Short stories, both published and not submitted.
Here you’ll find some of my published writing, a little about me, and my ongoing, Notes from Virginia. Please leave a comment and/or feel free to contact me directly – Thanks!
April 2020 –
I remember when last year was winding down, a lot of people were telling 2019 not to let the door hit him in the ass on his way out. They loathed 2019, expressing their disgust with him on Facebook and Twitter, hurling virtual tomatoes, rotten eggs, and M-80s as 2019 loped like a battered werewolf toward midnight.
Pardon the language, but some retorts included things like this from Jennifer D – “Good riddance 2019! Thanks for nothing asshole!”
Or this, from Mike P – “Rot in hell 2019 man! This has been a shit year and as far as I’m concerned 2019 can go Fuck itself.”
And lastly, from Francis K – “Bring on 2020. 2019 cannot be over soon enough!”
So now here we are 3 months into 2020 and I wonder what these people would say now?
Our front row seats for this ongoing potential apocalypse have been from here in Winchester, but Episode 1 of our personal East Coast Covid-19 Series began in Philadelphia on the weekend of February 28th, 2020 – my birthday.
We went up to the City of Brotherly Love to see this Irish kid, Dermot Kennedy, sing. I’d never heard of him but a lot of other people sure as hell had because the Philadelphia MET was packed! Crowds also swirled in the surrounding Phili streets that cold Saturday night, the bouncing lights, music, and honks hardly a warning that some invisible flying black Virus of death was lurking about, preparing to shut down one of the toughest cities in the world. I guess it was kind of like everyone was at Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s first step – Denial. The Founding Fathers would’ve kept on working, the Flyers had skated to a win on their home ice the night before, and given the chance, I’m positive Rocky Balboa would’ve stepped into the ring no problem!
But the first hints of the Virus were there – perhaps its scouts or spies – Devious fuckers.
That magical night in Philadelphia feels like years ago now, but I remember thinking to be cautious – You know, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, wear a condom if offered sex by a voluptuous stranger (wife clobbers me over the head with purse). But despite a sense that everyone vaguely knew something was going on, there was also a flamboyance in the air, like, screw it! As if the Virus was a terrorist, and we weren’t going to let the terrorists win.
But the great thing about the Phili MET, once we got there, was that there were dudes right in the entryway of the lobby selling big cans of Irish beer out of iceboxes for $5 bucks – cash only. I felt like Dorothy except it was, We’re not in California anymore, instead of Kansas. You get a beer at most shows in California and it’s $15 bucks for a 12-ounce cup of dog piss, AKA, Bud Light.
Anyway, Sandi had to go to the Ladies’ so, like a mom, I told her not to touch anything and to wash her hands. I downed one tall-boy then got another, glad that I’d brought some cash.
Like most places, the Ladies’ Room had a line which gave me some time to stand around and look at the people and to think. Phili ain’t our stomping grounds, both of us being mostly Southern California beach people, so it was all wonderful novelty to me.
Even inside in the Winter-Time Phili Met lobby, it was colder than a polar bear’s gonads. But given my anxiety issues and being amongst the young where I once confidently roamed, I was still sweating a bit, even with my 1990’s era purple Patagonia jacket shed and hung over my arm. The floating faces of happy young people bobbed around like planets in a great celestial maelstrom of goodness and hope and joy – Forever was theirs. They all wore scarves around their necks, gloves, and cloaks of vibrant youth that no virus could penetrate, and several of them smiled at me as I gave them a Saturday night smile back, suddenly remembering I had Sandi’s purse slung over my shoulder which always gives any guy an interesting look. Cheers to them and I drank my beer.
I finally saw Sandi, smiling, working her way toward me through the jovial crowd. I’d also been able to hit the bar while she was away to get her a cup of red wine, and she was pleased.
The show was fantastic, and there was a bar up in this mezzanine-area just a few rows up behind our seats where I kept getting those beers. The classic opera house venue was gloriously packed, the seats and people seeming to hang over the stage. There were also those neat little side theatre balconies that I Love except they always remind me of the same kind of theatrical box in which Abraham Lincoln was shot. One lady in one of those was so hammered that I thought she was going to dance and pitch herself right over the rail and fall screaming into the crowd below. In fact, in one of those secret horrible ways that I would never reveal to anybody, I kind of hoped she would. Like watching a car race, you don’t want to admit you’d like to see a crash, but she was flailing wildly to the music and came close to going over several times. But an old guy – I’d like to think older than me – prevented the catastrophe by keeping an arm around her waist. There was also a huge chandelier hanging in the theatre which was cool – Reminded me of Superman’s planet Krypton, hundreds of jagged crystal-looking spires shooting out – if only the hammered lady could just leap from her private balcony far enough – WHEEEEEEEE!!!
So it was a great show except for the obnoxious dude in front of us trying to impress his date. Was just one of those dudes – I mean the drunker he got, the lamer, and the patience of his good-looking date drained and drained. They’d made friends with the couple next to them – and actually with us – but that couple next to them knew how to have a good time, drink a few, etc. But this guy – Sorry Philadelphia – this guy must’ve been one of the worst things you’ve ever let – Just loud, goofy, not funny – I kept having to push his arm out of our space. But most of all he annoyed the shit out of his date. Decent looking kid except for the hat on backward and the beers upping his volume.
Toward the beginning of the show I thought he had a shot, but by the end, the girl was like, “Get your damn arm off me.” And he obliged.
There was a girl behind us screaming constantly too, “AHHHHHHHHHHH-WEEEEE-YEAAAAHHH-AHHHH!!!!” Like to blow out your friggin’ eardrums. Have you ever had somebody behind you like that? It’s a concert yet the biggest danger to your ears is the person screaming behind you. Gawd! Shut the (you-know-what) Up! you want to say. But you don’t. You’re at a concert together, having a good time. I turned around and gave her and her friends a few high-fives instead, which helped a little. My Mom probably would’ve turned around and told her to STFU. But that’s why I don’t do that, even though my Mom’s techniques are generally pretty effective. Maybe I’m a coward, maybe I just want everyone to have a good time, but that girl behind me grabbed me playfully by the collar at one point, gave me a potential covid-kiss on the cheek, and one of them bought me another one of those beers.
Anyway, it was a helluva concert and the freezing Philadelphia streets were swarming outside when it was over – ADRIAN! ADRIAN!!
Alright, enough with the Rocky jokes. We’d called for an Uber and could tell that everyone else in the sea of maniacs had as well.
“Let’s walk up that way out of the crowd,” said Sandi, looking at her phone. “Says it’ll be 6 to 9 minutes …”
”69 minutes?!?” I exclaim
I know, old joke, but it really did go something like that. I think of myself as a laid-back kind of cool half surfer bro, half here to help you as a psychologist type wearing a nice sweater, but if I don’t watch it I can be a really uptight ridiculous douche.
”69 minutes?” I repeat. “That’s like almost 2 hours! Jee-Shitz-dog-licker …”
“No,” says Sandi. “We just need to walk up to the Wendy’s up there …”
God, I Love her and Thank You.
It was an amazing ride through the dark back-Phili streets and alleys to our hotel, our driver explaining to us the benefits of filtered water for both us and our dogs. Also, healthy Vitamix smoothies are a positive way to start the day and to count our blessings.
Our hotel bar was blessed with an after-wedding party and we had a good old time. I don’t know how late Phili bars are allowed to stay open, but it sure was later than California’s 1:45 am last call.
Thank you, Philadelphia for a wonderful night.
*****
In the morning we woke up and walked around the old town where the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson chatted about changing the world and perhaps having a revolution against those tax-happy oppressors across the pond.
We saw Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the sunny crisp morning breathing the history of all that had happened on the hundreds of years of mornings previous.
And then we saw the Irish Memorial.
Even with tears in my eyes, I knew there was no way I could grasp the full pain and suffering of what my Irish ancestors had gone through. And shamefully I didn’t ever really know what they had gone through until I started reading the plaques and studying the statues that morning.
Like so many things they teach you in history class, they teach it all in black and white, using books that just gloss over the hideous realities of desperate individuals dropped into circumstances that were usually no fault of their own. I mean they told us about the potato famine and that a bunch of Irish people came to America because of it, but nobody ever told me entire villages of Irish men, women, and children simply wasted away and starved to death. And did so under the watchful eyes of British landowners that apparently couldn’t care less. Evil doesn’t even begin to label the atrocities those limey bastards let befall the people. I mean can you imagine having to watch your children, your babies, spouse, parents, brothers, sisters, everyone, just suffer and starve to death while freezing in dank, wet, disease-ridden, horrible conditions? Your crops a puddled mess of inedible veggie slop, the crying, and suffering surely echoing across the channel to deaf British ears? Gawd. Just so beyond awful and you want to go back and avenge all the wrongdoing.
And then it struck me that it’s still going on today – right now – people, children, starving (not to mention beaten, tortured, and killed). And then even when an effort is made to get food and medicine to them, there are usually politics, warlords, and other shameless bastards that get in the way. It makes me want to puke while realizing that being able to puke is kind of a luxury, a temporary setback but at least a sign you’d had something to eat.
“You ready?” says Sandi.
“Yeah,” I say, holding her hand as we walk back toward our hotel to check out. I realize I’m hungry, much to my shame.
***
It was a lovely drive out of Pennsylvania, through Maryland, and on into the pastoral country of sweet Virginia. We knew there was some kind of invisible sickness about, but even if the Sweet Lord Jesus himself came down and told me about the surreal craziness to come, I probably wouldn’t have believed him.
“Some things always come back to haunt the house.” Flash Fiction Magazine, May, 2019.
I’d been focusing on chores yesterday, Sunday. Primary was to get rid of the freaking fruit flies that decided to hold their annual company picnic in my kitchen as soon as this August monsoonal heat hit.
Normally my wife would help me, but she got fed up a while back and split. Which at least got me to quit drinking, but some things always come back to haunt the house.
Anyway, I went to Ace Hardware and bought this fly paper ribbon stuff. It was nasty, and I got sap-like crap all over my fingers, but pretty soon I also had three sticky fly ribbons hung up and spiraling precariously down from the ceiling over the kitchen sink, inviting the fruit flies to their doom.
Problem was, even hours later, hardly any fruit flies had been caught. In fact, they didn’t seem to show much interest in my strategically placed sticky fly ribbons at all, the little beings flying right by toward more preferable regions of the kitchen.
One of those regions, a place the fruit flies did very much show an interest in, was the last wine glass I’d drank from before getting on the wagon and quitting drinking for good. I’d left the glass above the sink with just a hummingbird’s puddle remaining at the bottom, never to be washed or rinsed, as kind of a symbol, an empty reminder that I was through with the sauce, and boy weren’t those fruit flies pleased I had!
But they’d also given themselves away, the aggravating little pests, and their weakness would be my strength.
So I went out to the garage where I’d stashed the remaining wine and booze I had, in case any imbibing guests might stop by (just because I quit drinking didn’t mean I had to burden everyone else, I figured), dug out a nice Sonoma County Pinot Noir, popped its cork, and drizzled some wine down the fly paper.
Then I sat back and waited to see what would happen.
Sure enough, just moments later, the little sons-of-bitches came swarming around the wine-soaked tape, me remaining quiet and still by the counter so as not to frighten them off. One landed, stuck, then another, and another. Ha!
I uncorked the bottle of pinot again and carefully drizzled some more of the purple magic on the top of the fly ribbon catchers, the wine trickling down the spiraling tape like a miniature dream.
I looked down at the bottle, completely full except for the drops I’d poured for the fruit flies, and just like that (yes, just like that—that’s how it works for me, anyway), it made sense to have a glass and, feeling a celebratory mood, I hopped down from the wagon and drank.
The fruit flies continued to arrive at the sticky ribbon for the wine, me growing more jolly in the brightening kitchen light. I continued to share my wine with the fruit flies as the night grew late, my new little wino friends going through four bottles, and well through a fifth (one of my wife’s chardonnays she’d left behind) before I suddenly found myself floating in the early Monday morning gloom. I realized I’d fallen asleep on the kitchen counter using a dish rag and an oven mitt for pillows.
The oven clock said 7:23, and I would be late for work, again. I was looking down the barrel of a long, nasty day, and thought to throw my legs over the side of the counter and force myself up. But I couldn’t.
From my pounding head through my bloodstained view I saw the fly papers, hundreds of melting little fruit fly carcasses drunk and hanging over the kitchen sink. Even some big, meaty, black flies had crashed the deathly party and become stuck in the irresistible trap.
I wanted to move, but, strangely, like the fruit flies, was stuck. I didn’t know if I was going to throw up or not, but it didn’t really matter. The bathroom may as well have been on the moon, and, come what may, it was all apparently out of my control.
* * *
