Parts

[Bmichael]

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.

[Bmichael]

“Sorry for your loss, miss.”

I smile weakly at the middle aged woman as she opens the door to the apartment.

Entering first, she pulls back the blinds and bright sunlight floods into the small living room. I hold my breath and follow. The first thing I notice is the dead plants – a lot of them, scattered around - dried out and crumbling from lack of water. Jack was always good with plants – wouldn’t even think about artificial.

The place is neat and orderly though there’s a fine layer of dust accumulating on the wooden furniture. On the coffee table, a fallen plant has drawn its skeletal leaves through the dust leaving a delicate trail behind.

 The walls are nearly covered completely with pictures – art, photos, and posters collected over the years - fitted tightly together from floor to ceiling, into the dining room, around the corner and down the hallway. I remember the Peter Max poster – Miss Liberty Head – from when I was a teenager. The edges are torn and taped.

I’m beginning to feel faint…it’s hot in here…

“Take as much time as you need, dear. We all miss Jack…he was here twelve years - a long time … a good man.” She hands me the key and leaves.

Twelve years? Here? What the hell was he doing here? I have letters, pictures. France. Sweden. Jack lived in Europe - not four miles away! He worked for a think tank and lived in Belgium – “Reverse Americanism” he called it, in a different culture, to view things from a different perspective. He was a writer and a professor. An educator. He sent copies of his articles. Then there was the government work…

Jesus, it’s hot.

I collapse on the couch. The cool leather feels good and brings me back.

There are four bookcases in the room – one on each wall. I discover that each houses a different theme. One is all cookbooks. Many are textbooks while others are beautiful and impressive volumes dedicated to various world cuisines. There are old, worn copies about breads and cookies, seafood and vegetables, soups and sandwiches. “Biker Billy Cooks with Fire” lays across the top next to a large picture book showing how to make edible insects from fruits and vegetables. Jack could cook?

In another, much smaller case, all the books look the same – like an encyclopedia except the titles are different. I realize these are the classics. There must be forty or more.

My phone rings. It’s David.

“Nikki, is everything ok?

“Yeah babe…fine. Just got here. It’s weird…I feel terrible…like I shouldn’t be here… I’m intruding…” I can feel tears coming and my voice breaks.

“Listen, it’s all right…just a little overwhelmed right now. I’m gonna go…call you later…ok?”

Open the balcony door. Get some air in here.

 A dense forest, a thick wall of trees presses close to the balcony, just a few yards out. A weathered rocker in the corner moves slightly in the breeze as an empty bird feeder sways with it from an overhead hook.

Suddenly the trees are filled with the chatter of birds. There is movement in the leaves as the commotion grows louder.

In a plastic container in the corner, I find birdseed. As I scoop it out, the birds quiet. I toss it over the edge and almost instantly, dozens of them appear from the woods and descend upon it.

Below an old man is walking a fat daschund. The birds scatter. He looks up at me, says nothing and I watch as they disappear into a small break in the trees.

Back inside, I accidently bump against the desk. Suddenly the computer comes on. There’s a static, crackling noise as the monitor brightens and soon there’s music coming from all sides of the room. I recognize “Take Five” and am nearly frozen by its mournful chording.

No…no music… not now…

I search for a way to silence it when I discover an envelope with my name on it.

[Westerly_2]

Hard Kitchen Floor

 

            It was funny Luther never paid it more mind how Czarina had stuck with him sleeping on the hard kitchen floor all night when there were softer places for her to sack. He woke up wobbly. He walked past her into the john. He didn’t notice she was right by his sorry ass with her head on his hip. I wouldof noticed…dog like that…. she never even asked for food when I got up to pour the frosted flakes and ate in front of her.

 

            Luther’s my kid brother – 16 – and not so clear on his path. I could tell him, I went that way, and it’s no way to go.

 

            “Wow,” I told him, “you got some love there.” But he wasn’t hearing it. He was pretty sick with the willies and hung over, and I don’t know what. I can think he didn’t want to miss her too much when he went away for a month or so, which he figured he’d get slammed into juvie when he ran out of continuances. I can’t believe they’d really lock him up for some dirty drug test and smoking – smoking, really? – and ditching class. But who knows? His worker sounds like a crazy for-power type who wants him in her circus. The more the merrier, and how much bigger she grows. Piece of work, I hear.

 

            He took it for granted, I guess, that his dog owed him since he rescued her from people had her tied to a tree. You’d think he’d be…you know…touched. Pretty dog…something  there, too.  But I guess he must of not wanted to be feeling really sorry about stuff he got yanked away from. Like it did  before.Or maybe he’s just a selfish bastard stuck on himself and it’s all about him and what’s got him all wrapped up.

 

            I got to take care of the dog if he does go. Such a deal for 40 bucks…how much they’re worth…a blue….But she always came to me second. That's how it goes sometimes,

 

[Bmichael]

“Hey Treat! Where ya goin’ baby?”

Crap…Maddy again. I look up the fire escape to the second floor. Can’t see her – she’s backed up into the shadow where she stays.

A few coughs and a gasping breath. “Why donchoo come up here a minute – got sumpin’ for ya, ya know? Bettern’ last time, no doubt, mistah.”

There was no last time – or a first time. She don’t know. Maddy is brain dead from gin. All day, all night gin. The shadow gives way to a match light and is quickly extinguished. A small puff of smoke appears and sinks slowly toward the street.

“I learnt sumpin’ new…wanna see?” the voice cackles.

I don’t. I turn and head toward the alley. Behind me a bottle breaks on the sidewalk.

“Faggot!”

 

The alley smells like puke. Garbage from the deli is piled high –  bags ripped open - contents spread by dozens of cats that scatter as I approach. Three of them run for cover behind a small  dumpster and quickly come running back. Something spooked them.

The Goat’s parked under the street lamp halfway down…and someone’s leaning against it. Muthaf… turns out to be Fatboy. This dude is weird. Gotta be in his thirties, five feet tall, 300 pounds, and dresses like something out of Spanky and Our Gang  - freakin’ beanie cap and all. Always eating. Right now he’s shoving a chili dog in his mouth with his left hand and has another – waiting - in his right. There’s one of those giant Snickers’ sticking out of his pocket – no doubt melted in this heat. Fatboy’s lips are glistening from the grease and chili is running out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and onto his red and white striped shirt. Aren’t fat people supposed to wear stripes that go up and down? His is goin’ the  other way – right to  left. He looks like that planet… what’s it called? The big one…it’s got stripes, too…and a giant spot on it that I don’t think is chili.

As I emerge from the darkness, he looks up for a second, grunts, and goes back to the chili dog.

“You wanna get off the car, you fat piece of sh…” I stop. Fatboy’s an employee. Rule number one says all employees will get along. No exceptions. Don’t have to like it…just have to do it.

He doesn’t move.  The only sound other than a pissed off cat in the dark and the artillery going off in my head, is Fatboy’s cooing…like a freakin’ pigeon, it sounds. Oh man …

He shoves the rest of the chili dog in his mouth. “Bibin wib ooo” he chokes.

Like hell you are.

“Sorry man, ain’t got no front seat”. I took the buckets out a long time ago in case something like this happened.

He reaches into his back pocket and hands me a grease stained blue envelope – a company envelope.

Shit. He’s coming.

 

 

 

[Westerly_2]

Like "the shadow gives wayto match light and is quickly extinguished." All vivid,  B, very vivid.

[Westerly_2]

            The neighbors across the street had a boatload of fireworks to burn long after ours had burned out, and we settled down on the curb to watch – me, my son and his wife and two kids. They had some sort of platform I could see in the dark and Chad’s teenaged son thought it was so great when “they set off two or three at a time like that.” So I learned something.

 

            It did seem never-ending. The blue fountain with the pine crackles gave way to the silver spume splashing higher with red and blue and green bodies – like human forms – seeming to leap overboard one after another, toward safety, or toward a wonderful swim.

 

            Behind us, the shrubbery vibrated with the hiss and bang, as though the show was behind us. I asked Chad and his son to explain the craziness of that, and it was one thing they didn’t have a good answer for.

 

            “It’s an echo,” Chad said after awhile.

 

            “An echo?”

 

            “An echo,” he said.

[Westerly_2]

Leaping Off

            He jumped from impulse to impulse like a frog leaping rock to rock, and you could always nod okay to this friend of mine, to whatever  he proposed we could do tomorrow, assured – no matter how mad the suggestion – that he could be talked out of it, or would forget it entirely. Some of his wants were for marbled notebooks from the dollar store and, good pens, so that he could inscribe his last poetic words to his estranged wife and young daughter; or else get a fifth of the good vodka with the Cyrillic writing from the Russian store, and in time for breakfast

 

            One time – well, maybe more than one time, which made each repeat seem less authentic and dire – there was the threat to trade so many ounces of something he was taking, for a gun, so that he could call up wifey and hold the phone to his head, and – he told me one drunken evening – she would hear “Boom!” as he put it, with a pop of the lips and a fine spray of spittle.

 

            He acted it out for me: left hand on phone, right hand on the mocked-up finger pointed at his temple.

            “Not a good idea,” I said, facing not for the first time the rawness of his nuttiness, and looking for a grab-bar somewhere.

 

            His unfocussed eyes searched the air for answers to a question in his head.

 

            “Would I hear an echo?” he said.

 

            “Don’t think so. Bullet travels past the speed of sound.

 

            “No echo?”

 

            “Not unless you failed miserably and ended up a maimed mess drooling creamed spinach down your chin". I smiled ruefully: just sayin’

 

            He thought about that. That would be just his luck.

 

            Sounds insensitive I know, but there are reasons.

[Bmichael]

I walk across the alley, retrieve an old milk carton, and hand it to Fatboy.

“No food in the car…we gotta go.”

Fatboy forces the chili dog into his face, slowly walks around to the passenger side chomping furiously, and sets the milk carton on the floorboard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he attempts to secure himself and the milk carton with the seat belt. The Goat fires up.  I shove a few extra revs out of the pipes, set the gear and begin a rapid acceleration down the alley – sending Fatboy sprawling backwards into the rear compartment – the milk carton remaining firmly attached to the console.

Fishtailing onto Broadway, I yell  “Stay there!”,  and slide Spooky Tooth into the player.

Am wondering what his talent is.

[Westerly_2]

Perhaps our sets of characrters can get together.

[Westerly_2]

            On the same summer evening in Happy Valley, California, Trout was getting released, Bindy was throwing her bridal magazines into the closet in disgust, and Cookie was sucking down a Foster’s and watching the auction show on the tube. It had been some time since he’d had company and he wasn’t expecting any.

 

            Trout had been released on his own recognizance with a promise to appear in court to answer to the charges – reckless driving and DUI. They had his license, they had his address, (the same as Bindy’s), and they figured they had him right where they wanted him. However, as Bindy told him the night she saw him in the ER after the crash, her place was no longer his. She was “over it, you crazy bastard.” He knew he had to figure something out.

 

            He stuffed the paperwork into the pocket of his jeans jacket and set out on foot from the courthouse lockout to the bus stop. He considered the choices. It was a half-hour wait for a ride to the nearest motel where he knew no one, but it was a short walk to the apartment of his old high school buddy. They’d been out of touch awhile now. Fact was, Cookie was a bad influence, and Bindy didn’t approve of him.

[Marilyn]

I like this one! Keep going, pleeeese ... I am presently writing advertising copy, so the creative stuff is nice to read.

[Westerly_2]

Still choosing, he caught himself by surprise in the store window, amazed at how awful he really looked. He knew he had been losing weight, but his cheeks were hollow and his face – maybe it was just the slant of the early evening sun – had taken on a greenish tint. His thick center-parted hair was greasy and matted, his jeans were scuffed and rumpled, and added to all that were the marks of new injuries. There was a butterfly strip over his left eyebrow pressing the walls of a cut together. There was an ugly purple bruise over the left cheekbone, beginning to fade to rotten green around the edges. His sore lips were swollen over sore teeth, where he probably hit the steering wheel. And he had an airbag burn on his chin that looked like he had been dragged on his face for miles.

 

            He didn’t have much starch left in him. Crashing with Cookie would be better than holing up in a rented room alone with the pain, feeling sorry. Cookie had been where he was now – many times. Trout ran a comb through the salt and blood in his hair and quickened his steps.

 

            “Damn! What the hell did you hit?” his friend asked, wrinkling up his nose under bloodshot eyes.

 

            You don’t remember blackouts, so Trout didn’t remember hitting the second car any better than he remembered hitting the first. He recalled something of running and hiding and getting scooped up and strapped down and brought in.

            “The road was wet and I spun out. Not my fault.”  Not my fault.

 

            Wearing the wide red suspenders he always wore to hold his pants up on his skinny self, Cookie turned and led the way inside to the same old dump. Not much had changed in three years – same sprung worn-out chairs and faded plaid couch. He figured his friend was still prep-cook at The Carriage House.

 

            Trout should have known better than to shoot pool at Al’s with Cookie.

 

 

[Bmichael]

(Treat and Trout? Huh?)

 

At the top of the third floor landing, the only sound was Fatboy, breathing heavily as he struggled up the stairs behind me.

I decided not to wait and headed down the hallway looking for # 319. I’d been here before, though I couldn’t say when. The name on the card said “Trout – 4A.” Not bad, but not necessarily good, either. This could go either way for him.

Stokeman’s “invitation” was meant to be heeded immediately.

By the second knock the door pulled open quickly. A scowling, thirty-something brunette in a Mott The Hoople t-shirt, baggy jeans, and barefoot, started to say something and stopped.

“What?” she barked.

I remembered her from the last time. She was sloppy drunk then - falling all over the place – waving a toaster around and threatening to call the cops.

“Where’s Trout?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a friend – need to talk to him.”

“That scum sucking piece of crap is hangin’ out down at the county since he disvovered that he ain’t smart enough to drink and drive no more and ran my car up some old lady’s butt sideways last night which means I’m out a vehicle now, and half the rent for this roach trap which is due today and…

She stopped and stared at me for a moment and slammed the door.

Heading downstairs. I met  Fatboy halfway up the first flight of steps – redfaced and out of breath hanging on the hand rail.

“C’mon man, we gotta go.”