Auntie's Anti-fiction

[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? 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.