Three Poems by Paul Tristram
I’m A Stranger Without Your Love
Like a Hobo without a shopping-cart.
A Pianist without hands.
Billy Shakespeare with broken quills.
A Midwife who’s been given her notice.
A Sundial buried underground.
Three Pence when Four is needed.
A Full Welsh Breakfast
without Cockles and Laverbread.
A Rowing Boat upside down
in a disused mountain quarry.
Neath September Fair without the rain.
An Headache without a timeslot.
Guy Fawkes Night without the gunpowder.
King Henry the 8th a bachelor boy.
Just like Alcohol Free Beer
Nothing works or makes sense at all
without your sweet shadow
intertwined with mine
down the pathway of this strange story
that we call life.
I Do Not Understand Myself Or Anything Around Me?
Bewilderment has become
my daily drinking partner
and mocking pretend-friend.
As my thoughts and feelings
struggle through the insane
mists of this emotional affray.
In search of the Holy Grail
of Logic and Clarity.
they are not answering the door
that is, even if they still live there anymore?
Sometimes simply surviving
is the best winning you can do.
We have found each other at long last!
I have been impatiently waiting many years
to walk this night hand in hand with you.
Something ancient has started stirring
deep within my fully-charged soul.
You’re as magnetic to me as I’m adhesive you.
It is time to show you the wonderful places
which I have stored away along my travels
and mapped eternally with my compass heart.
This Waterfall, these Beaches, the Forests,
the Mountains, Lakes and Standing Stones
are now a playground for our entwined spirits.
Under Mother Nature’s living Planetarium
I Wed thee constant through and through,
feel the energy of our coupling, firework
and burn nuclear bright, to the core of you.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
The Terrific Two!
HIP Literary Magazine is officially turning TWO YEARS OLD this month! I want to thank all of the wonderful contributors, assistants, readers, authors, and supporters who have made this magazine such a wondrous collection of eclectic talent. We couldn’t do it without you! In celebration of our anniversary, please send your comments/suggestions on the following questions to firstname.lastname@example.org:
1) What is your favorite aspect of HIP?
2) What would you like to see HIP do differently/try/change?
Thank you all!
Founder and Editor
Guess What’s Coming to Dinner (A 10-Minute Play)
Cast of Characters (2M/2W)
[For more detail – including spoilers – see page ii, following the script.]
Maury: Maurice Astorfeller – a charming 60-something retired diplomat, former U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Although he has an American accent, his manner is more European.
Hennie: Henrietta Marx Astorfeller – Maury’s wife (and Harpo Marx’s granddaughter), a 60-something classical concert harpist, now retired from world tours. Cultured and equally charming, but more down-to-earth than her husband.
Ben: Benjamin Astorfeller – their 30-something son, a brilliant cyberneticist and inventor. Although a “nerd” by profession, he is relaxed, self-confident, and worldly.
Andie: Andrea Andropopolis – Ben’s fiancée, a 20-something woman with a stiff demeanor and stilted formal speech, at least for most of the play.
The living room of a elegant townhouse in Georgetown, D.C.
The present … or near future. Wintertime.
GUESS WHAT’S COMING TO DINNER
SETTING: A living room. Two couches face each other across a CS coffee table, on which sit two glasses of wine. A harp stands on USL. A portrait of MAURY in ambassador garb hangs above a fireplace USC.
AT RISE: HENNIE is sitting on the couch/chairs facing SL. MAURY enters from OSR and sits next to her.
I just spoke with Jarvis. He assures me that the table is set precisely the way you like.
I don’t care. I’m just so excited, Maury! Our baby boy is returning home!
It’s only for a visit, Hennie. And Benjamin’s not a baby anymore.
Oh, he’ll always be my baby.
And Georgetown is not the home he grew up in.
Benjy grew up all over the world. His home is wherever we are.
Well, we finally get to meet the girlfriend.
Not just girlfriend, Maury. Fiancée!
Yes. “Andy,” is it?
“Andrea,” I think. I’m just happy he’s found someone to get him out of that cybernetics lab occasionally.
He does seem to be doing important work, Hennie.
I’m certainly proud of him – nominated for a Nobel prize!
For some breakthrough in artificial intelligence and robotics I don’t really understand.
But there’s more to life than work, Maury.
Well, food, of course.
(Caressing her hair.) There is that other thing you’re so good at.
(Rhetorically, grinning.) Aren’t you sweet? (beat) But speaking of food, I had Bertha prepare Benjy’s favorite for dinner. Hope Andrea likes it.
I certainly don’t.
Now, be nice.
Nice? I’m a diplomat, for God’s sake?
Try practicing it at home for a change. And it won’t hurt you to eat something other than fish and chips for one night.
You’re such a tease. British cuisine is too often maligned. When did we ever have fish and chips during my stint in England?
Well, we didn’t always have fish and chips. I think the Queen served bangers and mash once.
That warm beer used to make me belch during concert performances.
I thought that was just percussion your grandfather taught you to throw into your harp playing.
Now who’s teasing?
Oh, there they are!
(Standing and calling out toward OSL.) No, Jarvis, I’ll answer it. You can take their wraps.
(MAURY exits OSL. HENNIE stands.)
(Jovially.) Come on in, you two!
(MAURY, BEN, and ANDIE enter from OSL.)
(Throwing her arms around BEN and kissing him.) Benjy!
(Both embarrassed and enjoying the affection.) Mom.
(Turning to ANDIE.) And who do we have here?
Mom, Dad, here she is! Andie, allow me to introduce my parents: The Honorable Maurice Astorfeller, former Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s.
(She is pleasantly polite but a bit stiff.) I am honored, sir.
(She extends her hand to shake.)
The pleasure is all mine, my dear.
(Bows and kisses the back of her hand. Then surprised by her cold hands.)
Oh. I guess it is chillier here in D.C. than you southern girls are used to.
And – the toast of Kennedy Center and Royal Festival Hall – the world-renowned harpist, Henrietta Marx.
(Protests, embarrassed by his effusive introduction.) Benjy!
(She extends her hand to shake.)
Welcome to our humble abode, Andrea!
(Holds her arms and kisses her cheek.)
My, you are cold! Come and sit by the fire, dear.
(HENNIE sits, BEN and ANDIE sit facing her.)
Just “Andie,” Mom.
It is my nickname.
Oh, from your last name. “Andropolis,” isn’t it.
Something like that.
(To ANDIE.) What can I get you to drink, my dear?
Nothing, sir, thank you.
Oh, a teetotaler, eh?
Not really, Dad.
Freshen up your wine, my virtuoso wife?
(Fondly returning his teasing with her use of his honorific.) No, I’m set, your Excellency.
(His acknowledging smile is equally fond.) Carlsberg beer for you, Benjamin?
You know me too well, Dad. (To ANDIE.) A holdover from my misspent youth in Denmark.
(MAURIE exits OSR.)
Hardly misspent, Benjy. You excelled at your studies at the finest high school in Copenhagen.
Ah, but those wild parties with Prince Freddie and his crowd at the Amalienborg Palace.
Ben, I am shocked.
Don’t let him fool you, Andie. I know for a fact that Queen Margrethe kept Frederik on a tight leash.
One can fantasize.
The two of them spent most of their free time playing video games.
Hardly “video games.” We hacked into the World Bank. How I paid my way through college.
There you go again. Your college tuition was a perk of your father’s office.
(Reenters from OSR and hands BEN a beer.)
Here’s your beer, Son.
Maury, Benjy has been filling Andie’s head with tall tales of his teens.
(Retakes his seat next to HENNIE.)
Ben’s IQ is exceeded only by his imagination. It’s why he’s so good at his work.
So, tell us about yourself, Andie.
I suppose you could say that I am in cybernetics, Mrs. Astorfeller.
Oh, “Henrietta,” please.
Thank you, Henrietta.
Cybernetics? That’s Ben’s field.
It’s how we met, Dad. Andie is the leading practitioner of humanoid psychodynamics.
Whatever that is. Where are you from, Andie?
A small town near Durham, North Carolina.
Research Triangle Park, where Ben works?
Born and raised.
Andie is an orphan, Mom.
Oh, I’m so sorry.
Don’t be. I was raised in a nurturing environment.
Hey! Enough inquisition! Why don’t you tell Andie about yourselves.
Well, as you know, Andie, I spent my career in the diplomatic corps. After paying my dues in little more than gofer jobs at embassies and consulates in the third world, my first ambassadorial posting was in Luxemburg. From then on, I remained in Europe.
Tell her about that time in Norway.
When I was presented to King Harald?
No, no. The sauna story.
Oh. Well, Prime Minister Brundtland invited Hennie and me to spend the weekend at her home. It included an afternoon with her family in their sauna.
That sounds nice.
What he’s not telling you is that Norwegians sauna in the nude. (Laughing.) Mom and Dad were beet red even before the steam was turned up.
(MAURY and HENNIE laugh. ANDIE smiles.)
Comes with the territory. When in Rome.
What about you, Henrietta? You are a classical harpist?
Yes. I trained at Julliard and played with the New York Philharmonic before my soloist career. (beat) I met Benjy’s father during a performance at Grand Duke Jean’s palace in Luxemburg.
Little Prince Guillaume accidently knocked over her harp. I ran up to help her set it right again.
We looked into each other’s eyes…
Love at first sight.
(HENNIE and MAURY smile at each other fondly.)
Mom, tell Andie about your grandfather.
(Scoffing.) “Arthur!” Andie, my great-grandfather was none other than Harpo Marx.
I am not familiar with classical musicians, Henrietta. Was this Harpo Marx also accomplished?
(Grinning.) No, Andie. Harpo Marx of the Marx Brothers!
I see. You come from a musical family then.
(HENNIE and MAURY are increasingly nonplussed.)
Well, that’s not what he’s know for, of course. But actually, yes. Grandpa was also a fine harpist. It’s how he got his stage name.
(Steering the conversation away from ANDIE’s cluelessness.) So, what’s for dinner tonight?
We’re having your favorite – calamari tacos with lobster sauce.
My favorite when I was ten! You’re serving that?!
That is satisfactory, Ben. I shall not be eating this evening, Henrietta. Doctor’s orders.
Please do not worry about me. I am content just to spend time with Ben and his parents.
Uh … uh … I don’t know what to say.
(Abruptly.) Dad, why don’t you and Mom go see how Bertha is doing.
Yes, Benjamin. Come, Henny.
(MAURY and HENNIE stand and exit OSR.)
(No longer stiff.) That was rude, Ben.
They were making you feel uncomfortable.
I think I was making them feel uncomfortable.
Your parents are lovely, Ben. (beat) But I don’t think they like me.
I get so nervous meeting new people. I know I can come off as being aloof or something.
Andrea Andropopolis! You’re too self-conscious about that.
Sometimes I think I should have gone to finishing school instead of MIT.
Don’t be ridiculous! Immersed yourself more in pop culture than in Asimov robot stories perhaps. (beat) They were just unprepared for your not eating or drinking anything tonight.
I’m afraid I hurt your mother’s feelings.
Just because she delegates the cooking doesn’t mean she doesn’t take pride in her menu planning.
Don’t worry about it. She may seem soft on the outside, but inside she’s tough as nails, like Dad.
It’s just that I really should avoid alcohol.
I know. And I imagine that fried squid with fermented beans and garlic ginger cornstarch isn’t normally prescribed for morning sickness.
(Nauseated.) Not exactly. (beat) I suppose I could eat the taco shells.
(Hesitates.) Andie, I have a confession to make.
(Reassuring.) I know you haven’t told your parents about the pregnancy yet, Ben.
No, that’s not it. (beat) You see, those aren’t really my parents.
What do you mean?
In a way they are, I guess. But, actually, my parents died a few years ago.
I missed them so much, I programmed their personalities into our first two android robots.
Oh! They’re so lifelike!
All thanks to your work in robopsychology! Now let’s just relax and enjoy the evening. There’s a lot more of my Mom and Dad stored in their memory banks for us to treasure – tonight and in the years to come.
Cast of Characters
Maury: Maurice Astorfeller – a charming 60-something retired diplomat, former U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Although he has an American accent, his manner is more European. It is not until his obedient last line and exit that one might suspect that he is other than what he seems.
Hennie: Henrietta Marx Astorfeller – Maury’s wife (and Harpo Marx’s granddaughter), a 60-something concert harpist, now retired from world tours. Cultured and equally charming, but more down-to-earth than her husband. They both are immensely likeable people – the parents of one’s fondest dreams. As with Maury, it is only her last line and meek exit that might make her seem a bit “off.”
Ben: Benjamin Astorfeller – their 30-something son, a brilliant cyberneticist and inventor of the first AI robot. Although he may be a “nerd” by profession, he is relaxed, self-confident, and worldly. He displays warm affection for Maury and Hennie, up until dismissing them. He remains affectionate and protective of Andie – and of his actual parents – throughout.
Andie: Andrea Andropopolis – Ben’s fiancée, a 20-something woman (ideally with a knock-out figure) with a stiff demeanor and stilted formal speech – somewhat like the Star Trek character, Data (like Data, she does not use contractions in her speech), and like Pygmalion/My Fair Lady‘s Eliza Doolittle at her first public tryout – at least for most of the play.
And that is the challenge for the actress – to give the initial impression that she might be an advanced android robot, while remaining believable as what she really is: a shy nerd who uses the crutch of polite formality to handle social interaction.
Quite some time ago, Don Grimme (DonGrimme.com) earned a BA in Dramatic Arts and performed on stage in New York City and Europe, but soon discovered that a steady pay check was more conducive to his desired lifestyle. Thirty-five years later* – upon retirement from a career as a management trainer and author (e.g., The New Manager’s Tool Kit, AMACOM, 2008) – he returned to the passion of his youth: the theatre.
This time around, he has also taken up playwriting. Thus far he has created two full-length plays, five one-acts, and over two dozen shorts, many of which have been produced on stage or performed by professional actors at monthly readings. [“The 7-11 Butterfly Effect” is his first short story.]
* Yes, he is “old,” but his plays are young at heart and in mind, and contain characters of diverse ages.
Home Is Where Someone Else Lives Now
Walt had a melanoma on his neck. Or at least he thought he did anyway. It was on one of those spots that was located just out of the reach of comfortable vision when one looked into the mirror. The kind of spot that was located in just such a place that when you tried to see it, you tended to pull a muscle in your neck there-bye causing a newer, fresher pain. And pain was not Walt’s forte.
He thought about telling his wife Kaye, but he knew if he did, she’d want him to see a doctor, which to Walt was out of the question. I mean what if he did really did have a melanoma? He certainly didn’t want to know for sure. The mere thought that he might was stressful enough. He couldn’t even image what he’d do if he was completely positive that he did in fact have one. To think one is dying is one thing. But to actually know is something completely different. So Walt did what he normally did. He went on with his life, but with the almost certain knowledge that he was dying.
“I’ve been calling you,” said Kaye when she entered the bedroom.
Walt was sitting on the edge of the bed gingerly touching his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit occupied this morning.”
“There’s a phone call.”
“Did you bring the phone?”
“You’ll have to use the one in the kitchen. The cordless is dead apparently.”
Walt’s eyes began to mist when he heard that the cordless was dead. How symbolic he thought. A dead phone now, and soon a dead me.
“Are you okay?” Kaye asked while walking to the bed.
“I’m fine,” Walt replied. “Just thinking about the poor cordless.”
“Nothing to think about. It’ll be charged and good as new in few hours.”
Walt nodded, and thought how lucky it must be to be a phone. You die, and then a few hours later you’re back to your normal inanimate state.
“Someone named Ray,” said Kaye, “on the phone that is.”
Walt gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then headed downstairs to the one phone that was still living. On his way he began to think if he even knew a Ray. Certainly he must or one wouldn’t be calling. But then again it was possible that this Ray was merely selling something. Possibly time shares, or maybe some form of generic ointment for those with moderate to severe afflictions. The only Ray, Walt could truly remember was his sort of friend from high school, but that was forty years ago. So that Ray calling now didn’t make a lot of sense, although little made sense to Walt at this point. Why was he facing his own death? Where along the lines of life had he failed? Was he saying all this out loud, and if he was, could Kaye hear him? All valid questions he thought as he answered the phone.
“Walt? Walt Egan?”
“You have any idea how hard you were to track down? I’ll bet I called thirty people looking for you. Twenty some didn’t remember you, and a few others thought you were dead. But then I talked to old Smiley, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t know where to find you.”
Smiley? Now that was a name Walt hadn’t heard in years. They were best friends through high school and roommates in college. The last he’d heard from him was a Christmas card about ten years back from some foreign place like Iceland or Wyoming. One of those cold places was all he could remember.
“Ray,” Walt slowly said. “Ray Chandler?”
“The one and only. How in the hell are you?
Dying is what he wanted to say. I have this cancerous growth on my neck that’s slowly killing me. My only chance of survival is for the doctors to amputate half my neck or better yet my head.
“Fine,” Walt said instead.
“Walt Egan. I still can’t believe I found you.”
“I’m in the phone book,” Walt joked.
“The phone book wasn’t the problem. The problem was which phone book. I had no clue what state you lived in. I even tried to find you on the internet, but apparently you haven’t done much with your life, because I couldn’t even find you there either.”
Now he remembered why Ray and he were only sort of friends. Ray was an ass. But he was also older, which back in the day meant only thing. Ray was the first to turn eighteen. Ray could therefore buy beer.
“I see you haven’t changed over the years,” said Walt without feeling. “Same old rascal.”
“And I can still buy you beer. Let’s not forget that.”
Walt took a deep breath and hoped that death might take him immediately.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering why I called?” asked Ray. “Well wonder no more.”
Fabulous Walt thought. I’m dying and yet that’s not punishment enough.
“I have one word for you,” Ray said, “reunion.”
“Not you and I?” Walt replied a little too hastily.
“Of course you and I. Along with the rest of our class if you can still stand any of them.”
“So you’re talking class reunion then?”
“Well you and I could just have one, but we’d no doubt bore each other to death in no time,” Ray said with a comical tone that Walt found rather annoying.
“Forty years huh?”
“Forty on the nose.”
Walt paused for a moment, trying to think of any avenue that might give him cause to refuse this invite, but unfortunately thinking on his feet wasn’t one of his strong suits.
“I suppose I have to say yes,” Walt finally responded.
“Not only do you have to say yes, but I’m going to go out on a limb here. I’m going to let you stay at my house.”
Walt dropped the phone.
“Speechless,” continued Ray. “I thought as much. Didn’t think I was that generous, did you?”
Walt picked the phone up. “Could you please repeat that last part? I seemed to have dropped the phone.”
“I said you can bunk at my house. It’ll save you a fortune on a hotel. No need to thank me. Just remember, first ten beers are on you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Walt said slowly.
“Nothing to say. It’s a done deal. The wife’s dead, so I’ve got plenty of room.”
Walt thought for a moment before answering. Surely there had to be some way out of this.
“I hate to impose,” he finally said.
“Impose nothing. It’ll be just like the old days.”
That’s what Walt feared. The old days for the most part were awful. Everything that could go wrong usually did go wrong. It was one of those mysteries that was no doubt grandfathered in, just waiting for the next opportunity to mock them.
“So it’s settled,” Ray said. “See you in a week from Saturday. I’ll pick you up at the airport. You can email me all the particulars.”
Walt took down Ray’s information, and then felt an incredible urge to jump off the roof of his house, and he would have if he didn’t have a debilitating fear of heights.
When the day of reckoning arrived, Walt was certain he was coming down with something to accompany his melanoma. His head throbbed, his stomach was a butterfly farm, and his feet swelled up just enough to make his loafers a tad uncomfortable. Kaye informed him that is was nothing more than his imagined fear of separation anxiety, and dropped him at the airport. His right loafer split open just as she pulled away.
Five hours later he was in Ray’s car, heading north on the Garden State Parkway.
“If I didn’t look so bad myself,” Ray said, “I’d tell how crappy you look.” Then he let out one of those laughs that made you want to crawl into the glove department and stay there until you died in a massive car crash with one of those movie type explosions.
“Thanks,” was all Walt could respond with.
Ray smiled, with what appeared to be sarcastic evil, and they drove on without any words exchanging. Walt took in the scenery. The smoke stacks. The shipping yards. The smog. It was all coming back to him. His entire youth was surrounded by this. And for the first time in years, he had to admit, he missed it. Even the smell brought back memories of his youth. It had been nearly thirty-five years since he’d been back, but in an odd way it was still his home.
“Do you think we can go by the old house?” Walt asked.
“I can do you one better. I know who owns it now.”
“You’re kidding me?”
Ray nodded and smiled. “You remember Tony McMahon?”
“Of course I do. We hated each other’s guts.”
“Then you might want to make up with him real quick. He bought it a few years back.”
Now that was something Walt hadn’t expected. To not only see the old house, but to have the chance to go through it changed Walt’s entire outlook completely. He smiled. It was the first real smile he could remember since he knew he was dying. To be inside again would be like having his parents back. The memories were that strong. He was sure it was completely different on the inside and out, but to see where he grew up just one more time, was an unexpected pleasure he hadn’t counted on.
“You think you can get us in?”
“Tony and I have a beer now and again at the Inn, so I think I can. Granted that’s if you don’t bring up that thing with the hockey stick.”
The hockey stick. Walt had forgotten about that. Seventh grade hockey. Friday mornings before school. Championship game. Tony had slashed Walt across the shins on his game winning goal in overtime, which in turn caused Walt to break Tony’s nose with an accidental slash across the face.
“It was an accident,” said Walt. “Someone slashes you in the shins and then before you know it your reflexes take over.”
“The accident with him wasn’t the issue. It was the you standing over him laughing that pissed him off.”
“He was an ass, what can I say.”
“Just don’t bring it up,” said Ray. “And he likes beer, so buy him a few tonight when we get to the Inn.”
Suddenly Walt felt ready for a reunion.
The rest of the ride was spent on small talk. They reminisced, lied about life stories, and once even had a minor laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t be all that bad after all Walt thought. Sure Ray’s an ass, but even after all the years, he missed him to a degree. That was the one thing he hadn’t counted on when he came back. The memories. It was like a trap door in his mind had opened and every event of Walt past came back. And in such vivid detail that it was as if he was living them again. It was wonderful.
“That’s Smother’s old house,” Walt said as they drove on by.
“He died a few years back if you didn’t know. Some kind of cancer from what I heard.”
Walt’s stomach grew tight. Smother’s was the epitome of health growing up. He was one of those muscle ridden athletes that never got sick, could out drink anyone, and still feel great the next day, and had such amazing hair, that it wasn’t possible for him to die. It was all in the follicles he liked to say.
He thought about telling Ray about his melanoma, but thought it best to keep to himself at this point. Why spoil a good time for others when you were almost having a good time yourself.
“Here we are,” said Ray pulling into his driveway.
Walt was stunned. It was his friends Brock’s house growing up. Four stories, on a lake, with immense landscaping. It was becoming rather apparent that Ray calling him was for more than a reunion.
“I’ll be damned,” said Walt.
“You’ll be damned even more when I tell you; you get to sleep in the attic,”
The attic. The attic was one of those places that went on forever. In one end there was the equivalent of a living room. In the middle a ping pong table and pool table. At the far end another living room area. Then off in the small L shaped area was a single, twin sized bed. Walt was amazed when he saw the room again, it looked exactly the same. Ray had duplicated it to perfection. It was a thing of beauty.
“What do you think?”
“I’m in awe,” Walt said. “It’s like it never changed.”
“When I bought the house from Brock’s parents, I made sure this all came along with it.”
So that was why it was so perfect. It was the originals. There were stains on the carpets. Holes in the odd wall. Even cigarette burns on a few of the chairs that Walt had witnessed the original burn. It was like going back in a time machine to teenage perfection.
“Brock would have loved this.”
“Couldn’t think of a more fitting tribute,” Ray said, a slight quiver in his voice.
“I still remember that night.”
It was their senior year, right after New Years. Brock went in to the hospital with a 104 fever, and never came back. One of those heartbreaking moments when you realize that you’re not invincible. That even 17 can be the end for some. But to see the room again in all its glory brought back memories of some of the greatest parties Walt had ever been to. And all because of that attic room with Brock.
“You might want to start getting ready,” said Ray. “We’re supposed to be at the Inn by five for happy hour.”
“Sounds great,” said Walt, still taking in the room.
“I’ll be down stairs. You know where everything is up here, so make yourself at home.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Ray nodded and went down the stairs.
Walt took his suitcase over to the bed and started to unpack. It just seemed surreal to him to be back in a world that hadn’t changed. He tried to absorb of much of it as he could, because he knew it wouldn’t last. That was one thing he hated about growing old, his long term memory was still rather good, but his short term was about half that, which made no sense. But sense and Walt suffered a divorce some years back. But what are you going to do he thought. So he took a deep breath, changed into his only suit, and went down stairs to face the inevitable evening of pending disaster.
The Inn was but a five minute drive from the house, in the heart of downtown, a beautiful two block strip that had everything one could ever want. Grocery Store. Pharmacy. Chinese restaurant. Italian restaurant. Shoe repair store. Two gas stations, one on each end. A Sweet Shop. And a Five and Dime store, amongst others. It was the perfection of small town life. A fact Walt hadn’t realized until they parked in front of the Inn.
“Are you ready?” Ray asked as they stepped out of the car.
“I think so.” Walt adjusted his tie and collar. He didn’t want anyone to see his melanoma, and he also didn’t want his collar so tight that melanoma might grow in size due to some odd choke hold move that his shirt might put on it.
“After you,” said Ray, ushering Walt in the front door.
The lighting was dim, the music low, and Walt couldn’t imagine how an entire class was going to fit into this place. At most eighty to ninety people would be the limit. Anymore he reasoned would result in a serious fire code violation. And that was not how he planned on dying. In an imaginary inferno that would render his possible melanoma a mute point.
“I don’t recognize anyone,” Walt said.
“And I doubt anyone would recognize you as well. We’re early. No one should be here for another hour. We’re on the set up committee. I forgot to mention that.”
“Where’s the rest of the committee then?”
“We’re it. It’s just a few tables and some chairs in the back room. The bar’s taking care of the rest once we’re done.”
“Why couldn’t the bar do a few tables and chairs themselves? It can’t be that hard.”
“That’s another thing I forgot to tell you. Tony McMahon owns the place. He likes to think he’s cutting a good deal. Made booking up the place up a tad easier if I volunteered the muscle.”
“So he hasn’t really changed all the much then is what you’re saying?”
“If you mean is he still mostly an ass? Of course he is. But he did cut me a pretty good deal. Even if our muscle is nothing but flab.”
Walt nodded with a laugh, and then they headed to the back to flex their flab. Once the tables and chairs were in order, Ray motioned for Walt to follow him back into the bar area. There, with a huge smile on his face, was a face Walt could almost recognize. And after the smile got bigger it was all but obvious Smiley had arrived.
“You son of bitch,” Smiley said reaching out his hand.
“You’re looking well,” Walt lied.
Smiley was close to three million pounds, and had more chins than Walt and Ray combined.
“Nice lie,” laughed Smiley. “The last time I looked well was the mid nineties. That was the last time I could take a leak without lifting my stomach to find it.”
Walt almost asked him, to find what? But luckily his senses kicked in. That was one habit he’d always had around Smiley. If it was a stupid question, Walt had a habit of asking it, and then the second it came out, only then did he realize the immensity of his idiocy.
“You about asked about it, didn’t you?” said Smiley.
Walt felt the sweat beads begin to form on his forehead.
“Of course not,” lied Walt. “I’m just glad it was still there.”
Smiley bellowed his slightly infectious laugh, slapped Walt on the back, which sent him into the bar, and then offered to buy him a beer.
“Still drinking the same?” Smiley asked.
“I hope not,” said Walt. “I’d like to think I’ve moved up from the dollar fifty a six-pack brand.”
“Well played. A hefty domestic it is then.”
Smiley order a round of beer for the three of them, and that’s when Tony McMahon entered from the kitchen. Walt was the first one to notice him, and unfortunately he’d changed for the worse. He was now nine feet tall, had muscles on top of muscles, and the most tattoos Walt had ever seen on a human being’s arms. Luckily he was wearing pants Walt thought, or he’d no doubt be showing off the bevy he must of had down there as well.
“If it isn’t Mr. Hockey Stick.” Tony said in a deep, serious sounding voice the moment he saw Walt.
Walt took a long pull from his beer, and once again felt the beads of sweat beginning to form on not only his forehead, but also on the flabby crevice just above his almost sixty year old buttocks. He then thought about running away, but realized he had nowhere to run.
“Don’t worry,” said Tony walking over. “Just wanted to see the reaction. And to honest, it was better than I expected.”
“You’re huge,” said Walt shaking Tony’s hand.
“I decided in college huge works better with the shape of my nose.”
“Still sorry about that,” Walt meekly replied. Maybe if he told him he was dying of cancer, Tony wouldn’t look at him as if he was about to rip off his head and eat it.
“All in the past,” said Tony, “and besides, I’m sleeping in your old room these days. Kind of payback enough if you ask me.”
Walt had loved his room. It was a converted attic that his parents had completely redone his junior year in high school. They added a dormer, drywall, and brand new carpet. It was the exact opposite of Brock’s attic room. They were the ying and yang of party bedrooms back in the day, and unlike Brock’s room, Walt kept his fresh. Not so much out of pride, but more out of fear his parents would find out people had been in it.
“I even put a skylight in the room,” Tony beamed with pride. “Right over where the bed is. On a clear night, you can see everything.”
Walt did everything in his power to keep his cool. He wanted to see his old house more than anything, but he knew at this juncture it was best to play Tony’s game rather than being too presumptuous. After all, he had but one chance, and it was a chance he didn’t want to ruin by being overly eager.
“Can I buy a beer?” Walt finally asked.
“No need,” said Tony. “I get them free. Just buy a lot of beer for other people, and maybe if you do, I’ll let you see the house.”
“That would be great,” Walt said a tad quicker than he would’ve liked.
“I’ve got a few things to tend to before the party. So you guys just keep on spending money and we’ll talk later.”
Tony started back to where his massive form had arrived from, when he turned to Smiley. “And you quit smiling so much. I still get nightmares from all your smiling back in high school.” And with that Tony was gone.
“It’s no wonder I never liked him,” said Smiley.
“Don’t let him get to you,” said Ray. “Once an ass, always an ass.”
“Then why do you still have beers with him?” Walt asked.
“Simple,” said Ray. “And here she comes now.”
She was instantly recognizable to Walt. Even after all these years she looked the same. Her beauty, the perfect skin, the amazingly form fitting sweater that screamed, “I’m stretched as far as I can go without bursting.” She was the one girl in school that Walt was possessed with. Roxanne Burns. The epitome of hormonal splendor.
“Oh my God, she’s magnificent,” Walt said in a voice a tad louder than he wanted.
“Thanks,” replied a smiling Roxanne.
“I’m sorry,” Walt stammered.
“No need to apologize. You just got yourself a free beer out it.”
“You remember Walt Egan,” Ray said.
“How could I forget,” said Roxanne. “He was my number one stalker back in high school. I never saw anyone un-tuck their shirt quicker when I was around.”
The beads of sweat once again started to form on Walt’s entire body this time.
“What can I get you?” Roxanne said once behind the bar.
“You work here?” asked a stunned Walt.
“I don’t seem to have any choice. I married the owner.”
How was that possible Walt thought? She was the most stunning creature on planet Earth, while Tony was the stunning opposite.
“Which means she finally saw your bedroom.” said Ray with mock sarcasm.
”Shut up,” Walt said quickly. “You’re going to embarrass Roxanne.”
“No. I’m going to embarrass you.”
“Which judging by the color in his face, I think you already have,” said Smiley.
“Don’t let them kid you,” said Roxanne, handing Walt a beer. “I love your old room. Maybe you can come up and see it while you’re here.”
Walt removed his handkerchief and dried his forehead.
“You’d better stop there Roxie,” said Ray. “You’re going to give the poor man a heart attack.”
And a heart attack was the last thing Walt needed on top of his melanoma.
“I’ll talk to Tony,” said Roxanne. “See if I can get you in the old room.”
Walt took a long sip of beer and settled down. Maybe things would all work out he reasoned. Surely Tony wasn’t going to kill him. At least he didn’t think so. Granted that could all change in an instant if he was alone in his old room with Roxanne. Although in retrospect even when he lived there, he’d never been alone in his room with a real girl. Imagined yes. And for the most part always Roxanne. But even God himself wasn’t going to let Walt have that great of a night.
After an hour or so of embarrassing Walt to the fullest extent of his patience, old classmates began to slowly filter in. Some they recognized, some they didn’t, and some looked so old and horrendous that the three of them didn’t want to recognize them even if they could. Walt didn’t look so bad he thought to himself, even with the thing on his neck. And in an amazing stroke of luck, one of his old class mates, Andy Glickman, was missing half of his own neck no doubt due to his own melanoma. So even if someone noticed Walt’s neck, all he had to do was point to Andy’s, and the conversation would be diverted. He just wondered if he should tell Roxanne. That could be the one turning point that could get him into his old room with her. Not for the sake of getting her in there, but more for the sake of seeing it one last time. And this time with the girl of his younger dreams.
“If you don’t stop staring at her nonstop,” said Smiley, “Tony’s going to finally notice.”
“And if you haven’t noticed yet,” said Ray, “there’s a hockey stick mounted over the bar.”
Walt had to admit, he had been staring a lot. The one thing he hadn’t noticed though was the hockey stick mounted over the bar. And after a moment Walt finally recognized the stick.
“Oh dear God,” Walt said in complete shock. “That’s my stick. The one I hit him in the face with.”
“You’re serious?” asked Ray.
“Positive. See the way the grip is wrapped? No one else ever did it that way.”
Walt’s heart quickly sank, and the river of sweat began to surface for yet another time.
“Got to be another stick,” said Smiley. “There’s no way that stick is still around.”
That’s when Walt noticed his name on the bottom side of the stick. It was then that he knew he was dead.
“Great stick,” said Roxanne joining the chorus of stares. “Tony found it stashed in one of those storage cabinets that you had in your room. Way in the back under some old boxes.”
“He’s going to kill me?” he asked Roxanne in a matter-of-fact voice.
“So that’s what that stick is.” Roxanne finally said. “The famous nose stick.”
Walt nodded again.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” smiled Roxanne. “If it wasn’t for that stick we never would have gotten married.”
Walt’s expression went blank.
“It was his nose,” she said with a smile. “For some reason I was always a sucker for a ruined nose.”
Walt directed his attention to the stick.
“You want to hold it?” asked Roxanne.
“Of course he does,” said Ray.
“Go for it,” said Smiley. “What’s the worst that can happen.”
Roxanne handed Walt the stick. At first it was like holding a foreign object, but after a moment or so, his natural grip all but came back. They were all so engrossed with the stick that no one noticed that Tony was now standing behind them.
That’s when the worst that can happen happened.
“The lucky stick,” said Tony with a gentle pat to Walt’s back catching him totally off guard.
Before anyone knew what had happened, Walt’s reflexes kicked in, the stick went flying, and Tony’s nose was once again sliding off his face.
Walt instantly dropped the stick and took off running out the front door. With no plan in sight he went to the only logical place he could think of. His old backyard. There, he climbed his favorite tree, and waited to die.
Greg Freier is the author of seven full length plays, numerous one acts, and was a finalist in the 2009 Samuel French playwright contest. His plays have been produced from Sydney to off Broadway, and have won numerous awards. His full length plays, “Trapped In My Own Life,” and “It’s The Beginning of the End,” are available at Heartland Plays. Seven of his one acts plays, “We Appear To Have Company,” “I Love You, Mrs. Claus,” “Shadows,” “Big Dog Likes Chocolate,” “Grand Delusion,” “Heavenly Inspiration,” and “There’s A Legend In the Room,” are published by the One Act Play Depot. Eight more of his short plays are available at Independentplaywright.com. His play, “Intentional Deception,” is available in an anthology of the best 50 ten minutes plays of 2013, by Smith and Krauss. He also has two short story collections, “Sleepy Town” and “Thinking for Distance,” both available online at Amazon.Com, and also has had numerous short stories published. He currently resides in the Midwest with his wife, sons, and a white thing named “Phil the Dog.”
Hello dear HIP readers!
We are working our way through a plentiful amount of play submissions that we were thrilled to receive this month! Be on the lookout for fresh material and don’t forget about the SUPERHERO ISSUE coming up next month! Feel free to turn in anything you consider relates to that topic so we can make it the most POW-erful it can be.
HIP Literary Magazine
The Grand Budaptest Hotel: HIP Review by Allie Coker-Schwimmer
It has come to my attention that some of you, dear readers, still haven’t seen The Grand Budapest Hotel yet. As the protagonist, Gustave H, might say–this simply won’t do.
Alexandre Desplat who has done good work for Wes Anderson before, is at his best and from the first few haunting, yet lilting, notes of “Mr. Moustafa,” played as Jude Law climbs the hotel’s steps, you’ll be hooked. The story is told through the lens of four time periods, beginning with the present day and working back through time. It is a structure that is both easy to follow but highly effective in the film.
Wes Anderson has once again assembled his counter-culture brat pack including Adrien Brody, Willem Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Jason Schwartzmann, and Owen Wilson (to name a few) and brings his “L’Air de Panache” to the screen with his signature stylized look and characteristic idiosyncrasies. The movie swings from the hilariously obscene to the appreciation of high art. It is Anderson’s most accessible, marketable, and sentimental film yet. Viewers become engrossed in the world of this pink palace and Zumbrowka’s fine touches (goodies from Mendl’s, whiffs of Gustave’s cologne, etc.) and while this movie is emotional, it never reaches the point of saccharine nor does it prove detrimental to the underlying tone of the film. Don’t miss the opportunities to catch the slight touches of humor! Willem Dafoe turning his head briefly toward the camera and lifting his robe up to run, the howling organ music used for chase scenes through the hotel, and our narrator’s lack of interest in a fellow traveler’s heart attack at the beginning of the movie all make for a rousing, unique, and charming tale.
Gustave H, the protagonist, is more than a mere caricature–we see him angry, in compromising situations, and we even see him flippantly switch between his upstanding regimen to the base of his imperfect moral code. Of course, such characters are only given life if the actors live up to the task and, to me, this is Ralph Fienne’s grandest performance yet. Tony Revolori should not be overlooked either as he is disarmingly innocent and brave and fits the role of young Zero, the other protagonist, perfectly.
So, if you were to ask me, “Is it really worth going out and spending money?” or “Should I really watch an almost two hour movie directed by someone I’ve never heard of?” I would answer a resounding “Yes!” and echo that which young Zero says so many times in the film– “Truly.”
HIP claims no rights to anything related to the preview for The Grand Budapest Hotel nor do we claim to own anything. Source: IMDB
Also recommended for Wes Anderson fans and connoiseurs– The Wes Anderson Collection by Matt Zoller Seitz
You’re the Blue Outline
by Orion J
it’s roughly 11:29pm and i have you roaming around in my mind, then again what else is new? i can imagine you humming along to these tunes while you tangle your fingers in my already so easily tangled hair and i’d count the minutes you spend trying to untangle yourself from me – limbs and all while you’re at it
before you left you made it a point to tell me about how i was like the light of your day and maybe i just might have imagined the caffeine scent that hangs over every single word that spills out of your beautiful mouth in that ridiculous accent of yours. you’re ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. i love the way you make shades of blue seem more vivd and i love the way it curves in to rest against my shoulders as i find inklings of you along the sleeves, almost as if you’re right here next to me. i’d fall asleep in an ocean with dreams as succulent as honey oozing from your lips, catching myself saying ‘good morning’ to a silhouette as i realise that i just may have left just enough space for you to slip your arms around my waist as you pull me close enough to rid the glass between our eyes
i’d like for that to happen again sometime, if you don’t mind and i’m sure you don’t judging by your sleepy murmurs that i manage to piece a ‘i wish you were laying here next to me’, out of when you dial me.
you asked me if i was angry at you, repeatedly, oddly enough you can’t help yourself on fridays. i brushed it off with a laugh and a roll of my eyes because you fail to realise that i could never stay angry at you because well, you make me feel so much more than that
[bullet train of emotions just rush into the gateway of my heart every time i lay my eyes on you]
anger is just my daily attire but you make me want to change into something new and that’s why i am so in love with you
in love with you.
maybe i’ll tell you when you ask me if I’m mad at you some friday of a week.
new years day, only someone like you would plan something right out of a reality television show and i wouldn’t switch channels to be honest, your heartbeat on my left as you leaned in and i don’t remember if i shut my eyes when yours graced mine but it was my first time and i know i play the blind card to it but i remember what exactly it felt like and how my heart was jumping out of chest and how you were trembling right against me as i asked you to kiss me again
[its been a few months and i still hesitate at the thought of kissing you because i’m so afraid of tripping up somewhere but it doesn’t make me want it any less because sometimes i feel like your sugar laced sweet every things could spill into me and i’d never forget how special you make me feel]
yes, i am aware that its ‘sweet nothings’ but anything you say means everything to me and maybe i don’t say it enough but the chance of you choking over my sweet abyss wasn’t a factor i would definitely let it slip out once in a while
you’ve asked me to describe what your scent was and well who would i be to say? i mean sure your scent clings onto my jacket no matter how many times it takes a spin in the wash almost like the thought of you contrasting against the carnival of fairy tale blue fairy lights i hang by the side of my bed, i’d like to imagine that you do the same, i’d like to imagine that you flip through the words left stranded in those pages i’ve spent days rewriting and taking minutes of my day to ensure that you’ll be able to read it – whenever you feel the blue from your clothes painting your spirit, i’d like to imagine that you curled up with your jacket at dusk the same way i did as i tried to dissect parts of me from you only to find that i really couldn’t
it’s the next day and 11:50pm, but you’re still on my mind,
“you’re like the light of my day i can’t get you out of my head sometimes,”
sometimes i flinch when someone make contact with my side and my shoulders but for a second i think that it just might be you cause’ i’m so used to you pressed up so close to me as you run your nails down my side in the darkness that swallows me whole late at night as you pull me closer eyes still on the screen ahead of us as i learn to let go and take your palm in mine, running my fingers over yours delicately just to remind myself that you are here and you are mine and that this moment is ours and ours alone like the others i’d store in the attic of my mind whereby i’d use the fireflies as light to read off the water colouring you’ve left in my mind.
i know you’ve never called me yours apart from that one time whereby i couldn’t differentiate between the sincerity caught between the tides of those flamboyant words of yours that entraps me with every breath as i submerge under the tides.
At night, she’s the first thing he sees. Some nights she clusters with friends. Other times she’s alone. But no matter, her beauty out shines all others. Some nights she plays coy and hides away. But no matter, he loves her just the same.
Serena Vela is currently a graduate student, working on her Masters, in the Language and Literature program at Our Lady of the Lake University. Currently, she lives and works in San Antonio, TX where she spends her free time practicing yoga and writing short stories.
Poems by Douglas Polk