Jonas

When I first me her she was beautiful. Everyone thought so. And we were in love. Or so she kept telling me. I never knew what love was. Something poets make up to sell Hallmark cards and flowers. Just another business. Someone with their hand out.

Kimberly was from a fine family. They did not approve of me although they hardly knew me. If they had known more about me, their opinion would have been more justified.

We met at a company Christmas party. She'd had a little too much to drink. And I hadn't enough. I fucked her outside the banquet hall in a snow drift.

About a month passed. Then Kim started to call me. One day I found her standing at my office door. She looked beautiful. I told her to come in and have a seat. I closed the door behind her and as I passed behind her I drew my finger along her shoulder. She had the most exquisite skin. I could feel my trousers tightening.

I leaned back in my chair.

“I was going to call you,” I said.

“I'm pregnant,” she replied.

I rocked back and forth in my chair. Still smiling. What the fuck does she want from me?

“Congratulations,” I said.

“It's yours,” she said.

“Why don't we talk about it over dinner.”

We moved in together. Marriage was discussed. As was abortion. I didn't have the stomach for either. Kimberly got into the whole domestic thing. Fixing up the apartment. Inviting friends over. Hers. I had few friends except for the guys I played hocked with on Friday nights. I still dated other women. Kimberly didn't seem to notice. But then she got needy. She had started to show. And nag. I don't remember the first time I hit her.

One day I got home and her brother Scott was at the door. He beat the crap out of me. I deserved it. No doubt about it. I arranged for Kimberly to get an abortion. And gave her cab fare. Before she left, she turned and spoke to me.

“You really are a scoundrel.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

......................................from my ebook 'Domestic Violence'

Original Sin

I feel guilty. I haven't done anything evil but still I feel as if I should confess to Father Flanagan. He gave me God's forgiveness and penance. Saying Holy Marys. I have my doubts about the whole thing. But maybe that is my sin. Maybe doubting is the Original Sin. Dad said Original Sin was particular to the Irish. The English didn't seem to carry such a weight.

.............................download 'Down East'

Nightmare

I have a nightmare. We are all asleep in our house. The barn has settled down with the pigs and horses nodding off. In the field next to the barn, the cows are grazing. The moon is full. In the distance a fire is raging. And heading toward us. I told John about my dream. 'If there was a fire, the dogs would be a howling.' In my next nightmare the dogs were howling.

.........................download "Down East"

I Was Born Restless

I was born restless. The oldest. Not the first. A boy before me. Died after a few weeks. He was never given a name. John was born after me. And then another unnamed. And then all of my sisters. I wish I would have been born a boy. To run through the fields like a wild dog. To skinny dip in the local river. To laugh my head off. And not worry about what the ladies at church thought. To get off the Island and head west.

...............................download 'Down East'

Morris and Paul

Morris showed up at this desk in the Ministry of Government and Consumer Services at a quarter to nine, took off his jacket, opened The Globe and Mail and began to do the crossword puzzle. This would continue through his coffee break and into his lunch hour. Morris was a small neat man, built somewhat like Peter Lorre, with a small black toupee and grey pasty skin. Paul arrived at the office a few minutes after nine. Paul was a tall version of W. C. Fields. He removed his jack and took a seat at his desk. He threw one of his long legs over the other, took a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and began to pick his teeth. I was a file clerk.

“What's you doing there, Maurice.” Paul asked. He knew what Morris was doing. Morris did the same thing everyday. But it pleased Paul to ask. And he called Morris, Maurice, for the same reason.

“What's a six letter word for enthusiasm?” Morris asked.

“A six letter word...” Paul pondered. “Vivacity.”

“That's eight letters,” Morris replied.

“Take a couple of letters out,” Paul responded, then added, “I think I might go out to lunch today. Something Mexican. Would you like to go, Maurice?”

“I brought a lunch,” Morris responded.

“How about Chinese, then,” Paul replied.

“I have a tuna fish sandwich,” Morris exclaimed.

“Tuna fish... eh. Who made it for you?”

“My mother.”

Paul thought about that for a moment. He knew that Morris's mother had made the sandwich.

“I'm thinking of growing a moustache,” he said.

........................download CAMEOS

8:00 A.M. WINDSOR, ONTARIO

Woke up at 4. 5. And 7. Had a shower. Bothered by a rash. Set the coffee. Timer. Left a kiss on her forehead. Took out the trash.

Sunlight crawling over the roofs.

There's something going on in the parking lot near the red Toyota. Two shadows are now one.

Traffic chaos. Kids are screaming, like Ann Coulter, in the back seat. The radio gives you the impression that the general public is being tortured by the heat.

Trucks lined up on the Ambassador Bridge. Waiting for inspection. I feel like jumping into a different life. Somewhere where Irene still thinks about me and our dreams haven't been pissed away.

Car in front slams on his breaks. License plate. 'God doesn't think about you. He's too busy with the Baptists.'

..........................................download 'My Hair Is On Fire'

The Widow Sat Down Beside Her

Mrs. Murphy, often called the Widow, propped up in her walker. Her arms like wires. Leaned against the counter in the cosmetic section of the drug store looking into the mirror that was looking back. She played with her hair. Remembering those cool April evenings, when in front of her vanity she drew a brush through her thick long brown hair. And the mice scurried across the floor. And looked up her night dress.

Without turning her head away, she spoke. Like she was Alanis Morissette.

“I used to be a great beauty.”

Deborah Hall, the cosmetician stood on the other side of the counter. Like a secretary waiting on the corner. For her boss, a married man, to pick her up. Cleaning the glass counter top with a dry cloth and no sense of humour.

Deborah hadn’t heard Mrs. Murphy. She’d been thinking of last weekend. It was already Tuesday and she was still thinking about Frank. About how funny he’d reacted when she told him that he should make use of a good deodorant. Right after his eyes had rolled up in his head beads of sweat rolling down his forehead onto Deborah’s chest and that terrible lonely sigh slipping out of his lungs when he had reached his orgasm. Or what passed. He hadn’t phoned back. And it was Tuesday.

Deborah Hall looked at the Widow. Patiently. She’d heard the old lady’s story so many times. It was tiresome. How all the young men of her village had fought each other for the privilege of her... company. How she had met them in the parlor. Did anyone have a parlor anymore? She met them with the doors open. So that her mother could hear everything happening. As if anything happened. How the last one standing had proposed to her. Not standing. But kneeling. A sentimental cliché. But still romantic. And tragic in a kind of pathetic way.

Mrs. Murphy had fallen for someone else. Was that possible? A fellow she’d met while she’d been with Harry looking for his new car. Did she actually fall? Harry was another suitor. More interested in big automobiles. He never called them cars. Mrs. Murphy’s mother did not approve of Harry. He had grease under his fingernails. Why wouldn’t he? He was a mechanic. Owned his own service station. Wore his uniform as proudly as any sailor. Maybe her mother was right. He smoked. Held his cigarette in his teeth. Too tight. Like the Germans. There was a bad lot in the big city. Where temptation lay in small hotel rooms with the windows open on hot sticky August evenings. Mrs. Murphy told Deborah how someone across the way had watched them making love. Her and Harry. From another building. Where they made fans. On his lunch break. And Harry wasn’t the one she’d fallen for. That was Earl. He was an accountant. In his father’s business. And the fellow was standing in the window boldly holding his male thing in his hand while Harry did what he was proud of. And Earl was bound to inherit the business. And a comfortable living. And with the right woman, an ambitious woman, maybe expand into real estate. Mrs. Murphy believed in property. It’s the only thing that they’re not making any more of. Unless we travel the stars. And then all bets were off. And Mrs. Murphy stopped. To take a breath.

For a brief moment Deborah considered confiding in Mrs. Murphy. Should she phone Frank back? Or just chalk it up as one more guy? Who couldn’t appreciate a good thing. But then dismissed the idea. Talking to Mrs. Murphy. How could you trust anyone who had so much stuff dangling from her? And we’re not talking about jewelry. From the chin, the neck, under the arms. And we don’t want to imagine anything else. Being old is so hideous.

“Dear,” the Widow said. Attempting to get Deborah’s attention. From her own selfish thoughts. Maybe laying with her lover. Under a tree. Where’s it’s shady. Deborah smiled. Mrs. Murphy had succeeded.

Then all the young men were gone. Mrs. Murphy continued. This time as she had on previous occasions. Gone. Young men sucked up in the war. Lost in foreign mud. With her image in their hearts. Like a thorn in our Saviors flesh.

That’s what it is. She’s Pathetic. Deborah believed when she stood in her smart little outfit in the drugstore. But in those moments late in the evening when Deborah was alone. She wondered. As she cleansed her face with care. Whether she would feel that way when she was Mrs. Murphy’s age. And how fast that time might come. And would she have any memories of her own. To soothe a lonely soul.

Mrs. Murphy leaned over the counter and whispered to the cosmetician.

“There are only two things that smell like fish,” she said. “And one of them is fish.”

“Mrs. Murphy!” Deborah cried and stepped away. The widow often talked like this in Deborah’s ear. When there was no one about. If only the old lady would speak loud enough for others to hear, she would have a witness. And proof enough to have her removed from the store.

Deborah turned on the old woman and spoke lowly as if in confidence.

“How can you talk to me like this? Such intimacies should not be shared amongst strangers. And we are certainly not friends.”

The old woman giggled and returned to her previous conversation.

“Oh, yes,” the Widow said standing more erect to get a look at her bosom in the mirror. “I had all the young men eating out of my…” She smiled at Deborah and added. “Lap.”

“Mrs. Murphy, you mustn’t…”

The widow stepped back over to the counter and took Deborah’s hands in hers. Took them swiftly. Like a thief. Ready to run off.

“All my life I’ve been holding back but not now. It’s so liberating being my age. You can say anything and be forgiven.”

“But I…”

“Don’t you have gentlemen friends,” the widow asked, “who, in the heights of passion, whisper lovely obscenities in your ear?”

At that moment a mouse ran down the middle of the aisle. Deborah Hall unable to scream, pointed at the small furry animal. Mrs. Murphy turned and seeing the animal, brought her foot down heavily on the floor. The tiny creature disappeared under the Widow’s shoe. A moment later a pool of blood crawled out. Deborah Hall, about to scream, fainted instead.

..................download "Open 24 hrs"

Josephine

Josephine

Josephine graduated from high school with honors and entered college. Studying science. Headed for a career in medicine. It was thought how wonderful it would be if she was the first female to become the county coroner. Josephine took a summer job at the local drug store. Her father, who was a police officer, had connections with Mr. Edwards, one of the owners. Josephine loved working as a cashier. So much so that she considered quitting college and working full time. Her father forbade Josephine from making this decision. Anyone with your I.Q. should not be working in a drug store the rest of your life.

And then something happened. There was a boy. Paul McGregor smiled at Josephine the first day she worked in the drug store. The first moment she walked through the front sliding doors. The first time she walked out of the Ladies’ room wearing her blue and ruby uniform. Josephine had been blind sided, struck by Cupid’s arrow. Working at her cash register, she would glance down the aisle hoping to see Paul. Working. Merely walking by.

I’m mad about the boy. A gay appeal that makes me feel that there is something sad about the boy.

On her breaks Josephine would sneak out to the back of the drug store where Paul went to smoke. She wouldn't speak to him. Would stand there like she was out for a break of fresh air. Like she was lost in thought. One day Paul offered her a cigarette and she took it. Smoked like she’d be born to it.

Chained her to the cigarette. And the boy.

Occasionally Paul would come up and talk to her and May when business was slow. Paul was a mysterious figure to Josephine. He smoked. He shaved his head. Though it was obvious his hair was red. Like a Russian. His eyes were dark. Like some count. In the court of Catherine. And he liked to read books. The only person Josephine ever met who read Moby Dick for pleasure. And he wanted to be a writer.

If only I could employ some magic that would finally destroy this dream that chains me to this boy.

Josephine wrote as well. Mostly poetry. About romance. And unspeakable crimes against loneliness. Unmentionable acts against decency. She submitted her work to several magazines. And was published. More than once. The publisher encouraged her to write more. And she did. But she kept all this quiet. Her father did not approve of such frivolous activities as poetry. Won’t pay the rent! was his usual refrain to any activity he didn’t agree with. Nor did she tell her mother. The content of her poems would have scandalized her mother, a religious and rather prudish woman.

One day when Josephine caught Paul writing in a small book he always seemed to keep on him, Josephine mentioned that she wrote. Paul encouraged her to bring in some work so he could read it. She did. When Paul finished reading three of her pieces he just stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she finally asked.

“They’re very… adult.” He smiled awkwardly.

“You think I’m a pervert?” Josephine asked. “I’m taking an introductory course in psychology at college and I have all the symptoms.”

................from my ebook "Open 24 Hours"

Emily

Emily had an old face. She always seemed sad. She was quiet. Sitting in front of me in Miss Kelly's class she hardly spoke. Never answered a question. About anything. And she started to bring me things. Candy from the store. Comic books. I never gave her anything. And then on a summer evening I broke into her family's home and started reading her diary. She had so many adventures. And admirers. Then I realized she was making it all up. Sex stuff. She wanted to have sex with her brother. But he didn't want to. Threatened to tell her parents. This was stuff you couldn't get out of your head.

.........................................................

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Matinee

download 'Somewhere in the 1970s'
..........................

Matinee

Theatre floors. Sticky. Popcorn like burrs. Bull frog in the corner. Belched. Lovers in the back row. Crunching on crackers and marmalade. Red exit sign stared into the darkened room. Unblinking. Like it was keeping its own counsel. My heart was in the coke holder.

On the screen a man was pleading. For his Mexican life. Weeping. Before the dark gringo. Clint Eastwood turned to the audience. He wasn't smiling. Eyes smoking. Finger twitched. There was a gasp from the audience.

The seat beside me was gutted. A spring dangling. Out of the belly. Of Monica's nightmare. I remember her staring down at her purse. On the floor. Bleeding.

Monica had an abortion. Clint grinned. Bit off the end of a cigar. 'Everything was too complicated,' she said. 'How was I going to explain a baby to my husband?' I felt cheated. 'If you knew, what difference would it have made? Look around you. Life is despised.' A gun shot. Clint relit his cigar. The audience laughed.

Twelve feet tall. Wearing a white gown. Covered in dust. Passing sentence on everyone he met. Clint loved to feed his gun.

Exit. Outside. Sunlight was roaming the street in gangs. Everyone wore shades. Even the truth. Slipping down Yonge Street. Passed the panhandlers, the No Parking signs, the Hare Krishna from Buffalo. Stepped into a bar. A waitress served fries. And beer. A blonde on a platform. In a slinky dress that shimmered. Singing a Billie Holiday tune. Forbidden fruit. A stripper stood on another platform. Scar on her belly. A baby or an appendix. I ordered a beer.

Monica said that there were 2 other girls. At the clinic. Waiting alone with her. One was scared to death. The other chewed gum. And spit out her teeth. A doctor passing by. Dropped a bag of blood. It ran in little fingers across the floor. The doctor ordered the stripper to pick it up. I kept looking at the singer. Thinking. I could change her heart.

The waitress brought over my beer. I gave her a bill. Of some kind. And waved off the change. She made small talk. Single syllable words that sounded like silence. 'Honey,' she said. 'You look like shit.' I smiled and told her I'd been involved in some medical experiments. She nodded to the bartender. Took a seat. Said that she needed a break. Her feet were killing her. Lit up a cigarette. Blew a smoke ring. And I saw an angel. Being buried in a cloud.

Doger Ransel

On October 19 of 2017 a long cigar like figure was seen passing through the sky. Oumuamua, it was named. No explanation for its nature was brought forth before it disappeared once again into mystery. In 1948 Doger Ransel bought a Land camera, the Model 95, in Boston at Jordan Marsh department store for $89.75. He wanted to make postcard pictures of his girl Mercury DeBlanc. They went to a park and an isolated corner where they couldn't be seen. Doger captured dear Ms. DeBlanc's smooth milky breasts. And something else. A long cigar like figure moving through the sky across the face of the sun making the yellow ball appear to be laughing. 

......................download 1948: Things To Come

Moses

download Freddy
...........................

I didn't die. I woke up in the box. Startled and then bored. But remarkably comfortable. I started to think about my ideas and realized in a flash that I had been wrong. But where? A life's work become vapor. That didn't sit right with me. At virtually the same time there was a tremendous thunderstorm. From inside the box, it sounded like Ludwig van. I could hear the clashing of the large drums and the blaring of horns and the crescendo of duelling violins. And then a flood . That swept my coffin down a fast moving river until I became lodged in some high reeds. A beautiful young woman named Imelda saw my coffin, opened it up. And so I arose. Ah, I said to myself, I have become Moses. 

The Interview

download Helen
..................

Detective Peeters is sitting in his office, smoking a cigarette. His sleeves are rolled up and a cigarette dangles out of his mouth. Detective Rousseau steps into the room.

Rousseau: “She’s here.”

Peeters stands up and grabs his jacket. He puts it on and grinds his cigarette out into an ashtray.

Peeters: “Send her in.”

Rousseau steps out of the room and a moment later he escorts Helen Iadipaola into the room. Rousseau exits and closes the door. Peeters gestures to a chair and the blonde takes a seat. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit in her dress revealing her knees. Taking out a lipstick tube and a small mirror, she puts some lipstick on. Peeters pretends not to notice.

Helen: “You wanted to talk to me.”

Peeters steps around his desk and takes a seat on the edge.

Peeters: “Did you know Christian Ghent?”

Helen: “Who?”

Peeters: “The recently deceased.”

Helen: “You could have asked me that yesterday at the hotel.”

Peeters takes out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to the blonde. She takes it. He produces a lighter from his pocket and leaning over lights her cigarette.

Peeters: “You looked uncomfortable yesterday.”

She draws on the cigarette and stares back at Peeters whose face is only inches away from her own. The smoke slips sensuously out of her mouth.

Helen: “No. Why do you ask?”

Peeters: “A maid saw Ghent with a blonde just before he died.”

Helen: “And she identified me?”

Peeters draws back. He shakes his head.

Peeters: “Why are you hanging out with Schmidt?”

Helen: “He’s got money. And he spends it. On me.”

Peeters lights up his own cigarette.

Peeters: “Singing doesn’t pay?”

Helen: “Not enough.”

Peeters: “What’s enough?”

Helen smirks: “More than a cop can afford.”

Peeters steps back behind his desk and sits down in his chair.

Peeters: “I’ve seen babes like you before.”

Helen: “Sure you have.”

Peeters: “You’re going to need my help, Miss Iadipaola. Call me.”

Helen: “Is that it?”

Peeters: “That’s it.”

Helen stands up and turns toward the door. She turns back to Peeters who remains in his chair.

Helen: “Aren’t you going to show a lady the door?”

Peeters points to the door.

Peeters: “It’s over there.”

Helen smirks: “You don't much like women, do you Detective?”

The Day After Christmas

A young boy is disillusioned by Christmas. All the gifts have been unwrapped and everyone has gone about the business of cleaning up. And yet he feels sad. He and his best friend, Ludwig Van (the invisible dragon) take off on a journey into a wintry day. In the depths of despair they find the true
meaning of Christmas.

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Mel

“Things are not going well,” Mel said. Mel was the second of the hall monitors. He was working on his Phd in history. He took the job as hall monitor to see how he felt about teaching kids.
“Can't get a parking space?” I asked. A lot of students had brought cars to school. Space was at a premium.
“I can't stand the kids,” Mel said.
“They're not that bad.”
“They say that I snort when I talk,” Mel explained. Met did snort. “Its a condition that I have. And sometimes when I'm not alert, they'll walk single file behind me down the hall.”
I shook my head.
“Sometimes,” Mel said, “I get dark thoughts. Like I come into the school with a gun. And take them out. One by one. I know it would cost me my job but it is so tempting.”
“Maybe you need to take some time off,” I suggested. He did. He quit.
............from my ebook HALL MONITOR

The Television

(excerpt)

3. Television

Drood’s stomach sits like a small pet in his lap. There is a hollow appetite. Edwin raises his head. Like a drowsing watchdog. He rubs his groin. The mechanics of imagination resonate in his head. Like an old rusted out nineteenth century machine. The speculation of pornography. The clash of body parts. Sheila’s voice. Sweet, assured, strong, perfectly articulate. Trousers. Passion. The terrible ache of his lust. A cup of good one-liners. The self is a mob of influences. A compilation of urban nightmares. The late Twentieth Century was populated by disembodied souls. Imprisoned in straw men. Talking to each other like a convention of stand-up comics breaking in new material. The Jungian consciousness is television. God sends angels to do his bidding. The devil sends commercials.

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The Mystery of Edwin Drood

 

Fu, The Man With Three Fingers

(excerpt)

“I used to hang out with Dylan,” Everest said. He waited for a response from the panhandler. When there was none, he continued. “They call that a brush with greatness. When us plebs have a passing relationship with the aristocracy of the world. That’s what famous people are, Fu. They are aristocrats. And we are fascinated by them. Their habits. Their loves. Their addictions. Their passions. Their tragedies. The Greeks started the whole thing. This preoccupation with the gossip of the days. All those gods. Like the folks on Coronation Street. You like soaps, Fu?”

Fu did not respond.

How'd he know that I wasn't famous. Maybe not to him. But what does this giant goof know about famous. Maybe he's gay. He think I'm going to do him?

“Human nature,” Everest continued. “That’s what soaps are about. Oh, how we love their tragedies. I’m talking about the rich and famous. We’re not too interested in each other’s tragedies. That my friend is a downer. No sir. You interested in your neighbours problems? That’s called being nosy. And you better not be interested in your neighbour’s passions. We call that, perversion. Both his passions and your interest. The common man is not interested in other common men. That’s why it took so long to have universal medical coverage. I’m not boring you, am I? I do tend to go on.”

Fu did not respond.

Everest cleared his throat.

Christ, he woke me up.

“But," Everest continued, "you were asking me about Dylan. I mean Bob and not Thomas. I used to handle their gear. Bob and his band. Called the Band. Talk about imagination, eh? My, those boys had a good time. Girls coming out of the woodwork. Covered in butter. Not too many smart ones. But girls nevertheless. Mostly high school drop outs. Girls who couldn’t pass math. Well, who passes math anyway? Beautiful girls. With liberal views on life if you take my meaning. You know what I’m saying?”

There was a certain sadness in Fu’s eyes. Resignation. Defeat.

He's going to go on like this forever. What did I ever do to him?

Everest smiled. “And I got some myself. Like the crumbs from the master’s table. There were a lot of crumbs. Girls would sleep with the hands that served the master, so to speak. You know what I’m saying. Of course you do. I guess I got arrogant. Forgot my place. Figured Bob and I were buds. I don’t know what got into me. I got it in my head to tell him to stop smoking. He was coughing a lot. I didn’t want the world to lose another voice to smoke. That’s what I said afterwards. But truth be told, it just got annoying. Coughing first thing in the morning. Right over your breakfast. Right over your corn flakes. Who's know what could have been fired out of his lungs. And I was eating blue berries with my flakes. And in the middle of your afternoon nap, Bob would start hacking. And there was phlegm. Disgusting. Horking and snorting. Spitting. Well, you get the image. So I told him to quit the fags. And Bob looks at me like I’m from Mars and tells me to fuck off. In front of everyone. Later one of his people told me I was fired. Bob couldn’t do it to my face. Royalty doesn’t do that sort of thing themselves. It’s beneath them. I got other work. Frank Zappa for a while. That was one crazy fucker. He loved motels. Wouldn’t stay in a hotel. Had to be a motel. With a pink Cadillac parked out front. Like he might have to make a getaway. Rented one if he had to. Just to park in front of his motel for the evening. Crazy. The world just ain't big enough for that dude's form of crazy. But, I quit. Couldn’t work for a guy named Zappa. What kind of name is that? Zappa. Like something from a science fiction movie. Flash Gordon. I love the evil guy in those flicks. What was his name? Merlin? Maurice? Mandrake?” Everest scratched his head. “It was Ming. Emperor Ming. A relative of yours?”

Everest looked down at the panhandler. Fu continued to ignore him. To read his book.

I couldn't believe that the guy wasn't picking up on my signals. What did Sun have to say about situations like this? Take off the head and the body would follow. I should cut his balls off.

“I guess the Dubliners must be about people in Dublin? I’d like to write a book about the people around here. In the Six Points. What the hell would you call it? Etobians? Etobicokians? Six Pointers? Just doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Who wrote the Dubliners?”

The panhandler turned his book up.

“James Joyce,” said Everest. “Sounds like a happy name. What is he? Jewish?”

The panhandler shrugged.

The guy was an idiot.

“No, not Jewish. Irish. Sounds Irish. Bob Dylan sounds Welsh. He’s Jewish. Did you know that?”

The panhandler nodded angrily.

“I think he changed his name,” Everest said. “Why do you figure he would do that? Sounds like a cliché in show business. Folks are always changing their name to make them sound more memorable. John Wayne changed his name. Marion Mitchell Morrison. Cary Grant was Archibald Alexander Leach. Bob Dylan. Wonder what Dylan’s name was before he changed it.”

The panhandler looked up at Everest.

“Zappa,” Fu replied and went back to reading his book.

That felt good. Finally I had upstaged him. Or so I thought.

Everest looked down at the panhandler as if his feelings had been hurt. Then he looked around to see if anyone was watching and when he surmised that no one was watching, he grabbed the smaller man, raised him to his feet, off the ground, and putting an arm around Fu, began to dance a Fox Trot.

..................................

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OPEN 24hrs

 

 

When You Wish Upon A Star

Chapter 16: When You Wish Upon A Star

Michael Subloski is being carried up in the elevator by Helen and the hotel detective, Bobby Rousseau, his arms over each of their shoulders.

Michael: “Did you ever look back in your life. Looking back on all those great old memories. I have. And I don't have any.”

Helen: “You don't have any memories.”

Michael: “I have one memory. Every day of my life was exactly the same as the day before.”

The elevator doors open.

The trio are stumbling down the hall. Michael is singing the song, When You Wish Upon a Star.

Writer: Leigh Harline; Lyrics: Ned Washington

When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires will come to you

If your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star as dreamers do

Like a bolt out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you thru
When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true

Helen looks at Bobby Rousseau: “He couldn’t lose.”

Rousseau: “If he hadn’t passed out from drinking, he might own the hotel by now.”

They enter Michael’s suite. Michael is laughing to himself.

They put him on his bed.

As Rousseau is taking off Michael’s shoes, Helen takes his jacket off. She puts it over a chair. His wallet falls out of his jacket.

Michael cries out: “My money! I”m going to buy one of those paintings out there. Someone said they were impressionists. I'm pretty impressed.”

Rousseau chuckles as he raises Michael’s legs and puts them on the bed

Rousseau: “We aren’t going to steal it, fella. I’ll put it in the hotel safe.”

Rousseau steps over and checks Michael’s jacket. The wallet has gone. He turns around to find Helen holding the wallet out toward him.

Helen: “It’s a lot of money.”

Rousseau looks at Helen skeptically.

“Yes. I better get it to the hotel quickly. It’s quite a temptation.”

Rousseau leaves the room.

Helen takes a blanket and puts it over Michael.

She looks down at Michael.

Michael: “You look like an angel.”

Michael passes out. Helen steps over to a nearby desk, opens a drawer than closes it quickly. She leaves the room.

................................

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Somewhere: Life Has Its Drawbacks

 

By The Ear

Chapter Three: By The Ear

People are milling around in the large lobby. Vittorio Genova is doing his own brand of milling. Mostly with apologies. A gentleman in a brown two breasted suit is at the desk searching his pockets for his wallet. The desk man is watching him with total indifference. A few kids are running around the lobby making a nuisance of themselves. Their parents, so caught up in the moment, seem quite unaware of their children.

A young boy in shorts runs into a darkened room. It is a bar. The sign outside the room advertises the appearance of Terri Brennan, straight from Broadway. A moment later a waiter with his hand securely grasping the young boy's collar drags him out of the bar. His mother who has been looking around for the boy sees him being escorted from the bar. She wacks the young boy on the back of the head. Then reaches into her purse for a tip. The waiter accepts it indifferently.

A second room is closed to the public. The sign in front reads, “Reserved For The Kelly Wedding”

Cassie and Quinn pass the sign and make their way to the front desk.

An elderly gentleman, Michael Subloski, is standing in front of a painting. A young boy is standing beside the old man.

Young boy: “Whatcha see?”

Michael Subloski glances down at the boy. “Its a painting. Rather peculiar.”

Young boy: “There all over the hotel. My mom says its an exhibition. But not the exhibition with rides and candy floss and house of mirrors. The boring kind. With art.”

Michael Subloski: “You don't like art. I thought all children liked art.”

Young boy: “I like baseball.”

The young boy takes off into the lobby, passed the bar. From the bar can be heard Clarinet Marmalade by Frank Trumbauer and his orchestra.

..................................

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Somewhere: Life Has Its Drawbacks

 

 

There were new rooms. In old hotels. There were men with wallets and guns. And girls with dreams and a hole in their forehead. What is over the rainbow. Somewhere men repent. And women tear off their masks. Words that are spoken. Are heard and meant. Truth is nothing more than not having an alibi. And while the police are looking up your priors the future passes by. Sleep in the Rainbow Hotel. Carry your bride over the threshold. Give her children and then remove the gun from the dresser drawer. She's complaining that she's cold. Pretty soon she'll be reminding you that you're getting old. The mirrors are all suicidal. Fall into the darkness. At the Rainbow Hotel the closets are all taken.

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Somewhere: Life Has Its Drawbacks