Roaches In The City
Alone in the city Dave was killing his roaches. A box like room, screams and yells down the hall-it was all the colour of a movie from the 60’s-70’s. The roaches came in the room from the sink. He did not tell the landlady. He did not want her coming in his house. The rent was low, and really he expected it to have rats and roaches. He was greeted each morning by the rats jumping off his bed. It was something he thought he would never get use to, but did. It had been years in his box -like surroundings on the 3rd block. Before Dave was on 3rd it was another small box room on 6th. He batted the roaches with a hungry smile, maniacal, and sweat running down his face.
The roaches were running up and around the sink. They went in to spots he could not whack on the wall of the sink. His radio blurred on and on, the roaches ran around, and around, the girl upstairs being beat on the ground-his ceiling, and they were fucking next door, well it was 4.12 PM. He had just gotten home himself from his work which was what ever they (the temp. agency) placed him at that day. Falling back on to his bed he stared at the chips falling on the floor. Upstairs she was still being beat that made four days in a row. Dave had asked if she was alright one day in the hall, but she said nothing. Fuck her then Dave had thought.
Dave pulled from his pocket a pill, white and his salvation. He took it with water:
Walls vibrated, screaming out a symphony of joy. Marching up and down the sink the roaches singing a tone, “Dave, Dave, be more brave” they sang, but this only soothed Dave. Out the window was a bird. Dave laughed. What a funny bird! He thought, and mumbled, “what a bird, what a bird.” Like an old storeowner does looking for his keys. A knock came on the door. The pill was surging in to his mind just below a solid note. Thousands of rushes in a second, and not continuos power. Dave got up and went to the door.
“Who is it”
“Nick” Dave wondered, again like an old storekeeper, “nick, no how do I know a Nick?” He opened the door. A midget stood there. Dave smiled a toothless smile.
“Do I know you?”
“You got roaches?”
“Yes.”
“Yha buddy I am here to get rid of them, I got to get-em in your room. See they got em down stairs. So you got to get every floor.” The midget said. Dave thought his miniature mannerisms were hilarious. It was hard to contain him self.
“Come in. Are you going to be spraying any thing…? Oh so that I can’t be here?”
“No, shit!” The midget said looking at the roaches. “That is one of the worse cases I have ever seen. How can you live like that?”
“What…”
“Nevermind. It is not poisonous, but you may want to leave for a hour or so.”
“Sure.” Dave put on his coat. “I’ll leave you to it Nick.” Dave said firmly. Nick looked at him sensing that Dave was laughing at his size, Dave was.
XXX XXX XXX
In to the rain. It had just started up-as Dave closed the door to the midget-with thunder. This made Dave smile. He lived above a pub. The pub looked like a good place to sit. Dave drank a couple beers. Bill the bartender was drunk, but he owned the place, and that was the kind of place he ran. Dave sometimes was the only guy who would take the bartender’s feeble attempts at being wise and knowledgeable. * Today there was about three people at the bar nodding their heads. Dave stayed back. He did not want to go up until a good layer of drunkenness shielded him from Bills stupidity. He found a nice both in the corner of the room. He liked the booth drinking compared to at the bar like any one else.
In the green padded booth Dave saw a roach. He thought nothing of it. Then he whipped his nose. Looked at his finger after and there was a nice big roach. This startled Dave a bit. He thought he better tell Bill. As much as he did not want to talk to the guy it had to be done.
“Bill, hi, I thought I would let you know that I just found a couple roaches over at that table.”
“Oh yes, that is where I am keeping them.” Bill waved his arm-limp at the wrist.
“Bill one was crawling around on me. Bill, listen. That could be bad for bussniss.”
“We can’t go killing everything now Dave.” It was no use telling Bill in that condition, but some one got up and left as Dave and Bill were talking. When Dave sat back down another big roach was crawling around. He went back up to the bar, and endured with a whiskey.
“I say that it is a shame what’s going on in Iraq. Just bomb those fuckers.” Bill said. Dave did not say a word there was no point, no point.
“It is our freedom,” Another old working man said. Dave cringed. The word Freedom was being used way too much. Everywhere freedom this, security-freedom, blah blah blah. The moron president was using these words that mean too much to people. Fuck him and his PIG FUCK talk, Dave thought. The smile never left his lips. He enjoyed his beer.
XXX XXX XXX
Nick, Dave’s midget exterminator came in. Dave was listening to one of Bills long-winded stories. It was a story about sex, and how Bill, who was never seen with a member of the opposite sex, had a beautiful red head Named Sandy. Nick walked in unnoticed as he usually was and sat in the very booth that Dave had about 45 minutes before. Of course, it being his profession, and really needing a beer when up to the bar, and as soon as he spoke, saying “I’d like a draft, and you seem to have a bug problem."” He was noticed, by Dave and the others, I silent laughter ran through the bar. Nick got angry, being a surly midget from years of SHIT from the “bigs.”
“You think I’m stupid?” Nick said. It was not an intentional movement of his body to do a kind of a midget jig, but he did. This type of an unintentional jig happened to Nick quite a bit. Dave noticed the midget’s miniature mannerisms the smile on his lips ended.
“Are you done up there?” Dave said.
“ What…” Nick said in surliness, “ Yha, I would not go up there yet.” This left the ‘HARD WORKING MEN” in hysterics making some kind of sexual connection between the midget and the strange kid that lived up stairs. Bill attempted to hit the unspoken laughter on the head.
“Davie here has already told us about the roaches.”
“You’re the roaches!” Said Nick with the conviction. Laughter went out around the bar. What is this Dave thought, that pill must be working well by this point. He looked down at his beer on the bar, the situations was getting too ridiculous for him. His head started to hurt.
“Did you get the roaches?” Dave said. Nick looked at him in mid-insulting the ‘red necks’ at the bar.
“Yha kid. You might want to vacuum up there.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed them bugs, you’re a slob! This guys fucking room!” Nick said with his thumb in Dave’s face. “This guy must fucking masturbate and drink 24-7-by the looks of his room, ha, and face.” The midget was now getting laughs. What Nick considered the good kind. Dave went back up to his room. He hoped he never see the Midget again.
XXX XXX XXX
It rained the next few weeks. Dave was in to the Labour board the following mornings. Dave felt as though he had no other direction to take in life. Dave’s temperament had always prohibited from any meaningful discussions with any one. He was alone with the exception of crucial conversing. Conversations were as deep as asking to use the wash room-or ordering food at a restaurant, even then they hardly saw him. Not until the end of the day, and his salvation could Dave be true to his hart and do nothing. But the roaches did not sing to him-no! -the midget took them. Sundays were the only days Dave took off. He would go down to the bar. It was the third week of rain.
Nick was in the corner booth-the green one three weeks before that Dave found the roach on his nose. Dave nodded in the customary acknowledgement he reserved for people he hated. The bar was empty, bill was watching CNN. The blond was on whom Bill liked. He liked those ‘smart chicks,’ (as Bill referred to them) but Dave was sure she was an idiot. Israel was bombed by suicide bombers Palestine was then bombed by Israeli freedom fighters, as the pretty lady who exuded intelligence to the rotted brains of the masses-Bill always had liked this particular women’s concerned look, Dave knew this was practised each morning in her dressing room after the producer got his morning blow job.
“Dave whats up. Haven’t seen you around a bit.” Bill said, he had a hang over.
“Working.” Is all Dave said.
“Oh yha…what will it be?” Bill was actually using real bartender phrases.
“One of those big beers ?? Bill, you know. And a couple white ones.” Bill smiled and opened the bar out and pulled out a steal box and pulled a bag of white pills-looked at Dave enquiring how many. Nick hopped up in to the next seat as Dave slipped the baggy of pills in his pocket.
“How’s the exterminating biz” Asked Bill. Nick sullenly mumbled. The mumble was answered by a Big beer. Then Dave sensed a weird feeling in his stomach. Bill looked very serious all of a sudden. It was not CNN that shit as old news. No Dave thought that Bill looked hurt almost. Dave sipped his big beer.
“Harold Stilsiwinger has shocked a press-conference bursting out in tears. This comes after a string of and I quote ‘hurtful and distasteful’ jabs at Stilsiwinger about his background in action films.” Dave looked up at the television. The huge man sobbing, his wife beside him, shocked, concerned, and strangely turned on.
“What a fucking joke” said Nick in a scoff. Dave rose his beer, and bill jumped in. The rain came down increasingly harder on the onnings like it was the end of the world. The CNN of course tried their best concerned looks after the clip, but failed disgracefully.
“What the hell is that.” Dave said.
“That’s money.” Nobody had to say.
XXX XXX XXX
The course of time went on in it’s nightmarish and unrelenting way. The roaches never died, and the exterminator always came back.
A story by:
Geoffrey Alexander Parsons
Freedom or the illusion is what got me in to the mess in the first place I think. Now that I am looking back at all this crazy shit, and man it is always so much easier to look back at things. I was an ass really.
To get out on the road in the first place I stole my roommate’s rent money who I was staying with at the time. A poor old man that was just trying to go back to school and be drunk all the time. Greg was his name. I would drink with him all the time and he would go on and on about deleloping countries and their right and what to do to make things better. Well he never really talkied about how to make things better. I asked him whya and he said he was trying.
I t was a shity little apartment I thought. I had some fun there in the summer and an affair with a japoinise girl, but that was all over. I wanted to get out of Halifax and the ruddy bastards and cracked out cars and suvilan stupidity of dried fish scales. I was at a party one night and everyone was not talking to me and not because I had done anything wrong that night, but because I had before and they all hated me for it. I left feeling shity.
When I got home their was my roommates rent money and I wanted out of Halifax so I snatched it up and packed. Then I stole all my roommate weed. The old guy came in just when I was out the door. He called my name and smoked ajoint with me, I told him I really had to do some landry and had to go. I got a bus to montreal.
This was my idea of freedom doing what ever I wanted to do. No matter how bad any thing I did was I could always justify it with the fact that it was for the wriotings sake. That still does it for me at times even now-like I have really learned anything.
**********
**********
A day in the life of a dishwasher
“It was a fuck of a day-shit! It was mad. Really you have no idea!”
Dale said ringing his hands, and looking like he was about to blow red bloody shit from his ears, then pick a up “cutting knife” (as dale always called them) and begin chopping his own innards up with half his head spurting bloody mind matter all about. I always liked a good ranter and sat back and let the insane fuck rantify. “Fucking stupid bitch-Fuck fuck! Oh what the fuck was I going to? Err she just would not shut up!” Dale as growing redder and redder by the minute I had to tell him to shut up.
The day was never really explained to, me-not in full at least. I was working in a kitchen and just about all of the kitchen staff was from Iraq, and Dale was the most crazy, evidently Dale’s real name was not Dale do to it’s un Iraqness, He did have trouble with his girl friend. She did not cook or clean for Dale. It was sad his sexist head never did really blow off.
I’d get up in the cold ass Calgary morning and shiver my way up to the bus stop and wait-listening to the banter of “fucking Calgarians,” (as I had started to mumble from time to time under my breath-trying not to look crazy.) I’d get down to the centre city and walk in to the restaurant, and Dale would always be at it, with his jack ass smile and black hair slicked back-a real cool guy-telling every one about his personal life and how the judge was making him go to anger management courses. He would be cutting the meat and would go on about “the bitch” or we would ask Dale “what’s up with the bitch?” He would never get mad, no, he would just go on where he left of the day before.
The wait-staff at the restaurant were all very up class ladies and they knew it and snubbed it up. I washed the dishes; “nice dress” would come from my mouth from time to time with out a real reply. They were really beautiful. My particular favorite was a "red head" that was a really a mean sassy girl but I liked her because of that and she knew it. I’d be washing the dishes (my job) and really going at it-scrubbing and splashing water all over my self and “Red head” would come in and tell me not to strain myself too hard, and she would say things like this all the time. One time I said back to her, “strain, you want strain!” Then I went scrubbing even harder. She was impressed.
“Red head” was not in that day so I was a little sad and glumly looking around the kitchen. Dale was slicing his meat with a sad smile on because some one had told him to shut-up. It was around Christmas and I noticed in the staff room a flyer that said “Christmas staff party-FREE DRINKS!” and an address which I copied down, it was that very night.
“Dale, you want to drink a bit before the party?” I asked and he did. We went to my apartment because it was closer to the party than Dale’s and started on the whiskey that I had bought. We put on T.V. and watched “the drunk’s Christmas” staring Frank Paathead, he was in all “the drunk’s” movies, and it was rumored that he was a drunk. Frank Paathead’s character is a drunk that is alone on Christmas Eve, and he is getting drunk when a knock on the door comes and it is a sad forlorn girl that is cold and needs some food and warm place to stay, and beer which Frank Paathead’s character has a lot of. The rest of the movie is them having long conversations-slurring out the meaning of life and everything else, but Hollywood ignored it and YOU probably never have heard of it. It is one of the most touching story of a drunk alone on Christmas ever made in that year-1978.
The party was held at “redhead’s.” I was overjoyed, and hoped that she would let us in. Why would she not? First of all we were the most hated people that worked at the restaurant, and second we were already noticeably drunk. But we were let in by “red head” with a smile that was as amazing as her herself and that is very much amazing. I smiled back, and then she frowned. We hung out with the other kitchen staff-they all were talking Arabic so I wondered in to the wait staff’s room (also where all the free booze was.) “Red head” was talking with the “gay waiter.” I walked up and sat by “Red head” and tried to get in on the conversation. They were talking about shopping, and I did not have much to say so I sipped quite steadily on the beer and when I went to the washroom I always grabbed another, even if I was not done the one in my hand when I first got up to go to the washroom, and also I grabbed on for “gay waiter” and “red head.” They were both getting real drunk.
It was known around the restaurant that “red head” had a big crush on “gay waiter” but “gay waiter” was gay. Red head was getting to the point of drunkenness that she forgot that “gay waiter” was gay or something and “gay waiter” was scared off. Then it was me and a very horny “red head” that I thought was the sexiest thing in the world and we were talking.
“How long have you been working here, at ‘Gumpies’ Samantha?” (Samantha is Red head) I asked, I had been working there for 4 months and she was there when I started.
“Oh, too long.” She laughed and reached out drunkenly with a fist and playfully hit me on the chin. I playfully grabbed her waist and she melted in to my hands.
“Enough fighting.” I said and our eyes meet and it was great and all that romantic chemistry… Or at least I thought.
“Have you ever seen ‘Drunk’s Christmas’?” I asked her. She put her hand over her mouth and started to giggle.
“what?” I said.
“You’re strained… You cute little boy.” I did not like to be called a little boy, even by red heads. She seemed very drunk and unfortunately I was not about to take advantage of her. I wanted to. I wanted to take her to her room and to fuck her until I could not fuck any more… take a nap and then fuck her again. But I still had some morals then and I did not get to fuck her. I stayed there until she passed out and one of her friends and I put her to bed. Her friend was a little chubby and kept grabbing my ass, I left after that.
Every one was hung over the next day at work. Dale was not talking which was strange. “Red head” came in to pick up an order.
“I fucked her last night.” Dale said after she took out the order.
“I don’t think you did, I put her to bed last night” I said, everyone laughed at me. You can figure what they thought.
“You dirty little ant” wink wink wink-her eye went, red head had come back for some other order and one of the cooks reiterated what had transpired. “Telling ever one you slept with me, you worm, your lucky I don’t get you fired.” Winking the eye the whole time until I asked her:
“Something wrong with your eye?”
“What you fucking sick jerk, don’t talk to me.”
“What d……………..”
“Shut-up” She yelled in a shrill of a voice and I did. I did not care. She was winking the whole time. She was straining. Everyone else could not see it they all looked at me and then down. After 5 or 10 minutes Dale was talking about his personal problems with women and every one welcomed his bullshit or maybe not bullshit but welcomed it just the same.
As I was going to change “Red head” told me to wait in the change room for her. I contemplated just sitting there in my boxers, or better yet naked, but I decided that that might not be the best Idea because I am no kind of model and also that may not be what she had in mind. I tried telling my self that it was not what she had in mind. This is a trick of mine, telling myself that it won’t work then I won’t be disappointed when it is not the what I want, and if it is the worse that is okay because I thought it would be anyway. So maybe she got me fired or something, I thought. I thought how shitty it would be to be broke on Christmas.
She came in with an indecipherable look on her face. She sat down and put her hands over her face. She was sitting in the small chair and sat in front of the door so no one would come in. I thought for she wanted me, but waited for her to say something.
“Somebody likes you.” She said and I was wondering why she said that… then “thanks for help to put me to bed. And sorry about yelling at you, I can’t lose face around here, but the girl you help to put me to bed likes you.”
“Good” I said in a way that most people would take as sarcasm, but I am not sure if “red head” did.
Oh shit. ‘I don’t want your fat friend I want you.’ I thought of saying, but that would not have been nice. Then she kissed me on the cheek and I watched as her firm happy buttocks bounced out of the changing room. I felt like a little kid. I got out of the restaurant game a little while after, and then out of Calgary.
###############
I sit in a room with a bunch of smart assholes. I am trying too impress them, but I have no stories that are smart-cool, only irresponsible, and with the right turns could be cool.
x
-“I’m blunt. I say what I want. I don’t fuck around.” Said the maniac on the buss. I meet him in the banff buss terminal. He was talking to a hot girl-perfect this girl really, and I don’t think she liked him, but she was very nice for a hot girl. I called her Hot girl, but not to her face.
The night before I was walking around banff. I ran out on my job hours before that and took a cab to the buss station in calgary, and was on a buss within an hour.
x
This really broke my hart to do. But I am not going to tell those asses. I would not want their mascara to run-the prtty little things.
x
-I was at the buss stop. And their was about 12 of us you know, and we all, for about an hour were just walking around, and not talking. Then this guy starts talking about traveling. I start talking abut the places I have been.
x
They look at me all of them intently. The intent is fake and studently. The rich kid in eniglish-student that understands every thing, and every this is this-ish or a that-ism, or reminisant of them, or those or that. They dress in black, or extremly vibrant colours. Their uniforms try to out match the last, and I don’t know why they are listening, and not just yamering about thies and isms and what ever. I go on.
x
-Any we are delayed. One of us speaks up and asks how long. The people that work their say “we don’t know” we ask if they know anything. You know?
x
They all look at each other. One of them stands up and says.
x
-why are we listening to this story again Geoff?
x
-I don’t know, why?
x
We stare at each other. I can remember coming in to the room, with the rats and mice dancing and all-real civil though. They are getting restless.
x
-Why are we listening to the undereducated jerk. Do any of these stories go any were.
x
And their it was right their. Of course! They are going somewhere. This traveling it is nothing and worthless. I continued on wit my story.
x
-Fuck, you little bastards. Text book lay it out nice and good for you. Real laconic. But that’s not life. Life is shit, and maybe never for you. It has noting to do with how fucking smart you are.
x
This get a rise out of them.
x
-I notice that you start and end and just throw fuck around a lot. That is really smart. It really shows of your mastery of the English language.
x
-And how does using words that no has used for a thousand years differ?
x
They all look at each other-amazed by my stupid wisdom, my laymen’s logic, my simple smarts and my huge dick-which, In particular the ladies marvel at. Dick hanging I say:
x
-Sorry about my cock. I don’t know how that came out.
x
I put away my cock.
x
-We were stuck for the night so we went out to eat. I had about 75 bucks and really just wanted to get wasted, but the others were older and in school like you all, so we had to be real civil and respectable and shit-social drinkers they were. Some weren’t but they acted like they were because there was a couple of girls, but not hot chick she came later. Really at that point we did not know for sure that we were stuck even. The people at grey hound said in their not caring and bored tone “come back at 8 and we will see, but the roads are bad, so don’t count on anything.” We tried to argue but it really was pointless.
x
I looked at them. They would not of put up with that. They would of called their lawyers, but that type of thing does not happen in first class plane rides. This brought me back to the thought ‘why are these fucks listening to me?’ and ‘how did I get here?’
It was like I’m trying to join the freak board, and when I am in I get a bunch of money! Yes why not that-They are the freak board so…
x
-I will carry on the story in just a bit, but will you tell me a bit about yourselves?
x
They looked around at each other. ‘what is wrong with this guy? That is a normal question, and not freakish at all.” I was about to show them the importance of context, and in the freaks eyes, the staying out of context is vital!
A woman in black, with black hair and lips-but blue eyes stood up. A shy little freakling she was.
x
-Mr. Parsons, I’m sky.
-is that your real name?
-no, I mean my name is, aw, Pam.
x
The room was in shock. Her boyfriend was crying and his mascara was running. People started slitting their wrist out of excitement. I had to get on with the story to bring them off the suicidal trip!
x
-so at the bar we start drinking. One of the girls is about my age, and is a little quite mouse, probably has no personality at all. She drinks water. We all are asking each other what we do. One person owns a farm, and no one believes him. In fact the people that don’t believe are a lot like you stuck up fucks.
X
-Geoff we don’t have to take this!
X
One of the freaks stands up. He is wearing glasses, and has a real jack ass (And will be a lawyer smile) he is breathless, he does not get why I am such a prick.
X
-leave then!
X
He leaves.
X
-We get to me talking to each other. I tell them I am just traveling around. The guy from the farm says “he is trying to find him self!” I promptly tell him to fuck off. They al are joking and saying “don’t sit by me.” I drink more beer than any one, and I am getting a little drunk-I think the others were too but it is hard to tell. Listen now you fucks, or do you want to be like sulky lawyer boy? Kim is the girl that keeps her mouth shut. I now try to talk to Kim and coax-try to-her out of her shell which she hides. “what do you think” I say “Kim” after every thing I say.
They are all talking about kids and how to bring them up, and three of us, Kim included, that are not 40 something don’t understand…
It turns out they are all have bad luck, and one has breast cancer-we all are silent when we here this.
X
They all are waiting for me to make some snide remark, but I have none for something like breast cancer.
X
-We go back at eight and there is no buss, we all protest to buss driver. “what the fuck?!” I say “your paying for my room!” The RMCP are called. I walk off to the bars after talking to a cop and giver her my fake name.
X
-Geoff why did you give her a fake name?
-I wanted to.
-ok. What did you say to the girl before asking her what she thought?
-I forget, there were lots of things really.
x
###################
Having been sitting on the fork of the road in Central B.C. for about two hours hitch-hiking with no success I decided to try the other side of the road. This Road was the road to the main Highway out of B.C. or to Vancouver. It was a hot June day and I was sick of being out in the sun. I had just been fired from a tree planting job in Prince George and really was sick of the Quays-hippy in B.C. really. I made my mind up to go then. That is if I could get a ride straight through Alberta where I had warrants for stealing a car and joy riding it into a curb at 4 o’clock in the morning in a residential area in Calgary.
I had luck right off. A guy picked me up in a red convertible and we road down the road to a small town. He gave me a card about Jesus and I was going to go across a little bridge and spend the night in a field with my tent, and drink a pint of whiskey-watch the stars in the night. It seemed like a lovely prospect to me. But the lady at the store IDed me and I did not have my ID so I could not purchase the whiskey and I decided I would go and brood on the side of the highway and maybe just go down the Okanogan valley and pick fruits and vegetables until I had enough to get to the other side of Alberta safe on a bus.
It was a little religious town and none of the town’s people would go in to the store and buy me my whiskey. Until a truck driver came along and bought it, then drove me all the way to Manitoba and Winnipeg.
##################
I had a job planting trees in B.C. that spring and ran in to trouble with my foreman. She was the daughter of the company owner and one of those new-age hippy rave no-brained wenches and I got mad one time when she was bitching me out about missing places I could of planted trees and I had to tell her to fuck off and that she was a bitch. I got fired that day.
After that I hitch-hiked across the country in 4 days to Ottawa City from Prince George B.C. Some might think that writers like Kerouac's book "on the road" is good because of the hitch hiking sections, but I have never really had any one be all that interesting (Like some of Kerouac’s better sections, but some lick shit -most of them are so boring that that is probably the reason they pick you up in the first place (The people that pick you up hitch hiking). Truck drivers any-way are annoying to talk to but drive you a long way. This time was somewhat different. A girl picked me up in Dryden, Ontario and drove me all the way to Ottawa City, and I thought I fell in love with her.
She had a big red van and played trance and trip hop the whole way, but I don't know shit about that music, and don't particularly like it either. She was French and around 25 years old. She had black rimmed intellectual glasses and looked cute in them. She was picking me up in her van so-aside from the glasses (or even with the Glasses) she could not be too pretentious as might be expected from girls like this. She talked and talked. About B.C. and all the crazy Parties she had been to and about her father who was dieing and that's why she was on her way back to some miscellaneous French city which I forget the name of, it was in Quebec?
Any way even that trip is not really worth writing about. It took us two nights to get across to Ottawa and I slept in a tent the whole time-out side her van-shit! One of the most interesting times on the road with her was when she told me about her father and mother when they were still together and running a hotel across the street from a strip club. One of the strippers worked out a deal to stay in the hotel and became a family friend. One day she and her sister (The girl who owned the van-she was still a child of 7 or found out that Suzy (the stripper) was really a man. She was okay with it, but her sister was angry, and I am sure this was difference between the sisters, as always one of them is the prude.
Another time we stop on the side of the high way and both of us ran down the side of the road to look at a road killed deer. She took a close up picture of it's eye. Maggots were eating the thing to hell she thought it was beautiful. She marked down the mile of high way it was near to so that she could come back and pick up the bones after her father was dead and the maggots had done their thing and she was on her way back to B.C. She made art out of bones.
I got a big hug from her in Ottawa. I should of went in for a kiss some time over those 2000 miles, she was vulnerable and it would of been easy to fuck her, but what ever-she would of gotten annoying after a week or two.
#############
Meeting a Girl
Montréal and I have a strange-love hate-relationship going on for some years now. I love the beer, but I am English and it is hard to get a job, but pan-handling seems to be a somewhat of a lucrative business venture. I also met all the street kids, the squeegee kids, and steered clear of the crack heads that hang around at berri u-cum.
Other summers, every other summer since I was 18 I have come to Montréal. I think it is some kind of mating season thing or something along those lines-the women in Montréal summer are amazing. Short tight sexy leg showing high skirts. Nice athletic bodies. I find my self walking down the street grabbing my crotch screaming in my mind, managing to hold it back with a constipated grinding of the teeth. But I always seem to party too hard and end up on the street, and this time I came with that as my only option. I was so pissed of at the world and myself that I didn't care one little bit. Just went around asking for change and when I was to hung-over or sick to face it I went to a refuge for youth and slept it off, and in the morning I would be rearing to go again, but I really was angry. I tried to hit on girls over and over. I was working on my "macking" skills but to no real great out-comes.
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Hot, dark dieing summer nights. I stumble around saying "spare a bit of change" while sipping a 40 bottle of beer-Ten %. Waking up at different times of the night and day with half of a beer and smells of garbage. Montréal 2004 summer and I am pretty down on my luck.
I borrowed a squeegee from one of the squeegee kids one night. He is telling me he is going to show me how to make "really money" which is of course in washing people's windows for them. It is three o'clock in the morning or there abouts and I am not making any money. I need a smoke badly and who is walking down the street but a cute little lady.
-hello. A__ you would not happen to have a smoke-would'ya?
I ask, looking at her with my eyebrows jotting up-wards, which is what I think makes my look hot and sexy. I think she is going to say no and while I am turning around to go harass another car she says.
-yha, and hands me one.
I say thank you very much. Then ask her for a light. Then she says she needs a smoke too. I did not try my hit-on tactics because I thought I had no chance with this hot thing, but this is definitely giving me an in. She is asking for it if she wants to have a smoke with me. I cut right to the chase.
-You think I could crash on your floor, or sleep on you r floor.
-sure
I am surprised about how easy it was.
-Are you...
I started. She interrupted.
-How do I know your not an axe murderer. Where are you from?
-Halifax.
-Let's see so cooperating evidence.
-I lost my wallet sorry, but I am not lying.
Back at her house we sit on her couch. We are both drunk and having a cigarette I start talking about relationships some how, I forget most of it, but a lot of it had to be with me being a heart broken-broke fool and I was not sure if I should put my arm around her. I did not want to lose the place to stay, but she had the sweetest green eyes that almost seemed to glow in a grey and deep mystery way that pulled me in, and just when I was getting the courage to put my arm around her she plopped her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her feeling that there would be a pretty good chance it would not be thrown aside.
She asked me if I would rather stay in her bed with her. I had had a hard on almost from the first moment I saw her and said yes to the invitation. Her room was dark. She under stood the quality of sleeping in the darkness. We started kissing and I moved my pelvis in a way that I feel turns woman on quite well and also some quick finger tricks, but we had no condoms and we both turned her room upside-down looking for some. I had to get to sleep with out blowing my load. The next morning she sent me down to the store to buy condoms and I ran like hell to the store. I came back and we did the deed.
I stayed at her house that night. Tried to have sex for a third time that day could not, and slept the whole night. The next morning she gave me her phone number saying "call me some time" and I left. I was the happiest guy in the world, but then I started driving myself crazy with whether or not I would be able to see her again and even if the number was correct. Sylvia ran through my head the whole night.
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It's one of thousands of park in Montréal City "Parc latfontain" it has a pond in the middle of it and hills on either side of the pond, and all around the very edge of the pond is an ash fault walk-bike path. This is where I did my thinking and drinking during the day in Montreal. I used to go to the Library but I got tried of the non-selection of any thing good to read in English and the angry that arose in me when it was in French when there was any thing worth reading-like twenty Henry miller books and not one in English-in the American Author section.
The day after seeing Sylvia the first two nights, and a night in the homeless shelter, I sat in the park drinking a 40 of beer and writing like mad thing I have long since lost like stupid poetry about all the things I hate and reaction that people had to me yelling in their faces and pissing right in front of them. I wrote...
I met a girl
but it's not real
because
because
nothing is real and no one cares
So get it over with
And let her rip your godamn fucking hart out!
The I slammed the pen in to the note pad over and over and probably cried and walked around in circles and thought I should not call her. But then after a couple more beer I thought I should just to get it over with. But she was not home. I called again and again and then the 6the last time I was going to call her she was home and it was 7:30 and I drunkenly said.
-Sylvia come out and drink in the park!
-okay.
-but your going to have to buy your own beer.
I said, but she came out and the drunken wooing began and end with about 3 hours of sex.
############
Annoying pricks
"Don't think about it like it is that important." Said the tall happy looking dread-locked girl. She had candy red lips.
"I don't think it's too important.." The short kid with glasses said. He did not believe what he said, and neither did anyone else. "Only a poser would get bent out of shape about something like that."
Sandra and huck were friends. I was not their friend. I sat in the corner and listened.
"Well Huck it seems like you care too much about it. It is just a silly paper. So what if you got a low mark."
"I failed."
"Not by grade."
"no but a b- is not a good grade."
I could not help but smile. All through High school if I had ever gotten a b- my folks would of bought me a car or some shit like that. Here are these two too smart kids getting bogged down about something I would consider an accomplishment. If I was his friend I would not try and cheer him up though. In fact people like that could never be my friend. I would have to be a different person. So really it is impossible to know what I would say.
"I had to go to New York and Greece though. I hate having to travel too much."
TOO MUCH TRAVEL? TO NEW YORK AND GREECE??!!
"I know huck that is a drag. I wish I could just study all the time.." Candy lips said. She had noticed my expression. I liked the way she glanced over at me. It said "hey! I got you man! What you up to?" I like it when girls are like this. It makes me feel sexy for a moment and then I look around for the guy she is really looking at. This time He was not around.
"Sandra are you smiling at him?"
"who?" Candy lips says starring right at my like I was a temporarily alive animal in her sights.
"That drunk!" I took a slug of my beer. Why even try.
"So what he is kind of cute."
"Come on Sandra let's go." Geek boy who hates Greece and New York and Sandra with her Candy lips walked out of my life. I sat there with a half a chubby and beer.
Instead of spending vd together my girl friend has decided to go out with two of her recently dumped girlfriends (both of them were just dumped by their boyfriends, which is weird to say the least) They are going to a hotel and drinking it up. It was a no boyfriends, or no couple thing, said the girl throwing it. Any way so I am here alone on vd. But really should that matter at all, should it just be like any other day right? Any way girls take it more to hart. IO am most upset that I was not invited to the party. But I think it would be pretty uncomfortable to be there...
######################I got in to work on time. I picked up the phone and reached out, and ripped off an old lady. This is my job. There are call centers all over Montreal. The call centers call old ladies, or young men really anyone who is gullible enough to pay money to save money, anyone desperate enough. It does not make me feel good about my self, but you got ta do what you got ta do.
My writing career is not going along as I thought it would about 5 years ago. I have not published a thing. I have kind of, sort of, but that is not publishing that is nothing, that is
shit! I am a good salesmen. I like acting like I know a lot of things at least more than the
“customer”. I make up words like “contripulation” and “franizuouse” To screw around with the poor gullible people I rip off 400.00 a day, but I am just doing my job.
Montreal is a beautiful city, really, and there are times when, on a metro or a bus, I am just over whelmed by it and it does not seem so beautiful anymore, and feel sick because
there are too many people. Then there are times when I am in a park or a nice cafe’ with my girlfriend and it seems beautiful again. There were days in the summer I sat in parks for hours and just slack jawed--looked out in awe at the French and amazingly something--that never could be put in to words.
“Hello, is mister Gleek there please?” I say as the owner walks across the room and
asks me if I ever take a break. I cover the phone and say “no.” I never thought that I would work so hard at doing such an evil thing, but I do. Mister gleek had just lost his wife, and after talking to me he had lost 400.00 dollars too.
It might seem like I am smug about ripping people off, and kind of think it is funny. The
truth is if I thought about I would feel even worse than I do already, and I am not even thinking about the two or three people I rip off each day. Money makes me feel better. I like money and it matters to me. I know that is not “cool” and Money is one of the world’s evils, but you have to look at it the right way. It all has to come down to something, for some it’s Money,
for some sex, power. That means to get most of these things usually begins with one of the other things. Money is what I see as what I need to get what I want, and maybe it is my culture. Don’t say to me that in different cultures money does not matter and then refuse to give me a cigarette. The world of “cool” Montreal is a hypocritical cracked out pot-head philosopher’s talk all night high off cocaine. At least English Montreal. By day we sell bullshit to the USA.
To survive is to be a hypocrite.
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god
I
was approached by two grinning Jesus freaks-and I knew that they were before the opened their glasses wearing grin faced mouths. I can tell a Jesus freak when I see one. The girl ones are tuff though because at first you think they are in to you and you get a little scared, you know, but then you realize that no one gets looks like that-not the honest man in the world, not like that.
-Hi.
One says and I can see his friend step back a bit and take a deep breath. he knows I care nothing about Jesus, and he wishes his buddy was as insight full, and hell! not blinded by jejus and all.
-Hi.
I say. I was trying to enjoy a fucking smoke.
-My name is tom, and this is Ice.
I nod my head. I was not in the mood to talk to any one. And especially not these phony god loving ass holes.
-We are organizing a bible reading group at Concordia, and would like to...
-I am not interested thanks.
-do you know what the bible teaches you? God love you.
Like hell I think.
-yha yha and grace and all that crap. I believe that people should believe in god in their own way I think all these organized religions just cause a lot of problems really. I believe in a higher power, but this guy in your favorite book, this fairy tale god I don't know.
They keep on talking trying to have a conversation with me.
-Look it was nice meeting you.
I shake their hands.
-I have things to do in school. Bye.
I point a Concordia university and go to the forth floor find bouzouki and sit and read. Buk is hilarious!
###################
Insane
I turn on the computer. drink my beer and it is cold up here. Poetry prose? "Ekk" Corso said on a movie about the beat generation, or a movie about Kerouac, same difference. I sit hear and the world is dead at this instance. the weather is strange and growing in my mind is question.
-why is it going to all come down before I am done, before I am grown.--it sticks to my mind in the metro on the way home. after sales, to old and young, scams from the heart, to the heart. Money has become our souls, and we are lumps of Cole.
I sat at the table alone and drinking out of my big mug of beer. I was at the bar about ten minutes before with my girl friend and her friends. We were talking about politics.
-All everyone in the world has to do is mind their own business.
One of them said. I agreed with this, but I knew that it was impossible. So I said.
-I think what we need is one country to take over the whole damn world. Even the US.
And the guy that thought we all should just "mind our own business" told me to shut up. Then some one else came to my defense.
-The best government is a dictatorship.
Which may be true. Although that is not what I was getting at.
Then he went on and started talking about Katherine the great. And how she drank a shot of cum each morning. We were all kind of drunk.
After the political yelling we went top look at my girl friend animation. Then they went to a friends house, and I went back to the bar, My girl friend stayed at the university to work on her animation.
At the bar a met a guy from my work. I was extremely drunk and walked around Montréal with this work mate I hardly know and tried to steal unattended beer at different bars in Montréal.
The guy needed a place to stay so I said he could stay at my place. We got in and I did not tell my girlfriend that the guy was going to sleep on the couch. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and we drank ( the guy from work and I_) Then my grill friend got up and I had to tell the guy to leave.
My girlfriend and I got in a fight. But it is okay now...
Can’t sleep do to the comforting effects of coffee'. Or should I say affect? What ever. Too many cigarettes. Too many things on my mind. But nothing real interesting. No murder or love triangles, nothing that would make a beat novel or beat bio. Nothing that would amount to real human suffering. Just normal every day 21st century techno-nothing, and automotive mad-bots.
############
double insane
The coffee is from Colombia. It is a good blend. It comes in a brown bag, and sits on the counter with the ground beans surrounding it like a cluster of starts-the coffee bag being the center of the universe or galaxy. What ever. The fridge smelling of rotten vegetables and the sinks clogged with chopped rotting vegetables. When I put my hand in to pull the plug. I feel some thing and pull my hand out-out of reflex-and a large rat bobs to the soapy surface. I gag, and cough.
The Italian coffee' pot "confess" and the water boils up and through the coffee' beans and the aroma billows out through the hovel of a house. I rinse a cup out over the rat. I am mumbling things. I have started to make up words now. "Gargle spit" I say in gibberish inspired glee and I prance around the apartment like a fag.
I like milk in my coffee'. I remember going out to the country when I was a kid. When I could feel the warmth of the love all around me. I watched the cows for an hour, and then I did not feel bad about eating them anymore. They really are useless creatures and the only reason they are here must be to be eaten. Every thing is that easy. All the cows asked for was some grass to graze and the whole eating thing was fine.
Prancing around I run in to the book I had been reading. It, open pages on the floor holding my place. I read. "I can't sleep do to the comforting effects of coffee'." I close the book again. I forgot I had left off there. But I have really nothing else to add, and still don't until the knock came at the door at about 8 am.
-Geoff what have you been up to--said a smiling face of a girl my age.
-Nothing. Can't sleep. Come in Come in.--I use my hands the way people do. You know I beckon her in and she comes and we sit at the table. The table is away from the sink. I don't want her to see the rat. I really should of cleaned up. But I had been telling my self she would not come since the moment I asked her to.
-Nice place.--she was just being nice.
-it's a mess--I said and startled her a bit. I am not use to talking to girls. I turn on Tom waits, but his first album. That one is not as drunk as the others.
-I like this music--her brown eyes and hair. Her voice. Her shoulders. The way she sits, looking and wondering about me like I am some kind of experiment to her.
-so do I.--there was some kind of connection, but then I said:
-why did you come. Do you know I like you?
-yes. I like you too.
-no no but really, you know?--I looked at her and gave her my green pasty smile. From days of coffee' and cigarettes. She looked uneasy. Then she had to go.
I looked out the window. It was too bright. I was not going to chance going out without proper protection. Sun glasses and base ball cap. And a run down to the beer store. Because nothing works out, and she was the point. There was a point and then you had none, because your social skills are so, well not existing. And there I go with my shits in thought and I am losing the integrity of my mind and body and soul and love and world, and rat in the sink... but even cows have more going for them than that.
##############
anger
Instead of spending vd together my girl friend has decided to go out with two of her recently dumped girlfriends (both of them were just dumped by their boyfriends, which is weird to say the least) They are going to a hotel and drinking it up. It was a no boyfriends, or no couple thing, said the girl throwing it. Any way so I am here alone on vd. But really should that matter at all, should it just be like any other day right? Any way girls take it more to hart. IO am most upset that I was not invited to the party. But I think it would be pretty uncomfortable to be there...
We got in to this argument later:
“All your stuff sounds the same Geoff. All your stories are about you and they all are the same.
All your characters are the same.”
“That is just because you don’t understand bitch. I am trying to tell the world about what I see
and think.”
“Well it is boring. And, Geoff, can you please not call me bitch?”
“Why? you call me a bastard and make fun of things I do. Why are you so much better because
you go to university? What makes you so high and mighty. I think that there are lots of
people that would want to read my stories. It is just people like you that keep fucking greats
like me down.”
“Geoff your so average.”
“Bitch.”
“Geoff if you do that again I am leaving.”
“bitch...” (She gets up and starts to leave I grab her arm)
“Let go of me Geoff.”
“No, look just don’t leave I am sorry.”
“Just because your jealous of my education does not mean you can treat me like that.”
“I am not jealous, just fucking people like you don’t get it. Any one can be famous and great.
It is all bullshit.”
“Maybe for you Geoff, but that is because you don’t know anything.”
“Err, your right. Come back top bed.”
“Okay.”
It is the kind of cold that gets to you-I walk in it and freeze my balls off-I walk in it and swear a blue streak, and want stake-I live for the day when it is warm again-I dream for the bastards- I dream for myself- I keep a dream alive-The one hope-That dream_ the ever glowing lights in my mind-shit can be wonderful-Awfulness can bring inspiration-but awful always? well it is just that-With a ding dong and a her too...
And then this one:
-you...
She dragged out the -ou- part of you.
-You bastard. Do you know what time it is?
-around 3:30 in the morning.
I said this with an extreme smile on, a drunk smile, but also a sarcastic smile.
-do you have any money left?
I throw 60 dollars on the table drunk and highly. I have been doing coke, but I can't let her know that because she does not like that. I say that I was at a soy bar and she does not believe me.
-no really a s... s... Soya...soy bar.
I mange to get out slurring like made.
-really?
raised eyebrow and trying to make like she actually believes that heinous lie I just pull out of my ass.
-and your angry, I suppose.
I say putting my nose in the air in an aristocratic fashion, or what I believe to be an aristocratic fashion.
-yes, ___---___, we were supposed to buy groceries with that you prick!
I start walking up to her smiling.
-stop smiling she says.
I keep smiling, and then she smiles.
-___---___, this is not going to work...
She starts laughing and grabs my ass and we very romantically like a couple of greasy crack-heads bang together at the hip.
-it's not that big of a deal anyway is it I still have the 60.
-I just hate waiting up for you.
############
Two days for Hunter, kind of.
I feel sick today, and this beer is not going to help. I don’t really care about help though. I guzzle a beer down and look at the TV. I like to drink my self stupid by myself and watch TV. I like political shows; they are particularly good to get drunk to. I end up yelling at the screen. “Does anyone really believe this phony fuck?” My arms in a questioning position, my hand lovingly grasping my beer, and perhaps the other hand on my cock.
This is not a good time for my Girl friend to show up, but for some reason she always does at that moment and breaks up with me, and then I have to work to get her back, and that sucks. She asks me why I do it. I tell her it is in protest to the world, which is more a lie than true. She knows this. I get hell for it.
My sweaty ass on the dirty bed. Beer bottles all around me. The smell of stale cigarettes, \and what comes on but deaths of celebrities today, the women that played gigit, some one else, and Hunter s. Thompson. Well I have to buy a beer to that, even though it is my girlfriend’s birth day. I was supposed to go over to her place and watch a movie but her mom said no, and hunter died today! Hell I got to drink.
I get a beer and it taste good. But hunter was excessive, I have to be too, but I have no money. In Montréal it is easy to swipe a bottle of wine from any super market. I do this. I drink and walk along the street stop and talk to the homeless kids out in the cold, I offer my wine to them, they refuse. I talk to them about how they can be “non-conformist” and not sleep on the street, and they tell me that they want to go to sleep. I steal another bottle, and go in to a bar and get people to buy me beer for about 2 hours the bar tenders buy me booze I am the life of the party. The next morning I am too hung over to go to work. I cure that with a stolen bottle of beer. I can’t remember too much else. I wake up in the hospital. I get back to my shity hotel room and lay in bed, and my girl friend comes by and yells at me for not talking to her for two days. She sees the bottles and is pissed. I blamed it all on hunter, but it was not his fault.
_________________
Metros make me sick. I sit on them and look at the people, and early in the morning they annoy me--to no end with their “slow walking” and “admiring life.” Bastards! I don’t like the idea of all the germs there either.
I get in to work and get chewed out for being rude to people on the phone (my job is telemarketing) the boss says I belittle the customers, which is true, but if they had a half a brain I would not be. I told one women once:
-we are going to block the fraudulent companies from getting to your account by using the “grab-the-freedom systems.” See miss they can steal from your account using the “Main Grig,” that “grig” controls the bank’s data base. You understand right?
-oh yes the grig, oh yha. What did you want? My account number?
-yes miss Hardwhiper.
I am really quite an evil guy really. The sad thing is that I want to be an artist, not a con artist, and I am a con artist, but not a very good one. I can’t draw, so I ain’t going to be no painter, or cartoonist. I am not that amusing after a while, ask my girl friend, so I can’t be anyone’s muse. Shit man all I can really be is a writer, that is all that is left, and if you are a writer no one expects you to have money, and they don’t think you will be anything less than a drunk. Since no one will read a short story in a bar (I have tried to get some one to) you need no proof. It is:
-you’re a writer? I hope your not writing about this.—ha ha buddy never heard that one.
###
Rain: The rain falls down and only makes me feel better in the comfort of sadness. The hell that is life at the end of something. It is hard to say goodbye. It is hard to disclose the deadly deepness of ones own hate.
Sun: Sun comes in Sunday morning and my mind only hurts with the images of last night and the after throws of being left and leaving all hope alone.
Hope: I hope I see hope again…
###
Realization
Breaking up is a strange thing especially when you still sleep with your X and the only real difference is that she can do what ever she wants and not feel guilty about it. This is what has happened to me. I realized that my X was planning a trip to Spain, and that she was leaving soon; It just kind of kicked in one week. I told some people at work and they said that ‘she was obviously just going to be fucking guys there’ and although none of them knew my X that well I freaked out. It got a little rocky after I called her up and asked her if she still wanted to met after I was done or if she wanted to go ‘fuck some Spanish dick!’ She was in the middle of ending off her school and hade lot of work and was in no mood, and that is when we broke up that night.
###
I sit in the car as we roll along the street. Someone has put on the beats. Someone likes this crap. Some generation, and I think it is mine and what do we all listen to? Per-packaged, phoney plastic image produced by team of ad executive assholes. We listen to the sound of money making money. And when rage against the machine, or redhot chillies come on, well who’s to say they are not over produced like the rest. It is so ingrained in to our psyches we talk it, live it, and breathe it. We regurgitate it. It is all around us.
So we roll down the street with smiling faces all around us. Green rings around frowning people’s smell—the new tacked of the ad companies to make fun of it self so that people that were on the fence about the consumer driven world would fall on one side. I am still up here. I am cynical, but what makes a better ad executive then a cynical 20 something guy? Right. I know people who laugh at commercials. I do in private some times, or when I am drunk, and every one looks at me like I am uncool. They all look at me like I am un cool them in their gap jeans and banana republic whatever, and me in some jeans I found on the ground and no shirt.
The car stops at a house and I get out and walk to the door. By the door are empty old boxes of Kraft dinner dating back to a week ago. I clean the boxes up each week. I make a point not to clean them before. I like filth, I like disparity and I will never conform. I don’t have a phone or a cell or a beeper, and I did not sell weed in high school nor was I on the football team or even the debating club. I was in a band until I was 16 years old AND then nothing. Nothing I just floated along with an empty void. I filled that with books by people that inspired me to keep doing what I wanted. The great thing about books is that there is an audience for everything and everyone, and you don’t have to worry about your sponsors.
So this is how it is going to go the whole story guys. I am going to say what I am doing or what I have done and then go on a rant about what ever comes to my mind. It is my brand of stream of conscience, but with me it is a water fall in to a cess-pool.
I sit in my couch that raps around me like a horny cat and turn on the TV. I hate TV but watch it all the time. I hate McDonalds and crave big Macs. I rant about morals and principles and follow none of my own.
I grab a beer and sip it down. The law is coming down on me again. I was playing a giture on the side of the main street in Montréal last week. I was doing my tom waits impression, and I had a bottle of open beer beside me. The cops came and took my name. The found out about the trouble in Calgary and put me in the holding cell for 3 days with a wife beater, an armed robber, and several smelly bums. Now I have court dates and all kinds of shit. I try not to think about it, I try not to think about being raped up the ass and trying not to think about. I'll have to fight the fucks away. I am sexy.
And it is my girl friend that says:
-you always find something to be angry about or sad about. I am tried of your shit.
-look sit down and let’s watch the movie. –I said, because I was trying to, and then she got angry because I said I felt kind of sick.
-that is all you can say? “Watch the movie.”—she said and I sensed that she felt stupid saying it. She felt stupid because of the way I was looking at her; it made her look at her self.
I walk in to work and my manager is squawking like some kind of Brazilian chipmunk or something, just squawking. I make coffee’ we call people up and the 3 way them on the phone with phone sex lines, and then we listen to their reactions. I found the number for the white house and called them. Did you know that that have a line that you can leave messages for the president on? I left a couple nice ones for him. I rip off about 4-5 Americans a day or should I say sell them something—it is all semantics really. All I do is say things in a way so it sounds like something else. Repeat words like freedom and security and liberty and that usually makes them agree with me. “You like freedom right?
I put on the green Nikes shirt at the foot of the bed. I look of in to the empty life. My eyes are video cameras and I am an unhappy un interested audience.
They stand at the corner of the street. It’s hot. You can’t see the heat rise, and you can’t help but feel woozy. The pink chipped house on one side with a black family having a dance party. The kids go in the centre of the circle formed and the older folks put up their hands “Yhaa!” The say almost laughing at their children’s budding rhythm. It is summer in Halifax.
Awaked in conscience watching my feet walking along a dark path. My last memory is talking to a girl with brown hair and blue eyes. I was trying to get with her. I was combing her hair back behind her ear for her. I was smiling and so was she. I am on my way home, across the grass, across Gottengen Street. It is summer in Halifax.
I it is the same old boring house party crowed and I don’t fit and I sit in the corner and watch the beautiful girls as they go for the guys that got in the fights. I sit back. Just a verbal bad ass. Just a big talker. Rude and annoying to everyone. Summer in Halifax, and I have to go.
_______________________________
He did not seem like all that funny of a guy to me; sitting there with his stupid glasses and his fat boy Salt & Pepper hat. But he said he was a comedian, and the nerdy looking guy up on the stage ranting on and one about mistreatment of women in Arab countries was hurting my ears if I listened completely, so I tried to talk to him. I said:
“Say something funny!” I was drunk and did not think it would get under his skin, I just forgot that comics hate to be asked to say something funny.
“When I am up I will.” He said. I guess Comic’s do not have to be funny all the time, or even have a sense of humor while they are not on stage, twas true in this case.
“A
please be over critical and do not stop
-
Axanderdeath
- Posts: 954
- Joined: December 20th, 2004, 9:24 pm
- Location: montreal or somewhere in canada or the world
Hi Geoff,
First off, you posted way way too many stories...start slowly and don't turn off the readers by putting so much out there at one time. Be more selective about what you put out. Also make sure you read other people's work. In fact, if you are looking to improve your writing skills, read a lot of other people's work with a critical eye and not just the famous authors. Critiquing in my opinion, is an often overlooked tool of developing better writing skills.
Secondly, most of the stories are a little repetative and circle around the same events, drinking and smoking and insulting everyone and everything....gets boring after awhile. Change it up a bit. This also falls under the being more selective about what you show.
Thirdly, don't know if you're going for "A Catcher in the Rye" type of lead in all your stories where the central character always thinks everyone is an idiot, if so, then add some contradictions and some paradox between the thoughts of the lead character, and the people he always seems to have such contempt for. As it stands, as a reader I can't say I care for any of the characters.. They all seem like assholes and everything they say seems to really have no point to it, no relevancy and doesn't progress any storyline...there's not even a conflict of survival, no ups and downs, just a plateau, the same thing in and out, day in and out with no real struggle, no falls, no rises. How can a reader get involved with something that isn't engaging...no likeable characters, no storyline, no conflict, no real point. And if a Salinger type of feel is not your aim, then please at least make one person likeable in the stories, add some conflict, add some point to them, add an epiphany at the end, something so that at the end of the read it will feel like it was time well spent ...It also gets boring hearing each lead character walk around drunk calling everyone an asshole and tainting everything with some negativity. Hemmingway blew his brains out but at least he had some happy characters and happy moments in his work.
Fourthly, I kinda liked "Double Insane"... I started off liking "Roaches..", thought it opened well, but in the end, it just boiled down to the same thing as most of your other stories.
"double insane
The coffee is from Colombia. It is a good blend. It comes in a brown bag, and sits on the counter with the ground beans surrounding it like a cluster of starts-the coffee bag being the center of the universe or galaxy.
Good opening and I liked your description of the coffee bag, though perhaps the wording could be tightened...."starts" -- typo for stars ...."sat on the counter surrounded by a cluster of ground bean stars like it was the center of the universe or galaxy." A good rule of thumb is to try minimize using "ing" words...ie, instead of "last night he was running to the store and bumped into Bob" ... "last night he ran to the store and bumped into Bob"...just helps with tenses and flow and tone...though I totally realize its impossible to do all the time especially for sentences broken up by and's and but's.
What ever. The fridge smelling of rotten vegetables and the sinks clogged with chopped rotting vegetables. When I put my hand in to pull the plug. I feel some thing and pull my hand out-out of reflex-and a large rat bobs to the soapy surface. I gag, and cough.
Whatever is a single word I think. I liked this section and the imagery of a dead wet rat in a clogged sink. However, second sentence you use the word rot twice and it is noticeable. Consider changing the first one and maybe go into describing the smell a bit. Also, "smelling" should be "smelled" and "rotting" perhaps should be "rotten" or "rotted". You seem to bounce around a bit with the tenses from past to present. Also the second last sentence is a bit clunky...perhaps reword to smooth out the flow, maybe add a descript. to describe initially what you felt.... "When I dipped my hand in to pull the plug, the tips of my fingers ran across something soft and furrily squishy like a cat's water logged toy. I snapped my hand out of the murk and away from the unknown. A large dead rat bobbed to the soapy surface. It's eyes, which I assumed once blinked a black glare in life, now stared aimlessly at the beyond with dulled gray-green orbs." ....anyways, though this probably isn't your style, its just an example, hope you don't mind me playing around with it a bit.
The Italian coffee' pot "confess" and the water boils up and through the coffee' beans and the aroma billows out through the hovel of a house. I rinse a cup out over the rat. I am mumbling things. I have started to make up words now. "Gargle spit" I say in gibberish inspired glee and I prance around the apartment like a fag.
I really liked this part, thought it added flavour to the story and the part where the character makes up words and dances about is interesting and entertaining. Often action and so on, helps paint who a character is....helps the reader become engaged with the character. The wording could still use a bit of tightening, though I think you did a really good job balancing your descriptions with the action. Also watch your tenses..."The Italian coffee pot "confessed" and the water boiled up through the Columbian beans wafting an aromatic billow of a rich foriegn fragrance throughout the hovel." ...again, just playing around with it a bit.
"I like milk in my coffee'. I remember going out to the country when I was a kid. When I could feel the warmth of the love all around me. I watched the cows for an hour, and then I did not feel bad about eating them anymore. They really are useless creatures and the only reason they are here must be to be eaten. Every thing is that easy. All the cows asked for was some grass to graze and the whole eating thing was fine."
Again, another good section. I especially like it because you are showing us something about the character very subtley.
"Prancing around I run in to the book I had been reading. It, open pages on the floor holding my place. I read. "I can't sleep do to the comforting effects of coffee'." I close the book again. I forgot I had left off there. But I have really nothing else to add, and still don't until the knock came at the door at about 8 am. "
Decent section, working towards a progression of the story. Could use a bit of tightening though.
"-Geoff what have you been up to--said a smiling face of a girl my age.
-Nothing. Can't sleep. Come in Come in.--I use my hands the way people do. You know I beckon her in and she comes and we sit at the table. The table is away from the sink. I don't want her to see the rat. I really should of cleaned up. But I had been telling my self she would not come since the moment I asked her to.
-Nice place.--she was just being nice.
-it's a mess--I said and startled her a bit. I am not use to talking to girls. I turn on Tom waits, but his first album. That one is not as drunk as the others.
-I like this music--her brown eyes and hair. Her voice. Her shoulders. The way she sits, looking and wondering about me like I am some kind of experiment to her.
-so do I.--there was some kind of connection, but then I said:
-why did you come. Do you know I like you?
-yes. I like you too.
-no no but really, you know?--I looked at her and gave her my green pasty smile. From days of coffee' and cigarettes. She looked uneasy. Then she had to go. "
First off, "Closing Time" is a great fucking album.
Secondly, watch how you format your dialogue sections. Really seems scruntched up, visually unappealing and feels cramped....not to mention as a reader I had to stop each time dialogue turns into prose because there is no readily seen division line such as found in spacing or with quotations.
Thirdly, good section, enjoyed it and really liked how you ended this part...perhaps the wording again could be tightened..."I looked at her and gave a smile. A green pasty smile, rank from days of coffee and cigarettes." ...or..."I looked at her and gave a green pasty smile, tarnished from days of coffee and cigarettes."
"I looked out the window. It was too bright. I was not going to chance going out without proper protection. Sun glasses and base ball cap. And a run down to the beer store. Because nothing works out, and she was the point. There was a point and then you had none, because your social skills are so, well not existing. And there I go with my shits in thought and I am losing the integrity of my mind and body and soul and love and world, and rat in the sink... but even cows have more going for them than that."
I see how you are trying to connect the end to the rest of the story and you almost get there but not quite....the idea is floating around in this section but is never firmly nailed down. I think if you tighten it up a bit and chop down the end rambling but keep the idea going, it would work a bit better.
I picked this story to critique because by far it is the most interesting of them in my opinion. The rest of em I didn't really care for though there were small snippets throughout them that were decent. Though similar in nature to the lead of your other stories, you make this character a somewhat likeable loser...there is a purpose -- he is trying to connect to this woman, there is a conflict -- he has trouble connecting to her, there is a resolution -- he fails. Also you tie up this short by trying to connect the ending with an earlier revelation about the irony between the character and cows.
Now for the record, if you tightened it up and ironed out the bumps, if I read it in a magazine, afterwards I woud feel that it was a good investment with my time. But right now as it stands, the typos, format quirks and clunky wording makes it a bit too distracting and pulls the reader out of the story.
Anyways, hoped some of this has helped you.
Trev
First off, you posted way way too many stories...start slowly and don't turn off the readers by putting so much out there at one time. Be more selective about what you put out. Also make sure you read other people's work. In fact, if you are looking to improve your writing skills, read a lot of other people's work with a critical eye and not just the famous authors. Critiquing in my opinion, is an often overlooked tool of developing better writing skills.
Secondly, most of the stories are a little repetative and circle around the same events, drinking and smoking and insulting everyone and everything....gets boring after awhile. Change it up a bit. This also falls under the being more selective about what you show.
Thirdly, don't know if you're going for "A Catcher in the Rye" type of lead in all your stories where the central character always thinks everyone is an idiot, if so, then add some contradictions and some paradox between the thoughts of the lead character, and the people he always seems to have such contempt for. As it stands, as a reader I can't say I care for any of the characters.. They all seem like assholes and everything they say seems to really have no point to it, no relevancy and doesn't progress any storyline...there's not even a conflict of survival, no ups and downs, just a plateau, the same thing in and out, day in and out with no real struggle, no falls, no rises. How can a reader get involved with something that isn't engaging...no likeable characters, no storyline, no conflict, no real point. And if a Salinger type of feel is not your aim, then please at least make one person likeable in the stories, add some conflict, add some point to them, add an epiphany at the end, something so that at the end of the read it will feel like it was time well spent ...It also gets boring hearing each lead character walk around drunk calling everyone an asshole and tainting everything with some negativity. Hemmingway blew his brains out but at least he had some happy characters and happy moments in his work.
Fourthly, I kinda liked "Double Insane"... I started off liking "Roaches..", thought it opened well, but in the end, it just boiled down to the same thing as most of your other stories.
"double insane
The coffee is from Colombia. It is a good blend. It comes in a brown bag, and sits on the counter with the ground beans surrounding it like a cluster of starts-the coffee bag being the center of the universe or galaxy.
Good opening and I liked your description of the coffee bag, though perhaps the wording could be tightened...."starts" -- typo for stars ...."sat on the counter surrounded by a cluster of ground bean stars like it was the center of the universe or galaxy." A good rule of thumb is to try minimize using "ing" words...ie, instead of "last night he was running to the store and bumped into Bob" ... "last night he ran to the store and bumped into Bob"...just helps with tenses and flow and tone...though I totally realize its impossible to do all the time especially for sentences broken up by and's and but's.
What ever. The fridge smelling of rotten vegetables and the sinks clogged with chopped rotting vegetables. When I put my hand in to pull the plug. I feel some thing and pull my hand out-out of reflex-and a large rat bobs to the soapy surface. I gag, and cough.
Whatever is a single word I think. I liked this section and the imagery of a dead wet rat in a clogged sink. However, second sentence you use the word rot twice and it is noticeable. Consider changing the first one and maybe go into describing the smell a bit. Also, "smelling" should be "smelled" and "rotting" perhaps should be "rotten" or "rotted". You seem to bounce around a bit with the tenses from past to present. Also the second last sentence is a bit clunky...perhaps reword to smooth out the flow, maybe add a descript. to describe initially what you felt.... "When I dipped my hand in to pull the plug, the tips of my fingers ran across something soft and furrily squishy like a cat's water logged toy. I snapped my hand out of the murk and away from the unknown. A large dead rat bobbed to the soapy surface. It's eyes, which I assumed once blinked a black glare in life, now stared aimlessly at the beyond with dulled gray-green orbs." ....anyways, though this probably isn't your style, its just an example, hope you don't mind me playing around with it a bit.
The Italian coffee' pot "confess" and the water boils up and through the coffee' beans and the aroma billows out through the hovel of a house. I rinse a cup out over the rat. I am mumbling things. I have started to make up words now. "Gargle spit" I say in gibberish inspired glee and I prance around the apartment like a fag.
I really liked this part, thought it added flavour to the story and the part where the character makes up words and dances about is interesting and entertaining. Often action and so on, helps paint who a character is....helps the reader become engaged with the character. The wording could still use a bit of tightening, though I think you did a really good job balancing your descriptions with the action. Also watch your tenses..."The Italian coffee pot "confessed" and the water boiled up through the Columbian beans wafting an aromatic billow of a rich foriegn fragrance throughout the hovel." ...again, just playing around with it a bit.
"I like milk in my coffee'. I remember going out to the country when I was a kid. When I could feel the warmth of the love all around me. I watched the cows for an hour, and then I did not feel bad about eating them anymore. They really are useless creatures and the only reason they are here must be to be eaten. Every thing is that easy. All the cows asked for was some grass to graze and the whole eating thing was fine."
Again, another good section. I especially like it because you are showing us something about the character very subtley.
"Prancing around I run in to the book I had been reading. It, open pages on the floor holding my place. I read. "I can't sleep do to the comforting effects of coffee'." I close the book again. I forgot I had left off there. But I have really nothing else to add, and still don't until the knock came at the door at about 8 am. "
Decent section, working towards a progression of the story. Could use a bit of tightening though.
"-Geoff what have you been up to--said a smiling face of a girl my age.
-Nothing. Can't sleep. Come in Come in.--I use my hands the way people do. You know I beckon her in and she comes and we sit at the table. The table is away from the sink. I don't want her to see the rat. I really should of cleaned up. But I had been telling my self she would not come since the moment I asked her to.
-Nice place.--she was just being nice.
-it's a mess--I said and startled her a bit. I am not use to talking to girls. I turn on Tom waits, but his first album. That one is not as drunk as the others.
-I like this music--her brown eyes and hair. Her voice. Her shoulders. The way she sits, looking and wondering about me like I am some kind of experiment to her.
-so do I.--there was some kind of connection, but then I said:
-why did you come. Do you know I like you?
-yes. I like you too.
-no no but really, you know?--I looked at her and gave her my green pasty smile. From days of coffee' and cigarettes. She looked uneasy. Then she had to go. "
First off, "Closing Time" is a great fucking album.
Secondly, watch how you format your dialogue sections. Really seems scruntched up, visually unappealing and feels cramped....not to mention as a reader I had to stop each time dialogue turns into prose because there is no readily seen division line such as found in spacing or with quotations.
Thirdly, good section, enjoyed it and really liked how you ended this part...perhaps the wording again could be tightened..."I looked at her and gave a smile. A green pasty smile, rank from days of coffee and cigarettes." ...or..."I looked at her and gave a green pasty smile, tarnished from days of coffee and cigarettes."
"I looked out the window. It was too bright. I was not going to chance going out without proper protection. Sun glasses and base ball cap. And a run down to the beer store. Because nothing works out, and she was the point. There was a point and then you had none, because your social skills are so, well not existing. And there I go with my shits in thought and I am losing the integrity of my mind and body and soul and love and world, and rat in the sink... but even cows have more going for them than that."
I see how you are trying to connect the end to the rest of the story and you almost get there but not quite....the idea is floating around in this section but is never firmly nailed down. I think if you tighten it up a bit and chop down the end rambling but keep the idea going, it would work a bit better.
I picked this story to critique because by far it is the most interesting of them in my opinion. The rest of em I didn't really care for though there were small snippets throughout them that were decent. Though similar in nature to the lead of your other stories, you make this character a somewhat likeable loser...there is a purpose -- he is trying to connect to this woman, there is a conflict -- he has trouble connecting to her, there is a resolution -- he fails. Also you tie up this short by trying to connect the ending with an earlier revelation about the irony between the character and cows.
Now for the record, if you tightened it up and ironed out the bumps, if I read it in a magazine, afterwards I woud feel that it was a good investment with my time. But right now as it stands, the typos, format quirks and clunky wording makes it a bit too distracting and pulls the reader out of the story.
Anyways, hoped some of this has helped you.
Trev
-
Axanderdeath
- Posts: 954
- Joined: December 20th, 2004, 9:24 pm
- Location: montreal or somewhere in canada or the world
Trevor wrote:Hi Geoff,
First off, you posted way way too many stories...start slowly and don't turn off the readers by putting so much out there at one time. Be more selective about what you put out. Also make sure you read other people's work. In fact, if you are looking to improve your writing skills, read a lot of other people's work with a critical eye and not just the famous authors. Critiquing in my opinion, is an often overlooked tool of developing better writing skills.
Secondly, most of the stories are a little repetative and circle around the same events, drinking and smoking and insulting everyone and everything....gets boring after awhile. Change it up a bit. This also falls under the being more selective about what you show.
Thirdly, don't know if you're going for "A Catcher in the Rye" type of lead in all your stories where the central character always thinks everyone is an idiot, if so, then add some contradictions and some paradox between the thoughts of the lead character, and the people he always seems to have such contempt for. As it stands, as a reader I can't say I care for any of the characters.. They all seem like assholes and everything they say seems to really have no point to it, no relevancy and doesn't progress any storyline...there's not even a conflict of survival, no ups and downs, just a plateau, the same thing in and out, day in and out with no real struggle, no falls, no rises. How can a reader get involved with something that isn't engaging...no likeable characters, no storyline, no conflict, no real point. And if a Salinger type of feel is not your aim, then please at least make one person likeable in the stories, add some conflict, add some point to them, add an epiphany at the end, something so that at the end of the read it will feel like it was time well spent ...It also gets boring hearing each lead character walk around drunk calling everyone an asshole and tainting everything with some negativity. Hemmingway blew his brains out but at least he had some happy characters and happy moments in his work.
Fourthly, I kinda liked "Double Insane"... I started off liking "Roaches..", thought it opened well, but in the end, it just boiled down to the same thing as most of your other stories.
"double insane
The coffee is from Colombia. It is a good blend. It comes in a brown bag, and sits on the counter with the ground beans surrounding it like a cluster of starts-the coffee bag being the center of the universe or galaxy.
Good opening and I liked your description of the coffee bag, though perhaps the wording could be tightened...."starts" -- typo for stars ...."sat on the counter surrounded by a cluster of ground bean stars like it was the center of the universe or galaxy." A good rule of thumb is to try minimize using "ing" words...ie, instead of "last night he was running to the store and bumped into Bob" ... "last night he ran to the store and bumped into Bob"...just helps with tenses and flow and tone...though I totally realize its impossible to do all the time especially for sentences broken up by and's and but's.
What ever. The fridge smelling of rotten vegetables and the sinks clogged with chopped rotting vegetables. When I put my hand in to pull the plug. I feel some thing and pull my hand out-out of reflex-and a large rat bobs to the soapy surface. I gag, and cough.
Whatever is a single word I think. I liked this section and the imagery of a dead wet rat in a clogged sink. However, second sentence you use the word rot twice and it is noticeable. Consider changing the first one and maybe go into describing the smell a bit. Also, "smelling" should be "smelled" and "rotting" perhaps should be "rotten" or "rotted". You seem to bounce around a bit with the tenses from past to present. Also the second last sentence is a bit clunky...perhaps reword to smooth out the flow, maybe add a descript. to describe initially what you felt.... "When I dipped my hand in to pull the plug, the tips of my fingers ran across something soft and furrily squishy like a cat's water logged toy. I snapped my hand out of the murk and away from the unknown. A large dead rat bobbed to the soapy surface. It's eyes, which I assumed once blinked a black glare in life, now stared aimlessly at the beyond with dulled gray-green orbs." ....anyways, though this probably isn't your style, its just an example, hope you don't mind me playing around with it a bit.
The Italian coffee' pot "confess" and the water boils up and through the coffee' beans and the aroma billows out through the hovel of a house. I rinse a cup out over the rat. I am mumbling things. I have started to make up words now. "Gargle spit" I say in gibberish inspired glee and I prance around the apartment like a fag.
I really liked this part, thought it added flavour to the story and the part where the character makes up words and dances about is interesting and entertaining. Often action and so on, helps paint who a character is....helps the reader become engaged with the character. The wording could still use a bit of tightening, though I think you did a really good job balancing your descriptions with the action. Also watch your tenses..."The Italian coffee pot "confessed" and the water boiled up through the Columbian beans wafting an aromatic billow of a rich foriegn fragrance throughout the hovel." ...again, just playing around with it a bit.
"I like milk in my coffee'. I remember going out to the country when I was a kid. When I could feel the warmth of the love all around me. I watched the cows for an hour, and then I did not feel bad about eating them anymore. They really are useless creatures and the only reason they are here must be to be eaten. Every thing is that easy. All the cows asked for was some grass to graze and the whole eating thing was fine."
Again, another good section. I especially like it because you are showing us something about the character very subtley.
"Prancing around I run in to the book I had been reading. It, open pages on the floor holding my place. I read. "I can't sleep do to the comforting effects of coffee'." I close the book again. I forgot I had left off there. But I have really nothing else to add, and still don't until the knock came at the door at about 8 am. "
Decent section, working towards a progression of the story. Could use a bit of tightening though.
"-Geoff what have you been up to--said a smiling face of a girl my age.
-Nothing. Can't sleep. Come in Come in.--I use my hands the way people do. You know I beckon her in and she comes and we sit at the table. The table is away from the sink. I don't want her to see the rat. I really should of cleaned up. But I had been telling my self she would not come since the moment I asked her to.
-Nice place.--she was just being nice.
-it's a mess--I said and startled her a bit. I am not use to talking to girls. I turn on Tom waits, but his first album. That one is not as drunk as the others.
-I like this music--her brown eyes and hair. Her voice. Her shoulders. The way she sits, looking and wondering about me like I am some kind of experiment to her.
-so do I.--there was some kind of connection, but then I said:
-why did you come. Do you know I like you?
-yes. I like you too.
-no no but really, you know?--I looked at her and gave her my green pasty smile. From days of coffee' and cigarettes. She looked uneasy. Then she had to go. "
First off, "Closing Time" is a great fucking album.
Secondly, watch how you format your dialogue sections. Really seems scruntched up, visually unappealing and feels cramped....not to mention as a reader I had to stop each time dialogue turns into prose because there is no readily seen division line such as found in spacing or with quotations.
Thirdly, good section, enjoyed it and really liked how you ended this part...perhaps the wording again could be tightened..."I looked at her and gave a smile. A green pasty smile, rank from days of coffee and cigarettes." ...or..."I looked at her and gave a green pasty smile, tarnished from days of coffee and cigarettes."
"I looked out the window. It was too bright. I was not going to chance going out without proper protection. Sun glasses and base ball cap. And a run down to the beer store. Because nothing works out, and she was the point. There was a point and then you had none, because your social skills are so, well not existing. And there I go with my shits in thought and I am losing the integrity of my mind and body and soul and love and world, and rat in the sink... but even cows have more going for them than that."
I see how you are trying to connect the end to the rest of the story and you almost get there but not quite....the idea is floating around in this section but is never firmly nailed down. I think if you tighten it up a bit and chop down the end rambling but keep the idea going, it would work a bit better.
I picked this story to critique because by far it is the most interesting of them in my opinion. The rest of em I didn't really care for though there were small snippets throughout them that were decent. Though similar in nature to the lead of your other stories, you make this character a somewhat likeable loser...there is a purpose -- he is trying to connect to this woman, there is a conflict -- he has trouble connecting to her, there is a resolution -- he fails. Also you tie up this short by trying to connect the ending with an earlier revelation about the irony between the character and cows.
Now for the record, if you tightened it up and ironed out the bumps, if I read it in a magazine, afterwards I woud feel that it was a good investment with my time. But right now as it stands, the typos, format quirks and clunky wording makes it a bit too distracting and pulls the reader out of the story.
Anyways, hoped some of this has helped you.
Trev
Did you really read the whole thing. Thanks for your opinions...the typo's are what piss me off the most like the "starts" one, I hate stupid shit like that.
Drinking and smoking
if I had any stories from this part of my life that did not include them in some way I would write it in a second.
losers
every one I know I think is one but if you think that it means your a dick and dick are losers because they have no friends and noone likes them, this is important.
I think the stories cut off. They all have a kind of acoholic sad smoking hate thing to them, and I think it would be great to publish a book out of so much hate and confusion, and the next one would be the next phase, a fucking "butterfly".
I am sure you like the one where I am talking to a bunch of "smart kids" and I don't know why I am there--I think it is obviose in that that I am frustrated that I am not in school, or at least I thought it did----did you notice that that one was at the start?
It could be also that you are just past-your self-this stage of your life---everyone is not a "Phoney"----was it your intension to say becase catcher in the rye has been writen and other books like it I can not tell me story in a hase of ciggaret and booze and coffe flavored rats. I even think so things you disliked I really liked, I like useing the same word twice-=-it is my echo--it was intentional, or at least I noticed it too, but liked it. If I do that alot and it was your point to say I do it alot I should look in to that, but again the typo's is what pisses me off the most. I had this story one time and I thought I had it all comb out and graet and gave it to a friend friend who teaches creative writing to see what he'd say and when I was reading it over myself, and after I gave it to him, I found out that a word was spelled wrong, the same word like a hundred time or somthing and it made the story sound stupid, any way that is what pisses me off the most TYPO"S
thus spoke G.A.P.
Hi Geoff,
"Did you really read the whole thing?"
No I'm lying through my teeth.... I decided to print it all out and throw a dart to randomly pick out which one to critique.
Sarcasm, isn't it grand?...lol...jk...Like I said in my comments, there are interesting snippets throughout the whole thing, but the part I commented on was the only one I liked....if you want I can go back and pick out the one I disliked the most and tell you why?
"Thanks for your opinions...the typo's are what piss me off the most like the "starts" one, I hate stupid shit like that."
No worries for the critique, hope some of it was helpful. Typos are bad mojo....They unintentionally say to someone that I'm too lazy to go through my own work, they also unintentionally make the author seem dumb....(don't worry, I'm not saying you are dumb)...however if a person claims to be a writer but constantly produces material riddled with typos, its about as reassuring as a self professed track and field star who trips every ten meters, or a race care driver who keeps crashing into the wall.
Drinking and smoking
if I had any stories from this part of my life that did not include them in some way I would write it in a second.
Well there are two solutions I can think of: 1) Do something else aside from getting blitzed and lighting up. 2) You're a writer so create something void of those two. Not all your stories have to be about you. I like a good drinking story, I like drunk struggling character driven stories...heck, I think every writer has at least written a couple pieces about drinking....I've even written a screenplay about one....however, without a progression, it gets so very tedious to hear the same thing over and over...completely loses impact, not to mention, a lot of your stories are the exact same thing but in a different environment or being angry at a different person but saying a very similar thing....there seems to be no progression but rather a repetition and that gets old quick.
losers
every one I know I think is one but if you think that it means your a dick and dick are losers because they have no friends and noone likes them, this is important.
Yeah but how many times are you going to show the same thing in a story...as a reader I get it, its not hard to understand...Now if you are excersing demons or searching for catharsis, even rebelling, then I seriously mean it when I say good for you, I hope you find what it is you are looking for, however, just because you had a thought, doesn't mean it will be interesting to others. You have to be a little more selective about what you write about and what you show. Life, how we live it and relate to it is often about perspectives on what we percieve the objective world as...the self is kind of a meeting point of objectivity and subjectivity....And if you only have one view of the world, and only one way of expressing it, then it gets kinda hard to relate it to others in different interesting ways.
One of your stories takes place in Calgary and Banff...I've been to Banff, worked there for almost a year at the Banff Springs Hotel....and if the most interesting story you have to come out of Alberta is being pissy at a group of strangers while getting sloshed, then I have to say compassionately, you just aren't living yet. And shit, if nothing interesting really happened, then make something up. But I will say this about that bus story, I liked how you interjected the breast cancer part and how it silenced you...however, you didn't put enough into developing that thought, those feelings etc. But the rest of that story is boring because most of it reads like a lot of your work....just like the latest of your posts...The cruiser and the email: Not only does it seem pointless, its a very uninteresting read...nothing happens that as a reader I could give a care about....nothing connects me to it, because there is no substance. For me, its about as interesting as someone telling me about a big shit they took. None of this is meant in a mean spirited way, because if it was I wouldn't give a damn enough to even bother using up my time to say all this.
"I think the stories cut off. They all have a kind of acoholic sad smoking hate thing to them, and I think it would be great to publish a book out of so much hate and confusion, and the next one would be the next phase, a fucking "butterfly".
Yes they all have that feel to them, however, the point and the characters and the dialogue are way too repetative...you kind of change it up a bit with Roaches in The City and it starts off well and interesting, and I really wanted to like the story but it falls back into your cliches and gets tedious. To be honest, I'd probably like it more if that was the only thing I've read by you....save for the annoyance of poor grammar and spelling which greatly detracts from the enjoyment of reading anything.
Here's a question for you, do you want me to show you twenty stories where all everyone does is drink and call each other names and get angry about nothing important? Would that interest you? What about twenty poems about being in love with the same person? What about twenty essays about a hamburger? Also, there are many points in the stories where you can make an impact and add depth, but you don't, you go limp and non-descriptive and quickly cut to something else. Perhaps that's the problem with most of them...there's no real flair to them, no personalization, no feeling, no colour, nothing to mull over and savor in my mind. Nothing for anyone to even see hate and anger and sadness as something beautiful because you aren't taking the time to really describe anything. Dave does this, dave does that, he is angry, he cries, he lights a smoke and has a beer....perhaps try to delve a bit deeper, colour in a few more of the stories....let the reader get a better look inside each character. It's just an idea -- one that would definitely not hurt exploring or experimenting within your stories.
"I am sure you like the one where I am talking to a bunch of "smart kids" and I don't know why I am there--I think it is obviose in that that I am frustrated that I am not in school, or at least I thought it did----did you notice that that one was at the start? "
The one about the bus in Calgary where you end up drinking with all these people and your pissy at the people? Is that the one you are referring to? If it is, then no, I didn't care for it much. It was for the most part uninteresting save for the undeveloped idea about you being silenced by the mention of breast cancer....Why didn't I like it? Because it sounded so much like a lot of your work....holds absolutely no surprises....like am I supposed to go, "Wow, he's drunk and angry again for no real reason other than a chip on his shoulder?"...Come'on man, am I really supposed to find that interesting over and over and over again??....give me something new here, something that leaves me walking away with a thought in my head, teach me something...add some depth to your work....show me a new world, open my eyes up to new thoughts.
"It could be also that you are just past-your self-this stage of your life"
Past what stage in my life? The stage of wanting to read something good? Or the stage in my life of getting bombed all the time? My drinking habits have little to do with my reading tastes. I like Bukowski, I like Thompson and I even like some of Burroughs work because they are all good writers even when they are going on about drinking, drugs and self destructive behaviour. Honestly, it sounds like you're obsessed with drinking and feel somehow art and vice go hand in hand? If I had to guess, and only guess, I would say you have this glamorous notion about the drunken artist -- that somehow there is something to be proud of being a drunken writer, that its somehow cool, expected and necessary. If that's the case then I'll give you my opinion straight up, its all bullshit...there's nothing to be gained from being a drunk other than a distorted mind and a bad liver.
I probably would like the stories more, including the drunkeness, if there was more depth to it all and a progression of some sort rather than just stagnation and repetition. Interesting reads are interesting reads because they are well written and thoughtful....that's what sets things aside from each other...if you're going to be a drunk, at least be an original drunk. People usually read for one of two reasons, to be entertained, or to learn something new...and if you aren't doing either through your writing, then why should a reader care? And if you want a reader to care, connect them to your stories, give them a reason to care, entertain them, colour a new world for them, educate them....and for god's sake man, start concentrating on your typos, run a word check once in awhile....nothing worse than a story blotted with typos....it smells of lazy writing habits....it says, I don't care enough about my work or my readers to present it in a legible way....and if you don't care enough about your work to correct the mistakes, why should a reader care enough to read through them?
"everyone is not a "Phoney"----was it your intension to say becase catcher in the rye has been writen and other books like it I can not tell me story in a hase of ciggaret and booze and coffe flavored rats."
Ugh, you totally missed my points....no, I'm not saying your a phony...there is a difference between unoriginality and phoniness. Don't worry, if I wanted to say phony I would just come out and say it. And no, I'm not saying you shouldn't write about a drunken haze or coffee and cigarettes, I'm saying if you do, make it interesting, progress it and connect a reader to it...because as it stands, your stories all sound the same without going anywhere. They lead nowhere, nothing is gained by reading most of your work....time investment is lost. The big difference between Catcher in the Rye and your work is Catcher is an extremely well written novel. There was a point to the story, there was a story line progression, there were many things to connect the reader to Holden, there were many entertaining moments in that book. The reason I'm saying all this to you is because if you keep yourself under the impression you are writing profound interesting stories, and anyone who dislikes them just isn't smart enough to get them, you will never go anywhere with your writing. Your writing skills need a lot of work, especially if you are considering trying to get published, and constantly writing about the same thing isn't going to get you there.
"I even think so things you disliked I really liked, I like useing the same word twice-=-it is my echo--it was intentional, or at least I noticed it too, but liked it."
Fair enough, not trying to get you to like what I like, just wanting to give you a straight forward, no bullshit opinion. One thing I'd like to mention though, are you trying to write for audience, or for yourself? I'm sure you like all your work, and if all it took to produce a good piece of writing was the author's approval, then we'd all be considered fantasitic writers. However, that's not the case. If you want to speak to readers, you have to compromise and sometimes do it in a way that agrees with them. Not saying that your doubling up on words is a bad thing, but in my opinion, it didn't add anything half the time. And I'm not saying you should cater to the wants of every reader, its important to have your own voice and style, just as its important to talk to the reader in terms they understand. However, just give it some thought and ask yourself when taking a new route in your writing, "is it really adding anything?"
"and after I gave it to him, I found out that a word was spelled wrong, the same word like a hundred time or somthing and it made the story sound stupid, any way that is what pisses me off the most TYPO"S"
And that's exactly my point about typos. Now everyone, even the best of writers and editors make mistakes....however, if a piece is plagued with them, it seriously detracts from the value of it. Honestly, if I was an editor and you submited any of these stories, even the one I liked, I wouldn't give them a second look simply based upon all the typos and grammar mistakes. Now I'm far from perfect when it comes to this as well so don't take that as a punch to the nose.
Anyways, I'm sure some of what I said will probably piss you off. So again, to reiterate my intent....it is not to slam or insult you...as direct and blunt as I can be sometimes, I derive no pleasure from hurting people's feelings....however, I also get no pleasure from lying to someone, especially if they are asking for honesty. Again, hope some of this helps you with your writing. Just an opinion, yours to take or leave.
"Did you really read the whole thing?"
No I'm lying through my teeth.... I decided to print it all out and throw a dart to randomly pick out which one to critique.
Sarcasm, isn't it grand?...lol...jk...Like I said in my comments, there are interesting snippets throughout the whole thing, but the part I commented on was the only one I liked....if you want I can go back and pick out the one I disliked the most and tell you why?"Thanks for your opinions...the typo's are what piss me off the most like the "starts" one, I hate stupid shit like that."
No worries for the critique, hope some of it was helpful. Typos are bad mojo....They unintentionally say to someone that I'm too lazy to go through my own work, they also unintentionally make the author seem dumb....(don't worry, I'm not saying you are dumb)...however if a person claims to be a writer but constantly produces material riddled with typos, its about as reassuring as a self professed track and field star who trips every ten meters, or a race care driver who keeps crashing into the wall.
Drinking and smoking
if I had any stories from this part of my life that did not include them in some way I would write it in a second.
Well there are two solutions I can think of: 1) Do something else aside from getting blitzed and lighting up. 2) You're a writer so create something void of those two. Not all your stories have to be about you. I like a good drinking story, I like drunk struggling character driven stories...heck, I think every writer has at least written a couple pieces about drinking....I've even written a screenplay about one....however, without a progression, it gets so very tedious to hear the same thing over and over...completely loses impact, not to mention, a lot of your stories are the exact same thing but in a different environment or being angry at a different person but saying a very similar thing....there seems to be no progression but rather a repetition and that gets old quick.
losers
every one I know I think is one but if you think that it means your a dick and dick are losers because they have no friends and noone likes them, this is important.
Yeah but how many times are you going to show the same thing in a story...as a reader I get it, its not hard to understand...Now if you are excersing demons or searching for catharsis, even rebelling, then I seriously mean it when I say good for you, I hope you find what it is you are looking for, however, just because you had a thought, doesn't mean it will be interesting to others. You have to be a little more selective about what you write about and what you show. Life, how we live it and relate to it is often about perspectives on what we percieve the objective world as...the self is kind of a meeting point of objectivity and subjectivity....And if you only have one view of the world, and only one way of expressing it, then it gets kinda hard to relate it to others in different interesting ways.
One of your stories takes place in Calgary and Banff...I've been to Banff, worked there for almost a year at the Banff Springs Hotel....and if the most interesting story you have to come out of Alberta is being pissy at a group of strangers while getting sloshed, then I have to say compassionately, you just aren't living yet. And shit, if nothing interesting really happened, then make something up. But I will say this about that bus story, I liked how you interjected the breast cancer part and how it silenced you...however, you didn't put enough into developing that thought, those feelings etc. But the rest of that story is boring because most of it reads like a lot of your work....just like the latest of your posts...The cruiser and the email: Not only does it seem pointless, its a very uninteresting read...nothing happens that as a reader I could give a care about....nothing connects me to it, because there is no substance. For me, its about as interesting as someone telling me about a big shit they took. None of this is meant in a mean spirited way, because if it was I wouldn't give a damn enough to even bother using up my time to say all this.
"I think the stories cut off. They all have a kind of acoholic sad smoking hate thing to them, and I think it would be great to publish a book out of so much hate and confusion, and the next one would be the next phase, a fucking "butterfly".
Yes they all have that feel to them, however, the point and the characters and the dialogue are way too repetative...you kind of change it up a bit with Roaches in The City and it starts off well and interesting, and I really wanted to like the story but it falls back into your cliches and gets tedious. To be honest, I'd probably like it more if that was the only thing I've read by you....save for the annoyance of poor grammar and spelling which greatly detracts from the enjoyment of reading anything.
Here's a question for you, do you want me to show you twenty stories where all everyone does is drink and call each other names and get angry about nothing important? Would that interest you? What about twenty poems about being in love with the same person? What about twenty essays about a hamburger? Also, there are many points in the stories where you can make an impact and add depth, but you don't, you go limp and non-descriptive and quickly cut to something else. Perhaps that's the problem with most of them...there's no real flair to them, no personalization, no feeling, no colour, nothing to mull over and savor in my mind. Nothing for anyone to even see hate and anger and sadness as something beautiful because you aren't taking the time to really describe anything. Dave does this, dave does that, he is angry, he cries, he lights a smoke and has a beer....perhaps try to delve a bit deeper, colour in a few more of the stories....let the reader get a better look inside each character. It's just an idea -- one that would definitely not hurt exploring or experimenting within your stories.
"I am sure you like the one where I am talking to a bunch of "smart kids" and I don't know why I am there--I think it is obviose in that that I am frustrated that I am not in school, or at least I thought it did----did you notice that that one was at the start? "
The one about the bus in Calgary where you end up drinking with all these people and your pissy at the people? Is that the one you are referring to? If it is, then no, I didn't care for it much. It was for the most part uninteresting save for the undeveloped idea about you being silenced by the mention of breast cancer....Why didn't I like it? Because it sounded so much like a lot of your work....holds absolutely no surprises....like am I supposed to go, "Wow, he's drunk and angry again for no real reason other than a chip on his shoulder?"...Come'on man, am I really supposed to find that interesting over and over and over again??....give me something new here, something that leaves me walking away with a thought in my head, teach me something...add some depth to your work....show me a new world, open my eyes up to new thoughts.
"It could be also that you are just past-your self-this stage of your life"
Past what stage in my life? The stage of wanting to read something good? Or the stage in my life of getting bombed all the time? My drinking habits have little to do with my reading tastes. I like Bukowski, I like Thompson and I even like some of Burroughs work because they are all good writers even when they are going on about drinking, drugs and self destructive behaviour. Honestly, it sounds like you're obsessed with drinking and feel somehow art and vice go hand in hand? If I had to guess, and only guess, I would say you have this glamorous notion about the drunken artist -- that somehow there is something to be proud of being a drunken writer, that its somehow cool, expected and necessary. If that's the case then I'll give you my opinion straight up, its all bullshit...there's nothing to be gained from being a drunk other than a distorted mind and a bad liver.
I probably would like the stories more, including the drunkeness, if there was more depth to it all and a progression of some sort rather than just stagnation and repetition. Interesting reads are interesting reads because they are well written and thoughtful....that's what sets things aside from each other...if you're going to be a drunk, at least be an original drunk. People usually read for one of two reasons, to be entertained, or to learn something new...and if you aren't doing either through your writing, then why should a reader care? And if you want a reader to care, connect them to your stories, give them a reason to care, entertain them, colour a new world for them, educate them....and for god's sake man, start concentrating on your typos, run a word check once in awhile....nothing worse than a story blotted with typos....it smells of lazy writing habits....it says, I don't care enough about my work or my readers to present it in a legible way....and if you don't care enough about your work to correct the mistakes, why should a reader care enough to read through them?
"everyone is not a "Phoney"----was it your intension to say becase catcher in the rye has been writen and other books like it I can not tell me story in a hase of ciggaret and booze and coffe flavored rats."
Ugh, you totally missed my points....no, I'm not saying your a phony...there is a difference between unoriginality and phoniness. Don't worry, if I wanted to say phony I would just come out and say it. And no, I'm not saying you shouldn't write about a drunken haze or coffee and cigarettes, I'm saying if you do, make it interesting, progress it and connect a reader to it...because as it stands, your stories all sound the same without going anywhere. They lead nowhere, nothing is gained by reading most of your work....time investment is lost. The big difference between Catcher in the Rye and your work is Catcher is an extremely well written novel. There was a point to the story, there was a story line progression, there were many things to connect the reader to Holden, there were many entertaining moments in that book. The reason I'm saying all this to you is because if you keep yourself under the impression you are writing profound interesting stories, and anyone who dislikes them just isn't smart enough to get them, you will never go anywhere with your writing. Your writing skills need a lot of work, especially if you are considering trying to get published, and constantly writing about the same thing isn't going to get you there.
"I even think so things you disliked I really liked, I like useing the same word twice-=-it is my echo--it was intentional, or at least I noticed it too, but liked it."
Fair enough, not trying to get you to like what I like, just wanting to give you a straight forward, no bullshit opinion. One thing I'd like to mention though, are you trying to write for audience, or for yourself? I'm sure you like all your work, and if all it took to produce a good piece of writing was the author's approval, then we'd all be considered fantasitic writers. However, that's not the case. If you want to speak to readers, you have to compromise and sometimes do it in a way that agrees with them. Not saying that your doubling up on words is a bad thing, but in my opinion, it didn't add anything half the time. And I'm not saying you should cater to the wants of every reader, its important to have your own voice and style, just as its important to talk to the reader in terms they understand. However, just give it some thought and ask yourself when taking a new route in your writing, "is it really adding anything?"
"and after I gave it to him, I found out that a word was spelled wrong, the same word like a hundred time or somthing and it made the story sound stupid, any way that is what pisses me off the most TYPO"S"
And that's exactly my point about typos. Now everyone, even the best of writers and editors make mistakes....however, if a piece is plagued with them, it seriously detracts from the value of it. Honestly, if I was an editor and you submited any of these stories, even the one I liked, I wouldn't give them a second look simply based upon all the typos and grammar mistakes. Now I'm far from perfect when it comes to this as well so don't take that as a punch to the nose.
Anyways, I'm sure some of what I said will probably piss you off. So again, to reiterate my intent....it is not to slam or insult you...as direct and blunt as I can be sometimes, I derive no pleasure from hurting people's feelings....however, I also get no pleasure from lying to someone, especially if they are asking for honesty. Again, hope some of this helps you with your writing. Just an opinion, yours to take or leave.
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Axanderdeath
- Posts: 954
- Joined: December 20th, 2004, 9:24 pm
- Location: montreal or somewhere in canada or the world
I a have another question for you. Because you mentioned you wrote a screen play. See I was in this bar (this is really how it happened) and I was trying to trade a short story for beer (which I have done many times. And that thing you said about the drunken writer was somewhat true, but I want to be a writer and if I quite drinking right now I still think I would.) It was “A day n the life of a dishwasher” this girl read it and said she thought it was boring-said that nothing happened, and then this other guy read it and said he did not Know about it as a story but it would be good as a film, he said it gave him ideas, and he gave me some card for some film co-op thing. I went to the web site, because he told me to email the story, and I did. But do you think that if you had interesting and good looking-or interesting people playing in that one-your right if you are going to say you would only want to see one like that. And that one you read my latest one that you said you did not like did you noticed thee line “smoking and drinking” I made sure to include that just for you… But I like you style of critique it’s very persice and I like that, and I agree with a lot of what you say. I am lazy, but that does not mean I don’t care about my writing and I think I can still call my self a writer if I want, even if I am a bad one…
And tell me what you think of “jack” it is on rejection slip-I am curious there is more action in it, it is long though. I doubt any one has gotten to the end. Wait here it is under this: This
Life’s crazy nature, and hate and love and funny stupid crazy relationships—never coming to be.
1.A father and son
####1####
Jack Jagger was a short, fat, sixty year old, a grey balding head of hair, and a set of blue eyes. He was known as a mean old bastard, as these types generally are known. But in Jack’s big balding brain things were different. If only people could look beyond his rough exterior and in to his soul, which he thought was boundless with deep and profound thoughts. Of what? Jack didn’t know that, but he use to.
He owned a bar, which did not help matters (Fat short balding man that works and owns a bar. He was like an Archie Bunker type characters in many eyes.) “Jack’s” was everything but a nice place to take your son on his wedding day for the reception and that’s why when Jack jr. got married. He (Jack sr.) rented out a large hall. It was up town and in a nice neighborhood.
Jagger sr. stood there in the doorway of the big hall with all the smile he could muster, every last bit of it. No one showed up. His own son said they’d all be there by 9 o’clock pm and it was 12 o’clock by the time sr. called it quits and went home. Jack and his son were not doing what you call ‘TALKING’ much lately. Just a short phone call here and there to make sure the other was not dead.
On the way home he passed by an old bum on his left hand side that he noticed. Grey old beard, a yellow smile. Wearing an old professor’s jacket, Suede patches, and all. Looking up in to the sky. Jagger kept looking at the old vagabond bastard until the bum said:
-Jack?--Jack was surprised a bit because he did not know any bums. Or at least he thought he did not.
-How do you know me?
-The bar. -- Of course the bar. All kinds of old fucks went in to Jagger’s bar. “Cheapest beer in town” read the sign out front. Which was a lie but brought in customers. Jack dug in to his pockets and pulled out a bill and handed it to the man, but to his surprise the man refused:
-No no jack, jack no.--The man said. Yellow flecks of something popped out of his mouth-where you headed?-- The bum asked.
-Home.
-Is the bar open?
-Yes.
-Why are you not there?
-Wedding.
-Who’s?-- Jack thought. Do I want to get friendly with this old bum? Business would certainly be as good as it was, if not better, if his bar did not have bums all around pasted out in the corner yelling and pissing themselves. If the bums were not around maybe he could have had his sons wedding reception at his bar. A large pain hit Jacks heart. A large awesome pain that turned to rage and he tackled the old bum to the ground and started beating him, and beating him. The old bum-head bouncing off the ground. Jack just kept going and going beating and even pulling out some elbow drops from the wrestling he watched on TV. After his raging spasm was over jack was worried. Oh shit this old bum could be dead, he thought. This is what worried him, naturally.
####2####
Jack Jr. was tall and young, had black hair, and a rich wife. His new wife and him somewhere out in the countryside. After having “honeymooner’s sex” he looked out to the lake from the porch. The night was cool, which was nice since the days got so hot. It was the hottest summer for a good while. A good while.
His new wife sally lay out on the bed. She had gotten a little drunk and was no good for any thing but lifting arms and dropping them. Or making her arms do dancing type movements, and that sort of thing. Jack jr. had a little time to himself. He guessed that was normal for honeymooners, in a bed and breakfast, out by a lake on a cool summer night. A good time to think.
Think about what he had gotten himself in to. A marriage. The word made him cringe, slit his eyes, and spit. Slap his hand on his thigh, yell goddamn, and keel over. Grab, cut and die. Was there any chance of any one else, anything else but going along the course that this meant, this marriage. There was a knock on the door. Jack answered.
The small cowering maid stood there her hair pulled back. Her eyes almost bursting out of her head:
-Sorry mister Jagger, but it is your father on the phone. He says it is urgent.
-It always is. --Jagger said and the maid’s face went to the ‘sad for you, but not really-suck it up’ face. –Where do I take it?
-Down the hall and to the right mister Jagger. -- Jagger walked down the hall. Thinking the whole time that his father was probably drunk, and wanting to chew him out about not showing up. But why should he show up for him, jack sr. Dad…
-Jack how was the wedding.
-Good dad. Look sorry I didn’t show up, but sally’s parents had rented a big club and… jack sr. Interrupted.
-Jack if any one asked I was with you okay?
-What?
-I was with you--Sr. said in his fatherly tone. Jr. Hated his irresponsible father’s fatherly tone.
-What happened dad? A bar fights get out of hand?
-Jack this is important this is not likes other times… A man could be dead.
-Really. -- Jack thought that his father had this coming. He knew that he did. -Sure dad no problem.
After that jack jr. hung up the phone, and did his best to forget the whole thing. Went water skiing with his new wife, and her folks. Went out on a rented boat. Fished for sharks and whale watched on the coast. Thought not one bit about his father. In the movies when there’s a montage of people getting older-most notably in Good Fellas when it’s the gangsters and their wives having a good hooray back in the days of luxury- well, that is what this felt like to jack jr. It lasted a month or so.
He also
Made his wife do little ape movements, scratching under the arms and what not. When she was asleep.
####3####
It was all over the news one morning. ‘Man found beaten bloodily and savagely destroyed and left for dead.’ Everyone was disgusted and could not stop talking about it. Wanting to find out more about it to express their utter disbelief and to say ‘how could! Some one?’ The news made a couple full days of news out of it-solid. Then some president was killed and no one cared any more for a bit. But the police cared. And Wolfe, one who cared, maybe the most, wanted to find the ‘bum killer’ as dubbed cnn. He stayed up all night in his shabby apartment watching American Psycho to try to get in to the killer’s head-mind. Not all the cops were as dim witted as Wolfe though, and a rookie talked to a lady that lived near by the crime scene and she said she saw the whole thing. Wolf had an eyewitness. Wolfe took her out to lunch, made several advances on her and then got a description, and then used 11 or 12 lines from his ‘hard nosed cop come-on line book,’ from the big screen; written by some balding guy with glasses that was as skinny as a post. The ladies always hated him and thought he was a chauvinistic pig, but they never came back. That was the problem, the lines only half worked for Wolfe.
Wolfe sat at his desk with is gun strapped around his shoulder and around his waist. Every one else took their guns off. It was kind of an unspoken rule. Wolfe years ago was a real good cop. Tough and sharp. But as it goes with good cops the lure of sex and booze destroyed him. He hung around too many blond reporters gave too many interviews and finally became a shell of the man he once was. But this case was a special one for Wolfe. The bum that had been killed he had known. Put him in the drunktank many times. Wolfe and that old bum were each other’s shrinks and had a bond that this ‘bum killer’ took away.
Wolfe sits smoking, brooding, and sad. Sadistic, stupid, but secure. Wolfe sits like a 13-year-old smoking a cigarette trying to look like the star in the film, trying to play the role of the man. Wolfe is going to get his man. The evil son of a bitch.
#####4#####
A knock comes on the door. Jack sr. comes up to the door in a ratty old pair of boxers, plaid. Opens the door so the chain caught the nose of Wolfe:
-Hey Wolfe how are things going?-- Wolfe and Jack sr. are old friends of course. -Hope your not here on business Wolfe.-- Jack said smile on his face. If it was Wolfe looking for the ‘bum killer’, jack thought, he was surely be in the clear.
-No no jack. I was wondering if I could borrow a pair of jeans?
-Why?
-I need to go plain clothed. Get with the people.-- This was laughable. Wolfe had been on TV so many times he could walk down the street in goalies gear and get recognized. But what was the harm jack thought.
-Sure--. Jack through about three pairs of old ratty jeans on the floor. -Take your pick Wolfe. Wolfe did. Everything Jack sr. owned was ratty, he was a ratty man. Most men get ratty at some point in their lives.
Later that day Jack jr. was coming over and Jack sr. wanted to clean up a bit. Make the impression, which sr. thought was true, that he had been cleaning up his life. He returned all his beer bottles and got about 70 bucks bought a ten dollar bottle of whiskey that cost 23.96$ vacuumed, combed his hair, and masturbated in to the mirror after he was all spiffed up. He loved him self all clean-shaven and combed up.
The plan was to tell jack jr. every thing. Make the apologies that he knew he should of made for years. The plan was planed because he could be going away for a long time, and did not want to lose his only living family member. He was going to tell jr every thing. Lay all his faults on the line and in this somehow come up with a way to guilt the boy in to giving his dad a solid alibi. Booze always helped jack sr. act. He was getting ready, anticipating.
And here was Wolfe the big dumb oaf of a man standing there in his boxer trying on sr.’s jeans. Luckily for sr. Homosexuality was not an issue for him and his son, no scaring thing between sr. And jr. with that. Big naked Wolfe, though, was repulsive and stupid. Generally most people that are exposed to all of us by TV become Phony and Not that fun to be around or interesting:
-You mind Wolfe?-- Jack said opening the door-I want to talk to my boy.
-Oh yes.-- Wolfe put on a pair of sr. pants and left the room head down, and up bobbing in the stupid world of small thoughts, and delusions of competence, that was detective Wolfe.
Father and son laughed at detective Wolfe a moment. Jr looked stronger than the little weak kid that had left home so many years ago. Jr. Looked in his old room:
-Place has not changed much.-- He looked at his father. He was not so bad he thought. Just a sad sorry old man.
-No jack, I didn’t touch your room. I don’t want to forget. You know son I love you.
-That’s nothing new dad. You tell me every time you’re drunk.-- Jr. Looked around. He did not feel so bad for him any more-what’s the trouble dad? Were you lying about someone maybe being dead?-- Jack sr. Looked paranoid down the hall to see if Wolfe had gone. He was.
-Yes son. It ‘s bad. It was right after waiting for you at the hall. You know where you didn’t show up.-- Jr. Looked at his father angrily. Like this was somehow his fault jr. thought. The old man fucked up. That was the bottom line.
-Look dad sorry but like I said sally’s…-- he was cut off by his father.
-I don’t care about that jack. What ever you wanted. It was your night. But it would’ve been nice to be invited to my own sons, my only son’s wedding.
-Dad. It was not your kind of scene. It was an intellectual thing you know. Oh wait you don’t that’s the point.-- Jr. laughed at his wit or what he thought was his wit. Sr. did not seem as impressed. Sr. put his hand up. Said
-Enough. Just say I was there if the cops ask, okay?
-Sure dad. Jack said-can I go now.-- Jack said half way out the door. Angry-bye dad. We’ll get it touch, you know, when ever…
2.Wolf detecting work
####1####
Wolfe sat at the café sipping on a coffee’. The jazz music was playing, and Wolfe had his hair slicked back. He would have been nonchalant 50 years ago, maybe, at least until you talked to him.
He was talking to Patty Albright from the 6 o’clock news. She considered her self a hard-hitting journalist. And her producers considered her a dumb blond. And jack sr. Masturbated to her each installment of the news. Wolfe and Albright were old friends. Albright got her first big time jig with interviewing Wolfe, back when Wolfe only gave interviews once in a blue moon. This was about Wolfe and Albright’s 16th interview:
-Wolfe what do you know about the killer?-- Wolfe smiled.
-Well patty you know I can’t divulge that information this early in the investigation.-- This is where patty shined.
-Well inspector Wolfe perhaps one of the viewers has information on the killer’s where abouts?-- Wolfe looked about uneasy, and said he had to make a phone call.
Wolfe ran to the washroom and took out his cell, sat on the toilet and called the station:
-Captain I have a question.
-Yes Wolfe.-- The caption said putting Wolfe on speakerphone and calling (motioning with his hand) the rest of the cops in to the office to hear the patheticness of Wolfe’s questions.
-Well cap it is this interview…
-What Wolfe I told you not to do anymore of those.-- The caption said smiling at one of the younger officers that had just come in the office.
-Well it’s miss Albright.
-Have you tagged her yet?
-Well. -- Wolfe smiled thinking about miss Albright’s breast bouncing the night before, when he was watching her on the news, his eyes closed and biting his lip on the sofa.-that is not what this is about captain. She is asking if I can give any description of the killer. She says that some of the viewers may know something.
-Go for it Wolfe.-- The captain said, and then hung up the phone, and said to the crowd of officers.-he really thinks this is a big case. The poor fuck.-- All the officers had a good laugh at Wolfe’s expense. The captain soon after put up a poster in his office that read ‘don’ believe the hype!’ No pictorial helpers, it was one of those stupid office inspiration posters.
The interview aired that night and the description of Jagger was out. The rest of the interview was really small talk. The interview at one point was small talk about the weather. News was slow that week, the president was from a country far away that had been killed, and the whole thing aired. ‘If not about here it is not really real.’ --the north American public.
Wolfe did not think that the interview would blow his cover. Criminals don’t watch the news. Not killers, thought Wolfe. All killers did was read books like ‘catcher in the rye’ and the ‘zodiac killer’. Wolfe went from café’ to café’ looking for some one reading one of those books. He spoke to lots of high school kids and they acted quite defensive. It seemed that this ‘bum killer’ might be part of a deeper conspiracy, far greater than he once had thought. Wolfe’s hunches were way off, all the time.
####2####
A knock on Jagger’s door came at about 7:30. Jagger was in a good mood after watching the news, and finding out since he never had read catcher in the rye he was probably in the clear for the murder he had committed. It was Wolfe:
-Come in Wolfe.-- Jagger sr. said. With a big smile, and open arms.-come in detective please.-- Wolfe walked in, with jack’s pants under his arm. Wolfe evidently had gone back to his suits.-what brings you by Wolfe? I just saw you on the news. This killer. A real nut eh Wolfe?
-Yes.-- Wolfe said sternly.-I am returning these pants. Sorry about the egg. Damn high school kids.-- There was a lot of egg all over the ass of his pants.
-What happened?
-Just work.
-Okay.-- Jack said with a chuckle of non-caring.
-Come have a beer jack.-- Wolfe said.
-Sure.-- Said jack. What could happen, jack thought, what could happen?
After a silent walk down to Jack’s bar Wolfe and jack sat at the bar. Jack ordered two whiskies and Wolfe ordered a club soda, and a beer. Wolfe poured half the beer into the soda, something he had been doing all of his life. It was strange and jack had never seen any on else do it. He never tried it, it was stupid really, but that was Wolfe, stupid.
-What’s up Wolfe?-- Jack said. -You only go out for a drink when something is bothering you, what is it girls, that interviewer? Eh, how she in the sack?-- Now you might think a police officer would get angry at that, fuck, any one would, police officer to pimp, but not Wolfe.
-That is the problem jack.
-What?
-I think I am compromising my work for her, telling her too much.
-No way Wolfe, any way…-- A person at the end of the bar was reading catcher in the rye. Jack tapped Wolfe on the shoulder. -Wolfe looks at what that guy’s reading.-- Wolfe looked and smiled. Got up out of his chair. Raised one finger and snuck up behind the 20 something guy reading the book. Jack smiled.
-How’s the book.-- Wolfe muttered staring at the man.
-What?-the man hesitated because of the weird look Wolfe was giving.- Oh good. I have read it before, it’s good-- The man turned and put his head back in the book. Wolfe looked over at jack with a smile on his face that seemed to say, ‘I got you bob.’
Wolfe grabs the man by the neck. And starts to yell:
-Listen where you on the night of august 11th? The man started saying what the fuck are you doing man, what the fuck I do wrong with you?-- The bartender (Tommy_) looked at jack.
-Jack what is your cop friend doing in this bar? We can’t have this in the bar.
-Let him be Tommy. He is working. He is a good cop.-- Wolfe starts shoving the man’s face in to the bar and yelling ‘where were you where were you?!?!’ Jack stands up and says:
-Call the cops. Tommy, call the cops.-- Tommy was already dialing when jack said this.
3.Not to forget
****1````
Jack did not hear or see Wolfe for a while after that. The bar business was slow. It was getting cold. There was no tourist population any more. The sad music blurred out in the bar old blues kings like bb king and gg Allen. Jack sr. sits behind the bar most nights reading crime mystery novels, and books about anger management for dummies.
The kid that Wolfe had beaten up had sued the Bar. ‘Jack’s’ was seeing some hard time. Jack him self was starting to feel the remorse of killing a man seep in to his daily thoughts. He started to open the Bar later and later. He drank more and more. He combs his hair and masturbated less and less. His life was becoming an old sad cycle of drunken sleep and occasionally orders food, like Pizza or Indian.
Jack’s son was out all over the country smooching with the upper class world, of his new wife’s family. He did not think about his father, and had forgotten about all the ‘shit’ that was spuing out of his father’s mouth a couple days after the wedding was over. Jack jr., quite by accident walked in to ‘Jack’s’ on December 15th 2004. tom waits was on the beat-box in the corner, which was the sound system for ‘Jack’s’. Jack jr. and sr. were astonished to see each other. Sr. looking down and pouting, and jr. felt that he had to go over and talk.
-what’s up dad?--jr. said looking at his father-you look good.--he put his hand on his sullenly drunk father’s shoulder that was slumped over the bar-Jack!--jr. said thinking that saying his father’s first name would do it (break him out of his drunken blank stared trance) and it did. Jack sr. put his head up and took a look around d the bar. He saw his clientele were as sad and sleepy as he was and then looked at his son:
-Son! What brings__ ga you a-around Theese pars?-- Jr. looked some what less then impressed by his farther attempted at the English language, but plays around:
-Was just in the neighbor hood dad, you know thought I’d say hello.
-Thasa boy-sr. says, so obviously not going to remember anything about the conversation in the morning, and probably not even remembering that he saw his son, and jr. knowing this took out his not book and jotted down his phone number, he and his father were not in touch, and put it in his father’s pocket with a note:
DAD YOUR SON WANTS YOU TO CALL SOME TIME__SOBER>>
922-684-7863
****2****
6 months after Wolfe got the case failing to get any new leads aside from the one that the beat cop gave him, the caption told him he was off the case. This made Wolfe angry, but before I get in to what was said at that time let me explain the relationship that Wolfe and Rex the bum had. Rex is the Name of the deceased.
Back in the late 60’s when a lot of kids just got up an went (Just Go! Or Going!), Rex did the same at this time. He just never could stop. He never had money and they did not want him in the states. He never left Canada. He’d go from east to west and then west to east always ending up in Landing City for the summer.
The thing that got Rex going was some girl name Sophia. He had loved her and she had not and he could not stick around and see his X best friend Jack kiss and kiss her.
Wolfe was not all that good with women, and Rex was good at finding people weakness and exploiting it. The result was Rex convincing that it t would not help Rex’s life if Wolfe put Rex in to the slammer over night, and really that Rex could lend Wolfe some Knowledge about women. By the end of some nights Wolfe would have bought a bottle of wine and the two of them would sit in his police car and talk and drink.
Rex left ever September or so for the west coast and warmer weather and it became a tradition for Wolfe to drive him out to a good hitch hiking place to drop him off.
But back to conversation between Wolfe and the chief, the captain about Wolfe being off the case.
-Wolfe come in the office please.--the captain said, seeing that Wolfe was using the begging of his 6th month of investigation of one bum’s death playing a video game on his cell phone.
-What is up cap.?--said Wolfe, almost too much like the okie kid in old yeller when his ‘paw’ said he had to kill ‘the best gad darn dog in the west.’ It pained the chief to do it. As much as he made fun of Wolfe he did love and respect him as a human being.
-In the office Wolfe.--he said feeling like George at the end ‘of mice and men.’ It had to be done.
-is this about the coffee’?--Wolfe had made a batch of coffee without changing the filter. And the chief had had a cup of “murky shit water and cream!” Wolfe got the hung over anger captain’s yells.
-Wolfe this has nothing to do with the Coffee. How long have you been on Rex’s case?--Wolfe looked down at his legs, and noticed his fly was undone, he zipped it up.
-I don’t know? A couple weeks?--He looked up at his boss, Wolfe did.
-Rex was killed in august Wolfe. What month is it? Wolfe?--Wolfe looked up at the calendar with the porno stars on it. The thighs read ‘March,” Wolfe made a dumb smile.
-okay so I have been on it for ^ months, so what. I have made a lot of progress.--Chief smiled.
-Wolfe you have beaten up about twelve people reading a book that is mandatory read in high school. This station has 4 lawsuits to deal with because of your hunch that the killer is a fan of the book! And what else have you done? Wolfe I know that you knew this Rex, but really, come on the guy was a bum.--Wolfe stood up tears in his eyes and tore off his badge, which was quite difficult and The chief had to fight off a smile, turned and left. Then the chief to help Wolfe’s ego yelled after him.
-your working to hard you need a couple days OFF. Your of the case Wolfe!.--Chief knew that Wolfe loved all that cliché’ shit. Wolfe, to the captain's surprise, did not come back and argue.
#####3#####
Back in 65 Jack sr. started his studies at University. A BA of arts. He enjoyed classes and was a bright student. Going out to the bars and hitting on the younger hippie kids. Jack would always have a large crowd around him. Jack was a big Talker. He was slightly older than most of the other students and had read far more books and was somewhat of a free speaker. He wrote poetry and was good looking, and this is a far fucking cry from present day.
One of the younger student who made an idol of Jack was Rex Loophander, which was some kind of a weird French name slash English an abnormal blend indeed. Jack liked Rex but not for his Awish glare but his girl friend Sophia who thought not to much of Jack at first, and coincidently not at the end either. She always had a conflicting theory on what ever dazzles University kids OF THE TIME. And we all know you want what is hard to get, you want to work for it, us humans. Even fish have to work for their nookie. Rex had no Idea.
One time Sophia told Rex about the glances and hits that Jack was laying on her. Rex put it off as a kind of miss interpretation. Rex thought Jack was defiantly gay. The way he dressed screamed it. Most of the university kids at that time were wearing jeans and t-shirts but Jack walked around in shining new suits and slicked back hair. Jack was always Raving about some intellectual utterances from the gay writers in new York, about Kerouac and the Beat boys.
So as jean and t-shirted Rex sat and watched Savvy suited Jack wooed his women and swept her away from him with a smile and a poem, at some open mic coffee’ shop ditty. Smiling with a soft marbrols pack in his breast pocket and a sparkle in his smile.
Rex hit the road only top come back and finally dieing at the hand of the old fat ugly Jack. With out either of them knowing, who was who.
4.The story of a stolen love
####1####
Sophia and Jack both dropped out of university. The house Jack got was nice out in the suburbs. Shrubs and garden that Sophia very womanly took care of. Jack working at a bar and writing for a news paper. The first couple of years were grand in the way it all clicked and just worked in the way a dreamer’s dream would be. Jack and Sophia were much to cynical to be dreamers and laughed at the perfect, the very image that they hated, that is what they were. The were the TV couple. And not the “Honey mooners.”
-fuck I hate using these provalactics!—Jack would say in the middle of sex and after the thousandth time Sophia was tired of it killing the mood. In came the fat belly. In came baby name books. In came Jack looking else where for sexual stimulus. In came coming home late to a pregnant, hungry, fat, and angry wife. In came drunkard husband. In came Jack jr.
Nights in smoky bars and café’s. Jack’s on the make. Late at night, drinking and wooing and losing his love. Ya there was a baby at home, he’d say, but that does not mean that he could not have other relationships. This was the 70’s this was the sexual revolution and Sophia was at home looking after her over libido husbands kid. The spiting image, and some times Sophia had to spit and yell just to keep from hurting his child. A provalatical mistake, a mistake, a did not want to put on, not in the mood, babies sure put you out of the mood. Sex and milk spurts out and jr. cries and god all you can think about is that little cheating bastards baby. And you don’t know him and he does not know you and you don’t know you. And the tree in the back yard and the yellow plastic rope. A noose. And Jack coming home drunk and finding a note from his wife saying:
Hanging out in the back yard, hun.
And she was. Have a whiskey and call the cops. Hold your kid. In came single parenthood.
####2###
Rex was in town. He went to the funeral. He was on acid. He saw her, floating above the grave. Sad and tired eyed. Saying:
-Should have been there. Rex, Jack, anyone…
Rex yelled sorry, and fell to his knees and cried. Jack stood there stone faced. A hand on his shoulder. He was a man. He proved it. Jack jr. in his arms. And god damn her, selfish women, looked into jack jr. eyes.
-Some one get that bum out of here.—Rex was carried off like a junky doing the funky chicken. Tripping and falling in to a hobo depression watching trains cooking up the hobo’s grief and forlorn love of the sad and gone and never coming back. But there is something romantic, comforting in the fact that he checked out for good at that moment, he had been dead for years when he died, for real that is.
The inspector from hell
####1####
Gloom in the morning and Jack sr. sifts through his grungy shirt pocket and find jr. note. Where is he? He is in the bar, and it is morning. There is a man passed out behind the bar. Jack kicks him. The mans lined face looks up to Jack and says:
-mmmah? What’s sa time?—Jack smiles a mean smile, and says.
-Get the fuck out of here, you got ten seconds.—the man hurriedly gets to his feel and out of the front doors.
It is around 7:30 am. Jack grabs a bottle of whiskey and opens it, takes a long drink right out of the bottle. Gags at the end. Turns on the bar’s TV. A commercial for the “memory buster’s books” are on TV. Sip the whiskey out of the bottle and watch the mock talk show with the kid from the partridge family selling a memory enhancing book. He makes several jokes that he can’t remember 1980 to 1990.
Jack looks down at the note. It is too early to call, and even if it wasn’t he does not know if he wants to. There is a knock on the door. Jack gets up and walks over to the door. A young man holds up a badge, and smiles. Jack lets him in. Still swilling the whiskey:
-Hi I’m inspector Reginald.—Jack get that old smirk up and running.
-hello, I own this place, I am Jack.—Refonald smiles and jots something down in his note book.
-Jack, where were you on the night of august 11th?
-at my son’s wedding.
-okay. Is there any way I can reach him.—Jack crunched up the note from his son in his pocket. Looked at this young buzzed cut bastard. Smiling in a insinuating way, with his fucking dimply fucking face.
-We have not been in touch for a bit.
-why is that?
-Personal.
-What is this about?—Jack looked at the agent out of the corner of his eye while he took a long swill of whiskey.
-I think you know.—the detective, or inspector said.
-not really—jack smiles and gagged from the whiskey.
-don’t leave town is all.
-sure thing—jack said.
Old Wolfe must be off the case, thought Jack. He looked at the clock. It read 7:45. Jack took another swill of whiskey.
####2####
7:45 and the sun is rising over the water. People are looking out their windows to the man on there bench. He slept there last night. And now it is morning. It is his morning and theirs. It’s Miss Albrights morning, and she is doing a story on the homeless and this 7:45 morning is going to be the cover story on the 6 o’clock news. The bums name is Henry and he used to be a teacher, and then his wife left him. The bum killer, Miss Albright asks what he thinks about it, and Henry says, what are you talking about?
####3####
7:45 and Wolfe sits in bed and cries. 7:45 and Jack jr. eats a gourmet breakfast in some amazing restaurant. 7:45. 7:45 and Reginald the inspector in looking around the 6 month old crime scene. Reginald is on his first case, and later in the day he will be speaking to Wolfe. AN idol. But now at 7:45 he looks around on the dead street in the dead city on the dead hour of 7:45, and then it is 7:46.
7:46 Jack sr turns of the mock talk show with alcoholic child TV star host. Jack drinks more whiskey and thinks about turning him self in. Thinks about why he did it. There was something about that guy, he thought, something that bugged him. What was it? And the Jack flashed back to the café’ days and his wife. Rex! That poor bastard that he had stole Sophia away from, he was at the funeral. It could not be the same guy. Jack had to find out.
Jack started to think, at around 7:47 that it would be hard to find out because of him being the killer. Who was he going to ask? At 7:50 he decided he could ask of Wolfe, but he was unsure if that was even wise. By 8:00 he was drunk on whiskey and forgot all about by the time it was 8:pm and he opened the bar.
####4####
Inspector Reginald walked into the hotel room. He had gotten the key from the front desk for 50 bucks. They were on the bed coiled together like horny snakes. All 4 or 5 of them. Two of the men stood up right away, and asked:
-what the fuck are you doing here?—dicks swaying in unison from the quick turn to their feet. Reginald’s threw some blankets for them and the directed his attention to one of the throbbing blonds on the bed.
-that is a beautiful girl.—Reginald said, desperately trying to think of something witty to say to accompany it like ‘it is a shame’ something or other, but nothing came to his mind.
-yha she is—one of the men said-now what the fuck are you doing in our room?—Reginald smiled and showed his badge-Have I done something wrong?—one of the men said and the other followed with a ‘yha?’
-do you have to ask?—Reginald said. He loved it when people were defensive right off the bat. He had walked in on these people having some kind of crazy sex party though. That would have been illegal at some point in history.-which one of you is Jack jr?
-I am-- said the taller and stronger one.
-Jack?—said one of the throbbing blonds.
-jack can I talk to you in the hall for a moment?
-sure, just let me put on a pair of pants.—Jack jr. said scratching his head. Wondering what it was he had been caught for.
Jack Jr. stepped out side to see Reginald’s stupid smiling cop snicker.
-Alright what is it.—Jr. said tiredly.
-where were you on the night of august 11th?
-what? That was my wedding day.
-so where were you?
-my wedding and then my honeymoon.
-is your wife here to confirm that?—Reginald smiled a wry smile.
-no, she is not. Now what is this about? Did sally hire you?
-no. just was your father at the wedding.—Jr. remembered his father the day after the wedding.
-of course he was.
-do you know a man named Rex Loop-hander?
-can’t say that I do.
-thank you.—Reginald said to a slamming door.
####5####
Reginald p. Hardwig was an ambitious cop. Worked all the bad neighbor hoods, and enjoyed the danger. The force was lucky to have him. And with Wolfe doing such a bum job at finding the “bum killer” they decided to put Reginald on it to get it over with. It was Reginald’s first detective job, as a detective. He would not take the job unless he was aloud to refer to himself as inspector. It was stipulated in his contract.
Reginald’s friends, or the people that knew him, thought it no weird occurrence that Reginald became a cop. In high school he was a rat. If you were smoking a joint in the caves, the caves were some ground level windows on the out side of the science lab that had very good wind cover, and Reginald saw you? Well, you could be sure that the principal would be down shortly. Reginald was just another person you watched out for along with the teachers around school when doing bad things. He was hated by just about everyone.
Jack jr. did not remember him but he had gone to the same school as Reginald. Reginald did not recognize jr. with out jr. wearing his glasses and jogging pants. Which was regularly attire until jr. decide that he was going to make an effort to get girls. They both were nerds in high school. But the were the brand of nerds that did not even talk to other nerds. They both thought they were above everyone.
Jack sr.’s alibi worked out, but it was his son. Reginald had a hunch that if he asked other people that attended the wedding, that they may not remember sr. being there like his son did.
####6####
Rain came down washing away the snow in march. Torrents of river like water streamed along the streets. The smell of it all coming to life. Earth worms being beating out of the ground, and dog shit becoming a potent odor. And love was in the air. It was the kind of day that you stay home in bed. The kind of day you watch a movie with a loved one. Or polish off a bottle of whiskey at an old sad dilapidated bar with nice booth seats. It was the type of day that your mother would let you stay home from school. The type of day that a nice said accordion would be playing to all ears in pairs and that sort of thing. It was the type of day that if you had something on your mind you would feel like walking around out side with the rain drops assisting your thought and drenching your clothing.
It was the type of day that you stay home writing a book. It was the type of day that your supposed to go on like it is any other day, but you know something is different, or something is going to be different. Once the rain washes that appalling somthing away.
5.Some kids got it rough!
####1####
Jack jr. went walking in the rain. His father had killed a man. The same man that had brought him up. Out at that old house in the early days. That’s when he loved his dad. The ice skating the fishing, the ice fishing. Jr. in the early years until the age of ten or so when they moved in to the crap apartment where sr. still lived. Jr. remembered the rope swing in the backyard.
As jack got drenched from head to toe he sat on a bench and looked out a the swooshing cars, with the people inside doing a double take on him. His hair fell down over his eyes. His pants fell tight to the top of his leg and lose and dangling down at the bottom. A car was going to stop at any moment, and it would be his wife and everything would be alright. But deep down inside jr. knew that would never happen. This kind of wishful thinking was never answered by the Hollywood saving. Jr. could sit there and think how horrible it was and he never would be able to get out of his mind that that person would stop and save him. He began to think if he did not think about being saved it would happen. It could of been true, but he never lost that thought in the bottom of his heart.
How did it turned out like this? Booze. It came in to his head like a chorus of knowing quire kids singing on an x-mass commercial. “Drunk and angry/big punch daddy/rex died down on the dirt on august 11th.” Sang the festive little dorks sang in unison.
####2#####
Sally. Sally was not that much help when Reginald came to ask about Jacks father:
-I never met the man.—she told him, inspector Reginald p. Hardwig.
-really. So he was not at the wedding?
-if he was I was not introduced to him.
-and what about the reception.—Sally smiled.
-well he could have been there I was way to far gone at that point. But Jr. has told me about his father. Really! His father.—the inspector looked at her like curious George does at everything.
-what do you mean by that Sally?
They were sitting in the newly weds home. A white clean house with an all white in side. White couch and floor and table, and not a speck of dirt.
-he is a drunk is all, jr’s dad is. He had a really tough up bringing, I think. He doesn’t talk about it much.
-was he beaten or something?
-Maybe, but I heard about was that he was really annoying when he drank, jack sr. that is.
-Annoying?—The inspector said looking for more.
-yha—sally said not really knowing how to communicate with Inspector. He did look too geeky to be in her house.-annoying. Like he talked about stupid things, you know, said he loved jr. too much.
-that’s rough.—the inspector said jotting ‘Annoying father’ in his note book. He thanked Sally for her time and left after putting back on his boots at the front door that were soiled from the soggy ground.
####3####
On the way out of the neighbor hood The Inspector saw a man sitting on a bench in the rain. He pulled over and saw that it was Jack jr.
-Why so glum?—said the inspector, with genuine concern.
-nothing—Jr. sullenly like a child crying over the loss of a toy.
-Your going to catch a cold.—the inspector said opening the door.
-no one cares.—said Jr. looking down and pouting.
-sally is worried about you—the inspector lied. Sally did not mention where Jack was and it did not seem to care.
-she doesn’t care.—said Jack-she has another lover now.
-so do you, you have like 3 of them from what I can recall.
-yha, but they don’t care. She is in love with her lover, in love!.—the inspector then decided he was getting off topic, off what his job was about. He motioned Jr. in to the car. Jr. looked strained.
-well, come on get in I’ll give you a ride home.
The inspector drove the very wet Jack jr. to his front door and dropped him off to his hysterical wife.
-You can’t come in like that!—Reginald could hear the shrill voice a block away.
666.Death all around
####1####
-What was found on the body—Reginald said leaning in so the drunk Wolfe would pay attention.
-What? Oh five dollars or something like that.—Wolfe smiled.
-you knew him Wolfe, this rex.—Reginald said putting his hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. They sat in a dive bar. Not “Jack’s.”-so what did you find out?
-Well the killer is a fan of catcher in the rye.
-have you read that book?
-no.
-well Wolfe you have to be the only person that hasn’t. really is that all you’ve come up with. No wonder you were taken off the case. Wolfe it is a very popular book, and has been for like 50 years or something.—Wolfe opened his mouth in shocked sadness.
-well killers don’t watching TV.
-what kind of a killer do you think were looking for Wolfe. Really I don’t think we’d still be here if you did not do those interviews with that stupid reporter. Now the police have to find some bum’s killer. It is a waste of tax payer’s money. The only reason any one cares is because of one stupid human interest story. Do you know what I think human interest stories do? They make people care about things that otherwise they would not give two shits about.—Reginald red in the face.-Wolfe, what about the description of the killer? It sounds like a friend of yours from gentleman’s hockey league probably did it. Jack Sr.—Wolfe gave the same shocked sad look as before.
-Jack sr? really. You ought to go back to the beat.
-Wolfe I respect you but really man. A woman gave a description of Sr. to the note and he lives a block away. And “Jack’s” is one of the only bars in town that let’s [people, aside from here, like rex in. I think that rex was bugging jack about the bar and Jack sr. just snapped.
-this is who they are replacing me with?—Wolfe said tears in his eyes-Jack is a friend. Your wrong, I know my friends. Sure Jack may be a drunk and a jerk, but murder? You can’t be a cop as long as I have and not be able to read people. Jack is innocent. I am telling you it was a catcher in rye fan, like the fellow that killed Lennon.
-Lennon was famous, this was a bum. This guy was no kind of a phony, bums are the farthest things from, phonies, they wear their fucking lives on their sleeves!
Reginald was not getting anywhere with Wolfe so decided to go home and rest. He sat in his lazy boy and looked at the TV. The TV was broken but that did not stop him from staring at it from time to time. Force of habit you could say. What was there to watch anyway right now his life was more interesting than anything on TV. He knew that this guy Jack was the killer but he nothing but the lady that Wolfe made passes to go on. Really if it went to court, and even if Jack got a legal aid lawyer he could get off the charge.
Reginald went into the kitchen and made some Mr. Noodle—chicken—and sat in the chair and watched the water boil.
####2####
Jack sr. ran out of booze and money and had the hang over of his life. He walked around with the demons of his life around him. His wife, and now this bum. His wife and the bum. There was some connection. His wife! His wife and a BUM! The bitch he thought.
Jack always even when he was sleeping with the other women loved his wife, deep down in that profound mind of his. When he died so did the deepest and most thoughtful part of him. Jack could not talk anymore. People liked him, and people got hurt. His son got the brunt of that.
Jack jr. played hockey and Jack went for that, but then his kid, jr., started to get in to reading. This something told Jack sr. deep down inside was no good. You know enough and you can think away anything. Jack sr. thought that all thought did was make people get hurt, and all hurt did was make people did, and death made people hurt, and at this time hung over and sick and thinking about things he did not want to have to, like a murder he committed a couple months ago, well he decided to find some things out for him self.
The phone rang and Wolfe picked up:
-hello?
-Wolfe? It’s Jack.
-Hi Jack. oh, did you kill Rex loophander?—jack froze. Loophander. He saw that little dink and his wife, and he had not thought about it for a long time.
-who is this loophander?
-Rex Loophander was that Bum that was killed.—Jack hung up.
Jack sr. wrote something on a piece of paper and put it on threw counter of the bar. Got in taxi:
-The bridge.—Jack sr. said in an even and straight forward voice. The dark skinned man in the front said.
-cha go in don deer fo? Ganaa’s jump oft a somin?—Jack squinted his eyes.
-sure. What ever, just take me down there okay.
Taxi pulled up to the side walk and the cabby stop turned around, said:
-dat a gonna bees fid-tea dalaw’s.—Jack did not pay and started for the side of the bridge climbed up on the guard rail. The cabby stopped him climbing over the orange pipe. He saved him from plummeting to his death. Hanging there Jack said:
-Why did you save me?
-ya o me fid-tea dalaw’s.—with a smile. Jack paid the man. Ten minutes later, after bumming a smoke off a stranger he jumped off the bridge to his death. His last words:
-hey man can you spare one of those,--handed a cigg- thanks buddy.
####3####
Tommy the bar tender opened jack’s bar of the same name each morning. He found Jack note.
Sophia had a little love.
I crossed their world, I own their love.
I broke their harts and killed their life and did it all so I could ruin it for all…
The kid,
The kid, the kid, the kid.
Jr. gets the bar. Jack sr.
And then their was a little drawing of a sad faced stick man. Tommy always finding these little drawings and poems around the bar in the morning after Jack drank up the last of the supply did not think much of it and threw it in the garbage can.
Two days later swimmers found the body at a beach. That fat old body had drifted a couple miles from town. It was a scientific wonder really. Jack jr. had a party, and sold the bar. Reginald got a new case, a real case, and Wolfe asked out Albright and eventually they got married. It was grand.
That night I sat in the bushes and watched. I saw jack on the way home, he passed by an old bum on his left hand side that he noticed. Grey old beard, a yellow smile. Wearing an old professor’s jacket. Suede patches, and all. Looking up in to the sky. Jagger kept looking at the old vagabond bastard until the bum said:
-Jack? -- Jack was surprised a bit because he did not know any bums. Or at least he thought he did not.
-How do you know me?
-The bar. -- Of course the bar. All kinds of old fucks went in to Jagger’s bar. Cheapest beer in town read the sign out front. Which was a lie but brought in customers. Jack dug in to his pockets and pulled out a bill and handed it to the man, but to his surprise the man refused:
-No no jack, jack no.-- The man said. Yellow flecks of something popped out of his mouth-where you headed?-- The bum asked.
-Home.
-Is the bar open?
-Yes.
-Why are you not there?
-Wedding.
-Who’s?-- Jack thought. Do I want to get friendly with this old bum? Business would certainly be as good as it was, if not better, if his bar did not have bums all around pasted out in the corner yelling and pissing themselves. If the bums were not around maybe he could have had his sons wedding reception at his bar. A large pain hit Jacks heart. A large awesome pain that turned to rage and he tackled the old bum to the ground and started beating him. And beating him. The old bum-head bouncing off the ground. Jack just kept going and going beating and even pulling out some elbow drops from the wrestling he watched on TV. After his raging spasm was over jack was worried. Oh shit this old bum could be dead, he thought. This is what worried him, naturally.
When got to him the bum was hardly breathing:
-Shame rex.—I said-your dead you know that right?—Oh and rex looked up with such sad little eyes.-your both going down. Rex Sophia does not appreciate being dead all these years and neither one of you really doing anything at all.
It was a lot of stomping, and being a demon people may think it is no problem just to crush a skull and feel the popping bone and see the oozing blood, that’s something you never get used to… some times you just get lucky waiting and seeing what takes place on it’s own. Although you may have to push it along a bit, death is funny that way.
THE END
A story by:
Geoffrey Alexander Parsons
And tell me what you think of “jack” it is on rejection slip-I am curious there is more action in it, it is long though. I doubt any one has gotten to the end. Wait here it is under this: This
Life’s crazy nature, and hate and love and funny stupid crazy relationships—never coming to be.
1.A father and son
####1####
Jack Jagger was a short, fat, sixty year old, a grey balding head of hair, and a set of blue eyes. He was known as a mean old bastard, as these types generally are known. But in Jack’s big balding brain things were different. If only people could look beyond his rough exterior and in to his soul, which he thought was boundless with deep and profound thoughts. Of what? Jack didn’t know that, but he use to.
He owned a bar, which did not help matters (Fat short balding man that works and owns a bar. He was like an Archie Bunker type characters in many eyes.) “Jack’s” was everything but a nice place to take your son on his wedding day for the reception and that’s why when Jack jr. got married. He (Jack sr.) rented out a large hall. It was up town and in a nice neighborhood.
Jagger sr. stood there in the doorway of the big hall with all the smile he could muster, every last bit of it. No one showed up. His own son said they’d all be there by 9 o’clock pm and it was 12 o’clock by the time sr. called it quits and went home. Jack and his son were not doing what you call ‘TALKING’ much lately. Just a short phone call here and there to make sure the other was not dead.
On the way home he passed by an old bum on his left hand side that he noticed. Grey old beard, a yellow smile. Wearing an old professor’s jacket, Suede patches, and all. Looking up in to the sky. Jagger kept looking at the old vagabond bastard until the bum said:
-Jack?--Jack was surprised a bit because he did not know any bums. Or at least he thought he did not.
-How do you know me?
-The bar. -- Of course the bar. All kinds of old fucks went in to Jagger’s bar. “Cheapest beer in town” read the sign out front. Which was a lie but brought in customers. Jack dug in to his pockets and pulled out a bill and handed it to the man, but to his surprise the man refused:
-No no jack, jack no.--The man said. Yellow flecks of something popped out of his mouth-where you headed?-- The bum asked.
-Home.
-Is the bar open?
-Yes.
-Why are you not there?
-Wedding.
-Who’s?-- Jack thought. Do I want to get friendly with this old bum? Business would certainly be as good as it was, if not better, if his bar did not have bums all around pasted out in the corner yelling and pissing themselves. If the bums were not around maybe he could have had his sons wedding reception at his bar. A large pain hit Jacks heart. A large awesome pain that turned to rage and he tackled the old bum to the ground and started beating him, and beating him. The old bum-head bouncing off the ground. Jack just kept going and going beating and even pulling out some elbow drops from the wrestling he watched on TV. After his raging spasm was over jack was worried. Oh shit this old bum could be dead, he thought. This is what worried him, naturally.
####2####
Jack Jr. was tall and young, had black hair, and a rich wife. His new wife and him somewhere out in the countryside. After having “honeymooner’s sex” he looked out to the lake from the porch. The night was cool, which was nice since the days got so hot. It was the hottest summer for a good while. A good while.
His new wife sally lay out on the bed. She had gotten a little drunk and was no good for any thing but lifting arms and dropping them. Or making her arms do dancing type movements, and that sort of thing. Jack jr. had a little time to himself. He guessed that was normal for honeymooners, in a bed and breakfast, out by a lake on a cool summer night. A good time to think.
Think about what he had gotten himself in to. A marriage. The word made him cringe, slit his eyes, and spit. Slap his hand on his thigh, yell goddamn, and keel over. Grab, cut and die. Was there any chance of any one else, anything else but going along the course that this meant, this marriage. There was a knock on the door. Jack answered.
The small cowering maid stood there her hair pulled back. Her eyes almost bursting out of her head:
-Sorry mister Jagger, but it is your father on the phone. He says it is urgent.
-It always is. --Jagger said and the maid’s face went to the ‘sad for you, but not really-suck it up’ face. –Where do I take it?
-Down the hall and to the right mister Jagger. -- Jagger walked down the hall. Thinking the whole time that his father was probably drunk, and wanting to chew him out about not showing up. But why should he show up for him, jack sr. Dad…
-Jack how was the wedding.
-Good dad. Look sorry I didn’t show up, but sally’s parents had rented a big club and… jack sr. Interrupted.
-Jack if any one asked I was with you okay?
-What?
-I was with you--Sr. said in his fatherly tone. Jr. Hated his irresponsible father’s fatherly tone.
-What happened dad? A bar fights get out of hand?
-Jack this is important this is not likes other times… A man could be dead.
-Really. -- Jack thought that his father had this coming. He knew that he did. -Sure dad no problem.
After that jack jr. hung up the phone, and did his best to forget the whole thing. Went water skiing with his new wife, and her folks. Went out on a rented boat. Fished for sharks and whale watched on the coast. Thought not one bit about his father. In the movies when there’s a montage of people getting older-most notably in Good Fellas when it’s the gangsters and their wives having a good hooray back in the days of luxury- well, that is what this felt like to jack jr. It lasted a month or so.
He also
Made his wife do little ape movements, scratching under the arms and what not. When she was asleep.
####3####
It was all over the news one morning. ‘Man found beaten bloodily and savagely destroyed and left for dead.’ Everyone was disgusted and could not stop talking about it. Wanting to find out more about it to express their utter disbelief and to say ‘how could! Some one?’ The news made a couple full days of news out of it-solid. Then some president was killed and no one cared any more for a bit. But the police cared. And Wolfe, one who cared, maybe the most, wanted to find the ‘bum killer’ as dubbed cnn. He stayed up all night in his shabby apartment watching American Psycho to try to get in to the killer’s head-mind. Not all the cops were as dim witted as Wolfe though, and a rookie talked to a lady that lived near by the crime scene and she said she saw the whole thing. Wolf had an eyewitness. Wolfe took her out to lunch, made several advances on her and then got a description, and then used 11 or 12 lines from his ‘hard nosed cop come-on line book,’ from the big screen; written by some balding guy with glasses that was as skinny as a post. The ladies always hated him and thought he was a chauvinistic pig, but they never came back. That was the problem, the lines only half worked for Wolfe.
Wolfe sat at his desk with is gun strapped around his shoulder and around his waist. Every one else took their guns off. It was kind of an unspoken rule. Wolfe years ago was a real good cop. Tough and sharp. But as it goes with good cops the lure of sex and booze destroyed him. He hung around too many blond reporters gave too many interviews and finally became a shell of the man he once was. But this case was a special one for Wolfe. The bum that had been killed he had known. Put him in the drunktank many times. Wolfe and that old bum were each other’s shrinks and had a bond that this ‘bum killer’ took away.
Wolfe sits smoking, brooding, and sad. Sadistic, stupid, but secure. Wolfe sits like a 13-year-old smoking a cigarette trying to look like the star in the film, trying to play the role of the man. Wolfe is going to get his man. The evil son of a bitch.
#####4#####
A knock comes on the door. Jack sr. comes up to the door in a ratty old pair of boxers, plaid. Opens the door so the chain caught the nose of Wolfe:
-Hey Wolfe how are things going?-- Wolfe and Jack sr. are old friends of course. -Hope your not here on business Wolfe.-- Jack said smile on his face. If it was Wolfe looking for the ‘bum killer’, jack thought, he was surely be in the clear.
-No no jack. I was wondering if I could borrow a pair of jeans?
-Why?
-I need to go plain clothed. Get with the people.-- This was laughable. Wolfe had been on TV so many times he could walk down the street in goalies gear and get recognized. But what was the harm jack thought.
-Sure--. Jack through about three pairs of old ratty jeans on the floor. -Take your pick Wolfe. Wolfe did. Everything Jack sr. owned was ratty, he was a ratty man. Most men get ratty at some point in their lives.
Later that day Jack jr. was coming over and Jack sr. wanted to clean up a bit. Make the impression, which sr. thought was true, that he had been cleaning up his life. He returned all his beer bottles and got about 70 bucks bought a ten dollar bottle of whiskey that cost 23.96$ vacuumed, combed his hair, and masturbated in to the mirror after he was all spiffed up. He loved him self all clean-shaven and combed up.
The plan was to tell jack jr. every thing. Make the apologies that he knew he should of made for years. The plan was planed because he could be going away for a long time, and did not want to lose his only living family member. He was going to tell jr every thing. Lay all his faults on the line and in this somehow come up with a way to guilt the boy in to giving his dad a solid alibi. Booze always helped jack sr. act. He was getting ready, anticipating.
And here was Wolfe the big dumb oaf of a man standing there in his boxer trying on sr.’s jeans. Luckily for sr. Homosexuality was not an issue for him and his son, no scaring thing between sr. And jr. with that. Big naked Wolfe, though, was repulsive and stupid. Generally most people that are exposed to all of us by TV become Phony and Not that fun to be around or interesting:
-You mind Wolfe?-- Jack said opening the door-I want to talk to my boy.
-Oh yes.-- Wolfe put on a pair of sr. pants and left the room head down, and up bobbing in the stupid world of small thoughts, and delusions of competence, that was detective Wolfe.
Father and son laughed at detective Wolfe a moment. Jr looked stronger than the little weak kid that had left home so many years ago. Jr. Looked in his old room:
-Place has not changed much.-- He looked at his father. He was not so bad he thought. Just a sad sorry old man.
-No jack, I didn’t touch your room. I don’t want to forget. You know son I love you.
-That’s nothing new dad. You tell me every time you’re drunk.-- Jr. Looked around. He did not feel so bad for him any more-what’s the trouble dad? Were you lying about someone maybe being dead?-- Jack sr. Looked paranoid down the hall to see if Wolfe had gone. He was.
-Yes son. It ‘s bad. It was right after waiting for you at the hall. You know where you didn’t show up.-- Jr. Looked at his father angrily. Like this was somehow his fault jr. thought. The old man fucked up. That was the bottom line.
-Look dad sorry but like I said sally’s…-- he was cut off by his father.
-I don’t care about that jack. What ever you wanted. It was your night. But it would’ve been nice to be invited to my own sons, my only son’s wedding.
-Dad. It was not your kind of scene. It was an intellectual thing you know. Oh wait you don’t that’s the point.-- Jr. laughed at his wit or what he thought was his wit. Sr. did not seem as impressed. Sr. put his hand up. Said
-Enough. Just say I was there if the cops ask, okay?
-Sure dad. Jack said-can I go now.-- Jack said half way out the door. Angry-bye dad. We’ll get it touch, you know, when ever…
2.Wolf detecting work
####1####
Wolfe sat at the café sipping on a coffee’. The jazz music was playing, and Wolfe had his hair slicked back. He would have been nonchalant 50 years ago, maybe, at least until you talked to him.
He was talking to Patty Albright from the 6 o’clock news. She considered her self a hard-hitting journalist. And her producers considered her a dumb blond. And jack sr. Masturbated to her each installment of the news. Wolfe and Albright were old friends. Albright got her first big time jig with interviewing Wolfe, back when Wolfe only gave interviews once in a blue moon. This was about Wolfe and Albright’s 16th interview:
-Wolfe what do you know about the killer?-- Wolfe smiled.
-Well patty you know I can’t divulge that information this early in the investigation.-- This is where patty shined.
-Well inspector Wolfe perhaps one of the viewers has information on the killer’s where abouts?-- Wolfe looked about uneasy, and said he had to make a phone call.
Wolfe ran to the washroom and took out his cell, sat on the toilet and called the station:
-Captain I have a question.
-Yes Wolfe.-- The caption said putting Wolfe on speakerphone and calling (motioning with his hand) the rest of the cops in to the office to hear the patheticness of Wolfe’s questions.
-Well cap it is this interview…
-What Wolfe I told you not to do anymore of those.-- The caption said smiling at one of the younger officers that had just come in the office.
-Well it’s miss Albright.
-Have you tagged her yet?
-Well. -- Wolfe smiled thinking about miss Albright’s breast bouncing the night before, when he was watching her on the news, his eyes closed and biting his lip on the sofa.-that is not what this is about captain. She is asking if I can give any description of the killer. She says that some of the viewers may know something.
-Go for it Wolfe.-- The captain said, and then hung up the phone, and said to the crowd of officers.-he really thinks this is a big case. The poor fuck.-- All the officers had a good laugh at Wolfe’s expense. The captain soon after put up a poster in his office that read ‘don’ believe the hype!’ No pictorial helpers, it was one of those stupid office inspiration posters.
The interview aired that night and the description of Jagger was out. The rest of the interview was really small talk. The interview at one point was small talk about the weather. News was slow that week, the president was from a country far away that had been killed, and the whole thing aired. ‘If not about here it is not really real.’ --the north American public.
Wolfe did not think that the interview would blow his cover. Criminals don’t watch the news. Not killers, thought Wolfe. All killers did was read books like ‘catcher in the rye’ and the ‘zodiac killer’. Wolfe went from café’ to café’ looking for some one reading one of those books. He spoke to lots of high school kids and they acted quite defensive. It seemed that this ‘bum killer’ might be part of a deeper conspiracy, far greater than he once had thought. Wolfe’s hunches were way off, all the time.
####2####
A knock on Jagger’s door came at about 7:30. Jagger was in a good mood after watching the news, and finding out since he never had read catcher in the rye he was probably in the clear for the murder he had committed. It was Wolfe:
-Come in Wolfe.-- Jagger sr. said. With a big smile, and open arms.-come in detective please.-- Wolfe walked in, with jack’s pants under his arm. Wolfe evidently had gone back to his suits.-what brings you by Wolfe? I just saw you on the news. This killer. A real nut eh Wolfe?
-Yes.-- Wolfe said sternly.-I am returning these pants. Sorry about the egg. Damn high school kids.-- There was a lot of egg all over the ass of his pants.
-What happened?
-Just work.
-Okay.-- Jack said with a chuckle of non-caring.
-Come have a beer jack.-- Wolfe said.
-Sure.-- Said jack. What could happen, jack thought, what could happen?
After a silent walk down to Jack’s bar Wolfe and jack sat at the bar. Jack ordered two whiskies and Wolfe ordered a club soda, and a beer. Wolfe poured half the beer into the soda, something he had been doing all of his life. It was strange and jack had never seen any on else do it. He never tried it, it was stupid really, but that was Wolfe, stupid.
-What’s up Wolfe?-- Jack said. -You only go out for a drink when something is bothering you, what is it girls, that interviewer? Eh, how she in the sack?-- Now you might think a police officer would get angry at that, fuck, any one would, police officer to pimp, but not Wolfe.
-That is the problem jack.
-What?
-I think I am compromising my work for her, telling her too much.
-No way Wolfe, any way…-- A person at the end of the bar was reading catcher in the rye. Jack tapped Wolfe on the shoulder. -Wolfe looks at what that guy’s reading.-- Wolfe looked and smiled. Got up out of his chair. Raised one finger and snuck up behind the 20 something guy reading the book. Jack smiled.
-How’s the book.-- Wolfe muttered staring at the man.
-What?-the man hesitated because of the weird look Wolfe was giving.- Oh good. I have read it before, it’s good-- The man turned and put his head back in the book. Wolfe looked over at jack with a smile on his face that seemed to say, ‘I got you bob.’
Wolfe grabs the man by the neck. And starts to yell:
-Listen where you on the night of august 11th? The man started saying what the fuck are you doing man, what the fuck I do wrong with you?-- The bartender (Tommy_) looked at jack.
-Jack what is your cop friend doing in this bar? We can’t have this in the bar.
-Let him be Tommy. He is working. He is a good cop.-- Wolfe starts shoving the man’s face in to the bar and yelling ‘where were you where were you?!?!’ Jack stands up and says:
-Call the cops. Tommy, call the cops.-- Tommy was already dialing when jack said this.
3.Not to forget
****1````
Jack did not hear or see Wolfe for a while after that. The bar business was slow. It was getting cold. There was no tourist population any more. The sad music blurred out in the bar old blues kings like bb king and gg Allen. Jack sr. sits behind the bar most nights reading crime mystery novels, and books about anger management for dummies.
The kid that Wolfe had beaten up had sued the Bar. ‘Jack’s’ was seeing some hard time. Jack him self was starting to feel the remorse of killing a man seep in to his daily thoughts. He started to open the Bar later and later. He drank more and more. He combs his hair and masturbated less and less. His life was becoming an old sad cycle of drunken sleep and occasionally orders food, like Pizza or Indian.
Jack’s son was out all over the country smooching with the upper class world, of his new wife’s family. He did not think about his father, and had forgotten about all the ‘shit’ that was spuing out of his father’s mouth a couple days after the wedding was over. Jack jr., quite by accident walked in to ‘Jack’s’ on December 15th 2004. tom waits was on the beat-box in the corner, which was the sound system for ‘Jack’s’. Jack jr. and sr. were astonished to see each other. Sr. looking down and pouting, and jr. felt that he had to go over and talk.
-what’s up dad?--jr. said looking at his father-you look good.--he put his hand on his sullenly drunk father’s shoulder that was slumped over the bar-Jack!--jr. said thinking that saying his father’s first name would do it (break him out of his drunken blank stared trance) and it did. Jack sr. put his head up and took a look around d the bar. He saw his clientele were as sad and sleepy as he was and then looked at his son:
-Son! What brings__ ga you a-around Theese pars?-- Jr. looked some what less then impressed by his farther attempted at the English language, but plays around:
-Was just in the neighbor hood dad, you know thought I’d say hello.
-Thasa boy-sr. says, so obviously not going to remember anything about the conversation in the morning, and probably not even remembering that he saw his son, and jr. knowing this took out his not book and jotted down his phone number, he and his father were not in touch, and put it in his father’s pocket with a note:
DAD YOUR SON WANTS YOU TO CALL SOME TIME__SOBER>>
922-684-7863
****2****
6 months after Wolfe got the case failing to get any new leads aside from the one that the beat cop gave him, the caption told him he was off the case. This made Wolfe angry, but before I get in to what was said at that time let me explain the relationship that Wolfe and Rex the bum had. Rex is the Name of the deceased.
Back in the late 60’s when a lot of kids just got up an went (Just Go! Or Going!), Rex did the same at this time. He just never could stop. He never had money and they did not want him in the states. He never left Canada. He’d go from east to west and then west to east always ending up in Landing City for the summer.
The thing that got Rex going was some girl name Sophia. He had loved her and she had not and he could not stick around and see his X best friend Jack kiss and kiss her.
Wolfe was not all that good with women, and Rex was good at finding people weakness and exploiting it. The result was Rex convincing that it t would not help Rex’s life if Wolfe put Rex in to the slammer over night, and really that Rex could lend Wolfe some Knowledge about women. By the end of some nights Wolfe would have bought a bottle of wine and the two of them would sit in his police car and talk and drink.
Rex left ever September or so for the west coast and warmer weather and it became a tradition for Wolfe to drive him out to a good hitch hiking place to drop him off.
But back to conversation between Wolfe and the chief, the captain about Wolfe being off the case.
-Wolfe come in the office please.--the captain said, seeing that Wolfe was using the begging of his 6th month of investigation of one bum’s death playing a video game on his cell phone.
-What is up cap.?--said Wolfe, almost too much like the okie kid in old yeller when his ‘paw’ said he had to kill ‘the best gad darn dog in the west.’ It pained the chief to do it. As much as he made fun of Wolfe he did love and respect him as a human being.
-In the office Wolfe.--he said feeling like George at the end ‘of mice and men.’ It had to be done.
-is this about the coffee’?--Wolfe had made a batch of coffee without changing the filter. And the chief had had a cup of “murky shit water and cream!” Wolfe got the hung over anger captain’s yells.
-Wolfe this has nothing to do with the Coffee. How long have you been on Rex’s case?--Wolfe looked down at his legs, and noticed his fly was undone, he zipped it up.
-I don’t know? A couple weeks?--He looked up at his boss, Wolfe did.
-Rex was killed in august Wolfe. What month is it? Wolfe?--Wolfe looked up at the calendar with the porno stars on it. The thighs read ‘March,” Wolfe made a dumb smile.
-okay so I have been on it for ^ months, so what. I have made a lot of progress.--Chief smiled.
-Wolfe you have beaten up about twelve people reading a book that is mandatory read in high school. This station has 4 lawsuits to deal with because of your hunch that the killer is a fan of the book! And what else have you done? Wolfe I know that you knew this Rex, but really, come on the guy was a bum.--Wolfe stood up tears in his eyes and tore off his badge, which was quite difficult and The chief had to fight off a smile, turned and left. Then the chief to help Wolfe’s ego yelled after him.
-your working to hard you need a couple days OFF. Your of the case Wolfe!.--Chief knew that Wolfe loved all that cliché’ shit. Wolfe, to the captain's surprise, did not come back and argue.
#####3#####
Back in 65 Jack sr. started his studies at University. A BA of arts. He enjoyed classes and was a bright student. Going out to the bars and hitting on the younger hippie kids. Jack would always have a large crowd around him. Jack was a big Talker. He was slightly older than most of the other students and had read far more books and was somewhat of a free speaker. He wrote poetry and was good looking, and this is a far fucking cry from present day.
One of the younger student who made an idol of Jack was Rex Loophander, which was some kind of a weird French name slash English an abnormal blend indeed. Jack liked Rex but not for his Awish glare but his girl friend Sophia who thought not to much of Jack at first, and coincidently not at the end either. She always had a conflicting theory on what ever dazzles University kids OF THE TIME. And we all know you want what is hard to get, you want to work for it, us humans. Even fish have to work for their nookie. Rex had no Idea.
One time Sophia told Rex about the glances and hits that Jack was laying on her. Rex put it off as a kind of miss interpretation. Rex thought Jack was defiantly gay. The way he dressed screamed it. Most of the university kids at that time were wearing jeans and t-shirts but Jack walked around in shining new suits and slicked back hair. Jack was always Raving about some intellectual utterances from the gay writers in new York, about Kerouac and the Beat boys.
So as jean and t-shirted Rex sat and watched Savvy suited Jack wooed his women and swept her away from him with a smile and a poem, at some open mic coffee’ shop ditty. Smiling with a soft marbrols pack in his breast pocket and a sparkle in his smile.
Rex hit the road only top come back and finally dieing at the hand of the old fat ugly Jack. With out either of them knowing, who was who.
4.The story of a stolen love
####1####
Sophia and Jack both dropped out of university. The house Jack got was nice out in the suburbs. Shrubs and garden that Sophia very womanly took care of. Jack working at a bar and writing for a news paper. The first couple of years were grand in the way it all clicked and just worked in the way a dreamer’s dream would be. Jack and Sophia were much to cynical to be dreamers and laughed at the perfect, the very image that they hated, that is what they were. The were the TV couple. And not the “Honey mooners.”
-fuck I hate using these provalactics!—Jack would say in the middle of sex and after the thousandth time Sophia was tired of it killing the mood. In came the fat belly. In came baby name books. In came Jack looking else where for sexual stimulus. In came coming home late to a pregnant, hungry, fat, and angry wife. In came drunkard husband. In came Jack jr.
Nights in smoky bars and café’s. Jack’s on the make. Late at night, drinking and wooing and losing his love. Ya there was a baby at home, he’d say, but that does not mean that he could not have other relationships. This was the 70’s this was the sexual revolution and Sophia was at home looking after her over libido husbands kid. The spiting image, and some times Sophia had to spit and yell just to keep from hurting his child. A provalatical mistake, a mistake, a did not want to put on, not in the mood, babies sure put you out of the mood. Sex and milk spurts out and jr. cries and god all you can think about is that little cheating bastards baby. And you don’t know him and he does not know you and you don’t know you. And the tree in the back yard and the yellow plastic rope. A noose. And Jack coming home drunk and finding a note from his wife saying:
Hanging out in the back yard, hun.
And she was. Have a whiskey and call the cops. Hold your kid. In came single parenthood.
####2###
Rex was in town. He went to the funeral. He was on acid. He saw her, floating above the grave. Sad and tired eyed. Saying:
-Should have been there. Rex, Jack, anyone…
Rex yelled sorry, and fell to his knees and cried. Jack stood there stone faced. A hand on his shoulder. He was a man. He proved it. Jack jr. in his arms. And god damn her, selfish women, looked into jack jr. eyes.
-Some one get that bum out of here.—Rex was carried off like a junky doing the funky chicken. Tripping and falling in to a hobo depression watching trains cooking up the hobo’s grief and forlorn love of the sad and gone and never coming back. But there is something romantic, comforting in the fact that he checked out for good at that moment, he had been dead for years when he died, for real that is.
The inspector from hell
####1####
Gloom in the morning and Jack sr. sifts through his grungy shirt pocket and find jr. note. Where is he? He is in the bar, and it is morning. There is a man passed out behind the bar. Jack kicks him. The mans lined face looks up to Jack and says:
-mmmah? What’s sa time?—Jack smiles a mean smile, and says.
-Get the fuck out of here, you got ten seconds.—the man hurriedly gets to his feel and out of the front doors.
It is around 7:30 am. Jack grabs a bottle of whiskey and opens it, takes a long drink right out of the bottle. Gags at the end. Turns on the bar’s TV. A commercial for the “memory buster’s books” are on TV. Sip the whiskey out of the bottle and watch the mock talk show with the kid from the partridge family selling a memory enhancing book. He makes several jokes that he can’t remember 1980 to 1990.
Jack looks down at the note. It is too early to call, and even if it wasn’t he does not know if he wants to. There is a knock on the door. Jack gets up and walks over to the door. A young man holds up a badge, and smiles. Jack lets him in. Still swilling the whiskey:
-Hi I’m inspector Reginald.—Jack get that old smirk up and running.
-hello, I own this place, I am Jack.—Refonald smiles and jots something down in his note book.
-Jack, where were you on the night of august 11th?
-at my son’s wedding.
-okay. Is there any way I can reach him.—Jack crunched up the note from his son in his pocket. Looked at this young buzzed cut bastard. Smiling in a insinuating way, with his fucking dimply fucking face.
-We have not been in touch for a bit.
-why is that?
-Personal.
-What is this about?—Jack looked at the agent out of the corner of his eye while he took a long swill of whiskey.
-I think you know.—the detective, or inspector said.
-not really—jack smiles and gagged from the whiskey.
-don’t leave town is all.
-sure thing—jack said.
Old Wolfe must be off the case, thought Jack. He looked at the clock. It read 7:45. Jack took another swill of whiskey.
####2####
7:45 and the sun is rising over the water. People are looking out their windows to the man on there bench. He slept there last night. And now it is morning. It is his morning and theirs. It’s Miss Albrights morning, and she is doing a story on the homeless and this 7:45 morning is going to be the cover story on the 6 o’clock news. The bums name is Henry and he used to be a teacher, and then his wife left him. The bum killer, Miss Albright asks what he thinks about it, and Henry says, what are you talking about?
####3####
7:45 and Wolfe sits in bed and cries. 7:45 and Jack jr. eats a gourmet breakfast in some amazing restaurant. 7:45. 7:45 and Reginald the inspector in looking around the 6 month old crime scene. Reginald is on his first case, and later in the day he will be speaking to Wolfe. AN idol. But now at 7:45 he looks around on the dead street in the dead city on the dead hour of 7:45, and then it is 7:46.
7:46 Jack sr turns of the mock talk show with alcoholic child TV star host. Jack drinks more whiskey and thinks about turning him self in. Thinks about why he did it. There was something about that guy, he thought, something that bugged him. What was it? And the Jack flashed back to the café’ days and his wife. Rex! That poor bastard that he had stole Sophia away from, he was at the funeral. It could not be the same guy. Jack had to find out.
Jack started to think, at around 7:47 that it would be hard to find out because of him being the killer. Who was he going to ask? At 7:50 he decided he could ask of Wolfe, but he was unsure if that was even wise. By 8:00 he was drunk on whiskey and forgot all about by the time it was 8:pm and he opened the bar.
####4####
Inspector Reginald walked into the hotel room. He had gotten the key from the front desk for 50 bucks. They were on the bed coiled together like horny snakes. All 4 or 5 of them. Two of the men stood up right away, and asked:
-what the fuck are you doing here?—dicks swaying in unison from the quick turn to their feet. Reginald’s threw some blankets for them and the directed his attention to one of the throbbing blonds on the bed.
-that is a beautiful girl.—Reginald said, desperately trying to think of something witty to say to accompany it like ‘it is a shame’ something or other, but nothing came to his mind.
-yha she is—one of the men said-now what the fuck are you doing in our room?—Reginald smiled and showed his badge-Have I done something wrong?—one of the men said and the other followed with a ‘yha?’
-do you have to ask?—Reginald said. He loved it when people were defensive right off the bat. He had walked in on these people having some kind of crazy sex party though. That would have been illegal at some point in history.-which one of you is Jack jr?
-I am-- said the taller and stronger one.
-Jack?—said one of the throbbing blonds.
-jack can I talk to you in the hall for a moment?
-sure, just let me put on a pair of pants.—Jack jr. said scratching his head. Wondering what it was he had been caught for.
Jack Jr. stepped out side to see Reginald’s stupid smiling cop snicker.
-Alright what is it.—Jr. said tiredly.
-where were you on the night of august 11th?
-what? That was my wedding day.
-so where were you?
-my wedding and then my honeymoon.
-is your wife here to confirm that?—Reginald smiled a wry smile.
-no, she is not. Now what is this about? Did sally hire you?
-no. just was your father at the wedding.—Jr. remembered his father the day after the wedding.
-of course he was.
-do you know a man named Rex Loop-hander?
-can’t say that I do.
-thank you.—Reginald said to a slamming door.
####5####
Reginald p. Hardwig was an ambitious cop. Worked all the bad neighbor hoods, and enjoyed the danger. The force was lucky to have him. And with Wolfe doing such a bum job at finding the “bum killer” they decided to put Reginald on it to get it over with. It was Reginald’s first detective job, as a detective. He would not take the job unless he was aloud to refer to himself as inspector. It was stipulated in his contract.
Reginald’s friends, or the people that knew him, thought it no weird occurrence that Reginald became a cop. In high school he was a rat. If you were smoking a joint in the caves, the caves were some ground level windows on the out side of the science lab that had very good wind cover, and Reginald saw you? Well, you could be sure that the principal would be down shortly. Reginald was just another person you watched out for along with the teachers around school when doing bad things. He was hated by just about everyone.
Jack jr. did not remember him but he had gone to the same school as Reginald. Reginald did not recognize jr. with out jr. wearing his glasses and jogging pants. Which was regularly attire until jr. decide that he was going to make an effort to get girls. They both were nerds in high school. But the were the brand of nerds that did not even talk to other nerds. They both thought they were above everyone.
Jack sr.’s alibi worked out, but it was his son. Reginald had a hunch that if he asked other people that attended the wedding, that they may not remember sr. being there like his son did.
####6####
Rain came down washing away the snow in march. Torrents of river like water streamed along the streets. The smell of it all coming to life. Earth worms being beating out of the ground, and dog shit becoming a potent odor. And love was in the air. It was the kind of day that you stay home in bed. The kind of day you watch a movie with a loved one. Or polish off a bottle of whiskey at an old sad dilapidated bar with nice booth seats. It was the type of day that your mother would let you stay home from school. The type of day that a nice said accordion would be playing to all ears in pairs and that sort of thing. It was the type of day that if you had something on your mind you would feel like walking around out side with the rain drops assisting your thought and drenching your clothing.
It was the type of day that you stay home writing a book. It was the type of day that your supposed to go on like it is any other day, but you know something is different, or something is going to be different. Once the rain washes that appalling somthing away.
5.Some kids got it rough!
####1####
Jack jr. went walking in the rain. His father had killed a man. The same man that had brought him up. Out at that old house in the early days. That’s when he loved his dad. The ice skating the fishing, the ice fishing. Jr. in the early years until the age of ten or so when they moved in to the crap apartment where sr. still lived. Jr. remembered the rope swing in the backyard.
As jack got drenched from head to toe he sat on a bench and looked out a the swooshing cars, with the people inside doing a double take on him. His hair fell down over his eyes. His pants fell tight to the top of his leg and lose and dangling down at the bottom. A car was going to stop at any moment, and it would be his wife and everything would be alright. But deep down inside jr. knew that would never happen. This kind of wishful thinking was never answered by the Hollywood saving. Jr. could sit there and think how horrible it was and he never would be able to get out of his mind that that person would stop and save him. He began to think if he did not think about being saved it would happen. It could of been true, but he never lost that thought in the bottom of his heart.
How did it turned out like this? Booze. It came in to his head like a chorus of knowing quire kids singing on an x-mass commercial. “Drunk and angry/big punch daddy/rex died down on the dirt on august 11th.” Sang the festive little dorks sang in unison.
####2#####
Sally. Sally was not that much help when Reginald came to ask about Jacks father:
-I never met the man.—she told him, inspector Reginald p. Hardwig.
-really. So he was not at the wedding?
-if he was I was not introduced to him.
-and what about the reception.—Sally smiled.
-well he could have been there I was way to far gone at that point. But Jr. has told me about his father. Really! His father.—the inspector looked at her like curious George does at everything.
-what do you mean by that Sally?
They were sitting in the newly weds home. A white clean house with an all white in side. White couch and floor and table, and not a speck of dirt.
-he is a drunk is all, jr’s dad is. He had a really tough up bringing, I think. He doesn’t talk about it much.
-was he beaten or something?
-Maybe, but I heard about was that he was really annoying when he drank, jack sr. that is.
-Annoying?—The inspector said looking for more.
-yha—sally said not really knowing how to communicate with Inspector. He did look too geeky to be in her house.-annoying. Like he talked about stupid things, you know, said he loved jr. too much.
-that’s rough.—the inspector said jotting ‘Annoying father’ in his note book. He thanked Sally for her time and left after putting back on his boots at the front door that were soiled from the soggy ground.
####3####
On the way out of the neighbor hood The Inspector saw a man sitting on a bench in the rain. He pulled over and saw that it was Jack jr.
-Why so glum?—said the inspector, with genuine concern.
-nothing—Jr. sullenly like a child crying over the loss of a toy.
-Your going to catch a cold.—the inspector said opening the door.
-no one cares.—said Jr. looking down and pouting.
-sally is worried about you—the inspector lied. Sally did not mention where Jack was and it did not seem to care.
-she doesn’t care.—said Jack-she has another lover now.
-so do you, you have like 3 of them from what I can recall.
-yha, but they don’t care. She is in love with her lover, in love!.—the inspector then decided he was getting off topic, off what his job was about. He motioned Jr. in to the car. Jr. looked strained.
-well, come on get in I’ll give you a ride home.
The inspector drove the very wet Jack jr. to his front door and dropped him off to his hysterical wife.
-You can’t come in like that!—Reginald could hear the shrill voice a block away.
666.Death all around
####1####
-What was found on the body—Reginald said leaning in so the drunk Wolfe would pay attention.
-What? Oh five dollars or something like that.—Wolfe smiled.
-you knew him Wolfe, this rex.—Reginald said putting his hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. They sat in a dive bar. Not “Jack’s.”-so what did you find out?
-Well the killer is a fan of catcher in the rye.
-have you read that book?
-no.
-well Wolfe you have to be the only person that hasn’t. really is that all you’ve come up with. No wonder you were taken off the case. Wolfe it is a very popular book, and has been for like 50 years or something.—Wolfe opened his mouth in shocked sadness.
-well killers don’t watching TV.
-what kind of a killer do you think were looking for Wolfe. Really I don’t think we’d still be here if you did not do those interviews with that stupid reporter. Now the police have to find some bum’s killer. It is a waste of tax payer’s money. The only reason any one cares is because of one stupid human interest story. Do you know what I think human interest stories do? They make people care about things that otherwise they would not give two shits about.—Reginald red in the face.-Wolfe, what about the description of the killer? It sounds like a friend of yours from gentleman’s hockey league probably did it. Jack Sr.—Wolfe gave the same shocked sad look as before.
-Jack sr? really. You ought to go back to the beat.
-Wolfe I respect you but really man. A woman gave a description of Sr. to the note and he lives a block away. And “Jack’s” is one of the only bars in town that let’s [people, aside from here, like rex in. I think that rex was bugging jack about the bar and Jack sr. just snapped.
-this is who they are replacing me with?—Wolfe said tears in his eyes-Jack is a friend. Your wrong, I know my friends. Sure Jack may be a drunk and a jerk, but murder? You can’t be a cop as long as I have and not be able to read people. Jack is innocent. I am telling you it was a catcher in rye fan, like the fellow that killed Lennon.
-Lennon was famous, this was a bum. This guy was no kind of a phony, bums are the farthest things from, phonies, they wear their fucking lives on their sleeves!
Reginald was not getting anywhere with Wolfe so decided to go home and rest. He sat in his lazy boy and looked at the TV. The TV was broken but that did not stop him from staring at it from time to time. Force of habit you could say. What was there to watch anyway right now his life was more interesting than anything on TV. He knew that this guy Jack was the killer but he nothing but the lady that Wolfe made passes to go on. Really if it went to court, and even if Jack got a legal aid lawyer he could get off the charge.
Reginald went into the kitchen and made some Mr. Noodle—chicken—and sat in the chair and watched the water boil.
####2####
Jack sr. ran out of booze and money and had the hang over of his life. He walked around with the demons of his life around him. His wife, and now this bum. His wife and the bum. There was some connection. His wife! His wife and a BUM! The bitch he thought.
Jack always even when he was sleeping with the other women loved his wife, deep down in that profound mind of his. When he died so did the deepest and most thoughtful part of him. Jack could not talk anymore. People liked him, and people got hurt. His son got the brunt of that.
Jack jr. played hockey and Jack went for that, but then his kid, jr., started to get in to reading. This something told Jack sr. deep down inside was no good. You know enough and you can think away anything. Jack sr. thought that all thought did was make people get hurt, and all hurt did was make people did, and death made people hurt, and at this time hung over and sick and thinking about things he did not want to have to, like a murder he committed a couple months ago, well he decided to find some things out for him self.
The phone rang and Wolfe picked up:
-hello?
-Wolfe? It’s Jack.
-Hi Jack. oh, did you kill Rex loophander?—jack froze. Loophander. He saw that little dink and his wife, and he had not thought about it for a long time.
-who is this loophander?
-Rex Loophander was that Bum that was killed.—Jack hung up.
Jack sr. wrote something on a piece of paper and put it on threw counter of the bar. Got in taxi:
-The bridge.—Jack sr. said in an even and straight forward voice. The dark skinned man in the front said.
-cha go in don deer fo? Ganaa’s jump oft a somin?—Jack squinted his eyes.
-sure. What ever, just take me down there okay.
Taxi pulled up to the side walk and the cabby stop turned around, said:
-dat a gonna bees fid-tea dalaw’s.—Jack did not pay and started for the side of the bridge climbed up on the guard rail. The cabby stopped him climbing over the orange pipe. He saved him from plummeting to his death. Hanging there Jack said:
-Why did you save me?
-ya o me fid-tea dalaw’s.—with a smile. Jack paid the man. Ten minutes later, after bumming a smoke off a stranger he jumped off the bridge to his death. His last words:
-hey man can you spare one of those,--handed a cigg- thanks buddy.
####3####
Tommy the bar tender opened jack’s bar of the same name each morning. He found Jack note.
Sophia had a little love.
I crossed their world, I own their love.
I broke their harts and killed their life and did it all so I could ruin it for all…
The kid,
The kid, the kid, the kid.
Jr. gets the bar. Jack sr.
And then their was a little drawing of a sad faced stick man. Tommy always finding these little drawings and poems around the bar in the morning after Jack drank up the last of the supply did not think much of it and threw it in the garbage can.
Two days later swimmers found the body at a beach. That fat old body had drifted a couple miles from town. It was a scientific wonder really. Jack jr. had a party, and sold the bar. Reginald got a new case, a real case, and Wolfe asked out Albright and eventually they got married. It was grand.
That night I sat in the bushes and watched. I saw jack on the way home, he passed by an old bum on his left hand side that he noticed. Grey old beard, a yellow smile. Wearing an old professor’s jacket. Suede patches, and all. Looking up in to the sky. Jagger kept looking at the old vagabond bastard until the bum said:
-Jack? -- Jack was surprised a bit because he did not know any bums. Or at least he thought he did not.
-How do you know me?
-The bar. -- Of course the bar. All kinds of old fucks went in to Jagger’s bar. Cheapest beer in town read the sign out front. Which was a lie but brought in customers. Jack dug in to his pockets and pulled out a bill and handed it to the man, but to his surprise the man refused:
-No no jack, jack no.-- The man said. Yellow flecks of something popped out of his mouth-where you headed?-- The bum asked.
-Home.
-Is the bar open?
-Yes.
-Why are you not there?
-Wedding.
-Who’s?-- Jack thought. Do I want to get friendly with this old bum? Business would certainly be as good as it was, if not better, if his bar did not have bums all around pasted out in the corner yelling and pissing themselves. If the bums were not around maybe he could have had his sons wedding reception at his bar. A large pain hit Jacks heart. A large awesome pain that turned to rage and he tackled the old bum to the ground and started beating him. And beating him. The old bum-head bouncing off the ground. Jack just kept going and going beating and even pulling out some elbow drops from the wrestling he watched on TV. After his raging spasm was over jack was worried. Oh shit this old bum could be dead, he thought. This is what worried him, naturally.
When got to him the bum was hardly breathing:
-Shame rex.—I said-your dead you know that right?—Oh and rex looked up with such sad little eyes.-your both going down. Rex Sophia does not appreciate being dead all these years and neither one of you really doing anything at all.
It was a lot of stomping, and being a demon people may think it is no problem just to crush a skull and feel the popping bone and see the oozing blood, that’s something you never get used to… some times you just get lucky waiting and seeing what takes place on it’s own. Although you may have to push it along a bit, death is funny that way.
THE END
A story by:
Geoffrey Alexander Parsons
thus spoke G.A.P.
Hi Geoff,
First off, though still some problematic typos, looks like you took a little extra time to clean up the spelling, or at least it seems noticeably better, well done and thanks, makes for a much easier read....now if we can only get you to focus on your grammar as well...lol
"I a have another question for you. Because you mentioned you wrote a screen play. See I was in this bar (this is really how it happened) and I was trying to trade a short story for beer (which I have done many times."
Now that to me is an interesting story...don't know if you wrote about that as a whole short story yet, though I remember you very briefly mentioning it in another story. I think there is a lot of opportunity to have some fun with that idea. Though if you do write it as a short, I beg of you, please don't just make the lead character get pissed off, call everyone idiots, get really drunk and leave...add some new levels to it. I guess what turns me off some of your writing is the one dimensional aspect of the majority of characters and themes. To have only that in a story is an extremely difficult thing to pull off, and I don't think you have the skills yet to do so while keeping it interesting. I don't even think I'd mind if all you wrote about were bar stories, as long as you kept it fresh by adding new dimensions via character development or contrasting characters.
"And that thing you said about the drunken writer was somewhat true, but I want to be a writer and if I quite drinking right now I still think I would.) "
That's good to hear and perhaps you should try it without the booze. I can tell you are really passionate about writing, but I guess I wondered because some a lot of your stories seem to glorify drunkeness....not that its necessarily wrong to do so in a story, but if art is imitating life, then its almost like you are justifying being a drunk because of writing....which should never be the case. I shit you not when I say this, almost all of the drunken artists I've read about, admit openly that there best work has always been done when sober. Shit man, I've tried to write while drinking....day and night are the results, I've been so bombed and woke up the next morning to reread what I wrote and it was complete crappola when at the time I thought it was the cat's ass.
"It was “A day n the life of a dishwasher” this girl read it and said she thought it was boring-said that nothing happened, and then this other guy read it and said he did not Know about it as a story but it would be good as a film, he said it gave him ideas, and he gave me some card for some film co-op thing. I went to the web site, because he told me to email the story, and I did."
To be honest, I dunno if it would make a good film, at least not as is, but hey, if "Hitch" can gross about 170 million at the box office, and I begged God for brain cancer while sitting through that drivel, then I have to admit -- perhaps I don't know much about what the public wants. But then again, I'm confident enough to say I think I know a good story when I see it, and sales isn't always an indicator of what is good. But I think some of your stories have potential...I really think if you tighten up some of your work, they could be decent and some even good. Like the Double Insane...it really was an interesting read and I liked some of the descriptions....not to mention the character didn't fall back into just being pissed off and calling her a name. And even the ending had potential, like I had said, you almost nailed the ending solid, but I think you fell a bit short with your wording. I liked how you tried to relate it back to the cow part. As far as the dishwashing story; one thing I thought was noticeable in this story, as in a few of your others, you rely to heavy on naming people simply by a feature or trait...red head, gay waiter, hot chick and so on. You're a writer, describe these people to us instead of just saying "She was a hot red head" or "He was a gay waiter." etc.
So did you ever hear back from the guy? My experience has been with the film industry, it takes some subtle nagging to get anyone to even read material...its a catch 22 usually...they don't notice you unless you're established, but you can't get established unless someone gives you a break...so I think it might come down to a numbers game....just keep getting the material out there....or at least that's what I've been trying to do.
"But do you think that if you had interesting and good looking-or interesting people playing in that one-your right if you are going to say you would only want to see one like that."
Dunno, good films I think are a combination of a lot of things beyond just a good script and good actors...though those are crucial elements. I think if you cleaned up your spelling, tightened your grammar, added more depth to at least a few of your characters, found a plot progression with a relevant conflict and combined all of that in interesting scenarios -- all the while maintaining your uniqueness and individual voice, then you'd have something good. And I don't say that to belittle your work or effort, but to help back me up when I say, you have a good skeleton right now, add the meat and flesh and blood and personality to it.
"And that one you read my latest one that you said you did not like did you noticed thee line “smoking and drinking” I made sure to include that just for you…"
LOL....I honestly wondered about that when I read it...thought maybe you were taking the piss with me...which is fair enough I think...and like I said before, write about what you wish, I'm not trying to force you to do anything...only trying to get you to look at your work a little more critically and maybe with a few new perspectives. Which it seems like you are starting to.
" But I like you style of critique it’s very through and I like that, and I agree with a lot of what you say."
Thanks, I'm glad some of my comments have been useful to you.
I am lazy, but that does not mean I don’t care about my writing and I think I can still call my self a writer if I want, even if I am a bad one…
Yes for sure...you are most definitely a writer, I don't know if I'd go as far as to call you a bad writer (though I wouldn't say a good writer either), but perhaps you just haven't hit your stride yet. How long have you been writing seriously for? It can take decades to hit your mark, some of the greats weren't published until later in their careers. It really is a disciplined based craft for most...very few can just wing it and be fantastic....but I guess that is like most art forms. Plus writing is such a time consuming art for most.
I'm running a bit short on time this week...I'll try to get to the "Jack" story this week if I can, if not, it will have to wait till next week.
Talk to you later,
Trev
First off, though still some problematic typos, looks like you took a little extra time to clean up the spelling, or at least it seems noticeably better, well done and thanks, makes for a much easier read....now if we can only get you to focus on your grammar as well...lol
"I a have another question for you. Because you mentioned you wrote a screen play. See I was in this bar (this is really how it happened) and I was trying to trade a short story for beer (which I have done many times."
Now that to me is an interesting story...don't know if you wrote about that as a whole short story yet, though I remember you very briefly mentioning it in another story. I think there is a lot of opportunity to have some fun with that idea. Though if you do write it as a short, I beg of you, please don't just make the lead character get pissed off, call everyone idiots, get really drunk and leave...add some new levels to it. I guess what turns me off some of your writing is the one dimensional aspect of the majority of characters and themes. To have only that in a story is an extremely difficult thing to pull off, and I don't think you have the skills yet to do so while keeping it interesting. I don't even think I'd mind if all you wrote about were bar stories, as long as you kept it fresh by adding new dimensions via character development or contrasting characters.
"And that thing you said about the drunken writer was somewhat true, but I want to be a writer and if I quite drinking right now I still think I would.) "
That's good to hear and perhaps you should try it without the booze. I can tell you are really passionate about writing, but I guess I wondered because some a lot of your stories seem to glorify drunkeness....not that its necessarily wrong to do so in a story, but if art is imitating life, then its almost like you are justifying being a drunk because of writing....which should never be the case. I shit you not when I say this, almost all of the drunken artists I've read about, admit openly that there best work has always been done when sober. Shit man, I've tried to write while drinking....day and night are the results, I've been so bombed and woke up the next morning to reread what I wrote and it was complete crappola when at the time I thought it was the cat's ass.
"It was “A day n the life of a dishwasher” this girl read it and said she thought it was boring-said that nothing happened, and then this other guy read it and said he did not Know about it as a story but it would be good as a film, he said it gave him ideas, and he gave me some card for some film co-op thing. I went to the web site, because he told me to email the story, and I did."
To be honest, I dunno if it would make a good film, at least not as is, but hey, if "Hitch" can gross about 170 million at the box office, and I begged God for brain cancer while sitting through that drivel, then I have to admit -- perhaps I don't know much about what the public wants. But then again, I'm confident enough to say I think I know a good story when I see it, and sales isn't always an indicator of what is good. But I think some of your stories have potential...I really think if you tighten up some of your work, they could be decent and some even good. Like the Double Insane...it really was an interesting read and I liked some of the descriptions....not to mention the character didn't fall back into just being pissed off and calling her a name. And even the ending had potential, like I had said, you almost nailed the ending solid, but I think you fell a bit short with your wording. I liked how you tried to relate it back to the cow part. As far as the dishwashing story; one thing I thought was noticeable in this story, as in a few of your others, you rely to heavy on naming people simply by a feature or trait...red head, gay waiter, hot chick and so on. You're a writer, describe these people to us instead of just saying "She was a hot red head" or "He was a gay waiter." etc.
So did you ever hear back from the guy? My experience has been with the film industry, it takes some subtle nagging to get anyone to even read material...its a catch 22 usually...they don't notice you unless you're established, but you can't get established unless someone gives you a break...so I think it might come down to a numbers game....just keep getting the material out there....or at least that's what I've been trying to do.
"But do you think that if you had interesting and good looking-or interesting people playing in that one-your right if you are going to say you would only want to see one like that."
Dunno, good films I think are a combination of a lot of things beyond just a good script and good actors...though those are crucial elements. I think if you cleaned up your spelling, tightened your grammar, added more depth to at least a few of your characters, found a plot progression with a relevant conflict and combined all of that in interesting scenarios -- all the while maintaining your uniqueness and individual voice, then you'd have something good. And I don't say that to belittle your work or effort, but to help back me up when I say, you have a good skeleton right now, add the meat and flesh and blood and personality to it.
"And that one you read my latest one that you said you did not like did you noticed thee line “smoking and drinking” I made sure to include that just for you…"
LOL....I honestly wondered about that when I read it...thought maybe you were taking the piss with me...which is fair enough I think...and like I said before, write about what you wish, I'm not trying to force you to do anything...only trying to get you to look at your work a little more critically and maybe with a few new perspectives. Which it seems like you are starting to.
" But I like you style of critique it’s very through and I like that, and I agree with a lot of what you say."
Thanks, I'm glad some of my comments have been useful to you.
I am lazy, but that does not mean I don’t care about my writing and I think I can still call my self a writer if I want, even if I am a bad one…
Yes for sure...you are most definitely a writer, I don't know if I'd go as far as to call you a bad writer (though I wouldn't say a good writer either), but perhaps you just haven't hit your stride yet. How long have you been writing seriously for? It can take decades to hit your mark, some of the greats weren't published until later in their careers. It really is a disciplined based craft for most...very few can just wing it and be fantastic....but I guess that is like most art forms. Plus writing is such a time consuming art for most.
I'm running a bit short on time this week...I'll try to get to the "Jack" story this week if I can, if not, it will have to wait till next week.
Talk to you later,
Trev
-
Axanderdeath
- Posts: 954
- Joined: December 20th, 2004, 9:24 pm
- Location: montreal or somewhere in canada or the world
-
Axanderdeath
- Posts: 954
- Joined: December 20th, 2004, 9:24 pm
- Location: montreal or somewhere in canada or the world
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