Esquire magazine had a fiction writing contest this past August. The rules were few:
-Choose from three titles:
An Insurrection
Twenty-Ten
Never, Ever Bring This Up Again
-Entry can be no more than 4,000 words
-Entries were due Aug. 1, 2009
I entered the imbroglio, but didn’t win. My non-victorious entry follows. I apologize in advance to Mom Klem for the upcoming offending language and one risqué scene:
An Insurrectionby Klem
“You jackasses aren’t gonna believe who I saw today,” exclaimed Woodward enthusiastically upon entering the apartment without knocking.
Two disheveled jackasses in their mid-30s donning dirty shorts and undershirts sat on separate couches watching TV, reruns of old game shows from the ‘70s. They were roommates. Neither was proud of it.
“Who you calling jackasses,” replied Cassidy not looking up from the television.
“You bastards. I’m calling you bastards jackasses, bastards. I saw Emmett,” continued Woodward losing some of his initial zest.
“Emmett?! From high school?! Where were you? Prison,” asked Cassidy.
“No! Not prison. Why’d you say such a thing,” said Woodward with a disgusted look on his face.
“Seemed he had a high incidence of theft,” added Cassidy still not looking away from the TV.
“Thefts? Emmett? What’re you talking about,” said Woodward irritably.
“The liquor store,” Mondo chimed in.
“The liquor store from over a decade ago? He didn’t get the correct change. He got upset,” defended Woodward.
“He bought Tic-Tacs, was short changed a nickel, so he grabbed the hot dog rotisserie machine off the counter, including dogs, and ran,” Cassidy recounted calmly.
“He didn’t get the Tic-Tacs, though,” said Woodward as if that negated the act from constituting theft.
“What about the hot dog cart,” added Mondo.
“Come on, you bring that up from high school? That thing during summer break? He was really hungry. You remember his appetite,” said Woodward trying to stick up for his buddy.
“The whole cart, though,” was Cassidy’s retort unswayed by Woodward’s feeble defense.
“Will you guys stop? Something happened to him,” said Woodward in a more serious tone hoping to get back on topic.
“What’d you mean,” asked Cassidy looking at Woodward for the first time.
“I saw him at the grocery store,” replied Woodward taking a seat on Mondo’s sagging couch staring at him so he’d sit up and move over.
“What’d he have to say,” Cassidy asked.
“What was he stealing,” Mondo wondered out loud.
“He wasn’t stealing anything,” blurted a near exasperated Woodward. “I didn’t talk to him. He just had this great big man-purse over his shoulder. I was too horrified to approach.”
“Man-purse? You mean like a purse? Or was it a grocery bag? He was in a grocery store, right,” asked Cassidy in an effort to clarify the foggy picture Woodward was painting.
“I didn’t ask him about the contents. I didn’t want to embarrass him. A buddy sees you with a purse, you want him to nail you for it and ask a battery of awkward questions? Wouldn’t you rather he ignore you like the whole thing, including the man-purse, never happened,” asserted Woodward.
“Man purse? Sure it’s not a diaper bag? Didn’t your cousin say he’s got two small kids,” asked Mondo.
“Call it what you want, if you saw him you’d say ‘Look at that guy with the man-purse.’ I’m telling you, he’s fallen a long way from the stud we knew years ago. Remember that football game in high school where he practically single-handedly beat the San Dimas Wild Stallions? He was a ferocious beast, Emmett. It was beautiful,” regaled Woodward losing himself momentarily in the past glory of his friend.
“It’s true. He was a beast,” uttered Mondo trying to contribute.
“How about that rock concert years ago. There was a fight in the mosh pit, naturally he was at the center of it. He emerged triumphant, climbed on stage, and then dove back down into the pit! A maniac, that guy,” said Cassidy smiling in pride for his buddy.
- - -
A month went by with no further mention of Emmett, until a lazy Saturday afternoon. The three guys visited the local department store. Each held a single item with intent to purchase. Mondo was holding a package of shoe sole inserts to help beat back that troublesome malodorous emanation. He was unaware that the smell was actually coming from his mouth resulting from his sub par dental hygiene. Cassidy had a new toothbrush. Mondo had scrubbed his old toothbrush in the toilet after an argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Woodward carried a six pack of beer. He had substituted a cheaper sticker price forgetting that it’s the UPC code that the scanner would read, there would be no manual entry.
The three guys were looking at Hot Wheels; they never entirely outgrew their interest, though Woodward stubbornly held fast to his preference for the Matchbox brand.
From down the aisle came a guy with a man-purse over his shoulder. He had a double stroller with two adorable moppets, a boy and a girl, and was accompanied by a beautiful woman. They looked happy and content. The three fellas, a fine contrast, looked slovenly and in need of a thorough scrubbing.
“See anything good, you punks,” Emmett asked also approaching the Hot Wheels rack. He was smiling and sincerely happy to see his buddies after a gap of at least five years.
“Yes, a dude with a man-purse,” said Woodward pointing at Emmett’s shoulder.
“Diaper bag. These two are real factories in that regard,” advised Emmett tossing a thumb at the stroller.
“You still Hot Wheeling, too,” asked Woodward too energetically.
“No, but I sometimes look when we come here. I give them to my two year old,” replied Emmett.
“Oh,” said Woodward dejectedly having to face the thinly veiled charade that, while appearing a full grown man, he remained but a child.
“Hey, I want you to meet my wife, Kira,” introduced Emmett. “Honey, this is Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo. We hung out together back in high school.”
Kira, almost overjoyed at actually meeting friends of Emmett took to the three goofballs and looked past their obvious deficiencies. Her husband had many acquaintances and people with whom he was friendly when they crossed paths in town, but he was largely a lone ranger. His social schedule was almost bare beyond family outings. He seemed to take on the perspective that extracurricular socializing wasn’t a matter of overstepping his reach, it was just that it was an inconvenience. She knew this chance passing would not come to anything unless she took action. The boys had been speaking for a few minutes and it was winding down.
“Hey, why don’t you guys come over tomorrow. You can play bocce ball in the back yard or watch football. I’ll make a few sandwiches and watch the kids,” she offered.
“What do you say, fellas? We’ll have cheese puffs on hand,” Emmett said picking up a bag from the back of the stroller and waving it.
- - -
It was early Sunday afternoon. The football game was just underway on the television when the doorbell rang.
“Hi, guys. It’s nice to see you again,” said Kira in fine spirits. “Emmett’ll be out in a minute. He’s changing both diapers. A simultaneous double whammy.”
“So, you’re friends from high school,” making conversation.
“Oh, yeah, we chummed around quite a lot,” confirmed Cassidy while Mondo nodded affirmative.
“We played on the high school football and baseball teams. You know, Emmett used to be quite the athlete. Usually the best player on the team,” continued Woodward.
“Usually, the best on the field,” Cassidy upgraded without embellishing.
“Well, you can see it’s just the four of us. He’s never really had many friends over or done anything with other guy friends. He did have a softball team through work several years ago, but he stopped playing after our son was born,” said Kira. “He never goes out. I thought it was flattering when we first started dating. I never had to compete with anyone to get his time. But I’d like him to go out once in a while. I don’t want him to think he can’t go out because he feels I expect him home all the time.”
“Not compete for his time? We did. Looks like we’re face to face with the reason we lost,” mentioned Cassidy graciously acknowledging the victor in that battle. “Justifiably so, I must say.”
“How old are these things,” asked Mondo pointing at a picture of their children hanging on the wall.
“Our son is almost two years and our daughter is six months. He’s so good with them, Em. Do any of you have children,” Kira asked.
“No biological children, but we kind of look out for Mondo,” answered Woodward not aware of how silly this sounded.
“Hey, how’d you and Emmett meet,” asked Cassidy.
“The batting cages. I was in the fast pitch softball cage and he was in the fast-pitch baseball cage,” explained Kira shyly.
“Batting cages,” Woodward asked quizzically.
“I played softball in college. We were pretty good, went to the College Softball World Series tournament two years in a row. Anyway, we had a game and played poorly. It was embarrassing. I mean we couldn’t hit anything. After the game me and five other girls decided to hit the cages. It was a post game cleansing routine. Well, during the game I slid into second base to break up a double play. Ripped my pants. So, we’re hitting at the cages after the game and you could see my underwear through the rip. He walked by and said, ‘Nice swinging, pink lilies,’ referring to the lilies visible through the rip. I was surprised he knew the name of the flowers,” smiling as she recalled the episode. “They were lilies. He really got my attention. Anyway, I countered with ‘You think you got game, elbow guard,’” visibly pleased with the recounting of her retort.
“He had the elbow guard going back to high school,” remembered Cassidy.
“He asked me out that night. We still go to the cages on our anniversary,” she said.
“It sure would be good to get him out of the house once in a while. Heck, if you can get him out I’ll even buy the first two rounds of beer,” she offered.
Emmett emerged just then from the hallway with a child in each arm. After the handoff to Kira, bocce was engaged.
Emmett dominated as they all expected, even Mondo. He excelled at everything, it didn’t matter what the challenge. Basketball, chess, Gnip-Gnop, or hangman. He was a fierce competitor and usually found a successful strategy whether it was his natural ability or his opponents lack thereof. In face to face competition he was tough to equal.
At one point Mondo managed to cut his finger with a bocce ball.
“Mondo, what the hell did you do? You’re holding round balls. How’d you cut yourself,” Woodward pressed.
Nobody saw what he did to get cut and Mondo was virtually blank in trying to explain what happened. Emmett went into the house and returned presenting a choice of two bandages.
“You prefer a Hello Kitty or a Hot Wheels Band-Aid,” Emmett asked him.
“Come on, you got no real Band-Aids,” yakked Woodward mocking him.
“We haven’t had regular Band-Aids since the first baby was born,” Emmett advised.
Mondo grabbed the Hello Kitty but Woodward quickly slapped it away. Cassidy opened the Hot Wheels bandage and applied it to Mondo’s finger. First Aid concluded, they went inside and ate sandwiches in front of the TV.
“Hey, Emmett, may I please have a glass of milk,” asked Mondo politely.
“Help yourself. It’s in the refrigerator door,” Emmett authorized.
“No glass for you, remember? Use a plastic cup,” advised Woodward curtly looking at him with raised eye brows.
He found the milk, but it was beyond the expiration by two days. Mondo abided strictly by these dates on account of a bum experience as a child. It was suspected that expired milk adversely affected him on that fateful day resulting in an embarrassing public self guano incident that only Woodward continued to bring up, and reveled in so doing. He reached for an 8-oz. milk box, chocolate, and then saw the stash of juice boxes. Picked one and rejoined the living room.
“A juice box. Look at this guy. Nice find, Mondo,” said Cassidy with a playful lilt in his voice.
“What happened to your milk hankering,” Woodward asked suspiciously.
“It expired, the milk carton. Then I saw the small milk boxes, but I didn’t want to take one of them. I figured Em’s kids probably drink those,” said Mondo explaining his thought process.
“Who do you think drinks the juice boxes,” Woodward asked pointedly.
“Guys, Mondo’s cool. Actually, Kira and I often deploy the juice boxes for mixing drinks. We don’t always have a lot of large juice containers. We just don’t drink it that often. But those individual servings will last for months. Probably a year or more, even,” asserted Emmett.
The afternoon passed. The football game concluded and the previously flaunted bag of cheese puffs were zeroed out. The three boys set a follow up play date and said goodbye.
- - -
They returned to Cassidy and Mondo’s as they did most evenings. Woodward still lived at home and his weekday routine had him wolfing down supper with his parents before excusing himself to his friends’.
“Poor, Emmett. He’s a broken man! He’s totally defeated,” blathered Woodward getting himself riled up. He lived under the illusion that he lived a life that other men envied, Emmett included. In his own mind he was a man to emulate.
“He looked pretty happy to me,” Cassidy countered.
“He’s changed. Really. He uses his kids’ juice boxes to mix drinks,” continued Woodward irately. “Instead of measuring out drinks by tablespoons, ounces, jiggers, or shots, he now mixes by number of juice boxes.”
“Sounds like logical reasoning,” replied Cassidy again defending his friend.
“Logical reasoning? A grown man using Hot Wheels and Hello Kitty Band-Aids,” said Woodward upgrading his complaint.
“Dude, you have a problem with Hot Wheels Band-Aids? Meanwhile your entire Hot Wheels collection remains intact after age appropriateness is 20 years past,” challenged Cassidy. “Besides, he’s got kids, man. One can reasonably justify they’re for his kids. What’s your excuse?”
“We must break him out of this fettered domestication. He’s locked in like he knows no better,” continued Woodward not having any of what Cassidy was pushing.
“What do you mean break him out? Like an insurrection,” Mondo blurted.
They both looked at Mondo, but he’d already turned away not paying attention.
“An insurrection. Yes, good. Impressive range, Mondo,” answered Woodward surprised at the use of his pal’s fancy word. “You accidentally been watching the History Channel again?”
“What do you mean an insurrection? From who,” asked Mondo having already forgotten that it was his idea.
“From whom,” schooled Cassidy.
“OK. From whom? His family,” pursued a confused Mondo.
“Hey, look smart guy,” announced Woodward to Cassidy with an air of self importance. “We’re fighting for our buddy here. Let’s find a way to save Emmett. You can play smart guy with someone else. So an insurrection’s been proposed.”
“But his wife wants us to take him out. Heck, she’s offered to buy the beer if we just take him out. Doesn’t seem like a revolt to me,” Cassidy retorted.
“Stop clowning around you two. I’d like to find a way to save our friend. Can you do this with me,” asked Woodward. “OK, so his wife offered to buy beers. Good. There’s our seed money for the movement.”
- - -
After much bickering, the boys convinced Emmett, guilt-tripped, more accurately, into entering the dark confines of the exotic dance club. Emmett was a decent man, but not impeccable. They ordered their draft beers, the first of their two minimum drink purchase as required with entry fee, approached the main dance floor, and spied several available seats. Three ladies were sharing center stage with two smaller stages along the perimeter at the back of the club, each smaller stage hosting a single dancer. Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo, mouths slightly agape, head tilted slightly aloft to view the dancers at their performance elevation. Each man reaching for his wallet in a non-thinking action. With a stack of singles pre-folded they set the bills at the edge of the stage resembling small green pyramids when viewed from the side. These three were lost in their debaucherous desires as the commendably physiqued fancy nubiles shook their junk on stage. To the credit of the boys, they were not yet drooling on themselves.
Emmett, though, kept himself together. There was no ogling. He had not given himself up to the vile environment in which he was relegated. The dancers were not the focus of his attention. He had not descended to the existence of non-thinking inanimate objects, as had his chums. He sipped his draft beer. It didn’t matter what brand. His enemy here was time, the sipping of a beer would be his prop in accomplishing this task. Burn off those few hours that must be killed so that he may retire back to his homestead and his people. But first, he must endure.
As the three full grown delinquents turned themselves over to this voluntary debasing, Emmett fell prey to his own. Over the robust ambient cacophonous racket that passed for music, he heard, so he thought, a faint noise indicating a delight beyond his expectations.
He parted from the three without a word or gesture and went in hunt. He walked in the direction of one of the smaller stages and passed without so much as a courtesy glance at the sweaty undulating body wearing little more than body glitter. It would be through the doorway dead ahead if his instincts were correct, instincts that had been honed over very many hours from the incessant video gaming of his youth. He stepped in. Bliss. Video games. Full standing cabinet arcade style games. Vintage games. Classics. He felt like a teenager again. The exhilaration. He could feel the forthcoming action in his fingers from so many hours of playing, training, those years ago. Five games, one stool, no other patrons. Like his pals reaching for their folded singles, he reached for a stash of quarters in a pocket of his wallet. Setting his beer down and moving the stool into position, he got things underway.
- - -
Two hours passed. One by one they all went broke. Mondo was first as he accidentally tossed out a few tens on stage while lost in his trance. Cassidy, taking an avuncular approach to Mondo, kept him in the game by floating him a few singles and another beer. Woodward, lost to the world, couldn’t hardly tear his eyeballs away. And when he did, the adjustment to darkness after staring at center stage caused a nearly painful squint. The three of them sitting up front with no money left. That lasted almost two minutes before a bouncer forcibly asked them to vacate the seats so that paying customers may occupy them. They stood up without complaint and moved into the shadows away from the lights of center stage. They noticed now for the first time that Emmett was absent.
When they found him, he was a sweaty mess. His shirt soaked through and his hair matted down on the sides and back with wetness. He was still gaming and had been doing so nonstop, taking only short breaks to move the stool from one game to the next. His beer was sitting on top of the Galaxian arcade game where he’s set it down over two hours ago. Mondo, without asking, grabbed it, drank it with relish, and put it back where he got it.
“Emmett, have you been in here the whole time,” asked Woodward almost sympathetically.
“Not now, I’ve almost got the high score in Joust,” exclaimed Emmett lightly agitated at the distraction. He wasn’t angry, just laden with adrenaline.
“Look at this. He’s got all the high scores,” announced Cassidy, pleased with his friend’s skillful craft.
“Dude, give it a rest. You’re getting all worked up,” said an irritated Woodward.
“You’re one to talk. You were pretty worked up watching the dancers,” responded Cassidy keeping Woodward from unduly elevating himself.
The video game ended. Emmett entered hs initials. Another high score. He grabbed his empty pint glass and walked away with no words. The four made for the exit and he placed his glass on the end of the bar without breaking stride.
- - -
They drove to Emmett’s, nearly silent except for the radio. With the motor idling Emmett exited the vehicle.
“Thanks for the time, guys,” Emmett offered. With a wave to the three in the car he walked to the front door and reached for his key. The three yelled their final denigrating remarks.
They drove away in silence for a few blocks. Pals, they were, and would continue to be for years. But socially it was over. There would be very little intersecting, if at all, from this point forward. They shared a common beginning, but are different today. They all knew it, even Mondo.
“He’s damaged goods. He can’t be fixed,” Woodward said seeing that Emmett was beyond them now.
“He can be fixed. Wasn’t he vasectomized last year,” Mondo said proud of his clever comment.
“That’s not what I meant,” Woodward said wrestling with the realization that it was not Emmett who was the damaged goods. They were perpetual adolescents with such trademark maneuvers as short changing the part-time fast food cashier with a flurry of questions while they were counting change or trying to tilt a vending machine looking to score free junk food.
Emmett was lost to them. Yet he was happy. Somehow whole. The three had extended their best effort, and were defeated. Emmett had seemingly evolved, while the three remained in flux. There would be no successful intervention. Nor an insurrection.
END
7/2009
The winner, if you’d like to give it a whiff, can be read by clicking
here.
-klem
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