Stories
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Park Slope memory
1970s Brooklyn
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Like a bothersome mosquito, writer’s block attacks at the worst possible time, particularly when and where this writer goes to write! Since all things…
Blackout odyssey
New York City blackout of 1977
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Bessie, who was without a doubt the greatest server in The Purity Restaurant’s long history, poured the rest of my coffee into a take-out container as…
Poetic reckoning
Brooklyn after dark
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I parked my ’64 VW Minibus where I hoped it wouldn’t get towed. Fingers crossed, I headed up the stairs to my friend Ritchie's Brooklyn apartment wher…
Library
Title, reading time, and a quick taste of the opening lines to help you choose.
Park Slope memory
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Like a bothersome mosquito, writer’s block attacks at the worst possible time, particularly when and where this writer goes to write! Since all things do pass, from my usual Prospect Park writing bench, my vision wandered to my former Park Slope commune home where I lived a few years earlier as I flashed back to the high times I had with my roomies. Aging hippies that we were, we’d hang out, dance our butts off and party on whatever came our way, drinkable, smokeable and often, questionable. As time slithered by, we began to grasp that the party had been over and switched to protein shakes, chamomile tea and a long overdue intro to hard work ethics. As the wind swirled the dead leaves into a neat pile at my feet, I closed my eyes and wondered, “Are my hippie friends who would lay freebie joints on us still doing that while nose candy hustlers are ripping one another off so they can keep the snow storm blowing through their nostrils?” Distracted by one of my Kenny The Mover trucks taking more soon to be former commune dwellers to Staten Island, Jersey or anywhere affordable; I saw a notice on their former brownstone’s boarded window stating: “Another Cinderella Project, sponsored by Brooklyn Union Gas.” Like a claim stake into the eye, this harbinger of corporate intent declared itself amongst the many other sealed windows of the mid-1800’s mansions along Prospect Park West. A local realtor chaining the doors shut had seconded the motion. “Cinderella Genocide" became the spray-painted response overlaying the numerous gas company’s posters. The tenants who shared their lives in those many sealed spaces had been relocated to far less elegant surroundings. In the meantime, another high end property awaited the tightening tentacles of Wall Street to secure its grip on those treasured, landmark buildings. It wasn’t only the remnants of the peace, love and ‘End The Illegal War!’ generation who became scattered to the wind: Blue collar homeowners who strengthened vintage neighborhoods with their hard work attitudes and sense of human decency throughout historical sections of Brooklyn, were being cast to the wind in favor of investor dwellers. While sipping at my Purity Restaurant brew, recollections of loudspeakers blasting from those very brownstone's windows telling of a long ago party for one and all, danced through my mind. Chains upon the door fell from sight as I recalled a time when those very doors stayed open so people might say as you entered: “Hey bro, walk right in, sit on down or dance all night! Who gives a rat's ass what your name is or isn’t, or who you're with or not with? Rock on!” From the park bench where I sat, I looked at a completed Cinderella Project alongside of a condemned commune. My mind burst from the imaginary clinking sound of Waterford Crystal during a toast given by a tycoon from another era who helped to develop Park Slope, thus displacing working class victims of that age. Memorializing that thought, I wrote into my journal, “Where once there were commune parties blasting rock anthems, cellists now play softly to select guests; as denim surrenders to silk.” The prose on a section of scrap wallboard,
Blackout odyssey
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Bessie, who was without a doubt the greatest server in The Purity Restaurant’s long history, poured the rest of my coffee into a take-out container as I shoved the last of my bagel into my mouth. I was a young man in a hurry since Angie, my realtor, had just located the apartment of my wildest dreams! So it seems that Kenny, Park Slope’s favorite start-up mover, may be moving on! While initially enjoyable, the thrill of my current living situation, residing at the Garfield Place commune, was wearing thin. Since living space had been at a premium, the hallway area leading to its sole bathroom was my dominion. An unusual outcome of that situation was, my writing was showing too many references to the sound of a flushing toilet or, a hurried urine release followed by the customary “Aaahh!” More often than not, a night while I tried to sleep in that allocated space was interrupted by the hallway door creaking open and one of my four roomies saying, “Hey Kenny, please excuse me while I step over you bro, but doody calls!” Whether excused or not, they’d carelessly step on various parts of my body or politely drag one foot followed by the other across my chest while I lay there wishing they would hurry the hell up and get whatever it’s to be over with! On the spot, I followed my realtor’s advice and snatched up the apartment for the same price as my cost-share for the hallway at the Garfield commune. My new space was the rear garden studio in the historic Luden Brothers’ mansion on Eighth Avenue near President Street. Following years of paring cavernous rooms down to tiny apartments, the building was reminiscent of a scene from the ‘Doctor Zhivago’ flick, where palaces for the privileged were seized by the Bolsheviks and subdivided to house Russia’s newly liberated masses. All of that aside, I was to be billeted in a room somewhat larger than a pleasant tasting Luden cough drop. My entire living space was once a part of their kitchen. After I stacked my ten or so boxes by a wall, all of my other things landed in a small adjacent area that had been their pantry. And so, Kenny The Mover had been definitely moved! Wow! An entire apartment just for me, and a spot where I could put my brand new used mattress! The studio was so bloody decadent with space galore. Its former pantry would be where I’d rest my weary tush after a day of lugging other people’s crap up or down four flights. The remainder of the place was set aside for my one truck company’s World Headquarters. All of this was just a day after I had secured a parking spot at a local gas station for my new, well-used moving van. Finally, there I was totally living the American dream. Undoubtedly, Pavlov himself would throw me a biscuit for a job well done. Speaking of dreams, could this be the answer to my fantasy of sharing a place with Anya? Dream on, boy!” New day, new brain and a brand new living space! And so, it’s back to the business of business. Typically, after my beeper would go off I’d run for a public phone and call my answering service to learn how the rest of my life was shaping up to be. They’d proceed to tell me that either an opportunity
Poetic reckoning
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I parked my ’64 VW Minibus where I hoped it wouldn’t get towed. Fingers crossed, I headed up the stairs to my friend Ritchie's Brooklyn apartment where I often crashed, unless there were the sounds of a squeaky bed with its headboard banging against the wall. Lucky for me, Ritchie was hitting a dry spell so a hallway and a blowup mattress was to be my manna from heaven. For sure, a leaky blowup is one hell of a lot better than another night scrunched up in the VW, or hoping for an unchallenged spot at the park’s bandshell. Ritchie's Park Slope floor-thru had the lingering stench of burned chicken fat splattered upon the kitchen walls from an indoor barbeque the night before: At the time, It seemed like a really great idea. I took a deep breath and ran through the kitchen to the closet, hoping that my ten bucks worth of pre- owned business attire was still there, or wasn’t permeated with the stench of what had gone down in the kitchen. Checking out my threads, I had a realization: If I didn't get to that suit first, someone would be wearing it to the big sleep at Potter's Field. Instead, it was there for my resurrection into the world. Lucky me, I was the fleetest of foot at the church’s used apparel sale and nailed it, a shirt, a tie and a pair of shiny black vinyl shoes. Gazing at my blurred image in the shoes, I blinked away visions of my getup's better days as my image appeared to be saying, “It’s 1974, and time to ring the business world's doorbell. Corporate America, Kenny’s coming on back!” Walking to the Ninth Street train station, I found it difficult to stop gaping at store windows as I observed my reflection rehearsing smiles or licking at the hairlessness around my 2 Hall Of Poetic Justice © mouth: Some onlookers licked back at me. There was no time for excuses or an explanation, my hippie hair and beard had been shorn, flushed down the crapper and my shiny black vinyl shoes and business suit would take it from there! A cold wind kissed my face as I descended the stairs to where the F train would carry me to my top of the morning meeting at the Aaron Aardvark headhunter mill in midtown Manhattan. I took great comfort recalling Ellen’s words the night before: “Kenny, you have the shiny shoes, the suit and an ass-kicking haircut. Go set the world on fire, but try not to burn down the neighborhood.” Ellen was the love of my life, but I couldn’t come out and say that. First, I had to rise above the aftermath of my middle finger’s flight into the face of the CEO of the company that had once been my stairway to heaven. It really sucks when you finally understand that the heaven on earth you bought into was just one more take on the hell on earth you thought you had risen above. Lesson learned! Next time I listen to a pitch, we’ll be riding on an escalator so I can catch its entire drift. Ellen seemed happy for me and my newly found change of focus, but I sensed a bittersweet undercurrent. Ours was a lady and the tramp relationship. She had a real job with the City of New York and was studying for an advanced degree. I was hustling moving gigs with a Minibus and dealing a bit of stairway to heaven along the way. Both of us realized that a real relationship between two people from totally different worlds might never be. Sooner or later we’d wake up from our shared fantasy and part ways, but not that day. Like a cattle herd swooped up in a Texas twister, morning
Threshold tale
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As the heating coil met the witch’s brew beneath my butt, I shouted; ‘Hell no! Bethani’s hairdryer is no substitute for toilet paper! Then, there was the sudden sound of me hitting the floor as I wondered in the darkness, ‘Is this how I feel, or is this how I’ve become?’ After struggling to raise one eyelid and then the other, I peered through a mucousy haze only to become unexpectedly calmed by the brightest of lights. Basking in its glow, it was as if time itself had ceased to be as my mind and body became completely free of all thought, desire or needs: Purely taking comfort knowing that there was no need to move at all, since all surrounding me was in some way a part of me, and I had become a part of it all. Captivated by the glow, I blinked away what seemed to be gallons of dried eyeball secretion as I found myself submitting more and more to the ubiquitous light. Becoming resigned to my new state of being, I began focusing upon countless outlines within the stunning brightness and then to recognize my torso, my arms and my legs energized and flailing about, while I heard myself asking, “Okay, why the hell am I resting on one of many white Barcaloungers in an endless amphitheater? Since everything else, including myself, is purely an aspect within this endless vista of whiteness, does this exclude the value of beginnings, endings or a need for any order at all, since all that may have once 2 © mattered is merely a blur to begin … or to end with? Or, what the fuck am I even talking about?” From within the sea of emerging outlines surrounding me, I heard a voice; a very powerful voice: A voice stating, “The answer is this, Denis: It is because you are lounging in a skybox overviewing the arena of all there is, was or ever will be! Welcome, my boy. Surely, we have been expecting you.” Gaping at what appeared to be a floor beneath all that was forming before me, I replied, “Expecting me? The arena of all there is …? Who are you? Did I just ask a you question?” Finding it difficult to move my head in order to find the place from where the voice came, I remained preoccupied on the gathering of shapes and outlines surrounding me while hearing it reply, “Yes! You will have many more questions, Denis. And your questions will seem to answer themselves just as they are asked ... But who is asking … and why ask?” “Begging your pardon dude, I’m fucking asking! Hey! Hang on! How in hell do you know my name?” “Soon enough Denis, all will become as clear as clear can be. Just a moment ago my boy, you asked, ‘Why the h--l am I resting on one of many white Barcaloungers in an endless amphitheater?’ So now, you know that you are doing that simply because you are. You see, all is that simple here.” The instant I said, “Nothing is clear! It’s all a damn blur!” I managed to turn my head toward the voice only to notice that seated on a Barcalounger beside me was a faceless, white-suited silhouette whose pointing finger had vanished into the haze as I shouted, “You look like a fucking glass of milk! Who the fuck are you, and where the fuck is Bethani?”
Social masquerade
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The thud of the phone’s receiver finding the cradle segued to the sound of Old Jake’s stool creaking as he spun away from the pay-phone vestibule. My passing by him on my way to dump my nightly treasure of tips into the Seeburg jukebox led to him asking, “Joey can ya play B-9 fer an ol’ veteran?” Jake had been a decorated war hero, battling the Germans from trench to trench throughout France during WWI. His reward was, as he reminded me night after night, “A pair of French Fried lungs and a few medals Jake Junior lost, a month after I got home.” Sadly, Jake Junior was to be lost to a sniper’s bullet during the battle for Okinawa. During this year of our seemingly AWOL Lord, 1968, the losses continued, namely Jake’s VA disability and pension checks. Nonetheless, his patriotic mission of late was to convince me and every post-pubescent male within earshot to sign up to kill strangers as we set foot on their beachheads, Ball of Deception© loaded with state of the art weaponry and misinformation from a government we had been raised to trust. As the survivor of yesteryear’s draft boards sopped up every condiment The Castle Diner had to offer plus ketchup with his streusel cake, I answered, “One catch, Jake.” “What’s that, Joey?” “Join me in a cup of coffee? My treat.” “Yer twistin’ me arm, Youngblood. But okay.” When the badly worn Andy Williams 1965 ballad, “Moon River,” caught the needle, as usual, Jake began to sugar his coffee and the counter as if racing with the lyrics to the song’s sweet spot. Finally, he gazed at a darkened window singing what he had waited for: “… Dream maker, you heart breaker … Wherever you're going … I'm going your way …” Afterward, as usual, he gulped his coffee, and sighed along with his reflection. Jake had gotten no checks for the past two months. From what he said, there was a glitch with his file at the Veteran’s Administration: The glitch being, they lost his file. According to both the afternoon and day shift servers, Jake had become a fixture at The Castle Diner during those times as well. I had two concerns: I never saw him use the bathroom so much. On top of that, it seemed like he dressed the same every day. On the other hand, from his VFW hat to his 1918 G.I. issued combat boots, Jake always dressed the same every day. I filled his cup then clinked it with mine while saying in my terrible Italian accent, “A-Salute!” Slowly, Jake’s right arm rose from the counter. The edge of the index finger of his trembling hand found his forehead as he
Flash memoir
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Entering the 1950s abandoned after hours club on First Street that would soon become my coffee house, September’s Child, I stopped dead in my tracks and asked myself, “How the hell did all of this happen? I was on top of the world in my executive career, and I walked away from a shit load of money and perks for this?” Gazing at the furniture and décor that I had created from broken up packing crates, cable reels and other industrial scrap, I asked myself, “Since I’m not totally nuts, maybe there’s some kind of supernatural element within the bedrock of Brooklyn that compels those who stumble upon this boro to do things they never dared to dream of doing? Okay, I realize that New York City water is the best water ever but when it hits Brooklyn, did it somehow become a magical elixir that unleashes an inner take charge force that we never knew was there, even in our wildest dreams?” As a cloud in the shape of a smile passed over me, I wondered, “If this mystical element does exist, and one could give it a name, might this enigmatic power become known as Brooklynite? Hell, yeah! Brooklynite’s a fitting name for a magical force that takes total charge of things! Even Brooklyn people have a certain swagger that says, “Hell yeah, I totally got it! You got a problem with that?” I thought, Hell no! The power of this Brooklynite thing should not be taken lightly! I mean, once it got into my head, I began doing things I could otherwise only dream of. Hearing the soothing though commanding call of the Brooklynite, it was only a matter of time before it awakened my inner genie that was sealed in conventional wisdom’s bottle of mindlessness. When I landed in this mystical boro, I would feel the force of the Brooklynite compelling me to do things I never imagined I could do: That whisper became a voice that grew louder and louder as my evening commute brought me closer to Park Slope. I often thought of walking away from being the corporate hack I’d become, then realized how I’d been drawn by the Brooklynite ever since a yellow cab driver suddenly hung a sharp right, then on to the Brooklyn Bridge while saying, “I gotta tell you kiddo, Manhattan ain’t the place for you! Let me take you to where the real magic happens! Hey, bro, I gotta earn my tip, right?” When I get there, what the hell would I do to live?’ I asked myself, and then felt a force coming from a place deep within me, that I so recently met, saying, “Hey, kiddo, you friggin’ got this!”
Barroom encounter
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The last blush of sunlight vanished behind the horizon. A full moon cast a glow so nightcrawlers, much like myself, might know our way. Leaving the taxi after laying a fifty on the least truth seeking of Manhattan cab drivers, I shouted, “Feed your head is what the dormouse said!” As the cab vanished around the corner, I mumbled, “But it didn’t get fed in there!” Gazing to the heavens, I became lost in Friday evening’s brief sonata of silence: A time when the key to Manhattan is passed from last commuter to first reveler. In that fleeting flash of stillness, if one listens closely, one might hear the flutter of the night bird’s wings as it flies across the moon. Standing on the edge of time, space and West Broadway, I imagined my erstwhile philosopher-cab driver, Bindaihr Duhndat’s walking on a tropical beach sharing mangoes with our primate cousins as the Big Apple’s gutter water streamed past my feet. I stared at the darkening sky and stopped dead in my tracks to see a helicopter’s flashing strobe lights pierce the void. As the lights faded from view, motionless, I asked myself, “Why am I here? I have the means to go anywhere I want at the drop of a hat, yet here I am.” During my stalled epiphanic moment, an air conditioner fell from an upper window landing three feet before me. Taking that as a sign of the relevance of my momentary spontaneous pause, I exhaled. While I turned to peruse the rubble in my path, a voice from above shouted, “Sorry!” I shouted back, “But I sure as hell won’t be!” and continued along my way. Two Guys Meet Up At A Bar © JK Savoy Synchronicitously, as if commanded by a maestro’s baton, Friday night’s partygoing chaos erupted in faultless rhythm with a thunderstorm’s timpani-like rumbling. As browbeaten faces fled their cubicles for their happy-hour amnesty, lightning exploded throughout SoHo: Its rolling thunder shaking the ground beneath all. From the blackening sky, a glimmer of light peeked defiantly from the moon’s fading face as a cloudburst showered upon mine. Undaunted by the deluge, I laughed imagining Bindaihr winking from on high as the moon’s final glimmer became diminished by a lightning flash. Awestruck and energized, my mind emptied itself of thought: My sense of being invigorated by the wonderous rain enveloping me. Free of the mundane, my head became filled with an amazing, singular question: ‘Why not? At the drop of a purple turban, Bindaihr did it! So what’s holding me back?’ Upon realizing that the power to change everything lies in where I plant my next step, a cloudburst of release flowed along my body seeping into every pore, purging me of my customary lethargy as I moved on. Catharsis complete, I asked myself, ‘Why not abscond from this hypocritical ball of absurdity and perverted traditional values?’ Imagining myself picking fruit from trees and freely mingling with uninhibited primates and other enlightened humans, I said, “Why not give myself the chance to live totally free in Nature? Why the hell not?” Waiting for the right time for an opening between traffic so I might dart from one edge of West Broadway to the other, I said, “Speaking of faraway idyllic places, I hope Bindaihr is finding the answers he'd been seeking by living among the mountain apes and mangoes as I’m hoping in vain to find mine in The Apple.”
Street philosophy
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Derived From My Absurdist Novel, “In The Wind” Verging on exhibiting a modicum of facial expression, Soon-Yi Chang asserts during her vlog, Chatting with Chang: “We have a very special guest with us today. Hard as it may be to believe, our Earth Mother has some of her kids not just paying tribute to her merely in lip service, but paying it forward with their outreach to Mom’s world-family by way of their activism in spreading the word of her plight. My dear friend, and today’s special guest, not only wrote a four hundred page polemic on the subject of this ongoing matricide, but lives every word through his life’s ongoing campaign for her salvation. Enough of my lip service to this environmental hero, allow me to present, New York Times bestselling author, Rantin’ Ray Richards!” As she slides her laptop to include her guest’s face, a voice is heard saying, “Thanks for the buildup, Soon-Yi. I do hope that I won’t let you down.” Before Ray’s smiling face joins hers on the screen, Soon-Yi mutters, “Never again, you two timing son of a bitch!” With their smiling faces together, she says, “Rantin’ Ray, with all of the hell being let loose on our blessed planet, we Earth Mother lovers surely do need to hear the perspective of a bestselling, loudmouth environmentalist! Yes, someone like you, Ray.” “Someone ‘like’ me? Hey kiddo, why wait for an imitation to come along when the original is eyeball to eyeball with ya?” “And with the covid partitions gone, this is so much more intimate, Ray!” The Paving Cap Theory © JK Savoy Winking at her, Ray says, “So, since the whole world of your subscribers just may be watching, let’s try our best to keep this thing professional, kiddo.” “Agreed, professional it is for the sake of my viewers. And stop it with that condescending ‘kiddo’ reference! As you just said, Ray: ‘Since the whole world of my subscribers just may be watching.’ ” “Really? Both of them?” Following a long snowy moment, Soon-Yi’s and Ray’s faces return to the computer screen. From expressions ranging from a quivering smirk to a paralyzing stare, she says, “Ray, that was so fucking cold! I’ll say it again; let’s try to keep this interview professional!” Forcing a smile, she goes on to say, “Everything else aside, we are here to speak for our Earth Mother, social injustices and that’s it!” “Okay, okay, Soon-Yi. As professionals, let’s stick to business.” “Yes then, professional it is!” Upon reaching an appropriate interviewer expression, she says, “Sooo Rantin’ Ray, everyone in New America seems to be pointing their fingers and blaming one another while no one seems to be doing a damn thing to help save our environment. Everybody shrugs their shoulders and shirks their responsibilities while beloved Earth Mother seems to be flying off to Hell in a handbasket, woven by multiple generations of human indifference. More than ever, worldwide temperatures and sea levels are rising, storms are nearly two times their intensity and magnitude than they have been during Humankind’s fucked up history … I mean, if the dinosaurs had dominated our predecessors and remained in charge, they’d be mega-lizards simply preoccupied
Neighborhood portrait
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Some of us stop living long before we pass away. Others never begin living ‘til it’s almost too late. Then there’s me, in my near life existence, managing the graveyard shift at The Castle Diner, a 24-hour New Jersey greasy spoon. Manager? Ain’t that a laugh,’ I thought. Looking along the counter at my ten stool kingdom, thirteen if you count the three by the window, I often wonder, ‘Who’s to manage? Only one person works the midnight shift, so I’m in charge of … me? And so what if the world takes this ‘Joey boy’ as seriously as it does anyone who would greet it while wearing a paper hat and a food stained apron. It seems that lately, I keep thinking about a customer who asked me if I ever read a novel by Franz Kafka called, The Castle. He said, “Kid, it’s a story about guy who couldn’t break into one.” The most notable thing about my castle is its Seeburg juke box, chock full of 1968’s extraordinary songs of America’s year of protest, enlightenment and very hard choices.’ As I flipped a quarter to him, I said, “Jake, play The Animals for me, and your “Moon River” blast from your past.” Old Jake spun on his stool then headed for the Seeburg saying, “Joey me boy, how the hell can y’all keep listenin’ ta them songs ‘bout high on hemp hippies holed up in rat infested communes while our boys are fightin’ their asses off over there in Vietnam, pretectin’ our freedom? If I could break their doors down, ya know what I’d tell them useless hippie, freak friends of yers?” “I got all night, what would you tell them, Jake?” Poster Boys © JK Savoy “I’d say: Don’t just set there an’ sing ‘bout how yer life’s fer shit. Clean the hell up, git the hell offa yer welfare, move the hell outta yer communes an’ git some real jobs! Let me tell ya somethin’ Joey boy, back in my day …” As The Animal’s Eric Burdon sang, “We gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do…”, I zoned out on a fogged up window thinking, ‘I’d go along with that!’ At The Castle Diner, questions and answers would come to this short order cook between hungry mouths waiting and bites taken. Somewhere between reading the headlines or watching for a bus, folks might hear me for a short time: Except for Jake, he’s like that old time Seeburg, always there for me and always loaded with noise. Sometimes he’s there to listen, if only so I might hear myself. He would tell me, ‘What ya say makes no sense ta me er to a customer who’s ‘bitchin’ that his eggs are runny er a burger is burnt, raw er jest plain stinks!’ Hey, aside from an occasional mouse running past me, Jake’s usually my only company between two and four AM; so I get plenty of time to simply ignore him. Speaking of burgers, reaching into the refrigerator, and finding that the burger tray was more than half empty, I shouted, “Stupid son of a bitch! That goddam wino, middle shift manager never leaves me enough eggs, burger patties or other stuff to get me through the night. No shit, Jake! Next time I have to run downstairs to restock ‘cause lazy-ass Randy didn’t, I’m gonna find his hooch ...” Interrupting his singalong with Andy Williams, halfheartedly he mumbled, “There ya go agin’ kiddo ... so tell me, yer gonna do what?”
Comic swagger
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Inspired by my dystopian novel, “In The Wind” I’ve always been a sucker for a plump, rounded tush. Despite her perfect form, Ginny knew of my fetish but stuck by me anyway. I often wondered, ‘Was it love, loyalty or my shameful inheritance that kept us joined at the hip?’ Whatever it was, we were like two sweet-toothed kids locked away in a candy shop with nothing but time and endless lines of credit and blow. I’ve always been a sucker for taking life to the edge. Barry, my pilot, martial arts instructor and all around guardian angel often warned me: “Michael, it’s never just one hit that floors you. It’s always the old one-two: The combo punch – the sucker shot that slams you in the side of the head while you’re twisted around from the first one.” Shot number one: Ninety miles an hour in my new state-of- the-art Ferrari along New Jersey’s Route 3, enroute to an opening at Lincoln Center. At that speed, the town of Secaucus should go by in a flash but not when a fuel line clogs. Who knew I was propping myself up for the down count, snuffing out a joint while cutting into the first driveway there was. After calling for a tow truck, I got the shot to the noggin I never saw coming. The door to Jersey Jim’s Diner closed behind us. Coffee pot in hand, a round bottomed waitress smiled at me dead ahead. She wore a Giants T-shirt, a name tag that read Maya and faraway eyes. Aside from her, we had the greasy spoon experience all to ourselves. Stainless steel can live up to its name if stains are wiped away now and then: But narcissism as the prime force of her universe, Ginny quickly found her reflection through years of grease splatter and dust balls on the blurred wall before us. Quickly, work began on her hair, face and delusions. Though preoccupied as she was in her image The Assman Chronicles Inspired by my dystopian novel, “In The Wind” within the haze, Ginny managed to zero in on my bubble-butt fixation enough to say, “Michael, don’t friggin’ stare!” Maybe I was busy scoping out the waitress’ tush for about five minutes or so. Maybe Ginny could’ve been right in assuming I was staring. I was equally right to deflect her accusation by answering, “I’ve never seen anything like that on a woman before. Maybe if she could’ve seen herself thirty years ahead, when she decided to have herself branded, she would have chosen something instead of a … bugle? That is a bugle tattooed on her arm: Isn’t it, or wasn’t it?” “Don’t take me for an idiot you stoned out jackass. Supposably, you’re lookin’ at her arm, but I know you’re checkin’ out another big, rounded butt! Now cut that shit out or my ass is outta here!” “Seriously, Ginny, you’ve got to check out that bugle tattoo on her arm.” With her hair having returned to perfect and her mascara flapping dry, Ginny put aside her facial first aid kit long enough to notice Maya’s inked bicep. Spitting her coffee back to the cup, she gasped, “Bugle? Looks more like a meltin’ paper clip cryin’ for help!” The vision of Ginny shined upon clouded stainless steel like any cover of any magazine featuring any devotee of coke, liposuction and butt busting aerobics. Flowingly, seven million strands of golden mane excellence realigned themselves as she spun on her stool toward Maya, seeking ammo for further disparagement. “Now who’s staring?” I asked her reflection, “Look away. Here she comes.”
Offbeat charm
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on the Soho tavern strip. Guy said it was the latest thing and we should bear witness to the phenomena that our country’s faith- based Regime hath brought unto us. Imagine, a bartender pours you a drink then drops a guppy into it, the fish’s fluttering fins thus serving as mixers. A timer is set and the crowd bets on how many seconds will go by before the tiny fish croaks from the alcohol. Hey, this is New America and as God loving Americans, we must never question the many mysteries of Revelation! Grudgingly our skeptical, nonbeliever friend Doctor Tom agreed to join us. Manly men that we are, we sat one stool apart from one another. The crowd at ‘The Guppy’ cheered when Melissa Ferret, in a news special taped earlier that day, said, “A blessed day unto all. At a Sunday staff prayer breakfast, Arch-Bishop Harland Gates, secretary of the newly created cabinet post, The Department for Faith Based Initiatives, assured President Greene: ‘Madam President, since Intelligent Design states that all creatures great and small are the dominion of Humankind while on Our Lord’s Earth, and were created for its needs and pleasure, there is no sin in sacrificing them in pursuit of the The Dancing Guppy © JK Savoy happiness of Our Lord’s true children.’” To which the bar’s gathering cheered spontaneously, “Then let’s get it on!” As if challenging the crowd’s sanction, Doctor Tom said, “Now I’ve heard it all! This intelligent design crap is going to set civilization back a thousand years!” With piercing looks of disapproval hitting him from all directions, in a voice barely above a whisper, Tom added, “The day those clerical fascists got voted in, I couldn’t believe how the electorate actually bought into their bullshit. What’s next: this party hack, Gates, or worse yet our hallelujah Congress, declares Earth to be the center of the universe? At the rate they’re going, I’ll be treating patients by singing hymns and applying leaches!” “Actually, there is merit to the leach thing,” answered Guy as he signaled for another Appletini, “Even Park Avenue doctors have gone back to using them.” “Not this doctor!” said Tom, “That Creationist Amendment will be the basis for this New America of theirs to become no different than Islamist states with their laws of Shariah. The only difference will be: Since our feudalism is wrapped in a different alphabet, we’d be cutting off a thief’s trust fund rather than a hand!” “Don’t sweat it, Tom. Regimes come and go, but we peons party on no matter who’s tapping the keg.” said Guy as Tony, the bartender, handed him an Appletini. Not wanting to fall behind in the inebriation race, Tom told Tony, “Give me another Grey Goose.” Turning to Guy, he quipped, “Goddamn liquor cartel! The goddamn establishment numbs the public’s ass with booze so they won’t feel it while they’re being screwed. Been like that since we were swinging
Reflective stroll
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Adapted from my novel, “And Then There’s Lily” Though deeply out of touch with our innermost nature, as a species, we humans replicate our shortcomings through both inspired and mundane endeavors. When we construct dwellings, we install circuit breakers to deal with overloads. We do this because, deep down, we know how people constantly push the envelope and overburden every power source available. Unless the breaker trips, death by way of firestorm can result. Gaping at my stalled sandals I uttered, “Have I just explained my fixation on my lumbering feet and twiddling thumbs?” Head crooked downward; my posture revealed the question mark my life had become. Trudging across Park Avenue, I said to any gum wrapper in the wind that might listen, “I’m nothing but a detached sensor of everything around me, helpless to connect with anything at all. I’m a stalled inertial guidance system remaining at rest, indifferent to bodies in motion. Paralyzed by manmade and physical laws, I’ve become a feeble observer of my pointless reality.” Park Avenue’s sidewalk squares soon morphed into Central Park’s Belgian block stones beneath my shuffling feet. My inner vision glued to the inexplicable events of my life, I said, “But I’m the master of all I believe and perceive! As Brenda, a storefront mystic who gave me occasional shelter after my parents cast me to the streets long ago, would say, ‘Simon Blake! Humans are at the pinnacle in the order of things, so accept the things you cannot change, but change the things you will never accept! Impasses are mere potholes along Humankind’s highway to universal preeminence.’ Thanks a lot, A Walk In The Park © JK Savoy Brenda! Great to have Fredrich Nietzsche, forever nibbling at my ear! Gazing at my sandals, I said to my toes, “On the other hand, humans have something which transcends physics and metaphysics: It’s called hope. Hope conquers all obstacles. Hope is the force within us that gives inertia pause, then becomes momentum. That sounds contradictory, so I’ll hope this body in the slowest of motion can remain in some kind of effort toward an eventual impetus that’ll knock me out of this lethargic funk I’m in.” Speaking to my toes, I said, “Because the only direction this motion is taking us is down. If the derelict wreck I’ve become can’t save his own ass, then how can I save those thousands of workers who rely on me honoring my alarm clock?” If thing’s were looking up for me, I’d see life as parting clouds, blue skies, hopeful rays of sunshine and the bird of happiness flying my way. Much like solids or liquids, perhaps mood, attitude and previous ball of confusion doldrums descend to prior low points and settle there: That might explain everything that gathers around the screen covering the bathtub drain. When you pull away the scum and hairballs, it’s amazing to see what has accumulated. Speaking of scum and hairballs, perhaps that thought guided me to the lowest point in Central Park’s Sheep Meadow. Not only was it where my park rat friends and I gathered decades ago, it was the only home I knew after escaping my folks' constant abuse and mind-fucking, unlike the park’s hirsute, indigenous rats. Not much had changed in the park’s cavity where four pathways meandered downward to a lone bench nestled beneath the largest oak in Manhattan. “If it ain’t nailed down or set in
Restless ascent
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packaging tape. I murmured, “Paste-on smile and all the rest, she and the tape blend well with the packaging theme throughout the cabin.” I needed some distance in order to gain perspective of my re-entry into the material world. Having spent a few years as a rambling free spirit in search of something beyond the bullshit of paths of fulfillment, paved with nothing but more bullshit, one day I let the wind set my compass. Free from Mutiny On High© JK Savoy imposed values, conventional wisdom and blind belief for over two years, with the support of rock bottom at my back; I looked up, took it from there and landed on my feet. Fate rewarded me for my sabbatical days by casting me into the loving arms of Anya. Two years later, with my life building from a solid foundation, my startup flight school was booming though my overloaded nerves begged for reprieve. As the captain sealed the cockpit door, I recalled my early days as a flight instructor-pilot at a fixed base operation. The word was, the FBO I worked for had been leveraged into the portfolio of an infamous Wall Street marauder. But hey, a paycheck was a paycheck. Whomever sat his butt in whatever I was flying on a given day, I flew to wherever they needed to go. I never gave much thought to the life stories of the mogul’s disciples seated behind my cabin’s partition: What path choices led them from what they once were to what they became by signing their lives over to his will and whim. My question was, ‘Why in hell has my life become nothing but, flying them to where I’d wait an indeterminable amount of time in dismal airport lobbies only to come back home to wash up, rinse off and repeat the ‘same old’ tomorrow?’ That in mind, and in order to objectify my purpose as a glorified chauffer, it was in the best interest of all for me to close off to their diminishing humanity and complete the task. Hey, the tips were pretty damn good and I got my rocks off defying gravity while making a living at it. Having achieved my youthful fantasy of flying free with the wind, one day I looked around while asking myself, ‘Free from what?’ With the dream of what my inner child fantasized of
Seasonal drift
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“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer, on Vixen!” Like echoes bouncing from a wall, our traditional seasonal orders resounded through my furry, sheltered mind as once again that ‘ho-hoing’ sleigh-chauffeur eyed us up while still sober enough to harness Dancer and me, Dasher, as leaders of his eight reindeer delivery team. As old Holly-Jolly drew ever closer to us, a mindburst filled with tales of long ago ready, willing and eager teams flying through the Christmas Eve’s sky reminded me of what should be our well-intentioned purpose. Just as previous reindeer teams had undertaken year after countless years, we were about to embark on the astonishing task of being everywhere with everything, all at once! As always, we were up to that task in body, less the spirit of our predecessors. So, what changed? If I weren’t an erstwhile, naive critter of the forest I may have read how folklore defined reindeer as the most noble of four legged creatures, and ascribed more value to the sovereignty of my fellows. The captives of corporate poachers that reindeer became, lessened our status over the years to nothing but incarcerated bearers of obligatory gifts to Earth Mother’s children. All we could hope and dream of when we were flung into the company’s stable was: Three feeding bags of hay a day, and a nightly flop. But here we are, living in our dreams of what may have been while accepting the reality of what is, or appears to be. As my mind became flooded with recollections of loosened roofing tiles, great blizzards of the century and brats armed with slingshots; once again a familiar voice within me said, “Here we go again Dasher, yet one more gravity defying fantasy going back to year-one of Santa’s preposterous toy delivery ritual. It’s not such a bad 3 © price to pay for a warm barn, hay up the wazoo and by chance, a breeding gal for an afternoon delight! And yet, I have to ask myself: Is this all there is? So, what may have come to be if I didn’t go to my regular place for my annual antler shedding and got grabbed up with the others? Oh well!” As I exhaled yet one more frosty cloud of frustration, many flights of the white bearded one’s fancy came flashing back to me until they were met by the mundane stench of his soured stomach acid meeting Jack Daniels wafting thru my icicled nostrils. As high minded delusions clashed with my mundane reality check, Dancer’s and my antlers were taken aback as we witnessed a critter less than half of an average reindeer’s dimensions being strapped to our sleigh team, directly ahead of us and Santa himself!. While his harness was being snapped shut, I shouted, “The nerve of him! Hey, Boss, who the hell is that red nosed runt? And how can his teeny butt pull his own weight never mind help us empty your sleigh of all of the gifts!” As Captain Ho-Ho chucked yet one more empty at the recycling bin in vain, I added, “Since our time on this sleigh began, Dancer and I have led your reindeer team through this once a year giveaway-fest of yours, regardless of the weather! And why are you suddenly putting this glow in the dark nosed freak ahead of your best sleigh team ever? Above all, nine is never a lucky number, you over the hill sell-out!” Which was met with his usual gas passing grin.
Intimate distance
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“Hey son, do you mind if we look around your establishment?” I had returned from buying supplies at the Leaf & Bean coffee and tea store when two uniformed envoys of New York's finest sauntered into my industrial trash festooned coffee house, September’s Child. But hey, folks in Park Slope considered the tiny place to be a work of ‘trash to treasure’ art. Okay, I’ll accept their critique as a positive, it got me from one day to the next back in those the wild and crazy days of Brooklyn back in the 1970s. At least these cops came as they were, in uniform, unlike the others in their baggy war surplus army jackets hiding their piece. “Would you fellas like a cup of coffee?” I asked. Having been raised in my parent's diner business, I learned early on to offer a cop free coffee as soon as he walks in. “Coffee would be fine; black for both of us. Hey, that hippie music seems to be flying all around the joint. I don't see any speakers, so where's that sound coming from, kiddo?” asked a dazed and confused officer as his and his partner’s eyes fluttered as they heard, “Up, up, up an’ down, down, down; and in the end, it’s only round an’ round an’ round an’ round…” Unable to fixate on the source of the otherworldly melody of “Dark Side of The Moon” as it embraced them within the softly lit room in quadraphonic, their heads followed the sound as they gazed upward. “It comes from up there; from inside those used coffee bags bulging from the ceiling.” I said, “The amp and turntable are under the bar. Relax and enjoy your coffee. If you have questions, just ask, I'll be drinking my brew while I do my wood carving, if you don't mind.” Because of all of the cop paraphernalia hanging from their US AND THEM © belts, they found it impossible to sit on the stuffed coffee bag floor pillows, so they plopped on a recently discarded park bench under the fur-scrap covered wall. They went on to check what they were there to check, appearing less concerned and more relaxed than when they arrived. As their fingers slowly stroked the cup’s gritty sand finish, they slowly sipped the Jamaican Blue Mountain blend, while their other senses took refuge in September’s Child’s ethereal ambiance. The reverberating lyrics to “Us and Them” encircled the walls, slowing the frenetic movement of their eyes as the mellow message of Pink Floyd captivated their spirits. Their eyes fluttered and their heads slowly lowered as if they were beginning to realize that after all, we're all only ordinary men who have the need to get in touch our better selves, if only during the timeline of an album side. I went about carving a large eye into the cable reel I salvaged with the other ten from the city dump: In between stuffed coffee bags, the reels had become tables for September’s Child. My friend and martial arts teacher, Rico blended into a corner: He was the eternal watcher, though always remaining unseen. “Every Good Boy Deserves Favour” dropped to the turntable. The Moody Blues' blistering chords melded with the less than dazzling blast of a police siren. Two panicked cops broke from their reveries and raced for the door. Heads hanging low, two of New York's Finest, snared by a wiggling finger at the end of their sergeant’s arm, meandered to his car’s swung open door to the noose awaiting them. “Yo, Rico, did they call this an establishment?”
Tender remembrance
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“Damn it to hell! She did it again?” I shouted as I threw the public phone booth’s receiver down and ran to my VW minibus. Fearing the worst, I raced to the job site, the soon to be completely renovated Brooklyn’s Hotel Margaret, where my relocations crew was tying up loose ends in a luxury suite. As I arrived, Joey, my foreman pulled me aside whispering, “Boss, if I don’t watch her every step, she’s gonna set the friggin’ place on fire! She got all mixed up again an’ blew her lit cigarette outta the holder an’ inta the trash heap. Maggie jest ain’t with it!” Squinting at her blurred image in a vintage serving plate, my silver-haired, transferee said, “Well hello, Kenny! This is a lovely surprise. Since you’re here, please have your boys take extra care packing away this set of fine china, it was Granny’s. As you know by now, much like me, those dishes haven’t aged a day.” Maintaining a smile I said, “Margaret, just like you, your heirloom china is hardly rough around the edges.” Pointing to a vintage ashtray, I added, “But, perhaps it’s time to leave some old habits behind, right? You know, a new start?” “Of course, flattery does and will get you somewhere, Kenny.” After taking a long drag from her empty cigarette holder, she threw it to the trash heap while saying, “Since I’ve been confusing exhale with inhale lately, what may be next? … Okay Kenny, let’s try it your way: A new start!” Gazing at her cabinetry, she went on to say, “I know, I must have said it Remembering Margaret © JK Savoy to you many times: I'm ninety-four years old, so you can only imagine the age of Granny’s dish sets and bric-a-brac or that table, or whatever! I guess, five or ten times stated is better than having never being said at all. Oh, that’s merely an excuse for my … you know.” “Margaret yes, many times said is far better than hardly ever mentioned.” “Oh Kenny, you’ve been so kind since the day you first arrived. I wish that I had a granddaughter for you, but … Oh well, details! And by the way, it’s been so nice of you to treat me to having lunch with you and your men every day!” “The fellas and I consider you as being a part of the crew just as do I, so let’s enjoy our time while we’re still here!” “Oh you … Kenny! One day, I’ll figure out a way to repay you for all of your kindness and consideration during this ordeal ... Just you wait and see!” “Margaret, the realtors who hired us pay me plenty. So please, just enjoy the devil’s food cheesecake I got for you from Junior’s, and as always, it’s on me.” “Random acts of kindness are never forgotten… and one day, you’ll see.” “As we have already seen. And thank you for all of the Pepsis and cookies, Margaret.” To which, she simply smiled. Since hers was the last of many forced relocations from The Hotel Margaret in Brooklyn Heights my upstart moving enterprise had been contracted to do, she didn’t have to do anything more. I had lost my ninety five year old grandmother a few months earlier, so buying her a cheesecake and doing our best work was my pleasure as it was the crew’s who referred to her as Maggie, although never to her face. Our
Cafe vignette
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Adapted from my WIP novel, “As Told By Time” Like ants to a sugar pile or bees to a blossom, The Last Wish Cafe’s crowd swells as it pauses amidst its entry passage’s multiple sensors. Simultaneously, all members of its Friday night’s audience entertainment accounts are debited while E-Z Pass scanners enrich The Regime’s coffers. From within his yawn, Jared asks, “Why are they still using antiquated twenty- first century transponder crap when pulse-technology crowd debiting is used everywhere else? And what’s the sense of encoding a confidentiality agreement when this same old, same old Friday night self-termination venue is all everyone’s gonna be talking about at the Starbucks coffee spout, come Monday morning? We are still human, right?” “Jared, to some of us, Aloha Oe Night is the biggest thing that happens in Falwell Township at the end of every work cycle,” says Ella. “We the living get to speak freely once a week, unmonitored and kick back while we watch a few poor ‘soon to be stiffs’ exercise the ultimate act of freedom of choice…” She grasps his hand while asking softly “… or, is playing The Cafe actually a choice? There are those rumors!” as they swipe their approval rings to the AGREED sensor. “Shh!” Jared says, “Of course, it’s a choice we all knew of, even as kids…” “Yeah Jared, how can I forget: ‘Conform, go to The Darkness or play The Café’! But somehow, that doesn’t ring of choice, in the true sense of the word.” “The walls do have ears, really! I mean, one can only be sure that our Sentinel implants are in the un-monitored mode, A Night at The Café © only when our asses actually hit the stools. That’s when its connection becomes completely deactivated.” “Okay, Jared, you’re the I.T. guy. Who am I to argue?” “Anyway Ella, whether it’s sayonara, Aloha Oe or plain old kiss your ass goodbye: In any language, rolled back eyeballs glaring at a ceiling always triggers some jackass in the audience to holler next act, and then the next sucker steps up. It’s like actually having the right to vote: The fact that we’ve all been swiped in voluntarily means we’ve agreed that public self- termination is acceptable as adult entertainment. That said, audience or performer, it still goes to freedom of choice.” “Yeah, as if someone’s going to wait in line for an hour or more only to get turned around after swiping, NON- COMPLIANT. That’ll be the day!” laughs Ella as she, Jared and their prayer and cuddle threesome-mate, Grace, scurry to their table. As if filling the empty note in a game of musical chairs, their butts slam onto their waiting stools as Ella says, “It’s so refreshing to finally feel the Sentinel disengage! It’s like your constipated brain finally takes a soothing, long anticipated dump! Speaking of shit, here comes Bishop Bartholomew.” Like an over the hill, red-robed rooster; Ardon Bartholomew wades his way through a sea of pea green, jumpsuited Functionalist hens and capons as he struts toward Ella’s table. Casting a downward gaze, the class conscious Fundamentalist bishop stands over the three Functionalists with a look of the odd man out. Ella says, “Oh Bishop Bartholomew, if only you were five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t have had to yield that table for four over there to those people.”
Sharp miniature
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“Shelly, not everyone agrees with the two of us and Bo Derek on what is the most passion filled musical piece known.” “Anyone that doesn’t can’t know shit from Shinola. What else can compete with Bolero’s rhythmic and fiery build-up that draws one’s emotions along toward climax? You ought to know. You were just there. Wait a minute, Henry; are you saying that you know of something better?” “Not me but Bart, my college room-mate said that he did.” “Okay wise guy! Are you going to come out with it, or is there a punch line if I ask; ‘what piece of music could that possibly be?’ So, what is it?” “Bart told me about an instrumental that more than rivals Bolero.” “Hard to believe but go on.” “Okay, Shelly. He said, Love Rain O’er Me, by “The Who” from Quadraphenia, was the most intense musical accompaniment for every stage of the sex act, from foreplay to post ejaculation energy dissipation and every phase between. The cut’s last minute of thunder, and Keith Moon’s drumming, was like the world exploding inside and all around you. If you were lucky enough, you explode right along with it.” “Did Bart speak from personal experience?” “Well kind of …” “Kind of? Alright already! I give up. So, what’s the punch line here, Henry?” “Well, it’s not really a punch line as much as it was typical ‘Bart-line’ as we called it back at the dorm. You Cheap Date © JK Savoy see, Bart never had much money. But as a future lawyer, he always had a good line of bullshit. He never even had enough ready cash to finance a date, even if it were just grabbing a cup of coffee.” “So how does a loser like him get laid, never mind fade-out to a muffled cymbal?” “Bart got this brainstorm that he could meet girls at AA meetings.” “That’s weird. It takes grabbing drinks before bedtime out of the equation.” “Right you are, Shelly. So, since they can’t drink, Bart figures that there could be a cheap date in his plan.” “Henry, short of raping her in an alley, where’s the plan in this?” “They always serve coffee after AA meetings, so there’s no need to go to a Starbucks before heading to his place.” “That takes one-stop shopping to new heights. Hey! Since he was your roomie for four years, what surprises am I in for? Which of you was the alpha-male back then?” “As you know, I’m a doctor: Bart was pre-law. Social shit wasn’t my thing. To make a long story short, Bart actually did this and he did meet someone at a meeting.” “It seems like sobriety is highly overrated.” “Sober as a judge, he was so confident that everything would go according to plan that before he went to the local AA meeting, he stacked his turntable only with amorous cuts, the last of which was Love Rain O’er Me. Leaving the meeting, one thing led to another and they wound up at his place and straight to the sack with the music playing away.
Wry observation
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assumed thoughts to begin with, or those to follow. Talk about chutzpa? An offhanded acceptance of this assassin of absolute truth is no different than granting it the absolute power for the elimination of freedom of expression itself. For example, consider this: In the interest of fair-minded communication and absolute fair play with readers, as writers, we try our best to restrict that ‘mind-dagger’ of the exclamation point to one per thousand words, if only to lessen the screaming. On the other hand, from the beginning to the end of all that has ever been set to print, the authoritarian shape-shifter, that is the ellipsis, stakes infinite claim of all literary works from cave dweller to future armed raiders of what Einstein presumed to make our universe. It’s existence in print can be an admission that there were not only words in the publication that were deliberately left out, but the same may go for the rest of the piece itself. As hard as it may seem to believe, there’s so much more beyond that. To begin with, in setting words to print, who in hell has the right to decide what is, has been or may come to be as being meaningless or superfluous? Is the goal of democracy itself to govern, without unnecessary influence, and then set limits on what may explode from the MindSpring of a writer’s inspirational domain? Aside from the passage of time itself, who or what has the right to lay claim to being the central influencer of past, present or future determinations of what was or what it may come to be? Should it be altered or expanded at the will or whim of a three tiny dot master or, possibly it’s publication-worthy just as it’s been envisioned? Please forgive me if I come off as a conspiracy theorist but: Perhaps those ostensibly benign dots will grant license to megalomanic literary tyrants of the future. And pardon my allowing digression to be my new book’s opener, but I have good ol’ Webster open on the other half of my monitor and I may have to use it to keep the page before me appropriately overseen. That said, with the ‘gravity is calling me’ lights going off in my ever wandering thoughts, I should be getting back to the task of laying out my unexpectedly elusive storyline for my next paperback after I state just a few closing remarks about the you know ‘…’! As a result of allowing it’s profound presence to take root in one’s inner darkness, that three dotted autocrat leaves this or any author stranded at the curb of a narrative when trying to break through its confining tiny dots at either end of what had no fucking opening nor end to begin with! Anyway, if a wayward ellipsis’s ostensibly open-endedness appears at the wrong place and time, it can grant license to a desperate novelist to use seemingly appropriate word choices that can lead him into attempting to explain away audacious notions such as, ‘… the ever-ongoing now … or, ‘…as is a speck of sand, as is The Universe…’ pretentious, interstellar bullshit!
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