Like a Hollywood producer watching the heroin mix with his smoky blood, I often wonder what the future holds.

Will there be rocket socks?

Will there be sock rockets?

Will there be someone around financially irresponsible enough to help me get some of my patented sock-related inventions off the ground?

Pun.

Intended.

Oddly enough, though, someone has already seen what the future holds.

Specifically, they’ve seen what the future of beverages holds.

More specifically, they’ve seen what the future of beverages in 2033 holds, and which vodka was voted Number One.

I don’t know, sign. M. I.?

Svedka Vodka, for worse or worse, has bombarded Chicago with its pasty robot ass cheeks.

The city is lined with these seductive bald machine ladies of 2033 and their 11-inch Victoria Beckham waists.

Everywhere I turn, I’m faced with titanium double-D’s.

Maybe I will, sign. But, honestly, I’ll probably just end up making my next trophy wife an Argentinean who enjoys dick and fart jokes.

What I find incredible about these ads goes waaaay beyond their portrayal of women, how we should all be striving to find, or be, a disproportioned ass-wagging trophy wife associated with hard alcohol.

No, what really gets my vodka-infused robotic goat is that these Swedish bastards have traveled all the way to the year 2033, and all they’re coughing up for those of us still trapped in 2011 dreaming about rocket socks, is some arbitrary “We’re #1″ award their vodka has supposedly won.

So I jetted off to Lidköping, Sweden, last weekend to confront those at Svedka Headquarters.

After battling many, many, MANY naked robot lady soldiers with a sword I dipped in Captain Morgan’s Rum, I found myself hiding in the room containing their time traveling machine.

It was glorious!

It looked like a giant upside down tumbler.

I clicked myself into the seat with an over-sized lemon twist, pulled back on the red and white lever with the olive-shaped grip, and boom-bam, I was in the year 2033.

The first thing I did was check the sizes and shapes of my moles.

Second, I made sweet love to many, many, MANY naked robot lady soldiers patrolling the hallways.

Then you’re thinking I immediately checked all the sports scores for the past twenty years, who was the U.S. president, what cities were underwater due to global warming, what the price of Apple stock was and if there’d been a Sarah Palin nip slip yet.

Good guesses, Reader of 2011, but what I actually did was seek out the Director of Marketing in the eastern wing.

His name was Bjorn Bjorkman, and his office was full of all this futuristic white furniture that floated at knee level.

“Do you have an appointment?” Bjorkman asked.

I sat on a floating white sphere and rotated myself thrice before saying, “Of course, I do, Bjorkman.”

“Well, then. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have to ask you something that’s been on my mind for quite some time.”

“Shoot.”

“Great, great. Pardon my directness, but can you tell me what the fuck it’s supposed to mean if I’m ‘Bot or Not’ for your stupid vodka?”

“Excuse me?” Bjorkman asked, stroking his blond beard.

“Listen, dude. I’m from the past. Traveled in your time machine. Sexed up a few of your robots on the way over here. I thought I was going to run out the doors and check on some of my own sock inventions, steal the technology and take it back to 2011 so we could all hover over packs of wolves and hunt them from the comforts of our underwear, but your incredibly asinine ‘Bot or Not’ campaign has been eating away at my soul for some time now. Apparently, it’s even traveled with me in your time machine. So, please, Bjorkman. Tell me how the hell I can be ‘Bot’ enough for a vodka made from winter wheat?”

Bjorkman sat on a floating white chair and put his feet up on his floating white desk. “You can’t, my friend. It’s impossible to be ‘Bot’ enough for vodka.”

“Right? I mean, even if I was a total robot babe, wouldn’t I be drinking sweet, sweet motor oil?”

“Most likely.”

“Then, I implore you, Bjorkman. Come back with me to 2011 and stop this marketing campaign. These ads are at our bus stops, inside our favorite magazines and pasted to the sides of our buildings, and it’s literally killing us with its irrelevance. Well, not literally killing us, but it’s quite possibly the dumbest alcohol advertising I’ve ever seen, and Budweiser commercials are on every twenty seconds. Bjorkman, save us.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. …”

“Bjoose.”

A hundred naked robot lady soldiers suddenly rushed into the room. My head was slammed onto a floating white treadmill and Bjorkman turned it to a weight losing setting. As my face was ground into the speeding tread, he said, “Mr. Bjoose, since the dawn of man, alcohol advertising has never made any sense. A man wants to drink, and so he does. He does not need to be reminded that there is Bud Light on the shelves. Jack Daniels has been around forever. They don’t need to advertise at all, yet they do. Now, will a man or woman drink Svedka because we put impossibly skinny naked robot ladies at your bus stops? Of course not. We do it because we have too much money and we want to keep you dumb so that you’ll associate advanced technology and your long-term future with Svedka.”

A layer of skin had been torn from my cheek, and it slapped me with each rotation of the tread, but I managed to ask one final question before I was pulled back through the building and strapped into the giant upside down tumbler: “Bjorkman! Just tell me one more thing! Is Svedka vodka really the ‘Number One’ vodka of the year 2033?”

He laughed. “Of course not. That title is held by Ocean Spray’s Frankenberry Vodka Circular Cubes. It’s absolutely delicious. Frankenberries are where it’s at.”

I woke up on a bench in downtown Chicago.

Dazed, with a bandage on my cheek, I reached for a newspaper and saw the date: April 19, 2011.

And when I looked up, I saw this:

I thought about shaking my fist in the air and screaming Bjorn Bjorkman’s name.

I thought about wearing a white robe and preaching against advanced technology on the city corners of the world.

But as I shuffled toward the curb, I felt something at my ankles.

I pulled up the legs of my pajama jeans.

Taped to my socks were dozens of bottle rockets and a folded up note.

I lit the wicks of the bottle rockets and opened the note. It read:

Invest in Frankenberries. And fuck your stupid sock ideas. Seriously. You’ll burn your heels.

- Bjorkman

PS. U.R. Bot enough, Mr. Bjoose. U.R.

Classified Ad — Week One

FOR SALE: Old safe on wheels. Locked but no combination. Leaving the country and can’t take it with me. Buyer owns whatever is inside. Could be a pile of diamonds or could be nothing. Maybe gold bars. Sorry, no refunds. $10,000. Call Rob X3324.

Classified Ad — Week Two

FOR SALE: Big old safe on wheels. Locked! Lost the key! Once belonged to my great grandfather, the famous French fur trader, so there may be some nice fur coats in there or stacks of money made in the fur industry. Buyer owns anything found inside. Safe most likely crowbar accessible. No refunds. $9,500. Call Entienne “Rob” Brule X3324.

Classified Ad — Week Three

FOR SALE: Big antique safe on really nice wheels. Don’t know the combination and door is locked. My highly regarded archaeologist uncle died and left me the safe in his will. Priceless artifacts inside? A map maybe? Or perhaps just the answer to all your financial problems? You figure out the combination and whatever’s inside is yours! No refunds. $9,350. Call Rob X3324.

Classified Ad — Week Four

FOR SALE: Beautiful antique safe on ivory-like wheels. Safe is locked and I don’t have the combination or key. Once belonged to my great-great uncle who sailed the Caribbean as a savage pirate. Buy it and crack its secret code and own whatever’s inside! (When I roll the safe around on its super nice wheels it sounds like there are jewels bouncing around inside, but can’t say for sure. Could be pearls.) Absolutely no refunds. $8,000 OBO. Call Rob X3324 RIGHT NOW.

Classified Ad — Week Five

FOR SALE: Beautiful antique safe (on wheels so nice that they have to be worth (at least) $50 each themselves)). Door is locked and I have never had it opened. I do possess six-sevenths of a riddle that leads to the combination. My obsessive manuscript-collecting grandmother died and left safe to me, but I don’t have room for it in my car. Buyer owns riddle and whatever’s inside even if it is the first draft of Ulysses or The Great Gatsby. Sorry, no refunds. $6,500 OBO. Call Rob X3324 or email [email protected]

Classified Ad — Week Six

FOR SALE: Safe on two working wheels. Locked. No combination. Opened once but lost key. As many of my wife’s frog figurines as I could fit are inside. Make me an offer. No refunds. Call Rob X3324.

Illustration by Chris Simmons. A different version of this first appeared on The Big Jewel.

LEAD GUITARIST WANTED for local Land O Lakes rawk band. Male or female, 18 – 50. MUST BE NUDE. All original music, which means the vocalist would have to be able to collaborate and work out their vocal harmonies. Looking to add keys, and eventually horns and other nude people down the road. Contact Lenny V. at X1113

DRUMMER AND FIDDLER NEEDED I started a fun country band and am looking for a drummer and a fiddler who are serious about music and serious about playing music naked. We will be writing our own material but will also be performing some popular covers. Think George Strait meets naked Dolly Parton. Call Lenny V. at X1113

PRO METAL VOCALIST wanted!!! Music for our first album already recorded, working with great Kissimmee producer. Need an experienced, killer, melodic, nude vocalist with a unique/versatile sound who owns his or her own towels and sandals. Will the naked you complete this rocking puzzle? “Reach out and touch” Lenny V. at X1113

FEMALE PIANO/KEYBOARD PLAYER wanted to accompany Sinatra/Bennett/Williams style saloon singer for the Cyprus Cove nightclub, The Bare Den, and for private beach events where you may do more dancing than singing. Good paying gigs are out there and waiting for some great nude jazz. Contact Lenny V. at Cabana 5B by knocking 4 times, or by dialing X1113

DRUMMER NEEDED After only a week our drummer flaked out on us and quit. We need an experienced naked drummer right now for our jazz-fusion band! I’ve already written some songs and have an extensive library of me performing them in a mirrored room. Contact Lenny V. at X1113 or email [email protected] for links.

BASS PLAYER available for subbing all gigs. Will play naked for your resort’s band or for private parties. Can be there in an instant’s notice. Call Lenny V. at X1113

Illustration by Chris Simmons. A different version of this first appeared on The Big Jewel.

Mr. Proffitt, I’m going to stop you right there. When I thank you for your time, I believe I speak for all of us here tonight sitting around this very long picnic-like table in this drafty back room. I never thought I would set foot in a restaurant named Crabs ‘R’ Us, a place with sawdust on the floor and no mirror in the Men’s room, but here we are. I also never thought that my partner, Mr. Robinson down there at the end, would stretch the truth to get me to leave my family up in Portland this morning for a pestilent hell-hole like Elk Cove, but again, here we are. There are firsts for everything, I suppose. And Mr. Robinson, you sir, are in for quite the car ride home.

But I’ve sat back quietly and listened to your proposal; I’ve watched you down Coors Light after Coors Light after, well, Coors Light while your beefy colleague Mr. Pratt here spilled his beer on my Ralph Lauren shirtsleeves, and I’ve carefully examined your wife’s charming sketches on the flimsy and beer-soaked paper that have made their way down to me. By the way, Mr. Proffitt, I would suggest that you procure some foam board or some nice Japanese paper the next time you decide to give a presentation that includes concept specs.

My answer, unfortunately, is no. I will not be investing in your “Wonders of the World” miniature golf course for the following reasons:

First, I must point out that these sketches don’t really give me an idea of what your miniature golf course will look like. Take this one, for example. This is just a poorly drawn pyramid and some palm trees. I know what a pyramid looks like; I was in both Giza and Saqqara just this last October. You simply could have just said the word “pyramid” and I’d be able to conjure up a pretty good image. But where does the ball go in, Mr. Proffitt? This drawing, like many of the others, doesn’t show the architecture of the actual golf course. I don’t see any greens, holes, or families of four smiling with putters sticking out of their hands. No aerial view. No real color supplements in these. Gibberish and gobbledygook, honestly. I will say, though, that the drawing of the Statue of Liberty holding a golf ball instead of the torch is very cute. Please tell your wife I said so. By the way, when did you get married? Mr. Robinson said you were a bachelor carpenter.

Second, are you going to tell me that the folks of Elk Cove know what the St. Basil’s Cathedral is? Or The Parthenon, even? I know you want to, as you say, “Bring some of the outer world into Elk Cove,” but I’ve had a chance to see the town, and frankly I might have decided upon something more appropriate like a brewery or mustache theme. Or perhaps you could have picked some more well-known monuments for the community – some value-added resources based on your demographic – and maybe recreate Babe the Blue Ox or the largest ball of dirt.

And finally, I should tell you that I don’t make a habit of going into business with persons who wear jeans, checkered flannel shirts and knitted, square-ended ties to an investment meeting. Look around; everyone else besides your partner, who now has a napkin sticking out of his sweat-soaked collar, is wearing a suit and a starched shirt. With real ties, Mr. Proffitt. Made of silk. I know it’s not my place, but maybe you can ask that new wife of yours to go shopping for you. This is all just something to keep in mind for the next time you decide to pitch this idea to a table of outside investors. And you might also want to think about getting yourself a haircut, Mr. Proffitt. You’re asking me for money, not for a bowling match.

Now, I overheard you ask that gentleman if he’s ever been nervous in his life, and I would assume that he has. He’s sitting next to a rambling mountain man who wants to build a miniature golf course without a plan that captures a decent profit margin, after all. Plus, he’s stuck in some tiny Oregon town whose claim to fame at the moment is that a strange woman has recently been found bobbing in the harbor with amnesia.

I think I’ve said enough on this subject, Mr. Proffitt. I trust that you will be picking up the bill for these small crab claws that were dropped on my plate and for the murky tap water? Thank you very much.

A different version of this piece originally ran on The Big Jewel

Business has been absolutely booming this summer at Greg Boose’s Personalized Swimming Pool Signs, Inc. Below are a few recent orders that we’ve completed.

 

 

Pool Rules for Zombies

1. Walk; don’t shamble around with your arms out in front of you in and around the pool facility.

2. No bringing a shirtless George A. Romero to the pool area (unless he’s a zombie or has a day pass).

3. Acceptable swimwear is required in the pool facility and in the water. Tattered pants and the skin of the living are not acceptable.

4. Zombies under seven years old or less than four feet tall must be accompanied by a parent zombie or responsible zombie adult at all times. While in the water, the zombie parent or responsible zombie adult must remain within a disembodied arms reach.

5. No bringing outside human flesh or brains; all food must be bought at the designated pool snack bar.

Pool Rules for The World’s Tallest Woman

1. No using the pool without photographers present.

2. Stride in slow motion; don’t walk in and around the pool facility.

3. No engaging the lifeguard in unnecessary conversation about bone problems.

4. Sitting in a specially constructed beach chair that results in the absence of watching you struggle into and out of a normal beach chair will not be tolerated.

5. The use of sunscreen is encouraged and should be applied in less than 50 minutes.

6. Acceptable swimwear is required both in the pool facility and in the water. Sofa slipcovers and construction tarp are not acceptable swimwear.

Pool Rules for the 2nd Annual Beard of Bees Competition

1. No using the pool.

Pool Rules for Tom Cruise

1. No using the pool if you’re going to behave post-Jerry Maguire.

2. Walk; don’t run or hop over to the pool facility’s wicker couch.

3. Animals are not allowed in the building or pool area, with the exception of Katie Holmes or other guide dogs.

4. Persons who appear to be under the influence of alcohol or narcotics or bat craziness will be denied admission.

5. No exaggerated laughter in the pool.

6. No body thetans in the pool. You must shower before entering the pool.

Pool Rules for Jesus Christ

1. Diving or ascending is not permitted.

2. Water in pool may not be changed into wine.

3. No walking on water during lap swim times.

4. Toys, water wings, snorkels and masks are not allowed unless you are part of an organized class or you are the Son of God and can use invisible ones.

5. No glass, alcohol or myrrh is permitted anywhere in the pool area.

6. No using the Lord’s name in vain unless you are the Son of God and are cursing yourself for buying cheap invisible water wings.

Pool Rules for Han Solo

1. No smuggling foodstuff or Jedi into the pool facility.

2. Wookies are not allowed in the pool or pool facility, with the exception of those armed with a bowcaster.

3. No telling Hoth stories while in the pool.

4. Persons who appear to be under the influence of carbonite will be denied admission.

5. Diving in water less than nine feet deep, or back dives, somersaults, “cannon balls” or “death stars” from the side of the pool, or any other unsafe activities are not permitted.

Illustration by Chris Simmons

01/02/2009

Dearest Francine,

Hello and Happy New Year! First, I must apologize for placing this letter on your conveyor belt and then disappearing into the soup and rice aisle. I hope these words have successfully made their three-foot journey into your delicate fingers, and I hope that you have the time to read this letter in its entirety before scanning another item for another customer. I purposefully picked a slow time at the store for this. There are so many things I’ve wanted to say to you over the past ten months I’ve been shopping at this grocery store, and I hope you can soon understand why I am approaching you in the form of a letter.

You should probably know who this is from before I go any further: I’m Brian with the tiny silver globe on his key chain. You mentioned that you liked it once, back in October, when you asked for my preferred shopping card that was attached to my key chain. If that doesn’t jog your memory at all, I am 43, tall, in good shape, part my brown hair down the right side, wear a black blazer quite often over a white button down, and I always buy a Sun-Times.  Twice I’ve told you that your hair looked great. Once I blessed you after you sneezed, and you said that you didn’t hear that enough.  If none of that is familiar, then you will surely remember the three-week span where I bought nothing but bananas and cigarette lighters.

Yes, it’s “that guy.” Ha ha. It was a strange time for me, but I’m better now. By the time you have gotten to this paragraph, I will have already driven away from the curb, headed home to berate myself for pulling such an immature stunt. Please believe me that I’ve never written a love note to a woman before. I don’t write notes, or letters, at all, so please bear with the bluntness of what I am about to say.

I think about you. I think about you in a way that causes my heart to pound in my temples. I think about how you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever been in contact with, and in my line of work as an insurance claims examiner, I tend to meet a lot of women. Clumsy and accident-prone women, yes, but women all the same. I think about your smile, Francine, and about your eyes, and about that time last week when I saw the slightest bit of tanned skin between the bottom of your shirt and your jeans when you reached into the register for my change.

Yes, I think a lot about your body, Francine. About your breasts that pull hard at the buttons running down the middle of your shirt. About your rear end that can hardly breathe in your blue jeans. About your adorable feet. Your tight neck. Your clavicle. Your navel. I think about it all. Please, please, please see these as compliments. Please do not feel uncomfortable. Please read on.

When I think about all those things, Francine, I think of having one perfect night with you. What I want, what I really want, is to lay you down on your conveyor belt – right in the middle of the Sunday evening rush – and have some of the most sensual sex we’ve both ever had. I know, I know. That’s impossible; you would be fired, and I would most likely be identified by any number of clients of mine who shop at your particular Jewel-Osco. All bad for business.

However, I do have a plan. This is what I am suggesting: On this coming Thursday, when you normally work late (if I have my calendar in order like I believe I do), I want you to hide before closing. I don’t care where, but I might suggest the stock room or in the southwest wine corner behind that new, half-circle cabernet display. There’s always the bathroom stall where you could do the lifting-of-the-feet trick, or you could consider ducking under the honey wagon at the end of Aisle 4. Judging by your nice biceps, I bet you could climb to the very top of a shelf and just lie flat for a spell.

Why?

Because, if I am not mistaken, you want me as much as I want you. I have seen the signs, Francine. The way you look me up and down. The way you lick your lips and fix your hair when you see me two-deep in your line. The way your voice quivers when asking me if I’ve heard of the day’s special offer. Do. Not. Be. Embarrassed. There is nothing wrong with the thundering cloud of sexual tension that hovers over our heads, but I for one can’t take it any longer.

So, this is what I want you to do. When the last light has been shut off and your manager has locked the final lock on Thursday, I want you to wait fifteen minutes before letting me in the back door. Do not speak when you see me. I will quickly lead you back to your check-out counter where you will stand there with your scanner in your hands, and I am going to get in line with my Sun-Times like it’s any other day. When you ask me if I’ve found everything alright, I will lean over the counter and lick your lips for you. I will fix your hair with a brush that I’ve grabbed on our way through the cosmetic aisle. And when we can’t take it anymore – when our saliva is running down each other’s chins and our breaths are in a heavy sync – I will pull you onto the front of the conveyor belt and remove your jeans. I will turn on the belt, and your shirt won’t stay on past the Reader’s Digest. And by the time you slide toward the plastic and paper bags, you will be naked and perfectly lined up for me to take you in. And then you will steady yourself by grabbing a hold of those metal bars that the plastic bags reside in. Here, I’ve actually drawn a picture:

I hope you don’t find that crude. Now let’s be honest. You are at the point in this letter, Francine, where you will either crumple it up, report this plan to a sister or a boyfriend or your manager or the police, or you will read on because you are on board with this, with me. Please keep reading.

To continue: After I satisfy you at your counter, we will run to the produce section where I will toss you onto the oranges (because I think they’ll be the softest fruit that will create the least amount of mess), and I will hum my head between your thighs like a man trying to get to the last drop of water on Earth. And when you orgasm you will shoot your arms out wide and pull dozens of oranges back over your body and onto my head. The oranges will bounce on the floor in slow motion. I will shout your name. I will point to the cucumbers and you will tell me yes or no.

And just when you think you can’t take any more, just when you think it couldn’t get any hotter, we’ll sprint to the dairy section for whip cream and sprint to the condiment aisle for sprinkles and then sprint to kitchen hardware for bendy straws. And at the base of the Kellogg cereal pyramid, we’ll spray and lick and crotch snorkel and eat and fuck and play a game with the sprinkles I call the “ant attack.”

If the answer to all this and more is yes, if you’re reading this and your buttocks are clenched and your neck is sweaty and you’re already deciding what type of underwear to wear, then please give me the sign and wear a red blouse to work on Thursday. I will walk by the front window to learn my fate. Please, Francine, meet with me. I will be gentle when you need me to be gentle, and I will be rough when you need that too.

Trust me. Trust yourself.

Yours,

Brian

01/08/2009

Dear Francine,

When I walked past the window Thursday evening and saw you in that red blouse, I just melted. I melted like Klondike Bars left in a car trunk. My heart stopped and then went twice as fast. The stars were aligned, Francine! I was the happiest man in the world. The fruit tables and the dairy section and the plastic bag metal things were to be ours, Francine. The following hours waiting at the coffee shop down the street were both torturous and glorious, and I confess the smile on my face caused quite a few to stare.

The nurse said that she would deliver you this letter and my (second) box of flowers after your three o’clock exam, and so I hope that they both brighten your day. If I were permitted to visit you myself, I would be at your side with a Reader’s Digest and sorbet. I would be there in five minutes. Judges, as you obviously know, work awfully fast.

My initial plans had their faults, yes. When I said to hide among the bottles of Cabernet, I made a mistake and meant the Sauvignon Blanc. I can understand why there was a tub of metal corkscrews back there, but I am very upset about the plastic toothpick trees just lying around behind the Cabernet display. I have already written two letters to the manager and one to the chamber of commerce. I’m so sorry, Francine. I’m so so so so so sorry. And I’m even more sorry you took the “don’t speak to me when you open the back door for me” so literally when you were in such pain.

Let’s be honest, though, the role playing was steaming hot. When you asked me if I had found everything okay and I said that I hadn’t, it was like we were in an Oscar-nominated movie. It was like Twilight meets Aladdin meets The Sixth Sense. And when I lifted you onto the front of the conveyor belt and you pressed the button, the vision of you coming toward me with your legs open was like looking at a naked angel I drew a year ago in the back of my daily planner. YOU KNOW, Francine, you must must must know that if I had foreseen the pinching hazard that your bottom was floating slowly toward, I would have thrown you to the floor and ravaged you there. Instead, you were pinched for those eleven or twelve seconds and we both screamed some things that I wouldn’t tell a priest.

But you were such a sport, Francine. You wanted me. You wanted us. You weren’t going to let a little 24-inch bleeding cut stop what we had. When you suggested that I carry you to the fruit section on my back so that I could pleasure you among the oranges, I never loved you more. And then things got better. Things got hot again. We got electric. You squirmed and screamed while I licked between your legs for that last drop of water on Earth. I keep going over it in my head, Francine. If only I would have pinned your hands. If only I would have picked the lemons. If only I wasn’t such a good lover. But we continued and you shot your arms up one too many times and now you’re planning surgeries and printing off my headshot to hang in the elevators and on the ER doors.

Oh, Francine. A little risk always accompanies a little nibbling. We can both agree on that, right? Right? When I had your pearl between my teeth, we both should have thought of the risks. We both should have been more careful. But no matter what, Francine, I don’t think I could have ever prepared myself and my jaw for the grapefruit avalanche that beaned off my head like sack of softballs.

I hope you continue to get your rest and that you recover fast. Let’s try to look at the positives as I end this letter: I didn’t swallow it, your manager showed up at the right time and had his car running, and this hospital has a great reputation.

I’ll give you the space you asked for (in writing), and will continue to apologize in any way I can. Please recover soon, Francine. My shopping experience hasn’t been the same since you’ve been gone.

Longingly,

Brian

A different version of this piece first appeared in the erotica collection, “39… And Still Holding.”

 

Helen: I’m really going to let him have it.

Susan: Oh, Helen, you’re too much.

Helen: He deserves it for what he did.

Rita: Well, don’t just get up there and immediately blow up at the jerk. You have to take him by surprise by being nice and sweet, and then you can let him have it.

Helen: He just makes me so mad!

Susan: He’s a liar.

Rita: Despicable.

Helen: Absolutely. I told you ladies about my brother, right?

Susan: You sure did.

Rita: I didn’t hear this.

Helen: Well, I hate to say this but my brother, Roger, is an alcoholic.

Rita: Oh, dear. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.

Helen: It’s okay, not a lot of people know. Roger’s an alcoholic but he was trying to get better – he’s been trying for years – and so I went out and bought him James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” a few Christmases ago that everyone was talking about at the time.

Susan: And he started reading it that night, right Helen?

Helen: He sure did, Susan, and by the next morning he was crying. I found him just like that – crying at the kitchen table with his face buried in the pages. I walked in and he looked at me and told me he was sorry for everything – for stealing from my purse, for stealing my watch –

Rita: Oh my! Your watch, even?

Susan: All for drugs, right Helen?

Helen: Right – for drugs, which I didn’t know he was also doing at the time. So he cries and cries, and tells me about all these things he’s done and they’re all just so awful I don’t even want to tell you.

Rita: That’s awful.

Helen: It sure was. It was the most trying time in my life, I’ll tell you what. But then Roger read this Frey guy’s book and it really hit him hard. He sobered up, got a job at the mall as a security guard and everything. I even started to let my boys go over there and help him repaint his house, and Roger, my sweet little brother, he even started calling me a few times a week just to catch up.

Rita: That’s great!

Susan: Just hold on, Rita. Hold on.

Helen: But then everything comes out how it’s all, the book, you know, a bunch of lies.

Susan: A million pieces of lies!

Helen: That’s right! A million little pieces of lies!

Rita: A million pieces of lies!

Helen: So I get a phone call from Roger. October fourth. I remember that day. He’s screaming about how he was on the Internet and saw that James Frey lied about all those things in his book. Things that Roger really related to. Things that taught him a lesson. He’s crying and saying everything felt different and fake now.

Rita: Now?

Helen: Well, then, I mean. He stopped calling me and won’t return any of mine. My poor boys, bless their hearts, say he won’t even come outside to help them paint. We all think he’s, you know, drinking and doing drugs again.

Rita: No!

Susan: Yes.

Helen: All because that son of a bitch lied.

Susan: Helen!

Helen: Well, I’m sorry but that’s what he is.

Malcolm-Jamal Warner: Excuse me.

Rita: Yes?

MJW: Hi, I couldn’t help but hear you guys talking about –

Susan: Hey! Aren’t you…Aren’t you a Cosby kid?

MJW: Yeah, that’s me. I was on that show. My name’s Malcolm-Jamal Warner.

Susan: Theo!

MJW: Yeah. That’s right, Theo. I’m sorry to bother you.

Susan: It’s no bother at all, Theo!

MJW: Right. I was just waiting for my friend right over there and couldn’t help but overhear your story. That’s really sad about your brother and I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, would you like some of my Cherry Coke?

Rita: Do you have cups?

MJW: Right here in my pocket. Nope. Oh, here they are.

Susan: Oh my. Well thank you, Theo.

Rita: Thank you very much.

MJW: And how about you? Would you care for some Cherry Coke?

Helen: No thank you.

Susan: I just loved you as Theo. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to say that.

MJW: It’s okay – it was a great character to play.

Rita: I don’t know it. What show was it?

Susan: The Cosby Show, Rita! Bill Cosby’s show.

Rita: I’m sorry – we didn’t have television. My husband wouldn’t allow it.

MJW: Oh, it’s okay. It was just a television show from a long time ago. But the reason I came over is to say that I also read “A Million Little Pieces,” and that I myself have family members who are alcoholics and using drugs.

Helen: And aren’t you just furious when you found out it was all a bunch of lies?

Susan: A million pieces of lies!

Rita: A million pieces of lies!

Susan: We’re furious. Just like Oprah was.

Rita: Yes – we’re as mad as Oprah was when she had him back on the show. Aren’t you mad?

MJW: Well, I don’t know. I was a little hurt when I originally heard because I found the book’s details to be so moving and inspirational. Between the four of us, I cried a couple of times.

Rita: Me, too.

Susan: I won’t tell a soul, Theo.

MJW: I was angry, you know what I’m saying, that I got so emotional over a book that I believed to be pure fact; a memoir. But I’ve talked it over with a few people – including an older cousin of mine who’s an alcoholic and has read his book – and we both decided that it’s okay. Now I’m not saying it’s okay for him to say it was all true, but more that it’s okay for those passages and stories to be out there for people to believe them as truth. Let people believe that these things really happened, and let them take away from it what they will. Some of the best fiction can teach some of life’s most serious lessons.

Helen: But they marketed it as nonfiction. It says right on there that it’s a memoir. He’s a liar. The publishers are liars, too.

Susan: That’s right, Helen!

MJW: You’ve got to stop looking at it that way. Mr. Frey didn’t do you any personal harm by embellishing the truth or with his lies, as you call them, but rather he seemed to have helped quite a few people who read his book and saw the dark side of a dark disease. Your brother relapsing is not Frey’s fault; it’s your brother’s fault. He has a disease. A book doesn’t change that. A work of fiction doesn’t change that. Listen, do you understand how many people still come up to me and say that they learned a life-lesson from my character on that show?

Susan: It was such a great show.

MJW: And that show taught people about things like dyslexia, Shakespeare, jazz, designer shirts, the great Martin Luther King, and the empowerment of women. They learned it all from watching a fake television family with plot holes and a magical doctor’s office somewhere in the basement. I’m sorry, would you care for some more Cherry Coke?

Susan: I’ll take a little more.

Rita: No more for me, thanks.

MJW: There’s my friend coming in over there. Look – I’m sorry to barge into your conversation like that. I have to go.

Susan: It was so nice to meet you.

Rita: Yes, it was.

MJW: You should rent a movie I’m in called “Contradictions of the Heart.” It’s three interconnected stories about the contradictions people live regarding love, sex, friendship and race. Vanessa Williams stars in it.

Rita: Well, he was certainly nice.

Susan: He certainly was.

Rita: Oh, it looks like the line might finally start to move.

Helen: Good. I can’t wait to let him have it. I’m really going to tear that James Frey a new one.

Susan: But what about what Mr. Theo-Jamal Warner just said?

Helen: Now, Susan. You know I don’t trust black people.

 

 

 

Soldier One: What did he say about honor?

Soldier Two: I’m not sure. His horse twisted him around a couple times.

Soldier One: It was something about honor. He said something about land rights and then I heard him say honor.

Soldier Three: I heard him say something about bears and trees before everyone started shouting.

Soldier One: Bears and trees? Bears up in the trees?

Soldier Two: Can bears climb trees?

Soldier One: Sure bears can climb trees. How else do they get up there?

Soldier Three: He either said bears and trees or prayers and cheese. He was so far away.

Soldier Two: Well there was definitely something about tyranny and rape earlier. I definitely heard that.

Soldier One: Is he for them or against them?

Soldier Three: Against them. We’re here to fight against all that.

Soldier One: Well, of course.

Soldier Three: When he galloped by that first time I heard that God was going to something something to their faces.

Soldier Two: Now where’d he go? I lost him.

Soldier Three: Me too.

Soldier One: I have no idea.

Soldier Three: I can never tell.

Soldier One: Wait. Look over there. Everybody’s pumping their shields and swords above their heads over there on the right. See them? They’re shouting now.

Soldier Three: Oh, yeah. Wow. They’re really getting into it.

Soldier One: Makes you wonder what he said.

Soldier Two: Who knows. Hey, so did you guys hear about what happened to Smythe last night at camp? As a joke somebody put hot tar in his boots and when he pulled his feet out he fell backward right into a catapult basket. Flung him eight hundred and forty-four feet. They measured him this morning.

Soldier Three: I heard something about that but I didn’t know who it was.

Soldier Two: It was Smythe.

Soldier One: Here comes the general! Right…. there. You can kind of see his helmet bouncing!

Soldier Two: Where? Where?

Soldier Three: I see him! He’s coming!

All Soldiers: Yeeeeaaaah!

Soldier One: Pardon me, but did he say that if we conquer our fears that we’ll conquer Beth?

Soldier Three: Who’s Beth?

Soldier Two: Death. He said we’ll conquer death.

Soldier Three: Is that even possible?

Soldier One: Damn it. Now where did he go?

Soldier Three: I can’t see him anywhere.

Soldier Two: I’ll tell you what we need. Horses.

Soldier One: Horses would really help.

Soldier Three: Did Smythe have a horse? Because if he did…

Soldier One: If a bear dropped out of a tree right in front of you, I bet you could outrun it on a horse.

Soldier Two: Oh, absolutely.

Soldier Three: I don’t know. Bears are awfully fast.

Soldier Four: Would you guys please keep it down? I can’t hear anything the general’s saying. Just keep quiet, watch for the archery flag to go up and then shoot your arrows over and over and aim really high.

Soldier Three (whispering): I’d like to see a bear race a horse in an open field.

*A different version of Overheard on the Second Front was originally published by Opium Magazine