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.