My friends and I developed a blog dedicated to storytelling in three paragraphs. Each contributor is required to tell an entertaining, insightful or funny story in 3 paragraphs. Here is an entry about a 6-day hospital stint I had in June.
The Records*
The records, as they were commonly referred to in familial dialogue, included a small canvas-shell briefcase containing 45” vinyl recordings of Brian’s father singing on the boardwalk of Coney Island circa 1951. The records had remained unheard by anyone in the family for years when Brian coincidentally excavated the briefcase in search of photographs to display at his father’s wake. He isolated himself shortly after the loss, interacting solely with the indexical crests and troughs of his father’s voice stamped onto the thirty-something-year-old vinyl. Throughout the following years in times of crisis and conflict, the warm crackle of his father’s crooning acapella would often hang behind his closed bedroom door.
A few months later, when Brian decided to move to Chicago with his wife, Donna, he packed the records in his luggage. His mother, however, removed the records and replaced them with a note: Brian, Could you wait til I’m dead to rob my grave? Love, Mom. Upon confronting his mother on the phone, she claimed she was genuinely uncomfortable with her kids beginning to empty out her house as if she didn’t live there. “I’m sorry, Bri’. I just don’t think it’s right for you to be liquidating my assets while I’m still alive.” “Mom, I’m not liquidating anything. Those aren’t even assets.” “That’s right, you’re a big shot in Chicago now. I guess I should have reviewed some vocabulary before we spoke.” He was not a big shot. He had taken a paralegal position at a small Chicago firm instead of continuing the desperate pursuit of success as an economic journalist. Convinced that his mother held the records in Long Island purely to spite his emigration (she had fervently campaigned against his relocation), Brian declared a one-year boycott on New York. He spent Christmas the following year with Donna and her Jewish Aunt Merna. They attended a matinee screening of JFK. Brian mailed the ticket stub home as an official declaration of war.
*An excerpt of the story was published
in Villanova University’s most reputable literary magazine, Polis, in Spring 2011.
The entire story is available here: THE RECORDS.pdf
Blooming Elms on Concord Ave.
From the car, Peter caught a quick glimpse of the kitchen, busy with vapors tumbling above where the stove was. Stretching across the center console and onto the lap of his son, he cranked the window down and inhaled. “What d’ya think she’s making tonight, Thomas?” “Don’t know,” Thomas shrugged. Peter had recently sensed a hesitance in his son to divulge petty details, and attributed it to his son’s relentless desire to not betray his loyalty to his mother. He crept the car up two feet, curiously peaking through scarce transparent patches between leaves. Two adolescent elm trees obstructed the view into the dining room window. “You know, I planted those trees.” He sighed and rested his grease-battered hand on his son’s head. “I planted them when we moved here.” In the winter he had seen just fine into the dining room. Often he would cruise by right around suppertime to stay up-to-date on Mary’s new love interests, but the spring had recently made traitors of his beloved elm trees. He tossed Thomas’ hair to the side, but it stayed put. “Your hair’s growing in too thick.” “So what?” “Well, it’s just that your hair was always thinner.” Thomas’ newly-visible Sicilian features stood in cruel opposition to those of his Irish father. “Can I go in now?” Thomas popped the door open. “Now, wait a minute,” Peter lunged over his son’s lap and held the door closed. “It’s only,” he checked his watch, “its only 5:56. We’ve got four minutes left.” Peter crawled into the back seat and rolled the window down for a better view. He hoped for damning evidence. He wished to see that jackass from the sewage repair company, or the asshole from the corner delicatessen, or the other asshole who had hit on Mary while they were on vacation in Williamsburg two years ago. He would rather see any one of those shitheads sitting in his chair at the dining room table, so long as it wasn’t the faceless gentleman caller of Peter’s own imagination. Thomas stepped out of the car. Peter called out from the back seat. “Alright buddy. I’ll see ya’ Friday. We’ll get you a haircut this weekend. Have ‘em thin it out real nice.” Thomas climbed the steps to the front door, disappearing behind the blooming elm trees.