contents
marty turco
blood red lips
chalk birds
where's my richard?
grave robbing
martyrdom
rejections
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Where's
My Richard?
by
Dan Bradley
So he woke up and put his hand to his wrinkled old face as he did every
morning. Rubbing the goddamn crust out of his eyes and huge honker. A
shaft of mean sunlight shone through the faded tangerine sheet that had
been a curtain for ages so he let his calloused hand shield two gray eyes
until the scenery stopped smoldering. He threw the sheets down.
Throwing legs over the left side, as usual to the left, his feet fell into
blue slippers and he glanced at four frames on the far wall— two children,
four grandchildren.. what next?? His head swam and swum.
It had been a long night of whiskey on the rocks. Good thing there was
always one of them something-children to bring it over anymore. He rather
disliked going out much. And if he alternated they never asked questions.
A lazy hand felt the gut that had grown, receded, grown, settled… was a
part of him he would now miss if gone. So much was already gone. His
looks, her mind. Bloody hell. He coughed and moved up to scratch the loose
folds of his neck, his chin…
What theh… he lingered, groggy, on the soft, naked flesh.
Cha.. chin. There's a chin….
A chin of flabby skin in the same spot where only last night—and for the
past 35 years—there had resided a thick beard of iron gray whiskers.
::SMACK:: of course he must be lucidly dreaming
::SMACK:: of course there must be whiskers as he certainly is one who
has.. had …
::SMACK:: … … …
His cheek stung. He was awake.
He shook his head roughly. Awake.
Where on earth…? he was quite conscious now and rather alarmed.
He checked both sides of the bed before turning around where right there,
at the center of the duck-feather pillow, lay each and every hair in the
35 year old beard. As if they had not yet chosen to rise for the day.
How could this…? clutching his head, he ruffled the white hair that was
still there. After a reassuring tug, he stroked it carefully.
Appreciatively.
His mind as numb as it was, it became rather difficult to complete a train
of thought, much less pose a complete question. Finding answers, then,
seemed even more doubtful, so he simply stared at himself in the cracked
mirror across his tiny room, completely empty of thought for the moment.
It had been a long time since he had worried about the aesthetics of
appearance, and his chin now shone a gleaming doughy white against the
porous leather of his cheeks as he sat squinting in the cone of sharp
sunlight still shining in. He felt warmth on much of his face for the
first time in ages, closed his eyes and raised his head towards the sun
like a lizard. Maybe this change wouldn't be bad… ludicrous as it was.
Goddamn I must look thirty years younger, was the only thing he could
muster to assess the situation with.
Thirty-plus years of baggage. Just like that...
His steel gray eyes looked downright blue without whiskers telling them
what to do.
He rose creakily, trod the three steps out the door and turned down the
narrow, flowered hall where, after three more steps, the scent of marion's
pancakes loitered. Every morning there were pancakes. He liked waffles. He
had for 35 years.
He grabbed a plate and she, hearing the clink, automatically turned with a
blank face and a spatula full of thick, buttery cake…
AAAHH!! she flung the whole shebang into the air, causing him to drop his
plate, and both of them to grab counterspace in order to save a fall.
::CRASH tinkletinkle::
What do you… ?
WHERE'S MY RICHARD?!?
What did you… ?
WHERE DID YOU PUT MY RICHARD?!? she picked up the griddle—although still
full of oil and sizzling batter, which spilled out onto the floor, hissing
and steaming—and went at him swinging, flinging grease, spattering
sizzling droplets through space. She hurled the makeshift weapon past his
shiny new face as he backed three steps around that old corner.
He knew better than to reason with madness and backed all the way down the
hall and, grabbing his hat, was through the door. Usually one to take the
sidewalk the long way around, he stepped over the bush, through the
neighbor's yard, stumbled over a lawn sprinkler, and began crossing yards
towards town in bewilderment, hand at puffy chin.
He walked, rubbing and rubbing the skin raw, pulling his hat lower and
lower, shielding his eyes from the rising rising sun. His head swam and
swum.
If anyone saw him on the street they saw only a collar pulled up to the
wide brim of a hat. A headless horseman. And this face he was in
possession of was surely not his own.
How? How?? he implored once again. But what could possibly answer that?!
He soon ceded the battle and began on so now what? (Could he, should he?)
Upon arriving at the outskirts downtown he noticed a hardware store
opposite his corner and crossed without looking to enter. As a man among
men he had always believed many of life's answers began in the hardware
store.
He searched and wandered the aisles, looking at hammers and saws and other
tools of the trades for what seemed like hours. His chin burned raw from
rubbing, but he remained in awe of the spongy folds where harsh whiskers
once were. Also the obvious paranoia of exposing a fresh white jowl for
public viewing kept his hands playing at that itch which would not stop.
While turning a corner into yet another aisle, he blinked up at a dying
bulb casting a shaft of particularly luminous light onto a display of sad
gray mops—lined up in a row, ready to do their dirty duty grayly, sadly.
The bulb popfizzed and went out.
Gray… he mused, sad and gray…
…….
At the checkout, the mop, scissors and crazy glue he purchased came out to
just under nine dollars. He glared at the stranger in the license photo.
Paper or plastic?
None, thank you.
…………….
Why Richard! I'm so glad you're okay! Did you take one of your early
morning walks? she turned from the stove with a spatula full of charred
pancakes from the griddle, which was still covered in dustballs from its
trip across the room.
She secretly wished his straggly gray beard was chestnut brown as it used
to be.
He wished for waffles, but said nothing.
Dan
Bradley wrote this story a little while ago while studying under George Chambers
(null set, Federman). His mom really liked it so he always had high
hopes. In the meantime he's been practicing his guitar, inventing
drinks, raising cats, and wondering if the Cubs will win the series
before he's published. They didn't. Cheers anyway.
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