Humorous American Short Stories

by Bob Blaisdell

  She walked heavily through the corridors of Miami airport, loaded down with two shopping bags. One was filled with gifts from the Victoria Crafts Market, and the other was filled with the food, and the mango. She felt pleasure in the presence of it, and thought of Annetta.

  The customs man saw her coming. He saw her with her two big shopping bags and the enormous suitcase she had brought from the baggage claim area. He thought she had probably never traveled before. Miss Gladys put the shopping bags on the conveyor belt at the customs desk. There was a low, sudden murmur of machinery, and the belt leaped forward, carrying the bags. The customs man smiled at the surprise on Miss Gladys’ face.

  “Okay, let’s see, what have we got here?” he grinned, and looked inside one of the shopping bags.

  “Is just some little presents I bringing for me daughter children, sir.” She said this politely, covering her resentment at the invasion of her privacy.

  “And what’s in here?” He had moved to the other shopping bag, the one with the food in it.

  “Just some food I cook up for me daughter, sir. She can’t buy it here, so I did bring it for her. Is long time now she don’t eat none.”

  He took the roast breadfruit out of the bag, and unwrapped it. It was a big, black, charred thing the size of a bowling ball, and it left soot all over his hands. Obviously cooked, no problem there. He examined the pot of ackee and saltfish, and saw that that was cooked. The same procedure for the curried goat, the rum punch (which he did not open), the escoveitch fish. He took one whiff of the fish and his eyes started to water. He saw in the bottom of the bag a little round bundle in a hand towel. He took it out.

  Miss Gladys was furious. Her jaw was set, but she spoke politely when he asked her what it was.

  “Nothing, sir.” He frowned and unwrapped the mango. The smell hit the air, and lust suddenly shone in the eyes of the customs man.

  “You know that it is not permitted to bring fresh fruit into the United States?”

  “No, I never know, sir. Is just the one so-so mango I did was bringing for me married daughter, four year now I don’t see her. You going to take it weh from me, sir?”

  “I’m sorry, but we will have to confiscate this.” He caressed the mango.

  Miss Gladys’ eyes grew moist, and her lower lip trembled. “All right, sir, I beg you just to please let me hold it one time. Just for me daughter, sir?”

  The man handed it to her reluctantly. “It’s not really allowed, but . . .”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Miss Gladys had sunk her teeth into the top of the mango. The smell rose when the golden meat of the mango was exposed. Miss Gladys peeled the skin off in strips with her teeth. It came off smoothly, and she held the strips in her hand. She bit into the firm meat and juice poured down her chin, but she couldn’t stop now to clean it up. The juice ran down her arm and dripped to the floor where her elbow was bent. Miss Gladys ate that mango with a vengeance. She ate it for love of Annetta, she ate it for hatred of the greedy little man watching her. She saw her young son Errol up in the mango tree, climbing down, handing her the mango, smiling at her over the mango. The juice was everywhere; on her nose, her cheeks, her chin, the front of her dress, her arm. It shined up in little golden drops on the floor. And the smell spoke for all the enjoyment that was in it. When Miss Gladys was finished, there was no juice left on the mango; the seed was white. She handed the skin and the big, flat seed to the customs man, and with her clean hand reached into the sleeve of her dress and pulled out a dainty handkerchief. She mopped her face delicately, and moistened one corner of the handkerchief in her mouth and rubbed at the spots on the front of her dress. She wiped her arm and her hand, and called a porter. She packed the other food carefully in the shopping bag, and made the porter carry the suitcase and the bag from the crafts market. She could see Annetta waiting worriedly at the exit to the customs area. She walked towards her, and then turned and spoke to the customs man, loudly, for everyone to hear.

  “You wicked brute, you. You think I never know sey dat did want eat it you’self. Eh? You think I never know when you damn ol’ eye dem was a shine like when mawga dag deh in a butcher shop? If it wasn’t das me married daughter was here me woulda dis tun round same time go home a mi yard. Damn likkle red boy like you, though.”

  Miss Gladys turned and proudly took the arm of her married daughter.

  SOURCE: Originally published in Spectrum, Volume 21. University of California, Santa Barbara, 1979.

  FLIGHT CONTROL (1981)

  Jervey Tervalon

  Raised in South Central Los Angeles, Tervalon (born in 1958) is a novelist and essayist who earned his master’s degree in creative writing from the University of California, Irvine. He teaches literature and writing at various colleges.

  “SO WHEN YOU think she’ll be getting back?” Frank asked Garvy.

  “Sometime tonight. It’ll be too late for me to see her tonight, but first thing tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re getting over all that broken-hearted crap.”

  “Yeah, I’m happy, Frank, that you’re happy for me.” Garvy turned away from Frank and waved at Ronnie.

  “Say, Ron, why don’t you hand me one of those beers?”

  Ronnie, lying comfortably on the thick grass of Garvy’s front yard, wasn’t going to hop up and hand Garvy a beer. It took a real effort for him to unclasp his hands that were pillowing his head and point towards the beer.

  “Get it yourself, big boy.”

  Garvy stood up, muttering about doggish partners, and reached for a beer. He grabbed one and sat down again on the porch step.

  “Why don’t you go with her mama and meet Debra at the airport?” Frank said to Garvy.

  “You know how families are. Her mama ain’t gonna want me standing around when Debra and her are hugging.”

  Frank nodded his agreement. Garvy leaned back on the steps and rested his beer on his stomach.

  “Have you seen Cindy today? Is she going to pick Debra up too?” Garvy asked Frank.

  “No, I haven’t seen Cindy in a while.”

  “You two get in a fight?”

  “No, I’ve just been playing too much chess to see her.”

  Frank stood up and bounced his basketball a couple of times. Then he practiced his jump-shot until he got tired.

  “You know, these last couple of days went by so slow. You know how it is when your lady raises up on you,” Garvy said to nobody in particular.

  Ronnie nodded to be polite, but Frank sat down and looked at Garvy like he was observing a patient.

  “Damn, man, she’s only been gone a week and a couple of days and you been bitching since day one. You must be in love for days.”

  “Yeah, I am. But you wouldn’t understand none of that. You see, when you’re away from the person that you’re sharing your love with, it’s just like missing an arm or something, and unless you’re on the inside, you wouldn’t understand,” Garvy said righteously.

  “Garvy, you’re tripping. You’re so in love, it’s hard to talk to you. If you’re gonna be that in love, you oughta keep it to yourself.”

  Garvy sat quietly a while and then started talking again.

  “Yeah, I bet sometime today her plane flies over my house.”

  “Well, her plane won’t be going over your house. She’s coming from back east. She’d be coming from that direction.” Frank pointed towards the mountains.

  “You don’t know, Frank.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Garvy looked down at Ronnie and noticed that he hadn’t moved for a while. Sleeping away, he thought. It was warm and not too smoggy, a pretty good day for sleeping on the lawn. He didn’t want to wake Ronnie, but he wanted to talk, and it was almost too much work talking to Frank. He must be in an evil mood, Garvy thought. So Garvy sat there quietly sipping his beer and staring at the planes that occasionally flew overhead. After the fifth plane, Garvy had to say something to somebody.

  “Yeah, I’
ll be glad when that plane comes in.”

  “How do you know it’s gonna come in?” Frank asked.

  “It’s supposed to! What kind of question is that?”

  “Suppose something happened?” Frank said.

  “Ain’t nothing gonna happen.”

  “Suppose it did?” Frank said.

  “You act like you want her plane to crash.”

  “I do.”

  Garvy was quiet for a long moment. He noticed that Ronnie was sitting up now, looking on with interest.

  “You mean you want her plane to crash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want her to die?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Frank said.

  Garvy was crying mad. He tried not to show it, but he was. He looked at Frank a long time and said, “If her plane crashes, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Ronnie was watching with his head on his knees, he was wondering about his friends.

  “What do you mean you’re gonna kill me. I can’t make her plane crash.”

  “But you want it to happen. If it does, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Frank smiled at Garvy, but Garvy didn’t smile back. After a while, Garvy went into his house and left them on the porch. They both knew he was upset. He never left them on the porch. He stayed outside till they left him or came into his house.

  Ronnie stood up to stretch. Frank was about to ring the doorbell.

  “Naw, Frank, leave Garvy alone. You two do some weird shit. And that was some of the weirdest shit I’ve seen in a while. I’ll call him up later and patch things up.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset him like that. I didn’t know he’d get that crazy. Shit, now he got me worrying about that plane crashing.”

  The next day Debra came by Garvy’s house. She brought him a cup with a whistle built into the handle and some words on the front saying “Whistle if you got to pee.” Garvy thought it didn’t make too much sense, but he liked it anyway. And he never had a cup he could scare his brother with by whistling it loud and sharp at the breakfast table. Garvy and Debra sat on his front porch in the good summer heat, passing the time lazily—Garvy admiring Debra’s skinny legs and Debra enjoying the attention that Garvy was paying her. After a while the heat got the better of them, so Garvy went into the house to get some lemonade. When he came out, Ronnie and Frank were on the porch. Debra was happy to see them and they were politely returning her affection. After they talked a while to Debra, Frank turned to Garvy.

  “Hey, I have something for you.” He pulled out of his back pocket a roll of comics and handed them to Garvy.

  Garvy took them and sat down next to Debra.

  “Thanks, Frank,” Garvy said.

  Frank turned to Debra. “You know, Deb, I’m happy you’re back.”

  Debra called to Ronnie, who was lying on the lawn again: “Ronnie, they’ve been at each other again?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think they can find nothing better to do.”

  SOURCE: Jervey Tervalon. Living for the City. San Diego: Incommunicado Press. 1998. Originally published in Spectrum, Volume 23, 1981.

  HOW TO FIGHT WITH YOUR WIFE (1996)

  Howard Kaplan

  Kaplan, born in 1953, in San Francisco, has written for the New York Times, the Daily News, The New Yorker, and Vanity Fair, but was best known as a columnist for the New York Press, especially for “The Howie Chronicles,” which were presented as “transcriptions” of the title-character’s weekly visits to his psychologist. This piece is from his later “How to Fight with Your Wife” column, a fictional diary of social and familial dilemmas.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 2

  I had a slight turn this morning. The two of us, Jean and I, were busy in the kitchen when I noticed a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the counter. I shot a nervous look at Jean. When had she poured herself the cereal and dipped in?

  She was moving about briskly. That was a relief. Was it possible this wasn’t the same cereal I thought it was?

  I glanced back at the counter. No, I was right, I knew what I was looking at. These were the same round kernels, small as buckshot, that I—without telling Jean—had shied away from trying after breaking open the box and finding the pouch unsealed. Not completely unsealed but still enough to make me hesitate. It doesn’t take much to put me on my guard. There were kernels in the pocket between the cardboard and pouch. That’s the kind of thing you shouldn’t have to see until later, until after you’ve helped yourself to at least the first serving. I closed up the box and put it back on the shelf. That was a full two weeks ago. I haven’t touched it since.

  It never crossed my mind that Jean might try the cereal. “Health cereal” and “soy milk,” written in my hand, are two items that appear week to week on our shopping list. If I haven’t jotted one or the other down, Jean will ask about it. I’m the only one who really uses these goods. And yet I like to leave Jean a certain latitude in shopping for me. It’s her decision which particular “health cereal” to get.

  This is how we came to have the box of Nutty Wheat. Did I murmur my approval when I saw what she had bought? I truly like the whole Nutty line, which Jean herself discovered. Nutty Wheat, Nutty Corn, Nutty Rice—I’ve tried them all.

  And yet perhaps I do overdo it just a little. I know Jean is looking to hear nice words from me. And not just about whichever “health cereal” she brings home to me, but also about the food shopping in general for that day. If I suggest not getting dried pears again soon, say, Jean gets offended by it, she feels I’m being critical. “Everything I buy,” she says, “I buy with you in mind.” Or maybe I’ll question why she chose a certain box of cookies. “You’re doing the shopping next week,” Jean will shoot back.

  What would she say if I told her straight out that I was leery of the Nutty Wheat cereal she had bought because I wasn’t quite comfortable with the pouch being partly open? Isn’t this too much? Wouldn’t she take it personally? Wouldn’t she threaten yet again not to do the shopping?

  I decided not to find out. I didn’t want to risk it. I put the box back undisturbed, and kept quiet about it.

  Perhaps one day, after a decent amount of time had passed, I might have eased the box out the door while Jean’s back was turned. It wouldn’t be the first time I pulled such a stunt. But only now am I putting it so clearly to myself. I didn’t really think it through before. I’d acted on impulse. I can’t even swear that I wouldn’t have had second thoughts and finally chanced putting down a spoonful or two. I knew in my heart that there was nothing wrong with the cereal.

  Still, it gave me a turn this morning to see it in that bowl of milk, to see it gotten into. I threw a quick glance at Jean. She looked quite normal. It was I, rather, for just a second, who didn’t look himself. I was suddenly in the position of a man who comes to the realization he might have just accidentally poisoned his wife. I’m not often in this predicament. Was this the first time in fact? The alarm I could have predicted, but not the degree of furtiveness. The furtiveness was there in equal measure to the alarm. And then shame at my furtiveness: I wasn’t going to warn her. Either everything was absolutely fine—as I was sure it was—or something really was the matter, in which case it was too late. In either case, it seemed to me best to keep quiet.

  Still, I was so ashamed I actually had half a mind to put a bowl of the cereal in my system right with her.

  But then I thought of Guy and Dora. I had to act responsibly. If something happened to both of us, who would watch over them?

  I felt very guilty. I imagined the box of cereal causing Jean’s death after all and the police coming by later to ask me a few questions.

  Of course, while making every effort to appear neutral, in reality they’d be working from the assumption that I’d killed her. We all start from that assumption. The husband probably did it.

  Given the world’s attitude, wouldn’t it look better if I didn’t mention my own prior doubts about the cereal? I could hear one of the detectives saying, “Excuse me, I’m sorry,
I don’t understand. You mean you actually put the box of cereal back inside the cabinet and didn’t bother telling your wife you thought it might have been tampered with?”

  My mind was made up. I wouldn’t say a word about opening up the box on my own and all the rest of it. I never touched the box. It was the only way to get me off the hook with these people.

  I suddenly stopped myself. What on earth was I thinking? When suspects are picked up, they often give stories out that the cops have no trouble at all shooting holes through. I get so annoyed with these suspects I read about. Don’t they realize it’s just a matter of time before the cops trip them up in their futile little deceits? In their place, I tell myself, I’d come clean right away.

  But look what I was doing now! I was falling into the same trap! How was my thinking any different from a criminal’s?

  I vowed then and there I’d tell the cops everything.

  SOURCE: New York Press. June 19, 1996.

  CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE (2012)

  Simon Rich

  Born and raised in New York City, Rich (b. 1984) went to Harvard and became editor of the Harvard Lampoon. He has published two collections of humor pieces, two novels, and a book of short stories since graduating in 2007.

  ON THE FIRST day, God created the heavens and the earth.

  “Let there be light,” He said, and there was light. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening—the first night.

  On the second day, God separated the oceans from the sky. “Let there be a horizon,” He said. And lo: a horizon appeared and God saw that it was good. And there was evening—the second night.

  On the third day, God’s girlfriend came over and said that He’d been acting distant lately.

  “I’m sorry,” God said. “Things have been crazy this week at work.”

  He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. And God saw that it was not good.

  “I never see you,” she said.

  “That’s not true,” God said. “We went to the movies just last week.”

  And she said, “Lo. That was last month.”