Dan’s Challenge (A Russell Hoban Six) Cudnt stop ther counting upit six and making mor the same. As each wer lookin fer the littl shining paragraf to say the rit thing. Wots a paragraf, you mite ask. It wer a way of tellin tales in the olden days, and thes partikerler tales had each of them six tellin bits and each of them perfek to reed. Wots reed, you mite ask. You mite but I dont ritely hav an anser.
Fifty-Two Quadrupled being a fourth collection of six-sentence flashes, stories & observations
by Michael D. Brown
Š 2013 No part of this work may be reproduced in part or in whole without the express permission of the author.
Contents Short answer… .................................................................................... 7 Diversity............................................................................................. 7 As I Was Walking to St. Ives… .............................................................. 8 I’m Not Laughing ................................................................................. 8 Witchhunting (Mike Handley’s Metaphor Challenge) ............................... 9 The Last Big One................................................................................. 10 9/12 Elegy ........................................................................................ 10 The Night Jesus Came to Dinner ...........................................................11 After Reading One Blogger's Attempt at Denigrating Everything Written in the Last 25 Years ................................................................................ 12 Static ............................................................................................... 12 Tags ...................................................................................................13 NaNoMore for the Nonce ......................................................................13 Who Am I? .........................................................................................14 What’s Up, Doc? .................................................................................14 “You Wanna Know Why?” .................................................................. 15 Bugs in the System: Utopia Challenge ...................................................16 This Came for You: Challenge ............................................................... 17 Review of My Weekend ........................................................................ 18 The Yellow Shirt ................................................................................. 19 Penalty (extended) ............................................................................. 20 No Problem ....................................................................................... 21 Thank You ......................................................................................... 22 Tarheel Interlude: HoW 2 .................................................................... 22 Smiles and Bridges .............................................................................23 No Kissing Allowed Without Sex ..........................................................23 Peer Worship ..................................................................................... 24 Like April in November ....................................................................... 24 Sleepless in November ......................................................................... 25 HoW I Am (Taking Stock: Challenge(d))................................................ 26 Just Bitchin’ to Hear My Own Voice ................................................... 26 Got It ................................................................................................ 27
Lost It ................................................................................................ 27 How It Went Down .............................................................................. 27 Muddied It ........................................................................................ 28 How It Went Down (Breathless Version) ............................................... 29 It’s Funny, Really. .............................................................................31 I Can’t Move Over ...............................................................................32 My Wife and His Wife .........................................................................33 Pryor and Moore ................................................................................34 Blues and Popular Jazz...................................................................... 35 Subject Verb Agreement ........................................................................ 35 Boke ..................................................................................................36 Scene from a Bedroom ......................................................................... 37 Seen from a Bedroom ......................................................................... 38 Grilled Cheese and Reproach ............................................................... 39 Blast from the Past............................................................................ 40 Diery .................................................................................................41 This Month’s Melancholy .................................................................... 42 Muddy Me ..........................................................................................43 It Takes a Village................................................................................ 44 Cheerless in Season ............................................................................ 45 Twelvemonth .......................................................................................46
Short answer‌ ‌because his attitude clipped me for years and it just got to be too much. Nothing I did was ever good enough to measure up. He called it quits one too many times. I tried sweetness, and supplication, and stubbornly remaining silent, then finally, going ballistic. That way worked, for me, and I sort of enjoyed that last look of desperation in his eyes. I know you hate me too now, but you asked me why, and I’m telling you.
Diversity If you want to write well on diverse topics, there are a few things to remember. Firstly, we must pretend there is real purpose to all the things we find ourselves doing; otherwise, we are just spinning our wheels. Secondly, anything that requires power usually does not come supplied with batteries, and the model must change constantly. Thirdly, it seems we will never be able, physically, to visit the past and return, but we might be able to travel into the future and stay there. If you are a story teller, you can never really know anything for certain, but you must give the impression that you do. Keep your eyes and ears open, and something will come along providing you with an opportunity to squander words extemporaneously.
As I Was Walking to St. Ives… Last night I met myself on the way home, and being startled initially, I forgot for a moment which of us was headed in the right direction. I looked much older than my morning’s reflection, and so I thought it was a perfect opportunity to find out some of what was in store for my younger striving self to face. Imagine the big letdown when I told me, “I’m sorry; outlining one’s future disappointments and achievements is strictly forbidden by the rules of time, but here’s a hint. Take a look at me, my clothing, my demeanor, my general appearance. Do I look as if I’ve experienced nothing but success?” I had to admit to myself I didn’t, wished myself good luck, and walked the rest of the way to my current house in a quandary wondering where I would go wrong.
I’m Not Laughing
Witchhunting (Mike Handley’s Metaphor Challenge) The little purple dynamo has driven her craft into the midst of a mid-day coven and the participants have noted her intentions. She’s witch-hunting, and her assistant, Fitzcat, casts his steel-eyed gaze at the witches, daring them to advance upon her, roiling and seething over being interrupted in their sun worship, but they don’t break their self-imposed perimeter. Firmly planted, they watch and wait, watch and wait. These trees are witches who’ve turned their hearts against the Prince of Darkness, and yet they are wary in their rebellion, helpless without defenses other than their magic, which is sluggish under the heat of their master, the Sun. LPD, a super cop, knows no fear; not when she has Fitzcat riding shotgun, brandishing his own magic, and ensuring no crone messes with the commander. The little dynamo is just a tad disappointed in discovering there isn’t going to be any messing today, and she drives off in search of other malcontents.
The Last Big One The old man just gave up. Ostensibly, things were going great, but he could feel the sickness coming upon him; he was tired all the time, and it was a chore just making it through the day, hour to hour. His projects were taking longer to complete, and it seemed to him at times, his hands were on automatic pilot. Completing tasks in a brainless fashion proved unsatisfying. The last big one belied how close he had come to his finish line, so he posted from behind a façade of enthusiasm and fervor, although he had little of either left. Then he just fell away from all that, never to be heard from again.
9/12 Elegy I came into her kitchen and found to my surprise Adela sitting in a corner watching the sunrise with bored eyes, tired eyes, eyes that had recently cried. I work a night shift and had slept through the long morning when many people died; I’d been playing catch-up due to overtime – exhausted, Tuesday morning I fell into my bed, and slept for nineteen hours without a sense of dread. I woke on Wednesday early, refreshed – not knowing the world had changed, nor that our neighbor’s skyline had been torn and rearranged. We’ve never had a television, and our radio rarely speaks; we always preferred the music of our house’s creaks and groans. Adela said, the Johnsons called and told her the awful news, “I didn’t want to disturb you as there was nothing we could do, but, love, as it was confirmed, I felt so alone.”
The Night Jesus Came to Dinner I’d said many times that if I could have dinner with any personage from history living or dead, I thought I’d like to share a meal with Jesus because I thought it would be cool to get insight into His character, see if He would offer any advice about the future, and maybe He’d bring a good wine. I said this often enough because I never thought it was actually a possibility, but He’s Divine you know? Who knew He’d take me up on the invitation, and show up at my door with Mary Magdalene in tow, all dressed in white? “I can’t shake her,” He whispered as they passed me in the foyer, “she’s obsessed with salvation now that she’s given up the old ways.” It wasn’t long before a dozen of my neighbors showed up, all dressed formally, because word travels fast in a small town, and they crowded round The Son of Man asking all their own questions, so I never found any of the answers I was seeking, but I’ll tell you, that Magdalene put on a good show falling at His feet, sobbing and keening like she was at an Irish funeral. Jesus was patient with all the attention, didn’t eat much, and didn’t perform even one small miracle because He said he doesn’t do that kind of thing while He’s on vacation, but He did get Mary to stop wailing, and that in itself seemed like a small miracle.
After Reading One Blogger's Attempt at Denigrating Everything Written in the Last 25 Years Art that comes out bloodless with some purple in the bylines was what he complained about, and the comments piled up. No matter that name upon name was tossed at him. All that produced was an audible, “Ho-hum,” and he continued following the leads. “But if you’re so bored,” one wag intoned, “why don’t you write the Great American Novel?” I have nothing so audacious to say, nor could I be persuaded to make anything more of this disappointing situation than to preen and display my firm lack of knowledge,” he replied, “and by the way, I thank you for your time.” It was all over in a matter of minutes—93 to be exact, and I came away none the wiser.
Static “Coward,” she said, and heading back toward the relative safety of our bedroom, she turned off the static-sputtering radio. “It doesn’t sound like a human in pain,” I said, in a stage whisper. “All the same,” came from behind the door, “I thought you were my protection.” “What if it’s carrying a disease or something?” “Well, if it dies, it could be just as dangerous later as now.” We had already de-sexed whoever or whatever was emitting that awful noise from the newly formed crater in the yard.
Tags I don’t want to put the tags on and try to make you feel how I’m thinking when I put this stuff out there. I enjoy your honest gut reaction in my favor or opposed. Sometimes, I know, I make it sound as if it is happening here and now in my life, or once did, but, honestly, I’m not pulling your chain. It’s just that the old ticker racing to finish feels good, doesn’t it? It does for me, but I don’t want to label your experience. It’s all ephemeral anyway; otherwise, I’m sure, we’d all be making the big bucks.
NaNoMore for the Nonce I did it, and I feel as if a weight has been lifted. I crammed an epic novel into fifty-thousand plus words. I guess epic, in this case, has to be in the eye of the beholder, but I feel as if a rib has been extracted. Will I do it again next year? At this point, one rib less, I am not so eager as my friend Sandra, but I could most likely be persuaded, and it would not take much. Was it fun, and edifying, and do I feel a little further down that certain road? You betcha!
Who Am I? I am not so reclusive as I am made out to be. I just do not trust what reporters will do with my story, and I shy away from interviews. I have written five distinctly American novels filled with quirky characters, and have had one in the works for over fifteen years. My agent keeps prodding me to finish it because my audience comprises cult followers, and she knows there is a market. A couple of my books have been made into successful films, the serialized tale, lacking contractions, being a hit more than once. I really do not enjoy talking about myself, so that is all I am going to say for now, but if you are ever in Mexico and you feel like tossing back a few cervezas, look me up because if I am not at home that is probably where you will find me.
What’s Up, Doc? A while ago someone asked where the doctor was. His absence was at first no large concern. He set up a nice clinic, and the inmates are entertaining themselves. The medications and supplies ran out a while back, but one would never notice by the demeanor of everyone absorbed in their therapy. The piped in music sets the tempo of the days and the television has not been plugged in for about two and a half months. There are no guards working the ever-open perimeter, no bars on the windows, no locks on the doors, and nobody wants to leave, but options are being considered, for a clinic without a doctor in charge somehow does not feel “right.�
“You Wanna Know Why?” Bettina smiles and it doesn’t light up the night as her facial muscles express barely a candleworth of glee. She has this odd habit of listening intently to a joke, and then before others have stopped laughing, she offers an unwarranted explanation of what makes the thing funny, thereby compromising the force of the punchline or the play on words. She always says she’s trying to be happy. She claims her self-esteem is high, and her favorite quote is, “Easier to put on sandals than to carpet the world.” Somehow, though, she appears to be clueless to what is obvious to all her acquaintances. “Why is it I never get invited to the better parties,” she asks, “and don’t tell me I lack credibility.”
Bugs in the System: Utopia Challenge Due reps would claim the year is 2062 if we were still going by the old calendar, but so long as every day is the same as the one before, and leaving home to earn a living is not an option, the old sheets of numbers have been retired, and truth is the common feylow would be hard pressed to relate to all that counting of time nonsense. Ghe wakes when zhe wants to and generalizes in the biblio-garden for about 3600 heartbeats quite regularly. Jer Mendicant Beauty roses have provided jer with enough amereuros to trav-retu most places worth seeing. When Ghe relates to the littlers about jer own childhood, somebeit the holograms appear true enough to bask in, albeit in this sector of the Uto, wallowing is frowned upon, bi-Goats, to wallow back in that period when everybeing agreed it was 2020, and hindsight was an extra-curricular! Ghe snips and polishes, bundles and packs, and transcaps roses without much biothought at all, but every once in a while, a buzzing, burning flighter flits through the Uto, a true burner, and ghe wishes ith would kiss the flesh, and revive the memory of minor discomfort, if only for the differential.
This Came for You: Challenge Posted by Michael Brown on March 21, 2011 at 12:03am I have the beginning of a story posted on my MuDJoB @ wordpress blog (formerly known as Outside-In). I’m setting up a challenge. If you are interested, I’d like to see what you can do in six sentences to bring it to a close, just continue it, or take it in a different direction. If you take up the challenge, please post your piece here at 6S, and title it simply “This Came for You.” I hope this piques your interest, but if not, I still love you all. I’m in a great mood with HoW 2 coming up, and just feel like trying something different. http://wp.me/p4bZ0-dV1V
Review of My Weekend (with Apologies to Cita, Bill, and Gita)
Seeing as how a few friends outlined the extraordinary marvels gleaned from an ordinary Monday and feeling somewhat envious, I felt compelled to review my day off (birth of Benito Juarez), and see what treasures I might have missed. I’d like to say I was entranced by cloud formations, or enriched by the way sunlight brightened flowers, or perked up by the sound of an old friend’s voice, but the truth is, I spent most of the day at home, and so none of the preceding took part in making today special. Saturday, I went to San Cristobal, visited my favorite bookshop, bought two new titles, and a copy of Kerouac’s On the Road, of which I must admit, I was hitherto woefully ignorant, then had a great pizza with a friend at an outdoor ristorante, and watched passersby of various nationalities. Sunday, yesterday, I didn’t do much other than watch a bunch of old Tintin episodes (reliving bygone afternoons back in New York) on YouTube in anticipation of the Spielberg stop-motion epic coming out later this year, which we fans have been hungering for ever since it was first mentioned. Today, I lounged around, reading one of those new books, well, new to me, a marvelous story about time travel contained in a battered black book minus its dustjacket that I just know has passed through several hands before it found its home on my shelf. All in all, this was another ordinary weekend…but, wait, I almost forgot about getting my tickets to HoW2 yesterday, so I guess this was something very special indeed when I get right down to it because it means I am definitely set to reunite soon with some dear friends including the one who was kind enough to ask me how my day went.
The Yellow Shirt
Penalty (extended) First Why do I let my young assistant irritate me to the point where I make bad decisions just to be perverse? I can’t blame him for being the way he is—trying to make his way along a path paved with the mistakes and blunders by us, trained so long ago—potholes gaping, reparations forgotten, like a mother whose breasts still express milk years after her child has been weaned. I recall a silly, nonerotic flick starring a middle-aged woman known as Milky Mama, but I guess you can figure out for yourself what occurred throughout its plotless script, and I wonder if you have ever noticed how the tiniest versions of some of our avatars suggest images quite different from what the fullsized photos portray; a serious looking writer sitting at a table evolves from what was assumed to be the Cheshire Cat from Disney’s take on Alice in Wonderland, or an unsliced pie becomes a frost-glazed rock surface¡? It’s so true, things are not always what they appear to be on first glance. I am not yet old, nor enviously trying to work my way backwards, and sometimes a young person is just a partially experienced youth heading toward his middle years with all his learning mechanisms locked, who, though he can bring a smile to your lips at odd moments, frustrates you when he lets it be known he is not a reader, and, damn, Milky Mama must be in her sixties by now! Of these things, I am fairly sure, but you will have to take my word for it because the little pictures do not reveal the available data all at once.
Second My young friend read the piece of fiction I wrote in haste about him, laughed, and asked, “where’s the one you wrote about my beauty,” and I thought, surely, I never mentioned writing about his good looks, my own having been smoked away years ago. “I mean the girl I was seeing;” he added, “you told me you had written something about her because you were jealous of my good luck because she was so beautiful and all.” I could not remember having given him cause to believe I envied his dating a young woman I had never met, whom he claimed was a former student, until I recalled using similar phrasing for a reason entirely other than his date-ability, but how could I explain that I had felt he was too easily distracted from his job duties by the vicissitudes of youth, when we had covered that ground during several arguments that never achieved the desired results? Besides, we were having a good day, and everything was going smoothly. “I never…” I started, but then he did that winky-finger thing he does, and smiled, as if to say he understood completely that that was one more of the things I promise without intending to keep, and in my silence I realized I had just fulfilled the oath I had sworn to myself early in the morning before leaving home. [May add more to this to make it a full 6x6, or not. Not certain, yet.]
No Problem Where was I? Oh, yes, I was trying to find my way in the world. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. Everything is unfamiliar. No problem. I should get my memory back any day now.
Thank You
Tarheel Interlude: HoW 2 You wanted to breathe a writer’s air, so you went to the mountains, and what did you do? You took a few pictures, heard some songs, and took part in a remarkable reading, too. You wrote to prompts, shared memorable meals. The Old North trees were fresh with dew. You left your heart. That slowed you down just like tar on a soldier’s shoe. [Sorry. Not quite ready to let it go. Rereading Mary Oliver after checking Cita's post put me right back among the greenery. I had friend-filled dreams, which caused me to pillow-linger after a harsh sounding alarm sent them drifting. There is much work to do and fares for which to save. And I don't even know where I'm going yet.]
Smiles and Bridges Everyone on staff is reduced to numbers, the closer to 1 the better. At least the part-timers have a fighting chance, and those with smaller groups, or only one group, often walk away with plaques. Those called upon to rate would not like it known they had something awful to say, something that would leave emotional scars, or an exacting of vengeance. Smiles, themselves are a kind of scar. Bridges are not for burning. For the underappreciated neither is easy to come by, nor do they resonate beyond this morning’s hello or last season’s passage.
No Kissing Allowed Without Sex Kissing isn’t everything, but fraught as it is with the possibility of being overdone, and tied as it is to romance, we men among men must seek alternative sensations with affective quality. In our unexpressed heart-of-hearts a haptic interface just doesn’t deliver in a satisfying way. We follow rules such as standing to greet others and while hand shakes, hugs, bows, nods and nose rubbing are all acceptable somewhere in the world, the most common greeting in the west is a kiss, or kisses, on the cheek so long as there are two sexes involved, except in France where they have always done things differently. When there is only one, fist bumping, dap and poundhugging are showy alternatives, so where would we be if the falsely hygienic H1N1 greeting caught on fullscale? I don’t mean to imply that I’m sneaking a hump when I take part in an abrazo, but ten years in a self-conscious society will dampen ardor. Here’s a silly look at the situation, and this was hatched by evil minds.
Peer Worship I hope you never resort to purple prose with the heartfelt seriousness, some might say, blindness, of the inexperienced wannabe. I’d rather you stick to your customary, you know, indigo. You can be bluesy and noirish and blow me away. I love when you delineate the finite details, build memorable characters with your wild imagination, and plant my feet in some extraordinary setting that, really, could never be, or rather, could be, but never in my world. I love it because your world becomes my world. Please, though, always put a piece of your heart into the thing because I’ll find it, allow it to nourish me a bit and bring it back to you unscathed.
Like April in November Morning like an Easter Sunday with much accomplished of no consequence, I like that intangible tang of citrus fragrance that hangs in the air. Too many hours I just want to sleep in, but not on an Eastery day. Lately, paid my house rent, the water bill, picked up my replacement passport, and though I haven’t yet received Mike’s package, there is still hope as I recall receiving a Christmas card from my ex-sister-in-law long ago one day in March coming forth like some ghost escaped from postal red tape. He said it would provide a smile, but I’m smiling now, and hoping his gift has the strength of a hearty laugh, the kind always promised for “one day, when you look back on this time.” I am witnessing many nasty occurrences, and some that are just slightly short of innocence, but not overly malintended, and as it is in my way of thinking, I feel, therefore, I am. I will keep smiling, but will not reveal its provenance to all as you, who matter most, already know.
Sleepless in November I send you cards, Christmas, Get Well, Be My Friend, that reveal my heart like a sign hanging in a loan company's window, unblinking, but saying OPEN even when it is not. Where can I find you on this dreary November morning? At noon, or thereabout, a few of us are heading out to visit the Space Needle, and then I will have an overview of all the miles I walked yesterday, only to return to my cavelike room emptyhanded. Last night, I heard something on the TV which sounded like, "Anthony needs a recharge," and I thought, "What a coincidence, so do I." Here, where it is dark most of the time, and we do dinner early, I often eat alone, then read for a while until I get tired, but stay awake smoking until my cigarettes run out, and drinking coffee until dawn, when I can go down, unshaved, unshowered to the AM/PM to stock up on more supplies. If other friends did not suggest noontime excursions, I would most likely hibernate through winter, or walk until my feet dropped off, or continue writing out cards with ineffective messages waiting for a true reply.
HoW I Am (Taking Stock: Challenge(d)) Blind-sided early in the year, I ended it with my comfort zone eroded, and finally made a motion to make a motion I could live with. In the intervening months, I took trips to four places I had never previously felt prompted to explore, and now look back with longing having had each inscribed in memory. I learned more than I would ever have thought I would want to know about some people, and not nearly enough about many others I had not previously realized were family. A project provided sanctuary, and has become something to live up to. I have come to accept that I am, indeed, still a work in progress, and where I believed I had sighted a finish line now see a horizon beyond which may exist myriad undreamed possibilities. The bird in my hand is surely worth beaucoup flying beauties of which I am no longer envious.
Just Bitchin’ to Hear My Own Voice First, let me say I love Lady Gaga’s brashness and admire the power evidenced in Adele’s voice, but what’s with the crazy metaphors? One is gonna “Marry the Night” and the other “Set Fire to the Rain.” I’m not getting any images here. Well, I had one when I thought Adele was singing, “I threw up into the flame,” and it wasn’t very pretty, but then I learned the lyric was actually “…threw us…” These two songs are played an awful lot on various media, and more than the enjoyment I get from hearing them, they make me want to throttle both. Don’t even get me started on Pink for throwing a fuck into a title that makes perfect sense without the profanity because I’m wondering, “Is this what originality has come to?”
Got It I’d been searching all over for it. They say it’s always in the last place you look. Duh! Anyway, now I’m ready to proceed. I felt lost without it. I know it’s not a valid excuse, but there you have it.
Lost It Had it and lost it. No time at all, or not nearly enough to cover all the angles. Was fun while it lasted, and while it was hot. Signing off to concentrate. Pressed, folded, and shelved. There might be...
How It Went Down When it was on top, there was nothing like it. They said it was one of a kind; never to be duplicated—had never been seen before (in quite the same way), nor was it likely to happen again in our lifetime, and there were no allowances made for adaptation, nor parody. It was an original, but like anything hot, it sizzled briefly, then sputtered for much longer than it deserved; earned, that is. It flopped around for a while as might a large fish out of water, or even Mexican jumping beans, which as you may know actually contain moth larvae, causing some to think, perhaps, it was about to morph into something bigger and better. Alas, no, it was in fact in its death throes. It went down badly, very badly, indeed.
Muddied It I busied myself writing up a storm—more than I had produced in the previous ten years, and getting more of it out there to be looked at and commented on, while at the same time being exposed to truly impressive work by peers, (and having hitherto always been avuncular in style, substance, and chronology, that peer thing was important), my day job suffered in that I timidly avoided expressing the authority given me for fear it would require extra hours in maintenance—hours that would have to come out of those dedicated to my first love. Recently, however, requests for changes were granted, and though I was correct in assuming my writing would suffer, I was pleased to have my suggestions taken up and enjoyed the ripples beginning to emanate from my toe-dips until late yesterday when said changes appeared to be in danger of being swept away and disregarded, and that depressed the hell out of me all night long, so in the early morning hours, feeling like a diva whose aria has been upstaged, I wrote a brief six sentences half attempting to express my torment in a teapot, and half emoting in a vacuum. Today, on discovering more was manufactured out of the whole cloth of a misunderstanding and that my blurb had reached empathetic eyes, peer support solidified in my perception. I rose, thought I was falling, cried out, you were there. What more could anyone ask? Well, a day at the beach would be nice.
How It Went Down (Breathless Version) On the outside, he took a lot of guff from underhanded over-privileged individuals because he was short, because he was ill-spoken, because he dealt with setbacks summarily in an unsophisticated manner, while on the inside, he was in his element and became a group leader treating brusquely those who were shorter, who had worse diction, and who for the most part were unable or unwilling to prove themselves proactively to bullying in fear of reprisals from the rest of the gang or more likely conducted themselves discretely under the dubious promise of getting out early based on good behavior. Herman had been sentenced to thirty years with little chance of parole until much further down the line, and so under the constraints of establishing a second life in hostile surroundings, he first earned a change of nickname from The Dummy to The Hunlet by letting it be known that he had indeed hidden away $225,000 of the loot in such a secure place that it promised to be waiting for him and his “friends” upon his release, and later having his sobriquet shortened to The Hun by working out in the prison gym, toughening up his exterior, and beating up on those less fortunate who had already endured a lifetime of being kicked around. To be sure, he was not the Biggest Man on Campus, but he had his coterie, each of whom supported his whims while silently plotting how to do him out of his lion’s share of the money once the seal of its security had been broken, and the slightly more intelligent of whom were concerned lest he develop Alzheimer’s or some other mental debilitation and forget where it was during his time in the jug, for after all, he would be sixty years old by the time he was able to get to it and share it with them, and they had evidenced in their crime-ridden experience how mistreatment often
turned the victim into a jabbering idiot incapable of remembering what the X on the map even signified. The Hun’s sovereignty soon came close to toppling, however, when his nemesis, Plutarco, with a reasonable possibility of having become aware of the stash and having incremented its value, came in for his own twenty-five years, but Plutarco had been taken during a car chase followed by a smash-up which left him severely incapacitated, and so needing some kind of protection from the thugs, he did not dissuade their surmise that he had masterminded the sequestering of an even greater fortune, and besides, never having been a smoker, it was assumed his heart was in better shape, and if he had been able to stand fully upright, he was taller than Herman, whom he had previously badgered into doing much of his dirty work. The henchmen looked from one to the other not knowing which to favor the more, so they fawned over both, and over time the hidden money became legend fostering plans and dreams less and less likely to be realized. In the end, Plutarco, addle-brained, crippled with arthritis, survived Herman, and two months after his release, just days after turning sixty-three, disappeared and was never heard from again.
It’s Funny, Really. They do not play fair because they provide over thirty-five links per module without directing you toward the simplest to understand, so you have to skim through myriad points of view while looking for the one with which you feel most comfortable. They seem to think the assignments they have posted have your unilateral interest and that you are proceeding with blinders on regarding the source of your daily bread. They have set themselves up as experts, fully prepared to judge and evaluate you, though errors are often displayed in the way they express themselves. They throw you a curve every so often just to keep you on your toes and in fear of their authority. They are not the types with whom you would enjoy having dinner. When all is said and done, you will receive a certificate you can use to increase earnings thereby justifying your current blindness, and in years to come, if you sustain any interest in all this crap, you and your peers may laugh over the whole situation.
I Can’t Move Over I’ve been taking up a seat and a half for something like twenty years. I know I only pay for one, as did every other rider, and you’re only getting half your money’s worth, but, hey, this is my hour. Do you know what it’s like to be stuck in the house all day, when even thinking about being out and about requires choosing between the frayed browns and the shiny, silvered grays of what was never in fashion? If my little job wasn’t so far from the house, I’d walk; believe me, I could use the exercise, but then I’d have to suffer past the pizza joint, the gyro shoppe, and the fro-yo stand, so it’s 600 of one, half a dozen hundred calories of the other, and at least I work for what I consume. I’ve got over 1200 songs on this tiny, tiny MP3 player, all of which I worked at getting, but didn’t pay for in the conventional sense— super consumer, me. Maybe it’s all those hours sitting in front of a computer screen that’ve made my ass so big because I could work off the fat if I just got around more, but I know I’m just gonna collect more to enjoy during my hour.
My Wife and His Wife Frank and Irene (pronounced ear-ay-nee) were our next door neighbors, and though I found him obnoxious to an unfathomable degree, she had all too obvious assets that gave me a hard on every time my wife insisted on having them over for coffee and chat, for drinks, to play bridge, or just to sit and watch movies together, which seemed to escalate from once to three, sometimes four, times a week by the end. Sandy, whom I had known since early high school, was the wife any man would dream of, always cooking, cleaning, running a little real estate business of her own, and though I kind of wanted to have kids and she didn’t, I accepted her explanation that that was how she managed to maintain her shapely, youthful figure well into her thirties, although the same could not be said for myself. Frank was also getting paunchy around the middle, while Irene, who did not keep an especially clean house and appeared slightly dim-witted at times, was built like one of those Dogpatch Barbie-doll vixens, and spent an inordinate amount of time with Sandy, gossiping and sharing recipes and household tips that would never be put to use, so far as I could tell. For all that, I had not foreseen the day when my wife would tell me she was leaving me for his wife, that they were moving up north, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, and that I should console myself in Frank’s company because, really, we were like two peas in a pod. He did spend an awful lot of time hanging around here, getting drunk on my liquor and crying the blues, but after taking care of that situation, my only problem is tracking down the other two, finishing the job, and finding closure.
Pryor and Moore Almost, but not quite, steadfast Tom Pryor’s favorite poem was The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, and he planned to have that famous sigh at the end on his gravestone, or at least inscribed at the bottom of a photo displayed at his funeral if he could in any way maintain an interest in himself the man until his demise. These days he held no certainty anyone might remember the creator of so many characters used and abused by fans who had co-opted his people into situations he had never foreseen while overlooking the once unlined optimism that went into setting them (and by extension, his career) up in the first place. Bubbly, curvaceous Vespa Moore, his cohort in most of his extracurricular activities, had a favorite, too, and it was Ernest Thayer’s Casey at the Bat, of which, even if pressed, she could never remember the author’s name. She just liked the sing-songy meter, and would recite more lines than called for at the least provocation, but had no plans for any of those lines to be inscribed on any stone, as she mentioned more than a few times she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes cast in the sea, preferably her beloved cold, cold Pacific somewhere off the coast of Washington State. “Dead is dead,” she frequently reiterated whenever Tom brought up the subject of posterity, to which she would add, “Have your fun among the living.” Fun they had together although she never appeared to have to pay for indiscretion on mornings after to quite the extremes he did, and however many times he tried to stay on the wagon, he could never resist her beckoning from the door of some inn by the side of his “road less traveled.”
Blues and Popular Jazz Once I thought I had to say the things I thought you wanted me to think you wanted to hear, and so I did, but filtered through my own way of thinking, which, by the way, was yours. And too much time passed without either of us moving forward, or rather I was not going anywhere and I projected that stasis onto you to justify my own inertia. You were blithely shuffling around, and thus nobody read your heartache, and I wondered why they could see mine as everybody made a point of asking me if I was all right; that they’d be there for me if they could get me anything, and did I want to talk about it, though I could tell almost immediately they weren’t interested enough to hear the whole story as they soon tried, politely, to change the subject, to up the tempo. Nobody likes a whiner with a tin ear. People appreciate consistency. The only thing that still nags me in daylight is never having come to understand how you managed to keep dancing after the song wound down, so I continue not waking before eight o’clock on mournful Mondays now to drift through silent, work-filled weeks, but have engineered a certain responsive smile that I read somewhere is supposed to say it all.
Subject Verb Agreement Lately, my stomach has been gurgling, rumbling with the sound of liquids sloshing around, and, well, it’s to be expected due to my diet, for in trying to lose some of the weight gained over the holidays, I’ve been eating a lot of soup and vegetables. I understand greens help fight cancer, and I do smoke about a pack a day. This morning, however, I distinctly heard the word “odd” produced by my noisy abdomen, and didn’t know if it was qualifying itself or us
as an entity. Sometimes, this condition, with its intimations of poverty, occurring in front of witnesses crowded into small spaces can be as embarrassing as passing gas in an obvious way, but I felt no chagrin as I sat alone in front of my daily coffee—just the discomfiture of being chastised by my own vanity. An acquaintance claimed the other day to have found love in the most unlikely of places and I’m reminded how long it’s been since I felt that rapture, but I’m thinking now I may have been given a clue. I’m the odd man out, me.
Boke There you stand in memory, and the focus is all on you as to what I can see most clearly against a background of what I cannot quite make out—soft, blurred circles of light—a carnival, perhaps, or driving down an unusually deserted Broadway at night at top speed. I don’t even remember exactly where we had been nor where we were going, only that you seemed to be awaiting directions from me, which in my uncertainty, not wanting to err, I hesitated offering. I didn’t know then how ill you were, only that you had the softest, palest skin, translucent, almost. You told me the worst feeling in ordinary times was dry heaves, where you couldn’t keep it in, but could neither let it out, while respite came from your forgetful but fearless cousin Sam, who received verbal abuse from the rest of the family, yet would always pat your back in moments of duress, and that was when you appreciated him most, although you could not recall the exact brown of his eyes. I miss him, too, and his quirky sense of humor. It’s like that sometimes--you cannot make things happen, but only wish they could return to form.
Scene from a Bedroom I have to sleep in this bigger bed sometimes, if only to show the living interest, and it’s not as if I’m faking it, I very much sustain that primary attraction, but it can get awfully warm in these parts with two big bodies in close proximity. Often, I lie awake listening to his untuneful snoring, and as soon as it appears least likely to offend, crawl off to stretch out on the floored double mattress in the cooler smaller space in the back that serves as my daytime writing room on rare work-free weekends, where I don’t even have to close the door to distance the snok-snoksnokking from my plans and dreams, and by the way, that story is not nearly finished due to planning and dreaming downtime, but that is another story. Sometimes I feel the presence of his predecessor, ironically more so here with him next to me, than over there lying alone. I wish I had the capacity to love more and to show it as effusively as it has been shown to me, but that has always been a failing. Then, too, dawn lights up these eastern walls earlier than it does the other side, and that is when I am reminded that as satisfying as was the life I miss, this end is pretty damn good, and I am grateful. But too soon it is time to rise for another workday, and I silently grouse over how I am getting too old to take my earned comforts in such small doses.
Seen from a Bedroom When we lived over Flynn’s Bar & Grill (really don’t remember any food being served!) our apartment was filthy as Mama was a hoarder (and so am I, though I have it under control these days), so whenever I wanted to have friends over (and you must return the favor even if you are ashamed of what little you have to offer), I’d have them hang out in my clean, cramped little room at the end of the hallway to listen to Led Zeppelin, the Allman Brothers, and so forth, smoke some weed, and on flush days, down individual bottles of Boone’s Farm before moving the party to Pat’s place where we had access to all the rooms including two johns (so, no waiting when kidneys complained). On other nights, when all the guys were occupied with family matters, I brought Laura up to my little room to make out and make plans, and that was when I learned that girls, too, could have hair around their nipples, or maybe it was just Italian girls, as I had little experience fielding that kind of research. I saw our future from that room; saw my future, but couldn’t know then it would include twenty-seven years with the almost perfect partner until illness took him away far too early, and another twelve years with an equally almost perfect partner in a different country. Too be sure, those years would be spent sleeping in a variety of beds in different settings, but at the time, I imagined sleeping next to Laura in that particular bed as I had so little future of any worth to offer anyone, or so it seemed. Fortunes change, and my predications were based on incomplete data, and as it turned out, she and I fell out of touch (the other guys, too) when we all went off to college to encounter truer metaphors. I have never again lived in a tenement over a bar, hope never to have to, but on odd, warm nights when sheets feel a bit clammy, I lie and try to predict what my
future (what’s left of it) might hold for me, and wonder if at this point my imaginings will be so far off the mark.
Grilled Cheese and Reproach “Ever notice how those old hags in their color coordinated ensembles gawk at that gay boy Stephen and fawn all over him at the copy machine,” Big Martha asked between bites of her grilled tuna melt and petite sips of her second strawberry malt. “Yeah, it’s hard to look at,” Nelsy replied, and Big Martha was thinking that it must be difficult for Nelsy to keep looking at anything, really, with that wicked strabismus in her left eye, and the poor thing cursed with a complexion like an oatmeal cookie to boot. “None of them strike me as a very friendly type,” Martha said, “and those who used to, have been avoiding me ever since I put on the weight with that last pregnancy. I’m sure it’s a painful reminder to most of them that they can’t have kids with their skanky husbands, and here I’m doing fine with three and no visible encumbrances, other than swollen ankles; I mean, that’s just pure jealousy on their part.” “Don’t look up, but Elspeth and Arlene are over at the counter now, and I so hope they don’t come over and ask to sit with us,” Nelsy said, and Martha was wondering how in hell she could focus her vision in two directions at one time. She did, however, take heart in the crestfallen look on Nelsy’s face when she remarked that the others were leaving without having nodded a hello because it meant at least somebody was paying for the slight.
Blast from the Past I had to go up to New York to pick up the letter from my high school, a letter testifying that I was indeed graduated from the place as they have no way of calling up a transcript from forty years ago before the age of computer record keeping, hell, maybe even before microfiche, for them, because apostilles were needed on that and my original diploma in order to get my certification from the SEP and be officially licensed as an English teacher here in Mexico. My brother and his wife, who are keeping my apartment, sounded in poor health, coughing quite a bit, although the three of us smoked like chimneys as he implored me to make up my mind about taking care of all my stuff which is packed into the small space along with their things so that they can finally consider retiring to their place in Florida come this December, and I know I should shoulder my responsibilities (instead of just putting it off as I have for the last twelve years) so they both may enjoy some decent time in sunny weather. Both had to work on the day I took the train into Brooklyn to get my letter, and it was miserable with snow and rain and slush the next when I had to have papers notarized and certified by the County Clerk before getting seals of authenticity, though fortunately the boots my brother lent me kept my feet dry. In the afternoon, foregoing shopping, I decided to pack a few books and personal items to bring back with me, convincing myself that I was making headway toward resolution even if it would not put the slightest dent in the huge amount of stuff I had amassed years earlier and self-centeredly left to his watch while I’ve been fence-sitting. One of the notebooks I returned with, my early leatherbound vade mecum with my name and a lion’s head embossed on it, had notes and diary pages, written by my first lover, under the back flap, notes which told me memory had played some cruel tricks on my supposedly clean recollections, and behind the notes, folded neatly was a copy, uncertified, of course, of my high school transcript. The question I am facing now is do I share any of what I discovered with anybody, or keep it to myself and slowly immolate from within, letting the too
infrequently occurring winds take the ashes of my past where they may?
Diery
The ancient one stares implacably, observing all who pass through that bottleneck, the same which maintains a disconnection as do the events of the recent past. Some take their chances, wading through the shallow water, appreciating the instant but fleeting pain of a toe stubbed on a sharp recollection, forgoing the relative safety of the footbridge with its rickety waltzing chronology. She could tell you a thing or two if she deigned to speak, though she rarely does. And when her voice is raised, journeymen will mistake it for the wind of another season. She was your nurturing mother, your first experienced lover, your older, wiser sister, your favorite, but much-maligned teacher, the one that died before the conflagration that removed the rest from your life. While it is true they do things differently there, you will not resist exploring, but be careful how and of what you recall, for she is not above checking your remembrance with a sternness unfelt in years.
This Month’s Melancholy
Muddy Me Okay, first I have to tell you that I have come to regret all the things I did wrong during my first long term relationship, and second, now that Jack has passed away, I’ve pretty much become him. The main reason I never want to go swimming in your family’s pool is because I’m ashamed of my feet, and how the yellowed nails, or what’s left of them due to heavy smoking, look like talons, and even though I keep them trimmed and emery-boarded beyond recognition, I still recall how I thought he was feeling the day I washed and oiled his in his hospital bed— embarrassment for what he must have thought was my pity, even though I wanted only to ease his suffering in one of the few ways I considered myself capable of at the time. You see, that’s another thing; I’m not very good at expressing my feelings in ways that matter, and I know you will come to read that long before you know enough about me to overlook that failing, and I will have let my guard down to the point where I think it’s not a deal breaker, and then it will be. Something else you should know is that anything and everything that occurs between us is grist for my writing, and I will probably reveal to my mostly imagined hoard of readers things you would rather have dying a quick death in order for us to move beyond them, which they won’t if my writer’s block returns and I can’t think of anything original to say. I am no prize, and I’m aware of that, but I don’t want you to be. Still, now that I am the older party, I realize how Jack was observant and forgiving for all those years, so I’ve sort of taken on his role, and it’s not the callousness of your youth I’m seeing, but bits of my younger self reflected in your questioning eyes, and I just want you to be somewhat aware of how I’m feeling before we proceed any further.
It Takes a Village Madame Treyne had crossed the Rubicon in a way she could never explain to old friends and acquaintances, with whom she could not even communicate in any way ever again as her fondest desire had been granted; the person and she had exchanged lives for this and all Christmases to follow. The lonely, imagination-clouded widower who had for many years been caretaker of the colorful little village would now reside, as she had done for several carol-filled weeks perennially in her flower shop and for the rest wrapped in paper along with the others in a box in a dark place, though he would most likely make use of one of the gingerbread cottages that had mysteriously appeared, propitiously electrified, on the west side of the mirror lake, two, perhaps three, years earlier. Time was so hard to reckon these days now that it flowed continuously and did not occur in fits and starts as it had done for as long as she could remember. Her greatest regret on coming to this seemingly unstill life was that the joyously uneventful, yet musically charged days she recalled came again so rarely and held little of the charming ambiance she had formerly found so stultifying, but now missed with all her porcelain heart. There were times, to be sure, so filled with activity she did not have time to think about her former occupation, where it had been so easy to relate with her kind, but for the most part she now experienced the longing to be small and uncharged with responsibility that had shrunk the lonely heart of the person with whom she had traded places for all the wrong reasons. She often found herself gazing upon the unresponsive hand-painted figurines who populated her ever growing holiday village, which was never packed and stored as it sat eternally on display beneath a small, potted, carefully tended pine tree in a dedicated corner of what people sometimes referred to as her living room.
Cheerless in Season Although Madame Treyne had stayed awake late many nights in hopes of catching the villagers going about their business, she never saw them moving, yet often as not after having unavoidably drifted off in a dreamless sleep and waking from a chill, she would note the little ones had indeed come alive beyond her vision as there would be a figure out of place, tiny tracks in the snow, or a head cocked in a way different to how she remembered, and she wondered if any of them sat observing her sleeping in the way she had sometimes previously done with the person who had exchanged places with her a year earlier. A bright, hot summer had passed, and a tawny fall, which were seasons she had never before experienced in the cool, dark box on a shelf in an attic, and she was already growing tired of her “life” outside the holiday village, longing to be able to return, but not knowing how to go about it, as she had no idea how the original switch had taken place. One day she was a tiny motionless florist and the next she was moving and breathing in a place faraway, recalling only that she had made a wish, which appeared somehow to connect with another’s and she dreamed of traveling an irreversible path. As she knew only the sights and sounds inside the house where her former village would be set up every year, and had no idea where that house was located, she had spent the entire autumn re-wishing and attempting to reverse her, by now, regretted grant unsuccessfully, and the current Christmas came upon her with sadness in a dark way unfortunately not in the least like her time in the box. She had never heard the expression, “Be careful what you wish for,” but if she had, she might agree with all her heart—porcelain or beating like every other in the strange, unfulfilling world she now inhabited. If the person whose face had crossed her long ago dream had indeed taken her place, she wished he were as happy as she had not known she had been, but more than anything, she wanted to go home.
Twelvemonth Was it a year ago I wished you the best, and you looked the other way before embarking on one of the most infelicitous periods of your life? How was anyone to know there would be crazy young men wandering around unchecked? Do you ever wear the silver locket I gifted you that bleak week when you acted as if my compliments of the season could never mean more than green and red words on the wind, and does the damned thing still contain the detail trimmed from the family (my family, not yours) group shot? I was only thinking of you, as most of your tribe barely tolerated me; likely didn’t appreciate my humor. I was sorry to hear about your loss and all the misfortune that followed late in a year filled with disappointment for all of us. Anyway, I’m hoping things are looking up now because once again I’m wishing you the happiest of holidays, and a prosperous New Year.