Copyright © John Michael Flynn, 2013
Publerati e-ditions
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published by Publerati, LLC.
All the stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by William Oleszczuk. Cover illustration copyright Jennifer Perlmutter. See her work at: www.jenniferperlmutter.com
Publerati ISBN-13: 978-0-9850504-8-1
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eISBN: 9780985050481
To the memory of my brother Frank, 1963-2012,
and for Angelica, always.
Sails that gleam a moment and are gone;
the swinging waters, and the clustered pier….
Matthew Arnold
Table of Contents
Pluto on Sundays
Desire Equals Rain
Where the Mountains are Tinged with Silver
The Fig Tree
Harmony Loves a Violin
Cajolery
Charred Rotator
R-Man the G-Unit
The Size of Need
All the Rich Men in Heaven
The Man with his Wife Painted on his Chest
Dreaming Rodin
Pluto on Sundays
One day Momma would yank his arm out of its socket and there’d be no one around to pick it up.
Momma yanked him again. “Move it I said. She ain’t waiting all day.”
Rollo pulled away from his mother. The concrete stairs smelled of cat fur and piss and boiled cabbage. He soared off those stairs as if they were an airport runway. He was riding in his spaceship. Momma would never find him.
Rollo watched his mother climb. She stopped to catch her breath before moving on. Her bum chewed at black stretch pants. Smelled funny and he didn't like following it. He stopped and stared at the cinderblock wall of the stairway. Ran his index finger along grooves between each block. These blocks were glazed with a thick clear material he didn't know the name for. Such a material could protect an earthling from alien laser beams. He'd ask his father about it. Maybe he could paint some of it onto his skin.
His spaceship was running well this morning. It took him far from his dumb brown suit and tie. Dumb brown Hush Puppies that made his feet sweat. Too darn bad was all Momma said whenever he complained about dressing up on Sunday.
Her words echoed between his ears. Too darn bad. Too darn bad.
He kicked a stair, scuffing his shoe. His spaceship had landed. He had Momma’s attention.
“Do you know what those cost me?” She glared at him. “Any idea?"
He flinched as she raised her hand. Then he hurried up the stairs one flight after another, down a long corridor until he reached Nona’s steel door. Last one on the left. The tiny lens in its center was the eye of an alien sentry. He wasn’t tall enough to spy through it.
Nona sat in a vinyl chair that smelled like model airplane glue. Rollo thought about his newest model, a replica of the Apollo 11 lunar module. Gold foil and American flag decals had been his favorite finishing touches. If only he could fly in that module all the way to the moon.
Instead, he floated near Nona who had stopped knitting. Her bun of silver hair held back by a strange wooden object that pierced the bun sideways. Rollo thought it strange that only Nona, who was Momma’s mother, used such a contraption. He was certain it was radar antenna. Nona was an alien from Pluto.
He smiled at her. "Don't worry, Nona, it's okay, I won't tell nobody."
Nona smiled back at him, laughing softly the way she always did.
Rollo knew he should hug her, but he didn’t want to. No telling what alien powers she’d unleash if he got too close.
He played spy. Somebody had to do it or else Plutonians would take over.
He snooped around to see if anything was different. Nope. Dust on the screen meant the TV still didn’t work. The TV at home was busted, too.
Matching the chair and hard as a stump to sit on was a vinyl sofa covered with clear plastic. Above the sofa hung a painting of Jesus, another alien. Jesus had dreamy hair and eyes, and a beard. He held out dreamy arms to put the earth into a trance. In his magic white robe made of plutonian fabrics, he floated over an alien place named Italia where Plutonians like Nona had once lived before being sent to America to work as spies.
Rollo didn’t like the Jesus painting. Too spooky. Church had been spooky, too. Earlier that morning, he and Momma had gone to a new one, the big stone cathedral closer to Nona's apartment. He’d watched old city cathedral people mumbling in the dark, the air smelling of potions. A wizard in purple robes had drunk blood from a big gold cup. Called himself a priest, said his name was Father Deloria, and he shook people's hands at a door that stood as tall as the sky. Rollo knew a thing or two about these crafty wizards disguised as city priests, and he'd refused to shake Deloria’s hairy red hand.
In the car, Momma had scolded him for that refusal, and he'd argued he'd been afraid of the priest and the high walls of that church and the blood and the cold and the spooky smells in the darkness. Momma had rolled her eyes and explained that blood was really wine, a symbol of Christ and truth, but Rollo knew better. It was Plutonian vampire blood. Only wizards like Deloria could drink it without being poisoned.
Rollo sauntered toward the window that gave Nona’s apartment its only natural light. The blinds were up, the draperies drawn. He stared down at an asphalt yard bordered by a high chain-link fence. Along one stretch of fence sat a burned-out car without tires. This yard scared him. It was off-limits. Even his mother knew alien warlords held target practice there.
“Rollo.”
He turned around and faced her.
“What are you doing?"
His mother's stomach was round like a lollipop, getting rounder every day.
“Just what is wrong with you?” She used a familiar tone that meant she really didn't want an answer. "Get your fanny over here and kiss your Nona hello.”
Rollo inched closer to Nona. White hairs in her chin reminded him of the claws in his cat, Doom, who was no doubt chasing chipmunks in the yard at home. Rollo wished he could be with Doom.
The white hairs in Nona's chin were transistor wires for long distance communication to Pluto. Nona smelled like Plutonian air-freshener that came in an aerosol can. He didn’t want to hug her. Not now, maybe later.
Momma grabbed his shoulders and walked him to Nona. “This way, Buster.”
Chilly sweat leaked from his forehead. He thought of the burnt car outside. He was getting a message. It was from Venus. The car was a spaceship from Venus that Plutonian marauders had fired at with lasers until it crashed. No, he didn’t want to hug Nona. No way. Nona, Plutonian, spy—they were all one and the same.
He wanted to fly to Venus and report on the downed spaceship. He closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma of sauce from the kitchen. Heard it bubbling on the stove. Opened his eyes to see Momma waddling away in her stretch pants. Was there really going to be yet another Shea baby in the house? Rollo counted on his fingers. One more would make six Shea babies. Wow. Almost enough for a baseball team.
“I’ll turn down the gas, Ma.”
Rollo heard a clomping sound from the kitchen as Momma removed a pot from the burner. They were going to poison him again with that heavy sauce with chunks of soft meat. Every time he ate it, he farted all night. Slept for a long time and woke up in the middle of a deserted galaxy. They wouldn’t poison him this time.
“Boogers,” cried Rollo. The word had come to him as a command from the higher galactic court of the peace-loving Venusians. A green sound and the Venusians loved anything green. Their whole planet, even their skin, was green.
“Boogers and snots, and snots and boogers. Booger, booger...booger...goo!”
“Rollo, so help me God I’ll wallop you from here to kingdom come.” Momma fumed into the living room, hands on her hips. “Kiss your grandmother hello. How many times do I have to say it?"
“I don't want to!”
“Kiss her before I slap you into next week.”
He didn't want to be slapped. Hated the slapping. So he made himself ready. At least he’d sent the Venusian booger message.
He smiled at the glassy shine in his grandmother’s eyes. Her blue cardigan smelled like mothballs.
Momma’s hand came down like a brick against his neck. Rollo wanted to cry, but the Venusian overlord appeared and reminded him he was too big for that sort of thing.
Momma marched him into Nona’s lap and held him there. Nona squeezed his arms. Rollo liked the heat in Nona's dry hands. He could smell her menthol ointment.
“Ah manudgah,” sighed Nona. Her Plutonian words and accent were strange; Rollo seldom understood them. Few Plutonians spoke clear English. They preferred a code through their antenna systems.
Momma lowered herself into the vinyl sofa. It made a farting sound. Rollo laughed at Momma with her big stomach getting in the way.
“Ma, this couch is awful. Let's get you a new one."
Nona smiled and waved her hand at Momma as if to say don't be silly.
Rollo was tired of his mother. She must have been tired of him, too. She started talking to Nona in a strange adult code as if he wasn’t even there.
Now and then, Rollo understood some of the code and listened in.
“Mike had to work late last night,” said Momma. “He's exhausted. So am I. The baby's fine. All the kids are great, Ma, but they're wearing me out. Mike's a saint. He and Lorraine took them all to look at a new station wagon. Lorraine’s practically family these days. I just needed a break. Mike wants to get one with wood on its sides. I'm at the end of my rope. Number One over there has been just too much of a handful and I don’t know why. He’s driving me nuts, Ma. Hasn’t been the same since I let him stay over with his cousins, and that sister-in-law of mine. Mike says his sister has nothing to do with it. He says I’m overreacting. But you know what they say. You can pick your friends, but you can't pick family."
Nona nodded and grinned, adding not a word.
“Ma, she told Mike I don't raise my kids right. You know her little ones aren’t exactly a bargain, either. I mean, they’re good kids. She’s just so ditzy, that’s all. I think she did or said something to Number One over there. I don’t know, Ma. I just don’t know anymore."
Nona looked bored.
“Maybe we'll come visit you all of us, together, at the end of the month. Like I said, Mike is dying for a new wagon. He’s been saving for a year. I can't wait. He'll take us all out for a ride. Would you like that?”
Nona looked impressed. She sat up straighter.
Momma smiled, but it faded quickly.
“I'm sorry, Ma, I can't complain, not really. Mike's great. But sometimes, I don't know, I can't take it. My hips, my back, I’m so tired all the time. I don’t know how you did it with all of us, and I’ve got half as many. Don’t get me wrong. I love them, I really do, and Number Two and Three and Four they make me so happy, but Number One these days, he’s just gone crazy. I don't get him. I thought my first was supposed to be a little angel, but he'll be the death of me yet, I swear. And to think, I was hoping he’d be a priest one day."
Nona’s stomach sounded a rumble. This piqued Rollo’s attention. He didn’t comprehend the sound. It was more Plutonian code. He noticed Nona rubbed her ears often. This, too, was code. He was on to something but didn't quite grasp its meaning. He felt cramped in his suit. Then it occurred to him. Nona knew he was listening and she was using an alien form of hypnosis that put little boys into a trance.
He bolted into his spaceship. Destination: Venus.
Rollo imagined himself as Captain Kirk at the console of the starship Enterprise. He could see the lush vegetation of Venus approaching. Smiling green creatures with webbed feet crept out from behind bushes to greet him. There were no cars on Venus. Earthlings could walk barefoot on grass, and swim all day in water so clean you could see clear to the sandy bottom.
The creatures led him to a royal chamber with high walls painted sea green. After such a long journey, Rollo had permission to sleep.
When Rollo awoke, his shoes were off. He lay on a bed high above the floor in a cave that smelled like Nona's cardigan.
A trick. They’d poisoned him with that sauce again.
He crawled off the bed and spied on Momma and Nona in the kitchen. They were eating the sauce with dried bread. He received a message from the Venusian overlord. Hurt them, the message said.
He didn’t want to hurt Momma, especially with another baby due. Perhaps he’d received the wrong order. He fiddled with his satellite receiver. The transmission from Venus came in clearer. He sent back a reply saying that he couldn't hurt his pregnant Mommy. The Venusians pitied him and simplified his mission. Attack the sauce, instead.
There it sat in a pot on the stove. They’d never catch him. Still, he had doubts if he should do it, but he had no choice, really. If he didn't obey the Venusian overlord, he’d never be allowed to see Venus again.
He chugged into the kitchen, making the sounds of a train. He swung his arm through the air and brought it down against the pot handle. The pot went sailing. Sauce splattered the walls and cabinets. The pot landed with a clunk.
Sprinting out of the kitchen, screaming his war cry, Rollo jumped on the sofa and bounced on the vinyl cushions, laughing at the fart sounds they made.
“Jump, jump, jump. Fart, fart, fart."
He wanted to bounce high enough for his head to hit the ceiling.
“Jump, jump, jump. Fart, fart, fart."
Momma charged after him, lunging for his waist. Rollo ducked away, and ran toward the bathroom. He wasn’t quick enough to lock the door. Momma shouldered it open and knocked a few of Nona's knick-knacks off their shelf. She knocked over a powder puff, spilling powder across the floor.
The overlord of Venus was proud of him. Rollo smiled for a moment in the Venusian spotlight. Then he nose-dived toward Momma’s knees. Usually, this sent Momma to the floor, but this time she stood ready. Her arm swung out and nailed Rollo in the throat. Rollo gagged and sailed backward on linoleum covered with powder. He tried a last-ditch grab at a towel rack. His hand caught the bar, which helped break his fall, but didn’t stop it.
Thud. A tingling in his funny bone. He winced.
Momma clutched his shirt with two hands and lifted him off his feet. She seated him on the closed lid of the toilet and struck him across his cheek, first a forehand and then a backhand until he tasted snot in his mouth. Pins of light darted between his eyes. He begged her to stop.
She shouted “Enough, I've had enough” as she slapped his face from one side and then another, repeating, “Enough, enough, enough."
Salty mucus leaked from his nose. He gave in. He didn’t care, he wasn’t a good boy, after all.
He bawled like a baby. Slurped and sniffled and covered his face with his arms, but Momma was too strong for him. She latched her hands to his wrists, dragged him into the living room and flung him against the sofa where he bounced like a spineless doll. The sofa made its farting noise again, but it wasn’t funny this time.
Nothing was funny.
His mother left the room. Rollo curled into a ball and drifted off to sleep. Bits of code arrived from Venus. The galactic overlord wanted to help. Rollo should go home and wait. When the time was right, he would receive an order to commit sabotage with a hammer. In the meantime, he should look for things that would shatter.
Desire Equals Rain
Paco said every traveler wants a whore in Amsterdam. Gil didn’t agree. Paco laughed, not caring that Gil hadn’t intended to be funny. He hurried Gil down the slag treads of a cellar hole. Once inside, where the walls sprouted moss, it was neither cozy nor dry. Hash smoke sagged in widening coils. The chill felt medieval. Centerfold pin-ups bubbled with leak stains. A brown sofa and easy chair faced a TV console showing Roots subtitled in Dutch.
After drying his eyeglasses, Gil scribbled explore desire in his tiny notebook. He loved the movie Roots the way he loved the centerfolds, some of them a decade old. They were fertile soil for his imagination, heated now that the planning stage had passed and he was in Europe. What he didn't love was hashish. Had no intentions to buy, had already told Paco who’d cackled at him, “You save for girl. Paco know this.”
Paco had found Gil in the kitchen of the Fat City boarding house, eating a grilled cheese while reading The Sun Also Rises. Gil hadn’t needed to explain he was lonely.
“I get whore for you, amigo. We find.”
Gil liked to believe in tragic flaws. His was that few of his sexual experiences had been remarkable. He wrote in his notebook desire equals rain.
Paco, grinning, pointed at a man lying on the sofa. Gil balked at the sight of him. Hair stringy, rat-eyed, he smelled like burnt wires. There was no reason to be unfriendly. “Good old flick, man. Seminal."
The man rolled within the sofa’s muddy current. He blew a sigh. His face scabby with zits, he sneered at Gil. Worms of hair streaked his forehead. He looked as if he were collapsing into his blowsy moth-eaten T-shirt. “Your passport,” he said in American English. “Gimme it.”
Gil acted as if he hadn’t heard him. “You don't think it's a great movie?"
"I said give me your fucking passport.”
Paco cut in. Alert, swarthy, streetwise, a tight blue shirt accentuated his imposing build. Islands of sweat spread between his shoulder blades. With one shove, he knocked the man to the floor and let fly curses in Spanish.
“Gil he my amigo. You no good. You leave him alone."
The man whimpered, balling himself up on the floor. Gil had expected a fight. Wide-eyed, he turned to Paco, "You know this guy?"
Paco glared at his Americano from a place called Morristown, New Jersey. “You listen me, Gil. Paco know. I help. He kill you. Stay with Paco."
Gil crouched next to the man. He felt sorry for him. “Maybe if you go to the embassy. I’m sure they’ll help.”
The man kicked at him, hissing. Gil flinched away. Paco laughed. “Gil, is not possible we help.” He motioned as if shooting a needle into his arm.
“A junkie?” said Gil. “But I’m positive they’ll help at the embassy.”
“No," replied Paco. Clamping two hands on Gil’s shirt, he yanked him away and led him down a corridor. There was a counter at its end where an Indian in a maroon turban stood over cigar boxes of hashish in sealed clear packets. The Indian explained there were three blends: Blond Bombshell, Black Pudding or Green Wave.
Gil liked these names but wanted nothing to do with hash. Paco beamed at the Indian in the way of old crones. His hand locked around Gil’s elbow, he said, "You like? We make business. It no like Bulldog Café. You no have no police. No have no worry. He my friend. Like you.”
How many times did he have to say it? “No, Paco. I'm not buying hash."
Gil turned in a panic and ran down the corridor, hairs standing on his neck as he sped past the junkie still on the floor. He took wet stairs two at a time, glad to be outdoors.
Paco caught up to him. He didn’t apologize. Nor did he insist they return to the hash vendor. “Amigo. We drink cervezas. Find girl.”
"Isn’t that what we agreed to at the boarding house? You know, bar-hopping.”
Paco grinned. “You like bar? We go bar. Vamos.”
Off he went. Gil didn’t move. Was he making a mistake? Anne Frank's house was all he’d seen. Full of American tourists.
Desire: there it was again. He hurried to catch up.
The first dive bar lacked windows and didn't serve beer. Urine fumes seeped from cold brick walls. The only customer was a truculent pony-tailed biker in a leather vest who kept a muzzled Doberman leashed to his stool. Gil paid for two shots of whiskey, and to shut him up he let Paco convince him he should buy a pair of hash-brownies called Spacecakes.
The Spacecakes didn't affect him. Gil bought another round of whisky. Back home, he wasn’t much of a pothead, and tended to drink with gusto, preferring beer to liquor. “Let’s blow this place, drink some Heinekens.”
For a change, he’d said the right thing. Paco, grinning, led him outside.
With the creeping expansion of the hash throughout his limbs, Gil began to weave a little as he kept up with Paco. The fog of the red-light district hugged his skin and left a film. He felt rank, suddenly drained as he stared a long time at scarred cobblestones. A swampy reek drifted out of the canals. Time slowed. He felt spied-upon as he walked, unable to judge his footsteps. A passing Citroen scattered clustered pedestrians and nearly ran him over. Tracer bulbs blinked around a big yellow sign:
XXX TRIPLE
NUDE GIRLS
NUDE GIRLS
TRIPLE XXX
“Okay, amigo? You no look so good.”
They were in another dive bar. Gil yelled to Paco over the crowd, “Wasted!”
freedom