Man Auction

I wrote this and the TMI Auctioneer sketch after going to an auction to benefit a volunteer fire department in very rural Stevens County. The firemen are mainly comprised of men ages 50-65 and they seem to eat a lot of pancakes together and play with fire engines until, every once in a while, the shit hits the fan.

We went to this auction around the same time that my wife began experimenting with Mommy Groups before she found a group of mom-friends. I still hope that they do something like this to raise money one day.

Noreen Campbell: Head of a Mommy’s Night Out Club
David Campbell: Noreen’s slightly younger cousin

As lights come up we see Noreen Campbell at a podium with a gavel. Behind her is a handmade banner reading “Mommy’s Night out auction.” On the podium are some papers where she’s keeping notes. The scene begins at the end of an auction held to raise money for a Mommy’s Night out Club.

Noreen Campbell: (applauding) Thank you Kathy for that generous bid. You’ll be able to collect your pies from Plainview Café at 511 N. Market. And let’s have a hand for Plainview Café and all the donors that have made tonight possible (applauds again).

She shuffles through notes.

I don’t want to get you gals too excited but it looks like we’re only $50 dollars away from our target, which we all know what that means. Time to bring back Margarita Monday! Whoa! Knock Knock. Who’s that at the door? Oh it’s my Latino Lover, Jose Quervo. Shhhh don’t tell Hank. (amused with  her own joke) Oh Kay. Well we are at our grand finale of the night. I know a lot of you single moms have been looking forward to this. My cousin who just this much younger than me (makes inch symbol with fingers) who at one point – yes that’s right ladies – was a professional male model has agreed to let us auction off a date with him tonight. Let’s have a round of applause for my cousin, Dave Campbell.

Dave Campell struts in, he is well groomed and wearing fashionable casual attire. He waves and takes his position, standing near the podium awaiting the bidding.

Dave Campbell: Technically I was a trade show attendant, but I did get the job through a modeling agency. That was (beat) quiet some time ago. But I’d still love to do that kind of work.

NC: Unnn huh. Why don’t we just say you were a male model okay David.

DC: Umm. Okay.

NC: Now ladies I know most of you are married so if you’re thinking that your hubby wouldn’t want you bidding on live human man, keep in mind he’s volunteered at least five hours of his time and he is pretty handy around the house.

DC smiles and flexes his muscles

Calm down David. Now for you single moms out there he is available and a pretty good tango dancer.

DC does a little dance

NC: (scolding) Calm down David.

DC: (confused) I’m sorry.

NC: Also ladies David is in impeccable health. He really takes care of himself. David why
don’t you show the ladies, go ahead turn around.

DC begins to turn around.

NC: Slower.

DC follows instructions

NC: Now ladies we are very lucky to have an actual professional male model with us, what do you say we take advantage of it? David take your shirt off.

DC: What?!

NC: Go ahead take off your shirt.

DC: (hesitant) Ummmm Ohh Kay.

DC begins taking his shirt off, NC stops him just before it comes completely off. He is standing in place with his shirt half way up his torso.

NC: Whoa, Whoa, what happened to you? You’re hangin’ over your pants. What happened to you six pack?

DC: I haven’t modeled for almost 7 years Noreen.

NC: Be that as it may I do have some good news for all you single moms.

DC puts shirt back on and tries to maintain a happy face.

NC: I have right here a copy of David’s most recent clinical STD test and he is clean as a whistle.

DC: How did you get that-

NC: A few years ago he had Chlamydia but a little penicillin cleared that right up ladies, and I have the documentation to prove it.

DC: (upset) Noreen-

NC: (direct) Dave you are a lot cuter when you don’t talk. Why don’t you turn around one more time (he follows directions) Now stop

DC stops with back facing the audience

NC: Now if you could David just bend over for us.

DC: (Irritated) Noreen this is getting a little degrading.

NC: David do I need to remind you why you’re here?
Against his will DC follow directions

NC: Since I’m David’s cousin it would be unnatural for me to “test” the merchandise. Can I get one of you ladies to show how smackable this tushy is? Come on ladies this bottom isn’t going pinch itself.

DC: Noreen!

NC: David!

Long glare. Noreen gets a female audience member.

NC: Now what is your name? (gets name of audience member) Hi dear, I’m Noreen. Our group is so just getting so big I have so many of you to meet. Now feel free to smack, tickle, prod or poke the “merchandise.”

During the testing DC tries to be a good sport but cannot hide his distain for the situation.

NC: Thanks you, let’s give her a round of applause. (claps) Alright, let’s start the bidding at 15 dollars. Do I have 15 dollars
The bidding part of the auction will be improvised.

NC: Wow. Way to go everyone! That’s everything. If you bought something make sure to pay Jeana before you go home. Let’s have another round of applause for all the donors who made tonight possible and remember to RSVP on the forum for the book club night. We still need someone to bring chips and another person to bring Daiquiri mix. Don’t worry though we have plenty of Rum thanks to Jeana. Thanks again ladies.
Lights out.

Bar of Soap Diary

I wonder what it thought when I took a picture of it

I wrote this for a Facebook Fictionade contest based on a picture I took of soap. It really corresponds with my belief that aging men are so, so gross. 

BAR OF SOAP DIARY

SUNDAY, EARLY
Not sure what time it is, but it’s ungodly early.  First, a burst of light,  then Carl shoved me against his anus. Again. Another rude awakening.

I don’t care how good of shape a man is in or how many early morning runs he goes on, something happens when men turn 40. Everything is disgusting and they don’t care. And it’s as if he’s completely thrown caution to the wind. Doesn’t anyone in this house give a hoot about cross contamination?

SUNDAY, MORNING
Every day, like clockwork. There’s Judy--leggy, elegant, motherly--waltzing in, humming to herself,  absentmindedly undressing while the water warms, steam still drifting off the cup of coffee she’ll ignore. How Carl landed such a catch, I can’t imagine. If only she knew what he did in here...

SUNDAY NIGHT
Bathnight. It used to bother me when Judy would wash the kids with the liquid “gentle” soap. What? Am I not good enough? Doesn’t she realize I’m anti-bacterial too? I guess, like anything else, I got used to it and came to understand that the less I was used then the longer I’d be around to wash up Judy. Bar of Soap DiaryWash away the build up of scum and filth that she constantly seems to accumulate.

Bar of Soap Diary

Smelly Requiem

I grew up out in the woods so I’m no stranger to running across dead animals and having to get rid of them. Now I live in a town with neighbors so I can’t just toss half a deer carcass  or cat torso into the woods for the coyotes. For whatever reason, every spring little, animals appear dead in our back lawn--either because they were old, not prepared for winter, discarded babies, or (as the case with rabbits) killed by the father to minimize sexual competition. Those experiences certainly informed this very short, very ridiculous piece.


Pete scratched at the loose soil with a fallen stick from a Ponderosa pine. Company was on their way and his wife needed  him to dispose of a dead baby robin. Too lazy to get a shovel, Pete scratched primitively at the ground then rolled the flaccid body of the bird over once, then twice.

With a poke he stuffed the tiny soft corpse into its shallow grave. Force from the stick pushed gas out of the bowels as toothpick-legs clumsily crisscrossed. A tiny tuft of air whistled from the creature. One last little baby bird fart.

Squatter King

           I wrote this piece for a www.fiction500.com contest and did not win or place. The prompt was a picture of a dilapidated house. I wrote this not long after going to NYC for the first time where I did and saw a lot of fun things, but so much of it was overshadowed by a homeless guy I saw eating out of the garbage can at The Met, critiquing the food as he ate.

Write something about California Lunch Room. Now..Go! Now...Lose a contest.

The boom of a wooden slam announced Carl as he barged back in with a grease-stained paper sack under his arm. A few mice scurried out from the pile of blankets and sleeping bags on the floor as he walked by—a few of the brave ones watched with black beady eyes.  

           In the kitchen Sandy woke from her trance watching the shadows of clouds move along the rust-stain sink. She stopped picking at a scar on her chin and looked up at Carl, hungry.
           “Whaddjah find?” she asked in a crackling hag voice too old for her 32 years. Behind her in green, dripping spray-painted letters next to a crudely drawn crown a message read: NO MORE FOOD IN THE LUNCH ROOM.  When they’d moved in three weeks ago they were high and happy and Carl convinced his wife the abandoned old store was safe. She painted a crown and called him a squatter king when Carl stood under it. They laughed hard and violent when it happened.
           “Burgers,” Carl answered.
           “From where?” Sandy attacked the bag. Pulling out one of the burgers, her hand was covered in ants.
           “In the dumpster behind Burger Shack.”
           “There on First Street?” Sandy confirmed, shaking most of the tiny, squirming dots off of her hand.
           Carl nodded. He peeled the thin paper of his hamburger off and dropped it on the wooden floor. The first bite squished in his mouth like cold leftover Thanksgiving stuffing.
           “Oh Jesus!” Sandy yelled, disgusted.
          “Wha’s wro?” Carl asked with a full mouth. He breathed loudly from his nose.
           “It’s got pickles.” She spit out her half chewed bite onto the floor. “Yours have pickles?”
           Carl pulled the wet bun up and shook his head. They traded. As they swapped, an ant quickly ran up Sandy’s hand from her new burger. She blew it off, sending the ant flying to the floor with a delicate bounce.

In the remaining shards of the broken window on the back door, Carl saw the reflection of a cop car pull up on the overgrown front lawn. A lumbering figure pulled himself out and walked the saunder of a man with a full gut. Tired, Carl closed his eyes, the breaths from his nose now whistling and he did his best to savor the sticky, salty mush in his mouth. A final taste of freedom.

“How that one?” he asked Sandy.

           “Better.  I cain’t stan’ pickles.”
           “I know.”
          Knock. Knock.

Freedom Weed Chapter 1

This is the first chapter from my novel Freedom Weed set during the rise and fall of the Spokane, WA medical marijuana dispensary system. An online literary journal called One Title will publish a selection from the novel in their summer edition coming out June 28th. Check it out! For this part of Freedom weed I drew from the experience of seeing my grandmother watch the friends around her fall into ill health and pass away due to the fact that she's been cursed/blessed with a long, healthy life.

Mom sure knew how to go, Jay Dennesey thought, ushering the few well-wishers who’d made their way out to Thorn’s Funeral Home for his father’s Tuesday morning funeral. His mom had been a tough old bird who got into bed one day shortly after her 65th birthday, said goodbye to everyone she loved, then, three days later....plop. Jay didn’t really appreciate how skilled his mother had been at dying until it took his old man nearly six months to kick the bucket.
            Certain the entire audience of mourners had arrived, Jay re-lit a store-bought cigarette he’d ashed out in the beige rocks on top of a slender steel bucket near the front entrance of the funeral home. Thorn’s Funeral Home was an icon. As he smoked, Jay peered up at the same sign that had been there since he was a kid. In looping, outdated font it read, “Since 1937. Passing with Dignity.”  The Spokane Valley had grown up around the old brick building, now a dignified relic sandwiched between auto repair shops and fast food joints. What this place must be worth, thought Jay, looking at the two dozen or more parking spots in front of what he guessed was at least an acre of prime commercial property.  He listened to a few cars buzz past before one last drag from his cigarette.

Inside, the atmosphere was decidedly drab. Dark hardwood floors in the entryway accented eggshell colored walls. Jay joined his brother, John, who had already found his seat directly in front of the casket they’d rented for the viewing before cremating the old man. Scattered throughout the cheapest service room of the funeral home, a few mourners fiddled with the hem of their pants or tinkered with the clasp of a coin purse, each looking down, avoiding one another.
            “So, when he passed...did he say anything?” John asked Jay.

“No. Nothing,” Jay lied. The old man had screamed like a banshee in his last moments as the pulse inside his wormy veins came to a slow stop, confessing all kinds of sins—real and imaginary. “He went,” Jay paused, “quietly. No pain. I went in to feed him and he was...just...dead.”

“I wish I would have been there.”

            A petite elderly woman whose name Jay and John should have known came up to them and put her knobby hand out to Jay. Both men stood.      

            “He was a nice man,” the woman squeaked.

            “Thank you,” John and Jay said nodding while the small, hunched over old lady walked back to her seat.

            Jay barely filled out the old suit he found in his dad’s closet. His brother, on the other hand, had a soft bulge growing above the waist of his pants. When they were younger most people could pinpoint the brotherly similarities. Now it was GI Joe next to Ken with man-boobs.     

            “John,” Jay whispered, “where are Sandy and kids?”

            “Sandy doesn’t think a funeral would be healthy for their emotional development. You know? They’re still pretty young for a funeral,” John answered, eyes forward.

            “Okay then. What about Sandy? Why couldn’t she make it?”

            “She,” John hesitated, still looking forward, “she didn’t want to have to explain to the kids why she’d be leaving. And besides, her mom couldn’t get away to watch the kids.”

            “What?” Jay’s whisper scraped the back of his throat. “Darla couldn’t skip going to the god damn casino for one Saturday?”

            “Well I guess they’re giving out double points this weekend on losses and she didn’t want to miss out on that. They only do that every once in awhile.”

            With closed eyes, Jay rubbed his temples in small circles and took a deep, audible breath. Another mourner wearing a cloth paperboy hat shuffled by and nodded at the brothers. Jay recognized him as one of his dad’s co-workers from back in the hardware store days. Neither of them remembered the man’s name; all they could offer was a solemn nod in return. Jay leaned over to his brother again.

            “John?” Jay spoke firmly. “What do you mean Sandy didn’t want to explain to the kids why she’d be leaving?”        

            John sat silently.

            “Do they not know dad’s dead?”

            John sighed, licked his lips and shook his head.

            “John? They don’t even know their granddad died?”

            Knowing full well the weakness of his character, John shrugged his eyebrows over two watery eyes.

            “Jesus fucking Christ John!” Jay’s raspy, angry voice rose above a whisper. He looked back to find that the small old lady from before sitting a few pews behind them could still hear quite well. Her sideways glance—pouty lipped and a little frightened—had heard almost more than she could bear.

            “You couldn’t even get your wife to pay her respects to the old man?” Jay scoffed. “Well I guess I should be happy that at least she let you come.” With that Jay stood and walked to his father’s body.

            Jay could smell the sweet, soft scent of the white roses to the left of the open casket. His father looked mad. He looked mad it’d taken him so long to die and that his wife left him before he was ready to lose her, he was mad his smart son never saw him and that his loner son who couldn’t even land a wife or a girlfriend or even a lay every now a then had to be the one to sit by his side and watch him die. Jay reached in the coffin, laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the pointy bones struggling against the thin, dead skin—he squeezed and wished he could feel his dad’s handshake once more before letting him go.

            Turning around to a sadly lit room, Jay saw barely a handful of mourners strewn about the seats—old well wishers who had also lived too long. A geriatric crowd that woke every morning to scan the obits for past acquaintances who’d passed on so they can pay respect or just make sure the bastards are dead. What a life, Jay thought to himself looking out at the few elderly people speckled in the nearly empty room, live long enough to see everyone else die.

Dear NSMAFC

After my friend Lawra Gosslin-Harris wrote a fake letter to target, I wanted to respond as Target's head of marketing.


From the desk of Jeffery J Jones II

June 18th, 2012


Dear normal sized middle aged female customer:

Thank you for reaching out to us, we appreciate and welcome feedback  from our all our customers, regardless of their station in life. As you’ve attested, Target is a welcoming environment willing to accommodate everyone from blue collar regular joes to executive level individuals such as myself; from nubile young hotties to washed up, burnt-out house marms. I like to think that Target has  something to offer every walk of life.

Please let me be clear, we at Target did  not mean to offend you in any way and if we sent the wrong signal, please accept our apology. With summer approaching, we typically run a two week ad campaign to sell our line of skimpy bikini tops as quickly as possible before the parents of teenage girls start a protest campaign. Rest assured, we still carry very modest one piece swimsuits, large beach towels to completely cover yourself, and don’t forget about our line of pants with elastic  waistbands.  If you’re one of the many Target customer who’ve let themselves go, don’t worry, we have something for you.

As much as I’d hate to lose you to another store, the fact of the matter is I’m not sure you could do that much better. Probably not. The only other option for you to have what we call the “bullseye experience” is at Walmart. If you think you don’t want to see Target customers in bikinis....well write me another letter after you spend an afternoon in Walmart. Target does lose part of its customer base from time to time to Walmart when our patrons want to feel better about themselves, but eventually they come back.

Ultimately what I want you to understand is that we at Target do not want you to leave us. We love you. It’s always been you. Sure sometimes we don’t show it, and yes, we’re not perfect. There are younger consumers with so much potential and such an energy about them.  You can’t blame us for looking can you? I’m not going to lie, they look good, but they would be very hard to keep up with when compared to our steady-as-she-goes consumers like you.

So, thank you again for your input, we’ll try to do better in the future. Please accept the enclosed coupon for two free pretzels, some Archer Farms ice cream,  and one copy of 50 Shades of Grey as our apology.

Sincerely,


Jeffery J Jones II
Target Corporation
Chief Marketing Officer

Dear Target

 This week Lawra Gosselin-Harris wrote a fictional letter to Target. She is a stay-at-home mom who shops there and is pretty funny. Next week the Target's VP of Marketing will issue a response.

Dear Target:

We need to talk. You need to know I love you.  When I am driving in my minivan, going between dropping off or picking up my children from school, getting groceries, doing errands for my family and friends, I consider it a treat to get to go to your store. I wander in, sometimes with my children in tow and have fun walking up and down the isles. My children love eating your popcorn and drinking soda, I love your dollar bins and book section, your merona jeans and your circo children’s clothing. I love your store.

That is why when I was reading my Sunday paper and saw your ad, my heart sunk a little. I thought we had a good thing Target. You were my little heartstone, my secret energy charge, my feel good place when my day sucked. This picture of these young, goddess like models dressed in bikinis. . . are you trying to tell me something? Are you trying to tell me I am fat? Is my butt to big for you Target? Do you want skinny customers? Is that it.? Do we need to see other people? I have been getting ads from Shopko, Walmart and Sears. JCpennies is making a huge play for me lately. Are you trying to tell me it is time for my fat ass to move on? That you are just not that in to me?

If that is not the case, then let me be clear. You have sent me the wrong message baby. Trust me, you don’t need to see a picture of me in a bikini. I am not trying to be cruel, but you don’t want to see a picture of any of the ladies in Target in a bikini. If we are your “Target” audience, you must hate us. All that picture did was make me feel fat. I don’t think I am the only one.

So, I can only guess you want to break up with me. At least you could have bought me dinner and not just sent me a picture of your new girlfriends.

Sadly,

Your normal sized middle aged female customer