Anne Leigh Parrish's collection of short stories By the Wayside was just honored by the International Book Awards. Parrish was named as a finalist in the Fiction: Short Story category and we are thrilled for her.
Of course, as her publisher, we could have told you she was going to win. Have you read her stories? They are soooooooooo good. Beyond good. Her craft reminds us of Pam Houston's work. It's real. It's nitty gritty. And most of all, it sucks you in and when you get to the last page of the last story, you want another.
What People Are Saying
"Anne Leigh Parrish’s third collection is both a charm and a gem, a vividly imagined work that introduces us to genies hidden in spare tires, Virgin Mary images concealed inside body parts, and Jewish professors disguised as Calvinists in small-town South Dakota. In stories that are crisp and poignant, yet told with a hint of wonder, Parrish captures the details of domestic life with its inexorable echoes of childhood and its family vortices. Rich and nuanced, conjuring up the spirits of Muriel Spark and Henry Green, By the Wayside belongs very much at the center of our literary road."
-- Jacob M. Appel, author of The Topless Widow of Herkimer Street.
"Anne Leigh Parrish is one of the best of a new wave of American short story writers reinvigorating the form. Many of these writers specialize at flash fiction-- a genre at which Parrish is a master. She also, however, excels at stories of more traditional length. Her tales, long or short, are highly readable but also convey intelligence and meaning. Few writers today create as much compassion for their characters, or draw as much emotion from their situations, as does Anne Leigh Parrish."
-- Karl Wenclas, Editor, New Pop Lit.
Cornelia Street Cafe Reading with Mark Belair, Ohan Hominis, Eleanor Levine, and Gemma Cooper-Novack!
Anne Leigh Parrish's collection By the Wayside released just a week ago and the reviews are really swell. We wanted to share one of our favorites with you, written by Chrissi Sepe on Amazon:
Anne Leigh Parrish's stories hit an emotional nerve which ensures you will remember them. One of my favorite stories in her newest collection, "By The Wayside," is "Where Love Lies." It is about a woman named Dana who moves to a quiet, yet gossipy, island town to escape her former life. Her self-esteem is wrecked, and she wants to start over and rebuild her confidence and heal herself through her love of painting. However, as she befriends an older man and finds herself attracted to another man closer to her age, she realizes that this beautiful island town is everything but serene, and danger lurks because, as she says: "Hating was far easier than loving, and came more naturally."
Yet Dana survives, as Parrish's female protagonists seem to do. No matter how difficult situations get for these strong women, they persist and often turn out wiser and more confident and capable than they were when we first met them in their stories. Not only do we as readers discover shocking truths about them, but the characters themselves are often surprised at the capabilities they hold inside and of what they are able to achieve if they just have the courage to speak up or to make changes in their lives.
In "How She Was Found," lead character, Fiona, begins the story described as a "mouse." She is compliant and insecure, and these traits are not likely to serve her well when she sets out as the only female on an archaeological dig with her professor and three male fellow graduate students. When she finds the bone of a human hand, she believes her professor will finally take her seriously, as she feels he never listens to her.
Where to Buy Anne's Book
A COMPELLING AND IRREVERENT LITERARY DEBUT BY A FORMER ADVERTISING
DICK CHENEY SHOT ME IN THE FACE: And Other Tales Of Men In Pain (Unsolicited Press | February 17, 2016) is an enthralling story collection by Timothy O’Leary. Unexpected, humorous, sometimes dark, and surprisingly heartfelt, here are tales that explore the secret life of men as they pass into adulthood, middle age, and old age confronting lust, pain, guilt, bewilderment, and mortality. O’Leary has won numerous literary awards for his stories and his title story was a finalist for the Mark Twain Award for Humor Writing.
You’ve probably heard about the man who Dick Cheney shot in the face, but what if he wasn’t the only victim? In the title story of the collection, we meet Henry who gets shot in the face by Dick Cheney and is blinded in one eye. It’s not anger that overcomes Henry, but a sense of guilt for not warning the next victim. In this unique and funny story O’Leary explores the shame that comes from pride, the anxiety of helplessness, and whether men of a certain age can have deep friendships with other men. While a fictional character tells this story, all the facts about Cheney are true.
Ian Davis is an obsessive-compulsive loner and a recovering alcoholic. But when a homeless man––who closely resembles the actor Gary Busey––starts harassing him on his way to work, he resorts to old habits to ease his anxiety and loneliness. Ian’s bad habits lead to a deadly confrontation and what he thinks is self- defense is quickly deemed murder. Before Ian has even been arrested, a video of the confrontation surfaces on the Internet. In “Homeless Gary Busey,” the reader is forced to question the power of perception, technology turning the public into judge and jury, and how a single event or misunderstanding can take someone from relative comfort to the street.
Kenny, a former sitcom star, is a veteran comedian who quickly realizes his act doesn’t hold up against a savvy millennial comic named Donny, in “Hecklers.” In a desperate attempt to level the playing field, Kenny tries to bond with Donny by assisting in vandalizing a patron’s car in the comedy club’s parking lot. But unbeknownst to Kenny he was being videotaped for Donny’s YouTube channel. The video suddenly goes viral and Kenny quickly finds out that overnight success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
In eighteen stories we also meet: a distraught husband who experiences heartbreak and salvation after his wife dies in a car accident caused by a texting teenager; a successful man who returns to his hometown and finds his first love stacking jars at a local Costco; a sheriff in a Western town circa early 1900s confronts a pedophile and his own past abuse; an Iraq war veteran turned bodyguard who encounters the biggest threat of his life in a Las Vegas Nightclub; a successful attorney who abandons his legal career to play the iPad guitar.
While DICK CHENEY SHOT ME IN THE FACE is eclectic in range, O’Leary has a knack for telling stories that all have immediacy and purpose. His thirty-year career creating award-winning ads has endowed him with an entertaining style, an ear for dialogue, and the ability to boil down larger issue with dexterity. In spare, at times satirical, and illuminating prose, his stories delve into far ranging issues from the homelessness crisis, to the positive and negative impact of technology, to Baby Boomers trying to navigate an increasingly complex world turned upside down by the digitization of communication and business. Fans of Tom Perotta, BJ Novak, and Carl Hiaasen will enjoy this stunning debut from an interesting and immensely talented new writer.
As the second release in our Rapid Fire Series, we are pleased to announce Michael Overa's short story collection The Filled In Spaces.
About the Collection
The stories in the Filled In Spaces investigate the intersecting lives of strangers and acquaintances, acknowledging that we are all a background character in someone else’s story. The stories investigate the nature of relationships and friendships.
About Michael Overa
Michael Overa is a writer out of the Pacific Northwest. You can learn more about Michael Overa on our authors pages.
You can also follow him on social media here:
Write a Novel This November! NaNoWriMo 2015: What Is It, and How Do I Do It?
You probably want to write a novel. Most people do. For some people, it’s something to check off the bucket list. For others, it’s a life-long dream. Some people aspire to be a published novelist, while others simply want to write a book, even if it’s just for themselves. Regardless of what your specific dream entails, writing a novel is an incredibly daunting task. Fortunately, Chris Baty founded NaNoWriMo in 1999, thereby turning this impossible fantasy into an achievable task.
NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is an annual, month-long event that takes place every November, and it is the catalyst that generates full-length novels from both new and experienced authors each year. The goal is to write 50,000 words in November. You open your blank document and begin on November 1, and on the thirtieth by 11:59pm, you are a novelist. To participate, all you have to do is set up a free account at nanowrimo.org, and then announce your new novel! NaNo prep is already happening on the website: pep talks, forums, advice, etc. The NaNo community is preparing for the upcoming month-long writing extravaganza. To win NaNoWriMo, all you have to do is write 50,000 words. Everyone who does this is declared a winner, and you get a fancy virtual badge!
Think you can’t possibly write 50,000 words in thirty days? Don’t worry! Several tools exist to help you conquer this seemingly impossible-to-climb mountain. The first is the website itself. It has a handy tracker that tells you where your word count should be each day in order to stay on track. You enter your current word count, and you get to see the graph reflect the work you’ve done and the progress you’ve made, which is extremely encouraging and satisfying. There are forums on the website in which you can talk with other writers and inspire each other and cheer each other on. Need help figuring out the perfect surname for your protagonist? Feeling overwhelmed? Need help with some research? Running out of steam? The people on the forums are happy to help with all of this and more. It’s an extremely supportive and motivating community of writers, and it’s an invaluable source for your NaNo experience.
If 50,000 words still seems out of reach to you, keep in mind that it translates to only 1,667 words a day. That is totally manageable! You can do that, I promise! Here are some sources that can get you pumping out those words:
I have participated in NaNoWriMo three times, and I won each time. Here is the best piece of advice I can give: don’t think; just write. NaNoWriMo is not about producing a polished and perfect work of literature. It’s about writing the damn book. The goal is to get the first draft done, and the first draft is the hardest part. As Terry Pratchett said, “The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.” You don’t have a story until you write it. Now is your chance to write it. Do not waste time trying to make it as beautiful and perfect as possible. You should not do a single revision during this month. Do not go back to the words you’ve already written at all. Only move forward. If you do this, you’ll have a first draft of your book by the end of the month, and a first draft is a physical thing with which you can work. After November, you can begin your revisions. At this point, you’ll have achieved an amazing accomplishment, and you’ll be well on your way to completed manuscript.
Good luck, and happy writing!
While my last post was about claiming the title “writer,” I do have to admit that I've been suffering from a rather long stint of writer's block. In other words, I have not been writing very much at all. I write here and there. Jot things down and never return to give them my full attention. Obviously, this is a common thing that happens and everybody has his or her own remedy. There's whole books on it for god's sake. I'm not going to say a bunch of stuff that everyone already knows. I'm just going to talk about one thing that I realized the other night after attending a lovely poetry reading.
Attending readings and open mics is one of the most inspirational motivators to get me to put pen to paper and I would argue that this is true for many people.
I get so consumed with being alone when I write. I read and read and stare at blank pages in my journal, looking for something inside me to spill out. Instead, I just get frustrated and read more or watch Netflix. Sometimes I won't even let myself go out because I didn't do the writing I had set out to do that day.
When I stop punishing myself for not writing and I decide to go to a poetry reading or an open mic or a book launch, I always end up writing in my journal on the way home. Sometimes I even pull it out in the middle of the reading to jot down a stray thought. I think there are lots of reasons for this. Firstly, it's important to forget about your own writing for a while. Secondly, it's also important to be out in a community of writers who are sharing their work with other writers and readers. I think just the energy of this can help knock a few things loose in your brain – get ideas to settle down and want to come out for a change.
Most importantly, I think hearing writers read their own work aloud can be engaging and empowering beyond reading it for yourself. This is especially true with poetry. I find myself getting lost in just the voice – sometimes, even if I don't know exactly what it “means,” I can hear what the poet wants you to feel in their tone, rhythm, movement. It doesn't even have to be good. Focusing on these aspects of performance in the reading is something you don't get simply by reading someone else's work. I find myself focusing so much on craft when I read, that I almost forget the art. Hearing it come to life through the writer herself I can hear the art. I can see it. Which in turn always ends up inspiring me to create art where I had previously felt my passion for it draining.
So, for anyone feeling uninspired or in a rut of not writing I would encourage you to find a reading or open mic in your area. In listening to everyone share and speak their truth, you may just find yours.
In 1997, Harry Potter pulled the heartstrings of American readers, engaging them in a fantasy world of magic and strife. In 1851, Captain Ahab took readers on a deadly journey to seek the great white whale. In 1630, Othello lead the way through a tangle of jealously and murder. Each character is undeniably memorable, and each character is arguably flat.
In his work Aspects of the Novel (1927), E.M. Forster discusses two character types: round and flat. A round character is similar to an actual person; they have depth and more than one thing that defines his/her identity. On the other hand, a flat character is less dynamic with only one defining personality trait causing the reader not to be challenged when deciding the motives behind the character’s actions. Each type of character affects a narrative different, but each type of character is still very important. Being a flat character does not mean they are a minor character. Whether you are reading or writing a book, looking into what makes up a character is engaging, meaningful and useful.
Flat: the seemingly boring characters, the characters that are predictable, the ones readers barely give a second thought because everything about them is already written in the words of the narrative. But, is that true or fair? Let's look at the three important characters that I argue are flat.
Harry Potter, the boy who lived, sacrificed himself book after book both physically and emotionally. His self-sacrificing hero persona rules his character to the point that nothing he does surprises us, as readers we know that he will protect the wizarding community or die in the process. He may be predictable, but the books are far from boring (the proof is in the seven books, eight movies, and theme parks). Why does Harry have to be so predictable? The world he lives in is so different from the readers, and the war he is living is so complex that a predictable character is not only useful, but also, necessary. A flat character like Harry keeps the reader connected and grounded to the text. He is the connecting thread between the reader and the narrative.
Jumping back in literary history there is Captain Ahab, the slightly terrifying captain of the Pequod who is defined solely by his obsession to kill the white whale. Unlike Harry, Captain Ahab is not the main character, but he is a vital one. He is the reason the ship sets sail and the decider of the course it takes. He is the one pulling the strings and his obsession is the one pulling his strings. Ishmael is able to take this adventure, learn a lot because there is Captain Ahab. His power and his odd obsession make him one of the most interesting characters in the whole text. What causes the obsession? Why can’t he think about anything else? Is his obsession really worth putting his crew's lives in danger (and getting some killed)? A character with one dimension controls the entire text.
A starkly different character from Ahab is Shakespeare’s Othello. He is an honorable, stereotype-defying General that is drawn into a world of jealousy and manipulation. He does not pull the strings in the narrative, but has his strings pulled like a puppet. It has been argued the play is not Othello’s but his manipulative Captain, Iago. However, Iago could never stand alone as a character, he always needs a person to manipulate and ruin. It is Othello that gives the story purpose, it is Othello that gives Iago a path for destruction, it is Othello’s life we watch getting destroyed. Without Othello, there is no story.
These three characters have many similarities: they hold positions of power, they give the narrative purpose, and they have a name or self-identity to uphold. These three characters prove that flat does not mean boring or disposable. This suggests that there is a slight complexity to flat characters, not in their personality but in their relationship with the plot. The Oxford English Dictionary defines flat as “Spread out, stretched or lying at full length… Of a building or city: Level with the ground.” This definition has nothing to do with the literary world, but it does directly correlate to these characters. Each character is “spread out” or “stretched” in the sense that they are interweaved in the entire story. At the end of the day, fiction is not real but merely a construction. In the structure of their stories each of them (Harry, Captain Ahab or Othello) are the ground level—without them the rest of the narrative would crumble apart.
Whether you are reading or writing a novel, play, short story, don’t be too harsh on the flat characters. Their personality may be one dimensional, but often, their role is complex. It is the flat character’s role to teach lessons: the good win, the consumed live a half-life, and the jealous live in despair.
The next time you read a flat character, ask yourself why the writer made that decision. I would argue that most of the time it is not because they were not imaginative enough to create a rounded character, but that as a flat character, they serve a larger purpose in the plot. The next time you go to write a story, don’t feel that your main character has to be flat; perhaps, she or he will cause more of an impact as a predictable character. Examine the possibilities of the literary world—it’s inspiring.
Prologue Off the eastern coast of Ireland near the mouth of Galway Bay lay three small islands. Of these three, called the Aran Islands, the island of Inishmore is the largest. On Inishmore, at the edge of the sea atop, a sheer cliff one hundred meters high sits an Iron Age, semi-circular stone fort. The inland-facing fortifications of Dun Aengus guard nothing but a small slab of limestone ground. Some say the walls were once circular, but erosion long ago dropped half into the sea.
Whatever their histories, there now stand three, irregular inner walls, the inner most high and thick with a wall-walk for defenders. Beyond those is a Chevaux-de-fries—a wide row of large, sharp limestone slabs stuck deep in the ground every which-way making navigation through the thing impossible—and beyond the Chevaux-de-fries runs an outer wall covering fourteen acres.
Dun Aengus shook a fist at the horizon. Though defending nothing but an area big enough for a small condo, pool, and cabañas right along the cliff’s edge, certain its builders must have been that whatever foe saw from the sea such an imposing structure, they’d be sure to think twice before taking up arms against it.
When Ronny and I arrived in Key West, my mind wandered as it had when I lived in north Jersey, California, or Chicago—which by the way is a hell of a city to be in for St. Pat’s. I missed Belmar. With my missing, memories crowded my thoughts. For some reason, in Key West I thought about Sophie the most, about our last summer all those years ago, right after my adventure at Avon Ed’s featuring his Everly Brothers soundtrack and the two overly made–up, seventh grade girls.
After I paid my fines and left court—Ed didn’t leave jail for years—Sophie spoke one sentence to me for the next several weeks.
I loved Sophie. The first time I made love with the first woman I made love to, we conceived a beautiful baby girl. What happened to all that? I stopped asking years ago.
In the early sixties, my corruption of minors charge didn’t cause headlines in the Asbury Park Press—just a note in the police log. It didn’t even make the Coast Advertiser, a Belmar weekly favored by burglars that featured engagement, wedding, and fashion show photos along with blurbs about Mr. and Mrs. Blowhard Jones set to sail on the Queen Mary. My story had legs of its own.
I got shit from the under thirty, younger borough crew—some for being so stupid, some for not scoring jailbait pussy. The older men with children took it more seriously. I’m sure they said more behind my back. I was grateful for their restraint.
Away from the open kidding, silent looks followed me. A housewife poking her head out the door to watch Denny and I collect brush from her curb, a shopper at the Acme recognizing me and then leaving the aisle. I believed such people watched to make sure I witnessed their repugnance. At mass—the only time I got within five feet of Alice--all the eyes followed me back from communion. At first, my stare studied the carpet.
Then one Sunday I raised my eyes and looked back at them. I turned my head, swept the crowd and smiled. You stupid people don’t know about me. I looked at Mother and my sisters. Mother looked confused. After I married Sophie, Mother had told me, “My prayers have been answered.”
They sure as hell hadn’t involved a thirteen-year-old girl. I smiled wondering what request she’d sent up.
Denny said to me the day I got back to work, “Seamus, what were you thinking? What the hell’s the matter with you?”
We were picking up branches from around Silver Lake after a big thunderstorm. I put hands on his shoulders and led him to the other side of the truck, its big engine idling between my words and the houses across the street.
“It wasn’t all that bad.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“You hypocrite. We never asked what was wrong with us. What were we thinking? Besides, I barely touched —”
“Let go!” his arms flew up.
“I wasn’t holding you.”
I couldn’t tell Sophie to piss off. I wished she had said the equivalent to me. All I got was silence and something else—she would not leave me alone with Alice. From the time I got home from work until the time I went to bed, she would not leave me alone with Alice.
We rented a little cottage on Sussex and E—down west from Lisa and Robin’s place—and it had two tilt-ceiling, spares upstairs, the subject of Sophie’s one sentence: “I want you sleeping upstairs.”
I went along. If she felt that way, I was okay with it. I believed I deserved punishment. The shit I took at work and from Denny was one thing. That I could handle. When Sophie rushed to Alice, the second she heard me close the front door home from work every weekday and Saturday afternoon, it tore my heart. She’d scoop Alice up from her Bozo Blocks or from her nap, hold her tight, and look up at God or the ceiling on the way to the kitchen.
That was her fortress. She’d latch the little swing gate I’d put in the kitchen doorway to keep Alice out of the kitchen and away from the hot stove while mommy cooked. Now the gate kept Alice in and me out. Before I’d sit at our little table, Alice in her highchair with some finger food, sip a beer and keep the girls company as Sophie prepared dinner.
I got tired of that damn fast. I started to wish they’d sent me away for a time like old Ed. There wasn’t a drop of patience in me, and in my anger and resentment, I began to search for a petty crime. A cigar smoked on a deserted boardwalk bench, a whiskey bottle hidden in a ceramic drainpipe. I wasn’t looking for absolution. Just some accommodation.
I picked an after-work drinking session with Joe Foster and Butch Peters, two men in their thirties, working men by then well-worn from the twin grinding wheels of routine and cynicism.
“If she won’t let you in the fucking kitchen to get a beer, what choice is there?” Joe said to me one afternoon at Tessinger’s. He bunched burly shoulders and slapped back blond hair from his forehead.
“She’ll be pissed I’m spending money out.”
“No choice,” Butch answered. Short and dark haired, tattoos covered his forearms. At two hundred and fifty pounds with hands like vice grips, Butch lived up to his nickname. His real name was Herbert. I saw exactly one unfortunate man call him Herbie.
He laughed without opening his mouth and spilling his tobacco juice. Most mornings Butch brought a pint of Mogan David 20 proof wine—Mad Dog 20/20—with him to work. He wore his thinning hair combed straight back—a duck’s ass without the duck’s front.
“Fuckin’ bitches,” Joe mused.
“Not for me,” Butch shook his head. “That’s your problem right there,” he pointed at my beer glass.
“That’s your problem. Set us up,” he waggled a hand back and forth from my Rheingold to his.
“Usual, Butch?” The bartender said. His bow tie was the real thing, not clip-on. He put ice in two glasses and poured us two Canadian Clubs. Each time he held the pour spout over the shot glass, turned the glass when full, and for a fraction of a second held the spout down as the whiskey coated the ice.
Far from a first taste of liquor—that was Sean Hanlon’s concealed Irish—this was the start of my summer with the three-headed monster: booze, perceived slights, and anger. Before that, drinking had been a cold one after coming home, beers on nights out, at ballgames with friends. I discovered the more whiskey I drank, the more people wronged me.
My last drinks were neat—Butch kept buying—and by then I was too interested in how he managed to drink whiskey with chewing tobacco in his mouth to give a damn about the time.
On my way home, I thought of running because I knew I was late. That was a mistake. All that Canadian came up next to a sycamore tree down the block from home. I was so pissed off and proud of my crime, I hoped Sophie heard and recognized my up-chuck.
She hadn’t, but she had locked the front door. Keys were a problem. They dropped, and then stuck in groups, refusing to become individuals. I thought about windows, the back door, waking Alice.
When Sophie hit the porch light and opened the door, saw the vomit on my legs and shoes thanks to that sycamore, she finally spoke.
“Come in,” she said. I don’t remember anything else about that night except a vague feeling of triumph at her words.
Next day, after my head and I got home from work and Hanley’s Liquor Store, the kitchen gate was gone. I was free to pass.
I opened up my first-ever bottle of house-kept liquor—a bottle of Bushmills—poured some into a Flintstones glass, took a sip, and waited, almost hoping for Sophie to say one word.
I grabbed a can of Schaefer, stuck in the can opener, and when the steel opened up pop, Alice turned in her high chair, made her happy, high-pitched cooing noise, and said, “Daddy home.”
I was home. I’d broken through the obstacles. I’d dealt at mass with Mother, the Marys, and the congregation, at work with Denny and the others.
I was so goddamn certain of everything I opened up a second hole in my can, took a long-day pull and smiled at Alice, “Yup, Daddy’s home,” because nothing could touch me.
Safe behind my walls, I walked out the front door, gazed down the street, and shook my fist at the horizon. All summer, bottle by bottle, my fortress grew.
That same summer I first brought liquor into our home, my fellow borough workers Joe and Butch smelled blood. If they had their way, no man should be married. No man should have any contact with the opposite sex other than fornication. Most of all, no man should stoop to or go out of his way to speak with a woman. Fuck ‘em, leave ‘em, drink. Their fins circled me each day at quitting time.
“Where the fuck you going?” Butch asked when I climbed on my bike.
“Home to honey to make nice-nice. Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness.” Joe’s head swirled with John Wayne movie quotes.
One day I told them,“ You two are like the Three Stooges episode where they join the Woman Haters club. Down with every fellow who sings my life, my love, my all.”
“ Come down to the Sander with us. We’ll have you home by six.”
The Sander was a bar on F Street and Sussex. In those days, Belmar wasn’t bar happy. There were just a few places in town and practically nowhere to drink along the beachfront. On F Street, you could find luncheonettes, drug stores, barbershops, gas stations, and car showrooms. We even had a movie theater—the Rivoli. It sat right next to the Sugar Bowl where the elementary school kids went for sodas, shakes, and burgers.
Joe and Butch would fill me with whiskey and degrading stories about girls they knew in town. Some nights by the time I got home, I felt so tired and loaded I hit the sack without dinner. Maybe a few complaints about what money had disappeared from the checkbook before I crashed. It wasn’t every night, but it was regular.
One hot Saturday—we worked six days a week—Joe, Butch and me got off work at noon. We hit the Sander. The beer went down cold and fast. Three cigars later—in those days I went through maybe ten Swisher Sweets a day—I realized Sophie and I were supposed to go to her parents for a cookout. I paid up, hopped on my bike, and headed home.
The place was locked. A note taped to the door read “At Mom and Dad’s.”
Sophie’s parents lived on Inlet Terrace. Their house would have held three or so of our rental cottage. Inlet Terrace surrounded a manufactured lagoon. Ocean water flowed in from Shark River Inlet. In 1918, the lagoon witnessed past and future Olympic Gold Medal winner Duke Kahanamoku compete against swimmers from the New York Athletic Club. I didn’t know him then, but Ronny grew up on the Terrace, a few doors down from my in-laws.
Sophie’s father, Carmen Constantine, owned an awning business. Almost every house on the Terrace and every big rooming house on the north end of town had awnings, and Carmen made them all. His father started the business. The house had been his and his wife’s. They croaked within weeks of each other—Carmen called it a lover’s ending even though both had been senile for years—and the house and business passed to him.
Sophie’s mother, Rosemary, a very shy Italian woman—not exactly common—had been married before she hooked up with Carmen. Rosemary had Sophie and Carmen Jr., who enjoyed his old man only when they installed awnings on different houses. Sophie, though, wasn’t the apple of Carmen’s eye. She was the whole goddamn orchard. Sophia, he called her. Never Sophie.
Visiting my in-laws' gave me as much pleasure as trying to explain a baseball game to two foreign gymnasts. Carmen Jr. had his own place, and he never hung around home. That left Sophie, her parents, and me, the handsome blond working-class Irish kid married to the dark-haired, wealthy beauty. Every one of my friends told me you’re the luckiest bastard in town to be married to Sophie.
Two hours late, I coasted down their driveway.
Carmen, Rosemary, and Sophie sat in the backyard around a table. A bright yellow umbrella with white fringe shaded them. On the table sat tall, weeping drinks; cheese, crackers, veggie sticks and dip underneath a cute, little bug net; and of course Carmen’s big cigar ashtray. Carmen’s cigars were long and fat enough to splint a broken forearm.
Alice slept in her portable playpen underneath her very own umbrella. The thought of Alice toddling into the lagoon scared Sophie to death.
In the driveway, I set my bike’s kickstand and started down the yard.
“There he is,” Carmen roared in his boss voice, “better late than later.” He wore shorts too tight for his belly; knee-high, white socks; and seersucker button-down. Stocky, with thick forearms and grey flecked, curly hair, he practiced ways of letting you know he was in charge.
“You’ll wake Alice,” Rosemary shushed. Hair beauty-shop perfect, my mother-in-law always smiled when she spoke, but a second later her eyes would fall and smile fade as if someone had just told her to shut up. For the two years I knew her, I never saw her wear the same dress twice.
Carmen stood up from the table and walked over to Alice. He put hands on knees and peered down.
“Alice. What kind of a name is that for my granddaughter? Makes me think of that Alice in Wonderland.”
“ Hello, all,” I said. Carmen looked me up and down after he checked his watch. Rosemary got up and gave me her usual tentative hug.
“How are you, dear?” Rosemary looked up at me as if I’d just fallen down stairs.
I stood there. “Great. Worked hard today.”
“ Work hard or hardly worked?” Carmen laughed. After about three highballs, he fancied himself the Lithuanian Jack Benny.
I walked over to Sophie. As soon as I got close enough to touch her, she straightened and said “Hi,” before walking back to the table where she sat down and dipped a carrot stick.
“Sorry I’m late.” I sat across from Sophie.
She turned her cute little upturned nose towards daddy. “What time are we eating, Popa?”
“Any time you want. Everything’s been marinating. All I have to do is start the coals. You want me to start them, Sophia?”
“ One of us could probably stand to eat something.”
“ Yes, I think so,” Rosemary chimed. “Come on, Carm. Let’s you and me go get the sausage and peppers.” She practically pulled Carmen out of his chair. They walked together up the yard.
Their house had very steep back steps—twenty or more between two halves of white, concrete terraces full of flowers. Twin garage doors stood under the house’s first floor. A curled, concrete retaining wall rose from the driveway up to the top of the right hand garage door. Privet hedges bordered each side of the yard, which narrowed slightly before it reached the bulkhead walkway along the lagoon.
As soon as the back door closed, Sophie started. I looked straight ahead. It was easier to quarrel if I didn’t see her. Our good looks were all we had.
“We talked about this for days. Don’t be late Saturday. Papa’s going to offer you a position. Please don’t be late.”
“ I know. I’m sorry. Is Rosemary pissed off?”
“ I don’t know. Papa is.”
“ Carmen’s been pissed since he gave you away. How long have we been married?”
“ Two years.”
“ Spell that first word.”
“ Too many letters. Did your father put a cooler out?”
I’ll say this for him. Carmen always set up a cooler full of beer for me when I came over. Carling Black Label. He never touched beer—booze before the meal, then wine with it.
“He likes you more than you know. Why don’t you take his offer? It would mean more money for us.”
I grabbed a cold one. An opener hung from the cooler handle. “I don’t want to work for my father-in-law.” With a festive pop, beer sprayed from my can.
“He wants you to learn the business.”
“I don’t want to install awnings.”
“He wants to teach you about business.”
“He wants you to have more money.”
“He wants to teach you—”
“He wants his daughter to have more pretty things.”
“Stubborn,” Sophie said. “Bull-headed.”
“You can’t set things right for yourself by doing somebody else’s idea of what’s right.”
Oh, my. Did I see the irony in my words? Of course not. Even though my father died before I married Sophie, when we found out she was pregnant, I did what my father would have thought was right.
My wife poked me so I would turn. I looked into her eyes.
“Here they come. Think about it. For me, will you? For us?”
“ You two settle down? You ready to enjoy the evening now?” Carmen put the platter of sausage and peppers on the table—long, fresh sausage thick as an eel and giant red peppers sliced in half.
Alice yawned awake just as three ducks flew out of the lagoon. They waddled around the yard. Lying on her tummy, peaking at them through the playpen mesh, Alice jabbered, pointing at the ducks as they surveyed the territory.
“Get outta here!” Waving his arms, Carmen ran at the ducks. “Filthy things. They shit all over my boat.”
“ Little ears listen and repeat,” Sophie said.
“Sorry, Sophia. You’re right.” Carmen went over to the playpen and lifted up Alice.
“Is she wet?” Rosemary asked.
Carmen patted Alice’s bottom. He smiled and made some cooing noises, his forehead touching Alice’s. “You take her,” he brought her to Rosemary. “Give her mamma a break, huh? I got coals to light.”
He poured out charcoal from a big bag into his grill, circled lighter fluid around a few times, and tossed on a match. The flames rose up. Little curlicue puffs of soot lifted into the air, twisting in the fire’s heat.
With the coals going, he came back to the table, filled his highball with ice, poured four thick fingers of gin, and then fizzed the glass with tonic. He squeezed a wedge of lime into the drink and brought a chair and his cigar ashtray next to Sophie.
“While your mother’s inside I have to tell you. You remember the Hoopers? Three houses down?”
Sophie gazed out at the lagoon. She sipped her ice tea. “Sure.”
“You heard Helena, the daughter, died.”
“Did you hear how she died?”
“She had a seizure. She was an epileptic, right?”
Carmen lit his cigar. The smoke curled and blew at me across the table. “This I got from Joe Dane, the next door neighbor.” He looked across at me. “You don’t know these people, James. The Hoopers, Ida and Samuel, an elderly couple, had a daughter, Helena. She was early fifties when she passed. This woman played the harp. A harpist, good enough to play Carnegie Hall. Unfortunately, she suffered from epilepsy. The Hoopers are Christian Scientists. You know what that means?”
“ They run a newspaper?”
Carmen didn’t even blink at wisecracks. “No. They don’t believe in doctors. No medicine. Everything’s in God’s hands. Helena lived with her parents. Samuel rarely left the house. Sometimes, Joe Dane told me, he’d see old Samuel through a window. A long, white beard down to his chest, all stooped over. Joe would see Ida moon bathing in the nude on their veranda. This Ida took the cake. One summer a few years back, she had fences installed across both sides of her bulkhead walkway. Nobody could walk all the way around the lagoon to visit neighbors. Remember, Sophia?”
He took a long pull on his highball, puffed a few times, and started again.
“When Helena was little, Samuel Hooper bought this house of theirs for Ida. For Valentine’s Day. Look at the house sometime. It’s three houses down. Slate roof, terraced veranda in back. Just a beautiful place. They gave Helena private lessons. Like I said, she became a professional, a concert harpist. She never married, never left home. Samuel and Ida watched their daughter grow from a child into a middle-age spinster right in the same house. Of course, they grew old right along with Helena.
“Ida was always strange. I’ve been on the Terrace longer than Joe and Phyllis Dane, so I know. Before the nude moon bathing and fences, there were stories. As kids, we threw an egg or three at the Hooper house more than a few mischief nights. We never saw Samuel, but Ida came out to curse us. She poisoned dogs that crapped in her yard. Mrs. Hancock, I think, paid for an autopsy.
“This is what Joe told me. It wasn’t in the papers. Even the cops hushed it up. Joe told me several days before Helena supposedly passed, he noticed a peculiar odor coming from the Hooper’s during that hot spell we had in June. Joe didn’t think much of it. Probably they haven’t been seeing to their trash. That’s what Joe’s wife, Phyllis, said. Trash day came and went. Joe saw Ida haul out a can and carry it back the same day after collection. One thing struck him odd: as hot as it was, Ida wore a coat. She wore shorts with a heavy, woolen coat.
“Days passed. The smell didn’t go away. Then one night, Ida ran screaming out of the house. She staggered over to Joe and Phyllis’ place and rang the doorbell, screaming her eyes out. Joe answered while Phyllis called the cops. What he saw in the porch light took years off his life. That’s the way he put it. Ida’s hands, arms, and the inside of her forearms up to the elbows were burned. Her skin was blistered, blood red in places. She shivered, crying for help. Minutes later the cops, ambulance, and practically every municipal vehicle with BELMAR FIRST AID written on it showed up at Hooper’s.
“They found Samuel in his wheelchair in the living room-dining area, along with a cot set up for him to sleep on. He didn’t know what day it was. They found Helena upstairs in her room on the bed, her body surrounded by bricks, some of them still hot. Bricks heated in the oven downstairs and carried upstairs by Ida to warm the deceased body of her daughter. Four days this went on. Helena was the smell. No telling how long it might have continued if Ida thought to use potholders.”
I don’t remember much about the cook out that night at my in-laws'. After that story Carmen told about Ida Hooper, I watched him sear those sausage and peppers on his grill. I didn’t eat. As daylight waned, Rosemary poured Carmen into bed before she drove Sophie and Alice home. Who knows what they discussed? I rode my bike.
I do remember the conversation between Sophie and me from the moment I opened my front door until I went upstairs to a spare room.
“You couldn’t say one word,” she said from the kitchen.
“Not one. Not even, I’ll think about it, Carmen. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“ The job again.”
“ The job again. Just who do you think’s going to hire you after what happened with that girl?”
“ I thought we weren’t going to bring that up again. Nothing happened.”
Sophie came out from the kitchen. She held a dishtowel. “I’m bringing it up.”
I thought she was drying her hands. She squeezed the towel as if trying to take life’s air from it.
“What are you doing?”
“Let me see.”
She spun around and hurried into the kitchen. I followed her. She ran the sink faucet, her hands underneath. When I came close, I saw blood swirl with water down the drain.
“What did you do?”
“I cut myself.”
“Let me see.”
She covered the back of her left hand with her right. I couldn’t see where the blood came from. She twisted her back to me. “It’s fine.”
She looked up. “Just leave me alone. Look,” she turned and showed me, “it’s nothing.”
Blood ran from a gash behind her knuckles. She returned her hands to the stream.
“Take your hands out of the water.”
I moved to pull her arm. She twisted back.
I saw the layers of white skin peel back under the faucet stream. “That’s going to need stitches. How the hell did you do it?”
“ I don’t know.” She kept her hand under the water.
In my twenties, I morphed into a logical, professor-type when intoxicated. Nothing could happen without reasonable explanation. “What do you mean you don’t know? How do you cut yourself on the back of your hand and not know?”
“ I just did! There’s the knife!” she pointed.
On the drain board in plain sight. How did I miss it?
“What were you cutting? Turn off the water. Put pressure on it.” I looked at her hand again. “You need to get stitches.”
She snatched a towel from the rack on the stove’s door, put it on the gash, and walked out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
Our bedroom door slammed. I heard the bolt slip.
“Sophie?” I said to the door. I tried the knob. It turned, but the bolt held the door shut. “Sophie. You need to get stitches.”
“ It’s fine,” she sighed. “Go to bed. It’s fine.”
“ Are you sure?” Nothing. I waited, turned the knob one more time. “Call me if you need me.”
I went in the kitchen expecting to find a gory mess. A thin line of red ran down from a single drip on the baseboard into the white porcelain sink. I picked up the knife—one of the steak knives from the set we received as a wedding present. After two years, we still kept some of our gifts displayed prominently. The box of steak knives sat on the countertop next to the toaster. I opened the flip top. Sure enough, one knife missing. Case solved.
I opened the refrigerator. If I leaned some weight against its door, I could open the big handle quietly. Same for shutting it. This was way before magnetic doors—old fridges used to be death traps for kids.
A beer in each fist, I headed for my banishment room. I forgot the can opener. Back to the kitchen. Why not a drop of Bushmills to help me sleep? On the top shelf, right behind the Quaker Oats. Then up the stairs I went.
The rest of that night is bits and pieces. I don’t know if a young drinker’s brain is more nimble than an older drinker’s. Perhaps the young brain has more cells. With the help of memory mixed with a police report, I pieced together the evening’s follies.
After finishing my beers, I softly closed my room door. The ceiling spun. I moved into temporary sleep before a new darkness stopped the spinning—walking west, headed for F Street. The Sander started the deluge, so I headed there. Just a few blocks. I practiced walking straight on the way to F Street, had it down pat by the time storefronts and cars lighted my world.
The Sander offered an atmosphere of dimmed drinking. Walking in from F Street left me blind. My eyes had to grow accustomed to the darkness. Two machines lit the place—a jukebox at the far end of the bar and a bowling machine—some people call it shuffles bowling—stood against the wall opposite the bar. The only other source of illumination came from underneath the bar where the rack booze, glasses, and sinks lived. I took a barstool.
Once I could see, I counted five people in the place including the bartender. In the dim glow lifting from below him, he might have passed for Lionel Atwill in “Son of Frankenstein.”
I knew all the old horror classics. They ran on WOR-TV’s Million Dollar Movie. Either that or WPIX-TV’s Chiller Theatre hosted by Zacherly. One show Zacherly talked to a cubic foot of quivering Jell-O during every commercial break. It’s alive, it’s alive!
“What’ll you have?” Old Lionel blinked a few times as he watched me, waiting for me to twinge a finger.
I didn’t know what I wanted.
“I asked you what’ll it be.”
“Ah, Rheingold draft.”
He huffed a breath out, brought a draft glass from underneath, and pulled the tap. “You got ID?”
I took out my license along with a dollar from my wallet. He leaned down into the bar light to read my birthday aloud from my license. He placed my beer on a coaster before he took my money.
“Outta one.” The cash register dinged. A white, pointed .25 tab lifted up.
“Excuse me. I wanted a mug of Rheingold.”
He put three quarters and a nickel on the bar next to my beer. “You ordered a Rheingold draft. I gave you a Rheingold draft.”
“ I meant a mug. Mug’s a better deal.”
“ Look, pretty boy. You want a mug; I’ll give you a mug. It’ll cost you another forty cents.”
“ A mug’s almost two drafts.”
“ Boy’s got you there, Phil,” a voice said. I turned my eyes. It was one of two men down the bar.
Phil laughed to himself. He moved down the bar to the voice. The jukebox came to life—some country song I didn’t know. The cowboy singing the song lost his woman. The bar lost my interest. I gulped down my beer, belched, and stood up to move on.
I walked about two doors down before it hit me. Pretty boy. Or just boy. One person could call me boy—my father. Nobody in the Sander filled that prescription. I turned around to go back inside. Perceived slights plus anger.
The patron from the end of the bar, the one who called me boy, had his back to the front door. It was his turn on the bowling machine. Leaning forward, he bent to slide the metal disc back and forth in rhythm with the flashing red bonus lights that pulsed above the pins. I stood alongside the machine. I planted both hands on its side edge. His eyes up, he followed the light a few more times. Then he straightened to look at me.
“Could you move?”
I folded my arms. “Ninth frame, huh?”
“Yeah.” He moved the disc back and forth, back and forth.
His opponent sat behind me at the bar. Phil had his face buried in the bulldog edition of the Daily News. I watched the disc slide into the pins—only one ding. I looked. I leaned back on the machine and bent my head down. He had a 7-10 split.
I grinned at him, “You know how to make that?”
He stared at the pins before turning to me. “Will you get out of the way?”
“Out of the way who?”
“Who? What’d you call me before?”
“ I didn’t call you anything.”
Behind me, I heard a newspaper rustle.
“Yeah, you did.”
Behind me again, “Easy, boy.”
“Okay,” I held up both hands, took a half step toward the bowler, and snapped my right fist at his face. Well, if you’re right handed, especially if you’re drunk, don’t ever lead with your right. He hit me on the chin, and then I half fell, half stumbled into a good punch just above my eye—I had a lump over my eyebrow the next morning. I managed to grab his hair to knock his head against the wall.
Then I was on my back with an ass in my face. Somebody held both of my legs out straight. I got turned onto my stomach with what felt like an elephant near the bottom of my neck until the cops came. I remember getting comfortable with the weight on my back and not being happy about the cops cuffing me, standing me on my feet, or giving me the bum’s rush into their cruiser.
I acted very docile after my arrest. I kept my voice low and pleasant. I threw out an occasional comment about familiar members of the Belmar PD, not to mention the DPW.
My night in jail cost me one week’s suspension from work. I received two citations, public intoxication, and disorderly conduct. That kept me in booze for a good month courtesy of Joe and Butch, who didn’t mind switching to Tessinger’s. I was no longer welcome in the Sander.
I had found my anger. I didn’t realize its source at the time. Up until my father died, I can remember watching guys get into fights. I stood back and laughed. Except directed at myself,
anger just didn’t live in me. Born in Sean Hanlon’s death, fortified by labels and self-doubt, my anger grew steadily that summer.
I began to play pool at Tessinger’s and other bars. Pool, alcohol, and time became my anger’s fertilizers. The pool table—my phosphorus. I’d root to that son of a bitch for hours. One more game, Seamus. One more game. All that alcohol became my nitrogen. It allowed my anger and resentment to grow, to bear fruit—fisticuffs, missing teeth, facial abrasions. The time away from my wife and child became my potassium. My resentment grew stronger with each missed meal, each lost first of my daughter’s childhood.
Then in the fall, I left. Just like that. I got an off-season room rate at the Commodore, fixed Chef Boyardee on a hot plate, and washed my dirty dishes in the common shower. Sophie did fine. Carmen gave her a job and paid her rent until she got on her feet. She had boyfriends but nothing permanent until Alice graduated from third grade. She lives with her husband, Stan, up near Long Branch. She visits Alice all the time.
How to accommodate people—I learned that from my mother. My father had two summer rituals. At ten, I thought both were secrets. The first happened weeknights just before we all sat down to dinner. He would sneak out the front door, go behind an old shed in our backyard, and take a gulp from a bottle of Powers Irish whiskey hidden in a broken ceramic drainpipe. On Friday and Saturday, Mother let him drink in the house, but other nights were work nights.
Just before her serrated knife sawed through the center of two frozen blocks of Birds Eye peas she would call, “I’m putting on the vegetables!” loud enough to erase the fire siren. She didn’t tolerate lies so she gave him escape routes. Some secret. Our neighbor’s dog knew. Why else announce that she was too busy risking a finger to notice him go out the door? To give him a chance to go out there, drink, and then wash the whiskey off his breath with the garden hose. No household detail, however small and unimportant to my father, my sisters, or me escaped Mother’s eye. We kept two flowerpots on the front steps. Mother noticed that my sister Teresa planted seven marigolds in one and five in the other. But hose water washed away whiskey breath. Not for me when I tried it.
The old man’s second ritual came after dark. He took walks down to the boardwalk. He always went alone and left my mother home with us children. I timed his trips. One day I borrowed my mother’s watch and walked to the beach instead of riding my bike. I doubled my time and came up with my father’s usual time of absence—minus seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes over six blocks—to a ten year old the possibilities were endless. At first, I figured he strolled, but he was an athletic man—wiry and quick—a shade under six feet. Secret destinations came to me—places forbidden. Mother never questioned him about the walks.
She would say, “See you soon.”
One night I worked up the courage to sneak out past my curfew and follow him. He stuck to Waterfront all the way. Man, I shook all over. No way could I let him spot me. It was mid-July, and the closer we got to the beach, the more the sidewalk filled with people. One block from Ocean Ave the streetlights along the boardwalk cast beams of welcome. He walked across Ocean Ave to the boardwalk. I stopped four or so houses short and sat on a rooming house step. He walked right up to the old pavilion—a white-columned monster looking west from the beach. The boardwalk ran alongside and behind it. Bright yellow bulbs shown under WW I helmet-shaped lamps, and inside white light filled a ballroom stacked with folding wooden chairs.
My father disappeared into the front entrance. I had to get closer, but I sure as hell didn’t want him to catch me, so I waited until I could get lost in a group of teenagers crossing to the boards. A milkshake mixed inside me. Everything looked bright, and the noise of voices coming from every direction moved me closer to the pavilion wall. When I turned around the northeast corner, I saw Dad.
He sat on a bench facing the ocean, arms stretched over on the bench’s back. His legs spread out straight. Smoke rose from his head. I smelled a cigar. Cigarettes were tolerated in the house—not cigars. He didn’t bother to take it out of his mouth. He just puffed as he looked out at the water. After a while, he reached the cigar up and let the breeze flick the ash. It blew back, split, and rolled on the boards like mini tumbleweeds.
Just my luck—he stood up and snuffed the stub too fast for me to beat him across Ocean Ave. He walked through the pavilion. I had to wait until he started down Waterfront, then I cut over to Seaside and had to haul ass to cut ahead of him. I got in the door, puffing, sweaty. I put my back against the mudroom wall and felt my legs go rubbery. Five seconds later, there was Mother.
“You’re grounded Saturday. If your father knows, it’ll be more.” I rolled with it. For her solving secrets was child’s play, lies grounds for excommunication. That was why she never told a soul she surprised Denny Sullivan and me. Just to accommodate my sisters, my father, and me.
I worshiped him. In his presence, I had a simple, silent respect—mass without the incense, bells, and Latin. Sean Hanlon’s nave was the kitchen, his trinity whiskey, questions and cigarettes. For hymns a flicked matchbook skipped atop our kitchen table from right hand to left and back.
On Fridays, he called his family to confession. One at a time, we sat in the dark across the kitchen table from him. First, my mother, Meagan, was asked about the household money, which she managed. Then my two older sisters, Teresa and Mary Ellen, about their boyfriends or school, and I about my future. The old man ran out of steam by the time Mary Jean came along.
Sometimes Mary Ellen hid and cried, and Teresa, being the oldest and wisest, called one of her many boyfriends to come get her the hell away from the house. Teresa never dated boys who didn’t own a reliable car. Sometimes it felt like Sean just warmed up on Teresa and Mary Ellen. He saved his best stuff—his high heat and nasty, twelve-to-six curve—for me.
He’d been an All-Star pitcher for perhaps St. Rose’s best team ever—they won the state title his junior year. He still holds the school record for most strikeouts career and single season. As a freshman, he led the varsity in wins. According to newspaper clippings, he chucked so fast batters had to sit dead red, and then in his sophomore year his curveball turned into a real yacker. Major League scouts began sniffing around. By senior year, they were at every game with their notepads. Sean made the Asbury Park Press sports pages all spring that year, even after the season ended.
That spring Miss Meagan Kinney accompanied him to the prom. Just before graduation, Sean must have been salivating. A scout could sign him when he had a diploma. He never signed with anybody. Sean and Meagan married in June, and six months later Teresa made her debut. When Mary Ellen came along, everybody worried about the war in Europe. I showed up a week before Pearl Harbor. Five years after me came Mary Jean. Mother called her “Our miracle.”
Sean joined the service but never went overseas. Two atomic bombs settled his service time. After that, he became what they used to call a handy man—odd jobs from roofing to small gas engine repairs. When TVs came around, he went to school and learned all about them. I remember in the fifties he’d come home with his fat, black kit that opened like a suitcase. It was full of tubes—big ones and little ones in orange boxes with numbers printed on the ends. My father repaired something not found in his own home.
I fell in love with Mickey Mantle and the New York Yankees from magazine photographs and newspapers. Dad didn’t share my feelings.
“An overpaid draft dodger,” he called Mickey. “He’d hit lefty off me, and with that uppercut I’d hang his ass out to dry. Curves in the dirt all day.”
I went through Little League and Babe Ruth. Dad came to every game. He’d stand behind the wire backstop in front of the stands. I tried to knock every pitch over the fence just like Mickey.
“You’re swinging too hard,” he would say.
He spoke in his homily voice from the kitchen table—not loud or scolding—just a simple statement of fact from a position of authority. Marriage is a sacrament. God will forgive you. You’re swinging too hard. He didn’t say it too often, but I heard it every pitch.
By the time I turned twenty, the old man’s kitchen liturgies made it clear he wanted me out and on my own. I tooled around in a ’55 Chevy two-tone and hung out with Denny Sullivan. We worked for the DPW, borough of Belmar. Denny and I were tan, blond, and free. We shared everything until that afternoon Mother discovered I forgot to lock my door.
All twenty of those years, we lived in a little house on Waterfront Ave on the west side of F Street. In the summer when we had neighbors over—it only took about ten people to fill our backyard—cigarette smoke hung in the thick humidity right along with the smoke from our deluxe barbeque with a handle that turned and blew air from under and up through the coals.
Whiskey in one hand, cigarette in his mouth, Sean would crank that handle as if sounding an air raid. Sparks and ash shot up until Mother would suggest, “No one likes soot on their burger.” Right after the ’61 Series—the year of the M&M Boys—my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. He died before I married Sophie.
The house on Waterfront was sold, and my mother took the ‘Marys’ with her to Cape May County—Teresa had her own brood by then up in Bernardsville. Mother and the Marys used the money from the house and Sean’s pension and Social Security to start a little craft shop. Mary Ellen did the crafts, Mary Jean did the floor work, and Mother kept the books. She passed nine years ago in 1978. By then both Marys were married. They saw to Mother’s needs at the end. At the time, I lived in California. Mom’s buried in Tinton Falls right next to Dad.
Late one night after my father received his diagnosis, he called me into the kitchen. I was half-asleep. He didn’t say anything for a long time. “Are you interested in a burial plot?” he asked finally. “I have an option on six for any of the family who wants one. They’re not together. Three are right next to each other, then three off to one side.”
I sat there and watched the clock. It hung on the wall right above the table, the cord trailing down and disappearing down to the plug. I wanted to say something, but what answer could I give?
He lit a cigarette from the glow of his old one. He poured whiskey from the bottle into a shot glass. The liquid stopped a breath from the rim. He put down the bottle, took away an open hand, and moved it to the glass. Fingers found it. He lifted the glass to sip.
“Never mind,” he let out a breath. “Never mind.”
It’s the same in my dream. I don’t say a word. I’ve been having it for years. I had it when I came out of the anesthesia after my surgery.
Here’s the dream.
I’m still a boy. We’re at the kitchen table, the old chrome-edged and red-metal top table. It’s just my father and I. It’s summer, and it’s dark. The back door is open, the half-screen door letting in outside sounds—cars and voices. I can see his outline against the white refrigerator. When there aren’t cars passing, I can hear the humming of the condenser and his breathing, the pull of his cigarette filter from his lips, the disheartened blowing out of the smoke. He turns the cigarette against the ashtray’s side, sharpening its burning tip to a point before lifting it again to his mouth.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
He always speaks as he exhales as if the words have formed in his lungs from the cigarette smoke. He asks other things. They’re never specific, never a question with an easy answer to get the conversation going. Sometimes in the dream, I get angry and want to leave, but it’s like a nightmare where I can’t run away. I’m frozen in the chair. Other times I want to speak, to ask him why he keeps me here at this table in the dark when I have things to do. I hear my friends outside—Hank Mariucci and Kenny Blalock.
“What are you going to do with your life?”
Holding the beer bottle’s neck, he slowly traces a circle with the base’s edge. He moves the bottle so the tiny groves in its base rumble over the table’s center crack. Then his cigarette smears in the ashtray, “What the hell’s the difference?”
That’s when I want to speak. That’s something I can answer. He’s talking about himself, about what a failure he thinks he is. But he can’t see himself as I see him. I want to tell him that. It doesn’t make any difference to me, Dad. It’s okay; we’re okay. I want to say it, but I can’t. That’s the one constant. In all my other dreams, I still have my speaking voice, but in this one, I can’t speak a word.
Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek stated, "For me science fiction is a way of thinking, a way of logic that bypasses a lot of nonsense. It allows people to look directly at important subjects." Science fiction is an expansive genre that explores the impact of imagined or actual science on society (Merriam Webster). A platform inspires curiosity through stories that demonstrate what could be created and what could become of society. Unfounded technological advances displayed in literary and visual mediums are responsible for the advances in technology and culture in modern society. Authors such as Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and Ray Bradbury imagined tools and predicted changes in society that have become truths. Furthermore, Star Trek and Star Wars inspired experts in the science industry to turn fantasy into reality. Fields like communication, entertainment, space travel, and transportation expanded drastically due to the science fiction genre. In addition, the culture of society has been indirectly influenced, as well. Science fiction has walked off the pages and out of the screen to influence the progression of society culturally and technologically.
Science fiction is responsible for aiding in positive changes in the culture of modern society. For example, racial tension was relieved during the Civil Rights movement with the help of Star Trek and Martin Luther King Jr. Uhura, Nichelle Nichols considered quitting the show but Martin Luther King Jr. convinced her to stay because it set African Americans equal with Caucasians, plus it was the first non-stereotypical role given to an African American actor (Soylent Communications). Setting African Americans equal to Caucasians in a widely recognizable television show proved to society (one that was confused with racial matters) that equality is best way for harmonious interpersonal relationships on all levels.
Of all of the parts of society, the field of technology is the most impacted by science fiction. Multiple fields including communication, home entertainment, space travel, and transportation are improved because of the fantastical ideas presented in the science fiction genre. Communication increased mobility and efficiency with the invention of the cellular telephone. The cell phone is credited to the "communicator" that was used in the television series Star Trek. The communicator allowed Captain Kirk to wirelessly contact other starships throughout the galaxy. The inventor of cell phones, Martin Cooper credits Star Trek as the major source of inspiration while developing the new technology (Lawinski). The cellular phone enables people to stay in touch regularly and it is considered the must have tool of modern society. Moreover, the cell phone is surpassing the amount of landlines, which indicates that it is a very influential piece of equipment (Associated Press). The expansion of communication is only one of the many fields that have been directly impacted by science fiction.
In addition to communication being impacted by science fiction, the use of home entertainment became a major pastime in society. Big screen televisions and interactive games were present in Ray Bradbury's dystopic Fahrenheit 451. The people in Fahrenheit 451 were entertained in the "parlor" that was surrounded by large screens on the walls, much like the big screen televisions that are found in many American homes today. Television is a method that people use to zone out, unlike books, which are reliant on the person's mind to comprehend. In Fahrenheit 451 the characters relate books as controllable mediums and television (any electronic entertainment, too) as a tool that engulfs oneself until time itself is forgotten (Bradbury 119). A deep look at modern society would indicate that the dystopia that Bradbury predicted in his novel is rapidly proving itself. Unfortunately, the impact of science fiction on tools such as cell phones, computers, video games, and televisions negatively influences society's desire to invest time in reading and other mind requiring activities. As the technology increases, the human's ability to do less work it also decreases the ability for society to improve on an intellectual level (Associated Press). Home entertainment's influence on society seems minute when considering science fictions impact on space travel and transportation.
Two main components that contribute to the well-being of society (and perhaps curiosity), space travel and methods of transportation are heavily influenced by science fiction books and movies. Space travel is an important technology to harvest and was influenced by all forms of science fiction. For example, George Melies "A Trip to the Moon," a small film about traveling to the moon inspired today's engineers to create ships that can indeed travel to the moon. Society's longing for knowing more about the universe used movies such as this to spark space wars(who can achieve space travel first) between countries. Much of the influence on space travel stems from the curiosity that many science fiction books and movies instilled in the society's elite minds. It seems to be just fiction, but the question 'could it be true' lingers in the industry. Moreover, it is important that society investigate space, especially in an era in which the health of the planet is dwindling rapidly. Star Trek made its stamp on space travel as well when NASA named a shuttle Enterprise after the well-known starship on the popular television show (Dumoulin). It seems as though science fiction influences the creation of innovative technology, as well as inspires future innovators to push passed the limits of it too.
Furthermore, science fiction has made a mark on methods of transportation, whether they are for land or sea. Submarines made their way into the world well before science fiction had described them, but it was Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea that inspired efficient submarines that could be effective tools during war. The imagination of Verne's' Nautilus would be the beginning of the modern submarine. Besides submarines, electric cars came about through the works of the famous Star Wars saga. On the planets featured in the Star Wars movies, the vehicles are powered by solar energy and electric currents much like the cars that are popping up in the automotive market today(Lawinski). In Star Wars Episode One, Anakin drives a vehicle powered by hydrogen cells (claims George Lucas) and withing three years of that movie making its way into the theater, several automotive brands began selling electric cars. This is no coincidence. Jennifer Lawinksi claims that the automotive industry briefly looked into electric cars until they had a visual of what one may look like if it were to be made a reality (obviously, Star Wars was much different looking). Electric cars are the next step in reducing global warming, therefore it can be concluded that science fiction is moving society in a positive direction.
The use of science fiction as a manual of the technological and cultural advances in society is a brave pathway to take. Many advanced technologies stem from the imaginative realms created by creative authors and filmmakers in the science fiction realm. The enhancement of communication, space travel, and transportation is beneficial to making those within the society well connected and informed. Moreover, it is exciting to watch fantastical ideas turn into tangible realities. However, large amounts of hi-tech inventions could stall the progression of humanity at an intellectual level. The entertainment field could lure people into its visually stimulating environment and cause a decrease in the want to learn. Science fiction is fiction, but it does have its way of finding itself coming out of the pages and into our hands.
Unsolicited Press Release Steven Charnow's "Charlie Fig and the Lip" Available on December 28, 2014 San Francisco, CA December 28, 2014: Unsolicited Press, a small press based out of California releases Steven Charnow's Charlie Fig and the Lip, a coming-of-age novel following the turbulent events between Aaron Lipstein and Charlie Figatelli. It is the first novel from Charnow.
Aaron Lipstein, “the Lip” to his best friend Charlie Figatelli, (“because you got an answer for everything”), is about to graduate high school at the top of his class. Aaron is looking forward to an uneventful summer before leaving home for college and getting away from his abusive father. When the bullet-riddled, delivery van belonging to Charlie’s father is pulled from a canal flowing into Jamaica Bay, and the police fail to recover Mr. Figatelli’s body, Charlie appeals to Aaron to help him search for it.
Steven Charnow grew up in New York City, including some memorable years in Brooklyn. After graduating from Queens College, he worked as a social worker for the NYC Bureau of Child Welfare, and then joined the Peace Corps, serving two years in Medellin, Colombia. Returning to the United States, he settled in Los Angeles, where he collaborated with a composer and wrote song lyrics in English and Spanish. He moved on to writing screenplays and was soon under contract to a film studio producing low-budget features. His first novel, “Charlie Fig and the Lip,” was inspired by his childhood explorations along the marsh shallows of New York City’s Jamaica Bay. When he isn’t running marathons to maintain his sanity, he is writing his next novel. He lives in Santa Monica, California with his wife, Shelley, and his dog, Luke.
Purchase the book at Unsolicited Press's website, or all major retailers. More information about Charnow can be found on his website: http://www.stevencharnow.com/
Christmas was always filled with happy elves and a fat, jolly man spreading Christmas cheer across the globe. Presents came from the bloodied hands of naughty boys and girls. There wasn't a Naught or Nice list -- there was crime followed by swift punishment.
A Christmas Croc stalked little boys and girls who misbehaved. These little children saw the true nature of gift-making. The throes of hell -- only, not even demons would want to visit the North Pole.
John P. Bourgeois's The Christmas Croc is a haunting holiday tale fit for any reader -- just be warned, it isn't for children who can't handle monsters.
September is a big month for Unsolicited Press. Four books come out this month! Yes, I said it, four of them. And it wasn't easy. It was pretty stinking difficult. But, hey, we did it to ourselves. This September, we happily welcome Mick Bennett, William Alton, Nicholas Kriefall and John P. Bourgeois into our little family.
These men are brilliant. They have been darling to work with at all levels -- each with their own quirks. And the beauty is that they each put out a different genre. Bennett with a novel, Alton with a short story collection, Kriefall with poetry, and Bourgeois with an illustrated satire.
To learn more about these fellas, scroll down. Maybe you'll buy a copy.
Attic Pieces is a short volume of poetry by artist Nicholas Kriefall. We here at Unsolicited Press do not like to summarize poetry. Each poems has invaluable distinction.
Kriefall writes beyond the image and provokes the subconscious to wake up -- to join you on a level on complete presence.
But if we have to tell you something, then we'd say:
Attic Pieces is a debut collection of narrative poems covering a variety of themes set in rural towns as well as big cities, as seen through the eyes of the old and young alike. To a veteran astronaut unsure of home, to a soldier afraid to leave his, to a fishing town and farmer in their last days; each poem invites the reader into an intimate corner of everyday life.
Girls is a short story collection. William Alton embodies Raymond Carver and Bukowski all in one collection.
Meet Jimmy Hanlon. It’s summer, 1987. Jimmy’s a closeted bisexual in his late forties, nine months removed from a laryngectomy, and in this first part of a trilogy, he’s anxious to find a new identity in his Jersey Shore hometown. He hitches his hopes to a 33 year old lifeguard. The two cruise into summer with an assortment of boardwalk denizens and bar hounds. When they both fall for the same pretty nurse, the ride starts to get bumpy. In Jimmy’s story of redemption, dreams, familial and romantic love, misogamy and prejudice, accommodation and empathy, he discovers that the real victories occur in the small, courageous moments of our lives that overcome societal and personal prejudice.
Do you remember that book "Women" by Charles Bukowski. A sick, twisted novel about the women who went in and out of Charles' life? I remember that book, and I love that book. When we came across William Alton's manuscript respectively titled Girls, we knew we landed a good one.
Alton follows through with his swing to deliver a compelling collection of stories that follow a speaker through relationships with women we learn to love -- and with women we learn to abhor. From an early love to the tender development of love between a man and a young woman, Girls hits you hard. It it us hard.
Alton has a Bukowski perspective, yet he delivers his work with a smooth tone. The energy is there, but it is a quiet energy.
Girls is available for purchase on 9/5/2014 through our store, and as always, at all major retailers.
After a darling half-year of working with the illustrious Susan P. Robbins, we are delighted to announce the release of her book, "Nothing but the Weather" today, August 15, 2014.
Here is our "trailer" blurb for the short story collection:
Wake up in a storm. Row down a flooded alley of people looking for their way home. "Nothing but the Weather" wades through the water, both clean and dirty, digging up life without cleaning it off first. The collection introduces you to a grandmother who reads magazines at the grief counselor's office because her doting son wants her to adjust to life again. You will rub shoulders with a bipolar Lynn who has half-started just about every career. Mingle with an array of family units that hold secrets, lies and even love from one another.
Set to be a best-seller on Unsolicited Press's list, Robbins sells you characters that could walk off the page and slap you in the face.
Buy a copy today!
If your not sold yet, read an excerpt here.
Darci Schummer's Six Months in the Midwest debuts nationwide on August 12, 2014: The debut of Darci Schummer's Six Months in the Midwest is available for purchase nationwide. Unsolicited Press, a small press based on the West Coast selected the stunning collection for its wit and true-to-form style. Schummer tells a story the way Carver did. Her dead pan delivery shows real characters in real settings. Schummer is a Wisconsin girl living in Minneapolis, MN.
She is a graduate of Hamline University's MFA program. Her fiction has been read in Paper Darts, Revolver, Feile Festa, The Diverse Arts Project, Vita.mn, Conclave: A Journal of Character, Bartleby Snopes, and Midwestern Gothic. She is currently at work on a novel.
Releasing on July 3rd, 2014 to honor a day of reflection, The Fictioneer will be available for purchase on Unsolicited Press's website, Amazon, and other national retailers. A PDF version and physical copy will be available. As always, the journal is rich with characters, plot, poetry, and the like.
The Fictioneer is a trimesterly publication that seeks emerging and known authors. This issue features work from Cara Long, Emily Kiernan, Mick Bennett, Kevin Armstrong, Adam Phillips and more. The poetry will snag you by the balls and the fiction will keep you wondering what happened.
After a long six months of acquiring manuscripts, the editors at UP believe that this issue is the best thus far.
The cover art is credited to SR Stewart, our loving acquisitions editor. The brilliance behind her dark portrait is a mystery, but once we saw it, we knew that it screamed The Fictioneer.
Issues are available for $10 at Unsolicited Press (includes shipping). Electronic versions are available at Unsolicited Press or through Amazon Kindle. All major online retailers and local stores will carry the journal.
If you have a local bookstore that doesn't carry the journal, ask them to. Provide them our information (or hell, give us their information).
NOTE: We are still waiting on our book order to come in. For the time being, you can preorder the book or find it online.
The release of Unsolicited Press's latest publication, Partly Gone by Cara Long will take you into the depths of an emotional roller coaster most cannot stomach. But we know that you aren't most people.
Partly Gone wrestles with the mundane everyday moments that get kicked in the ass by the consequences of choices made beforehand. Her words will twist you up into the couch and beg for a delicious glass of Merlot to accompany you on the journey into this intrinsic short story collection.
Meet characters from all classes, all colors and all tastes that will skew the way you see the world.
Partly Gone is the second publication out this year by Unsolicited Press, a small lit press in the Pacific Northwest. UP is known for berating its readers with a stack of new books in the summer and fall. Set to start the year out right, Long presents her first short story collection alongside the editors at Unsolicited Press.
Unsolicited Press thanks Rubie Grayson, SR Stewart, Nicole Pomeroy, Eric Rancino, Esme Howler, and the rest of the gang who worked exceptionally hard to put this piece on the shelves.
Partly Gone is available through the Unsolicited Press Store, most national retailers, Amazon, and other local bookstores. The editors at UP urge you to purchase a copy on June 15th.
Cara Long is awesome and she live in New York. She will be holding local readings in her area.
Help a girl out.
At Unsolicited Press we value our books. We value our authors and the material that they put out into the world. But we value something else even more: reference and written craft books. Books that help us do our job better. Books that help our writers do an even better job writing fascinating stories.
Last week, we polled the office, our editors, writers, production team, IT folks...everybody...to see which books were the most important to them in editing, writing, and reference. Here were the three MOST popular books:
Last year we did a small contest and the winners were put into our lit journal, but this year we are joining the big guys. We are offering publication to three lucky contest winners. Yeah, it's that kind of big. Three winners in any genre will be published under UP with the full marketing ploy. The winners will receive 10 copies of their book. This contest will only work if we receive enough entries. We have to have a solid set of manuscripts to choose from. Authors interested in submitting should have a complete, edited manuscript. We will do one edit cycle for each winner.
Submission deadline: 5/15/14
Winner notification: 6/1/14
Publication date: 6/25/14; 7/5/14; 7/15/14
Entry fee: $25
Fiction: 100-200 pages
We will do this quick n dirty, but professionally. Every book will go under our professional editorial and production plans before publication. We have installed a set of editors to run the contest and run the editorial process for each book. Rubie, Eric, and Esme are the lea editors.
Did we mention that should you win, you would be nominated for a Push Cart? And that you'll receive a little bit of flow? We can't guarantee the amount until we see the entry results.
Cool flyer to come.
Emily Kiernan, native east-coaster and current California resident will release her debut novel, "Great Divide" on April 11th, 2014. Kiernan's book wrestles with memory and escape.
Emily is a graduate of the MFA writing program at the California Institute of the Arts and resides in Berkeley, CA. Her stories have been published in White Whale Review, JMWW, Dark Sky, and many other journals. Kiernan has pressed through years of hard work and literary bureaucracy to bring you "Great Divide" in its purest form.
Readers and fans can purchase "Great Divide" at major retailers, online stores, and through Unsolicited Press.
About the Author
Keep U.P. Alive
Unsolicited Press is a beast that runs on good energy and dedicated editors and staff. Your donation helps pay these folks when books don't sell or we just break even. You see, our staff doesn't get paid until the bills and the authors are paid -- and sometimes that means we make pennies...we don't mind it, but your support really helps keep us afloat.
Order a Book, Save AN Author
You can buy our books through our website or from any major retailer in the nation. Some retailers take longer than others to acquire our books.
Subscribe or Die
Listen to Literature
Most of our editors cherish our subscription with Audible. Right now they are offering free trials and a free audiobook. This is a great place to listen to Baxter's "The Art of Subtext." Think about it.