Alex Carrick’s Blog

I refer to this piece as half poetry, half storytelling and half crazy. Since there is a poetic element, I’d like the flow to be consistent down the page (or screen, actually, in this case). Thus present preamble to take the intro past the picture of the scholarly-looking gentleman on the right (your left).

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A hotel bar late of an evening.
Walnut paneling, muted recessed lighting.
The second she entered, I knew.
She was my fate.
Pink silk scarf, black dress, low-scooped neckline, front-end loaded.
She had the same physical equipment as other women, only more of it.
Hourglass figure set to chime at midnight.
She approached.
Teleportation in a million stages.
Molecules scurried and scattered.
The ordinary pulled back on either side.
A handful of lonely drinkers gawked.
The barkeep poured a tall one.
First merry clink of glass on glass.
Heady aroma of perfume, alcohol and stale cigarettes.
I waited quietly.
Several sips in, she wished to talk.
My specialty is listening.
“How ya doin, hon?” she asked.
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The lives of two not-so-different men lay in ruins a week after the affair headlined in the media as either the Peoples’ Rally in the Clouds or Civil Unrest in Make-believe Square.

Of course that wasn’t the official name. The event was first advertised under the title, World-wide Freedom Day.

Preston Fleshman and Stephan Bossberg were at an age when they had achieved huge worldly success in their careers – one in the area of diplomacy as well as political lobbying and the other in software development and internet connectivity.

They each brought their own strengths to the table. It seemed like divine providence that caused them to own side-by-side luxury villas on an exclusive island in the Turks and Caicos.

Neighborly visits between their families started the ball rolling.

Bossberg liked to drink mimosas under the bougainvillea. Fleshman’s liquor mixes tended towards hardier stuff. But he did enjoy relaxing in the shade around Stephan’s ocean-side pool and blue-skying ideas with his new best buddy.

Stephan’s reputation had been built when he founded a web firm to link all government agencies around the world in one giant social net. Fleshman’s wily negotiating ways first came to public attention when a Wall Street Journal profile said he could explain Kierkegaard to a zombie.

Fleshman rose as high as Secretary of State in Washington’s executive branch before taking his Rolodex of contacts with him into retirement.

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“Keep your voice down. I don’t want either of us to get into trouble. There are some things that aren’t talked about up here.”

Jebediah Senior and Jebediah Junior were meeting in heaven for the first time since the former’s death thirty-five years earlier in a car crash and the latter’s recent shackles-shedding on account of congestive heart failure.

After the initial joy of seeing one another on the other side, they quickly reverted to the relationship they’d had when Junior was a tadpole.

This was particularly awkward since Junior was now, in a peculiar oddity of cosmic timekeeping, 10 years older than his father. Such were the logical contradictions one had to surmount on a daily basis in the afterlife.

From earliest days when Junior was a young-un, the competition between the two of them had been fierce. Supposedly in an effort to toughen up his son and prepare him for the real world, Jeb Senior had never let his progeny win a ping pong game, horseshoe contest, wrestling match or spelling bee.

Jeb Junior fully understood the argument but he suspected the motive. He knew very well his father had a taste for winning that could never be sated. 

When Jeb Senior insisted on making comparisons between their life journeys, Jeb Junior couldn’t help but respond, “Can’t you leave it alone, Dad. We’re in heaven, for heaven’s sake. Isn’t everything supposed to be sweetness and light?”

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A father drove his two children, 12-year-old Bud and eight-year-old Betty-Lou, to school every morning. In good weather and bad, mostly in heavy traffic, they motored slowly along the well-established route and talked through many of the major issues of life.

“What’s that guy doing, Dad?” asked Bud, sitting in the front seat with his father.

“I don’t know. He’s just stopped. And he’s blocking traffic.”

“I think he’s looking for something,” said Betty-Lou from the back seat.

“I know exactly what he’s looking for,” said the father.

“What?” said the two children simultaneously.

“His brain.”

The kids laughed.

“There, he’s found it. Good, he’s moving on. The driving gets worse every morning. Never a day goes by I don’t see at least two or three traffic violations.”

They passed the next several minutes in silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

Finally the father said, “You’re being very quiet today, Bud. What’s the matter?”

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“Start with a ‘hook’. It can be an exceptional title. Or a nifty idea. Even a joke, as long as it’s original. That’s where I begin. Then embellish it. Work backwards if you have to. And always, always, keep in mind the primary question – will this keep a reader interested?”

That was the gist of what Enoch Masters had to say about short story writing. He was fond of saying it, although not so much since he’d been on the speaking circuit for the past two years. Still, he easily found attentive audiences willing to pay a considerable sum for his advice.

Enoch had wrapped up his presentation that evening in a concert hall in Pittsburgh and was waiting at the airport for a return flight to his hometown of Toronto. He was passing the time in welcome anonymity at one of the several indistinguishable bars in the arrivals and departures area.

For the non-cognoscenti, it may be hard to believe but Enoch had groupies. They dogged him after his speaking engagements. They’d corral him after lectures to ask questions and bask in the afterglow. Enoch was still living on the fame of his earlier writing success.

That’s why Enoch wasn’t too surprised when a presence quietly approached from the side and said respectfully, “Excuse me, Mr. Masters. That is you, isn’t it?”

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In the order they transpired, I’m recording events of the past couple of days in my marriage as a favor to the brotherhood. Navigating the asteroid belt of our spouses’ emotions requires all the skill and sharing of experiences we can muster. Members of the fair sex aren’t shy about seeking help from each other when trying to understand and cope with their men. Let’s turn the tables.

For the purposes of this story, think of me as Loretta’s husband. That’s not to imply I’m anything else. That’s who I actually am, but I don’t like the alternative. I could also be called Mr. Loretta. That’s what I’m getting at and I don’t fancy it. There’s a limit to how emasculated I want to feel. All the same, this story isn’t about me and my presence could easily become lost in the shuffle.

My wife, the Loretta about whom I’ve been speaking, has three very close friends. I mean they hang around together like you wouldn’t believe. This has been going on for years, something approaching a decade and a half, since the time before Loretta and I got married. The last Thursday of every month, they meet for dinner at a fancy restaurant and have a girls’ night out.

Loretta comes home from these evenings and tells me stories that make the remainder of my hair curl. She wouldn’t miss one of these gab fests for anything. Our family, including two pre-teen children, knows this very well because all other events including vacations, anniversaries and birthday celebrations are scheduled so the end-of-month Thursday-nights won’t be missed.

But I wouldn’t have a story to tell if something hadn’t been running amiss, would I? And sure enough, a chink in the solidarity of the four musketeers began to appear several months ago.

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“Daddy, why does Canada have so many comedians?” 10-year old Justin asked, one blustery winter evening. 

The magic hour approached when the burden of parenthood was about to be ever so briefly lifted and some time might be spent by mom and dad alone in front of the television set. 

“I have a theory about that, but it takes some explaining,” said the father, reluctant to be sidetracked. 

“I have time.” 

“No you don’t. I’ve just read you a bedtime story and now you need your sleep.” 

“Please.” 

“No.” 

“Pretty please.” 

“Oh alright, but I’ll tell it in the form of a parable.” 

“What’s a parable?” 

“Think of a parable as a fairy tale with political overtones.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Let me tell the story and we’ll see if we can work it out together, okay?” 

“Okay.” Justin settled under the blanket with only the top of his head showing. His bright eyes beamed expectantly upward. 

“There once was a country called Ripe on a planet that went by the name Plump. Plump was a planet with many nations, some of them cheek to jowl with each other, because they were small and concentrated on certain land masses and others were large and mostly off on their own. 

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Branscomb Hall was where the brainiacs lived. There might be psychedelic drugs, free sex and rock and roll elsewhere on campus, but the boys of “Branny” were renowned for keeping their noses to the grindstone.

South of the border, Americans were agonizing over the Vietnam War. In Canada, these were the halcyon days before OPEC would shake up world oil markets.

Blaine Bostock, Elrod Flight and Ravenna Sharpley were all students attending Toronto’s premier university.

All three were exceptional students, with representation in the core subjects of geography, mathematics and English respectively.

The academic year-end was coming like a hurricane and graduation was only a month away for Blaine and Elrod. Ravenna still had another year to go.

Blaine knew what he was about to do was probably wrong in many ways, but he seemed powerless to stop.

He felt the need to secure his reputation among his colleagues beyond the mere scholastic.

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Paul didn’t care that some people might find it maudlin. Perhaps even in questionable taste. It had long given him comfort. And now he was sharing it with his children.

It was their annual day to visit the cemeteries – two in fact. One on the outer fringe of the mega city, that Paul liked to think of as the suburban holding tank, and one in the downtown core, the treasure chest.

It wasn’t easy getting between the sites. They were separated by a busy distance. Starting out early in the morning, it was easy to reach the cemetery in the suburbs, but by mid-day the traffic into the city was brutal.

The strain was relieved by a lunch break during which Paul and the children would always go to the same fast food restaurant, choose window seats and watch people strolling by for an hour.

Paul knew this day was essentially a “cheap date.” It was a way to spend quality time with his three kids without draining his wallet. But calling him a miser trivialized the occasion.

There was a great deal of serious intent in what he was doing.

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Donna and I have attended an auction or two. It’s a fascinating experience, filled with tradition and a lively cast of characters.

Not least among the latter is the auctioneer. He’s charged with keeping things going and, of course, making as much money as possible for sellers and the “house”.

On that score and for public relations purposes, it doesn’t hurt when record prices are set.

What am I bid
for this fine example?
Do you swear and declare
Your funding is ample

to cover the cost?
Wait! No need to worry.
There’s a paddle at back
being waved with a fury.

Onward in stages
the bidding proceeds.
It fizzles and staggers
but never recedes.

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