FICTION

The Way We Were – August 2014

I woke up this morning and said, “Today’s the day. The day I write my memoir.”

Sounds easy but the truth is that I don’t remember much. I remember the song…Memories. Maybe that wasn’t the title but I can sing you the first line. Or maybe not. Memories, light the something something something. That’s all I remember. Oh, and Streisand sang it, I remember that. And she couldn’t or wouldn’t spell Barbara the right way.

That nice young lady who comes to see me sometimes, she can sing the song. I think she’s related to me but I’m not really sure. She looks a lot like me. Like a family resemblance. She told me who she is but then I forget right after she tells me.

Just thought of a joke. That doesn’t happen often. I say, “I think I lost my brafour and you say. ‘What’s a bra for?’ Get it. Funny. Ha, ha. Not sure why I remember that one.

Maybe the young lady will help me with my memoir. I could get her to write the things down so that someone will read it some day and they will know who I was, that I had a life, that I did things and went places. Like that. I hope I remember to ask her when she comes today or tomorrow. Or whenever she comes back.

I remember being outside and playing all day and when the cousins came and we would play hide and seek and games with a ball. I remember trying to show off and run faster and hide where no one could find me. Giant steps…that was some kind of game we played and you had to stand on the front porch. Something about a red light and a green light. Or you had to count to 20 and then go look for someone. I was better at hiding than looking.

We played until dark, until the fireflies came out and we chased them all over the yard. Sometimes we tried to trap them in a jar. And it had holes in the lid.

Where is that lady? Why isn’t she here today. When I’m not looking for her, then she shows up. When I need her to help me remember things, she’s not here.

The Way We Were….that’s it, that’s the song. That’s my life.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

Five O’Clock in the Afternoon – July 2014

Mary Anne wanted a new life. She wanted to be a new person. She had even imagined her best friend, Angie opening a zipper that ran down her back and this new person stepping out of her skin. Then the world would swirl around her – shifting and changing with the old world, its squalor, hopelessness and pain disappearing forever. What would this new world be like? Well, first of all she would be in a city, not stuck here in west Texas downwind from a feedlot. At night, she could watch the city lights sparkle from the terrace of her spacious apartment instead of seeing only the incessant moths flying around the glaring light outside her trailer. By day, she could go shopping in glamorous boutiques and eat small exquisite salads in smart little bistros. If she had one more Arby’s, she thought she might have to kill herself.

The baby’s crying brought her back to the outskirts of Fort Davis. She slipped the latest copy of Architectural Digest into it’s hiding place next to the old issues of Town and Country. Her baby was all pink and smiles after her long nap. Mary Anne snuggled her face into her warm sweetness, drowning briefly in the fresh baby smell. The baby chortled and wriggled in her arms.

Angie knocked on the door and came in, the screen door slamming behind her. Mary Anne held out the baby to her. Angie snapped her gum and took her. The baby went on smiling as she was cradled by her second mother.

“Well, little match girl, what’s today fantasy? Pretty Woman, Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” Mary Anne laughed. Her friend had given her this nickname after discovering the stash of upscale magazines. They smiled at each other both believing if Mary Anne ever made it to New York City, she had a better chance of ending up as a hooker than a millionaire.

“How about A Roman Holiday?” Mary Anne suggested.

“Oh, Gidget does the Continent“, quipped Angie as she shifted the baby to her hip and pulled two wine coolers from the fridge. She plunked herself down on the couch, snuggled the baby close and flipped the top off of both bottles with the opener attached to the armrest.

“Let the good life roll!” she exclaimed.

Mary Anne slid the VHS tape into the machine and joined her best friend on the couch for their favorite form of escape.

At five o”clock in the afternoon, the movie was over, Angie was gone and the baby was down for another nap. Mary Anne leaned into the couch cushions sipping her fourth wine cooler, closed her eyes and walked into a luxurious dining room filled with beautiful people. They all turned towards her as she entered the room with love and acceptance in their eyes. She snuggled down deeper into the couch with the smell of the feedlot filling the air.

Pat Young is a former educator who now builds houses, makes puppets (those really big ones with gigantic heads), and can tell you all about where water comes from and where it goes. And she bakes the world’s best biscotti.

Next, Please – June 2014

Call me Th’ Gibson; he did. It makes me proud to be one of the J-45 acoustic guitars built when the factory was back in Kalamazoo. I was shipped for retail to Hewglie’s Music and then picked up by a song writer from Tullahoma who was in town to hit the big time, maybe get a spot on The Opry. We all have our dreams, but that guy never practiced. I spent most of the first year standing in the corner.

He’d grab me once in a while when he was drinking beer and take a stab at playing Wildwood Flower. We both got tired of how it sounded, and eventually he just left me in the case. Of course, they always blame the guitar. Not everybody understands the need for collaboration between the instrument and the musician, and that there has to be some chemistry. In a good match the music will emerge as a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts.

I met Rivers in the spring of 1962 at a major turning point for both of us. He was finishing a year at Vanderbilt and getting ready to tell his old man that there was a new game plan. Harpeth Junior was not going to continue down the path to medical school that had been his father’s dream. I was hanging behind the counter at a pawn shop on Broadway, and Rivers came in with his head down looking like he could use a friend. I was just out of the closet from my so-called life with the first owner, and when Rivers pointed and asked the salesman how much, I figured he was interested.

We played a few runs and some chord patterns standing there together in the aisle. I did everything I could to make him look good. He started showing off a little, and that made us both feel better. Ten minutes later he pulled out his wallet and handed over the last hundred and fifty he had in the bank, and boom, we were in the Volkswagen and on our way to Houston.

We’ve been through plenty in the last fifty years. It’s always like this — a guitar finds a player and you give it everything you’ve got in the name of music. Now he’s got this new one, a black Fender Telecoustic that he’s calling The Guitar of His Dreams.

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.

Burden of Proof – May 2014

Once upon a geometry — long, long ago in The Golden Age — Proof called for a configuration of Polygons.

“Attention, please,” said Proof addressing the multi-sided closed figures. “Octagons stop where you are; trapezoids and rhombuses, stand aside. For this procedure we will be utilizing four congruent right triangles and three different squares. Applicants should report immediately to The Ruler for verification of dimensions.”

“We have heard that Proof is demanding,” whispered one of the Three-Four-Five triangles selected.

“Me, too,” said the identical triangles in unison.

“Practice makes perfect,” offered a Four-by-Four square as Three-by-Three and Five-by-Five nodded in agreement.

“Polygons, thanks for all you do,” said Proof. “Now, let’s get started. I’d like you to form a Seven-by-Seven square with the four triangles intersecting each other at a vertex. Ready? Configure!”

The Three-Four-Five triangles positioned themselves so that each hypotenuse provided one side of a single square. They motioned to Five-by-Five to join them.

“Check it out, I’m a perfect fit,” said Five-by-Five filling the space between his new friends.

“Splendid,” said Proof. For your next assignment let’s form another Seven-by-Seven square that includes Three-by-Three in perpendicular intersection with a vertex of Four-by-Four. Five-by-Five will sit this one out. On your mark, get set, configure.”

The two squares moved into position as directed and then recruited the Three-Four-Five triangles to help them complete the assignment.

“Want to join us?” they asked the four triangles.

“Sure, sure, sure, sure,” said the triangles as they scrambled into place forming a pair of Three-by-Four rectangles by aligning along a shared hypotenuse.

“I see”, Proof observed. “There are two squares in this second configuration along with the same four triangles united to form Three-by-Four rectangles. Each of you has a ninety degree angle?”

“Right,” said all six of the Polygons.

“Eureka,” said Proof. “Both of these Seven-by-Seven configurations utilize the same four congruent right triangles, with the remaining area being either Five-by-Five or the sum of Three-by-Three plus Four-by-Four. I’d like to see that again. Polygons, as you were, I mean, about face or whatever.”

The triangles returned to the original configuration in combination with Five-by-Five. “Works for me,” said Three-by-Three. “Yeah,” said Four-by-Four, “and notice how nine plus sixteen is twenty-five.”

“That is so cool,” said Proof observing the maneuvers. “Alrighty then, you Polygons, one more time.”

“No problem,” said the squares and triangles as they alternated back and forth between the two configurations.

“I’m satisfied,” said Proof observing the results.

Top 10 Differences between Men and Women – April 2014

MATURITY:

Women mature much faster than men. Most 17-year old females can function as adults. Most 17-year old males are still trading baseball cards and giving each other wedgies after gym class. This is why high school romances rarely work out.

HANDWRITING:

To their credit, men do not decorate their penmanship. They just chicken scratch. Women use scented, colored stationary and they dot their “i’s” with circles and hearts. Women use ridiculously large loops in their “p’s” and “g’s”. It is a royal pain to read a note from a woman. Even when she’s dumping you, she’ll put a smiley face at the end of the note.

BATHROOMS:

A man has six items in his bathroom–a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of Dial soap, and a towel from a Holiday Inn. The average number of items in the typical woman’s bathroom is 437. A man would not be able to identify most of these items.

REST ROOMS:

Men use rest rooms for purely biological reasons. Women use rest rooms as social lounges. Men in a rest room will never speak a word to each other. Never in the history of the world has a man excused himself from a restaurant table by saying, “Hey Tom, I was just about to take a leak. Do you want to join me?

CHILDREN:

A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and soccer games and romances and best friends and favorite foods and secret fears and hopes and dreams. A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.

SEX:

Women prefer 30-40 minutes of foreplay. Men prefer 30-40 seconds of foreplay. Men consider driving back to her place as part of the foreplay. Women like to have sex when they’re in the mood. Men like to have sex when they’re in the room.

LAUNDRY:

Women do laundry every couple of days. A man will wear every article of clothing he owns, including his surgical pants , before he will do his laundry. When he is finally out of clothes, he will wear a dirty sweat shirt inside out, rent a U-Haul, and take his mountain of clothes to the Laundromat. Men always expect to meet beautiful women at the Laundromat. This is a myth perpetuated by reruns of old episodes of “Love, American Style.”

THE TELEPHONE:

Men see the telephone as a communication tool. They use the telephone to send short messages to other people. A woman can visit her girlfriend for two weeks, and upon returning home, she will call the same friend and they will talk for three hours.

NICKNAMES:

If Laura, Suzanne, Debra and Rose go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Suzanne, Debra and Rose.

If Mike, Charlie, Bob and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla, Peanut-Head and Stinky.

ARGUMENTS:

A woman has the last word in any argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

Jack Goldenberg is a prolific Copywriter, innovative Creative Director and consummate, strategic marketer. Read his blog at 10 minutes of brilliance. With all he’s done, he still believes his best efforts are ahead of him.

How I Introduced Letterman and Trump to the USSR’s Last Beauty Queen – Part 2 – March 2014

Hopefully, your read Part 1 of how I was forced to suffer two terrible weeks travelling on the east coast with the beautiful, talented, sexy and lovely Maria Kejha, Miss USSR. Even though the Russian Beauty Contest was 20 years ago, I’m still talking about her. Actually, not really talking, but putting pictures of Maria on Pinterst.

My story goes back to November, 1990 before the Soviet Union ran their “Going Out of Business Sale.” I reached an agreement with Global American TV, the company that had the U.S. rights to promote the Miss USSR Beauty Pageant. The Russian Beauty Queens were coming to America and I was to be their press agent and tour guide.

Global American TV made arrangements for the winner of the Pageant, 18 year-old Maria Kazha and 19 year-old runner-up, Lauma Zemzare, Miss Soviet TV, to visit and tour the United States for a whirlwind 8-day tour.

Immediately, two questions came to mind. How would I get them publicity? And how the hell was I going to tell my wife I was touring the east coast with two under-20 year-old Russian beauties?

So, I did the only sane thing a man could do. I met the two beauty queens at Kennedy Airport when they arrived from Russia and handed them bouquets of red roses saying, “Welcome to America.”

When I handed these two stunning teenage beauty queens the red roses, Maria and Lauma smiled.

“Where are we staying?” Maria asked.

“Tonight only, you’re staying at my house in Westport, Connecticut.”

Maria was no longer smiling. Lauma, for some strange reason, was still smiling.

But you would be missing the point if you thought my intentions weren’t honorable. Sure, I took them to my house for a sleepover. Because I wanted them to know I had a wife who was as beautiful as they were and a daughter who was even younger, so I wasn’t about to hit on them.

My job was the protect them and to get them as much publicity as possible. And to show the world that the women of Russia were beautiful and stylish, not at all like the images in the famous Wendy’s Soviet Fashion Show commercial.

END NOTE: Masha Keja, the former Miss USSR, is now a famous evening bag and accessories designer in Paris.

Here’s How the Fight Started – Feb 2014

My wife sat down on the sofa next to me as I was flipping through channels. She asked, “What’s on TV?’”

I said, “Dust.”

And then the fight started…

My wife and I were watching “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” while we were in bed. I turned to her and said, “Do you want to have sex tonight?”

“No,” she answered.

I then asked her, “Is that your final answer?”

She didn’t even look at me this time, she simply said, “Yes.”

So I said, “Then I’d like to phone a friend.”

And then the fight started….

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the van, and proceeded to back out of the driveway into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing at 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, and decided to go back in my house.

I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife’s back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, “The weather out there is terrible.”

My loving wife of 37 years replied, “Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that downpour?”

And that’s how the fight started…

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, “I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.”

I bought her a bathroom scale.

And then the fight started…

I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver’s license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.

The woman said, “Unbutton your shirt.”

So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair.

She said, “That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me,” and she processed my Social Security application.

When I got home, I told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.

She said, ‘You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.’

And then the fight started…

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table.

My wife asked, ‘Do you know her?’

“Yes,” I sighed, “She’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up many years ago, and I hear she hasn’t been sober since.”

“My God!” said my wife, “who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?”

And then the fight started…

Scratch My Back – Feb 2014

Listen, Mike — it’s all about the numbers. Now hang on, hear me out — it’s all about the money you are going to make. We’re talking about cash, Mike. Sure, I get my cut, and I also get credit for this brilliant idea.

Brilliant my ass. You’re just hustling your songs.

Maybe so, Mike. Okay, you’re right; but there’s hustle, and then there’s hustle.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing, Mike. Forget it. Listen, here’s how it works. See, I wrote a couple of songs about how much I like living out here in New Mexico. You, my friend, have a song with a similar message. Three Wishes is a great song, you could be retired on that song.

I’m sure as hell not retired.

You’re not retired, Mike, but you could be if you sold a million CD’s. I plan to sell a million, Mike, a million CD’s with your song on every one of them. And here’s the best part: you don’t have to do anything that you aren’t already doing and have been doing for as long as I have known you. Sign the release, Mike. It’s standard stuff that gives me permission to produce a thousand CD’s with Three Wishes included in the collection. I master all the tracks, handle the duplication with eco-friendly covers that look like this one. Whadaya think?

That’s pretty cool. I like the title. Red or Green kind of says it all.

Thanks, Mike. Thanks. You’re right about the title. Every gift-hungry tourist that flies in and out of the Sunport is going to see the display and want one of these.

You planning to sell on the internet, too?

Anything is possible, Mike. I’m like you; I’ll move some units at the gigs this summer, maybe put the rest in gift shops.

Lemme think about it.

Okay, Mike. You think about it. You think about it. Listen to me, Mike — when I deliver your box of CD’s- that I will guarantee to have in your hands by this time next month- you will be holding $1800 worth of product in exchange for merely taking me up on my generous offer. I’m handing you a big fat holiday gift here, Mike. Sign the form, sell some product and send me a thank you note when you get back from the bank. What are you thinking? This is like picking up money off the ground.

Sign the release.

What’s Up Doc? – Dec 2013

Well, Doctor, I feel like I’m in pretty good shape for somebody my age, but I have concerns about my sleeping patterns.

Do you have trouble falling asleep, or is it a question of waking up throughout the night? What time do you normally go to bed?

It varies. We don’t go out at night if we can help it, so sometimes I’m asleep by seven thirty, right after dinner.

I see here that you drink alcohol, one to two drinks a day. Does your wife drink?

Like a fish, but don’t tell her I said that. Our cocktail hour is one of the great pleasures of retired life. Do you drink, Dr. Freeman?

Occasionally, yes.

Occasionally? You mean not every day.

Not every day, no. Would you say that you and Mrs. Rivers pretty much enjoy cocktails on a daily basis?

Indeed, we do— martinis, as a rule. Actually she likes a Gibson up with an onion, and I drink mine on the rocks with an olive and just a whisper of vermouth. In the summer, I switch to gin and tonic as a nod to tradition, but I’m finished with the white shoes routine. My season runs from the vernal Equinox to my birthday on the cusp between Virgo and Libra. It’s like changing the batteries in the smoke detectors on New Year’s and The Fourth of July, easy to remember.

I see. So you don’t have any trouble falling asleep?

Not usually, no. Sometime I read in bed, but mostly I just nod out. We have a great bed, one of those memory foam units, queen size with plenty of room for the dogs.

You sleep with the dogs?

Don’t get me started, Doctor Freeburg. Those dogs have it made.

What kind of dogs?

Tibetan Terriers; they were bred as companions for the monks. They have hair instead of fur, no dander, and they don’t shed any more than we do. They don’t bark as a rule, and they’re just the right size, not one of those little yappers, but not so big that they clear the coffee table with the tail. Do you have dogs, Doctor?

Three Shelties. We lost one this time last year, and we’re starting to think about a puppy.

What are you gonna do?

Yeah, we love ‘em like family, maybe better. So you fall asleep easily?

Yeah, no problem getting to sleep, unless the dogs are restless, but after a few hours I’m awake, sometimes before midnight.

Pillsbury Dough Boy Passes On – Nov 2013

Pillsbury Dough Boy Obituary (1962-2013)

Sorry I was late. I was at a funeral.

Please join me in remembering a great American icon – the Pillsbury Dough Boy, aka Pop N. Fresh.

The veteran Pillsbury spokesman would have been 50 this year.

Sadly, the Pillsbury Dough Boy died yesterday from a yeast infection. Fresh was buried in a lightly greased coffin.

Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Longtime friend, Aunt Jemima, delivered the Dough Boy’s eulogy, describing Fresh as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded.

Fresh rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with many turnovers.

He was not considered a very “smart” cookie, wasting much of his well-earned dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he was a roll model for millions. Towards the end, after his sad demise, it was thought he would rise again. But alas, he remained unleavened. Like Matzoh.

He had a good temperament and very few things made him angry. Although he did get a little burnt up when someone would leave him in the oven.

The Pillsbury Dough Boy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, and two children, John Dough and Jane Dough; plus one little muffin in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.

The funeral was held at 350 degrees for about twenty minutes.

Jack Goldenberg is a prolific Copywriter, innovative Creative Director and consummate, strategic marketer. Read his blog, 10 minutes of brilliance. With all he’s done, he still believes his best efforts are ahead of him.

Remmie and me.

Or is it I? (It’s me, not you) – Oct 2013

“Whoa! What’s that light? (cough) …and all that dust?”

“Hi, Remmie.”

(cough) “…it’s you! It’s you! You’re back! Oh, Baby, you’re back.”

“Yeah, I’m back.”

“Where have you been? It’s been so long.”

“Well…I, uh…umm”

“It’s someone else, isn’t it? You’ve found someone new.”

“Well…I’ll tell you later, Rem. I’ve got some writing to do now.”

“But…I…I missed you Baby. Talk to me.”

“Shh, Rem. Later.”

“…but…”

“Shhh!”

“…but you always said I was the best, Baby. The fastest. You’d pat me and tickle my keys and dust me off and wipe me down after a long day and…you told me you…What’s her name?”

Dell keyboard“Rem, it’s just that…it’s Del…I…

“Del. Well…at least it’s not some guy. Like Mac…”

“…she’s…faster. She’s someone I don’t have to correct all the time.

Someone…someone, well, who’s sleaker and warmer and…and who talks to me and who remembers the things we do together”

“Faster!? Oh, sure. I bet you tickle her just the way you used…you wipe her down after a long session too? You louse.”

“Rem, stop. Please. Life goes on, I’ve moved on.”

“Well…then why are you here? Why come back now?”

“Well… I hit her. And I had to take her to the…”

“You HIT her?”

“Well, she can be frustrating at times. You know, you, of all people should know.”

“Well, yeah but you never hit me and I’d only get sticky when…”

“Oh, come on. I’d oil you up when you dried out and give you ribbons…and you’d still…”

“That’s when I got really sticky, lover boy…”

“Rem, please. Let’s not go there. I’ve got to work.”

(silence)

“How long are you back for?”Remmington in case

“Just for a couple hours. She’ll be back this afternoon.”

“She is fast. So…this is it then?”

“Well, I’ll probably be back; whenever she acts up again. You know how it is. You’re my old trusty Rem, my fave. You’ll always be around…”

“Oh yeah? Hell with that. No more. Go to your faster, sleaker, hotter,

remembering-all-things lover. Think again, pal. I’ve had it. I’m outta he__”

“Rem! Rem, you’re stuck in your old ways again. Rem? Now what’s…damn! Rem!

You forgot your keys…don’t stop working with me now…Rem? I need you…I…”

(Sound of slamming typewriter case. Imagine dust rising around you in the gloom.)

Wayne Mikosz is an ex-restauranteur, writer, residential designer, collaborative painter with the love of his life and a Certified Appraiser of collectible automobiles, trucks and motorcycles. Visit Convergence Studios. Check out his new book, 10 Stories of Life, Love and Death at www.blurb.com/bookstore.