richard smith and william brown

by nick nelson

richard smith was fascinated by, and sometimes obsessed by, the idea that everything in the world was connected. he had read an article in a magazine, or maybe seen a show on public television, about the so-called butterfly effect, and it had a profound effect on him. richard was always conscious, or at least conscious a lot of the time, that the slightest action could have the widest or most terrible effect. he was by nature a cautious person, and this consciousness of the connectedness of things served to increase his natural caution. one day richard was standing at the bus stop waiting for his bus, when he was suddenly approached by a stranger. the stranger was a heavy-set fellow wearing a cheap brown suit and a white shirt open at the neck. richard thought he looked surly and a bit menacing. do you know where - 175 barton street is from here? the stranger asked richard in his surly menacing voice. he had a scrap of paper in his hand and glanced down at it as he spoke. without thinking richard answered, yes, you see that burger king over there? the street to the right of it is 7th street, just go down past the first light and the first street past the light is barton street. i am not sure where 175 would be, probably - but before richard could finish, the surly man said thanks, put his piece of paper in his pocket, and marched off in the direction of the burger king. richard watched as he turned the corner and headed down 7th street. as soon as the stranger was gone, richard regretted giving him the directions. but it had happened so fast, and richard had given way to his polite, civilized instincts. what a nasty looking fellow! surely he was on his way to murder the unfortunate occupant of 175 barton st, or at least beat him up to collect a debt, or maybe the stranger was engaged in some sort of sex trafficking! richard wanted to call 911, but he had enough sense to realize the response he would get . how he wished had not given the man the directions. well, richard thought, he would have gotten them from somebody else, but as soon as he thought that, he realized how weak it was. he was responsible. richard’s bus pulled up and he got on it. richard looked at the newspaper and checked the local news online for the next few days but did not see anything about a murder or violent incident on barton st. as the days and weeks went by, richard tried to put the incident out of his mind, but kept coming back to it. in his mind he gave the stranger a name - william brown. he forgot that this name only existed in his mind, and that he did not really know the stranger’s name. he began googling “william brown” and “barton street” but without any result. one day richard got off work early and he decided to walk past 175 barton street himself and check it out. part of his brain knew how futile and pointless this was, but he could not help himself and found himself walking down 7th street toward barton st. but before richard reached barton street he saw a man step out of a convenience store on to the sidewalk in front of him. it was william brown! william brown turned and looked richard straight in the face, almost as if richard had called out to him. richard tried to pretend he had not seen william brown, but realized the surprise and confusion he had felt must have been obvious on his face. richard crossed over to the other side of the street. a car’s brakes squealed and someone shouted at him. he started walking back up 7th street away from barton st, as quickly as he could without running. richard was afraid to look behind him, but tried to look at the reflections in the store windows as he passed them to see if william brown was following him. this did not work as well as it did in books and movies. richard did not show up for work the next day. no one ever saw him again.

the rivals

by nick nelson

it was a nice day, with a few clouds in the sky but nothing threatening. johnny miller decided to skip school, maybe go fishing up at the bend in the river. he had some fishing equipment slashed away by the old oak tree, for just such occasions. first he stopped by the elite diner. he had just enough money saved up for a chocolate frappe. he figured he had enough time for the chocolate frappe before mr tompkins, the truant officer, came looking for him. the only other customer in the diner was pop wilson, who practically lived there, reading the city paper. and of course sheffy was behind the counter. sheffy glared at johnny in that way he had that nobody took seriously. why aren’t you in school johnny? , sheffy asked. i got a special pass, johnny said. he took his two dimes and five pennies out of his pocket and put them on the counter. i’ll have a chocolate frappe, please. i don’t know, said sheffy, but i guess it’s no business of mine. pop wilson snickered, without looking up from his paper. you like the color of the boy’s money, he told sheffy, and laughed, as if he had made a great joke. sheffy started making the chocolate frappe. johnny turned and looked out the window. a curious scene was unfolding . two trucks pulled up outside. both medium sized, about the size a plumber’s or house painter’s trucks would be, but neither had any lettering on them. one parked about fifty yards up the street from the other. as johnny watched, a man got out of each truck. the man from the truck closer to the diner wore a blue suit, and he was a mean looking cuss and looked like he needed a shave. a cigarette dangled from his lips. he opened the back of his truck and began unloading it, wooden boxes, some rope, and what looked like metal parts for a machine. another man got out of the truck further up the road. a man in a brown suit, not quite as mean looking as the man in the blue suit, but bigger and stronger looking, with the cheap suit stretched tight on his thick arms. he began unloading his truck. and then something even stranger happened. a green plymouth sedan pulled up and parked in the space between the two trucks, right in front of the telephone pole, and two people got out. a little old man wearing a wrinkled gray suit and a crushed fedora, and a woman. the woman looked a little like nurse johnson from school. old, maybe even thirty years old, but not too fat and not half bad looking. for a second johnny thought it was nurse johnson, but when she turned around he realized it was not. and then - the little old man took some rope out of the car and began tying the woman to the telephone pole! she did not look too thrilled about it, but she held still while he did it. meanwhile, the man in the blue suit and the man in the brown suit had been busy. each had quickly set up a kind of stand or platform beside their trucks and on each stand had begun erecting some kind of complicated metal apparatus. blue suit’s machine looked like a catapult, and brown suit’s was similar but taller, more like a crane. blue suit began unloading what looked like cannon balls from his truck! pop wilson and sheffy considered the two machines. i don’t like the height on that one, sheffy pointed to brown suit’s edifice. too much downward slope, not enough torque. but what are they doing?, johnny asked. they are fighting over that gal, son, said pop wilson. johnny thought it was funny that so old a female would be called a “gal”, but had too much respect for his elders to laugh out loud or say anything. sheffy finished making the chocolate frappe and put it down at johnny’s elbow. and then the door of the diner opened and mr tompkins the truant officer walked in. let’s go, johnny, he announced. awwww, just let me see how this turns out here. don’t give me any sass, johnny, mr tompkins drawled, you don’t want to be in any more hot water than you already are. they got back to the school just in time for algebra class.

i didn't like the characters

by nick nelson

i was reading this story. i didn’t want to, but they made me. it was education. reeducation, education, whatever. i guess it was all right. it was supposed to be good. but i didn’t like it. i didn’t like the characters. they weren’t real to me. there was this girl. she lived in a hut with a sheep, or a goat. a sheep, it was a sheep. they were survivors. there was a big war, a nuclear war or something, and they were survivors. that part i could relate to. because i’m a survivor myself. that is what it is all about - being a survivor. anyway, there was also this old man, and he lived in a hut too, not the same hut, a different one, down the road or over the hill or something, and he was a survivor too. and he had a pet wolf, or a wolf dog or whatever. i didn’t like the girl. i didn’t believe in her as a survivor. i thought she was weak. and kind of stuck up, like she knew everything when she didn’t know shit. what i would have done, if i was writing the story, was change the girl to a guy - a real survivor. an ex-special ops or navy seal, who had seen and done it all. who had been in the forefront, in the trenches of the nuclear war that destroyed civilization.. and instead of a sheep, i would give him a specially designed rifle. that is what you need to survive after a nuclear war, not a fucking sheep. the rifle would come equipped with a device that could process the atoms in the air to make new rounds so you would never run out of rounds. that way you could really survive. in the story the girl with the sheep and the old man with the wolf get together and they talk a lot of shit i didn’t really understand. i suspect it was about peace and love and being soft. couldn’t they see that being soft was what got them there in the first place, instead of standing up for their freedoms? fucking? no, there wasn’t any fucking in the story. they didn’t fuck each other and they didn’t fuck the sheep or the wolf either. that was another thing that was wrong with the story, there wasn’t any fucking in it. now if i was writing the story i would change the girl to an ex-special ops guy, like i said, and i would also change the old man, to the last imam, or last prophet of islam, or the last ayatollah, or hillary clinton. and instead of sitting around talking a lot of weak shit, i would have the special ops guy blow the ayatollah away, with his special rifle, maybe from five thousand feet away. or maybe - how is this? - the guy has one last shot, from five thousand feet , but he just wounds the prophet, and he gets wounded himself, and they have a knife fight in the dust and the special ops guy wins. that is how i would have written the story, if it was up to me. but they wrote it, not me, and they made me read it. they got me here for a while. but we will see how it goes. they can’t keep me here forever. i’m a survivor.

true crime

by nick nelson

esther, dee dee, and joanie worked as clerks in mr dave johnson’s real estate office for many years. dave johnson also employed a number of salesmen, who were not expected to spend much time in the office, and who usually moved on to other jobs after one or two years. esther had worked there for a couple of years more than dee dee or joanie, and she was left in charge of the office when mr johnson was not there, but she was not really dee dee’s or joanie’s “boss”. the three of them got along well enough most of the time, when the weather was not particularly hot or cold. but in the extremes of winter and summer dee dee and joanie had terrible fights about the heat and air conditioning. dee dee would turn the heat up full blast in the winter and then joanie would wait a little while and get up and turn it down. and in the summer the reverse would happen and joanie would turn the air conditioning up as high as she could, and then dee dee would get up and turn it down. harsh words would be spoken, especially when mr johnson was not in the office, although they never actually struck each other, only repeatedly threatened to do so. every six months or so mr johnson would have a “staff meeting” with the three of them and the salesmen, and the subject of the heat and/or air conditioning would be brought up by dee dee or joanie and after listening for a few minutes, mr johnson would indicate that he didn’t want to hear it and he would move on to his next topic. esther was sometimes exasperated but more often amused by the conflicts between dee dee and joanie. esther was a true crime buff, and watched many true crime tv shows and read many true crime books. she thought that when she retired she might write a true crime book herself. she especially liked the true crime books of ann rule. ann rule had written many books, but was perhaps most famous for her book about ted bundy, whom she had chanced to know personally. it amused esther to think that either dee dee or joanie might actually kill the other, and then she, esther, could write a book about them. things went on in this way until dave johnson sold his business to a national real estate chain. it was not a surprise, as he had been planning to do so for years, as soon as he got what he considered a good offer. esther, dee dee, and joanie were out of jobs. mr johnson took them to lunch, at a local pub. he left early, after finishing his caesar salad, and assuring the proprietor that he would pick up their tab, no matter what it ran to. the three of them got quite drunk. esther confessed to dee dee and joanie her dream of writing a book about the two of them, after one of them killed the other. neither of them was amused. dee dee glared at esther. “who would get the money for the book?” esther was taken aback. “i would, if i wrote it.” “what about us?” joanie asked. “it would be about us. don’t we get some consideration?” “well, ha ha, one of you would be dead, and the other probably in prison.” “that doesn’t mean we couldn’t get money - or our kids could get money, ever think of that?” dee dee shot back. “yeah, you think you can just write about people and make money off them just like that?” joanie added. “well, i was just kidding,” esther responded, “besides, you are both alive and well and are not really going to kill each other anyway, are you?” “it’s the principle of the thing,” said dee dee. they continued to ask esther questions, as if the book were already written, and money, and tv and movie offers, pouring in on it, and esther tried to deflect the questions as humorously as she could. but the happy mood of the little party , such as it had been, was destroyed, and they broke up, without even telling each other they would keep in touch. joanie was a little younger than the other two, and got a job as a hostess at an applebee’s. dee dee and esther found employment as telemarketers.

large black decaf

by nick nelson

a man, who might or might not have been a bible salesman, walked into a burger king in knoxville tennessee or it might have been in medford oregon he had been disappointed in life which he had begun with such promise the young woman behind the counter had also been disappointed in life though perhaps starting it with lower expectations than the man can i help you, the young woman asked the man yes, the man wanted to say you can help me find my way you can smile at me and give me a reason to get through another day and tell me that life has some purpose you can get on a bus with me and we can go far far away where no one has ever gone before you can tell me a joke or tell me your secret dreams but what he said was just plout mirgtrew biokly defumploy and she replied, excuse me. sir, i didn’t understand a word you said and he said i will survive, as noah survived the flood, as jonah survived the whale, as joshua survived the battle of jericho and she said, again, excuse me? and he said, a large black decaf, please when the young woman returned with his decaf, he smiled and said i always get it right the third time and he thought she smiled back but he could not be sure * do you think the man was a bible salesman? do you think the young woman should have smiled at the man, because that is good business practice? or, do you think she should not have smiled at him because he was an overbearing sexist pig attempting to exercise his patriarchal right to comfort from a female wage slave ? do you think it should be legal to sell bibles? do you think it should be legal to sell black coffee?

1963

by nick nelson

it all began on a dusty morning in springfield indiana on may 7, 1963. jed mansfield got up early. his wife judy was sleeping peacefully. judy’s dog, bartholomew, was also sleeping peacefully, curled up at judy’s feet. jed was expected at his job at mac fisher’s car lot at eight o’clock sharp. but first he had to make a trip up to the liquor store on highway 39 to buy his grandmother a quart of bourbon . then he had to deliver it to her at her home in grand platte nebraska, just past the new combination missile base and space station. jed got dressed, being careful to get the knot in his red and blue striped tie just right. then he made himself a cup of instant coffee. this was always the best part of his day. as he was drinking his instant coffee, a strange thought crossed his mind. the day will come, the thought said, when you will look back on all this and wish you had it back - that this is as good as it will ever get. what a strange thought, jed thought. when he finished his cup of coffee he went back into the bedroom to get his hat. he looked down on judy’s sleeping form, and on batholomew’s. he started to count the ways judy had disappointed him, but realized he did not have time. jed bought the bottle of bourbon on route 39 without incident, but as he was crossing the state line from illinois to iowa things began to happen. he heard a siren and a black police car came up behind him and pulled him over. jed was not really in the mood for such an occurrence but what could you do? he was sure he had not been speeding and maybe the cop was a regular guy like jed and jed could talk him out of a ticket. what have i done this time, officer, jed asked in a friendly but not in a scared or obsequious manner. you have violated rule 24-f, my friend, the officer replied, in a neutral tone. and what might rule 24-f be? jed enquired. if you don’t know now, you probably never will know, the officer replied cryptically. follow me, and you can tell your sad story to judge harsh. jed followed the police car down the highway for two miles and then it turned off down a dirt road . after a couple of minutes they came to a small town of the type general custer slept in, or maybe jesse james or charles lindbergh or james dean. the police car stopped in front of a little white house that looked a boarding house but jed decided must be the court house. there was a sign in the window of the white house, and when jed got out of his car, he saw that it did not say “rooms for rent” or “clean rooms” but “judge harsh - open for business”. jed followed the trooper into the white house. there was a little hall inside the door and just to the left of it was a room with a desk and judge harsh was seated behind the desk writing on a notebook and the judge looked up at the trooper and jed. jed got the shock of his life. judge harsh was a woman! an old, nasty-looking woman who looked like every mean old dried-up schoolteacher waving a ruler who ever lived rolled into one. what has this fellow done, judge harsh asked the trooper. rule 24-f. judge harsh nodded. you can go, she told the trooper. the trooper left, and jed was left alone with the judge, whose expression did not soften in any degree. well, young man, let’s get down to it. sixty days in my jail, which i assure you was not built with your comfort in mind, or you can do me a favor. this is plain dealing with a purpose, jed thought, but he said aloud, what is rule 24-f? the judge shrugged. i could give you some kind of answer, but what would be the point? sixty days, or do me a favor. the choice is yours. is your jail as bad as all that? jed asked. it surely is. why, are the guards mean sons of bitches? no, they are fat. lazy slobs who spend half their so-called working hours sleeping. but the coffee is the worst you ever tasted, and the cornpone they serve for breakfast is the worst you ever tried to force down your gullet. how about lunch and dinner? you will be lucky if you get any. stop wasting my time, young man, what will it be, sixty days or help me out? well, what is the favor that you ask? i thought you would never ask. i just want you to kill my neighbor’s dog. but i like dogs, jed protested. way more than people. too bad. make up your mind, i have not got all day. what kind of a dog is it? no more questions. jed shrugged. all right, i will kill your neighbor’s dog. good, it is just down the street, a gray house with green shutters. but in case you are too dumb to find it, here are some directions. the judge handed jed the piece of paper she had been writing on when jed and the trooper entered. jed took the piece of paper and went outside. the trooper was gone. the sky was blue. a rocket ship crossed the horizon, on its way to neptune or uranus. maybe i could just drive away, jed thought. but i am not that kind of guy. he found the gray house with green shutters. the street was quiet all around it. there was no sign of a dog, or of anything. jed pressed the doorbell of the gray house, but did not hear it ring, and nobody came to the door. he knocked on the door of the gray house. three times, with no answer. he tried the door. it opened easily. he went inside. the house was quiet, and seemed empty. there was a small television, with a rabbit ears antenna, in a room to the left. jed turned the television on. a show was in progress. a little boy was standing at the foot of a long staircase. the little boy had freckles, which were clearly visible even on the black and white tv. a voice came down the stairs, don’t stay out too long, teddy! accompanied by a laugh track. i won’t, mom! teddy answered. more laughter. a tittle dog appeared, wagging its tail. let’s go, oscar, said teddy. oscar - what a cute name for a little boy’s dog. teddy and oscar ran outside, under the gray sky. they ran past a telephone pole, whose wires stretched away across an endless plain. this is the way it should be, thought jed, this is the way it should be forever.

joey

by nick nelson

what can you tell me about joey? joey! oh man, i don’t know where to begin. fucking joey! well, can you give it a try? oh man, fucking joey - he was like, the craziest son of a bitch that ever lived, you just couldn’t believe some of the shit he pulled. for example? oh, there’s just no words to describe it. joey, man, i just start laughing every time i think about him. the things he did, you just wouldn’t believe in a million years. would you say joey was popular? oh, man, like you wouldn’t believe, like you wouldn’t fucking believe. the girls all loved him, the guys all wanted to be just like him? yeah, but it was more than that. way more than that. he was just, he was just the craziest fucker that ever lived, like you couldn’t begin to describe. did he have followers? followers! no, nobody could follow joey. he was one of a kind. he went where no one has ever gone before. all right, let’s move on. what can you tell me about the williams brothers? was joey connected to the williams brothers? the williams brothers! the williams brothers weren’t shit, they weren’t in the same league with joey, anybody who tells you different is full of shit. would you describe the williams brothers as crazy bastards like joey? i would describe them as assholes. what about darren smith? a lot of people the joey had some connection - that’s all lies, man, all fucking lies. joey had nothing to do with what happened to darren smith. that’s all lies by people who don’t know the neighborhood, who never lived one day in the neighborhood in their lives, who never knew joey, who don’t know shit. and since joey isn't here to defend himself, they spread fucking lies. do you miss joey? oh, yeah, man, i think about him every day. well, maybe not every single day, because i got troubles of my own, you know. but i think about him a lot, especially when someone like you comes around. i just think it’s a goddamned shame that joey is gone and some two hundred year old asshole like district attorney miller and the fucking media are still around to pulverize his name and spread lies about him, that’s all. well, thank you for your time. you’re welcome. are you going to write a book about joey? maybe. right now i’m just making notes. you should, you should write a book about joey. because he was the craziest fucking bastard that ever lived. you couldn’t begin to describe him.