[stylist] fiction

[LoriStay at aol.com]

Chris:   This made me laugh.   Thanks!
Lori
In a message dated 1/14/11 3:04:04 PM, ckuell at comcast.net writes:


>                                                                           
>                       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 s
> aw 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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