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Since I wasn't finished with my novel (and was impatient), I took a little break from it, and whipped up this little 50-page short story about a stay-at-home dad detective named Calvin Recker. Readers of this blog who enjoy the stories of "Daddy and the Dude" or just enjoy fast, fun, easy-to-read mysteries should love it!
The ebook is available for the low, low price of 99 cents on Amazon Kindle HERE (or click the link under the book cover on the left or the cover image top right).
Don't have a Kindle? You can download the FREE Kindle app HERE and you can put it on you iPhone or iPad, Android, or you PC or Mac or whatever else you have.
If you happen to have a Barnes & Noble Nook... I'll get that up shortly, so be patient.
If you don't want to pay for it at all, and you feel that all content on the Internet should be free? Hey, that's cool, I understand, you can read the story for free a little each day as an old school serial. I would encourage everyone to retweet or post it on your Facebook page and write a review on Amazon, that would be much appreciated!
This story was a lot of fun to write, so if this works out at all, I plan on doing some more! And a special thanks goes out to the very talented Joelle Wolinski who designed the cool cover.
Enjoy Part One:
Monitor
A cry.
The baby monitor’s red dots spike a crescent moon.
I look at the clock.
3 a.m.
I close my eyes and pretend that I don’t hear anything.
Another cry. Longer. Sustained.
I look over at my wife. She doesn’t stir. Her eyes are shut and her breathing is steady and deep. She’s either still asleep or much better at pretending than I am.
The baby monitor shows a solid five out of five red dots. We have the volume on, but with enough experience a parent can tell what’s going on in the baby’s room based on the dots alone.
One dot.
That’s just the wind.
Two dots.
The kid’s just readjusting their blankets and stuffed bears.
Three dots.
Involuntary whining. Let it go and it will pass.
Four dots.
Mom, Dad, please step into my office, there is something that I need to discuss with you.
Five dots.
Get your ass in here right NOW! Shit is going down!
I get up from the bed and walk toward the unrelenting wall of sound.
“Calvin, do you want me check on her?” Juliet says when I’m already at the door.
“No, I got it,” I say.
“OK,” she says, digging herself deeper into the pillow and covers.
Her face shows just the hint of a smile.
I can’t call her out on that, because she learned that move from the master.
Me.
When Juliet was on maternity leave and I was working, she’d jump out of bed like she was spring-loaded at the first sign of trouble.
Whip out a boob.
Feed the kid.
All the while, I slept the sleep of the righteous and just.
After her maternity leave ended, we ran some numbers on having two kids in daycare.
We did the math.
Buried deep in those numbers was the startling discovery that my weak tea salary at the call center just barely covered the costs of daycare. While Juliet’s take home pay ran past laughing and waving as mine was slumped over at the hips gasping for air.
In my head, the paycheck actually had arms, legs and tennis shoes.
The numbers didn’t lie. Factoring in the time spent driving the kids to and from daycare, I was more valuable unemployed than employed.
I walked into work the next morning with the plan to ask my boss for an enormous raise and then wait for him to stop laughing long enough for me to tender my resignation.
I even had a speech prepared about the importance of raising children and watching them grow up.
I imagined tears and a standing ovation from my co-workers as I cleaned out my desk.
That is not what happened.
What happened was, I walked in that morning to discover that the call center was closing down and we were all getting canned.
Outsourcing overseas.
The numbers didn’t lie.
I got a three-month severance, so the upside was that I was now twice as valuable as an unemployed stay-at-home dad than I was as an employed call center phone jockey.
The downside was that I lost any glory I’d get as a man staying home with the kids while he let his wife pursue her career.
But to be honest, I was looking forward to staying at home. I loved my kids, and I often heard myself stating out loud how I’d like to spend more time with them. Besides, how hard could it be?
Hard. Dude, it’s hard.
You barely have time to check your email, let alone screw around on the Internet for eight hours a day like I did when I “worked”.
So with Juliet as the lone breadwinner now, she got to sleep and I was the one tasked with getting up when the monitor hit five red dots.
I walk out of our bedroom and tiptoe past my son’s room hoping that the racket his sister is causing won’t wake him up too.
I open Daisy’s door and see her little face pressing against the wooden slats of the crib. I pick her up and stage whisper in a singsong voice, “It’s OK, Daisy’s OK. Dai-sy is O-K.”
The girl is not impressed. I sense she’s still holding out for a better option.
As girls always do.
“It’s OK,” I say. “I know you want Mommy, but Daddy’s cool too.”
***
Three hours later I walk into the kitchen to get the coffee started.
The thin window of time before the kids wake up is a sacred part of my day. I make a big production out of making the coffee.
I grind the beans. Pack the espresso maker. Fill the regular coffee pot. Pour the water.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Steam the milk.
Whoosh.
I make a Frankenstein’s caffeine monster I call a “Calvicino” for myself, and a conventional cappuccino poured into a travel mug for Juliet.
I take out a stick of butter from the fridge to soften and pop two slices of toast into the toaster.
Then I go outside to get the newspaper.
Yeah, I’m the one guy keeping the print newspaper business alive.
I walk down to the end of the driveway wearing my slippers and robe and pick up the paper. I look back up and see a thin blonde woman running down the sidewalk.
She stops at the house directly across the street from mine and taps the mailbox.
She’s wearing black Lycra running pants and a pale pink sports bra that hugs her chest and shows off her tight stomach.
Her name is Nora Rasmussen.
She sees me staring at her and waves.
I wave back like an idiot.
I’m not good at waving. I use too much wrist. And a little elbow.
We don’t really know each other. I’ve seen her once or twice at the interminable hell that is the deli meat counter at the grocery store.
And I saw her at our neighborhood pool once this summer when I took the kids. She was wearing a red bikini and once again she caught me staring.
She looked up at me and smiled.
Yeah that’s me, Cool Dad, I thought.
Then she looked concerned and pointed at something behind me and said, “Is that yours?”
Confused, I turned around and saw what she was pointing at.
My two-year-old son Ryan jumping up and down on the diving board over the deep end.
Christ. How’d he get up there?
I wasn’t Cool Dad. I was Incompetent Dad.
I don’t really know much about any of our neighbors, Nora included. I knew she was married but didn’t have any kids.
That’s how you divide up people once you have children of your own. People with kids and people without.
Nora takes out her earbuds and yells over, “Good morning.”
I finally stop waving and yell back, “Good morning.”
We both take this as a proper ending point to our awkward moment as she heads toward the garage and I walk back inside to check on the toast.
Juliet is in the kitchen sipping her coffee. The toast has already been reduced to crumbs.
She’s wearing her serious businesswoman power suit and heels.
I’m wearing pajama pants with little red hearts on them.
“Finished awkwardly waving at that woman?” Juliet says.
“What?” I say.
“I saw you through the window. You were using too much elbow again.”
“Maybe I should just ditch the wave altogether and start saluting instead.”
She takes another sip. “I’ve got an early meeting so I’ve got to go.”
The commute.
Fighting traffic.
That I do not miss.
Juliet leans in and gives me a kiss. She runs her hand over my cheek and says, “Are you going shave today?”
“I’m going for a beard,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
Apparently I’m not.
She picks up her bag and says, “Good luck today. Try not to burn the house down.”
“I’ll TRY not to,” I say, handing her the travel coffee mug.
One more peck and she’s out the door.
I take my coffee mug back to kitchen table, sit down, and spread out the newspaper.
I hear a cry.
I hear two cries.
Come back tomorrow for Part Two of "Monitor".
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