Threeway, ch. 3, Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb, pt. 3 of 3.
In which Connie and Herb inevitably disappoint. "Threeway" continues in serial form with a link to buy the book at the bottom of the post. To catch up on prior segments, start at the bottom of the blog. Enjoy. Tell your friends.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
Chapter 3: Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb (pt. 3 of 3).
The second term would be a daunting task. The engine of our economy is fueled by desperation and unhappiness and the beliefs that the crack hit rush of consumption and the thrill of watching others do without provide momentary cures. So, the Oval Office door would be open. Everyone could come and make their case for a bailout: the junk food and soda makers; the fashion mavens, tattoo artists, and crotch waxers; the too-much-truck and too-big-gun makers; the porn purveyors and prison builders; media, publishing, big art, big ed, and big ag; the health clubs and diet gurus, the doctors who healed the self-inflicted and delayed the inevitable, and their poor, put upon brothers, the insurance companies. They would all line up to make their cases for mercy and salvation, and Connie and Herb would pass judgment.
So the theory went, but the eight year grind sounded murderously dull. Knocking on doors, hearing everyone’s story, being asked their opinion and having it come down to the same thing. “You’re too fat/too thin, angry, and unhappy. You lack self-esteem, make bad life decisions, and, rich, poor, or in between, you spend your money foolishly. Oh, and you’re not as nice as you think you are. You’re also not as tough. Sigh. Let’s roll up our sleeves and fix you.”
It might have been fun if people pushed back. The scary prospect was finding people with their finances, fridges, and hearts laid open. “Come in! Come in!” Connie and Herb were about conflict and the adrenaline rush of perpetually unfinished business. They demurred.
All these years later, had they changed their mind? With all that pent up energy and anger, would there be a riot? Nope. It was all properly permitted, respected the flow of traffic, and needed only a de minimis police presence. The cops can tell when a crowd has dangerous energy. This one didn’t. A bunch of sixty-somethings can squeeze into their old disco outfits, fire up The Hustle, and dance all night, but some internal fires can never be rekindled. Words that had seemed provocative and vaguely seditious long ago, now, like an old Peter, Paul and Mary song, seemed only comforting and familiar.
“Fuck Reagan!” [clap]
“Fuck Bush!” [clap, clap]
“Fuck Reagan!” [kick]
“Fuck Bush!” [kick, kick]
If angry words can be joyous, these were. They seemed to say, “Isn’t it great we all once felt this way?”
As the rally went on, the cops talked about sports and how there’d be no overtime for this gig. As Connie and Herb cut the music, reviewed their notes, and prepared to speak, one of the cops looked at his watch and tapped Herb on the shoulder.
“Beat it, okay?” Connie and Herb got everyone up and led them back the way they came.
It was too bad the party ended when it did. People were working muscles they hadn’t used in years. If they kept it up, maybe they could have made real changes. Still, they had burned some calories. If there is a moral equivalent to a mocha and a muffin, they felt they had earned it, so off they went.
“Fuck Reagan!” [clap]
“Fuck Bush!” [clap, clap]
“Fuck Reagan!” [kick]
“Fuck Bush!” [kick, kick]
Farewell, Connie and Herb. Enjoy your long, gentle cool down.
No, at the end of the day, there was one group, and one group only, that stayed the course, stuck to the wall, and was saluted high up the flagpole.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
Chapter 3: Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb (pt. 3 of 3).
The second term would be a daunting task. The engine of our economy is fueled by desperation and unhappiness and the beliefs that the crack hit rush of consumption and the thrill of watching others do without provide momentary cures. So, the Oval Office door would be open. Everyone could come and make their case for a bailout: the junk food and soda makers; the fashion mavens, tattoo artists, and crotch waxers; the too-much-truck and too-big-gun makers; the porn purveyors and prison builders; media, publishing, big art, big ed, and big ag; the health clubs and diet gurus, the doctors who healed the self-inflicted and delayed the inevitable, and their poor, put upon brothers, the insurance companies. They would all line up to make their cases for mercy and salvation, and Connie and Herb would pass judgment.
So the theory went, but the eight year grind sounded murderously dull. Knocking on doors, hearing everyone’s story, being asked their opinion and having it come down to the same thing. “You’re too fat/too thin, angry, and unhappy. You lack self-esteem, make bad life decisions, and, rich, poor, or in between, you spend your money foolishly. Oh, and you’re not as nice as you think you are. You’re also not as tough. Sigh. Let’s roll up our sleeves and fix you.”
It might have been fun if people pushed back. The scary prospect was finding people with their finances, fridges, and hearts laid open. “Come in! Come in!” Connie and Herb were about conflict and the adrenaline rush of perpetually unfinished business. They demurred.
All these years later, had they changed their mind? With all that pent up energy and anger, would there be a riot? Nope. It was all properly permitted, respected the flow of traffic, and needed only a de minimis police presence. The cops can tell when a crowd has dangerous energy. This one didn’t. A bunch of sixty-somethings can squeeze into their old disco outfits, fire up The Hustle, and dance all night, but some internal fires can never be rekindled. Words that had seemed provocative and vaguely seditious long ago, now, like an old Peter, Paul and Mary song, seemed only comforting and familiar.
“Fuck Reagan!” [clap]
“Fuck Bush!” [clap, clap]
“Fuck Reagan!” [kick]
“Fuck Bush!” [kick, kick]
If angry words can be joyous, these were. They seemed to say, “Isn’t it great we all once felt this way?”
As the rally went on, the cops talked about sports and how there’d be no overtime for this gig. As Connie and Herb cut the music, reviewed their notes, and prepared to speak, one of the cops looked at his watch and tapped Herb on the shoulder.
“Beat it, okay?” Connie and Herb got everyone up and led them back the way they came.
It was too bad the party ended when it did. People were working muscles they hadn’t used in years. If they kept it up, maybe they could have made real changes. Still, they had burned some calories. If there is a moral equivalent to a mocha and a muffin, they felt they had earned it, so off they went.
“Fuck Reagan!” [clap]
“Fuck Bush!” [clap, clap]
“Fuck Reagan!” [kick]
“Fuck Bush!” [kick, kick]
Farewell, Connie and Herb. Enjoy your long, gentle cool down.
No, at the end of the day, there was one group, and one group only, that stayed the course, stuck to the wall, and was saluted high up the flagpole.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
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