One Stray Word

My wife and I have some stuff going on this week. I’m hoping to be able to make an annoucement or two next Tuesday, but till then I thought I’d give some love to my ugly step-children, Reflections of the Pink Elephant and Explorers of the Unknown.

Today’s excerpt is from Pink Elephant. It was written when I was employed as a 911 Dispatcher and thought cursing was fun. So, it’s got plenty of R rated language, don’t click through if you’re easily offended. I’ll run an excerpt from Explorers on Thursday.

What the book is about:

Chris Allen is going to have a busy 12 days. He’s a 911 Dispatcher and part-time online columnist. Family’s coming into town for his brother’s wedding, Chris is trying to get a new girlfriend, but his ex is still hanging around, a 911 call gone wrong is probably going to send him to court and then there’s the impending book deal for his online column. There’s also a lot of people talking about sex. Really. I’m not kidding about the sex part.

SECULAR FICTION

MATURE READERS

CONTAINS PROFANITY AND MATURE TOPICS

Reflections of the Pink Elephant

TUESDAY

1

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND.”

“It’s not that difficult.”

“Says you.”

“Yes, says me.”

“I know I’m missing something here.”

“Well, seeing as I think I made myself very clear, I wouldn’t know what that is.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” I said, rubbing my eyes. We were seated at a small table in the coffee shop of a franchise bookstore that shall remain nameless for naming would give it power. And besides, it made me feel all dirty to be here. “You spent six months in France and didn’t have one romantic interlude? Not one? Not even, like, a little romantic infatuation with the wineboy or something?”

Josephine Marsh sat across from me. She brushed her brown hair behind her left ear, an unconscious move, half the time she’s never even aware she’s doing it. “I didn’t go to France to engage in romantic interludes.”

She was about my height, maybe a little shorter. She wore a blue button down blouse and white Capris. Joey was an old friend of mine. Not old in the sense that she was twenty years my senior, because she wasn’t, but old because we had known each other a long time. Give or take about five years. Whereas I joined the real world workforce, Joey attended an out of state college that reminded me more of a nunnery than anything.

Joey was, how should I say this? She was smart. She was certainly good looking, but smart. Really smart. Traditionally I don’t hang out with people smarter than me, it tends to give me a complex. For Joey, though, I make an exception. See, I’m nice like that.

Oh, my name was Chris Allen. Actually, it was Eugene Christopher Allen, but I don’t think I have to go into the reasoning behind shortening it, do I? I was a twenty-four year old male, with twenty-five just creeping around the corner, who was currently employed as a 911 Dispatcher, which paid more than my last job working at a library. Although, when I was at the library I didn’t have to worry about late dues. That was nice. I miss that.

“It’s France,” I continued. “You’re expected to have a whirlwind romance, filled with passion and desire with a Frenchman named Jacques. Hell, it’s practically tradition.”

“I didn’t meet anyone named Jacques.”

“I’m sorry, you ever hear of role playing?”

“I’m trying to share the wealth of my international experiences with you here and you’re mocking me. Did you know that the President of Serbia was assassinated shortly after I left there?”

I nodded sagely. “Ah, I see. Very interesting. So instead of months filled with romantic passion you went around getting important world leaders killed.”

“Serbia is a country, not a world leader. And the President of Serbia is not a world leader. You probably never even heard of them till I just brought it up now.”

“Not true,” I said. “I saw a Bond film with Serbians in it.”

“Those aren’t real Serbians, they’re racial stereotypes.”

“And if it wasn’t for our racial stereotypes where would this country be?” I asked.

“In a better place?”

“Hey, at least we bath over here.”

“Another racial stereotype,” she said.

“Not a racial stereotype,” I countered. “Hard fact. What do you think the whole business with the guillotine was?” I switched topics before she had a chance to reply. “Did you at least visit the Eiffel Tower?”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? What is this business with no? You were in France for six months and you didn’t even visit the Eiffel Tower? I was all set to let you off the hook about the Jacques thing, but this is just too much.”

“Besides,” she said, taking a sip from her coffee, “In reality the Eiffel Tower is hardly the icon of romance and adventure that you’ve been lead to believe. It is, in fact this orangey-colored bronze thing that undoubtedly looks atrocious up close.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, because you didn’t go, now did you?”

“Anyway,” she continued, “I wasn’t really in France. Aix was really sort of on the fringe of France.”

“The fringe of France?” I repeated. “Have you been working on that one?”

“I did eat snails, though,” Joey offered.

I made a face. “You ate snails? That’s just disgusting.  Remind me never to kiss you again.”

“What? It was part of the experience.”

“Yeah, well, so is hooking up with a dashing young Frenchman named Jacques and visiting the Eiffel Tower. But yet you did neither of those,” I leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “Do you think snails have this kind of underground railroad movement? You know, to escape here to America where they are treated as dinner time delicacies and can die humane deaths beneath the heels of people’s shoes?”

Joey leaned forward, matching my posture. “Where in the world did that come from?”

“You didn’t eat them raw did you?”

“Can we mock your life for a little while?”

I waved her off. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Joey sat back. “Okay, how about this. If you don’t stop I’m going to start using big words.”

“Bring it on,” I replied. “I’ve been reading the dictionary every night for the past six months. I just finished the P’s. I’ll bet you don’t even know what prothalamion means.”

“It’s a song written in honor of a marriage. Comes from the Greek words ‘pro’ and ‘thalamos’ which mean before and the bridal chamber, respectively.”

It rolled off her tongue like it had been sitting there, just waiting to be released. Did I mention she was smart? Very brainy. Attractive, but very brainy. I think I felt that complex coming on.

I folded my arms and pouted, like the sore loser I was. “I don’t like you anymore,” I said. And then added, “You read too much.”

“Good comeback, Shakespeare.”

“You know, I was going to offer to buy you dinner tonight, what with you being broke and all, but now I’m having second thoughts.”

“Can we get back to a serious discussion here?”

“Serious is such a general term. In fact, I dare say it’s vague.”

“I’d hardly call it vague…”

“Besides,” I said, “bantering’s fun. And it’s the one thing I know that I can do better than you.”

“Ah, but can you banter in French?” she countered with one of those know-it-all smiles. I was familiar with the kind. I’ve been known to use them myself on occasion.

“Can you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I can discuss the merits of Roman Polanksi’s films in French.”

“Oh, you want to discuss Roman Polanksi? Let us discuss, then, how he’s a fugitive in the United States, but yet still managed to win a Best Director Oscar.”

“That does not take away from his status as a brilliant filmmaker.”

“No, but it sort of takes his credibility down a few notches,” I replied. “Since when did you start eschewing the facts in favor of personal taste? And for a Frenchman, no less. Did they brainwash you over there? Something in the snails perhaps?”

“I’m waiting to have a serious conversation here,” she said, finishing her coffee.

“Bah!” I exclaimed, waving my hands around. “Seriousness is for fools and poor destitute families who have lived their entire lives off of spam. Speaking of which, how was the family you stayed with?”

“Nice segue.”

“Thank you. It was totally off the cuff. I’m thinking about going on the road.”

“The Jean-Luc’s were very nice. Did I tell you they owned a vineyard?”

“No, some how you managed to leave out that juicy detail. Although, I must admit, some of your e-mails did have an inebriated accent to them.”

“I don’t write with an accent.”

“Yes, but I read with one.”

“Regardless of which,” she continued. “ There was no mass consumption of wine on my part. Although Mr. and Mrs. Jean-Luc did seem regard it as a solve-all for several family disputes that I witnessed.”

“Oooh, family disputes. This should be good. Did anyone run off and marry the milkmaid?”

She looked at me. “Where do you get these ideas?”

“They come to me spontaneously. I’m special like that. You know that.”

“There was no running off with milkmaids, although Mrs. Jean-Luc did try, on several occasions, to foster a love connection between me and her eldest son.”

“ ‘Foster a love connection.’ That’s good,” I said. “Can I use it?”

“Should I just come back when you’re ready to leave the stream of consciousness?”

“One never leaves the stream of consciousness,” I replied. “It flows with us wherever we go. Speaking of which, did you hear that Jessica Fairwell got married?”

Joey blinked. “What? When? Are you serious?”

“Jessica Fairwell got married. About a year ago. And, yes, I’m always serious,” I deadpanned.

“I thought she wanted to go to college?”

“She did,” I said. “But apparently she wanted to stay at home and raise children even more.”

“She’s pregnant?”

“Again. They had their first child about a month ago. A boy. And a little terror, too. Kid’s got Child’s Play written all over him.”

“And she got knocked up again so soon?”

I did a hands up. “I look at it this way, either they’re a very happy couple, and this child shall always be remembered as the “oopsie” or they live really empty lives and have no idea how to fill them up aside from having children.”

Joey nodded. “True, but there is a third possibility.”

“There is?”

“Yep. Who’d she marry?”

“Vincent Carthen.”

Another nod. “Well, they were both homeschoolers, and Christian ones at that.”

“Ah,” I joined with the nodding. “I see what you’re getting at. Years of sexual frustration coming to a head.”

“Both literally and figuratively,” she added.

“Hey, I like that. That was good.”

“Thank you,” she gave a little bow. “I am known to have my moments.”

“But, you see, both of us were Christian homeschoolers, too. So that statement could also imply when either one of us gets married we too shall be besieged by previously unsated sexual frustration. Of course, this wouldn’t have been a problem for you if you had just done your romantic interlude with Jacques. Me on the other, I masturbated regularly as a teenager, so I doubt I’m feeling as frustrated as you are.”

“I’m touched by your concern. It’s nice to know that you care.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

“But you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Which is?” I got to my feet. She followed.

“We’re both grounded young adults who were raised by careful, intelligent and caring parents. And, of course, women can masturbate as well.”

“What does that have to do with anything? We’re both still neurotic as hell. And yes, women can masturbate, but let’s face it, that particular sport is more popular among the males of our species than the females.”

“And why should that be? Every sexual escapade that I’ve heard usually ends with the failure of satisfying the female. It’s really not that difficult to get a man off. For a woman, however, it’s an art form. Why shouldn’t women masturbate more then men? For half of them it’s the only kind of sexual satisfaction they’ll ever receive.”

“What are you all jaded about? Last time I checked you were still a virgin.”

“Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t feel the pain of my sisters.”

“Speaking of pain, my brother’s getting married next week.”

“Okay, see, now we’re going to have to work on your segues because you’re starting to make with the Freudian slips.”

“Hey, I’ve got nothing against marriage.”

“Are we expecting Steven to have any pent up sexual frustration issues?”

I shrugged, we made our way through the tables, heading towards the stacks of books. “I doubt it. They’ve been living together for a year.”

Joey’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, your brother’s been living in sin for the past year? How did you fail to tell me about this?”

“Please, is it our place to judge?”

“No, but we can make sarcastic remarks.”

“She’s a nice Jewish girl named Jacqueline.”

“That’s not a very Jewish name.”

“No, but she’s pretty kosher.”

“Well, that’s good to know, just in case she gets stuck on an island with any traditional Jews who have nothing else to eat.”

“And you wonder where I come up with these things,” I said. “How long are you going to be in town?”

Joey looked at me guardedly. “Why?”

“What’s with the look? It’s not like I needed an alibi or something. Just a date.”

“To the wedding?”

I looked around the bookstore. “Was there a breakdown in communication that I was unaware of?”

“Hey, I’m just making sure we’re talking about the same thing here. The last time I went as your date to a social function we got into a very loud verbal dispute with a closet Jehovah’s Witness that resulted in us being unceremoniously tossed out.”

“Which was more your fault than mine. But this is an entirely different situation. Trust me, we’re not going to get thrown out of this one unless one of us makes a speech filled with snide sarcastic remarks about people living in sin,” I replied. “If I’m seen attending this social function dateless Auntie Emma will feel obligated to play matchmaker and try to set me up with some of the nice girls at her church, who, no doubt, are suffering some serious sexual frustration.”

“You know I have a strict no-wedding-that’s-not-my-own policy. And besides, you’ve just sprung this thing onto a woman at the last minute. I just got back from France, what do you expect me to wear?”

I shrugged. “A dress? You can borrow one of mine.”

“That’s not funny. It’s disturbing. Make a comment like that in a church and the Christian community will mark you for life. You’ll be doomed to spend the rest of your life in shame. You’ll have to wear a paper bag over your head until the day you die.”

I didn’t reply. I just stared her down, giving her my best little boy look.

She folded her arms. “Classes start in three weeks. I can’t afford to spend two weeks down here.”

“Hey, friends don’t let friends go to weddings by themselves.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a girlfriend for these sort of things?”

“That really depends on your definition of a ‘girlfriend.’”

“My definition of girlfriend is a girl who you’re romantically involved and goes by the name Danielle.”

“In that case, we broke up.”

“Really? Why?”

“Conflict of interest. I wanted to date somebody who was less screwed up than me, and she wasn’t.”

“Oh, so not only are you dateless, but you’re on the rebound. You  basically want me to be your consolation prize.”

“That’s not true. I broke up with her. Look, I’m asking you to save me from mass humiliation here. Where’s your humanity?”

“Same place as yours, away from here,” she replied. She looked around. We were in the graphic novel section. “Okay, tell me again, how do you justify comic books as actual literature?”

“First, you have obviously never read Neil Gaiman’s Sandman,” I replied, replacing a copy of Brian Michael Bendis’ Jinx back on the shelf. “Second, why should I have to justify it? And third, for such a self-proclaimed broad minded individual you’re awfully close minded about alternative forms of literature.”

Joey shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “It has nothing to do with being closed minded,” We made our way down the aisle of the bookstore. The store was moderately filled with just enough customers to keep the employees from bugging us about whether or not we’ve found what we’ve been looking for. “It has to do with your unhealthy obsession with funny books.”

I stopped and turned around to face her. “The only people who call them funny books are the ones who still think Elvis was the devil. And it’s obvious you’ve never read Cerebus.”

“Oh wait,” she tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully. “That sounds familiar. Isn’t that the one about the aavardark? I think I remember you telling me about it. Isn’t the author a woman hater?”

I glowered at her and resumed my walk down the aisle. “That’s not the point. Let’s go back to Sandman. Perfect example of classic comic book literature. I’d even recommend it over Lord of the Rings.”

“Ah, but Lord of the Rings has Christian allegories in it.”

“So does the Matrix. What’s your point? Christian allegories are a dime a dozen. You can find them in any story, if you look hard enough. Even Harry Potter.”

Joey raised a hand to her face giving me an over-the-top expression of aghast horror. “Don’t let the Conservative Christian Coalition catch you saying that. They’ll burn you at the stake.”

I smiled. “The CCC. That’s cute. Can I use it?”

“Please, by all means. Don’t stop stealing now.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” I replied, turning down another aisle.

“Does it ever occur to you that you like to read comic books because they don’t have so many words?”

“Did I do something to elicit all this cruel mocking, or do you just feel like you’ve got to play catch-up for the last six months. And by the way, I just finished Steven King’s The Stand,” I looked over my shoulder, “The unabridged version.”

“Don’t you ever read anything other than pop fiction?” She paused and pulled out a biography on JFK.

I shrugged. “Well, there is the Bible.”

She looked at me. “Not funny,” She replaced the book. “Seriously, though, you’re going to rot your brain with all this mindless entertainment,” We turned down another aisle. “Here, read this, it’ll sprout brain cells in your head,” She yanked a book off the shelf and shoved into my face.

It was a copy of Medea.

I peered over the cover at her. “Uh, maybe the Cliff Notes version?”

“This is one of the great classic Greek plays. You don’t read the Cliff Notes version.”

I shrugged. “Maybe a book-on-tape copy?”

She shook her head and sighed. “There’s no hope for you.”

I made my way down the aisle. “Wasn’t there another book called Medea’s Kiss? I heard that was good.”

“That was an overrated piece of crap,” she replied, catching up to me. “The author was a hack. It doesn’t even deserve to be included with the rest of pop fiction. Hell, it didn’t even have anything to do with Medea.”

“So, you didn’t like it then?”

“To say the least.”

I paused and looked around. “What are we doing in the self-help section?”

“Expressing our subconscious Freudian desires?”

I rolled my eyes and started making my way to the back of the store, where they kept all the bargain books.

We had to pass through the sex section, which ran adjunct to the self-help section. I permitted myself a wry smile as I thought about the ironic possibilities.

Our path was blocked. And what a lovely block it was.

To say she was a specimen of womanly beauty would sound cheesy and hackneyed. But she was. There was something very graceful-looking about her. If I was feeling particularly eloquent, I would say she looked like elegance given form.

In short, she was just the kind of woman any man would stop and gawk at. Like I was doing.

Joey nudged me. “You’re holding up traffic.”

“Shut up. It’s the sex section. Nobody’s going to come down here as long as there’s someone else here.”

“We live in an enlightened time, people are no longer ashamed of sex.”

I turned around. “Then why do you never go to a movie with your parents that you know has at least one sex scene in it?”

“That’s family embarrassment,” she said. “Totally different.”

I turned back around. The woman was gone.

“What was that all about?”

“Just appreciating one of God’s beautiful creations.”

Joey folded her arms. “How come you never look at me like that?”

“Because we’re platonic friends. You might get ideas, if I looked at you like that. You know, like marriage and kids.”

“You know, she could be your solution to your brother’s wedding.”

I threw my hands up. “Are you on drugs or something? I can’t think of any other explanation for your behavior. I’m not going to ask a complete stranger to be my date to my brother’s wedding. For all I know she could be crazy, or worse, married.”

Joey shrugged. “Okay, fine, I’m still not going.”

“Oh, well, we shall see about that,” I wagged a finger at her ominously. “We shall see-”

I didn’t get to finish my witty comeback when I turned the corner and ran right into my specimen of womanly beauty.

“Oops!”

“Sorry.”

She looked at me. There was a flicker of recognition across her face.

“Do I know you?” She had a beautiful voice.  It had a sort of bouncing melody to it.

“Not unless one of us has been busy stalking the other,” I replied.

She looked at me, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration. Her eyes were a dark shade of green. “Your voice sounds familiar.”

“Ever dialed 911 before?”

She snapped her fingers. “Oh, you!’

I threw my hands up. “Yes! Me!” I paused. “What are we talking about?”

“You work at the 911 center, right?”

“Yes….”

“I’m Grace Castada,” She stuck her hand out. “I work down in warrants. We talk all the time over the phone.”

The little bells started going off. I shook her hand. “Right, Grace. This is what you look like.”

She paused, giving me a wary look. Right then, be more careful with the offhand remarks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing bad. It’s just that we don’t have an abundance of beautiful people working at the Agency. And since you’re working down in warrants…”

“You had just assumed the worst and figured I had gone butch.”

I nodded. “More or less.”

“Then we’re even. I thought you were a fat, middle-aged balding man who played too many videogames.”

Oooh, the girl’s got spunk. I think I’m in love.

“Anyway, it was good to finally meet in person. Stop by warrants some time,” she headed towards the cashier, tossing me a small wave and another smile.

I returned the wave.

“Feel the sexual tension. She wanted you, you know,” Joey stood beside me, folding her arms.

“You, shut up.”

Read the rest. Get the book for the Amazon Kindle, iTunes, or in the popular Dead Tree Format.