I was going to call it Corners or something clever like that, and I intended to finish it, but then it occurred to me that I really didn’t like the main character. He’s a bit of a dullard and it doesn’t appear that he’s interested in breaking out of that. The setting is a bit contrived as well. A gentrified urban American neighborhood in transition. Big deal. The overall premise is a bit weak. Turning a corner is probably meant to symbolize something, but, when I pause to think about it, turning a corner is an awfully generic and worn-out symbol.
Not only is the story itself quite lame, but attempting to write an interesting story, it turns out, is much more difficult than shoveling down cookie dough ice cream in my boxer shorts while watching spaghetti westerns. The actual process of doing this stuff is, for lack of a better phrase, a royal Irish pain in the ass, and a good way to ruin an otherwise perfect afternoon or evening.
By putting this unfinished bit of nonsense out for public consumption, I am, in a way, turning a corner. In the ancient, pre-facebook era, the dozens and dozens of unfinished manuscripts would have sat unmolested and unseen on a hard drive somewhere until I shitcanned (or drunkenly bludgeoned) whatever computer was housing them.
So here is the beginning of a story. I have no interest in or intention of completing it. If you read it and think you can turn it into a more compelling read than the U.S. Tax Code, be my guest.
*******
I turned the corner, walked to my apartment building, and went inside.
******
I turned the corner, strolled past the few small, local businesses still standing in this part of the city, and entered my apartment building.
******
Rounding the corner, I was immediately stung by the aroma of curry wafting out the door of the Bombay Restaurant. Fortunately, my building was a few doors upwind. I fumbled through my pockets and found my keys among a litter of crumpled betting slips. The lock at the main entrance was noisy – intentionally so — to give the super a chance to peek out his hole and accost rent scofflaws right out in the lobby. I turned the key slowly, grimacing all the while, yet no matter how gingerly I worked the key, the ancient tumblers snapped loudly, announcing my presence.
******
Every time I came around that corner I thought of Marie. I remembered the night we were returning from Shakespeare In The Park. We had stopped for cones; she was a lime sorbet type of gal while I preferred Rocky Road. We had just come around the corner when she trotted ahead to toss her napkin into the trash can in front of Pete’s barber shop.
“Careful,” I warned her, pointing, “there’s dog shit on the sidewalk.”
She looked down, laughed, and gracefully sidestepped the mess.
“What kind of person doesn’t clean up after their dog?” I complained.
The night was pleasant, coolish early autumn. Marie rejoined me, wrapping her arms around my waist and nuzzling her head into my chest.
“Do you have a dog?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “You know I don’t have a dog.”
“If you did have a dog, would you clean up after it?” she continued.
“Of course,” I said. “Any decent person would.”
“So let it go,” she said.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Let what go?”
“Some people don’t clean up after their dogs, Slim,” she said. “You know this because you’ve undoubtedly stepped in dog shit at some point during your lifetime, haven’t you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” I responded. I looked sadly at the dripping mound of Rocky Road resting on the sugar cone. I sighed and tossed it into the trash bin.
“Was stepping in a rancid pile of dog shit a pleasant experience for you?” she asked.
I chuckled. “Yeah, it was a laugh riot. By the way, this line of questioning is really squeezing the life out of an otherwise delightful evening.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just trying to tell you that you – by being a decent, conscientious member of society – are sparing some other unfortunate person the discomfort of scraping a noxious mess off the bottom of their shoe. You said yourself that you would promptly clean up after your dog. You should be over the moon that you’re that type of person.”
I shrugged. “I’d still like to give that son-of-a-bitch a piece of my mind.”
I found the key to the apartment building. It was the large brass one. I slid it into the lock and gave it a twist. I turned around and Marie was gone.
******
Pete was sitting in the chair closest to the window. A cheap, unlit, half-smoked cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. He peered through his dime-store reading glasses at the racing form resting on his lap. He looked up as I entered.
“Hi, Slim,” he said. He folded the form and placed it on the counter behind him. He rose slowly, shuffled toward me and helped me off with my coat. We shook hands.
“Peter,” I said. “How are the ponies treating you?”
He waved it off and led me to my usual chair. “If I ever got close enough to them, I’m sure they’d give me a good, swift kick. For now, they’ll have to be satisfied taking my money. The horses are nothing but a racket, Slim. A racket.”
I sat in the worn leather chair. The same chair my father had sat in, and my brother, and my uncles and cousins. The shop had a broken-in feel to it. The heavy aroma of talc, shaving powder, and cigars was a warm reminder of decades past.
Pete took a linen smock from a neatly folded stack and snapped it open with a flourish.
“What’ll it be?” he asked rhetorically as he fastened the smock behind my neck. He’d been my barber since I’d been getting my hair cut. He knew exactly what it would “be”.
“Give me the Category Five,” I said. It was an old joke about the way the top of a man’s head, with a certain type of haircut, could sometimes resemble the satellite image of a powerful hurricane.
Pete laughed. His laugh lacked it’s robust confidence these days. It was guarded and uncertain. It was as if he wasn’t sure that he should be laughing at all. Life, it seemed, was letting the air out of him.
“You’re getting grey up top, Slim,” Pete said, snipping at my head with scissors while peering down his bifocals. “Jesus, everyone’s getting old.”
“Stress has a lot to do with it,” I said. “These are uncertain times.”
“Stress?” Pete said stepping away. “What have you got that’s so stressfull?”
I shrugged. “Well, you know, everything. Job, rent, broads, dog shit on the sidewalk, you name it. It all leads to grey hair.”
“Did I ever tell you about my brother George,” he asked.
“Loudmouth George?” I asked. “He’s the one who won the Korean war, right?”
Pete chuckled. “He never let us forget it, either, did he? Anyway….”
*******
And that is as far as it goes. I have nothing more to say about this particular situation. I will be moving on to something else now.
