When Fear Dies

Mitch McGuiver’s scanning green eyes set on the grandfather clock. Between his youngest son Kyle, and three departing visiting grandchildren, and the closing of a particularly grueling five-month case, solitude was appreciated. Now content in life’s majority, this fifty-four-year-old detective synchronized his watch then went back to reading a fishing magazine. With a thirty-eight safely tucked away in a top drawer, the only bang he wanted to see or hear today was that of a quarterback springing from shotgun position.

In the living room, via the big screen television, soon he was going to bask under bright Texas skies on a man-sized leather couch. Striped boxers topped off with a ripped tee, set him geared-up in appropriate attire. Here he was, almost down to bare skin, ready to watch a game of skin.

Besides a trusty remote lying at his side, everything was at arms-length. A three-plated hall of fame spread rested in front of him. His plan was to enjoy a fully dressed sub and knock down a towering stack of Nacho’s right into his own infernal paste all by himself. Like the southwestern game table of Texas, Mitch’s eatery was easy pickin’ along with a well-enjoyed lickin.’ Was this not the life? Absolutely, with quiet being the ultimate reward.

Unlike clearer days, rays from the sun did not radiate two adjourning rooms in bright splendor. Mitch stood looking out the bay window that was put in two years ago, enjoying the autumn scenery. Crisp September winds blew golden leaves, like brittle gliders, to graceful landings. But in further inspection, he grunted in seeing how they were covering his just raked lawn!

Once his passing neighbor sent back a wave, all negativity was erased. Mitch smirked in conclusion that the leaves did not matter. Whatever the temperature in Chicago was, it held absolutely no relevance to him.

The biggest chip selection was driven into the fiery bowl and under, out of sight was a pinwheel slice jalapeno pepper. Having enough seeds in it to choke a horse, the taste bud instantly took full, hot ass-kicking effects. Up and then down went, lip chilling brew.

“Whew, that’s a hot bugger!” Was said as his top left leg took a hard reflexive slap, followed by more chips and slow savory chews with a landing glob of salsa on boxers. The stain did not matter and was no match for his new washing machine. Still, he walked to the kitchen to wet dab it in case.

Two dozen chicken wings, timed perfectly for the second quarter were sheeted in the slow, dry heat of the oven. Under lid on stovetop, a personal concoction of barbecue sauce simmered to perfection for later dredging. The lifted top allowed nostrils to suck up aroma. Keeping sight on the television set as a commercial ended, the stadium entrance was shown.

Last year, a separating archway boxed in a small kitchen from the living room. This year’s accredited solution in missing any future plays was two white crafted hugging wooden columns around support beams. Presently, there is a good view from any angle. Not only does Mitch enjoy bringing in the outdoors, he enjoys opening up space indoors.

Or maybe what helped was his last visit with the anger management counselor who suggested a more positive way in taking out frustrations?