Real Fugitive

This was my 22nd day of being a Real Fugitive game show contestant. The ads screamed for you to watch as real people were chased like fugitives, all for big money. I won the honor for the latest match by correctly answering 15 questions about the 60’s show, The Fugitive. I decided to triple my possible earnings by letting the hunters use live ammunition.

The day before, I had reached a new plateau. No matter what happened, I was guaranteed $300,000 if I threw out the provided white flag and surrendered. Six more days and I’d be up to $450,000. If I made it through eight weeks, I would walk away with the grand prize: $6,000,000. Paid in installments over the next 20 years.

The last three weeks, I’d been sleeping on the sides of highways, in barns, even under a bridge. I’d been using the meager $1,000 in cash they gave me to buy Twinkies, Big Macs and Mountain Dew. But, as the show had gained popularity, it became harder to do. Three days ago, I had to bolt from a 7-11 after a stoned clerk recognized me as the “Real Fugitive” and picked up his phone. To make this game even harder, they were offering an undisclosed reward for my capture.

I no longer went to convenience stores. Hunger burned at my stomach, pleading for me to give up.

To top it off, I had twisted my ankle on day 17 ducking behind a Burger King dumpster. It was three o’clock in the morning. Two shots had been fired at me. I sat there for ten minutes, biting my lower lip, listening. Five days later, I’m thinking less about the shots and more about the dumpster smells of cheeseburgers and fries. That dumpster must have held the mother lode of discarded deep-fried food.

You may ask, why would someone do this to himself? Don’t I have a job, a sense of self-respect, a will to live? Nope. In my life, I’ve flunked out of a state college, alienated my parents and both of my brothers, and lost six decent-paying jobs because I can’t seem to get to work on time. This show was my ticket to escape from future failures.

I was too young. Life was too long. I needed to go all the way by any means necessary.

On day 21, I decided to spend my remaining cash on a gun. I kept my Real Fugitive contract folded in my wallet and there was nothing in there about doing this, only something about being prosecuted for any crimes I committed. I ventured into the city and limped up to men on street corners who wore baggy pants and backwards caps. I assumed they could sell me weapons. I was wrong the first eight times. The ninth time, I was able to score a .38 revolver and ammo for $350.

I figured that, eventually, they would rather kill me then pay me. One clause of the contract: winnings were not transferable to anyone else upon my death.

If they wanted to kill me, they were getting a fight.

On the show’s first day, they made a big ceremony out of my initial run. The announcer guy, with stiff graying news anchor hair and matching gray suit and tie, said, “From this moment on, you are a Real Fugitive!” and he pulled his arm from around my shoulder. I had to run after he said that line. It was in my contract to do so.

I was alone out here, in the American fugitive land. Before I used to hear about people on the run. The FBI’s 10 Most Wanted List. America’s Most Wanted with John Walsh. It seemed like half of America was on the run. Where are they now? Isn’t there a support network? Or is it just every man for himself?

There was a rush to being a fugitive. I savored it in the dead of night, when I was hidden and all was quiet. When this ends, I return to life as the loser I am, no matter what I win. They don’t make shows about that. On The Fugitive television show, I always wondered what Richard Kimble did after his name was cleared. How could he go back to being a doctor, drinking wine and eating cheese with his doctor friends, sleeping peaceful sleep?

It was late at night. I was behind a Wal-Mart dumpster, clutching my gun, ready to fire at anything.

How I Used to Ponder Stars

Every December ten of us gather to watch the Star Wars Holiday Special, drink eggnog, ridicule cult film dreck. Jack's bootleg, flea market purchased tape has vintage commercials: No Nonsense pantyhose, The Wiz in theaters, sitcom Alice Sundays on CBS. The movie has baby Wookiee Lumpy, Jefferson Starship singing “Light the Sky on Fire,” Art Carney and Bea Arthur sleepwalking along with the original film cast. It sucks—even Lucas disavows it. Watching grainy, static-lined footage from 1978 can be painful. But it's always been about camaraderie.

This year, I sit near Vince, old college buddy, thinning hair, two-marriage veteran. Cartoon Boba Fett appears on screen. Beth's pregnant, I say, life's changing fast. Congratulations, he replies in monotone, finishing his eggnog. Vince's second wife cheated on him, peddled his comic collection to buy heroin.

Beth never comes but she indulges me. Five years ago, pre-Beth, I told newcomer Rose, it's trippy, like doing acid. Her face crinkled below her pink-blond hair like I'd farted. She walked away. The following year, no Rose. By then, I was engaged to Beth.

The night ends. We exchange goodbyes, Merry Christmases, Happy New Years. Outside, crisp cold air. My head twinkles with eggnog. Car doors slam, engines fire. Quickly, there's silence. I look skyward, remember how I used to ponder stars, what worlds orbited them. Whenever I asked Beth, what if Star Wars was real somewhere, she'd reply, the Empire's dead, babe. I drive home, think about Beth and the baby, our new world.

Pardon the Dust

Blogger provides new designs, I say why not?  Show me the sizzle, Google/Blogger!

This site may change designs on an irregular basis until I'm content with a new look. 

Where Car Shells Dwell

I live where car shells, black eye houses dwell. Can’t remember your face. The world’s splinters of data. I don’t answer knocks at the door.

Fata Morgana

Note: Pieces of this story have appeared separately. Section 2 was published at Six Sentences (see link at right), and sections 1, 3, and 4 have appeared at this blog.

1
Driving on the Arctic ice, he sees a city on the horizon where one shouldn’t be. He emerges from the vehicle, bitter air and silent moonscape, to admire the sight. Twinkling lights, bustling streets, a parade of flower-covered floats. Don’t look too close, he thinks, else the illusion will be destroyed; instead maintain a favorable myopia, a likeable distortion. The rest of the world below him—he’s buried its false promises, its broken streets, its burnt dusted graves. He thinks of a corresponding soul standing on the same longitude, looking north toward the same point, dreaming of a new life.

2
In the Saharan desert, all mouths salted with sand and heat, he films mirages in the vast wasteland of beauty. It’s a documentary filmed by aliens from the Andromeda Galaxy, he says, an inscription for a future plaque, his face framed in metal framed goggles, his eyes hidden behind black hole lenses. In the distance, there are always voices singing in Arabic, reciting tales of paradise, the voices never coming closer. The crew rides along, often seeing the Atlantic Ocean coming into view. But it’s just more endless desert. They look at him. His face reveals nothing, forever looking forward.

3
The Fay has lived many lives, from times of long dead languages to the present. Sent to a convent as a child. Cast out of brother Arthur’s court. Plotted against Guinevere, his not-so-faithful queen, seduced Lancelot, her not-so-pure knight. After Arthur’s death, she resided with sirens, lured naïve sailors to their doom, made grand castles float in the air. Now she looks into mirrors wondering, who is this being, what’s her story these days. She ignores a ringing phone. She walks onto a city street. The people—cuckolds and marks, adulterers and charlatans. The possibilities. The world remains the same.

4
A boy, caked in dust with a mangy black dog by his side, stands outside the village, watches the approaching vehicle, the lazy dust devil it’s created a looming shadow. His parents regard him as a dreamer, his dead stares and wild stories the symptoms of some desert sickness. The vehicle slows down. He can see inside: foreigners with cameras, focusing on him, as he, unmoving, locks gazes with their machinery. The vehicle accelerates upon passing, trailed by the dust cloud, disappearing into the horizon. He’ll tell his parents about this. They’ll look at each other, not smiling, saying nothing.

5
She lives in Canberra’s outskirts, confined to a wheelchair, in a town known for its athletes. Local legend says the dams upriver release holy waters dripping with nutrients. She finds the legend cruel, fate’s knife twist on her condition. The legend has it that the released waters create waves so powerful that surfers could ride them downstream, arrive like extraterrestrials, dressed in bright-colored wetsuits, sun-kissed skin. On a hot day she could look north, see a false image of a tall wave. She imagines someone riding this wave, his hand the healing touch that would lift her from her chair.

He Comes As No Surprise

Christian Bell comes as no surprise. He is neither here nor there. He can neither confirm nor deny. He counts his lucky stars. He gives it his all. He bends over backward. He gives the shirt right off his back. He puts in a good word. He gives his regards. He will say a few remarks, and then allow time for Q&A. He holds all calls. He is thankful for the opportunity to be here. He takes one step forward, two steps back, unless he takes two steps forward, one step back. He can sense that something is not quite right. He feels this place is going to the dogs. He thinks some things are better left unsaid.

10: The Street Near and Far

This story is the 10th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Finley.

During filming of his tenth film The Street Near and Far, Griffin visited his old childhood neighborhood. It had become boarded-up houses and storefronts, growing weeds scaling crumbling stone structures, trash and debris scattered on the cracked sidewalks. His childhood home—long ago replaced by apartment buildings.

He named the film after the main street of his neighborhood, where everything was—restaurants, supermarket, clothing stores. His mother called it the street near and far. He never knew why, never heard anyone else call it that. It was uphill from home, a leg-toughening trek up a steep incline. It was close, maybe half a mile, so it was near, though it felt far on hot summer afternoons or snowy winter days. He’d meant to ask his mother why when she was alive.

The street also had a theater, long closed, though the marquee still existed, its lights long dead. Spray-painted cedar boards where the entrance used to be. Liquor bottles and fast food trash and a decaying rat in the entryway. Cracks to the box office window, papers and broken glass just inside the semi-circle opening where you’d buy your ticket. He hadn’t seen it in years, and knew it had been long ago since it had closed, but still he was shocked by its condition.

He hadn’t planned to go inside but decided to after seeing the place. The front provided no possibilities so he walked around the block to the back. Past abandoned stores, one structure hollowed by fire, pawn shops sealed by metal gates, an Asian eatery that smelled like garbage. The back alley was crumbling asphalt, potholes, backyards of ramshackle houses. He found the backdoor, rusted and wrapped in chains. He looked up and down the street, thought briefly, he has family at home, what’s he doing, then pushed the door until it creaked open.

The film’s premise was that the protagonist discovers an old theater where films he sees are replays of his life. He goes during the day and often he’s the only person there. He tries to enter the projection room to see what’s happening there but he can’t. He finds people working at the theater—box office cashier, snack stand attendant, ticket taker, even the manager—tries convincing them of what he’s seeing but they think he’s crazy. When he finally someone comes and watches, the film is what’s on the marquee, not his past. In the movie, the protagonist never learns what was up but realizes his real life is stuck in the past and he can’t keep living there.

The inside smelled musty. Griffin found debris, dust, darkness. Outside light filtered through cracks, revealing dusty seats and floors, screen scarred by cuts, the ceiling sagging in places. The interior mostly untouched. He couldn’t believe it. He sat down in the front row, the seat creaking and crunching. He looked at the battered blank screen. The memories flowed. When he was a child, feet barely touching the floor, he sat eating candy and popcorn, his parents flanking both sides, flickering images reflecting off their glasses. Older, during summer vacation and days off school, he came with friends, crouching down in darkness between shows to stay for the next show. Then he came with dates. Then, as a student of film, as the films became smaller run, less popular arthouse-type fare. Then he was gone.

Griffin sat there, eyes closed, until he heard the door creaking. Someone else coming in. He jumped, felt his heart race, heard someone calling. Anybody in here? An older man’s voice. He answered back. Just me, I mean, yes. The man was standing just inside, below the Exit sign. He was short, hunched shoulders.

I saw the chain off. It’s never like that.

I sort of…I used to come here when I was a kid. Grew up close to here. Just wanted to see what it looked like.

I ain’t gonna give you grief. The man’s head moved, scanning the theater. Man, this place—loved this place. Clean it up, add a new screen, she’d be up and running.

The old man sat down in the aisle opposite Griffin.

Been walking this alley for years. Never been in here since it closed.

You know the first movie I saw here, said Griffin. Pinocchio. I was five. Loved Jiminy Cricket.

Don’t know if it was my first but I remember Strangers on a Train. That Robert Walker—man, was he something. Packed house. Everyone riveted.

This whole neighborhood, said Griffin. The center of my life growing up. Things just change so much.

Used to be bustling, way back when. Momma’d say, let’s go to the street far and near, see a movie, get lunch.

Wait— Griffin heard the words; his blood became ice crystals. What’d you just say?

You mean, the street far and near?

Yeah. Where’d you hear that? My mother always called it, the street near and far. How’d you—why’s it called that?

You know, I never knew. Far and near. Near and far. Weird.

The two sat silent for awhile. Griffin closed his eyes, listened to the man breathing. The guy didn’t know who Griffin but that wasn’t unusual.

Nothing like the old days, the man said. Nothing like watching movies in these old palaces.

Do you think if we sat here long enough, we’d start seeing movies. Griffin kept his eyes closed, recalled the buttered popcorn smell, the sound of the rolling projector. Maybe the old times would return like we never left.

The old man laughed then coughed. Griffin thought about Helena. Would he tell her about this? Soon, he would leave, return to her. Now, though, his eyes closed, time passing and, not sure if the old man was still there, he saw the colors of old filling this place, images flickering on screen. He was young again, his parents alive next to him. His childhood house still alive, freshly painted and landscaped, warm, humming, waiting. The dead street outside restored to fresh color, alive with footsteps and mesmerized children, decorated with streamers and banners, declaring it the street near and far.

Dead of the Night Living

Our writing teacher’s main rule was, no zombie stories. No fighting zombies, he said the first day of class, no parallel reality where everyone here was a zombie there, no stories from the point of view of zombies. Such an outcry about zombies we figured he probably was one. We looked closely for tell-tale signs like nasty head wounds, upturned eyes, and snacking on flesh jerky packed in Ziploc bags. I don’t care about what you do at home, he said, shooting zombies in video games, watching zombie movies, dressing up like zombies for masquerades, but don’t bring it here. This is literature fiction writing, he implored, pale face turning shades of pink meat.

So in defiance I wrote a story called “Dead of the Night Living” that was about, you guessed it, zombies. But I didn’t call them zombies. Instead they were angry accountants. They weren’t undead just overly stoic, devoid of personality. They sported thick black-rimmed glasses instead of bloody fatal head wounds. The protagonists didn’t shoot them but engaged in costly, time-consuming civil litigation. We workshopped it and he said, you’re not fooling me. I threw up my hands like, what’re you talking about, and everyone laughed.

So we spent the rest of that semester chasing mister anti-zombie, with varying subtlety, with zombie stories that didn’t have zombies. He didn’t like it. You’re all playing me, he often snarled, his face turning into a nasty grimace of undeadishness. For a moment in one late semester class, it felt like it got darker outside, the walls closing in and those of us in the room the only humans left standing, but it released as he said, all right, time for a break, swinging the door open, the halls full of oblivious bodies pressing relentlessly to their next classes.

Writing for the Writer

I can’t even cook proper meals, he said, it’s macaroni and cheese and ramen noodles every night if I don’t get takeout Chinese or a pizza because it’s too much trouble. I’m writing these words for a fellow writer who isn’t writing them because he can’t write, or do much else, even as I’ve told him to just get over his problem and get on with his life. He has requested that I don’t conclude with judgment on him, and I’ll honor that, though I reiterate that he needs to get over and get on because I can’t keep writing for him.

Hubble, Backwards

More backwards fun! See previous entries, here.

The idea is to take a small work and reverse the sentence order. This time it’s Hubble, another from Thinly Sliced Raw Fish, found here.

So, here’s the new “backwards” story:

Now he had the answer. Jill always wondered, was the universe expanding or contracting? The auroras of planets, burning balls spinning in cold. Swirls of galaxies, stars born in dusty light. Soon he realized he was in the Hubble Telescope. He died, felt an upward swoosh, a bullet’s journey.

Here’s the original:

He died, felt an upward swoosh, a bullet’s journey. Soon he realized he was in the Hubble Telescope. Swirls of galaxies, stars born in dusty light. The auroras of planets, burning balls spinning in cold. Jill always wondered, was the universe expanding or contracting? Now he had the answer.

Doc Ock: The Early Years

Otto Gunther Octavius’s father came home from the factory, his eyes glassy and tired, his face locked in snarl ready for some home combat. His face soiled with grease and his clothes a rumpled mess, those soiled with years and years of fingers and palms wiping off the dirt. A hard twelve hours of manual labor, and demands and insults from his superiors, and heckling and screaming with his fellow workers, and he still had to come home, fight with those closest to him. Again, he walks through that door and, amidst the same smells of boiled vegetables and meat and the same mechanical grease smell that he had in his nostrils all day here in his home or maybe it wasn’t really in the house but had been burned into his nostrils so that he could smell it at all times, there’s the boy, standing there with that dumb look on his face even though the kid was smarter than anyone within five counties, without his glasses. He’d need another new pair because he was blind as a mole without them. He’d fall into the river and he’d not be able to get out because he couldn’t see and because he was physically a weakling and would just flail and flop and splash the water like a spastic duck until he sank and drowned.

All I work for, he screamed, is buying you new glasses. He turned to Marie, his wife and the boy’s mother, and said, what’s wrong with this boy, can’t you do something about him, he’s taking food away from our mouths, your mouth. He moved closer to her, his index finger firm and outstretched and pointed like some sort of demented appendage knife. She backed away from him, as she usually did, and flinched with every movement of that hand, as she always did, because that hand was capable of striking, as it had done many times before, with stinging ferocity across the face, blasts that knocked her to her knees.

The boy can’t do anything about the school bullies, said Marie, defending him, as she often did, not afraid no matter the consequences. He’s a smart and gentle kid and they take advantage of that. He’s smarter and more gentle than either of us, probably both of us combined. Then you come in here and do the same thing to him, like it’s not enough he gets it at school from mean kids.

You mean, like this, he said, unleashing the back of his hand to her jaw, forcing a scream from her, sending her twisting away, her face turned from both of them.

The boy was watching, glancing down at his feet every now and then but still unable to not look up, see what was happening. His father turned to him, brought that dagger finger out, came toward him with it.

Don’t you understand, Otto, that you can’t just sit there and take it. Otto looked around his father, this creature that looked as if he had just climbed from a sewer or some netherworldly realm, and saw his mother, back turned, hands bracing herself on the counter, her voice mumbling. She was likely praying, as she often did. Here was someone, his mother whom he loved, who was just sitting there and taking it, he thought, but didn’t say it, because he knew that would send his father over the edge.

His father kept walking toward him and Otto kept moving backward until he stopped at a wall.

If someone hits you, Otto, what do you do? The boy shook his head, afraid his father was going to show him by example. His father punched the wall next to him, coming down on the side of his fist and not hitting it full on with his clenched knuckles. Both arms were now out and though he hadn’t planted both of them so they touched and boxed him in, Otto knew he was trapped anyway.

He often thought, what if these arms and legs were more powerful than what he had now, what if he could just use his hands to grab his father’s arms and just toss him aside, what if he could just kick his feet and collapse his father’s legs out from under him, have him fall to the ground on his knees?

He often looked at his father and thought, never expressing this thought, I’m never going to be like you. I’m not going to be an angry bitter violent person who turns on his family and who is just a prisoner of this world, someone who is mired in its filth, lets himself be smeared black and have his back broken to make a paltry salary. He swore he would be someone else, a person who uses his intellect to make his way in the world, a person who does things beyond helping himself.

As he was pinned by his father’s presence, his mother came from out of her daze and said, leave the boy alone, your tormenting him like you do all the time. I’m not tormenting the boy, Marie, I’m trying to teach him a lesson about life. You teach him about nothing, she said. No, I’ve taught him the important stuff—how you defend yourself and you don’t back down, don’t take guff from spineless bullies.

He stared down Marie, turning his attention away from Otto. His face folded into a snarl, his eyes turning hangdog, melting away to the floor, the man in desperate need of sleep, rest, a new personality. I hate you, Otto thought, looking at the side of his face. I hate you. How to escape, he thought, with arms and legs so small, how to make him pay.

His father turned from both of them and said, what’s for dinner, woman, I’m starving. The monster, steam blown off, sat sedate, waiting for service.

The Neighborhood Sloths

We’ve found our neighbors’ kids asleep on their porch, on our porch, on our patio, on our lawn, and even in our beds. They snore like buzzsaws, become immovable masses, impervious to shakes, nudges, and airhorns, and if you’d ever meet their parents, you’d understand how it all fits. You’d wonder just what the heck was wrong with us, why we put with what we do, what glue is it that holds us together, allows us to sleep at night.

Rama's Bridge

Sirima awoke to air heavy with pending rain, calling birds, the clatter of passing people. She looked outside and saw a procession of people moving through the streets. Inside she could not find her husband. Off to cricket or tea, perhaps. Or just off. Crossing Rama’s Bridge, the ancient sandbank chain that once connected Sri Lanka to India, to be absorbed by the ocean, disappear and reemerge in a different life. Whenever he disappeared, her mind wandered.

In the center of the procession, she saw a coffin floating at the top of hands and heads. It was intricate, colored with gold and bright pinks and greens, mad cartoon-like faces, shiny green and red jewels. Outside, her neighbors were gathered in a small crowd. She walked to them, asked what was happening, who had died. They didn’t know. A religious leader, one said. No, perhaps a rebel warlord, said another. Maybe a great cricket player, a person truly worth such a display of mourning. Perhaps it’s empty, said another—a fake funeral staged by the government, to demoralize its enemies. Everyone grew quiet, pondering this possibility.

The coffin moved northwest, drifting clumsily toward India. The crowd moved with it, buzzing and swelling. Would they all fall in the sea, she thought.

Sirima stepped back, turned in a circle glancing for her husband. She did not see him. When she was a child, her father disappeared for long stretches of time. Ramesha, her oldest sister, would tell her, it’s all your fault, now you won’t see him again. Eventually, he’d return, covered in dirt, like he’d crawled from a hole in the ground, eyes and smiles older than before.

A body dead in a coffin, rotting in the humidity, skin and muscle consumed by worms. Or an empty coffin, a funeral of air, the world outside more ominous than the empty space within.

The wind gusted from the west. A monsoon was coming. The passing crowd was out of sight, followed by calm empty road. To her right, her husband emerged on the street, tossing and catching a blue cricket ball.

The Man Who Fell Out of the Sky

I had lunch with the man who fell out of the sky, roast beef sandwiches at the outdoor café and an ice cream cone afterward. At first I didn’t believe his tale, since he would have been dead from impact, and how he didn’t know from where he came and only had selective bits of memory, but then he showed me the crater by the town’s outskirts, the bowl-shaped impact that was burned black and displaying perfect concavity. I saw that and believed him, looked at him with awe, his ice cream cone quickly a milky goo, wanting to touch his skin, feel a tingle of radiation, the warmth of stellar beings.

9: Finley

This story is the 9th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Eight by Eight.

Griffin writes down the facts of Finley, the character of the eponymous film, the director’s ninth. Growing up, trouble in school—bad grades, poor attendance, disciplinary problems—then trouble with the law, parents divorcing when he was a teen. The actor needs to have a thin, wiry physique, an almost jagged line presence that wears black well. This is character driven, he writes, this is shot in black and white. Strip it down from the excess of Eight by Eight. Make people forget that one ever happened.

Helena sees his notes, says, you ever considered starring yourself? You could be like Orson Welles. What do you mean, he asked. This character you’ve sketched—it’s you. Why don’t you add in precocious son, charming and lovely wife who hangs over your shoulder, gives critical bits of advice even when not asked?

She walks away and he’s left with white sheet of paper, the thin line scribble of his handwriting. He thinks then writes, wife meets untimely end, car accident, terminal illness. Later that night, he’ll wake up, Helena motionless by his side, her breath the sparsest of whistles, go to his desk, cross that line out. A cheap shot, humor too dark.

Six years later, when she does die from a terminal illness, he’ll have forgotten about this scribble that existed for a handful of hours. Months after she dies, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and remember, think, was I that callous, flick on a light in the early morning hours, comb through his papers. He’ll see the words crossed out, letters dangling on a long black line. I’m sorry, he’ll say, then he’ll cry, he’ll turn off the white light, he’ll lie awake in darkness.

The day after he writes those crossed-out words, he’s at his desk, thinking, visualizing. She’s right: Finley is me. I’ll fast forward. I’ll make him me, older. He calls his casting director, tells her, look for thin, wiry, line-like. Find me in fifteen years. Also, a female, to be his wife. Charming and lovely. Stark eyes that see deep.

The film plays in his mind before a shot is ever taken. The world returned to black and white. A man that will be him, alone. Right now, this man is a hollow, two-dimensional shell, unrealized, no brain, muscles, blood, soul, organs. A scant line of existence.

Iceland, Please Come Back

Iceland, it wasn’t bad enough your banks fell apart the last couple of years and you wreaked financial havoc on yourselves and Europe (complicated economics stuff—you’ll have to look it up for the rundown), but now you’re back, with that recent volcanic ash spewing from your alien landscape (and those big black clouds look like an alien invasion). This ash has been heading south/southeast, blanketing England and parts of other European countries, grounding flights from and to the continent, posing a health hazard, and turning day into night. The experts are saying that there’s no sign of it letting up and the jetstream looks to continue in the same direction for at least a few more days. Up until now, we’ve all been comforted knowing there’s this little rock way up there called Iceland and there’s people living there and that we hear from you every now and then in commercials with blue-eyed kids standing in misty fog beckoning us to come visit. But now you’re all out there and we’re not liking it.

The name of this belching volcano, Eyjafjallajökull, sounds like you’ve just decided to go nonsensical or else to fling obscenities at the rest of us (all apologies if this name has some special meaning). Thanks, Iceland, thanks. Look, thanks to National Geographic and public television, we know your country is beautiful, the geography otherworldly. Who wouldn’t want to visit? We know that you guys offered to take Bobby Fischer off the rest of the world’s hands before he passed away. An off-his-rocker chess grandmaster would love the cozy far-off confines of your land, and we’d have been happy for his exile. We know that you gave us singer Björk and that ridiculous swan gown/costume thing she wore at the Oscars that one year, which gave us something to talk about every year when it’s Oscar season and Oscar fashion miscues must be discussed. She’s made some intriguing music over the years and I think the rest of us assume that most of you are just as delightfully a tad off-kilter like she is.

Charming stuff all of this, sure, but the rest of us down below need something more. Or less. In North America, we have Canada. A large part of it is cold and covered in ice, much like your land, and they’ve inflicted Doug Henning, Howie Mandel, and Celine Dion upon the rest of us, and their love of hockey and curling makes no sense, but they haven’t been responsible for tossing a wrench in world commerce or shutting down a continent’s air flights. You might be thinking, well, they just haven’t tried hard enough, but that’s not what I’m getting at.

In case you haven’t noticed, your country was created as geographically isolated in a severe sense. Looking on a map, we can see that you’re way up there, beyond where anyone could reasonably think anybody could live and live productively. You might be thinking, that’s exactly why we’re here, you urban-dwelling, pollutant breathing sardine whose lifestyle and culture is doing more to destroy the world than we ever have. Perhaps you’re right in some sense, but, what I’m really getting at here is, you’re too far away from the rest of us. Come back to us. It makes the most sense for you to move to Norway, but I’m sure Ireland would be happy to have you come too and besides, you’d only have to change one letter in your country name. Also, could a few of you find your way to Portugal? They’re a bit homogenized there and frankly we haven’t heard much from them since the 16th century.

Whether you stay or leave, we realize there’s nothing you guys can do about volcanoes (at least we think that’s the case). But you have power over other things, such as your names. Maybe they make sense to you guys and Norwegians, but I think the rest of us are confounded. Your best known writer is named Halldor. Two of your most famous artists were named Einar and Ásgrímur. You have a movie director named Baltasar. I propose that prospective Icelandic parents be required to put down the J.R.R. Tolkien tomes and pick up a copy of The Baby Name Bible. You can pick up a copy from Amazon for about 1,389 kronur (though no one's going to deliver it anytime soon because of your volcano issue). Do us all a solid, and before you crack open that book, know that no one’s naming their kids Gladys, Edna, Earl, or Floyd anymore.

Look, I realize you’re all relatively decent world citizens. We’ll never forget how you all did us a big one hosting the Reykjavik Summit. That meeting between the U.S. and the Soviet Union represented a big breakthrough in relations between the two countries and was the likely impetus toward halting nuclear proliferation. Thanks, dudes, but that’s been more than 23 years ago now. It’s time to throw us a bone again.

There’s an old Icelandic proverb that says Kálið er ekki sopið þó í ausuna sé komið, which translates as, the cabbage has not yet been sipped even though it is in the ladle. I don’t even know what that means, which just furthers my point here. Come back to us, in all ways. We’re not asking you to eat at McDonald’s or name your sons Ethan. You can still be as delightfully kooky as we already think you are. Just come back to us. We need you here, even if it’s just so you can explain that awful Björk swan outfit to us.

Timeless and Proud

My hair was gray and thin, my skin wrinkled and leathery, my mind a slowly dulling tool—okay, I was getting old. I was a well-accomplished citizen in my lifetime, including planning my town’s downtown revival as well as being a prime benefactor of the refurbished local theater and hospital. But my time was running short. The mayor came to me one day, offered me this: we make a memorial statue of you in the town square, complete with commemorative bronze plaque and lush garden. That’s great, mayor, I said should I approve schematics, artists and designers? He said, no, you don’t understand—we’re going turn you, your body, into the statue. We’ll bring in a gorgon, let her give you the ol’ stone stare, and voila, you’re memorialized for all time. It’s quick, painless.

Now recently, after various tests and consults, the doctor had told me I had about six months to live. My lungs were failing, my ticker was weakening, my kidneys were becoming more like the beans of the same name. He said, you can do some treatments, get hooked up to the best technology, take the best medications, and maybe we can stretch that out. I didn’t like the sound of that. I was pushing 80. My outer form, while not at its peak, looked much more healthful than what was happening inside. Maybe now it was time to check out before I became skeletal, a bad cartoon.

So I told the mayor, let’s do it. Later that day, he called me, said Medusa’s coming in on Thursday. I said, wasn’t she killed and beheaded by Perseus, and he said, yeah, in the Greek myth, sure, but this is real life. I was to come to the town square at two the next day, make sure all my affairs were in order. Last will and testament, my mail cut off, bills paid in full, services cancelled, etc. All of it a somber affair. I had no heirs. My wife had died 11 years ago, so not much to reconcile. That afternoon, the sky blue and sunny, I went to a local diner for my last meal, ordered their biggest porterhouse, regular Coke, fries covered in gravy, and a double-sized peanut butter sundae with triple peanut butter for dessert. Some of the younger townsfolk weren’t aware of who I was, the things I had done for the community. I said to my waitress, who had blue hair and multiple facial piercings, that I was going to be turned to stone not too long. Yeah, aren’t we all, she said, flipping her eyes.

At the town square, there was a small crowd gathered, everyone wearing the same pair of cheap-looking black sunglasses. There was applause and shouts of my name as I got closer. The mayor’s assistant handed me a pair, said, wear these until it’s time. A black Escalade pulled up. The driver, wearing the same sunglasses, hopped out, opened the back door. The sound of hissing snakes preceded Medusa, head full of wiry asps, eyes beaming like small stars. She wasn’t like the way she had been depicted in mythology books and in that Harryhausen movie. She had legs instead of being snakelike below the torso, wore contemporary slacks and blazer, and her body had a slight copper tint revealing barely visible scales. Her face was smooth and like a normal woman’s. An unfortunate squirrel at the base of a nearby blooming dogwood caught her gaze and became a lawn ornament. That sent a chill down my spine, filled me with second thoughts.

So, who’s the lucky duck, she said, her voice raspy like she’d been smoking a pack a day the last 2,500 years. I might be eternal but I ain’t got all day.

I stepped forward, swallowing, raising my hand, as she looked me up and down, the snakes on her head looking at me also, their heads bobbing side to side. Great, she said, I like the occasional civic gig. Works of mine are spread throughout some of the finer municipalities. Gotta tell you, though, being used for hits, lovers’ revenge type deals—much more lucrative. She looked around, said, who’s in charge here, let’s get this show moving!

The mayor stepped forward, said some nice words about the town, me, as I stood by his side. I smiled, thinking about days gone by, contemplating the beautiful sky and warm breeze, the chirping birds. My wife, who said to me once, they’ll make a monument to you some day in this town. Memorialized for all time, I heard the mayor say. He held up the plaque that would go at my feet, the base of the statue I was to become. He finished, shook my hand and patted my back, and there was applause. I was guided over to where I would become a statue. Several people worked with me to get me into a good pose—timeless, they said, timeless and proud. I could hear Medusa off to the side, out of eyesight, carrying on a phone conversation.

So, my moment had arrived. I kept my eyes closed and my body still as my sunglasses were removed. I felt the crowd buzzing around me, collective holding of breath. I heard Medusa’s voice. Think about forever, she said, her voice now smoother, think about some happy moments in your life, and when you’re ready open your eyes.

I remembered the ribbon cutting of the refurbished theater and my wife, beaming, by my side. The first production was The Glass Menagerie and we sat in the front row, enchanted, smiling and clapping. Then we walked home, the streets lazily chugging with cars, chimes tinkling in the wind, as we held hands. Wonderful times.

I opened my eyes, ready. I stared into the gorgon’s twinkling sun eyes, felt rigidity move through me, tickle the wide smile on my face, the firm pull of going home.

Police Blotter

As part of a plea bargain deal, Christian Bell, a career criminal charged and convicted for numerous crimes, agreed to allow his name be used in police blotter text for crimes that don’t involve him. In place of words such as “someone,” “a person,” or “a gunman” you will find the name “Christian Bell.” Some recent entries include the following:

In the 100 block of North Bridge Road, a man told police that Christian Bell, who was wearing a ski mask, approached his car and told him to get out. The victim said he tried to grab the gun and began driving away. The victim said Christian Bell appeared to lose his balance and his shoes came off his feet. Christian Bell then stopped to put on his shoes and ran away eastbound.

A neighbor called 911 to complain that Christian Bell was throwing potatoes through car windows.

The actual Christian Bell is male, though as part of the agreement, there is no distinction as to whether or not the perpetrator is male or female. Some illogical if unsettling entries include

Christian Bell, a female teenager, grabbed the hair of another female teenager and threw her on the ground in the 500 block of Northeast 37th Street. The girls were arguing about something that was said on the Web site myspace.com. No one was charged.

Christian Bell was charged with robbery after she reportedly bit a clerk and stole jewelry from a Main Street business in the downtown district.

Likewise, there is no distinction in regards to the number of perpetrators, so there may be multiple perpetrators named Christian Bell. So, there has to be an implied suspension of disbelief to absorb the following:

Two 14-year-olds named Christian Bell reported that they were robbed at knifepoint and that their ice skates were taken. It later was determined that both Christian Bells were lying. They recanted their statement and said that they left the skates in the bushes near a business on Broadway, but when they returned, the skates were gone.

Three youths named Christian Bell were spotted wrapping a car in Saran wrap. When approached by police, the three Christian Bells fled but one of the Christian Bells was apprehended.

The plea bargain deal requires that the name Christian Bell be used as substitution for a period of 18 months. After that time, there will be a 90-day period where the name Christian Bell will be used to identify new entrants into the witness protection program. After that period, the name returns to Christian Bell for him to use as he sees fit, pending violations of probation.

8: Eight by Eight

This story is the 8th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Overshadow.

1
In his eighth film Eight by Eight Griffin thought he could play with the number, have a little fun, go tongue in cheek. Eight guys on a caper, told in eight vignettes, the number eight keeps appearing in the film. For lack of better wording, the critics ate him alive. Griffin generally knew when he had a stinker and was caught off guard with this film, thinking it would be well received. He got halfway through the reviews he had in front of him and stopped reading. No good words. Say something nice to me, he asked his wife, breaking an evening’s silence. She lifted her head, said, you’re brilliant, an amazing husband and father.

2
He calls the paper looking for the critic and keeps getting the run around. This is Griffin, he tells the person on the phone, the director of Overshadow. I just want to ask him a question, is all. No, I’m not mad at him. Well, I’d have preferred a four star review, not two and a half, sure—look, he used a particular phrase, and I’m just curious to know what he meant. Is that a new policy, not taking questions, I mean, come on, this is a paper, he’s a member of the press, he skewers my film for all the world—okay, skewers, that’s a bit too much, sounds bitter. Well, to be honest, I think he missed the point of what I was doing, maybe he was having a rough day or something. Hello? Sure, you can transfer me to voice mail.

3
He didn’t sit still. He stared off into space. He moped. Helena watched him all day, suspicious of his moods, knew he was holding something back, but didn’t say anything. At night, they climbed into bed, he slipping between the covers like he’s afraid of disturbing the world, and she said, okay, what the hell’s wrong? What do you mean? All day, you’re sulking, you’re contemplating, you can’t mask it. He closed his eyes, sat upright, exhaled deeply. Do you think Forever East glorifies cult leaders? That’s what this guy said. I tried to play it evenhanded, be dispassionate if you will— You’re walking around like you’re in mourning, she said, laughing, and you’re worried about what someone thinks of your movie. Well, yeah— You’ve been doing this long enough, she said, toughen up, for crying out loud. She switched off her nightstand light.

4
In Revolution/Illusion, Griffin puts his political chops on the line, the article reads, and he decidedly shows himself as a rank amateur, not even a convincing illusionist like the main character in his work. Sitting in his office, windows open, hears the sounds of the city: car alarms, slamming doors, roaring engines, unintelligible chirping of people talking. He drops the article on the desk in front of him. His eyes closed, he hears his wife’s voice: don’t listen, they’re envious, they don’t understand. He opens his eyes. Outside, the city still, tall buildings drawn against bluest sky, swirls of white cloud that twist, disintegrate.

5
Helena, tired and body feeling broken, rested on the couch, her form a curved line. On the table before her were newspapers, clippings, magazines holding opinions on Sodium Pentothal. Her husband down the hall, the baby cries growing softer as he hushes, as the creaking wood of the rocker provides a music. At first she held the materials, intent on weeding out the bad reviews. I can protect, she thought, I can ease. But the accumulation of words became too much. The thoughts not so black and white, good and bad. She placed them down, closed her eyes, felt the firm pull of sleep.

6
There’s a moment he knew he used to feel just before opening the pages, just before eyes hit letters of text. A tingle on skin, heart rate increasing, stomach floating like helium balloon. That moment before the thoughts were real, just before he’d been elevated or dropped, a nonexistent pause in white space. Did he lose it after Negative, Richard’s birth? The title will show his name, the film, perhaps a quick description. It’s the possibility, the anything. Then the words, the flood of judgment.

7
Griffin clipped this passage from a review: “In Raging Life, Griffin’s second film, the director adds to the promise revealed in his debut two years previous. Cinematographic virtuosity meets a compelling, straightforward tale that is timeless in its existential nature. A mixture of arthouse sentiments and the best of Hollywood heart-tugging sentimentality—Griffin is clearly on his way to defining his own chapter in cinema.” He framed it, hung it near the front door of his apartment. The first time Helena came to his apartment, she stopped to look at it. This is affirming, he said, standing to her left, this is what lifts my head during difficult times. She nodded, smiled.

8
He’s at the festival the morning his first film, The Thirst, debuts. Head light, body achy from impending illness. Swirls of people move like blown shrapnel. Booths selling programs and t-shirts. The smells of grilling meats. Competing background music from speakers and live instruments. Why am I here, he thinks, this is a mistake. He thinks about the film’s opening sequence. A glass of water, the ripples disturbing the liquid, shot in black and white. They’re going to kill me. He looks in front of him, sees that, in the flow of people, a temporary empty space has emerged around him. He stops, looks around, then closes his eyes. I’m here, he thinks, I’m here, just before the space is obliterated.

Two more TSRF works @ Camroc Press Review

Two of my Thinly Sliced Raw Fish pieces, “Dale Murphy" and "Clearing the Table," are now up at Camroc Press Review. The permanent link for these stories at CPR is here.

"A Story About Glass” and “The Letters” appeared at Camroc Press Review in January, found here.

Thanks again to CPR editor Barry Basden for publishing these pieces at his excellent site.