Archive for September, 2011

TV Movie Crisis

How about one more short story?

Next week, we’ll shoot for a movie review, and something hopefully a little more elaborate than anything else I’ve run so far (still working on ideas—Leave me alone).

I love this story. I like the concept, anyway. I think that’s because most of this really did happen to me. The only thing that’s not true is the confrontation. It never came up, but there really was a pregnant junkie, and I really was willing to lend a hand. I’ve given up about forty thousand miles of my life to Greyhound. The longest run was from Richmond, VA to San Francisco, CA, and I believe the trip getting to San Francisco is where this piece comes from.

Greyhound lends itself well to being a writer, and I’m glad I’ve logged so many miles. It doesn’t have quite the same spirit of adventure as it once did, but it’s still the best way for me to get into trouble in a whole different story.

I can’t speak for the quality of the story. My gut tells me it’s pretty good, but I’ve never been able to find a literary journal for this thing. Hopefully, that’s due to the length of the story (damn near a novella), and not because it’s fundamentally terrible. Obviously, I’ll leave the final call up to you. I was tempted to split this in two, but then I just figured we may as well go for the glory.

What glory?

I don’t know, but it sounded good.

There’s also a short film script for this story, and I’d love to see it filmed someday. I have several full-length scripts in the vault. It would be a high dream realized indeed, to see some of them make it out into the world.

Enough rambling?

Enough rambling.

Enjoy.

**********
TV Movie Crisis
By Gabriel Ricard

“You know,” she said. “If you were here, you’d be home by now.”

Dylan looked up from his book, glancing at her. He wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not. After all, they were only a couple of days into this friendship of theirs. But he thought about what she had just said anyway. “Yeah, well,” he started, thinking carefully. He wanted to be funny here. This had to be along those bitter sarcasm lines he had been working to perfect since around twelve years old. “If I was here in Memphis, I’d also be dead by now, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made it to my eighteenth birthday without slashing my wrists.” He went back to his book for a second, for effect. There, he thought. That was good. It wasn’t his best. Not by any stretch of the delirious imagination. But it was still decent. Considering he was on day two of his three-day Greyhound trip back home after two weeks in San Francisco, it was goddamned brilliant. Two days and a little change of sitting in those horrible seats, of eating McDonalds cheeseburgers off the dollar menus, of sitting next to guys in stained pink wife beaters and bunny slippers, who spent six plus hours telling him why The Ultimate Warrior should be the next president of the United States.

Two days of that and a lot more, and anyone’s belief in the essential good of all mankind would suffer serious damage. Let alone their sense of humor.

“It’s a pretty horrible place,” she said, hands resting on the knees of her faded pajama pants with the white and dark blue pattern. “Isn’t it?”

He looked up his from his book again. One of those long tomes from Hunter S. Thompson on why the real world was a lot more terrifying, ugly, and surreal than anything H.P. Lovecraft could have ever come up with. On Greyhound, a book like his was like having the best soundtrack to what a movie about this kind of thing would look like. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s pretty awful. But it was kind of cool to see the old Sun Studios building.”

“Sun Studios?”

He sighed. He had met Olivia in Reno on his way back home and her way back to Florida from L.A. She was beautiful in that bruised and battered angel on the mean streets of America kind of way. She was also pretty good conversation. But by the same token, she was also pretty far from being the sharpest knife in the drawer. He smiled. “Never mind. I’m just babbling.”

“Oh.” She nodded, looked at him for a second longer, and went back to her magazine.

Dylan checked the clock on the wall in front of him. Jesus Christ on a motherfucking bicycle. Another three and a half hours to go. And that was if the bus was on time. It was kind of playing a lottery where you didn’t win enough money to retire on, but maybe, if you were lucky, you got just enough to pay a week’s rent and groceries. On the trip back alone, a three-hour layover in Amarillo, Texas, turned into a ten-hour delay that only ended because of his willingness to take a different bus that promised to get him to his original destination but would add about fourteen hours to the journey. If that were out of the ordinary, it would probably be a little less painful. But as it was pretty much standard operating procedure for these bastards, and it was essentially the inevitable and only way that things went around here. Dylan imagined he had a better chance at being trapped in a David Lynch movie and maintaining his sanity in that than spending another day on the Greyhound way of getting across this bleak, terminally ill country.

He couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. If he thought there was any chance of Olivia getting the joke, he would have had to share that one with her. But he had his doubts. Nothing against her, but she didn’t look like the David Lynch type.

Though maybe she had seen The Elephant Man at some point. At twenty-five, she was old enough. Or Twin Peaks. People still remembered Twin Peaks.

“So,” she said. “What are you going to do when you get home?”

Dylan shrugged, flipping to the next page in his book. He was skimming at this point, but picking up enough words and sentences to keep with the action. “Not much of anything,” he replied. “I guess sit around, write, and maybe decide if I’m going to go to college in the fall.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-one.”

“I wish I was twenty-one again.”

“It’s overrated.”

She laughed and brushed a strand of hair from her eye. It was short, auburn colored, barely going past her ears. “Of course it is. But still,” she paused, glanced at him, and smiled. She had a good smile going for her. It was tired, but it was still there. A couple more years, Dylan imagined it probably wouldn’t be around anymore, a phantom limb of an old personality. For now, she still had it. “It’s a lot better than twenty-five.”

“Probably.”

They read together in silence for a couple of minutes. Olivia was definitely an abnormality of this place, this particular way of getting around. As he thought about it, he realized that this was fourteenth Greyhound trip in six years. New York, Jersey, New Mexico, Texas, Arizona, North Carolina, Colorado. He had seen a lot of the country on these horrible little buses where you couldn’t smoke. You couldn’t smoke, and you couldn’t complain about the way the seats gave you the knees of an eighty-year-old man after about three straight hours down the most boring highway in the United States. He had seen a lot, and he had met a lot of people. More outcasts and low-budget sociopaths than he would ever have imagined could simultaneously co-exist. Some of them were scary as hell, many were good as a sort of car crash entertainment, a rare few were good for actual conversation, and even fewer than that came out to being the kind of people Dylan could envision being friends with outside the necessity of needing someone to talk to and pass the time on these things.

Olivia was very much in that last group.

He checked the clock again, as though time could be willed to magically move several hours forward in the actual space of a couple minutes. Sitting in a place like this really could do that to you; give that sort of science fiction optimism in the most absurdly unrealistic expectations. But of course, only a couple of minutes had gone by, and he was still staring down the barrel of more time in Memphis than he would ever dream of asking for. Three hours and a little under thirty minutes to go. At some point in that, there would have to be some thought of getting something to eat from the little cafeteria they had. Because nothing told you to shut the fuck up and smile while you’re traveling like paying six dollars for an undercooked cheeseburger and four-fifty for a flat soda. It was like knowingly going to a really bad movie.

“Do you want to go out for a smoke?” she asked.

Chain-smoking was another highlight of Greyhound. It had been less than twenty minutes since his last one. And it would probably be less than that before he went out for another after the one he was about to have. “Absolutely,” he said. “God yes.”

She stretched out her slender arms, which didn’t really go well with the two months of pregnancy on her stomach, and cracked her neck from left to right. “Do you think our stuff’s going to be okay?”

Looking around the terminal, Dylan couldn’t see a single person who looked interested in anything but getting the hell on their next bus and getting the hell to wherever it was they had to go. Besides that, he’d be able to see their bags from where they stood to smoke. “It’ll be fine,” he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. He sort of did, but he kind of wanted to go for more than that. Something war-weary and admirable. “Memphis isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“I don’t think I’d even want to be in Tennessee,” she said. “If it was half as bad as it looks.”

Dylan laughed. Coming out of her, that was actually kind of funny. He walked towards the door nearby that would take them to the little area outside where people were allowed to smoke. It was forbidden damn near everywhere else, including the front of the stupid building. Figure that one out. Olivia moved behind him, taking slow, tired steps until they were through the door and out into the thick of the ugly, stale, humid air. Dylan took out his pack of cheap Virginia cigarettes against Olivia’s Newports. They almost lit them up in sync. “I’m still not sure I’m comfortable smoking with a pregnant woman,” he said, throwing in a smile so it didn’t look like he was going to lecture her or something. He really wasn’t comfortable with it, but he didn’t want to make her feel bad either.

“Better than the stuff I was doing two months ago,” she said.

“Remind me again of what that was?”

She looked up towards the sky for a moment, as though she actually needed to think about it. “Nothing all that exciting, to be honest. Just cocaine, speed, pot, a little bit of heroin.” She smiled, bringing the cigarette to her small, thin lips. “You know, all the things a growing girl really needs.”

“I’ve tried cocaine,” Dylan replied. He wasn’t sure if he had told her this already. “But I didn’t really get it.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I remember you telling me that back in Denver.”

Ah. So he did. “I also did speed a few times. I kind of understood that.” The smoke hit the back of his throat, which almost made him start up a coughing fit. He held it in though. Four years of being a smoker, and he was still doing that. It kind of killed the whole cool factor of being a smoker that admittedly, sadly appealed to him a hell of a lot.

She closed her eyes, as though that it was all it took to be right there again, wherever she had been three months or more ago. A moment, just a single second of peace flashed over her. But then it was gone just as quickly. “God, it’s great, isn’t it? You feel like running to Mexico. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Northern Canada.” She laughed. “You’re totally up for it, you know? You just understand the potential to do…” she paused to take a drag off her cigarette. She was almost done. “Everything.”

Yeah, he thought. She was right about that. It was the idea that you could literally do anything on enthusiasm alone, with the energy and sudden optimism to believe that you could really do it. Of course, coming down from the high was all of that in a terrible reverse, but you had to take the good with the bad. He personally hadn’t touched the stuff since his seventeenth birthday, but of all the drugs he had ever fooled around with, that and pot were the only two he kind of missed. The way you miss a friend who had some strange, incredible quality that always somehow made it occasionally possible to overlook all the horrible parts.  He took one last hit off his cigarette and tossed it to the ground. Inside, beyond the glass wall, he could see their stuff resting in the place they had left it. He turned to her. “You done?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding and tossing her cigarette to the ground. “I guess we’ll go in and get something to eat.”

Dylan nodded, about to tell her that he was thinking that as well, but he stopped, noticing the homeless guy that was obviously coming up to them. He knew how to handle this. In the scheme of homeless people in America, Memphis was somewhere in the middle. A good mix of bastards, tired saints, drunks, junkies, dedicated lunatics, and guys who managed some combination of all of the above. New Mexico, on the other hand, favored the junkies and psychos. San Francisco was big into the saints and war-weary crazies. Washington D.C. had an overwhelming army of bastards going for them. No matter where you went, it was always a little different.

This guy had the look of either a junkie, a drunk, or a loose combination of both.

“Excuse me,” he said, polite as hell under an ancient shirt with a picture of The Road Warriors on it, a pair of dirty, torn blue jeans, and a thin material Chicago Bulls jacket that was about a size too big for his ruined, undernourished body. The flip-flops on his feet completed the picture nicely. “I really need to be in Nashville by the end of tomorrow, to see my brother’s homosexual lover about a car he wants to sell me, but I ain’t got enough money, you know?” He shrugged and smiled helplessly. “So, I was wondering if you could throw me a couple of bucks.” He smiled again, weakly, knowingly. “Or whatever you want to spare.”

The part about his brother’s homosexual lover was a nice touch. Dylan couldn’t remember hearing it put quite like that before. If he had to rate the story against all the others he had heard, he imagined the score falling somewhere between four or five out of ten. It really wasn’t very creative, wild, or even vaguely interesting. But the bit about his brother’s lover was a weird thing to throw in. It was the only reason why he thought about giving it anything higher than a three. Still, he was in the mood for a random good deed. “I’ve got a couple of bucks I can give you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He never kept the money he planned to give to the homeless in his wallet. He wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t seem like a particularly smart idea. He took out two singles and handed them over. Generally, the sooner they got the money, the sooner they left.

“I don’t have anything to spare,” Olivia said, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”

The homeless guy nodded. “It’s all good, baby,” he said, quietly, counting the money. “It’s all good.” He stuffed the money into his own pocket, looked around, and didn’t leave right away, the way Dylan was hoping he would. Instead, they were going to have to sit around and deal with this awkward silence thing that came up sometimes. Where everyone just stood around and looked at each other, as if there was some missing link of conversation that they needed to explore or else risk losing it all. Whatever it all was. That, or they really would have one of those strange, occasionally troubling conversations that sometimes came up as well.

It was on him to wrap things up. “Well, man, listen, we gotta be heading inside.” He had done this speech a few times before. He knew what to say, how to say it, and generally how to avoid any trouble. “So, you take care of yourself and—“

“Do you guys like to get high?” he asked.

Shit. It was one of those guys. Shit, shit, shit. Dylan wanted to roll his eyes. He wanted to punch the guy in the throat and roll him into oncoming traffic. He should have seen this coming. He really should have seen this coming. Now, they were going to have to sit here for the next few minutes and convince him that they did not in fact like to get high. Shit. Goddamnit. It was a huge hassle. One of those deals that sucked the minutes away from life itself and left nothing ventured and absolutely nothing gained. “Not really,” he said, looking to Olivia, hoping she could maintain.

Olivia smiled, looking away slightly. For a moment, it was the smile of a thirteen-year-old girl who had just been asked out by the cutest boy in the class. It was embarrassed, suddenly shy. Scared? It made Dylan incredibly nervous, though he couldn’t immediately say why. “No,” she said, carefully, looking past the window and over to their stuff. “I’m fine, too.”

“You sure?” He glanced around. The few people that were outside were not paying attention to him at all. He leaned in a little. “I got a lot of stuff to get rid of, you know? A lot of different stuff. All appetites, baby. All kinds of bullets. You sure you’re not interested?”

She laughed and nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m absolutely sure.”

Dylan looked at her, then at the homeless guy. If he were any good at this, he would be able to see the thoughts that were running through Olivia’s head. He would be able to see that as recently as a couple months ago, she would have told him that she was very interested. All Dylan could do was stand there, wait for this to pass, and hope this guy was a shitty drug dealer. He wasn’t sure how else he could contribute to this and still stay out of trouble. Because that was the key to surviving any Greyhound trip that lasted longer than a day, avoiding trouble like the plague. He looked to think he was pretty good at it. He didn’t think Olivia was though.

The homeless guy shrugged, still glancing around here and there. He had all the time in the world. It was suffocating him, and he knew it. “Well, listen. My name’s Rudy, and if you need anything, just come on out here and look for my ass.” He laughed at that last part. It had to be one of his favorite lines. “I’ll be around.”

Olivia was already halfway to the door back inside, but she still turned, gave him that tired smile she had down so well, the one that was probably adding a decade onto her life of just trying to hold on to it. “Sure thing,” she said, before walking to the door, opening it, and stepping back inside.

Dylan was right behind her, avoiding eye contact with Rudy and not saying a word until the door was closed behind them. When they were back in, he looked at Olivia and half-expected her to finally collapse under the weight of what she had just gone through. But she didn’t. She held herself together. Or at least, she did a really good job of pretending. She smiled at him in that way that she smiled. “That was sure my idea of a good time,” she said, laughing grimly, still moving towards their seats.

They sat down. Dylan was now trying to think of something he could say that might help. Anything he could say that might do her a little bit of good, kill the self-doubt that had to be running through her mind of whether or not she had done the right thing. She had to be kicking that around right now. He wanted to say something about that, something that would make her feel good. But he couldn’t think of a single thing. Yeah, he had done some drugs, but he was pretty sure that his experiences were nothing like hers. Speed and Percocet had taken on small problem status in high school, but it was never anything truly serious. Both of them were gone as soon as it became a pain in the ass to do them. He had never really gone through any kind of addiction thing. It was just a question of stopping something he had kind of gotten used to. And it had been a pain in the ass, but he had done it without too much trouble. Olivia’s decision had obviously been forced on her, and he knew it. Some people liked to exaggerate their drug stories, give them a shine and a sense of brutality that made them sound good over a couple of beers or a cigarette. Olivia was not one of those people. And there was nothing he could say to make her know that he understood that.

She was back on her magazine now. A look of strained comfort was painted on her face. She couldn’t hide that no matter how hard she tried. “I can’t believe we have like three more hours in here,” she said.

“I know.” Maybe, this was the best way to go. Act like it had never happened. “Three hours of smoke breaks, shitty, expensive food, a TV with the mute button on, and all the Pac Man we can possibly stand.”

“And each other,” she added. “Don’t forget we’ve got all that stimulating conversation.”

“Oh yeah.”

She was quiet for a moment. “We’ve done all right, passing the time on that.”

He picked up his book from off of his rolling suitcase and put it in his lap. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We’ve done a pretty good job of surviving.”

“I still don’t think I’m ever going to take Greyhound again,” she said. “I don’t think I have it in me.”

No one did. Dylan had yet to meet someone who actually took the Greyhound by choice and was glad to do it. No one could be that much into the pain and pleasure cocktail, with the emphasis on pain. He wished he could say that he was finished with them, too, but not being able to get a driver’s license kind of made it hard to get picky about how he got around. He couldn’t drive, he couldn’t fly, and hitchhiking anywhere further than a hundred or so miles was just out of the fucking question. Until the green card came through, which was still just an absurd thing to demand of someone who had been born in the great foreign empire of Canada, he was pretty much stuck with Greyhound until further notice. He envied anyone who actually had choices, and was always astonished that people still went with this. Was this really worth the couple of extra bucks you saved? This wasn’t an easy, cheap way to get across the country. This was an arthritis machine that took ten years off your life and forced you to see people as they really were. He wanted to tell her that, but he couldn’t think of a way to make it funny. He just nodded and opened his book to the bookmark. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

There was a long silence between them after that. And it took Dylan a second to figure out that it wasn’t because she was mad at him for being useless or anything like that. It was one of those silences between people who were comfortable enough to just sit there, read, and keep each other company by shutting the fuck up for two whole minutes. Dylan hadn’t realized that their relationship was already at this stage. This shouldn’t have surprised him though. The fact that he was coming around to this conclusion at all had to be some kind of low-rent miracle. Perception was not one of his great skills. It ranked right up there with bowling and oral sex.

“Do you know what I’m going to name the baby?”

Then it was over. No big deal though, because the comfort of knowing that he had at least been able to see it. The thought of it had put him in a strangely good mood–for the moment, anyway. Dylan didn’t look up from his book, as interesting as it was to hear this. “Dylan?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Damn the luck.”

“Warren.”

“Like Warren Zevon?”

“Who’s Warren Zevon?”

Dylan tried not to do his elitist jerk ass sighing thing. “The guy who sang Werewolves of London.”

There was a pause. “Sorry.”

Dylan laughed for a second. He was tempted to sing some of the lyrics. People always picked up on the song after a few lines. “No worries.” He turned to her. “In all seriousness, that’s a really good name.”

She smiled, and it almost looked like something besides tired. That was exactly what she wanted to hear. More so because she had to know he was serious. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.” He glanced at the clock without meaning to. Still entirely too much time left to get through. “Where did you get the name from?”

“I dunno,” she said. “I’ve just always liked it. It just seems like a name that you can’t fuck with.”

It certainly did. Dylan had met a couple of Warrens in his life. They all had this tough, intelligent guy gimmick going for them. A little fucked up, too, but that usually never really hurt anyone. It was a good name. It made him think that it was a hell of a lot better than his own name. “It’s definitely better than my name,” he wound up saying.

“Dylan’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have people over thirty coming up to you and telling you that it’s so great how my mom named me after Bob Dylan.”

There was another pause. “Who’s Bob Dylan?”

This time, he couldn’t resist it. He had to give her that look he did so well. He had to give her the what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you look. He didn’t want to, but there a very real threat of his head exploding into a thousand unrecognizable pieces if he didn’t. It wasn’t that he was mad at her about it. Disbelief was a better word. How could anyone not know who Bob Dylan was? He looked at her. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Her expression was deadpan, a mixture of confusion and deadpan. And then, it cracked a little. A small smile appeared in the right corner of her mouth. It widened a little, it widened a little more, and then it fell apart into a good ten seconds of laughter. Exhaustion had nothing to do with this. “Maybe.”

Oh. Wow. That was good. That was really, really good. He had always prided himself on being a good bullshit artist, both giving and receiving, but he had to admit that was good. It had been a long time since someone had caught him like that. Middle school? Maybe? In any case, it had been a while. He had to admit it. “You got me,” he said, smiling in spite of his surprise. “Happy?”

She nodded. “Just a little. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way your face scrunches up when I say I don’t know someone that I obviously should know under penalty of death.” She laughed at that, which made Dylan laugh a little, too. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s really fun to screw with your head?”

If he were the kind of guy who turned red, he’d probably be doing it right now. “I’ve heard it once or twice.”

She grinned. “I bet.”

He looked at her. If their ages matched just a little more, if they had met under better circumstances, they might have actually made something out of it besides a really good temporary friendship. The best one he imagined he would ever get out of traveling on Greyhound. Showing her stuff like Warren Zevon and Tom Waits would be half the fun. Whatever happened between now and Richmond, he knew he was going to miss her. Not obsessively or anything like that. But for a good while, she was going to pop into his head now and again. He could see that happening pretty easily.

Keep the conversation going, he thought. It was up to him to say something clever now and keep them moving along the way they were going. Clever was the most ideal, but simply funny could work pretty well, too. Or even just a single serious line to move things forward and keep them going that way would be fine. Just like before though, when it had come around to him to say something encouraging, he was amounting to nothing he could use. His mind was empty, too bruised and battered from being on the bus since Tuesday, from being in wonderful places like Texas and Arkansas. All he had were complaints about the things they had both been complaining about off and on since they had met. There had to be something better than that. It was almost never this difficult to think of something. Even nine times out of ten, he could drag something out of his ass and come out ahead. This had to be the one bad number in the lot. But it didn’t have to be. Even a fucking conversation starter would be fine in the moment like this. It didn’t have to be revolutionary, and it didn’t have to change the course of someone’s life forever. It just had to be something they hadn’t already talked about. There was a lot of stuff like that about. It was around as much and as well as it always was. It was just a question of picking something out, holding onto it.

“Feel like another smoke?” she asked out of nowhere.

He nodded, immediately resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to do better than one more nail in the lung cancer coffin. Maybe, getting back outside would do some good, do some damage against this claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. “Well, if there’s one thing I do well,” he said, “It’s chain smoke.”

“Me too,” she said, getting up. “It’s the only thing I haven’t been able to kick.”

And he had it. The useless bit of trivia, the chunk of conversation that was going to be worthless in memories. But he still finally had it. “It could be worse,” he said. “My mom smoked through my pregnancy and my three brothers and sister, and every last one of us turned out just fine.”

They got to the door, and Olivia held it open for him to walk through. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” He turned to face her, once he was outside. He already had a cigarette and lighter in his hand. “I mean, my brother Connor, he’s twelve, and he’s got mild asthma. But that’s genetics more than anything else.” He lit the cigarette. “My grandmother had it, and my mom doesn’t. Skips a generation.”

Olivia had a cigarette and lighter in her hand as well. But she wasn’t lighting it. Her focus was on looking around the outside area, where not much had changed since the last time they had stepped out all of fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Everything was cracked, overused, and tired in the worst way possible. The ground was dirty, and the air was stale and apathetic. Nearby, a single tree shrugged its shoulders against the light wind. As if it was saying that it knew what was up, but couldn’t be bothered to care beyond that. “Interesting,” she muttered, distracted.

Dylan looked around as well, trying to see whatever it was that Olivia was looking for. There wasn’t anything going on that was worth hunting down. Buses were around, a handful of people were wandering the small malevolent landscape, looking just as lost, confused, and annoyed by the whole mess as they were. He couldn’t see it, whatever it was, so he went back to looking at her. It was a much better sight, all in all.

“Listen,” she said. She finally lit her cigarette. “I need you to do me a favor.” She was still looking around, but not as much and not as obvious. “It’s really stupid, but it would mean the world to me.”

“Anything,” he said, trying to look casual, even cool about it. He meant the words, too, so that probably helped. “What do you need?”

“Remember that guy that was here before? The one who offered to sell us some shit?”

“Yeah.”

“If he comes back here, I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

He thought about that for a moment, but it still didn’t make sense. “What?”

She was looking at him now, but she was also trying to keep an eye on the small corner of the world that she could pay attention to. “If he comes over here again, and if he tries to talk to us, I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend and get really, really pissed off at me for even thinking about it.”

He thought about that. As far as he could tell, this wasn’t actually a bad idea. “Thinking about…”

She nodded, because he didn’t actually need to come right out and say it. “I know it’s stupid, but it might help.”

His answer should have been obvious. The really selfish way to look at it was to think that it would also kill some time. The necessity of that was still very much there. But more important than that was the idea that this could work. Performance was one of the few things he was consistently good at. You had to be, to get through things like high school and holding on to the few people who could stand the sight of you. He even had a little bit of acting experience he could draw on, though nothing exactly similar to this. “That’s fine,” he said, still trying to act cool. “But I don’t even see him around.” Which was true. Unless he was around the corner, at the main door, he was nowhere in sight. He didn’t see him coming back either. Guys like him seemed to have a terminal ADHD curse that haunted every stumbling, stuttering revolution that they tried to start on every street corner they could stand the sight of. Staying in one exact place for more than five seconds was a death sentence of a very real kind.

He definitely wasn’t within earshot. That was for sure.

“I know,” she said. “But I was just want to make sure.”

“I know, but you really—“

There he was, Rudy, coming around the corner. His hands were on his pocket, a smile on his face of a guy whose optimism was unwavering, never exhausting or running out of air. The secret to his happiness wasn’t much of a secret at all, but he sure did make it look easy. If he had been on the streets his whole life, it wouldn’t have surprised Dylan a bit. Guys like him could live forever on ten bucks and a good sad story. He glanced at him again, and almost put a hand on Olivia’s arm when he saw that Rudy was looking right towards them, picking up the pace of his walking a little. He almost grabbed her arm, but he managed to maintain. This was going to be easy, he told himself. This wasn’t going to be a big deal.

Olivia’s poker face wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t going to last, but it was good for the moment.

“Sup, guys,” he said, smiling. “Back out here already?” He glanced at the cigarettes, chuckled, actually chuckled, and shook his head slowly. “Man, you know, there’s better shit out there for you than those goddamn things.”

Knowing he was going to have to do most of the talking here, Dylan smiled. “That’s what I’ve heard. But hey, I look cool when I do it, so what can I do?”

Olivia laughed at that. Or she forced herself to. Either way. He couldn’t tell for sure.

“There’s better shit for you,” Rudy repeated. “At a hell of a better price, too.”

The son of a bitch didn’t waste any time. Dylan wondered if glaring was the right way to respond to bullshit as profound as what Rudy had just said. He didn’t want the anger to come out of nowhere and look like something that was tacked on and forced at complete random. He should have been building up to it as soon as their eyes met. It had to look real, which really wasn’t going to be that much of a problem, and it had to look good. Looking good was going to be the tricky one, and he was worried because he was already questioning himself about it. Just going with it was a better idea anyway. “We’re not interested,” he said, shooting for strained polite. “Sorry, but no thanks.”

Rudy just looked at him and didn’t say anything at first. He flashed a creepy, slow smile. “That’s cool, man.” He nodded, perfectly at ease. These were his clothes, his street, and his world. He was confident and not the least bit worried. A little brain damaged, maybe, but not out of his element. Dylan knew he had to keep telling himself that. “But what about your lady?”

Were the proceedings supposed to move so damn fast? He didn’t even look at Olivia. He had an idea of how to move with this, and it didn’t involve any uncertain glances at her. He had to make it look like this was his own problem and his own confrontation. “Excuse me?”

He was still grinning. Like a half-retarded shark, he was still smiling like he was already closing the deal. “Did you ask your lady here if she was interested?”

“I don’t need to,” he said. He shook his head. Amazing, how well this was actually going. He had expected this to be a little rougher, and there was every indication that it could still go that way. For now though, he was doing better than he would have guessed at holding up his end. “She’s not interested either.”

“Did you ask her?”

“I don’t need to ask her,” he said, taking a step closer. Careful with that though, he thought. This couldn’t fall into a fight. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with. For starters, he wasn’t sure he could win against guy who lived in a place like this. Home field advantage wasn’t just a lousy sports cliché. Second, he was starting to wonder if he had been right before about Rudy not packing anything. He still didn’t think so, but paranoia was hovering in the background, making things a little more complicated than they needed to be. “We don’t fucking want anything,” he went on. “Okay? Is that alright?” Careful with that, too. Don’t want to sound too high-pitched or nervous. Confident. Confidence. Those were the big words here. It was the temporary religion he had to pretend he had been used to all his life, rather than trying to make sense of the little bursts of it that made a half-assed attempt at appearing in moments like these.

Rudy took a short step back, but he acted like it was what he wanted to do anyway.  “I think I wanna ask her first, man.” He grinned. “Just so I know for my own sake.”

It dawned on Dylan that in spite of his appearance, Rudy might have very well gotten through high school. Dylan could remember going to his own school with guys just like him, guys who survived on average intelligence and an attitude just like his. Wandering through the thin, claustrophobic hallways with half of one eye open had been a way of life those sad sons of bitches. He was never really good at dealing with them then, and it was becoming more and more obvious, a blinding speed towards realization that got deeper every second, that he should have considered this a good few minutes ago. Now, it was too late to do anything but just try to get through. He was completely incompetent against Rudy’s type. He was just prone to small mistakes he had a hard time covering.

It also dawned on Dylan that Rudy might be messing with him. Most guys would have gotten the hint a good few sentences ago. Rudy was letting this drag out on purpose, like it was all out of boredom, killing a little time until something else came along. That, or he was out of his fucking mind. “I don’t think you need to ask her shit,” he said at last. The real miracle here was that he had yet to trip over a single word. “I think you need to leave us the fuck alone, before I go in there,” he pointed behind them, “And tell the guy behind the counter to call the cops because some drug dealer won’t leave us alone whenever we go out to smoke.”

Rudy was still grinning. The guy was probably a bitch to deal with when he was high. Dylan still hadn’t decided what his drug of choice might be. “That’s how you wanna go, huh?” He shook his head, his eyes darting away ever so slightly, as though he were taking a moment out of this to enjoy a private joke of some kind. He came back to Dylan, but he didn’t stay there. Instead, he went to staring ahead to Olivia, who was looking away from both of them, smoking, looking strong and also as though she could fall apart at any moment. Rudy looked to her, past Dylan, twenty miles past Dylan, and grinned again. “What’re your thoughts on this matter, baby? You looking to get something together?”

At that moment, Dylan decided to make a serious mistake. But he didn’t decide on it until about two seconds after he had actually done it. And then after that, a second or so later, he was wishing he hadn’t. His hand was on Rudy’s arm now. Not gripping it or anything, but still there, brushing against it in a way, as though this would be enough to stop him from taking even one more step closer to her. “That’s enough, man,” he said, conscious of his voice shaking a little. Hopefully, it wasn’t enough to be really obvious. “Just back the fuck off, okay?”

In the time it probably would have taken to take a picture of this scene, the length of the time between pressing the button, the flash of the moment, and the completely different moment that’s left in its place, in that moment of time, Rudy shoved Dylan back so hard that he almost fell into the wall. His eyes, his mouth, his battered face, even the way his body looked under those rags. Everything changed into something that better resembled a serial killer or someone with an extreme bi-polar disorder. “I wouldn’t fucking do that, kid,” he said.

Dylan half-expected him to start foaming at the mouth. He leaned against the wall, needing it for something to lean against, because he wasn’t sure he could keep it together on his own. “I—“

“You don’t fucking touch me,” he said, shouting all of a sudden, drawing stares from the small handful of people that were also outside. Stares, but no effort to get involved or get someone who could do something about this. Not only did that require work of some kind, but it also spoiled a potentially good floorshow. And you just couldn’t have that. In Memphis, it was almost understandable. “You don’t lay one fucking hand on me, ever, fucking ever, do you fucking understand that? Do you fucking get it?” There was a bit of a snarl to every word. It was almost as though he wasn’t speaking to Dylan anymore. There was someone else in front of him, someone who had to be constantly spoken to like this.

Sadly, he was still like a lot of the guys he had known in school.

Rudy was muttering under his breath now, talking to someone else. Dylan wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Rudy wasn’t the first crazy he had ever met, but that didn’t really seem to matter at the moment. It felt as though it may as well be the first crazy he had ever met. And because of that, he wasn’t sure where to go from here, what to do. He was just a spectator now. Rudy had the stage now. He had the stage, and he had a dance partner that had probably been in the ground for twenty years.

“I wanna go back inside,” Olivia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

That would work, too. Immensely grateful for the decision being made for him, he slowly turned his back on Rudy. He worried briefly that he might use the chance to take a shot, but the fear was a moment later, when he was opening the door for Olivia to go back inside. He took a step in, but holding the door open, he looked at Rudy again.

“You goddamn bastard,” Rudy said, shouting again. “You think you’re hot shit? You think you’re something?” He suddenly smacked the wall with his hand. “Well, you’re nothing. You’re not a goddamn thing in the goddamned middle of nowhere.” He took a couple of steps back, and he almost toppled over his own venom. “Stupid motherfucker,” he said, still walking backwards, until he was at the corner. “You don’t ever fucking touch me.” He turned and disappeared around the corner of the building.

Dylan could still hear Rudy talking to himself, even when he was out of his sight.

He went inside, and he felt as though he was breathing for the first in at least five minutes. The rest of the terminal was pretty much the same as it had been before. People sitting around, waiting, glaring at each other and at the TVs hanging from the ceiling, eating terrible food in the dirty cafeteria. Everything was the same as it had been before, and Dylan felt like telling himself that. He wanted to repeat it in his mind until it was concrete.

Olivia was in her chair, one hand on the armrest and the other across her face. She was there, but she was obviously putting her time and energy into something else, some other place. He saw her sitting there, and he wanted to think that she was going to be able to do what had just happened on her own. He really wanted to believe that. He shrugged it off as best he could, which wasn’t very well, and he walked towards and his own seat. “You okay?” he asked, lamely.

She looked up. He had somehow startled her. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.” She shook her head as though she were pulling herself back into the present. “I’m just tired and a little fucked up, you know?”

He did, as a matter of fact. “Yeah,” he said, as he picked up his book to sit down. “I think I can relate to that a little.” When he was seated, he looked at her again. He wanted her to say something. It was annoying to be right back where they were before they had gone outside. And thinking of that shit to say outside had been difficult enough. He had felt empty before, but now, he was a lot closer to it than to the weary exaggeration from earlier. Barring some magical shot of conversational inspiration, he could see himself being tapped out for the rest of the day. The real problem was that the only thing he could think to do was go to sleep. Not say something funny, or even, somehow, something that would make Olivia believe that she done the right thing. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and arrive at two or three hours later. But it was early afternoon, and he wasn’t even close to pretending he might be tired. The only way he was going to pass the time now was to sit here, live through it, and hope Olivia said something to keep their conversation going. Things could change in a couple hours, but right now, he was absolutely worthless.

Olivia made a move like she was going for something in her bag, but she stopped and leaned back into her chair. She was on the verge of tears. “You know what’s funny?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair aside. “I’m not even sure I want the baby.” She laughed grimly. “I’ve never thought about having kids, and when I found out I was pregnant, my first thought was what I was going to have to do to get rid of it.” She clasped her hands together, put them between her knees, and looked down. “I mean, I’m not big into abortion or anything. I figure it’s a person’s body and all that shit, but it’s not like my one answer to something like this.” She paused. “I’ve never been pregnant before, so I’m not any kind of voice of experience on this.”

Dylan nodded. Say something, he told himself. Say something, you stupid asshole. Even if it’s as simple as just telling her that he agreed with her. This shouldn’t be the driving point of the entire day, but it was quickly turning out like that, and the thought of wasting a day on thoughts like looking cool in front of a girl that was probably going to forget him in a month’s time was horrible. Laughable. Pitiful. All of the above.

“But that was the first thing that popped into my head, getting rid of it.” She moved her hands from between her knees and sat up a little, her eyes moving up to the TV closet to them. There was some news story on about a man walking into a Wal-Mart dressed as Batman, the Adam West version, and opening fire on the place with an AK-47 and .357 Magnum. “It’s not like I love my life or anything, all the shit I do, but I was kinda used to it. I haven’t been happy in years, but I had worked really hard to even get to that point, if that even makes any sense.”

He wanted to tell her that it did make sense, but he didn’t think it would matter one way or another if he said that. So, he didn’t.

“I had a good routine going, and it was weird to suddenly think that I would have to throw it all in the air, if I decided to keep the baby.” She was still staring at the TV, the caption at the bottom about the death toll being somewhere in the forty-seven range. But the alcoholic delivering the story was quick to make it clear that forty-seven was not the final number. “The idea of starting again, having to make all the same mistakes and wonder if it might somehow magically turn out better or different this time, really just didn’t appeal to me at all. It kind of scared me to think that I’d actually have a chance again, especially when I don’t really do all that well with making the right decision.” She turned from the TV to him. There was some kind of forced trust in her eyes. Between the two of them, there was a world of how difficult it was to share all this with anyone, let alone some asshole she had just met the other day. “But then, I dunno, I woke up the morning after some stupid party, and this was like a month ago, and I’m laying on the floor in my underwear, and I could still remember all the ridiculous shit I had done the night before. One of the sad things about me is how I can remember almost everything from the night before, no matter how fucked up I might get.”

He was a second too slow to catch himself, so Dylan wound up laughing at that  without meaning to. It was only funny because he was pretty much the same way. He wondered if he should clarify that or not.

She closed her eyes for a second, smiling strangely. “And I was laying there, thinking about the baby and not really wanting to, and I thought ‘I’m twenty-five years old. Do I really wanna be doing this shit when I’m thirty? Is this really any better than how scary it is to have to start all over again?” She picked up her purse. “I decided that it wasn’t, then I changed my mind, then I changed my mind again.” She laughed a little at that. “And then I changed my mind again, and a couple more times after that, and I guess on the last one I got enough balls together to ask my mom for some money so I could come home.” She sat up a little. “And the funny thing is that I still don’t know if I’m actually doing the right thing. I keep changing my mind.” She laughed yet again. “Isn’t that horrible though? Isn’t that just really fucking stupid?”

He shook his head to make it clear to her that it wasn’t. Most of what he wanted to say right there was kind of pointless to express with words. A simple nod or shaking of the head would work just as well. It wasn’t that he was overcome with emotion. He had heard sad stories before. Some of them were hauntingly similar to Olivia’s. It wasn’t that at all. He just didn’t think it was worth wasting her time with the kind of thing just anyone could say. Maybe, it was the stress of the trip back home. Maybe.  Hours stacked on hours in a rolling sardine can could strip anyone down.

“I couldn’t tell you if I’m going to make it through the week,” she went on. “Without doing something really stupid.”

Why he was so obsessed with this was a really fucking annoying mystery to him. He was forever pulling this shit on people. The older he got, the further he seemed to get from the talkative little kid he used to be. But he still wanted to say something. He felt like he had to. She was sharing the world with him, sharing a lot more than she was used to, in this miserable fucking bus station in the middle of miserable fucking Memphis. And all he could do was nod like an asshole and obsess about how he was looking through all this.

Christ, did yet another cigarette sound really good right about now.

Rudy was gone now. It was probably safe to head out there.

Olivia stood up slowly. “I need to use the restroom,” she said. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

He looked at her and nodded. “Okay,” he managed to say.

She turned to walk off towards the bathroom on the other side of the terminal.

There it was. It hurled against him in a flash of seconds-long inspiration. He grabbed it and immediately began a steady jog. “And hey…”

She turned towards him.

“When you get back, I’ll tell you about how I got kicked out of preschool when I was three years old.” He even somehow gave her a little smile. Goddamnit. Why hadn’t he thought of this one before? Sure, it was the standby to end all standbys, but it was better than nothing. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

He expected her to laugh at that. But instead, she just smiled that tired smile he had seen the first time they had met. She just smiled at him. At him and no one else. “I’d like to hear that,” she said quietly. She glanced behind her. “But I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay.”

He watched her go, then glanced up at the TV, having nothing else to do. The story about the McDonalds thing was still running its course. In an hour, some other biblical prophecy would come true, and they’d be talking and over-analyzing that instead. It was like the summer movie season. The movie that pulled in a billion dollars in its first week and opened at number one might drop down to tenth place and take in just a couple of bucks in the second week. And all because of a couple new titles hitting the scene. Far more exciting ones, with better explosions and a more interesting cast of losers, victims, and psychopaths. Unless he absolutely had no choice, he tried to avoid the news as much as humanly possible.

Not much was going on outside, judging by what he could see from where he was sitting. He was partially debating that yet another cigarette, and he was partially looking to see if Rudy was anywhere. In all likelihood, he had found somewhere else to prove to the rest of the locals how committed he was to being the craziest fucking drug dealer this side of Graceland.

Overhead, there was an announcement about possible delays. They didn’t say which buses this applied to, but they advised everyone with earshot to stay tuned for further details.

Fuck it.

He stood up, pushing his small carry-on aside with his foot as he did. Whenever Olivia got back from the bathroom, she could look outside and see him, if he was still out there. Anyway, it was always hard to sit around these places for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. You could only watch the news and play Pac Man but so many times. He stepped away from the seats and towards the door, pushing it open to take in the stale, humid Memphis air one more time. He had the cigarette and lighter out of his pocket and in his hand before he even took one step into the little outdoor smoking area. One cigarette, maybe even two, and then he would head inside and stay there, God’s truth, for at least an hour or two.

Or until Olivia wanted another smoke herself.

Whenever she got out of the bathroom.

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag that was a lot more satisfying than it should have been. As long as they had Greyhound, the news, and morons, he couldn’t imagine ever giving up cigarettes. Cutting back, maybe, if he magically learned some self-control in the next few years, but not outright quitting. He shook his head. No. Never. It was never going to happen.

He took another drag. The smoke felt good. It felt better than a crappy cheeseburger or a warm soda from one of the broken vending machines. He took another quick drag and wondered when he should call home to check in and make sure everything was okay. He took another quick drag and decided that the story about when he was kicked out of preschool a lifetime and a half ago was a good one. It was a funny story, if he told it right. She’d like it. He could see her getting a kick out of it. Eighteen years of working on that story, it better be one of the better ones in his arsenal.

He took another drag, and he felt something strike the back of his head. An arm or something that was blunt but not too heavy. He didn’t have a lot of time to think it over. Everything went into the sharp focus of going all over the place. Anything but thinking and reacting in fragments wasn’t going to come together. He stumbled forward, half-blind, and turned around just in time to get a kick in the stomach, followed by a series of what felt like forearms to the back of his neck and head. Getting kicked was bad enough, but because the forearm shots, he didn’t have enough time to separate the two. It was all just a series of painful bursts that forced him to fall onto his arms.

“You fucker,” Rudy growled. “You goddamn fucker.”

For a second, he almost felt like saying something to that. But for one thing, he couldn’t say much more than a couple of letters in between gasps for air and a clear line of vision. For another thing, Rudy was on him with another kick in the stomach before he could even think of what it was he wanted to say. That last kick was a good one, too. It sent him rolling over onto his back, where he laid there with his eyes shut and the thought that he could very well die in the next few minutes.

“Goddamn you,” Rudy said. “Fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you.”

And then he ran away. Just like that. Someone hadn’t beaten him up since the fifth grade, but he couldn’t remember it ever being anything like this. Usually, he was able to do a better job of putting up a fight.

The few other people outside had gone out of their way to avoid getting involved. Which was fine it of itself, because Dylan knew he would have done the same thing. With Rudy gone, they started to circle him like a bunch of compassionate vultures.

A fat guy in an old Chicago Bulls jersey was standing right over him. “Shit, kid, are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan heard himself say. “We were just talking about his homosexual brother’s car. It happens.” He felt like passing out, but he didn’t. He really wanted to just knock off for an hour or two, but he didn’t. He just laid there and decided that if he did die here on the floor of the smoking section of the Memphis Greyhound bus station, which he knew he probably wasn’t going to, then at least he was going to close out with a good line.

Like something out of a good black and white movie. Something with a low budget and good characters you could really see yourself getting into. The characters might get on your nerves a little, but in the end, you’d leave the thing thinking that they were mostly likable and really not so bad. Some of them might not make it, but that part would be open to interpretation.

As a few more people started to gather around, and somehow, it was more than had actually been outside, the one thing he could think about was how much of a shame it was that Olivia hadn’t been around to hear it.

Really, she would have liked that one.

It might have even gotten a good smile going.

Two Poems

I don’t update this nearly as often as I’d like or should, and I hold all of you completely responsible for that.

No, not really, but it’s fun to pretend, I always say.

These two poems strike me as being very different. That makes sense, considering one was written yesterday, and the other was written some four years ago. I was pleased to read the older one (“Garden of Quiet”) for the first time in as many years, and not be completely horrified by it. I think it’s a decent little bit of writing (and I think it came from a line in a Bob Dylan song, but I honestly can’t be sure), and I’d like my poetry to get back to that kind of simplicity. I think I tend to lean a little on the verbose side these days. There’s still some good writing within that, but I’m not as good at “Murdering my darlings” as I ought to be.

Restlessness may well be the spiritual death of me before the end of 2011. I’d like to be on the road, and I find myself dreaming more and more of New York. I suppose that’s because I haven’t been there since Halloween 2009.

Enjoy the poems, and be patient as I work at another movie review for that damn challenge, and as I also try to think of something different to do with this blog. I’m still working out ideas, and nothing has really grabbed me so far (I’m also incredibly lazy—It’s a miracle I accomplish anything at all)

I remain open to suggestions as always. That probably doesn’t need to be repeated over and over again. I’m just grateful people are reading this confounded thing.

**********
Canadian Films about Airports
By Gabriel Ricard

Let’s just say I cut myself shaving,
and that I fell down the stairs,
because I’m clumsy for exactly fifteen minutes
every afternoon.

She put a hand on my arm,
and that was the act of trading youth for perspective
as she asked me if I wanted to hit the last party in town.

I had cabdrivers gunning for the bones in my fingers,
so I was eager to disappear for a while,
and I didn’t give two or even three damns
for what I knew of this young lady’s reputation.

The all-star variety show
goes on a laughingstock summer hiatus.
It’s at the exact moment I realize,
that someone who came very close to being my ex-wife
slept with the three other cats in the getaway car.

Where do I meet these broads?

Don’t answer that.

Don’t answer any questions,
I might ask while looking for the city of Asian angels
through the cracks in the sidewalk.

Don’t ask any questions,
when I’m busy getting half the words right
to a song, that’s not necessarily my favorite,
but will have to do in a pinch.

I’m just stressed out.
It’s been do-or-sort-of-die,
since the day she wore that dress
to the dancehall disaster,
of what I think was either 1958 or 2009.

That doesn’t make sense,
I know,
so let’s just say smokers fear time
differently from the well-adjusted.

Give me the rest of my life
to sort everything out,
and make millions
turning in my old friends
and classic haunts.

Wait for me to come back
from that last party.
Or the kind of police station
where people like me sit quietly,
smoke noisily and read comic books
until the end of time’s version of an Elvis impersonator.

Keep me in your heart,
or just keep me from calling up old girlfriends.

I can’t drive,
and I’ll never be a handsome hero,
so I may need you to drive me to the airport.

I’ll definitely need you to hold my hand,
because I can’t handle the stress and save my money
at the same time.

**********
Garden of Quiet
By Gabriel Ricard

Some of the people
in this garden have been here
longer than the years I’ve spent,
getting old and coming back to youth,
over a hundred thousand days
of nothing but borrowed time.

I pass by them constantly.

Walking on clean grass
past the trees that bend skyward
and keep the world together
on their wisdom alone.

Fresh fruit
with nothing to do
but fall gently to the ground.

Overjoyed flowers in an eternal state
of a spring that goes on forever.

The clouds rarely complain.

They only find the need to weep
when the view can keep up.

I spend most of my time here,
looking for people I might know.

But all I’ve seen so far
are close friends and other strangers.

There are couples everywhere here.

People who know they can hold
for everything but dear life.

Some of them make love
by one of the clear-sky rivers.

Some of them in the presence
of the afternoon frozen in warm sunlight.

But there are also people,
who don’t seem to have anyone.

I see a lot of them, too.

Heartless and shapeless
Spirits stuck with waking eyes
and flesh that looks clean and content
at every hour of the only day.

Listening to whatever
or whoever is crushing the silence
of the trees with their memories.

They never talk.

They just sit there,
and wait for something to change
or someone to keep their appointment.

Destroyed
and knowing it the same way
they know no one’s listening.

I walk past them,
trying to remember
what I was doing when I came here.

Grateful and terrified
in the time it takes me to swear
there’s someone here who knows me.

And that it’s just a matter
of finding them before I get tired.

Don’s BBQ

I like this one. It’s just never found a home. That could be a question of the right story for the right home, or it could just be that the story is fundamentally terrible.

I’d prefer to lean on the first choice. My ego is a tired, half-drunk animal these days.

This was written six or seven years ago, and then edited a couple of times over the years. The source material was a diner I happened to kill about five hours in. God knows why I was trying to pass that kind of time. A good deal of my life is spent in transit, and just waiting around for the traveling show to pick me up. That can be fun, and it give me ideas like this one, but it can also be a little on the exhausting side sometimes.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything, of course. I try to keep my regrets to an absolute minimum. Anything that gets material out of it almost never leaves me feeling as though I was wasting my time, or should have done something different. That kind of thing can age you horribly if you’re not careful, but I’m a lot better at taking care of myself than people give me credit for.

There’s something safer about submitting work to magazines over just throwing it on a blog. I’m already assuming the worst, but I do remain hopeful that people will find something worthwhile in whatever I’m trying out here. That’s a good mix of self-loathing and ludicrous optimism if you ask me.

Enjoy the story. Give me some thoughts on it. I’m a sucker for those.
**********
Don’s BBQ
By Gabriel Ricard

When her nails dug into the rag so much that her thin digits were touching each other through the material, Maggie decided that it was time to stop, take a deep breath and get her shit together. This whole line of thinking was ridiculous, and she wasn’t going to let it bother her. Not today. Jerry, Elizabeth and Tom, Martin and any combination of his construction worker buddies. Everyone else. All of them were counting on her. The same way they counted on her every day. There was definitely some level of comfort that could come out of that. A need to continue as if everything was all right. Washing the same spot on the counter for the seventh time, she couldn’t help but laugh a little. Really, what would they think if they walked in and found her sobbing over something as silly as one of the coffee machines breaking down?

Most of them knew it was an ancient, shitty machine anyway. In fact, it was a miracle the other one hadn’t collapsed, too. Which meant it was still there in the first place. Coffee was still an option to anyone who might be interested. Maggie knew that it just meant she’d have to put a little more effort into making sure everyone got enough. There was nothing wrong with a little extra effort. On top of that, everyone was well aware that the two machines were in desperate need of replacement. No one would really be all that surprised to find out that one of them had finally died off. Hell, they’d probably have a great joke in mind when they heard the news. She laughed again, finally moved on to another portion of the counter.

She nodded. She felt better now. A little, anyway, but she still felt better.

The door opened quickly. As though someone was actually in a hurry. Maggie smiled. Only two people opened the door like that everyday, and Rick didn’t come in until lunchtime. She looked up from the counter, ready to turn the day around as quickly as possible. “Jerry, one of these days, you’re gonna break that—”

She stopped immediately, when her mind told her a thousand times in about thirty seconds that it wasn’t Jerry. A run through of all the regulars, which usually wasn’t necessary, but sometimes came up in circumstances like these, also told her that it wasn’t someone she knew.

The stranger, who couldn’t have been much older than nineteen, remained at the door, looking around as though he was the only one there.

Maggie barely managed to keep herself from frowning. Whoever this kid was, he didn’t match up to anyone she knew. He didn’t even look one of those jerks from the college a few about ten miles away. It wasn’t tourist season either, the only time of the year when it was absolutely necessary to deal with anyone outside of her trusted group. Beyond college and tourists, the number of newcomers was almost non-existent. There was, after all, a Pancake Kingdom franchise on the other side of the parking lot. They had more food and better prices. People who were willing to take that in exchange for a cold, impersonal breakfast experience went there instead. It had been like that for almost a decade now.

Once again, she could feel her hand squeezing the rag.

The stranger finally stopped glancing around, devoting a moment of his time to the post cards, twelve countries and all fifty states, the small stuffed animal collection of famous cartoon characters, and the humorous posters. Obviously, the family pictures on the bulletin board straight ahead hadn’t caught his attention yet. He looked straight ahead to Maggie and smiled. “Are you guys open? I didn’t see a sign or anything.”

Again, Maggie found herself forcing her smile to stay in place.  Of course, it’s open, she thought. You fucking idiot. She kept all this to herself. She had to. Imagine how Tom and Elizabeth, just to name two, would react if they walked in and found her screaming insults and obscenities at some stupid kid unconsciously looking to fuck up what was already amounting to a very difficult day.

They’d probably want free coffee!

She laughed aloud at this idea, without meaning to. “Of course we’re open,” she said to the stranger, immediately trying to play off the mistake and doing a pretty good job of it. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll take your order.” In one well-practiced motion, she grabbed the pad of paper and pen from the register and walked out from behind the counter.

The stranger, the idiot kid with thick, stuck-up glasses and a wardrobe that consisted entirely of faded black, took a seat at the booth to his right.

Maggie noticed him setting a book down on the table. He slammed it onto the table in such a way as to cause one of the creamers to fall out of the little bowl. As a reflex to that, her left hand was suddenly doing it’s damnedest to snap the pen in half.

“So, what’ll it be?” she asked, still smiling through all this uncalled for and admittedly very minor tragedy. If Don were alive, he’d know how to handle this arrogant little shit. “You’re a skinny looking guy,” she went on, bringing up some of the bullshit conversation she utilized during tourist season. “So, I think you ought to go for the deluxe pancake breakfast. That’s two pancakes, two eggs cooked however you want, three strips of bacon, three sausages. You also get your choice of a side of toast or a plate of hashbrowns.” Her pen, no longer in a death grip of any kind, tapped relentlessly against the pad of paper. “And, of course, the whole thing comes with your choice of milk, orange juice, apple juice, water, coffee, sweet tea, or soda.”

The stranger nodded through all of this, his eyes never leaving the menu. Finally, he closed it and held it up for her to take. “That sounds just fine. With toast, whole-wheat, if that’s possible, coffee and orange juice, and,” he paused for a moment, “Eggs scrambled.” He inched the menu closer towards her. “Thank-you.”

She took the menu and returned to the safety of the area behind the counter, which was also the kitchen. She went to work quickly, with everything but the toast in its beginning stages in less than two minutes. Everything was made right in front of the customer. An element Don had decided to go with twenty-five years, three months, and sixteen days ago. Something she took a tremendous amount of pleasure in presenting to all of her friends. The little jerk, he probably didn’t have the ability to appreciate such a thing. She was tempted to cook up the regular pancake breakfast, just to see if he’d been paying even the slightest attention.

But no, Don most certainly wouldn’t approve of something like that. It had always been him with the soft spot for the ones who were only planning to stop in a single time. She knew that if he were with her right now, he would scold her for even trying to hold those thoughts back. “They shouldn’t be there at all,” he’d say, probably a dozen times after the stupid kid left. “A customer is a customer is a customer,” he’d go on, before leaning in slowly to kiss the top of her head the way he always did. He always knew she had a good point in gathering more of her solace from the usual faces. But still, in the end, he was right. She still couldn’t accept the idea completely. It was rarely possible. Being alone made it worse. She flipped the bacon and pancakes, moved the sausages a bit to prevent sticking, put the bread in the toaster, and flipped some the eggs over.

Even with her back to the door, even with the food half-done, in that stretch of time where it was bad idea to turn away from them, she couldn’t keep her eyes from moving to the door when she heard it open. The way the door opened was instantly unnerving. It once again failed to remind her of anyone she knew.

The toast popped up. Maggie set the pancakes and eggs on one side, making sure that neither item touched each other, and then proceeded to set the bacon and sausage on the other. The toast went onto another plate. Grabbing a coffee mug and glass from the shelf under her, she filled the mug to the top with coffee, and then did the same with the orange juice. She was right to feel this way, too. Just who the hell was this woman in sweat pants and a tattered college t-shirt? There had to be some sort of connection to the Jazzercise building three doors over. But that place didn’t open for another three hours! There was no fucking excuse for this! “Be with you in a minute,” she managed to promise. The two plates of food were set down on the counter, followed by the orange juice and coffee. She was going to let the kid get up and take the food himself.

He did without complaint. Maggie took note of his face, the possibility that he thought she wasn’t being fair. She didn’t see anything outright but still decided that in tune to his character, he wouldn’t leave a tip.

With the first undesirable out of the way, Maggie readied herself to face the next one. She imagined that this one would quietly despise her too, for the hate crime of making her wait a whole two minutes. Turning around, she found the woman seated in the booth across from the other one. If only one of her friends would show up, this would be a lot easier to get through. She didn’t think anyone should have to suffer this much so early in the morning. Unless they had a sense of humor that ran to car crashes and grim stuff like that.

Where were they anyway? It was five-thirty. At the very least, Martin and his crew were in around this time.

The rag was put away in an effort to get rid of anything that made it seem like her mood wasn’t that of a gracious host and warm old friend. This wasn’t the time to fidget with something to the point where everyone was staring. Don would hate that. He’d roll his eyes, put a hand around her waist, and remind her that she was absolutely hopeless at times.

She picked up the pad of paper and pen once more and walked around to the table. She smiled. The second time around, it was making the corners of her mouth hurt. “Morning,” she said. “What can I get for you today?”

The woman studied the menu, but only for a second. She set it down and looked up, offering a smile that struck Maggie as unrepentantly insincere. “Just a coffee please.”

“Just a coffee?” The words came out with their mild surprise before she could pull them back and change the tone a little. Maggie scribbled down the ignorant, time-wasting order, hoping it would make this cow believe that everything was just fine. That it was perfectly reasonable to just waltz in and not only get her hopes up with the promise of being someone she could rely on but to arrogantly use up her valuable time and energy on such a pointless fucking order. She wanted to point out the useful attributes of the four nearby convenience stores. Why, you could get a goddamn coffee there and drink it wherever the hell you wanted to. You could live the dream of true freedom, and you’d get it without bothering a waitress who had better things to do than take this from some dumbass bleach-blond cunt.

“Not very hungry, I’m afraid,” the woman replied. “I don’t think I have a whole lot of time to eat besides.”

Maggie was glad that she had already written down the order. She could feel a slight tremor running through her hands that was getting stronger by the minute. Enough that if she had to write down the order now, she would probably punch a hole through the paper with her pen. “One coffee coming right up.”

“Melissa,” she said, as though anyone really cared. “My name’s Melissa.”

Maggie nodded. “What a wonderful, simple name,” she said, walking back to her area to fetch the coffee. How could people like this even exist? What right did they have? She started to pour the cup.

“Can I get some more of that while you’re over there?”

She nearly dropped the pot. It was that goddamn kid again. Again! She glanced behind her shoulder to see him leaning over the counter with the mug in his hand. What kind of person drank coffee that fast? As thoughtless as he already was, even this guy could have had the decency to take a little breather between cups for her benefit. But, no. Of course not. “Just a second,” she said, setting the other cup aside and turning around quickly to take his.

The little asshole released the cup before she could take hold of it herself. She tried to scoop it up in time, but she missed it on the second try and watched the cup explode into roughly a dozen pieces on the floor.

“Jesus!” He jumped back.

As though it had all been an accident! For a second, Maggie was positive that she was going to kill him. To hell with the bitch drinking her coffee, watching the whole thing as though it was some kind of free show. But she didn’t take advantage of the thought. The second passed, and it was possible, though barely, to smile yet again and pretend that idiots came into her diner all the time and destroyed her personal property. “Oh, honey, it’s perfectly okay.” She kneeled down and began picking up the chunks one at a time. “Perfectly okay,” she repeated. “If you just give me a minute,” she went on, dumping a handful into the adjacent garbage can. “I’ll make sure you get a new cup.”

“I-I’d like to pay for it,” he said. He “I really can’t believe I’m that clumsy and stupid.” He laughed. “God, what a day.”

It came out in a whisper. She looked up to see him setting some money on the table. A twenty. Probably twice what the cup was really worth. Fine, she thought, taking the money and stuffing it into the left pocket of her jeans. Let him pay whatever the hell he thinks is necessary. Between him and the coffee-drinker in horrible looking clothes, and all of her time they had taken away, forty dollars would just make it in the way of a decent tip. Even if it wasn’t enough to pay her back for destroying any chance she had at a good day. She wondered if the whole thing was related to karma somehow. She tried to think of some awful mistake she might’ve made at some point in the recent weeks. Nothing came to mind though, and when it became that much more obvious that none of this was deserved, she found it more important than ever that these people leave as soon as possible.

When the last of the coffee cup pieces were in the garbage, she grabbed another cup and stood up to get his refill. Until they left, she still had a job to do. She touched the pot and stared at it for a moment. It was empty. She wasn’t entirely how that could have worked out after pouring only two cups of coffee. She casually wiped away a couple of tears that were running down her face. The rag was gone, leaving her with the only option of clenching her fists. This was only a minor problem. Compared to everything else, this is not worth getting upset over. Hoping to minimize this latest crisis, she turned around. The nosy little bastard was still standing at the counter. He couldn’t just sit down and wait to be called, could he? “I’m afraid I have to make a new pot,” she announced, loudly enough in case the other one needed to know this as well. “If you’ll just have a seat and wait, I’ll bring it to you.”

He didn’t move at first. “I really am sorry about the cup.”

He sounded like he meant it, but really, you just couldn’t be sure about these things. Turning away from him again, she waved him off. “It’s not a problem.” She filled the machine with water and replaced the filter. “Heck, I’m willing to bet I’ve got a million of those things.” She was drawing on memories of Don now, what he would say during a tragedy like this. She wasn’t ready to draw on memories of him like that. Not when tourist season was a good three months away. “One just isn’t going to matter.”

When she finally moved back to facing him, she saw that he was back in his booth, staring at the rest of his food that was now, most likely, rigidly cold. Oh well. Serves him right.

Her gaze moved onto the woman, Melissa, who, apparently, took forever when it came to finishing a simple cup of coffee. She didn’t even have a newspaper, she was just laying around and taking up space. All for a buck twenty-five and, probably, no tip!

Where were they!

Honestly, what if Jerry, Tom and Elizabeth, Martin, or the others came in and found that they couldn’t have the seat they wanted. All because some jackass invaders that were acting like the place was theirs and not hers. She couldn’t imagine that any of them would want to stay when faced with something that annoying. She didn’t want to imagine that. Not when they had become more crucial than ever to salvaging the day. Twenty-five years of her life had been spent working here, living in this small restaurant, and this had never happened before. Even on the slowest of days, at least one or two could be counted on to show up, if only to just grab a quick cup of coffee.

The door opened. She didn’t need to look to know that she was going to be let down again. The sound still didn’t match anyone she knew and needed at the moment. Since karma was out, she couldn’t use that as an explanation for why this was happening over and over again. Still, this had to be a test of some kind. An examination by some kind of great power to see what she was capable of. She finally looked to the door.

Oh god. She watched as they took a seat at the booth farthest away from her, without even a hello or good morning. It was a couple! Two more people! Two goddamn more!

Melissa raised her hand. “Can I have my cheque please?”

“Hold on.” Maggie knew her reply was close to a growl, but she didn’t care. She was too busy trying to figure out why these people weren’t in bed doing whatever it is that disgusting couples like to do. She watched the man, who appeared to be a good couple of decades older than his female companion, stare straight ahead to her. He grinned. Maggie had a feeling that he was drunk. Just barely six o clock in the morning, and this guy was drunk.

“Two coffees,” he said. The girl laughed, he whispered something to her, and she stopped. “And some eggs,” he added. “Just some eggs.” The girl started giggling again, and he didn’t try to stop her this time.

Maggie bent over to grab two more cups. The pot had been ready for a while, and she remembered that the fucking kid wanted some more as well. She poured some into all three.

“Excuse me.”

She turned around to face Melissa so quickly that she nearly dropped the pot again. Her glasses slipped a little down her face from saving it. “I know, I know.” She took a deep breath, though her body rejected most of the effort. “If you’ll just give me one moment.”

The clumsy little shot approached the counter as she said this, his wallet in the palm of his hand. “I think I’ll just get going,” he said. “Can I have my cheque as well?”

Before the coffee pot could continue to be a risk, she put it back on the burner. She was just going to have to throw one of the three cups away. “Yes, yes, of course.” She picked up each of the two remaining cups. “Just hold on.” She walked past them. They were glaring at her now. Maggie was sure of it, even with her back to them. Let them. It wasn’t as though either of them were ever going to come back. She set the two cups down at the far end of the counter, as close to the ugly drunks’ table as possible. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes with your food,” she added.

His arm around the ridiculous girl, the man frowned slightly. “I have to get up?”

No, she thought. Please, sit there. Don’t move. Make it as easy as possible for me to throw these at you, you fucking asshole. Surprise, surprise, she didn’t say any of this. She couldn’t. There was absolutely no possibility that she could force herself to say something polite and forgiving. Her legs more or less did all the work, carrying her back to the register to get rid of the other two. Behind her, she could hear him getting out of the booth.

“Don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he said.

Maggie remained at the register. She wanted to take care of those who wanted to leave before asking him and his giggling twit of a lady friend to get the hell out of her restaurant. “Okay,” she whispered, picking up her pad of paper to consult the order itself, even though she knew all of the prices by heart. She flipped it open to Melissa’s idiotic order and pointed at her. “You had the coffee.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“1.45.”

Melissa nodded and reached into her purse.

While she waited for the moron to find a whole dollar and forty-five cents, she turned to the clumsy kid who tried to buy her off with a lousy twenty dollar bill. She flipped a page in the note pad. “Yours comes to 8.79.”

The clumsy kid, the first of the strangers to attack her day, pulled a ten from his wallet and set it down on the counter. “Hold on,” he added, smiling. “I think I have some pennies.”

“Hurry the fuck up and take my order, bitch.”

The girl laughed.

Maggie ignored him once more and moved onto Melissa while she waited for the clumsy kid to find four stupid pennies. She was still searching her purse for the money.

“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” the drunk cried. “What kind of Days Inn bullshit is this?”

The girl scolded him mockingly.

No one at the register said a word. Maggie heard him say something else, but she couldn’t make it out.

“Don’t, honey, stay here.”

That time it was the girl, and she sounded serious. Maggie did her best to pretend that she couldn’t hear him getting out of the booth. She kept her gaze locked on the customers who were eventually, god willing, going to leave. She also kept her breathing steady, enough that she could focus on the people in front of her. It was starting to become difficult.

“Oh, here we are.” The clumsy kid produced four pennies and set them down on the counter. “Sorry it took so long.”

And he offered another one of those goofy looking smiles. Maggie was starting to find the expression repulsive looking. ”It’s–”

She never got a chance to finish. The drunk was with them now.

“What the fuck’s your problem, lady?” He asked, his voice rising with each word. He pointed at his lady friend sitting in the booth. “Me and my girl here are hungry as a motherfucker and you’re standing up here with these goddamn idiots.” He gestured towards Melissa and the clumsy kid. “These stupid bitches that can’t even count money.”

He had a point there, Maggie thought. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Really, she wasn’t sure what she should say. It had always been Don’s job to deal with the crazies, the heavy drinkers trying to make everyone else’s life as difficult as theirs, the disgruntled losers constantly on the verge of violence.

“Hey, man,” the clumsy kid said. “Just chill out, okay? I’m leaving now, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to—”

The drunk took this in for about two seconds, before pushing the clumsy kid into the table of the nearest booth. “Fuck off, punkass. No one asked you to say a goddamn thing, so just keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Maggie jumped back and fell against the wall, knocking over the framed picture of some Irish castle Don had loved on their second to last vacation. She couldn’t do much about her crying now. It moved as seamlessly as breathing.

The girl he had come in with was on her feet now, walking quickly towards them. “Mark, honey. It’s not worth it now, come on.”

He turned on her. Puffing himself up like a parrot, in such a way as to suggest that she was next. “Sit the fuck down, Jane.”

Though Jane didn’t move, she didn’t say anything else either. She folded her arms and stared at the floor.

“I’m calling the police,” Melissa announced, reaching into her purse. She had the cell phone out for about a minute when Mark knocked it out of her hand. Her reaction was to jump back a step like she had been electrocuted, the same way Maggie had a second ago.

“You’re not gonna do a goddamn thing,” he shot back. “Except pay for your fucking food and get the hell out of here.”

The clumsy kid had finally pulled himself together by this point. He simply stood there, back against the table, and watched the scene in awkward youth silence.

Mark had his attention back on Maggie. Pitiful, dull-eyed hate flowed from him like a broken fire hydrant that had better things to do than give up the only thing it knew. “Lazy bitch,” he muttered, one hand on the table.

He said this as the door opened. Maggie looked to see who it was only because they might do something to help her. Regular or otherwise, she didn’t care at the moment.

It was Martin. Behind him were two other men. They worked with Martin in some way, of course, but it took Maggie a second to remember their names, as they only appeared with Martin for an occasional lunch.

Everyone, including Mark, paused and looked at the three new entrants. Mark was the first to speak up. “Take a seat and the lazy bitch over here,” he waved a hand at her. “She’ll be with you when I’m done talking to her.”

Martin grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, whirled the two of them around, and shoved Mark into the door. He kept his hold on the shirt. His companions moved aside to make this possible. “I think it’s time that you hit the road, buddy.”

“Fuck you.”

Without releasing the shirt, Mark glanced at his two employees. “Guys, will you do me a favor and take this guy out to his car.”

They did this without saying a word and without giving Mark a chance to pay for the two coffees.

Jane waited until they had both left before following. Her footsteps were slow, fearful. She stopped at the door. “I’m really sorry about this,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Mark’s going through a rough time right now.”

Maggie didn’t reply. She just nodded slightly and tried to wipe some of the tears away.

When Jane left, the clumsy kid reached for the money he had placed on the counter before and pushed it closer to her. “Keep the change,” he muttered, before turning to the door and walking out.

Her hand making the bare minimum effort to cooperate, she picked up the money, opened the register, and placed the money in the appropriate slots.

At long, long, long last, Melissa produced two singles. “I was trying to find exact change too,” she explained. “The last thing I need is more nickels, dimes, and pennies.” She laughed nervously and put the money on the counter. “So, don’t worry about the change or anything.” Another nervous laugh, and she started for the door. She stopped with her hand against the glass and glanced at the post cards. “I noticed those coming in,” she said. “They’re really cool. It’s a good touch.” She pushed the door open and disappeared into the dull, steady beam of light that was streaming through the glass to cover almost everything in the room.

Maggie thought that Melissa had only said that in the mild hope of getting to take one home. That or just stealing them outright. She tried to stand up straight, without leaning against anything, but it wasn’t feasible.

The two friends’ of Martin stepped back in. They were sharing the same smirk, the same feeling of a job extremely well done. The taller of the two nodded in Martin’s general direction. “All done, Marty, man.”

Martin sighed. “Bill, not the Marty shit right now.” Effortlessly, with the skill of someone who knew the area flawlessly, he moved to stand next to her behind the counter.

She jumped, though just a little bit, when Martin put an arm around her shoulder. She needed the gesture, without question, but she didn’t know if she was up for anyone touching her. She settled into the arm, while accepting the fact that the more she did this, the more she was going to cry.

He was here now. He was here. And he was going to make everything okay again.

“You alright, darling?” He squeezed her shoulder and moved the arm around her for a full embrace.

Closing her eyes, resting her head against his broad, comfortable shoulders, Maggie let out a single loud sob.  One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty five days of hell on earth, and she had earned a good cry, as far as she was concerned.

He continued holding onto her, gently running a hand over her head. “Shh,” he said. “Shh. It’s okay, now. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh, god, Don,” she replied. She was shaking so much that she couldn’t keep the hands on his back perfectly still. “Oh god.”

Thirty-Day Movie Challenge: Day Fifteen

Halfway there.

Anyone else excited?

Nah?

That’s okay.  I didn’t think there was any harm in asking.

Hoping to come up with something for the next entry that’s not a movie review, poem or short story. We’ll have to see what my supposedly Canadian, consistently sleepy brain can come up with.

Try and stick around. I’ll do my best to be entertaining.

**********
30 Day Movie Challenge:

Day Fifteen: Favorite Play Adaptation

The Odd Couple (1968)
Directed by Gene Saks
Starring: Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, John Fielder

I love theater. Always have. The special place for it in my cold, nicotine-infused heart muscle isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but I do always think of a great bit from The Simpsons when I think about it. Smithers is finally putting on his dream production of a musical version of the Malibu Stacy dolls in New Mexico. During a show a man leans over to his wife, glares and asks, “This is better than a movie, why?”

I don’t think that’s necessarily true. It just strikes me as funny, because that does seem to be a perception held by at least some people. I suppose that’s why plays have been a good source of reference for films. You can sometimes tell pretty easily which novels will translate well onto the screen, and which ones won’t. Some are written with an obvious, sometimes irritating desire to be a film or TV show someday. That’s where the mountains of cold, dirty cash can generally be found, so it’s understandable if not a kind of small shame. I love plays, and it’s too bad some of them have to make their way over to the more popular forms of media in order to find the audience they deserve.

Is there anything wrong with that? Not really. It just bugs me a little for some reason.

It’s not like that’s ever stopped the universe before.

There are plenty of exceptions. History is full of them. Some stories are just good enough to be able to exist under any circumstances. I’ve spent the better part of my writing vocation (I was thirteen when I settled on ) trying to come up with a couple of those myself. The greatest plays are like the greatest books, films, albums and acid flashbacks. They can endure social change, different approaches to its core and shifting interest in the arts. It just happens to be that plays oftentimes don’t get as much of a chance as any of that other stuff to show that.

Is The Odd Couple one of the exceptions? I think that’s possible. Both the film and TV show adaptations continue to be popular decades down the line, and the original Broadway production can still draw an impressive crowd (more on that shortly). It’s an incredibly simple, ageless premise. Two wildly different people move in together, because one is on the cusp of a hideous, soul-crushing divorce, and hilarity ensues. You can’t throw a rock more than an inch in any given direction, without hitting something that uses that story in some way. Fantastic examples of this story exist everywhere, but I don’t think it gets much better than the original inspiration.

This isn’t because I got to play Oscar Madison in a reasonably successful production of this show in 2010 (honest). There’s a reason why I wanted to do this play in the first place. Mostly it just goes back to believing the material has held up remarkably well, through the last fifty or so years. I think there’s a secret behind that. Not every single joke and reference has held up (there’s an updated version that Simon wrote a few years ago, but I’m not sure anyone really noticed), but that’s to be expected. More of its humor, story, dialog and characters have held up than not. Any white-hair jokes or storytelling techniques fail to ruin the brilliant, endlessly entertaining chemistry that exists between Felix and Oscar. With the right actors it creates humor and exchanges of conversation that are as funny and engaging now as they were when the play was first performed. The TV show nailed that chemistry and several different productions over the years have also been brilliant (I’ve heard this about the original Broadway run, which featured Art Carney as Felix), but it was never, ever any better than it was with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. That applies to any version I can’t, or just haven’t seen. I have no fear of being wrong on this.

The jokes here are just too easy. Don’t be the one who goes the  most-traveled route there is.

I’m not surprised they worked together on so many films. Some actors are just meant to play be foil for their exact opposite. Matthau and Lemmon would have many, many great films together, but I would argue it was never better than The Odd Couple. The film isn’t much different than the play, so there’s no loss in translation. At times it’s as if both of them aren’t even aware of the camera, and are moving through the motions and lines as though they’re indeed performing a play. That wouldn’t work for everything, but it’s perfect here. The Odd Couple doesn’t need anything fancy in its style. Everything works because of those actors. That’s where the sophistication comes from, so it doesn’t really make sense to be more ambitious than that.

The Poker buddies are great, too. John Fielder might be best known as the voice of Piglet, but it’s worth mentioning he was a phenomenal character actor in TV and films for decades (he was hilarious on The Bob Newhart Show). They have smaller roles to fill in creating the energy The Odd Couple needs to achieve something, but those parts are almost as important. The rhythm of The Odd Couple demands infallibility from bell to bell. It can’t have a weak performance in the bunch, or the energy falters, and the rest of it comes crashing down, long before the show is over. The movie rounds out Lemmon and Matthau with great character actors, and of course, the impeccably grating Pigeon sisters (Monica Evans and Carole Shelley). These are the best versions of these characters you’re ever going to find, but first and foremost they service the story.

It just seems like Matthau was born forty, and simply went on from there. Seemingly worked for him.

Matthau and Lemmon each bring something to the Oscar/Felix dynamic that works here, and would go on to work in several other films together. It could be the lifelong friendship they maintained, that they were phenomenal comedic counterparts, or a mix of those two things. Whatever you want to call it, you get one of the all-time great acting duos in unbelievable form in The Odd Couple. That same mishmash of two people somehow being friends in spite of overwhelming flaws and differences remains a cornerstone of comedy. You can find it in dozens of different places today. Of course that concept wasn’t invented in The Odd Couple, but it set a bar that will always be difficult to surpass or even match.

A lot of that comes from Neil Simon’s dialog, but it would have just been some good writing if not for the stars. Matthau and Lemmon bring their individual talents to the proceedings, but it’s absolute magic when they’re working together. It was almost always good stuff over their respective careers. In The Odd Couple it’s one of the great comedies of all time.

Two Poems

The general consensus seems to be that people are digging the poetry and fiction a hell of a lot more than the bloated movies reviews, so I’m going to play to my few strengths, and go with that.

I’m determined to finish that movie challenge though, and hope to have something new for that tomorrow. It won’t be easy, but I’m sure we’ll live with it as best we can.

**********
The Randy Savage Jailbait Blues
By Gabriel Ricard

And after they’re gone
there’ll be no one left to be disappointed in me.

I’d like to be twenty miles away
from the pen pal who recognizes me
in the middle of Singapore’s London district
when it goes down. That’s just a Christmas dream
on the twenty-eighth of May,
but I’ve yet to be shamed for being an ambitious dreamer,
so I’m just going to keep on keepin’ on,
in spite of failing Canadian charm school.

I can’t remember if I really was the first guy
to open a marriage request with “Disaster strikes the peculiar”,
or if I stole it from the journal of a comedian friend.
who never got out of Shockabttom,
without paying his weight in January 3rd cigars.

Can’t tell me it’s not a fantastic thing to remark
to the poor preteen foster parent,
who has to double as your parole officer.

My memory is a bully from the Monday Night Raw days,
and it probably would have served me well
to keep flinching through my teenage years.

I probably should have read more books, too,
but it’s a little late to start
when my favorite movies are lined up for life,
at the theater
just past the preschool
that would have turned away the likes of me
at the hallway.

It was a cute way to impress the people,
who turned out to see a three-year-old try to read Pet Cemetary.

It just hasn’t done a whole lot for me lately.

You’d think someone who needs to be carried up the stairs
so often would be protective of the things
that occasionally get him some attention
from the no-nonsense dealer room girls.

You’d think I’d be able to live on the hood of a glass airplane.
to hear me run my kiss-stealin’, wheelin’-dealin’ mouth.

I won’t say you should be ashamed of such ideas,
but I’m also not going to pay for dinner
unless the wolf can pick the lock at our steel front door.

A one-legged song and dance may have to see us through.

**********
The Last Laurel and Hardy Movie
By Gabriel Ricard

I’ve got three pennies to rub together,
so I’m going to throw two away,
and start all over again with just the one,
because it sounds good on paper.

That’s what we’re settling for
these days, okay? The white boys in Raleigh,
North Carolina are getting drunk
at twelve o’clock in the afternoon,
and acting out their college basketball fantasies
with a couple of frozen turkeys.

Far be it for me to judge.
I’ve been known to sweat blood,
by the time I walk across the room,
to tell her that her eyes could turn a poor young man’s heart
into orange construction paper.

I once paid for the damage I had created around me
with a cheque on what was left of the solitary bedroom wall.

The public library and I
have very different ideas
of what those reading tables are for.

You were a gal Friday of wild abandon.
I can’t believe anything bad
ever came out of all those parked cars
we borrowed to get away from the month of June
trying to get rich off the standard cruel winter
in New York City.

October was never up to any damn good either.
I can’t trust a month that sells me out,
every time someone I love moves to San Francisco,
and doesn’t want me any closer than Edgewater, Maryland.

You never really understood what I meant by that,
but you’re a saint double-crossing the music
that’s supposed to carry me home,
and no one will ever make me laugh like you do.

I’m hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.

I owe you more fragile coffee cups
and counterfeit twenties
than I’ll ever be able to steal
from my cousins-by-marriage,
at one of our many,
unfortunate rescue shelter family reunions.

I’ve been weird, talkative and obnoxious
to a room full of empty  funeral suits.

You’ve managed to live with that,
keep your wits above and beyond our attention
to the details of our unhealthy social graces,
and even care enough to tell me to watch out
for beautiful girls who travel by Greyhound.

You might even be able to accept me
when it gets to the point where nothing surprises you anymore.

I’ve been waiting on that kind of thing
for years, you know.