Jimmy the Wrist [Repost]

 

accordion_on_the_beach

Bernard’s mother was the accordion player in an ethnic folk band. They called themselves the Charlie Manson Quartet, and played for dances and weddings in Legion and Elk halls up and down the valley.

Of course, this was years and years before the Charles Manson family committed bloody murder in California. Bernard remembered guitarist Charlie Manson as the most benevolent kind of year-round Santa Claus, with his premature white hair and trimmed beard. Except when he drank, which was actually rare, he was a jolly trickster, who made charming but suggestive jokes in between songs, told the most ridiculous tall tales about fishing in the lakelands, and played Chinese Checkers with a fierce competitiveness.

The other band members were Harry Porter, the bass guitarist, and Jimmy “The Wrist” Corcoran, so named because he drummed a full spring wedding season with his left wrist in a cast. Bernard wasn’t sure the wrist ever healed properly, but the fracture never seemed to affect his drumming, which was odd. Or maybe he just wasn’t a very good drummer.

Jimmy was kicked out of the band after The Incident, and they never replaced him, using a small electronic rhythm device instead, which turned out to be a good thing because they could sell the van and just go from gig to gig in Harry’s massive old Lincoln, which had room for the three of them and their instruments. They became the Charlie Manson Trio.

Bernard’s mother was a pretty brunette, with doe-like brown eyes and a shy demeanour, though she really was, Bernard remembered, a crackerjack— smart, funny, and talented. She could play any kind of keyboard fluently and had a low, sweet singing voice.

She loved the water and Bernard remembered many summer afternoons at the beach, he digging in the sand for creatures— clams, mussels, burrowing sea bugs of all kinds —which he put in a big plastic washing tub filled with sand and water. Sometimes he waded on the shore in search of painted turtles, but didn’t put them in his washtub aquarium anymore because one young turtle ate all his collected clams. He brought them to his mother to be duly admired, and released them again.

Sometimes at the beach his mother read books from the library, sometimes chatted with Bernard about his collection, but mostly she liked to lean back in the blue and yellow strapped lounger in her swimsuit, and feel the sun. He remembered her humming, tunes the band played for people to dance to, or little patches of songs that she made up.

Bernard remembered one day, filled with the lazy sounds of waves lapping the shore, seagulls squawking overhead, his mother humming. The sunlight shimmered behind her, and he saw another, larger silhouette appear alongside.

“Hi Bernie,” said Jimmy The Wrist, waving stiffly. “Why don’t you go play in the water or somethin’?” Jimmy had a funny part in his hair, too close to the centre, which made him look a bit like Jimmy Olsen from the comics.

Bernie turned to his mother, who sat up in her lounge chair and ruffled his sandy hair.

“See if you can find another turtle — you can show Jimmy,” she said to her son.

People always looked strange on the beach when they were fully clothed; awkward and out of place. Jimmy wore a starched white shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of grey slacks with a belt. His shoes were polished black leather and fastened with shoelaces.

Jimmy joined Bernard’s mother on the lounger, perching on the edge, while Bernard waded ankle deep in the cool water. He hadn’t learned to swim yet, and wasn’t allowed to go any deeper.

All was well until Bernard heard loud voices. “No, I’m not!” his mother shouted. Bernard froze, and then he saw Jimmy stand up and slap his mother hard across the face. She screamed and Bernard started to propel himself from the shore towards them.

Before he reached his mother, before the blonde couple down the beach or the man at the concession stand up by the parking lot could react, a seagull, a raggedy old grey and white seagull, flew straight into Jimmy’s face.

It flew in with its beak and claws out, tearing up Jimmy’s clean-shaven face and neatly-parted hair. It fluttered its broad wings and flew away. There was blood.

Jimmy flailed around blindly, and Bernard’s mother put a towel into his hand, Bernard’s towel that had the Superman crest on it.

Jimmy was gasping and crying, the towel pressed to his face. Bernard reached his mother just as the young couple did, and she clasped his hand tightly, her other hand on her cheek. The man at the concession stand then arrived with a heavyset man in uniform, who, after talking in low tones to Bernard’s mother and the young couple, invited Jimmy to come along with him. No one seemed in a great hurry to tend to Jimmy’s wounds, but he was quiet now, and walked away with the officer silently, subdued.

Bernard’s mother knelt in the sand and enveloped Bernie in her arms. He could feel her breathing heavily, and feel the heat from the cheek that had been so forcefully struck. She hugged him tightly, and he looked over her shoulder at Jimmy and the officer in the parking lot as the officer opened a white car door and Jimmy bent to get inside. Just before his bloody face disappeared into the back seat, the old seagull returned, circled, and shit on the top of Jimmy’s head.

“We’ll get you a new towel,” Bernard’s mother, unseeing, whispered in his ear.

 


  • Original Prompt: Beach, May 5, 2016
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What You Now Deserve [Repost]

Prompt: Unfair

beach shack trans

 

You will not change my mind, the letter started. Of course we vowed to share unselfishly (also to cherish one another, and a lot of other bullshit) but my darling, you are the one who broke those vows, not I.

I would never go back on my word, no matter what the temptation, what the motivation, what neglect or imaginary hurts I suffered, because I am a man of my word. Do you sincerely feel you were perfect? Because aside from the infidelity, you must remember your moodiness, your lack of unqualified support, your short temper, and your narcissism. Don’t pretend you didn’t know how much you let me down when you went out with your “friends”, when I needed you. Yes, I admit to needing a full-time partner, someone who also needs me. You chose your “friends” over me, time and time again.

And such “friends”: Obsessively creative to the point of boorishness; drug addicts, some of them; trying constantly to catch me out and prove they were smarter than me and everyone else outside the tiny, exclusive circle; pretentious, egotistical know-it-alls.

But you refused to listen to me. You, my partner in life, blatantly disqualified my opinions as unworthy, willfully dismissed my advice, and yet– and yet! –expected me to cater to your whims and hear every detail of your chaotic inner life. Not to say it was boring… but, my dear, it was. So if my eyes wandered, or I was forgetful about the minutia of your daily life, it was because of you– I am not your programmed servant.

Yet how often I felt it. You, returning from your workday, expecting a complicated meal and a sympathetic ear– as if my own work meant nothing! You, deciding when we were to have children, ignoring all previous discussions and refusing to even discuss alternatives when the test came back positive. It was if your every breath was devoted to making me feel small and insignificant.

I showed my love in all ways. Wanting you– and being rebuffed. Holding you– and feeling you go rigid with disgust. Gifts– that you put aside. Compliments in public– that you sneered at later.

I am not a mind reader. Your communication skills were lacking where I was concerned. While I tried, you made no effort to anticipate my wants and needs. So self-absorbed that you could not see the writing on the wall.

And now, you want the house. For you and Jack. So Jack doesn’t have to change schools and leave friends, or some such. It is not a disaster or even hardship to change schools, my dear; I did it many times as a child and it did nothing but make me stronger.

You are so proud of your income– go find a mansion worthy of your exalted position in life. Send our son to a fine, expensive school, out of the way, so you and your paramour don’t have to use our house, our bedroom, to perform your perversions.

I am as entitled to the house as you are. I am a recognized, contributing member of this community, every bit as much as you. Don’t use Jack as a pawn in this game. You won’t win it.

You were caught out in your infidelity, and now you must suffer the consequences. If your attorneys threaten or intimidate me in any way, I will double down. You know me. I don’t back away from a challenge. I am not a vindictive man, but a fair one. 

You will have to settle for the beach house, which is most inconvenient, I realize, since it is a great distance from your workplace and Jack’s schools, not to mention that it is more like a shack than a house: weeds as tall as a man, crumbling walls, garbage and debris on the so-called beach. Where there were once soft grains of fine sand, there are now sharp rocks and thistles– a fitting metaphor for what you have given up, and what you now deserve.

———–

He signed his name in full at the bottom of the letter, as if it was a business correspondence. She placed it on the counter, and took out her cell phone. She punched in a number, and waited for it to be answered.

“Jack sweetie?” she said. “We got the beach house!”


Jimmy the Wrist

Prompt: Beach

accordion_on_the_beach

Bernard’s mother was a musician in an ethnic folk band. They called themselves the Charlie Manson Quartet, and played for dances and weddings in Legion and Elk halls up and down the valley.

Of course, this was years and years before the Charles Manson family committed bloody murder in California. Bernard remembered Charlie Manson as the most benevolent kind of year-round Santa Claus, with his premature white hair and trimmed beard. Except when he drank, which was actually rare, he was a jolly trickster, who made charming but suggestive jokes in between songs, told the most ridiculous tall tales about fishing in the lakelands, and played Chinese Checkers with a fierce competitiveness.

The other band members were Harry Porter, the bass guitarist, and Jimmy “The Wrist” Corcoran, so named because he drummed a full spring wedding season with his left wrist in a cast. Bernard wasn’t sure the wrist ever healed properly, but the fracture never seemed to affect his drumming, which was odd. Or maybe he just wasn’t a very good drummer.

Jimmy was kicked out of the band after The Incident, and they never replaced him, using a small electronic rhythm device instead, which turned out to be a good thing, because they could sell the van and just go from gig to gig in Harry’s massive old Lincoln, which had room for the three of them and their instruments. They became the Charlie Manson Trio.

Bernard’s mother was a pretty brunette, with doe-like brown eyes and a shy demeanour, though she really was, Bernard remembered, a crackerjack — smart, funny, and talented. She could play any kind of keyboard fluently and had a low, sweet singing voice.

She loved the water and Bernard remembered many summer afternoons at the beach, he digging in the sand for creatures — freshwater clams, mussels, burrowing sea bugs of all kinds — which he put in a big plastic washing tub filled with sand and water. Sometimes he waded on the shore in search of painted turtles, but didn’t put them in his washtub aquarium anymore because one young turtle ate all his collected clams. He brought them to his mother to be duly admired, and released them again.

His mother sometimes read books from the library, sometimes chatted with him about his collection, but mostly she liked to lean back in the blue and yellow strapped lounger in her swimsuit, and feel the sun. He remembered her humming, tunes the band played for people to dance to, or little patches of songs that she made up.

Bernard remembered one day, filled with the lazy sounds of waves lapping the shore, seagulls squawking overhead, his mother humming. The sunlight shimmered behind her, and he saw another, larger silhouette appear alongside.

“Hi Bernie,” said Jimmy The Wrist, waving stiffly. “Why don’t you go play in the water or somethin’?” Jimmy had a funny part in his hair, too close to the centre, which made him look a bit like Jimmy Olsen from the comics.

Bernie turned to his mother, who sat up in her lounge chair and ruffled his sandy hair.

“See if you can find another turtle — you can show Jimmy,” she said to her son.

People always looked strange on the beach when they were fully clothed; awkward and out of place. Jimmy wore a starched white shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of grey slacks with a belt. His shoes were polished black leather and fastened with shoelaces.

Jimmy joined Bernard’s mother on the lounger, perching on the edge, while Bernard waded ankle deep in the cool water. He hadn’t learned to swim yet, and wasn’t allowed to go any deeper.

All was well until Bernard heard loud voices. “No, I’m not!” his mother shouted. Bernard froze, and then he saw Jimmy stand up and slap his mother hard across the face. She screamed and Bernard started to propel himself from the shore towards them.

Before he reached his mother, before the blonde couple down the beach or the man at the concession stand up by the parking lot could react, a seagull, a raggedy old grey and white seagull, flew straight into Jimmy’s face.

It flew in with its beak and claws out, tearing up Jimmy’s clean-shaven face and neatly-parted hair. It fluttered its broad wings and flew away. There was blood.

Jimmy flailed around blindly, and Bernard’s mother put a towel into his hand, Bernard’s towel that had the Superman crest on it.

Jimmy was gasping and crying, the towel pressed to his face. Bernard reached his mother just as the young couple did, and she clasped his hand tightly, her other hand on her cheek. The man at the concession stand then arrived with a heavyset man in uniform, who, after talking in low tones to Bernard’s mother and the young couple, invited Jimmy to come along with him. No one seemed in a great hurry to tend to Jimmy’s wounds, but he was quiet now, and walked away with the officer silently, subdued.

Bernard’s mother knelt in the sand and enveloped Bernie in her arms. He could feel heat from the cheek that had been so forcefully struck. She hugged him, and he looked over her shoulder at Jimmy and the officer, as the officer opened a white car door and Jimmy bent to get inside. Just before his bloody face disappeared into the back seat, the old seagull returned, circled, and shit on the top of Jimmy’s head.

“We’ll get you a new towel,” Bernard’s mother, unseeing, whispered in his ear.

Nothing to See Here, but a Beautiful Photograph of Children Playing

Prompt: Life After Blogs
Your life without a computer: what does it look like?

Life without a computer, on a blog, looks like this:

 

calvin_placeholder

 

So how about the Weekly Photo Prompt?

Prompt: Optimistic
How do you fuel the fires of optimism?

IMG_0511

Children playing in the tall grass. Photo by Fluffy Pool.

Children.

They are generally horrible. But we tend to forget that with each passing day, they become worse, until they turn into shitty adults.

So let’s appreciate the little munchkins each day while they are young. Remember the day they were born, when they were perfect. Realize that they will never be as precious again as they are at this very moment. A few will manage to grow into adulthood while retaining some childhood innocence, honesty, and hope. But mostly, they will become shitty adults.