The Players: A short story
The Players
Obedient Housewife – The wife
Cheating Husband – Him
The other Woman – Her
The narrator
Me, I, Myself
I can’t believe I was able to endure this for so long. I’m getting out of the zoo now, packing everything away in neat little plastic containers with neat little lids that snap on just in case it rains.
- Thud - Textbooks and notebooks dropping into the hard plastic bottom.
I met her before the other two. As long as I have known her she’s been “the other woman”. Not quite ugly enough to gag in disgust at, but certainly no head turner. She’ll be graduating this year. A four-year degree in geography (what can you use this for?). Introductions are so tedious; suffice it to say she’s been helping guys cheat for a good long time now.
- Whisp - Comics set atop classic novels and new age novellas.
We first connected because he liked comics, transformers, and Dungeons and Dragons, and Star Wars. Mostly what I know about him is that pretty much everything he has ever told me is some type of a lie. He cheats on the wife with her, and pretends to be much more than he is. Those are the only things I know for certain about him.
- Clink - Dishes set one on top of another
The wife hated me right from the start. It’s probably because the first time we met I showed everyone there the fliers I had gotten from a friend back home which said, “You Need Jesus God Damnit”. Well the rest of the people there thought it was funny. But the wife decided to take exception to it and be thoroughly offended. At the time there was a steadfast determination to be devoted to god. The wife would have probably said there was a steadfast determination to be devoted to God.
I’m an atheist so to me it’s god.
They’re having their conversations about what it was that finally made me move out.
I hear him telling her about it. “He said that it wasn’t just that. I guess there’s a lot of things that contributed to this decision.”
“But he knows about us. How did he find out?”
“I don’t think he ever found out hon. He just kind of put things together and arrived to such a decision.” He always used questionable grammar to try to sound more sophisticated. “He told me that above and beyond that, it was that he felt like he had to hide in his room because whenever he walked into a room with anybody from here he could fell you guys hoping that he would just go back upstairs.”
I sure did.
- Thump Thump Thump - Four feet headed down the stairs.
“So why is he moving?” That’s the wife. Always left out of the loop until the last moment.
“Because he feels like he has to hide in his room. Because you guys make him feel unwanted.” He never did blame himself for anything.
I hear him sigh and I can just picture the worry on his face as he sits down on the couch and runs his hands over his hair in dramatic fashion. “He says the last straw was when he felt like, as though, he had to sneak downstairs and make a sandwich and run back upstairs with it.”
It sure was.
“You’re going to have to ask your mom to send you more money.” Now they’ll both rely on her parents to pay the bills. The wife will move out next.
Of course, I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t tell him that the one day I had the place to myself I snuck into her room and found a love letter from him to her. I didn’t tell him that I was moving in with the people that he moved out on.
Then there’s the baby, but I don’t even want to get into that.
- Click - The door closing behind me.
The Organized Mess: A Partial precursor to Tags
The Organized Mess
Permanently stuck to a wooden door, placed with care on the front of the outside brass doorknob by caring (though perhaps awkward) eight year old hands is a sticker. The blue background and the shooting star, trailing behind it a perfect rainbow invites anyone to step to the other side and enter a world long forgotten; a world in which a young boy has his pot of gold.
This is a mess that could only be appreciated by the youth who created it. The figures’ long procession through the carpeting begins at the first inches after crossing the threshold separating this and reality. Wild colors in plastics and Die Cast Metals decorate a boring brown carpet that is now a harsh rocky wilderness in which adventurers meet and struggle against unstoppable forces of evil. Autobots and Deceptecons wage war, battle for control of precious energon to get them back home. He-Man and the Masters of the Universe fight to stop Skeletor and his evil minions from controlling both halves of the Power Sword, gaining all the powers of Castle Grayskull, and ruling Eternia forever. Mere inches away GI Joe has once again forced the relentless terrorist organization known as Cobra to retreat. Directly behind them the Legion of Doom attempts to over-power the Super Friends and control the earth. All of it wonderfully disorganized, with shouts of “It ain’t dirty, I got everything right where I want it.” Resonating to a frustrated mother. All of these factions separated by the imagination that never allows them a moment of piece.
But in one thing they all rule together; the child, the villains, the heroes. Together they dominate the dainty steps of the adults who would threaten to compromise their very existence, and place them neatly on shelves and bookcase tops. They protect their world from invasion by their very presence. They poke and prod until none but those who know the path through the land mine can penetrate. And the eternal struggle is fought with plastics, Die Cast Metals, and the organized mess.
Tags: A short story
Tags
Feltrip had once been a boy: he was a grown man with a wife and child. Once he had a room filled with toys: he worked in a nameless factory at the south end of town, earning his “trap you here forever” salary that managed to give them all a comfortable life without giving Feltrip too little to complain about. He used to play all sorts of tags: he flipped from channel to channel; baseball, baseball, Sportscenter over and over until the rhythmic voices lulled him to sleep. He had dreamed of being a super hero: Feltrip dreamt of playing tags.
He woke in the morning to the “meep-meep-meep” of the running alarm clock. He tapped the top of its head and it stopped, frozen in place. Just as he fell once more to rhythmic breathing it ran off “meep-meep-meep”, he tapped it, it froze. And as he fell to rhythmic breathing “meep-meep-meep” it ran. Feltrip eliminated the screeching box with the flip of a switch, three and you’re out. He froze to the bed, unable to move for any reason. His wife’s nails, delicately manicured at the mall, thumped against him; he heard her mumble to get up, that it was time. Immediately he was spurred to action, turning completely on his other side, where he was touched again by the cotton sheets and frozen into place. He was freed seconds later by an arm, which lazily draped across his shoulders and a voice telling him that he really needed to get up. Finally, he escaped the springs and cushions encased in a king size box and dragged himself to the bathroom. After completing his toiletries he set to brushing his teeth. He stood, attached to the sink when an excited banging touched him into action. A tiny voice filled with energy yelled to be let in; it pleaded to dad to use the “baffroom”. Feltrip moved into action once again and found himself dashing from place to place in a hurried effort to reach his place of employment at the proper time. He tapped the acceleration pedal on the car, setting it free to carry him to work.
He worked in a sea of social mayhem; the Reds, the Sox, Bronx Bombers, what clever thing did Stuart Scott say last night, who was eliminated on what reality TV show, did anybody see the guest on Letterman, did someone win a million dollars? He would go back and forth like this all day. He would run into Carl. Carl followed the Lakers and the Dodgers with unwavering enthusiasm. “So what did you think about that run the Dodgers made in the seventh? Almost brought them all the way back.” A shout of agreement and something about getting them next time and needing a pitcher followed him down the hall. Then there would be Darren, whose New York accent followed the Giants and the Rangers, with half an eye on primetime television. Feltrip didn’t particularly car for Darren very much, he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe it was the accent, maybe it was just the New York attitude bottled up in this small how town. Whatever it was, Feltrip would mention the heart breaking loss last night just to get his goat and be on his way. He would see Laurel because he looked for her. If only he wasn’t married… he caught a snip-it of the news last night, that’s the kind of girl she was. Then he would talk to Fred.
Feltrip felt that Fred was more on his level: Letterman, Sportscenter, the Sunday paper. Fred had a couple of kids and a wife that he felt fit him just right. But Fred was an older man with old man philosophies and a “take it in perspective” attitude. He didn’t feel trapped on the factory floor as Feltrip clearly saw they were. He felt that the salary he received and the work that he did was a blessing. Feltrip often heard him tell about the wages back in the day and how this job had put food on the table and allowed him to buy his children the toys they so desperately needed. It was on this subject that Fred laughed even now. “Crazy things children are.” He said. “Their needs and wants are the complete reverse or our own. Yeah kids are just crazy.” Kids, children, he even referred to his own children as the boy and his little girl. “Didja ever notice how they do that? We think; we need to eat. They think; they need to have toys that we need to buy for them.” The angle that the conversation could take from here sparked an interest in Feltrip.
“You know, Tyler’s been doing the same thing lately and I don’t think that I would mind it so much if I thought the toys were worth playing with. He’s got these Pokeman toys and video games and god knows what else. His room doesn’t even get messy the way that I remember having a messy room. Instead of action figures everywhere he’s got clothes and game controllers all over the place.”
“Well, you gotta let them kids be into whatever it is they want to be into.” Said Fred. “The Boy used to be into those action figures when he was just a small kid too. Me; I thought he should have been out playing stickball, but the wife insisted it was healthy for him. He always had his room so you couldn’t even walk through it.
Feltrip drove home from work remembering a mess that could only be appreciated by the youth who created it. Wild colors in plastics and Die Cast Metals decorated a boring brown carpet that was now a harsh rocky wilderness in which adventurers met and struggled against the unstoppable forces of evil. Autobots and Deceptecons waged war, battling for control of precious energon to get them back home. He-Man and the Masters of the Universe fought to stop Skeletor and his evil minions from controlling both halves of the Power Sword, gaining all the powers of Castle Grayskull, and ruling Eternia forever. Mere inches away GI Joe had once again forced the relentless terrorist organization known as Cobra to retreat. Directly behind them the Legion of Doom attempted to over-power the Super Friends and control the earth. All of it wonderfully disorganized, with shouts of “It ain’t dirty, I got everything right where I want it.” Resonating to a frustrated mother. All of these factions separated only by the imagination that never allowed them a moment of piece. Together they ruled the dainty steps adults who threatened to destroy their very existence and place neatly on shelves and bookcase tops.
He arrived home determined to show Tyler that there was so many more games and figures that he could have a lot more fun with rather than an electric-shooting, yellow rabbit. Those shoes offered no moral lessons whatsoever and made an elaborate mockery of what Saturday morning used to mean to a child.
He walked in the house looking for Tyler. “Tyler! Where are you son?”
“I think he’s upstairs in his room.” Feltrip’s wife said as she stepped around the corner with a smile.
“What’s he doing up there?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Probably watching Pokeman with his little Pikachu doll.”
Feltrip waved a finger at his wife. The beam from the point of his fingers stopped his wife. “You know, this is why he feels ok watching that garbage. You encourage it.”
She waved her beam right back at him, catching him immediately. “Don’t you blame how he spends his time on me. You haven’t exactly been around to play sports with him or even throw a ball around.”
I’m going outside mom.” Said the blur that was Tyler as he shot out the back door.
After a moments glance Feltrip took his turn to point. “I’m sorry if I’m away at work keeping a roof over our head and putting food on the table. Not to mention making enough for your little manicures and Tyler’s Pokeman everything. I swear he doesn’t know what real heroes are. If he’s outside for more than ten minutes I’ll be really surprised. He’s just out there playing with his dolls anyway.” Just to make his point he walked to the kitchen window that looked out on the backyard.
He had to do a double take. There was Tyler with four other young boys out in the backyard. They ran about, joking and dodging, huffing and puffing. Feltrip thought, maybe there was hope for the next generation after all. There had to be hope wherever boys played tag.
Betrayal: A short story
Betrayal
The Prologue (a dialogue)
The pessimist: The glass is half empty.
The optimist: The glass is half full.
The purist: Who cares? Eventually the glass will be completely empty.
Coffee: hot; black; pure. That was a constant, even now, when everything was about to change. He sipped at it – bitter; hard.
“How’re ya doin’ this mornin’ ?” asked number 834-57-3819. He might have had a name, he might have a real number, but it didn’t matter. He was just another digit in a sequence. Once, there had probably been a number one that was now lost in a stack of paperwork in a basement right next to a pile of left socks.
“So what’s yu’re name?”
He spat out his number. Paused. “Cass.”
“As in Caster?”
“No. As in Cassius.”
The man swiveled his stool to face Cass. The number’s hanging beer belly grazed Cass’ arm as it looked at him.
“W’ll nice to meet ya Cass. My name’s Phil. So Cass, you goin’ on vacation?”
“More of a business trip.”
“So you live here then huh?”
I recently moved here from New York.” He probably should have just said yes; 834-57-3819 might have left him alone then.
“Whydya come here from New York?”
“A waitress.”
“How’d that happen?”
The memories seemed to flood back in real time.
* *
Cassius Arnold Altmen sat down at table twelve of “The Grillin’” restaurant on the Eighty-First floor. He fanned out his sport coat as he took his seat, feeling the weight of a book in one of the inside pockets and the bag of Cherry flavored Halls in the other. He always had the book; he always had the Halls. The host left him staring at a menu and sipping at a black coffee.
“What can I get you today?”
Wow! The waitress had legs a mile long, and a body he couldn’t stop staring at. She stood there, her pen quivering just above the small notepad, her hips cocked to one side resting her curves. She threw back locks of golden hair with a toss of her head as he continued to stare. Focus he had to remind himself. Order before you get caught. “Yeah. Can I have this?” He pointed to a picture that was on the page he was open to in the menu.
“The Classic Grillin’ burger?”
He tore his eyes away from the line of her neck and cleavage, and sure enough that was what the caption below the picture said. Just a glance before he was drowning in the smell of perfume wafting from her slender collarbone. “Uh, yeah.” Was all he could manage to stutter as he tried to shake himself free of the trance she had put him in.
“All right. I’ll get that right out to you.”
Damn! It was just as nice to watch her walking away.
He leaned back in his chair and tapped at the book through his jacket as she wandered into the back and disappeared. He fingered the bag of Halls through the material, wondering if he could ask her out. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to have her in the back of his car, giving her the old Stradlater. And why not? He’d been stuck at a desk, watching the moral fiber of the country deteriorate year after year behind a cloud of conspiracy and cover-up. He needed to dive in headlong for once; shake things up a little. For some reason that thought drew his fingers to the edges of the travel-worn novel.
All right. Ask her out when she brings out the food. No wait don’t, that’s crazy. If she says no, then there’s still a whole meal to get through. Just sip at the coffee and try to look swav. Hurry! Sip! Here she comes.
Cass took a sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes up just enough to watch the sway of her hips and the line of her leg muscles below the uniform skirt.
“There you go.” She said, and set a plate with what he had probably ordered in front of him.
“Thank you.” OK, move things around, grab the ketchup, and don’t eat until she leaves. Can’t be seen eating this; only the cough drop.
She walked off, waiting on other tables and putting in orders. Every time she was out of sight he ate hurriedly at his meal. Every time she was around he tried to look casual, sipping at his coffee with what he hoped was placidity.
She’s gone. You’ve only got a couple of bites left. Finish the burger, but just pick at the fries. And get that cough drop out, now. It’s gotta look like you’re real casual about having them around, but it has to be obvious that you have them. And for godsake don’t cough, then she’ll just think you’re sick. She’s got to understand the underlying innuendo. He reached into his pocket and removed a single cough drop from the bag and placed it next to his plate on the table. A hint of hot/cold vapor-scent escaped into the air. He savored the sensation with a flare of his nostrils before finishing the sandwich. Then there was nothing left to do but fiddle with the old eagle print quarter he managed to keep with him.
He flipped it between his fingers, rubbing the tips over each groove and cut. Cass kept this one relic of the old America. This was a union of states, not the promotion of a new Articles of Confederation. The majestic Eagle flew with all of America watching in awe. It soared in its mission, ready to sacrifice itself to unify the republic. It was a kamikaze of loyalty. But like its physical counterpart the winged beauty was being driven to extinction.
She’s coming, put the quarter away. He tucked the quarter into a pocket as she walked up.
“Is there anything else?” She asked with a smile.
Don’t answer right away. Look at her like you’re trying to decide. Good. Now, reluctantly. “No, I don’t think so…” Don’t make the pause too long. “…although.”
“Yes?”
Yeah yeah yeah, nervous, nervous, whatever; go for it. “ I think I should take you out to dinner this evening.” Good. A little bold perhaps, but good. Now reach out and grab the cough drop. Unwrap and insert in mouth before you put your foot there. Let that idea take effect. Don’t start chewing it right away, let her know that you know how to use it.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t.” It looked like she was trying to give a sympathetic look and get back to being professional all in the same moment. “Here’s your check, I’ll come back for it in a couple of minutes.
Well that was a perfectly good waste of a Cherry Halls. He bit down hard, collapsing the candy into tiny shards of vaporous medicine.
His coffee sat in front of him. Half empty; cold.
He set down as close to exact change as he could find and left. Screw her, she doesn’t get a tip.
It never worked, none of it, not once. He had tried every approach he knew to meet women. He gave up a long time ago on the nice guy approach. Girls didn’t want nice guys, they wanted someone who was going to take advantage of them and tell them what to do and where to do it. They wanted all the opposite things that they ever said they wanted and they expected men to know that, to just know it. The whole thing drove him crazy. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He was a just another social security number with no future and no one to share anything with.
He stared out his office window, eighty-four floors above the New York City pavement. He felt as though it was all crumbling beneath him; floor below floor falling freely away from his feet. Like everything around him was collapsing in on itself with no way out; walls encasing and crushing him. He could always jump through the glass and escape the falling walls. There’s an idea. Jump out the window because you’re not dying fast enough in here. Do you realize that the ground would be coming up to meet you at thirty-two feet per second for every second you were falling? Of course you do. He could almost feel the wind pulling at his skin and clothes. He could close his eyes and see floor after floor disappearing above him. The air would rush through his nostrils faster and faster as he came closer to his own mark of imperfection far below. The images flashed through his head one after the other, and the thought of his stomach free falling with him, made him nauseous and sent a shiver coursing through him. He would fall in a rush of maddening speed. His heart would pound against the air. He was staring at his own demise, watching himself descend to a horrible death on the ground below.
* *
And then he was in Boston; sipping at a black coffee in a tiny café tucked into the white hallway, watching the world pass by. He reminisced about the phone call that seemed to have come a lifetime ago. It had come in that blur of suicidal contemplation; had taken him out of his pathetic misery and turned his mind to beneficial thoughts. The voice on the other end of the line spoke as though it held a picture of Cassius’ mind. The voice had told him what he already knew; that the death of one man would stop it all. It had told him he was going to become a part of the plan to eliminate that man. He wasn’t the only one involved, but he had been told that he would get the clearest shot. He had been told he would not be able to meet the other conspirators. The less you know, the less you could ever tell. That was what he had been told. It was going to happen in LA, but he needed to come here first to put everything in order. He watched person after person rush toward their gates, scrambling to make their flights. He had to wonder if any of the people he was watching right now were a part of the plan that had been put together. He gave a look over at 834-57-3819 and wondered if he could be a part of the montage, collected to carry out the assassination. The blank expression, and the stream of unintelligible ramblings quickly convinced him otherwise.
Fifteen days after arriving in Boston, his preparations had been completed. Everything was set for Los Angeles.
In 1860 Lincoln was elected; then shot. In 1960 Kennedy was elected; then shot. In 1980 Regan was elected; then shot. The man’s death was inevitable, he had a triple zero factor working against him. Cassius Arnold Altmen was simply going to take fate into his own hands. It was, after all, his namesake privilege to do so.
He sipped at the coffee in front of him, thinking about the victory that this would be for the common man. He pictured all those nameless numbers cheering for him when it was all over. They would understand - even if he was caught afterward - they would hail him as a hero among men. Even 834-57-3819, who threatened to bend the metal legs of his barstool with his girth, would be saved and would be in awe of him. He patted the lumps in his jacket and looked down at the cup.
Coffee: half-full
There was however, a drawback to getting the kill shot. He was also the fall guy; the patsy. He glanced at his watch; it was almost time to go save the withering nation.
He glanced down at the coffee cup again: poured the rest into the waste can. He set it back down on the bar: empty. That was always how the cups ended up anyway.
He meandered down the hallway, passing the numbers that he would change irreversibly. They were all slowly filling into his nice, spacious back seat. And he was going to fuck them in a way they would never forget.
A PA kicked in. “Now boarding American Airlines flight 11 with service from Boston to Los Angeles.”
Stop reveling and get on the plane. You’ve got a job to do.
