I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
He sits on the gray steps, stewing in his own psychotic filth. He wraps his arm around a headless teddy bear full of bedbugs. His gums smack, unimpeded by teeth that rotted years ago. The beggar spies a father and his little girl approaching. He sees the girl look over and commences with his plea, ‘Sir, can you please hep me out? Little girl, you wanna see a teddy bear?’ The father mouths, ‘Sorry’, to which the delinquent counters, ‘You no good crackers. I hope her head gets torn off like this here bear’s, little bitch.’ His rant devolves into gibberish as the girl steals a glance at the decapitated bear.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Christmas Slug
It was a gift from my friend Steve Carls. He wanted me to cheer up, be less of a humbug. A recent breakup? A dead dog? Family and friends thousands of miles away? Fat chance, I told him. I’m not ungrateful, mind you. It was a nice gesture. A small, green weeping branch that smelled of pine, sported twin red baubles, and sat in a green plastic pot. I did follow the directions at first. Watered it at proper intervals with tepid water, kept it in indirect sunlight. That lasted a few days. Then work got busy. And there were obligatory holiday parties at which my sole purpose was to drink. In my countless December-induced drunken stupors, I’d stare blankly at bad sitcoms and avoid the sad stare of the wilting tree with its surrounding halo of brown needles.
Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.
The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’
Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.
The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Rain Is Wet
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
The young Asian woman eyed my umbrella. ‘Is it raining?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Maybe it isn’t now.’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted.
The elevator transported us to the lobby. We walked to the front doors.
‘Is it raining?’ she asked.
Sheets of rain pounded the glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Can I have your umbrella?’
I considered my response. ‘What will I use?’
‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘The rain won’t touch you.’
‘What?’
‘You will not get wet. With your umbrella, I will not get wet too.’ She smiled. ‘So I take?’
‘Here; I’ll try to find another.’
‘No need,’ she replied. She accepted the umbrella and disappeared into the rain.
I followed her outside.
The young Asian woman eyed my umbrella. ‘Is it raining?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Maybe it isn’t now.’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted.
The elevator transported us to the lobby. We walked to the front doors.
‘Is it raining?’ she asked.
Sheets of rain pounded the glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Can I have your umbrella?’
I considered my response. ‘What will I use?’
‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘The rain won’t touch you.’
‘What?’
‘You will not get wet. With your umbrella, I will not get wet too.’ She smiled. ‘So I take?’
‘Here; I’ll try to find another.’
‘No need,’ she replied. She accepted the umbrella and disappeared into the rain.
I followed her outside.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Italians
The young man strode with unmitigated purpose as his footfalls echoed across the cobblestone. The city at night soothed him with its worn brick and jutting metal. Summer had not yet weighted the air with its wet; spring lingered like an overzealous puppy.
A foreign exclamation split the night air like a gunshot. A shrill banshee voice retorted. The young man bound toward the noise hell bent on restoring broken silence. The bantering grew louder until there came into view two young men standing toe to toe, screaming garishly at each other in what he assumed to be Italian.
He galloped into the fray and moved between them with a dramatic thrust of his torso. They stared at him, vexed.
‘Please, gentlemen, there is no need to argue. I’m sure this can be settled diplomatically.’
The taller of the gentleman smiled with his dark features and scruffy face. ‘But we no argue, signore. We just having a talk.’
The young man hastened away into the darkness confused about whether he had helped or hindered the vociferous Italians.
The Italians continued with their cacophony.
A foreign exclamation split the night air like a gunshot. A shrill banshee voice retorted. The young man bound toward the noise hell bent on restoring broken silence. The bantering grew louder until there came into view two young men standing toe to toe, screaming garishly at each other in what he assumed to be Italian.
He galloped into the fray and moved between them with a dramatic thrust of his torso. They stared at him, vexed.
‘Please, gentlemen, there is no need to argue. I’m sure this can be settled diplomatically.’
The taller of the gentleman smiled with his dark features and scruffy face. ‘But we no argue, signore. We just having a talk.’
The young man hastened away into the darkness confused about whether he had helped or hindered the vociferous Italians.
The Italians continued with their cacophony.
Santa
‘Behave!’ she reprimanded her two boys for kicking each other beneath the table. They wound their faces tight and slumped in their respective chairs.
‘I’m bored,’ whined Michael.
‘You see your great grandmother once a year,’ she hissed through bad teeth.
At that moment, a white geriatric mob burst through the twin beige doors leading to the dining room. A fat, gray-bearded man in a red suit led their way.
‘Why is Santa here?’ Jonny asked perplexedly.
His mother hesitated, ‘Because the older you get, the longer you wait to get his gifts.’ She realized it was a terrible explanation.
‘Shouldn’t older people get them first?’ Michael asked.
She ignored the question and moved to escort her grandmother to the table for the holiday meal.
‘Hi Laura,’ her grandmother squawked as her teeth were jettisoned from her mouth.
‘My name’s Lisa,’ she whispered to no one in particular.
‘Oop, dem teef nebber shay,’ she smacked her lips unabashedly.
‘Michael and Jonathan, come give your Nana a kiss.’
The boys filed toward her. Michael succeeded in kissing her right cheek. But Nana turned as Jon closed his eyes and planted the kiss squarely on her lips. As soon as he turned away, he wiped his lips with his left sleeve.
‘How have you been, grandma?’ Lisa asked.
‘Eh, dying, but that’s good for me. I’ve been alive too long anyway. Oh, I have someone I want you to meet. I’m dating a younger man,’ she admitted with a grin. ‘He’s in his mid-seventies, I think. His birthday’s on the eighth.’ She cupped her hands and yelled, ‘Hey Santa!’
Everyone in the room except Santa turned to see from whence the godawful noise had come.
‘Hard of hearing,’ she pointed a thumb back at Santa. ‘Wish I could throw something at him, but I can’t throw like I used to.’ She harrumphed. ‘Michael, go get him.’
Michael obeyed and stalked over to the fat man. He tugged at the red suit.
Santa turned, and in a voice deeper than Michael expected, bellowed, ‘What can I do for you, little man? I hope I got you everything you needed for Christmas.’
Michael stared at Santa’s red, rosy cheeks.
Santa laughed.
‘My Nana says you’re her boyfriend.’
‘Did she now?’ he chuckled. ‘Let’s go see what the hot mama wants.’
Michael turned and raced to his mother’s side.
Santa extended his hand to the boys’ mother, ‘Nice to meet you, young lady.’
‘Such a charmer,’ Nana rasped. She almost lost her teeth again. ‘He’s a one man show, dancing, singing, gyrating all over God’s creation. I remember when they wouldn’t show that stuff on TV, but now they’ll show anything.’
Santa smiled wistfully.
‘Well, I haven’t even made proper introductions,’ Nana cawed. ‘Where are my manners?’ She paused to catch her breath – and teeth. ‘Of course, he ain’t Santa. He’s just helping out,’ she threw in for the boys.
Santa seemed a bit antsy. ‘No need to introduce me Ethel; I think Santa will do.’
‘Nonsense,’ Nana retorted. ‘Lisa, Michael, Jonathan, let me introduce you to Alvin Bressler.’
Santa smiled awkwardly.
‘I’m bored,’ whined Michael.
‘You see your great grandmother once a year,’ she hissed through bad teeth.
At that moment, a white geriatric mob burst through the twin beige doors leading to the dining room. A fat, gray-bearded man in a red suit led their way.
‘Why is Santa here?’ Jonny asked perplexedly.
His mother hesitated, ‘Because the older you get, the longer you wait to get his gifts.’ She realized it was a terrible explanation.
‘Shouldn’t older people get them first?’ Michael asked.
She ignored the question and moved to escort her grandmother to the table for the holiday meal.
‘Hi Laura,’ her grandmother squawked as her teeth were jettisoned from her mouth.
‘My name’s Lisa,’ she whispered to no one in particular.
‘Oop, dem teef nebber shay,’ she smacked her lips unabashedly.
‘Michael and Jonathan, come give your Nana a kiss.’
The boys filed toward her. Michael succeeded in kissing her right cheek. But Nana turned as Jon closed his eyes and planted the kiss squarely on her lips. As soon as he turned away, he wiped his lips with his left sleeve.
‘How have you been, grandma?’ Lisa asked.
‘Eh, dying, but that’s good for me. I’ve been alive too long anyway. Oh, I have someone I want you to meet. I’m dating a younger man,’ she admitted with a grin. ‘He’s in his mid-seventies, I think. His birthday’s on the eighth.’ She cupped her hands and yelled, ‘Hey Santa!’
Everyone in the room except Santa turned to see from whence the godawful noise had come.
‘Hard of hearing,’ she pointed a thumb back at Santa. ‘Wish I could throw something at him, but I can’t throw like I used to.’ She harrumphed. ‘Michael, go get him.’
Michael obeyed and stalked over to the fat man. He tugged at the red suit.
Santa turned, and in a voice deeper than Michael expected, bellowed, ‘What can I do for you, little man? I hope I got you everything you needed for Christmas.’
Michael stared at Santa’s red, rosy cheeks.
Santa laughed.
‘My Nana says you’re her boyfriend.’
‘Did she now?’ he chuckled. ‘Let’s go see what the hot mama wants.’
Michael turned and raced to his mother’s side.
Santa extended his hand to the boys’ mother, ‘Nice to meet you, young lady.’
‘Such a charmer,’ Nana rasped. She almost lost her teeth again. ‘He’s a one man show, dancing, singing, gyrating all over God’s creation. I remember when they wouldn’t show that stuff on TV, but now they’ll show anything.’
Santa smiled wistfully.
‘Well, I haven’t even made proper introductions,’ Nana cawed. ‘Where are my manners?’ She paused to catch her breath – and teeth. ‘Of course, he ain’t Santa. He’s just helping out,’ she threw in for the boys.
Santa seemed a bit antsy. ‘No need to introduce me Ethel; I think Santa will do.’
‘Nonsense,’ Nana retorted. ‘Lisa, Michael, Jonathan, let me introduce you to Alvin Bressler.’
Santa smiled awkwardly.
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