The Spectaculars (Part 3)

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy
Author of The Spectaculars (Part 2)



Trent's five years old and spends most of his time in his room, drawing pictures that always make me feel like abstract art's a farce. It's been debated whether children's art's actually art. My two cents says it isn't. If it is, then Trent's art's probably art. He's undeniably talented. He's careful about the colors he chooses and tests them on scrap paper before he uses them in his pictures. I don't know much about kids in general, but I'm pretty sure most kids don't do that. He keeps his pens and pencils neatly in a box, laying out three or four colors at a time and replacing each one as he finishes. What's eerie is once he puts a color back in his box, he never uses it again for the same picture. His precision's unnerving. He draws his pictures in colored stages: first, say, everything yellow - the sun, a banana that winds up in a bowl on a picnic table, some spots on a bumblebee - then everything brown (like tree bark, ovals that eventually turn into airborne footballs in the distance, dog poop), etc. He's like a human photomat, manually developing images from his brain, one color at a time, with his neatly groomed little fingers. Kim thinks it's amazing. I think it's weird, abnormal.

When I finally got around to speaking with him about what'd happened with this Joey kid, he was in his room drawing what looked like naked, trombone-playing dancers. He didn't look up when I entered his room, so I tapped his head and said "Hey bud."

"Hello." Another unnerving aspect of his personality - his formality. Just with me though, not with Kim.

"Your mom told me about your fight. You good?"

"That was two days ago." Still no look.

"Let me see your eye."

"I'm using it right now." Little wiseass. He put some finishing touches on the outline of one of the trombones with a black pencil. He had all the details right: the valves and the sliding thing and the mouthpiece. I was impressed, but I couldn't get myself to ask how he knew how to draw so well, or why he was drawing trombones and dancing naked people; I just didn't care - I still don't. I just wanted the facts about the fight and to get the hell out of his room. He looked past me to show me his eye: scraped by the eyebrow, small bruise, no big deal. I had zero urge to touch his face, no urge to comfort him or adjust his head to take a closer look. I just stared at his eye for what felt like the right amount of time and told him it wasn't so bad.

"I know," he said.

"What's with the naked people?" I couldn't help myself.

"They're the Spectaculars."

"The whats?"

Trent sighed. "I'd like to finish this up."

You and me both, I thought. The thing about our relationship-



"Tell me about the Spectaculars," she said. I could tell she hadn't finished the story - she stopped in the middle of a sentence.

"You should keep reading," I said. "You're getting to it."

"I'd like to hear it from you. Plus, we're about out of time."

I knew I'd be leaving and never coming back, so I grabbed a framed art postcard from her desk and chucked it out the window. Felt nice. A great, quiet victory for childish insubordination. She didn't react, but I knew she wanted to, and that felt nice too. So then I did what I knew I'd do - I left and never came back. Paying someone to listen sucks. “Plus, we're about out of time.” Oh yeah? Go fuck yourself.

Stupid writing exercise. That's one of the main reasons I've always hated writing. Getting endings right. Endings never seem right.

The Spectaculars - they were supposed to be these really happy people; fictional happy people; irritating figments of the narrator's son's imagination; figments representing some sort of unreachable happiness or something. I was trying to write something about the human condition. About everyone, not just me. I was trying to get fancy; didn't really have it worked out. And what the fuck? Why should I? I'm not a professional writer. I dabble. And I don't hate my kid, and I'm nothing like the narrator of the story. I'm a fucking happy guy. That stupid bitch should've realized it.

Fong's Dangerous Conversation

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Sad.

FONG
What?

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Why not just work harder?

FONG
We've been over this.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Indulge me.

(pause)

FONG
No point in hard work.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Are you nuts?

FONG
You tell me.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
It's its own reward.

FONG
Okay. Sure.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Makes you feel better about getting things. You earn them.

FONG
I'm cool with getting things for nothing.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
You say that. You don't mean it.

FONG
Hand me a hundred million dollars. See if I complain.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
What happened to you?

(pause)

FONG
Let's pretend for a moment I actually care about finding out what happened to me. Let's pretend I actually find out - I pinpoint what, where, when, etc. What's it solve?

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
It's not about-

FONG
I enjoy being angry. I'm good at it.

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
It's no way to live.

FONG
Well then maybe I shouldn't-

(pause)

FONG
I have somewhere to be.

(pause)

FONG'S CONSCIENCE
Don't forget your keys.

His Wants, His Needs

A Poem by Victor Lembrey



He was getting that itch.
You know it, right?
That "change your life" itch.

He was imagining living someplace different.
Changing careers.
Reinventing himself.

He was feeling that "purpose" itch.
He wants his life to have purpose.
He wants to be remembered when he's dead.

But what a silly goal - the dead thing.
What's it mean, really?
Who cares?

Still, he wants it.
And he wants more leisure time.
And a free new car.

The Code of Common Thieves

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



You'd never suspect me. I spend so much time directing the spotlight elsewhere. And I'm nice. I seem nice.

When I first become frustrated with a job - and I've become frustrated with every job I've ever had - I start to steal things. Small things. Things difficult to prove stolen. A stapler's a good example; a pack of Post-It notes, etc. My favorite first thing to steal is your coffee. Your head's turned and I pass your desk and swipe your mug and dump it in a trash can. I never see your reaction, because remaining too close to a crime scene's a mistake. I've learned to prefer the enjoyment of imagining your reaction. I've no choice. I imagine your confusion. I enjoy thinking that maybe you're doubting yourself. You're not sure if you got the coffee or not. I like that best.

There's a code that thieves live by, or should live by, and I've written it, and I've revised it so often that it's down to essentially one thought, one rule. The code started as a Ten Commandments kind of thing, mainly because lists of ten seem legitimate. But much of my original work seemed like filler. Like I was fleshing out the list simply to have a list. So I trimmed the fat and shrunk it to a single credo: Steal from others what they don't need.

In simplifying the code, I originally had it down to two thoughts: Steal from others what they don't need and what they won't miss. The "won't miss" part was carry-over from an earlier version that emphasized "getting away with it" at all costs. The logic being, as a thief, to steal what won't be missed is tantamount to not stealing at all. But this is to deny being a thief. A thief is a thief and needs - as everyone needs - a certain amount of self-respect. And I'm not referencing Robin Hood. Hood was a punk and a coward. A hubris-stained clown. I say stealers keepers losers weepers. To rob from the rich to give to the poor is to seek the limelight. There's a hidden agenda there. Think about it.

So after I steal your coffee I steal your affection. I listen to your problems and become your friend and make you trust me. And then when your head's turned, I swipe your affection and dump it in a trash can. I do it for no other reason than enjoyment. If you insist there's something noble in me, see it this way: I'm doing you a favor. You don't need affection. It was stolen from me years ago and I'll be perfectly honest - I don't miss it. Affection gave me nothing. What has it given you?

Don't answer. I'm not interested.

McEvily Finds Lower Case E!

An Exciting Update from Victor Lembrey
Assignment Reporter, BDFC



In what can only be described as an embarrassing oversight, child prodigy and professional toothpick maker Robert McEvily, after seeking help from anyone who'd listen, finally found his missing lower case "e" - in his right front pocket. "I guess I put it there," said the blushing author of Dunne's Dismissal. "My bad, as the locals say."

McEvily now looks forward to overusing the word "eerie."

My Lowr Cas E

A Rqust from Robrt McEvily



Hav you sn my lowr cas E? It vanishd off my kyboard. If you find it, plas snd it back to m. This is rally annoying.

Information Day

Trash Talk from Victor Lembrey



Today's April 11th! 4/11. 4-1-1. Information Day! Get it? You don't get it? (You dial 4-1-1 for information.) Now do you get it? (Do you have any idea how cool it is to possess my level of cleverness? Plus, I'm bona fide, 24-7. Yeah, that's right. You heard me.)

Alright, check it: In honor of Information Day, some abbreviated scoopage on the day's history...

191 years ago, Napoleon Bonaparte abdicated as emperor of France and was banished to the island of Elba. On Elba, he invented his famous complex. Short guys have been assholes ever since.

107 years ago, President William McKinley asked Congress for a declaration of war against Spain. He famously stated, "Screw those Spaniards. I want to be remembered for more than just my eventual assassination."

44 years ago, Bob Dylan made his singing debut in New York City, boldly paving the way for irritating, incoherent, inebriated vocalists.

35 years ago, Apollo 13 blasted off on a mission to the moon that was cut short when an explosion crippled the spacecraft. Assholes with Napoleonic complexes have been saying "Houston, we have a problem" ever since.

25 years ago, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission issued regulations prohibiting sexual harassment of workers by supervisors, thereby dramatically reducing office usage of the phrase "smokin' tits."

24 years ago, President Ronald Reagan returned to the White House, twelve days after he was wounded in an assassination attempt. To make up for lost time, he courageously ate two weeks worth of jelly beans in one sitting.

Today, at Fenway Park, the Boston Red Sox play their home opener against the New York Yankees, but first, they'll raise their 2004 championship banner and get their World Series rings. In a neat coincidence, teammates Jason Varitek and Trot Nixon will also celebrate birthdays. (Varitek turns 33; Nixon 31.) Actors Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, stars of the baseball-themed Fever Pitch, are expected to pretend to care.

Five Thoughts

Mind Reading by Kid Nougat
Reviewer of Marshmallow Peeps



THE GUY ON THE LEFT:
I'm gonna look so cool in this picture. I look great when I lean on my knee and look up. Plus, my pants kick major, major artistic ass. Like I always tell Aunt Flo, I'm da bomb.

THE GUY WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL:
No doubt - the best time to sun yourself is when you're being photographed with a bunch of douchebags. And when the sun's not out.

THE GIRL:
Definitely hipper to look away. Need to seem deep. Need to seem intellectual. Oh yeah, need to TiVo Nick and Jessica...

THE GUY WITH THE SOUL PATCH:
I don't know these people. I don't want to know these people. I'm just into messing up pretentious pictures.

THE GUY IN THE HOODED SWEATSHIRT:
The great thing about photos? No one knows you're blasting a fart.

The Loomings Identity Crisis

Shiftless Pseudo-Plagiarism by Victor Lembrey



Call me Tom.

Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought... uh... wait, hold up. You know what? Call me Poppi, okay? I like Poppi. So... I thought... I thought I would sail about a little, see the watery part of the world. Sounded cool. See, whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it's a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever-

Alright, call me Fritz. Forget what I said before. Call me Fritz. F-R-I-T-Z, Fritz. That's me. Now, me - Fritz - I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet. Especially-

Is Fritz stupid? Look, I know it's lame to start a story and then keep interrupting yourself, but... look, this is key. Opening sentences are key. People remember them. My name's Ishmael, but it's a stupid ass name and I'd like to punch my father in the face for it. "Ishmael." Thanks Dad! Good call! And everyone calls me "Ish." Hey Ish, what up? So I'm supposed to open my story, "Call me Ish?" What the fuck is that? Who's gonna read that?

I should add a psycho whale or something.

Alright, whatever. Just churn out the words...

To continue:

If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. And towards reading and writing and goofing around.

Odd Couples

Photojournalism by Maven Quibble
Author of The Notaries

Speaking French with Denise

A Brief Interview by Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity, BDFC



Born and raised in Fort Lauderdale, young Denise Gallo was a sports-minded tomboy and an excellent dancer. Certainly a recipe for growing up to become a professional cheerleader for the NFL's Miami Dolphins. So... she did just that. Then she did some modeling and acting. Then a casting agent noticed her resemblance to an actress who needed a stunt double. Then her life found a path she hadn't anticipated.

Denise - whose stuntwork's been featured in the films 2 Fast 2 Furious and Snow Dogs, and the television dramas CSI: Miami and Third Watch - has graciously agreed to answer a few quick questions. So without further adieu...

IVY
On your website, you mentioned "paying your dues" as a stuntwoman. What exactly does that entail?

DENISE
There's no school to attend to learn how to be a stuntwoman. There are some courses such as stunt driving or martial arts to help you build your craft but no "how to." You really have to be persistent. It takes a long time to earn the trust and respect needed to excel in this business.

IVY
Which of your stunts are you most proud of?

DENISE
I would have to say working on 2 Fast 2 Furious as the assistant to the stunt coordinator and doing stunts is the job I'm most proud of. I had a lot of responsibility and learned a lot.



IVY
Have you seen Open Water?  If so, what's your impression of actress Blanchard Ryan, who acted alongside real sharks?

DENISE
Yes, I did see the film. I thought she did a great job. I'm sure she must have been scared but she has what it takes to get the job done. She put her fears aside and did her job.

IVY
Good advice for anyone. Thanks Denise!