Captain Pike
01-14-2008, 02:52 PM
It's easy to talk about writing a 2000 word short story, for the competition. In fact, I have even reassured newbies that it's a great "challenge", to tell your tale in five pages, or what ever. It has been difficult for me, to come up with something, within the guidelines, ONE-TIME!
I wrote this little story which came actually from a dream I had. I had to pare it down, to fit in the 2000 word limit. I see other people haven't reposted their stories, sort of "coming out of the closet" as the author. I thought we were supposed to keep everything secret, which is part of a fun for me, but now I see, since I didn't win, what's wrong with trying to get a little feedback now? Nothing. So here's my story, reprinted here. Let me know what you think, OK?
Mistaken Indemnity
I went to the grocery store and was astounded at the resemblance of a young man to an old friend of mine, Ira James. So struck, in fact, that I had to look again. Ira had died mysteriously not long after I had left for college, and the talk was that he had had AIDS. I'd heard about it quite a while after it had happened, a year or more. I didn't know his family. I don't think I had ever been to his house, couldn't even remember where he lived. He played the drums quite well and we practiced with our little rock group in the shed at my house when I was a junior or senior. His appeal was almost cherubic, curly haired and quite good looking, I think. This was back when I denied myself any appraisal of the relative handsomeness of men and boys, back in my more homophobic youth. As I continued past the checkout area and started down the far aisle of fresh vegetables, I considered the possibility that Ira had a son in this town. He'd have been about the right age.
I, having returned to my home town after a 20 year absence, recognized many an obvious combination of school mates from my youth. More interesting even than this however, is the recognition of vaguely remembered but eerily familiar eyes, noses and mouths, altered by time, sunken among the folds of the faces of my left behind contemporaries! It'd be 15 minutes or more, then, I'd remember who one of these apparitions was, or had been. Typically, I couldn't think of their name, but I would suddenly recall their class picture smiling, or pimply, or how ever it was that I remembered them. "Yes, that was Peter so-and-so", I'd muse, amazed at the curious effect that time and lifestyle had had upon my old pals. Lots of folks had stayed around or come back. Often, people who seemed total strangers at first, would casually greet me by name, passing by in the stores.
It was a nice change of pace to see Barney, the butcher, hacking away, with his clean, white, bloody apron and garb, back behind the opened, sliding, one-way, mirrored back of the meat display. God, Barney hadn't changed a bit! Barney always had a smile and never let my mother pick anything already packaged. She'd be prodding through the hamburger or pork and suddenly, a mirror would slide open and there'd be Barney, wiping his hands standing back on his heels in friendly disbelief, as if he couldn't imagine my mother selecting anything set out for the commoners. He would always give her the extra lean or better trimmed cuts at a discount price, and my mom would always scold him. I nodded friendly to him, and couldn't remember seeing him at all since I'd been back. I thought he had died, but then I remembered it must have been his brother who was kind of a rummy around town. I think it was "Barry Whitmore", not Barney, I'd seen in the obituaries. They may have been twins and I was never really clear which one worked at the grocery. They say it takes more muscles to frown than smile, and it was evident in Barney's youthful visage.
Suddenly, I panicked! Who was that? There was Susan Glendale, plain as day, beautiful as ever. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE??? I turned away suddenly, almost hiding my face, dashing down the canned goods aisle. My heart was pounding, I could hear it rasping in my breath, OK, OK, I'm going crazy, right? This girl is definitely dead, died tragically nine years ago, killed by a drunk driver. I mean, I saw this on the news. I'm crazy, am I crazy? It was terrible; the whole town marched in a candlelight vigil. This is not someone who looks like Susan, this is her, and she's just pawing through the dairy case, just like no big deal, getting a Yoplait, or something, right? Come ON man, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME? I am not dreaming, I just woke up a little bit ago, and walked down to the store. Alright, alright, calm down, there must be some reasonable explanation.
OH, JESUS! There is Tammy Ridgeway! She's dead too! Damn. I'm bonkers, I'm dreaming! I slapped myself hard in the face. It hurt. Nothing. But Tammy looked up, looked right at me, she heard the clap. She committed suicide, senior year - I see now, why. She's out there, about eight months, but that was, what? 25 years ago, she hadn't changed a bit. She was pregnant, that was all it was, poor thing. Her parents were religious zealots, driving around town in the "Jesus Van". Praise the lord all over it, they have a big marquis on the side, and display various warnings, often referencing scripture. "There are no cool breezes in the pit of hell", “He's coming, are you ready?", stuff like that. She's smiling at me, that dreamy Tammy Ridgeway smile, she was always a little misshapen but now, she looks really quite pretty, pregnant. I wave funny like "yeah, sure, the sky is falling, I know." Her smile is that funny, accepting smile, like in The Birth of Venus, head cocked and the whole deal. Ok, whatever, I think I'll go now. Go home, back to bed. I walk briskly right past Tammy, back toward the checkout end of the aisle. I have a strange resolve. I don't even need to prove to myself to this dream; I just need to get out of here right now. The basket rubs against the side of my right knee as I hurry along. Hey! In a dream, you pinch yourself and wake up, right? Only, when I'm actually dreaming, I never, EVER, question the crazy things that happen. I will be dreaming about being at work, and then, in the dream, I open a door to an office, walk in, and I'm in my living room of the house I lived in as a kid, no big deal. Like that could happen. When it's a dream, I don't even think to pinch myself. But right now, the two big cans of whole tomatoes and the half gallon of skim milk are heavy to my arm and they are hurting my knee as the sharp edge of the plastic basket chafes along my leg with each step.
I round the end of the aisle. I'm getting out of here. Looking outside, I see, or rather can't see the parking lot, it's completely foggy - right white outside. That's ok, it's fall, we're near the ocean. It was sunny before, doesn't mean the fog can't've rolled in. Anyway, I don't care, I'll feel my way home, just get me out of this store. I nearly bump in to Mr. Thompson, hair still jet black. Let's see he died, when? It was four or five years ago. He looks at me puzzled, am I friend or foe? Suddenly, I see the Ronald Reagan resemblance here, he's gaunt and serious, and with that wet looking black hair, quite an ample crop. Then he starts to nod, imperceptibly at first, but then growing more pronounced, and with it, a smile sprouts. "OooH", is all he says, he can't think of my name but he knows the kind of thing I am: his son's friend. I think it was Alzheimer's he had, and a bad case, he is remembering that he should know me, but no more. I nod, yes, it is me, it is ok, I am late, gotta go.
Ah damn, NO, NO, NO!!! At the end of the last aisle, there she is, blocking the way, my mother. I drop the basket. This isn't fair. C'mon, C'mon now, this isn't right. She pulls up to me, "What are you doing here? I told you to look after your father! Where's Nancy?”
I just let out a little squeak, I shut my eyes tight, shake my head. Doesn't matter, I can still see her plain as day even with my eyes shut. She's all emaciated with the cancer, but her skin is still soft and supple. Her face is softly wrinkled, oddly like the waffling of a glazed donut. I feel a little sick. I'm gonna cry. "Mom!"
"You're not supposed to be here, get out of here, now… I'm serious.” She never scolds me like this, I must be having a psychotic break. "You need to get out of here, William, right now." She never calls me William, unless….I am in trouble.
I am filled with a strange resolve. My mother died last year, and I don't know what is going on, but ghost, apparition, spirit, whatever, I am obeying her. I take a couple of steps away. Then I come back, I pause, then, I move to hug her. I half expect her to pop like a soap bubble, when I touch her, but, no, she is really there. Her body feels thin and frail. I begin to cry. At first, her arms are limp, but quickly, she embraces me. I can feel a little shudder of a sob from her. She speaks low and deliberately, "You are a good son.” Tears flood down my face. Then she pushes me suddenly to arms length. "Now, go. Go and do what ever it is you're supposed to be doing".
"But, mom, what am I supposed to do? How is it that you are here, where are we?” I feel stupid, this can't be happening….but, it IS happening. An odd acceptance floats over me. I begin nodding my head and take a few steps backward toward the exit. I turn, more quickly now, I begin a stressful cantor. I pause, look back, my mother simply points her face, more serious now, sort of a quick deliberated nod, to show her unnegociacablity.
I look back for her from just outside the door, now it seems like the fog is inside the store. I want to go back in, but there is a commotion out here. People are gathered in the street. A man is lying on the street, people are pointing. Walking over, I see, it is me on the road, a big bump on the head. OH, finally, maybe someone is really dead! I kneel down; instinctively I put my ear to the person's, (my) nose and look down across the chest, and wait. Not breathing. I place my fingers on the carotid, starting at the Adam's apple then sweeping down to the indent - just like on the Red Cross dummy. A PULSE! There is a pulse! Opening the mouth, I observe, it doesn't look like anything is blocking the airway. Tilting the head back and blocking the nostrils, I perform two rescue breaths; the chest does rise up as I blow in air. I hear a siren in the distance. I continue with rescue breaths, counting and listening for breathing. The siren draws nearer. Then suddenly, the person starts coughing, there is a sort of start to the body, a twitch. The EMS van is here. An EMT rushes to me, to the body, and passes right through me and assumes a similar position to the one I am in. We are somehow superimposed. I hear funny noises and a distinct voice, strained but steady, “Got to move him, looks bad, he breathing? Yes he's breathing…” The voice fades; a sound like the ocean drowns everything out. There is a rocking motion, everything is dark, it is as though I am lying half in the warm sea at night along the beach, feeling the waves buffet me gently on the shore. I am light-weight, buoyant. After a time, I hear a clicking, a tinkling, I open my eyes.
A doctor has a light in my eyes, "you are a lucky man", is all he says.
I wrote this little story which came actually from a dream I had. I had to pare it down, to fit in the 2000 word limit. I see other people haven't reposted their stories, sort of "coming out of the closet" as the author. I thought we were supposed to keep everything secret, which is part of a fun for me, but now I see, since I didn't win, what's wrong with trying to get a little feedback now? Nothing. So here's my story, reprinted here. Let me know what you think, OK?
Mistaken Indemnity
I went to the grocery store and was astounded at the resemblance of a young man to an old friend of mine, Ira James. So struck, in fact, that I had to look again. Ira had died mysteriously not long after I had left for college, and the talk was that he had had AIDS. I'd heard about it quite a while after it had happened, a year or more. I didn't know his family. I don't think I had ever been to his house, couldn't even remember where he lived. He played the drums quite well and we practiced with our little rock group in the shed at my house when I was a junior or senior. His appeal was almost cherubic, curly haired and quite good looking, I think. This was back when I denied myself any appraisal of the relative handsomeness of men and boys, back in my more homophobic youth. As I continued past the checkout area and started down the far aisle of fresh vegetables, I considered the possibility that Ira had a son in this town. He'd have been about the right age.
I, having returned to my home town after a 20 year absence, recognized many an obvious combination of school mates from my youth. More interesting even than this however, is the recognition of vaguely remembered but eerily familiar eyes, noses and mouths, altered by time, sunken among the folds of the faces of my left behind contemporaries! It'd be 15 minutes or more, then, I'd remember who one of these apparitions was, or had been. Typically, I couldn't think of their name, but I would suddenly recall their class picture smiling, or pimply, or how ever it was that I remembered them. "Yes, that was Peter so-and-so", I'd muse, amazed at the curious effect that time and lifestyle had had upon my old pals. Lots of folks had stayed around or come back. Often, people who seemed total strangers at first, would casually greet me by name, passing by in the stores.
It was a nice change of pace to see Barney, the butcher, hacking away, with his clean, white, bloody apron and garb, back behind the opened, sliding, one-way, mirrored back of the meat display. God, Barney hadn't changed a bit! Barney always had a smile and never let my mother pick anything already packaged. She'd be prodding through the hamburger or pork and suddenly, a mirror would slide open and there'd be Barney, wiping his hands standing back on his heels in friendly disbelief, as if he couldn't imagine my mother selecting anything set out for the commoners. He would always give her the extra lean or better trimmed cuts at a discount price, and my mom would always scold him. I nodded friendly to him, and couldn't remember seeing him at all since I'd been back. I thought he had died, but then I remembered it must have been his brother who was kind of a rummy around town. I think it was "Barry Whitmore", not Barney, I'd seen in the obituaries. They may have been twins and I was never really clear which one worked at the grocery. They say it takes more muscles to frown than smile, and it was evident in Barney's youthful visage.
Suddenly, I panicked! Who was that? There was Susan Glendale, plain as day, beautiful as ever. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE??? I turned away suddenly, almost hiding my face, dashing down the canned goods aisle. My heart was pounding, I could hear it rasping in my breath, OK, OK, I'm going crazy, right? This girl is definitely dead, died tragically nine years ago, killed by a drunk driver. I mean, I saw this on the news. I'm crazy, am I crazy? It was terrible; the whole town marched in a candlelight vigil. This is not someone who looks like Susan, this is her, and she's just pawing through the dairy case, just like no big deal, getting a Yoplait, or something, right? Come ON man, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME? I am not dreaming, I just woke up a little bit ago, and walked down to the store. Alright, alright, calm down, there must be some reasonable explanation.
OH, JESUS! There is Tammy Ridgeway! She's dead too! Damn. I'm bonkers, I'm dreaming! I slapped myself hard in the face. It hurt. Nothing. But Tammy looked up, looked right at me, she heard the clap. She committed suicide, senior year - I see now, why. She's out there, about eight months, but that was, what? 25 years ago, she hadn't changed a bit. She was pregnant, that was all it was, poor thing. Her parents were religious zealots, driving around town in the "Jesus Van". Praise the lord all over it, they have a big marquis on the side, and display various warnings, often referencing scripture. "There are no cool breezes in the pit of hell", “He's coming, are you ready?", stuff like that. She's smiling at me, that dreamy Tammy Ridgeway smile, she was always a little misshapen but now, she looks really quite pretty, pregnant. I wave funny like "yeah, sure, the sky is falling, I know." Her smile is that funny, accepting smile, like in The Birth of Venus, head cocked and the whole deal. Ok, whatever, I think I'll go now. Go home, back to bed. I walk briskly right past Tammy, back toward the checkout end of the aisle. I have a strange resolve. I don't even need to prove to myself to this dream; I just need to get out of here right now. The basket rubs against the side of my right knee as I hurry along. Hey! In a dream, you pinch yourself and wake up, right? Only, when I'm actually dreaming, I never, EVER, question the crazy things that happen. I will be dreaming about being at work, and then, in the dream, I open a door to an office, walk in, and I'm in my living room of the house I lived in as a kid, no big deal. Like that could happen. When it's a dream, I don't even think to pinch myself. But right now, the two big cans of whole tomatoes and the half gallon of skim milk are heavy to my arm and they are hurting my knee as the sharp edge of the plastic basket chafes along my leg with each step.
I round the end of the aisle. I'm getting out of here. Looking outside, I see, or rather can't see the parking lot, it's completely foggy - right white outside. That's ok, it's fall, we're near the ocean. It was sunny before, doesn't mean the fog can't've rolled in. Anyway, I don't care, I'll feel my way home, just get me out of this store. I nearly bump in to Mr. Thompson, hair still jet black. Let's see he died, when? It was four or five years ago. He looks at me puzzled, am I friend or foe? Suddenly, I see the Ronald Reagan resemblance here, he's gaunt and serious, and with that wet looking black hair, quite an ample crop. Then he starts to nod, imperceptibly at first, but then growing more pronounced, and with it, a smile sprouts. "OooH", is all he says, he can't think of my name but he knows the kind of thing I am: his son's friend. I think it was Alzheimer's he had, and a bad case, he is remembering that he should know me, but no more. I nod, yes, it is me, it is ok, I am late, gotta go.
Ah damn, NO, NO, NO!!! At the end of the last aisle, there she is, blocking the way, my mother. I drop the basket. This isn't fair. C'mon, C'mon now, this isn't right. She pulls up to me, "What are you doing here? I told you to look after your father! Where's Nancy?”
I just let out a little squeak, I shut my eyes tight, shake my head. Doesn't matter, I can still see her plain as day even with my eyes shut. She's all emaciated with the cancer, but her skin is still soft and supple. Her face is softly wrinkled, oddly like the waffling of a glazed donut. I feel a little sick. I'm gonna cry. "Mom!"
"You're not supposed to be here, get out of here, now… I'm serious.” She never scolds me like this, I must be having a psychotic break. "You need to get out of here, William, right now." She never calls me William, unless….I am in trouble.
I am filled with a strange resolve. My mother died last year, and I don't know what is going on, but ghost, apparition, spirit, whatever, I am obeying her. I take a couple of steps away. Then I come back, I pause, then, I move to hug her. I half expect her to pop like a soap bubble, when I touch her, but, no, she is really there. Her body feels thin and frail. I begin to cry. At first, her arms are limp, but quickly, she embraces me. I can feel a little shudder of a sob from her. She speaks low and deliberately, "You are a good son.” Tears flood down my face. Then she pushes me suddenly to arms length. "Now, go. Go and do what ever it is you're supposed to be doing".
"But, mom, what am I supposed to do? How is it that you are here, where are we?” I feel stupid, this can't be happening….but, it IS happening. An odd acceptance floats over me. I begin nodding my head and take a few steps backward toward the exit. I turn, more quickly now, I begin a stressful cantor. I pause, look back, my mother simply points her face, more serious now, sort of a quick deliberated nod, to show her unnegociacablity.
I look back for her from just outside the door, now it seems like the fog is inside the store. I want to go back in, but there is a commotion out here. People are gathered in the street. A man is lying on the street, people are pointing. Walking over, I see, it is me on the road, a big bump on the head. OH, finally, maybe someone is really dead! I kneel down; instinctively I put my ear to the person's, (my) nose and look down across the chest, and wait. Not breathing. I place my fingers on the carotid, starting at the Adam's apple then sweeping down to the indent - just like on the Red Cross dummy. A PULSE! There is a pulse! Opening the mouth, I observe, it doesn't look like anything is blocking the airway. Tilting the head back and blocking the nostrils, I perform two rescue breaths; the chest does rise up as I blow in air. I hear a siren in the distance. I continue with rescue breaths, counting and listening for breathing. The siren draws nearer. Then suddenly, the person starts coughing, there is a sort of start to the body, a twitch. The EMS van is here. An EMT rushes to me, to the body, and passes right through me and assumes a similar position to the one I am in. We are somehow superimposed. I hear funny noises and a distinct voice, strained but steady, “Got to move him, looks bad, he breathing? Yes he's breathing…” The voice fades; a sound like the ocean drowns everything out. There is a rocking motion, everything is dark, it is as though I am lying half in the warm sea at night along the beach, feeling the waves buffet me gently on the shore. I am light-weight, buoyant. After a time, I hear a clicking, a tinkling, I open my eyes.
A doctor has a light in my eyes, "you are a lucky man", is all he says.