---

Stories in Monochrome
Walter Pritchard had always maintained that there were three things a sensible man should never allow another person to interfere with: his finances, his thermostat, and his Saturday morning. The first two were matters of personal responsibility, while the third represented the last remaining opportunity for a man to enjoy a few uninterrupted hours before the world resumed its relentless campaign against common sense.

Unfortunately, Walter had made the mistake of becoming friends with Herbert Love.

Herbie had been interfering with Walter’s Saturday mornings for forty-three years, a tradition that began with a borrowed automobile jack, an unpaid twenty-dollar loan, and an argument neither man could remember well enough to settle. Over the decades, Herbie had developed an extraordinary talent for arriving precisely when Walter wanted to be left alone, usually carrying coffee, unsolicited advice, or something he’d purchased at a garage sale that required immediate inspection.

On this particular Saturday, he arrived carrying all three.

The familiar rattle of his pearl-white Volkswagen Beetle announced his presence several seconds before the automobile appeared. Its red-and-blue racing stripes and large number 53 had become familiar sights along Mercer Street, as had the small cloud of exhaust that occasionally accompanied its arrival. Herbie insisted the exhaust was perfectly normal for a vehicle of its age. Walter maintained that the automobile had been dying for twenty years and simply lacked the decency to finish the job.

Herbie climbed out carrying two coffees and a cardboard box.

Walter lowered his newspaper.

“No.”

Herbie stopped halfway up the walkway.

“No what?”

“Whatever you’re selling.”

“I ain’t selling anything.”

“Then whatever you’re giving away.”

Herbie looked at the box.

“How do you know I’m giving something away?”

“Because you never bring anything useful.”

Herbie smiled.

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.”

He climbed the porch steps, deposited a coffee beside Walter, and settled into the neighboring chair.

Walter eyed the box.

“What’s in there?”

“Something interesting.”

“That narrows it down to absolutely nothing.”

Herbie opened the box.

Inside sat a small electronic device with a cracked plastic housing, several loose wires, and a faded label identifying it as a wireless doorbell system.

Walter stared.

“What the hell is that?”

“Doorbell.”

“I have a doorbell.”

“Yours doesn’t work.”

“It works.”

“Walter, the last time I pushed that thing, I heard a noise that sounded like somebody strangling a duck.”

“Then stop pushing it.”

Herbie lifted the device.

“This one’s wireless.”

“So?”

“So you don’t need wires.”

Walter examined the exposed wiring.

“Then what are those?”

Herbie looked down.

“Well, apparently somebody felt differently.”

Walter returned to his newspaper.

“Take it home.”

“Just hear me out.”

“No.”

“Got it for three dollars.”

“You paid too much.”

“That’s what the fellow at the sale said.”

Walter slowly lowered the newspaper.

“Herbert, did you purchase a broken doorbell from a man who told you it was broken?”

Herbie considered the question.

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds unreasonable.”

“Because it is unreasonable.”

“But I think I can fix it.”

Walter closed his eyes.

There were mornings when he suspected friendship was simply a prolonged exercise in discovering how much foolishness one human being could tolerate from another.

---

By ten-thirty, Walter’s front doorbell had been dismantled, the new wireless system had been installed, and Herbie was standing on a stepladder attempting to explain why the chime had begun playing a cheerful electronic melody every time someone opened the refrigerator.

Walter stood in the kitchen with his arms folded.

“Explain it again.”

Herbie examined the receiver.

“Well, it’s picking up a signal.”

“From my refrigerator?”

“Apparently.”

“My refrigerator doesn’t have a signal.”

“Everything’s got a signal these days.”

“Herbert, that refrigerator is eighteen years old.”

“Well, maybe it’s been keeping secrets.”

Walter stared at him.

Herbie shrugged.

“Wouldn’t be the first appliance.”

The doorbell chimed again.

Walter looked toward the kitchen.

Nobody had touched anything.

Herbie climbed down.

“Huh.”

Walter pointed toward the front door.

“Fix it.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You said it was fixed.”

“I said it was installed.”

“What’s the difference?”

“About forty-five minutes, apparently.”

Walter considered throwing the entire device into the street.

Instead, he made coffee.

---

Across Mercer Street, Dolores Washington was preparing for her weekly storytelling session at the public library. At sixty-six, the retired elementary school principal had developed a routine that rarely varied. Saturday mornings were reserved for the library, Saturday afternoons for errands and baking, and Sunday evenings for a quiet supper accompanied by whichever book currently occupied her attention.

She’d already baked two dozen snickerdoodles, a recipe that had earned her several blue ribbons at the county fair and considerable admiration from people who understood that cinnamon and sugar, when handled correctly, could temporarily restore a person’s faith in humanity.

She placed the cookies into a covered container, gathered her books, and glanced through the window.

Walter’s front door was standing open.

Herbie’s Volkswagen was parked crookedly at the curb.

And Walter appeared to be arguing with a stepladder.

Dolores sighed.

“Lord, give me strength.”

She collected her things and crossed the street.

---

“Walter?”

The doorbell played its electronic melody.

Dolores stopped.

She looked at the button.

Then toward the kitchen.

The melody played again.

“Walter?”

“Come in, Dee!”

She stepped inside.

Walter stood beside the kitchen counter, looking as though he’d recently discovered that patience was a finite resource.

Herbie sat at the table surrounded by wires, batteries, and the remains of the old doorbell.

Dolores examined the scene.

“Should I ask?”

“No,” Walter said.

“Absolutely,” Herbie replied.

She looked at Herbie.

“What have you done?”

“Improving Walter’s home security.”

Dolores glanced toward the open front door.

“By removing the door?”

Walter pointed at Herbie.

“Thank you.”

Herbie waved dismissively.

“Temporary situation.”

Dolores placed the cookie container on the counter.

“I brought you some snickerdoodles, Walter.”

Herbie immediately straightened.

“The fair cookies?”

“Yes, Herbert.”

“The blue-ribbon ones?”

“The very same.”

Herbie reached for the lid.

Dolores moved the container.

“Those are for Walter.”

Herbie froze.

“Again?”

“Again.”

Walter smiled.

“Thank you, Dee.”

“You’re welcome, dear.”

Herbie looked from Dolores to Walter.

Then back again.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

Dolores raised an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about, Herbert?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you’re making excellent progress.”

Walter laughed.

Dolores smiled at him.

“There’s a little jazz program at the library next Saturday. I thought you might enjoy it.”

Walter considered this.

“What kind of jazz?”

“Live musicians. A small quartet.”

“Hmm.”

“You could come with me.”

Walter nodded.

“Well, I suppose I could give you a ride.”

Herbie slowly lowered the screwdriver he’d been holding.

Dolores’s smile widened.

“That would be lovely.”

She glanced at her watch.

“I’d better go. The children will be waiting.”

After she left, Herbie sat motionless for several seconds.

Then he turned toward Walter.

“You know what she’s doing, don’t you?”

Walter opened the cookie container.

“Making snickerdoodles?”

“No, Walter.”

“Inviting me to the library?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Walter selected a cookie.

“What?”

“That woman is courting you.”

Walter took a bite.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“She’s bringing you cookies and asking you on dates.”

“It’s a library function.”

“With jazz.”

“So?”

“So, Walter, she ain’t inviting you to help alphabetize the damn books.”

Walter chewed thoughtfully.

“You’re imagining things.”

Herbie leaned back.

“That woman is dangerous.”

Walter reached for another cookie.

“You’re just mad she didn’t bring you any.”

Herbie considered this.

“Well, that too.”

---

The trouble began at eleven-fifteen.

Walter had gone upstairs to retrieve a screwdriver when the doorbell chimed.

Then it chimed again.

And again.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the melody had begun repeating continuously, filling the house with an electronic tune so cheerful that Walter found himself developing an immediate and irrational hatred of music.

“HERBERT!”

Herbie emerged from the kitchen.

“What?”

“MAKE IT STOP!”

Herbie examined the receiver.

“Huh.”

Walter pointed at the device.

“Don’t you dare say ‘huh’ to me.”

“Well, something’s triggering it.”

“Then untrigger it!”

Herbie removed the batteries.

The melody continued.

Both men stared.

Walter spoke very slowly.

“Herbert.”

“Yeah?”

“Why is it still ringing?”

Herbie examined the battery compartment.

“Well, that’s interesting.”

Walter took a deep breath.

“Interesting.”

“Yep.”

“That’s the word you’re choosing.”

Herbie looked up.

“Would you prefer concerning?”

Walter walked toward the front door.

He opened it.

And discovered Daniel Whitcomb standing on the porch, holding a small electronic remote.

Daniel grinned.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

Walter stared at the remote.

“What is that?”

Daniel looked down.

“Oh, this? Garage door opener.”

The doorbell chimed.

Walter closed his eyes.

Daniel pressed the button again.

The doorbell chimed.

Herbie began laughing.

Walter opened his eyes.

“Whitcomb.”

Daniel smiled.

“Yes, sir?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Pressing that button.”

Daniel looked at the remote.

Then at the doorbell.

Then at Walter.

“Oh.”

He pressed it once more.

The melody played.

Herbie bent forward laughing.

Daniel grinned.

“Well, would you look at that.”

Walter pointed toward the sidewalk.

“Get off my porch.”

Daniel raised both hands.

“Just trying to help.”

“By ringing my doorbell?”

“Well, technically, I’m opening my garage.”

The doorbell chimed again.

Walter turned toward Herbie.

“FIX IT!”

Herbie was laughing too hard to answer.

---

By noon, the doorbell had been removed.

The old doorbell had been reinstalled.

The stepladder had been returned to the garage.

And Walter had informed Herbie that he was no longer permitted to purchase electronic equipment without adult supervision.

Herbie accepted this ruling with the dignity of a man who had no intention of obeying it.

They sat on the porch drinking coffee.

Daniel’s garage door opened across the driveway.

Walter watched it suspiciously.

Herbie took a sip.

“You know, Walter, I think the problem was interference.”

Walter looked at him.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Interference.”

“Wireless frequencies.”

Walter nodded slowly.

“That’s fascinating.”

Herbie smiled.

“Glad you understand.”

Walter took another sip of coffee.

“Herbert, do you know what else causes interference?”

“What?”

“People who don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

Herbie chuckled.

“Well, that’s a little harsh.”

“It’s accurate.”

They sat quietly for a moment.

Then Herbie looked toward the kitchen window.

“You gonna eat all those cookies?”

Walter smiled.

“Probably.”

“That’s selfish.”

“That’s life.”

Herbie shook his head.

“Forty-three years of friendship, and this is how you treat me.”

Walter considered that.

Then he reached into the paper bag beside his chair and handed Herbie a snickerdoodle.

Herbie accepted it.

“Well, look at you.”

“Don’t get sentimental.”

Herbie took a bite.

Closed his eyes.

And smiled.

“Lord have mercy.”

Walter nodded.

“Yep.”

Herbie chewed thoughtfully.

Then he looked at Walter.

“You really gonna take Dolores to that jazz thing?”

“She asked me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Walter looked toward the street.

“She’s good company.”

Herbie studied him.

“Uh-huh.”

Walter turned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

Herbie smiled.

“Just thinking.”

“That’s usually where the trouble starts.”

Herbie laughed.

Walter leaned back in his chair.

The afternoon sunlight moved slowly across Mercer Street. Somewhere nearby, a lawn mower started, and a dog barked at something that apparently deserved its attention. Daniel’s garage door opened once more, then closed.

For a few minutes, the neighborhood was peaceful.

Then Herbie reached into his pocket.

He produced a small electronic remote.

Walter stared.

“Herbert.”

Herbie grinned.

“Three dollars.”

Walter closed his eyes.

From inside the house, the doorbell chimed.