By adam || July 30, 1998
I got to the carnival cruise line and headed straight for the bar. I passed Captain Stubing, tossed a wink at Julie “Your Cruise Director” and sidled on past the sullen and strangely already sunburned corpses in barca-loungers on the deck. There was no time to waste.
I ordered coffee. It’s still too early for a stiff drink. There was a frighteningly loud woman in her early twenties in the corner of the room wailing on about the genius of Charles Bukowski. I stood my ground. I didn’t make a peep. There’s a time and a place to discuss the wildly ungrounded fascination with drunk-hack-poets and this just didn’t seem to be one of those times.
The coffee was bad. I peered around past the bartender, who sadly was too glum to even pass for a white, twenty-something Isaac. This was a place of evil. This was a place where shuffleboard was played on the ground utilizing large, desensitizing cattle prods. The prodders had hairy backs - even the women.
On the next scan around I saw an unfamiliar but officious looking man in uniform headed straight for me. There was no doubt about it, he was gonna say something about my ticket. “But I’m with the band!” I was prepared to say, but all of a sudden it didn’t seem like that excuse was going to work on this occasion.
The officious man was gaining. I avoided eye contact by peering at him from the corner of my eye as I stared at the enormous swimming pool. I haven’t seen a pool like that in all my life. It makes perfect sense since they don’t let people jump off the boat, but it’s an odd hurdle to get over in your brain that you’re in the middle of all that water and you’re swimming in a pool. We hadn’t left the port. Was it me? Was I holding this all up? They sure didn’t do a very good job of checking tickets if that was their chief concern at the time.
I should have gotten up. I should have made a move, if at the very least, perhaps to silence the bleating sheep in the corner because she was on a particularly irrelevant point involving a poem which I specifically remember and despise. I should have, but I sat there because I had to finish my coffee - it was only half done.
The capped man in the uniform arrived, sat down next to me, regarded my coffee, and proceeded to order a cup for himself. He stared straight ahead, probably trying to figure out, as I had, just what it was that made this bartender so oddly disaffected by his surroundings. They weren’t lavish enough? I don’t know.
After a moment I realized that at the very least this was my opportunity to finish my coffee. I sipped slowly. I could have savored it a bit more I suppose, but it just wasn’t good enough coffee to bother. I could tell the uniformed man was thinking the same thing, and then he opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t you think he could be a little more enthusiastic?” the man said as he stared with an odd expression at the oblivious bartender.
“Yes. To be honest I’ve always imagined I’d find Isaac from the Love Boat tending bar here. He’s a bit of a let-down,” I replied.
“I imagined that at first myself. It’s not the sort of thing you truly believe, but more of a thing you let yourself secretly hope.”
“That’s exactly it.”
“Sort of almost ruins your day doesn’t it? Makes it all seem like it wasn’t quite worth it.”
“Yes it does,” I intoned.
“Are you ready to go, or do you want another cup of coffee first?” he asked me.
“The coffee isn’t all that good either.”
“Oh. I guess I’ve just gotten used to it.”
[ Topic Fiction & Snobbery, Short Fiction | No Comments ]
By steiner || July 30, 1998
“How much can eight million dollars really be expected to help you when you’ve got issues no amount of money can cure.”
Two things happened the day Jessie won the lottery. The first was a persistent itch on her tummy that began the second the bubbly blonde on the TV announced twenty-six as the final number for the Saturday Super Lotto Buster. The second was that Herman quit talking to her and moved to Kentucky. The itch was a pain, but she really missed Herman. Eight million dollars helped a little.
-Eight million exactly? And what’s with this itch thing? Is it meaningful?
-Of course it’s meaningful, it’s in print. Don’t you know anything?
-He doesn’t know squat. Ok, it’s my turn now.
Eight million, four hundred twelve thousand and sixty four dollars to be exact. Enough to pay a pro basketball player’s salary for a year, if 1) she cared or 2) she really thought it was a worthwhile investment. Jessie was quite concerned with investments. She had been going to college full-time and working the other full-time for about six years and felt a nest egg was important. Only now she had a nest henhouse and she couldn’t stop scratching.
-Oh, that was good! Nest henhouse! I like that.
Herman, on the other hand, was doing quite well for himself in Kansas. (Yes, he did move to Kentucky in the first paragraph, but while Jessie was pondering her investment options in the second paragraph Herman met Lilly, who proceeded to win the lottery, causing Herman to quit speaking to her and move to Kansas). Yes, that Herman had a knack for woodcarving and was, pardon the pun, carving a niche for himself in a small town too small to have a name.
-What about Lilly?
-I’ve got it. It’s my turn again anyway.
Lilly’s win didn’t affect her quite as much as Jessie’s did, she hadn’t yet bonded with Herman and was already taking a steady dose of antihistamines for a childhood allergy. She thought about calling Jessie for investment advice, but met Mark in a local cantina and decided that a dive bar would be the way to go. Lilly and Mark probably lived happily ever after, but most likely Mark ran off with all the money leaving Lilly destitute in the months before she killed herself by sticking her head in a gas oven.
-Tch tch tch… some people should not read Plath.
-Just because she dies in a gas oven does not mean she’s emulating Plath!
-All right, big guy. You do it for a while, we’ll ask questions.
-Fine. I’ve always been better at this than you two oldies.
-Old!
-Old! Look, you whippersnapper! I’ll show you old!
-Relax, oldtimer. I’ve got to get back to the story.
Which brings us back to Jessie and the eight million plus. Jessie was a few months shy from graduating from Pickapoo State with a degree in Terminal Pathos. She considered prolonging her education, perhaps getting a Masters in Apathy, but she was a little tired of the school thing and hey, she had eight million dollars. After a consultation with her professors, and a healthy donation to the School of Chaos, it was decided that she would graduate early with honors. And so Jessie left Pickapoo State and her job at the Side of the Road Café, where the regulars all knew each other by name and also knew never to eat the meatloaf.
-Ooh, pathos. Aren’t you the smart little man. I’ll have you know, I invented pathos! Give
me back the pen!
Armed with a degree, and the ever present eight million plus, Jessie headed out on the road. She would find Herman, cure her itch, and live happily ever after at the seaside. She had a sporty convertible, bought at a bargain price from a salesman who made a point to watch the lotto telecast. We’ll be nosy now, and peek into Jessie’s journal for deep insight into her voyage:
Thursday I’m on the road. I have a half-pack of cigarettes, a full tank of gas, sunglasses
and a steady itch. Herman, wherever you are, I’m coming for you.
-That’s deep?
-You two are really starting to stress me. Take a break, go make a shag rug or something.
I’ll take over for a while.
Ok, perhaps not deep insight, but close enough. Yes, Jessie smoked. A lot. That half-pack of cigarettes didn’t last but half of Thursday. In the wee hours of the afternoon, she pulled into the Hidey-Ho deli for a carton of Scamels. Filtered, but not lights. The guy behind the counter had a name, it was embroidered on his shirt, but all he did was sell Jessie some cigarettes and give her incredibly accurate directions.
Jessie chose to ignore the directions, she knew that if she truly wanted to find Herman she needed to stop looking for him. Otherwise he’d turn up in the last place she looked and she had an idea she would be looking for a while. This shortcut helped, a few miles out on the freeway she came across a sign that read:
“Carving For Christ - and You!”
She was truly excited. For one, the sign was carved out of an exquisite piece of redwood that appeared to be hundreds of years old. For two, she really had to use the restroom and hoped that the Christ carvers, whoever they were, would certainly have a restroom for public use. The car bumped and banged across the rocky road, which led to an enchanting little villa. Actually, it really led to a rickety shack, but Jessie had spent an afternoon reading Cosmopolitan in preparation for her Herman quest, and in Cosmopolitan everything was enchanting.
-We’re back. How’s it going?
-Pretty good so far. I think I’m doing a good job with the fatalism slant.
-Not bad. Do you mind?
-Not at all. I need a cigarette break.
As fate might have it, Herman had spent the last few paragraphs being saved by traveling missionaries. His talents as a woodcarver charmed them and they brought Herman and his chainsaws to the redwood forests to make a name for himself and for God the almighty. Each tree that fell in the forest would now make a mighty sound, regardless of whom was there to listen.
-He’s going to be pissed when he gets back!
-What do you mean?
-Could you be any more obvious? Puh-lease. My turn!
Jessie, being completely unaware of the preceding events, was nonetheless unsurprised at seeing Herman emerge from the enchanting shack. She had not known of Herman’s woodcarving talents, but, having a great deal of familiarity with his hands, er, handiwork, she truly believed he had found a place for himself. She was, however, unprepared for his reaction upon seeing her.
“Herman!” she exclaimed, she was not surprised to see him but still a wee bit enthusiastic.
“Jessie”. The absence of the exclamation point dampened the mood, but Jessie was undaunted.
“I’ve come for you, my Herman! Let me take you away from all this, we’ll drive into the sunset in my sporty convertible and you can cure my lingering itch”.
-Did you forget something?
-What?
-She had to pee. She has no time for conversation here.
-Fine! You fix it.
“Jessie”. Herman remained in shock.
“But first, I must pee! Wherefore art thou restroom?”
-Uh, Shakespeare’s dead. This is some Steiner chick out in California. I know she
has theatre background, but this is a bit much.
“Huh?”
“Where’s the john?”
Herman pointed in the right direction and Jesse skipped merrily down the path, stopping to scratch every few steps. She had a moment of hesitation at the door of the outhouse, but a full bladder facilitated her entrance. A steady stream poured from Jesse and a relaxing sigh could be heard as far away as Detroit. Jesse settled comfortably against the hardwood walls and began to touch herself
-Wrong story.
-What?
-That was the last one. This isn’t porn.
-Sorry. Got carried away.
In all the itchy spots. She touched herself in all the itchy spots because she didn’t want to scratch.
-Better.
“Ok, I’m back, my Herman! Let’s get on with my itch!”
Herman, now converted, was a bit unhappy about the itch part. He spent the next part of an hour explaining his miraculous conversion and his newfound love of logging. Carving after carving was brought out of storage for Jessie’s perusal, Herman straining and huffing all the way. Jessie was undaunted in her enthusiasm. Her future was with Herman, and if Herman’s was with woodcarving then so be it. Eight million dollars would buy a lot of chainsaws.
And so it came that the Christians inherited Jessie’s fortune, Herman inherited Jessie, and Jessie lost her itch. And they lived happily, for a while. A group of angry environmentalists came upon them one afternoon in the forest and made a circle around a grove of redwoods. The results were catastrophous. But that’s another story.
-I go for one cigarette and this is what you come up with?
-I was doing really well until the old man took over.
-Gentlemen, please. You can’t leave it hanging like this. And you, I would think
you would know better than to leave a dangling ending.
-The kid was bothering me. I wanted to go home.
-So go home! I’ll try to salvage this.
-Fine. Same time tomorrow?
-Ok by me. How about you, kid?
-No problem here. Do you want me to stick around for this one?
-No, go ahead.
-I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I’m going to go work on a sci-fi over in Cleveland.
-Have fun. Don’t forget to have at least three anachronisms. Very important.
-Will do.
Yes, indeed, that’s another story. Yep. Sure is. Another story.
-Damn. Sorry, Steiner, but I’ve about had it. Another time?
Sure. Another time.
[ Topic Fiction & Snobbery, Short Fiction | No Comments ]
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