Jackson Beamito

I never remember talking to my brother in the daylight. He’d always find me at some weird time, hours after the sun went down and the yelling downstairs stopped. Somehow he always knew when to stick his head under the bed right before I went to sleep.





He’d always start the same way too: “’Ey ‘mano. What you doin’ down there? You know beds work better when you sleep on top.”





I smiled, “But I like it down there.”




He snorted, “What choo mean you like it down there? You know that’s where the monsters live, right?”


I loved it when he said that, “I know. What if I told you the monsters and I were friends this time?”





He laughed in such a way that you could hear his nose was stuffed up, “Heheheheh. Whatever Monstro. Get back up here,” He reached under and gently grabbed my wrists.




“Hey Sig, where do you go at night?”





“It don’t matter none. You don’t want to know anyway…” he looked down at the ground, but just for a second, “You want me to tell you a story or somethin’?”




“You always tell me a story. Tell me where you went tonight. Pleeeese?” I said, giving him the face that always worked on mom.





Sig shook his head again, “Naw, not today Monstro. You can hear another time. I just want to tell you a story so you sleep, okay?” he looked down, smiled, and sniffed back a lugie. Sig’s hands shook a little while he tucked me in. He smelled weird.





“Okay…” I said, “But don’t make it a scary one…”





He smiled, “Psh… you scare too easy…” Sig popped his knuckles and cleared his throat, “Okay… see this one time there was a little vato cowboy…”





“YOU ALREADY TOLD ME THAT ONE!” I yelled at him in a whisper.





He’d always smile back, “Psh… oh yeah… shit… sorry… just wanted to see if you were listening. Okay… so this one time there was this… this… 

ice cream guy.”

“Ice cream guy?”





“Shuddup. You don’t know the story.”





I didn’t, so I shut up.





His eyes got real big, “So this ice cream guy, he drove his truck through the neighbourhood every day. He gave out pushpops, snowcones, cherry bombs, and… mmm…”

“SIG!”

“Sorry bro… the story’s makin’ me hungry…hehehehheh…” he laughed, hiccoughed, and continued: “So, anyways, everybody say they love this ice cream guy. But this ice cream guy, he don’t feel like they mean it. He just think that they all like him for his sweet goodies, you know Well, one day, this lil’ vato comes up to his truck and is all like, ‘Hey, what’s your name?’ And the ice cream guy’s all like, ‘What do you want?” And the little kid’s like ‘I want to know your name’. The ice cream guy is like, ‘Man. Don’t nobody ask me that. I’m always ‘Ice Cream Guy’, you know? I… I think… I think my mom used to call me… Jack…son.’”





“Jackson?” I said.





His face scrunched up, “SHUDDUP… yeah… Jackson… Beam…i…to.”





“That’s a stupid name.”





Sig got up and played like he was leaving, “Whatever, go to sleep Stupid…”





“No no no. Sorry Sig. I won’t talk no more. Finish the story… finish the…”





“Okay… you don’t gotta cry about it, jeez. Okay so, Jackson and this little kid became friends, right? And this little kid, because he’s so little, he couldn’t work or nothing. So he couldn’t get no money for ice cream. But because he just wanted to be the ice cream guy’s friend, Jackson gave him a Push pop...for free. Everyday Jackson would give the little guy ice cream and they’d talk and laugh and tell jokes and stories. On the last day of summer, the little guy started to get all sad. He was like ‘Man, you’re not gonna come back.’ And Jackson looked the guy right in the eyes and said ‘Don’t worry lil man. I’ll always come back next summer. I like you and junk. And the sun’s always gonna be hot. People will always need ice cream.’ Then one day, the sun got all cold. When the little guy came out, Jackson didn’t come by. The little guy started to get all sad but then he remembered what Jack said: He’d be back. Then he went inside and went to bed.”





I laid there in silence for thirty seconds and watched him stare off into space, indicating he was done.





“I love you.”





“I love you too. Now go to sleep, Stupid.”

Sig disappeared after that night. Mom and Dad looked for him for many years after the divorce… never did find him. Some nights, when it’s too quiet to sleep, I want to cry and think about all I never had. But instead, I chose to dream. I dream that Sig found Jackson Beamito and the two of them chase the summer in a rundown white truck, driving like madmen, telling dirty jokes to all the little vatos while feasting on orange and yellow Push Pops underneath a hot, hot, summer sky.

Mad Matadors of Jilting and Phoenix

Did I leave you
      soaked in gasoline
      primed to explode
            brimming with life
            pulsating pain
      numbed by broken bottles
sinking into shards of tomorrow noon?
Did you leave me
      a mad matador
      dodging raging bulls of insecurity
             a raving silent
              single husband
      who'd gouge out his left critical eye
just to hear your garage door open again?

I swear I still hear your voice.
I swear I grieved your loss
and even though I swore I'd never swear again-

I promise I lit my crimson cape
      over two tanks of propane
            seared by closure
            reborn of ashes

Dirty Beaches and Paradise

I didn’t even notice the couple gawking at me until they kicked a little sand on my legs,

            “Hello?” I said, trying not to sound American.

            The woman marched up to me and adjusted her glasses, “Are… are you the guy who was busking the other day?”

            I searched my memory banks for the word busking before answering, “Why… yes… yes I was…”

            She turned to the man beside her and cocked her head, “See… TOLD YOU!” she declared.

            “Yeah… we were just foolin’ around…” I explained, hoping I wasn’t about to get arrested.

            “Psh… I don’t care,” her thin lips said with an accent that sounded very British, “You all were great. I especially loved the little shuffle you did…so full of energy. How many years have you been rapping?”

            The way she pronounced the word “rapping” reminded me of maple syrup.

            My eyes shifted to the ground, “Uh… 11 months…ish…I started in Guatemala as a gag and kinda didn’t want to stop…”

            Her blue eyes widened, “Only 11 months… gosh… you’re really talented… what the heck were you doing in Guatemala?”

            “Oh, I was doing mission work… I’m a missionary.”

            The woman’s eyes got bigger, “A MISSIONARY?”

            I nodded, “Why?

            Her green eyes found the ground, “I…I dunno… I never met a missionary… let alone a rapping one. I always pictured missionaries with… orange robes… asking me if I found Jesus… yanno?”

      “Well, I left my robe at home…” I joked.

            She laughed, “It’s… It’s just… I always thought that missionaries were dressed in ties with bicycles and…”

            “Mormons?”

            She looked up and nodded sheepishly.

            “Well… some are… not all…but I get it…” I said

            “So…” she said and lit a cigarette, “What’s your mission?”

            “Mission?” I kicked the sand and watched a few crushed bottle caps roll down the beach, “Whatcha mean?”

            “Like, are you trying to convert people or whatever?”

            “I… I dunno… I mean… that’s the big idea right? But really, I think I’m just trying to love my neighbor the best I can, take care of widows and orphans, and yanno, keep my head out my rear…”

            She laughed, “It’s amazing how much our brain like that little place, huh?”

            “Right?” I replied and we roared with laughter.

            After the laughter died down, she stared at me just a little longer, “You know, I never really talked to a real missionary before.”

            “Me neither!” I joked, but she didn’t laugh.

            After a brief moment she smiled again, “Thanks.”

            “What for?”

            She got up and dusted herself off, “For being human,” she replied and got lost in the crowd.

            We ate pancakes the next week. Even though I was miles away from anything that looked like America and I had not seen an IHOP, McDonalds, or even a fat policeman in a doughnut shop, as I pour Aunt Jemima over two flat pancakes, I relived my beach conversation and relaxed.

            For the first time, in a long time, it didn’t matter I was overseas.

            I felt at home.         

Toasting to Cigarettes

“She would have wanted you to be there,” said the girl with a beautiful smile beneath her big nose.

            I looked at her, and then at the photo of the face that I had been cracking jokes with for the past 11 months, “Are… are you sure it was her?” I said, feeling like a total idiot after I heard the question exit my mouth.

            She gave a sheepish smile and nodded, “She was my sister.”

I gave her an awkward side hug, “Sorry for your loss.”

            I walked outside holding the piece of paper of my friend sat against the wall, and felt the cloud of cigarette smoke engulf my nostrils, “Well…” and let out a string of profanities.

            The entire wall of kids stared at me with a silence that I’m sure could be heard from Jupiter. One girl with a bunch of face piercings came over and looked at the paper in my hand, “Oh no… not Binky.”

            A pile of street kids flooded over and stared. Even though throng of people were on that street corner, the silence in the shelter seemed to drown out everything within a five mile radius.

            “Dammit…” said a one girl as she brushed back her pink hair, “First Pockets, then Renu, and now this…” she inhaled her cigarette like medicine, “That’s that third one THIS MONTH…”

            We all exchanged the same looks of confusion and anger.

One kid blurted out, “Well, time to get high.”

            “Don’t do that,” I protested.

            She didn’t move, “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m just going to go to my friend’s house, go get high, and play Nintendo. Seriously, I could do worse things.”

            My mentor, a bearded man who had known the kids longer than I had been living my faith, looked at her, “You swear that’s all you’ll do?”

            She sniffled and nodded.

            “Okay, sweetie… go get high. Please be careful.”

            I gave him a quizzical look, “Seriously?”

            He shrugged, “Everyone grieves differently. At least I know she’ll be safe for a few days.”

Grief is a strange bird.

**

            The smell of beer hit me in a wave as I came into the pub. I tried not to flinch as I took my usual Friday night spot. I stared at the cigarette burns in the nice wooden finish of the bar.

            “Well, hey… if it isn’t Jesus,” said the beautiful red-headed barkeep with a thick Irish accent.

            “Oh… hey,” I said.

            “Shit man…” she said, “You look like you got hit by a truck. What the hell is with you?”

            “It’s… it’s nothing… rough day at work…” I pulled out the small wad of bills of my dirty jeans, “I don’t have much, so I think just have one beer. A big beer. A big ol’ beer.”

            She smiled, “Well, what kind? We got Guinness, Smithwicks…”

            I gave her a grave look and pointed to the wad, “The biggest that can buy.”

            She placed a frosty glass in front of me, “Jesus man… slow down…”

            I wiped he foam mustache from my philtrum, “Sorry… I just…”

            She gave me a smile, “You weren’t kidding about the day at work. Tell you what, I’ll give you another, on the house, if you promise you’ll drink it SLOWLY this time… okay?”

            I nodded.

            She slid the mug across from me and held a shot up, “How ‘bout a toast? A toast to me? Wait wait… I got a better idea… A toast to Jesus?” she teased.

            I held up my glass high, “No…” I said. I watched her look go from mocking to curious as I toasted, “To understanding…”

Introducing: Bud Floyd Patches (An Exercise in Characterization)

A wise writer once told me: "You should write characters, not caricatures." Unless you wish your entire story to be a wacky wonderland of Disney Cartoons, your characters should sound like real people. Mind you, they don't have to be the most NORMAL people, but they have to have human like attributes. They have to have a past, a favorite food, a favorite song, and a least favorite politician (if they care about politics at all).

When you put people in your story, there is a balance: don't put too many lunatics in your story that the reader can't tell which character they should trust. Conversely, don't make all of your characters too normal, or people will get too bored. Characterization is a delicate dance of balance and contrast.

So, how do we do that? How do we make characters interesting without making them unrealistic? Simple...

We interview them!

As much as it sounds like schizophrenia, interviewing your characters will give you a feel for what they are like as people. This not only keeps you from creating characters that sound like yourself, but it will also allow you to discover what that character is like. Only when we find out what a person is like can we see what they most like will do in the future.

                                           

So, without further ado, I would like to meet

Bud Floyd Patches

(Due to vagrant nature, picture not available)

Name: Bud Floyd Patches

Real Name: Andrew Floyd Smith

Age: 27

Occupation: free loving nomad/writer

Appearance: Short hair, average height, stocky, blue eyes, skin gets darker as the longer he chase’s summer.

Author’s note: At this point author will cease to describe Bud, and Bud will be answering the following questions.

What is your favorite sound? A bunch of people singing out of tune around a fire.

What was your childhood like? We were upper middle class. My dad was gone for half the year. My parents were opposites. So when my dad came home, they’d always argue about how to raise us right. Lots of yelling, no resolution, many broken dishes. In the end, mom would win, and dad would say “happy wife, happy life”. We were never hungry, never had to work for much. However, the house was weird… like there was always some sort of tension ready to snap if Mom wasn’t happy… My sister, a fervent AAer, recently said our house was “Alcoholic by nature”… meaning we never knew what to expect. I’m only beginning to understand what that means.

What would you do if you had $100 in your pocket? Buy a train ticket to somewhere and see who I would meet and how far I could get before I needed to turn back.

Your favorite curse word? Shit

What is your favorite physical trait about yourself? Right now, my beard. I’m going to see how long it will get before it reaches “creepy stalker” status.

What is your favorite non-physical trait about yourself? Conversation. Nuns, hippies, atheists… I can talk with anyone. Someone once asked me if I met a stranger in my life. I think I responded with: “Yes… but then he told me to get in the van…’ J

Do you believe in God? Yes… my faith is extremely personal, but if you want to hear about it, I be happy to conversate over a beer or smoking hookah.

What’s your dream? I’m livin’ it bro… travel the world, no cares, no nothin’…

What’s your favorite joke? “What do you call a fish with no eyes? ‘FSH!’”

What’s your favorite book? Other than the bible, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

What do you think is the biggest problem with people today? Dude… they don’t dance as much as they should. Have you ever been angry and dancing at the same time? I think not…

Role model? Jack Kerouac… or Amelia Earhart... that chick who left in a plane and never came back.

Do you do drugs? Why would I do drugs? I’m like this SOBER!

Are you a morning person? Yes… that’s when I’m the freshest… and when all the good restaurants throw out the crap from the night before. Dumpster diving, here I come!

What do you hate the most? Those who are not genuine… like politicians or models.

Ever plan to get married? Someday… if I ever find a girl who likes to be a nomad, has all her teeth, and doesn’t mind that I occasionally smell funky.

What do you think happens after you die? A big adventure mixed with hallucinations and talking to my dead friends, man.... 

Maybe something like this...

When Writing Sucks and Other Job Hazards

Perhaps I have cirrhosis of the brain today, but I really don’t want to write. Even though I find writing enjoyable, there are days when I really don’t want to give a crap.

I don’t want more closure. I don’t want to explore repressed memories. Aimless searches through the English lexicon to find the exact words to express my heart can die. Sometimes all I want to do is build a fort out of my bed sheets, snag a 24 pack of Pepsi, text people aimlessly, and hide in a cloud of caffeinated bliss.

SOUNDS DELICIOUS!

However, after a diabetic coma and peeling the sheets that stuck to the sweat on my forehead, I realize I can't live in a cocoon the rest of my life. I have to go. I have to go work at my job. No matter how awkward it is, I have to make face-to-face conversation with people. I have to ask that stoic cashier at the local corner store what her favorite joke is and listen her grunt in response.

I must trip, fall, refrain from cursing, and figure out who keeps moving that curb in front of the store.

It's annoying. You may not be good at it. But it has to happen!

Unless you are a fan of acid trips or totally insulating yourself through never-ending text conversations and Facebook, stimulus and conversation are necessary for your health. They dust off your brain. That is, of course, unless you have such a vivid imagination that you can travel to different worlds in your mind, like the Matrix, schizophrenia, or when you take bromodragonfly. If this is the case, please find a way to bottle and sell your gifted imagination for $29.95 on late night television.

However, for many, the ruts and routine of life hinder our imagination, quench our creative juices, and make us settle for bland versions of what makes us come alive. How else can you create a character after a bubbly waitress who secretly likes death metal unless you meet her? Where will you find that nerdy guy who could tell you Darth Vader’s middle name unless you go to the ComicCon?

(Which is a trick question, because he has no middle name). 

Life should be the catalyst for all your writing, and the only way to discover life is to live it. Without it, you may never find closure. And if that's okay, go back to texting... but....

Acid Dreams and Protest Scenes

This story is flash fiction. Flash fiction was started when Hemingway took a a bet that he couldn't write a story in less than seven words. His response was: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn". 

The point of flash fiction is to tell a story with as few words as possible, usually less than 1000 words. 

Enjoy!

      So this one time, Cliff (you remember Cliff?), Cliff and I went to this party to protest something. You know: signs, paint, naked people holding babies… all that good shit. Some granolas were mackin’ on us, and we took some cid, right? After my tongue melted and my pants got wet, things got all fast, yanno?            

      Next thing I know, my dad came out of the house I was peein’ on, “HEEEEY…. Didn’t know you’d be here…”

      I could see in his eyes he was trippin’. “Neither did I… when’d jew get here?

      His eyes dropped, “Well… when your mother left… I just couldn’t stay in that house… you know…”

      I nodded, “That’s how I got here…”

      Dad’s face got serious, “Look son, you know that you can’t keep doin’ whatcha doin’. You know you’re going to end up dead like she did. Maybe even worse.”

      I laughed like an idiot for a second until I realized Cliff wasn’t laughing. He was passed out in the street, gagging for air. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. I was transfixed on Dad.

      “Look, you may not care anymore, but I do. I know you may not have thought I cared much, but I give a damn. I give a damn about you and I give about your future. You’re a smart kid, always have been. Don’t piss it away because you’re mad at me… use your smarts to do something. Do something for you… Do something for him… dammit, DO SOMETHING!”

      We sat there and listened to the fluorescent streetlights and Cliff roll around in his vomit. I looked over at him, but I still couldn't walk away without saying something to Dad.

      “Hey…” I said, looking at the ground, “I know this the prolly the cid talking and that you’re still dead as a fucking doornail… but still… since you’re here, why did you leave me? I’m not Mom you know…”

      His head dropped to the ground in shame as he kicked the dirt with his toes. Then, with a sad smile, he said, “I dunno… maybe it’s because I finally realized you stopped lookin’ for me. I love you too much to stay around when you don’t want me… The last thing I want to give up is being a gentleman.”

      A labored cough came from behind me. I turned around to find Cliff almost turning blue. I looked to Dad, “Can you do something about that?”

      “Sure…” he smiled, “But you won’t like it…”

      “Dude, I gotta save Cliff…” I whined, still stoned out of my mind.

      That’s when the cops showed up, I got a really nasty date with a rubber glove, and there’s a big guy named Bubba in the slammer that keeps calling my cell phone. Cliff’s alright… I think… says he no longer needs his yearly exam...

      But seriously… Swear to God man… that’s how it happened… Swear to God…