A Revealing Short Story

The  Cruel Spring and the Simple Passage of Time

                                         By Pete Schulte

It was late afternoon when I ducked into a bar I went to every now then. It was nothing fancy, just a place to have a beer or two if I had the time. I usually kept to myself and didn't see many familiar faces. But this day was different.

I recognized a guy sitting at the end of the bar and could see that he knew me as well. It was Randy Perkins. He was an old classmate a few years ahead of me. I gave a slight wave and reluctantly went down to meet him. “You didn't have to come over, Michael,” he said to me right off. It was always difficult with Randy Perkins…

Since I did come over he glumly offered the barstool next to him. I glumly accepted it. “So, how are you, Randy?” I asked him.

“Very well. Hey, why don’t I buy you a drink? You weren't so bad back then. You weren't so good either, but hey, I’ll still buy you a drink.”

“Thanks, Randy.”

Randy Perkins was known those years ago as a skinny oddball freak who dared to be different when being different could get you hurt. The other older kids had it in for him, a seething hatred and were just looking for an excuse. One day he gave them one.

I was hanging out with my buddies in a loose circle on our BMX bikes. Spring was everywhere but we had nothing better to do. Just then Jeremiah Roop rode up to us in breakneck speed before skidding to a halt. “Hey guys, guess what? The big kids caught Perkins in the park! He was picking flowers without his pants on. They've got him cornered. Let’s go!”

We raced to the park as fast as we could pedal. A guy caught picking flowers without his pants on? That was good stuff for bored kids. At the park we stopped and listened for any commotion in the dense brush. Finally we heard random shouts and laughter and found the older kids surrounding a large oak tree deep within the park. We quietly gathered behind the others and searched the giant oak for any sign of Randy. Sure enough he was up there, bare-assed as described by Jeremiah. “Get down here now, Perkins!” yelled Tony Crane, their tough guy leader. “Take your punishment!”

“Leave me alone!” Randy hollered back.

“Down here!” Tony commanded. “I’m afraid your flower picking days are over.”

Randy didn't budge, and it wasn't long before rocks and dirt clods started flying up to his perch within the branches. He didn't last long. We listened as the sick thud of rocks struck his paper-thin body, and suddenly branches were splitting and Randy Perkins landed with a hard thump on the ground. He didn't move a muscle, half of him naked and covered with welts and blood. We all thought he was dead. The older kids scattered without a word and so did we. It was Jeremiah Roop who finally stopped us from fleeing the scene. “Wait,” he said. “We can’t leave him like that. Let’s find some grown-ups. Let’s get him some help.”

With Jeremiah leading the way, we eventually found some construction guys to tell, and not long after we heard the sirens begin to wail. Help was on the way for Randy Perkins, and here I probably would have just pedaled away with the others if not for Jerry Roop. It hurt to face him, this Randy Perkins. It always did. “Randy,” I said to him, “how did you come back from all that?”

“From all what?”

“You know, the thing in the park…with the flower picking and the tree.”

“Oh, that,” he said. “Well, it was hard at first, especially the next few days at school.”

Randy Perkins was back in school the very next day after his fall from the tree. In those days you didn't miss much school -- for any reason. Kids would come by your house, and if you weren't projectile vomiting or bleeding profusely from the anus, you went to school. The thought was, if I have to get my ass to school, then your ass is going to be there as well.

“But you know, Michael, the best thing to happen after the tree thing was the simple passage of time. Other things happen in life. The world spins on. I mean, it was big news when you yourself took those pills and went down. It was big news…for about a week. Then we all went on our way. It’s sad to think about it like that, so you just stop thinking about it at all.”

“But what about you, Randy? Here you've done so well for yourself. I want to follow your example. You don’t seem to let the past creep in at all.”

“Michael, I will tell you this: I still love to pick flowers, and for that matter I like not wearing any pants. And anyone who has a problem with that can kiss my mother-fucking ass. How’s that for burying the past?”

The end. 

The Corn Starch Kid: A New Short Story by Pete

The Corn Starch Kid

                                  By Pete Schulte

He traveled a lot, got around. Always a new town or city, always on his own. He liked it that way. No one had any claims on him. His time was his own. At night he liked to go to bars. He didn't want anything fancy, but no dive bars either. Something in between would suit him fine.

He ducked into a place called Monty’s near the train station. It was cold and snowy outside so Monty’s would have to do. There were women there and that’s what he wanted. He drank gin and made small talk with the bartender. He waited until somebody came around. Somebody always came around. “What’s your name?” he asked above the loud country music when she came within earshot.

“Me?” she asked as she hovered near the bar. “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was going to buy you a drink but I wanted to get your name first.”

“Laverne’s the name,” she said. “What kind of drink you thinking of buying me?”

“Well, I’m having a gin and tonic. Would you like one as well?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Laverne.

Laverne had big hair and a big body. He liked them that way. He liked Laverne just fine. He liked her even more when she asked if he’d like to come home with her. Really, he thought, was there any doubt?

Laverne’s apartment was small but neat. If he ever stopped his rambling ways, this was a place he could see himself in. But now wasn't the time for such thoughts. Now was the time to get Laverne in bed. “You want me to make you another drink?” she asked him.

“No,” he replied. “I want to take you to your room. I want to undress you. I want to make love to you.”

“Wow, Speedy Gonzales in the flesh here. You sure don’t waste any time. A girl‘s got to put on her track suit with you around.”

“Or take it off,” he added.

Laverne shrugged. She took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. True to his word, he immediately undressed Laverne and put her down on the bed. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and waited for him to join her. He then surprised her by pulling out of his pocket a baggie filled with white powder. “Hey, what’s that stuff?” asked Laverne. “Better not be cocaine because I don’t do no drugs.”

“It’s not cocaine,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Then what is it?”

“It’s corn starch.”

“Corn starch?” said Laverne. “What are you doing, baking a cake?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m going to rub it on your body. It’ll feel good.”

“Corn starch on me?” she said. “What am I, a lump of gravy?”

“No.”

“Corn starch on me?” she repeated. “What am I, a can of soup?”

“No.”

“Corn starch on me?“ she repeated yet again. “What am I, a custard dessert?”

“Look,” he said, “it washes off easy. I think you’ll like it.”

“I think I’ll be vacuuming for a week,” she said.

He ripped the sheet from her body. She covered herself as best she could. “No, you don’t need to do that,” he said. “It won’t hurt you at all.” He drizzled the cool corn starch from her neck to her knees. He rubbed it into her skin. She said to him, “It feels like if I roll around some I’ll turn into a giant burrito.”

“No, you’re fine,” he said to Laverne. “You feel good and I feel good.” He then undressed himself and got on top of her. Afterwards she said to him, “Well, you look like a powdered donut but that sure was fun. Say, what was your name again?”

“They call me the Corn Starch Kid. I don‘t go anywhere without my corn starch.”

“The Corn Starch Kid?” said Laverne. “Now I've heard everything. But hey, Corn Starch, let’s say we do it again, okay?”

The end…until the next town anyway. 

A Cosmic Short Story

It’s Just the Moon

                           By Pete Schulte

They were traveling back to earth in their shuttle, the Lunastrata. They had no passengers, only cargo. Tourist travel to the moon had dried up thanks to the opening of Mars. Moon novelty had worn off months ago. After the taking in the view and doing some shopping, there really wasn’t much to do up there. So they were coming home, for the last time, or at least until they could catch on with a Mars shuttle. One pilot didn’t mind so much. For the other though, it was devastating. You see, he loved the pilot sitting next to him. He loved their time on the moon, so far away from the headaches back on earth. Oh to be on the moon again, he thought, in their little room with a view of deep space, a billion stars shimmering, shooting stars they could almost reach out and catch.

Pilot Colten Rahway was married. Well, sort of. His wife Debbie left him after ’Seeing the Light.’ This was the new thing to do on earth. If you wanted permanent happiness, all you had to do was go into a room and stare at this special light for 30 minutes. That was it. Permanent happiness. Everyone was doing it. Which was fine for Debbie, but she said to Colten, “How can I be married to you or anyone else when I’m now married to the universe?”  The entire universe. How could he compete with that? So Debbie left him and everything else in her life. She was off painting the world with other happy people, painting one another or some other kind of hippy shit. Colten didn’t even know if he had a home to return to. These blissed out people just left everything behind.

Pilot Sarah Jackson was also married, happily enough except for the moon affair with Colten. She had a husband named Steve and two small children. Pilot Sarah Jackson thought, “We’re only halfway home. I’m going to give this pilot next to me the best backseat sex of his life, if only he’d knock off the sad sack routine.” Pilot Sarah Jackson did not tolerate melancholy. She was upbeat and excited about returning home.

“I wish we could turn around and go back,” said Colten.

“Are you kidding me?” replied Sarah. “There’s nothing left up there but some mining. It’s over for the moon.”

“But we had each other,” he said. “I guess that’s what I’ll really miss.”

“Remember what I told you, and what we agreed upon? When this is over, we’re over. You got it? I have babies at home. I have a husband.”

“But I love you,” said Colten. “I didn't want to love you but I was lonely. I wanted your companionship and yes, your sex. But here I am in the middle of outer space and I love you so much. You’re my kitten.”

“Look,” she replied, “if things were different. If things were different, but they’re not. They’re not different. There are certain facts about this life. We talked about this and you said you understood.”

“I know. I know.”

Sarah held his hand and then leaned over and kissed him. Then she took him into what constituted the backseat and rocked his world, or whatever world or in between world they were currently in. Afterwards, their bodies spent but still intertwined, Colten harkened back to the moon. Always back to the moon. “I love this view of the moon,” he’d said to Sarah after one of their couplings, she face down on the bed.

“What are you talking about?” she’d replied. “It’s just dull gray with ragged edges.”

“I was talking about your ass.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” she’d replied, but didn't laugh at all.

Colten considered that Debby always laughed at his jokes even when they weren't all that funny. But Debby left him. So Sarah never laughed. Perhaps he should be with someone more serious-minded? Sarah looked over at Colten, as if reading his mind. “You know, when I get home I’m going to See the Light. We all are, Steve and the kids.”

“No,” said Colten. “That’s awful. Don’t do it.”

“Why not?” she replied. “Don’t you want to be permanently happy? There are no side effects. There’s no downside.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“Come on, Colten. Just see the light. Then you wouldn’t be such a grumpy grump and a sippy sap.”

“I’m not a grumpy grump. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. I mean, look at us. We’re stark naked in outer space. We just had cosmic sex. Nothing touches us.”

“It will,” she said, “when we get home.”

“I think though, when I get extremely happy I get careless, I make mistakes. As a pilot, you can’t make mistakes. You know that.”

“But I think,” said Sarah, “that if you’re both competent and confident you won’t make mistakes. And if I can be happy all the while…”

“It’s too good to be true.”

“Grumpy grump,” said Sarah.

After they landed safely at the space port in Denver, Colten was ready for his famous final scene with Sarah, his big good-bye, their last soft kiss. Then he saw big Steve and the kids bounding up the shuttle, their faces beaming, their arms extended, awaiting hugs from their mother, Pilot Sarah Jackson. All Colten could manage was a faint wave, which she returned, more faintly then his own.

Colten drove back to his home but somebody else was living there. He tried asking about Debby but the person at the door was making no sense at all. They sure were happy though. Colten was certain that they’d seen the light. He ended up checking into a hotel where he’d stay a few days to gather his thoughts, to plan his next move.

In the daylight hours he found a park that he liked, where he walked for miles and sat in the sun. He thought about Sarah and the domestic life she so easily returned to. He had nothing but a memory of her and that had to be enough. “When this is, we’re over,” she’d said to him and meant it. Colten turned his gaze to the mountains. He didn’t expect it but there it was, the moon. It was full and steady and hung high above the broad peaks. He gazed at it and couldn’t remove his eyes. He was entranced. How many times had be been to the moon? Yet still entranced. Another walker ambled up and took notice of Colten‘s fixation. “Hey, buddy, what are you lookin’ at? It’s just the moon.”

Colten snapped out of his reverie and regarded the man before him. “Yeah,” he said with a shrug, “it’s just the moon.”

The end.

**Coming soon…Colten goes to Mars.  

Pete has a new book review

A Review of Erik Larson’s In the Garden of Beasts

By Pete Schulte

In the year 1933 a US Ambassador was needed, but interest in the esteemed position was scant. For the position was US Ambassador to Germany, Nazi Germany. William E. Dodd wasn’t anyone’s first choice for the job, probably not even second or third. But somebody had to do it, and Dodd did study for a time in Germany and knew the language. Ambassadors in those days were usually men of wealth and extravagance. Dodd had neither of these attributes. He had a teaching background and was thrifty nearly to a fault. His American cohorts didn’t particularly care for him, and the Germans weren’t too impressed either. By all accounts, one would think Dodd was exactly the wrong person for the job. But there was a strength Dodd possessed that cannot be disputed. He had a vast historical knowledge, and based on this knowledge he knew that something had gone very wrong in Germany, and it was just going to get worse. Would anyone listen?

In contrast to Dodd’s reserve and thrift was his daughter, Martha, who came with the family to Germany. Martha was up for any party and dated a Gestapo officer, a Russian agent, as well as a variety of writers, bankers, diplomats, etc…She even had her hand kissed by Hitler himself.

Martha, dizzy from all the attention and excitement, took a long while to understand the gravity and seriousness of what the Nazis intended to do. But as ambassador, Dodd was hearing about people imprisoned without a trial ‘for their own protection,’ Jews being mistreated and subject to cruel new laws, and even visiting Americans being pummeled for not using the Nazi salute.

In those dark days, Americans were in the midst of the great Depression and had little interest in what was going on overseas. The government, too, had more interest in Germany repaying its debt than hearing about ‘isolated instances’ concerning the disappearances of Jews, Communists, or other perceived enemies of the state. The book’s author, Erik Larson, does an incredible job of bringing these ominous and dangerous pre-war times to life. You may not like Dodd after reading this, and likely not Martha either. But any shortcomings they had pale in comparison to the dark Nazi hearts In the Garden of Beasts.

Our happy home is for sale

For any of our readers who do not follow us on Facebook, we are spreading the word about the sale of our condo.  The condo will be listed Friday, November 21st and our open house will be on Saturday afternoon from 1-4pm.  We live in a great location and this is the perfect place for a first time owner.  For photos and more information, please click here.

A little story about a little bookshop

In a Little Bookshop at the Train Station…

                                         By Pete Schulte

In the city of Denver there is a little bookshop at the train station. It hasn’t been there for long, or maybe, somehow, it has…

It was getting late, and getting cold outside, and Romero had but one customer in his bookshop. He could take it easy, he could reflect. Romero looked around his shop with pride. There were chocolates and candy and mints for sale, and as well sodas, post cards, aspirins, tourist trinkets, t-shirts, newspapers, magazines, and, of course…books. It amazed Romero at just how many books you could stuff into such a tiny store. It amazed him more at the great number of them he’d read over the course of his life. So many books, he thought. Who will be left to read them?

Romero eyed the young customer as he browsed the shelves. He was a young man, and tall, and dressed very well for his age, for this place. This was a man who took his time, a thoughtful man. After he finished browsing he turned to Romero. “Do you mind if I sit?” he said, gesturing to one of the two stuffed chairs in the shop. “It’s so noisy in the concourse and so quiet in here. I’m afraid my train has been delayed.”

“Please, sit,” said Romero. “It‘s nice to have someone who appreciates the quiet. Tell me, where will the train take you this evening?”

“I’m headed for Chicago,” said the young man. “I have some business there, and then I’ll pass through again next week on my way home to LA.”

“Such a long journey,” said Romero. “I wish you well.”

Romero noticed that the young man did not pick a book from the shelves. His hands were empty. “Did you not find a book you’d like to read while on the train?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the young man. “I saw many that looked promising, but I do have book with me already, in my luggage. It’s called True Grit, by Charles Portis. Have you read that one?”

“Of course I have,” replied Romero. “It’s a wonderful book. But you know it’s so exciting, and with such action and adventure, that I believe you will be finished with this book before you even get to Chicago. Better have two to be safe.”

“But I’m a very slow reader and I want to give all my attention to True Grit. Besides, I’m not really sure what I want to read next.”

Romero paused for a moment and then gave the young man a long look. “You’re going to Chicago on business, correct?”

“Correct.”

“But if you could go anywhere, not for business but for pleasure, where would you go?”

The young man stroked his bare chin while pondering Romero’s question. “I’ve recently seen this movie, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, so I think I would like to go to Spain, to Barcelona. It looked so nice. I want to eat paella in Barcelona. That would be such fun.”

“Of course it would!” said Romero. “And I will write down for you three places where you can eat paella in Barcelona. Don’t go to the beach. You’ll get tourist paella and that’s no good. You will get the real Barcelona paella!”

“I will!”

Romero slipped the young man the paper with his notes, then stepped back and put his hands on his hips. “Now, for the book you must read. I will go and get it.”

Romero walked down to the very end of the fiction section and grabbed the last book on the shelf. He smiled as he held the book high over his head and then quickly returned to the young man. “I have in my hand The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. You must read this before you go to Barcelona. You must.”

“Well, maybe I will if I must,” said the young man. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about a boy in Barcelona whose father takes him to a mysterious mansion that is filled with endless aisles and tall shelves with nothing but books. The boy is allowed to take one book and one book only. This will be his book.”

“Does he like it, his book?” asked the young man.

“Does he like it? Oh, you bet he likes it. He loves it. The book has magic and intrigue and danger and love. And it seems to come alive in a way when a murky man in the shadows comes to steal the boy’s book away.”

“But why should he do that?”

“You have to read the book -- and then you must go to Barcelona.”

“Well,” said the young man, “perhaps you could hold it for me because I do have to make my train. I’ll read True Grit in Chicago, and then on my way back to LA I’ll stop in and get this one.”

“Boy, you’re a tough sale,” sighed Romero. “Okay, I will hold it for you. Tell me your name.”

“Semper. That’s my last name. I’m Dan.”

“I’m Romero, and I will hold this book for you until you return.”

But the young man did not return. It has now been six years and Romero gazes on the book, The Shadow of the Wind, still with a tag bearing the name of Dan Semper. Maybe True Grit was the only book for the young man, or maybe he’s gone digital? Romero didn’t know. He put the book back down. He would wait a little longer.

The first cold night of the season arrived later than usual in Colorado, but when it came everything froze solid. The train was late and people huddled. The bookshop was warm compared to the cold outside and Romero had a steady stream of readers. He sold a few Gone Girls, a Harry Potter, and a Stephen King. This was nice…This was good business…

After his Stephen King customer had made his purchase and left the store, Romero looked above his cash register. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was him, the young man, coming into the bookshop! Well, he wasn’t so young anymore but still much the same. This man, this Dan Semper, sighted Romero but didn’t seem to recognize him. Romero was unfazed. “Hey, Kid, you’ve come back! It’s been a long time but you’ve come back, just like I knew you would.”

“Come back?” said Semper. “Come back from what? I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“But of course you have,” said Romero. “Look, I’ve got your book.”

“My book? What book?”

“I was holding it for you. You remember, The Shadow of the Wind? You were going to return and pick it up.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You’re Semper, correct?”

“I am Semper.”

“You’re Dan Semper, correct?”

“I am Dan Semper.”

“Then I have your book. Would you like me to ring it up now, or would you prefer to do more shopping?”

“Wait,” said Semper. “I’m feeling funny. If  this happened, it happened a long time ago. You’ve been holding it for me all these years?”

“Yes. I want you to read the book and then I want you to go to Barcelona.”

“But I’ve already been to Barcelona.”

“Without reading the book? Dan!”

“I forgot about the book.”

“What about the paella?” asked Romero. “Did you eat the paella? What did you think of the paella?”

“It was okay.”

“Okay? Dan, you ate the beach paella, didn’t you?”

“Well, we were already at the beach. And it looked really good in the photo they had.”

“Tourist paella. Poor Dan. You’ll just have to go back and do it again.”

“Listen, this is all very strange. I’ll go ahead and buy the book. I don’t really remember the book, but I’ll buy the book. It was so kind of you to save it for me.”

“If you don’t want it,” said Romero, “at least pass it on to Julian. I think he’s almost ready for a book such as this.”

“Julian? That’s my son. How do you know of my son?”

“It’s all in the book, Daniel, The Shadow of the Wind. You really should get around to reading it some day.” 

Dan Semper left the store with book in hand. He was a hard sell, Romero thought, a hard sell indeed. But no man lives by True Grit alone, at least not in this bookshop.

The end.

Pete gives Killer Angels rave reviews

Killer Angels is Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel about the three day battle of Gettysburg (July 1 - 3, 1863) during the Civil War. The story is told from the point of view of a variety of combatants including Robert E. Lee, Joshua Chamberlain, James Longstreet, John Buford, and George Pickett, who led the famous, ill-fated charge of the Union line during the battle’s culmination. 

If you have any interest in the Civil War or American history in general, I would strongly recommend this book. It’s easily one of the best novels about warfare that I’ve ever read. You really get the feeling of being there, on both sides, and what it may have been like as an officer, bestowed with great power but also burdened with brutal decisions that could mean life or death. Or just to be a regular soldier, marching across open fields against volleys of gunfire, ducking under a rain of cannonballs, stepping on or over fallen men and dead horses.

War is hell they say, and it certainly seemed as much for the majority of soldiers at Gettysburg. But as far as the book goes, the prose sure is beautiful. It’s an interesting contrast: Here we have a beautiful telling of a horrible war. There were at least 50,000 casualties if you total up both sides after three days of fighting. And then the guns fell silent. July 4^th was the very next day. 

Another Hit story by Pete

Highwaters

(and other love songs)

                           By Pete Schulte

Security guard and songwriter Tommy Feely walked into the reception area of the office of Mr. Wallace Strong, head of music publishing at Wonderdog Records. The office was immense, and crowded with other hopefuls such as himself. Tommy introduced himself to the receptionist.

“Oh,” she said. “So you’re Mr. Feely. Please, go right in. Mr. Strong is expecting you.”

“Really?” questioned Tommy. “Go right in? Me?”

“Of course,” she replied, gesturing toward the large door with Mr. Strong’s name on it. “Go right in.”

The other folks in the reception area glared at Tommy, but what could he do? His heart was madly beating but enter the door he did. A large man smoking a cigar sat behind the biggest desk he’d ever seen. Tommy crossed deep shag carpeting and made his way toward the desk. “Ah, Mr. Feely,” said Wallace Strong. “So good of you to come.”

“I can’t believe I got in to see you so soon, Mr. Strong. It’s such an honor to meet you.”

Tommy reached his right hand as far as he could across the vast desk, and was just able enough to shake hands with Wallace Strong. After further pleasantries Tommy was offered a chair. He could barely see over and across the desk but at least he was in his office, the great Wally Strong of Wonderdog Records.

“Tommy, I’m a blunt man. Do you mind that I’m a blunt man?”

“No, Mr. Strong, not at all. In fact I kind of prefer it.”

“That’s swell, Tommy, swell,” said Mr. Strong. “Now before we get started we have to do something about your name. Tommy Feely does nothing for me, understand? It’s nothing against you, but I don’t see you as a Tommy, I see you as a Touchy.”

“Touchy Feely?”

“Exactly. Now Touchy Feely is a name to remember. One day, Touchy Feely will see his name in lights.”

“Well,” said Tommy (or Touchy), “I guess that’s okay.”

“Great, Kid, now show me what you’ve got. Knock my socks off.”

Touchy forked over the sheets to his first song and let Mr. Strong peruse at his leisure. “So, you’re song is called…”

“Highwaters. That’s right, Mr. Strong.”

“And it’s about pants?”

“That’s correct.”

“Let me read back to you the lyrics so that we’re on the same page. That okay with you, Touchy?”

“Certainly, Mr. Strong.”

“Highwaters!

Did your mama buy those pants?

Highwaters!

Don’t even think that you can dance.

Highwaters!

Kid, you never had a chance.

Highwaters!

Are you preparing for a flood?

Highwaters!

You got protection from the mud.

Highwaters!

How you gonna ever score some bud?”

Wallace Strong stared at the sheet for a long time. Touchy fidgeted in his seat. Finally Mr. Strong lowered the sheet. “Is there a melody to this, some music to go with the words?”

“Not quite yet, though there will definitely be music. Most definitely.”

“You know what, Kid?” said Mr. Strong. “Forget about the music. We’ll add the music later, any kind of music will do. Listen, Touchy, what you’ve given me here is pure gold, solid gold with a bullet to the top. It’s dynamite. Man, where did you get this?”

“I’m so glad you like it, Mr. Strong. I thought I had something and now you’ve confirmed it. I’m so overjoyed.”

“Kid, Wally Strong has been in the business for a long time and I know a winner when I see one. You’ve got moxie, you’ve got the chops. Kid, do you know who is on the Mount Rushmore of songwriters?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s Bob Dylan, Lennon & McCartney…and you.”

“Me?”

“Kid,” said Mr. Wallace Strong, “with just one song you’ve pushed Joni Mitchell off of Mount Rushmore. What do you think of that?”

“I love Joni Michell.”

“Kid!” shouted Mr. Strong. “Touchy Feely takes a back seat to nobody -- not even Joni Mitchell. You hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wally Strong immediately picked up his phone. Before dialing he said to Touchy, “Listen, I’ve got an in with Katy Perry’s people. Watch me work.”

Mr. Strong spoke with a ‘Rodney’ on the other end of the line. He informed Rodney that there was a new player in the game, one Touchy Feely, and Katy Perry better get on board or his songs go straight to Miley. Rodney let him know that Katy would record his song tomorrow. That wasn’t good enough for Wally Strong. “If you want a Touch Feely song, Rodney, you record today! None of this tomorrow shit.”

So Katy Perry soon released Highwaters  and, of course, it went straight to the top. Now they wanted more gold from Touchy Feely.

“Kid,” said Wally Strong, “what have you got for me?”

“It’s a song I call Smitty Did It. Mostly instrumental but in the background every once in a while you hear the words ‘Smitty did it.’ I haven‘t got the music yet, but…”

“Smitty did it? What’d he do?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Kid, just when I think you can’t possible top yourself, you top yourself. It’s unbelievable. Because, as we all know, kids are crazy about jazz!”

The end.

Pete has a new short story

You’re the Top!

                           By Pete Schulte

Bottoms usually ate a late lunch in the break room at the office. He was more than likely alone then, and he liked it that way. He read his newspaper in peace while enjoying a sandwich, a soda, and maybe some chips. The break room consisted of four tables and a scattering of chairs. There was nothing on the walls except a poster explaining the minimum wage and a guide to the Heimlich maneuver. There was one machine that dispensed sodas and another that dispensed chips and other snacks. Bottoms sat furthest from the snack and soda machines because the soda one made a humming sound that irritated his ears. This was the break room on that day, quiet, sparse, and horribly dull until another employee entered the room.

Bottoms lowered his newspaper enough to regard the man that came into the room. He knew him, vaguely, as one of the newer employees on the staff. The man did not seem to notice Bottoms at all. He made right for the soda machine and tossed in some money. When his soda popped out he exclaimed “Yes!” Now he was throwing money down the snack machine. This time he was not so lucky. The chips fell only halfway down the front of the glass-encased machine before getting caught up on something that prevented its fall. The chips were quite stuck, and the man appeared helpless to intercede. “Oh no,” he cried. “Oh no. What’s happened here?”

The man placed his soda on the nearest table. He said aloud, “Now don’t you go anywhere,“ presumably speaking to the soda itself. But he did not regard Bottoms at all, and now Bottoms was watching the man with keen curiosity. The man returned to the machine and got down on his knees. He made a feeble attempt to reach under the machine in order to somehow free the chips manually. But his arm was too small and surely the machine had safeguards against such a procedure. In good time he withdrew his arm and resumed an upright position. Now he grasped the machine as if to hug it, and them began violently shaking it until the floor rumbled. He ceased the shaking motion when he could see that his efforts were of no use. The chips weren’t going anywhere.

The man put his hands on his hips. “Now you tell me what’s going on here,” he said to the machine, his back to Bottoms. “You tell me what’s going on here. We had a deal, a contract if you will. I give you money, you give me chips. I gave you money…and now what’s this? You claim a technical difficulty and that’s that? I have no recourse. Is that it? Well, I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple. You see, I’d hardly had any breakfast this morning and now I’m so hungry. I’m office hungry, you know, the kind where you’d lick the paint off the walls, the kind where’d you’d eat old Halloween candy, the kind where you’d steal another’s lunch from the refrigerator. I’ve been thinking of having chips and a soda all day long and I was so looking forward to your kind services. I had the money. You know I had the money! And now what do you do? You dangle these chips right before my very eyes. You tease me with this supposed malfunction. Sir, I am not a violent man by any means, but look what you’ve done to me? I must raise my fists to you, you gnarly scalawag. I must attack and attack I will!”

Bottoms was now in a strange, unenviable position. He could have mad a quick exit from the room and notify the proper authorities. He could have interceded and made an attempt to help this man dislodge his chips in lieu of violence. But, as happens in human nature, sometimes one does nothing at all. This is what Bottoms did as the man bent his knees, clenched his fists, and growled cat-like at the machine. Suddenly he jabbed with his right arm and struck the machine with a loud bang. But, alas, the machine was unfazed. “Ouch. That smarts,” the man said, cupping his injured paw. Next, he kicked the machine hard but this did nothing. He kicked again and nothing still. “Gee whiz,” he said, dejected. “You’re one tough cookie.”

Now the man strode all the way across the room from the machine, near to Bottoms but still apparently not noticing his presence. “So this is what it’s come down to,” said the man. “I’m going to take a running start and ram my head into your glass. No, I don’t want to do this, but this is the course that you’ve chosen. You deny me my chips, I deny you your precious glass. You may be a match for my body, but you are no match for my heart. I declare on this day that I will have my chips. As God is my witness, thy chips shall be free!”

“Wait!” cried Bottoms, grabbing the back the man’s shirt to prevent his suicidal charge.

“What’s this?” asked the man, startled. “Unhand me, sir!”

“Wait. Just hear me out,” said Bottoms. “Your name is Sparky, right?”

“Sparky?” questioned the man. “What am I, a dog?” Sir, my name is Smedley.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Bottoms. “But Smedley, really, I think there’s another way.”

“Another way? How so?”

“Yes,” said Bottoms. “You see, just moments before you entered the room, I myself purchased a bag of chips. But here now, it’s the strangest thing. Rather than getting one bag of chips, the machine granted me two. In my possession I have two bags of chips.”

“Two bags for one?” said Smedley. “Bonus! It’s as if you’d won the lottery.”

“Of course it would be indulgent of me to consume two bags of chips in one sitting, so won’t you have the other, Smedley?”

“You want to give me a free bag of chips, just like that? Hey, what‘s the catch? What gives?”

“No catch at all, Smedley. Please, I just want to offer you a bag.”

“Say, what’s you name?”

“I’m Bottoms.”

“Well, Bottoms, I say you’re the tops -- if you don’t mind a little humor there.”

“No I don’t, Mr. Smedley. I don‘t mind at all.”

So, each with a bag of chips, there in the break room was the start of a long and beautiful friendship.

The end.

ICYMI: Pete's Review Of Us, the Much Anticipated New Novel by David Nicholls

cover image courtest of tatteredcover.com

Us

A novel by David Nicholls

At times we remember, even fondly, the vacations we’ve taken where everything’s gone wrong rather than right. The lost luggage, the rude waiter, the strange hotel, the unexpected illness. We’re able to laugh about it now because we’ve survived our travel experience and made it safely back home. But in Us, a new novel by David Nicholls, the safety of his character’s home rests on shifting sands.

Douglas Petersen’s beloved wife, Connie, announces her intention to leave their marriage, but only after the family fulfills its prior summer vacation plans to see the great art museums of Europe. Compounding this dilemma, the Petersen’s only child, Albie, also intends to leave the family after vacation to attend university.

Another problem: Douglas is a scientist while Connie works in the arts. Their personalities are polar opposites. And, despite Douglas’s prodding, Albie takes after his mother 100 percent. So our travel triangle becomes two against one in almost every conceivable situation. As expected, the vacation threatens to implode, and it’s up to Douglas (as he sees it) to salvage the trip, to salvage his family, and find some way to literally survive in a world that’s eating him up.

I have to say that Us is one of the best novels I’ve read about the father/son relationship, where, with much chagrin, the son isn’t exactly ‘a chip off the old block,’ but his own emerging person -- warts and all. As written prior, Douglas loves his wife and son dearly, but they are opposites, and what happens after ‘opposites attract’ becomes nothing more than a trite saying?

I became a fan of David Nicholls after reading his earlier novel, One Day, and eagerly awaited his new work. Upon finishing (in record time for a slow reader such as myself), I am pleased to report that there was no let down whatsoever in Us. In fact, I believe this book touched me more. Nicholls has the unique ability to transition from humor to sadness to exasperation to anger to love and to happiness in seemingly one sentence to the next. And just when you think you’ve got one character pegged as this way or that, they totally surprise you.

I urge you to read Us if you’ve ever seen something on a museum wall and thought, What the hell is that? Please read this novel if you’ve ever been on a family vacation where one or all suffers a complete melt down. Please read this as a travel advisory of what not to eat or where not to swim. It occurred to me at the climax of this novel that the Us the author writes about is not his three person family, but all of us, everyone…Us. 

Selling our home: Goodbye murals :(

Everytime a Minion is painted over, a grown man cries.

Pete recommends an article

Shakespeare in Paris

There is a very good article in the November 2014 Vanity Fair (written by Bruce Handy) about Shakespeare and Company, the famous bookstore in Paris. Located in the shadow of Notre Dame, the bookshop has been a destination point for writers and readers both well known and unknown. I visited there once by accident many years ago, but didn’t really appreciate its rich history. After all, this bookstore was the first to publish James Joyce’s Ulysses. This was where you might find Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald in the roaring 20’s, Henry Miller and Anais Nin in mid-century, and later still many of the Beat writers and poets. And they’re still coming to this day, writers and readers and lovers of books. Shakespeare and Company has also been featured in two films of note: Richard Linklater’s Before Sunset, and Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris.

The original Shakespeare and Company was founded by Sylvia Beach in 1919, and thrived for many years before closing down during the Nazi occupation. It never reopened. Its next incarnation came in 1964, when George Whitman changed his bookstore’s name to Shakespeare and Company with Sylvia Beach’s blessing (possibly). Another Sylvia is the bookstore’s current owner, George Whitman’s daughter.  Let’s hope that this particular Sylvia can keep her magical bookstore going for many years to come. It appears she’s off to a great start. 

Photo of Shakespeare and Company in Paris