Things that Go Thump in the Night
Just Me
thumping as I pulled my key. Turning to shut the door in the dimly lit
space, I checked an impulse to call out to my wife; the better to
listen now to nothing but a sound of city traffic. Going along the
hall out of the living room, it grew the more pungent, that steamy,
musky fragrance. "Camille!" I shouted, there before the open bedroom
door, where I saw the storm candles out and burning, two tall red
tapers that had never been lit before.
"What the fuck?" were the words beginning to erupt from that Krakatoa
quaking in my gut, as the bathroom door opened to a sound of the
toilet flushing. And what should appear but the face of Daniel McKee,
a man from the same apartment building; a friendly, or one might even
say 'fatherly' neighbor of mine, some 20 years my senior, and an often
visitor to our home with his wife, she to mine, and she to his, even
so much that it was not at all unusual to find them, or he alone,
sharing a cup of coffee with my wife, Camille, when I'd get home.
"Well old son!" said McKee, "I thought you were gone to do some work
on the new house?" That big friendly smile of his was tugging the
corners of a silvered brown mustache as he approached. "What's up,
Buddy--forget something?" He'd clapped a hand to my shoulder which was
soon shrugged off, as I turned to the hall. "Camille!" I howled, "What
the hell are these candles burning in here for?"
"Say! They are nice though, eh?" said McKee. "Camille was just showing
me, you know, uh the . . . difference between the Jasmine and the --?"
He was interrupted by a sound of bare metal hangers jangling. I came
around slow and stepped into the room; one step, then two, to pause
before the big mirror on the dresser. There I stared across at the
closet. I looked at McKee and watched his tongue pass quickly over
that mustache as his eyes got big. It was like I'd pass out if I
didn't move. I took those steps to jerk open the door. In her panties,
there stood my wife, bra dangling from her fingers in the hand that
sought with a thin forearm to cover her breasts. I needed only reach
for that thin, white arm before she was off around me, and gone out
the bedroom door.
And what was this I was hearing? "Hey! I know how this looks--I know,
but it's really not . . . what . . ." He stared open-mouthed, his eyes
going to what had come to my hand off the top shelf of the closet. I'd
been keeping that thing up there ever since Camille had complained
about my having it under my side of the bed, where it had lain ever
since the night two years previous when we had awakened to find a
prowler in the apartment. That time all I had close to hand was a
pillow. Next time, this time, it would be different. His arm shot out
toward me "Hey, wait a minute!" It came down to the base of my ever so
neighborly neighbor's neck. And, as I jerked my hatchet back out of
him, I thrust it immediately forward, taking aim for another shot to
his horrified face, and he stood there, reaching for his neck, turning
to the mirror to assess the damage.
His blood splashed to the dresser, dousing the hand that held him
leaning there; the hand now closing to a fist as he reared up almost
laughing to say, "You dumb chump! Just how long you been kidding
yourself about this, as if you didn't know?" He was taking aim with
that big, bloody fist when the blade came to his forehead, neatly
parting his hair, kind of like in that old daguerreotype portrait of
my great uncle Noble, the barber and hair tonic salesman; how he
always wore his parted in the middle, so very debonair with a razor
cut and a comb.
Leaving that thing embedded right where I'd put it, I took him gently
by the arms and turned him back to the mirror. "There you go," I said.
"If you'd like a closer trim around the ears, or maybe a little more
clipped off the front, just say so, my man." The hatchet smashed the
mirrored glass as he crashed forward to it.
--
JM http://doo-dads.blogspot.com
g.frankfurth
This guy just got cjopped in the neck with a hatchet, his assailant
still holding the weapon. I don't think my reaction would be to call
him stupid and confess his guilt. Shock and horror and denial of
doing the guys wife would be my reaction. "What the hell you doing,
You've got it all wrong!" His arms crossed before his face.
Instead he is inviting another blow with a damn hatchet.
> that big, bloody fist when the blade came to his forehead, neatly
> parting his hair, kind of like in that old daguerreotype portrait of
> my great uncle Noble, the barber and hair tonic salesman; how he
> always wore his parted in the middle, so very debonair with a razor
> cut and a comb.
The simile here, in my opinion, is kinda lame. "neatly parting" ? Far
from gruesome. And the Uncle Noble thing is too long and not very
fitting: does the picture of him actually look like he parted his hair
with a hatchet, blood and all?
>
> Leaving that thing embedded right where I'd put it, I took him gently
> by the arms and turned him back to the mirror. "There you go," I said.
> "If you'd like a closer trim around the ears, or maybe a little more
> clipped off the front, just say so, my man." The hatchet smashed the
> mirrored glass as he crashed forward to it.
> --
> JMhttp://doo-dads.blogspot.com
All in all, it is not much different than the original. This opening
is very important. I think you need to spend some more time with it.
Gerardo
B. Callaghan
"Just Me" <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote in message
news:3326ffa8-8f27-4b7f...@o9g2000vbj.googlegroups.com...
Camille carefully relit the red taper. "... or Sandalwood. I'm sure
you would've remembered." she mused. "Boys. boys, boys. What a
mess you make!" she said. At least she wouldn't have to clean it up
herself. The police will come, take pictures, ask questions, many
questions actually, yada yada. She'll cry for the newspapers. The
neighbors will be shocked. They'll love the scandal, for sure. Except
for poor Evelyn. She'll be devastated, her and the kids. Well, she
should have taken better care of herself! Forty pounds and a decent
hairdresser and maybe Daniel wouldn't have been so willing to hop
into another woman's bed.
Buddy though, he did everything right. Kept himself buff and toned
even with sixteen-hour shifts. The hatchet moved to the closet for the
sake of her dear sensibilities. The life insurance policy he *insisted*
on taking out for her years ago, because his line of work was oh-so-
dangerous. The predictable jealous rage.
"Thanks Buddy!" she called out as she tucked the cashmere-lined
gloves into the Bloomingdale box with its matching hat and scarf and
put it back in the closet. Bodies repositioned, smoking gun in Danny's
hand, yet the Napa leather was still pristine enough to wear to a funeral.
"Quality. Quality product from a quality store". She loved Bloomingdale's.
Camille surveyed the scene from the mirror shards. To look at them
directly now would offend her sensibilities. Men have always been so
sensitive to her sensibilities, she remembered. "Thank you Danny."
she said, eyes averted. Danny was considerate enough to remove his
gun during love-making and put it under the bed, where Buddy used to
keep his hatchet. Hah! Boys and their toys.
It was time. Camille picked up the phone and called 911, sobbing with
controlled hysteria.
- bettina
Just Me
> "Just Me" <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote in message
> > mirrored glass as he crashed forward to it.
> > --
>
> Camille carefully relit the red taper. "... or Sandalwood. I'm sure
> you would've remembered." she mused. "Boys. boys, boys. What a
> mess you make!" she said. At least she wouldn't have to clean it up
> herself. The police will come, take pictures, ask questions, many
> questions actually, yada yada. She'll cry for the newspapers. The
> neighbors will be shocked. They'll love the scandal, for sure. Except
> for poor Evelyn.
Evelyn?? Jesus Christ. Has Bettina (my favorite Cyber Girl of all
possible girls) has transformed this hopeful horror of mine into an
episode of "I Love Lucy?"
> She'll be devastated, her and the kids. Well, she
> should have taken better care of herself! Forty pounds and a decent
> hairdresser and maybe Daniel wouldn't have been so willing to hop
> into another woman's bed.
>
> Buddy though, he did everything right. Kept himself buff and toned
> even with sixteen-hour shifts. The hatchet moved to the closet for the
> sake of her dear sensibilities. The life insurance policy he *insisted*
> on taking out for her years ago, because his line of work was oh-so-
> dangerous. The predictable jealous rage.
Wait. Wait! "The predictable jealous rage?" Now, think, B. Callaghan;
think of what any man would do to any other man, who had alienated the
affections of a TOTAL babe such as yourself from himself. Would he
kill? Would he maim? Would he jump in his rider mower and mow down the
entire world just to keep you for his own? Please! Do not sell us
fellows so short as all that.
>
> "Thanks Buddy!" she called out as she tucked the cashmere-lined
> gloves into the Bloomingdale box with its matching hat and scarf and
> put it back in the closet.
Jesus Jumping Christ.
> Bodies repositioned, smoking gun in Danny's
> hand . . .
Oh! So, it's "Danny" now is it? All the more reason for the bastard
to die.
> yet the Napa leather was still pristine enough to wear to a funeral.
omigod.
> "Quality. Quality product from a quality store".
Jesus fuckng christ.
> She loved Bloomingdale's.
Kill me. Kill me! Before she multiplies.
>
> Camille surveyed the scene from the mirror shards. To look at them
> directly now would offend her sensibilities. Men have always been so
> sensitive to her sensibilities, she remembered. "Thank you Danny."
> she said, eyes averted.
That dirty sonofabitch.
> Danny was considerate enough to remove his
> gun during love-making and put it under the bed, where Buddy used to
> keep his hatchet. Hah! Boys and their toys.
Oh! You DIRTY dame!
>
> It was time. Camille picked up the phone and called 911, sobbing with
> controlled hysteria.
>
> - bettina
Heh. Heh. Just wait till she gets to the auto teller. ;-)
I love you girl. I will always Love you. Ever since you bought me that
ever so lovely Panama hat.
--
JM http://two-candles.blogspot.com/
Just Me
> On Dec 6, 12:08 am, Just Me <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote:
> > His blood splashed to the dresser, dousing the hand that held him
> > leaning there; the hand now closing to a fist as he reared up almost
> > laughing to say, "You dumb chump! Just how long you been kidding
> > yourself about this, as if you didn't know?" He was taking aim with
>
> This guy just got cjopped in the neck with a hatchet, his assailant
> still holding the weapon. I don't think my reaction would be to call
> him stupid and confess his guilt. Shock and horror and denial of
> doing the guys wife would be my reaction.
Even in view of what was to be seen streaking out of the closet?
Had he been fool enough to deny it in face of that, he surely should
have had that haircut coming, just on basic principle.
> > that big, bloody fist when the blade came to his forehead, neatly
> > parting his hair, kind of like in that old daguerreotype portrait of
> > my great uncle Noble, the barber and hair tonic salesman; how he
> > always wore his parted in the middle, so very debonair with a razor
> > cut and a comb.
I'm going to reserve comment on your viewpoint there for the time
being, while I'm still waiting to hear from you on the question raised
in your other post about "What people say"? I asked "What people?"
And I didn't get an answer.
Did you take note of that William Blake quote about "what people
say" . . .
"Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to
be
True. Read them & judge, if you are not a Fool." -- William Blake
You might note that I take no interest in "what" people say any more
than I take in what they say about the "9/11 Conspiracy" and the Obama
birth certificate. People are notoriously full of shit. I guess I've
been around long enough to have seen indeed that what people say is
most generally 99% shit and right at about .9% fart gas. As to that
remaining .1% --? Well that'll be about the size of your chances that
you're ever going to get at the truth in "what people say".
So, it's not the 'what' but the 'who' I'm interested in. Who are the
smarmy little rats and damned fools, those envious, slandering clowns
out there stupid enough to take at face value anything of "what people
say" on the subject of other people? Or maybe it isn't that you have
to be stupid enough, just weak and unprincipled enough.
Yeah, any amigo of mine, would certainly be hip to that, without a
single question in his or her mind.
--
JM http://mackiemesser.zoomshare.com
B. Callaghan
Hey JM - Thanks for the laffs. I mean really, the comments on her
Bloomingdale's glove/hat/scarf set made my day! I do have a knitted trio
from a dear friend IN A BOX IN MY CLOSET, albeit not from Bloomies and
not Napa. Funny what inspires us. Keep posting and maybe revisit your
early southwest chapters?
I was touched you remembered the hat. No one but the coolest hippest
Beat-groovin' Daddio could wear a Panama hat like that. No one.
Word.
Hugs, ~und air kisses,
bettina
< text to follow >
Just Me
> "Just Me" <jpd...@gmail.com> wrote in message
>
>
> Hey JM - Thanks for the laffs. I mean really, the comments on her
> Bloomingdale's glove/hat/scarf set made my day! I do have a knitted trio
> from a dear friend IN A BOX IN MY CLOSET, albeit not from Bloomies and
> not Napa. Funny what inspires us. Keep posting and maybe revisit your
> early southwest chapters?
Here it is all gift-wrapped in a box from Bloomingdale's just for
you . . .
http://doo-dads.blogspot.com/2009/10/two-candles.html
>
> I was touched you remembered the hat. No one but the coolest hippest
> Beat-groovin' Daddio could wear a Panama hat like that. No one.
> Word.
>
> Hugs, ~und air kisses,
>
> bettina
>
Ah, such a darlin' it is.
--
JM
http://jpdavid.blogspot.com/
http://bobbisoxsnatchers.blogspot.com