[stylist] holiday exercise, part 2, try 2

[Brad Dunsé]

Chris,

I enjoyed the read. You pulled us right into a 
view of your family pretty good.  I expect 
we  are from the same time period, classic rock, 
Columbo, etc., just need some M*A*S*H in there 
and  maybe some slinkies, vibrating football 
games, STP Smash UP Derby car, Hot Wheels, etc.  hahaha. Nice job.

Brad







On 12/17/2011  12:13 PM Chris Kuell said...
>Apologies to anyone who got this yesterday. I 
>didn't receive any mail from this list all day 
>yesterday, until about 11 a.m. today.
>
>The following is a chapter from a novel I'm 
>working on, called 'Rub It In'.  As background, 
>the narrator is Dan, a 42-year-old massage 
>therapist who lost  his sight 10 years earlier 
>from SJS, a rare allergic reaction 
>to  antibiotics. At that time, he had just 
>purchased a two family house with 
>his  girlfriend, but she couldn't cope with 
>Dan's blindness and hit the road. Dan  was able 
>to keep his head above water financially when he 
>had good tenants,  but the Bonds family-George, 
>Violet, and their 3 kids, stopped paying 
>rent  when George supposedly hurt his back at 
>work and filed for disability. After  5 months 
>and 2 postponements, Dan finally took them to 
>court, but the judge  gave them 3 more months to 
>pay what they owed before being evicted, since 
>it  was winter and Violet was pregnant with 
>another kid. With the downturn in  the economy, 
>Dan has lost several clients and can't make his 
>mortgage  payments. A wealthy client, Joel, 
>knows of Dan's troubles and makes a deal  with 
>him. If Dan will date and eventually marry 
>Joel's ex-wife, Marilyn, Joel  will pay Dan $500 
>per month, which is significantly less than his 
>alimony.  Dan takes the deal, never intending to 
>marry Marilyn. until he actually  falls in love with her.
>
>Some other details are that Gary is Dan's best 
>friend, and together they are  rebuilding a 1977 
>Camaro (Marilyn's first car) to give her on her 
>birthday.  Amos, a yellow lab, is Dan's guide 
>dog. Ingrid is Dan's older sister, and  she's 
>bipolar and lives with their mother. Dan's 
>father died of a heart  attack when he was 13.
>
>As a generic disclaimer, everything I write is 
>adult and real in nature. If  those things 
>offend you, don't bother reading further. All 
>comments,  criticisms, suggestions, etc. are welcomed.
>
>    *   *   *   *   *
>
>Rub It In
>
>By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
>Chapter 27
>
>
>
>
>
>"Come on," Ingrid said, pushing a gift into my lap. "Open it."
>
>I slouched on my mother's couch, a lumpy, 
>plaid-green thing that had been on this spot 
>since 1982, a pile of gifts by my side, caught 
>up in a haze of nostalgia for Christmas' past. 
>And stomach cramps. Mom made the traditional 
>breakfast of pancakes, sausage and scrambled 
>eggs while Ingrid picked me up at the bus 
>station. We were all starved by the time we sat 
>down to eat at eleven, and I put away enough 
>chow to feed a Marine. And then I drank a cup of 
>Ingrid's coffee, which I should have known from 
>past experience to steer clear of. If you don't 
>have any Liquid Plumber, Ingrid's coffee will 
>usually do the trick. Same for killing ants and 
>stripping paint. But she made it for me, and it 
>was Christmas, and I figured with the four 
>pounds of food in my gullet-what could it hurt? Dumbass.
>
>
>
>"Awesome," I said, accepting the gift. It was 
>rectangular, maybe the size of two paperback 
>novels. Less than a pound. I shook the box, 
>something jiggled inside, but I didn't get any 
>kind of vibe from the motion. Covering my mouth 
>with the gift, I belched. Second-time breakfast-yum.
>
>
>
>"Just open it," Ingrid said."And excuse you."
>
>
>
>Half the fun in opening gifts with Ingrid was to 
>tease her by not opening them. "Hmmm, I'm 
>thinking maybe it's an eight-track tape of Meatloaf's Bat out of Hell."
>
>
>
>"Right. Or Frampton Comes Alive. Just open it, Rooster."
>
>
>
>Ingrid was the only person in the world who 
>called me Rooster, or who I would allow to call 
>me Rooster, and she only did it when she wanted 
>to get to me. She gave me the name when I was 
>two because in the Winnie-the-Pooh videos, I 
>always liked Roo best. A shrink would probably 
>love to dissect that little tid-bit. Somehow 
>that character flaw earned me the label of Rooster from my big sister.
>
>
>
>  Or. maybe a talking thermostat." I shook the 
> box again. "Seems about the right size."
>
>
>
>"You're getting closer," Mom chimed in. She was 
>sitting in a big leather recliner Ingrid and I 
>had pitched in together to buy about five 
>Christmas's back. I pictured her smiling, a 
>crocheted afghan on her lap, happy to have the 
>family together on Christmas. Her kids in the 
>same roles they've played for the past forty-years.
>
>
>
>"Mom!" Ingrid complained. "C'mon Rooster-enough with the guessing already."
>
>
>
>Ingrid wasn't the best wrapper, fortunately, so 
>I easily found a seam, ripped the paper off the 
>gift and wadded it in a ball. The garbage box 
>was from the gift I'd given Ingrid, a blue 
>flannel nightie wrapped in an intentionally 
>overly-large Seagram's box I got from Don's 
>Liquors. It was over by Ingrid, to the right of 
>the tree. I set in the free-throw position and 
>lobbed the wrapping paper ball with a high arc. 
>A second later I heard it hit the rim of the box and glance off to the side.
>
>
>
>"Close," Mom said.
>
>
>
>Marmaduke, who'd probably been sitting in 
>Ingrid's lap, leapt into action and started 
>batting the paper ball around. Still a bit of 
>kitten left in the chubby critter.
>
>
>
>Inside the box Ingrid had given me was a plastic 
>item wrapped in a plastic container. After some 
>probing and swearing and a torn fingernail, I 
>managed to separate the device from the packing. 
>It was hard plastic, technology of some sort, 
>with four small buttons and a big one the size 
>of a dime. Light, so probably needs batteries.
>
>
>
>"Know what it is?" Ingrid asked.
>
>
>
>"Nope."
>
>
>
>"It's a talking, digital answering machine. It's also got talking caller ID."
>
>
>
>"Hey, that's awesome." I felt the device for a 
>few seconds, thinking of the land-line I got rid of two-and-a-half months ago.
>
>
>
>"There's batteries in your stocking," Ingrid 
>said. "I'll put them in and show you how it works."
>
>
>
>While Ingrid set up the answering machine I 
>couldn't use, I took Amos out for a walk. 
>Movement was good, as was the fresh air. Only 
>about eight inches of snow were on the ground, 
>most of it packed down by kids and others who 
>had traveled this way. The smell of wood smoke 
>from fireplaces tinged the air, and off in the 
>distance I could hear excited kids playing with 
>new Christmas toys. We made our way to the pond. 
>The edge was frozen, but it was too early to go 
>out more than a few feet. Amos agreed.
>
>
>
>How many times had I been on this pond as a kid? 
>A thousand, maybe? Not including swimming in the 
>summer. Skating, fishing, trying to get the 
>Pearson's Irish Setter Rusty to pull us while we 
>wore cross-country skis. Dumbassed Teddy Mcleary 
>tossing an M-80 into a fishing hole, laughing 
>like a hyena on nitrous while the rest of us ran 
>as fast as we could toward shore, certain the 
>explosion would shatter the ice beneath us. 
>Kissing Sally Fielding in the glow of a full 
>moon, her wincing from my cold hands as they 
>groped under her sweater. A lifetime ago.
>
>
>
>I brought in an armful of firewood to restock 
>the pile in the house and threw another piece in 
>the wood stove, which was still very warm from 
>the morning. The smell of cooking turkey was in 
>the air and Mom had put Miracle on 34th Street 
>into the DVD player. It was one of our 
>favorites. I smile every time I hear William 
>Frawley say, "All right, you go back and tell 
>them that the New York State Supreme Court rules there's no Santa Claus!"
>
>Ingrid and I had fun making wacky messages on 
>the answering machine, and in the late afternoon 
>I curled up with Amos on the couch and took a nap.
>
>
>
>After gorging myself for the second time that 
>day, including a healthy slice of blueberry pie 
>with whipped cream, I did the dishes while Mom 
>told me about her new podiatrist, then I slipped 
>upstairs for a shower and to give Marilyn a 
>call. She was at her daughter Maggie's in 
>Tewksbury, but I figured she wouldn't mind if we talked for just a minute.
>
>
>
>"Merry Christmas, baby," I said in my best Elvis imitation when she answered.
>
>
>
>"Dan, is that you?"
>
>
>
>"Yes, it's me," I said in my Dan voice. I'll 
>have to talk with her another time about the 
>subtleties of King speak. "How's things at the North Pole?"
>
>
>
>"Great," she said. "The kids are so much fun. And you?"
>
>
>
>We debriefed quickly about our days, and then 
>she apologized and said she needed to get back 
>with the family because they were watching a 
>movie with the little ones before bed.
>
>
>
>"What are you watching?" I asked.
>
>
>
>"Miracle on 34th Street. It's one of my favorites."
>
>
>
>I smiled to myself and missed her terribly at 
>that moment."Me too. Go enjoy your family, and I'll see you tomorrow."
>
>
>
>Back downstairs, I joined Ingrid on the couch as 
>she clicked through the television stations. She 
>settled on a news story about a man in Camden 
>who had caught his house on fire while 
>attempting to melt the icicles off his gutter 
>with a blowtorch. It struck me then that I didn't miss TV that much.
>
>
>
>"Who you talking to?" Ingrid asked.
>
>
>
>"Who?"I answered.
>
>
>
>"That's what I asked," she said in that big 
>sister tone. "Upstairs, on the phone. I heard 
>you talking to someone when I went to the bathroom."
>
>
>
>And then it's like I was twelve and she was fifteen again. "A friend."
>
>
>
>"Then why'd you talk in your old room, with the door closed?"
>
>
>
>"Why were you spying on me while you were pretending to go to the bathroom?"
>
>
>
>"I wasn't pretending-I had to pee!"
>
>
>
>"Prove it," I said.
>
>
>
>"Prove it? Prove what? You're the one with the 
>big secret. C'mon-what's her name?"
>
>
>
>"Her name is Suzie, but most people just call 
>her Thorn," I said. " Because of the tattoo on 
>her neck. She lives in Desmoine, she's got seven 
>kids, and we're thinking of getting married, 
>depending on what happens next April."
>
>
>
>"Married?" my mother gasped from her recliner.
>
>
>
>"Why?" Ingrid asked, not quite as gullible as my 
>mother. "What happens in April?"
>
>
>
>"That's when her husband gets out of jail," I 
>said, bending to pet Amos and hide my face.
>
>
>
>"Husband? Jail?" Mom sounded horrified.
>
>
>
>"He's lying," Ingrid pronounced. "I can see him smiling."
>
>
>
>"Daniel, quit teasing your sister."
>
>
>
>"Okay, okay," I said. The weathergirl on the 
>television was predicting ten to 18 inches of 
>fresh snow tomorrow. "Her name is Marilyn. She's 
>44, divorced, works as a librarian in Falmouth. 
>We've been dating," I paused to calculate how 
>long we'd been 'dating'. I met her in September, 
>on Halloween she'd told me to stay away from her 
>and get help with my mental health, and then 
>we'd had fantastic sex on Thanksgiving. ".about six weeks now."
>
>
>
>"Rooster's got a girlfriend," Ingrid sang out.
>
>
>
>"Forty-four is too old," Mom said.
>
>
>
>"I'm forty-two," I said. "It's two years older than me."
>
>
>
>"It's too old to have children," Mom declared. "And I want grandkids."
>
>
>
>"Does she have any kids?" Ingrid asked. Ingrid 
>was almost forty-six, so I suppose Mom had given up on her.
>
>
>
>I filled them in on Maggie in Tewksbury and 
>Amanda in Namibia. Ingrid said she'd watched a 
>show on Discovery about how whites still hold 
>most of the power in Namibia, despite the 
>country being 95% black. There are millions of 
>orphans, and kids don't go to school because 
>they are too focused on surviving. Mom asked how 
>we'd met, a subject I successfully danced 
>around, and she forced me to promise to bring 
>Marilyn over for dinner some night. When the 
>grilling subsided, I pleaded tiredness and headed upstairs to bed.
>
>
>
>Aside from a sewing machine Mom had set up in my 
>room after I'd moved out twenty-years ago, the 
>room had changed little. Here was my bureau, one 
>side still decorated with the Led Zeppelin, 
>Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Beatles stickers of my 
>youth. Above the mirror hung the Red Sox pennant 
>Dad had bought me the afternoon we'd gone to 
>Fenway to see the Sox play the Orioles. Next to 
>the single bed was the window where I'd tried to 
>shoot squirrels a thousand times with my 
>pump-action Crossman BB gun-without a single 
>hit. I thought about the Playboy magazine's I 
>used to hide under my mattress and even slipped 
>a hand under to check, but that aspect of my 
>teenage years had been disposed of.
>
>
>
>Mom had lent me a comforter for Amos, who curled 
>up at the foot of the bed and conked out in no 
>time. I, on the other hand, laid in bed 
>listening to the wind rattling the windows, 
>remembering how as a kid I would play with my 
>plastic dinosaurs long after Mom and Dad had put 
>me to bed, falling asleep on the toys so I'd 
>wake up with a triceratops horn poking me in the 
>ribs. Thirty years ago I'd sat in this very bed 
>going through my Keds box full of baseball 
>cards, segregated into rubber-banded bundles by 
>teams, putting together a dream All Star team. 
>Carlton Fisk behind the plate, Don Sutton on the 
>mound, Jim Palmer in reserve. Pete Rose at 
>third, Concepcion at short and   Greg 
>Luzinsky-the Bull--on first. Long before 
>internet fantasy baseball I'd played imaginary 
>games in my head, my team always destroying the opposition. So long ago.
>
>
>
>The wind outside blew long and steady, a tree 
>branch rattle the gutter, I closed my useless 
>eyes and was back in this bed in February 1979. 
>After the ambulances and the police and the 
>excitement had gone, Mom sobbing in her and 
>Dad's room. After going to the hospital and 
>having Mrs. Landsdale come stay with us even 
>though Ingrid was seventeen. Then that terrible 
>look in her face as she told me and Ingrid that 
>Dad was gone and we'd never see or talk or play 
>or be reprimanded by him again. Never. No more 
>ball games or fart jokes. No more trips to the 
>hardware store in Alfred or ice creams at the 
>Dairy Queen. No more helping me with math 
>homework or letting me eat pizza in the living room when Mom wasn't around.
>
>
>
>Kids can't really appreciate death. When the 
>family dog Sparky croaks, they get sad, maybe 
>even cry a little, but a week later they've 
>already forgotten if it was Sparky's front left, 
>or right paw which was white. Sure, my own 
>sadness at Dad's death was great, but it must 
>have paled in comparison to my mother's. While I 
>laid in this bed wondering who would take over 
>as first base coach of my baseball team, my 
>mother was wondering how she might ever fill the 
>hole suddenly ripped from her heart. And sadly, she never has.
>
>
>
>Eventually I drifted off into a dreamless 
>slumber, interrupted sometime later by a 
>familiar whine and a morning dose of dog breath.
>
>
>
>"Hey buddy," I said, rubbing my best friend's head. "Give me three minutes."
>
>
>
>After a breakfast of muffins and tea, and much 
>hugging and kissing and promises to call more 
>often, I had Ingrid take me to the bus station. 
>Snow was beginning to fall, and the bologna 
>skins Ingrid called tires didn't give me much 
>confidence. I kissed her, thanked her for the 
>gifts and told her to go before the storm got 
>worse. The 11:10 to Portland was already 
>delayed, and by the time Amos and I made it home 
>there were four or five inches of fresh snow on 
>the ground. Of course, none of the squatters 
>would ever pick up a shovel, so we trudged 
>through the white stuff until Amos got me to the 
>door. A box sat on the stoop by the door, about 
>the size of a toaster oven. I brought it in and 
>dumped it along with my backpack on the kitchen table.
>
>
>
>After changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I 
>grabbed my winter gloves and made my way to the 
>garage. I let Amos run free in the snow-filled 
>backyard while I began the process of clearing 
>the drive and walkways. The day wasn't too cold, 
>and the snowflakes were large and heavy. I guess 
>I wasn't feeling very charitable, so I only 
>cleared the first twenty feet of the driveway, 
>the porch and walkway. RV Larry's camper was 
>quiet, the snow undisturbed, which must mean 
>he's inside toasty-warm with Violet and Georgie. 
>Just then the front door burst open and the rug rats came spilling outside.
>
>
>
>"Merry Christmas, Dan." Hillary sounded chipper, 
>probably longing for normal human contact.
>
>
>
>I tossed a shovelful of snow onto the growing 
>bank. "Merry Christmas to you too, Hillary."
>
>
>
>"Ma-wee Twitmas," said a smaller voice.
>
>
>
>"Was that Oscar?" I asked Hillary.
>
>
>
>  "Yup," she said. "He can talk now."
>
>
>
>By this time Amos had joined us and all the kids 
>were petting him. I heard Ivan's snotty laugh as Amos licked his face.
>
>
>
>"Uncle Larry told us to ask you where to go sledding," Hillary said.
>
>
>
>"We got new sleds for Christmas," Ivan said with a sniffle.
>
>
>
>"Twitmas," Oscar added his two cents.
>
>
>
>"You did, did you?"
>
>
>
>"Mine's red," Hillary said, taking control. 
>"Ivan's is blue and Oscar's is little and green."
>
>
>
>"It looks like a fwog," Ivan added.
>
>
>
>Ignoring the absurdity of using a hibernating 
>amphibious species as the basis for a winter 
>sport, I told Hillary I used to see kids 
>sledding over at the high school, where there's 
>a pretty good sized hill to the right of the 
>practice field. As I was speaking, I felt a 
>small hand pressing snow into my leg.
>
>"Oscar-what're you doing?" The little squirt only giggled.
>
>
>
>"He thinks he's throwing a snowball," Hillary 
>said. "He can't throw, so that's what he does instead."
>
>
>
>I stuck the shovel into the snowbank and knelt 
>down closer to the boy's height."First, you 
>gotta make a good snowball," I said, scooping a 
>fistful and squashing it down. I made it smaller 
>and rounded it a bit with my gloves before 
>handing it to him. "Go ahead-throw it at me."
>
>
>
>I waited, heard the scratch of a winter jacket moving, but nothing happened.
>
>
>
>"Go ahead," I said.
>
>
>
>"He did," Hillary said. "Somehow it went backwards."
>
>
>
>"Here," I said, making another snowball. 
>"Everybody has to learn how to throw a snowball. Can you, Ivan?"
>
>
>
>"Uh-hunh," Ivan said.
>
>
>
>"No you can't," Hillary said like a bossy big sister.
>
>
>
>"Can too."
>
>
>
>"Yeah, but you throw like a retard."
>
>
>
>"Okay-none of that," I said.
>
>
>
>"Do not."
>
>
>
>"Do too!"
>
>
>
>"Shut up you two and come over here." I handed 
>each of the kids a snowball, then made one for 
>myself. "You throw a snowball just like a 
>baseball. You cock your arm like this." I 
>demonstrated for the kids. "Then you shift your 
>weight forward, throw that hand out as hard as 
>you can and release." I threw my snowball off in 
>the distance somewhere. "See how I did that? Now, each of you try."
>
>
>
>No sooner had I spoken than I got hit in the 
>chest with one. "Not at me," I declared. "Find 
>another target. How about the birch tree? It should be over there," I pointed.
>
>
>
>"Too far," Ivan said.
>
>
>
>"Oh-kay." I said, thinking. An easy target that 
>wasn't me or Amos. "Well, how about your Dad's car?"
>
>
>
>The car was only seven or eight feet away, was a 
>large target and a good one for the rookies in 
>the group. I instructed the kids to practice by 
>throwing at least 20 snowballs at their father's 
>car, then escaped back to my apartment with Amos.
>
>
>
>Inside, I fixed a cup of hot chocolate and 
>called Marilyn to check on our evening plans. "How's the snow by you?"
>
>
>
>"White and plentiful. It's coming down pretty 
>hard," she said. "I haven't been outside, but 
>there must be six inches. Channel five says 
>we're going to get ten to fifteen. Any better by you?"
>
>
>
>Even though we only live about fifteen miles 
>apart, the weather can vary. "No, same here. I 
>just shoveled, and by the time I'd finished 
>there was another inch down. You feeling 
>adventurous, or should we act our age and do the 
>responsible thing?"It hurt to say that. We'd 
>decided to celebrate Christmas after she had 
>gone to Tewksbury to see her family and I'd seen 
>mine. Draw out the holiday just a bit longer. I 
>was looking forward to a nice dinner, then going 
>back to Marilyn's for our gift exchange and if I 
>was lucky, I'd get to unwrap the best gift of all.
>
>
>
>"Define responsible," she said.
>
>
>
>"Drinking a bottle of wine with you in the hot 
>tub, then running outside to make snow angels in our birthday suits."
>
>
>
>"That sounds like fun, sort of, but responsible, I'd say not."
>
>
>
>Her voice was playful, and I really wished I'd 
>gone straight to her place. We decided tonight 
>probably wouldn't work, and postponed our dinner 
>and gift exchange until the following night.
>
>
>
>As I washed out my mug and wondered what to do 
>with my evening, I remembered the box I'd 
>brought in earlier. Buried inside the forty 
>billion Styrofoam peanuts were two brand new 
>side mirrors, including rubber gaskets,  which 
>I'd bet my last dollar fit on a 77 Camaro. There 
>wasn't a Braille note, of course. I turned on my 
>computer and scanner and used OCR software to 
>read the packing slip. The billing address was 
>Mr. Brown, PO Box 7703, Portland Maine-which was 
>Gary's. Being somewhat of a conspiracy theorist, 
>he'd taken the PO Box under a fictitious name 
>years ago. I'm not exactly sure why-after all, 
>couldn't The Man still track him by tracing who 
>owns the PO Box? But I'm no Columbo, and there's 
>no talking sense to Gary sometimes.
>
>
>
>I put on my jacket and gloves, told Amos to mind 
>the fort, grabbed the box with the mirrors and headed to the garage.
>
>
>
>On the front porch I got the shock of my life. A 
>harsh, grating sound hit my ears. The sound of a 
>snow shovel on frozen blacktop, coming from my driveway.
>
>
>
>Of course I'd heard the sound before-that wasn't 
>it. It was that I'd always been the one making 
>the sound. In the almost three years the 
>Clampetts had lived here, not one had ever 
>touched a shovel. Never. No, that was the landlord's responsibility.
>
>
>
>The walkway had at least 2 inches of fresh snow 
>as I moved to the driveway. Someone scraped, grunted and tossed.
>
>
>
>"Shouldn't you be doing this?"
>
>
>
>The sound of Georges voice went through me like 
>shit through a goose. My initial thought was to 
>drop the box, make a snowball and plug his pie 
>hole the next time he flapped his gums. But then 
>I thought-not now, he's shoveling. Shoveling. 
>The guy trying to get disability is shoveling.
>
>
>
>Gary's voice came into my head. Take a picture. 
>Use your cell phone and take a picture.
>
>
>
>But my cell phone was on my kitchen table, I had 
>no idea how to use the camera function, and in 
>the end, where would it get me? No Closer to the eight grand they now owed me.
>
>"Merry Christmas, Georgie," I said before going 
>to the garage to install my new mirrors.
>
>
>
>
>
>
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Brad Dunsé

"Instead of waiting out the storm, learn to dance in the rain." --Unknown

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