THE JOB AT HAND

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The year will be remembered for the crisp weather and the magnificent views of the lake and the mountains behind it. Friday was one of the clearest days ever experienced, the visibility almost twenty miles, and something in the air itself that seemed to sharpen the grain of the scene until it approached the resolution of nature itself. During the first part of the week there had been periods of brief rain, but they had cleared by Friday. She sat on her porch and looked south. She saw her father’s cabin on the far shore of the lake. She saw the flag waving atop town hall. She saw the glinting glass facade of the new hotel, and the red band of the canopy over the rooftop restaurant, and even the brick chimney for the pizza oven beside which she had, just weeks before, sat and enjoyed a beer with Edward, her ex-husband, at which he had argued that they never should have separated, since they were still deeply attracted to each other and still young enough to make the most of it (“I think about your hair so much,” he had said, shaking his head ruefully as if the fault was all his), and she had passed him a plain white envelope containing enough cash to keep him focused on the job at hand, which was a simple matter, really, of driving to a lodge on the near shore where several prominent politicians were meeting for lavishly catered dinners and light hikes through the beautiful foothills, pulling into the roundabout, handing his keys to the valet—he made sure that the man got a good look at him, or rather, at his disguise, the shaggy greying hair, the scar along the left side of his jawbone—striding through the lobby, and assassinating the Senator. Edward was right. They still charged each others’ batteries. Even thinking of him going through the lobby with purpose set off a little firework at the base of her skull—and elsewhere. “And elsewhere,” she said to no one. She ran her hand through the long black curtain of her hair. 

JIM, DON'T WORRY

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Jay Towson, a local resident who has lived in four of the world’s five largest cities and made untold millions as an international financier, but was born here and has told several reporters that he “will die here, God willing,” took the stage to thunderous applause that betokened a successful future as a mayoral candidate.  Towson gripped the podium commandingly and greeted the crowd. His first order of business was economic. He hoped that the resolution would be passed, remarking that he wished that some of the huge profits recorded by the factory in this past half-decade had found their way not just to consumers, in the form of more affordable products, but to employees. Towson said that he had always thought that management would look out for labor but that wages and benefits were clearly not a chief concern, failing to come up to the level of what was expected, let alone what was fair. Then his remarks diverged somewhat. “I came here determined to discuss the danger of running employees ragged,” he said, “and I expected to beat that drum for a good while longer. But then I looked up and saw that it is a rainy day, and that the drops are streaking high window at the rear of the hall, and that the sky behind it is slate-gray, and that put me in mind of a day about forty years ago when I was walking down Dillard Street and saw a young boy coming the other way. He was struggling with a knapsack that was too large for him, wobbling under its weight, and as he came to Langtree Avenue, which was a bit before we would have passed each other, a young woman came down a flight of stairs to greet him. She put her arms around him. I was almost to them, and I could hear her speaking to him. ‘Jim, don’t worry,’ she said, and then, ‘Don’t worry, Jim.’ It was like an exhalation and an inhalation of the same solacing: Jim, don't worry, don't worry, Jim. Her face was blocked by the immense knapsack but then the boy shifted to set it down and I saw her fully, all at once. It was a round face framed by red hair that flowed down in ringlets. It is not an exaggeration to say that she was the most beautiful human I had ever seen. I had not seen her for more than five seconds before I knew that I had to take whatever measures were within my power to meet her, to talk to her, to make the case that she should spend an afternoon with me, maybe sitting and taking coffee, maybe walking, and there, I knew, I would make my case. I stepped toward them. I cleared my throat. She looked up and our eyes met. Something in my expression, maybe the ardor I was feeling, must have registered with her as an unregulated passion, and she put her arm around her brother and hurried him back up the stairs. I could have stood there until they came back out. I could have gone up the stairs and pressed on the doorbell. I could have left a note. I did none of those things. I fled. I fled the street and then I fled the town. Why do you think I have lived all across the globe? To drive the image of that face from my mind. It both lights my heart and hurts my heart, both attests to the presence of a beauty so powerful that it can change a man in a moment and to the presence of a cowardice so stubborn that it cannot step aside even in the presence of grace. Every dollar that I made, from the first to the millionth and beyond, was a form of repentance, of sorrow and regret, and still I feel no closer to absolution. As I have prepared to run for mayor, I have given speeches ten, twenty, thirty times, and each time I have fantasized that a woman would stand up from the audience, and that it would be that woman. It has not happened through hope, so now I make my request explicit. If that woman is here, if you are that woman, please stand. Please heal me.” No one stood. Towson’s voice was shaking, and the podium with it.

PRIZED HARDTOP

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

We have on good authority who it is who has been contemning regular parishioners, speaking derisively of everything from their modest dress to their prayerful tones to their thoroughgoing commitment to charity. Gregor, the man who lives directly across the street from the church, has assumed the broad responsibility of calling into question the character of anyone demonstrating devoutness, as illustrated by his remarks that faith is “a boil that must be lanced, and if the lance is fashioned from a bitterness that comes from seeing the world as it truly is, so be it.” Gregor mostly stands in his garage next to his prized 1961 300G hardtop, wearing the suit he used to wear to work, scowling and shaking his head. Those few brave churchgoers who have crossed the street sometimes hear him talking on the phone to someone they believe to be an ex-wife, attempting to forestall her from picking up the rest of her clothes and reminding her that she has to bring the dog over to see him at least once a week as per court order. Demands are being made for him to move.

FORWARD FLIGHT

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

One of the small coincidences of history—even the most cursory investigation reveals more of them than the average mind could fathom—is that the news of a hundred years from now will be just as full of Cherry Miller as it is today. The band, known for its literate lyrics and the onstage theatrics of front woman Belinda Arp, will be one of only three acts from the rock and roll era to survive the forward flight of time’s arrow, the other two being The Beatles and Personal Approach, and pilgrimages to the band’s hometown of Youngstown, Ohio, will outpace even those to Liverpool and Baltimore. Arp’s grave, in Tod Homestead, will be a common destination for devotees, who will leave, as they have for the better part of the century, flat glass marbles in either purple or green in tribute to the cover art of the band’s debut record, Aubergine. Once a year, on Arp’s birthday, a Cherry Miller tribute band, Blossom Valley, will perform a gravesite acoustic rendition of the band’s final hit, “All We Ever Talk About Is Nothing At All.” The growing attendance at the annual ceremony suggests that Cherry Miller will survive another century at least. 

ACCELERATED ESCALATORS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

How many people have been started in this minuscule town in the southern part of the state and afterwards removed to the big city for exploit and eminence? The most famous was Teddy Kenner, who, under the name of “Theo Kenner,” was transplanted up to the metropolis, where he served as mayor for a record six terms. Maddie Peters, the proprietor of the Hawk’s Perch on the ninety-first floor of the Silvertone Tower, was originally Margaret Peters, the daughter of a fitfully successful spinach farmer, and Casey Martin, the most venerable stage actor at the Brougham Playhouse, esteemed both for his classical work (his Coriolanus was said to be “the equal of Olivier’s in both intensity and precision”) and his experimental ambitions (he wrote and starred in Tell Me Where It Hurts, a “space farce for nudes and robots” that “peels away the hypocrisy of modern capitalism in a series of monologues performed on accelerated escalators”), started life as Ace, the friendliest bag boy at Fowler’s Market. Seventy-one babies were born in Scots Hollow last year. Expect acclaim for a dozen at least.

RECALL NOT GANNON

It is difficult to establish, as a rule, that screaming—even full-throated, profanity-filled screaming—is the best palliative for a thumb smashed by a hammer. Despite a scientific basis for the theory that producing loud noises might disrupt the transmission of pain, some thumbs continue to throb no matter how much bellowing occurs; and others may even hurt worse despite the paroxysm. Relief is capricious, as Clark Anton Gannon famously said. Perhaps it is best to recall not Gannon, but Warren Burke’s conception of pain as a thing always delivered but never signed for. 

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

TERM LIFE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

An investigator giving evidence yesterday in a case of blackmail asserted a claim of “tortoise interference” against a Mr. Ronald Donaldson based on evidence that Donaldson had prevailed upon third party to sever all business relations with his brother-in-law, and persisted in using the phrase. Judge Kenilworth suggested that instead of “tortoise interference,” the witness meant “tortious interference.” The people in the courtroom laughed, and the investigator, recognizing his error, begged pardon of all present, turned a pale shade, and fainted. 

THE NEWS IN NOISE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Yesterday may be fairly considered to have been one of the quietest days ever experienced. Although certain regions in the South and the Midwest did not register exceptional conditions, on the East and West Coasts the absence of conversation was at its most pronounced since the wave of silence that swept the country six years ago. The high levels of hush were experienced the day before as well, but were broke by loud and obnoxious monologues by a number of men that subsided yesterday. The forecast calls for tranquility to diminish until chatter returns to normal levels. 

ART IN ACTION

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Norman Hatch, who spoke first, addressed his remarks almost exclusively to the members of his family, who had convened for his youngest brother Jeffrey’s holiday party along with a few dozen of Jeffrey’s friends and neighbors. It was the first time in years that the full set of Hatch siblings had been together, and as such it was a prime opportunity for Norman to furnish an update regarding the course of his life and life’s work. He started calmly enough, but worked himself up to considerable emotion when speaking of his own painting, at which point his speech became peripatetic and he commenced to striding restlessly between the white couch against the fireplace wall and the Christmas tree in the far corner. “It is said by some that I have never engaged healthily with realism,” he said. “And yet, the word is a feint. If we were to listen to science, we we hear that everything around us is composed of atoms whirling rapidly through time and space, and that they are composed of even smaller particles whirling even more rapidly. What is more real than that? But when I try to depict those facts, I am designated as an abstract artist. This is at least untrue and possibly even unjust.” Most of the Hatches heard only parts of the speech, as they were busying themselves with other tasks, some taking food from the kitchen, others talking amongst themselves, still others sitting on the couch watching holiday movies on the new oversized television that Jeffrey had mounted on the wall that morning. During his remarks, they were watching a romantic comedy of recent vintage centered around a woman who quit her unsatisfying job in finance and traveled to London to find her long-lost love, only to learn the true meaning of Christmas. The specific scene that coincided with the crescendo of his speech was a bit of farce involving the heroine, a flirty older shopkeeper, and a young couple who had wandered into the shop out of a pouring rain. “I love this part,” said Jeffrey, and a number of people murmured their assent. 

THE ONLY CONSTANT

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Military leaders are about to eliminate the phrase “accidental death” and to substitute the phrase “collateral damage” in all official documents, records, and correspondences, along with eliminating the word “old” and substituting the phrase “getting on in years,” eliminating the word “overweight” and substituting the phrase “horizontally challenged,” eliminating the phrase “punched in the face” and substituting the phrase “ordered a knuckle sandwich,” and finally eliminating the word “bald” and substituting the phrase “moon landing.” 

TEEN AT HOLIDAY PARTY

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

In another room of the same party, mingling among acknowledged masters of the artistic, financial, and political realms stands an unknown, a brilliant young individual capable of remarks that reveal themselves over time to be staking out deep moral positions, and of the belief that time itself is a pane always sliding into position and thus always at risk of shattering into an infinity of glass pebbles. She has to this date been identified as the daughter of a celebrated couple but within the year she is sure to emerge on her own terms. For now, though, she remains uncertain of her gifts, and spends most of her time shuttling between the buffet table and the window by the patio, reviewing the lessons of her fourteen years, tentatively advantaging a hand upward whenever she thinks she sees someone she knows, all the while softly humming melodies of her own invention.

HE MAY HAVE LOST HIS ADVANTAGE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Mrs. Roberta Halloran, the Chair of the Attleboro Committee, made the suggestion during the hearing of a vandalism case yesterday that prizes should be offered to owners of parrots and parakeets whose training enables them to call out those doing violence to the property of others. Jasper, a thirty-five-year-old Psittacus, seems a frontrunner for any reward or bounty, as he already has an established habit of condemning or preconizing many in the neighborhood with terse, pietistic jibes: “Cigarette, cigarette” for one, “Filthmouth” for another, “Runaround Sue,” for a third, “Busybody” for a fourth. And yet he may have lost his advantage, as the last of these impugnments was directed at Mrs. Halloran at the conclusion of the hearing, earning from her a sharp look and what portends to be enduring scorn.

LONELY FOR GOOD FORTUNE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The tub of water was not aware that it had a responsibility to its surroundings until the idea was right up on top of it. The tub hadn’t been thinking of surroundings, or of anything other than its own unhappiness. Things had been going wrong since the summer and it was lonely for good fortune. A part of the roof had collapsed and filled the tub with soot. A window had shattered during a construction project and sent sharp invisible shards of glass into the tub. While the tub was suffering—while it was being victimized, yes, that wasn’t too strong a word—everything else in the backyard just went about its business. The clothesline prevented the clothes from tumbling to the ground. The patio prevented the chairs from sinking into the ground. The chairs prevented people from sinking into the ground. The more the tub saw what everything else was doing, the more that it started to feel bad not just for itself but for the ground. Everything was in the habit of denying the ground what rightfully belonged to it.  The tub asserted itself against this practice. It was easy, in a way. The tub had a leak near its base which supplied water in small doses that were more like gifts than surrender or sacrifice. They attracted the notice of a bird that flew across the yard and alighted on the tub’s edge. The bird approved. The tub approved of the bird’s approval. Anything that could fly that high was right about more than nothing. The soot, the shards, the suspicion that self-protection was a sin, remained in the tub but their sully drained out with the water being given to the ground, to the point that the water that remained threatened to participate in purity.

MAKING A QUICK EXIT

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

A talking dog, a stranger to the area, was found yesterday crushed absolutely flat beneath a track asphalt paver, whose weight was in excess of fifteen tons, at Huntington. To the pleasant surprise of everyone responding to the call, the dog was discovered to be the star of a children’s television cartoon, Captain Barker’s Amazing Adventures In Art, and thus accustomed to being flat. He peeled himself up to full height and left without acrimony or recrimination, even treating the driver of the machine to a cheerful rendition of his trademark song: “When a dog draws / With his front paws / It’s the main cause / Of all the applause.” How he found himself beneath the paver in the first place was not adequately explained, and Captain Barker seemed to be in no hurry to discuss it. 

THE LATTER WITH LASSITUDE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The Taillights problem is becoming acute. Unless an extension of the terms is sought, this next week, the season four finale, marks the last episode that Frank is compelled to wait to watch with his wife Gloria, neither viewing it in real time without her or surreptitiously accessing the taped program on his own. This agreement has been in place since midway through the show’s first season, and Frank has only obtained special dispensation once, when Gloria was out of town visiting her sister the week that the second season’s famed “Back from the Dead” cliffhanger was to be resolved and Frank heard a rumor at work that the episode was so spectacular that even if he held off watching it he was certain to hear chatter about it from others unable to contain themselves. He called Gloria in the afternoon and she called him back in the evening, at which time she released him from his obligation for that episode alone. By the time of the season three premiere she had returned to her previous stance. “I have seen Taillights with Frank at home, and I have seen it with others in other locations,” she wrote. “The former arrangement fills me with elation; the latter with lassitude.” The expiration of the agreement has resulted in Gloria exhibiting what one of her closest friends has described as “a mix of sadness and rage that might look like regulation if you had no idea what kind of person she was.” It is Gloria’s express wish to preserve her favorite show to home, and consequently most observers believe that she will extend the terms of the agreement, though the thinking is that she is strategically delaying action until Frank feels less constrained by her other demands: that he wait for her to get coffee each morning, that he not eat at Two Eyes Diner without her, that he can only go to bed before her on nights when they have had sex in the morning. It is still likely to the point of certainty that the Taillights desideratum will be back in place before the start of the fifth season, when the mystery of Susan’s illness will be addressed and Robbie will begin to exhibit the fruits of his intelligence training.

IN THE SHADE OF THE FICUS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Max, who recently arrived home, says that en route a bully named Louis buttonholed him at the far corner of the street, in the shade of the ficus tree. Louis took Max’s backpack and searched it while another bully named Jack hovered nearby and fixed Max with a menacing stare. Having satisfied himself that the backpack contained nothing of interest in the way of food, money, or comic books, Louis bade Max goodbye and added that he knew that in a later grade they would be friends, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when the change would come. 

BLUSH

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The impending consolidation of six souls into one body raises an interesting problem of nomenclature, though it is unlikely that the half-dozen young adults being amalgamated will consent to having their individual identities entirely erased with the assumption of a new name. There is a precedent in the full merging of a man and a woman last year, who then took on the name Thomas, which means twin, and the Sanskrit name Yama, adopted by a female and male soul fused into a single body earlier this year, has a similar origin. History records a few examples of triple melds renamed as Trey and at least one occurrence of a quartet of souls bound together and denominated Kaneonuskatew, from the Cree for “four claws.” Though half of those being federated—Ezra, Wren, and Thomasina—have at least one Japanese parent, they are not well-versed in their heritage, and as a result Roku, while fitting, remains an improbable selection. Whatever the result, the future being is sure to traffic in comity and tenderness. “I have wanted to be part of Al, Moira, and Ezra for so long,” said Wren, “and I’m sure that all of the rest feel the same about all of the rest, or at least all of the rest feel that way about most of the rest. I can remember first meeting Al in my early twenties. I was coming out of a bad relationship and killing time in a worse one, and he helped me carry furniture up the stairs to my new apartment. It was raining and I was in a t-shirt and shorts and nothing else—nothing—so it’s possible that I made an impression. Blush. But he made one as well. I couldn’t believe there was anyone who was so kind and so strange at the same time. A singular human, to be sure. Do people say that, really, ‘to be sure’? And now I will be part of him, and him of me. We’ll never be apart. We’ve slept together, but this is going to be better: brain rubbing against brain, a soft internal spark that is nothing but glow.” Others in the group, less effusive than Wren, nevertheless appear every bit as sanguine about the prospect. No one mentioned Keith.

WHAT WE DID WITH THE YARD

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The elbow-jointing of two giant boxes is a substantial addition to the extensive network of passages, tubes, tunnels, nests, and runways that occupy the lawn between the house and the back fence, which now includes sections made from cardboard, rubber, metal (a trash can that has had both ends cut out), sheet plastic draped over frame plastic, and fabric, assembled together into what one observer has called “the equivalent of an intestinal system that permits the yard to digest the children as they pass from the rear door of the home: ascending, transverse, descending, Sigmoid, until finally thrown forth by the gate in the fence near the driveway.” Most segments were decided on the principle of difficulty or at least meander, with ducts and chutes winding around the bases of trees, beneath the patio table, up the stairs by the laundry room, and even through the pet-access door.  It seems a shame that the main house should be limited to cubic rooms and beeline hallways. 

THE SOUND MADE BY THE BIRDS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

A perplexity of etymology is the phrase “Shill Tack,” applied to the peculiar aerial slant of the birds which have for years populated the skies over Mason. It is clear that in part the movement is so called after the sailing maneuver, and that just as boats turn bows into the wind, birds orient beaks similarly, thus permitting progress in their desired direction. But the “Shill” remains. Some believe that it is a corruption of “shrill,” from the sound made by the birds, while others look to toponymy, noting that the town’s original name was Mason’s Hill, and that the “’s Hill,” effaced from maps over time, may have been carried for safety into this avian expression. Indeed, it does not appear anywhere else in the Bluff Region, and neighboring counties use entirely different term: “Skylean” in Arbis County, “Cut Loop” in Pyrone County, and simply “7” (for the way the motion imitates the shape of the number) in Blackstrap County. As Marcus Jurevicius, the oldest man in Mason at 101 and the self-appointed folklorist of the Eight Towns, recently tripped over the edge of his jacuzzi and fell four stories from his balcony into the fast-flowing Bedboard River, where he broke his neck and subsequently drowned, there is no ultimate authority to refer to. 

PORTRAIT OF THE GENIUS AS A YOUNG MAN

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Paul T. Gettelman, the most unheralded scientist of the previous century, was twenty-four when he first suggested the use of a stable emulsion of oil and egg yolk as a propellant for all vehicles and conveyances, whether “bicycles on the ground, airplanes in the air, or one day even ships streaking through the distant reaches of space.” Gettelman made the same suggestion later that year, and the next year, and the year after that, mostly just to Jeff, his officemate at the accounting firm where he worked. Eventually Jeff left the company and was replaced by a woman named Saorise, who stayed for only six months before moving to California to front a country-rock band that was, before the end of the year, filling arenas. That side of the office sat vacant for a little while, and then Ernie was relocated from down the hall. Ernie had experience not listening to people. He had lived at home until he was forty-one and then moved in with his boyfriend, who bossed him around constantly, and so he was resolute in ignoring Paul for weeks stretching into months, but around the holidays the chatter started to seep through, and Ernie found himself unable to shut out thoughts of his college chemistry classes. He had been a blazingly good student. He stopped working through lunch and started taking long breaks, scribbling on legal pads, and one day the scribbles came into sharp focus. He had realized Paul’s idea. He stopped on the way back from lunch at a hardware store, bought a pipe wrench, stove in Paul’s skull, dragged the body behind the building, rolled it up in a carpet, loaded the carpet into a truck, drove the truck to a lake, pushed the rolled-up carpet into the water, and drove back to the office. Within ten years he was a billionaire from the purloined technology. His boyfriend bought the Mendoza Estate and several top-flight sports cars, all of which were powered by a stable emulsion of egg yolk and oil. Paul blinked. He was not rolled up in a carpet in the lake. He was sitting across the office from Jeff, still twenty-four, working up the courage to lay out his plans for superfuel. 

THE TOP OF HARRY'S HEAD

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

At court to-day, Richard T. Standaside, the name assumed by the performer born Richard Wise, appeared on the stand to recount the fateful events of November 9. He was attired not in his usual multi-colored leather vest, but in a conservative blue suit, though a yellow leather flower winked from his lapel. 

• :—Attorney Judith Macalester: “Tell us what happened.”
• :—Wise: “You called on me and I walked up here. You don’t remember? It was literally five seconds ago.”
• :—Macalester: “Please, let’s take this matter seriously, Mr. Wise. I am referring, of course, to the first night of the festival.”
• :—Wise: “Mr. Standaside.”
• :—Macalester: “If you wish.”
• :—Wise: “Yes. Well, Union Jack came first. He played fine. He was spinning these webs, long solos, and they kept the crowd in a kind of trance. Soon after he came off the stage, the mood started to shift. I was standing with Harry, my partner—Harry Whistle, Harry Freed, whatever you want to call him. I could see over the crowd. That’s what six-foot-six will get you. But Harry’s the fireplug, five-five, and he was right down in there. He said something about how we’ve faced drunk crowds before but never like this one. What he meant, mostly, was the Skeletons. They had been fighting the heat and the stress with beer all day long, and they were not happy drunks. The crowd was loaded also, and getting louder as they waited for Annex. We passed through a patch of calm, an interstitial act kind of like us—this was a pair of very pretty jugglers, sisters—and then the Circular Knives played their set. Then another interstitial, a comedian, then then the Obvious Solution, all against a backdrop of worsening energy. The drunk Skeletons and the drunk crowd were increasingly at each others’ throats. Bottles were being thrown in both directions. When kids got too close to the stage, a few of the Skeletons took off their boots and brandished them at the crowd. Some dumb kid off to our left made things a thousand times worse by falling blotto into one of the Skeletons’ motorcycles and knocking it over. That was during the Bluffers’ set. They were great. We have opened for them. In fact, that’s why we were in the desert at all: they helped us get our midnight set. We were both proud and pissed—excuse me, perturbed—when Yancey which is the first one Harry and I really got into, and we were both pissed and proud when Yancey came down off the stage to try to make peace between the drunk kid and the furious Skeleton. He got punched in the head and it looked like he was out cold for a minute. Janice Outcome needed to finish up that song. At sundown, Annex came to the stage. Harry had his here-here face on, you know? This was the greatest band in the world. The Skeletons tensed up notably. This is why they were being paid. But they couldn’t control the crowd, or themselves. One put a forearm in Victor Astronaut’s face as they walked up the stairs. And midway through the first song, ‘News Reports,’ it was clear that whatever order the Skeletons were trying to keep wasn’t being kept. Kids were crushed against the front apron of the stage, at least two hundred of them, and Astronaut kept stopping and restarting songs, telling everyone to be cool, to take it easy. During ‘Fingers and Fires,’ one dude in the crowd didn’t take it easy at all. He tried to rush the stage, and he was holding what looked like a pistol. The Skeletons came right back at him, charging him from his right. There was shouting, then screaming. A woman’s voice said something about strangling. Harry and I got the hell out of there, made a beeline for the VIP tent. But the news got there before we did. It hadn’t been a pistol but a length of wood, likely a barrel stave. And there had been no strangling: the man had been stabbed. The man was dead. We sat in silence in the tent. At midnight we went out and did our set. We got through all the routines—Port Security, The Man In the Booth, Waterworks, Sir May I Wear Your Glasses?, Nightmarathon, even Bleep Bloop Robot Love—but we knew what the crowd knew, which was that everything had changed, not just at the festival but in the country. As we finished up Bleep Bloop, Harry had tears in his eyes. I bent down and kissed him on the top of the head. I don’t know why I did that. The enormity of the moment just came down on me, all at once. I knew there would be no more Standaside and Whistle gigs. I didn’t think I’d ever go onstage again.”
• :—Macalester: “And have you spoken with Mr. Freed since that night?”
• :—Wise: “I have not. I have called him several times, but he won’t call me back.” 

At that, Wise burst into tears, and grew inconsolable, to the point where a bailiff was called to help him down from the stand and escort him from the courtroom. So powerful was his grief that the judge ordered that the jury be shown a five-minute segment of the movie version of Sir May I Wear Your Glasses? A state of uproarious hilarity was soon reached, and the trial resumed.

MONICA KIM’S MOMENTARY TERROR

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The first of a series of lectures around the subject of environmental crisis and environmental management—the speaker was Monica Kim, a Korean-American scientist specializing in pollution control and sustainable environment—was interrupted midway through by a man waving his arms and gabbling. Kim stepped back in alarm, and security swarmed the stage. After a few violent seconds, the man managed to explain to security that he was not an incoherent interloper but rather a representative of the Festival of Ideas who had been tasked with making an important announcement. Given use of the microphone, he retained his composure. “The use of Anna Briggs’ name as a patroness of National Egg Day tomorrow is entirely without her sanction,” he said.  A cheer went up from the rear of the room, for reasons not entirely apparent. 

THE WAITING ROOM

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Present in the imagination were the Prince of Sharpsquare, the Duchess of Neck, the Grand Lady Absolution, Lureen Landon, the Big Step, Apartment Bear, Sir Wanamaker, Twin-Eyes McGovern, and many others. Empress Blood, who was wearing a green velvet wrap with a black dress, took tea with Lureen and Mrs. Lady Diane, who was in red velvet, with a string of pearls around her neck. Conversations crossed the room, many centered upon who would assume which role once the production began. For her part, Twin-Eyes McGovern insisted on lead adversary. “And I,” said the Big Step, “will sit in the corner and weave something.” The tone was coy. No more information regarding what might be woven was provided. The Duchess of Neck recited an old poem from grade school. The general company languished in the forebrain until sleep at length descended. 

MR. LUCKY

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The death is announced at Safran Meadows, the assisted-living facility in North Wallace, of Mr. Michael Diamantis, the eldest survivor of seven siblings who all worked at the aerospace factory in Accordia. The ages of the brothers is thought to be a record of longevity, as only one failed to reach the age of 90. Michael was aged 97 at the time of his passing, and the others reached 97 (Adam), 92 (Marcus), 93 (Leo), 95 (George), and 93 (Paul). The seventh, Peter, did not reach the family benchmark, though his decease was more tragicomedy than tragedy, as he expired the night before his 90th birthday, while arguing with his younger brother Marcus, at the time only 87, about which of them would live longer. So heated grew Peter that he assumed a boxing stance and began to hop around Marcus, at which point he tripped over a dog toy, banged his shin on a coffee table, and fell face-down onto the kitchen floor, breaking his nose. He died more than an hour later when the ambulance driving him to the hospital was broadsided by a van operated by a young man returning from the eye doctor, who leapt out immediately to apologize and was standing beside the driver’s door when Peter, having unbuckled himself from the gurney, burst from the rear of the ambulance and confronted the young man. This was enough proof of health that the onboard medic declared him fit and drove him home, at which point he went upstairs to take a nap and expired peacefully in his sleep. The dog’s name was Turnip.

A FAILED REVOLUTION

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

An angry teen in a small suburb near here has declared herself autonomous. Friends of her parents visiting from out of town arrived to find her loudly proclaiming her independence as she launched a series of stuffed animals out of the front window. The animals—largely taken up by bears but also including dogs, tigers, a llama, a goldfish, and an iguana—landed on the lawn. The parents have refused to enter into discussion with the disgruntled party, on the grounds that she has six months left during which she is legally compelled to remain at home. A little brother was dispatched to collect the animals from the lawn.

COMMOTION

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The wording of a message received in the office the other day was so extraordinary that the recipient, an analyst named Lydia Matheson, felt compelled to stand up from her desk in shock. The message, which came from William Peel, a senior manager, read “I hate your report. Let’s discuss in my office.” Matheson at once concluded that that the lengthy review of water policy she had written over the course of the past two months and submitted the previous week—a review that she had hoped would be appreciated for its comprehensive research and levelheaded conclusions and  might well act to advance her up the ladder at the agency—had instead been judged to be substandard to such a drastic degree that her entire career was now in jeopardy. Peel was not even the senior employee to whom she had submitted her work. That was a woman named Helen Eldrige, who must have felt such disgust at its shoddiness that she sent it over to Peel for commiseration and then castigation. Matheson walked stiffly to the bathroom and cried in a stall, loudly enough that a co-worker named Julia Kendrick standing at the sink, who did not know Matheson well enough even to nod hello to her when the two passed in the hallway, felt compelled to ask if everything was okay. Matheson did not answer Kendrick and eventually Kendrick dried her hands and left. After a period of ten minutes, Matheson composed herself and took the stairs up to the ninth floor to meet with Peel. She entered his office to find him sitting behind his desk, smiling. “Oh,” she said softly, diagnosing sadism. Peel swept a hand across the room. “Have a seat,” he said. “Is something wrong? You look a little pale.” Matheson murmured a demurral. “As I said,” Peel said. “I have your report. Helen sent it over to me. Let’s discuss.” Matheson, suddenly clear on what had happened—a single word had been typed wrong, and in the process introduced an unintended, ruinous tone into an otherwise innocent message—barked a laugh. “I’m not sure it was a hilarious report,” Peel said. “But it was very good. You should feel pleased.” Matheson swallowed a sob in relief. Hence the strange message which had caused so much commotion among the inhabitants of the eighth floor was dissolved into history.

BROTHERS IN ARMS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The Commissioner of Parks has awarded a Silver Sphere to Corncob Bob, a snowman and best friend of Helmut Coal, another snowman who was melted to death two days ago near the intersection of Kent and Kimball in Strand Park. The Sphere was made on account of Corncob Bob’s bravery after the attack on his compatriot. Corncob Bob has, in the past few days, endured a string of indignities that range from projectiles (simple snowballs, pennies, larger rocks) to maimings (tree-branch arms stolen for malicious pleasure, replaced by common drinking straws; carrot nose stolen for eating, not replaced) and would have been directed to another snowman were there more than one in the area. Helmut Coal was attacked by a gang of fraternity brothers wielding cordless hair dryers. The suggestion has been made that they simply wanted to carve him into a different likeness, but that a lack of skill frustrated them and the result was total destruction. Only the tree branches remained, in a crude cross on the ground. The assailants were not apprehended. Helmut Coal was the oldest snowman in the north corner of the park, having been built six days ago by the family of Alex and Jessie Boston and their parents. Corncob Bob, now wearing his Silver Sphere as a new nose, is hoping that he will be joined by other snowmen before his existence ends, whether by natural forces or at the hand of the roving gang, still at large. 

DISADVANTAGE OF A GIVEN NAME

A university professor of some distinction, Alfred Clownface-Foolface, applied for an exemption from traditional promotion practices, claiming that his given name acts as an impediment to being taken seriously in his field. Clownface-Foolface explained that both of his parents were Real Circus performers, hastening to add that the Real Circus was not, in his words, “a traditional entertainment in the sense of elephants and acrobats” but rather “an anarcho-comic collective whose stated mission involved using political theater as an agitant to destabilize the pillars of power.” The professor briefly reviewed some of the better-known actions of the Real Circus, including filling a Trojan Horse with popcorn and rolling it into the middle of a park near the Capitol, after which he elaborated on the way in which his name was imposed upon him without consent by parents whose “intense personal convictions unfortunately eclipsed the professional survival of any eventual offspring.” His mother, born Alison Chadwick, legally changed her name to “Clownface” when she entered the Real Circus. His father, born Lawrence Fulford, had “a shorter distance to cover but covered it just as aggressively.” The final blow was inflicted when his parents, upon marrying, opted to combine their names into a hyphenate to “illustrate their devotion both to one another and to the Real Circus.” The became parents exactly a year later with the birth of Alfred, who was soon joined by siblings Gerald and Patricia. “Both of then became entertainers, he a singer of satirical songs, she a monologist specializing in political burlesque, and were not similarly disadvantaged,” the professor attested. Alfred, an academic, found that his name “pulled in the exact wrong direction.” His writings on the Public Assemblages Law of 1926 has earned significant acclaim, when reviewed in a blind, but was rejected once his identity was clearly revealed. Similarly, students praise his classroom comportment but report at the same time that they cannot take him seriously. “And,” he added, “any thought of a promotion seems more distant than ever.” Clownface-Foolface concluded his petition with an emotional appeal: “I am torn here,” he said, “between my love and admiration for my parents, which includes my heartfelt desire to respect their lives, and the current and ongoing responsibility of managing my own. Somewhere along the way I lost the right to steer this ship, and I know exactly what wrested the wheel from my hands.” He held up his driver’s license and grimaced. Those sitting in the front of the hearing room report that his eyes were wet with tears. 

©Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

THE CONDITION OF ARTHUR

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

It was revealed upon inquiry in the fourth grade yesterday that the condition of Arthur, who was sneezing uncontrollably all Tuesday afternoon and had to be sent down to the office, has not improved. “He’s not sneezing anymore,” said Katrina, “but I heard that he did so much yesterday that he hurt his eye and can’t come to school.” Mary could neither confirm nor deny this specific detail, but concurred regarding Arthur’s unfitness for attendance. “I live right next door to him and this morning I saw him on the front walk and thought he was going to school but then he shook his head and went back inside.” And two other children said nothing but pointed at their own temples, as if to suggest headache. 

FIERCELY REVOKED

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Jason’s bath, upstairs, in his parents’ master bathroom, overtopped its edge Saturday night and gallons of water flooded the nearby floor up to a distance of four feet. The water poured out of the tub for over ten minutes. Two shoes near the tub, placed atop a bamboo mat, were completely surrounded by water, but no loss of life took place. The water was eventually sopped up with towel and mop by Jason’s mother, who discovered the deluge when she came in to the bathroom to announce that the family was considering going out for ice cream the next morning after church. The offer was instantly and fiercely revoked. When Jason was called distracted by his angry mother, he held up a finger in clarification. “Distracted is when you are looking at something else,” he said. “I was abstracted, which means that I was looking at nothing. I was just thinking. A synonym is absentminded.” Jason is eight.

THANK YOU FOR CALLING STICKS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

In distorting to her own selfish ends any information she possesses about others, Freida seems to have taken a hint from the ancient practice of “poison tipping,” in which falsehoods were inserted into the first paragraphs official documents to undermine neighboring kingdoms, though it is possible that her inspiration is more proximate and that she is acting in simple imitation of her father, a limitlessly gossipy man. Those who know Freida, a group significantly larger than those who wish they knew her, have taken the only sensible action by depriving her words of all legitimacy, so that what she says henceforth about anyone will be plainly considered by all as fiction. Freida is against most of the people in city government, along with local historians and the administration at the high school, though those sentiments do not prevent her from circulating freely through town, as well as owning a restaurant, Sticks, at the north end of downtown. Many dine there despite their dislike of her, as she is a talented chef, and many smile at her, as she is a striking woman. 

AT WILL

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Birdie has more than one reason for the change of nickname she is requesting. It not only connotes flightiness and carries the effect of diminishment, but it reminds her specifically of Whiskers, a parakeet she had when she was young, which she loved for its blue breast and white cap, which was named by her father in high spirits on the drive home from the pet store and which brought her great joy until its beak began to overgrow—malnutrition, most likely, her mother said, or possibly some type of mite—and it could no longer eat and died. “Perished,” her father said, because, he also said, he thought the word “died” was too flat and as such unworthy of such a majestic creature as Whiskers, who could leave the earth at will, and who had now done exactly that. Her father perished a year later by a hand she refused to think of as his own. The triple case for rechristening is irresistible. 

ON CONCORD STREET

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

One of the most disheartening of recent circumstances is the way in which those on Concord Street are being are drawn into the conflict. Most certainly, the Petersons did not wish to side with the Howards any more than did the Robinsons or the Winstons wish to take up the position of the Pollans; and there is every reason to believe that the death of Addie Brickdale was painful for her family not only because it deprived them of their matriarch but because it erased their last link to neutrality. Among other things that will have to be reconsidered after the resolution of this dispute is the relations of neighbors to other neighbors, and particularly assumptions around alliances that are rooted in race, age, and, most perniciously, faith.

THEO AND LEO

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

To date, all of Robert Kroller’s plays have contained what can only be called second sight. His debut, The Flaming Gavel, in which a decorated judge hired an assassin to dispatch his estranged wife, premiered onstage exactly one year before nearly identical events unfolded in the state’s highest court. Kroller’s second, Nature of the Beast, told of a mysterious virus ravaging racehorses while also granting them the power of speech; six months after it opened, Switchyard, the winner of the year’s Kentucky Derby, was scratched from the Preakness with an unknown illness and, the morning of the race, appeared before the press with his trainer, who angled the microphone toward the horse: “I’m disappointed,” Switchyard said. Last year’s Comet Calls presented a more intimate version of this phenomenon. The main character, Kent Markham, was a writer more than loosely based on Kroller who, in the opening scene, smashed his thumb with a hammer. A week after opening night, Kroller did the same, to the same thumb. This past weekend, we learned that the prophet is fatigable. Kroller’s new play, The Gardener Smoking Out a Wasps’ Nest, does not even attempt to assay the future, portraying as it does a scene from the anchored past: 1929, to be precise, in Nebraska, when the events described in the title unfold exactly as indicated. The lead character, Theodore Zirco (Kroller’s genius with names remains undimmed), is a mild-manner gardener working for one of Lincoln’s wealthiest families, the McDougals. Sweet on the oldest McDougal daughter, Leonora, he camps outside her window, not a Peeping Tom exactly but at least a seeking one, at which point he notices a massive wasps’ nest. Fearing for the safety of his beloved, he lights a small fire beneath the nest. The remainder of the first act is too intricate to relate, but suffice it to say that by Act Two, Zirco and Leonora are living as man and wife in Rome, he working as a stonemason, she as an artist’s model, when a man from her past arrives bearing a photograph that will change everything. The dialogue crackles. The performances are sharp. And yet, there is a melancholy sense of something missing—to wit, Kroller’s divining eye. The only hint of it comes at the play’s close, when Leonora stands on the balcony in Rome, gazing at the moon. “One day man will walk on the surface of that distant gray orb,” she says, and while that is a prediction already secured, the second half of her musing takes on greater risk. “Sixty years after that,” she continues, “the grandson of that man will dine in a restaurant with a woman whose sister will have a son  who will grow up to be a political operative who will be murdered in the halls of Congress by a foreign service officer assumed at first to be a terrorist but revealed soon enough to be a jealous husband. I just know it, Theo.” To which he replies, in a voice that seems to spring directly from, if not the author himself, the critics and theatergoers who have lionized him for his precognition: “I know it too, Leo. Now come to bed.” 

THE EMPTY STEPS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

“A day we dare not forget, today.” And with that, the mayor began his remarks. They were occasioned, certainly. Of that there can be no dispute. Today touched the extremes of the town: exaltation in the morning, despair in the afternoon. The terrible vandalism of the fountain in Mott Circle, followed by the whirl of finger-pointing that threatened to tear apart the community, came as a bitter counterweight to the dedication ceremony earlier today, filled as it was with a sense of unity and hope. It was the sort of bleak antithesis which requires not only a conscientious public servant but a truly gifted orator, and it is to the credit of Mayor Ehrenreich that he was able to rise to the occasion. He spoke not from the steps of City Hall, as is often the case, but from the front lawn of his own home, a rare occurrence. “I do not wish to lose faith in this town,” he said, “but neither do I wish to lose faith in my own ability to distinguish wrong from right, or to act on that distinction, or to hold others to that same standard. But I see a vile poison seeping through this place, and I cannot be silent on its spread. I urge you all to look inside, not at your hearts, for that is an overused cliche that may in some cases not apply, but at your choices. Where you judge them the correct ones, reflect on why. Where you are not certain, attempt to change. I cannot say anything else useful today, so I will say no more. I have a wife inside who worries that my preoccupation with this place is eroding my ability to find joy during my time with her, and I cannot say for sure that she is wrong.” With that, he fell silent. His hands, raised up by passion during his remarks, fell to his side. He turned and re-entered the house. A few minutes later, the curtains were drawn.

FIELD DAY

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

In addition to the Rivera Run at Holland-Decker, Kilian’s Invitational and Ward & Parton’s Open will also be held next Sunday. At Kilian’s there will be more than a dozen events, including ten formal races. A new event is the “Roundbelt” triple, a re-creation of the original competition from more than a century ago. There is also a Tabletop Reckoning for children under twelve who summer in the outer campgrounds, with the exception of those in the Red Quadrant and the upper quartile of the Blue Quadrant. Those children, the Reds and Quarter-Blues, have, in accordance with the Accountability Act—which passed last year by a narrow margin in the legislature, helped along by the surprising death of Senator Coltrane, whose fall from a high balcony at her home was ruled accidental—been ear-tagged with microchips that let them run as far as they want without ever truly escaping detection, thus rendering them ineligible for the game, in which hiding is a central skill and independence more than a fanatical notion. Winners of the Tabletop Reckoning will receive the equivalent of Emerald benefits, including the freedoms to eat whatever foods they prefer, wear whichever clothes they wish (within reason), and, years from now, marry who they like. Prizes will be given for the best casseroles, and a musical entertainment will fill the evening.

A SPECK ON THE HORIZON

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

New legislation has been proposed by the members of the city council to prohibit “fronting”—a practice adopted by some residents, largely in their forties and fifties, to make their lives appear better than they are, often through the adoption of a facade or false front (this gives the term its name) in which outcomes are promoted as decisions and even desires, and excitement and fulfillment are projected if not actually felt. The legislation was debated at a recent open hearing, and many locals turned up to object to what they perceived to be an intrusive approach to private states. “This is unacceptable,” said Rebecca Kirk, 43, a copywriter for a housewares conglomerate in the city, standing outside of the courthouse under a low-hanging gray sky. “I mean, I don’t have any personal stake here, to be honest. I’ve never been happier. I have such a sense of my own identity these days, more than in my thirties or twenties. The main thing I had back then was youth, and it’s wasted on the young.” Kirk laughed. “Oh, and have I introduced you to my husband? We went on our first date twelve years ago and we’ve never spent a minute out of love.” The woman next to Kirk looked up suddenly, as if roused from slumber. “Were you talking to me?” she said, removing earbuds. “I’m sorry. I was listening to music.” Kirk recoiled almost imperceptibly. “You’re not a reporter?” she said. The woman shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m a singer in a band, kind of a jazz combo. That’s what I was doing, in fact, studying for tonight’s performance.” She then sang a few verses of the song that had, moments before, been in her ears: “Do you love to see me crying? / Do you love to see me blue? / Those aren’t the kinds of things / I love to see in you.” The woman’s voice was transfixing, even without backing instrumentation. Though fluty around the edges, it moved quickly to a place of deep sorrow, and seemed to ascend by descending. Listening to the woman was like taking hold of the truth, or more accurately being taken hold by it. Time ran away until it was a speck on the horizon. Kirk complimented the woman with a series of platitudes, and then walked home, dazed, wondering if Robert was back from work yet, and if that was even her husband’s name. 

QUICKLY FEARED WEAPON

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

On the 14th of January the beautiful city of Alms was nearly destroyed. The Stuck Fox, a sailboat laden with more than five thousand pounds of gunpowder, was en route from Filleted Lace, destined for Spoolfleece, when it took fire in the neck of Dagger Canal and exploded, leveling all the buildings in the vicinity and bringing to an early end the lives of some sixty Almstowners. Nearly every structure along the canal’s edge was set fire, and of some seventy-five lavishly appointed mannequins in a warehouse belonging to the T. Tears House of Fur And Leather, five or six only are said to have been saved. One was appointed in a black suede cap and white fleece vest destined for the famous actress and hometown heroine Margaret Kiley, who was intended to have been on site at the time of the accident but whose train in from Earshot the night before was unaccountably cancelled. Mr. Tears has pledged to deliver it to Kiley, even as he is confronted with the overwhelming task of rebuilding his business and his life. “She needed a look for the awards show,” he said. “We are all pulling for her.” Kiley, upon learning of the devastation, sent her best from the set of her most recent motion picture, Quickly Feared Weapon. Of the Stuck Fox, not a single atom remains. 

WESTWOOD INSISTS

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Dreamers are a rapacious breed so far as the literature of the sleeping imagination is concerned. They gorge on every work published on the subject, whether breviloquent pamphlet or capacious monograph, whether the author is a complete unknown or a veteran adept, in the hope that somewhere in the paragraphs they may discover the secret that will unlock the meaning of their nocturnal images and narratives. The dreamer is certainly to be pitied, for there is no shortage of these volumes, and yet they are in conflict, sometimes directly. In Richards’ “Eyes Down” a woman with shadows across her face is a target of unexpressed desire. In Thirlwell’s “Head Heritage,” the same dream signifies a long-dormant memory of childhood abuse at the hands of a domineering mother. Or a running dog: to both Richards and Thirlwell it is a figure of fear, but to Gerson, in “The Darklands,” it is one of bravery, and to Hauser, in “Perchance,” one of sadism. It has been said many times that all the canonists are at odds with one another, with the result that a dreamer would rather having consulted no reference rather than any pair or trio of them. Of far greater value is Westwood’s “They Mean What You Want Them To Mean,” which argues, as its title suggests, that dreams are a product of idiosyncratic psyches, and that each individual would be better served making his or her own determination as to the significance of an symbol or narrative. “If you dream of coins falling from the sky,” Westwood writes, “and you wish for that cascade of currency to represent erotic achievement, then it should do that and only that. If you dream of a snake slithering through the socket of a skull and you wish for it to be an image of unfettered innovation, then it should be that and only that.” Westwood himself, it should be noted, is not in fact real but is a figment of Thirwell’s imagination, where he appears as a casual philosopher-cum-guru, shirt open to second button, hair mussed with calculated insouciance. Hauser has also dreamed him, but as a fastidious academic, bow tie pulled to a perfect horizontal. For his part, Westwood insists that he is in fact the one who dreamed both Thirlwell and Hauser, and that one is trapped inside an ice block holding a participation trophy and that the other is walking backwards while speaking half-speed.

THE COMPETITIVE SPIRIT

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The body of a cartoon dog named Zipper was found floating in a public swimming pool yesterday, devoid of life and breath. The police have arrested another cartoon dog who, until recently, starred in the popular weekly program in which Zipper was appearing at the time of his death. 

BOOTS TO THAT END

Whatever the significance of last night’s rather frosty showing at dinner, it should be obvious that there is no decrease in the likelihood of carnal congress between Veronica and Emilio. Each weekend sees this point reiterated in no uncertain terms, and no matter whether the two of them are comprehensively satisfying the charter set forth by their combined fantasies or managing only to effectuate what Veronica dismissively refers to as “a short pop,” there is considerable mutual support for the activity. Phone calls during the workday from him to her and, less often, her to him help to maintain interest during times when the two of them are able to look at or touch one another, and although the recent success of her screenplay caused him to feel secondary in importance during the better part of the autumn, there has been no lasting diminution in his enthusiasm to impress her with his fervor.  Even so, in a relationship that is now in its fourth year, various changes have been made in the spirit of adjustment, whether in strategy, physical stance, or the mental state that accompanies the onset of licentiousness. For just one example, Veronica has expressed a desire to be in control without asserting control, speculating that this inclination originates in the manner in which she and Emilio initially took up as a couple, each of them a refugee from a happy but ultimately unsuccessful marriage, each returning to the other with the idea that they might, as a pair, reset the charge, concupiscent and otherwise, of the rendezvous they conducted with others when they were in their early twenties. For his part, Emilio wishes to make it clear that he has always believed Veronica to be the most beautiful woman in the world, in fact in the history of the world, and that his conviction is equally a source of erotic inspiration and erotic intimidation. Both are optimistic that they will soon return to the state of balance that will illustrated conclusively that their machinery, mutually speaking, is as good as whatever it is aimed at, and that will in turn occasion a lessening of analysis and an expansion of experiment. Victoria is already picking out boots to that end.

 

©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

EXCEPT IN PASSING

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

A message from Jessamyn, describing the visit of her college friend Craig to the city, says that about three weeks before his trip he happened to run into two ex-girlfriends on successive days. There was Sharon, who he saw across the park and, while running to meet, tripped on a short iron gate surrounding a planted tree, skinning his knee in the process. Craig did catch up to her to learn that she was currently single, though in the first weeks of a new job, and that she appeared to be happy to see him. Jessamyn also heard from Craig that the very next afternoon he ran into Amanda, who had, he reminded her, broken up with him in what he felt at the time was a manner most grievous. One night on dinner, he told Jessamyn, repeating a story he had told many times before, Amanda had announced, between the appetizer and main course, that even though they had been dating for three years and appeared happy to others, she was no longer certain sure how she felt about him, or the relationship, or for that matter anything. She continued to see him, expressed no unhappiness of any sort, but gradually converted her romantic interest to a playful friendship and then, by degrees, a less playful one, the entire conversion being achieved with no apparent disquiet or sadness on her part. It was, Craig told Jessamyn when they met, upsetting to him because he was unable to get any leverage or any closure, even though he was well aware that he could have gained both that leverage and that closure simply by walking away from her. Jessamyn, in her description of Craig’s visit, spent most of her energy describing her exasperation at his habit not only of repeating stories that he had already told but also of casting about—often literally, moving his hands in the air around his head— for an explanation of Amanda's behavior. Jessamyn’s message did not engage with the fact that she was and had always been in love with Craig, and that deep down, in the subduction zone of her heart, she felt certain that she could have offered him anything that Amanda had offered, with the conspicuous absence of remoteness, incuriosity, and ludicrously large eyes used to advantage without any thought of consequence.