Noodle

They called him Noodle.

He never knew why.

Maybe because of the limp. Maybe the stringy blond hair. Who knew anymore? Kids say the darnedest things, and all that.

So Noodle it was.

He joined the Navy. They overlooked the limp, desperate, he guessed, for sailors. They shaved his head, for which he thanked them.

He lived on an aircraft carrier, a giant city on the sea. He filled vending machines for twelve hours a day. Off duty, he learned to smoke and stare at overhead conduits and tune out the noise of the other men.

He made one friend. One.

He told no one about his name. They all called him Rayburn, if they called him anything at all.

During an extended leave, his friend invited him to stay at another guy's apartment. They were three Navy guys, stuck in a second floor craphole in San Diego.

Friday morning, he woke to the sound of thumping. Thuds. Laughter. Strain. He shouldn't be able to hear it. He tunes out every noise on the ship. Why would this wake him?

He stumbles into the living room where the other two guys are wrestling. Wrestling. On the living room floor. Are they drunk? It's five in the morning.

"Stop it," he says.

"Tell me that to my face, Rayburn," one of them replies, slamming the other to the floor. The whole place rattles.

There's a banging on the door. An urgent knocking.

He opens it. It's a girl. A woman. She's, well, gorgeous. Her eyes are blue, bluer than, yes, the Mediterranean. He's speechless.

"Will you guys knock it off?"

She's wrapped in a flannel robe. She's tired. She's angry. She's beautiful.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

The other two guys rush to the door. "Yeah, we're sorry. Real sorry."

She nods, begins to walk away.

"Hey," one of the other guys says, "You wanna come in?"

She stops. Faces them. "No," she says, smiling. "Actually, I want to kill you."

They laugh. They smack each other on the back and head toward the refrigerator.

She looks at him. He watches her pad down the hall.

"Sorry," he says again.

She stops, turns, looks at him.

"I don't really know them," he says. It just comes spilling out. "I tried to stop them. I don't really understand them. I guess they're used to being on a big, noisy ship."

She blinks, shoves her hands into the pockets of her robe.

"Well, they've ruined my morning."

"I know," he says. He walks into the hall. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee to make up for their idiocy?"

She stares at him. "What's your name?"

"Noodle," he blurts out, unthinking.

"Noodle?"

He nods.

'Really?"

He nods again.

She shakes her head. Says nothing, It feels like ten thousand years go by.

"Yeah," she says. "You can buy me a cup of coffee. And then we're gonna come back upstairs and kill those guys."

He closes the door behind him.

Headshot

For your approval: my headshot (originally snapped by Tim Brosnan for Mauritius).

Artist Profile Article

Here's a link to an article I wrote for Greenville Business Magazine about the new Artistic/Executive Director of Centre Stage (a great space where I've acted in two great shows, including last fall's Mauritius).

Contact

Looking up at the blank disc, she thought, “Orange?”

Hovering, just like those books said, somewhere just above the treetops.

She always thought they’d be silver. Not orange.

She fumbled through her purse, then cursed her luck for leaving her camera at home. Now she’d be seen as just another rube, some glory-hungry moron making up stories about flying saucers.

The media would crucify her. The skeptics would scoff. She’d be sent for an evaluation and then a quiet demotion and then unanticipated “budget cuts” would send her packing.

Dammit.

The disc descended, touched the ground, now only a dozen yards away.

She watched, silent, as a door, for lack of a better word, appeared and opened on the surface of the disc.

Will you look at that. A live, gray alien just like all the books described. So angelic, delicate, curious. Friendly. Her heart pounded.

She was witness to a visitor from another planet. She raised her arm, pointed at the alien.

BOOM.

The alien fell backwards, shuddered, then grew still as a pool of orange blood formed around it.

Good thing she’d remembered to pack her pistol.

Hawaii Five-0

I posted a short piece with lots of versions of the great great great great great Hawaii Five-0 theme.

It's at Film Score Monthly.

Strung

She strung me up like as much meat, like a dirty gambler in one of those cowboy movies, like a kite in a tree, strung up, deserted, left for dead. Thanks a lot, baby.








This was concocted in 60 seconds after seeing a one word writing prompt at http://oneword.com. 

Leap

“Mister Darien?”

He opened his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Mister Darien, do you know where you are?”

He glanced around. He couldn’t move. A woman in a lab coat stared at him. Though not unfriendly, the whole room seemed sterile, clinical. A hospital?

“Mister Darien, can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Mister Darien, you’ve been through a shock. But I have to ask you this. What year is it? Do you remember what year it is?”

He furrowed his brow and finally croaked out an answer. “1942.”

The woman frowned. He watched her shuffle to some strange high-tech gadgets. She sounded American. But this room, this technology, it seemed so, well, foreign.

“How…” he began, but no more words would come. He felt so drained, so tired. So old.

She nodded. “You were in an accident. Do you remember any of it?”

He strained at the thought. He could feel the rumble of the plane, hear the flak exploding all around. He could see Bains and Ennis heading for the door, ready to jump.

“I’m right behind you!” he remembered shouting, struggling to retighten his parachute rig, then he, too, went to the door and he saw first Bains and then Ennis, torn apart by enemy fire almost before they had a chance to pull open their chutes, then the Lieutenant grabbing him before he could make the leap, shouting at him, telling him the plans had changed, and he could see them shut the door.

But wait. He’d made it. The plane landed safely. Then he could see Becky, her face, their wedding, the kids, he could see their three kids, and the beach house and then his daughter’s wedding and all those years at Upton’s Department Store and his retirement party and he could see the road, the rain-slicked road, and Becky beside him, and his struggle to keep the car on the road, and he felt so old, and he could hear her scream and he looked up at the doctor and now he remembered.

“Becky?” he asked.

The doctor shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes to 2010 and leaped out of the plane.

Hunger

Karen rushed into the kitchen.

“Mom!”

Her mother let out a sigh and said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.” She gave Karen the eye. “What is it now?”

“Can I have one more donut? Please?” Karen gave her mother the nicest little angel smile she could muster.

“Just take the bag,” her mother said. “And don’t get any of that sugar on your clothes.”

Karen grabbed the bag from the counter and returned to the backyard.

“Okay,” she said as she sat back down at the edge of the sandbox. “There’s only two left, so we can each have one.”

She pulled one out of the bag and held it in the air.

"This is what we call a donut,” she said. “Can you say donut?”

Ambassador Klarn, fifth generation diplomat from the First Federation and sole survivor of the invasion fleet glanced at his warbird, buried in the sand. Then he stared at the girl, the gigantic child, towering over his 6 inch frame. He could feast on that pastry for a week.

He sighed, brushed a fleck of sand from his jacket, and said in his most dignified voice, “Donut.”

Diamond Ruby

Thanks again to Twitter, I've just finished reading a wonderful novel.

I first started seeing positive chatter about the novel a couple of months before its release. Then I started following the author, Joe Wallace, and read a lot more positive buzz. Two weeks ago I went ahead and ordered it. And I'm so glad I did.

I expected Diamond Ruby to follow the exploits of an 18 year old girl who pitches against Babe Ruth. What I didn't expect was to get totally sucked into this book.

Wallace uses a historians eye to incorporate wonderful detail into Ruby's world. The New York of the 1920s came alive with characters and incidents as Ruby's path encompassed grim survival and triumphant success.

Mid-book I got so caught up in one particular chapter - Ruby's debut performance in the minor leagues - that I had a big, stupid grin plastered on my face the whole time. I wanted Ruby to succeed. I'd been with her through the hard times and reveled in her new role.

Here's what I said over at Amazon, "At once thoughtful, informative and entertaining, Diamond Ruby lives in a very real cross section of 1920s America. Filled with great period details, Wallace spins a yarn that ranges from the tragic to the triumphant. Some chapters had me grimacing while others left me with a big stupid grin on my face. One chapter in particular was absolutely exhilarating in pace, detail and service to the character - I was so enmeshed in Ruby's story that I shared her experience on the pitcher's mound. It was, quite simply, the most fun I've had reading a book in a long time. Thanks, Twitter, for pointing me to this gem of a novel."

Just Business

“Another moneymaking scheme,” he said. “Great.”

“No,” she said, grabbing his arm before he turned away. ‘This one will actually work. Really.”

He couldn’t even summon the energy to sigh. He simply stared at her, taking in the fiery energy behind her green eyes.

Her smile almost melted him. Her enthusiasm almost sucked him right back in.

Almost.

“Give it up, Karen.”

He set his empty glass on the counter then headed straight for the door.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ve got it all planned out. It’s perfect.”

“Sorry,” he said, closing the door behind him.

She stood still for a long moment, drained her own glass, set it down and retrieved a large plastic bag. 

Using a cloth, she placed his glass into the bag, then set about wiping the doorknob.

She looked around the room then, satisfied, reached for the phone.

“It’s me,” she said. “He’ll be dead within the hour. No, of course, no way to trace anything back to you. Or me. I’ll expect to see the other half in my account first thing tomorrow morning, before my flight leaves.”

She smiled. “Nice doing business with you, too, ma’am.”

Seduction

She looks into his eyes

Green. No, blue. Turquoise?

“Kiss me,” she says.

A sigh.

“You know I can’t.”

“You never will if you don’t try.”

“It doesn’t work that way anymore!”

He rolls over.

She pats his jellied limb.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She rolls to the mirror, sighs, rummages through the top drawer for her brown eyes. She pops out a blue one, tosses it into a glass of Efferdent, sticks a brown one into the socket. Then she does the same for her other eye. And for her other one.

He never could resist her brown eyes.

On Deck

She glanced over the bow.

Nothing.

“Carroway!”

No response.

She sighed. No use. May as well give it up. There’s no way he could have survived out there this long. 

No way.

“Carroway!”

Nothing.

She turned, slowly, so slowly. She took a few steps toward the wheelhouse. She looked back, scanned the horizon.

Nothing.

She kicked the door open and planted herself at the wheel. She hesitated another moment before cranking up the engines.

Done. This is it.

No more.

Last trip.

Ever.

She spun the wheel, headed toward the mainland.

Stupid.

She never should have left him alone. Never.

She knew better. What a stupid, rookie mistake.

Thump thump thump.

A new sound, one she hadn’t heard from this trusty old scow.

Thump thump thump.

Something bouncing. Metal.

Metal.

Of course.

So stupid.

She slowed the engine, scanned the deck of the wheelhouse, spotted the revolver.

Sighing, she grabbed it, strolled out of the wheelhouse, tossed it into the deep.

Better clean that stray spot of blood, too, before she made it back to the dock.

Done.

Last trip.

Ever.

The Associates

I loved The Paper Chase. It arrived on TV in 1978 and, a critical darling but ratings nonstarter, lasted only one season.

So, being the kind of person I am, I tracked down the book (by John Jay Osborn Jr.) that inspired it. I read it. I loved it. I read it again. I've probably read it three times over the years.

The show returned to TV for a second and third season on Showtime, and I had the good fortune to have Showtime then and got to watch them all.

I really liked the character Hart, the protagonist, the Iowa boy now struggling through law school.

Did I mention I grew up in Iowa?

Anyway, in the throes of Paper Chase fever, I purchased another novel by the same author, The Associates.

I stuck it on my shelf, planning to read it.

Flash forward two or three decades.

I grabbed The Associates from my shelf last week. I read it.

It's the story of a guy just starting out in a big NY law firm. He confronts some stereotypical partners and falls in love with a fellow associate at the firm, a headstrong divorcee.

The book is written in a chunky, episodic style and suffers a little from being, well, very seventies. The characters, their assumptions, their stereotypes, all belong to another age. It took a long time for me to get drawn in to the novel, and I did end up enjoying it, but nowhere near on a Paper Chase level. If nothing else, its depiction of the pressures involved with working in a big law office made me happy my Paper Chase induced flirtation with going to law school never panned out.

Structurally, I can see similarities to the arc of The Paper Chase - a young midwest guy as fish out of water, romance with a "liberated" gal, a wise but distant mentor, a philosophically minded pal, a race to conclude a big law project, the discarding of traditional values at novel's end. But The Associates just never clicked for me. I can see, however, why the novel spawned a(nother short-lived) TV series, since the set up and broad strokes of young folks versus partners plus political and romantic tensions has a strong appeal (and I suspect L.A. Law somewhat fulfilled this).  Fun fact: the TV series starred a young Martin Short.

As a novelist, Osborn ended up penning one more (which I wouldn't mind reading - I like Osborn's style), then seems to have given it up, remaining a law professor. Kingsfield's shadow looms large, and it seems Osborn ended up trying to step into his creation's footsteps.

Office Politics

She walked by my cubicle without so much as a glance.

Nice.

Three years together, two years of being just plain coworkers on top of that, and it ends like this.

Snubbed.

I stood, peeked over my back wall.

“Medlin.”

He glanced up, raised his eyebrows in reply.

“Hand me a donut.”

His eyes returned to his screen but his hand held up a Powdered Sugar Delite.

"Thanks.”

I accepted the donut, held it gingerly, trying my best to avoid sugary dandruff.

Fifteen feet away, she stood at the copier, her back to me. I could hear the CHUNK Wok-Wokka CHUNK rhythm of collating papers.

I judged the weight of the Powdered Sugar Delite, the distance to the copier, the folds in the dark navy blouse she loved so much.

I let it go.

It hit the bulletin board, leaving a halo of sugar on the Equal Opportunity in the Workplace poster, bounced off the top of the copy machine and landed on the break room counter.

She didn’t move.

Her collating job finished. She gathered her papers, plucked the donut from the counter and whirled around.

As she walked past me, she slowed ever so slightly, opened her full lips and shoved the donut into her mouth, licking her lips as she glared into my eyes.

She disappeared around the corner.

I frowned, then shouted. “Made you look!”

KXII Action News Theme!

Back in the mid-eighties, I worked for tv station KXII, channel 12, in Sherman Texas. I did various things at the station, including working on the 6 and 10 news broadcasts.

Here's the beloved (to me at least) theme tune we used back then.

The One That I Want

I’m writing this while listening to the soundtrack to Star Trek III: The Search For Spock. I think that tells you a lot about where I’m coming from in this review.

Somehow, some way, lost in the midst of the burbling twitter stream, I began following Allison Winn Scotch. Her twitter presence combines a lot of amusing snarky stuff and interesting, insightful writing-life stuff. And then I found her blog, which focuses on the art and craft of writing.

Since I noticed that she was a New York Times bestselling novelist, I grabbed one of her novels from the library. Now, she writes what some might categorize as chick-lit, which is absolutely a category of fiction that I haven’t really experienced. Her new novel came out last week and a couple months ago she began holding contests to give away advance copies. Well, I managed to, um, not exactly win a contest, but in some other way tricked her into sending me a copy (a little more about that can be read here). So with those caveats, here’s a look at the book.

The One That I Want follows Tilly Farmer, a woman ten years or so out of high school in age but whose life still revolves, in many ways, around that exact same small town school. She works as the school’s somewhat ineffectual guidance counselor, helps put together the big musical production and also plans the annual prom – still the highlight of her year. She’s trying to get pregnant and, in her mind, lives the perfect life.

But then she runs into an old friend, one she really hasn’t associated with since middle school, and is somehow given a strange gift – the gift of clarity. Tilly begins to have visions, very precise visions, of her own future. And she doesn’t like what she sees.

In seemingly effortless prose, Scotch presents a capsule of a life, a very typical life, and the way we can all be tricked by our own preconceptions. Tilly desperately wants her life to be happy and fulfilling, so she has forced herself to believe that it is. Her visions, however, crack open the façade she’s built around herself and reveal the not-so-pretty truth – about herself, the way she treats others, the way others treat her.

“Imagine, if you can, that you are sixteen again.” So reads the opening sentence, and it neatly encapsulates Tilly’s life. In many ways, she IS still sixteen. She clings so hard to her little town, to her little school, to her little life, that she’s unable to allow herself to grow, to really mature. She wants the world to be a pretty prom picture without having to experience the discomfort that led to that pose.

By novel’s end, Tilly’s world shifts. She’s released the narrow parameters within which she’s maintained her family members, allowing them to be who they really are, and, in so doing, released herself to become a fuller person. She’s finally engaging with the world as it really is. And isn’ t that what we should all be doing?

This is an engaging and entertaining novel, great for, yes, reading at the beach. It’s comfortable and well-paced and just insightful enough to make you pause before leaping into the surf.

P.S. I am so dense that I did not realize that the title of the book was an allusion to the musical Grease until three days after I finished reading it.

The Future Soon

I've got a new short story posted at 365 Tomorrows.

Hope you enjoy it!

On the Beach

Gilligan sits on the beach, staring as always at the empty horizon.

He gnaws the last few pieces of meat from the Skipper’s thigh bone, then tosses it into the pile where it lands beside Mr. Howell’s skull.

Or was it Mrs. Howell’s? It’s so hard to tell them apart anymore.

He begins to drop the Skipper’s hat into the fire, but stops before letting go. He grins, uses the hat to whack himself in the head, then tosses it into the flames.

Good times.

The Hardest Choice of All

I don't know how I got the money. Saving up from allowances maybe. Hard to recall that detail all these decades later.

What I do remember is the decision. The difficult decision, almost impossible to make. Standing between the two rows and having to decide: which will be my first record album.

I'd purchased and received some singles over the years: Popcorn and Last Train to Clarksville and A Cowboy's Work is Never Done among others. But I did not own an LP.

I now had the money but I had to decide, what was it going to be? My tastes were odd, I think, even for the early seventies. The first song I taped off the radio onto cassette was Also Sprach Zarathustra, Deodato's jazzy version of the theme from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Later recordings on that same cassette included themes from TV shows (such as The Time Tunnel) recorded by shoving the microphone up to the television speaker. Yes, my preference for film & tv scores manifested early.

But in the aisles of Richman-Gordman that day, I knew nothing of soundtrack albums, just the pop records filling the bins. So I had to choose. I wanted an album that contained songs I knew, and I had it narrowed down to two artists: The Carpenters or Olivia Newton John.

I still recall moving back and forth between them, checking out the contents of the records, trying to decide, trying to decide. I loved Have You Never Been Mellow and Please Mister Please and Olivia was, well, really really cute. But the Carpenters had Close to You and We've Only Just Begun -- and both songs on the SAME record.

I took the albums out of the bins. I gazed into Olivia's eyes, so magical, so inviting. And I bought The Carpenters. And I loved it. For many years, their version of Help! was the only one I knew.

My second LP was probably Westworld, found in a cut-out bin at a discount store. Or it may have been Live and Let Die. Either way, it was movie music. Pop radio had already lost its tenuous grip on me.

I still own that Carpenters LP. I may go drag it out right now.

Ching Ching

She looks at my nose, my hat, my shoes.

She shakes her head.

She jots down some notes.

She lifts my lapel, takes a close look at my gold science club pin, the one I’ve been wearing since high school, how any years ago now?

She’s pretty. High cheekbones, long hair. Not what I expected.

“So what happened here?” she asks me.

She reaches into my pocket, grabs my wallet, starts thumbing through it. No money. I could have sworn I had a couple hundred bucks in there.

She shakes her head. She stares into my eyes. She has green eyes. Not what I expected at all.

“I’m done,” she says, standing. “Tag him and bag him.”

Guess I’m done, too. May as well go toward the light now.