Auntie's Anti-fiction

[AuntShecky]

Please note:
The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-fiction," contains several short stories. When commenting on an individual story, please indicate the title of the work in your reply.

[Here begins a thread of short fiction by yours truly. Since the selections which I plan to post are more or less "self-contained," there is no issue with continuity. Please feel free to offer any comments, suggestions, criticisms and veiled threats (I kid, I kid) after each selection as is your wont. Thank you, and thanks for indulging me.]


A Savage Beast Maybe with Golden Hair

Scattered about the tiny office were containers of various amounts of liquid, which at one time could be called “coffee,” stacks of print-outs describing incident reports from the wild and inter-department memos from the Commissioner’s office, as well as spoor samples encased in plastic sandwich bags and fragments of diverse specimens of flora and fauna from nearly every region in the state which should have never been removed from the lab in the first place. Usually such debris was so much a part of the workplace culture that it was ignored, both by the staff as well as employees of the independent service who came to clean but never touched it -- not out of squeamishness but to avoid disturbing evidence of an investigation or a field study in progress; it was right there in the contract. That morning, however, the two state workers scurried about gathering up every paper cup and packet of stapled pages and depositing them all into a huge plastic bag without the semblance of regard for mandatory recycling.

The impromptu housekeeping arose after a colleague down in the Capital had texted a heads-up that a spur-of-the-moment inspection was imminent. The suit, like the two workers, was a civil servant, but on a much-higher pay tier, naturally-- what’s more, way up in the food chain, just a couple notches under the mighty Commissioner himself.

“Cripes! “ one of the two workers griped. “It’s bad enough we’re up here in the middle of nowhere, hassling with the snow and the wind, and sweatin’ through budget cuts every stinkin’ year! Now we’re being harassed. Don’t they have anything better to do down in –Oh, —!“ Hissing a string of expletives, he tossed the trash bag aside and slammed himself in front of the dusty computer screen. “We gotta delete Minesweeper and Avatar5!”

His co-worker shrugged. “Eh, so what? We can reload later –Oh, crap!” He slapped his own forehead. “The files! They haven’t been updated since –Oh, man! The Lists! Quick – box turtle– does that go under 'endangered' or 'threatened'? "

Two pairs of eyes seldom blinked as one left hand moved the mouse as diverse species of filenames flickered by: “Acidrain,” “Karnerbluebutterfly,” “trillium,” “whitenosesyndrome,” “zebramussels.” Another folder contained inter-department communiques, the printed duplicates of which already littered the room. “You can dump most of that stuff, Mack. ‘Procedures for blah-blah-blah. Health and safety.’ Nobody bothers with that stuff.”

“I don’t know, Dude– it could be the first thing they look for, we better check it!”

For the first time in several years, the file was opened, the contents of whichread as follows:

115-40 (Rev. 2001)
STATE DEPARTMENT OF CONSERVATION AND
THE ENVIRONMENT

Protocols for Health and Safety

1.0 It is mandated that the SDCE headquarters located the State Capital and all satellite and field offices and research facilities maintain this description of the following health and safety regulations, and a copy of such be accessible in a prominent place.

“See? I told ya. Same old, same old.”

Both of the workers could hear the sound of a vehicle entering the long gravel driveway. Each retrieved a previously abandoned trash bag and in their last-minute scrambling, left the computer alone.

1.1 It is further required that these protocols are maintained and updated on a regular basis //////////
i could ask myself ‘what was i thinking’ but thinking had nothing to do with it. guess if a brain shrinks the thinking capacity would shrink along with it but what they call the reptilian part that controls emotions is working in apple pie order. i remormer apple pie and warm baths and music but i do not miss machines even the one that brings music. i can still make words on this machine but i cannot type. i have to hit the letters with this stick thing oh thats rite it is a pencil in my mouth like humans who are quadripeliacs and crippled cannot hit two letters at the same time so i can not make the letters big. i saw words with pictures when i was little about a cockroach who typed by jumping on the letters and he could not make them big too. why do I remormer that this is selective mormory but i cannot do the selecting myself. i cant come up with most of the things like the right word and i cant forget the things i want to lose. there was a word i heard when people wanted me i think it was lou.

last time walking uprite was the eve of st hubert stubborn fax that strangely stay. still living inside then the den was in a big box that had many dens where others lived. there was a big hole in the wall the size of a mans fist alpha male maybe. he was all abusive and a big scratch on my cheek a black eye. he finally stopped and yelled no more except all snorting and wheezing. quickly then i awoke the little ones all sleepy and confuzed and put them in his machine that moves and took them to the female who had given me my own birth. then in the machine my back started to hurt a 1000 hurts or maybe one monster hurt 1000 times. my back bent over like a boulder on top of it. could not make the machine move but could move my legs and arms. next i was on the ground creeping on what people say all 4s.

as i said i used to have fingers but they left me that night in the second month of the cold season nervember that is what people called it. what used to be hands made marks in the dirt and later the snow. i could still hear maybe better than before but the ears were different then now with points on top of my head. couldn’t stay there
not with the lights and the people and the 100s of machines going back and forth some with big boxes on their backs and frightening roars

north i went do north where my instink told me there would be less of these things that suddenly put fear in me . north I went along the wide sticks where the long machines would move with a clacking sound that tickled my ears. the sun came up got dim went down again and nights and days came and went one after the other. a vicious hunger gnawed at me and water dripped from my mouth. along the gray wide strip of hard ground there were crushed and crimpled things and a round box that had inside it things that were once birds but now crusted with hard bread. from the old life i remormed these and remormed as well howling how the round box came without things to eat them with and crinkly and crimpled sheets to wipe off my mouth. now in my ravinusness i crunched down on all of it with my sharp teeth which cracked and crushed the bones.

there was another hunger - another instink compeling me to hunt for smaller weaker things chase them down and devour them like i devoured the trash along the along the road yes that is what they called it the road. one day i saw a small thing with ears bigger and more pointy than mine and two hungers nearly overpowered me.
the chase becan begin began and the creature ran faster and faster. here i was keeping up and had the poor thing cornered. i sprang forward and stopped mid lunge no i would not eat him i could not no

north i kept going north up the big hills, mountains i guess they call ‘em. night came just as i came to the top and the round thing in the sky showed itself big and golden. all of a suddin i wanted to sing I wanted to give it a song from the earth but i opened my mouth and not a sound came from my throat not an ooo or an owwwwll nothing came

standing there on the peek my long nose tilted upward looking at the tiny sparkling things and the big round – moon that was it, the moon and the stars – i refleckted about this strange change in me and wunnered why I was stuck between these two whirlds what had i done that this should happen to me

that st huberts eve so long ago . the alpha male it was the machines the machine he sits in front of to look at pictures that move and make sounds and the machine I used to suck up dust did to his machine only by axcident that made him rage. how his words tortured me you want to clean then clean yourself up you ugly beast he said. i cant stan the site of you and your constandt demans on me you want to go live out in the country go - go and take those screaming brats with you. then he broke things like I broke his machines except i did it by axcident until he drank the yellow stuff in the brown bottle and fell down on the couch and fell deeply asleep

oh i miss my pups and their softest of skin and their eyes all sparking even when wet with tears and their sweet voices gentle as the autumn sun. they would love the country these places where those who sniff the grass and hide so shy between the trees have always lived. while people congregulated to places with the wooden and boxes stuck close together. they stayed with their own kind except for those who heard the song of the moon and saw the gorgeousness of nature in their souls-- do i still have a soul i wunner. more and more machines came and dug the dirt and took away our feeding places . til those of us were forced from our dens and came down from the hills into their back yards and their rolling green fields where they ride around in little machines to attack a tiny white round thing with skinny sticks. and if they see us they get all panicky and reach for the firearm or a steel blade maybe a weapon blest by st hubert

and oh how they hate us, and imbrew their whelps with fear of us – they say we are big and we are bad and we will swallow your grandmother and blow your house in. never mind that one of us nursed the babe who grew up to find– found that city – that is the word city- of Romulus. never mind that one of us has never harmed one of their own kind in this land ever never

yet we are forced to wander and drift as i do. until i came upon this square building made of rock in a little field between the woods next to a —a--road made of little stones where outside were boxes made of metal where smaller creatures whimpered and moaned. last night i jumped thru the window and found the machine and the pencil and made the words to tell this tale of how i changed and did not no how the change came without a warning and that if it happened to me it can happen to anybody even in the city. I am witting this just in case somebody wants to no whatever happened to the she-person with yellow hair who people used to call lou

“ He’s here!”

In a swooping motion one of the workers clicked the mouse until a message came up: “Are you sure you want to delete this file?” and he clicked it again.

[Virgil]

So this is a frame story? Framed by a protocol? To be honest Auntie, I'm a little confused. And it doesn't seem to have a natural ending. I assume there will be a continuation.

My suggestion would be to introduce the characters in more detail before going into the protocol. I can't identify with any of the characters. I think a reader needs to make that connection before shifting into a different section of the story.

It could be me Auntie. I have a hard time reading extended pieces on the computer screen.

[DickZ]

I'm strongly in agreement with Virgil on this one, Auntie. You have unreasonable expectations if you think a reader can just pick this up the way it's written, and make any sense out of it.

It was fine until the person called lou started talking.

[AuntShecky]

[QUOTE=Virgil;800853]

I can't identify with any of the characters. [QUOTE]

Gosh, Virgil -- that's a damn good thing. If you, or anyone
else truly were a lycanthrope, I'd be shocked. Shocked!

This little piece of stream-of-consciousness arose from an
idea that haunted me this past Halloween week. The notion in popular culture has him (as it's invariably a male) still walking upright, still basically human, with his (or "its") brain remaining fully functional. As a matter of fact, the only feature in this creature as portrayed by Lon Chaney Jr. (and his latter-day successors in filmdom) that is remotely lupine is growing extra hair at a rapid rate. What's most mind-boggling thing is that he can transform himself back and forth at will. None of that ever made sense to me--

--not that we should expect folklore and mythology to adhere to strict rules of logic. Still -- didn't Aristotle say
that a "plausible impossiblity" is better than an "improbable possibility"? For sure, the plight of poor "lou" is impossible, but I wanted to make her condition slightly less implausible.

Hence, retaining some of the "momory" of her human life,
now apparently lost. Also, she remembers some words, not
all. When her brain shrinks down to the size of that of a
lower mammal, it is would be arbitrary which specific brain cells would be lost.

She has to get her story out somehow. So out in the wild
she gets into the conservation field office and goes to the
"machine." She can't "type" with paws, hence uses a
pencil in her mouth, and hence not being able to use the shift key, or two "letters" at the same time. And
come on, would it be "plausible" to expect a lower animal
to "remormer" the rules of punctuation?

"lou" could have used any file in the computer's hard drive. That it was the file with the "safety protocols" was just random, a joke that "nobody ever looks at those things."

I stole the title from a line in this powerful pem by Allen Tate :
http://personal.centenary.edu/~dhavird/Tate.html#Wolves

and just by chance, I came across this quotation from Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who you may "remormer" from history, for the other half of a pair of immigrants, both of whom were unfairly executed on trumped up charges of robbery and murder. (This statement was disallowed by
the presiding judge. Katzman was the prosecuting attorney.)


"Sacco's name will live in the hearts of the people and in their gratitude when Katzman's and yours bones will be dispersed by time, when your name, your laws, institutions, and your false god are but a deem remomoring of a cursed past in which man was wolf to the man."

[Virgil]

[QUOTE=Virgil;800853]

I can't identify with any of the characters. [QUOTE]

Gosh, Virgil -- that's a damn good thing. If you, or anyone
else truly were a lycanthrope, I'd be shocked. Shocked!


:lol: When I said "identify" I meant engage.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I too was puzzled, never for a moment entertained the notion of a lycanthrope and wonder, even now, if I had, on what grounds might I have empathized with her/him/it... I hate to say it but I read on mostly because of my respect for you and because I hate to feel stupid and kept hoping that any moment I might get it, but I never did...

[AuntShecky]

Thank you for reading this, Prince. I have a question for
which I'm not sure that I have an answer:
Here's the question, more or less a rhetorical one:

In a work of modern or contemporary fiction, is it really necessary for the reader to empathize and/or identify with the character? For instance, when we read "Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," do we align ourselves with both, one, or none of the two personae? Could there be a quality or a flaw in
one of the characters which we recognize in ourselves? What about situations-- has the reader ever been in circumstance beyond his or her control?

In addition to subject matter, what about forms and experimental fiction ?

[AuntShecky]

(Sigh.)
I guess it's time to switch genres, or as the starlets say when they're guests on late night talk shows --"JOHN-rahs."

Jackpot of Jeopardy

Anybody who knows me knows that I'm really a good egg, somebody who goes out of her way to avoid trouble, even though trouble has this nasty habit of hunting folks down. I'm a gal, who, if she had her druthers, would be puttering around the Rudbeckia and the Echinacea, putting up a few dozen jars of apple butter, playing with her grandchildren. Now don't go thinking I'm some doddering old fool – I've “lived,” if you know what I mean. Rather than Enna Jetticks I'm more likely to be wearing Adidas (granted, a pair I'd bought for half-price at Target), and you'd never catch me wielding a crochet hook. Still, I'd be the last person you'd ever suspect to be held captive in an abandoned warehouse and tied to a chair with a twosome of goons holding pistols to my face.

But there I was, just like some stoolie in a straight-to-DVD crime movie. Not only was I shaking in my cross-trainers, I was also wondering if my adamant belief that I'd never need adult diapers might have been a little premature. Don't get me wrong – I still had control of my physical and mental faculties, but the thugs were making inroads.

“Look, we can make it easy for ya,” one of them said. “All ya gotta do is tell us who set you up.”

At that point, I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. Even if I did know, I couldn't tell them anything, not with half a roll of duct tape plastered across my mouth. It was the super-strong kind too, not the flimsy stuff you get at the dollar store. One thing I was sure of – either the crooks had the wrong woman or this was an extremely unfortunate case of misunderstanding.

It’s funny the strange things that go through your mind when it looks as if your number is up. It didn't occur to me to wonder how the kids would orchestrate my funeral or whether I'd reunite with my Rob in the next world. All I could think of was the look on the face of my next door neighbor knowing I'd topped her, for once. Audrey’s bragging rights about her self-proclaimed “brushes with danger” were nothing compared to this. Hey, Haughty Audrey, so you sold off your Enron stock just two weeks before it went down the tubes. So in 1985 you canceled at the last minute a cruise which ended in a tragedy. The lead story on News Center 12 and on page one of the Gazette are both about me. Watch it, read it, and weep.

Let me back up a bit. I'd saved up a couple of bucks and thought I'd splurge it on myself. So on a beautiful October afternoon I signed on for a bus trip going down to Foxhill Run Resort and Casino. Why not? I thought. Live a little. Even if I don't win a dime, at least the drive will be pleasant and I'll get to see the gorgeous foliage.

It was bright inside the casino; the rows of soft overhead lights blended with the autumn sun streaming showers of gold through the huge windows. It was too early in the day for the floor show, but a nice-looking young piano player added atmosphere with a medley of Sinatra standards. Since it was a weekday, the place wasn't super-crowded, and the croupiers and card-dealers mostly stood around the tables with little to do. The slot machines,though, were hopping, singing like cash registers in an outlet store on Washington's Birthday.

There I was, armed with a paper cup full of quarters, wandering up and down the aisles as I looked for a one-armed bandit that didn't already have somebody standing in front of it, inserting coins and yanking the lever at the speed of light. Finally I found an unoccupied slot. A strange feeling descended, bestowing with absolute certainty that this particular slot machine was reserved just for me. It was practically glowing, almost as if it had a neon sign saying “Try me, Laura! ” Well, I thought, far be it from me to spurn opportunity when it hits me in the face. “How little we know,” tinkled the piano tune, as I stepped up, inserted a quarter, and yanked the arm.

What occurred next was a-- well, a miracle – there’s not other word to describe it. To this day, I'm not even really sure what exactly happened. I don't know what kind of symbols had come up – three cherries, three gold bars, or what, but one thing’s for sure, it wasn't a row of lemons, for all kinds of bells, whistles, and sirens went off, and from the ceiling descended huge bunches of balloons as well as a real neon sign that blazed “JACKPOT!!”

Next thing I knew I was surrounded by an entourage of the formerly-bored personnel, including the hunky piano-player and another man who was so expensively dressed that I took him to be the joint’s manager. All of them were patting my back, shaking my hand, congratulating me. Here I was, just a housewife from a backwater town who broke the bank at Foxhill Run.

“Oh my Gosh, I just can't believe it!” I gushed. “I'm gonna faint. I've got to get some air!” I excused myself, telling my benefactors that I needed to step outside for a moment, just to collect myself and let the significance of my sudden good fortune sink in.

Just a few feet from the main entrance, between two healthy young yews, I stood on the decorative gravel and leaned against the fine stonework of the casino’s exterior wall. I hardly exhaled when I felt a beefy hand grab me by my neck and push me forward. Another set of hands threw a black hood over my neck as I was dragged into a vehicle, which sped off the second I was forced into the back seat.

For what seemed to be an eternity, the vehicle drove on and on. The longer we were on the road, the less I was convinced that I was the butt of some kind of joke, or the unwitting star of some prankish reality show. By the time the car stopped and the black hood was removed, it was dark. We were the only ones in a deserted asphalt stretch that was emptier than the parking lot of a fast-food chicken joint the day after Thanksgiving. The two creeps yanked me out of the car and started dragging me toward the cavernous but totally seedy-looking warehouse.

“You're making a big mistake!” I managed to get that out though my mouth was bone-dry and my teeth were chattering like a pair of dice caught in a vacuum cleaner bag. “I have to be back on the bus by six. Seriously.”

“That ship has sailed, Lady,” one of the goons said.

The other one laughed. “Yeah. That perticulah train has left da station.”

“No, you don't understand!” I pled. The folks back at the Southern Tier Senior Citizens organized this trip. They'll be doing a head count. They'll miss me –“

“I'll give ya a shot upside your head, ya old coot. Now, be a good girl and tell us who you're working for.”

“What are you talking about? I don't work for anybody. Cripes, I'm lucky I can get Social Secur–“ Whack! In the form of a stinging slap, the forewarned shot upside my head came down. It was more from pain than fear, but involuntarily and with a force I didn't know I had and at a decibel level I hadn't know I could reach, I screamed. Hence, the ropes and the duct-tape gag.

“We'll take it back off once you're ready to talk, and you will, if you know what’s good for ya, sister!” Fat chance, when I hadn't the foggiest idea how I had gotten into this implausible mess.

I heard a bizarre ring tone that sounded like “The Good Ship Lollipop.” The person calling on the thug’s cell phone was, apparently, the Boss.

“No, they did! The slot was all rigged the night the joint was closed for the carpet cleaning. Yeah, it was set for Number 10,000. Would I lie to you?. . .No, I was looking out. The count was and . . .how the hell do I know where Eddie was? Look, Brad, I wasn't the one who dropped the ball. Anyway, the count was 9999, it was all clear. I don't know. I must've turned my back for a second and then she stepped up to it. . .I know, I know. We think so too. We'll have her singin’ like a canary. Okay.”

The thug returned the cellphone to his pocket, lit up a cigar, and positioned his face maybe two inches away from mine. “Listen, Honey, he said, “ I like ya. You want to be back playin’ Bingo with all your little gray-haired pals, don't cha? Just tell us who axed you to go play that perticulah slot machine at that perticulah time, huh?”

His accomplice suggested a more effective method. “Aw, screw it, Lefty. Why don't you just beat it out of the old. . .” He used a “b” word which I'll tell you right now wasn't “biddy.” He then proceeded to rip the duct tape off my mouth. I'm not going to say how exactly how that felt, but if you can imagine a million Band-aid strips ripped off every inch of your skin all at the same time, then you have a millionth of an idea of how excruciating that was.

But the pain didn't deter me from mentally plotting some kind of desperate escape. What was I supposed to do, grab the creep’s cigar and send smoke signals back to the casino? The stooge’s stogie, did, however give me an idea. When watching his beloved football games, my Rob used to tell me, “Laura, the best defense is always a good offense.”

“All right, all right, I'll tell you what I know,” I said. “But first, you've gotta untie me. Otherwise, no deal.” The second the two of them loosened the ropes, I threw my arms up in the air and knocked the cigar out of the creep’s mouth. “Look! Your shoes are on fire!”

I sprang up like a spring in a cheap watch and dashed out the door. Never before had my sneakers gotten such as workout as I ran across the parking lot. You know, they say that “the legs are always the last to go,” but you can imagine my surprise that the old wheels still had some life in them. In that completely unfamiliar neighborhood I ran until I came to a diner. I rushed in, blurted out “Call 911!” and the rest, as they say, is history.

After that, I did get my picture in the paper and was featured on the news (both at 6 and 11) but not as a victim but as – I'm almost embarrassed to say – a heroine. Indictments came down on the small-time racketeer who'd masterminded the plot and the two henchmen who'd kidnapped me. And by the way, not only did I get my original slot machine winnings, I also received a hefty reward for the information leading to the arrest of the criminals. When the all the excitement tapered off, I thought I'd stroll over to Audrey’s in order to share my adventures with her. Her only comment was “Why, Laura, I'm surprised! You? Gambling?” I wanted to reply, “Yeah, gambling, just like you when you play the stock market.” But in the spirit of charity, I let it pass.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Surely Laura meant to say "the legs are the FIRST to go..."?

A compelling narrative voice but I don't really see what the story amounts to? Maybe I didn't pick up enough about how deep her rivalry with Audrey goes?

[AuntShecky]

[QUOTE=PrinceMyshkin;803982]Surely Laura meant to say "the legs are the FIRST to go..."?

QUOTE]


Nope. When gravity claims every other part of the anatomy, the legs are the LAST to go. (It's a female thing.)

[PrinceMyshkin]

[QUOTE=PrinceMyshkin;803982]Surely Laura meant to say "the legs are the FIRST to go..."?

QUOTE]


Nope. When gravity claims every other part of the anatomy, the legs are the LAST to go. (It's a female thing.)

You understand, I'm sure, that being male I prefer to let you have the last word, but in the context in which you used that phrase, it seemed that she was surprised to find that her legs were still functioning, efficiently, which wouldn't have applied if she expected them to be the last to go?

[AuntShecky]

[QUOTE=AuntShecky;804045]

You understand, I'm sure, that being male I prefer to let you have the last word, but in the context in which you used that phrase, it seemed that she was surprised to find that her legs were still functioning, efficiently, which wouldn't have applied if she expected them to be the last to go?

She's surprised that her legs work so well when she's running, literally for her life.
Also, don't read too much into the two offhand references to the neighbor, Audrey, which were supposed to sketch in a couple details about the narrator, and not the main focus of this, a parody of the crime story, with the twist of an unlikely
protagonist.

[AuntShecky]

[A seasonal tale written several years ago, now revised]


Little Shop of Quarters


For Frank Merchant, the day after Thanksgiving was uncharacteristically sunny, and he had the day off. What more could a guy want?

No better time to take a short drive down to a town he had often visited as a boy. He hadn't been there in years and thought he'd look around. Just for the hell of it.

After all these years, the area hadn't changed much – - although there were quite a few newly-constructed houses on Route 203. He saw the familiar farms, graveyards, and the stately old churches dating back to Colonial times. A glance to the right at Kinderhook Lake rewarded him with an expanse of blue, broken by twinkling glints of reflected sunlight. Geese etched the time-honored victory sign in the sky. A couple of horses were braving the cold to graze in the fields.

Arriving in town, he noticed that the atmosphere on Main Street had changed. The fine old Victorian houses still stood, but they had been repainted and gussied up. The Mom and Pop pharmacy which decades ago had sold him sodas and penny candy had been swallowed up by a strip mall, occupied by high-end outlet stores. The cobblestone street of old had been repaved to accommodate the high performance SUVs and expensive sports cars, parallel-parked along the sidewalks, where their affluent owners leisurely strolled and browsed. A few women carried trendily-dressed infants in a kind of reverse papoose-style; strapped to their mother’s fronts, the tots were not only unable to see where they were going, but not even where they had been. The men swaggered down the sidewalks as if every last one of them owned the place. The charming little community Frank once loved had become gentrified.

Maybe it was only Main Street that had been corrupted. With great anticipation Frank headed down the side street of the building which had once housed the upstairs flat of his relatives, where so long ago he had spent many a happy summer. Even though Frank harbored no illusions that he'd run into anyone he knew--his great-aunt and uncle’s friends had undoubtedly since joined them in the other, unchangeable world –- he was nonetheless relieved to see the structure yet standing. But there was something very odd about the two-family house: on the upper floor the windows were missing their shutters and had been boarded-up. The bottom floor was currently occupied by some sort of retail business. There was a shop window, behind which hung a prominent U.S. flag, the field of blue faded, with only 48(!) stars which, along with the white stripes, were overlaid with a yellow tinge, the red ones currently a pink shade, apparently bleached by several seasons of direct sunlight. The glass in the door was all but obscured by an old Camel sign and an ad for “Pepsi Free.” There was also room for a schedule of hours of the store’s operation : for six of the seven days of the week, the hours were the same: “7 am to 9 pm,” except for the box next to Sunday, clearly marked “Closed.” And to underscore the point, there was another sign under an inverted “V” of string which proclaimed in red: “Come in. We're OPEN.”

When he opened the door, a bell tinkled. For what was supposed to be the biggest shopping day of the year, the joint seemed deserted. Counter after counter and and row after row contained funky merchandise grouped together in a kind of hit or miss logic. A flock of plastic-handled feather dusters sat next to a pyramid of canned beef stew, the tops of the cans themselves covered with a fine grey powder. Bin after bin contained obscure brands of toilet paper, floor wax, toothpaste. There was a large bin of paperback books, haphazardly commingled. A dozen copies of a children’s coloring book -- whose cover featured a cartoon character unknown to any American television network, cable or mainstream -- were nestled under a column of a romance novel, each with the identical cover: clones of a woman with a ripped-bodice each in the arms of an identical black-clad adventurer, his nostrils in full-flare. Mingled among these were a ream of copies of the New Testament printed in a language which Frank took to be Portuguese.

The four walls were covered with plastic bags of various merchandise randomly arranged on pegboard hooks. Tiny bags of hooks and eyes were displayed next to bags of wooden pencils sans erasers. Plastic barrettes and polyester ribbons were suspended next to an assortment of holiday decorations, primarily for Easter. Plastic key chains unceremoniously shared part of the wall with fingernail clippers, and nearby foil-wrapped squares of condoms hung.

There was a gentle tap on Frank's shoulder. “May I help you with something, Sir?” The male voice spoke in perfect English, albeit lightly-seasoned with a foreign accent which Frank couldn't immediately categorize. It reminded him a little of that of Bela Lugosi, or perhaps of Gandhi-- or rather Ben Kingsley’s movie portrayal of him.
When Frank turned around, he didn't see a cape-clad Dracula nor a religious role model draped in a diaper but a neatly-dressed man.

“No, thank you. I'm just looking.” That was no lie!


“Ah, but perhaps I can interest you in somethings? Everything here is only one qwarter. Wery inexpensive. Good bargains. Good walue!”

The man took Frank’s elbow in a grip that was both gentle and firm. He guided him over to one of the pegboard walls, reached up and plucked down a small plastic bag. The man cupped the object in his palm as if it were a miniature Faberge egg and not a twenty-five cent piece of plastic.

“It’s a compass, see?” Frank indeed saw – the tiny circle behind a slightly-scratched clear plastic lid held a moving arrow, which pointed not to the usual directions of N, S, E, or W but to “up,” “down,” “right,” or “left.” Frank thought it was just a piece of junk, but suitable perhaps as a Christmas stocking stuffer. His nephew might get kick out of it, and, after all, it only cost a quarter. “Vun feature of this, you take this compass vith you, you don’t get lost.”

“No fooling! Can you beat that! “ Frank said. “Okay, I'll take it.”

“Wery good, Sir. And perhaps you vould like a carrying case for it?” Seemingly out of nowhere, the shopkeeper produced a glossy plastic leather-colored change purse. With some trouble, the man unfastened the metal zipper and popped the compass thingie inside. “Vun thing
about this purse – Vell, I'll let you in on a little secret. Ven you carry this purse, you alvays, alvays have enough money.”

Frank shrugged and nodded. “Can always use that, can't we?”

“Yes! Yes, and another ting we alvays do is vatch our veight. Look.” The man opened his hand to reveal a small foil strip containing four pastel blue discs each under its own tiny plastic dome. “Tese are mints,” he said. “Ven you take one, right before meals, you don't have to vorry about gaining veight. Eat all you vant, no fat.”

“Hmm.” For a second, Frank was tempted to ask the guy if these pills or “mints” had ever garnered FDA approval, but, what the hell, they were only a quarter.

“Wery good, Sir.” He began to walk away, and Frank followed. The shopkeeper lifted up part of a counter, ducked under the board, replaced the panel of the counter and stood behind it. There was no cash register to speak of, and not surprisingly, no mechanism to accommodate credit cards. Instead there was a throwback to the retail world of decades past – - an ancient adding machine, complete with a paper roll and to record and print out past transactions, the shortness of the scroll indicating that they had been few and far between. With long, tapered fingers often described as “artistic,” the shopkeeper totaled up the sale, one by one taping in “Twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty five. Plus tax. That vill be eighty-three cents, please, Sir.”

Blindly feeling through his pockets, Frank came up with three quarters and a nickel. He continued searching for the remaining three pennies. Momentarily he thought of having the man break a dollar, but no cash drawer seemed to be in sight. “Where’s the rest of my change? “ Frank said, “I thought I had some more –“

”Ah!” the shopkeeper said. He unzipped up the little change purse, turned it upside down, and shook it. Three pennies fell out and bounced on the counter. “See? It’s vorking already!” The shopkeeper then whipped open a white plastic bag-- big enough for a pair of jeans and workshirt –and carefully placed Frank’s purchases inside. Settling down in the corner of the bag, the three tiny items seemed like afterthoughts. Taking the bag, Frank rolled it up into a parcel small enough to fit in his pocket. “Okay, thanks, “ he said.

“Have a nice day,” the shopkeeper said, and then inexplicably put his index finger to his lips. The gesture reminded Frank of an illustration of St. Nicholas from a coloring book of The Night Before Christmas which very possibly could have been sold in that very shop back in, say, July.

When he returned to his vehicle, Frank took the bag out of his pocket , so he wouldn't forget that he had it and thus finding an unpleasant surprise the next time he laundered his pants. For some reason, though, he gave the bag a sniff, and noticed that it smelled slightly of iodine. He dumped the three items directly on the passenger seat, rolled up the empty bag – - there was no receipt – and tossed it into a trash bin in front of some trendy coffee shop.

Frank was convinced he knew exactly where he was going as he motored North ; Route 9 blends right into Route 20, the fastest way home. He passed some lovely old houses on the hill on the right, a Grand Union on the left. As he drove onward, a sickening feeling fluttered in the pit of his stomach as gradually the road was becoming more and more unfamiliar, as if he had unwittingly taken a wrong turn. When he found that his car was heading down a bumpy dirt road he knew for sure that he was lost. Suddenly a deer darted out in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and avoided hitting the frightened creature, who by now had reached the woods where it would undoubtedly encounter other dangers, such as trigger-happy hunters.

The all-but-forgotten purchases had tumbled to the floor of the car. Franks picked up the change purse and the tiny strip of pills and put them back in his pocket. When he went to pick up the compass, he noticed that the little arrow was pointing to “up.” What the hell, Frank thought. He had nothing to lose. So he continued up the dirt road. He had gone a mile or so, when he looked down at the compass. It was pointing to “R.”

Frank took his next right, another dirt road, which eventually led him right back to the center of the town he had just left. The arrow still pointed to “R,” so he took the next “right,” which led him over a small bridge over a rushing, rock-dotted creek. The compass pointed “L”, then “up,” and before he knew it, Frank was on Route 203 again, which brought him back to 20, which brought him home.

Later that night, Frank was hungry. After overindulging on the holiday, he was reluctant to gorge himself – - but the remains of the previous day’s sumptuous feast lured him like a siren’s song. It was if the refrigerator was calling out to him. Frank stood up and felt his own stomach to see if the ever-increasing girth had somehow miraculously stopped, and in doing so, he ran his hand across his pocket, and remembered the four pre-dinner mints he had stashed there. He had no idea of how safe those “mints” would be, or their country of origin, or just how long they had sat unsold in that strange little shop. Then again, that magic change purse had worked. So had the low-tech compass. So what did he have to lose? What the hell. Frank pushed plastic dome and the blue pill-like disk popped out the back of the aluminum foil strip. He chewed the thing, which indeed tasted minty, but a little “off,” like the last squeeze from an old tube of toothpaste. Frank went to the mirror and stuck his tongue – - no blue film on his palate. He then went to the kitchen and filled the microwave with paper plates heaped with copious amounts of leftover turkey, and gravy, and dressing, and all the accompanying vegetables. He wolfed it down like a coyote on a fresh kill, finally finishing the heavy meal with a slab of squash pie the size of an old Betamax video tape.

The next morning, Frank hightailed it to the bathroom ; he couldn't wait – to step on the scale. To his delight, Frank discovered that since Thanksgiving, he had not gained a single ounce; if anything, he had actually lost a pound or two. This was something! He raced to back to bedroom, took the second of the four pills, and hastily dressed. Fighting the Saturday morning traffic, he drove to the nearest “Family restaurant” and ordered the Lumberjack’s Breakfast. Having polished that off, he ordered the Hunter’s Special. When he finished that, he figured it was enough for now, even though he didn't feel bloated or anything. As a matter of fact, he felt like a billion bucks. Even more so, when he went to pay the check and found he was a dollar short – until he opened the change purse and four quarters bounced out.

On Sunday, he repeated the process. This time he felt like a trillion bucks. This was something, really, really something. These mints could plant the seeds of a dietary revolution. Imagine being able to eat everything you wanted and not gain a pound. It was the American Dream come true!

The storms in Frank’s brain kicked into cyclones. Maybe the concept could be imported to all of those starving Third World Countries – maybe it could be reconfigured to work in reverse – so that you could never, ever eat anything, and in the throes of a famine, you'd always feel full! But that wouldn't be a problem, anyway – with those magic change purses – - just mass produce those and ship ‘em all over the globe. Everybody, everywhere would finally and always have enough money to buy food! And if they lost their way to the market, they'd have those compasses to guide them.

“Holy crap! “ Frank said. “I'd be the World’s Greatest Humanitarian. They'll put me on the cover of Time, just like Bill Gates.” All he needed to do was convince that fabulous shopkeeper to become his business partner.

Even though they had been idle for years, the wheels inside Frank's heat wouldn't stop turning. After the sleepless Sunday night, he called his boss to tell him he'd be a little late, and then wasted no time heading back down to a certain town in Columbia County.

After parking his car in front of where the Mom and Pop pharmacy used to be, Frank jogged down the side street, and in his haste did not notice that the slippery material of his change purse enabled it to bounce out of his pocket, roll over to the curb, and fall into a sewer. He did notice some construction equipment blocking the street. When Frank approached the site of the little shop, his stomach again got the queasy, sinking feeling. Where the little shop of quarters used to be was now a vacant lot, the center of which was occupied by a huge backhoe, its serrated maw in mid-bite.

“What the –? Where’s the?” Frank scratched his head in confusion. Maybe he had lost his way again, had taken a wrong turn. With shaking hands, he reached in his pocket for the compass, which he immediately dropped. Before he could turn to pick it up, he heard a crunching sound.

Frank turned and looked up at the hard-hatted head of a burly construction worker. Then he looked down to see the broken bits of the magic compass under a heavy-booted foot.

“Street’s closed!” The construction worker said. “Sorry, buddy, but you'll have to move it along.”

“Uh, what happened to that store? It was just here on Friday!” How could a whole shop totally disappear over the weekend?

The construction worker looked at Frank as if he were an unlabeled unrecognizable Thanksgiving leftover. “Huh? What stores? Just turn back on Main Street. They got plenty o’ stores. No stores here.”

That was for sure. The fantastic shop was nowhere to be seen, gone without warning. No Closing Sales, no “Everything must go!” signs, not even the tell-tale hint of soaped-up windows.

“ As I said, you've got to like beat it, Sir.”

"Jeez, who starts a construction project this time of year?" Frank muttered as headed back to his car. By the time he reached the hoity-toity Main Street, he became philosophical – - after all, what had he expected? It was unrealistic to think for that guy could stay in business where nothing cost more than a quarter in a town populated by self-absorbed gentry folks who wouldn't dream of purchasing anything unless it had a three-figure price tag.

On the one hand, Frank still was in possession of that last blue mint. Who needed that strange guy? Frank could fly solo: take the mint to a chemist, have it analyzed, and then he'd be just a patent away from billions!

On the other hand, he could put the pill in a very safe place for use next Thanksgiving.

Aw, what the hell.

[PrinceMyshkin]

"Aw, what the hell" indeed! I was enchanted all the way through and ABSOLUTELY mystified a) by the strange turn of events on the street and b) by what his decision is...

You've REALLY done it this time, sister!

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, Prince, but even though it's been "revised" I don't think it's as good as it could have been because -- all together now -- it doesn't take risks.

[AuntShecky]

[Author’s Note: A primary characteristic of post-modern literature is that it is chockablock with “references,” not only to itself, in that it breaks down the so-called “fourth wall” between the work and the audience, but to other “pre-existing” works through parody and/or allusion. In this way, the post-modern story, novel, or play pays homage to the classics of the past. The following story owes much to two masterpieces of the mid-twentieth century: the extraordinarily moving yet hysterical short story, “The Jewbird” by Bernard Malamud and “One Froggy Evening,” the award-winning animated short film by the immortal Chuck Jones. Another acknowledgment is to a radio program which flourished long before most of us were born, though audio excerpts are available via the Web--the brilliantly written comedy series, The Bickersons, portrayed with impeccable timing by Frances Langford and Don Ameche.]

Teach Your Parrot to Talk

Outside the large window above the kitchen sink, empty branches swayed in the merciless wind as almost imperceptible flecks of white floated through the air. Inside, it was no tropical paradise, although the heat had been cranked all the way up to 78.

“Turn that thing down!” John’s demand had come from way out in the attached garage, where he was still unpacking his golf clubs and garden tools. He wasn't referring to the thermostat this time but to the volume of the video from a combination TV/DVD player going full blast on the counter.

“Hel-lo, folks! Hel-lo, folks!” the audio chanted behind a picture of an exotic pet, a bird that had gone Hollywood in that it had been all groomed and glammed up to meet the unforgiving challenge of high def. The bird on the screen rocked its head back and forth and then, as if on cue, gave a piercing whistle and said, “Hello, folks!”

Blanche craned her neck and peered into the face of the real bird who was more-or-less perched in front of the portable tv. “Come on, baby. You can do it. Say ‘hell-o folks.’ “ The parrot moved its chicken feet across the counter, raised his hooked beak and gave the screen a quick, half-hearted peck. When the on-screen bird responded –“Hel-lo, folks!” the live-action bird sprang backwards in alarm, and flapped his wings, before returning to a neutral corner of the counter.

Although his first language lesson wasn't yet successful, Blanche could not believe her good luck in having acquired him, especially since John had never allowed her to have a pet. It had been sheer serendipity, in that the parrot literally came with the house; he'd been left here by the previous occupants. Oddly enough, Blanche felt more pleased by the parrot than the property itself, which they'd purchased dirt cheap, shortly after the real estate bubble had burst. The deal had gone down through a most unfortunate foreclosure upon the former owners, who'd been caught by the “adjustable percentage rate” bombshell. Blanche’s husband had been savvy enough to insist upon a fixed mortgage rate. John did not like surprises.

“Want a cracker? Want a cracker?” came Lesson 2 from the DVD, another item left behind by the family forced to make the quick exit.

The kitchen door swung open hard, and Blanche felt a chill from the blast of air from the unheated garage. She hoped that the parrot hadn't caught the draft. “Where’s my tool chest?” John wanted to know.

“I don't know, John. Didn't it get loaded on to the van?”

“It’s not here. Where is it?”

“Why don't you look upstairs, John? Maybe it got mixed up with the bedroom stuff. By the way, did the cable company call when I was at the store?”

“How the hell should I know?” he said.

“They said they'd hook us up today sometime between 9 and 5. Oh, I wish they'd get here! The Petrified Forest is on tonight. ”

“Yeah, well. Right now I'm looking for my tools.”

Cable service was one of the sore spots between them. It wasn't all that expensive, and John could well afford it, but he kept telling Blanche that he didn't watch television enough to justify the expense. Blanche, however, lived for cable television, even if it meant she had no one to stay up and watch it with her. Her favorite channels showed old movies that had been made decades before either one of them had been born. She would stay up at night and watch them by herself. Blanche enjoyed everything: love stories, gangster movies, even westerns. She wasn't crazy about John Wayne, but she loved Gary Cooper and Alan Ladd, even though he was a little on the short side. This was a weakness of which Blanche would still blush to admit– there was something irresistible about the strong, silent type.

“And where are my keys?” John searched through his pockets while simultaneously putting on his parka.

“Going somewhere?”

“What're ya, writing a book? I'm heading over to the old place to see if somebody forgot to pack them on the van.” The sentence sounded like an accusation. “Maybe that crate of dishes could be put away while I'm gone.”

Quoth the DVD: “Pret-TEE bird! Pret-TEE bird!” Blanche thought she heard something else as well: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

With furrowed brow, she opened the kitchen door. The car wasn't in the garage; John had already left. Then she heard it again. She put her ear right next to the tv, but in addition to the DVD, someone else was talking. Blanche quickly hit the mute button on the remote.

“Jeez, Blanche, I don't know why you put up with that guy.” Like a sudden pain striking deep in her gut, absolute terror took hold. Someone was in the house! Blanche ran from room to room, opening and closing closet doors, looking behind the futon, and up the fireplace. Finding nothing, no invasive stranger, she was shaking and sweating when she returned to the kitchen. “I hope you don't mind my telling you this, but you're too good for him. Seriously.”

With her eyes growing nearly as wide as the dinnerware she still hadn't put in the cabinets, she turned around and looked at the parrot. She slowly raised her index finger and pointed at the bird. “You?”

The parrot bobbed his head. “Who else? Who else would be talking to you?” Then in a DeNiro impression that rivaled that of any Vegas opening act, added “There’s nobody else here.”

Blanche’s gaze froze upon the bird. She stepped back woozily, as if she were about to faint, and just by chance landed on one of the two, high-legged stools lined up by the kitchen counter. The creature could talk, no doubt about it. But unlike the popular conception of cartoon parrots, it didn't sound like a pirate. Nor did it whistle between phrases. The voice was both classy and raspy, a mix between Ronald Colman and George Burns. Of course, the remarkable, miraculous thing was that the bird was so articulate. A talking bird is a rara avis indeed, for, aside from chirping, most birds sound like Marcel Marceau.

“This is so wild! You sound so, so human! I can't believe it! You must've been a person in a previous life.”

“Reincarnation, you mean?” Except for the fact that he had no cigar nor twitching eyebrows, the parrot nonetheless transformed himself into full Groucho mode: “That’s ridiculous! Now they're recycling everything! ” Then back in his “normal” voice: “Nah. I've always been a proud member of the order of Psittaciformes. Besides, what parrot in his right mind would ever want to be a human being? Seriously.”

“But, but you're so smart and–“

“Uh, uh, uh! Careful, darling. You don't want to be guilty of species-ism.”

With her face-filling smile, Blanche looked as if she hadn't been guilty of anything in her entire life. “Forgive me, but I've just got to ask. How on earth did you ever learn how to talk?”

“Same way everybody learns. From my parents. They didn't tell me about the birds and bees, though. I learned all about that on the street corner.”

Suddenly Blanche slapped her forehead. “Gosh! Where are my manners? I never asked your name.”

“It’s Newton.”

“Newton? Like the cookie, as in fig –?“

“No, as in Robert, the man who played Long John Silver in Treasure Island. Hey, I'm surprised you didn't catch that, Blanche. I thought you were a movie fan! Actually my former keepers named me after the first modern physicist because they thought my. . .uh, digestive habits defied gravity.” Newton rolled his beady eyes and looked vaguely in the direction of the ceiling. “Nah. I'm just tugging your feathers.”

“Your owners, were they nice? How did they treat you?”

“Like a cockamamie artifact from the Pottery Barn. Pah! Those folks were no different from the exhibitionist walking down the street with an 8-foot python coiled around his neck. When the novelty wears off, they just throw it down the sewers with the rest of the discarded reptiles.”

“Oh, that’s not true, Newton. Those snakes are really big around, aren't they? They'd probably just clog up the toilet.”

“Well, who said I was an expert on plumbing?” Newton’s eyes briefly went ceiling-ward again. “Enough of this– time for a song! How about a little ditty from Good News? Back on your heels/up your toes. . .”

Blanche nearly fell on the floor! “Oh my God, you sing too?”

“On second thought –Newton’s “normal” speaking voice switched to a deep baritone.“We are poor little lambs/who have lost our way/Bah! Bah! Bah!”

“I know, I know! Don't tell me–The Nincompoop Song, right?”

“Actually, dear, it’s ‘The Whiffenpoof Song.’ A whiffenpoof is somebody who has to stay in New Haven rather than going the remaining hundred miles up to Harvard.”

“See? Not only can you talk, you're nice, even when you're correcting me. Imagine if John heard me make a goof like that. When he finally finished laughing his head off, he'd go on for half an hour telling me how stupid I am. But you-- you're not like that, Newton.”

“You're right. I don't judge. I may poop all over your ceiling, but I don't judge. But Blanche, honey, why don't you leave him? I mean, it’s not like you'll miss his scintillating personality.”

“Where would I go? How could I take care of myself? I don't have any skills. No self-esteem. None! I haven't had a job in twenty years!”

“No? What kind of work was it that you used to do?”

“Oh, I was a motivational speaker.” A mischievous grin spread across Blanche’s face. “Nah! I'm just yanking your –‘tugging your feathers’!”

With that, Newton broke into another number. This time he strutted back and forth on the counter, with a little fancy footwork, a little buck-and-wing.“Mention my name in Sheboygan/ But don't tell ‘em where I–“ As the door swung open, Newton suddenly clammed up tighter than a hostile witness in front of the RICO committee in Congress.

John, red-faced and fuming, marched around the kitchen. “They're gone! Somebody stole ‘em. When I find out who took my tools, I'll –and those crooks running the moving vans, I'll sue those bastards!” He stopped, turned around, and glared at Newton. “Why is this. . this animal still here? I don't have my tool box, but we have that!” John tried grabbing Newton by the neck. With a choking squawk the parrot shook its head from side to side and managed to break free. He flew into the living room and up the chimney, over the roof, and through the still-open garage door back into the kitchen. Blanche could hear John stomping around every room of the house in furious pursuit of a creature who'd never done him harm.

Blanche only had a split-second to make her urgent plea. “Newton, save yourself! Say something to him!”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘My oatmeal’s cold?’ ”

“Anything! I don't know, Newton. Please!”

Newton looked Blanche straight in the eye. There was something chilling about his gaze, showing an emotion that would be frightening even if it had emanated from a human. Right before John returned to the kitchen, Newton finally said something: “I don't want your god-damned cracker.”

In one hand John held the cage which the former owners had left behind; with the other hand he grabbed Newton, successfully this time. Carelessly he put him in the cage and carefully he locked it. Without even covering it with a warm blanket –even a dishtowel would have been better than nothing – he toted out the cage as if it were a bag of trash.

“Where are you taking him? A shelter? Why are you doing this, John?” She started to cry, and the tears surprised her at first, but soon she just let them flow. “Please, John, let me keep him. You don't understand, he —“ She followed Newton and John out the garage door, down the driveway, to the sidewalk, where she remained standing as the car zoomed away. “He talks, you lousy species-ist!” The snow had started falling for real by then, but Blanche stood there in the strong wind and in the silence.

[Virgil]

:lol: Oh Auntie. How funny. Newton finally said something: “I don't want your god-damned cracker.” :D

But I'm not sure about the ending. It doesn't seem like the type of story the villain should win.

[AuntShecky]

{Author's Note: This particular story appeared once before as an entry in the LitNet's Short Story Competition.
It must have been quite some time ago, as the typeface in the original file typeface was different from the font I've been using for the past year or two. In any event, I'm re-posting this thing in the fond hope it might generate some replies. If there are any replies, there are two issues or problems I have with the story which I'll 'fess up to if anyone posts a comment. Then maybe you and I can fix 'em. In any event, here 'tis --}

The Myth of Generations

It was risky for the boys to be in the alleyway behind Krause’s Butcher Shop. For all they knew, at that very moment their mother could have been inside the store buying a “nice piece of meat” for the sauerbraten she'd occasionally prepare according to her late mother-in-law’s recipe. Were she to spot her sons in a place they weren't supposed to be, first she'd chew them out and then command them to do some silly chore. As far as Fred could tell, no one had seen them. So far.

With anticipation and disgust, Fred lifted the lids of Krause’s garbage cans and rifled through their contents that “stunk to high heaven”-- despite the blessing of the crisp air of March rather than the blood-thick miasma of July. At last, an earthy grail: a good-sized mutton bone with a promising portion of fat, gristle, and even a vestigial scrap of flesh. He hoisted the greasy spear like spoils plundered by a Greek warrior on the vanquished plains of Troy.

Thus armed, the duo began its quest. Fred stalwartly led the mission, as his little brother Karl, like a devoted Myrmidon, tagged along. From the alley down two blocks, a quick climb down a hill, a hop-skip-and-jump over the shallow creek, and they'd reached their destination: the City Dump -- their quest: to seek and maybe find.

Previous experience had taught Fred that a certain mutt guarded the entrance. The dog knew its job and did it in no-nonsense way. Kids did not attribute the terrifying reputation of this modern-day Cerberus to its bite; the bark of this particular working dog rivaled the legendary wail of the three-headed cur. Any trespasser foolish enough to venture anywhere near the dump would hear the ungodly howl and believe that he had stumbled down to the dark outskirts of Hades. That’s where the mutton bone came in.

A quick over-the-shoulder toss of the bribe made the monster turn his head just long enough for the boys to slip by. Fred mentally dismissed the other potential deterrent, the policeman assigned to the relatively-easy beat of guarding the city’s trash. That cop was no Charybdis, for even the rock assigned to hide that sea-monster would harbor a more conscientious attitude toward its assignment. Some choppiness, alas, still lurked in Fred’s secret sea. He was in that time of a young man’s life when it seemed crucial to steer his sails far away from the whirlpool of neighborhood gossip. Although most people in his parent’s social stratum were no better off than his own parents in terms of wealth and prestige, the chance of being spotted and subsequently teased as a “rag picker” was a possibility painful to contemplate. To avoid such a peril, he took Karl by the shoulders and gave the order: “Don't you dare let anyone see us!”

Soon the critical focus shifted, for it seemed as if they'd go home empty-handed. The fat piles of junk offered few gems: slim pickings indeed. The boys wandered across the still-frozen ground, the icy wind a mocking reprimand, each bursting gust a warning. Here and there were scattered the discarded relics of the relatively-recent past: a skeleton of a unicycle, a dented washboard, a couple of Victrola records which looked nearly new, except for fatal cracks that cut clear through the grooved sides to the smooth ones. Karl cheered at the sight of a rusted length of pipe which to an impressionable kid could be the spittin’ image of a weapon one of our dough boys deployed against some stooge from Kaiser Bill’s army. Karl picked up the narrow cylinder of hollow metal, its oxidized flakes crumbling in his hand, aimed it skyward, and made a sound approximating a report: “Pa-shew! Pa-shew!’

The unnecessary noise which Karl created with his makeshift toy irked Fred, also vaguely bothered by the trivializing effect of make-believe combat. Underneath this irritation he was vaguely aware that the all-too-real conflict so cavalierly evoked was relatively fresh in his country’s mind. Although Fred himself had suffered no direct effects of the Great War, folks around his father’s ethnic sphere divided their silent mourning between the heroes of their beloved -- albeit adopted -- country and the sons of their original homeland -- all in a way, buried side-by-side, enemies and allies, one and the same. Naturally, nobody ever talked about it.

The amorphous angst completely vanished when an object caught Fred’s eye. Atop an unimposing molehill of rubble sat a shoe box which looked like a recent acquisition to the dump. The oblong container proclaimed itself as a vessel for the classy merchandise sold at an exclusive leather goods store downtown. The glossy cardboard, whose colorful patina and fancy lettering had somehow escaped the ravages of the elements and the contamination of its decaying neighbors, looked – miraculous to say – brand new. Here be pirate’s treasure blatantly deposited on a beach! No siren singing sweetly on some shore could have been as alluring as the mysterious contents of the box, tantalizing beyond the resistance of any mortal man.

But why would anyone throw away a new pair of shoes? Fred's heart leapt at the thought that perhaps the purchaser of these golden slippers had been such a spendthrift that upon discovering that the shoes were the wrong size, had simply thrown them away rather than take the time and trouble to return them. The spendthrift’s extravagance could be redeemed by Fred’s dump-combing diligence. By a mere whim of Fortune, Fred could be a hero with the discovery of him a new pair of footwear that could conceivably fit his father or Karl or even -- were the gods to be smiling in his own particular direction – Fred himself.

He raced the few yards to the hillock and knelt down. He picked up the box and shook it, like a gift left under the Tannenbaum by St. Nicholas, but in the act of shaking it, Fred experienced a touch of queasiness. The unknown contents didn't “feel” like shoes, not two halves of a pair, but something singular.

With more trepidation than hope Fred gingerly lifted the lid. At first glance, it looked like an extremely dilapidated doll wrapped in a piece of pill-flecked, white flannel. But with a closer look came an instant shock, initially brief but indescribable, a little like the way his cheek would wink at the first taste of sour cream atop his mother’s potato pancakes, or like the zzzst-zzzst buzzing his fingers the time he tried to plug in that old lamp with its frayed, wool-sheathed cord . A catalogue of similar startling experiences raced through Fred’s relatively-sparse memories.

Something was wrong. The thing in the box was once a living thing, had at one time drawn breath, had briefly inhabited the same world as Fred and Karl. But the color of the tiny cheeks was not the pink of his little sister nor the light tan of Karl or himself nor the nut-brown of his schoolmates who lived on the other part of First Street. Instead it was a somber gray, like the soot from the coal in the furnace, the refuse of which it was Fred’s responsibility to go down cellar and scoop up and leave in the cans for the ash man to retrieve.

Fred’s first instinct was to look for Karl, who, in a matter of seconds that seemed to take hours, appeared behind him. Never before had anyone heard the brave voice that gave Karl the order: “Go get that cop.”


“What? You must be crazy, Fritz! What d’ya wanna him for? He'll get us really in Dutch –“

”Go get him. Now.”

Fred was still shaking by the time the constable arrived. Despite the neighborhood scuttlebutt about his laziness, the officer in his double-breasted uniform and blue serge hat looked at least physically imposing. As he chomped on the knockwurst sandwich in his hand, he looked like a Cyclops swallowing some legendary mariner who'd fatally lost his way.

Wordlessly, Fred pointed to the shoe box. The cop heaved a exasperated sigh, but when he lifted the lid, he shrank back as if a multi-headed hydra were lurking inside. “You punks oughta know better than to be hanging around the dump. Now get home the both o’ ya before I run yas in for trespassin’.”

Quickly the boys dispersed. Unlike a too-curious Orpheus, Fred never looked back.

The Fred in that tale was my father, and I am his son, Fred Reinhardt, Junior, also called Fritz. I dropped the Junior decades ago when Fred Senior, aka “Fritz” died. I know the story only by the fragments of its bare bones, with the embellishing flesh grafted on by my imagination.

Rare are the times I recall that incident from my father’s childhood, but occasionally it shows up like an uninvited guest, such as now, as I hold my newborn grand-daughter for the first time. I wonder if the tale also periodically returned to my dad himself with the births of each of his own children.

Whenever he wanted to snap a photo of “all of us” with his Brownie Instamatic, he would line us all up like descending notes in a scale or steps in a staircase, youngest to oldest, tallest to shortest–Fred Junior, Karl, Thomas, John, and Gretchen. Years later I'd look at those black- and-white photos showing five pairs of eyes suspended in mid-blink by the startling flash of the bulb and think that we looked like targets in an amusement park shooting gallery.

A chronic sadness often befalls me, and it’s not only the sorrow for long-lost parents or the two sets of grandparents we'd never met. My siblings and I miss a precious legacy, bereft of family folklore, a body of myths never passed down through the generations. For reasons unknown to me, my parents zealously said virtually nothing about the past. They dug a moat and built an impenetrable wall around their castles, the bridges between years irreparably burnt.

My paternal grandfather could have been a latter-day Achilles, my maternal grandma a modern Deirdre, but no oral epics, no traditional tunes survive to ensure my ancestors’ immortality. I would give the world for an excerpt of our family’s Das Marchen, for one line of an Irish lyric, a fragment of a Dead Sea scroll unveiling a scrap of history about my father and mother. We grown-up children are left wondering: how is that a Fritz could grow up to marry a Celtic demi-goddess, who, for all we knew, had one day suddenly surfaced out of a swirl of sea-foam? To this day none of us knows for certain whether she came from County Cork or Kilkenny.

In terms of their respective autobiographies, compared to my mother, my dad was a little less stingy. For instance, he'd tell us that as a little boy he once “got in Dutch” with the principal of P. S. #21 for having decided to raise the school’s flag at half-mast because a fireman from the First Street station had died. Or he'd try to hide his pride whenever he told us about working in the local munitions factory during World War II, when the plant’s supervisor personally went down to the draft board to plead “Do not take this man! He’s too valuable here.” Those twin tales were among only a handful of anecdotes that my father deigned to share with us. He compensated for their lack of quantity and quality with a predictable frequency. Rather than bestowing on us a rich legacy of lore, he told the same couple of anecdotes, over and over again.

But that story about the dump – the time he found the baby in a box - he told us only once.

[AuntShecky]

When life (such as it is)

http://www.housingwatch.com/2010/03/12/awwwwk-bank-wrongly-seizes-home-takes-parrot/?icid=main|htmlws-main-n|dl8|link7|http%3A%2F%2Fwww.housingwatch.com%2F20 10%2F03%2F12%2Fawwwwk-bank-wrongly-seizes-home-takes-parrot%2F


follows art (to use the term loosely)
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=812382#post812382

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

This story contains some beautifully thought provoking moments and atmospheric description.

There are, though, a couple of things about it which trouble me.
It is not until two thirds of the way through the story that the reader realises that he is reading reminiscence. Although the reference to the Great War indicates that it is set in the 20’s or 30’s, the narrative appears real-time. The transition from this to the revelation that we are reading a second-hand memory is rather abrupt, and jars, at least with me. I feel that an opening paragraph setting the scene would be beneficial.

I also feel that the classical references are slightly over-used. The Cerberus one was good but Charybdis I feel is superfluous.

Oh and by the way, Hades was the God of the underworld, not the place itself. It was he who was married to Persephone. It is a common misconception though. People say Hades or Tartarus, (who was also a personality) although they both became synonymous with the deepest level of the underworld, probably due to a Homeric reference in the Iliad. You may be a grammar geek, but I’m a classical one.)

Over all though, I like what this piece has to say and enjoyed reading it.

H

[Hawkman]

Re Teach your parrot to talk.

This was quite definately brilliant, a great story, deftly handled and witty and amusing to boot. (I just wish the parrot had won)

Only one thing though, Parrots shouldn't be described as having 'chicken feet.' They are zygodactyl with the first and fourth toes pointing backwards with the 2nd and 3rd pointing forwards. Chickens have three forward pointing toes with the 4th pointing backwards. Still, there can't be much wrong with a story when someone can only complain about one word!

Thanks for sharing it.

H

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, Hawkman, for your observations concerning"The Myth of Generations." I hope you believe me when I tell you that much of that haziness in the time frame references were deliberate, in order to establish the son as an unreliable narrator. This stems from the absolute point of the story--or my intention for it, at least-- in which the narrator tries to piece together a family history from the paltry snips and fragments his parents left him.

And thank you especially for reading the parrot story which few people bothered reading and which, in addition to you, only one LitNutter commented upon. I'm glad you told me about the avian feet. I searched all over for an answer on the Web, and as is customary on Internet sites, the information was sketchy, if not specious.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

I guess my familiarity with birds put me ahead of the game with this, We used to keep chickens, when I was a kid. I was also required to make a short film about poultry farming a few years ago. Wickipedia has a good entry on parrots and you could google zygodactyl and find diagrams of avian foot configurations.

H

[AuntShecky]

“I Don't Care If I Never Get Back”

The grounds crew was taking its sweet time rolling up the tarp. They must be paid by the hour, Ernbacher thought, since the cause of the 92-minute “rain” delay had been nothing more than a wimpy sprinkle to begin with. Now the mid-afternoon sun was in full-blaze in a spotless sky to lock in the proverbial “beautiful day for a ball game.”

Kratchlow didn't know what he was missing. With a self-satisfied grin, Ernbacher pictured his partner scrounging around to fill a foursome on a course undoubtedly much wetter than center field. The only downside had been being shut out of the corporate skybox after that bizarre lightning strike coming from out of nowhere knock out the AC. But, even though he had to sit in the stands (albeit the front row), the ballpark was still a damn good place to be.

“Guess we lucked out with these seats, huh?” The voice came from the ill-kempt occupant of the seat next to him.

Ernbacher shrugged. “Season tickets.”

His neighbor pursed his lips and let out a low whistle as well as an unidentifiable odor. “Whoa! Too rich for my blood! But you can't get too much of a good thing, right, Pal?”

Aggh! The bad luck in having to sit next to a scruffy fan brought Ernbacher back to his pre-Lear days when he flew commercial. How many times had he been bumped from first-class to business and got stuck next to some loquacious simpleton. The seating capacity for Viagra MegaStadium was at least 85,000 with plenty of unoccupied seats, so why did this joker have to sit here? Scanning the venue’s vast expanse, Ernlacher noticed that even though it was a family-friendly Saturday, there wasn't one fan younger than middle-aged. Very odd.

Meanwhile the visiting New England Glaciers had suffered a strike-out, a pop-up, and a can of corn dented by a one-handed catch in left field. Bottom of the first, the World Champion Mid-Atlantic Oceanics had a lead-off walk, a strike-out by the third baseman, and with the star player grounding out to second, an inning-ending double-play.

“No score,” announced Ernbacher’s new pal. The status remained unchanged throughout the next five innings, during which time the devoted fan regaled Ernbacher with his entire repertoire of opinions regarding the state of the grand old game. To wit, the ever-evolving compression plan of the majors had reversed the expansion of the previous decades and merged the smaller markets into the more profitable larger ones. From an all-time high of 30 teams, the two leagues were down to 19. There were still two leagues, both each only with two divisions; take your pick, Chicago – East or West, with the venues transplanted into megalithic stadiums whose capacity rivaled the populations of medium-sized cities. Good pitchers yet commanded high salaries, so to protect the investments, the National League had been more or less “persuaded” to adopt the position of the Designated Hitter. Smiley here thought this was a “great” idea. “More hits, more HRs, Buddy!”

The fan’s heart’s desire wasn't yet forthcoming, as there was still no score in the bottom of the sixth. “How about our guy Todman there?”

Ernbacher couldn't argue. “Looks like he’s got a no-hitter going.”

The fan looked as if he'd been beaned with a foul ball. “Bite your tongue! Don't you know it’s bad luck to mention –“

“Well, then I'll mention Casagrandi. Nobody’s hit off him so far as well.” Ernbacher was working up a powerful thirst. Once again Ernbacher hated the fact that his skybox was inaccessible; there the libations flowed like inexhaustible fountains. Here slaking one’s thirst necessitated purchasing a beer from the inattentive vendors, and custom required that if he bought a brew for himself, he'd have to buy one for his neighbor. That’s just common courtesy. Aw, what the hell. Maybe he wouldn't talk with a mouthful of beer.

Top of the seventh, two outs, nobody on, Todman was taking an eternity between pitches, finally letting go with a fastball, which McTeague crushed. The Glaciers’ third baseman, savoring his home-run trot, didn't rush. Ernbacher’s buddy looked as if he was going to cry into his free beer. So much for the no-no. To make matters worse for the Oceanics, Casagrandi continued to hold the lead.

By the bottom of the Ninth, the Glaciers’ manager still hadn't gone to the bullpen. It seemed as if Ernbacher and companion would be witnessing sports history–a complete game no-hitter. Smiley looked ill. “This stinks! Why can't we get a hit, a walk, at least a base runner!” Relatively speaking, the sun had made better progress as the late-day shadows had begun to darken the field.

Two outs, last chance for the Oceanics with LeMange up, 301 lifetime batting average, .237 lately. The count, of course, was 3 and 2. Casagrandi reared back and released a horizontal meteor which headed right over the middle of the plate. LeMange’s eyes looked shut, but his bat was a blur as it sliced through the air –and made contact
with that incomparable sound, as the little white sphere scaled over the mountain-high stadium wall and, presumably, into orbit. The crowd sat in stunned silence for a parsec, then erupted into pandemonium. LeMange took his trip around the bases as slowly as a amateur marathon runner struggling to finish Mile Number 25.

Ernbacher’s neighbor jumped up and down and attempted a clumsy, elated embrace. “Tie score! Extra innings!” With as much dignity as he could muster, Ernbacher extricated himself from the fan’s exuberant hug. Turning his back, he punched a key on his cellphone. Nothing. Dead.“No signal?” Ernbacher’s partner asked. “Must be sun spots.” Regardless of the cause, the dinner at Shannon’s would have to wait. She'd be livid for his not calling, though, and have one of her scenes again, threatening to “tell” Nancy on him, her lawyer, Nancy’s lawyer, Page Six, the whole ball of wax. She was a good kid, though, reminding Ernbacher of Wife Number One – he had to think a minute to remember her name. ( Man, was he ever glad that the pre-nup had been iron-clad.) Still, Ernbacher hoped that there would be only one “extra inning”, two at the most.

Still 1-1 top of the 13th. By now the stadium lights were all on, joining forces with the city’s ambient luminescence to block out the stars. Ernbacher thought that his neighbor would've run out of topics by now, but he continued to drone on with his thoughts on steroids and performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals. “More power to ‘em, I say! “ The fan opined. “Hey, anything that makes a player more. . .more better, bring it on. But I'd sure like to get my hands on that little rat Ainsberg for spilling the beans.”

For reasons not immediately known to Ernbacher, he was bothered by a memory he couldn't shake. There was that middle-manager in accounting, what was his name, who'd been bitten with civic spirit to become a whistle-blower to the SEC. It took an army of exorbitantly-paid attorneys to spring the Firm out of that one. Wonder what he’s doing now, the little twerp. Not using his MBA at all, that’s for sure. Ernbacher had taken care of that.

It was edging toward midnight when the game reached the top of the 21st inning. Or maybe it was the 22nd. Ernbacher and company had lost count. The score remained 1-1. “Can you believe this?” Smiley remarked, part in disbelief, part in awe. “Botshawk’s changing pitchers again!” True, it was a bit incredible. Where were all the Oceanics’ relievers coming from? With the Great Compression, team rosters had expanded to 45 players for regular season, but still. Maybe behind the clubhouse the Oceanics grew them like tomatoes, a row for right-handers, a row for lefties. Back in his youth Ernbacher had seen a Ray Harryhausen movie in which a Greek warrior was battling an army of skeletons; as soon as he slew one bony figure, another one sprang up. That was the Oceanics bullpen.

Despite the occasional switch, the players, understandably, were looking exhausted. They struggled to go through the motions. At one point the Glaciers’ right field collapsed, but it took at least twenty minutes for trainers to get a stretcher and remove him from
the diamond; another forty for the game to resume. “Well,” Ernbacher yawned, “I don't know about you, but I've had enough.”

At the exit two uniformed men with folded arms guarded the door. “Sorry, Sir,” one them announced. “New security rules. No unauthorized personnel may leave until the final out.”

“The final out? And when, pray tell, will that be?”

“Why, it could be any time now, Sir.”

“Absolutely!” The other guard said, half-sarcastically. “Lopendi might hit us a homer.”

“Now, see here! You have to let me leave. Don't you know I am?”

The less-friendly guard grabbed Ernbacher’s necktie and yanked it hard. “I don't give a damn who you are. Nobody leaves until the final out.”

Ernbacher tried escaping through five more exits. Same story. Finally he returned to his seat and hung his head. “Hey! Look who’s back! Want me to tell you what you missed?”

Ernbacher shrugged. “Not really. But I'm sure you'll tell me anyway. Did I miss anything?”

“Not really.”

Top of the 40th, maybe it was the 41st, score still 1-1. Every drop of beer in the entire megastadium had been gone by the 33rd inning, and already the vendors had had run out of coffee. The sky was beginning to lighten, if a dark gray could be described thus. Could those be clouds, rain clouds? Maybe they would bring real precipitation now, real rain, calling for not a mere delay but a suspension! A downpour would allow them all to leave wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? Alas, already the sun was making its climb and re-firing its furnace. It was going to be a rainless day, and by every indication, a hot one.

[Hayseed Huck]

That first sentence kills the story-- too long.

Hypotactic too.

Hypotaxis thwarts the narrative by dependence upon the
subordinate clause.

Shouldn't be that way.

HH

[AuntShecky]

That first sentence kills the story-- too long.

Hypotactic too.

Hypotaxis thwarts the narrative by dependence upon the
subordinate clause.

Shouldn't be that way.

HH


No comprende. Could you show me the subordinate clause in this. It looks like a simple declarative sentence to me:
The grounds crew was taking its sweet time rolling up the tarp.

[Hayseed Huck]

This story ...

I didn't mean to say a subordinate clause can be
found in this paragraph.

I failed to write clearly.

In fact this pragraph is more paratactic than hypo-
tactic.

But there is a stall.

The relative functions as a subordinate without the forn
of a subordinate. It certainly is a confused construction.

Other notes--

'various amounts' is a pleonasm. 'Amounts' is sufficient.

'containers of various amounts.-- containers are not
'of' amounts. Not scattered about, but sitting upon
a counter or table.

Scattered about the tiny office were containers of various amounts of liquid, which at one time could be called “coffee,” stacks of print-outs describing incident reports from the wild and inter-department memos from the Commissioner’s office, as well as spoor samples encased in plastic sandwich bags and fragments of diverse specimens of flora and fauna from nearly every region in the state which should have never been removed from the lab in the first place.

The last 'which' placed late.

'the lab' no reference of a lab. Can't write 'the' lab.

'diverse specimens' is also a pleonasm.

'diverse' is one of those elegant but meaningless words.

HH

HH

[AuntShecky]

I thought you were writing about the latest story in the thread,"I Don't Care If I Never Get Back." That's why I was thoroughly perplexed by your reply.

In any event please read the reply immediately following this one.

[AuntShecky]

The following posting would be an appropriate topic for my "A Word With You" blog, but a previous reply in this thread has endowed me with what the media loves to call a "teachable moment."

If you heard "hypotaxis" spoken aloud you might think it has something to do with excessive levies. Maybe a Yellow Cab on steroids? Actually hypotaxis and its adjective, hypotactic, is a rhetorical device. According to The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms by Chris Baldick, it refers to the "use of connecting words between clauses or sentences explicitly showing the logical or other relationships between them: 'I am tired because it is hot." My trusty American Heritage Dictionary also includes "if" clauses (a dependent clause) with its example: "I shall despair if you don't come."

Nowhere is it written that it's verboten to begin a work with a hypotaxis expression. In fact, Virginia Woolf's revered novel To The Lighthouse begins: " 'Yes, of course, if it's fine tomorrow,' said Mrs. Ramsay."

The opposite of hypotaxis is parataxis, which is, according to Baldick again, "the juxtaposition of clauses or sentences without the use of connecting words: 'I'll go; you stay here.' A paratactic style has the effect of abruptness, because the relationship between one statement and the next is not made explicit." Baldick cites another example from such distinguished a writer as Thoreau, who was kind enough to his readers' intelligence by using subtlety and allowing us to "connect the dots," to use the media's buzzphrase du jour.

Generally speaking the literary device that involves "verbal compression" is called asyndeton. Asyndeton omits all connecting words which are substituted with a comma. The classic asyndeton is Caesar's "Veni, vidi, vinci." Another example courtesy of the Oxford Concise Dictionary is from Conrad's Heart of Darkness: "An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was thick, warm, heavy, sluggish."

And after randomly opening Ms Woolf's To The Lighthouse, I found this on page 96: "There was freedom, there was peace, there was, most welcome of all, a summoning together, a resting on a platform of stability."

The opposite of asyndeton is polysyndeton, the repeated use of conjunctions to link together a series of words, clauses, or sentences As an example, Baldick cites Endymion, the 1818 poem by Keats: "And soon it lightly dipped, and rose, and sank,/And dipped again." The second stanza of "Christ Climbed Down" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti is my choice for an effective use of polysyndeton. And if you happen to have a copy of Ulysses hanging around the house, pick it up and look at Molly's section, entirely free of paragraph breaks or punctuation. Yet look at all the "ands" sprinkled throughout the concluding nine lines of the book.

So we can see that there are numerous sterling examples of these literary tools employed by some of the finest writers of western civilization. This concludes our lesson on hypotaxis and its cousins.

(You're welcome.)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Well, I was as much bewildered as you may have been by the replies to what I supposed was "I Don't Care If I Never Get Back," but I found I had trouble with the meaning (pardon the expression) of the story, wasn't at all sure how I ought to feel about Ernbacher or that epic ball-game, although the story flowed as easily as yours always do.

[Hayseed Huck]

Thanks for the lesson dear Aunty...

I cannot disagree with your references.

I botches my reply.

Sorry.

I was drunk.

HH

[Hayseed Huck]

I cannot disagree with your reference.

I botched my reply.

I was 30% drunk.

HH

[Virgil]

That first sentence kills the story-- too long.

Hypotactic too.

Hypotaxis thwarts the narrative by dependence upon the
subordinate clause.

Shouldn't be that way.

HH

Her first sentence: "The grounds crew was taking its sweet time rolling up the tarp." That's too long? And what subordinate clause?


This story ...

I didn't mean to say a subordinate clause can be
found in this paragraph.

I failed to write clearly.

In fact this pragraph is more paratactic than hypo-
tactic.

But there is a stall.

The relative functions as a subordinate without the forn
of a subordinate. It certainly is a confused construction.

Other notes--

'various amounts' is a pleonasm. 'Amounts' is sufficient.

'containers of various amounts.-- containers are not
'of' amounts. Not scattered about, but sitting upon
a counter or table.

Scattered about the tiny office were containers of various amounts of liquid, which at one time could be called “coffee,” stacks of print-outs describing incident reports from the wild and inter-department memos from the Commissioner’s office, as well as spoor samples encased in plastic sandwich bags and fragments of diverse specimens of flora and fauna from nearly every region in the state which should have never been removed from the lab in the first place.

The last 'which' placed late.

'the lab' no reference of a lab. Can't write 'the' lab.

'diverse specimens' is also a pleonasm.

'diverse' is one of those elegant but meaningless words.

HH

HH

This is all gibberish.



Thanks for the lesson dear Aunty...

I cannot disagree with your references.

I botches my reply.

Sorry.

I was drunk.

HH
Well, that explains it.

[Hayseed Huck]

Dear Virgil,

I don't know why I care.

I'm 76 years old-- had my day.

But I want to know why you find my reply
gibberish-- my mild inebriation notwith-
standing.

... and I seek no confortation.

By the way-- is the Aeneid predominte hypotactic
or paratactic?

Please show me how 'various amounts' is not a
pleonasm.

Show me the article 'the' is incorrect.

Sentence too long? The first story in the
collection.

Show how the hypotactic does not stall action
in a story.

Teach me about the correct uses of 'which.'

Improve my language skills-- I wish not to
write gibberish.

Often my writing is dense, but I hope never
gibberish.

Please tell me your credentials that you make
this claim.

I find as I grow older I am more possessive of
my eighth-grade education. I guard it-- along
with the Irish whiskey in my right desk drawer.

I will make mistakes, many-- maybe answering is
one of them.
**

Subject forever closed.

No ned to reply.

It's not my life and it's not my wife.

HH

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

I interpret this tale as a vision of purgatory, the sly, incidental reference to the lack of spectators below middle age indicating that perhaps everyone is dead and in their own personal torment.

I’m sorry to say that my knowledge of Baseball and its customs is sadly limited, so I may be missing out on some of the fun you are undoubtedly having. Your description of the big hit was very inventive. Your use of the word parsec in this context is creative, some readers may not be aware that a parsec is actually a measure of distance, (a parallel second, or 3.26 light years) but the meaning in context is clear and expressive.

I confess to having been utterly confused by some of the comments but I consider your response to have been both courteous and informative and exercised with admirable restraint.

As always Auntie I enjoy your strands and look forward to reading your next offering.

Regards, H

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Prince, Virgil, and Hawkman for coming to my rescue.

And Hawkman, as far as the theme of the story goes, you hit the proverbial nail on the head. It could be Purgatory that Ernbacher's in or perhaps some place hotter. The story can be interpreted as an allegory of eternity.

The inspiration, if you call it that, came from two events in the current baseball season which began in early April. Recently an umpire (one of four referees per particular baseball game) complained quite rightly that some of the Major League Games drag on much too long. This umpire, Joe West, was referring especially to the games played by
the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. But since Boston and New York are such fierce rivals and both cities are highly populated, their games do seem protracted. My long-suffering spouse, Uncle Shecky, who is a life-long Red Sox fan, thinks the reason for this is to cram more commercials into their televised games. The other event that inspired me to write the story was a game last weekend between two National League teams, the New York Mets and the St. Louis (birthplace of T.S. Eliot) Cardinals. A regulation game is supposed to last only 9 innings, but because of a tie, it went to "extra innings, in this particular game, 20. It started at 4 p.m. and didn't end until a little after 11. As a life-long Mets fan, I was glad the Mets eventually won, but gawd, was it long!

And thanks for citing the use of the word "parsec." I used it because it sounded futuristic. Actually, on these shores we do tend to measure distance in terms of time, as in "Visit the Country Mall -- it's only 30 minutes away!"

[DickZ]

{Author's Note: This particular story appeared once before as an entry in the LitNet's Short Story Competition.
It must have been quite some time ago, as the typeface in the original file typeface was different from the font I've been using for the past year or two. In any event, I'm re-posting this thing in the fond hope it might generate some replies. If there are any replies, there are two issues or problems I have with the story which I'll 'fess up to if anyone posts a comment. Then maybe you and I can fix 'em. In any event, here 'tis --}

The Myth of Generations

It was risky for the boys to be in the alleyway behind Krause’s Butcher Shop. . . . .

But that story about the dump – the time he found the baby in a box - he told us only once.
I remember that story from the competition very well, and voted for it. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was the last story I voted for. I could tell immediately that it was written by our very own Auntie, whose fingerprints were all over it. We weren't able to comment on it during the competition, so I'm glad we can do so now. This is one great story.

I'm curious as to what the problems you mention might be.

[DickZ]

“I Don't Care If I Never Get Back”

The grounds crew was taking its sweet time rolling up the tarp. . . .

Bottom of the first, the World Champion Mid-Atlantic Oceanics had a lead-off walk, a strike-out, a foul ball caught by the third baseman, and with the star player grounding out to second, an inning-ending double-play. . . .
I regret to say that you lost me early on this one, Auntie. How can you ground into a double play when there are already two outs? I think this is the first time I've ever stopped reading one of your magnificent stories before reaching the end.

Maybe I'll try again later, when the shock wears off.

[AuntShecky]

And my technical advisor (Uncle Shecky) didn't catch it!
I'll fix it. Thanks!

[AuntShecky]

[The following rule-breaking piece of anti-fiction is a long short story or short novella. The three parts have been posted here consecutively. The author will be grateful to all of those who have enough patience to plow through the entire thing and to post their comments.]



Three Septembers

1.

It was the second Saturday in September, but nobody told the weather, just as sticky as it had been in mid-July. Christine --the lucky stiff!-- was now out of school and working. She got to sleep late on weekend mornings, so the job of referee passed down to me. So there I was sweating in the back seat of the Dad’s second-hand Plymouth, with the ugly, scratchy upholstery.

“Ewwww! Mom! Dwight broke the wind!”

“No, you did. He who smelt it dealt it!”

Each twin reached across me to swat or poke the other, for what must've been the fortieth time since we'd left the house.

My mother turned around. “Laura! What’s the matter with you? Can't you keep them quiet?” (As if they'd listen to me!)

“You stink!”

“No, you stink, Dwight –ooooo.”

The high-pitched bickering suddenly ceased, lasting for the two minutes or so it took to cross the bridge, strangely paved with thin, metal ridges that not only made a comical sound as our car drove over it, but also set off bizarre vibrations that tickled us inside.

During the all-too-temporary truce while Davy and Dwight reveled in the physical sensations of the bridge, I tried to look out the window at the river. Sometimes you could see a couple of gulls sweeping slightly above the surface, or if you happened to have hit the right time, a tugboat or a barge moving slowly downstream. I had to crane my neck like a periscope in the attempt to glance over the top of Davy’s crew-cut, but even more difficult was seeing anything between the closely-set vertical girders of the bridge. I thought I had a fleeting glimpse of the slim ribbon of water, but by that time the funny noise and the tickling had stopped, we were back on conventional macadam, and the brats had resumed their flailing and slapping.

We headed north on Broadway to a department store nicknamed “Monkey Ward,” our second trip there in a week, when we had made the annual trip to buy “back-to-school” outfits. This subsequent trip had a two-fold purpose. My mother held an unshakable faith that her eight-year-old twins were absolutely “identical,” yet despite her efforts to reinforce that notion by rearing, feeding, and dressing them alike, reality often superseded her deeply-held --almost religious -- belief. To everyone except my mother, Dwight was a taller, fatter copy of his twin. Both new pairs of pants only fit Davy, none fit Dwight, so one pair of the week-old corduroys had to be exchanged for an exact replica in a larger size. For the time being, the unusable pants with the tags intact and the receipt still in the flimsy, blonde-colored paper bag remained for the time being on my lap.

More pressing was to purchase a replacement for an end-table lamp broken that morning by one or both of the boys. Neither would confess to the crime nor finger the other, thus collectively escaping punishment, at least for a while. Normally, my parents, staunch devotees of the “make do” philosophy, would have postponed buying another lamp, but in this case, putting it off wasn't an option. That evening the living room had to look presentable, because we were expecting “Company.”

Once more the calendar had turned round to the time of one our family’s traditions, watching the country’s biggest beauty pageant on my father’s beloved Crosley. According to custom, we expected my mother’s brother, sister, and her husband to join us.

In the past couple of years we had all crammed ourselves into the living room to view this spectacle, which inexplicably captivated the adults. Early in the proceedings they'd pick their favorite to win the tiara, and if our state’s representative failed to make the cut in the semi-finals, they'd switch allegiance to a gal whose midriff-crossing banner indicated the name of a state geographically closest to ours. Such devotion baffled Christine and me. Two hours of sheer corniness could only be survived through irony, a term neither of us would have recognized at the time. Yet we'd roll our eyes and whisper mocking comments to each other over how the contestants, between the ages of late teens and early twenties, were gussied up to look like thirty-year-old women who'd already been around the block at least once. In the “swimsuit” competition we pondered whose bright idea it was to have the gals wear incongruous high heels that would sink deep down into actual beach sand, while the “swimsuits” themselves made them resemble trussed poultry. The misnamed “talent” segment was a treasure trove to strip-mine for laughs, from nasally-delivered aria to ventriloquism acts during which we'd crack up over which performer was the dummy.

“Christine,” I'd hiss, “what’s a ‘dramatic monologue’?”

“It means ‘She left her cheerleader’s baton on the bus.’ ”

To me the strangest part of the show was always the finale, with its phony suspense, overblown dramatics, and especially the lack of logic in which the third place finisher, the “second runner-up,” received special recognition and her own round of applause, while in the feverish rush to announce the new, the one in the middle, the real “Runner-up,” received barely an acknowledgment. This year, however, now that Christine had reached the age when she could openly slip out on a Saturday night, there would be no one to joke with. I'd have to suffer alone.

Of course, our typical family get-together invariably involved food in massive quantities. This particular occasion called for my mother’s famous golumpkis as well as her special dessert concocted with a can of crushed pineapple and an envelope of Knox unflavored gelatin, then allowed to “set,” like a prisoner doing time in a cold cell. Once sprung from the refrigerator, the spongy loaf was inverted onto a plate and ceremoniously crowned with copious squirts of ersatz whipped cream from an aerosol can. Aunt Margaret customarily brought the side dish, occasionally macaroni and cheese with tomatoes, or her home-made potato salad with its “secret” ingredient which everyone knew was mayonnaise laced with ketchup. None of these dishes appealed to me, (though I would have enjoyed the macaroni and stewed tomatoes served separately) but I'd pretend to ingest a little of each dish, more to avoid the inevitable reprimands than to be polite.

Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to that evening’s events, but first we had to get the Monkey Ward business out of the way. My father never wanted anything to do with shopping and often said he wouldn't put one foot into the A & P even if they were giving away free T-bone steaks. He was always willing to drive us to wherever we were going, but otherwise, we were on our own. Dad would stay in the Plymouth and stare out the windshield as he smoked one Lucky Strike after another. He didn’t even look as we hiked across the parking lot and climbed the huge flight of steps up the massive grey building.

With the scene the twins had caused the previous Saturday still painfully fresh in my mother’s mind, this time she announced an emergency procedure for maneuvering through the revolving door. “All right, Laura, you have Davy go ahead of you and as soon as you get inside, grab his hand. Then wait,“ adding, “and don't lose that bag.” The momentary relief from the heat was short-lived, as the interior temperature was undoubtedly just a few degrees lower than that of the heat-absorbing asphalt outside. The only perceptible difference was that the air was a tad less still, coaxed to move around by grudging ceiling fans.

We marched through the store like enemy invaders who'd captured two diminutive prisoners. Although my mother’s oversized pocketbook intermittently banged against her hip with her every step, she seemed to be handling Dwight better than I was. “You're holding my hand too tight!” Davy whined, and to underscore his point, it felt like he was pulling my arm out of its socket. At any moment I knew the flimsy bag I held in my other hand would crumble to sheds and the pants would tumble to the floor, to be trampled beyond any hope of an even exchange.

First stop, Home Furnishings. The pieces of furniture were set up as they might be seen in a hypothetical “home,” except every bed was completely made and none had piles of folded laundry, newspapers, or toys on top of it. The dining room chairs all matched their corresponding tables, some of which were covered not with flannel-backed oilcloth but real linen. The dinner plates on each table were the same size and pattern, and not one piece of silverware was missing. While I admired the elegance and remarkable consistency, my stomach sank a couple of feet the very moment I caught sight of a ring of shimmering crystal goblets adorning one of the tables. Only a skilled magician, perhaps, could have yanked that tablecloth and have the glassware land intact. Introduce a couple of rambunctious eight-year-old boys into the scene and next thing you know the Governor is calling in the National Guard.

Real panic set in when I momentarily lost my mother. With a protesting Dwight still in tow, she had somehow drifted over to the housewares section, where shelf after shelf over shimmering cookware and ingenious kitchen gadgets had lured her into wistful rapture.

“Mom? The lamp?”

Without a word, she pulled herself and Dwight away as the four of us backtracked across the entire sales floor. Unlike the furniture “suites” arranged with a quasi-artistic flair, the various merchandise was grouped according to an efficient pragmatism, like with like. The space in front of an entire wall was devoted to bathroom fixtures, including a phalanx of bone-dry toilets lined up like soldiers, their lids in full salute, a sight that sent the boys into an extended giggling fit. A long line of automatic washers, front-loaders segregated from top-loaders, flanked a corresponding row of dryers. The inventory was subject a subtle hierarchy designed to separate the well-heeled prospective customers from those whose circumstances kept them within the confines of the euphemistically-termed “budget.” Each appliance bore one of three tags indicating its relative status: “Good,” “Better,” or “Best.”

When we finally arrived at the section reserved for table lamps, I hoped that my mother wouldn't get that tell-tale browsing gleam in her eye and prayed that she'd find what we'd come for quickly. This was just about the last place on earth to bring Dwight and Davy, given their recent history.

Then, at last: “Christine–Laura, I mean– look at this. Isn't this the spittin’ image of the one that –“ sotto voce “– broke?” She was right, of course, the lamp could have been the twin brother of the one whose ceramic pieces and tangled wires had been laid to rest in the dustbin on our back porch.

“Yeah, you're right, Mom. Let’s buy it and get out of here–“

“Well, we don't want to have to lug it all the way to the boys’ section, do we?” she said.

“Tell you what. I'll bring Dwightie down to try on the pants, then we'll meet you and Davy back here.”

The words had scarcely left my mother’s mouth when Davy’s jaw dropped in exquisite indignation. “What? Why can't I go too? You're gonna buy Dwight somethin’ and not me? It’s not fair!”

Both my mother and I tried to explain that no, Dwight wasn't going to get something new, that we were just getting a different size of pants that they both already had.

“I don't care. It’s not fair! I'm not staying here. I'm coming with you.” Davy stomped his feet so hard that the lamps wobbled, and I was sure the vibrations even threatened the glassware on the fancy tables way back on the other side of the floor.

Meanwhile Dwight had joined the fracas. “Why does he have to tag along?” he whined. “I'm sick of him going everywhere I go!”

“Quiet, boys! Please don't make a scene–“ My mother’s reprimand did nothing to defuse the trouble. If anything, the noise escalated a few decibels. Then, through gritted teeth yet over-enunciating every syllable: “Listen, you ungrateful brats– we're going to go to the boys’ section and exchange these lousy pants or on the First Day of School Dwight will be wearing nothing but his underwear!”

Such a possibility plunged Davy into a seizure of giggles, just as loud, though as his screams had been. “Oh, you think it’s funny, do you? Well, you'll be wearing the very same thing!” Now both boys were stunned into silence, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

All this time my father had been waiting out there inside the sweltering Plymouth. Besides that we had to get home with sufficient time to tidy up the flat and finish cooking. My mother made her trademark noise of disgust: clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth: “Tsk! ”

The surrender surprised me. Usually she hated “giving in” to the boys’ demands and often bragged to her friends about her “strictness” as a disciplinarian. I took Davy’s hand.

“What're you doing? I'll take both boys. You stay here and keep an eye on the lamp. Don't let anybody else buy it.”

“Ma, it’s ninety degrees. Nobody’s going to come out and–“

“You heard me.” With that she grabbed the pants peeking out of the split bag and tucked it under her arm. I watched the trio make their way to the elevators.

Left to my own devices, I wandered around the lamp department for a while. It didn't take me long to realize that if you've seen one lamp, you've seen them all. One old-fashioned model, though, which had a metal tier in the middle to which a circle of prisms had been attached with tiny little hooks. To amuse myself I idly flicked one of the hanging glass points with my index finger and watched the chain reaction, each slim pyramid hitting the other and tinkling, until the swaying gradually slowed to a stop. I was hot, tired, and painfully bored, with the upcoming evening promising more of the same.

It wasn't so much that my mother’s relatives were bores, it was just that each visit was so predictable. At the arrival there would be a multilateral frenzy of greeting in the same loud voice which my father used during long-distance phone calls. The first sentence out of my Uncle Bob would always involve a detailed description of the traffic coming down on the Thruway. In a bellowing voice which he'd tell interminable jokes whose tardy punch lines never failed to escape my understanding. The adults, however, roared in delight, even Aunt Margaret who had no doubt heard him tell the same endless story a million times before. Early on, Uncle Art would quip with his signature line about being the “odd man out” or the “fifth wheel.” In his absence my mother sounded nearly apologetic when she'd refer to her brother as a “confirmed bachelor.” A family folklore had it that years ago Uncle Art had been deeply in love with the hometown beauty, that she had strung him along up to the point at which he was about to propose only to jilt him to elope with a vacuum cleaner salesman. Though we were forbidden under pain of death ever to mention our uncle’s “broken heart,” there was a slim chance the subject would ever come up. Because of his natural reticence, he was not a man with which a kid could comfortably converse, but Uncle Art was pleasant enough. Put a beer in his hand, and for the entire evening he was happy. Once in a great while, he would pat one of heads and remark, “What a nice crop o’ kids,” or when no other adults were looking, reach into his pocket and each of us a quarter.

Aunt Margaret would go down the line for hugs, and I would feel her fleshy cheek pressing against our faces and her scent, a mixture of powder and perfume, would linger in my nostrils long after she had sat, with a theatrical flourish, on the end cushion of my mother’s freshly-vacuumed davenport. Aunt Margaret would tell the twins that she couldn't believe how much they've grown, despite the fact she’d seen everyone scarcely two months previously.

Last year, after reminding Christine was “becoming quite the beauty queen,” she remarked on what a “tall girl” I was. I'm sure she meant it kindly, but I took it the opposite way. My height made me look older than everyone else in the class, as if I had been kept back a couple of grades. It made me feel dumb. Giving me a look more serious than the topic warranted, Aunt Margaret asked, “How’s your love life?” (“Love life?” I hadn't started high school yet!) Then she made fun of my blushing. “What’s the matter, Laura? Cat got your tongue?” This of course, only deepened the red in my face. A well-timed important segment of the televised pageant got me off the hook.

The MC was announcing the winner of the friendliest contestant. Christine and I always believed that this consolation prize was a back-handed compliment, like a description of a blind date: “Well, she’s not much on looks but she’s got a great personality.” My mother and her sister questioned the judges’ choice in this category. “Look at that one,” Aunt Margaret snapped. “Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.” With the prospect of enduring that again this year, I'd almost prefer wrestling an alligator.

At that point I endured the torture of a secular Limbo: with no great desire to be home, but hanging around the lamp department was no fun, either. Still, over and over I sent my mother a telepathic message that almost was a prayer: “Come on, Ma. Hurry up.” Once more I wandered through the aisles and looked at the same lamps for the fifteenth time. Then I saw something I hadn't noticed before – a pole lamp as nearly as tall as I was. Here at last was a piece of merchandise that interested me. It would look really nice behind a comfortable chair with smooth upholstery with an adjustable footrest. I'd sit in the chair with a stack of library books by my side and read to my heart’s content, while a good-natured cat silently snoozed in front of a warm fire. We didn't own such a chair, our lease forbade pets, and of course, our flat did not have a fireplace. (Every Christmas Eve the twins would tape their stockings to my mother’s china closet. “Don't worry,” my father would assure them. “Santa will know where to find them.”)

Even though I knew the pole lamp would never be mine, I reached up and turned the switch. It worked! When I turned the switch again, the light didn't go off, but got brighter, and brighter still the next time. A three-way bulb! “Bright, brighter, brightest.” Idly playing with the switch and watching the wattage increasingly improve itself mesmerized me. “Good. Better. Best.”

I felt someone tug on my ponytail. Turning around, I saw a middle-aged salesclerk in a short sleeve shirt and a clip-on bow tie. “May I help you?” I gave him the standard answer. “No, thank you, I'm just looking.”

“Well, I beg to differ with you, young lady. I've been watching you and I know you're not ‘just looking’– you're tampering with my stock.”

My stomach descended as if on the elevator down to the bargain basement. “No, no, I'm not – No, really, I'm sorry, I didn't mean –“

“This is just as bad as shoplifting! I'm going to report you to the Manager! What is your name?”

“This is just a misunderstanding. My mother–“

“ Name?”

“Uh, uh-- Julie Nixon!” I was just about to make a break for it when I heard two unmistakable, screechy voices. Then I saw the twins and my mother making their way through the small appliance section.

Evidently the never-ending argument was still going on, though the topic had changed.“I told you. You're not getting anything school until the teacher tells you what you need. That’s final.” The sternness of her face softened ever so slightly when she spotted me. “ There you are. And the lamp’s still here, I see.”

The look on the clerk’s face was a mixture of relief and confusion. “Oh! I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. I didn't know you were interested in making a purchase.” He put his hand on the pole lamp. “This is a floor model. I'll just check the lot number and get you one that’s boxed up.”

“Not this one,” my mother said, then pointed across the aisle. “That one.”

By the time he rang up the sale, the clerk’s attitude had brightened considerably. “Nice boys,” he said. “Are they twins?” If I were my mother, I'd have been sick of the question by the time they were toddlers. But she just smiled and nodded. “There you go, ma'am. Thank you for shopping at Montgomery Wards.” The cellophane-wrapped shade was bulky, but I managed to grip by its narrower top. The clerk thrust the oblong box under my other arm. “And nice meeting you, Julie.”

Davy wrinkled his brow. “Mom, that man called Laura by the wrong name.” Because my hands were completely full, I gave him a swift kick in the shins. It did the trick.



[Parts two and three continue below.]

[AuntShecky]

2.

Three Septembers –Part 2


The door to Room 207 in Van Vranken Hall was locked, with nobody with any authority in sight. Students, some looking already bored, milled around the corridor. Others intermittently checked their watches, while a few more kept referring to the “PSC”-- personal scheduling cards. There must've been some administrative snafu, mistakenly listing the wrong time or day of the week, which the professor knew about and the students had not yet been informed.

A couple of minor glitches and mix-ups had to be expected, especially in the beginning of a brand-new semester. Laura could have vouched for that probability from the day she set foot on campus. After driving for hours on a miserably rainy day, all the way teasing her with nicknames like “College Girl” and “Betty Co-ed” all the way, her father helped unload the aged Plymouth and lug a pair of suitcases, three large cardboard boxes, a portable typewriter, and a desk lamp up to her assigned “dorm room.” The number on Laura’s “POC” –“Personal Orientation Card” -- completely matched the number of the door of a utility closet, which was, incidentally, also locked.

A fearless soul in the group finally broke the ice. “Excuse me? Anybody know how long we're supposed to wait?”

A fashionably-dressed girl with professionally-styled hair volunteered the information. “The College Handbook says fifteen minutes.”

“You actually read the handbook?” Everyone broke into laughter, loud enough for the prof in a nearby classroom to open the door and glare at the group. Evidently his class had started on time.

The undergrad who'd asked the original question pointed to his watch. “Eight more minutes.”

The collective groan surprised Laura. Why the rush to “get out of” the very first meeting of a class? Why weren't they all eager, even excited, to start learning about this subject? Granted, the freshman course was a --new term – “prerequisite” for most liberal arts majors, but Laura would have gladly chosen it as – another college term – “elective.” Even the course title: “Philo. 101: Introduction to Western Thought” sounded classy. If folks back home were to ask her what she was studying, she could say “Philosophy,” and right away they'd think that they were talking to someone who must be smart. At least, that was Laura’s first impression upon reading the course catalogue back in May.

“ It’s so typical of Wiseman to be late,” a bespectacled student said.

Another student seconded him. “Damn straight. My suite-mate’s a sophomore, and he took this class last year. He told me that Wiseman took the whole class down to the Rathskeller, bought a bunch of pitchers, and threw them loaded questions. That was the final exam.”

“ You're putting us on!”

“ You'd better believe it!” said the kid in the glasses. “ One year he made them all stand on a street corner and told ‘em: ‘See that bus coming up the street? By the time that bus arrives at this stop, give me three reasons why I shouldn't throw myself under it.’ The kids who could come up with some fast answers passed the course.”

The girls shuddered, and the boys laughed. With the window for gossip wide open, more insidious rumors snuck in. Laura was at least savvy enough to know that these “tales told out of school” were more or less hearsay, but even so, brought more distress.

For each of the past dozen years she had anticipated going “Back to School” with heady confidence. She'd have all her supplies: a brand-new loose-leaf binder covered with pristine blue cloth, packed with lined filler paper with three, unripped holes on each page and a pack of #2 pencils, their erasers clean, smooth, and perfectly square, their virginal leads never having known a point, their hexagonal bodies unspoiled by teeth marks and stubbiness. There was comfort in fresh scholastic stationery ready to be filled with numbers, words, facts, and by extension, a young mind, reassured that progress was generally unobstructed and occurred along straight lines. But this! All she had was a printed catalogue of textbooks available at the campus bookstore, and contradictory instructions coming in from all sides. The path to college had begun like an entrance to a maze, so roundabout, three baby steps forward and four giant steps back.

The know-it-all in the glasses still wasn't finished. “Most of us could leave before he shows up, and he'd never know the difference, ya know? Never checked a class roster in his life. Never bothers learning anybody’s name.”

The earnest fashion model type looked stricken. “But how could he do that? I mean, like a third of our grade is supposed to be based on classroom participation. It’s college policy!”

“That’s just Wiseman’s way. He spends the whole period just asking questions and never tells you if your answer is right or not. You know, the Socratic method.”

Not quite sure of the meaning of that comment, Laura’s face burned. Was she about to drown in intellectual water a hundred fathoms over her head? Would she endure another disaster, just like her very first college assignment had been graded and returned that morning? For the first session of English Rhetoric and Composition, the students had written a personal essay in class, forbidden by the T. A., a jaded graduate student with a mean streak, to use any form of the verb, “to be.” Unwittingly Laura had failed to meet that stipulation by the second word of her first sentence, boldly circled in red, on the paper returned to her in the second session of the class earlier this morning. On top of the loose-leaf page the “F” looked as if it had been written in blood, at least as painful. Certainly, it “was.”

Leaning against the wall, a guy in a faded T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts apparently had waited long enough. He ground his cigarette into the tile floor, despite the presence of a sand-filled ashtray on the stairwell landing not four feet away. Then, flinging his dilapidated backpack over his shoulder, he exited without comment. For a fleeting moment, Laura considered following his lead. Maybe she shouldn't have come here. Maybe it was foolish even to think she was cut out for college.

Months ago her mother had tried talked Laura out of applying. She reached across the kitchen table and gripped both of Laura’s hands, perhaps a bit more tightly than the situation warranted. “You sure want to do this? Sooner or later, you'll probably get married, and all that studying and tuition would be a waste.”

It was difficult for Laura to stifle her laugh. It wasn't as if scores of suitors with engagement rings in their pockets were breaking down the front door, but even if she were involved in an exclusive “serious” relationship, what difference would it make? Why was settling down and pursuing a college education mutually exclusive?

“Look at Christine,” her mother continued. “She never went to college, and she’s got a nice job with the State. Making good money, too.”

She knew what her mother was implying. Every week Laura’s sister kicked in a few bucks from her paycheck for room and board. For a brief moment, Laura considered countering her mother’s argument by mentioning the increased salary a degree potentially might bring, but truthfully, that would be a lie, since Laura had never seriously factored in future earning power as a significant part of her plan.

“For God’s sake, Ma! It’s not like I'm asking you and Dad to pay for–“

“What’s the matter, we're not good enough for you?” Laura’s mother dramatically shot her hands up into the air and made her trademark noise of disgust. “Tsk! Aw, we can't tell you nothin’! No matter what we say, you'll just do what you want. ”

The student with the watch made an announcement. “Two minute warning, guys! We're coming down to the wire.”

Laura was prepared to wait the entire grace period. It would take more than a tardy teacher to make her give up this soon, not after the scraping and patching together of partial scholarships and grants, each a paltry sum on its own but helpful in the aggregate, as well as low-interest but still risky student loans which her father had co-signed despite his wife’s protest. Her mother had wanted Laura to “go to work,” and indeed she had, part time for minimum wage at the Brunswick Shopping Center after school, weekends, and every day of this recently-ended summer “vacation.”

Then, without anyone noticing, the professor finally “showed,” not particularly out-of-breath, nor offering any excuses (bumper-to-bumper traffic, no vacant spaces in the faculty parking lot), nor even a mumbled “Sorry” as he unlocked the door, yet stood holding it open and waiting until every student shuffled inside. He didn't look especially professorial; unlike most faculty members who seemed to have a boxy briefcase surgically attached to their hands, this guy didn't even carry a textbook. Despite his disheveled appearance, he looked a bit too straitlaced to get his students loaded on beer. Even if the story were true, at least he'd check their dates of birth to ascertain that they were all over eighteen. This faculty member could have passed for an undergrad, except for the tell-tale bald spot, a pink oval the size of an extra large egg on the back of his head.

“Sit anywhere,” he announced, with a casual wave of his hand. “First thing you want to do is look at your PSC. If it doesn't say ‘Philo. 101,' you're in the wrong place.”

From the back of the classroom someone shouted a mild expletive. Though it was much too late to hide his blunder, the red-faced kid tip-toed out the door. “Of course, you're always welcome to stay. . .” the professor said to a couple of slivers of ice-breaking laughter.

“The next thing you want to do is to take out a piece of paper and a pen--”

A hand shot up. “I forgot my pen. Is it okay to use a pencil ?”

The prof shrugged. “Pens, crayons, quills dipped in blood. So take a piece of paper and uh, a writing implement and compose a one-page essay titled ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation.’ “ A rustling sound waved across the room as nearly every class member began to do just that. “No, no, I'm kidding. Just pulling your leg.”

Laura had been among those who'd taken the teacher’s mock assignment at face value, so the revelation that it was just a joke slapped Laura with an embarrassing sting. She was nevertheless relieved that she didn't have to recap every single tedious day from late June through Labor Day at her menial job, such a contrast from the previous summers in her life, in retrospect not unpleasant at all.

For as long as she could remember, every Fourth of July Laura’s family would head to her Uncle Bob and Aunt Margaret’s “camp,” actually a modest cabin, on Caroga Lake. Typically the adults occupied themselves with conversation while ceremoniously preparing an al fresco feast on a grill, or-- as was the case of the last couple of years-- a dozen clambakes in netted bags simmering in a huge rented pot made of black porcelain spotted with white flecks. The mingled aromas of the namesake shellfish, half-chickens, “salt” potatoes, and early ears of corn would gradually increase in intensity over the course of the seeming eternity of the midsummer afternoon. Starting on the wrong foot with a bout of taunts or an altercation nearly coming to blows, the twins would make or renew transitory friendships with their counterparts from neighboring cabins. Laura and her sister would fake an aura of sophistication at the same time that they'd steal romantic glances at nearby boys in their approximate age range. Swimming or merely splashing, the children would stay in the water until their fingertips and toes crinkled, and their lips turned blue. Later, they'd romp on dry land where the adults would join the kids in comically inept rounds of softball or horseshoes, ostensibly to “work off”-- as it was said- the endless onslaught of crunchy snacks and the community meal, and the endlessly flowing carbonated streams of beer and soda, still bubbling inside stomachs.

In the cooler air of dusk, with their still-damp hair and dry sweatshirts over their bathing suits, Christine and Laura would sit at the end of the little wooden dock and wistfully dangle their legs into the water. When evening eventually fell, they'd look up at the quietly emerging stars and the lights from far-off cabins flickering on, one by one, encircling the lake like gems in a tiara. The combined fragrances of lake water, evergreen, and newly-brewed coffee would linger in Laura’s nostrils throughout the long ride back. Customarily arriving home late, they'd all be tired, especially the young twins, exhausted from an eventful day spiked with their characteristic mischief. Memorably, the year when the twins were about eight years old, the adults had to breakup a “sword fight” which the boys had waged with a spent sparkler and a sharpened stick earlier used to roast a marshmallow. That particular Fourth of July was one of several outings after which their mother swore she'd nearly “died of mortification.” But on that early morning in the glow of the streetlight in front of their two-family house, the sleeping boys were two identical angels, as each parent gently carried one boy apiece up to his respective bed.

This year Laura’s parents brought only the twins--under protest, since they were about to enter their teens-- and apologies that their daughters couldn't make it. Christine – the lucky stiff!– had been spending that week in Cape Cod with her fiancé and future parents-in-law, while Laura was left to scrounge for a ride to the shopping center, where she spent the entire holiday in the stuffy information kiosk while directing shoppers to the escalators or the lower level restrooms. Not even a Nobel Laureate in Literature could make an interesting composition out of that.


“Now what you want to do is write down on the paper one sentence answering the question: ‘Why should we study philosophy?’ That’s simple enough, right?”

Simple? One sentence? What was with these college teachers and their insistence on brevity? For all Laura knew, next time she'd have to explain the meaning in life in a single word.

Some students eyed the ceiling and others shot perplexed or indignant stares at their professor, who looked back at the class with barely-concealed amusement. Then, a dozen heads descended desk-ward as their writing implements scratched across the page. After a reasonable interval, he asked, “All done? Okay, the question was ‘Why should we study philosophy?’ How many of you wrote ‘Because we need the course to graduate?’ “

A few students sank in their seats, and a mere two or three tentatively but bravely raised their hands. “Oh, I see we have a couple of pragmatists in our group. And how many said ‘Of all the academic subjects, philosophy is the most important, or noble – or insert your own superlative here’ – or words to that effect?”

More hands shot up, this time eagerly.

“Ah! Optimism, the hallmark of the young! Ladies and gentlemen, meet the idealists among your peers. Well, I guess we're getting the idea that the original question has a multitude of answers. How ‘bout just one more?”

He turned to the blackboard behind him and neatly printed:
“THE UNEXAMINED LIFE IS NOT WORTH LIVING.”
He had scarcely finished writing the sentence before a dozen students had written it down in their spotless notebooks. Rubbing his hands together to remove the chalk dust, the teacher turned around and said, “Who was the first to say that?” Do you know?” In a gesture that bordered on the theatrical, he looked around the classroom. “Anybody?” Then after a frustrated sigh he answered his own question. “The guy who first said that was named Socrates.” (The professor pronounced it with the accent on the second syllable.) “He was a bit of an eccentric–a character with his head in clouds, who wandered around spouting wisdom – or nonsense-- depending on whom in Athens you talked to. You can learn more about him, if you're so inclined –“

Uh-oh, here it comes, Laura thought.

“–by reading the first three chapters of the textbook including the Preface, the Pre-Socratics, and the Introduction to Socrates-“

Somebody interrupted to inquire how to obtain a copy. Someone else said he'd already purchased one down at the campus bookstore, and another said that he bought it from a student who had taken the course last year. Still another asked if the textbooks was available from the College Library.

“Yeah, but this course has seven sections,” a good-looking guy said, “so chances are they've already been checked out. “

The expert on the College Handbook looked at him intently. She flipped her hair and lowered her gaze. Laura immediately pegged her as the kind of female student she'd often heard about – the girls not so much in pursuit of a B.A. but a “MRS.” degree. And true to type, the girl held her admiring gaze as her new crush continued. “And you prob’ly couldn't keep it out for the entire semester. You'd have to read the whole thing in two weeks.”

The digression threatened to get out of hand, but there was no indication that it had annoyed the professor. If anything, he had completely ignored the whole interruption and plowed on. “Now, you and I might still ask ‘why?’ How could a remark from some kook who lived two thousand four hundred years ago still be relevant today? And how different is our world from that of Greece in the 4th century B.C.?

“In so many ways the Greeks were just like us. They wanted to live in peace and prosperity as opposed to poverty and war. They had wars, we have wars, but the difference is their ancient weapons were primitive compared to ours, which could wipe mankind off the face of the earth in a matter of minutes. If that’s the case, maybe you might think what’s the use of studying philosophy, of studying anything for that matter, if we're all doomed. How many of you think that’s true?”

Not one student raised his hand. “Hmm. Not a nihilist in the bunch. Let me ask you this: even without the shadow of nuclear weapons, has modern life really progressed beyond the nasty, brutal, and short existence of early man? It’s only a matter of luck that we live in a so-called democracy – which Socrates disdained by the way. We just as easily could be living under a totalitarian regime. Apart from oppressive governments, what if individuals had no value in society other than as nameless, expendable units of labor in an materialistic system? And even if you achieve personal satisfaction, even fulfillment, it may be short-lived-- you still have plenty to worry about – economic depressions, overpopulation, crime, cancer and all manner of debilitating diseases, natural disasters, man-made destruction of the earth’s resources by industrial pollution, and so on. And don't forget Number One on your Hit Parade--Death. By every account life really is ‘absurd,’ as the Existentialists say. Does human life mean anything at all? What would make it –“ he pointed to the quotation on the chalkboard -- “worth living?”

The smart aleck in the glasses shouted out, “ ‘That which does not kill me makes me stronger!’ “

“Oooh, a quoter! Let me throw another one at you: ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing.’ But you're on the right track, in a way. In the midst of suffering man has a tendency to look outward for comfort – to religion, to 19th century German philosophers, a slogans from a Day-Glo poster on your roommate’s wall. Ultimately, though, where would you have to look? Within? Which is no guarantee that you'll find an answer. But you still have to keep looking because . . .” He turned to the board, picked up the chalk, and underlined what he had written.

“That still won't give us all the answers, though. We want guidance, we want specifics. Philosophy is by nature academic, ethereal, with its head in the clouds. Oh, it’s real, all right, but it’s no something you can see or smell or hold in your hand. The Love of Wisdom. So, back to that original question: ‘Why should we study philosophy? Why bother thinking about thinking? Of what practical purpose should is pure thought?” He waited for a second or two. “ Anybody?”

The big mouths who believed they had the professor’s number when they had gossiped about him in the hall raised their hands. Others quickly assumed a low profile. Disregarding both factions, the teacher pointed to the area of the classroom where Laura was sitting. There was an audible gasp – he was actually calling on someone! “The young lady right there.”

Raising her eyebrows, Laura pointed her own index finger to her chest as if asking, “Me?”

“Yes. You.” The professor leaned forward, fully expecting an answer.

“Well, um, hmm. I don't know, Sir. I mean I can't really say for sure, but–“

“But?”

“In high school I complained about having to study intermediate algebra. I thought it was stupid. I mean, when was I ever going to use that in real life? Same with Latin. I had no plans to become a doctor, but they made me take biology. Well, um, I went to class, did my homework, and uh, managed to pass the exams. But even though I'll probably never have to solve an equation again or dissect a frog, I think I know now why we had to take those courses. “

Somebody in the back of the room yelled, “Cause you needed ‘em to graduate!”

“Yeah, that, too, but I think we were supposed to use our brains. Develop our minds, I guess. But even if it’s only like you said ‘pure thought,’ maybe there’s something more important than how to apply it in real life. Maybe it’s not even the knowledge itself but the way of getting it, the process.”

After her breathy and nervous response, Laura she thought she saw the corners of the professor’s mouth turn upward just a little bit. “What was that last word you said?”

“Um-- ‘process’?”

“ ‘Process,’ “ the professor repeated, without further comment.

[The third and final part appears below.]

[AuntShecky]

[PLEASE NOTE: This is the third and final part of "Three Septembers," the first two parts appearing in Reply #40 and #41 above.]


3.

My eyes won't open. It’s as if both lids have minds of their own, stubbornly refusing to allow me a glimpse of the pre-autumn sun slanting through the windows.

The hearing seems okay, though. Over in the next room a televised day game is on, but I just can't make out what kind of sport it is. Did the announcer say “line drive” or “30-yard line”? It’s either late-season baseball or early season football. Wonder if my neighbor shares the same circumstances. If so, it would be horrible if his team loses.

The voices of the nurses and nuns are coming in, not loudly but clearly. I recognize their matter-of-fact tone, conscientiously devoid of a false cheeriness but not overly somber either. Except the times when they see David and out comes the upper register chirpiness. I want to yell: “He’s not a child! And he’s not deaf.” They're nurses. They should know better.

I wonder if they've made The Call. Then it’s just a matter of time when –“Immediate Family Only!”-- will tiptoe in, each secretly relieved that he or she isn't “too late,” that they've been allowed an opportunity to be here when it happens. Whit, who’s here more than he’s home, would arrive first, with David in tow. And Sharon –wait, if she comes over, who'll stay with the kids? That was Grandma’s job!

Ow. Ow. OW! That was a rough one. If that sharp spasm below my waist had been an earthquake, the seismometer would have gone right off the chart. More to come? A large, bridge-busting tremor or just a wimp of an aftershock? Should I ring for meds? Whit’s always saying, “For Chrissakes, don't be such a martyr! Push the call button!” At the moment, though,I can't reach it. Not quite sure I can lift my arm. The dope doesn't work that great to begin with, but it always makes me feel floaty, out of it, not in full command of my senses, such as they are. So maybe it’s just as well. But I still need a little help here, if only to wipe my face, run a brush through my hair. Would it kill them to put my dentures back in?

Later with the Arrangements all in place, it will be Show Time, suitable for a larger audience to join the core, the nucleus, “the survivors” – as if they'd all gone down with the Titanic. The up-front seats in the joint would be reserved for the spouse and children: a son named after a heroic uncle he'd never met, a daughter who’s “between husbands” and whose eyes are wide open for a possible successor, even as the mascara liquefied by tears runs down her cheeks. Maybe Dwight will make it. Poor guy. First he’s got to humiliate himself through the airport security, then sit for the long, long flight from Seattle. And for what? Christine’s trip will be much shorter, and if previous similar experiences are any indication, she'll take pride in taking charge, in going out of her way to be of assistance, serve as a bulwark of strength, until -- she sees her niece and nephew and her surviving male sibling and the white knuckles of her widowed brother-in-law stoically gripping the pew. At that point she'll break down into convulsive sobs, the decibel level rivaling that of professional Irish keeners, and those she had intended to console will instead be comforting her.

Of course, that’s presumptuous. Expecting to be the inspiration of teeth-gnashing, garment-rending grief is a symptom of the incurably conceited. Not every vain person has this trait, though, for vain people also think they're immortal. It’s a dubious distinction when a human being is given first-hand knowledge that his days are literally numbered.

The day I found out, the specialist seemed young enough to have been barely past his residency, probably lacking enough experience under his belt to finesse his way through a dismal prognosis. He looked stricken, more upset than I was, when he choked out the answer to how many months I had left.

“Well, at least that gives me enough time to finish my novel,” I said.

His eyebrows jumped up. “Oh? You're writing a novel?”

“No. Reading one.”

The cloud completely vanished from his face, the sun fully out. So glad to be let off the hook as a bearer of bad news. “In that case you'll definitely have enough time.” Then his foot went right back into his mouth when he added, “Maybe you ought to write your memoirs.”

Right. A Memoir. How trendy! The medium of choice for this nakedly public, tell-all age. Once I cranked out a little piece about going shopping with my mother and the twins way back in the day. With all the putrid water having churned its way under the bridge over the years, I can't imagine writing anything now. Merely the act of thinking saps all the energy reserves.

Lately too much is sprinting through my life too quickly. Yet its inevitable end is dragging its feet. “It’s all for the best, “ the fam will undoubtedly will say, consoling one another. Still a rung up from those New Age-y airheads pontificating about a “natural phase of life,” part of the “eternal cycle of the universe,” and all that garbage. That stuff is usually spewed by somebody whose framed portrait is titled “Health”. They're rhapsodizing about some formless idea in the abstract, light years away from actually feeling the hot, blood-smelling breath of a real beast panting down the back of my neck.

“It’s all for the best, “ the fam will undoubtedly will say, consoling one another. “She was suffering so much. Now she’s in a better place.” Right at this moment I can think of places I'd rather be. Sitting on the topmost crest of one of the Green Mountains and watching the sky turn hundreds of shades of pink. Or serenely surveying the width of Caroga Lake from the end of a rustic dock. Or supine and tricked-out on a barge, flaming Viking-style as floats down the river, miraculously clean and blue. Nowhere like the human equivalent of an elephant graveyard. Anywhere but here.

Wasn't settled in this room for more than an hour when the resident priest popped in with the welcome, the set piece dripping with consolation and the last-minute soft-sell. Evidently the good father hadn't gotten the young doc’s memo-- re: the memoir-- for the set-piece included the line, “Now is not the time for regrets and self-recrimination.”

I've got plenty of both. In an instant I could call up a thousand gaffes that are decades-old but still had the power to light my face on fire. So many sins it would take a week to confess. Then again, like nearly every human being that has ever drawn breath, more sinned against than sinning, with too much one’s plate, more than a fair share of slings, arrows, and clichés, too many tough rows to hoe, too much of the sorrow and the pity, too much, not enough.

Too many tired expressions proving to be true. Not the one that says a dying man never says “I wish I had spent more time at the office.” Not the one about a woman sacrificing a career for her family.” Could have been completely alone and the career still might never have materialized. The country’s economy –up and down through the decades-- no effect on us whatsoever, not with a never-ending personal recession, no real career for either of us, just scatter-shot jobs, patched together, taking turns, one working days, the other nights. It never was enough. No, I can't look back. But I have to look back. The griefs experienced too early, the crushing disappointments of middle-age, even, yes, even now with this unprecedented physical anguish and terrifying angst, all of them put together are nothing next to lifelong poverty. Sorry, you nostalgic memoirists with your rose-colored hindsight, but there’s nothing “genteel” about poverty. It’s life-defining, life-denying. It limits you, throws its ugly shadow over everything, has a big say in every decision, dictates what you can eat and what you can wear and what kind of medical care you can obtain, tells you where you can live and where you can go and what you can do, it steals your freedom, your ego, your ambition, your hope. Just about the only good thing it does for you is show you who your friends are.

Good parts, there must have been some good spots -- savory evenings, sweet days, precious for their rarity. The blessing of a daughter and then, the late-in-life surprise, with the immeasurable height of joy tinged with the bottomless depth of heartache, his tenuous well-being left in our dubious care, the task of tending to his needs becoming a career in itself, the hell with the lack of dough, the debts, the lack of a career– he became our career- maybe it wasn't enough–we'll leave the business about sacrifice to you, Father. We did what we could, we gave what we had.

“Now is the time,” the priest said, “for gratitude and peaceful reflection.”

Ah, the ol’ fashioned Examination of Conscience in New Age terms. Maybe not so new, as in “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Where did I hear that first? When? Must have been in college days, in a year deep in the past, some long-ago September.

My God, that was so long ago. I can't remember the SAT or the GRE scores, not even the names of the courses I took, or even my G.P.A. Only a handful of the profs. That wacko philosophy guy – what was his name? Started with a “W.” “Warner?” “Werner?” Last day of the course he handed out blank index cards. “Here you go,” he said. “Write down your final grade for the semester.”

Right away everybody thinks: hey, this is great. Your ultimate gut course. I'll be honest and give myself a “C.” No, a “B” – that will be better. What the hell – make it an “A,” that’s the best!

He had our number, that one. “Before all of you blithely jot down an ‘A,’ “ he said, “perhaps you'll want to think about it first. You might ask, ‘What if he’s testing us? What if he’s being perverse?’ For all you know, I might say, ‘This student doesn't take this seriously enough. He deserves a C or a –shudder!- D.’ On the other hand, I may be giving you the benefit of the doubt, and your grade will be exactly what you put down on this card. For all you know, the minute you leave this classroom I might take this bunch of cards and dump them into the trash without looking at any of them. The point is – you don't know what’s going to happen. You're going to have to think like high rollers in Vegas – all you can do is take a risk.”

I can't believe I remember that. Don't remember what I wrote on the card or even my final grade in that class. But I'll remember the devilish grin on that man’s face until the day I – Well, I was no different from the other students who ran up to him and gushed, “Oh, Doctor What’s-your-name, I really learned a lot in this class.” Though, in the end, philosophy can only go so far, the ultimate puzzle of existence remains unsolved. There’s all kinds of speculation of what really happens at the Big Moment, nobody can say for sure. I'd be lying if I said that it hasn't crossed my mind that afterward there is only nothing. Literally. But even if it really is oblivion, there won't be any part of me left, no trace of consciousness to know the difference. Really, what’s to hurt?

Still, my inner self, feeble as it is and “all too human” --who said that? Nietzsche?-- wants to cling to an idea of something afterward. If that’s true, where do we all go? Where are all the people whose “remains” as they're called I saw lowered into the ground? Would they be exactly the same as the last time I saw them, seeing the tangible things of this world, breathing real air? My mother and father, aunt and uncles, are they still belching cabbage rolls and platitudes? And my dear Davy, with one strike, his twin suddenly made singular -- would I find him dressed in jungle fatigues, the never-used weapon still slung over his shoulder? Would they all be the same age as they were when they –oh, that bloodless euphemism –“passed” or would they get older and older through eternity. For what it’s worth, I suspect our eternal “age” is the one we think ourselves to be, forever on the cusp between childhood innocence and adult knowledge, just around the age I was way back on a Saturday night in September, so long ago:

“. . .And so the priest says to the Divil, ’ Sure and why didn't ya tell me, now? You'll be wantin’ the First Presbyterian, two doors down the street!”

At my uncle’s punch line, the adults burst into eye-wiping laughter. “Ha, ha, ha! That’s a good one, Bob!” As ever, I didn't get it. Their attention gradually shifted back to the beauty pageant on the television, until a commercial for a home permanent interrupted the suspense. At that point, Aunt Margaret put one arm around each twin and asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“I want to be a fireman!” Davy said, an answer to which Dwight immediately took issue.

“That’s not fair! You can't be a fireman! That’s what I want to be!”

My mother looked as if she were about to die of embarrassment (again), until Uncle Art defused the situation. “Nothing to worry about, Boys. There’s no law that says only one fireman per family,” he said, throwing me a surreptitious wink.

“You mean it, Uncle Art?”

“Oh, absolutely! Besides, you'll probably be stationed in different firehouses – on opposite ends of the city, I imagine.”

With the next World War diplomatically avoided, I fully expected Aunt Margaret to pose the very same question to me. I stood looking, even staring at her, and smiling as if to say, “come on, ask me, ask me.” She probably thought I would say something traditional, such as wife and mother. That would be a good answer. A better one would be a conventional female occupation like a teacher or a nurse. I wasn't thinking along the lines of a profession or even a career. The response I had in mind was the best possible answer anybody could ever give, one that would be perfect because it would be true.

But the tv ad ended and the pageant came back on with the crucial point where the finalists express their desire to help people and to promote world peace. This part of the show always mesmerized my mother and especially Aunt Margaret, who forgot about her question, and she never asked.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie

Well, I have dutifully read every word of your magnum opus, the existence of which must go some way towards explaining your recent, apparent absence, from my habitually frequented threads. If I may, I’d like to give a broad stroke impression on its entirety.

Firstly, I was somewhat disappointed not to be regaled by your trademark humour. I very much enjoy your biting satirical wit, and the minutia of the detail describing the mundane occurrence of a trip to the shops in part one, I found, did not make up for its lack. It’s not that I consider any of the writing to be bad, merely that the subject is not one which holds my interest. While it may resonate with American womanhood, even women world wide, to an unreconstructed, British, conservatively, middle-aged male, the delicately penned portrait of the familial outing, seems to be included merely as a point of reference to a casual remark in part three, which is by far and away the best of the three sections.

Whereas there seems to be little time elapsing between part 1 and part 2, only a few years perhaps, the impression given is that there is a lifetime between part 2 and part 3. There was a point early in the narrative of the third section that made me think it might refer to childbirth, but this was quickly superseded by the description of the terminal diagnosis. Part two, though, was quite interesting as a discussion on the relevance of the pursuit of philosophy, but again, its purpose seems to have been to provide an overly detailed point of reference to a casual thought evinced by the narrator in part three. The avoidance of a conclusive ending to part two, which is echoed in part three, though, I found to be delightfully mischievous. It gave the impression of reading the ultimate shaggy dog story.

So, dear Auntie, the primary reaction of this reader is that the piece is much too long. The meat of the piece is in the last section, and the vast detail provided by the preceding two, could be easily condensed and segued into part three as flash-back reminiscences. I fully understand and appreciate that you were deliberately not conforming to traditional narrative style, but I can’t help feeling that not to do so does not enhance the reading experience on this occasion.

Lastly, there is an alarming habit in the readership of the forum to assume that everything they read is autobiographical. Well, maybe some of it is, but I prefer to hope that there is sufficient imagination in the writings of our authors for this not to be the case on every occasion. I therefore hope you are in the pink and ruling your roost with a rod of iron, fully decked out in your high heels fright-wig and chain male, declaring to Uncle Shecky, “Well, mister raggedy-man, ain’t we a pair!”

Live long and prosper, Hawk.

[hillwalker]

I have also just finished reading this (every word - I swear) and I'll admit I found the third segment a bit of a letdown. Since I generally prefer the starter and main course to the sweet, this would not normally be a disappointment, but I suppose I was expecting a more powerful conclusion.

Part 1 with its humorous observations on characters, the humdrum of family life and the wonder of televised beauty pageants was brilliantly observed and I would gladly have spent time reading more about this phase of Laura's life.

Part 2 introduced a little more reality - our heroine now having to stand on her own two feet, and those freshman collywobbles were only too real. But by now Laura was also becoming perhaps a little too self-conscious which made the lighter observations less natural.

Then Part 3 - this took me a while to get my bearings as it was altogether different. Was it still Laura? How much time had passed - surely not a 'lifetime'? I can see it was an attempt by Laura to capture the moments in her life that crystallised who she believed she was and what parts of her she felt mattered most clearly - those two preceding Septembers. It's a shame she had no other Septembers to reminisce about - I would have liked to get to know her better.

So, although it left me feeling a little short-changed, in terms of enjoyment and food for thought one could not ask for more.

H

[DickZ]

An interesting piece, Aunty, but having enjoyed so much of your writing in the past, I know you could make it much better. I don’t know if this is just a first draft that you’ve tossed out for comments so you can continue working on it, or if you have already spent lots of time completing several iterations. I tend to believe it’s probably the former, because I’ve seen enough of your writing to know that you always polish things up very well before posting them, and I don’t see that same polish here.

My first observation is somewhat trivial, but still important. I found it confusing to see Parts 1 and 3 written in the first person, while Part 2 is in the third person. Was that intentional? If so, I am curious as to the reason. I find things like this to be unnecessary distractions because when I stumble over them, I have to wonder about why it’s done in such a manner, and probably miss much of the story while I’m doing all that wondering. Distractions don’t help the reader, and only make for confusion.

I agree wholeheartedly with Hawkman in that Parts 1 and 2 are just a few years apart, and then Part 3 comes along a whole lifetime later. Surely it would have been better to convert Part 3 into Part 6, and insert a few intermediate milestones. Something noteworthy must have happened between Laura’s first year in college and her last few minutes of life, unless she died before reaching her 25th birthday. Since you mention dentures in Part 3, it's unlikely that she died that young. It’s almost as if you got tired out and wanted to get this finished in a hurry, so you prematurely jumped ahead to the end.

You did a wonderful job in capturing what goes on in one's life, such as the squabbling of the children and the downside of family get-togethers, observations that come only through enduring life's experiences, but there could and should have been so much more of this. That ability to capture life so vividly is the hallmark of your writing, but you stopped short here.

As you already know, but I should repeat it here after all this carping, I admire your writing a great deal. Maybe I missed something here, but I tend to believe you could improve this quite a lot with some more work.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you so much for reading this, Hawkman, hillwalker and DickZ. I especially appreciate your spending the time to plow through this, since I was obsessed with it for the past month-- just ask my long-suffering fam. Every spare moment of available computer time was spent writing this thing. Yet I was was afraid that I wouldn't get any readers at all, because of the unwieldy length.

So though I'm a bit disappointed in your collective disappointment with it, I am pretty sure that I'm satisfied with the way it came out, though the process was painful to the core.

Well, this is admittedly a "rule breaking thread" and right now I'm going to break the cardinal rule that mandates that a work should stand on its own. Still, my dear readers, all three of you, brought up some points that I will address.

It wasn't my intention to make this an acutely humorous piece, even though humor (such as it is) is the usual metier for yours fooly. On the other hand, I didn't set out to write an overly serious tract, either. Adopting a ponderous tone is the kiss of death in fiction, if you ask me.

Yes, there are time lapses among the three parts. There is textual evidence of the approximate age of the speaker/protagonist in the first part in which she deems her aunt's question to be inappropriate -- "she isn't even in high school yet." One of the last paragraphs of the third part says how old she was in part one.

There is evidence (both in parts II and III) which hints at the purpose for which she wrote that personal essay, which constitutes part one. The second part takes place at least 4 years after the first part, in which the protagonist is a freshman experiencing her first couple of days at college. In the time frame of this particular story, the fall semester started in early September, not in late August as it seems to do these days. And yes, the concluding part takes place during the last days of the protagonist's life, at some kind of hospice. (I sound like a lawyer: "the party of the first part!")

To the question whether the story is "autobiographical," it is--but only in the sense of an author's personal experiences, general knowledge, and observations having become --to use a cliché --"grist for the mill." The family structure, both the one of the protagonist's childhood and that of her adulthood, are vastly different than that of the author, although some of the older relatives are composites of people I actually knew or had heard described by people I know. (There's a little bit of a weird coincidence that happened immediately after I finished this story on Weds., though, that I can't go into publicly right now.)

The second part of the novella--or whatever you want to call it -- was intentionally written in the third person, although from the protagonist's perspective. This part is "framed" by the beginning and concluding parts, the first
with the "personal essay" and the third the stream-of-consciousness/"interior monologue" reminiscences.

The two earlier memories are neither random nor arbitrary,
and there are textual allusions back and forth throughout the three parts, both in imagery, symbols, and dialogue.
The links are therefore in the structure as well as in the subject matter.

Your comment, Hawkman, as to this story's lack of relevance to a British gentleman such as yourself certainly is valid, but may I add that the works of Joseph Conrad, for instance, or Herman Melville, or Tolstoy have little correlation with the life led by an aging working class North American woman, yet I read them. (This is NOT to suggest that my writing skills, such as they are, are even on the same planet as the aforementioned writers, but if we only read books that directly conformed to our own lives, how could we grow, how could that add to our understanding of not only literature, but the world?)

I didn't intend for the thing to be interpreted particularly as a woman's or "Women's" story, but a genderless, human one, one of many responses to the human condition, i.e., how do we make sense of this life of ours, where can we find meaning? If there is a theme to this thing, it appears -- like a sledgehammer!--in the second part, where the axiom of "So-CRA-tes" appears.

Thanks again for reading this. I greatly appreciate it.

(EDITED with added material on 9/8/10 and fixed the embarrassing spelling error.)

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

With regard to your response to my response, I feel bound to point out that the story as a whole did hold my interest. I believe I did specify that it was the detailed description of the shopping trip, which, although excellently penned, was a subject for which I had little enthusiasm. Though I fully accept that the works of great writers are often outside the experience of the reader, in fact it is because they are that we read them, (even though I never liked War and Peace :D ) I feel bound to point out that a trip to the shops in the company of unruly children and a harrased fussey mother, may well be so familiar as to need a particular treatment to make it a more gripping narrative.

My priciple objection is that the first two individual sections don't really lead anywhere, and as I previously observed, only appear to serve as background for oblique references in the stream of consciousness of the dying woman. The subject of the the third section is the one with the most drama, how could it not be? Death is a universal experience and speculation about it a very human trait.

Regards, Hawk.

[Jack of Hearts]

On Three Septembers :

The most striking part to this reader was part two. How very accurate a description of that introduction to philosophy class.

One feels a ferocious intellect at play in the writing. There is no denying the soundness to the skill here or the ability to compose. But one is left feeling that such intellect cannibalizes itself. Whereas being detail oriented and analytical and thorough to such a high degree is desirable in most other forms of writing, this reader feels that fiction must before all else deliver user friendliness (or friendliness in artistic challenge) and illicit emotional response from the reader (this is an aside: right now the reader is thinking of a LitNet poster who's English is not quite fluent but who's fiction is still curiously striking). Though it was pleasing at times and offered warmth in tone (as does much of your writing), the piece is fairly bogged down in a certain way. Yes, your writing is good enough to be cohesive. Certainly everything written contributes but often that added depth comes at the expense of elegant flow. It's a game of economy, one supposes- are the trade offs worth it? You said yes, whereas this reader says no.

The piece is not valueless. Your eye for human nature is amazing and it was easy to relate to Laura's subtle experiences that are often minute and yet seem incredibly true in their smallness (for example, when the professor joked about writing an essay about summer vacation and she felt embarrassed for being strung on so easily). The reader suspects you felt these things first and the all of us are benefiting from a direct translation of your own sensitive, articulate experience.

If the question is whether or not this reader would spend time with more of Aunty's fiction, then yes, absolutely. It seems so scarce around here.


J

[AuntShecky]

{Author's Note: Needless to say, there is nothing easy about writing a short story. For me the "story" part isn't nearly as difficult as the "short" part, but this next number tries to be as brief as possible.}

Chopped Liver

On the counter it looked like one of the props accompanying a sappy old song in praise of beloved items like “brown paper packages tied up with strings.” No blood-stained plastic stretched around a mound of ground-up scraps of dull red, brown, and gray on a cracked Styrofoam tray, this. Instead, it was a special order personally cut and hand-wrapped by the head butcher over at Valverde’s Fine Foods. One could only imagine the treasure this classic yet unpretentious wrapping concealed. Undoubtedly this selection of steaks would be top shelf stock: brightly and uniformly colored except for the intermittent marbling of thin white streaks. Beautiful -- but not as beautiful as the look on Trish’s face when she'd see the surprise so painstakingly prepared for her.

A pair of perfectly shaped Russets had already been scrubbed, dried, and popped into the ‘waver. The freshly-rinsed head of Romaine for the salad lay dripping in a colander in the sink, with the enormous wooden salad bowl, like a scale model of a sports arena, on deck. In a little while the steaks would be under the broiler, just a few minutes for each side, so that they'd be tender, but not too-- and juicy, ditto. But first the chef required the services of a pair of scissors, the location of which, given the typically chaotic state of the kitchen, called for a one-man search party.

The shears were still AWOL upon the arrival of the Lady of the House, signaled by the familiar sound she'd made at the end of each workday commute, the sigh that was worth a hundred words. That particular evening, however, halfway between “God, I'm so tired” and “Nobody appreciates me,” the woeful decibels escalated to a shriek. “What the hell are you doing? Put that back right now!”

The thwarted food artist fell backward theatrically, clutching his chest as if it had caught a bullet. Madame was not amused. “Knock it off, Bobby. I'm in no mood,” she snarled.

Cue the cartoon character. “Oooh, excuse-zay moi, mon cap-ee-tawn, er, ma cherie. How’s about a leettle kees, hmmm?”

A variation on the sigh, this time in the theme of exasperation. With her heels pounding on the tiles, she stomped across the kitchen, and in a single motion swept the meat package off the counter and tossed it back into the freezer as if it were a bag of garbage headed for the Dumpster.

Segue to a little kid’s voice: “But why, Mommy, why? I wanted to make sup-per for us!”

A clicking sound came from the roof of her mouth. Then: “Those steaks aren't for us. Ang and Edie are coming over for dinner tomorrow.”

“That’s news to me.”

“I told you. You just don't listen,” she said, delivering the penultimate syllable in a sing-songy fashion.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. So you're gonna be hostess with the mostest for the Enrons. And why, if one may ask, will we be honored with their illustrious presence? Speaking of presents, I hope they bring us some pricey ones. ”

By this time the Missus had flopped in the good chair, worked her feet out of her shoes and kicked them across the “existing room.” She had enough energy left, however, to give him a look which movie villains would be interested in patenting. “Not ‘Enron.’ Enright.” Then, as if speaking to some invisible person in the room, she said, “Can you believe this? I work my butt off, and he doesn't even know my boss’s name. Angus Rhys Enright. What’s so difficult about that?”

“Right. The moniker just rolls off the tongue. Who has three names? Serial killers. Lady poetesses.”

Trish’s eyes looked like the coils of the broiler turned up to “11.” “God! How passive- aggressive can one guy be? I'm up for Associate V.P., and I'm not going to let you or anyone else on the planet screw it up for me!”

“Well, I'll do my best– wait, that didn't come out right.” He sympathized with her, he really did. “Oh, Honey, I'm sorry. I'll help ya in anyway I can.” As if erasing the subject, he rubbed his hands together. “So. Steak’s canceled. What'll we have instead?”

“ Open a can of chili or something. I don't care.”

With a snap of the fingers he said, “Got it! I know something that will calm your nerves--”

She looked at him as if he had a steel plate in his head.

“No, not that. I mean, what say you and I mosey on over to Al’s Chuckle Barn? It’s Open Mike Night, and I'm pretty sure I can convince ol’ Al to let me do a set and show those young upstarts how comedy is done. AND– if you play your cards right, there might just be an order of chicken fingers in it for ya. Come on, what d’ya say?”

Later –though he really didn't believe it was all that late–he returned to find her lounging in front of the tube with a bowl of ice cream the size of Pittsburgh on her lap. She was roaring her rear end off at the monologue of some pea-brained talk show host. The comic himself was having more fun than the audience. There was a long-standing rule against laughing at one’s own jokes, but evidently this guy never got the memo.

“Mr. Lame-o again?”

“Shh!” This was followed by raucous guffawing from Trish, her standard response to each and every stand-up comedian who ever darkened the pixels of a screen. No matter who it was –veteran, upcoming, or rank amateur – she always seemed to laugh harder and louder than she ever did for him. “God, what a funny line!”

“It was funnier when I sent it to him –twelve years ago!”

“Oh, here we go with the ’I'm funnier than he is’ bit. Frankly, Bobby, it’s getting a little old. You're just resentful – and bitter.”

Things had been sweeter back in the day when they'd first started going out. If television were involved, they would have been watching it together. Bobby never forgot the silly little entertainment show, pompously billed as a “documentary” in the “On TV this Week” booklet that used to come with the Sunday paper. The quasi-doc was tribute to “Famous Movie Couples,” starting with those from way back, such as Lombard and Gable, and finishing with a famous married couple who'd peaked when both Bobby and his sweetie were but little whippersnappers. This particular man and wife had achieved great critical as well as financial success in their respective film roles and had starred “opposite” each other in several hit movies. But the quality the documentary’s narrator most admired was the longevity of their union, the apparent fidelity to each other, despite the fact that the husband had long been considered an international sex symbol in a milieu known for what has been called “serial monogamy.” “It’s very simple,” the matinee idol explained to the interviewer. “Why should I go out looking for hamburger when I have filet mignon at home?”

Upon hearing that, Trish looked ready to swoon. “Aww! How sweet is that?”

“What ‘sweet?’ That’s exactly my philosophy: why pay for steak when I got free Hamburger Helper at home?”

She swatted him with the rolled-up TV book, but she was laughing, just as she was laughing now, at this overpaid, unfunny knucklehead.

“Oh, why do you waste electricity on this crap? You would've had more fun at the Chuckle Barn.”

“Well, he’s funny –“

“So? You should have seen me tonight. I killed.”

She shot him a look as if she were a high school principal catching some dudes smoking in the boys’ room. “You've been drinking again.”

“Nope. Not me.”

The last time she asked him that question she followed it up with “Let me smell your breath.”

“What're ya, a masochist or something?”

“Come on, let me smell your breath.” At which point she chased him around the room, as in a game. It had started out playfully and ended in a place just slightly south of paradise. It really hadn't been that long ago.

He was on his best behavior the following night. Answering the door he was like a butler who'd graduated at the top of his class in butler school. “Let me take your coat, Mr. Enright.”

“Why, thank you –Benny, is it?”

“Bobby.” Trish shot him a look he took to be a pre-emptive strike, though he had been graciously deferential to Mrs. Enright, who was nothing at all the gal Bobby had pictured. He had assumed that she'd be the typical “trophy wife,” arm-candy for the ultra-successful businessman. The dame had a healthy quantity of meat on her bones, covered with expensive glad rags and glittering with jewels that were the real thing, no question about it. No stick-thin model type nor voluptuous twenty-something, this broad –if anything, she was older than the old man himself. They must've been married a long time.

Throughout the meal, Trish was as tightly wound as a birthday watch given to an eight-year old. Bobby wasn't nervous at all, though he had as much stake in the outcome of the evening as she did. The struggle, as ever, lay in coming up with appropriate small talk. No politics, no religion –that much he knew.

Mrs. Enright had no trouble remembering her finishing school lessons from so long ago. “Bobby, Trish tell us that you're in the entertainment business.”

“If you can call it that, I guess so.”

“Well, how very interesting. Tell me, have you appeared in anything we might have seen–?”

Hell no! Not unless they lived a double life. “Well, season before last I made it into the third round of Final Joker on Deck.”

“How nice for you!”

Her husband put down his wine glass –reluctantly. “So, Bobby, did you have any formal training? In college one majors in acting, I suppose?”

“Well, I took a couple of courses right here at East Hogwash U.”

Mrs. Enright brightened. Bobby could almost hear her thoughts–“Finally, I've hit some common ground with this loser,” which came out as: “Isn't that a coincidence! My cleaning lady’s son graduated from there last June. He’s going to go to law school.”

“Really! Another lawyer. Well, the world can sure use another one of those.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “I couldn't agree with you more.” Had Mrs. Enright punctuated this with a wink? He couldn't swear to it.

By this time Trish and the boss were passionately engaged in a discussion of whether to hold back on the Ratzafrattz account or pounce on them right away. Bobby turned to Mrs. Enright sympathetically. “Shop talk.”

She smiled and nodded, without further complaint.

Glaciers and movie award shows move faster, but finally, finally! the Enrights were ready to call it a night. Once more the dutiful host, Bobby escorted his guests to the door, with the boss clutching to Trish’s arm. He looked like the Father of the Bride walking his Princess down the aisle.

“Thank you so much for a very nice evening, Bobby,” Mrs. Enright said.

“No, no, thank you for coming.”

“Yes, thanks Ben. Take care of our little Trish here. I've got a feeling that lots of good things are going to come her way.” Enright winked at her in a way that was apparently meant to be humorous. “And Bobby, best of luck to you on your show business career. They say behind every successful man is a good woman.” He patted Trish’s hand. “You don't know what you have with her, Bob.”

At the end of the night Bobby knew two things. One, maybe for the for the first time in his life, he really did know what he had, and second, the steaks had been out of this world.

[MANICHAEAN]

Aunty

Having by fate stumbled upon this thread "Chopped Liver," I was drawn in initially, purely by the title.

"Ah," I surmised, the Aunt Shecky original recipe for one of my favourite foods! It evoked images of Peter Bernstein & I swapping sandwiches on a train, as we proceeded to the construction site we were both working on all those years ago. He seemed to find my "goy" cheese & pickle sandwiches exotic & I wolfed back his chopped liver on rye like the food of the gods. His dear old Jewish mother then started my taste bud journey into the realms of; gefilte fish, lutkas, salt beef, picked herrings & cucumber. My equally dear old Mum fought back bravely with: bread and butter pudding & Irish stew.

Alas they have both passed on now & we are left with overated celebrity chefs that indulge in profanities and outbursts of temper to maintain their ratings.

But back to the story, of which only the title I have touched on so far, and that with reminiscences far remote from the substance of the tale.

I liked it Aunty. It was punchy, perceptive and conveyed to me a scene in what I assume is America among a married couple with disjointed aspirations, where the wife is very career orientated & the husband feels a bit left behind, but still loves her. God, I've been lucky! I've met some strong women in my time and even married one, but have never been in that situation before. The structure of the story was such that I appreciated, (at last!), the balance it is possible to attain between what is said, and what is inferred.

Look forward to reading more of your work.

Any chance of the chopped liver recipe?

Best regards
M.

[Disagree]

I enjoyed your story. I know that sounds abrupt, but I'm terrible at feedback. I really got a feel for the characters, which is sometimes difficult in a short story.

Forgot to add which story I was referring to: Chopped Liver

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for the two responses to #51, "Chopped Liver," a story that I had intended to write for a long time.

The present posting is the completed (for now) version of what had begun as an off-the-cuff example in another posting on the short story sharing forum, here (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=1017365#post1017365). I didn't intend to write the full story, but ended up doing so in order to prove a point, I suppose. Whether I succeeded will, of course, be subject to public opinion, but nevertheless, here it is. The title has been stolen from a hit song by Sheryl Crow.



A Change Will Do You Good

As was his habit, Donny arrived at 317-B three long minutes after the Fifth Period bell had rung. This time, though, his entrance was more explosive than usual. He wouldn't have kicked open the door so violently if his father hadn't stood him up the night before. “What the –“ Instead of English class, Donny thought he had walked into a satellite of hell. Railsback had copped Kylie Walker’s cell phone and was teasing her by pretending to fling it across the room. The classroom floor was covered by a sea of paper, junk food wrappers, even pistachio shells. The din inside the room ceased for a nanosecond when the door opened, but just as suddenly revved up again with joyous shouts. “Sub! Sub!” came the cry. “We got a sub!”

The substitute’s command was even louder. “Quiet!” Then on a decreased decibel level: “Everybody settled down? All right. Mr. Gresham is ill, and I am filling in for him.”

A couple of kids started a reprise of “Sub! Sub!” but one threatening look from the imposing man in the front of the room was all it took to stop it in mid-syllable.

“My name is Mr. Bryant. Let’s see who is who.” He ignored the class roster for taking attendance. Instead he ran his finger down the seating chart. “Mr. Doyle?”

Damned if he wasn't staring straight at Donny! He raised his hand as if it weighed two hundred pounds. “Donny,” he said. “The name is Donny.”

“ I see. Tell me, Mr. Doyle, do you address Mr. Gresham by his first name?”

Donny shot a glance over to Railsback, who was snickering as if to say: where'd they dig this one up?

“I asked you a question, Mr. Doyle.”

“Dude, I don't even know his first name. It’s prob’ly ‘Gaylord’ or somethin’ wussy like that.”

“Well, Mr. Doyle, you should know this. While I am substituting for Mr. Gresham, I will be addressed as Mister Bryant. In return I will address each member of the class by surname with the appropriate title, Mister or Miss. Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?”

“I can't believe this!”

“I asked ‘Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?’ “

Finally the soft answer came: “Yeah.”

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, Mr. Bryant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Doyle. Now, we will proceed with Mr. Gresham’s lesson plan for ‘The Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka. Please open your books to page 79.”


Letterman’s show had been over, and Ferguson, with his monologue already finished, was interviewing a semi-articulate actress by the time Donny’s mother came home. “You're still up?” To Donny his mother looked like she needed a good night’s sleep more than he did. Her palm checked Donny’s forehead, and with the same hand she picked up the remote and snapped off the TV. Instantly the starlet’s face shrunk down to a tiny quasar and disappeared. Donny’s mother flopped backwards to land at the end of the couch. With what appeared to be strenuous effort, she began to untie her shoelaces. “You'd better get your butt into bed.”


“What bed? You mean that flea-bitten thing Lucas slobbers on? It don't fit me, Ma.” Donny wasn't lying. His feet had begun to dangle off the end of the bed which he shared with his brother. With the growth spurt of the previous summer, he was five feet ten already. “Did my father call?”

His mother didn't look up from her waitress shoes, the ones with the soles as thick as drywall. “Oh, how do I know, Donny? Why don't you ask Carm when he wakes up?”

“If he wakes up, you mean.” If his father had called, would Carm have been sober enough to locate the phone, let alone answer it and take the message? That ol’ juicer – what did his mother ever see in him?

“Don't get smart, Donny.”

“But Mom, last night Dad was going to make up for missing my birthday, remember? I think he called to set up another time.”

“I'm going to check on the boys and then hit the hay. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

“But Mom, I haven't seen him since August.” Donny’s eyes closed, almost involuntarily, as he tried to picture his father’s face. “He’s gonna make good on his promise. I know he is.”

“Oh, Donny.” Her sigh came from a place way down deep. “ Donny. Try to understand. Your father has a whole new family now, you know that. It’s not easy for a person to stretch himself so thin. Besides, you have your own family– me, your brother, the twins, Carm– we'll talk about it tomorrow before I go to work, okay? Now go to bed. It’s a school night.”


The next day Gresham was still out and the weird substitute still there. Same with the day after that. “Yesterday, if you recall, we wrote down our thoughts about ‘The Metamorphosis.’ Since then, I've read them and frankly, I'm sorry to say that they were, well, a disappointment. One has to wonder why students aren't being taught the proper use of the apostrophe –“

From the back of the class came a heckler. “The apostro–what?”

“-Basic grammar and spelling as well. One person in the class, nevertheless, produced an exemplary paper –“

Well, duh! This unspoken consensus was punctuated by eye-rolling and blatant pointing toward the perennial teacher’s pet, Kylie Walker, who sat slightly higher in her seat and raised her neck, as if to assume the proper position for a coronation.

“The pupil who wrote about Gregor Samsa as –“ Mr. Bryant started to read –“ ‘a symbol of alienation and the dehumanizing effect of modern life’ was correct, I suppose. But similar assessments of Kafka’s work can be found in a matter of seconds on the Web.” The teacher had scarcely finished his sentence before Kylie slumped back down in her seat. “It’s good, don't get me wrong, but it’s not the best one. The paper which earned that distinction is the one I'm holding in my left hand. I expect your full attention, young ladies and gentlemen, as I read it aloud:

The teacher asked the class to write about “What ‘The Metamorphosis’ Means to Me.” The author wrote the story 100 years ago, so I don't think he worried about some kid reading it way in ninth grade some day in the future. I enjoyed reading the story, but I don't know what it is supposed to mean to me.

Whoa, that sounded familiar. Donny could feel his face getting hotter and his palms sweatier, as Mr. Bryant continued reading:

I think it’s a science fiction or a horror story. It shows something that couldn't happen in real life. Nobody ever wakes up some morning and finds out that he has changed into a big bug. So I think it is supposed to stand for something else.

I have no idea how it would be to be a bug, but I do know what it’s like when people bug me. I know how I feel when I turn on the light and I see the roaches run around the kitchen floor. Gregor tries to talk, but nobody can hear his bug voice. That is just like how it is in real life when people can't understand each other, even though everybody is speaking English. The best part of the story is how the bug guy’s sister tries to help him out at first, but then wants to get rid of him. That reminds me of how my parents treat me sometimes. Sometimes they act like they love me and other times they get on my case. I guess it is the same way with all families.

This story was very weird. That shows me that writers can show us life in many different ways. That is what this story means to me.


“This paper–and the rest of them–will be returned at end of the class,” Mr. Bryant said. “That will close the book on ‘The Metamorphosis’ for the time being. Now we'll turn to the last story in the Short Story Unit, ‘The Lucid Eye in Silver Town’ by John Updike. To start us off with the reading will be Mr. Doy–excuse me, Mr. Doyle, you seem have a little something on your–“ Mr. Bryant’s face took on a puzzled expression as he wagged his finger in front of the right side of his own neck.

An unsolicited explanation came from a volunteer in the back of the room. “Duh! That’s his tat, Teach!”

“I would have never taken one so young for a former member of the Merchant Marines, Mr. Doyle. I was under the impression that there is a minimum age for body art. Evidently, I was mistaken.”

Donny’s face started getting red again. He wasn't sure if he wanted to answer the sarcasm or not. Why should he tell this teacher-wannabe his personal business? If he must know, the tattoo he had gotten last summer was perfectly legal, obtained across the state line with signed permission of his father.

“I would suggest that should you ever find yourself being interviewed for a job-- or even for entrance into college-- that you wear a turtle neck that day. A word to the wise is sufficient, Mr. Doyle. ”

What a minute, did he say ‘college’?

“Please, Mr. Doyle, if you will start reading? Aloud.“

“ ‘The first time I visited New York City, I was thirteen and went with my father. I went to meet my Uncle Quin and to buy a book . . .’ “

One night about a week later he was, as usual, still up when his mother got home. The tv was off. “I don't believe what I'm seeing,” she said. “A kid in my house actually studying?” Like an actress in a sitcom, she grabbed Donny’s collar. “What have you done with my son?”

That was the kind of remark to which Donny was accustomed, even from people outside his immediate family. Whenever the came up, a scene from his academic past replayed in his mind, like an irritating commercial running over and over late at night on a cable channel. It had happened relatively recently, in seventh grade.

He'd been to the boys’ room and was returning to class when he dropped the hall pass, a piece of plastic roughly the size and shape of a ping pong paddle. It skidded across the overly-waxed floor of the corridor and finally rested against the wall, directly beside the open door of the teachers’ lounge. Not the least bit nosy by nature --
he couldn't care less about conversations between two middle-aged women-- but nevertheless he overheard them.

“Naturally he comes out with another slew of ‘f’-this and ‘f’-that. So I go, ‘One more peep of you and you're marching straight to Mr. Dangerfield’s office.’ Thank God, the bell rang.”

“I hear ya, Liz. Everybody’s had it up to here with these punks. That Railsback– he’s bad news. Nobody wants to deal with him. All you can do is leave ‘im in the back of the room with all the rest of the troublemakers.”

Donny instantly recognized the name of the person who sat next to him for every period on the schedule, both of them perennially assigned to the middle school’s version of Siberia. And all these years Donny thought it was because he was so tall. Sitting in front of shorter kids would obstruct their view of the blackboard. But it had nothing to do with height at all, nothing to do with whether your last name was Adams or Zimbulski. No. If you sat in the back of the room that meant you were no damn good.

Donny wasn't into basketball, so his height was no blessing. As far as Donny was concerned, it was a curse. He was sure that teachers who didn't know him had him pegged as a big, dumb kid who had been kept back a couple of grades. The truth was that he had never received a failing grade in his life. Every year he passed, each time without trying. So why should he bust his butt?

He hadn't told his mother about the “A” he gotten on his last paper.

She picked up his textbook and looked at the page as if it were a insect under a microscope. “What’s this you're working on?”

“It’s a poem we're studying in English.”

“I thought you hated poetry!” His mother put on her reading glasses, which were hanging on a chain around her neck.

“I do! I mean, I did -- I mean, I thought I did because it was so hard.”

His mother continued reading Donny’s textbook for about a minute or two. “Delmore Schwartz, huh? Never heard of him.” She threw the book down on the couch where it made a soft bounce.

Next morning Mr. Bryant stood in front of the classroom and announced, “I have something important to tell you about Mr. Gresham.”

It had been so long since anyone had mentioned his name, let alone seen him, that it took a moment for some students to remember who he was.

“Mr. Gresham’s illness, sadly, has gotten worse. I'm sorry to say that he will not be returning to teach you for the remainder of the school year. “ A couple of faces looked grim; most didn't know whether to applaud or what.

“The school district has hired a permanent teacher to take Mr. Gresham’s place, so that means I will be leaving as well. I hasten to add that I have enjoyed every moment I've spent with this class. There is a greeting card for Mr. Gresham here on my–the desk, and I would consider it a personal favor if each of you would kindly sign it before leaving class today. Now, um, let’s see what we can do about finishing our work on ‘True-Blue American.”


Everyone had left except Donny. The card intended for Mr. Gresham was completely covered with signatures. A tiny corner was the only space available for a miniature version of his name. Donny threw the ballpoint pen back on the desk and glared at Mr. Bryant. “Why?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Doyle.”

“Why do we have to have a different teacher? Why can't you stay?”

“Mr. Doyle, I thought I had explained –“ He was packing up a couple of books into his briefcase. The black leather had about a million tiny cracks.

“Every time I catch a break, something comes along to ruin it for me. Just when I started to get–“

By now Mr. Bryant had his coat on and was adjusting a flat-brimmed cap on his head. “Well, simply keep at it, Mr. Doyle. Continue to develop good study habits. It shouldn't make much difference who is standing in front of the classroom. Straight ahead.” With his two fingers he made a “V” to make a motion that began from his eyes and ended up like a salute. Then he shook Donny’s hand. “Well. Best of luck to you, Danny.”

Mr. Bryant was out the door and halfway down the hall before it dawned on Donny to yell after him: “It’s Donny. Donny! ”

He went looked at his own personal belongings still on his desk and thought about leaving it them there and never coming back. What was the use? Donny raised his leg and kicked the desk which stubbornly refused to fall over. Stupid desk! The school was stupid, the whole world was stupid, and he was the stupidest of them all.

If he didn't return, what were the odds that the new teacher would be a pushover who gave out free snacks, hall passes, and good grades just to prove how nice she was? Maybe she'd be a hottie just out of college. He'd bet if he did come back, he'd probably draw some old turtle, a thousand times nerdier than Gresham and Bryant combined. What did his father used to say? “Ye pays your money, and ya takes yer chances.”

Donny picked up his backpack. He closed the door behind him gently, so he could hear the click.

[Rem]

Hi Auntie,

Just read through this one and wanted to give you my thoughts, for what they're worth.

I liked Danny - er, Donny - and I felt for him, felt the hopelessness mixed with the possibility of potential that manages to get stepped on right at the end. I'm curious to know where he goes next.

I do have a few suggestions, though, about the text itself.

Take the first paragraph, for example - "a three long minutes" seems like an awkward construction to me. "Three long minutes" or "a long three minutes" might work better.

Next, the line "The din was ear-splitting - –until the door opened and for a split-second ceased–-" makes it seem as though the door is ceasing, not the din. Something like "the din was ear-splitting - until the door opened, and for a split-second the noise ceased" would be my suggestion here.

As well, I wonder why Mr. Bryant, if he is as commanding as the text makes him out to be, hasn't quieted the class before Donny arrives. Presumably he was on time, and he appears to have the ability to handle even a room of unruly hooligans.

Overall, I enjoyed the story and look forward to more.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, Rem, for springing this story from permanent obscurity. For a while there I thought it would choke to death on the cobwebs burgeoning in the corner through neglect.

One of the errors you pointed out is a typo, and has been fixed. The second one was a cliché, and therefore anathema to me, thus revised.(Thank you for pointing this out, and I mean it sincerely!)

and re: Mr. Bryant. Take it from someone whose future sentence in Purgatory will be undoubtedly shortened because of the time already "done" as a substitute teacher--it always, always takes a number of minutes to quiet down a class, even for the regular instructor who is there every day!

[AuntShecky]

Re-posted because of its seasonal nature:

Ultraman and the Pagan Babies (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=690512#post690512)

[AuntShecky]

This next one could be, I suppose, the "B-side" of an earlier story, Chopped Liver (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=1013796#post1013796), (Incidentally, on Saturday, 4/2/11, the title term was the premise of "Pearls Before Swine" syndicated comic strip by Stephan Pastis.) The following posting might somehow remind the reader of the signature work by a three-named authoress Charlotte Perkins Gilman, but it's always risky to invite comparisons, especially since yours fooly inevitably ends up on the short end, and rightfully so. In any event here's a little ditty we like to call

The Worm

The forlorn Cherries Jubilee sat at the table like a neglected guest. It patiently waited for the spark
of its famous flame preceded by a liberal dousing of kirsch, with the serpentine-shaped bottle yet to be opened. The wife had gone into the kitchen several minutes previously and hadn't yet returned with the corkscrew. Her absence had reached the point of being awkward. “I wonder what’s keeping her,” the host said. “Excuse me for a moment.”

His wife was standing perfectly still, as if she were in a trance. She was gazing down at the open drawer. “What’s the holdup? Can't you find it?”

After an interval of about 30 seconds she finally shook her head.

“Oh, don't tell me you're having another one of your spells.” He grabbed her elbow and yanked her backwards with a bit more force than was necessary. Peering down at the contents of the drawer, he saw sets of measuring spoons, a small whisk, a metal nutcracker, and an assortment of odd plastic kitchen tools. Nothing extraordinary.

She nudged her husband gently to the side and pointed her index finger to the far left corner of the drawer, the apparent location of the object of her distress. There, among a tiny pile of crumbs, dust, coffee grounds, rice grains, fragments of spices and seeds, it was. Although it would have been easier to see with the aid of a magnifying glass, it looked approximately half the length of a fingernail clipping, brown with white markings (or vice versa), hollow and dried up, curled up and motionless.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “Just a mealy bug, a larva from some stray insect or something. Not unusual, especially since that drawer hasn't been opened since Christmas.” The husband looked at it again, this time more closely, almost with a kind of scientific curiosity. “It’s not even wriggling around. It’s dead.”

“Dead! Oh my God, I've poisoned everybody!” Sidestepping to the sink, she bent down to root through the bottom cabinet and came back up with a pair of lemon-colored, heavy plastic gloves and a bottle of disinfectant.

“Hey, you can't do that now! “

The wife stretched one of the gloves on her hand with a defiant snap. “I have to !” adding, as if quoting a tv commercial–“ ‘If you see one, there are thousands hiding!’ Those filthy things are crawling all over my kitchen.” She made a motion like a claw and wiggled five yellow, rubbery fingers in front of his face.

“Drop that stuff! Don't you remember? We have guests!”

“I can't go out there while this place is so, so –infested. Tell them to go home.”

The husband grabbed his wife by her shoulders. “No way! Not when I'm this close to a promotion. I've worked too hard and too long to have you blow it with your craziness! Get your butt back in there right now!”

Without a word, the wife pulled out the entire drawer, and began to dump its contents into the trash. When the drawer was practically empty, she tipped it at an angle to shake the offensive material into the can. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced. A shudder slithered through the entire length of her body. The empty drawer thudded hard on the linoleum floor. Dropping to her knees, she held the drawer up with one hand; with the she wielded the bottle, her finger on the trigger.

“All right, suit yourself,” he said.

The first squirt was so forceful it blew back a chemical mist. “And if you're gonna spray that stuff, put an apron on. That cocktail dress cost good money.”

On his way back to the dining room, his brain was busy; on the conscious level, it composed a pro tem apology, over a level of regret at not making her do the dirty work herself. “I'm so sorry, folks,” he said. “I'm afraid we'll have to take a rain check on the dessert. It seems the missus has suddenly come down with something.”

The boss's wife scaled down the expression on her face from "cheerfulness" to "concern." “Nothing serious, we hope,” she said.

“Nah,” the husband said. “Just a little bug that’s going around.”

By one a.m. she was still cleaning. It never crossed her mind that she'd have to be up a mere five hours later to get herself showered and dressed for work. Every time the thought of her job invaded her mind, she swiftly banished it, and no wonder, with the large wedge of her life spent in an airless, windowless insurance office toiling at excruciatingly soulless work for paltry pay and scant chance of advancement. In the dark hours of that particular morning she focused her energy on just one thing.

The air was redolent of wet wood, as all the kitchen drawers were lined up against the wall, like suspects in a criminal lineup. Up next were the dishes, not only the ones that had been soiled that evening but every dish the couple owned. In her hand she had a stack of plates, part of a pricey set of fine china from her in-laws that had been stored, unused, since their wedding day. For a delirious moment, she flirted with the thought of dumping them along with all the other victims of her purge. It would serve him right, she thought. Back in the early days when the struggles were so bad that they had to come up with funds in a big hurry, the heirloom dinnerware had been on the short list for liquidation. Instead, he hocked her Leica. When they finally could afford to get a replacement, photography had already made the transition to digital. In order to catch up, she'd have to acquire computing skills, essentially adding another obstacle to the wasted years she would probably never regain.

By the time the dishwater had swooshed through its first cycle, she had rifled all the cabinets of their food reserves. That the earliest expiration date on the packages was over a year away did not necessarily pardon the item. Unopened packages got a reprieve; for everything else, bye-bye. Religiously she followed the rule: “If in doubt, throw it out.” The loaded trash can was approaching its tipping point. She shook her head and said aloud, “What a waste, what a waste.”

Next day, in order to retrieve an item requested by his employer, the husband made an impromptu stop at the apartment at lunchtime. He found his wife atop a stepladder and extending her arms up to the ceiling, which she attempted to scrub with a flat, wooden-backed brush. “Good God!” he yelled, so loudly that she almost lost her balance. “Get down from there, you idiot!”

In her slippers, nearly soaked with soap and water, she took reluctant, tentative steps backward until she descended back to floor-level. “You could've broken your neck! Sheesh, the last thing I need is a huge medical bill. Hey, why aren't you at work?”

“I called in.” She shrugged, adding, “No biggie.”

“Yeah? I suppose they're gonna start paying you sick time now? Good lord, this place reeks of ammonia! I'm gonna crack the windows–“

“Please don't! You want every fly in creation to get in here?”

“What flies? It’s forty degrees out there–“

“All the more reason to keep them closed,” she said.

“By the way, –“ he said, his voice lowering by just a slight decibel, “I didn't get the promotion. They wanted a guy who's good at entertaining clients. I'm positive I lost it because of last night. So thanks a lot, Baby –thanks for nothing!”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that--”

“You should be!”

“–but I hope none of this was any of my fault –“

“You know who got it? Fish-face, that’s who! As long as I've been at the company he’s had it in for me, big time. So when the next round of downsizing comes up, guess whose name will skyrocket to the top of list? “ The husband surveyed the ceiling, the walls, the floor and then released a disgusted sigh. “You can quit this stupid cleaning. We won't be able to afford this place much longer, anyway."

“Well, maybe if it's spotless, we can get our full security deposit back,” she answered.

“I'm going to make you pay for this, you–“ the husband muttered, the last word in his remark effectively vanquished in the blast of the vacuum cleaner.

That evening there was nothing left in the house for supper, so the husband had a restaurant deliver a meal. The wife declined to eat anything without one hundred per cent certainty that the food preparers had remembered to wash their hands.

Later that night the husband settled down into his leather recliner in its usual spot in front of the tv, as was his custom, with one slight change. The need for keeping current with public affairs programs or cribbing dinner conversation topics from high-class arty fare was now essentially moot. His face was flushed and his heart throbbed with the prospect of a good old, down-and-dirty, red-blooded male sports competition. Finally, a chance to watch a game! When a beer commercial came on, he sensed a subtle movement in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he happened to spot something small scamper along the baseboard. Across the room, he saw his wife on her hands and knees on the hardwood floor as she waged warfare against scuff marks visible to no other pair of human eyes except hers.

Once again the little brown furry creature made an appearance. The gentlemanly course would entail the hope that the wife would not notice the invader. The more chivalrous, if not loving, deed would be to divert her attention away from its presence. For the life of him, though, he couldn't think of a single reason not to point it out and allow himself the pleasure of watching her squirm.

[Hawkman]

Oh I really enjoyed this and wish I'd seen it earlier. Actually Auntie, it reminds me of a tale I read long ago. I can't remember the author or the title, but the gist of it was, that after committing a murder, the perp became so obsessed with cleaning up after himself, rather as your housewife did, that he was caught, still at the scene of his crime and still obsessively cleaning! OCD is definately bad news for a murderer - lol.

Live and be well - H

[Delta40]

She almost makes me feel guilty when I see a bug and do nothing.....Good piece of writing and witty in just the right places. I like how the husband enjoys watching her squirm!

[Dougy]

Response to Chopped Liver

I thought your piece Chopped Liver a fine piece of work, however I felt that the colloqialisms distracted me. I didn't understand the reference to the old song was. The use of a military acronym in this work was a little displaced I thought.

I liked the way that both the characters interacted in such a way that I can appreciate. That drawn out relationship, the journey of marriage and it's weathered response to our response to each other. It has a satirical edge to lit which is uplifting, a step away from the usual throw of marital hell and boredom.

It's nice to see a switch in stereotypes here, with the female taking a leading role.

I'm not so much a critique, but I look forward to reading your other two short stories.

Craig

[Steven Hunley]

I agree with the Prince. This WAS enchanting. From the descriptions to the dialogue that was Werry Werry good. Dialogue can be lacking, descriptions non-descript, but nothing beats a good story well told. Great stuff.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, Hawkman, Delta, Dougy and Steve for your comments on the last.

Here's the next one, featuring a recurring character* named Arlene Henry. Arlene began as a secondary character in a novel which may or not be finished in this millennium, but she spun off into several short stories of her own. I think of her as a fellow Baby Boomer, albeit slightly older than her author. She also carries a tune much better than her tone-deaf creator ever could.

A brief note about the two songs alluded to in this story under the "Fair Use" provision of the copyright law. The first song, composed in 1930,is not directly quoted at all; and the second, from 1947, quotes only a single line in addition to its title, my title, and a paraphrase in the very last sentence.

With that, let's take a trip back in time for a little number I like to call

All to Myself Alone


In the carefully researched blind spot behind the far eastern end of the bleachers, a distance of two football fields from the building, Arlene struck a single match. Sheltering its flame from the wind, she gave her friend a light before lighting her own. One would think that after moving heaven and earth to find the location where they could smoke without detection, the two girls would've relished the lunchtime rebellion, but it was becoming less of a ritual than a thoughtless habit. Just as in the television commercial, they were “smoking more but enjoying it less,” though it wouldn't have occurred to them to stop. They were, after all, seniors.

Mary Pat took a drag so shallow that no tell-tale white puff came out when she spoke. “Can you believe it? Only a couple more weeks and we'll be out of this dump for good!”

“First I gotta pass trig. God, how I dread that Regents exam!”

“Oh, you're so smart, Arlene. You'll graduate with flying colors.” Mary Pat held her cigarette daintily between two fingers. A waxy ring of her hot-pink lipstick encircled the tan filter.

“ When am I going to find the time to study for the damn thing? I mean, with all the stuff going on at home-- and don't forget, I gotta write the stupid class song! What rhymes with ‘St. Hilarius’? ”

“Gee, I dunno -- Precarious? There’s another one right on the tip of my tongue, but -- ” Mary Pat slapped her own forehead. “I forgot to tell ya! Brendan’s coming home this weekend! For the whole summer!” The announcement tumbled out with a heightened tone, the words accelerated. She grabbed Arlene’s forearms and jumped up and down.

Vicarious. That’s the word –and the reaction–Mary Pat was evidently looking for. She searched through her mammoth pocketbook as well, finally pulling out an envelope that showed all the signs of repeated handling. “He says he’s taking the first bus down from Dartmouth, the second he finishes his last exam. That’s how much he wants to see me!” Mary Pat held the envelope to her lips and kissed it, adding another hot pink imprint to its once virginally-white back. With great reluctance she slipped the letter back into her bag and snapped it shut. “ ‘Course we'll be coming to the Spring Fling. We'll hear your song!”

“If I ever finish it.”

“Brendan’s sister thinks the Spring Fling is a glorified Friday night CYO canteen. The year Cathy graduated they still had a Senior Prom.” Off the front of her uniform skirt Mary Pat brushed a bit of ash perceptible only to her.

“That’s true. You know what they used to do, though? The senior class president used to go from classroom to classroom and row by row shakin’ down everybody to buy bids. She'd stand by your desk and stare you in the face and yell, ‘Are you going to The Prom? Why not?’ “

“You're pullin’ my leg, Ar. I can't believe the nuns would let ‘em–“

“Effin’ -A. They forced you to admit in public that you couldn't afford it or that you couldn't get a date. Embarrassing as hell. And a few years before that the seniors used to get to go to Washington D.C. for the weekend–train trip, hotel, the whole shot. I don't know what happened – I bet the kids went nuts and caused all kinds of scandal. What does S’ter Mary Celestine always scream about? Oh yeah –‘Drinking and carousing.’ “

“Wow. That stinks. How come everybody else got to have all the fun?”

“We're not supposed to have fun, M. P. We go to St. Hilarius.”




As ever, the auditorium was locked, opened only for special events, and nobody would tell Arlene how she could obtain the key. Rehearsal-- if one could call it that–had been relocated in the basement area reserved for music, essentially no different from a regular
classroom, except for the cork walls and an ancient upright in the corner. To their credit, the baker’s dozen of Hilariettes compensated for the cramped quarters by arranging themselves as symmetrically as they could.

“Don't worry, Girls,” Arlene said, “it'll sound better when you're all lined up on the risers. Okay, let’s take it from the top:

“Here we are –
aiming for that far-off star –
If you want to see us fly
We are really gonna try–
Here we are!”

Arlene winced upon hearing lyrics she'd finished --or rather abandoned-- the previous night at the mystical time evoked by a Sinatra song –“the wee small hours of the morning.” She had only completed making the copies just a few precious minutes before Homeroom, the blue smudges on her fingertips testifying to her haste. It was late afternoon, yet the distinct fragrance of mimeograph fluid still remained strong enough to fill the room. To top it all off, Arlene hadn't the slightest idea of how to lead a vocal group. Gamely she stood in front of her classmates and moved her hands from side to side, just as she'd seen Fred Waring and Mitch Miller do on television.

Watch us soar–
We're the class of Sixty-Four
from good old St. Hilarius--
We've got hope to carry us–
Here we are!

The faculty advisor for the Senior Class attempted to remain in the background, but it was difficult to ignore Sister Mary Celestine’s imposing presence. Stealing a quick glance, Arlene saw her half-heartedly tapping her open palm with a ruler, the instrument of
choice for keeping time as well as less felicitous uses.

“Okay, that’s good.” Arlene lied. “Now let’s go to the bridge–“

History may come to judge
other schools some day--

Whoever was knocking on the door had to pound on it really hard to be heard above the thirteen voices and the piano banging with Barbara Brady’s enthusiastic chords. It was Sweet Little Mrs. Prendergast from the office. Sister had to bend far down so the school secretary could whisper in her ear. Then, upon straightening up, Sister looked directly at Arlene. The expression on the nun’s face was unreadable. It could have been anger. Or horror.

Inward Arlene started screaming. Oh my God! It’s Dad!

“Miss Henry! Report to Father Roche’s office immediately!” This time there was no question of tone. Sister was definitely mad, and Arlene was in big, big trouble. Definitely. “Now, Miss Henry. Father is expecting you. The rest of you girls are dismissed.”

“Meet ‘cha at the bus stop, M. P.” Reaching for her bag, Arlene remembered the partially-crushed pack of Marlboros jammed in the secret inner compartment. She thrust the purse into Mary Pat’s stomach. “Watch my pocketbook. And for godsakes don't let anybody go through it.”

The short walk down the block just past the Church and the rectory seemed like the Last Mile. It didn't help that the early June sun blazed like the future fire about which Arlene and her classmates had been warned to expect in the next world if they didn't change their ways in this one. It also took a while to find an unlocked entrance.

The halls of the Grade School seemed eerie as she walked by the silent classrooms, filled with empty chairs lined up and waiting for tiny ghosts. When no one answered the door marked “Principal,” an exquisite sense of relief washed over her, but dried up instantly at the sound of “Come in.”

The priest’s handshake was genial, pleasant even. “Arlene! So nice to see you! I wish I could say that I've seen your dad at Mass lately –“

“Oh, well, Father, he’s been si–er-- ill.“

“Oh? I'm sorry to hear it.” He cleared his throat.

A glass jar of cellophane-wrapped candies occupied a prominent place on the desk between Arlene and Father. One of those peppermints would be perfect to cover up–if not a multitude of sins–then certainly a mortal infraction against School Rule Number Four, assuming that was the crime of which she was accused. She knew enough not to help herself to the sweets, but if he offered–-

“I may be wrong, Arlene, but I bet you're wondering why we had you rush over here on this fine Spring afternoon, hmm? Well. You know, it’s always wonderful when a student from St. Hilarius shows a bit of a flair, a God-given talent in some creative endeavor. A little bird told me that when it comes to music, you're quite the thing, Young Lady. . .well, perhaps I ought to come to the point. Today I received a rather unusual phone call around lunchtime.”

Then it was the smoking. Somebody had spotted them! But then –why was she in the hot seat and not Mary Pat?

“It seems that one of the Hilariettes went home for lunch today. While her Mom was making her sandwich, she used the time to practice the number you'd composed for the spring show and her mother recognized the tune right away.”

“I didn't steal it! I just borrowed the music, not the words. It’s a parody, Father–“

“I'm fully aware of that, Arlene, but it’s the words of the original song that –“

“If that’s the case, how come nobody said anything last year when they robbed a whole slew o’ stuff right off Broadway? They did an entire medley from The Sound of Music and nobody batted an eye. I'm sorry, Father, but it’s just not fair!”

“I appreciate how much this hurts, Arlene. But the parent who called me was really disturbed by the song you chose to- –to emulate. I hope this doesn't embarrass you, but ‘Love for Sale’ tells the tale of a, er-- how can I put this delicately?-- a lady of the evening. You didn't realize that, no doubt.“

In a extraordinary effort to hold back sarcasm, Arlene bit her tongue.

“If we were uncharitable, we could speculate how one of our devoted parishioners herself had acquired such um, worldly knowledge, so we'll let that pass. Nevertheless, the lady was concerned that others might also recognize the provenance your class song, and put two and two together, viz the unsavory connotations of the original piece. People might begin to question why Catholic school seniors–for that matter, senior girls-- would in any way associate themselves with suggestive subject matter. We're taught not only to avoid the near occasion of sin but also to avoid the appearance of sin. Your little song dangerously flirts with both. We shouldn't treat sin lightly, Arlene, especially sins against the flesh–the temple of the soul-- specifically, sins against the Sixth and Ninth Commandments.”

Arlene’s mid-section nearly buckled in her effort to stifle the laugh. She got the connection with the Sixth-- since adultery was a blanket term covering the spectrum of carnal transgressions outside the Sacrament of Marriage, pre- and post-- but the Ninth? She'd never heard of a case of a St. Hilarius student ever coveting his neighbor’s wife. (Then again, having witnessed the preternatural horniness exhibited by some of the members of the football team, she allowed that could be wrong.)

“The important thing is. . well, the faithful among the parish of Saint Hilarius have invested much into our beloved schools, our grade school and especially our high school. “ The priest’s apologia continued. “We're expected to uphold our tradition of preparing young people for adulthood and the working world with the highest academic standards. In addition to those worthy goals, we-- unlike our friends over at East Hogwash Senior High–we try, at least, to teach them how to live as responsible human beings and to set good examples as Christians in every way, such as keeping God’s Commandments. That’s what the woman was getting at, I believe.

“Oh, but you should've heard her, Arlene! She was fit to be tied! At one point I almost believe she had forgotten just who it was she was talking to.”

In Arlene’s young life there had been few desires stronger than the one that pressed upon her to say to the priest: “You should've hung up on her!” Somehow, via divine intervention, perhaps, she resisted the temptation.

“She wanted me to expel you from school, bar you from your own graduation ceremony. I calmed her down and finally got her to accept a compromise.”

“Oh, I'll drop the song, Father, I don't mind. Really. The song goes.”

“Well, that goes without saying. Anyway, I assured the woman that you would be forbidden from attending the spring show as well as all the other school-sponsored social events for the remainder of the school year, and to my enormous relieve, she agreed-- reluctantly--
Still, that’s my final decision. I'm sorry, Arlene. I hope isn't overly harsh.”

That was harsh? Harsh was Sister Mary Celestine’s ruler held an alarming distance above one’s knuckles. “I understand, Father. I have a question though. How do I explain all this next time I go to confession?”

“ Confess what? Where’s the sin? Let me tell you a little secret, Arlene. Years from now you'll look back on this incident and laugh–that is, if you hadn't completely forgotten all about it. Come to mention it – tell me, Arlene, what are your plans? College?”

“That'll have to wait for a while, Father. At least until my father gets better.”

“Sure. As I often mention to some of the senior girls, why waste your time and money in college when you're just going to get a M. R. S. diploma, followed by post-graduate degree in diapers. But it would be a crying shame if you abandoned your music –Ah!” Father Roche snapped his fingers. “Just thought of something. Have you got a minute?”

From out of nowhere appeared an old-fashioned 78 rpm record. Removing the it from its plain-brown slipcase, Father handled it with extreme care, gingerly but firmly grasping the wafer-thin disc by the extreme edges of its circumference. The priest’s fingers
showed calluses and a slight yellow tinge, possibly the tell-tale traces of nicotine.

On a shelf behind the priest’s desk sat a phonograph player, humble and a far-cry from the futuristic hi-fi sets which the well-off families of the parish could easily afford. After placing the record on a felt-covered turntable as if he were crowning a king, Father picked up the stylus as if it were a scepter encrusted with precious gems. The revolution began, initially exploding with pops and whirls.

The side started as a typical number from the Big Band era; but the downbeat and ambient rhythms sounded remarkably current – not like rock ‘n’ roll but a “swinging” arrangement similar to that of Nelson Riddle. Kenton even. Then after the introductory instrumental entered the vocal:

I'd like to get you
On a slow boat to China —

The voice was a robust baritone, with Crosby-like phrasing, but something about the singer sounded utterly familiar. Where had Arlene heard it before?

“Why, that’s you, father! I thought I'd recognized it. You sound just like you do at the CYO canteens! But you actually sang! Professionally, I mean. Who knew?”

Father Roche was beaming, treading perilously close to a near occasion of the sin of pride. “Lay people are under the mistaken impression that we clergymen go into the seminary the day after we graduate from high school. In the case of yours truly, I did a stint in the Army, and after the war –well, you can see– or should I say, ‘hear’-spent some time interpreting the works of Mr. Frank Loesser and his talented contemporaries, to ‘make a joyful noise unto the Lord’ as it were.”

“Wow, that’s fabulous. Ya know, Father, if this priesthood doesn't work out, you'll always have something to fall back on.” Uh-oh. She'd done it now. Arlene hurled inaudible curses at herself and her big, fat mouth.

The smile hadn't faded, though. Maybe he hadn't heard her, or–since she thought she could see a slight upward shaking of his shoulders and the proverbial “twinkle” in his eye –maybe he had. In any event, he was finished with her for now.

“Well, thanks for stopping by, Arlene. I'll include your Dad in my intentions as well as during Mass tomorrow.” He was standing by the door, waiting for her to take the hint. “Cole Porter, huh? You'd think a girl your age would go gaga for what’s their names –the English ones with the hair.”

“Oh, you mean the Beatles. If you ask me, Father, they're just a flash in the pan.”

“I'm with you.” With that he waved his hands in blessing, followed by a considerably less spiritual but nonetheless chaste kiss on her forehead. Then he put a fist full of peppermints into her hand.

“Thank you, Father! I love these things.”

“Well, don't eat them all at once. Save a couple for later –after you have your cigarette.”

Holy Crap! Did she hear that right? Once thing she did hear, within seconds after he shut the door, was the record playing once again.


For sulking purposes, the back stoop wasn't all that bad a place to sit. Fiddling with the tuning dial on her transistor, Arlene hoped it would pull in one of the jazz stations from New York City, but that night all should could get was country and western music, albeit from a high-powered antenna in faraway West Virginia.

The night sky was clear but the air was humid, a paradise for flying bugs, yet just breezy enough to carry over the fragrance of roses from Mrs. Quackenbush’s garden next door, replacing last month’s scent of the lilacs of Mrs. Miller’s yard on the other side.

The Miller boys themselves were usually a constant presence, with their juvenile teasing, and -- since she had already turned eighteen–pestering her to run down the corner to buy them a six-pack. When Ike and Joey weren't busy bothering her, they'd be in their own driveway, where well into the evening they'd attempt to shoot a basketball into the hoop mounted above the garage door. The constant dribbling on the asphalt was bad enough; worse was their playing skill. For every basket they made, they missed ten or twelve, underscored by the sound of the rim loudly wobbling upon impact. When they practiced while Arlene’s father tried to sleep, his upper body would shudder and his closed eyelids would flinch with each reverberation of the metal ring. But even the irritating Millers were AWOL this night. Not counting the mosquitoes, Arlene was completely alone.

Everything conspired to remind her that she was sitting at home rather than participating in the event on other side of town. As much as she tried to assure herself it was all a bunch of malarkey, the banishment bothered her, which in itself made her feel like a damned fool. Certainly nobody there would be missing her. Who? Her supposed best friend showing off her fancy makeup, lording over everybody her big-shot college boyfriend, himself a failing grade away from the Draft and the jungles of Indo-China? And good riddance to the stupid show itself, slapped together at the last minute, the performers lapping up the phony compliments, some actually believing “Today St. Hilarius, tomorrow Broadway!” Who were they kidding? Oh, it was all crap, and it stunk to high heaven.

Arlene tapped the bottom of her radio on the boards of the little back porch until a tune came in, faint and tinny. Frenetic fiddling backed by a throbbing string bass. Bluegrass? Whatever it was, the up tempo notes from her little radio were twanging out a message of joy.

And at least she had that. Whatever she ended up doing with her life, after Life decided what to do with her, music always would, in a way, belong only to her, just as humans beings everywhere and for centuries claimed exclusive ownership of the huge disc which was at that very moment beaming directly down on her head–that old moon, big and shiny enough to melt the stoniest heart.



[COLOR="teal"] * Arlene's previous appearances:

"Yesterday's Mashed Potatoes" (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=34873)


"Downhill" (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=31390)

"Amateur Night" (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=31415)



"Aren't You Glad You're You." (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=33713)

The Best of the Blest (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=31849)

[Hawkman]

You paint a vivid picture of a lost, and at least to this reader, alien world, Auntie. I very much enjoyed the interview between Arlene and father Roche. Delicate humour fitting for the setting of a less brash age I feel. Thanks for the diversion.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

This was a pleasure to read, and had style. Your wordsmanship is just terrific. And the last parargraph, where you wax philosophically about lovers of each generation claiming the moon as their own exclusive prize? Like someone else said, "It was charming."

[AuntShecky]

Thanks to all who took the time to read "Book Smart," which will be
deleted (temporarily) for reasons to be kept under wraps for a while.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie and welcome back to the boards :) Well there is certainly a lot to enjoy in this tale of virtue's reward! There are moments descibing Mr Thornburg's life that ring uncomfortably true - lol. I do have a couple of observations. The one which keeps kicking me is the reference to Grendel. Not, "the monster's mother - it was Grendel himself." I feel you have missed a trick here in that Grendel, though terrible, was a lesser evil than his mother. What if it had been the son doing the menacing for the rent rather than the land-lady. Having failed to get it he could have threatened Thornburg with his mum! It would have saved me a rush to the dictionary to look up, "ecdysiast" - lol.

There are several references to the Chronicles before the explanation of what they are. Well I guess we can take a reasonable idea of what they might be by association, but I'm not sure that the repeated oblique intimations work. I did find the Stunned paragraph a little difficult to follow. I feel you could have achieved the desired effect with more conventional grammar and syntax - lol.

You can only be forgiven for the occasional typo which escaped the proof reading and in a piece of this length and richness is entirely excuseable.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed this piece immensely, your passages of warmly descriptive writing, rich with your characteristic irony and humour gave me a wonderful read. The Conclusion reminded me a little of Balckadder's Christmas Carol, only his long-suffering forebarance failed him at the end, so he forfieted his reward - lol.

Thanks so much for sharing.

Live and be well - H

[zoolane]

The story 'All Myself Alone' is lovely story with main character. She loves her music and show that your life is not one path be Father. I did giggle that peppermint whne she leave the office.

The 'Bookshelf' remind me of the film of 'The Purpuse of Happiness'. I enjoy reading both stories. Very jealous, I hope can writing like this one day.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you both for reading #64 above. (It's been a rough summer and early fall for yer ole Auntie, but as soon as I can, I'll try to get back into the LitNet groove, including reading and commenting on the LitNutters' work as soon as I can.)

Since a creative work is --or should be --a collaborative effort between both writer and reader, I don't want to pin down what the intended meaning was. I will suggest, however, that it is best not to take fiction too literally. True enough, this story is about a guy so "nice" he literally goes out of his way to help someone (such as the sandwich shop owner), but on the other hand, the society in which he lives has --again literally--not much use for him. Still, if the only presents the superficial--and clichéd --theme that virtue eventually gets rewarded, then it's a flat-out failure.

To address a couple of your other concerns, Hawk:

I'll go back to try to patch any typos I may have missed, but the length of a story is no excuse for carelessness. It is lengthy for the LitNet, but clocks in about midway through the general word count for a short story: 1000-7500.

You're absolutely right about the Beowulf allusion, especially since the chief character in "Book Smart" tends to live life by what he's learned in literature. In this case the author herself was too literal by coming up with a wretched sentence simply designed to follow up on the landlady's threat to send her son. Even when I was writing that sentence it bothered me, as it went through 4 or 5 revisions. But after editing the offending section, I hope it's been clarified.

The other short passage that gave you pause attempts to illustrate what it would be like to have one's whole life flash in front of him in a microsecond--hence the jumbled, disconnected images written without punctuation. Writing this part required invoking what passes as my "imagination," since I've never undergone such a mystical experience before-- at least when I was sober!


Thanks again for your thoughtful comments.

[AuntShecky]

Sounds No Worse Than Cheers



According to conventional wisdom, there’s more than a tenuous thread of truth to the bad rep surrounding Mondays. Already this particular Monday had begun to suck big time, and it was only half-past eight. The stupid bus was late again, and the stinking chemistry test was coming up later that morning, but not hearing from Janice all weekend was the worst. Every call, each more frantic than the last, had been shuttled to the nebulous realm of voice mail. No response. Same with texts, IMs, desperate postings on Facebook and Twitter. What was up with her? God, maybe she was sick or something.

As Thad continued down the corridor, an abrupt rear collision hurled him forward. He heard a rude “Whoops! I don’t brake for jackasses.” The attacker high-fived his companions before the small gang blended with the crowd. They were beyond earshot by the time Thad could come up with a rejoinder: “Hey, good morning to you, too!” Meanwhile he had more important things to do, like trying to get ahold of Jan.

He unpocketed the unit, punched in her instant dial number, and was immediately deported to the Gitmo of her voice mail. Maybe there was something wrong with his cell phone, a glitch in the batteries or a loose connection. Whenever anything at home didn’t work properly, his father would employ the same S.O.P. First came the troubleshooting process. He’d take a long look at the balky toaster, snowy picture on the TV, or whichever device temporarily to have gone, as Dad put it, “on the fritz.” Next came the actual repair work. This involved snapping open a cold one, taking a manly swig, letting loose with a loud curse, and then punishing the disobedient machine with a healthy whack.

Believing it was worth a try, Thad held the slim phone vertically and pounded it on his opposite palm. All that did was hurt his hand. Continuing down the corridor, he saw a swarm of students clustering around the back wall, completely occupied by a glass case displaying every sports award accumulated in the school’s history. The rear panel of the case served as the designated site for a enlarged color photo, a smaller replica of which was certain to fill one of the pages of the high school yearbook the following June. The display case photo, however, changed according to which particular sport happened to be in season; at the moment, the spotlight shone on the varsity gridiron team. For decades, the student body had taken the artifact for granted, rarely noticing it as anything but a quaint throwback to a less sophisticated era. So what was the big attraction that particular morning? The kids were whooping it up, cracking wise, filling the halls with derisive laughter, but their behavior didn’t strike Thad as particularly joyful. He kept picking up a strange vibe, as if at any moment the revelers would turn into a pitchfork-waving mob.

Thad had always hated that lame trophy case; there was something arrogant, self-congratulatory about it, like the televised Hollywood awards shows that filled his father with disgust: “Bunch of bleeping bleeps blowing their own bleeping horns.” Evidently others had felt the same way, because sometime over the past weekend, the secular shrine had been defiled. “Hah! That’ll show ‘im!” somebody yelled.

At this point Thad couldn’t totally make out the extent of the damage; no broken glass littered the floor. In the narrow space between two onlookers, he could see the double doors of the case slightly separated, with the hook of the picked padlock guiltily hanging. In general, Thad’s opinion of vandalism echoed the tongue-clicking disgust held by so-called “responsible” society. Yet-- since the rebel in him relished the power of iconoclasm--he found the seemingly innocuous schoolboy prank as funny, almost admirable. He was just about to crow, “Hey, way to deface school property, Man!” when some jerk spotted him. “Hey, Dorky McDork Dork– check it out!” He grabbed Thad by the back of the neck and pushed him toward the glass, while the jeering spectators made way, partially out of respect to the public humiliation in progress, but mostly in regard to their own personal safety.

The punk squeezed Thad’s neck even more tightly as he pushed him closer to the glass. “That’s right, Pretty Boy. Look!” he ordered, while making damn sure Thad couldn’t turn his head a fraction of an inch.

At first forcible glance, the figures in the glossy shot looked just as fresh-faced and ready for action as on the summer day when the professional photographer had done his snappy thing. The decision over who posed where had largely been a matter of height, with no apparent distinction between the offensive and defensive squads. The group portrait had been designed as kind of a mock-up of a field formation in the first row; each if these players, coached into adopting an expression that meant business, knelt on one knee, while stretching out his left arm, with the knuckles of his clenched hand barely touching the narrow band of grass in front of the line. The second row consisted of the remaining team members, vertical this time, but just as formidable. At dead center stood the quarterback, with the all-important game ball tightly tucked in the crook of his arm, as if that so-called “pigskin” were a priceless religious relic. Nothing amiss here, except for the team member standing three places from the right in the back row. This had been Thad’s assigned spot. The last time he’d looked at the photo was the day it had been installed back in early September. At that time he honestly thought he looked okay in the picture, at least there was nothing embarrassing. Until today. He recognized himself, all buffed-up and beefy inside his bulky uniform, with the double digit number on his jersey unchanged, but there was nothing familiar about his image from the neck up. Somebody had taken a red marking pen and slashed a huge “x” through his face, from the top of his helmet through the bottom of his chin strap. Above his head the word “LOSER!!!” had been scrawled, highlighted with a blood-colored arrow in case anyone had any doubt over who the culprit might be. Thad’s tormentor finally released his grip on his neck and pounded him hard on the back. “Get a load of the big hero now!”

“Wha–? Oh. Oh, yeah, I get it,” Thad said, adding, “That’s a pisser, Dude.” But he wasn’t laughing.

He wondered if Jan had seen it yet. Think of the angel and she’ll appear, and there-- just a couple dozen yards down the hall--she was, giggling with a bunch of other girls. Raising his arm, he called her name and hoped that she could hear him. She turned and looked at him for a nanosecond and then looked away. Again, “Jan!”-- only louder. He was absolutely sure that she’d heard him this time, but she made no acknowledgment at all other than a gesture that chilled his very bones. The love of his young life raised her palm in his general direction, as she were a cop indicating “Stop” as if she didn’t want him to bother her. This wasn’t his Janice, no way.

In home room some moron called him a “tool,” and the poking and taunting didn’t let up all morning long. Even in Language Arts class Mrs. Aronson could have been a willing accomplice with the poem she’d chosen to read aloud. When she came to the lines

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom renown outran,
And the name died before the man

she glared directly at Thad. It had been an incredibly painful day, no doubt; still, he was grateful he hadn’t been called on to explain what the poem means. He had a notion that somehow those lines were similar to a story his father had told him the other night.

On the way home from the game, they’d made their customary stop at Lucky’s for his father’s one-man post-game show. Occasionally they’d share a booth and a pizza, but this time they sat right at the bar, with a draft for his dad and the underage default beverage, a plain ginger ale–damn it!–for Thad. He hoped the conversation would be kept light, free of the heavy topics he’d overheard his parents discussing the previous night. His mother and father talked about the family’s financial situation, how the mortgage crisis had messed up their own lives in so many ways, particularly decreasing Thad’s college fund, which never had been all that hefty in the first place.

“Good crowd tonight,” his father said. “That is, if you don’t count the folks who were actually watching the game. Half the guys, even geezers like your old man here, were ogling the cheerleaders.”

Thad shifted around on his perch; a barstool was a seat where he could never get comfortable–at least physically.

“ ‘Course at St. Hilarius never had pretty cheerleaders. We did have male cheerleaders though– and even they wore long pants.”

“Yeah, right.” Thad rolled his eyes. “You’re full of sh–, er, pulling my leg again.”

His father took a healthy swig of his brew. “Don’t believe me? Look up the archives for the old sports stories in the newspaper. You could --what d’ya call it?--Google it.”

For a while the bubbles and speech continued to flow until the volume of Thad’s father’s voice suddenly dropped a few decibels. “See that fella on the end of the bar? I’d tell ya ‘don’t look now’ but he’d never notice anyway.”

Thad turned his head and saw the solitary man, slumping forward, his head just a few inches away from hitting the surface of the bar. “Years ago he was a big basketball star for Downstate U.,” his father further explained. “You’d never know it now, would ya? You know how everybody in town flocks to all of those games? “

“Yeah, and it doesn’t matter whether you actually went there or not–“

“Right. It’s almost like a civic duty, except they enjoy it. Or seem to. Anyway back in–I don’t know, may be it was ‘64, they were in this huge tournament game, championship on the line, of course, all tied up with just a few seconds left--you know the drill. Anyway, somehow that guy got possession of the ball, dribbled it half-way down the court, took a risky shot that went through the hoop just as the buzzer sounded.” His father took a swig of beer. “Well, you can imagine what happened next. Pandemonium. The fans came rushing down, lifted him up on their shoulders, well, you’ve seen that movie. Look at him now. ”

Thad shook his head. “Poor guy.”

“Yeah, it’s never a good idea to peak before you hit twenty-one. Don’t go thinking I’m spreading gossip, like one of your mom’s catty friends. I pointed the pitiful bastard out to you for a reason.”

Thad nodded. “I get you.”

“ Don’t get me wrong --I’m extremely proud of the way you handled yourself tonight, son.”


The unconditional acceptance from Thad’s father did little to buffer this recent spate of scorn from his schoolmates, not to mention his girl. It seemed as if the whole world had singled him out as a persona non grata, a ready rationale for an exquisite flirtation with adolescent angst. At the same time, he wanted to handle the bizarre treatment the way an adult would, trying to tell himself: “Oh, well. That’s the way it goes.”


Gradually the confusion and hurt eased up a little bit, as he began to analyze the strange events of the morning. It occurred to him that the whole thing might indeed be an elaborate practical joke cooked up right after the big game on Friday night to be served when classes resumed on Monday. The whole school must be in on it, with everybody committed to giving him heavy heat. It was only a matter of time before they’d own up to it, they’d all have a good laugh over it, and everybody could move on. Jan, especially, would be her sweet self again.

Kidding aside, there still remained the serious matter of the chemistry test. It was inevitable that Third Period would arrive, and it did. Thad had just written his name on the top of the answer sheet when he was told that he was wanted in the Principal’s Office. “But what about –?”

“Not my problem, Grabowski.” Mr. Walter grabbed the test paper and answer sheet and tossed them both on his own desk. “And don’t even think about a make-up.”

All the way down to the first floor Thad’s stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and disgust. The stupid school had so many rules and regulations on the books that a guy could unknowingly break a couple before he walked through the front door. He was already a laughingstock, so getting yanked out class in front of everybody was merely a little scratch. From an academic stand point, though, missing the test would be a fatal wound. All that work and worry and for what?-- only to forfeit the test in exchange for a big fat zero that would shoot his average straight to hell. So long, scholarship; hello, fast food industry.

Just his luck! Thad’s future plans were being destroyed because of the Principal’s bad timing. What the hell did Cap’n Crunch want with him? Possibly he was to be interrogated about the vandalism. The situation called for a pre-emptive strike.

Thad took a deep breath. Before he was half-way through the door, he’d gotten out the words: “ I don’t know anything about that damaged picture, Sir.”

“What picture?” The administrator sat at a desk the size of a sub-compact car. On the wall directly behind his desk in a ornately-carved frame hung his post-graduate degree, a doctorate in education. “Please, sit down, Chad, er–“ a quick glance at his computer screen “-Thad. Thanks for coming down. Now, about that game the other night–“

All the big blowhard wanted to do was talk sports! Meanwhile Mr. Walter would waste no time scratching a big fat zero next to Thad’s name. Unbelievable.

“That was quite a finish, Thad. It’s so unfortunate that your own performance --”

“Excuse me?” What the hell was talking about? They had won! Quickly Thad was becoming furious; his efforts to control himself only made his face a deeper red, his fists more tightly clenched.

“Simmer down, son. It’s just that – Well, let me tell you how a scholastic sports program is implemented. It facilitates the social development of young men –and women– as responsible citizens. It keeps them focused, builds their character. Society as a whole is improved. But there’s also another upside.” Dr. Undershaft placed his hands on the desk in front of him and made a little church and steeple out of his fingers. “In a way, having a dynamic–a successful– season for our teams helps the school in so many ways. We have a very, very good relationship with the East Hogwash community. This enables us to court –and nurture – sports boosters, folks who very, very generously support our athletic programs.”

An ancient, oft-told joke about “athletic supporters” jumped into Thad’s head. “Forgive me, Sir, I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“Well, we like to have our student athletes support our teams as well. I don’t mean just by showing good sportsmanship and playing well, but by being boosters in their own right.”

Thad wondered what all this had to do with him. “I still don’t understand. Sorry.”

“ My God! Are you that stupid?” Dr. Undershaft had been rumored to have a long but explosive fuse, and Thad swore that he could almost hear it sizzle. “Let me put it this way– back when they still taught World History instead of Global Studies, students used to be taught about the French Revolution. During the Reign of Terror, a citizen could be sent to the Guillotine just for lack of enthusiasm.” Letting loose with a resigned sigh, he announced, “Perhaps the video is worth a thousand words.”

Undershaft swivelled in his chair and clicked a remote connected to a DVR and a TV screen the size of a dumpster. He didn’t have to punch anything; the video came on instantly. It was a clip of NewsChannel15's News At Eleven from the previous Friday.

“-lutely right, Biff. “ Shouting into his mike, the announcer was all but drowned out by the sounds of screaming, cheering fans. Behind him, a handful of middle school kids shouted and bounced, mugged at the camera, and flashed index fingers signifying that they (by proxy) were Number One. In order to avoid being drowned out, the announcer’s voice grew louder “The Boars are victorious, defeating the Lake Averill Bobcats, 13-10. With this victory EHHS will be going straight to the regional championships one week from tonight. And here’s the guy who got it done–“ The sportscaster’s arm strayed off camera and when it returned to view, it was gripping the arm of a uniformed football player–“Junior Thad Grabowski! Congratulations, Thad!”

“Oh, yeah. I remember when they taped this, but I never saw the–“

The Principal glared at him. “Shhh!”

“Thad, when your quarterback Jason Noble threw that pass, what was going through your mind? Did you know you were going to receive that ball and carry it a full 30 yards down to the end zone? How does it feel to be the one scoring the winning touchdown?”

In the video, Thad appeared underwhelmed. “The ball happened to come to me and I grabbed it. Then I did what anybody would have done. I ran.”

“Yes, but weren’t you blown away? Weren’t you thrilled that you single-handedly won the game for your teammates? I mean, wasn’t it awesome?”

Thad shrugged his heavily-padded shoulders. “Both teams did their best. Not just me. Uh, every time you win that’s a relief, but we gotta keep things in perspective. I mean, it’s not like this was the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series, or anything. It’s not the Super Bowl. It’s just a high school football game. It’s fun, but catching a ball and running down the field isn’t gonna change the world.”

The announcer cleared his throat. “Well! Quite a different perspective from a young man coming off a stunning triumph. Back to you, Biff–“

Cap’n Crunch snapped his remote as if it were a pistol. “Humility is one thing, Thad. It’s another to let down your teammates–“

“Let them down? How?”

“You could’ve shared their joy. Jumped up and down, tossed your helmet up into the air, sung the praises of EHHS. Shown a little enthusiasm!” he exclaimed, shaking his fist into the air. Then in a lower voice: “Instead you minimized their achievement. Put a damper on what might have been their fondest memory of their days here at EHHS. You know, there used to be a thing called School Spirit.” The Principal rubbed his eyes. “Tell me, Thad. I know you won’t be a senior until next year. But have you been looking at any colleges yet?”

“Uh, I’m interested in Poly Tech.”

“Right here in the area? Their entrance requirements are pretty tough. You’ll need really high SAT scores. Need to get your grades up, Son.”

Yeah, like being forced to skip a chem test is gonna help.

“ If you’re hoping for the kind of scholarship that’s hard to get, lots of luck. As far as the other kind-- Oh, wait, they don’t really have a football program over at Poly Tech, do they?” Dr. Undershaft scribbled something on a piece of paper.

“Guess not. They’re more into hockey.”

“Oh, right. Right. Well, unless you’re good on the ice, you probably should write off any chance for an athletic scholarship. Anywhere. As of now, you’re off the football team. Now go back to class.”

In his own childhood, Thad had believed every word of the stories his father used to tell him. As he got older, Thad gradually caught on to the fact that these supposedly biographical anecdotes were most likely apocryphal. Still, all the way back upstairs, he remembered his father’s booming voice telling him another one. “So the coach calls us all into the locker room. He gives us all the usual crap about teamwork, with the old chestnut about ‘there’s no “i” in team.’ Then he looks at me and says, ‘And there’s no “u” in it either, Grabowski.’ “

Maybe Thad had inherited his lack of enchantment over sports from his father, if there were such a gene. Even so, that very evening he saw his father parked in front of the tube. As always, he cursed the incessant commercials, the egregious calls by the on-field officials, the asinine play-by-play commentators, the overpaid, ineffectual players, but every time Monday Night Football was on, his father watched without fail.

[Jack of Hearts]

Poor Thad. What a weird, twisted world he lives in though. Auntie, Thad's meeting with the principal was very amusing. This seemed to this reader to be mostly a comic piece- though certainly there are those athletes who peak and then descend into obscurity, and that's a sad tale. The elements of schadenfreude are really effective. And, of course, your way with language lent it a bit of weight and polish.







J

[Hawkman]

Vitai Lampada: Sir Henry Newbolt

"And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!" "

As a satire I can't help feeling that this piece is a little over extended, but The writing is always worth reading from Auntie.

I have a horrible feeling that there may be less humourous satire in this piece than observational appreciation though. These days the key to success seems almost exclusively reserved for those who blow their own trumpets most effectively. Certainly on this side of the pond, the culture of celebrity means nothing to do with team spirit or civic duty counts for much. It's all about publicity and drawing attention to one's self. Why else would people like Peter Andre and Katy Price even register on the public's radar.

Good fun Auntie and keep up the good work.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

You can't always take risks with writing. Or just maybe, since this was a revision and all, the risks you took at first to write it got smoothed over and it seemed to you, at least, less risky, as the piece progressed.

It's a charming and imaginative piece, and the writing makes it all so plausable, we don't question its credibility for a second. I enjoyed it, risks or no risks!

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, Jack of Hearts, Hawkman, and Steven for "tackling" this.

[Jack of Hearts]

Haha, that was pretty groan-worthy Auntie. You keep writin' 'em, we'll keep readin' 'em.






J

[AuntShecky]

{Author's note: After acting upon the advice of the astute replies below, I have changed the opening paragraph slightly. In fact, I'm doing it a second time tonight! Thanks so much!}


Presence


On a mild day, the long walk was no picnic, but on an evening as cold as this one it was a penance. Arriving at the edge of the all-but-deserted stretch of former farmland was a relief but no blessing. The light from Jamie’s lonely little outpost was so far away it was faint. Leave it to him to pick such a far off spot rather than a more convenient place closer to the road. Well, at least it wasn’t snowing.


As Erin trudged across the ground, no longer muddy but not yet completely frozen, she fretted over her designer boots and how they’d weather the trek. They were last year’s pair, but acquiring the latest fashionable footwear this time around was, of course, out of the question.

Not that she could see her feet all that well in the absence of any usable light. She tripped over flattened cardboard signs, stray blankets, and the assortment of debris that the less committed participants had left behind. Arriving at last at the so-called entrance to her brother’s tent, she yanked aside the flimsy vinyl flap.

“Je-SUS! Warn people much?”

“Della made me bring you this. Here.” Erin thrust the brown paper bag and thermos into his face.

Jamie held the paper bag close to his nose for an exaggerated sniff. “Let me guess. Pastrami on rye and a double hot toddy?”

“Try half-a-can of Manhattan clam chowder and peanut butter on white.”

“Mmm–surf and turf. My fave!” Jamie unscrewed the cap from the thermos and took a gulp. “Ugh! Cold again. You must’ve taken your sweet time getting here.”

“You should be glad somebody’s bringing you something, you ingrate.”

“Okay, you did your good deed for today. So long.” Then, after noticing that Erin wasn’t making a move to leave, he added, “You can take Mom’s thermos back as soon as I’m done.”

“Huh?”

“I’m eating as fast as I can.”

“ What’s the difference? Della and Jim are going to–-“

“--You call them that to their faces?”

“Sure! All the time.”

“You’re a lying sack of –“ Finishing the last drop of the soup, he tightened the top of the thermos and reattached the cup. He handed it to her with a flourish, as if to mock an award presentation. “Congratulations! Don’t say I never gave you anything.” After crunching up the wrapper from his sandwich, he threw it into the paper bag and rolled it all up into a tight little cylinder. “You can have this, too. Now, if there’s no further business, I repeat: so long.”

Erin, nevertheless, wasn’t budging. Occupying the last available free space in the one-man tent, she looked as if she were there for–if not the long haul– the time being. Even in the stingy light of the battery-powered lantern, Jamie could make out the expression on his sister’s face. She looked as if someone had stolen all of her pickles and then forced her to swallow a barrel of the brine.

“Okay, Sourpuss. What crawled up your butt this time?”

With her arms folded tightly across her chest, Erin shook her head before completely turning away.

“Oh, come on! How can you be pissed at me? I haven’t been home for weeks!”

She didn’t want to look at him but couldn’t resist. “Yeah, right! Like everything in the whole world is about you. It’s all about Jamie, all the time!” She stifled a sob, adding, “If you must know, it’s Della and Jim. They totally don’t get it. ”

Jamie pretended to yawn. “So what else is new?”

“Christmas is gonna suck this year, and they couldn’t care less.”

Her brother laughed–as the old verse went– in spite of himself. “ Is that what this is all about? Christmas? What are you-- six?”

“I mean–it doesn’t faze them in the least how I feel. Right after New Year's I gotta go back to school, and everybody’s gonna have new outfits, new Smart Phones, new everything and I’m gonna have squat.”

At that point, the germ of Erin’s anger had become viral, instantly finding a new host in Jamie. “You selfish little brat! What the hell’s the matter with you?” With each syllable, the decibels rose, reaching a level nearly rivaling that of the howling wind. “Listen to yourself! Did you forget that Dad’s been out of work almost a year or that Mom’s hours have been cut down to practically nothing? Where did you think the money for your– your toys–is supposed to come from? Santa Claus?”

Erin looked ready to stand up and stamp her feet, but in the cramped little pup tent there was really no room to do so without running the risk of ripping through the plastic roof. As it was, the top her head was a fraction of an inch of scraping the pliable ceiling. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. No one does!”

Jamie grabbed her arms and glared straight at her. “No! You’re the one who doesn’t understand! Don’t you know what the world is like? How the gazillionaires at the top are ruining it for the rest of us? Why the hell do you think I’ve been staying out here all this time?”

“Because you’re an geek, Jamie! The entire school is laughing at all of you guys.”

“Well, that’s no skin off my –hey, what’s that?” A pattern of two bright spheres was sweeping across the tent’s thin walls. “Headlights!” Sinking to his knees, he opened the door flap slightly in order to stare out into the darkness.

“It’s way too early for Della and Jim.”

“What are you talking about?” In the distance Jamie saw a vehicle with a revolving beacon, a red light not found on any mythical reindeer. “Oh, crap! Dunkin’ Donuts must’ve closed early tonight.”

Within seconds, the siblings saw a large hand pull back the tent opening in a manner more cautious than intrusive. Then came the command, sung in a genial baritone, “Come out, come out whoever you are!”

Initially hesitant to confront the cop, Jamie eventually exited to be greeted by a high-powered flashlight that temporarily blinded him. When his sister followed, Jamie felt like throwing her into the slammer himself-- for aggravated stupidity.

“Oooh, I see you have company!”

“Believe me, Officer, it’s not what it looks like. Anyway, she was just leaving.”

“Which is exactly what you should do, Son.”

Oh, why did he have to go through all this, over and over again? “The owner gave her permission, Sir. In fact, there‘s a signed statement from Mrs. Corelli on file with--“

“Yeah? Well, good for her.” The policeman’s breath made small puffs that hung in the triangle of the light in front of him before rising and dissipating into the frigid night. “Look around, son. You see anybody else out here? Where are your comrades, your colleagues, hmm?” He made a grand sweeping motion with his arm, like a real estate agent showing off a slow-moving piece of property. “I mean, nobody doubts your sincerity. Your commitment. But why don’t you give yourself a little break? It’s cold as hell out here.” A mechanical squawk came from the direction of the police vehicle, spewing out clouds of exhaust from the rear, the double beacons illuminating the abandoned grounds in front, and the red light still twirling on top.

For a brief moment, the cop turned to look at his unit, and then back to Jamie. “Nobody’s gonna mind if you took a little time off to spend with your family. Come on. It’s Christmas Eve. Go home.”

Jamie and Erin watched him walk all the way back to his car. Finally, Erin announced, “Let’s go.”

“You go. I’m staying.”

“Are you nuts? You heard what that cop said. You want to spend Christmas Eve in jail?”

“On what charge? Besides, he won’t be back.”

“Whatever. But you gotta go anyway. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but Della and Jim are gonna pick you up at quarter after eleven to take you to Midnight Mass. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Ugh.”

“I told them you haven’t taken a shower since–forever! But Jim said, ‘Nobody’ll notice. Everybody in St. Hilarious will be already stinkin’ of booze.”

“Very funny. “

“He’s a pisser, isn’t he? “ Erin began to shake a little, but not from the cold–more like a physical effort to suppress an involuntary emotion. “No wonder Della always makes us all sit in the back of the church. Remember last year on the way home from church when he –“ Suddenly the spasm won the battle, forcing Erin to laugh so hard couldn’t finish the sentence. It was only until she managed to regain control of herself that she added, “Come with us, Jamie. You know you want to."

“Forget it. I’m not going.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Jamie! Sometimes you can be so–stubborn!”

“What you fail to understand-- what everybody fails to understand,--is what we’re all doing out here. “ One more time with the Recitation, long ago learned by rote. He cleared his throat. “The world’s flipped upside down, and it has to be set right. We can’t presume to change it ourselves, but in our own quiet little way we can make a statement. I'm doing this for the love of mankind.”

“But what about the love of Mom and Dad?”

“Huh? Ten minutes ago you were ready to hang them in effigy.”

“I know.” Erin untied her scarf, retied it in a knot under her chin, and swung the two hanging parts over her shoulders. After putting on her gloves, she picked up the thermos and the rolled up paper bag and started heading over the field.

Jamie ducked back into the tent momentarily to grab the lantern. Back outside he held it up in a rough attempt to light her way as well as his ability to watch her trudge across the partially-frozen, bumpy terrain. Erin was the type of girl who never allowed any kind of hat get anywhere near her hair, but now the hood of her jacket covered her head –maybe not begrudgingly so, given the cold. She was smart enough to keep her head down to avoid the onrush of the frigid gusts, but it was difficult to look at her and not think of a lamb who’d wandered away from its flock.

“Erin! Wait up.” Abandoning his earnest fortress, with the plastic structure billowing in the icy wind, Jamie caught up with her. “I’ll walk you back.”

All the way across the field, nobody said anything, and even by the time they'd reached honest-to-god pavement, the only sound was the occasional vehicle going one way or the other on Route 20. At last, Erin broke the silence. “It’s really clear out tonight,” she said while pointed roughly northward. “Look at all that pink in the sky. Is that the Northern Lights?”

“Hell, no! We’re way, way too far south. Not only that, the Northern Lights have a greenish glow, not pink. You must be hallucinating. ” Despite his doubts, he stole a glance. “Oh, you idiot. That’s the lights from the parking lot up at East Hogwash Shoppers Plaza.”

The night sky, however, still offered its wonders. There may not have been a visible Aurora Borealis nor a distinctive phenomenon prominently shining in the East. But in every direction there were vast swaths of infinite stars, each one bestowing upon the earth its sparkling gift.



[This ^^ is Auntie's holiday story for 2011. Previous seasonal postings include:


O Holly Nite
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=31124

The Girl in Balthazar's Window
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=30910

Christmas Morning Play by Play
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=40499


Your Holiday Call is Important to Us
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=30999


The Holiday Special That Almost Wasn't
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=40457

[Hawkman]

A topical and seasonal tale from Auntie, the Herodotus of East Hogwash :D I was a little unsure whether the policeman was exaggerating when he states, there's nobody left but you, to the pocket revolutionary, because said revolutionary still continues to say "we" in his self justification of stubborness, but I suppose Jamie sees himself as part of something bigger. ;)

Incidentally, I've seen the Aurora as far South as South Devon. It was a few years ago now, during a period of intense solar activity - and it was bright red.

Thoroughly enjoyed this piece. I hope you enjoy your Chrimbo in warmth and fellowship!

Live and be well - H

[smerdyakov]

Hi: santasmil

I enjoyed reading this. You have sketched the characters well, and the dialogue is funny in parts. The little sibling antagonism is realistic and teases the storyline out well.

In terms of making it that bit better, I would cut the first paragraph as it's a tad unwieldy. Besides, the setting/scene is conveyed well/more subtly in the next two paras.

A nice read. Thanks for sharing. I look forward to reading your other stories over the holidays.

:)

[hillwalker]

I couldn't let the year roll out without adding a comment to this (and wishing you all the joys of the festive season).

It reminded me of 'Close Encounters' - a certain warm quasi-mystical undertone. Also the way the brother and sister interact was realistic and as infuriating as real life.

I did find the opening paragraph a little challenging - that second sentence in particular required two or three readings. But overall an enjoyable read.

Best wishes

H

[Jack of Hearts]

Lately, for his own sanity, this reader has turned off his 'writin' brain'/capacity for critical analysis.

So this response is just to say it was a good read that admirably captures the spirit of this waning year. With all the unrest, all of this 'Occupy' business, this story punctuates a moment in history with how the holiday, at least for this reader, could speak for the rest of the events of the year. And it still maintains its humanistic charm.





J

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Hawkman, smerdyakov, hillwalker, and Jack of Hearts not only for
reading this thing but also offering good advice, which I took to heart.
Best wishes to the four of you--as well as all of our fellow LitNutters-- for
the seasonal festivities of your choice!

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty
Thank you for a most enjoyable read. It rounds off this year extremely well. Hope you have a fulfilling and creative 2012.
Best wishes
M.

[smerdyakov]

All To Myself Alone--

I found this to be very well written. You have a keen eye for detail, and it brings your story to life.
I enjoyed the irony of the first para where they are both smoking just for the sake of it, because of its inherent coolness.

"waxy ring of hot pink lipstick..." little details like this add to our mental image of the whole piece.

The story lulls a little in the auditorium I feel (but maybe that's just me).
The dialogue with the priest was done well. I also liked Arlene's brazenness.


Sounds No Worse Than Cheers--

I found the subject matter of this a lot more appealing. Something didn't sit with me though as I read this. Thad is a proficient sportsman (well, teenager). He seems a bit too meek and lacking in confidence. This seemed a bit inconsistent. Especially the part where he lets some guy grab him by the neck. If he's a good athlete surely he would have been able to handle himself here.
I did feel sympathy for him, but felt you could have shown us a reason for his meekness, since he obviously does the business on the football field.
Anyway, that's just something that jarred with me. I liked the story and found it well written. You seem to have a good sense of the American high school dynamic thing. The bit with the principal was amusing.
Enjoyable stuff. Thanks for sharing.

[kittypaws]

Auntie keep looking to the heavens! I enjoyed this story of yours, especially the ending and wish you the very best of the New Year! Good health, love, peace, happiness and family to share it all with.

Happy New Year!

kittypaws

[AuntShecky]

Over the Top


Part 1 of 3

No different from any trek to the track, that dis-stink-tive tall-tail aroma smacks you in the kisser then swiftly dissipates like the buzz of a “lite” beer, or, considering of the pricey-prized sources, forget and/or forgive. Maybe you just get used to the smell, shooing it as a fly away.

Temporarily parked in stables, those to the manure born poked their elongated mugs out their stalls whilst curiously eyeing the passers-by. These in turn ignored the shiny equine stars a scant stretch away and right above their noses, stuck instead in glossy programs and folded daily rags, both hip-hyped and hope-held, the in-the-horseflesh, blood-bred steeds no match against their font-mounted odds.

Cute they were, no tout, yet scarcely winning a glans from our own in-exacta, namely the wife and yours cruelly coupled and seldom untied but e’er united ‘til debt do us fart. We’d come of late upon “hard times,” the classic situation thought to build character, in which case we could’ve been dubbed pair o’ guns of fortitude, pills of the community, and knights exemplars whom moms and dads could daily warn their scions not to grow up to be. By the slenderest skin of our remaining teeth, we’d “hung”-- as the pendulous kitty on the poster urged–“in there,” with any off the cuff, stop-gaffe measures we’d been able to deploy, without transparently betraying our invisible means of support, possibly excepting my lovely bride, already showing signs of resembling the gaunt woman in a Walker Evans photo, though nonetheless still my winsome, lose some Winnie, not completely divorced from the forward-looking optimism of her former youth, when she was a half-full kind of lass. Me, I’m fully down with empty, all the way.

That particular Dog Day had come panting, slobbering under a milky ceiling threatening to spring a leak. Behind the whiteness Ol’ Sol resolved to rein in any precip and cranked himself up. “Hot enough for ya?” Bring it on, Sunshine old pal. Heap up heat sufficient enough to provide fat pickin’s with those brew tabs snapping and syrupy swig vessels draining, ever popping afresh. For the vin ordinaire of the plebs the Gods be thanked. Not so greatly grateful for the patricians and their willfully-emaciated Patricias in haute couture and picture hats, the privileged effete wined and entwined up in the aeries of the clubhouse even as we squeak, proximate in distance yet light-years remote in squirms of holy moley moolah. As in lousy with money, high-rolling in the do-re-mi, splashed with cash, a-drip with liquid assets, soakin’ in filthy lucre, flush(ed.)

None of these adjs. ever appearing in a sentence describing your mumbled servant and his bride, our pair instead appropriately allied with our so-called peers. They’d secured a place in line hours before post time so that the very parsec the gatekeepers creaked up the drawbridge, they could jockey into position to stake out and claim a preferential piece of real estate in the backyard area, namely a primo picnic table to occupy for the duration. Except for an occasional lengthy walk to the actual trackside, the opp to witness all nine ”live” races promised to be compromised, but the stooping ground for the groundlings attempted to provide easy eyeshot for the full program of sprints and stretches of the Sport of Kings, begrudgingly shared with the common folk. For behold the mammoth closed-circus teevees tacked to stately trees who hadn’t been allowed a bark or yip of consultation on the matter of sacrificing their trunk space for these half-hung monoliths with their screens thirsty with dust, not having tasted the skimpiest spritz of Windex since the Clinton administration.

What put the prime in a particular property was the relatively convenient access to a betting kiosk as the key to possible profit-- not, unforch, for the likes of us, devoid of the paltry deuce required for a minimum wager, with the coughed-up contents of the coffer already earmarked and paid-through-the-nose , namely for the fossilized species of horsepower providing transport to and fro as well as a duo of general admission ducats, a temporary tattoo on each of our respective southpaws attesting to legitimacy of the transaction.

Not to mention the previously-purchased pack o’ store-brand jumbo plastic bags, cleverly flattened and jammed in the dorsal pocket of my denims. Save a couple that I’d unrolled and detached, unfurled and-- after a stubborn skirmish against the tightly-adhered top ends of the ebony-colored plastic– opened with a billowing flourish. According to our ideal plan, the plain idea was to fill up a series of these flimsy-filmy containers, slash ‘em in the back of the truck (obtained on loan not from a used car racket but a gracious neighbor) and with the free rite-of-way guaranteed by our inky paws, re-enter the venue to repeat the process–-an m.o. oozing moxie and momentum. My long-suffering spouse and newly-tapped business partner went about her task tentatively, not yet perfecting the fluid rhythm of bending and picking, shaking out the vestigial drops of beverage, and depositing the booty, one by tedious one, into the bag.

“Atta girl, keep ‘ em comin’ “ --a few words of encouragement while showing the ol’ gal how it’s done-- first a sweeping scope of the territory, then a flashing down like an trained falcon, gracefully seizing the prey among the gallimaufry of empties: paper-thin aluminum cylinders, bulbous and bulky 2-liter plastic (you should excuse the expression) jugs, and lager shippers shaped from handsome yet potentially hazardous glass in decorator clear, green, or brown. The size and weight differentials meant not a whit, their worth never varying a cent either way; for the state’s bottle law, literally designed to dispense with litter, did its level best for democracy by leveling the field by keeping it low. Five cents deposit per returnable, no more no less. The operative word was quantity, inspiring your humble collector to count by fives, then-- ‘twere to be hoped --twenties.

And more to come, as yours drooly caught a full rear-view of one of the fiefdom’s grande dames bent over a cooler like a privateer digging through a chest of booty. Speaking of which, the ample backside appeared indubitably fated to be a mere double cheeseburger away from burgeoning into an aisle-blocking width at your local Wal-Mart. She must’ve been mindful of that ever-looming danger, for as she resumed an erect position, she clutched the treasure, a 12-ouncer of fizzy whose label pledged its allegiance to the diet variety. Assiduously I stood, ready to pounce like a cartoon mouse about to snatch a wedge of Swiss out of a hair-trigger trap, yet the fubsy soccer mom ingested the contents with two throat-throbbing gulps, punctuated with a satisfying burp, then in short ordure tossing the spent can over her linebacker-wide shoulder, whereupon, in mid-air, it met my alert interception.

Meanwhile yon fair lass was ripe for a bit of intervention, requiring a swift application of my micro-manglement skulls. “Winnie!”

“Who are you talking to-- me or a horse?”

“Don’t waste your time with those water bottles. Not to mention taking up space ‘n’ weight in the bag. See the label?” quoth I, pointing to same. “No stamp. Worthless.”

Rolling her baby blues and shrugging her bony shoulders, she dumped the dud into a nearby wire basket. “Who pays good money for water?”

The daily double had long past been posted and the Third Race was a short furlong away from the finish line by the time we’d packed a pair of bags apiece and dumped them into the borrowed vehicle, waved the backs of our hands in the face of the insouciant attendant in the booth, and re-emerged into the backyard area, with the possibility of discovering another cache of cash-creating empties, a consumer nation devoutly to be whisked.

At that point we inched along, in search of relatively greener swaths of the picnic pasture. Thanks to our keen diligence, having left no return unspoiled, the immediate environs had been picked clean, including the aforementioned trashed replicas, into which we’d been game enough to dig deep and dirtily down.

Our loosey-goosey peregrination brought us to a grove of tables, groaning with the weight of hard-liners, seriously parlaying and profiting amid heavy cigar smoke and sudsy loads -- a prospective father lode! --until the unvanished truth reared its ugly, foamy head as a half-keg. No redeeming virtue in used plastic cups. Nor would the surrounding land yield much in the way of coin-generating fruit: atop the swatches of puddled earth, scruffy grass, and criss-crossing cemented walkways only here and there could a stray can or bottle be harvested.

“Time to hit the raccoon deli for paydirt, play in the dirt perchance to scheme.”

Winnie looked at me if she’d just swallowed arsenic. “You know, your highfalutin’ talking is starting to get on my nerves–“

“And yet, my love, you’re forever preferring Spoonerisms to spooning–“

The lady’s expression further discussed its disgust. “So sticky!” Meaning the viciously viscous dregs clinging to the exteriors of a few holey grails. Without warning, she went to her pants pocket and exhumed a tiny vial of Purell with her trigger finger on the tiny latch of the lid already flipped upside down and aimed toward the back of one of her mostly-immaculate pattywhackers.

“Noooooo!” My voice nearly matched the celebrated tones of the track announcer reverberating throughout the part. “Don’t do that! If you scrub that stamp off, we won’t be able to get back in!”

She jumped not so much for joy but out of schlock, produced not by my sharp reprimand but the startling sight of an interloper who, unbeknownst to me, had crept up directly behind, close enough to breathe down my neck. Apparently he was not a ghost, because he spoke first.

“What’s the problem?” He was all decked out in an outfit which was uniformly Navy blue, the quasi-official attire which posed him as a member of the ranks of the platoon of para-police, a squad of whom I had seen earlier at the front gate, the checkpoint at which random coolers and picnic baskets were perfunctorily examined for any contraband that might pose a Security Risk.

“There’s a ‘problem’? We’re very sorry to have distracted you from your, uh, work, Officer, but we’ve got things under control. On this here corner everything is copasetic.“

“Yeah, well. I heard yelling.”

He heard "yelling"?--at a race track? What did he think it was-- a Christian
Science Reading Room?

Even when the guy wasn’t talking, his creaseless mouth ceaselessly shifted and chewed on a segment of chicle, teeth on gum. But no gun. In lieu of a weapon, a black oblong hitched a ride on his hip, along with an antenna set at such a precipitously erect angle that it seemed to move independently from its host, who, were his absent mind decide to sit down, would’ve have subjected his gluteus maximus to a sudden unpleasant surprise.

Meantime he adjusted his highway patrol-style shades and cased out the little patch of territory which my comely partner and I at the moment occupied. “What’s the deal with all these cans and bottles?”

At their mere mention, I clutched the plastic bag to my heart like an enchanted troll protecting his purloined gold.

“Ya mind telling me what you’re doing with ‘em—um Sir?

“Why, I’m a eco-warrior!”

Even behind those tinsel-tin cheaters, his rapidly narrowing eyes could prompt anyone to see that the words exchanged within our confrontation had begun to pour rage into the wannabe law enforcement agent. He may have been uncertain as to the particular import of each word uttered by yours truly, but his gut absolutely associated something markedly Marxist with “eco,” recycled into an even more insidious context, tanks to the red flag raised by “warrior.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises,“ he said, followed by a mumble I couldn’t quite peg.

Our of the cornea of my own peeper I happened to see my lovely accomplice ever-so-slowly back-stepping, not so much to prepare for a getaway as to pretend she was enjoying a day at the races with a separate and unrelated party, a group not guiltily-marked, say her fund-lubbing brothers.

The pseudo-cop repeated from between gritted teeth: “I said: drop the bag!”

“Pray tell, why? It took us the better part of the afternoon to–“

“Drop it!”

“What for? It’s just trash!”

It was then that this junior Torquemada deviated from the training manual as he actually “collared” me and yanked my mug so close to his I could smell the both halves of his Doublemint. “Trash, huh? Then why don’t you just leave it be?” He punched up his question with a raised fist. Evidently the thought-process of not letting one hand know what the other was doing proved a bit too much to pull off simultaneously, for as the left paw rose, the other fell, extricating itself from the neck of my bared thread shirt.

As swiftly as a–well, maybe not a thoroughbred racer, but slightly faster than one of those compliant supernumeraries who escort the celebrity four-legged runners toward the starting gate–I made a break for it with one hand grasping for the long suffering spouse and the other clutching the slippery bag for dear life.

Just a few breath-heaving fractions of a furlong away from the exit, a sauntering tourist fully aware that he was blocking our path, failed to yield the rite-of-weigh, instead stopping- short his slow sojourn with a most unwelcome cry of acknowledgment.


“Artie! Art, is that you?”

The recognition was mutual, as the stroller, clad in garish shorts known by the same name, was none other than Morgan Wadsworth, my once and not-at-all-likely-to be-future immediate stupidvisor. Having been already downsized and dismissed as a vassal of the muddle-manager, yours truly harbored no residual desire to be cut down further by his bloating and gloating over the self-putrefaction of retaining a job versus the manor-less serf before him. Ergo, I shifted my noggin for a backward glance pretending that I assumed he was talking to someone else, and with a quick sidestep, I leapt aside, all but shoving my bride out the gate. All instantly executed amid rueful puzzlement. That my nemesis and I should suddenly meet while crossing two highly divergent paths spat in the face of probability, but if a long shot had been predestined to come in, would that it had taken the form of my brandishing a fistful of winning parimutuel slips rather than an odoriferous bag of old beer cans slung over my shoulder, as I tip-toed away from the scene of the crime as furtively as a thief.

[AuntShecky]

Over The Top

Part 2 of 3


As the rattling pickup toted us through a myriad of nighways and nearby ways, the cargo in the bed jostled and jangled and clanged over every errant dip in the road or expectorated bump. Off we were on a quest for redemption.

My shotgun-riding bride fumed more than the sputtering exhaust, letting off steam now and then with a sad sigh. “Well, that was humiliating.”

“Nah. Socially speaking, Mr. Success and I run in entirely different vicious circles. The odds of our running into each other again are slimmer than your embraceable and regrettably wasted, neglected waistline. ”

“No, I mean almost getting arrested back there.”

“Aw, fuhgeddaboutit. That punk wanted to confiscate our loot so he could cash it in himself. What do those guys make? Minimum wage?”

A sideways peek at her showed me the normal pink hue of her face had deepened into a rosier tone, the result perhaps not of a changing mood but her earlier refusal to apply sun screen.

“I’m sorry what I said back there. About your crazy way of talking. We may be poor–God knows we’re getting there– but at least your speech is rich.”

“Bon mots instead of bon bons, huh? Sometimes I wish I could eat my words. But as a little bird once told me, ‘Talk is cheep, cheep, cheep.’ “

She neither laughed nor grinned but instead touched the top of my thigh. Feeling that familiar gesture was reassuring. Not to mention exciting. Rare as it occurred, its womanly power never flailed to set the secret little man in me a-twitching, instantly inspired with the nearly irresistible urge to swerve the borrowed truck to the side of the road, stop it short and hold her.

And speaking of holding, from time to time I couldn’t help speculating on how many of the passion-fed and panting promises she still remembered, and implicitly held me to– conjuring up for instance the dream of conning a cottage in the pine-lined East, where lobsters lumbered beneath the waves of the wind-kissed coast. Or the vow to spirit her southward to stash our hides away in a fabulous Avalon. If she recalled any of those blue-sky pledges, she never brought them up. After lo these many tears, she had stuck with me like goo, through thin and thin.

“Wait a minute. Where’re ya going?”

“Shopping plaza. There’s a Cost Cutter, right over there.”

“Oh, Art. Why here? Of all the stores in the world, why’d ya have to pick this one?”

“Why not?”

She hit me with her trademark exasperated sigh. “Because I don’t want to run into anyone from work. I’ll be embarrassed as hell if the boss sees me grubbing for bottle change.”

“Well, let’s hope he does! What an auspicious opportunity to shake him down for a raise. Or at least more hours. Listen, Win, don’t worry about it. The odds of our bumping into two people we know today are pretty slim. Hey! Maybe Morgan Wadsworth will be ahead of us in line at the service counter.”

In the so-called “bottle room” – a completely segregated section of the supermarket near the front entrances– the din was deafening and the floor was sticky. A mammoth sign proclaiming “The Cost Cutter Gang Goes Green” hung over our heads as we pushed a quartet of grocery carts, overflowing with plastic bags packed with empties, up to the “self-serve” machines.

There was a long row of these devices, each earmarked for a specific type of returnable container: some for plastic, more for cans, and flanking each end was the designated spot for glass, one for clear and green bottles, the other for brown. The apparatus resembled a miniature MRI machine, coffin-like and intimidating. Through the round opening on the front of the machine, the customer would insert the can and watch it whirl around thick and closely-curled coils whilst invisible eyes deciphered the “bar” (!) code on the can’s label until finally thrusting it through the rear of the machine, where the can became audibly crushed amid horrifying, unrecognizable sounds. The similar process held sway for the other species of vessels, differing only in the sounds of their own destruction– with plastic, a tonal variant on the can-crushing sound and with glass, the expected, nonetheless nerve-wracking shattering. The only silent part came with a push on the button which released a slip printed with the monetary sum to be accrued by redeeming the deposits. But ceaseless was the constant unsettling hum, counterpointed with a rancorous whompa! whompa! resounding when the can took its circular journey. Flipppt! Whompa! Whompa! Swoooosh! Crash! Flippt! Whompa! Whompa! Swoosh! Crash! A Thurberesque soundtrack minding its onomatopoeia and these queues. The cacophony was so incessant, I felt a modicum of sympathy for the battered auditory nerves of the Cost Cutter employee (called on the premises an “associate”) who’d been ordered, unforch, to report to the bottle room.

Speak of the poor devil, the aforementioned worker appeared in the flesh: a full-bodied mouth breather allegedly named–according to the plastic name tag pinned to his apron above his heart–“Lance.” I jerked a surreptitious thumb in his direction and looked at Winnie as if to ask, “Know him?”

She shook her head and mouthed “no,” but to this day I know not whether she was relieved or regretful. More certain that this Lance wished they were mutually acquainted, for he shamelessly ogled my life’s love in her purple tank top bending over the basket of bottles. The would-be swain seemed to indulge in a fantasy right before my very eyes and could have used the benefit of the proverbial wake-up call, namely a reminder that my wife was old enough to be his ---let's say older sister.

Presently he spoke. “All these carts yours, Mister?”

“Sure thing, Pal. Why do you ask?”

Lance pointed to a sign, not as prominently displayed as the “Gang Goes Green” sign, but there none the less. The message read: “Customers are limited to 126 returnables per visit.” It was pretty self-explanatory, but Lance felt the need to clarify: “You got more than a hunnert twenty-six in there.”

“Really? I hadn’t counted.” Winnie and I continued to go about our business. Flippt! Whompa! Whompa! Swoosh! Crash!

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. You don’t supposed to cash in more than a hunnert twenty-six at a time.”

“Uh-huh.” Flippt! Whompa! Whompa! Swoosh! Crash!

“So maybe you ought to stop now, Mister.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I ought to call your boss, or perhaps Cost Cutter’s C.E.O. and tell him that when I tried to cash in some bottles to benefit The Sunnyside Home for Neglected Children one of his employees gave me a hard time. Want me to go ahead and do that?”

He scowled at me for an inordinate length of time, and stared desperately at Winnie even longer. At last he removed his apron, crumbled it up into a ball, and tossed it into a corner “Whatever. Right now I’m on break.”

When all was said and dunned, our efforts had reaped something slightly shy of a double sawbuck. Enough to keep going for a while. Enough to give some of it right back to the store for much-needed comestibles, perhaps with some protein. Momentarily I entertained the prospect of indulging in a brand-new, filled (!) six-pack, until I came to my cent-ses and remembered it would cost an extra thirty cents, which I’d get back only upon returning the empties, like carrying the cans, no longer New, to Coalcastle.

[AuntShecky]

Over the Top

Part 3 of 3

All of what’s been previously transpired expired in August. Over the ember months, the daze dwindled down to a precious phew, for then was then and now is yow. The parade of hits shot up to Number One with a bullet: the weakly checks from unemployment had been a fit, but cinched that time, the maximum number of weeks had run out and so did the benefits. And right after Xmas Winnie’s minimum wage hours at the Cost Cutter had been deeply cut, cutting us to the quirk and costing us un-endearingly.

In truth, we were up against it, our backs to the wail. Winnie’s kitchen cupboards gleamed more immaculately than e’er before, making Mother Hubbard’s fabled cabinet look like a groaning board on a cruise ship. While our own maws groaned and gurgled, a situation even more dire had bubbled up: the apartment mangler had been dogging us for (lack of) payment, his woof at the dour, next step down, viz a viz commandeering the sheriff of the shire forcibly to separate us from our cozy castle. Dreadfully anticipating such an inevitable fate, yours ghoul-ly snarled at the window, ruminating on how we might keep our rooms thereby delaying our doom.

By cheered coincidence, that particular day happened to have been the Monday following the Stupid Bowl, the irrational national event during which snickering fans grazed on sodium-soaked snacks under the daze of the ever-watchful teevee. On this hollow hoopladay it was assumed–nay, almost legally mandated --that Americans would consume massive quantities of cold ones. Once quaffed, their emptied vessels waited for collection– if not by the original consumer then a hopeful and ambitiously hopping opportunist – to return them to the point of purchase to reap the promised nickels upon redemption. Out the glaze my gaze switched to a brighter view.

“Think of all those empties out there, just tripe for the shakin’,” I said. “Those crouched pertater quarterbacks discarded all those nickels, passed to yours truly to intercept. Free money!”

“Oh, no, Art! Dumpster diving? Are we that bad off? “

Her mis(for)givings evidently emanated from a fear that the whole world --or at least the tiny sphere on which the two of us revolved – would witness this desperate measure as a sign of our rock-bottom degradation. My opinion was let ‘em gawk.

But life’s sweet ale had turned all skunky, the fizziness gone flat. What was I do? I could, I suppose, massage an old PBR bottle ‘til a bare-chested Rex Ingram pushed himself through its narrow neck toward eventual freedom following the temporary servitude of fulfilling a triad of wishes. Or maybe I should have summoned up an ancient wizard and bade him to druid his own thing by waving his shaft and instantly making the misery go pouf!

Presently I was out in the end zone of the nearest parking lot, one of many eyesores fronting several identical apartment buildings rudely occupying multi-roods of formerly sylvan acres. Winnie and I were but a couple among several hundred residents of the apartment complex, owned and operated by an overseeing overseas conglomerate and mangled by local parvenus with pretentious notions that the blight of hastily and cheaply constructed shelters constituted an impeccably respectable “community,” --nay, an upscale “village.” So much for upper muddle-class aspirations, as I tilted up the lids of the recycle barrels and sifted through, gathering only the preferred contents, as if a nocturnal pest burrowing through the sodden trash had sullenly become a snobbishly discriminating gourmet. Simultaneously my beloved stood at the window, as she raked nervous fingers through her salt-streaked but predominately peppered hair. She looked like the erstwhile cinematic chronically worried wife as portrayed by June Allyson, but instead of crying at the window, my Winnie was cringing. Poor ol’ gal, cleaving unto my side through thin and thin-- not at the moment quite through with me, but one, alas, never knows.

While busily pushing a line of empty beer cans along with the occasional soda can into the steadily-filling plastic bag, I heard sounds of clamoring and slamming. Nothing but a nervous pair of noises, I thought at first, then to my dissed dismay realized that my stupid visions were being consquirmed in real life. It seemed that a pack of sneering youths un-parent-ly had been endowed with a similar idea, regarding the debris from past festivities of the previous night. This group of muddle-schooler-sized boys (why weren’t they in class?) were unsystematically but nonetheless squarely knocking over the oblong-shaped bins onto the pavement of the all-but-deserted islands of successive parking lots perchance to pluck out the valuables amid the buried blight.

Upon closer (and closer) inspection I saw that the boys, though indeed youthful, looked big and burly enough to vanquish any interloper daring to thwart their mercenary efforts, backed-up by the (sin)ister presence of a ringleader-- a dolt, muddle-aged and world-weary, evidently micro-mangling the underlings with a hirin’ hand. One could surmise that the spell he had cast over his henchboys had been powerful enough not only to put a damper on their natural contumacious tendencies but rein in any inchoate independent entrepreneurship, perhaps by a vague promise to share with the crew a cut of the eventual proceeds.

Whatever the case, in my own case there was a definite feeling that I was the person being cased, targeted, a marked man about to be marked down–chased and tackled to the ground seconds before they’d contemptuously confiscate my hard-won cache. My first in-stink was to hurry the hell up and finish my picking, grab my plastic bag, and retreat to Winnie’s reassuring arms within the relative safety of home sweat home --at least until the sheriff (b)locked us out for good.

Thinking that I had everything wrapped up and ready to roll, I was about to twist and tie the opening of the plastic bag when I saw one last bit of refuse that I flat-out refused to leave for the invaders. Directly behind the dumpster itself stood a snowbank, the residue of a heavy storm long past, plowed up and parked there by the grounds-keeping crew warned and forearmed to remove from the all-important parking lot the traces of every inconvenient and possibly hazardous (i.e. litigious) flake. Having stood there for a month, decreasing in size at a much slower pace than a glacier infected by global warming, the snowbank had resigned itself to unescapable defacement, powerless to prevent a gradual, granular film of automotive exhaust and soot of unknown origins, as well as sporadically squiggly yellow lines, courtesy of local curs, here and there streaking the erstwhile white purity of its surface.

Out of said snowbank protruded the glassy arse-end of one final beer bottle, which I suppose had been facetiously stuck there on the night of the blizzard, perhaps by the plowman himself. I couldn’t resist the temptation of grabbing it; a nickel’s a nickel after all. But wouldn’tcha know–no, the mixture of snow–plus the melted snow reverting to ice–had over time had cemented the bottle’s neck deeply in a kind of frozen stone, keeping the prisoner tightly trapped until Spring.

Meanwhile, the savage horde of Fagin and his overgrown urchins inched closer and closer. The prudent thing to do was to leave the damn thing there, and get out while the getting was good --or by this point– fair. But I did not want to concede the tiniest crumb to this crew of marauders and their prick(ing) kingpin. Thus I decided to follow the impulse to retrieve that damned imbedded bottle, no matter the truth of the consequences.

I pulled and I pulled. The glass, though covered with its own layer of gray film, had retained its original slipperiness, forcing my hand to fly off free but not releasing the bottle itself. I tried pulling again, but the unyielding ice refused to budge. I tried pulling on the bottle again. And again. Each successive attempt was pissing me off by degrees, inspiring stronger yanks accompanied by air-shattering curses. Older angers had begun to surface as well (as ill): the unplayable card which the universe and the stalled economy had dealt us, the untenable, un-tenantable position into which I had lately thrust my Winnie, who by all that’s good and holy deserved the unqualified amenities graciously laid at the foot of an anointed queen, an empress for that matter, yeah verily a saint whose uncomplaining suffering without bounds compounded daily; and most unnerving of all , the unshakable feeling, hidden way down deep in some obscure compartment of my psyche, that yours fooly– a loose-lipped loser, a preternaturally consistent ne’er do-well, had been at least partially responsible for the wretched lot into which I’d thrown our lives.

All of which made me even more resolute and progressively angry, pumping up the flow of adrenalin until– until, mirabile dictu the bottle broke free! And I do mean “broke,” for my hand held a jagged portion three quarters the size of the whole, while still steadfast in the rock of snow, the remaining fourth of the bottle held recesses that could accept the sharp points of the larger part of the bottle in my hand in a perfect fit, like pieces from a well-jigged puzzle. That part–my part-- had in the gray of the late-winter afternoon taken on a kind of metallic sheen. As I gripped the still-intact flat bottom of the glass, it looked for the all the world like a weapon, a sword which with a little imagination could in extraordinary circumstances be dubbed “mighty.” In that instant I felt myself mysteriously changed, transformed –L’morph de Arthur!

Meanwhile the latter-day Atilla and his Huns had appeared just a few yards away on the edge of the parking lot. More than a few of the punks wielded jackknives and box cutters (though, to be fair, probably not originally intended as lethal weapons but as tools to slash swiftly through recalcitrant plastic bags.) Their eyes, however, looked fearsome; they were–as the late night movies would say–“gunning for” me. Not to mention seizing my goods. “Bring it on!” quoth I, a most unlikely champion of truth, justice, and so forth. But, galled is my witless, I would defend my turf!

Fool-hearty as the concept was, I was determined to do what it would take–even if it meant jousting and jostling with them, waging a blood-spurting battle to the death. And if I failed (or fouled)– what of it? What’s the worst that could happen? My own demise? (Oh shoot! and I’d been having so much fun!) Incarceration? Apart from leaving Winnie in the lurch (though in the long run she might be better off), yours truly would thereby meet the assurance of three hots and cot.

Alternatively, what if the gang merely swiped my bag of bottles without the slightest interest in mutual violence? What then? Whatever action I took that afternoon would only result in postponing the inevitable.

For on that day, in the damp and blustering February air, I had a vision of ending my remaining days in an area euphemistically dubbed “downtown”– the city’s waterfront dregs, the seedy and seamy “bad section” where any side of the tracks is wrong. There yours truly would blend in with The Homeless, another euphemism for a bum, rank and raggedly-bearded and scruffily- clothed, lice-and-vice-ridden, with all his earthly possessions hastily bundled into the basket of a wobbly shopping cart, rattling and rumbling on the crumbling asphalt of the streets, where battles of the bottle are hourly waged in cheaply alcoholic encounters of the weird kind. Written off and essentially banished to that realm no cartographer has ever bothered to chart, I’ll join my true peers, my scuffed-sole brothers, my misbegotten brethren, whom the rest of society summarily disowns as expendable, disposable, and unredeemable, as we from time to time stoop even lower to pick up some scattered loose change and the occasional returnable deposit bottle, scratching for dimes and begging for quarter(s), as we stagger and stumble through this wonder-famished, breadless blunderworld all the while shamed and defiled, pickled and slimed, and nickeled and nickeled to death.

[MANICHAEAN]

Supurb & clever wordmanship. The last paragraph, (I did read the preceding!), was a delight. That final clinch is always difficult for me, to the extent, that I now work backwards from the ending.

Still plenty of life in ole Aunty yet!

Best regards

M.

[Hawkman]

Well, Auntie, that was indeed a tour de force of alliterative punning and mangled quotes! For heaven’s sake have mercy on us – lol. Having risen, blurry eyed and kitty-litter mouthed this morning, to stumble upon a piece so idiomatically vernacular, it took me 6 attempts to make sense of the first three paragraphs. Has Auntie lost the plot? I wondered, and considered retreating in disarray. But, you will be pleased to note, I refused to succumb to this base impulse of cowardice, for in truth, The Hawk knows full well that his Auntie always harbours riches beneath her blanket of prose.

The vernacular is of course a cunning ploy to disguise typographical errors. How are we to know if they are deliberate or not – lol.

Anyway, once I had tuned in to this it became a compulsive read. You left our hero standing alone in the snowy wastes, having taken up his broken bottle against a sea of troubles, hoping to oppose and end them. What a noble soul. Will we ever know his ultimate fate? Probably not. He will pass into legend like Hector and Achilles with the very city of Troy. You are a modern Homer (Simpson) Auntie – lol.

Your protagonist’s Malapropian verbosity, though less ‘exacting’ grammatically, I found reminiscent of Damon Runyon’s. However, this guy and his particular doll are living a far more perilous and considerably less glamorous existence than did any hero of his.

How vividly you depict the reality of the contemporary American Dream...

I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Live and be well - H

[smerdyakov]

Hi Auntie. What struck me while reading this is what a great feat of the imagination it is - really.

Okay, the first half of part one is a real baptism of fire for the reader, (at least to this one anyways) what with all the serial punning allied to the tricky argot of the narrator. You don't ease us into the piece slowly but rather kick us right in at the deep end. Honestly, it took me nearly the whole of part one to even begin to begin to understand this unique character and his crazy world. He reminded me of a down at heel version of George Clooney's character in "Oh brother..." The narrator certainly grew on me as the story progressed, no doubt about it.
Although, you might want to look at para 6 in part one, as it is particularly long.

IMHO, you really find your stride in the second part where they enter the supermarket and the description of the ensuing scene is very funny.

Our down and out hero ends the story on a philosophical vibe. And this para is beautifully written, ending it very strongly.

A sometimes difficult (with the vernacular) but ultimately very rewarding read. Thanks for sharing.

[Steven Hunley]

In that instant I felt myself mysteriously changed, transformed –L’morph de Arthur!

This was so good and I'm sorry I missed it originally. The wordsmanship and realism were great. I like references and feel they enrich the text, just what a short story can use sometimes. Evocative phrases make for associated images and thoughts. It's an engaging and interesting style too, almost like conversational speech. Thanks for directing me to this!

[AuntShecky]

Wow! I just realized that it's been months since this thread has been updated or repopulated. Other stories may appear in the not-too-distant future, but in the meantime-- in case anyone out there is at all interested-- there is a spin-off of this anti-fiction thread, a "sub-genre," if you will, called "Fairly Flailing Tales," the first specimen of which will appear by clicking the title below :

"Jack, The Giant's Life Coach" (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=1150615#post1150615)

[Hawkman]

Oooops! posted in the wrong thread! Sorry! - H

[AuntShecky]

Like Paradise

Helen’s death had given her a new lease on life. She hadn’t felt this good in years, and no mortician worth his formaldehyde could have made her look this good. Somehow she had dumped a good thirty pounds between the Bronx and the Afterlife. Crow’s feet and what had euphemistically been called “laugh lines” had magically vanished. “Boy!” Helen exclaimed. “If I had known that death was going to be this much fun, I would’ve done it years ago!”

What a blast! It reminded her of the Caribbean cruise she and Herb had taken back in ‘03, only this time all the toilets flushed, and there were no nasty rumors about pirates.

The food was, in Helen’s words, “simply out of this world!” You had breakfast, brunch, luncheon, low tea, high tea, dinner, supper, and midnight snack, not to mention the free buffet available 24/7. The kicker was that you could eat like a pig all day long and never gain an ounce. “Wait till the girls hear about this!” Helen said. Then she realized that she could never again tell the girls anything unless they hired a medium – that is, if the idea ever occurred to them. Helen thought she’d spread the good news telepathically. She put her index fingers to her temples, screwed her eyes shut, and concentrated really hard on zeroing in on Angie Fusillo’s wave length, but it didn’t take. “ Maybe I’m doing it wrong.” Helen decided that she’d try again later. She made a mental note to locate a computer and type “ESP” in the search box.

This was no time for paranormal research, for an enormous seafood platter had been placed in front of her by a breathtakingly handsome man. The waitperson looked just like Errol Flynn, the movie actor whom Helen had seen on her favorite cable channel; of course, this version of Errol was from the early 1940s, before his days of dissipation when his looks went straight to Hell. Nothing seedy about the food, though: the lobster blushed scarlet next to a bowl of 100% real, clarified butter. Despite the oxymoron, the shrimp were larger than “jumbo,” accompanied by a cocktail sauce whose top-secret recipe -- according to a century-old legend-- had been dueled over by a couple of world-class chefs in New Orleans. Even the lemon wedges seduced and satisfied the senses, but, as an earth-bound infomercial announcer might put it, “That was not all!”

Errol proffered a misty bottle for Helen’s pproval. “Champagne, Madame.”His accent was vaguely continental. “Chateau Lafite Rothschild, seventy-five.”

Yikes! She just knew there had to be a catch. “Oh, I don’t have that much dough on me.” She was more than merely out of cash; the funeral director had also forgotten to pack her credit card.

“Pardonne, Madame. It’s the year of vintage – Eighteen seventy-five.”

“They knew how to make wine way back then? Imagine that!”

Helen was grateful that Errol poured her a glass without a lot of rigmarole. (Back on earth if a guy had ever asked her to sniff his cork, she would have slapped him silly.)

She took what she believed to have been a delicate, ladylike sip, but she couldn’t repress the “Ahh!” followed by the inevitable burp. “Wow! That’s pretty good stuff. You’d think it would’ve turned vinegary after all these years.”

Then came the fashion show. The minute the gorgeous gowns and the drop-dead sportswear came off the models’ backs, the clothes sailed directly into Helen’s new closet. Beside herself with joy, she tried on every last outfit with a nearly infinite combination of accessories. She preened and pranced in front of a full-length mirror that would have flattered an ogress. The fashions, nevertheless, looked much better on Helen than they had looked on the models, if she did say so herself.

Next up was a tea dance thrown in her honor. Helen’s dance card was completely filled with the manly names of various partners, each more suave, sophisticated, and handsome than the next. “Say, “ Helen asked, “no offense or nothin’, but are all you guys straight?” Not that it mattered. They all danced divinely, enough to make a lifetime full of snide remarks and snickers about Helen’s “two left feet” limp away.

Helen received so many ego-building comments that she confessed to one of the hunks that if he were trying to curry her favor, it was way too late for a mention in her will (not that her financial legacy had amounted to all that much.) “Besides,” she explained, “everything is - –was–- in Herb’s name.” Meanwhile the dancing went on. And on. Helen found she could dance all night without getting tired, without the benefit of support hose! She was having a ball.

During a band break, Helen sat down. “This place is a paradise,” she told Errol, “A dream come true.” Errol placed a wedge of cheesecake and another bottle of bubbly on her rose-strewn table. “What did I do to deserve all this? I mean, I feel like I’d died and gone to heaven.”

Errol laughed so hard that he fell down into a nearby chair and almost impaled himself on the corkscrew in his breast pocket. Wiping his eyes, he gained his composure. Then he turned the chair around and sat astride it. “Helen, let’s get serious for a minute, huh. Just you and me.” Somehow his accent had traveled from Cannes to Canarsie. “Think back on yer life. . .” He pointed to the ceiling. “Up there.”

“What do you mean – -‘up’?”

Errol held out a palm and starting counting off on his fingers. “Well, let’s start with Numba One. The first one deals with false gods. Idolatry and what-not, right?”

All of a sudden Helen’s mouth went dry, and despite all the wine, she started getting nervous. “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with –“

“On the evening of September 4, 1999 you visited a psychic, didn’t cha?”

Helen’s forehead scrunched. “Hmm. That was a long time ago. Oh, yeah-- now I remember! That gypsy. She specialized in past lives. But I only went there that one time, because she really pissed me off.”

Errol nodded. “I believe that she told you that you were the reincarnation of Judge Crater.”

“Yep. I said ‘How can you tell?’ and she goes, ‘It’s written all over your face.’ But I told you, I never went back there. But, gee, false gods? Idolatry? I don’t see how–“

“Ever been to Graceland, Helen?”

“Yeah, but–“

Errol turned the chair around again and sat up straight as a judge. “Helen, you know perfectly well that I could go through all ten of these commandments and find violations.”

“Hey! I never coveted my neighbor’s wife!”

“If you say so, Helen, but you know what they always say, nine out of ten ain’t–

“And I never murdered nobody neither!”

Errol waved his hand. “Well, maybe not all at once. By the way, you notice it getting a little too hot in here?”

Helen scratched her head. “I don’t get it. This place is so nice, I thought it must be–-It can’t be h–- the opposite. I mean, I feel like I belong here!”

Tilting an eyebrow, Errol said, "You certainly do. Listen, Helen, if this place is as nice as you say, just think how much nicer Heaven – the real one – must be.”

Helen took a sip of champagne and tried not to think about what she would be missing. Then, with her mouth full of cheesecake, proclaimed: “Close enough.”

[Steven Hunley]

Auntie,

This was rapid and witty and fun as all get-out. You invent a scenario, people it with endearing characters, and write it in such a way it begs to be read. Then you keep them hooked till the end. It was a thoroughly enjoyable read.

[Jerrybaldy]

A great read Auntie!!! It was like an afterlife version of Sex in the City :) Very witty, playful, then making the reader think and question as the mood and the accent changes, before joyfully throwing it away at the end.

Maybe this piece also gives an insight into Auntie's idea of what would be heaven ...... :)

I really enjoyed it.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Steven and Jerry B. Actually I wrote the thing about 15 years ago and it somehow escaped the "purge" during our move this past September. It wound up on the LitNet after getting a slight makeover, with a couple of minor updates.


Maybe this piece also gives an insight into Auntie's idea of what would be heaven ......

Well, no. Quite the opposite. For instance, there's a mention about the increasing temperature in the place, also described as ersatz, not the "real" Heaven. Besides, the conventional wisdom (title of Stanley Elkin's comic novel about the afterlife) is that both Heaven and its unpleasant counterpart are not really physical places, but states of existence. Some of us assume that after death, only one's soul survives--not the body-- therefore, none of the luxuries (food, wine, fashions) that delight Helen in the story could be possible. To imagine that it would be is absurd; hence the attempted humor in this story.

Thanks again for your comments.

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty

One of the best and most humorous pieces of yours that I have ever read. It was especially relevant, having got back on Saturday from the heaven of the Philippines to the relative hell of camp life in Papua New Guinea. Cheered me up no end, especially the alluded slap of the wine waiter for being overtly suggestive.

Warm regards
M.

[AuntShecky]

Driven by Passion


The love of Wayne’s life was a real beauty.

Not only that, she was loaded. He used to love taking her out and showing her off, but eventually reserved the trips for very special occasions, only when the weather was 100% perfect. In any event, he’d gotten tired of decking anybody foolish enough to refer to her as a “pick-up.”

She had everything a guy would ever want: a sleek body as pristine as angel wings, awesome chrome wheels, and an incredibly powerful 5.4V8 engine. There was no finer 4X4 in the whole wide world.

Wayne took great pleasure in maintaining her immaculate finish. With an ultra-soft chamois (which he’d special-ordered from the Internet), he caressed and massaged her four or five times each day. Whenever her energy was running low, he’d feed her only premium gasoline, despite the sacrifice of the extra expense. During those rare times when he was forced to take her on some unavoidable errand, Wayne always chose the farthest parking spot away from the store’s entrance in order to decrease the chances of some clumsy shopper parking too close and injuring her. Owners of ordinary vehicles may have shrugged off nicks and scratches, but on Wayne’s pride and joy they were slashes and scars.

By his own request, Wayne worked the night shift. His hours coincided with a period when he assumed that the volume of traffic-- along with its inevitable accidents – - would be relatively low. Then one evening, just as he was punch out at the end of his shift, a crippling blizzard slammed down upon the city. Rather than take the risk of subjecting his beloved to the treacherous roads, Wayne chose to remain at his workplace overnight.

When he didn’t come home, his wife automatically assumed the worst: that he had run off with some floozy. Early the next morning when the storm had cleared out, she left, taking the kids and the entire contents of their joint banking accounts.

The dramatic change in his family structure didn’t faze Wayne one bit. He had what he treasured most in life, cultivating a deep, abiding love, which endured after he could no longer struggle with the payments, and the repo men took her away.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie.
This comes up a bit short in My opinion. It was looking to develop into an interesting little tale, right up to the moment it fizzled out in the final paragraph which arrived much too soon.. I was expecting a witty and amusing saga of boy gets car, boy loses girl, boy wins girl back and boy loses car - or any combination of potential developments, but it just stops! Feel a bit short changed and non-plussed to be honest.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for reading this, Hawkman, and for your comments. I see your point, as the droppings from yours fooly usually tend to milk everything it can out of a situation. This thing resulted from an attempt to write more quickly, as speed and finishing specific works have both been a prob. Also, this car thing was designed to make a very brief illustration of American materialism, as well as a reaction to a current TV commercial showing men attached to their cars to a most degenerate degree. (But the company wants to sell their cars anyway.)

PS Thanks for weighing in on the Owl and Pussycat parody, in which I substituted one bad joke for another one. Also for your comment on the anti-poetry. And at the risk of going to the proverbial well once too often, the Real Housewife of East Hogwash has posted her Easter blog in Auntie's Anti-Humor thread.

[AuntShecky]

In an Alternate Universe

One Saturday afternoon as a middle-aged husband was watching a college football game on television a sudden thought tackled him. Instantly he leapt out of his recliner, raced upstairs, and rifled through the closet of the master bedroom. Wire hangers screeched, and their plastic counterparts tangled together as his hands pushed the garments along the rod. The longer he searched, the more nervous he became. Nothing mattered more than locating his tan cardigan. The urgency for finding it had arisen not from a compulsive desire to make a fashion statement but rather to retrieve a small but potentially incriminating item in the side pocket of the sweater before his wife discovered it.

After slamming the closet door shut with a couple of vehement backward kicks, the man turned his wrath upon the dresser. When he bent down to search through the bottom drawer, his backside stuck up in the air as he pitched the contents behind him: faded t-shirts mingled with various pieces of seldom-worn lingerie, cut-off jeans with stringy makeshift hems, and unmated socks. In no time the drawer was all-but-empty, except for something wedged between the back of the drawer and the main frame of the dresser. It was a piece of lined notebook paper folded into a perfect square.

With absolutely no qualms nor hesitation, he unfolded the sheet, which contained a single paragraph written in ballpoint pen. The penmanship was instantly recognizable
with its endearingly childish slant and feminine loops and curlicues. He read:

“Last night I watched a science show. It said that it was possible for there to be more than one earth, and these earths could be a lot like the one we’re living on but there also could be differences. There could be thousands or maybe millions of possibilities. For instance on some other earth I could be beautiful and smart. Rich, too! Everything I can’t do here I could do there, like swim, whistle, play the piano, and parallel park. But one thing wouldn’t change, and it would be true on any world, anywhere in the universe, and that is I would still be as deeply in love as I am right now, right here.”

The husband folded up the note, unfolded it, and read it again. He brought downstairs to the kitchen where he found his wife standing in front of the sink. She jumped when she heard him step right up behind her, and when he waved the paper in front of her face, she flinched.

“Did you. . .did you write this?”

She took the note and squinted at it. “What-- this? Just some foolish scribbling–“

When she started to crumble the paper up into a ball, the husband snatched it back.
“No! Don’t throw it away– - I want to keep it!” he said.

When the husband embraced his wife with a tight hug, he mistook her sigh of relief as a sign of affection. He also assumed that the piece of writing was all about him, but he was wrong.

[Hawkman]

So what became of the small but incriminating item which the man was looking for in the pocket of his cardigan? He appears to have found neither it, nor the cardigan. Are we to assume then that the wife had already found both? As a MacGuffin, it seems to have been a bit side-tracked.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

I really like the style and how you handled this one. It's short but suspenseful and dramatic!

[AuntShecky]

So what became of the small but incriminating item which the man was looking for in the pocket of his cardigan? He appears to have found neither it, nor the cardigan.

Maybe both items were teleported to a parallel world.

Thanks, Hawk and Steven for your comments.

Auntie

[DocHeart]

Dear Auntie,

One of the worst things about my electing to stay away from the forum for a while was the fact that I didn't read you.

I missed you, you crazy girl! :D

DH

[AuntShecky]

Entomology

It was morning in America-- at least that’s what the President’s television ads proclaimed. The first thing Fred G. Upshaw did every morning was to retrieve his newspaper outside the door of his apartment. Even before he looked at the Page One headlines, he turned to the section indicating the winning lottery numbers of the previous night. The second thing he checked was the obituary page in order to assure himself that his own name did not appear. Were Fred’s number to come up on either page, that would be a signal to return to bed. Up to and including this particular day, there had never been sufficient evidence for Fred to cash in his ticket (or his chips.) Subsequently, Fred went ahead with his morning routine.

Items one and two on the agenda indicated a quick shower and shave. Next up: The Most Important Meal of the Day. Breakfast for Fred was one of his personal Laws of Physics: always extract the maximum of energy from the minimum of effort. More leisurely types (such as lottery winners) could afford to squander an entire morning by savoring each bite of lovingly coddled eggs and every warm sip of high-end coffee, whose custom-imported beans had been specially roasted and ground before brewing in a machine exemplifying state-of-the-art technology of the Eighties. Fred, however, had to get the 8:13 bus, so he gulped down a few ounces of half-sour, half-syrupy imitation orange juice from frozen concentrate, defrosted and diluted the previous night.

The entree was, as usual, cold cereal, but a brand-new, unopened box, perhaps a good omen for the start of the day. Into a plastic bowl, its inner surface flecked with minute, dark scratches, Fred poured a serving of Bite-a-mens, which claimed not only to provide 100% of nine essential vitamins and minerals but also to taste remotely like a grain actually grown somewhere on this planet. Note carefully, Reader, these little toasted morsels shaped like golden homunculi, for therein hangs our tale, for on the edge of the bowl hung a tail, or more precisely, the complete carcass of a creature not at all akin to a whole-grain or an edible manikin.

“What the hell is this? “ Fred asked. “Added fiber?” For all the world it looked like a cockroach, a perfect specimen of Blatta orientalis, but who wanted to re-enact Kafka at this hour of the morning? With his bare fingers, Fred picked up the creature by its delicate back legs.

Losing his grip, Fred dropped the insect whose fall was cushioned by the soft bed of cereal. “Good thing I didn’t waste any milk,” Fred muttered as he prepared to dump the entire lot--dozens of manikins and one roach--into the garbage. One split-second before he tipped the bowl, he gingerly retrieved the insect and set it aside. After grabbing the original box and dumping the cereal back inside, he carefully placed the roach on top, in its original spot. The box itself went into a paper bag, or if you prefer, a plain brown wrapper. At that point Fred left for work --without breakfast but not hungry, certainly not hungry for work.

As was customary during Rush Hour, there were no vacant seats on the bus. Fred found himself standing in the aisle with his waist hovering just above the eye level of two young ladies en route to high school.

“Oooh, he’s cute!” one of the pair exclaimed, quickly adding “Psych!” An alternate spelling of the word had been scribbled on the cardboard back of the notebook she was holding: “Sike!!!” which also could have been a brand of running shoes or a Japanese aperitif.

The girl’s companion yawned a rejoinder: “Nah, he’s a nerd. A tot-al poindexter. He’s taking the bus, so he ain’t got no car.” Having unearthed a metal cylinder from an suitcase-sized bag, she promiscuously sprayed some noxious fumes upon a feathery lock suspended over her forehead.

“Whatcha got in the bag, Mister?” the first girl inquired.

“Believe me, you don’t want to see.”

“Aw, we wanna to see what dorks eat for lunch. Come on, Mister. Please?

They bugged and bugged him until he surrendered. Since one hand was occupied with hanging on to the overhead strap, Fred experienced some difficulty rolling down the top of the paper bag and opening the box. Inside the box, where no one could read them were the immortal watchwords of packaging: “Contents may settle during shipment,” but this particular shipment of Bite-a-mens had not settled for anything. There, on the very top of the contents, the roach still rested peacefully on its flaky bed.

Fred thrust the open bag and box directly under the girls’ noses. With one quick glance they let out a shriek shrill enough to be heard by dogs in neighborhoods five miles away. Instantly the nymphets leapt out of their seats, pushed their way through the SRO crowd of commuters, and disappeared into the dark recesses of the rear of the bus. Their hasty exit left Fred with quite a selection of empty seats, not only the two vacated by the schoolgirls but also the ones behind and the ones in front.

The relative comfort was transitory, because the familiar landmarks passing by the bus window reminded Fred that his stop was next. He pulled the string, the buzzer buzzed, and the bus braked with a jerk and a flatulent whoosh. Fred watched his step as he disembarked, still clutching the cereal box in the paper bag.

The office time-clock made a mechanical reprimand as Fred punched in, three minutes late. After draping his jacket on the back of his chair, he opened the desk drawer in order to stow the package, but on second thought, he closed the drawer and placed the bag at his feet. That way he wouldn’t forget it at lunchtime.

Noon arrived, but Fred could not afford to spend the hour eating. Including travel time, Fred had approximately fifty-three minutes to conduct his business in the supermarket.Unwilling to waste precious minutes waiting for buses, Fred decided to ankle it.

In the Cost Cutter, Fred stepped in the least-populated check-out line, Lane # 14. Ahead of him stood a woman with a cart full of dozens of baby food jars, each with a different price, and a six-pack of beer. Brandishing a stack of coupons as thick as a gymnast’s neck, the customer sifted through all of them until she found the occasional live one, which the cashier subsequently deducted from the bill. Throughout the entire process, the child sitting in the apparently uncomfortable front of the grocery cart bellowed loudly. “My feelings exactly,” Fred told the baby.

Finally it was time to finish the transaction. After digging through her satchel-sized purse for three or four minutes, the young woman retrieved her wallet, from which she counted out singles as well as coins of various denominations, the sum of which did not quite cover the total tab. Another set of endless minutes burned away as the woman began a second search through her bag before finally finding the alternative method of payment, a personal check, which further consumed time being filled out, signed, and verified. At this point, the cashier, herself looking at least a decade past retirement age, noticed that the customer appeared to be a little young to be purchasing alcoholic beverages, though evidently old enough to be a mother. Once again the cashier demanded to see the woman’s I.D., this time for proof of age.

At last, Fred was up. With a scowl, the cashier yanked the cereal box down the counter and positioned her fingers on the keys of the cash register. Fred stayed her gnarly hand just in time. “No, no–don’t ring it up. I’m returning this. It’s tainted merchandise.”

The elderly cashier sighed in a way she hoped would express–-as well as cause–pain.“Ya got your ree-ceipt?”

“Of course I don’t have my receipt! Who saves grocery receipts?”

The cashier gave Fred a look that would have curdled the baby food checked out just moments before. She sighed a second sigh that could have been audible in Point Barrow, Alaska. “I hafta page the Assistant Manager,” she whined and then into the mike announced: “Mr. Cobol, Lane Fourteen please. Mr. Cobol, Lane Four-teen!” Instantly the shock of her amplified voice made everyone in the store jump. The actual words crackled and slurred, but their volume was enough to reverberate off the rows of canned dog food, the ice machine, and the meat counters in back of the store. Just above the cashier’s gray head an oblong sign reading “14" blinked on and off.

Behind Fred there had amassed a line of full grocery carts, each attached to a shopper with an expression as exasperated as Fred’s was when the young mother had been at bat. While everyone waited, the cashier picked up Fred’s box of Bite-a-mens and peered intensely at the box. “Two forty-nine, “ she muttered. “A lousy two forty-nine.”

Fred took issue with being so casually pegged as a cheapskate. He cleared his throat. “It’s not the two fifty-nine–“

“Two forty-nine.”

“Whatever. I just felt that the matter ought to be brought to someone’s attention. Really, it’s not the mon–“

“Listen, Mister, I’ve been in this business long enough to know that when somebody says it’s not the money, it’s the principle, it’s the money.”

A young man arrived at Lane Fourteen. In his long-sleeved white shirt and insecurely-knotted tie, he looked to be a few minutes out of high school, but he was indeed the Assistant Store Manager. “What’s the problem, Evelyn?”

“Mr. Cobol, this guy wants to return this here. He ain’t got no ree-ceipt.”

“Something wrong with the product?” Mr. Cobol asked Fred, who said nothing. Instead he opened the top of the cereal box and thrust it under Mr. Cobol’s nose. The Assistant Manager squinted, and his head jerked back as with an involuntary reflex.

Witnessing the scene, one of the waiting customers remembered that he himself was about to purchase a box of Bite-a-Mens. Immediately he removed the box from his cart and surreptitiously placed it on the rack behind the displays of sugarless gum and People magazine.

“We’ll discuss this in my office, “ Mr. Cobol said, as he led Fred, who was still holding the bag with the tainted cereal box, through a semi-secret door at the back of the Cost Cutter.

The Assistant Manager shared his office space with eight-foot high stacks of cardboard cartons, each with the word “Disposable Diapers” printed on the side. Under a sign by which one could barely make out the red “Exit” between the sections of broken glass, there was a partially-opened garage door, and next to it stood a wheeled bin the size of a foreign sports car. It was stuffed to capacity with flattened shipping boxes, wilted lettuce leaves, and crushed cigarette cartons of assorted brands.

The bin was color-coordinated with Mr. Cobol’s industrial gray desk, covered with employee schedules, various order forms, four-inch wide rolls of stickers printed with “59¢,” and the classified section of the local newspaper, opened and folded over at the “Help Wanted” section. A cheap photo frame displayed a color glossy of a woman with some children–-possibly Mrs. Cobol and the kids, more likely Mrs. Cobol Senior with the Assistant Manager’s siblings. The most prominent object atop the desk was a book, sneering and screaming its formidable title: Winning through Intimidation.

With an intimidating jerk of his head, Mr. Cobol removed an irritating forelock from his eyes. “Well,“ he said, “I suppose you think I was born yesterday.” As a matter of fact, Fred believed the Assistant Manager to be a bit of fallout from the Baby Boomlet.

“I’ve been working here long enough to have seen it all,” Mr. Cobol continued. “The phony food stamps, the checks that bounce higher than a bimbo’s boobs. Then you got your bums coming in with their deposit bottles. They stink up my store and then they piss and moan when we don’t cash in bottles covered with cobwebs and mud.”

Fred tried to get a word in. “I’m just asking for a refund, or a least a replacement box of cereal.”

The Assistant Manager gave his head another intimidating shake. “I tell you I’ve had it up to here with troublemakers. Like the lady who came in with a bottle of soda with a mouse floating in it. She tried to tell us it was like that when she bought it. Can you believe the gall?”

Suddenly Fred felt a wave of pity for the blind--in contemporary euphemistic terms, “the vision impaired.” How did they know when vermin had infested their groceries, how could they tell the difference between aerosol deodorants and air fresheners, cans of cat food from the tuna intended for human consumption?

Mr. Cobol droned on as if he were giving an oral report in social studies class, which no doubt had occurred in the extremely recent past. “I don’t know how she got the mouse in there. She must have practiced. Maybe she puts ships in bottles.”

“I wouldn’t venture a guess. Now about my refund–“

“I wouldn’t know either. I know your type. You’re probably the one responsible for all the product tampering, slipping poison into the medicine bottles.”

“Are you insinuating that I–“

Mr. Cobol shrugged. “You know how many thousands of dollars we sink into Public Relations? You have no idea how much it costs to maintain our Good Will in the community.”

“You can have your reputation back for two forty-nine.”

“Don’t give me that! You’ve probably got an attorney on retainer right now.”

“Actually, I didn’t consider any sort of litigation at all–“ Fred glanced down at his watch. It was very, very late. “Forget it. I’ll eat the two forty-nine. But I won’t eat this.” He considered dumping the cereal, roach, and all, on the Assistant Manager’s lap. Instead he put the box on top of Winning Through Intimidation. “Don’t put that back on the shelf!”

In the graffiti-splattered phone booth outside the store, Fred called the office. The line was busy, but his coin didn’t return. Neither did his second coin. He reached the receptionist on the third try.

“Kratchlow thinks you’re out getting drunk,” she said between snaps of gum.

“I’m not! I’m calling from a supermarket!”

“Yeah, well, he says to tell you not to bother coming back.”

“When? The rest of the day? Never?”

Since the pay phone had devoured all of Fred’s loose change, he had no bus fare. He considered – for a split-second– going back into the Cost Cutter until he spotted the cautionary sign on the front door: “No change without purchase.” Fred didn’t want to purchase anything, not even a pack of gum. So he ankled the twenty-five blocks home–-in the rain.

There wasn’t a morsel to eat in the apartment, and he actually wondered if he should have picked up something while he had been in the store.

Fred G. Upshaw sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the newspaper which had already informed him that he wasn’t a dead millionaire. First he read an article about insects:


. . .Pre-dating homo sapiens by millions of years, these predators are prominent on this planet. Even when they are prey, many species of insects, with the exception of some delicate butterflies, are virtually indestructible. Some, such as cockroaches, may be able survive any natural or man-made disaster, including an all-out nuclear holocaust. . .

Fred skipped to the Sports Page, which featured an article about a local college kid who could out-run, out-jump, and out-swim every similar athlete in recent memory:


. . .have consistently been breaking from the Fifties through the Seventies, with every indication that more records will be shattered as the current decade progresses. Skip Potterfield is yet another example of the Super Athlete, living proof that man as a species is getting better and better. . .

“Stronger and faster, maybe,” Fred thought. “Not necessarily any nicer.”

Although Fred realized that he would soon have to consult the Help Wanted pages, but during that particular moment he wadded up the newspaper into a ball. All the ink came off on his hands. “Survival of the fittest,” he said. “We can put a man on the moon. We can manufacture a breakfast cereal in the image and likeness of ourselves.” Fred scrunched the newspaper wad more tightly. He took aim at the wastepaper basket across the room, hurled the paper ball, and missed.

[YesNo]

It looks like Fred was having a bad day. I did find it enjoyable to read.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

Well that was an amusingly written tale of woe, but it reads very much like act 1. Were this a three act structure, then you would have given us the inciting incident; i.e. the cockroach in the cereal, and recruited the reader to the protagonist's desire for justice and reinforced it with his unjust treatment at the hands of the ghastly girls, the cashier, the store manager and his own boss, who sacked him. So he walks home, penniless and alone to an empty house, but the situation is left unresolved. He's hungry and jobless. Other than indicating to the reader that one should never complain for fear of the consequences, it doesn't say much.

I know the Short story can work by different rules, but it does kind of leave me wanting more. Your protagonist's situation seems pathetic and rather hopeless. As a comment on injustice, I guess it makes it's point, but... it doesn't really go anywhere. "...wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?"

So what next? Will he be evicted for not paying his rent? Will he wander the streets, unwashed, in shabby clothes, turn to crime, steal a gun and assassinate the president - all because he found a cockroach in his cereal? Actually that would make rather a good story. Can I steal it? :D I have to come up with a 6000 word treatment for a screenplay and this has got my synapses buzzing.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Following the "regifting" practice of the Anti-humor thread, here's the first of two Christmas reruns. I remembered this one while recently watching the Rockettes in Radio City Music Hall and marvelling at this year's holiday window displays in Midtown Manhattan.

The story dates back to Ought Eight--and, one might say, it shows. I do hope the writing style has improved in the five years since. ( By the way, the pronoun without an antecedent in the opening sentence refers to the title.)

The Girl in Balthazar’s Window

Was she “real”? That was the question that immediately jumped into shoppers’ minds. Her appearance differed greatly from the other mannequins: the flesh of that face was undeniably natural, the glow of the cheeks luminous as the rising rays of the sun on virgin snow. There was, however, something mechanical in the way she moved – a herky-jerky motion when she lifted her arms, a rigid step with her feet and legs when she stiffly marched like the toy soldier her costume mimicked. Could it be a remarkably lifelike robot? The answer perhaps hid behind in her chilly expression which never changed from the hour the store opened until closing time. The half-smile was frozen, and the long eyelashes never seemed to blink.

“Hey, Baby, wanna jingle my bells?” This was a taunt from a mall rat, one of a trio who never passed up an opportunity to get laughs. They stood in front of the window, whose display was on a slightly raised platform without a glass buffer separating it from the interior corridor of the mall. The open display was thus “up close and personal” for public enjoyment. Small children expressed delight and most adults seemed mildly amused, except for the uncouth few who took it as a challenge to make the living doll break out of character. In a way, these louts were like the rude tourists whose high point of a trip to London would be the attempt to break up the stoic stance of a Beefeater. Inspired by a handsome commission, the window designer hired by Balthazar’s Dept Store had come up with the notion as a way to lure in curiosity seekers, who would come for the window display and - so it was hoped – stay to shop. The targeted audience did not include these idle youths, who at this point had failed to force the model/mannequin to break her concentration. That did not, nevertheless, discourage them from trying. For nearly a quarter of an hour, they tossed catcalls and insults, made faces and improvised gestures.

“Dudes! Check it out– ten bucks says I can make her laugh!” The boy who said put down his bag of popcorn and thrust his fist under his arm pit to approximate the impolite noises associated with a involuntary bodily function.

“Ew, Smitty, that wasn't even funny back in the fourth grade!” This from a boy who in better company almost personified a quality of sensitivity, finer than the moodiness common to adolescent angst. Among his peers, though, Mel often took the most- traveled road, the easier route of going along with the crowd.

“Yeah, Smit, “ the third kid announced. “Ya owe us both a sawbuck!”

“ Yeah, well, subtract it from the forty you owe me, Dylan!” Then Smitty returned to the matter of hand. The prank-producing process inside his rebellious, hormone-addled pate urgently churned. After a moment, Smitty shrugged. He picked up his bag of popcorn and began to fire kernel after kernel in the general direction of the window display.

It was only a matter of seconds later that someone grabbed Smitty’s shoulders and yanked him backward with a minimum of force. “Excuse me, Fellas,” a mature male voice announced, “may I ask you what you're doing?”

Turning around the trio saw a middle-aged man, presumably the store manager. A sprig of holly decorated one lapel of his suit jacket and on the other a large white button with red lettering that said: “Welcome to Balthazar’s, the Lord of Treasures.” Not one of the boys answered his question.

The man popped a cell phone out of his pocket and said something inaudible to it. A few seconds later the tinny holiday music on the loudspeakers ceased as female voice announced: “Maintenance to front of the store. Clean up in front of the store.” In the meantime, the trio make a few backward steps to slip away. “Just a minute there, guys” the manager said. “It’s, uh-–“ he shot his cuff to peer at his watch “–ten thirty-seven am on a weekday, a Tuesday. Why aren't you all in class?”

Smitty spoke up. “Uh, we're like home-schooled?”

“Yeah?” the man replied. “Then why aren't you all home being schooled? Listen, I'll give you a head start. But if you're not away from my store in thirty seconds, I'm calling security!”

“Oooh, listen to ‘im, Dudes!” Dylan remarked. “He’s got a cell phone and he’s not afraid to use it.” No faster than was necessary, the trio sauntered away. When the store manager assured himself that the troublemakers were gone for good, he disappeared as well. Meanwhile from a side door to the window display a woman in gray overalls had entered with a small broom and a dustpan. Like a busy little elf, she attended to the chore of sweeping up the popcorn kernels strewn around the mannequin, who never looked down nor broke her pose.

A little later the three youths returned to the front of the window. This time Smitty was armed with a soft drink in a container the size of a bazooka. He held it up near his shoulder as if he were taking aim at the window display.

“Oh no, Smitty, don't you dare !” Mel said in a voice that was part-warning, part-laugh.

Smitty did not move. “What are ya, a chicken ?

Dylan seconded him.“Yeah, Mel, sometimes you act so gay!”

With that, Smitty popped off the plastic lid of the drink, pulled his arm way back, and let it fly with the force of a grenade. The enormous paper cup and its entire contents, an orange ocean and a fleet of tiny ice chips, hit an area between the girl’s neck and shoulder. Upon impact, Mel gasped, as his two associates fled – “more rapid than eagles” before anyone could call out or determine their names.

Mel froze momentarily and then stepped up onto the platform of the window display. Despite the attack, the victim had never wavered from her routine; she continued going through the motions with her tall plumed hat askew, sticky orange liquid dripping down the back of her velvet toy soldier suit.

From the back pocket of his jeans Mel exhumed the tissue without which his mother had never let him leave the house. As efficiently as propriety allowed, he used it to mop up some of the damage. “I am so sorry,” he said. “Sometimes those guys can be such jerks! They've all got self-esteem issues.”

With that, the mannequin’s head turned. This unprecedented action startled Mel so much that he almost fell off the platform. “Tell me about it!” she said. “I already know from low self-esteem. That’s why I'll be spending Christmas Eve dressed up like a freakin’ clown!” In a normal gait she walked over to the side and closed the blinds to shield the compromised window dressing from public view. She pointed to the side door. “That'll take lead you to a different way out of the mall.” Mel stood staring at her. “Uh, I can take it from here,” she said. To punctuate the hint, she swung open the door wide, and Mel finally went through.

The route from the secret exit to the mall’s parking lot was a short one. The trek to the bus stop back to town, however, was a long one. Mel shivered in the cold, though his face burned with shame, engendered by embarrassment about his lousy choice of friends and especially by the totally lame phrase he'd uttered upon taking leave of the beautiful model: "Well, Happy Holidays!”

The following year Balthazar’s window display included a tasteful arrangement of outsized snowflakes hung from the ceiling with invisible strings, along with selected items of merchandise colorfully backlit by baby spots. There were no whimsical figures, human or otherwise. Nothing moved.

[AuntShecky]

Previous holiday retread above^^

This is the last Christmas rerun, I promise. The reason yours fooly is posting it is that I'd recently watched the movie Cloud Atlas, based on the novel by David Mitchell. Some of the futuristic scenes of the movie (and assumedly the book) show an evolved, clipped kind of language. In an earlier work,Russell Hoban-- an author with whom I was familiar from the delightful "Frances" series of children's books written with his wife, Lillian--created a new language for his apocalyptic adult novel, Riddley Walker. By the bye, Russell died almost exactly two years ago this week on December 14, 2011.

Both those professional authors do a better job than yours truly did on the English language of the future, though I wasn't aware of either of the aforementionaed works at the time I wrote this-- I think it was December of Ought Nine. Additionally,there is a Xmas angle to it. If I were writing it today, I would try to make the thing more like a legit short story rather than a fable or a cautionary tale. Not only that, it's set in the future tense--awkward as hell! In any event, here go nuttin':

O Holly Nite


“Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?” -- A Christmas Carol, Stave IV



O Holly Nite

In the near-eternal eons since the birth of the orbit of our lonely world, its flirty tilt toward the Sun alternating with its shy flinch away from it, there has never been a year without a Winter Solstice. A hundred years from now, the shortest day of the year will still occur in the Northern Hemisphere, but save for an enclave of theoretical scientists, few will note its arrival.

A century from now, however, someone may indeed peek outside into a hard scrabble landscape and momentarily marvel at the sun’s low position in the sky --a sunset that will seem to come a tad earlier than the previous December days. This observation may occur despite of the legislation of the time tinkerers with their ever-extended “Daylite Savins”, and the fact that for a couple of generations there will not have been a definably clear-cut change of seasons.

In his pod amid the hinterlands slightly west of the former Eastern Seaboard, a man will look at the pink and purple random streaks hovering just above the horizon and will pause at this rare display of natural beauty. Then he will go about his “bizness” – until his progeny, a boy about 7, will interrupt him.

“Pal –“ the boy will say, using the common appellation for addressing one’s parent-figure, which will have etymologically evolved from the Old-Fashioned words “Pa” or “Dad.” (If the boy were to have been female and extremely lucky enough to have a female parent-figure, the mutual form of address would be “girlfren.”)

Indeed, the language will have completely changed in its inevitable forward thrust toward brevity and absolute simplicity in grammar –a minimal use for articles and noun declensions-- inflections, verb endings, tenses, moods will have been dropped into the recycling bin of obsolescence. Speech patterns will eventually echo the format applied by text messengers in the early twenty-first century; and upon the rare appearance of a written text, the spelling will have adopted the proposals by a long line of orthographic reformers, such as a late nineteenth century playwright, although the name George Bernard Shaw will be as obscure to future generations as the names of Greek dramatists seem to so many in ours.


“Wha now?” Pal will say. “Ja do work?” Such work for the boy will consist of acquiring certain intellectual skills, a task which a century ago had been deemed “homework,” but at this future time, there will be no schools outside one’s pod. The boy will point to a holographic screen, where in the air will appear a elementary exercise in binary math, with every 0 and 1 in its appropriate place. But Pal will still be unsatisfied. “Ja feed frogs?”

The boy will point to an aquarium – or more accurately – amphib-quarium – a cube of synthetic glass, wherein a half dozen tiny peepers will feebly chirp, the croaking sound once the province of the males, which as early as the end of the twentieth century had been beginning their descent into annihilation, aggravated by environmental factors. Either the zygotes had begun as males and transexualized into females, or only the female eggs successfully hatched. But somehow the female frogs had survived, reproducing through a process akin to parthenogenesis. (This will be the opposite of what will happen to the two genders of homo sapiens. ) In the case of extant frogs, their relative rarity will elevate them to the former status of “tropical fish,” which will have long since swum their last laps in the waters of the world, and thus frogs will be considered pets, albeit highly prized and expensive.

“Yeah, Pal, they et.” The boy will open his hand and show his father figure a colorful object the size and shape of a sugar cube from the previous century.

“Where ja get that?” The object in the boy’s hand will be an heirloom, as antiquated as a sepia photograph of a sober-faced, straitlaced couple who’d marked some auspicious occasion by having their portrait immortalized in a newfangled studio, circa 1906. It will be what the twenty-first century knew as a “video,” which some decades after it had been shot was put on a DVD, and still later reformatted to fit a newer device, itself having been replaced by the Hologram Player, the Hp.

“Display! Display!” the boy will cry, only to see his father shake his head.

“Incompat. Not Hp,” he will answer. Sudden inspiration, however, will prompt the man to take the little cube and try to install it into a device that the man’s grandfather once owned, a Old Fashioned laptop, which over the years somehow had never made it into the Recycle Bin.

The man will exhume the laptop and dispose of the decades of accumulated dust. “Here go nuttin’” he will announce. He will wait for it to boot up + finally, he will insert the video cube + like a miracle, the video will start to play.

Just as twenty-first century viewers of early silent movies had to adjust their perception to accommodate the faster frames and process the seemingly quick motions of the film, the boy’s cerebral cortex will have to downgrade to take in two-dimensional images. In the video he will see a family (although the both the word and the concept will be acutely foreign to the boy): two adults, a male and a female(!) as well as a young boy all but obscured by strange clothes – with even their hands covered; only their faces visible. The action involves the making of a snow man.

“Wha tha, Pal? White dirt?”

“Think they say ‘snow.’ It use to come down from sky + know how ProteenAde feel ? Cold.” The man will know that the little boy in the video was his own grandfather, a relationship he will not at that time explain to his own son. Instead, he will – as his usual wont – tell him the story of the boy’s origin – how he had sprung from the man’s own seed + from a exquisite, specially-selected egg from the Corpus Luteum, (the CL), which one day will be proclaimed “The Mother of Us All.”

Although he will take the Christmas tree in the video as some kind of Old Fashioned furniture, the boy will feel a slight buzz of recognition, a bit of a personal epiphany upon watching the family unwrap gifts. Some six or seven decades from now, the so-called “Holiday Season” as we know it will have been virtually eliminated. By that time, the problem which consumers had wrestled with in late December – wild, blustery, freezing weather – will have been rendered moot because of the greenhouse effect. More importantly, corporations, allied with the time-tinkerers, will have tweaked the corporate earnings statement so that the high point would not be so heavily weighted toward the Fourth Quarter; placing the furious gift-buying frenzy toward the middle part of the year will have made it, to their way of thinking more balanced. A new holiday will have evolved, called “the Present.” And this will be the frame in which boy’s will view the gift opening segment of the video.

The video record of the meal will, however, assault his tender sensibility. “Aw! Wha they eat? Wha they eat!”

“Tha wha peeps et for holidays. Turkey. Like a bird.”

“They et bird! Eww! Eww!” The feathered creatures with which the boy will have been familiar will be those whose prolificacy and hardy stamina will have enabled them to stay off the endangered species or extinction lists: pigeons, for instance, crows. Yet a hundred years from now it will never occur to “peeps” that a bird is something one would cook and eat. They will recoil from the very thought, even as twenty-first century readers find repulsive the dormice and other exotic delicacies reportedly served at an ancient Roman banquet.

At the same time the video will be finishing with its stars singing an old, unfamiliar song.

“Wha ‘Holly’?” the boy will inquire. The man will boot up the WebStir and pronounce the word. In a parsec a hologram of the evergreen plant will appear in front of their eyes. A disembodied voice will intone: “Holly. A plant, now extinct. Trees and shrubs. Shiny, pointed leaves, red berries. Used as decorations for religious holidays.”

“Pal? Wha ‘religious’?”

At the verboten word, the WebStir will shut down, crash.

“Pal,” the boy will repeat. “Wha ‘religious’?”

The man will look around to assure himself that the Surveil-a-Cam is not watching. He will put his finger to his lips. “Shh! No, Son.” This will be the first time the boy will have heard himself addressed in this way. The boy will think that Pal had said “Sun.”

Outside in the darkening sky three planets will shine brightly in alignment, but, apart from a few widely-scattered astronomers, few will note this celestial confluence. For the man of the future, nevertheless, it was going to be, it will be – a long, long nite.

[AuntShecky]

Bums in Love

A short story by "Aunt Shecky"

Arriving at the master bedroom in the early evening, the man of the house looked spent. If you didn’t know Cooper van Schaick, his disheveled appearance might lead you to think he were a hard-working coal miner, but you would be entirely wrong. He had returned directly from an intense match of squash played on the court within his exclusive club, whose annual membership fees far exceeded the combined salaries of his household staff.

“My dinner jacket needs to be laid out,” he announced. “Where’s Wentworth?”

His wife, preoccupied with some business at her vanity table, did not look up. “It’s his day off, remember?”

Cooper used the end of the towel fashionably swung around his neck to absorb the perspiration dripping off his forehead. “And Marisol, where is she?”

“She called in sick this morning.”

“I swear that woman works less than you do!”

After applying the second false eyelash with the facility of a Vegas showgirl, Taylor checked out the results in the flawless mirror in front of her. Her slip flattered her body so perfectly that once again she congratulated herself for having gone ahead with the liposuction. She looked great, and she knew it.

Her husband sat on the bed and watched her as she placed her well-manicured index finger on the cap of her custom-blended foundation and vigorously shook the small bottle. Prying off one nine hundred-dollar tennis shoe and then the other, Cooper tiptoed over and put both of his arms around his wife’s waist. The pink silk felt sensually smooth under his fingers. He stared at both reflections in the mirror -– hers on the bottom, his on top -- and squeezed her tightly. The face glaring back at him could have flash-frozen lava. “I strongly suggest that you dress quickly if you want to make our reservations on time,” she said.

After one last puff of powder upon the tip of her patrician nose, Taylor followed him to the bathroom. Within seconds, she heard the sound of the consistently-powerful water pressure of the shower. “I forgot to tell you. I ran into Celestine today at spin class.”

“What?” The shout just barely penetrated the loud cascade.

“I said I ran into --“ She waited till he fully emerged, wrapped in a towel extending from his mid-section all the way down to his ankles. “Celestine told me that Rod sold his little tech company. For quite a pretty penny, I might add.”

“No kidding. Rod, huh. Who would’ve guessed.” Cooper stroked his chin to determine whether he could forego a quick shave. “Must be nice to be rich.”

Taylor shot him one of her trademark looks. “I often wonder the same thing myself,” she remarked as she entered her walk-in closet. “Now where’s my scarlet de la Renta?” Upon locating the gown, she lifted it over her head and donned it without smearing her makeup nor her garment. She had acquired this skill through years of experience, though she firmly believed that good breeding had something to do with it.

Cooper meanwhile had managed to get himself fully-dressed, save for his footwear. “Damn! I distinctly instructed Wentworth to give these the benefit of a good polishing.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently spat on the tip of one of the shoes and considered about reaching for his pocket square but instead rubbed the black leather dry with the corner of the comforter.

“What kind of wrap?” Taylor asked.

“It’s chilly out there. Better make it the Persian lamb. The Lexus or the Lincoln?”

“The latter.”

Cooper jingled the keys in his pocket. “Madame, your carriage awaits,” he said, as he took her arm.

The vehicle warmed up within seconds. As Cooper reached down to adjust his seat, he stole a glance at his wife’s legs. “New shoes?”

Taylor twisted her feet from side to side and examined them as if she were seeing them for the first time. “Indeed,” she replied. “They were a steal at six hundred.” The thin straps of the shoes glistened with silver, with the sparkling motif repeated on the treacherous-looking heels. “Though I must admit I’m having a bit of buyer’s remorse,” she added. “I find that the toes pinch somewhat. I do hope they won’t impede our dancing.”

Cooper hit the gas pedal and the automobile zipped down the driveway with powerful panache. “You didn’t mention dancing.”

“Oh, come now, Dear. Don’t beg off. I’m certain your opinion will differ once you pop a few glasses of Cabernet into your system.”

In the time it took the town car to maneuver the suburban roads, enter the on-ramp of the Interstate, and continue toward the city, the only sound came from the windshield wipers swishing back and forth as they battled the icy rain.

The auto left the exit ramp and merged into the relatively-light traffic of the downtown business district, nearly deserted since five o’clock. Conversation resuscitated with an uncharacteristically quiet voice from the passenger’s side with an announcement. “Darling, I’m thrilled that we’re spending this evening together.”

More than a moment passed with no corresponding answer from Cooper, temporarily distracted by the mental image of the occupant of an apartment he had discreetly rented on Summit Avenue uptown.

“I would like you to know that there is no one I’d rather spend Valentine’s Day with than you,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “Nor I, you.”

Chez Jacques was just around the corner from the Civic Center, only a block away. The couple was almost there. Cooper only had to take a final right at the intersection, but the street was blocked off. Unfamiliar lights and orange cones lined both parallel curbs and uniformed police wielding flashlights strolled up and down the line of vehicles, unwillingly idling and spewing exhaust into the damp night.

Cooper rolled down his window and signaled to one of the cops. As the patrolman leaned halfway into the car, tiny pellets of ice bounced off the brim of his cap and annoying wetness dripped onto Cooper’s lap.

“Water main break, Buddy. You gotta take a detour,” the policeman said, vaguely pointing down the road. “Straight ahead.” Stepped backwards, he resumed his back-and-forth pacing, swinging his flashlight from side to side, an unambiguous signal to the motorists to keep moving.

Even in the darkened car, Taylor’s distressed expression was plainly visible. “Oh, Cooper, must we?”

“You heard the officer. It’s the only way I can go.”

“But this is the bad section –-“

“What do you want me to do? Turn around? Shall we go home?”

Taylor shook her head and bit her lip. With a second of hesitation she swivelled her head to assure herself that her door was still locked.

The van Schaicks had only gone a short distance when once again they were forced to stop, this time beneath an overpass. Flashing red lights and the white-and-black striped “X” of a railroad crossing had temporarily closed the road, establishing the right-of-way for a freight train the length of a Mississippi tributary. Car after rattling car lumbered down the track at a pace that couldn’t be correctly described as “speed.”

Cooper drummed the edge of the steering wheel with the impatience of one unaccustomed to the art of waiting. Although he thought about turning off the ignition, he kept the engine running.

Taylor’s eyes darted from the impeded road ahead to the scene outside her car window. The concrete wall of the bridge resembled a impromptu parking spot for a number of shopping carts, all of them full, none with groceries. On the sidewalk – really just a widened and slightly elevated section of the pavement – an apparently intentional fire had been set within the wire framework of a municipal public works department trash receptacle. A bearded man standing dangerously close to the makeshift hearth held his palms slightly above the flame.

A contingent of others, perhaps twenty or so, populated the strip of pavement, with the road above their heads providing a quasi-roof for shelter from the winter elements. Most of the people milled around, with here and there a small group engaged in what appeared to be animated discussions.

Additionally, a twenty-something couple caught Taylor’s eye. The male threw his head back in laughter until his female companion playfully punched his arm. She began giggling as well, and kept doing so as he chased her to the edge of the underpass and back, eventually returning to the mid-point where Taylor had first spotted them.

The annoying freight train inched along, but the young couple paid no heed to its clickety-clacks and whistles. The young man gave her turned-up nose an affectionate tweak; in turn the girl took his hand and raised it to her cheek. At that point the couple kissed and continued the embrace for the duration it took six freight cars to clatter by.

A loud clucking sound emanated from Taylor’s tongue. ““Disgusting,” she muttered. “Those irresponsible fools.”

Cooper didn’t break his gaze out the windshield. “You know, I was confronted by a homeless guy this a.m.”

His wife gasped. “No! I hope you didn’t give him anything, Cooper. If you give them a dollar, they’ll just waste it on cheap booze or drugs or something. Wouldn’t you think they’d buy themselves a bar of soap –-“

“And what would they do with it? Take a bath in the fountain in the city park?”

The final car of the endless freight train had cleared the track. Ever so slowly the crossbars of the railroad sign divided, lifted, and moved themselves back into their resting place. The red lights did not quickly catch the cue to switch to green.

Cooper didn’t squander a parsec hitting the gas pedal and just as quickly Taylor turned around toward the rear window to take a final look. The engine revved up with a startling blast, causing the girl to jump and her boyfriend to shake his fist at the town car racing away.

That parting gesture did little except to inspire Cooper to drive even faster; as a result, he pulled up in front of the restaurant within a couple of minutes. His momentary reluctance to hand over the car keys to the parking valet was nearly embarrassing, and while he took his precious time mentally calculating the appropriate tips for the doorman and the maitre d’, he left his wife waiting in the freezing drizzle.

[glennr25]

An enjoyable read, Auntie. Cooper, to me, seems to be a bit bored with his wife. Taylor on the other hand wished her life was filled with more excitement, like the young couple's they encountered on the way to the restaurant.

[DuckDuckDead]

I like how it's confusing.

[AuntShecky]

I like how it's confusing.

You mean, who are the real "bums"?

I have to admit this couple is an exaggeration, and I was conscious of satirizing two different things: the fact that "The Rich" live in a self-absorbed bubble as well as the slightly distorted way the have-nots think about the have-too-much. I have no doubt that some members of the highest economic echelon are generous folks who do have an inkling of how the other 99% of the world lives. Even so, it's really a kick to make fun of the top 1%.

[DuckDuckDead]

I was actually referring to a previous story, I forget which, something about a wolf that types up a procedural report. Sorry.

I don't know, I feel like they're all cynical monsters. There are the inheritors who just don't know anything else, living in a bubble, and then there are the sharks, the climbers, who have no God but the dollar. And of course there are the would-be Oligarchs. I think that like most people "The Rich" don't care much about those outside their immediate circle and that they justify an unfair, arbitrary distribution of wealth with a hazy concept of Darwinism: The poor are poor because they're lazy or stupid, we have what we have because we're entitled, deserving, we earned it, we built more of this so we deserve a greater share. There's almost certainly more than a hint of eugenics there too. They're mostly old white guys, no doubt about that, and they have all the baggage that comes with. They'd probably like to institute a one vote per dollar scheme and they think that obscene amounts of currency entitle them to access to public servants who are supposed to be shielded from their corrupting influence. One does not become an apex predator without teeth and prey.

No war but class war.

Lol I'm just kidding I'm sure they're nice people, people are people after all.

[DuckDuckDead]

I just finished reading your most recent story. You should keep writing.

[Delta40]

For a moment there I thought Cooper was going to recall happier carefree times. You kept the yawning gap in place. Nice read and like you said, exaggerated in an entertaining way

[108 fountains]

What I liked best about "Bums in Love" is that you have several different things going on – the contrast of the two relationships (the relationship between the rich couple and the relationship between the poor couple), the reaction of each couple to the other, and the way that each couple interacts with society. And I thought you wove all three themes together artfully and skillfully, especially in such a short story.

The simple, childlike display of affection between the poor couple was an interesting contrast to the rich couple’s relationship, which was more complex, but more superficial, centering around restaurant reservations, issues of household staff, and preparing themselves to be seen in public. Of course, your feelings on which couple had the more loving relationship was obvious even before devastating last clause when the rich husband “…left his wife waiting in the freezing drizzle.”

The momentary interaction between the two couples left the rich couple in a discussion over their revulsion toward poor people. In contrast, while the poor husband/boyfriend shook his fist at the rich couple as they drove away, presumably, the poor couple immediately forgot the interaction altogether.

The rich couple spent most of their time ensuring that they presented themselves respectably in public, she adjusting her make-up to perfection, he shining his shoes, etc. The poor couple paid absolutely no heed to how they might appear to society, being quite comfortable frolicking in public, and mindful only of themselves.

So here then is yet another theme (perhaps the overarching theme) - childlike innocence vs. sophistication and all the baggage that comes with it.

I don’t know whether it was intentional on your part or not, but another thing I found very effective was the contrast in the amount of time you spent in describing the two couples - you provided a very detailed description of the rich couple, but only a minimalist description of the poor couple. In a way, it was as if the rich couple were (or somehow felt they were) entitled to the fuller, richer description, whereas the two bums simply didn’t need it. But perhaps I’m over analyzing this point.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you for all of your comments for the previous ditty. Up next:


Do Not Go Genteel Into That Good Night

by Aunt Shecky


Only a few thin lines streaked across Gordon’s fist, but the real possibility of the scratches widening and gushing didn’t frighten him at all. Nothing like righteous indignation to pump up the old adrenalin, fueling the power of a mighty punch.

At his feet lay a pile of fragments of sharply-pointed glass, shattered bits of silicone, a tangle of wires intertwined like spaghetti. From the back of the cable box a slightly thicker, rubbery cord dangled as if it were the tail of a distressed forest creature hanging precipitously off a tree.

The mess on the rug should have been conclusive enough, but Gordon’s anger continued to rage. He grabbed the still-warm casing of the murdered tv and would have choked it if he could. With a ferocious grunt he picked up the electronic carcass and hurled it against the wall.

This final thump, rather than the initial crash, brought the missus into the room. Upon seeing Gordon’s reddened hand she disappeared, returning a few seconds later with a store-brand box of bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. When she gently tried to nurse his wounds, Gordon swatted her away with his injured hand.

Never one to avoid the obvious, his wife asked him what had happened. She had her answer when she finally noticed the heap of destructive evidence littering the living room. Slowly she shook her head with a mixture of disbelief and sadness. For months Gordon and -- especially – Sheila had skimped and saved in order to buy that tv, and God knew when -- if ever -- the couple would ever afford another one.

Bracing herself, she gulped and broached the question. “Why did y–- uh, what brought this on?”

Gordon pointed to the empty spot on the stand where the tv had until recently stood. “That–that!–-some stuck-up bastard on the tube kept bragging about how he used to live in ‘genteel poverty.’ The stupid jerk don’t know nothin’ about poverty!“ He was fuming and sputtering. It was difficult to get the words out.

“But I know,” Gordon said, jabbing his chest. “I know a thing or two about poverty. There ain't one effin' ‘genteel’ thing about it!”

“So that’s why you smashed the tv?” Sheila brushed some stray pieces of glass off the sofa and sat down. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not poor.”

Gordon looked at his wife as if she were speaking Urdu. He squinted at her as a notion momentarily crossed his mind that she might be holding out on him, hiding a winning lottery ticket or something. “What did you say?”

“I said we’re not poor.”

“We’re not?”

“No,” she replied. “We just don’t have any money.”

[YesNo]

Nice ending. I also liked how Sheila was never one to avoid the obvious.

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for reading #118, YesNo, originally intended to fit in the 50 words or fewer thread, then its 100 word counterpart, with the final count ending up slightly over 400.

Now I'm going to add to that word count with a non-fiction screed:

Couple of precedents for this one--the notorious anecdote in which Elvis shot out his TV when Robert Goulet came on the screen, which itself inspired a little ditty in the aforementioned 50 word thread.
In this story the point I was trying to make is that Gordon personifies the stereotypical (and wrong!) public perception of an uneducated, uncouth poor person. But Gordon is sensitive enough to know when the media are blowing smoke.

And though Sheila usually states the obvious, she is in denial, in her refusal to acknowledge that she and Gordon are "poor," (again, the popular misconception of blaming poor people for their own poverty.)

Recently statisticians studying income inequity have reached a conclusion that flies in the face of my country's vaunted "upward mobility." The researchers have gathered strong evidence that if you're born poor, it's more than likely that's how you'll die. That's why we (and Gordon) often hear latter-day Horatio Algers boast that they've achieved success despite starting out in a condition of "genteel" poverty--"genteel," in order to appear "refined" or "respectable" despite the insurmountable destitution.

Some pundits continue to bash the underclass, while at the same time others euphemize the term, referring to the rock-bottom tier of the 99% as "the working poor" -- or my personal favorite-- "the deserving poor." With the exception of a would-be saint who takes a vow of poverty, nobody in his right mind wants to be poor.

Just as Gordon in his fractious way expresses himself, let me go on the record to state there is absolutely nothing "genteel" about poverty. Nothing anyone can say can ever make poverty acceptable.

It isn't.

[AuntShecky]

How do you choose the specific names for your characters?

In the case of the ones dredged up by yours fooly, sometimes it's a conscious decision to make the names allegorical or symbolic, other times (most of the time) it's "catch as catch can." (That last phrase is a fugitive from "Everything Must Go!")

In the "Bums in Love," (#110) the first names for the rich husband and wife were more or less intentional -- I wanted to choose two of those old names that originated from the person's specific occupation, like "Miller," "Baker, "Cook," etc. "Cooper" originally meant "barrel-maker" and we all know what a tailor does. Spelled with a "y", the androgynous name has been popular in recent years-- perhaps because it looks and sounds "classy," or maybe when Mrs. Van Shaick was a newborn, her mother liked the '80s diva Taylor Dayne. But my couple had the monikers "Cooper" and "Taylor" because those once were names for working people, which these two snobs definitely are not!

Another heavy-handed decision: In "Bums in Love" the Van Shaicks actually envy the other couple who got a windfall from selling a tech company. That's something rich people seem to do: deny the fact that they really are wealthy, or--they never seem to be quite rich enough. The opposite is going on with Sheilia in
"Do Not Go Genteel into that Good Night" (#118). She doesn't want to admit that she's poor.

Originally, the couple in "Do Not Go Genteel into That Good Night" (#118)were going to be named Ralph and Alice after the characters in The Honeymooners. But that reference would have been too obvious; "Jackie" and "Audrey" after the great comic actors in that classic sitcom wouldn't have added more subtlety. So for the wife in the "genteel" was given the first name of the actress who played Alice Kramden in a later version of The Honeymooners: Sheila MacRae. I named her husband after her one-time real-life husband, Gordon,the star of the several movie versions of Rodgers and Hammerstein's musicals. Those movies weren't made for the upper-class, more for "mid-cult" audiences, as Dwight MacDonald characterized them. But that's not the sole reason I didn't put Gordon in a sleeveless undershirt --one of those "wife-beater shirts." I purposely didn't want him to appear completely wretched and uncouth, but having enough sensitivity to be hurt by the hedge-word "genteel."

The reason I'm disclosing all this is that within just a day or so that I posted this, I read that Sheila MacRae had died at the age of 92. God, what a weird coincidence! Imagine how I feel, having made an oblique reference that turned out to have a sad ending!

Writers are supposed to be prophetic, but we can't foresee everything. I certainly don't want my writing to be an inadvertent curse.

(You can curse at it, though!)

I really have to stop talking about my "stuff"*, and just let it stand on its own.

*Euphemism.

[HashtagNotValid]

Oh me oh my! This is incredible. It has been a while since I read something that drew me in so deeply, so quickly. Thanks. The way you weave words is nothing short of inspiring.

[Done]

This response is a reply on your first short in this thread, titled,

"A Savage Beast maybe With Golden Hair".

I was sort of confused with your narrative when the lower case lettering came up. Without an explanation I was simply left to consider if you were writing on a random tangent or perhaps the story was going to make sense further on. With a deeper narrative this would be an easier read for your readers so that they needn't pause and think about what is going on. I always say that the story should guide the reader, not challenge them.

My favorite part was the lower case lettering part as it presented an oddball character with a peculiar mental handicap. Is it that this character isn't primarily an English speaker or is it that they are missing a screw up in the head? This was entertaining to read because it was so similar in tone to some far flung cavemen mythos with it's vague logicless depictions. If this character's written descriptions are reading like they can't fully grip the names of things such as what a road is called or what is the word for moon then how are they able to write legibly at all?

This story centers around the crime scene cleaners who are quickly disposing of evidence and that makes them crooked. Intriguing, but you don't elaborate much on their disservice. They bring up a law word document on the computer where this wandering mess of lower case lettering is written over the law explanations as though it were an account of importance of things that actually happened hidden away. But these crime scene cleaners knew about it. Once again, no explanation on their motives or what was going on.

So, I was left to give my best guess on those things like a puzzle of sorts. These crooked cleaners decided that they needed to delete this overwritten document to protect someone. It must've been pertinent evidence of some sort, but how? The overwritten document doesn't contain any useful information, in fact, it reads like a random mess of gibberish for much of it. The writer couldn't be considered credible under anyone's standards. So, they must be deleting this document for that very reason... to protect their client because their client is being accused of insanity and this accusation, if proven, could lead to a great loss of some sort. That is what I get out of this. Maybe I am wrong. They are trying to cover up evidence of their client's mental handicaps and this overwritten document is condemning evidence for them.

Then there is the reason that the overwritten document is written in lower case lettering. The writer states within this document that their method of writing it is holding a writing utensil in their mouth. So, obviously, in addition to having a mental handicap, they are also under a physical handicap. Once again, not much mention of the hows or whys on this character's physical situation. It would've been nice to get some insight on those facts.

Perhaps the story title is a hint but I don't really see what the title refers to as I don't see a mention within the story of any sort of thing that ties up on the title.

In recap, I think you are a very creative writer and this story is probably not your best story. I don't see any clichés or copy-catting with your writing and you are obviously into entertaining your readers. I think that if you double the length of this story and give us more to sink our teeth into we would probably be more satisfied with reading it. There really isn't enough narrative and explanation to guide the reader and you must look deep and do a lot of guesswork to make sense of what is really going on within this story.

I score this 65 points for creativity and originality.

[Done]

This response is a reply to your second short in this thread, titled,

"Jackpot Of Jeopardy"

This short was a nice smooth read and seemed like it wasn't amiss of something vitally important. Happy ending, who doesn't like happy endings?

I score this story 68 points.

[Done]

This response is a reply on your third short story on this
thread, titled, "Little Shop of Quarters".

My favorite of your stories so far, my only complaints
are a few spelling errors and that you went a little too
far with listing anecdotes a couple times. I like this
one and I think you could make it a full length. Thanks.

I score this one 81 points.

[Done]

This response is about your fourth
short on this thread, titled,
"Teach Your Parrot to Talk"

Excellent! You are obviously a well
seasoned writer and I would presume
that you are a professional novelist.
I don't see anything wrong with your
parrot story and so far it is my favorite
of yours. Thanks.

I score you another 90 points.

[Done]

This response is about your fifth story
in this thread, titled,
"The Myth of Generations"

I agree with one of your other
readers that it was surprising when
this tale turned out to be a
reminiscence. I wasn't expecting
such a left turn because the story
was starting to get good. An
appalling central gimmick, with a
baby in a box, I was disappointed
that you quit right there. I wanted
to see how they resolved this
tragedy.

Other than that, the writing was
superb. Drew me in.

I score this one 80 points.

[Done]

This response is about your sixth short
story on this thread, titled,
"I Don't Care If I Never Get Back".

First off, I didn't even want to read
this one because I thought it was
going to be some sappy pity party.
But, it wasn't.

I guess the "lesson" of this story is
that some fans think that it's alright
to block doorways and demand fans
watch the game? That's sad.

Really, there wasn't anything all that
wrong with your prose, no matter what
pteradactyl man says. Not one of my
favorites though.

I score this one 67 points.

[Done]

This response is about your
seventh story in this thread,
titled, "3 Septembers"

I read all of this story and
although a steep exercise in
long description and word
marathons, I was somewhat
disappointed.

There are great parts such as the
class in philosophy where some
personality in your characters
shined through, but overall
the piece meanders through
recollections too much for my
personal tastes.

The tone is very introverted and
reflective and I am left wondering
when I would reach the end.
You tie it all together but the
profundity isn't there to match
reading through all of the thing.

Cutting some of the sprawl and
filling in the missing words would
definitely reduce the mind numbing
monotony. But you know, I'm not
a girl, so I guess it would be unfair
to ask for some gun fights and
car chases.

Anyways, I score this story 59 points
for professionality and writing ability.

[Done]

This response is about your eighth
short story in this thread, titled,
"Chopped Liver".

This narrative really seemed well
constructed. The whole thing
flowed smoothly without any
surprising or jarring turns.
Although the story read like a
memoir made for Hallmark
without really a plot, for the
sake of reading and being a
reader I enjoyed this. Your
vocabulary and finesse with
sentence structure is top notch.
Thanks.

I score this short 83 points.

[Done]

This response is about your ninth short story
in this thread, titled,
"A Change Would Do You Good".

The tone and quality in this story is much like
the one you posted on this thread before it.
I like this one to a further degree and aside
from the usual errors like mis-spellings and
mis-placed words, I don't got criticism to add
to what has already been noted with your
previous readers.

I score this short 87 points.

[fudgetusk]

like the style. Difficult to know what was going on sometimes.

[Done]

This response is about your tenth
shared story on this thread, titled,
"Ultraman and the Pagan Babies".

Although this story easily makes
"the literary grade" I am disappointed
in a missing plot device. I was half
waiting for Ultraman to leap out of
a comic book and suprise everyone but
this short seems to trade in excitment
for word count. This story fizzes out
with a boring classroom scene that I notice
is a recurring setting for your creations.
I think you are holding back intentionally.
I know that developing a story within
such a brief format is a difficult task
but I also know that you can do much
greater than this.

I score this 71 points.

[Done]

This response is about, "The Worm",
your eleventh short story in this thread.

I am appreciating your writing sensibilities.
This piece has a charm and attitude that
is candid and uplifting without trying too
hard. The idea of the man who wants to
see his wife squirm at a surprise furry
rodent makes me laugh, I don't know why.

I score this story 84 points because there's
nothing wrong with the narrative and I
don't even think about being a critic while
reading it. Thanks.

[Done]

This response is about "All to Myself, Alone",
short story twelve on this thread of yours.

You seem very knowledgeable of
Catholicism and the mental state
of such permeating religious tone
as your characters seemed
authentic and the story could be
true.

I score this story 72 points.

[Done]

This response is about "Sounds No Worse Than Cheers",
story number fourteen on this thread of yours.

Ahh, the irony. So, kid gets his football
team into the playoff but then he is
kicked off the team because he wasn't
excited enough in front of the cameras?
He isn't a cheerleader... shouldn't his
scorecard determine whether he can
proceed with his teammates into post
season? I do not approve.

I score this short 49 points because your
chararters are infuriating.

[Done]

This response is about "Presence",
story number fifteen on this thread of yours.

So, "Presence" is supposed to be a pun of sorts, I'm guessing. On your part, at least. The soup and PB&J sandwich is the "present". I noticed your previous use of puns, so perhaps this wasn't intentional, just a natural thing to do without noticing. Anyways, I don't know really what to get out of this story other than it reads like a half chapter out of a missing novel or something. Nothing much really happens. The novelty of this story is that it is Christmas Eve and the young boy is camping out on some empty property? That don't sound right. What parents wouldn't question this sort of behavior? The cop was right, why the hell are you out here on Christmas Eve. I don't care what permits you got. So, the thing with this one is that unnatural behavior isn't really questioned or scrutinized enough and sort of offered passively like yeah, it's not normal but it's not not okay. Alright, whatever. Let's get to the next one.

I score this story 46 points because so far, it's the worst of yours that I read.