MMVII: Adam Barnick

This post uses the style of the BBF's weekly experimental writing series,
Bedbugs.*


Click here if you have not read one before, to see how Bedbugs is created.









Picking up the rest of the branches requires effort; what does she
do when she can't even look at you? Too much looking back,
not enough looking ahead causes a rash in anyone who waits
on the old bridge, swaying in the winter wind. Where are the sounds
coming from? Purple footprints in the laquered finish turn out to be
manifestations of the self abuse; stopped halfway just as the group's
often did, if that's what the teacher required. Somnabulistic
voyeurs wait next to the force guiding your pen across your life.
The knowledge of year felt wasted. Spent up in a cloud of
iridescent ash that doesn't match anyone on earth.
On stage, singing, the crowd's gone home,
or perhaps but lessons learned
are what was truly needed. I felt the car had run out of
fuel but it was a trick. We could even walk to the old building
if we had to, I can see it amidst the overgrowth of
ideas that can save me. Friendships strengthened on the steps
of her porch. Names were carved into the wood I'd never heard of.
The note on the welcome mat says I will know their names in time,
when I am ready for creativity growing as well
as making the veins in our arms run smoothly. All known here
seems to tell you the next 365 will be great.

Adam

*The sole exception was that the 'seven phrases' were deliberately chosen.

MMVII: Peter Rinaldi

The Father uttered one Word; that Word is His Son, and he utters Him for ever in everlasting silence; and in silence the soul has to hear it.

-St. John of the Cross

Bedbugs XII

Bedbugs XII






Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.


Click here for last week's Bedbugs.







Space can be a prison just as much as this room. Broken clocks
keep better time than the measurement of metal she relies upon,
opening the floodgates and the eardrums to hear what seems to be
a choir singing. Primary colors washed out, literally pulled
from their maker, left alone in the grey/blue lit hallway, making
mournful noises two inches above the floor. I can see
it through the walls and it scares me. Fillings made of
wood are complimentary patterns of the same song. The Spring
garden she thought up only has enough room for one.
Silver fractures with a knob on the end, parties full of
slick puppets with nothing guiding them. I had to
scale the wall of the iron building at zero hour just
to get in. Take her home already, I'd been asked. When inside
the splinter carraige, it's easy to be cut as deep
as it was in high school. Effortless. Glowing a sort of orange
tone in unmeasured emotion, I can feel everything winding
down. Where did its energy go? Sapped by Routine Thieves
with tubing that goes right under the fingernails.
What else can I tell you, the rest of the house is empty; make
no mistake, it's yours.







Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:






-teeming with energy represented with green and yellow
-wind makes it rustle back and forth
-waiting at the end of the bridge
-sixteen degrees
-singing to me once more
-working in a box
-love the silence between sounds


-Adam Barnick
Click here for next week's Bedbugs.

Underground, Above and Beyond: The Casually Edited True Life Subway Adventures of Hershey Browne

Underground, Above and Beyond: The Casually Edited True Life Subway Adventures of Hershey Browne

Like most New Yorkers, I always followed the unwritten rule to mind my own business on the subways – to keep my eyes, hands and thoughts to myself – but over the years things have changed. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent a lot of time in my life on subways and just feel completely at home, or maybe it’s just because how else I am going to pass the freakin time on my commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back every day? I read enough at work and I am so sick of every song on god’s most beloved invention of the past ten years, the ipod.

Yesterday I was on the F train, heading home. I like to listen to other people’s conversations and I don’t give a crap if they know it. I’ll often stare at them as if I’m a third member of the conversation without much to say. So it’s a couple, probably in their very early 20s. The girl looked Puerto Rican and the guy was some sort of white. They were having what seemed like a manageable argument. I couldn’t tell how long they had been together and that disappointed me, as I like to think of myself as some sort of all knowing dickhead when it comes to figuring out people without knowing anything about them. Anyway, the argument was something about how much he was spending on a gift for someone. I was much more interested in them than the conversation itself and I started getting lost in the way they communicated rather than the words they were actually saying and then it hit me – they reminded me of my parents and the way they used to argue when I was growing up. The guy also looked like my dad a bit, sort of like the creepy Robert Mitchum in The Night of the Hunter. My mom is a Sephardic Jew so it was a similar contrast in skin color. Anyway, all of the sudden the guy turns to me and asks “what the fuck are you looking at? You staring at my girl or are you some sort of homo looking at me?”

“well, this might seem weird,” I started, “ but you guys actually remind of my parents…”
“your fuckin parents? How the fuck can we look like your parents? How old do we look?”
“no you just remind me of them when I was growing up. The way you were arguing..”
“you know what? Fuck you! Come on Lisa, let’s move over there.”

I said nothing more and let them walk away but as I turned my head there was a girl staring at me. As soon as we caught eyes she diverted hers to the floor that she wanted me to think she had been looking at the whole time.

“I was staring in on their drama, you can certainly do the same with mine.”
“Uhmmm, I’m sorry, I uh…well it was just weird, ya know?”
“yeah, I guess my life is.”
“weird?”
“yup”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen something like that before.”
“You’ve probably never been on the train with me before.”
“No I don’t think I have.” It was at this point that she gave it away, that she liked me in some sort of way. Just the way she said it, the look she gave. My friend describes it as the feeling that you already know someone. I think that’s bullshit but get what he’s saying. I think of it more of liking someone a lot really quickly and not being able to be shy or guarded about it.
“Hey, my name’s Hershey.”
“Hershey? I like that. Is that your real name?”
“Well, my birth name is William Herschel Browne but my mom called me Hershey right from the start. It was her father’s name. He died six months before I was born.”
“Wow, you really don’t mind telling strangers a lot about you, huh?”
“What’s your name?”
“Uhm, this is weird. I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with this. Besides, my stop is coming up.”
“Can I buy you a drink?....maybe just a coffee?....”
“I think it’s a little late for coffee.”
“OK, then a drink?” She stared at my eyes for a few minutes, trying to figure me out but I just smiled back at her and tried to make her feel as though I’ve never done anything like this before either.
“Well, OK. Just one drink and then you go home.”
We pulled up to the Carroll street stop and walked off together.
“I’m Allison.”
“I’m Hershey.”
“I know.”

Weakly Installed

Mary Wyatt Matters responds to the play "Tambourines to Glory", by Langston Hughes

I think the “big what” of Tambourines to Glory has to do with the human struggle to praise God and share His healing joy in an authentic and humble way. The two main characters, Essie and Laura, develop in this piece when they recognize the ways or habits in which they have most deeply offended God through their actions or inactions, and determine to rid themselves of those ways and habits. The play is about God’s forgiveness and the potential for human forgiveness.

The needs of this greater “what” depended upon certain moments in the play being highlighted. It was necessary to highlight Laura’s epiphany which led her to persuade Essie to help start up a preaching/gospel-singing racket on the street corner. It was important to display the depths to which Laura and Essie sunk under the Devil’s influence when it was wedded to their own weaknesses. Creative energy needed to be offered to the actor’s work in transforming from ‘sinner,’ to a ‘recognizer of sin,’ to a ‘humble confessor,’ to ‘healed and healer.’

Laura’s epiphany was partially muddled in terms of readability because of a few reasons. The actress was very distant from the sound of the choir (the director’s idea of portraying that inner inspirational experience), which, if the inspiration were figurative, the choir needn’t have been off stage and on the opposite side at all. The actors were also sometimes difficult to hear (though I was sitting very far left, which didn’t help) in that beginning scene as well as at the start when the Devil introduced himself. That entrance of the Devil did not seem to quite meet its full potential, either. His grand entrance from the huge doors along with the sounds of lightning wasn’t matched by the actor’s physicalization and text delivery right away. There was obviously difficulty with the microphones in this first production, which made me wonder how many times they were practiced with before the performance. Perhaps more directorial attention to early energy, character commitment, taking more time (and volume) could have been worked on further. There seemed to be a transformation in actor energy all around, however, once Essie started her song—more of a familiar groove (literally) was reached once that point hit. The attention which was related by the director to the cast in terms of all of the music was very strong—the characters and chorus really exuded spirit and energy while singing and responding to the songs. The band was also magical in its seamless involvement.
Certain points in staging stand out very strongly in the director’s focus on the character’s paths in sin and healing. Essie’s character is very passive (to her soul’s detriment) and the audience sees that when she often sits down and moves very little (and even though she is older, she moves just fine in the last scene, which depicts her shift from detrimental passivity to owning her power and decisions joyfully). Laura, on the other hand, is never at ease. She is always busy trying to grasp as much of the many evils in life as she can, before realizing that she is chasing the wrongs things that will never fulfill her. Therefore, her staging is always active, on the move, and aware of its next target. Her circle during her great monologue about her mother was so connected to different points in the room—the liquor, the door, the bedroom beyond. When she finally turned to see Essie asleep after traversing a full circle, the moment was funnier because the audience took that circuitous trip along with her and also didn’t notice that Essie wasn’t listening anymore. The final scenes of each half broke very elaborately with reality, and they mirrored each other in terms of celebration, though the duo of Buddy and Laura celebrating over their money should have displayed more grotesque-ness in order to contrast more strongly with the joyful celebration in the end (or perhaps I see throwing oodles of money around too positively—but then again, if I do, others may, too). Another incredibly strong staging moment during the main character’s struggles with sin was the brutal violence that Buddy (the Devil) inflicted upon Laura. The whole space of the room was used, almost too beautifully, but not unbelievably. The moment took on a balletic and full character which the slow-motion staging and commitment of the actors portrayed very solidly.

The point when Essie realized and expressed her bad deeds however wasn’t as strong as it could have been mostly because of the staging. Essie was upstage and in profile against the jail wall when she began to realize and declare the ways in which she was at fault for the desecration of her church. I also think that the actor needed to be encouraged to take more time in fully admitting her guilt, because that would have helped the audience recognize the importance of her admission. When Laura faced the choir/jury and professed her guilt and need for forgiveness, she was encouraged to take her time in saying a line I wrote down because it affected me so strongly: “I confess not for what my sin did to me, but for what my sin did to the Savior’s name.”

The final moment of the play affected me very strongly, and a large portion of its impact was the staging and direction. The scene opened up with an (almost negatively) absurd shift out of reality and into Essie and Brother Crow (?- Greer’s character) dancing together. As more dancers, choir, and characters arrive, we notice that this is partly a depiction of Essie’s daughter’s wedding, and Laura appears at the top of the stairs to join in. As she pauses just a moment to take in the joyful scene, Buddy (the Devil) appears as if out of nowhere, but really he had entered with the others and spun demonstratively out of the middle of the crowd. The two lock eyes, and I felt violated to find Buddy amidst this joyous, sacred celebration, and I was afraid of what he intended to do to ruin it. But Laura, if those thoughts entered her mind at all at that moment, was already past that human response before I was finished even feeling it, and expressed an enlightened one that caught me so off guard: She just made an indulgent shrug of good-humored acceptance and forgiveness, and proceeded to descend the stairs and join in the celebration. That was an amazingly staged moment whose impact and importance had been painstakingly built throughout the play by the director, his production, and every actor on stage.

NATIONAL TREASURE: BOOK OF SECRETS by Frank Palmcoast

When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?

With the new "National Treasure" sequel bringing in a heafty 45 million at the box office this weekend, our legendary film critic of The Palm Aire Gazzette - Frank Palmcoast, fights off Floridian dementia with his take no prisoners look at this latest Nick Cage film.

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I must say firstly, I hope and pray no al Quaeda saw this movie because the only thing easier than breaking into the President's Oval office is kidnapping the president. The movie sucked, was extremely predictable, boringggg and really far fetched.What a cast: Toupee Cage, Jon Voight, Helen Mirren, Ed Harris and Harver Keitel---they all must have needed the money for Christmas gifts! This sequel expects us to believe another tremendous treasure is in the United States--how many other treasure are buried all these years---ridiculous! I'd love to see old Nick do a movie hairless! He not only has bad hair but bad jokes. All I can say is, if you go Christmas shopping at the mall, and after your done and you think about going to see a movie playing at the mall, don't go see this movie. Go watch TV or take a crap. I must give a warning: If you see this movie, it may ruin your life!

PS: forgot to mention, at the end of this movie, the President fixes a parking ticket for one of the characters--guess he doesn't have much else to do!

Bedbugs XI

Bedbugs XI





Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.


Click here for last week's Bedbugs.






Realizing I'm back in the wooden room I started in.
Repeats on the box and in life; rhythm that can give one
pause pulses forth from all the walls in beats and matter
and time painted to match what everyone else
thinks. Hummingbird heart attack wasted on acid
seems to be the beat it drives out. Motors are
heard in the sky; mechanical fractions at an inconceivable
temperature pressure all of them to JUST FIT IN!
Working late, alone. Red jewels being teased above your
head as a lifebribe. How many rings on one hand do you plan
to understand whether tricking, cackling intentions
measured by one's decided self-worth.
The sun finally comes out; pan across the street for a
reason. Three of them are there. They had
been men, too. Make her believe
one of us was right. Exuberantly climbing warped, splintered
steps, we throw every door open only to see
it leads to the place we came from.
DISAGREE. The only way out. Buttons are fastened
in the proper places, and hopefully all of us
will find expecting a fleet of red petals below..







Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:







-broken clocks keep better time
-primary colors washed out
-fillings made of wood
-take her home already
-glowing a sort of orange tone
-what else can I tell you
- make no mistake; it's yours.

click here for next week's Bedbugs.
-Adam Barnick

The Story Slice: "Ray and the Razor"

by Brian Hughes

Ray prostrated himself before a candlelit shrine of a blue-eyed blonde; her face memorialized in sketch drawings, Polaroid photos and 8 by 10 glossy prints attached to a large, brass mirror. Some pictures even included Ray holding and smooching the sunny haired beauty. Knees bent, eyes closed, Ray mumbled a few words under his breath then opened his eyes and stood up. He stretched his long frame to the ceiling. A few bones cracked as he let out a groan.

The walls of his cramped studio apartment were decorated with the front pages of famous New York Daily News headlines: Mickey Mantle's death, the Gulf War, the “preppy murderer”, The Steinberg’s, the blackout, Yankees world championships and of course several September 11th front pages - amongst hundreds of others: just headlines, nothing but headlines papered to the walls from corner to corner. A tower of spiral notebooks rested against his dented refrigerator.

Ray was lanky and unshaven, with a chest that was caved in and knuckles that were enormous. His knees gave him trouble and ached like a bitch, dating back to his high school track days. Winter was hard on them. Ray could often been seen gritting his teeth and punching walls because of the discomfort.

He looked over a shopping list, which he scribbled on the back of the small envelope his brother’s monthly check came in: the check that paid his rent and helped him stay afloat. Ray opened his fridge and looked inside – tumbleweeds came rolling out. “What do I need at C-Town? Looks like … everything.” His phone rang. It was one of those wide and flat phones with an answering machine and cassette tape that could be bought at a Radio Shack circa 1991. After the usual “hellos” and “isn’t it a nice day outside?” – Ray asked Rain the really important question:

“You wouldn’t happen to have any Mach 3 razor blades lying around, would you?”
“Mach 3’s … let me check,” Rain said as he rummaged through his medicine cabinet. “Yeah … yeah, I got one. Do you want me to bring it? These shits are expensive.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Why can’t you buy some?”
“There aren’t any drug stores around here.”
There was silence on Rain’s end.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“That would be awfully generous of you.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you one.”
“As far as Alberto is concerned, will he be pissed if I’m just standing around?”
“Nah, I don’t think so – he seems to be in one of his better moods. Just don’t mention George Bush and you’ll be fine.”
“Where is his studio again?”
Ray wrote the address down and agreed to meet Rain in front of Alberto’s building at three pm. The sounds of police sirens and young toughs acting up bounced off his Bronx walls. Ray shut his windows and lowered the shades. He put on his record player and placed a forty-five of “In the Still of the Night” by The Five Satins on his turn table. The sound that poured forth was tinny and crackled through two small wooden speakers; but Ray didn’t mind, for he was a dancer of one, swaying in front of the shrine for his doe-eyed, and pineapple color haired darling.

“What’s he doing here?” Alberto asked Rain as an assistant spray painted a canvas with a steel canister. “Are you using the right pigment?”
“Yes Alberto – yellow sash #35.”
“You are aces, you know that. Ace.”
Alberto St. Croix was the hip artist of the moment who was something of a cult figure. Having been the front page story of both New York and Time Out magazines in a one month span, swelled his already self serving head. When Alberto created art he preferred to wear an expensive Brooks Brothers camel hair coat which once belonged to his most despised and deceased father. The coat was riddled with paint, scuffed and frayed all over. “Fuck his ass!” he would say, “What he spent his life savings on with this coat, I can make in an hour. Here – I even spit on this coat!” Alberto would forcefully remove the garment, cough up a yellow string of spit onto the tan coat, and put it back on.

The block long, paint splattered and mahogany floored loft was broken up by thirty-five makeshift rooms which acted as studios for a wide variety of artists: filmmakers could be found in one room, photographers snapping pictures of nude models in another, while another room had two male models engaging in Olympic style wrestling in a small ring awash in Hellman’s mayonnaise. Salsa music blared in one wing, and speed metal in the other. The array of busy artists and wannabes was dizzying as Ray looked around while waiting for Rain.

“Well, I thought I’d bring Ray down because he’d like to read some poetry at the 8th Annual David Wojnarowicz charity event.”
“Poetry is a bore. Let me see him. Call him over.”
Rain, a petite kid with cautious eyes, had been Alberto’s assistant for eight months. One week he wanted to be a model, another week he starred in four independent films and wanted to be an actor, and for several months he attended massage therapy school – of which he practiced extensively on Alberto - to Alberto's utter delight. Rain liked tight fitted clothes and displayed a rose colored pageboy haircut.
Ray was staring at the naked male models wrestling one another.
“Whatcha doing Ray?” asked Rain with a grin.
“Nothing.”
“Come on – Alberto wants to see you.”

“First of all, he smells like funk,” Alberto said.
“Huh?” replied Ray.
“If you could change him, bathe him, and brush his hair – I’ll consider it. Only because I like you Rain, and because I think of Monet’s water lilies when I think of your name.”
“Don’t you want to hear some of my stuff,” Ray asked.
“Poetry bores me.”
Ray looked at Rain. “I don’t need this shit.”
Alberto shot daggers at Ray. “Do you think I have time for this? I have two commissions due yesterday and you stand here and talk about poetry! Rain – I need you to run an errand for me – pronto. Take this down.”
Rain scrambled for his pen and pad, A pad he wrote occasional stuff on. Rain sometimes thought he was a writer as well.
“I need matte acrylic ‘violet light’ and matte acrylic ‘green blue deep’ – along with twelve packs of fresh scent multipax Tampax tampons. You have my charge card. Seeyabye.” Alberto was done with Rain for now. Rain grabbed Ray by his coat, and they hurried out.

“Where does that cocksucker get off talking to people like that?” Ray asked as they perused the feminine hygiene aisle at Duane Reade.
“He is the hottest artist in town right now. I get paid wicked cash to run errands for him. I can deal with his attitude. It doesn’t mean anything anyway.”
“I thought you said he was in a good mood?”
“This is his good mood.”
Ray walked around with a small basket, dropping some stuff in. “Did you bring my Mach 3 razor blade?”
“Ah, shit …”
“Balls.”
“I forgot it.’ Ray shook his head. “Here, help me with all of this. Can you put some of this shit in your basket? My basket is overflowing with tampons.” Rain loaded up Ray’s basket.
“What are you doing?”
“I need help carrying this shit.”
“Don’t put that crap in my basket!” Ray exclaimed.
“I just busted you watching naked guys wrestling.”
Ray stared at the floor for a moment. “Where are the Mach 3 razors anyway?”

At the register, Ray was patting down his pants, inspecting his pockets – he wore a dumbfounded expression. Rain was all ready. His stuff was bagged and paid for.
“What’s the matter?” Rain asked.
“I think I left my debit card at home?”
“So what are you saying? You don’t have any money?”
Ray checked himself again. A crowd of impatient New Yorkers tapped their feet and rolled their eyes behind him. “Yeah, I think that’s what I’m saying.”
“Let me see what you have there.” Rain said as he investigated the items and pulled out his charge card.
“No, I can’t ask you to do that. No. Please,” implored Ray.
“I’ll pay for this stuff, get me another time.”
“I can’t let you, please.”
“WOULD YOU LET HIM PAY FOR IT, WE’RE IN A HURRY!” shouted a customer on line.
“I’m not paying for these, though. I’ll give you some that I have. Here, put these back,” Rain said, handing back to Ray the Mach 3 razor blades.
“Sure, no problem – thanks.” Ray walked off to put the razors back.
On their way out of the store, the alarms went off. Both Ray and Rain showed the security guard their bags. The guard looked inside both and let Rain go through first. His bag didn’t sound. When Ray went through again, the alarms blared once more. The security guard took the bag and ran it over the metallic pad. When Ray walked through a third time – the sirens rang yet again, but the security guard just let him go.

Rain and Ray approach the entrance to Angelo’s studio carrying their bags:
“I don’t think I want to go up there again.” Ray said.
“What?”
“It’s bullshit. I don’t need his benefit. I can read in dozens of places all over the city.”
“Yeah, but all of those won’t equal the audience for this benefit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …”
“Come on, come up. I bet there will be a bunch of naked women up there walking around. That’s better than staring at four walls.”
Ray shook his head uncertainly.
“Sure it is!” Rain said.
“Yeah, you’re right …”
Rain and Ray both had a good laugh and walked into the private elevator and took it on up.

Most of the music had died down, and the rooms were less full than before. As if on cue, two tall naked brunettes with long legs and cushiony bottoms strode right past Ray and Rain like eloquent giraffes.
“To be as beautiful as these ladies ... ahhhh...,” Rain said, as he looked around – surveyed his work space, let out a deep and proud exhale of breath, and smiled.
Ray wasn’t impressed.
“None of these women can match Delta. Not a one.”
“Who’s Delta?”
“She is the warm sound of cellos in the vast emptiness of the desert. She is that and more.”
“Come on,” Rain said as they walked over to Alberto. Alberto was on a large stepladder and was painting several bald eagles onto a large white canvas.
“Did you get everything?”
“I did,” Rain said as he placed the bags down on a counter top full of painting accoutrements.
“Open up all the tampons and put them in these buckets,” Alberto said. Rain opened up the packages of tampons. Ray helped dump them into the buckets.
“I’m not paying him, Rain. I’m paying you. I see your friend never found a shower. Why didn’t you take him to buy clothes? You had my Amex card on you.”
“Fuck this and fuck him!”
“I know talent when I see it,” Alberto said as he turned on the ladder to address Ray. “And you don’t have it!” Someone turned up the music just then. It was pop sensation Brenda Burgundy.
“I hate to break this to you St. Croix, but you’re no Andy Warhol. There was only one, and I met him.”
“First Gisela throws up, and then Danny doesn’t pay me, now this ingrate is insulting me in my own studio! Rain – do away with your friend this instant! And would someone turn off that Burgundy shit! I mean really! When is she going to just die already?!” Brenda Burgundy was just another screwed up pop star, ending up in the papers and on television for all the wrong reasons. Alberto had already forgotten about Ray as he moved in on his painting once more.
“I can find my way out,” Ray said to Rain, as Rain turned down the music. On his way out, though – Ray noticed an old piano by the freight elevator. He stared long and hard at it, then looked back at Alberto who was painting swiftly with short strokes. Ray sat down on the piano chair and began: the sounds that leapt from the instrument were as dainty as icicles and as mellifluous and speedy as a hummingbird’s wings. Moritz Moszkoski’s Etude in A-Flat Major, Op. 72, No. 11 is a virtuoso piece in which dexterity and mastery are crucial. Ray handled it with flawless precision. Alberto stopped painting and turned back around on his ladder – watching Ray in amazement; and once Alberto stopped and looked, everyone in his studio followed suit. The piece was only a minute and a half long, but the spellbound look on everyone’s face lasted much longer.
When Ray finished, he shot up from the stool, turned around, gave a look of utter venom to Alberto and yelled:
“George fucking Bush!” then opened up the large heavy door and slammed it behind him – rattling most of the paintings on the wall.
Alberto let out a laugh. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Ray was seated on his torn up sofa bed tearing open a pack of Mach 3 razor blades. A clear plastic bag of hard rolls sat at his side. His kisser was lathered with shaving cream as he placed a new blade onto his razor. He got up and closed the window on the cacophonous sirens and horns of rush hour and placed his stereo needle back down on The Five Satins and their hit making song. Staring into the mirror covered with photos of his blonde Goddess, Delta – Ray began to shave: closing his eyes now and then and swaying his head to the music. Wiping his razor off on his soiled v-neck wife beater, Ray returned his gaze always to his obsession:
“You and I – Delta, we’ll be reunited in this world, or the next,” Ray said as he leaned in and kissed the big glossy photo of the blue eyed, blonde bombshell of his dreams.

For more on these and other characters please visit earlier "Slices" Tudor City, Revival, and The Loan.

The Acting Today HoliGAY Special

Peter Rinaldi, the creator of "Acting Today" has pulled "The Acting Today HoliGAY Special" from this post. Please view the following video announcement.


Acting Today Episodes One, Two, Three and Four
Acting Tomorrow Episodes One, Two, Three and Four

I AM LEGEND by Frank Palmcoast

We at The Boutros Boutros Follies are proud to have on board veteran and retired movie critic of The Palm-Aire Gazette of balmy Pompano Beach, Florida - Mr. Frank Palmcoast.

When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry with the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on everything Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that wonderful senior citizen discount?

Mr Palmcoast offers his typical no holds barred look into the new blockbuster Will Smith flick I Am Legend, and the hot topic of crappy endings.

****************************************************
For me a much better title for this movie should have been, "I AM STUPID' for paying $7.00 to see it! It's all about the last man on earth. A remake of perhaps the Omega Man or The Castaway. In one Hanks had a volley ball and Smith has a dog and I thought the dog was the best actor. The Ford Motor Company must have payed a lot. The last man on earth picks a Ford Mustang and basically other Ford products--I would have picked Cadillacs, BMW, Rolls Royce's etc. There are these zombies who are not only free from cancer but possess super strengths and continually come thru walls. Come to think about Omega Mans bad guys, they were Albino's and I wonder why Albino's like in the Divinci Code, are always the bad guys! The first half of the movie was kind of interesting but the second half sucked and it had a terrible ending. You know when one actor is the entire movie, it goes from interesting to boring pretty fast. Being the last man on earth and not seeing another human in three years and this young girl shows up and they have bacon and eggs together. Come on, he'd be all over her bones.

Initially I thought this was my biography because where I came from I was the Legend!

I could go on and on but you got your $7.00 revue!

*****************************************************

Mr. Palmcoast has two more cents to throw in about crappy "Hollysplinter" endings.

Before I'm asked to go on Larry King or perhaps or on the Entertainment Network let me add a Little post script to my "I Am Legend" revue: In my humble opinion Hollysplinter is creating movies for their peers and not their audiences. The endings in No Country For Old Men a great title for old men who hated the ending and Gone Baby Gone absolutely a stupid and an ending that pissed off the entire audience, then there's "Before The Devil Knows Your Dead" another ridiculously stupid ending. The bad guy, the perp, the killer walks--are you shitting me. Another audience puts up with a Hoolwood stupid ending. Now last but certainly not least, the Soprano's. After this audience waited years for them to finally allow the audience to see it's last episodes, the final one, when and where everyone is waiting for the great ending, on perhaps the greatest TV show ever, the screen goes blank and Mr. Chases's brain and the credits begin to roll. I of course would like to see a HAPPY ENDING but I would certainly settle for JUST AN ENDING!

Figuring out how to use a Flip video camera by Kitheron Kimberlies

Those Flip video cameras are the damnedest things, as our Boutros Boutros Follies technology expert Kitheron Kimberlies found out while watching an episode of Miami Vice.

Vitali Investigates

Vitali Patoshik is a hard hitting journalist that gets to the bottom of the issue. If there’s answers to be had from any of your favorite stars… he’ll get it and stop at nothing to do it….

Here Vitali gets the answers from Tampa Bay Lightning star Martin St. Louis at the post game conference that followed Tampa’s breathtaking 4-3 victory over the Calgary Flames…

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Weakly Installed

Mary Wyatt Matters responds to the play Imaginary Invalid, by Molière

Usually, the most important element for a director to get across to the audience is his/her superobjective—why the director deems this particular play to be important. The play itself was written as a satire on the medical profession of the time, among other things. Although this point was solidly made, the strongest sense that I received from the director’s interpretation was his love for the play. It is incredibly difficult to attach evidence to this response, but I will try. I will also attempt to tease out the aspects of the play that I think help explain why he loves this play so much.

First of all, my sense of the director’s love for the material sprang from the set itself. The pink or red (at least, that was the color I remembered them to be) receding frames, the font for the letters W/C, the seemingly slanted stage, and the intimacy between the stage and the audience established an embracing quality and an invitation to approach, to feel at ease, and to enjoy. The set was like an expensive Valentine’s Day card.

There was a marionette-like quality to the movement of the actors on the stage. In remembering the performance, it is easy to imagine them to be floating. This was due to a number of influences—the strongest of which was the director pulling the strings above. I think this play is incredibly suited for that kind of directorial exposition. Certainly Molière’s text was exceedingly expositional (he even brings himself up), and a number of the characters are expositional, both within the structure of the plot, as well as outside (the maid brings up the term ‘exposition’—an integral part of this type of play’s development). Each actor expressed this marionette quality in different ways: The maid established it in her accentuated movements, which incorporated very talented isolation work (a more full-bodied rendition of the old Phylicia Rashad ‘Mrs. Huxtable’ character), which I would have liked to see more, considering her great ability. At first, I wished that all of the characters had more of that swaying quality, but as the play developed, I understood that developing their own rhythms would be much more rewarding. However, the development of the other character’s inherently different movement was not always achieved or encouraged enough. For instance, the actress playing the elder daughter of Argan invited a petulant, almost mannish element to her movement, which would have been hilarious to see exaggerated in comparison to her slight size, as well as in comparison to her more effeminate and tall lover. She arrived on stage with it, but wasn’t always able to maintain that strength with as much gusto as in the beginning, which leads me to believe that she wasn’t made enough aware of its power and importance. The wife of Argan had a natural smoothness and liquidness to her voice and havior, but she could have been encouraged to exaggerate it more fully, towards the direction of ‘Cruella DeVille’ in a good mood. Because the set was so small, it must have been necessary to block each scene very carefully, but I never once felt the limitation in the any of the actor’s movements in that respect. Their movements were strategically controlled, which enforced the marionette-like aspect by the director’s loving hand.

Ironically, the most improvisational or undisciplined movement was by characters which later in history actually became puppets: the commedia dell’arte characters. Although I found many of the interludes enjoyable, the volume of the actresses was a bit under, as was some of the general movement by those particular characters. This was discussed in class, and therefore need not necessarily be repeated in full. However, I will never forget the ‘Aladdin’-style interlude, where a sultanesque performer with shadowed face made multitudinous sexual gyrations behind Argan’s sister. That action completely upstaged the singers, and had nothing to do with the show, but I haven’t laughed so hard at anything in a long while. Actually, the ‘Aladdin’ moment was second only to the time when the actor playing Argan delivered the line, “I knew my daughter could sing, but I had no idea she could sight read!” with such a preternatural combination of innocent surprise, awe, and humble pride amidst his utter ignorance of the real situation transpiring in front of his eyes. I feel like I could write an essay on just that one moment alone!

That kind of singularity doesn’t just occur in the two seconds of its delivery. It has to be recognized for its worth by the director amidst hundreds of other very funny lines; it needs to be chosen as a focal point based on this recognition of worth; it needs to be built towards through the rhythm, pace, blocking, and volume of the whole group scene, and then it needs to be delivered with a life that comes from an actor who is made to understand its worth, and is directed to consistently express all of its humorous facets. Only a complete investment in the superobjective of the play, or a full love of the writing and its performance potential could have inspired such a high accomplishment as was the buildup and delivery of that one line. It is my belief that the latter energy was most prevalent, considering the line’s lack of connection to the ultimate message of the play. (It will be a sheer joy to remember that line and to re-enact it for others in the form of a one-woman show—with admittedly great injustice.)

The main reason I see the director’s love as flowing from the aesthetic and humorous textures of Molière’s play as opposed to the actual message, is due to how much he seemed to directorially ‘drop the ball’ at the crux of the actual message. Somehow, the physical acting, vocal musicality, and enjoyment level of the piece dropped the moment Argan’s sister arrived and tried to force him to admit that he wasn’t actually sick at all. The play suddenly switched to weak realism without the self-awareness which would have made it funny—playing it off as if Argan was really only having a bad dream, which starts to blossom later (rather too late). The audience was forced to view the scene from the less artful and entertaining gaze and words of Argan’s sister, and I think the scene would have been better served if it had been expressed more from the perception of Argan. I also detested the character choice of the ‘enema-ist,’ and don’t understand why the director allowed the actor to make such an angry and sinister choice. The same actor achieved very funny moments as Puncinello, because his inherent anger was exaggerated and made foolish by having to sing goofy folk songs, but the anger was too prevalent unmasked, and really shook the humor out of the later scene.

All was not lost, because the final ‘graduation’ scene returned the piece to its bubbly good-humor and jabs at itself. Argan was again so replete with humble pride and glee at his knowledge and its musical kudos from the ‘academics.’ In whatever form of service the actors performed, there was an incredibly consistent commitment. Their commitment to the director’s love was very visible throughout the play.

Bedbugs X

Bedbugs X




Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.


Click here for last week's Bedbugs.






How can windchimes move like that indoors?
Purpose-filled. It had been a man. I envied
them both. Sliding the aftereffect into
a place you can't find it gave her a second wind.
The sun came out, she dreamt. What is the sun dreaming?
Enemies somewhere with voices heard, collaborate in
corridors that stretch so far...there is stilll not
enough room for them. They stand and wait
while the walls lick at them in language no one can understand.
Charging forth into mental history is bold; rattled
upstairs and screaming upstairs again. We simply
can't thicken the barriers enough to pretend
the neighborhood is safe. Wrapped in ecstatic rising
notes, risen thoughts, seasons manifest
in the little shoebox she brought on the trip.
I'm puzzled. The one pretending as I am
puzzled...something is growling. Pretending
to be cute. Wish you'd just come with me.







Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:







-rhythm that can give one pause
-hummingbird heart attack wasted on acid
-how many rings on one hand
-tricking, cackling
-pan across the street for a reason
-make her believe one of us was right
-expecting a fleet of red petals below

Click here for next week's Bedbugs.
-Adam

Teddie DeKiekens' Sports Bonanza

Teddie’s explosive show for the week of 12/9/07

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Past Sports Bananzas: Week One, Week Two

Malevolence: Bereavement set visit

Adam Barnick goes behind the scenes of Malevolence: Bereavement, the prequel to the acclaimed 2004 horror film Malevolence.

Acting Today (Episode Four)

Stevens Craig hosts this discussion program focusing on the fine art of acting. Special guests will share insights into the wonderful world of the stage and screen.
Special Guest: Jonathan Roumie

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Bedbugs IX

Bedbugs IX




Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.





Salient walls traversed inside or outside deacon's
parity fantasy veiled leaves Walter's impression
desired thirty eight warped steps in advance.
Cars crated to be known outside your box; oil
is a matter of defiance, deference; opera seats
whittled down leave few venues for the intelligent.
The vacuous look themselves up in the dictionary.
Shadows of fluttering birds, pen ran out of ideas
and drive long before she came into the picture.
The bed of nails has spread its rusted cancer
throughout the state. Slipping off groaning,
grating brackets is the oil's remains.
Walter finds his brother's essence in the forest along
with the remains of his clothing. Never
seen again, he thinks. Embracing
what's necessary gets you out of the box. So they say.
Pain in the left three hands shadowed by omniscient
vapors, cold in the back of the room.






Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:






-it had been a man
-sliding the aftereffect
-enemies somewhere with voices heard
-language no one can understand
-rattled upstairs and screaming upstairs again
-rising notes, risen thoughts
-wish you'd just come with me

Click here for next week's Bedbugs.
-Adam

The Throes

"The Throes" is the new serialized, minimalistic story/script/phantasmagoria from Peter Rinaldi, presented exclusively here at The Boutros Boutros Follies.

The Throes
Part 1:
"I was doing shit in my blackout"

John passed out on the floor of his bathroom. It’s afternoon. Tons of light pouring in the window. A cell phone ringing in the other room. It’s loud enough for him to stir from the noise.
He jumps up. He is a horribly handsome man in his late 20s, not quite looking his best at the moment. He runs into the living room slash bedroom slash kitchen. Grabs it. He got up too fast; he’s shaky.
John/Hello?
Voice/What’s up?
It’s Sammy, a friend.
J/I can’t talk dude, I’m fucked up.
S/Why’d you answer the phone if you can’t talk.
J/Yeah, I know, right? I don’t know.
S/So you can talk?
J/What the hell do you want? Why are you calling me so early?
S/Its 2:30 in the afternoon.
There are boxes everywhere. He’s in the process of packing to move out. John scans his room. Something is wrong.
J/I blacked out again. I was doing shit in my blackout.
S/What?
J/I must’ve moved stuff last night. I don’t remember moving this stuff.
S/Oh yeah? Listen, I gotta talk to you about what happened with “Mustard” and “Ketchup”.
J/Yeah, definitely…
He is not really paying attention. Something is bothering him about the boxes.
J/…I want to know what happened.
S/Yeah, developments. Well, do you want to get something to eat? Like, say, in like an hour or something?
John is disturbed by something on a box, enough to move toward it.
The word “Stacie” is written on one of the boxes.
J/(low)What the fuck?
S/What?
He looks at another box. It has the word “Donna” on it in black marker as well. Another has “Tina” on it. Another has “Alice”.
J/What the fuck is this?
S/WHAT?!
J/Someone wrote on my boxes.
Another call coming in. He looks at the phone. It says “Mr. Flynn.” There is black marker all over his index finger.
J/Dude, my boss is calling, I gotta take this.
S/Where do you want to meet?
J/I can’t eat man. I drank too much last night. I’ll call you back. [Clicks over] Hello?
Voice/Get over here now, it’s an emergency.

____________________________________________________________________

Mr. Flynn asks John to sit down on his living room sofa. He does. He’s nervous.
MF/Did you have a good time last night?
J/Oh shit, what did I do?
Mr. Flynn is ‘Tim Roth’ meets ‘Yul Brynner’. The first three buttons of his cuff-linked shirt are open. His apartment is modern but cozy and completely ‘upper east side’.
MF/You drank a lot huh? You don’t remember?
John puts his head in his hands.
J/(Barely audible) No.
MF/I believe you.
J/(Lifting his head up)I really don’t. What happened?
MF/You kissed my daughter.
John’s face changes another color. It is not on the color scale and not worth trying to describe. He starts to shake his head.
J/No way.
MF/Listen to me…
J/Oh my God.
MF/Listen… (He looks around. Gets up.) Let’s go in my office.

When Mr. Flynn closes the door of his office John is already sitting on the chair next to Flynn’s desk. He is sunk low. His head is almost at his knees.
MF/Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.
J/I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry-
MF/Save it. She’s fourteen years old. I should strangle you to death right now.
John looks at him right in the eyes. He nods his head repeatedly.
MF/I happen to trust you, John. I actually still trust you. But it is going to take a lot to begin to make things right with you in my mind. Would you like to begin to do that?
J/Yes. Yes I would, Mr. Flynn.
MF/Okay. I have been thinking of asking you to do something that I didn’t think you would do, but now, thanks to your “mistake”, well, let’s just say I no longer have to make this a request.
J/Whatever you need me to do.
MF/I am telling you things that are not to leave this room. You hear me?
John nods. He swallows. He’s a little more fearful of what Mr. Flynn is going to say.
MF/I a feeling my wife is being unfaithful. I don’t know with whom. It might be with a number of men, it might not be with anyone, yet. I don’t know. But she’s at least trying to cheat on me.
Mr. Flynn stands in front of him for dramatic effect.
MF/I know she finds you attractive. I want you to seduce her to see if she is interested in having an affair with you and then I want you to report back to me.
John is not reacting. He seems calm.
J/(Not in a pleading way, but calmly)Is there any way I can talk you out of using me for that? She and I get along well. She is very nice to me. I wouldn’t feel right-
MF/No.
Silence.
J/(wincing)How do you suppose I go about doing this?
MF/Come on John. I know you’ve fucked wives.
John looks at him, repulsed. Mr. Flynn smiles, then drops it. He stares at John for a long time.
MF/Now go apologize to Kira.

________________________________________________________________________


Kira’s room is not “typical teen”. It could be mistaken for Grandma’s room. There are no posters or clutter. There are no electronics save for a tiny TV on the dresser. She is sitting up on the bed with a book in her hand. John is half-way in the door frame.
K/You told me you would say that today.
J/ What?
K/You told me, last night, that you would come to me today apologizing and saying that you didn’t remember anything.
John is taken aback.
J/Are you being serious with me?
K/ You were bored with the party. You said you’d help me with my homework but you were manic. It was kind of funny. I was laughing. You really don’t remember?
J/No. And that’s the problem right there. We shouldn’t be hanging out like that. That happens too much. You shouldn’t be hanging out with adults in your room.
K/(laughing)Why are you telling me? It was your idea.
J/Alright. (He scans the hall) Listen to me. I think you’re a great kid. I enjoy talking to you. You are really smart and funny and you’re gonna be a beautiful young lady, but-
K/(smiling)I already am a beautiful young lady.
J/Kira, you know what I mean.
K/I’m just kidding.
J/But, despite what I might have said when I was really drunk, I didn’t, and don’t, want to kiss you. I do not like you like that, at all.
K/Chill out. I don’t care.
J/I date women.
K/Yeah, I know, you told me.
J/What!?
K/You told me about all the girls you’re dating right now.
J/Aww, for fuck’s- I can’t believe this. What did I say? Wait! You know what I don’t wanna know. This is sick (He freezes. He is remembering something.)Oh my God.
K/What?
J/(More to himself than to her)I think I labeled my boxes with all their names.
He looks at his black marker-ed fingers. He is overwhelmed a bit by the thought and bizarreness of this.
K/(slowly)Okay. You need help.
J/Yeah, I probably do. Listen, if you are not bothered by the kiss, why did you tell your dad?
K/I didn’t. He must’ve seen us.
John’s face drops slightly.
She goes back to her book.
K/Don’t worry, I’m not fucked up from making out with you.

________________________________________________________________________

John’s box-filled apartment. The lights are low. A woman, Sonja, is lying naked on his bed. John is kneeling on a pillow next to her.
J/I have to leave.
S/Who is it?
J/What?
S/Who is it tonight?
J/Sonja, why do you want to put yourself though that?
S/(Holding in tears)Good….question.
She reaches to grab her clothes.
J/We have to talk about him before you leave. It’s important.
S/No! I don’t want to talk about him!!
J/He knows something is up with you.
S/So what! Keeps him on his fucking toes. (She stops gathering her clothes and turns to him) Wait, how do you know? Did he say something?
J/He asked me to seduce you, to try to get you to have an affair with me.
She takes it in.
She is struck with laughter.
S/(laughing)Wow. He asked you to do that? (She stops laughing and suddenly looks like she is going to cry.)That’s almost sweet. (She begins to gather her clothes again.) Did you tell him to go fuck his sick ass self?
John doesn’t know how to answer. It wouldn’t make sense that he would agree to do something like that for no reason. Did Mr. Flynn tell her that he kissed Kira? Probably not. He is taking too long to answer. She looks at him.
J/Yeah…I mean, I didn’t say that, but, I told him “No, that’s sick.”
S/Then don’t worry about it.
J/But he knows you’re attracted to me.
S/So what? Who isn’t?
She looks at him with deep longing. She is drowning. Her eyes fill up with water.
John gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. The shower turns on.
She puts her bra on. His cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. She leans over, looks at it. It says “Alice”. She sits back down and coldly slips her top on. The vibration stops. She freezes, closes her eyes, sighs, then opens them again. She scans the looming boxes surrounding the bed. She sees the marker-written “Donna” on the box right in front of her. She turns and sees “Greta” and scanning more of the room she sees “Tina”. She looks panicked, like something is overtaking her. She is frantic now. Her eyes stop on “Alice”. She stares at it. She bites her teeth together. The fist that holds her panties clinches tight. Tighter. She pushes it into the mattress hard.
The phone beeps twice and is silent.

to be continued...

Teddie DiKiekens' Sports Bonanza

Teddie at it again with some breaking news for the week of 12/2/07

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The First 60 Days of BOUTROS!

When we set sail with the ship of Boutros two months ago, we told ourselves the following:
"When people come to The Boutros Boutros Follies they will find a plethora of contributors presenting them, consistently, with a myriad of items in varied mediums." But no one, NO ONE, expected this...

Let's start our tour through the maze of Boutros with the consistent contributions of my fellow co-founders. Brian Hughes started his "Weekly Slice" of fiction work with three true slices of life - "Klinger", "Legs at Lunch", and "The Fiber One Revelation" and then began a fascinating on-going series of interconnected stories, "Tudor City", "Revival" and "The Loan". Non-fiction is also a forte of Mr. Hughes. His insightful "Learning how to Practice" series, concerning the practice of Buddhism, begins with "Mindful Walking" and "Judging". And, in case you didn't know, his word is final. If you don't believe me, check out his reviews of The Darjeeling Limited and Lars and the Real Girl.

With Bedbugs, Adam Barnick has presented us with "an experiment in inspiration and occasionally directed stream-of-consciousness" that satisfies as poetry and puzzle. WARNING: this ongoing series, aside from being completely unique, is addictive. Start with the Explanation Page and then jump in at Bedbugs I. See you on the other side.

Need a break from all this reading? Barnick and Hughes have both contributed photo essays that show the wordsmiths have eyes as well. Check out Barnick's Bereavement and Hughes' gear.

Mary Wyatt Matters has been delivering consistent, mysterious writing, with a flair for brevity. The latest work that she has weakly installed is of particular interest.

Stevens Craig has brought The Boutros Boutros Follies into the podcast world with his "Acting Today" program (Episode's One Two and Three). Disclaimer: those looking for a show about acting might not be as satisfied as those looking for some laughs at the expense of someone's debacles.

Variety is the spice of Boutros life, thus we are proud to have Michael grace our site with his perfect blend of food and life. Start your feast with "The Reek of Mustard".

It seems as though I am the one contributor who can't get a handle on this whole consistency thingy. I dipped into some critical writing, then a personal essay about a collaborator, then I performed some dramatic readings of a couple Syd Barrett songs (Love You & Bike), then I did a music video for Complete Kite Clusterfuck.

Finally, sports fans, are you thinking there is nothing of interest for you on The Boutros Boutros Follies? WRONG! Our newest contributor is the immensely talented Timmy Cassese. His Teddie Dikiekens' Sports Bonanza is "ALL OVER the sporting breaking news".

That's the first two months of The Boutros Boutros Follies. If you have like "things", keep checking in, you will not be disappointed.

-Peter Rinaldi

Bedbugs VIII

Bedbugs VIII



Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




She takes her time getting used to violet sunlight
but the jacks spread across the floor have the
consistency of the folds of roses and following
the attempt of the last insects shot in a fisheye lens
which don't matter venetian shafts of light that are bottled
in a manner that suggests grey brackets and triumphant
behaviors and wild rust, everywhere. Indeed.
Taking it somewhere better requires love I can't give.
The fifth floor walkup, the red hat from a period piece
must be May's, though I've never met her. Striking weather
inside somewhere, following up on emotions that
I enjoy. Animals resting on the mountain, blue sky
is easy to locate as snow and gravel and..put the
lights back on!






Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:






-deacon's parity fantasy veiled
-thirty eight warped steps
-opera seats whittled down
-pen ran out of
-slipping off groaning, grating brackets
-embracing what's necessary
-cold in the back of the room

-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.

Teddie DiKiekens' Sports Bonanza

Teddie is an explosive sports personality with a flair for the fantastic! He shoots from the leg and always gets the scoop on the beat of sporting. When he’s not “rejecting the free throw” or “robbing from where mama keeps the cookies on top of the cupboard”, he’s ALL OVER the sporting breaking news…

Here’s Teddie for the week of 11/26/07

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The Story Slice: "The Loan"

by Brian Hughes

“I’m grateful God. I am blessed to be alive and be in your service,” Iris whispered to herself kneeling at a pew inside The St. Joseph’s Baptist Church. Iris liked to wear carnations in her hair like Billie Holiday. “Watch over my Devon. He wants to change; I know he does. Please give him this bank loan so that he may start ovr a-fresh.” She then clasped her freshly lotioned hands together, closed her eyes and said a Glory-Be and an Our Father.

Like a bunny rabbit, she sped toward the doors, only to be stopped by Reverend Johnston.

“Dear Iris – good morning. How are you?”
“I’m fine Reverend.”
Reverend Johnston had a manicured moustache and the honest eyes of a Golden Retriever.
“How is Devon? Is he okay?”
“Yes Reverend. We’re trying to straighten out his credit situation.”
“Ah, yes … credit cards are the devil’s workshop.”
“We’re trying to get a loan so that he may be able to pay off his debts.”
“I’ll say a prayer.”
“Thank you Reverend Johnston. I have to go; I’m running late for work.”
“God bless you.”
“See you on Sunday!” tossed out Iris as she threw open the metal bar of the church doors, the Reverend smiling after her.

Iris carried a shopping list in her left hand and pushed a red cart with her right - eyes darting in and out of the aisles of the supermarket – rushing, stopping and starting – grabbing a peanut butter on this shelf, snatching toilet paper from that shelf. She looked down at her watch and then over her shoulder to see if the lines were swelling at the registers; they weren’t. Good, she thought. Stopping in the soup aisle, she noticed that they were out of Macaroni and Bean. Iris thrust her long arm behind the varieties of soup cans in hopes that there was one more left in the darkness of the inner shelf; but there was none. “Oh, well,” she thought as she grabbed a few cans of lentil.

Iris was paying at the registers when Josie, the head cashier, walked over to her.

“You’re needed at the returns desk.”
“I know … I know … don’t you think I heard my name called. My lunch break is not over yet.” Iris looked down at her watch and shook her head in frustration.
“Well don’t be getting up in my grill,” Josie said as she walked away in a huff.

After having stowed her groceries away in the store locker room, Iris set out into the madness of the super market. She put on her poly-cotton managers vest and wrapped her register keys around her upper arm. A stout woman wearing a hairnet was waiting to damn Iris to hell.

“This is not acceptable, you here! Not acceptable!”
“Let me see the receipt.”
“This is just not acceptable.”
Iris gave the receipt a quick once over and handed it back to the irate woman. “Go ahead and make an even exchange.”
“This is not acceptable!”
“I said you can make the exchange!”
“Oh … all right. Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
“Iris?” asked Josie.
“You hear this woman? They are trying to put me in the madhouse, but I’m not going without a fight. What do you need?”
“Karen needs you for a void.”
“Take care of this gentleman over here. He always returns canned goods to get money for his prescription. Just check the dates on the cans – if they are good, we’ll take them.”
Iris hurried over to Karen to take care of her void, meanwhile Mr. Burkson, the head store manager, opened up his office door and called out to Iris.
“Iris, could you come here for a moment.”
Her phone rang. It was her mom.
“What do you want mom, I’m busy.”
“Kayla is hungry – what am I supposed to feed her – dirt from the playground?”
“Mom please! There is plenty of oatmeal left. Feed her that till I come by.”
“Don’t forget the toilet paper.”
“I didn’t.”
“And the soup!”
“Goodbye mom.”

It was 4:03 in the afternoon. Iris could tell without looking down at her watch. Why? Because “Hella Good” by No Doubt was playing on the C-Town radio station. Everyday the same rotation of songs played at the same time. It bothered Iris that she noticed this. It almost drove her crazy.
Iris hurried into Mr. Burkson’s office. “I’m not looking forward to this,” Iris said to herself as she opened the door to find Darryl Walker leaning against the office wall, arms folded, eyes coldly staring back at her.

“You’re a liar and a bitch is what you are.”
“That’s enough of that Darryl,” yelled Mr. Burkson.
“I’m gonna get canned because of your lies. You never liked me Iris.”
“That’s not true Darryl. Your own actions put you in this position. I had no other choice.”
“You had no other choice … no other choice.” Darryl punched the wall with his fist. Iris didn’t budge. She held her ground.
“I’m calling the police Darryl,” said Mr. Burkson as he picked up his office phone.
“No need … no need. I’m outta here. It’s on the both of your head what happens to me and my little girl, who I won’t be able to feed, because I’m out a job.” Darryl looked her up and down. “I know where you live.”
“Don’t you dare fucking threaten me!”
Darryl smiled, looked at the both of them, and calmly walked out of the office. One side of Iris’ face had begun to twitch nervously. She collected herself and took in a deep breath but the twitch persisted.
Mr. Burkson just shook his head. “I’m sorry Iris.”
“Whatever …”

Iris was done with her shift. Before she collected her groceries, she pulled a few packs of cigarettes out of her work vest and placed them in her shopping bags – looking around to make sure no one was watching her. She then took out her cell phone and dialed a phone number.
“Hello, is Ray there? My name is Iris, I’m a friend. Okay … could you please tell him to meet me outside in ten minutes if you should see him? Thank you very much.” Iris closed up her phone and hurried to the front of the store. Once she was outside, she walked over to the freight door. Carl, the produce and bakery supervisor, was having a smoke.

“Any good left-over hard rolls tonight?”
“Have a bag right over here that Willie prepared for you.”
“Thanks Carl – and thank Willie for me. I have to run – I’m so late.”

Iris was glad to be outside in the fresh cool air. The cold air of the supermarket got into her bones after a while and made them ache. She was carrying three bags, but they weren’t all that heavy. Her phone had begun to vibrate. She just knew it was her mom, but had no intention of answering it.
The VFW hall was on Clark Street. Iris placed her groceries down and waiting for ten minutes in the cold for Ray to come out, but he never did. Refusing to wait any longer, Iris walked into the building, and in looking for Ray, found him sitting calmly in his AA meeting. Iris felt embarrassed as she gesticulated to him to step out into the hall. Ray was a gaunt figure with a beer belly. His hair was shoulder length and a bit on the greasy side. The work pants and flannel shirt seemed a size too big as he kept pulling up on his belt.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Ray – but I have your cigarettes and bread for you.”

“Not at all – I’m so grateful to you for bringing me this. How can I make it up to you?”
“Well, why don’t you come by the soup kitchen every now and then and help out. We can always use volunteers, and you’ll get some free food in the process.”
“Hmmm … yeah, I should do that, but I have lots of issues with kitchens and I’m allergic to soup.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But wait… I have a new poem I just wrote that I would like to give to you.”
Ray walked back into the meeting and discreetly removed a folded up yellow piece of paper from his coat pocket. He handed it to Iris who began to unfurl it.
“Wait – read it outside, please.”
“Oh – okay.”
“I should get back to the meeting. Thank you – this helps me out so much, I can’t even begin to tell you.”

Iris was glad to help Ray out. She thought of him as an intellectual and it hurt her to see him waste his talent in hard liquor and pain medication. He usually comes by the supermarket and picks up the bread himself, but she knew he had his meeting and wanted to reward him for attending by giving his some rolls and a couple of packs of smokes.
Iris made it to her bus stop with a few minutes to spare. Her phone vibrated. It was Devon:

“No word from the bank yet?”
“He’ll call either today or tomorrow, I’m sure of it. Stay positive,” said Iris.
“How’s Kayla?”
“I’m on my way over to my mom’s now.”
“Good.”
“How is work today?”
“Same shit – different day.”
“Why don’t you come by the soup kitchen tonight?”
“I don’t think I want to. It depresses me.”
“It’s Thanksgiving and we have a lot to be thankful for.”
“I know … I know … don’t give me the third degree.”
“Whatever … just remember – God gives to the giver and takes from the taker.”

The bus pulled to the curb and Iris got in. As soon as she sat down she read Ray’s poem. Something about his gentle words and hearing a couple of healthy, vibrant children playing in the seat behind her, made the tears just flow down her cheeks like rain from an umbrella.

“Where is my macaroni and bean soup?” Iris’ mother asked.
“We ran out – have the lentil.”
“I don’t want the lentil. I want the macaroni and bean! The least you can do, after all the work I do for Kayla, is get me the right soup.”
“I’m sorry if taking care of your only granddaughter is a chore, but she is not a well child.”
“Don’t give me no guilt trip. I just gave her the medicine.”
Iris’ mother wore a maroon wig and a flowery house dress. Her arthritic hand curled around the knob of her wooden cane as she hired the television set to a near ear busting volume.
Iris picked up Kayla and walked her around her mother’s apartment. The place was full of Christian iconography and paintings. “Devon will be by soon to pick Kayla up and you can watch your shows.”
“You’re ungrateful, you know that? It’s not easy at my age to take care of this child.”
“I’m going to bring you back a bunch of leftovers tonight – I’m sure that will make you happy and keep you from complaining.”
“I don’t like cranberry sauce. No cranberry sauce.”
“Yes mom.”

The line of homeless people started at the long table of volunteers plopping turkey, stuffing and other Thanksgiving foods onto their styrofoam plates, out to the long corridor, into the foyer and out onto the cold dark street. Few of the unfortunates spoke to one another – instead they just inched forward, staring down at the torn shoes of the person in front of them – waiting anxiously to get their cavity ridden teeth into some dark salty meat.
It was Iris’ job to supervise the other volunteers and to replace the empty canisters of food with fresh heaping and hot canisters of food brought from the kitchen.

“Hand me the sweet potatoes. Here George, take this back and refill. Keep it moving. You’re all doing a fantastic job!”
After several minutes of non-stop flow, Iris noticed Devon making his way through the crowd, a grin on his face – trying to make contact with her eyes as he made his approach. When he got closer, she could see a bouquet of red roses in his hand.
“Here,” Devon said, as he handed Iris the roses across the long table of food.
“What’s this for?”
“I got the loan.”
“Yay! I’m so happy for you. Now we can rebuild your credit. Give me a kiss and a hug.” Devon reached across the table and they embraced.
“That right there is about the sweetest thing I have seen all week. I mean I am just struck with a robust kind of sentimentality,” a homeless man said, as he patted Devon on the back and carried on down the food chain. Devon and Iris smiled.
“Where can I get me an apron,” Devon asked with a grin.
“You are too cute. Why you can find a few on the table over there.”
“Great.” Devon kissed Iris once more and walked over to the aprons.
“Do you have any more stuffing available behind there?” asked another homeless person wearing a large moth eaten winter cap.
“Sure I do, here is a fresh batch.” Iris placed down a new container and gave the man a nice scoopful. As the man turned to his left to check on the mashed potatoes, Iris smiled, removed Ray’s poem from her pocket and placed it neatly on the man’s tray.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Iris said aloud to the hungry throng before her.


For more on these and other characters please visit earlier "Slices" Tudor City and Revival.