“A” my name is Alice — really. Bob is my husband. Cromwell, Connecticut, is our home. Does this sound familiar? Every little girl in America jumps rope to “’A’ My Name Is Alice.” Fourteen years ago, I married Bob, and my life became an offbeat jump rope song.
Golly-gee, living in a nursery rhyme is great fun. Hear a little sarcasm? I try to suppress it for the sake of the kids, but it always creeps in.
Johnny is 13 now, a budding comedian specializing in dry wit that hovers dangerously close to full-out sarcasm. Katie, 11, having heard what men think of glasses-wearing girls one too many times, is our wise-cracking Dorothy Parker (or maybe Sarah Silverman).
Levon is 10 with no witty bone in his body; Bob hopes he’ll be a musician like his namesake, drummer Levon Helm.
Mike, at 8 years old, nurtures his sarcasm gene with South Park and The New Yorker cartoons. Nancy may be a mere 3 1/2, but she has developed crushes on Sheldon Cooper (both Big Bang and Young), Chandler Bing, and Liz Lemon. Our baby, Oona is only a year old and loves Three Stooges’ slapstick, the precursor to sarcastic humor (see, e.g., the Marx Brothers into Groucho Marx).
Perhaps you noticed that makes six kids, our own juvenile Monty Python troupe. Quips galore in my house.
Rock star dad that he is, Bob built a mini Globe Theatre for their more theatrical comedy endeavors. Shakespeare it ain’t, but it keeps them and the neighborhood kids busy. That, of course, means the parents are partying at our house on the regular. Until the childless neighborhood killjoys come over and raise hell, resulting in …
Visits from our local constables, none of whom have any sense of humor or patience for busybody neighbors. When the cops arrive, red lights flashing, sirens blaring, the party really gets going. Xenophobes might hear the chaos and think they have discovered a tenth level of Dante’s Inferno. YOLO is our motto. Za usually arrives just in time to calm everyone down; no one in our tenth circle talks while they eat.
Every May and September, award-winning writer’s site StoryADay.org hosts a challenge to write a short story every day. Founder Julie Duffy issues the challenge to writers at any level from beginning amateurs through published professionals. Regardless of the writer’s experience, the thought-provoking prompts exercise and challenge participants’ writing chops. June is a celebration of their accomplishments, culminating in StoryFest on the last weekend.
Head on over to StoryADay.org on Saturday, June 27, or Sunday, June 28, and discover a new writer or a new genre.
(Full disclosure: I accepted the challenge for the first time last year. Loved it so much, I came back for more this year. My submission to StoryFest is my next post.)
“You get the funk after death.” Words of wisdom from Peter on my first day on the job. We were digging the latest grave, and I was still pretty skeeved from all the new smells that hit me when I arrived that morning. I never knew about the funk until I started working at Floyd’s Funeral Parlor. I never knew a lot of things until then.
Since I was a kid, I’d wanted to work at Floyd’s. I’d pass the big, old Victorian house twice a day, to and from school. Out front, Floyd’s tuxedoed statue stood a good 15 feet higher than the tallest passerby. He was always tastefully ringed by a bed of fresh lilies. You might think he’d be intimidating, looking down his nose on everyone, but those lilies softened him and reassured bereaved families that their dearly departed would be in good hands at Floyd’s. Floyd seemed like the kind of man I wanted to be.
“Almost like fingerprints, everyone’s funk is different,” Peter continued.
“Well, take the little old lady we’re burying today. She came here from Myrtle’s Nursing Home, where she’d lived for years. You know how nursing homes always have that stale urine, musty kind of smell? Well, when you’ve lived with that stink for years, it becomes part of you. Plus, she lingered for a long time after she got sick, and decay had got a foothold before she passed. Her family brought a bucketful of Tender Violet cologne to try to cover it up. I guess they thought if the perfume matched her name, violet would become the prominent aroma. Now her funk could best be described as decaying violets with a hint of dog piss.”
“She doesn’t smell like that in the viewing room. I think the embalming process must have taken care of it.”
“Nah. It just adds to the mix. You don’t notice it as much because the lilies are overpowering.”
“What about the guy who came in last night? The one who had a heart attack on the 18th green over at Shady Glen Golf? If where you came from becomes part of the funk, he should be smelling like fertilizer, but He doesn’t. He just smells awfully sweaty.”
“There you have it! By the time you get to the 18th hole, everyone smells sweaty.”
“So the funk isn’t quite like a fingerprint, after all?”
“Sure, it is. Didn’t you ever notice everyone’s sweat smells different? Garlicky and fishy, if you just had scampi; boozy if you drank lunch.”
“Hey, Petey! Stop your yammering and just dig! I’m trying to get some sleep here.”
I wasn’t about to wait around to find out who said that. I dropped my shovel and ran. Peter caught me by my overall strap as I ran past. Nearly choked me to death before he brought me to the ground.
“Pfft! When are you not trying to get some sleep, Harvey? You think you got someplace else to be?”
“Peter? Who’s Harvey? Isn’t that the name on the next tombstone?”
“Listen, Petey, even the dead have to rest up to make a good first impression.”
“On the kid? I think you’ve already made your impression, scaring him half to death. It’s his first day. I planned to ease into letting him know what’s what.”
“Not the kid; Violet. We were sweet on each other when we were young. I want to look my best when she sees me.”
I must be cut out for this work. I was already getting over the shock of hearing a dead man talking, because I jumped into the conversation.
“Mr. Harvey, how is she going to see you? I mean, I gather you ARE the Harvey in the next grave. I can hear you but can’t see you. How will she?”
“Don’t know how it works, Kiddo. It just does. She might not see me right away, if she’s not over the trauma of dying yet. But when she does see me, I want to look as good as I can.”
“Harvey, you’ve been dead 15 years already. How good can you possibly look?”
“Listen, Petey. Floyd does an A-1 job of embalming and prepping for burial. He may not be able to get rid of the funk, but he sure can preserve the body. I just wish he hadn’t concentrated only on the parts that would be seen at the viewing.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Harvey? I thought the embalming fluid replaced blood through the whole body.”
“It does, Kiddo. But Floyd does a lot more than just stuff us with that formaldehyde mix. He fixes up our faces, too. Haven’t you ever heard anyone say ‘Aw, he looks just like himself’ when they pay their respects?”
“Listen, Kiddo. When that train hit me, it threw my parts all over the place. Floyd got them all back and reattached what he could.”
“He made you whole again, Harvey. What’s the problem?”
“Well, Petey, let’s just say, he’ll never be a plastic surgeon. Or a tailor.”
Death comes differently for everyone. Sometimes he comes violently, painfully. Other times, he comes peacefully, stealing from morphine dreams. Sometimes he’ll snatch people before they know what hit them. Other times, he’ll wait for months in the shadows, slowly siphoning someone’s life away. Anytime he wants, Death’ll take from a hospital, bedroom, golf course, lake, middle of the street. No matter how, when, or where he comes, when Death takes, his leavings come here to Floyd’s.
Inspired by a lyric from The Cars’ “I’m In Touch With Your World.” Photo of Benjamin Orr (credit unknown)
Watching the slow procession shambling past, he suspected that he had not been sent to the post he requested when he volunteered. He listened to the speakers touting each ones’ performance under duress. Apparently, there was nary a weak link in that chain. Not much life in them now, but they got the job done.
The distinct tinkling of a thousand little bells preceded the second group coming ever closer on the parade grounds. The jingling stopped periodically as the bunch stepped lively and gained on the first section. When they finally made their way past the reviewing stand, he could see their uniforms were festooned with tiny bells hanging from striped ceremonial ribbons, the kind that usually held war medals. According to the speakers, this platoon hadn’t seen the action the first group had. In fact they hadn’t seen any action at all, but leadership had decided that everyone who participated should get a token of their willingness to play along.
He shuddered when he realized the third group, his section, was the next to gambol along the parade route. The major had begun marking time. The first line was already moving, their uniforms swishing to the rhythm set by the major’s maracas. Although he had no idea how or why he had been assigned here, when his line stepped forth, he managed to shimmy with the best of them, hoping he didn’t look too much like a flapper girl.
The underlined words are prompts for today’s Story A Day May 2019.