Challenging, time-consuming, imperfect, irritating, tedious, under-appreciated, trivialized, exasperating, unfathomable, impossible -- creative writing places the dreaded blank page in front of me, every morning for the daily rite, every day for Agnes's story, every week for Aaron's tale.
Fifteen minutes later, the warm-up has passed and I'm off and running.
Enriching, illuminating, beauteous, edifying, symmetrical, expressive, funny, touching, sad, revealing -- creative writing tells me why I breathe and why my heart keeps on beating.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
My stomach
I shed my clothes and get into bed.
It begins with the urge to burp and an off-hand thought, must be that scotch and soda. And then a little pressure in the tummy and a reminder, I ate too much of Judy’s leg of lamb for dinner. I feel the rush of air hit the top of my throat and think, oh it’s silly, this just happened two nights ago. And my stomach gurgles and then I fart – oh, that’s all it was, a little gas from the oversteamed broccoli.
But the urge to burp gets heavier, the pressure in my tummy expands, the air on the top of my throat comes too frequently, and the stomach gurgles one too many times. I put my shorts back on, afraid that a fart will turn into a shart. Ten minutes pass, another twenty, and then an hour. It continues in five-minute waves. My heart races into the cardio zone, but it comes back and then goes up again. I put the plastic waste basket, I lift the sheets off my tummy, too sensitive for even a light cotton sheet.
And then Camille comes into the bedroom, turns off the lights and turns up the air conditioning, just like she’s done every night since I moved home from San Francisco.
I get up and take the waste basket into the den, lie down on the sofa, look out the hallway at the bathroom. I flush the toilet because I don’t want to throw up into urine. I want it to come, I want to purge myself of this two-hour anticipation of bile and acid.
But it does not come until 5:30 when the sun begins its rise over the ocean. And then I crawl into bed next to Camille, certain not to disturb her because she yells at me if I wake her up. I catch two hours of sleep before I rise for work. And then I perform some mathematics, adding one to the endless count of nausea nights that have occurred since I moved home from San Francisco.
It begins with the urge to burp and an off-hand thought, must be that scotch and soda. And then a little pressure in the tummy and a reminder, I ate too much of Judy’s leg of lamb for dinner. I feel the rush of air hit the top of my throat and think, oh it’s silly, this just happened two nights ago. And my stomach gurgles and then I fart – oh, that’s all it was, a little gas from the oversteamed broccoli.
But the urge to burp gets heavier, the pressure in my tummy expands, the air on the top of my throat comes too frequently, and the stomach gurgles one too many times. I put my shorts back on, afraid that a fart will turn into a shart. Ten minutes pass, another twenty, and then an hour. It continues in five-minute waves. My heart races into the cardio zone, but it comes back and then goes up again. I put the plastic waste basket, I lift the sheets off my tummy, too sensitive for even a light cotton sheet.
And then Camille comes into the bedroom, turns off the lights and turns up the air conditioning, just like she’s done every night since I moved home from San Francisco.
I get up and take the waste basket into the den, lie down on the sofa, look out the hallway at the bathroom. I flush the toilet because I don’t want to throw up into urine. I want it to come, I want to purge myself of this two-hour anticipation of bile and acid.
But it does not come until 5:30 when the sun begins its rise over the ocean. And then I crawl into bed next to Camille, certain not to disturb her because she yells at me if I wake her up. I catch two hours of sleep before I rise for work. And then I perform some mathematics, adding one to the endless count of nausea nights that have occurred since I moved home from San Francisco.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Our suitcases
The train’s whistle blew. Three minutes to navigate Munich’s Hauptbahnhof to Gleis 23. Track 23 of the main train station. A Friday afternoon – everyone was heading to Austria or Switzerland this weekend.
Aaron and fat boy proceeded as if nothing were out of the ordinary – hopefully, no one would notice them, certainly not the Polizei guarding every doorway, every corner. Aaron preferred the black the American police wore to the sinister olive green here. He just knew they’d cart him off to Dachau or someplace … and have their way with his behind. Sex fantasies aside, he avoided them like Facebook surveys.
“Fat boy,” he said, “keep it cool. A few more steps and we’re on the train for Prague.”
They made it into the train, but had to lift their suitcases to make their way down the aisle. Aaron looked at the Reservierung – a private car at the far end. When they got to it, a Czech family of four sat inside. The woman breast-fed her four-year old.
“Gross!” fat boy said under his breath. “Can I have some, Mommy?”
Aaron hoisted his suitcase up to the rack – in the clear. And then fat boy tripped on the Czech father’s foot. His suitcase opened up. Diamond jewels and pine cones sprayed out everywhere. The jig was up.
“Pine cones?” Aaron asked, incredulous. “W. T. F.!”
“I read this fabulous poem this morning …”
Aaron and fat boy proceeded as if nothing were out of the ordinary – hopefully, no one would notice them, certainly not the Polizei guarding every doorway, every corner. Aaron preferred the black the American police wore to the sinister olive green here. He just knew they’d cart him off to Dachau or someplace … and have their way with his behind. Sex fantasies aside, he avoided them like Facebook surveys.
“Fat boy,” he said, “keep it cool. A few more steps and we’re on the train for Prague.”
They made it into the train, but had to lift their suitcases to make their way down the aisle. Aaron looked at the Reservierung – a private car at the far end. When they got to it, a Czech family of four sat inside. The woman breast-fed her four-year old.
“Gross!” fat boy said under his breath. “Can I have some, Mommy?”
Aaron hoisted his suitcase up to the rack – in the clear. And then fat boy tripped on the Czech father’s foot. His suitcase opened up. Diamond jewels and pine cones sprayed out everywhere. The jig was up.
“Pine cones?” Aaron asked, incredulous. “W. T. F.!”
“I read this fabulous poem this morning …”
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
I went to a Walgreen's
Fat boy shuddered when they walked in. “Oh, my god. Everything, absolutely everything, is in here.”
“Keep your toga on, fat boy. It’s just a pharmacy … general store … convenience market …”
“What do they call it, Aaron?”
“They don’t call it anything anymore. Maybe a ‘superstore.’”
“Since we’re here, I need cleansing facial cream and Preparation H.”
“And I need a box of Trojans and a Waterpick.”
“You get your stuff, I’ll get mine.”
“No, you’ll get lost in here. We’d better shop together. Excuse me, ma’am,” Aaron said to the cashier, “where would the condoms be?”
The blank-eyed pasty-pink cashier spoke into the loudspeaker. “Manager to the front, we have a customer who wants condoms.”
Aaron shrank from six feet tall to a little over three. The manager spoke from the back through another loudspeaker. “What kind?”
The cashier stared at Aaron. “Trojans. Lubricated, spermicidal.”
She repeated what he said into the loudspeaker. The manager had an other question. “Small, medium, large, or extra large?”
Aaron grabbed the loudspeaker. “That’s extra large, and if you don’t get your ass off that speaker, I’m going to come over there and personally fuck you with my extra large.”
“Keep your toga on, fat boy. It’s just a pharmacy … general store … convenience market …”
“What do they call it, Aaron?”
“They don’t call it anything anymore. Maybe a ‘superstore.’”
“Since we’re here, I need cleansing facial cream and Preparation H.”
“And I need a box of Trojans and a Waterpick.”
“You get your stuff, I’ll get mine.”
“No, you’ll get lost in here. We’d better shop together. Excuse me, ma’am,” Aaron said to the cashier, “where would the condoms be?”
The blank-eyed pasty-pink cashier spoke into the loudspeaker. “Manager to the front, we have a customer who wants condoms.”
Aaron shrank from six feet tall to a little over three. The manager spoke from the back through another loudspeaker. “What kind?”
The cashier stared at Aaron. “Trojans. Lubricated, spermicidal.”
She repeated what he said into the loudspeaker. The manager had an other question. “Small, medium, large, or extra large?”
Aaron grabbed the loudspeaker. “That’s extra large, and if you don’t get your ass off that speaker, I’m going to come over there and personally fuck you with my extra large.”
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A pressing question
Aunt Wilhelmina gave him a pungent stare and toyed with her pearl necklace.
“I wished you’d tell me why you need to borrow the Mercedes, Aaron. I just don’t believe it’s for buying my birthday present. We’ve got four other cars in the garage. Why this one?”
“But Auntie, I can’t tell you because it’ll spoil the surprise! I won’t be gone all that long, only an hour or so.”
“I won’t have my nephew lying to me,” she said. “I’ll ask you one last time. Why do you need the keys to my Mercedes?”
Aaron made Bewitched’s sign across his nose. “Witch’s honor, Aunt Wilhelmina, I’m telling you the truth!”
She tossed the keys across the dining table to him. “Very well, then. Live with your own conscience, then.”
He darted out to the garage and into the old Mercedes – ’72 was a great year for this car. In truth, he had to get over to Daly City. The time machine had conked out on the way back from Galileo’s excommunication and he’d lost control of it on the Skyline Parkway. Only the Mercedes limousine would be able to tow it to the service station.
Nevertheless, he’d stop at the mall to get Wilhelmina some sort of gift. Ah, yes –jewelry. There was a Zales just off 280. It wasn’t Tiffany’s, but it would do.
“I wished you’d tell me why you need to borrow the Mercedes, Aaron. I just don’t believe it’s for buying my birthday present. We’ve got four other cars in the garage. Why this one?”
“But Auntie, I can’t tell you because it’ll spoil the surprise! I won’t be gone all that long, only an hour or so.”
“I won’t have my nephew lying to me,” she said. “I’ll ask you one last time. Why do you need the keys to my Mercedes?”
Aaron made Bewitched’s sign across his nose. “Witch’s honor, Aunt Wilhelmina, I’m telling you the truth!”
She tossed the keys across the dining table to him. “Very well, then. Live with your own conscience, then.”
He darted out to the garage and into the old Mercedes – ’72 was a great year for this car. In truth, he had to get over to Daly City. The time machine had conked out on the way back from Galileo’s excommunication and he’d lost control of it on the Skyline Parkway. Only the Mercedes limousine would be able to tow it to the service station.
Nevertheless, he’d stop at the mall to get Wilhelmina some sort of gift. Ah, yes –jewelry. There was a Zales just off 280. It wasn’t Tiffany’s, but it would do.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
I have the urge
“As much as I like the eye candy, Peter, let’s go home.”
It’d been a long afternoon at the beach. We’d cruised hundreds of babes, strutted our narrow-waisted Speedos across the beach, and turned down invitation upon invitation to late-afternoon hotel boinks, but I wanted to head back to the condo for a swim in the pool and a glass of wine with my college buddy.
Besides which, he had globe shoulders, washboard abs, thunder pecs, and melon glutes and maybe “just friends” might go by the wayside. Today was turning out to be a man day … babes notwithstanding.
And I had to pee like a racehorse. We passed the Elbow Room, we passed the t-shirt shop, we passed the hamburger joint – customers only, and I didn’t feel like putting on my shirt. I still wanted to strut my stuff for the boys and the girls. Who knew when the wind would swing and it’d be girl day?
So I went into the yogurt shop and asked for the restroom. “Customers only.” I flashed my wallet and she unlocked the door for me. I rushed in and let the oceans of the world flow out … like the end of a war to let go of that. I got my obligatory yogurt – blueberry cheesecake, non-fat, absolutely a w f u l – and noticed the cashier’s curvy hips and balloon breasts.
“$3.28 please.”
“Here’s a fiver, keep the change.”
I gave her my stock look. “Slow afternoon, isn’t it?”
She liked that, so we went back to the bathroom. A very nice twenty minutes. Let’s just say it topped relieving myself. And then I went outside – damn, Peter had left. Must’ve lost patience. Oh, well. Sunset with the globe shoulders would have to wait.
It’d been a long afternoon at the beach. We’d cruised hundreds of babes, strutted our narrow-waisted Speedos across the beach, and turned down invitation upon invitation to late-afternoon hotel boinks, but I wanted to head back to the condo for a swim in the pool and a glass of wine with my college buddy.
Besides which, he had globe shoulders, washboard abs, thunder pecs, and melon glutes and maybe “just friends” might go by the wayside. Today was turning out to be a man day … babes notwithstanding.
And I had to pee like a racehorse. We passed the Elbow Room, we passed the t-shirt shop, we passed the hamburger joint – customers only, and I didn’t feel like putting on my shirt. I still wanted to strut my stuff for the boys and the girls. Who knew when the wind would swing and it’d be girl day?
So I went into the yogurt shop and asked for the restroom. “Customers only.” I flashed my wallet and she unlocked the door for me. I rushed in and let the oceans of the world flow out … like the end of a war to let go of that. I got my obligatory yogurt – blueberry cheesecake, non-fat, absolutely a w f u l – and noticed the cashier’s curvy hips and balloon breasts.
“$3.28 please.”
“Here’s a fiver, keep the change.”
I gave her my stock look. “Slow afternoon, isn’t it?”
She liked that, so we went back to the bathroom. A very nice twenty minutes. Let’s just say it topped relieving myself. And then I went outside – damn, Peter had left. Must’ve lost patience. Oh, well. Sunset with the globe shoulders would have to wait.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Mary Lou walks around her block with a greyhound and a cigarette
Aaron stood in the poop park at the corner of Twin Peaks and Corbett, looking out to the Golden Gate Bridge. A wrinkled old rail of a woman walked by with her dog to poop him, an equally rail thin greyhound. She puffed on a joint and Aaron half expected the dog to take a drag. She wore a pea jacket and red beret and had flood pants on – Aaron saw her sticks of legs underneath.
“Lovely morning,” Aaron said, “you can see the bridge today. Looks like it’ll be a clear day.”
“Who the hell cares? World’s gonna end anyway.” She took a drag on her joint. “Want some?”
One of them – she should be down at Haight Street. People here were more likely to commute down the peninsula in their Audis with double lattes and NPR.
“Not this hour of the day. I had a late night of it, on my way home.”
“One of those. Male or female?”
“I think she was a woman, but it was dark, so I’m not sure.”
“Lovely morning,” Aaron said, “you can see the bridge today. Looks like it’ll be a clear day.”
“Who the hell cares? World’s gonna end anyway.” She took a drag on her joint. “Want some?”
One of them – she should be down at Haight Street. People here were more likely to commute down the peninsula in their Audis with double lattes and NPR.
“Not this hour of the day. I had a late night of it, on my way home.”
“One of those. Male or female?”
“I think she was a woman, but it was dark, so I’m not sure.”
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Someone you remember from high school
“Hey, man, got you a dollar to spare?”
The purple-veined man with the skinny shoulders and pot belly sat on the Polk Street sidewalk. Aaron stepped around him on the way to the Turkish baths, not sure if the baths were worth running this gauntlet.
But something about the vagrant triggered a memory in Aaron. Could it be … nah, no way. Greg Hayward was the strapping quarterback with the globe shoulders, washboard abs, melon glutes, and luscious lips – also the bully who kept dunking Aaron in the deep end of the pool and had all the other swimmers laughing at him, even Leslie Schlosinsky with her lilting Laura Linney looks.
Aaron stopped twenty feet beyond the purple-veined beggar. He turned back and went to take a closer look.
“Hey, you,” Aaron said, pulling out his wallet. “Let me have a closer look at your face.”
The man looked up – sure did look like Greg Hayward, but this was someone else. So Aaron retrieved a twenty from the wallet and put it in his hat, pretending it was Greg. Then he headed to the baths, in the mood for globe shoulders, washboard abs, melon glutes, and luscious lips.
The purple-veined man with the skinny shoulders and pot belly sat on the Polk Street sidewalk. Aaron stepped around him on the way to the Turkish baths, not sure if the baths were worth running this gauntlet.
But something about the vagrant triggered a memory in Aaron. Could it be … nah, no way. Greg Hayward was the strapping quarterback with the globe shoulders, washboard abs, melon glutes, and luscious lips – also the bully who kept dunking Aaron in the deep end of the pool and had all the other swimmers laughing at him, even Leslie Schlosinsky with her lilting Laura Linney looks.
Aaron stopped twenty feet beyond the purple-veined beggar. He turned back and went to take a closer look.
“Hey, you,” Aaron said, pulling out his wallet. “Let me have a closer look at your face.”
The man looked up – sure did look like Greg Hayward, but this was someone else. So Aaron retrieved a twenty from the wallet and put it in his hat, pretending it was Greg. Then he headed to the baths, in the mood for globe shoulders, washboard abs, melon glutes, and luscious lips.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
It took me to another world
They had filet mignon and lobster tails for dinner, so Aaron brushed and flossed his teeth after putting on his pajama bottoms. God, he kept looking sexier and sexier, even with thirty right around the corner. No wonder the boys and girls always said yes. He had nice curves in his torso, great pecs, tight abs, and a nice line of blond hair from his chest down to his belly button.
“Hey,” he said aloud, “time for some nookie. But who …”
It wouldn’t be difficult finding someone for the night, but he should probably decide whether tonight would be male or female. Ah, yes! And then he was off to the time machine.
But not before putting on some warmer clothes. The heating on that damned machine never worked right, especially when he warped through the centuries.
Fog, mist, jumping, coughing, wheezing – the machine made all those noises when he turned the dial all the way to the right. Future, future! He wanted to cross the galaxies, see the cosmos, have sex with a being no one ever had before –
And then he landed in the middle of a disco. All these green creatures with oval heads and big orange eyes danced to the beat of Donna Summer and “The Power of Love.” Then Sylvester came on with “You Make Me Feel Mighty Real.” And the cork popped, everyone took off their heads, and yelled “Happy Halloween!”
Men in their 30s, 40s, and everyone with a close crew cut and a bushy moustache. He’d landed in Cloneville. San Francisco 1978.
He got his wish. He landed in another world. But sex with a different gender, not this time.
“Hey,” he said aloud, “time for some nookie. But who …”
It wouldn’t be difficult finding someone for the night, but he should probably decide whether tonight would be male or female. Ah, yes! And then he was off to the time machine.
But not before putting on some warmer clothes. The heating on that damned machine never worked right, especially when he warped through the centuries.
Fog, mist, jumping, coughing, wheezing – the machine made all those noises when he turned the dial all the way to the right. Future, future! He wanted to cross the galaxies, see the cosmos, have sex with a being no one ever had before –
And then he landed in the middle of a disco. All these green creatures with oval heads and big orange eyes danced to the beat of Donna Summer and “The Power of Love.” Then Sylvester came on with “You Make Me Feel Mighty Real.” And the cork popped, everyone took off their heads, and yelled “Happy Halloween!”
Men in their 30s, 40s, and everyone with a close crew cut and a bushy moustache. He’d landed in Cloneville. San Francisco 1978.
He got his wish. He landed in another world. But sex with a different gender, not this time.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Choose your spot
The sirens and flashing lights swirled in Aaron’s head when the alarm woke him up on Tuesday morning.
“Rise and shine, San Francisco,” Bob Berwin’s voice came through KBSX radio, “another foggy, drizzly day in the Bay Area. Cheer up, folks … August is only eight weeks away.”
That decided him. Off to the garage after breakfast it would be and back to Havana, Cuba, March 1951. A lot better than Miami for winter, and why not?
“Good morning, Aaron,” Aunt Wilhelmina said from the dining room. Four servants were dishing Eggs Benedict, pastries, coffee, and prune juice to her. “Come sit by me.”
Aaron took his seat near her, ten feet away.
“But not quite so close – at the foot of the table will be fine. Jeeves, attend to Mr. Aardvark’s breakfast. Aaron, what have we on our agenda for today, a trip to the Museum of Modern Art, I recall?”
“Aunt Wilhelmina, I’m swamped with school work,” he said. He’d finished his History essay two days ago, but she didn’t know it. He always did well in History. Why not? He got to witness the past first-hand.
An hour later, he took the time machine to Havana ’51. But instead he landed in an Israeli kibbutz. They were doing the hava nagila … that damned time machine never got it right.
“Rise and shine, San Francisco,” Bob Berwin’s voice came through KBSX radio, “another foggy, drizzly day in the Bay Area. Cheer up, folks … August is only eight weeks away.”
That decided him. Off to the garage after breakfast it would be and back to Havana, Cuba, March 1951. A lot better than Miami for winter, and why not?
“Good morning, Aaron,” Aunt Wilhelmina said from the dining room. Four servants were dishing Eggs Benedict, pastries, coffee, and prune juice to her. “Come sit by me.”
Aaron took his seat near her, ten feet away.
“But not quite so close – at the foot of the table will be fine. Jeeves, attend to Mr. Aardvark’s breakfast. Aaron, what have we on our agenda for today, a trip to the Museum of Modern Art, I recall?”
“Aunt Wilhelmina, I’m swamped with school work,” he said. He’d finished his History essay two days ago, but she didn’t know it. He always did well in History. Why not? He got to witness the past first-hand.
An hour later, he took the time machine to Havana ’51. But instead he landed in an Israeli kibbutz. They were doing the hava nagila … that damned time machine never got it right.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Ever hopeful
Aaron tried again and this time he took Fat Boy with him. Nope, he landed back in ’62, another off-by-one error.
“God a’mighty,” Fat Boy said, “Los Angeles is hot.”
“Too much concrete, let’s go to Griffith Park.”
They got an Edsel rental and drove – in heavy traffic – up to the park. It took twenty minutes from the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“A dream, Fat Boy. Do you know how long it’d take to drive this distance on a Friday afternoon in 2012?”
“No idea, my day we didn’t have cars.”
Aaron realized, he didn’t know much about Fat Boy except the violin and Brahms. He didn’t even know when he was born. Could be 1850, could be 1980. No idea. Oh, well, he thought. He’d find out eventually. For now – back to Aunt Wilhelmina’s. He’d try to get back to his childhood – again, for the ninth time. He had some questions to ask his mother.
And he wanted to warn her about Daddy’s driving habits …
“God a’mighty,” Fat Boy said, “Los Angeles is hot.”
“Too much concrete, let’s go to Griffith Park.”
They got an Edsel rental and drove – in heavy traffic – up to the park. It took twenty minutes from the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“A dream, Fat Boy. Do you know how long it’d take to drive this distance on a Friday afternoon in 2012?”
“No idea, my day we didn’t have cars.”
Aaron realized, he didn’t know much about Fat Boy except the violin and Brahms. He didn’t even know when he was born. Could be 1850, could be 1980. No idea. Oh, well, he thought. He’d find out eventually. For now – back to Aunt Wilhelmina’s. He’d try to get back to his childhood – again, for the ninth time. He had some questions to ask his mother.
And he wanted to warn her about Daddy’s driving habits …
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Sunday
What did Aunt Wilhelmina want him to do this morning? Oh, yes – spring the clocks ahead an hour. Twice a year, Aaron could move in time and not bring out that pesky time machine. So he ran around the house changing the clocks. Didn’t understand why one of the servants could do the job.
He jumped out of his skin when he opened the door to the guest room. A mass of pink blubber and curly hair lay in the bed. His violin lay on the dresser.
“Hey, fat boy,” Aaron called out, “what’re you doing in here?”
“I hitched a ride on that machine of yours. You didn’t know I’d stowed away on it, did you?”
“So when do you come from?”
“And when do you come from?”
“I asked first. And you’re sleeping in my aunt’s guest bedroom.”
“Nice digs, buddy.”
“Fat ass, buddy.”
“Your aunt’s a dried-up old prune, Aardvark.”
“Your skin has the tone of dead whale blubber, fat boy.”
I liked him. This was the beginning of a great friendship.
He jumped out of his skin when he opened the door to the guest room. A mass of pink blubber and curly hair lay in the bed. His violin lay on the dresser.
“Hey, fat boy,” Aaron called out, “what’re you doing in here?”
“I hitched a ride on that machine of yours. You didn’t know I’d stowed away on it, did you?”
“So when do you come from?”
“And when do you come from?”
“I asked first. And you’re sleeping in my aunt’s guest bedroom.”
“Nice digs, buddy.”
“Fat ass, buddy.”
“Your aunt’s a dried-up old prune, Aardvark.”
“Your skin has the tone of dead whale blubber, fat boy.”
I liked him. This was the beginning of a great friendship.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Foreign
Aaron trotted out the time machine from Aunt Wilhelmina’s garage. He had a hard time getting it around the old Deusenberg. Why did his aunt feel the need for this old relic? She had the Rolls, she had an Aston-Martin, not to mention the rusty Chevette she allowed Aaron to drive, but only when he did her bidding.
He had to get away. Ah, yes – Bang, Bang, Bangladesh. He had a hankering for an inexpensive woman. Or maybe an inexpensive boy. Or perhaps both? Maybe he could find himself a taut Hermaphrodite, now that would be fun. So he fired up the time machine – fog came out the sides, it jiggled left to right, mist came down from the ceiling, and Aaron felt the usual pleasant vibrations in his sphincter. Better than good sex, male or female.
Two minutes later the fog cleared. He’d have his inexpensive prostitute in less than an hour – but no, this place freaked him out. Cobwebs everywhere, old Gothic architecture, coffins in the hallway, coffins in the dining room, spiders crawling out of the organ. And then out trotted Grandpa, Lily, Eddie – and Herman Munster.
“Damn that stupid time machine. I wanted a hermaphrodite. Not Herman Munster.”
He had to get away. Ah, yes – Bang, Bang, Bangladesh. He had a hankering for an inexpensive woman. Or maybe an inexpensive boy. Or perhaps both? Maybe he could find himself a taut Hermaphrodite, now that would be fun. So he fired up the time machine – fog came out the sides, it jiggled left to right, mist came down from the ceiling, and Aaron felt the usual pleasant vibrations in his sphincter. Better than good sex, male or female.
Two minutes later the fog cleared. He’d have his inexpensive prostitute in less than an hour – but no, this place freaked him out. Cobwebs everywhere, old Gothic architecture, coffins in the hallway, coffins in the dining room, spiders crawling out of the organ. And then out trotted Grandpa, Lily, Eddie – and Herman Munster.
“Damn that stupid time machine. I wanted a hermaphrodite. Not Herman Munster.”
Friday, March 9, 2012
White
Aaron stashed his time machine in the cellar of the Flavian Amphitheatre. None of the shackled Christians would snitch on him. And if the senators figured out what it was, they’d feed him to the lions, too.
But what to do for clothes? Geez almighty, he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he showed up in his torn Diesel jeans, orange Converses, and Abercrombie T. Before launching from Aunt Wilhelmina’s, he’d forgotten to rummage through his closet for toga and sandals.
He sneaked over to the Roman Forum unseen – thank goodness for the dark hour of the night, the nobles would all be at the banquet – until he saw as fat boy playing Brahms on the violin.
“Halt,” the boy squealed at him, “who goes there?”
Should he make a break for it? In his Converses, Aaron could outrun the fat boy in sandals anytime.
“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of California.”
“Arrest the pagan!” the boy said and went back to the Brahms. Wait a second ... Brahms on the violin, when it was only the 4th century?
“And where’s your time machine, fat boy?”
But what to do for clothes? Geez almighty, he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he showed up in his torn Diesel jeans, orange Converses, and Abercrombie T. Before launching from Aunt Wilhelmina’s, he’d forgotten to rummage through his closet for toga and sandals.
He sneaked over to the Roman Forum unseen – thank goodness for the dark hour of the night, the nobles would all be at the banquet – until he saw as fat boy playing Brahms on the violin.
“Halt,” the boy squealed at him, “who goes there?”
Should he make a break for it? In his Converses, Aaron could outrun the fat boy in sandals anytime.
“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of California.”
“Arrest the pagan!” the boy said and went back to the Brahms. Wait a second ... Brahms on the violin, when it was only the 4th century?
“And where’s your time machine, fat boy?”
Thursday, March 8, 2012
In danger
Aaron dialed up the time machine to go back to the fall of Pompeii, but instead he landed in Charleston, summer 1989.
“This damned machine!” Aaron fumed to the ruddy fisherman nearby. “Always putting me in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The fisherman’s skin looked like the moon – a pink moon, that is. He looked at Aaron like he’d just shit on the Bible. “You get yourself into trouble, messing with the Lord’s ways. Get yourself into that there church and beg the Lord forgiveness.”
Gag me on a spoon, Aaron thought – but didn’t say. This man in his overalls would just as soon poke him with a pitchfork as spit on him. Aaron looked around. Wind was picking up, trees were blowing, locals were hammering plywood on windows and doors. A hurricane was coming, sure as gun’s iron – so said the fisherman. But he didn’t say that exactly …
“Hurrickin’s a-comin’, shoah as gunzarn.”
Why was it always a coming, when it was a hurricane, as if it were the second coming of Jesus? These southerners knew a lot about Jesus, but did they think the hurricane presaged his second coming?
He’d better vamoose, and fast – before this redneck fisherman read his San Francisco bumper stickers on the back of the time machine. He wouldn’t like the coexist, marriage equality stuff at all – and he definitely wouldn’t like the “Jesus is coming … look busy!” one at all.
“This damned machine!” Aaron fumed to the ruddy fisherman nearby. “Always putting me in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The fisherman’s skin looked like the moon – a pink moon, that is. He looked at Aaron like he’d just shit on the Bible. “You get yourself into trouble, messing with the Lord’s ways. Get yourself into that there church and beg the Lord forgiveness.”
Gag me on a spoon, Aaron thought – but didn’t say. This man in his overalls would just as soon poke him with a pitchfork as spit on him. Aaron looked around. Wind was picking up, trees were blowing, locals were hammering plywood on windows and doors. A hurricane was coming, sure as gun’s iron – so said the fisherman. But he didn’t say that exactly …
“Hurrickin’s a-comin’, shoah as gunzarn.”
Why was it always a coming, when it was a hurricane, as if it were the second coming of Jesus? These southerners knew a lot about Jesus, but did they think the hurricane presaged his second coming?
He’d better vamoose, and fast – before this redneck fisherman read his San Francisco bumper stickers on the back of the time machine. He wouldn’t like the coexist, marriage equality stuff at all – and he definitely wouldn’t like the “Jesus is coming … look busy!” one at all.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
What a beauty
Thank goodness for the morning light. Curtis lay in bed, face up and the sheet draped loose over his lower body. Aaron wanted to climb in and cuddle up to his hairy chest – but damn it all, he couldn’t. He had to take the time machine to E.M. Forster’s India. He had a few pointed questions for Adela Quested about that whole fake rape thing. Now that he’d broken the fiction-reality time barrier, he now had a whole world of pastabilities for that time machine.
Meanwhile, Curtis opened his eyes a slit and gave him a Mona Lisa smile. He stretched his arms above his head and Aaron got a glimpse of round biceps, stretched abs, and pubic bush. He could feel himself tenting against his shorts, so he ran into bed for a nice little romp. Penelope had been fabulous last night – she’d squeaked like a hummingbird when Aaron pumped her – but sniffing Curtis’s morning balls would send Aaron over the edge.
Forget about Adela Quested. She could wait another twenty minutes while Aaron got some. Not that he needed it …
Meanwhile, Curtis opened his eyes a slit and gave him a Mona Lisa smile. He stretched his arms above his head and Aaron got a glimpse of round biceps, stretched abs, and pubic bush. He could feel himself tenting against his shorts, so he ran into bed for a nice little romp. Penelope had been fabulous last night – she’d squeaked like a hummingbird when Aaron pumped her – but sniffing Curtis’s morning balls would send Aaron over the edge.
Forget about Adela Quested. She could wait another twenty minutes while Aaron got some. Not that he needed it …
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Singing
“Not the chanting!” Aaron said. “She’s at it again, Penelope.”
Penelope roused from limbery slumber. God, how Aaron loved her curves. She fit so well inside his torso when they spooned. And he fit so well inside her when they –
Penelope squeaked a little naked yawn. “She’s singing ‘Beauty and the Beast’ again. Ask her to stop, Aaron.”
Two minutes later he knocked on the door just as she restarted the tale as old as time. “Aunt Wilhelmina, would you mind terribly? I have a final exam tomorrow morning. I’d like to sleep.”
She opened the door, a mass of wrinkles and curiosity. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t think anyone could hear.”
They could hear her in the Presidio. “Thank you. Good night, Aunt Wilhelmina.”
He’d sleep in the other bedroom for the rest of the night. A little variety, right? So he sneaked inside the room, took off his shorts, and curled up against Curtis’s chest. The hair felt good.
Penelope roused from limbery slumber. God, how Aaron loved her curves. She fit so well inside his torso when they spooned. And he fit so well inside her when they –
Penelope squeaked a little naked yawn. “She’s singing ‘Beauty and the Beast’ again. Ask her to stop, Aaron.”
Two minutes later he knocked on the door just as she restarted the tale as old as time. “Aunt Wilhelmina, would you mind terribly? I have a final exam tomorrow morning. I’d like to sleep.”
She opened the door, a mass of wrinkles and curiosity. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t think anyone could hear.”
They could hear her in the Presidio. “Thank you. Good night, Aunt Wilhelmina.”
He’d sleep in the other bedroom for the rest of the night. A little variety, right? So he sneaked inside the room, took off his shorts, and curled up against Curtis’s chest. The hair felt good.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Against the reflecting pool
The shadow behind the tree spoke first. "Woodstein said you'd be here."
Aaron looked to both sides, his face a tight cauldron. "Gimme what you got on the man."
He backed up against the granite behind the Reflecting Pool. Aaron could hear his breathing, nothing even about it. "You have to follow the money trail. Look what C.R.E.E.P. paid out. It'll lead you to Liddy, no doubt about it."
What the hell was he talking about? "I'm not following a money trail. That's what bank networks are for. You got a good hacker on your staff can do it? He just needs to hack into C.R.E.E.P.'s bank account."
The man laughed a cutting, dry laugh. "You think I give a damn how you get the information? Do your own job, Aardvark."
Thirty minutes later, Aaron had it -- all it needed was a Facebook hacker. John Mitchell, Nixon's attorney general, he paid Liddy and his thugs to raid the Watergate offices. Thirty minutes to solve the Watergate crisis. Took Bernstein and Woodward three years.
Aaron looked to both sides, his face a tight cauldron. "Gimme what you got on the man."
He backed up against the granite behind the Reflecting Pool. Aaron could hear his breathing, nothing even about it. "You have to follow the money trail. Look what C.R.E.E.P. paid out. It'll lead you to Liddy, no doubt about it."
What the hell was he talking about? "I'm not following a money trail. That's what bank networks are for. You got a good hacker on your staff can do it? He just needs to hack into C.R.E.E.P.'s bank account."
The man laughed a cutting, dry laugh. "You think I give a damn how you get the information? Do your own job, Aardvark."
Thirty minutes later, Aaron had it -- all it needed was a Facebook hacker. John Mitchell, Nixon's attorney general, he paid Liddy and his thugs to raid the Watergate offices. Thirty minutes to solve the Watergate crisis. Took Bernstein and Woodward three years.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
I'm ashamed
Aaron ramped up the time machine and got it into gear. He wanted to be the fly on the wall that evening in the White House that Dick told Pat.
The fog spewed out and enveloped him in mist, the machine jumped up and down, left to right, swooshed here, tousled there, and jumped up and down again. It came crashing down with a thud and yes! Aaron saw red carpet, white columns, and portraits of Lucy Johnson, Louisa Adams, Bess Truman, and Elizabeth Monroe.
He wondered if the Secret Service would notice that a rusty time machine had landed in the East Room, so he activated the invisible option and tiptoed out.
A sentry stood guard at the door when he went into the grand first floor hallway, and another at each entrance to the building.
“Some guards!” he said aloud, but clapped his mouth shut – too late. They heard and darted left and right, conferred with each other like high school footballers before a play, went back to their stations with wrinkled looks.
Aaron went up the stairs to the second floor. He’d find Nixon and his wife in there – he knew it, evening of August 8, 1974. Before he’d been born, but Aunt Wilhelmina told him about it. Made her sick, she said. Always hated that man, ever since the Checkers speech.
He rounded the corner into the private quarters and tiptoed in. He could hear raised voices. Yes, he’d clearly told her, she was clearly upset –
And then he saw the famous white hair and lantern jaw, the pasty-pink skin, the tell-tale Arkansas accent, his blonde-haired wife with the headband and the Yale law degree diction.
“I did not have sex with that woman!”
“But you did what with that cigar?”
Woops, Aaron thought – wrong dick.
The fog spewed out and enveloped him in mist, the machine jumped up and down, left to right, swooshed here, tousled there, and jumped up and down again. It came crashing down with a thud and yes! Aaron saw red carpet, white columns, and portraits of Lucy Johnson, Louisa Adams, Bess Truman, and Elizabeth Monroe.
He wondered if the Secret Service would notice that a rusty time machine had landed in the East Room, so he activated the invisible option and tiptoed out.
A sentry stood guard at the door when he went into the grand first floor hallway, and another at each entrance to the building.
“Some guards!” he said aloud, but clapped his mouth shut – too late. They heard and darted left and right, conferred with each other like high school footballers before a play, went back to their stations with wrinkled looks.
Aaron went up the stairs to the second floor. He’d find Nixon and his wife in there – he knew it, evening of August 8, 1974. Before he’d been born, but Aunt Wilhelmina told him about it. Made her sick, she said. Always hated that man, ever since the Checkers speech.
He rounded the corner into the private quarters and tiptoed in. He could hear raised voices. Yes, he’d clearly told her, she was clearly upset –
And then he saw the famous white hair and lantern jaw, the pasty-pink skin, the tell-tale Arkansas accent, his blonde-haired wife with the headband and the Yale law degree diction.
“I did not have sex with that woman!”
“But you did what with that cigar?”
Woops, Aaron thought – wrong dick.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Stick to your guns
Aaron hid himself behind the drapes, just to be safe from the bloodshed. He’d activated the time machine’s invisible option when he left 2012, but still wanted to play it safe.
The girls wailed in the background. Jeffrey and Colette argued in the kitchen about money, about jobs, about sex. He called her a slut, she called him a pussy, he said she never did anything around the house, she said he was a cocksucking loser. Dishes crashes, glasses broke, and the knives fell on the floor.
Aaron peeked from the drapes to have a look. Jeffrey picked up the knife, Colette screamed, and he buried the knife in her chest. Aaron had never heard the blood-curdling sound so guttural as what next came out of Colette’s mouth. She sank to the floor and the children ran up the stairs.
But he followed, a butcher’s knife in his left hand and an ice pick in the right.
Aaron had had enough. He’d gotten what he came for, proof Jeffrey MacDonald was a guilty as sin.
The girls wailed in the background. Jeffrey and Colette argued in the kitchen about money, about jobs, about sex. He called her a slut, she called him a pussy, he said she never did anything around the house, she said he was a cocksucking loser. Dishes crashes, glasses broke, and the knives fell on the floor.
Aaron peeked from the drapes to have a look. Jeffrey picked up the knife, Colette screamed, and he buried the knife in her chest. Aaron had never heard the blood-curdling sound so guttural as what next came out of Colette’s mouth. She sank to the floor and the children ran up the stairs.
But he followed, a butcher’s knife in his left hand and an ice pick in the right.
Aaron had had enough. He’d gotten what he came for, proof Jeffrey MacDonald was a guilty as sin.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Southern
“Sorry, Aunt Wilhelmina,” Aaron said. “I’m all butterfingers this morning.”
His aunt fumed. “I have to be at the spa in fifteen minutes. It’s all the way up in Beaufort.”
Maybe there wouldn’t be any traffic on the Hilton Head Expressway. Maybe everyone will have slept in late this morning. Maybe white southerners would vote for Obama. And maybe dogs could talk.
Thank goodness they couldn’t talk, Aaron thought, looking at the sly Bowzer. If he did, Aunt Wilhelmina would’ve learned a thing or two about what happened when she went to Switzerland. That damned dog had it in for him.
“Hurry up, Aaron. Lurlene will be waiting for me. She’s got the best facial creams even if she does sound like Scarlett O’Hara.”
Aaron fired up the Cadillac and crossed his fingers about the traffic.
His aunt fumed. “I have to be at the spa in fifteen minutes. It’s all the way up in Beaufort.”
Maybe there wouldn’t be any traffic on the Hilton Head Expressway. Maybe everyone will have slept in late this morning. Maybe white southerners would vote for Obama. And maybe dogs could talk.
Thank goodness they couldn’t talk, Aaron thought, looking at the sly Bowzer. If he did, Aunt Wilhelmina would’ve learned a thing or two about what happened when she went to Switzerland. That damned dog had it in for him.
“Hurry up, Aaron. Lurlene will be waiting for me. She’s got the best facial creams even if she does sound like Scarlett O’Hara.”
Aaron fired up the Cadillac and crossed his fingers about the traffic.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Don't say that
Aaron couldn’t wait to get back to April ’06. He got the bug up his ass after Aunt Wilhelmina squeaked like a rusty carburetor after the Oakland tremor. Aaron barely noticed it except for a pleasant push of the magic fingers up his ass, but his aunt barfed up a squeak from her bedroom that Friday night.
Oh, the things Aaron had to put up with in order to be the sole heir of a spinster aunt’s gazillions!
So he tippy-toed down to the garage late that night after a Cleapatra-Marc Antony J.O. session and wound up the gears of the time machine and turned the dial ever so slightly to the left. He didn’t want to go all the way back to Pompeii … just to San Francisco ’06.
But no, the damned machine didn’t work again. He ended up all the way back in the bed of Henry VIII. There he was, screwing Anne Boleyn. Oh, this was it – the night they conceived Princess Elizabeth, the future Virgin Queen. An earthquake indeed. Bad for Henry and Anne, good for everybody else.
Oh, the things Aaron had to put up with in order to be the sole heir of a spinster aunt’s gazillions!
So he tippy-toed down to the garage late that night after a Cleapatra-Marc Antony J.O. session and wound up the gears of the time machine and turned the dial ever so slightly to the left. He didn’t want to go all the way back to Pompeii … just to San Francisco ’06.
But no, the damned machine didn’t work again. He ended up all the way back in the bed of Henry VIII. There he was, screwing Anne Boleyn. Oh, this was it – the night they conceived Princess Elizabeth, the future Virgin Queen. An earthquake indeed. Bad for Henry and Anne, good for everybody else.
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