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My Writing… – Page 4 – Instant Sean

Instant Sean

Category: My Writing…

  • “I’m gonna hand the homeless guy a dollar and tell him to buy himself a vowel.”

    From Radio to homeless to ???

    The board table was filled with some of the tops in the community, “No-hair Harry”, “Windshield Wally”, and of course “BP Bob”.  It was the monthly meeting held under the freeway in the part of town where no one drove.  You got off on the access road at your own risk and the junkies and dealers were peddling their wares to whoever would listen.

    “Now look guys, it’s time for quality review time,” said No-hair Harry.

    “Aren’t you going to open the meeting in a civilized way Harry,” BP Bob interrupted. “we aren’t all neanderthals, we’re just homeless.”

    “Fine, I call to order this meeting of the International Brotherhood of Homeless, Hobos and Street Performers Chapter 806,” Harry said with a smile.

    “Move to waive the reading of the minutes,” No-teeth Natalie tried to say but it came out where noone could really understand her.  She just needed to feel like she had a purpose in life.

    “Ok, let’s move on. Now let’s see everyone’s signs,” Windshield Wally said as he held his own up (Will wash your windshield for $5 or best offer).

    All around the broken table that was held up with two shopping carts the members held up their signs one by one.

    (Will Work For Food) – said White Trash Sally’s. “Good,” everyone said.

    One nut Neil held up his sign and everyone started to laugh.

    “What, what’s wrong? What did I do this time,” he said as he turned his sign around to look at it. “I changed it from the last one. I wasn’t getting any money and mostly got middle fingers with (Will have sex for food).”

    “Now, look Neil, we’re homeless not illiterate,” Airhead Angela said.

    “Yeah, I like the words but do you want the people that look at your sign say “I’m gonna hand the homeless guy a dollar and tell him to buy himself a vowel,” BP Bob laughed”

    One Nut Neil looked at his sign. All it said was (I used to be an accountant plese help me with a dollar).

    “What?”

    “Would you like an A Vanna,” BP Bob said?

    Neil jumped up and crossed pushing Soup kitchen Sandra to the ground as he tried to get to Bob, “Just because you screwed up the Gulf doesn’t mean I’ll feel any pity for you as I start kicking your ass up and down the hood Bob.”

    As he got closer and closer to Bob the Peacemaker got between the two of them holding up a glass filled with what could best be described as prison punch.

    “Why don’t you two just have a drink and relax,” he said and pushed the glass in Neil’s face.

    Neil took a sip and started to gag, “this is worse than the last batch you made up, what did you put in it, lighter fluid?”

    “Actually a tablespoon of battery acid for that extra pick me up,” Peacemaker said as everyone gathered around for their taste of the kidney killing nectar.

    Sandra interrupted with a “remember that the south side soup kitchen has bran muffins this week!” This was greeted with cheers!

    “Everyone remember the cops will looking in the north side this week so lets keep our activities to the east and south until the heat cools down and remember, we have our standards, don’t be like Big Voice Ted and try to go big time,” No-hair Harry said.

    “Yeah. he doesn’t even remember I gave him that piece of cardboard.  He owes me 14.85% of his future earnings.” One Nut Neil said.

    “I hope people remember that this could happen to them if things don’t change soon,” Bad beard Barry said as the meeting broke up.

    “Well, more homeless could mean more membership dues, and just think of the strike fund that we can have,” said Tranny Taglibue.

    As one by one they left for their assigned areas One Nut Neil was scratching out his new masterpiece.

    (Bet ya can’t hit me with a quarter)

    “That’ll do it!  I’ll be eating at the dollar menu by lunch today.”

  • She’s domestically camoed

    Keegan played the guitar and wailed Bob Dylan while the winos drank their wine. No matter how hard he tried to involve the audience they weren’t buying what he was selling.

    “Play some death metal,” one wino said with the paper bag wrapped around the two buck chuck he brought into the small open aired amphitheatre. The breeze blew lightly as the men started their shark like gathering near the bar waiting for the women like chum.

    With a sigh, Keegan reminded the wino, that like the thirteen other times that it was requested that his repertoire did not include Slipknot, Freebird or any other of the inane requests that he was getting. It wasn’t his usual place to play on a Friday night. He just needed to let the guitar strings play a melody or two with someone that would listen. Normally, his apartment, a rough one bedroom studio that he rented after his rented house burned to the ground due to a rat chewing through the electrical lines, would have been the place to release his demons.

    But today, his demons needed to be fed.  They needed to be given praise, hatred, just some kind of emotion that would keep him going.  Playing didn’t pay the bills anymore, ever since the selective cover charge that in the end seemed to be less and less even though more and more people showed up.  He knew that the alarm would fire early and he would be off once again driving the bus with the snot nosed brats that always “knew him from somewhere” but could never pull it together since they always left the bar with their inhibitions gone, drunk beyond recognition of the guitar player on stage with their panties in their dates pocket.

    He looked into the crowd for the one person who got him, there was always one that he converted to the church of music every show, and if he couldn’t find them, he felt like he had to put the guitar up for good.

    Tonight might be the night.

    Then she walked into the door, being dragged by four sorority sisters, the one that was brought along to make the others look smaller. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t pretty, she had beautiful blue eyes and her smile made the room light up.

    Keegan took the moment to switch from Clapton to Stevie Ray Vaughn soulfully pulling each string as the young women ordered sangria. He tried with each chord to touch their hearts but of the five women eighty percent of them were filled with hopes and dreams of completing the MRS degree.

    As sangria turned into two, the men started their approach, one by one until she was left.

    “I can’t believe it… Her blouse blends in with the couch. She’s domestically camoed,” said one of the sisters to the other as they walked out of the amphitheatre new acquisitions in hand ready to dance the night away. It didn’t matter as Keegan held her with his voice.

    The so called friends, who had decided to leave her with “the musician”, as if he had a contagious disease, didn’t know but five years later would find out that he would write many songs, to the one , who others looked past, while he saw into her heart. He called her his love, companion, muse, and lover.

    She preferred if he’d just call her by her name.

  • Happy Mother’s Day from the Hill…

    Peace in the country

    Mother’s Day 2010

    As yet another day starts in the Hill Country I sat on the porch watching the mist start to come over the trees to the east. The smells of coffee and cholesterol wafted in from the kitchen.

    “You want any,” my wife asked?

    “Nah, I’m plenty good enough just watching the dogs run chasing the shadows in the forest.”

    “I’m starting to burn the bacon,” she said as she closed the window to keep the burning smell inside.

    (Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppp) sounded the smoke alarm as I walked into the house into a smoke filled kitchen.

    “You need help dear?”

    “Nah, just trying to make it crispy.”

    “There’s a shock. You think the smoke alarm is going to wake the neighbors?”

    “Nah, they are along the banks fishing this morning.”

    “Happy Mother’s Day darling”

    “Yup, it’s Mother’s Day”

    The door started to get scratched up and I wandered over, taking a sip of my coffee as I opened the door to let the two most ferocious dauschounds who barked and whined until I reached down and petted them.

    “Don’t be given them any treats,” my wife said as I was reaching them down to hand them both a piece of bacon.

    “I’ve got no idea what you are talking about,” as one of the dogs trotted by with a piece of meat in his mouth.

    Her glare spoke volumes and I just reached down to open the paper trying to find people I didn’t like in the obituaries. Seeing none and not caring about the sports scores, I closed it and headed outside to enjoy yet another peaceful day before it got hot.

    Nothing worse, than heat and humidity in the Hill Country.

    I should call mom and tell her Happy Mother’s Day.

    I think she knows…

    Happy Mother’s Day Mom I thought as I relax on the porch until the sun goes down.

  • Revenge

    This is the beginning of a long geeky story. Deal with it!

    Now to tell you this now it seems almost foreshadowing my career but just sit back and enjoy this tale anyways…

    In a Strat-O-Matic game, each athlete is represented by a player card, on which are printed various ratings and result tables for dice rolls. A player, who may play solitaire or against another player, is in charge of making strategic and personnel decisions for his/her team, while determining the results of his/her decisions by cross-referencing dice rolls with a system of printed charts and tables.

    The year was 1987 and I was a seventeen year old boy struggling in Fairview Park, Ohio.  My best friend Shawn McCormick and I would go to the comic shop over the summer and try to read as many comics as we could before the owner Jack would force us to “get a drawer” or in my case a folder of new comics that we would intend to buy.

    I wouldn’t spend as much as Shawn would as my money went to my college fund. (Okay, stop laughing, but that first year at Adelphi was a pain in the butt).

    Well, one summer a Strat-O-Matic league was started and we both played in it.  We paid for a chance to win money and somehow I ended up with the WORST two teams in the league, the New York Mets and either the Toronto Blue Jays or the Texas Rangers, I can’t remember.

    I lost consistently over the year and would try and psych my opponents out by popping up a tape deck and introducing the players with musical backup for each player.

    Yes, I know that I was such a geek, just shut up and listen.

    So all during this time Jack would always refer to me with a Yiddish term. Not knowing this term , wanting to be accepted I just let it go on.

    It wasn’t until I looked in the library to find out what the term was that I got mad.

    Yup, derogatory is a slight understatement to the word that he nicknamed me, as I was pissed.

    I stopped playing Gauntlet ,buying my comics and baseball cards there.

    I just disappeared.  I was pissed off, and mad at the way Jack treated me and he lost my business forever.

    When I was in New York , my mom called me from Cleveland and asked me about some rude guy from a comic shop who was asking for his Strat-o-matic baseball cards back so he could complete his collection.

    I told her that he was a jerk but if she could find them, she could give them back to him.

    I told her where I thought they were and she returned sheepishly later telling me that she had thrown that box away since she thought it was junk.

    So Jack never got his cards back. His precious collection was missing two of the worst teams in baseball and I was out the money for the league. But it didn’t matter to me.

    The whole reason I brought this up is that I saw the game the other day and it brought a memory to mind how I was so mad to be called what I was called and yet I didn’t get Jack back.

    And for the record the statute of limitations is over.

    I don’t feel guilty, I feel lucky because I didn’t have to stoop to his level to get him back.

    My mom did for me.

    Thanks Mom.

  • Jumping (Fiction)

    Scotty liked the way he felt when he was in the air.  There was nothing than can defeat him when he was on his bike.  He did most of his thinking while flying in the air.  Most people concentrated or focused on the landing, or the technique.  Scotty just focused on the freedom.

    “Why do I jump? Because there is something that I can touch that no one else can.  I can feel the sky as I jump every time.  I hate the concept of the ground, but I’ve got to touch the sky every now and then.  Jim can fly his jets till he turns blue in the face, but he never touches the sky.”

    I could never jump a bike, my fear of heights would capture my desire to touch the sky.

    But there was that one day…

    I was 11 and had the greatest BMX bike ever (Okay maybe it wasn’t the greatest, but it was mine) , a solid red Schwinn that my Uncle Al gave to me.  And I know I wasn’t Evil Knievel because instead of jumping Snake River, or a Las Vegas monument, I was just jumping the ramp that my brother and I had put across a small stream.

    We put the ramp where we could ride as fast as we could down the two blocks of street , making the small turn down the dirt road and then down the small hill to the ramp.

    It was the last day of summer and I hadn’t landed the jump yet.

    I had tried every day that summer and whether I was short, or didn’t even make the ramp, I just wanted to make this jump before school started.  Everyone in the 5th grade knew I was going to try the jump and I had the pressure of trying to make it or be known as a failure for the entire year.

    So my best friend Scotty was there and told me “no matter what happens, just do your best and don’t forget to touch the sky.”

    So I put on my best Dungarees and my favorite t-shirt on and headed down the three blocks to the staging area.

    As I rode up my stomach fell.

    Cause it wasn’t Jimmy or Scotty there.

    It was the entire 5th grade.

    “You can do it Donnie” said a guy who I thought tried to stuff me into my locker last year.

    “I’ll kiss you if you make it D,” Joanna said to me.

    And all I could think of was Scotty’s words as I started to pedal, and circled the path.

    Touch the sky, touch the sky…

    and I started my run, pedaling faster and faster as I hit the turn and down the dirt hill I pedalled.

    The kids were just blurs as I past each of them, I could see the ramp and hit it going faster than I thought possible.

    And I was flying. It was just like Scotty said.  It was amazing, I could taste it.

    I landed the jump , and as my hands were in the air celebrating my landing I hit a pebble.

    And I flipped in the air again, but this time with a bike on top of me landing with an awkward thud.

    Something was broken in my arm. Yup, definitely broken.

    Joanna gave me that kiss, but I didn’t feel it.

    I didn’t feel my broken arm (in three places).

    I was free.

    Jumping