Showing posts with label Wayne Scheer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wayne Scheer. Show all posts
Is It My Fault?
By Wayne Scheer
It's not cheating if I don't have sex with them, that's what I tried telling Beth. But she left me anyway. Twenty-six years of marriage, two kids and an upside down mortgage because we used the house to pay for Paul and Emma's college, and she's gone. She says she won't put up with a man she can't trust. Then she had the nerve to call me a pervert.
I told her she's the one that hired the private detective, so she's the one that can't be trusted.
And who's calling who a pervert? I reminded her of the stuff she likes to do in bed, that sexy talk when she gets hot and the thing with her tongue. But I didn't go crazy and pack my bags and threaten to tell the kids or her boss, did I? I respect her privacy.
"That's different," she says. "And you know it's different. That's why you tried keeping it secret."
We all have our secrets, I told her. We keep some things to ourselves because we're afraid other people won't understand. Well, Beth sure as hell proved me right.
She's mad, she said, because I was spending our money. She spent our money getting her hair done and her nails, even her toes. You think I care what her toes look like? But I never complained. Why can't I spend some money on myself? I earned it just like she did. I don't drink and I hardly ever eat lunch with the guys at work because I save my money for my little treat.
Once a month--and sometimes not even that often—I put an ad in a local adult newspaper and within a day or two I get a response. I rent a hotel room and we have some fun. No sex. I don't even ask them to take off their clothes, and I leave mine on, too.
But this private detective she hired found the ad and showed it to her. All hell broke loose for no damn good reason. She cried and asked why I don't find her attractive. I told her I think she's beautiful. And I wasn't lying. I've loved her since the day we met when I was only eighteen.
She just can't do what I want. I don't blame her for it. She just can't, like I can't dunk a basketball.
Look, here's the ad:
I have a simple proposition to offer. 45 minutes of tickling. No nudity/video. You must be a very ticklish female. Send pic.
Is it my fault Beth isn't ticklish?
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
By Wayne Scheer
It's not cheating if I don't have sex with them, that's what I tried telling Beth. But she left me anyway. Twenty-six years of marriage, two kids and an upside down mortgage because we used the house to pay for Paul and Emma's college, and she's gone. She says she won't put up with a man she can't trust. Then she had the nerve to call me a pervert.
I told her she's the one that hired the private detective, so she's the one that can't be trusted.
And who's calling who a pervert? I reminded her of the stuff she likes to do in bed, that sexy talk when she gets hot and the thing with her tongue. But I didn't go crazy and pack my bags and threaten to tell the kids or her boss, did I? I respect her privacy.
"That's different," she says. "And you know it's different. That's why you tried keeping it secret."
We all have our secrets, I told her. We keep some things to ourselves because we're afraid other people won't understand. Well, Beth sure as hell proved me right.
She's mad, she said, because I was spending our money. She spent our money getting her hair done and her nails, even her toes. You think I care what her toes look like? But I never complained. Why can't I spend some money on myself? I earned it just like she did. I don't drink and I hardly ever eat lunch with the guys at work because I save my money for my little treat.
Once a month--and sometimes not even that often—I put an ad in a local adult newspaper and within a day or two I get a response. I rent a hotel room and we have some fun. No sex. I don't even ask them to take off their clothes, and I leave mine on, too.
But this private detective she hired found the ad and showed it to her. All hell broke loose for no damn good reason. She cried and asked why I don't find her attractive. I told her I think she's beautiful. And I wasn't lying. I've loved her since the day we met when I was only eighteen.
She just can't do what I want. I don't blame her for it. She just can't, like I can't dunk a basketball.
Look, here's the ad:
I have a simple proposition to offer. 45 minutes of tickling. No nudity/video. You must be a very ticklish female. Send pic.
Is it my fault Beth isn't ticklish?
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
No Blessing
By Wayne Scheer
Cosmic Joke
I knew a man who moved to a nudist resort when he retired, and promptly went blind.
He sounds like the punch line for a bad joke. He thought so, too.
I met Rob and his wife, Holly, when we were young, our bodies firm and our sight clear. We were never meet-for-drinks-after-work buddies, but I'd look for them whenever I visited the nudist resort where they were members. Quiet and unassuming, Rob's wit was as surprising as the tattoo on his ass that read: "Made in the USA."
When Holly died of a heart attack, after forty years of marriage, he quit his job and moved to California, where he bought a house at a nudist resort near Los Angeles. Always full of surprises.
I hadn't seen him for a few years. I was in LA for a business conference, and when it was over I thought I'd spend a day in the sun and see if Rob was there.
I found him right off, lounging by the pool.
"Hey, Rob," I said, holding out my hand. "It's been a long time."
There being nothing unusual about a man wearing dark sunglasses in those environs, my surprise came when he said, "The voice is familiar but the face is a bit cloudy," and pointed to his walking stick.
"Pete Ryles," I said, trying not to blurt out, "My God, man. You're blind."
"Pete. How the hell are you?" Now it was his turn to hold out his hand. We shook and he talked about his blindness as if we were discussing yesterday's ball game.
"A cosmic joke," is the way he described his predicament.
Just then, an attractive woman clicked by in heels and nothing else. We both turned. I looked; I'm not sure what Rob did.
"I bet they aren't real," he said.
"How'd you know?"
"I could smell her make-up. No one that obsessed with her looks would let nature take its course."
"But how'd you know she had some years on her?"
"Young women don't need to wear heels at a pool."
Impressed, I asked what else he learned with his new powers.
"Being in a pool blind feels like swimming in a vat of Jello."
"You've become a poet."
"Nah, I read that somewhere." He laughed. "Truth? The other senses are accentuated, but blindness is no blessing, believe me."
I had dinner with him that evening and left for home.
Yesterday, I heard Rob had pointed a gun between his eyes and blew out his brains. He explained his act in a message: "I was afraid I'd miss."
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Contact Wayne at wvscheer@aol.com.
By Wayne Scheer
Cosmic Joke
I knew a man who moved to a nudist resort when he retired, and promptly went blind.
He sounds like the punch line for a bad joke. He thought so, too.
I met Rob and his wife, Holly, when we were young, our bodies firm and our sight clear. We were never meet-for-drinks-after-work buddies, but I'd look for them whenever I visited the nudist resort where they were members. Quiet and unassuming, Rob's wit was as surprising as the tattoo on his ass that read: "Made in the USA."
When Holly died of a heart attack, after forty years of marriage, he quit his job and moved to California, where he bought a house at a nudist resort near Los Angeles. Always full of surprises.
I hadn't seen him for a few years. I was in LA for a business conference, and when it was over I thought I'd spend a day in the sun and see if Rob was there.
I found him right off, lounging by the pool.
"Hey, Rob," I said, holding out my hand. "It's been a long time."
There being nothing unusual about a man wearing dark sunglasses in those environs, my surprise came when he said, "The voice is familiar but the face is a bit cloudy," and pointed to his walking stick.
"Pete Ryles," I said, trying not to blurt out, "My God, man. You're blind."
"Pete. How the hell are you?" Now it was his turn to hold out his hand. We shook and he talked about his blindness as if we were discussing yesterday's ball game.
"A cosmic joke," is the way he described his predicament.
Just then, an attractive woman clicked by in heels and nothing else. We both turned. I looked; I'm not sure what Rob did.
"I bet they aren't real," he said.
"How'd you know?"
"I could smell her make-up. No one that obsessed with her looks would let nature take its course."
"But how'd you know she had some years on her?"
"Young women don't need to wear heels at a pool."
Impressed, I asked what else he learned with his new powers.
"Being in a pool blind feels like swimming in a vat of Jello."
"You've become a poet."
"Nah, I read that somewhere." He laughed. "Truth? The other senses are accentuated, but blindness is no blessing, believe me."
I had dinner with him that evening and left for home.
Yesterday, I heard Rob had pointed a gun between his eyes and blew out his brains. He explained his act in a message: "I was afraid I'd miss."
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Contact Wayne at wvscheer@aol.com.
Without Tears
By Wayne Scheer
It was Valentine’s Day, two years ago, when my life came crushing down on me. Actually, not really on me, but on my husband. And it wasn't life that crushed him either; it was a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix. He was under it when the jack slipped, killing him instantly.
There wasn't much of a crash. At least I didn't hear anything more than a kind of muffled crunch. I suppose Tom's body cushioned the blow keeping most of the car's metal underbelly from hitting the concrete driveway.
I know these words sound cruel. But my therapist says the ability to laugh shows that I'm healing. He wants me to write about my husband's death without tears. Big fucking chance.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something. I think what caught my attention was the oddness of the sound, kind of like dropping a block of cement on a carpet.
Come to think of it, I felt it more than I heard it. I suppose the same could be said for Tom.
When I looked out the window, I didn't see anything unusual at first. I mean what would Sunday afternoon in Southern California be without seeing birds flapping at the birdbath, the sun reflecting off the Hacker's bright yellow house and Ton's legs sticking out from under one of the cars?
But something was different. I didn't know what so I went out to investigate.
"Tom?" I called.
"Tom?" I shouted louder. Then I saw the jack on its side and the car on all four of its wheels and the blood running from under the car forming a small pool. My first thought was that Tom dropped the oil pan, but I knew.
This is where everything gets foggy for me. I think I called Tom's name again. I know I screamed. But I'll never forget the horrible silence that followed. Even the wind stopped blowing.
I think the Brandon's, Richard and Jenna, from across the street, came out first. I know I saw Rita Cohen pulling her little girl away and soon there were police and my mother and the ambulance and…
I tried not to look when they jacked up the car and pulled Tom our, but I couldn't help myself. The strange thing is, he didn't look too bad. I thought he'd look like one of those cartoon pancake men, as flat as a tortilla. Then I saw his head.
The medics on the scene told me he died instantly. "There couldn't have been much pain, Ma'am," the young blond one said, trying to be helpful.
Not much pain? What do you mean not much pain? I wanted to scream. But then I looked at his baby face. I remember thinking, Shit! I shave more often than he does. His upper lip and nostrils were twitching and his nose was turning red.
"Thank you," I said, wanting to comfort the poor kid. I almost put my arm around him to show it was going to be all right.
That's when it hit me: Tom and I would never have children of our own. And I broke down. They tell me I passed out and I was brought to the hospital. I remember my mother sitting at my bed crying. I said some horrible things to her, somehow blaming her because Tom was fixing the car for her. We were planning on buying a new Prius and Tom was going to give her the Pontiac.
Then I started cursing Tom, calling him a selfish son-of-bitch, caring more for his damn cars than for me. "How could that bastard die on Valentine's Day?" I don't remember ever cursing in front of my mother, but it felt good.
Then the nurse sedated me and I drifted off into a world where cars don't fall on people. .
When I got home, there was food. Do people keep a supply of vegetable soup, chicken cacciatore and banana bread in their freezers waiting for a catastrophe in the neighborhood? When Emil and Nancy lost their son, I brought a tray of deli meats from Publix. I wonder now if I committed some kind of suburban sin?
It's been rough getting back to my life, rougher than I ever imagined it would be. Tom and I were only married for six years, but I grew so dependent upon him. I knew I loved him, but I never knew how much.
I suppose I'm healing because friends are asking me when I'll start dating. Even Mom has started to hint. They all seem to know someone. But it's still hard for me to imagine dating. What would I say? "Hi, my name is Chris. My husband was crushed by a car. Seen any good movies lately?"
Huh. I smiled as I wrote that. Maybe I am getting better.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
--Wayne Scheer's Revealing Moments,
available as a free download at http://pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm
By Wayne Scheer
It was Valentine’s Day, two years ago, when my life came crushing down on me. Actually, not really on me, but on my husband. And it wasn't life that crushed him either; it was a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix. He was under it when the jack slipped, killing him instantly.
There wasn't much of a crash. At least I didn't hear anything more than a kind of muffled crunch. I suppose Tom's body cushioned the blow keeping most of the car's metal underbelly from hitting the concrete driveway.
I know these words sound cruel. But my therapist says the ability to laugh shows that I'm healing. He wants me to write about my husband's death without tears. Big fucking chance.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something. I think what caught my attention was the oddness of the sound, kind of like dropping a block of cement on a carpet.
Come to think of it, I felt it more than I heard it. I suppose the same could be said for Tom.
When I looked out the window, I didn't see anything unusual at first. I mean what would Sunday afternoon in Southern California be without seeing birds flapping at the birdbath, the sun reflecting off the Hacker's bright yellow house and Ton's legs sticking out from under one of the cars?
But something was different. I didn't know what so I went out to investigate.
"Tom?" I called.
"Tom?" I shouted louder. Then I saw the jack on its side and the car on all four of its wheels and the blood running from under the car forming a small pool. My first thought was that Tom dropped the oil pan, but I knew.
This is where everything gets foggy for me. I think I called Tom's name again. I know I screamed. But I'll never forget the horrible silence that followed. Even the wind stopped blowing.
I think the Brandon's, Richard and Jenna, from across the street, came out first. I know I saw Rita Cohen pulling her little girl away and soon there were police and my mother and the ambulance and…
I tried not to look when they jacked up the car and pulled Tom our, but I couldn't help myself. The strange thing is, he didn't look too bad. I thought he'd look like one of those cartoon pancake men, as flat as a tortilla. Then I saw his head.
The medics on the scene told me he died instantly. "There couldn't have been much pain, Ma'am," the young blond one said, trying to be helpful.
Not much pain? What do you mean not much pain? I wanted to scream. But then I looked at his baby face. I remember thinking, Shit! I shave more often than he does. His upper lip and nostrils were twitching and his nose was turning red.
"Thank you," I said, wanting to comfort the poor kid. I almost put my arm around him to show it was going to be all right.
That's when it hit me: Tom and I would never have children of our own. And I broke down. They tell me I passed out and I was brought to the hospital. I remember my mother sitting at my bed crying. I said some horrible things to her, somehow blaming her because Tom was fixing the car for her. We were planning on buying a new Prius and Tom was going to give her the Pontiac.
Then I started cursing Tom, calling him a selfish son-of-bitch, caring more for his damn cars than for me. "How could that bastard die on Valentine's Day?" I don't remember ever cursing in front of my mother, but it felt good.
Then the nurse sedated me and I drifted off into a world where cars don't fall on people. .
When I got home, there was food. Do people keep a supply of vegetable soup, chicken cacciatore and banana bread in their freezers waiting for a catastrophe in the neighborhood? When Emil and Nancy lost their son, I brought a tray of deli meats from Publix. I wonder now if I committed some kind of suburban sin?
It's been rough getting back to my life, rougher than I ever imagined it would be. Tom and I were only married for six years, but I grew so dependent upon him. I knew I loved him, but I never knew how much.
I suppose I'm healing because friends are asking me when I'll start dating. Even Mom has started to hint. They all seem to know someone. But it's still hard for me to imagine dating. What would I say? "Hi, my name is Chris. My husband was crushed by a car. Seen any good movies lately?"
Huh. I smiled as I wrote that. Maybe I am getting better.
- - -
Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
--Wayne Scheer's Revealing Moments,
available as a free download at http://pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm
