Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
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.
Every year, our street hosts a neighbourhood barbeque. We close off the cul-de-sac end of the street—down by the Jeffries—and set up two or three big grills for the meat. There’s a clown and games and face-painting for the kids, and there’s beer and fifty-fifty draws and Alice Kramden’s craft table for the grown-ups.
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.
Mohammed had been sitting outside on a rock for about a thousand years when Youssef pushed his way from the tent to join his brother. For nearly a hundred years, Mohammed had been waiting on the rock while Youssef deflowered virgin number seventy-two, taking her every-which-way his imagination would allow.
Norm and I had been on vacation when Ed across the road from us took his spell or whatever it was he took that ended up killing him and left poor Thelma all alone in that big old house of hers. So, on account of us being in Wichita Falls at the time, Norm and I never had a chance to console Thelma or even bring her a casserole until three weeks after the fact.
If you’re gonna rat me out to my boss then you can just go fuck yourself. And besides … there’s no way on god’s green earth I’ll ever tell you what I’m doin’ home on a weekday watchin’ the Maury show. Oh ya, there’s Springer too.
I’ve lived in this neighbourhood for nearly ten years now. Not alone, of course; I have the requisite wife with her weekly manicure appointments, and the requisite dog with her poufy tail, and the requisite two point four children. Two of the children are easy to find.
Doctor Horvath motioned for Jack to take a seat by the round, low coffee table while he settled himself in a swiveling chair in front of the bare desk, and then he turned to face Jack while resting his right elbow on the desk.
Egyptologists give one another special names. It’s one of those things we’ve always done. So John calls me Ikky (which is short for Ikhnaten) and I call him Akky (which is short for Akhenaten) and when people see the two of us together they say: “Hey! There goes Ikky and Akky.”
Being the environmentally conscientious sort that I am, I went out to WalFart and bought myself a new push mower. Besides helping to reduce gas emissions, it’s good exercise running up and down the lawn with a push mower. Plus it doesn’t do a half bad job of cutting the grass.
It’s not like Otis Garvey is snooty. I don’t think he’s snooty at all. But he wears a plastic optimism that reminds me of an evangelist who smiles and grins and says it’s a lovely day even when the hailstones are chipping the paint off his car. So it gave me a secret satisfaction to watch Garvey open the letter from Nigeria and read it with a serious look on his face.