This Un-American Life

Prompt: From the The Inaugural Address of Franklin D. Roosevelt: "We must act, and act quickly."


Thursday. Morning. Early rush is over, lunchtime rush yet to come. Raj eyes the coffee pot, trying to decide if he should dump the sludge and brew a new batch, or leave it till just before the midday crowd starts trickling in. It’ll taste like crap either way. Fortunately, nobody buys coffee at 7-eleven for its exquisite flavor. He leaves it, and goes back to reading his magazine.

It’s the smell that hits him, the ripe aroma of garbage and unwashed body. Bill the Bum. It must be 10 am then. For someone who sleeps in an alley, Bill’s surprisingly punctual. Every morning at ten sharp he shows up and buys a bottle of Colt 45. He always heads straight for the coolers, grabs his bottle and dumps a handful of change on the counter. Raj practices holding his breath while he counts the coins. Suppose, he could throw him out, but it would probably not befit a Buddhist. Or something. Anyway, bums need a drink too. Bums especially need a drink.

Bill is different this morning; he’s clutching the bottle of malt liquor to his chest, but has stopped, and is now swaying lightly in front of the Hostess cupcakes, looking indecisive. He drifts towards the counter, considering the tubes of dubious meat tumbling over the hot rollers.

“Are these hot dogs good?” He asks with the air of a connoisseur.

“They are hot dogs,” Raj answers noncommittally.

Bill takes an offense to this implied affront to the iconic foodstuff, and breaks into a rambling diatribe about foreigners and terrorists. Raj listens in fascination as Bill jumps from topic to topic. He seems to have a beef with most ethnic groups, from the “dog-eating” Chinese to the “lazy Mexicans”. Raj wonders if Bill is a Republican, but then he breaks into a completely nonsensical, but riveting conspiracy theory about the Bush administration’s involvement in the World Trade Center attack. Bill is an equal opportunity loony after all. He rounds it all up pointing one grimy index finger at Raj’s chest accusing him of polygamy and anti-American sentiments.

“I’m Indian, you nut, not Arab,” Raj tells him amused, “from India,” he adds to avert possible confusion.

“Oh,” is all Bill says in response.

The stink is now so thick in the small store that one could chew on it. He has to get the verbose vagrant out of there soon, Raj realizes. “We must act, and act quickly,” he tells himself, quoting someone, he thinks, not remembering the source. He takes one of the beige sausages and shoves it in a bun, douses it with mustard, ketchup and relish. He wraps it in foil and puts it down between them like a peace offering. With a toothless grin, Bill slams a ten-dollar note down on the counter. Raj gives him change; puts the beer in a brown paper bag. The door clangs closed behind Bill, and Raj’s alone again.

He decides to make a fresh pot of coffee after all.

Lessons

Prompt:
George Eliot: Middlemarch

"'I suppose it would be unprofessional,' said Rosamond, dimpling."

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“So, What do you do next?”

Rosamond was in a pickle. She had neglected her homework, and now she had no idea of the correct answer.

“I cut out his hart?” She ventured uncertainly.

“No, no, no! Can you tell me why not?” Professor Gorehart’s voice boomed over the class.

“I suppose it would be unprofessional,” said Rosamond, dimpling.

Dimpling was Rosamond’s secret weapon, but unfortunately for her, it didn’t work on Professor Gorehart, who looked down at her disappointedly.

“Because you don’t cut out the hearts of tax evaders!”

Professor Gorehart had been teaching at the Swinegart’s School of Deadly Deeds for thirty-five years, and had never had a student as hopeless as Rosamond. The only reason she was at the school at all was her illustrious family; she came from a long line of assassins, every one of whom graduated from Swinegart’s. Her great-great-great grandmother, Rosalin was the one who dispatched the emperor of Volg. Of course, the official ruling of the inquest was accidental death, and nobody had contested that His Highness fortuitously fell on his own dagger seven times. Rosalin was known as ‘Rosalin Of The Seven Daggers’ thereafter.

Of course, Professor Gorehart didn’t say any of that out loud, but it was written in her eyes for Rosamond to see. What she did say was:

“Who can tell me what subjects are suitable to have their hearts removed?”

At the back of the class Winston was raising his hand with such enthusiasm that he almost fell out of his desk. Winston was one of the first boys admitted into Sweingart’s, and he was very eager to prove himself. Professor Gorehart ignored him.

“By next week’s class I want you all to write a five page essay about the proper occasions for removal of heart, kidney, part of liver, testicles, and little finger, illustrated with appropriate historical examples. Class dismissed!”

Rosamond felt disheartened. Now, on top of failing Daggers, Rapiers and Other Sharp Objects, her classmates were cross at her too. Dimples (and batting of eyelashes) got her through Poisons, Blunt Objects, and even Ropes and Other Implements of Strangulation, but Professor Gorehart was an old crow, impervious to her charms.

With a sigh she picked up her books and headed off to her next class: Miscellanea. It was her favorite class, taught by the dreamy Professor Fairwright. Other students made fun of Professor Fairwright, took her class only for an easy credit. Most of the pupils in Miscellanea were boys, taking it as an elective instead of Explosives. The general consensus among the students – and the staff as well – was that Professor Fairwright was a bit light in the head, and her class was a complete waste of time.

Rosamond, on the other hand, found Professor Fairwright’s somewhat disjointed lectures of spontaneous combustion, accidental dismemberment, freak accidents with toasters, and so on, most inspiring.

These were the early days of the most unconventional assassin of her time, and all recorded history: ‘Rosamond of the Dimples’.

Trabant Chronicles

Prompt:
John Steinbeck: Cannery Row

"It was not so interesting driving at night."


The Trabant was lime green. Father had a whole chain of Trabants - as soon as he got one, he made the down payment on the next one, so three or four years later when his current Trabant was about to fall apart he’d get the a new one.

It would be an overstatement to call the Trabant a car. Sure, it had four wheels, a steering wheel and a car-shaped body - vaguely reminiscent of those little Fiats and whatnots that you'd see zipping around Rome or Paris in movies from the 60's and 70's. However the body was made of fiberglass, and housed a two-stroke engine. It was a lawnmower modified for passenger transportation - a proud achievement of Communist era East European engineering.

I have many fond memories of summer vacations spent with father, featuring one or another of his Trabants. I remember lying back on the rear seat, lost in daydreams, bare feet on the window, trees whooshing by, while father was navigating narrow country roads in search of the perfect fishing spot.

Father liked fishing, I liked being outdoors. I was the proud owner of my own fishing pole, and made sporadic attempts to catch something, but was easily distracted. Fishing to me meant getting mud between my toes, catching baby frogs – and releasing them when father happily offered using them as bait.

It was not so interesting driving at night. Not to father anyway. The nights were deep dark, and the headlights (no high beams) could penetrate it only so far. For me it was like being beneath the ocean. We could have been anywhere, any time; time and space became works of fiction.

Father made his own fish bait. It was grain-based, cooked, fermented… something. Its pungent aroma permeated the Trabant. Father threw big chunks of it into the water, its purpose being to attract the tiny vegetarian fish, who in turn would attract the larger carnivorous fish.

Normally Trabants came in uniform dust-grey. Grey seemed to be the theme of those days. Then in the early 80's something shifted. There was a fresh breeze in the air. Private enterprise wasn't incompatible with the tenets of Communism any more. The dirt-colored buildings of Budapest - many still wearing scars of 1956 - were one by one repainted in creamy yellows, greens, peach, burnt orange. But before all that there were - unexpected, often mocked, but secretly cherished - the colorful Trabants.

My father was one of the first people who got the lime-green one. At first they were so rare that when two came across each other drivers and passengers were compelled to madly wave at each other. Eventually brightly colored Trabants became more common, Budapest too became more colorful, privately owned shops popped up all around the city. Then in the course of a year everything changed; the Soviet tanks left again, and this time they didn’t come back.

I still believe that the fall of Communism started with the lime-green Trabants.

Desert Wind

"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge. " - Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind"

There was no assigned sentence this time, so I took the above Chandler quote as an inspiration.

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It was a dark and stormy night... Well, actually, it wasn't. The full moon, bright and orange, was burning in the night sky like a Chinese lantern. The sight of it filled all the dogs with indescribable yearnings and dispair, till they were howling their songs of unrequited love into the night.

There were hot winds blowing from the desert, carrying with them dust and ancient curses. They rattled the windows, overturned all the planters, played pinball with the garden furniture, and brought down the old willow tree in the neighbors' yard. They knocked the whole world off-kilter.

As always, Marge Cooper soothed her frayed nerves with a romance novel. Ruefully she gazed at the cover of her latest. The man on it looked a little like Ben; more handsome, but with similar dark curls and hazel eyes. A small sigh escaped her lips.

Back when they met, Ben had seemed like a romantic hero to her. He had been handsome and quiet. Every Sunday they had gone to the movies, and afterwards stopped at the diner. Over their milkshakes he had looked at her, with his dark eyes full of sorrow. She had been certain Ben was brooding over some dark secret, or lost love. She had spun fanciful fantasies about her love and unwavering devotion freeing Ben's heart from it's dark prison, and two of them falling into each others' arms, lips burning hot like their love...

After the wedding Marge had gradually realized that Ben was so quiet because he had nothing to say. His needs were basic: food, sex, beer, sleep, tv - not necessarily in that order. That look in his eyes was not sorrow, just indigestion. Having a conversation, going for a walk, a picnic weren't among his interests. The only time she saw him animated was while watching "the game" on tv. He would sit down with a beer or two, or six, and then he would hoot or curse, shout at the set. There was always some "game" on. Football, baseball, basketball... What was it with men and balls? What made a bunch of testosterone cases chasing after a round object so engrossing?

It was awfully hard with all that noise to concentrate on her books. At first she used to try to distract him with romantic overtures. Later she just gave him the silent treatment. Not that he noticed. Well, at least it was quiet now. Ben was sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, beer in front of him, as always, but there was not a sound. She supposed she should pull that butcher knife out of his chest eventually. Not yet though, the knife sealed the wound, if she removed it blood might start spurting all over her clean carpet. She’d read that bit about knife wounds and blood in a medieval story about the handsome nobleman and the milkmaid. She’d just have to wait.

She picked up her book: It was a dark and stormy night…

Ho Ho Ho

Prompt:
Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol

"Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh."


It was the 24th day of December. An elderly gent was sitting at the edge of the swimming pool, feet dangling into the water, eyes gazing out to the ocean. He wore shorts and a Hawaiian shirt of dancing hula girls. A content little smile played on his lips.

S. Claus was pleased with himself. Selling the business and moving to Florida had been the best decision of his life. Thanks to a more active life style and healthier eating habits he had lost twenty-five pounds in the past year. His bouts of seasonal depression were eliminated by the constant sunlight. Finally he got to trim his scraggly beard. To be honest, he had never enjoyed resembling the aging Jerry Garcia, but he had been expected to maintain his trademark image. He much preferred the pointy mustache and short beard. He liked to think that he looked a little like Colonel Sanders.

364 days previously

He dragged himself into his office by noon. The elves of course got the day off - it was in their contract - but he didn't have that luxury. Mrs. Claus, filling in for the secretary, was already there, waiting for him. She trailed him into the office weighed down with a stack of papers. He slumped into his chair with a groan. One would think that on the day after the 'Big Push' he could have some peace, but no.

"The elves are demanding a pay raise." She began. "The union representative would like to see you early in January."

"Fine. What else?"

"There are the complaints. A Bobby Jones from Melbourne states that you brought him the purple Subsonic Mutant Ninja Warrior instead of the black one. Suzie Walker from Springfield says she wanted a real pony..."

He raised his hand to stop her.

"Tell them all to stuff themselves. Anything else?"

She rolled her eyes, but continued.

"According to Ernie, the mechanic, the sled is about to throw an axle, and the differential is on the fritz."

"What the bloody hell does that even mean?"

"That it'll be expensive."

He slumped deeper into his chair, feeling the seed of a raging migraine growing behind his eyes, while she kept rifling through the papers.

"Oh yeah. A Mr. Bezos called. He'd like to discuss a business proposition."

"I've never heard of him."

"He is the CEO of a company called Amazon. They sell stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Well, pretty much everything. I think he wants to buy us out."

His eyes glinted with interest at last.

"Call that Bozo..."

"Bezos."

"...call him, and set up a meeting."

Mrs. Claus was right, Mr. Bezos' interest was in acquisition. Mr. Claus concentrated on keeping a straight face while the lawyers battled out the details. Once they were all gone he could let go, and laugh like he hadn’t laughed in a long time. Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh.

A Day in the Country

Prompt:
Émile Zola: Germinal

"So, you fancy going over the road for a bit of looting and pillage?"

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"What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

They were standing in the shadows, waiting for the sun to dip under the horizon, waiting patiently, as always. Times like this Mr. Brown got talkative.

"See my dear Will, what the bard is alluding to is how the names we give things aren't inherent, not ‘true’, but a construct, and meaning exist only because we as a society have agreed upon the name of things."

Will had no idea what Mr. Brown meant, but nodded. He knew that Mr. Brown considered himself cultured and well read.

"... and just as the name of a thing is not the thing itself, the appearance of it isn’t either - as Monsieur Magritte so aptly demonstrated. See, the name "chicken" is just an abstract, and a picture of a chicken is just an idea of a chicken."

Will wasn't sure what "abstract" was, although someone once shown him a book with pictures that were just blotches of colors, and told him they were abstract paintings. Some were kind of pretty, but a chicken was definitely nothing like one of those pictures. He was sure of that. He did like the idea of a chicken, but he liked an actual chicken even more.

Will didn't know about "the bard" or the other man Mr. Brown mentioned, but that didn't matter. Will was a good listener; he didn't interrupt or ask stupid questions. He managed that by not asking any questions at all. Will knew that Mr. Brown liked going on about things, and no more than occasional grunts were required from Will to keep up the appearance that Mr. Brown wasn't just talking to himself.

Will considered himself a practical man. He knew naught of "constructs", but he knew names mattered. Well, maybe not what they were, but how they were used. Take them for example: Nobody who knew him, called Mr. Brown anything else but Mr. Brown. Not to his face anyway. Even those who didn't know him, called Mr. Brown 'Sir'. Meanwhile, nobody ever called Will anything other than Will, and only those scared of him ever called him ‘Sir’. Even though they physically looked similar, there was never a question who was the boss, and who was just the muscle.

Will was woken up from his thoughts by silence. Mr. Brown stopped talking. The sun was finally gone, leaving nothing but a violent smear of color behind. Mr. Brown stretched his limbs and looked at Will.

“So, you fancy going over the road for a bit of looting and pillage?”

They stole across the dusty road like two shadows, unseen and unheard, under the fence and into the chicken coop.

Half an hour later Will sat down on his haunches and took in the sight of feathers, splotches of white, red, and brown. He squinted and cocked his head sideways.

“I think I understand what you meant by “abstract”, Mr. Brown.”

Literal Aspirations

I've been bad, missed a week, and ended up rolling two prompts into each other.

Prompt 1: Charles Dickens - A Tale of Two Cities

"Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neighborhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two-great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations."

Prompt 2: Gustave Flaubert - Madame Bovary

"They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden leg on the boards."

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Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neighborhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two-great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations. Pigeons. Delectable, fluttering, feathered imbeciles of the sky, flapping about the towers. He considered them with hunger and contempt.

He slid between the bars and gingerly picked his way among the detritus and grime of the alley. The sanitation workers' strike did nothing for the charm of the city. He scrambled up the tree, down a branch, and hopped to the balcony with all the skill, but none of the pomposity of a Circe de Soleil acrobat. He could hear inside a familiar male voice muttering about feminist theories.

He walked into the room, straight to the young woman sitting in an overstuffed armchair. His mistress scooped him up into her lap.

"There you are, muffin-face!" She cooed to him tenderly.

His yellow eyes were about to shoot a murderous look at the indignity, but slender fingers commenced to scratch the thick fur of his jowl, there, yeah, right... right there. He closed his eyes and started to purr. Still scratching, she turned her attention back to the other quivering male mass in the room.

"Bollocks to theory, Marcel. It's just common sense. I mean seriously, just look at it: Madame Bovary is supposedly written from the woman's point of view, but it's just a stinking pile of male chauvinistic manure. We are expected to sympathize with the husband; a country bumpkin who bought himself a young virgin straight from the convent, for breeding purposes. Then we are supposed to be aghast that she goes off and has a fling with some handsome young thing. Yeah sure, she is an idiot, but she is a baby seal thrown into the shark tank. To finish it off, her sins are deemed so unforgivable that she must die the most horrendous way that misogynistic twat Flaubert could think up."

Marcel cleared his throat. "So you are still planning on drawing parallels between Madame Bovary and Princes Diana in you essay?"

"You bet your sweet ass, I do." She grinned.

"Professor Vittet will be thrilled."

He was about to say more, but their attention was drawn to the loud banging from the direction of the hallway. They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden leg on the boards. The door popped open and Mistress' younger brother bound in dressed in full pirate regalia, including hat, eye patch, peg leg, and a stuffed parrot.

"How do I look?" He preened in front of them.

"Terrifyingly bloodthirsty." She professed.

"Fearsome." Added Marcel.

The boy, satisfied, turned and hurried out of the room as fast as his mismatched legs allowed him.

Marcel raised a questioning eyebrow.

"School play. Musical version of Pirates of the Caribbean. She rolled her eyes.

"Well at least it's not Pirates of Penzance."

She chortled in mirthful agreement.