I was sitting at the bar in my favorite watering hole, wondering what I could write about next. This wasn’t unusual because I am a writer in my retirement years.

Just then a nervous chap jumped up on the stool next to me.

“That looks good,” he said, looking at my drink, “What is it?”

“It’s a gin and tonic with ice and lemon.”

“Bartender, I’ll have one of those gin and tonics.”

He smiled at me and I noticed a facial twitch near the corner of his mouth.

“My name is Jonah, what’s yours?”

“Dave,” I said reluctantly.

“I’m very nervous today, Dave.”

My stool mate, Jonah, started to shake like he had Parkinson’s.

“What’s the problem, Jonah?”

“I’ve had another premonition. I think I’ve got a sixth sense. It’s scary.”

I smiled and ordered another gin and tonic.

“Psychic abilities are not recognized by the scientific community.”

“But Dave, there is so much evidence and support for ESP, even celebrities have premonitions. I get many of them.”

“Jonah, remember the old joke: one person says, “The food in this restaurant is not good.” And the other person says, “I know, and they don’t give you much on your plate either!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Jonah quizzically.

“What the joke tells you is: people tend to think that a large quantity of something can compensate for the lack of quality. What was your recent premonition?”

“Oh, you mean because ESP is in the news so much, there’s got to be something to it.”

“That’s right.”

“My premonition was that I dreamt I would meet an old friend I haven’t seen for years and low and behold, I ran into them in a restaurant. They were at the next table!”

“That’s a sort of coincidence, isn’t it? It’s a coincidence between your dream and an event in the outside world.”

“I still think I have a sixth sense. And anyway, there is so many ESP stories reported in the media, it has to be true. ESP is a fact of life!”

My friend was getting excited now.

“Yes, I will agree that the media reports a lot of strange goings on, and that reinforces your belief.”

“There’s something inside of me that wants to believe in the unknown and the supernatural. Something is willing me to believe,” said Jonah, twitching more than ever.

“Jonah, I know it’s comforting to suggest a belief in, lets say, an afterlife. This can be a very seduction thought.”

“Oh, I had a premonition about that too. I think there is an afterlife!” Jonah interrupted.

“Of course you want to believe, because it opens up the possibility for some part of you to survive death.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful, to survive death?”

Jonah’s eyes were gleaming.

“A lot of people would like a ticket to immortality if only there was evidence to back it up, but there isn’t any.”

Jonah looked demoralized now.

“When you say that ESP or any transcendental things don’t exist, you’re taking something away from me that I need,” said Jonah, shouting now.

“Relax Jonah, it’s human nature to want to believe in the unknown and the supernatural, but you’ll save yourself a lot of grief if you face up to the fact that science does not back it up.”

“I’m sorry Dave, I have to believe, even if it just ain’t so! I can’t stop these premonitions.”

Jonah got up to leave:

“I will probably be miserable and depressed until my 50^th birthday.”

“Who told you that?”

“A fortune teller I know.”

“Will things improve then?”

“No, she said, “I’ll just get used to it by then!”

I never saw Jonah again!

“Chicago is, and always has been, a grim, violent city, a tough city of many tongues and curiously Chicago is proud of this description.”

This was the blurb on my guidebook to Chicago Crime.

I was on holiday, revisiting my hometown of Chicago. I was passing Holy Name Cathedral, which was on my list of crime sights. I walked up to the cornerstone of the church and touched the bullet hole from the North side gangster’s assassination in 1926. Hymie Weiss to be specific.

Before I walked away, another fella followed me and touched the bullet hole and smiled wickedly. He was a heavy-set chap with a round face, heavy eyebrows, dark eyes and thick lips. There was a slight mark on his left cheek. He was wearing a black suit with white tie and two-toned shoes.

When he was finished stroking the bullet hole he approached me and said:

“That’s where O’Banion’s old flower shop was, right across the street,” he pointed his chubby finger.

I backed away from him, wondering why this stranger was talking to me.

He continued:

“Weiss and his side kick drove to his office above the flower shop. They parked the car and walked past the church. Then Tommy gun fire came from the third floor window of that nearby building. The spray of bullets tore away portions of the church’s cornerstone. As you can see the hole remains today.”

He walked back and touched the bullet hole again and said:

“Pedestrians scattered screaming as the shots broke the silence. Weiss took ten bullets and died at a nearby hospital. His side kick died instantly.”

The stranger then walked away laughing, and seemed to disappear into the distance.

I stood frozen to the spot for a minute. I wondered was this Edward G. Robinson look-a-like really the ghost of the leader of the “Chicago Outfit”, Al Capone?

Did I have a hallucination because of all the crime stories in my head?

My guidebook stated that the police chief announced after the Weiss shooting:

“If people have to be killed, it’s good that the gangsters are killing themselves. It saves trouble for the police!”

I walked away wondering:

DO DEAD MEN TELL STORIES?

At a literary meeting and lunch I attended, a chap at my table asked me, after discovering I was a writer in my retirement.

“What makes a writer write? Or to put it another way, why do writers write?”

We were all on our second glass of wine, so I wondered if this fella was trying to wind me up or was he serious with his question.

“Do you do any writing?” I asked probing.

“Not really, but I love reading.”

So I decided to take his question seriously.

“There are many motivations and reasons that writers write.”

“How about you personally?”

“Writing gives me great satisfaction but ultimately I want to be READ,” I said forcefully.

“Some people say writers just write in hopes of making lots of money,” said my lunch mate quizzically.

“That is simply not true in 99% of writers.”

“What do you like to write about?”

“My recent book, “24 Traumatic Hours, Twice!”, has a dark theme with plenty of drama and tension. I also throw in a bit of  philosophy.”

I reached for the wine bottle on our table and topped up our glasses.

“What are some other of your reasons for writing?”

“Well, I started writing full time in my retirement. It’s what keeps me alert to the world. There is so much ego food in sharing my unique voice and point of view. There’s a sense of fulfillment that comes with that. My mind is filled with characters and stories and I’m eager to get them on paper.”

“So, you keep a hold on life by writing?”

“That’s right! Writing also allows me to unload my emotions, impressions and opinions. My curiosity about life is my driving force. Writing is therapeutic.”

“Do writers get lonely when they’re writing?”

I smiled and said:

“Writers have a world inside their mind, usually more than one, and you’re never really lonely with all those characters and stories in your head.”

“What are the major goals of writers?”

“To entertain and to inform,” I said confidently.

“Can you elaborate, please?”

“Well, writers are driven by the need to Communicate. With that need is another need, the need to Share, and behind that is the need to be Understood.”

“Writers have lots of needs!” said someone laughing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I countered.

“How would you conclude this interesting conversation?” said a chap taking a sip of his wine.

“Well, writers write because it’s the way we EXPRESS ourselves best. Everyone has their best method of expression. With writers, it’s words on the page and using those words to connect to an audience. We also desire to leave a legacy. We want to leave something behind that lasts.”

All the lunch guests clapped.

I continued:

“There’s an old adage that says, “The spoken word passes away; the written word abides.”

With that we all clinked our glasses together.

“Why do people collect things?”

This question was asked at a literary meeting I attended recently. It came up because the people at my table were discussing their collections of books.

“I have a collection of “self-help” books from the 70’s when “self-realization” and “self-fulfillment” were cultural aspirations,” I interjected.

“Oh yes, the aspirations of the Baby Boomers, I remember the time well,” said a senior citizen.

“Lets get back to the question of Why Collect?” someone said loudly.

“Well, I think the motivation sometimes is investment but mostly just for enjoyment. It’s a fun hobby. You can expand your social life by attending swap meetings or you can exchange information with like-minded souls.”

“All this talk of collecting habits reminds me of a story about an elderly lady that collected egg cups. She had 1100 of them in all shapes, sizes and colors.”

“Boy, that’s a lot of egg cups!” someone laughed.

“Well, this lady was a widow and she wanted a companion. She went to a dating agency to find some suitable ones.”

Everyone at the table chuckled.

“She eventually was introduced to a single gentleman who also collected. He had 1500 gnome statuettes!”

They got married and bought a house together. They put their collections in the attic, which was huge. It was the most bizarre thing you ever saw. 1500 gnomes, 1100 with an egg cup beside it.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” said the gentleman to the lady while they were viewing the spectacle.

The lady smiled broadly.

“You’ll have to collect  more egg cups, darling, because 400 gnomes don’t have an egg cup beside them,” said the gentleman.

The old lady spent her remaining years collecting 400 more egg cups to put up in the attic!

This truly was a UNION MADE IN HEAVEN!

I was taking a walk in a strange part of town when I came upon a pub named “The Bard”. I often took these walks into the unknown for a change of scene.

I decided to go in and have a beer after all I was a writer. The décor was a replica of Elizabethan England. Panels of dark wood on all the walls resplendent with large tapestries hanging all around. There was a lot of red and dark green colours on the booths and barstools. Also on the walls were oil paintings depicting all of Shakespeare’s 38 plays. There was very low lighting.

I sat at the bar opposite a painting of the Seven Ages of Man from “As You Like It”. The bartender brought me my beer and before I could take a sip a fella jumped up on the stool next to me. He looked like he was scared to death! He ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey, which is called a “boilermaker” because it will make you hot under the collar quickly! My stool mate gulped down the shot and then took a sip of beer.

“Boy, this place is spooky! All these tragedies hanging on the walls, even that picture of the ages of man is scary!”

“Are you acquainted with the bard’s work?” I asked, hoping he would calm down.

“Not much, I find his stories scary even the comedies.”

“Relax, these stories are about life, they are about the human condition. We all go through tragedy and comedy in our lives.”

“It’s the way he uses words, they go straight to your soul, it’s like being under analysis by a psychiatrist.”

I smiled, this chap was amusing and he didn’t even know it.

“You should try reading some of his plays because I’m sure you would enjoy his stories highlighting the human condition.”

“Well, I’ve been having bouts of insomnia lately and some hallucinations with voices in my head.”

The man needed help. Was Shakespeare the answer, I wondered?

“I’ve found that Shakespeare must have had an understanding of how the mind works because he inserted this understanding in his characters.”

My stool mate looked incredulous.

“You mean to tell me that reading Shakespeare can inspire me to be more reflective about my own behavior?”

“That’s right! Look at the symptoms you’ve just stated. They suggest impaired cognitive function and mild psychiatric breakdown.”

He was staring into space, now.

“What play did that come from?” He stammered.

“Macbeth, he had the same symptoms.”

“My father has dementia, any play with that in?”

“Yes, King Lear, his speech was impaired with madcap outbursts. He veered from not recognizing his own daughter to moments of clarity, all suggesting dementia.”

“Wow! All that from reading Shakespeare! I have a friend with bipolar disorder, any play with that in?”

“Yes, Hamlet, his mood swings and rage, his highs and lows made him melancholic and impulsive, which are indicative of bipolar disorder.”

“My God, this is amazing and spookier than ever!”

“So my friend, you don’t need to fear Shakespeare, just read him for an illumination of the Human Experience.”

“What about his confusing language?”

“He coined many words and phrases in the English language. If he couldn’t find the word he was looking for, he invented it!”

“Well, after listening to you I’m not sure if I should study Shakespeare.”

“Think it over carefully,” I told him firmly.

He walked out the door mumbling:

“TO READ OR NOT TO READ, THAT IS THE QUESTION!”

I was sitting on a green padded stool in my favorite watering hole, when who should pop in but my Long Lost Cousin. Long Lost because we just met again after some fifty years!

He jumped up on the stool next to me and said:

“Hey Cousin, I’ll take a whiskey please. I need one badly!”

He looked very stressed so I ordered him a whiskey and I stuck with my beer.

“What’s the problem, Cousin?” I said distressed by his haggard appearance.

“I seem to be plagued recently by panic attacks and phobias, you know generalized anxiety.”

He gulped the shot down and ordered another!

“I seem to have an obsession to do everything perfectly. I like to be in control of things and I want approval of everything I do.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got the traits that perpetuate anxiety. I wish there was a couch here you could lie down on.”

“Never mind the couch, what are the traits?” he stammered.

“Perfectionism, the need for approval and control.”

“How did this come about?’ he said quizzically.

“Well, these traits most likely come from childhood experiences.”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, if you were constantly criticized by your parents, you would feel like nothing you do was good enough. So you would try to do things perfectly.”

“Oh Cousin, I feel so burnt out lately.”

I felt really sorry for this fellow who was my long lost blood relation.

“It’s a vicious circle, Cousin, your perfectionism drives you to the point of exhaustion and burnout! You’re always thinking, “I must” or “I have to”, and then you feel more anxiety.”

My Cousin looked completely drained.

“Why do I need approval all the time?”

“To begin with you’re putting too many demands on yourself. All humans need approval from time to time, but being overly concerned with approval is a sign of thinking you’re flawed and unworthy.”

“I think that the approval and acceptance by others of me is very important.”

“Just say to yourself, it’s not necessary to get the approval of everyone. You need to believe in yourself.”

My Cousin started rubbing his shoulder and neck.

“You’re feeling stress right now, aren’t you, Cousin?”

“Yes, I get a lot of muscle cramps and spasms.”

“What about my need for control?”

“You want life to be predictable, that’s impossible!”

He winced with the pain of a cramp!

“If you grow up with trauma and most people have some in their life, you get frightened and feel the world is hostile, so you get defensive and you want to control things.”

“Help! How do I get off this merry-go-round? Stop the world, I want to get off!”

“Relax Cousin, I’ll give you a list of things to say to yourself that should calm you down.”

“Hurry, what’s on the list?” he said grabbing my arm.

“You need to accept life’s unpredictability, so say to yourself:

I’m learning to take life as it comes.

I will let go and trust that things will work out.

I can relax and tolerate a little disorder in life.

I’m learning not to take myself or life so seriously.”

“Thanks Cousin, that sounds like a good approach to life’s problems.”

I smiled and said:

“You need lots of humor to contend with life.

I enjoy popping plastic bubble wrap, it’s much cheaper than therapy!”

I was sitting on a park bench taking in the fresh air and the passing parade. When my friend, Jim, happened by and sat down next to me looking like a rag doll.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, Jim?”

“Not for me it isn’t. My wife just told me to take a walk because I was irritating her. She said I have nothing but bad traits!” Jim was very glum.

“That sounds serious, Jim. Don’t you have any positive traits?”

“Not according to the little woman.”

I scratched my head and thought this is highly unusual. A 100% Flawed Man!

“Well Jim, personality theory says that all of us have about 5-10 traits that define us.”

“Well, my wife listed a few. She says I’m abrasive, confrontational, cynical, tactless, impatient and ungrateful!”

“Wow! That’s quite a list. But I’m sure she’s not perfect either,” I said raising my eyebrows.

“Lets not talk about her. I’ve got enough on my plate with myself!”

I shook my head.

“There’s a few more bad traits she mentioned but I can’t remember them all. She says I’m a completely flawed man. Can you help me?”

“Well, my friend, what positive traits do you think your wife would like you to have?”

“Lets see, she has mentioned some: Loving and affectionate, appreciative, kind, enthusiastic, patient and cooperative.”

“Lets look at these attributes and see if you can create some in yourself. Maybe you can change from flawed to positive!”

I put my specs on so I looked the part of a psychologist!

“All your attributes arise from many sources, fears, desires, likes, dislikes and past experiences. It gets complicated. But now, lets look at the good traits your wife wants you to have.”

“She wants you to be cooperative: This is a must because if you don’t think cooperation is necessary, just watch what happens to a wagon if one wheel comes off!”

Jim smiled and nodded his head.

“Your wife wants you to be enthusiastic. Why? Because he who has no fire in him cannot warm others, namely your wife!

Your wife wants you to be kind. She says you have many faults, but people will overlook your faults if you are kind!

You need appreciation because it is always appreciated!

Patience is a great attribute because if you are patient with the faults of others; they will be patient with yours!

Show you affection, your loving side, get it out in the open because:

Age is like love. It cannot be hidden!”

“That list is great. I’ll have to pick up on those,” said Jim eagerly.

“So, now you know why your wife wants you to have those attributes. Acquire them and you won’t be a flawed man anymore.

Jim looked entirely different from when he first sat down on the park bench!

“You and your wife will be content if you have good traits.

Remember: All the world lives in two tents: Content and Discontent!”