NOT A STORY

This is just to fill space until I get up the gumption and get up and go ness to post more stories. A placeholder nonstory if you will. Yep. This sure doesn't make up for neglecting to update the blog for umpteen and a half months.
New story soon enough...

NATURAL TIPIST

I’ve never made it past the second week of a typing class. I am no more than vaguely aware of any structured method of finger placement on the keyboard, nor touch typing, nor any other methods of typing for that matter. However, I do fancy myself a rather naturally skilled typist.

The other night, last night I think it was, I sat at my keyboard and, keeping my eyes on the monitor, proceeded to type the alphabet. I wanted to see how far I could get, how often I could hit the correct letter without looking at the keys. Each mistake would lead to the start of a new line.

On the first line I typed up to the E before hitting T instead of F. I hit the return key and started my second assault.

I stumbled on I.

I sailed through the next line until I replaced R with E.

Then I typed V where C should be.

After that I followed J with L.

And so followed line after line after line of false starts, stumbles, and surges until finally I made it from A to Z without a mistake. By the sunrise my cramped, leaden fingers had typed ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ all the way through nonstop a seemingly infinite number of lines of times.

I’m typing this with my nose. It’s times like this that I really wish I didn’t have the proclivity, if that’s the correct word, to write such long, overly-worded sentences.

This isn’t my first attempt at typing without the use of my sand-filled aching hands. I thought that if I used my chin I could still monitor my progress on the computer screen. I was wrong. And besides my chin is just too wide to hit only one key at a time. I tried holding a pen between my teeth and tapping the keys that way, but I kept dropping it and biting my tongue.

So I’m stuck with a sore and increasingly raw nose. And to top it off, I had to keep my eyes closed so that I wouldn’t cheat and look for which key to hit. I even made it straight through from A to Z a few but impressive number of times in a row.

And now here I document my achievement for all to read and know that I am a natural typoseffvtrrrrrrfgdf

(1999)

BEST & WORST

The best milkshake I ever tasted was made by a friendly old soda jerk in an old-fashioned drugstore in the little town where I grew up.
The worst milkshake I ever retasted was made by my drunk college roommate by combining chocolate chip ice cream and Schlitz Malt Liquor in our dorm room in which I later threw up.

(2004)


WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER.

Well, that depends on the question. If the question is “What band did Eric Burdon form after leaving The Animals?” then the answer is “War”. If it’s “What’s good for absolutely nuthin’?”, then again the answer is “War”. “What’s a really violent bloody confrontation between powers which results in death and destruction?” Again “War” Is The Answer.

(2004)

SAVAGE RHUMBA (Bookstore #2)

I used to work in a bookstore before I hit it big. The following is a fictionalized version of an imagined exchange between a customer and myself late one caffiene-sodden Saturday evening:

“I’m looking for a book called Viajes Rimbaud,” the customer voiced intrusively.

“Did you say Savage Rhumba?” I said, laying aside my comic book and turning to face the monitor screen of the inventory computer.

“No, I said Viajes Rimbaud.”

“It sounded like you said Savage Rhumba.”

“Well, I didn’t. You must have misheard me,” this last he said in a manner which maintained that I was a lesser man for not having heard him correctly.

“I guess so.” I looked away. “Still that’d be a good name for my story.”

“What... Viajes Rimbaud?” He snorted, “It’s already taken.”

“No. Savage Rhumba.”

“I wouldn’t read it.”

“You don’t even know what it’s about yet.”

“I don’t care. It’s a stupid title. Now will you help me find the book I’m looking for?”

“Viajes Rimbaud?” I asked as I typed the words into the search blank on the inventory screen.

“Yes,” he hissed.

“The title Viajes Rimbaud doesn’t show up in our inventory.”

“Ah...”

“However, if I type in Los Viajes de Rimbaud, which is the full and correct title,” I added while adding the necessary words to the search then hit enter. “It shows that we do carry it---”

“Great. So---”

“But we are out of stock. You could read Savage Rhumba instead.” I smiled.

“No, that’s absolutely not---”

“You’re not even curious?” I countered before he could finish.

He squinted, and fired back, “About Savage Rhumba, no.”

“Oh yeah, you’re all fired up about a big ol’ book whose full and correct title you can’t even remember,” I almost stood. “And yet you turn up your nose at my little story which has a title that’s much easier to remember without---?”

“This is ridiculous. Savage Rhumba isn’t even a real book.”

“No, it’s a short story.”

“That does it,” he announced as he tried to locate the most expedient exit route. “I’m taking my business to Barnes and Noble!”

I bade him, “Good luck and godspeed,” vowing, “I’m gonna finish reading this comic book before I take my break.”

But I didn’t finish the comic book right away, no. First I scribbled the words Savage Rhumba and transcribed the preceding conversation on to a scrap of paper. Then I finished the comic book and went on break. I subsequently lost the scrap of paper and completely forgot about it until tonight.

(2004)

OUT OF TIME

Inside the burnt-out old shack, Shakey Pete weighed his options. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He could wait ‘em out, but he was already out of food and water. So much for his options.
“Ya might as well come on outta there, Shakey Pete,” called the Sheriff. “We got you surrounded!”

The sun rained down bright hotness from on high and Sheriff Lew
Eccles was running low on patience. He glanced around at his weary and fatigued posse, only one of whom was a full-time deputy. He had to do something to end this and soon. And he didn’t want it to end with a temporarily deputized taxpayer getting shot because he wanted a story to tell his gal when the posse returned to town.

Eccles wiped the sweat from his forehead, shook it off his finger then used it to comb his mustache. He called again to the fugitive within the shack, “I’d think again if you’re thinking of trying to shoot your way out!” He chuckled, “Unless you got a lazer ray gun.” Eccles looked around to make sure that all his deputies were laughing at his superior wit.

Shakey Pete cursed then looked down at his hand. In it lay a lazer ray gun. His options had just spontaneously expanded. He leapt to his feet and thrust the gun through the broken window, taking aim at the Sheriff and his deputized posse.
“Sure looks like a lazer ray gun ta me,” Pete smirked. He began blasting away. To his surprise, neither the Sheriff nor his posse flinched nor fell.


Later that night Pete lay on his bunk staring out through the cell bars at the Sheriff and his deputies sharing a celebratory drink. “Hey Sheriff Eccles,” Pete sat up. “That was a pretty neat trick you pulled out there today. How’d you do it?”

Eccles downed his whiskey. “How do ya mean?” He refilled his tin coffee cup from the bottle.

Pete pondered then said, “How’d y’know it was gonna work?”

The Sheriff leaned back in his chair with a creak, planted his boot heels on the desk, then downed another shot. “Logic. Simple matter of logic.” He refilled his cup as well as that of Deputy King. “We’re living in the year 1879. Lazer ray guns don’t exist in 1879.”

“Then how do you explain what’s there in front of ya?” Pete said pointing at the lazer ray gun sitting on Eccles’ desk.

Eccles lowered his chair and looked Pete in the eye. “To tell the truth, I can’t explain where it came from or how. I’m no scientist. But, hell, it don’t take a scientist to know that an anachronism can’t hurt ya.”

(2004)

BESS (Gypsy Cat 2)

Last night my cat hopped onto my desk, took a seat then proceeded to lean her head between my eyes and the computer screen.
“Bess,” I muttered, “I’m trying to play FreeCell and your lil’ ol’ noggin’s in the way.”
Bess said simply, “I wish to be addressed as El Predatore.”
“Whaa---?” I asked before lapsing into brief confusion. “Say that again.”
“I wish to be addressed as El Predatore,” she repeated as simply as the first time.
“Bess,” I began, but she was not amused. “El Predatore isn’t a real word. ‘El Depredador’ is the Spanish translation for ‘The Predator’. Anyway, El is masculine. La would be feminine.”
Bess stood her ground. “I wish to be addressed as El Predatore,” she glared resolutely.
I leaned back in my chair. “El Predatore”, I sighed. “I’m trying to play FreeCell and your lil’ ol’ noggin is in the way.”
She raised her chin in haughtily triumphant satisfaction then with a turn she hopped off the desk.
That was the first time I heard her exhibit the power of human speech. But not the last. For she spoke again. Later.

(2004)

TIME OF A BOTTLE

Sgt. Fife started drinking Scotch at noon. He would've started sooner but he didn't realize he was sitting on a case of the stuff until halfway into the flight. He stopped drinking Scotch at 12:45. He would've stopped sooner but he didn't realize his commanding officer was standing behind him until halfway into the bottle.

(2004)


DOOR

The door opened to reveal a sea of faces washed in anger, pity, despair, and disappointment.

The door closed. Jimmy sure as heck didn't want to go in there.

(2004)