By Larry
We got up at four in the morning, that first day in the east. On the evening before we had climbed off a freight train at the edge of town, and with the true instinct of Kentucky boys had found our way across town and to the race track and the stables at once. Then we knew we were all right. Hanley Turner right away found a nigger we knew. It was Bildad Johnson who in the winter works at Ed Becker’s livery barn in our home town, Beckersville. Bildad is a good cook as almost all our niggers are and of course he, like everyone in our part of Kentucky who is anyone at all, likes the horses. In the spring Bildad begins to scratch around. A nigger from our country can flatter and wheedle anyone into letting him do most anything he wants. Bildad wheedles the stable men and the trainers from the horse farms in our country around Lexington. The trainers come into town in the evening to stand around and talk and maybe get into a poker game. Bildad gets in with them. He is always doing little favors and telling about things to eat, chicken browned in a pan, and how is the best way to cook sweet potatoes and corn bread. It makes your mouth water to hear him.
When the racing season comes on and the horses go to the races and there is all the talk on the streets in the evenings about the new colts, and everyone says when they are going over to Lexington or to the spring meeting at Churchhill Downs or to Latonia, and the horsemen that have been down to New Orleans or maybe at the winter meeting at Havana in Cuba come home to spend a week before they start out again, at such a time when everything talked about in Beckersville is just horses and nothing else and the outfits start out and horse racing is in every breath of air you breathe, Bildad shows up with a job as cook for some outfit. Often when I think about it, his always going all season to the races and working in the livery barn in the winter where horses are and where men like to come and talk about horses, I wish I was a nigger. It’s a foolish thing to say, but that’s the way I am about being around horses, just crazy. I can’t help it.
Well, I must tell you about what we did and let you in on what I’m talking about. Four of us boys from Beckersville, all whites and sons of men who live in Beckersville regular, made up our minds we were going to the races, not just to Lexington or Louisville, I don’t mean, but to the big eastern track we were always hearing our Beckersville men talk about, to Saratoga. We were all pretty young then. I was just turned fifteen and I was the oldest of the four. It was my scheme.
I admit that and I talked the others into trying it. There was Hanley Turner and Henry Rieback and Tom Tumberton and myself. I had thirty- seven dollars I had earned during the winter working nights and Saturdays in Enoch Myer’s grocery. Henry Rieback had eleven dollars and the others, Hanley and Tom had only a dollar or two each. We fixed it all up and laid low until the Kentucky spring meetings were over and some of our men, the sportiest ones, the ones we envied the most, had cut out–then we cut out too.
I won’t tell you the trouble we had beating our way on freights and all. We went through Cleveland and Buffalo and other cities and saw Niagara Falls. We bought things there, souvenirs and spoons and cards and shells with pictures of the falls on them for our sisters and mothers, but thought we had better not send any of the things home. We didn’t want to put the folks on our trail and maybe be nabbed.
We got into Saratoga as I said at night and went to the track. Bildad fed us up. He showed us a place to sleep in hay over a shed and promised to keep still. Niggers are all right about things like that. They won’t squeal on you. Often a white man you might meet, when you had run away from home like that, might appear to be all right and give you a quarter or a half dollar or something, and then go right and give you away. White men will do that, but not a nigger. You can trust them. They are squarer with kids. I don’t know why.
At the Saratoga meeting that year there were a lot of men from home. Dave Williams and Arthur Mulford and Jerry Myers and others. Then there was a lot from Louisville and Lexington Henry Rieback knew but I didn’t. They were professional gamblers and Henry Rieback’s father is one too. He is what is called a sheet writer and goes away most of the year to tracks. In the winter when he is home in Beckersville he don’t stay there much but goes away to cities and deals faro. He is a nice man and generous, is always sending Henry presents, a bicycle and a gold watch and a boy scout suit of clothes and things like that.
My own father is a lawyer. He’s all right, but don’t make much money and can’t buy me things and anyway I’m getting so old now I don’t expect it. He never said nothing to me against Henry, but Hanley Turner and Tom Tumberton’s fathers did. They said to their boys that money so come by is no good and they didn’t want their boys brought up to hear gamblers’ talk and be thinking about such things and maybe embrace them.
That’s all right and I guess the men know what they are talking about, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with Henry or with horses either. That’s what I’m writing this story about. I’m puzzled. I’m getting to be a man and want to think straight and be O. K., and there’s something I saw at the race meeting at the eastern track I can’t figure out.
I can’t help it, I’m crazy about thoroughbred horses. I’ve always been that way. When I was ten years old and saw I was growing to be big and couldn’t be a rider I was so sorry I nearly died. Harry Hellinfinger in Beckersville, whose father is Postmaster, is grown up and too lazy to work, but likes to stand around in the street and get up jokes on boys like sending them to a hardware store for a gimlet to bore square holes and other jokes like that. He played one on me. He told me that if I would eat a half a cigar I would be stunted and not grow any more and maybe could be a rider. I did it. When father wasn’t looking I took a cigar out of his pocket and gagged it down some way. It made me awful sick and the doctor had to be sent for, and then it did no good. I kept right on growing. It was a joke. When I told what I had done and why most fathers would have whipped me but mine didn’t.
Well, I didn’t get stunted and didn’t die. It serves Harry Hellinfinger right. Then I made up my mind I would like to be a stable boy, but had to give that up too. Mostly niggers do that work and I knew father wouldn’t let me go into it. No use to ask him.
If you’ve never been crazy about thoroughbreds it’s because you’ve never been around where they are much and don’t know any better. They’re beautiful. There isn’t anything so lovely and clean and full of spunk and honest and everything as some race horses. On the big horse farms that are all around our town Beckersville there are tracks and the horses run in the early morning. More than a thousand times I’ve got out of bed before daylight and walked two or three miles to the tracks. Mother wouldn’t of let me go but father always says, “Let him alone.” So I got some bread out of the bread box and some butter and jam, gobbled it and lit out.
At the tracks you sit on the fence with men, whites and niggers, and they chew tobacco and talk, and then the colts are brought out. It’s early and the grass is covered with shiny dew and in another field a man is plowing and they are frying things in a shed where the track niggers sleep, and you know how a nigger can giggle and laugh and say things that make you laugh. A white man can’t do it and some niggers can’t but a track nigger can every time.
And so the colts are brought out and some are just galloped by stable boys, but almost every morning on a big track owned by a rich man who lives maybe in New York, there are always, nearly every morning, a few colts and some of the old race horses and geldings and mares that are cut loose.
It brings a lump up into my throat when a horse runs. I don’t mean all horses but some. I can pick them nearly every time. It’s in my blood like in the blood of race track niggers and trainers. Even when they just go slop-jogging along with a little nigger on their backs I can tell a winner. If my throat hurts and it’s hard for me to swallow, that’s him. He’ll run like Sam Hill when you let him out. If he don’t win every time it’ll be a wonder and because they’ve got him in a pocket behind another or he was pulled or got off bad at the post or something. If I wanted to be a gambler like Henry Rieback’s father I could get rich. I know I could and Henry says so too. All I would have to do is to wait ’til that hurt comes when I see a horse and then bet every cent. That’s what I would do if I wanted to be a gambler, but I don’t.
When you’re at the tracks in the morning–not the race tracks but the training tracks around Beckersville–you don’t see a horse, the kind I’ve been talking about, very often, but it’s nice anyway. Any thoroughbred, that is sired right and out of a good mare and trained by a man that knows how, can run. If he couldn’t what would he be there for and not pulling a plow?
Well, out of the stables they come and the boys are on their backs and it’s lovely to be there. You hunch down on top of the fence and itch inside you. Over in the sheds the niggers giggle and sing. Bacon is being fried and coffee made. Everything smells lovely. Nothing smells better than coffee and manure and horses and niggers and bacon frying and pipes being smoked out of doors on a morning like that. It just gets you, that’s what it does.
But about Saratoga. We was there six days and not a soul from home seen us and everything came off just as we wanted it to, fine weather and horses and races and all. We beat our way home and Bildad gave us a basket with fried chicken and bread and other eatables in, and I had eighteen dollars when we got back to Beckersville. Mother jawed and cried but Pop didn’t say much. I told everything we done except one thing. I did and saw that alone. That’s what I’m writing about. It got me upset. I think about it at night. Here it is.
At Saratoga we laid up nights in the hay in the shed Bildad had showed us and ate with the niggers early and at night when the race people had all gone away. The men from home stayed mostly in the grandstand and betting field, and didn’t come out around the places where the horses are kept except to the paddocks just before a race when the horses are saddled. At Saratoga they don’t have paddocks under an open shed as at Lexington and Churchill Downs and other tracks down in our country, but saddle the horses right out in an open place under trees on a lawn as smooth and nice as Banker Bohon’s front yard here in Beckersville. It’s lovely. The horses are sweaty and nervous and shine and the men come out and smoke cigars and look at them and the trainers are there and the owners, and your heart thumps so you can hardly breathe.
Then the bugle blows for post and the boys that ride come running out with their silk clothes on and you run to get a place by the fence with the niggers.
I always am wanting to be a trainer or owner, and at the risk of being seen and caught and sent home I went to the paddocks before every race. The other boys didn’t but I did.
We got to Saratoga on a Friday and on Wednesday the next week the big Mullford Handicap was to be run. Middlestride was in it and Sunstreak. The weather was fine and the track fast. I couldn’t sleep the night before.
What had happened was that both these horses are the kind it makes my throat hurt to see. Middlestride is long and looks awkward and is a gelding. He belongs to Joe Thompson, a little owner from home who only has a half dozen horses. The Mullford Handicap is for a mile and Middlestride can’t untrack fast. He goes away slow and is always way back at the half, then he begins to run and if the race is a mile and a quarter he’ll just eat up everything and get there.
Sunstreak is different. He is a stallion and nervous and belongs on the biggest farm we’ve got in our country, the Van Riddle place that belongs to Mr. Van Riddle of New York. Sunstreak is like a girl you think about sometimes but never see. He is hard all over and lovely too. When you look at his head you want to kiss him. He is trained by Jerry Tillford who knows me and has been good to me lots of times, lets me walk into a horse’s stall to look at him close and other things. There isn’t anything as sweet as that horse. He stands at the post quiet and not letting on, but he is just burning up inside. Then when the barrier goes up he is off like his name, Sunstreak. It makes you ache to see him. It hurts you. He just lays down and runs like a bird dog. There can’t anything I ever see run like him except Middlestride when he gets untracked and stretches himself.
Gee! I ached to see that race and those two horses run, ached and dreaded it too. I didn’t want to see either of our horses beaten. We had never sent a pair like that to the races before. Old men in Beckersville said so and the niggers said so. It was a fact.
Before the race I went over to the paddocks to see. I looked a last look at Middlestride, who isn’t such a much standing in a paddock that way, then I went to see Sunstreak.
It was his day. I knew when I see him. I forgot all about being seen myself and walked right up. All the men from Beckersville were there and no one noticed me except Jerry Tillford. He saw me and something happened. I’ll tell you about that.
I was standing looking at that horse and aching. In some way, I can’t tell how, I knew just how Sunstreak felt inside. He was quiet and letting the niggers rub his legs and Mr. Van Riddle himself put the saddle on, but he was just a raging torrent inside. He was like the water in the river at Niagara Falls just before its goes plunk down. That horse wasn’t thinking about running. He don’t have to think about that. He was just thinking about holding himself back ’til the time for the running came. I knew that. I could just in a way see right inside him. He was going to do some awful running and I knew it. He wasn’t bragging or letting on much or prancing or making a fuss, but just waiting. I knew it and Jerry Tillford his trainer knew. I looked up and then that man and I looked into each other’s eyes. Something happened to me. I guess I loved the man as much as I did the horse because he knew what I knew. Seemed to me there wasn’t anything in the world but that man and the horse and me. I cried and Jerry Tillford had a shine in his eyes. Then I came away to the fence to wait for the race. The horse was better than me, more steadier, and now I know better than Jerry. He was the quietest and he had to do the running.
Sunstreak ran first of course and he busted the world’s record for a mile. I’ve seen that if I never see anything more. Everything came out just as I expected. Middlestride got left at the post and was way back and closed up to be second, just as I knew he would. He’ll get a world’s record too some day. They can’t skin the Beckersville country on horses.
I watched the race calm because I knew what would happen. I was sure. Hanley Turner and Henry Rieback and Tom Tumberton were all more excited than me.
A funny thing had happened to me. I was thinking about Jerry Tillford the trainer and how happy he was all through the race. I liked him that afternoon even more than I ever liked my own father. I almost forgot the horses thinking that way about him. It was because of what I had seen in his eyes as he stood in the paddocks beside Sunstreak before the race started. I knew he had been watching and working with Sunstreak since the horse was a baby colt, had taught him to run and be patient and when to let himself out and not to quit, never. I knew that for him it was like a mother seeing her child do something brave or wonderful. It was the first time I ever felt for a man like that.
After the race that night I cut out from Tom and Hanley and Henry. I wanted to be by myself and I wanted to be near Jerry Tillford if I could work it. Here is what happened.
The track in Saratoga is near the edge of town. It is all polished up and trees around, the evergreen kind, and grass and everything painted and nice. If you go past the track you get to a hard road made of asphalt for automobiles, and if you go along this for a few miles there is a road turns off to a little rummy-looking farm house set in a yard.
That night after the race I went along that road because I had seen Jerry and some other men go that way in an automobile. I didn’t expect to find them. I walked for a ways and then sat down by a fence to think. It was the direction they went in. I wanted to be as near Jerry as I could. I felt close to him. Pretty soon I went up the side road–I don’t know why–and came to the rummy farm house. I was just lonesome to see Jerry, like wanting to see your father at night when you are a young kid. Just then an automobile came along and turned in. Jerry was in it and Henry Rieback’s father, and Arthur Bedford from home, and Dave Williams and two other men I didn’t know. They got out of the car and went into the house, all but Henry Rieback’s father who quarreled with them and said he wouldn’t go. It was only about nine o’clock, but they were all drunk and the rummy looking farm house was a place for bad women to stay in. That’s what it was. I crept up along a fence and looked through a window and saw.
It’s what give me the fantods. I can’t make it out. The women in the house were all ugly mean-looking women, not nice to look at or be near. They were homely too, except one who was tall and looked a little like the gelding Middlestride, but not clean like him, but with a hard ugly mouth. She had red hair. I saw everything plain. I got up by an old rose bush by an open window and looked. The women had on loose dresses and sat around in chairs. The men came in and some sat on the women’s laps. The place smelled rotten and there was rotten talk, the kind a kid hears around a livery stable in a town like Beckersville in the winter but don’t ever expect to hear talked when there are women around. It was rotten. A nigger wouldn’t go into such a place.
I looked at Jerry Tillford. I’ve told you how I had been feeling about him on account of his knowing what was going on inside of Sunstreak in the minute before he went to the post for the race in which he made a world’s record.
Jerry bragged in that bad woman house as I know Sunstreak wouldn’t never have bragged. He said that he made that horse, that it was him that won the race and made the record. He lied and bragged like a fool. I never heard such silly talk.
And then, what do you suppose he did! He looked at the woman in there, the one that was lean and hard-mouthed and looked a little like the gelding Middlestride, but not clean like him, and his eyes began to shine just as they did when he looked at me and at Sunstreak in the paddocks at the track in the afternoon. I stood there by the window– gee!–but I wished I hadn’t gone away from the tracks, but had stayed with the boys and the niggers and the horses. The tall rotten looking woman was between us just as Sunstreak was in the paddocks in the afternoon.
Then, all of a sudden, I began to hate that man. I wanted to scream and rush in the room and kill him. I never had such a feeling before. I was so mad clean through that I cried and my fists were doubled up so my finger nails cut my hands.
And Jerry’s eyes kept shining and he waved back and forth, and then he went and kissed that woman and I crept away and went back to the tracks and to bed and didn’t sleep hardly any, and then next day I got the other kids to start home with me and never told them anything I seen.
I been thinking about it ever since. I can’t make it out. Spring has come again and I’m nearly sixteen and go to the tracks mornings same as always, and I see Sunstreak and Middlestride and a new colt named Strident I’ll bet will lay them all out, but no one thinks so but me and two or three niggers.
But things are different. At the tracks the air don’t taste as good or smell as good. It’s because a man like Jerry Tillford, who knows what he does, could see a horse like Sunstreak run, and kiss a woman like that the same day. I can’t make it out. Darn him, what did he want to do like that for? I keep thinking about it and it spoils looking at horses and smelling things and hearing niggers laugh and everything. Sometimes I’m so mad about it I want to fight someone. It gives me the fantods. What did he do it for? I want to know why.
Tags: Coming of Age Loss of Innocence Stream of Conscious Writing
Nov 25, 2009 • Literature and Fiction
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By Mike
It could be described as the most prolific moment in the eve of my life—never more than a whisper from death or complacent living. Yet, a whisper is only what it is named, and what more can be done when it is not heard? Because of the simplicity that such a conclusion brings to my life, I am drawn to two possibilities: either I will find what I seek or I will move closer still to that fatal whisper. Somehow, neither is the case; I am but a lonely decrepit man—or rather, I was. By most accounts I died in my own wretched ignorance, a cesspool of thought and depravity left behind for the vultures of life to divvy up, tear apart, and ultimately leave to rot and decay until nothing was left but the remnants of a corpse – nothing but a steaming pile of pungent odor remains. By most accounts, I was the most villainous, albeit industrious, individual to have roamed this rocky orb.
In life I was unaware that I had been accused of committing so many misdeeds, because I had instructed him so well. He devoured my words. He did this until my instruction ended his existence. Many ask, “What heinous act has this villainous creature thrust upon society?” But I tell you now, this was no misdeed by any standard; it was only a means to an end. What was this end? The appeasement of his soul. Yet is this madness? No, I dare say it is not madness; it is only a dream that shall be unrealized.
Now I sit in this cell caged like an animal, never to break loose. Always wondering if on the other side my words will ever be heard or comprehended. I doubt that a mind such as mine exists in this universe. I am locked in a cage—while real in every sense, it is beyond description for mere mortal eyes. But it is my mind that leaves me here. Am I insane? Hardly. For one not to see that is in itself insanity. Oh dear friend, I am aware of what you may be thinking. Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that I would look upon a man such as myself as a bigot and a delusional, babbling twit, but I am so much more.
Every night I looked upon the stars wondering why in God’s name I had been thrust upon this hellish earth. I stared about me and never once saw a soul as deep in thought as my own. Oh, how this disgusted me. The torment was like the blackest night’s icy tendrils. Its baneful howls sliced my ears constantly. What was I to do, was I to remain calm and allow this vileness to continue? Of course I could not. My course of action was as calculating as it was sane. I decided to demonstrate to the world just how intelligent I was.
I was determined to undermine the fabric what I knew. How I was to accomplish this is still quite a mystery to me, but do not judge. Another person in my place would have done this very thing. Imagine it; imagine how wonderful it would be. This is my place in life. I found much sanity in this insanity as some have said. I cannot say I agree, for where is the insanity? I would be proud of any other who could devise a plan such as this.
Stop wondering what it was that my plan accomplished, or for that matter what it was. It shall be revealed. I beg, sir, not to judge, nonetheless. My mind has a purpose and my plan has done what it should have. Had I not been put away, who is to say that my plan would not have accomplished its purposes? That is the insanity that I must face daily. Physicians, psychiatrists, and the like, all wish to understand my thoughts. Their minds are a modicum of ideas at best. No better than a dog’s mind when compared to my own. So of course I shall not explain what I already know. It would seem frivolous would it not?
To my own detriment, it would seem I am a mound of ambivalence. Knowing not which way was up or down was my only blunder. My plan was perfection. I declare it true. The lone imperfection was its perfection; this is why it could never have been completed. Those dastardly officials shall reap their deaths in their own time; if not by my hand, then by the hands of providence shall they meet death face first. Their visage will be one of ignominy and darkness upon their deathbeds. They are nothing more than shadows of men, and my heart, it seems, knows that I am so much more. Truth be told, I am sane. I shall achieve what I set out to do. Nothing but shadows of men, I render this thought and leave it.
What more can be said now? I am caged as a rat; left to rot until death thrusts its loving hands down my throat and rips me apart. I wonder. How is she coping? My old friend death. She seems so lackadaisical of late. Has she forgotten me? No matter, in time I suppose I will hear from her again. Such is the way of such things. No matter.
What now, shall we say, my dear friend? What doth one inquire of me?
Tags: Madness
Nov 18, 2009 • Literature and Fiction
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By Larry
The Jocks
These assholes think they’re really fucking special. Guess what? You play baseball (or basketball if you’re black) for a COMMUNITY FUCKING COLLEGE! That means (drum roll) FUCKALL! Stop fucking staring at me and calling me gay or “white boy” (the latter if you’re black) because I’m fit, well dressed and handsome, and the non-lesbian softball chicks stare at me and not you. You lounge around watching Sports Center on the wall-mounted flat screen TV in the lobby by the gym (close to the main entrance, for maximum exposure). I can out drink and out fuck you. Big deal, get over it and yourself. You have no problem being obscenely loud about your “bidness”. FYI: No one wants to hear about how Andy left his iPod or cell phone at WaZoo’s crib and how said device was most definitely not going to be there now.
The Wall Huggers
I’ll go easy on these guys because they don’t cause me too much trouble, though one out of every three accidentally spill into the wrong classroom on an hourly basis, such is their attachment to the wall. These people literally can not not walk alongside the wall. There is a twenty-foot wide hallway and enrollment isn’t high here (for good reason) so feel free to move around, but stay out of my way. I was once one of you; I know what you are going through. Yes the world is a scary place, and people here suck (see: The Jocks) but fucking grow a pair! High School is over, and last I checked Ryan Fleming doesn’t attend this school. You are safe. Trust me.
The Hot Girl
Yes you are hot. Yes you are rich. Yes you are only here because you maintained a C+ average and Daddy thought that it would be best for his little girl to build some character before heading off to university. Mostly he did it because he knew you’d end up a druggie alcoholic cunt, pregnant or post-abortion before the first semester, a drop-out like the hot girl you sit next to, the one you were friends with in high school, whom you gossip about on Facebook, and you think you’re better than because you haven’t gotten pregnant… yet. You drive a Pontiac Sunfire, or Grand Am. You are so tan that some of the colors in your trampstamp are no longer visible. Your name may or may not be Traci.
The Hot (but doesn’t know it) Girl
You are from a small town. You have had the same boyfriend since the sixth grade. You were the in the top ten of your class and go here for free on academic scholarship. You’re flower has finally blossomed. You had an older brother who got all of the attention, and your mom never told you what to do with your hair or make-up or clothes. You are insecure and hold on to your long-term loser boyfriend, because you don’t think that you can do any better. By the way, he has fucked around on you since the day you met, sorry. You are really tired of having unsatisfying sex in the bed of his truck, but have no one to talk to about it since your best and only girlfriend moved away and all of your guy friends (all of whom secretly have a crush on you) never want to talk about that for some reason. Guys here look at you and you’re not sure why, your instincts tell you they like you but you are conditioned to think you are ugly because you only got attention from one guy your whole life, and all of your guy friends are pussies or gay.
The Nerds
This is a classic archetype and for good reason. You congregate near Munchie’s Café. One of you sports a tail, he is known as a “furry”. Even in the outsider world of weird in which you thrive, he is considered “a little strange”. He may have sex with animals or with children, while dressed like an animal. His name may or may not be Travis. One of you has a fiancé. He is your God. There is one single and kind of cute girl in your group but your balls dropped off a long time ago or you wised up and no longer seek validation from the opposite sex. All of you have terrible facial hair that you refuse to shave. All of you have a bad hair cut, but don’t care. You smell bad, again you don’t care. You are either over or under weight. You still have that black trench coat in your closet that you wore in High School. You love Japanese shit. You have accepted your nerd-dom, and are proud of it, going so far as to make a scene and draw attention to yourself. This bothers those around you and you love it. Deep down, you are not a bad guy, but you will die alone anyway. Games you like: D&D, M:tG, Yu-Gi-Oh, Morrowind/ Oblivion, WoW, and any RPG ever made.
And to be fair:
Me
I’m the quiet/LOUD guy in class. You think I’m good looking with a decent body, a little too pale and wear nice clothes (gay?). You think I’m funny but vulgar and my humor, like the coffee I constantly drink, is black. You don’t always understand why I laugh inappropriately at things people around the room say. You’re convinced I come in hung-over every Wednesday, noting all period that I never remove my wayfarers. I seem smart but a little snobby and very judgmental based on the comments I make (in my defense once you get to know me I’m pretty friendly). I’m stuck up, maybe shy but to be safe you’re going to assume the former, and you’d be half right, because both are true. If it helps us get along just remember: I’m more scared of you than you are of me.
Tags: Larry Story
Nov 17, 2009 • Humor, Nostalgia
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By Mike
Isn’t it funny how one day you can wake up and remember how it used to feel to have something to live for? I don’t mean that life isn’t worth living; on the contrary, life is worth every penny. But really, think about those times that made it seem like it was true; those days when life seemed to be going the way you wanted—too bad I rarely wake up with that feeling. Most of the time I’m stuck working a job that makes me feel sick to my stomach. You know, I wish I didn’t have a conscience; it would make things a lot easier. But really, my job requires that I don’t; it’s written in the description on page two, right around line three sub-paragraph six. If my boss found out about mine, I’d be fired in a second.
So you’re probably wondering what it is that I do, because I know I would be curious. In a few words, I find ways to sell you stuff that you don’t really need, but are willing to spend thousands of dollars for—going in debt along the way—in order to get that momentary sense of elation. And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. We’ve all sent in those three easy payments of $19.95 for the Ronco Rotisserie Oven in the hopes that we could make as juicy of a game hen as Ron Popeil did; those blasted infomercials. But, I’m basically charged with creating the same kind of campaign. The kind of advertising that makes you drool. Makes you want to lick that roasted duck on the television screen; tricks the hell out of you into buying the product that’ll never get used, and will definitely never create the five star dinner the ‘normal’ chef on the tele made—but it sure looks tasty. Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s a great job. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the inside? Not that most people don’t catch the techniques we use—on second thought, eighty percent of the American public will definitely never catch those techniques—but I certainly do.
So I have to lie a little about the products to do my job—what’s wrong with that if I can make a quick buck in the process? It’s pretty simple really, a few pieces of currency exchange hands for goods slash services and everyone is happy. No harm done; its not like anyone really expects their Dyson Cyclonicon Pro Vacuum to do a good job. It has moving parts; it is bound to fall apart sooner or later. Right? I guess if you want to get technical, I’m not actually doing the lying, I really only pick the colors and typefaces that trick your eyes into looking at the ad. A little kerning here and a leading adjustment there and we’re all set to ship it off to the various magazines that’ll print the marketing department’s little white lies for thousands to consume—provided that my designs are approved.
Seriously, though, who wouldn’t want this job? You sit back and get to create all day—really, you get to problem solve and figure out what solution will best fit the given advertising situation. How? By helping to create the little lies that get your mommy and daddy to purchase that brand new Lexus LS 300M Mark II with a base MSRP of $45,699; pretty nasty when it comes to financing, since they’re already stretched so thin they can no longer afford to make timely payments, but what do I care? My little contribution to the ad was so small it isn’t worth mentioning or even attributing to their need for the vehicle—but I’ll tell you anyway. I adjusted the kerning on the word “the” next to “all new.” So maybe my contribution wasn’t glamorous, but I had a hand in the final ad. On top of that, I was always quick in getting the art director his morning cup of coffee, which I’m relatively certain sets me up for the next promotion in the office. I’m crossing my fingers on that one, but it’s a lock. Really, what could be better than earning that Assistant to the Artistic Creditor position? I definitely don’t know.
What would I be doing once I land that promotion, since I most definitely will? I get to take notes and pour cups of coffee for yet another person; boy, I’m pumped about that one. I can’t wait to hear, “Hey you, can you get me another tall mocha espresso latte, with a double shot of the espresso? Yeah, thanks. Make it quick, alright?” Seriously, this is my dream career; in another five years I’ll have enough experience to start designing entire campaigns on my own. Mind you, they’ll be immediately ripped apart by the art director, and then completely redesigned or even ignored, but I’ll get the ball rolling on the process and that is what truly matters. Hell, by that time I’ll have learned to lie so subtly you might not even trust me enough to have a conversation with me, let alone befriend me—you really always have to have a goal—and won’t that alone make life worth living? I think so.
Really, the chance to influence others easily, albeit without their knowledge, sounds like the dream of every man with a Napoleon complex—and I get to do it every day. It seems to me that Disney didn’t lie. Some dreams really do come true. Sure, you spend most of your professional life catering to higher-ups, but what is that in the scheme of things? Not much. The bottom line is a career in marketing and advertising is the way to go, and it’s the best job I’ve ever held. Hell, I guess I must be learning something since I got you to believe half the stuff I just wrote.
Tags: Marketing
Nov 16, 2009 • Humor, Literature and Fiction
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By Nykamp
Initially, the start of Wednesday was like most for Larry. Naturally it started with masturbation, and was followed by the same ritual that had consumed his mornings for the past three years. The start was a vigorous and seemingly workmanlike shower, followed by a breakfast of two oatmeal packets with skim milk and a banana, then a brushing of teeth before exiting his apartment. The pieces of the morning puzzle fit snug together. Larry enjoyed it that way.
A stern vibration in the left thigh pocket of his Levis is what awoke Larry from his slumber. The routine was such that the 13 minute walk to class consisted of an iPod and oldies music, as well as casual glances at passerby’s. The vibration was a call from his best gal-pal, Pammy, which he so affectionately called her. Pam and Larry had met his very first day on campus, as Pam had lived directly across from his dorm room. Though their attraction for one another was evident, the relationship was that of professional studentship. Deep friendship could define the situation of the past three years.
“Speak to me baby-cakes,” Larry crowed with a glance at an awkward freshman gal.
“Fuckin’ Mahoney. I’m gunna need a drink today. Let’s meet at JoeBa’s around 5:30.”
While 5:30 initially seemed early to Larry, particularly on a Wednesday, he refused to care because he was done with class at 4:15, and didn’t have shit-else to do. With Pam saying the name Mahoney, Larry knew something serious was going down. In a relationship filled with irony, the usage of a Police Academy character’s name meant something had happened; one of a possible many parties had been scarred, and things needed to be discussed.
“Well okily dokily. How’s the morning going?” Asked Larry.
“Fuckin’ frantastical. Just meet me there at 5:30, give or take.”
“5:30, give or take. See ya then toots.”
A click on her end was Pam’s reply.
With the bluntness of her speak, she meant business. Larry dwelled over the brief conversation throughout his day. While he usually didn’t pay much attention in his Principle of Marketing class, today he was absolutely unfazed by each spoken word to a degree of uneasyness. Anatomy and Physiology was about the same, as was Nutrition for Healthy Living. In fact, his body refused to enjoy a single bite devoured of his Jimmy John’s #9 (Italian Night Club). He usually had random thoughts about Pam during the day, but today was a fixation.
At 5:36 Larry sauntered into the joint. He and Pam had called JoeBa’s home for the entirety of their legal drinking months. He headed directly for their usual table, but it was vacant. Perplexed, he looked toward the bar. Their stood a Bobby-Hot-Shit chatting up an unresponsive and quite morose Pam. They never sat at the bar, but there she was. Larry swooped in to save her.
“Excuse me chap, but this here is my prize fighter, and I can’t have her fraternizin’ before her big bout.”
The Bobby-Hot-Shit exchanged a fuck-you glance with Larry. Larry’s seven inches and 60 pounds very well could have been the reason that no words were exchanged. While the two stood there glaring at one another, Pam wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him deeply. The Bobby walked off, and Larry firmly exchanged the pleasantry.
“Holy shit,” she proclaimed as her wayward eyes went to the bar surface.
“Christ, I thought we settled on 5:30, give or take!” Larry could tell that she was a resounding three sheets to the wind. They both had a firm desire for the sauce, but early drinking on a Wednesday was baffling.
“It was the damndest thing. On my way to class this fucking force pulled me to JoeBa’s. Like a Goddamn magnet. Almost sucked me clear out of my shoes. It wasn’t negotiable. Wasn’t gunna fight it. So, I let the fucking thing pull me. Pulled me all the way to this fuckin’ stool, it did.”
Larry cracked a rye smile as the bartender, Clayton, asked for his order. Knowing Pam’s state and sensing the shitstorm he was about to power through, he did the only sensible thing.
“Beam double with a Busch Light back.” While he stated the beer portion of his directive, he placed his flat right hand about 30 inches above the bar, indicating a tall beer.
“So what’s the trouble kid?”
Pam didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were still adrift in oblivion, and she swigged deeply from her traditional vodka tonic.
“Two shots of Silver Patron, chilled,” she barked at Clayton, though his back was turned while managing Larry’s order.
“Kodachrome….. gives us the nice bright colors, gives us the greens of-”
“Pammy, If I wanted Paul Simon lyrics I would go back in a time machine and fuck Art Garfunkel in the ass while asking about the most memorable thing his daddy ever told him. With that, tell me what’s on your mind and tell me quick, because I’m gunna have to shit within the next seven minutes.”
Pam offered a slight smirk to this.
Larry gripped his fresh Beam double, drank its entirety, and caressed the top of his chilled 24- ounce glass with his lips.
“Well, you see, I found myself in a difficult situation this morning. Jane called around 7:21.”
Jane was Pam’s mother who lived some 450 miles away.
“Jane says…. I’m done with Sergio…. Ok, shit, fuck, no more lyrics, sorry… Well Jane says that Gimps got hit by a truck this morning. That Goddamn rip-roaring redneck that flies by our house every morning going 30 miles over the speed limit. Fuckin’ blasted him about 20 yards and didn’t even slow down or stop afterward.”
Larry couldn’t believe the words. Gimps was the family Labrador that was always getting into shenanigans on the family farm. Pam talked of him non-stop; his exploits were famous in many circles. He was the true love of Pam’s life, so Larry believed. She was drunk enough at this point where she could deliver the news without flinching, being almost totally void of emotion.
By this time, the two Patron had arrived. Larry grabbed his immediately and tossed it into the air in a toast.
“To Gimps.”
Pam immediately raised her glass and poured the drink down. This process went on for the next six hours and two minutes. Stories of Gimps dominated the session, but various statements about classes, people, haircuts, music and movies were also included. Drinks were violently tossed down throats, trips to bathrooms were made, and homework was not completed. All the while, nobody in JoeBa’s mattered except for Larry, Pam, and Clayton. Larry and Pam were so engrossed in each other that the bombing of Dresden could have occurred just outside the door of JoeBa’s, and neither would have noticed.
Larry and Pam finally stumbled out of JoeBa’s at 11:46. They made way towards Larry’s apartment, though several extra steps were taken on account of the stumbling.
Upon the arrival at Larry’s front door, he dropped his keys while attempting to unlock it. Twice. They both laughed wildly at this, almost to the point of tears being shed.
Once inside Larry went directly to his record collection and quickly grabbed the one he’d been thinking about all day. He delicately placed it on the antique player, and put the needle in the perfect position. From the oversized speakers, Laughing by The Guess Who started. Larry extended his hand to Pam, and with a wide smile, she accepted it. With Larry’s apartment door wide open, they began to dance.
Promptly, at 11:59:59, it turned to Thursday, and Larry’s Wednesday was over.
Tags: Larry Story
Nov 11, 2009 • Literature and Fiction
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By Mike
“What the hell?” The noise was deafeningly disturbing. With every fat finger-mash on the keyboard the noise grew ever more aggravating—each moment filled with a great deal more annoyance than the last. Those deft little fingers of theirs continued to hammer at my ears for another thirty minutes and the funny thing was, two minutes prior to the flurry of activity, nobody worked. Not even for a second—that is until, you know, the boss walked in. It’s just so damn funny how that works—or rather, doesn’t. Whatever, I’ve got work to do.
But really, the fact is I haven’t done a thing here either—except write this shit—and look how far that has taken me. Pretty damn far to be honest—how else could I respond to that?
Anyhow, no one knows the difference. I just join their little orchestra, and chime in at the chorus—at just the right time. Quite frankly, they need me here. I elevate their key flogging to heights unseen. Plus my particular brand of noise, well…it isn’t noise it’s out and out pure brilliance in QWERTY form. A regular virtuoso I am.
“Tom, could you file this form with the blah blah jaklaf eame3 2l3k akjdasf?” “Hell no, Ted, I can’t—that’s your job asshole. Not mine.” I grabbed the form and filed it anyway. I consider myself a bit of a rebel of sorts; my outburst was in thought, but my head hurts, nonetheless.
I feel like shit today, just like every other day I walk into the office. I hate the office. Every one of these fucks is useless; not good at their jobs; can’t calculate a damn thing; and just HAVE to stop every god damn minute to gab about fuck knows what. It’s all the same, useless shit we’re told to talk about: Augustine Sharedon just fucked the lead singer of Hardcore Hooligans and there’s a video; the refs in last night’s game royally screwed the Nets last night; blah, blah, blah. Nothing but incoherent babble stabbing at my head, incessantly, maliciously…deliciously even?
Much to my chagrin, I rather enjoyed the ebb and flow of their conversations. There was a certain melody that existed in it, something beautiful even—something cerebral and meditative. I was a fucking monk, enjoying the chaotic chant of the mass in these moments.
Hell yes, thirty minutes to go, my day will be done before long, and I’ll be back home, eating ramen, wallowing in shit, drinking myself to sleep—only to wake up in the morning and realize how fucked I am.
I need a new plan.
The orchestra bangs away at the edge of consciousness and I’m ready for flight—or fight. I don’t know which anymore. What I do know is that I’m ready to get the fuck out of here, and I’m going to do it any way I can.
“Ted, fuck off!”
“What the hellll…Tom, would you calm down?”
“No Ted, I’m done, finished, and you’re fucked!”
“Tom, that language isn’t necessary. Look let’s just go over to my office and discuss this.”
No fucking way Ted, I’m gone, my head is wrapped so tight, it’s ready to, “fuck you, Ted!”
Get, it?
Chaos?
I wake up in a cell. Fuck, fifteen more years of this and I’m clean of cocaine, and back on the street. No more dreams, no more life in there, just a start out there.
Banging away at keys.
Tags: Crazy Mind
Nov 11, 2009 • Literature and Fiction
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By Brad
After Beyonce and Jay-Z sang the national anthem in honor of the new minor speculum website kicking off, I thought I would add to the excitement with (wait for it…building suspense…not really….becoming irritating…) LITERATURE! (Letdown).
This month is the time for nanowrimo, the National Novel Writing Month. Nanowrimo is a free program that encourages all kinds of writers to finally sit down and kick out that novel that has been eating all of their food and plugging up the only toilet inside their head. The free program asks writers to start writing on November 1st and finish 175 pages (50,000 words) by November 30th. The site offers suggestions, helpful tricks, and writing dares that continue to push writers to make their goal. Like a weight lifting spotter without all the yelling and spitting, unless you’re into that kind of thing.
Through this mental marathon the program earns money by donations for other free writing programs. The very fun nanowirmo.org has even recruited this loser of a writer to join in on the effort. I signed up knowing full well that I most likely won’t make the mark, but I’ve done more than you, therefore I am winning one to nothing. In all honesty I have written 675 words of a story that I started slightly before the starters pistol was fired, but as my father says, “if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying hard enough.”
The part that I find fun about nanowrimo is its push to not edit or think about the story you’re attempting to create. It’s like a stew that could taste like crap but has been the best time making. I will eventually post excerpts from my unsuccessful story so that those willing can take part in my failure. If you would like to also join in on the disappointment on your own (you’re never really on your own) log on to www.nanowrimo.org and sign up. Really, do it. You have nothing to lose.
Tags: nanowrimo Writing
Nov 11, 2009 • Literature and Fiction, Minor Speculum
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By Mike
Editor,
In this paper, and among other sources, I have read the claim that the most moral action would be the passage of universal healthcare; and while, from the perspective of some it would indeed seem to be a moral imperative to ensure that the less well off are cared for, it is difficult to claim that the most moral action is a government run program.
From a certain perspective, what is deemed moral is that which is seen as the “greatest good for the greatest number of people.” Though the act of passing universal healthcare is done with great moral intentions, it will ultimately impact the greatest number of individuals more negatively over time, and will serve to help the fewest at inception.
What negative impact would such a program have on a greater portion of society than that which it is designed to serve? Simply, its costs will become increasingly astronomical and undeniably unaffordable over time, and in such a way as to cause catastrophic collapse unless a change is made in expenditures or in tax collection.
And while we are, in sum total, the wealthiest nation on earth, a great deal of this wealth is built on debt, from the car or house many own to the ever increasing debt of the federal government built year after year on deficit spending for various social programs and military expeditions.
This is not to say that those less well off should be left to wallow in misery; it is simply the role of societal institutions, and not government, to ensure individuals are cared for, and seemingly the most moral way. And so from this interpretation of morality it is difficult to say whether the passage of a government program designed to assist such a small percentage of the population is truly the most moral path to take.
But, of course, the issue of morality is complicated. Our tradition of governance is not; it is about negative liberty, or rather what the government will not do in order to maintain an individual’s right to life, liberty, and private property.
Passage of universal health care, or the passage of a similar program, diminishes this tradition by creating a sense of entitlement in a population looking for positive liberty—or what the government will provide—at the expense of an individual’s right to property, by increasing taxes, and the liberty one enjoys when deciding how to provide their own health and wellness, by supplanting that with a system designed to mandate what qualifies as quality care rather than that which is based on an individual’s needs.
Mike Mattner
Benton Harbor, MI
Sent to the Herald Palladium.
Tags: Health Care Letter to the Editor Morality
Nov 10, 2009 • OP-ED, Politics
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