An Oddment of Sandwiches

All For Now

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Mon, 14 May 2012 21:17:00 +0000

One hundred posts in six years is a pretty poor showing in Blogoland. All the same, I'm very happy with what happened here. I started An Oddment of Sandwiches as a place to put a few scattered sentences that didn't fit anywhere else. At some point I found myself actually writing stories, something I did not see coming despite having always intended to. Characters popped up again to suggest new stories for themselves. Two have even made a good argument for getting their own novels. It's a wonderfully strange process.

Even so, all things end, and this blog is now closed for new stories.

There will be at least one more post announcing where you can get a copy of a collection of "short and even shorter fiction," which will include the fruit of labors begun here as well as brand new stories. The collection will be available "later this year" as both an ebook and a paperback. Cost will be reasonable, I promise.

Big thanks to XO, emaw, Nick, and everyone else who took this stuff seriously. You will never know how much it means to me.

Meanwhile, captions continue over at The Odd Sandwich. (Don't be a ~~Tumblr hater~~ stranger, Nick.)

Questions? Leave them in the comments or contact me through leeingalls.com.

Temporary Crown

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 22:15:00 +0000

Melody was on her way back from the dentist when the guy from Building Management came around to remind everyone about the evacuation exercise.

“Aw-righty then folks,” he said through his mustache, “we’re going to start in about ten minutes. Once again, follow your team leaders to the designated...” and at this point no one was listening anymore, and everybody knew it.

Afterward Rajesh stopped by Melody’s cube, something he did throughout the day. He asked Garrett, her cube mate, if Melody knew about the fire drill.

“I think so?” said Garrett, with as much certainty as he said anything, which wasn't much.

“She should be done by now, don’t you think?”

“Yeah?”

As they spoke Garrett’s right eye darted between his monitor and his phone.

“Did she say whether she would be coming back after her appointment?”

“Probably?”

“OK,” Rajesh said, and walked back to his desk. Talking to Garrett always made him feel like punching Garrett.

When Melody got back to the building, she went straight to the women's restroom on the mezzanine level. It was smaller and out-of-the-way, and particularly in the late afternoon it provided a haven from the pressure cooker up on the ninth floor. Because it was connected to the restaurant on the ground floor, a fancy place with cloth napkins, it had nicer smelling soap and higher quality paper towels. And unlike the bathrooms on the ninth floor, you rarely heard anyone crying in the next stall.

Melody leaned toward the mirror to check for swelling and dried spit, setting off the automatic faucet in the process. She washed her hands and stuck a finger in her mouth and pulled her cheek aside to get a better look. Today had just been the prep work for the once and future crown on her lower left second molar, yet the temporary crown looked like a legitimate tooth.

“Way to go, little guy,” she said as clearly as her half-numbed tongue would let her.

She ran her hands under the water and dried them. She wondered how long she could get by on a temporary crown. She wondered if she would be able to pay for the crown by the time the bill came. She wondered if they repossessed dental work. She moved to a stall and had just sat down when the first alarm went off.

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Image: Twin Rivers Bathroom by talented flickr user Svadilfari, used under a Creative Commons licence.

So Is Yours

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 18:17:00 +0000

Stephanie slapped him. He braced for it, puckering his mouth on the slap side.

- Dammit, Brian! You're giving the whole thing away. Everybody is going to know it's coming.

- Sorry. Are you sure you have to slap me? It's not in the script.

- It was your idea, Spielberg.

- Yeah, but you're slapping hard.

- Sorry, but your character is a jerk.

- So is yours.

- So why are they in love?

- I don't know.

- My sister Marcy and her boyfriend are totally like this.

- Even the slapping?

- I don't think so. Maybe. Marcy was a big slapper when we were little.

- Were your family's ancestral lands on the line?

- No, stupid.

- Can we practice kiss now?

- How about one more slap?

____
Image above: "Center Stage" by talented flickr user sigma, used under a Creative Commons license.

Take A Swig, Newley

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 18:40:00 +0000

[Excerpt of interview with BG, conducted at Denver Field Office.]

Agent: So, why was Tim upset?

BG: He was freaked about it being too soon. He’s like pacing around the living room, waving his arms, you know, talking loud. Gary lets him go on for a while and finally just says, “Calm yourself, Newley.”

Agent: Newley?

BG: What? Oh, yeah. Newley is what Gary called Tim sometimes, when he was mad at him. Tim was usually El Segundo when Gary liked him, but one time Gary saw this guy named Newley on YouTube, one of those old videos with the people singing in front of a big curtain. This Newley guy has big eyes and a funny mouth and sang all loud and funny and afterward Gary says he looks like Tim, and we all laughed. Even Tim laughed, except you could tell Tim didn’t really think it was funny. He hated it. Dave called Tim Newley once and Tim cuffed him, made his nose bleed.

Agent: Did anyone else have a nickname?

BG: Yeah, we all had names that Gary called us, names from videos mostly. Dave was Wild Thing. Hamid was La Forge. I was Willis. Gary said we had to use them when we were on missions.

Agent: Did Gary also have a name for missions?

BG: Yeah, on missions he was Mr. Phelps.

Agent: OK, so let’s get back to what you were saying about Tim being upset.

BG: Yeah, so Gary calls him Newley, Tim looked mad, like he does when Gary talks to him like that, but he stopped talking. So Gary passes the bottle to him and says, “Take a swig, Newley.” That’s what we did once something was settled. And Tim takes a swig and hands it to me and I pretend that there’s a hair or something on it so I can wipe it without seeming like I don’t want anybody’s germs before I take a swig myself. But nobody was looking at me anyway. Nobody ever does. I let it splash against my mouth but I didn’t let any go in my mouth. It tastes awful. Then I passed it to Dave.

Agent: What happened then?

BG: Then Gary gets out of the lazy boy and reties the belt on his bathrobe and says, “We thank Brother Newley here for his wisdom,” but he says the last word really mean and he does this kind of bow to Tim. Then he says, “And that concludes the panel discussion portion of our program. We leave in an hour.” Then he took the bottle and walked back to the bedroom. Tim told us to start loading the guns in the van.

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Image above: It's true... by talented Flickr user james_michael_hill, used under a Creative Commons license.

The Reverend Al Bovee

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 20:33:00 +0000

At a school east of town, Reverend Al taught the youth
About Biblical stories and Biblical truth.
From “In the beginning,” on past Habakkuk,
The Reverend knew every last verse of each book.
His diction was stately, his cadence was sure
As with tented fingers he'd parse the scripture.
There were hairs 'cross his head, there were books on his shelf.
The Reverend Al Bovee was pleased with himself.

The pride of the Reverend Al Bovee’s garage
Was a dark green sedan manufactured by Dodge.
This six-cylinder chariot ran like a top.
The wheels made it turn, the brakes made it stop.
It carried him swiftly to the church that he served,
It got decent mileage, was not known to swerve.
It was such a delight that he’d just let it pass when
Boys would snicker and ask, “Reverend Al, how’s your Aspen?”

Wise Men

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 12:00:00 +0000

"And those three over there are the Wise Men."

Grandpa Joe chuckled and called to his wife.

"Did you hear that, Ma? Those three stars are the Wise Men."

"Aren't they?" A crinkle of worry appeared on the little boy's forehead.

"Oh, you bet they are! It's just that Grandma never got a chance to study up on all this when she was your age, so I wanted to make sure she heard."

The boy asked whether Grandma went to school and Grandpa said sure she did.

"But it was different where she went to school, over in the Ozarks. The school was just a cave up in the hills and all the kids wore animal fur to keep warm."

"Really?"

"Yep, and they had shoes made out of potatoes. And you had to travel in packs to make sure the wolves didn't eat you up!"

"Uh-uh!" the boy squealed and toppled over laughing.

Grandma came out on the back porch carrying the boy's little sister. Freshly bathed, the girl's eyes were closed, lips tight around her binky.

"Don't get him all riled up before bed."

"Oh, come on, Ma. It's summer."

They all sat and listened to the crickets chirp. The boy asked if they could talk to his mom and dad again on the computer.

"It's about four in the morning over there now," said Grandpa. "Your folks need their rest."

Grandma got up to take the little girl back inside.

"Don’t stay out too long, Joe. The bugs are starting to bite."

_____
Image: Evenings On The Porch, by talented Flickr user Lizard10979, used under a Creative Commons license.

A Bower Quiet

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 18:44:00 +0000

Reynolds lowered himself into the hammock with a deftness that belied his girth. Dropping his right shoulder he was suddenly belly up, swinging wildly a moment then settling into a comforting sway, the nylon chords groaning in sympathy with the hardware that attached it to the metal frame. His nephew Jared dithered at the back door.

Behold the conquering oaf, thought Reynolds, casting his eyes into the canopy of oak leaves.

Jared hauled a chair off the porch, one of the Adirondacks Marion spent so much time in near the end. He barked a shin in the process and was puffing by the time he sat down, only to stand up sharply and remove the sheaf of papers he had folded once lengthwise and put in his back pocket.

-I'm sure gonna miss her, Uncle Reynolds.

Reynolds said nothing but continued to swing, aware that this left Jared uncertain where to go next. Jared sat awhile with a worried forehead, smoothing the crease he’d made down the center of the pages. After a while, he offered to fetch a glass of iced tea from the kitchen.

-Help yourself, Reynolds said. I'm fine.

-Sure I can't get you anything?

Reynolds rocked a while and Jared waited, clearly uncertain whether to ask again, or to sit back, or just go on into the house and look for that iced tea. The boy did look thirsty. But instead he sat. Eventually Reynolds spoke.

-If you go in the house, bring me that bottle of sour mash on the counter and a jelly jar. You still abstemious?

Jared sat up straight.

-Yes, I am, Uncle Reynolds.

-Well, then. Don't bother bringing a glass for yourself.

____

Image: Home Tree by talented flickr user Jason A. Samfield, used under a Creative Commons license.

Obey The Red Hand

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 10 May 2011 18:19:00 +0000

Paul happily agreed to walk Boris, his neighbors’ Pomeranian, while they were in Ireland.

“He’s a lovely boy,” Aidan said. “Bit of a psycho around other dogs. You’ll do well to steer clear of the park with him.”

The McGowans said to spend as much time as he liked in their apartment, to keep Boris company, and to eat and drink whatever was in the fridge. As he’d hoped, dog sitting turned out to be a pleasant working vacation for Paul, one that didn’t cost anything and also didn’t require him to leave Chicago. He got a bunch of work done on his thesis, since his wife Marisa was spending the week preparing for a big case at her firm’s office in St. Louis. Best of all, it also provided a welcome respite from Ian, Marisa’s younger brother, who had become stuck in their apartment since dropping out of Valpo after his second year and had so far resisted every social and vocational Heimlich maneuver intended to dislodge him.

Every morning Paul would run Boris out to the strip of grass in front of the building for a quick pee, then go off to teach his 9:30 class followed by some time in the library. He’d return to the McGowans’ in the afternoon to grade papers or work on his thesis. Around 4:00, he and Boris would make the loop up Kenmore to Loyola and back down Sheridan. Then Paul would grab some take-out and keep working while Boris snoozed on his plush little dog bed. Around 11, he’d head back down to his apartment, where Ian was usually still on the couch watching TV and texting back and forth with one of his friends back in Terre Haute.

On Friday, Paul put on his jacket before the afternoon dogwalk and noticed something in the inside pocket: the envelope with the check for the gas bill, the envelope he had assured Marisa he’d mailed the day before she left for St. Louis, a discussion they had because the payment was late. He told her he’d mailed it because he was sure he had mailed it. In fact, he could distinctly remember dropping it in the slot at the big post office in the Loop. So what envelope was that? This question occupied Paul’s mind for much of their walk, along with why Marisa was still so resistant to paying bills online. What, was she 70 or something?

As he and Boris were about to make the turn from Sheridan onto Granville and back to the apartment building, Paul spotted the mailbox on the other side of the street, just outside the entrance to Berger Park. While he was looking, the signal changed from a red hand to a white walking man.

We’ll be back across before the light changes, Paul thought. He scanned the other side of the street for dogs and saw none. Good. He and the little dog dashed across. He dropped the envelope in the box and pulled the door open again to make sure it had dropped. It had. Good. Boris peed on the northeast leg of the mailbox, for luck. Good. But when was the last collection time?

It took a surprising amount of effort to remove the snarling ball of fury that was Boris from the yelping and terrified Great Dane pup which had materialized out of nowhere, and whose owners were both shouting at Paul in what he took to be Polish. Paul struggled to remember how to say, “I’m sorry,” in Polish (or even Russian might be close enough), but all he could come up with was “Con permisso,” which was not well received. The Dane's owners hurried on down Sheridan, the woman looking back occasionally to cartoonishly shake a fist at him.

“Let’s go, killer,” Paul said. He loop the leash around his hand to take up the slack and discovered that there was no Boris at the other end. The bejeweled collar was still there, but there was no Boris in sight. Then Paul heard a distant snarl from inside the park.

The Other Side of The Wall

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 21:08:00 +0000

The rule in our town was that you never climbed over the stone wall that surrounded the old monastery. Some folks even walked faster on the stretch of road that passed by its circular gate. The men had bricked up the gate years ago, after the counter revolution had purged the order, burning many of the monks as witches and scattering the rest.
Some people said that at night, when it rained, the bricks grew redder until the opening in the gray limestone wall became a large mouth that would swallow up anyone who came near. Most folks thought this was just a story told to frighten children.

Of course some broke the rule and went over the wall, finding gaps or low spots. Some went to smoke before the permitted age, some to kiss before their appointed day, and some just to see what was on the other side. A wall, a fence, a barrier can have this effect on people.

I went over the first time on a dare. Temmus Coopson said I wouldn't because I was scared and a girl. So I scrambled right over. To this day I’m not sure how I did it. What was on the other side? Trees, mostly, and tall grass and the wind blowing through them. I brought back a hedge apple from one of the trees and waved it in his face. Temmus grabbed it from me and threw it and stomped away. I went and found it and took it home. It smelled of dirt and flowers and fresh-cut wood and was wonderfully ripe-melon heavy. I set it on my dressing table next to my hairbrush and comb.

That night a flash of lightning woke me. I closed my eyes and waited to hear the thunder but it never came. I soon grew drowsy again but just as I was drifting off there came another flash of light. I went to the window and drew aside the shade. The sky was clear and the stars shone and the moon hung over the barn. It must have been a dream, I thought. Then there was another flash, but it came from inside my room, behind me, on the table.

_____
Image: Quarry Wall Under Forest Moonlight by talented flickr user encouragement, used under a Creative Commons license.

Packing Up

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 22:08:00 +0000

- Give me an H!
- Why?
- No, silly, an H!
- No, stupid, why. Like why should I give you anything?

Deb dropped the pom-poms back in the box and sat down next to Drew.

- What's the matter, monkey?
- Why do you have to go?
- It's college, you know that. Someday you're going to go off to college, too, you know. Of course, it'll be a state school, if you’re lucky, but at least there won't be any pouty babies to leave behind.
- Very comforting.
- And now you get to live here over the garage. In what will forever and always be known as my room. But still, you get to live in it. For a while!

Drew finally cracked a smile.

- Now let's finish putting all this high school crap in these boxes and get out of here. I feel a Gaskin Blobbins run coming on.
- Are you really keeping this “world's greatest girlfriend” trophy? You and Troy aren't even going out anymore.
- Oh yes, I'm keeping it. Someday, when he least expects, I'm going to drop it on his big fat head.

_____ Image: pencil jar by talented flickr user Muffet.

Listen to Me, Dutchman

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 18:41:00 +0000

With another hour before the dinner service begins, Norman Martina and the Dutchman are smoking in the old card room on the third floor. Between them sits the ghost of Henry Grau, the club's former manager, savoring the fumes.

- I got to get out of this place.
- Yeah.
- I mean it, Dutchman! I got to go back to Aruba.
- Long as I know you, Martina, ten years now, you say this every winter.

Mostly used for storage, the card room had also become the winter break room for the remaining smokers on the staff, every one of whom figured that when old man Grau quit, after his heart attack two seasons ago, it wouldn't be long before he made them stand outside like smokers everywhere else.

- Last night my mother she come to me in a dream, Dutchman. And all my sisters too.
- They need money?
- It's no joke, man! I'm sitting right in this room and that old elevator from the kitchen --
- Dumbwaiter, says Grau.
- What?

Despite or perhaps due to this compulsory abstemiousness, Grau looked the other way the first winter. Keep a window cracked, he growled, and police your butts.

- I didn't say nothing, Martina.
- That's the name for it, says Grau.
- Whatever they call it, says Martina, the damn thing open up and there's all this light coming out.
- I don't think it even works anymore, not for years.

Grau died the next summer, after the disastrous Levine-Kauffman wedding. Karla found him slumped on the stairs, a few steps short of the third floor landing.

- You should go, says Grau.
- What?
- They stand all around me and then we start to rise up.

The Dutchman’s mind is suddenly flooded with an image: light coming through the ladder windows of his mother’s apartment on the Henriette Ronnerplein in Amsterdam.

- Wait, what happens?
- Listen to me, Dutchman!
- You should go.

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Image: Stacks of chairs by talented flickr user tyrone warner, used under a Creative Commons license.

Poco a Poco (Ma Non Troppo)

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 21:13:00 +0000

Emily jumped visibly every time the store’s electric door chime sounded.

Jesus, relax already, Nikki said. He probably won't even come in today.

Roger Greenwood had been coming into the store every morning for several weeks now to order a cup of coffee and then stand at the counter chatting amiably about himself and the many things he knew. This fascinated Emily, who came from a place where people took care to either not know too much or to conceal that knowledge.

She'd never met anyone who made their living as a composer, even if most of it sounded like someone trying to remember a long-forgotten hymn while kittens ran back and forth across the keys. But Berkeley was turning out to be full of people engaged in pursuits she either hadn’t heard of or wouldn't have thought viable.

Roger held his spot at the counter with one boney elbow and one hand propped against his oversized head. Occasionally his long fingers would trace an unheard passage on the counter while he spoke. Eventually he'd say something like, “Well, I’ll let you get back to work,” even though Emily hadn't stopped working the entire time.

Nikki was less charmed by the daily performance. He’s a glorified piano teacher, she’d say after he left. Emily knew Roger was basically full of it. All the same, the effort he put into impressing her was very flattering.

What she couldn't figure out on this cringey Monday was why she had agreed to drive down to Half Moon Bay with him the weekend before. On the upside, she now knew that she was allergic to mussels and that she hated grappa. What bothered her was that she wasn’t sure what happened after Roger kindly yet graspingly helped her out of the car and up to her apartment.

Cagey in Matters Aestival

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 18 May 2010 21:28:00 +0000

- Why won't you tell me what you’re doing this summer?

Susan looked up from her book. Todd stood in the kitchen doorway fastening his apron with the single-loop bow he’d recently mastered.

- Like I told you, it's research and I can’t talk about it. Are you looking forward to equestrian camp?
- Fine, change the subject.

Next came the sound of water rushing from the faucet. Susan flipped her readers back down to her nose.

- Honey, it's only three weeks. We'll go to the lake when I get back. I promise.
- Can't talk now, Mom, this kitchen is a disaster. Korma must be the Hindi word for explosion.

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Image above by talented flickr user neitherfishnorflesh, used under a Creative Commons license.

9 portraits

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Wed, 12 May 2010 17:36:00 +0000

Portrait of the artist walking home from kindergarten, wearing an Indian headdress made from multicolored yarn and construction paper.

Portrait of the artist gnawing the sparkly polish off an already ragged nail.

Portrait of the artist misjudging the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs and spending the bulk of the sleepover at the emergency room with his mother.

Portrait of the artist pooting discretely as she waits in line at Starbucks, hoping the surrounding effluvia of coffee fumes will provide sufficient cover.

Portrait of the artist holding up his pants with one hand as he runs to catch the 71X.

A portrait of the artist, hung over at 2 PM on a Sunday, searching the cushions of her late-model Datsun for the ring she "borrowed" from her mother's jewelry box.

Portrait of the artist eating an untoasted toaster pastry while on hold with tech support.

Portrait of the artist in the lobby of his dentist's office building, pressing the elevator button repeatedly while a West Indian doorman shakes his head.

Portrait of the artist in Aisle 12 placing a bottle of sweetened ice tea at the back of a shelf after drinking a portion of its contents.*

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* Video installation from store security camera also available. See catalogue.

Background Action

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Wed, 05 May 2010 20:54:00 +0000

- Hey look, I’m sick and tired of playing wet nurse to you all the time. Will you do your own homework, Marv?

The kid from Kenosha looked at Bill expectantly.

- Huh? Come on! OK, I’ll tell you. That’s the Charlie Sheen character in Wall Street.

The electrical crew was still messing with the lights, even though the female lead had stormed off in tears 45 minutes ago and it had been an hour and a half since they’d filmed anything. The kid was working his way through bits of dialogue from 80s movies. Classics, he called them. Bill acknowledged each bit politely before returning to his copy of Long Day's Journey.

- Anybody famous ever done that play?

- Ever heard of Jack Lemmon or Kevin Spacey?

- The Glengarry Glen Ross dudes? Dude!

Here the kid launched into the Alec Baldwin steak knife speech. When he finished, Bill pointed out that the character was not in the original stage play.

- So which one are you going to be?

- Which what?

- Are you Jack Lemmon or Kevin Spacey?

- I'm playing Jamie, the older... I’m Kevin Spacey.

- Will you go to lunch? Will you go to lunch? Remember that part?

Bill looked at his watch: 2:45 AM. He blinked hard to wet the contacts that were rapidly drying to his eyeballs. Did he really need the $150 he’d make tonight this badly? Yes, in fact, he did.

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Image above, kliegs by talented flickr user steveburnett, used under a Creative Commons license.

Stamps

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 22:31:00 +0000

Ray looked out the window and there it was: his ex-wife’s name on the sidewalk. A tidy row of capital letters six feet from the table he’d been sitting at for twenty minutes, thumbing through one of the free weeklies as he summoned the fortitude to get on the train and go to work. The same coffee place he’d been coming to almost every morning for the last six months. The coffee place around the corner from his apartment.

He spotted two more on his way to the office and another one that evening coming back from the grocery store.

It was her surname, her “maiden name” for the eighteen months and ten days they were married. The name she said she hated but took back before the divorce was final. Underneath the name was a number, which happened to be the same number as their house back in Ann Arbor, the two-bedroom bungalow her parents helped them with the down payment for. The house she was living in today with that guy Ramesh from the gym and his free weights.

Both the name and the number were on an envelope that Ray had been carrying around for several weeks. He’d already signed and initialed all the papers. He just kept forgetting to buy postage.

Damon, the sarcastic but so far completely reliable who ran the coffee place, told Ray they were called stamps.

“It’s the name of one of the cement companies the city hired to pave the sidewalks back in the 30s and 40s,” said Damon. “Don’t they have sidewalks where you’re from? The number is the year they poured the concrete. They’re all over the place. A guy’s got a whole web site about it.”

Ray said it must be high-quality concrete, considering how well the stamps were holding up.

“It doesn’t snow or freeze out here,” said Damon. “Those stamps can last a long time.”

Ray stopped at the post office on his lunch break that day. Rather than leaving the envelope with the woman behind the counter, he walked it over to the slot in the wall himself, releasing it to the blessed oblivion of the postal system by his own hand.

In the weeks that followed, he kept his head down as he roamed the neighborhood, looking for the name and the number. At first he stepped around the stamps but eventually began to aim for them, pushing off for an extra long speed skater’s stride. He was doing one of these moves when he met his second wife. And broke his tooth on her chin.

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[Image above by Lee.]

Thanks for reading

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 19:31:00 +0000

Just a quick note to let the three of you know that I'm putting this blog on the shelf, while I focus my noodling energies elsewhere. When and if I'm back in the groove, posting of tiny shards of psuedo-lit and such will resume. Meanwhile, happy trails!

Best,
Lee

Samson up on the Good Foot

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 19:14:00 +0000

Samson Pettyjohn entered the gift shop bathroom a bomb squad newbie, hounded by an imminent disaster he was only theoretically sure he could avert. He left the still largely antiseptic chamber a freshly commuted death row prisoner, wanting to hug both the governor and his underpaid defense team, but mostly hungry for breakfast. His world-brightening sense of gratitude led him to consider buying something so he paused for moment to peruse the racks of personalized key chains fobs, pocket knives and tiny license plates. None of them had his name stamped on them, much less "Sam," which was just as well since he'd never cared for the nickname.

Instead he made for the door, which had just admitted a voluble group of elderly women in bright patterned smocks, stretch pants and comfy shoes, all a-cackle over the knickknacks and ready for an early lunch at the adjacent cafeteria. Samson wove between them smiling and murmuring polite excuse-me-ma'ams. He eventually found himself face-to-face with a sprightly crone who matched him zig for zag and zag for zig until he finally grabbed her hands and executed a jump-skip to the left and another the right, repeating the process until he was on the door side.

- Hey Wilma! This one knows how to polka!

- Sneek him onto the bus!

Image Al's Oasis, SD by talented flickr user thebristolkid, used under a Creative Commons license.

This Year's Luck

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 15:16:00 +0000

A sharp pain in his side woke Himmelfarb and when he opened his eyes he was back on the Upper West Side, the sun behind the buildings now, falling further toward the Hudson. A block or so away, an ambulance shouldered its way through the intersection of 72nd and Broadway, blatting its horn in combination with its siren to clear the cars and pedestrians.

Where was Ronnie? Himmelfarb had sent him back to Gray's for two more dogs and another papaya juice. Not so much kraut this time, he had called to the shambling figure already several paces down the sidewalk. I hate a soggy bun!

That was an hour ago. Probably the kid was hanging around outside one of the clothing stores, mooning over the mannequins. Nothing to worry about. Himmelfarb closed his eyes and tried not to worry. He didn't need the extra hot dog anyway. They should be saving their money. And so on.

It was one of those rare September days, still warm but clear, a breeze off the Atlantic easing the heat and stink from the pavement. It made him feel expansive, hopeful even, to sit there on the bench, nestled in the whir of the great city. But the turn in the weather was also a reminder that fall was upon them, with winter at its heels. Himmelfarb, he told himself, it's past time to start making winter arrangements for you and your half-wit charge.

Their luck was beginning to ebb. Ronnie's seizures were becoming more frequent and his own diabetes was getting worse. They were lucky last year with the house in Rhinebeck but the neighbors were wise to them now, and his sister's children had unloaded her place in Sheepshead Bay within a week of the funeral. The funeral that he wasn't invited to. If they didn't catch a break soon, they would find themselves at the mercy of the religious nuts and the bureaucrats, of whom none were to be trusted.

Casting his nets about the five boroughs and beyond, Himmelfarb heard the approach of two chatty private school girls in plaid skirts and blue blazers. Slipping heavy bookbags from their shoulders, they prepared to bivouac at the next bench down. He smiled and lifted his weather-beaten hat to the girl facing him. She looked through him and kept talking.

Seriously, it's gonna be the old man.

The ambulance siren rose again and the pain shot back, this time in Himmelfarb's ribs.

The other girl said, That's what they want you to think.

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Image above: Leaves on an empty bench by talented flickr user Ed Yourdon, used under a Creative Commons license.

Regarding The Sycamore Hotel

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 17:05:00 +0000

Penningfeld wanted it. Wanted it bad. He had Daisy talk the mayor into letting him bid, something that required a waiver (and something that would cost the mayor a week of bad press during the next election). The reason Penningfeld wanted it so much was because Mitch and his German backers were bidding, the bunch of kraut hoodlums.

Before you heard about that you couldn't care less about that old pile of bricks, Daisy said, hooking her bra slipping into her dress again. She turned away and backed toward him. Button those last two buttons for me, will you, hon?

Penningfeld laid his cigar in the ashtray by the open window and stepped around to the other side of the desk.

You don't know what that old pile of bricks means to me, he said, fumbling with top button. Bah! Don't they usually make these things with zippers?

Some of us are old fashioned, Daisy said, slipping the folder labeled "Mitchell Enterprises" into the Parade Magazine from Penningfeld's Sunday paper.

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Image: Crystal Ashtray by talented flickr user zharth, used under a Creative Commons license.

Illuminati

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 16:53:00 +0000

Holly now owned three antique lamps, none of which she had sought.

First the wisteria Tiffany Lamp with the tree trunk base that belonged to her mother and which Holly had rewired herself, much to her father's discomfort. The brass torchiere came from her cousin Rick's brief flirtation with antiquing. And now the swan-shaped kerosene lamp whose red fuel sloshed as Aunt Doreen set it on the coffee table.

It's passed through four generations of Penders, said Doreen, who was never shy about pointing out that she was not a Pender herself. Loren used to light it every Christmas, the old fool.

Doreen had sold her and Uncle Loren's house in Roan Heights and was parceling out their antiques ahead of her move into Elmhaven. Holly ran her thumb across a chip in the swan's beak and thought that she'd really rather have the old house.

If you don't get busy and have some kids you're gonna be stuck with everybody's junk.

Titles of upcoming works

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 16:20:00 +0000

A Bitch in Every Direction
Chew, Chew, Swallow
Everybody’s Ex-Boyfriend
Here Comes the Neighborhood
The Gospel According to Tough Shit Jack
My Concrete Friend
The Once and Future Tadpole
The Pockmarked Soul
Someplace You've Already Been
Things I Would Have Told You Had We Been Speaking
Three Old Ladies and a Bowl of Chili
Too Good for Ralph
T.R. Reed is an Enormous Buttwipe

The Book of Your Life

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 16:59:00 +0000

The week before last, a postcard arrived informing me in bureaucratic type that the book of my life was ready and where I could pick it up.

Location: Barlow Community Center
Time: Saturday 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Please present this card along with one (1) form of legal ID

You probably remember the Barlow Community Center as Central Methodist, the big church downtown where Locust merges with Main. We used to have chess club meetings there, before the Methodists sold the building to the city and moved out to Kallendar Heights (south of the mall) to a bigger building with a gym. (You broke Chris Coster's nose during a church league volleyball tournament out there, remember?)

I talked Cathy into driving me down there and the fact that I bought breakfast did nothing for her mood. Get there early, she kept saying, but I wasn't sure I could face it on an empty stomach. She also groused about the fact that we had to park three blocks away. A little walking won't kill us, I said, then added, Or will it? She didn't appreciate the joke.

By the time we got there, the line had already reached the door. Inside, in what used to be the Fellowship Hall, it was like Election Day: a group of older ladies sat behind a line of folding tables. I recognized the one who took my card and put a mark next to my name in a binder. It was Shirley Wilson, the woman who used to drive the library's bookmobile from school to school. I thanked her when she handed back my numbered chit. When she looked up to say you're welcome, I saw the milky gleam of cataracts behing her glasses.

So what happens is you take the numbered chit upstairs to the old sanctuary (they use it for lectures and concerts now) and file past a group of wooly-eared old men on the stage pulling books out of numbered cardboard boxes. They look so ordinary. No dust jacket, nothing on the spine, but open it up and there's your name and birth date on the title page.

I thumbed through mine most of the way back in the car and I pretty much ignored everything else I intended to do that weekend. I paid no bills, the laundry went unwashed, and the hinge on the hall closet door still squeaks.

Cathy called a couple times but I didn't pick up. I would have felt guilty about it if this wasn't exactly what happened when her book arrived. She moped around her apartment for days with her brow furrowed, flipping back and forth between the table of contents and the index at the back trying to make sense of something in the middle.

Within a week the same thing that happened to her book happened to mine: The binding came apart and the pages started to fall out. Half of them aren't even numbered, and when they are, the numbers don't always match the index. Same thing with the endnotes. And today I noticed that the print on the pages of my book is starting to fade, just like Cathy's did. She's been using her old pages for grocery lists, bookmarks or coasters.

So when your postcard arrives, if they manage to find your new address, you might consider just throwing it out. I hear the unclaimed books get recycled.

The Squirrel and the Length of Twine

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 21:34:00 +0000

This is a story about a squirrel and a length of twine. It starts out very nicely, as stories go, but let me warn you now: there is trouble ahead. Nothing much can be done about it, but I thought you should know.

There is a squirrel who lives in a very high tree and seldom goes out. He has an elaborate collection of shells in his nest, and this collection takes up a lot of his time. He polishes and arranges and rearranges the shells according to various categories. He corresponds by mail with other collectors and reads scholarly shell collection journals and he's made notes toward a scholarly article on the filbert (Corylus maxima).

I have an very fulfilling existence, the squirrel tells himself. I have my work. Yet he becomes transfixed when he hears the other squirrels screeching in the other trees and often finds that he's been leaning, vacant-eyed, over his work bench, paws up and ears cocked.

One day the squirrel looked out of his nest and saw a length of twine hanging down over the opening. He leaned out and gave it a cautious sniff. Nothing, just a length of twine-smelling twine. He returned to his shell collection and several days passed before he noticed the twine again.

One evening, after treating himself to a vintage California Black walnut (Juglans californica), he decided to stretch his legs. He batted the twine out of the way, hopped out onto one of the larger limbs and looked around. He saw leaves and branches swaying in the air. He breathed some of this air. Distant other-screeching floated through the late afternoon. Then he hopped back into his nest to attend to a newly acquired Brazil nut (Bertholletia excelsa).

Several days later, on a day when the other squirrels were especially loud, he found himself crouched at the entrance to his nest, trying to locate the source of the screeching. He noticed the length of twine again. He took it tentatively in one paw and gave it a little tug, just to see if it was connected to anything, and was startled when it gave a little tug in return.

I should make some notes on this, he thought as he looked up the side of the tree, craning his neck and squinting to see where the string came from. He gave it another, slightly firmer tug and got another, slightly firmer tug in return. Then, for some reason neither the squirrel nor I can figure out, he took the length of twine in both of his hind paws and gave it the mightiest yank he could muster.

As you might have guessed, the length of twine mightily yanked the squirrel right out his nest. For several terrifying seconds the squirrel tumbled through a blur of air and limbs and leaves, not knowing up from down or down from up. By a stroke of good fortune, he landed safely on a pile of leaves, and lay there for awhile looking at what he could see of the sky through the trees. One seldom sees the world from this angle, he thought, cradling his neck in his front paws and crossing one hind leg over the other.

Here's where the trouble begins.

The squirrel heard a rustling in the leaves behind him and looked up and back to see the biggest pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. He noticed right away that they were almond shaped and liked this very much. The eyes belonged to another squirrel who appeared to be smiling. The squirrel smiled himself and was surprised to hear himself let out a joyful screech.

From this point on the squirrel's story becomes unreliable. The squirrel insists that he'd seen this pair of eyes earlier, back when he looked up the side of his tree to find out where the twine came from. When I ask why he didn't say something about this before, he rolls his eyes and tells me that if I don't like his story I should make up one of my own. But I have only this squirrel to work with.

However whatever happened happened, the squirrel is much happier these days, although it would have been difficult to convince him that he wasn't very happy before he got yanked out of his tree. You will hear him screeching now and then, but he hasn't spent much time around his nest for several weeks. His shell collection has gathered a fine layer of dust.

Image above by lee.

Harriet at Lunch

noreply@blogger.com (WLIB) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 17:09:00 +0000

After she left for lunch, Harriet Trooping forgot where she worked, which was just as well. Since she was still hungry, she went to a friend's house to ask for some food and was very surprised when her son Nebuchadnezzar opened the door.

"You didn't tell me you were spending the day at the neighbors," Harriet said, taking off her shoes and lying down on the floor. "Mmm, we should get carpet like this for our house."

"Mom, this is our house," said Neb, rolling his eyes. "And you know that Nefertiti and I make meth in the garage with Dad on Wednesdays."

Harriet closed her eyes and smiled, thinking how proud she was that her god-like children were so good at chemistry. And double-entry accounting. And locksmithery.

"Oh, say. Can you or Nef go see if Mommy shut off her car? I think I forgot."

The boy dutifully shuffled out the front door and proceeded to back Harriet's Volvo station wagon out of the cedar bushes at the back of the yard, the same bedraggled bushes that so often kept the car from drifting into the ravine behind their property.

"Here are your keys," Neb said when he returned.

Harriet said thank you, put the fob of her key chain in her mouth, and went back to sleep.

Image above: pink shag carpeting by talented flickr user Ye Olde Wig Shoppe, (used under a Creative Commons by-share-alike license).