the shouldered muse

My Adventures in Nashville Land

Posted on February 28, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

realenough corelbrokenguitar I packed as much as I could bring into my small dark grey Nissan Sentra, and leaving Vermont, began my minimalistic life in Nashville, Tennessee. With the cushion of a few months ability to pay the rent on a third floor studio apartment in the Tanglewood complex, an apartment consisting of a twenty by sixteen foot living space, a kitchen, and a bathroom, and a walk-in closet … I dared the world alone. Excluding the kitchen and john, the apartment was a vacant box. I’d brought an old black and white television, but didn’t have a table to put it on, so I used marble contact paper to dress the cardboard boxes I had, on this trip, packed my partial life into, and created for me not only a stand for the television, but a coffee-table-like, artificial marble stump to eat off of. A grey plastic lawn chair, I’d picked up for six dollars, served as my sofa, accompanying my coated cardboard boxes as my nearly complete furnishings.

corelfurnishings

Daring to live a hint of the high life, I laid out in the corner an inflatable mattress I’d brought for my bed along with a sleeping bag. The mattress didn’t hold air though, and I’d pump it up and lie down, and hope I could fall asleep before I felt the hard floor below it, and as I lay there I would hear feet in the hall, going to and from their apartments, but I was always a little on edge, quite expecting someone to suddenly knock at my door, a door that was the only thing between the public outside and my pajamas. Of course I rationalized I didn’t have to answer it, but what if it was maintenance, and if I didn’t answer they came in anyway? There was also a hole in the wall by the air conditioning unit, which leaked the outside in and the inside out, and on colder nights, I lowered the thermostat to save money, and slept in the closet with the sleeping bag, with the door shut and a towel wedged in the crack below it. In a pathetic sort of way, somehow I had improved my conditions; I’d turned my studio into a one bedroom flat at the same rate, and I couldn’t as clearly hear the passing feet outside either. I didn’t afford cable, so whatever I got was what the black-and-white’s antenna allowed after wrangling with it a bit, settling for less snow than snowy, the news letting me know if it was raining or not before the window did, a window which was over the hole and air conditioning unit, but next to the glass sliding doors which led to the balcony.

With an attempt at cooking, I tried to make meatloaf, but failed, and instead invented for myself meatloaf sauce. I made a large batch at the beginning of the week, so that I only had to heat it up on the rest of the nights. Being it was only me, I didn’t care if there was no variety in my meals. Meatloaf sauce and unfrosted frozen vegetables suited the purpose mashedpotatoes almost every night after every night, and a box of dandruff you added water to, made my mashed potatoes, completing the uneventful nourishment. On other nights, whatever I could add to ground turkey I did, and sometimes surprised myself with the equally if not less time consuming choice of cholesterol ridden fish sticks. Sometimes I ate pasta, but mostly the dandruff. Instant rice was another nutrient deficient staple, because it as well needed only water and but five minutes if that to cook.

What about a job? Too eagerly I searched the papers and without much discernment, found one, kneading dough for a bakery that supplied rolls to a local restaurant chain. The man at the interview kept trying to talk me out from taking it, wondering why I would want it, but I was not looking career, only wanting to pay my bills so as not to lose the overtly humble sanctuary I’d created, regardless of how much it was related to cardboard. Six-something-an-hour was money in my pocket I needed, and the work day ending at three in the afternoon allowed me some freedom in the daytime. I found my co-workers friendly enough. I don’t think the Mexican women spoke English, if they did, they never told me. If I ever did something wrong in my learning, they’d only hold up their hands and the stretched dough and show me. It was a lesson in kneading as well as miming, and the Iranian immigrants, all male, if they had played poker, you would have always thought they’d held a bad hand. They stared intently at me as if I was not man enough … either that or they wondered if kidnapping me would earn them more than the six-something an hour. They actually stated they didn’t believe I’d make it through a month. Now wasn’t corelhairnet that a warm welcome? I had to remind myself I was at work and not in prison, though our hair nets clearly stated it wasn’t the latter. And then, there, thrown into the mix was a guy from Kentucky. How the hell he had gotten there, I don’t know. I hear they have moonshine in Kentucky, and that might have been what had happened … but I gathered he was just as confused about me.

It was hard work and uninteresting, but they actually had a chef on the premises, and a good one at that, who cooked a buffet dinner for every lunch … and that included deserts … plural. If I had thought I’d made a mistake at taking this job, it wasn’t as obvious now.

Still, the hours upon hours of kneading was taking a toll on my wrists, and I thought I might quit, but something inside would not let me succumb within only a month’s time, because that’s what the Iranians had expected of me. The Mexicans might have thought that too, but I hadn’t figured out those hand gestures. My first venture alone would not end in failure, I told myself, but any length after that month, be it a year or two days, to me, would be justifiably qualified for a win … as you can see, I was easily swayable.

A few weeks later, my girlfriend, Ivonne, moved to her apartment in Tennessee. She’d come down with her parents, who would be leaving, and I met them, straight from work, with a face full of flour and my clothes caked in it. It was nice to see familiar faces, but unfortunately she had chosen an apartment behind a liquor store in a less promising part of town, I mean that was excluding the Jaguar dealership around the corner and down a cardealership block. I’d never seen a Jaguar, never mind a whole dealership, and I was sure it was there to tease the poor or to motivate them out of their situation and into the drug cartel. But I have to admit, I myself made it into a Jaguar without a cartel, so there is hope in another way. I worked in a car wash where I had to scrub their inside back windows in 95+ degree weather while trying not to sweat on the leather seating and not further abuse my already black and blue shins from the previous others, and when finished, smile and try not to look like a dehydrated lap dog in front of the woman in her tennis skirt or the man in his polo shirt and slacks as their key was returned to them. Who says slavery doesn’t exist in America anymore? “Yes, massa.” Well Ivonne held out a few months in that place and then eventually rented an apartment across the parking lot from me in the same complex, but after having done that, she had the strangest impression that she was living under a drug dealer due to the peculiar hours that were kept and the constant traffic in and out. I felt sorry for her. Damn that Jaguar dealership.

Well, back to work … work had an employee outing at the Opryland Amusement Park. I hadn’t yet quit the bakery, and I figured it would be a good time and Ivonne and I could get some free food out of it also … and the rides. It was not only a nice day … but became a very revealing one … and a very decisive one at that. At one point in the picnic, awards were being granted to longtime employees, and each time a person was called up, it looked like a commercial for the walking wounded … that’s if they were ambulatory.

“… This is for John Doe, for his 20 years of service … “John?”

And up would walk John bent like a guard rail where no car could make the turn … and was that a hump? The man with the microphone held John’s award down by his knees, so that John could see it, and I gathered that was because his eyelids and skull would have gotten in the way if it had been held any higher.

“… This is for Margaret Hasbeen, for her 15 years of service … Marge?”

There came Marge, struggling with her walker due to her arm in a sling.

“… And ole Pete Davidson … 40 years … come on up!”

At first I thought I’d seen a coffin and four pallbearers, but after clearing my eyes, and seeing it was only a picnic table … ole Pete and his wheelchair were helped along over the grass.

crippled

My light bulb lit while it still had a filament. “Yup … time to quit.”

Real: All of it. I mean how can you make this stuff up?

Not Real: Okay some names were my own doing … and maybe I didn’t see the coffin and pallbearers.

(More to Come)

Roger McManus

Posted in Real Enough | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Humor, life, literature, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, story, that's life, writer, writing | Leave a comment

Advice # 1 from someone who might not know anything

Posted on February 21, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

AFunnyIt Have you ever been introduced to someone, and not but ten seconds later, you can’t recall his name? How can you recover? Well first of all, never say, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” It sounds as if you hadn’t cared in the first place. At least throw a name back at the person, if God’s on your side, you might get it right. If you’re close enough, like “Tim” and “Jim,” you can say that’s what you said when the person corrects you, so that he’s the one who appears wrong and not you. Or if worse comes to worse and you are completely off, you could still feign a hearing loss, and if you don’t want to be stuck with that crutch to bear, due to the duration in which you might see him again, at the next contact say that the ear infection you had had has cleared up … but of course only say this if you can actually remember his name at this later moment … or else go on with the ploy.

Another tactic, which might come in handy, is a sweet line like this: “So what does your given name mean?” When he says, “You mean Bob? I don’t know.” you’ve got him. It not only covers your behind, but has him thinking that his ordinary name might actually carry some substance with it … and that might even make him feel better about himself, who knows? Of course if he says, “Ugarius?” you’ve hit a homerun and faked successfully a fuller interest in this person who you couldn’t even remember who he was.

Another means of saving yourself, is to grab someone, whose name you do know, and invite them into the conversation, and just when it is appropriate to introduce them to one another, shove a thick piece of food into your mouth and pretend you’re having a hard time swallowing it. This is wisely followed up by making some hand gestures to suggest they should proceed with the formalities of introduction while you choke. If successful, you may not only procure the name and appear somewhat courteous, but in the same attempt also gain sympathy for your asphyxiating plight.

Yet another means could be the proposal of a word game. “Why don’t we see how many fruit we can name that start with the first letter of your name? You go first.” When that’s been accomplished, “Now let’s think of a city which starts with the second letter of your name. You go first.” Continue on this route until you’re certain you have a grasp of what the name is, and of course when you do, be quick to say, “I just love word games. Don’t you, Bob?” if that is indeed the name you’ve found out … if not, replace it with the appropriate one.

Now remember it’s always best to capitalize on the successful recoup of the name, so that the person will never suspect that you’d ever forgotten it. Once you have it, use it like a period at the end of every sentence. “I really like the food they’re serving, Bob. Do you think it’s going to snow today, Bob? Angela, this is my friend Bob … Bob. Bob, this is Angela … Bob.” Trust me, it’s like the birds eating that path of breadcrumbs, he’ll never know where you’ve strayed.

Note the slanted definition of Advice: Something posted that’s probably not good for you.

Roger McManus

Posted in A Funny It | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Humor, literature, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, writer, writing | Leave a comment

On the Downbeat … and the next downbeat … and … why’s it always down?

Posted on February 14, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

Thinkthought The pastor of the church wondered why the attendance had continually dwindled in his congregation, and was flummoxed by the lack of any inflow of even a smidgen of newcomers. A deadly four-four time of quarter note after quarter note moaned out of an ancient pipe organ while the pastor currently presided over a funeral, but though the coffin almost inexplicably, on the first note, began to roll on its own towards the rear exit, the priest looked to a crooked floor rather than the real message that had been sent his way by means of having something roll the opposite.

Roger McManus

Posted in A Little Think Thought | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Food for Thought, literature, message, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, writer, writing | Leave a comment

Gumming Up the Works

Posted on February 7, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

realenough Have you ever made an appointment with a doctor or a dentist? They usually suggest some open dates, dates you would gather are good for them. Right? Now, once you’ve chosen one of their offerings, commonly, they type your name into the computer, into the slot of the date you chose, and then they fill out a business card-like reminder for you to pocket. corelappointment Am I right? It’s not like you’re meaning to sneak in by the back alley way door on off hours. It’s all on the up and up. I mean they gave you this time. They gave you this date. Am I correct? Yes … yes, you are, because you’re me and I’m talking about me. It happens like this every time, and this time it happened, the time I’m going to talk about, it happened no differently, not in the least. “So then why?” I ask.

“Why what?” you ask.

Oh … I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry.

I’d brushed my teeth too hard. That’s what they’d said. Now that wouldn’t have been bad in itself, but it seemed my gums had gotten in the way too and been sanded. Not all of them mind you, but enough to warrant a visit to the periodontist. I hope I’ve gotten that one right, ‘cause if I mislead you into thinking I’ve gone to a foot doctor, a bone doctor, or a woman’s doctor, I’m sure the rest of the story will become quite confusing and the last one will make me appear a bit unnatural. I went to a gum doctor. How about that? Simply stated … simply understood.

Now the procedure they were to do on me was going to be as awful as it sounds. There’s no kind way to put it. By means of a scalpel I guess, or a serrated kitchen knife, depending on how close it was to lunch, the perio… gum doctor I mean, was going to cut and carve and rip the roof of my mouth out, yes, and, after also slicing up the gums down around my overexposed teeth, not so that the graft would take, but so that it would bleed profusely to substantiate the huge bill and the funds they deemed necessary, rope that torn piece of beef from above to those wounds below, using some used dental floss and a prayer to a pagan god long since forgotten.

What? A hygienist had come into the room to borrow the floss. She’d said, “Borrow,” that meant it was coming back, and she wouldn’t have borrowed it if she wasn’t going to use it, right?

So where was I? Oh … right … back to the story.

So I’ve got an appointment they’d given me. I’d chosen the day after Thanksgiving at 12:30, not a day that wasn’t put in my face, not a time that wasn’t allotted by them. We all left on agreement with it. Let that be said and it has been and was, but not a few weeks later they had a go at it. The phone rang. It was someone representing the fine gum doctor, not woman’s doctor, and she wondered if I might not switch the off hour of my appointment to a later time, in that it infringed on the good gum doctor’s, not foot doctor’s, lunch time. I made a mental note that if I allowed them to move the time; they’d probably use a scalpel then instead of the serrated. “That’s all right,” I said. “What’s a better time?”

Scalpel or Serrated?

“How about 2?” she said.

“Fine, two it is.”

“Thank you, see you then.” That’s what she said. She didn’t say, “Bull turkey, why?” She’d said, “Thank you.” I assumed that she’d gotten what she wanted and who she represented, not the bone doctor, wanted too. You’d have thunked. Wouldn’t you have?

But the phone rang, from the gum doctor’s office, only a week and a half later.

“Would you like to switch the date of your appointment?” the woman from the office said. “We have an opening. We could do it this Friday.”

“Um … I thought I had to wait a couple of more weeks until the wound healed from the last procedure,” I said. I’d already recently been through this procedure on one side of my mouth and was moving to the other, but it was the same roof of my mouth that was going to be the donor.

“Oh, do you?” she said. “Let me check on that.” The woman put me on hold for a few moments and then came back. “Yes, it seems it would be better if we waited. So we’ll keep it as is.”

“That’s fine,” I said, not putting much weight in what had occurred, aware that bumped up appointments happen.

“Have a good day,” she said, and likewise I wished her too, and we both hung up.

corelphone

Now the phone rings all the time. Most I don’t pick up, but at the end of the second week before Thanksgiving, the gum doctor’s office called yet again. It was a little early to call for confirmation on the date. They usually called in the same week of the scheduled appointment. “What now?” I thought, but lifted the receiver and said, “Hello,” very friendly-like.

“Mr. McManus, we had a cancellation for next week, on Friday, and were wondering if you wouldn’t want to move up your procedure to this earlier date.”

“O-o-oka-a-ay,” I told myself, and then vocally spoke into the phone, “But that would place the procedure just before Thanksgiving, and the reason why I’d placed it after Thanksgiving, was so that I would be able to eat on Thanksgiving.” I knew I’d mentioned that previously, but I understood that I wasn’t their only patient and to be remembered … but I was also beginning to wonder about the habit they were making of this, separating me from my previously prescribed appointment.

“Oh … well that makes sense,” she said, but sounded less than overly content with my response. “So um … we’ll keep it the same, why don’t we?” she finished.

“Yes … thank you,” I said, “… and have a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh … and you too, thank you.” And she hung up.

I thought it was kind to wish her a happy holiday, since I wasn’t going to hear from her until after it. Again you might have thunked, I did … or maybe you didn’t.

“Confirmation call in the same week, right,” you say, “didn’t you say that?”

Right, you’re right … uh … but no and yes. She called, yes. It was in the same week and before Thanksgiving, but she wanted to know if I could move up the time, not if I was coming. If anything, maybe she would have preferred it if I wasn’t … and with the strangest sense, I was beginning to wonder how many at that office also preferred that I not go, as if they were all leaning over her shoulder with baited breath, waiting for my answer while dental suction devices groveled in the background due to the lot of patients and their drained and dried mouths that had been overly sucked and no one to remove the instruments. They’d given up on getting rid of me for the day, but what was the game now?

“You see, the office was hoping to close early on Friday,” she said, “due to the holiday and the weekend.”

I was right; there had to be a lot of overly sucked mouths there missing their attendants. Now remember, I’d actually had an earlier appointment at 12:30 before they’d asked to switch it. Maybe they’d broken the scalpel and only had a serrated knife with which to work and could only find it during lunch. I might not be making any sense, but I’m trying to wrap my head around this one too you know.

“Could you make it at 1:30 instead?” she asked. You could have heard a pin drop on the other end of the line … theirs.

“Y-yes.” I hesitated. “I … I could do that.” I’d only hesitated because I’d suddenly had the image of the gum doctor with his two hands in my mouth, one throttling my throat from the inside out, and the other holding the scalpel while his two eyes had only eyes for the clock and myself wondering what happened to the anesthetics … oh yes, and an angry mob in their hygienist scrubs, threatening the loss of my eyes with their dental sucking devices, but it was too late. She must have said goodbye and I hadn’t heard. The woman on the phone was gone. She’d hung up. I removed the ringtone from my ear … and thought better not to think of it. It was better if I enjoyed my Thanksgiving … and perhaps the largest of last suppers.

Friday came. I could have told you when Friday came and I arrived at the gum doctor’s office that I’d found another patient, who had tried to get some work done that day, strung from the nearest electric pole, but I would have been lying. That was neither the case nor the atmosphere. There was no angry mob in scrubs waiting for me either. My fear of being the lone person responsible for the staff having to be there on that day was alleviated when I saw others sitting in the reception room, already queued up for their cleanings or tooth extractions or what is lawfully permitted and or commonly done in such an establishment.

corelgums

“Huh?” I almost wanted to swagger up to the receptionist, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t a mouse, and dispel the fool that had been in me by way of my swaying chest, but I didn’t, reasoning that I’d probably have only appeared a bigger fool, as well as an obnoxious one at that, and so I just walked over like a bumpkin does, and gave my name to the receptionist. She smiled … that was another good sign.

Well, an hour later and it was done. Wearing over the roof of my mouth a crafted plastic insert, which one usually finds covering toys in their boxes, but I’m sure didn’t cost the toy manufacturer the $250 it cost me, I realized I’d survived the procedure, not experienced anyone’s vengeful anger, nor had my eyes sucked out. I was now on the other side of that non-existent nightmare and headed home in my car with a cheek full of gauze and nothing left to fear but fear itself … well that … and maybe the pureed turkey sandwich that was waiting for me at home.

Real: The switching and trying to switch appointment times and dates

Not Real: The over exuberance of carnage done to me, no really, the perio… gum doctor did a bang up job (I’d better say that; I have two more procedures to go.). Oh yeah, and his name was Dr. Finshiggle if you want to know. It really wasn’t, but if you believe that, I’m sure to be better off, thank you.

Roger McManus

Posted in Real Enough | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, dentist, Funny, Humor, laughs, life, literature, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, story, that's life, writer, writing | 2 Comments

Slanted Definitions 7

Posted on January 31, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

SlantedFunnyIt

Shamrock – Fake plastic stone you hide a key in

Kindred – Family you don’t like

Preemptive – Letters A through L

Fortuitous – Not meant for three or more, or to be had alone

Impotent – Believing oneself more important than anyone else, when in actuality, not … and probably less … when all things are considered, especially when whoever that one is doesn’t know how to pronounce the word “important.” (Example of what goes around comes around)

Midnight – A squire … or a knight who just can’t ride a horse

Meaning – Doing something not nice to someone (Whereas “Demeaning” is apologizing.)

Hammer – One who makes pork pink.

Noon – Worse than a midnight, a horseless knight who repetitively takes hold of his sword from the wrong end, and whose swordplay, even without an opponent, is so bad that the term noon has become a synonym for “eunuch,” derogatorily known as a damsel in distress.

Wallflower – Natural material, second only after wood lumber, used in the construction of houses.

Roger McManus

Posted in A Funny It | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Funny, Humor, joke, laughs, literature, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, writer, writing | Leave a comment

Shelf Life

Posted on January 23, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

Journal log entry – “Hello … my name is Roger. I am a status addict.” The circle of knowing faces reply, “Hi, Roger.” “It has been six weeks since I last viewed the status page of my blog,” I say. At this, someone emotionally close in this respect pats me on the shoulder for a good job, the strain in his eyes tells me he’s been through it, but probably not over it. No golf claps here, there is a sincere flesh slapping flesh at my progress. “Good for you,” another says, followed by a stream of dissonant congrats and further adulation … but then my imaginary counterparts disappear, my ring of empathetic supporters has vanished … and it’s only me, alone with my laptop, me and my words.

Words are friendly enough. They are. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve revisited the words that have escaped me, escaped me in that my mind and typing fingers once held them, but understand they were never my prisoners. Some I never even realized I had until they were gone to paper … or rather … to a word document. It’s so strange, yet magical, the flow of words. Some I work for, but others come as freely out of me as an exhale and I have to think: Did I write that? How did I write that? And the binding question: Can I write like that again? Yes, they are all my friends as long as they are friendly to each other, and if not to each other, then I need just tweak the words and reacquaint that lot again. The love these words have for their brethren parallels the love I have for them.

The numbers though, got in the way. They didn’t prevent me from writing, but they were an added pressure that needn’t have been there. So much healthier it is to be sober with the words than to be drunk in the numbers, though for a writer it’s probably equally better said that if one has a choice in being sober with the numbers, it is better to be drunk in the words.

You say, “Isn’t it the numbers though that will push you to write?”

Maybe … maybe not … true, they pushed … but you have to push back … and who wants to keep pushing back? A tired writer is not a good writer. An empty tank can’t run the engine.

“Take it as it comes?” you ask.

That might be a bit too lax, if one is to be productive.

“Then what?”

I’ve heard some songwriters say that if the words didn’t just come to them … then the song wasn’t going to be any good and they’d drop it. I can see the value in that line of thinking … for songs … but not stories. I’ve written a few songs and pretty much stuck to those that rolled off my tongue, but stories though, that’s a whole other animal all together.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. No … no, yes I do. I’ve missed writing.

“But you’re writing now.”

Indeed … but when I said writing I meant writing a larger story. Don’t get me wrong; I thoroughly enjoy creating what I put in this blog, without question, but those which put me here in the first place were my novels, and it is those I miss, the continuation of one, the beginning of others … something with a larger plot. I can’t seem to do both the way things have been.

“So are we at the crossroads?”

No … I just believe it better if this road forward becomes less of an expressway and more of a walking path … with some time to kick the stones … or even to pick them up and skim them off the nearest pond. If you can’t tell that I’m even enjoying writing this, then you haven’t gotten to know me and my words and who we are to each other, and I invite you to read me again and discover and rediscover … but if you can sense it, by the way I choose my words, then you no doubt will know I will still be writing here when I can … and I will … just not as often. At least within every week I will put out something new. I hope you fancy my writing enough to want to come back if only for that once-a-week. Who knows, maybe one of my books may make its way to a shelf within your reach … and you may just want to pick it up and read it. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I think so.

Just thought I’d let you know, since there has been quite a lot of days missing their daily, and I didn’t want you to think I was giving out. I’m just reorganizing for a longer shelf life if you want to say that … seems to fit. Thanks for your patronage. I hope my words find you here again.

Signing off,

Roger and out

Posted in Roger and Out | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, journal, literature, Roger McManus, writer, writing | Leave a comment

Send in the Monkeys

Posted on January 17, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

RealenoughGardener There is nothing as wonderful as a beautiful garden. It’s a dreamy notion, often depicted in paintings, cottages surrounded by a rainbow of colors and a hummingbird at the window. If you’ve ever been inclined to go that route, wanting that, seen the books on flower gardens, perused the nurseries, searching the many shrubs and bushes, fruit trees and all those natural wonders, and found yourself aching to reinvent the land around your home, you know what I mean. The delicate whimsy of bees buzzing and birds fluttering about your butterfly flowers or rose bushes draws you breathlessly into what you design to have, and for you to be one with nature. Right?

Then reality hits like a Mack truck pushed by a freight train and you with only your recyclable number 7 plastic spray bottle as a shield.

No one ever warned you about them, and when you tell others about them, those others only shrug their shoulders and say, “Seen them? Can’t say I have. What do they look like?”

What? Am I in some parallel universe parallel to everyone else? Am I the unfortunate to have chosen a home on some sacred and ancient burial ground, and am being punished for desecrating the remains with my bulbs and un-potted plants? Are these the spirits, the protectors of what lies below … or do I need just a few good monkeys to solve the problem and haven’t a means of getting that either? Sadly … it’s the latter, unhinged spirits of yester years, personally, might be more duly handled with a prayer and or séance, neither which has cured me yet of this pestilence.

When did I notice them first? I might have noticed them earlier, but paid no mind, since they hadn’t yet affected me. It was the cherry tree I believe. I’d planted it out in the backyard, already dreaming of tarts and pies, but it was almost as if they, those bronze demons, could read my dream and destroy it, their voracious appetite erasing any hope of me making Garden Magazine.

Every day was December 7^th, as each day the Japanese bombed my garden. Unlike Kamikazes, who believed in some honor in what they did, these invaders had no honor … only greed, a bottomless hunger and greed for every flower or green leaf that poked its head out to say hello to the sun. What are they you ask? They are Japanese beetles. Of course if I’m in that parallel universe parallel to everyone else you’re saying, “… Wh-what are they?”

corelleafbeatles

An epidemic I tell you! Bugs … grubs in the ground that grow up to be bugs that eat every blessed piece of growth you hold dear in your garden. I’d planted the young cherry tree lovingly, carried buckets of water out to it to nurture its roots, and what did they do, they took it for salad kabob and feasted on it. At wits’ end, I bought a bug spray, a bug spray that I found which actually existed in more than one universe, one, unlike the others, which said it kills Japanese beetles. The words were there. Maybe the curse was over … but no. I sprayed and sprayed that poor tree, conservative at first, but then more liberal as I found some bodies, but on the whole, the attackers still at large. The helpless tree was probably trying to figure out who was meaning to kill it first while I suffered from beetle fever and could only foresee bug carcasses or my own destruction, glossing over the tree’s health, which had been my initial concern in the first place. A newbie, I fell into the bugs’ folly. The green leaves turned brown and fell off. With nothing else for them to feed on there, they had to go elsewhere, though elsewhere was only twenty feet over to something else I was growing, but I‘d staked my claim to that victory and won, so I thought, but as I said, I was the fool in their folly, realizing too late that if they couldn’t have it, they wouldn’t allow me to have it either. It was young. The tree would rebound I presumed … and it might have if the lawnmower guy hadn’t run into it and cracked off one of its branches where a rot or mildew then took hold and flat-lined it. That was no mere accident. I’m sure there were probably a few beetles buzzing and bumping around in front of the lawnmower guy to distract him towards that direction and outcome. I live in a peaceful town, but I was at war.

corelmonkey “Info, info … give me info on these,” I murmured to myself as I brought up the internet. “Monkeys eat them? Well that’s the most useless information I could use. There are no bloody monkeys here unless I take a trip to the zoo, and I can’t see the warden accepting my library card as a means of taking a few out.” It seemed with no natural predators of them in the area … they were basically unstoppable and could only be hampered by the most basic of means, basic being by hand. I’d have to fill up a narrow-necked bottle with soap water and go around picking the buggers off the leaves as they ate and humped one another. “Oh that’s the most wonderful of ideas,” I said to myself, looking to kick someone in the butt, but not having a rear-end near. “What’s a few million of them to pick? I’m healthy and medicine has improved, unless I get hit by a car I have a good chance of another forty to fifty years to get the job done.” At this point I’d become double-jointed and was kicking my own buttocks. When my rump was sore enough, I grabbed an old cranberry juice bottle from the recyclables, squirted some dish detergent in it, added water, and, mumbling, made my way out to the backyard and started picking. The little buggers were smart enough to torment me, but too stupid to figure out how to fly out of the open top of the bottle, which had me wondering if I could claim handicap assistance for being a moron and have the state send me some aides to the house so that I could put them to work picking these bugs instead of me.

Desperation leads to inspiration … or else something really stupid. I’m sure Confucius said this, and though Chinese, he must have met a Japanese fellow along the way who kept this saying in the family, and who is probably related to a good portion of these bugs, who were quite familiar with the intel and were using it against me.

Day after day I picked those bugs and had a soup of them in the bottle. Lord, they stunk to hi heaven. Even in death they’d resorted to chemical warfare against me. I laughed insanely with an idea, and moved the bottle away before I puked. Like Vlad Dracula, who had impaled his victims, I was likewise going to send a message. I shook the foul liquid over some plants, squashed a few beetle bodies, and then stuck their miniature carcasses around on edible territory. If there was a Japanese beetle nightmare … this had to be it.

To my grief though, the next day I found them munching out, like at a street café, with their corelhumpingbeatles Uncle Willie’s corpse leaking its innards only an antenna-length away. If the wind had shaken the body, I’m sure the diminutive monsters would have also pleasured themselves with the corpse. I mean that’s all they do, eat and ride piggyback on one another, the horny and hungry little ba…! Sorry.

“What else can I do?” I asked myself. I’d read something about garlic and mild soap water, and as a deterrent, spraying the plants with it. I wanted my life back; I’d try it. Not being totally stupid, in some way trying to refute Confucius’ wisdom, I squirted a mist of my concoction only on one plant’s one leaf to see if I didn’t kill it. Not being stupid in restraining myself in doing that, the next day I found that that one leaf had shriveled and browned, and was now barely holding on to the rest of the plant. “What the hell,” I thought. Confucius was laughing at me. Apparently dish detergent was not a mild soap. I’d been struck by beetle fever again. It cuts grease. Why wouldn’t it cut the life out of a delicate little plant? I don’t know; I’m stupid. One more for Confucius and the bugs, and still … none for Roger … and let’s not hold our breaths.

You have to understand this is an annual tribulation. They used to show up at the start of July and were gone by the first week of August. Then they started showing up in June and have been seen as late as September dadadadada. Dadadadada is the rambling of September’s days going by. Why don’t we just round it up to October, why don’t we? Why? Because I don’t think I could take it!!! … Sorry.

I have the prettiest of roses, but they might as well be daylilies or half-a-day-lillies. The cops should hire these Jap bugs to find hidden marijuana plants, because the way they go at these rose blooms, they’ve got to have smoked it and are suffering from a severe case of the munchies.

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I made another attempt at raising a fruit tree when my wife and I found a plum sapling for twenty five dollars at a nursery. It had to be about 8 feet high. It hung out of the car’s trunk, praying we didn’t hit a small pothole or it would have lost some leaves and procured a significant skid burn from the road. It was that low. The plum must have wondered what the hell it had gotten into with this, and was searching its pockets for our twenty five back and ten dollars for good measure and the gas. Unfortunately for it … it had no pockets, but heck, we wanted it and were going to make this relationship work. I saw pies and tarts again, and Garden Magazine. I was being a positive thinker … good for me … selfish bastard.

No … no, I wasn’t. I was thinking of the plant. I was. This family would work. I’d deciphered a means to a defense against my continual December 7^th. This plum tree would not be invaded. It would not. My wife had a four-cornered tent with mesh, which I’d given her, but whose supports had been damaged in a wind storm. I would drape the mesh, like a veil, over the tree. The openings would be too small for the beetles to get through, and I’d tie up the bottom so that that entrance below would be closed off also. The tree could see out while those bugs could not get in. It could work.

I planted the tree just behind the garage, and put my idea into practice. “By jove,” I thought, “Roger, you’ve got it in folds.”

The siege on the rest of the yard went on as usual. I’d grown to accept what I couldn’t prevent. The war was lost, but if I could have this one battle, perhaps it could open a floodgate of possible new ways to sway the war in my favor, change the outcome for future saplings. Day in and day out I checked the collapsed-tent veil, searching for any beetle that had managed to squirm its way in, and day after day I witnessed success, not theirs, amazingly, but mine. The mesh had been impenetrable and the tree was alive when the beetles had finally gone for good that season. Like a groom anxious to kiss his bride, I removed the mesh veil from the plum tree and rejoiced. “Ha! Take that Confucius!” I cried, full of myself.

Now … not many people if any would call Confucius wrong about anything. His wisdom is held in high esteem. So who was I to think Confucius and his Japanese friend and his Japanese friend’s beetle offspring were wrong? Let me answer by telling you this. The next day the plum tree’s leaves weren’t so green as the day before … and the next day found them even less. Before the week was out they had all browned and some had fallen in despair like dropped thirty five dollars in bills, an in vain attempt at survival that had failed. It seemed that the mesh of the tent, which had covered the tree and sheltered it, had been sprayed with a sun repellant to protect anyone inside from getting burnt. If I had known, I could have gradually reacquainted the plum tree to the sunlight until it was used to it again, but I hadn’t, and the tree had gone into shock and burned. I wept, but even if I had known, they would have known I’d known … and found another way. Out of anything, this I knew. There were just so many of them with so many feet … and them, so many steps in front of me.

Wait! Wait! Hold on! I’ve just seen them. They’ve got Japanese beetle traps! Who’d have guessed?! My universe and the universe you all reside in have collided for the greater good. All I can say is, “It’s … it’s about bloody time.”

Real: Every bloody day of the season

Not Real: The end (They’ll never be stopped.)

Roger McManus

Posted in Real Enough | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Garden, Humor, laughs, life, literature, odd, Roger McManus, slanted, story, that's life, writer, writing | 1 Comment

Chalked: Part 16

Posted on January 10, 2014 by rogermcmanus2013

frompartsunknownchalked “Killer?” Barrister repeated as his brow fell like a Neanderthal. “How’s that?” He quickly bent down on the cold cement platform and swiped his hand through the newly arrived. “He’s not there,” Barrister said.

“Of course he’s not there,” Johnny said. “No one was ever there.”

“Not even the woman? So you admit it?” Barrister said. “It’s only hocus-pocus, an illusion you contrived? Someone else had a hand in this with you,” he mumbled, and then eyed Johnny’s dad, but backed out of that thought without a word. “You … you couldn’t have done this alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Johnny said.

“Right … who is it?” Barrister said.

“Not like that,” Johnny said.

“Fag off with the cryptology,” Barrister said. “Who the hell…?”

“It wasn’t an illusion either,” Johnny added.

“I’ve had enough with you.” Barrister reached for his cuffs. “Obstruction, that’s what this is. You’re going in.”

“Obstruction of what?” Officer Joseph said, placing himself between Johnny and Barrister. “He just told you it’s the killer.”

“Oh … and how pray tell would he know that?” Barrister asked, jiggling the cuffs in his hand.

“She told me?” Johnny said.

“She told you?”

“Yes, Johann.”

Barrister scratched at his scruff. “… The woman killed here?”

“Yes,” Johnny said. “Her name is Johann.”

“Is? Was, you mean.”

“Detective … you’ll see that I mean what I say,” Johnny replied. “If I said, ‘Is,’ then I meant ‘is’.”

Barrister glowered at Johnny without saying a word, but there was no silence as the scrabbling pens of the reporters, across paper, and blinking flash bulbs took up the slack, reacquainting Barrister with his forgotten surroundings. “Fag off!” he shouted to the lot of them, and turned back to Johnny. “All right then,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me call the precinct if we got him. If we don’t, you, you’re comin’ in.” Barrister took a step away from them as he lifted his coat. “And don’t you go anywhere,” he warned.

“Me?” Johnny said. “I’m not moving.”

corelhandheld “Right right … you mean what you say and all your bloody nonsense.” Barrister took up his radio from his belt beneath his coat and pressed the button. “Precinct 17, this is Barrister, come back.”

“Yes, detective, this is Gerald,” a voice rose from the radio. “What can I do you?”

“That homicide at Lexington Station,” Barrister asked, “any progress in the investigation?”

“… Progress, detective?”

“Caught … have you caught the woman’s killer yet?” Barrister clarified.

“Yet? Can’t say we have,” Gerald answered. “You’re a heap impatient ain’t ya, detective. That case ain’t 24 hours old, but ain’t you…?”

“Yes, I am, thank you, Gerald,” Barrister said, cutting the officer short, and returned the radio to his belt strap. “I believe you heard that,” Barrister said, eyeing Johnny and his father. “And like you: I mean what I say. So … you’re comin’ in.”

“But that’s not right,” Johnny protested, and falling from his confidence, quickly gazed around, searching for Johann and an explanation … but found none.

“And that that is you,” Barrister said, slapping the cuffs on him … and grinned. “You ain’t right. But to show you I’m not anything but kindhearted, I’ll find a good shrink for you. I will.” He put up his arm before them like a shield. “Out of the way!” he cried to the throng of news agents and their cameramen, and pushed through. “Officer Trent,” he shouted over his shoulder, “you keep this crime scene secure! You hear?!”

“Yes, sir!”

Suddenly having a thought, Barrister quickly confiscated one of the many cameras from the crowd.

“Nuh uh,” he said, holding it back, as the startled cameraman instinctively tried to recover his nabbed equipment … but finally finding it futile, the cameraman resigned to what was to come and quit antagonizing the detective. Barrister thumbed a button on its rear and gazed at some photos in the camera’s inventory. “Ah, I need that.” An elongated smile accompanied Barrister and his coat and the camera. “Thank you,” he said to the disgruntled photojournalist. “You can reclaim it at the precinct later.”

The news crews were torn between the departing detective and his prey, and the man’s frozen ghost on the train station platform, creating a less dense pocket of fluctuating arms and legs, tripods and microphones for Officer Joseph to squeeze through after his son.

“Do you know this Johnny?” the short-haired woman reporter with the bounce homed in on him.

Officer Joseph unceremoniously refused a comment, leaving her and the rest of her needling colleagues behind … but even as he did … he wondered the same question for himself.

(To Be Continued)

Roger McManus

Posted in From Parts Unknown | Tagged aspiring author, author, author's blog, Chalked, fiction, literature, odd, police, Roger McManus, slanted, story, writer, writing | Leave a comment

By the Grace of God in My Time – A Tale for Christmas

Posted on December 23, 2013 by rogermcmanus2013

Christmaswindow

A slow, dimwitted man named Peter, from the farm down in the hollow, got it across his mind one day that he was going to mate a yak with a mule.

“What ya doin’?” his pa asked, when he saw his son pulling the two tethered animals into a stall together.

“I’m gonna get this here mule pregnant,” Peter said.

“Pregnant?” his pa said. “Ya idiot, a mule’s sterile. There ain’t no way that’s gonna happen.”

“But I’s got to get it,” Peter said.

“Do you now?” his pa replied … scratching the dandruff out of his head as he walked away, closing the barn door behind him. Through the cracked wood though, Peter could hear his pa’s words as he crossed the yard … “Fool … dang fool.” Peter swallowed the lump those words had put in his throat, but he refused to be doubtful over what he wished to do. There might have been a hint of uncertainty stirred in him, but he still wanted to believe he could get that mule pregnant.

Having finished feeding the animals, Peter walked into town, to the library. “Do you have a book on animal hus-husban-tree?” he asked the short woman with glasses behind the counter.

“Husban-dry?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you want that, Peter?” the librarian asked. “You can’t read.”

“I was hoping once I got it, you could read it for me,” he said. “I’ve got to learn me something. My pa says it is, but I’m not sure.”

“What is it your pa says?”

“He says mules can’t have babies.”

“He’s right.”

Peter frowned. “Do you have that book?” he asked again as if he’d not heard her.

“There’s no need. I told you,” she said.

But Peter was persistent. “That book, please.”

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The librarian examined him over the frames of her spectacles. “One … just one moment,” she said somewhat bothered, but realizing he wasn’t going to leave unless she retrieved the book, went into a backroom and returned with a children’s story of Old MacDonald. She flapped open a few pages. “See here, it clearly states mules cannot have offspring, and offspring are babies.”

Peter looked down at the thick cardboard pages. He saw what looked like a cartoon drawing of a donkey. “Is that a mule?” he asked.

“It is.”

“But it looks like a donkey.”

“It may,” she said. “Not all illustrators are very good. See it says here d… well it says it’s a mule and they can’t have babies.” She closed the book. “Happy?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s gotta.”

“Got to what?”

“Have a baby.”

The woman stared at him, confounded on what to say. “Will … will you please leave, Peter? I’ve work to do.”

Peter let go the swinging door, and stepped down the steps, out front of the library … and headed home. Along the way he met Barley, a little seven year old pony-tailed girl with freckles, who usually hung out by the side of the road, pulling up grass.

“Why so down, Peter?” she asked, at the sight of his long face … and he told her.

“Well I heard my mum say peppermint is a good afro dee shack,” Barley responded, “but she don’t know I heard. Don’t tell her now, Peter, don’t.”

corelpeppermint

Peter’s eyes had opened wide at what she’d said, but he hadn’t a clue at what any of it meant, still it sounded good. “No … I wouldn’t do that, Barley.”

“Afro dee shack, that’s good love making,” Barley said. “My mum always has one before she kisses Daddy. I’d do that.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah … hold on, Peter,” Barley said, as she dropped a handful of grass. “My mum’s got peppermint drops in a glass bowl in the parlor. I’ll get ya some.” She hurried inside and returned with a bulging brown paper bag. “I remembered these in the cabinet, when the others run out. You’ll probably need lots, so here.”

Peter took the bag. “You’re sure?”

“My mum likes to kiss my daddy a lot,” she said. “It’s the peppermint. That’s what she said, but she don’t know I know, so don’t tell her. Will you?”

“No, I won’t,” Peter said, and lifted the bag in a wave to her. “Bye … and thanks.”

For weeks Peter bedded the yak and mule together in the same stall, and for weeks Peter stuck a peppermint drop in the apples he gave to the mule, two times a day. There was a lot of snorting and hee-hawing coming from that stall at night, and Peter supposed that was right, and patted the brown paper bag for doing a good job.

During the day when Peter checked on the two animals, he could still hear his pa outside in the yard, now and then calling him a fool, but he was determined this would work. It had to … and then … it did. Suddenly a belly started to appear on the mule.

“Well I’ll be,” was all his pa could say when the beast dropped its litter … a golden baby to replace the golden leaves that had disappeared for winter.

Peter was exuberant. He was nearly there. He cracked his piggy bank, collected the change, and hightailed his way against the cold into town till he reached the grocer’s.

corelchocolatebars

“I’ll have ten of those chocolate bars,” he said to the grocer, who bagged the candy, and took a handful of coins as payment for them.

“Merry Christmas,” the grocer said.

“And to you too, Mr. Baptiste,” Peter said, taking no time to get his gloves back on as he exited the shop, “Merry Christmas!”

“What ya doin’ with that?” his pa asked when he saw him with all the candy. “You’ll rot your teeth out ya will.”

“It’s for the baby,” Peter pointed towards the barn.

“Ya can’t go givin’ an animal candy like that,” his pa said. “It’d poison it. She’s too young yet anyway. She’ll only take her mother’s milk.”

Peter dropped his head in a mope and turned towards the barn.

“Don’t ya give it to her,” his pa warned.

“I won’t,” Peter said, and trudged on to the barn … and the stall.

The baby was so cute … and like his pa had said was only wanting the milk from its mom when he got there.

“Dang it all,” Peter said, and dropped the bag of chocolate bars just outside the stall. “I don’t want to poison you. I was so close, but I guess I’ll have to think of something else,” he said, and left there for the house.

“Ya made sure to lock the barn tight?” his pa said, when he entered. “It’s gonna be a cold Christmas eve night.”

“I did,” Peter said, as he slowly made his way up the stairs.

“Where you goin’?” his pa asked. “How ‘bout supper?”

“To bed, not hungry.”

“Before you know it, it’ll be Christmas … aye?”

Peter didn’t answer, but only disappeared into the shadows of his room.

The next morning the cock crowed in the holiday, just at the pinch of sunlight. Looking out the window at the coming day and the departing night, Peter saw a bright star shining over the barn as if trying to tell him something before it left … and then it was gone. The barn door was open.

corelsnowbarn

“Oh no!” Peter tugged his boots on over his long-johns and quickly stretched himself into his bathrobe as he leapt every other step down the stairs and burst through the mudroom door to the yard. He flung the barn door open, which had now been trying to close, and hurried inside, but it seemed his worry had been for naught. The yak, and the mule, and their baby seemed fine and quite content. Then Peter noticed in the corner of the stall a ripped brown paper bag, and torn and chewed candy wrappers. He looked at the stall fence and saw a space big enough for it to have been pulled through and then looked at the three beasts. Of the three, it was only the baby that had smeared melted and then dried chocolate about its snout.

“No.” Peter tremored over the poison … worried that he’d killed the innocent creature he’d tried so hard to come by … but … but really … she seemed healthy. Startled by his entrance the youngling had jumped to its feet … but by now was doing what it liked best … drinking its mother’s milk. Peter laughed and sighed, and laughed again, but wondered what had that illustrious sighting meant, hovering over, and gazing down upon this barn. Finally, barren with no answer, he’d come to the conclusion that it was nothing … when he turned around and saw it lying in the hay. Peter erupted with glee and anxiously grasped the nearest shovel.

Peter marched proudly into the house with the shovel protruding before him. His pa was at the kitchen table and was turning around at the sound of the opened door.

“Merry Christmas, Pe… What the hell’s that?” his pa asked at the sight of it.

“This?” Peter answered. “… A Yule log.”

“A yule log?” his pa said. “That’s crap.” His pa pulled himself up out of the chair and walked closer to where Peter stood with the brown clump on the shovel, and gave it a sniff. “How’s that? It smells like peppermint.”

“I know,” Peter said. “Nice, right?”

His pa’s left eye caved in while his right eyebrow lifted, trying to decipher the fool his son was … but it was Christmas. His own dad had always had a yule log to burn for the family, and he suddenly without question realized how he had missed it … how his stupid, but beautiful son had reminded him of this … and then he recalled all his son had gone through to do this for him … and then how he himself had behaved, and was ashamed. “I … I do like peppermint … eh … what the heck, throw it on the fire.”

Peter’s grin was full of featured wrinkles and creviced with rosy dimples. “I done good, Pa?”

“Good?” his pa said. “Ya done real good, son … and I’m … I’m sorry for givin’ ya a hard time.”

“It’s all right, Pa,” Peter said. “… Merry Christmas.”

A twinkle lit in the old man’s eye. “Huh … now I know how a yule is in our barn,” he said.

“How, Pa?” Peter asked.

“By the grace of God in my time, Peter,” he said, “by His grace.” and with that the old man gave his son the warmest of hugs. “Merry Christmas, Peter, my dear boy, Merry Christmas … oh and … um … if ya don’t mind … you’ll let me make the hot cocoa … won’t you? All right?”

“All right, Pa, all right.”

And the two of them smiled and chortled like they hadn’t in many a year.