#065 ~ The Boy on the Porch

The Boy on the Porch

Rod Tanzol

One chilly evening, a boy of five sat there on the bench on the porch outside his house. He unseasonably wore shorts and a t-shirt when jeans, a sweater, and a scarf were more appropriate. His feet hung, barely grazing the ground; they dangled above the ground in rhythm opposite the wind. The clenching lumps that the boy knew as his hands lay folded on his lap as he twiddled his thumbs nervously. Anxiety consumed the small boy.

He shivered in the wind and shuddered at his thoughts. In the noisy solitude of his mind, he reviewed that day a thousand times:

His already irked mother yelled, "Wear something warmer; you'll freeze to death!"

The boy cried, "NO!"

"I can't deal with you!" she yelled as she walked out of the boy's bedroom. "When I return you'd better be dressed!"

The boy waited until his mother left his room before he screamed once more and slammed his door shut! His mother let out a frustrated roar! His father yelled, "That does it! How dare you slam your door, boy! Honey, get my toolbox!"

The boy panicked behind his closed door to recount every detail of his parents’ actions, but he pleaded with a red face, wet eyes, and a salty face, "I'm sorry!” His parents yelled at him to shut up and that it was too late; the boy had already screwed up. A few whacks of a hammer later, the pegs popped out, and the door was off its hinges.

The boy threw a tantrum, feeling violated. Although fully dressed, the boy crossed his arms and hid exposed body. The boy was hysterical. His mother resolved, "Go outside, you spoiled brat!” He wouldn't budge; his father dragged him out of the house.

The boy waited outside a little longer. He couldn't rationalize what happened; he was just too young. He concluded to simply avoid his parents and remain quiet. His mother let him in after everyone's nerves calmed. The boy didn't feel welcomed or forgiven. The house fell hostile; he felt incomplete; he did not know when he'd have a door again.

#064 ~ Sarah’s Chronicles: The End

I’m finally ending this series.  It was fun to work on, but I’m happy the first draft of the Saga is complete.  In a few months, I’ll compile all the parts, rewrite it, and format it into a short e-book.  It’ll be different: new characters and plotlines will be added.  It’s just great to end something the first time around.  I’m just upset with myself that I haven’t written more in the last year. Without further rambling, here it is: (be aware; it’s short, and it will definitely be better next time around.)

 

The End

Rod Tanzol

After a lonesome few hours on a train and a few minutes in a taxi, Sarah was there. Greeting her was the seemingly imaginary boyfriend that she so desperately missed. However, her meeting did not induce the joyous and romantic flood of emotions of which she dreamed. Instead, she was left empty and regretful.

Both parties went through the pleasantries required of old friends. However, she noted that he never made a significant effort to be with her or please her. Looking from afar sufficed for him, but not for her. She needed something more, and knew that he could ever provide that.

She had convinced herself and her friends that she needed to see him, but she was wrong. Disappointed with the lackluster reunion, Sarah wasn’t heartbroken, but she was certain that he was no longer right for her. Despite anything that could be said, Sarah knew what had happened. The distance between the two lovers created an unrealistic and idealized fantasy that engorged her expectations to a size that was greater than the distance between them and larger than reality itself.

With the new light and insight that come venturing hundreds of miles from home, Sarah made the first real decision of her life: she’d give up on him for good. More decisively, she gave up on him right then and there.

She returned home soon after with fewer burdens and one less person in her life. She was ready to start the final year of her childhood free from the false expectations and exaggerated longings and desperate attachments of a long-distance relationship.

#063 ~ The Unfortunate Event…

This is the first thing that I've published in a while.  I’ve been working on my novel when the mood suits me…  I hope to finish it by Thanksgiving of 2009 and self-publish by twenty-ten.  In the mean time, the following story is a tale mixing my love of the rain with my hatred of Yuppies and the Garden State.

The Unfortunate Event at Exit Fourteen

Rod Tanzol

Part One

Trim—in a half vacant bed inside a Hoboken apartment—awoke one dreary day to the musical ringing of his cellphone. He answered it dully and groggily, “Hello?”

Through some static, he could hear his caller’s voice. Angrily, it said, “God damn it! Are you still asleep? You were supposed to have driven me to LaGuardia today!”

Wincing in pain, Trim replied, “Don’t be so loud, Snapple. I had a rough night last night.”

“A rough night?” she furiously questioned. “I had a rough night! I was packing while you sat on your ass and drank until you passed out.”

“You let me,” Trim defended himself.

“I let you? No! I told you to get out my way, not to be useless!”

“Hey, I was out of your way at least,” he commiserated in defense of his passive behavior.

“Jesus fuck, you cunt bagger! You’re useless! I couldn’t get you up in the damn morning. I almost called a taxi, but I didn’t feel like spending a fortune. Luckily, Stacy could take me.”

“So where are you now?”

“I’m outside the Holland Tunnel, but this traffic is fucking ridiculous.”

“Have a safe trip. I love you,” Trim pleaded.

“I’ll have a fun time in Vegas without you, shit face. God, I wish I could divorce you before I go! I need to find a better husband.”

“Like I said; I love you too.” The call ended.

Trim finally got out of bed, and the usual sunny atmosphere of his existence was replaced with a blanket of grey. The sky was brooding, and the air was uncomfortably balmy. It was going to rain. Trim, feeling awfully hung-over from a night of inaction, called in to work sick, but offered to work from home for the day.

He went to his desk in the corner of his tiny apartment, and booted his work machine. In a matter of minutes, Trim logged onto his Manhattan office, and began managing files from across the Hudson River. Bored with himself after a matter of five minutes, he turned on the television and let the morning news fill the background with white noise.

Trim trudged through his workload and edited the appropriate spreadsheets until an urgent news brief disrupted the soothing monotony of the regular programming. “It is a tragic day for New York City area motorists. Countless are presumed dead in this eight-car pile-up outside Newark Liberty International Airport. Emergency vehicles are arriving at the scene as we speak.”

Trim ignored the news and attributed it to the mistakes of some lousy New York drivers. He changed the channel hoping to watch some raunchy show on paternity tests. He laughed as the show’s guests publically admitted their innate infidelity and their ignorant disregard for inexpensive sheathes of latex.

Trim’s guilty indulgence was interrupted with yet another news brief. He didn’t pay much attention to it but heard a bunch of familiar phrases: New Jersey Turnpike, exit 14, and Newark Liberty International Airport. He also heard a great share of frightening attention-grabbers: dead, victims, and terror. The last keyword cued him to reconsider his viewing habits. He looked at the corner of the TV screen and saw the name of the only major network to share its name with an animal. The bottom of the screen read, “Airport Terror Attack?” He laughed at the misleading statement disguised with a question mark.

Trim changed the channel. This one offered footage of bodies being removed from the mangled mess of metal. “Thank god little kids watch cable,” he thought to himself. He laid himself across the length of the couch, never noticing his transition from workstation to living room. He laughed aloud at the unfortunate events before him. A moment passed before he realized that something was amiss.

“Why hasn’t Snapple called me to complain about the traffic or her inevitably delayed flight?” he asked himself. To quell his qualms, Trim called the ever polite and beloved woman in his life. It went straight to voicemail. Trim panicked.

“FUCK, fuck, FUCK!” he screamed, “Fuckety, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!! Jesus Fucking Christ!”

After several moments of hysteria, Trim composed himself long enough to call the airline. What did he learn? He learned that Snapple had not yet checked in for her flight. His suspicions were single-mindedly confirmed.

He did not call Snapple again.

He did not hope for the best.

He did not take any time to consider other possibilities.

He did not think about the roads.

He did jump to conclusions.

He did eight shots to calm his nerves.

He did forget every detail of his wife’s trip.

He did act brashly and irrationally.

Trim rushed to his yuppie standard Mini Cooper that awaited him in the parking lot across the street from his apartment. He went through the traffic of Hoboken and then Jersey City. He got onto the Turnpike and drove to exit 14. The traffic moved impossibly slowly past the horrible accident. Trim pulled into the shoulder of the road half a mile back and walked—mostly stumbling—to the scene, crying out his lover’s name.

He was stopped by a cop. “Halt, you fuckin’ psycho! I ain’t seen any Snapple here! Go to the Seven Eleven, y’ prick.”

Barely understandable, Trim cried, “No, Snapple is my wife, not a delicious drink. She was in the car accident!”

“Well, you ain’t getting past here. All the victims were sent to the hospital.”

“Which hospital?” Trim demanded to know.

“All of them,” the police officer answered. “Now, git!

Trim ran back to his car, and waited through traffic. It began to pour. The rain was then followed by a blasting bombardment of lightning strikes. He yelled while hitting his head against his steering wheel, “Oh fuck! How the hell am I supposed to drive in this‽”

He crawled through until he could start speeding up, and speed up he did. Speeding at eighty miles per hour in the pouring rain, Trim lost control.

Conclusion

“Yes, that’s him. That’s Trim,” Snapple cried in the morgue. The scene was too gruesome to describe.

Back at the appointment, she sat on the couch with Stacy. “God fucking damn it! He didn’t even let me get as far as LaGuardia Airport. I really wanted to go to Vegas! That selfish, paranoid, and drunken bastard,” Snapple cried. “Why the fuck was he even on the road?”

“Don’t fret,” Stacy consoled. “Be happy he died your husband; you get all of his crap and his money!”

Snapple smiled. “You’re right. Besides, he never cared much for me.”

#062 ~ Sarah’s Chronicles: Birthday Wishes

I’m going to close down this blog in a few months and replace with a website over which I have more formatting control. In that process, I will edit and regroup everything I have written. The new sight will be easier to read, and much more enticing to new visitors. I give thanks to the twenty or so returning readers I’ve had over the last fifteen months. It’ll be easier for me to publish the plays and short novels I’m writing. I’m finally starting to get serious about this little hobby of mine. Sarah’s Chronicles are almost over, but don’t fret, I have greater projects planned for the future. However, I will not close this blog until I reach my original goal of 100 posts. Here’s too my future and your entertainment: Woot!

Birthday Wishes

Rod Tanzol

“Happy birthday, Sarah” our heroine heard countless times throughout the day. She received that message through every form: through voices, text messages, emails, birthday cards, voice mail, and even skywriting—although she may have simply imagined that one.

She was seventeen on this day. Her junior year was over, she had finished her summer homework, and she had nothing to do but relax. She had taken her SAT in March, score over 9000—2020 actually—on that demonic test, and she had forgotten about it completely. She asked some teachers for letters of recommendation, written her college admission essays, and filled out some applications for colleges. Sarah Cruz was ready for her future. Now only if she need not suffer through her senior year…

At breakfast, her parents gave her gifts. They were as good as any other year. The severe recession has caused her mother to involuntarily take furload days at the department store at which she work, but her father, the mechanic, had seen an increase in business selling parts from used cars. Her parents’ gifts did not interest her though.

That afternoon, a package arrived in the mail. Both her parents were out. Her boyfriend had stupidly put his mailing information as the return address. Sarah wondered, “Why did he send it himself? He normally orders my gifts online and sends them directly to me. Maybe he spent the time and bought it in a store himself, or maybe it’s something cheap he got for free!” She opened the brown UPS package slowly. She used a scoring knife to cut the tape; she undid the box’s flaps slowly. She removed the plastic airbags and bubble rap excitedly. She was about to be extraordinarily pleased of upset beyond all means. Beneath lay an almost magical gift. She removed her gift from the brown box and smiled. She held an amazing pair of BOSE headphones. Taped to them was a plainly and sloppily written note that read, “You’ll get good use of these on your trip!”

The gift pleased Sarah many times over; her musical and audible problems were solved forever! Well, at least that’s how one should feel with a BOSE product. She dashed to her computer, and she skyped him. He answered the video call, “Happy Birthday!”

Gift-in-hand, Sarah responded ecstatically, “Thank you so much; I love you! I was expecting shoes, but this is amazing!”

He blushed. She gleamed. The rest of the call was silent, and Sarah forgot to question the hand-written note that accompanied her gift. It didn’t matter though. It was only ten in the morning, and she had an amazing day!

That evening, Nikki called her over for a late lunch. Sarah dressed well, as usual. Nikki wore a more casual attire. They went to a small restaurant in town. The name didn’t matter as long as Sarah enjoyed the food there. When they got there, however, it was seemingly quiet. The hostess led the two into the back room. Sarah was excited, and she knew what this meant: SURPRISE PARTY!

About thirty friends greeted the birthday girl. This was the best birthday she had ever had. The group ate, chatted, and danced more appropriately than one might assume that teenagers would. Most of them were nerdier than the average teen. The day excited her. She received a few small gifts after the cake. The most important gift, however, came in a small envelope.

Joe and Nikki took turns explaining. Nikki began, “We know how much you miss him…”

Joe continued where Nikki slowed down, “So, we all chipped in and got you train tickets to Canada so you can see him.”

Nikki added, “We know how much you wanted to do this, but we also know how indecisive you are.”

Joe commented, “Yeah, Sarah, we were afraid you back down and never try!”

Nikki finished, “Because of that, we made the decision for you! You’re going to Canada, and you’ll love it! Cisco already knows that you’re coming. He’ll pick you up at the station and then bring you to his home in Ontario. The train leaves at noon in exactly one week. We’ll bring you to Penn Station in the city, and that’ll be it.”

Sarah started crying tears of joy. She thanked everyone, and the guests started congratulating her. Sarah made her rounds, and the party dwindled down after this. Everyone said his or her appropriate farewell. The party eventually cleared, and everything was cleaned. Sarah went home with Nikki, and she went to bed content beyond her wildest dreams.