Friday, November 6, 2009
He Couldn't Take His Eyes Off It - John Fetto
He couldn’t take his eyes off the train rolling towards him. It swung out from behind the wire gates, orange nose straightening towards where he sat cross legged on the tracks. He watched, waiting for the conductor to see him, waiting for the brakes to squeal, the engine slowing to a stop, feet, perhaps inches from him, but stop it must because he wasn’t going to move. He had told them so before he sat on the tracks and a crowd had gathered out at the naval weapons station, waving signs. Even they thought the train would stop. Everyone did, until it rose up and loomed over him like a falling wall.
A Good Man - Jeff Thomas
As the train pulled out of the station, the rhythmic tempo of clicking wheels on tracks steadily increased. In one of the passenger cars, Frank Morgan sat comfortably in his seat, staring out of the window at the houses passing by. The train was still going slowly enough that he was allowed time to ponder briefly each house and its imaginary inhabitants, chiefly wondering how in god’s name they’d found themselves living so close to the railroad tracks. The thought depressed him immensely. He turned from the window to the book on his lap. He hadn’t felt like reading, but now he needed a distraction. He looked about at the passengers surrounding him; the car was almost full, but nearly silent. No one held his attention. When finally he was about to pick up the book, a woman, struggling, opened the door to the car. A clatterous whoosh filled the compartment but slowly faded when she released the door. She walked briskly down the aisle, carrying a small overnight bag in her hand. When she inevitably sat down next to him, he smiled and nodded. Frank was a reflexively polite man. He even theatrically adjusted his body to give the impression that he was making room for her. What a good guy he was to give up space, however imaginary, to a stranger to allow her to feel more comfortable. He felt elated by behaving with the utmost thoughtfulness in the situation. In fact he felt so proud of himself that he could hardly stand it. The woman didn’t appear to notice. He took a longer, sidelong glance to see if she appreciated his efforts. It was clear she did not. Frank fumed. Of all the nerve! And so, in a series of loud movements he quickly expanded himself to take as much room as possible. He opened his legs to a wide stance, broadened his shoulders, pulled down the armrest between them and took up the whole thing with his left arm. We’ll see how she likes that, he thought. He looked over. She didn’t seem to notice.
A Good Man - Melody Cryns
People knew who he was when he walked into the bar or club. Everyone would shout, “Hey Harold!” and shake his hand as he walked by. One guy would run up to him and shake his hand, another patted him on the back.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Rain - Camilla Basham
After ten or so miles down the gravel road we arrive. It's raining as always, heat and rain, heat and rain. It never stops. The house is wooden, built years ago, raised on cinder blocks about four feet from the ground. It's good because it keeps the water out of the house during heavy rains or if the levy ever breaks. It also gives my dad crawl space to bang the pipes around with his wrench when the toilet or sink backs up. My brother says it gives him shelter from the rain and a place to pass out when he comes home drunk. It is stained, worn, reeking of neglect. Sometimes I feel like that house, but then I think, Ruthie, you're being selfish. Your mom is doing God's work.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
Rain - Judy Albietz
Late in the evening the storm really hit. Bonnie was glad to be in her warm bed in the cozy top floor bedroom. She and Dexter were curled up with the book she was finishing. She now wondered why she loved to read about murder and why she had picked “The Shining”… sure it was a great story … but tonight she would be happy to be done with it. Two more chapters to go. She thought how this was the scariest book she had ever read. Then she thought about the burglar alarm system she had finally signed up for. Hmmm…too bad I dawdled around with the contract…it could have been installed last week.
As she read on, the downpour outside ramped up a notch. Rain pounding on the roof usually was soothing. Tonight it sounded like the rain was trying to find a way into her house. Ten more pages to go.
Looking up from the book, Bonnie saw through her lone bedroom window that the wind was driving the rain horizontally. Good not to be out in this weather. Dexter, unfazed as usual, started to snore next to her. Of course he would jump right up if he was needed for protection. Last page… okay, finally finished. What a weird book! She looked at her alarm clock, which read five minutes past midnight.
Bonnie knew what she had to do so she could get to sleep. She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Dexter’s dream. On tiptoes to avoid the cold floor, she carried the book over to her desk, slamming it down. Then she grabbed some heavy legal treatises from her book shelf and piled them on top of the book—a habit she had invented as a child when she read scary stories and wanted to make sure that the book wouldn’t come alive. Now relieved, Bonnie hopped back in bed, turned off the lamp, and tucked herself in. The darkness amplified the sounds outside. Branches of a tree next to her house beat with the wind and rain against the top of the window. Sleep? Who am I kidding?
Pulling the covers back, Bonnie sat up, turned the light back on and searched for a pair of shoes. She went over to the desk, moved the heavy books away and then grabbed The Shining. She held it away from her body as she felt her way down the dark staircase to the shadowy kitchen. She didn’t want to turn on any lights. She knew where the waste can was. With one hand she lifted the lid and dropped the book in with the other. Turning to the sink, she washed her hands and then hurriedly returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie was laying wide awake. She had to take one more step. She again put on her shoes and this time grabbed her trench coat as she re-traced her steps down to the kitchen. This time she threw the waste can lid on the floor and pulled up the sides of the plastic bag liner. After she tied up the plastic cords, she yanked the garbage bag out of the can and hauled it to the back door. She flung open the door which slammed behind her as she ran as fast as she could down the dark driveway to the garbage can, where she dumped the tied-up garbage bag. Now, that does it!
Turning back, Bonnie couldn’t even see the outline of her house through the driving rain. Then she remembered that the back door automatically locks shut.
As she read on, the downpour outside ramped up a notch. Rain pounding on the roof usually was soothing. Tonight it sounded like the rain was trying to find a way into her house. Ten more pages to go.
Looking up from the book, Bonnie saw through her lone bedroom window that the wind was driving the rain horizontally. Good not to be out in this weather. Dexter, unfazed as usual, started to snore next to her. Of course he would jump right up if he was needed for protection. Last page… okay, finally finished. What a weird book! She looked at her alarm clock, which read five minutes past midnight.
Bonnie knew what she had to do so she could get to sleep. She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Dexter’s dream. On tiptoes to avoid the cold floor, she carried the book over to her desk, slamming it down. Then she grabbed some heavy legal treatises from her book shelf and piled them on top of the book—a habit she had invented as a child when she read scary stories and wanted to make sure that the book wouldn’t come alive. Now relieved, Bonnie hopped back in bed, turned off the lamp, and tucked herself in. The darkness amplified the sounds outside. Branches of a tree next to her house beat with the wind and rain against the top of the window. Sleep? Who am I kidding?
Pulling the covers back, Bonnie sat up, turned the light back on and searched for a pair of shoes. She went over to the desk, moved the heavy books away and then grabbed The Shining. She held it away from her body as she felt her way down the dark staircase to the shadowy kitchen. She didn’t want to turn on any lights. She knew where the waste can was. With one hand she lifted the lid and dropped the book in with the other. Turning to the sink, she washed her hands and then hurriedly returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie was laying wide awake. She had to take one more step. She again put on her shoes and this time grabbed her trench coat as she re-traced her steps down to the kitchen. This time she threw the waste can lid on the floor and pulled up the sides of the plastic bag liner. After she tied up the plastic cords, she yanked the garbage bag out of the can and hauled it to the back door. She flung open the door which slammed behind her as she ran as fast as she could down the dark driveway to the garbage can, where she dumped the tied-up garbage bag. Now, that does it!
Turning back, Bonnie couldn’t even see the outline of her house through the driving rain. Then she remembered that the back door automatically locks shut.
Rain - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Callie realized she was still holding on to the fence and let go. Her hands ached. She realized too that the sky had changed while she was gripping so hard. The great, white cumulus clouds of a New Mexico afternoon had given way to dark, dense clouds sweeping across the mountains, and now some lightning shot through them. Thunder followed, and the hill she was clilmbing that had looked so high and brown shrank and looked dim and small in the gray light.
The horse stood trembling trembled at the thunder, and Rob went to it, talking softly. He reached a hand to the horse’s neck, patted it and reached slowly to take the halter. He looked down at Callie triumphantly.
``Come on, Cal, come and meet Victoria. She’s my uncle’s new horse. And don’t think you can ride this one. No one will let us kids get on her, ever.’’ Another crack of thunder came and the horse pulled out of Rob’s hands and disappeared behind the hill of the pasture. Rain came shooting down, hard and all at once, like a mountain summer rain exceopt it was spring, and Callie was suddenly, and completely, wet.
The horse stood trembling trembled at the thunder, and Rob went to it, talking softly. He reached a hand to the horse’s neck, patted it and reached slowly to take the halter. He looked down at Callie triumphantly.
``Come on, Cal, come and meet Victoria. She’s my uncle’s new horse. And don’t think you can ride this one. No one will let us kids get on her, ever.’’ Another crack of thunder came and the horse pulled out of Rob’s hands and disappeared behind the hill of the pasture. Rain came shooting down, hard and all at once, like a mountain summer rain exceopt it was spring, and Callie was suddenly, and completely, wet.
What You're Afraid Of - Jennifer Baljko
Hanging off the side of what felt like a cliff, I should have been practicing staying alive. Instead, I’m having a panic attack and can’t stop crying. My tears have salted my view and I can’t see clearly. Shale is hitting my head, and I can’t keep my footing.
“Lluís, please get me out of here. I can’t hold on any more,” I cry, counting on my boyfriend’s sure-footedness to get me out of the mess I created. I cursed myself for picking this route. Who climbs at a 90-degree angle straight up a sheer face? And, where did those people come from? There’s a trail? I didn’t see a one. Damn it!
“C’mon we just a few meters away from where it gets flat,” he tells me. “You’re doing fine. You’re not very far up off the ground. And, if you’re not going to die.”
“No, you’re right. I’m not going to die. It will be worse than that. I’m going to be paralyzed for the rest of my life,” I blabber, trembling at the idea of never being able to walk again.
“Look at me. No, look at my face, not my boots,” Lluís says from above. “You’ve climbed harder, steeper trails before. Yeah, I was bit surprised you wanted to go this way, and not me. But, you’ll get there. No big deal.” Ah, my superman!
I knew logically this wasn’t such a big feat. It wasn’t like I was scaling Everest, or even Half Dome. It was more like I opted to spread eagle on the sidewalk of the Lombard Street hill in San Francisco instead of winding through the zigzagged street. I was on a relatively ridiculous incline in Purmamarca, Argentina trying to get a better view of El Cerro de los Siete Colores (Hill of Seven Colors) across the road. Screw the view. I’ll buy a postcard.
“Ok, we can about the route later. Right now, pleeeaaase, just get me off this part. I have no grip,” I plead.
“Lluís, please get me out of here. I can’t hold on any more,” I cry, counting on my boyfriend’s sure-footedness to get me out of the mess I created. I cursed myself for picking this route. Who climbs at a 90-degree angle straight up a sheer face? And, where did those people come from? There’s a trail? I didn’t see a one. Damn it!
“C’mon we just a few meters away from where it gets flat,” he tells me. “You’re doing fine. You’re not very far up off the ground. And, if you’re not going to die.”
“No, you’re right. I’m not going to die. It will be worse than that. I’m going to be paralyzed for the rest of my life,” I blabber, trembling at the idea of never being able to walk again.
“Look at me. No, look at my face, not my boots,” Lluís says from above. “You’ve climbed harder, steeper trails before. Yeah, I was bit surprised you wanted to go this way, and not me. But, you’ll get there. No big deal.” Ah, my superman!
I knew logically this wasn’t such a big feat. It wasn’t like I was scaling Everest, or even Half Dome. It was more like I opted to spread eagle on the sidewalk of the Lombard Street hill in San Francisco instead of winding through the zigzagged street. I was on a relatively ridiculous incline in Purmamarca, Argentina trying to get a better view of El Cerro de los Siete Colores (Hill of Seven Colors) across the road. Screw the view. I’ll buy a postcard.
“Ok, we can about the route later. Right now, pleeeaaase, just get me off this part. I have no grip,” I plead.
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