SHORT STORY

Add a Comment

Comment by gary deutscher on September 30, 2008 at 9:51pm

Het kirsten my love. i have finally stumbled over here to join up. you will see I have posted my short story "The Uninvited". It's a bit rough being a first draft so I am hoping for feeback that will help me rewrite it effectively. I was thinking of submitting it to a contest at writers digest. Let me know what you think.

Comment by breanna on July 29, 2008 at 9:01pm

HI Kirsten! I am only joining because you joined my group on the James patterson community. If you want to comment me please write to me on James PAtterson!

Comment by Micki Peluso on July 27, 2008 at 9:31pm

Bill,
I loved your slice of life story, "The Damn Scale". This is my favorite type of short story and I've done them and sold them to newspapers for 22 years. I do mostly humor like yours but also pathos. You could tighten this up a bit here and there but I really didn't find much wrong with it and found it an enjoyable read. I can relate well too, since I have a slim husband who can wolf down 5000 calories a day, including a pound of chocolate, while I have just one little cookie and gain five pounds. If he ever pulled that scale trick with me he would be wearing it as his new permanent hat!!

Micki Peluso

Comment by Micki Peluso on July 26, 2008 at 4:20pm

DEATH OF THE SPIDER
Aka
FOR THE LOVE OF HOUSEPLANTS 1946wds

They don’t allow me plants in this dire, greenless place. I have no children to replace the ones I lost. Too long, I dwell in a carnival of maniacs and fools, endure the dulling drugs, the solitude, weeping through eternal night. And it’s all my husband’s fault.
He always hated my plants. He didn’t just dislike them, as one might a book, or painting, or a cold and rainy day – he hated them. I loved them as I would have loved the children we never had. I babied my houseplants, nursed them through root rot and mites, fed and pruned them and placed them in their favorite spots.
My Philodendron especially liked to sit on the warm place on top of the television set. The English Ivy preferred to dangle above the stereo and sway to the vibrations of the music. He was particularly fond of Bach. Some of my houseplants hung from the beamed ceilings in the living room. Some posed sedately on the window seat, watching out for strangers lurking about my home. The larger plants, mostly Rubber Trees and Palms, were content to stand erect, acting as my doormen. My house was filled with flora of almost every genus and I doted on them fondly. My husband hated every one.
“Why does this house have to teem with vegetation?” he constantly complained. “They’re running up my water bill! They’re using all my oxygen.”
His anger culminated on an otherwise ordinary Saturday night, for no reason I could foresee. He rose from his easy chair, brusquely shoving my Asparagus Fern away from his face, unaware she only meant to play, and headed for the kitchen. I hummed softly in an effort to ignore him and continued mixing up a batch of fertilizer. Stomping through the doorway, he kicked over my Fiddleleaf Fig tree with the tip of his work boot, and enjoying the look of horror upon my face, he smiled and went upstairs to bed.
I quickly righted my poor baby, crooning over him and carefully repacked the soil that spilled from his pot. The Fig tree sulked all night, with sagging leaves, his indignation clearly noted by his stance.
Resentment built inside me slowly. By the evening’s end, it had grown to such proportions that I thought my chest would burst. My husband, while he made no effort to hide his hatred of my plants, had never harmed them until this day. I was filled with maternal rage and could not be consoled, not even by the caresses of my Purple Passion.
Fear, as well as anger, bode within my heart and I was frightened for all my plants. I felt no safety for them within my foliaged home. Nights that followed left me sleepless, filled with a restless urgency to protect them. I arose several times throughout the night to oversee them, remembering to leave the hall light lit; for my Palm Tree greatly feared the dark.
My husband made no apology, but in the days that passed he seemed contrite and even brought home a tiny cactus as amends. Perhaps he really was repentant. When it died two days later, he merely shrugged and said he lacked my green thumb. We lived in guarded accord, my plants, my husband and I. My babies were thriving and growing larger every day, drooping only in the presence of the master of the house.
Waxy Pink Begonias filled my home with splashes of color. The Snake Plants nearly reached the ceiling, while the Fiddleleaf Fig tripled his fullness, spreading his dark green branches to embrace me. Spider Plants, Coleus, and vines of all variety grew rich and full, crawling tentatively across my wooden floors. I was filled with love and pride.
On one particularly dismal evening, the harmony within my home was broken once more. My husband came home from work late and in a mood that made me wary. It seemed he’d had a bit to drink and did not see the offshoots of my Spider plant as they danced from the living room archway. He struggled blindly as the baby Spiders writhed about his face. I knew then this night would come to no good end.
He tore my lovely lady from her hook above the doorway, shredded her to pieces and smashed her into the wall. I shrieked and ran to gather up her remains. My heart pounded with love and dread, for I knew I could not save her. I took her babies from her, the ones that lived, and placed them in a vase of water, where they might grow again.
My husband cursed and staggered off to bed, swiping at whatever plant was in his way, kicking my Fiddleleaf Fig, yet again. My fury knew no end. I said nothing and with lowered head, tended my poor darlings; when I could do no more for them, I went to bed.
I did not sleep at all that night. My mind raced with thoughts of vengeance. Somehow, some way, my husband would never harm my lovelies again. By morning’s early light I knew what I must do and finally slept.
It was approaching noon when I arose. My husband, long since gone to work, left a note of regret on the kitchen table. I wanted no apology--it was far too late for that. I tended my beauties; took longer than I should, for I had things to do and the afternoon was well upon me. All my plants suffered intensely from the previous night’s attack. One of the Aloe Veras was still bleeding. I sensed that they were nervous; saw anger, instead of their healing juices, pulsing from their veins. I did my best to soothe them with a little touch of lime, and then left them to themselves, as I had things to do and time was running out.
I went down to the cellar, to the wall filled with shelves. I took my deadly Mistletoe, lying dormant through the winter, and borrowed a handful of berries that had not yet fallen from her branches. I reached for the higher shelves, which held jars of dried herbs, some for eating, some for healing, some quite lethal. I chose carefully; a spoonful of Henbane, a touch of Foxglove, and some bright red berries from my Belladonna – twelve would be enough. Treasures gathered, I hurried to the kitchen, and used the mortar and pestle to meld the herbs together. My work was nearly done.
By four o’clock, my husband was home, whistling as he strolled through the door. He smiled and handed me six yellow roses stuck into a plastic vial, whistled to himself again and went upstairs to shower. This time flowers weren’t enough.
“Bear with me a little longer,” I whispered to my Fiddleleaf Fig. “And you, my sweet Fern, you will never be struck again.”
Dinner was at five o’clock precisely, as was my husband’s rule. He gobbled up the meatloaf, wolfed down the mashed potatoes, and then filled his plate again.
“You’re not eating,” he noted, when the meal was near its end. “Are you still mad at me, or are you feeling sick?”
“Oh no,” I said and smiled my sweetest smile. “I had a late lunch and I’m feeling rather full. Perhaps I’ll nibble something a little later.
He barely nodded intent upon his feast, so ravenous, so greedy. He went to bed at seven o’clock, worn out from both the past night’s carousing and the heaviness of his repast. I gazed at him intently as he climbed the stairs, and then turned to tend my plants.
I slept in the spare room that night, the one meant to be a nursery, and my dreams were pleasant. I had moved my things into the room earlier in the day, including the metal strongbox that held my husband’s savings for a rainy day.
The next morning I took my largest, strongest Crown of Thorns, and hung him over my husband’s bedroom door. I did not enter the bedroom then, or ever again. My Crown of Thorns, so staunchly brave, would stand guard over my husband’s lifeless form. Had he cried out during the night in agony and pain, I did not hear. If he had called to me in penitence, I did not care. He killed my Spider plant and I, in turn, sought her revenge.
Within my home my plants grew voraciously. There was not a wall uncovered by vines, hardly a bare space on the verdant leafy floor. Even my tiny Bonsaied Fir grew to such enormity that his grotesquely elegant trunk was the size of a small child’s waist.
It was several weeks later, as best I can recall, when uniformed men hammered at my door. Neighbors, they said, complained of noxious odors seeping from my home. The men insisted upon coming in. They pushed past the growth that nearly blocked the foyer, and climbed the four steps to the living room, tripping over vines that grabbed at them in passing. Their eyes grew large in disbelief and I wondered why. I led them through my home and introduced them to my children with unadulterated pride.
They found my husband lying on the floor beside his bed, still and serene, though somewhat decomposed. Tearing off the spiky vines that chose to be his shroud, they gagged and held their noses. I smelled only the fresh greenness of a summer afternoon.
The look in their eyes turned to something near compassion as they led me firmly from my home.
“My plants!” I cried. “I cannot leave them!”
They looked away and held me tighter still, oblivious to my screams of pain; my cries for my poor babies, my broken shattered heart.
There is no sanity here. This institution, dank and stale, lacks the brightness of day and the cheerfulness of vines cascading over narrow walks. There are no Fiddleleaf Fig trees to guard my door, merely a pasty orderly in white. They allow me on the grounds when I’ve behaved, obeyed their rules; such petty stupid rules. The grounds are lush, the Lilac bushes call to me, the Pansies nibble at my feet. The Purple Mountain Laurel follow me back to my dungeon, but the attendants bolt the door, severing the tendrils of my life. Yearning for my children, I can bear no more.
They believe there was a toxic waste seeping slowly into my water lines, contaminating my mind. They believe it caused my plants to grow ten times their normal size. My husband was wise, they said, to drink only beer or wine. What nonsense! My plants thrived on mother love and will one day grow again. They must think me mad to believe such silliness.
Let them confine me! Let them shackle me and keep me from the sun, unable to absorb the elixir of chlorophyll. Let them do to me what they will.I have a secret I keep from them; a tiny Hemlock, dug up one day when the attendant was too enamored of a passing nurse to take note of my meanderings. I slipped the seedling into my cell, the dirt still clinging to his newborn roots. I housed him in a plastic serving bowl stolen from the cafeteria and placed him upon my windowsill. He sits there each endless day, hidden by the dull grey drapes, soaking up the sun cast meagerly through the bars of the window.
Nurse remarked I seem to have a greenish pallor to my face. It is the flush of joy!
My sweet young Hemlock grows larger day by day.
This was my first real attempt at fiction and was published in the Princeton women's Newspaper, circ 65,000, now defunct. I got 100 dollars for it-- the most I ever got for a short . These days, I would never let a narrative go this long without more dialougue but I love the Poesque metor to this.
Comments welcome, as I keep hoping that I might stretch this to a book.
Micki Peluso

Comment by Micki Peluso on July 24, 2008 at 7:58pm

Bill,
Your story, "One Rainy night," was fast paced and action packed. However, you cheat the reader when you end with 'it was only a dream'. That seems to say you couldn't come up with an ending so you made it a bad dream. I've done the same in paranormal stories when I can't find a good ending--I blame it on a ghost! You have a nice writing style so keep up the good work, preferably without dreams. I hope to read more of your writing.

Micki Peluso

Comment by Kirsten on July 24, 2008 at 4:24pm

Hi Chantal,

I enjoyed your short story titled, 'NKOSI BAYETI (A ZULU SHORT STORY)' and the Zulu perspective. I am shocked at the situation the young girl got into and the probable 'beetle's' demise. I was terribly relieved that beetle was born dead, and that is a sad thought indeed.

I felt for Nandi, a baby having a baby. And I was glad I was not Nandi. This could be any girl, anywhere (Glouster, MA?) and the consequences are serious. This story was very thought provoking for me.

The plot is believable and moves forward, the birthing happens and the ending is not a trick, it is a very realistic ending. The pacing, POV, character development were all good.

I really enjoyed your story. Thank you for sharing it with us. I look forward to reading more of your work.

~Kirsten

Comment by Bill Binkley on July 24, 2008 at 10:10am

One Rainy Night

Rennie couldn’t go back to sleep. She finally got up at four and dressed for work. It was raining cats and dogs when she stepped outside to go to work.

As she drove west, Rennie noticed a black SUV following closely behind her. Her visibility was hampered by the driving rain and thunderbolts flashing across the sky. She was becoming increasingly alarmed as the SUV got closer on her rear bumper. She tried speeding up but the SUV stayed close behind.

She was so intent on watching the SUV that she had not noticed when another black SUV appeared just in front of her. She hit her brakes and momentarily was stopped. Then she heard a loud boom and looked back just as her rear window exploded. When she saw men running toward her, she hit the gas pedal and swerved around the SUV, barely missing a tree between the street and the sidewalk.

If she could make it to the side street, she could get back on the road and maybe get away. But there was a car coming out of the side street. She cut sharply to the right in order to miss it. Now, she was barreling down the side street. There was a bright flash of lightening and she saw yet another vehicle blocking the street ahead. It was a narrow street, but she could not stop, at least not here. She pressed harder on the gas petal to get more speed so she had a chance to bust through on the right.

Rennie knew she was in grave danger, and her FBI security detail was nowhere in sight. Her instincts were now in control, she veered to the right, hitting the vehicle with a glancing blow to its rear end.

On impact, the vehicle swung around and for a moment Rennie could see the driver looking out his window. My God, she shivered and thought he was such an evil looking man. With her foot still pressed to the metal, she pushed through and continued down the street for a few blocks. Ahead, the street was blocked with construction barriers. Slamming on her brakes, she swung to the left where there was an opening.

But this was just an alley behind some abandoned warehouses. She slammed on her brakes and slid to an abrupt halt just inches from the brick wall and grabbed her cell phone. She tried to open her door, but it was jammed from the collision. She scooted across the seat and jumped out the passenger door. She was pelted by rain, as it came down in sheets.

The rain was of little concern to her. She was overwhelmed with fear and needed to find cover to elude her pursuers. She noticed a sagging door on the back of a building and made straight for it. She pulled back on the door but it was stuck. She heard a car coming and her fear released more adrenalin to allow her to finally wrench the door open. Once inside, she quickly dialed 911 only to discover the phone she was holding was not hers and there was no dial tone. She hollered, “Fuck!” as she threw the cell phone down and frantically looked around. She wondered how in the hell these devils had switched her cell phone.

She knew the building was three stories. She ran inside to look for a place to hide. She continued down an open bay until she saw a door that looked like it might open onto some stairs. She tried it and, yes, there were stairs.

Rennie had no sooner started up the stairs when her foot fell through a dilapidated step. She had to hold on with both hands to the inside railing to keep from falling further. She found herself hopelessly stuck. Whenever she tried to free herself, pain shot up her leg. Clenching her teeth against the pain, she pulled her leg from the broken step. She could feel the jagged wood cutting into her leg as the pain shot all the way up her back before she finally pulled free.

By holding the inside rail and placing her feet on each step as close to the wall as she could, she finally made it to the next floor. The stairs were so flimsy that with a final push on the outside rail, the entire stairway collapsed to the floor below. She hoped that might slow them down.

By now she could hear voices below. A high-pitched voice screamed, “She must be upstairs. Let’s rape her before we chop her into little pieces!”

“Let’s get the bitch!”

Rennie shuddered at the thought of what these horrible men were planning. Frantically looking around, Rennie saw nothing in which to hide or take cover. She walked to the far end and looked around the corner but saw only an old freight elevator. She was trapped, but she would go down fighting. In the corner, she picked up a lead pipe about three feet long. Her thoughts turned to Wayne. If he knew, he would be here to save her, but he was protecting the president today.

A tear rolled down her cheek as her life flashed across her mind. Then she saw herself laying in a casket and her mom crying as she looked into the casket. Then, she heard the floor creak and raised the pipe. She prayed she wouldn’t miss.

As the evil-looking man that she saw in the car stepped around the corner, Rennie swung the pipe as hard as she could and caught him in the throat. He dropped to his knees and then slowly fell to the floor. His automatic rifle fell with a clatter. She picked up the weapon. Now she had a chance. She had lost a lot of blood and had to drag her leg, but she knew she needed to get to the third floor. There might be a place to hide there or at least take cover.

She crept back to the stairwell. This section did not seem as rickety as the first. Carefully, Rennie made her way up the stairs to the top floor. She was disappointed when there was only empty space on this floor as well. She decided the only place where she might gain the element of surprise was around the corner where the old freight elevator would be located.

She turned the corner and quickly surveyed the area. She positioned herself in front of the elevator gate. She would try to take them down as they rounded the corner. They would not know where she was located until it was too late. She stood poised with the weapon aimed at the corner.

She heard whispering and knew they were coming. Just as two of them rounded the corner, Rennie held her finger on the trigger. They fell backwards onto the floor, as their bodies jerked spasmodically as the slugs tore into their flesh.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that one man had made a wide sweep and was coming directly at her. She wheeled around to get him just as she heard a rapid burst of gunfire. Several slugs caught her in the left shoulder as she returned fire. The impact of the slugs entering her body pushed her back into the gate of the freight elevator. She crashed through it and found herself falling. As she reflexively grabbed the air, her right hand caught a rope that had been used to open the elevator gate.


Her left arm hanging uselessly at her side, Rennie held on with her right hand. She hung in mid air about eight feet below the opening. She felt the rope slipping in her bloody hand. She knew it was just a matter of seconds before she would fall to the bottom of the elevator shaft.

When the last of the rope slipped through her bloody fingers, she screamed as she was falling.

Rennie sat up in bed, shaken. The dream was so real that the images were firmly implanted in her conscious mind. She had never had such a dream where it seemed like she was so much a part of everything. She felt her shoulder and leg to reassure herself that they were intact and that there was no blood. Then she laughed as she thought that never could anyone else in the FBI know about this, as she had the nickname, “Rambo.”

Comment by Micki Peluso on July 23, 2008 at 8:23pm

OUT OF NOTHING

I sit and stare through the small french window overlooking a seedy, neglected yard. It is my only pastime, this gaze into nothing, awaiting the day when I will join this emptiness that whispers my name, that teases my weakened senses. My soul is winter yearning for the spring that will never come. .
Fierce, high-pitched screams interrupt my stupor. It's been going on for days, perhaps weeks. I do not recall the passage of time, except the change from daylight's brightness to the dark of night. First the scratching begins, like nails upon a blackboard, gentle at the onset, rising to a crescendo matching the elevation of my terror. The yowling starts soon after--a soul-wrenching discord that accellerates a slow and aching heart.
The assault continues for what seems like forever, repelling, yet alluring and somehow familiar. I must not yield to it. It will be the death of me, an unpleasant death, unlike the repose of the beckoning abyss. The old house adds its creaking and shifting to the sounds of imminent dread. We shudder together, the house and I, in apprehension of an unknown peril.
The wailing and clawing cease abruptly, as it always does, although each episode seems amplified and of greater length. The afghan pulled up around my shoulders soothes the chill brought on by the unheated house and the fear that has no name. As the aftermath of adrenaline recedes from my shaken body, a sweet lanquor causes me to doze. .
The doorbell rings, jarring me awake. Cranking the window open a crack, I call down, "Who is it?"
"It's only me, Mrs. Romano. Meals on Wheels. Can I come in?"
"Come right on up."
This door should be kept locked," says the man, as he reaches the top of the stairs.
I say nothing, for I know the thing from which I cringe will not walk upright through my unlocked door The man sets my dinner on a tray in front of my chair. The same old fare -- watery instant mashed potatoes, a gray slab of meat, some bread, and an apple to challenge my dentures.
"Why, thank you, John," I say, managing a slight smile.
"I'm not John, Mrs. Romano."
"I know, I know," I answer, mechanically biting into the cardboard passing as white bread.
"It's cold in here," he mutters in exasperation, checking the old gun-metal radiator for some sign of heat. "Did you forget to pay your gas bill?"
"My husband pays the bills," I answer, pulling the afghan up to my chin.
"Mrs.Romano, your husband's been dead a month now.
"Don't look at me like that. I know you remember."
His words thrust stabbing pain into the pit of my stomach. John and I were married nearly forty years, years of oneness and intertwined love. He was my stability in an unstable world. We raised one son, our finest achievement, only to lose him from a tainted blood transfusion. How ironic of God to spare his life after being struck by a car, only to take it in an twist of fate.
John followed him a year later, never recovering from his sorrow. Only our grandson, Jonathan, carries on the legacy of those I loved.
I need to be with John, to replenish the part of me that is missing. I cannot exist in an empty world lighted only by the trusting smile of a four-year-old boy. A boy whose face reflects my loss, a face I can no longer bear to look upon.
My heart is a century cactus, its outside barbed and safe, the inside soft, vulnerable to the mockery of death. Somewhere beneath the layers of grief, anger lies ready to lash out. John had no right to leave me alone, denying the focus of my existence. It isn't fair.
"You'll have heat in a few minutes," the man said, snapping me back to the present. "The thermostat was set too low. Will you be all right now?"
"Of course, dear, I'm always all right when you're near me."
He shakes his head somberly and walks down the stairway to the front door, locking it behind him. My husband is such a thoughtful man.
My mind tries again to embrace the limbo that holds insanity at bay, that shuts down the mind. If only the noise would stay away, I might empty my soul of the anguish of consciousness.
The telephone rings until I can no longer ignore it, another intrusion keeping me from the vacancy of eternal slumber. Jonathan's mother asks me how I am doing. She means my mental health, but cannot say it. I leave her to her speculations. I know too well that I am sane. It is the sanity that is unbearable. We have little to say to one another. The common threads of our life lie buried in parallel graves in a cemetery not three blocks from my home. It is not a place I choose to visit, for my loves are not there, only the shells that housed their splendour.
She wants to bring Jonathan to visit. "Not yet," I say. I do not tell her the pain still pulses like an open wound. Jonathan will survive. He will learn to call another man, father, and the memory of the lean, white-haired grandfather that he called 'Pa' will slip from his young mind like the tenuous leaves of autumn.
"He cries for you," she tells me. I harden my heart and block the picture of the cherubic reminder of better days. The howls seem more intense today. The intervals of numbing silence grow less frequent. The hellish racket, demanding in tone, reverberates throughout the house, vibrating within my body, lodging in my mind. Whatever hideous entity capable of such ungodly cries now hurls itself against my door. Again and Again. I can bear no more.
The sun has slipped below the horizon and the room grows dim in anticipation of nightfall. I rise slowly to confront this relentless intrusion, this formidable being that prevents me from embracing the timelessness of grief.
Another screech sends me reeling back to my chair. This thing will not let me go. Desperation lifts me to my feet.
I take one step down the narrow staircase and nearly fall. The railing braces my frail weight. My legs tremble, my heart rapdly beats what must be its final serenade. Hands, gnarled from arthritis and shaky from a touch of palsy, dance like mimes along the banister. The dizziness in my head settles into a persistent fog as I try another step. And another. Some time later, I find myself on the landing facing the front door.
The scratching reaches a frenzy. Something wants me, wants to come in. I almost welcome this brutal end to loneliness, the dulling sensation of being the only person alive on Earth. The next howl rocks me back against the wall. Dear God, I cannot face it. Some other hand than mine reaches for the doorknob and turns it slowly.
The door groans and opens a crack, then a little more. Something fierce and quick slinks through the door and leans against my tremulous legs. Grey fur, standing upright in indignation, relaxes as the warm body entwines about my feet, emitting soft contented mews. I don't remember owning a cat .
I follow the animal's insistent trail up the stairs toward the kitchen. It seems to know the layout of the house. My gait is slow, but there is a levity to my step, and a spark, just a spark, illuminating my heart. Tomorrow, I must call Jonathan.

Micki Peluso about 1200 wds

Comment by Marilyn L. Pryor on July 23, 2008 at 12:32pm

Thanks for the invite. Will you be giving writers prompts or should we just post our short stories?

Comment by John Fredrick Gamber on July 23, 2008 at 9:03am

Where have all the Phone Booths Gone?

I can remember a time in the not to distant past when you could always depend on several things, you could find a phone booth that worked, a phone book that hung on that little (never quite long enough) strand of chain or steel cable and a quiet bathroom, although not always clean. It seems that everyday I have to look harder and longer for a place to look up a phone number make an old fashion phone call. A call you don’t have to worry about eating up minutes or whether the call will be surreptitiously “dropped”. Superman would have a very difficult time attempting to fight the evils of current society and crime without a place to don both tights and cape, let alone call Lois Lane to have her get a scoop. Forget about going to the bathroom in relative peace and quiet. Today’s phone booth if you will has become the stall in every restroom facility in every sort of establishment I have been forced to use. At first I thought, it must be just some isolated, one time thing when it first occurred several years ago, but now without exaggeration every time I enter a restroom there is either someone already on the phone or someone walks in talking on one. Don’t even get me started on that unfortunately startling designer “ring tone” that just pierces the relative peace and quite of a public toilet. It used to be you only feared degenerates and the perverts of society skulking around the “Men’s Room”.
Now I have to be party to every inane conversation, silly argument and deep heart felt utterances of love that resonate within the atmosphere of the stall. This does not include the times I am not even near a rest room a I (yes, I) receive a call on my cell phone and you can clearly tell by the reverberating sound quality and the whooshing sound of an obvious flush that I have been reached out to, to be communicated with, to be consulted on a topic of utmost import from a . . . wait for it, a bathroom stall. It makes one wonder what was the inspiration of such a blatant act of disrespect. Was it just the thought of me so overwhelmed them that they couldn’t wait until they at least washed their hands (don’t even get me started on that can of worms), or was the thought brought about by some digestive disorder, or does something about my personality just cry out W.C., or wait I think I have it, my name is after all John.
It used to be all you had to worry about was if the phone worked, the receiver not having been exposed to plague or I wouldn’t be distracted from my mission by some juicy bit of graffiti promising love or at least its anonymous counterpart, or some distasteful reference to someone’s displaced affection for a person, inanimate object or barn yard animal. Never mind the need for change, you remember it used to cost a nickel, then a dime, eventually rose to a quarter. Then as phone booths became scarce or even worse individually owned and operated, thirty five cents. Now 5o cents is the norm, if the phone works at all.
I can remember a time, sitting in a quiet restaurant crowed with people all enjoying the company of someone special, the haughty Matre’d attending the one phone on the desk that seldom rang except for the occasional reservation which the afore mentioned major domo stated was impossible for months in advance. Of course if ask to use it he would look down over the half glasses with disdain and would discreetly point you in the direction of a bank of even more seldom used pay phones. Around me were hundreds of people enjoying themselves, not suffering one bit from the lack of phone lines to reach out and touch somebody. Looking around then you could have seen the world spinning gaily on its axis, people laughing, chatting and leaning closely together holding hands gazing into each others eyes, saying nothing, yet speaking volumes. Recently in a similar restaurant, everyone and I mean literally everyone was talking to someone. Someone other than the person they are sitting with and it’s not just in café’s it’s on the street, in cars and of course in public bathrooms! I even recently a saw a car with four young executive types all on a phone at the same time (including the driver?)
I know it’s not just me that is thinking with all this extra communicating going on, shouldn’t the world, you know be showing signs of improvement. You know getting more done to improve life for everyone. Instead it appears the world and all is going to you know where in a proverbial handcart, or more succinctly in an oversized, gas guzzling, state of the art S.U.V., with DVD, MP3, SATELLITE RADIO, GLOBAL POSITION GUIDANCE with HIGH HALOGEN HEADLIGHTS/FOG LITES and DEISEL TRAIN WHISTLE HORN, ALLWHEEL POSI-TRACK GOTTA GO FORWARD REAR MOUNTED BACKUP VIDEO SYSTEM and Damn the torpedoes (or smaller more economically responsible automobile) barreling into the 21st Century. I don’t know about you but it makes me want to look seriously into signing up for an honorary membership in the Amish Community, funky little beard and all. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry about getting or a missing a call, having no cell reception or needing to be tied to a charger of some kind or another for even a day, an hour or in some cases a minute? What a relief it would be to get up when the sun rises, not by the annoying sound of yet another electronic device, to not be bombarded with the breaking news, tragic affairs, rise in violent crime and endless babble of the talking heads about what is important to every living thing on the planet.

• First
• Previous
• Next
• Last