Showing posts with label Jerry Guarino. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jerry Guarino. Show all posts
The Rich are Going to Hell
By Jerry Guarino
“Why would he say that?” The gentrified couple couldn’t believe what they were hearing.
“It’s just to get our attention,” whispered the woman to her husband. “It must be about being thankful for what you have.”
The husband adjusted his glasses. “I don’t see the point. We don’t have to put up with this” and they left brusquely. The preacher continued without hesitating.
The audience was adorned with khaki slacks, polo shirts and topsiders. The tax lawyer in the third row queried his second (trophy) wife. “We take time out on a Sunday to come here and this is what we hear.” The preppy blonde with the degree in art history agreed. “This is in very poor taste. We could have gone to the beach.” Their attention was drawn back to the speaker.
“Look at your cars, your homes, your vacation homes and your country clubs. Do you think they make you a better person? Do you think you have some special blessing from above? No, you’re the same as the homeless man in the street, the poor woman who takes the bus to clean your house, the laid off teacher struggling to feed her children.”
Old money and Nouveau riche sat side by side this morning. There was a tailored man in a seersucker jacket, crisp Brooks Brothers oxford and pastel blue tie who looked like he just landed from Martha’s Vineyard. Next to him was a woman in pinstripe blue and power tie, obviously a Wall Street broker. She leaned over to her friend and spoke. “I thought this was going to be about the goodness of money, how it’s a sign of being blessed.”
“Look at your life. What do you think about? What do you do each day? How much time do you give to self-examination, peeling back the layers and finding out what your core really is? Who among you can say ‘I have earned everything I have’?”
People started to file out, first one by one, then in small groups. The congregation of about 100 quickly dwindled to just a couple dozen willing to listen.
“But not everyone wants to hear” he said gesturing to the people exiting the tent. “They don’t want to give up their comfortable life or face the fact that their life has been wasted in the pursuit of money. Who here is willing to peel away the layers of shame in public, to examine their life in full view of God and this audience?”
A man in his thirties timidly raised his hand. “Thank you son. Don’t be afraid. Come up here and tell us your story.” The man took the microphone. “My name is Alex. I made a lot of money with an Internet scam that preyed on the elderly. I’m ashamed of what I have done.”
The preacher nodded as he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have all sinned son. Repentance starts with confession. What do you want to do now?”
Alex cleared his throat and continued. “I could send a gift anonymously to all those I cheated.”
The man of the cloth looked up. “Anonymously? Will that clear your conscience Alex?”
Alex responded, “What else can I do?”
The preacher replied, “Get down on your knees and pray, in front of your brothers and sisters, so that you may be cleansed.”
The man knelt down as the preacher held the microphone for him. “Now admit what you have done son.”
Alex spoke into the mike. “I have stolen money and ruined the lives of decent honest people. I have done this without guilt or remorse.”
The preacher reassured Alex. “This is the start of a new life. Through your confession, you can begin again. Go and sin no more.”
Suddenly, two men hustled the speaker off his pulpit, dragging him away from the congregation. This surprising incident shocked the listeners, many of who whispered to their companions with explanations of what just happened. Everyone finally left the tent toward the row of BMWs and other luxury cars. On their way out, the trophy wife asked her husband. “Why do you think this guy was speaking at a car dealership anyway?”
- - -
Jerry Guarino writes short stories and plays. Please visit his website at http://thedevilsorchestra.us
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in four countries with the journals 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine (Australia), Hackwriters Magazine (Great Britain), Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, MediaVirus, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, The Stream Press, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany (Canada).
By Jerry Guarino
“Why would he say that?” The gentrified couple couldn’t believe what they were hearing.
“It’s just to get our attention,” whispered the woman to her husband. “It must be about being thankful for what you have.”
The husband adjusted his glasses. “I don’t see the point. We don’t have to put up with this” and they left brusquely. The preacher continued without hesitating.
The audience was adorned with khaki slacks, polo shirts and topsiders. The tax lawyer in the third row queried his second (trophy) wife. “We take time out on a Sunday to come here and this is what we hear.” The preppy blonde with the degree in art history agreed. “This is in very poor taste. We could have gone to the beach.” Their attention was drawn back to the speaker.
“Look at your cars, your homes, your vacation homes and your country clubs. Do you think they make you a better person? Do you think you have some special blessing from above? No, you’re the same as the homeless man in the street, the poor woman who takes the bus to clean your house, the laid off teacher struggling to feed her children.”
Old money and Nouveau riche sat side by side this morning. There was a tailored man in a seersucker jacket, crisp Brooks Brothers oxford and pastel blue tie who looked like he just landed from Martha’s Vineyard. Next to him was a woman in pinstripe blue and power tie, obviously a Wall Street broker. She leaned over to her friend and spoke. “I thought this was going to be about the goodness of money, how it’s a sign of being blessed.”
“Look at your life. What do you think about? What do you do each day? How much time do you give to self-examination, peeling back the layers and finding out what your core really is? Who among you can say ‘I have earned everything I have’?”
People started to file out, first one by one, then in small groups. The congregation of about 100 quickly dwindled to just a couple dozen willing to listen.
“But not everyone wants to hear” he said gesturing to the people exiting the tent. “They don’t want to give up their comfortable life or face the fact that their life has been wasted in the pursuit of money. Who here is willing to peel away the layers of shame in public, to examine their life in full view of God and this audience?”
A man in his thirties timidly raised his hand. “Thank you son. Don’t be afraid. Come up here and tell us your story.” The man took the microphone. “My name is Alex. I made a lot of money with an Internet scam that preyed on the elderly. I’m ashamed of what I have done.”
The preacher nodded as he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have all sinned son. Repentance starts with confession. What do you want to do now?”
Alex cleared his throat and continued. “I could send a gift anonymously to all those I cheated.”
The man of the cloth looked up. “Anonymously? Will that clear your conscience Alex?”
Alex responded, “What else can I do?”
The preacher replied, “Get down on your knees and pray, in front of your brothers and sisters, so that you may be cleansed.”
The man knelt down as the preacher held the microphone for him. “Now admit what you have done son.”
Alex spoke into the mike. “I have stolen money and ruined the lives of decent honest people. I have done this without guilt or remorse.”
The preacher reassured Alex. “This is the start of a new life. Through your confession, you can begin again. Go and sin no more.”
Suddenly, two men hustled the speaker off his pulpit, dragging him away from the congregation. This surprising incident shocked the listeners, many of who whispered to their companions with explanations of what just happened. Everyone finally left the tent toward the row of BMWs and other luxury cars. On their way out, the trophy wife asked her husband. “Why do you think this guy was speaking at a car dealership anyway?”
- - -
Jerry Guarino writes short stories and plays. Please visit his website at http://thedevilsorchestra.us
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in four countries with the journals 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine (Australia), Hackwriters Magazine (Great Britain), Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, MediaVirus, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, The Stream Press, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany (Canada).
Traffic Stop with Annie Kim
By Jerry Guarino
“And those are the headlines. Let’s check in with Annie Kim and Traffic Stop.” The readers should imagine themselves in front of a large screen television where Annie Kim is driving the traffic stop reporters car. “Thanks Bob. Well, here on the 405 it’s a typical LA drive time adventure. Some kids in a mustang speeding down the emergency lane and my producer Juan and I are trying to avoid some motorcycles weaving in and out of the fast lanes.”
- - -
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine, Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany. He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.
By Jerry Guarino
“And those are the headlines. Let’s check in with Annie Kim and Traffic Stop.” The readers should imagine themselves in front of a large screen television where Annie Kim is driving the traffic stop reporters car. “Thanks Bob. Well, here on the 405 it’s a typical LA drive time adventure. Some kids in a mustang speeding down the emergency lane and my producer Juan and I are trying to avoid some motorcycles weaving in and out of the fast lanes.”
A two-way camera is mounted in front of the traffic stop van providing a unique perspective as viewers at home see both Annie driving and the road ahead. These live traffic reports have bumped their news ratings up five points. Bob, back at the anchor desk voices over the live feed. “Looks like you’re giving us a front row seat Annie.” “That’s right Bob. You can almost feel what we’re…” Annie screams and slams on the brakes. Annie and Juan lunge forward and the inside windshield is sprayed with a take out menu, some Mexican food leftovers, soft drinks and reporter notes. Hip-hop music blares from a nearby El Camino low rider. “I think we’re all right Bob, but that was close.” The traffic stop van continues down the freeway.
Normally, traffic reporters hitch a ride with a news helicopter or report from the studio while watching camera feeds. Helicopters are often grounded by weather and their perspective is from a mile off the ground. Reporting from a studio is even more remote and lacks the sounds of the road. Traffic Stop had revolutionized traffic reporting, even making it interesting and no other station had it.
“I’m telling you at home. If you don’t have to drive, don’t. There must be a full moon, eh Juan.” The viewers see Juan nod in agreement. “As I was going to say, we’re approaching the 10 in Culver City and we’re just getting back up to cruising speed.” A farm vehicle cuts the van off. Annie screams again, slams on the brakes. Annie and Juan are sent forward again. The inside windshield is sprayed with donuts, plastic utensils and a hairbrush. Outside, a chicken bounces off the windshield and we hear squawks and panicked chicken sounds. Some mariachis band music comes up from a pickup truck on their left. Bob interjects from the studio. “Annie, maybe it’s time you called it a day.” Annie composes herself and they continue driving. “No way, Bob, but this does remind me of driving in Rome.”
“We just passed the 10, heading towards the Marina freeway and Inglewood. Things are starting to calm down ahead of us. We can see the farmer in our rear view mirror picking up poultry and some pigs running in between cars, holding up traffic behind them.” Juan takes some notes and shakes his head. “Three’s the charm Juan?” We see a picture in picture pop up box for the weather reporter. “Annie, you won’t believe this, but we are hearing that strong cross winds are headed right for you. Maybe you should call it a day.” Annie hits the accelerator. “Not now. I think our viewers at home would like to see how this ends.”
But the traffic lightened and there were no more incidents for the moment. “False alarm, Bob. We don’t see anything that would indicate strong cross winds. You might as well go to a commercial.” As Annie and Juan continued down the freeway, an ambulance siren is heard from behind them. Coming out of commercial, Bob throws it back to the traffic reporter. “Folks, we’re going to rejoin Annie in Traffic Stop, just to make sure they’re all right.” The television screen flips back. “Bob, I think we have an ambulance coming up on our left. We’re going to pull over. We’ll see if we can catch up to give you a first hand report.”
The traffic stop van eventually caught up to the accident. A semi-tractor truck had spun off the road, blocking the two right hand lanes. The back doors were open and you could almost see what was falling out, slowly jamming traffic. Suddenly, something flew up in front of their van. It was a super ball; in fact it was hundreds of super balls. “We’re almost there Bob. It looks like.” Annie screamed and slammed on the brakes. Annie and Juan were thrown forward again. The inside of the windshield was sprayed with burger wrappers, French fries and water bottles. Outside, the front of the windshield was pelted with dozens of super balls. You could hear metal music loud and clear from a motorcycle sliding by, trying to avoid the rubber obstacles. The van now looked like it had been through some sort of Halloween prank. The camera shot returned to Annie.
“And that’s the way the way the ball bounces. This is Annie Kim with Traffic Stop for KOOK in Los Angeles. Back to you Bob.”
- - -
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine, Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany. He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.
The Grand Poobah
By Jerry Guarino
“Give me a megabucks ticket,” said Joey. “Only one” said the kid behind the counter. “You only need one” Joey said “and a pack of lights” motioning to the cigarette picture on the counter. “3, 7, 10, 19, 58 and 83. Good numbers”, he thought as he pushed the ticket into his wallet and lit up before he got to the car. Joey’s life had been reduced to hoping he could win the lottery, after decades of wasted opportunities and bad decisions.
Joey’s parents came from Italy during the great wave of immigrants in the 1920s, opening a grocery store in Newark. Good Catholic boys, they attended Mass twice a week. Joey did whatever his parents asked and did well in school. He was a happy and bright boy. But his father favored Nick, the first-born. “Poppa, why does Nickie get a new suit for church?” he asked. Joey’s father smiled and patted him on the head. “Nickie needs a new suit because he’s going to be an altar boy. You’ll be one in a few years and then we’ll get you a new suit.” But Joey knew it was more than that. Nick got better toys at Christmas and more attention from his parents. Even though he was a better student, Joey would be criticized if he didn’t get all ‘A’s’. Nick would be praised for getting ‘B’s’. “Fourth grade is harder than first grade Joey”, his father explained. “We’ll see how you do then”.
Now in his late 50s, Joey looked like Ernest Borgnine, another first generation Italian-American, but without his talent or work ethic. His life more closely resembled Ralph Kramden, the poor bus driver on The Honeymooners, wearing a raccoon hat at the lodge. He walked into the Italian-American club and sat down at the card table. “Ciao, come stai,” said Joey. “Bene, bene” replied the other players. “Give me $300” pulling most of the cash from his wallet and taking his chips. “Feeling lucky today Joey”? Said Mike. “I gotta believe, Mike, you know that”, gambling now his religion.
Joey and his brother Nick worked at the grocery. Nick would be at the cash register while Joey bagged food. One time a tomato slipped from the top of the bag to the bottom, breaking when the customer put it in his car. He returned to complain. His father stared at Joey. “Tomatoes go on top. Give the man a new one and it’s coming out of your allowance”.
He had joined the Masonic order to make connections for sales. In 1983, the church had reiterated their denouncement of Freemasonry. Rejected by his faith, Joey believed that he was in a state of grave sin, thus justifying the downward spiral his life had taken. His younger son was brain damaged at birth and given up to an institution for life, a common practice in the 1950s; his other son had a compromised pulmonary system, probably related to the smoking addiction he and his wife shared.
“Poppa, I made this for you in art class.” Joey handed his father the watercolor with a picture of them both standing in front of the store. “Where’s Nickie and your mother?” his father said. “This is just me and you”. Just. Joey held back tears.
Eventually, Joey stopped trying to please his father. This led to his smoking, gambling and eating addictions.
Joey thumbed his cards, a 4, 7, jack, queen and king. He looked around the table. “Two cards” he said, then took another cigarette out. In high school, Joey was an all-state lineman. But today, at 5’10” and 300 pounds, Joey was closer to a heart attack than a running attack. “C’mon, give me picture cards” he thought to himself as he looked at his hand. Catching an ace and ten, he now held a straight. “I raise” and he threw $40 in the pot. Two players threw in their cards, “not with this hand” said one.
Mike glanced over his hand to Joey. “All right. I’ll play” and he raised him to $100. Joey blew some smoke out, looked at his chips; realizing most of his paycheck was on the table. “All in” and he pushed $300 in chips into the middle. Mike looked at his cards again, checked his wallet, and then gave Joey a smile. “Call”. Joey smiled back, laid down his cards and reached for the pot.
A natural talker, Joey had passed up an offer to become the first salesman for a new business venture, frozen orange juice. His gambling addiction and progressive depression kept his wife and son in poverty, even losing a house that his father had bought him years before.
“All hearts” said Mike as he laid down his flush. A little embarrassed now, Joey finished his cigarette, strained to push away from the table and turned to walk out. “You beat me again Mike”.
Walking back to his car, his legs were knocked under him. A punk kid held a knife to his back and took his wallet. “Move and I’ll stick you, old man”. Old man. The youth disappeared down an alley. Trembling, Joey got in his car and drove home.
His wife could tell something was wrong when he came into the kitchen. “What happened”? She said. “I was mugged. They got my paycheck for the week”. Dejected from the theft but glad that he didn’t have to tell her about the loss at cards, Joey sat quietly and ate his pasta, then left to watch television. His wife came in from the kitchen. Joey fell asleep, partly from his smoking, obesity and depression, partly from the trauma of being held up. His wife changed the channel, as her show was about to come on when she saw the blond model reading the numbers for the night.
“3, 7, 10, 19, 58 and 83”.
- - -
By Jerry Guarino
“Give me a megabucks ticket,” said Joey. “Only one” said the kid behind the counter. “You only need one” Joey said “and a pack of lights” motioning to the cigarette picture on the counter. “3, 7, 10, 19, 58 and 83. Good numbers”, he thought as he pushed the ticket into his wallet and lit up before he got to the car. Joey’s life had been reduced to hoping he could win the lottery, after decades of wasted opportunities and bad decisions.
Joey’s parents came from Italy during the great wave of immigrants in the 1920s, opening a grocery store in Newark. Good Catholic boys, they attended Mass twice a week. Joey did whatever his parents asked and did well in school. He was a happy and bright boy. But his father favored Nick, the first-born. “Poppa, why does Nickie get a new suit for church?” he asked. Joey’s father smiled and patted him on the head. “Nickie needs a new suit because he’s going to be an altar boy. You’ll be one in a few years and then we’ll get you a new suit.” But Joey knew it was more than that. Nick got better toys at Christmas and more attention from his parents. Even though he was a better student, Joey would be criticized if he didn’t get all ‘A’s’. Nick would be praised for getting ‘B’s’. “Fourth grade is harder than first grade Joey”, his father explained. “We’ll see how you do then”.
Now in his late 50s, Joey looked like Ernest Borgnine, another first generation Italian-American, but without his talent or work ethic. His life more closely resembled Ralph Kramden, the poor bus driver on The Honeymooners, wearing a raccoon hat at the lodge. He walked into the Italian-American club and sat down at the card table. “Ciao, come stai,” said Joey. “Bene, bene” replied the other players. “Give me $300” pulling most of the cash from his wallet and taking his chips. “Feeling lucky today Joey”? Said Mike. “I gotta believe, Mike, you know that”, gambling now his religion.
Joey and his brother Nick worked at the grocery. Nick would be at the cash register while Joey bagged food. One time a tomato slipped from the top of the bag to the bottom, breaking when the customer put it in his car. He returned to complain. His father stared at Joey. “Tomatoes go on top. Give the man a new one and it’s coming out of your allowance”.
He had joined the Masonic order to make connections for sales. In 1983, the church had reiterated their denouncement of Freemasonry. Rejected by his faith, Joey believed that he was in a state of grave sin, thus justifying the downward spiral his life had taken. His younger son was brain damaged at birth and given up to an institution for life, a common practice in the 1950s; his other son had a compromised pulmonary system, probably related to the smoking addiction he and his wife shared.
“Poppa, I made this for you in art class.” Joey handed his father the watercolor with a picture of them both standing in front of the store. “Where’s Nickie and your mother?” his father said. “This is just me and you”. Just. Joey held back tears.
Eventually, Joey stopped trying to please his father. This led to his smoking, gambling and eating addictions.
Joey thumbed his cards, a 4, 7, jack, queen and king. He looked around the table. “Two cards” he said, then took another cigarette out. In high school, Joey was an all-state lineman. But today, at 5’10” and 300 pounds, Joey was closer to a heart attack than a running attack. “C’mon, give me picture cards” he thought to himself as he looked at his hand. Catching an ace and ten, he now held a straight. “I raise” and he threw $40 in the pot. Two players threw in their cards, “not with this hand” said one.
Mike glanced over his hand to Joey. “All right. I’ll play” and he raised him to $100. Joey blew some smoke out, looked at his chips; realizing most of his paycheck was on the table. “All in” and he pushed $300 in chips into the middle. Mike looked at his cards again, checked his wallet, and then gave Joey a smile. “Call”. Joey smiled back, laid down his cards and reached for the pot.
A natural talker, Joey had passed up an offer to become the first salesman for a new business venture, frozen orange juice. His gambling addiction and progressive depression kept his wife and son in poverty, even losing a house that his father had bought him years before.
“All hearts” said Mike as he laid down his flush. A little embarrassed now, Joey finished his cigarette, strained to push away from the table and turned to walk out. “You beat me again Mike”.
Walking back to his car, his legs were knocked under him. A punk kid held a knife to his back and took his wallet. “Move and I’ll stick you, old man”. Old man. The youth disappeared down an alley. Trembling, Joey got in his car and drove home.
His wife could tell something was wrong when he came into the kitchen. “What happened”? She said. “I was mugged. They got my paycheck for the week”. Dejected from the theft but glad that he didn’t have to tell her about the loss at cards, Joey sat quietly and ate his pasta, then left to watch television. His wife came in from the kitchen. Joey fell asleep, partly from his smoking, obesity and depression, partly from the trauma of being held up. His wife changed the channel, as her show was about to come on when she saw the blond model reading the numbers for the night.
“3, 7, 10, 19, 58 and 83”.
- - -
Jerry Guarino spent 57 years thinking about writing, then finally did. His work appears in Weirdyear, Daily Love, Writing Raw, Leaning House Press and The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine. He can be reached at jguarino@me.com or by visiting his website http://thedevilsorchestra.us
