POOL SHARK

I am Jin Lee and I play pool like you wouldn’t believe. I’m a girl and my hair is black and long and my breasts aren’t that big but I can play pool really good. 

So good that I’m considered a pro, although I’ve been on the circuit a short while. Today I got a match against this other chick named Melody Nelson, who’s ranked like in the top five in the nation, but I’m not scared. I’m just gonna go in with my head up and cue ready. 

So if you want to come over a while and have a few drinks that would be fine. In fact, I play better a little tipsy—not drunk, of course, they’d disqualify me—but after a few beers I can kick ass. You think I’m bothered by this Nelson chick? No way, baby, no way. She’s good, yes, she’s damn good, but I’m gonna prove to be better, you just watch. 

No, now, I’d rather not go any farther than just a few drinks, like I mentioned, but maybe after I whip Nelson we can grab a go if you want. Besides, you’d probably enjoy me better then anyway. I can get pretty freaky when I win, so watch it. I just might hurt you. 

Still interested?

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 THE BIG RED SUITCASE

Thou shalt drive into the dark of night with a naked woman beside you

 

 

Trust me, there’s more where that allegedly came from but I’m saying nothing. Let’s get on with it. 

Okay, so I have this girlfriend—or should I say girl fiend—whose name happens to be Lara. My father loves her, probably mostly because of her name—Doc Zhivago is his favorite motion picture—but also because she has a nice set. He’s into that still. 

Well, so am I, but… 

Anyway, Lara’s okay. I mean, really, she is. It’s just that sometimes she goes off on these tangents. But doesn’t every woman? 

Take the other day. She calls me up and the first thing she says is 'I’m outta toothpaste can you bring some back?' I start to respond and then she says 'Oh and my sister’s gettin’ nutty again. Man this carpet’s dirty. Can you believe what they show on TV now? You don’t KNOW how bad I want a puppy.' 

And on and on. You get me? 

I’m going to call her Lara the Tangent Babe. (Believe me, she is a babe. It’s just the mouth.) 

So today I walk in and she’s packing. Got that big red suitcase out on the bed and is just packing away. Blouses here, slacks there, brassieres here, panties there, etc., etc. And I’m watching her. I say, 'Whatcha doin?' And she says nothing, like I’m some kind of ghost. By this time the suitcase is crammed. 'Where you headed off to?' I ask, but still I get nothing. She slams the suitcase shut and latches it up then heaves it past me and heads down the hall, the stairs, past the kitchen and out the door. Gone. 

Happy tangents, babe.

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 THE PRESENCE OF THE LINE

The piece of chalk he used to draw a line across the green board in order to show the class that he could draw straight, unlike some who cannot. It wasn't an exercise in futility, though some snickered, not understanding the overall purpose; others simply stared, oblivious it seemed to all around them. 

But there was one, a sophomore, whose eyes were alive, whose face held every aspect of interest in the otherwise banal event. Her name was Dawn Raye Golden. 

'Miss Golden,' said the drawer with the chalk, 'is there something you'd like to say? Anything you'd like to tell the class?' 

She swallowed, cleared her throat, then spoke. 'Uh, yes, I--I was just pondering the possible fact that your drawing the straight line across the chalkboard could in some circles signify the unity between gravity and space, therefore positing that notion that we are lost somewhere amidst the two, trying to find our way out.' 

He placed the chalk in the tray, saying, 'Very interesting, Miss Golden, but what is meant by 'out'?' 

She remained silent for a moment, then said, 'Well, what I mean is, we are spirit beings have a physical experience. We are merely a gathering of atoms, but somehow we also are equipped with what the ancients call a 'soul', or 'inner being', which is completely and utterly separate from our physical aspect. For us to truly know the meaning of reality, the real world, if you may, the world we understand only from our physicality, we must first come to discover that to fully define ourselves requires awareness of where we are in comparison to the rest of the universe, therefore escaping the mire of the ethereal realm and entering the solidity of the--' 

'Wait a minute,' someone interrupted. It was James Harlow Hudson, one of the snickering lot. 'You don't know what you're saying. You make no sense.' 

Dawn Golden turned and said, 'Then you explain it.' 

'That's just it. You can't, because there's nothing to explain. It's just a line on a chalkboard, nothing more, nothing less.' 

'I disagree,' said the line-drawer. 'A line is not merely a line. Everything has some degree of meaning, even a simple line.' 

'What about a dot?' asked James. He got up and went to the board, grabbed the piece of chalk, then drew a large dot under the line. 'Okay, does that have meaning?' 

'What, the dot, or the line and the dot?' 

'Just the dot.' 

'Well, I would think that the line would need to be erased in order for the dot to even begin to have meaning on its own. The presence of the line changes the idea completely.' 

James erased the line. 'All right, now we have the dot.' He looked at the class. 'Does the dot alone have meaning?' 

No one, not even Dawn Raye Golden, spoke. 

Finally someone in the back said, 'It could be an eye, or a hole, or a covering over a hole.' 

'Maybe a black hole,' said another. 

'A stain.' 

'A star.' 

'A blemish of light.' 

'An illusion of something that we don't know exists.' 

The bell rang, and the class grabbed their respective belongings. Everyone exited but Dawn Golden. She remained in her seat. She looked sad but thoughtful. 

'Are you okay, Miss Golden?' 

She let a moment pass before answering. 

'Strangely,' she said, sitting perfectly still, 'I feel like a dot.'

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 OBSERVANCES

Somewhere over Mount Vesuvius a lone cloud is floating. I watch from beside my tent as it passes. The rain lasted here only two days. My food supply is fleeting. I am returning home tomorrow.

 

Can you believe it? There are no scratches, bruises, medical contusions. I have returned unblemished.

 

My wife is preparing steak on the grill. She says I should relax and let her take care of me. I oblige gratefully, my feet propped on a hassock.

 

Today I think I am going blind.

 

On the television a news program is running. The anchor is dressed in white, her hair is white, her face is in white, like a mime. She is not speaking. She is miming the news as I watch in disbelief. Or do I believe.

 

In Laramie, Wyoming, a rancher decides he will take a matter into his own hands. He does and gets away with it in marvelous fashion. No one objects. I secretly wish I were him.

 

The garbage has been delivered to the street in a large black container the width of a clothes washer and the height of a chest of drawers. The time is 6:37. The men in dirty garb will be here any minute. I will watch from the window and record their every move. Stay with me?

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 BLINKERS

The dead rabbit was nothing else but dead. It was of no use to anyone. As the city council members entered the auditorium, none of them mentioned it. 

'So, James,' said one of the city council members as he adjusted his striped tie, 'how’s Phyllis?' 

James didn’t answer; he was thinking of something else besides the woman named Phyllis. 

Pretty soon, the council meeting started and the mayor announced the agenda. There were about fifty people in attendance. 

Just then the city manager stood up and said something. He said a few words and then sat down again. This left the city council meeting to commence. 

'Okay,' said the mayor. 'Let’s begin.' 

And the meeting began. It lasted for about two hours and twenty minutes, then everyone in the auditorium, including the city council members and the mayor and the city manager, went home. Even the local press. Even the auditorium cleaning person, but later. 

The rabbit, of course, stayed exactly where it had been upon losing its life. This was the only thing in the immediate area that didn’t really change. However, if you count decomposition 'change', then everything changed. Right?

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 THIS IS NOT A CHAIR

Maybe we can adapt. Maybe we can nab a fantasy with wings the size of elephant ears. Join the Jugular Club, admittance is free on Wednesdays. Let’s play atop purpled landscapes, Harry can’t see life for the deaths. Do the bridge girl while she hangs her head and falls upon the bar, all the beer bottles surrounding her like soldiers looking for prisoners. 

And the slide guitar pierces sadness into your soul, it asks your name again, but you refuse to give it, you’re afraid of what will happen then, that you’ll be found out for the hydraulic man you really are. See this photograph? This is the one I really like. Isn’t he cute, the way he poses for someone’s camera as if he’s not the stranger he is. Here is where everyone is. 

There must be something here. The ice floes flow past, cracking my head to bits. I eat brown rice and think of commercials about pitchforks and bloodied chests. I came to make sure the doors are all locked. Time holds warmth against you, blames you for taking fire without permission. 

Take a deeper breath. 

Kick me over. 

Draw me dark.

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 HOW ROBBIE JUMPED A BUS

And as he was thinking of the morning his father made him eat Corn Flakes in all that extra milk, having to drink more than he actually ate, that by the time he made it to the flakes themselves they were all soggy and droopy and lifeless and no longer crunchy, just these useless slivers of flimsy processed hybrid foodstuffs that didn’t do anything but coagulate into a stomach substance that took forever to make its way out, the right lane ended and he had to get over so that eventually he was in a new right lane, headed west, headed in a direction he wasn’t accustomed to going, toward a destination he rarely visited. 

'Honey, are you okay?' said a female voice. It was that of his wife, Sharon Evans. She wore a pink and yellow ribbon in her hair. 

'Sure,' he said, re-gripping the steering wheel, making certain that his hands were on it. 'Yeah, I was just thinking back to the time I ran the streets with that Robbie Harrison guy. How we used to throw rocks at people’s windows and bash in their mailboxes after midnight.' 

Sharon Evans smiled. 'Yeah, you told me how those days were the real days and how much you miss them. What happened to Robbie again?' 

'I already told you that too.' 

'Yeah, but I want to hear it again. Tell me again,' she said. 'I want to hear it one more time.' 

So he told her. He told her again how Robbie jumped a bus and went to Chicago and was never heard from until about two years later, when he had taken up the saxophone and was trying to make it on street tips, how he never could get off the streets, how the streets were like his best friends and how he had names for them and all. Sharon listened with a slight, nearly imperceptible smile, kind of like the one the Mona Lisa wears, the kind of smile a person would wear when they weren’t sure if they should smile or not smile. 

'Yeah, that’s a great story,' Sharon said. 'That’s one of the best stories you ever tell.' 

He knew she wasn’t being completely honest. She was so used to hearing the story that it had become part of her subconscious and she believed that every time he told it it was like the very first time she had ever heard it, as if it were a new story, one reserved just for her and no one else. 

Just then they came upon a huge thing in the road. It looked like a heap of something, or a pile, or a large semi-vertical protrusion. He stopped the car as Sharon Evans looked at the heap, pile or protrusion. 

'What is it?' Sharon said, her hands fluttering near the pink and yellow ribbon in her hair. 

He shrugged as he got out of the car. 'I don’t know, let me go take a look.' 

As he approached the heap/pile/protrusion, something flickered in his mind. It was a flickering of a gigantic Corn Flakes box. The vision then replaced the thing in the road and he stood on the center line looking up at the Corn Flakes monolith. Sharon Evans only saw the heap/pile/protrusion, not anything to do with Corn Flakes.

After this they turned around and headed east. They never made it to the destination. Need anything more be stated?

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 INTAKE

This was the winter I began tapping into people rather than avoiding speculative aspects of society. I mean what could anyone accomplish wearing estrangement everywhere? My sisters were dead, and sometimes I would think about what they would think – and say, mind you – when and if they happened by on a sunlit-drearied afternoon of sorts as if they were cartooned to me somehow. I closed the door of the closet and made two pots of coffee for no other reason that there was really nothing else for me to be doing at the time. (The television [non-speaking of television] didn’t work [I by accident caused its demise] so I failed by design to afford myself its semi-arguable pleasure.)

Attempting to enchant my senses by opening myself to what was outside, I arrived at (for me) the revelation that being outside was just that. Light from the perky surroundings led me further into it – so much so that I found myself encapsulated in my car (I had just paid the bank what they had been leading me to believe was their final cut). Grasping the key to self-motioning in the requisite directions (reverse then forward then a series of rights and lefts, etc.), I then was aware of no longer being motionless.

At the precise minute of entering the marketed parking lot I noticed people frequenting spatial planes of dimension; some were faces without much leg presence, mostly arms and hands, occasional air-fingerings, and all the chittered chatter seemed to detonate the other vehicles in the concreted expanse. The silent traversers were of course soloed by design, with no one else per se to speak into except through internal realization, if any. I remained ensconced, but only for a time of no one’s acute awareness.

“Hello,” I spurted toward the face of one of the chatterers, causing both of them to rotate their vocal-sources into my stationary proximity.

“Hi there?” posed one, the question engrained inside them escaping without full permission. The other merely stared.

“Are you planning to buy something, or are you just out for a jaunt?” I proffered, without mining my facial insides for any semblance of anything perceptible. They (both of them) emitted a unified guttural and kept walking. Over the next hour, a seminal parade of unresponsive faces appeared and vanished in my purview, not availing to me a pointed aspect of purpose, positioning me in the smacked center of existential disregard. Upon returning to my housed origination, I felt as if someone other than myself had driven.

 

*

 

While the typicality of extending former, itemized plans past innumerable stopping points produces (for many/some/none?) a plethora of problems, allow my deviation: the aforementioned tongued exchange occurred via much-repeated verbalizing over a period of a few, unnumbered weeks, employing, of course, an amusing variety of participants. The halting of it evidenced itself upon a mannerly but stern request by a badged and gunned person sporting broading shoulders and a rough-hewed mustache. Despite the stated mandate to refrain from fusing my existence within the premises, I retained the unspoken freedom to commence my hope-laden banter elsewhere, which would have served as a potential solution albeit wrought with its own populous lack of success.

 

*

 

The passing of additional weeks has transpired, as has potted coffee. My non-debt car retains its capacity of use, but what action does one take when relocation via mechanical means holds no apparent urgency? I discover, therefore (with proposed intelligence), that a substituted television creates less of a plight, and surrendering to sedentary devices achieves a more agreeable (and less energied) relationship for all involved, my non-existent/-breathing sisters excluded in the equation, one of which is one of many but also the one and only.

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico

 THE INFINITE

His name is Perry Sandiford. He lives just down the street from, well, everything. There is nothing he doesn't live near. Perry enjoys this bonus, of living near everything, of having access to all that is in all. If he could speak -- he cannot for he is mute -- he would tell you how he feels. But he cannot. He cannot say a word. 

Perry, this Perry man, he awakes one morning, to a shaft of light that slashes his face. He bolts upright, like a mechanical doll. Thus, the day, Perry's day, begins. 

It gets smaller and smaller -- approaching, coming near, smaller, ever smaller. It is like a mouse. 

Perry is getting dressed. He is shaving. He is applying cologne. Perry suddenly smells good, but to no one but himself. 

His brother is a lieutenant in the army. He is a big man, Perry's brother, he is Perry's big brother, but not in the Orwellian sense. Just his big brother. Perry loves Richard. Perry thinks Richard is the bestest of all. Richard always smiles at that, even when he reads it in a letter. 

The radio is on, Perry is listening intently, it is a show with people talking about something. Perry listens, intently listens, he is listening to the show intently. 

The mouse, the small small thing, scampers here and there, it is a mouse that runs and scampers. 

Today Perry stands at the mirror and stares and smiles and stares and wonders and smiles and stares. He stands at the mirror of his bathroom and stares. He feels himself fading into infinity. He feels himself fading away, into the infinity of the bathroom mirror, into the Infinity of all infinities, until he is the epitome of infinity itself.

 

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico