Adventure Twenty-one: Some Delight

By David Garber

Since my breakup with Shelby, my social life had been a bit slow.  Okay, not exactly slow, dormant.  I was at the point where I got excited just slipping into my skinny jeans.

 Now ordinarily it’s not the best strategy to cruise a pick-up hangout by standing next to the coolest looking dude in the place.  At best you’d figure to get lost in his shade.  But the new me had a plan. I staked out a spot next to a guy who was so Rico Suave he made Jason Statham look like a sissy.  But I thought, if I could just nab one of his cast-offs…

Even Stevie Wonder could see this freakazoid of superior looks was a babe magnet for high 9’s and perfect 10’s.  Me, I’d settle for an okay 4…or even a 2 with a strong pulse and all her own teeth.

 Across the room, a vision approached me and the hunkanator.  Then reality hit. Soon Mr. Amazing would score with this chick and I’d be left alone, performing dental checks on all those 2’s.

Miss Thang sauntered right up to us.  She stared into Mr. Everything’s studly dark eyes and said, “Excuse me.  I’m…”

The dude finished her sentence, “…Hurricane Lacy.  I know, because you’re blowing me away.”

Okay, so he wasn’t the wittiest guy in the world, but hell, he didn’t have to be. 

“Kyle?” she asked, looking past the gonad gangsta and straight at me.

“Yeah, I’m Kyle,” I answered, quite stunned. “Do we know each other?”

“No, but we can change that.”

I figured someone must have slipped some “X” into my drink because this couldn’t really be happening.  Then it occurred to me.  This had to be a reoccurrence of my Psychotic Schizophrenic Disorder. 

So I addressed it head-on. “Are you dead?”

She chuckled.  “Of course not.  If I was, could I do this?”  She reached for my jewels, massaged them ever so gently, which gave me quite a thrill.

“I’m Delight.”

“Delight?”

Seems she was used to that reaction.  “My father was a Boston longshoreman and when I was born, he told the other dockworkers, “I was the de light at de end of de tunnel. It was either gonna be Delight, De-end or Detunnel.”

I reassured her, “He picked da right one.”

She smiled seductively at me.  Either this girl was crazy or I was – and I didn’t really care which.  The focus of my thoughts was getting her home and jumping her bones.

Delight pointed to an attractive girl across the room who I vaguely recognized.  “Liz is my roommate.  She told me you tried to pick her up once and said that you see dead celebrities.”

Shit.  I had tried that once and thought it might work as a pick-up.  Desperate men do desperate things, including telling the truth. 

What I found curious was that Liz shared this tidbit with Delight, and Delight didn’t seem to care.  If anything, it was a turn on – or was that just my beer-buzz thinking?

“Is there anyone famous with you now,” Delight gushed in genuine excitement.  I looked around, knowing no apparitions were there, but I tried to play it a bit.

“No, not right now.  But maybe back at my place.  That’s where they usually hang out.” 

“Then why are we here?”

She bought it!  And before long, the two of us were stripping each other naked, at the foot of my bed.  The distance between us was exactly 6 3/4 inches, I know because – well, I just know.  I stared into her gorgeous blue eyes, then gazed down at her amazing rack, then back to her baby blues, then back to her jaw-dropping breasts.  Hey, I’m a guy.  I can’t help myself.

As I was caressing her perfectly shaped shoulder intending to work my way down, she lifted my chin so I’d be looking her eye to eye.  “Do me a favor.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Bring on Heath. I want Heath Ledger to screw me with you.”

Whoa.  What?

“If he’s not around, how about Kurt Cobain?  Or Johnny Depp.”

I was stunned, and could only stammer, “Depp isn’t dead.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” she acknowledged.  “Well, what other dead guys do you know?”

I shared with her that I couldn’t control who showed up or when.

“But they will come, right?”

“I’m sure someone will,” was all I could utter with any assurance.  That someone was going to be me and probably soon.

She ripped the top off my condom packet with her teeth, spitting the strip to the floor.  This chick was wild.  As she started to slide the protection onto its intended home, I was going crazy mad.  Then I observed her attention waning.  If there was ever need for quick thinking, this was it.

“Slap her ass, Heath,” I shouted.  ”She likes that. Tongue her ear!  You love that, baby, don’t you?!”

She suddenly turned on like a ten thousand volt charge zapped through her body.

“C’mon Heath,” she moaned.  “Do it, Baby. C’mon.  I’m wet.”

Freaky.  I hadn’t even touched her and she was writhing in ecstasy.  Delight either had PSD like me, or was just good ol’ fashioned, bat shit crazy.  But there was something missing.

“Hey, what about me?” I inquired.

“Join us.  I want you both.  C’mon.  C’mon!!!”

I joined in, lying on top of her. Soon she rolled me over and rode me like Seabiscuit.  And she was one helluva jockey.  Her amazing skills had me at the threshold of that nirvana moment.  Just as I released, she did as well, crying out, “Yes! Yes! Give it to me!  Give it to me, Heath!”

I could only hope Delight’s first “give it to me!” was directed to ME.

Mutual climax.  Evidently for all three of us.

As she rolled off, Delight excused herself and headed to the bathroom.  She looked back toward me, “Don’t go anywhere.  That was amazing.  When I get back, get someone else to join us.”

Us?  Hopefully she meant me and her being joined by someone else – not her and Heath and some unnamed third.

Delight had just closed the door behind her when I heard, “You owe me, dude.  Big-time.”

I looked across the room and there was Heath Ledger.  Damn he looked good.  “Why’d you tell her I was here when I wasn’t?”

“From the looks of things, you could have been,” I responded as it sunk in he was as naked as I was, with his manhood standing at full attention.  “Man, even your Johnson smiles like the Joker….that isn’t gay, right?”

He slyly smiled.  “You’re real. I’m not – any longer.  You should be able to bed a chick on your own.  You don’t need me as your crutch.  I’m not a wing man.  I’m a leading man.”

I shot back, “An aroused leading man.”

“Now you are starting to sound gay.  Hey, I may be dead, but I’m not… dead, dead!” Heath shrugged as he continued.  “Look, I don’t mind being used, but where’s your self-esteem, man?  Do you have so little confidence in yourself that you have to trick women into sleeping with you?”

“Uh…  yes.”  I waited a beat, then added, “I’m sorry…”  Then the truth gushed out, “No, I’m not.  You’re Heath “Fuckin’” Ledger.  You’ve got great looks, charm, and a big… personality.  All I’ve got is dead people popping in and out of my head.  Why shouldn’t I use it?”

“Do you think we’ll always be with you?”

I hadn’t really thought about it much.  “I just assumed…”

Heath then looked at me as the bathroom door opened.  “At least she’s hot.  Gotta give you that.”

As Delight slid in next to me on the bed, she looked over and commented on the tent my groin had produced with the top sheet.

“Looks like someone’s ready for round two.”

I smiled and defiantly eyed Heath while addressing Delight, “Who do you want to join us this time?”

 Ledger shook his head, then disappeared.

 With each name Delight listed, I could feel the blood draining from its throbbing location.

 “How about James Dean?  Or John Belushi? I loved him in Animal House.  Do you know Jim Morrison?  The Doors were so dope. Or Hendrix…”

It was gone.  Not just Heath, but the urge, the excitement, the desire…my erection.  As Delight’s wish-list continued, she included every name but mine.  I couldn’t take it.  I finally got her dressed and out the door.

Heath suddenly returned.  “Proud of you, Dude.  You showed some balls.”

“So did you,” I chuckled as the door flung open again.  It was Delight.  “What about Amy Winehouse?  I’d be willing to dip into the lady pond for her…”

Heath broke out in laughter, and I did too.

“At least think about it,” Delight opined.

As she left, I promised her I would.  And I did, the next night.  Oh, and you won’t believe where Amy Winehouse has a syringe-pierced, heart-shaped tattoo. Now dat’s Delight!

Adventure Twenty: Apple of My Eye

by Bill Braunstein

They say when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.  Which is great, if you like lemonade.

I’d rather be handed a blue agave plant, so I could make a shot of tequila.

Love–or lack of it–will do that to you.

It’s been a little over three months since my ex-girlfriend walked out of my life.  It wasn’t just a blow to my ego.  It was a full body slam.  She was everything I wanted in a woman…  Apparently, the reverse wasn’t true.

So, after I got the heave-ho, I did what any self-respecting all-American guy does after losing his sexual meal ticket—stocked up on lotion and purchased a full array of triple-X DVDs.  I was particularly fond of “Silver Linings Lay Book.”

Reading was also high on my list.  I downloaded to my iPad every Internet article I could find on starting over, reinventing oneself, and meeting women.  And I followed the advice religiously.

The man in my mirror looked completely different from the guy who was there weeks ago.  I had given myself an extreme makeover: Kyle edition.

A Beverly Hills stylist coiffed my hair.  I shaved off my beard.  And my clothes were now smart and fresh thanks to a Rodeo Drive shopping spree.

To the old Kyle, an Italian suit was one I spilled wine on.  No more…

Unfortunately, underneath my fancy new veneer, I was still the old Kyle Benson.  That’s why I was about to head to the gym.

The old Kyle had the physique of the Pillsbury Doughboy.  Kyle 2.0 was about to become a lean, mean, woman-seducing machine.

I joined a gym, figuring it would be a great place to meet women.  And I was correct.  It started right at the reception desk.  Upon entering, I couldn’t help but notice behind the counter a physical trainer who seemed to have descended from heaven’s Stairmaster.

She was a blonde babe with a body that had more curves than Mulholland Drive.  And her form-fitting Lycra outfit pushed her breasts out so far, they greeted me long before she did.  Her nametag said “Heather.”  And, let’s face it: Has there ever been an ugly girl named Heather?

Like most Heathers, she was preoccupied and barely noticed me as she announced into a microphone: “Attention, members, the gym will be closing in one hour, please plan your workout accordingly.”

As I watched her fingers clutch that mike, my brain couldn’t stop imagining Heather holding something equally hard and cylindrical.

Finally, she looked at me.  “Welcome to 24 Hour Fitness.”  I eyeballed Heather from top to her very fit bottom, and tried to think of something clever to say…  But the best I could do was, “Hey,” as I wondered why a 24 hour gym was closing at 11 p.m.

After changing into my workout gear, I headed to the main floor, and scanned the room for talent.  It was pretty slim pickings, since it was late on a Saturday night.  Just a dozen or so beefy guys convening around rows of dumbbells and a few women that looked like castoffs from the Belarus Olympic weight lifting team.

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me say, “Why don’t you head to the front desk and ask that girl out?”

I turned around, and standing behind me was a tall, thin bespectacled guy in a very un-gym-like outfit.  He was wearing a black turtleneck.  I recognized him as Steve Jobs.

Immediately I thought, so that’s what’s being stored on the iCloud—dead computer executives.

“Kyle,” Jobs said, “I know your love life has crashed like a disc drive on a Windows computer.  In fact, I know just about everything about you.”

“How’s that?”

“The information you enter into your iPad?  Where do you think it all goes?  We’ve been keeping tabs on you in Cupertino.  So sorry to hear about your ex.”

“That’s why I’m here at the gym,” I told Steve.  “I’m looking for a new start.”

“The truth is,” Jobs said, “it’s just as easy to re-boot a life as it is a computer.  I always lived by the philosophy of ‘Think Different.’  And that’s my advice to you.”

“Well, I hope it works out better than that antenna you designed for the iPhone 4.”

Jobs was not amused, but he plowed ahead.  “Look at all these jocks,” he said, motioning to the cardio cowboys in the weight room. “You’re not going to out-muscle them.  You’ve got to go with your strengths.  Think brains, not brawn.”

“Go on,” I said, intrigued.

Jobs continued.  “Muscle doesn’t win over women.  Intelligence can be just as sexy.”

“I’m not sure I’m buying that,” I said.

“Just do what I’ve done with every product I’ve ever released–a risk/benefit analysis.”

“Risk/benefit analysis?”

“Sure.  Ask yourself: is the risk of rejection worth the benefit of potentially bedding down the hottest woman you’ve ever seen?”

It was hard to argue logic with the pioneer of the personal computer revolution.  I decided to head to the reception area to, as Steve Jobs might say, graphically interface with Heather.

As I approached the front desk, Steve Jobs walked in lock-step directly behind me.  I nodded in Heather’s direction, and she back me, motioning that I should wait a minute.

Once again, she brought the microphone to her lips. “Attention, 24 Hour Fitness members, the gym will be closing in 30 minutes, please plan your workout accordingly.”  Then she faced me, “Yes, what is it?”

Jobs now stood behind Heather.  With both hands outstretched, he egged me on to say something…  And I did.

“You know, a microphone is an acoustic-to-electric transducer that converts sound to an electrical signal.”

Heather looked through me as if I was made of glass.  “Huh?”

At least Jobs was impressed.  He silently encouraged me to keep going.  So I continued.  “The speed of sound depends on the medium the waves pass through.”  Heather stared at me blankly.  “Is that your way of asking for an extra towel?”

As my nervous frustration mounted, I sensed it was definitely time to go to Plan B.  And all I could think of was a lame pick-up line from my high school days.  I locked my brown eyes onto Heather’s baby blues, and gave it my best shot.

“Heather, if I said you had a sexy body, would you hold it against me?”

My heart raced as she looked intently at me.  “That’s the lamest pick-up line I’ve ever heard—and I hear them all day.”  Then, Heather laughed so hard, she actually dropped her microphone on the floor.

Ever the gentleman, I quickly bent down to pick it up.  Just as quickly, Heather did the same.  Our timing was perfectly bad.   As we each moved forward, our heads cracked against each other.  Hard.

We both fell to floor, me awkwardly spread eagle on top of her.

“Get off me,” Heather screamed. “Get off me now!”

It was bad enough Heather was yelling at me.  Worse, was hearing her voice reverberate throughout the gym.

Heather hadn’t turned off the mike.

“What are you doing!?” her voice boomed in every direction.

As I rose to my wobbly feet, I was now surrounded by five burly dudes who looked like they ran the gym’s steroids concession.  One asked Heather if she was okay.  The four others escorted me out of the gym.  That is, if being heaved through the facility’s double doors onto the street counted as being escorted.

Overlooking me was Steve Jobs, as I slowly arose.  “Dude,” he intoned, “I said ‘Think different,’ not ‘Think stupid.’”

I was bummed.  “You said using smarts to pick up women would work,” I whined.  “Instead, I almost got my ass kicked.”

Jobs shrugged.  “You didn’t use smarts,” he said. “You used a pathetic pick-up line.”  And with that, he walked off into the night.

It wasn’t long before I got home, alone, and found myself popping a movie into my DVD player.  After that experience at the gym, my plan was to kick back, relax, and forget about what had just happened.

The film I chose didn’t have much of a plot, and the acting was pretty horrible.  But then, my expectations in those departments were pretty low.

All I wanted was a story with a happy ending.

And that’s what I got, repeatedly–watching “This is 40-Double D.”

ADVENTURE 19: Taking Control

By Lawrence H. Levy

It was three months since I burned down my apartment house and Shelby dumped me.  I spent my days at work and my nights getting majorly stoned on weed and “shrooms.”  I was tapering down, getting almost back to normal, when my boss called me into his office to deliver the good news.  My promotion was coming earlier than expected.

“All you need is the requisite urine test, and you’re good to go.  They’ll be here in an hour.”

“Urine test?” I asked, trying hard not to sound concerned.

“Normal procedure.  They just want to be sure they’re not welcoming a druggie to our management team.  You’re not a druggie, are you, Kyle?”  He laughed.

“Oh yeah, big time main-liner.  That’s me.”  I laughed with him but was scared shitless.

Not only was my promotion and job at stake but also any self respect I had left.  I was just beginning to crawl out of the toilet and fate was trying to flush me back down.  I went to Chad for advice.  He was the biggest stoner I knew, and he was close by.  He worked in the stock room.

“Chad, what do you do when you have to take a drug test?”

Chad jumped back, knocking over a stack of surge protectors.  “We’re havin’ a drug test?  Oh man, I am seriously fucked!”

I had my answer.  I assured Chad that we weren’t.  He was still so bummed out he had to take a smoke break, and it was obvious what he was going to smoke.

I called my buddy Clarence who I remembered had bragged once about beating the test.  I told him my situation, and he said he had the perfect solution.  He only lived ten minutes from work, so I took an early lunch and headed out.

Clarence had everything ready for me.  “Everything” was a Whizzenator: a rubber penis that hid a rubber bulb inside which could hold a clean urine sample.

“The only problem is,” Clarence said, “I’m out of synthetic urine samples.  You’re gonna have to get someone’s clean urine, and I’m definitely not that guy.”

I thanked Clarence and left.  Clean urine wasn’t my only problem.  Clarence was black, and even if the tester didn’t completely stand over me, whipping out a black cock could easily blow my cover.  Blaming it on an unfortunate accident at a tanning salon might have worked, but I opted for something better.

I couldn’t spend the precious minutes I had on self image, so I pulled out the Whizzenator at Home Depot and showed the guy in the paint department.

“I need paint that will stick to this rubber, dry fast, and is the closest to flesh color that you can approximate.”

After staring at the black Whizzenator and then me, the paint guy had a wise ass, homophobic comment.  “Ooo, I see we’ve been doing some role playing, Missy.”

There was no way I was gonna deal with this shit now.  “Yeah, and I really love it,” I shot back.  “So either bend over and join me or just give me the fuckin’ paint… please.”

I was soon driving back to work, the Whizzenator in the backseat on newspaper, drying from my hasty paintjob

“Kyle, you’ve got to be very careful about your next step,” a voice from my passenger seat warned me.  I looked over and saw my PSD condition had conjured up former President Richard Nixon of Watergate fame.  I was all ears.  They didn’t call him Tricky Dick for nothing, and getting pointers from him could be very helpful.

“Trust no one.  If you want things done right, do it yourself.  Don’t make the mistake I made.”  I knew he was referring to the guys who bungled the Watergate break-in and resulted in his being caught.

“The fewer people involved, the less chance anything will go wrong,” he cautioned me.

“Got it,” I said, focused on his every word.

“So, what’s your plan?”

“I need pure urine.  I’m going to go to the straightest guy I know at work, look him right in the eye, and lie like a sonuvabitch.”

“That’s my boy!” Nixon shouted like a proud father.  “You’re a natural!”

I already had my target picked out.  Manju Banerji, a Hindu techie and a complete computer nerd who made Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg look like jocks.  I found him in the back of the store on break getting his thrills by turbo boosting an old laptop to max-op speed.  I hated to interrupt his orgasm, but I was on a mission.

“I need your piss, Manju.”

“Whatever for?” he naturally asked.

“I’m working on an inexpensive water regeneration system that will turn pee into drinking water, and I need different samples.”

Nixon blanched.  “What genius!  Why didn’t I think of that?””

Manju stared at me for what seemed forever.  “Make sure you scan for microbes at the end.  That’s where most systems screw up.”

“Definitely.  Wouldn’t dream of doing it any differently.”

A little later Manju emerged from the bathroom, his piss in a coffee cup with a smiley face on it.  Just as he handed it to me, my boss walked by.

“Better down that coffee, Kyle.  You’ve got your you-know-what in five.”

I made like I was toasting him with my coffee and almost fooled myself but pulled it away from my lips just in time.  I went in the bathroom, filled the Whizzenator’s rubber bulb, thoroughly washed my hands, and I was ready.  Manju insisted I return the cup to him.  I did so reluctantly, making a mental note never to drink out of a smiley face cup at work ever again.

Nixon was glowing.  “You have greatness in you, son.  Mark my words.  You will go far.”

It was time for my test, and I marched in to meet my destiny.  It turned out the guy giving the test wasn’t very thorough, but who could blame him?  I mean, watching guys whip it out for him every day couldn’t have been his original career goal.  He gave me a quick onceover and allowed me enough slack to let the Whizzenator work its magic.  I gave him Manju’s urine, and walked out with a definite hop in my step.  I had won!

The next day, my boss took me aside.  “Kyle, you have to take another urine test.”

Nixon quickly appeared with advice, “You need to come clean now, Kyle.  If I had done that at the beginning, I would have never had to resign.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked as innocently as possible, totally ignoring Nixon.

“It’s not drugs or anything like that.  The lab found an unusual amount of estrogen and progesterone in your urine.  I mean, that amount is only present in guys who are going through hormone replacement therapy.”

“Hormone replacement therapy?”

“Guys who want to become girls.  You know, transgender, transsexual, that kinda thing.”

“Holy shit!” screamed Nixon.  “That Hindu nerd wasn’t getting laid, so he decided to switch teams!”  He then sternly demanded, “Now, Kyle!  Tell him the truth!”

I bowed my head and said, “I have a confession to make, sir.”

“Yes, Kyle, what is it?”

“I want,” I blurted out but couldn’t finish.  “I want…”

”Yes, Kyle, what do you want?”

I looked right at him.  “I want to be a woman.”

Then, my boss hugged me.  Yes, hugged me!  Apparently, he had a family friend who went through sexual reassignment surgery, and he was very sympathetic.  He wished me good luck and assured me that he and the company would stand behind me no matter what my final decision about my sex would be.

A stunned Nixon followed me out of the office, singing my praises.  “You were magnificent in there, Kyle.  You’re a true artist!”

I turned to Nixon.  “You know where you blew it, Dick?  By resigning, you admitted guilt.  Never end the lie, just extend it.  Look at Bush and Cheney.  They invaded Iraq.  No matter how much proof surfaced that there never was evidence of weapons of mass destruction, they kept twisting the story, making up new things.  And nothing happened to them.  Even today tons of people still believe them.”

Nixon mused, “Maybe if I told ‘em Watergate was a reaction to a medical condition… Damn, Kyle, I wish I had you instead of that piss ant Haldeman.”

As I strutted off, Nixon gave me a standing ovation.  I felt like I had finally seized control of my life, and I was on my way up the food chain.  Now all I had to figure out was if I should inform my boss of my decision to stay a man before or after I grew tits.

Breaking News

THIS JUST IN:

“A Few Minutes With…” is making some exciting new changes.

We’re going on hiatus for one week, from April 22 to April 28, during which time we hope you’ll take the opportunity to check out some of our previous adventures you may have missed.

When you return, we’re confident you’ll enjoy the exciting character changes, the enhanced interaction with Kyle’s celebrity visitors and our  amped up, edgy and provocative new tone..

So check back Monday, April 29^th when Kyle takes us into a brand new world of the unknown, still accompanied by his dead friends, but marching to a new moral compass.

Adventure Eighteen: Bed, Bath and Beyond Stupid

Written by: John Tellegen

“No, no, no,” I explained to the assistant manager at Bed Bath & Beyond, “they have to be floating candles because I want to float them in the tub.”

“Why do you want candles in the tub?” she said, perplexed, her perfume almost making me vomit.

“Romance.  Don’t women love that stuff?” I asked, unsure of myself.

“Not really,” she shot back, “I prefer he just do the dishes once a year.”

She smiled.  I nodded.  It started to feel awkward.

 “So…what’s the occasion?” she asked.

“I’m going to ask Shelby to marry me,” I proudly proclaimed.

“Good for you.  Just remember to do the dishes once a year!”  She grabbed some long stemmed, taper candles and held them up.  “Which of these candles do you like?  They’re scented.”

“I dunno.  Maybe the pine forest or the aqua blast…the cinnamon?”  I kept hemming and hawing.  She was getting annoyed.

“They’re candles.  They’re not life changing.”

“I guess I’ll go with the cinnamon,” I stuttered.

“This Shelby of yours must have the patience of Job,” she muttered to herself.

By the time I got home my nerves were fried, well more fried than usual.  I wanted the night to be perfect.  I wanted fireworks when I proclaimed my love for my beloved.

I rushed around my apartment, setting the scene, but I was having a terrible time making decisions.  What should I wear?  Should I use paper napkins because they’re more sanitary or the checkerboard cloth napkins from my picnic basket?  What music would be just perfect to set the stage for her gleeful acceptance? 

I could use some help.

“God I wish Martha Stewart was dead!” I yelled to the cosmos.  I needed some famous dead designers to intervene and help me get this dumpy apartment in the proper romantic state.  I grabbed my laptop and Googled famous dead designers.  A bunch of fashion designers popped up.

“Hey, Versace!  You here?  What should I wear tonight???”  I asked to nobody in particular.  Funny enough, nobody in particular replied.  I switched gears and Googled dead interior decorators.  Someone named Michael Taylor popped up on my screen.  I had no idea who he was but apparently he was best known for creating the ‘‘California Look.’’  That sounded inspired.

“Michael Taylor!  Show yourself!  Give me some decorating magic!”

Nothing. 

The irony wasn’t lost on me.  I don’t want dead people around and they’re all over me.  I want them to help in a time of need and they can’t be bothered.  Kyle luck I called it.

“Fine, screw it, I’ll do it myself!” I sneered.

I started to set up the candles but I only had two candleholders and I had six candles.  It was time to improvise.  I gathered up some glass Coke bottles I kept from when I took Shelby to the fair.  The candles were a bit loose and hanging to the side so they didn’t look great but I figured I would score some points with the romantic aspect.

I finished setting the table, showered up, got dressed, started the music, stuck Nana’s diamond ring in my pocket, and waited for my true love to arrive.  My soul was on fire.

When Shelby finally knocked, I leapt off the couch and skipped through the living room.

As I opened the door, she looked amazing.  “Welcome back to my humble abode,” I said.  “Can I interest you in a glass of wine?”  I was laying it on a little thick but this was my night and I never wanted to forget it.  Shelby looked a little spooked by my demeanor but I was sure she had no idea what was coming.

“Wow,” she said with less enthusiasm than I expected.  “You really set the place up.”

“Nothing is too good for my sweet.”  Then I realized I forgot to light the candles.  “Oh, shit!”  I grabbed a lighter and quickly lit all six candles in the living room.  “There.  Perfect.”

“Kyle—“”

“Stop right there.  Don’t say a word.  I was planning on waiting until after dinner but I can’t contain myself.”  I dropped to my knee and pulled the ring from my pocket.  “Will you, Shelby, marry me and spend the rest of your life……with me…as my wife…  you and me……forever……”  Okay, maybe I should have practiced my delivery.

She exhaled deeply as her face seemed to drop.

“Oh, Kyle…”

“‘Oh, Kyle’?” I said from my knee.  “Is that a, ‘oh, Kyle I would love to be your wife,’ ‘oh, Kyle’?”

She slowly shook her head.  “No,” Shelby said as she sniffed her nose.  Her eyes started to tear up. 

I rose from my knee.  It was starting to hurt as much as my soul. “No?  What’s wrong?” I asked.  Shelby crossed to the couch and sat.

“I can’t believe you ask me to marry you on the night I was planning on breaking up with you.”

“Breaking up with me???  Why?”

“It’s just not working out—”

“I knew it!  You’re screwing that rich guy from work, aren’t you!” I accused.

“No,” she said, offended.

“Then you’re going back to your ex, the guy from Applebees.  Or even worse, Chazz!”

“No, Kyle.  I’m not seeing anyone.”

“You’re leaving me for no one…  How is that even possible?  Then someone told you what happened at the strip club…” I sheepishly confessed.

“…What happened at the strip club?”

“………Nothing, why do you ask?”

“Look,” she continued, “it just feels like we want different things in life.  I thought I could get over the fact that you work in a simple electronics store, drive a simple beater, always act so neurotic, mumbling into thin air…..but it turns out I can’t.  I don’t know what it is but there is just something…off.  I guess, I’m just not that into you, Kyle.”

And with that she left. 

And I chased after her, bounding through the living room, knocking over a chair, the sofa, and a hat rack in the process.  I wasn’t going to let my love get away that easily.  As I slammed the door I heard the picture of us from our second date at mini-golf fall off the wall. 

I darted after her and grabbed her arm as she was crossing the street in front of my apartment building.

“Shelby, please.  What can I do?  I’ll change.  I’ll be different.  I’ll do dishes!  I can’t believe you’re ditching me for nobody!”

Her face told the story; she was standing in front of me but she was already gone.

“I just need to move on and you should too.”  She jumped in her car and screeched away, leaving me standing in the street.  I felt like I had been run over by a truck and as I turned to walk back to my apartment, what I saw made me wish a big rig would just finish me off.

Smoke and flames were billowing out the windows of my unit.  The entire building would soon be engulfed.  People fled out fire exit doors holding their pets and yanking up their underwear.

We all stood in the street watching as the firemen bravely battled the blaze but it was no use, the building was a goner.  I could hear other tenants grumbling around me.

“How do you think it started?” one asked.

“I smell cinnamon,” another barked.

“It’s definitely electrical!” the know-it-all from 3-B declared.

Just then, two firemen walked past.  “Wasn’t electrical.  Some dumbass was using Coke bottles as candleholders.”

I swallowed hard and inched away from the angry mob, bumping into a well-dressed man in a collared shirt.

“You should have used votive candles,” the man said.

“Yeah, what makes you such an expert,” I shot back.  “And how do you know it was me?—”

“I’m Michael Taylor.  Best known for creating the ‘California Look.’”  He smiled like a man who just hit a hole in one.  I immediately hated him.

“Listen here, ‘Michael Taylor the California look guy,’ I may have Googled you in a moment of weakness but I only accept visits from A-listers like Elvis and Michael Jackson.  So beat it!”

Just then, the angry man from the mob pointed at me.  “Where’s that guy slinking off to?  I bet he’s the candle man!”  The rest of the mob seemed to agree with him.  They started to surround me.  The Bloated Banker who always takes up two parking spaces cocked a bat from his Little League days.

“Let’s burn his ass!” yelled the old bag from 2-F.

“It seems to me it is you who better beat it!” Michael Taylor said through a smile.

And beat it I did.  Off into the night…

Adventure Seventeen: Wanna Be Starting Something

by Bill Braunstein

I’d be a great dancer if it weren’t for two things—my feet.

That’s why I hate getting up on a dance floor.  But today, whether I like it or not, I have to cut the rug with Shelby.  And I’m dreading it big time.

“Kyle, I hope you’re ready…  The band looks like they’re about to take the stage.”

“Great, Shelby,” I said with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man staring at a noose.

“You promised, Kyle…  It’s just a dance.  And besides, you have to.  You can’t embarrass me in front of all these guests.”

Right, these guests.  See, we’re at the wedding of our two best friends — Brendan and Bailey.  Yeah, I know.  Their names sound like a drink you’d order at a West Hollywood bar.

But Brendan works with me at the electronics store.  And Bailey has known Shelby since they were little.  And now they’re newlyweds.  They just finished tying the knot in the chapel next door.

We’re standing in the cavernous reception hall.  And my stomach is doing the kind of somersaults that would make gymnast Gabby Douglas proud.  “Geez, Shelby, how many people would you say are here?”

“Just a few hundred,” she said.  “You’ll be fine.”

Looking at Shelby, I must say, calmed me a little.  She was a vision.  Bailey had asked her to be maid of honor, and Shelby dazzled when we left my apartment earlier today — pretty pink dress, satin gloves, hair tied back with a matching bow – no Lady Gaga meat dress for my girl.

But now, in a few minutes, after the traditional first dance between the bride and groom, there’s going to be a special dance for the bridesmaids and their partners.  And I’m about to become the thing I dread most…the center of attention.

My brooding was temporarily interrupted when I noticed Shelby frantically going through her handbag, a concerned look on her face.

“Kyle,” she said, “one of my gloves must have fallen out of my purse in the chapel.  Could you be a dear, and check if it’s there?”

“Sure,” I said, happily grabbing at this escape hatch.  “See you in a couple of hours.”  The look on Shelby’s face told me she wasn’t amused.  “Just kidding; I’ll be right back.”

Walking through the elaborately decorated garden and into the chapel, I could hear the band start playing…  It was one of those dance tunes that’s become a wedding standard…

  I said you wanna be startin’ somethin’. / You got to be startin’ somethin’.                               I said you wanna be startin’ somethin’ / You got to be startin’ somethin’…

As the music wafted through the air, I headed to the area where Shelby and I sat during the ceremony.  I figured her glove must have fallen to the ground, so I got on my knees and started poking around.

“Looking for something?” came a soft, almost girlish voice from behind me.

“Yes,” I said, without looking up…  “I’m looking for a glove.”

“Did it look anything like this?”

I rose to my feet.  Standing in front of me was a guy dressed in a black leather jacket decorated with buckles and clasps, and a dark fedora atop his head.

He held out his left hand.  On it was a white leather glove covered in rows of glittering rhinestones.

Wow, I thought.  This guy could easily pass for Michael Jackson.

Quickly, I put two and two together.  The song that was playing—“Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’”…  The glove…  The strong resemblance to the “King of Pop”…  It was obvious.  This dude’s part of the wedding entertainment – an MJ impersonator.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be next door?  You’re with the band, right?”

The man just laughed.  “No, no…  My band-playing days stopped a few years ago.”

Then it hit me…  This wasn’t a dead ringer for Michael Jackson.  It was, well, a dead Michael Jackson.  Holy Moses!  My PSD had kicked in again.

Michael started taking off his glove.   “Here, you can have mine…   It matches your suit.”

“No, Michael,” I said, “the glove I’m looking for is pink.”

“Oh, of course, that’s much better color for you.”

“The glove is my girlfriend’s,” I said.  “She lost it in here somewhere.”

Michael moved with the grace of a finely tuned athlete.  And his observational skills were just as keen.  He didn’t just walk to the front of the chapel; he effortlessly bounded there as if defying gravity.  And then he pointed under a chair.

Sure enough, there was Shelby’s missing glove.  I tried to mimic Jackson’s moves as I went to where he stood, but I tripped and stumbled as I approached the glove.

“Dude,” Michael laughed, “you’re clumsier than an elephant, and I know because I used to own one.”

“Yeah, I’m a klutz; that’s my problem,” I said as I picked up the glove and placed it in my pocket.

There was a part of me that wanted to run next door and tell Shelby the greatest singer/dancer/songwriter in world helped me find her glove.  But another part of me wanted to stay right here, because I dreaded heading back.

I sat down, and took a deep breath.

“That’s quite a party going on next door,” Michael said.  “Shouldn’t you be with the others?”

“Well, I should be, but to be perfectly honest, I’m a little nervous about what’s going to happen once I get there.”

Michael looked at me, his dark eyes filled with sympathy.  “Yes, you seem a little frightened.  The color has drained from your face.”

My first thought was a witty rejoinder, like “you should talk?”  But it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead…especially directly to the dead.  Jackson asked me what was wrong.

“I have to dance in front of hundreds of people,” I said, “and I’m very self-conscious about it.  I’m not like you.  I hate having the spotlight on me.”

Michael nodded as if he understood perfectly.  “You might be surprised to know I’m the same way in my private life.  As a child, I was quiet and shy.”  He grew wistful.  “When you’ve got eight brothers and sisters, you’re never the center of attention.”

I laughed, “Well, that changed as you got older.”

“Not by choice…  Yes, I grew up in the public eye —  from being a child star with the Jackson Five to my solo career – but no matter how successful I got, I was always painfully timid when off-stage.  The only time I’m at ease, is when I’m performing.”

Jackson chuckled softly. “Dancing is beautiful. It’s like putting your soul out there for the world to see.  Watch this.”

He then did a perfectly executed moonwalk; his feet appeared to step forward as he moved backward. Then, Jackson dropped down into a split, arose with a pirouette, turned towards me, and tipped his fedora.

“It’s easy, see?”

“Well, that’s the point,” I said. “You’re not scared of performing.  I am.”

“What are you scared of?”

“My friends are here,” I said.  “My girlfriend is here.  If I make a fool of myself on the dance floor, I’ll never hear the end of it.  I don’t want to be ridiculed.”

“Look,” Jackson said, “you can’t be concerned with what others say about you.  I’m not. I’ve seen the stories people have written about me over the years. You know, all that Wacko Jacko stuff.”

“Michael, I never believed any of those stories,” I lied.

“If I paid attention to that,” he continued, “I’d have been absolutely paralyzed.  But I learned how to tune out hateful noise.  I may have marched to a different drummer in my life, but I always followed my heart. And you should, too.

“You’ve got to dance like no one is watching.”

Okay, so maybe he was beginning to sound like a Hallmark card, but I got his point…  It was time to head to the fate that awaited me.

I returned to the reception hall, and handed Shelby her missing glove.  The time I spent with Michael Jackson was a blur.  I didn’t know if I had been gone five minutes or five hours…  But at least Shelby was glad to see me.

“Oh, Kyle,” she gushed, “you missed it!  Look what I’ve got!”

In her hands, was a bouquet.  “Nice flowers,” I said.  “Where’d you get those?”

“Bailey.  While you were gone, she threw her bouquet into the crowd of single women, and I caught it.  Do you know what that means?”

I certainly did.  And I didn’t want to talk about it.  But Shelby did.

“It means I’m next.”

The band started playing another wedding standard, Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are.”

This was not a time to talk about the tying of any knots… unless it was the knots in my stomach.  It was dance time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Michael Jackson standing in the doorway.  He motioned with his hands that I should move closer to my lady in pink.

“You’re right, Shelby,” I said, gathering all the confidence I could muster. “You are next.  May I have this dance?”

As I led Shelby to the center of the room, every pair of eyes in the hall was on us—or so it seemed.  But I didn’t care.

Inspired by Michael Jackson’s actions and advice, I summoned all the powers of recall and muscle memory I could muster, and attempted to recreate the dance moves he’d shown me in the chapel.

First, I did a spectacular moonwalk…  Then, like Michael, I leaped high into the air, landed in a split, and bounded up from the ground with a deftly turned pirouette.  Bowing to the crowd’s wild applause, I extended my hand to an awed Shelby.

Well…  That’s the scene I fantasized.

What actually happened was this:  I stepped on Shelby’s dress train, and fell flat on my ass.

Trying to stand up, I grabbed at a nearby table, but accidentally pulled hard on the table cloth.  I then watched in horror as plates, silverware and a very pretty floral centerpiece cascaded to the floor.

Shelby just shook her head.  “That’s what I love about you, Kyle.  You really know how to commit.”

Was she talking about my moves on the floor?  Or was that a veiled reference to her catching that bouquet?  All I could do was smile meekly.

The band played on, and I was determined to finish what I started.

I put my hands around Shelby’s waist, and she seemed to melt in my arms as we moved as one.  Was I hearing the crowd’s cheers, or jeers of laughter?  I didn’t know, and didn’t care.

Time stood still as the faces in the room slowly faded away.

And then, I danced like no one was watching.

Adventure Sixteen: A Little Bit Of Help From My Friends

Written by Lawrence H. Levy

Ego’s a weird thing.  It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself something.  It doesn’t matter how much you rationally believe it.  It still comes right back and bites you in the ass.  And my ass was missing some major chunks.

The day started out all right.  Awesome, really.  My asshole boss called me into his office and told me what a great job I was doing.  Not such an asshole.  And if I kept it up, I’d be getting another promotion by the end of the year.  A goddamn prince, really.

I couldn’t wait to tell Shelby.  Definitely in person though.  Lunch would be good.  I wanted to see the look of pride on her face.  It would be enough to keep me smiling at all those pain-in-the-ass customers at my job who were bitching about the stuff they were returning.

“Sure, Kyle, but I only have forty-five minutes.  It’s really busy here today.”

“Here” was the law firm in which Shelby worked.  “Great,” I said.  “Forty-five minutes with you is better than forty-five years with…”  And I couldn’t come up with anything that would complete my spectacular compliment.  “Well, you know,” I finished.   I should’ve known I was off my game and fate was about to take a major dump on me.

We met at Baja Fresh, not exactly the most romantic setting but I hadn’t gotten my new promotion yet.  I ordered the Diablo Burrito (which would totally prove to be prophetic) and Shelby the Mango Chipotle Chicken Salad.  When I safely had our order number in my hand and we sat down, I decided it was time to lay it on her.  Only she spoke first.

“Kyle, the most wonderful thing just happened to me.  Mr. Beever, my boss — you know, the managing partner of the law firm?  As I was leaving to meet you, he called me into his office.  It’s amazing, Kyle, just amazing!”

“Yeah, he must have a pretty nice office, but I have…”

“Don’t go all 404 on me, babe.  Listen.  He told me the firm is willing to pay for my last year of law school if I agree to work for them after graduation.  If I agree.  I’da killed for a job there.  Isn’t that amazing?”

“Wow, that’s more than amazing,” I managed, shocked to my bones.  “It’s unreal, fabulous, stupendous.”  And it made my news seem unimportant, trivial, inconsequential.  That meant in a year she’d be making six figures and if everything worked out for me, maybe I’d be pushing close to forty grand.  It was like two baseball players.  One was about to get his first start in rookie ball and the other got called up to the majors.

Anyhow, I never told her my news.  Instead, I plastered the biggest smile on my face for forty-five minutes as my Diablo Burrito lit a fire in my stomach like it was laughing at me.

Okay, I admit it.  My ego’s way out of whack.  I should have felt only joy for her and not the unrelenting sorrow I felt for myself.  But I couldn’t help wondering if our life was going to be like that — slap singles vs. power-hitting phenom.  Pretty soon I’d be known as Mr. Shelby Seymour.

I stopped on the way back to work, parked on a side street in Van Nuys, and  sparked a joint while listening to a K-EARTH Beatles marathon.  John Lennon’s “Imagine” started blasting on my radio.  Ironic?  No, just plain fuckin’ pathetic!  I suddenly felt the need for a road trip to Vegas or Big Bear or anywhere but where I was.  Before I did, I called in sick to work.  The reason?  It’s against the law to talk on your cell while driving and I was such a loser I couldn’t afford a car with Bluetooth.  God, I sucked big time!

As I pulled onto the on ramp of the 101 freeway, there was a guy hitchhiking.  I never pick up hitchhikers.  They can rob and kill you, bore you to death or just plain stink up your car.  But I decided it was time for me to shake up my life, so I stopped, opened the passenger door and waved him in.  Jeez, I was a regular fuckin’ rebel.

When the guy got in and I took off, I offered him a toke.  I mean, any guy that’s hitchhiking has gotta smoke, right?

Suddenly, I heard a Liverpoolian accent.  “Thanks, but I don’t fancy any now.  I’m already ace.”

I turned and got a good look at him for the first time.  It was freakin’ John Lennon — long shaggy hair, wire-rimmed glasses and all.  I never thought I’d ever say it, but I screamed, “Thank you PSD!  I’ve got psychotic-schizophrenic disorder and I’m lovin’ it!”

“Careful, you’re still driving, mate.”

And he was right.  I had swerved across two lanes of the 101.  I got control of the car, but I couldn’t say that about myself.  I’m kinda a John Lennon freak.  I know everything about him and meeting him was about the only thing that could take me out of my mood.  I turned down the music and words started pouring out of my mouth.

“John, why did the Beatles really break up?  Was it because of Yoko?  Did Linda and Yoko hate each other?  Do you really think Paul makes bubble gum music?”

“Pull over and let me out.  The sooner the better.”

“Sorry, John, I was just curious.  I promise I won’t ask you any more questions.  Please stay.”  God, I sounded wimpy, but it was John Lennon.

“You are the saddest bugger I’ve met in a long time.”

“Sad’s just the tip.  Still, no offense but you couldn’t have met a lot of people lately.  You’ve been dead since 1980.”

“Stop being so bloody blinkered.  Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.”

“I need the blinkers.  My imagination’s starting to ring a death knoll.”

“Are you pondering the imponderables or is it materialistic rubbish?”

“I’m a rubbish guy.”

“And more daft than a cuckoo,” John sighed.  “I know I’ll regret this, but lay it on me.”

And I told him.  Everything.  He shook his head, sighed, almost puked once and then I was done.

“As usual,” he said, “there is a great woman behind every idiot.”

I corrected him as I took another toke.  “My fear is it’ll be the other way around.  Behind every great woman, there’s an idiot.”

“So love isn’t the problem and neither is being an idiot.  You’re worried about billing.”

“Kinda,” I exhaled.  “Wasn’t Ringo?  Isn’t that why he finally wrote a song?”  He didn’t dignify that with an answer then I got to the truth.  “I’m really worried she’s gonna find out I’m bringing her down and dump me.”

“Got it.  I’m getting pretty bummed myself.”  John collected himself then started again.  “Look, Kyle, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.  And you’re so busy making plans it’s going to pass you by.”

I had to admit he made sense.  He continued, “You need to live in the moment more.  Eighty-six the weed and find the Maharishi.”

“Love to, but he’s dead, too, in 2008.  Guess they don’t pass that info around up there.  But then you’re just a part of my screwed up brain, so…”

“Stop, I’m gettin’ a bloody headache.”  My joint was down to a roach and I tossed it out the window.  I figured I was pretty stoned if I couldn’t have a peaceful discussion with myself.  John seemed to think it was the right move.  Go figure.

“Look, Kyle,” he said. “Yoko and I had astronomical pressures.  The buggers blamed her for breaking up the Beatles, taking advantage of my success.  They’d have blamed her for causing the bleedin’ Vietnam War if they could.”

“Yeah, I read about all that stuff.”

“You had to live it, man.  If they liked my songs, it was because of me.  If they didn’t, it was because of her.  When Yoko’s album bombed, the vultures were all over her.  Yet we stayed together.  You know why?”

“Because you were making a shitload of money and were really famous and… No, no, no, just kidding.  I get it.”  And I did.  I really did.  A relationship should be a partnership not a contest.  John and Yoko faced a shit storm, and they supported each other.  If Shelby and I truly loved each other, we could work anything out, even my screwed up ego.

I turned up the music and we heard the intro to a song.  The two of us started singing, “Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.  There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done…”  And we were belting it out as loud as we could, John in his still fabulous voice and me with my ear piercing sound.  But who cared?  I turned toward the car next to me on the freeway and opened the window.

“Hey, look at me!  I’m singing with John freakin’ Lennon!”

It was a cop car.  He pulled me over and gave me a ticket for doing 73 in a 65 zone.  I was full of love.  I would’ve kissed him if I didn’t think he’d smell the grass on me and bust me for a DUI.

Adventure Fifteen: The Devil Was A Minister Named Sam

Written by: John Tellegen 

“Why don’t you pull your pants down and GIVE YOURSELF A PUSSY SPANKING YOU PATHETIC LOSER!”  <OH, OHHHHHHHH!>

He was a large man and he wore a beret and a trench coat.  And he was mad.  Mad at me.  I sat in the back of the strip club in a purple velvet chair watching my co-workers get lap dances and stick dollar bills in g-strings while this angry man berated me.

“WHERE ARE YOUR BALLS?  DID YOUR GIRLFRIEND BITE OFF YOUR DICK? It’s not too late for you to be a FUCKING MAN!” <OHHHHHH!>

I didn’t know who this asshole was but since nobody else in the club seemed to pay him any attention, I was sure he was a figment of my sick mind.  And somehow, I felt that I deserved him.

Three days ago I had been invited to this bachelor party after I overheard some guys at work talking about it.  Griff was getting married.  I don’t think I was supposed to be on the guest list because everyone at work thinks I’m a prude.  The general vibe around the store seems to be that I’m not much fun.  After I interrupted the guys with my patented, “Hey guys, whatcha takin’ about?“ they took pity on me I guess and extended the invite.

When I got home from work I expected Shelby to freak out and demand that I not go, instead she said ‘have fun’ and smiled without a care in the world.  It bothered me that she wasn’t the least bit worried that I might do something objectionable.  Why is everyone so sure about me?

Now that I was at the club the guys were hardly paying attention to me.  Even the strippers weren’t coming by to pester me for a lap dance.  Maybe I had died and I was just a figment of my own imagination.

Apparently this lunatic who kept screaming in my face thought so.

<OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!>

“Please stop yelling in my face!”  I demanded.  “Look, I know you’re not real okay so leave me alone.”

“You want to know what’s not real?  THE AWESOME FUCKIN’ TITTIES IN YOUR BUDDY’S FACE WHILE YOU SIT BACK HERE LIKE A PATHETIC SALLY!” <OHHHH!>

“I’m not pathetic,” I said, not sure at that moment I even believed it.  “Famous dead people visit me, what can you be famous for?”

“I’m Sam Kinison you fuck-tard.  I’m so famous JESSICA HAHN TOOK A SHIT ON MY CHEST!”  <OH, OHHHHHHHHH!>

“Who?”

<OHHHHHHHHHHH!>

This was getting us nowhere.  ”I’m pretty sure if you’re dead, someone killed you and I’d like to buy that someone a beer.”  But instead I grabbed my phone and texted Shelby:

At the club, naked girls everywhere!

After a moment she texted back:

Trying to get some sleep!  Have fun!

Not the reply I was hoping for.

“Is that your little girlfriend?” Sam asked, affecting his voice to be condescending.  “I hope you’re not planning on marrying her cause GAY MARRIAGE AINT LEGAL YET SALLY!”

As I nodded, completely annoyed, Griff swung by to check on me.  He didn’t look like a guy who should be getting married, he looked like a guy who should be getting a penicillin shot.

“You alright, Kyle?”

“Yeah,” I said trying to look heroic.

“The guys said I shouldn’t ask you, but…”  He mumbled in my ear as the music pounded.

“Ask me what?” I inquired.

“…There’s a stripper giving handies in the VIP room.”

“Oh,” I tried to play it cool.  “I have a girlfriend.”

“And a vagina,” Sam quipped.

“Yeah, that’s what they said you would say,” Griff said.

I watched Griff swim his way back through the ocean of silicone and I must admit, at that moment I felt pretty low.  Everyone seemed to think they knew exactly who I was and what I would do.  And maybe they were right. 

Just then my phone vibrated.  It was another text from Shelby:

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!  LOL.

I steamed as I stared at the LOL.

“What an angel,” Sam snarked in my ear.  “You two must take precious photo booth slides.”

“Why are you so jaded, man?  Just because you never found love?”

“I finally did find love you little jizz-drip.  Her name was Malika and we got married 6 days before I flipped my FUCKING CAR ON HIGHWAY 15!  HOW’S THAT FOR FUCKING LUCK!”  <OHHHHHHHHHHH!>

“That sucks.  But does screaming in my face make you feel any better?”

“Yeah, actually it does.”  Sam smiled.  “Now stop pretending like you might actually do something out of character and go home to your little Shelby.”

“No,” I shot back.  “You don’t know me.”

“I know when a guy leaves his DICK IN HIS BEDSIDE TABLE!  Let me ask you something, DO THEY SELL MEN’S CLOTHES WHERE YOU BOUGHT THAT SHIRT?”  <OH, OHHHHHHHH!>

I grabbed Griff as he passed with a beer.  “Yo, where’s the VIP room?”

“No shit?” Griff and Sam said in unison.

I glanced at Sam but spoke to Griff, “You only live once, right?”  Griff nodded and pointed toward the room with his head as he walked off.

“Wait,” Sam pleaded, “don’t do this on my account.  I was just fucking with you man.”

“Did you know you were going to die before you died?” I asked Sam.

“I’m a comedian shithead, not a psychic.”

“Well, I’m a man not a pussy.”  For a moment I felt like Eastwood.

I made my way toward the VIP room, my nerves were jumping out of my skin.  This could be the worst decision I had ever made.  But I was going to do it.  And not because I was trying to be a ‘man’ or because I was mad at Shelby or because I wanted to impress the douche bags from work, but because at that moment, more than anything, I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t a completely predictable joke.

Later, as we were all leaving the club, high-fiving and chattering about the work we would do the next day, I felt incredibly guilty for what I had done.  I wished I could confess to Shelby but these kinds of stories are not usually meant for girlfriend ears.  Not if you hope to have a girlfriend when the story is over.

Maybe I’ll tell Shelby about this on our tenth wedding anniversary….  Then again, maybe not.

Adventure Fourteen – Got Some Splainin’ To Do

By David Garber

Ever have one of those days when everything seems to be going great?  Well, today wasn’t one of them.

You know what they say, “a day without sunshine is, well …night!”  And it was feeling pretty dark right about now.  I’d just been accused by my supervisor of stealing from the returns bin at the electronics store where I work.   I didn’t take anything, but I knew who did — my new co-worker, and a pretty chill guy, Mike Smolarz.

He had this scam. He’d have a friend come in, buy something Mike wanted, and in a few days, return it as broken.  I’d write it up and give the customer back his money.  Mike would volunteer to take it to the return bin in the back, but instead he’d cop the item and stash it in his car.  I saw him do it once and called him on it.  After a sob story about his being on probation for some vague “legal misunderstanding” and needing this job or returning to the slammer, I felt sorry for him.  So I promised to keep my mouth shut.

And I did.  But about an hour ago, my department supervisor dropped a bomb on me – not the “F” bomb or the S.B.D. kind.  This one stunk a hell of a lot worse.  The store manager, the big boss wanted to see me.  It was going to be the Kyle Inquisition.

Now I was being accused of stealing and if I didn’t rat out Mike, I’d be crushing rocks, doing hard time.  I took a deep breath and tried to see the upside of keeping my yap shut.  I’d be a man of my word.

A lot of good that would do me inside of the state correctional facility.  Though Shelby’s told me I have a cute butt, I don’t think she would enjoy seeing “Bruiser’s Bitch” tramp-stamped on it when I was released.

A crazy thought danced in my head.  I could make a break for the border.  Nah, then I’d never see Shelby again or find out if Deputy Rick survives “The Walking Dead,” or as they probably call it Mexico, “Los Walkos el Deados.”

“El Caminar Muertos. I picked that up from my ex,” came this phantom female voice from behind.

I looked over and this tall, smiling redhead was beaming at me.  “Lucille Ball?”  My Paranoiac Schizophrenic Disorder was obviously kicking in again.

 

“You can call me ‘Rucy’ like Desi did or ‘Lucy’ like normal people.  Looks like you got yourself into a little pickle.  Or as Ethel Mertz would say, ‘That’s one pickle I wouldn’t relish.’”

“What do I do?  I gave my word and I’m not a snitch and I’m not a crook.”

“That leaves out becoming a politician or a Hollywood executive,” she retorted.  “Sinatra used to say to me, ‘you go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company.  Pick your poison.’”

I got to thinking, this woman always got into jams like the conveyor belt at the chocolate bonbon factory. 

Somehow she always managed to fumble her way out.  Surely she could she wrest me from this desperate situation.

“You could get some padding, dress up like a big, tough gangster and threaten your supervisor to ‘Lay off the kid,’” she suggested, using her tough guy voice.

“You really think that would work?” I asked with a ton of doubt.

“No, but we’d have done that on my show.  It wouldn’t have worked there, either – that’s when the writers would bring in a guest star, like Eddie G. Robinson or John Wayne.”

We both laughed.

“You’ve got a good sense of humor, Kyle.  Desi used to say, ‘When life gives lemons, make lemonade.  The trick is to find someone whose life gives them vodka.  Then you make a party.’” She banged on the counter, “If that fails, try ‘Bobaloo!’”

Reassuring as Desi’s homily was, especially the bobaloo part, I don’t think that was going to get me by.  Lucy saw that in my face so she took a different tack.  “To relieve a really stressful situation, Desi taught me how to cook, Cuban style, with wine.  Sometimes I’d even add it to my food,” she chuckled.

“You really lived some life!”

“You try being married to a wild, Cuban, womanizing lush and raising two kids despite having your own career.  It’s not easy, but I handled it by controlling events, not letting them control me.

“So what you’re saying is I have to take charge of my own life.”

“Now you’re talking,” she reassured me.  

I was starting to understand her… But what I didn’t understand was how come everything around me was in black and white, like I was watching an old episode of her show?

I plowed on despite feeling ‘drained.’ “But what if that means I have to name names and that could send someone to jail?” 

Oops. I might have touched upon a sensitive subject.  I suddenly remembered from a political science class I had in college that Lucy supposedly gave up names during the communist witch hunts back in the ‘50s.

She shook her head.  “You have to do what’s right, regardless of the consequences.”

As Lucy brought me around, I wondered if she was really going to confess the secret she held for all these years.  Did she or didn’t she name names?

“Back in the ’50s, I faced the hardest decision of my life… I had to decide whether to speak out about some things — some very private things.  If I gave up names, I could keep everything I had worked so hard to achieve.  If I refused, I might lose my show and everything I struggled tirelessly to build.”

“So you did squeal, I mean give up names?” I shockingly asked.

“Of course I did.  They say the truth will set you free – that and a great divorce lawyer.” She snickered.

Now I was really confused.  A divorce lawyer at a congressional hearing?  She stopped for a moment taking in my perplexed expression.

“I’m talking about my divorce from Desi.  I gave up the names of Desi’s cheating paramours and that’s how I got control of Desilu Studios in the settlement.” 

“Why?  What did you think I was talking about?” she asked very slyly.

I stammered a bit, then meekly confessed, “the communist hearings?”

“Sweet boy,” she continued, “You didn’t really think I was going to talk about that thing, did you? I never spoke about it then, and I’m not going to speak about it now in the hereafter.  My current neighbors would turn over in their graves, literally, and in my peaceful resting place, I couldn’t stand the noise.”

Made sense, at least to me, someone who sees dead people.

This striking woman went on, “You know, in a funny way, you remind me of Desi… He was very charming, sometimes confused, but oh so cute, just like you.”

“Thanks,” was all that I could muster.

“Only he was a philanderer and God, was he ever cheap!  On our tenth anniversary he gave me a fur coat – and to this day, I’m still looking for our dog.  ‘Here, Rover.  Here, Rover!’”

With that, I burst out laughing. 

She reassured me, “Kyle, I have faith in you.  I always did what I felt was right and I never lived with regrets.  Now it’s your turn.  What’s it going to be?”

Suddenly all the color in my world came back.  “Kyle!” A shout came from aisle 12.  It was my supervisor, motioning me to follow him to the boss’s office.  I turned to say thanks to Lucy, but she was gone.  But not her advice.  I was going to do what was right for me. 

On my way to judgment, I had to pass by Mike.  He grabbed me for a second.  “Thanks for not ratting me out, earlier.”  Before I could tell him of my change of heart, he confided, “Have them check the returns bin again.  They’ll find whatever went missing.”  He gave me a wink, and I continued on my way – totally relieved. 

I had learned a lesson — never be afraid of confronting the truth — but fortunately wasn’t going to have to use it today.  And I even turned a thief into an honest man.  I was feeling pretty good.  Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard Lucy’s voice calling out again, “Here, Rover, here, Rover!”

From scared and confused, I was now laughing.

God, how I love Lucy.

Adventure Thirteen: A Little Night Magic

by Bill Braunstein

Shelby has one habit that sets me off.  Her diary.  She keeps a journal.  And it’s never far from her side.  Like right now….

It’s just after 11 p.m., and the two of us are at my place watching the evening news.  You’d think the lead story about an escaped felon would have my total attention, but no, I’m watching Shelby.

She’s sitting on my living room couch, a flannel blanket wrapped around her shoulders, busily scribbling away.  No laptop for Shelby.  She says her thoughts are too personal to enter into an impersonal contraption like a computer.  So, it’s old school pen and paper for her.

That damned diary!  It’s a pink notebook, about 7 inches tall and 5 inches wide…  Lined pages, heavy stock, silver gilded edges…  Oh, and a lock.  A heart-shaped lock that holds the clasp in place.

“What are you writing about this time?”  My mind imagines such diverse topics as my   love-making skills, her ex-boyfriends; or worse, my love-making skills compared to her    ex-boyfriends.

“I can’t tell you what I write about, Kyle.  It’s private.”

“That book is filled with all kinds of things you don’t want me to know,” I said.  “It’s not nice to keep secrets.”

“Kyle, everybody has secrets.  Deal with it.”

As the news drones on in the background, I hear the weatherman giving the forecast.  There are storm clouds approaching Los Angeles, but I couldn’t help feeling he was talking about me and my diary scribe girlfriend.

“Shelby, my life is an open book,” I said, “and you’re free to peruse any chapter.”

“Kyle, my life is an open book, too.  But some chapters are not for public consumption.”

And with that, she placed her pen on the coffee table, closed the journal, took a key out of her robe, and locked the book tight.

“I’m going to bed.”

She headed down the hallway to the bedroom as I sat on the couch, staring at her diary.  Oh, the stories it could tell.  I picked up the book, eyeballed the lock, returned it to the table.

Whenever I’m frustrated or annoyed, I like to eat.  This was a good time to head to the kitchen.  There’s nothing like a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich before heading to bed.

Now, sandwich in hand, I returned to the living room.  Imagine my surprise when standing before me was a man wearing a black a jacket over a white shirt.  I’d say he was about 5-foot-6, stocky build, with closely cropped, dark hair.

Normally, an unknown man mysteriously appearing in your apartment in the dead of night might be a cause for alarm.  But with this Paranoiac Schizophrenic Disorder I’ve been diagnosed with, I’ve become accustomed to seeing strange people at strange times in strange places.

So, an interloper in my living room isn’t what has me nervous.

It’s the fact that he’s bound in handcuffs, and has shackles on his legs.  My first thought was, I’m being paid a visit by Marley’s Ghost, the character from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”  But that’s a fictional character, so it can’t be real, right?

As I looked at the guy, my mind flashed back to the evening newscast.  Wasn’t there something about an escaped convict?  Best to be cool, I reason, and see if my mind is playing tricks on me again.  On the other hand, maybe I should be scared shitless.

“You’re wearing some nice hardware,” I say to the guy, trying to remain calm.

“Smith & Wesson,” he replied.  “Finest cuffs and leg irons known to man…  But there hasn’t been a set made yet that can hold me.”

Okay, now I’m beginning to get a little worried.  There’s a freakin’ felon in my living room.

Despite this guy’s false bravado, I knew I was safe.  His hands and legs are shackled.  To get out of those binds, it would take a modern day Houdini…

Holy crap!  It is Houdini – right here in my home.  Looks like my PSD has kicked in again.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  At least I wasn’t about to become the lead story on tomorrow’s evening news:  Electronics salesman bludgeoned with leg irons, bleeds to death while eating sandwich.

“Well, thanks for showing up,” I said.  “I have to admit, those cuffs and chains are very, uh, kinky.   If that’s a suggestion to help improve Shelby’s and my sex life…you’re too late.  She’s already read ‘50 Shades of Grey.’”

Houdini turned from me for a second, then faced me; only now the handcuffs were now off his wrists.

“Sorry,” he said, “just showing off.  I am a performer.”

Next, he removed from the couch the blanket Shelby left behind and held them over his legs.  When he dropped the blanket to the ground, the shackles were off his feet, as if by magic.  What am I saying?  It was magic.

“You’re good.”

“Thank you.  I’d like to think I’ve mastered my craft.”

Just then, I had a thought.  I knew it was wrong.  It was so wrong.  But I couldn’t resist.  I was going to hate myself but I couldn’t stop from doing what I did next.  I walked to the coffee table where Shelby’s diary was, and picked it up.

“Mr. Houdini, can I ask you a favor?  You see the lock on my book…”  I handed him Shelby’s diary.   “I, uh, had the key and I, uh, misplaced it…  Do you think you could, uh, you know…  Use your ability with locks to open that?”

“Of course.  No locks are a match for the great Houdini.”

He turned away from me for an instant.  When he faced me, one hand held the diary, the other held the lock.  It had been magically separated from the book.

I took them from the magician and placed both lock and journal on the coffee table.  Astounded, I looked at them, and then at Houdini.

“You know, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Houdini said.   “That book looks to me like a diary.  And if it belonged to you, you’d have the key.”

I was busted.  So, I decided to come clean.

“The diary actually belongs to my girlfriend Shelby.  I really adore her.  But there are times when I think she’s too secretive.  Whenever I say or do something she may not like, she writes in that book.  It drives me crazy.  I don’t think that couples should have secrets.”

Houdini threw back his head and laughed.  “Where would I be without secrets?”

There are times when I’m not the brightest bulb in the hardware store, but at that moment, I did see the irony in arguing with a magician about keeping secrets.

“As a magician, secrets are my stock and trade,” the conjurer said.  “They’re an enduring part of life’s wonderment.  What good can come from having secrets revealed?”

“Oh, about 15 specials on Fox, all called ‘Secrets of the Greatest Magicians Revealed.’”  Houdini’s puzzled look told me he had no idea what I was talking about.  So, I just got to the point.  “A couple can’t really be in love if they don’t know each other’s secrets.”

Houdini simply shook his head.  “Love isn’t about secrets you keep from each other; it’s about magic you create together.  I was with the love of my life, my wife Bess, for 32 years, until I left her.”

“Wait a second,” I said.  “You left her?”

“My death, you dummy,” he said.  “I promised my beloved Beth, that upon my passing, if there was any way possible, I would send her a message from the great beyond.  Alas, as strong as our love was, I was unable to communicate with her.”

Geez, I didn’t have the heart to tell Houdini he’d have had better luck if Bess was whacked in the head like me.  PSD can be amazing.

The great illusionist continued.  “My world with Bess revolved around secrets.  But in all of the years we spent together, we never once pried into each other’s private affairs.  It’s because magic is a lot like love.”

I respect my elders, so advice coming from a guy who was nearly 140 years old was bound to be good.   “How is magic like love?” I asked.

Houdini spoke deliberately.   “A loving relationship,” he said, “is the greatest magic any of us can experience.  And like any magic trick, it can be ruined if you delve too deeply into its secrets.”

I could see why he was master manipulator.  Houdini made me feel pretty small.  There was only one proper thing to do.  And that was to put the lock back on Shelby’s diary.  What’s in there is none of my business; it’s part of the mystery of Shelby.

Just then, I heard footsteps coming from down the hallway.  It was Shelby!  Now what?!  I turned to Houdini…   But he was gone.  Just like a magician to disappear.  I was wishing I could do the same.

“Hey Shelby,” I nervously said, standing in front of the coffee table, hoping to block her view of the diary.  “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No, I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone out here.”

“Nah, it wasn’t me.  You must have heard the television,” I shrugged, pointing to the squawk box.  “I just turned it off.”

She looked past me, to the table, where her diary was.  She stared at the book.  And the lock.  Then she looked at me.  “Hmm…  That’s odd.  I could have sworn I placed the lock on my journal before I headed to bed.”

“Oh?  I didn’t even notice.”

“You didn’t look inside, did you?”

“Of course not, Shelby.  Every couple needs their secrets.”

She picked up the book, placed the lock in its clasp, walked over to me, and gave me the softest, most sensual kiss on the lips I’ve ever had.  “I’m about to tell you one of my secrets,” she said.  “I love you.”

Then she took my hand, and led me down the hallway to the bedroom.   What occurred next was no illusion.

In fact, I’d say it was downright magical.