Alex Carrick’s Blog

Milton Spofford III’s colleagues in the press were bitterly jealous. Fresh out of journalism school, “Spiffy” was as nervous as he could ever imagine being. He’d won the lottery to conduct an exclusive interview with the Queen at a time when Her Highness and family were experiencing a resurgence of interest in Great Britain and around the world. Cameras were in place and flattering lighting was aligned to best effect in the library of the royal residence. Spiffy opened the conversation with…

SPIFFY: How are you today, Your Majesty?

QUEEN: We’re very well, thank you. Pleased to be here.

SPIFFY: Wow! You’re using the “royal we.” I’m so used to hearing athletes refer to themselves as “we”. But you really are “we”. The one and only “we”.

QUEEN: I like to think so. Yes, I am we. We are we. When we want to be.

(It takes a moment for Spiffy to regain his composure. He can hardly believe he’s having this conversation. Eventually, he proceeds…)

SPIFFY: The whole world recently witnessed the marriage of your grandson William to Catherine Middleton. It was a glorious event. How do you prepare for such an occasion? Such an intense public moment in the spotlight?

QUEEN: We don’t do anything special. We’re like everyone else, you know. We get excited and look forward to the event. We worry about what to wear. And we make sure the palace has been cleaned and tidied up for guests. We also hold an inspection of the butlers, footmen, chambermaids and ladies-in-waiting, but beyond that, nothing out of the ordinary.

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This story is based on a popular joke which I believe has the wrong punch line, that a talking dog turns out to be a big liar. If one starts with the conclusion, then what might the background be?

Also, please be sure to read the supplementary section in italics at the end of this tale. Your dear writer is looking for a little sympathy and understanding.

**

The turtle-neck-attired couple Sam and Samantha, otherwise known as Sam One and Sam Too to those in their youthful yuppie set, was in the market for a pet to adorn their recently-purchased and rebuilt townhouse on the fringe of Toronto’s downtown core.

How could they resist the ad in the classifieds? “Owner desires to sell world’s smartest dog. Best offer accepted.”

Sam One called the listed cell number and an appointment was arranged for that very afternoon.

In little more than an hour, the two Sams were ringing the doorbell of a grey-shingled, pink-bricked home in a quiet neighborhood where the city’s outer boundary was butting heads with a more aggressive suburbia.

A somber-appearing man in his early fifties answered the chime and introduced himself as Fabian. The several-days’ stubble on his cheeks indicated an unresolved struggle with a personal demon or two. But he was pleasant enough as he ushered the curious supplicants into his living room.

“So I guess you’re here to meet Herman,” he said. “I’ll go get him. He’s in the rec room downstairs. A word of warning, though. He’s going to be a bit of a shock for you.”

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The following attempts to provide an answer to one major mystery attached to the most recent behavior of Osama Bin Laden. By the way, I realize some people may wonder about the “taste” of this piece. That’s why I’m issuing a “gallows humor” alert up-front. 

So why did Osama choose to keep his family living in plain sight at their Abbottabad home for the past five years?

(1) It was just a short commuter hop to the bright lights of Islamabad.

(2) All 18 of his wives had relatives living in the area.

(3) The family’s second home, a cave in the mountains, leaked.

(4) He had a good personal relationship with the local “Alarm Force” service guy.

(5) Hydro, power and internet were all included in the monthly condo fee.

(6) The house featured a double garage that could someday be turned into a bomb-making workshop.

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It was late of an evening and I’d run out of milk and snacks. Besides, I wanted some fresh air.

That’s how it came about I was on my way to the local Daisy Mart before it closed at ten p.m.

You don’t get fog in the city much anymore. Too much traffic. There’s an excess of thermal currents from the abundance of people, moving vehicles and general busy-rush to keep temperatures on a more even keel.

So when one does encounter it, the moment can be special. This was such an occasion.

The temperature at that time of year was ticking over from winter’s frostiness to spring’s balmier breezes.

The rain-soaked grass from earlier in the day lay under the caress of a blanketing warmth.

Particles of air that had formerly been invisible were now rendered substantive.

If I left the car in the garage, the journey from my townhouse to the local variety store entailed a short walk of only a quarter-mile.

It was usually a pleasant enough excursion.

I’d jaunt up the roadway in my complex, then make a sharp-right turn parallel to the public thoroughfare heading south. A sidewalk ran along the base of a five-foot fence marking the edge of my neighbors’ backyards.

At the bottom of the block was a crossing at a traffic light leading to a mini-mall and my destination.

I could make the trek in my sleep. In fact, that’s more or less what I had been doing of late. Ever since my former live-in girlfriend de-camped from my house.

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This is a more serious piece than I usually write. It’s another effort at prose/poetry based on an important theme, how many of us become trapped into doing what we may not want to do.

By the way, should anyone wonder if my ventures in this area are an attempt to ease the burden of writing short stories, let me say this. My poetic efforts, especially trying to smooth out the meter, have been every bit as time and brain-cell consuming as anything I’ve written.

We’re all bound in patterns,
some obvious to tell,
but others are hidden
as if in deep well.

Generations flit by
lickety-split as it were.
We dancers perform
in a lightning blur.

Who among us wonders
at the end of each day,
“Have I lived my life best
in my own unique way?”

More often than not,
behavior is embedded.
What we view as free choice
is the same as our parents did.

Funny how we become
our own moms and dads,
same quirks and mind tricks
yielding views good and bad.

Not so amusing when
what’s carried on is wrong.
Knowing when that happens
by sour note in our song.

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Please note: The following story was awarded an Honorable Mention in the 2011 Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition.

He’d gotten himself into this mess by volunteering. That’s what happens when you’re an eager beaver. He’d never been one before and he wouldn’t be one next time.

What had he been thinking? Surely he knew better than to draw attention to himself. Oh well, too late. He needed to get on with it.

He knew there were hundreds of similar articles in those ridiculous magazines one found in variety stores or pharmacies.

On the front cover was usually some pretty young actress trying to move up from teenage roles to adult parts. Some agent had convinced her she’d get more exposure by, frankly, exposing herself.

In bold type spaced along the edge of the photo would be the enticing words, “Take This Test. What Kind of Sex Life Do You Have? How Do You Rate Your Partner?”

Or “Ten Things You Must Know to Maximize Your Pleasure.”

In the kind of publication he worked for, there were the same kinds of games, only dressed up in finer garments. He held a junior position with the business section of a well-known Toronto newspaper.

So the question was more likely to be, “How do you rate your boss?” There were usually half a dozen choices. Control Freak; Micro-manager; Motivator; Delegator; Schmoozer; or Holy Terror?

It became more interesting when comparisons were made between management styles and the animal kingdom.

“Is your boss a lion? A dog? A duck-billed platypus? A lemming?”

Sure this was silly stuff, but even supposedly sophisticated readers lapped it up.

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Time: the present.

Location: the upstairs master bedroom of a fabulous mansion on Long Island’s Gold Coast.

Greta, the maid, knocked on the open door to give advance warning and walked thirty feet to the nightstand. She deposited the breakfast tray and acknowledged with a slight bow the thank you from the Mrs. on the near side of the bed. The Mr., on the opposite side, continued to look down at his notes.

Greta had signed a non-disclosure agreement when first hired and had learned long ago to never stare at the Mrs. for any extended period of time.

Curiosity from the outside world as to the appearance of the Mrs. was something she could never satisfy, not if she wanted to keep her job. So it was best if she didn’t tempt herself.

The Mr. was another matter. He’d become a public figure. He’d grown into his looks. He resembled nothing so much as a wise old gnome who was carrying the secrets of the financial world around in a satchel.

Greta knew he was preparing for questions on Business Beat that day. He was a guest three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

A small studio was set up on the ground floor, so he could always “go live” with any one of a host of on-air personalities without ever having to leave the comfort of home.

It was an exceptionally fine and well-paying life for the couple she served. It was just too bad the Mrs. had been forced to become such a recluse.
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The following is essentially a monologue as two men face each other, standing on the sidewalk of a small town’s Main Street in Midwest America.

The date is the present, on a beautiful spring morning, a time of year when some things need nipping in the bud.

The burly one, dressed in a dun-colored uniform and trooper’s hat, says:

You think I’m stupid?

You think I don’t know what’s going on?

He leans in and pokes the listener’s chest with the index finger of his right-hand.

If you’re in Cahoots, you’re a potential troublemaker.

That’s why I’m the biggest, baddest lawman you’re ever likely to encounter.

It’s my job to see everything stays calm in my little community.

He eases up a bit and draws back slightly.

Well, actually, not so little anymore.

Cahoots used to be a sleepy little burgh.

So many of your type have come to town in recent years, our growth has exploded.

Now we have a huge itinerant population.

You come here from all walks of life.

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Mille Feuille hated and loved the Mix Master.

Both were stars in their tiny firmament.

They were on the faculty of the English Department at a smallish but well-respected university in Peterborough, Ontario.

The academic life in such a small community was a tiny whirlwind of activity that mimicked the larger vortex in nearby Toronto that, in turn, was a microcosm of what transpired in the maelstrom of a truly monster-sized metropolis such as New York.

Professor Jacob Merrick occupied a coveted visiting chair thanks to his fame for being able to bring together disparate elements.

His world view advocated embracing the swirl.

Life is flux, flow, stoppage, starts, tugs, pushes, explosions and peace.

He acquired much of his insight from within his own family.

His wife had ongoing health issues. She was caught up in the medical system. Between visits to the doctor, time spent in the hospital, trips to the drugstore and research conducted over the Internet, her life was a whirling orbit that had a separate yet attached relationship to the rest of society.

The same was true for his daughter. She was a student in the drama department at the university where he taught. Acting in plays, participating in rehearsals and meeting with her thespian friends and fellow cast members carried her along in a sphere that was tangentially separate from the non-cognoscenti.

Even his young son had his own preoccupations, caught up in the minor hockey league scene and full of imaginings about scoring titles and toughness.

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Apparently I have more of these kinds of stories in me. I view them as narrative, but my wife says they’re poetry. Please feel free to decide for yourself.

**

All was peace and future blindness,
not to know, a blessed kindness.

A family strolls a hidden laneway,
gently descending to sandy beach.
Poplar ushers pointing onward,
ahead a vista strange unfolding,
see the glass that could be water,
not a ripple breaks the surface.
Fireball glow betrays a mystery,
marigold hue, as sun recedes.
How unusual.

Passing words of conversations,
from others come to take a peek.
“Have you ever seen the equal?”
“No, never, not that I remember.”
Heads nod, wondering.
Minor fretting,
an anomaly of nature,
mildly vexing,
little sense that this was prologue.

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