Matt Thompson's Blog: and the falling cease - Posts Tagged "new"

Here's the prologue to my upcoming new book! It's also posted at http://www.oleandersinalaska.tumblr.com

Prologue

1986

Dano was bussing the last table of the day when he saw him.

The table had been occupied by Miss Jess, the resident spinster. She wasn’t really old, and she had at one time been married, but her dreams of having children were never realized. It wasn’t something she talked about openly, but St. Laurent’s wasn’t a big place and people talked. They could see it in her countenance, the way she walked hunched over, hands in her pockets clutching tissues-the walk of a much older woman. They could tell from how her smile lingered over their own children, her face aglow with the mundane-the laughing and playing and fighting of children. Still, she was all in all a happy person, and tried to display that to the world, but still they talked and there was nothing she could do about it.

Dano always felt badly for her, and felt guilty about feeling badly. She wasn’t asking for anyone’s pity, and he somehow felt that his earnest wish for her dreams to be realized was insulting.

“More coffee, Jess?” he had asked as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to disturb her; she was reading. She set her book down, using her palm as a bookmark-not setting it facedown how some non booklovers might.

“That depends.”

Dano was taken aback. He had done it. He had offended her. She could tell that he believed some of what he heard about her. She could see right through him.

“On what?” he managed to sputter out.

“If you’ll join me. I was going to get out of your hair here shortly, but if you sat with me I’d feel less like I was putting you out.”

“Nonsense. You can stay as long as you like.”

He stood awkwardly holding the coffee pot and looked out the window.

“Are you going to sit down?”



He was laughing at himself while bussing the table. He must have looked like such a fool to Miss Jess, stuttering and stumbling over his words-a grown man acting like a schoolboy. He was laughing and clearing her silverware into his gray plastic container. They clinked against her empty coffee mug. He noticed when he put it up that it was still a little warm. It unnerved him how much he lingered. The warmth was from the coffee, not her hands. It was then that he looked up and saw his friend stumbling and falling. He was sure that it was Ole, even with his recognizable gait clearly impaired. He set down the gray plastic tub and wiped his hands on the front of his apron before opening the door to his diner. The bell tied to the handle tinkled lightly. He shouted:

“Ole!”

No response. The figure stumbled again and fell flat on his face. Dano walked out fully, letting the door fall closed. He called out again, walking forward now.

“Ole! Are you alright?”

He had the figure’s attention now. He lifted his head up and looked.

“You’re laying in the middle of the road.”

Oleander was able to get up on his haunches by the time Dano reached him.

“Guess I fell a bit,” he said, rocking back slightly. Dano rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder to keep him from falling over backwards into the road again.

“A bit? Didn’t know you could fall just a bit.”

“‘s a gift.”

“Let me help you up. Why don’t you come get some coffee in the diner?”

“Bitty!” Ole basically yelled, his voice cracking at it speak volume. Dano said nothing, but hoisted his friend up and draped his arm over his shoulder.

“Gonna have to walk a little, Ole. I’m not as strong as you are.”

They made their way slowly back to the diner, the short walk a marathon with Ole’s inebriation and Dano’s rather average body strength. Dano walked with his head down, his shoulders forced to hunch with the weight of his friend. It wasn’t until they were nearly at the diner’s door that he looked up. He looked up because he heard his own bell.



The bell had been a gift from Ole actually, several years before-just after Ole had showed up in town. He had been sitting at the counter, drinking his black coffee while Dano pretended to wipe down the counter with a dish rag.

“Don’t have a bell.”

“What?”

“Your door,” he said. “There’s no bell on it. What if you’re in the back and someone shows up?”

“I don’t know.”

Here was this man who Dano had only just met, telling him how to run his diner. Ole left a generous tip for his coffee and said:

“I’ll get you a bell,” and left.

So it was Ole’s bell that rang out in the clear night as Dano dragged his friend. Dano looked up at the sound of the bell, and Ole mumbled, “Bell.” Miss Jess was there, book underarm, glasses fogged, holding the door open.

“I came back,” she said, and Dano cringed. He was too busy with Ole to wallow too much in his embarrassment. He was glad for that. As she had left earlier he had said,

“Come back any time you like,” and she had smiled, ignoring the ridiculous nature of his comment. Of course she can come back whenever she wants. This is a restaurant.

“I’m glad. Don’t know if I could have opened the door and held this one.”

“Drinking?” she asked.

“Certainly looks that way.”

They hauled Ole together into the booth she had earlier occupied. The gray tub still sat atop it, the coffee mug with the warmth still balanced on top of her plates and silverware.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Dano said.

He left for the kitchen. The swinging kitchen door rocked in and out, showing brief glimpses of Dano preparing the coffee, but as its inertia waned the window into the kitchen became smaller and smaller until Dano was obscured entirely. Miss Jess turned to Ole.

“It’s my fault,” he said without a trace of hesitation in his voice. Jess tried to shush him, but he wouldn’t listen.

“It was my fault.”

This is a short excerpt from something I'm working on. It is VERY new. No novel excerpt today. Can't be giving all of it away just yet. Hope you like this instead.

No one likes to hear that there is nothing waiting for them. It is especially bad when you’re expecting something. There is nothing like believing in something so wholeheartedly that you’re ashamed to look at the people who stand in line, clutching their individual hopes, so little different from yours. So you walk out the door and let it slam behind you. You leave them staring, wondering what it was that you were unable to claim, whatever it was that you thought was rightfully yours. That is, until their name is called and they refocus their attention on what’s important to them, you are forgotten, so the feeling of shame is useless really. They don’t actually care. That’s worse somehow.
At least that’s how I felt, leaving the bank, still clutching the safety deposit box key and a crumpled piece of paper. I had been so sure. I handed the attendant my father’s key and watched as she had smiled at me and put the other key in. The disappointment didn’t set in until she set the box on the table.
“There’s nothing here for you, sir.”

The last few days I've been posting bits of writing that are very new. I thought I'd switch it up a bit today and post something that's old and maybe a bit dusty. I hope you like it.

How My Father Died
I sit on a bench with my hat in my lap and wait for the ferry. The number of a funeral home is in the band of my hat. My father has died. A man sits across from me and he looks nervous. He is holding a large black trash bag shut in his clenched right fist. Something smells.
“Are you alright?” I ask him.
He looks up from the ground and concentrates his gaze on me. His foot taps.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Well I suppose, but-
“I’ve got dead dogs in here,” he points to his bag with his free hand. “Stray ones. I don’t go around stealing people’s pets or nothing like that. That’s some nasty shit and I don’t do it. I just nab the stray ones. They don’t know the difference anyway, least-ways mine don’t, the ones I sell to, the Chinamen who live above me.”
I am a little confused, “Excuse me?”
“They eat ‘em, the dogs I mean. The Chinamen eat the dogs. I round ‘em up, the dogs, and cook ‘em on my tabletop griddle, well done. You’ve gotta do ‘em well done or you can get the worms they carry in ‘em. They aren’t the tape worms but some other nasty shit can get you. They buy ‘em from me though; they risk it.”
“I see.”
I look away and check my watch. The ferry should be here soon. I look for a way to change the topic of conversation.
“Ferry should be here soon don’t you think?”
“…dobermans. They like Dobermans the best. You know,” he pauses, “You’re a good confident, you know that?...a real good one. It feels good to get this off my chest.”
“Confidante,” I correct him.
“Yeah exactly, the slant eyed bastards can’t keep their paws off the Dobermans. Can’t figure out why for the life of me; they seem more gamy than most of ‘em do.”
“Perhaps,” I check my watch again. The ferry should be here very soon. I contemplate using the phone on the ferry to call the funeral home but it might be too expensive. The man is talking again.
“…here for?”
“My father died. I’m going to see to his arrangements.”
The man laughs, “His final arrangements eh. That’s rough,” but nothing in his voice suggests that he has any sympathy for me. I don’t what I expect from the dog cooker.
A young woman approaches and I slide over on my bench so she doesn’t have to sit next to the man across from me whose bag is giving off the most noxious smell I’ve ever smelled. She walks up, nods politely to me and promptly sits down next to the dog cooker, who continues to talk to me, taking no notice of the young woman who has apparently found him less repugnant than me.
“…no reason for them to lock me up. It h’aint like I’m killing people or anything, and most of these,” he pats the bag and is greeted with a sickening squish, “were already dead when I found them, or almost there. Some of ‘em is actually grateful that I come along. They’re miserable and living in a gutter anyway. So really I’m doing the city a favor is what I’m doing.”
“Are you one of those people who cooks dogs/” the young girl chimes in and inexplicably bats her eyes at the dog cooker who seems to take notice of her for the first time.
“I am have you-
“I’ve heard of people like you. One lived above me, in New York I think, when I lived in a tenement building. I used to hear them arguing over the prices of the flanks. Some of them even used the tails for those pulley things on lamps to turn them on and off and such. Vulgar practice if you ask me, the tails bit I mean, quite inhumane. I heard somewhere once that dog’s tails are like when you cut off a chicken head, they can still feel it and it makes me think that whenever some schmuck wants to turn on his lamp a dog is in pain and I just can’t bear it.”
“Oh I don’t do nothing like that. I’m real humane. Are you waiting for the ferry?”
“Yes, do you know the time?”
I check my watch and grunt, “Ferry should be here any minute miss.” She looks over at me, seeming to have forgotten her initial once over of me.
“Why thank you. Are you waiting for the ferry as well?”
“Yes. My-
“His father kicked it,” the dog cooker chimes in uninvited; “He’s on his way to prepare his final arrangements.” He chuckles again. I suppose he doesn’t know that it is wholly inappropriate.
“That’s quite right. I may have to call the funeral home from the ferry but I’m worried it might be too expensive.”
“Oh it most certainly will be,” she fans herself with her hand and seems bored by my father’s death as if he was one of the mosquitoes she now shoos away from her face. Nevertheless I do my best to be polite. This trip isn’t any time for me to be more vulgar than need be, my father wouldn’t have wanted it and my mother told me to be quick about it.
“So what’s your purpose-of taking the ferry I mean?”
“Well it’s a little embarrassing. You could call it a secret I suppose.”
The dog cooker makes his presence felt again by cutting in, “He’s a good one here, this one. You can tell him. He’s sure to take it to his grave,” he laughs, “grave, like his daddy’s in now I ‘spose, funny how language works like that, almost cryptic it is. He’s a good confident, very good. He’s kept my dog secret very close to the chest so far.”
The young woman continues to fan herself and seems to take what the dog cooker has just said into great consideration. She adjusts both of her expensive leather boots and pulls her sleeves up to her elbows. She seems to be sweating and continues to fan herself, but it isn’t hot at all. In fact, if I wasn’t concerned about losing the funeral home number I would probably have my hat on my head because there is a chill in the air. Nevertheless she sweats.
I break the silence.
“Ferry’s running a little late.” The dog cooker is in his own world but the young sweating woman seems startled by my voice.
“I’m sorry-I’d forgotten you were here. I am very glad to hear that you’re a confident man though. It’s a very attractive quality in a man.”
“Right, yes, well I suppose my father-
“So you can keep my secret can you? You won’t tell a soul? Or a living being for that matter I suppose. I don’t think a soul would have much use for my story anyhow. But you’ll keep it won’t you?”
“Well,” I stutter.
“Excellent. That’s the absolute best. I’ve been dying to tell someone, anyone, even the sad sack waiting for the ferry will do.”
“Now that’s not-
“So it all started a few weeks ago when my fiancé went to the bathroom. He takes an unbearably long time in there so I began to feel bored. I rummaged around in his kitchen drawers for something to do; a paring knife, or maybe a serrated one or the like; you understand how it is when you’re bored. So there I am rummaging in a knife drawer when I come across a nudie magazine, Big Cocks Anonymous or some nonsense like that, and I’m sure you know exactly what I was thinking.”
“Well, I can imagine-
“Exactly, a nudie magazine in a knife drawer? Has he gone and lost his mind while I was away some day? So I of course start flipping through the magazine in an attempt to dull my impenetrable boredom, and I plan my lambast of my fiancé for putting this magazine in a knife drawer when everyone in their right mind knows that it goes under your bed or a pillow or something like that you know?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” I check my watch again. The ferry is quite late at this point; “I do hope the ferry is along soon. It’s very late.”
“Naturally, of course, we’re all hoping for a speedy recovery for your father, but back to my story; so there I am flipping through this magazine when about the center of the magazine, in the area-
“Do you think the ferry’s running a bit late for us?” the dog cooker interjects. I look at my watch for the umpteenth time.
“It’s very late.” I wonder why he said us. I suppose he sees the three of us as some kind of unit. I can’t imagine why. We share absolutely nothing in common.
“…the centerfold, that’s what it’s called and there is this gigantic glossy cock in front of me and you know what I notice? The blemish, I’m a nurse you see. He had a blemish on his cock that looked cancerous.”
The dog cooker stands up and starts to pace in front of his bag, which without his hand tightly gripping the top begins to smell even worse than before. He blows on his hands and rubs them together. The woman continues to fan herself. The dog cooker says,
“Sounds awful, cock cancer you say?”
I’m no longer particularly interested. I’m very concerned about the ferry. I’ll most definitely have to call from it now because it’s so late. I’ll have to tell the people at the funeral home to wait for me. They close fairly soon now.
“Absolutely, it’s a cancerous blemish if I’ve ever seen one, and I have seen many. My fiancé has one himself; it’s nothing though, especially compared to this one, the blemish I mean. His cock is of a fine size.”
I begin to tap my foot and the dog cooker nearly steps on it as he paces by still blowing on his hands. Remembering my manners I feign interest,
“I’m sorry but I don’t quite follow how that is relevant to you waiting for the ferry-if you don’t mine my saying.”
The sweat is visible as it streams down her forward and she has deep pit stains on her blouse as she continues to fan herself.
“Well that is what I’m doing here. I’m going to check on that man, the centerfold with the cancerous cock. I’ve contacted the magazine and they’ve agreed to let me examine it. I simply couldn’t sleep at night with the thought that I could save a man’s life. His life, his cock, is in my hands and I can’t mess that up. It’s that civic duty and whatnot, getting to me. The magazine even said they might include shots of me examining it in the next magazine. They’re going to run a whole big awareness issue, telling men to check themselves and stuff, it’s all very progressive and excellent.”
“Quite.”
“Ferry’s a bit late isn’t it? Didn’t realize how much I ramble. Time flies. I’m sure it’ll be along soon.”
“…won’t be long, no it won’t be long now, he’ll be along any minute now. He’ll beat the ferry here and it will be fine,” the dog cooker mumbles to himself as he continues to pace. I am forced to retract my feet basically under the bench so as to protect them from his wandering feet. I can’t understand why the ferry is so late.
The young woman addresses the dog cooker: “Are you quite alright?”
“Just fine-fine and fine, just waiting on a customer, loyal one too, supposed to meet me here to make an exchange. Likes ‘em raw, this one, big risk taker. I’m lucky he’s still alive to buy from me, got a Doberman in the bag for him. Said he’d be here before the ferry gets here but I’m getting worried.”
“Oh I’m sure he’ll be along soon,’ she replies, “Ferry should be right along after him too. I’ve never known it to be unreliable.”
I tap my heels together under the bench and look up as I hear footsteps. There is another man approaching, small in stature and wearing a trench coat. As he approaches the dog cooker sidles over to his bag, displaying a bravado that must be reserved for customers. The two men speak in hushed tones for several minutes and there seems to be an argument. The small man pushes the dog cooker and the dog cooker pushes him back.
Before I know it they are on the ground going at each other’s throats when the dog cooker reaches into the small man’s coat pocket. He pulls out what can only be a gun and the small man goes silent. The small man makes a desperate lurch for the gun and I watch in horror as the gun goes off and my ears are ringing and the small man lays dead. The dog cooker stands up and calmly drags the small man over to his bag. He tries to stuff him inside.
He doesn’t quite fit. His head lolls out the side of the bag. I tremble on my bench and my hands shake holding my hat. The dog cooker sits back down on his bench where the young woman is unmoved, fanning herself.
“Ferry should be along soon,” he comments blandly as the small man’s head rubs up against his pant leg, staining it red. He doesn’t seem to notice.
The young woman replies, “I suppose we’ll have to wait a bit longer. I’m sure it’ll come along soon though.”
I place my hat on my head and the number for the funeral home flies away in the breeze.

As promised, here is another excerpt from my upcoming novel. It's short, but I hope you like it.

“Go home, kid.” Oleander turned his back and began to walk away. Troy lunged forward and struck him a blow in the lower back, which he had estimated would level the old man. The old man turned around, shoved the teenager to the ground with the force of both palms on his chest this time. He looked down at him, and the teenager stared back.
When the teenager made no move to get up, the old man turned once again and walked away. Troy watched as the old man pulled his supplies and headed back to his cabin along the harbor.

Okay, I'm posting another short excerpt from my upcoming novel, Oleanders in Alaska. Hope you enjoy it.

The old man stopped to wipe his brow. He pulled his cap up a little and let the bitter Alaskan breeze chill the sweat beads on his forehead. There was a boy walking aimlessly along the harbor. The old man watched as the boy tripped and fell over a hidden stick in the sand. The boy caught himself with one hand, picked himself up with the same hand and wiped it off on his jeans in one motion, never taking his eyes off of whatever was in his hand. The boy continued walking and the old man pulled his hat back down. He picked up another block of wood and put it on the stump. He raised the ax over his head and brought it down with a practiced force. The piece of wood split neatly into two pieces; the old man picked them up and threw them on his growing pile.

Here is another excerpt from my upcoming novel, Oleanders in Alaska. I hope you like it.

What she heard first was the scratching of his key in the lock. He missed frequently and as a result, the golden orb that jutted out from above the door handle on their stained oak front door was badly scratched. He never seemed to be able to fit it in on the first try. On the night of their wedding a similar thing had happened with their honeymoon suite; he had been carrying her in his arms, and set her down gently to open the door. This was not how she imagined it, but it was the modern world, and he couldn't kick the door open when it required an electronic key card. So she stood as romantically as she imagined possible and watched his pitiful efforts to open the door. First he slid the card the wrong way down the slot, and then he did it from bottom to top, and both times the light on the room door flashed orange, until eventually it flashed red.