[stylist] holiday exercise, part 2, try 2
Brad Dunsé
lists at braddunsemusic.com
Sat Dec 17 20:58:23 UTC 2011
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.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>_______________________________________________
>Writers Division web site:
>http://www.nfb-writers-division.net <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
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Brad Dunsé
"Instead of waiting out the storm, learn to dance in the rain." --Unknown
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