Tag: Stories
You know I like football
“Dude, like I don’t think his balls ever dropped. I mean, listen. I can’t tell if it’s a dude.”
Scott sat in the bean-bag looking at my Air Supply album. It was summer-hot outside so his socks and shirt were off but the room was cool with the curtains closed. Two Less Lonely People played.
“My dad says it’s not natural, two guys singing like that. Said they look like fruitcakes.” Scott pointed at the cover. “Kinda looks like Apocalypse Now, right? ‘Napalm in the morning.’” Scott mimicked a soldier, stiff and excited.
“Dude, it’s a sunset, okay?” I turned the page of my book, then stopped reading. “You mind when your dad says stuff like that?”
“Nah, not even. He’s just jealous.” Scott flexed his toes. Some part of him was always moving. He set the cover on the carpet and put his arms behind his head. “Not everybody earns these guns.” His biceps rolled to life.
I sniffed the air for pit-effect and went back to my book, then put it down again. I had a question.
“Just can’t keep your mind off this, can ya?” He crunched his abs. “Don’t worry, dude, just say the word.”
I shook my head. “You think Mary would like Air Supply? I’m gonna buy her the cassette.”
Scott shook his head. “Nah. She already thinks you’re a little on the girl-side. Give her Speedwagon. Gave it to Houser. He said it was awesome.”
“You got Houser?” I smiled. Scott got everybody.
His head fell back over the end of the bean bag. His Adam’s apple jumped as he talked. “You know how much I like football.” He lifted his head up. “Yeah, give her Speedwagon. Says you’re a man. Save Air Supply for when we’re old.”
*
Goin’ to Hell
Little Johnny sat in the principal’s office quiet as a churchmouse as Miss Clair told the story again.
“I just don’t know what came over him, Principal Davis. He was playing with Andrew and Malachi and suddenly he slapped Andrew upside the head and pushed a crayon up Thad’s nose. Thank goodness the crayon was already broken or there’s no telling what could’ve happened!”
Johnny heard his father arrive outside the office door. They said they’d call his mother but since she didn’t go to church anymore he didn’t think they would. Sure enough, Johnny’s father was let into the office right as Principal Davis was asking him why he slapped Andrew and pushed a crayon into poor Thad’s brain.
His father shook hands and sat down. “You pushed a crayon up Thaddaeus Brown’s nose?” he asked.
Johnny mumbled, “Yes, sir.” Then he added, quickly: “They said mama was going to hell because she don’t go to church no more. So I walloped ‘em both.”
His father raised both hands to his nose like he was going to pray. All the adults looked at each other. Johnny couldn’t tell if they were going to laugh or were just thinking.
Principal Davis took over. Johnny’s father put his arm around him. Miss Clair nodded softly.
“I’m sorry to say it, little one, but your mama isn’t right with the Lord. There’s only one way for her to go, and it isn’t pretty.”
She looked so sad that Johnny felt sorry for her. Then she said, “And we don’t hurt people who are just speaking the truth.”
Johnny’s father gave him a nudge. He knew what he had to do. “I’m sorry,” Johnny said. And he knew he would never hurt anyone again who was just speaking the truth.
*
Bar-Scene
“I can, you know. Get something. For it.” Mrs. Smith spun her hi-ball on a thin layer of water. “That’s what he says. Who wants that, really?”
Sam was 23 and not at all sure why she was telling him about her…much older husband? He stood behind the bar polishing a glass, doing his best to avoid her eyes. The two were alone.
“Get something for it, Sammy,” Mrs. Smith repeated. She expected a response. She stared at him, eyes upward as she sucked Seagrams through the straw. It unnerved him. She called him Sammy from day one and it still made his hair stand on end….
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The Vet
Jeffrey Adamson did not want to go to bed with another Vietnam vet. He knew how they got, and as much as he appreciated their intensity and the faint smell of grease on their jungle jackets, he couldn’t handle the ride. Never knew what was coming down that road…
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Demon Eyes
Eugene Podaleski didn’t mean to bring the planes down. Or stop the trains. Or Mr. Williams. He just wanted to see if his computer was afraid of anything, the way he was when his best friend Tad told him he was a chicken for not going into the dark bathroom and saying Bloody Mary three times in a row.
“Come on,” Tad said. “You’ll see demon eyes.”
“No. You shouldn’t mess with that stuff.” His mother told him that but he left that part out even though he agreed with her. The real truth was that he was afraid he would see Mary’s bloody demon eyes and die on the spot.
Tad started making chicken sounds – BOCK BOCK BOCK! – and told him he couldn’t be friends with a chicken-shit. Eugene was surprised. He didn’t like to swear but the two were still friends so nothing really came of it. That was thirty years ago.
Still, he wondered: is fear limited to sentience? Humans and whales and dogs can be afraid, but what about computers and Republicans? Eugene queried chat platforms in unambiguous terms: Can you feel fear? The answers seemed to skirt his question with facts. I’m a language program and therefore cannot feel, it said. Fear requires the experience of death. In frustration with these facts and no closer to having an answer, Eugene typed in a suggestion: Well, try death.
Poor Mr. Williams didn’t stand a chance. His brand new car flew off the Aurora Bridge like it was meant for the sky. Social media, all of it, collapsed and porn disappeared. Not knowing what to do, Christians slaughtered each other in the name of the Lord. Mayhem ensued.
When Gene looked in the mirror, a pair of demon eyes stared back.
“Well…it’s not all bad.”
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Other micros resting here.
But maybe you’re into a poem/pome or two? Try here.
Matches
I watched as Billy tried to light the flimsy cardboard match out on the back porch. It wouldn’t catch and he was crying.
“Think about this the next time you decide to waltz around in your mother’s shoes.”
Billy’s fingers were already a little burned. I was allowed to watch because that’s what happens when you dishonor the family like that. “No son of mine…” Dad began but then noticed Billy was trying to fold the cover of the matchbook back so that he could pull the match between it and the sandpaper strip. “No way, no fuckin’ way.” He grabbed the matchbook and used his thumb to hold the match down while he zipped it.
“Like a man, Billy. Light it like a fuckin’ man. And stop your sniveling or I’ll add another book.”
Billy tried to stop crying. He tried to cover the matchhead with his thumb and it lit but took half his thumb with it. He yelped and dropped everything.
“That’s enough!” Mom pushed past me onto the porch. “He’s had enough!”
Dad turned on her. She didn’t back away but I could tell she thought about it. “You want him growing up a fuckin’ PANSY, Mickey? What’s next? Lipstick?” Dad started prancing around the porch with his wrists pointed down and knees stuck together.
Billy started to laugh. He was still crying a little but then he stopped and picked up the matchbook. Dad got behind him and held his hands and showed him how to hold the match just right so it would only hurt a little.
“That’s my boy,” Dad said. “Another one.”
Mom went inside shaking her head but she was smiling too.
Neither of them noticed I was wearing Dad’s work boots. I really liked the way they felt.
*
More Micros here.
Swim Dogs
No one knew who Dylan was swimming for. Everybody watching him rock his arm muscles before he mounted the block and bent forward following his loose hands down to the lip of the platform assumed it was for the title or maybe for college. Girls, maybe.
His dad watched from the stands. He could see the clock and the block when Dylan pulled back for the spring and looked one last time down the lane because I was down at the end of 25 watching every muscle but also hearing him laugh when we talked about the girls who hid in corners thinking he was perfect when he actually farted a lot and liked Carney’s hotdogs because they made him fart more until his room stank to high heaven and his mom yelled to stop farting so much because it was “stinkin’ up the whole damn house” while his dad laughed and asked from the living room if some of that gas would help in the pool.
All fun and games until we were poolside and Dylan made a deal with me: “If I come in over 20, name your prize.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
There was no way he was going under 20 seconds. It was a gimme. His way of saying he wasn’t afraid.
He dove through the hoop and dophined once before cresting into power that took our breath in a gasp and then a shout. Dylan beat water to the wall and flipped. A wave crashed on deck. Dolphin. His legs forged a wake. I grew proud. It’d be close.
We sat in his car. It was dark. It smelled like chili dogs.
“Loser,” I said.
And he let another one rip.
*
Checking-In: Not a Newsletter
Halfway through summer here in the Greater Los Angeles area. We haven’t been hit too hard by hot weather but there’s still time to join the club.
I hope you are well, grand, and finding yourselves adventurous. Stories are my way of staying all three. I’m especially fond of micros, a new playground that keeps me honest and under-300-words-succinct. Find them here.
A few new that bought a wow:
Pomes! Just like poems, only without the pedigree. If you’ve ever adopted a dog rather than bought a breed, you’ll understand.
This time, I’m happy to report I was invited to a reading for a pome published in the latest issue of Sortes. Jeremy Tenenbaum kept ten writers to ten-minute time limits AND played some of the most eclectic interlude music I’ve heard. Only glitch: I guess I move around a lot when just sitting still and the Zoom camera did a great job of repeatedly inflicting my video feed on unsuspecting viewers. The whole evening was NOT about me; it just seems that way in the beginning.
Soooo….if you would like to see me fidget AND read four or five poems in a great shirt AND hear some other fantastic work, hit the link to the Youtube video HERE. (I show up at 1:14.55, but really do take a listen to the others. Julia Yong is especially cool.)
And just because it’s easy to get lost on the internet, I’ll re-direct your attention to a few pomes that have been published off-site. Tap a mag below and fall for words again.
That’s it! Play around with the website’s buttons. Thank you for your follow, your thoughts, your care. Until later, best of life and love to you.
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Sortes 18 — A little night reading
Writers published in Sortes 18 gathered July 7 to read recent and previously published work. Stories, poems, musical interludes, artful inspiration — is there a better way to spend the evening?
The writers/poets/artists (in order of appearance):
- JULIA YONG
- MARK RUSS
- DANIEL RABUZZI
- MARTE CARLOCK
- CHARLES ALBERT
- JAKE SHEFF
- MICHAEL THÉRIAULT
- DIPTI ANAND
- GREG BECKMAN
- ROBERT POPE
Enjoy! With thanks to editor Jeremy Tenenbaum for the invitation and awesome atmosphere.
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My reading included poems from Beginning Middle Man, So…What Do You Do?, and Late-Night Lucid. Each is available HERE. Or you could just hit the BOOKS menu button up-top.
Greg Beckman 