Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The vacuum cleaner wasn’t working. Back after three weeks on the road, Harlan wanted to clean out the van, get rid of the stray potato chips and gas station receipts and pea gravel tracked in from motel parking lots. He wanted to give the van a real going-over. But when he ran the nozzle across the upholstery, nothing happened.
When Oliver was a boy, he used to wander with a stick through the family orchard, whacking at the high branches to knock down the best fruit. This is the image that came to mind whenever people asked about his writing. With pen in hand, he meandered through his thoughts, taking swipes at the best ideas, and if they were ripe, they dropped fresh to the page.
Explanations follow new phenomena like tails follow dogs, or so Dean claimed as he did his loquacious best to pitch the idea of a symposium to the chair of the English Department. Dr. Fenton was a portly man twice Dean’s age who had a reputation for driving his underlings to the point of collapse then stepping in to assume credit for their toils.
When Igor entered Boris Panofsky’s office, it felt more like he was descending to a crypt than climbing to the pinnacle of a publishing empire. The famous shelves of signed first editions stood in a gloom. The only light came from a banker’s lamp on Panofsky’s desk.
Not being a particularly religious man, I don’t know how one goes about nominating a person for a sainthood. So how does it work? Is it like the Oscars? Maybe that comparison is too crass. The Nobel Peace Prize, then? Are there nominations and then deliberations?
When Chuck fell in love with Camilla, it struck him at a visceral level. Maybe visceral is the wrong word. It suggests that Chuck felt his love in the gut whereas, when he examined his feelings, he discovered that he felt his love most keenly in the nose. Or (since Camilla would never allow Chuck to speak so crassly): Chuck’s feelings for Camilla stirred up olfactory associations.
Harry presses his back to the post of the swing set and watches a light plane pass overhead. The plane trails a banner ad for something. Harry can’t say what. A chill wind makes his eyes tear and that blurs his vision. Maybe it’s an ad for cough syrup, or condoms. Most likely an ad for a wireless service provider.
At the letterbox, Roger pulled out a wad of flyers, most of them advertising local businesses—palm readers, tea leave readers, tarot card readers, and Madame Zignault, emergency consultations available on request.
It’s been years since I rode in a yellow school bus, the kind that bounces three feet in the air every time it hits a bump, the kind with cracked vinyl seats and a crotchety driver, the kind that can’t stop except with a lurch; and lurch we did when the driver stopped the bus in front of the main building at the Glengrove Nature Preserve.
In Rome there is a grand hotel. I’ve been there myself and can attest first-hand to its grandeur: the well-appointed lobby and the urbane concierge, the bellhops in their scarlet uniforms, the majestic ballroom that has entertained dignitaries from around the world, the five-star restaurant which caters sumptuous banquets, the luxurious rooms with their beds and draperies and gold-plated faucets.
I set out on my morning walk with the dog—the same routine as always (what other kind of routine is there?)—pee on the front lawn by the road (the dog, not me), first by the granite boulder on the east side of the lot, then by the pole that supports the basketball hoop on the west side of the lot. Up went the hind leg, then out came a stream of deep yellow fluid.
So ya, man. Name? Hughes. Ya. Ted. So ya, man, I worked on the GB20 design team. You owe me. You owe me big time. In fact, you guys should be on your knees kissing the ground we walk on. We hit a veracity factor—nine point seven—unheard of. Most people—even the pros—most of them couldn’t tell the difference.
I had forgotten to take my meds again. I had an “Oh shit” sinking feeling in the bottom of my stomach when I found a full bottle of pills on the window sill above the kitchen sink and realized a whole month had passed me by and still I hadn’t opened it, not even once.
The gavel came down with a crack, which surprised me, because I thought that courts didn’t use real gavels anymore. I thought gavels were symbols of office, for decoration only, like a captain’s sextant or a priest’s bible. But there it was—a sharp stroke against the wooden desk that sounded in my head like a gunshot. Bang. My first criminal conviction. I had a record.
You know how the song goes: “When you’re in love with a beautiful woman, it’s hard….” That’s how I’ve always felt with Suzanne. I try to hide it, but there are times when my insecurities emerge low in my viscera and refuse to go away.