A Sampler of Micro-Fiction & Micro-Drama
With Salvador Dali at the Bloomingdales
In the late 1950s, when I was a young dancer in New York, my friend Mara was a model for the painter Salvador Dali. She would model for him, and he would paint. This went on for some time, and I often found myself in their company. I thought Dali was irritating. It was always Dali this and Dali that, and no one could get a word in edgewise.
The last time I saw him was at the Bloomingdales. I was shopping and he was being Dali. Suddenly he saw me and began walking in my direction, but something distracted him and he stopped. I walked around behind where he was standing, then watched him looking for me where I had been, among the racks of clothes. He looked and looked and looked, but he couldn’t find me.
And that was the last time I saw Dali.
Happy Events Will Take Place Shortly in Your Home
Barney Lefkowitz takes one look at his bill, pounds his fist on the counter, and promptly keels over from a massive coronary. Screw him. I never liked him anyway. Let's talk about his brother Harry instead.
Harry Lefkowitz has a little pug dog that his wife, Myrna, has fed until now it's as round as a basketball and can't walk right even on a level sidewalk. In addition, his daughter Alex recently took up with a longhaired guitarist from Bay Ridge and can't be trusted anyway, not by a long shot. Only the other day she took the money Harry gave her for lottery tickets and spent it instead on penny stocks, which she said were a better investment in today's economy. "What does she know about today's economy?" he says to himself, and spits.
For her part, Alex thinks her father is as dumb as a stone, and now that I think about it, so do I. So let's talk about Alex.
She's eighteen, with large dark eyes and a Maori-style tattoo around the upper part of her right arm. She got it with her boyfriend Marty, before she left him for Ed, who she thinks is cuter anyway. In point of fact, Ed and Alex look so much alike that I'd be tempted to weave a long story involving separation at birth, and black market babies, and the amazing quirk of fate that brought them back together again after so many long years. I'd be tempted, only I have to go to the market at 6:30 and don't want this story to go on too long anyway, so let's just say they look a lot alike.
Ed is nineteen, and took up guitar five years ago when he realized it's a good way to meet girls. His father, Frank, complains constantly about his practicing, and with good reason: Ed is a terrible guitar player. He has no talent for it, but still plays loud enough to make the earth shake. It's shameful. If I were Frank, and it was my son, I'd have taken the thing away from him years ago and maybe sold him to the gypsies to boot. He looks like one anyway, with that hair.
"Hey," Frank says, "that's my son you're talking about. I can complain, I'm his father, but who are you to talk? It's not like you can do any better. And anyway, he's got a nice girl now who's straightening him out. She's studying to be a stockbroker."
Now, I'm not one to tell people what they should and shouldn't do — well, no, that's not right; I am. I admit it. But that's because I'm the narrator, and can do what I want.
"Frank," I say, "Go piss up a rope."
And he does.
But that still leaves Alex, who as I say is very attractive, and I'm tempted to just end the story right here and ask her to have a drink with me, but I have to draw the line somewhere, so I'll just go have one on my own.
My favorite bar is a dark old place called Mallone's, frequented by notorious low-lifes and a regular contingent of boozy old women. This time, when I walk in, the first thing I see is Barney Lefkowitz, who's lying on the floor clutching his chest, and since that's where we came in, and since I have my shopping to do anyway, let's just leave it at that.
A One-Act Play
An empty stage. Two men stand at middle stage left. Both are in their mid-seventies and wear neat but slightly loose-fitting, slightly rumpled suits. The first man’s name is MAURY. The second man’s name is SAM. The audience does not need to know this.
MAURY
Did you hear? Marty, the shoe guy. He’s going out of business.
SAM
No!
MAURY
Yeah, after forty years. He’s got Alzheimer’s. The family’s totally in denial. He can’t function.
SAM
I always get my shoes from him. I’ve been wearing the same pair for twenty years.
MAURY
You’ll have to make this pair last.
SAM
I can’t even remember what size I need.
MAURY
(Looking at Sam’s feet)
A 9½, right? You wear a 9½.
SAM
I don’t know. I haven’t been to a shoe store in twenty years.
MAURY
I haven’t been in seventy years. Remember? My father was in the shoe business. I’ve never been to a shoe store.
SAM
Times change.
MAURY
They do.
The curtain falls.
Perspective
There is not one thing I’d rather do than walk over right now and smack Yuri in that smug face of his.
Well no, actually, that’s not true. Really, I would much rather slip my hand into Rachael the barmaid’s blouse.
And when it comes to it, I would also rather have a meal of marinated mushrooms and mashed potatoes, such as I ate last Tuesday at the Roman’s.
And yes, I would also rather vacation in Hawaii and own a really fine suit of clothes, and play baccarat with an Arabian sheikh at a Monte Carlo casino, and wake one morning to find that my hair had grown back, and my eyes become clear, and my body trim and youthful. And I would like to jump from a tall cliff into the perfect blue waters of the South Pacific, then rise like an angel on feathered wings and soar over the rooftops of Paris.
Yes, I would rather do all those things, but oh! that Yuri makes me so mad sometimes.
His Hair
At times his hair, which normally rose from his forehead like anthracite cliffs from a foamy brow, would tire and droop, becoming lax, breaking engagements at the last minute, drinking too much in the evenings and awaking dissolute and angry. At such times friends became scarce, opportunities few. At such times, the man — whose own life was the model of probity and stability — would regret ever having entered into association with his hair, and would sigh.
I Am Not Michael Rockefeller
In 1961, Michael Rockefeller, scion of the rich and powerful oil family and son of New York governor Nelson Rockefeller, disappeared following a boating accident off the coast of Papua, New Guinea, and was never heard from again.
Later that same year, a baby boy was born to electrician Joe Riordan and his wife Maureen in the town of Waldwick, New Jersey, pop. 13,948. A big baby, they named him Jack after Maureen's father, who had been a longshoreman. The younger Jack would grow to be tall and handsome, and after a brief, directionless period in the early 1980s would marry, complete a master's degree in business, and amass enough of a nest egg in the booming ‘90s stock market to buy a second home in the Hamptons and set up trust funds for his two daughters. His eldest, Jessica, would later make a name for herself in the field of public policy, while his youngest, Heather, would drop out of Princeton after her sophomore year to join an ashram in upstate New York, later leaving to become a glass-blower in Boulder, Colorado.
But that's getting ahead of the story.
Though I may be going out on a limb to state my position so unequivocally, I think it's fair to say that all of Jack's success came as a result of his being the reincarnation of Michael Rockefeller, who, as it happened, survived his boating accident only to be killed and eaten by Otsjenep cannibals two days later. I am convinced of the truth of these assertions, and contact with other investigators has proven that I’m not the only one pursuing this line of inquiry.
Two months ago I published my allegation in the pages of The New York Times, as part of an exposé on famous current reincarnees. In addition to exposing Jack for who he really is, I asserted my belief that Douglas J. Ward of South Hampton is in fact the reincarnation of former chief justice Salmon P. Chase, that Alex Simidian of Weehawken, New Jersey, is none other than heavyweight champion John L. Sullivan, and that Mr. Meyer Abramowitz of Cornwall-on-Hudson harbors the soul of silent film star Clara Bow in his balding, pudgy self.
I reached these conclusions based on the most exacting scrutiny, using the latest scientific means, and did not make them public without careful consideration of the impact they might have on the public good and on the persons involved — all of whom reacted in ways that only confirmed my suspicions. Mr. Simidian, a seller of Oriental rugs, came to my office and punched me in the nose, while Mr. Ward contented himself with a strongly worded letter sent through his legal firm of Ward, Ward, Ward, and Just. Mr. Abramowitz allowed first that I’d called his masculinity into question, but then admitted to a secret delight as he’d always been a fan of Ms. Bow, though born many years after her heyday.
Jack Riordan attempted to prove he is not Michael Rockefeller by losing the bulk of his assets in the Worldcom debacle and later being indicted for pension fund mismanagement, but I remain unconvinced of his innocence.
My investigation continues.
Another One-Act Play
Setting: Brooklyn, New York. A bench along the sidewalk. Late morning.
Two Italian women, 70-ish, sit a little apart. Both wear muted skirts, sensible flat shoes, stockings, dark coats. Their hair is permed. Both hold purses. One woman is named GLORIA, the other MARIA. The audience does not need to know this.
Curtain rises. The women do nothing, the way people do nothing: looking into space, occasionally turning their heads at a noise, glancing at their fingernails. At least a minute passes.
GLORIA
(sniffing)
I smell something cooking. Somebody’s cooking something.
MARIA
(sniffing)
I smell it too.
GLORIA
It makes me want a piece of lard bread. That just popped in my head: lard bread. I don’t know why.
MARIA
Didn’t you eat breakfast?
GLORIA
I had toast. You know, with the raisins. It was nice, but it’s not enough.
MARIA
No, that’s not enough.
GLORIA
Lard bread, a nice piece of lard bread. That just popped in my head: lard bread.
MARIA
That would be good.
GLORIA
But I just went to the doctor. The cholesterol.
MARIA
It’s good that you went.
GLORIA
With my parents going like they did? I know.
MARIA
But sometimes you want something nice anyway. I’m going to the bakery after this. [She points, out over the heads of the audience.] You know, the sfingi?
GLORIA
[Dreamily] Lard bread. That just popped in my head. I don’t know why. Lard bread.
The women go back to doing nothing, looking out into space in the audience’s general direction. At least twenty seconds pass. The curtain falls.
Sheriff’s Report
On Saturday, August 5, callers reported: A puppy, a pig, and a pit bull who come to the door repeatedly, wanting to be fed. A neighbor who is yelling and throwing shoes. A woman who is stopping traffic and saying the power is off. A wife who struck her husband on the toe with a hammer. A truck with its lights on, parked in a field. A man who has been watering his garden for three days. Six youths with guitars. An embarrassing phone call in Hayfork. An object in the roadway. A man refusing to leave a beauty shop. A man threatening to jump from a first-floor window. Several stray and lost dogs. Loose goats eating a barn and hay. A couple dancing in the intersection at Emerson and Powell. A woman with no hair.
There were no calls for medical aid.
Loss
I once knew a man named Louie, although his name wasn't Louie, it was Tom.
And I also knew a woman whose grandfather's name had been Freylinghayden, though her name was Hayden.
On the street last week I saw an old man who'd lost his pants, and then just this past weekend I saw a young woman who'd lost her shirt. Last year I saw a man climbing out of the Hudson River, and he'd lost both his pants and his shirt.
On the subway I saw a man without an arm — it ended just below his elbow — and another man without eyes. When I walked up the stairs to the street, two men grabbed me from behind and took away my shoes, my belt, and the hat from my head, while another rolled up the stairs behind me and took them away as well. I tried to walk home, but someone had taken up the sidewalk.
After a while I stepped across into a bar and told my story to a man wearing suspenders and a tweed cap, who believed every word.
Shoes
Z’ev put a pair of shoes on his feet, hoisted the sack, and walked one block, during which he found that the shoes were too tight. He took them off and placed them on a windowsill, directly at eye level.
He reached into the sack and extracted another pair of shoes, crouched down and put them on his feet, and walked another block, during which he found that these shoes were too loose. He took them off and placed them on a windowsill, took another pair from the sack, put them on, and continued walking.
After another block he decided these shoes didn’t bend properly at the soles, and so discarded them on a windowsill, chose another pair from the sack, and walked until these proved painful as well. He placed them on a windowsill, directly at eye level, and tried another pair.
After twenty-three blocks Z’ev discovered a pair of shoes in which he could walk comfortably, so he left the sack on the side of the road and went to his favorite diner, where his friend Kenny told him about a woman he’d kissed that day while her husband wasn’t looking.
That’s about all.
Will It Never Cease Being Summer?
Otto takes a small white towel from the back pocket of his trousers and mops his gleaming brow. It is late October.
“Will it never cease being summer?” he says, to no one in particular.
Morning
As every morning he awoke at seven to his clock’s harsh jangling then lay quiet, coming to terms with day. This night he’d dreamed of water, a cool lake, a woman with long hair, chestnuts, alchemy.
He rolled off his belly, let his feet slip from under the blanket, come to rest on the cold floor, bent at the waist, became erect: evolution in four steps.
Winter light through the east window, dry mouth from last night’s vodka.
A magazine on the nightstand.
If You See Mister Donut, You’ve Gone Too Far
Take Route 9. Drive forty miles.
Make a left at Alvarado.
Go ’round the circle at Skyway, three sides of a turn.
See the ocean in front of you.
Bless the gulls. Bless the sand crabs.
Turn on your toes. Set sparks flying. Let them light your way.
Climb up straight, above the clouds.
Swim to the moon, then leap.
Fall like rain into a girl’s sad eyes.
Drop from her mouth like words of love. Dissolve in the soil like leaves. Be born like the first new bird.
If you see Mister Donut, you’ve gone too far.
A True Story
In 1959, Nikita Kruschev, premier of the Soviet Union and first secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, visited the United States on a diplomatic goodwill tour. While viewing a mock-up of a typical American home, Kruschev suddenly found himself being poked in the chest by then vice president Richard Nixon, who had seized on one of the displays in the model kitchen and was intent on making a point. "See?" Nixon said, "In America we eat a lot more meat than you do. You eat a lot more cabbage."
To which Kruschev replied, "Go fuck your grandmother."
True story.
A True Story, Pt. II
In 1973, Chinese leader Mao Tse-tung met with U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger for a round of high-level talks. Amid discussion of Soviet expansionism and trade policy, Mao said, “You know, China is a very poor country. We don't have much. What we have in excess is women. So if you want them we can give a few of those to you, some tens of thousands."
A few minutes later, Mao expanded on his offer. "Do you want our Chinese women?" he asked. "We can give you 10 million."
Kissinger: “The chairman is improving his offer.”
“Let them go to your place,” said Mao. “They will create disasters. That way you can lessen our burdens.”
“It is such a novel proposition,” replied Kissinger. “We will have to study it.”
True, every word.
In the Future
In the future, genetic engineers will create men and women three times normal size. They will live in houses specially designed for them, with huge dogs and house cats, and potted plants like trees. They will not have children, these huge people, because their job will be to let normal-sized adults remember what it’s like to themselves be children again. They’ll ride on the huge peoples’ shoulders and be cradled in their arms, and at night the huge people will tuck them into bed and send them off to sleep loved and warm, without blame or care.
This, in the future.