Mark Hoback: very short stories

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 18:13:04 GMT

Crestmont Methodist

"...the whole idea of 'truth', then is determined from man's point of view – literally man's vision, what he can see. Isn't this debate about the nature of theistic eternity just a case of man's lack of vision? There are transitional creatures that many amongst us have seen: spirits, ghosts or angels, whatever you wish to call them. And then there are many who have some measure of the powers that we all shall have if and when we cross over. The medium, and the telekinetic, and those with less understandable powers, the clairvoyant and the prophet. These are the transitional creatures.”

Harold turns to Betty, whispering 'Don’t you this new preacher is kind of weird? What’s all of this ‘when we cross over’ brouhaha?"

"Hush. I want to hear the sermon." Betty glares at Harold's #8 NASCAR hat before returning her eyes to the pulpit.

Reverend Luella has fired up a PowerPoint display. "...look, indeed, look through the lens of a microscope, and a whole new world comes into existence. Before the means was created by which its vastness could be viewed, this world did not exist. Even afterwards, many refused to believe, many could not hold the vision in their minds, and vast numbers never even got the news."

“I haven’t heard anything about God, yet.” Harold removes his watch and shakes it by his ear. Frowning at the result, he slides it back on to his wrist. There had been donuts earlier this morning, donuts that he had foolishly ignored.

“I think he’s getting ready to go there. He’s only got about ten minutes to wind things up.” It was into Betty’s pie-hole that the donuts had flocked. Why had he sullenly stuck to his ridiculous cup of black coffee and not-quite ripe banana? He would someday die in spite of his gustatory deprivations, and the preacher’s word only increased his abstract sensation of witherhood. Yes, he had made up that word, but only because there was none other that could adequately describe his abstract sensation of you-know.

“…and in the past few decades the telescope has grown magnitudes more powerful than Galileo dared dream. We see back to the very beginning of time, my friends. Think on it. Time is merely the movement of matter and energy through space. It is a conceit, of course, an admission of the limits of our vision. How can time have a beginning or an end? What we see, when we think we see the beginning of time, is beyond vision. Instead we are looking at a transitional point…”

“Never thought about that before.”

“You never think about anything, Harold. You just drift around with that stupid grin on your face all the time.”

“It is not a stupid grin. It’s just the way my face is arranged. I don’t go around insulting your face, do I? You’d have none of that.”

“I’d smack you silly if you did. Sorry. It isn’t a stupid grin. But it does get irritating when…”

“Hold on. I think he’s getting ready to tie his themes together.”

“…in a transitional universe defined by the limits of our vision. If we can see back to what we perceive as the beginning of time, cannot we look forward to what, if we could see it, we would describe, falsely, as the end of time? Ah, but this is where our transitional creatures, the clairvoyant and the prophet, come in.”

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“Look! Did he just light a cigarette?”

“Well, let’s just hope that it's a cigarette.”

“…and as you can see, the ushers are now passing out the ashtrays. Please feel free to smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Thinking can be hard work. Seeing is even harder. Why do we feel challenged by the existence of the transitional man, when by their very existence, they offer us a glimpse of the eternal?”

“Hey, preacher! How bout a little something from the gospel?”

“Look, Betty. It’s George Peterson. He’s got a gun!”

“I think it’s a flask, Harold. But you know how one thing leads to another…”

“…upon a hill, stars shining furiously, the transitional creature lives closer to the transitional points and sees them as what they are – portals. Portals for transitions into new waves of grace unknown and unknowable… ouch! Who threw this flask?”

“It’s me, Reverend Luella. George Peterson, loyal member of the Crestmont Methodist Church since 1987, and a man who will take no whatnot. This isn’t a very good sermon that you’re preaching here, particularly considering it’s your first one. What’s up next week – the mating habits of the Australian caribou?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Just for you, George Peterson, sermon interrupter and thrower of silver-plate… What’s this? Cheap whiskey? Tastes like Virginia Gentleman… come clean, George Peterson. You live at 426 Velmont, do you not, the grand home with the twin porticos? And yet you drink this swill? Please. We will not be asking for your tithing with today’s collection plate, as you obviously need the money more than we do. As a matter of fact, get out. Get out of my church right now.”

“Well, technically it’s not your church. I mean, it’s our church, and you’re just an employee, like the custodian. And I agree with George Peterson. He may not have very good taste in whiskey, but he knows religion when he doesn’t hear it.”

“Ethel Schwartz, you are a heathen. You wouldn’t know religion if it came up and bit you on the ass. I was just about to get to the part on the union between the transitional man and the eternal spirit and how we can navigate the…”

“Sit down, Harold. Where do you think you’re going.”

“I’m putting an end to this nonsense, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But he’ll embarrass us! You saw what he did to George and Ethel. The man is brutal.”

“Nevertheless… Reverend Luella! If you’re a real preacher, I challenge you to lead us all in a hymn right now.”

“Oh you do, little man… It’s Harold Green, is it not, and the woman quivering beside you must be your common law wife Betty. How’s that yeast infection coming along, Betty? All right, infidel, I accept your challenge. Hand me my guitar, Bishop Ginger. Is everyone familiar with ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ by the Smiths?”

“That’s not a hymn.”

“True. But it’s a darn good song.”

“Rubbish. Morrissey is a wanker.”

“Is that a teddy that you’re wearing under your suit, Brother Justin? Never mind, I can tell by your blush. Now out with you. And out with anyone who can’t sit still and listen nicely. Okay, bye bye, Nancy Frank, and take good care of the wee one. Ever learn who the father was? Anyone else? All right, then. I was talking about portals before I was so rudely interrupted. The transitional creatures use these as a means to breach…”

Thu, 03 Nov 2005 14:52:18 GMT

Bebe

When we would fight the dogs would fight, since Bebe was loyal to me and Basher was loyal to Hank. That would calm things right down usually, since Bebe could kick Basher’s ass, and Hank didn’t want anything happening to his dog. They were both Pits, but Bebe was younger and she had the fire in her. This was pretty funny, since Basher was the tough guy’s dog, and Bebe was mine. They were both sweet dogs though, most of the time.

People have this misconception about Pit Bulls, that they’re all crazed killer dogs that will attack at the drop of a hat. Yeah, I mean that can be true, but it’s only because people train them to behave that way. It’s not just something they are. You have to be firm with them, give them a lot of love, and they’ll grow up all right. That’s all there is to it.

There was a horrible local story a short while back, so sick, about two Pits that broke through a fence and killed a little boy. Just ripped him up. And you know, when they captured those dogs they were covered with cigarette burns. Cigarette burns! Can you believe that? And at the owners house they found a fighting pen and all sorts of animal carcasses buried around the property. These dogs were trained to be bad, and they were put down right after they were examined. It’s the owners that should be killed. They’re the ones. Julios. Probably not even in the country legal. They’re talking about charging them with second degree murder, but I’ll bet they don’t even get six months.

Now some people are afraid to even come near our house. The dogs may bark, but they’re not going to hurt anyone as long as the people don’t act like they’re afraid. And as long as you don’t fight in front of them. One of these days Hank is going to hit me at the wrong time and place, and Bebe is going to tear his fucking throat out.

Fri, 23 Sep 2005 15:30:15 GMT

Della

Anyone who has ever owned a pet understands Marge Rogers' deep sentiments for her cat, Della. Rogers got Della just before her divorce 14 years ago, and her ''flabby tabby'' kept her company through stretches of loneliness...

So when Della died two weeks ago, Rogers went into grieving. The night Della was returned from the crematorium, Rogers invited several friends to her Baltimore, Md., home to lament Della's death.

''We had a very spiritual ceremony,'' said Rogers, a Christian whose brother, an ordained minister, later officiated at a formal ceremony honoring Della's life. ''We ordered pizza and sat around and talked about what a big, wonderful cat she was.''
- Carole Morello, Wasshington Post

"Aye, my Della was a gold old cat, she was."

"A very good cat indeed, Marge. A cat to be proud of. Ouch, this pizza's still hot."

"I'd go as far as to call her a fine pussy, wouldn't you agree, Blanche?"

"Oh yes, Sally, a fine pussy indeed."

"Yes..."

"Mmm..."

"Remember the time when Della got caught in the walnut tree and we couldn't get her down to save our lives?"

"Oh, heavens yes. What a day that was."

"And then the fire truck shows up and asks me where the fire was, and I told them 'There's no fire, my cat is in the tree'."

"Hee, hee, hee..."

"And then they said..."

"And then they said 'Wots that, mum, you say your cat is in a bleedin' tree? Preposterous'."

"I could have died, I was laughing so hard."

"Yes... Five hundred dollar fine for unlawful dispatching of emergency services... But at least I got my Della back..."

"You sure did..."

"But now she's gone... ahhboohoohoo."

"Here, Dear, have another slice of this pepperoni. I'm sure you'll feel much better

"Wahhoohoohoo..."

"Oh dear."

"Wahhahahooo..."

"There's a slice of green pepper and sausage left if you'd prefer..."

"Ahhh, hoo, hoo, ahuh ahuh ahuh..."

"She's not hyperventilating, is she?"

"AAAAH! AAAAH! AHOOAHOOAHOO..."

"Do something, Blanche, do something!"

"I don't know what... Uh... I know, I've got just the thing. Let's share some kitty jokes!"

"Bwuhuhu, bwuhu... kitty jokes?"

"You know, Marge, some funny little stories about the kitties."

"Sniff... well, you go ahead Blanche."

"All right, then, here's a riddle. What do you get when you cross an elephant with a cat?"

"What?"

"A big furry creature that purrs while it sits on your lap and squashes you to death."

"Oh... sniff... much like my Della, I suppose... big old kitty."

"A very fat cat indeed, Marge. A hefty parcel of love. I believe I'll have another slice."

"I'd go as far as to call her an enormous pussy, wouldn't you agree, Blanche?"

"Oh yes, Sally, an enormous pussy indeed."

"Yes..."

"Mmm..."

"Your turn, Sally. Tell us your kitty joke."

"Okay, but I'm warning you - this joke's a bit randy! Well, there was this little old lady..."

"Della wasn't really all that old. For a cat."

"I agree, Marge, but the old lady in question is absolutely ancient. And she's puttering around the house one day, in her elderly sort of way, and she goes to polish her brass..."

"Polish her brass? Ah-ha, I bet I know where this is going."

"And when she starts cleaning her great-grandmother's lamp, a genie pops out. 'Land O'Goshen' she shouts. That's one of those really old phrases which means 'Mercy me!' And the genie tells her 'I grant you three wishes'. So she..."

"I know what I'd wish for... Sniff..."

"Hush, Marge. Let Sally finish her story."

"She doesn't have to think but a moment. 'I'd like to be a beautiful young woman' she says, and POOF, she looks just like Julie Christie in 'Doctor Zhivago'."

"Oh she was such a lovely young thing in that."

"I much prefer her in 'McCabe and Mrs. Miller', but that's just me, ever the renegade. What about her second wish?"

"She wished for world peace... Hahahaha, just kidding. She wished she could be as rich as Queen Noor..."

"Ooh, good wish, that one. There's still plenty of pizza, you all."

"The genie goes POOF, and..."

"Why do they always go poof?"

"Yes, why do they go poof? I've always wondered about the very same thing."

"It's traditional."

"Mmm, I suppose... When do we get to the part about the cat?"

"It's coming, Marge, I promise. So, getting back to the story, she wishes to be rich, and Poof, money everywhere. Ah, money, youth, beauty, what more could she ask for? Well, she looks at her cat..."

"I wish I had a cat to look at..."

"...and she looks at the genie, and she says 'I need someone to share my good fortune with. Please, mister genie, turn my little kitty into a handsome movie star. And the genie goes..."

"Poof!"

"Poof, and there he stands, the spitting image of George Clooney."

"Ooooh..."

"Ahhh..."

"That's what she said! And she just about swooned. And so he walks over to her, leans down, and whispers in her ear, 'too bad you cut off my balls, bitch'."

"Sally! Oh my god..."

"My Della didn't have any balls. Ahoohoohoo... Sniff... But I did have her fixed when she was just a kitten. Sniff... And I wonder sometimes if she's sitting up there in kitty heaven, hating me because she never got to be a mommy."

"Probably, Marge. Probably."

Sun, 18 Sep 2005 15:05:22 GMT

Birthday Boy

With the store empty and two minutes left until closing time, Duffy jiggled the keys in his hand and looked anxiously out the front window. Two drunks were talking loudly, staggering inches away from his car. Sure, it was only a 2013 Hyundai, but it was low mileage and almost paid for. The scragglier of the two slipped and banged his head on the hood, causing his companion to erupt into spasms of laughter.

Duffy rushed to the door yelling "Get the fuck away from my Elantra." Both men turned around, and the one who had been laughing shouted back a hearty "Hey, fuck you!" before kicking the fender and sauntering off. As he watched the drunks fade off into the night, two weirdoes walked in through the door that Duffy was holding half open.

How many times had this scene played out in the past? Trash comes blowing in off of the street right as you're getting ready to lock up. Closing time was the most dangerous time of the day, and Duffy scurried back to the counter where he could be closer to his gun.

The shorter of the two was a small framed elderly woman with a glazed look in her eyes and a purple streak in her unnaturally black hair. Her makeup had been applied with a trowel, and her short skirt revealed more leg than Duffy cared to see. "Hi!" she said brightly, giving him a wink and waiting for him to respond. Duffy nodded his head. No danger here.

The other individual in the store was a freak of an unknown type. At first Duffy had thought the creature, hunched over a walker, was wearing some sort of burka, but on closer inspection this turned out not to be the case. The garment was a robe, black silk reaching down to the floor, so oversized that the person inside appeared to be lost. And on their head was a sort of velvet hood, also black, with slits cut out for the mascara-laden eyes.

"Can I help you?" asked Duffy, hoping to expedite their visit. He didn't really want to help. He touched his gun for comfort, and flicked off the switch for the open sign, killing the outside lights.

"No, my friend, no help today," said Foxy Grandma in a sing-song voice. She followed behind as the figure with the walker edged past the gin section and into the vodka, making a beeline towards the bourbon. A bejeweled hand with silver fingernails pointed to a lower shelf, and the old woman plucked up a quart of Jim Beam Black.

"I'm going to need to see some ID for that, compadre."

"Oh no, my friend, it's for my companion here." She hugged the covered figure, and Duffy heard a high pitched giggle come from inside the hood.

"Well, the law says that your companion here is going to have to show her face and her ID before I can sell you anything. And make it snappy."

"My face is my ID," said the muffled voice, as two fluttering hands appeared to slowly lift the hood.

"Oh no," said Duffy, momentarily frozen by the visage before him. And then his voice rose. "Get out! Get the hell out of here! Take the booze and go. Just beat it." As the two headed for the door, Duffy twisted the cap off his own bottle, swigged heartily, and shook his head in disgust.

* * * * * * * *

Michael fell out of bed on the morning of his sixtieth birthday. Oh screw me, he muttered, wondering if any new part of his body was chipped or bruised. He thought that he might just stay on the floor until somebody found him. He had bumped his bad knee, the one doctors had been urging him to replace for years. Funny to wonder why he never chose to have surgery for that.

There were half a dozen vials of pills on the bed stand for when he arose. That was enough motivation to get him to try, but not enough to make him complete the effort. Why bother? Michael raised himself up far enough to drag down one of the pillows off of the bed, and then lay back down against the sky blue carpet. It was nice down on the floor, really, sort of like camping out, and he leaned up once again to pull down a blanket of weightless warmth. Exotic cookies would be nice, he thought, fine ones prized by foreign lands (such as Nigeria's Chocanoodas), but that would take more effort than he was willing to expend.

Michael felt a dream tugging on him and decided to follow. His new world was full of cotton-candy colors and the laughter of children. A cheery Paul McCartney song was playing through the loudspeakers in the never-ending park. No, wait. It was Paul McCartney! He was playing on the long and elegant mahogany promenade stage. Michael made his way effortlessly through the crowd, and soon found himself gazing at a wonderful carousel with rainbow-hued fish and high-kicking donkeys. A small female child with long golden hair reached up to hand him a white plastic cup of French fries. Michael smiled sweetly at the girl, who was dressed in a wondrous gauzy white gown, and asked her for ketchup.

"You may have no condiments," she told him, a furrow appearing on her seven year old brow. "They are forbidden to you now." And then the little bastard threw a Big Gulp on his trousers.

Michael woke in wet pajamas. Once again he'd forgotten his Depends.

* * * * * * * *

Now just where on God's green earth were his teeth? Had he mislaid them around the house once again? Honest to god, he thought, will I ever learn to keep a spare pair in my dresser? Michael considered showering and shaving, but then he thought about breakfast, and breakfast sounded so much better... He swabbed himself off with a coral colored velour washcloth, which he then tossed into the trash beside last night's socks.

Maria was Michael's morning person, in charge of getting him off to a happy start each and every day. Lately her job had been getting increasingly difficult, as her boss's behavior became ever more erratic. Playing a role somewhere between a mother and a maid - though always dressed frothily as the later - Maria had been with Michael for the better part of fourteen years, ever since the horrid year of his big comedown.

Maria greeted Michael as soon as he hobbled up to the fringe of the dining complex. He had made quite the racket getting there, with his moans, groans, and shovel steps. "Happy birthday, honey," she said, before giving him the once over, and shaking her head in disapproval. "My goodness, Michael, we are really going to have to fix you up a bit this morning..."

"I hurt my knee real bad, Maria," said Michael, who, with exaggerated effort, made it to the chair that she had pulled out for him by the classic Pacman table. "Real bad. It hurts. Could I have some sausages, and some French fries with extra ketchup, please? Lots of ketchup, the good kind that sticks in the bottle. And a large orange juice, extra good."

"I'll let the cook know to start rattling his pans, Michael. Oh, and we're almost out of Grey Goose, so I'll have to use Absolut for the OJ." Maria did the little twirl that Michael just adored, but the look she gave him showed her obvious distaste. "You've got a birthday visitor, honey. Maybe you want to put in your teeth before I show her in."

"I can't find them."

"Well I'll keep my eyes peeled. Maybe you left them in the game room again. But Michael, why don't you at least put on one of your wigs? They make you look so much younger."

"I don't want to wear a wig," whined Michael. "I'm sixty years old today. I've decided that it's time for me to look more distinguished."

"But your hair is so, uh... irregular, Michael. Don't you want to look your best for Ms Minelli?"

"Liza!" Michael said excitedly, rising up from his chair and falling straight to the floor, where he began to bawl. "I'm old, I'm old, I'm really really old. Old old old old old old old old old old old."

You're a goddamn pathetic freak is what you are, thought Maria as she helped him back into an upright position. "I'll have the doctor come by as soon as I speak to the cook. He can take a look at that knee and you'll be just as good as new." Her face was in a frozen smile as she left, and she vowed to steal an ashtray before the day was through.

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ouch ouch uh oh it hurts." Michael said to no one in particular.

Two perky eyes and a pixie haircut peeked around the kitchen door. "Sounds like somebody in there has a big ouchie."

Michael squealed when he jumped up, and Michael squealed when he fell down. "NOW IVE BUMPED MY HEAD! AND I ALREADY HURT MY KNEE! LIZA! Ow ow ouch ouch ouch ouch. Ahhroooo!"

"Calm down, Mikey. Liza will kiss it and make it all better." The former dancer made a wobbly beeline towards Michael, landing an elegantly spiked heel on the palm of his outstretched hand.

"AAAIYEEEEEEEEEEE!" said Michael.

"Sorry," said Liza, plopping down to take a seat by Michael, her leather skirt riding high on her once vaunted thighs. "Clumsy me."

"Ooh ooh oh oww oww ouch. Oh man. Ouch ouch ouch. I'm dying."

Liza opened her enormous purse and pulled out a platinum flask. "Have a swig of this and you'll feel like living again. Come on, it's a... Michael. What happened to you?"

"My knee has been hurting real bad and I..."

"No. Your nose."

Michael slowly moved his trembling forefinger to his face, and when it should have touched something, it did not. "GAHHHH! YIIII! OH NO OH NO OH NO!"

Michael's screams were loud enough to bring Maria running back into the room. "What is going on now, Ms Minelli?" she asked, fearful of hearing the answer. There were two idiots on the floor and it wasn't even eleven.

"I don't know," said Liza, moving her hands like a symphony conductor. "His nose came off. When he fell. I think it rolled under the refrigerator."

"My nothe... my nothe...," sobbed Michael.

Liza pulled a flashlight out of her enormous purse, and put her face to the floor, shining the rays underneath the Kenmore. "Here. I think I see it. Anybody got a coathanger? No, wait a minute. I've got one in my bag." Within moments she had dislodged Michael's nostrils from their dusty alcove. "Here you go, sweetie. Do you know how to put it back on again?"

"No," Michael said sadly, shaking his nearly hairless head. "It'th not thuppothed to fall off." He paused for a dramatic shiver, and would have sniffed his nose if there had been one on his face. "Litha, I'm really deprethed. I'm getting old and falling all apart. I with I could die."

"Michael! Don't ever let me hear you say such a thing again. You are not like this." Liza kissed him softly on the neck, and arose with the nose. "We'll wash it off here under the faucet and it will be like brand new."

"But I don't know how to put my nothe back on!"

"Not to worry," said Liza, rummaging around in her bag. I've got scotch tape, the invisible kind. Right now I want you to sit back and have some of my pills. They'll make you feel a lot better."

"And I've got you an extra big glass of orange juice," said Maria, popping in the room right on cue. The three laughed and laughed, as Liza proceeded to do a fine job of taping Michael's nose back on.

Maria had another surprise. "I found your teeth right where I expected. In the game room, stuck in a big old caramel apple."

"YAY!" shouted Michael. "Maria, bring me a wig. It's time to be beautiful again."

Liza cheered. "You know, Michael, for us, beauty is not an option, it's a duty. It's something we owe the world for all the world has given us. This guy, I believe it was Dudley Moore, once told me, describing all that's important in the world, 'Justice, Truth, Beauty, but the best of these is beauty'. Now I have got a new lip color that you just have to try..."

* * * * * * * *

"Oooh, that was fun," said Liza, twisting the cap off of the Beam bottle. "Here's to beauty, forever and ever."

"Beauty's our duty," sang Michael. "Our duty doo dah, yeah girl."

"Great hook, Michael! I think you've got another hit!"

"I think I'll have another hit," laughed Michael, lifting his hood to take a swig from the birthday bottle. "Told you I could get it for free, hee hee. The people love us, and they always will. Now let's go ride fire trucks."

Fri, 11 Mar 2005 18:56:31 GMT

Scenes From an Imaginary Movie

In August of 2003, there arose one particularly bizarre story that really caught my attention, locked on to it like a rabid Pit Bull. It still sticks with me today, even though there have been no real developments since day one. Some of these cases will do that, if you’re the kind that follows the crime beat. The innocence factor, that’s what always sucks me in.

Not much ever happens to resolve most cases unless they’ve got a good hook. Cash helps to move things along, but if you want to capture the TV Eye, it never hurts to have a kid or two in the story. Or maybe a pretty, pregnant victim - good looks won’t do it by themselves anymore. Of course, the celebrity factor is a sure-fire angle, though the smart money tells you that the fame card may be getting a bit overplayed these days. Lifetime Channel fodder, maybe Court TV. Bottom line is, without the right twist, no matter how spectacular the crime, the story just don’t have the longevity you need for a feature film or good documentary. Maybe you can pull a splash of interest, and then the world spins on, leaving justice dependent on luck.

The media could never really find a good hook with Brian Douglas Wells, in spite of the fact that his demise was spectacular enough to make for an edge of your seat movie. Sure, a film like that would probably have to go through some extensive rewrite, but what else is new? You’d definitely want to be able to accommodate a younger star, maybe even change the lead to a female. The good part is that, except for the end, you’d have all the leeway you could ever dream of.

You probably don’t even remember the name, do you? Well, I can change all that with just two words – pizza bomb. Go ahead, Google it. You’ll be reading for a long time.

Context wise, one thing you can say for pizza delivery is that aside from the poor pay, it is one hell of a risky business. The Bureau of Labor Statistics puts out a little document that they like to call the Most Dangerous Jobs Report, and in the number five slot, right below structural metal workers, is ‘driver-sales workers’. Yeah, that would be your Dominos, your Pizza Hut, and all the countless local variations, the folks who get to take your abuse after speeding through the rain with your pie, the ones who pray they get to keep the change. Real life people. Spend a little time over at the Association of Pizza Delivery Drivers web site, and browse a while through their crime archives. Stabbings, shootings, baseball bats, acid to the eyes… And it’s not all about the Benjamins, either. Sometimes you’ll find scumbags who are willing to seriously fuck you up just for your pizza.

There are thousands of pizza horror stories from naked cities all cross this great land, but the most unforgettable, if not the most macabre, is the tale of Brian Wells, a driver for Mama Mia’s Pizza-Ria in Erie, Pennsylvania. Here we have a guy who was literally blown up, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, surrounded by police uncertain whether they were being hoaxed, and unable to help even if they were in the know. What a climax! Wells was murdered in a twisted puzzle rife with details, but unknown in motive. Maybe you could say it’s all beyond meaning, but in this picture, you can take away what you need to believe.

It’s that innocence angle that reeled me in. Like I say, I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. See, Brian Wells seemed to have been a genuinely simple man. Not simple in the sense of being dumb, but simple in the sense of contentedly leading an ascetic life, simple because that’s the path he chose. He was forty-six years old and into the Zen of pizza delivery. Good at it, and with no interest in moving on to bigger things. He lived alone in a little white cottage furnished with a chair, a mattress, a television. He had three cats, each of which he just called kitty. His best friend was his mother, who lived short miles away. The two of them would frequently watch rented movies at night, and then Brian would take his leave and drive back on home. The guy just didn’t dig materialism. He must have slipped through the system. Brian even took the hubcaps off his little delivery car, a Geo Metro, because he thought they were too flashy.

The film starts here. Early on the afternoon of August 28th, a call comes into Mama Mia’s, Wells steady employer for the past ten years. In an oddly mechanical voice, the caller asks for two small sausage pizzas to be delivered to a nearby construction site. The manager smiles and good naturedly shakes his head at Brian, who is sitting in a small booth with a red checkered tablecloth, absorbed in a crossword. This is a favorite pastime of his while in between orders, and the manager will hold the puzzle behind the counter for him until he returns.

At exactly 1:37, Brian takes the pizzas and heads off in his immaculate Metro. He is whistling a song which he does not know the name of. The asphalt soon gives way to a bumpy dirt road, and the houses begin to thin out, eventually disappearing. Soon he arrives at a clearing atop a hill, and the road abruptly ends. This must be the place. There is a row of satellite dishes, and seventy yards away there is an antenna tower, which in the soundtrack will buzz and crackle. This does not stir Brian’s suspicion, as he is often summoned to areas where construction or utility work is being done. <flashback rapid cuts of previous deliveries>. Little does he know that in this case, authorities <inset later> will find no reports of workers in the area.

What to make of it? This is surely the scene of the crime, our mysterious big bang, the part of the movie where we are free to take any and all liberties. Someone or some group is there to meet Brian, and send him off on a frantic trip to eternity. Perhaps it is Willem Dafoe. We can fabricate a sadistic criminal mastermind with a taste for voyeurism, an urban terrorist setting a trap for the dreaded Eerie police force, a gang of redneck gamers having their way with a local misfit. All these and more have been suggested, and all can be rendered quite effectively. Wells had his own bits to add, but his information was a bit rushed, and will only be seen in flashbacks.

Those who knew Wells describe him as the sort of man who would not have put up very much of a fight if put into a threatening situation. And this is without a doubt a most threatening situation, although investigating authorities spent several months floating the possibility that he was a willing participant. This is an intriguing element which we may want to introduce subliminally through a series of flash cuts, and of course, dialogue between individual police officers, as we build to the climax. (For the sake of narrative, however, Brian should be endowed with enough cunning to stretch this dark sequence out effectively, with at least one harrowing escape attempt.)

We see Wells being fit into a collar bomb, the same device that has been used by Colombian rebels in extortion schemes. We may allude to that, depending on the choice of antagonist. It is an ugly metal restraint that locks around the neck, wired to the explosive portion which is fused to the bottom of the device. Even the most experienced Hazardous Device Technicians find this type of bomb a nightmarish device to disarm, as we shall stress. (Note: given the time frame of events, the part of ‘the expert’ is a cameo, at best. Contact Mickey Rourke.)

We next see Wells sitting in his car outside a branch of the PNC bank just south of Eerie. (There should be an ironic message on the front door poster – will provide on next draft.) He is franticly reading through several pages of handwritten notes, written in crude, black, block print. "Quietly give the following demand notes to a receptionist or a Bank Manager," the instructions tell him. <Focus on hands>. Wells removes four pages and stuffs them in his pocket. He gets out of his car and tries to walk calmly into the bank, but his face has changed. We noticed the tightness of his lips and the fear in his eyes. <tight close up>. He is carrying what looks like a walking stick, but which we know, (via flashback), is a devilishly clever gun that has been shaped to look like a cane. [Can we get Giger to do some prototype props?]

Wells slips the note, with its request for a quarter million to the teller. He tells her that he has a bomb, and her eyes widen. He doesn’t mention that the bomb is locked around his neck and that he doesn’t have a key. He only whispers “Hurry”. (We may want to flash a counter on the screen periodically from this time out.) He plays it low key, just like he’s been told, but is visibly shaken up as he turns around with his garbage bag of cash. <Cut to the teller’s hand reach towards the silent alarm.> (For a tension breaking moment of humor, as soon as Wells walks out the door, everybody in the bank pulls out a cell phone.)

All in all, there are nine pages of notes, filled with threats, directions, and even little drawings of landmarks for his journey. We pan over these, slowly revealing the horror of his situation. He is on a treasure hunt, the prize being the keys which could disarm and unlock the explosive metal collar. Brian has to play this game – somebody is watching. <pan notes> "MOST IMPORTANT RULE: DO NOT RADIO, PHONE OR CONTACT ANYONE. ALERTING AUTHORITIES, YOUR COMPANY OR ANYONE ELSE WILL BRING YOUR DEATH. IF WE SPOT POLICE VEHICLES OR AIRCRAFT, YOU WILL BE KILLED..." We watch Wells re-enter his car from above, the fiend’s point of view.

The next step on this journey is a very short one, and Wells stops in the parking lot of Eyeglasses World to refer to his notes. “EXIT THE BANK AND GO TO THE MCDONALDS RESTAURANT. GET OUT OF CAR AND GO TO THE SMALL SIGN READING-DRIVE THRU/OPEN 24 HR. IN THE FLOWER BED BY THE SIGN THERE IS A ROCK TAPED TO THE BOTTOM. IT HAS YOUR NEXT INSTRUCTIONS”. Beside these words is a small picture of the golden arches and the sign, with a rectangle labeled as ‘rock’. The artist has even added a few blades of grass.

We realize now that Wells is still in the neighborhood, parked just a few yards away from McDonalds. We pan down four city blocks and see that we are only moments away from the robbery, where the police have already arrived, and now stand talking to the agitated teller. Time is running out and Wells still has busy work to do. His next step is to tie a length of orange tape (conveniently located on his explosive device) to a fire hydrant in the parking lot, as a signal to the mastermind that he has successfully pulled the heist.

The cops must be on their way by now. Wells stumbles out of his car, looks at the hydrant, and decides to go for the next instructions instead. There’s just no time for anything else. After McDonalds, he would have less than thirty minutes remaining to make three more stops. And then maybe… He spots the sign, the flower bed, the rock. We hear a trigger cock, and view Wells through a telescopic lens.

Bingo. The cops are on him like flies on shit, right as he approaches the hiding place. <Quick shot of a hand placing a silver dollar under the stone.> <Cut to Wells being thrown to the ground by a burly police officer.> The blood drains from his face. <Cue Nine Inch Nails, or a knock-off if Trent is busy.> The camera crew from WJET-TV arrives and the film starts rolling. Wells grunts as the cuffs are slapped on. <Cut to bulge under t-shirt.> <Cut to cop pulling garbage bag from car.> “Somebody put a bomb on me”. <Cut to gathering crowd.> “Somebody put it there”. <Cut to sensitive cop kneeling by Wells.> He pulls down the collar of Wells t-shirt. “It’s going to go off soon”. <Cut to cameraman dropping cigarette.> <Pan row of cops faces.> “What the hell is that thing?” They sit him upright on the pavement and cautiously back away, mentally calculating a safe distance. Training didn’t cover this. This is insane. <Cut to cop on radio calling bomb squad.> Wells struggles to alleviate the weight on his chest. <Cut to sniper POV.> <Pan perimeter in vicinity of Wells. It is empty.> <Cut to Wells close-up. He appears crushed, defeated, a man falling over a ledge.> "I don't have much time." <Cut to camera crew, backing away.> <Switch to videotape POV.> “It’s going to go off”. Left leg jerks spastically. "I'm not lying. Did you call my boss?" <Extreme close up.> "Why is nobody trying to come get this thing off me?" <Kill sound.> The camera slowly pulls back until Wells is seen at a distance. He is sitting cross legged on the ground. He has stopped struggling. Wells looks briefly around, then lowers his head. <Sound up, but there is only street noise.>

No one is near the man. He barely moves. And then, suddenly he is gone. There is an explosion, but we don't see Wells. The force of the blast has slammed him flat to the ground, out of camera range. It is more like a magicians trick than a snuff film, debris flying through the air, while the performer has vanished.

Mon, 22 Nov 2004 15:01:20 GMT

Poke Chop

Poke Chop is doing the Watusi; this is my best guess. It's also entirely possible that he is shaking his sorry-ass groove thang to the Mashed Potato. There are two statements that can be made with relative certainty. First, at this point in his inebriation, Poke Chop has no discernable sense of rhythm. Second, and more importantly, Poke Chop may not be long for this world.

"Take ya look, yall, look at ole Poke Chop. Poke Chop is doin it man, whooo yeah he doin it. Ain't nobody gawna slow ole Poke Chop down, nobody. Whatchu lookin at, fool? Yeahhh… You lookin at Poke Chop, aintcha? Poke Chop the best."

Poke Chop has wandered into a place where he absolutely should not be. Folks are looking at him in amazement. No way he wasn’t already been blind drunk when he first walked in, else he would have instinctively known better. The joint is borderline redneck, absolutely working class, a narrow sea of blue jeans and white faces. The men all have facial hair and hats, the women all have tank tops, and everyone has at least one tattoo.

Poke Chop is not just a black man. While that would be somewhat of a problem, it would not be an insurmountable one. Sure, some of the more racist patrons glare at anyone of color who walks into their bar, muttering rude asides to their buddies. Or if they have no buddies, they curse into their beers. But times have changed here in the big city, and at least inside this public space, most everyone adheres to the doctrine of tolerance. They know that’s an attitude they ought to have. Julios, niggers, fags and punks, they all put in the occasional appearance, and if they behave themselves, there’s usually no trouble. You can have a patron launch into an ‘I hate niggers’ rant at the top of his lungs, but he’ll shut up the moment a couple of blacks walk in. You might even see the same gentleman shooting the shit with a black man; once he’s a known quantity, he’s no longer a nigger.

Trouble is, Poke Chop is the stereotype incarnate, a walking cartoon. Bad hygiene, clothes half falling off his lanky frame, indeterminate age, and a ludicrous minstrel accent. For God’s sake, the boy calls himself Poke Chop.

“Poke Chop take care of you girls good,” he shouts lasciviously, grabbing a hefty blonde on her return from the ladies room. “Poke Chop be the best you ever had,” he assures her. The girl whirls away, spitting out a quick “asshole” as she rushes back to her table. There’s a hush in the room. “What you call Poke Chop, ya ole bitch? Poke Chop gonna give it to you good. Poke Chop be the best you ever had.” Poke Chop is doing a little dance around his stool as he shouts this, holding onto the edge of the bar for stability. George Jones is playing on the jukebox.

All eyes are on Poke Chop about now. A barrage of shouts and derisions are hurled his way. Oddly, none of the obscenities make reference to his race. Checking the room for body language, there appear to be at least two dozen fists cocked and ready to commence wailing on his hide. Poke Chop is somehow able to pick up on these visual cues, and he plops wearily down on his stool, immediately knocking over his beer. This is the final straw for his neighbor, who grabs him by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. He glares hard, ready to strike, but Poke Chop goes all limp on him, head down and limbs lifeless. He gets yet another reprieve.

And now, it’s melancholy time. “Hey, hey,” he says dispiritedly, as he waves his hand in the air, aiming to snag the bartender’s attention. As if he really needed to try. “Nutha,” he says softly.

Melissa is a big strong girl who has only a limited amount of patience. “How you gonna pay for it,” she demands, her face inches away from the drunk. Poke Chop sticks his hand deeply into the pocket of his beer soaked pants, eventually digging out a couple of crumpled bills and an unknown quantity of change. Melissa takes the bills and counts out another dollar in change, leaving only nickels and pennies on the bar. “You don’t have enough here to get another,” she tells him.

Poke Chop is crushed. His face goes through a passion play before he finally blurts out, “I spilt it. I spilt it.” These are the saddest words in the world, and they take seed in the heart of a grizzled old man in a blue Home Depot hat who nods at Melissa and points to himself. Melissa grimaces at the elderly bastard, and pulls another Bud. In Poke Chop’s mind, this beer has simply materialized because he wants it so bad.

It’s the miracle of the Budweiser. Poke Chop is re-energized now, walking the length of the bar and speaking to anyone who will look his way. “Gimmee cigarette,” he says, demanding, not pleading. “Get the fuck out of here.” “Gimmee cigarette.” No reply from patron 2, just a gentle shove. “Gimmee cigarette,” he continues up the line.

Someone throws a smoke from across the bar and it bounces off his sunken chest. Poke Chop happily picks it up off the floor, strut-staggering back to his seat.

I turn on my stool to face the man sitting beside me, a burly fellow with the name Fred printed on his plumbing service shirt. “Dude is about five minutes away from dying,” I observe. Fred looks at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “Crazy nigger,” is all he has to say.

It is the miracle of the Budweiser. Not only does Poke Chop avoid death today, he also manages to con a couple of Spanish speaking migrant workers into buying him another beer before his forced exit.

Faith is the world’s culture; wisdom is America’s. Forget the intellectuals - we are some crafty bastards, and for all our lip service to the gods of good and evil, we are a pragmatic lot. Love us or hate us, it really doesn’t matter. We finish strong, just like a good beer. We try to avoid beating our weak, although it often takes a supreme act of will power. And we always – no matter how sorry you are – will give you a cigarette.

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 15:04:06 GMT

Bitey Vs. The Singing Senators

Bitey ©2003, Susan McNerney

“It’s disturbing, isn’t it?” That would be Turnblow talking. Not the brightest dog you’ve ever met, but he had great fur. And he was loyal. In my line of work you learn to prize loyalty above all else.

“Yeah.” I had to agree. Three hours now without a signal. No phone call, not a scent, nothing. We were on the trail of The Singing Senators, but that trail had gone cold. Night was drawing near, and the dinner bowl was empty. All in all, a crappy day.

The name is Bitey, Bitey Rodan. I carry a bone.

“You know” said Turnblow, nibbling on a Marrow-Bone Bacon Flavored treat. “I don’t think the Singing Senators are still around. That’s the word on the street.”

Damn that Turnblow. My stomach is starting to sound like a garbage pail full of cats, and I know without asking that he’s got nothing to share.

He made his point, though. He fetched me the paper, a two year old copy of the Washington Times. There it was in black and white.

Having burned both his Republican bridges and his Republican colleagues, Vermont's Jim Jeffords has also effectively sent the Singing Senators, that do-wopping, bow-tied, senatorial excursion into four-part Republican harmony which left listeners in varying degrees of slack-jawed amazement, up in smoke. In other words, it just got a little easier to be a Republican again.

Yeah, that sounded pretty final to me. What the hell – there’s no denying I’ve been napping on the job. No excuses. It’s been a bad decade so far.

The Singing Senators - we used to call them Motley Crooners – seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Trent ‘Vacant’ Lott, James ‘The Traitor’ Jeffords, Larry ‘Whozat’ Craig, and John ‘Johnny Law’ Ashcroft had created quite a ruckus on Capitol Hill in their time, terrifying junior lawmakers by unexpectedly breaking into their Oak Ridge Boys imitations whenever a piece of legislation they didn’t care for would come to the floor. ‘Elvira’, indeed.

But where were those illegal MP3s coming from if not the SS? My client didn’t want to hear excuses, he wanted results. Music piracy is destroying the industry, that’s what he told me, and then he played me some of the clips: I'll Fly Away, God Bless America, and Dig a Little Deeper. God did I ever howl.

“Listen buddy,” I tell him, “Two of those songs are in the public domain, and the third isn’t going to bring down the house anywhere.” But he was right, I was missing the point. This was an inside job, and someone was getting their bread buttered on both sides.

So I call up my buddy Drudge, see if maybe I can cash in a favor. Perhaps, he tells me. So I wait. And wait. I’m about to give up when the special line rings.

“Bitey. Matt here. I think I got your guy.”

“Talk to me Drudge.”

“Two words for you, Bitey. The Smoking Gun.”

“That’s three words, Drudge, but thanks.” I knew what he was saying. I was just afraid of what I’d find, but as awkward as my little paws are, I had the site pulled up quicker than you can say ‘You’ve got mail.’

There it was. An illegal MP3 by The Attorney General. My tail stiffened. He’s playing on both sides of the chess board, and I don’t have a pawn. I see that Turnblow has slipped out the door. Suddenly I need a drink more than I need dinner. Suddenly I don’t need dinner at all. I can use the work, but shit, I’m just a little dog. I can see a million ways this case can go wrong, badly wrong. What does The Patriot Act say about canines, anyway?

Wed, 27 Oct 2004 15:52:40 GMT

the pool house

Slam into focus. I am half floating and half staggering up these two long blocks of concrete sidewalk, and the cops are lurking there at my back. I didn’t intend to go outside, but here I am. There is a late September heat wave, sticky and foul, and I really need a cool shower. Anything to wake me up, to make me a bit more alert . I don’t remember when my last one was, and I don’t know if I want to remember. I look clean enough, from the evidence I saw in the mirror, though I got the impression that I’m needing a shave. Even though I don’t recall stubble. My senses seem to be popping in and out of play. I am somewhat disturbed by my complete lack of body odor. It's like I've been sanitized.

We have embarked on a low speed chase, a crawl. The police car, long, black and armored, is lurking only eight feet behind me, and it stays at precisely that distance from the moment the cops start the tail. I’m guessing that they started to roll within seconds from when I exited from my new front door and spilled out onto Mulberry, taking a quick left turn onto Davis.

I wouldn’t know about tracking lasers until later, but the first that I started to feel those eyes on my back was Davis Street. I turn with a jerk to suss out the scene – I don’t know that it’s the cops behind me, I just know that there’s someone’s back there. When I turn, the six o’clock sun hits me blind and square, black circles floating in my eyes and I feel hypnotized, light weight drifting. I forget my purpose.

Purpose, maybe not, maybe not… but destination, yeah. As my eyes adjust to the sunlight, I see the law just idling there, most natural thing in the world. I can’t make out features, but there are two white faces, and they are giving me this little wave that seems in no way appropriate. It’s not friendly, not hostile, just ‘yeah, we’re watching you. And we know that you see us. So? Your move.’ I stare back at them for a few seconds, and then give a half-hearted wave of my own, trying to convey ‘okay chumps, I know you’re following me and I’m not intimidated’. I’m projecting enough presence of mind, I hope, so they don’t do a stop for public intoxication. I wish I wasn’t carrying this open bottle, but putting it down now would surely be a mistake. And I’m holding, probably, at least a taste. Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, I’m just walking up the street, not even sure why I’m doing that.

And so we cruise along, outwardly composed while a blind paranoia is building up behind my eyes. I’m shifting into a state where I feel like taking off and running. My strength is pooling. It’s not that much different from being afraid of the police any other time, just a different sort of neighborhood.

I’m not thinking very clearly. I need a jolt. We come up to the corner of Second Street and Davis, and I decide to take a long deep swig off of my beer. I might as well, since I’m carrying it. I stop to pull a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. Except that the pack isn’t crumpled, and it’s primo, Marlboro Greens, not my usual generic. Is every dime gone? Drinking Heineken, too… I try to make my movements seem smooth and casual. No hard. The blow is so clean and smooth, I’ve never had anything like it. I have a feeling that I’ve been living off of Marlboro Greens and Heineken for most of this week.

I shelter the smoke with my hand, even though there isn’t so much as a breeze. It’s to send a message – ‘I’m steady. I’m cool’. In truth, I’m buying calm with every pause. I figure maybe the cops will keep on driving at this point, but they just pause and wave. When I was young they called that the Corvette wave. Nothing too involved.

It looks like it’s up to me to make the move. I’m off, quickening my pace, staying safely inside the pedestrian walking stripes, my arms starting to spread for extra balance. I am prepared to run with posture to fly, and I visualize myself leaping over small objects, mentally readying myself for the strong possibility that my patrol car may soon…

…that my car may soon take a left onto Second, and slowly fade down the street. The lady cop – I can determine her sex with the change of the angle – is impassively leaning out of the passenger window, the top two buttons of her uniform undone. She is wearing sunglasses. The off duty light is switched on just before they disappear from sight.

I slow myself down, confused. This is one hell of a long block, and I can’t honestly say that I recognize it, even though I know that I bought something here since last I slept. It would be fair to say that I wouldn’t recognize my own home at this point, but it is new, and I haven’t been through the entire place, and I haven’t even had an opportunity to form a clear picture of it in my mind. I memorize the address, even though there are no cabs. 15203 Mulberry, the odd side of the street. It’s all alien territory, all different to me. The smooth concrete has gotten progressively rougher, and the little island of grass between the sidewalk and the street has disappeared.

I have only been here in these parts for a few days and they seem to let me do whatever I want. I won. What should I recognize? I know my address. I know that less than two lengthy blocks stand between where I departed and where I stand now, but it seems like a significant distance. The houses are much smaller here, older by years, but they are still single stand-alone structures, something no one that I know can claim to own.

I am looking at the pool house. I had forgotten what it looked like. I snub my smoke and smoke again. It’s been hours. The smoke is cool, it should be hot outside but now it’s cool. I am blessed. The pool house I remember is from a fairy tale. It is a structure of whitewashed concrete blocks, set at top with points of light. Opaque glass brick take the outer wall from seven feet to ten, and then the slant of a red slate roof. This is mine. I bought it cash. I needed to own it.

The house is set back at a 45 degree angle from the street, twenty yards of ragged grass and needles from the pine. The yard is vast, nearly a quarter acre. The slant backs up to 3 Street. I have a bracket two blocks long, a swath between the worlds, and words unspoken seep out of my lips, I tend to mumble. I own a bracket two blocks long. Not the center, just the crust.

The pool house. It will be in capitals. The Pool House. It will be home.

Sun, 10 Oct 2004 20:59:46 GMT

Red

Red had a wild swath of baldness which extended from the pinnacle of his head, spread circularly around the perimeters, and regrouped three inches beneath the crown. The topographical view from above his head looked much like the map of Australia, with the continent represented in pink. The continent of Australia was routinely covered with a dark brown leather dingo hat which forever remained on Red’s head. Beneath the back rim of his hat emerged a couple inches of bushy dark brown hair with stray strands of gray.

Red came from a socially prominent family in Northwest D.C., and had grown up surrounded by the wealthy and the sophisticated. Red was the only member of his immediate family that didn’t have at least one degree, but he had managed to acquire healthy chunks of real life education from various institutes of learning along the road. How, where and why he had picked up his mountain man demeanor and faux-southern accent was a mystery, given the fact that he had never lived further than five miles away from the Washington beltway until after his seventeenth birthday.

Red had earned the name Red because any facial skin not covered by his extensive beard was an excellent barometer of his current emotional state. His face was a living mood ring. These color-coded states ranged from world-weariness (white), to defensive insularity (a bubble gum shade of pink), to pig bitin' mad (high scarlet). The brighter shades of his epidermis functioned as an organic Morse code for all the world, flashing out the primal message 'Don't fuck with me'. The world, for it's part, completely ignored this message and did fuck with Red at every available opportunity.

'The whole universe is fucking with me', Red would sometimes say. It was the truth.

People regularly fucked with Red. They couldn't help themselves. They just kinda had to. You would want to fuck with him too, as long as you had a good posse along with you for backup. Red was in no way dumb. In spite of his hefty size advantage, he knew that he wasn't that focused of a fighter, his punches flailing wildly when he chose to let them fly. Red would have to be pushed beyond his limit before he would resort to blows, but in all fairness, he had a very short limit. If you were to get his dander up, you would stand a very good chance of being seriously injured by misadventure, wounded by being caught up inside the violent whirlwind of fists and feet that you've chosen to conjure up.

And you would deserve your punishment. You can't just go around fucking with people like that. No, you would be on Red's list forever, subject to long menacing stares and muttered threats. He would drive past you on the street and slow down, and there was nothing you could ever say or do to once again get back inside of his good graces.

Well, maybe buying him a drink would help.

+ + + + + + + + + + +

At the moment, Red was sitting inside of his panel van, directly across the street from the DownUnder. He had the radio tuned softly to WTOP, the local news and traffic station. Weather on the eights. He was waiting impatiently for the pub to open.

The van windows were down, and a steady little breeze kept things cool up front. Red was trying to smoke inconspicuously. He needed to be inconspicuous because he was smoking Misty Menthols and he didn't want anyone on the street to see him smoking a female branded cigarette. Mistys, it was true, were for fags. Or girls. Their ads featured elegant women dressed in loose white clothing, having fun, acting like they didn't need no man at all.

Red did have a few packs of Winston Lights sitting on the countertop of his kitchen at home, but the fact was, his wife had been stealing his cigarettes, and by God if she was going to steal his cigarettes, he was going to steal hers.

It was ten minutes till four. This is disgusting. The DownUnder is supposed to be open at 3:30, goddamit. Red lit another Misty - not too bad, really, for a fag cigarette - and he found an empty pony Bud bottle stashed under his seat, a blessing in disguise, somewhere he could deposit the butt from the previously smoked Misty. He didn't want any butts in the ashtray that reminded him of his wife.

His color edged up a notch at the very thought of her. Red had changed the locks on his van twice this month, only to find empty Bud ponies and Misty butts inside on the following day. Bitch ground em out on his floor mats.

‘She’s gonna kill me’ thought Red, ‘and there’s not a goddam thing I can do to stop it’. There were many ways in which Red's Wife could kill Red. He has dreamed every single one of them.

Red sees Lucinda popping out of a green Toyota and rushing downstairs to open up the bar. Tarnation! Not only has he been waiting for a full half hour to get inside, but now he has to deal with a skanky-ass bartender who poured a drink like she was payin for it out of her own hide. Now Cindy, she knew how to pour a real drink, and she would never leave her customers waiting outside like a bunch of riffraff. She had professionalism.

Red thought about complaining to the manager, telling him how sluggish and arrogant this new girl Lucinda was, but then he recalled that he had threatened to kick the manager's butt a few days previous. Almost got him kicked out of the place.

Red simmered as the open sign was flipped over and the pub door pushed open. Lucinda took the seven steps up to the sidewalk, looking directly over at Red in his van. ‘What’s that he’s smoking’, she wondered. ‘Looks like a Misty’.

"You can come on inside now, Red." Lucinda made a sweeping motion with her hands.

Red grunted and dropped his cigarette into the empty Bud bottle. Yeah, he would come inside alright, but he wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about this whole sorry situation. Lazy bitch. He hitched up his pants as he started to cross the street, and a Subaru pulled up short, just managing to avoid hitting him. Red stood in the middle of the street with his hands on his hips, and glared at the car with a look of rage. The two elderly passengers, fresh from shopping at the little craft stores which lined Mill street, were sitting inside the car with frightened expressions. Lucky for them Red was mighty thirsty, or he would’ve told them a thing or two.

Inside the DownUnder, the bar wasn't even set up yet for chrissakes. Lucinda had brought down the cash drawer and that was about all her lazy ass had gotten accomplished thus far. Got the damn cash register set up, sure. Ain't never gonna forget that. Lucinda was pretending to look busy, removing the chairs from the tables and setting them back on the floor. Red thought about helping, but the mood quickly passed.

Jesus! This would be a nice place for a bar.

"How 'bout a drink over here? Some of us've been waitin on you for over a half hour now."

"Some of us?” Lucinda said. “My eyesight must be going bad. I don't see anybody waiting here but you".

This was true. Lucinda proceeded to ignore Red’s request for another half a minute or so, just to fuck with him, and then scooted across the room and behind the bar.

"Anybody ever tell you that patience was a virtue, Red? Your mama, anybody? Need a Bud draft? Want a shot with that?"

"Yeah, give me a Dickel. And don't be shy with it." God, she had a smart mouth on her.

Lucinda glanced around the room. Nobody else was in the place yet. Let's freak him. She takes a beer mug, fills it up with ice, and pours Red the mother of all Dickels, filling the glass up nearly to the rim. Let him complain about this one, she thinks.

Red lifts his weary eyes without otherwise moving. "Too much ice" he says, shaking his head.

Tue, 05 Oct 2004 16:37:22 GMT

The Quivering Corpse of Rudy McDowell

First off, a fucking corpse ain’t supposed to quiver.

Second differentiation I need to mention, this is my first Friday night off in seven weeks, and I get to spend it with a girl who’s got a problem. A quivering problem.

So is the motherfucker dead or not? None of my business if I can help it. I get enough of this business at work. In my off hours… ah, fuck it, who am I kidding. There are no off hours.

I rummage through the file cabinet sector of my brain – that room is always hopping, no matter how many lights are shut down in the other lobes.

Loretta? Lucy? Not Lucinda, not with the file on her. I’d seen plenty of the stills. Not Lucinda, just plain Linda. Linda with the sparkling eyes and pert little nose. Shit, Michael Jackson had a bigger schnoz than Linda.

“So Linda, you know this stiff?” Actually, he wasn’t all that stiff. Those legs kept dancing around, enough to drive you crazy.

Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it.

Those legs weren’t dancing, exactly. They were just quivering in a most disorienting way, a way that brought back a memory of my former partner Harry that I felt like a hard-knuckled punch in the gut by the nefarious Father Time. Harry – that name used to break me up because it was so apt, sonofabitch looked like a fucking ape – and I thought about his unfortunate demise at the hands of Doctor Remulak, and I was saddened, and then the corpse started to do the boogaloo.

Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it.

That corpse wasn’t exactly doing the boogaloo, but it did release a gaseous emission of a noxious nature. Now I’ve been around the block, I know that dead bodies fart, it’s one of the many disgusting facts about death. You don’t need to tell me a thing.

“…not polite to fart in front of a lady.”

It was Nickie! What was he doing here?

“The name’s not Linda, it’s Lagrenia.”

Natasha!

“And the deceased underfoot goes by the moniker of Rudy McDowell. Runs an import/export biz for fish. The mounted type. Swordfish, sharks, what ever you wanna put on the wall.”

Yeah, I’d hear of the gent.

“Hey, did that thing just move?”

Who suggested the cloak room, anyway? This place was getting more crowded than a Mickey D's with free French fries.

I didn’t even know this broad, but she was right. The body had suddenly begun to breakdance.

Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it.

The body wasn’t breakdancing, exactly, but rigor mortis was causing the arms to curl up a tad. Funny, in the dim light, the former Mister McDowell brought back memories, memories that I thought I had buried, much as this stiff should be buried, memories of a girl named Louise…

“I’m not just a memory,” she said, right before the worm-bait began to turn cartwheels.

Tue, 05 Oct 2004 16:33:54 GMT

Tom and Cathy and Sal

What are the technical aspects of this operation? I mean, are we expected to just march in there and - doo doo doo - cut them into beefsteak tartar?

Calm down. Calm down.

“There once was a man named Oedipus Rex,” she was singing. “You might have read about his odd complex.”

Cathy was older than us, and had been living in the fringes of show business when the rest of us were in grade school.

“He’s even listed in Freud’s index, cause he loved his mother.” Fortunately there was no piano in the house or the atmosphere would have become overbearingly jaunty. “Yes he loved his mother like no other, His daughter was his sister and his son was his brother…”

This was a song originally performed by someone by the name of Tom Lehrer, who was one of Cathy’s friends back in the old days. See, that’s the reason that we knew Cathy was being truthful about her past – we weren't impressed. We had never heard of any of her ‘famous’ friends, but then you would Google them and there they would be. “Tom Lehrer”. 26,900 hits on Google, zero hits on the radio. Go figure.

There is far too much information, and soon there will be even more. Calm down. Cathy’s world is as real as the next one. It can be documented. One day she sat in a red roadside leatherette booth directly across from Sal Mineo (8,160 hits). He dropped a quarter in the jukebox and played ‘Blue Moon’ by the Marcels five times in a row.

Fri, 01 Oct 2004 14:50:00 GMT

Pepsi

There was an enormous amount of furniture crammed into the center city penthouse apartment, almost all of it chairs and small tables. The living room could have subbed as an intimate mid-rent nightclub if there had only been an easier path to the john, and if the world was full of people without any discernable taste.

The world, in fact, was filled with such people, but it was much less filled than in ages past. The good thing was that you could find a nice apartment nowdays, and not worry a whit about the rent.

Pepsi chose to sit at a round aqua-toned dinette (VicoClear – it could have been a collectible), poised cautiously on the most damaged of three matching chairs. It was quite comfortable on the spine if you sat nice and easy, and it afforded a clear view of the magnificent Winslow building across the street.

The Winslow! Building of lights! They had their own generator, and you could see the people scurrying to and fro on the inside. So busy all the time. They had energy to spare.

There was an enormous amount of dust on the enormous amount of furniture crammed into the center city penthouse apartment, almost all of it ashen gray and feathery. Pepsi had no allergies. Pepsi was remarkably healthy.

Pepsi thought about television – not the appliance, but the experience. She had the appliance, six of them as a matter of fact. They might work if she had energy. They looked to be in pretty good shape. Why wouldn’t they work on batteries? She had many boxes of batteries, a closet full. They were her inheritance.

If she had been able to turn a set on, she would have tried to find a game show, if there was a game show to be found. What fun those used to be. Playing games and winning prizes. Often, even the losers would win something, so they weren’t really losers, were they? At least they got to play. Pepsi went to the guest room and pulled a box containing forty containers of one gross containers of silver ‘Perma Fine’ nail files from underneath the queen teak bed. One container had been opened. She filed her nails while watching the Winslow building.

Only the left index tonight. Someday other people would want to file theirs. It was only a matter of time.

She had always sensed that her nails would grow back one day.

Mon, 27 Sep 2004 20:29:02 GMT

…the government also consulted Parisoula Lampsos, who the Defense Department believes has passed a polygraph examination in support of her claim that she was Hussein's mistress in Iraq for many years. Lampsos has previously distinguished Hussein from his doubles in more than a dozen cases, one official said, and this time she said he was not the man in the broadcast.
– Washington Post (3/21)

My thoughts drift out to Parisoula Lampsos…

Parisoula. What a wonderful name, exotic but somehow familiar. I don’t want to know the correct way to pronounce it. In my mind, it is the Pari from Paris, slurred into a soft Sue and Lah which somehow emerges as a single syllable. It is an invitation.

Parisoula made a brief appearance on the international scene a few months ago, giving interviews to ABC News from a safehouse in Lebanon. She spilled the beans on the private world of Saddam Hussein. Was it sensationalism? Six months ago it was hard to say. The fact that DOD is consulting with her now gives new credence to her previous statements.

She claims to have been Saddam’s mistress – the favorite of six – for thirty years before fleeing the country with the aid of the Iraqi National Congress. Now she hides, fearing that Saddam will have her executed.

"He was tender. He was warm. He was nice. He was another person.”

But the years roll by, and as Saddam grew older, he downshifted into Clairol and Viagra. He became cold and cruel. "Saddam, he don't need to force anybody. You are afraid. You are afraid to say no… I was with him because I was afraid of him."

She was ready to leave, but the odds didn’t look that promising. "I told him, 'Why? Let me go now. I don't have anything to give you more. You can have any woman. What you need me? He look at me very, very, very strong. He said, 'You belong to me. You are going to die here in Baghdad.'"

Parisoula. The name should be murmured.

...Intelligence officials also have determined it was almost certainly Saddam, not a look-alike, who appeared in a video recording on Iraqi television Wednesday, a few hours after he was targeted by an American air strike. - Associated Press (3/21)

Blue acrid smoke snakes into the room, beckoning young lovers to shyly dance… Strangers in the night, exchanging glances…"He believe only for Saddam. He look at the mirror, 'I am Saddam.' He went like that. He looks. 'I am Saddam. Heil Hitler!'"…the music, there is something wrong with the music, the source is unknown, it speeds up, it oscillates…I was favorite mistress in his collection, a confidant to his wives… Wond'ring in the night what were the chances we'd be sharing love… “After the rape of my daughter, I felt hatred for him. When I slept with him, I felt I was being raped, too. I admit it was balanced by the good life. I was turned into the palace whore.”

Before the night was through.

“Shaqraa, you don’t recognize me? I’m here. I’m right here.”

There is a liquid feel to the air. Eyes burn. "If you see him in some photos, his mouth is not normal. It droops." Something in your eyes was so inviting… “when the allies seized Kuwait, I sense he been crying. He was with tears. His eye was red, red, red. He told me 'I lose.' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Kuwait.' He said, 'They took Kuwait from me but I will took it again.'"

The sound of a television snapping on. Then two. Then five. Something in your smile was so exciting… It is hard to make out the screen through the smoke, but the screams can easily be heard over the music...irregular accents, skin coming off in strips. A man with a hammer and wire… Christ, I need a drink…"He was happy, happy, happy," she said of the torture viewing. "Happiest day." Something in my heart told me I must have you.

“I am here, shaqraa. Parisoula, I have always been here.”

Strangers in the night
Two lonely people we were
Strangers in the night

"He never lose. He always think that he will win."

Up to the moment when we
Said our first hello
Little did we know
Love was just a glance away

"He don't care."

A warm embracing dance away

“Parisoula?”

Thu, 23 Sep 2004 15:38:34 GMT

Pacho's Delight

There is a white hot space in the center of the room. Needle thin, an invisible line. You wouldn't want to be the guy standing there for any length of time. Really, you couldn't stand there at all unless you had made a conscious effort to do so, and how on earth would that happen? Your body would move on without your permission, shifting you a few inches to the left or right. Just keep moving towards a zone of comfort.

Jimbo's center of gravity enters the space just as a sweet young thing from Forrest Spring asks him for a light. He leans forward slightly, reaching into his pocket, and a spasm shoots like a stroke through his spine, causing him to lose both his Scotch and any chance of a romantic encounter.

The hot spot is a probe of sorts, origin unknown. For all practical purposes, it has been there forever. The only thing that makes this one different from thousands of others is the fact that it radiates from the center of Pacho Sanchez's enormous ballroom floor. The hot spot is a continual source of amusement to Pacho. It is the reason that he entertains as often as he does. The spot is a cosmic joy buzzer, and it is Pacho's alone. He laughs behind a closed hand.

Being a gracious host, Pacho cannot stand there staring endlessly at the rooms center, so the video cameras take care of this for him. The real treat is the day after an event, when he can watch the tapes in luxurious solitude. Sometimes there is nothing to see but the odd twitch or the sudden unpleasant frown. Not every cast brings in a big fish.

But a reaction like Jimbo's is priceless. Tears of laughter roll down Pacho's cheeks as he watches the blonde glare with disgust before stalking off to clean her gown. Jimbo looks struck by lightning as he slinks off towards the door, eyeballs red and clouded. Leaves him creaking like a useless machine.

Sat, 18 Sep 2004 16:34:45 GMT

Monster in the Closet

“There is – no shit – a monster in the closet.” I had mixed feelings about making this report to the group, so I delivered it in a soft voice. And of course they’re looking at me like I’m some sort of an idiot.

We need to have good times, that’s all I know, a weekend-long, pagers on the patio de-stressing.

I didn’t want them ragging me about it all night if it turned out to be untrue. But it was true, and I didn’t have the chips to prove it.

“I thought you were getting the chips,” said Vinnie. Doctor Vinnie Boombah, named outta Rodney, he was ready to play, comfortable at the table with a beer to his left and a shot to his right and a MoonTrance Corona in front of him that he would nurse for hours once he lit it. That’s why Vinnie always got to sit at the prime end of the table, under the slow green fan. His cigars bothered the ladies. It didn’t officially bother the gentlemen, although speaking for my self, it got to me a little bit, even though I’m a smoker myself.

“I thought you were getting the chips,” he reminded me. “All I got on me is big bills.”

“There’s a…”. I started to repeat the reason why I had returned empty-handed, then thought better of it. Vicky and Donna looked at me expectantly. I decided I’d ask Steve to take a look. He had a lot of credibility with the group. I whispered in his ear, told him there was a bottle of Jamesons in there.

We discussed world affairs for a while after he departed. My crew, we love world affairs. People got an opinion on everything. Steve returned. He looked a little agitated, and headed to the open Evan Williams.

“I didn’t see the Jameson's.” He was clearly disappointed. “But, there sure as shit is a monster in your closet.” He poured himself a three-finger Mickey. “Goddamn ugly son of a bitch.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Where we sleeping tonight?” the Annster asked me.

“Hell. I don’t know. The guest room?”

Vinnie changed the subject. “All I got is a couple of C notes. And three ones. You got no chips?”

We do have chips, I told him, but we’ve got a little monster problem. See, this was disturbing even me, and I’m known to have a pretty cool head on my shoulders. It’s just that the world has gotten so strange lately…

”Is this the first time you’ve ever seen him? It,” asked Vicky, correcting herself.

“I need chips,” says Vinnie, who as a matter of habit always has a couple C notes every time there’s a game. I think that motherfucker has had them in his wallet for five years running, if he’s had them a day. He needs to be punished.

“Tell you what,” I say. “Either you go get the chips out of the bedroom for us, or you can use some Ritz crackers I got in the fridge. I’ll give you a stack of one hundred for a bill”.

“When the fuck did we have to start worrying about this shit?” asks Steve. “Goddamn, we can’t even play a game of cards anymore?”

“Come on” says Donna. “I want to see. We’ve never had a monster before. I’ve never even seen one up close.” She’s grabbing the Annster, wants to check things out. I guess maybe we should talk some more about world affairs.

“Well, you better get used to it,” shouts Brad as they leave. Snarling. This is the first time that he has spoken in quite a while. All night except for hello. He is beginning to sound like a very old man.

Vinnie is not happy about playing with the crackers. “What if I accidentally eat one of these things,” he asks me.

“Goes to the house “ I tell him.

“Fucker.”

“You loose a couple hands, Vinnie, and we can all eat ‘em. Everybody else brings playing money.”

We hear a scream, and then the girls return. Vinnie has lit his cigar, and is looking sadly at the five piles of Ritz he has assembled. I’ve got a tub of that port wine cheddar in the fridge, and think seriously about breaking it out. So he eats a few dollars worth of chips, so what.

“God. That thing stuck its tentacle up my sweater,” says Vicky. “Tried to cop a feel… well, he did!”

“Tentacle?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Yeah,” the Annster confirms.

“He?” asks Vinnie, nibbling a cracker.

I swear, the world has gotten so strange lately, you just gotta hide your surprise.

Wed, 15 Sep 2004 19:41:22 GMT

Lobster Hand Harry

Three fingers from his right hand were sacrificed to a ravenous table saw in a long-ago shop class, giving Harry the beginnings of the distinctive look he would nurture for the next dozen or so wasted years. He would make a gun of the thumb and forefinger which shot real psychic jolts. People could feel them all right. Lobster Hand Harry would fucking well shoot you down.

Woulda been a drag to another kid, but Harry took right to it. Turned it into his identity. Tattooed the stumps gunpowder black with a beebee sized red dot. Learned to do everything with those two digits. Started with the usual matchbook tricks and took on off from there.

It was Harry who came up with the moniker, and Harry who made it stick. Had a realistic as hell claw tattooed on his right forearm and BANG in Chiller style scratches on the barrel of his forefinger. He would cock that thing and the pain in the gut would bring a grown man down.

What are we to make of this information? I got an agenda of my own after all, and this freak is just another obstacle I have to deal with. We eyeball each other from opposite ends of the diner’s yellow counter while sipping high test from white ceramic mugs. I knock over the sugar dispenser just to see if he’s jumpy or anything. No reaction.

Justine was printed on the counter girl’s name pin, but she was no Justine. That’s far too fancy a name for a hash-slinger. I had her pegged for a Dotty, and I got a talent for names.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” says Harry, the words coming from out of nowhere. Got a little color to his cheeks. “I don’t want no smilin.”

“Huh?” goes Dotty/Justine, stopping in the middle of refilling my mug. Harry has his hand up, but his thumb ain’t cocked.

“You talking to me or to the dame?” I ask this because somebody’s got to ask, and besides, I’m not really sure about the whole thing. Somebody has been dissed, and I aim to find out if it was me. “And just in case you’re wondering, I know who you are, lobster boy.”

“Whatchu call me? Tell me I didn’t hear what I thought I heard. Cause you’re looking at a world of hurt, big nose.”

He pointed his finger my way and I had a nerve spasm in my shoulder. How did he know my name was Big Nose?

“That was just a warning shot.” What a smug friggin face this creep had. What I wouldn’t do to push that smug puss of his into a crumb cake in the here and now. What I wouldn’t give to …“YOW”… I hollered, as hot coffee surged it’s way onto the crotch of my gray double pleated Sansabelt trousers. The diabolical lobster had given me an unforeseen twitch in the wrist.

“Here’s a five for the pie, sweetheart. Keep the change,” shouted Harry, as he made for the door. “Coffee is on Big Nose.”

And me, I couldn’t follow him. Sucka floored me with a charlie horse.

Thu, 09 Sep 2004 19:43:45 GMT

Little Jack

Jack is the guy who walks around with the two-headed quarter. At times, if he's waiting in line for example, you might see him tossing it up in the air, just a few inches, and catching it in his palm. "My dad gave it to me," he'll tell you if you ask, and then turn it end to end to show you the double heads. Been carrying that quarter for years, most of his life, really. He doesn't think of himself as a superstitious man, but this coin is something special.

It's a keepsake for a man who doesn't care much for keepsakes. He makes sure that he's careful when he's paying out in change, but he never keeps the quarter in a seperate pocket. That would never occur to him, and somehow, it wouldn't be right. He enjoys seeing it there.

Tuesday night with a heavy November snow, back in 1997, one too many Budweiser's under his belt, he flips the quarter to a crippled bum taking up space on the corner of H and 9^th. Guy looks like a caricature of hopelessness, prosthetic leg unattached and standing upright on the canvas groundcover. Sweatshirt, t-shirt, army jacket, all rags. So many on the streets, now that the asylums have been poured out into the city. Alcohol has momentarily filled Jack with empathy, at least two bits worth.

Jack is halfway to the metro before he senses that his quarter is gone, and he walks the five blocks back in something like panic, sobering quickly on the way. Only the fellow ain't there anymore.

Jack is eleven, and sitting in his grandparent's parlor, the large black and white television just a few feet away from his white socked feet. Occasionally an adult will walk up and stand behind him, pausing to watch the action for a moment. Heads shake sadly. A lot of things are going on.

The president was dead, for one thing, and the images on the screen are more real than the death of his own Papaw. Papaw was in a closed mahogany box, laid out in a church up the street - at least that's what they had told the child, and there was no reason for him to express doubt. They would be going up to see Papaw in the early afternoon.

But the box would never be opened. The mortician had only been able to do so much with the remains of Papaw's face, and the lid would stay forever shut.

Jack's dad stops by the sofa with a sticky bun and a Lucky Strike. He sits the sweet on the side table and gives a nod to his son. Disappointing boy in a lot of ways, so shy and quiet. His own father is dead, but Jack hadn't seen him cry, and he knew that he never would. Jack doesn't understand, but it is a lesson he is sure he needs to learn. Jack is quite sure that when he grows up he will never cry again, no matter what happens to him. Tears flow too easily now. It will take him far too many years to accomplish this goal, but eventually it will be mastered.

There is a table piled high with food in the kitchen. He could smell ham, fresh from the oven. He can visualize the cloves, and the criss-cross cuts. Still, Jack has no desire to leave his seat. He is safe from being a nuisance.

"Want to flip for the roll?," his dad asks, pulling out a silver coin. His dad's name was Jack as well, but everyone called him Jojo, except for family, on days like this, today. Then he was known as Big Jack.

Little Jack, as always, chooses tails.

"Heads it is," his father says, taking a large bite out of the bun. "Best two out of three?" And heads and bite and heads and bite.

"Here you go son," he laughs, giving Jack a closer look at the coin. His face was alien, all red and blotched. And smiling, but a fake and frightening smile. "In life, you've always got to hedge your bets." Big Jack returns to the kitchen, leaving his cigarette to burn itself out.

Papaw and Kennedy, struck dead on the same day, both with a bullet in the brain. It makes you wonder. There is a grid, a connection. Kennedy was shot by a stranger, and all the kids at school were called to the auditorium, that was the big difference. Papaw pulled the trigger on himself, and Jack was called into the kitchen.

No one mentioned suicide directly to Little Jack, but adults were careless, and talk was all around him. It didn't take him long to piece events together. The deaths were unrelated, of course, but they were the same fabric to him. Jack knew that what Papaw had done was very wrong. He thought that it might be a sin, but he could not remember for sure. It seemed to him a mystery, an impossible event. How could... He could not formulate the thought.

Little Jack pocketed the quarter and turned his attention back to the screen. The police were escorting Lee Harvey Oswald, a man with three first names, the man who had shot the president. Jack suddenly felt very angry with this man, and wished that he could hurt him badly. Kennedy and Papaw had merged into one man.

Thirty-four years later, it all came flooding back. The quarter. At the moment, he is decidedly superstitious, and this seems like a frighteningly bad sign. Jack breaks a sweat, and his heart beats furiously. Quarter that his Dad gave to him. 1963. Papaw. The year Kennedy was shot. He stands there looking at the spot where the bum was sitting. The snow has not yet covered it. There are footprints everywhere, leading in every direction. The cripple's cardboard sign has been tossed into the slush. 'Vietnam Veteran - Please Help. God bless you.'

'He stole my luck,' Jack thinks, and then he shouts. 'He stole my luck.' Such an irrational thought, but it rang like a phone.

Fri, 03 Sep 2004 16:44:24 GMT

Jackie Fresco

Jackie Fresco – he’s no friend of mine. No. Nope. No way.

Washed his face in the frying pan. Yes he did. Maybe it was just like when you were watching. Make an impression. Trying to toss you the jinx. Maybe not.

Then he scrambled the eggs.

Jackie Fresco. Fleece you in a back room. Fleece you in the mighty Metropolis. He don’t care. Fleece you anytime, anyhow, anywhere. Always try to take you from behind. He got a big roll, he don’t need yours. Plush from time to time. Throw down a twenty dollar bill on the tabletop. Not to be impressing me. I ain’t some pig farmer.

Jackie Fresco, now he could play the small town rube, down to a tee. Suit dusty and a way too big, funny looking haircut from the barber school and bet your ass they had to pay him.

Tell you a joke and you laugh and buy him a drink. Way it used to work. Folks always needing a good laugh. People used to tell Eisenhower jokes. In the fifties. Innocent stuff. Not vicious, the way they talk now. Hitler jokes, they lasted for a good two decades. Then things got ugly in the sixties. Jokes weren’t funny no more.

“Knock knock,” Jackie says to Sonny Malone. You too young to remember these times. People used to tell knock knock jokes, riddles and tall tales. I was right there on the street when Jackie strode by.

Didn’t have to use a lot of dirty words back then. Nahh, not like I never heard them before – I was in the Navy four years, you know, Korea – just that people didn’t have to say ‘fuck’ to be funny. You didn’t cuss in a joke. Different times.

So “knock knock” he says, and Sonny being a regular guy says “who’s there?” Sonny was a nigger but he was a regular guy kind of a nigger. Not all angry all the time. It was a different world back then. Sonny, me, we used to shoot a little nine ball from time to time.

“Who’s there?” Sonny says, and Jackie Fresco, face all smiling and mean in the eyes at the same time, he says “Eisenhower”. I didn’t have a good feeling about it. I don’t know. Maybe I’d heard this one before. I don’t know. But I started edging away from Jackie. Not like I was there with him anyway. Just standing there on the street watching traffic when Jackie walks by. I didn’t know anything would happen, but if it did, I didn’t want Sonny to think I was standing there with Jackie Fresco. Although I was, but it was not a purposeful standing there.

“Eisenhower who?” says Sonny, being a good sport. Because he looked tired, he didn’t look like he felt much like joking. Lost his job at the processing plant a week prior, and now taking any kind of job he come by to keep his family fed I guess. Looked tired, but he was game.

“Eisenhower late for work again boss, please don’t put my coon ass out on the street.” Then Jackie just stands there with a toothpick jutting out of his mouth like Roosevelt with his cigarette holder, just stands there and grins, and he walks over to me and punches me on the shoulder like I’m in on the joke. And that was that. Last time I heard about Sonny, there was a funeral.

Everything’s different now then it was then. Got older, learned how to make friends. I didn’t grow up knowing that – it’s learned behavior.

Everything’s changed almost, but not Jackie Fresco. Never left town, old and mean as sin. You know, he had running water all along. That ‘tater pan', that was just to frighten you. Make you think he was psycho. But he was, he was.

Jackie Fresco – he’s no friend of mine. Things change. Not that.

Wed, 01 Sep 2004 18:05:00 GMT

Three Ways to Friday

There were three ways to Friday, and none of them were easy.

Not to add undue emphasis to the previous statement, but none of the solutions were even doable, okay, at least from a historic vantage point. They had been contemplated before. They had been attempted. But, success? Not at this juncture…

Way one to Friday: cross the moat. It is an old fashioned method, to be sure, but very effective nonetheless.

In a high-tech world, the enemy would often appear in a low-tech context. Superb and strong, they would fight much like the ancient kings, a sword in front, a laser in back, and a wide devil-may-care grin. Their bravado always had the potential to carry them over the top.

“Benjy, are you getting ready for bed?”

Benjy. She had called him Benjy. How little she knew of his true nature. Agent Friday shelved the heartache. It was best left this way.

Way two to Friday: successful landing on the castle helipad. This would be truly daring considering how well fortified the castle top was, and the sophistication of the missile defense currently deployed here in West Goodland. Suicidal.

“Benjy! Lights out in five minutes. It’s your bedtime.

Way three to Friday: teleportation. This one worried him. Frankly, Friday did not understand teleportation, and it was in his nature to distrust what he didn’t understand.

It was times such as these that Friday felt the burden of his young age, and he would worry that perhaps he did not possess sufficient skill and cunning to provide the sort of leadership West Goodland so desperately needed at this historic juncture. Ah, screw it. If the miserable citizens were not supportive of his labors, let them rise up and seize the control of their own godforsaken planet.

Bedtime my ass, muttered Agent Friday, as he called up his trusty companion Jocko on the telesponder. Jocko was not your ordinary super intelligent costume wearing Chimpanzee spacer ranger, oh no, he was also Agent Friday’s closest friend. Jocko was better than people at keeping secrets, and better than monkeys at shooting a gun.

Teleportation. That possibility was weighing heavy on Friday. He just didn’t understand the concept.

His mother ripped a seam in the space-time continuum, and thrust open a door where there was no door. She aimed her sonic reducer at his neck where the skin showed pink, effectively ending his mission and his life.

Game over. Set. Done.

There were four ways to Friday…

Tue, 31 Aug 2004 18:35:46 GMT

Finder's Fee

It’s a gig, workin for the devil, gotta have a gig, gotta pay the rent. Trouble is, it’s a crowded field nowdays, lotta competition rounding up those souls. Got to keep on your toes, keep your eyes open, know where to nose around.

Like this hot shot Clancy, been keeping tabs on him for months now, waiting for him to ripen. The Big Guy doesn’t like it when you try to bring ‘em in under-developed. Not only do you lose your finder’s fee, you can lose your job entirely if it happens too frequently.

Clarence O’Hardy, known as Clancy on the streets, dumb, lard-ass Irish bastard with a whole lot of luck, he had a good heapin helping of six outta seven of the deadly sins. Just throw in Sloth and he woulda had a perfect score. But Clancy wasn’t lazy, nah, never could call him that, sucker put in a lotta hours at the mill, and made it damn near to the top of the particular shit-hole called the Glyson Corporation. Lot of luck, like I said, but a lotta hard work, too.

Now six deadly sins, granted, that sounds like a lot of sins, but you gotta take into account the overall balance of things, and this particular son of a bitch also managed to hang on to five of the goddamn heavenly virtues – Fortitude, Charity, Justice, Faith and Hope. Screw Prudence and Temperance, not in Clancy’s lifetime, but you can see my dilemma. Six sins, five virtues, just too close to call. Break-even. Believe me, I been in this business a long time, and it’s always the close ones that’ll come around to bite you on the ass.

The way I see it, the way I know it's gotta be, is we either need to add a sin or lose a virtue. I been on a long dry spell, so it’s tempting, ya know, it is tempting, but what can I say that hasn’t been said before. The guy just wasn’t ripe.

Okay, forget about Sloth, like I said. No reason to dwell on it, somethin like that just doesn’t happen over night. The virtues, though, maybe I can help along, nudge things on a little bit. That’s fair. No laws against that, and if there were, well, a man’s gotta make a living.

You can’t just give a fellow a hot-foot, you know what I mean, piss’m off and then accuse him of Anger. Wish you could. Would make my life one hell of a lot easier. So I gotta work on the virtue side of this proposition, cause in my experience – and like I said, I’ve spent considerable time in the business – it’s easier to give up a virtue than it is to develop a vice. Just the nature of things.

I’m gaming on Hope. Hope and Faith, they’re a lot alike when you think about it, with one big difference. Faith isn’t based on the tangible world, it's kind of an abstract thing, that Faith. And I’ve never done quality work in that particular neighborhood, so I don’t feel like stretchin now, not with all the competition breathin down my collar, leave it alone. Hope, I mean, shit, that’s based on just opening those peepers and takin a look around. So I’m banking on Hope.

Fri, 27 Aug 2004 19:50:22 GMT

Cortizone

Cortizone knew the art of faking art, slathering wide swaths of symbolism onto fields of green and gray. He had great technical talent but no soul. This he knew. Everything that he controlled was attitude, and at that, he was a master. His standard response was that to speak of his work would deprive the observer from their own subjective meaning. He would drop names - oh, would he - but none from within the art world. That too would betray meaning, or the lack there of.

Antigone was his disciple. Antigone, he thought, was as stupid as the day was long. Once a week she would come to Cortizone's studio, watching silently as he painted, speaking only to acknowledge Cortizone's meaningless pronouncements.

"The proletariat will feel the touch of redemption only when the last drop of vengeance is wrung from the beekeeper's veil."

"Yes, Cortizone."

Damn, that line even sounded dumb to Bill Willard (AKA Cortizone) himself. He dabbed his brush into a blob of bloody crimson and began the outline of a swan onto a burnt orange background. Why a swan? Because it was the first thing that popped into his mind, and he needed to seem decisive while Antigone looked on.

In the future, Antigone would film him at work, producing a documentary that decisively voiced her impressions of Cortizone's work. The documentary would be seen by a small but influential audience, and it would solidify Cortizone into Antigone's meaning, where he would dwell forever as a minor actor.

In the future, Antigone would film a deeply stirring fiction, slathering wide swaths of symbolism onto fields of green and gray. Cortizone would see the film and know that it was art. No explanation would be necessary, and Bill Willard would feel that his life had been given value.

Mon, 23 Aug 2004 17:25:21 GMT

August

Louisa could see Route 84 through a clearing in the pines, less than a hundred yards away, and that was a good thing, because at that particular point, it was only half a mile or so to Bartles Store, where she helped out two-three times a week. She had sweated right through her thin cotton dress and her hair felt plastered to her head in spite of the fact that she had it pinned, albeit carelessly.

“Ladies don’t sweat, they glow.”

She’d heard that phrase used by the wealthy ladies from Montgomery, the ones being driven through the town on their way to the seashore, driven by men who were wearing fancy suits and ties, no matter bout the heat. Men that should have been out fighting in the war, just as decent men were doing all over the country. These men looked able-bodied. What were they doing in those big air-conditioned cars, seeming like they didn’t have a care in the world. Her girlfriend Gloria had ridden in one of these cars at a funeral procession last summer and had described it as ‘heaven’.

All the good men were long gone out of Monroeville, nothing left but the old and the infirm and the crazies, not a damn one worth talking to. The war was taking them all, and fair or not, too large a number would not be coming back. Including her husband, who wasn’t worth mourning for, but still deserved better than dying without glory – pneumonia! – in Guadalcanal. Well, she was better off without him anyway, maybe not financially, but still better off. Still had her looks and no young-uns to weigh her down. She could make a new start if the men ever did come back.

It was far too hot to smoke, but Louisa nonetheless pulled out a crooked Picayune from her wrinkled pack. Damn humidity. The striking surface of her matchbox was too moist for the match to ignite, so she picked up a stone and used that to light up. Picayunes were strong as horse manure and caused a spinning in the head that she sometimes liked, and now as she moved off the dirt road and onto 84, the heat rising from the asphalt made her feel as if she were swimming, and the cigarette fell from her hand. She paused a moment and crushed it with her heel, and then rolled her shoe over it angrily, reducing it to shards, then to nothing. It was far too hot to smoke.

All that mattered now was making it to Bartles and drinking a cold Royal Crown Cola. That kept her feet moving. Sweat was burning in her eyes – if this was glowing, she was positively iridescent. Alabama in August was hell if you didn’t even have a truck, if you didn’t even have a friend to ride you to the store. She had a truck but it was long time broke. She had a friend, but her friend didn’t have a truck, nor much of her senses left, and so she walked. It would be all right soon. She would be drinking a RC and standing by the big floor fan, and she would stay at Bartles until someone – even an old one or a crazy one – could give her a ride back to her shack. Should have never left the house, but she got so restless. Summer couldn’t end soon enough.

Sun, 22 Aug 2004 18:42:32 GMT

The Audist

He had never really been sure of what had happened. At two, his parents considered him precocious, but his vocabulary was still too limited to provide much in the way of context.

By three, however, his gift was apparent. It was a marvelous parlor trick, one that his parents loved to display. Dad would bring him into the pub now and again, and the delighted patrons would be quick with a drink.

By the time he was five, it was apparent that his talent no longer had a place in the family’s evolving scenario. His parents resented their lack of privacy, and were also concerned that little Johnny might be wrongly perceived as a freak of nature. They worked very hard with the boy, and before long, his gift had been forgotten.

By the age of fourteen, John Parker was an emotional shipwreck. Pimpled and gawky. Slow; not stupid, but stunned. He was hearing voices, voices that seemed to have no meaningful agenda. Sometimes they would seem to be right beside him, whispering into his ear. He knew they were real.

By the age of seventeen, Jade Parker knew all that he needed to know. It was an anomaly, his talent, much like color vision in a dog. In the future, he knew that it would be the norm. There were things that were gifts, and there were things that were not. His talent was special. He could pitch his hearing. At seventeen, what a blessing this was. He could hear his sophomore date confer with her senior sister, and he could react with perfection. He learned the art of blackmail, then quickly learned it wasn’t needed.

At twenty-three he learned empathy. It was a terrible burden.

At twenty-seven it was almost unbelievable how hard he rocked. There were no sounds other than his own as the monitors gushed forth pure color.

At thirty-five he began to live a long quiet period of astonishment, alone in a cold remote region of Montana.

At forty-four he was gone, not shaken, but stirred.