ISBN: 9780984907045
Table of Contents
The Dam
Notes on The Dam
Her Secret Bordello
Notes on Her Secret Bordello
Keptsake
Notes on Keptsake
The Pursuit of Happiness
Notes on The Pursuit of Happiness
The Happy Halloween
Notes on The Happy Halloween
You
Notes on You
Gordy Swensen gets a Wife
Notes on Gordy Swensen gets a Wife
Summer Every Thursday
Notes on Summer Every Thursday
Games of Chance
Notes on Games of Chance
Marjorie and the Master
Notes on Marjorie and the Master
The Talent Scout
Notes on The Talent Scout
A Rebel Heroine
Notes on A Rebel Heroine
Deep Purple
Notes on Deep Purple
The Man with a Guitar
Notes on The Man with a Guitar
Chic Mohammed
Notes on Chic Mohammed
The Fist
Notes on The Fist
The Rookie
Notes on The Rookie
The Bright Light of Being
Notes on The Bright Light of Being
If it Wasn’t for Free Will, I’d Have No Will at All
Notes on If it Wasn’t for Free Will, I’d Have no Will at All
The Attic in my Grandmother’s House
Notes on The Attic in my Grandmother’s House
Twins
Notes on Twins
The Light Journey into Night
Notes on The Light Journey into Night
Feinstein’s Weapon
Notes on Feinstein’s Weapon
The Mail-Order Bride
Notes on The Mail-Order Bride
Googled
Notes on Googled
Two Memories
Notes on Two Memories
Glen Wilson’s Guitar Lesson
Notes on Glen Wilson’s Guitar Lesson
The Illusion of Sex
Notes on The Illusion of Sex
Brutal Honesty Day
Notes on Brutal Honesty Day
Whatever Happened to Faust?
Notes on Whatever Happened to Faust?
Energy Independence
Notes on Energy Independence
Flowers from Luther
Notes on Flowers from Luther
King for a Day
Notes on King for a Day
Farewell, Fair Cruelty
Notes on Farewell, Fair Cruelty
The Malevolent Dictators
Notes on The Malevolent Dictators
Comedy
Notes on Comedy
The Voodoo Lady
Notes on The Voodoo Lady
A Quick Fantasy about the Ingredients of the Soul
Notes on A Quick Fantasy about the Ingredients of the Soul
The Flower
Notes on The Flower
The Poet has Many Lovers
Notes on The Poet has Many Lovers
Open Season on Tubby
Notes on Open Season on Tubby
Off the Boat
Notes on Off the Boat
Invasion from the Planet Tampon
Notes on Invasion from the Planet Tampon
Hard-to-get Stella
Notes on Hard-to-get Stella
The Lady and her Hero
Notes on The Lady and her Hero
The Serpent
Notes on The Serpent
Penelope Waits
Notes on Penelope Waits
The Dam
Ken Coffman
“If you know what’s good for you,” Jeremy Harriss said, “you’ll take your goddamned hands off me. Now.”
Bruno held Jeremy’s left arm on the ergonomic office chair’s arm while Stewart wrapped a Velcro strap around it. Bruno and Stewart were not twins, but they were equally large and muscular. Bruno pressed on Jeremy’s shoulder and walked to the other side. Soon, Jeremy’s arms and legs were bound. He strained and wriggled, but could only move a small fraction of an inch. It was hopeless. He settled and relaxed his body, but the mirthless grin that spread across his face was filled with malice.
“My father will lop off your heads and mount them on a pole outside the Harriss International building. I’m not sure I’m speaking figuratively.”
Behind him, the corner office door opened. Mario Cantonelli entered.
“Ah, your father,” Mario said. “That’s why we need to speak to you this afternoon. About your father.”
He spoke in a calm, gentle voice with a melodious Italian accent. Jeremy strained to look over his shoulder.
“I apologize for restraining you. This is for your protection. During our conversation, you’ll see why it is completely necessary.”
“I tried to reach my father on his cell phone this morning. Do you know why he did not answer?”
“All in good time, my boy,” Mario said.
“I’m not your boy,” Jeremy said.
Mario stood and looked at the young man.
“You’re right, of course. At nearly seventeen, you are on the cusp on manhood. I forget myself. When I look at you, sometimes I still see the youngster with skinned-up elbows and a skateboard. I apologize.”
“Take these straps off me.”
“Yes. We will—in a few minutes. I need to show you something and we can’t have you overreacting.”
“Let’s finish with the talking part of this scene.”
“Of course,” Mario said. “You Harrisses like to get right to the point.” He walked to his expansive walnut-veneer desk and looked over the panoramic New York skyline for a moment before turning a large Apple Computer monitor so Jeremy could see it. “This security video was captured,” he shot a look at his watch, “just over ninety minutes ago.”
The monochrome images were pale and grainy, but the picture was clear.
Jeremy’s father, Edgar Harriss, with wind whipping his jacket and necktie, stood on scaffolding high above the under-construction dam. In the background, massive earth-moving equipment rumbled on rough tracks over raw, molested earth. He looked up as if knowing the camera watched, then climbed over the railing. After a few seconds, he released his grip and fell.
“My father is dead?” Jeremy threw his weight against the chair and would have tipped it over if Stewart had not placed a massive hand on his shoulder to steady him. “I need to go there. Right away.”
With a remote control, Mario clicked off the video display. He backed up against the desk and let it carry some of his weight.
“You need to understand what you saw,” he said. “It’s not exactly as it appears.”
Jeremy closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Okay, tell me,” he said.
“This will take a little patience on your part…”
“Right. Patience and tying me to a fucking chair.”
“As I said…”
“Just get on with it,” Jeremy said.
“This was before you were born, but I’m sure you heard the stories. The dam in Ontario? The one grand failure in the history of the Harriss family. That was almost it—the end of the small empire your grandfather built.”
“The Iroquois Falls Dam.”
“Right. Seventeen workers killed when the dam collapsed. More than two-hundred killed in the downstream town. You know worker deaths are associated with every major construction project.”
“Part of the cost of doing business,” Jeremy said.
“Right. But, do you know how many workers were killed before this dam gave way? None. It was an amazing example of workplace safety precautions paying off.”
“Then the dam failed.”
“Yes, the dam failed. Here’s the interesting part. Your grandfather became convinced worker deaths are an important part of a large construction project.”
“Human sacrifice.”
Mario sighed. “Blood. Human lives offered up to appease the old, hungry gods. Madness, right? Insanity.”
“But, our projects over the next seventy years…”
“Yes. The quality and performance is unmatched. A Harriss Construction project is a reliable project. Do you know about the skinny man with the penetrating eyes? The man your grandfather talked to after the dam gave way?”
“I heard. Woo, the scary guy with ritual scarring—hieroglyphs carved in his cheeks. So what? What does this have to do with Dad?”
“I knew your father for fifty-seven years. He had cancer. Pancreatic. Inoperable.”
“So, he jumps into our biggest construction project in twenty years and kills himself.”
“Yes,” Mario said.
After studying Jeremy’s face for nearly a minute, Mario gestured to Bruno and Stewart. They kneeled and stripped off the Velcro straps. Jeremy stood and rubbed his forearms.
“I need to get there,” Jeremy said.
“The helicopter is waiting,” Mario replied.
In the spacious Lockheed Martin VH-73 helicopter, Jeremy continuously thumbed messages into his smart phone. Mario briefly wondered who he was exchanging messages with, but was distracted by the construction at ground zero where an elaborate building was replacing the twin towers of the World Trade Center. It was, of course, a Harriss Construction project.
At the dam, the wind twirled and ruffled Jeremy’s hair and drew tears which dribbled from under his wrap-around sunglasses. He leaned over the railing and looked down. The height was dizzying. Jeremy imagined what it would feel like to let go—to launch into the air and plunge to the earth.
“It probably doesn’t hurt,” he said.
Mario leaned in close. “What?” he shouted over the howling wind.
“The impact. You’re dead before your nervous system has a chance to fill your body with pain. I’ll bet it doesn’t hurt at all.”
Jeremy looked up. From the control room on the far side of the dam, Stewart waved.
That meant the security cameras were turned off.
Jeremy gathered Mario’s lapels in his fists.
“Silk—imported from Florenzia,” Mario said. “What are you doing?”
Jeremy threw his body to the side to get leverage. Then he pushed. Mario’s arms flailed. For several teetering moments, his body was balanced between life and death while Jeremy gripped his lapels.
“What?” Mario said with a wild look in his eyes.
“Don’t worry. As I said, I don’t think it hurts,” Jeremy said before letting go. Mario cartwheeled into space. Leaning over, he watched until Mario’s body landed on the tangle of rebar far below. “There’s a reason my name is on our headquarters skyscraper and yours isn’t,” he muttered.
He wasn’t conscious of it, but he rubbed his sore forearms as he walked along the catwalk toward Stewart. Bruno, with his arms bound behind his back, was on his knees. Blood dribbled from a head wound. Jeremy jerked his head toward the chasm. Stewart lifted Bruno and pressed him out over the side. They watched him whirl in the air for a brief few seconds.
“They can’t hold off pouring the concrete much longer, sir.”
“So? Tell them to pour. Once the pour gets going, get the workers back out here. We don’t make money paying them for playing cards and drinking tea in the lunchroom.”
Stewart lifted his radio and spoke tersely.
“I’m sorry I restrained you back at the office, Mr. Harriss. Are we good?”
Jeremy peered over the side. “Yes, we’re good.”
He reached out to pat Stewart on the shoulder. Stewart flinched.
Jeremy laughed. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.
“Where to next, Mr. Harriss?”
“I’m in the mood for a steak,” Jeremy said, “a giant, bloody one. Then a bath? You can scrub my back.”
With no expression visible on his face, Stewart nodded.
“Whatever you say, sir.”
On the far bank, high above the artificial gorge, the thin man standing on a concrete slab watched and was pleased.
The young Harriss has much potential.
He shivered. The Canadian wind, pouring in from the north, was cold. The thin man gathered the collar of his jacket around his neck. He was no fan of the cold. The Lincoln SUV was warm and it waited.
The thin man climbed in and was whisked away.
Notes on The Dam
AP: I like the ambiguity surrounding the thin man. It’s not his description that hooks your subconscious because he’s described very sparsely.
KLC: I wanted him to seem like he was not quite of this earth. I like the juxtaposition of the gritty reality of construction project with the arcane and surreal.
AP: The story contains a dose of mysticism…am I right? It reminds me of old tales of ships sent on their maiden voyages only after a virgin was sacrificed and strapped to the bow.
KLC: Is that how the tradition started? Interesting. Here’s a bit of Babylonian narrative from the third millennium BC:
Openings to the water I stopped;
I searched for cracks and the wanting
parts I fixed:
Three sari of bitumen I poured over the outside;
To the gods I caused oxen to be sacrificed1
I was trying to create a modern myth…to bring superstition into the 21st century.
AP: How close are you to big construction projects, like the Hoover Dam or the Alaskan railway where many left their bodies and souls behind as sacrifices?
KLC: I’m fascinated by the scale of a project like the Hoover Dam, but other than taking a tour and capturing snapshots as a tourist, I have no behind the scenes knowledge.
However, here is an experience which marked me: I worked for a while in the factory where F-16 aircraft were built. The building was so long (nearly a mile) that you could see the curvature of the Earth in the overhead lighting fixtures.
AP: What’s with the Italian ? Anything to do with their well known immortal art of edifice?
KLC: No. I was thinking about the innate Italian sense of style. In general, they dress very well and I wanted that flavor for the character.
____________________
1Source: Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ship_names
Her Secret Bordello
Adina Pelle
Deep inside, she craved truth in his words. There was no doubt he believed them, but they’d be quickly forgotten. Expired. Inevitably and all too soon.
“How beautiful you are. So beautiful, incredibly beautiful. I’m afraid of losing myself in your eyes.”
Warmth.
She’d forgotten the feeling.
Mostly, men’s words were empty, rolling over her and ending as a sad, sick mass in the pit of her stomach.
The day could have been perfect. Instead, it was full of noise and harsh colors falling from the sky; foreign sunlight painted the city and limned men’s alien gestures. Piercing and stabbing—their eyes were bonded on her breast’s peaks and valleys. She knew of her perfect body beneath layers of satin and cream—under blush, lipstick, mascara and carefully-arranged folds of cloth—a childlike body with young, soft bones that had been dead for years. The bones did not know how many times they’d been broken. The body had been violated, but the stain did not touch her soul. She did not see, did not hear and did not feel anything when her body was invaded.
Detached and unknowing—how often was she absent while jewels of happiness slipped through her fingers?
What was the depth of her despair?
She remembered only certain incursions of flesh; her body lying next to his. She did not know him and made no effort to change that situation. Their bodies were close—side-by-side. Under her skin, secrets were hidden under exhausted, shut-down senses. On the bed, threadbare sheets were scattered. From head to toe, her body hurt, but her spirit was hidden and untouched.
No one knew. No one suspected.
Nobody, nothing, no.
She created artificial boundaries…she would do anything but kiss a client on the mouth.
Shhh. Slow down. Speak slowly. I know you like me. I know you crave my aroma—that of cypress at the edge of a quiet meadow with scented hair scattered by the wind and a body made of sand twisting and conforming to yours.
The flesh remembers its long-lost innocence.
Don’t say anything.
Bodies like undulating snakes. Reptilian. Cold words—language assembled from wet words as she unfolded beneath him. A predictable gush of secondhand passion and sexual instinct’s fleeting moment of glory and reward.
Entwined hands, feet and whispers…everything but kisses on the mouth. A sudden, fraudulent flowering.
Above: nothing but a man’s hairy, husky, meaningless body. Below: nothing but an acid taste on her tongue.
Why am I with this man?
To find peace, all questions must be suspended.
Deflected.
Evaded.
Afterward came a moment of quiet, leaky freedom. With a cigarette, she tranquilized disgust and painted over his taste with smoke and enjoyed the embrace of nicotine’s small delirium.
Predictable. Each time, no different. Nearly naked, her body was dead. They had only empty names; no bodies or souls. No collective spirits. No synergy. No compassion. No love.
Only far-away sensations were left over from the barbarism of their animal coupling. Stolen pieces of remembered men were collected like trophies.
Hotel beds, fumbling illusions of love, barroom battlefields and sad, uncaring sex—everything was always the same. She raised her hands as if warding off evil.
Barely breathing, she was a soulless, mechanical doll. Instead of arms she had wings, but not for flying. Her broken wings were used for crawling around the room over cheap sheets and discarded clothing.
Trapped, she looked around with eyes filled with sadness. Nothing looked back. To God, she was invisible. Less than invisible. He was filled with love for ants and moths, but had nothing for her.
Sometimes she dreamed of the final, dying spasm of her anonymous, humiliated body followed by an eternal sleep. But, today’s transaction must be consummated.
The man pulled on his clothes and left. The motel door closed with a solid finality. After a sponge bath, she arranged jars, tubes and vials of makeup on the bathroom sink. After a time, her wings changed back into hands and she reapplied her pretty mask.
Notes on Her Secret Bordello
KLC: I know you don’t consider yourself any kind of a poet, but the delicate, beautiful phrasing of this story is a lovely example of poetic prose. This is one of my favorite AP stories. It’s truly transcendent.
There is a contradiction, a cognitive dissonance between your delicate imagery and the crude topic. It’s like you painted an outhouse with an artist’s expensive sable brush. Is this something that came quickly with a flash of inspiration or was it something you agonized over, word-by-word?
AP: It’s interesting you mention liking this story because, believe it or not, it’s my favorite too. I believe it represents my real voice as a writer-painter-artist. I am and always have been moved by Charles Baudelaire and his Les Fleurs du Mal, so the poetry and symbolism belongs to Baudelaire. I am mesmerized by the idea that in dirt and putrefaction a beautiful flower can survive, and if we look, we will find it.
In a year, I couldn’t possibly write more than one or two stories like this. Not because it’s hard, but because a subject like this has a very delicate exposure period. The minute the shutter is left open too long, the fragile balance between light and shadow is gone. Then what will we have? A trite story about a heart-of-gold hooker who marries Richard Gere.
KLC: Prostitutes often appear in your stories. Beyond literary exposure in books, what are your personal experiences with the ‘ladies of the night’ on the streets of Constanta or in the European cities where you lived? What can we point to for direct experiences with these women?
AP: I’ve always been intrigued by patterns in human behavior. Prostitutes lived in my apartment building when I was a college student and I observed the exchange—what women offered and what men took. It’s a simple transaction—for the most part a commercial form of visceral supply and demand.
Here’s what I always wondered. After the man walks away, is that the end of the exchange? Is there something the man carries away with him? Is there something he leaves behind?
KLC: Even in marriage, a man can make a woman feel like a whore. On the other hand, in other stories, you note that women often manipulate and use men. Perhaps this is a cheap thought—an unjustifiable bit of ‘blaming the victim’ nonsense that deserves a one-word answer, but is there any possible way can we consider this woman’s ‘customers’ as fatal fools? Victims?
AP: This ancient transaction between a woman and a man, often following a rigorous financial negotiation, is never what it initially seems. In the end, the seduction part of the carnal bargain disappears to make room for an array of other dynamics. Everyone is the victim. After the act, no one deserves poise or dignity.
KLC: I don’t want to say anything more about how I feel about this story. Let’s look at what others said about it.
…that cinematic quality, quick frames flickering a sad story…
—Sarah M.
…a very vivid tale of a sad soul, old before her time…
—Barb N.
How sad that she will never know the joys of love and only feel empty inside.
—Angela A.
Such sadness portrayed so well. To be absent from so much of herself and of her life is so sad. Wonderful writing.
—Kimber F.
You’ve had great response from the public about your work—including a great quote from the legendary Tom Robbins (Adina Pelle Rocks!). Warren Adler (author of The War of the Roses) said your work is “a true exploration of a woman’s emotional and erotic life.” What have these accolades meant to you as a writer, particularly in the dark of night when you lay awake and dream up your stories?
AP: The reader’s response to my work means everything to me. It validates me as a human and as a writer. It chases away my inhibitions and gives me a reason to hope I might be able to communicate the things that are important to me.
KLC: The broken wing is a powerful and sad image. The change of her hands into wings and vice versa means there is hope and the possibility of changing into something else. However, this woman seems doomed. Are we misleading ourselves if we hold out hope for your sad, beautiful, unnamed young woman?
AP: They say hope was the cruelest gift released from Pandora’s box, yet we cannot survive without it. Everyone gets their wings injured at some point in their life. I am a big believer in redemption, so to answer your question, I’ll throw out another:
Is there an earthly force with the power to heal broken wings?
Keptsake
Ken Coffman
Sorry, I was lost in thought. I’m surprised you recognize this symbol; yes, it’s pagan. A girl showed it to me a long time ago and it stuck with me. Like you, she was pretty with auburn hair and brown eyes. Eyes with infinity written in them.
The first time I saw her, she knelt with a colorful, cotton peasant dress working up her thighs. Her legs were thin and covered with dust. She doodled in the dirt with a long finger. This very symbol, now that I think on it. The wind teased her hair which I noticed was braided with leaves and twigs. She said the symbol represents fate and chance romance, but she might have been mocking my nervous excitement and naked interest. When she pushed her hair back, she left dark smudges on her cheeks. It was not filth; it was charming.
I asked if she was a witch and she smiled. Could be, she said. She tugged my hand. Come, we must have wine.
I hesitated and she called me silly. As we climbed weathered stairs, the wind whirled and the long grass bowed and whispered.
Her front room was dimly lit and the air was thick with hazy perfume. She brightened the room by lighting candles in every corner—in rusty tins, stabbed into empty wine bottles and held by elaborate silver candlesticks. Flames lapped at darkness, but did not defeat it. Flickering shadows writhed on the walls. Her odd dance was accented with flashing, mischievous eyes. She poured wine from an asymmetrical, black, label-less bottle, and then pulled me down to a rug woven from odd-colored yarns and decorated with strange patterns.
We live our lives in symbols, she said. I asked what our physical act symbolized and she laughed. Love and the circle of birth and death, of course, she said.
As we moved together, the walls fell away and the room moved through the candles like the solar wind flows through stars. Her stories were dreams. After my energy was tapped, she stood and, dressed only in shadows, danced again. Her body was nymphic and her hair was a silken banner. Time coalesced, evaporated and drifted into irrelevance. I was enchanted.
In the morning, the candle flames were dead. She kissed me and I clutched her body with desperation.
I love you, I said. I want to know you, to grow old with you, to possess you.
She pulled away. No, you don’t, she said. You don’t want to know how I pay the rent, how I look in the harsh light of the sun and that I bleed from my nethers when the moon is full. Am I boring over time? A naggart? Stupid? Am I a witch, really a witch?
She threw my shirt at me and ordered me to get dressed and leave. There was no resisting her command.
I’m sorry if I rambled. I can’t help but think of fate, love, passion and chance encounters at times like this. You truly have pretty eyes. Can I hold your hand and pour you a drink from the black bottle?
Can witches read minds? I don’t know. Let me show you again. Notice how the symbol seems like something solid, like a key or talisman, perhaps. Like a whispered question riding the wind.
And, when you’re ready, we can go…
Notes on Keptsake
AP: Ken, I’m surprised—you do have a heart! What a wonderful and romantic snapshot. There’s a cardiac chamber I didn’t know you had.
KLC: I like to pretend I’m a cold-blooded logician and hyper-rational engineer, but all my novels are love stories. Deep inside, I am a hopeless romantic.
AP: When did you write this?
KLC: Hey, I’m old, how do you expect me to remember? Roughly, it was probably originally written in the 1980’s and then cleaned up and revised a few years ago.
AP: You are generally a grammar-Nazi and punctuation-Fascist, but not in this story where there is little punctuation and the story flows without the typical structure of language. What were you trying to achieve?
KLC: Sometimes I binge on an author I stumble across. As an example, I was pulled into Charlie Huston’s hyperactive world. Charlie has a quirky, minimalist approach and does not use quotation marks. It can make it hard to know who is speaking, but it also injects the words directly into your head without the barrier of interpreting punctuation. It’s the kind of thing that should not work, but it does. I wanted to experiment with taking out as much punctuation as possible and see what I could do. The effect is interesting for a very short piece, but I don’t think you’ll see me use it often.
AP: I am reminded of Yeats:
When you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep
I have many memories like this. I won’t even ask how much reality is in the story, and it doesn’t matter. Memories make a nice pillow to sleep on when you are old, gray-haired and much closer to the end of your life than its beginning.
KLC: I struggle with my work. I have such respect and admiration for the written word that it offends me to take it lightly or write disposable books to be consumed quickly and tossed aside. The battle in my soul is constant, because beyond what I learned from the books in my little library and the guidance of my friends, I am an uneducated writer. Really, I have no business doing this. I have no credentials. I have no justification whatsoever for having strong opinions about how words should lay on the page.
However, don’t think that will deter me. I also have a stubborn, relentless persistence. When I am cremated, don’t be shocked to find bits of rusty old iron mixed with the ash and bone fragments.
AP: I like the pagan undertone of this story. As you know, I have a couple of pieces centered around gypsies and fortune tellers. You are an analytical man and I’m sure you don’t believe in the paranormal, but you open yourself to fantasy, if only for an instant.
KLC: Adina, you wound me. Excuse me, I need to go off and pout for a while. You’re partly right, of course. I am a hard-headed old engineer and don’t believe in anything unless it can be double-blind tested in a laboratory. However, we live in an odd world—a bizarre mental construct found between our ears.
One thing I am sure of—and this is a lesson from mathematician Kurt Gödel—a closed system cannot contain enough complexity to fully describe itself. This means that anyone who claims complete certainty about anything in life is fooling himself (or herself).
To draw a correlated philosophical point, you can dispute the existence of black swans all you like and build elaborate proof and justification, but the first time you see a black swan, you need to discard your carefully constructed notions. What you know is not necessarily true.
You should always be open to the world delivering a surprise.
The Pursuit of Happiness
Adina Pelle
Many ages ago, when the Gods roamed the earth, it was obvious that mortals needed a boost to their spirits and self-confidence or the very existence of the Gods was in jeopardy.
After much deliberation, and in an effort to avoid a plebeian revolt against the imminent law, the cluster of Gods determined that one God would be chosen to represent the celestial world as overseer of the earthly turmoil.
A rushed ruling from the newly elected God spread quickly among mortals. The decree read, in part, as follows:
Humans must be united by working-class enthusiasm in a democratic paradise. It is given that a stable society requires complete harmony. Each citizen of this democracy, to maintain peace and order in the earthly kingdom, can and should be happy. Therefore it is hereby directed:
Citizens shall kiss freely in public to show contentment and submission.
I reproduced only a single passage of the new governance where the public kiss was defined as an indicator of mortal happiness. The decree also included other aspects, like banning criticism of the elected God, but we will save those elements for a future conversation.
Thus, the formal rule of kissing in public was introduced as mandatory for all mortals. To monitor the way in which the populace respected the rule and to ensure implementation of the decree, a patrol was created. Members of the patrol had freedom from dawn to sunset to identify, observe, scold and report the offenses of all who dishonored the law and refused the duty of displaying mutual affection and achieving ultimate human happiness.
The unofficial title of the new divine rule was The Kiss Decree. Among the populace, the seemingly simple rule generated a lot of confusion. The Happiness Enforcers often heard and dealt with excuses like the following:
Uh, I forgot to kiss her.
Please excuse me, but I have a nasty cough.
I have a toothache and cannot bear anything near my mouth.
We just kissed. You were not watching carefully.
The Happiness Enforcers, who were conscientious about the job (which included four weeks of vacation every year, medical and dental insurance and a well-funded retirement program) granted by the democratically-elected God, were equipped with a number of sophisticated monitoring tools for testing the Mortal Kissing Rate (MKR). Any breach of the rule was considered treason against the supreme goal of happiness within the citizenry.
Execution of the decree was variable in different age groups and professions. In general, adolescents and young people were the most fervent supporters of kissing to show their happiness. Their lips could be heard vigorously at work in parks and alleys or other public places.
“Sorry to trouble you, but we have to kiss in the next five seconds,” a young man might say to a girl next to him.
In return, she was bound to the rule regardless of his bad breath or cold sores.
Other young people turned to kissing to avoid boredom.
Now we come to the purpose my telling this tale.
Mortals between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five had a different attitude toward the decree—a more nuanced and jaded one. It seemed they enjoyed kissing more when it was forbidden by their elders.
The Happiness Enforcers filled out forms capturing the date, month, year and location of the violation (or non-violation, if you will) which described situations like the following:
X sat on a bench in the park where words of love were exchanged with Y. Closely monitored with a calibrated instrument, the episode was fully recorded and documented. The couple did not kiss. They held hands and read each other poetry and whispered delightful words of love. There was incidental touching of private areas.
But, they did not kiss. A citation was issued.
Other couples obeyed the decree with great enthusiasm and gusto. Here is an example:
Honey, there is nothing between me and him. We were seated at the same table simply due to overcrowding at the restaurant. When the time came, we were forced to kiss to prove our happiness. You appeared at the wrong moment. Had you arrived earlier, I could have kissed you instead.
From instrumental records and statistical analysis, we know the decree was not properly honored by married couples. The intensity of their desire to kiss and be kissed was minimal. Married adults felt no reason to kiss in public. Many studies were funded and it was found that the desire to kiss was not present in the home either.
However, another phenomenon developed—occurring approximately four months after the decree was implemented. In spite of citations, harsh fines and prison sentences, fewer and fewer kissed in public. Tests revealed they no longer had the love inside that inspired kissing.
The democratically elected God and his counsel were left scratching their divine brows.
They observed citizens of advanced ages from sixty years and older invading the streets—enthusiastically kissing with their old, floppy lips. Otherwise, it was obvious. Humans grew less and less interested in properly manifesting their happiness. This scene displeased the Gods.
So, the divine rulers did what they always do. They wrote another decree. The democratically elected ruler worked night and day on the draft of a set of new rules to keep all mortals busy and happy.
Shortly thereafter, the first golden coins were cast.
Notes on The Pursuit of Happiness
KLC: This is an example of mixing a flat, toneless delivery with a completely absurd situation. The contrast is very vivid. It reminds me of Franz Kafka.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.
—Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
There is focus and discipline required to accomplish this. In other words, it would be easy to add florid descriptive details to make the setting more concrete and real. As writers, we’re always reaching for the easy words. Is this discipline hard for you to maintain or is it something that comes naturally from the story as you initially visualized it?
AP: It is actually very hard as I am not a disciplined person. On the contrary, I am a complete nightmare for any analytical thinker who dares to dabble in my ideas. I am married to an engineer whose perfectly structured analyses always come out as QEDs. His thoughts balance beginnings with ends in perfect symmetry. I need that kind of discipline and many times borrow it to infuse my ideas with some logic.
KLC: When you gave me this story to look at, you knew I would mention George Orwell, didn’t you?
AP: Of course. George Orwell. I read his work when I was very young and I remember thinking I was reading something inappropriate considering the communist society where I grew up. It took later years to understand my initial uncomfortable reaction.
KLC: Well, I am going to mention Orwell, and not just because of the social commentary of your absurd tale. I refuse to reach for the easy reference to Animal Farm. I think Orwell is an excellent and underrated prose stylist. Any chance I get, I will be his cheerleader.
The drawing-room was a cool, light-coloured room with lime-washed walls a yard thick; it was large, but seemed smaller than it was, because of a litter of occasional tables and Benares brassware ornaments. It smelt of chintz and dying flowers. Mrs. Lackersteen was upstairs, sleeping. Outside, the servants lay silent in their quarters, their heads tethered to their wooden pillows by the death-like sleep of midday. Mr. Lackersteen, in his small wooden office down the road, was probably sleeping too. No one stirred except Elizabeth, and the chokra who pulled the punkah outside Mrs. Lackersteen’s bedroom, lying on his back with one heel in the loop of the rope.
—Burmese Days, George Orwell
That snippet has nothing to do with the style or theme of your story. How do you like that as a non sequitur?
AP: As you guessed, when I wrote this story, I had Animal Farm on my mind. I agree, Orwell was an astute writer and his best work is far away from Animal Farm. However, I never had the same forbidden feeling while reading any of his other books as I had as a young person reading commentary about the social blueprint I was immersed in.
KLC: In this story, I’m reminded of the writers who had firsthand experience with Communism. I’m thinking of immigrants like Ayn Rand and Vladimir Nabokov, authors who wrote about the brave new world they found in the west and compared it to the brutal oppression they experienced in their old country.
The world is going to hell, but among it all a blessed light is burning quietly for me—not from the star, which went out a long time ago, but from a new source, like a fog filled with the trembling light of stars.
—The Tattered Cloak, Nina Berberova
I could be wrong, but I take your story to be an attack against the statist mentality. As a writer in the vein of the immigrants I mentioned above, give us some insight about the dark world inside the Iron Curtain and the rising welfare state here in the west.
AP: For me, it’s an extraordinary paradox. Life was good in those days when I lived behind the Iron Curtain. Beyond the minor social parodies we experienced at times, life was experienced at a steady, monotonous, but safe, pace. I am speaking only from my personal perspective, of course. I read and heard firsthand accounts of abuse and suffering at the hands of the quasi-Marxists that governed most of the Eastern Bloc.
But, not me. I was an odd child, there’s no doubt about that, but I grew up sheltered and dare I say it? I was happy. By the time my grandparents and parents healed from the Second World War and recovered from the gross early soviet-communist agendas—they found peace and happiness under the new system in Romania, a place completely independent from Moscow’s rule.
KLC: It’s clear from your story what you think about bureaucrats who crave God-like powers. Pretend you have one of these metamorphic beetles here in front of you today. What would you do with it?
AP: The only thing you can do with such metaphoric beetles is have some fun. Turn them onto their backs and watch their futile legs wriggle in the air. We’ll watch and see if they can flip themselves upright.
KLC: This is another story where your last line comes from of the blue sky and throws us for a loop. Abruptly, we move from love to money.
AP: The pursuit of happiness is a more pragmatic practice than we humans dare to admit. We can blame social systems, our leaders, our deity, our parents, children or spouses, but in the end, for some, being unhappy provides an ultimate satisfaction. The struggle to prove otherwise will give artists material to dwell on for centuries to come.
The Happy Halloween
Ken Coffman
Clarence carefully lifted a strip of duct tape and removed a circular section of corrugated board. The window was covered with alternating thicknesses of aluminum foil and panels made from old cardboard boxes. This insulation worked well—through the opening, cold seemed to reach through the hole to grab at him. He carefully placed the ancient glass jack-o-lantern in front of the opening and lit the candle stub by tipping in the larger taper borrowed from the fireplace mantle. The flame guttered and smoked. Wax made from pig fat did not burn very well.
“You do this every year and we never get any visitors,” May said, “and how do you know it’s really Halloween?”
Clarence turned. He adjusted the scarf around her neck and kissed her nose.
“Hope springs eternal,” he said, “and I keep track of the days, so I know when the old holidays are.”
“You’re a mad fool,” she said.
“Maybe so.”
There was a candle in every room, but they failed to hold off the darkness. Shadows danced in every corner. Outside, the wind howled and threw icy rain against the walls.
“If a kid does come, what are you going to hand out? They won’t be impressed with a dried-out biscuit or moldy potato.”
Clarence grinned.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he said, “I have resources.”
“You found something at Bartertown?”
“Maybe I did.”
“You’re a scamp.” She grinned. “If it’s really a holiday, we can spare a spoon of possum stew if you want it.”
Through layers of wool, she rubbed his belly. They weren’t starving, but like everyone else, they were always hungry.
“What about you?” he said.
“There’s enough. I’ll have a spoon too.”
Clarence walked to the kitchen and looked—there were two spoonfuls left in the bottom of the pot. Holding her hand to catch a stray drop, she held up the spoon and he opened his mouth. She fed him like a baby.
“Damn it, May, that’s good.”
She took her bite and tilted her head back. They savored for nearly a minute before swallowing. Clarence picked her up and kissed her neck.
“That’s enough,” she said, giggling.
There was a noise at the door. Clarence set her down gently and reached for the rifle leaning against the kitchen wall. May reached in her apron pocket and wrapped her fingers around the grip of her revolver. Clarence walked to the front door and pulled the hammer back on the rifle.
“Be careful,” May said.
He removed the chains, lifted the wooden latch and unlocked the deadbolt. After pulling the door open a few inches and peering out, he relaxed. He threw the door open wide.
“What have we here?” he said.
It was a ghost—a three-foot-tall ghost wrapped in a ragged sheet with crude eye holes.
“Boooo,” the ghost said.
A man stood in the front yard with a double-barreled shotgun laying in the crook of his arm. He scanned left and right, and then returned his eyes to the porch.
“What did I tell you to say…”
“Trigger-tweak,” the ghost said.
“Do you know what that means?” Clarence said.
“Trigger-tweak. It means you gotta give me somethin’.”
Clarence laughed. “So it does,” he said. “Hey, George.”
“Good evening, Clar,” George replied. “Bitter cold, ain’t it?”
“Always,” Clarence said. “Hold on a second.”
He moved back into the room and opened the coat closet. Deeply hidden in the pocket of a parka was a can. He pulled a huge knife from its sheath. The knife was sharp—he was easily able to open the can. With a fork, he speared a mushy section of Bartlett pear and let the syrup drain off.
“Ready?” he said.
The ghost nodded and pulled off its hood. From underneath, a thin face was exposed. A boy. Six-years-old. Andy. Clarence slowly held out the fork and placed the pear in the kid’s mouth. His cheeks bulged and a dribble of syrup ran down his chin. May, peering around Clarence, laughed.
“You like that?” Clarence said.
Andy nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”
“Come get some,” Clarence called out to George.
George looked up with a puzzled expression.
“You sure?”
“Come on,” Clarence said.
He speared a pear-half and tapped the fork on the can to capture the juice.
George steadied Clarence’s hand and took the pear.
“Goddamn, that’s good,” he said.
“What is it, Daddy? Is there more?”
“Not for now,” George said. “I don’t think I’ve had a pear since the disruption. You forget, you know.”
“I know,” Clarence said. “May, get in here and get some.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She raised her head and Clarence dropped a pear-half on her tongue.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “Now you.”
Clarence shrugged and peered in the can. He worked the fork and pulled out his piece.
“There’s one piece left if you want to take it back to Helen. How’s she been doing, by the way?”
“Same. No better, but no worse. I’m not sure she’ll make it.”
“You mind if I drain off the syrup first? Then you can take the can back to her.”
“She’ll love it, thank you.”
Clarence handed the can to May who took it to the kitchen. Soon, she reappeared and handed the can back to George.
“One more time?” Clarence said to Andy.
“Trigger-tweak,” Andy said.
Clarence chuckled. “Good night,” he said.
He closed the door and worked at all the locks.
“You’re a hopeless, sentimental old man,” May said.
“That’s nothing,” he said. “Wait ‘til you see what I have planned for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, you’re such a rascal,” she said. “Come to bed—let’s give another try to making a baby.”
He licked his fingers and pinched off the candle in the jack-o-lantern. He worked the cardboard back into place and smoothed the duct tape. Outside, the cold howled with frustration.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
Notes on The Happy Halloween
AP: Cormac McCarthy’s The Road was the first thing that popped in my head because of the post-apocalyptic background and the canned fruit, but obviously this is a sweet and endearing story. What was your inspiration?
KLC: I’ve always been obsessed with noticing how fragile our infrastructure is and how easy it would be for society to fragment without cultural glue to hold us together. We mess with traditional concepts of patriotism and family values at our own peril.
AP: Is it a coincidence that you named your main character the same as the angel Clarence in the Christmas classic It’s a Wonderful Life?
KLC: If you believe in coincidences, then yes, the one you note is one. An amusing one, now that you mention it.
AP: Clarence and May are ageless in your story but an extremely sweet and loving couple. Is it just me or do I sense an optimistic thought? Maybe the physical world will erode, but love will still stand strong?
KLC: I make no special claim about having answers for our purpose in walking on the earth. However, in the end, what else do we have? Perhaps romance is an evolutionary trait ensuring the propagation of our species, but we should embrace our emotional rewards when we can.
AP: I like—no, I love the dynamic you created in this couple. The dialog between them is delightful.
KLC: I don’t know if I have any special talent for this, but I study the way people talk and interact. I try to breathe life into my characters. I’m trying. As my wife says, I’m very trying. To me, the characters in my books and stories are alive. They are my friends.
I’m reminded of Bladerunner.
Pris: It must get lonely here, J.F.
J. F. Sebastian: Mmm…not really. I make friends. They’re toys. My friends are toys. I make them.2
AP: Beyond the sweetness the couple exudes, you add a sensory element by making the can of pears a full character in the story. The reader will not only enjoy it as a key element, but will go to their pantry and open a can of syrupy fruit. I know I did.
KLC: We are a decadent culture awash in complex technology, but, if necessary, we can revert to the simple pleasures of life.
AP: And of course, need I add it? Referring back to The Road—what a relief they didn’t eat the kid. With you, Ken, I never know what to expect.
KLC: Inside, I’m smushy and gooey. I like a HEA3 ending and that’s generally what you’ll get from me.
____________________
2 Bladerunner script by Hampton Fancher and David Peoples
3Happy Ever After
You
Adina Pelle
I was ten-years-old. Your name was Julian. Our grandmothers exchanged recipes in the apartment complex.
Something draws my memory back to that fast-moving, nearly forgotten day…the day you grabbed my hand.
Hmmm, what a weird feeling that was.
My mind is filled with absurd details. While the train raced through the city, you dragged me down the aisle past a pile of old, shabby-looking brown suitcases. We passed a young man smelling of tobacco and a soldier with a square face—one I stared at before you and your grandmother boarded the train.
I brushed against those suitcases and my pure-white socks ended up with a stain on them—a dark patch of dirty gray. You played with my dark hair and laughed at my misery with the cruel and innocent laughter of a ten-year-old child.
That day, we were far away from the world, running into the night and searching for the edges of the most crystalline moments of childhood.
Your hair was black, wavy and smooth to the touch. Your child’s body held a future man-in-the-making.
The rough soldier looked at us with tenderness—as if we were worth fighting for. In return, you made a funny face and I could not resist. I laughed.
Over the years, one thing that lingers in my mind is your name, it echoes. I deleted all the other train stops on the map.
A dusty neon light flickered and made you look pale and feeble. Your red lips and white teeth will I remember through the years. And your name.
That train followed the same route every night for the next twenty years—awash with lights flickering in the dark and infused with memories of two ten-year-old children running and laughing in its dim light anticipating lives to come with flickering glimpses of our illusive, long-forgotten destination.
Later, the departing locomotive pulled at my soul as I waved goodbye from the platform. Through a window, the dark locks of a boy named Julian. He waved his hand and disappeared into the night. I sat on the platform and for the first time in my life wondered where everything goes.
I was fourteen-years-old and your name was Matthew.
You appeared in my dreams with the tumultuous beginning of adolescence, the beginning of life. I tried to say important things—I wanted you to look for me, to find me and tell me you understood.
I agonized in my sleep and during endless mornings and afternoons. You told me things I loved to hear. Your hair was brown—and I remember your dark, sad brown eyes haunting my dreams. You told me I was beautiful and I believed you.