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Like the Cockroach it Was
"Shouldn't there be a word for junk food caked on molars? Oreo and Cheez-It or whatnot? You know, when it's just a big black or orange mass back there." Tricky Carmichael pushed stop on his tape recorder and slid his damp palms into the worn pockets his sweat-stained sports jacket. He let out his habitual gasp of defeat. He'd spent the night working on his stand-up act but he hadn't come up with a lot of big laughs. There'd been no calls, which was kind of funny, because he'd been putting feelers out all week. He checked the cord to make sure the phone was plugged in; it was. Well there was no reason to assume the worst. There was always tomorrow. In his prime, he'd headlined with Frankie Babylon, he'd sold out The Agora on a Saturday night. His day would come again. He'd been putting out feelers and it was just a matter of time.
The phone rang.
"Carmichael here."
"Tricky?"
"Yeah."
"I thought you said you was in Dayton."
"Oh, Francine, I thought you were someone else..."
"Well I ain't. I'm me. Whyn't you come down to my room and have a drink."
"Not tonight, Francine, I'm waiting on a phone call."
"C'mon, baby. I'm lonely down here. Stew's outa town and the boys've gone to Cheryl's to play video games."
"I said no."
"You're a fat old fuck, you know that? I bet if I cut you open your guts would spill out in a black puddle of stink."
"I don't think..."
"My monkey's wet, baby. You know I need you to fuck it in for me."
"You know I don't like that kind of talk."
"Okay, okay, just come down."
"I told you no. I need to work on my act. I'll come over tomorrow."
"What are you, deaf? Tomorrow ain't no good. Stew'll be back. Besides. I need your fuckin' now!"
Tricky pulled the phone away and looked it over carefully. The handle was cracked and the earpiece was smeared with ear grime.
"Can't risk it, baby. My act comes first. I'm sorry."
"I hope you die."
"We all will, don't you worry. Listen, I gotta go. They could be trying to call right now."
He put down the phone and picked up the tape recorder. He pressed record and tried to think of something funny. Maybe he should have gone down there. A warm body's a good thing. It made up for all sorts of shit. Who was he kidding with this stand-up act anyway? But then again, who knew? The phone could ring any second. There was always a chance, even if it was just a sliver of a chance, and that was all he needed. The tape kept rolling. He opened his mouth, ready to speak but nothing came to him. He knew his life was nearly over and that he probably wouldn't make it big ever again. He'd probably peaked thirty years ago when he'd headlined with Frankie Babylon. The rest of his days would pass, each faster than the last. And then the grave. He needed a good joke and he needed it now. His very life depended on it. Nothing.
The night crept on, like the cockroach that it was, in silence.
Date Written: December 06, 2003
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 3.75
2) The last sentence has the distinction of being both a metaphor and simile.
3) Re short-exhaustion: I think the repetition of the form is part of the fun of it...finding new variations & ways to make it interesting. Like the blues, dude. However, this does point out a danger of the one a week system--that we'll start feeling burned out. As I opined long ago, in the long run quality will bring this site more glory (and readers) than quantity. But as usual my cool-headed, prophetic words were ignored by certain power-crazed, megalomaniacal dictators.
12/11/2003 Will Disney: Personally speaking, I like this Short just fine and think it's a good idea for Ewan, the author of over 100 published Shorts, to experiment with the genre. And I agree with Matza's sentiment that the genre of Shorts is flexible enough to allow for artistic variation.
As for the issue of burning out, I'm sensitive to it. Just look at Ewan. But I'd say that for now the quality of the new Shorts being published is good and if anything, the New Cruelty has inspired people to go new places in the genre rather than just quitting. I think that this kind of a deadline inspires better quality. Can we change things up if we all get burned out? Sure - but things seem to be working now.
Now, finally, regarding fame and fortune. I'm confident that it's forthcoming. When you're counting your Shorts-brought millions, I imagine you jerks may finally find some happiness.
12/13/2003 Dylan Danko: Trod? Trodden?
07/25/2004 scoop (5): The Lerpa and Texxx both may be right together about the phone conversation. But come on a 3??? Seems lowly and lowballish in the utmost. Matza is also dead on with the beginning -- elicits depression and laughs, especially on a Barney Miller grey day like today.
01/4/2005 Mr. Joshua (4): Flagrantly derivative of Wildman Jimmy Moore