An Event Before Leaving for the Monastery

 

by Thomas Elson

beer

 My childhood living room was like a boxing ring from the old Gillette Friday night fights.

            In the red corner, draped across the green divan - hands clenched, arms splayed across its crest – at six foot three, one-hundred and ninety-five pounds, an Army veteran who had seen action in France and Germany - nursing an anger as deep as the Mediterranean. Head tilted back, mouth open and emitting glottal sounds that filled the room. His eyeglasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

In the blue corner, an eighty-three pound, six-year-old – his eyes periodically squinting to shut out the world - hunkered down, coiled in a brown chair.

On the coffee table near the divan rest amber bottles of Schlitz beer - empty, and a green glass ashtray - overflowing.

When my father sleeps, I am not allowed to turn on the television, so today, the Mickey Mouse Club, Pinky Lee, and Howdy Doody go unwatched. My eyes on the beer bottles, I stand, walk toward the coffee table, lift one of the bottles, and say, “Shits beer. ” Then I smile.

My father stirs, bolts to his feet, wobbles, his left shin collides against the coffee table, epithets erupt; then, like a battering ram, he propels himself toward me. Without a referee to break a clinch or call a foul, I retreat to a neutral corner, and, out of habit, curl into a protective position.

            My father’s face contracts. He does not breathe so much as snort. He jerks off his glasses, balls his hands into fists, jams his head within inches of me, then pushes his forehead against mine - shoving my head toward the wall.

“What did you say?” The onslaught of words forces me to inhale his charred and yeasty breath. He repeats his question – louder.

            “Nothing.”

            “What did you say?” His words reverberate.

            “Shits beer.”

            “What?”

            I repeat.

            “It’s Schlitz beer.” He says overemphasizing the “L,” then slams the bottle against the coffee table and demands, “Say it.”

            “Schlitz.”

            “Again.”

            “Schlitz.”

#

            Scenes like this - bobbing, weaving, mental jabs, psychological rabbit punches, emotional knockdowns - echo over decades as our family’s default means of communication, until one Sunday afternoon, when I, now a grandfather, ready my grandson for a tour of the Mission San Jose Monastery.

Without warning, my father, now a great-grandfather, oxygen tank at his side and a cannula affixed in his nostrils, clamps his jaw, gathers strength, latches onto his walker, pulls, pushes, stands, regurgitates familiar words: There’s not enough room in this family for both of us… You should have… You were… You never… Why didn’t you… If only you … Words explode, collide, ricochet.

            I look at my father’s fists, then step forward. “Hit me. Just fucking do it. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. Hit me.”

            The old man grasps the edge of the kitchen table to steady himself. His upper body shakes. His mouth warps into its decades-old contortion. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I’m going to do something.”

            “Then do it. Just do it.” I inch closer. My eyes never waver from his.

            He shakes, almost quivers, then sits down.

            I turn from the table, walk through the kitchen, and into the living room where my wife and daughter have secreted themselves on the opposite side of the doorway. “You were very brave.” My wife pats my shoulder.

            “No,” I say without looking at her, “being brave would have been doing that when I was six.”

About the author

Thomas Elson’s stories have been published in numerous venues, including Ellipsis, Better Than Starbucks, The Cabinet of Heed, Flash Frontier, Short Édition, Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead Mule School, The Selkie, The New Ulster, The Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas. 

 

Lemon Park

 

by Thomas Elson

lemon liqueur

 

Raymond awoke before five to a silence inside a barren house. He looked toward his still-sleeping wife. Careful not to make a sound, he crept from bed to kitchen, downed cereal and two cups of coffee, then tip-toed to the hallway bathroom.

He showered, donned his pinstripe suit, secreted his cologne bottle inside his suit jacket, inched into the bedroom, lobbed an excuse at his wife, “The trial should take at least two days,” pivoted and mainlined to his car.

Had he cared, he could have guessed, but not truly known, his wife’s feelings.

He needed to arrive early in the adjacent county, where he had reserved his usual hotel suite. He rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor, opened his suitcase, closed the curtains, and adjusted the thermostat to seventy-two degrees. After which, he drove his Audi to Lemon Park.

He had been to this park many times as a child – to swim in the Ninnescah River, play baseball and tennis, on his way home from swimming or the Boy Scout Lodge. Then as a teenager, in his father’s car over tracks pounded into the grass by others searching private places to discover soft skin and relish that release he had yet to tame. He turned left and saw the swinging bridge hanging across the precipice tremble - its entrance now forbidden due to fraying ropes and a rotting deck. The Buffalo grass, still wet from the overnight dew, struggled with the rising temperature, and emitted a muggy air.

He felt the heat, not of the day, but of himself. He inhaled, and in the briefest of moments was back where they first met when he had rolled out of his car in his usual manner - looking at the ground first, then slowly raising his head - his eyes caught her ankles, then calves, and, what he swore was three-fourths of her long tanned thighs. Within three feet of his eyes, a mini-skirt, a trim waistline, and a bust line that could stop bullets. Her fullness and erect posture exuded ripeness, and, within minutes, he lied himself single.

Their trysts recurred twice a month. No letters exchanged, but periodically she sent snapshots to his office – in the bathtub, on the beach - which he placed inside the top drawer of his desk. He liked to sneak a look during office conferences.

Raymond pulled his key out of the ignition, then scanned the area in case there were any other visitors. Unable to stop fidgeting with the dashboard instruments, he wiped his hands on his suit pants, stopped, and stared out the windshield as her light blue Triumph pulled into the parking spot on the opposite side. He felt lightning once more as she - wrapped like a gift in a dotted Swiss mini-skirt - uncoiled her legs from the car. She turned, caught his eye, and in a singular fluid movement, smiled, ever so slightly lifted her skirt, parted her lips, tossed her head, smiled again. The entirety of that brief moment embedded instantly within him as she rushed forward, leaped, wrapped her bare legs around his waist, and whispered, “I’m here”.

            Only moments earlier, Raymond’s wife stepped outside onto their patio, greeted a neighbor. They spoke for a few minutes.

They walked past the bend in the Ninnescah River where he swam before the municipal pool opened, and watched water moccasins glide downstream toward the beaver lodges on the river below the dam. The third and fourth fingers of her right hand glided across her forehead repositioning a lock of hair over her ear. She entwined her hand and forearm between his ribs and arm, tossed her hair, then, rubbed her left cheek against his right shoulder. Her citrus scent like an elixir after a long drought.

A few steps later, shielded under a tunnel of cottonwood tree branches, they watched the air raise dead leaves and create wind witches hurling small particles that fell as soon as they rose.

            She stopped, turned toward him, raised herself on her toes, whispered into his ear, “Let’s go someplace,” then wrapped her left arm behind his back, pressed her fingers into the notch of his suit pants, and smoothed her right hand over his abdomen. Neither noticed their cumbersome posture as they walked toward his car.

            Later that morning, Raymond’s wife lowered the high back chair in his office, and twirled to face his desk. She looked down.  

            He drove over the dusty road - her hand whisking his inner thigh - across the railroad tracks, past the tennis courts, the Boy Scout lodge, the swimming pool, a right turn toward the crest of the hill; then, just before reaching the ridge, another right turn into the parking lot and straight to the restaurant on the twenty-fifth floor. After lunch they clung one to the other as they rode in the elevator down to the twenty-third floor. Within two turns they were under the apex of the building, inside their suite, well-hidden from his wife, her husband, and their daily lives.

            What his wife felt when she reached inside the desk drawer can be guessed, but will not be known for five years, when on Father’s Day, just before going out to dinner, she will say, “I’m moving out on August first”.

###

 

About the author

Thomas Elson’s stories have been published in numerous venues, including Ellipsis, Better Than Starbucks, The Cabinet of Heed, Flash Frontier, Short Édition, Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead Mule School, The Selkie, The New Ulster, The Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas. 

           

Montage of Memories

 

by Thomas Elson

cola

 He, at six foot-three inches, remembered she was slightly taller. And, on that first evening, in high heels, she was towering.

He could not remember being asked to be her escort for her birthday dinner at the country club. Clouded in his memory was the birthday gift he must have given her. Nor could he remember picking her up or even driving her back to her parents’ six-acre country estate.

But he did remember being introduced to her parents at the country club, and the maître de greeting her by name.

He remembered her basement with the two-lane bowling alley he never used, the soft drink fountain with every Pepsi product at the ready, the stereo system with soft music, and the easy feel of the leather divan on his skin.

He also remembered the way she inched closer, brought her long legs under her hips, smiled, partially unbuttoned her blouse, then leaned back, removed her shoes, and extended her legs toward him.

He remembered two more things: her legs were bare, and her feet were bigger than his.

About the author 

Thomas Elson’s short stories, poetry, and flash fiction have been published in numerous venues such as Calliope, The Cabinet of Heed, Pinyon, Lunaris, New Ulster, Lampeter, Selkie, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.

Sick Headache

 

by Thomas Elson

cold tea 

 

Look closely.

You are where it began - at a time before polio shots, seat belts, and television. A time when visitors entered houses through unlocked kitchen doors.

And, after all these years, is it as you remember?

It’s late November, just past dusk. You stop at the corner two blocks east of a grand neighborhood concealed by trees. Look. On your left is the old basement house with dirt walls and next to it the two-story house of your grade school friend. But it’s the house two doors down at 507 West Blaine you came to see – beige and weathered, one of the many shotgun houses thrown up at the end of World War II.

            You park, and, in an instant you are inside – small and almost silent. A harsh light from the pole lamp casts a shadow across the living room with a divan, a chair, a clock, and you - a four-year-old child, still eager and open to the world - sitting on the floor next to record player your mother bought, and encourages you to use.

The two of you have just finished playing outside, and now she kneels on the living room floor and inserts a new sapphire needle into the tip of the cumbersome, curved metal arm to replace the needle that skipped and scratched. She smiles, and her face opens as she refocuses your question; then she answers and strokes your upper back. This evening she also brought home a few spoken-word records -  the big 78 rpm kind. You choose the one about Columbus that tells of his ships and his voyage.

Then, as if on cue, your mother’s eyes shoot toward the clock. She checks her watch, twists her wrist, then shakes it as if hoping for some misreading. Her eyes grow flat. You watch. She presses her right hand against her stomach. Her shoulders curl, once again her eyes lock onto the clock. She sways slightly and shrinks. She rises from the floor, says nothing, trudges toward the bedroom, and closes the door.

Evenings weren’t like this when you were a family of two. 

Alone in the living room, you hear the kitchen door slam. Your father, recently discharged from the Army, traipses past without looking down, glares at the closed bedroom door, walks forward, and opens it. You feel the shudder of door against frame.

Voices.

Silence.

Louder voices.

You flinch.

Silence.

One or two loud shouts, then nothing.

You listen, but hear only the wind, some creaks, and the record player. After a moment, the bedroom door opens. You tilt your head toward the hallway. Your left hand hovers over the arm of the record player as the narrative of Columbus’ travels continues.

You look to your right. You see your father, partially hidden behind the bedroom doorway, with only his right hand and half his face visible.

            “Turn it off. It bothers your mother. She has a sick headache.”

About the author

Thomas Elson’s short stories, poetry, and flash fiction have been published in numerous venues such as Calliope, The Cabinet of Heed, Pinyon, Lunaris, New Ulster, Lampeter, Selkie, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.

The Food Upon Which Others Feast

by Thomas Elson

stewed tea 

  We mapped this route generations earlier, and irrespective of origin, the path is the same for everyone. We also dictated a hierarchy: We, the vanguards, would watch the votaries whom the witnesses were told monitored them.

   Two of our votaries perched thirty feet above the driveway in front of a limestone building constructed in 1868. Obadiah, the senior votary, impeccably attired in a dark blue suit, silk tie - the color of which befitted our calendar, and sunglasses, rested his hands on the polished railing. Ariel, young and eager to impress, hovered with his clipboard pressed into his gray sweater.

   “Who are the two new witnesses?” Ariel looked at the older votary, bit off a piece of beef jerky, and waited for an answer.

   “Take notes at the briefings the way I taught you and you’d know.” Obadiah smiled and looked down.

   Ariel, by now used to such sarcasm, tapped his pen on the report form attached to his clip board. “Humor me.”

   Obadiah shrugged and continued. “That first guy, the red-headed one, is Herb Peavy. He used to sneak into second-floor bedrooms and stomp women to death with his climbing spikes. It’s his second time here. He’d be at the North Center if the vanguards didn’t still have some use for him.” He waited for a moment. “Just watch him. All he wants to do is get close to that thin kid. If he were anywhere but here, he’d get detained for-“ Obadiah waited a second. “Following too close.” He laughed at his own joke.

   “That thin guy looks like an eleven-year-old girl.” Ariel pulled his sweater over his belt buckle. “Hell, he looks like a-”

    “Don’t say it. Do not say it. That’s Kenny Dumars. Just two months ago, he was a part-time wheat farmer and full-time high school Spanish teacher livin the dream. Even set-up housekeeping with his girlfriend. But the sheriff caught a Cessna unloading marijuana on his property. Ol’ Kenny boy had himself a third job - being paid for the use of his farm land.” Obadiah grinned, added, “Poor guy’ll be eaten alive in here,” then shook his head and unbuttoned his suit jacket.

   “He ought’a have a good time in this place with Herb tailgating him.” Ariel watched the red-head smooth his hands over the thin kid’s shoulders. “What’da they want us to do with ‘em?”

   “Well, Herb’s bound to do what he did the last time.”  Obadiah adjusted his tie, nodded toward the driveway. “His only value to the vanguards is to see how Kenny reacts around him at the South Center. So, we are required to keep ‘em together after processing and watch what happens.”

   When new witnesses arrived, we required they remain alone for a short period of time. Alone and unattended, but not unobserved, and, certainly not unrecorded. Their movements to be transcribed by votaries onto a checklist. Posture erect? Hunched over? Gesticulations made? People touched? Pockets reached into? Items extracted? Stepped out of line? Anything picked up? Rocks? Cigarette butts?

   The witnesses stood as if transfixed. Blank stares. Clenched teeth, tight jaws. Minds working overtime. They stiffened as a scattershot wind hit their faces. Herb looked east toward the wide expanse of farmland and inhaled the scent of the harvest. Kenny stared at contrails swirling twenty-six thousand feet above. Both shuffled around on the gravel driveway their sounds alternated between crunching and hammering. Neither looked toward the North or South Centers.

   Inside the South Center Processing and Orientation section a votary with a sore-knee limp walked toward the two witnesses, handed each a towel and small cup half-filled with delousing shampoo

"Well, Herb,, I figured I'd see you again. What happened? You hear we got a new line of clothing?" he pointed   at the open shower. “You know the drill. And keep it in your hair for a few minutes.”

Amid echoes of “Fresh meat,” and  “Come over here and visit me,” Herb walked with his middle finger aloft. He abruptly shouted, “Looks like you’re working old three-pack pretty hard.” He nodded toward the man laboring to stand - his left hand clasped three unopened packs of cigarettes, then hurriedly walked to his chair, lifted his pad and charcoal, resumed drawing.

   Kenny held back until Herb returned, then clutched his towel where he thought it might do the most good, and, despite wet floors, rushed into the shower. He finished without drying, quickly headed back, and hurriedly dressed.

   The votary handed each a paper bag and directed them to carry it in their right hand. “What you’ve got there is a toothbrush, toothpaste, and two hotel-sized bars of Ivory soap. Commissary takes ninety days to kick-in but most of you will be gone by then. So, other than your meals, that’s pretty much it.”

   The votary raised his palm. “Ya’ll gonna be buried under the mass of senior witnesses. Just know that you have no rights here. Only privileges. The rest you gotta figure out on your own.” He looked at Kenny in his practiced manner. “Consider that your orientation.”

   The votary knew Kenny was too frightened to remember what was said, but his perspective would change after the doors slammed. When it became apparent that he could never again open or close a door, walk from one room to another, chose when to eat, what to eat, where or when to sleep without first asking permission. When Kenny had the look of an animal that decided to stop running, we would know he had learned our Rules: Eyes down but stay alert - Don’t look but see everything –When you walk hug the wall but do not touch it – There are no gifts; accept anything and you are in debt. – Ask for permission before you do anything.

   The votary led them into an area the size of a basketball court with a walkway surrounding a chain-link enclosure. He assigned both witnesses separate bunks within fifteen feet of two exposed toilets and one rust-stained sink. Then he repeated what he said each time, “Good luck. And don’t come back.” He locked the gate and walked away.

   As Kenny waited in line that evening, his eyes moved from witness to witness. He watched how each held two utensils under a stainless-steel tray, and silently moved toward a wall opening, then placed the tray on a small ledge, and remained motionless as meat and green beans were plopped on it. After a half-pint carton of milk hit a tray, a voice barked, “Next”, and the line moved forward.

   Kenny set his tray on a table near the stage. Herb pulled out a chair out, turned it slightly, dropped his tray next to Kenny. Herb looked at Kenny. “What’cha need from the commissary?” Then skimmed his tongue across his upper lip and moved his hand under Kenny’s. After a moment Herb raised his fingers slightly, pulled his hand back, and left a list of commissary items under Kenny’s palm. “I can get you ramen noodles, pens, paper, stamps, cigarettes, peanut butter, pretty much anything. What’cha want?”

   “They told us we can’t use it for ninety-days.” Kenny moved his hand away.

Herb pushed a package of gum between their trays. “But I can. I’ve been here before.”

   Silence.

   “Why me?”

  Herb stroked Kenny’s hand. “You’re my friend.”

   Kenny leaned forward, gently raised his hand, gracefully rested it on the back of Herb’s head, and whispered.

   Herb’s eyes flared. “We’ll see smart guy.” Then, contemplating his next move, said, “We’ll see how you’re taken care of from now on.” He grabbed Kenny’s half-pint of milk, shoved it into his coat sleeve, stood, left the package of gum on the table, and walked toward the stage and the line of witnesses waiting to be frisked.

   A votary bent to frisk him – calves first, then thighs and hips. Herb, with a one-arm motion, slid the milk carton from coat sleeve to palm and onto the stage. When the votary found nothing, he turned to frisk another witness. Herb picked-up the milk carton, raised his arm, allowed the carton to drift inside his coat sleeve, cupped his hand, lowered his arm, and walked away.

   An hour and a half later sounds and smells reverberated inside the enclosure. Toilets flushing or not flushing. Bodies unwashed for days. Scattered loud voices. Small groups talking, shuffling. Bunks creaking.

   A votary wheeled in a console television. “This will remain on the channel it’s set to.” He paused. “That safety razor on top the t.v. has one blade.” He pointed to the razor. “You have one-half hour to shave,” he said to everyone. “When I return at eight o’clock, that razor will be right there.” He struck the top of the console with his knuckles. “With the razor blade next to it. If I see anything other than that, I will respond.” Tapped the console and left the enclosure.

   Herb rose from his bunk with three other witnesses, walked up to Kenny, blinked slowly.      “You busy?”

    No reply.

   “You too busy to spend some time with us?” Gestured toward his bunk, then pulled Kenny’s head closer, “You owe me.”

   “The hell I-”

    “Shut up. Shut the hell up. You owe me. I gave you something. And now you owe me. Don’t renege or I’ll make sure they yank your privileges. Send your ass down behind them damn white doors.” Within moments he laughed, raised his voice a decibel below a yell.  “You want that? You wanna be b’hind them doors downstairs?”

   The three witnesses from Herb’s bunk surrounded Kenny, then tightened their circle. Kenny’s head jerked back. Pain descended from eyes to mouth, then came guttural sounds, and he was on the floor in a fetal curl. He knew he was leaking – red or brown – but did not know which. One of the witnesses set a blade on top the television.

   The next afternoon Kenny waited in yet another line of witnesses to be told what to do, where to go, yelled at about something, lined up to go somewhere or lined up to come back. It didn’t really matter. His knees ached, everything ached, and he was ashamed of the stains between the hip pockets of his jeans. Herb cut in. Within seconds Kenny was again encircled.

   “You.” Herb spit on the floor. “You do not say ‘no’ to me.” When he signaled, the circle blended away, and Kenny was on the floor with blood on his shirt and darkening yesterday’s stains.  

   A votary meandered over. “Get off the floor.” He raised his voice. “Get over to the infirmary.”

   We now knew Kenny had learned the Rules.

   Late the next day, when he awoke, Kenny’s eyes followed the white infirmary wall toward a metal desk at the opening of the ward. He blew at the detritus descending from the ceiling, watched it float away, then concentrated on the liquid dripping through a tube attached to an elevated bag. When he pulled down his sheet, he saw stitches below his rib cage and several blood stains.

   A nurse from Honduras walked up. “¿Como estás?” Kenny asked.

   She eagerly responded. “¿Pero, como estas?” Then smiled and touched his shoulder.

   A witness two beds over pounded his mattress. “Hey, lady, get the hell over here and take care of my bedpan.”

   She rolled her eyes, stooped slightly, walked toward the demand. When she returned, Kenny continued with questions about Honduras, her hometown, his difficulties. In an environment where she was held in less esteem than children’s pets, she lingered. On his third day, she handed him a gift - a Hershey’s candy bar.

   “No te puedo pagar,” said Kenny.

   “No need to repay,” she said. Then added, “You don’t look like you belong here.”

    Kenny laughed, then winced. “Gracias.”

   On his final morning, the nurse placed the Spanish edition of “One Hundred Years of Solitude” on Kenny’s bed. “When you go back, read it,” and tucked it under his pillow, then patted the pillow as if fluffing it. “Wait. Open then.” She knew when he left the infirmary he would not be searched.

   A week later Kenny was strong enough to walk the circumference of the enclosure. He moved carefully. His head down just enough to seem disinterested – as if passing through on an assignment.

Kenny had waited almost six years since his transfer to the North Center’s third floor when he heard a votary’s clipped accent call his name for the first time, “Du mars.” The sound seemed to extend. “Kaaaa-neee Duuuu-maws. Somebo’y lu’ ya.” He pitched a nine-by-twelve manila envelope on the concrete floor. Kenny hustled down iron steps to retrieve the package.

   Back on the third floor, he flipped to the last page, saw the final word: DENIED. But when he read the preceding three words his body constricted. “… the same fate.”

   He reached for the book the nurse had given him. Opened it to the section with the indentation. He did not understand why they allowed him to keep the book. Kenny closed his eyes. His contours hardened as if chiseled. DENIED, that last word on the final page told him whether sunny or dark, summer or winter, held no relevance for him. He knew what came next.

   He would soon be inside a metal building, past racks of the North Center’s food items – cans of peaches and lard, bags of rice and beans, five-gallon bottles of ketchup and mustard – walking toward unmarked doors, then into a building connected to a small concrete warehouse, and through an opening the width of a garage door. When he stopped, the door would descend.

   Lights would illuminate five unsmiling votaries in dark suits and one senior witness. At this point, Kenny would need assistance. We knew it required an element of irrationality to voluntarily continue. “Let’s go,” a votary would say. “Lean on me.”

   Kenny’s shallow breathing would be familiar to these votaries, as would the next sequence – Exam table. White sheets. Straps. No needles. No tubes. Eyes never averted. No request for last words. No more time. 

   Our Rules dictated that Kenny remain awake while the senior witness held the toothbrush the nurse had secreted inside the book. The same sharpened toothbrush Kenny shoved into Herb Peavy’s carotid artery.

   The senior witness would press that toothbrush into Kenny’s neck until there was no longer a pulse.

About the author

Thomas's short stories have appeared in Calliope, Pinyon, Lunaris Journal, The New Ulster, The Lampeter, Blood & Bourbon, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.