Category: In Uniform

Penile Fracture Ward

When I had my heart attack ten years ago, I was rushed to the hospital where I was wheeled into a tiny room and placed on a small cot where I was certain that I was going to die. Without a word, a male nurse sat in a chair beside me and held my hand. Needless to say, I didn’t die but I spent three days in Intensive Care where I encountered many more nurses, every one of whom was as compassionate and loving as the young man who held my hand. It takes a special breed of human to be a nurse, and I hope that there’s a special place in heaven for anyone who pursues it.

Happy National Nurses Day!

On the Downtown

This romantic lark is a departure from Hack’s usual hardboiled style. It’s a memory piece loosely based on an episode during his brief stint with the Merchant Marines when he had a 24-hour pass in a strange city spent with three women he met on the dock. The reality was that they were sex workers who gave him his first case of syphilis that resulted in the insanity which plagued him in his later years, and the night concluded with the women stealing Hack’s wallet and pushing what they thought was his lifeless body into a canal. It ended happily, with the syphilis eating away the facts of the evening from his brain until he now regards it as one of his most cherished memories.

A Twist of F8

Eight years ago today, I drove to the customs area of Korea Airlines and picked up the little dude who would soon become my best friend. The good folks at Pug Rescue of Korea called him Bruce, but that was a handle I never cared for so I rechristened him Boris and we began a series of adventures that turned my new buddy into the legend he was always destined to become. Eight years later, my heart overflows with gratitude that fate (and the Pug Rescue of Korea) brought us together.

I told Hack that story and he cranked out this stupid novel. I guess it was a nice gesture.

Heaven Knows, Mr. M.

Boris and Jonny got the summons like a bad hand at a crooked table. Rufus T. Firefly’s office smelled of panic and cigar smoke, and the Dictator for Life was pacing like a man who’d misplaced his spine. “I’ve got sour news, boys,” Firefly said, voice cracking like cheap shellac. “You fled here to dodge that lunatic Donald Trump, and now he’s kicking down our door. The orange windbag’s declared war on us for our helium reserves. As if he didn’t already sound ridiculous every time he opened his mouth.”

Boris cocked an eyebrow and scratched his jowls. “I thought our spiritual ringer, Sister Ana of Armas, handed him her Nobel Peace Prize to keep his beady little eyes off our goofy gas.” Firefly snorted. “The man’s got the memory of a three-day-old gnat. He forgot. That’s why you’re here. Boris, you take the northern front and try not to get us all killed. Jonny—your job’s heavier. Sister Ana is the soul of this tin-pot republic. She breathes, we breathe. You get her south to our friends. It won’t be pretty, but you’re the only mug I trust to pull it off.”

Jonny opened his mouth to protest the partner split when the door swung open and the good sister walked in. They’d heard the hymns about her kindness and charity, but none of them mentioned she was built like trouble with a halo slapped on top. Boris clocked it instantly—Sister Ana froze when she saw Jonny, her angelic face melting into the same hungry look every Van Nuys tramp gave his pal when she’d already picked out the motel. The pug had seen that look a hundred times. It always ended the same way—wrinkled sheets, bad decisions, and regrets that didn’t last past breakfast.