^ Not my book, but I like the cover, and if Mark V. is half as talented as his dad Kurt, I'd imagine this is a worthwhile read.
"Nestled with Kooks" and "Love and Dread in Chicago" will comprise the last two chapters of Plan-B Stories, which will be (loosely) formatted like a newspaper. In contrast to the Top Stories, these are the Bottom Stories (which won't be on the blog for very long 'cause I gotta try to make some money and advance my career from book sales). ^
If nothing else, I was fortunate to have been granted some spare time to read. Circumstances allowed me to neglect confounding books on Cinematography and lifeless books on Literary Theory in favor of a hefty collection of short stories. The stories were written by an author best-known for his children's books, but this collection was for adults. I'd been brought to a place where grownups had no use for the farce found in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Then
the snoring started. The din came from a drunk with mental problems
who laid on a bed cocooned in blankets at the far end of the room. My
back was turned to him in a futile denial of his existence when I
looked up. I noticed an anomaly on the egg white walls, a curious
smear of bright crimson, as though the wall too was embarrassed to be
inside of a psych ward.
My
unwanted roommate had staggered into room 13 not long ago. He didn't
notice me as he plopped onto his cot and hastily formed his cocoon.
Then he was out. Now he was bellowing a snore that would pry my eyes
open indefinitely. The drunk made strange and heinous noises, aural
blends of lawn mowers and Whoopee cushions. Every nasal breath
climaxed with a gurgling of saliva reminiscent a coffee maker.
I
groaned as I peeled off layers of blankets and stepped out of bed. A
rectangle of light guided me to the commons area. I walked past a
skeletal weeping woman sitting at one of the tables. Wadded tissues
were strewn before her—seemingly one for every painful memory she
had. There was a mostly full box of Kleenex at the center of the
crumpled satellites and I didn't want to know what she had stored in
her mind. I sought the nurse at the front desk.
“Hi,”
I said. “Can I make a phone call?”
The
nurse turned away from her computer screen, revealing a kind but
careworn face. The tribulations of the moment determined which of the
two features would prevail, for her patience and her compassion were
fated to duel for all of eternity. She was a lot like every other
nurse in that regard.
“It's
almost one,” she said, gesturing to the clock.
I
fidgeted momentarily and scratched my chin stubble.
“Yeah,
but this friend I want to call... He's a night owl. Like me.”
The
nurse rolled her glowing amber eyes.
“He'll
be up. Trust me,” I said.
She
wordlessly placed the phone atop the counter.
“Thank
you.”
“You
are to be on that phone no longer than five minutes,” she said.
My
friend was really more of a disgruntled acquaintance from college. He
had reluctantly agreed to be my partner for our final project in
Cinematography class. I knew nothing about Cinematography and I still
don't. He was disgruntled because I wasn't fulfilling my end of the
partnership due to personal problems. He had problems of his own and
still does, I'd imagine—only he's the type with a knack for
avoiding the psych ward.
We
share the same first name, so when he answered on the second ring,
our conversation became like an absurdist psychodrama.
“Nick!”
I said. “Man, I'm sorry to tell you this—and this is seriously
not a sick prank—but I'm in a mental hospital right now, so
you might have to do that final project with the lenses and the
filters and whatnot without me. Again...I'm so sorry, Nick.”
There
was a long pause. I got the nurse's attention and nodded triumphantly
while I pointed at the receiver to indicate that I was right. She was
not amused or interested.
“Are
you OK, Nick?” the voice said at last.
“Not
really. I'll level with you: There were some dark and depressing
things I said and did recently. But if you could let Professor
Porter know about the situation, I'd really appreciate it, Nick.”
“Jesus,
Nick...”
I
imagined him yanking a handful of his Lego-man hair and
scraping his fingernails against his beard while I grated my scruff.
Though I couldn't commit to a beard, or life or death, both Nicks had
that scraping and grating of facial hair in common.
“I
will be the messenger,” he went on, “But school is probably not
the main thing you need to concern yourself with, OK? You have to get
well, and if you're where you feel like you need to be right now,
it's good that you checked yourself in, Nick.”
“Ooh,”
I countered. “Technically, I didn't check myself in, mind you...
But thanks for trying to be cool about this—uh—misfortune, Nick.”
“Look,”
he said with a sigh. “Don't worry about school. Try not to worry,
Nick.”
“That's
good advice,” I said with a shrug. “All right, I'll probably see
you later, Nick.”
“Goodbye,
Nick,” Nick said.
I
hung up. Another nurse had approached the one behind the counter.
“It's
Karen,” the other nurse said ruefully. “She's been handling her
own crap in the toilet again.”
A
text-book case of Turd-grope-engitis, I surmised.
“You've
got to be kidding me,” her colleague replied.
Nurses
say that all the time.
They
vented their dismay while I stood there. Then the nurses resumed
their professional train of thought.
“If
she does that again, we'll have to put her in restraints.”
“Agreed.
She's too much of a sanitation risk, otherwise.”
“Excuse
me,” I hazarded. “There's a guy in my room and he's snoring—I
mean, really loudly.”
“We
can hear that,” the seated nurse said.
“Yeah...
So, do you have something to help with that?”
She
tugged open a drawer, reached inside, and slapped a tiny package of
cheap earplugs onto the counter. I was hoping she'd give me a loaded
revolver. I nodded somberly and headed drearily back to room 13.
Between curtains of oily blond hair, the woman with tissues to match
her memories wept.
Doodoo-fondle-itis?
I thought, still pondering Karen's ailment. No. Turd-grope-engitis
is better.
My
slender frame battled against my roommate's breathy sonic booms and I
crawled into bed. With tremulous hands, I opened the tiny package.
The earplugs alleviated nothing.
...
More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.
