Showing posts with label Juicy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Juicy. Show all posts

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Dead Fish Swimming

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence selected by Dive.  Click here for more info.

This week’s sentence is from Willa Cather's Death Comes For The Archbishop:  'Muerto,' he whispered.

____________________________________

Davey trailed his family as they walked back to the car across the beach parking lot.  Davey stopped frequently to check on the black goldfish circling in the plastic bag clutched in his hand.  All of Davey’s previous fish had been orange – Coke and Pepsi, Seven and Seven, Jack and Bobby.  This was his first singleton and he was determined to keep it alive for more than the usual week or two.


When they’d arrived at Bayville this morning Pop set up the beach umbrella for Ma, who needed shade for her pale, freckled skin.


“Redheads burn easily,” Ma said, sitting upright in a chair, wearing big sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, her book resting atop the cooler that held lunch and drinks and the two bags of ice that Pop had bought at the corner gas station at the start of their short drive to the North Shore.


Pop and Juicy watched the sun for a few minutes before setting their lounge chairs at the perfect angle to maximize rays and minimize the need to move as the sun tracked across the sky.  They took off their shirts and plopped down for a good long bake.  Even though it was early in the season, each was well on the way to the deep walnut tan they maintained through the summer.


Davey carefully spread his beach towel upwind of the grownups to avoid the inevitable cloud of smoke.  Sure enough, as soon as everyone settled in Ma reached for her pack of Newports, Pop for his Luckies and Juicy fired up the cigar stump that hadn’t left his mouth all morning.


Davey walked the waterline, collecting shells and stones for his collection, but only after he suffered Ma to slather him in suntan lotion.  Pop and Juicy swam in the Sound, racing each other from one lifeguard stand to the next.  They all returned for lunch as Ma handed out salami sandwiches on rye with mustard, potato chips and fruit.  There was beer for Ma and Juicy and Coke for Davey and Pop.  After lunch the adults dozed while Davey read a few chapters in his library book.


On the way back to the car, Juicy suggested they stop at the arcade and play a few midway games.  Davey looked longingly at the goldfish toss where a single black fish swam amongst the endless globes of orange.


‘You like that fella?” Juicy asked. Davey nodded.  “I’ll win him for ya.”


Now Juicy fell back to walk with Davey.


“Got a name for that handsome fish?” Juicy asked.  “He’s a special fish, so he needs a special name.”


“They die so quick,” said Davey.


“Maybe not, if he has a powerful name,” said Juicy.


Ma looked over her shoulder and motioned for Davey to hurry up.


Juicy bent to whisper in Davey’s ear.  “Know what that means?”


Davey shook his head.


Juicy bent and spoke again behind his hand.


Davey raised the fish to eye level.


“Muerto,” he whispered, smiling widely.


##

copyright (c) 2010 Lulubelle B

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Artie

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.


“Mr. Bloom! A moment please, sir!”

Mr. Bloom paused near the waiting car, the driver watchfully anticipating his boss’s usual hurry to be gone from this place, replacing his cap atop his graying curls as he saw Mr. Bloom approach. Mr. Bloom was eager to leave the dockside neighborhood and looked forward to a long steam at his midtown Club to help purge him of the stench of the river and cheap perfume. He’d spent the afternoon reviewing accounts with the warehouse bookkeeper, a woman tough enough to endure the cat calls and wolf whistles of the stevedores and warehousemen on a daily basis, but still soft enough to evoke feelings Mr. Bloom knew best to ignore. He craved the hushed voices and mannerly ways of the Club and its well-trained staff.


McDonough, the shift foreman, hurried toward him, turning up the collar of his jacket against the late October wind. The sky was darkening. Surely it would rain before the men clocked out and headed back to the dark, cramped railroad flats most called home. Many faced an hour’s journey or longer, on the subway for those who could afford it, on foot for those who could not, before they’d cross their thresholds and face a whole different set of frustrations embodied by stringy-haired wives and snot-streaked children. Some would fortify themselves at the nearby tavern before fading away into the gathering dusk.

“Yes, McDonough, what is it?”

“It’s Juicy. He needs time off to bury his son.”

“Who?”

“Juicy. Julius Goldfarb.”

“Son? I didn’t know he was married.”

McDonough hesitated.

“He’s got a wife somewheres. I wouldn’t call it a marriage. Juicy split right after Artie was born. Sees him every couple a years. Couldn’t stand the bawlin’ or what it did to Blanche’s figure. Quite a tomato Blanche was.”

“How old was the boy?”

“Nineteen, maybe twenty. One a them Greenwich Village peacenik types. Got the call just now his boy’s dead.”

“Alright” said Mr. Bloom, “Give him two hours for the funeral. Without pay.”

“He needs a week. You know them people. They put ‘em in the ground quick, then have the wake afterwards.”

“No. We won’t hold a job that long for anyone. If he takes more than two hours replace him.”

“But…”

“If we have a job open when he decides he’s ready to come back, you can rehire him, but at a lower wage. He’s lucky we hired him at all. What happened to the boy, anyway?”

Again McDonough hesitated.

“Smack. Found him with the needle still in his arm. No other marks on him. Cops say it musta been his first time.”

At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:


"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."


##

copyright (c) 2009 Lulubelle B

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Preference

a Davey's Family story

500 words based on a sentence (in italics) selected by Dive. Click here for more info.

Davey was a bookish boy, his boldest adventures taking place in his own mind, combining the tedious flat details of everyday life with those far more interesting gleaned from the pages of the masters at the storefront library on Jackson Avenue or in cast off volumes rescued from bargain bins at weekend garage sales. He spent hours copying and recopying treasured passages into carefully catalogued black-and-white-covered composition books, learning the words not only in his head, but also in his fingers.

On sunny afternoons when Ma ordered him out of the house for half an hour to get some fresh air he would sit with his books on the cement step outside the kitchen door in the shade of the crabapple tree, listening for the sound of the kitchen timer that allowed him back inside and freed him from the scrutiny of the high school boys playing catch in the street, moving aside at the call of “Car!” when a vehicle needed to pass.

He dreamed of wandering Borges’ hexagonal Library, searching for the book of the story of his own life. Instead he was pedaling furiously homeward, dodging taunts and spitballs from the passing yellow bus on its run to the Home on Covent Road on the north side of town, twin baskets straddling the fat rear tire of his battered red bicycle crammed with schoolbooks, anticipating refuge in his small upstairs bedroom, perhaps even crawling into the kneehole under the desk and pulling in the chair firmly behind him.

As Davey turned onto Candy Lane he saw a cab pulling away from number twenty-four, its passenger half hiding a stumpy cigar behind his back as he knocked on the screen door. Juicy, Ma’s longshoreman uncle, was here for dinner.

“Hiya Red, I brought dessert.” He smacked Ma lightly on the bottom as she turned to take the big green and brown bakery box into the kitchen.

“Mmm, a blackout cake.”

“I love telling the cabby ‘Candy Lane’. Reminds me of a bubble dancer I knew after the war. Friendly gal.”

“Shh Juicy, the boy!”

Davey edged towards the stairs and his second-floor sanctuary.

“You don’t say hello to your favorite uncle? What say when your Pop gets home we go up to Bayville for a swim? Work up an appetite for your Ma’s delicious dinner?”

“I have homework.”

“You spend any more time with your books, you’re gonna turn into a certified bookworm. Swimming is good for you, and you might meet some girls. I met my Blanche at the beach. Your Ma and Pop met at Rockaway.”

“There’s a test tomorrow.”

“C’mon Sport. Where’s your moxie?”

Ma smiled hopefully. “Go on, Davey. Have a swim with Juicy and your Pop.”

His mind raced, searching for a refusal that would stick, strong enough to ward off Juicy but not rude enough to get into trouble. Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.

“I would prefer not to.”



##

copyright (c) 2009 Lulubelle B
all original content (c) copyright 2009-2012 Lulubelle B