The Door at Night


Our house was cool and comfortable; that doesn’t happen much here in Miami. Most days it’s hot and humid, nights too, but thankfully, not tonight. My parents are divorced because my father beat Mom one too many times. He’s in jail and we ….. We are poor.

I have a little sister. Her name is Debbie. She’s too young to understand things like that. I’m fourteen, going on twenty, so I understand just fine. Summers have no air conditioning and winters have no heat. But tonight, it was nice.

My sister sleeps comfortably in the corner of a small room, one of two that we call bedrooms even though they’re more like large closets. Mom sleeps in the other corner. I’m too old to share a room with my sister so I get a closet-bedroom to myself. We all share one bathroom—it’s a very small house.

Mom does the best she can, and she does it by working two jobs. This morning before school she told me that if she wasn’t home by six, then she’d be working late at her second job and not to worry. She reminded me that my one and only job, after school of course, was to babysit my sister. To me that seems like two jobs, but who’s counting.

We had no money for luxuries like steak, pizza, chocolate milk, or gas for hot water. But that was okay. There was still half a jar of peanut butter, a fresh jar of jelly, and more than a few slices of white bread in the frig. My sister ate before she fell asleep, so there’s plenty for me.

After I eat, it’s time to get ready for bed. I’m not sweaty but I take a cold shower anyway. I’m not sure why, I didn’t need one, I just did it. TVs don’t work well without a cable service so there isn’t much to do once you’re ready to go to sleep. I crawl into bed making sure I don’t lie on the two springs in the middle of my mattress. If you sleep in the shape of a comma, it isn’t that bad. I’ve slept on that bed for the past five years. Before that, I slept on the floor. It doesn’t really matter, when there’s nothing better to do, you fall asleep fast.



    I don’t know what it is because I was sleeping, but it’s loud enough to wake me. My eyes are wide open. “What the hell was that?”

    “Ew! I’m telling mom.” My sister’s up too. I jump out of bed to check on her.

CRASH. It was the sound of glass breaking.

    Debbie looks at me. “Is that Mom?”

    “I don’t think so.”

    “What is it?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “I’m scared Bobby.”

    “Stay here. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

    “Don’t go.”

    “I’ll be right back.”

    “Don’t!” Debbie starts to do what Debbie does, cry.


    “Don’t cry and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

I go to my room and put on my slippers which were actually old-worn-out sneakers that no longer fit. If you take the laces out and curl your toes, you can wear them like slippers. I grab my baseball bat just in case.

As I pass the front door I hear another crash. Someone was throwing large rocks through our windows and this one lands right at my feet. Most houses in Florida are built at ground level, but our house was built with a crawl space under it. To get in the front door, you have to climb five steps. The windows are higher too and not easy to climb into or out of. They aren’t the best way to break in. Why throw rocks?

The crashing stopped, but then the banging started. “Let me in!” Bang, Bang, Bang, “Let me in!”

The door is locked and there’s no way I’m opening it.

Suddenly, the banging stops, and all I can hear is my sister crying. I go back to check on her and just as I enter the room, a rock comes crashing through the window. Glass goes everywhere—Debbie screams.

    I see her huddled in the corner. “Are you okay?” She keeps screaming but nods her head yes.

    “I hear you two in there! This is your father and I’m telling you to open that door!”

    Debbie stops screaming and between sobs whispers, “Don’t do it, Bobby.”

    “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

    “God damn you son! This is your father! You do what I say and open that door. Now!”

We have two phones in the house, but the service was turned off months ago for non-payment. I try the one in the bedroom anyway, but the line is dead. If only we had a phone, I could call the police. Last year I asked Mom if I could have a cell phone. Mom said she’ll let me have one when I can pay for it. She didn’t pay me to babysit. Maybe this will change her mind.

Father went back to the front door and started banging and kicking. We live in an old house with an old wood door. After years of sun, rain, heat, and humidity, the door looks pretty ratty. You could hear it too, in the way the kicking and pounding damaged it. The door was beginning to break.

    “Debbie, listen to me. You have to stay right here. Do you understand?”

    She nods and between snivels, “Where’re you going?”

    “I’m going to see if we can get out through the back door.” It’s a lie. We’d have to go past the front door to get out the back, and the door was cracking. “I need you to stay here until I come back. Understand?”

    “Don’t go.”

    “You need to be very quiet and stay put!”

    She nods and I head for the front door with my baseball bat, just in case.


He kicked, and the right bottom corner of the door flew past me. He kicked again, and the left bottom corner of the door flew past me. He pounded with his fists and the middle of the door started to split.

It’s all on me, the door has nothing left. One more kick, one more pound, and he’s in. I have no choice. I raise my bat, elbow up, adjust my feet, and take my stance. When the door flies open, I’ve got one swing, and it better be a grand slam.

The Door at Night

The story behind a door challenge to build back better.

Build Back Better

Just kidding (kind of). This post is a constructive use of the slogan, not a political statement.

Back in November, WordPress (WP) sent me an invitation to take a free course called Introduction to Blogging for Beginners. I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants right from the very beginning, so I thought there might be something of value for me to learn.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot I already knew just by doing, but there’s just as much that I didn’t. I know it’s an advertising ploy (no dummy here) and it may just work, but so far, I’m still on the fence about buying the course. First, let’s see if I learned enough from the intro to grow blog readership and increase market demand for my books, just a little.

In the meantime, I’m doing what I can to Building Back Better Davydsblog. Part of the learning process involves blogging exercises WP calls challenges. Unfortunately for me, these challenges are all closed to new entries. I guess I missed the deadlines. But as a writer, I’ve learned three things that are simply undeniable. One, you never know where inspiration will come from. Two, you never know when inspiration will erupt. And three, if you don’t act on inspiration immediately, you lose it forever.

My next post, The Door at Night, was inspired by one of these WP challenges. I read the challenge just before Christmas. I finished it on Christmas Eve. If you read it, you’ll understand my delay in posting.


You Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

Name one good thing Joe Biden has done

Look. I know it’s only been a year, but six months into the Biden rein of incompetency, most of us were asking, could it get any worse.

And then the BLM/ANTIFA riots happened.

And then Afghanistan happened.

And then the crime wave happened. And then runaway inflation happened. And then the Putin/Xi accord happened. And then Americans, even those who actually (not figuratively) voted for Joe Biden stopped asking if it could get any worse. They already knew the answer. Instead, they started asking what’s next.

Yet, there are still Biden supporters who can’t see the naked emperor. I work with one. He’s a good guy.  Also, he knows that I write this blog, but because he’s a staunch progressive and liberal to his core, he refuses to read anything I write. I can safely publish this post knowing that he (let’s call him Bernie) and I will still be friends.

The other day at work, we were talking about Joe. Why? Because there’s a TV in the employee lounge and Bernie never misses an opportunity to tune in CNN. They were talking about some nonsense or another, and I happened to blurt out, “Name one thing Joe Biden has done right.”

Bernie laughed that sarcastically demeaning way all liberals do when someone from the right speaks. Then he says, “Biden stopped the war!”

Bernie is older than me, and I consider him a friend even though he’d be a communist if he were truly honest with himself. Still, he’s older, and out of respect, I do my best to give him as much leeway as possible.

    I simply said, “No, he didn’t.”

    Bernie did his liberal laugh again. “Yes, he did—he ended a twenty-year war.”

    “NO. Joe didn’t end the war.”

    “Oh yes, he did.”

    “No, he didn’t.” At this point, it was time for me to leave because there was only one thing left for me to say. “I’m running late. Gotta go guys. Drive safely out there.” I started to walk away.

    There were the normal return salutations, You Too, Be Safe, Have a Good One, and then there was Bernie and his ideology. “Remember! No more war … No War!”

What I wanted to say, but didn’t, out of respect for Bernie, was this. “Joe Biden didn’t end a war; he surrendered it. There’s a big difference. It’s why there are still American hostages in Afghanistan. It’s why the Taliban had a big victory parade with 85 billion dollars worth of our military equipment. It’s why Putin and Xi are becoming so aggressive on the world stage. Biden didn’t end a war; he laid the groundwork for a new one.”

In hindsight, maybe I should have said something. But it wouldn’t have registered with good ole Bernie, so I didn’t risk an argument.

Suffice it to say, Joe has driven America off the road and fallen asleep at the wheel with his foot on the accelerator. He’ll never learn to do what’s right for anyone but himself. And Bernie? Good ole Bernie will never learn to see the naked emperor cloaked in communist ideology.

Old dogs—no New tricks.

Name one good thing Joe Biden has done.

Bus Driver Stories_Big Red’s Planetary FU

Another Passenger Folly

In yesterday’s post, I hinted at a second entertaining story courtesy of my passengers, and here it is.

But first, let me set the scene. It was a clear and crisp day. The kind of day people pay good money to experience during Florida’s winter.

FYI—For all you northeast liberals: I’m a conservative, and just like everything else I say, I just lied about the weather. The truth is the weather sucks. Also, mask and vax mandates, Joe’s build back better (or for worse) plan, and defunding the police, are huge successes. So stay right where you are, and keep on voting for politicians like AOC and Joe Biden.

Now, back to setting the scene:

My bus is a full fare bus which means $1.50 buys you a seat. There are qualified discounts, but first, you must qualify. We also have free-fare bus routes for people who live in certain areas. For this story, we’ll say that people from Tim-Buck-Too (fictitious) qualify to ride these free routes, but again, the route I drive is not free, so that doesn’t apply.

My route is a big loop, approximately one hour long. On this particular loop, I arrived at one of my stops with an empty bus and slightly ahead of schedule. One passenger was waiting to board, so I knelt the bus and opened the doors.

Big Red, as we will affectionately call him for obvious reasons (he’s big and has red hair), boards my bus and feeds a dollar into the farebox. Then, he continues to his seat as though he paid the full fare. To do it right takes practice because you need to do it fast, and in one swift motion. It’s the first rule of bad ridership. If you don’t do it right, you have to stop, allowing the driver an opportunity to catch you shorting the fare. Big Red was an expert, and as such, made his way to the rear of the bus. He figured that he got away with it again (Dumb driver), mistake number one.

I waited until he got comfortable in the back seat of my 40-foot bus. Why? Because I’m not as dumb as I look and this isn’t my first rodeo. “Excuse me, sir. The fare is $1.50.” Big Red pretended not to hear me—standard operating procedure for experienced riders. But I wasn’t deterred and repeated, “Sir, the fare, it’s a $1.50.”

    “Oh. I didn’t know. I never rode the bus before, and everyone said it was a dollar.”

    Mistake number two, I know he’s an experienced rider but I played along. “No sir. This is a full-fare bus and it’s a $1.50.”

Big Red didn’t like being challenged like that, so he forgot the second rule of bad ridership; when the driver expects you to come to the front of the bus for any reason, always walk as slow as possible. Remember, the driver has a schedule to keep. But Big Red let his temper get the best of him and charged to the front. “Since when is it a $1.50? I always pay a dollar.”

Mistake number three. He just said that he was a new rider. I ignored this mistake as well and pointed to the front of the farebox. “What does it say?” When Big Red finished reading, he just stood there like a statue. So, I repeated, “What does it say?”

    He hadn’t figured out a response yet, so he told the truth. “It says a $1.50 but ….. Oh. Wait. What if I’m from Tim-Buck-Too?” If he was a new rider, how would he know about Tim-Buck-Too? Mistake number four.

    I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I don’t care if you’re from Pluto. This is a full-fare bus.”

   He shot back with the smartest-ass answer he could muster, “What if I’m from Uranus (pronounce your anus)?”

How did Uranus end up on its side? We’ve been finding out |

   I’m an experienced driver, and insults like this don’t really faze me one way or the other. So I said with a smile, “Then you’ll have to get off my bus.”

He wasn’t expecting that response, especially attached to a big smile. It caught him off guard because he was trying to anger me and it didn’t work. He paid the 50 cents and went back to his seat wondering what the hell just happened.

Here’s another FYI. Drivers are still required to wear Biden-Masks even though passengers are not. How does that make any sense? I don’t know. Anyway, I repositioned it so it could finally serve a function, help hide my laughter.

By the time we got to the end of the route, Big Red wanted to get off the bus to smoke a cigarette before continuing. The route ends and begins at a transfer stop where we wait five minutes while passengers change buses. On his way off the bus, he stops and asks, “Is it okay if I go smoke a cigarette?”

    I’m still trying to hold back laughter, “Sure.”

He didn’t realize it, but the joke was on him and every time he opened his mouth, I had to struggle not to laugh. He saw that I wasn’t angry, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why. The more he thought about it the more he started to worry. Then, he realized that he was physically off the bus and earlier I mentioned something about him having to get off my bus. I could see it on his face. He was really confused and getting more concerned by the minute.

It was time for me to stretch my legs. As I got off the bus, I walked past him and started to make my way down the loading deck towards the security guard. Big Red saw this and panicked. Then, he did the only thing he could. “Driver! I’m sorry about that Uranus remark.”

    I turned back, “Why? I thought you meant it as a joke.”

    Big Red was at a loss. “Uh, I did.”

    “Well, that’s how I took it. If you didn’t mean it as a joke, you’re walking.”

    “No. No. It was totally a joke.”


I wasn’t trying to get the security guard’s attention, I just happened to walk in his direction. He looked at me and asked, “What’s that about?”

    “I’ll tell you later.” And then, I walked to the other side of my bus and cracked up laughing until it was time to go.


In case you missed the joke, when my passenger posed the question, “What if I came from Uranus (pronounced your anus)?” He quite literally called himself a piece of shit.

A Big Red Piece of Shit.

Sometimes, the hardest part of my job is keeping a straight face.

Bus Driver Stories_Mattie and Gert

Outrageous but not atypical.

It was a somewhat slow news week, so my political muse was nowhere to be found. Let’s face it, Joe Biden falling asleep during meetings or reading the teleprompter instructions as part of his speech, just isn’t newsworthy anymore. How sad is that?

Fortunately for us, my passengers came to the rescue.

Let’s start with the most recent episode of passenger outrageousness.

I picked up two old ladies on an errand to someplace or another, the actual destination is irrelevant. Of the two, one seemed to be the caregiver (supervisor) of the other. We will call the caregiver Matilda and the other Gertrude. I don’t know their real names and (for legal purposes) these names are fictitious.

Mattie and Gert finally get themselves seated after only five or six minutes. When it comes to the elderly or children, I try not to move the bus until they sit. FYI, I was on schedule before I picked them up.

Of course, it didn’t take long before Mattie shouts, “Are we going to make it to the mall on time?” Keep in mind, she was seated in the middle of a loud, crowded bus, and I heard the question clear as a bell. But I chose to ignore it because passengers aren’t supposed to talk to the driver, especially when he’s driving.

For Mattie, rules are no obstacle whatsoever. She simply turned up the volume a few hundred decibels and repeated, “Driver, are we going to make it to the mall on time?”

“No ma’am. We’re now five or six minutes late.”

Gert chimes in, “What did he say?”

“He said we’re five or six minutes late.”

I expected Gert to go ballistic, but she didn’t. She just said, “Oh.”

About a minute later Gert says something to Mattie that was completely garbled. Mattie ignored it the way I initially ignored her. And just like Mattie, Gert was not deterred. With the volume turned up a few notches, Gert says, “My ass is slimy.” The whole bus heard it except for Mattie, who happened to be sitting right next to her.

“What did you say?”

“My ass is slimy.”


“My ass is slimy.”

“Your ass is shinny?”

“No! My ass is slimy.”

“Your ass is grimy?”

“MY – ASS – IS – SLIMY!”


And that’s how they left it for a minute or two. Then, Mattie shouts out, “How did your ass get slimy?”

“I don’t know. It just is.”

That wasn’t good enough for Mattie. “How do you not know how your ass got slimy? I’d know how my ass got slimy — if my ass was slimy.” Mattie shook her head in disbelief. “How do you not know? You gotta know.”

“I already told you, I don’t.”

“You gotta know.”

Gert tried to defend herself, “How the hell am I supposed to know? I can’t see it.”

“You don’t have to see it to know. You can feel it. How did your ass get slimy?”

“I – DON’T – KNOW.”

Mattie wasn’t satisfied and attempted to delve deeper.

“Did you pee yourself?”


“Did you shit yourself?”


“Well, it’s got to be one or the other. Which one is it? How’d you get a slimy ass?”

Gert defended, “You think you know everything. Well, you don’t. You’re wrong. It doesn’t have to be one of those. Maybe I just got a slimy ass.”

“You can’t just have a slimy ass.”

“Why not?”

Gert was enjoying Mattie’s frustration, and when I looked at her in the passenger mirror, she was looking back with a shit-eating-smirk. And then, I had a BDBE, Oh God.

Mattie couldn’t hold back anymore, she burst out, “You’re lying. Either you pissed yourself or you shit yourself, and you’re too stupid to know which is which.”

Gert shouted, “No. I’m not stupid. You’re stupid. I’m not lying either, and I can prove it. I didn’t shit or piss myself. I did both.”

The two were quiet for the rest of the trip.

Thank the Lord for Depends.

What an Odd Production

Joe Biden and Bill Nye, the Science Guy

A few days ago I see Joe Biden and Bill Nye (the science guy?) promoting Joe’s Build Back Better Bill on TV. The contrast of Joe Biden, The Clueless, standing next to Bill Nye, The Science Guy, caught my attention. So, I hit the rewind button on the remote and watched the whole thing. Yuck.

Yes, it’s cheesy. Yes, it’s strange to the point of being oddly silly. Yes, it deserves all the slams and critical humor our dysfunctional mainstream media can muster. But then, I had a BDBE (Bus Driver Brain Eruption).

As an adult, when I think of science guys, names like Einstein, Tesla, Hawking, Asimov, and Greene come to mind. I do not think Bill Nye. If I were a boy of say five or six, yeah—Bill Nye, The Science Guy might be front and center “cuz he’s the coolest,” like Joe’s BBBB.

I concede that it’s hard to watch but … check it out anyway. Why? I’ll tell you after you watch the video. It’s actually somewhat deviant and devious all at the same time.


Consider the following… #infrastructure is cool.

♬ original sound – Bill Nye

Is Joe really there or is he PhotoShopped?

Who are they selling this cool Build Back Better Bill to? Most adults don’t think of Bill Nye as a real Science Guy. I doubt that most scientists and college professors do either. I think by the time you get to middle school, Bill Nye is only a science guy to your little brother or sister.

Is the Biden Administration so desperate for a sympathetic ear that it has to target five-year-olds? Isn’t brainwashing the kind of thing child molesters do (the deviant part)? By doing it in front of the whole world using social media (the devious part), doesn’t that border on the absurd?

If Joe had any real self-awareness …. Well, he should be embarrassed. Sadly for us, he’s probably proud.

Are the Crumbley’s Guilty

Manslaughter – Oxford High School Shooting (Detroit, Michigan)

First and foremost:

My condolences to the families who lost children. There is nothing that I can say to ease your pain ….. I’m so sorry for your loss.

Let’s begin.

Right from the start, I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear. Guns do not kill. People do. Saying guns kill is like saying automobiles kill. If you’re too dense to comprehend this fact, you aren’t going to be able to grasp the concepts of this post.

Obviously, it’s too early to make a guilty or innocent judgment, the arraignment was just this morning, and the trial has yet to occur. However, at some point in the future, we’ll know the answer. And then what? Live Die Repeat. Did we forget Columbine and Parkland?* Here it is, happening again.

It’s too early to decide guilt or innocence, but based on what we know today, it’s not too early to express opinions.

In broad strokes, this is what we know:

  • Ethan Crumbley is a psychologically disturbed teenager who is accused of committing a heinous adult crime. His mental condition was no secret: his parents knew, the school administration knew, the student body knew, and Ethan himself, knew.
  • Ethan’s father, James, purchased an early Christmas present for Ethan: the gun used in the Oxford School shooting.
  • Ethan’s mother, Jennifer, took him target shooting and had prior knowledge of Ethan’s desire to obtain more ammunition for his gun.

My RBDBE question of the day is this. Why would parents of a child like Ethan ever buy him a gun and then, do everything in their power to make him proficient at using it?

Let’s go back to my guns and cars analogy. Maybe your child has a congenital heart condition, or epilepsy, or is legally blind, or for some other reason, simply can’t operate a motor vehicle safely. The one thing you wouldn’t do is buy your kid a car for Christmas.

That said. Here comes the most disturbing part of my RBDBE.

Why did Ethan’s parents buy him a gun when they knew he was mentally unstable? Why would they train him to use it? Why would they facilitate his purchase of ammunition? The only thing that makes sense to me is Manslaughter by Proxy.

What do I mean by that? If James and Jennifer want to commit a crime, but insulate themselves from the consequences, what better way than to get a kid to do it? It’s like hiring an assassin to kill your ex-husband because you can’t, or won’t, pull the trigger yourself. Plus, minor children have added protections under the law.

Why would James and Jennifer want their kid to shoot up a High School and kill innocent children? I have no earthly clue. But look at what they did, and what they didn’t do.

Mark my words. There’s something sinister here.

PS – I firmly believe that children can be taught to use firearms correctly. Just like children are capable of learning to drive, they’re also capable of learning to shoot. But that’s not true of all children and it’s the parent’s job to figure it out. Contrast the Crumbley’s to the Rittenhouse’s. It really is that simple: Ethan Crumbley … bad, Kyle Rittenhouse … good. My hope is that the American justice system works again.

PSS – Live Die Repeat courtesy: Edge of Tomorrow. FYI, I’m not a huge Tom Cruise fan. But have you noticed how most of his more successful character portrayals, are not very WOKE in nature? Hmmm.

* Also, I do think the school administrators were negligent and culpable. Should there be lawsuits? Absolutely. But we’re talking second and third lines of defenses here. The first line of defense rests with the parents. James and Jennifer Crumbley needed to be arrested, charged, and now prosecuted.

James and Jennifer Crumbley parents of Ethan Crumbley