Tagged: fiction
The Best Idea Fairy
“So R-, you’re officially a father now, how’s that going?” Pete asked R- as R- walked through the door to the trailer.
R- didn’t waste time setting down his cooler and slipping off his tennis shoes in favor of house shoes. The blue cooler with a white lid and handle was bigger than the lunch pails previous oil men likely brought to work, but, then again, so was the man.
“This place is a mess. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” R- noted. Then, ignoring Pete’s initial greeting and question in favor of following a just-launched pinball’s unexpected path, R- asked, “You get a girlfriend over days-off Pete?”
“Na,” said Pete with little effort. “I think I told you I was planning on bowling a lot. Well, one night there was a pretty good looking brunette, but she was with some guys. I couldn’t tell if one was her boyfriend. In any case, I was too much of a chicken to attempt to chat her up.”
“Bowling?” R- said, with no small confusion shaping his face. “You need to go to the clubs. There is nothing like chicks that want dick.”
“Man, that’s what I missed these last two weeks,” Pete began. “Hold that thought, let me get my phone. I need to write this down,” Pete said, smiling as he shuffled sideways past the deep freezer that took up most of the already narrow hallway that led to his room. Returning in a jiff, his movements were a little awkward as he attempted to walk and type on his phone. “Okay, I’m back. So how’d you say it? You said, ‘There’s nothing like chicks that want dick,’ is that right?”
“What? You’re going to blog this?” R- smirked.
“The people need to know. I don’t meet too many people who can surprise me every time they talk. You, my friend, are one of the lucky few,” Pete flattered.
“You know what your blog needs?” asked R-.
Despite his previous positive sentiment, Pete’s disdain for unsolicited advice regarding his blog, in addition to his being tired, caused his mood to take a turn for the worst. “No. What does my blog need?” he asked.
“Pictures,” R- pronounced.
“No. My blog is simply a writing blog. I think pictures are too easy,” Pete retorted.
“Like one of me holding heads–like Taliban style,” R- added, arms extended, hands clenching the imaginary hair of just beheaded infidels.
Shaking his head while attempting to look past R-‘s eyes and into his soul, Pete twisted his tongue between his teeth in a last ditch effort to resist the smile he knew would form no matter what. Fishing his phone out of his pocket once more, he could only say, “You are out of control.”
Slow To Anger
“Clap now H-!” he said, clapping his own hands in the process.
She began to clap and asked, “Why daddy, why? What happened?”
“Our team did a good thing. And you clap when that happens,” he explained.
“The purple team?” she asked.
“Yes, the purple team. Remember, it’s like I said earlier. Just watch the crowd. When the people wearing purple clap, then you know it’s time to clap,” he reiterated, “but if you hear clapping and see people in red clapping–then don’t. They are the enemy.”
“Clap when the purple people are clapping?” H- asked.
“That’s right.”
The father-daughter duo found themselves amidst an afternoon ballgame’s cheering crowd. The team played in a city whose native residents prided themselves on their origins, and the nearly overwhelming amount of fans wearing red illustrated why. Seated next to the pair was one such Cardinal fan who was unafraid to sport that day’s evil color. And next to her sat a teenage daughter who was about to leave for college. This was learned from the bits and pieces of their conversation that could be heard over the PA announcer, H-‘s incessant demand to know when there would be some shade and/or dessert, and the roar of the crowd. This mother, then, was already nostalgic.
“How old is she-” she started to ask, addressing the man. His face wore raised eyebrows and wide eyes which he hoped would express some mix of “Why are you asking me?’ and “She’s not deaf'”, so the woman turned to the little girl. Re-starting, she asked, “How old are you?”
“Four,” H- answered politely.
“And what’s your name?”
“H-,” answered the girl who then had to clarify upon the mother needing help with the slightly uncommon name. “What’s your name?” H- asked in kind.
“B-,” the woman answered.
“B-?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What’s your last name?” H- asked, never straying from the divinely ordained interrogation method.
“Watts,” B- answered.
As if used to having to repeat herself, or perhaps simply aware that it was a noisy environment, H- repeated herself calmy, saying, “I said, ‘What’s your last name?'”
B- chuckled at this unforeseen development while shrugging as she looked back at another similarly stationed mother who was seated one row up with her teen and was intently listening in on the interaction. As B- answered H- again with “Watts”, her sunglasses did little to hide her sharpened determination to speak clearly.
It was only after the three of them–father, B-, and the mother from the row above–saw H-‘s perfect expression of almost-frustration as she was about to complete the question for the third time that the problem became clear to everyone but H-.
“H-,” the father asserted, now laughing and shaking his head. (So focused was H- on learning B-‘s surname that this interrupting voice and calming touch on the shoulder could be seen to startle her.) Nonetheless, the man continued, “She’s not asking ‘What?’ She’s saying her last name. Her last name is the word ‘Watts’. Watts.”
“Watts?” H- questioned.
“Yes. Watts,” he answered.
“But we don’t clap when she claps, because she’s wearing red,” H- said.
“That’s right. She’s the enemy,” he said, smiling proudly.
I’ve Been Reading Madame Bovary
The main room of the house that was built in 1950 was atypically adorned for the year 2014 in a comforting way. One sofa, a piano, two lamps, one antique globe, four chairs, a kitchen table, and four onyx pedestals–the mineral, not the gem–displaying the Russian Baron Peter Klodt von Jurgensburg’s “The Horse Tamer” miniatures made up the room’s vertical trimmings. Hanging on the bland tan plaster walls were three framed images. One was a black and white movie poster capturing the famous coffee scene in Heat, another was a black and white poster of 1990s Metallica, and the third was a commissioned word-art photo–also black and white–of a TH-1H Huey bordered by friends’ well-wishing farewell comments and signatures, which received attention each time the owner was heady with wine. And there was a white board.
As usual, George, who was sporting a clean shaven chin, was standing, Pete, wearing just-before-itchy length stubble, sitting. They had just returned from viewing TC’s most recent film at the local theater.
“So, Mr. I-Like-Blondes, what’d you think of her?” Pete asked, looking up from his laptop while it woke up.
“Pretty hot,” George said.
“As you know, I’m not into blondes, but there was one scene which made me long for a woman again,” Pete said.
Smiling bigger than after bowling a strike, George said, “Oh yeah. The one where she’s doing that iso-pushup.”
“The one from the preview? Na, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Pete interrupted, derailing his friend’s excitement in favor of his own.
“What are you talking about then?”
“I’m talking about when she’s focusing on memorizing the plan that will allow her and TC to stay alive long enough to win. When they were in the bunker room…..planning area…..with the holographic thing,” he said, trying to jar George’s memory.
“Oh. I remember.”
“It just reminded me that it has been a long time since I have seen a woman really try hard. As in apply effort. Real effort. Care about doing it right. It was hot,” Pete said. He paused for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to sift through a decade’s worth of memories. Beginning again, he said, “I can remember memorizing the helicopter operational limits while on my commercial flights to my next training base. There were like 220 numbers that had no pattern. That kind of effort. Or I think I’ve told you about my first memory of Greeny. From back in college? It was an intramural flag football game and he was on the ground, laid out, fully extended with the football in one hand–all to gain a few extra inches. I don’t think the game even counted for anything. But I remember having the specific thought, ‘I want to be his friend.'”
“Yeah. Women just don’t do that. Or at least the ones we ever come across don’t,” George said, staring through the wall, past the front yard, across the dimly lit street, and into the unending night.
“Doesn’t matter where the effort is being applied, I would chase after a woman like that,” Pete concluded. Rejoining, he attempted old white man voice and quoted another sci-fi favorite of his day, “Hope. It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” George said. “See ya tomorrow man.”
Part 5
I began a story that has had four parts now, and plan to continue it in order to see how it ends. I’m just going to name the future parts “Part 5, 6, 7” etc. The posts can be found under the “Creative Writing” category on the right, in the “Untitled Serial” sub-category. If you’re just joining, so far, the story has been “I’ve Had More Fun”, “I’ve Had More Fun Part 2”, “Tara”, and “Waking up.”
Jason waited patiently for Jim to wake up. While waiting, he flipped the channels on the television, pretended he was Jim and ordered a meal via the bedside radio connection to the nursing staff, and dozed off four times. Finally, Jim opened his eyes.
“Hey bud. How are you?” Jason asked earnestly. “Frank’s gone. For good.”
“I’ve had more fun,” Jim answered. It was an honest answer, but one whose sarcasm betrayed his sober awareness of the situation. “I feel pretty dumb though. Running in after Tara like that; not waiting for the rescue squad. As if I could’ve done anything to save her even if she had still been alive.”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself Jimbo,” Jason said, as he pushed the unfinished plate of food a little further from view. He then reached for the nurses radio again and ordered Jim some food.
“Uh, I don’t think that’s a room service button Jason,” Jim offered.
“Hmm. Worked last time,” Jason mumbled thoughtlessly.
“Last time?”
“Never mind. Look, I’ve been talking with the doctors Jim. There’s something you need to know. I couldn’t believe it myself when I first heard it, so it’s a good thing you’re lying down. It’s about your hands.”
Jim shifted in his bed, but was unable to use his arms to help adjust, so he ended up returning to the same position from which he began–flat on his back, head propped up by the pillow.
Jason continued, “Guys like me and you, guys who focus on only one area of life, we wouldn’t know these things, but apparently the world of amputation is quite advanced these days.” He watched Jim’s eyes, waiting for him to bite. “In the past, once a limb was gone, it was gone. And if someone lost their hands like you did, then they’d probably be done for.” He saw Jim look at his hand-less wrists with longing. “But,” Jason resumed, “you, my friend, are in luck. Because of the wonderful advancements in medical technology, cloning, and an ever increasing general attitude of compassion, the doctors say they think, (nothing is one hundred percent of course), but they think you will have the use of hands again.”
“Really?” Jim asked, finally displaying some hope.
“Really. But these new hands will work a bit differently than your old ones. Instead of just thinking what you want them to do, like you could before, like I’m doing right now, the best the doctors can offer is voice activated hands,” Jason said.
“Na, you’re just pulling my leg, I can tell,” Jim said, beginning to shake his head. “You’re sick man. Making fun of a man who lost his hands trying, in vain, to save his woman.”
Unable to suppress his contagious smile, Jason concluded, “I’m serious Jim. Voice activated. You simply say what you want, and hands will do it. Here, try it. Ask for a drink,” Jason said, not going to be deterred from finishing. Not in the mood, Jim just laid back, curious to see where his friend’s joke would end. Imitating Jim’s voice horribly, Jason said, “I think I’d like a drink.” Then Jason picked up a glass of water and began to attempt to place the straw in between Jim’s smiling, though wriggling with all their might to deny insertion, lips. Open-mouthed laughter between the two men concluded the earnest battle and clinched the win for Jason, whose victory speech was simply, “See? Voice activated hands.”
Jim realized he was actually kind of thirsty, so despite not wanting Jason to feel too good, he took a drink.
Short Brush
“What are they calling you?” he asked, both because everything was loud and also because the words seemed so close to that other slightly politically incorrect phrase.
Looking up from the task, Short Brush shouted, “What? Oh. Short brush.”
“Short bus?” he guessed, yelling in attempt to inch closer to a conclusion.
“No. Short brush.”
“I don’t get it.”
The two men silently went about their work for awhile before Pete began again. He asked, “Is it a some kind of play on short bus? They didn’t seem to use it to flatter you.”
Exhaling in an only slightly annoyed fashion, Short Brush began a practiced recitation. “It’s short brush. When we clean the rig, there is a normal sized deck brush type brush, and then there is a shorter brush. Everyone thinks I’m a little slow, so they call me short brush.”
“Oh,” he said, pausing for the same reason one does when securing his footing in order to prepare to handle a heavy load. Attempting to not betray his thoughts, he quickly continued, “I see.”
“But I’m not slow. You married, Pete? My wife had divorce papers written up on my last ‘days off.’ We’re going to counseling now and it seems to be helping, but when she told me, I kinda felt like a failure.”
“Nope. Divorced.”
“Yeah, she says I’m not the man she married. She says that when I’m home, I never want to do anything anymore, and that I have no friends. I just don’t like people. I don’t like to hang out with her friends and their husbands.”
“Yeah. I hate when you’re supposed to enjoy yourself. I don’t go out much either. Never really have.”
“Sounds like you may be like me then. You’re alright Pete.”
“Thanks Short Brush.”
Will I Ever Become a Man?
He taught me so much, and I don’t even know his name. All I remember is that it was a sunny, hot afternoon at Heritage Square. H- and I had been pounding the pavement and riding the rides all morning. It was time for a break. We headed to the grill area.
There happened to be a vintage motorcycle show on the same grounds as the theme park that day. As expected, there were plenty of leather vests, bandannas, and unkempt beards. Wearing a black leather vest over a black t-shirt and sporting a very unkempt beard, my average sized soon-to-be mentor was even missing a tooth. I can still see the gap now. Yellow, yellow, yellow, black, yellow, yellow, yellow. I also remember that the remaining teeth on his mandible were strikingly tall and thin for some reason.
But what really made him stand out was the rather long sentence that was typed in white font on his black shirt. As usual, I noticed “fuck” before any of the other words. I became simultaneously terrified and curious. What kind of randomly long t-shirt slogan contained the eff bomb? His vest, which cut off the first and last letters of each of the three rows, did not make the task any easier. Attempting not to stare, after several volleys, I finally made out: “Off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck.”
“So, H-, what would you like for lunch? They have grilled cheese. Do you want grilled cheese?” I queried, the shrinking line forcing the discussion.
“I don’t want a grilled cheese. I want a hot dog.”
“We’re having hot dogs tonight, so it’s gotta be a grilled cheese. Well, I guess there is also chicken fingers, or a corn dog.”
“Corn dog?”
“Yeah, it’s a hot dog wrapped in corn bread. Is that what you want?” I asked, devastated that she found a loophole to my no-hot-dog reasoning.
“I think I want a corn dog. No, I want a grilled cheese.”
“Good.”
Only one more customer to go, I noticed that they had some beer bottles on display, in addition to the typical beverages I’d come to expect. Not just beer, they also had three flavors of delicious Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Debating for longer than I’d like to admit, I decided to stick with soda. I really wanted a Mike’s, and figured just one wouldn’t be weird or inappropriate on a nice afternoon of riding roller coasters with my daughter, but I couldn’t do it. I genuinely feared what the biker behind me was going to think of me for buying a Mike’s. Not knowing anything more than any of us about the guy, I was afraid because I knew that if I was him, I would loose a smart-ass comment on the strange man in front of me whose t-shirt didn’t have the eff-bomb on it and then bought a Mike’s. So I stuck with the combo meal that came with a soft drink.
Even knowing that there was only one line was not enough to prevent me from nearly breaking my neck as I turned to confirm what my ears reported next.
“Will that be all?” I heard the cashier say, as I saw her hand the biker a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
Eating Cereal Quietly
“So, George, remind me again what you were telling me last night?” Pete asked upon returning to the kitchen after setting H- up with cereal. “Other things I was doing at the time caused me to miss the significance of the meeting being one-on-one, but I think I get it now. You said you had a one-on-one meeting with your boss and that he asked for your opinion on how your performance should be measured.”
“That’s right. I asked him if he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured, or if he wanted to know how I thought I was being measured.”
“Which was it?”
“He said he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured.”
“And you said that you think your performance should be measured on the quality of your work, but he said that he was going to measure you on the duration of your work?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Pete responded in disbelief, “that’s totally inverse. The goal should always be to get more done in less time–not just to work longer.”
“Pete–I know.”
“So what happened next?”
“He told me that to achieve an excellent on my review next time that I will need to work nights and weekends.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him that I wouldn’t be aiming for an excellent then.”
“Ha.”
George opened the door to leave for work and paused, saying, “You don’t know how close I was to asking him, ‘Do you want to be a soul crusher?'”
“Ha.”
As always, the crack of the wooden blinds against the door signaled George was off to work. Pete then turned to H- who was all the while quietly finishing her cereal.
“Are you a soul crusher H-?” he asked her, using extended, slightly squinted eye-contact to signal playfulness. “I know I don’t want to be a soul crusher. I want to be a soul creator, a soul grower,” he reported, increasing the melodrama with the repetition in an effort to summon a response from the speechless little girl.
With her familiar, lovable earnestness and attentiveness H- responded, “I’m still growing.”
It Took Fourteen Days
It took fourteen twelve-plus hour days, but on his last day before going home, his co-workers bore witness to a sight generally reserved for Pete’s closest relations.
Pete could only shake his head and smile after it happened. Only moments before, he actually felt like he was getting the hang of the job. He was almost able to anticipate the tasks, and he was receiving more and more responsibility. But he should have known he couldn’t hide them forever.
“Peter! What are you doing with your lips?” called the driller from inside the doghouse. The doghouse was a climate-controlled reasonably clean enclosure on the rig where the men who performed the drilling accomplished their work. They had a full view of the rig floor and the derrick, and were responsible for every aspect of the operation, including everyone’s safety. This meant that they scrutinized the floorhands as they, in turn, handled the lethally heavy pipe and machinery.
It was during this scrutiny that they noticed Pete’s lips doing their thing.
“Fart!” muttered Pete. He looked up smiling. He knew exactly what they just saw and while slightly embarrassed, was proud to be among men who were so direct.
Pete himself only became aware of his unconscious lip movements during a night of intense foosball competition in highschool. But little by little, anyone who had a chance to watch him focus on a task was rewarded with an uncommon sight. One only has to picture Mr. Ed (the talking horse) as he cleaned the peanut butter from his gums to get an idea of what they saw. As for Pete, his bottom lip attracted and held the attention, what with its size and agility. But just when it seemed like the performance would be a solo, his top lip took over. Then his bottom lip would jump in on the action once again.
Then, upon discovery–like any unsanctioned contest–the fleshy duel between these kissers inevitably ended. Distancing themselves from each other, the two fighters revealed a set of great teeth that crowned a widening smile. No victor was ever declared. None was ever called for. Everyone knew the money was in the rematch anyhow.
Waking Up
“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, immediately realizing there was only one reason the director would be there to greet him at his bedside. Tara was dead.
“Jim, Tara’s dead. I’m sorry for that,” Frank said. “Your hands were your fault, however.”
“Jesus Frank! Don’t you have any compassion. The man is barely awake and you’re nearly attacking him,” said Jason.
“I don’t care how long he’s been awake for. I’m not attacking him, he attacked me, remember?” Turning back towards Jim, he continued, “You broke my nose asshole.” Frank had a bandage over his nose. Jim also noticed that Frank was self-conscious of his inability to speak clearly. Looking more closely, Jim could see the cause of the difficulty. Frank had to be careful when he spoke or else parts of his lips would unnaturally flap out into view. Jim’s capacity to fly into a rage would not be soon forgotten.
“What about my hands?” asked Jim, confused by both the gulf between Frank and Jason’s attitudes and the medication that was still in his system. He had been so distracted by the implications of Frank’s presence that he totally forgot what caused him to be in the hospital in the first place. Looking down, he saw, in place of his hands, two stumps that were wrapped in white gauze. He was amazed at how sharply the perpendicular lines that gave texture to the gauze stood out, and not surprised to see the classically blood-stained red ends. Then he threw up. Then he passed out.
Jason glared at Frank as two attractive nurses quickly cleaned up Jim’s mess and re-positioned his body. All the many medical monitors indicated Jim was fine, just fast asleep.
Over the year’s Jason had seen a resigned person or two. But he had never seen anything like the look on Frank’s face. Frank looked Jason in the eye one last time, as if to demonstrate he believed words were not useful or necessary, then he turned and walked away. Frank and Jim were never seen in the same room again. And all Jason could do was wait. So he waited.
Tara
He noticed the mask that was over his mouth and nose didn’t seal perfectly. Upon pointing this out to the bedside nurses, he was told, “Just breathe normally.”
He inhaled deeply before realizing that that wasn’t a normal breath. Then he exhaled and tried to think of something besides breathing. He thought about Tara. He wondered if she was dead or alive. He tried to remember first meeting her. It was one of his favorite days.
“Can you believe those guys?” he remembered her saying on the day they met as she stormed into the room after a shift in the containment pod. Her head fully forward, her finger pointing back to the door, a look of disgust covered her face. “They’re acting like this is a joke. One of these days they’re going to get us all killed.”
“What is that little bit of hair called that falls on a woman’s face again?” he tried to remember, the sleeping gas beginning to work. “A tendril. That’s it.”
A tendril had unintentionally dropped from her pony tail as she took off her helmet and oxygen mask that day. He was a sucker for tendrils. When he noticed that she had some fire in her to boot, he became weak in the knees. He would never forget her first words to him.
“And what the fuck are you staring at asshole?”
She asked him that question, she later told him, because he failed to heed her nonverbal social cues that told everyone that while she was used to being ogled, she was not in the mood at the moment.
Jim laid there, waiting for sleep and thought about women. For him, a woman needed to be so much more than a pretty face or a fit body. Like any man, he knew his preferences for exterior qualities, but unlike any man, he could also list all the internal qualities a woman should aspire to have. At the top of his list was a backbone. Tara clearly had one. Number two was a passion for living. He needed a woman to love all the nuances of life as much as he did. He needed her to fight for life. The gas taking effect, he chuckled at his word choice. “Fight for life. Yeah, that’s my girl,” he mumbled. “You better be fighting now woman. You can’t fly yet,” he said, only noticing the slip-up as it entered his ears. “Of course you can’t fly. No one can fly,” he said, laughing at his own joke. Then with a forced seriousness, he said, “People can die though. But not you. You can’t die yet,” he ordered, the last “t” not quite being enunciated. Finally succumbing to the anesthetic, his body was ready for the amputations.
Captain’s Log 