An Old Man's Tale -- Whatever It Takes

There’s an old sailing man trapped in his granddaughter’s house now too old to conquer the seas, too frail to even master the stairs, shut in this ranch-style house in Billfordstown, a burden more ignored then revered.
He spends his days running the dishwasher, no matter what it contains, over and over again and sits on the linoleum huddled like bait, his ear pressed firmly against the brown metal front of the pulsating machine, listening.
His eyes flutter as the sound brings him in contact with the water, the engine aboard riding the crests.
He drools as he sits, cries when its done, and with brown spotted hands he starts the process again, hour upon hour, day upon day, until the man of the house enters the kitchen and yells.
“Do you know how much money you’re costing me old man.”
And the once proud captain crawls back to his room, where he remains, waiting for the next crack of dawn and the chance to ride the waves again.

A Goat's Tale -- Milking in the Evening

A man spent days with the movements of goats. Painstakingly imitating, mirroring -- subtleties defined, generalities embraced. He had had enough of the tight smiled brush offs and the turned head giggles. He had had enough of being a dog nobody wished to collar. Loneliness had crept over him like the dull film on a smoker’s windshield, solitude was a thud, hollow in his ears.
So he had turned to the goats for companionship. He longed to be among them and be one of the herd, admiring their nonchalance when dealing with society. He watched the goats eat. He watched how they slept. He watched how they would shake the flies off and stare into nothing as if they were trying to figure out why the world turned as it did. For days and for days, the man learned. For days and for days, the man practiced goat.
After the time it takes to do such things, the man had mastered his craft. He was so good at goat that hardly an expert could distinguish him from a full blood. Every nuance of goat he executed with deft certainty. He nibbled on corn cobs and nuzzled udders and ears. He had become one of them and he walked among them with a full goat swagger. The goats of the herd embraced him and he felt a companionship like never before.
So he stayed with the goats and began a contented part of his life.
But like all happiness, this one, too, was fleeting. As is a goat’s lot in life, one day he was herded up with the rest and taken to Billfordstown to auction.
After a fierce bidding war, the man was separated from his herd and sold solo to a large pink man with thick pink hands and well-scrubbed pink cheeks. A man who, it turns out, had given up his banking job in Billfordstown and had bought a hobby farm. A man who wanted to get back to the land. A man who wanted to teach his two teenage daughters the fine Christian values of work and family. A man in need of a fine milking goat.
After a bumpy ride up the new gravel drive, the man pulled his red pick-up next to his freshly painted pen and unloaded and unleashed his new goat. He gathered his family together around him and they all watched with a smile as the new goat sniffed and ambled around its new home.
“It looks confused,” said the youngest daughter, her pigtails bouncing with each syllable.
“It looks lonely,” said the other daughter with a heavy, damp voice.
“It is up to you girls to comfort the goat,” said the pink man, resting his pink hands on their heads, “It is up to you girls to make this goat a part of our happy family.”
The days passed into autumn and the girls learned the ways of their goat. The goat gave them his milk gladly and though the cheese it made was far too salty and runny to eat, they kept to their duties. Sometimes together, sometimes apart, always in the evening. Winter came and went quickly that year and as the spring thaw neared, the pink man gathered his family together by the pen and proclaimed, “This is the life man is meant to live!” The two girls giggled as the goat pawed at their swollen bellies. The pink man’s wife, with a flat look in her eye, looked at all that surrounded her and mumbled to no one in particular, “Tonight, I think, maybe I’ll milk the goat.”

Stephen's Tale -- Jewish Single's Night

Even though he wasn’t Jewish, Steven was determined to find a bride at Jewish Singles Night tonight. He would have to fake it for awhile, but how hard could that be. He must remember not to bring up the Nazis. He would have to come clean eventually, but by then his princess would be too much in love to leave and these were modern times, after all. He had heard of plenty of mixed marriages, many of them happy and fruitful. And that was what Stephen was after, happiness and fruitfulness.
He had grown so weary of the Christian girls he had met at his church socials. They lacked the intellectual pretension and hairy swarthiness that he, of late, had found so attractive. He had grown tired of Suburbans with American flag window decals, he had grown tired of white pop rap and conversations about the proximity of the Gap in relation to Old Navy. Stephen longed for discourse and ethnic food, feminist folksingers and Subarus. When Stephen heard about Jewish Singles Night at the local temple he thought his prospects were looking up. “A Jewish girl would easily play the exotic lover role,” thought Stephen.
Stephen spent hours preening for the event. How would a 35-year-old single Jewish real estate agent style his hair (for this was the role he decided upon)? How would he wear his clothes? What would his opening line be?
“How long have you been a Jewish Single?”
“Do you agree with Israel’s stance on the Palestinian question?”
“Do you know where a guy could get a good matzo ball in this town?”
There were so many possibilities that it was difficult to decide. Moments passed and Stephen settled on a side part for his hair, a white button down shirt tucked tightly into a pressed pair of chinos, and an opening monologue consisting of a simple and short, completely made-up biography focusing on a loving but overbearing mother who would be so thrilled if only he married a nice Jewish girl and provided grandkids to spoil. Armed thusly, Stephen’s confidence grew. “Tonight I shall me my bride,” he thought, checking his nose hairs in the mirror one last time.
Stephen locked his apartment door, climbed behind the wheel of his 1991 Volvo 940 Turbo, started the engine, put the radio on the alternative rock station, and headed out. As he drove, though, Stephen began to panic. Everywhere he looked on his journey he began to see signs. Jesus fishes on SUV’s, Jesus Loves You bumper stickers on mini-vans, a Christian bookstore where only yesterday there had been a used record store, a blood red sunset, a noticeable drop in the outside temperature. Why did he seem to be the focus of so much in-your-face Jesus? Was god trying to tell him something? Stop him from making a mistake? Did Jesus not want him to change teams? Stephen found himself starting to get nervous, starting to get flushed, starting to get sweaty. His mind filled with second-guessing and he was about to turn around and go home. It was then he realized that he was sitting in the parking lot of Temple Beth Israel, Temple Beth Israel where Jewish Singles Night was being held.
“Fuck it,” Stephen said under his breath and calming himself down, “I’ll just go in and see what happens.”
Stephen got out of his car, bent over and locked it. Then he turned around and headed towards the front entrance of Temple Beth Israel.
Sheila Blomberg’s cell phone rang and she looked down to answer it. She wasn’t really sure what happened as the hood of her Subaru crumpled into Stephen’s spleen, killing him instantly.

Neal's Tale -- Losing Interest in Myself

It all started when I saw my mother naked for the first time once I was old enough to be unsettled by the sight. No, wait, it was my father that I saw, so much black tangled hair and his meat erect there as if calling out a challenge. No, not erect, flaccid, as if dead, and then he … wait. No. It all started when my sister saw me naked when I was old enough to feel uncomfortable by the situation. I remember how her eyes widened, seeing me as she had never seen me before. I became something else that day, a fidgeting sort of creature whose self-esteem grew and thickened as my penis followed suit. That is when it started. Wait. I got it wrong again. It was when my wife suddenly pointed and laughed at my penis. Ever since then I’ve lost my way. I am no longer the man I used to be or even the man I once thought that I was.
On good nights – nights where the moon hangs pregnant in the sky and all the neighborhood dogs walk sideways unsure of the single purpose anymore – then I catch a glimpse of my self askance in the mirror. But any serious examination leads to disappointment. Who have I become and where did I get all this crap? It was time to get serious and start piecing this shit together, to unlock this puzzle as it were, this laundry list of insanity I seemed to be saddled with.
I had to start, of course, with Delores. Delores and her malcontent. My blushing bride of twenty odd years had become my nursemaid. When I was weeping and crawling across the Pergo like some spurned puppy, she was cooing in my ear and smoothing my hair. When I fixated on the number nine to the point where I was walking into things and drooling on my shirt, she was there to do the math. If only she hadn’t laughed at my penis – if only she hadn’t made her new role so damned apparent – if only – if only – then maybe I could have held it together. But now I am adrift.
Or maybe it’s not really her fault. Maybe I just deserve all this. I’ve become a sham at work, distracted in my day-to-day, and wild in my surmise. Maybe I have created this beast myself through too many left-footed missteps.
The more I think about this the less I actually care. I’m losing interest in my own demise and the realization of my lack of interest doesn’t interest me at all. Where does a man go when he loses interest in his own life story? What next then, dear, to fill the void? My grandfather used to tell me that no matter how delicious a woman may be, a glass is always far easier to pick up.
Maybe that’s my solution – a trough of whiskey and I the poor unsaddled filly having just crossed Monument Valley with a toothless ape on my back. Is it really that easy? Drown my sorrows? I’ll bet you ten to one those fuckers can swim.
Perhaps I should deal with this dilemma head on – confront the man I hoped to be and lay down a sheet of probing questions, beginning of course with “What the fuck happened?” I must stay focused here – gird my loins and tighten my belt. Time to come face to face with reality and … wait … hold on … shit. I can’t remember my own face anymore. I need something solid to hold on to …
“Delores!”

Daniel's Tale -- Cast Shadows Blur

Cast shadows blur
In the yellow lantern light
Of the half moon
Sunk low in the Western night
And the dog scratches once more
On what’s left of the red door
Perhaps it wants to come in
Perhaps it wants to flee this darkness
But I must first and foremost
Taste the chalk of the Vicodin
Dusting the back of my throat
Wondering if this was indeed
Part of the package
When I woke up this morning
Mistaking this day
For last year
While you so gently
Shifted your weight
Beneath the duvet
And snored.

Garett's Tale -- Ease Up

It’s not like you need to think hard
About these things

Like horse head cocked as the traffic hums by
Or thick crinkled paged book festooned with dust
Or hands on the clock click whizzing around

No, these are simple things to be enjoyed at this moment

Ice-cream drip on the tongue
Snow flake on the eyelash
Hands that smell like a god-damn puppy for Christ’s sake

Get your teeth out of your skull
Look around
Breath
And bounce on the balls of your feet

The band will begin shortly
Wait until you see the light show
And the explosions

They’re extravagant.

Donald's Tale -- Shoelaces

Donald tried to tie the laces of his shoes as if he was a famous pastry chef having trouble with his walnut pie. The filling too runny, the dough will not set, and the waiter comes in with an order for more. The chef panics, throwing the onions and meat loaf into the mix, stirring vigorously hoping it will thicken. He shoves the dough down his pants trying to speed the setting process with the chill of his long neglected groin. The waiter pleads, “Where is the pie, where is the pie?” Sweat beads on the brow of the chef as he thickens and sets, thickens and sets. Now he throws it all together hurriedly and jams it under his arm, then thinks of the goat in the petting zoo that he saw in the happier times of his childhood, praying this will generate heat.

But the pie never cooks.

The waiter is stiffed.

The chef collapses to the floor in a heap that resembles more a white frosted sponge cake then a person, fetal and crying.

Finally, Donald gives up on his laces and slides his feet into his warm comfy slippers with a sigh of a job well done.