Stuff and Nonsense

A smattering of this author’s thoughts, and opinions, and speculations, some just stuff, and some just nonsense.

Musings

Does one have to be a member of a particular group to write stories about them?

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“They” say that authors write stories and include characters patterned after people the author knows in real life. I say I haven’t done that yet. Not to my knowledge. Perhaps if I were to write a murder mystery or thriller I would kill off a character who resembled someone I knew, and disliked greatly, in real life. I don’t know. Yet.

Photos

Mark Twain and I met up for a friendly chat in Jackson, WY.

Other Writings

A sample of my writing through the years.

This one won first place in a Literary Arts Festival.

The Ring Pop Started Us Thinking

     “If Sam hates kids why does he own a candy shop?” asks one of the four members of our club, The Can Do's,” as we head there this freakin' hot Thursday morning.

            “Maybe it’s a front and he’s part of the Mafia or Al Qaeda.  The place is usually empty when we get there,” says another.  

            We nod our heads. That's true. Our eyes widen. What if—

            “He don’t look Eyetalian or Ayrab.”

            That's true, too. Our shoulders slump.

            “Maybe he’s Russian!

            “Yeah, he could be! They're bad asses. Their mafia is worse than the Eyetalian Mafia.”           

            “It don’t matter. He’s got the best candy around.”

            “Yeah.  He's even got penny candy!”

            Sam’s tiny shop sits at the bottom of our hill, where Main Street meets Elm. Sam turned the old VCR store into a candy shop about a month ago. It is old and dingy.  Like him.  He’s some kind of white, twitchy as a crack-user, has a butt chin, and is pimply- bald—which fascinates us.  A “Mom” tattoo, spelled in yellow roses, climbs his scrawny arm.  He always wears jeans and a black too-tight T-shirt which shows off nothing.

            Inside the store, the scuffed linoleum is yellowish-gray.  The woodwork is mud brown and splintery, and the only light comes through a large and grimy west facing window. But once your eyes adjust to the dimness, the shiny clear cellophane and bright foil wrappers of the thousands of candies make their own light from where they brim in the huge oak bins which fill the room.  To the left of the entrance, bins bulge with candies like Tootsie Roll Pops and Tootsie Rolls, Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies, Skittles, Lemon Heads, Atomic Fireballs, and Gobstoppers. Clear plastic dispensers, filled with Hot Tamales, Gummi Bears, Nerds, Razzles, and Red Hots, line counters in the center of the room.  And to the right of the entrance, barrels overflow with salt water taffy, candy bars and chips.

            Besides candy, he sells juicy, fat, bumpy pickles from a two-gallon jar, which squats next to the cash register.  Behind the counter, sodas frost in the cooler.    

            When you entered the shop alone, he watched you like a Harpy eagle, his beady eyes on you the whole time.  “Whaddya want, kid, I don’t got all day,” he said, or “Where ya from, you don’t look like yur from around here, not in them clothes.”

            “I am from here,” you said, scuffing your feet and looking down past your tie dye t-shirt, your madras shorts, and lace-less Converses, to the grimy floor.  And he said, “You in a gang or sumpin?”  You looked him almost straight in the eye and said, "sumpin."  And if you asked him where you could find a certain kind of candy, he rolled his eyes and said, “Can’t ya read?” before pointing to that location.   Sometimes he asked your age, and when you answered, “Thirteen,” he said, “That old?” 

            He treated the boys and girls in our club the same way, with a total lack of respect.  We know because we took the Can Do oath of honesty seriously, and when one of us asked another if Sam gave them attitude, our stories tumbled out and fell in the same pile.

            From that point on, we went to his store as a group.  It made him crazy jumpy.  He could handle one teenager at a time, not four.  His eyes looked like gray BBs above his beak of a nose, as he shot them in one direction and then another.  He probably had a gun underneath the register, in case we stole some penny candy.

            We spoke simultaneously: “Sam, I want a pickle and a Coke,” and “Sam, I want a Pepsi and two boxes of Milk Duds.” A couple of us picked through the bins, dropping pieces of candy and leaving them on the floor.  One or the other of us pretended to steal something.  When he challenged us, we emptied our pockets and pulled out the linings, grinning like maniacs. 

            Today, as we Can Do's reach the bottom of the hill and crowd into his shop, we see a little girl, around six, standing in front of the candy bins, staring in.  She has pigtails and is wearing little pink stretchy shorts with a pink and white matching top.  Her socks are frilly and white.  She is as cute as a gumdrop.  And she is alone.

            “Whaddya want, sweetie?”  he asks her.

            Sweetie?  He usually calls us “hey, you,” or “hey, kid.”

            “I’d like a bag of Gummi Bears, please,” she says in a pipsqueak voice.

            When he hands her the bag, she hands him some coins in her open palm.  He removes a few and hands her a grape Ring Pop. “Here ya go, sweetie, my treat.”

            He winks at her and smiles, showing a lot of gum.  Like a dog.  His eyes roam all over her, from her tiny Reeboks, to her head.  Pausing several times in between.  It makes us feel itchy. We shift from foot to foot.      

            “Thanks!” she says and skips out of the store.

            “Where is her mother?” one of us asks no one in particular.

            Another of us works up the spit to say, “You shouldn’t look at her like that, it’s wrong.”

            “Yeah,” we chorus. 

            "Twisted."

            “Sick.”           

            “Perverted.”

            He scowls at us.  Then his face turns cherry red, as his poor child-molesting brain works out our meaning. 

            “That’s my granddaughter!” he says.  “Ged outta my store, ya morons.  Ya sick puppies.”

            We slink out. 

            How can we have been so wrong?  We talk it over, turn it upside down, inside and out, and can’t figure it, except to say that grandfathers shouldn’t eye their granddaughters that way.

            Who can understand the ways of adults, especially creepy ones like Sam?  It is one of life’s mysteries, like how parents can send their kids on sleepovers with celebrities and let them sleep in the same bed. 

            Several hours later, we decide to go back to Sam’s and get some candy for tonight’s movie Trollhunter, since we didn’t get any this morning. On our way down the street, we see little gumdrop-girl playing with a soccer ball in the front yard of a house that had just been sold.  She must be a new neighbor.

            One of us approaches her and says, “Hi.”

            “Hi,” she says, smiling.

            “Remember us?  We were at Sam's Candy Store this morning.  You sure are lucky to have a grandpa who owns a sweet shop.”

            She frowns. 

            “Does your grandpa own the candy shop down the hill?” one of us asks.

            She shakes her head, no, and backs up towards her front door, as we move closer. 

            “Is Sam your grandpa?”

            She shakes her head no again.           

            “You shouldn’t go there alone, he might rip you off, like he did today,” says one of us.

            “Have your mom go with you next time,” says another.

            She looks scared and runs indoors.

            We congratulate each other on our creativity, pounding each other on the back.

            Changing course, we walk to our neighborhood greenbelt, past the bright-colored play equipment, until we reach the lattice-enclosed gazebo and sit down.  One of us lights a cigarette, takes a puff, and passes it around.   

            “Hey,” someone says.  “I have an idea.”

            “Let’s hear it.”

            After much weighing and judging, we decide not to tell anybody about Sam.  Nothing had happened, anyway.  You can’t be arrested for overly-staring at someone, even if she is a little girl.  And we had warned her. 

            What’s more important is what we learn today.  Sam does like some kids.  Little ones.  Girls.  And that is why he owns a candy shop.   

            We get up, stroll down the hill and saunter into his store.

            “Ged outta here, ya punks,” Sam says, looming out of the dark interior, like an eel from his cavern.

            “Hey Sam,” one of us says, reaching for a bag of chips.

            “Hi ya, Sam,” says another of us, grabbing a fistful of candy sticks.

            “Man, I love these wax lips,” says a third, pocketing several, and wearing one.

            We bust up laughing. 

            “I’d like a pickle, the biggest one you’ve got,” says the fourth.

            “Ya bedda pay for those or I’m gonna call the cops,” he says, striding towards the wall phone.

            “How’s your granddaughter?” one of us asks.

            “Yeah,” we sneer, “How is she?” 

            Sam gives us a Hannibal Lecter look: murderous.    

            “We like candy.  A lot. You like sweets too, don’t you Sam?  That’s probably why you own this store.”

            We laugh and nod our heads.

            He picks up the receiver and starts to dial, and that’s when little gum-drop girl and her mother come in.  He hangs up.

            “Okay, guys, see ya,” he says to us, waving goodbye.

            One of us winks at him and grabs a pickle out of the jar.

            He turns to the woman and her daughter and gives them an oily smile.  His “Mom” tattoo stands out in a beam of sunlight, as does the sweat on his brow.      

            Snickering, we elbow our way outside, while cramming our mouths with our loot and giving each other high fives. 

            We are the Can Do's. 

Copyright 2019

What If?

“What if?” is usually how I get my story ideas. I learn about something from the news, or I hear about something absurd, or I see something unusual, and I wonder: What if I knew that person? What if I met that person? And one thought leads to another, and presto, a story emerges.

For example, I saw a person showcased and interviewed on TV who had the whites of his eyes tattooed black.

What if someone you loved had the whites of their eyes tattooed black? How do you think you’d react? How would you feel? How would you treat them?

What if someone you loved ate plaster—actually knocked holes in the wall, and ate the plaster. Would that person become homeless?