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 Bmichael on
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I can’t remember a time without Sophie – she was just always there. We were the same age, twin siblings of different mothers, who happened to be best friends and shared nearly everything – even their kids.
I didn’t know her flat was different from ours – like in not mine- except it was upstairs and I had to go out into that hallway with the funny smell and the dirty glass window at the landing right outside her door. I never knocked – it was always unlocked. Sophie’s Mom, Gina, rarely said anything, except offered a smile whenever I came up ‘cause it was like I was supposed to be there, like the couch. I mean, you might say good morning to your kid and then good night…but you didn’t say hello every freakin’ time you saw ‘em during the day.
I’d go straight to her room and walk in. The thing I’ll always remember was her eyes. Sophie’s eyes somehow, were her whole expression. She didn’t have to smile, or frown to know how she felt. Those eyes had a way of letting you know what she was thinking. Still do today.
Because our parents were so close, so were we. We did everything together – ate …slept…played… and even bathed – until we were about 11 when her chest started to change.
“What are you lookin’ at?”
I pointed.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Benny! Phone!” Jimmy quickly withdrew back to the front.
“Ciao. Chi è questo?”
“Benny, it’s…”
“Sophie! Madre di Dio! Where you been? You ok? What’s wrong? What? What? ”
Sophie laughed.
“Benny, everything’s fine. Benito…I need your help…can you talk?”
“Tell me.”
She told a story about a boy named Danny, who’s mother died and whose father was a piece of crap that had decided to spend the rest of his life in prison, and there was no place else for the kid to go – except for maybe some orphanage. It wasn’t clear how Sophie got involved in this and I didn’t ask.
“What can I do?”
“Benny, he’s a good kid. You’ll like him. But he needs more than what I can give. He needs someone to show him things, ya know?”
“What things?”
“Things like, how to work, how to do stuff…”
“What stuff?”
“ Well, things like how to pee and…”
“Whoa! How old is this kid?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen? And he doesn’t know how to …”
“Benny…of course he does. But there are other things he can do with it and I want to make sure he knows the right way. It shouldn’t come from me, or the streets, ya know?
He needs some influence, and I know you’d be good. I put him in with Gino for now and gave him some space, but now it’s time for him to get up. “
“What can I do?”
“ Give him a job at the bakery maybe …on Saturdays… teach him something… make him tough…keep his mind occupied for now. Like I said, he’s good stuff, Benny– I’m fallin’ in love.”
“OK, Soph…I’ll talk to the old man.”
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I told Carmine about Danny.
“So?” he said, as he killed the chicken and reached for another.
“ I want to try and help him.”
“Why?”
“Family thing.”
“No.”
Carmine said “no” to everything. He was getting on in years and didn’t like change.
“Anthony coming soon… no room…can’t afford.”
I stifled a laugh. Young Anthony was the next grandchild in line for a tour of duty at the store. A rite of passage for all the males in the family, everyone worked there at some point in their lives. The parents didn’t care because they knew where the kids were, and even though they weren’t paid, the old man sent everyone home with a fat bag of groceries.
“Jeez, Carmine…Anthony is what…seven, eight? He’s a baby for chrissake.”
“No.”
This was going well. The way he said “no” was what mattered. So far, it was soft, without emotion, which meant he was still listening.
“Not family.”
“Neither was I, remember? It worked out.”
Carmine looked up.
“You think?”
The chicken he had pinned to the block suddenly squirmed, broke free, and bolted out the back door and into the alley.
The old man erupted into a tirade of half English, half Italian as Frankie left the kitchen and quickly returned, leading four grim-faced teenaged boys on a chicken round up.
Crap! There went my edge.
“Carmine, listen. Do me a favor. Let me bring the boy in for two weeks. I’ll pay him out of my pocket.”
The old man was listening again.
“I’ll try him out…make it tough. If he’s no good, I’ll toss him myself…no harm done right? Who knows? We may have another Benny out there and …”
Carmine turned and walked into the store.
“ Uhh…I’ll take that as a yes.”
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Permalink Reply by Westerly_2 on
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Nice!
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Do we find out what happens later?
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Thanks!
But you already know what happens – you’ve seen it before, lol.
This is a re-write of a story called Danny the Baker – this time from the perspective of other characters.
It may become familiar – or at least some parts of it – as it goes on.
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I noticed two things immediately about Danny.
The first was that he wasn’t Italian. And so was the second.
I looked around for the old man – must’ve been in the back, or upstairs - it was still early.
I caught Frankie and Jimmy peekin’ around the corner at us and gave ‘em a look. They disappeared quickly.
What I also noticed was that he stood tall – not like a lot of kids who stuff their hands in their pockets, stare at the ground while rocking back and forth.
He was starin’ at me the whole time Sophie and I were talking.
In Italian:
“Sophia, what is this? You bring me an Irish? Here? Carmine is gonna…”
“Who? Danny? Irish?” Pretending to be surprised, “I didn’t notice. “
Her eyes narrowed. “Benito…is that a problem?”
I looked over to the meat counter. Carmine was staring at us. I looked at Danny - all that bright orange hair, freckles, and milky, white skin – was still focused on me, and then back to Sophie whose eyes were drilling a jagged hole right through my brain.
“I…”
A few feet away, Mrs. Carbone had done a good job of negotiating her shopping cart around the corner of the narrow aisle, but had minimal control over her huge butt, which slammed into the circular soup display - sending dozens of cans crashing across the floor.
Before the last one hit the ground, Danny was there – scooping them up and rebuilding the display – or trying to.
Attracted by the noise, Frankie, Jimmy, and Paulie appeared and took over – surprisingly, allowing Danny to help – but only to retrieve cans from the floor and those that had rolled under the shelves.
I looked around. The old man was gone and Sophie was smiling.
“Thank you, Benny. I love you” she whispered.
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Oh, yeah, I remember now. ☺
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There are issues with being a Zen master.
Which, I am.
*Editor’s note:
[This statement has not been independently verified, nor is it likely to be true..]
There are some pitfalls.
We are all familiar with the ancient tale of the monk who was being chased by the tiger, and was forced to jump over the cliff. The monk landed on a small out cropping of the cliff wall, saving his life – but found himself in a rather precarious position.
Looking up, the hapless monk saw the vicious tiger - hungrily waiting to pounce if he tried to climb out.
Below was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet – which would result in certain death if he fell.
As the monk pondered his predicament, he noticed a small flower growing out of the cliff.
A small, delicate, flower of great beauty.
And suddenly, the tiger and the death drop left his mind as he withheld the beauty and grace of the flower.
Moron.
Makes me wonder. How come, when he first saw the tiger he didn’t contemplate the beautiful markings, the powerful muscles, or the symmetry of its razor sharp teeth?
CHOMP!
That would be why.
Of course, this tale was told centuries ago. Today, most of us Zen masters have little fear of being attacked by tigers.
“Ommmmmm…Ommmmm…Ommmm…”
“Huh? Whuzzat?”
“Oh, it’s a fire in the kitchen. “
“Wow…behold the mystery of fire…the magical beauty of the flames as they consume the microwave –sculpting it into a new form…releasing unpleasant gasses (Unpleasant? Really? For how can one decide what is pleasant and what is not?). I must contemplate ...cough…cough…this.”
“Ommmmm…Ommmmm...Ommmmm…”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Hey spook! You in there? Ya better get out, man, fast - there’s a freakin’ fire in the building and it’s takin’ out the roof!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“SPOOOK!”
“Ommmm…Ommmm…Ommmm…”
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I am at a loss for words
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I posted this before, but now I have another "part" to share later.
Skip considered the ample menu at The Happy Wok, his favorite spot for Chinese, and decided on the bowl of wonton soup – steaming hot and brimming with crisp scallions, drifting sea weed and bobbing pea pods. He ordered half a yellowtail sushi roll as a side, hoping Felicia might share with him, for once.
“No,” she said, sniffing as she tucked her light brown hair behind her stick-out ears. “You know I can’t get past that fishy taste.” She ordered her usual chicken chow mein and steamed rice.
“I’m glad you suggested this, coming here,” she said with a little smile. “You must have remembered.” She dipped her head and lowered her eyes.
“Hmmm?” Skip was in trouble. What had he forgotten this time? Her birthday had passed already – three months ago – and he had covered Valentine’s Day with a little potted orchid from Grocery Barn…. It was a Friday, was that it?
“Our anniversary…remember?”
Skip nodded his head and smiled mysteriously. He was truly baffled.
“A year ago today, when we met….”
“Ah,” he said, “A whole year already? Seems like just yesterday… all fresh and new …when I had the pleasure….” He was bobbing his head in a way he hoped made him look both gallant and delighted. They had met on adjacent stools at The Eight Ball Lounge, and who could have known it would have lasted as long as this?
“And so,” she said, I have a little gift for you.” She reached into a canvas purse the size of a feedbag and pulled out a ribbon-wrapped frame with a picture of the two of them taken at the Eight Ball. He was poised to take a shot at the pool table – so badly framed he couldn’t make out the ball or the pocket – and Felicia was grinning the expansive grin of the happily buzzed. Her red sleeveless top showed off her tiny toned pecs, and a hank of hair falling sideways covered half her face and one small brown eye.
Felicia smiled shyly and slid the picture across the tabletop to him. “Those were the days,” he said.
Clearly there were expectations here he was not sure of. Tomorrow, he figured, would start the momentous Year Two. They would be spending it at the lake. He was looking forward to dropping his line in for a fine trout or two. Felicia would bring a cooler of drinks and a basket of snacks that would not turn sickening in the sun – maybe hard cheese in tinfoil and crusty bread. Possibly there would be some Buffalo wings – not very spicy, as was her taste, but salted heavily to kill off anything that threatened to turn them toxic. Felicia looked out like that. He knew she would stay camped on the shore with a bottle of iced tea and a magazine or her knitting. She’d been doing a lot of that lately – knit, knit, knit – the needles clacking like determined laptop keys or the chattering of chilled teeth.
The meal ended with the orange slices and the usual fortune cookies. “They’ve been weird lately,” he said. “I got one last time said my friends had much to say about me, ‘and none of it flattering.’ How about that?”
“My last one told me I’d be hungry again in an hour,” she giggled.
“Who do they hire to make these things up? Rogue transcribers off the streets I guess. Where’s the quality control gone to?”
Felicia looked at her fortune, then slapped her hand over her mouth and made a strangled snort.
“Let’s hear it.”
Her face was a mask of worry. She read out: “He’s really not that into you.” She tittered weakly.
Skip shook his head, blew out a gust of air in distain. “Idiots,” he said.
“And the winner is….” He cracked open his cookie. It said “What would you do if she was pregnant?” Skip’s mouth fell open and he gasped for breath. “That does it,” he said so loudly the couple at the next table turned to look at him. “I’m looking up this company and reporting this creepy…outrageous…unacceptable…! Someone should deal with this…crazy….”
She cupped her hand over his. “What is it, Skip?”
He crumbled up the paper and put it in his pocket. “Nothing,” he said. “Just something…silly.
“Let’s get out of here. I’ll drop you off. You should rest up, early start tomorrow.”
“My place or yours?”
“Yours. You should rest up. Start early.”
Skip needed the rest of the night to himself. His place. His cave. His stuff. No pink razors, no face cream. No crib. Nothing but beer and cable. Jeeze, can you picture it? How does a kid fit with his fishing boat, his summer trips down the Pacific Coast highway, camping in the open?
So many guys his age had some wish to see their faces imprinted on a copy of themselves…having their hearts torn out, losing sleep, passing the pictures around…. Pouring a future into those small shoes…..That would be so like Felicia, wouldn’t it? Her a kindergarten teacher always telling stories about cute things the kids had done one time or another….So far Skip had managed to dodge all that.
He dropped off Felicia in front of her fourplex, and watched her disappear down the sand-colored steps to her basement home. So damp down there, he knew, and dark…. A small place with one pet after another fading away – the kitten who ran off, the rabbit who died, the two hissing ferrets who thumped around all night, and these were still alive but seemed to hate everything about their cramped and caged existence – all these warm-blooded toys as unlike human children as those sock monkeys she made and set on chairs. He liked his loft with its skylight –linear, bright and hot, with no moldy animals stinking up the air.
For awhile he did not move. He glanced into the rear-view at his leathery face, the dark hair glinting with light threads and fading away from his temples like the receding tide on an empty stretch of beach, his youth pulling away from him one grain at a time. He pictured a baby with his head, a head like a shaved peach, and he knew he had no interest whatsoever in resting his eyes on that sight.
He slapped his thigh and cranked the engine of his Jeep Cherokee. And that – he was sure of it – would be that…. Right(?) he asked the ragged, frightened face staring hard into his eyes.
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