The Catalyst

Fiction by Robert McEvily



Page 12 of the Employee Handbook for the Gotham City Bank states that tellers should be "friendly, polite, approachable, helpful, honest, reliable and responsible." Page 20 states they should be "quick, methodical and accurate;" page 21 states they should be "calm, practical and good listeners" and "have an eye for detail;" page 27 recommends "having a neat and tidy appearance."

Apparently, the Employee Handbook and the person who hired Miss Pippin never crossed paths.

Miss Pippin is grouchy and irresponsible, but mostly shy, and was extra shy last Friday due to an acne flair-up on her forehead. She'd eaten two Frosted Caramel Chocolate Pop-Tarts for breakfast that morning despite vowing to start a healthier diet. The makeup she applied to cover the pimples looked clownish. She wanted so badly to call in sick but didn't have the nerve. Lying to Mr. Walters made her nauseous.

She didn't want to be looked at. Judged. It made her angry there were people who still banked in person. And they were all so stupid. The old woman who always said, "you sure that went through?" That creepy messenger kid with the chapped lips. She hated needing a job she hated. And - believe it or not - she was actually happy when three armed men entered the bank and told everyone to get down on the ground and not move unless they wanted to get their motherfucking heads blown off. It was something different at least. It broke up the monotony.

"You. Bozo." The chief thug pointed at Miss Pippin. "The keycode. Now."

"She doesn't know it." Mr. Walters tried not to shake.

"I'm talking to the fat girl."

"I don't know it," said Miss Pippin. She wasn't scared. She was insulted. Everyone heard the remark. She was embarrassed. She was sad.

Near the hallway which led to some offices, a black figure moved in the shadows.

"You know the fucking code," said the thug. He pointed his shotgun at her. "Say it."

"I don't know it."

"Say the fucking code!"

Miss Pippin looked at Mr. Walters. He nodded no, don't do it. Then behind him, over his shoulder, down the hallway which led to some offices, she saw Batman. She saw his ears and his cape and his yellow insignia. She thought he looked beautiful. She wondered if he'd heard the fat remark. He nodded yes. For an instant she thought he meant yes, I heard the fat remark. Then she realized he meant yes, say the code. He winked at her and smiled. Brown eyes, she thought. She winked back.

Moments later: Scuffle. Shots. Punches. Silence.



The next day, Miss Pippin read an article about the foiled bank robbery in the Gotham City Gazette. Batman rounded up the punks in the vault; responding police officers made the arrests. No one was injured.

All that weekend, she thought of the wink. For a moment in time, a wonderful moment in time, she was Batman's partner.

As you know, Miss Pippin is grouchy and irresponsible, but she's human. She's American. She has choices. Whether or not she trashes her Pop-Tarts and resigns from the bank is entirely up to her. She can do neither, one, or both.

The Best and Worst Policy

Pontification by Robert McEvily



The boy asked Joy if there was a monster under his bed. Joy told him no. There was, but she didn't want him to worry.

Whenever Dot asks Joy how she looks, Joy tells her "great." "You look great." Dot looks awful. She smokes too much and rarely gets outside. Still, Joy says "great."

Dot asked Joy about the boy. Joy said, "Troy?" Dot said yes. Joy said, "oy," then pretended she forgot an appointment and awkwardly split. Dot laughed. It's all she could think to do. Joy just leaving like that - it was weird.

The monster asked the boy to hear him out. "I am a monster, and I do eat kids," it said. "But I don't eat every kid, and I certainly don't eat kids I like, and I like you. I think you're cool. You're polite and you're fairly honest, and you have a lot of interesting books around. And you don't snore, which is key."

"I don't understand what you want," said the boy.

"I'd like to stay here," said the monster. "I like it here. I want to keep living under your bed. But you have to keep believing in me. You don't believe, I can't stay. It's that simple." The monster asked the boy to crawl under the bed. "Let's shake hands and make a deal," it said. Its eyes glowed red.

Now of course it's possible the monster's a liar. Generally, monsters aren't truthful. It's reasonable to assume the boy gets eaten, especially considering Joy's reaction when Dot asks about him. But it's also possible the monster's sincere. It just wants to live. Like anyone. Isn't that possible? And shouldn't it make a play for its life? And was Joy wrong in not telling the boy about the monster? Not wanting him to worry - isn't that just a rationalization? Isn't she just avoiding an uncomfortable responsibility? Wouldn't the boy be better prepared to handle his eventual confrontation with the monster if she'd said something?

Free advice: Know the real enemy.

There's nothing wrong with Joy telling Dot she looks "great." Lies are rankable. "Great" ranks way low. And by the way...

Show me a rude person, and I'll show you someone who's "just being honest."

Picture

A Poem by Robert McEvily



Start in darkness
Then

Picture a wide open field
Green grass in every direction
As far as you can see

Picture a blue sky
Your favorite shade of blue

Picture a tall tree
With lightly swaying leaves

Picture yourself in a comfortable chair
In the shade of the tree

Picture a song being played in the distance
A song you haven't heard in years
A song which triggers a great feeling
You can't quite place

Picture yourself better looking
You, but better looking
With radiant skin and healthy white teeth

Picture a perfect sandwich and a cold soda
And something to look forward to

Picture an orgasm that lasts a moment longer

The Coke Joke

Ramblings from a Simpleton created by Victor Lembrey



Me have many ideas but me no write well. Me think government should take flying leap. Me think taxes are for sissies. Me hate hard work. What the point? Me think picture of Teri Hatcher on cover of Time is stupid and annoying. Enough with Teri Hatcher already! Me like sleep. Me like Raisin Bran. Me think rich people should be blown up and all their money and stuff land in my lap. THEN me be PSYCHED. Me think Pat O'Brien is drunk weirdo. Me watch King of Queens. Me like fat guy and becoming-fat wife. Me hate boss. Don't tell ME what to do you FOOTBALL HEAD. Me wish workweek get reversed. Two days work, five days off. NOW we talking! Me think Beelzebub works in advertising. Me give away twist in Million Dollar Baby: baby get paralyzed. Me no care if you pissed! Me wonder about meaning of life. Me step on people and rise to top? Me join monestary? Me no know. Me no care. Me Chinese. Me play joke. Me put pee-pee in your Coke.

Five Letters to God

Fiction by Ivy Dillinger



1
June 20, 1994
(Age 6):

Dear God,

My name is Carolyn but you know that.  Are you really invisible or is that just a trick?  Please send me a bunny.  I deserve it because I never asked you for anything before.  You can look it up.
 
2
November 12, 1998
(Age 10):

Dear God,

I'm sorry I haven't written to you in a while, but you know that I've been going to church every Sunday, so I hope (I'm positive) that that counts for a lot.  My parents told me that I should write to you at least once a week, and I promise I will be better about doing that. I was very good to my brother yesterday.  I helped him clean up his room and I shared candy (my favorite).  Talk to you later!
 
3
August 2, 2000
(Age 12):

To the Divine Entity It May Concern,

Can I be honest with you?  It's weird to write to someone who never writes back.  It's starting to bug me.  Not that I deserve special treatment, but it would be way cool to get a sign, something to let me know you're there and I'm not wasting my time with writing and praying and stuff.  There's lots of other stuff I'd rather be doing.  I could list them, but whatever.
 
4
September 12, 2001
(Age 13):

Hey God or whatever the hell your name is,

I hate you because you don't exist.  You can't exist. And if you do exist, I hate you more.  How could you possibly allow that?  I HATE YOU YOU FUCK.

5
March 22, 2004
(Age 16):

Dear God,

I don't know how else to approach this.  I guess I don't have anyone else I'd feel comfortable talking to about this.  So I'm back to writing to you. Obviously.

I really haven't been thinking about you at all lately.  I started to not even feel guilty about it. But Jenny and I saw The Passion of the Christ last Saturday and it freaked me out.  We were taught about Jesus in school and stuff, so I always knew about you and what happened, but it never really seemed real. And when I saw the movie, I realized that I never really thought of you as Jesus before, as someone who really existed.  As someone who was alive and walked the earth.  I always thought of you as God, as sort of a big abstract force or something.

The suffering you went through was enormous.  I cried. I don't understand why you had to go through that.  I don't understand how you can be so forgiving.  I don't understand what the point of life is and why so many people who are religious can be so mean and judgmental and close-minded.

I'm too old for childish things so I won't be writing to you anymore.  I'm giving up journals altogether, I find them annoying and they make me depressed.

Please know that I'm trying hard to be a good person. What does church have to do with anything?  I've seen lots of people go to church all the time who are totally jerks.  I don't think if I'm not religious it should be counted against me.  I think I love you, but I don't know you, so I can't see how you can expect my love.  How can I love somebody I don't know?  But I do feel something, and I wanted you to know.

That movie made me cry a lot.  I don't know if it's real.  I guess I don't know anything.

Anyway, take care.  And I'm truly sorry if you think I'm a bad friend.

Sincerely,
Carolyn Love

The Winning Entry

Contest News from Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity, BDFC



Hi Everyone. Please enjoy this year's winning entry in the St. Patrick's Day Flash Fiction Contest (where all contestants were required to write for 15 consecutive minutes after drinking three consecutive cans of Guinness):

The Flying Warehouse
by Maven Quibble



Some guy called Diablo showed up and told us he was in charge. Nobody knew what the hell on God's green earth he was talking about. Ring Ding said, “In charge? In charge of what?” Then Styles chimed in with a cruel smack-down: “You smell like crap times seven. Beat it.” Styles is pretty direct.

An hour later, Diablo showed up again and re-insisted he was in charge. This time he was wearing a hat that said I'M IN CHARGE. “You is nuts,” said Gwendolyn, a hedge fund trader from Antarctica. She ran away. Styles made another smell joke. Then things got weird.

Have you ever seen one of those giant warehouse buildings? Like the ones you see in towns like Everett when you're driving across Pennsylvania? Where they make cookies or pots or lamps and stuff? Imagine one of those buildings, then imagine it falling out of the sky and landing right on top of Mr. Tootie. Splat! No more Mr. Tootie.

Styles nearly lost him mind. “What that fuck?” He started hopping back and forth like he had to go to the bathroom. “Did you see that? That warehouse just fell out of nowheres and killed Mr. Tootie! What the hell are we gonna do NOW?”

Diablo told us to relax because he was in charge.

“You ain't is being in charge of nowheres,” said Gwendolyn. She started using her hula-hoop.

“Wait a minute,” said Styles. He pointed at Gwendolyn. “Didn't you just run away? Like… just now?”

“Maybe she's in on it,” said Ring Ding. “Don't y'all think it's weird she just magically shows up again at the very same instant a mysterious warehouse falls from the sky and kills Mr. Tootie?”

We all thought about that for a moment.

“That is weird,” I said.

Gwendolyn ran away again. Then a giant belch killed North America and that was that.



Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Sam

Nonfiction by Robert McEvily



I've been dogsitting a dog named Pepper since Thursday. She goes back to her owners tomorrow night. I'm not looking forward to giving her back.

She's a mutt, but she's mostly a Portuguese Water Dog. She barks at my vacuum. I walk her along the Hudson River and she makes me look cool, like a cool dog owner. She's well trained; she actually sits when I tell her to. We've had a lot of fun so far, and I plan to have a great walk tonight. The weather's mild - it's gonna be awesome! Then I'll let her eat some peanut butter. We'll watch CSI: Miami.

I don't like the name "Pepper." It's not a girl name. I'd call her "Sam." Androgynous. She's kind of guyish in her habits.

I hope dogs have memories. It bothers me to think she'll just forget about me.

Competition Smile

(Non?)Fiction by Ivy Dillinger



Lauren, a marketing manager, was a former Miss Connecticut. Despite her looks and poise, she wasn't rising. She'd been with the company just shy of two years - no promotion, no additional responsibilities. Maybe it was her distance, her aloofness. Maybe she lacked a killer instinct. Either way, she was stuck. Until the day she decided to get unstuck.

"Lauren?" Mr. Vogel was stirring Sweet'n Low into his coffee.

"Sorry to interrupt." Force of habit. She reminded herself not to apologize anymore. For anything.

"What are you doing?"

She was setting up a digital camera on one of Mr. Vogel's bookshelves. She checked the angle, made an adjustment, used the zoom, set the timer, approached Mr. Vogel, removed her blouse, then grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face into her cleavage. The camera flashed. Mission accomplished.

"What are you doing?"

"I want a promotion."

"Are you nuts?"

"I have evidence. I'll say we're having a affair. I'll tell your wife. I want a promotion."

Lauren smiled. Her competition smile.