09/30/2017

A mid-sized New England City

The remaining leaves are red and gold. The ground is covered everywhere, darkness sets, and temperatures rise along with the harvest moon. As a temporary limo driver, black leather flat-cap and all, I drive folks around in expensive vehicles I can only have in my dreams.

A man in the backseat says, “What’s on your arm, Jose?”

“Judge, something friends call me.” I raise my forearm. “A Good Dude—”

“People claim I’m a stand-up-guy.”

“Same thing, sir.”

Raising eyebrows, I see his face turn from vanilla to crimson. “Us Franklins are honest, straight-shooters with high moral character. We were raised right in North Belvédère.”

That’s enough, Jose. It’s a lovely evening. Five minutes pass, and I stop above the pond on Park Road. Judge Franklin glances at his Rolex. “Wait here. Nature calls.”                                     

He walks along a grassy knoll to the water’s edge, to a place I can no longer see. Tapping my Timex, too long for a number one. What’s he doing? I drop my copy of ‘Driving Miss Daisy.’

I open the door of his magnificent Ebony Mercedes GLS-Class SUV and sprint as Franklin moseys up the hill. He reminds me his drivers always look the other way. “Do you want a full-time job? Think it over.”      

“I will, boss.” Wife’s on my case.

“Take me home. Keep it this weekend.”

Wow! Ten year old twin boys will dig it. Need a lucky break, man. “Good night, sir.” But there’s a line or lines I won’t cross, not even for The Black Mamba.

Strange for him to urinate there, five minutes from home. He coulda ordered me to stand watch, too. I return to the scene of the crime.

A lost girl, wearing a fake leopard-skin coat, sits on the grass strung out, feet dangling in stinky, dirty water, on the verge of doing a face-plant. I fish her out with my left, massage my hip with my other hand. An old wound.  

Short blond hair. Cute kid if she got her teeth fixed. She’s not answering questions.

Slow night in the ER. In a trusting, yet sad voice, she says, “please . . . wait for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I continue reading my book. She returns more talkative. They pumped her stomach, not sedated, and lowered her BP. She lied to the nurse and showed a fake ID.

We go to my place. I pull in the yard. She waits. The lost girl tells me to hurry back. Sarah’s street smart. Smarter than me, for sure. In my rush, I bang my skull on the doorway of our haze-gray, dilapidated Cape Codder. I rub the top of my forehead, shake it off and exhale.                 

“Don’t mind stray kitties, but Jesus Christ, Jose, no room at the inn with our two boys. Besides, we’re almost broke,” says my wife.

“Shower, your tasty chicken soup, good night’s sleep, she’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Yeah, like your cats.”

Sarah enters the castle. Carmen takes over and helps her get acclimated. Come to find out, she’s missing from the Center for Wayward Girls. Family died in a fire. A troubled kid bounced around in foster care homes.

What should I do? I know she met the judge. I mentioned him. She couldn’t stop shaking.

We take her in despite financial difficulties. Foster care helps out.

I call the judge and refuse his job offer.

9/30/2018

Free to leave, still here a year later. We give her hope and affection. Sarah enrolls in college. We tell her to open a GoFundMe.

She continues to insist upon putting the incident on the grassy hill in the rear-view mirror. Later she says, ‘no fuckin’ way, I’m testifying.’ Okay. While we love her for standing her ground, we have different opinions.

I confront the judge on the phone. “Ya know how old she was? Don’t answer.” I tell him I can persuade her to forget-about-it. “Ten Grand in her account. Got it, Mr. Stand-Up-Guy?”

Lord have mercy on me. What have I done?

Two former drivers for Franklin — The Good Dudes — and I watch his activities. Okay, we’re spies. These boys, often heard saying things like, ‘men like him give the rest of us a bad name.’

A few weeks later. “Wonder where the money came from, Dad?”

Shrug my shoulders and turn palms skyward. “Someone who does this often. Think they’re called philanthropists . . . something like that. Your essay was awesome.”

“Anything’s possible, I guess.”

We’ve grown to love having her around. Our boys dig Sister Sarah too.

1/30/2023

She continues to commute to school. She majors in Criminal Justice and has second thoughts and shares them with Carmen. Sometimes she cries at night and sleeps with my wife. I’m fine on the couch. What are they doing there? Could she be willing to testify?

A dozen female passports with visas to China, Nigeria, Albania, Bulgaria, Belarus, Moldova, and Ukraine were discovered at the Franklin home. Who provided hard evidence that was strong enough to get a court order for a raid on a highly respected judge, and eventual conviction of a child trafficking ring leader?

            A.Sarah
            B.Sarah & Carmen
            C.Jose
            D.Jose & The Dudes
            E.The Entire Team

* * *   

We go to Sarah’s graduation. We have a stronger marriage since adding a daughter to our family.

Three months later, I walk a woman in a white dress down the aisle. After the ceremony, we hug. I kiss her cheek. A full smile from ear-to-ear makes the bride even more lovely.

“You saved my life. Love ya, Dad.”

“Never been this happy.” Tears roll over this old dude’s cheeks.

Behind the Wheel Again

Maybe . . . I’m not a stand-up-guy. I look into different mirrors these days and I’m okay with what I see. Turn over my forearm, raise it high so youse folks can see from the back of city bus 1 9 4 5: “A Good Dude is Allowed a Few Minor Indiscretions.”

Before Don Robishaw stopped working he was a Sailor, PCV, world traveler, college professor, circus roustabout, refugee camp worker, and most recently ran educational programs for homeless shelters. Don’s been nominated for a Best of the Net Award, 2021. He’s the author of the chapbook, ‘Just Willie Please,’ OJA&L, 2021. ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism 2020 FF Suite Contest. ‘Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat’s Chapbook Contest. Multiple works have appeared in: Drunk Monkeys, Literary Heist, OJA&L, Digging Through the Fat, and FFM, among other venues.