Anthony Jerome Brown

Here's my humorous short story, The Marvelous Misadventure of Morty Zimmerman, very recently published in Issue 24 of an on-line magazine, The Inconsequential:

July 14, 2014 SmC Anthony Jerome Brown, ARTICLES, Guest Writers, Issue 24 Comments Off
The Marvelous Misadventure of Morty Zimmerman

by Anthony Jerome Brown

I awoke to a typical start of a typical day: Another bagels and strip-poker rendezvous with Ethel Finkelstein was getting really hot, and – just as I was about to melt – the sound of Twinkie the cat doing her thing in the litter box brought me back to the shitty real world. Coitus interruptus at its worst illuminated my morning, with yet another dream unrealized, as once again Ethel is nowhere in sight – just a figment of my imagination encapsulating the perfect woman.

The rain pounded rapidly on my bedroom window, as insistent as the rhythm of Twinkie’s paws upon her stinky litter, when lightning struck. At least I, Morty Zimmerman, wouldn’t have to go to work on this dreary, New York day, it being Sunday.

I pulled my blue sheets aside, and tumbled off of my bed and onto my feet. The Snoopy pajamas came off; on came the pants, shirt, socks and shoes; and I dragged myself into the living room. “Good morning Mom,” I said.

She sat on the old, gray sofa; wearing a stained, tan robe. Her hair was a dyed, blond, poof, and too much rouge had been painted upon her weary face. “Good morning Mortimer,” she said in her nasal tone. “Are you ready to go to the deli and get some meat from the butcher? Mortimer, do you have an erection?”

“No Mom, I don’t. I’m going to the deli now.” In the mirror I saw myself blush the color of lean beef; my craggy, thirty-year-old face and its beak-like nose glowed.

“Why don’t you have some breakfast first,” she pleaded. “I made your eggs wet and runny, just the way you like them,” she whined.

“I’m skipping breakfast today, Mom.” Embarrassment propelled me hastily towards the door despite my rumbling stomach. “I’m leaving now.” I grabbed my rain jacket off the coat rack and deftly swiped my mother’s Totes, as I didn’t want to take the long trip back to my bedroom for my own umbrella.

As I opened the door I heard a scream. “My darling Totes!” she shrieked. “It’s an heirloom! It belonged to my mother!”

“I’ll take good care of it Mom,” I promised as I slipped out the door, then ran down the stairs.

“Morty, come back here this minute!”

It was coming down hard; and it was very foggy. Although I could hardly see where I was going, the trip to Bernie the butcher had become habitual and I was able to find my way. Suddenly, as I crossed the street a prolonged honk blasted my ears and breaks screeched. Unhurt, I lurched backwards, engulfed in adrenaline, and considered this might be my last day.

“Schmuck, you’re an asshole!” a deep voice grumbled (perhaps) the last words I’d ever hear; and I glimpsed through the grayness – mere inches away – a small, blue car swerving off, as a balding head disappeared behind the vehicle’s closing window.

He was gone. I backed onto the sidewalk and caught my breath as the rain cooled my heated body–and remembered the umbrella, which was no longer in my hand; so I rushed onto the road and searched for my mother’s relic. Grasping desperately in the mist, I found my mother’s Totes, went across the street and ducked into the stationary store next to the deli to examine the matriarch’s prized possession. Metal and material were missing. I froze. I couldn’t believe it. What sort of punishment would I get? Would I get kicked out of the apartment and have to get my own place? Who would do my laundry? “What am I going to do?” I mumbled.

I tossed the umbrella into the garbage can, went back outside into the cold wetness, and paced the block many times, trying to solve this conundrum–to no avail. I entered the deli and greeted Bernie, with his dark mustache and bloody apron, and placed an order. As Bernie started cutting meat I noticed a blue Totes–just like Mom’s–by the coat rack, and hung up my jacket.

“All ready, Mr. Zimmerman,” said Bernie gruffly.

“Here you go,” I muttered nervously, tremulously handing him a ten-dollar bill. “And keep the change.”

“Next time bring an umbrella,” came Bernie’s surly voice and scrutinizing gaze.

“Will do, ah, Mr. Bernie.…I mean, Horowitz….next time, that is….hah-hah,” I laughed stiltedly and tried to act natural as I chicken-walked over to the coat rack, my wooden arms swinging widely.

“Are you taking dance classes?” asked Bernie, looking a bit mystified and concerned.

I stumbled as I turned to face the butcher. The Totes was right behind me. “I….I’ve developed a spasm,” I sputtered. “I think.…I think I’ve got Mad.…Mad Cow’s Disease. M-maybe you should re-examine your meat.”

“Mad Cow’s Disease – Maybe you should re-examine your head!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Bernie’s has only the finest meats. I’m a very clean establishment! What’s gotten into you?!?”

“What….what’s gotten into me? What’s gotten into….your cows? They’re….they’re raving! I mean, don’t….don’t get me wrong: I’m.…not blaming you. You.…you’re so….so clean, impeccable, a sh.…shining example and, well, simply immaculate.” My hand reached slowly behind my back, groping for might as well have been Mom’s Totes, when I brushed against a jar of pickles, knocking it to the floor with a crash. Pickles and glass fragments were everywhere.

“Schmuck!” Bernie yelled, as I gave up all notions of discretion and grabbed the Totes, threw a five-dollar bill at the butcher, and ran out.

When I returned to the apartment, Mom looked relieved, although she repeatedly chastised me about taking her umbrella–which I knew I shouldn’t have done, and had suffered quite a fright because of my indiscretion.

Lesson learned: Don’t think for yourself; and who needs an umbrella, anyway?

Tags:
Awakening
comedy
drama
Fantasy
gender issues
Psychology
relationships
Religion
satire
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