Storiettes by Salvatore Difalco

Thomas_H_photo


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​THIS IS NOT A STORY


The night drive proved hypnotic. Old jazz standards issued from the radio. This person still listened to the radio. It made him unique among his peers. His peers owned property and groomed children to be better and more successful than them. In many instances this was not going as planned. Problems arose.
    “Maybe you should order the banquet burger.”
    “I was thinking that.”
    “I know what you’re thinking.”
    “I know you know what I’m thinking.”
    We were talking about the food we wished to eat at the drive-in diner. We were spanning several decades.
    “Miracles on roller skates.”
    “I know where you’re going with this.”
    “I know you know.”
    It never made sense to me, after we ate and drove up the Jolly Cut to the escarpment, why we had driven there.
    “You wanted to see the city at night.”
    “I have seen it at night.”
    “Smells foul tonight.”
    “It always smells foul.”
    When we drove back down the Jolly Cut to the city proper he said he wanted coffee.
    “You might not sleep.”
    “Let me worry about that.”
    I turned up the radio when Polka Dots and Rainbows came on. Wes Montgomery.
    “I love Wes Montgomery.”
    “Yes, I know you do.”
    “I know you know I do.”
    The children of my peers have grown into ugly and distracted teenagers with bad haircuts. I don’t envy them.
    “Yes you do.”
    “I love Wes Montgomery.” 




SELF-PORTRAIT WITH CROPPED HAIR


I believed that by being careful and using a sharp pair of scissors I could save myself the cost. I’m poor enough to suffer these debates. One part of me, a would-be patrician, finds the idea abhorrent. The other part, an abject failure and pauper, thinks enough of his manual skills and dexterity to brave the attempt.
    “He’s courageous,” offers one of the audience sitting in the tiny theatre-in-the-round.
    “But surely he must know things can go wrong,” states another audience-member, standing to make his case.
    Stage-lights obscure the people’s faces. A technique I often use. That is to say, blaming the lights I save myself from describing faces.
    “Perhaps he’s mining the meta-fictionists.”
    “Are you mining the meta-fictionists, sir?”
    I don’t know what these idiots are talking about. A story has a beginning, middle and end. Yet, most of what gets exchanged between humans can hardly be called a story.
    “It consists more of little snapshots, sir.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Oh me, uh, my name is Robert.”
    “Robert, I don’t know where you come from or what your state of mind is. Perhaps you’re paranoid. I don’t know.
    “I can assure you Robert isn’t paranoid, sir.”
    “And you, what’s your name?”
    “I’d rather not say, sir.”
    “Sit down, both of you. Sit down. I’m feeling kind of sick.”
    Indeed, a turbulence in my digestive tract had torqued its way into my lower intestine and lower. I wanted to run off the stage, but then, seeing how I had failed to actually construct a stage, I found myself at a loss.
    “How are you going to get out of this one, sir?”
    “I’d pay to see that, sir.”
    With a snap of my fingers I silenced the voices, dimmed the stage lights (which I had included) and settled into the black void that is my time away from my desk.




DETAILS
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I was too full to sit on her narrow couch. She stared at me while I stood near the stereo, one hand on my hip.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Do you, uh, have any Sinatra?”
    “I don’t really go for the old stuff.”
    “May I use your bathroom?”
    “Of course. Second door on your right.”
    To void or not to void. Emptiness would be welcome on these occasions. Any presuppositions involving gymnastic maneuvers, nearly pulled muscles, and cramping toes already flew off like Canada geese, their trumpets fading by the moment. Ivory soap scented the bathroom, a clean menacing smell. I ran the taps, looked at myself in the mirror over the sink, and opened my mouth like a hippopotamus. Then I stared at myself in the eyes until it got weird.
    “Are you okay?” I heard the lady ask from behind the door.
    “Yes, I’m fine,” I said.
    But I felt unwell insofar as retaining your demons in order to blunt any follow up questions and hideous faces will make you feel unwell. I told myself, this can be remedied. All you have to do is relax. While I’m embarrassed to complete this story, I am one of those mulishly stubborn souls who always finishes what he started. Maybe that’s an exaggeration.
    “Yoo-hoo.”
    “Yes, yes, almost done.”
    The devil is in the details, I’ve heard. But then again, I’ve also heard that God is in the details. In any event, the details seem paramount over both the devil and God.
     Dear reader, what details have I omitted that would have made this experience richer or more fulfilling?



Bio: Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto. His work has appeared here and there.