Andrew Hogan received his doctorate in development studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Before retirement, he was a faculty member at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, the University of Michigan and Michigan State University, where he taught medical ethics, health policy and the social organization of medicine in the College of Human Medicine.
Dr. Hogan published more than five-dozen professional articles on health services research and health policy. He has published forty-six works of fiction in the OASIS Journal (1st Prize, Fiction 2014), Hobo Pancakes, Subtopian Magazine, Twisted Dreams, Thick Jam, Midnight Circus, Grim Corps, Long Story Short, Defenestration, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The Blue Guitar Magazine, Flash, Stockholm Review of Literature, The Beechwood Review, Short Break Fiction, Cyclamens and Swords, Children, Churches and Daddies, Spank the Carp, Pear Drop, Festival Writer (Pushcart Nominee), Lowestoft Chronicle, Fabula Argentea, Mobius, Thrice, The Lorelei Signal, Fiction on the Web, Sandscript, and the Copperfield Review.
Andrew J. Hogan
The bus pulled out of the parking lot, thumping over potholes on Ontario Street, blue smoke bellowing out of its tailpipe. Chuy and Pete waited until the bus reached Speedway before trying to talk over the din of clanging metal.
“Bouga, what’s that smear on your vest?” Chuy said.
“Ain’t no smear, Bouga, that’s blood what come through the hole.” Pete wiggled his arm under the oversized vest and stuck his pinkie through the hole. They both laughed.
“Pangwacker, the slupper what wore this vest last year took one to the chest,” Chuy said. Just then the bus backfired and everybody ducked. The guard riding shotgun next to the driver swung his Uzi around over the heads of the students, surveying the bus for possible shooters, but the guard sat down when the students started jeering his overreaction.
“So you worried, maybe the vest’s bad luck? Last year’s slupper probably died in it,” Chuy said.
“Nah.” Pete slumped against the torn seat back, looking relaxed. “Didn’t you pay no attention to Mr. Grotsky’s lecture on Bayesian probability?”
“No, pangwacker, that stuff don’t make no sense to me,” Chuy said. “What’s that got to do with a maybe jinxed vest?”
“’Cause, Bouga, lightning don’t strike twice on the same spot.”
“’Sides me, whose got a vest with a hole in it?”
“Nobody, what I saw.”
“And these are all mucho used junior-high vests, right?”
“Right, my older sister just got her new Type IIIA vest, ‘cause the new law lets’em carry 357s now.” Chuy looked around. “I don’t see nobody what’s got a vest with ventilation except you.”
“So?” Pete said. Chuy gave him his best dumb look. “So, odds’re like a million to one this vest’s gonna get shot twice. I’m palladium, Bouga.” Chuy and Pete slapped the back of each others hands.
Turning onto Gates Pass Boulevard toward the Desert Museum, the bus grew dark inside when the driver lowered the protective screens over the windows.