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| I've always wanted to take a ride on an old school train. But not like now, where it's cheesy and people dress in period costumes and speak in British accents even if you're in the middle of Idaho or something.
I want to go back in time, and ride on the real Orient Express. I want to have the neat 1920s clothes, and dine on elegant food prepared by a renowned chef, and sleep in lavishly decorated cabins. There's so much romance about trains. That's what Poirot always said. "Trains are the place de l'amour!" It's so infrequent in life that we get to be somewhere, stranded with the same people with nothing to pass the time but ourselves and those around us.
I bet, on a train, you could meet someone, fall madly in love, and then fall madly out of love as the train pulled in the station. You would go your own way, and everything would be fine. But you'd always remember that one time you fell in love on the Orient Express.
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In unrelated news, I have a few new story ideas that I can't quite get out. We'll see if the mood strikes.
Also, have you heard about the Fort Hood tragedy? I'm saddened by this. Saddened isn't strong enough a word, but it's early and I can't think of another one. I'm not religious, and I don't pray. But if you do, throw one in there for me. | | |
| So I decided to put this one up, because I like it. And it's nice to have another little bit of humor before I start writing the next one, which is back to depressing. Anyway, here it is. And now, off to Intro to Fiction!
Mark had two loves in his life: guitars and money. For some, guitars help feed a love of money. Performing and playing with the hopes of striking it rich was not exactly his style, however. Mark’s two loves had a different relationship. His love of money sponsored his love of guitars.
Getting money, for Mark, was a business – a very lucrative one. He earned money every day, and it was completely untaxed. It was completely under the table. Table, of course, was a metaphor. All of Mark’s business deals transpired in the alley of his building.
Mark was in the business of dealing drugs. He did it well. His mother Caroline was a wealth of supplies. She was always getting some new prescription for her chronic depression. Uppers sold well. Of course, some of his money went to a guy higher up on the food chain.
The local pharmacist, Arnold Taylor, was a bored old man looking for some supplemental income. Mark supplied that. See, if you asked Mark, back alley pharmaceutical sales were a thousand times better than hard drug deals. For one, it was easy to say whatever he had on him was being brought home for his dear, depressed mother. For another thing, he didn’t have to deal with hardened drug addicts to make a sale. His consumer base was composed of mostly lonely housewives and unhappy white collar men. Hell, half his traffic came from his building!
Mark checked his inventory for the day: a couple Xanax left, whole new stash of codeine-laced Tylenol, half an order of whatever new happy pill his mom was on. Frank just about cleared him out of Viagra. Not that he could say who was who, officially.
That was another reason he got so much business. He kept total secrecy. Realistically, he knew exactly who was buying. No one else, however, knew it was him selling.
Mark conducted his business using a hole in the wall of the building. A brick was loose, and using inspiration from a recent movie, he replaced the brick with one he hollowed out. There he put a slip of paper and a pen. You would come to the wall, write your order, and wait for a response. If Mark had it available, an envelope with a price waited for you an hour later. You were to put in the cash, and come back in another hour. Your order was ready for pick up.
If Mark didn’t have what you wanted, a simple slip of paper with a price and date waited for you. If you agreed, great, leave a $20 deposit. If not, walk away.
Speedy delivery, anonymous interaction, and reasonable prices kept Mark in the business. Word of mouth had his wall busy. To the public, he was known as Les Paul. The first guitar he ever owned was a Les, and it always held a special place in his heart.
As he made his way to the wall that afternoon, something didn’t feel right. He pulled the brick, and out fell paper weighed down with heavy wire – like a guitar string. He froze.
“Les,
Stop your game now. I run the best ring around here. Tell your customers to find another place to do their business.
Don’t believe me? That string belongs to a certain instrument you hold so dear. If you stop, you’ll get her back whole. If you don’t, you’ll get her back in pieces.
Gibson”
He paled, then raced to his room. The door flew open, and he ran to the corner with his window overlooking the alley. Sure enough, the stand for his beautiful girl was empty. Fear, panic, dread all rushed his system. What was he to do?
Save the business, or save his girl? He sat alone staring at his hands for several long minutes before a soft voice broke his thoughts.
“What’s wrong with you?” Anna, Mark’s little sister asked from the door.
He turned, “Nothing. Why do you think something’s wrong?”
At eleven, Anna was a sweet girl, though not necessarily the brightest, “You ran in the house, then swore. Obviously something’s up.”
“Yeah, well fine. My guitar is gone.”
“Betty?”
“Yeah.” He sighed, “I gotta get her back.”
“Well how do you do that?”
The question was simple. Unfortunately, Mark hadn’t gotten that far along in his plans. He sat on the bed, throwing his baseball hat across the room, “I don’t know. I do not know. You got any ideas?”
Anna sat down with him, “Well, why is she gone?”
“Someone took her. They wanted what I have, and they said they won’t give her back until they get it.”
She nodded like she understood, “Uh-huh. So give them what they want!”
He shook his head, “It’s not that simple. See, what they want is… It’s as important to me as Betty.”
Anna’s angelic little face scrunched up in thought. She bit her lip, “So… Share!”
“Share?” Mark laughed, “I don’t know that I can exactly share anything.”
“Well I can’t help you unless you tell me what it is they want! Marcus Anthony Andreou, you tell me what’s really going on!” She climbed into her big brother’s lap.
He rested his forehead against hers, “Okay. You know how… How I always seem to have money to buy whatever I want?” She nodded, “Well it’s like, I mean… I get my money by selling things.”
“What things?”
“You promise you won’t say anything?” Anna said nothing, so Mark pulled her up, “Anna, promise you won’t tell anyone this.”
“I won’t tell. What do you sell?”
He sighed, “I deal drugs. Not like crack or weed. Sometimes I take stuff from Mom and sell it, and sometimes I buy it off a guy I know and sell it to other people.”
“YOU’RE A DRUG DEALER? MARK!” She jumped off his lap, knocking the wind out of Mark with an ‘oof!’
“Keep it down!” He urged when he could breathe again, “Yeah. I am. Now what do you think? Not so simple, huh?”
She sat again in thought, “Well… You know, what my friends and I do when we want something is split it up. We share it.”
“I can’t exactly go up to this Gibson guy and ask to go halfsies. He’ll probably send me Betty’s pick guard or something for even suggesting it.” Mark rolled his eyes.
Anna shook her head, “No! What if you gave him some of the money, maybe? Or half your business. Tell him half of your profits go to him, and half go to you. Everyone gets something.”
“Give him a cut of the profits… Get Betty back… And keep the business going. I can just up the price a little bit to make up for the difference. Yeah!” Mark jumped up and looked out the window, “Anna, that’s a great idea! Come on! Let’s take care of this!”
The two rushed out of the apartment and down to the alley. He pulled the brick out, and with it came another string.
“Les,
Don’t waste my time. End it.
Gibson”
Mark shuddered. His poor Betty! Grabbing a pen he always kept in his back pocket, he scribbled a note onto the back of Gibson’s typed letter.
“Gibson,
What say I give you a cut of the profits? You just give me Betty back, and I give you 30% of everything I sell. Half my business is yours. Deal?
Les”
Anna stood on her tiptoes trying to see what he was writing, “Well? Is it going to work?”
“Only time will tell, Sis. Come on. I think dinner’s about ready.” Mark took her hand and led her back up the stairs, “I’ll check it again tomorrow.”
Another burnt roast and some cold pizza later, Mark crawled under his sheets to try to rest. Sleep refused to come. All he could think about was his poor girl being torn apart, and how his life was never going to be the same again. How had Gibson gotten into his room, anyway? How had he gotten his hands on Betty.
Hell! How did Gibson even know he was Les?
The questions kept coming. No answers formed. It was a long night.
Saturday meant a day to work on his business normally. This Saturday was no different. Mark had a mission to save everything he had. Bright and early, and with Anna on his heels, he checked the brick. A letter, this time mercifully free of guitar parts, fell into his hand.
“Les,
50% and you’ve got a deal. Try to bargain again, and you’ll be finding bits of a neck. You have until noon to decide.
Gibson”
There was no thinking. Mark had no choice. He quickly wrote “deal” and threw the paper back in the nook. He had to do what he had to do.
So at noon, Mark went outside to ensure his transaction was complete. There was no note from Gibson in the nook. His was simply gone. There was, however, an order for Adderall. He had that in stock, he was sure, even the large quantity asked for by the buyer. Within a few hours, he was bound to have at least seventy bucks in his pocket.
Musing over the fact that he was bound to actually only have thirty-five in his pocket, he made his way back to the bedroom. There, in the corner, stood his precious Betty, relatively unharmed. Two strings were easily fixable. Not a scratch on her. He sighed with relief.
Not wanting to have her stolen again, he got down to business. He pulled out the pills and watched as Dan Martins from down the block stuffed a wad of cash into a brick in the alley. Satisfied with his privacy, Mark went back down, took the cash, and placed the drugs.
He walked away once more, holding the bills that he knew he somehow had to get to Gibson. But how? There were no instructions, so rather than hold out, Mark simply waited for Dan to pick up his order, then leave the brick empty.
Using what small bills he had in his pocket, Mark put thirty-five dollars into the wall and left it. He closed the blinds to his bedroom and played his guitar. If Gibson was smart, he’d find the cash. This deal was a deal Mark could live with.
After all, Mark had only three loves in his life: guitars, money, and keeping his hide safe and sound.
“Mark, get your sister. It’s time for dinner.”
Mark sighed, put his beautiful girl away, and headed for his sister’s room. He knocked, “Anna, dinner. Come on.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Anna sighed for dramatic effect. Mark simply smiled. Who knew his little sister could save him such grief?
Anna smiled to herself when she heard the footsteps of her brother fade away. She pulled a shoebox out from under her bed, opened the lid, and put away the thirty-five dollars she just finished counting. Who knew her big brother could be so easily manipulated?
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| I've been trying to decide which of these two new ones to post. They're different from the first two, in that they're not horrendously depressing. The two actually have big plot elements in common, which is why this is so difficult. Maybe I'll post one now and the other later. Sound good?
Prudie Wiltshire lived in room 204C. She was sixty-three, had grey hair, and none of her natural teeth. Her bingo friends said she had a zest for life. She preferred to call it a “je ne sais quoi,” though she pronounced it as “Jenny Say Qwoy.” But that’s what made everyone adore Prudie Wiltshire. She didn’t care one way or another what the world thought of her.
Except her late husband Ralph, of course. She always cared what Ralph thought. Ralph had died seven years ago from a heart attack. That was the way of life. Prudie had moved on. She had three loving children to visit, five grandchildren, and three cats named Meowzart, Felinious Monk, and Jojo. Her life was active, full, and wonderful.
Frank Adams lived in room 204A. At age sixty-eight, he was still a spry old man. His beloved wife Matilda left him just two years back, however, he was determined to enjoy life.
Frank’s Elk Club dinner was scheduled for 4:30 – a late night for him! He had an extra ticket he held reserved just in case he ever got up the nerve to talk to Prudie. Of course, there she was walking up the stairs with an armload of groceries.
“Need any help there, Prudie?”
“Oh, Frank, could you? They had a sale on Meowzart’s favorite food, and then I couldn’t just bring that home, so I had to get enough for Felinious and Jo-Jo.”
“Understandable.” Frank laughed. The ticket burned a hole in his pocket, “Say, Prudie, you wouldn’t happen to have dinner plans tonight, would you?”
She giggled, “Why? You asking me out, Frank?”
“The Elk’s Club makes a mean Italian Style Buffet, and tonight’s spaghetti night.”
“I’d love to go.”
If Frank could jump for joy, he would’ve. He helped Prudie get the last of her groceries in, then set off on his preparations for the night. He closed the door of his apartment with a click and headed for the bathroom.
The man looking back at him showed signs of his age and current state of neglect. “Damn!” He thought, “time for a shave and a haircut!” So, without any more dawdling, Frank Adams went about town for his hot date.
The local barber shop had been in business since Frank was a young man. Ownership had changed hands here and there, but one thing remained the same. A man could go in with a couple bucks in his pocket, and come out ready for a night on the town. And that’s exactly what he wanted to do.
The bell over the door tinkled merrily as Frank strode in, “Time for a trim there, Frank?”
“Sure is!” He smiled and sat himself down on the worn barber’s chair, “Just a little off the top.”
John had been Frank’s barber for the last few years, and they had a certain friendship, “If I take a little off the top, you won’t have any left!”
“You want a tip, don’t you, Johnny boy? A little off the top, and a nice smooth shave.” Frank grinned.
“Hot date tonight?” John asked.
“Oh yeah. Pretty little thing across the hall. Prudie. I’m taking her to the Elk’s Club dinner.” He smiled smugly.
John looked down at him, “That’s it? You’re not going to take her back to your place?”
And in an instant, the insinuation was clear. Frank knew exactly what John meant, but how could he respond? He sighed, “That hasn’t been much of a viable option in years.”
“You haven’t seen a doctor for that?”
“Why should I? Tilda died and I had no reason to!” Frank cursed himself, “Should’ve thought ahead. I was a boy scout, you know.”
John just laughed, “Look, I heard there’s a guy in town that deals the little blue pills from time to time. Sells ‘em in the alley of that apartment complex on 51st and Maple.”
“That’s my place!” Frank asked, “And you don’t have to tell me. I’ve seen that Andreou kid out there all the time. Even got his little sister in on the act. You think he’s got any now?”
“Only one way to find out. You can have him do rush deliveries if it’s important. Just slip a few extra bucks in there.” John brushed the clippings off of Frank’s shoulders, “No harm in trying.”
“You’re right about that. Now, how’s it work?”
John explained this kid’s complex system of nooks in brick walls and time tables and orders and payments. Frank was to place his order on a slip of paper, wait for the kid to tell him how much it would cost, then put the money back in, then wait for the pills to come. All of this was done to ensure privacy.
Everyone in town knew Mark was behind it, and no one cared.
Frank fumbled with the pen as he wrote out his order. The cash he had burned a hole in his pocket. Could he really do this? Closing his eyes and thinking of Prudie from 204C, he knew he could.
He finished the letter, put in a couple bucks to hopefully speed things along, and left. An hour or so later, when he checked, there was a letter asking him for eighty dollars.
Eighty!? Man, that kid knew how to take advantage of a desperate man. He sighed and tossed in the money. Frank took a nap.
When he woke up, it was ten to four. Damn! He raced his way down the stairs, and at four o’clock he pulled the brick out. A baggie of little blue pills waited for him. He quickly threw them in his pocket, then ran back up to get ready.
Four-fifteen on the dot, Frank knocked on Prudie’s door.
“Why hello there, Frank! You look awfully dapper.”
He smiled, “Why thank you, Prudie. You look lovely yourself. Are you ready?”
“Sure am. Let’s blow this popsicle stand!” Prudie took his arm, locked her door, and followed him to the car. They were at the Elk’s Club slightly behind schedule, which was just fine as the line wasn’t moving very quickly anyway. They chatted throughout the evening, and Frank introduced his date around to his fellow members. Each took their turn complimenting Prudie on her lovely necklace or beautiful eyes. Jealousy was fleeting for Frank.
Seven o’clock came up quicker than anyone realized. Prudie and Frank headed back to the apartment, and as they ascended the stairs, Frank was reminded of his earlier purchase. The little blue pills burned a hole in his pocket.
Prudie fumbled with her keys outside of her door. He wasn’t sure if that was her staling for time, or simply forgetting which key went to the lock. He pointed, “It’s that one.”
She smiled up at him, “Why thank you again, Frank. I had a lovely evening.” She slid the key in and unlocked the door. Slowly, she turned, “Would you like to come in for some decaf coffee or warm milk?”
He nodded, “A drink would be great. Thanks.”
The pills continued to burn. Would he need them? If he did, when should he take one? Should he make sure he even had to? What if she didn’t think that way at all? What if he took it, and then she said goodnight and kicked him out?
“You know, Frank,” Prudie said, sitting on the couch next to him, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date with anyone. I missed it.”
“Me too. Ever since my Tilda died, life hasn’t been the same.”
“Mmhm, my Ralph took me dancing right up until he had that heart attack.” She put her hand over Frank’s, “But I think he would’ve wanted me to move on.”
“Matilda would’ve, too.” He nodded. The mood changed. In all his years of interaction with women, this was the moment he knew he was supposed to either take the night a step further or excuse himself.
Well he didn’t spend eighty bucks on excusing.
Leaning in, Frank kissed Prudie hesitantly. She instantly responded, their embrace taking on a life of its own. They parted moments later, out of breath and laughing, “It’s been so long… I don’t even remember what I’m doing.”
“I have something that might help us along.” Frank said, reaching for his pocket. He felt around and grabbed at air. He blinked, laughed, and switched pockets. Still nothing.
Confused, Frank stood up from the couch and reached once again for his first pocket. His finger went straight through a hole in the bottom. The pills were gone.
He sat down, distraught, “So much for plan A.”
“What, exactly, was plan A?” Prudie asked.
Frank shook his head, “I went out and got some, uh, well… You know. Some… Help. For tonight. Because men of a certain age—“
“Oh my!” She blushed and threw a hand over her mouth, “Why, Frank! I had no idea you even thought of me that way!”
“Sure have! All this time, too. Felt awful about it while Matilda was still alive, but I couldn’t help it.” He put his hand on hers, “Tonight obviously isn’t going to work out for us, Prudie. But if you want to go out again, we can try this once more.”
“And make sure you patch up any holes in your pockets.”
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| So NaNoWriMo started today. I feel like I'm onto something really amazing with these short stories, and since it took me two days to write the first two, and a whole other day to write the first half of this next one, I think I'll just start writing furiously on November 3rd so I can include those. It's not really like I'm cheating if I'm purposely penalizing myself.
Right. | | |
| Agggghhh.
I really can't stand people who blow things epically out of proportion... Like my mom. Everything is either non-existent or a category 10 disaster.
So I need a greek paddle by next Wednesday (and preferably sooner because I have to decorate it), and all the places in the city are sold out... Because every sorority in the area decided to have initiation in the same three weeks. Sigh.
Anyway, I call home to tell my parents that I might be dropping by on Friday or Saturday for the day to go shopping where taxes are lower and I can get what I need. My mom immediately asks me when I need this stuff by, blahblahblah, and before I know it she's asking my dad how much it costs to overnight deliver something with USPS.
My dad's the sensible one, so he asks what she's talking about, and she says, "Julie needs a paddle right away!" And then the conversation flares when he says, "WHAT THE HELL IS A PADDLE?" and I try to explain a greek paddle, but neither of them get it because it's not a ping pong paddle and it's not a boat paddle... So I'm already exasperated with the conversation.
So mom throws the phone to dad who says, "Your mother told me you're having some kind of emergency with this stuff." and I try to explain that it's NOT an emergency at all, and Mom is YET AGAIN blowing things WAY out of proportion and making stuff up.
"She said you asked her to buy a paddle and send it overnight delivery so you had it really soon."
"Wrong. I said I was thinking about coming home and buying the stuff I need because they don't have it here anymore. You know how mom offers to help, then says that she was asked to do it."
"I think you're only coming home because you're more comfortable shopping here."
Now, here's where I want to let out a huge "EFF YOU." to my dad. I love him. I do. But he's one of those people who thinks they know everything about everything all the time. He says "there's no way in hell that they're out of paddles in the city."
Wrong-o. There are more than five major universities in the city, and most of them have some semblance of greek life. And since it's national "BUY PADDLES OH MY GOD" month, everyone's sold out. You can only buy paddles at campus stores and craft stores, really, and the main craft store in the city does NOT sell them. But the Michael's in the suburbs do. So I was going to go home for an evening, maybe going back in the morning, or maybe just coming home for a few hours to do that shopping.
Mind you, I also planned on hitting up ULTA, Walgreens, Target, and a few other places. Why? Because I won't have to pay 10% tax on EVERYTHING like I do here. That stuff adds up. But apparently my dad knows everything in the world, and he says I'm being stupid and "inconveniencing" my parents.
Okay, what?
I could understand if they had to pick me up to bring me home. However, it's possible for me to take the red line to the brown line, the brown line to union station, and union station to a few blocks from home, and *omigod* walk home, then get in MY OWN DAMN CAR and DRIVE MYSELF to where I have to go. My parents don't even have to know I'm HOME. Christ.
So when I say that, he goes, "But I thought you needed our help getting stuff?"
"Who told you that?"
"Your mother."
"MOM IS A LIAR. SHE MAKES THINGS UP FOR DRAMA. WE BOTH KNOW THIS."
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
...Gaaaah.
Anyway, I'm sorry for this rant. But it bugs me. I mean, I'm capable of making the decisions I have to make. I can get myself places without my parents. Oh my god, I make a trip downtown twice a freaking week. Tomorrow I'm going to the Tribune Tower for class. They're not driving me. Why? Because I'm not a child. I *can* take care of some things without their guiding hand.
I have to do homework. | | |
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