Nestled with Kooks

^ 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.