James Arthur Anderson's Writing

Saint Francis of the Damned

James Arthur Anderson

I’m not sure which one of us spotted the injured pigeon first, but Mary swears it was me. I don’t suppose it really matters because neither of us would have been able to leave the creature lying there in that cold puddle of water in the Burger King parking lot. Once we saw it, we were done for, and nothing would have been able to stop the intricate chain of events that followed, a chain of events that led up to horrors that I never could have imagined.

But then, on that October evening just before sunset, my life seemed as mundane and ordinary as it could possibly be.

I must confess, I almost didn’t pick the bird up. I was sure it was dead. But Mary was just as sure it wasn’t.

“Oh, Fran, it’s hurt real bad,” she said. “We can’t just leave it there to die.”

As if understanding her words the bird looked right at me and blinked. He was flattened out like he’d been hit by a truck and I didn’t have much hope for him.

“Do you think we should move him” I asked.

“Well we can’t just leave him there.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “Maybe if we at least bring him over to the grass….”

So I reached down and gathered the bird in my hands, expecting half of his insides to drop out when I lifted him. But there was no blood and he accepted my help calmly, without attempting to peck or flee. I supposed that the poor creature was probably in shock from whatever had happened to him.

I carried him over to a small traffic island at the front of the parking lot to set him down. But I noticed that the grass was teaming with red ants.

“I can’t leave him here,” I said to Mary, and pointed to the ground. “The ants will get him.”

So it was decided. We brought him back to the car, wrapped him up in a beach blanket left over from the summer, and brought him home.

Both Mary and I knew that keeping an injured bird in a one-bedroom apartment with two predatory cats would never work. So Mary immediately began making phone calls: to local vets, animal shelters, pet stores—anyone who wouldn’t hang up on her. An injured pigeon isn’t the easiest thing to evoke sympathy for—I’m sure we’d have had an easier time with a robin or a cardinal—but after several referrals (a friend of a friend of a vet) Mary finally reached an old woman named Francis who told us to wrap the bird up and bring it to her right away.

The woman lived on the East Side of Providence somewhere off Benefit Street in the oldest section of town. We got lost twice trying to find the place and had to park in an alley, but we finally made it. I hadn’t been to the East Side much, except for the bookstores on Thayer Street, and remember thinking that I’d traveled 200 years into the past.

If only I’d known then.

The house itself was mostly hidden behind an enormous hedge at the end of a dark cobblestone driveway. If it hadn’t been for the full moon I doubt if I would have been able to make it; the only other light was the tiny glow of the doorbell.

I rang the bell and a light switched on, revealing an aging house in quite a state of disrepair. Most of the front porch had been transformed into a huge aviary for morning doves. The birds flinched slightly when the light went on, and regarded me with interest.

Just as I pushed my head to the screen to see inside, a huge black and white cat jumped onto the ledge just in front of me, nearly startling me to death. The cat glanced once at the birds through the cage, then looked back at me, as if to show that doves didn’t excite him in the least. A small pathway led from the outside door and past the aviary to the inside door. I heard a slow shuffling coming closer from inside the house. Finally, the door opened and an old woman hobbled out.

The old lady was probably the least attractive specimen of humanity that I have ever seen. Although I later learned that she was only in her sixties, she appeared to be well over eighty. Her face was wrinkled like a metro-city roadmap, highlighted with several warts and moles. She had more hair on her chin than on her head, thin rat-grey hair, but long and stringy. She wore a dirty flannel bathrobe, even though it was only eight o’clock on a very warm evening. As she walked, she crouched forward and groaned with each step. A huge hump disfigured her back, making it impossible to stand up straight.

She stepped closer and peered at us through the screen door, scrutinizing us as if we were asking her to grant us a used car loan.

The woman was ugly, and borderline hideous. But her eyes were kind.

Mary and I must have passed whatever test the woman gave us because she opened the door, though just a crack.

“Let me see the bird.”

Mary handed him over, and the woman took him, handling him gently but with polish and expertise. She obviously knew what she was doing as she flipped him over and examined his wing.

“It’s a juvenile,” she said, half to herself and half for our benefit. “The wing is broken… badly broken. No internal bleeding, though. The leg is broken too. I’d guess a cat or other animal got him.”

“Can you fix him” Mary asked.

“I’ll have to set the wing,” she said, still muttering to herself, even though she was answering my wife’s question. “And splint the leg. But his heartbeat and lungs are strong. He’s been in shock but is coming out of it now.”

Then she looked directly at us.

“He’ll live,” she pronounced.

Both Mary and I breathed a sigh of relief. This pigeon had become important to us.

“You know, not many people will handle pigeons,” she said. “Most people consider them vermin. But they don’t transmit disease. Even if they’re sick, humans can’t catch it.”

She then continued with a long and detailed speech about the importance of pigeons in history, citing their ability to carry messages, and how they had been decisive in several battles. The woman sounded remarkably like a teacher—biology, I would have guessed.

I sort of drifted off during the woman’s speech, but Mary began to warm up to her. The woman explained that she took in all kinds of stray and injured animals and nursed them back to health. But her health was deteriorating fast, making it more and more difficult for her to keep up with even the routine chores. Mary felt sorry for the woman and gave her some money to help pay for the upkeep of the bird, and she suggested to her that we might volunteer to help her out.

It was with a profound sense of relief that we left the woman’s house. I truly didn’t expect to ever see her again, despite Mary’s promises to help her out. I agreed that we should volunteer some of our time, but the challenges and demands of everyday life somehow have a way of getting in the way of the best intentions and I suspected that this case would be no different. That’s why it came as a surprise when the old lady called two days later to report that the pigeon was doing fine and to ask if I could drop by and give her a hand. Mary was working late and I had nothing better to do, and my guilt was triggered by the woman’s kindness, so I agreed to come over for a couple hours.

It was just after 8 p.m. when I arrived--this time I only got lost once. It had rained earlier in the day and I had to wade through a couple of good-sized puddles to get to the front door. I was annoyed because she didn’t put the front light on, even though she knew I was coming. I found out when she greeted me that the bulb had burned out and she couldn’t reach the socket to change it, so that was my first task.

After I changed the light bulb the old woman suggested that I accompany her on the evening feeding and check-up, so I’d know the routine. I agreed.

The place was much larger inside than what it appeared from outside, and it left me with the impression of walking through a giant maze. The place was really more of a zoo than a home, since she had cages everywhere in every available space. She had several walk-in aviaries for pigeons, doves, seagulls and crows and smaller cages for robins, sparrows, bluejays, and other assorted birds, some kinds of which I had never seen before. She had cages full of mice in the kitchen and cages full of finches in her bedroom. The living room contained cats and dogs in small kennels. Dozens of other cats and dogs roamed the house freely, walking wounded with bandages on their paws, heads, and tails.

“Every animal has its own special diet,” she assured me, as she pointed out the various types of food.

The basement had a collection of more exotic animals, ferrets, snakes, lizards, a raccoon, two opossums, a fox and even a skunk.

“He won’t spray,” she said. “I’ve had him since he was a baby.”

All of the animals seemed content and well-cared for, and I complimented the woman for her efforts.

“You’re like Saint Francis,” I said. “Taking care of all the sick and injured animals.

“You’re a Saint Francis, too,” she said, smiling for the first time, and only then was I struck by the coincidence of us both having the same first name.

Just as we were about to leave, a horrible scream sounded from the far end of the basement. I rushed over to see, only to find a padlocked door with a do not enter sign on it.

“Oh, no, don’t go in there!” the old lady said, trembling violently.

Another scream almost rattled the very walls.

“What is that?” I said.

“Please… don’t go in there,” she said.

“Someone—or something—is hurt in there! It sounds like you’ve got a person locked up in there!”

All I could picture was someone chained up in the basement and being tortured—like something out of a V.C. Andrews book. I looked back at the old lady and I knew she was insane.

“Open the door!” I commanded.

“You can’t go in there!”

I grabbed a crowbar in the tool area and began working on the lock. The screaming began again. Just as I popped the lock open, I looked up in time to see the old woman about to hit me with a hammer.

I ducked, but she managed to clip me on the ear. It hurt like hell but wasn’t serious. I backed away as she advanced on me with the weapon.

“Listen, lady,” I said. “I don’t want any trouble…”

Suddenly she didn’t look as old or as feeble, and I imagined myself about to join her other captive in the back room of the basement. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d take the old witch out first.

I ducked my head down and charged forward, sidestepping at the last moment as she swung the hammer down at me. She caught my elbow as I went by, but I was so pumped up I didn’t even feel the pain until later. I reacted strictly by instinct as I put every ounce of my strength into and uppercut to her lower jaw. Dazed, she sprawled backwards, dropping the hammer and falling back against the wall.

I’d temporarily forgotten about the screaming from behind the door. But another shriek reminded me of it. The old lady was between me and the door, but before I could try to get past her, the padlock popped free where I’d broken it and the door opened outward.

The old lady was just coming to when she realized the door was open.

“No!” she screamed. “Not me! Not me!”

It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure what I saw at the time. I know there was a huge, leathery wing, like that of a bat, only a vertical wing instead of the horizontal type that bats have. And there was a claw—I did see the claw very clearly. It had long, sharp talons and human-like fingers—kind of like a gorilla’s hand only with an eagle’s claws. The old woman’s flesh tore where the thing grabbed her and she screamed.

The creature from inside the locked room pulled her back inside. She tried to wrap her leg around the door before it closed, and that bought her just about ten seconds. It wasn’t very long but it was long enough.

In those ten seconds I saw her anguish and her pain. And I heard her final words.

“Someone needs to take care of them too,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. “The demons and the monsters. They get hurt too. And now it falls to you, Saint Francis. Saint Francis of the Damned. Remember, they each have a special diet.”

And then the gargoyle thing pulled hard and she was gone. I rushed to close and lock the door behind them. Then I collapsed by the door and listened to the terrible sounds of the creature feeding.

So now it falls to me, the new Saint Francis of the Damned. Because the old lady was right. Someone has to take care of them. And even if I leave here, I know they will seek me out.

I don’t know how I will tell Mary, or if I’ll even tell her at all. I suppose I’ll have to. She’ll come looking and the police will get involved. And if I don’t show her what lives in the cages in the very back room, she may find out for herself and that would not be good.

Mary is very kind and loves animals, so it will be a good life. I just wish there was a way to keep her from knowing about the creatures in the back room—the ones with the special diet.

James Arthur Anderson

During the past few years, I’ve written several columns about things that bother me, those annoying pet peeves that just make me crazy. I must admit, there are a number of things that bother me—stupid drivers, assembly required, and paying $50 a month for cable and still having to endure bad TV and worse commercials, to name just a few.

But probably nothing irks me more that standing in line. If I’ve got 13 items in my shopping cart, I’ll gladly put one back just so I can go through the express lane at the check out. I’ll travel an extra ten minutes to go to the bank that has the shorter and fastest lines. And I’ll eat at Burger King because they are more efficient and don’t make you wait, even though I’d rather have a Big Mac than a Whopper. So I’ve decided that it’s time to vent my frustrations about “line dancing” in the hopes that it might encourage others to be a little more sensitive to people like me who are just seconds away from going postal while waiting in annoying lines.

Personally, I hate going to the grocery store. Like most men, I want to get there, get what I need, and get out. I think shopping should be like a pit stop at the Indianapolis 500—take care of your business and get back into the race.

Unfortunately, it seems like a number of people consider marketing a social event. Now don’t get me wrong, if you want to chit chat about pomegranates and kiwi in the produce aisle, that’s your business. Just don’t get in my way when I’m trying to play my own version of supermarket derby. In fact, the supermarkets should put traffic lanes in the store—a high speed lane for me, and the slow lane for those who want to linger. And maybe even a breakdown lane for those who want to spend the entire day comparison shopping. That way you wouldn’t have tons of people clogging up the aisles while they try to calculate which is cheaper, 3 for a dollar or 34 cents each.

People who can’t make up their minds don’t belong in line in the first place. Like the woman who has the number right before you in the deli line. After a 50 minute wait, they call her number and you’re thinking that at last, you’re next. That would be great except when the clerk asks her if he can help she replies with, “I don’t know. Let me see. The turkey looks good. But the ham looks nice too. I’m just not sure. Which one’s on special?”

“Just get a pound of baloney and move,” I think.

Or the guy at Wendy’s who decides he wants a Big Mac. Then, when he realizes Wendy’s doesn’t sell Big Macs he can’t figure out what he wants.

Then you have these dopey families that let the kids run the show. Even though the line is an hour long, they wait until they get right to the front, and then let the three-year-old decide.

“Johnny, what would you like?” the goofy-looking Dad asks.

“I wanna ice cream cone and chocolate cake.”

“But Johnny, they don’t have that here. Do you want a Happy Meal?”

“I want ice cream and cake!” the kid screams, and then begins to wail.

“Johnny, you can’t have ice cream,” the Dad says.

“Now Ward, you don’t want to stifle his self-expression,” the mother says.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids—I even have two of my own, one of whom has survived to the age of puberty. But I do believe that kids need to know their place—especially when you’re waiting in line.

One of my fondest memories is of the time I waited in line for 40 minutes in K Mart, right in the middle of the holiday shopping season. There’s a good 15 people behind me, and we’re all anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, hoping we’ll be able to leave the store before dawn. Don’t you know that I get stuck behind this goofy lady with an obnoxious six-year-old brat who’s only vocabulary consists of “I want” and “gimmee.” Now it isn’t bad enough that I have to listen to the kid whine until I’m ready to brain him myself, but when we finally do reach the register the indulgent mother decides that this would be a good time for a teachable moment. She lets the cashier ring her own stuff up, but decides to let her brat make his own purchase.

“Now Thadius, why don’t you pay the nice lady for your candy? It’s fifty cents plus four cents tax. Now how much is that?”

“Seven,” the kid replies and hands the cashier a nickel.

“No, Thadius (and why do I know that this is a Thadius Jr. or, worse, a Thadius the third), “it’s not seven. Try again.”

“Eleven,” the spoiled snot says, and puts down another penny.

After sixteen more incorrect tries, I drop my own purchase on the floor and storm out of the store, saying some choice words that I’d sure little Thadius has never heard before.

But if kids in line are bad, those in the drive-thru can be even worse. You go through the drive-thru because you’re in a hurry, right? Then you get behind this dipsy mother of three who can’t control the kids in the car. She spends her five minute wait yelling at the kids, two of whom are fighting in the back seat. Then when she gets to the teller window, she hasn’t even begun to get prepared. It takes ten minutes for her to find her paperwork, sign whatever needs to be signed, and put the stuff into the tube and send it to the teller. All the while the kids are carrying on like hyperactive chimpanzees in the back seat, climbing, jumping and fighting so loud that I can hear them in my car with the windows shut.

Naturally, the scatterbrained bimbo has forgotten to sign something, so the teller sends it back, and we wait another five minutes. Finally, when all is done, the teller sends back her money and some lollipops for the three brats. The idiot mother tries for five minutes to distribute the pops, all the while still in the drive-thru line, but can’t satisfy the kids. So she goes for the “talk” button, a bad sign.

“Excuse me,” I hear her say to the teller. “Can I trade these green lollipops in for some red ones?”

“No!” the teller replies sternly. “We don’t have red any red ones.”

I suspect they do have red ones and that the teller should be recommended for a promotion for not providing them.

It amazes me how many people are not prepared when they get to the end of the line. I love the women who have purses so big they wouldn’t be allowed as carry-on luggage at the airport, and who wait until the cashier gives them the total before trying to retrieve their money. It usually takes five minutes or more for them to find their buried treasure and pay the cashier. It’s like the thought never occurred to them that they’d have to pay for all the stuff they bought.

Of course, women don’t hold a monopoly on being annoying in line. Men can be downright rude. I remember being behind this one Neanderthal in the market who was probably named “Bubba” or “Jethro” but definitely not Thadius. After checking out my wife in a rather obvious manner, he began to puff up and strut like he was so macho that any attractive woman would just immediately find him irresistible and follow him home. I just glared at him and Lynn responded by giving me a hug and him a look of disgust. So instead he checked out the cashier, who was young enough to be his daughter and equally disgusted. Then he asks her for a package of cigarettes.

“You have to get those at the service desk,” she responds.

“Duh? Where’s dat?”

She points to the desk just two lines away, but this guy’s so stupid he can’t understand. So the cashier goes and gets the cigarettes for him.

“Duh, ‘dese are soft pack and I wanted ‘em in the box,” he says. So she has to go back. Then he decides he wants the kind with no filter.

“I hope you get lung cancer,” I mumble as he finally plods off with his purchase.

The cashier hears me and giggles. “I hope he does too,” she says.

I know I’m not the only one who hates waiting in line. That’s why they’ve invented some things designed to speed up the lines. Unfortunately, some of these mechanisms only make the lines slower.

I’ve already mentioned the drive-thru, which is designed to speed things up but in some cases actually makes things move slower. Like when people aren’t ready, or when the drive-thru speakers don’t work (which is just about always) or when some idiot tries to stick $50 worth of rolled pennies through the bank drive-thru and gets them stuck. Or the idiot that thinks he can “cut” the drive-thru line at Dunkin’ Donuts when I’m suffering from the shakes due to caffeine deprivation.

Another one is the debit card, which, ideally, allows you to swipe a card and make a purchase without having to wait for change, fill out a check, or wait to get your credit verified. But a debit card can be downright scary in the hands of the incompetent.

I remember waiting in a huge bank line on a Saturday when only one teller was available. My luck, an old lady gets in front of me, and decides to take her customer service problem to the teller instead of the customer service department where it belongs. Sure enough, she has a six page checking account statement that she can’t understand because she’s used her debit card and doesn’t know what it means, or how to balance the thing. Apparently she thinks the debit card gives free money instead of deducting it from your checking account balance.

After a 15 minute explanation, the lady is still clueless and agrees to go to the customer service desk for help. But before she goes she has to let the teller know all about her recent surgery to remove hemorrhoids, all in graphic detail.

Well, now that I’ve shown my impatience and made a few enemies I guess it’s time to hurry off and wait in line some more. Fortunately there is hope, now that e-commerce is here. I’ve already made purchases on Amazon dot com and look forward to the time when I can do all of my shopping on line. Of course, I’ll still have to wait for the web sites to download. So you even have to wait in line on line.

James Arthur Anderson is Department Chair of Arts & Sciences at Johnson & Wales University's Florida campus, where he also teaches English at the rank of Professor. He has a B.A. and M.A. from Rhode Island College and a Ph.D. from the University of Rhode Island. His work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies, and his first novel, Finders Keepers, was published in 2003 by Publish America (ISBN# 1-59286-261-6).

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		James Arthur Anderson's Writing

		Saint Francis of the Damned Saint Francis of the Damned by James Arthur Anderson I’m not sure which one of us spotted the injured pigeon first, but Mary swears it was me. I don’t suppose it really matters because neither of us would have been able to leave the creature lying there in that cold puddle of water in the Burger King parking lot. Once we saw it, we were done for, and nothing would have been able to stop the intricate chain of events that followed, a chain of events that led up to horrors that I never could have imagined. But then, on that October evening just before sunset, my life seemed as mundane and ordinary as it could possibly be. I must confess, I almost didn’t pick the bird up. I was sure it was dead. But Mary was just as sure it wasn’t. “Oh, Fran, it’s hurt real bad,” she said. “We can’t just leave it there to die.” As if understanding her words the bird looked right at me and blinked. He was flattened out like he’d been hit by a truck and I didn’t have much hope for him. “Do you think we should move him” I asked. “Well we can’t just leave him there.” “I guess you’re right,” I said. “Maybe if we at least bring him over to the grass….” So I reached down and gathered the bird in my hands, expecting half of his insides to drop out when I lifted him. But there was no blood and he accepted my help calmly, without attempting to peck or flee. I supposed that the poor creature was probably in shock from whatever had happened to him. I carried him over to a small traffic island at the front of the parking lot to set him down. But I noticed that the grass was teaming with red ants. “I can’t leave him here,” I said to Mary, and pointed to the ground. “The ants will get him.” So it was decided. We brought him back to the car, wrapped him up in a beach blanket left over from the summer, and brought him home. Both Mary and I knew that keeping an injured bird in a one-bedroom apartment with two predatory cats would never work. So Mary immediately began making phone calls: to local vets, animal shelters, pet stores—anyone who wouldn’t hang up on her. An injured pigeon isn’t the easiest thing to evoke sympathy for—I’m sure we’d have had an easier time with a robin or a cardinal—but after several referrals (a friend of a friend of a vet) Mary finally reached an old woman named Francis who told us to wrap the bird up and bring it to her right away. The woman lived on the East Side of Providence somewhere off Benefit Street in the oldest section of town. We got lost twice trying to find the place and had to park in an alley, but we finally made it. I hadn’t been to the East Side much, except for the bookstores on Thayer Street, and remember thinking that I’d traveled 200 years into the past. If only I’d known then. The house itself was mostly hidden behind an enormous hedge at the end of a dark cobblestone driveway. If it hadn’t been for the full moon I doubt if I would have been able to make it; the only other light was the tiny glow of the doorbell. I rang the bell and a light switched on, revealing an aging house in quite a state of disrepair. Most of the front porch had been transformed into a huge aviary for morning doves. The birds flinched slightly when the light went on, and regarded me with interest. Just as I pushed my head to the screen to see inside, a huge black and white cat jumped onto the ledge just in front of me, nearly startling me to death. The cat glanced once at the birds through the cage, then looked back at me, as if to show that doves didn’t excite him in the least. A small pathway led from the outside door and past the aviary to the inside door. I heard a slow shuffling coming closer from inside the house. Finally, the door opened and an old woman hobbled out. The old lady was probably the least attractive specimen of humanity that I have ever seen. Although I later learned that she was only in her sixties, she appeared to be well over eighty. Her face was wrinkled like a metro-city roadmap, highlighted with several warts and moles. She had more hair on her chin than on her head, thin rat-grey hair, but long and stringy. She wore a dirty flannel bathrobe, even though it was only eight o’clock on a very warm evening. As she walked, she crouched forward and groaned with each step. A huge hump disfigured her back, making it impossible to stand up straight. She stepped closer and peered at us through the screen door, scrutinizing us as if we were asking her to grant us a used car loan. The woman was ugly, and borderline hideous. But her eyes were kind. Mary and I must have passed whatever test the woman gave us because she opened the door, though just a crack. “Let me see the bird.” Mary handed him over, and the woman took him, handling him gently but with polish and expertise. She obviously knew what she was doing as she flipped him over and examined his wing. “It’s a juvenile,” she said, half to herself and half for our benefit. “The wing is broken… badly broken. No internal bleeding, though. The leg is broken too. I’d guess a cat or other animal got him.” “Can you fix him” Mary asked. “I’ll have to set the wing,” she said, still muttering to herself, even though she was answering my wife’s question. “And splint the leg. But his heartbeat and lungs are strong. He’s been in shock but is coming out of it now.” Then she looked directly at us. “He’ll live,” she pronounced. Both Mary and I breathed a sigh of relief. This pigeon had become important to us. “You know, not many people will handle pigeons,” she said. “Most people consider them vermin. But they don’t transmit disease. Even if they’re sick, humans can’t catch it.” She then continued with a long and detailed speech about the importance of pigeons in history, citing their ability to carry messages, and how they had been decisive in several battles. The woman sounded remarkably like a teacher—biology, I would have guessed. I sort of drifted off during the woman’s speech, but Mary began to warm up to her. The woman explained that she took in all kinds of stray and injured animals and nursed them back to health. But her health was deteriorating fast, making it more and more difficult for her to keep up with even the routine chores. Mary felt sorry for the woman and gave her some money to help pay for the upkeep of the bird, and she suggested to her that we might volunteer to help her out. It was with a profound sense of relief that we left the woman’s house. I truly didn’t expect to ever see her again, despite Mary’s promises to help her out. I agreed that we should volunteer some of our time, but the challenges and demands of everyday life somehow have a way of getting in the way of the best intentions and I suspected that this case would be no different. That’s why it came as a surprise when the old lady called two days later to report that the pigeon was doing fine and to ask if I could drop by and give her a hand. Mary was working late and I had nothing better to do, and my guilt was triggered by the woman’s kindness, so I agreed to come over for a couple hours. It was just after 8 p.m. when I arrived--this time I only got lost once. It had rained earlier in the day and I had to wade through a couple of good-sized puddles to get to the front door. I was annoyed because she didn’t put the front light on, even though she knew I was coming. I found out when she greeted me that the bulb had burned out and she couldn’t reach the socket to change it, so that was my first task. After I changed the light bulb the old woman suggested that I accompany her on the evening feeding and check-up, so I’d know the routine. I agreed. The place was much larger inside than what it appeared from outside, and it left me with the impression of walking through a giant maze. The place was really more of a zoo than a home, since she had cages everywhere in every available space. She had several walk-in aviaries for pigeons, doves, seagulls and crows and smaller cages for robins, sparrows, bluejays, and other assorted birds, some kinds of which I had never seen before. She had cages full of mice in the kitchen and cages full of finches in her bedroom. The living room contained cats and dogs in small kennels. Dozens of other cats and dogs roamed the house freely, walking wounded with bandages on their paws, heads, and tails. “Every animal has its own special diet,” she assured me, as she pointed out the various types of food. The basement had a collection of more exotic animals, ferrets, snakes, lizards, a raccoon, two opossums, a fox and even a skunk. “He won’t spray,” she said. “I’ve had him since he was a baby.” All of the animals seemed content and well-cared for, and I complimented the woman for her efforts. “You’re like Saint Francis,” I said. “Taking care of all the sick and injured animals. “You’re a Saint Francis, too,” she said, smiling for the first time, and only then was I struck by the coincidence of us both having the same first name. Just as we were about to leave, a horrible scream sounded from the far end of the basement. I rushed over to see, only to find a padlocked door with a do not enter sign on it. “Oh, no, don’t go in there!” the old lady said, trembling violently. Another scream almost rattled the very walls. “What is that?” I said. “Please… don’t go in there,” she said. “Someone—or something—is hurt in there! It sounds like you’ve got a person locked up in there!” All I could picture was someone chained up in the basement and being tortured—like something out of a V.C. Andrews book. I looked back at the old lady and I knew she was insane. “Open the door!” I commanded. “You can’t go in there!” I grabbed a crowbar in the tool area and began working on the lock. The screaming began again. Just as I popped the lock open, I looked up in time to see the old woman about to hit me with a hammer. I ducked, but she managed to clip me on the ear. It hurt like hell but wasn’t serious. I backed away as she advanced on me with the weapon. “Listen, lady,” I said. “I don’t want any trouble…” Suddenly she didn’t look as old or as feeble, and I imagined myself about to join her other captive in the back room of the basement. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d take the old witch out first. I ducked my head down and charged forward, sidestepping at the last moment as she swung the hammer down at me. She caught my elbow as I went by, but I was so pumped up I didn’t even feel the pain until later. I reacted strictly by instinct as I put every ounce of my strength into and uppercut to her lower jaw. Dazed, she sprawled backwards, dropping the hammer and falling back against the wall. I’d temporarily forgotten about the screaming from behind the door. But another shriek reminded me of it. The old lady was between me and the door, but before I could try to get past her, the padlock popped free where I’d broken it and the door opened outward. The old lady was just coming to when she realized the door was open. “No!” she screamed. “Not me! Not me!” It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure what I saw at the time. I know there was a huge, leathery wing, like that of a bat, only a vertical wing instead of the horizontal type that bats have. And there was a claw—I did see the claw very clearly. It had long, sharp talons and human-like fingers—kind of like a gorilla’s hand only with an eagle’s claws. The old woman’s flesh tore where the thing grabbed her and she screamed. The creature from inside the locked room pulled her back inside. She tried to wrap her leg around the door before it closed, and that bought her just about ten seconds. It wasn’t very long but it was long enough. In those ten seconds I saw her anguish and her pain. And I heard her final words. “Someone needs to take care of them too,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. “The demons and the monsters. They get hurt too. And now it falls to you, Saint Francis. Saint Francis of the Damned. Remember, they each have a special diet.” And then the gargoyle thing pulled hard and she was gone. I rushed to close and lock the door behind them. Then I collapsed by the door and listened to the terrible sounds of the creature feeding. So now it falls to me, the new Saint Francis of the Damned. Because the old lady was right. Someone has to take care of them. And even if I leave here, I know they will seek me out. I don’t know how I will tell Mary, or if I’ll even tell her at all. I suppose I’ll have to. She’ll come looking and the police will get involved. And if I don’t show her what lives in the cages in the very back room, she may find out for herself and that would not be good. Mary is very kind and loves animals, so it will be a good life. I just wish there was a way to keep her from knowing about the creatures in the back room—the ones with the special diet.



		Line Dancing Line Dancing by James Arthur Anderson During the past few years, I’ve written several columns about things that bother me, those annoying pet peeves that just make me crazy. I must admit, there are a number of things that bother me—stupid drivers, assembly required, and paying $50 a month for cable and still having to endure bad TV and worse commercials, to name just a few. But probably nothing irks me more that standing in line. If I’ve got 13 items in my shopping cart, I’ll gladly put one back just so I can go through the express lane at the check out. I’ll travel an extra ten minutes to go to the bank that has the shorter and fastest lines. And I’ll eat at Burger King because they are more efficient and don’t make you wait, even though I’d rather have a Big Mac than a Whopper. So I’ve decided that it’s time to vent my frustrations about “line dancing” in the hopes that it might encourage others to be a little more sensitive to people like me who are just seconds away from going postal while waiting in annoying lines. Personally, I hate going to the grocery store. Like most men, I want to get there, get what I need, and get out. I think shopping should be like a pit stop at the Indianapolis 500—take care of your business and get back into the race. Unfortunately, it seems like a number of people consider marketing a social event. Now don’t get me wrong, if you want to chit chat about pomegranates and kiwi in the produce aisle, that’s your business. Just don’t get in my way when I’m trying to play my own version of supermarket derby. In fact, the supermarkets should put traffic lanes in the store—a high speed lane for me, and the slow lane for those who want to linger. And maybe even a breakdown lane for those who want to spend the entire day comparison shopping. That way you wouldn’t have tons of people clogging up the aisles while they try to calculate which is cheaper, 3 for a dollar or 34 cents each. People who can’t make up their minds don’t belong in line in the first place. Like the woman who has the number right before you in the deli line. After a 50 minute wait, they call her number and you’re thinking that at last, you’re next. That would be great except when the clerk asks her if he can help she replies with, “I don’t know. Let me see. The turkey looks good. But the ham looks nice too. I’m just not sure. Which one’s on special?” “Just get a pound of baloney and move,” I think. Or the guy at Wendy’s who decides he wants a Big Mac. Then, when he realizes Wendy’s doesn’t sell Big Macs he can’t figure out what he wants. Then you have these dopey families that let the kids run the show. Even though the line is an hour long, they wait until they get right to the front, and then let the three-year-old decide. “Johnny, what would you like?” the goofy-looking Dad asks. “I wanna ice cream cone and chocolate cake.” “But Johnny, they don’t have that here. Do you want a Happy Meal?” “I want ice cream and cake!” the kid screams, and then begins to wail. “Johnny, you can’t have ice cream,” the Dad says. “Now Ward, you don’t want to stifle his self-expression,” the mother says. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids—I even have two of my own, one of whom has survived to the age of puberty. But I do believe that kids need to know their place—especially when you’re waiting in line. One of my fondest memories is of the time I waited in line for 40 minutes in K Mart, right in the middle of the holiday shopping season. There’s a good 15 people behind me, and we’re all anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, hoping we’ll be able to leave the store before dawn. Don’t you know that I get stuck behind this goofy lady with an obnoxious six-year-old brat who’s only vocabulary consists of “I want” and “gimmee.” Now it isn’t bad enough that I have to listen to the kid whine until I’m ready to brain him myself, but when we finally do reach the register the indulgent mother decides that this would be a good time for a teachable moment. She lets the cashier ring her own stuff up, but decides to let her brat make his own purchase. “Now Thadius, why don’t you pay the nice lady for your candy? It’s fifty cents plus four cents tax. Now how much is that?” “Seven,” the kid replies and hands the cashier a nickel. “No, Thadius (and why do I know that this is a Thadius Jr. or, worse, a Thadius the third), “it’s not seven. Try again.” “Eleven,” the spoiled snot says, and puts down another penny. After sixteen more incorrect tries, I drop my own purchase on the floor and storm out of the store, saying some choice words that I’d sure little Thadius has never heard before. But if kids in line are bad, those in the drive-thru can be even worse. You go through the drive-thru because you’re in a hurry, right? Then you get behind this dipsy mother of three who can’t control the kids in the car. She spends her five minute wait yelling at the kids, two of whom are fighting in the back seat. Then when she gets to the teller window, she hasn’t even begun to get prepared. It takes ten minutes for her to find her paperwork, sign whatever needs to be signed, and put the stuff into the tube and send it to the teller. All the while the kids are carrying on like hyperactive chimpanzees in the back seat, climbing, jumping and fighting so loud that I can hear them in my car with the windows shut. Naturally, the scatterbrained bimbo has forgotten to sign something, so the teller sends it back, and we wait another five minutes. Finally, when all is done, the teller sends back her money and some lollipops for the three brats. The idiot mother tries for five minutes to distribute the pops, all the while still in the drive-thru line, but can’t satisfy the kids. So she goes for the “talk” button, a bad sign. “Excuse me,” I hear her say to the teller. “Can I trade these green lollipops in for some red ones?” “No!” the teller replies sternly. “We don’t have red any red ones.” I suspect they do have red ones and that the teller should be recommended for a promotion for not providing them. It amazes me how many people are not prepared when they get to the end of the line. I love the women who have purses so big they wouldn’t be allowed as carry-on luggage at the airport, and who wait until the cashier gives them the total before trying to retrieve their money. It usually takes five minutes or more for them to find their buried treasure and pay the cashier. It’s like the thought never occurred to them that they’d have to pay for all the stuff they bought. Of course, women don’t hold a monopoly on being annoying in line. Men can be downright rude. I remember being behind this one Neanderthal in the market who was probably named “Bubba” or “Jethro” but definitely not Thadius. After checking out my wife in a rather obvious manner, he began to puff up and strut like he was so macho that any attractive woman would just immediately find him irresistible and follow him home. I just glared at him and Lynn responded by giving me a hug and him a look of disgust. So instead he checked out the cashier, who was young enough to be his daughter and equally disgusted. Then he asks her for a package of cigarettes. “You have to get those at the service desk,” she responds. “Duh? Where’s dat?” She points to the desk just two lines away, but this guy’s so stupid he can’t understand. So the cashier goes and gets the cigarettes for him. “Duh, ‘dese are soft pack and I wanted ‘em in the box,” he says. So she has to go back. Then he decides he wants the kind with no filter. “I hope you get lung cancer,” I mumble as he finally plods off with his purchase. The cashier hears me and giggles. “I hope he does too,” she says. I know I’m not the only one who hates waiting in line. That’s why they’ve invented some things designed to speed up the lines. Unfortunately, some of these mechanisms only make the lines slower. I’ve already mentioned the drive-thru, which is designed to speed things up but in some cases actually makes things move slower. Like when people aren’t ready, or when the drive-thru speakers don’t work (which is just about always) or when some idiot tries to stick $50 worth of rolled pennies through the bank drive-thru and gets them stuck. Or the idiot that thinks he can “cut” the drive-thru line at Dunkin’ Donuts when I’m suffering from the shakes due to caffeine deprivation. Another one is the debit card, which, ideally, allows you to swipe a card and make a purchase without having to wait for change, fill out a check, or wait to get your credit verified. But a debit card can be downright scary in the hands of the incompetent. I remember waiting in a huge bank line on a Saturday when only one teller was available. My luck, an old lady gets in front of me, and decides to take her customer service problem to the teller instead of the customer service department where it belongs. Sure enough, she has a six page checking account statement that she can’t understand because she’s used her debit card and doesn’t know what it means, or how to balance the thing. Apparently she thinks the debit card gives free money instead of deducting it from your checking account balance. After a 15 minute explanation, the lady is still clueless and agrees to go to the customer service desk for help. But before she goes she has to let the teller know all about her recent surgery to remove hemorrhoids, all in graphic detail. Well, now that I’ve shown my impatience and made a few enemies I guess it’s time to hurry off and wait in line some more. Fortunately there is hope, now that e-commerce is here. I’ve already made purchases on Amazon dot com and look forward to the time when I can do all of my shopping on line. Of course, I’ll still have to wait for the web sites to download. So you even have to wait in line on line.



		My Biography James Arthur Anderson is Department Chair of Arts & Sciences at Johnson & Wales University's Florida campus, where he also teaches English at the rank of Professor. He has a B.A. and M.A. from Rhode Island College and a Ph.D. from the University of Rhode Island. His work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies, and his first novel, Finders Keepers, was published in 2003 by Publish America (ISBN# 1-59286-261-6).

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