David Flynn ~ Jon Fried ~ Moser Khan

Trois Contes

 

 

David Flynn

Red Boiling Springs

 

“Yuk!” she said when he suggested a Japanese restaurant on the interstate for dinner.  “We’ve got a word for raw fish around here:  ‘bait’!”

Then:  “Damn prisoners get to live free in a resort while I’ve got to work for a living.”

 

And:  “Why in hell would anybody want to visit somewhere else when we’ve got everything we need right here in Red Boiling Springs.”

 

Harry didn’t have much choice.  Since moving from Las Vegas, where he was, as they said in his new Tennessee town, born and raised, he had counted five women unmarried and his middle age.  Two were enormously fat, one hated men, and the other greeted him at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store with “Are you saved?”

 

Maureen was the one left standing.  She went out with him because he had money.  What he hadn’t told her was he had money to last about another month, and that was stolen.

 

“Keep your damn hands to yourself.”

 

He had to find a way to get his life back under control.  So he asked his friend Paco, also moved from Vegas, but in Nashville.

 

“Get money.“  That was Paco’s advice. 

 

__________

 

“You talking down to me, son of a bitch.”

 

He was a redneck in a concrete block bar out a road from Red Boiling Springs.  All Harry had done was say something about the NFL Titans to the man on the next stool.

 

“That accent.  Think you’re an aristocrat.  You sound like a Vanderbilt professor.”

 

All Harry wanted was a beer.  The stranger kept at it.

 

“I’m sick of you outsiders.  Come here, stick up your noses, keep talking about how things were better up North.”

 

Harry took out his wallet, and laid a five dollar bill on the bar.  He walked out and felt like he weighed about two tons.

 

Red Boiling Springs was ‘famous’ for its boiling springs that were red.  They were red because of some chemical that smelled like shit.  A creek went through the center of town, and people in the 1800’s drank from it for their health.   A white hotel had been restored.  Visitors could sample the water from a faucet.  Harry tried it his first day.  The water tasted like acid.  That was it for things to do in Red Boiling Springs.

 

The day he left Las Vegas Harry knew the trip was crazy, but he had killed a stranger, an illegal immigrant , in an alley during a crap game, a couple of thousand dollars on the gravel, which he took.  He looked on a map.  The name Red Boiling Springs attracted him, and Paco, who had worked with him selling Freon, had left for Nashville to be a country singer two years before.  He liked the name because Red Boiling Springs was him inside.   He didn’t even give notice at his studio apartment.  The choice was a mistake though.   Instead of a small town out in the middle of nowhere he should have disappeared into Los Angeles.

 

A month in the town and he was ready to leave.  Everybody hated him.  Even Maureen wouldn’t have anything to do with him.  He was high profile in a way that made him scared.

 

“Keep your hands to yourself, dammit!  And why don’t you go to church?”

 

He’d just pay for it like he did in Vegas, except he didn’t see any whores in Red Boiling Springs, and he had to watch his money.

 

So he threw his clothes and all his other belongings in one garbage bag, and had a heart attack.

 

His heart beat hard and felt scratchy.  The beat grew stronger and stronger.  He could hear it in his ears.  He called 911.

 

“Just a bad attack of reflux.  What did you have to eat?”

 

“Frozen pizza.  Pepperoni.”

 

“Doc’s playing golf,” the receptionist told him.  “He’ll be back tomorrow.  Get plenty of rest.”

 

With that, he got mad.  Even God wanted him dead.  He had to kill somebody, else, before he died and couldn’t kill anybody anymore.

 

He debated between Maureen or the man at the bar, or anybody at the bar.  Or Paco, who hadn’t helped one bit.  Or driving back to Las Vegas where there were a dozen candidates.  His mother, but she was about to die naturally in a retirement home anyway.  Still, he could barge into the home and kill ten, maybe fifteen of the old farts before the police took him down.  His father had died by himself, a gun stuck in his mouth, when he as a kid.

 

Then the heart beats calmed down, his stomach growled, and he took a Tums, tropical fruit flavored.   Harry just had to leave Red Boiling Springs.  He hated the place.

 

But where?  The West.  He hated the damn East, and South, and North too.  No family, no wife, no job he wanted ever again.   Hell, he’d be an outlaw, like the old cowboys.  He’d be a criminal, in a country all his own.

 

No notice to the old woman who rented him the room.  Harry threw his bag into the back of his 12-year-old Jeep, black.  The bumper was held on with a ton of duct tape.  He put his pistol in the glove box, loaded.  Thank goodness the Jeep started.  He drove the length of Red Boiling Springs, then down the country roads to I-40.  He took the right ramp, westbound.

  

The open road.  That’s where he belonged.  He didn’t need any particular place or situation.  He’d stay general.   Nothing held him to anything, and he’d make sure things stayed that way.  Harry smiled as he passed the Nashville skyline.  Damn, he’d even gotten away with murder.

 

 

David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN.  His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher.  He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist currently on the roster.  His literary publications total more than one hundred and seventy.  David Flynn’s writing blog, where he posts a new story and poem every month, is at http://writing-flynn.blogspot.com/.   His web site is at http://www.davidflynnbooks.com.

 

 

 

Jon Fried

There's Happy and There's Happy

 

Dad got sick and when I asked is there anything I could do I was expecting him to say nothing. Or maybe help out around the house. What he said is that I should be happy. But it came out like an order. I need you to do what you need to do to be happy. Is what he said.

 

I took it seriously. It meant dropping Chris as a friend and finding new friends, not an easy thing for a kid like me. It meant practicing more, and actually writing music, stupid music, joke music, it didn’t matter, just write it, and play it and show it to teachers. About school, Dad’s idea was that getting good grades actually reduced the hassle, because in the end it was easier to do the homework rather than explain to the parents, teachers and counselors why you didn’t, and boring as it was, paying attention in class actually made the day go by faster. So I did, and did well. And when he was gone, two weeks after my 17th birthday, I realized I could finally stop trying to be happy.

 

It took a while. The first thing I did was call Chris. Then I put away my violin and stopped doing my homework. Chris was now a smoker, of anything, and he had met some fast seniors and we went to one of their houses in the afternoon and I had sex with a girl I didn’t like. She told her friend I was great so the friend wanted me to. That was no problem. I didn’t like her either. One of the girls had a car and we spent the weekends going down to the beach and partying under blankets. It was November and no one bothered us. Like I said, it took a while.

 

Then I found my mom crying over my report card. All she could say is we have to help each other. I said nothing.

 

I broke up with the girls before they could break up with me. I did not explain. In similar fashion I broke up with the grief counselor.

 

My little brother made the varsity soccer team, as a bright star freshman and I told him every chance I got that his making the team only proved that they sucked and the few games they won were acts of mercy. He began ignoring me so I began stealing the cookies in his lunch as I went to the fridge to make mine. He wouldn’t know it till he opened it at school. He complained to mom and I denied it. Then I started stealing the homework out of his backpack.  That was more difficult to replace.

 

At the unveiling, I threw up on the grave. I was that hungover. Everyone thought it was just emotions. I called the doctor’s office. I asked about the burning sensation. They told me to come in.

 

I didn’t.

 

Couldn’t avoid the principal’s office though.

 

“What happened?” she croaked.

 

I have a series of diseases, I said. I was proud of them.

 

She showed me the set of janitor keys I’d stolen and hid in my locker.

 

“Did you take these?”

 

No, I said, they floated into my locker on angel’s wings.  I stood up and did some things I shouldn’t have done.

 

Ten minutes later the police were there.

 

Five minutes after that I was bloody.

 

Two minutes after that I was happy.

 

There, Dad, I did it.

 

 

 

Moser Khan

Finding Jesus Christ

 

The ‘Kerala Daily’ was thrown at the doorsteps to be picked up. A collection of paper that is so significant in our lives, so much so that even after its contents have lost their importance, it can very well be used to wrap things or even wipe the derrières. As the door opened a lot of coughing could be heard. It was the Sunday morning of May because the temperature was fierce and the wind elsewhere.

 

I was then one of the tenants in the chawl (a large building divided into many separate tenements) where this incident took place. The chawl was the closest accommodation, I could afford, to the university, where I was studying for a master’s degree in English. I spent most of my day at the university, if not in the classroom then in the library. I didn’t have a great appetite for reading; hence, I used to coerce myself to read.

 

I remember that day very well because of the events that ensued. After all, it is the events that occur in a day that make it memorable. But before I narrate the whole story it is necessary to acquaint you with the two men, whose story this is; my neighbours: Mr. S (also referred herein as Mr. Piety) and Mr. A.

 

Mr. S dealt in used cars. But his business is not what makes him a distinguished character, it was his religious ardour. Deeply pious man as he was, there was not an occasion where he wouldn’t mention God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit or all of them together at times in a conversation. ‘God is great,’ ‘It is God’s will,’ ‘Jesus is to be praised,’ and the likes were phrases that frequently broke free from his mouth. Despite all the piety, there was not a single crooked trick of the business that he did not employ in his business. He lied, cheated, extorted, and connived and contrived without any qualms and pangs of conscience. When it came to charity, this man sought every opportunity to take charity and sought every excuse not give it. Once, few people came asking for donations for some flood victims somewhere. S sent them away empty handed saying he himself was poor and instead of begging for donations they should supplicate Lord Jesus for help.

 

Then there was Mr. A. Consider it a coincidence that I happen to be a witness of these two men. The second one whom I haven’t described was the exact antithesis of Mr. S, so much so that Mr. S was married, Mr. A was single; Mr. S was a devout Roman Catholic, Mr. A was an atheist; Mr. S was dark as charcoal, Mr. A was fair as butter; Mr. S was short, a little taller than 5 feet, Mr. A was tall; the only things that were common in them was that they were both human beings and my neighbours.

 

Coming back to the day of which I was about to tell you, the noise of coughing was from Mr. S’s house. His wife was invariably sick. She was fair and pretty with lovely hair that reached her shoulders. She was slender and meek as a mule before her husband. I haven’t seen an angel, but I can imagine one. An angel, that’s what she looked like. How this man came in possession of her is a miracle. Maybe the God was graceful to him. But what a pity it was to learn that this goddess, seeing whom even the cruelest man’s heart would melt like a burning wax, was neither loved nor respected by Mr. Piety. However, one thing that I can tell with certainty is that Mr. A had something for her, because like every man who feels uneasy at the sight of a woman he’s attracted to, Mr. A also displayed ample signs of loss-headedness and agitation when he espied this angel. He would gaze at her secretly, only to look at the sky or the earth beneath his feet when she looked at him. Whether she too had anything for him, I cannot comment on that. Simply because I can put myself in another man’s shoes but I cannot put myself in another woman’s shoes, for I do not know if women think like men.

 

You must excuse me for digressing from the matter again. I’m not one of those able and skilful literary stalwarts whose work you often read and who have the experience of writing voluminously. If they are the lords and dukes, I’m a mere mendicant in the field of ecriture.

 

There was a lot of commotion that day. I came to know of it only, when I read the newspaper, just out of curiosity. On the first page of the ‘Kerala Daily’ on the bottom left there was a line in black bold letters that read: ‘Jesus Has Arrived in Israel’. When I read the news article a little more, I realized this could have a great significance to the Christian population all over the world, perhaps the whole world. It is obvious that Mr. Piety was affected the most, by this news.

 

Then there were others, like Mr. A, who would simply not care even if God himself appeared before them. They were the sceptics who work their mind so much that they even doubt their own senses. If they were not there, perhaps the world would have a single religion.

 

The events which ensued after this incident were quite interesting to form the subject of my story, because of their nature and the short duration in which they occurred. Mr. S left his ailing wife to get succour from Jesus. It seems he travelled to a village in Israel where so many others like him travelled from all the corners of the world to witness and be blessed by the God’s son.

 

I thought it was so, at first, but then I realized it was only to escape the creditors that he had left in a hurry and one can be certain it was to seek succour himself rather than for his wife.

 

During the absence of Mr. S, Mr. A, being the closest neighbour of Mr. S, with good intentions visited the ailing wife. Since her condition required attention and care, Mr. A, called upon her more often and did the chores for her. What went in the house is left for the readers to imagine, but I think there was lot of meeting of the eyes and shyness of the ailing maiden, and chivalry of the neighbouring knight. That they would fall in love with each other was but obvious or perhaps predestined.

 

But soon the other neighbours began to talk and raise their eyebrows. That didn’t stop these two lovers from seeing each other. Under the care and love of Mr. A, Mrs. S’s health had improved considerably. She appeared like a blooming flower, fresh and beautiful. His love was like water to this wilting flower.  Had the news of which I’m going to tell you below, not arrived, the two lovers would have run away to a place where their lives would not be the subject of evening gossip and censure of the society.

 

After a month of hastened departure of Mr. S, once again the news arrived regarding the Son of God. This time it read: ‘Thousands of Christian Devotees Die in Stampede in Israel’. Furthermore the news read as follows: ‘in their attempt to seek blessings, thousands of Christian devotees hailing from all over the world lost their lives... The claim that Jesus appeared in Israel was proved to be a hoax...the local authorities are investigating the perpetrators...’

 

Well, Jesus didn’t certainly turn up in Israel. However, he did turn up in the form of a neighbour to Mrs. S, coveting his neighbour’s wife. Mr. S never returned and Mrs. S became Mrs. A.

 

 

Mousir Khan is a postgraduate in English. He has been writing since he was a teenager and works as a teacher in a language learning centre. He lives in Goa, India.