Olives

How many black, pitless olives should you put in a salad?
Most would say it depends on the size of the salad and I would agree. Except I impulsively exceed the olive limit once I start spooning them in. I love olives, leading to an imbalance in my salads. I can sense tomatoes and cucumbers whine about being overlooked. Celery could care less, while peppers have, in my opinion, an unhealthy attraction to olives. It's more a feeling than what I see. Bacon bits are just happy o be included.
I have never eaten olives right out of the can. There are boundaries I won't cross. But I have been known to linger in the olive aisle far too long. Green olives have their place in my diet. But I'm sure they can discern my obsession with their black peers.
I also believe croutons have a competition going with olives to see which of them has greater impact. Unless it's garlic croutons, there is no comparison.
Did you know there are people who toss peanuts into their salad? And you wonder why this country is so divided.

Intricate Work

I dreaded this day. I stared up at the kitchen light fixture. The bulb had burnt out.
I had a replacement and a ladder. What I lacked was confidence. I can do this, I whispered.
I set up the ladder and climbed to the third step, body shaking. I carefully removed the glass cover to reveal the traitorous bulb. I descended and lay the cover on the table, body sweat soaked. Maybe I should take a break. No, I needed to build momentum. I climbed back up and slowly unscrewed the old bulb, caressing it against my chest as I went down. Some might have brought the new bulb up on the previous trip, but I didn't want to press my luck.
I should have stretched out beforehand. My shoulders were tight. I reached up and carefully began screwing. As soon as it was tight, I let out a sigh. I let myself down deliberately. When my feet hit the floor my heart stopped pounding. Safe.
I walked to the wall switch, praying for success. I couldn't go through  the whole process again. It was now or never.
I reached out and flipped the switch.
Thankfully, it burst into light. I sobbed. Now I would have to call the Super to replace the glass cover. Because I know my limitations.

Womb

Eddie felt it growing larger each day on his right side. He went to his doctor who ordered a cat scan. The results were stunning. Eddie had developed a womb. His doctor was over joyed. This is ground breaking he exclaimed. You can have kids. I don't want kids, Eddie protested. Besides, I don't have a uterus.
We have techniques, his doctor said. Anything is possible.
Eddie despaired. He was a freak. No one would come near him. He called his friend Joe, who commiserated. Joe had an extra thyroid gland, which he hid under a turtleneck. Joe always made it about himself.
Eddie stripped and stared at his misshapen body. A child who looked like him. Maybe this was his destiny. Now he needed a new wardrobe.He hugged his bump. Who needs estrogen?

The Wild Card

Our handball team, the Weehawken Wallbangers was undefeated. We had a match with the Miami Smackers, led by Rico Gonzales, who always had something up his sleeve.
As we warmed up I realized tonight would be no different. 60000 fans, full ESPN coverage. And who walks out of their dressing room?
Marco Hernandez. 7'3, with an 8 and a half foot wingspan. His arms reached below his knees. He could cover the whole court without moving.
The Wild Card, signed to a contract hours before.
I threw up inside my mouth.
I prayed he would pull a muscle during stretching. My team looked beaten already.
Suddenly the giant began heaving up his guts. He collapsed, had to be carried off. I was stunned. Someone in the first row caught my eye. My uncle Esquivar, who owned a burrito place nearby. A place Hernandez may well have dined at that day. He smiled and gave me the thumbs up.
Family is so important.

Ben Franklin's Problem

Ben Franklin was frustrated. He just could not harness electricity. Standing in the middle of a field, flying a kite during a lightning storm only got him burned. No one had invented insulation.
Hamilton thought he was nuts. Your reputation is secure, Ben. You're on The Declaration of Independence, a founding father, beloved and respected.
Ben replied, I am not a politician or general. No one will remember me unless I invent something like the electric waffle iron.
Hamilton sighed and walked off. Some people just have to make waves.

Material of Dubious Quality

Boris was a terrible stand up comic, with lousy material. Audiences hissed and booed. He hated being a carpet cleaner. Comedy was his passion.
Then Luanna appeared, offering to write his material in exchange for 10% of all his future earnings. He read her stuff and immediately agreed.
His career took off, leading  to gigs in Vegas and a possible sitcom. Boris decided to break their contract and cut her out.
Luanna smiled and made a phone call to her uncle Carlo. Let's just say Boris is now working on wheelchair humor. After all, a contract is a contract.

Copy This

Barishnikov's posture
Cary Grant's walk
James Bond holding a drink
Brando's smirk
Morgan Freeman's tone and cadence
Rodney Dangerfield's eyeroll
William F. Buckley's vocabulary
George F. Will's logic
Larry David's excuses
Phillip Marlowe's wardrobe
Steve McQueen's squint
Paul Newman's poses

Playground King

Morris was king of the playground. He was fastest on the monkey bars, fastest on the slide, flew highest on the swing, see sawed so hard no one wanted to be his partner. No one could catch him at tag. He was bigger, quicker, faster and stronger.
I preferred to stay in the sandbox building castles. Greta kept urging me to show some guts and challenge Morris. I chose sands in my shorts over being humiliated in front of the others.
One day they trucked in new equipment--a giant maze, which replaced the boring merry go round. Kids circled it warily, none chancing to test it. Finally, Morris pounded his chest and announced he would defeat the beast. He would blast through it and get to the exit before you could blink.
He strode through the entrance.
Five minutes later, he was going in circles, becoming more frantic. Soon after, he was sobbing in frustration.
I rose from the sandbox, shook myself off and walked to the entrance. I needed to prove myself to myself.
I took several wrong turns, but kept my wits. Eventually I deciphered the pattern and rescued a Morris. He was red faced with embarrassment.
Applause, shoulder pats, a kiss on the cheek from Greta.
I went back to the sandbox, head high. Except another kid had taken my place. I knew it was time to move on to new playground challenges.

Lederhosen

Lederhosen saved my life. I was drifting and aimless, minus goals or direction. One day I came across Aldo's Lederhosen on a website. I was enthralled. Leather breeches that came down to one;s knees. My heart pounded as I ordered a pair.
When they arrived I was beyond joy. They fit perfectly. I drove to the mall, bought suspenders, clogging shoes knee length socks, and a fedora with a feather. In the music section of B&N, I got Bavarian, Swiss and Austrian music.
I got home and donned my new outfit,played the music and bounced all over, not sure where my arms were supposed to go.
Now I could be part of Octoberfests.
I had to share this with my best friend, Robert. He was standing in the front yard, hands on hips, presiding over a yard sale. Look at me, Robert. Lederhosen! I have purpose, a passion.
He just smiled and pointed to a back table. There, laid out neatly, were six pairs of leather lederhosen. You may be surprised to know, Joe, there was a time in my life when I was struggling, and lederhosen got me through.
I sobbed. We hugged. It was a moment. Actually it was a short moment, as someone inquired about his throw rug.
I bought the used lederhosen and he threw in a pair of free suspenders because that's what friends are for.

Tastes Like Blue

I sip life and swallow regret
which tastes like blue
Cerulean blue not sky blue
It lays on my tongue
Seeps into pores
Tinged by gray saliva
Slides down my esophagus
It greets fear in my stomach
Blue becomes yellow
Small intestine waits in red fury
Black large intestine
Dissolves all other colors

Thong Boundaries

Lois trusted Ernest with her life until that day she returned from a business trip and realized something was off in her thong drawer. She organized her eight thongs by color and the violet had been placed before the magenta.
At first he pleaded innocent, but under intense questioning, Ernest broke down and admitted his act. He had worn that thong because he missed her and it brought her closer. Lois waited a moment, then smacked him several times. She sighed and said she was not going to throw away her marriage of eight years over a thong.
Ernest sobbed in relief and threw himself into her arms.
She looked down and noticed something on the floor.
A question, my dear, she said. Why are my fuzzy, pink bunny slippers on your side of the bed?
Ernest paused. Sometimes my feet get cold, he mumbled.
The smacking resumed. The bunnies did not look happy.

All My Fish

I had a great relationship with them before things went sour. I was stuck in my novel, so I joined a writing group. They had thirty events a month and I dove in head first. I didn't realize how much I'd neglected my fish until I went to feed them and saw, shockingly, six were floating belly up. Only a baby fish remained.
It stopped circling and gave me the fish eye. I was filled with guilt. I had created an orphan.
I rushed to my therapist. After all the progress, I was back to square one. Authorities are investigating. I may lose the baby to a more responsible adult.
My novel is still going nowhere.

I Am an Adult

I stared out into the fog. I had too much time on my hands. My magazines were boring. I'm tired of watching TV. I drive around with no destination or purpose. Talking to pigeons in the park only satisfies for so long. You can only fondle your own buttocks for so long before that too becomes boring.
I am an adult. I should have a goal. Jogging in place and feeding my fish is not a goal. I used to make duck sounds at parties, when I used to be invited out.
What is my contribution, the point of my life? I have a responsibility to be responsible. After brooding for an hour, I made a fist and punched the air. Enough, Time to return to serious work. I sat behind my computer and began typing.
The world awaits my next book, Word Felonies-Switchblade Stories 11.
Writing for serious adults.

The Fifth Child

The other four kids were quiet and docile. My wife and I are artists and need stable peace at home. Sometimes we put pills in their orange juice to sedate them. Art is important.
We hug them on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4 to 5pm. That is usually sufficient affection.
The fifth child was an accident. There were differences. He stayed in the womb ten full months, refusing to come out. We named him Gunther. Pale blue eyes, a shock of blonde hair. He didn't gurgle; he just glared, even when breast feeding. Crawling led to an attack on the cat. He bit one of his siblings on the thigh. Caught flies in his hands and swallowed them.
We noticed a tiny tail growing out of his butt. Our pediatrician was afraid to examine him. The Church took a wait and see attitude. He snarled at priests, spit in the Holy Water.
Gunther chewed on our paintings at night. Our other kids moved in with their grandparents. My wife and I began drinking.  Gunther's first word was triage. He spoke in garbled Latin and screamed if we did not dress him in black.
I sense further problems up the road in pre-school.