[stylist] sharing

[Brad Dunse']

Chris,

I really really enjoyed this bit. Excellent writing! You kept the 
action going, it was easy to follow, very real conversations in a 
buddy get -together type event, yet not predictable. Is this a 
finished project or part of a manuscript submission to tickle 
publishers interest? Not sure how that kind of project works with a 
publisher. Very nice, I like stories with various characters and how 
they tend to intertwine. Awesome.

Brad

On 9/23/2011  05:15 PM Chris Kuell said...
>Howdy,
>
>Today is the anniversary of an old friend's passing. About ten years 
>ago I wrote a story based on some of the people and parties he used 
>to host. The story was never accepted for publication, but I did get 
>a really nice rejection letter from the editor at Mid-American 
>Review. Anyway, in my melancholy reminiscing, I thought I'd share 
>the story for anyone interested in taking the time to read it. Be 
>forewarned, at 5900 words, it's kinda long.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>Porkfest 99
>
>
>By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
>You Just Missed the 1999 New Jersey State Fair!
>
>A huge, orange billboard with cheesy cartoon chickens, bulls and 
>happy kids screamed at us to Quick! Turn Around! I was driving south 
>on Route 206 in northwest Jersey, hoping for an end to the obnoxious 
>State Fair Billboards now that we were heading into Newton. The 
>Garden State, what a joke.  The overpopulated, big-haired, 
>asshole-driver state was more like it.
>
>I was with my wife and son, driving on a mild August morning. We 
>came from our home in Bethel, Connecticut, for one of my favorite 
>yearly events, Porkfest, at my old buddy Ron's house. A couple of 
>college friends and I started having these parties about five years 
>after graduation, and we have been getting together annually ever since.
>
>Initially, we rotated the host site every year. In '93, we had it at 
>our place in Bethel. The smell of beer isn't yet fully out of the 
>carpet in the living room, and I can't even mention the cat shaving 
>incident without suffering the wrath of my wife, Kate.
>
>The following year we had the bash at Alex's house in 
>Yonkers.  Nobody is certain how, but a freak accident occurred where 
>the gas grill caught the siding of the house on fire.  The firemen 
>were not the least bit amused by our antics. Since then we have 
>settled in on Ron's place in Newton. He doesn't have a big yard, and 
>the house is kind of cramped. But he does have a really mellow and 
>understanding wife, Carol, bless her soul. So we've gathered there since '95.
>
>"Almost there?" Kate asked, bored and a little antsy after the 
>two-and-a-half hour ride.
>
>"Not much further," I replied. "How's Timmy doing? Is he still asleep?"
>
>Timmy had fallen asleep in his booster seat shortly after crossing 
>the New York / New Jersey border. His little head hung limply at 
>what seemed to be an impossible angle, a half eaten graham cracker 
>still in his clutches.
>
>"Out like a light," Kate said. "Should I start to wake him?"
>
>"Nah, let him sleep. It's going to be a long and crazy day and he 
>needs to be well rested."
>
>Turning onto Elm Street, we passed the familiar Mobil station. Gas 
>was so cheap in Jersey, always a mystery to me. Kate pulled the 
>invitation/directions from behind the visor to see where we were. 
>Across the top of the directions I saw the words: It's Time for 
>PORKFEST '99!  All Pork, All the Time!
>
>Below the date and directions to Ron's house was a black, crudely 
>scratched X. It was fairly obvious the symbol had been made by an 
>adult's finger smeared with ashes. I had to smile. These guys were 
>just nuts. The symbol signified a tradition we adopted over the 
>years of playing Inferno-ball, a game invented in a drunken stupor 
>while undergrads at Johnson State. In short, the game involved 
>picking up a glowing charcoal briquette from the grill after all 
>cooking was complete. This was accomplished best with a metal 
>spatula, although many different implements, including an unwilling 
>Barbie doll, had been used over the years. The contestant, who had 
>to be at least three sheets to the wind, after having secured a 
>burning briquette, would then throw it approximately twenty feet 
>into a coffee can. A fairly difficult task sober, never mind after 
>proper inebriation with cheap tequila. We put about a half-inch of 
>lighter fluid in the bottom of the coffee can, so it was quite 
>apparent when we experienced a direct hit.
>
>Inferno-ball was generally a male dominated sport. Not since the 
>summer Donna left Phil had any of the ladies wanted to participate. 
>The wives generally kept the kids out of the way and let the gents 
>have their fun. After all the briquettes had been tossed, whoever 
>caused the most flame-ups in the can was declared the winner and 
>took home the much-prized pig skull to cherish and show off for a 
>year. Last summer Ron was on fire, no pun intended, and torched the 
>can three times. Phil got all pissy, saying Ron had an unfair 
>advantage, being it was his home court. After we duct taped him to 
>the big maple tree out front for a while he kept his complaints to himself.
>
>Heading up the hill where Ron and Carol lived I saw Phil's Cadillac 
>parked out front. Old Phil must have done all right after the 
>divorce to afford such a luxury car. Of course it was used, and 
>except for an unnatural love of the Yankees, I don't think he had 
>any other passions. So maybe the big car wasn't out of line.  Or 
>maybe running an auto parts store was a lot more lucrative than I thought.
>
>I pulled up behind the caddy and parked. Turning to my wife, I 
>announced, "We're here!"
>
>The sour look on her face let me know instantly that she was not 
>looking forward to the day with the same enthusiasm as me. Trying 
>for pre-party damage control, I said, "C'mon honey, what's the matter?"
>
>"Oh, nothing really, Marc. It's just that seeing Phil's car made me 
>think of Donna. You know, of all the wives she is the one I clicked 
>with best. I'm just kind of sad that she isn't here, that's all."
>
>"Hey look," I tried to appease, "you usually have a good time with 
>the other ladies. Plus, this isn't a sexist gig. You're free to hang 
>out with the guys, and of course there will be lots of kids getting 
>into trouble. Relax and have a few beers, its gonna be a blast."
>
>Sighing just loud enough for me to hear, Katie opened her door and 
>brought Timothy back to the land of the living.
>
>"Howdy, stranger," Ron said to me as I got out of the car. "You 
>ready for a beer?"
>
>Ron was a big guy, maybe six two or three, around two hundred twenty 
>pounds. As far as I could tell, it was mostly muscle. Ron was a big 
>rugby fan and player when we were in school. These days he kept in 
>shape by doing landscaping work as a side job. He wore a navy blue 
>tee shirt with God Bless the Freaks printed in gold letters on the front.
>
>"Gimme a minute, dude." I said. " Actually, c'mere and help me with 
>the munchies."
>
>Ron strolled over as I opened the trunk. Katie held a groggy Timmy 
>in her arms and chatted with Carol. Carol really looked great in a 
>denim mini skirt and a sleeveless white blouse. No one would ever 
>guess her shapely figure had produced two kids.
>
>"Is the pig a-roastin'?" I asked.
>
>"Damn straight," Ron said, taking a long pull on his beer. "Got it 
>going around 6:30 this morning. Should be ready in around an hour. 
>What you got?"
>
>Beaming, I pulled out a few packages of all-pork sausages and a jar 
>of pickled pig knuckles that I'd purchased on a business trip to 
>Alabama nearly six months ago. Two bags of pork rinds, as well as 
>two bags of barbequed pork rinds. Lastly, a fifth of Bushmills and a 
>sealed Tupperware bowl.
>
>"What's in the bowl?" Ron asked.
>
>I looked away, a little red in the face, saying, "Salad. Katie made 
>me bring it."
>
>"Didn't you read the sign?" Ron demanded, pointing a finger at his 
>front porch. There I saw a computer printed banner.
>
>PORKFEST '99 - A CELEBRATION of MEAT.
>
>"Hey, that's great," I said.
>
>"Damn computer's gotta be good for something," Ron said as he took 
>the bowl of salad out of my hands, tossed it back into the trunk and 
>slammed the lid shut. Phil, wearing his New York Yankees hat and 
>jacket, approached me. He clutched two overfull beers, foam spilling 
>over onto his fingers.
>
>"Well, if it ain't my snobby Connecticut friend. How's things down 
>at the Country Club?" Phil chided, thrusting a beer into my hand.
>
>"It's been a dreadful summer, my good man," I said in a ridiculous 
>British accent. I took a sip, trying to hold out my pinky like my 
>beer was a proper cup of tea. "The yacht has all those blasted 
>little barnacles on the hull. Just isn't proper. I'm afraid I'll 
>have to get a new one." After a sticky handshake, Phil helped with 
>the stuff from the trunk and we made our way to the porch.
>
>
>
>Glancing up at the old homestead I saw Alex trying to comfort his 
>little girl. What  was her name, Carla? The kid was very upset about 
>something, crying and clinging to her Daddy, who looked like he was 
>about at the bottom of his bag of tricks.
>
>Alex was a short but relatively good-looking black guy, at least 
>according to Kate. He worked in the graphics department of a large 
>chemical company in Westchester, doing a lot of photography for 
>company brochures and catalogues. He majored in history at Johnson, 
>perhaps the best academic student of us all. But what do you do with 
>a history degree? Photography, I guess.
>
>"Who's here already?" I asked Ron.
>
>"Alex, Sandy and their three bambinos. My brother Danny is in the 
>house somewhere. I know I saw Kurt and Cathy around, but you know 
>they have a brand new little munchkin Tabitha, and they can't get 
>five feet from the kid."
>
>"Tabitha?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "Another Bewitched flashback?"
>
>"Kurt swears Cathy was set on it, no changing her mind. You know 
>women." Ron said with a laugh.
>
>Once on the porch I said hello to Alex and his daughter. Her crying 
>had subsided, but she still clung tightly to her daddy. Two boys 
>came crashing out of the front door, the latter banging into me, 
>causing me to spill a healthy gush of beer on my shorts and down my 
>leg. Ron hollered, "Take it easy boys!" but to no avail. A hot 
>pursuit was on; the boys leapt over the railing and were out of 
>sight. I went inside to use the bathroom and noticed Danny passed 
>out on the couch. He was positioned sitting up, but his head was 
>flopped over similarly to Timmy's in his car seat on the way here. 
>An old alternative band CD was playing on the stereo and I figured 
>Danny must be pretty wasted to fall asleep to this noise.
>
>I didn't know him well, only through seeing him occasionally at 
>parties. I didn't think he had many friends, and Ron often brought 
>him places even though he must have been aware of how uncomfortable 
>other people were. Brotherly love, I guess.
>
>Danny's face resembled Ron's, with the deep blue eyes and broad 
>nose. But that was where the genetic code must have gotten 
>scrambled. Danny was a good eight inches shorter than Ron, and he 
>couldn't go a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet and with his 
>pockets full of nickels. A five-day beard on his face, a trickle of 
>drool sliding out of the corner of his open mouth, he looked pretty 
>pathetic there on the couch.
>
>Once at the bar Ron told me that Danny had never fit in. Back in 
>high school he wound up hanging out with the potheads and by the 
>time Ron hit ninth grade, Danny was already a burn out. In the past 
>fifteen years he bounced from job to job, never seemed to have a 
>girlfriend and was busted three times for DUI. The last time, Ron 
>had to pay for a lawyer just to keep him out of jail. He was very 
>lucky to lose his license and pay a whopper fine, which I imagine 
>Ron also had to cover.
>
>Moving through the kitchen, I ran into Kate chatting with Carol and 
>Sandy. Several kids played on the floor, including Timmy, who was 
>scribbling in a coloring book with a little girl. The women seemed 
>not to notice the chaos, enjoying large glasses of red wine and deep 
>in conversation. I said hi to Sandy and gave Carol a kiss.
>
>After my pit stop, I made my way to the back porch. My man Kurt was 
>stuffing his face with appetizers while cooing to a very small baby 
>that was snoozing over his shoulder.
>
>"Kurtman, how's it hanging?"
>
>"A little to the right," he said, extending a crumb-laden hand. I 
>shook it, aware of the raw strength it possessed.
>
>"You're looking good, pal. Still working out?"
>
>"Everyday, my man, I open up the gym at 4:15," Kurt said with pride.
>
>"Holy shit, man, that's nuts. How does Cathy feel about that? Aren't 
>you needed around the ranch to take care of the little one?"
>
>"Nah, what the hell can I do? Cathy keeps the kid in the bassinet 
>two inches from her side of the bed. When she squawks at night it's 
>just a matter of sticking her on the milk factory for five minutes, 
>a quick diaper change, then it's back to sleepy land. Tabby usually 
>gets up with me at quarter of four. I give them both a kiss, then 
>I'm off to the gym for a few hours, then on to work."
>
>"So being a dad is going well for you?" I inquired, running my index 
>finger along the mostly bald skull of the sleeping newborn.
>
>"Piece of cake," Kurt answered, "I don't know what you pansies have 
>been complaining about. This kid thing is easy."
>
>"Count your blessings," I warned, remembering late nights in a 
>zombie state with Timmy crying all the time and Kate's nerves 
>frazzed from the stress of a colicky baby. Looking at the pair of 
>them, I just couldn't get over Kurt holding a newborn. Kind of like 
>Mister T coddling a kitten.
>
>Kurt was a few years older than the rest of us at Johnson. This came 
>in handy when the drinking age was raised. He had served time with 
>the Navy, earning money for college. At least that was what he used 
>to say. I actually think he had his heart set on being a Navy SEAL, 
>but his temper kept him out. Kurt was one of those hot heads that 
>would get into a fight faster than most people could tie their 
>shoes. Once when he was stationed at a base up in Alaska he took on 
>three guys in a bar. The first guy went down after Kurt clocked him 
>with a barstool. He then started pounding the second one's face into 
>the concrete parking lot, leaving bits of teeth, flesh and blood. 
>The third guy pulled a knife and caught Kurt by surprise, jamming it 
>deep into the bone of his shoulder. Kurt abandoned the mushy-faced 
>number two, reached up with his left hand and removed the hunting 
>knife. The pulsing blood and searing pain didn't adversely affect 
>Kurt. In fact, it helped him to focus. He took out the stabber with 
>two quick jabs, finishing only after he had carved the word prick 
>across the unfortunate man's chest. This story had always stuck with 
>me, although it was hard to imagine this gentle guy cooing to his 
>tiny daughter ever being in such a brawl.
>
>"So what do we have for eats?" I inquired.
>
>Kurt took his beer off one of the wobbly card tables where a variety 
>of munchies had been set out.  "Let's see," he started. "Over here 
>we have some fine maple bacon fresh from my in-laws in Vermont, then 
>over here we have some Cajun-spiced pork chops. Then there is pork 
>chili in this Crock-pot. Carol made it. For the kids, we have pigs 
>in a blanket."
>
>The next bowl had some really gross looking mixture, like worms and 
>vomit in brown gravy. "What the hell is that stuff?" I asked, not 
>getting too close.
>
>"Pork chow mein, I am told. Phil made it, and personally, I'm 
>steering well clear of it."
>
>"Did he make it or find it in a dumpster somewhere?"
>
>"Dunno. This stuff is smoked pork, I've had a few pieces and it's 
>fabulous. This stuff Sandy made, it's curry pork medallions and very 
>spicy.  I haven't worked up the courage yet to try this one, it's 
>apricot pistachio rolled pork. Finally, my contribution to the 
>smorgasbord, pork and beans ala king."
>
>"Thanks for the warning," I muttered, grabbing a handful of spiced 
>peanuts and taking a swig of beer. A pretty impressive spread actually.
>
>I also noticed a bowl of corn chips and a platter with celery and 
>baby carrots on it. Basically though, the theme of the day was 
>pork-related products.
>
>I walked with Kurt and Tabitha into the back yard, approaching Ron 
>and Phil as they tended to the huge barbeque. Little Tabitha had 
>puked on Kurt's back but I wasn't telling him. Ron and Carol built a 
>huge stone barbeque in their backyard the first year they hosted 
>Porkfest. A slow and rhythmic turning sound came from the rotisserie 
>motor as it gently turned the honey brown pig over the smoldering 
>orange-gray bed of coals.
>
>"How's Porky coming?" Kurt asked.
>
>"After having this big ole spit stuck up his ass, I seriously doubt 
>ole Porky will ever come again," Ron said.
>
>A burst of fire erupted and sizzled from a drip of fat off the 
>simmering beast.
>
>"I call the ears," I said.
>
>"I don't think anyone will fight you for them," Ron said, painting a 
>thick layer of seasoning on the meat as it turned.
>
>"Hey, where's Fat Tony?" I asked.
>
>  "Oh, you know Fat Tony, the son of a bitch is always late. I told 
> him to be here at ten. It's almost one now, so he should be here 
> soon," Ron answered. Kurt, Phil and I nodded. Tony was always late 
> for everything. He even missed a final in college once, some silly 
> excuse. But you know, Mr. Smooth charmed his professor and she let 
> him take a makeup exam. Tony was like that, a real talker. But so 
> friendly and personable that people let him get away with stuff 
> even though they knew he was a bullshitter. Probably why he did so 
> well in sales. He'd have to be pretty damn good to make a living 
> selling burial plots, which was what he did. In Brooklyn, no less. 
> Where the hell could you even bury people in Brooklyn? Maybe in the 
> subways or just dump them in the Hudson. I had no idea how, but he 
> seemed to do OK.
>
>Phil returned with a fresh round of beers and we all drank a toast 
>to Fat Tony. Tabitha began to squawk so Kurt brought her inside to 
>dump off on Cathy.
>
>I chatted a little with Ron about work while Phil took a radio and 
>headphones out of his jacket pocket. He turned it on and began 
>fiddling with the controls.
>
>"Whatsa matter, Phil?" I asked. "We boring you?"
>
>"Nah," Phil replied. "I'm just catching the score of the Yankee 
>game. They're in Minnesota this afternoon playing a doubleheader 
>with the Twins."
>
>"You can tune in Minnesota?" Ron asked, amazed.
>
>"No, you dumb shit. WCBS out of the city is carrying the game. 
>Minnesota, Jesus. How many years did you go to college there, doctor?"
>
>"Shut up, you, or you'll get what porky here got," Ron warned.
>
>But Phil was already slipping away into the sounds of the game, 
>walking towards the front of the house in search of optimal reception.
>
>"So how old is Timmy now?" Ron asked as he applied another coat of 
>sauce on the pig.
>
>"A little over three. He's a pretty good kid. Certainly has his 
>moments, and I admit I'm pretty easy on him compared to Kate, but 
>he's doing good."
>
>"So when is number two coming along?" Ron asked . "I noticed Katie 
>sucking down the vino, so I'm assuming there ain't a bun in the oven 
>at the moment."
>
>This was kind of an awkward subject. Kate and I were trying for a 
>second, but for some reason we just weren't hitting. I think we 
>conceived Timothy the first time we had sex after Kate stopped 
>taking the pill, so it sure seemed that we were plenty fertile. 
>Shortly after Tim's second birthday, we steeled up our nerves and 
>started trying again, but so far - nothing. The last couple months 
>Kate was buying those kits that supposedly let you know when you 
>were ovulating. I wasn't even sure how accurate they were, but if it 
>kept the peace I wouldn't object. However, I think that may be part 
>of the problem. With Timothy, we just had sex and figured we would 
>see what happened. Bingo! Prego in no time. Now, we're trying to 
>have a kid, to plan it, in fact. Hence the ovulation kit. No 
>entropy, no spontaneity, no luck.
>
>"We are starting to try again," I told Ron.
>
>"Good for you, Marc. You guys are great parents."  As if he would 
>know from our once a year visit. But I smiled, then we both walked 
>up front to be social.
>
>On the front porch I refilled my beer from the keg and went over to 
>Kate. She was busy helping one of Alex's girls with a doll related 
>problem. Kate was very patient and involved with all the kids, and 
>they all flocked to her. Most parents, myself included, kind of 
>ignored the friends' kids, using what little attention we were 
>willing to give to our own children. Kate was often offended by the 
>guys' talk, and sometimes just didn't fit in with the other mothers 
>at the parties. So she found her niche by playing with all the kids, 
>and they all loved her for it. As I walked over I ran my hand 
>lightly across her jeans and said, "Hello ladies, what are you up to?"
>
>The little girl looked up at me and stated, "Missy's hair clips 
>falled out and Aunt Katie is helping me put 'em back."
>
>"Can I help?" I asked.
>
>"No, silly!" the little girl said vehemently. "Dollies are for 
>girls, not boys."
>
>Before engaging in a dialogue with a three year old about the role 
>of men versus women in imaginative play, I heard Carol exclaim, 
>"Well, look who's here."
>
>Out in the street, Tony, his wife Mary, and their three little ones 
>were getting out of a mini-van.
>
>"Oh shit, there goes the neighborhood!" Cathy said.
>
>Across the street a dog yapped at the intrusion of the newcomers. We 
>all made a habit of poking fun at Fat Tony, but he really was a 
>great guy. A never-ending source of fun at parties like this, Tony 
>always had a story that would make you laugh so hard your sides 
>ached and you had to fight back the urge to throw up.
>
>"Are we late?" Fat Tony asked innocently. "Mary here made me stop so 
>she could look at some friggin' antiques or something."
>
>"You are so full of shit, Tony," Mary said as she slapped him 
>lightly across the shoulder. Addressing the crowd on the porch, she 
>explained, "Mister sense-of-direction here got us royally lost, and 
>yes, I did make him stop - to ask directions, which the dumb oaf 
>refused to do until we were driving somewhere in a god damned corn 
>field in Pennsylvania, I swear."
>
>Tony grabbed his small wife around the waist and tickled her so she 
>dropped the soda she carried.
>
>  "That was just a diversionary tactic I was employing so I could 
> get a little action," Tony explained as he tickled Mary to her knees.
>
>"Stop it!" she screamed. "I'll get you, Tony, mark my words."
>
>Tony stopped tickling her, picking her up like a small child and 
>throwing her over his broad shoulder. We all got a quick peek at her 
>underwear as her skirt rode high. Fat Tony began spanking her 
>lightly, saying, "Confess, Fraulein, confess!"
>
>Phil, who seemed to be playing the part of the official greeter, 
>handed them both a cup of beer.
>
>Tony put a red-faced Mary down and we all made our greetings. His 
>three kids joined the pack of ruffians already taking control of the castle.
>
>Fat Tony was an immense man of huge appetite for all of life; food, 
>drink, women and fun. He was on his second beer by the time he got 
>around to saying hi to Kate and me. Being polite, Kate remarked that 
>he looked like he had dropped a few pounds. Where this came from I 
>have no idea. Fat Tony was that kind of large, so outside the norm 
>that one had no experience with guessing that kind of weight. Could 
>it be three hundred pounds, or four hundred? Is there really much of 
>a difference?
>
>"Well, I did get a haircut recently." Tony said as he wrapped those 
>log arms around my wife and gave her a hug. Kate disappeared for a 
>second, but before I got nervous she reappeared, a little out of 
>breath. Next, he turned to me, saying, "Marcus my man, que pasa?"
>
>"No speakin ze anglish" I replied while shaking his mammoth hand.
>
>It was a long-standing gag between us. Fat Tony and I had somehow 
>ended up senior year needing a foreign language. So we both signed 
>up for Spanish, and barely managed to cheat our way through it. 
>Hence, we both now remembered about 14 words altogether.
>
>             "So, I see you all finally took the plunge and got a 
> mini van, eh?"
>
>"Yeah, yeah," Tony said, his feet shuffling on the front porch as he 
>looked down. "You know, with the three kids, even that space shuttle 
>isn't big enough, I swear. If the kids bring along a friend, forget 
>about it. We gotta strap 'em to the roof rack. I told Mary we should 
>have gotten one of those little school buses. You know, the ones for 
>the handi-kids?"
>
>Kate slugged Tony in the arm and the impact sent a wave of jiggling 
>across his torso.
>
>"Whatsa matta?" Fat Tony laughed. "The family could be like a movin' 
>billboard. I could paint on my business slogan." Tony held out his 
>broad hands like a true visionary. "Difazio Burial-We won't rest 
>until you're dead."
>
>             Everybody was busy socializing, catching up on what was 
> new with whom, places visited on family and business trips and 
> children's medical problems. Apparently Danny was revived inside 
> the house because the music changed and got a bit louder. I was 
> chatting with Fat Tony about their recent vacation at Cape May when 
> a black and white pulled up slowly in front of the house. It paused 
> for a second, and then parked in the driveway. Both doors opened 
> simultaneously.  A heavy-set cop sporting a silver-gray crew cut 
> got out of the driver's seat with a grunt. Leaving the door open, 
> he adjusted his pants as he walked towards the crowd of partygoers. 
> A younger, leaner cop sprang from the passenger side of the 
> cruiser. He glanced around, mentally photographing each member of our group.
>
>Alex, who was filling his beer at the keg asked, "Would you officers 
>like a cold one?"
>
>Stern, cold looks from the policemen were his answer. The older cop 
>addressed the gathering.
>
>"Afternoon, folks. Who is the property owner here?"
>
>Without answering the question, Ron asked, "What seems to be the 
>problem, officer?"
>
>The younger cop took a turn, "There's been several complaints from 
>the neighbors about the noise and excessive drinking."
>
>"Aw, c'mon." Ron said, glancing up and down the street to locate the 
>squealers. "Who called? They ain't got the balls to come over here 
>and say something." Ron's cheek twitched as he glared at the cops.
>
>Always the diplomat, Tony emptied his beer, crushed the plastic cup 
>into a little ball and crammed it in his pocket. He stepped up to 
>the younger cop and extended his hand." My name is Alfonso Black, 
>I'm an attorney. And your name is.?" Reluctantly, the cop shook the 
>big man's hand, saying, "Officer Carlson. This is Sergeant LeBlanc." 
>Tony moved over to the older cop and shook his hand as well. "We 
>apologize for the inconvenience officers, hate to take up your 
>valuable time. We will reduce the volume of the music right away, 
>and of course, we promise to be responsible with the alcoholic beverages."
>
>I could tell the cops didn't know quite what to make of Fat Tony. By 
>the looks they gave him, they obviously knew he was bullshitting 
>them, it was just a matter of deciding if they cared or not. The 
>Sergeant eyed Fat Tony.
>
>"Are you the homeowner here?" he asked.
>
>"We are all friends here, and, of course, you boys are welcome to 
>join us," Tony began.
>
>The cop interrupted him, "Can you turn down that music?" Mild 
>irritation accented his scowl.
>
>  Ron shot a look at his older son, who immediately ran in the front 
> door and turned the music down. Alex's daughter Carla stepped 
> forward and pointed an inquisitive finger at Officer Carlson.
>
>She asked, "Is that a real gun?"
>
>A sly grin crept across the officer's lips. He answered her, "Yes, it is."
>
>"Are you gunna shoot somebody?"
>
>The tension of the moment crumbled. The others shared the release 
>and laughed along with the cop. I think everybody took a much-needed 
>breath at that point. An amused Officer Carlson said, "Not today, 
>Miss." Then the devious bastard asked, "Can you tell me whose house this is?"
>
>Carla looked around, and then spotting Ron on the steps pointed an 
>all-knowing finger. Ron stepped down off the porch, saying, "I'm Ron 
>Sukovich, this is me and my wife's place."
>
>As Ron began talking with the policeman, the metallic screech of the 
>front door opening interrupted them. Everyone looked as Danny 
>stepped out onto the porch and joined us. His hair was unkempt, and 
>he held his hands up in front of his face as if the sunlight was 
>scalding his corneas.
>
>"What's with the cops, man?" Danny asked.
>
>In hushed tones Carol explained to Danny that the cops were there 
>because the neighbors complained.
>
>"For what?" Danny said, bewilderment in the bleary eyes.
>
>Clenching her teeth, Carol said, "Just keep quiet."
>
>Our attention returned to the pow-wow on the front yard. Some of the 
>kids had gotten curious and were looking carefully at the 
>policemen's badges and guns, and a couple of others wandered over to 
>look at the cruiser. Timmy was one, so I tried to keep an eye on him.
>
>"Sukovich.  That name is familiar." The older cop looked hard at 
>Ron, trying to place his face among the thousands of thugs he had 
>run across. The cop tilted his head back as a spark of recognition 
>seemed to register.
>
>"Su-ko-vich.  Did you get caught about fifteen years back breaking 
>into the post office with Gary LeBlanc and a few other high school kids?"
>
>Puzzled, Ron answered, "No, sir."
>
>Filling a beer at the keg, Danny snorted, then began on a 
>conversation with himself. He often did this, sometimes even 
>referring to himself in the third person. Grinning like an 
>unbalanced street person, he muttered, "Radiator, damn!"
>
>Everybody looked at him, nervous about what might be going on in his 
>pickled brain.  Since no one hushed him, Danny continued.
>
>"I remember the post office. Man, me and Radiator, Blitz and Eddie, 
>we got off easy that night. The pigs busted us red handed." He 
>laughed deviously at the long forgotten memory. The rest of us just 
>wondered what the hell he was talking about.
>
>"We weren't doin' much," he went on, " just looking for checks and 
>credit cards. We wasn't messin' up the place or nothing. The cops 
>bagged us and brought us in. Then, all of a sudden, they just let us 
>go! It was unbelievable, they just said to stay outta trouble and 
>let us go. Not even a beatin'."
>
>Specks of spittle flew from Danny's mouth with his excitement. He 
>focused his wandering gaze on the older cop.
>
>"Was you one of the cops that caught us?"
>
>The expression on the cop's face shifted. All the bravado he had 
>arrived with drained into pudgy, nervous hands. The tense, ready for 
>action muscles were flaccid now; the steel-belted radial deflated. 
>In a smaller voice tainted with shame he said, "Gary LeBlanc was my son."
>
>"No shit, man! What a trip. Old Radiator never told me his dad was a 
>cop." Danny's face came alive.  Rather than a nuisance, he was the 
>center of attention. Not brushed to the corner and ignored, he could 
>participate. He had something to say, so he was rolling with it.
>
>"How is old Radiator, errr, Gary? I haven't seen him around in a 
>long time. Last I heard, he was movin' out to California or Colorado 
>or somethin'."
>
>Sighing, the Sergeant shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot 
>to the other. Unconsciously, stubby fingers ran through the silver 
>crew cut. "Gary died ten years ago from a drug overdose." Watercolor 
>eyes stared long and intently at Danny. I wonder what he saw, or who 
>he was looking for.
>
>Ron began to say, "I'm so sorry."
>
>His sentence was interrupted by an incredibly loud shrieking noise 
>piercing the somberness. A howling Waaaa-waaa! filled the air. The 
>headlights of the cruiser blinked off and on, the red flashers on 
>the roof danced, shining brightly despite the afternoon sun. Small 
>hands began to clap gleefully; all the adults stared with concern at 
>the car suddenly bursting alive. Inside the dim interior the eyes of 
>Ron and Carol's youngest son bulged with panic. The kid slapped at 
>the dash, flipping every switch.  Tears blurred his vision until he 
>closed his eyes and covered his ears with his small hands. By this 
>time Ron's long strides brought him to the driver's side of the 
>vehicle. He scooped up his son with one broad hand, reached into the 
>dash and shut off the sirens with the other.
>
>Clutching his son like a football, Ron approached the Sergeant. The 
>cop was grinning, but he looked like he might lose it at any moment. 
>Ron put his arm around the man's shoulders and asked, "Ready for 
>that beer now?"
>
>The affectionate gesture from the young man seemed to break 
>something inside Sergeant LeBlanc. Through moistened eyes, he looked 
>first at Ron, then at the gang on the front porch. Finally, he 
>glanced skyward and for a second I thought he was going to pray.
>
>Perhaps he was reflecting on the fragments of his own lost future, 
>of picnics that would never be eaten with grandchildren, horseshoes 
>that would never be thrown, fly-casting lessons and pull-my-finger 
>jokes, no more than the dust of possibilities. Maybe he let go of a 
>bitterness that no human should have to swallow, I can't really say. 
>I can only imagine how I would feel if I were in his shoes.  I 
>watched as he rubbed the scalp of Ron's captive son, whose buzz 
>haircut was very similar to his own.
>
>Officer LeBlanc surprised us all when he asked his partner, "Well, 
>Jerry, what do you think about clocking out for an hour for some 
>voluntary community service?"
>
>Officer Carlson didn't hesitate, saying, "Well, I'm due to go off 
>shift at three o'clock anyhow. I think it might be both useful and 
>appreciated if we stuck around awhile, make sure everything remains orderly."
>
>Ron walked towards the porch with his arm still around the 
>policeman's shoulder like they were lifelong pals.  "You hungry, 
>Sarge? We've got plenty of chow."
>
>Sergeant LeBlanc wiped the corner of his eye with the tip of his 
>finger, as if he had a speck of dirt or a bug in there. Then he 
>smiled, looking pleased with the world. Almost re-inflated, he 
>answered, "Sure."
>
>After a slight pause, Ron said, "I hope you're not a vegetarian."
>
>
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Brad Dunse

Instead of waiting out the storm, learn to dance in the rain

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