[stylist] fiction

Sat Jan 15 16:42:51 UTC 2011

Well down, and the unlady like comment aloud me to pick up on the fact that
the main bar tender was a femail.  Well done; sort of like a long joke
because I like your ending.  
Cheers. 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Robert Leslie Newman
Sent: Saturday, January 15, 2011 11:15 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] fiction

I too enjoyed the story. And as was suggested, a little bit more info at a
few key points would be nice- I really didn't know the first character being
presented was a woman until a ways in (you'd think the reference to the
squatting thing would have been the point that tripped my thoughts to
female, but I really thought it was a guy doing that thinking, and sure
maybe being a little sexist in his description. 

(Those little add-in references of smell or sound that an author can use,
sure can add to the feel of a story.)

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Anita Adkins
Sent: Friday, January 14, 2011 4:17 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] fiction

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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