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FLAGZILLA! by RF Brown

Short story published first in the online journal Unlikely Stories Mark V. Link for full text: http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/flagzilla

Muslowski did not vote Clinton for President in 1992.

“Ms. Bullock, if I had U.S.A. citizen papers to show the voting administrator, I would have voted Bush The First. And Reagan The First and Second too.”

Muslowski was, once again, easing his bare elbow over the common chainlink fence. A water hose in his grip spouted like the Navy Memorial Fountain. Bullock was leaning on her garden kneepads and planting heirloom tomato seeds in the musty spring soil. Pacifist that she was, Bullock tolerated Muslowski’s verbal op-eds more than most homeowners on Ganado Street. All told, Muslowski was a good neighbor, just a constant talking one. http://www.unlikelystories.org/content/flagzilla

POETIC AESTHETIC

flash fiction by RF Brown

Poetry reading in a gallery—refined? I didn’t prepare anything, but I dressed well and caught a bus downtown.

In a converted shopfront, tiny canvases barely occupied stark white walls. There was a table on which someone had placed bottle of wine (one) and no corkscrew. A busy woman arranged cookies from a box. Plotting an indirect scheme at the unopened wine, I asked first about the canvases. She pushed her glasses up. “Another group. We’re poetry,” was her tiny prosody.

I loitered in the margins with strangers, all of us shy. When it seemed pertinent, I situated in one of the chairs which were arched in rows facing the front door. A gray-bearded man two chairs parenthetical inclined in my direction. “I’ve never come to one of these thingies,” he said, “but now I’m a poet.”

The woman from the cookies, also the evening’s symposiarch, introduced a young woman from a list. The young woman stood before us. She wore considerable makeup and read free verse from a smartphone she held in front of her face like a mirror. Her poem was about emotional abuse from a despicable man. I was sympathetic to her unhappiness, annoyed she finished each line intoning a question mark. The front door opened behind her, bringing in street noise, cigarette smell, and a man dressed all in denim. He apologized to the room for being a distraction and I missed what befell the scoundrel in the poem.

 Next the bearded man went to the front. From type-written pages he recited a rhyming fable about a wife who forbade guns until the day her house was invaded by immigrants. Many among the audience were incensed. Returning to his chair, he leaned near me again. “That’s the last time I read poetry to a room full of lezzies.”

The symposiarch next asked the be-denimed man to present. He held up a weathered paper pad. In his epic, an order of Buddhists took LSD and fell united into a chasm. Metaphors continued page after scribbled page, but the falling pilgrims never reached the bottom.

I looked to the symposiarch, who looked to her watch, which inspired me look at mine. There would be a bus at the end of the block in minutes. While people continued to fall down a scribbled page, I gravitated to the door. I opened it and felt free. Although behind me l sensed the eyes of every poet analyzing the symbolism of my departure.

MILES AND MILES OF GUTS – by RF Brown

This short story was first published in SPITBALL Literary Baseball Magazine, Fall 2018, No. 83. http://www.spitballmag.com/

[Orlando, FL] Marco Firehydrant Flores tells me another story in third person. “There was this movie on in Flores’ Hotel room, Damn Yankees. Kinda gay, Flores watching a musical, ay? But these baseball players dance pretty good around the locker room. And they sing how you gotta have heart to be a hero? Flores calls bullshit. To be a winner in the bigs, you gotta have inmenso guts. Miles and miles of guts! You know what Flores is saying?”

Flores, veteran catcher and player co-captain for the Orlando Rebels, was not known before as one who spends an away evening up in his room. The roster’s notoriety for subpar baseball is preceded by its reputation as a police lineup of brawlers, boozers and skirt chasers. Tall tales from Firehydrant’s bar-vaulting shenanigans over the years would make Babe Ruth say Guy’s a douchebag.

Today Flores, dressed in cargo shorts and a billowing pink-hibiscus print shirt, welcomes me at the front door of his dignified but disheveled Kissimmee, FL townhouse. He invites me into the family kitchen despite having no memory of this interview being prearranged between the Rebels and Athletis.net. I am assigned to shadow him from home, to practice, to game.

By appearance, Flores had an official Rebels post-game night that probably did not end until a couple of hours before my morning arrival. The orange dyed spikes in his fauxhawk are snarled and his eyes look like a pair of carelessly stuffed duffle bags. His dark beard is fresh and his deodorant is sleeping in. But he vaults over the kitchen counter and pulls a toddler’s crayon drawing from a pile of toys. While Flores talks without interruption, Fauxhawk Jr. runs in and out of our interviewing kitchen like a gerbil. In that child’s neo-expressionist drawing, the figure of a man about Firehydrant’s stout body type might be vomiting into a toilet, or pushing a lawn mower that blows clippings back into his face. Flores sets the paper down on the linoleum near the refrigerator dubbing me the pitcher and the crayoned Basquiat as, “Home plate!”

“This is pitch framing, Flores style,” Flores says. He grabs a catcher’s mitt off the kitchen counter and squats low on the balls of his feet behind the drawing, his imposing butt sticking out. The six four, two hundred fifty pound man really does fold himself to the height and likeness of a firehydrant. Between his hulky thighs the leather mitt appears a half-foot from the floor. His left elbow is hinged to his thigh and his arm swings slow in inches left and right, like the smooth graphing needle on a lie detector. “Just be a low target with soft hands, mano,” he says. “Home in Denver, my pee wee coaches never said framing. They called it catching the ball in the right place. Now, all you reporters want to know about the same mierda Flores’s been doing for years.”

I do not argue with Flores¾­­he hardly gives me the chance to squeak a word in¾but frankly I am assigned here to try and figure out why this year he is remarkably not the same. I am here to find out how a thirty-six-year-old journeyman catcher, with his sixth team in thirteen years, almost single handed has pushed the perennial last Rebels up to first in their division during what was prognosticated to be, yet another, building year.

I am told Orlando sports radio jocks have been merciless to Flores since the day he was traded here about both his defensive performance and offensive output. During the first two years with Orlando, Flores’s numbers ranked at or near bottom of the National League among catchers in Extra Strikes. Yet this year, without an admitted change in his training routine, Flores is doing things better than younger and more ambitious league counterparts¾all things better.

Last year Flores’s total extra called strike statistic was -22. April through June of this year he has already turned 195 borderline pitches into stolen strikes. And Flores’s Lefty O’Doulian late bloom is not only flowering in the crouch. His numbers standing up at the plate this season are also paranormal. His batting average last season was .220. This year he is hitting .358! Last year he hit four home runs. Today, a week before the All-Star break, Firehydrant has gone yard thirty-three times. Did I mention he has been voted an All-Star for the first time in fifteen pro seasons?

Back at Athletis.net in New York, our own team on the baseball desk watched Flores catch in slo-mo, and compared video from last season. We wanted to see just how good he suddenly is at making outside pitches look like strikes. Last year we saw a catcher whose mitt flopped around. His body position changed from pitch to pitch, down on one knee, then moving up high. This year, Flores perches with the stillness of a darter bird, low behind the plate, opening up the range of the strike zone in the umpire’s vision. He makes pitches four or five inches below the zone look like they are right down the middle, as if influencing the trajectory of the ball with flicks of telekinesis. We all agreed, Flores is the best anybody remembered at catching borderline pitches and tricking umpires into thinking they have seen a strike. But how in Hell is he doing it? And why is he doing it so well so late in his professional career?

Sitting on a kitchen stool, I ask him direct, “What’s changed, Marco? It’s no secret most catchers’s knees are shot by thirty-six and they’re on the trailer, either to Triple A or the glue factory.”

“Like I told you, ese, my whole career I just tried to set up in the right position and catch the ball. Then there was this night in April, last of our opening series down in Houston. Rebels lost. Still, in the visitor locker room after there was a big ice tub of Bud Light waiting. Bud Light after showers. Bud Light on the bus. Bud Light on the plane to Orlando. Next day we’re supposed to be at our park for BP at, like, pinche noon. Flores woke up with a hangover that felt like I had ten shitty minutes to live. I was sitting on the toilet and looking through the bathroom cupboard for some Suero. All we had in the house was this medicine my wife gives to Little Flores when his stomach gets the chorros. You know?”

Flores reaches his bowling pin forearm across the kitchen counter and picks up a pudgy plastic bottle that could have been designed from a mold of his coiled body demonstrated a minute earlier. The bottle is half full with a dayglow light blue liquid, a bubble-font label reads Baby-Aid.

“That morning when I chugged one of these Baby-Aid bottles my hangover was gone in five minutes. Then I drove out to the park, on time for BP, and starting hitting lightning bolts. It was loco. When I got under the plate to catch that day, ay, I could make pitches go wherever I wanted them to go, just by thinking about it.”

So, here is a grown man and seasoned baseball player confessing to me, in his palooka lisp, that the secret to his sudden professional awakening is not steroids, growth hormones, or amphetamines but an over-the-counter substance¾his toddler’s blue diarrhea medicine. Do not ask me if it is cheating. I am speechless.

“You say I’m shitting you? Ride out to the ballpark with me, cabrón.”

Firehydrant walks me out to the townhouse driveway and his yellow-on-black Camaro with a child booster seat snugged in the back. He brushes a layer of cracker crumbs off the passenger side and drives me the fourteen miles over to Apalachee Energy Park in the peanut butter smelling racecar.

Holding the steering like the pommel of a saddle in one hand, in the other he holds the Baby-Aid bottle, drawing from it like a moonshine jar. I will leave to your imagination the adherence to speed limit laws and common safety rules exhibited by a millionaire athlete on the Florida expressway. Taxi drivers in Mumbai are probably more courteous. However, toward me, inbetween cutting off short buses and flipping off retirees, Flores is an ever-chatty and entertaining coachman. He regales me with scandalous stories of wild parties at afterhours New York nightclubs I never heard of, and shares off-the-record erotica about women baseball groupies from (of course) times before he was married.

This year Flores’s Sabermetrics are ascending and he’s going to make the All-Star team, but folks are saying has also become a sweeter guy. This is an important part of my story, because the players around him have not given up their off-field carousing or on-field bad attitudes. As our expressway odyssey closes in on the ballpark, I am the one breaking the news about an Orlando Rebels press release emailed this morning. Marco Flores does not know yet he is nominated to receive a Musial Award.

“A musical award?” Flores asks me. “Like Damn Yankees?”

“No, Musial as in baseball legend Stan Musial,” I explain. “It’s an award honoring sportsmanship. Last year they gave one to Lebron when he told that referee during the NBA finals to reverse an out of bounds call so that it went against Lebron’s team.”

“Flores never heard of Stan Musial,” he says. His inky eyebrows shoot up. “Ay, shit. Bros on the team are going to bust my cocos.” Indeed, several inspiring game incidents this season have led to the endangerment of Flores’s cocos.

In May, during a game against the Giants, Flores hit a high drive to deep left field that landed just fair close to the foul line, then bounced into the seats. Third-base umpire, Mike Martinez, ruled the ball foul incorrectly and unreviewably. Firehydrant Flores of previous seasons would have gone ballistic. This year, the new less-combative Firehydrant was heard hurrahing to the inaccurate ump, “Es la vida, Martinez. Flores’ll try it again!” BTW, while Rebels teammates were still scratching their knuckleheads, the next pitch came and Flores hit the ball out to the same spot a foot further inside the line. The ball was called a double on an identical bounce out.

A few weeks later, Flores was playing position when an opposing catcher from the Phillies named Nguyen raced against a long throw from center to home and crashed into Flores protecting the plate. Neither player was injured, but it sure looked like Nguyen had perpetrated an aggressive, deliberate collision. Still he was called safe. During the Rebels frame, Flores came to the plate and was heard saying to Nguyen, now at catcher position, “Don’t worry, hermono. Flores, he’s alright. Let’s both be more careful.” Flores even shook the rival catcher’s hand in a show of voluntary forgiveness. The Philadelphia crowd was impressed. In the Rebels dugout, disapproving teammates booed their own guy.

“I guess your fellow Rebels don’t honor sportsmanship?”

“No mames! Most of them Rebels pendejos probably think good sportsmanship means like not pissing in the visitor’s dugout before a game.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, your reputation has never been to be the Christian Gentleman of the diamond. Until this year.”

“Nope. Never ‘til-,” Flores finished his sentence by tapping his Baby-Aid bottle against the steering wheel. “Yo, you’re right though. This year Flores is telling the ball where to go out of the pitcher’s release. And I’m hitting like a vato¾the man. You know? Ever since I started on the blue hechizo every day, I’ve been feeling like I want to be a friendly dude during games. Flores got no other explanation. I think it’s side effects from drinking this diarrhea shit.”

“But isn’t drinking that blue junk like cheating?” I ask.

“How can it be cheating if it makes me a better dude?”

We arrive at the ballpark three hours before the day’s game. Out on the field Flores and teammates are dressed in Orlando Rebels orange practice unis that remind me of prison jumpsuits. Rebels management is allowing Athletis.net unusual imbedded access to the dugout and player meetings. Maybe management is glad they have a positive story to get out about one of their players.

Out in the bullpen I sit watching Flores drill with Rebels pitchers. Revived from his hangover, he is also a resilient target for mockery from teammates over the Musial Award. Particularly vicious is the other Rebels cocaptain, the long-tenured closing pitcher and white southerner Thatch Bossier. He has a wide, rectangular body like a backstop and a disproportionate small head that’s puny like a Skittle.

“Awww, Flores,” Bossier heckles in a to-the-bayou-born drawl, “make sure they save you name on that trophy, yeah, or police’ll think you some wetback gone stole it. Yeah, ol’ Firehydrant’s fixin’ to have us proud eatin’ them Mexican refried beans at that Musial ‘Ward celebration.”

Being an enlightened liberal New Yorker, I am inclined to indict Bossier and others for their lame, racist jokes, but Flores is just as offensive cracking about white-trash stupidity or calling the African-American players lazy. I gather insensitivity is a quaint fixture in Rebels esprit de corps. All the players participate in taunting each other with homophobic innuendos, pulling asinine pranks on the equipment crew, swearing like Tarantino characters at coaches, and whistling at front office women professionals. They will not mind me printing it¾Rebels are a team of All-Star jerks.

During the game that afternoon against the Cincinnati Reds I sit behind the Rebels in the back of their dugout. From the first Rebels pitch, catcher Flores is supernatural in framing the ball for strikes. He sets up lower than a sea cucumber behind home plate flashing finger signs at the dilettante pitcher for corner sinkers or outside changeups. If the pitches are a few inches or a foot off, it does not matter. Flores grabs everything and holds the balls an extra half-second to get (in the umpire’s eye) called strikes. Any pitch within eyeshot of the plate Flores snaps up like a Venus flytrap. Yet, I can barely see his arm move. His mitt appears to have its own gravitational field. Cincinnati’s best hitters, used to stretching at bats with fouls to drive up depreciation on the starting pitcher’s arm, are out on strikes almost before they realize it.

As for his own at bats, Flores is every bit as freakish. He hits 4-for-5 this day: two doubles, two homers, and the fifth they intentional walk him. At one point, after he jogs through another gauntlet of teammate high fives, ass swats, and Great job, Wetback acclamations I ask him, “How is it you’re bringing that bat to almost every pitch?”

“I ain’t,” he explains, “Flores is bringing the pitch to the bat. All I gotta do is think hard enough about how I want the ball to come in and it does.” He winks at me and leans close. “Blue juice, ese.” Yet, Flores’s contributions on both sides of the plate are not even the headline of the day.

It happens between the 8th and 9th innings. Cincy is losing 2-4, up next for their last three outs, when their Pavarotti-sized manager stomps out for a word with the chief umpire. Soon the rest of the umpires come around home plate, and the Rebels hangdog manager is called into the conference as well. Those of us sitting in the dugout struggle to ascertain what is in dispute. Things get more mysterious when the Reds manager leads the entire umpiring crew out to the Rebels bullpen. During an interminable delay, info finally trickles back the Reds are alleging Thatch Bossier has been seen in possession of binoculars. The implication being that Flores, the sole and unbelievable Rebel hitter of the day, is being aided by his team’s relief pitchers stealing signs from the Reds catcher. However, if Rebels relievers have some illegal, long-distance spying device, no evidence is found. The umpires return to their bases and the ninth inning begins. Guilty or not, Bossier does not appreciate the accusation.

Being brought in to close the game, Bossier pitches a couple of pop-up outs, but seems more concerned with throwing brushbacks than strikes, and unnecessarily walks a batter on balls. The Reds are at their last out of the game when a young pinch hitter named Rahim comes to the plate in his first appearance up from the minors. On the first pitch, Bossier wallops him in the helmet, and Rahim goes down to the dirt. Several angry Reds stalking the mound are held back by Pavarotti and the umpires, but I gather Bossier’s beanball does not sit right with Flores behind home plate either. While the Reds trainers help Rahim off the field, Flores trots out to the mound and has a quarrel with his pitcher. The Reds get to put a pinch runner at first, giving their team two men on with a winning run at the plate. Flores returns to his firehydrant-form squat. What happens next requires some speculation.

According to the Rebels third baseman, there is a silent but contentious flutter of catcher signs and pitcher head shrugs. According to a couple Rebels in the dugout, upon the pitch they swear they hear Flores warning the Reds batter, “Fastball. High-outside.” True or not, the batter takes a high swing and pulls a three-run homer over the left field wall, earning the Reds the lead. The Rebels with their lineup (other than Flores) under-delivering all afternoon end up losing 4-5 to a division rival.

That evening after the game the mood in the Rebels clubhouse is quietly tense. Players still dressed in dirty orange uniforms sit by their lockers silent as piglets-at-the-teat as they sip Bud Lights and listen to their manager’s post-game tantrum. He is a bald relic with the weight of lifelong mediocrity on his declining shoulders. Furious with his team, and perhaps not following the recent comment thread, he screams about how without Flores’s offensive effort, the Rebels would not have scored at all. The players seem to bristle at praise of their teammate. I assume they are sore at Flores over the rumor of him giving over the game in a twisted act of fair play. After the manager is done trying to pull the hair out of his bald head, cocaptain Thatch Bossier tells the team to stay put.

“Y’all, come see for a damn minute!” Bossier orders, and the players sustain their bench loafing and their Bud Light-ing. “We havin’ an emergency only players meetin’. Yeah, some of us been talkin’ ‘bout a certain player, yeah. He been a real angel out there, huh, and guys is sick-sick of it. Helpin’ out the other team? Yeah, this good sport shit got to end. We all shamed the way people talkin’ ‘bout our team.” Bossier points his baseball glove at Flores. “We want ole Firehydrant back, him. If you don’t put up whatever you doin’ that turned you into a lil’ masisi, I’m fixin’ to see we got votes to have you down from cocaptain.”

“Cocaptain?” Flores throws back at Bossier. “Think Flores gives a pinche about that, redneck? Flores is gonna do Flores.”

“Awww, well, then Flores is fixin’ to get scratched as far as our after-game fêtes, yeah. No more rodier ‘round the town, huh, no more poker parties, no more fais-dodo back at the hotel with the putain girls. And you be out-out as my roommate on the road, Wetback? Comprend? So, watch it being too good-good boy, yeah, or you can pass up a good time and go drinkin’ by you self.”

I walk out of the ballpark that night next to Flores. He is dressed again in his pink hibiscus print civvies. I think it is the first time all day I have heard him not talking. Tonight an unusual cool breeze is on the Florida summer air, and the stars remind me that all things are possible in the vast universe. He stands near a trash barrel and lights a cigarette.

“Say it ain’t so, Marco. Did you tell the batter what pitch was coming?”

“Does it matter, ese? If he thought we were cheating, and then we put down their new player with a golpe on the head, that batter was going to get the winning homer somehow. The new Firehydrant stands by what’s fair.”

Watching the flatus of cigarette smoke waft up to the high-pressure sodium lights over the parking lot, it finally clicks for me what really happened in the locker room. Flores is not under threat of being blackballed by his teammates because he caused the loss of a winnable game; they are pissed that his drunkenness on decency is ruining the team’s cultivated bad reputation.

“You’ve got a tough choice, Marco.”

“Ay, keep playing like a champion, or give up the blue bottle so I can win back the respect of my hermonos.” He drops a full bottle of Baby-Aid into the barrel. “That song I was telling you about before, from Damn Yankees? The ballplayers sing how it takes miles of heart to be a vato. But to be a proud loser you gotta have guts too. You know what Flores is saying?”

ATTABOYCHIK (A Tennis Parable) – by RF Brown

[short story first published in Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, XXXII:1, Fall 2014/Winter 2015]

In my estimation, Oz Feldman, may he rot in Hell, is a tall asshole and an over-ranked yutz. Can I beat him in this match? In my judgment, yes, should I be blessed to survive all three sets. The Lord, may he guard my end of the court, knows I’ve beaten every other boy at Chazak Tennis Camp. So, today it’s Oz versus Benji, the last survivors of the sweaty summer’s end tournament. Also the last day of Chazak for me or Oz, ever. The old men don’t allow you back after summer of 11th grade. Why? I don’t know.

People are watching from benches outside the fence, my father and the other camp coaches, all the camp boys. Even Mama, may God protect her, got the afternoon and is standing along the opposite fence in her TJ Maxx uniform. Under her headcovering she’s smiling at me. I can’t remember the last time I saw her doing that. She’s as far away in the park as she can be from Father, may a tree fall on him.

Oz looms over my opposite baseline, the destroying angel with a black kippah and colorless eyes. He has a one hundred-ten foot arm span and a one hundred-ten mile an hour serve. It’s true, because Father measured. As Oz and I warm up the ball the humidity makes wet mittens of my hands around the racket. I’m remembering what Father, may he choke on his tongue, instructs me on how to play Oz. The ugly giant’s all serve. Don’t allow this dull nephilim Oz to drag me at his advantage into set tiebreakers. Prove to Father I’m not afraid of a big-serving bully.

Some camp boy’s gray-bearded grandfather just climbed up into the seat of the chair-umpire.

“Maysters ready? Play!”

May God murder my enemy.

 

I didn’t wake up this morning with a plan to rely on God to win. I heard it raining and I waited awake with my eyes closed willing the rain to stop. Guess what? It worked. Then I listened for an alarm of rap music from my computer tablet. I had a plan to beat Oz. I repeated the plan in my head.

Estimate the course of his serve at first racket contact. Position myself far behind the baseline. Bounce on my sneakers a little. Shift my weight to the incoming ball side. Don’t try too much on his firsts, just block the ball back. Judge the weight of his over-ranked serve. Attempt a short slice to his backhand, low. Imagine hitting it to the serpents Oz has for shoelaces.

I toggled snooze on my tablet when rap came on and listened for my older sister turning off the shower. I told myself to stop plotting the match because too much would make me meshugah in the head. Instead I thought about Jazmine, the girl on the bus and her big pair of black-girl kishkas. I started to jerk off. For a moment, I thought of how Rabbi back in B’nei Mitzvah class used to say, “Zis iz a zin!” I stopped touching myself when I heard my sister, may she broil from rug burn, close her bedroom door. After I got up from bed I made sure the hallway was clear between my bedroom door and our bathroom for getting there only in my underwear. I skipped shaving because Oz Feldman has a narrow line of a beard that outlines his donkey face. It’s a line that makes him look like he’s passing for twenty. When I went back to my bedroom I put on tallit kattan, which is Hebrew for a Gentile undershirt with tzittzit tassels hanging off the corners. I picked a t-shirt to wear over with a design of Drake. Who is Drake? He’s the black-Jewish rapper and someone I hoped black girls on the bus would think under-ranked. I tied on the coolest sneakers there are from TJ Maxx and I sprayed on Midnight Rooster men’s body spray, which Mama agreed to get me for Hanukkah if I promised don’t wear it on Shabbat.

When I went to the kitchen I discovered that Mama left a skillet of blintzes stuffed with quark. What is quark? It’s kosher type cheese in which we Jews leave out any flavor. In my judgment, Mama should have been in the kitchen on the day of my championship match to make me something better, like she used to. I left all the cold blintzes on a plate for my sister, in case she’s just wicked enough to love the taste of dreck. Only then did I find Mama’s Post-it note left on our kitchen doorpost – May G_d help my boychik hit the yellow ball with all his heart today. Attaboy-chik! Upon review, I ruled I’d been a mean judge toward Mama. Long live Mama! She’s under-ranked.

I knocked on my sister’s bedroom and asked through the door if she could give me money. She said, “Fuck no, Benji,” and I said, “May God be as sweet to you, Bitch!” Back in my bedroom I put a kippah on my head, one with a Red Sox ‘B’ in back, and clipped it to a clump of my curls. In the mirror I judged how much the day’s humidity was making my bristly hair platz out around the kippah. I considered Oz Feldman, may he shake hands with a vise, and how he could probably wrap his long fingers all the way around my skinny neck. Then I wondered if girls think boys who play tennis are sexy, followed by realizing I couldn’t name any famous Jewish tennis stars.

Yesterday, driving me home from tennis camp, Father, may he steer off a cliff, said at seventeen he was horny for Steffi Graf and Chrisy Evert-Lloyd. Being seventeen myself I named Father several girls in pro-tennis I’ve seen on tv who are beautiful. But the girls I named happen to be black girls and Father ignored me like I didn’t say any names at all. I judged right there in the car that Father has chutzpah. In my estimation, only a man with chutzpah would go to the honor of nicknaming himself Great Jewish Philosopher of Tennis, especially if all he knows about tennis is instructing high school boys to play. Said the Great Jewish Philosopher of Tennis, may a yellow ball get lodged in his throat, that when two good tennis players are fairly paired, not strength wins, but reflexive instinct. Father said at Benji versus Oz in the Chazak camp championship I should play like a fox versus a bear in a cage. Do you know what he meant? I didn’t. Then he asked me if I thought my instinct for the subtleties of tennis were strong enough. He asked if I thought I had practiced the right things. But he didn’t wait for me to answer either of those questions. Instead Father kept talking. Said the Great Jewish Philosopher of Tennis, may a bee sting him on the tonsils, that a true tennis champion is master of reflexes, learning to repeat the correct techniques correctly time after time. I wondered if it’s honest for me to love the advice and hate the advisor. Then Father said what works in tennis is the same as in life with our religious rituals, that repetition itself defeats distractions.

This morning I looked on my dresser at the blue, velvet bag containing my tefillin – tiny handwritten pieces of Torah in two small, black boxes. I’m expected to tie the boxes to my arm and forehead every day. Tefillah were a gift from my parents, both of them, on my Bar Mitzvah. Guess what? I skipped strapping on black boxes and reciting Shema this morning, just like most mornings this summer. I didn’t do tefillin, which is bullshit, just to make parents happy, like I did when Father still lived at home. Instead I ruled that repeating an over-ranked blessing doesn’t do bubkes. God, like a chair-umpire in tennis, takes no side between me and my enemies. I decided instead to keep calling my own shots. When my sister went back into the bathroom, I went into her bedroom. On her bureau was a pink charity box she made when she was little in Hebrew school. I stole change for McDonald’s breakfast and left our apartment.

 

I shoved an empty sausage McGriddle box in my tennis bag. Yes, every Jew already knows that McGriddle is forbidden treyf, but this morning I called it good. I then used the tennis bag to block the aisle side of my bus bench. I pulled out my tablet on which I had an email that the new issue of Black-lete Sports Magazine was up for me to read during the bus ride.

Everyday this summer my bus to Chazak stopped at West Boston Boulevard where a facacta lady named Cynthia got on. All of us on the bus had to wait the rest of our lives while Cynthia paid her bus fare in small change.

“Hello, Benny!” Cynthia said, excited like she hadn’t seen me for ten years instead of a day. Her crazy hand wiggled like her plastic rain bonnet in the wind. Have I made it clear that I had previously ruled there would be no more rain today? I waved back barely in Cynthia’s direction making it clear to her I was concentrating on a post in Black-lete. Cynthia sat her fat tochis in an empty bench across from me and pulled out her leather-bound Bible. “I like that you’ve been riding my bus every day, Benny.” A couple weeks earlier she introduced herself, without me ever asking. That day I felt sorry for her and surrendered Benji, but she heard it wrong. No point in ever trying to fix her. She took off her rain bonnet and wrapped gray hair pigtails around her craggy neck. “A boy at the T-stop stole my bus pass, Benny. He looked Chinese.” As I’ve mentioned, I judged Cynthia to have been facacta and weird. She smelled moldy, like the boiler room of my apartment building. She had a thin nose like a butter knife and she wore big, lepish glasses that made it look like I was seeing her eyes through a microscope. “My daddy gave me a roll of nickels to pay the bus driver, Benny. Last night I prayed to Jesus to forgive the Chinese boy.”

“So, good for you.” Why did I say anything at all? I don’t know.

“You’re a sweet-pea, Benny. In my prayers I told God you stare at big-booby black girls on your computer. My daddy says white boys should only date white girls. I like that smell of perfume you wear everyday, Benny.”

I happened to be studying a picture of black women volleyball athletes in sexy sports-bras. “My parents instruct me only date Jewish girls,” I said.

“Jesus was Jewish,” Cynthia said.

“So, good for Jesus.”

The bus stopped in front of the pawnshop on Washington Avenue. Beautiful Jazmine and her two girlfriends stepped on, all of them black, and making a head-turning racket down the middle of the bus. The three of them wore matching, red, collared-shirt uniforms everyday, some office supply store logo on their left tits. I had never overheard names of the other two, just Jazmine. I judged the girls to be loud, mean and fucking gorgeous. Two of them bounced down in the bench behind Cynthia. In the bench behind me, Jazmine put her sneakers up and lounged against the window. Her red shirt collar stood up to her gold hoop earrings and she held her phone so close to her face she swabbed the surface with her long eyelashes.

“Hey, Skinny Jewish Boy,” one of twosome called out. She could only have been asking me, “Don’t your mother feed you? You look like my toothbrush is wearing a yamaha.”

“What do you know about wearing Drake on your shirt, Boy?” the other girl teased. “Hasn’t nobody told Jewish people yet that Drake is gay? You must be gay!” Her benchmate almost toyted-over it was so hilarious.

“Don’t be mean, girl,” the second one laughed. “Maybe Jewish Boy’s not gay. I mean, everyday he sits in the seat across from his retarded girlfriend.” Cynthia just sat smiling and pressing her gigantic eyeglasses against the words of her Bible.

“Hey, Old White Lady, have you and your Jewish boyfriend done the nasty yet?”

“Girl, I bet these two want to have a threesome with Drake in between!”

Maybe Cynthia was happy being an oblivious, Bible memorizing idiot, but the two sexy anti-Semitic girls pissed me off. I turned around in my bench at them and shouted back, “May you both fall in the ocean and float away on your big, black tits!” This riled those two girls up, but not Jazmine.

Never looking up from her phone, Jazmine said her first indirect words to me, ever. “You three all just shut up, please. Let’s not have a race riot here on the freaking city bus.” Jazmine’s friends followed her orders and made less loud gossip of people. Then Jazmine said to me, “If it matters, I doubt Drake is gay, McGriddle.” She estimated me confused and pointed over the back of my bench at the empty breakfast box, which was poking out of my tennis bag. “Just ignore those two hookers, but be careful what you say about a black girl’s boobs. We take them seriously.”

I judged Jazmine’s advice to be good, but couldn’t think of what to say back. Was it a miracle of God that she kept talking to me?

“I’ve seen you before on the bus with your tennis racket. You play every day?”

“Everyday in summer,” I answered. “Camp Chazak.”

“Oh, boy, I could never learn to play tennis there because I could never learn to pronounce it.”

I laughed a little. “You could never play tennis at Chazak because they only allow boys.”

“Excuse me on your religion, but that’s old fashioned and fucked up.”

May God bless Jazmine. She’s so pretty. “You’re judgment is accurate on that,” I said.

“You any good at tennis?” she asked me, also texting on her phone.

“Playing the summer championship today. I’m best at it.”

“Okay, Boy,” she said, “don’t be too all that, now.”

Don’t misjudge me. I meant to tell Jazmine that tennis is the best thing I can do. It’s the one thing I judge myself to be opposite a klutz. I’m told that back in the good old days my father was a teenage tennis champion as well as the top student in his class at Greater Boston Modern Orthodox Day School. Who did I hear that from? My father, of course, and he doesn’t let people forget. In the worse new days, at the exact same school, I’m not on the top of anything. But, at tennis camp? Almost no one can beat me, and I’m not letting you forget either. Tennis is the thing about which I give a shit that certain people such as my father are impressed.

Jazmine stared out the bus window and I stared at her soft looking neck, perfect as the pumpernickel my Mama used to make.

“So, where do go in your life to meet Jewish girls, McGriddle?”

“Oh, they allow girls in Post B’nei Mitzvah Club. We meet on Kosher Taco Tuesdays.”

“That’s the girls you date?” Jazmine’s huge brown eyes stared straight at me. “Which ever ones show up on Taco Tuesday?”

Was Jazmine making fun of me in a more professional way?

“Come on now, McGriddle.” Her fingers summoned me. “This bus is moving slower than my grandma walks. I need some boring conversation. Talk to me.”

“So far I haven’t been on many dates.” Don’t ask me why I volunteered such an embarrassing fact to Jazmine because I don’t know. Upon review, I suppose she made me feel okay telling her anything, instead of feeling like an asshole. “I’ve never been on a date with an African-American girl.”

“You don’t like black girls?”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” I said. “I don’t judge. Like when my Father was backhand drilling me yesterday, he’s also one of our tennis camp coaches, a couple of really pretty African-American girls were walking through the park along the court. My father noticed me noticing them instead of paying attention to his drills. He said his son should forget coming to like svartza girls.”

“Svartsa? That word sounds like I don’t want to hear what it means.”

“My Father said he thinks it’s okay to friends with you, but he’ll never give blessing to marry one.”

“Excuse me. If you want to marry a black girl, how are your parents going to stop you?”

“It’s just not done. Which I rule ridiculous, because my Father’s the most over-ranked role model of halahkah.”

“Okay, beg your pardon?”

“Halahkah means, like, religious way of life,” I explained. “In addition to being all knowing about tennis, my father talks like he’s a professional on the practice of all religious rituals. Meanwhile, last year he moved to a different house and he has his own blonde lady now, who he says is half-Jewish.”

“You got a mom?”

“I got one. She used to stay home. Do you know a guy named TJ Maxx? Now she takes care of him all day. Mama says my father met his blonde half-shiksa when he was still living with us. My father tells me and my sister, no, he didn’t meet her until after he moved out. He says he tried to get my Mama to stay on her medicine and stop being negative all the time. He says sure, a man honors his wife by keeping her happy, but not so much that he has to always be depressed. And, under halahkah, the wife’s not divorced until the husband is nice enough to give her a piece of paper that says You are hereby free of me. Father says he already gives Mama all his his money and she just wants to take away his children, to punish him for wanting to end their marriage in which she refused to be happy. In my judgment, Mama is sadder now. She says my father’s being a bully. She’s taking him to religious court, but in my estimation the odds are against whatever she wants, Jewish law seems like an even bigger bully. I say mazel tov to my father’s new happiness and his over-ranked half-shiksa. May they be buried alive together.

Jazmine nodded her head. “If we’re keeping it real, McGriddle, I’d say the same thing to my mom. Mine used to beat up on me every time she was drinking. Then, when I got big enough to kick her ass back, she started beating up on my little brother. Finally, I was just like, bye, we’re leaving. I took my brother and we went to my grandma’s house for good. The other day my mom text me, ‘You have to come back, Jazmine, because I say.’ I told her, ‘Hell no.’ She can’t make me do anything. You know, last Sunday in my grandma’s church, the pastor was talking about David and Goliath. I heard that story about a million times growing up, but I realized Sunday they’ve been telling it wrong.”

“What’s to get wrong? The kid kills the giant with one smooth rock served out of his sling. Then David cuts Goliath’s head off, and all the Jews learn God will always protect them from their enemies.”

“That’s like what they always taught me in Sunday School too, McGriddle, but I started thinking David and Goliath means something else.”

“The Bible says it right here in First Samuel,” Cynthia chimed in across the aisle. She was already on the exact page. Maybe I was wrong and Cynthia was hearing everything people were saying. She followed the scripture with her pointy witch nose and read it loud enough for the whole busful to hear. “The Lord, who delivered me out of the paw of the lion and out of the paw of the bear, will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine, Goliath.”

“I guess your girlfriend knows her Bible,” Jazmine said.

“Then you should guess again,” I argued, “because she’s not my girlfriend,”

“Come on, McGriddle, I’m just joking with you.” Jazmine’s smile was so sweet, but I untrusted her a little. “Besides, we’re friends now.”

“What do you mean David and Goliath means something else?” This was me defending Jewish tradition. Imagine.

“I’m just saying, when you think about it, why was David so gung-ho to step up and take on Goliath?”

Cynthia read aloud, “I will go and fight with this uncircumcised Philistine, who hath taunted and defied the armies of the living God. Then, Benny, To the man who kills this giant, the king will give his daughter in marriage and make his house free of taxes in Israel. That’s what the white Bible says.”

Jazmine rolled her priceless eyes. “There aint no white Bible and black Bible, Lady.” Then she turned back to me. “Goliath was talking trash about the Israelite’s army, right? He’s all – Come try it David, I’ll tear you up and feed you to chickens. But then it turns out Goliath’s really just slow and stupid. I mean, he stands there while David kills him with one rock. Sitting there, bored, in church I started thinking maybe David was the only one who saw something about Goliath that wasn’t so scary. Same as I saw with my mom. She drinks and beats up my brother, but beating on her children doesn’t make her strong. It’s her weakness. I’m not going to let her hit us anymore. Once you take away her beating people up, she’s got no powers left.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said, my faith in Jazmine returning, “but say it again, maybe.”

“What I’m saying is maybe David was so freaking brave because he figured out the giant wasn’t really all that. Maybe he figured out Goliath was all talk and David was going to get the girl and the money. Maybe Goliaths are only Goliath because people keep thinking they are.” Then Jazmine’s nose wrinkled up. “Boy, somebody on this bus smells like a lot of rachet perfume.”

Our bus crossed over the three girl’s last intersection with me. On repetitive reflex Jazmine reached up and pulled the overhead cord for the bell. “This is our stop, hookers. See you tomorrow, McGriddle.”

The three girls stood up and tussled off the bus. I wanted to ask Jazmine exactly how she planned to see me tomorrow. There wasn’t time left to tell her I don’t usually ride the bus on Saturdays, on Shabbat. Also, today was last day of tennis camp. Yes, I’d like her to see me again, but couldn’t think so fast of where or when. See her again? I’d like to will that to happen. Maybe then I’d tell her she’s sexy. I also would tell her how I underestimated how many brilliant things she has to say. Long live Jazmine!

Cynthia’s nose ran across her Bible page and she read out loud, “Do not be slothful in zeal, Benny.”

Maybe Cynthia’s was under-ranked too. Jazmine was already gone.

Do you know Brookline Park? That’s where I got off the bus, where Chazak is. Sure, the sun was hot as Hell but the tennis courts were still wet from overnight rain. Father and another coach got there early with battery-powered puddle blowers. We camp boys followed after them with long squeegees. Soon the gray-bearded amateur umpire proclaimed our green, hard surfaces looked dry enough for play. A bunch of bearded father and grandfather types took positions as shot judges on the court lines. Then the gray umpire clambered up behind the stirrups of the tall chair.

 

Oz Feldman, may he be struck by lightning, and I are now hitting the little yellow ball back and forth, the mandatory ten-minute warm up. More people are here today watching me play than ever before. What’s more nervous making than possibly losing is going down the drain while all the world watches, coaches, other boys, parents, my parents. I’d still like to beat this white-eyed creep Oz, but the watchers make me feel suddenly less sure. By all sense Oz is a better tennis player. I can’t hit the ball over him, he’s too tall. I can’t hit the ball past him, he only needs one or two steps to cover the whole court. His giant serve helps him win a lot of free points. Plus he has a better angle and can fire the ball flat over the net, direct past me.

I hate to pray to God for help, and, as much as I hate listening to my father, his damn advice is the best. Don’t be intimidated, Oz is over-ranked. Serve into his body to jam him up. Remember Oz is better at overwhelming opponents with speed on the ball than he is at placing the ball. He lacks precision for the lines. I must use topspin to make the ball dip down to his feet. Wrong-foot him. He’s slower than sour cream. Trap him into changing direction, against momentum. Move him up the court with drop shots. Slice him. Reduce him to what he really is, a big yutz clomping after my sexy, short angles. Sure, I’m not as tall, but I have my own moves.

And, said the Great Jewish Philosopher of Tennis, don’t lose to the watchers. Father’s accurate about that. I estimate fifty percent of these people are praying I flop. Ignore such distractions. Ignore strangers walking dogs through the park, a noisy lawnmower, a helicopter, bugs, little kids roller skating on empty courts, the sun, humidity, shvits dripping into my eyes, hunger, thirst, white lines still slippery after the rain. Still, what Father never taught me is how to turn off the biggest distraction, the voice of a man inside my head always judging, always asking, What if you can’t get to Oz’s serves? What if you choke on every one of your own serves and keep double faulting? Have you ever tried to not think about something? Part of me has to think about what not to think of in order to remember what not to think about. Maybe a true tennis champion knows how, under pressure, to not think at all.

Off the old chair-umpire’s coin toss, Oz gets first service privilege. Of course his first serve is a mortar, and not where anyone else would put it, to my forehand! Plus there’s a crazy inside slice. Probably over a hundred miles per hour. My feet don’t think that fast. I jump left while planting my right sneaker at the same time, and my foot slides on the wet, white line. Then my right knee cocks in and twists as I go down. Where did I land? On the green asphalt, where else, with the inside of my knee.

I roll onto my back and grab my God damn knee. Lying there I cry for the worst pain in the history suffering. For a moment I want to ask God for mercy, but remember how I didn’t tefellin this morning? That’s right, I didn’t say Shema because tefellin is supposed be bullshit. This twisting of my knee is God’s kareth, his penalty for thinking I can do it myself when it was made clear I should reflexively repeat. Today I have underestimated the conditions of God and slippery white lines. When I close my eyes I see nothing but pain. I Shema outloud, “Love the Lord your God with all your soul and might! These words I command you today shall be upon your heart!”

Praying with my eyes shut, I sense a shadow between me and the sun, a shadow dark as the ninth plague of Egypt. When I open my eyes I see the shadow is cast by a leaning skyscraper who has a forehead broad as the Wailing Wall, and a gargoyle face with the thin beard of young rabbi. His dangling shirt tzittzits point towards me on ground. Oz Feldman has rushed to my side from the other end of court, his white, devil eyes full of me. He got over here before the alterkocker umpire, may his dry-court proclaiming bones crumble, and before Father or even Mama.

I can’t stand up on my twisted knee, but Oz bends over like a drawbridge, stretching one giant arm under my neck, the other under my knees, and holds them safe together. Then he lifts my whole body in his arms and carries me like the smooth stone in David’s sling. Yes, Oz Feldman, may no shame come to him, carries me from the green asphalt to outside the fence. There he lies me down across the sideline bench, out of harm’s way. Long live Oz! Today it’s God who is my enemy. Oz Feldman is such a big asshole, he’s been easy to underestimate.

MERRILY HE ROLLS ALONG – excerpt

‘Merrily He Rolls Along’ by RF Brown is a complete novel in manuscript. Anybody want to publish? Rep? Here is an excerpt from novelette #2:

Musical Comedy 2: THAT GREAT COME AND GET IT DAY

[Performed in two acts. Inspired by the Broadway musicals of E.Y. Harburg from 1937 to 1957]

ACT ONE

The curtain rises on the drop of Times Square, New York City, a daytime scene, summer of 1994. Downstage are interior sets of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment (stage left) and Murray Hill job placement office (stage right).

(music in, ‘THAT GREAT COME AND GET IT DAY’ from Finian’s Rainbow) 

ALL THE CITIZENS OF NEW YORK CITY (singing) ON THAT GREAT COME AND GET IT DAY / I’LL GET MY GAL THAT CALICO GOWN / I’LL GET MY MULE THAT ACRE OF GROUN’ / THE EARTH BENEATH YOUR PLOW IS A-BUDDIN’ GLORY TIME’S COMIN’ FOR TO STAY

The cat up on the Times Square billboard is dressed only in her unmentionables. Dick stares at her in odd reverie. She is bigger than Dick’s mother’s entire house back in Connecticut and he is a grown man only the weight of a schoolgirl. Standing still on the Broadway sidewalk, he crams his hands in the pockets of his suit so to not get clobbered by the army of pedestrians in t-shirts. It is a tropical day in the city and Dick’s black feathers of hair constrict into seaweed. The catlady on the billboard is crawling over a snowdrift in a white, frosted forest. Her brassiere is made from feline pelt, as is the bikini on her jutting hip. A kinky tail spirals from her furry underpants. Maybe the corporate billboarders plotted some exotic fantasy to possess Dick, but their snow job is a flop with him. Under the catlady another smaller billboard reads Bloomer Girl- The Musical Revival.

New York City, New York is a colony of eight million flashing messages, and Times Square is the national gateway for confusion. Dick cannot size a wrench on what has gone wrong with this once wonderful place he has admired, from far away and up close, all of his twenty-four years. He is not ashamed to tell the catlady just what he thinks, “Gee whiz, I think a lady ought to show some class, you know?” The catlady does not answer back or break from her steamy character.

Dick crosses Broadway at 51 Street and guards with his hand the red carnation in his buttonhole against the crush of tourists. The sidewalk looks like the import fair at Bloomingdale’s with a thousand international products. Some faces are nervous, others seem amazed or even mental. The sidewalk parts like a grand drape as pedestrians step aside for an instant performance. Five youngsters costumed as separate mechanical gears organize into one complex, dancing robot. Nearby a hobo lies prostrate on the curb, ignored. Above the body of the hobo is a kingsize display of a fairy-like little boy blowing pixie dust over the hobo and the oblivious robot spectators. The ferry’s blue eyes and gentle black hair curls remind Dick of how he must have to looked to adults in his own magic childhood, not so long ago.

Whenever Dick goes on his dopey detours among the horde in Times Square he sees the human species accelerating. Folks down here are evolving faster than the New Yorkers Dick knows uptown at Knickerbocker College. Down here they are shrewder. Their skin pigments form a rainbow. Dick is a short man no matter where he travels, but in Times Square even little kids are taller.

Dick’s neck sweats in the wide apertures of sunglare between buildings, but it is alternately cold within the sharp shadows from construction overhead. He pulls the sides of his suitjacket together against sudden wind whirling through the canyon of skyscrapers. The wind blows the smells of kabob cart propane, overstuffed garbage cans and Bonwit’s perfume sample. He listens. The underscore is idling truck engines, a chorus of tourists cheering, “Get a snapshot of it!” and an old, buzzed shoeshiner at his antique pedestal trumpeting, “We take credit cards!”

Dick strolls by where the automat was at Broadway and 46. He remembers once the place was called World’s Friendliest Food. On childhood theater excursions into the city his auntie took him there to eat after the shows. He would get a grilled cheese sandwich with hot cocoa. His auntie, who was a librarian back in central Connecticut, would bring a split size bottle of fino sherry in her purse because that is what she read Hart Crane drank all night here while he was sitting in a booth and writing the lyrical poems of White Buildings. Today World’s Friendliest Food has the brand name of a national Mexican cantina. From a certain angle on the sidewalk Dick can still see the handle of the giant metal coffee cup-and-saucer sign that pumped realistic steam from hot looking imaginary java. The steam is turned off now and over the rest of the old sign they have draped a wide plastic canvas that reads: $15 Fiesta Del Tamale!

At 44 Street Dick walks under the famous neon sign of the Hotel Longacre. He just read in a backnumber of Look magazine at the New York Public Library about a once famous actor with a lady-killing mustache who snuck his underage male escort up to a suite. The scene was a career ending scandal for both of them when the boyfriend was found cold on a drug overdose. Mister Longacre must have had a crystal ball view of crummy hotel occupancy years when he leased an entire side of their building to a permanent mural, which declares walnuts the fun subway crunch.

“In my book, New York City is a kingsize walnut!” Dick tells the mural out loud. “I see a hard wrinkled shell on the outside that you need a special tool or thingamajig to crack. Even when you make it to the nut, it’s so chewy you can’t ever swallow it. I know, National Board of Walnut Farmers,” Dick says. “I know because I’m a trained dramaturge trying to squish out a living here in New York City, New York.” There is no reply from the mural or the Walnut Farmers who underwrote the message.

Dick almost did not recognize the façade of the old Pompey Theatre on 41 Street. His auntie brought him here to see his first musical on Broadway when he was ten years old. The Pompey Theatre still stands, six stories of limestone in Corinthian architecture. Back then there were yellow marble columns and bronze capitals holding a sculpture of theatrical masks, flowered wreaths, and ribboned scrolls. Today the theater’s old face is obscured by a wall of spinning electronic signs. Dick sees crazy and looping images of endless energy-happy dancers from whatever new show is running. If his auntie were here she would say it’s like a vodou mambo’s nightmare. The theater’s name has been sold to a bigtime corporation. Now they expect a busy generation to call it the Connecticut Life and Accident Insurance New Pompey Theatre. Now tourists bring their children to the theater to see the Broadway musical version of the movie that was playing last year at Twin Cinemas.

Dick stands near the corner outside the Pompey. He can still see, if only in two dimensions, much of Her original face behind the mask of animated signs. He asks Her outloud, “Tell me something, oh great Pompey Theatre, as man evolves from monkey does theater wink out of existence?” The theater does not answer. Dick raises his hand in a gesture he learned as a kid at summer camp– thumb and two first fingers extended with third and fourth fingers closed– and recites a pledge aloud from the sidewalk. “Oh, Dear Pompey, forgotten gentlelady of Broadway, today I must temporarily mix up the plan for my life, not because I’m trying to deal around my promise to make it as a dramaturge. My roommates tell me I’m a flop so far and I have to go start earning some dough. Still, I pledge my loyalty. I won’t forget all the good, first rate things you symbolize. That’s why I raise my hand and swear my oath to you. Gee, I’m sure you don’t even remember my name, Pompey, but someday soon I know you will. I swear that not in words, or songs will I ever fail you or even come off crosseyed. I will tell the truth and always find my way back to you without a moral pimple on me. Gloriosky, when I make a pledge, Pompey, it’s the same as corked and wrapped. So long for today, Auntie Pompey. Long live the broad way of life!”

When he talks to buildings, Dick knows tourists of Times Square probably think he is a kook, but kooks probably are what a lot of tourists come all the way to see. He remembers something from a class at Knickerbocker College, Theatre and Surrealistic Theory Seminar 3025: logic is a guillotine that chops the head off a guy’s creativity. Just then a lady wearing goony sunglasses made to look like Mickey Mouse ears over her eyes tosses two dollar bills at Dick’s self-polished shoes.

A theatrical dramaturge like Dick could spend a bundle of time, or all his life, studying the sciences of tragedy and comedy. Opportunities to participate in his craft are limited. New York City is the worldwide headquarters of the theater, but some who work behind the curtains say competition to work is fixed by the musical-comedy cartel, the walnut crackers. Even if a theatrical artist’s only wish is to bring joy and wonder to the world, he may as well get busy doing something else. Dick spends most of his energy not playing his instrument, but securing a means of financial support. Recently separated from his wetnurse called Knickerbocker College, he will have to take on some temporary detail to underwrite his theatrical gifts, gigs that are unlikely to stimulate his creative process or employ his artistic talents.

If the truth be known, Dick no longer has the nerve for treading the theater boards himself. Although he came up as one of the new faces of central Connecticut in acting, singing, and dance, he never got square with public adulation. The adult Dick has no desire toward performing before an audience. He both loves applause and fears it. Three months ago he graduated cum duly, class of 1994, earning an undergraduate baccalaureate in Dramaturgy and Theatrical Theory. His post-collegium plan is to finally shine past his reputation as the boy with nectarine cheeks and licorice whip hair, to think out how to get recognized for something important, something. Dick knows they do not hand out Tony Awards for seeing musicals from rush seats or standing in line all night for free Shakespeare in the Park. Yet, certainly someone in this capital city of talent will take notice of Dick’s ear for a dynamite score or keen eye for the next Oklahoma. If the truth be known, he might maybe someday lead an artistic revolution in musical theater.

Lights up, interior set of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment, stage left

“Revolution, my Jew-lessie ass!” Teddi reminds Dick later that day back at their flat. Teddi is one of Dick’s roommates and his closest chum from Knickerbocker College. She is also a force of nature, most wisely from which one should flee. Her tidal wave of frizzy hair is permanent-temporarily compressed in the middle by a men’s black kippah she insisted wearing on her batmitzvah, despite the Conservative broyges of her temple, and has worn every day for years since, even today in the shower.

“You want everybody to think you subscribe to the acting techniques of Stella Adler, Dickie!” Teddi lectures from behind the curtain of the bathtub in their Hell’s Kitchen kitchen. “You’re trapped in Strasberg’s paternalistic method of channeling affected memory. Adler demands we live in the organic moment! Confront it, Dickie, you’re Strasbergian!”

Perhaps Teddi is not just saying. Dick remembers there was a ton of stuff in college about progressing past the male dominance of Strasberg and his group. Today Dick feels like he really knows where old, grumpy Strasberg was coming from. He could probably write a one man show about being forced to act like the father figure in this apartment. The theory of a twenty-four year old fresh undergraduate finding a paid dramaturge gig in New York City theater is beginning to look irresponsible in practice, even to person with childlike optimism such as Dick.

AT HOME WITH WOLVES AND LAMBS short story by R F Brown

“They should send all those sidewinders back to the desert,” Dad looked up from his Pennysaver to proclaim.

“And I should exchange you for Paul Newman,” Mom volleyed back across the kitchen. In my chair at our little kitchen dinner table I might have looked like a dispassionate referee on the sideline of my parent’s argument, but my quietness belied a history of unpredicted angry outbursts. Although that night I didn’t snarl into their fray which I recall was over a simple report from Mom about the new family in our neighborhood joining the summer car pool. She was standing up next to her electric drip coffee maker in a vain effort to hover above Dad with rational thought. “The Siarmanjanis are exiles from Iran,” Mom defended them. “Nobody in PTA seems to know the whole story.”

link to complete PDF: athomewolveslambs.rfbrown.web

“I Can Jump” by R F Brown published in Sucker Literary Magazine

My short story “I Can Jump” was published today in the first edition of the new literary journal Sucker. Some friends may recognize elements of this piece from a manuscript I started like 10 years ago. Let me know what you think about the journal and about my piece. It’ okay to hate it too. I’m not a wilting hot-house flower.

Sucker Literary Magazine | Showcasing new and undiscovered writers for young adults.

It’s like a 115 page PDF, so it can be read online or printed.

I’m told there isn’t another journal out there right now for edgy YA fiction. It’s not even my fiction area actually, but it’s an exciting outlet for writers working in the genre and looking for a place to submit.