Category: My stories

Jellyfish

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Jefferson Jellyfish Jones couldn’t count to 88, but he used every one of those 88 keys on that piano like a surgeon uses every knife on his tray.
He sliced and snipped at the music, tucking and nipping until what was once a bloody mess was a shining example the finest beauty.
Your ears and soul, lifted higher than they’d ever been lifted before, sonny.
At the ripe old age of 88, at the Bad Times Bar, Jellyfish hit those keys one last time, face down.
Even in his dying moment, no sweeter sound.
Play all night, Jellyfish. Play on.

One Billion

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Ever seen a billion dollars up close? Run your hands over it, or your eyes. Slowly.
Even when it’s in hundreds, it fills a room.
You can make a room out of it. Stack it up, make walls, a roof.
Maybe even live in it. But it would make more sense to buy a place with it big enough for what’s left over and you to fit comfortably.
It doesn’t take much. You’d barely miss that little bit at all.
And it wouldn’t miss you. A billion dollars doesn’t care.
It just sits there. In a room. Doing absolutely nothing.

Weatherman

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We’re a small town, barely a thousand people.
Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.
George is the town’s weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.
Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired… drinking a lot.
Whatever. He’s a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.
When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.
“No tornados today,” he said.
Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.

Sloppy Fred

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Sure, you think you know all about the Sloppy Joe, but I knew Joe, and he wasn’t sloppy.
No, the real problem was the waiter Fred.
We called him Sloppy Fred.
Joe would make beef sandwiches and smack the bell. Fred grabbed the platter, and all hell would break loose.
Sauce this way. Sandwiches that way.
Sure enough, by the time he got to the table, he’d gotten them all messy.
Fred tried to blame Joe, the chef.
But he didn’t count on these things being a hit.
Joe killed Fred. Covered his tracks really good.
Not sloppy at all.

Pet

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So, you want to pet the kittycat?
I can’t blame you for wanting to.
Follow the rules:
The kittycat decides who may pet the kittycat.
The kittycat decides when you must pet the kittycat.
Not may. Must.
The kittycat will decide where on the kittycat you may pet and where you must.
The kittycat is not obligated to tell you where.
And the kittycat can decide to change its mind about anything it has decided.
Sure you still want to pet the kittycat?
Fine.
But don’t bitch when your other hand ends up in a bandage like the first one.

The Kidder

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My dad, the kidder.
Every time the old man tried to tell me his favorite joke, something interrupted him.
Usually, it was the phone. Or a knock on the door.
The last time I talked to him, I asked him again.
He stared out the window, just smiling. “I’ll be with your mother soon,” he said. “Anything you want me to tell her?”
He was calm, relaxed. Maybe a little tired from the pills.
This morning, he was gone.
I opened the envelope and read the note.
“I forgot the punchline,” it said. “But, trust me, it was really funny.”

The Chart

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My doctor put down the chart and did a little happy dance.
“Does this mean I’m cured?” I ask.
“No,” says the doctor. “You’re not in fact, it’s terminal.”
“I’m going to die?”
“Yes, but not soon. In fact, it will be a long, painful, agonizing death.”
“Then what’s the dance for?”
“Nobody’s seen what you’ve got before.”
“Why is that good?”
“I’ll get it named after me,” he said. “I’ll be famous.”
He asked a nurse for a bottle of champagne. “Drink up, it can’t hurt. At least, I don’t think so.”
And he toasted to my bad health.

Businessman Specials

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They call early afternoon baseball games “Businessman Specials.”
You might ask why call them that?
After playing a full game the night before, the teams aren’t going to be at their best. So, the players take the day off and the front office suits up.
Ever seen a marketing and branding specialist try to charge a bunt from third?
Almost as ugly as one trying to justify seven-dollar beers while watching a sub-500 cellar-dwelling bum squad.
Or your 100 million dollar cleanup man picking up a broom and cleaning up the stands.
Seen his slugging percentage?
Better make him mop.

The Play

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Every Thursday, the neighborhood kids gather up at the local church and put on a puppet show for the town.
This week was different.
You see, someone burned down the shed the kids used to store their arts and crafts.
Years and years of handcrafted puppets, up in smoke.
So, the children used cheese. They put hunks of cheddar, gouda, and havarti on sticks and a bedsheet curtain rose to thunderous applause.
Hamlet had never been so… delicious.
When the curtain fell for the last time, we gave them a standing ovation.
And then, got out our wine and crackers.

Billy the Kid

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Feelin’ lucky tonight?
William Bonney over in Accounting was a renegade CPA who settled down and went corporate.
But during Audit Season, the Call of the West got in his blood, and he became Billy the Billing Kid.
Forms? Ledgers? Books?
He’s put them all away and reached for his sixguns.
He’d shoot down lawyers and tax agents and all sorts of credit service representatives.
Accounts Payable and Accounts Receivable became Accounts Dead when he faced off with them on Main Street at High Noon.
Billy wasn’t killed by no sheriff.
Downsizing, man. It gets us all in the end.