and Medievalists. Various alien races will be represented. Just remember that most of these folks have day jobs where they don’t dress this way, but where they excel just like normal people.

There are two things to never show:

1. Fear. Look that Klingon in the eye and tell him how much you admire the manliness of his forehead. Shake the zombie’s hand if it’s offered; the fingers that come away with your hand aren’t real. Usually.

2. Shock. Depending on current fashion, you may be confronted by men in huge mechanical robot costumes or women in scandalous lack of costumes. It’s all an act; the girl in the Stormtrooper bikini will go back to work Monday in the law offices that handle your corporate legal matters. The young man in the floor-length trench coat is in real life the manager of your local supermarket. That sawed-off shotgun he’s carrying is just for show. It’s not real. Usually.

On language

Yes, you will hear a good bit of jargon. It may sound meaningless, but it fulfills the true purpose of jargon, functioning as a shorthand for ideas that there aren't any adequate “normal” words for. You should, whenever possible, ignore the fact that you have no idea what people are talking about. Just look interested, laugh when they laugh, smile knowingly when they lower their voices. They aren't talking about you, after all. Usually.

If you look confused, you will be labeled as a 'mundane,' which I assure you is not an unkind term. Unless they use the word 'mundane.' “Reality,” as the saying goes, “is for people who can’t handle science fiction.” So buck up and ask your date later what the heck they were going on about.

On the programming

The convention will have a variety of activities, from book signings to author panels to award presentations to viewings of classic movies. This is where you’ll find your hard-core fans, who aren’t really there to socialize. So feel free to duck into these venues if you want to be left alone for a bit.

And finally, when all else fails:

Most conventions are in hotels; most hotels, as luck would have it, have bars.  You know what to do. Share and enjoy.

Bill Mullis, when not disguised as a native of South Carolina, makes his home on a medium-sized planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse.

Top Tense

by Bill Mullis

Amy and I were brainstorming the other day in preparation for this piece. There was a point where we stopped what we were doing, looked each other in the eye, and said, “This ain't going to work.” See, for all the love and respect we have for each other and each other’s work, we harbor no delusions about our ability to work together on a writing project. Yep. Two divas, that’s what we are.

So we drew straws to decide who would have the honor of completing the essay. Amy drew the long straw. After soundly beating me with it, she allowed me to proceed.

To that end, I present the following Top Eight Examples of Artistic Tension:


Top Ten Ways To Get Your Husband To Stop Snoring

1. I don't snore.

2. Yes, you do.

3. No, I don't.

4. I want a divorce.


Top Log(10) Funniest Irrational Numbers

1. π (pi)

2. Wait. Is this geek humor?

3. Ummm. Yes?

4. I want a divorce.


Top Ten Cleaning Tips From Women’s Magazines
1. Put garlic cloves in the microwave for a few seconds to make them easier to peel.

2. What? How would that help?

3. I don't know. It just does.

4. That's stupid. And it's a stupid magazine to put such a stupid tip in it.

5. I want a divorce.


Top ten Craftsmen Power Tools, By Intrinsic Coolness

1. Craftsman 19.2 Volt 4 pc. C3 Combo Kit

2. Craftsman Professional Stapler/Brad Nailer, Heavy-Duty, EasyFire™ Forward Action™ with Rapid-Fire

3. Stop.

4. What?

5. What's funny about a list of power tools?

6. Nothing. I said they'd be cool, not funny.

7. We're doing humor. That means funny.

8. I want a divorce.


Top Ten Moments Of Implied Humor In Fitzgerald, Hemingway, And Faulkner

1. Zzzzzzzzz.....

2. I want a divorce.


Top Ten Flatulence Jokes

1. No.

2. What? You wanted funny.

3. What I want now is a divorce.


Top ten reasons Bill is a stinky goo-head

Oh, yeah? Top ten reasons Amy is a....

Watch it, buster!


In short, it wasn't a pretty evening. But we did at least agree on the following list.

Top Ten Ways For A Married Couple With Widely Divergent Styles To Successfully Collaborate On A Humor Project.

1. Get a divorce.

Where the Shadows Lie

by Bill Mullis

Maybe it was the dark paneling in the den, or the way nobody went into the living room, or the long dark hallway that led to the bedrooms. Whatever it was, I hated Aunt Margie’s house. I couldn’t stand to be alone in any part of it, especially the hallway. On our annual visits, I would lay awake at night in Joanne’s room, watching the headlights from the highway play against the walls and ceiling, making monstrous shapes that never, ever were still.

On one of these visits – I must have been eight or nine – Grandma and Aunt Margie went into Columbia to do a little shopping, leaving Joanne, six months my junior, and me in the care of the two older boys, my heroes, while they cut what passed for grass.

The very air was baked, caught between the sunlight beating down from above and its reflection flailing from the white sand below. Jimmy and Bobby were covered in sweat and dust as they struggled with a machine that knew it was built for fescue and resented the scrub grass it was being applied to.

But it was cool on the porch, shaded as it was from the oppressive July sun. I played some silly game with Joanne, who was pretty cool for a girl. The game was interrupted by the sound of insulted machinery and teenage voices. Jimmy, who was old enough to drive a car, had a date, and had to know what time it was.

“I don’t know!” I yelled back.

“Go in and look at the clock!”

The door stood blank and incomprehensible. Beyond it lay an unfathomable dread that I had no words for. And my heroes had ordered me into that wrongness. They didn’t know. If they had ever felt what I felt, they had kept it very quiet. And so had I.

“I can’t tell time!” It was a blatant lie, and Jimmy knew it.

He turned off the lawnmower and leaned on the handle. “Fine. Go with Joanne and get the clock in Mom’s bedroom.”

Down by the bank Bobby was whipping a sling blade through waist-high scrub. Joanne put her doll down. “C’mon,” she said.

And because no boy wants to be called baby, I opened the door and crept into the den.

It was dark and cluttered, the single window having long since been replaced by an air conditioner. The dark paneling was interrupted by framed photographs and an ugly painting on the wall. Light from the kitchen window seeped through the gloom. I tiptoed through the den towards that light, afraid to disturb the darkness. Joanne followed sullenly behind.

Past the kitchen was the center of the house, where dining and living rooms met the bedroom hallway. I would have to go down that hallway. I paused to listen to the house breathe.

I’ve been in a lot of houses, some occupied, some empty. There’s a special feel about an empty house, a waiting expectancy, a space to be filled. There’s another feel in a lived-in house, where the very walls take on the personality of the occupants. This house had neither. There was a whole complete family here, and the house, built expressly for that very family, cared not a whit for any of them. It was dead. And a dead house is fundamentally wrong. I stood there in its very center. The air was thick, pressing around me like hatred, and I hated it back.

I tiptoed down the middle of the corridor, unable to breathe in the absolute stillness. As I passed the room the boys shared I peered into the open door and saw little except a teenagers’ mess and the translucent white rectangle of the curtained window beyond.

The short stretch between that bedroom and the end of the hallway was the longest distance I ever had to creep. The mean little bathroom stood off to the left, in an alcove perfect for lurking. Then there was the end, a dead end, and Aunt Margie’s room on the right.

My hand closed around the portable alarm clock by the bed, and what little thought I had left disappeared. I had a visceral need to be quit of the place. Not caring if Joanne was with me, I quick stepped out into the dark oppression, held my breath, and headed toward the kitchen light.

As I passed the boys’ room I glanced into it for the comfort of the white-curtained rectangle of sun.

And screamed.

The window was still there, but in front of it now was a shadow, a deep miasmic darkness that was worse than if the window had not been there. Through it I could make out the dim sunlight, and around it the curtains glowed with the sun. And though I saw no head, arms, or legs, there was the unmistakable, deep-rooted conviction that it was a man. The malevolence was palpable and threatening.

I screamed again and broke into a full, flat-out run. Behind me I heard Joanne scream and felt her rushing behind me.

I was still screaming when we hit sunlight. Jimmy stopped the mower and caught me, and Bobby came up from the road, still clutching the sling blade. He took the sling blade and went in to see what was there, while Jimmy calmed me down. Joanne said she didn’t see anything; she’d screamed because I’d screamed.

Bobby came out and swore there was nothing in the window. They carried me back in, to show them; and all I could see in the window was curtains.

Forty-five years later, the house is still there, and Aunt Margie still lives in it. Her family still gathers there on holidays. Nobody ever died there; no curse follows its occupants.

A few years ago I drove past it on the way to somewhere else.

I didn’t stop.

Bill Mullis lives in the South Carolina Upstate, in a house devoid of wee ghosties, perhaps because it’s overrun with Labs. You can keep up with him on the Captain’s Log feature at Mind Over Mullis. 

It's a Mutt's Life

by Bill Mullis


I packed up the wife and the self and headed to the next county over for the big Dog Show. I wasn’t sure why. I have dogs at home.

“Our dogs aren’t purebred,” the wife explained. “We’re going to see real breeds.”

“Dearest,” I pointed out, “I can look at Bo and Lucy and see at least four real breeds and a couple fake ones.”

“Darling, you know I love our puppies and I wouldn’t take anything for them. But sometimes I like to see what those six breeds look like by themselves.”

We arrived at the Expo Center and waded through a veritable mob of very expensive canines, all doing what dogs do outside, followed by their handlers doing what handlers do after their dogs do what they do outside.

“And we can’t bring our dogs, why?”

“They’re not purebred.”

“So what? The purebreds are afraid we’ll get mutt cooties on them?”

“Well, they don’t want an – incident.”

“What, like Bo stepping on a Chihuahua?”

She glared at me and we went in.

The hall was a sixteen ring circus, with a ringmaster in each ring and a gaggle of clowns milling around waiting for something interesting to happen. We joined one such crowd to watch a breed whose name was bigger that it was.

Inside the ring the dogs trotted round and round, their handlers trotting along beside them, as the judge watched them with a coldly appraising eye. A secret signal was passed, and the conga line stopped. As one, the handlers dropped to their knees, producing combs and brushes from unimaginable places, and surreptitiously combed back into place a few windblown hairs. With a sigh the judge beckoned, and the first dog was presented for judgment. The handler picked up the dog by the snout and something near the tail and set it on a table. I cringed and turned to my wife. “Honey, he – “

“I know, dear,” she soothed. “They get used to it.”

“The handlers?”

“The dogs.”

The judge examined it very carefully, fondling bits I’d have to pay good money to have handled, sighted down its back, and sent it to the back of the line. I checked my watch. That hour and a half had lasted three minutes.

And so it went for the other twenty-five dogs. Each dog went up for inspection, the line jerked forward, and the handlers fell to their knees and preened.

Finally, after another trot around the ring, the ringmaster flicked his hand thrice, and all but three handlers dejectedly exited the ring. Awards were given, the crowd clapped politely, and the ring was cleared for the next breed.

“So what are they looking at?” I murmured to the wife.

“Conformity to the standard.”

I ruminated. “What standard?”

“The breed standard.”

Again, I ruminated. “So they’re looking for the most average dogs.”

The wifely voice took on an edge. “No, dearest,” she said. “They’re looking for the dog that most embodies what the breed should be. The winners get to breed.” She looked at me distantly. “The losers do not.”

I reflected on my own reflection, considered myself outwardly and inwardly, and decided that, on the whole, I was just as glad to be a mutt.


Bill Mullis lives in South Carolina. He has dogs.





   
   

Boom.

by Bill Mullis

Now that everybody's back in school, it's time to cast our minds back into the depths of time to remember a quieter, gentler age....

It was a quiet day in the spring of my junior year of high school. I was, through no fault of my own, in a college prep program, along with a bunch of kids who were certifiable geniuses. Or, in some cases, simply certifiable.

Two of these guys (let's call them Mark and Ricky) were especially strong in the physical sciences, including, of course, chemistry. They were, in every way, completely respectable young citizens of the Republic, with nary a spot nor blemish to their names. They were, in a word, model students, beloved of parents, teachers, and school administrators.

Until the unfortunate extracurricular project.

Turns out one of them (which one has been lost to the mists of time) got his hands on an old chemistry textbook in the local library, and was astounded to find the formula and detailed instructions for the making of nitroglycerin.

As I understand it, the discoverer called his buddy over and said, "Look at this. Is this for real?"

"No way," said the buddy emphatically. "No way they'd actually put that in a book. It's gotta be fake. They must have left something out."

"No, I think it's real."

So when the compound changed color just the way the instructions said it should, the intrepid duo were suddenly very trepid indeed. They looked at each other over the flask of innocuously amber liquid and, surrounded by the contents of the chemistry lab storeroom they had entered without authorization and used without forethought, very quietly and softly decided to vacate the premises.

They went to the next lab down the hall, where the science teacher was using her lunch period to grade lab notebooks, and poured out their sorry tale. More probably, stammered would be the accurate verb, but I'll try to put the same brave face on it that Mark and Ricky did. The teacher, having spent a long career listening to cock-and-bull stories, listened with the proper amount of jaded skepticism, then asked the appropriate questions the appropriate number of times. She sighed, put down her sandwich and her red marker, and stood.

"Show me," she said.

The first indication the rest of us had that something was amiss was when the fire alarms went off and we evacuated the building. The buildings on either side of us were also cleared. I missed English and History, and didn't even get to see the bomb squad. I understand they were impressed by the purity and the potency of the compound Mark and Ricky produced, since it would have flattened half the school if things hadn't gone as well as they did.

The police detectives weren't nearly as impressed, but once they determined that no actual criminal intent was involved, just plain old-fashioned stupidity, the boys were released to their parents. No charges were filed, but these guys couldn't cough loudly without a police interview for the next hear and a half.

And that's why chemistry lab storerooms are locked up to this day.


Bill Mullis currently spends his days feeling sad because he never got to play with high explosives as a child. You can keep up with his latest antics via The Captain's Log at www.mindovermullis.com.

Image credit: usafa.af.mil

A Brief Natural History Of Teenagers

by Bill Mullis

The creatures known as teenagers,
Refrigerator foragers,
Antagonizing fathers, mothers,
Feeding off their little brothers;

Incessantly on telephones,
Gnawing on their rivals’ bones,
Growing taller, feet by feet,
All they do is sleep and eat.

With stomping, snarling, rolling eyes,
Mutterings and heavy sighs,
They make your life as miserable
As inhumane-ly possible.

But when the darksome days are done,
When the lonesome race is run,
(Accolades, a mighty cheer!)
A human being will appear.

A real, live, breathing personhood,
Where once a beast of shadows stood!
Reflect, you may, and if you would,
Behold it all that it is good.

So with the dawn a hope at last,
Now that the grief and angst is past,
Be thou freed from this perdition!
But what to do about tuition?

If Wishes Were Horses…

by Bill Mullis

As a kid, I always looked forward to our annual visit with Aunt Etta, mainly because her grandsons next door were pretty much of an age with me. And they had horses, and untold acres of fields and forest to ride on.

One summer, though, the horse had been, not supplanted, but supplemented by the latest rage to hit Marshville: motorcycles.

While the cousins checked the tanks and poked mysterious oddments and did other esoteric motorcycley stuff, I danced around nervously and tried to not lose face.

"OK," Randy said. "This handle controls the gas. Turn it this way to go."

I looked at the foot rests. Brakes?

"Uh-uh. This lever up here’s the brake."

What's the other lever?

"The clutch."

Clutch?

"So you can change gears."

Gears?

"Like on a ten-speed."

Ten-speed?

"A ten-speed bike. The foot switch down here’s the gear shifter."

I hadn't started learning to drive yet, but I'd watched Grandma drive the Rambler, and I knew that clutch, brake, and gas were all foot pedals, and the gear shift was up on the steering wheel. Besides, my bike had one speed: as fast as I could pedal it. And whoever heard of a hand brake? You pedaled one way to go, the other way to stop.

This was just plain wrong.

In mortal, hidden, fear, I listened intently and tried to take it in. Finally they put me on a motorcycle and let me crank it up. I can do this, I told myself. I can ride a bike. Same thing, right?

"OK, now put her in gear."

I put her in gear.

"Crank her back up, and hold the clutch in when you put her in gear."

I gained confidence with a few circles in the barnyard, getting a feel for the steering. Just like a bicycle. I was good to go.

There was a dirt trail that went straight for maybe half a mile before making a sharp turn to the right and winding off into the woods. We eased around the barn at a safe and reasonable speed and gathered at its head, revving our engines. I can do this, I thought. I can ride a motorcycle.

The cousins gunned their engines and took off ahead of me. I was a bit slower off the mark, but I eased up to speed pretty quickly, and when they made the turn I was ready to overtake them.

These are the lessons I learned in the next three seconds:

1. The difference between going straight and turning is not a matter of degree.

2. An accelerating motorcycle is not the place to start wondering how bicycle handlebars

work in terms of real-world physics.

3. Letting go of a throttle is not the same as applying a brake.

4. Braking a motorcycle by pedaling backwards is the same as breaking a motorcycle by pedaling backwards.

5. Always wear a helmet. It's not just the law. It's a good idea.

I was actually airborne for just a second, long enough to travel twenty or thirty yards into the forest. And the fallen tree only broke because it was rotten. There was no serious or permanent damage. The physical pain was minimal, though my pride suffered considerably.

After that I stuck to the horses, and followed the motorcycles as best I could. After all, a horse knows how to turn itself around. And that’s what it’s all about.

Bill Mullis, who writes from an urbanized area in the South Carolina Upstate, hopes the Harley Davidson Company forgives him for not being interested in purchasing one of their fine machines. You can keep up with him on The Captain's Log at www.mindovermullis.com.

Fire In The Hole

by Bill Mullis
 
 
I was not, I hasten to point out, a latchkey kid. Those hadn’t been invented yet. I was one of the precursors of that exalted being: I was a kid who stayed at home while the grown-up worked. Not at all the same thing.
 
It was, you see, a simpler time. The concept of “childproofing” also was unknown. You let the kid grow up in the world and take his chances. If he’s stupid, he won’t live long enough to reproduce. They didn’t even hide the matches they used to light the gas stoves.
 
As it was, my grandma and I lived in a real small-town neighborhood, where everybody knew whose kids belonged to who; on a given summer day you could find eight or ten of us tearing up and down the line of backyards along Cooper Street, with no regard for age, rank, or property lines.
 
Except when it rained. Then, while Grandma put in her time at the Eagle’s Dime Store, I would, like as not, be trapped in the house for several hours. Alone. A nine-year-old boy.
 
There was a particular rainy afternoon not long after the Fourth of July (That was, by the way, one word: ForthaJuhly.) when it had been raining for days, and I was, being that nine-year-old boy, bored speechless.
 
I had exhausted the possibilities of rocking the big old cushion rocking chair till it fell over on its back so I could either roll out in a ball or lie there being an astronaut waiting for blast-off. Captain Ashby Ward on WBTW had shown all the cartoons he was going to show for the day. Even the cat didn’t want to play any more.
 
So I got out my GI Joes (the blond American one and the dark-haired, pinched-faced German; by a strange coincidence they both had the exact same scar on the exact same spot on their cheeks) and set about killing the enemy a few times.
 
A recap: I was a bored kid, alone in a house, in a time when matches were easily accessible by any kid who wandered by. And I add the following information: This was a state where the regulations involving fireworks sales pretty much reached, “You got to be eighteen ‘fore you can buy cherry bombs,” and then couldn’t figure out where to go from there.
 
Now, I don’t know where I got the idea to put a leftover ForthaJuhly firecracker together with a GI Joe, though I have to assume it was basic scientific curiosity. But, slowly, inexorably, the notion took hold and flourished in my fertile brain.
 
Of course, I didn’t rush ahead and tie a bunch of firecrackers around him and set them off in the living room floor. That could come later. First I had to prove the concept, which required a bit of pondering.
 
My initial vision (such as it was) was to see if I could blow Joe’s shirt off like I’d read about in World War II books. So I decided I should put the firecracker inside the shirt. But which shirt? The German GI Joe (Wehrmacht Josef?) was a limited edition, and I wasn’t sure I could get another, whereas the blond American was about as common as mosquitoes in the Low Country between DDT-spraying days. And that settled that. Joe American would willingly sacrifice himself in the interest of science. I opened his olive drab shirt, tucked in the firecracker, and closed it back up again, with the fuse sticking up out of his collar.
 
Believe it or not, I had a healthy respect (fear) of the explosive powers of a dime store firecracker. After all, my cousins who had taught me about the wonders of gunpowder had emphasized safety, saying, “Don’t hold it in your hand and light it, or you’ll blow your hand off!” as they tossed their lit cherry bombs away at the last minute. So I knew I didn’t want to get too close, what with the possibility of Real American Hero Shrapnel pegging me in the eye, even if all my fingers were intact.
 
Luckily, we had a metal student’s desk, the kind with a drop-leaf writing surface and, for storage space, a file cabinet above (with a raised lid) and a storage cabinet below, with an interior shelf and a handle in the door you had to turn just right to get it to latch shut.
 
But I wanted to put Joe in the cabinet, arranged in a suitably tragic pose, light the fuse, and close the door securely in time to back away to safety. And the fuse was way too short for that. The only recourse: lengthen the fuse. Obviously.
 
Grandma had a sewing machine, but the threads were obviously too fine to hold enough fire to set off the fuse. (Don’t ask me how I determined this. I just knew.) But there were some old rags that might just do the trick. I tore off some thin strips and set to work.
 
I tied one end of the best strip to the fuse on the firework, the fuse that lay right up against Joe’s face. I arranged Joe in a suitably tragic pose and stretched the cloth out to where it dangled over the interior shelf. I paused with match poised to strike fire to the great adventure.
 
Even now I like best the moment of anticipation just before the resolution, the moment Caesar murmured “The die is cast,” the moment just before the pitcher releases the fastball, that instant just as you’re dropping off to sleep. I find a stillness there, a tension between energies, a fulcrum whereon is balanced potentialities….
 
I lit the match, put it to the strip of cloth, let it catch fire, then closed and latched the cabinet door shut. I knew roughly (again, don’t ask me how I knew) how long it would take to burn to the fuse, so I scooted out of the blast radius and waited.
 
And waited.
 
And waited long past when I thought I should have heard a desk-shattering ka-boom.
 
Nothing happened.
 
Except.
 
My young nose caught a whiff of some weird kind of smoky smell.
 
I calmly but quickly, in a blind panic, opened the cabinet door, and waved away the small cloud of foul smoke that sorta kinda billowed out in a puff.
 
A long line of greasy ash had formed on the cabinet shelf where the cloth had been, snaking right up Joe’s pants leg and across his shirt. Which had ignited. Without igniting the firecracker. There was a small but definite tongue of flame burning merrily along Joe’s collar, over and around the fuse, which – and I can’t stress this enough – still didn’t ignite.
 
I ran to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. I drank it. Then I filled it again and ran back to the bedroom, where I was able to douse the fire and rescue GI Joe from the eternal flames of hell.
 
His shirt had burned pretty much away, at least in the front, but the torso beneath had only suffered a little scorching. The burned shirt was bad, but not devastating. I could dispose of it without Grandma knowing anything was amiss.
 
But the face.
 
GI Joe had suffered second and third degree burns across the left side of his face. Since he was plastic, that meant brown blisters and peeled paint. And the smell: that acrid, nasty smell of burnt plastic. Which, on a rainy, humid day, was trapped in the house with a nine-year-old completely devoid of explanations.
 
The punishments would have been more severe and longer-lasting if I hadn’t ‘fessed up before Grandma had a chance to ask what the smell was. One of those punishments was that I had to keep my burned GI Joe so I could see what I’d done to him and think about the consequences of my actions. I was suitably mortified.
 
Until the other kids in the neighborhood decided the coolest GI Joe on the block was the one with the most battle scars. That’s right: the only best thing ever I had in my childhood was something I almost destroyed, more-or-less deliberately.
 
They just don’t make childhoods like that anymore.

Bill Mullis plays with metaphorical fire in the Upstate region of South Carolina, where it's still legal to buy fireworks year round, though now you have to be, chronologically, an adult. You can see what he's up to on the Captain's Log section at www.mindovermullis.com.

Image credit: blocksand3dpuzzlesblog.com