Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set

by Scott Nicholson

  “Canary yellow,” I said to the empty store. “Good piece of detail. Roman's slicker will be canary yellow instead of just plain yellow.”

  I searched my memory to see if I could dredge any more fictional sludge out of the fleeting vision. He had been Roman's height, and he had a jot of black hair. Not the dark brown that most people call black. This was shoe-polish black. But I could steal no other features from him, because I had only seen him from behind.

  Arriving home after work, I started warming up dinner and went into the study. I turned on the word processor and began spewing words, with my tongue pressed lightly between my teeth the way it does when I'm onto something and I forgot where I am, when I get sucked into a world that is trying to create itself before my eyes.

  “Business is my pleasure,” he said, his voice a clearinghouse for phlegm and bitterness. I hadn't heard that corny line in a few months, but I wasn't about to bring up his lack of originality.

  I looked into the pits of his eyes. His pupils were as dark as his shoe-polish black hair, and they were ringed by an unusual reddish-gold color. Our eyes met for only a second, and mine went back down to the bar.

  In that instant, I had seen plenty. Pain. Anger. And unless I'm a bad judge of character, which I'm not, a touch of crazy as well.

  “Odd place to do business,” I said, with practiced carelessness.

  “I'm looking for somebody.” His voice was grave-dirt.

  “Ain't we all?”

  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly his hand was on the bar, palm-down. The back of his hand was a roadmap of blue veins, lined with tiny creases, and wiry black hairs stuck out in all directions. But what really caught my eye was the fifty-dollar bill underneath.

  “Bartenders see things, know things,” he muttered under his breath.

  It was an occupational hazard, all right. I saw lots of things and knew things I wouldn't tell for twenty times that amount. But a fifty didn't walk in every day, and a G-note never did. I nodded my head slightly, to let him know I understood.

  His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

  I smelled something. Smoke. I ran out to rescue the pot roast and was just sliding its black carcass out of the oven when my wife and daughter walked in.

  “Order out for pizza?” I asked in greeting.

  We ate the pizza, then I plowed ahead with the story. After a couple of pages, I was fighting for words, torturing myself through painful paragraphs, dangling from the cliff-edge of plot resolution like a sixth-grader's participle. What do I do with these people? I needed some fresh ideas.

  After work the next day, I stopped down at Rocco's Place. Rocco was a short, paunchy Italian who was born into bartending. He wasn't a close friend, but I figured he was fair game as a model for my story. Marco. Rocco. Close, but he'd never know the difference. He probably dangled from the cliff-edge of literacy by a thin rope anyway.

  His bar was much cleaner than the one in the story, but this place was too sterile to make good fiction. Readers wanted fantasy, not reality. They got plenty of reality. They got plenty of hard-backed chairs and plastic potted plants, scores of vapid muzak melodies piped through polyester speaker grills. I sat in one of the hard-backed chairs and ordered a beer.

  “You that writer fella?” Rocco set a frothy brew in front of my face.

  I was surprised. I didn't make a habit of telling people I was a “writer.” I didn't wear tweed jackets with leather elbow patches or chew thoughtfully on a thick maple pipe. I might be crazy for trying to write, but I wasn't insane enough to advertise. But it was also nice to have my humble accomplishments recognized.

  “I've published a little,” I said, trying not to swell.

  He wasn't looking at me anyway. He was wiping down the bar that was already so shiny customers were afraid to set down their drinks.

  “Fella was in looking for you.”

  I stopped in mid-hoist, sloshing a little sticky liquid on my cuff. Who would look for me in a bar? I wasn't Hemingway. I could barely afford this beer, much less becoming one of Rocco's house fixtures.

  “Big guy. Kinda mean-lookin'.”

  I laughed. “Let me guess. He thinks I'm messing with his wife, right?”

  “Some people don't think it's funny. Especially certain husbands.” His words were clipped and he kept his eyes down. “You're an okay guy. Don't spend a fortune, but ya never cause trouble. Been known to tip.”

  I was wondering if he was waiting for me to grease his palm, perhaps with my measly pocket change. But he continued.

  “I know it's none of my business. But I thought I'd give you some advice, friend to friend. Keep an eye out for him. He's the dangerous type. Seen 'em before.” He nodded to the perfect round bullet hole that was the only blemish in the clean silver glass of the bar mirror.

  I played along. “What did he look like?”

  “Beefy guy, black hair, black like licorice kinda. Weird eyes, a color you hardly ever see. And he was wearing a big yella raincoat, and we ain't had rain for a week.”

  Karen must have put him up to this. She must have read my work-in-progress and planned this little joke. Surely she didn't think it was me that was having the affair?

  I paid Rocco and left him to wipe up the ring my half-empty mug had made. I ran the three blocks home and went into the study to re-read what I had written last night. Sweat was pooling under my arms and my scalp was tingling, the way they always did when I was lost in an unfolding plot, only this time my intestines were unfolding along with it.

  His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

  I was staring at that fist, that big hunk of ham that looked like it could smash a city bus. I waited for it to relax, for the little muscles to stop twitching. When it was back in his pocket, leaving the bill, he said, “Wimpy little smart-assed writer type. Shifty-eyed know-it-all, been in here with a tall blonde. You woulda noticed her. Green eyes. Legs all the way down to the floor.”

  I had noticed, all right. Some hoity-toity wiseacre getting a looker like that, and us lonely bartenders paying through the nose for our company.

  “What of 'em?”

  “The fifty's for you. A fringe benefit of knowing things. And it's got a twin here in my pocket.”

  “Knowin' is cheap, but sayin' ain't.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a greasy smile slip across his face.

  “Double or nothing, then. The double's for forgetting you ever saw me.”

  “Saw who?”

  He laid another three fifties down on the bar. I eyed the joint in the mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then I swept the money away with my towel and had it in my pocket, where it would stay until I caught up with Leanna tonight.

  “Lives three blocks down. Number 216 East.”

  He stood up, making an awfully big shadow on the scum-stained bar. Then the shadow, and the man in the yellow slicker, were gone. I felt sorry for that weeny little guy. Any minute now, he was gonna hear a knocking on his door—

  The words danced in golden orange on the black screen of the word processor. Bad writing. A little too much Spillane and Chandler . The story had gotten away. Time to dive in, chop out its heart. Where to begin? Better finish reading it first.

  A pounding on the door interrupted my thoughts.

  —knocking on his door, then he's going to hear a yell, a crazy voice of phlegm and bitterness—

  The crazy voice that was outside the apartment door, yelling “Hey, scumbag, open up or I'll bust the door down”; yelling “I'll make you pay for all the misery you caused”; yelling “Nobody's going to mess around with my wife, especially some snot-nosed fancy boy like you.”

  —kicking at the door with those big heavy boots, reaching inside that canary yellow slicker, grabbing a fistful of cold gat—

  And the boots were on my door, making the hinges groan under the splintery strain.

  —busting through and st
anding over the poor little loser, who's lookin' up at his killer, beggin' , pleadin', offerin' up money he ain't got and prayin' to a God he don't believe in—

  And the man in the yellow slicker is standing at the study door, holding a gun, his reddish-gold eyes blazing with insane hatred. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. It's like a Stephen King story gone south, without the plot twists. Writer's character becomes real and comes to get him. It's been done too many times. Too trite even for me.

  But the smell of metal and tension is too real, and the door is hanging like a wino from a boxcar.

  —and he's sittin' at his little writing desk with his wimpy finger over the “delete” button, all he's got to do is press it and the man will go away. But he can't bring himself to do it. His work is too precious, too IMPORTANT to wipe out.

  I take two hot slugs to the head, feel my brains begin their awkward eternal journey to the study wall. In its last moment of awareness, the ruined cerebellum searches frantically for a tidy ending, some way to bring the plot to completion, only it's much too far gone, much too hopeless, and the curtain of darkness...no, the veil of shadows...no, the wall of nothingness descends...

  When Sil came home from work, he found Karen sitting in the study, staring at the word processor. The screen was full, and her face was orange in its glow. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  “Oh, just messing around.”

  “Working on something?”

  “I figured since everybody else was playing 'writer,' I might as well try my hand at it. Put myself in your shoes, to coin another cliché. Walk a mile in your gloves. But it's a lot harder than I thought. I believe I'd better take Faulkner's advice and kill my darlings.”

  She was reaching out to press the “delete” button when Sil caught her wrist. “Don't I get to read it first?”

  “Well, if you really want to. But promise not to make fun of me.”

  “After some of the garbage I've written?”

  Karen got up and let Sil take the chair. She said, “At least one good thing came out of this. Now I understand how you get so caught up in this stuff. You writers are nuts.”

  “That's we writers, dear.” Sil laughed. He loved her. He began reading.

  I was wiping down the bar with an old shirt rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him without looking up...

  THE END

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  ###

  MAKING ENDS MEET

  By Simon Wood

  “Have them live here? No way,” Richard said shaking his head.

  The request wasn’t exactly a revelation. The writing had been on the wall for at least a year. The intervals between tear-sodden appeals for cash had become shorter and shorter, and the sums had gotten larger and larger. At first, it was the odd fifty or sixty bucks now and then. But recently, it was a regular three hundred every month. Michelle’s parents promised to pay it back and Michelle covered for them. But he wasn’t a fool. Ted and Eleanor weren’t generating the kind of income to pay back their loans. They lived in a financial minefield of their own creation and this time they’d stepped on all the mines at once--taking out more than just themselves.

  It was so unfair. After five years of marriage, he and Michelle had just gotten themselves straight. The mortgage payments were manageable at last. The credit cards and student loans were paid off. The new Honda had been bought with cash. They’d limped along for years with the old Corolla while they’d saved because they didn’t want another loan on their credit report. All this had been achieved through careful money management and sacrifice. He was so proud. They’d come so far. They were just starting to live the life they’d promised themselves when they got engaged.

  That was what made his in-laws’ screw-ups so much more galling. Twice Richard’s age, Ted and Eleanor treated money with the mentality of teenagers. Only a couple of years from retirement, they had nothing to show for their lives. Their crummy, two-bedroom hovel was rented. The car was leased. Pensions and life insurance had been cashed in years ago. Retirement wasn’t an option for either of them. They would have to work until they died.

  Damn the American dream, Richard thought. That was the cause of Ted and Eleanor’s monetary nightmares. They had to show everyone they were keeping up with the Joneses. They’d spent a lifetime trying to project the superficial image that they were at top of their game, except their lifestyle was built on credit.

  He was thankful Ted and Eleanor hadn’t passed on their trait to Michelle, although there had been problems when they’d gotten married. She’d run up a string of college loans because her parents were unable to support her. Only that January had he and Michelle cleared the last of her college debts. But the nail in her credit report’s coffin was the credit card she’d underwritten for her parents when no self-respecting bank would issue them one. They’d maxed it out in months, with the promise they would pay it off. They never had.

  “They are going to be evicted in two weeks. Do you want them to live on the streets?” Michelle demanded, close to tears.

  “They’re adults. It’s not my problem, is it?”

  “Richard!”

  He snorted, getting up from the kitchen table. It wasn’t like she disagreed with him. She hated what her parents had put her through. But none of that counted when parental guilt was in full effect. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

  “You really want them to live here?”

  “We don’t have a choice. Why don’t you want them here?”

  “Because this is our home--yours and mine--and no one else’s. They may be your parents but they’re still strangers to me. I would never feel comfortable with them here. I would feel like I would have to be on my best behavior. I would never be myself.” He sighed. “You realize that our sex life would be over.”

  Michelle frowned. “Oh, Richard.”

  “It would be, you know. I couldn’t make love with them in the next room.”

  “Is that all you’re worried about?”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s just one thing. I don’t want to be paying for a home that your parents will be getting more out of than I will.”

  “Don’t you mean we? The house we’re paying for… My parents getting more out of it than we will…”

  Richard snorted again. “See? They’re not even here and they’re making our life a misery.”

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  “Tell your dad to get off his butt and get a job.” Richard couldn’t believe how old that comment made him sound.

  “He’s got a job.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a doozie.”

  Michelle’s dad hadn’t worked for years since he was “laid off.” He’d actually been canned for some stunt that never made the light of day. Ever since, he’d sunk thousands into late night TV get-rich schemes that had only gone to make someone else rich. Richard shuddered to think what the latest flash in the pan was.

  “I bet you’d be singing a different tune if this was your parents. They don’t have jobs.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighed. “It’s not an issue, is it? My parents are retired now. They have good pensions. Money isn’t a problem for them.”

  “What if their pensions dried up?”

  “They wouldn’t.” Richard paused. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “Okay, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t want them living with us.” Razor-edge bitterness barbed Michelle’s words. “We have other options.”

  “Like what?”

  “We can pay their rent?”

  “What?” Richard was incredulous. “And pay their back rent, I suppose?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, you can think again.”

  “Okay, we buy a second home.”

  Richard was laughing. “No way.”

  “It’ll be an inve
stment.”

  Some investment, he thought. His in-laws wouldn’t treat their investment with any respect. Besides being a liability with money, they lived like slobs. Every house they’d rented ended up looking like a war zone. They never once had a security deposit returned by a landlord.

  “And how do you suggest we finance this twilight home for your parents?” he asked.

  “We can use the equity we’ve built in this home and take out a second mortgage.”

  “A second mortgage! Are you crazy? We’ve slogged our guts to get rid of that second mortgage and you want to put us back into that hole? I’m sorry, no.”

  “Richard, my parents will be on streets unless we come through for them.” Michelle started sobbing.

  Richard plopped down in the chair next to Michelle and slipped an arm around her shoulders. He squeezed her to him. “Let me take a look at the situation and work through the figures.”

  Michelle threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Richard. I love you so much. I knew you’d make it work.”

  Richard spent the rest of the evening with a legal pad and calculator working through the various Ted and Eleanor rescue packages. Letting them move in was the cheapest option. He could see it was going to cost them a few hundred a month. Underwriting their rent was pricey. He was looking at dropping at least a grand a month to keep them housed. Buying a second home was the option he liked most, because there was some return on their sacrifice. But it would stretch their finances to the limit. They could say goodbye to the Hawaiian vacation they’d promised each other. In fact, they could kiss goodbye any luxuries for the next decade. Michelle wandered into the kitchen.