[stylist] fiction

Fri Jan 14 23:38:50 UTC 2011

Chris,
this is good and it flows really well.

I saw that typo Donna mentioned, too.

I think you have a misuse of words, instead of debacle I think you 
meant defense of democracy [evil grin].

now, one thing I wanted a little more of in the story was descriptions:
so what does the barmaid look like?  for that matter, does mike look 
long and lean, a wolf, or is he built like a tank?

smell like what in the bar/shop?

good job Mike.
jc

At 02:01 PM 1/14/2011, you wrote:
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>1,425 Words
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>  Just Call Me Al
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>By Chris Kuell
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>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.
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>"Hey, Mike. Haven't seen you much this winter. What've you been up to?"
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>"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."
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>"Smart-ass," I said, and poured him a pint.
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>"Actually, I've been making pretty good progress on my novel. I'm on 
>Chapter 17, a little over 200 pages."
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>"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.
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>"So, why're you in here before eleven-thirty, instead of being home, 
>writing a steamy sex scene in your book?"
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>"Ain't no cure for the summertime blues." He sang the line, and 
>thankfully, didn't continue. Ray Charles, he isn't.
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>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.
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>"Naw, that's not it," he said. He took a long pull off his beer. 
>"Ahh. Like mother's milk."
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>I've heard this expression from him a hundred times, and it's pretty 
>well worn out.
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>"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.
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>"You ever notice how I have a knack for pissing people off?"
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>"That's not true, Mike," I said. "You seem to get along with 
>everybody. Especially the ladies you buy drinks for."
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>I turned on the faucet and checked for leaks, but everything was 
>dry. Rosie Riveter comes through again.
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>"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."
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>"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."
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>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."
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>"What didn't they like?"
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>He drained his beer and I poured him another. Nobody else had come 
>in yet, so I didn't mind talking.
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>"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."
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>"Doesn't sound bad to me." I warmed up the small grill where I made 
>burgers and sandwiches for the lunch crowd.
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>"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."
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>"Do you?" I asked. Bartenders and shrinks are masters of carrying on 
>conversations with very few words. It's a real talent.
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>"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?"
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>"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."
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>"Un-hunh," I said, flipping the sizzling burger.
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>"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."
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>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?"
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>"What?"
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>"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."
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>The door jingled again with the arrival of fresh patrons. I set the 
>burger down in front of Mike.
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>"Ketchup at ten o'clock," I said, putting down a bottle.
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>"Ketchup, Reagan's favorite vegetable," he said.  He felt for the 
>top of the hamburger bun and splashed a glob left of center.
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>"It makes everybody's buns taste better."
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>I laughed. "Do you ever stop thinking about sex, Mike?"
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>"Sure. I only think about sex forty-five out of every sixty seconds. 
>Gotta leave some time for politics, religion, and general day-dreaming."
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>"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."
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>"Again, you're right," he said. A small blotch of ketchup was on his 
>lip and I wished he would get it.
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>"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."
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>He finished his burger and wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin. 
>"Another beer, Mike?"
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>"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."
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>"After you finish, you can have a book signing here," I said.
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>"That ought to bring in two or three new customers."
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>I handed him his change. He said, "Keep the ones and just give me the five."
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>"Mike, that's about forty-percent tip," I said.
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>"Support your local bartender," he announced to the two other 
>patrons, and then got up to leave.
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>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.
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>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.
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>"Hey, was that Mike Edison, the blind writer?" one of the girls 
>asked. "I heard he lived around here."
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>"Yeah," I said. "But, he thinks he's Al Sharpton."
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