Fun With the Suthern accent

Idinit     Errbody    Wudentuv  Ima


Idinit rite there?

Can you innerduce Errbody?

He wudentuv dunnit.

Djyoo go?  Ima go?

Idinit true dat errbody wudntuv gone if it rained?  Ima ask.



Here's a useful site to help speak in a Southern accent. 

The Dice Weren't Loaded

The dice weren’t loaded, but the gun was. He was loaded too. I suffered through his abuse and his stupidity and his poor table manners. I was not going to suffer through anything beyond that: calumny, gesticulations, or folderols of any type . So when he stood up and called me a cheater, I smiled. I decided that one bullet would suffice. I pretended to look him in the eye, yet he thought I was. But I was looking though him, beyond him, trying to figure out how I could convince a judge to let me off, or how I could endure ten-to-fifteen years in prison, or if it would do just to knock the drunk fool over the head.  But I knew that we would end up in the same position again. Him cussin and swingin and mindless.  We had done this a dozen times or so already. We drank a bottle of rye, talked about legends, trumped each others memories of our youth, insulted each other, and he always got riled up and accused someone of cheating. 

He was dumb. He didn’t understand cards or or dice or gambling or money or the universe or life or karma or bank accounts and we never let him in on anything. That was our sinnin’.  We coulda done it, and took care of him so he wouldn’t be broke every time we gambled. Cut him off, or let him win a few. But we played him and took everything he had, every time. Money was scarce for us folk too. 

But ole “Sideburn” was something else. His wallet was afraid of money like a cat’s afraid of water. His wife, or should I say, his woman, and his children suffered. She went a clawing on all our wives complainin’ how they was broke and she had to scrub floors and do everyone’s wash just to feed the children. Sideburn did pay the rent every month, but that was it. He saved the rest for rye and gambling, as if his momma sat him down when he was born and tole him that was what a job was for: pay the rent, buy some booze, and gamble away your money. I felt bad for him. I sure did. But it was time to pull the curtains on this show. 

Call The Police

In Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, one thing Nick Carraway reveals after meeting up with Tom and Daisy Buchanan is that his first instinct is to call the police. This is a great start to any story.   

My first instinct was to call the police.  His smile was too glowing. His eyebrows too congruent. His suit too enlivening .  A normal person would have been at least a bit nervous, but he was still, calm, possessed.   Even though all his attention, all his thoughts, all his existence was on me, he stood there, as casual as an overfed lion, waiting for me to answer without making me feel the least bit worried. 

I was as calm as I could be. There was no conflict, no struggle. He did everything right. There was not one idea needing further explanation, not one word that was rushed, not one arm movement out of place. He even did me the service of averting his eyes and feigning distraction so that I would have some breathing room to decide. He took a step back or to the side, right when I felt that he was getting too close.  I felt free to decide. Instead of pushing me toward his conclusion, he carefully guided me by the hand, the way one does someone’s grandmother down a creaky ramp.  

When conmen or salesmen are too pushy with a conscientious person, they tend to back away.   He made me believe that it was in my best interest and the interest of humanity that I give him all of my savings.  When I said I would have get it to him in three days, he took an over controlled breath and cleared his throat, communicating his disapproval.

He was polished enough to not get frustrated.  Dumb criminals get frustrated. Smart criminals, that is, uncaught criminals, just adjust their plans or move to another target.   Criminals in jail always forgot there was a Plan B.  

I didn’t know if he figured out that I was smarter than I appeared, or that I was just too dumb to understand how good his offer was. He was playing me and he did not know that I enjoyed being played. I liked his maneuvers, his rhetoric, his counters, and that at any time, I could stop the ruse and walk away. But I didn’t.  I fancied his two-hundred percent return, of laying on island beaches forever, of putting the screws to the people seeking money from me.  

I wanted to believe him. I wanted it to work out so that I could spend more time with him.  Maybe it was just to be around someone who was so attentive. Or maybe I wanted to learn his craft.  He was so pleasant. So full of manners and politeness. But a turning, grinding, hiccupping fire was in me: "Call the police. Call the police. 

Tell him you’ll be right back and walk to your car. Or go into some boutique or shop or market, but do not continue talking to him. He already has your home address and your phone number and your bank information. But that is why you need to call the police. He will track you down. He will stay on the prowl.  But if he is in police custody, then he can’t hurt you. And if you can keep him occupied until law enforcement arrives, then he will know that you are too calculating and too cunning, and he will always keep his distance."   

What gave him away was his perfection.  Real people, trustworthy people, honest folk always stop short of polishing out every flaw.   They know their idea is worthy on its merit, even if there are flaws.  But I didn’t call the police. I just stood there, listening.

His only weakness was.....madness

Interesting weaknesses make interesting characters. I decided to make a few character sketches based on a character having only one, peculiar weakness. Here's another one.     


    His only weakness was a crippling madness. It wasn’t with him all the time. Only when he ate certain foods, or didn’t get enough sleep, or if his mother called. He had a low grade madness that never went away, but the crippling madness was random and unreasonable. He would still try to function throughout the day, and it would be okay as long as no one looked at him or spoke about him in low tones to someone else. That drove him mad. 

    The world’s weight was too much. There was too much sadness in the world. There was too much greed and grief. There was happiness and joy around, but the balance was out of proportion and he felt it. It was suffering. He was suffering. He understood how all those people felt.  It was like he could hear their emotion or see their thoughts. Not just the people around him, but people around the entire planet. All people. All humans. All living things, even.  Plants and animals, the trees and the bugs.  

     He knew that all things are just atoms and molecules, vibrating, electrons and protons, whizzing around. They all put out a vibe, an energy, and he could feel it. It wasn’t acute, or sharp, or explosions of feeling, but it was a heaviness like gravity, immense, ineffable, inexorable. He could feel the remnant of a breakup in Stavropol, or a violence in Auckland, or loneliness in San Quentin. All of the emotions of the world, from every individual was vibrating at a certain frequency, which vibrated all the air molecules a bit, and vibrated the ground and the water, which caused a giant cloud of vibration across the planet and he was a giant antenna for it. He was an antenna for humanity’s state of being.  

    It was a wonder that he didn’t medicate, or mediate or end the madness himself. It was too much to bear, but it was borne.  True, there were innumerable positive vibrations going on, but those were part of the normal operating system. The positive was a quiet background noise that was always there. But the negative was impossible.  It lessened when he listed to music on his headphones. Music in the open made him think about it more, feeling it more. But when those cushy leatherish headphones snuggled his ears, closing in his world, he found peace. But he couldn’t hibernate forever. 

    He had encountered a few other people that had this same antenna. The conversations were brief and numbers were never exchanged. They had the same problem he did.   Whenever he met one and figured out that they felt the same thing he did, he would always get a sudden urge of relief. Relief that he was not alone. That he was normal, special even, but not an outsider, or alien or a robot. But that relief was always just a few minutes in length. It made his condition concrete.  Seeing his twin, or mirror in this world, caused more belief, more evidence that this was real and it would not go away if some magic pill was taken or he was electrocuted just right. It was not just some part of schizophrenia or bipolar or ADD. It was real and it didn’t have a name.   

Halloween story

I have never celebrated All Hallow's Eve or Halloween or Anything Of The Sort but I admire the creativity and the perilous, insidious madness that adolescents brave as they obtain excessive amounts of processed sugar. 

A co-worker wrote a Halloween story and it was so good that I wanted to write one. Only problem: I don't do horror. While I love Poe, I cannot read King. I don't watch M. Night and have seen only one Friday the 13th.  Even the flying monkeys around Dorothy creep me out enough to turn it off. But I decided to give horror a shot. This is my Halloween story.

Before the Halloween of 2012, I had never believed in vampires. Or werewolves. Or that Taylor Lautner was a good actor. He never had to be.  On that Halloween 6 years ago, I was just hoping to impress everyone with my costume. My aunt,  a sewing spinster of sorts, was a costume designer for Sony Pictures. She still is actually.  Every year she makes the most awkward and amazing and grotesque costumes for all her friends. They become kings at boring parties. Or weirdos at amazing parties.  She does theatrical makeup too and can make everything look like blood and scabs and cholera.  She didn’t do it for her friends that year, because my parents had just split and she wanted to help darn the holes. 
 
She was putting the finishing touches on my decapitated Marie Antoinette when my little brother stabbed me in my side with scissors.  The bustier was so tight that it not only was cut, but it tore as well. But we already spent 70 minutes getting the outfit on and I was late. She was late too and we wouldn’t have time to take it off, fix it and put it back on.   She grabbed a giant, giant needle, put thread on it and pulled me to the door jamb. 

“Hold on and do not move. I don’t want to poke you." 

      She poked me anyway. 

“That is what it will feel like if you move.” 
     
     She started sewing the tear and the first time she poked my skin, my face winced, but I kept my body still. The second time, I grunted. She didn’t look up, huffed and kept working.   She had prepared fashion shows, made on set changes, and put up with pouty models and actors.  She had to be rough. I knew this about her. She was in the zone and I did not want to set her off.  When she poked my skin a third time, the needle went through my skin. I could not see it but I felt it. I gritted my teeth. She made about 30 more stitches and 3 more went through my skin. 

     She couldn’t see the blood because the costume was thick, but I felt the warm wetness beneath the fabric. I was now firmly attached to my costume. My blood was on it, in it. We were blood sisters of sorts. I would never be able to let anyone else use this costume. I would either wear it every day, burn it or be buried in it.     Auntie was irritated because my mom was in a bad mood and attacked Auntie when she first walked in. Then twice after that. That was her gift. That is why dad left. 

I had a tough time walking down the stairs. I tried to ignore the sharp stings that every step induced. But I liked that the real blood was mixed in with the fake blood, since it made the costume more authentic. Fresh blood. Who would've thought it would be so enticing. The thread was in my skin though. I did not know how I would get it out, or even get the bustier off to get to the threads, but I had seen enough television shows to know how to pull stitches out. It would probably be the same. Though, If I twisted my body at all, the wince would pop to a grimace. When we showed my mom the final result, she rolled her eyes. Auntie tugged on my costume and it felt like a chunk of flesh would come out. 

“Is something wrong honey?”  

“No. Auntie. Everything is fine.”   

     My mother chimed in.

“Kim. If you don’t think she did a good job, then you should just tell or, or just thank her properly.  You wouldn’t want her to think that she does crappy work?  Do you want her to think that?” 

   Auntie glanced at me, showing that I did not have to answer. I already knew that, though.  I already put up with 16 years of it. 

“I have to go.” Auntie said. “I have my own costume to try and get these huge thighs into.” 

   Her thighs were lean.  Mom’s weren’t.  She had 15 years more experience than I.  Touché   Mom, touché.

   Auntie left. I did too. 

Jenny’s party was great. And lame. There were a lot of minions running around, but no Gru. The slutty Wonder Woman made her usual appearance and there were too many Batmen for it to be a cool party.  As soon as I stepped in the door, a dorky, dorky dorky vampire could not stop staring at me. He was with two of his friends. They were dressed as Edward, Bella and the Taylor Lautner character, shirt off and everything.  They were sitting in the corner and when Edward saw me, he eyes widened and tried to get up. Bella looked at me and then she gripped his thigh to keep him down.  

     There was great music and stupid teenage conversation. I wanted to dance, but didn’t. Too painful.  So I took some of the anesthetic that was available and then some cheery cowboy caught my eye, and I caught his.  His undersized CostCo costume revealed his extensive workout regimen, as well as his lack of Halloween creativity. I cruised by to get a closer look and, and, and he smelled divine. “My Sharona” came on and I asked if he wanted to dance. It took four notes for me feel my stitches,  until “my motor run” to know dancing was a bad idea, and to the first "My Sharona" for him to put his hand on me.  Little did he know, he grabbed where the needle had entered my body four times.  I shouted in sync with everyone else’s “My Sharona” and no one noticed, even Cheery Cowboy. 

There was more blood inside my costume and the vampire kept staring.   He licked his lips. He tried to get up again, but I saw Bella mouthe, “Not yet.”  The Knack were winding down and I could not handle more dancing or another touch. I don’t know why he was dancing with me, anyway. He probably thought I was trying to do “The Robot” I was so rigid.  I was getting dizzy from the loss of blood, or the punch, or the love at first sight.  As I turned to find a place to sit down, the snotty, slutty, stupid Jenny was standing in front of me. 

“You can’t dance with him. He is my cousin and he has a girlfriend.” 

I refused to acknowledge her or reveal her stupidity to everyone watching. I knew that either action would prevent me from going someplace to lean or sit or lie to stop the pain. 

She was blocking a clear escape. I sidestepped and then twisted my body to get around her, but it pulled on the flesh-threads enough for me to exclaim, “Aaaghch.”  

“What did you call me?”   

   Jenny and I were close friends until 7^th grade when I kissed her brother, then spread some rumor about him and her. We didn’t fight then and I didn't want to punch her clown face. At least not then and there. I took 5 weeks of Tae Kwon Do classes when I was 12, which provided enough confidence to do something stupid.   But I didn’t want to turn around again.  Even when she used an expletive. Even when she threw a throw pillow past my head. Even when she said something about my tart mother.  

   But when that red Solo cup hit my neck and red juice showered me and everyone around, everything came up. As I considered turning around I noticed that Edward was no longer sitting on the other side of the house, but was standing next to me, leaning forward, giving me that constipated look he always gave Bella in the movies. If he really was a vegetarian vampire and was holding himself back from gorging on my blood, that would not be as bad as some strange teenager, dressed like Edward, pale face, lipstick and all, over-pretending to be a fictional character. Maybe he did smell my blood. 

I turned around, punched Jenny in the face. She fell back. I went right up and kissed the cute cowboy. 

“Call me.” 

  I said that without ever giving my name or number.  Even though it felt like my intestines were going to come out, I walked out the door cool as a cat. But the step down onto the sidewalk sent me to the floor in pain. Edward helped me up. 

“I’ll take care of you.” 

   The darkening darkness surrounded me as Edward helped me toward my car down the dark, dark street.  I was even more dizzy and began blacking out.  I never saw that cowboy again, nor my aunt, nor my mother, nor insipid Jenny, because I was never heard from again. 

Such Misery

This is a character sketch that was inspired by some taunting in the halls I saw. 

Such Misery

Gary was tired of being pushed around. He was tired of having his backpack put in the trash can, or his lunch box put in the toilet or his shoes stolen from his locker. He especially resented his nipples being twisted. A worse torture was when other guys grabbed his boobs. Yes. He had boobs. He was a fat kid and they were much larger and much softer than the guy's pecs on the cover of the Muscle  Magazine he was always reading. A few guys even made that his new name: “Tits”.  “What’s up Tits?”
He felt like killing them. Sometimes. Or damning them to Hell with the dogs and the worms and the shadows. Other times he wished they would just wind up dead somehow, without any of his assistance. And if he were watching from a bridge, too far to do anything and without access to a phone, then he would just have to watch.  

He would get mad at them, but was never able to stop them. Maybe that was the reason: he never told them to stop.  “They wouldn’t anyway”. He felt bad that he was fatter than most kids, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that either. His mother always told him he was born that way and he should just accept it. But there was nary a fresh vegetable in the house and the only fruit was once a month when his father would drop off a bag of oranges or a pineapple from the guy on the side of the freeway off ramp.

What really brought on the sorrow was that he was a coward. His hands and his mouth were not capable of doing what his mind impressed on him to do. His mom always wanted him to be a good kid and she did a great job of making him feel bad about himself if he ever talked back to her. That was a skill she had successfully cultivated and then practiced on her child. Gary was unable to say anything to his mother. Even if she were wrong. It was Auschwitz.  Bergen Belsen. Dachau. At times, her behavoir was so grievous that he wanted to run away and be alone, or later as a preteen, drink all the liquor in the cabinet, or later still, cut himself. So he was always afraid of talking back to anyone, even if it was important to him. 
He had been sick for nearly a week and was not sleeping well. Uncle Trent had been crashing on the couch again and he always made it tense and uncomfortable in the house. Gary missed breakfast that morning and before his mom came in, he ignored his report card which had to be signed and returned. He would throw it away when no one was looking.
He had considered how sad his life was all the way to school and the sentiment continued on for most of first period. By time the bell for Nutrition rang, he was at his low spot again. Then, when Charlie Dundleson called him “Tits” and went to grab his breasts, something in Gary caught fire and exploded. But just as he was about to crush Dundleson’s existence with the first time he would ever throw his fist at someone and shout all the curse words he had ever learned, and then scream out an angry laugh, the campus police officer turned the corner and accidentally bumped into Dundleson. "Oh. Excuse me."  His revenge was foiled again. 
He screamed inside. His body’s stress response bumped up to Code Red and he clenched his fists trying to control himself, but also pretended he was choking him. He couldn't restrain himself. So he reached for the officer’s taser (he thought it was a gun) and it slipped right out of the holster.  He was going to wave it and yell in an angry, helpless threat, to gain the attention that was needed for someone to ask him if anything was wrong. He did not mean to pull the trigger.  But it was immediately discharged into the officer’s leg. Both were worthy of dying. Dundleson for being the worst human being ever; the officer for being the laziest, sorriest, sackashit police officer ever to graduate an academy. 
   There was another shot in the taser, so in less than thirty seconds, Dundleson was also on the ground and both were twitching and unconscious. Gary removed the firearm (the one with the bullets)  from the officer’s holster and aimed it at Dundleson’s pectoral muscle. 

At least that is how Gary imagined his revenge to manifest. 

That was twenty years ago. Gary became the senior vice president of Krakow Foods Corporation.  He had not done any jail time, since state and federal laws do not prosecute the imagination. He rarely did anything bad and broke no important laws. He never actually touched that cop’s taser. He focused on his hobbies, did well in college and advanced in the business world. He got through the bullying and teasing. He lost some weight and gained confidence. He had a nice wife, one really smart kid and one really athletic kid. 
He thought his need for revenge on Dundleson was gone, a castoff of high school days along with an awkward prom, one student of the month award and a 2.8 GPA. Little did he know that a raging beast of revenge hid within him and would be released when he came into the knowledge that Charles Triton Dundleson was just hired as a package sorter in a warehouse he supervised.  

He had hoped Dundleson wouldn’t amount to anything, but didn’t know that karma really was a bitch. Dundleson wasn’t smart and his weekly intake of alcohol diminished what brains were there. He always had a physique, but wasn’t athletic. He got with several women but never had a relationship. He didn’t go to college, not even a community college. Dundleson was a cloud that never gave rain, and now he was 30-something year old who was excited that he procured a job two dollars above minimum wage. 

Gary never thought of himself as mean. As a teenager, he loved pumping bullets into criminals, monsters and terrorists in video games.  He even did the same to villains in the movies, but he never thought we would be able to carry out anything in the real world. He had even considered becoming a vegetarian, hearing his sister talk about how all animals can feel pain and that they have plans of their own.  

But as his memories, tussled and roiled and clawed at his intestines, his revenge molded to a form, and Gary was forcefully becoming aware of his capability to inflict on a fellow human being, such enduring and acute misery. 

HOWW - Drinking Moonshine

This "His Only Weakness Was..." came about when I was thinking about some of the middle-range social vices of humans.  

     Polo’s only weakness was drinking moonshine.  It was a habit he started in primary school, no doubt a result of being related to his father. It caused a delay in knowledge about the world in some areas, but ignited explosions of experience in others. He was able to have a quality to his life, not of mere sustenance and material items, but of adventure, of outlook, of disposition.  After The Accident, he felt so bad and cried so much, and talked himself so down that he up and quit moonshine.  He quit eighty-three times actually. The shortest bit of moonshine sobriety was four hours. The longest streak of not drinking moonshine would have been a whole week, except on that Sunday, the Boon Rascals showed up, so really it was just six-and-a-half days.  But he told everyone it was seven, so it was seven to anyone that was asked.  And there was that time he got a birthday present from Bard Cooney. A jug a’ gin. Folsem’s brand.  Now that’s a drink you can serve to your grandmother.  Polo drank that for a whole month instead of moonshine. And he told everyone in town that he had been thinking about things, had a talk with someone and that he would stop drinkin’ shine and would switch to proper spirits instead. He told all about Bard's birthday gift and everything. Sheriff Tinney said he was right proud of him and that this was a start to a new chapter in his life. The Women’s League even came out and sang him a song, gave him a pamphlet and told him they would be prayin’ on their knees, cryin’ and sobbin' too, so that he would get sober. But we all knew that prayer for other folks don’t work as good unless that person is praying for the same thing. I never seen Polo pray. Never heard him talk about doin‘ it either. And if he did pray up to Almighty God, I’m not sure it would be to stop drinking. During the Folsom's Month, Polo dressed himself up proper, started working and even went to church for the Easter service of 1902.  
      Much later Bard told him that it was bathtub gin that he put in a Folsem’s jug. Why would he do something like that?  Everyone else in town knew that Bard made gin in his other barn and they kept it to themselves. So when Polo come around braggin' about his month, they all smiled and congratulated him and wished him good luck. Polo looked at Bard like his only child was just kidnapped. Things degraded swiftly for Polo, Bard, Tinney and a few others in town. 
     At the end of August in 1908 Sheriff Tinney began talking about jailing him again because something had to be done. Complaints increased.  So, it was on the last day of that month that I went over to Polo's with a string of lake trout as an offering. I had planned to talk  some sense into him and fix him once and for all.