Stephen Shaiken's Blog, page 15
June 6, 2020
June 4, 2020
MY HEART IS WITH THE PROTESTERS AND I WANT THEM TO BE SAFE
My heart is with the protesters. Were it possible, I would be among them. (My wife is a three-time cancer survivor with a compromised immune system, so I can’t run the risk of infecting her. The decision to take a risk goes beyond one’s own self-interest or views; we all owe each other the assurance that we will do all we can to make sure we don’t infect each other.)
I believe in science and medicine. If the experts say that this is dangerous, we have to find other ways to get our message out. I know young people think they are immortal; I was young, and raised two children. But the young are not immortal, nor are they able to protect their friends and relatives if they become infected.
The overwhelming majority of these peaceful protesters do all they can to mitigate the threat, by wearing masks and often gloves. But there is virtually no social distancing, and many are unmasked. As all of these earnest people go back to their communities, I fear spreading the virus.
The point has been well-made, and by just about every measure, the American people are appalled by the murder of Mr. Floyd, and have come to understand institutionalized racism in the criminal justice system. These protesters have woken up many Americans, who are also repulsed by rump’s racist and Nazi-like response.
If someone is going to use a “risk-benefit” analysis, the benefits thus far are clear. Only a third of Americans support Trumps’ fascistic approach. Generals Mattis and Milley have spoken out. Even Trump’s own Defense Secretary says he opposes using the troops to suppress protests. One need not be an epidemiologist to realize that the longer we have mass congregations, the more the virus will spread. Sadly, the virus does not distinguish between idiots partying recklessly on a beach or in a bar, and serious people doing what they can to be safe under near impossible conditions. It cares not if you are an armed Republican or neo-Nazi seizing a state capitol and intimidating legislators, or a peaceful protester seeking justice. They will all see infection, spread, and death.
So now it is time to look for safer ways to keep the movement going and keep up the pressure on police, the states, and Republicans in the Senate. I know it’s tough; we Dem activists are struggling to register people and get out the vote in dangerous times. Young people are masters of social media and networking, and that can be an effective way of maintaining the struggle. But we definitely do not want to mimic the Trumpies, and send our most ardent folks out into a pandemic.
One last word: unless someone is actually out there, taking the same risks, they have no right to tell others to do so.Talk is oh-so-cheap. (I wish everyone who told me how much they want to get rid of Trump would actually do something, however minimal, to make it happen. That’s why these protesters are so inspiring.)
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May 14, 2020
New Short Story: “Bagelnose Goes to College”.
BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE
(c) 2020 by Stephen Shaiken Reprint by permission only
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are purely fictional creations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Monster photo courtesy of dreamstime.
Weasel cartoon courtesy of deviantAR
BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE
(c) 2020 by Stephen Shaiken Reprint by permission only
Every neighborhood has one: a person struggling to escape the prison of their being. In Macbeth Heights, where I grew up, that person was Kenny Pelko. The Kenny Pelkos of the world spend their lives trying to fit into spaces they do not belong, like a man trying to squeeze into a suit two sizes too small.
Pelko was a short, stout lump of a fellow, built like a fire hydrant. His head was too big, limbs too short, small eyes too close together undersized ears sticking out at an angle. His lips were fixed in a perpetual scowl, teeth bared, like a fat rat.
His nose drew the most attention, a puffy, bulging proboscis suggesting a bagel set upright like a wheel. He was called Bagelnose, but only behind his back.
. No one knew how a working class neighborhood in New York City came to be named after a Shakespearean character, and a murderous psychopath to boot. There weren’t a lot of Shakespeare enthusiasts in Macbeth Heights.
The streets were lined with older American cars. The people dressed in cheap clothing, their ill-fitting garments the uniforms of life’s also-rans.
A New York City cop once told me, “Macbeth Heights is where the world’s losers wind up.” I have never found reason to doubt him.
Almost four hundred working class families lived in a clump of apartment buildings perched atop a steep hill. The sole college-educated resident in the development, an engineer, asserted that the construction and materials used were of the lowest quality, and would age prematurely. Indeed, within a few years, pieces of brick chipped away, window frames cracked and warped, and the lawns sported more weeds than grass.
The developers of these apartments expended no effort on public relations, and the four Stalinesque buildings bore the elegiac titles of Buildings One, Two, Three, and Four. The residents of each grafted hidden meaning onto their building number. Those in One claimed superiority over Two, Three, and Four. Doug Plotkin, of Building Four, argued that the higher the number, the better the residents. “They checked everybody out before they assigned apartments, and the best people got sent to Four,” he declared.
I lived in Building One. My neighbor, Mr. Goldberg, swore that only the best people were sent there.
“Why else would they call it Building One?” he insisted.
In the midst of sharp, upward-striving young folk, Bagelnose, of Building Three, was the dolt, always in the slower classes, lacking the intellectual curiosity that would propel the rest of us from Macbeth Heights. Bagelnose possessed no discernible skills aside from brute force. He was accepted by some, disliked by many, respected by none.
Bagelnose had one close friend, Max Flugel, known as The Weasel, or just Weasel. Max the Weasel would feign friendships, then incite others to torment the alleged friends. The Weasel could insult a person mercilessly in public when surrounded by his bully minions, but when it suited him, could reignite the friendship. He threw people off, and they never knew what to expect. I never expected anything but trouble from Max, and that was all I got.
I did not spend all that much time with Weasel. He was my age, but a year behind me in school, as I had skipped a grade in junior high. This made me a year younger than most of my fellow high school seniors, a big difference as a teenager.
Max was short, thin, and buck-toothed, with beady eyes, and swarthy skin inherited from his South American mother. His parents took frequent trips, leaving Max an empty apartment, slowing him to throw parties, where he recruited the bullies who did his bidding. I was never invited to any of the parties, but was occasionally bullied.
Weasel often encouraged Bagelnose to commit assault and battery, though Bagelnose needed no enticement. He was infamous for jumping victims from behind, or punching them in the gut without warning or provocation. Anyone but Weasel might be a victim.
I avoided Bagelnose whenever possible. When in proximity, I kept an eye out for telltale signs of an imminent outburst. He would fidget, crane his neck, and snap it down to his chest, like a snapping turtle having a seizure. In the most severe cases, he bit his fingers, hands, or upper arms. I often feared he would bite me. Bagelnose always had a ready excuse for his assaultive behavior, sometimes self defense, or a slur on he or his family, but no one ever believed him. Bagelnose was forever telling lies.
#
In 1966, Bagelnose and I were seniors at different high schools. I attended a prestigious special school for high achievers, and Bagelnose the local high school. He claimed to be in their college preparatory program, although no one in the program could recall seeing him in any classes. It was rumored that Bagelnose was enrolled in the General Studies program, a basic program for students not heading to college.
All graduating seniors in Macbeth Heights aspired for admission to one of the respected New York City public colleges, extraordinarily competitive because tuition was free.
As a senior in a special school, I could count on acceptance at the public college of my choice.
I had decided against joining my fellow Macbeth Heights seniors at City College, in Upper Manhattan, allegedly the crown jewel of the system. Most of them had served stints as Weasel’s bullies, and I wanted them out of my life. On my application, I checked the box for Queens College, certain that I was the only one to make this choice. I did not inform any of the others, for fear one might decide to switch their preference to Queens.
It was doubtful they cared which college I attended. By the start of my senior year, I and my fellow Macbeth Heights seniors, of all schools, had developed a mutual disinterest in each other. No tears were shed by anyone. I was Bob Dylan, anti-war, pre-Earth Day environmentalist, caught up in the Civil Rights Movement. They were cardigan sweaters, Four Seasons, homes in the suburbs, where there would be no black people. Bagelnose and the Weasel were huge racists, and often taunted me about my feelings.
Unbeknownst to me, Bagelnose announced that he had applied to Queens College, though no one took him seriously. For most of my senior year I was unaware of his claim, or what it meant for me.
#
In early April, the decision letters arrived. Rumors swirled about what type of envelopes signified acceptance, and which foretold rejection. Beginning with the last day of March, I returned home from my after-school job and checked the mail, looking for the official word. It finally came in a perforated document which I promptly ripped open. It was an acceptance at Queens College. Despite my confidence, I felt great relief.
I walked outside my apartment building, looking for someone with whom I could share my good fortune.
I had only walked a few score feet when I spotted a knot of my peers gathered along the sidewalk, my friend Shaul among them. Shaul was a quiet fellow who feared no one. On more than one occasion he had intervened to spare me from assault by Bagelnose or other bullies.
Next to Shaul was Martin Krazloff, a lanky, lantern-jawed senior at the local high school, a spindly figure who stood six foot one. He was given the monicker “Manny” because with his long, narrow face and thin body, which looked like it could be folded up and carried away, he suggested a praying mantis. Krazloff was prone to speaking in a faux British accent, in imitation of William F. Buckley, for whom he expressed great admiration. He occasionally represented himself to strangers as the scion of a wealthy family. He often wore expensive sport coats, which I later learned he shoplifted from upscale department stores in Manhattan. We had been friends through junior high, but when I was accepted at my special high school and he was not, the friendship cooled.
Mixed in with the knot that evening was Bagelnose, gesticulating as he spoke with Albert Robinson, the only fellow in Macbeth Heights uglier than he. Everyone called him Brooks, after the great Baltimore Oriole third baseman, Brooks Robinson. Our Brooks had a face that could stop a clock, pimply and snaggletoothed, with eyes set too deep and a nose that protruded like a broken pipe. Brooks walked around with his shirt tails hanging out, and pants that never fit right. He thought nothing of passing gas anywhere, anytime. It was questionable how often he bathed or showered. To this day when I think of Brooks, what comes to mind are the smells of fart and body oder.
I was surprised when Weasel greeted me.
“So, you joining the boys at City?” he asked, in a tone implying he knew the answer. Perhaps my mother told his mother, I thought.
“No, Max,” I gleefully replied. “I’m going to Queens.”
“Then you’re going to be seeing a lot of Bagelnose,” he retorted. Max alone could use that name in the owner’s presence. It was then I learned what Bagelnose had been claiming. I did not believe it, and certainly did not want it to be true.
Bagelnose heard Weasel and turned towards us.
“I wouldn’t be seen with this guy,” he snorted, jabbing a stubby finger in my direction.
I moved back several steps. Bagelnose had once jumped me from behind while I was leaving a candy store, and on another occasion, punched me in the stomach while I stood in line for a movie. I was never unaware of any deep seated animosity he held towards me in particular, and always assumed he was angry at the world. This time he specifically directed his outrage at me.
“It’s a big campus,” I replied. “We don’t ever have to see each other.”
The Weasel laughed. I didn’t
“So what’s next?” he asked “You have to sign up for classes or get some orientation?
“Both,” I replied, looking over my shoulder at Bagelnose. “They said I would get a catalogue in June. Orientation is in August. Then we register for classes.”
“Well, I’m really happy for you,” Weasel said. “I’ll be checking in with you.
“And Bagelnose too,” he added.
Bagelnose bit down on his upper lip and moved his shoulders up and down. Never a good sign, I thought.
“It’s really nice of you to be so happy for me, Max” I said. “I have to go upstairs and finish some homework.”
“See you around,” Max called out as I walked towards Building One.
“Bagelnose, say goodbye to your classmate,” he added.
#
Over the next few months, when I passed the neighborhood crowd, we sometimes exchanged greetings, and other times ignored each other. If Bagelnose and The Weasel were together, the latter was sure to ask me about Queens College.
“Bagelnose says he hasn’t gotten anything from Queens,” Weasel told me when I encountered the two of them standing at the bus stop while I was walking to get a haircut. “You hear anything?”
“Sure Max, I got the catalogue last week. I’ve been looking at classes,” I replied.
“Bagelnose hasn’t heard anything,”Max responded.
“I’ll have to call them tomorrow,” Bagelnose interjected, glaring at me with burning eyes.
“You can look at mine if you like,” I volunteered. I didn’t know why I said that, and knew immediately I should have kept quiet.
“I don’t want nothing to do with you.” Bagelnose barked.
“Now, now, Bagelnose,” Max said, patting Pelko on the shoulder. “He’s just trying to be nice to a classmate.”
Bagelnose stuffed his hand in his mouth as he clamped his teeth on his fingers.
“I’ve got to go,” I announced. “See you around campus,” I called out to Bagelnose as I briskly walked away. I asked myself why I had to make that comment. The idea was to avoid conflict with that psycho.
#
Graduation came and passed, and we entered the last real summer of our youth. The fortunate few were hired as waiters in Catskill Mountain resorts, the runner-ups as camp counsellors, and the rest of us left to scramble for whatever summer work we could find. As a final gift, my high school placement office found a job for me in the stockroom of a local hospital. It was a short bus ride away, and while the work was tedious and physically draining, it paid well and was only thirty hour a week. As an added bonus, lifting countless boxes of saline solutions and other IV fluids built up muscles which I fantasized might allow me to deliver strong blows to the faces of Bagelnose and the Weasel. I kept such thoughts to myself.
A good portion of my spare time that summer was spent planning my schedule for the Fall. In the pre-computer era, students had to hand-draft several alternative schedules, and incoming freshman were never assured of their first choices. I passed hours substituting English Literature for Contemporary Civilization, and Art Appreciation as an alternative to Music. I had heard somewhere that if a freshman chose German instead Spanish or French, they could have whatever class they wanted. I reasoned that would also allow me to read Kafka and Hesse in the original.
Chance encounters with my neighborhood peers were unavoidable. They congregated nightly in a patio between Buildings One and Two, through which I had to pass whenever I went out. Crossing paths with The Weasel and the others was inevitable, and especially unsettling if Bagelnose was in their midst.
One evening The Weasel greeted me with a smile and invited me over for a few words. I complied out of either politeness or fear that he might sic Bagelnose upon me.
“Still working on your schedule?” he asked. “Must be a bitch,” he added.
“I’ve had worse happen,” I replied each time, my exchanges with Bagelnose in mind.
“Why don’t you and Bagelnose compare notes?” he asked. “Come on, Bagelnose, tell him what courses you’re trying to squeeze in.”
Bagelnose squirmed and said nothing.
“Speak up, Bagelnose,” The Weasel ordered. “This man does not have all night.”
After a pause, Bagelnose squeaked out a reply.
“Chemistry and Biology,” he said.
I heard a few chuckles among the crowd.
I wanted to ask if he had taken college level calculus in high school or passed the math examination required for Chemistry, or, but self preservation restrained me.
“I have a great idea,” Weasel said. “My folks are out of town this weekend. I’m having a party. How about the two of you come over with your papers and work together on this stuff?”
This was the first time The Weasel had ever extended me an invitation, which was promptly accepted without any thought. I would finally experience what had been withheld.
Bagelose demurred.
“I may have date this weekend,” he stated. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, might have a date?” Albert Robinson chimed in. “Either you do or you don’t.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Bagelnose place his finger in his mouth.
“I have to go now,” I announced. “Thanks for the invite, Max. See you tomorrow.”
#
Saturday was a hot New York day in late June with fuzzy blue skies and a soft yellow sun. I spent part of the day going over class schedules and pondering how to avoid Bagelnose if he came to the party. His presence had not been considered when the invitation was accepted, nor were Weasel’s motives. I considered not going, but my good friend Dale Horlick, nicknamed Horse, counseled otherwise.
“You’ve never been to one of Weasel’s parties,” he reminded me. “He usually has lots of girls there. Now that you’re about to be a college man, they’ll be crawling all over you,” he said authoritatively. He emphasized that he would be there with me.
Horse was a good friend, and like Shaul, not easily cowed. Like Shaul, he had intervened to spare me attacks by Bagelnose and the rest of Weasel’s bully brigade. When Horse spoke, I listened. We agreed to go together.
That evening Horse came by my apartment and we walked to Building Two. Horse rang Weasel’s doorbell, opened by Brooks Robinson, who gave us a lopsided smile and waved us in.
“Weasel will be glad to see you,” to told me. “Maybe not Bagelnose though.”
I thought he wasn’t coming,” I replied. It didn’t sound good.
“Oh, I guess his big date fell through,” Brooks said with a grin.
As I entered the living room, I saw Weasel talking with Manny Krazloff, Doug Plotkin and a few young ladies. When Weasel spotted Horse and I, he rose to greet us.
Before Max could say a word, Bagelnose barreled across the room. He placed a hand on my shoulder and started to push me back.
“You get out!” he yelled. “You got no business here!” His face was red and there were drops of spittle on his upper lip.
Horse instinctively moved between us, glaring at Bagelnose. I saw Shaul emerge from the crowd.
It was Max the Weasel who put this to rest.
“Pipe down, Bagelnose,” he ordered as he placed an arm around my shoulder. “He’s here as my guest. Anyone who gets into Queens College deserves some respect. Same respect we’re giving you.”
Bagelnose stamped his foot so hard I feared he would go through the floor.
“Screw you all!” he screamed, his face beet red.
He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Everyone stood silent for a moment and then Albert “Brooks” Robinson spoke.
“He’s not really going to Queens College, is he?”
Max the Weasel turned to me.
“What do you say?” he asked.
“Next time you see him, ask him for his registration number,” I replied.
I immediately regretted saying this.
Like all incoming freshman, I had received a letter with a code starting with the first letter of our last name, followed by two numbers, then another letter and another two numbers. Mine was E14B23. If Bagelnose had really been accepted, he would rattle off something similar that started with the letter P for Pelko.
If Bagelnose failed this test and found out who set it up, I would need Horse and Shaul with me around the clock.
Horse had brought a six pack of Coke and he offered me a can. I opened it and sat down on the couch, next to a pudgy girl with a trace of acne on her face. I recognized her as Laurie, a high school junior from Brooklyn who had been the girlfriend of Shaul’s good pal Henry Merkel.
Henry was Shaul’s next door neighbor, a few years older than us. After graduating high school, he went to work for the City as a mechanic. He had his own car. Henry had always been friendly to me and had given me several rides to the subway station. Henry claimed to have had carnal knowledge of Laurie, but in those days, it was common to make such false boasts. Bagelnose also claimed to have lost his virginity, which was greeted with derision. I doubted Henry, and assumed without question that Bagelnose was lying.
Shaul insisted that Henry would not lie to him. Not long before this party, Shaul confided to me that after Henry tired of Laurie, he had enjoyed her favors. I never doubted Shaul.
Laurie started the conversation.
“I heard you say you were going to Queens.”
I told her I was ,and looked forward to it.
“I’ve never gone out with a college guy,” she said.
I did not know how to respond, so I changed the subject. Just before the party wound down, when no one was watching, I asked for her phone number. Neither one of us had pen or paper, so she repeated it a few times while I memorized it. I have always had a near – flawless memory. As soon as I got home I wrote it down, down, impressed with my courage.
#
A week later I was at home after dinner when the phone rang. My mother picked it up and called out my name.
“It’s Max Flugel from Building Two,” she announced, as if there were a Max Flugel in some other building.
I took the receiver. Max the Weasel had never called me before. I didn’t even know he had my phone number.
“Bagelnose says his number is one thousand two hundred fifty three,” he said, carefully enunciating each syllable of the number.
I paused for a moment. I feared Bagelnose as much as I despised him, but Max had invited me to his party where I had enjoyed myself and gotten my first telephone number .
“Any letters?” I asked.
“Nope,” Max replied. “Made sure there was nothing else.”
“No way,” I replied. “No way at all.”
“Thanks,” Max said politely. “See you around.” He hung up.
#
I heard nothing more from Max. I once saw Brooks Robinson and Doug Plotkin walking on the other side of the street, and Brooks called out “Say hello to Bagelnose at Queens!” They both laughed.
Shaul informed me that Max was organizing a Labor Day affair in Rockaway Beach. The idea was to rent out a bungalow or two, and party through the weekend. He told me that Bagelnose was advising everyone not to invite me.
“What did you ever do to him?” he asked. “Get into Queens?”
I had no answer and just shrugged. If Bagelnose intended to hurt me, he had failed.
I was preoccupied with something else.
My parents and brother took a road trip to visit relatives in Florida. My job at the hospital prevented me from joining them. For the first time in my life, the apartment was mine alone, for two entire weeks
The day before my family left, I retrieved the paper with Laurie’s number and called her. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and she agreed to visit me the following night, when my family would be somewhere between New York and Florida.
Over the next two weeks, I was transformed from naive young boy to experienced young man. I had a far more experienced teacher. I stole some condoms from the hospital pharmacy, and Laurie showed me how to use them. She was a pudgy and unattractive girl but in my mind, I was sleeping with Bridget Bardot. Laurie came by every night after work, and a few times stayed over.
I promised Laurie I would keep our dalliances secret, but I told Horse and Shaul, demanding strict confidence. I never knew if they told anyone.
My parents came home and life returned to normal. I had a few telephone conversations with Laurie, and then we lost touch.
A week or so after my fling, right after Labor Day, I began the arduous task of registering at Queens College. In order to avoid the draft, I was required to enroll in a certain number of classes. Freshman came last, and had to grab whatever crumbs were left.
As I approached the patio between Buildings One and Two after a long day at Queens, I saw a small crowd gathered. I had no way to avoid them so I smiled and walked past them.
Max the Weasel called out to me.
“How’s school?” he asked.
“Trying to register,” I replied. “Driving me crazy.”
At that moment Bagelnose charged up to me, his malformed nose inches from my own.
“You get away from me,” he shouted. “You didn’t come to our Labor Day party. Think you’re too good for us just because you’re in Queens College?”
“No one ever told me,” I replied, sensing that he was about to explode. Then I saw Shaul and Horse, and my fear subsided.
“Besides,” added, “Why would I think that? You’re going to Queens too.” I knew that keeping my mouth shut around Bagelnose was always best, but could not follow my own sound advice.
“Not quite,” Max gleefully interjected. “Tell him what happened.”
Bagelnose stood still as a pond for what seemed like an eternity. A bright pink glow came over his face. He clasped his hands before him as if holding them in place. Every facial muscle was tight. Then he spoke in a strained voice.
“It was my father. He graduated Illinois State and wanted me to go there, even though I wanted Queens. Last week he made me hop on a plane to Ohio to see if they would let me in at the last minute. They would not, and I missed the registration at Queens, so I can’t go there either.”
It sounded like he had memorized this speech.
I could have mentioned late registration, but not while Bagelnose glared at me with eyes like burning red coals. I bid everyone goodbye and left.
Shaul and Horse walked me to my apartment.
I heard Brooks yell, “What airline did you fly, Pelko?”
“Never know with Bagelnose,” Shaul said as we left the crowd behind.
“He’s pissed because with you around, his story fell apart,” Horse added.
“No one ever believed him anyway, “Shaul revealed. “Max just wanted trouble between you and Bagelnose. That’s what he does. Looks like he succeeded. Good thing you won’t be seeing much of Bagelnose anymore.
“Bagelnose’s mother told mine a while ago that he was not accepted anywhere,” Shaul continued. “He might take night classes at Staten Island Community College. He’s on their waiting list. I think he wants to be a cop now.”
“He’s too dumb to be a cop,” Horse opined. “There’s a test.”
“Well, maybe after a while he’ll stop being so be pissed at me,” I told them, more hope than prediction.
“Unless he finds out you got laid before he did,” Shaul said. He and Horse laughed. I did not.
#
Bagelnose’s social status eroded as we marched towards graduation. We seniors already saw ourselves as college men, a stature that demanded a change in behavior. Bullying and demeaning were out, wit and sophistication in. Most could easily make the transition.
Not Bagelnose. His unrestrained violent nature and limited intelligence had no place in this new world order. Without academic achievement and worldliness, Bagelnose could no longer function as a peer. Max the Weasel no longer called upon him, and even modified his own style to fit the new wave. He stopped making racist comments. Bagelnose had outlived his usefulness to everyone, Max included, and had no place in the reconstituted pecking order.
Two weeks after Bagelnose’s Queens College explanation, his situation had deteriorated beyond any hope of redemption. He was unquestionably the Town Fool. His bullying role was cancelled, and he became the stuff of which laughter is made. His public appearances grew increasingly infrequent, and by the early frosts of November, Shaul told he had disappeared from sight. I still lived at home, but never saw anyone else except Shaul and Horse, and that grew increasingly infrequent. Within a year, Bagelnose had absented himself from my thoughts and memories.
#
The years were good to me. My time at Queens College was as hoped. Friendships that last to this day were formed on its pleasant campus. I lost contact with everyone from Macbeth Heights except Shaul. He moved to rural Vermont my junior year at Queens. In those days, long distance calls were expensive, and Shaul was not a letter writer, so our contact was limited.
I did travel up to New England to visit Shaul a few years after graduation from Queens College. It was right before I moved to California. We spent several glorious days smoking weed and listening to music.
One night, while we were sitting on his couch, very stoned, Led Zeppelin playing in the background, Shaul brought up Bagelnose. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
“Remember I told you that Bagelnose would be pissed if he found out you got laid before him? Definitely true,” Shaul said.
“One night just before he dropped out of sight for good, we were outside talking like guys do, and I told him about me and Laurie.
“Problem was, I didn’t know he had started seeing her and they were engaged,” Shaul continued.
“He started taking swings at me, yelling that I was lying.
“I told him he could believe what he wanted but maybe he ought to ask her,” Shaul continued. “That was the last time I saw him,” he added. “They got married and moved away. But I hear he’s still crazy with jealousy, and wants to beat up anyone who ever touched his wife.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked.
Shaul coughed out a lungful of smoke.
“Didn’t see any reason to worry you,” he said. “Bagelnose was gone. Let sleeping dogs lie. But don’t worry, I never told him about you.”
“Do you think he could have found out?” I asked. I believed my best friend’s word, but worried he had inadvertently let Bagelnose know of my past frolicking with his wife. The thought of Bagelnose dragged forth unpleasant memories. I was haunted by the knowledge that he harbored hatred towards any man with intimate knowledge of Laurie. Bagelnose might be just the kind of psycho who holds a grudge for years until ,it explodes within him like a volcano erupting, spilling deadly lava in its wake. Crossing paths with him was unlikely, but not impossible. How often have we by happenstance run across someone we thought we would never see again?
“I didn’t tell him,” Shaul repeated. “That’s all I can say.”
That brought little comfort. We were talking about a violent and possibly deranged man. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath. What if he had found out some other way?
“Anyway, you haven’t seen him in what, ten years? Probably never see him again,” Shaul said. “I hope not, anyway,” he added.
That night I dreamed of a beet-red Bagelnose gnawing on his hand as he chased me through the streets of Macbeth Heights. The memory of the dream stayed with me all that next day.
#
Five years after my visit with Shaul, I encountered Max Flugel at New York’s La Guardia Airport. I had last seen him the day Bagelnose gave his fatal explanation. I was on my way home to California, and Max was off to see his parents, who had moved to Florida. He invited me to join him for a beer. We sat down at a small bar in the terminal.
I was lawyering by day and writing by night. I hadn’t sold my first screenplay. Max was a newly minted MBA.
“Baruch,” he proudly informed me, referring to the City University’s respected business school. “Got my B.A. There too.
“You were Queens College, of course?”
“Me and Bagelnose.” I said as the waitress delivered our beers in frosted glasses.
“Bagelnose,” Max called out as he hoisted his glass. I raised mine and we clinked. “Haven’t thought about that loser in years.”
“I thought you guys were friends,” I said.
Max threw me a puzzled look.
“Friends? I just felt sorry for the poor schmuck,” he stated. “Such a liar,” he added.
“You know, once it got out that you were going to Queens, his game was up,” Max continued. “No wonder he was so pissed at you. How did he expect to get away with it with you around? Someone was bound to apply to Queens. Bet he never thought of that. And it didn’t take much to get you to help get out the truth. You never liked him at all, did you? He was always giving you a hard time. Payback must have felt good.”
I took a long slug of my beer.
“Anyone know where he is these days?” I asked.
“We never saw or heard from him after he graduated high school,” he said. “Heard he applied to be a cop and got turned down.”
“Of course,” I replied. “He was a psycho. Guy like that is not getting a gun.”
Max laughed.
“You’ll never guess who he married,” he said.
I let him tell me.
“Imagine that,” Max said, shaking his head. “Marrying the town pump. Ugly but hot, I have to say.”
“You ever get any?” he asked.
“Never.” I replied. With a gentleman, what happens between the sheets stays between the sheets.
“Good for you,” Max responded. “Bagelnose was insanely jealous. Came to blows with Shaul over Laurie. He’d kill you if he thought you did her, even after all these years. You being the cause of his downfall,” he added.
“Here’s to the Bagelnoses of the world,” Max toasted as we again clinked glasses.
I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to get to my gate. I thanked Max for the beer and we shook hands, but did not exchange phone numbers.
I shouldn’t have told Horse and Shaul, I thought as I waited to board. But then again, Laurie could have told him, I reasoned. So there was no way to be certain I would never going to be caught in Bagelnose’s crosshairs.
The beer made me sleepy, and I dozed off on the plane. I awoke when we were landing. I sensed I had dreamed, but could not remember a thing. A knot lodged in my stomach, painful, like a Bagelnose sucker punch.
THE END
New Short story: “Bagelnose Goes to College”.
BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE
(c) 2020 by Stephen Shaiken Reprint by permission only
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are purely fictional creations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Monster photo courtesy of dreamstime.
Weasel cartoon courtesy of deviantART
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are purely fictional creations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
BAGELNOSE GOES TO COLLEGE
(c) 2020 by Stephen Shaiken Reprint by permission only
Every neighborhood has one: a person struggling to escape the prison of their being. In Macbeth Heights, where I grew up, that person was Kenny Pelko. The Kenny Pelkos of the world spend their lives trying to fit into spaces they do not belong, like a man trying to squeeze into a suit two sizes too small.
Pelko was a short, stout lump of a fellow, built like a fire hydrant. His head was too big, limbs too short, small eyes too close together undersized ears sticking out at an angle. His lips were fixed in a perpetual scowl, teeth bared, like a fat rat.
His nose that drew the most attention, a puffy, bulging proboscis suggesting a bagel set upright like a wheel. He was called Bagelnose, but only behind his back.
. No one knew how a working class neighborhood in New York City came to be named after a Shakespearean character, and a murderous psychopath to boot. There weren’t a lot of Shakespeare enthusiasts in Macbeth Heights.
The streets were lined with older American cars. The people dressed in cheap clothing, their ill-fitting garments the uniforms of life’s also-rans.
A New York City cop once told me, “Macbeth Heights is where the world’s losers wind up.” I have never found reason to doubt him.
Almost four hundred working class families lived in a clump of apartment buildings perched atop a steep hill. The sole college-educated resident in the development, an engineer, asserted that the construction and materials used were of the lowest quality, and would age prematurely. Indeed, within a few years, pieces of brick chipped away, window frames cracked and warped, and the lawns sported more weeds than grass.
The developers of these apartments expended no effort on public relations, and the four Stalinesque buildings bore the elegiac titles of Buildings One, Two, Three, and Four. The residents of each grafted hidden meaning onto their building number. Those in One claimed superiority over Two, Three, and Four. Doug Plotkin, of Building Four, argued that the higher the number, the better the residents. “They checked everybody out before they assigned apartments, and the best people got sent to Four,” he declared.
I lived in Building One. My neighbor, Mr. Goldberg, swore that only the best people were sent there.
“Why else would they call it Building One?” he insisted.
In the midst of sharp, upward-striving young folk, Bagelnose, of Building Three, was the dolt, always in the slower classes, lacking the intellectual curiosity that would propel the rest of us from Macbeth Heights. Bagelnose possessed no discernible skills aside from brute force. He was accepted by some, disliked by many, respected by none.
Bagelnose had one close friend, Max Flugel, known as The Weasel, or just Weasel. Max the Weasel would feign friendships, then incite others to torment the alleged friends. The Weasel could insult a person mercilessly in public when surrounded by his bully minions, but when it suited him, could reignite the friendship. He threw people off, and they never knew what to expect. I never expected anything but trouble from Max, and that was all I got.
I did not spend all that much time with Weasel. He was my age, but a year behind me in school, as I had skipped a grade in junior high. This made me a year younger than most of my fellow high school seniors, a big difference as a teenager.
Max was short, thin, and buck-toothed, with beady eyes, and swarthy skin inherited from his South American mother. His parents took frequent trips, leaving Max an empty apartment, slowing him to throw parties, where he recruited the bullies who did his bidding. I was never invited to any of the parties, but was occasionally bullied.
Weasel often encouraged Bagelnose to commit assault and battery, though Bagelnose needed no enticement. He was infamous for jumping victims from behind, or punching them in the gut without warning or provocation. Anyone but Weasel might be a victim.
I avoided Bagelnose whenever possible. When in proximity, I kept an eye out for telltale signs of an imminent outburst. He would fidget, crane his neck, and snap it down to his chest, like a snapping turtle having a seizure. In the most severe cases, he bit his fingers, hands, or upper arms. I often feared he would bite me. Bagelnose always had a ready excuse for his assaultive behavior, sometimes self defense, or a slur on he or his family, but no one ever believed him. Bagelnose was forever telling lies.
#
In 1966, Bagelnose and I were seniors at different high schools. I attended a prestigious special school for high achievers, and Bagelnose the local high school. He claimed to be in their college preparatory program, although no one in the program could recall seeing him in any classes. It was rumored that Bagelnose was enrolled in the General Studies program, a basic program for students not heading to college.
All graduating seniors in Macbeth Heights aspired for admission to one of the respected New York City public colleges, extraordinarily competitive because tuition was free.
As a senior in a special school, I could count on acceptance at the public college of my choice.
I had decided against joining my fellow Macbeth Heights seniors at City College, in Upper Manhattan, allegedly the crown jewel of the system. Most of them had served stints as Weasel’s bullies, and I wanted them out of my life. On my application, I checked the box for Queens College, certain that I was the only one to make this choice. I did not inform any of the others, for fear one might decide to switch their preference to Queens.
It was doubtful they cared which college I attended. By the start of my senior year, I and my fellow Macbeth Heights seniors, of all schools, had developed a mutual disinterest in each other. No tears were shed by anyone. I was Bob Dylan, anti-war, pre-Earth Day environmentalist, caught up in the Civil Rights Movement. They were cardigan sweaters, Four Seasons, homes in the suburbs, where there would be no black people. Bagelnose and the Weasel were huge racists, and often taunted me about my feelings.
Unbeknownst to me, Bagelnose announced that he had applied to Queens College, though no one took him seriously. For most of my senior year I was unaware of his claim, or what it meant for me.
#
In early April, the decision letters arrived. Rumors swirled about what type of envelopes signified acceptance, and which foretold rejection. Beginning with the last day of March, I returned home from my after-school job and checked the mail, looking for the official word. It finally came in a perforated document which I promptly ripped open. It was an acceptance at Queens College. Despite my confidence, I felt great relief.
I walked outside my apartment building, looking for someone with whom I could share my good fortune.
I had only walked a few score feet when I spotted a knot of my peers gathered along the sidewalk, my friend Shaul among them. Shaul was a quiet fellow who feared no one. On more than one occasion he had intervened to spare me from assault by Bagelnose or other bullies.
Next to Shaul was Martin Krazloff, a lanky, lantern-jawed senior at the local high school, a spindly figure who stood six foot one. He was given the monicker “Manny” because with his long, narrow face and thin body, which looked like it could be folded up and carried away, he suggested a praying mantis. Krazloff was prone to speaking in a faux British accent, in imitation of William F. Buckley, for whom he expressed great admiration. He occasionally represented himself to strangers as the scion of a wealthy family. He often wore expensive sport coats, which I later learned he shoplifted from upscale department stores in Manhattan. We had been friends through junior high, but when I was accepted at my special high school and he was not, the friendship cooled.
Mixed in with the knot that evening was Bagelnose, gesticulating as he spoke with Albert Robinson, the only fellow in Macbeth Heights uglier than he. Everyone called him Brooks, after the great Baltimore Oriole third baseman, Brooks Robinson. Our Brooks had a face that could stop a clock, pimply and snaggletoothed, with eyes set too deep and a nose that protruded like a broken pipe. Brooks walked around with his shirt tails hanging out, and pants that never fit right. He thought nothing of passing gas anywhere, anytime. It was questionable how often he bathed or showered. To this day when I think of Brooks, what comes to mind are the smells of fart and body oder.
I was surprised when Weasel greeted me.
“So, you joining the boys at City?” he asked, in a tone implying he knew the answer. Perhaps my mother told his mother, I thought.
“No, Max,” I gleefully replied. “I’m going to Queens.”
“Then you’re going to be seeing a lot of Bagelnose,” he retorted. Max alone could use that name in the owner’s presence. It was then I learned what Bagelnose had been claiming. I did not believe it, and certainly did not want it to be true.
Bagelnose heard Weasel and turned towards us.
“I wouldn’t be seen with this guy,” he snorted, jabbing a stubby finger in my direction.
I moved back several steps. Bagelnose had once jumped me from behind while I was leaving a candy store, and on another occasion, punched me in the stomach while I stood in line for a movie. I was never unaware of any deep seated animosity he held towards me in particular, and always assumed he was angry at the world. This time he specifically directed his outrage at me.
“It’s a big campus,” I replied. “We don’t ever have to see each other.”
The Weasel laughed. I didn’t
“So what’s next?” he asked “You have to sign up for classes or get some orientation?
“Both,” I replied, looking over my shoulder at Bagelnose. “They said I would get a catalogue in June. Orientation is in August. Then we register for classes.”
“Well, I’m really happy for you,” Weasel said. “I’ll be checking in with you.
“And Bagelnose too,” he added.
Bagelnose bit down on his upper lip and moved his shoulders up and down. Never a good sign, I thought.
“It’s really nice of you to be so happy for me, Max” I said. “I have to go upstairs and finish some homework.”
“See you around,” Max called out as I walked towards Building One.
“Bagelnose, say goodbye to your classmate,” he added.
#
Over the next few months, when I passed the neighborhood crowd, we sometimes exchanged greetings, and other times ignored each other. If Bagelnose and The Weasel were together, the latter was sure to ask me about Queens College.
“Bagelnose says he hasn’t gotten anything from Queens,” Weasel told me when I encountered the two of them standing at the bus stop while I was walking to get a haircut. “You hear anything?”
“Sure Max, I got the catalogue last week. I’ve been looking at classes,” I replied.
“Bagelnose hasn’t heard anything,”Max responded.
“I’ll have to call them tomorrow,” Bagelnose interjected, glaring at me with burning eyes.
“You can look at mine if you like,” I volunteered. I didn’t know why I said that, and knew immediately I should have kept quiet.
“I don’t want nothing to do with you.” Bagelnose barked.
“Now, now, Bagelnose,” Max said, patting Pelko on the shoulder. “He’s just trying to be nice to a classmate.”
Bagelnose stuffed his hand in his mouth as he clamped his teeth on his fingers.
“I’ve got to go,” I announced. “See you around campus,” I called out to Bagelnose as I briskly walked away. I asked myself why I had to make that comment. The idea was to avoid conflict with that psycho.
#
Graduation came and passed, and we entered the last real summer of our youth. The fortunate few were hired as waiters in Catskill Mountain resorts, the runner-ups as camp counsellors, and the rest of us left to scramble for whatever summer work we could find. As a final gift, my high school placement office found a job for me in the stockroom of a local hospital. It was a short bus ride away, and while the work was tedious and physically draining, it paid well and was only thirty hour a week. As an added bonus, lifting countless boxes of saline solutions and other IV fluids built up muscles which I fantasized might allow me to deliver strong blows to the faces of Bagelnose and the Weasel. I kept such thoughts to myself.
A good portion of my spare time that summer was spent planning my schedule for the Fall. In the pre-computer era, students had to hand-draft several alternative schedules, and incoming freshman were never assured of their first choices. I passed hours substituting English Literature for Contemporary Civilization, and Art Appreciation as an alternative to Music. I had heard somewhere that if a freshman chose German instead Spanish or French, they could have whatever class they wanted. I reasoned that would also allow me to read Kafka and Hesse in the original.
Chance encounters with my neighborhood peers were unavoidable. They congregated nightly in a patio between Buildings One and Two, through which I had to pass whenever I went out. Crossing paths with The Weasel and the others was inevitable, and especially unsettling if Bagelnose was in their midst.
One evening The Weasel greeted me with a smile and invited me over for a few words. I complied out of either politeness or fear that he might sic Bagelnose upon me.
“Still working on your schedule?” he asked. “Must be a bitch,” he added.
“I’ve had worse happen,” I replied each time, my exchanges with Bagelnose in mind.
“Why don’t you and Bagelnose compare notes?” he asked. “Come on, Bagelnose, tell him what courses you’re trying to squeeze in.”
Bagelnose squirmed and said nothing.
“Speak up, Bagelnose,” The Weasel ordered. “This man does not have all night.”
After a pause, Bagelnose squeaked out a reply.
“Chemistry and Biology,” he said.
I heard a few chuckles among the crowd.
I wanted to ask if he had taken college level calculus in high school or passed the math examination required for Chemistry, or, but self preservation restrained me.
“I have a great idea,” Weasel said. “My folks are out of town this weekend. I’m having a party. How about the two of you come over with your papers and work together on this stuff?”
This was the first time The Weasel had ever extended me an invitation, which was promptly accepted without any thought. I would finally experience what had been withheld.
Bagelose demurred.
“I may have date this weekend,” he stated. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, might have a date?” Albert Robinson chimed in. “Either you do or you don’t.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Bagelnose place his finger in his mouth.
“I have to go now,” I announced. “Thanks for the invite, Max. See you tomorrow.”
#
Saturday was a hot New York day in late June with fuzzy blue skies and a soft yellow sun. I spent part of the day going over class schedules and pondering how to avoid Bagelnose if he came to the party. His presence had not been considered when the invitation was accepted, nor were Weasel’s motives. I considered not going, but my good friend Dale Horlick, nicknamed Horse, counseled otherwise.
“You’ve never been to one of Weasel’s parties,” he reminded me. “He usually has lots of girls there. Now that you’re about to be a college man, they’ll be crawling all over you,” he said authoritatively. He emphasized that he would be there with me.
Horse was a good friend, and like Shaul, not easily cowed. Like Shaul, he had intervened to spare me attacks by Bagelnose and the rest of Weasel’s bully brigade. When Horse spoke, I listened. We agreed to go together.
That evening Horse came by my apartment and we walked to Building Two. Horse rang Weasel’s doorbell, opened by Brooks Robinson, who gave us a lopsided smile and waved us in.
“Weasel will be glad to see you,” to told me. “Maybe not Bagelnose though.”
I thought he wasn’t coming,” I replied. It didn’t sound good.
“Oh, I guess his big date fell through,” Brooks said with a grin.
As I entered the living room, I saw Weasel talking with Manny Krazloff, Doug Plotkin and a few young ladies. When Weasel spotted Horse and I, he rose to greet us.
Before Max could say a word, Bagelnose barreled across the room. He placed a hand on my shoulder and started to push me back.
“You get out!” he yelled. “You got no business here!” His face was red and there were drops of spittle on his upper lip.
Horse instinctively moved between us, glaring at Bagelnose. I saw Shaul emerge from the crowd.
It was Max the Weasel who put this to rest.
“Pipe down, Bagelnose,” he ordered as he placed an arm around my shoulder. “He’s here as my guest. Anyone who gets into Queens College deserves some respect. Same respect we’re giving you.”
Bagelnose stamped his foot so hard I feared he would go through the floor.
“Screw you all!” he screamed, his face beet red.
He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Everyone stood silent for a moment and then Albert “Brooks” Robinson spoke.
“He’s not really going to Queens College, is he?”
Max the Weasel turned to me.
“What do you say?” he asked.
“Next time you see him, ask him for his registration number,” I replied.
I immediately regretted saying this.
Like all incoming freshman, I had received a letter with a code starting with the first letter of our last name, followed by two numbers, then another letter and another two numbers. Mine was E14B23. If Bagelnose had really been accepted, he would rattle off something similar that started with the letter P for Pelko.
If Bagelnose failed this test and found out who set it up, I would need Horse and Shaul with me around the clock.
Horse had brought a six pack of Coke and he offered me a can. I opened it and sat down on the couch, next to a pudgy girl with a trace of acne on her face. I recognized her as Laurie, a high school junior from Brooklyn who had been the girlfriend of Shaul’s good pal Henry Merkel.
Henry was Shaul’s next door neighbor, a few years older than us. After graduating high school, he went to work for the City as a mechanic. He had his own car. Henry had always been friendly to me and had given me several rides to the subway station. Henry claimed to have had carnal knowledge of Laurie, but in those days, it was common to make such false boasts. Bagelnose also claimed to have lost his virginity, which was greeted with derision. I doubted Henry, and assumed without question that Bagelnose was lying.
Shaul insisted that Henry would not lie to him. Not long before this party, Shaul confided to me that after Henry tired of Laurie, he had enjoyed her favors. I never doubted Shaul.
Laurie started the conversation.
“I heard you say you were going to Queens.”
I told her I was ,and looked forward to it.
“I’ve never gone out with a college guy,” she said.
I did not know how to respond, so I changed the subject. Just before the party wound down, when no one was watching, I asked for her phone number. Neither one of us had pen or paper, so she repeated it a few times while I memorized it. I have always had a near – flawless memory. As soon as I got home I wrote it down, down, impressed with my courage.
#
A week later I was at home after dinner when the phone rang. My mother picked it up and called out my name.
“It’s Max Flugel from Building Two,” she announced, as if there were a Max Flugel in some other building.
I took the receiver. Max the Weasel had never called me before. I didn’t even know he had my phone number.
“Bagelnose says his number is one thousand two hundred fifty three,” he said, carefully enunciating each syllable of the number.
I paused for a moment. I feared Bagelnose as much as I despised him, but Max had invited me to his party where I had enjoyed myself and gotten my first telephone number .
“Any letters?” I asked.
“Nope,” Max replied. “Made sure there was nothing else.”
“No way,” I replied. “No way at all.”
“Thanks,” Max said politely. “See you around.” He hung up.
#
I heard nothing more from Max. I once saw Brooks Robinson and Doug Plotkin walking on the other side of the street, and Brooks called out “Say hello to Bagelnose at Queens!” They both laughed.
Shaul informed me that Max was organizing a Labor Day affair in Rockaway Beach. The idea was to rent out a bungalow or two, and party through the weekend. He told me that Bagelnose was advising everyone not to invite me.
“What did you ever do to him?” he asked. “Get into Queens?”
I had no answer and just shrugged. If Bagelnose intended to hurt me, he had failed.
I was preoccupied with something else.
My parents and brother took a road trip to visit relatives in Florida. My job at the hospital prevented me from joining them. For the first time in my life, the apartment was mine alone, for two entire weeks
The day before my family left, I retrieved the paper with Laurie’s number and called her. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and she agreed to visit me the following night, when my family would be somewhere between New York and Florida.
Over the next two weeks, I was transformed from naive young boy to experienced young man. I had a far more experienced teacher. I stole some condoms from the hospital pharmacy, and Laurie showed me how to use them. She was a pudgy and unattractive girl but in my mind,,I was sleeping with Bridget Bardot. Laurie came by every night after work, and a few times stayed over.
I promised Laurie I would keep our dalliances secret, but I told Horse and Shaul, demanding strict confidence. I never knew if they told anyone.
My parents came home and life returned to normal. I had a few telephone conversations with Laurie, and then we lost touch.
A week or so after my fling, right after Labor Day, I began the arduous task of registering at Queens College. In order to avoid the draft, I was required to enroll in a certain number of classes. Freshman came last, and had to grab whatever crumbs were left.
As I approached the patio between Buildings One and Two after a long day at Queens, I saw a small crowd gathered. I had no way to avoid them so I smiled and walked past them.
Max the Weasel called out to me.
“How’s school?” he asked.
“Trying to register,” I replied. “Driving me crazy.”
At that moment Bagelnose charged up to me, his malformed nose inches from my own.
“You get away from me,” he shouted. “You didn’t come to our Labor Day party. Think you’re too good for us just because you’re in Queens College?”
“No one ever told me,” I replied, sensing that he was about to explode. Then I saw Shaul and Horse, and my fear subsided.
“Besides,” added, “Why would I think that? You’re going to Queens too.” I knew that keeping my mouth shut around Bagelnose was always best, but could not follow my own sound advice.
“Not quite,” Max gleefully interjected. “Tell him what happened.”
Bagelnose stood still as a pond for what seemed like an eternity. A bright pink glow came over his face. He clasped his hands before him as if holding them in place. Every facial muscle was tight. Then he spoke in a strained voice.
“It was my father. He graduated Illinois State and wanted me to go there, even though I wanted Queens. Last week he made me hop on a plane to Ohio to see if they would let me in at the last minute. They would not, and I missed the registration at Queens, so I can’t go there either.”
It sounded like he had memorized this speech.
I could have mentioned late registration, but not while Bagelnose glared at me with eyes like burning red coals. I bid everyone goodbye and left.
Shaul and Horse walked me to my apartment.
I heard Brooks yell, “What airline did you fly, Pelko?”
“Never know with Bagelnose,” Shaul said as we left the crowd behind.
“He’s pissed because with you around, his story fell apart,” Horse added.
“No one ever believed him anyway, “Shaul revealed. “Max just wanted trouble between you and Bagelnose. That’s what he does. Looks like he succeeded. Good thing you won’t be seeing much of Bagelnose anymore.
“Bagelnose’s mother told mine a while ago that he was not accepted anywhere,” Shaul continued. “He might take night classes at Staten Island Community College. He’s on their waiting list. I think he wants to be a cop now.”
“He’s too dumb to be a cop,” Horse opined. “There’s a test.”
“Well, maybe after a while he’ll stop being so be pissed at me,” I told them, more hope than prediction.
“Unless he finds out you got laid before he did,” Shaul said. He and Horse laughed. I did not.
#
Bagelnose’s social status eroded as we marched towards graduation. We seniors already saw ourselves as college men, a stature that demanded a change in behavior. Bullying and demeaning were out, wit and sophistication in. Most could easily make the transition.
Not Bagelnose. His unrestrained violent nature and limited intelligence had no place in this new world order. Without academic achievement and worldliness, Bagelnose could no longer function as a peer. Max the Weasel no longer called upon him, and even modified his own style to fit the new wave. He stopped making racist comments. Bagelnose had outlived his usefulness to everyone, Max included, and had no place in the reconstituted pecking order.
Two weeks after Bagelnose’s Queens College explanation, his situation had deteriorated beyond any hope of redemption. He was unquestionably the Town Fool. His bullying role was cancelled, and he became the stuff of which laughter is made. His public appearances grew increasingly infrequent, and by the early frosts of November, Shaul told he had disappeared from sight. I still lived at home, but never saw anyone else except Shaul and Horse, and that grew increasingly infrequent. Within a year, Bagelnose had absented himself from my thoughts and memories.
#
The years were good to me. My time at Queens College was as hoped. Friendships that last to this day were formed on its pleasant campus. I lost contact with everyone from Macbeth Heights except Shaul. He moved to rural Vermont my junior year at Queens. In those days, long distance calls were expensive, and Shaul was not a letter writer, so our contact was limited.
I did travel up to New England to visit Shaul a few years after graduation from Queens College. It was right before I moved to California. We spent several glorious days smoking weed and listening to music.
One night, while we were sitting on his couch, very stoned, Led Zeppelin playing in the background, Shaul brought up Bagelnose. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
“Remember I told you that Bagelnose would be pissed if he found out you got laid before him? Definitely true,” Shaul said.
“One night just before he dropped out of sight for good, we were outside talking like guys do, and I told him about me and Laurie.
“Problem was, I didn’t know he had started seeing her and they were engaged,” Shaul continued.
“He started taking swings at me, yelling that I was lying.
“I told him he could believe what he wanted but maybe he ought to ask her,” Shaul continued. “That was the last time I saw him,” he added. “They got married and moved away. But I hear he’s still crazy with jealousy, and wants to beat up anyone who ever touched his wife.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked.
Shaul coughed out a lungful of smoke.
“Didn’t see any reason to worry you,” he said. “Bagelnose was gone. Let sleeping dogs lie. But don’t worry, I never told him about you.”
“Do you think he could have found out?” I asked. I believed my best friend’s word, but worried he had inadvertently let Bagelnose know of my past frolicking with his wife. The thought of Bagelnose dragged forth unpleasant memories. I was haunted by the knowledge that he harbored hatred towards any man with intimate knowledge of Laurie. Bagelnose might be just the kind of psycho who holds a grudge for years until ,it explodes within him like a volcano erupting, spilling deadly lava in its wake. Crossing paths with him was unlikely, but not impossible. How often have we by happenstance run across someone we thought we would never see again?
“I didn’t tell him,” Shaul repeated. “That’s all I can say.”
That brought little comfort. We were talking about a violent and possibly deranged man. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath. What if he had found out some other way?
“Anyway, you haven’t seen him in what, ten years? Probably never see him again,” Shaul said. “I hope not, anyway,” he added.
That night I dreamed of a beet-red Bagelnose gnawing on his hand as he chased me through the streets of Macbeth Heights. The memory of the dream stayed with me all that next day.
#
Five years after my visit with Shaul, I encountered Max Flugel at New York’s La Guardia Airport. I had last seen him the day Bagelnose gave his fatal explanation. I was on my way home to California, and Max was off to see his parents, who had moved to Florida. He invited me to join him for a beer. We sat down at a small bar in the terminal.
I was lawyering by day and writing by night. I hadn’t sold my first screenplay. Max was a newly minted MBA.
“Baruch,” he proudly informed me, referring to the City University’s respected business school. “Got my B.A. There too.
“You were Queens College, of course?”
“Me and Bagelnose.” I said as the waitress delivered our beers in frosted glasses.
“Bagelnose,” Max called out as he hoisted his glass. I raised mine and we clinked. “Haven’t thought about that loser in years.”
“I thought you guys were friends,” I said.
Max threw me a puzzled look.
“Friends? I just felt sorry for the poor schmuck,” he stated. “Such a liar,” he added.
“You know, once it got out that you were going to Queens, his game was up,” Max continued. “No wonder he was so pissed at you. How did he expect to get away with it with you around? Someone was bound to apply to Queens. Bet he never thought of that. And it didn’t take much to get you to help get out the truth. You never liked him at all, did you? He was always giving you a hard time. Payback must have felt good.”
I took a long slug of my beer.
“Anyone know where he is these days?” I asked.
“We never saw or heard from him after he graduated high school,” he said. “Heard he applied to be a cop and got turned down.”
“Of course,” I replied. “He was a psycho. Guy like that is not getting a gun.”
Max laughed.
“You’ll never guess who he married,” he said.
I let him tell me.
“Imagine that,” Max said, shaking his head. “Marrying the town pump. Ugly but hot, I have to say.”
“You ever get any?” he asked.
“Never.” I replied. With a gentleman, what happens between the sheets stays between the sheets.
“Good for you,” Max responded. “Bagelnose was insanely jealous. Came to blows with Shaul over Laurie. He’d kill you if he thought you did her, even after all these years. You being the cause of his downfall,” he added.
“Here’s to the Bagelnoses of the world,” Max toasted as we again clinked glasses.
I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to get to my gate. I thanked Max for the beer and we shook hands, but did not exchange phone numbers.
I shouldn’t have told Horse and Shaul, I thought as I waited to board. But then again, Laurie could have told him,I reasoned. So there was no way to be certain I would never going to be caught in Bagelnose’s crosshairs.
The beer made me sleepy, and I dozed off on the plane. I awoke when we were landing. I sensed I had dreamed, but could not remember a thing. A knot lodged in my stomach, painful, like a Bagelnose sucker punch.
THE END
February 5, 2020
READ MY MOST RECENT PUBLISHED STORY, “A SHOT IN THE ASS”
I wrote this short story a few years ago, when living in Bangkok, and presented it to my writing group, KEYBANGERS BANGKOK. As usual, their input proved invaluable. I reworked it and showed it to the Tampa Writers Alliance, who liked it and persuaded me that it really fell within the historical fiction genre. Up until then, to the extent I gave it thought, the story was about young men coming of age, set in the period of my own youth. The date, though never precisely stated, is easily identifiable as 1963, There are significant references to the Spanish Civil War and the McCarthy era, so I guess it does qualify as historical fiction. The Tampa discussion prompted me to post a piece on WHAT MAKES WRITING HISTORICAL FICTION. (And may induce me to write more in this genre.) There aren’t a whole lot of magazines specializing in historical fiction, but I was fortunate to have my story published in one of the, The Magazine of History and Fiction, Issue # 4.
Please note that any formatting awkwardness should be attributed to my posting deficiencies.
Hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Click here to read “A Shot in the Ass”, by Stephen Shaiken,(c) 2019
Photos courtesy of (left to right): JFK & Cuban Missile Crisis map, Gettyimages.com; Spanish Civil War map, www.2bc.ed
If you enjoyed reading the story, you might also enjoy my novel, Bangkok Shadows.
If you enjoyed reading this short story, you might also enjoy my novel, Bangkok Shadows. If you like noir thrillers set in exotic locales, this book is for you!
January 7, 2020
NO WAR WITH IRAN
U.S. Constitution: "The Congress shall have Power...To declare War...." [Article !!, Section 8, Clause 11.]If America is ever again to engage in a long protracted war, it must be with the authorization of Congress, the representatives of the American people, and the only ones the Constitution authorizes to declare war. When we don’t follow our Constitution on this, the results are always a disaster. We fought a war in Korea, lost over thirty three thousand soldiers and millions of Koreans, and sixty seven years later, North Korea is more of a menace than ever. We gained nothing at all from all the bloodshed. We fought a long war in Vietnam, because we thought it was our business to intervene in a civil war twelve thousand miles from home. The war began on a lie, and we were fed lies all the way through. We repeatedly turned down Ho Chi Minh’s offer to have peace talks and hold free and fair elections under international supervision. We lost over fifty thousand service people, millions of Vietnamese. Forty five years after we were forced to withdraw in a humiliating fashion, all of Vietnam is under the control of the North, and they are now our allies. We could have achieved this without firing a shot. We fought two wars in Iraq, one supposedly to defend the principle of integrity of all nations and their right to be from invasion. Yet today, our President sees nothing wrong with Russia gobbling up Crimea or Netanyahu annexing the Jordan Valley. That principle died along with the nearly one thousand troops of America, UK and other participants, not to mention several hundred thousands Iraqis killed in combat or as innocent civilians. The Second Gulf War was based on a total lie. We got rid of Saddam, but look what we got in his place. And we have lost almost five thousand service people, and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. Now Iraq want us out and is effectively an Iranian puppet state. Again, we learn that just as in Vietnam, nearly all of the claims of success and progress were lies. All of these armed conflicts had one thing in common: they were full-blown wars “, boots on the ground” combat, without any declaration of war. They relied at most on vague Congressional authorizations, which allowed members of Congress to duck having to vote for war, which is what we got, just in an unconstitutional fashion. Congress, out of a combination of fear, ignorance, and politics, regularly ignores their Constitutional authority and cedes power-illegally-to the Chief Executive to make decisions only they can make. They might condemn a President of the other party, but support one from their own. How about supporting the Constitution for a change ? This has been the case with Presidents of both parties, liberals, conservatives, and moderates. Presidents have seized a power they do not have, and Congress is always too timid or politically controlled to do anything about it. Let’s not repeat the errors of the past. No war with Iran, unless one is authorized by Congress. There’s no chance of that; aside from Lindsay Graham, there is really no one in either party who wants one or thinks we need one. Sadly, there are very few elected officials willing to stand up to a President of either party who usurps Congressional authority. I can think of Rand Paul, Mike Lee, Bernie Sanders, and Dick Durban alone among sitting Senators. There are more in the House, but not enough Republicans willing to protect the Constitution. Every one of those undeclared illegal wars was a disaster for America and the world. (So were the numerous lesser interventions, including Obama’s air war in Libya.) Every one of these illegalities made us less safe and created more conflict. We’re seeing it again with Iran. Once again, I get to quote the great Spanish philosopher George Santayana:” “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” Every American should contact their Congressional Representative and Senators and let them know we don’t want a war, and if there ever is to be one, it must be Congress that decides, not a President. Whether one supports Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders, Joe Biden, or anyone else, there should be total agreement on this. Right now, when our country so divided, when it is open season on Jews, Muslims, immigrants , churches and schools, even police, the last thing we need is to be dragged into another senseless overseas war, especially a senseless war entered into without Constitutional authorization. No war with Iran, or anyone else. Peace in 2020.
January 1, 2020
DEMS MUST ADDRESS DOMESTIC TERRORISM AND SAFETY IF THEY WANT TO WIN
Democrats have a real issue to run on in 2020: safety. Can any American say with a straight face that they feel safer today than they did on January 20, 2017, when Barack Obama left office? In three years, we have seen more Jewish-Americans killed by hate crimes than in all of American history. And we are by no means alone in being victims of hate crimes and domestic terrorism.There isn’t a week going by where we do not hear about an attack or a thwarted attack on a house of worship: churches, mosques, synagogues. Mass shootings by assault weaponry have become common-place, and Americans are not safe in churches, schools, shopping malls, nightclubs, casinos, even walking down the street. Even police are attacked and murdered with alarming increasing frequency.
This is a real issue for this years’s elections. It will be of particular significance to Republican-leaning women voters, who may decide who wins in Rust Belt and other swing states. Women voters are traditionally more put-off by crude and disrespectful candidates, and are more concerned about quality issues like health care, education, and of course, personal safety. Especially children shot dead in their classrooms by people armed for war.
Leaders should be held accountable for such a sorry state of affairs. Trump and the Republicans must be held accountable for their divisive rhetoric, their refusal to acknowledge the rise of white nationalist terrorist groups or their violence, and the increasing use of antisemitism and racism as their normal political patter. It may have been that Trump intended his words for the far-right, that constitutes a significant portion of his base and includes hate groups. (Not that this would be acceptable for a President.) Once you let hate and violence out of the bottle, it’s not so easy to put it back in, and we now have a wide range of terrorists and killers coming out of the woodwork, due to the climate created by Trump and the GOP. The law of unintended consequences at work.
When so many Americans are being singled out for harm and death, and there is no let up in the violence or in Trump’s divisive rhetoric, it is folly to ignore the President as a cause. Americans should engage in a serious discussion of the impact of a President who says that there can be good people among Nazis and white supremacists, that we need less immigrants of color and more people from Norway, that Jews who don’t support him and Netanyahu are disloyal, that women of color who don’t agree with him should be thrown out of America, that children should be separated from their family and locked in cages, who brags about sexually assaulting women, and who refuses to accept the FBI and DHS report that the number one threat of terrorism in America comes from white nationalist groups.
And of course, we must address Trump’s lies that media which tells the truth about him are enemies of the nation, and that law enforcement that ferrets out his crime are plotting a coup. Trump and his party must be held accountable for their words and actions. We should also ask why is it that just about every white nationalist, racist and neo-Nazi supports Trump.
Many in Trump-world will simply deny it all, or sneer that we just are not clever enough to understand the true meaning of his lies and racist screeds. But there are saner and more reasonable people out there who have doubts, and those who don’t want their children to grow up in the kind of would Donald Trump, Stephen Miller and Steve King have in mind.
Making us safe and ending this terrifying spree of domestic terrorism and hate crimes should be front and center for the Democrats in this year’s election. It’s a winning issue. Trump and the GOP have no defense on this one. We had nothing even remotely like this before Trump came along. It’s theirs, they own it. We can change things if we stick together: Jew, Muslim, Christian, all races, all ages, all genders and sexual orientations. Let’s reclaim America and make it safe for everyone.
October 19, 2019
GRASS ROOT CITIZENS’ WORK IN TAMPA, FLORIDA
[image error]
Here’s some good news for a change.
Many times while driving around Tampa, I pass the old water tower in the Sulphur Springs neighborhood. I just read an article in the local paper about a citizens’ movement to restore it to its past status as an attractive landmark and open space. What the residents are doing to upgrade the visual and social components of their community is inspiring. I’ll be at that music festival being put on to raise money for the restoration. Let it also be noted that the Sulphur Springs Sandwich Shop, whose owners are leaders in the grass roots project, make some of the best sandwiches on the planet!
Sooner or later, you will read about these places in my fiction!
October 13, 2019
WHAT MAKES WRITING “HISTORICAL FICTION” ?
Left to right: Salida, Colorado, once a booming mining town; Tutankhamen Exhibit, Paris, France; Sign where the Berlin Wall stood. (Photos by author).
I recently submitted a short story to my writing group. It was fairly well received, with some very constructive critiques, the kind that make a story even better. What surprised me was that nearly all of the two dozen writers who weighed in considered the story “historical fiction”, a genre I had not even considered.(Though I asked the group if references to past events seemed dated and not relevant to contemporary readers, especially ones born after the Sixties. The overwhelming response was “no”, but I did receive a few suggestions on how to clear up one or two that might be unclear to younger readers.)
My story was set in the early nineteen sixties in a working class Jewish neighborhood in New York City, and the characters were young teenage boys and middle-aged communists. I saw my story as anchored to that unique culture. My readers appreciated the cultural backdrop, but insisted the genre is historical fiction and that is its real strength.
How can an author write a work of historical fiction without realizing it? (I thought my story’s genre was “literary”, perhaps an adult-audience “coming of age” story, maybe a “message” story, but historical fiction was not in my line of sight.
After hearing my colleagues, I reread the story, and indeed, it was clear why they saw it as historical fiction. The tension between committed communists and young boys who thought them weird, included references to the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Nixon-Kruschchev “kitchen debate”, the early phase of the Vietnam War, and relative recency of the horrors of Hitler and Stalin. While many fellow writers enjoyed learning about a culture of which they knew little, they sensed that this culture was inextricably linked to that time in history. It may have other dimensions as well, but its overarching genre is without doubt historical fiction.
This realization lead me to ponder the issue and review what others constitutes “historical fiction”. (If I’m going to write in a genre, I ought to know what it is.) I looked at dictionary definitions, semi-scholarly articles, magazine articles and blog entries, and message board postings. Most didn’t tell me any more than I learned from my colleagues. Everything I read insisted that the work must be set in the past, at least fifty years prior to the writing. There are difference of opinion as to how significant a role the time period stetting must play, but that really goes to the authenticity and detail of the descriptions of that time and place, which may or may not be very important to readers. People read historical fiction for different reasons: some want a scholarly-researched background, some are intrigued by a particular era, event, or person, and many simply like a good story. History affords endless opportunities to tell a good story, as Shakespeare taught us!
I Didn’t Know for Certain What Constitutes Historical Fiction, and Still Don’t!
It is still difficult to pinpoint exactly what constitutes historical fiction, because authors deal with it in so many different ways, all equally valid. This became obvious when considering fiction set in “historical” periods that are strongest in my mental library at this moment.
If someone were to accost me on the street, hold a gun to my head, and demand I name the most memorable work of historical fiction, I’d probably blurt out The March, by E.L. Doctorow. This lengthy novel, about Sherman’s March to the Sea, is a literary masterpiece, and the historical details are gotten down as perfectly as any historian could hope. As a Civil War buff, I found the novel fascinating and the novel brought this controversial military episode to life in ways that no history or biography has ever done for me. Doctorow brought me right there on the battlefield, at the military meetings, into the lives of minds of his characters. He pulled the reader into the Civil War by the strength of his words. Readers learned about war, that era, and of course, about human beings in difficult situations.
On the other hand, I just finished reading three short novels by Egyptian author -and Nobel Prize recipient- Naguib Mahfouz, all set in the Middle or New Kingdoms of Egypt, roughly thirty five hundred to thirty seven years ago. He paid little attention to historical details, aside from the names of the Pharaohs, provided little physical description, hardly anything the typical reader didn’t already know, and offered only the most minimal revelations of their religion, society or government. The characters spoke like modern political leaders, and it was clear that the great master was showing us that people and events are basically the same no matter what the time or place. Educating us about the details and nuances of Ancient Egypt was not a goal of the great writer; he was showing us the universality and immutability of the human condition. (While these three novels won’t rank among my favorites by Mahfouz or historical fiction, they are definitely worth reading and move very quickly.)
Historical Fiction Is Really a collection of Sub-genres
This discussion is more than academic. If a writer senses that their work in progress is destined to be classified as historical fiction, they would be wise to see that it satisfies the devotees of that genre, or change genres. This means doing your research and becoming at least minimally competent in the material you wish to work with. Gain some insight into what was going on at that moment and what life was like for the people you want to write about. The internet makes this easy for the writer, as well as for eagle-eyed readers. If you plan to tackle the Civil War, or the Great Depression, or the Summer of Love, rest assured there are well-informed readers waiting to catch any errors or omissions that undercut authenticity. There’s much less pressure in alternate histories or alternate universes; these sub-genres of science fiction must be internally consistent and logical, but require no provable facts. “Traditional” historical fiction is significantly set in a particular period, and usually involves historical figures and events mixed with fictional counterparts. In that case, facts do matter.
Historical fiction is not a strict and accurate reporting of the actual occurrences and people involved. That’s the job of biographers, historians, and journalists. The writer of historical fiction is free to use a time period and its society as a backdrop to character development and plot, and transmit through their work. That’s essentially what Nobel Laureate Mahfouz did with his Pharaonic trilogy, using the era as the loosest of backgrounds. On the other extreme we find Jack Finney’s Time and Again, which brought the reader into daily life in New York City in the eighteen eighties, with very well researched detail. (Finney is equally renowned as the author of “The Body Snatchers”, adapted to cinema in 1956, and 1978.)
It may be more accurate to title a work as a “period piece” if it is set in the past, but does not involve historical characters or actual events of the day; they may be referenced, but the characters do not play any role in the events nor do any historical characters appear except by reference. That would be the case with my story about young men and older communists interacting in working class New York during the time of JFK. Since I lived through that era, and many characters were surely subconscious amalgamations of people I grew up with, there wasn’t much need for research, the most time-consuming and tedious task for historical fiction writers.(I have been playing around with writing a short story set during the Civil War, but I don’t have anywhere near the detailed knowledge required to satisfy the serious buffs who would be my most likely readers. This has brought me to research Civil War weaponry, battlefield topography, and make sure dates and Generals are correctly stated. It’s hard work!)
Where the plot does entail involvement in actual historical events, and real figures of the past are characters in the story, the piece is undoubtedly “historical fiction”. Where an author speculates as to how the world might have been if things had worked out differently in history, that’s “alternate history”. Examples include The Man in the High Castle, by Philip K. Dick, and The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth. Where the world is manufactured, even if it looks a lot like ours, it is “alternate universe”, or just plain old science fiction. Gene Wolfe’s There Are Doors exemplifies this genre, as does much of the work of Philip Jose Farmer. (A lot of literary Philps today! So let’s also tip our hats to Max Apple’s great alternate histories, and H.G. Wells speculative futures of The Time Machine.)
If a work presented as historical fiction lacks authenticity due to incorrect facts or descriptions of life in that period, it may still pass muster as science fiction or a related genre. Indeed, there are now recognized and popular genres of Speculative Fiction, once the province of SF writers, with rare exceptions like Jack London’s The Iron Heel, or It Can’t Happen Here, by Sinclair Lewis. Speculative fiction of all sorts allow great latitude in world-building, and frees writers from the constraints of historical and cultural accuracy. The writer is thus able to shape “reality” as needed, to make whatever points they wish, or just tell a good story..
Can a Work Retroactively Become Historical fiction?
Assuming there are rules, does the time when the piece was written control it’s genre? War and Peace, one of the greatest and most sweeping of historical novels (designed for those long Russian winters, no doubt) was written a half century or so after the events, and under the informal rule of fifty years, qualifies as historical fiction. A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, was written about the same length of time after the French Revolution occurred. What if these novel had been written contemporaneously with the events, but were not discovered until fifty years later? Would they still be called historical fiction? Does the genre reflect the time period and the detail, regardless of when it was written, or must it be created many years later, relying upon the author’s research and creativity, not actual experiences?
A work may be contemporary when written, but years later, brings the reader into that time and place just as if it were written the week before. That doesn’t mean there will be no differences, because writing about what one personally experienced is quite different than writing about a time the writer learned about through secondary sources. A good writer makes either foundation work well.
Many decades ago, when I was a young man living through the Sixties, I wrote a short story titled The Nose Jones, about a white, middle class heroin addict in denial. (Click on the link to read it.) When I presented it to my writing group in Bangkok a year or two ago, they saw it as a character study and a period piece. It became a period piece with the passage of time, but people who read it when written saw it as contemporary.
Don’t Get Hung Up On Genre, and Just Write!
As I learned from my writing group, we might not recognize our genre while we are writing it, but once we figure it out, our work becomes sharper and more focused. Understanding how a genre prompts readers’ expectations will help us keep their attention. It’s clearly easier to sell or market a work of fiction that fits neatly into an identifiable and popular genre. This is really the province of agents and publishers more than authors. (Though self-published authors without an independent editor will need to consider what genre to label their work.) Writing for the market, without a feel for the genre, is rarely successful. When in the midst of the creative process, don’t dwell too much on genre, and don’t be afraid to blend them or create new sub-genre. Just write the best story possible, and worry about labeling it after it’s complete.
History is actually a writer’s dear friend. Historical fiction affords an unlimited treasure trove of material awaiting the author. You may find one that calls you to write about it.
Left: Old City, Jerusalem Right: Kanchanburi, Thailand (Photos by author)
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July 21, 2019
READ “THE KALAMZOO KID”, MY LATEST SHORT STORY
I am delighted to be doing something I haven’t done in too long a time: post on this blog! I’ve been rather busy, with fiction writing and other pursuits, which is not an excuse, just an explanation.
This short story was just published in Crimson Streets, a magazine dedicated to preserving the pulp fiction genre, that honorable and indigenous American literary style impressed into our culture by masters like Dashiell Hammett, James. McCain, Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, Jim Thompson and James Elroy. It is sometimes referred to as “hard-boiled” or noir fiction, and the genre covers a wider range of style than one might suspect. Common factors include a cynical and flawed protagonist who follows their own code of honor, a, corrupt and unfair system, and blurred lines between legality and criminality. Authors choose to incorporate levels of psychological study, social commentary, deeper character development, and reduce or increase the level of violence and suspense as they deem appropriate. The heyday of this genre was between the nineteen twenties and fifties, when dozens of magazines published the masters mentioned above as well as unknowns. Today, the form lives on in cinema and novel, but few magazines specialize in this kind of crime fiction. Crimson Streets publishes on-line, and once a year offers a print anthology.
I wrote the first draft of this story in 2017 and presented it to my writing group, KEYBANGERS BANGKOK. I have loved this style of crime fiction ever since I learned to read, and was possessed by a burning desire to try my hand. I needed some guidance. As always, Keybangers offered wise constructive criticism, particularly to ditch the hard-boiled dialogue I was experimenting with, and have my characters speak like the criminals I represented in decades of practice as a defense lawyer. I took their advice, and it worked. (Good news: I’ll soon be dropping by Bangkok to work with them for a little while as I endeavor to complete the second novel featuring expatriate American criminal lawyer Glenn Murray Cohen and cohorts, who faced intrigue and danger in my first novel, Bangkok Shadows. Click here to learn more about Bangkok Shadows.
It was a lot of fun writing this story, and we may be more from Fat Phil, Johnny, and their assorted miscreants. I hope you enjoy the story, as well as the great cover art by Chlo’e Camonayan.
Click here to read “The Kalamazoo Kid“
Artwork by Chlo’e Camonayan (Cover of “The Kalamazoo Kid”, Crimson Streets, July, 2019
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