LOST LOVE - My first short story

I thought this short story of mine, written in the mid-1980's, was lost for good. But then it was found and now I'm presenting this never published tale here at    A LINE A DAY just in time for Valentine's Day 2021.                                     

                                           Lost Love

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

 

 

Charles walked slowly down the street with a look on his face that displayed the sadness filling his heart.  His grey eyes, which seemed to be fighting a losing battle against pent up tears, glanced around in all directions.  He was searching, as fruitless as he knew it was, for the love of his life, a life that would not be worth the effort of maintaining without her by his side.  He had loved her more than anyone or anything, and thought she felt the same way about him.  But when he awoke this morning she was gone, with no explanation and for no reason Charles could think of.  Now he was filled with despair.  The only thing that could lift his spirits would be to find Shirley, and he would go to the ends of the earth to bring her back where she belonged.

     He first met her three years earlier.  Charles had gone out to buy food for his fish, and as he browsed the pet store she caught his attention.  Never had a pair of eyes so captivated him.  Ordinarily shy and reserved, usually slow to take any action unless it was mulled over a thousand times, Charles suddenly felt as impetuous as the guys in those commercials for deodorant who just had to buy flowers for a beautiful woman walking by.  Call it love at first sight if you must, because from that moment on, Charles knew Shirley must be his. 

     The memory of their first encounter triggered many others.  Evenings in front of the television watching Monday night football or their favorite sitcoms; moonlit strolls along the pier; the look on Shirley’s face when he came home from work; the two of them falling asleep side by side after an exhausting day; being awakened by her in the morning with the covers all on her side.  A smile crept onto Charles' face as he thought of the many good times they had shared.  But then he remembered the undeniable fact that she was gone, and his smile disappeared.

     Charles did not have any close relationships other than with Shirley.  Even as a child when life had yet to impose the rules of adulthood, he had been a loner.  Whether this was by his choice or that of others, he was never quite sure.  What he did know for certain was that he and other people simply did not get along.  

     After meeting Shirley, he realized how empty and unfulfilling his life had been.  As a youth, he would go to school and then come straight home.  He never knew his father and his mother paid him minimal attention, even on the rare occasions when she was home.  She was usually off on a date with whichever guy was currently at the head of the line.  After doing his homework, Charles would either watch television or read.  The characters he viewed or read about constituted his social circle.  He rarely had the nerve to talk to girls from school, despite how hard the pangs of puberty pushed him to.  On the few occasions he was able to muster up the necessary courage, nervousness caused him to talk like a blubbering idiot.  The time he attempted to get a date for the prom was a particularly horrifying experience.  There was only one girl he had really spoken to in high school, and the main reason he did was because she lived only a couple of houses away from him. They often left for school at the same time, and she couldn't go for more than ten conscious minutes without talking to someone.  As school was a fifteen minute walk away, she would engage Charles in idle banter about her latest outfit.   

     He was not particularly attracted to Cindy, as she was overweight and over-pimpled.  And he sure as hell didn't want to be surrounded by a bunch of people whom he disliked and vice versa.  But since he did not want to be stigmatized as the guy who couldn't even get a date for the prom, he decided to ask Cindy.

     Charles started off on the wrong foot by accidentally spilling his soda on her blouse.  After that, the right foot never made an appearance. 

     Life after graduation from high school consisted of going to a job where he had to put up with the grinding monotony of an assembly line, then returning home to his television set and his science fiction fantasy books. 

     Shirley was like a breath of fresh air to an inmate in solitaire.  For the first time there was more to come home to than just an empty, loveless room.  Charles began to see that life was not something one had to trudge through reluctantly, but a thing of beauty to be enjoyed and cherished.  And now she was gone.

     He turned right on Sycamore Road in order to walk past the park.  This had been their favorite place.  So many hours had been spent here lounging on a blanket, catching some rays, tossing a Frisbee around, enjoying a nice picnic lunch.   

     Shirley had stormed into his life like a brilliant beam of light, illuminating everything around him.  Then, just as quickly, she abandoned him to darkness.  How could she just leave without any kind of warning?  What had he done wrong?  Charles did not want to revert back to his former way of living, but he couldn't see how to go on without Shirley being there to love him, and be loved by him. 

     They had had a perfect relationship.  She was also always there to lend a sympathetic ear when he felt like the world was collapsing on him.  Charles could tell just by the way Shirley looked at him that she understood, and this alone was reassurance enough. 

     Perhaps she did not need him as much as he did her.  Maybe she had outgrown him.  It may have been that only he gained anything from the relationship, while she was merely biding her time.

     Shirley had given him the greatest gift that could be given to someone.  She had taught him how to love.  But then she took that love away.  Better to have never received it in the first place.  How could she do this to him?  After all they had meant to each other.  Didn't she have any feelings?  Didn't she know how much he cared for her?  Their relationship had not been a one way street, he had given to her as well.  He had given all he had to give.

     His feelings of remorse started to turn into anger.  How dare she walk out on him?  How dare she hurt him more than he had ever been hurt before?  What a bitch!

     Then he spotted what he had feared he would never see again, causing his heart to give a jump.  Could it be?  Was that Shirley about fifty yards ahead?  There was only one way to find out.  Charles started running as fast as he could.  Oblivious to everything around him, he narrowly avoided being hit by a car as he dashed across the street.  He turned the corner and saw the object of his chase casually walking down the street.  "Shirley!" he called out.  She turned around.  It really was her.

     The two of them ran towards each other.  The second they came together, Charles pulled her into his arms and held on tightly, almost afraid to let go.  "I can't believe I found you Shirley." Tears of joy fell from his eyes.  "You don't know how much I missed you."

     Shirley looked at him with those big brown eyes that had drawn Charles to her on the day they met, forever changing his life.  His temporary anger was wiped away by the incredible euphoria now washing over him.  "I'm never going to let you get away again", he said. 

With that, Charles put the leash he had been carrying around Shirley's neck and walked his dog home. 

FAIR TRADE

Below is the first one of my short stories to ever be published. The time feels right to present it here at A LINE A DAY as my first #ShortStorySunday entry of 2018. Now that so many of my tales have been presented here, I'll need to write some new ones soon to avoid running out of material. I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to let me know if you do since writers are fueled by compliments.  😍

                                        
                      FAIR TRADE

       A short story by ROY L. PICKERING JR.




The plan was perfect.  Simple and effective, so dependable in outcome you could set your watch to it.  The four adolescents had pulled this off numerous times previously, always without a hitch.

Rodney had the most mature sounding voice of the group, so it was always he who placed the call.  Always to a Chinese take-out restaurant for a variety of important reasons.  Reason number one was that the delivery guy was typically smallish, frail seeming, and quite clearly scared to death of black people.  At least when he was surrounded by four of them.  Reason number two, they never arrived in a car, always on a beat up old bicycle, so they never tried to run for it.  The third and fourth reasons were that all four of them liked Chinese food (who doesn't?) and there were about half a million Chinese restaurants in the area.  This might seem odd to some, since very few Chinese people lived in the neighborhood so far as they could tell, but the four young men didn't spend much time contemplating the enigma.  They tended to accept things as they were without excessive questioning.

"What's taking this guy so long?" asked Cognac, who was named after the beverage responsible for his conception.  His running joke was that if other parents in the neighborhood used the same method of name giving as his parents, there would be a whole lot of Malt Liquors running around.  Cognac was in love with gold.  It adorned his fingers, wrists, neck, ears and one tooth.  His nickname, as if someone named Cognac needed a nickname, was Glitter.

"If he doesn't show up in the next two minutes, I say we don't tip him."  As usual, Coletrane's joke cracked up none other than Coletrane.  His laughter was a sight to see due to a great quantity of loose flesh that bounced and jiggled in every which direction.  He claimed to not really be fat, merely too short for his weight.  Coletrane planned to correct this situation by having a growth spurt to go along with his newly grown chest hairs.  What he failed to realize was that in order to be of average weight, he would need to shoot up to about seven feet.

If somehow this did happen, he still wouldn't be much taller than Jerome, who seemed to grow about a foot per month. Jerome held a basketball in hand, his trademark.  It had been signed by three current members of the New York Knicks. The game of hoops was the most important thing in his life.  It was his school, his church, his lover, his mother and his child.  Jerome could recite from memory the statistics of just about any player in the NBA.

Rodney's memory was equally impressive, only with a different subject matter.  Roaming around in his head were the lyrics for pretty much every rap song ever recorded, as well as close to one hundred songs he had composed.  The customized headphones around his neck were as constant as a tattoo.

The four friends killed time by bragging about the numerous girls who were allegedly into them, and recycling insults at each other.  All in the name of fun.  Any moment now their latest victim would arrive, supplying them with much needed (or certainly wanted) cash, an antidote for their boredom, and some never to be taken for granted free food.

"Here he comes."

The delivery man approaching appeared to be about a thousand years old.  He looked too antiquated to walk ten consecutive steps, much less be peddling a bike laden with food uphill.  As soon as he hopped off the bike (yes hopped, the man was startlingly agile) and started looking for the fictional address Rodney had given to lure him, the four young thieves made their move.  Their move was simply to surround the delivery man.  Nine times out of ten, food, money and the bike were willingly offered without them having to say a word or make a single threatening gesture.  Their mere presence was sufficient.  They never actually wanted the bicycles, being that they were always pieces of crap, and often the most difficult part of the crime was convincing the delivery man of this fact.  Occasionally they had to be a bit more menacing to convince the guy to forfeit his goods.  Once Rodney had pulled his knife, which was how they learned that he carried one on him, but that was as dramatic as it had ever gotten.

Coletrane didn't look particularly menacing on this day.  His mother dead and father in whatever unknown location he happened to be, he had been raised by his grandparents on his mother's side and taught to respect the elderly.  Coletrane didn't have the nerve to threaten someone who made his grandparents look like teenagers, but he didn't want to appear cowardly to his friends.  He walked up to the delivery man along with the others, but instead of staring into the man’s eyes as was custom, looked sheepishly down at the ground.

The four of them waited patiently for the old man to realize he was in the same shoes that Custer had found himself in, probably during this guy's childhood.

"Food for you?"

"Hell yeah, food for us," Jerome growled.

"Twenty two fifty."

"How about for free and we let your old ass live?" said Rodney.

"Twenty two fifty."

"How about one ass whipping?" asked Cognac.  "Or you can just hand over that food and the money in your pocket and we'll call it even."

"You boys should be shamed of yourselves."

"Who you calling boy?" asked Jerome, who towered ridiculously over the little, fearless old man.

"You boys need a spanking.  Your mammas raised you better."

"Now I know you ain't talking 'bout my mother," Rodney said, taking a step forward with intent to intimidate.

"Give me money or we make trade."

"What?  You senile or something, Grandpa?  Hand over my mother fucking Moo Shu now."  Rodney was clearly getting agitated, and he had a nasty temper that could ignite quickly when situations unfolded unexpectedly.

"Money or trade," the delivery man insisted.

"Fine," said Cognac.  "We'll trade you those bags and whatever cash you have on you for your life.  Sound good to you?"

"No good."

"You ain't 'fraid to die, fool?"

"I ninety seven years old.  Sometime I think death scared of me.  Twenty two fifty or trade."

"Trade what?" asked Cognac.

"I take one of your gold chains, your headphones, your basketball, and ...  What you have for me round boy?"

"Let's just let the old guy go," said Coletrane, still studiously examining his sneakers. 

"I'm getting tired of this bullshit," said Rodney.  "This is a robbery, not a negotiation."  Rodney tried to grab a bag of food from off the delivery man's bicycle but his hand never reached its destination.  The old guy quickly and firmly slapped it away.

"Not a smart move, Gramps.  Now I'm gonna have to jack you up."

"Let's just leave the man be," Coletrane said.

Rodney raised his fist and started walking towards the old man.  "No, I don't think ..."

Suddenly Rodney was laying on the ground in fetal position, statement left incomplete, his hands between his legs covering the vulnerable area he had just been kicked in.  That alone was ample cause for amazement on the parts of the three would be robbers who remained standing.  What really shocked them though was the old man removing the headphones from around Rodney's neck.

"This pay your share."  The delivery man turned towards Jerome.  "Now you."

Jerome was unsure of himself, that much was apparent by the look on his face.  Cognac and Coletrane half expected him to run off.  Instead he started to bounce his basketball.

"You want it, take it."

Jerome was an excellent ball handler for his height, for any height in fact.  On the basketball court he was unstoppable.  He would come racing down the floor dribbling the ball with the dexterity of a Harlem Globetrotter, then go soaring over his lesser opponents in Michael Jordan-like manner and slam the ball through the hoop with Shaq-like authority.  He was a shoo in for a college scholarship and would probably end up being one of the rare success stories from their neighborhood.

Cognac and Coletrane watched Jerome expertly dribble the ball at a dizzying speed, through his legs, around his back.  They were rather surprised to see the old man assume a defensive position.  They were stupefied when he cleanly stole the ball from Jerome.

The old man tucked the ball under his arm.  "This pay your share."

A dejected Jerome hung his head in embarrassment but did not protest.  Anyone who could humble him in the game of basketball deserved no disrespect.  As much as he cherished that ball, he knew that sometimes in life you have to pay what you owe.

The old man turned towards Cognac, but before he could even say a word he was being handed a gold necklace.  Cognac had seen enough to convince him that it was preferable to glitter a few karats less brightly than to deny this old man his due.

"This pay your share."

The delivery man placed his newly acquired goods on the ground next to his bicycle.  Then he turned towards Coletrane who was still determined to avoid the man's gaze.

"What you have for me?"

Coletrane remained silent, his shame at harassing such an elderly, although quite spirited man placing a heavy burden on his tongue.

"You no deaf or dumb, so you answer me.  What you have?"

Coletrane raised his arms helplessly.  "I don't got anything.  What you see is what I have."

The delivery man stepped towards the rotund lad and lifted his chin so that their eyes may meet.

"What you tried to do to me was wrong.  You should know better.  You should never do anything that don't make your mamma proud."

"My mother's dead."

"She still watching.  My mamma watch me.  Your mamma watch you.  You understand?"

Coletrane did understand and nodded to convey this.

"Good.  Now you pay me your share."

Coletrane bowed his head in shame again.  Not because of his guilty conscience, but because he felt that he did owe the old man something, but he really had nothing to give.  From the corner of his eye he noticed Rodney quietly rising to his feet and extracting a switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans.

Rodney sprung forward, the blade of his knife pointed towards the small of the delivery man's back.  Coletrane had come to believe that the old guy possessed supernatural abilities learned in some Tibetan monastery.  What other explanation could there be for the stunts he had pulled?  But he didn't seem to notice a thing as the end of his existence grew violently near.  So it was up to Coletrane to brush past the man, deflect the path of Rodney's outstretched hand with its deadly attachment, and knock his friend unconscious with an elbow to the head.

When Coletrane turned around he saw the delivery man taking the bags of food from off his bicycle.  He walked over to Coletrane and lay the bags at his feet.  The old man glanced down at the prone body of Rodney, then turned his attention back to the boy who had saved his life.

"This pay your share."

The ancient delivery man went back to his bicycle, hopped on, and rode off into the proverbial and literal sunset.  Coletrane, Cognac and Jerome watched him in wonder until he was gone from view, then proceeded to retrieve and devour the food.

SPOTLIGHT at Where the Reader Grows on: Matters of Convenience by Roy Pickering https://t.co/K4wGRQYQbc Includes new #book #excerpt

— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) February 8, 2018

DECISIONS - A Short Story

                                          

                             DECISIONS

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

Mike stared at the ebony liquid which had formed the shape of the glass in his hands.  'Should I or shouldn't I?' was the quandary playing tennis in his head.  It had been over an hour since he first sat down and posed this question to himself. He had not moved an inch closer to resolution.

       "It's not a television, it's a drink.  It won't do nothing till you pour it down your throat."

       Mike turned towards the voice that had derailed his train of thought.  Its owner was a dapper looking man in his sixties.  Dapper wasn't a word utilized with great frequency in Mike's vocabulary, but in this case it seemed a perfect fit.  How else would a man in a tweed three piece suit, a bow tie encasing his neck, a derby upon his head, and a walking stick in hand be described?  All that was missing was the British accent.

       "I was just thinking," Mike said in explanation of his meditative pose.

       "That's what libraries are for.  Bars are for drinking, not thinking."

       "How about thinking about drinking?"

       "Are we composing a nursery rhyme?"

       "It looks that way."

       "The name's Dave."

       "Hello, Dave.  I'm Mike."

       Dave ordered himself a beer.  "What has you thinking so hard, Mike?  If you don't mind my asking."

       "I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow.  But now I'm not.  My girlfriend pulled out.  Out of the marriage, out of the relationship, out of my life.  One minute I'm all settled, everything mapped out nice and neat.  Next minute I'm here, wondering what happens next."

       "She give you a reason?"

       "Two.  She doesn't love me and she does love someone else."

       "Pretty good reasons."

       "They are," Mike admitted.  "I don't blame her.  Truth is, I don't think I'm in love with her either.  I'd been thinking about breaking things off for the longest time. But I was never able to convince myself totally that it was the wise thing to do.  So I kept waiting for some kind of sign."

       "Why get married then?  If you don't mind my asking."

       "We were together five years, lived together for the last two.  What else was left?  Our families, our friends, hell, people we hardly even knew kept asking us the same question over and over. When are you two getting married?  We got tired of answering it."

       "So you lost a woman you had already grown tired of?"

       "Something like that.  You get used to a person.  You get comfortable, like a child with his favorite blanket or his thumb in his mouth.  It's tough to let go of your security.  Don't believe me, just ask all the buck tooth people walking around." 

       "That's as good a reason to get loaded as any I've heard."  Dave lifted his glass to toast.  Mike didn't return the gesture.

       "I need to drink to get loaded and I'm not drinking.  I'm just thinking about it."

       "You're starting to lose me, Mike.  What's to think about?"

       "I'm an alcoholic.  Or I was.  Or I might have been.  It all depends on how you look at it."

       "You haven't found me yet, Mike."

       "I used to have a drinking problem.  Well, I don't know if it was a problem.  It didn't cause me any difficulties.  I functioned as well as the next guy.  It was just a habit of mine and when alcohol becomes a habit, society tends to see that as a problem."

       "Society holds many a warped view on many a subject that's none of its damn business."  Dave took a swig of his beer as exclamation point to the statement.

       "Anyway, I decided to quit one day, so that's what I did.  No AA meeting or any psychological mumbo jumbo.  Once I make a decision, I stick with it.  If I'd been an official drunk I wouldn't have been able to stop cold turkey like that."

       "Maybe.  If it makes sense to you, what else matters?  So what made you quit, if you don't mind ..."

       "I don't mind.  I got out of bed one morning, grabbed a brew from the fridge, and sat down to drink it.  About halfway through I realized there was something terribly wrong.  I couldn't recall when, or why, or how I had switched from Wheaties to a cold one.  What made me go from the breakfast of champions to the breakfast of bums?"

       "It sure sneaks up on you, don't it?"  Dave motioned to the bartender for a refill.

       "Actually, it landed on my head like a piano.  The moment I remembered the last person I'd seen having beer in the morning, I knew I would never touch the stuff again."

       "Who would that be?"

       "My dad.  No way I was turning into him.  Now he was a world class drunk.  And a world class jerk.  Not the footsteps I intended to follow."

       "Let me tell you something, Mike.  I've drunk some powerful concoctions in my time.  Once had me some hundred and eighty proof Tennessee moonshine that could have launched a space shuttle.  But I never had anything that could turn me into another person."

       "No need for the lecture.  I figured it out on my own.  I also found out that my dad had more valid reasons than thirst for his drinking."

       "Every reason is valid, Dave.  The second you start judging is the second you start playing God, and I believe that job is taken."

       Mike looked down into his glass, swirling its contents with a swizzle stick.  Some people may have seen it as completely not empty, others as entirely full.  But one fact remained undisputed.  He had yet to consume a drop.

       "I have another question for you, Mike.  If being an alcoholic isn't your problem, and turning into your father isn't the problem, then what is?"

       "He's got a brain in his head, that's all."

       The gravelly voice entering the conversation from Mike's immediate right belonged to another gentleman in his sixties.  The man’s face was covered with a three quarters salt, one quarter pepper beard.  His rumpled attire was considerably less formal than that of his counterpart.

       "Sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," he continued.  "The name's Lou.  Mike, your reservations are well worth heeding.  You have explained away every reason for not drinking, yet you still haven't taken a sip.  Your gut is telling you that having a drink is a step you're not ready to take.  I'll take gut instinct over hedonistic intellectualizing any day."

       "Who died and made you his conscience?" asked Dave.

       "Who made you the serpent in the garden?" Lou asked in reply.

       "Relax guys," Mike refereed.  "What's the big deal?  I either get tanked or I don't.  The world keeps spinning either way."

       "It is a big deal," said Lou.  "You don't want to be a drunk. No matter how fancy he may dress himself up, a drunk is still nothing but a drunk."

       "And a self-important, holier than thou, propaganda spouting, weak willed nosy body is still nothing but a guy named Lou," Dave rebutted.

       Mike couldn't believe that his dilemma was serving as the catalyst for a senior citizen bar room brawl.  "If I do decide to drink, that won't make me an alcoholic," he said, hoping his logic would defuse the situation.  “Not if I have just the one.”

       "But you're not a hundred percent sure of that or else you'd be drunk already," said Lou.  "Gary, I'll have my usual," he said to the bartender.

       "Yeah, I guess you could say that," Mike had to admit.

       "Seltzer," Dave practically spat in disdain as Lou's drink arrived.  "Let me guess your line, old timer.  You're a former drunk.  Got saved by AA so now you want to return the favor by converting the world."

       "I haven't touched a drop of liquor in eight years.  But I'm not a former drunk, Dave.  I'm a drunk, same as you.  Only difference is I'm fighting the demon, you're succumbing to it."

       "A day at a time, right Lou?"

       "Damn straight."

       "Well I'm a former AA member too.  My wife told me to get sober or get out.  So I got sober.  Stayed that way for three years.  I was a die hard just like you, praying to the great dry God."

       "But you were weak and you failed.  That's your problem.  Helping to push this young man over the edge will just make one more ruined life you're responsible for."

       "Hey Lou, have a little respect.  This is my story, I'll tell it.  My wife and I got divorced anyway.  Not because I was drinking, but because it wasn't meant to be.  And the last three years were the worst because I was sober every day of them."

       "Is there a moral to this tale?" Dave asked.

       "Moral is you want to be sober, be sober.  You want to get drunk, drink up.  But a man needs to make that choice, not let that glass do it for him.  If Mike doesn't drink because he's not thirsty, or because he’s not in the mood to get a little light headed, then fine.  But if he doesn't drink because he's afraid, because he thinks the content of that glass is stronger than his free will, then that makes him prisoner to the booze just the same as any drunk on skid row suckling a flask like it was mother’s milk.  A sober prisoner is no better off than a drunk one, Lou.  He’s worse off, actually.  At least a drunk prisoner might be having a good time.  You probably wouldn’t know one of those if it walked up and bit you on the nose."

       Mike cleared his still dry throat.  "I have to admit, I'm afraid of what might happen if I start drinking again.  Maybe it won't be as easy to quit next time.  Maybe I'll screw up my life.  But is a screwed up life better than one lived in fear?"

       "Of course not," said Dave.

       "Hell yes," answered Lou simultaneously.  “Nothing wrong with a little fear.  Nothing wrong with humility.  You do know what excessive pride leads to, don’t you?”

       Mike picked up the glass.  "I miss Angela already.  It doesn't matter that we don't love each other anymore.  I got used to waking up and seeing her there beside me.  I guess I'm just a creature of habit."

       And with this toast said, Mike closed his eyes, brought the glass to his lips, tipped back his head and began pouring the liquid down his throat.  When he placed the now half empty glass down, Lou had already risen from his seat.

       "I'm a creature of habit too, Mike.  That's why I'm here.  Even after I stopped drinking, bars were the only place I ever felt comfortable.  So I'll probably be seeing you around.  Maybe I'll even see you sober again someday."  

       Lou walked away, disappointment registering in his every step.

       "I'd love to stay," said Dave, who had also risen from his seat.  "But I have an appointment to make.  Some other time perhaps.  Good meeting you, young fella."

"Same here."  Mike shook Dave's hand and then watched him walk out of the bar, every bit the sophisticated, gentlemanly drunk. 

Taking in a deep breath, Mike again lifted the glass to his lips and finished it off in one gulp.  He placed the glass on the bar and then walked to the pub's jukebox, removing quarters from his pocket.  He was good and ready to select some "my baby done me wrong" music to accompany his melancholy mood.  Problem was, there were so many top quality sorrowful tunes to choose from.  Whichever he selected would wipe away an equally good alternative, and he had neither enough time nor enough change to listen to all of them. 

That was the thing about choices.  The moment you made one, you also threw another one away.  Mike put the coins back into his pocket and returned to his seat at the bar.  

       "I'll have another one, please."

       "Pepsi, right?"

       "You got it."

       Mike held his newly filled glass before him, staring intently at the soda, wondering if he would eventually switch to something stronger.  If he did, would it be his downfall?  Would that make him just like his father?  If he refrained, did that make him any better off?  Or was abstinence synonymous with lack of belief in his powers of self-control?  He simply didn't know which scenario would make him more pathetic.

       Maybe Angela had a valid point when she said that the end of their relationship was ultimately caused by his ambivalence towards practically every aspect of life.  But what did she know?

       After all, he had firmly chosen Pepsi over Coke. 

Now available at Amazon - MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST - AKA ME (by Bill Gallo)

MADE UP YOUR MIND YET? 

PARMESAN CHEESE - A #ShortStory

PARMESAN CHEESE

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

                                      

"You want some Parmesan cheese, man?"

These words welcome me back to the world of consciousness.  Each of my senses is being assailed.  Nerve endings from head to toe throb with pain.  A marching band strikes up a show tune, every member playing my ear drums.  The light of a thousand suns pries open my protesting eyes.  My saliva is at least eighty proof, my stomach doing somersaults.  And a horrific smell engulfs me - the divine intermingling of a backed up urinal, a gallon of sweat, stale beer, morning breath, and cheese.

A man hovers overhead, peering into my face, hand held out with the aforementioned cheese.  He is unwashed, unshaven, wearing tattered rags that would make the skin of a rhino crawl.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my alley.  You want this cheese?"

My eyes are growing accustomed to the light.  He wasn't lying. This is definitely an alley.  I put my brain on rewind to recall what turn of events placed me here.

I went out drinking last night.  Why didn't my friends see to it that I got home safely?  Because I was alone.  Why was I ...  Oh yeah, now I remember.  I'm in mourning.  My girlfriend dumped me.  Why would Nicki do that?  We had a great thing going.  We were ...  My memory is returning with a vengeance.  She found out that I slept with her best friend.  Or did she find out I slept with her sister?  No matter.  I got busted doing something with somebody.  Now I'm depressed all over again.

I try to stand but a wave of pain keeps me horizontal.  My ribs are sore.  My jaw isn't feeling so hot either.  Was I mugged?  No, that’s not it.  I was talking to a redhead, making pretty good progress.  One problem though.  She was the bouncer's girlfriend.  Suddenly I'm ricocheting off walls, the floor, the ceiling.  I got the feeling the redhead was amused.  She probably does this sort of thing regularly, the psycho.  Makes me glad to have someone like Nicki. Oh yeah, I forgot.

"You got the time?" I ask, nagged by suspicion that I'm supposed to be somewhere, though I cannot recall where or why at the moment.

"No.  I have Parmesan cheese.  You want any?"

"How about some tequila?"  That's what I was drinking last night.  Aspirin will be of little use.  No hangover this intense can be combated with non-prescription medication.  A hair of the dog is what I need.

"Poco loved Parmesan cheese."

My wedding!  I'm supposed to be at the church by twelve o'clock.  Nicki and I are getting married.  At least that was the plan before I screwed up. 

"Nobody loved Parmesan cheese like Poco." 

My folks are going to flip out.  My father may even cut me off financially.  He’s threatened to often enough, but I’ve always placated him by promising to get my act together.  That might not be good enough this time.  If not, I can say goodbye to my cushy job in the family business, my penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, my Jaguar, my floor seats at the Garden where I cheer on the Knicks a few feet over from Spike Lee.

"He could eat a whole can of the stuff in ten seconds."

As if I don’t have enough problems, this rancid, raving lunatic is going on about how much someone named Poco loved Parmesan cheese.  Maybe I can get Nicki back.  I’m willing to grovel.  Women like her don't come around every day, a fact my father reminds me of constantly.

A filthy blanket is draped over me.  I push it off.  My beautiful cashmere coat has spent the night soaking in booze and vomit.  The dry cleaner won't be able to do anything with this.  How bad can things possibly ..."

My wallet!  I had over seven hundred dollars on me.  I spent the night lying comatose in this alley.  There's not a chance in ...  It’s still here.  But what about the money?  It's here too.  My credit cards as well.

"You can have it if you want.  Go ahead, take it."

The bum is offering me a can of Parmesan cheese.  Why didn't he rob me?  Maybe he's retarded or something.

"Is this your blanket?"

"Yes it is.  It was cold last night.  Those men threw you out here soaking wet and beaten up."

"So you loaned me your blanket?  You took care of me?"

"Sure.  You seem like a nice man.  I think Poco would have liked you."

"Poco?"

"Poco was my dog.  He died last night."

Maybe there's still time to sweet talk Nicki.  I can smooth things over with jewelry, or perhaps extend our honeymoon another month.  As pissed as she was, I know how much she was looking forward to this day.  Barnum & Bailey couldn't have put together as big a show as our planned wedding, and she gets to be the star.  If I move quickly enough I can ...  This crazy man is crying.  He's crying over his dog Poco.

"He was a great dog.  He loved Parmesan cheese."

I used to have a dog when I was a kid.  Sparky was a great companion, and thanks to him I was never lonely growing up as an only child in a huge house.  My dad was always somewhere else doing whatever had to be done to get richer by the day.  My mother was either off shopping in ritzy boutiques, having lunch with friends, or doing charity work for obscure projects like saving endangered species of butterfly.  It was made clear that I was mostly a nuisance to them.  Nothing personal, but children demand a certain amount of selfless devotion, and that is what they felt nannies and maids were for.  They made certain I wore the finest clothes, played with the fanciest toys, and attended the best schools.  But they didn't have much attention to spare.  

Sparky passed on while I was in college.  That was probably the most upset I’ve ever been in my life, including last night.  Sure, I did the traditional depressed guy routine after Nicki dumped me.  But I was mostly just mad at myself for blowing such a sweet deal.  Nicki has the looks of a runway model, speaks five languages, and her dad's almost as loaded as mine.  That's a pretty tough hand to beat.

"I hope they have plenty of Parmesan up in heaven."

It doesn't matter though.  I don't love Nicki any more than she loves me.  Love can be stumbled upon, disregarded, cherished, discarded, trumpeted or muted.  But it cannot be arranged.  Otherwise why would I be here instead of putting on a tux in preparation for wedded bliss with a woman who is all I'm supposed to want? 

Perhaps I did love once, and knew what I wanted, what real happiness is.  The time was brief, and such brevity is probably what keeps it imprinted on my brain.  Maybe if it had not ended so abruptly, and against my will, I would be able to accept the loss.  But my will was just an extension of what my parents chose it to be, and my one possibly true love did not have sufficient fortune or come from the right class of people.  My feelings for Paula, whatever name applies to them, were not frivolous enough to be tolerated.  So I was given an ultimatum.

Sabotaging the marriage my parents carefully set up will cause a firestorm. Technically our wedding was supposed to unite two people in love.  But in reality it was to be the merging of two empires.  My indiscriminate behavior will be seen as another act of unoriginal defiance.  The way I see it though, what I possibly want, who I may or may not love, has to count for something. 

"I think Poco would have liked you.  Anyway, you look like you can take care of yourself now, so I'll be going."

"Where to?"  Why did I ask him that?  What do I care?  He points to a garbage bag.  I don't need to ask what's in it.

"To the city dump.  Poco deserves to be buried proper.  I'll dig him a hole with my hands if I have to.  He would have done the same for me if I went first.  You want to come?"

Not bothering to wait for an answer, the bum slings the bag over his shoulder and walks away.  There is an inexplicable aura of dignity about him as I watch him exit his brief stay in my existence.  I manage to rise in spite of protests from various aching body parts and stagger out of the alley.  

 A couple walks by and I ask them what time it is.  The look in the man's eyes reminds me of a newly neutered pet.  Primeval urges to conquer and spread his seed have been domesticated out of him.  He is worn on his woman's arm like a fashionable purse.  It's only ten o'clock.  There's still time.  I know I can earn Nicki's forgiveness. 

Oh what the hell.  "Hey, wait up."  I suddenly have a craving for Parmesan cheese.

And now for some book reviews...


Ghana Must Go by Taiye Selasi
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A virtuoso performance. Taiye Selasi is an author to reckon with. Her prose is a lullaby, taking its sweet time drawing us into the lives of the characters who populate Ghana Must Go. The narrative flits among members of a fractured family, each of them nursing their specific heartaches. What they share along with the ties of blood is abandonment, which leads to separate paths. A return to Africa to bid farewell to the man who left them is what brings them back together. Along the way we learn their secrets and sources of pain. Scattered moments throughout their lives fit together to form the image of a family, one that has been broken, but not irreparably. The arrival of death signals an ending, as well as the opportunity for new beginnings.


 

Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I can never read too many grail quest yarns. This one doesn't have quite as infectious a pace as The Da Vinci Code. The style of prose ventures closer to literary than Dan Brown's strictly commercial blockbuster. Labyrinth also had me struggling to remember my high school and freshman year of college French lessons, for whatever that's worth. The narrative provides readers with two stories to follow (somewhat similar to Raymond Khoury's The Templar Salvation), one taking place in the present and the other in the distant past, the two racing to reach a point where they will merge. There are a good deal of characters to keep track of (perhaps a couple too many for my taste) with prime spots going to women. So I suppose this is the most feminist of the grail chase books I've read to date. It won't be the last, as I simply can't get enough of them. And I may return to the fiction of Kate Mosse someday, because even though this novel didn't quite wow me, it was crafted well enough to have me hooked to the end.



Fortunately, the Milk by Neil Gaiman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Hilariously absurd. Entertainingly original, in spite of the fact that this book basically has the same ending (spoiler alert) as one of my favorite movies - The Usual Suspects. Wacky illustrations perfectly match the zany tone of the prose which will have you and your little ones laughing out loud (very loud) throughout. Even the title is awesome.




The Pilot's Wife by Anita Shreve
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Oprah was right. This is an exceptionally well written story. Some of it I saw coming. Some of it I didn't. All of it was masterfully executed.

View all my reviews

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— Thelonious Legend (@TheLegendBooks) May 8, 2015

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Patches Of Grey

by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Giveaway ends May 20, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

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