Fear of Needles

You are not going to believe this, doc, but the last time I got a flu shot, strange things happened. I began speaking and walking like Alfred Hitchcock, waddling along, head up, eyes half closed. I went into the street in a fugue state. About five minutes later I became Rudy Guliani, slapping pedestrians for walking too close to the curb or ticketing people for missing spots as they swept the sidewalk.
I tried to make a citizen's arrest on a man who refused to clean up after his puppy. He smacked me, I pulled out a penknife and went on the attack. His dog ran off into traffic. The arm where I got the needle began to swell up and I imagined myself a mid-sized dirigible releasing air and plummeting to earth. The dog caused a bicycle messenger to lose balance and fly over the bars.
I passed out and woke up in emergency. My disfigured arm was seriously swollen and throbbing. Suddenly a tiny two headed creature burst from my biceps and squealed. Attendants rushed in and cornered it, but not before three were bitten and needed rabies shots. My bill was $21,000 and my arm still hursts.
I don't care if my mom is in the waiting room. I can't take another flu shot.

My Most Selfless Act

There are so many selfless acts I've committed, it's hard to choose one. If pressed, I'd put forth my coming through for Elise, a fellow writer during November Novel Writing Month. 50000 words were needed and she was stuck at 10000. Knowing how prolific I am, she begged me to intercede and finish her novel. 40000 words in ten days is nothing to you, she exclaimed. I was flattered to be sure, even preening a bit.
Another man might have taken advantage of the situation, but I have a strict moral code. Rather than demand something salacious in return, I patted her shoulder and assured her I'd get right to work on it.
She was so grateful she threw me onto her kitchen table and ripped off my shirt. For the next half hour I received 40000 words worth of proof reading and copy editing between gasps and moans. Yes, she edited me to howling. The novel itself was crap, but what do you expect? The first 10000 words were hers and, even for me, that was too much to overcome.

Across the Table

I never knew my friend Luigi knew famous people. At his 30th wedding anniversary party I found myself seated across from Johnny Depp and Sean Penn. Depp had trouble staying awake and Penn eyed everyone suspiciously. Both were accompanied by beautiful young women.
When the mushroom soup was served, Penn snarled it was for sissies. He demanded beef stew. Depp groggily spilled much of it on himself. I guess movie stars must work late. At the far end of the table, Liam Neeson had his shirt up and was flashing his chest scar. Right then, Penn jumped up and lifted his shirt, displaying a scar near his ribs. They then got into an argument over whose scar was longer. Depp fell forward into his creamed spinach. His date left for the powder room with Penn's date.
I, myself, thought the soup was delicious, but the spinach a bit salty. I ended up switching shirts with Depp. Eventually I will put his on E-Bay. My books aren't selling well and I need new tires.

Socrates Cafe

I belong to Socrates Cafe discussion group. Over the past three years we have explored a wide range of topics. Many of the participants are quite well spoken. There are some things one can do to convince the other you too are wise and insightful.
Carefully cross your legs at various intervals, as though the intensity of your thinking has traveled down to your lower region.
Frown and grimace, but in a limited way. Otherwise people will think you're in pain, rather than concentrating.
When you raise your hand to speak, do so tentatively, keeping your other hand rubbing your chin, as though the complexity of what you are about to say is still formulating itself.
Memorize three to five three syllable words to slip into the discourse. Every few months tell someone "That's a moot point."
Similarly, choose three important thinkers from history and quote them at strategic points.
Get up, stretch, get coffee and a cookie, just one. More makes it seem like that's the main reason you're there.
Acknowledge another's brilliant point by pointing at them and nodding vigorously.
Fold your arms in front of your chest and look annoyed. Annoyed is better than confused.
Should there be attractive women participating, quietly unbutton the top of your shirt and flash some male cleavage. I'll bet that's how Socrates got women.

Slow Burn

I've never mastered the slow burn. Seething is another thing that escapes me. When I lose my temper I just explode. My voice rises into eleven year old octaves, I gesticulate wildly, and possibly stamp my feet. No one is impressed.
I wind up gasping for breath. It used to be that older people would take me aside and calm me. Now I'm an older guy and I have to take myself aside. Take tonight. I was at Burger King enjoying a coffee and fries, reading last Sunday's Times, which just lays there all week, meaning I have two days to attack the dozen sections I read regularly. The little kid in the next booth wouldn't sit still, bouncing for no reason and my own seat was shaking enough to throw off my concentration.
I just couldn't bring myself to say anything or turn and glare. This went on for a long time. I almost could sense a slow burn building. Seething would be an overstatement. But I forced myself to think serene thoughts. Baby animals, waves against the shore, palm trees in the breeze. I did this until I had to pee. When I returned the family was gone and I took a deep breath in relief.
Then I realized three of my French fries were missing and I screamed like a banshee.

Your Boat

Two men in uniform came to Rod's door and informed him they found his boat. They also said they found the largest piece of pepperoni they had ever seen on deck. Rod said he enjoyed spicy Italian food and mentioned the package of pepper jack cheese.
We will ignore said cheese and focus on the other, they said. We have an eye witness who claims you were using the pepperoni in a salacious way. I beg to differ, said Rod. How could anyone see that far out? She has a state of the art pair of binoculars, they responded. This is a family resort, as you know. Your personal tendencies are your business, except when you are in the public domain. We'll have to take you into Park Ranger HQ for further questioning and DNA testing.
May I at least take a cucumber to munch on?
Slice it first.
Boy, what a guy has to do just to go boating.

Air Rifle

Bobby wasn't sure if his air rifle would be effective against the aliens who broke into houses and took kids away. But he kept it next to him as he lay in bed. Ralph, his best friend, had vanished recently. Ralph's parents said he went away to camp, but Bobby knew better. Ralph would never leave without telling him.
The boys had discussed the shadows in their bedrooms and the strange, low noises like tiny subway trains were passing through. They never mentioned this to the other kids who already thought they were odd.
If Ralph had been eaten, the adults would never find the bones, Bobby was sure.
As happens with little boys, Bobby fell asleep anyway. He dreamed of running away from something, dodging and changing direction, running out of the town onto the highway, screaming for help. Just before dawn, he was awakened by a noise very close. Something was crawling on his hand and speaking. He jumped up, knocking the rifle to the floor.
There were six of them, very small and intense. "We are from the planet Zarcon and are here to study earthlings," one said. "You have very comfortable bedding. On our planet we sleep on top of each other. The one on the bottom usually wakes up cranky. Are you familiar with cranky?"
Bobby was too frightened to say anything but "Please don't eat me!"
"We are not a violent race. Could you explain this thing called artichoke? Is it a weapon?"
Booby lay back, closed his eyes and kept repeating 'this is only a dream.'
One of them began dancing in his open palm.
"What did you do with Ralph!?"

The Lacuna

For many years I have practiced on the Lacuna, an exotic instrument I purchased from an old gentleman in a ratty antiques shop. He said it was originally owned by Portuguese explorer Vasco Da Gama. I have trouble believing that. I am a composer who can't afford a piano, so I compose on the Lacuna.
It is a wind instrument consisting of a large sack ringed by metal stems from which the music escapes. You do not blow into it or manipulate keys. You jump on the sack barefoot and keep jumping up and down at various speeds. Sometimes, for variety, you punch the sack or headbutt it to create a slightly different tone.
The sound pretty much resembles two bison copulating madly in mud.
I rented a space and invited all my friends to come to a free Lacuna concert. Perhaps I should have explained the colorful history of this wonderful instrument. I truly believe sanity will prevail and, at some point, they will release me from this stuffy storage space. To say they overreacted is an understatement.
I fear for my beloved Lacuna. Perhaps they will hang it as found art.

Cutting a Deal

I met him in a dark alley at night, which is when these deals happen. I had a bit of money and knew exactly what I needed. The streets were quiet as midnight approached. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I felt vulnerable; suppose this was a scam?
I heard a whisper. "I'm right over here. Keep walking."
I did as told, fists clenched.
He was a stumpy man in a trench coat; a wide brimmed hat slung low hid his face. In his right hand was a small bag.
"Do you have my fee?"
"Of course." I handed over large denomination bills.
"What exactly are you seeking, friend?"
I had rehearsed this, but the words still got caught in my throat.
"I need a philosophy of life; something to get me through old age without fearing death. I want an overview that gives my life meaning. I need a calming thought on my death bed."
I paused.
"I need most of all to accept the human condition and the inevitability of our mortality."
He frowned. "Damn. I brought the wrong bag. I thought you wanted hair replacement products."
"What!!??"
"Just kidding. Here on this scroll is what you seek. Read and understand it. Live your life accordingly. Listen, I have a batch of spiritual guidelines coming in from Scandinavia if you're interested."
I shook my head. "God confuses me. This should be all I need."
"I'm guessing you cheat on your taxes."
"I'm uncomfortable with the direction this is heading. Thank you and goodbye."
He shrugged and disappeared into the fog.
When I was alone, I opened the scroll and read--"Take the Packers and give the points."

My Moment

Now is my moment. As I sit up here in the balcony of this beautiful theater, looking down at the stage I can barely breathe. Seated around me are Martin Scorcese, Billy Joel, Twyla Tharp, and Phillip Roth, my fellow honorees.
I am the last to be saluted. One by one, my writer friends, my peers step forward to read one of my flash fiction pieces. The one about the Hudson County sewerage system leaves people aghast. I am completely choked up. They relate anecdotes, repeat my witticisms, explain how I overcame so much to become the premier flash fiction artist in the world. I glance over at Roth, who is sobbing.
When the readings are over, the audience stands and erupts in extended applause. I try to look modest. I want this moment to go on and on. It is the epitome of my creative life. I am engorged with a kind of spirituality. I appreciate every little thing around me. I especially appreciate Twyla Tharp's hand on my thigh all evening.
I hope it was her hand. 

Garbanzo Gallery

Since Garbanzo Gallery closed I don't feel like myself. It was my home away from home. Artists, writers and intellectuals would gather in the back room to discuss culture in all its aspects. Jacqueline, the owner, was kind enough to exhibit my fragile tapioca sculptures.
But in this economy, sales were slow and she had trouble making the rent. Still, we were shocked when the sign went up indicating the place was closing. Now I have lost touch with the others. Rafael, a poet, vows he will find us another space. I wander the streets, not feeling like myself, disconnected in a blue collar, factory dominated town. I am unable to work, to create. My center is unraveling. It's as though body parts are disengaging. I stumble up stairs, my legs belonging to someone else.
Perhaps I need to move on socially and creatively. There is a Meet Up Bowling team I may join. And I'm seriously considering switching my material from tapioca to jello sculpture. Maybe I can exhibit in pastry shops. I see an artistic void I am capable of filling.

Residents Only

Looks like I'll be eating in for a few weeks. Got a $58 ticket for going over four hour limit in Weehawken, where I lived and paid taxes 30 years. Was in NYC, lost track of time. I can see this regulation during the week when commuters leave their cars on the street and jump on a NY bus. But Saturday makes no sense. More and more I get the feeling in this country that freedom to travel anywhere is a myth. It's all about exclusion now. You don't belong here. Go back where you live. Stranger danger.
To make up that $58 I'll have to sell a painting or a story. I wish I could do magic. Kids' parties are an area  I haven't explored. Maybe I could give a lecture on something. Sandra Bullock might be a topic I know something about.
So tonight I had a tuna sandwich and a handful of Wasabi almonds, which burned my palette in a good way. To balance the ticket depression, I got a story accepted to a local mag that doesn't pay. But I did receive a check from the library that held a fair and bought ten of my books. And I did find a ballpoint pen on a bench.
I was going to get new business cards, but that is on hold. $58 bucks. Damn.

Bombs Away

The pilot, co-pilot, navigator and bombardier gathered in the cockpit. We are doing only what's needed, the pilot said. The co-pilot agreed. Society can't call itself civilized if it tolerates their existence, he said. This mission will soften them up for the land invasion, added the navigator.
Only the bombardier was silent.
Are you having second thoughts, asked the pilot.
My cousin plays the oboe, replied the bombardier. I worry this sort of action will spread.
Nonsense, barked the co-pilot. This is a one time mission. Those down there chose to do what they do. No one forced them. Every day they commit artistic blasphemy.
This will give hope to future generations, said the navigator. Two minutes to target.
How stupid could they be to clump together like that, knowing public opinion? muttered the pilot.
Thousands of feet below, ensconced in a sprawling building, hundreds of accordion players gathered for their yearly convention.
The crew knew if this was successful, if the battle was won by ground forces, cabaret singers would be next. Even the bombardier approved of that.