Moments, Collected Short Fiction

BEFORE THIS STORY GETS ROLLING

'And these varied multifarious approaches soon shall render obsolete the magnitude of such self-rectifying, childish chores.'

J.A.M.

Before this story gets rolling, I'd like to introduce my two principle characters. Karl, here on my right, has been an old standby of mine for ten years now, often performing his acting roles in a superbly sensitive fashion-especially those parts as an old wino, an alienated teen-age werewolf, and various disgruntled husbands or lovers. Often he jumps to my rescue when those other more esoteric sources of inspiration completely evaporate, like my bourbon for instance. Karl always senses that precise moment to spring into action and 'take over,' as the phrase goes. So come up here a minute, Karl, and say hello to the folks.

With a slight hesitation Karl steps forward and bows.

And this character, everybody out there, is Maggie, one of my favorite woman creations whom I'm certain you'll recognize from her past roles in my stories as Brisha in The Wench of the Casbah and Rebecca in Old Raids and Young Lovers. Maggie, come her and say hello to these wonderful people.

Maggie steps up beside Karl and shyly says, 'Hi.'

'We both-' say the characters simultaneously, then with a smile Maggie motions for Karl to speak. 'Mr. Taormina,' Karl begins, 'or 'Chuck,' as we think of him, asked us to appear here early and break the ice a little, primarily I think, because of his determined honesty and his wishes that all of you thoroughly enjoy the upcoming story. I'm not such a great actor, really-'

'Not true, absolutely not true,' Maggie says.

'No, really,' Karl says. 'I mean I can mimic a few accents and do some behavioral impressions and I always become absorbed totally in my roles, but I do show certain limitations. See, I'm from a portion of Chuck's psyche which expresses a conflict between his harsh childhood among the steel-town streets and these later creative years. Basically, I'm called upon to lend authenticity to his fictions' downtrodden roles, as when he needs accurate sailor cursing like... 'you sonofababoon, if you don't git outta here'... or when he desires an eccentric touch or one focusing on a character's nature as an anti-hero. Usually, I'll assume the features of a guy he met while working on the C & 0 Railroad, a guy nicknamed Mangy Bill; or I'll appear similar to that legendary Captain Cola who used to smuggle contraband into Key West, Florida. I apply a little stage paint to my smooth face, practice squinting my eyes in a shifty way, display an overly-clever yet ignoble mind, and sometimes I limp.'

Well, thanks so much, Maggie and Karl. I know everyone's enjoyed this behind-the-scenes chat and is waiting anxiously for your fine performances in tonight's melodrama. So now, without further prattle, let us proceed:

WAYWARD DREAMLAND by C.A. Taormina

Karl lounged on his back in bed this morning with his paint-speckled hands clasped loosely behind his neck, his gangly legs sprawling outwards until his sneakers touched the fringe of his girlfriend's handmade quilt. He smoked a cigarette, twirling it liberally, watching with minute attention as its wisps of bluish smoke circled to the ceiling.
By nine o'clock he had been 'relieved' of his employment as a house painter. Usually he tasted too much wine too frequently-of the type noted by its month of production, not its year. And this job had ended as most of his had: with a full week of inebriation, a haphazard drive to work, then a near-fall from a two-storey roof. This time he had yelled briskly at the foreman, 'git off my case, dang it!'-before his boss even had said a word.
Now Karl felt almost accommodated to his situation. What bothered him greatly, however, was that once again he must explain his lack of employment to his girlfriend, Maggie. She was the best woman, the most experienced lover and friend, ever to have touched his life; and fortunately he realized this. So he desired the most delicate way to relate his bad news. A good lie would do splendidly, he felt, but his creativity bubbled up slowly this morning.
'Karl, are you home, honey?'
Karl's eyes widened to Maggie's words; he listened as the front door clicked close and awaited uneasily until she tramped to their bedroom door. He tried to hide his sheepish grin. 'Hi, lady.' 'Hi. What are you doing home so early? Oh, never mind, just listen a moment. I've got some interesting news.'
'So do I.'
'Oh? Well, tell me yours first.'
'No, go ahead.'
'Well, Karl, you know how I've been talking about finishing up my degree, something more than night classes?'
'Oh, Cheeze... you didn't-'
'Yeah, I just said the heck with working the way you sometimes do, and, oh, you are home early and-'
'Yep.'
'Not fired again, Karl, tell me-'
'Not exactly fired,' Karl forced a smile, 'but kind of laid-off.'
'Permanently?'
'At least as long as this foreman's alive, I think.'
'So now neither of us has jobs, what're we going to do?'
'As good Americans we could always apply for a couple of credit cards.'
'Seriously, Karl, we're really in a jam. And I figured since I've worked all the times you've been off-'
'I know, honey; so let's not try to justify any of this, just decide on how in Hades we're going to eat and pay rent and keep that example of Old World Obsolescence that Hitler designed on the road and starting every morning. Tell ya what, let's rob a gas station.'
'Come on, this is serious.'
'Okay, how about leasing a gas station and get in on the act of robbing all the drivers? This is the home of the brave, ain't it, baby?'
Maggie waved him away with a laugh and walked back into the kitchen. Bags rustled, the faucet gushed hard, and a few pans clattered on the range. Karl had hoped to lounge in bed most of the day, dreaming up his best lie, but now it seemed as if Maggie ought to help so that the landlord could 'understand' their plight. He flattened his hair and sauntered haltingly to the kitchen door. 'Watcha cookin'?'
'Soup. Mandarin orange and spinach noodle soup, with Soya powder goat's milk broth, plus some Nacho Cheese chips on the side just to keep the junk-food willies from getting us.'
'Good thinking. Listen, you didn't happen to buy any hooch, did ya?'
'Yes, but I was saving it for a surprise to celebrate, to celebrate... Karl, for heaven sakes this is awful!'
'Oh well, we'll get through it somehow. Where's the wine?'
'In that cupboard there; you know, I just thought we'd celebrate one of us getting out of this mind-dulling routine; and, O God, we're in it worse now.'
'Enough to drive a man to drink, ain't it,' Karl said with a laugh. 'Life, I mean. I guess I hit the streets again tomorrow, maybe you should too, until we get through this.'
Maggie nodded and poured out some of the thick soup into bowls, but through the steam Karl noticed her watery eyes. He felt worse now than he could have imagined this morning. He drank a bit of burgundy, flinching a moment at its dry subtlety, then stepped near Maggie and held her closely. He felt almost a mystical sensation with his respect and love for her, yet his love also was touched by sexual power and a realistic understanding of her needs. He stroked his hand through her gentle sandy-colored hair, cropped short in pageboy fashion, then he kissed her deeply.
She still wore her navy pants suit from her morning as a receptionist for a local chiropractor. Karl considered her as smart, competent, stable, and compassionate towards his weaknesses; in fact she often posed as his only real support in life, for when his traumatic times burst upon him. And there arose now through his being some inarticulate blood force, a force of love and pain which made him shake beside her, so that his hands quivered sli