Hey Joe

Showing the love

It's been quite some time since anyone has shown Joe the love. Fortunately, I was able to bribe the Scotts with the promise of martinis.

John Cheever, short stories, etc.

For those of you who pay attention, you may have noticed that I'm currently reading The Stories of John Cheever, a collection of sixty Cheever tales, and the winner of the 1979 Pulitizer Prize for Fiction.

Cheever certainly was a prolific son of a bitch.  But I'm finding that much of Cheever's work (in my humble opinion) hasn't aged well. Many of his characters are from a time and place that most of us can no longer relate to. Even characters who are supposedly young and broke all seem to have "nurses" to care for their children and cooks to...cook their meals.

Maybe this was common back in the 20's and 30's. I seem to recall reading that Hemingway and Hadley, supposedly dirt poor in their Parisian days, travelled with a nurse who cared for their infant son. Nurses must have come cheap in those days.

Cheever's characters are always "breaking down," and saying things like "Oh, my darling!"and "I can't bear it!"

They're always attending cocktail parties in New York apartments. In one story, The Cure, a couple is separated and plans to divorce. The man is spending the summer alone in their New York suburb, while the wife has taken the kids to the coast. He commutes into Manhattan by train and one night decides to attend a cocktail party.

"As soon as I got there, I went out onto the terrace, looking around for someone to take to dinner. What I wanted was a pretty girl in new shoes, but it looked as if all the pretty girls had stayed at the shore."

A pretty girl in new shoes? What the hell does that mean?

In Torch Song, Jack Lorey convinces his wife to attend a cocktail party at the apartment of a woman Jack has known for many years. The woman, Joan, is not part of the social stratification to which the young wife aspires.

"This made his wife angry. She was an ambitious girl wo liked a social life that offered rewards."

Social climbing bitch.

Cheever is no doubt a talented writer, but I think I'm going to have to take a break.

I'm a big fan of the short story and I recently read Trust Me, a collection of stories by John Updike. I find Updike a much more accessible writer, perhaps because of the 20-year age difference betwen him and Cheever.

I also just procured  How it Ended, a collection of stories by Jay McInerney. I've already read most of McInerney's fiction but was not aware that he'd done a collection of short stories. I'm looking forward to it because A) I've enjoyed most of his novels, B) he's younger and therefore even more accessible, C) he was a fan and student of Raymond Carver, whom I also enjoy, and who likely influenced McInerney's short fiction.

Because I know you care, I'll keep you posted.

2-17-12  Believe it or not, I'm still reading Cheever. Found another funny bit that I thought I'd share. In The Five-Forty-Eight, a douchebag, Mr. Blake, is being stalked by a woman who had been his secretary,  but whom he had fired after banging her and discovering that she was a little scooters.

"Most of the many women he had known had been picked for their lack of self-esteem. When he put his clothes on again, an hour or so later, she was weeping. He felt to contented and warm and sleepy to worry much about her tears. As he was dressing he noticed on the dresser a note she had written to a cleaning woman (see, even the whack-jobs had maids!).  The only light came from the bathroom-the door was ajar-and in this half light the hideously scrawled letters again seemed entirely wrong for her, and as if they must be the handwriting of some other and very gross woman. The next day, he did what he felt was the only sensible thing. When she was out for lunch, he called personnel and asked them to fire her. (HA!) Then he took the afternoon off."

Classic.

R.I.P. Whitney Houston

Whitney Elizabeth Houston

1963 - 2012

Legendary singer, actress, and sadly, poor choice maker, Whitney Houston died yesterday at the age of 48.

News of her death, while stunning to most is not terribly stunning to many. Don't ask what that means.

Houston's drug addiction issues were well publicized, and frankly I blame ex-husband and enabler, Bobby Brown for taking her down the rabbit hole.

Whitney's death, like Robert Hegyes, represents another nail in the coffin of my youth. Houston exploded onto the scene in 1985 with her first album, "Whitney Houston" and that soul-soaring single Saving All My Love for You. I was 20-years old, in all my black, high-top Reebok, mullet sporting glory.

Her appearance in The Bodyguard simply cemented her star power, despite a rather clunky script and Costner's bad haircut and old-man style slacks pulled up to his nipples.

Details regarding the cause of death are still unknown. I will update once her people get back to me.

Oh, Whitney. Why?

American Dream Job

Thanks to the overwhelming response to last week's story, you lucky people are being treated to another slice of literary excellence.

I wrote this story shortly after my first lay-off, back in the early years of the new century.

 

American Dream Job

 

Here’s a little story if you’re interested. It offers no great moral impact or earth shattering revelations. It’s just a little tale about how a lost man found his way. That man, by the way, was me.

About 2 years ago just when I getting ready to slide, ever so undignified, into 40, I suddenly found myself out of a job. After 14 years with the same company I was kicked to the curb like so much recycling. “Thanks for your time. We appreciate your efforts but we’ve decided to change direction. Best of luck to you.”

Immediately thereafter began the well-meaning annotations of family and friends: “It was meant to be. The right job for you is out there. It will happen for you one day. If you don’t get this job then it wasn’t meant to be.”

Bullshit, all of it. Right job my ass. There is no such thing. Not when your fate is subjected to the bone rolls and tarot card readings of some Corporate America middle manager. When any day you may suddenly find yourself being escorted to the parking lot holding a cardboard box full of family snapshots, a potted plant and the loose change from your drawer as security locks the doors behind you.

Those first few months I spent a lot of time at home. I got back in touch with my inner-Merry Maid and reacquainted myself with that hose-laden contraption known as the vacuum cleaner, and her second cousin the Swiffer Sweeper. Between spit-shining the chrome accent pieces in the bathroom and hunting down dust bunnies, I surfed the web and caught up on my movie watching.

And so it was that one darkening February afternoon Netflix delivered American Beauty, the academy award winner from 2000 starring Kevin Spacey and Annette Benning. You remember; Spacey won for best actor and Benning lost out to that horse-faced Hillary Swank?

Anyway, Spacey plays a 40-something schlub that gets canned from his job after years of devoted service. Sound like anyone we know? The difference is that Spacey welcomes his new situation, and begins to discover that his whole life is one big pile of dog shit. And thus he begins a quest to rid himself of the shackles that he’s allowed himself to wear for the past twenty years. I was absolutely captivated. And just as Ricky Fitts becomes Lester Burnham’s personal hero, so Lester became mine. I took a vow right there in the BarcaLounger ® that as God as my witness my next job was going to have the least amount of stress and responsibility possible.

Polyp be gone

So those (both) of you who are not on Facebook will be happy to hear that I finally had my throat surgery yesterday. And not a moment too soon because I was two days into yet another cough and had just hacked up the first bit of lung butter the day prior. I did not share this bit of info with the doctors, lest they choose to send me home after having already risen early and made the trek to Antioch Kaiser.

Yeah, so we arrived around 7:30, checked in and waited. And waited. My surgery apparently was not scheduled until 9:30. I was called in for all the prep work; the stripping down to nothing (which I don't understand but hey, if the nurses wants to sneak a peak during surgery what the hell do I care? I'm a giver, though not much of one) getting the IV, answering the same dozen questions at least three times from three different people, and then waiting some more. 

They finally wheeled me into the surgery arena around 9:45. Waiting for me were the surgeon, the anaesthesiologist, and at least three other nurses. My name was written up on a white board along with my procedure. The team did a round-robin of what they were responsible for, the equipment they had, etc. Hell, I have expected them to huddle up and give a "go team" before knocking me out. It was pretty impressive though.

That's about all I remember from the surgery. I woke up an hour or so later with an oxygen mask on my face and Lisa at my side. I don't recall what else happened at the hospital. Lisa got some prescriptions, I got dressed and they wheeled me out. All in all I felt OK, but by the time we got home I was wiped out and crawled into bed.

As the afternoon wore on I started feeling really nauseous nauseated (thanks, John), the after effects of the anaesthesia I'm told, and I developed a splitting headache, the effects of not having my morning caffeine I'm speculating. That was pretty much how the rest of the night went; headache, barfing and trying to sleep.

When Lisa finally came to bed I was still tossing and suffering, so I got up and roamed the house for hours, not comfortable enough to stay still, though I managed to sneak in short naps on the couch between walks. The motrin was doing nothing and I was afraid to take anything stronger since my stomach was finally feeling better, but I broke down around 3AM and took some Excedrin with caffeine and that seemed to finally do the trick. I crawled into bed around 4 and was up before the boy left for school at 8:15. I stumbled out to the kitchen and he gave me a big hug. I think he was happy to see me up and around.

SO it's now Thursday around 1:00 PM and I'm starting to feel the effects of my long night. I do plan to go to work today though as I don't feel horrible enough to miss another day. I'm only allowed to talk 5-minutes of every hour for the next week or two. I have no idea how that's going to happen, but I'll give it a shot. My throat doesn't actually hurt it's my neck that's sore. My hunch is that they had my head tipped backwards during the surgery.

Aren't you happy to see something here other than a theme song?

 

The Bellhop

I discovered some time ago that the achieves at the SoMa Literary Review had gone bye-bye. This sucks ass because I had a couple of short stories that had been published there. It was kind of cool to be able to refer someone to an actual website rather than a personal blog. It sort of carried a little more sway. 

Be that as it may, I thought I'd republish some of those stories here because, well it's been a few years and frankly I've got nothing new to post. A few folks have bitched about the lack of content here as of late. Maybe this will shut them up.

With that, I give you The Bellhop. And my apologizes for the lack of sway.

 

The Bellhop

 

“You wouldn’t believe some of the shit that takes place in these big hotels.” The Bellhop said as he lit his second cigarette. He offered one to the new guy as they stood out back on the loading dock.  “I’ve worked here almost eight years now. I’ve been offered other jobs, “better” jobs they say. More money and all that shit but those other jobs don’t offer what this one does. Stories. Bellhops and room service attendants; the best jobs in the place for a writer.”

“How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Jacobs?” asked the hotel desk clerk

“As long as it takes to finish my business.” The man answered.

Jacobs, a well trimmed man in his late thirties with thick, shoulder length brown hair, smiled at the desk clerk, a pretty young thing of twenty-two. He leaned on the counter, casually flirting with her without even being aware of it.

The clerk handed him a key on a diamond shaped plastic ring. Jacob’s enjoyed the old fashioned touch of an actual key instead of a plastic card.

“The bellhop will bring your suitcase up in a few minutes Mr. Jacobs. You’ll be in room 1256 and the elevators are around the corner to your right. Enjoy your stay.”

Jacobs took the key and picked up his well-worn leather satchel leaving the large black suitcase at the front desk As he walked to the elevator he passed an open door leading to the loading dock where several hotel employees idled during their break. The smell of cigarettes, caught in the slight draft created as he passed the door, followed him to the elevator. Despite seven smoke-free years he still missed his cigarettes and had recently fallen off the nicotine wagon. He entered the elevator and pushed the button for the twelfth floor.

The new guy puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette while the Bellhop sucked greedily on his own. He’d become used to smoking them quickly in order to squeeze at least two into his ten-minute break.

“I’m telling you man, the shit that goes on in this place is amazing. A few months ago some big corporate blow got jacked by a couple of ten-dollar whores in one of the suites. Duct taped the poor bastard to one of those Roman column things they’ve got up there. Took his clothes, his wallet, his car, everything. I got the honor of cutting him loose when the maid found him the next morning. Ha! He was so fucked over trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get home without his wife catching on. I mean he had SHIT! Stark-fuckin’-naked. It was beautiful. The GM loaned him some clothes out of the housekeeping stash and added an extra hundred to his bill to front him some dough just so he could get some cloths and a cab home. This is AFTER he explained to the police what happened. God only knows what story he gave his wife.”

The Bellhop doubled over with laughter as the new guy finished his smoke and dropped it in the dented aluminum ashtray. He stood near the edge of the loading dock and surveyed the parking lot.

“I sure hope I don’t have to wait eight years for something interesting to happen around here,” he said. He turned and headed back inside punching the time clock mounted just inside the door.

R.I.P. Robert Hegyes