August 01, 2008
Beesting
I finished my second lap and crouched in the shallow end so my chest remained below the surface.
Before I begin a swim I exercise my compulsion to keep the pool tidy, and I paddle about collecting the stray leaves that have settled on the water and tossing them out. I aim for the shrubs by the fence, but they almost always land near or on one of the deck chairs. I don't mind that. It's not tidy, but I know they won't stick to my face as I plow through the water.
As I crouched I saw something floating, something alive. A bee bobbed upside-down, one leg twitching.
I walked through the water, lifting and lowering my legs like an astronaut, and peered down at the bee - wanting to get a close look, but cautious.
I thought I remembered learning from a nature show that insects breathe through their skin, or exoskeleton, or whatever. Which meant the bee, covered in water, was drowning.
I cupped my hands under the bee in order to toss it up on the pavement. The water splashed and the bee tried to right itself. Then it stung me.
"Fuck!" is what I said.
I droped the bee back in the water and stared at my finger. The stinger was embedded on the inside of the ring finger of my right hand, in the soft tissue opposite the knuckle. It hurt, but not as much as the bee stings I had as a child. The skin immediately around the stinger was red and the ring of skin around that slowly turned white, creating a bulls-eye.
The moment of anger was already passed, so I cupped my hands again, much more cautiously, even though I knew that the bee's stinger was still in my finger and it couldn't possibly sting again. I also remembered that once a bee had stung it would soon die. And as I looked at the bee in the water it was no longer twitching, and its body had curled up in typical insect rigor mortis. But the bee needed some dignity, didn't it? And I didn't want to bump into a bee carcass as I swam anyway. I splashed the dead thing to the edge and managed to splash it up over the side without having to touch it.
I stared at it for a while. It wasn't moving much, but one wing seemed to flap a little - although it may have been the wind.
I wanted it to be grateful to me, but knew an insect was not capable of gratitude. I wanted it to be safe and healthy and be able to return to its hive, but I knew it wouldn't and even knew that it didn't matter. That's the thing with bees: there are always more to take the places of the fallen.
I turned back to my position at the edge of the pool and studied my finger and then looked out at the pool for any more debris.
There were three more bees floating in the water.
I very carefully splashed them up on to the pavement without getting stung and watched their tiny bodies writhe on the cement, as though they were trying to wipe the water off themselves - weakly trying to overcome the surface tension of the water.
Once I was finished I got ready again for another lap and saw more things floating in the water. This time it was two big black ants. They looked like they were trying to swim, clawing at the top of the water with their forelegs in that instinctive way that all creatures seem to employ.
I watched them struggle, then said "Fuck it," dried off, and went inside.
Posted by mslaybau at 07:29 AM | Comments (0)
June 10, 2008
Soup
I was the only one left, in my usual booth. My friends had gone home and I was holding my one last drink, staring through the little window in the door out into the night.
Jag lumbered out of the kitchen and murmured for a while with Alyson the bartender before slumping onto the bench beside me.
Jag's real name was Jerome Andrew something-Italian-that-begins-with-G. As a kid, his mother had called him "Romy" and it took moving to the other side of the continent to shed that name.
He slouched against the upholstery, his belly pushing against the table. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "That's it, man."
"Yep". I took a sip of my drink.
"No more."
"Nope". I took another sip.
"My last night."
"Mmm. Hunh?" I held my glass in mid-air.
"Tomorrow I'm gonna... I don't know. I don't know!" Jag laughed and drummed the table. "It's been a while since I could say that!"
I took a sip. "What's up, man?"
"How was it tonight? Did you like it?"
"What?"
"Come on. The usual." He turned to look me in the face and saw me staring bemusedly. "The soup, dude. How was the soup?"
"Uh, good. Actually, yeah, I got the soup, and it was good. Yeah. Bern and Ellen had a taste and they liked it too. Yeah. It was good tonight. Better I think."
"Better?"
"Yeah, a little different. I mean it's always different, you know? You know I made that joke once about how the soup tasted like you just put one spoonful of everything you had in the kitchen? But it's always different. And it was different tonight. But in a good way."
"What way?"
"I don't know. Those other times it was like it was nearly there but just missed. Sometimes missed wide, but always missed. And tonight I think you nailed it."
Jag leaned back and sighed. "Yeah. Thanks man. I think I nailed it, too."
I took a few more sips while Jag stared through the little window in the door.
"It was my grandmother, you know?"
"What's that?" I put my drink down again.
"My grandmother. She was teaching me some of her recipes when I was a kid. There was this one soup recipe she had. It had been her grandmothers back in Europe. We left the stove and she sat down at the table and started writing it down. She was laughing and saying you should never write down the recipes; you should just remember them. Because if there's anything you forget, then it shouldn't be in there anyway. Plus, it's bad luck. So as she's getting to the last ingredient, the last step, she stiffens up and drops the pencil. She's having a stroke. I shout out and my brother runs in and she goes to the hospital. She's there for about a week before she died. One day when I'm alone with her in the bed I show her the paper she was writing on. She hasn't said a word now, but she looks at me and kind of moves her jaw, moves her hand, but then just goes back to sleep. She died the next day and I was upset that she was dead, but also because I never learned the last ingredient."
Jag shifted in his seat, still staring through the little window.
"I've done lots of things, had lots of jobs. I was happy when I got this job. I tried to do like my grandma taught me, tried to do things the way she did and her family did, back in Europe. I started including her recipes on the menu, but I held off on the soup because I didn't know how to do it right. But, when I had already done all the other recipes I tried making the soup. And each night I would stir in a different ingredient as the last step: a pinch of oregano, juice from a far of olives, a tablespoon of truffle oil, everything I could think of. And as I started getting bored of this job, tired of the repetition, I got more and more into perfecting this soup, and the more crazy things I tried. But this morning when I woke up I decided I was going to quit. I was going to give Charlie two weeks. I come in today and tell him and he's upset and he tells me not to come in tomorrow, I'm fired. Then he realizes he needs me at least for one more night, so I wash up and get started. The soup was on the menu, and I said to hell with it, but it turns out to be just right."
I took another sip, expecting Jag to finish, but he remained silent. "So, what was the missing ingredient?"
He turned to me. "Hmm? Oh. No, it wasn't like that. I had been making that same mistake all along. Grandma wasn't telling me to do something. She was telling me to do nothing. Leave it alone. Let the soup breathe a bit. Don't even stir it. Let it be."
Jag and I talked some more, about mundane things such as where he was going to look for another job, travel, women, etc. I haven't seen him since that night, although I heard he's running for office somewhere.
Posted by mslaybau at 10:53 PM | Comments (0)
April 17, 2008
The Sandwich
Tom sat at a cafe, sipping coffee from a mug, looking at the local paper without actually reading it.
He hadn't eaten yet and looked around for somewhere to get a bite. The cafe only served cookies and what they called scones, but he didn't want that sort of thing. He could see a donut shop and a deli at the end of the street. Tom could imagine what they had to offer, and knew none of it would satisfy him.
There were at least two each of taco joints, Chinese take-out holes-in-the-wall and pizzerias within a couple of blocks from where he sat, but having eaten at all those places in the past, he knew he wouldn't go back except out of desperation.
At the other end of the street was a food cart set up on the sidewalk that Tom had never noticed before. He couldn't tell, but assumed they sold hot dogs, gyros, pretzels, etc. maybe bagels. One of those might hit the spot, but he had always been wary of eating street meat. His friend Paul had once tried to convince him that there was a much higher incidence of food poisoning at restaurants than at outdoor food carts, but Tom remained skeptical.
Still, perhaps the food cart would be the best option, given the paucity of other choices.
He took another sip of coffee and looked into the cup. He could barely see his shadowed reflection looking back up, looking like a ghost. Tom realized the coffee wasn't very good. He studied the cart, looking for a menu painted on the outside, but finding none, although it was hard to tell: the whole thing was painted like a gypsy caravan or aged carnival wagon, with stripes and ribbons concealing any writing that might be there. A number of people stood near the cart; some waiting solemnly, others eating quietly, holding their food in both hands near their faces with heads bowed.
It was odd to see so many people eating near each other, eating while standing, so close to the cart; Tom was used to people grabbing a bagel or something on their way to somewhere else, not stopping to enjoy the act of eating. One young woman appeared to have planned just that, however, and walked briskly away from the cart after paying and started crossing the street, coming closer to the cafe. She slowed however, at the curb, and sniffed her food. She then stopped in the street, unwrapped the foil wrapper, and took a bite. Her eyes became dull and her shoulders dropped as she chewed.
She continued chewing without swallowing until a car sped around the corner and braked hard to avoid hitting the woman. She looked around, clearly disoriented and began walking in a circle, eventually making it to the curb where she sat down and continued eating. Through all of this, none of the other people eating lifted their heads.
A man in a suit paid for his food and began eating it right away, barely leaving room for the next person, who politely nudged him out of the way. The man turned and Tom could see that he was crying as he ate.
Tom put his coffee down and stood. It looked like a number of the people eating were crying. He looked at the woman sitting on the curb and saw tears running down her face.
He walked slowly down the street so he could look into the cart.
Tom remembered a story he had heard once about a woman in Mexico City who made what was known as 'The Cake of Tears'. When she was a teenager her mother spent one afternoon teaching her an old family recipe for small, sweet cakes made with strawberries. The mother went out to the store to get more eggs and was hit by a car and killed on the way back. The daughter wept for a month and it was only on the one-year anniversary of her mother's death that she tried to make the cakes her mother had showed her. The rest of the family ate the cakes and began crying as soon as they tasted them. The daughter had poured so much sadness into them that anyone who took a bite was overcome with grief. But as she watched her family cry, each tear they shed made her feel better; her own despair distributed to the others through the cakes.
So Tom expected a despondant young woman in the cart, imbuing all her food with grief and despair, but as he got closer he saw instead a middle-aged man and an older woman inside, grinning happily as they prepared each order.
He walked to the end of the line, deciding that even if he didn't order anything, he wanted to at least understand why everyone was crying.
He had to wait about 15 minutes before he could order, and while he waited he studied the cart, the people inside, and the customers waiting. The cart had no menu that he could see. As he got nearer, he could almost overhear the old woman in the cart talking quietly to each new customer in turn. The customers were reverent, saying little, staring hopefully up at the old woman in the window as she looked them over and said quiet words to the middle-aged man (her son?) next to her as he chopped up vegetables and stirred a few small pots, grinning the whole time.
He leaned closer to the woman in front of him in line and whispered, "What do they serve here?" The woman smiled sadly without looking at him. "Whatever you need."
Tom peered in the window. "I doesn't look like they have much room in there."
"It's enough."
"You've been here before?"
"This morning was my first time. This will be the fifth time." A tear fell down her cheek. "I don't know how much more I can take."
"Hunh? What are you talking about?"
"You'll know soon."
Finally Tom had his turn. The old woman looked very old, much older than Tom had thought earlier. She said, "You're new." Tom nodded. She smiled. "In 5 words, describe your 8th birthday." Tom didn't know what to say. "Uh... cake. friends. presents, uh..."
The woman continued smiling and held out her hands. Tom raised his arms toward the window and the woman took hold of his hands, staring into his eyes. "Tell me about the first time you made love." Tom blushed and tried to laugh. "Uh... her name was Sam, uh Samantha. She had light brown hair. We thought we were in love, but..." The old woman waited for him to continue. "It wasn't as good as either of us had hoped."
The woman continued smiling and gently rubbed Toms hands in hers while studying his face. She turned to her son and said a few words in a language Tom didn't recognize.
The woman looked back at Tom and said, "Six dollars and eighty-two cents, please."
The woman who had been standing in front of him in line was nearby quietly eating her food: some kind of salad. She was crying, but not as much as the others. She looked up at Tom. "I envy you," She said. "The first time."
Tom fumbled in his pockets and found a twenty and some pennies, which he handed up to the window. The old woman made change and said a few more words to her son.
The food was ready and the woman held out a small package with both hands, and Tom remembered taking communion as a child. He took it reverently, and like the others before him, barely staggered out of the way of the next customer before he unwrapped the wax paper and breathed in deeply through his nose. Inside was a sandwich of some kind, not extraordinary-looking, but it smelled absolutely delicious. He took a bite and immediately every muscle in his body tensed and then relaxed. He began salivating ferociously and every part of his mouth was overwhelmed with flavor. Even his teeth felt good as they broke through the crust of the bread, into the soft filling inside. He felt weak and had difficulty standing.
But as exhilarating as the first bite was, the second bite was less so - still absolutely delicious, but not quite as incredible. He began eating faster, trying to replicate that first bite, then chewed more slowly, trying to savor the food more to capture that first feeling.
Before long he felt warm tears welling in his eyes. The first tear was for joy, for the pleasure of the most delicious experience he had ever had. All the others were from knowing that no matter how long he lived he would never have this moment again.
So he cried while he ate, as slowly as possibe to savor every molecule. He sat down against a chain-link fence near the cart, oblivious of everything around him. He finished the sandwich, buried his face in his arms and cried some more. Then he stood and got back in line.
Posted by mslaybau at 05:29 PM | Comments (0)
November 14, 2007
The Chinatown Bus
The weather was improving in DC and it was good for walking, but I had just finished the meal at the Indian restaurant and felt sluggish. I hadn't overeaten, but Indian food always made me sleepy.
So I digested for half an hour or so and checked email, took a crap, gathered my bags, then headed out. I was north of the mall, and I had already been to the closest museum (Museum of Buildings, with exhibits on architecture and design. They had a nice gift shop although I hadn't bought anything) and didn't feel like walking far. So I headed to one of the $20 Chinatown bus places I had passed the day before.
On the way I passed an arhitectural design company that specialized in 'green roofs'. They had very large pictures in the window that looked interesting and had a notice saying they gave tours on Tuesdays at 10am and 2pm. I looked at my watch and it was exactly 2pm, and it was Tuesday. At times like that I felt compelled to yield to the forces of nature, almost believing that there was a hidden force pushing me to follow certain paths. But I resisted; I didn't imagine the roof would look much different that their pictures.
The day before the bus schedule had a 2:30pm and a 4pm bus both going to Penn station in New York, but when I asked they had a 3pm bus going to Chinatown. I read one of the local papers while I waited. The people who ran the bus were all Chinese, except for one black guy who chain smoked and put luggage underneath. He was very friendly, but I didn't know if he actually worked there or whether he expected a tip. I didn't tip him.
The guy sitting across from me was watching videos on his laptop of some Chinese show with the volume up so we could all enjoy it. The show reminded me of Mexican telenovellas: soap opera + detective show. It was annoying but I'm more able to tune out foreign languages than English. Behind me, two old white men seemed to be having a quiet conversation, but when I looked it was just one guy. He muttered to himself the entire trip. The driver didn't speak one word of English, which made me wonder whether he could read the highway signs. But he seemed a competant driver (I know I wouldn't trust myself to drive a bus).
I started a crossword puzzle and admired the red and yellow trees of the Maryland scenery, and occasionally glanced at the video across the aisle. The video-watcher saw me looking and actually angled his computer so I could see better. I had intended my look to suggest, 'hey man, everyone can hear that racket', but evidentally expressed too much sincere interest. I regretted a bit not spending more time in DC.
We got to Baltimore, then headed north to Philadelphia. We spent quite a long time navigating the streets of the Philly Chinatown. I hadn't realized how extensive it was and I felt a little hungry, although I was still digesting lunch.
I opened my computer, got out the headphones, and loaded up 'Spiderman 3'. The video-watcher was snoozing now and I didn't bother trying to include him. The movie was pretty bad and I gave up after 45 minutes or so. I switched to a week-old copy of 'The New Yorker'. Once we could see the New York skyline I looked out the window and admired the scale. I had been away for 3 and 1/2 weeks and had gotten out of synch with city living (DC doesn't count)
I texted a few friends, asking whether they would be up for dinner or drinks in the Chinatown area around 8, but nobody was.
At 8:00 we were dropped off at Pike St. and Madison St (not avenue), and I had no idea where we were. I saw a bridge looming a few blocks away and figured if I kept in on my right I would be heading north, and the subway stops would be north and west. (later I realized that it was the Manhattan Bridge which actually runs south to Brooklyn, so I was really headed east). For several blocks I passed streets I had never heard of (Rutgers, Clinton, Montgomery) and wondered if all the housing projects nearby meant cheaper rent around there. I finally found a part of the Lower East Side I recognized and navigated to a subway stop at Bleecker and LaFayette. The culture was quite different here, with bars and restaurants full of trendy people. A few people stared at me, one of them an actor I recognized. That sometimes happens but I can never understand why. Maybe I look like trouble, or maybe just don't seem to fit.
The train came quickly and I got on the last car. There was a bum surrounded by food wrappers and odor at the far end and everyone else on the car was crowded into the other half. I sat with them and finished my New Yorker. At 116th street I got out and followed a trail of rose petals on the sidewalk that must have been left from a wedding or something. They had probably been pretty several hours earlier, but they had all been walked on by this time.
I saw Manny handling the garbage in my building and I mentioned that the compressor in my fridge sounded like it was going. I think a bearing in the motor is bad and it's making a lot of noise. I told him it wasn't a big deal (I don't bother keeping food in there anyway since it just goes bad when I'm gone for weeks at a time) and he told me I was 'a good guy'. I joked it was because I don't complain, and he said some of the tenants call him for problems almost every day.
I got my mail, went upstairs, undressed, and didn't know what to do with myself.
Posted by mslaybau at 11:07 AM | Comments (0)
October 23, 2007
Peanuts, as Written by Charles Bukowski
From
Hanstock
in July '07
Peanuts, by Charles Bukowski Good clean fun from the Dirty Old Man
Posted by mslaybau at 02:52 PM | Comments (0)
October 20, 2007
Frank Bourbon 1.1
Act I - Frank Bourbon and the Letter
Scene 1 - Frank
I woke up earlier than usual and after a visit to the restroom the cupboards reminded me that I didn't have any food in my apartment. I dressed in the clothes lying on the floor and when I went out I saw the door across the hall open.
Through the door I saw Frank Bourbon sitting in a chair putting on his favorite pair of socks. I can only guess that they were his favorite since he seemed to wear them every time I saw him and he seemed like the kind of person who would own a lot of socks.
And I recognized them because they were what I considered to be uniquely ugly, and I had given them to him. They had been a gift to me but I had never bothered to take off the wrapper, and a few months ago I happened to learn that he was going to be alone on his birthday. So I bought a pizza and some beer and spent the evening with Frank and I gave him the socks. He drank half of one beer and I drank the rest. After that I noticed that he always left his door open in the morning when he was getting ready for work. At least that was the case whenever I happened to be up and about that early.
"Morning, Frank." I said as I turned to shut my door.
"Oh, good morning! You're up early."
"Yeah, just going out to get some coffee."
"Well, if..."
Frank stopped when Janet from the 4th floor came down the stairs.
"Morning guys!"
"Hi Janet!"
"Janet."
We talked about the weather and such for a minute or two. She looked cute in her office clothes and Frank just stared at her, looking away whenever she turned her head toward him. Eventually she left and we both watched her leave. Then Frank locked his door and we went down the stoop and I said "Take it easy."
I assumed he would be turning left toward the bus stop but he kept walking with me, just a few paces behind. So I slowed to let him catch up.
"Not catching the bus?"
He looked at his watch. "Well, this next one is pretty crowded. I don't like to stand the whole way."
I didn't like standing on buses either. I'd be happy if I never ride a bus again.
"But won't you be late for work?"
"Well, the boss is traveling this week. No one'll notice if I'm late."
We kept walking. I was heading toward a diner around the corner. And it was clear that Frank was just following me. I had a headache and I felt myself getting irritated at him. I don't like the feeling of being irritated and I tried to force myself to be more pleasant.
"So," I said, "Your espresso machine not working?"
Frank had bought a very expensive birthday present for himself last year, a deluxe espresso machine that he had demonstrated for me that night I hung out with him. He didn't drink any that night because he didn't want to disturb his sleep, and I had to wonder why he drank stimulating beverages at all since he seemed so nervous to begin with.
He laughed. "No, it's fine. Had two cups this morning already."
We were at the entrance to the diner. "The coffee here isn't very good, but it's strong and hot"
"Sounds good!" He laughed.
We found two seats at the counter and I ordered two cups of coffee and wheat toast. To me, white toast doesn't have any flavor. With his elbows on the counter, Frank leaned in and spoke loudly. "And a cup for me and white toast."
"The second cup was for you, Frank."
We got that straightened out with the waitress and sat with our coffee, waiting for the bread to toast. I looked at the other patrons, mostly overweight guys in suits reading the sports section. I drank my coffee and got a refill. Frank took a sip of it black then put in a lot of milk.
"Pete," He said finally, "I got this letter that I wanted to talk to you about."
Posted by mslaybau at 06:13 PM | Comments (0)
August 08, 2007
The Delivery
Bart farted loudly. Nobody reacted. About half a minute later he scratched his rear and laughed a couple times, mumbling something about underpants.
I looked at Arnie, who stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette, staring at nothing. He saw me staring and looked back without changing his expression or blinking his eyes. I looked away first.
"So." I said. Nothing moved but Bart's TV screen and Arnie's smoke.
Bart farted loudly. Nobody reacted. About half a minute later he scratched his rear and laughed a couple times, mumbling something about underpants.
I looked at Arnie, who stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette, staring at nothing. He saw me staring and looked back without changing his expression or blinking his eyes. I looked away first.
"So." I said. Nothing moved but Bart's TV screen and Arnie's smoke.
"So." I said. "Maybe one of you can sign for this, since it looks like Mr. Cooke isn't around."
Again, nothing moved.
I set the package on a workbench near the door.
"Or, tell you what. The signature is just a formality, anyway. Let's just forget it."
No reaction again, so I turned the knob on the door.
"I'll just get back to the office. Take it easy." I turned away to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" Arnie had glided over, dropping his cigaratte and reaching into his jacket pocket at the same time.
Even Bart looked up from the TV, stretching his fat neck over his shoulder.
"Back to the office. I..." I smelled something hot.
"No you're not. You're waiting here."
I opened my mouth but Arnie interrupted again. "Don't make me wake Bart." Bart lowered his brow at me.
"OK." I didn't have much else to say. The hot smell was louder now.
I looked back and forth at Arnie and Bart until they both looked away again, first Arnie, then Bart.
Arnie and I saw the smoke at the same time. His cigarette had rolled under the couch; wisps of smoke had drifted from in between the cusions.
Bart readjusted himself, and changed the channel.
"Bart! Get up!" Arnie shouted without moving.
Bart turned around and glowered at Arnie.
"Stand up, Bart! You're on fire!"
Bart looked down at his hands and thighs, and a moment later smelled between his knees. He stood slowly, turned around, and looked at the bowl his butt had left in the couch cushion, which was slowly filling with heavy smoke. He looked up at Arnie, then back to the couch. Bart opened his mouth but said nothing.
For the first time, Arnie's face changed. His eyebrows climbed up under his hair and he awkwardly clambered over some chairs to the couch. He stared at it for a few seconds, then reached down and flipped it over on its front, knocking into Bart, who backed up into the TV, which fell to the floor, but managed to stay on. The movement of the couch forced a breeze of air into the smoldering couch and flames emerged where there had been just smoke. Arnie made a choking noise. Bart opened his mouth again. I jogged over to the couch, grabbed some cushions and began smothering the fire.
Arnie saw what I was doing and ran over to the table, grabbing half-empty cups of coffee and threw them at the couch. One landed on my back, one hit Bart in the belly, and the third splashed milk on the cushion I was using to smother the flames.
Despite my efforts, the fire was spreading. I shouted at Bart to get some water, but he didn't seem to understand. Arnie began throwing everything he could get his hands on at the couch, none of which helped.
Finally, he picked up the package I was delivering and got ready to throw it. I saw him just in time and tried to catch it but missed. The paper wrapping broke open and the contents spilled out; thousands of small white rectangles of paper scattered near the widening hole in the bottom of the couch. They were counterfeiting blanks: one-dollar bills that had been bleached white so that the images of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills could be printed on top of them. They began to burn.
I stood up. "Are you crazy!" At that moment, Mr. Cooke opened the door and walked in. He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at me. "Who are you?"
"Uh, I'm uh, the delivery guy."
Without turning away from me he said, "Bart, put out that fire." Bart walked over to a closet, lifted out a fire extinguisher, and put out the fire.
He looked at Arnie. "Arnie, what did I tell you about ashtrays?"
Posted by mslaybau at 10:43 PM | Comments (0)
June 14, 2006
The Messenger
The messenger came one night, very late.
He was out of breath and could speak only in a hoarse whisper. His skin was stone-cold from the wind and rain he had run through. We offered him tea and soup, but he would have none. He would not even sit, he said his message was urgent, that there was a terrible danger at his farm.
His voice became quiet, and only those standing next to him, leaning close could hear what he said.
Speaking louder again, the stranger pleaded for every able-bodied person to go with him back to his farm. My father and the others were reluctant, and some looked afraid, but the man seemed so desperate that my father and the other men and the women agreed to escort the man back home.
Then, the man's eyes rolled back and he collapsed on the floor from exhaustion.
My father helped him into a chair and someone got him some water, which he tried to drink, but it only dripped down his chin. Uncle John ran out the door, exhorting the others to go with him to the man's farm, and they followed.
My father suggested the man was too weak to return and that he should stay to get back his strength. My father then left, leaving me, just a little child, in my chair, with only my grandmother to attend me and the man.
I listened to the horses galloping away and watched the strange man's eyelids flutter between wakefulness and unconsciousness. When the room was quiet I asked my grandmother what the man had said when his voice had become so quiet.
Her hearing was not good, but she understood my question and had been sitting very near the man, hearing every word he had said. She replied, "The man said that a desperate stranger came to his house last night and begged anyone who could to return with him to his farm. All the adults left, and during the night terrible screams were heard in the distance, but by morning none had returned."
I sat still for a moment, then asked, "If all the adults at the farm left, and none returned, who is this man?" My grandmother frowned and looked at the man, whose eyes began to open.
He looked at me from across the table and put his hands on the armrests of his chair to push himself up. He smiled at me, and winked.
Posted by mslaybau at 01:18 AM | Comments (0)
April 23, 2006
Conversations with My Mailman II
As I was exiting the liquor store around the corner, I nearly walked into my mailman, who was getting some lunch. He seemed to be walking a little stiffly and I asked him if he were alright.
He turned to the cashier to conduct his business and, talking over his shoulder, mentioned how the warmer weather means more sweat, especially where the strap from his bag rubs his chest and back, and more especially in his crotch. He said the other day he put a thermometer down his pants and after a minute he pulled it out and it read 126°.
The real problem is the choice of underpants; this girl he knows prefers he wear boxers, but those chafe his scrotum and upper thighs when he's working. He has some briefs, but they're so stretched out that they don't provide comfort either.
We left together and I was going to ask why he couldn't get some more. I don't want to force a consumer-mindset on anyone, but a fresh pair of underpants every now and then is quite affordable, and really brightens one's day.
However, once we were outside, he confided the most significant reason for his diminished state of perambulation:
"A couple days ago I finished the shift, and, being Monday, stopped at the bar - the Orbit bar. Now, I was chewing gum to get that cigarette taste off my breath, and I see the new bartender, cute girl, young. I didn't want to look like a cow chewing my cud, and I didn't want to look like no camel either, spitting my gum somewhere - so I swallowed it. No big deal, I've swallowed gum before."
"Anyway, this bartender, she's friends with someone I know, and cousins with someone else I know, and I know they're both going to tell her to watch out for me, that I'm no good, and so on and so forth, so I wouldn't put money on anything going anywhere."
"But whatever, you know? So, the next morning, I'm having my morning shit, with a cup of coffee, a Winston, and the paper. I finish up and go to wipe, and it's like tar down there - like half of La Brea coming out my butt; I use up nearly a whole roll just trying to scoop it all out."
"It's time for a shower anyway, so I try to finish the job in there, and get it pretty clean, except for one really sticky bit caught in the hair. I tug and yank but just can't get it out."
"I smell my fingers, and... they're minty fresh! It's the gum! I have a gum dingleberry that refuses to vacate my asshole!"
"If I had just rinsed it in the first place, it probably would have been fine, but all the wiping ended up just getting this gum-ball all tangled up in the hair. So, what can I do? I try pulling it out until tears come to my eyes. I could shave it, but it's too close to the skin to get a razor in there. I could use a knife or scissors, but I can't see what I'm doing, and I don't want to slip, you know? Slicing up your own anus first thing in the morning is no way to start your day."
"I get out of the shower, water running, and get a pen, go back in the shower, and holding the gumbleberry in my left hand behind my back, I use the pen to isolate each hair holding it in place and rip them out one by one. I tell you, I was crying like a baby in church"
"I finally finish and my knees are wobbling, and my ass feels like it's on fire. I look at the gum, and it's green, which is weird because I only chew white gum."
"So, from now on, listen to me, I'm going to spit my gum in the street like everyone else."
Posted by mslaybau at 06:37 PM | Comments (0)
April 04, 2006
Harlem Hybrids
Ever since I moved to the magical Kingdom of Harlem (one 'a') I've noticed a number of things they do differently here. One example is the preponderance of plantains in the grocery stores. You can't buy cream cheese or bagels, but they have lots of vegetables that I have never heard of, most of which look like hybrids between coconuts and potatoes - furry, lumpy, brown things.
Another difference is how Harlemites (Harlemers) seem to love hybrids of another kind: Electronics. In this age of miniaturization, many seek the ultimate electronic doodad: the phone/pda/mp3 player/email thing/browser/game console. But up here, people have been combining semi-related objects for years. One guy bolted a toaster to a microwave oven, and has enjoyed a single 'breakfast utility' for many months now.
But the most awesome hybrid is at Banco Popular, where they had the ingenious idea of combining arcade games with ATMs. So whenever you withdraw your weekly cash you get the option to spend an extra buck and play three rounds of Dig-Dug or Galaga or that one that's a cross between Asteroids and Breakout. The guy behind me gets mad because I'm so good at Galaga and all he wants is to deposit a check.
Posted by mslaybau at 01:50 AM | Comments (0)
April 03, 2006
Epic Story - Chapter 34
The Seer of Island #10 had said that he had never intended to provide answers to anyone, but that did not stop his reputation from growing.
From what his sister described, he had arrived on the island by makeshift raft, like many before him, seeking some of the ordnance rumored to have been stored there, but found the island deserted.
Unlike the others, however, he didn't leave.
Instead, he dragged his raft and supplies to the center of the island, put up a crude lean-to, lighted a fire and fell into deep contemplation, staring into the flames, wondering what he could possibly do next.
The troubles had continued long after anyone had predicted; long after the ones who had started it had been killed.
Those who remained struggled each day to find food and protection from the destruction that moved like fire from town to town.
The seer had come looking for weapons, in the last place he knew to search, but found nothing, and at this moment he gave up - resigning himself to whatever circumstance he might encounter.
He still had his rifle, but no bullets. Still, he held it in his arm in the way one might hold a stuffed bear, watching the flames until even the embers turned black.
It was after nightfall on that first day when he heard a boat land on the east shore, and two pairs of feet approached.
Two men began rummaging through the remains of the weapons shed that had long since crumbled, and the seer listened.
Finally he announced, "You'll find nothing there."
The two men jumped, and looked around for the source of the voice, eventually making out the figure of the old man in the moonlight, holding his rifle.
They each took a step back and raised their hands. "We're sorry. We thought this island was abandoned."
The seer smiled wanly and placed his rifle on the dirt beside him. "You're safe here."
The men looked at each other. The seer was not so very old, but he did have a white beard, and he was the oldest man the two men had ever seen.
After months of paranoid flight from one place to the next, sanctuary was the last thing they expected to find.
Finally, they lowered their hands and walked toward the old man, who gestured toward his dead campfire. "The fire burned bright, for longer than I had thought, then there were only cinders. But tomorrow I'll make it right again."
The two strangers sat down, staring at the old man. One of them stuttered, "What happens tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is a new day. When the skies are dark, I can't see where I'm going, but in the morning everything will be clear."
The men smiled and relaxed. They didn't know it, but they had needed hope more than they needed ammunition, and they both knew that the war was over.
They timidly asked a few more questions, and received either silence or vague and ambiguous replies. However, they were so desperate for answers that they assumed they were simply not asking clear enough questions, or not wise enough to understand the answers.
One of them said as much, and the old man replied, "If you do not understand the answer, you might try asking a different question."
They talked all night and when the sunlight broke over the horizon the seer looked up, stood, and said, "Ah, now we can begin."
He stood, doing nothing, looking at the two men just long enough for them to understand that it was time to go.
They stood, and he reached down into his sack, pulling out a handful of dried beans. "I'm almost out."
The two men bowed and left for their raft.
That day, the seer spent the morning gathering wood for a fire, and pulled a few bits of trash from the water onto the shore.
In the afternoon, a young woman punted a raft over to the island. The man watched her approach, smiling.
When she got to his lean-to, she placed a sheet of paper on the dirt and spilled a handful of beans onto it.
"You have given us hope."
The she sat and asked questions.
The next day four people came, and the next day eleven.
The man said, I think I have enough beans.
They asked, "What do you want?"
"Some fruit would be nice."
The next day, 24 people came, bearing raisins, apples, and cherries for the man.
"Oh, this is too much. Please, help yourselves."
One day, a man stayed behind and helped the man organize that day's gifts.
"You need a better house."
And the next day people brought stones. Together they built stone walls, forming the foundation for a house.
Within a week it was 10 feet tall.
That night, as the seer slept next to the building in his lean-to, it collapsed.
"To be strong, a foundation needs mortar."
The next day, people brought sacks of concrete.
One guest brought a friend, who did not believe in the seer, but did know about masonry, and he directed the group into building a tower.
"It's not tall enough!" Some said, and they built a second wall around the first, with archways and a second story.
...
Finally the tower stood taller than the trees and talelr than any building for miles around.
The old man looked up and smiled. "You are all capable of so much, when you work together."
Then, fewer people began coming to the island. A vibrant town had re-emerged on either side of the river, and a woman began collecting gifts for the man on her porch, which faced the tower.
Each day, she would take a few items for herself and send her son with the rest to the old man.
Now, few people from town ever visit the island, or leave gifts, but visitors from other towns have heard of the rumors of an old man in a tower on an island who can answer questions.
And they come, sometimes two in a week, sometimes ten in a day. And they all bring gifts.
Posted by mslaybau at 02:01 AM | Comments (0)
April 02, 2006
Epic Story - Chapter 45
Jim awoke on his back, looking up at the stars.
He blinked a few times before realizing how cold he was.
His clothes were damp, but he knew it hadn't rained because the sky was clear.
The dampness must have been from dew settling on him, which meant he had lain there for a few hours at least.
He stood slowly, and halfway up his head began to throb and he suddenly felt very thirsty.
He touched the side of his head and the bone felt soft. When he looked at his fingers they were dark with what must have been his blood.
He stood in a grassy area with trees on one side and a dirt road on the other, with more trees beyond that.
The moon shone half-full, casting just enough light for Jim to walk without tripping.
Looking up, he knew that the outer curve of the Moon always faces the Sun, and that a half-moon always leads or trails the Sun by 6 hours.
It was pointing toward Jim's right as he faced the road, which meant that either the Sun had just set and that way was west, or the Sun would rise soon and that way was east.
Not having even a rough idea of the time, he looked up for the Big Dipper, then found the Little Dipper, the handle of which he knew always pointed north, and traced it to Polaris, the North Star behind him, which meant that the Moon pointed west, meaning it must have been about 10 in the evening.
So he hadn't been out cold for more than three hours.
Jim thought he saw some kind of structure east of where he was, and began walking.
It turned out to be a rusting water pump, fixed into a concrete slab by the road.
There looked to be the remains of the foundation of a house a little further along the road, and the pump seemed to be all that was left.
He pumped the handle a few times before icy cold water began splashing on the ground.
He knealt, cupping his hands and gulping quickly until his stomach felt bloated.
He stood and wiped his mouth with the back of sleeve, only then noticing odd grooves in the concrete.
Jim knelt again and ran his fingertips across it and saw that the concrete was not nearly as old as the pump, in fact it looked as though it couldn't have been poured more than a few weeks before, as it still had the peaks and other markings of the trowel used to spread it, which had not yet been weathered.
And that made the grooves he saw even more odd.
They were about half an inch wide, but very shallow; it was only the angle of the shadow cast by the Moon that allowed him to see them at all.
They must have been created by someone writing with his finger in the cement several hours after the cement had been poured, just as it was beginning to harden permanently.
Jim thought the grooves formed letters but couldn't be sure. Then he had an idea.
He began pumping the water pump again, splashing the water with his other hand over to where the grooves were, then kicked the excess water away with his foot.
Then standing up and turning around he saw the words clearly, etched in the cement: "Talos 20m" and an arrow pointing up the road, past the foundation of the house.
So the message must have been meant for him; few others knew what Talos was.
Jim's memory of the previous day began returning to him.
After the fight, some of Jones's men must have driven him and Paul out to this place, and while Jim was unconscious, Paul must have found the still-soft cement and etched the message.
And then they must have left, leaving Jim for dead.
He began feeling sick to his stomach, but hungry at the same time; he hadn't eaten in about 36 hours.
Feeling weak, Jim sat on the slab and considered his options.
He had to follow the trail, but had to eat something before making the 20-mile hike.
However, there was nothing else to do but begin walking, and hope to find food of some kind soon.
After a few deep breaths, he stood and began walking up the road.
He glanced at the old foundation as he passed it, wondering if there was any chance of finding anything worth salvaging, when he thought he saw a sliver of light among the stones.
Then, the faint sound of voices reached him.
He ran to the nearest thicket of trees as a trap door opened in what must have once been the floor of the now-absent house.
A man crawled out, silhouetted in the light from below, talking to someone inside, "I don't know. Yeah, tomorrow, I guess."
He picked up a bucket from near the door, then paused to turn on a flashlight, and walked over to the water pump.
Jim realized the meaning of the message; Talos wasn't 20 miles away, but only 20 meters!
Jones's men must be inside, although there were no horses in sight, so at least one of them must have driven them away somewhere.
Jim's fear now was that the man with the bucket would notice the message etched in the cement.
But the man didn't seem to. He filled the bucket and headed back to the trap door when a voice called out, "Check on that other guy."
The man grunted and turned to walk to the place where Jim had woken up.
When he saw that Jim wasn't there, he looked back at the door and yelled, "Hey! He's gone!"
A second man poked his head through the door, shouting, "What?!" and climbed out.
The two ran to the place where Jim had lain unconscious and one of them bent down to feel the grass with his hand.
"It's dry, and warm. He can't have gone far."
The first man shone his flashlight all around him, but the beam was too weak to reach where Jim was hiding.
The second man stared at the grass where Jim had been tracing out the footprints Jim had left in the damp grass.
"Looks like he stood up and walked over there." He said, pointing at the water pump.
The two followed the footprints to the cement slab.
"Let's see. You must have made those... and then this set goes to... the road."
They walked to the edge of the dirt road and the second man crouched down again.
"The mud's packed down too tight. I can't see the tracks."
"What do we do?"
"If we had the dogs we could send them out."
"They're back in Antioch."
"Yeah. We shouldn't have had Ethan take the horses. Well, we know he probably went west that way, toward town. If we try to track him he'll hear us a mile away. Better just let the guys in town know that he's heading their way."
"Bremmer'll be mad."
"Meh. That guy can't have seen anything. He was out cold before we brought him here. Oh well, better get on the radio."
The two men walked back to the trap door and climbed inside.
Just before shutting the door, the first man shone his flashlight one last time over the water pump, the road, and the trees where Jim was hiding, and then he stopped.
Jim held his breath and realized that the back of his blue jacket must be sticking out from behind the tree.
The second man yelled up from inside, "Come on, already! You're letting all the cold air in!"
"Just a second."
The first man slowly closed the trap door, keeping his eyes and flashlight on the tree behind which Jim stood, not moving.
The man walked slowly and silently toward the tree.
He reached out his other hand, and just as he was about to take hold of the jacket, Jim jumped out, grabbed the flashlight, and ran like Hell.
Posted by mslaybau at 02:02 AM | Comments (0)
November 15, 2005
On the Road
Toll booth agents are normally pleasant enough, with a tired "Hi" or an indifferent glance away from the TV screen long enough to take my money.
But the other day the fellow manning the gate had a surly expression and as I held out some coins I mentioned the weather as a way of trying to extract some human interaction from him.
But he ignored what I had said. "Keep it moving, you're holding up the line."
I looked in the rear-view mirror and out the side window and saw that mine was the only car there. "Just trying to be friendly," I smiled. "You look like you've had a hard day."
His face finally brightened a bit. "Yeah, some of the people who come through here are just jerks. When you come across as many weirdos as I do, you can never tell what kind of asshole is going to ruin your day."
"Heh." I laughed, finally dropping the coins in his hand as I shifted into gear. "Tell that to the guy in my trunk!"
Posted by mslaybau at 06:00 PM
January 15, 2004
Graham Greene 2k4
Some terrorist groups are getting increasingly sophisticated in the use of technology. The CIA wants to get position sensors inside the terrorist camps, and since much of the computer technology used in the Middle East comes from the U.S. or its allies a plan is formulated to have an American agent pose as an exporter willing to sell computers, satellite phones, etc. to nations where there are currently sanctions. Unknown to the terrorists the equipment actually has GPS beacons that relay their position back to the U.S. The sale is about to go through, when the terrorist agent pulls out an FBI badge and tells our hero that he's under arrest. In the hullaballoo witnesses show up, and our hero's name is slandered all over the press. The FBI agent drives off with our hero in custody who tries to explain that he's actually an agent with the CIA, that this was a double-sting gone wrong. At this information, the FBI guy reveals that he's not really with the FBI, that he was just testing the agent to make sure that he was legit. Now that the information is out, our hero will have to be killed, but with all the attention on our hero, the pseudo-FBI guy has to be careful and gets someone to pretend to be an outraged American patriot who wants revenge on this enemy of the state. Meanwhile the CIA stays mum on its association with our hero. Then, typical action story: deus ex machina gives hero a chance to escape captors, and he then spends the rest of the story trying to get revenge on the terrorists while clearing his name back home. At the end, our hero is able to find the bad guys using the very equipment he had sold to them.
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Posted by mslaybau at 12:02 PM | Comments (0)
December 20, 2003
Identity Thief
Short story idea: A petty criminal(A) becomes a thief of identity (of person B). He gets in trouble when it turns out the person whose identity he stole(B) is being pursued by a mysterious person(C).
Despite trying to undo the credit accounts he has in the other(B) name, he(A) cannot convince the assailant(C) that he isn't really the other person(B).
He(A) gets a note from someone(D) looking for this other person(B), and says he(D) has money for person B - an inheitance from the sister of person B.
Person A again pretends to be person B and meets person D, who is really person B and had been pretending to be person C as well.
And then hilarity ensues, or maybe someone dies.
Posted by mslaybau at 11:11 AM | Comments (0)