Brian Lageose's Blog: Bonnywood Manor

Shame and degradation and a language barrier… Image by Author, created in AI.

Note: This is a continuation of a previous post, one that you don’t really need to review but you can find here if you are a completionist. Suffice it to say that I’m on a cruise, I feel compelled to retrieve something vague from my guestroom located on another deck of the ship, and I can’t use the elevators because something annoying happened when I tried to do so. (Okay, maybe you should click on that link, but it’s really not necessary.) And here we go..

  I began my second attempt at descent on one of the many richly-detailed (hand-carved wooden bannisters!) but rarely used stairwells on the ship, initially lulled into a sense of potential success by the subversive nature of the construction. These things have been designed as half-flights, where one must maneuver only six or seven steps until they are presented with a nice resting area at the turnabout, complete with a fainting couch and a soothing painting of marigolds to help ease the burden of manual labor. After taking a few tentative steps and not immediately dying, I decided that I just might be able to survive this itinerary change with minimal psychological damage.

  Naturally, I was wrong.

  Halfway to my destination deck, the ship did one of those rise-and-drop lurch things that scare the hell out of you the first fifty times they happen. (There’s nothing like eating breakfast and suddenly your waffle is stuck to the ceiling.) As I was already in the midst of twisting and turning, the nausea instantly kicked in with determined rudeness. Here comes the rain again. (The fact that I had been imbibing did not help matters at all, but we shouldn’t dwell on poor past decisions.) I felt like I was in one of those late 60s counterculture movies starring Peter Fonda, lots of people wearing outfits made out of plastic and hemp, and a whirling camera.

  By the time I got down to the Upper deck, I was sweating and emitting pressure-relieving belches, which was most assuredly not a pretty sight. My appearance was not enhanced by the super-long trek down the endless hallway toward the cabin, as said trek increased the sweat factor and the paleness and the bodily disquiet. Topping things off was another round of ship-lurching, resulting in additional unattractiveness like staggering and bouncing off the walls. Suffice it to say that I probably looked like David Hasselhoff that time he really, really wanted to eat a cheeseburger off the floor.

  Random development halfway to the room: A door opened, probably leading to one of the guest rooms, as there were roughly seven thousand of them on this floor, and a head popped out. The head belonged to a severe-looking woman who had not quite mastered the art of sunscreen-application, resulting in her splotchy body looking like something that Jackson Pollock would have created in his barn. Said head said: “What is wrong with you?”

  Me: “I’m just trying to get to my room and-”

  The door slammed and Splotchy was gone. Well, not entirely. From within the chamber, her vocal cords were still very much present: “Harold, we are never getting on a boat again. They let just anybody on this thing. The children have been damaged forever.”

  The children started crying, apparently assuming that “damaged” meant “not good” and therefore the next round of Christmas gifts would not be as satisfying as the last. Harold wisely chose not to share any emotions or vocalizations, because fourteen years of marriage had taught him that neither expression was optimal. Instead, he continued to quietly fiddle with his laptop, working on a blog post concerning why people should never marry someone just because they showed up for a second date without a restraining order.

  I thought about banging on the door and announcing that I was from Child Protective Services, but such a lark didn’t really go so well that last time I engaged in such frivolity, so I just turned and kept walking. Hopefully they could work it all out before someone ended up giving an interview from a prison cell. (“Well, Barbara Walters, it all started that day when we received the brochure for Carnival Cruises…”)

  Eventually, I made it to the proper longitude and latitude where our cubicle was located. I was just about to slide my card into the key lock of the room, when something registered to the left of me, further down the hallway. I turned to review, and I spied several of the Carnival room attendants in a huddle. They seemed to be studying something in the midst of them, a something that appeared to involve what might be a wheelchair.

  Wait a minute. I recognized those wheels.

  I headed their way, just as the ship tussled with another swell, resulting in a lurch that propelled me forward and had me nearly knocking the group over like I was bowling for Jesus. Some of them scrambled out of the way, clutching at crucifixes and fervently muttering under their breath, and there was my sister Roni in her wheelchair, looking very, very mad. She had her good hand on the knob of a door leading to one of the mysterious places where the service people did whatever they did, a hand-position that was making the workers very, very nervous.

  I leaned down to converse with Roni. “Sweetie, what are you doing out here alone? Where’s Mom?” (She can’t actually speak, but she can answer in other ways, although some of those ways can result in the loss of a limb.)

  Roni just kept glaring at the door, refusing to look at me, anger flushing her face. She tried jiggling the doorknob again, determined to achieve whatever goal she had in mind. (And I’m sure that it was a good goal, just not one that anyone else would appreciate or support.) In a nicely dramatic move, she upped the jiggling tempo until it sounded like titanium-beaked woodpeckers were trying to breach an underground bunker in war-torn Yugoslavia.

  This caused the workers around me to burst into alarmed chatter, in a manner that was not English but made it very clear that if Wheelchair Girl didn’t knock it off we would soon be at Defcon-4 and missiles would be launched. Terrific. I now had to resolve a political crisis without knowing the language, and I was risking the possibility that I would annoy the staff beyond redemption. They would no longer user origami techniques to twist our towels into the beloved cute animals that we could discover on our beds after returning from a night of binge-drinking on the Grain Alcohol Deck. I had to proceed carefully.

  Luckily, most of the world at least attempts to learn some English whilst most Americans stumble onward without so much as glancing at another language, and some communication was still possible. One of the trembling young men touched me on the arm and nodded his head at Roni. “Your?”

  I nodded my head up and down. “Yes, it’s my sister. I’ll take her back to her room.”

  As a unit, they all turned and pointed at the correct cabin door, just around a small corner. Well, then. Apparently this wasn’t the first time Roni had gone on a spontaneous, ill-advised adventure that threatened international security, and they were all very much aware of the evil nest from whence she came. Great. We had barely been on the boat 24 hours and already our family had a reputation for malfeasance and dissatisfaction. This shouldn’t surprise me after so many decades, but a small part of me kept hoping that redemption was nigh.

  Now it was time for me to be as cordial as possible so we could keep those origami animals making whimsical debuts on our beds. I thanked them for staying with Roni until someone had come along. They thanked me with their eyes for finally taking away the Rolling Lady Who Does Not Speak. I managed to get Roni into her room, though she put up a heck of a fight to prevent this from happening. (That good leg of hers can take down a small building if she wants it bad enough.) During the struggle I didn’t realize that the cabin door did not close.

  Ignoring said foreshadowing, I tried to figure out what had happened. I twirled Roni’s wheelchair until it was facing me, even if she was vehemently pretending that she didn’t realize I was in the room or on this planet. “Where’s Mom?” (It was very possible that Mom had stepped out to get something, just for a second, but long enough for Roni to feel the call of the open road.)

  No response from Roni, just the glaring at the floor that meant she was clearly furious about something, something that could run the gamut from a minor discordance concerning lubricant on her wheels to full-throttle outrage that the shrimp cocktail she had forced Mom to order from Room Service had arrived with only four crustaceans instead of the promised five. Perhaps a different approach was in order.

  “Where’s Crispy? Is he supposed to be with you?” (Crispy was her son. It seemed I had seen them together just a bit earlier in the evening, during one of those rare times when I wasn’t specifically focused on only myself. Maybe it was his shift to look after Roni?)

  Still no response, just the glaring. It was like we had been married twenty years.

  There was another lurch and the cabin door suddenly swung all the way open. A man was standing there, wearing an outfit that identified him as either an officer of the ship or someone who just had an affinity for vaguely-military couture. What was this all about?

  He said something to me that sounded Italian, maybe Portuguese, one of the Romance languages. I could only rule out French and Spanish, and I wasn’t really even sure about that, considering my current lack of a full grasp in the situation. There was simply far too much going on for me to role-play the Nicole Kidman part in a movie where a beautiful interpreter meets a dashing millionaire and they end up getting married and raising lots of little dialects.

  I just stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “You take the lady?” He nodded at Roni. “You take the lady?”

  “Yes… I brought her back here. She’s my sister.”

  He considered my words, then his eyes seemed to narrow. “Your card?”

  My card? My room card? Why did he need that? Something was off and I was feeling a little uneasy about this, like things had suddenly become very serious. Did they think I meant Roni harm? I reached into the pocket of my shorts where I kept the “don’t lose this” essentials. But I didn’t feel the already familiar rectangle of plastic. Uh oh. I checked the other pocket. Nothing.

  I had no idea where my card was. And an officer of the ship (or at least someone sporting convincing military drag) really wanted to see it. Right now. Was I about to be thrown in jail? Or at least a windowless room with harsh lighting and mean people firing rapid questions at me whilst dramatic music plays on the soundtrack? “Ummm…”

  “Your card,” he repeated, then he handed said object to me. “There was dropping in the hallway.”

  Oh. Apparently I had lost control of it whilst struggling to prevent Roni from taking over the ship using a lugnut from her wheelchair. I graciously accepted the errant card, thanked him profusely, and the Man in White wandered off to do something elsewhere.

  I turned to Roni, she of The Great Escape. “Okay, I’m going to go find Mom and figure out who is supposed to be here with you right now. Okay? I will be right back.”

  She didn’t care. She had already moved beyond the trauma and was now watching the constantly-blaring TV, something involving loud explosions and people running, her two favorite themes. She waved dismissively. Go forth and do what you must.

  I began to scurry down the hallway once again, that massively-long thoroughfare, when I suddenly remembered what I had originally needed when I first came down here, and I slid to a halt in front of our own room. I unlocked the door, shoved the key card deep into my pocked and commanded it to stay there, and went inside.

  Wait. Was somebody in the shower? That was odd. I had thought everyone was still up on the Lido deck, but there were definitely sounds of wetness and body-cleansing coming from the tiny hygiene closet. Oh well. At least one of us was doing something semi-productive with our lives.

  I pulled out one of my suitcases and began to rummage. Whilst digging through hundreds of things that I really hadn’t needed to bring (why do I do this to myself? why?), I heard the water being shut off and a towel being grabbed. Then the bathroom door popped open and I turned to see if it was Tiffany or Terry. But it was neither.

  It was Bobby Ewing.

I don’t think I’ve published this particular run of writing before, but I may be wrong. (I’m getting old and my mind is no longer a trustworthy thing.) That aside, this is an excerpt from my long-gestating novel “Cruise Control”, a massive mess of a manuscript that I will need to whittle down at some point…

High breezes in low places… Image by Author, created in AI.

  It’s 1981, late summer, a few weeks away from the start of my junior year in high school. My friend Stephanie (I think it was Stephanie, a little fuzzy on that, but I’m fairly certain) had convinced me to join her on a mission to obtain gainful employment. She was headed to an interview, and I was basically along for the ride. Obviously, I was bored and in need of any entertainment I could find. There wasn’t a lot that happened in Oklahoma in 1981, other than the racism.

  Our destination was Southland shopping center in Tulsa which, at the time, was still a fairly happening place, despite fierce, newer competition. It was a fair drive from our homes in east Broken Arrow to this part of the big city, so I didn’t have complete faith that my friend had applied any logic in deciding to pursue a career in this particular location.

  Stephanie had an interview with J.C. Penney. I don’t recall what type of position this might have been, but it didn’t really matter. Stephanie always seemed to have about four different jobs going at any given time, and she always seemed to do exceedingly well at each of them until some mysterious thing would transpire wherein she would suddenly be let go. I would imagine the breaking point in each case involved her vocal cords. Stephanie completely believed in free speech, and she did not have the time or patience for conversational delicacies.

  Anyway, Stephanie marched into the inner chambers of the J.C. Penney employment offices, leaving me to bide my time just outside the entrance. That was fine by me. I’m one of those people who finds amusement in people-watching, since it’s quite amazing what you will see otherwise decent people do in public if they think no one is watching. And considering this time frame in the early 80s, when half the country was still stoned and the other half was just discovering cocaine, there was plenty of colorful traffic to keep me occupied.

  My little game, however, was shortly interrupted by Stephanie as she rattled out the employment door. “You need to go in there,” she announced, shoving some fresh paperwork into a pocket with the air of someone who wouldn’t really be needing that paperwork in the near future.

  “Why?”

  “Because they have a ton of jobs, on this board right when you go inside. All kinds of stuff. Surely you can do something.”

  I didn’t exactly seize this suggestion with full joy and excitement. “I don’t know. I’m not even dressed for an interview.”

  “You look fine.”

  I did not look fine. I was wearing a form-fitting t-shirt and a pair of army-green cargo pants. Plus, I was experimenting with a new wind-swept hairdo that didn’t exactly speak highly of my professional skills. I wouldn’t have hired myself in that getup.

  I opened my mouth to protest further, but Stephanie gave me one of her looks, which clearly indicated that she was not going to back down. She was always the one pushing me into things. Often times, her suggestions led to total failure and complete embarrassment, but just as often we would have a really good time as long as no one got permanently injured.

  So I opened the door and went in, not because I particularly wanted a job, but because I didn’t want to hear about my failures as a human being on the long drive back to Broken Arrow.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was in an interview with a short little man who cleared his throat a lot. He seemed to spend an uncomfortably long amount of time studying my application, which listed exactly one prior work experience. Because that’s all I had. I was 16 and directionless, not 35 with a master’s degree in Business Management. What did he expect?

  He continued to study my paperwork. I continued to wonder why this was necessary. My former position had been in clothing retail. J.C. Penney was a retail establishment that sold, among other things, clothes. Either I was qualified or I wasn’t. I didn’t have anything else to offer.

  Oh wait. Maybe I did. I suddenly realized that the little man was sneaking furtive glances at my chest. I glanced just as furtively, and I realized that my nipples were on high-beam, accentuated by the t-shirt that was perhaps a bit snug. Maybe it was the air-conditioning in the office. Or maybe it was that being-16 thing again, where I was in a perpetual state of horniness regardless of the situation. Granola made me horny. The wind blowing made me-

  He startled me out of my thoughts by clearing his throat once more. “I can offer you a position as a stocker.”

  A stocker? I was on the retail floor at my last job. I didn’t stock things, usually. Okay, there were a few times I did so, when we were extra swamped or the latest stocker had been arrested for selling black mollies behind the Dairy Queen. And no offense to the talented and courageous stockers of the world, it’s a noble profession. But I knew how to sell clothes. Why couldn’t I sell clothes, like I did at my last job. Where I sold clothes.

  Then Furtive Man threw me off by announcing that my starting pay would be 25 cents more an hour than I had been making before. This was an amazing leap in earnings considering it was 1981. Any further whining at this point would have been deemed pointless, if I truly wanted a job, so my nipples and I signed on the dotted line and I became an entry-level employee working for one James Cash Penney. (Even though he was already dead at this point, it was still exciting to be in the family.)

  And my career as a stocker lasted exactly three days before I was repositioned on the sales floor.

  You see, the man who interviewed me turned out to also be my supervisor, which I guess put me on the inside track for advancement. While I was still toiling in the basement, loading carts with Levi’s jeans designed for people who apparently had very big waists and very short legs, he would come down to see how I was doing. After about the third visit in an hour or so, it dawned on me that there might be something to make of this situation.

  Now, I didn’t overtly do anything sexual, but I sure as hell did my best to appear charming, feigning amazed interest in anything he had to say. And okay, perhaps I did some physical stretching every time there was the remotest need for stretching. (“Let me get that for you from the top shelf. I don’t mind.”) But other than that, I was as chaste and pure as one can be in the basement of an anchor store at a shopping mall.

  By the end of the third night of purposeless stretching and possibly not wearing underwear when one should, he informed me that I could start the next day on the sales floor. Wow, this climbing the corporate ladder thing was pretty nifty. I really didn’t understand why other people were so whiny about it.

  I was placed in the Menswear department, where I was responsible for shoving the latest in reasonably-priced fashion into the arms of customers seeking validation via clothing. It really wasn’t a bad job at all. I enjoyed it most of the time, I met a lot of interesting people, and there were even a few regular customers who would come in just to chat and flirt a little bit. Who knew that working at J.C. Penney could prove to be both an income source and a potential dating pool?

  The only real drawback to the job was that, after attending school all day and then working four or five hours in the store, I was faced with that incredibly epic road trip from Tulsa to the outskirts of Broken Arrow every night. It was brutal. It was all I could do to stay awake on that long drive, often times rolling down the window and sticking my head out into the cold air to slap some awareness into me. Other than that, I was a happy camper.

  Until that fateful day.

  I had just walked out onto the sales floor, thinking I looked cute in a new sweater and some old corduroys that had faded just right, when Kim, who worked in the neighboring Western Wear department, rushed up breathlessly, her eyes bulging with excitement.

  “The mystery shopper is here!”

  I eyed Kim with slight distrust. I didn’t really care for her. She seemed way too flighty, often overheating about nothing, and she had a tendency to be a bit snooty. I didn’t understand the snootiness. She obviously didn’t come from money or she wouldn’t be working here. (The employee discount wasn’t that good.) She was one of those Extreme Christians who floated through life with an unending grimace of dismay aimed at the heathens around her. And at times it was difficult to get her to focus on the task at hand. Like now.

  She was already running back to her department, intent on some unfathomable task. I followed and cornered her near this vise-like contraption they would use to cut customer names into western leather belts. (This was very popular at the time. I have no idea why.) “What mystery shopper?” I asked, as she shoved a belt into the machine and arranged the cookie-cutter letter things so they could stamp “BUFORD” into a strip of cured flesh that used to be a cow and would henceforth be cresting someone’s buttocks.

  She looked at me with astonishment. “The mystery shopper,” she exclaimed. “Don’t you know what that is?” She shook her head and started fiddling with knobs on the machine, causing the thing to clank and rattle.

  “No, Kim, I don’t know what that is. Or I wouldn’t be asking you what it is.” Clank, rattle, shove. “What is the mystery shopper?” Clank, rattle, shove. “Could you please let go of that damn machine for a second and talk to me?”

  She paused and stared at me in horror, as if I had just rudely slapped her with my uncivilized and clearly unbaptized paw. Whoops. I had forgotten that Kim does not believe in cursing of any kind, unless it contributes to the proper calling out of sinners for their misdeeds. I sighed. This was turning into a lot of work and I didn’t know if I had the strength. Still, something was clearly going on and I needed a slight clue. “Just tell me. Please?”

  She relented, remembering that I was just another lost soul who hadn’t quite found Jesus. “She’s going to rate you.”

  “Rate me?” (Looking back, I guess I was pretty clueless and naïve. You’d think something would have clicked at this point. But at my sole previous job they didn’t care what the hell you did as long as you showed up and didn’t kill anybody.)

  “She’s going to evaluate your sales technique. And it goes in your file.”

  It finally sank in. Got it. Kim went back to fiddling with the belt machine. But I had another question. “Um, Kim?”

  She gave me a look that clearly indicated it was about time for me to scurry back to my own department, over in the land of racy men’s high fashion and not here in God’s Country, with the Wranglers and the spittoons. But I persisted. “Um, if you already know who the mystery shopper is, isn’t that kind of cheating?” In other words, Kimberly the Good, aren’t you teetering toward a sin of some kind?

  Her face hardened a bit. “It’s NOT cheating. Everybody does it. They always use the same lady, and as soon as you see her come in the store, you tell everybody else, that’s just what we do.” She paused, waiting for any possible personal guilt to be washed away in prayer, then added. “If you don’t want me to let you know, then next time I’ll just-”

  “No, that’s okay, we’re good. So where’s she at now, the mystery lady?”

  Kim snatched up her station phone, dialed someone, said “What’s the scoop”, then “Uh-huh” about 14 times, then slammed the phone down. “She’s in Hardware. We’ve got about 20 minutes.”

  I sprang into action, briskly scurrying out of her department, then stopped. “Wait, what does she look like?”

  Kim actually laughed, which scared me more than anything she had done up to this point. “Oh, you’ll know. Don’t worry.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, but I hightailed it anyway.

  Back in the Menswear section, I tidied up the desk area as much as possible. I didn’t know if that would be part of my score, but I wasn’t taking any chances. On one end of the counter, there was a stack of those unavoidable Levi’s jeans, probably the result of someone on the earlier shift cleaning up the dressing room, refolding the merchandise, and then not bothering to put them back on the shelves. Slackers.

  I grabbed the stack and headed to the back of the department, where we had all the jeans shoved into cubes arranged on one massive wall. I distributed most of the pairs of jeans to their proper home, with one extra-large pair left over. The really big sizes ran along the lowest shelf of the wall. I squatted down on my haunches to park this last pair.

  As I did so, there was a tremendous ripping noise, quickly followed by a burst of cool air where I shouldn’t be feeling any refreshing breezes. I had just blown out the seam of my previously cute but faded corduroys, with the rupture running from my lower crotch all the way to the waistband in back.

  I stood up as quickly as I could, glancing around wildly to determine who might have seen what. Miraculously, there was no one around. Sadly, this did not remain the case for very long.

  Kim come crashing through from the Western Wear department, practically yelling from the periphery of my section. “She’s on her way!” Then she vanished.

  You have got to be kidding me. My ass is hanging out of my pants and I’m about to get evaluated for my job performance. How is this happening?

  I raced to the checkout counter, telling myself I would just have to deal with it. There was no time to head downstairs and change. I was the only one scheduled at the moment, and it was absolutely verboten to leave your section unattended. (James Cash Penney might be in Retail Heaven, but he left behind some specific rules that were now company lore, and surely the mystery shopper was aware of his dying wishes.) Wait, maybe Kim could cover for a sec.

  Just then, I heard Kim start speaking in an overly pleasant, chirpy manner to some unseen person, so the deal was already going down a few paces away. The gig was up and escape was not an option. I just stood there and tried to breathe, sweat running down my back. Bottom Line: I had to remember to keep my butt facing away from Madame de Evaluation.

  Wait a minute. That heavy apron thing I had to wear when I was a stocker and a slight whore. It should still be around here somewhere, as my supervisor had never requested its return, probably hoping that it might prove vital in a future seduction scene. Maybe that would cover up some of the damage. In case Mystery Shopper asked, I could lie and say I was doing double duty tonight, selling and stocking, because I loved this company and I was dedicated to customer satisfaction. (Sounded good, right?) I dropped down and started shoving things around on the shelves under the counter, frantic.

  “Have a GREAT day!” chirped Kim from the Western province.

  Oh geez, I’m up next. She’ll be here any minute. Where in the hell is that apron? I know I left it here. Why can’t people just leave things where-

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice came from just over my head and I leaped to my feet, barely suppressing a squeal and probably ripping out a few more threads in the widening gulch that used to be my pants.

  Standing directly in front of me was the oddest woman I had ever seen. She was wearing a tightly-cinched black trench coat, with black leggings poking out from beneath the coat and leading to black pumps. (That outfit was all kinds of wrong already.) She had long black hair spilling down the front of her coat in an upside-down V formation, reflecting the light in a way that almost says “wig” but really isn’t.

  Her face was extremely pale, and she had somehow managed an application of lipstick on her upper lip without any sharing of color with the lower lip. Her hands had been behind her back when I first gophered up from below the counter, but she quickly whipped her right arm around, with the hand encased in a black leather glove and brandishing an extremely long screwdriver.

  “I would like to purchase this,” she stage-whispered dramatically, shoving the implement within inches of my nose.

  Oh my God, this woman was out of her mind if she thought she was any good at being a mystery shopper. Did she seriously think she wouldn’t stand out wearing something like that, with the severe gothic drama? (Side Note: In my later years, upon reading my first Anne Rice book, I flipped to the author photo in the back and screamed “That’s the woman that shoved a screwdriver at me in Penney’s!” Some things you never forget.)

  Luckily, her crazed appearance calmed me down just enough that I could fake it through the rest of this supposedly secret appraisal. It was clear that she was the mystery shopper. How could she not be, taking it so seriously that she went overboard and considered herself some type of espionage agent? Every employee in the store must be able to pass the test, knowing full well who she was. Anybody can be pleasant for five minutes. And I could pass it, too. As long as I kept her in front of me.

  So I went through the motions, smiling so much my cheeks ached and pouring on the charm, making sure to suggest additional items she might be interested in and inviting her to “come back and see us.” Eventually she was satisfied with the surveillance and wandered away, snatching up something from a sale rack as preparation for her next victim in Cosmetics.

  I let out a deep sigh of relief, relaxing my butt cheeks that had been clenched the entire duration, and then turned around, ready to initiate a speedy plan to find some new clothes.

  There was a woman standing at the opposite counter.

  I wouldn’t say that she was appalled, exactly. Instead, her expression was one of bafflement. Had she really seen what she thought she had just seen? She pondered this a second or two, and then decided yes, she had indeed seen exposed tightie whities. She had been clutching a dress shirt, which she gently placed on the counter, looked at me a third time, mouth pinched, and then simply walked away with an air of someone who might need an additional session with her therapist this week. My heart ached to join her.

  The phone rang. It was Kim. “How did it go?”

  “Get over here. NOW!”

  Click.

Note 1: Previously published, first on my “Memory Remix” blog of yore, then other places later, including here. Changes made over the years, because that’s my thing.

Note 2: No changes made this time around. I was just thrilled to discover that I hadn’t touched this story since 2018 and therefore this would have the mildly-false allure of “something fresh” to readers who don’t know any better. This is often the modus operandi of writers who have published hundreds of stories on this platform but are having a weak night wherein we just don’t feel the gumption to scribble something truly new. (You folks out there who do the same know exactly what I mean. Yes, you do.) Ergo, I raced to publish this mess, pronto.

Note 3: Yes, the title of this piece is a reference to the lyrics of Right Said Fred’s 1991 hit single.

Note 4: This is one of the possibilities that I am considering including in my next short-story collection, “Songs in the Night”. Please advise in the comments if you feel this reminiscence is worthy of such inclusion.

Note 5: (Shameless self-plugging alert!) My current short-story collection is out there, just waiting to be loved. If you haven’t already snatched up a copy, it would be swell if you could click on the following link and consider doing so. Cheers.

“Calling Gloria…” Image by Author, created in AI. I couldn’t find a potted plant in my photo archives, nor an image of a boozy Southern matron with racist tendencies, so this will have to do…

Note: This is a snippet from one of my novels-in-progress. To set the scene, all you really need to know is that my family is on one of those multi-country Carnival cruises…

  I was on the Lido deck of the ship, and it became imperative for me to return to our cabin on a quest for something that I no longer actually recall. (This was always happening onboard, the quick runs to your cabin, many city-blocks away, because you didn’t want to lug your crap around with you all the time but you invariably had need of some such or other. It was a constant battle, and many people resorted to self-medication to help them deal with the agonizing trauma.)

  I signaled to Terry and Tiffany that I would be back shortly. They signaled that it was most likely a free country, whatever country we might happen to be sailing through, and I could scamper at will without a need for the filing of travel reports. Besides, they were drinking, and this was far more important than any activity I might be contemplating.

  Fine, whatever. I worked my way across the Lido deck, fighting upstream through a sudden onrush of women all wearing t-shirts proclaiming that this was the annual family reunion of some gaggle of apparently very loud people. They were all high-fiving and hollering “you GO, girl” and knocking things over and forever-warping the minds of innocent five-year-olds just standing in line for a corny dog. (What is it about matching outfits that make some people lose all respect for common decency?)

  I got past that mess and reached the elevator bank, an area that is usually also packed with people, but was oddly deserted at this particular moment. (It was just me and a diminutive older woman who was leaning against a potted plant. She was addressing said plant as “Gloria”, rattling on about how Gloria had disappointed the family with her life choices despite all the money they had spent sending Gloria to strict Catholic educational institutions where young virgins are trained to never make their own choices. Gloria, for her part, had little to say on the matter, because she was, well, just a plant. All Gloria cared about was regular watering and an occasional scoop of nitrogen-enriched potting soil.)

  I wisely chose to stay out of their conversation, because I learned long ago that talking to strangers will eventually lead to dissatisfaction and regret. Instead, I forced my eyes away from the Tennessee Williams drama and punched the “I want to be away from this woman, NOW” call button on the elevator. The button lit up, but in a weak manner that suggested I wasn’t worthy in some way, so I shouldn’t get too invested in the outcome.

  Behind me, Addled Woman: “Why couldn’t you have married that nice Beauford boy? Yes, he had a bad leg, and he drank bourbon like a calf at a teat, and he probably wanted to do the same to our brother. But his family had money and he did offer you a ring the night of the White Bread Cotillion.”

  Gloria, the plant: “…”

  Addie: “But noooo, you thought you and your squeeze box deserved something better. And what kind of better did you end up with? Nothing!”

  Gloria: “…”

  I punched the weakly-lit button again. And then a third time.

  Addie: “Is it any wonder that our Daddy went to an early grave? He got over the trauma of Momma sleepin’ with the milkman, because we all know Momma never was right again after she fell off that horse. But you? You didn’t have a head injury to justify you sniffin’ around every lowlife in the French Quarter.”

  Punch number four. Punch number five. Nothing. I hate elevators.

  Addie: “And let’s not forget that time when the police called Daddy ‘cause they found you naked and ass-up in that alley over on-”

  Okay, I’m done. Time for Plan B.

  I run like one of Gloria’s no-good lovers, heading toward the nearest stairwell. I don’t want to take the stairs, because I’m a lazy American and I loathe physical activity, but there comes a time when you have to be brave and strong and actually take ownership of what’s happening in your life. Why this concept didn’t occur to me during the first 45 years of my existence does beg a question, but we really don’t have time for that. Addie might figure out that I’m no longer listening to her gin-soaked monologue and she could hunt me down.

Snippet previously published in another form. This scenario is part of a much longer chapter in my still-gestating novel “Cruise Control”, so I might share more of said chapter (and said book in general) if the response and comments indicate I should do so. Then again, I may not, because of my well-established focus issues.

P.S. Note the tale-end quaint reference of me being a mere 45 years of age at the time of this story. I’m now 60, so, yes, I’ve been messing with this book for 15 years. Did you catch the part about focus issues?

Big Brother is washing you… Image by Author, created in AI.

So, just to fill you in a bit, in case you didn’t know:

There is a very solid and respectable reason why the Senate Democrats are, thus far, refusing to approve the Republican budget bill, which has resulted in a “government shutdown”. And that reason can be explained in one word.

Healthcare.

The Republican bill does not extend the Affordable Health Care Act subsidies, set to expire at the end of this year. If you don’t get your health insurance via said Act, you may be wondering “why the hell should I care?” So, let’s put some context to this.

Earlier this year, the Republicans shoved through their “Big Ugly Bill” that ripped away Medicare/Medicaid benefits for millions of people. (Some of those millions of people who will be affected by the changes are not yet aware of the impact, as said changes will be slowly implemented over the next year, with the biggest wallop not happening until after the 2026 midterm elections. Because that’s how this administration operates, hide the pain until you’ve reelected the people who caused the pain in the first place.)

The medical insurance companies of America already see that pain coming, especially the pain that will happen to their bottom line. These companies depend on Medicare/Medicaid payments. It’s part of their business plan. Since some of that flow is no longer (or soon won’t be) a revenue stream, most of the companies have already jacked medical insurance premiums for next year.

If you already pay part of your medical insurance premiums (if you are actively employed) or you pay most or ALL of the premium (if you are retired, like me), your bill next year is going to open your eyes.

This is October, a month that is often the “re-enrollment” period for folks making healthcare decisions. I’m already seeing complaints bubbling up on social media, with people wondering why the hell their premiums are going up so much.

Because of the Big Ugly Bill.

And now the Republicans are intent on passing a budget that will eliminate the Affordable Health Care Act subsidies. This is huge. According to the U.S. Department of the Treasury’s own website (I’m surprised this hasn’t been removed by the Trump Administration), over 50 million people have received healthcare coverage using the ACA since 2014.

Side Note: The Treasury Department’s webpage that I just referenced made an update whilst I was scribbling this. It now has a big-ass disclaimer at the top of the page (and I’m assuming ALL pages) saying “The radical left has chosen to shut down the United States government in the name of reckless spending and obstructionism.” It goes on to babble about how there will only be sporadic updates until the shutdown ends. (You can find said page here.)

This is a government website. You know, that government that is supposed to be non-partisan when it comes to serving citizens across the land, regardless of who is in the White House. But the Trump Administration has fired or is in the processing of firing anyone who dares buck their agenda. Ergo, official government websites are being turned into blatant mouthpieces for Trump.

Yet said page that I referenced still has the bit about 50 million Americans obtaining ACA coverage over the last ten years, a solid fact that MAGA wants to obfuscate and eliminate. The Trump administration is both vengeance-filled and woefully inept.

Okay, back to where we were, with this current bill aiming to end ACA subsidies…

Think the health insurance companies are going to be happy about another shutoff in their revenue stream? Of course not. Your insurance premiums are going to skyrocket in 2026 if this budget bill passes.

THAT’S why the Democrats are holding out, at least so far. Among other issues with that Republican budget, of course. But affordable healthcare is the main sticking point.

So, bottom line, this shouldn’t be a partisan thing, really. It’s a matter of making sure that we can all get the medical care that we need when we need it. Why wouldn’t you want that assurance for every citizen in this country?

I cannot comprehend why some elected officials, supposedly representing all of their constituencies, could be so dismissive and callous toward many of their constituents. I just don’t get that mindset.

End of day, regardless of party affiliation, all of us should hope the best for our neighbor when it comes to proper medical care, even if you disagree with their political views.

The current proposed Republican budget doesn’t do that. And it shouldn’t be passed.

Cheers.

Previously published a few days ago on other platforms. I realize that my last few posts have been overtly political, and I’m sure some of you are not particularly pleased with such, but we’re in a dire quandary here in The States. I just can’t sit back and pretend that terrible things aren’t happening. I trust you’ll understand…

To wake up and smell the covfefe… Image by Author, created in AI.

The gloves are off with this piece. Just letting you know…

To all of those people who are saying that “we’ve been through social and political upheaval before and we’ll get through this, too”: You might want to reflect on certain things that have happened this year.

We’ve never had a president who is so hell-bent on decimating anyone who dares (or has dared) to disagree with him that he is maliciously destroying democracy on a daily basis. He is completely out of control, with his paranoia and delusions and psychoses resulting in policies and proclamations that benefit no one but his massive ego. (What the hell happened in his childhood that he turned out this way? Or was he just born an asshole? Discuss amongst yourselves.)

We’ve never had so many Republican members of Congress gleefully participating in his vengeance, fully supporting his wrecking ball that is shattering the pillars of decency. They are voting for things that they know will negatively affect their own constituents, but they do it anyway. Screw “represent your electorate” as long as you get an invite to spend the weekend at Mar-a-Lago.

We’ve never had so many corporations willingly bending over, asses in the air, giving in to every one of the president’s maniacal whims and vendettas without even pretending to fight. There was a time when Big Business fought against governmental intervention, rightly or wrongly. Now? Not only are they giving in to the president, but they are also offering up millions or even billions of dollars for the “opportunity” to do so. The mind boggles. What are these corporate boards thinking? Are they that scared of Trump? Why?

We’ve never had a Cabinet or an Administration so packed with unqualified, idiotic, completely-clueless nutjobs licking the boots of a Fuhrer With No Clothes. The ineptitude and viciousness is stunning. In the country that we knew before Trump stumbled his delusional way into politics, Pam Bondi and Pete Hegseth and Tom Homan (just to name a few) would already be impeached and facing criminal prosecution for their deplorable actions. The guardrails are gone, folks.

And, most importantly, we’ve never had a Supreme Court that has been illegally stacked with justices that never should have been there in the first place. Yes, illegal. I hope future American historians, should there be any if we survive this mess, will properly point to Mitch McConnell as the fulcrum point when his process-violation manipulations shattered the concepts of jurisprudence in our country. I realize that I’m getting a bit deep here, but Mitch set in motion what quickly led to a corrupt Supreme Court eventually giving the president carte blanche to do whatever the hell he wants to do.

Donald Trump might be controlling where the wrecking ball strikes next, but it’s Mitch McConnell who gave him the keys to the machine and the Republican Party in general that poured gasoline into the engine.

So, no, we may not be able to “get through this”, unless decent people do the right thing and speak up. Stop equivocating. Stop looking the other way. Stop hunkering down and waiting for something better, because it may never come. Wishing and hoping only works in Disney movies and perky Broadway musicals. Action and resistance and even some good ole civil disobedience are the keys that will unlock the doors that have been slammed in our faces since January.

Be a true American, unlike anyone who is lap-dogging in the current Administration, doing cosplay tricks in a desperate attempt to get a pat on the head from a president with so much hate in his blood. Do what you can to stop the destruction of our country. Raise your voice, refute the liars, refuse to be complacent, demand truth, and (this is critical, a fundamental keystone in our current situation) stop giving a pass to your family members and friends who continue to support a president who is destroying the fundamental ideals of our country. Call them out. You can love them all you want, but you don’t have to put up with their delusions. There’s far too much at risk, at this point, to hold your tongue.

Yes, it can be painful and exasperating when confronting disillusioned loved ones, trying to get them somewhere closer to the truth. But it’s a proven fact that change in this country starts at the grassroots level, the individual voters. Fox News figured that out long ago, and they’ve been lying to their addicted viewers since 1996. Those viewers haven’t heard a lick of honest reporting for nearly 30 years, and that’s a monumental amount of disinformation and, let’s be real, brainwashing, to overcome. But we’ve got to try, one word at a time, because our backs are against a disintegrating wall. Stop playing nice or taking the high road. We’re beyond that now, because it’s no longer working.

And, in all fairness, those last few sentences also apply to the Democratic Party. Said party is in a freefall right now, disorganized, unfocused and, in many cases (can you hear me, John Fetterman?) still pretending that “reaching across the aisle” is a noble thing to do. The Republicans tossed aside noble decades ago, and they tossed aside human decency when Trump descended on that wretched escalator in 2015, announcing his candidacy and planting the seeds of autocracy that have since grown into fruition. The Republicans will never reach back across the aisle, because Trump demands that they not do so.

The Democratic Party needs to quit fumbling and navel-gazing and looking for that damn High Road that no longer exists. It’s time to get dirty, get down in the trenches where the average decent people are watching their world fall apart. Quit basing your agenda on being solely reactive, constantly pointing fingers at Trump and his outrageous machinations. Instead, be proactive, offering solid alternatives that will counter the destruction. You aren’t going to win hearts and minds and votes if you neglect the needs of those very voters who got you in office in the first place. Nobody wins without a solid strategy and stand-out leaders, and the DNC apparently doesn’t have either right now, it pains me to say.

Ergo, we’re in a dilemma, we decent people, currently unable to depend on national democratic leaders to do the right thing whilst they squabble and fumble and gain no traction, insistently relying on a dusty playbook that is no longer relevant. It’s up to us, the average voter, down here at that fabled grassroots level.

Stop playing nice. It’s not working.

Stop pretending that things will get better on their own. We’re on a different spectrum, now, one that we’ve never been on before. The Separation of Powers concept has been shattered, with the Supreme Court being a perfect example of such. 6 of the 9 judges (guess which party nominated them) are falsely claiming to be “Constitutional Lawyers”, yet they are repeatedly issuing rulings that contradict that very document, especially the 27 Amendments that have been attached to such. (Apparently Republican judges don’t like addendums, unless said footnote proclamations adhere to their political views, justice be damned.)

How can we expect decency when the highest court in the land is overwhelmingly partisan and willfully neglecting their duty to protect democracy? The Supreme Court used to be the bulwark against autocracy and inequality (well, once we got past the 1800s, when said court made some really damaging decisions), but it is no longer that. I don’t know how to fix the mess, most people don’t, because we’ve never been here before. Let that thought resonate with you. We are in uncharted territory. What worked and protected before is not working or protecting now. The Dam of Justice has broken and polluted waters are swamping the land.

So, to wrap things up, because I know I’ve been rambling and pinballing around, let’s focus on this: If you care about this country, if you cherish democracy, if you hope for decency, then don’t be that guy or gal who sits on his or her couch, railing at news reports but doing absolutely nothing to make a change. Get off your ass, find out how you can help, and then go do that helping, in whatever form that might entail.

Be a true patriot, unlike the MAGA minions who claim to be so but are the complete opposite of such.

Be the voter or protestor or writer who speaks up, speaks loudly, and speaks proudly. Nobody wins when the silence is deafening.

Be an American.

History WILL look back, once we get to wherever we’re going. Excuse the cliché, but will you be remembered as part of the problem or part of the solution?

Every. Single. Word. Counts.

Cheers.

#IAmJimmyKimmel #IAmStephenColbert #IAmEquality #IAmTruth #IAmNOTCharlieKirk

A short reflection on one way to support your fellow writers… Image by Author, created in AI.

Hey Folks,

  I’ve just returned from our annual excursion to Pecos, New Mexico, with said adventure moderately justifying my lack of presence on social media lately. (To be fair, I’m often AWOL on this platform, usually for much more mundane reasons, so there’s that. I’m sure many of you didn’t even notice my absence since I often disappear for days and weeks on end. I clearly have focus issues.)

  That aside, I’d like to share with you a little something that happened earlier this month, just before we packed up the family vehicle and headed toward an off-the-grid locale in the Pecos National Forest. If you’ve never vacationed in a place where cellphones don’t work, you should do so immediately. The disconnect is delicious, trust me. There’s a bit of initial anxiety (“what if something important happens and no one can find me!”) but you quickly get over it, especially since getting a phone signal requires driving down a mountain at a mere 15 miles an hour because the alarmingly sharp twists and turns on the roadway are death-threatening.

  After all, people survived for thousands of years without text messages. You’ll be fine.

  Anyway, on one of those pre-departure days, I was piddling around on Medium and noticed that my good friend, Ted Czukor, had just purchased one of my older books on Amazon. Since there is a considerable delay on Amazon when it comes to adjustments of your book-sales rankings based on new purchases, I immediately jumped on Amazon and captured a snapshot of my “before” rank. I was curious to see what impact Ted’s efforts would have, considering that no one had purchased said book since Jesus was a child.

  Herewith, said “before” snap. You’ll have to excuse my using an image (though you can’t really tell that it’s an image) that includes far more statistical detail than you care to see. In my excitement, I just screen-grabbed the whole mess, not realizing that I wouldn’t be able to manipulate things later. You can ignore most of the image, but I’d like you to focus on the tail-end of the stats, wherein you can see the book’s “Best Sellers Rank” as well as its ranking in the “Amusement & Theme Park Travel” category.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B00I68BCXMPublisher ‏ : ‎ Bonnywood ManorAccessibility ‏ : ‎ Learn morePublication date ‏ : ‎ January 31, 2014Language ‏ : ‎ EnglishFile size ‏ : ‎ 1.1 MBScreen Reader ‏ : ‎ SupportedEnhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not EnabledWord Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled Print length ‏ : ‎ 181 pages Page Flip ‏ : ‎ Enabled Best Sellers Rank: #2,903,593 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)#607 in Amusement & Theme Park Travel#2,032 in Theme Park Travel Guides#13,608 in Tourist Destinations & Museums GuidesCustomer Reviews: 

4.7 4.7 out of 5 stars   (8)

Note that my overall ranking is 2,903,593. (This may seem shockingly abysmal, but there are many millions of digital books on Amazon. My first book is languishing below 4 million.) And my ranking in the “Theme Park” category is 607.

Now, let’s take a gander at what happened after Ted’s single purchase of the book (no one else bought a copy, as I study these things intensely):

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B00I68BCXMPublisher ‏ : ‎ Bonnywood ManorAccessibility ‏ : ‎ Learn morePublication date ‏ : ‎ January 31, 2014Language ‏ : ‎ EnglishFile size ‏ : ‎ 1.1 MBScreen Reader ‏ : ‎ SupportedEnhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not EnabledWord Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled Print length ‏ : ‎ 181 pages Page Flip ‏ : ‎ Enabled Best Sellers Rank: #271,979 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)#23 in Amusement & Theme Park Travel#142 in Theme Park Travel Guides#913 in Tourist Destinations & Museums GuidesCustomer Reviews: 

4.7 4.7 out of 5 stars   (8)

My overall ranking jumped more than 2.6 million places to 271, 979. I’m sure some of you are wondering “how the hell could there be THAT much movement with one buy?” Keep in mind that the vast majority of the millions of books on Amazon are stagnant and languishing. All of the movement is happening way up in the higher echelons of the rankings, because it’s all about exposure. Most of the books are just cellar dwellers, usually forever, but the tiniest whiff of interest can catapult a book onto a new playing field.

More importantly, my ranking in “Theme Park” jumped to 23. This meant that the book would now be featured in the “Top 100” for that category, thereby getting more exposure. The book remained in that top 100 for several days. Sadly, said exposure didn’t result in further sales. (And, it should be noted, a book will quickly plummet in the rankings if those further sales don’t happen.) But, at least for a moment in time, there was hope.

And that hope is why I’m writing this piece.

The next time one of your friends (or even casual acquaintances) releases a new book, keep in mind what the power of a single book purchase can do. In today’s happenstance environment wherein a previously obscure writer can suddenly find a following in a kismet moment, doesn’t it seem right that you should click on that “buy now” button for the writers you relish? I would think so.

Then again, I’ve been off the grid lately, and maybe I’m expecting too much, basking in the Pecos sunshine on a mountain with no signal.

Still, there’s that hope thing, right?

Cheers.

P.S. I just checked the overall sales ranking of “Unexpected Wetness”, the book that Ted bought and, almost three weeks after “The Purchase”, said book is still way higher in the rankings than it was before the Kindness of Ted. I’m tellin’ ya, one critical click can create huge change…

P.P.S. I just realized that my babble about no one buying “Wetness” in forever was a bit off the mark, as another good friend, Suzy Jacobson Cherry, both bought and posted about the book earlier in the summer. Since I’m all about returning the favor, here’s a link to Suzy’s book on Amazon. It’s a lovely collection of mesmerizing poetry, should you be interested in such.

P.P.P.S. And if you DO buy a friend’s book on Amazon, be sure to come back later, post-read, so you can rank the book and leave a review. (Unless you didn’t like the book, in which case you should maybe not do either of those things. Just sayin’.) Rankings and reviews are very critical in the Amazon environment.

P.P.P.P.S. Shifting the narrative, Freedom of Speech is now under siege by the Trump Administration. Get your words out now, as many of them as you can, before we are no longer allowed to speak…

A wee bit of venting henceforth comes… Image of Author, previously used for an ancient story that has nothing to do with this one. I yanked it out of the archives simply because it tickles me that I actually thought I could pull off that wretched 1970s porn-star mustache…

So, some of you are aware that I recently self-published my third book. (Based on my sales stats so far, “some of you” should read as “not very many people”, as said stats indicate that, out of my supposed 7,241 Bonnywood followers, only a tiny fraction of a percentage of people felt compelled to click on my Amazon website in a purchase-affirmative manner. I’m not trying to instill guilt here, I’m just setting the scene for the rest of this ramble.)

Since my book sales were tanking (with “tanking” being perhaps not the right word choice, as you have to be afloat at some point before you can tank, and I never got there), I decided to fiddle with some book-promotion websites. If you’ve never researched said sites (and you probably wouldn’t, unless you’re a desperate indie author like me), there are hundreds of promo sites proffering the moon and the stars and promising to love you long time. For a fee, of course.

Ah, those fees. Hundreds of years ago, when I self-published my first two books, those fees were actually decent, or so they seemed. (I didn’t really know any better, because I was a newbie, but I did know that I could afford to take a chance. So I did.) And I actually got results. The book sales surpassed the cost of the promo services. That’s a win, right? Everybody got what they wanted, and we sang happy songs in the Glen of Satisfaction whilst chirpy wildlife joined us in the chorus.

Things have apparently changed since then.

This time around, once I realized that my third book needed a bit of help if it was ever going to get out of the Amazon basement, I went searching for those once-satisfying book-promo websites. And I was stunned by what I found. Somewhere along the line the cost of using such services had gone from “this seems reasonable” to “holy cow, I’m gonna have to sell a body part to be able to afford this”. I generally like my body (there are certain unsatisfying aspects that I won’t go into right now, but that’s not really our focus here), so I wasn’t willing to sign up for any elective surgery.

Concurrent to my wondering how to boost my book, I was receiving a cavalcade of emails from unrequited book-promo websites. Apparently, said sites have Espionage Units that carefully survey Amazon and seize on any newly-published book as a potential source of revenue. I suppose I can’t really blame them, American capitalism and all, but I was leery and suspicious. How did they know about my book if hardly anyone else on the planet acknowledged its existence?

So, I deleted most of those emails without a second thought. But a few of them did catch my attention, mainly because their proposed fees were within my limited budget and not shockingly stratospheric like most of the promo sites. I scraped my pennies together, submitted the necessary forms to three of these “budget” websites, and I hoped for the best.

And I got absolutely no return on the money spent. Nada. None of the promotion campaigns resulted in a single book sale. Granted, my latest book is not for everyone, so there’s that. But considering that all of these three services babbled about “100K email followers!” and whatnot, something should have happened. Nothing did.

Ergo, I got a bit of an attitude. From that point forward, I was on the offensive. As new promo offers continued to land in my email inbox (and they were constant, as apparently news travels fast when an innocent is up for economic sacrifice), I became aggressive. I began challenging the intentions of the email senders. I’m not proud of this, as I should have just let things go, but I couldn’t help it.

Exhibit A:

Herewith we have “Abigail”, who sent me an initial email that did not include any links to her website, addressed me as an author name that was not me, and referenced a book title that was not mine. The only thing I gleaned from said email was that she is “Book Club Outreach Coordinator” for an unnamed organization.

I challenged her discrepancies. Thus began a multi-part email roundelay wherein she tried to convince me that she was legit. I continued to challenge her, because she wasn’t being forthcoming on too many levels, yet remained insistent that we could have a beautiful relationship.

I finally ended things with this email:

“ Hey Abigail,

  First, sorry for the delayed response. The proof for my paperback came in and I had to deal with that, as well as the surprisingly-quick release of said paperback once I signed off on the proof.

  Second, two days ago, I received an initial email from another person who also misidentified both myself and the book in question, offering promotional services. The tone and language was very similar to your initial email, wherein you did the same misidentification. Interestingly enough, when I responded, pointing out the errors, this person again responded with the same tone and language that you used when I pointed out your errors.

  Something is off, here. Especially since you still haven’t provided a website or stats to support your success possibilities, as I requested. It’s very possible that you are completely legit, and if that is the case, well, I suppose it’s my loss and therefore I do apologize for my suspicion. But I’m just not getting a warm fuzzy at this moment, so I think it best that we shake hands and move on to other things.

Sincerely,

Brian Lageose”

Did you note my polite, mostly-friendly tone? I might be a bitch sometimes, but at least I’m a bitch with manners.

I never heard a word from her after that. Perhaps she just accepted my reluctance and moved on to other pursuits. (After all, I still don’t know if she was legit.) End of day, though, it sure smells like somebody realizing the gig was up, especially since the dialogue ceased once I pointed out that other people not named Abigail were using the same methodology and language that she had used…

Speaking of déjà vu with emails, we also have this, my response to another questionable spelunking mission from someone promising the world:

“ Hey Savannah,

  Whilst your reach-out does appear to be interesting, I have to point out that this is about the 10th or so email I have received that has the exact same format, with the only variance being the name of the sender and the name of the “company”. Yet all of these emails have the same Lauren Drive address in Wonewoc, Wisconsin. (An address that, by the way, Google Maps is unable to find.) Can you help me understand what is going on here?

Thanks,

Brian Lageose

P.S. I know you didn’t read the book, because you didn’t buy it. (I study my sales stats very carefully.) So I’m not sure how you found my book to be “fantastic”…

Savannah chose to Take the Fifth. Not a word since.

Bottom line, there are some shady people out there who will happily take your money and leave you in the dust. As a fledgling indie writer, you should only go with trusted and confirmed promo sites, those that have been around for a bit and can back up their claims with documented results.

Of course, those authentic promo sites can come with their own issues, mostly from a financial perspective. But there’s also the “we know that we are certifiably legit, a gold standard, if you will, and therefore we are going to be really, really selective with the books that we choose to anoint with a promo”. Case in Point: BookBub.

BookBub is the real deal. Despite the misgivings I’m about to share, I actually use that site consistently, when I’m in “reader” mode and not “writer” mode. If you sign up with them from the reader angle, they will send you a daily email with books that might interest you. And they keep track of your click-throughs, noting your genre and author interests, thus enabling them to constantly refine the books they recommend to you. And the process works. I have to control myself when I get their daily emails, not wanting to get carried away with purchases, but suffice it to say that I have snatched up hundreds of digital books over many years, via BookBub. That’s the good part of our relationship.

The bad side of our relationship? That “selective” angle I mentioned above. With my last two self-published books, I submitted requests for them to be considered for promotion. I was turned down in both cases, with the (not explicitly stated but still understood) reason being that my books didn’t have enough reviews and ratings to be worth their time. Apparently, BookBub only promotes books that are already successful. In other words, books that can guarantee click-throughs and purchases, which means money in the BookBub bank account as an Amazon (or whatever site) partner.

Speaking of money flows, there’s this: Back when I was rejected by BookBub for both previous books, over a decade ago, the promotional fees they charged were moderately acceptable. (I don’t recall the exact figures, but I can promise you that I wouldn’t have pursued the option unless the fees were under a hundred bucks. I don’t mess around with my money.)

Now? Well, I got an email recently from a BookBub representative. (I’m telling you, there is some kind of dark-web machination going on wherein folks are somehow made aware of a writer self-publishing a book, the very second it happens.) Said representative was VERY excited about letting me know that BookBub was running a promotional discount wherein the cost of services was temporarily reduced from 2K to 1K. How quickly could I sign on to such a deal?

Hold up. Your normal price for a book promotion is two thousand dollars? The only people who can afford that kind of money for a book promotion are the people who already have successful books. They don’t need a sales campaign. BookBub is depending on desperate writers who will make desperate financial decisions, hoping for better.

I didn’t even bother to respond to the Happy BookBub Rep who was thrilled to let me know about the ridiculous “sale”. What could I have said? They clearly don’t want modest-income retired people who can’t afford their services. End of discussion.

So, question of the day, speaking to all of the other indie writers in the blogosphere: Are there any book-promo websites out there that actually deliver results but are still affordable? Perchance to dream.

Okay, that felt good, venting and whatnot. Done. (For now. I’m sure something else will irritate me, shortly. It’s just how I roll.) So, let’s move on to more positive things.

Some of you may recall that I spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to puzzle out a proper book cover for my latest book, “Peppered Fruit”. (I fiddled with hundreds of images on NightCafe for months on end, far longer than it took me to compile and complete the actual collection of short stories.) I’m still happy with the final image selection, but the extended process was exhausting.

I’m happy to report that the cover search for my next book, “Songs in the Night”, took roughly ten minutes. I signed into NightCafe, wherein I create most of my AI images, and on the second image prompt, I struck gold. (At least to me.) Somehow, everything coalesced just right, creating an image that I hadn’t envisioned but immediately spoke to me.

Ergo, for your consideration, my next book cover:

Image by Author, created in AI.

Okay, I think I’m about done, here. (It’s getting late, I have things to do tomorrow, you know how it goes.) If my book-promo ramble-rant did nothing for you (and I can understand why it wouldn’t for most of you, trust), it would be swell if you could at least share your thoughts about the new book cover. I really like it. But if said image doesn’t entice you as a reader, I need to hear that. After all, BookBub doesn’t mess around with books that aren’t already successful…

Cheers.

A bit of shameless plugging buried in an absurd narrative… Image by Author, created in AI.

Virginia, left: “I sense that something has got you a bit blue. Would you like to talk about it? You know I’m here for you.”

Gertrude, right: “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Virginia: “Well, based on your facial expression, perhaps you have something considerably annoying lodged in a place that it shouldn’t be. Have you been regular lately?”

Gertrude: “I’m not sure why you went there, but no. I’m not aware of any lodging issues.”

Virginia: “Good on that, I’m sure. It’s always nice when things are delivered when they should be. But then there’s all this clutter in your kitchen. Why does everything seem so busy and neglectful? Normally you would never allow such to happen.”

Gertrude: “I must admit that my domestic focus is not quite what it should be. Something has thrown me off, just recently.”

Virginia: “Recently? Oh, are you concerned about my hand clutching you in such an intimate manner. Has my tender touch stirred a hidden passion that you have sublimated until now?”

Getrude: “Ginny, really, why are you going there? It’s 1957. The sublimation is still firmly in place, and neither of us should even be considering a forbidden dalliance whilst Eisenhower is still in office. It simply isn’t done. I won’t even realize that I’m a lesbian until all the children have gone off to college and I can no longer distract myself with household responsibilities, at which point I will then scribble bitter poetry and eventually seek emancipation from my wrongly-equipped partner. This is not a Sapphic Moment.”

Ginny: “Well, then, what is it, Gertie? I simply must know, as I can’t go on with your kitchen looking like this, especially that bowl of soup that looks like it might need carbon-dating.”

Gertie: “You wouldn’t understand. Just trust that I’m not happy and I’m looking for a solution.”

Ginny: “Okay, I can work with that. Say, maybe we should go to the next neighborhood Tupperware party!”

Gertie: “I fail to see how sitting in someone’s living room and pretending to marvel at the burping-factor of storage containers will improve my life in any way.”

Ginny: “Darling, it’s 1957. Tupperware parties have little to do with consumerism. They’re more about bored housewives taking Valium in a group setting and numbing the fact that life is very hard when you don’t have a penis.”

Gertie: “Are you sure about that? Seems a bit loose with the facts and somewhat…Republican.”

Ginny: “Of course I’m sure. And the Tupperware company is aware of such. That’s why they design products that are very colorful and clever but essentially unnecessary. I mean, really, why would you need a lettuce crisper? Lettuce is crisp on it’s own, unless it’s old, in which case you just throw it away. They couldn’t sell anything if it wasn’t for the narcotizing pills and a modicum of peer pressure.”

Gertie: “Huh. Very interesting. And I could certainly use something more exciting in my medicine cabinet. But no, I don’t think such an adventure will calm my troubled waters, so to speak.”

Ginny: “Then you simply must tell me. Why is your kitchen such a mess?”

Gertie: “Well, like I said, you wouldn’t understand, because I don’t think you’ve ever read a book in your entire life. But my favorite author has a new book out, yet I can’t get my hands on it because it’s only available in a digital format.”

Ginny, pausing and recalculating in a GPS-like manner: “Digital format? But it’s only 1957 and we don’t have digital anything and-”

Gertie, also recalculating: “Why are you veering off-script? Granted it’s a crappy script, with rampant implausibility, but we should respect the writer’s intentions. Especially if you want to be my future lover, after I write all of that bitter poetry in 1974.”

Ginny, whipping out a copy of said tainted script and finding her place: “What I meant to say is that the reason I stopped by your cluttered kitchen is that I heard your favorite author just released a paperback of his latest book!”

Gertie: “Glory be! Now all of his thousands of readers can rush to Amazon and snatch up a copy!”

Ginny: “Thousands of readers? That’s not in the script.”

Gertie: “Nor will it ever be. But for now, future lover, we’ll pretend that it is. I just want my friend Brian to experience a colorful burp in his sales stats. Just like Tupperware.”

End trans.

Yes, dear (not thousands of) readers. The paperback version of my book went live on Amazon today. It sure would be swell if you would consider adding such to your collection.

Cheers.

Vapidity on parade… Image by Author, created in AI based on a vintage photo.

Note: Originally published two presidential terms ago. Interestingly enough, it hasn’t dated an inch.

  FBI Agent Smith knew that a nest of Russian spies was operating in the Theater District, and he knew that they were posing as bankers, but he couldn’t quite figure out exactly which building he should start searching first…

Aggressive man in a greasy overcoat who suddenly appeared out of the fog and stomped toward our narrator: “You need to take that back or I’m calling somebody and getting you fired.”

Narrator: “I think I’ve missed something here. What the hell are you talking about?”

Aggressive: “You’re being racist.”

Narrator: “And I think you don’t understand what ‘racist’ means.”

Aggressive: “You’re twisting my words and making it sound like something I didn’t say. I’m calling somebody and getting you fired.”

Narrator: “I’m not twisting anything. You called me a racist and I’m challenging that.”

Aggressive: “I never said you were a racist.”

Narrator: “Yes, you did. It’s in the official transcript for this blog. Have you possibly not been taking some critical medication?”

Aggressive: “You’re violating my right to free speech.”

Narrator: “No I’m not. You can say whatever you want. But I have the right to challenge whatever you’re saying.”

Aggressive: “No you don’t. This is America. I can say whatever I want.”

Narrator: “Are you actually listening to the words that are coming out of your mouth? You’re parroting what I’m saying but not understanding what I’m saying.”

Aggressive: “Stop calling me a bird. This is religious persecution. It’s a war on religion!”

Narrator: “Wow, that was an interesting escalation on your part. Help me understand how we got from wherever you started to here. How am I destroying religion? Because that certainly wasn’t my plan when I got up this morning.”

Aggressive: “All you Liberals want to destroy the Jesus Constitution of our Jesus Country.”

Narrator: “Okay, we’re finally starting to flesh out the details of your erratic flight pattern, but I need a little more intel. Let’s circle back to why you called me a racist in the first place. Care to share? Or are you one of those Republicans who denies what they just said five minutes ago. Wait, you’ve already proven that. Still, continue.”

Aggressive: “You were slamming Russian spies with your unfounded conspiracy theories about rigging elections being a bad thing.”

Narrator: “Well, I was actually just poking gentle fun at how that one sign over there looks vaguely Russian. It really didn’t go any deeper than that. But for the record, yeah, a foreign country intervening in our electoral process is never a good thing.”

Aggressive: “You are blaspheming my savior. You’re a racist!”

Narrator: “Your savior? I’m thinking that’s another word that you don’t understand. But out of sheer curiosity, who is this savior that you speak of?”

Aggressive: “Me. I am so incredibly fantastic that I can threaten to shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue and still get elected president. And I will continue my reign of insipid inanity for another four years because the Republican Party is filled with mindless acolytes whose sphincters slam shut at the tiniest possibility of stopping my madness. So, I’m still calling somebody to get you fired. Because I’m a god in the eyes of self-centered, backwoods, inbred, hate-filled ignorants who have never read the Constitution, including me.”

There’s a clatter of noise off to the side of the street and suddenly Melania Trump, sporting a jacket which reads “I don’t care about anybody but me” on the back, makes a rare public appearance because she doesn’t understand that presidential wives should actually prove their worth in some way. “Stumpy, it’s time for you to head back to the White House. You missed your last round of medication and you haven’t posted anything on Truth Social for at least 30 minutes, so all those sphincters out there have no idea what they should lie about next. Let’s go take care of that, shall we?”

They totter off, codependent in their denial.

The narrator turns off his voice-recording device, fully intent on sharing it during yet another impeachment trial on the horizon…

As mentioned, previously published, as “Past Imperfect – #115”. Slight changes made, mostly to compensate for the fact that I had to create an AI image instead of just using the original inspiration photo. (Many of you out there know how these things go. Pesky copyright issues, eh?)

Image by Author, created in AI, based on an entirely whimsical text prompt.

Click here to read this tragic tale from the beginning, should you feel compelled.

 
A few days after my Norma Rae incident on the front stoop, there is a jackhammer attacking my innocent driveway. (“Why do you want to hurt me when I’ve done nothing to you?” asks said driveway. “Because we can,” says every right-wing politician since the invention of the ballot box.) Do you know what it’s like to be on a conference call (yes, another one), trying to appear professional and in control, while a man with a jackhammer is directly on the other side of the wall from you? A man who is acting out childhood fantasies of proving his mastery over concrete and getting perverted revenge on all those girls who rightfully scorned his questionable advances in high school?

And apparently the driveway is fighting back. This jackhammering goes on for hours, with angry chunks of said concrete slamming against the side of the house, full of bitterness and rage. (On the conference call, people are continually asking “Could you repeat that? I didn’t quite hear you. Is somebody on this call getting a root canal?”) I want to share my ordeal with all of them, on the off chance that one of the participants might give a damn, but I refrain, knowing that the Executive VP of Bitterness leading the call did not achieve her title by showing any compassion for anyone, ever.

There’s a knock on the door. I already know the drill. Door-knocking means there’s another freakin’ problem with the freakin’ plumbing, a familiar pattern that is now consuming my life. Sigh. I send an instant message to the one person on the call that might vaguely have my back: “I have to step away for a sec. Cover for me.” Vaguely responds back with: “I have no idea who you are. Stop texting me.”

I open the front door to find Dim and Wit shuffling around on the porch, working on how to express their next pronouncement of doom. I hate them instantly.

“Well, we busted up that driveway, alright. But it looks like we’re gonna have to get under the house and see what’s goin on, cause sumthin ain’t right.” Then Dim and Wit smile nervously. They have obviously practiced this encounter before initiating such, with choreography just short of Jazz Hands. I see a total of three teeth between the two of them. I am not amused. Then again, when have I ever been?

So I throw open the door, and we do the march of death to one of the hall closets where the entrance to the “basement” is located. See, this is Texas. We don’t really have basements. What we do have, if you own a pier-and-beam house like mine, is a dirt-floored area under the house where you can crabwalk around and eventually get to effed-up plumbing, should the need arise. (You can also use this area to hide the bodies of annoying co-workers, in a pinch, because they basically haven’t built pier-and-beam houses in Texas for fifty years or so and investigative officials don’t often think to ask “Say, do you happen to have an incriminatory crawlspace?”)

But first, for the purposes of this story, you have to get to the trapdoor which gives you access to the pretend basement. Since no one bothered to tell me that I might need to provide access to said portal on this wretched day, I haven’t adequately prepared for such an intrusion.

Ergo, there’s a brief interlude wherein I’m hauling all kinds of clutter out of the way as fast as I can. Vinyl dance mixes that no one in this house has listened to for 30 years. Boxes of barely used hair products that promised to give me follicular dominance but failed in the process. A taped-shut box that still manages to dribble glitter as I throw it to the side, whereupon a Patsy Cline CD pops out of said box and skitters across the floor. Hmm. Am I providing enough clues that my same-sex partner and I might possibly be gay?

I glance at Dim and Wit, gauging their reactions. They now appear to be standing much closer to each other than when I counted teeth, both of their faces flushed. Interesting. Shades of unshared desires? An unconscious sense of comfort that they may have stumbled across their own people? Maybe. But I really don’t care. Hate them.

After quite some time of me sweating and grunting whilst no one helps me in any way, I get everything moved and open the portal. Dim and Wit descend into the darkness, practically holding hands. I return to my conference call, where Hillary, the Pope and the VP of Bitterness are ready to rip me to shreds for stepping away.

Mere seconds later, Dim and Wit hop out of the portal. I put Hill, Pope and Bitt on hold again.

“Dude, it’s really, really bad down there.”

Meaning?

“Everything has to be replaced. The pipes aren’t connected right, they slant the wrong way, you got leaks everywhere.”

Once again, I force myself to take several deep breaths. Dim and Wit slyly look at each other, as if wondering “do gay people breathe like this? Do we need to practice that?”

Then I begin. “You’re telling me that, even though 6 of the 10 previous plumbers in your squad have also been down in the pretend basement, none of them noticed the issues you are bilging about now? Why didn’t anybody say anything? And why didn’t you check this out FIRST! This is where the plumbing slope STARTS!”

My cell phone rings. It’s my manager letting me know that the Pope is not happy about the lull in the conference call and there might be an unpleasant Inquisition of some kind if I don’t reappear from whence I went. Sigh. Do people NOT understand what it’s like to have pickling issues? This whole ordeal has got to be over sometime soon, or I will snatch up a sharp knife and never release it from my white-knuckled grip.

I turn back to Dim and Wit. “Okay, look, just go get what you need and let’s get this done.” They race out the door and pile into the truck. I think I can hear Gloria Gaynor wailing about how she will survive as they drive away. Apparently, Wit has thrown caution to the wind and pulled out his bootleg CD of “Adventures of Priscilla” from behind the bottle of moonshine, handing it to Dim and letting their fingers touch longer than necessary. The truck, and their relationship, accelerates.

Two days later, because these plumbing hellions never come “right back”, they show up with two additional plumbers (ratcheting the tally up to 12 plumbers so far). The entourage descends again into the pretend basement, lugging pipe sections and equipment and whatnot. Since they are now working directly below where I am sitting in the home office and I can hear everything, it appears that they are having a frat party of some kind. Lots of laughter, sounds of mechanical destruction, and belching.

Hillary, on yet another conference call, asks me “Are you in a bar?”

No. Despite my aching desire to be in one. Why? Are you looking for Bill?

After hours of banging and nut-tightening and rounds of billiards, the frat party abruptly ends. (Out of beer?) The plumbers arise from the earth, proclaim all is well, and they drive off into the night. Gloria is still surviving. Well, at least for Dim and Wit. The two newest members of the plumbers’ union apparently haven’t gained enough seniority to have an opinion about anything yet, so they remain relatively quiet.

A day later, the toilet overflows. Again.

Time for a Bay of Pigs showdown. Somebody better flinch here, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be us. We get on the horn with the Plumbing Mob Boss and make our demands. Figure out what the problem is NOW. Repair the crater in the driveway NOW. Fill in the giant earthen vagina NOW.

Days pass. The plumbing mafia is now working with the City of Dallas, as apparently all homefield options have been exhausted and the issue must be with the city-owned side of the sewage network. Why this wasn’t a consideration in the beginning, I have no idea. I am weakened. I accept and go on.

I finally have to break camp and actually report to the work office, fully expecting that my security badge no longer works on the entrance doors. Amazingly, I get in, although I do have to shoo away some new-hire that thinks he can sit in my cube. (“I have sperm older than you. GO!”) Magically and inevitably, the lovebird plumbers choose this same day to return. Over the phone, Dim explains that he is at the house and waiting on the city people to show up and do whatever it is that city people do when someone can’t poo.

Later that day, I’m driving toward the house when I notice an irritating, huge equipment hauler parked at the alley entrance on one end of our block. Lots of city workers sporting bright orange vests are running around, waving flags and getting in the way. What the hell? I honestly make no connection between whatever they are working on and the faulty plumbing at my house.

I pull in our driveway, and my jaw drops open. There is an ARMY of these orange-vested city workers swarming all over the backyard and the alley. Tons of people. It’s like Woodstock, only without the drug-based happiness and revelry. There is a two-story digging machine thing (which looks vaguely like those towering four-legged mechanical beasts in “Star Wars” movies) ripping massive amounts of asphalt and concrete out of the alley and depositing said debris into a dump truck bigger than my house.

I wander into said house in a daze. My partner Terry is already there, having been released from his own occupational hellscape. The noise outside is so deafening that we practically have to use sign language.

“What are they DOING?” he queries, as air-raid sirens fill the air and the local airport suspends all plane traffic.

What I want to say: “Dude, you were here first. Shouldn’t you be telling me?” What I do say: “I don’t know. Dim called me and said the city found something and they’re working on it now.”

And work they did. For hours. Digging and ripping and hauling off. It gets dark, and they bring in these ginormous searchlight things that brighten the sky. Just in case the whole neighborhood wasn’t certain where all the noise and commotion was coming from, our house is now lit up like Christmas on acid. Passing cars on the street in front of the house suddenly become stopping cars, with incredulous drivers taking snaps with their smart phones, creating little fireflies of humiliation.

Oh, and did I mention that half the houses on our block only have entrances to their properties from the alley? And now they can’t get to their houses because the alley is blocked on both ends by stormtroopers and, I’m merely speculating, WMDs. We are so screwed in the neighborhood popularity contest. We will not be winning Yard of the Month in the foreseeable future, if ever, but we will most likely be Agenda Item #1 at the next meeting of the home-owners association.

(Agnetha Saltlick, doyenne of the neighborhood and 97 years old if she’s a day, is the first allowed to stand and share her thoughts on Item #1. “I think we should kill them. Enough is enough. Show of hands?” Nobody even bothers with hand-showing as they all race to light the torches stored in the utility closet behind the pulpit of the church where our neighborhood meetings are held.)

Somewhere around midnight, possibly two days later, as I sort of went somewhere else mentally for a while, the noise stops. The army of city workers rumbles off into the night, without a knock on the door. Um, could you maybe let us know what you found and did? Guess not.

With hearts pounding, we approach the guest bathroom toilet. And flush. The water rockets down the pipes with no problem. We flush the other toilet. No problemo. We turn on every device in the house that involves water. Everything whisks away with no sign of an issue. The long-sought celebration begins. I am actually a functioning human being again. I can release my pickles at will!

Then it dawns on us. Apparently, none of the things the Plumbing Committee pursued were really necessary in the end. Helpful in the long run, maybe, because crap eventually breaks down, no pun intended, but not immediately necessary. The real culprit was on the city side of things. The side where we don’t have to pay for anything.

I am back in my dark place again.

Cut to five days later. The Plumbing Mafia Mob Boss is at the house to collect payment. He glares at me. I glare at him. This gets us nowhere, obviously, but I am still seething with dissatisfaction and rage. He clears his throat. I make the fork-fingered sign that I think I remember from my days as a little Italian boy, the sign that means you are nothing to me and I spit on your grave.

He looks at me like I have a cognitive disorder. Perhaps that was not my best move.

Then he slides the bill across the kitchen table toward me, face down, because he can play just as many games as I can. I turn it over with a flourish that I hope expresses my hatred for him. My disdain.

Then I see the total. 2300 dollars. That might sound like a lot, but really, he’s had at least 12 people come out here. (I am now Facebook friends with 4 of them.) Repeatedly. For a month. They’ve rented expensive equipment, they’ve been here for hours on end, they’ve basically replaced every inch of plumbing in the house, all the way to the “city side” of this whole ordeal. I want to hate him. But I can’t.

And he knows it. His people messed up, repeatedly, and he has acknowledged that by not charging me anywhere near what he could have. I sigh and write out a check.

He smiles as he walks out the door, the theme from “The Godfather” playing in the background.

My eyes wander to the Linda Blair tortilla, which I have conveniently left on the kitchen counter since Episode 3 of this rambling mess because I knew I would need her as a prop at some point in my diatribe. She is mocking me, I can feel it. The tortilla starts to levitate in a smarmy manner to let me know that I don’t have any control over my own life. I calmly walk over and snatch it up, march down the hallway to the office, and promptly shove the damn thing into the paper shredder. There are tiny little screams of pain and surprise. I may not have control of much, but every once in a while I get to destroy something and this gives me temporary solace.

Speaking of, perhaps I should go back and finish that XBOX game that has been on pause for the last month. Maybe I can win another Golden Rod of Power and pretend that the kingdom is at peace once again. But if I hear any odd noises that are not part of the game soundtrack, I’m booking a flight on Expedia to anywhere that isn’t here.

The end.

Previously published, manipulated once again for this latest share. I truly appreciate those of you who have bravely soldiered on as I hacked my way through five episodes, as this whole mess only fully succeeds (and that’s still questionable) if you read all of the installments.

For those of you who are a bit blue that this saga has ceased, I should say that this madness occurred well over a decade ago. There have been many other things which have gone wrong with this cursed but beloved house. I’m sure I’ll get around to all of them eventually…

Cheers.

P.S. Returning to a potential I posited in the first episode of this craziness: I’m thinking of including this serial in my next collection of short stories. If you feel compelled to make a comment, please let me know if you consider this serial worthy of inclusion in another volume of Bonnywood Misadventures…