[stylist] Writing Prompt for Anthology

[Chris Kuell]

Greetings fellow Writers. Below is my response to the writing prompt Kerry 
posted a few days ago--about house, holiday, family. It's 3,250 words long, 
and is composed of 3 vignettes. It contains adult language and situations, 
so if that bothers you, or if you are young enough to feel your parents 
might object--please refrain. For those daring enough to read, I welcome any 
comments, suggestions and criticisms. My goal is to improve as a writer, and 
your feedback can help me do that.

  *  *  *


57 Juniper Lane

By Chris Kuell


July 4, 1954

Dennis Tafuri found his father half-crammed between the toilet and the 
bathtub in the upstairs bathroom. He was putting a brass screw into the 
little section of wall behind the shower where the pipes were hidden. "Hey 
Pop-Mom says it's time to grill."

"Tell her I'm almost done," Mr. Tafuri muttered around the spare screw he 
held between his lips. He spit the screw into his palm, contorted his back 
into an odd shape that allowed him to start the screw. Various grunting 
sounds emanated as he manually drove the screw into the wood panel. Large 
sweat spots grew under each arm, his back was already soaked but he kept at 
it.

Dennis waited quietly for his father to finish, then accepted the 
screwdriver as the old guy wiggled himself out. His back cracked as he got 
up, stretched and manipulated his body into its normal posture. "Run and put 
that in my tool box," he said. "In the second tray with the other 
screwdrivers. Got it?"

"Got it," Dennis said as he ran to the stairs, took them two at a time until 
a final leap cleared the last five. His landing rattled the entire house.

"Dennis!" his father bellowed. "Slow down!"

He didn't. He couldn't. Kids like him were made for going fast-the faster, 
the better. He took off again, sprinting through the kitchen to the basement 
door. He flung it open, banging the doorknob into the opposite wall, 
expanding the ever-growing hole in the plaster.

Dennis had to slow down in the basement as it was dark and a little bit 
creepy. He swung an arm out in front of his body hoping to feel the 
pull-switch, or fend off any zombies that might be hiding down here. At 
eight-years-old, he was old enough to fully realize the danger zombies posed 
to the world. He had overheard his older brother Frank and his pals 
discussing them. Commie Zombies were the worst, since the Russians gave them 
their commands and they were programmed to hit strategic areas in 
America-the greatest country on earth. Heck, the greatest country in the 
universe. Dennis wasn't sure if Glendale was a strategic area or not, but 
you couldn't take chances.

The string grazed is hand. He yanked and blinked a few times because he'd 
been staring right where the bare bulb was. Each time he closed his eyes he 
saw a blood-red sun.

The correct drawer to the toolbox was already open, so he tossed in the 
screwdriver, slammed the drawer shut with his foot and sprinted across the 
basement, pulling the light off at the last second before running up the 
stairs like a mountain villager fleeing a rampaging elephant.

The adults in the backyard milled around, smoking and talking while a group 
of his cousins were playing croquet. Aunt Ginny had on a red Uncle Sam 
shirt, blue pants and bright white sneakers. Denis's mother was holding a 
big platter full of burgers and hot dogs, obviously irritated with his Pop 
who was opening up a can of Schlitz and listening to Mr. Phipps tell another 
dirty joke.

"I just don't understand why you had to do it today-the fourth of July for 
crying out loud-while our family and friends are here," his mother said.

"You want the whole goddamned ceiling to fall in on us?" Pop said, probably 
a little louder than he should have. "If I didn't fix that leak, that's what 
woulda happened." He took a long drink of beer. "Now I put in an access 
panel so next time I can get in there easier-the way it shoulda been done in 
the first place." He put down his Schlitz and took a big handful of meat 
from the platter. He placed each piece strategically on the grill. "I just 
don't know about the numb-skulls who built this house."

Dennis searched the crowd for his Uncle Eddie. Uncle Eddie was the coolest 
uncle a kid could have. He drove a motorcycle, a Triumph, which was a 
British bike that Uncle Eddie said was the fastest.

Dennis saw him with a girl in a yellow Dress that Mom said was too short. A 
lit cig danced in the corner of his mouth as he talked."

Hey, Uncle Eddie!"

Uncle Eddie ran a hand through his greased-back hair, flicked his Lucky 
Strike to the ground and crushed it out. "Well if it isn't old 
Dennis-the-menace. What kind of hell you raisin' these days?"

"Got any firecrackers?" Dennis asked. Last year Uncle Eddie let him light 
off some ladyfingers and black cats, even though his mother had told him not 
too. She said Dennis was too young-but he wasn't. After all, he'd lit off 
seventeen of them and didn't get hurt. Or caught.

"Can you keep a secret?" Uncle Eddie whispered. Dennis shook his head 
vigorously in the affirmative.

His Uncle drifted away from the crowd and the girl in the yellow dress and 
reached into his pocket. When Dennis got closer, Uncle Eddie pulled out a 
dull red ball with a green fuse. "You know what this is?"

"Uh-unh," Dennis said.

"A cherry-bomb. It's the most powerful firecracker there is."

"Can I light it off?" Dennis asked.

"Sorry kiddo, but this things strong as Half-a-stick of dynamite."

Dennis's eyes nearly popped out. Half of a stick of TNT. They continued 
walking past the croquet players to the edge of the property. His Uncle 
pulled a small silver flask from a different pocket, uncorked it and took a 
deep swallow.

"C'mon, Uncle Eddie-lemme light it off. I won't get hurt-I promise."

Uncle Eddie stared hard at him, like maybe he was seeing himself when he was 
eight-years-old. "Tell you what. We'll do it together."

"Neato!" Dennis said, bouncing up and down like an electrified slinky. Uncle 
Eddie let him hold the cherry-bomb, which was lighter than a marble and 
about the size of a Penney gumball.

"Okay-listen very carefully," Uncle Eddie said. "As soon as you see it's 
lit, you chuck it over towards the woods-not towards the people. Got it?"

"Got it," Dennis answered reflexively.

His Uncle took out the Zippo he'd got from a friend who took it off a dead 
Jap in the pacific. It had Japanese letters on it and the silver casing 
glinted in the afternoon sun. "Soon as it's lit, you chuck it-right?"

Dennis nodded like one of those bobble-heads. With a flick of Eddies thumb, 
fire sprouted from the Zippo. Dennis moved the tip of the cherry-bomb fuse 
closer and closer to the flame until it started to glow and shoot off tiny 
gold sparks.

"Now," his Uncle said.

Dennis watched the fuse like it was a mini-sparkler. He noticed the burned 
fuse turning to ash before falling away like one of his Dad's cigarettes 
when he fell asleep on the couch while watching a football game.

"Dennis-now!"

Uncle Eddie sounded panicked, but Dennis wasn't worried. In fact, he was 
thrilled. As the fuse burned the danger increased and every endorphin in the 
boy's body turned to full throttle. With less than a second of fuse left 
Dennis finally relinquished, throwing the cherry-bomb with all his might. It 
exploded in a great ball of light and noise not five feet from them, the 
sonic boom absolutely the most incredible thing Dennis had ever heard. So 
close he felt the sound wave pass right through him. And the explosion was 
so cool-a white fireball about two feet in diameter. What power. How 
incredible.

Dennis stood mesmerized until he felt a firm hand squeezing his shoulder. 
Uncle Eddie, looking mad. His mother, obviously very upset, shaking with 
tears. Through the echoes ringing in his ears he barely heard her shout, 
"Dennis!"


     *   *   *

July 4, 1974

Dennis Tafuri finally caved to his mother's constant ragging and changed the 
record from, The Doors LA Woman, to Seals and Crofts, which wasn't too bad 
harmony-wise. But it bored him half-to-death. With, Summer Breeze, wafting 
across the backyard airwaves he loaded the frozen burgers and dogs on the 
grill. The charcoal briquettes still smelled a little like lighter fluid and 
weren't quite that orange-gray color which meant right-on cooking, but that 
was groovy. With a few minutes to kill, he grabbed a cold Miller from the 
Coleman and went upstairs to his room-the same one he'd lived in since he 
was born.

Now the Stan Musial and Willie Mays posters and Red Sox pennants had been 
replaced with a sunset mural his girlfriend had painted for him, and a 
totally mellow tapestry he'd scored from a flower-child at a Grateful Dead 
show in Topeka.

Dennis turned on the radio, W R OK, the home of Rock-n-Roll, and was treated 
to Eric Clapton playing Layla. Under the ashtray on his bedside table he 
found a half-smoked roach, clamped it into a pair of hemostats and sparked 
it up. That first wave of high hit him like jumping into a cool lake after 
you've been camping deep in the woods for about three weeks. So very 
welcome. Refreshing. Invigorating. Nature's mellow-dee.

He blew the smoke out the bedroom window-no need to get his Mom all angry, 
bringing him down with her perpetual uptightness. A cop car slowed in front 
of the house and pulled in the crowded driveway. Had they seen him?

No way. Was the music too loud? It was Seals and Crofts, for Christ's sake. 
Instead of one cop, two got out of the pig-mobile, which made Dennis 
nervous. He didn't have but a few joints worth of grass in the house, but he 
did have almost ten grand from that last couple pounds he and Duncan had 
moved. If the coppers wanted to search the house, that might be hard to 
explain.

Hell-he was just being paranoid. It was the fourth of July; they were 
hosting a family cookout. Even the fuzz wouldn't be looking for trouble on a 
day like today.

Or maybe they would? Maybe they figured this was the perfect day to bring 
down a bust.  Shit.

Despite the lack of clarity in his thinking, Dennis snuffed out the joint, 
popped it into his mouth and swallowed. It left a nasty, ashy taste on his 
tongue.  In his closet he pulled down the Converse box, removed the paper 
sack full of cash and went into the bathroom, which smelled like a lavender 
factory from that crap his mother was always buying. He put the toilet lid 
down, placed the bag on it and reached in his pocket for the Swiss Army 
knife Pop had given him on his eighteenth birthday. The last gift Pop had 
ever given him.

It took some finagling to get the screwdriver blade out, but once he did, 
Dennis wriggled like an otter between the toilet and the tub, found a screw 
on the access panel and went to work. The screw hadn't been budged in years, 
but once he got it started it came out quickly. Downstairs he heard an 
authoritative knock, followed by his mother saying, "Coming."

With one screw out, Dennis started on the second. Sweat gathered on his 
forehead. He gave himself a pep-talk. "C'mon Dennis-you can do this. Don't 
panic. Just keep cool, Dennis. Cool as a cucumber. Focus."

Second screw out, third screw started.

"Dennis!" his mother yelled. She was out back. "I don't know where he is. He 
was just at the grill putting on the hamburgers."

Fourth screw out, but the thingee wouldn't open. Shit. He crammed the blade 
of the screwdriver into the crack and tried to jimmy it. No good.

"Dennis? Anybody see Dennis?"

Somebody had painted the bathroom lime-green a few years ago, and that had 
to be the trouble. Dennis opened the big knife blade and sliced along the 
perimeter of the panel. Once that was done, with some  encouragement from 
his fist, the panel fell open. Dennis moved his arm behind him to grab the 
paper bag of cash and crammed it underneath the shower pipes by the tub. He 
returned the panel, and as he put the first screw in he heard his mother and 
the fuzz come in the house through the sliding glass doors in the living 
room. "Dennis? Are you in here?"

Sweat drenched his tee shirt now, and for a second he had a flashback to his 
father in this same position twenty-odd summers ago, his shirt stained with 
sweat and his mother wondering where in the hell he was. How weird was that?

"Dennis?"

They were coming up the stairs. He got the third screw in and struggled to 
start the fourth.

"Dennis?" Heavy footsteps. "You up here?"

He listened as his bedroom door was opened. The screw wobbled and dropped to 
the floor, rolling to just under his ear.

"Dennis?"

He managed to retrieve it with his left hand and set it in the hole. With 
supreme effort, he screwed it in and wiggled himself out onto the floor.

"Dennis?" His mother knocked at the bathroom door. "Are you in there?"

"Yeah, Ma," he said, getting first to his knees and then to his feet. He 
flushed the toilet and returned the Swiss Army knife to his pocket.

When he opened the door he saw his mother, pale and frightened, and two 
Hitler-esque boys in blue. Behind them, several of his little cousins, 
Cousin Eddie's girls,  watched from the stairs while trying to seem 
invisible.

"Dennis, are you all right? You look awful," his mother said.

"Dennis Tafuri?" one of the pigs asked.

No, I'm Johnny Carson," he said.

"You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you 
say." The cop droned on, reading his Moranda rights off an index card while 
all the blood drained from Dennis's face.

"What am I arrested for?"

"Three days ago you sold two ounces of marijuana, a class one substance, to 
a fifteen-year-old girl. She was wearing a tape recorder and now you are 
going to jail. Hopefully, for a very long time."

They spun him around and slapped on the cuffs. He half-expected one of them 
to say-book him, Danno, like they do on Hawaii Five-O. But they just lead 
him downstairs and into the backseat of the pig mobile. The last thing he 
heard before they slammed the door to the outside world shut was his mother 
crying, "Dennis!"


      *   *   *

July 4, 2004

Hannah Atwell opened the sliding glass door with a push and stepped onto the 
patio with a tray of beef and veggie burgers, Hebrew National hot dogs and 
tofu-dogs for the twins, who wouldn't let a speck of meat past their scrawny 
lips. Even if it was Kosher. Hannah probably shouldn't have hosted the 
Fourth of July party this year, but with all the turmoil in their lives, 
they needed a break. Something fun. Tom, her unemployed and under-concerned 
husband was over in the side yard throwing a Frisbee with the kids. Nine 
months now, and he'd only had two interviews. If something good didn't 
happen soon, something bad certainly would. Even with her cutting hair on 
the side, it simply wasn't enough to keep up with the bills. All their 
savings were gone, and now Tom had run out of unemployment.

"Aunti Hannah?" Her niece Emily tugged on her skirt. She had the biggest, 
bluest eyes Hannah had ever seen, and with those over-sized ears she 
resembled an elf. "It's raining in the livin' room."

"It's what?" Hanna asked while flipping a veggie burger.

"It's raining in the livin' room," the little girl said again.

"Okay, honey. I'll go check it out." Hannah scanned the people in her 
backyard. "Hey Kevin-can you keep an eye on the grill for me?"

Her cousin Kevin, who annoyed the hell out of Tom with his constant advice 
about how to go about finding a job, gladly took the spatula from Hannah. At 
the door, the sliding glass got stuck, again, since the wheels were old and 
rusty and needed to be replaced. With a lift and a shove she got it to move. 
Emily took her hand and skipped into the living room. "See? I told you."

A four or five foot patch of moisture now discolored the living room 
ceiling. At the center, the liquid gathered into drops and fell with a 
splash onto her oak coffee table.

"Shit," Hannah shoved the coffee table out of the way. Her mind raced. 
Water. Broken pipe. Upstairs-must be the bathroom.

She hustled down into the basement, which reeked like wet cement,  and 
searched for the light pull switch. Where was the goddamned thing? She'd 
been bitching to Tom for years they needed a switch. It's the twenty-first 
century-who the hell still uses pull switches?

She felt the string, gave it a yank and the yellow incandescent light 
illuminated the dank basement. The water main was over in one corner. She 
found the shut-off valve and closed it. Next she went upstairs and turned on 
the sink to release the pressure. Always release the pressure, her father 
had told her all those years ago. Since Eddie Tafuri hadn't had any sons, 
his daughters were the recipients of all his plumbing and other worldly 
wisdom. Rightie-tightie, leftie-loosey. Liquor to beer, never fear. Beer to 
liquor, never sicker.

There was a pool of water by the toilet. Hannah tossed a couple bath towels 
down and soaked it up. She put the towels in the sink and noticed the water 
was creeping out from behind the shower. Not the toilet-the shower, which 
would undoubtedly be a costlier repair. Shit. There was an access panel 
underneath the toilet paper roll, so she went to get a screwdriver.

Outside she saw that Kevin was joyfully tending the grill, people were 
chatting and the kids were playing with a hackey-sack. The odor of grilling 
burgers drifted through the kitchen window and made her stomach rumble. As 
usual, Tom was nowhere to be seen.

She went to the tool drawer--the one under the countertop piled with bills, 
found an appropriate screwdriver, a mini-flashlight, and returned upstairs. 
How were they ever going to pay a plumber? And on the fourth of July, of all 
days. They probably get double on a holiday. Maybe she could fix it herself. 
Maybe it was just a gasket or something. Maybe skid row wasn't as bad as she'd 
heard.

Water still crept from beneath the access panel so she laid down a towel and 
wiggled herself between the toilet and the tub, thankful for the first time 
in her life that her boobs weren't too big. The screws holding in the panel 
had been painted over with white paint, but with some encouragement and a 
little cussing she got them all out. After a few more swears and a swift 
jab, the panel came off, revealing the pipes to the tub and shower. The 
pipes were wet and she couldn't tell where the water was coming from.  She 
had to wriggle herself out, get the flashlight, and wrangle herself back in 
place again to see the pipes, and the bag, now soaked, which was crammed 
under the piping. Had some half-wit used that to prop up the pipe? She 
reached in, discovered the bag was full of something, and pulled it out. The 
bag disintegrated in her hands, revealing a large bundle of wet paper. Wet 
paper that was green in color and covered with numbers like 50 and 100, and 
words like United States Treasury.

Somewhere outside teenagers were firing off bottle rockets, people were 
stuffing their faces with grill food, potato salad and watermelon, while 
Hannah Atwell sat in wonder mouthing the words, God Bless America.