William C. Blome

 Two Faux Fables 

 

Neighbors

 

My neighbor several doors north and way over near the other side of the spillway bought a Chinese dog from a minor whose family lives close to me. I always coveted that dog, and though I didn’t know exactly how much Viola Nolan had paid the little girl, the fact that she had sealed the deal with no one present save the under-aged second party became an issue when, some three weeks later, I grabbed an opportunity to get the dog for myself by simply telling the little girl and her family that I’d have gladly paid two thousand dollars for a Shanghai Smokey Pointer like Chang. When I saw the parents’ eyes kind of roll around in their sockets as they heard me out, I guessed my offer was substantially above what little Noreen had pocketed, though I next had to wonder if that was true after all when her mother gripped Noreen by the shoulders, bent down and looked her in the eye, and asked her with great solemnity just how much Mrs. Nolan had actually paid for the animal. “One hundred dollars, and she’ll give me three tasty stuffed mushrooms every time I’m over there by the spillway,” was the answer. By the parents’ disgusted reaction, I immediately confirmed my chance to foul the nest, so to speak, and I buttonholed the father, pulled him to one side, and related to him that here in Maryland, one really can’t contract with a minor for a transaction of this sort without the minor’s having on his or her person the express and written permission from a parent or a guardian to conduct such business. That was all it took for father and family to huddle and to quickly decide to secure Chang’s return.

 

The plan they came up with was as goddamned predictable as rain or sunshine and simply involved Noreen and her father soon visiting my spillway neighbor and explaining things politely and fairly. To stoke the sympathy fire a tad, I suggested that when they met, it would be good if little Noreen rapidly came to tears over how much she missed her Chang and how much, of course, she wanted him back. All of us were sure that with her money returned, Mrs. Nolan would certainly (if admittedly maybe reluctantly) hand over Chang to Noreen, and everything could be resolved and ready for my follow-up plan to get the mutt for myself. (This wouldn’t be the first time I’d have gotten genuine value from having a safe deposit box half full of counterfeit twenty-dollar bills. That’s where the two thousand was going to come from.)

 

Well, a couple of days later when I next spoke to Quincy (the father) on the phone, I immediately surmised things hadn’t uncoiled according to plan. Yes, the visit had happened; Noreen had bawled like an infant; Viola Nolan was completely understanding and agreeable, and it appeared the mission was about to conclude successfully when Noreen (her arm and hand outstretched) sidled up to my neighbor and demanded that the “bitch” promptly give her her three stuffed mushrooms. What really angered the woman—and what I think would have rightly angered anyone—was little Noreen’s further demand that she also fork over three more stuffed mushrooms for Quincy. Quincy confided to me that when this happened (and in spite of his fatherly affection toward such a considerate daughter), he could see the deal sprouting wings and getting set to rapidly flap south over the spillway. (What I myself observed at this juncture in listening to Quincy was my own plan for getting Chang as a pet beginning to be in serious jeopardy.)  And sure enough, Quincy went on to relate that a furious Mrs. Nolan screamed out at Noreen and him that such an ungrateful, “potty-mouthed” child was never going to see Chang again, and that she could totally forget about ever dropping by to “chow down on my swell mushrooms,” and with that, she ordered both father and daughter out of her home. A crestfallen Quincy was too choked up at this point to continue our conversation, and he politely hung up. I now gave matters some real thought, and I decided I had to directly intervene. Here’s what happened next. 

 

In a day or so and on my lonesome, I made the trek over to just beyond the spillway, to Viola Nolan’s house. At first she was understandably hesitant to talk to me, but by charm and tact, I got her to relent, and thus we came to sit side by side in her living room. She even reached into her brassiere and produced several stuffed mushrooms which we both enjoyed as we chatted along. Yet I’d be lying if I didn’t relate that we heard—that the whole world could hear!—Chang’s booming barks coming from the basement below, and I made this fit in neatly with my overall strategy. I lied to Viola that it wasn’t for nothing that big Chang was a Shanghai Smokey Pointer, and that one of the breed’s less desirable traits for contemporary American owners was its willingness to let nothing whatsoever stop it from launching a vicious, headlong rush to get near and then hold a pointing stance toward the source of any whiff of smoke its sharp senses had locked upon.

 

Viola’s first reaction was some puzzlement. “Okay, and I’ll certainly be careful. ‘Glad you warned my ass.” Then she paused and said, “Although why should I immediately worry about that?” I coolly replied, “Because [and I vaguely gestured] yon spillway’s made almost entirely of wood. Old wood, dry wood. And if I don’t exit your parlor soon with Chang on a leash in my hand, believe me as I tell you, Viola, part of the bulge in my pants pocket is a nicely reconditioned and just-filled Ronson lighter, and Ronson’s eager as shit to torch the spillway.”

 

Well, it didn’t take much further discussion (and only three more stuffed mushrooms) for me to clinch the deal. Our agreement included, by the way, Viola’s pledge of complete confidentiality, and thus I proudly trotted home with Chang obediently pacing at my side. It seemed I had hardly crossed my hearth when Quincy was on the telephone, and I need not relate how happy that family was to hear of my success. We all shared guffaws and grins when I told them how I had intimidated Viola into releasing the dog, and that all that now remained was for Quincy to come over and collect his payment—and of course for little Noreen especially to mumble her goodbyes to Chang.

 

Ah, but there’s where the rub occurred; there’s where I, as a fly, entered, luxuriated in, and failed to easily vacate the proverbial ointment. For when Quincy greedily counted out and verified his hundred twenties, Noreen continued to caress and fondle her beloved Chang, and it was only with Quincy’s near-brutal strength that she was separated from the animal. With her nose running freely and her tears flinging everywhere, she made me promise I would allow her to visit Chang whenever she felt like it. (I thought to myself, what the hell, so I gladly made such a promise just to get rid of the brat and her father. However, I had no intention whatsoever of honoring my pledge; the Shanghai Smoky Pointer is very much a one-master dog, and I wasn’t about to share, divide, or fragment my new pet’s affection and loyalty.)

 

Yet the very next day Noreen was at my front door late in the afternoon. I decided then and there to level with the child, and I bluntly told her she wasn’t ever going to be with or see Chang again, that I had decided to keep Chang entirely to myself, and that I would appreciate it if she’d scoot her ass home now and never come back again. Oh she cried and stomped both her clumsy saddle-oxford feet, and she let loose with a broadside of drunken-sailor cursing, but I finally got rid of her, and as the days rolled into weeks, I heard no more from any of that family. Meanwhile, the bond between Chang and me kept growing stronger. The Shanghai Smokey Pointer was turning out to be every bit the solid companion I had assumed the breed would be.

 

But many a paradise can end (or be threatened to end) by its own conditions of existence, and a morning dawned when at 6 a.m. or so, I smelled the pungency of burning wood. I peered outside and beheld through gathering smoke my backyard storage shed starting to exhibit licks of flame around its bottom edges, and the situation clarified at once as I spotted Noreen running from my property while still clutching a large box of kitchen matches, and I rushed down to the basement to check on Chang. Great to say, my companion was sprawled out on the linoleum floor, snoring and dreaming away as he always does at such an early hour. I let him alone and dashed outside to turn on the hose and quench the fire; though the shed was going to require considerable repair, thank god there was no other serious damage.

 

But I had to believe that stinker Noreen had acted on her own, and I had to think that neither Quincy nor Violet (the mother) knew anything about this. I had to believe they’d certainly want to know they had a fucking firebug on their hands, so, ignoring the still-early hour, I telephoned Noreen’s parents. Quincy answered, and I calmly recounted the episode. Quincy’s first stated concern was (properly) for my safety, Chang’s safety, and the safety of all our neighbors. (I have to guess that Noreen’s safety—and presence—were also much on his mind, though he never mentioned his filthy-mouthed daughter. We wound up our talk with Quincy’s promise to firmly discipline Noreen, and his guarantee that such an incident would never happen again. He concluded with his additional promise to pay me per my submitted tally for “any and all damages sustained.”

 

Needless to say, I got off the phone in an almost inebriated state of mind. Here was my chance to soak the bastard as easily as I had doused his pyro kid’s little blaze. For Quincy had agreed to accept my tally carte blanche, and you can bet I put both pencil and imagination to work pronto. Here was my chance to get a new shed, new lawn and garden tools, and even a new, outdoor domicile for Chang. By the time I finished itemizing everything, you best believe the total was into five figures (and, of course, that doesn’t count the dollar sign itself).

 

Moral: The consequences of lying to anyone—and especially to neighbors—can mushroom uncontrollably.

 

 

 

A New Language

 

She sat in German class with him (or, more accurate to say, across a small worktable from him), and sometime during the third session of the semester, it clicked in her head that his right foot was out of its loafer, and his big toe was protruding through the white sock. More than that, it was also during the third session he smiled like a jack o’ lantern at her and wriggled his foot and toe suggestively toward himself. He reasoned, he hoped, she was close to breaking up, close to laughing heartily, but she kind of fooled his ass and kept her composure, and the ice didn’t really break till the class-after-next (when, beforehand, he had tied a note to his bare toe, and during class, he angled his chair just-so and then propped his foot boldly on the edge of her chair and started to wiggle the toe back-forth-and-around like a mad Hungarian).

 

She couldn’t help but rise to the bait this time, and she started to guffaw like a mad Hungarian; of course in a moment or two, she undid the strip of shiny red ribbon he had used to tie the note, and she grabbed the little piece of paper. She smoothed it out on the table with the heel of her hand and studied it intently over and over, but alas, he had attempted to write something in a German that neither he nor she comprehended at all at this stage of their first-year class, and sadly, the effect and delay of her being completely puzzled was rapidly chilling to her interest in him and his toward her. The two of them now began to look away from one another, and they lost all semblance of being mad Hungarians, and it was more or less at this point that he withdrew his foot from her chair and returned it to under his own chair, where he then jimmied it back into his shoe.

 

Moral: You can be—and often are, I’m sure—careful with many things, but unless you’re somewhat precise and knowing about crucial things, why, friend, you really won’t ever fully emerge from the cave of grunts, gestures, and grins.

 

 

 

William C. Blome writes short fiction and poetry. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.