How Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Oh, my!  Is it October already?  And no posts since May!  Shame on me.  I can blame it on the new season of Sons of Anarchy or the non-stop baths I have to give my cat during this insane flea season or chronic procrastinitis or any other number of convenient rationalizations.

"Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
But I know it's my own damn fault." ~ Jimmy Buffett

Okay, I promise, there's some good stuff coming soon.  Stay tuned.

Excuses, Insanity and Love

My guilt-ridden, tortured conscience no longer able to bear the burden, it’s time for apologies to my many adoring fans, but mostly to Charlotte, Cookie (I’ll discuss her later)...and myself...for my literary lapses of late. This, then, must serve as an arena for amends, my confessional and a means by which to confront in black and white the preponderance of ludicrous excuses I make to not live up to my life’s assignment.

Distractions abounded over the past few weeks, their forms myriad. Aside from my ever-prestent multitude of manias, there have been physical illness and technical obstacles consisting of computer viruses, power outages and electrical glitches. Then, finally and mostly, as yawn or nausea inducing as it may be to anyone other than the two key players, there is the radical storm that struck the desert my love life has dwelled in for the past couple of years. As Woody Allen’s character, Alvy, expressed after making love to Annie Hall in the eponymous movie, "As Balzac said, 'There goes another novel'."

All except the last-mentioned issue being water under the clichéd bridge, I’ll just have to flog myself daily to write and keep Charlotte, Cookie, and all others mentioned, satisfied.  The object of my new love will simply have to understand, being a writer herself.

The Price Paid

Charlotte is progressing well. Why?  Because I’m investing cell and soul, hence my jumbled, perverted state. Drained yet energized in adrenal overdrive, I’m crazed by myriad thoughts, synapses firing at will, maniacally, beyond my control. I’m pathetic. I’m withdrawing from this reality--even that an easily arguable mere concept, Charlotte’s realm devouring that with every word written. Beyond the isolation required while writing, the confinement creeps into every other aspect of life, the dwindling contact with the reality remaining is convoluted and colored by Charlotte’s demanding, insistent world.

All is cause and effect. There’s a price to pay for everything. It’s choice. I choose the unbalance of commitment to the extreme, faithful that it is affordable and well worth what’s won.  Seeking safety, sanity and serenity by standing in the middle of the road is merely the ideal spot to meet one’s death.

More when...

A Thousand Words: The Birth of "Charlotte"

Initially, I did not set out to write the novel, Charlotte.  Long ago, I took a university creative writing class and our teacher, Rebecca, assigned us a short-story exercise:  Each of us was to create a story from the opening line, “Even though her husband had been dead for three years, Molly Green still wore black.” My result was a thousand-word narrative titled, Good Golly, Ms. Molly.

 

The creative writing process is never an easy one, but for me there’s nothing quite as mentally piquant, and now I realize, too, nothing quite as self-defining. The challenge and engagement of writing certainly held as I wrote stories for that class.  One of them eventually found publication in the university literary journal. As well as what I was learning, I was satisfied with all my creations except for Good Golly, Ms. Molly. Not that I didn’t enjoy writing it, but for some reason I can’t quite explain, it was more difficult, exceptionally more, than the others and I was less than satisfied with the results.

 

Intriguing, the tricks our minds play on us and on our memories, if not simply thoroughly perplexing. I clearly remember reading Rebecca’s critique.  She hated it.  She’d torn it apart!

 

The criticism that most preyed on my mind was that it was ambiguous in its narrative point of view, perhaps more akin to a news report of a tragic occurrence than a story engaging readers in the lives of its characters. That stung.  I was a tad angry, defensive, and then, as I considered it more and more, I toddled toward humiliation because I knew it was true. To me, it meant that my story sucked, and it meant I sucked as a writer.

 

Rather than try to fix it with a rewrite, I made a mental note to never repeat the mistakes and then rationalized it all with the face-saving thought that it was, after all, just an exercise. I shoved it in a drawer and tried to forget it.

 

Years later, as I rummaged through that drawer, I ran across it. In that second, just seeing it laying there, I again felt the rub—not to the extreme I first had, but I was annoyed—annoyed at the difficulty of the process, at Rebecca’s rebuff and, ultimately, at myself for the bad job I felt I’d done. Of course, I hadn’t even tried, so I was also annoyed that I didn’t know how to fix it.

I flipped through the five pages and finally re-read it and her critique. Something was wrong. The disdainful things she’d said about it, other than the perspective problem, were no longer there in her red-penciled notes. She’d merely pointed out how to make it better, and even how much she liked the story, overall. That gave me a laugh!  I was the only one who’d torn it apart.  Do you see what I mean about tricks of the mind?

 

But, here it still was in my hands, irreparable in my mind. Of course, some things are like that. There’s no way to see the solution until some action is taken. I suspect that’s why it’s called rewrite, not rethink. In retrospect, I’m extremely grateful it didn’t occur to me in that moment that I’d once dismissed it as just an exercise, and I could easily do it again and forever. Had I, I’d likely have shoved it back into the drawer, closed it, and that would have been that—Charlotte aborted before conception.

 

The next time I talked with Rebecca (we became good friends after I took her class, as we remain today), I mentioned the story to her and the nonsense I’d carried in my mind about it over the years. That conversation and several more led us both to the conclusion, or at least the sense, that there was a novel within those thousand words. Still, I resisted for years, doing nothing more than thinking about it occasionally.

 

Many years later, Rebecca and I finally sat down together, armed with coffee, notebooks and pens, and asked each other all the questions and tossed around all the possible answers that eventually revealed a character named Charlotte.  In Good Golly, Ms. Molly, Charlotte’s name never came up, but the outline completed that day uncovered that it was, in fact, Charlotte’s story.

 

The irony is that in bringing Charlotte and her story to life, Good Golly, Ms. Molly practically rewrote itself, and became chapter one of Charlotte.

Remodeling

When I began this blog site, my first, my motivation and vision for it were slightly different from now. That slight difference now makes me want to wire the whole damned place with explosive charges, detonate them, walk away and build anew. (Relax, Dept. of Homeland Scrutiny, it's just figurative hyperbole.)  Instead, I have decided remodeling is the best route to take.

To those few who may actually give a rat's ass what I do here...evidently very few...I apologize not only for the mess of the process, but also for results that may inspire you to care even less about it. As the late Ricky Nelson's song Garden Party concludes, "You see, ya can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself." To those who do care a little, I think I owe this much of an explanation for my madness:

As years go by, we may not change at our core, but if we try, we grow to better expressions of our core, better expressions of our souls. My experience has been that growth comes in spurts, often between long periods of partial or complete stagnation―even reversals. At this writing, I choose to see these periods of stagnation not in a negative light, but rather as necessary, albeit painful and messy, research.

In my case, prolonged research reveals my need to accept, fully and finally, that I am a writer. It’s about the only thing I'm good at, and when in the writers’ realm, I know I’m not the misfit, homeless freak I feel like in any other role. I feel naked, ashamed, derelict and dumb to confess that I’ve given more lip service than pen to demonstration of that fact for decades. My adeptness as a writer is for you to perceive and judge, and that’s really none of my business. My public declaration is for my own soul’s sake. It’s all too easy to pretend I didn’t say it if whispered only into private darkness with no witnesses to hold me accountable.

I’m motivated by fear as I rapidly approach the end of this life’s long trip. I believe the primary obligation to life is to give. I’ve shirked my obligation all too often in hedonistic pursuits and misplaced self-interest. I believe that all in the Universe is energy. Sharing our energy fuels our own. I’m no physicist so I won’t engage in an argument about whether or not energy is endless and ever present, only changing in form. Still, every bit of energy within me screams its fear of eternal death from starvation. Having given too little, there is no restoration. And there is no giving without it coming from the true essence of our being, or as is said, from the bottom of our hearts. Hence, by failing to live as a writer, untrue to my essence, I have nothing to give and by extension, I get nothing, have nothing―am nothing.

Call me a weakling, call me a chicken, but I just no longer have the strength or guts to continue contributing to my own spiral into eternal oblivion. I know the Universe now hears the declaration I scream. I'm a writer! It’s about damn time everything I do reflects my declaration. So it is written….

I’m writing a novel called Charlotte, and I’ve been working on it or, more accurately, procrastinating on it longer than I care to confess. I’ve confessed enough sin for one day, but my procrastination certainly supports the veracity of my confessions. This, then, is one of many first acts as a born-again writer. I’ll be posting, regularly, my thoughts and experiences as I complete Charlotte. I sincerely hope to give something of value in the process.

I'd like to dedicate the commencement of this renewed effort to two wonderful people who have hung in there with me and encouraged me beyond a reasonable expectation. They define "friend." Thank you, RSG and RDC.

The Glumlot Letters

The Glumlot Letters by Stanley M.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Stanley M. chose well in his decision to emulate C.S. Lewis's "The Screwtape Letters" to provide insight to the power of the process of the 12-Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous to affect recovery from alcoholism. Stanley's intriguing, adept writing in this epistolary novel supports the wisdom of that choice with every Step. To work with Stanley was a pleasure, and I am honored he entrusted its editing to me.

You can buy it (no, I don't earn a single penny if you do) here, at Amazon or here, at Barnes&Noble.

View all my reviews >>

WEIGHING IN ON SARAH PALIN

There is no question, from all I’ve read, that Sarah Palin did inquire as to how she would go about getting books banned from her local library. While the list of those books, in wide circulation, is evidently a complete fabrication, the fact that she asked the question is not. To me, that is the single scariest mindset any person in any political office in the U.S. could possibly have, irrespective of their party affiliation. At that point I think there is no, and I mean NO, redemption and it should automatically exempt her from ever holding political office again. It should send up red flags as quickly as if she had asked, “How would I go about getting the President assassinated?”

I CAN SHOOT POOL (song...okay, give me a break, I'm working on the music!)

I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

NOT WHEN I FIRST WALK IN THE DOOR

OH, NO WAY BABY

I TRIED THAT ONCE BEFORE

BUT I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

LET ME JUST SIT A WHILE

AND NURSE A COUPLE A DRINKS

THEN GET ME NEAR THAT TABLE, BABY

AND I CAN SHOOT POOL, OH YEAH!

BABY, I CAN SHOOT POOL

HEY, NO MORE THAN THREE DRINKS

WELL, SOMETIMES IT TAKES FOUR

BUT THEN GO 'HEAD AND RACK 'EM, CAUSE

I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

I NEVER PLAY DRUNK, NO WAY

DON'T YA TAKE ME FOR A FOOL

BUT WHEN I'VE HAD JUST ENOUGH, LOOK OUT

'CAUSE I CAN SHOOT POOL

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

SOMETIMES I STOP TO EAT

AND MY BELLY'S REALLY FULL

THEN FIVE SHOOTERS IS FINE

OKAY, MAYBE SIX

BUT I CAN SHOOT POOL, BABY

I CAN SHOOT POOL

HAND ME THE CHALK, BABY

AN' GIVE ME THAT CUE

SOON'S I'VE HAD ANOTHER

AN' YA HELP ME OFF THIS STOOL

I'M GONNA SHOW YA, BABY

YEAH! I CAN SHOOT POOL!

Russ Mars © 2008

HEART'S BLOOD (poem)

How do I reveal my heart's inner blood,

to let you know the emotions that flood?

If they go unexposed, I am bound to expire;

my search for your love consumes me like fire.

My soul screams out to meld with your own.

This unsated desire casts me lost and alone.

As a knight's quest exceeds the kingdom’s far reaches,

I seek your existence, for my heart’s blood beseeches.

Confusion abounds throughout tortured nights.

Do you truly exist; can you end the woe of my plight?

Damnable obstacles and stresses endured

create lies in my head my heart hopes are absurd.

Our spirits’ true union will set our passion to burning,

so be not elusive, but reveal now your heart’s yearning.

When at last our paths cross and our hearts fall together,

my heart’s blood will know you when you're beside me forever.

©RM-2007

EVOLUTION (short story)

EVOLUTION
by
Russ Mars
© 1970

November 13— There’s a wart on my hand. It’s on the palm of my right hand, where my thumb meets my wrist. I don’t know how it got there; I suppose a little grain of sand or a sliver of wood was embedded under my skin. I don’t believe it came from a toad (that’s just a silly wives’ tale about warts coming from toads). I first noticed the warts last summer. It was just a minute bump with a little black speck in the middle. I tried to pick it off, and I made it bleed. When it healed, it was bigger.

I had a wart in the middle of the same thumb right where the swirl of my thumbprint was, and the hole was crisscrossed with teeny lines of skin. It looked a lot like a spider web and it made me sick to my stomach when I looked at it. But the wart I have now is bigger.

January 17— The wart on my hand is gone. It got smaller and smaller and the only thing that was left was the black speck, then that disappeared. It didn’t leave a scar; that’s good because I hate scars.

January 24— I have a wart on my elbow. It’s bigger than the one that used to be on my hand. It hurts. I wonder why the other wart didn’t hurt. This one has two little black specks in it, one next to the other. They look like two little eyes. I’m certain this wart didn’t come from a toad because I’ve never touched one with my elbow. How ridiculous!

February 9— The wart on my elbow is gone. It looked as if it sank into my skin, slipping deeper every day as if my skin were quicksand and the wart was some poor creature caught in its midst. My skin finally covered it. Now there’s nothing there.

March 3— I have a wart on my ear. It sure does look funny! My whole ear is swollen and red. I thought the wart was a big pimple at first, the way it made my ear hurt. But it looks like the warts I’ve had before.

April 2— The wart is gone. I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror and it was as if it had never been there.

July 6— I haven’t had any more warts since the one on my ear went away. I’ve also been holding a lot of toads this summer. But no more warts. I guess that (croak) goes to show (croak) that toads don't cause (croak) warts. I’m sure glad (croak) I don’t have any more (croak) of those disgusting warts. Croak! Croak! Croak!

IF I WERE A HOT-AIR BALLOON (poem)

IF I WERE A HOT-AIR BALLOON

by

Russ Mars

© 1995

If I were a hot-air balloon

I'd dance among the clouds,

I'd carry you away, my love,

far above the crowds.

Away from cloying fingers

of memories painful still,

sailing faithful to our hearts,

true to God's good will.

Toward my rainbowed canopy

you'd reach with love and trust,

ever certain that no matter what,

I'd hold you as I must.

I'd hold you gently and free from harm,

and carry you swift and sure,

I would take you ever higher,

and you'd always be secure.

If I were a hot-air balloon,

these things I'd surely do,

But I'm not this, I'm just a man,

so this I promise true,

to love you always faithfully,

and walk forever next to you.

THE MYSTERY STORY (work in progress)

Here's one that began as a short story, then I realized it's probably a novel. I haven't touched it for some time, but now I feel the urge to bring it out of mothballs. What it will be is a mystery to me at this point, but I want to tell the story, whatever it is. Perhaps the reason I'm suddenly interested in finishing it is to avoid working on my current novel! Nonetheless, in its incomplete state, it's a mystery in more ways than one, so it's working title is simply...

THE MYSTERY STORY
by
Russ Mars
© 2006

"Ya know, there's nuthin' as temptin' as a locked door," said the old shoe-shine man as he ambled down the dimly-lit corridor. "But there's nuthin' in there 'cept mops and brooms and cleanin' stuff that you shouldn't be messin' with, son, though it ain't normally locked. Now come away from there. Where's your folks?"

"No, mister, you don't understand! He — he pushed her in here," the little boy cried as he twisted frantically at the door knob and pushed and kicked at the door, the loose red curls atop his head bouncing wildly.

"What fool thing you talkin' 'bout, son? Who's in there?"

"They're in there! I think he's hurting her! You gotta help me, mister!"

The tiny boy began to make frenzied leaps at the door, ramming it with his shoulder, and with each impact, he expelled a squeaky grunt. Falling to the floor in a heap, he would quickly recover and fly at the door again, his forty pounds barely shaking it.

The frail black man turned and began to shuffle out of the corridor, calling over his shoulder, "I'll go get someone to help. You listen to ol' Jessie now, an you jes' settle down, son, jes' settle down. I'll get someone," and he moved back out into the waiting area of the bus terminal. As he made his way across the worn black-and-white-checked linoleum toward the front as fast as he could, which was only slightly faster than his usual pace, he could hear the dull thud of the boy's body against the door becoming fainter and fainter.

Arriving at the ticket counter, Jessie put his polish-stained hand lightly on the shoulder of a plump woman standing at the agent window. "'Scuse me, ma'am, but I need to talk to the man here."

"I beg your pardon. I was here first," she said, shrugging off his hand and giving him a cold stare.

"Yes'm, you surely was, but there's a little boy…."

"Ma'am," said Virgil, the ticket agent, "let me just take care of this and I'll be right with you."

"He can just wait until you've given me my ticket. I don't want to miss my bus."

"Please, lady," said Jessie, "that poor little boy…."

"Ma'am, your bus isn't leaving for another forty-five minutes and this will just take a moment, I'm sure, then I can…."

"I want my ticket,” she interrupted, “I was here first and I want my ticket. Now how much do I owe you?"

"Yes, ma'am, alright," said Virgil. He glanced at Jessie and rolled his eyes. "Jessie, just a second, okay?" He finished keying the data into the terminal on the counter in front of him. "That'll be forty-two dollars even, ma'am."

Jessie shifted nervously on his feet and glanced back towards the entrance to the corridor, then looked back at Virgil. "Virge, there's a little guy back there carryin' on somethin' fierce…."

"You are a very rude old man," said the woman, stopping the rummaging she was doing in her purse and glaring at Jessie. She turned back to Virgil and handed him the money.

Jessie looked over his shoulder again, then back at Virgil. "But Virge..."

The woman and Jessie both jerked their heads around as a loud bang and crash echoed from the corridor, and the woman squealed, "Ohmygod!"

"What the hell was that?" said Virgil, leaning and staring through his window.

Just seconds after the first, a second loud bang sounding like a door-slam brought the wiry ticket agent out from behind the far end of the ticket counter at a full run.

"Down there, Virge! The cleanin' closet!" yelled Jessie, pointing as he followed at a pace nowhere matching Virgil's. By the time Jessie reached the corridor, Virgil was out of sight, the hallway empty. Jessie could see light glowing from the now open closet at the end, and he'd taken just a few steps more when Virgil poked his head out from there and yelled, "Call an ambulance! For God's sake call an ambulance right now!" and he disappeared back into the closet.

Jessie muttered, "Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus," to himself as he began his trek back to the ticket counter, still unable to muster any great speed, but now panting and wheezing from the effort. In the middle of the second beseeching of his Lord there came from outside the building the loud screech of car tires and the nerve-jangling crunch-rip of metal against metal, at which he let loose with a very loud, raspy, "Sweet Jeezuus!"

The nasty plump woman, frozen in place next to the ticket window, belted out another "OHMYGOD!"

Jessie, finally gaining a little speed from a combination of adrenaline and momentum, scurried behind the counter. His trembling hand reached for the phone just as a man in blue jeans and a red t-shirt bolted through the front door and ran up to the counter, pushed the plump woman aside and stuck his head through the window.

"There's a lady out front hurt bad," he said. "Got run over in the street by some maniac! Better call for help. Tell 'em to hurry!" and before Jessie could say a word the man ran out as fast as he'd come in.

Jessie dialed 911.

*********************

The sheriffs' vehicles sat sentinel at various points and angles around the bus station; red and blue mechanized beacons sent lights inside and out, piercing night shadows, as if the beams were seeking out culprits and clues.

"You're sure?" said Sheriff Adam Inali into his cell phone. He listened for a moment longer and sighed, "Oh, man, what a mess. How's he and the woman doing?" He closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger up under his reading glasses. "Well, that's good, anyway. Okay, I should be there in about 15 minutes," he said, and he snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into its case attached to his gun belt. He stared for a moment at his note pad on the ticket counter, made a few more notes, then looked up. "Mr. Dillard, just one more thing I need clarified," he said to Jessie, who was standing a few feet from him, leaning against the counter, "Why didn't you help the kid get that closet open?"

"Like I said, he wasn't makin' much sense an' carryin' on and all. I jes' figured I'd get Virgil to get the key and get in there. I'm an ol' man, what was I gonna' do? I jes' wish now I'da told that lady to shut her darn mouth, that's what."

"Okay, Mr. Dillard, I understand. Thank you," he said. He turned to Virgil on the other side of the ticket window and said, "I think I've got all I need here, sir. Thanks for your help with this."

"Sheriff?" said Virgil, "I heard you ask. How are they doing, the boy and the woman? Tough little kid. After what he did, he should get a medal."

"Well, sir, I guess they'll be okay...physically anyway. She's got some pretty nasty cuts and bruises. Well, you saw. And the boy's arm is broken, but he'll mend. That's the least of his problems. My deputy talked to him at the hospital. Said he and his mom are going to L.A., like you said. Kid said she's got work there and an apartment lined up. She left him waiting here with their bags to run down the street to get some sodas and stuff for their ride. Boy's name is Darin McCardle."

"Yes,” Virgil said, “I told you I saw the boy's mom go out the front after she bought her tickets. McCardle? That's not the name she gave for her ticket. See here," he said, turning the manifest around so the sheriff could see. "Like I told you, it's Fielding — Elizabeth Fielding."

"Yeah, I've got that here," said Sheriff Inali, tapping his note pad. "And that's who I sent one of my deputies looking for. Pretty, blonde hair, right?".

"Uh, huh. And her bus to L.A. is due any minute, but I don't guess she's gonna be on it with her kid in the hospital and all. Anyone find her yet?"

"Sure did,” said the sheriff, “but we didn't know it 'til now. No I.D. on her. Her purse was knocked all the way across the street and lodged in the branches of a rosebush."

"Oh, no," Virgil said, nearly in a whisper.

"Yeah, the lady that was run down out front. It's her."

"Is she gonna make it?"

Sheriff Inali glanced toward Jessie, then looked back at Virgil and said, "She died en route."

"Sweet Jesus," said Jessie.

"I've got to get over to the hospital. Thank you, Gentlemen," said the sheriff. As he headed toward the front door, Jessie fell in behind him.

"Where's the boy's papa? Darin? That his name? Where's his papa?"

"Yes, Darin. Well, Mr. Dillard, the information is a little sketchy at this point, but it looks like there's been no dad in the picture for quite some time. The deputy that talked to him said that, of course, he was still really shook up. I'm going to talk to him right now, and the woman who was attacked."

"Poor little guy. Wish there was somethin' I could do to help. Had no idea, no sir, no idea at all the trouble was so bad. I tried to get'im some kinda help. He was carryin' on so, ya know, throwin' hisself at that door. Poor lady — both them ladies, oh Sweet Jesus, if only I coulda' — coulda' done somethin'."

Sheriff Inali held the door for Jessie, put his hand on his shoulder and walked out behind him.

"Mr. Dillard, none of this was your fault, you know."

Jessie turned and faced him and looked hard into his eyes. His lips parted as if he was about to speak and his eyes were watering up, but then he suddenly jerked his head skyward. "You hear that? Yeah, lookie there!"

The moon was nearly full and in its glow, it was easy for Sheriff Inali to see what Jessie pointed at, though he heard nothing. A large owl swooped away through the sky, then slowly turned and headed back toward them. Once it was directly over them, it turned sharply, climbed higher and arced out of sight.

Jessie lowered his head and looked back at the sheriff, his eyes now much wider than before. "That means the Devil, that owl does, ya know?” said Jessie, nearly in a whisper. “That bird knows bad news…maybe brings it. Learned that from my papa when we'd go huntin' when I was no older than that little guy…Darin."

The sheriff nodded his assent to Jessie. "Many people believe that. My people, my dad's side, that is, are Cherokee. They honor the owl as sacred. The owl has great night-vision and they wish to draw that power to themselves to see in the dark…more to have great awareness."

"Maybe both is true,” said Jessie, again in a whisper. “What happened today sure is evil, yes sir, sure is. You think you gonna catch that man soon?"

Sheriff Inali searched the sky, saying nothing. Finally, mostly to himself, he muttered, "I guess I could really use that owl's help now.” He then looked back at Jessie, shook his head, and said, “So you could hear it, huh? That's really something."

Jessie smiled. "Yeah, I hear pretty good still. Ears still work pretty good. Could hear them big ol' wings whooshing through the air, yes sir. I know someone else who's gonna need a lot of help. The poor little guy, Darin, he's gonna need help. Anything I can do, you jes' let me know, Sheriff."

"I'd say there’s more than your ears that still work just fine, Mr. Dillard," and he gently touched his left index finger to the middle of Jessie’s chest. With his other hand, he reached out to shake Jessie's hand, and Jessie's returned grip, he noticed, was remarkably firm.

"Please, jes' call me Jessie. I'm jes' ol' Jessie, sir."

"Alright then, Jessie, I'd better get over there now."

(to be continued?)

THE DRUMMER (short story)

Photographer: Robert Landau

THE DRUMMER
by
Russ Mars
© 2000

“Make a wish, any wish at all. What would you wish for?” Of course the old man didn’t respond because I hadn’t really spoken to him...hadn’t spoken at all. But that’s what I wanted to ask him as I stood and watched him. Why did he do this? What was he looking for? What was the dream at the end of all his nights here?

I figured him to be Chinese...maybe Korean. Pulled back into a ponytail, his thin, salt-and-pepper hair hung to the middle of his slumped back. His shoulders barely moved and his crinkled eyes locked on something far beyond the farthest end of the street as he beat out the monotonous rhythm on the miniature drum set that looked like a child’s toy. Tharump ba bump bump, tharump ba bump bump, tharump ba bump bump badoom ba bump bump. His drumming was self-accompaniment to tonally flat vocalizations of 50s and 60s pop hits. The beat changed but little as he began each new song in a voice more devoid of talent and inspiration than his drumming.

I adjusted my stance and looked up and down the promenade. Even at midnight, shoppers and browsers thronged, providing ever-shifting waves of audiences for the street performers who displayed their talents in between the carts and racks of the vendors of trinkets, crafts and food. Enough people crowded around most of the shows that those at the back had to crane their necks and stand on their toes to see the act, but not so for the drummer.

For twenty minutes, as I sipped my coffee, I’d been his only spectator other than passersby who would whisper among themselves, laugh and move on. He’d sung five songs, the breaks between them mere seconds. Any time day or night, weekday or weekend for the past year that I’d come here to browse, shop and people watch, he was here. On no occasion I could recall had he ever been still at his drums or not singing. Never were there more than a dozen people watching him play and usually fewer, if any. The coffee can a few feet from his base drum, put there to receive tips, seldom contained more than pocket change, occasionally a lonely dollar bill.

I’d bet a week’s salary that anyone who played as much as he, day in and day out for hours on end, would undoubtedly and eventually show some improvement, yet my ears knew that in his case I’d lose my wager. If I had such an apparent lack of talent and ability for a thing, I’d have given up quickly. Why didn’t he? No doubt there’s virtue in persistence, but his acceptance of reality seemed to be lacking. He sucked.

My curiosity finally overriding my sense of propriety, I stepped closer to him as he ended a song with a cymbal crash. I held up my hand to keep him from launching into another musical tragedy.

“Excuse me, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?”

He lowered his bony hands and the aged, splintered drumsticks into his lap, and merely nodded.

“I’ve seen you play many times, and I’m impressed with how hard you work at it.”

That’s not really what I wanted to say, but I’m not completely tactless.

Again, he nodded once.

“Well, I was just wondering where you hope to take your...uh...musical career? If you could make a wish, any wish at all, what would it be?”

Before the old man could answer, a small child of about five or six with black, straight hair and dark, almond eyes scampered between him and his drums and climbed onto his lap. “Can we go now, Grandpa? Can we go eat? Do we have enough?”

The drummer lifted the child from his lap and set him down gently but firmly next to him, and put an index finger to his lips as he patted the child on the head. He turned back to me and fixed his eyes on mine. With no emotion and in a deep, calm voice he said, “I’d wish you would put a dollar in my can.”

THE END

I was inspired to write this story by my many, many visits to 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica when I still lived in Southern California. It was one of my favorite places to hang out and people-watch, especially on hot summer nights. Since relocating to California's Central Coast, it's one of the very few things I miss about Southern California.

BEAT THE DRUM NO MORE (short story)

BEAT THE DRUM NO MORE
by
Russ Mars
© 1998

Billy Bob Hagood lay on his side behind the toppled, rotting tree trunk, clutching to his chest the treasured, high-powered hunting rifle his daddy had given him on his fourteenth birthday. In the last twenty years, he’d brought down countless prey with the highly accurate Winchester, but none as frustratingly elusive or threatening as that which he now stalked in the shivery dawn of the hushed Alabama woods. His pulse thundered in his ears, and he silently cursed the visible frost each panting breath formed, fearful his position could be seen.

He cautiously rolled from his side and raised himself enough to peer over the moss-covered log into the dense brush, studying each detail of the wooded terrain ahead of him——every rock, every gully, every bush and tree, every inch of the leaf-covered forest floor——for any movement, any potential cover in which his quarry could be concealing itself. Usually the creature just kept moving——going and going——ever relentless, but Billy Bob was certain that by now its reserves were exhausted and it would have to stop soon.

Billy Bob was near collapse from the pursuit begun nearly twenty hours before. Then, he wasn’t prepared for a protracted hunt when he sighted the critter as he drove his pickup down a dirt road on his way to check a fence line. He grabbed his rifle from the rack behind him and ran across a pasture just as the fluff of its stumpy tail disappeared into the edge of the woods where he followed, and he was able to follow only by brief glimpses that never afforded a clear shot. Obsessively, he gave chase on into the night, finally tracking it by ear alone. He had to stop the vexatious creature.

As he continued to scan the woods through the lifting morning mist from behind the log, his object of pursuit darted from behind a thicket and crossed his field of vision about two hundred yards in front of him. Billy Bob jerked the scoped rifle up and lay it to rest on the log, sighting in on a blur of white and simultaneously squeezing the trigger. The echo of the shot boomed through the forest, but the rifle’s projectile thudded into another dead log as the intended victim scurried behind it.

“Damn it all!” he bellowed, and flicked forward the bolt of the rifle in preparation for another shot, but as he looked through the scope no target presented itself.

He jumped up from his spot behind the log to charge the new hiding place of his enemy, but his legs had cramped from having lain atop the damp forest floor, and as he leaped over the knee-high log, his legs gave out. He stumbled and fell face first into the bed of leaves. The rifle tumbled to his side and the impact caused it to fire. The hot lead bullet tore through his boot and plowed a strip of skin from his ankle. At first his wound wasn’t felt, his frenzied state and the initial shock of his fall preventing the pain from registering. He rebounded to his feet to continue his charge, but the second he planted the wounded foot the stinging fire of pain penetrated, and he crashed down again, cursing.

His rage-filled charge left the adrenaline coursing through him and helped him ignore the pain. After quickly pulling off the torn boot and seeing that it was only a flesh wound, he pulled the boot on again, grabbed his rifle, and, half limping, half running, headed for his enemy’s lair. The varmint must have shortly thought his pursuer’s dilemma assured his safety, but Billy Bob’s quick recovery startled it into panic-stricken flight from behind the log. The second his prey sprang into sight, Billy Bob planted himself, raised his rifle, and squeezed the trigger. This time the large caliber slug found its mark, disintegrating the creature into a spray...bits and pieces clinging to low-lying branches and scattered all across the damp forest floor.

Billy Bob hobbled toward the few remains of his victim in order to confirm that he had been, indeed, successful in his mission. Balancing on his good leg, he extended his injured one and nudged the pieces with the toe of his boot. Really, only three identifiable pieces remained among shreds of white and pink cottony fluff——a torn rabbit ear, a single “D” battery, and a tiny bass drum.

THE END