Old Ollie

I sensed Old Man Ollie had lost touch with reality, but there was something mesmerizing in his pronouncements. I believed his proclamations, all of which began with "If only you believe."
I was fifteen years old and my head was full of magic.

If you leap off that pole, you will land on your feet.
If you snort oregano you will see God.
If you feed your dog chocolate covered raisins it will clean up its own poop.
If you tattoo the bottoms of your feet you will experience multiple orgasms.
None of these happened; some put me in Emergency.
But I decided to give him one more chance.
If you only believe, you will fly only at night and only backward.
I waited until pitch dark, closed my eyes and focused. To my delight, within seconds I was aloft and flying backwards at a speed I couldn't control. After barely missing power lines and a tree I began to hate Old Man Ollie. He never mentioned anything about the landing process. If I stopped believing, I would crash. If I continued believing, when dawn came, I would still crash, perhaps gradually. Either way I would miss dinner. Damn you, Ollie.

Lost in Brooklyn

I took the wrong damn train. I took the C train instead of the 2 or 3. How many times, 8, 10, have I gone to Atlantic Antics, the 30 block mammoth street fair in Brooklyn every fall? This A train flew right past Layfayette all the way to Nostrand.
I got off and pressed the info button on a post, asked how to get to Atlantic from where I was. You're two blocks away, I was told. So I figured I'd walk upstairs and find it in seconds. Wrong. I wound up on Fulton, kept walking, eventually asked someone in Applebee for directions and was told Atlantic was just two blocks up to my right.
Well, I found it and began walking, looking for Barclays, which rises into the sky & is the starting point of the fair. For some reason I thought I was going the wrong way. So I doubled back and kept walking and walking, following the raised tracks of the LI railroad. No one informed me Atlantic goes on for miles and miles.
I finally asked a cop, who directed me to a Utica subway stop which would take me back. Naturally I walked right past it to Malcolm X BLVD. By this time I had to pee bad. I heard gospel singing coming from Baptist churches. A man redirected me to the station. Of course the A train once again flew past Layfayette, but I got off at Metro Tech, where I raced to a Five Guys and peed for 15 minutes easy.
Now I knew where I was and quickly found the fair, where I spent two hours walking up and down within a horde of others, getting smacked by backpacks and strollers and feeling lucky to be in familiar  territory.
No one from New Jersey should ever get lost in Brooklyn. At least I kept my composure. Almost.

Backtracking

My dear constituents, I may have spoken rashly. Let me backtrack. I admit I have been tweeting an underage Australian aborigine named Evonne. But I swear there was nothing salacious in the texts. I never sent photos of body parts, just a tiny mole under my knee.
Somehow, a nefarious individual hacked into this poor girl's account and made public our private communication. About that gift I sent her. Yes, I sent her a diamond brooch, but I have always been a generous person. I've inherited my fortune from our family's fabric softener empire and want to share with others less fortunate.
Okay, now that I've brought it up, let's explore the charges that our company uses carcinogens. It was unfortunate that a small portion of Southern Connecticut became violently ill--let me backtrack--a rather large portion. Just because that is where our factory is located doesn't mean the two are connected.
Getting back to Evonne, yes, I did invite the youngster to visit, all expenses paid. I see it as opening up new vistas for someone who has never left her village. If Oprah can extend aid to Africa and build schools, why can't I take this wonderful young woman to museums and such. I am a single man, may I remind you, and in six hundred forty one days Evonne will be legal.
So there.

Loosen Up

The Pope took a bite of his cheeseburger in front of 300 media people. He chewed slowly.
"Loosen up, everyone. I sense you're tense. That's the problem with our religion. Too many rules. I can't even keep up. We're losing the faithful. Only Third World countries still believe because they've got nothing but the afterlife to look forward to.
We need to relax our policy toward certain hot button topics, like gay marriage, abortion, transsexuals, transgenders, bisexuals, hermaphrodites, eunuchs, men with lopsided testicles, making the Sign of the Cross left handed, on and on. We need some leeway.
How about Ten Strong Suggestions? Do we really need Seven Sacraments? Extreme Unction? Even I don't know what that is. A priest giving Last Rites? Really. You're dead, you were a sinner, good luck with that."
The Pontiff took another huge bite and the gathered hoard waited with baited breath.
"Why not substitute Holy Seltzer? Lemon lime. What about a caramel rice cake instead of those dry Communion wafers that stick to the roof of your mouth and you have to un-stick Our Savior with your index finger? We have to think out of the box. Mass should include cuddling. Too much sitting, standing, kneeling. Let people bring in lounge chairs. The same old hymns are boring. Play a Josh Groban CD.
No one tells the truth in Confession. The priest probably recognizes you. Why not tell God directly and let the chips fall where they may? It would create more time for our clergy to form singing groups like the Southern Baptists. Those folks rock.
Questions?"
He finished his burger with a gulp and took a big swallow of diet Pepsi.

Post Office Box

"Mr. Wilcox, this is Mary from the Post Office.  We have a problem."
"Problem?"
"You opened a PO box two months ago and haven't been in to collect your mail."
"I'm sorry. I've been preoccupied."
"There's more. All of the letters have your own return address. Have you been mailing leters to yourself? Is there someone else living there?"
"No. I live alone since my dear grandmother passed away."
"The thing is, the letters smell bad, like something is rotting inside the envelope. Please come in soon and empty your box."
"I will do just that. Sorry for the inconvenience."
He hung up and glared at the wall where he had entombed cranky, critical grandma exactly two months ago.
"You just had to have the last word, didn't you"?

The Shop

A man hesitates outside the shop that replaces women's heads. He looks around nervously, peers in the window. The door opens and the owner emerges.
"May I help you?"
"You replace women's heads?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I have a special problem. I love my fiance, but hate her feet."
"Has she been disobedient?'"
"I don't expect that sort of thing."
"Then you have a problem beyond feet."
"Be that as it may, can you help me?"
The owner beckoned the man inside where he called out "Julius!"
A hunched, cackling, drooling man stumbled out of a back room, eyes bulging.
The owner nodded at his assistant and said, "Julius handles feet and hands. He'll give you a four for two deal."
"I don't need hand replacement. I love her hands."
"Bring her in. I imagine she's very pretty." The owner glanced at Julius, who just cackled.
The man left, shaken and unsure what his next move should be. Perhaps he'd better take a closer look at her hands.

Overdue

"You get one phone call."
Winston stood over me, glowering. We were locked in a basement room of the library. He pointed his scanner at me.
"You know me," I pleaded. "I've been checking out books here for years."
"Three weeks overdue. Who do you think you're dealing with? Don't play games with me. Produce the book or you get one call."
I swallowed and took out my cell; caled my friend, Marsha.
"You must vouch for me. God knows what they have planned. Are you sure I didn't leave it at your place?"
"What book are you talking about?"
"Where the Wild Things Are."
"Fiend. There's a waiting list for that book. My nephew craves it. How could you hog it?"
"I misplaced it."
"You may as well have misplaced a rose garden. How can I vouch for a thief?"
"I am no thief. Just careless."
She clicked off and I was alone again.

Excerpt from Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, available on Amazon.

Bananas Two

Clerk-I'm just here doing a job.
Shopper-And I'm here trying to purchase sustenance.
Clerk-Look at this. You've squeeze-dented this nectarine.
Shopper-That dent was already there.
Clerk-No it wasn't. I examine my product every morning.
Shopper-Here's proof. I snapped this a few moments ago before I touched the fruit.
Clerk-You use your cell to photograph our produce. Without our permission??
Shopper-It's called self protection. You have cameras following my every move. This is quid pro quo.
Clerk-Don't hit me with Latin. I'm in the right here. You are a serial fruit toucher.
Shopper-Why didn't you intervene when I touched the carrots?
Clerk-Carrots can handle themselves. They don't bruise.
Shopper-And if I had snapped one in half?
Clerk-I'd have been all over you like white on rice.
Shopper-That's a cliche.
Clerk-You some kind of teacher?
Shopper-I'm a writer.
Clerk-Really? Will this wind up in a story?
Shopper-Maybe.
Clerk-Could you make me taller?
Shopper-Depends. I'm going to examine that peach.
Clerk-Peaches are the most vulnerable to bruising.
Shopper-See how careful I am? There. Right back where I took it.
Clerk-What was wrong with that peach?
Shopper-Too hard.
Clerk-Nonsense.
Shopper-Don't take it personally.
Clerk-I HAVE to. I'm head produce clerk. This is my domain.
Shopper-A bit pretentious, aren't we?
Clerk-I'm ordering you to put that peach in your cart.
Shopper-I want this other peach.
Clerk-But you haven't touched it.
Shopper-Now that's ironic.
Clerk-Don't confuse me. Here. I'm GIVING you the two rejected bananas for free. I can't have depressed fruit on my tand.
Shopper-Can I smell your radishes?
Clerk-Don't push your luck, fella. Am I in your story or not?
Shopper-Well, maybe, maybe not. Knock something off that yam and we'll see.
Clerk-My yams are gold. I'm through negotiating. I will hand you one mango. You will fondle it to your heart's content. Then you will leave my produce aisle.
Shopper-Man gos give me diarrhea.
Clerk-Stomach issues are in aisle seven.

Bananas

Shopper and clerk
Clerk-You just broke two bananas off the bunch.
Shopper-So?
Clerk-That's not allowed.
Shopper-Why?
Clerk-It goes against nature. It would be like yanking two of your cousins away from your own family.
Shopper-I don't like my cousins.
Clerk-Why not take all four?
Shopper-I live alone. I can only eat two bananas before they get overripe.
Clerk-What is overripe but a matter of opinion?
Shopper-Overripe is when you try to peel it and all you get is mush.
Clerk-We have have a separate problem here.
Shopper-We?
Clerk-You've been touching the produce too much. You are allowed three touches, no more.
Shopper-That's not enough.
Clerk-For the rest of society it is.
Shopper-You're saying I'm the only one who over touches?
Clerk-On my shift. I can't speak for when I'm absent.
Shopper-You take your job pretty seriously.
Clerk-That's why I'm head produce clerk.
Shopper-So you established these rules.
Clerk-In conjunction with The International Produce Quality Control Association.
Shopper-You just made that up.
Clerk-They're located in Terre Haute, Indiana.
Shopper-I need to feel my fruit.
Clerk-Three touches.
Shopper-Or what?
Clerk-I bring out Leroy from the back.
Shopper-Fine. I carry a tasar weapon.
Clerk-I doubt that.
Shopper-Try me.
(To be continued)

The Audition

I've always been told I'm a good dancer, especially at weddings and parties. I happened to be between jobs and figured I'd use my talents to find employment. I first applied as an instructor at a square dancing school. I offered to add twerking to the curriculum, but traditionalist owners turned me down.
I tried to join a male exotic dance group, but my five foot height worked against me. I thought about my strengths. I was graceful, flexible, and a good leaper. Voila! Ballet!
I wasn't completely ignorant. I knew Balanchine was a big deal and the competition would be stiff. Certainly I was nervous before the audition. He sat on a stool, wearing an immaculate white shirt that matched his longish hair. His dark slacks had a perfect crease; his glasses slid down his nose. The entire troupe stopped to watch.
I choose K.C. & The Sunshine Band's "That's the Way I Like It" as my music. I tore into my choreography, throwing in spins, splits and a cartwheel--people loved my cartwheels at weddings. I was sure I nailed it.
When the music ended no one spoke. They were stunned. I sensed he was going to hug me as he approached. I sensed wrong. He kicked me hard in the shin and screamed at me to get out. In English and French.
I eventually found a job selling shoes for Payless. When it's slow, I'll retreat to the stockroom and practice my moves. Hope dies hard. At least I outlived the bastard.

Victimless Crime

The interior design of my condo is a victimless crime against taste. Victimless because I never get visitors. My glass coffee table is covered with a dozen brown and beige artifacts obtained in Marshall's Home Goods and dumpsters. I have a wooden elephant, bowls holding smooth stones and a slab of unfinished wood knifing the air.
I have antlers atop my TV. My own abstract paintings resembling ferret vomit adorn the walls. There's a stuffed bear wearing a Postal uniform, a lizard hand puppet and a furry monkey toy. African sculptures, onyx objects, small iron statues of musicians, and liquor bottles line my bar. Classics like Madame Bovary and picture books fill my shelves. My Cd collection ranges from Connie Francis to Rush.
My ragged recliner is covered in paint. Dusting makes no sense. It just floats up there, waits until you leave, and descends back to its home. My ceiling fan is my best friend. My couch is from the 1970s and covered in plastic. I have one chair for my computer and one at my kitchen table.
Only the cable guy might be considered a victim, but his visits are short. I give him credit for keeping a straight face.

Reasonable

Here are the facts
I loaned you my thong underwear
You finally returned them
Washed without fabric softener
Now I'm chafing like tree bark covers my privates
Let's be reasonable
Friendship has its boundaries

This is my dirt
Those are your seeds
Potatoes can be halved
Parsley is another story
Let's have a reasonable negotiation
It all winds up in our compost heap anyway
I believe that's my cherry tomato
In your kid's mouth

Viking Retirement Home

My brother-in-law Rich had this great idea to open a retirement home for vikings here by the lake. Of course I invested. Rich had 50 ideas a week. By law of averages, some of them had to click. He sold me on this one, hook, line and sinker.
Well, here I am a year later and the whole thing is chaotic. This is living hell. I'm the manager and this place is taking years off my life. Lars, head viking, and his crew refuse to water ski, even with free lessons. The macrame classes are half full. Not a single resident registered for the Japanese nose flute lessons. They sleep all day, carouse all night, drinking booze, which is not even allowed on the premises. We give them a healthy organic salad and they holler for venison. They make weapons out of tree branches, shields out of scrap metal. Not one of them would trade in their stupid pit helmets for a fur cap. They can't shoot pool or roller skate for crap. They hate all the movies except Mel Gibson's. Aerobics classes are treated as a joke. We spent $3000 on extra large leotards, which no one wears. God knows what's growing in their beards. Potato sack races turned into bloody battles
Women, they bellow, where are the women?
No one pays any attention to me or my assistants, who quit on a regular basis. These animals won't bathe for days. Dental bills are astronomical. Rich, the bastard, cashed out his share, sold it to a corporation that owns the retirement home for florists across the river. What frightens me most is the possibility of these beasts discovering that fact, channeling across the river and attacking the helpless florists, maybe bringing some back as captives.
Actually we do need some decent landscaping here and more color. I could term it a field trip and plead ignorance at the consequences.

Smiley

"No one knew his real name. He simply entered a gym smiling and never stopped. At first I thought he was a reporter or athletic director, maybe a popular teacher. He acted as if he knew everyone in the place. Wearing a dark blue overcoat, black scarf, baggy pants and worn shoes, he moved confidently about, sometimes carrying a clipboard.
When he took notes, his squat body hunched forward, concern etched across his face, tiny dark eyes darting end to end.He never removed that frayed gray sweater no matter how warm it got in the gym.
I watched him shake his head in distress whenever a girl would muff a pass or blow an easy shot. Usually he positioned himself a bit away from the other spectators. Once, I sat directly behind him and glanced at his clipboard. It contained a jumble of numbers and diagrams, phrases I couldn't make out. None of it seemed to make sense. Perhaps he was a very analytical coach out scouting.
I never saw him around town. No one seemed to know where he lived or worked, if indeed he did work. He never arrived or left with anyone. At game's end, I'd look around and he had vanished."
From "Smiley", a story included in "Dancing on Lava--Switchblade Stories 3", available on Amazon.

Tim Burton's Brain

I was almost shut out of the monthly tour of Tim Burton's brain. They were overbooked. The agent tried to switch me to a tour of Ron Howard's brain, but that is not something that interested me. Instead, I dug into my ear with forceps and yanked out some of my own brain tissue as a bribe. He seemed dubious as to its value, so I suggested he read some of my published books on Amazon. That did the trick.
Usually I'm cynical about these tours. I'd just done one of Russell Brand's brain and came away less than impressed. I must say I was shocked, thrilled and horrified all at once after experiencing Tim Burton's brain. Gooey material hung from the top and wet globs of mushiness was underfoot. Mutant cells jumped out at us, screaming nonsense. I had been inside Jonathan Winters' brain years ago and it wasn't this strange. A stench reminiscent of rotting woodchucks permeated everything. Prickly pointed objects grew on the walls. A howling wind bounced us around like ping pong balls. Crawling things tried to bite us. We were absolutely frazzled by the end of the tour.
Maybe I should have gone with the Ron Howard option. I had a coupon.

Planet Fitness

I just joined Planet Fitness and so far, so good. I was there opening day in time for free coffee and bagels and the ribbon cutting. I could have gotten in that photo, but I was too busy buttering my bagel. There were people wearing sharp purple shirts ready to show me how to work the machines. Fortunately I belonged to Fitness 2, and knew almost all of them. I still have three months to go on that membership and I wonder if I can get a refund. That gym is 30 minutes from my house. PF is right down the hill. They even gave me a free t-shirt. No one at Fitness 2 wears purple shirts. Theirs are black, which also looks great. But the actual machines at PF are also purple. Very classy.
PF has a philosophy of not being judgmental. Big signs indicate that. But human nature being what it is, clients are going to sneak peeks at others and evaluate. I will ignore the denigrating looks and focus on my workout.
PF is open 24/7, which means on the nights I can't sleep I will head down there and get on the treadmill. Imagine being the only person in a huge gym at 3am. Sounds like a short story.

B&H Camera

I've only been in this place one time and felt uncomfortable. I sensed everyone there knew far more about photography equipment than me and any question I asked would be dumb. They are closed on Saturday for religious reasons. I respect that, which is why I thought of them when considering selling my six 35mm film cameras and dozen lenses.
They wanted a specific list of the make and condition of each. Red Flag. The message was we are doing you a favor by taking them off your hands. I was honest and told them the cameras might have shutter issues, which is a polite way of saying they don't work. The reply stated simply they didn't want anything with shutter problems. I thanked them for a quick response and asked if they were still interested in the lenses. The response was one word: no.
I can picture some bespectacled, balding little guy salivating at the chance to brusquely reject anyone whose equipment does not meet their standards. This is someone who never sees the sun and hardly ever eats out.
I will go on with my life. The plan now is to paint my useless cameras and lenses and sell them to art lovers with an edge. I'm choosing the color schemes and imagining patterns of brilliance. Needless to say I will not enter B&H ever again.

Hallucination

I was leaving my bathroom, walking to the kitchen, When I saw Myrna Loy sitting at my table sipping black coffee.
"Are you going to take the case or not?" she asked in that snappy tone.
She flashed her eyes and tossed back her hair.
"What are you doing in my kitchen?"
"I'm your wife, silly. Tie that robe. You must start going to the gym. Your belly, my dear. You haven't done a thing but drink for weeks."
I reached up and felt a thin mustache that wasn't there last night. I did the sensible thing. I responded as William Powell playing The Thin Man.
"My dear, I married you for your money, not your advice."
She frowned as I took a seat.
"The police are baffled; a man is dead, shot three times. There are no clues, no suspects. What happened to the bloodhound I married? You don't even shave anymore."
"I shaved two days ago."
I took a long sip of juice, pretending to have a hangover like Powell's character.

Excerpted from "Hallucination", one of 40 flash fiction pieces included in The Story Eaters, available on Amazon. Joe Del Priore