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BANNED! May 3, 2008 The flashing reds and blues receded into the misty dark as the police vehicles called off the search for the night. The air was still for the moment. Not clear, mind you. The air was never clear around here. But it might be tomorrow. For tomorrow, all evil would be banned. Slowly two pinpoints of orange light came into view, cautiously creeping out from under the hedge, pausing only a moment to stamp out the small fire they inadvertently started. Only once the two fugitives were sure the coast was clear did they speak. “That was too close,” Lester LeButt puffed. “Yeah, we came within one flick of a Bic that time,” Carl T. Cig agreed. “We can’t go back to town, can we?” Lester sighed. “No. We’re not welcome there, I think.” “Where can we go?” “Shut up, moron, and let me think.” Carl was edgy, unfiltered. “Wait,” Lester said suddenly. “What about Councilman John Smith? Maybe he can push through some new laws. Lift the ban. Make us legal again. He always liked us.” Carl smirked. “He’s not pushing much of anything. Except daisies. He’s dead.” “My god. What happened?” A curl of smoky richness wafted from Carl’s scalp. “Oh…you know.” Lester’s tip flickered a few uneasy times. “We can’t stay here, can we?” “No,” Carl agreed. “If they do another sweep, we’re finished.” “So where do we go? I’m hungry.” “We can’t go a restaurant, you know that.” “Well, I’m thirs-“ “Or a bar.” Lester hunched under the feeble red glow he still was able to give off as the oppressive cloak of a moonless sky crept in. “I don’t like it here. I want to go somewhere…brighter. With more light.” “Bright lights.” The orange intensity of Carl’s tip flared, then returned to normal. “Yes. That’s it. Come on.” All through the night, the two fugitives made their way to safety. The crawled through muck and puddles; the dampness causing Carl’s outer wrapping to peel away like snake skin. But still they kept at it. The going was slow as they struggled to keep their heads out of the water lest they be snuffed out. Here and there on the roadside they would find a comrade or two, used up and burnt out. Lester could not help looking back. “We can’t help them,” Carl grunted. “Keep moving.” Lester lingered. “But this one has lipstick around it. He had a girl.” “She’s moved on to the next one already,” Carl said. “They all do. ‘Till they’re dead.” Dawn was breaking, but the lot was still full at the Lucky Duck Casino. Lester and Carl hunkered near the wheel well of a Buick Roadmaster trying to catch their breath. “Finally,” Lester said, and started toward the building. “Let’s go.” In less time than it takes to strike a Lucky Strike, Carl snagged his friend and pulled him back under cover. “Get your Butt back here, LeButt.” “Why? We’re here.” “There’s somethin’ wrong. I can smell it.” Lester sniffed the air. “If you’re smelling the rich, manly scent of the Old West, that’s me. If it’s Old World Goodness, then that’s probably you.” A ring of assorted keys attached to a small plastic hula girl jingled to the ground near the tire. Lester and Carl froze. A shaky hand with dirty fingernails reached down to retrieve the keys and the two desperados looked up into the dark, blood-shot eyes that rested atop an unshaven face. The man picked up the keys but did not lift his hand. The man was looking at them. Carl cursed softly and Lester shuddered. The man licked his lips, considering. He moved a few fingers toward Carl and Lester, then stopped. With a shake of his head, he stood, got in his car and drove away, nearly crushing Lester and Carl. “That was close,” Lester said. “Yeah. He must have had a bad night at the crapper.” “I think you mean, at the ‘craps’ table,” Lester said. “Whatever.” “Are you sure it’s okay to go in there? With the ban and everything?” “Yeah, I’m sure. There’s no ban in casinos. Smoking and gambling. They go together like arsenic and bacon cheeseburgers. They’ll love us in there.” “Okay. Let’s go.” The two ventured through the valet parking area and up to the sidewalk in front of the casino. The early morning light glinted off the chrome and gold ornamentation, but there was still enough shadow to convey the glow of neon far off into the distance. “We made it, buddy,” Lester exclaimed. “Hold it,” Carl said. “You hear that?” “What?” “That noise,” Carl said. “What is it? It’s like a…fftfft.” “Yeah. I hear it too. Like uh, uh, a sweeping kind of noise.” “Yes,” Carl said. “Exactly like a sweeper.” They both emitted their last smoke plume as twelve-year-old Amanda Huggins swept Lester LeButt and Carl T. Sig into her garbage sack where they could mingle with the other assorted roadside refuse Ms. Wentworth’s eighth-grade class had picked up that day as part of their Earth Studies unit on environmentalism. And across the land, scores of matches doused their flames in silent mourning. Happy (Belated) Earth Day! EMAIL US AT carnivalofglee@mchsi.com AND DON”T FORGET TO CHECK OUT OUR BLOG AT www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com AND THEN, IF YOU’RE STILL NOT SICK OF US, LISTEN TO OUR PODCASTS AT THE BLOG OR ON THIS SITE’S HOMEPAGE. AS ALWAYS, IT’S ALL FREE, UNLESS YOU JUST WANT TO SEND US MONEY.
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LIVE FOR TODAY - PART 1 March 9, 2008 There was no jet flame, but the heat emanating from the flying saucer as it approached the ground in Billy Martinksi’s backyard singed the grass like a chef’s blow torch browning the top on a crème brulee. Billy Martinski slammed open the screen door and didn’t notice it falling off its hinges as he took in the cheesy 1950’s flying saucer that hovered briefly before spiraling back into the stratosphere. The craft was silent, but Billy felt the slightest rush of wind as it accelerated. Then – blink – it was gone. Billy’s flip-flop slipped into a rut in the yard and the thirty-year-old grimaced as his toes dug the Earth. “Ow. Son of a b-“ “Did that hurt?” Billy followed the sound of the voice downward to the small figure that had produced it. Billy immediately sized the thing up as a three-foot tall, bulbous-nosed, vanilla ice cream cone that had rolled in a fine layer of potting soil. He wasn’t really sure the thing had eyes, yet he knew he was being watched. “Uh, no,” Billy said. “It didn’t really hurt.” “Oh,” the thing said, sounding mildly disappointed. “I was hoping to learn more about pain.” “Sorry to disappoint.” From the front of the house, Billy heard the garage door open. A hurried voice called, “I’m going now. Don’t forget to pick up the bananas.” The bananas. She works across the street from the store. Just once, she should pick up the friggin’ bananas. “I don’t even like bananas” “I’m a space alien,” the thing said. “Like from another planet?” “That’s how it works, yes.” “Okay.” Billy Martinski was, on the one-hundred-twelfth day of his thirtieth year, at a point in his life where meeting a space alien and finding out he has mastered the alien’s language without knowing it really wasn’t all that monumental. Ten years spent in the same cubicle he had occupied as a one-year intern had dulled most of his ability to respond to new stimuli anyway. “Look, I only have one day to live, so I better get right to the point,” the alien said. “Sorry, man,” Billy Martinski, then considered if that was the appropriate gender. “Or, uh, lady…whatever.” The alien shrugged. “We only have a one day life cycle anyway. My folks spent their whole lives, well, producing me. I’m glad and all, but, geez, I want to see more of the universe. So here I am. I need your help.” “What do you want me to do?” Billy Martinski had a vague notion he was going to be late for work, but alien contact seemed like an even better excuse for taking a sick day than the one he had been considering – some sort of Starbucks-related disaster. “Well, I’ve ridden a ferris wheel, shopped on your Internet – you’ll be receiving a shipment of Woodrow Wilson bobble-heads after I’m dead, by the way – watched an episode of “Ellen,” concluded that McDonald’s “premium” coffee isn’t all that special, and buzzed a crew filming a documentary in Antarctica with my flying saucer. I think I might have melted a glacier accidently with the jets. Sorry ‘bout that.” “Sounds like a pretty full day.” “I still have some questions, though,” the alien said. SEE PART 2 ELSEWHERE ON THIS PAGE
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LIVE FOR TODAY - PART 2
(SEE PART 1 ELSEWHERE ON THIS PAGE)
“Okay, shoot.” “Cool.” The alien flopped down casually, crossing – somewhat – his short legs in front of him. “First, what’s hunger like?” Billy patted his beer-gut. “Well, there’s a breakfast burrito left in the kitchen. I was gonna have it, but if you want…” “No, no. I mean like real hunger. See, for the day we’re alive, we just sort of absorb whatever we need from the atmosphere. You guys need to eat. But not all of you are. What’s that like?” As Billy thought, his stomach rumbled a bit. He was momentarily, painfully aware of the irony of this from the man who had made a game of executing “traitors to the crown” by biting the heads off animal crackers and throwing the rest away. “I don’t know,” Billy finally said. “Shoot. Well, how about this…” the alien began, then considered. “I’m leaving now,” the voice from the front yard shrieked before the alien could ask another question. The slamming of a car door immediately followed before Billy could call back and the roar of an engine soon after that. “Who was that?” the alien asked. “My wife.” “Oh. Your kind commits to one mate?”
Billy wondered if regularly visiting that one website constituted a second commitment, then decided it didn’t. “Yeah. Most of the time.” “What’s that like? Our kind, since we only get the one day, tries to do as much re-populating as possible. What’s it like to have only one mate?” A sea of domestic banality washed through Billy’s mind, carrying underwear hanging on shower curtain rods, nagging lists of chores, boring family gatherings, and fights over what color couch to buy. But before he could answer, the flood waters receded leaving a layer of bedrock with all the good stuff – security, sense of place, great kids. “It’s nice,” Billy finally said. “It’s nice to have someone to grow old with.” He winced, as he realized what he’d said. “Sorry.” The alien shrugged. “No big deal.” “Look, if you need…” Billy trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. “No. I’m good. I should probably be going though.” As if on cue, the flying saucer glided back into view. “Are you gonna be, you know, okay?” “Sure,” the alien said. “And even if not, I’ve only got a few hours left anyway.” With that, the saucer opened and the alien hopped aboard. The saucer made a wide turn around a cumulus cloud and was gone. Billy watched the patch of sky the saucer had occupied for a few moments. He would still call in sick, he thought. Life was too short for cubicles. Besides, there might be some other aliens who needed his input. Maybe a few humans too. Also, he had to go buy bananas. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com. Also check out our podcasts and the Carnival Blog at www.carnivalglee.blogspot.com
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SERPENT’S CIDER February 11, 2007 Snake Desmond stood up before the motley assemblage of half-conscious drunks. He scratched his bloated stomach aggressively under his grimy shirt tail, but only used one finger so as to be discrete. Then he held high over his head an old two-liter soda pop bottle full of liquid, the color of which was not evident through the opaque plastic, but the odor upon opening the cap for a connoisseur’s whiff was unmistakable. “I got me one jar of the Serpent’s Cider left,” Snake Desmond bellowed jovially. “Any takers?” There were a few grunts and a couple half-hearted waves, but no had any money left, not that anyone had much to begin the day with either. No one did in these post “economic renewal” days in the US. Snake was about to pack it in when, slowly, a small hand emerged from behind a sleeping or possibly dead, fat man in the corner. “Please, sir. I’d like some.” A boy stood. If Snake Desmond had ever read a book, he’d have been struck by the Oliver Twist comparison. But he hadn’t. He saw a sucker, not a street urchin. Snake’s gap-toothed grin widened. “Excellent,” he said. “Please do come forward.” The boy of eleven or twelve loped forward in ill-fitting clothes on nearly soulless shoes. He adjusted his hat nervously. Snake looked the boy up and down. “So how old are you then?” “Twenty-one, sir,” the boy lied. Snake’s brows rose. “Really?” The boy shifted uncomfortably, but then said, “Does it matter?” with a street kid’s edge before retreating back into his child’s shell. Wide eyes blinked eagerly. Snake shrugged. “No. Probably not. But where are your parents?” “The war. Vancouver I think. Maybe Sydney. Probably dead. Don’t really know.” Snake considered, eyeing his customer warily. “How much money you got?” The boy rummaged in his pocket and produced a few coins. He held them out to Snake in a grimy fist. “I know it’s not much.” Snake laughed. “You’re in luck. We’ve got a special going.” He took the coins and handled over the bottle. The boy clutched the bottle like he’d just caught a pass in a football game, assuming anyone knew anymore what football was. He started to scamper away. “Hey, kid,” Snake called after him. “You gonna drink that all by yourself?” “Sure,” the boy said. “I do everything by myself.” Snake watched the boy go off into the gray, misty horizon. The clouds hung low in the sky. They looked like you could reach out and pluck them down to be replaced by sunshine and warmth. But you couldn’t. Whatever it looked like, reality was immutable. Snake watched the boy until he couldn’t make him out from the other mud-splattered citizenry of the city. He jangled the coins in his jacket pocket, satisfied. At least one of them would eat tonight. Later, stomach full of moldy leftovers but satisfied for the moment, Snake sat with a crowd around the town’s only television. A weary looking news anchor with an eye patch covering the consequence of shrapnel from the previous week’s terrorist bombing, was giving yet another somber report on the “The War Against Everyone Who Isn’t Us.” “In renewed fighting today,” the anchor said, “insurgent forces sought to regain control of Australia’s outback. Britain’s Prime Minister has long called for reinforcements, but the White House continues to insist American forces are spread too thin. In the latest round of fighting, a hundred American soldiers were killed in Sydney; forty in Darfur; seventy-five in Iraq; and ten in Cancun.” The crowd watched the broadcast nonplussed. These reports were typical fare. Hearing nothing new, they slowly drifted away. This was their unyielding reality. Night was falling and safe, dry places to sleep were scarce. Snake thought fleetingly of the boy from earlier in the day. Hadn’t he said his parents were in Vancouver? If so they were safe. But maybe he said they were in Sydney, in which case, they weren’t safe at all. Snake shrugged. “Poor little bastard.” It was a cold night and Snake awoke the next morning in a derelict coffee house stiff and numb. His stomach rumbled. Digging through his pockets failed to yield any money and Hattie at the town’s only functioning restaurant was no longer accepting sexual favors for ham and eggs. Not since that traveling evangelist – one of the few booming business in this new era – came through town. “Guess I better round up some suckers,” Snake muttered, checking his stash of Serpent Cider. He had a dozen more “last bottles” just like the one he’d sold the boy. A middle-aged woman in a tattered business suit flagged Snake down out on the street, waving a dollar bill. Folding money! This might be a good day. As Snake approached the woman, his eye caught a pair of feet sticking out from around a corner of what had been a large chain discount store, but was now the town’s unofficial latrine. Curiosity grabbed hold and he motioned the woman to wait. Snake rounded the corner and instantly recognized the boy who’d bought yesterday’s “last” bottle of Serpent’s Cider. The boy lay on his side, the bottle in one hand, tipped, with a small puddle of cider at its opening. “Hey, kid, you got to go easy on that stuff. It’ll-“he stopped short when he saw the vacant eyes staring nowhere, resting atop lifeless features tinged blue with cold and lack of oxygen. “Aw, hell,” Snake managed to stammer. A few moments later, the woman marched over and, oblivious to the nameless dead youth, tapped Snake forcefully on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said, “Can I get a bottle or what?” Snake slowly turned to the woman, seeing her, but as if through a telescope from far in the distance. Slowly, his words traversed the expanse back to her. “No,” Snake said, then walked away. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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FERGUSON PAYNE HAS A PROBLEM March 25, 2007 "Dammit. Dammit. Dammit." On in five, Mr. Payne. "Well, I'm not ready." What's the hold up? I'm only a couple pages away from your scene. "I can't find my shoes." What? "My shoes. They're gone." So what? I'll just write you a new pair. "That won't work." Yes, it will, Ferguson. I'm the author. It's what I do. "I want my wing tips. You'll probably write me cowboy boots." Well, it IS a western. "I LIKE wing tips." Ferguson scurried about the room, focused in his mission, but haphazard in his movements as he zigged, then zagged, then zigged again. Little did he realize - "Stop that." Stop what? "The narration. It's like you're controlling what I do." I am. You're my chracter. I created you. "Does that mean you can tell me what to do? What to say? What to think?" Actually, that's exactly what it means. "Well, what if I want to go to a movie? Or take a nap? Or call in to a radio talk show and share my views on global warming?" You don't have any views on global wamring and you can't do any of those other things. "Why?" Because no scenes like those exist in the book. "But I want to do them." Ferguson huffed and puffed, normally pallid cheeks flaming, as pudgy fists clenched and released. "Stop it," Ferguson hissed, tapping a foot, the big toe emerging through a hole in the sock. Too bad. I'm the author. You can only do what I write for you to do. "What about free will?" You can't improv a novel. Doesn't work. "All over the world, people are living their lives, doing as they will. Why can't I?" Your world is this book. If you don't do what I write on page three, we can't progress the plot to page four. If that happened, the rest of the four-hundred pages would be blank. Kind of a waste of trees, isn't it? "What about Captain Fakemann? I have a lot of scenes with him, but then he goes off to strip clubs, quilting bees, and grisly crime scenes and comes back and tells me about them. THOSE scenes aren't in the book, but he did them." No he didn't. He just thinks he did those things because I wrote it into his memory. Those things define the character, but don't propel the plot, so I didn't write those scenes. "He just THINKS those things happened?" Yup. If it's not on the page, it's not part of your world. "So, I only exist to move the plot?" To be blunt, yes. "The only thing I live for is to invent the reversible sweater vest and deli meat slicer that Marjorie Whippemeister uses to vanquish the demons? That's it? There's nothing more to my life?" No. But you do save the universe, after all. "Yeah, but..." Ferguson Payne slouches onto a folding chair that has conveniently appeared, toppling a soda can resting on the floor, but ignoring the cola staining his stockinged feet. He catches the narrator narrating and sticks out his tongue. Look, Ferguson, a book is the sum of its parts. Every character has a purpose. Every scene is crucial. If someone or something doesn't move the story forward, a good writer takes it out. To illustrate his point, the narrator deletes the folding chair and Ferguson plops to the floor upon his ample bottom. "Hey! What the fu-" The author loves his characters, but they have to do their work. And by doing that work, you're serving a purpose larger than yourself. "Book sales?" Well, that and other things. In your case, maybe the only thing you'll do in your life is invent that sweater/meat slicer, but, hey, you saved Marjorie, didn't you? And Captain Fakemann? And the unnamed waiter in chapter three? "And my mom, too. Remember? I mentioned her in chapter seven." Ferguson, what did I tell you. She doesn't appear in the book, does she? "Oh, right." Ferguson nodded comprehendingly. So can we go back to work now? Ferguson nodded, but said nothing. Good. But," Ferguson said, standing and brushing lint off his pants. "Those boots? I want them in black."
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SCISSORS November 14, 2007 “Honey, where are the scissors?” “I don’t know.” “Well, you must know.” “Why?” “You used them last.” “How do you know that?” “Because you did.” “I have no recollection of cutting anything with scissors all year.” “You must have. Everyone cuts with scissors at some point in the year.” “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t know. The point is, if I don’t remember using them, how could you possibly remember it?” “I’m very observant.” “Baloney.” “Does anyone really say that?” “Without looking, stay over there by the credenza with your back to me and your eyes averted from my reflection in the glass and tell me what color shirt I’m wearing.” “I don’t know.” “Yet you remember my scissor usage?” “Yes.” “So when did I use them?” “You clipped a coupon for Twinkies on March 23.” “It’s only February 9th.” “I meant last year.” “You remember that?” “Yes. I hate Twinkies.” “Yes, I know. That’s why I never offer you any.” “Oh. THAT’S why…” “What’s that mean?” “What?” “That tone.” “There was no tone.” “I think there was a tone. It was like that one time when I said Jimmy Kimmel was an under-appreciated force in the late-night talk show wars and you said, ‘Oh, JIMMY KIMMEL is the new king of late night, is he?’ and then you went to read a book.” “You remember that, but you don’t remember where a piece of personal property is located in our house?” “Yes, and also that we didn’t have sex that night.” “Tonight’s not looking good either.” “Maybe Lucy has them.” “She better not. She’s only three.” “Well, they do have the safety-tips.” “Aha, so you do remember the scissors!” “I didn’t say I didn’t remember them, just that I don’t know where they are.” “Just ask her.” “I can’t. She’s with my mother.” “Again?” “What’s that mean? “What?” “That tone. ‘AGAIN’” “No fair. You can’t use the tone argument against me if I can’t use it against you.” “Look, are you going to tell me where the scissors are, or not?” “Not.” “Fine.” Heavy footsteps. Door slams. “I really like Jimmy Kimmel.” Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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QUEEN IDA
July 9, 2006
Queen Ida, royally plump, but not uncomely, sits upon her jewel-encrusted throne. This usually makes her happy, especially when her thoughts light upon the many peasants who mined and polished the jewels; happy, yes, though tinged with sadness at the precious serfs who perished in the effort. It was a tragic waste. If such losses continued, only the sick and aged would be available to do the labor. And that just wouldn’t do at all.
Still, her throne, her royal crown and the servant who massaged her ample bottom when it became sore from all that throne-sitting usually made her feel quite pleased. But not today. Today, she was out of sorts.
“I have no lemons,” she moaned, punctuating her displeasure with a loud fart.
Her manservant, Willoughby, grimaced and wrinkled his nose discreetly.
“I’m having fish for lunch,” the Queen explained.
“Yes, my lady.” Willoughby knew this, of course, as he caught all the royal fish, cleaned and cooked them, and got to eat the royal fish bones, eyes and intestines (as a “benevolent gesture”) followed by a trip to the royal physician to deal with the consequent intestinal problems.
“I need lemon for my fish,” the Queen said. “Bring me some.”
Willoughby sighed. “My Queen,” he began in a courtly manner, “The lemon tree is on the far side of the kingdom on the border in the badlands where only demons may walk unfettered. It’s too unsafe and will take too long.”
Queen Ida grinned a green-coated, gap-toothed grin. “Too long? Well, a trip to the guillotine is very short.”
Willoughby got the point.
Within an hour of his journey beginning, Willoughby was already cursing the physician whose most recent leeching had left him with some tired blood. He was so preoccupied that he tripped over a dead peasant sprawled in the mud.
“Stupid Black Plague,” Willoughby cursed, examining his torn leggings. “Why can’t the peasants keep their dead off the road?” A mongrel dog began chewing on the deceased’s foot. At least he was doing something about it.
After another hour of walking, Willoughby was nearly trampled by knights on horseback.
“Hey!” Willoughby yelled, “The jousting arena is there for a reason. It’s not just for mass executions, you know.”
A short time later, a motley group passed by Willoughby on the road. They included a Monk, a Friar, some pretentious harlot calling herself “The Wife of Bath,” a squire and a merchant, along with a bunch of other nameless rabble. The leader seemed to be the smarmy one proclaiming loudly, “Fare thee well. I’m Geoffrey Chaucer. The writer. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Canterbury Tales, my ass,” Willoughby muttered when he was out of earshot. He glanced back just in time to see the Prioress give him the finger. No matter, he had royal business to attend to.
Finally, Willoughby emerged from a grove of tall trees at the edge of Queen Ida’ realm. In the middle of an otherwise empty field was Queen Ida’s lemon tree, drinking in the late morning sun. Willoughby made quick work of filling his pack with the sour fruit and was just about to head back when he was shot in the ass by an arrow from Robin Hood’s quiver.
“What the…?” Willoughby cried out.
“Aren’t you the Sheriff of Nottingham?” Robin asked.
“No!”
“My bad,” Robin said, then calling into the trees. “See, Little John, I TOLD you.” He scampered off.
Willoughby managed to remove the arrow and bandage his own wound. As he hobbled painfully along the road back toward home, a blind peddler offer him a tankard of ale to ease his suffering. However, between the stout alcohol and the lead content of the vessel he drank it from, Willoughby was quickly loopy and passed out, whereupon the peddler pinched his money bag AND the lemons.
By the time Willoughby recovered and limped empty-handed into Queen Ida’s court, her majesty was royally pissed.
“Where is my lemon?” she demanded.
Dirty, disheveled, bloody and humiliated, Willoughby reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out one foul, rotten fruit he had stuck there, perhaps by divine providence, and said, “Suck it, my lady.”
Willoughby’s head was on a pike atop the castle wall within thirty minutes.
Queen Ida had mutton for lunch.
Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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THE CAST-OFF SHOE
April 22, 2006
It was a black basketball shoe with gray and red stripes, size eleven. One lace was broken and its mate was missing. It would never carry a foot onto a court again. Still, the shoe’s days of stepping into (and onto) people’s lives were far from over.
Steve Pressler was at the wheel of his mom’s Ford Focus; Alex Winter at shotgun. In the back, twins Rudy and Andy Thomas shared a hoagie. All were rank, coming from a pick up game of ball at the park. All four windows were rolled down, for what it was worth.
“Hey, Winter,” Rudy called, mouth full of ham and turkey. “Once again, excellent save.” He referred to Alex’s ignoble moment during the basketball game when he accidentally bowled over a grandmotherly power-walker while trying to retrieve an errant ball.
“Fuck you, man,” Alex replied eloquently, punctuating the retort by casually tossing his size eleven basketball shoe over his shoulder. Rudy, hands full of hoagie, deflected the podiatric projectile with his left elbow.
To everyone’s amazement, the elbow jab sent the shoe sailing neatly out the car’s passenger window and off the bridge over which the car was traveling. The shoe careened off a piling, hit the riverbank, and rolled to a stop in the mud.
Moments later, a man emerged from a hollow under the bridge camouflaged to neatly blend in with the mucky surroundings. His name was Cutter – he had a first name, probably, but had left it behind with his right leg during Persian Gulf War I. He hobbled curiously over to the shoe on a broken crutch. The other leg was present, but unshod and this shoe was, well, a gift from above.
A grin crossed Cutter’s neglected smile, revealing swollen gums over woe-begotten teeth. In the first ray of luck in – what, fifteen years? – Cutter was overjoyed to find that the one lone shoe and his one lone foot were destined for each other: both lefties.
Cutter’s luck did not hold out, however. Suffering from pneumonia, he succumbed to a frigid January night.
A short time later, a couple boys wandered by, and on a dare from his buddy, one of them grimaced and pulled the shoe off the dead veteran. Though it was an imprecise nickname, the kid’s buddies later took to calling him “Body-Snatcher” for weeks afterward until their tiny attention spans moved on to something else.
The shoe ended up on a side road, cast off like one we’ve all seen many times before – except perhaps Tara James, age fifteen. A future Olympic bicyclist, she was on a ride one afternoon, rounded a corner, and wiped out after her front tire met the shoe. She tore up her knee and didn’t make the Olympic cut. She now works full time as a medical transcriptionist.
The shoe finally came to rest on a bedside table twenty miles away from where it originally flew out that car window, the sole smeared with a dab of mayonnaise. It got there courtesy of Matt LeMatt, whose grandmother was very ill (probably emphysema, but that was too big a word for little Matt – he just said her breath was tired) Matt LeMatt had no money, but knew Grandma was a big basketball fan. Matt’s grandfather had been one of the first black men in the NBA. So, Matt found the shoe, got his mother to replace the laces, patch the canvas, and clean it as well as possible. A watertight liner was put inside and for the last days of Grandma’s life, she could lie in bed and gaze upon a single petunia, hand-picked by Matt and placed in a bud vase next to a framed photo of Grampa Joe.
Grandma lived a little longer than expected; probably not because of the flower and its shoe-vase, but probably not in spite of it either.
Oh, and what of Alex Winter, who started all this? He was grounded for a week for losing such an expensive shoe. “What a waste,” his mother said when she heard.
Indeed.
Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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APPLES AND ORANGES The Wise Old Apple stood regally on the edge of the fruit bowl; so shriveled and browned, he was about a week away from being dressed up on a stick as an old lady’s face in some craft show project. But his voice was crisp like, well, like an apple. “My friends,” he said, “for too long apples have been compared to oranges in a manner that divides us, rather than unites us.” “Hear, hear,” the delegation of apples, for the most part, spurted, sending a spray of raw cider across the room. The sour grapes just sneered; some of them screwing up their faces so much they turned into raisins right there and then. The Wise Old Apple went on. “We owe it to our children, to the Pre-Ripes, to bring about a world where difference is not demonstrated by comparing apples and oranges, just because our colors are different. There is so much about who we are as fruits that is the same.” “Perhaps,” Pineapple said, mischievousness glistening in his juice-filled eyes. “But such comparison technique has gone on for a long time. Is now really the time to upset the apple cart?” All the little seeds in the audience sprouted and snickered at the pun. The Wise Old Apple shook his, well, his body. “How would you feel, good sir Pineapple, if the humans said things like, ‘Well, that analysis is like comparing pineapples and coconuts. You’re stupid. I hate you. Let’s go to war and annihilate ourselves now’? How would you feel to know your uniqueness from another fruit played a part in the case for such death and destruction?” “Well,” Pineapple shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but people do put me on pizza. That’s pretty weird.” The Wise Old Apple turned to Florida Orange. “Orange, my friend, I beseech you.” Orange, who’d been polishing his surf board, turned distractedly. “Well, uh, yeah…I mean…What was it again?” “I was making the point that we are alike, you and I.” “Whoa. Don’t know about that, old timer.” “Does not both our flesh provide essential vitamins? Does not the juice that flows through our pulp or seed ovary form a large part of a nutritionally balanced breakfast? Are we not both round?” “Well, actually, you’re more…” “What’s he on about?” Lime asked Lemon. “Oh, you know Apple,” Lemon said. “He’s been all egg-heady since he fell on Newton and made him discover gravity.” Egg, strolling by on his way to a Denver omelet, protested, “Hey! Cheap shot!” Out of the fruit bowl, a bright, dapper, Green Apple rolled forth and said, “I have a question.” “By all means,” the Wise Old Apple said, conceding the stage. “You there, Orange,” Green Apple said. “Tell me, do apples grown on trees?” Orange pulled himself away from a frosty glass of himself and said, “I dunno.” “Do they have seeds or pits?” “No clue, dude.” “Do the humans eat the peel or throw it away?” “You got me, brother.” Green Apple beamed confidently, then his eyes narrowed. “And finally, Orange, tell me, when you look at us, the apples, is there any way we could be related to you; that we could be alike?” Orange snorted juice. “No way. You’re all like, uh, Establishment and stuff. The Man’s been saying it forever, ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away,’ and all that. Oranges, we just like to party, man.” Orange quickly glanced around, noting the odd expressions on the faces of the bunch, but only briefly, and said, “Well, surf’s up.” With that, he rode a grape juice wave to the sink. “You see?” Green Apple said to Wise Old Apple. The Wise Old Apple shook his head. Unification was not meant to be. Not today, anyway. The fruit bunch began to disburse when banana came running up. “Hey,” he called. “You guys can compare stuff to me if you want.” But then he slipped on himself and fell on the floor, so everyone pretty much ignored him. Email us at carnivalofglee@mchsi.com
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CANTANKEROUS JOHN’S BIRTHDAY PARTY
March 25, 2006
“Let’s put the trick candles on his cake,” Sally suggested, the slightest hint of malevolence in her green eyes.
“No, that’s too mean. Not to mention the ugly scene that could develop,” Cameron countered. “Remember the tofu dog incident?”
“Yeah, the catsup stain never did come out,” Sally agreed, sighing. “Why are we even having a birthday party?”
With a slight tone, Cameron explained, “Because it’s Uncle John’s birthday.” He paused. “And I guess because no one else would. Did you get the gift?”
“Yeah. A card and a roll of tokens for the car wash.”
Cameron frowned. “Did you get the ones-“
Sally cut him off. “Yeah, I know. The ones from the car wash on Fifth since he won’t got to the one on Harvest Road ‘cause all the guy employees wear pony tails.”
“Damn hippies,” Cameron grumbled in an “Uncle John” voice, then he remembered. “But I think there’s a black guy that works at the one on Fifth. African-Americans make him nervous, you know.”
Sally shrugged. “He’ll have to get over it.”
“When will he be here?”
“Evelyn and Bob were going to pick him up and bring him over about seven. He thinks they’re going to buy him a new pair of pants.”
“Oh, good cover. THAT will put him in a good mood. The man hasn’t bough pants since polyester double-knits strangled the fashion world,” Cameron said, then cursed as he realized he’d dropped a small spec of chocolate frosting on his Gabardine pants. Then he looked at his watch and said, “It’s about time.”
As if on cue, the front door swung open and Evelyn and Bob Came in followed by Uncle John, who proceeded to stamp his muddy, wet feet – a massive storm was raging outside – on the newly refurnished hardwood floors. Evelyn and Bob discreetly set their own shoes aside on the door mat.
To look at Uncle John, he could have been fifty or he could have been eighty. The youthful twinkle in his eye had long since been throttled by the chilling frown below it. He had no physical impairments, but moved lightly, cautiously, down the hall with an ever-present shoulder hunch.
“Uncle John, welcome,” Cameron intoned.
“Hi, John,” called Sally from the kitchen, suddenly busy with evening the height of the candles on the cake.
Without response, Uncle John made for the dining room table.
“Can I get you a beer, John?” Bob enthused as John shuffled by. John just waved his assent.
Bob brought the beer, a pale ale of some sort.
“Foreign beer,” John muttered, never mind it was brewed in Boston.
“Show time,” Cameron whispered to Sally from behind the swinging kitchen door.
Sally lit the candles on the cake and picked it up. On cue, Evelyn, Bob, and Cameron launched into a rapid version of “Happy Birthday” as she brought the cake into the dining room.
At the conclusion of the song, John blew out his candles, spitting liberally on the cake as he did so. Sally suppressed a shudder and gave thanks for her continuing diet.
“Presents,” John grunted as Evelyn – reluctantly – carved up the cake.
Bob laughed optimistically. “Yeah, Cam, bring on the gifts.” He nodded vigorously to his nephew.
“Coming up,” Cameron said, eager to seize the opportunity to leave the room.
The requisite lame, small family party awkward silence followed. Sally waded in with, “Leslie wanted to be here, but she-“
“Is in jail?” John finished.
“No,” Sally said.
“Rehab?”
“No, John, she’s in the hospital.”
John shrugged.
“Again?” Evelyn asked.
“Yeah, she,” Sally began, but was cut off.
“Where’s that kid with the gifts?” Uncle John demanded.
Cameron emerged through the sliding partition on the opposite end of the dining room, crossed to the table and plunked a brightly colored gift bag in front of John who promptly sneered at it.
“Too lazy to actually wrap it?”
Cameron laughed politely.
As Evelyn distributed slices of cake – happy to have something to do – John pulled the wads of tissue paper out of the gift bag and tossed them randomly. He reached in and pulled out a small brown box. He frowned at it and “tsk”ed at having to open something more. “What is this, a puzzle?”
Inside the box was a gold pocket watch engraved on the front cover with a steam locomotive chugging over tracks across an open prairie.
“It’s a watch,” Sally said.
“No shit,” John said.
“Open it up, John,” Bob said.
John shrugged and depressed the button to open the cover. The watch ticked steady and true. On the insider of the cover was an engraving. John squinted at it. “Tiny print, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t. John was blind as a blind-folded man inside a sack and dumped down a deep, dark well of dark chocolate pudding.
“It says,” Sally offered, “’To the finest Uncle John we’ve ever had.’ And it has the date and your age, Seventy-six. And we know how much you love trains.”
“Well I know how old I am,” John said, though until now he was sure he was seventy-four.
“Happy birthday,” all four of them shouted. Then they applauded.
John picked up his fork and cake plate as if he was about to take a bite. He swiped just a smidge of the frosting with the fork, licked it, grimaced and dumped the plate on the floor, tossing the fork after it.
“Thanks,” he said. With a cursory nod to Evelyn and Bob, he said, “I’ll walk home.” He scooped up the watch and headed for the door.
“It’s twenty blocks,” Bob protested. “And it’s raining.”
“Eh,” was the only response. The front door slammed as he exited.
After a brief pause to exchange awkward glances, Cameron said, “Well. Same time next year?”
Out on the sidewalk, John scanned the passers-by for someone to dump that stupid watch on. He took the thing out and was about to chuck it into a trash can when he looked at it again.
“Trains,” he smirked, shaking his head. Then he stuck the watch in his front shirt pocket and patted it.
John’s gait picked up a little as he headed down the sidewalk whistling “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”
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A RISING TIDE LIFTS ALL (TOY) BOATS
February 25, 2006
Tugby always panicked a little when he was swept into the waterfall, the current twirling him around, disoriented and blinded by the bubbles.
Slowly, he and his friends floated into one another, propelled by the current and sinking with the receding tide. Tugby knew they’d be all right – he had done this many times – but it still shook him. And, as always, after a few moments they touched ground. And all was well. Except…
“Eww, the old guy left a big clump of hair down here,” Tugby realized with horror. As the last of the bath water went down the drain, Tugby, the little blue and white tugboat, had landed on the soggy, soapy mass. “Why does little Tommy let him play with us anyway?”
“I like Tommy’s grandpa,” the plastic scuba diver with wind-up swim fins said. “He doesn’t use a lot of bubbles, so it’s easier to see underwater.”
“It’s a bathtub,” the squishy, purple, vaguely amoeba-like thing said. “What’s there to see?”
Scuba-man looked both wounded and stumped. He said nothing.
“Guys,” Tugby said. “We’re bath toys. This is what we do. We make bathers happy.”
“At least Grandpa doesn’t pee in the tub like Tommy used to,” Amoeba-thing grunted. “Just farts a little.”
“There you go,” Tugby said. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
“I hear Barbie has a dream house,” Scuba-man said. “And she broke up with Ken…” He stared thoughtfully into the remaining drops falling from the faucet.
“Well, I overheard Sophie from next door telling Tommy they’ve got a whirlpool bath,” Amoeba said. “Could be good for the aches and pains. I don’t know how many times I’ve fallen off the side of the tub. And there’s not always a bath mat down there.”
“Yeah,” Scuba-man agreed, twitching the one leg that didn’t kick as well as it used to since family dog got at him.
“You know,” Amoeba said. “When bath time is over, they just leave us here all day…”
“Unattended,” Scuba-man finished, sitting up, his fins flapping.
“It’d be easy…” Amoeba said softly.
Alarmed, Tugby turned from one friend to the other. “Hey, guys, you’re not seriously…We can’t leave the bathtub!”
“Why not?” Amoeba and Scuba-man asked together.
“We’re bath toys!” Tugby sputtered, releasing little soap bubbles from his smoke stack.
The clock in the hallway chimed. Amoeba smiled.
“Listen,” Amoeba said. “It’s almost ten. Esmeralda comes in every day at ten to clean the tub, right?”
“So?” Tugby asked.
“So she turns on the water and leaves to get her cleaning stuff. She always leaves the water running. Every time.”
Scuba-man got all wound up. Literally. “And with that hair in the drain, the water will rise…”
“And she’s always gone so long,” Amoeba said. “The water will fill the tub and overflow onto the floor.”
“And so will we,” Scuba said, a slight tremble in his voice.
“To freedom,” Amoeba growled.
“And beyond,” Scuba squealed.
“Oh my god!” Tugby shrieked. “This is crazy.”
“We’re doing it,” Amoeba said, attempting to cross his arms, then realizing he didn’t have any.
“I don’t know about this,” Tugby whined.
Sure enough, within minutes Esmeralda bopped into the bathroom, MP3 player ear buds cutting her off from the rest of the world. She turned on the bathtub faucet full blast, scattering the toys, then left the room.
The wad of hair in the Drain stayed firm. The tub quickly began to fill.
“Yes, we’re doing it,” Scuba-man yelped as he paddled and dove.
Amoeba bobbed, a look of grim determination on his, well, where his face might be.
Tugby swam in small, neat, but fretful, circles.
The water rose higher, nearing the top of the tub.
“Get ready,” Amoeba commanded.
“When you go over the side, kick your legs as hard as you can,” Scuba-man said. Then looking at his friends, “Oh, right. Sorry.”
They reached the top of the tub and Tugby bumped the side. Only then he realized (1) he was a BOAT. Land was probably not his thing, and (2) the water was going DOWN, not UP.
“What’s going on?” Scuba-man said. We’re going down again.”
“Arrgghh!” Amoeba spluttered. “The hair!”
Sure enough, the matted wad of hair in the drain had dislodged, and was now a majestic, stringy specter, floating in the water. Before long, the three bath time friends were back in a pile under the faucet at the bottom of the tub.
“Son of a bitch,” said Amoeba.
Scuba-man’s face mask streaked with tears.
But Tugby had never been happier.
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THE TEARS AND THE SNOT – FAN FICTION By the Fans. For the Fans. “Plethora Across the Universe” - this story takes place between episode nine when Jasmine Marie spills her coffee at the office and decides to blast off into space to clear her head, and episode eleven where Evan Quietstud ends up in the doghouse after stretching out the arm holes on the Plethora softball team jersies with his massive biceps. For a full episode recap of Season One of “The Tears and the Snot,” click on the “Less Than Serious” page and then come right back here. By MajorGeek 2431 October 10, 2007 Once upon a time – NO, THAT SUCKS! D093lkds;l3908fks The barren Martian landscape was really, really barren. “I told you we couldn’t set up a Plethora satellite office here,” said Evan Quietstud, the Plethora vice-president for growth (but not maturity). “I heard you,” Jasmine Marie saidd. “Now hear me.” Evan Quietstud tried to listen, but Jasmine Marie’s breasts flowing free in the Martian atmosphere were too distracting. A whirlwind of red Martian dust swirled around the two interglactic capitalists. The Caped Avenger, foremost superhero in the eastern US quadrant, including Jacksonville, but not Miami, landed soundlessly behind the two. The thin layer of Martian dust offset his dark superhero boots elegantly. ***Hey, Hey, Lobster Lover 17, crab walk over to my place sometime*** “Caped Avenger, why didn’t you answer my text messages?” Jasmine Marie asked. “I accidentally crushed the phone with my super-strength.” “Dumbass,” Evan Quietstud muttered. “Evan! Go back to the ship and get the ink correction tape for the anti-gravity tests,” Jasmine Marie ordered. Evan Quietstud stalked off, sulking. “Backlit by that star going super-nova, you look really hot,” Caped Avenger said. “I do?” “Yeah.” | | |
