Tag: just goofing around

Always In Threes

David Michael James finished his third cup of coffee as the third hour of writing ended. Standing, he stretched for three seconds. Then he saved his document, closed it, and turned off his computer, one, two, three. 

Everything was done in threes. Multiples of three were sometimes acceptable. David Michael James recognized his inconsistently about this, sometimes agreeing with the multiple of three rule mod. Then he’d determined, why, he’d done that three times, which drove such a spike of sheer joy through him that he’d celebrated with three glasses of wine that night instead of three different beverages, which was his norm. But then, he’d been forced to do that three nights in a row, buying three new bottles of wine to satisfy his need for libation. Life was so traumatic and complicated.

He lived in a three story, three-bedroom, three-bath home, the third house he’d owned (and he was the house’s third owner). He’d bought the first house with his first wife, ignoring all the rules of three, because Sheila convince him that it was silly, which was wrong. He’d thought about killing her (murdering her, doing away with her) because they’d argued so much (probably, he saw, because she’d eschewed doing everything in threes, even joking more than once (two times?), “Let’s do everything in fives, because we have five fingers and five toes on each hand,” foolish logic, and he’d soon pointed it out to her (“But we only have two hands and two feet.”)), but had calculated that he’d need to marry three times and if he did, he’d need to kill all three women if he killed his first wife. He wasn’t a criminal at heart (just a writer), so he chose not to do that, even though he knew that he still had a problem with the threes. If he married three times, he’d need to divorce three times. It was his sad destiny. He’d understood that if he had children, he’d need to have three, so he’d nipped that with a vasectomy as soon as possible (having his appendix and tonsils removed at the same time). No sense in taking chances.

Each of his first two marriages had lasted three years.

The roots of his governing principles in three were traced back to three events, a fact that awed him. One, a Bible school teacher had told him about the holy Trinity of the father, son, and holy ghost. That same day, someone else had told him that celebrities always died in clusters of three, and third, according to his mother (who was a junior high school English teacher), the best descriptors were always used in threes. Threes crystallized as a magic connection. The next day, he’d made three great catches, had three hits, and scored three times in a baseball game.

His affiliation to everything in threes had been blessed in threes, establishing his destiny. He acquired three degrees in college — Literature, English, and Philosophy — and then pursued a writing career, managing to write and sell three short stories to three publications in just three months.

His first novel soon followed, and then, three years later, his second. Both were best-sellers. This one, that he’d worked on today, was in the final stages of polishing, and then he’d send it off.

That left him at a crossroads. This was already his third occupation (he’d worked in three restaurants as a server in his teens, and a sales clerk at three different furniture stores, including the family business, where he’d worked for three straight years). After writing three novels, he couldn’t be a novelist any longer (could he?), which meant he’d need to find a new occupation.

His cell phone rang. (He had three, for business, personal, and just because.) After letting it ring three times, he answered, “Hello, hello, hello.”

“Hello, hello, hello to you, too,” his agent said. David Michael James had had the same agent for six years, although he’d terminated their agreement twice. This was another dangerous intersection that he needed to navigate. David Michael James was still rasslin’ (wrestling, struggling) with that dilemma (problem, challenge) and potential solutions (resolutions, fixes).

“Great news, great news, great news,” his agent, Mary Beth Johnson, said. It was to her credit that she had three names, but she’d explained to him that she was born in the south, and three names were expected. She also had two sisters, Jo and Barbara (Bobbi) who shared the same middle name, Beth. Mary Beth Johnson was also on her third marriage. She had a lot going for her.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” David Michael James said.

“One, I got a call from a producer. Two, they want to make a movie out of your first book. Three, they want to know if you want to write the screen play.”

David Michael James was delighted. Just like that, Mary Beth Johnson had earned three more years as his agent. “That sounds fantastic, wonderful, great,” he said.

Mary Beth Johnson had more details, but, “One, I’d like to meet you for lunch, two, so I can give you the details in person, and three, you can hand over your latest manuscript.”

After three questions (and answers), David Michael James agreed that they’d meet next Friday, which was the third Friday of the month, at three P.M., at the third restaurant suggested.

After ending the call (which had lasted three minutes), David Michael James jumped up and down in joy three times, and then hummed three bars. Things always worked well in threes.

Then it hit him (struck him, came to him). He could use another name (pen name, nom de plume) to continue his career as a novelist, which would effectively start a second career (even though it remained his third occupation). Perfect, perfect, perfect!!!

With that, he brushed his teeth for three minutes and changed into his third set of clothes of the day.

Time to go look for wife number three.

0

Figment

Michael came in later than usual, arriving a few minutes after several others. Despite his tardiness, ‘his’ place was still unoccupied so he took his usual chair. Saying hellos, wiping sweat from his face — because he always walked — he poured a glass of porter and took a long drink.

Behind him stood another man.

Ron thought the other was with Michael. He’d followed him in and was now standing directly behind Michael’s chair. Ron looked at the fellow — unsmiling, a little swarthy looking and burly, about Michael’s age (in Ron’s guess), which would make the man in his early sixties, Ron thought, unsure about Michael’s age. Michael was the youngest. Ron thought Michael was his early sixties.

But Michael was ignoring the man, even though the man’s look was fixed on Michael.

The man looked at Ron as Ron looked at him. Ron shied away from greater contact, which wasn’t his style, and addressed his look to the other beer drinkers. He’d first thought the man was with Michael but now he thought maybe the guy had followed Michael in because he was pissed off. Ron, not imaginative, thought, maybe they’d had a fight, or were about to have one.

It wasn’t his style to back off or ignore things so he said to Michael, “Ahem. Michael.”

He waited for Michael to look his way. When Michael did, Ron said with a nod toward the man behind Michael’s seat, “Is he with you?”

Michael didn’t look. “Yes.” He drank more beer.

Confusion swept Ron. The rest of the guys at the table looked confused. Frank, grinning, said, “Should we offer him a chair and a beer?”

Michael glowered. “Why not?”

Rising fast, Ron said, “Let me do the honors, then.” Putting his hand out toward Rolf, he said, “I’m Ron, by the way.”

The man glared at Ron’s hand and then transferred the look to Ron’s face. “Rolf.”

“Rolf?” Ron said, lowering his hand.

“Yes.”

Joe had brought up a chair. Space was made for Rolf. “Do you drink beer?” Ron asked, sitting. His lips felt like Elmer’s glue had been smeared over them. “We have a Boneyard IPA or Pilot Rock porter. Or we can order you something else, like Ashland Amber Ale.”

“Porter,” Rolf said, sitting.

“Porter it is,” Ron said, filling the glass from the pitcher of porter. As he did that, Michael stood.

“I’m going to take a leak,” Michael said. He pointed at Rolf. “Stay. There.” He stared at Rolf for several seconds before turning and striding away.

Ron raised his eyebrows at Frank and the others. They all seemed as perplexed as he felt. That didn’t make him feel any better.

Andy said, “I’m Andy, Rolf.”

Nodding, Rolf picked up his beer.

Andy said, “How do you know Michael?”

“I’m his angel.” Rolf took a gulp of beer.

Everyone’s eyebrows except Rolf’s rose. “His angel?” Frank said with a grin.

Rolf lowered his glass. “Yes.”

“What kind of angel are you?” Bob said.

“I’m a healing angel,” Rolf said.

“Did you say that you’re an angel?” Andy said.

“Yes,” Rolf said with a sour look at Andy.

Ron said, “Maybe we should clarify what you mean by an angel.”

Rolf turned to him. “I’m a fucking angel from fucking heaven. Clear?”

“Yes,” Ron said, pulling back. “Very clear. I don’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended.” Rolf turned back to his beer.

“How did you meet Michael?” Andy said.

“I didn’t,” Rolf said.

“Then how do you know him?” Ron said as several others asked the question.

Rolf picked up his beer and smirked. “He made me.”

Ron said, “He — ”

“Jesus wept,” Rolf said. “What the fuck is this, twenty questions? Michael imagined me. By imagining me, he made me. That’s how the fuck I met him. I’m his healing angel. Any other damn questions?”

Ron put his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t mean to offend you but I don’t think any of us have ever met an angel before. This is certainly a first for me.”

“Congratulations to you,” Rolf said.

“It’s just that we’ve never met someone who someone else made by imagining them,” Andy said. “So we’re taken aback.”

Raising his beer glass again, Rolf smirked at Andy. “Oh, yeah? What the fuck do you think you are?”

 

 

2

No Problem

Showered, shaved, and coiffed, the finishing touch was required, the SPF 50 UV A/B blocker that would allow him to enjoy the sunny day while he rode his bike down to have coffee (and maybe a doughnut) with his friends.

But it wasn’t in its proper location among his essential toilet vials and tubes. Probably because he’d put it away in the wrong place yesterday, silly git. Each drawer was opened, searched, and closed, and then again because it must be in one of those drawers and he was just overlooking it.

Or it was on the tray where he keeps his stuff on the counter, knocked over, perhaps, or out of sight behind something else – hard to believe, because that tube is orange and yellow and the rest on there are green, black, or white — except the Trader Joe’s moisturizing shave cream that he uses (which is also an orange tube) — but the little bastard of suntan stuff wasn’t there, where it should be. So he must have carried it off somewhere, yes, probably while feeding the dog, or playing with the dog, or something with the dog, or maybe — did he get interrupted while he was applying it yesterday? There’d been one day when he’d had a phone call — which day? Who’d called? Someone had called. What day had that been?

Christ, he couldn’t remember anything. Maybe, maybe it’d had happened – yesterday? But — maybe he hadn’t used the suntan lotion yesterday. Had he used the suntan lotion yesterday? He didn’t remember, he couldn’t remember. Well, assume that he’d been using it and had gotten interrupted or had carried it off absent-mindedly — because that’s never happened — and put it down in another room, like the utility room – right, because that’s where the dog is fed — or the laundry room – no — or the other bathroom — no — or kitchen – NO.

Christ, had he thrown it away? Maybe he’d thrown it away by accident. Or maybe he’d put it into the freezer or recycled it or — or — whatever the hell people did when they were getting old and losing their mind. Maybe he was getting that thing, what? What’s it called? Alzheimer’s, Alzheimer’s. Was this his Still Alice moment? Maybe this was the onset of dementia — or maybe —

He saw his husband in the office. “You haven’t seen my suntan lotion, have you?”

“Yes, I used it yesterday. I was in a hurry and needed some, but I was out, so I grabbed yours and took it with me, and I left it in the car.” His husband smiled. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled back. “No problem.” Going out to the car, he chuckled at all the things he’d thought while he’d been searching – overreacting – 

Stopping at the car, he paused in thought.

Why the hell was out he out here?

2

Just A Warning

You should look at my photograph and memorize it. Then, if you’re ever out somewhere and see me in line, whether I’m in a car or on foot, DO NOT GET IN THE SAME LINE AS ME. My presence in the line guarantees that the people in the line ahead of me and the cashier will all slow down. Tiny issues will take place to stall the completion of their transactions while I’m in the line. Once I’m through, everything will be okay, but while I’m in the line, people will flash through the other lines so fast, your head will spin.

You’ve been warned.

8

In the Bar

I await my turn. I am polite. Patient looking. Outside. Inside my fortress of solitude, where everything is secret, I rant at the slowness. Prozac people in a Prozac ballet, taking orders, accepting money and plastic, making drinks and change, handing out libation. It’s a thick crowd, hungering for libation, awaiting our turns under a televised baseball game.

The man beside me on the stool looks at me and frowns. I smile at him but decide not to speak. He’s drinking a beer. Looks like beer in the glass, anyway.

He says, “It must be hard to a woman. Learn to walk in heels. Find bras that fit you. Have guys stare at you.”

I’m dumbfounded into silence.

He says, “Fitting a bra is difficult. Men don’t need to learn how clothes fit them, not like bras. Men don’t wear bras.”

I’m about to counter him but I don’t want to speak. Speaking will encourage him.

He says, “I guess some men do, men who are going through a transgender thing, becoming a woman, I guess they need to learn how to walk in heels and fit a bra, if they get boobs. I suppose they get boobs. That’s part of being a woman, right? They also need to wear pantyhose, I guess, which I think is revolting, encasing yourself, like you’re a sausage. Remember that Seinfeld episode when George’s father and Kramer create the mansiere? Man, that was funny.”

He takes a drink of his beer. The bartender looks at me and raises his chin and his eyebrows, expressing to me without words, you’re next, what do you want?

I order a beer. IPA.

The man beside me says, “What was I saying?”

0

Killers

Emphysema, they told him. Eyes twinkling, he chuckled with charming nonchalance (gasping for air when he did), because that was his style, and because he already knew. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said after the chuckle, although the panic in his gut said, “This is no joke.”

They put him on all that shit, and gave him oxygen to suck on, and advised him of the things that he must give up. He gave up the shit and kept the rest. Yeah, there was unbearable pain every day and hour, but it was the loneliness and regrets who were the killers.

1

The Car Colors

Walking today, I passed a red car. My thoughts were drifting, and seeing the red car, I thought, I’ve never owned a red car.

Dad had owned a red Thunderbird. That began a stream of recollections about Dad’s cars. He’d owned a turquoise Thunderbird (with matching interior), a maroon Monte Carlo (also with matching interior), beige Corvette and a blue Corvette (guess what color their interiors were?), and a white Chevy Impala, along with a white Thunderbird. Both of the white cars had red interiors.

I thought, what an eclectic mix. But then I reviewed some of my car colors. I’d had a copper Camaro (black interior) and brown Firebird (with a tan interior), a green Mercedes (with matching interior), a white BMW (blue interior), silver Audi (gray interior), orange Porsche (brown and black interior), a silver RX-7 with a red interior, a blue RX-7 with a brown interior, and a black RX-7 with a black interior.

In each case, I’d not consciously decided on a color. It was more of a decision, this is the car for me.

0

She Said

she said, Why did you do that? Don’t you know better?

and she said, No, I don’t feel any warmth for you, so I can’t.

and she said, Call me, and you said, I will.

and she said, You never called, and you said, nothing.

she said, You smell.

and she said, I could never be with someone like you.

and she said, I think you can do anything that you try to do.

and she said, I wish you would have said something.

she said, Stay away from me, I hate you right now.

and she said, Hi, it’s good to see you.

and she said, Let’s get together.

and she said, Good-bye.

 

0

Baking the Novel

First, decide you’re going to bake a cake (write a novel). To start, make a cup of coffee to drink while you conceptualize what you’re going to bake (write).

Come up with a story idea from your concept. Collect some ingredients – characters, setting, initial incident. Start mixing them together (writing).

Realize that you’re missing some ingredients (like motivation, background, and other characters). Make some coffee and hunt for the missing ingredients.

Coming up with the missing ingredients, you add them in, and then decide to make something different (a variation of the concept that just blows your mind with excitement). 

Find and add more ingredients (setting, characters, motivation, story twists).

Realize that you forgot to turn the stove on (yeah, you overlooked some huge aspect and now have a gap in the story).

Go to turn on the stove but then stop to pet the cat, and then feed the cat. Smell the kitty litter, and clean it. Also notice that the floor is dirty. Turn on the robot vacuum.

Monitor the robot vacuum, cursing it as it goes around and around a piece of dirt you want it to pick up that you refuse to pick up because that’s why you have a robot sweeper. 

Decide to check the mail to get away from the madness. Come back and make coffee, go through the mail (why do they keep sending you this junk?) and also look for something to eat because you’re hungry (even though you just ate, like, three hours ago, but, hey, writing is a strenuous mental activity that drains energy (something that non-writers will never understand!)).

Discover that there’s nothing in the house that you want to eat. Decide to make a shopping list, and then go to the store. (While you’re out, you’ll also stop and fill the car’s gas tank and do any other errands (because you’re efficient).)

Because you’re now too hungry to return home and make something with the stuff bought at the store, go somewhere and buy something to eat right now.

Return home, put away the groceries. Make and drink coffee while thinking about your cake (the novel), nosh on a snack item that you purchased, pick up the stuff that the robot vacuum missed,  pet the cat (because he’s following you around and underfoot), give the cat treats (to buy him off), and then —

Brainstorm! Make the frosting because this cake with that frosting would be fantastic (in other words, write an ending because you think it’s the perfect ending).

Remember, you never did turn on the oven, damn it. You missed a huge step. 

Realize, this is a layer cake. And you can’t put the frosting on because there’s nothing to put it on.

But you really like that frosting, so you go ahead and make it (write it up) and set it aside for use later, and then — epiphany! — decide every layer will be a different flavor of cake, with a different icing. It’s not really a cake, but a torte, you decide, and then go off to the computer to jump on the Internet to research tortes and cakes.

Check your email. Catch up on Facebook (like, post, and share), Pinterest and other social media, blogs, the news (he said what?) and sports (or fashion). Play some games (because, without acknowledging it, you feel stressed, and games — going for a new high score, or beating others on an online game — gives you instant gratification and validates you).

Turn on the television. Surf channels. Shake your head at the things on television these days. Wonder if some of the actors you’re seeing in the re-runs are still alive. Turn the television off.

Then, oh, it’s late. You’re tired. Another cup of coffee is needed but you’re too tired for that, and it’s too late (where’d the time go?). The rest of the family will be home soon, and there are the things you’re supposed to do with friends and family, going to movies, dinner, cut grass, wash car, clothes, dishes —

Well, you’ll continue tomorrow, you tell yourself. This cake (or torte) is going to be a masterpiece. It’ll blow people’s minds. It’s just so exciting, but there’s so much to do. There are more ingredients to collect, and then it all must be baked, frosted, and put together —

It’s so real, you can see, smell, and taste it. You sit for a while, absorbing the wonder of the cake (or torte) that you imagine.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself, tomorrow will be different. You don’t want any half-baked cake.

Right, you’ll begin by making coffee and listing all the ingredients, and maybe brainstorming all the steps that you need to do to complete this masterpiece, like turning on the oven. Yes, that’ll be the first thing that you do.

Tomorrow.

3

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