[stylist] fiction

[Anita Adkins]

Hi,Loved it. Great use of
speech and action and great handling of props. You had me there, and so 
setting was good too. Anita
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Friday, January 14, 2011 3:01 PM
Subject: [stylist] fiction


> 
> 1,425 Words
>
>
>
> Just Call Me Al
>
>
>
>
>
> By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
> The jingle of the bell at the door caught me off guard. I was squatting in 
> a very un-lady-like position, tightening a nut on the new faucet in the 
> double sink. Twenty past eleven was early, even for the biker crowd. I 
> heard the tap, tap, tap of a cane and stood up to see Mike Edison, a blind 
> frequenter of my bar, The Chicken Bone Cafe. He made his way to the corner 
> stool, collapsed his cane and tucked it under his leg.
>
>
>
> "Hey, Mike. Haven't seen you much this winter. What've you been up to?"
>
>
>
> "Oh, you know, the usual," he said. "Training for the Olympics-I'm pole 
> vaulting next summer. I'm also taking a welding and a photography class at 
> the Voc."
>
>
>
> "Smart-ass," I said, and poured him a pint.
>
>
>
> "Actually, I've been making pretty good progress on my novel. I'm on 
> Chapter 17, a little over 200 pages."
>
>
>
> "Hey, that's great," I said. "Congratulations." I placed the beer on a 
> coaster in front of him. With a well practiced ear, he found it without 
> difficulty.
>
>
>
> "So, why're you in here before eleven-thirty, instead of being home, 
> writing a steamy sex scene in your book?"
>
>
>
> "Ain't no cure for the summertime blues." He sang the line, and 
> thankfully, didn't continue. Ray Charles, he isn't.
>
>
>
> I clicked on the TV in the corner of the bar. "You and the wife arguing 
> again?" Mike lived down the street, so he came here sometimes to cool down 
> and gain perspective when things weren't so glorious on the home front.
>
>
>
> "Naw, that's not it," he said. He took a long pull off his beer. "Ahh. 
> Like mother's milk."
>
>
>
> I've heard this expression from him a hundred times, and it's pretty well 
> worn out.
>
>
>
> "No, me and the old lady are okay." Mike took another drink, and then 
> looked me right in the chest. Now, I know he can't see, and he doesn't 
> know that is where his gaze is focused. But at times, I have to wonder.
>
>
>
> "You ever notice how I have a knack for pissing people off?"
>
>
>
> "That's not true, Mike," I said. "You seem to get along with everybody. 
> Especially the ladies you buy drinks for."
>
>
>
> I turned on the faucet and checked for leaks, but everything was dry. 
> Rosie Riveter comes through again.
>
> "There was that one night, though, when I thought I was going to have to 
> take the bat to you and Steve. You had too much to drink and were quite 
> vocal in your opinion about Bush stealing the election."
>
>
>
> "I wasn't drunk," he broke in. "I was bullshit. I mean, the whole 2000 
> election debacle was unconstitutional. But, I'm unpatriotic if I don't 
> just bend over and take it."
>
>
>
> His face reddened and he stopped talking. After another sip of beer, he 
> said, "Well, I pissed off a lot of people in the internet writer's group I 
> belong to by posting an anti-tea party satire."
>
>
>
> "What didn't they like?"
>
>
>
> He drained his beer and I poured him another. Nobody else had come in yet, 
> so I didn't mind talking.
>
>
>
> "My commentary was mildly acidic, although, you would have fainted if you 
> saw my first draft. This was the toned down version. I thought it was 
> entertaining, thought it would make people laugh. And maybe, just maybe, 
> make people think seriously about our country, and what is best for all 
> Americans. Both today, and ten, twenty years from now."
>
>
>
> "Doesn't sound bad to me." I warmed up the small grill where I made 
> burgers and sandwiches for the lunch crowd.
>
>
>
> "I didn't think it was. After I posted it, I thought of a dozen other 
> points I should have included. You can guess how it went. The choir 
> cheered, the republicans in the group think I'm a knee-jerk liberal, and a 
> handful think I hate Jesus."
>
>
>
> "Do you?" I asked. Bartenders and shrinks are masters of carrying on 
> conversations with very few words. It's a real talent.
>
>
>
> "No, of course not. I love Jesus." He took a draw off his beer. "I also 
> love Buddha, and Moses, and that Hindu God with all the arms, and Mother 
> earth. I'm still on the fence about Mohammed and Joseph Smith, though." He 
> leaned his head to one side, listening to the weather forecast on the 
> television before continuing. "In fact, I probably love Jesus best of all. 
> I just don't believe in heaven, in the way most people do, so I don't 
> think you have to be a Christian to get there." He absent-mindedly swirled 
> the beer in his glass. "I think there are many religions on this planet to 
> serve the people of the various cultures. To help them get through this 
> soap-opera we call life."
>
> "I try never to discuss politics or religion with people unless I know 
> exactly where they stand," I said. "It's just asking for trouble. You want 
> a burger?"
>
>
>
> "Sure," he said. "You're right, I know. I've stirred up trouble a dozen 
> times before on internet groups, I just can't seem to help it. 
> Manipulation by fear and intolerance infuriates me." He sipped and 
> scratched the nubs of beard on his face." They spew out lies and 
> hypocrisy, and America eats it like Lassie on a T-bone."
>
>
>
> "Un-hunh," I said, flipping the sizzling burger.
>
>
>
> "I just want to shake them; tell them to wake up. But, then I realize I'm 
> no better than the nut-jobs on the far-right of the political spectrum."
>
>
>
> Mike sat in silence for a minute. Then he said, "You know what I was 
> thinking about this morning when I was eating my Raisin Bran?"
>
>
>
> "What?"
>
>
>
> "I remind my self of Al Sharpton, which is not a compliment." He shook his 
> head and rubbed one finger along the edge of his glass. "Now, I'm no fan 
> of Mr. Sharpton. He is a bigoted idiot who takes up causes primarily to 
> get his face on TV. But, even though nobody of power takes him seriously, 
> they have to listen, to appease him somehow, because he does have 
> followers. In his loudmouthed, opportunistic, wacko kind of way, he brings 
> attention to African-American issues - and people notice. He makes them 
> think."
>
>
>
> The door jingled again with the arrival of fresh patrons. I set the burger 
> down in front of Mike.
>
> "Ketchup at ten o'clock," I said, putting down a bottle.
>
>
>
> "Ketchup, Reagan's favorite vegetable," he said.  He felt for the top of 
> the hamburger bun and splashed a glob left of center.
>
> "It makes everybody's buns taste better."
>
>
>
> I laughed. "Do you ever stop thinking about sex, Mike?"
>
>
>
> "Sure. I only think about sex forty-five out of every sixty seconds. Gotta 
> leave some time for politics, religion, and general day-dreaming."
>
>
>
> "Personally," I said, pouring a beer for a customer with a beard like a 
> lumberjack, "I think you should carve out more time for your book, and 
> spend less time gabbing with your friends on e-mail. Biggest time waster 
> ever invented."
>
>
>
> "Again, you're right," he said. A small blotch of ketchup was on his lip 
> and I wished he would get it.
>
> "But, writing is a lonely business. I don't go to an office where I can 
> interact with other people around the coffee machine. I mostly get to hear 
> people's opinions in essays and writing prompts. It's fascinating to see 
> the different directions people go with a similar starting point."
>
>
>
> He finished his burger and wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin. 
> "Another beer, Mike?"
>
>
>
> "No," he said, reaching in his pocket and handing me a twenty, folded into 
> a triangle. "You've convinced me. I'm going back to my novel, where I can 
> at least pretend everything is okay."
>
>
>
> "After you finish, you can have a book signing here," I said.
>
>
>
> "That ought to bring in two or three new customers."
>
>
>
> I handed him his change. He said, "Keep the ones and just give me the 
> five."
>
>
>
> "Mike, that's about forty-percent tip," I said.
>
>
>
> "Support your local bartender," he announced to the two other patrons, and 
> then got up to leave.
>
>
>
> I held the door and he pinched my ass as he walked by. I gave him a quick 
> jab to the shoulder but he shrugged it off and laughed.
>
>
>
> Two college-aged girls watched Mike tap his way down the street. They came 
> into the bar, holding hands and bubbling with the excitement of new love.
>
>
>
> "Hey, was that Mike Edison, the blind writer?" one of the girls asked. "I 
> heard he lived around here."
>
>
>
> "Yeah," I said. "But, he thinks he's Al Sharpton."
>
>
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