TBD on Ning
Parts
This thread is for those parts of tales we’ve written – inspired beginnings (or middles and endings) and flashes of brilliance that came out of nowhere – only to mysteriously disappear as quickly as they came- leaving us stranded at our keyboards.
Good writing, but orphaned without a “rest of the story”.
Check your files…show off some of that stuff. Who knows? Maybe now is the right time to complete it.
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Permalink Reply by Westerly_2 on
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I hate falling asleep on the old recliner. It hurts my back and I am slow to fight off the fog of unconsciousness. In this twilight sleep I reach for what I need, the pain pills I take for the constant inflammation, the prescription cough syrup I take too much of, I know, sticky and welcome as a spoonful of honey; and I notice that Horace seems to have brightened from last night’s doldrums. He is tossing his head and trotting briskly.
“What do you think?”he says, “the black collar with the big rhinestones, or the red leather with the smaller studs?”
He is wearing the red one and carrying the black one – retrieved from I don’t remember where – in his teeth.
“The black one would blend with my fur and look like I am studded with diamonds.”
“They’re both nice,” I say.
“It’s a choice Ma. I’m asking.”
“I always liked the red,” I say.
“You don’t think it’s too showy?”
Such are the daily ups and downs with a critter of many moods.
I have my regular checkup this week, and I am still mulling over bringing a nurse on board, to nourish and boss me – a third character to reorder our transactional roles: Horace as mute and clueless fury animal, Nursie as the runner-of-things, and me as the precious hobbling grayhair in the dowdy chenille bathrobe, nodding off before the evening news.
Something holds me back from setting this wonderful world into motion. I don’t want to lose what is brilliant about my feral friend, my link to Ned and the one who knows me as I am without an ounce of cover. I haven’t had enough of my dream life.
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Permalink Reply by Bmichael on
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...sticky and welcome as a spoonful of honey...
...I haven't had enough of my dream life...
Love it.
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Thanks. I haven't come up with an idea in a long time, so it feels good.
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Permalink Reply by Marilyn on
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Great stuff, Westerly! As you know I am not writing for "fun and fulfillment" these days because I"m busy earning $$$$$ in financial advertising (zzzzzz) but you are inspiring. Love Horace and like the fashion turn. "Does this collar make me look fat?"
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I suppose I should have seen it coming – but chose to ignore it or perhaps (and most likely) simply pretended it wasn’t there.
And so Mr. Rickett’s invitation to lunch did not seem particularly out of place this time. Over the years since my father’s passing, we met maybe twice a year. I rather enjoyed these meetings, as they took place at the Standard Club – very posh, elegant, private, and woody. Old wood, and old money blended together in an elegant world of opulence and, as I observed, a parallel world of equally old bartenders, sommeliers, and chefs – a place certainly out of my range for a number of reasons.
First, I was not old, nor was the money.
And since I was not married- and without any prospects of a wife or an heir, along with a conspicuous absence of any cultural or esoterically important contributions to…umm…anything, I would remain uninvited except on those few occasions when a signature was required, an addendum introduced, or as I had often suspected – a required inspection, a real-time, eye witness determination that I was still alive – like a piece of property on the outskirts of town - all this, of course, for the files. Besides, I dressed funny.
Mr. Rickett looked up and rose to greet me.
“Chaz…you’re looking well. Thank you for coming.”
He was as old as the wood around us, though not quite as well preserved since I saw him last. His smile on this visit, I noticed, was not as broad as in the past.
We watched as the server placed a small tray of breads and pastries, and various juices on the table.
“I must apologize, lad, but I’m a bit pressed for time this morning”.
Inwardly, I grimaced at his use of “lad”. Such an old, unused word anymore, but one that he used frequently during our conversations. Curiously, it had been directed at me at another time – years ago in high school during one of several interactions with Mr. Wilson, the robust and rotund assistant principal, offering options to me as a result of my latest transgressions.
“Lad” he said cheerfully. “Three licks, or three days.”
The “licks” he was referring to were the receiving end of a long wooden paddle with numerous holes drilled in the end, supposedly to cut down on wind resistance. “Papa WOW” as he was known to the student body had long given up, in my case, on the lectures regarding the importance of an education, the terrible (though ultimately rewarding) burdens of responsibility, and the long, arduous journey of young manhood.
My thoughts quickly shifted to Coach C, the football coach.
It didn’t matter how big or tough you were, what gang you belonged to, what sport you excelled in…everybody respected (= feared) the coach. He was a no-nonsense, in your face, man’s man…ex-military, built like an artillery round… and a winner. He (not we) won the state championship one year, and narrowly missed it the following year. Coach C ruled.
And I had him for gym glass.
One day, he took us outside and began screaming. We had no idea what to make of this. There were 40 of us, trembling and staring at the ground – not daring to make eye contact - while the coach, red faced and flanked by two stern faced assistants, unleashed a torrent of expletive filled hate and anger rants – the only reason I could figure was because we were alive and in his class.
Suddenly he stopped and in a calm soft voice said “I need a volunteer.”
My hand raised as though lifted by some supernatural power beyond my control.
Without looking, he said “Wait in the locker room.”
As I walked back I decided that even though it was about to be cut very short, my fourteen years on this earth had been overall, pretty good (especially the part with Mitzi). But was still puzzled as to why my hand went up.
I sat on a bench and waited. Through the window I could still hear coach’s raving. Looking outside, he had lined up the class single file with their backs towards the school. One of the assistants handed him a paddle and ordered everyone to bend over.
Coach C then went down the line swinging his paddle.
It was like watching a mass execution.
I thought about leaving, but decided that would ultimately cause him to kill me at least twice.
There was still forty minutes until the end of class. Forty minutes ‘til doom. I needed a plan.
After some time, I decided that when they came in I would stand tall, go snake eyed, and growl “C’mon – let’s get this over with, you pussies”. Die with your boots on, you know?
Twenty five minutes left. I looked outside. Everyone was gone. Where’d they go? The hospital? I took a peek in the gym. Empty.
Ten minutes to go. I was pacing back and forth like a caged animal.
“I love you, mom” I scribbled on a paper cup.
I headed for the shower room. No! That’s where he wants you! Don’t give him any ideas!
The bell rang. Times up…get out! I cautiously opened the door. The next class was starting to trickle in. Haha, suckers…you’re next! I pulled one guy aside and in a very serious voice said “No matter what happens, DON’T volunteer!” and walked across the gym and out the back door. Once outside, I ran across the field and disappeared into the woods. Screw algebra. I’m outta here.
“See ya in three days” I told Papa WOW.
“The reason I asked to see you today,” Mr. Rickett continued “Is that there’s a bit of a situation with your finances.”
“Oh really…and what’s that?”
“You’ve been redlined.”
“Redlined? What are you talking about? What’s that?”
“Chaz, have you not read the terms of your inheritance?”
“Are you speaking of that 200 page, picture-less economic textbook you frequently refer to as my father’s will?”
“One of the provisions of the will states… “
For nearly two minutes, Mr. Rickett plodded along in his native tongue – accounting – leaving me far behind, high and dry, up a creek without a …
“What does this mean?”
“ Well Chaz, it means a life-style change is in order.”
“For how long?”
“Lad, that will depend largely on you. Currently, we’re projecting four to six years to recoup your…umm…excesses to become compliant again.”
“Compliant? Compliant to what? It’s my money!””
Mr. Rickett sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Had you familiarized yourself with the details of the will, you would understand that…umm…how shall I put this…the money is almost yours to do with as you please, in exactly ten years from now. Meanwhile, you are basically renting it – an interesting scenario created by your father to ensure longevity with hopes that you will someday come to the proper terms with the enormous responsibility he left to you.”
“Okok, I’ll read the book, but what are you suggesting? That I stop spending money and…”
“Not quite, lad. You’ll be given a living allowance, with bonuses based on performance.”
“Bonuses based on perfor…what the…I don’t believe this crap! What if I become seriously ill…what if I’m in an accident…what if …!”
“You’ll just have to make the best of it, I’m afraid, young man. Oh, and one more thing…your father had written a letter in the event of a redline.
He placed the envelope on the table.
Rising from the table, he offered his hand, apologies for having to leave, and his best wishes.
I opened the letter.
Dated October 10, 2006 and in my father’s handwriting, it said:
Douche bag.
Next: Chaz Looks For Work (and it ain’t pretty)
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I really enjoyed this. Had me embracing another world for awhile. Please continue.
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(What I really want to see is the sequel to Bmichael's part. But in the meantime:)
Oliver reluctantly turned down the car radio to better hear his sister’s rant. He could have done without it.
“Nineteen,” she said. What is he thinking?”
“Why should you care who your ex is taking up with? I thought you had moved way, way on.”
Eunice huffed and puffed. “Not his type, no way. He’s just proving something. I give it three months, and then I’ll have to pick up the pieces when it all blows up in his face.”
Oliver shrugged. “She’s got that cuteness thing going for her. Can she cook?”
“You kidding? Organic lettuce and banana smoothies, and call it a meal. Knock that back and lick the foam off your lip. Yum!” Eunice sighed heavily.
“Flippy little skirts. Skinny tanks. Body by Mattel.”
“Yeah, well…. Energy and resilience, Eunice. Fills in a lot of the cracks. At that age they roll with the waves.”
“She’ll need that to bounce back from those smoldering moods of his and right herself when the day comes. When he’s had enough of her. That silly giggle alone will drive him off the cliff.” She snorted and pawed the floorboards with her sneakered feet.
Oliver sucked a little on his teeth. Plunged in. “Hate to say it, but you wouldn’t be the least little bit jealous, would you?”
“Me! Puleeze! I wouldn’t be nineteen again for the whole world at my feet.”
Oliver knew he was taking his life in his hands. Couldn’t help it.
“No one is offering you the chance, Eunice. sorry to say.”
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