The Blog is Back

Jack's Potpourri is back. After an almost six month hiatus, "jackspotpourri.com" is posting again. I don't know what direction it will be taking, but we'll start with a couple of short pieces by Harvey Sage and Sid Bolotin. In addition to being a "creative" writing site, we may be going in the direction of debunking much of the unsubstantiated junk we all get on the internet, particularly the intemperate political stuff. Of course, anyone who wants to post a story, poem, essay or whatever here just has to send it to me at riart1@aol.com. Short of pornography, we don't censor.

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Today is December 7. It is 69 years since Pearl Harbor was attacked. As kids, we were taught to "Remember Pearl Harbor," and we did, throughout World War Two and the Cold War. The enemies, and potential enemies are different today. They may not even be "nations" as we have come to think of them. They may not even be foreign. Nevertheless, we should all "Remember Pearl Harbor" because as Thomas Jefferson may have said, "Eternal Vigilance is the Price of Liberty."

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ALMOST GROPED
Sid Bolotin

“Remove the pen from your shirt pocket!” yelled the TSA agent who lunged at me as I stood at the conveyor emptying my pockets as usual of all metal that might set off the alarms.

“Take everything out of your pockets! Even the papers!” he ordered loudly. “Your belt too!”

His loud aggressive actions flustered me because I hadn’t had to do this when I flew to Massachusetts for Thanksgiving. Now on my return flight I seemed to have entered an alternate universe. Even the agent monitoring the conveyer had harped at me like a drill sergeant about whether my toiletries were in the appropriate plastic bag, tore into my case on the conveyer, and ruthlessly collected my loose toothpaste tubes to jam them into a plastic bag in my case.

“What about my wallet?” I asked. “Yes! Yes! That too!” he brusquely commanded.

I obediently plopped it atop my shoes, jacket, and belt, even adding the pen from my back pocket…just in case.

As he herded me toward the entry of one of the new full-body scanners, I asked, “What about the cash in my pocket?”

“Give it here!” he commanded, thrust a dish at me, and handed it to another agent with my cash in it.

Now I was fretting about the cash and the exposed wallet travelling on the conveyer behind me.

A female agent led me into the scanner, gruffly snarling, “Place your feet on the marks, raise your hands beside your ears, and do not move!”

After ten seconds she grabbed my bicep, turned me ninety degrees, drew me out of the scanner, instructed me to stand once again on another set of markings, and called over a third agent.

“Chet, it’s on his left side.”

“Left side?” I wondered. “What could the machine have found? Could it be the golf-ball-sized clump of cartilage built up over the years along my left ribs?”

Chet was a large, mustached man, looking much like the agent on the news recently, shown groping a traveler while grinning almost lecherously. I assumed I was about to have my own experience with “bubba”.

“Now, sir, I’m just going to pass my hands over you.” Chet said courteously as he placed his gloved hands on my collarbone, moved them down my chest, and asked, “What have you got in your shirt pocket, sir?”

“My shirt?” I stuttered. “I’ve nothing in my pockets. I emptied all of them, even the papers.”

I reached my fingers into the pocket, made contact with the culprit, and pulled it out slowly, carefully…like a gunman relinquishing his pistol by holding onto it with only two fingers.

I presented it to Chet, explaining, “This is the lens of my eyeglasses that hang around my neck. When my son dropped me off, he hugged me so hard that the lens popped out.”

As Chet patted my shoulder, he softly explained, “The scanner is so sensitive that it can pick up even a small anomaly like the lens. Sorry for the inconvenience. Have a nice trip.”

And I did…retrieved my cash, found my wallet in the basket on the conveyer, departed on time, had a great flight, supped with friends who picked us up at the airport, and savored the memories of Thanksgiving with our sons and their families.

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TIME BOMB

Harvey Sage



Their car snaked its way through the dark and desolate rain soaked streets. Portentous weather for the beginning of Spring. The plant was straight ahead. MARK INDUSTRIES said the sign at the entrance which was barely lit by a street lamp. Deserted and unoccupied. This mission was easy. Tuva smiled calmly, confident.

They parked the car, with its heavy load, near the southwest corner, a vulnerable spot which walled in thousands of gallons of a corrosive and flammable liquid. The two men were happy with the knowledge that in a few hours absolute chaos would cover the city and the nearby metropolis. Casualty estimates were to be over ten thousand. Men, women and children. Beautiful. What terrorist could ask for more.

MARK INDUSTRIES was chosen because it fed the nation’s arms and explosives industry with the raw materials it needed to make weapons such as bombs and rockets. Tuva and Espania had been chosen because they were intelligent and brave. Moreover they had experience with explosives. Who knew how many buildings, cars, trucks, and police stations they had decimated. These masters of disaster had killed and maimed hundreds of people, all in the name of their cause. Yet this mission promised a quantum jump in mayhem.

Espania opened the trunk and set the timer. “Nine sharp,” he blurted. “Nine tomorrow morning and ka-boom. Goodby downtown Marksburg”

“Right. Now close the truck and let’s get out of here.”

Espania listened to his boss and climbed into another car they had parked earlier in the day in preparation. This mission was easy. Too easy. A piece of cake. As they drove away he noted the time that appeared digitally on a billboard advertisement placed in a deserted field, a half mile away. Ten thirty p.m. What a waste of a Saturday night.

He thought of his wife and two kids at home, happily ensconced in the safety of the Green Zone. The Leader’s army protected the families of his army. But the Leader wanted more than being a war lord. He wanted to expand, seize power and control. That was his goal. Espania went along with him and his terror attacks geared to overcome the big powers. It was not a question of philosophy. It was all about the money. Money. Lots of money. Enough to cause him to abandon his family for a week. He hated to do this. But did he have a choice? People in his country were impoverished. Only those who worked with the Leader had a chance to live decent lives. Realizing this, Espania did as told in a perfunctory but effective manner. Some day, maybe soon, he’d have enough for freedom and a new life for his love ones.

Tuva, he realized, had a different view. While he liked money, he loved the results of his work. Body counts were what counted. With tonight’s work he was anticipating a sum of over two thousand. The evil ones he served would be most pleased. Blood and gore, blood and gore, the demons of hell, they want more. The look upon his face sent shivers up Espania’s spine.

Their motel was atop a big hill, ten minutes from MARK INDUSTRIES. Walking around it in the muggy air they could easily see their target. Tuva smiled in anticipation. Espania just shrugged. Another day. Another dollar.

Before they lay down to sleep, Espania notified the front desk to give them a wake up call at 7. That would give them plenty of time to rise, go to the toilet, shower, eat the breakfast muffins they had bought, drink the room brewed coffee, dress and get packed for their departure. Tuva, strange fellow, wanted to be outside looking at MARK INDUSTRIES when the explosives went off. They’d be in the car so they’d be safe. Anticipation!

The seven o’clock wake up alarm sounded. Rise and shine. Espania looked at the motel clock. Weird. It read 6. He thought to tell Tuva but decided against it. No telling how that nut case would react. Instead Espania waited for Tuva to shower before he put the TV on. TV time said 15 minutes past 7. Perplexed, he adjusted the motel clock and their wrist watches accordingly, satisfied that he’d done right. The TV said something about time and saving daylight. Espania had no idea what they were talking about. After all, this was not his country.

The next hour and a half went smoothly. Tuva had them out of the room and situated to survey the blast by 8:55. Sitting in their rented car they looked at MARK INDUSTRIES and waited. As the second hand of his wrist watch began its final sweep of the hour toward 9, Tuva jubilantly began the count down. “Three, two, one, zero, boom!” he shouted. But there was no boom. He turned to Espania and screamed “You idiot. You didn’t set the timer right.”

“Yes I did,” his henchman spoke to the livid face. “I set it correctly. Maybe the primer was bad.”

“Maybe the primer was bad,” repeated Tuva in a mocking tone. “Bull! I bought it myself and checked it out. I’m telling you, you didn’t set the timer right.” For fifteen minutes they argued back and forth. Finally Tuva said “We’ve got to retrieve the car and examine it away from the factory. We’ll figure out what went wrong and try again tonight.” Espania didn’t want to go back down there. Something was wrong. He could feel it. He just wanted to go away. Far away. But fear of Tuva forced compliance. Retrieving the car was what Tuva said he had to do so he did it. Involuntary obedience.

Espania drove the explosive laden car.. He remembered the field with the sign and its display of time. That was his destination. Tuva kept looking back to make sure they weren’t being followed. When they got to the field the time on the sign was 9:56. Tuva noticed. “Stupid country. Why do they need to post time out here?” He looked at his watch which Espania had reset back at the motel. “9:56. Well at least they got that right.” Espania said nothing. In the back of his mind he remembered the TV message of saving daylight time. Something else. What was it? Something about turning the clock ahead.

He stopped the car in a corner of the field, away from prying eyes and chance onlookers. He walked back with Tuva who opened the trunk. The timer’s red numbers read 8:59. Tuva was furious. “Idiot! You set the timer wrong. It’s an hour late!” He grabbed Espania shaking him.

Espania broke free and began to run. He shouted back, “No, it’s that saving daylight and time thing. The clocks were to be moved forward an hour last night. The timer wasn’t.”

It was the last thing he said before he and Tuva were atomized.