antoinette's story, part 2

by bofa xesjum

part two of two

to read part one, click here

the road into the swamp had just about vanished. christopher columbus pulled the car off what was left of the road and parked under a huge tree covered with moss. antoinette noticed what looked like a couple of knives stuck into the trunk of the tree. “what do you want from me?” antoinette asked the two men. “we want you to tell us a story,” said the man called vasco da gama. “about what?” “anything you like. just make it a good one. tell us a good story, and we will let you go.” * once upon a time, antoinette began, there was a little street singer who sang and played her mandolin in the steets of the great city. she sang songs that people laughed at and called out of tume and screechy, but they were really beautiful. one day the singer met an animal that looked like a dog, but was really a cat. let us leave this evil city, the really a cat said to the singer, and find some better place where we can be appreciated for what we really are. the singer agreed, and so they set off toward the outskirts of the city. they met a creature that looked like a rat, but was really a camel. they invited the really the camel to join them, and it did. the trio came upon a painter, sitting against a wall with about a dozen of his paintngs, of sad clowns and sadder children and dancing gypsies and somber magicians in top hats, lined up for sale. nobody was buying the paintings because they thought they were ugly and old fashioned, but they were really beautiful. the painter put his paintings in a big sack snd joined the singer, the cat, and the camel. they met a clown - a really, really, sad clown, the saddest they or anybody else had ever seen. they asked the clown why he was so sad, and he explained that he had written a screenplay that nobody wanted to buy or even steal, even though it would make the greatest movie ever made. the clown was tearfully grateful for the sympathy he received, and he too joined the group. next they came upon a gypsy dancing alone on a street corner. her face was covered with a green mask. a monkey stood beside her, shaking an empty tin cup. the dancer explained that she wore the green mask because everybody thought she was ugly, although she was really beautiful. the monkey added that he contented himself with shaking the empty tin cup, and that formerly he had told funny stories, that nobody laughed at, even though they were really side-splittingly hilarious. the dancer and the monkey also joined the group. as they reached the city limits, it began to rain. they saw what looked like a bus shelter on a weedy patch of ground, and entered it to escape the rain. but it was not really a bus shelter at all. no sooner had they all entered it, than a trap door gave way and they found themselves in a dark basement, at the mercy of a fellow who looked like theodore roosevelt but was really an evil baker. the evil baker fed the seven unwary travelers into a machine that ground them up into flour. he used the flour to bake confections that he advertised and sold as jelly donuts and chocolate chip cookies, but were really the broken dreams of desperate souls. that is the end of my story, antoinette announced, what did you think of it? i thought it sucked, said christopher columbus. it was the stupidest story i ever heard, said vasco da gama. * later that night, benjamin franklin was shooting pool by himself at tom jefferson’s pool hall when the door opened and christopher columbus and vasco da gama walked in. they had removed their policemen’s uniforms and looked like the lowlifes they were. “how did it go?” benjamin franklin asked them. “not good,” christopher columbus answered. “not good at all.” “she was worthless to us,” vasco da gama added. “quite worthless.” “but are we quits now?” benjamin asked plaintively. “no, dude, we are not quits,” vasco da gama answered. “you will have to try again, and hope you do better next time.” “much better,” christopher columbus added. he went over to the rack and selected a cue. * antoinette’s feet were sore, but she was almost home. she had not been able to catch a ride, and had walked all the way from the swamp. despite their menacing words and general nastiness, christopher columbus and vasco da gama had let her go, warning her that she might not be so lucky next time, and had better learn some better stories. when antoinette turned into her street, she saw a couple of police cars parked outside her building. she was too tired to bother trying to avoid them, and walked up to her door. a policecman came out of the door. “are you marie antoinette?” he asked. “the friend and confidant of frankie lee?” “yes, i am, officer.” “i regret to inform you that we have taken frankie lee down to the station, arrested for the murder of marie laveau, in a dispute over the affections of a man named johnny rebel. do you know anything about this sad affair?” antoinette knew that johnny rebel was not his real name, that he was really plain johnny smith, a sneaking little welsher who would sell his mother and grandmother down the river for half a ham sandwich. aloud she said, “no, officer, i do not.” “very well, then, i will accept that for now, but do not leave the area. we may wish to talk to you later.” antoinette nodded, and went up the stairs. the room was empty. she wondered if there was anything in the icebox, or if frankie - or maybe the police - had emptied it. it was empty. she sat down on the bed. outside, the sun came up. it looked like day, but was really night. the end

antoinette's story, part 1

by bofa xesjum

part one of two

night had fallen. antoinette had been waiting all afternoon for benjamin franklin, right where he told her to wait, at the corner of 33rd and madison, across the street from the empty johnson’s department store. it was winter, close to the shortest day of the year, and darkness came early. nobody had seemed to pay any attention to antoinette through the afternoon, not even the police cars that had driven by a few times. but now she began to worry that the police, if they drove by again, would notice her as the street began to be deserted as people closed the stores - the kind of stores that closed at 5 or 6 o’clock at the latest - and went home to their lonely or cozy - but warm! - rooms to order pizza or chinese or watch tv or read comic books or danielle steel novels. it was getting cold. antoinette wondered if she could blow benjamin franklin off, and just go home to the little room she shared with frankie lee. maybe benjamin had forgotten about her! it would be just like him. but even if he had forgotten about her and he found out she had gone when he had told her to stay - it wouldn’t be pretty. she decided to call frankie lee and ask her for her advice, even though frankie never actually offered any advice. except things like, do what you gotta do, you know? but just as antoinette reached for her phone, a police car pulled up. was it the same one that had passed two or three times before? antoinette did not think so. she thought she would have remembered the policeman who was driving. he was young and kind of good looking but also kind of mean looking. “are you lost, miss?” the good looking young policeman asked. “no, officer, i was waiting for my friend, but he has not shown up and it is getting cold, so i was just getting ready to call my best friend and tell her i am on my way home.” as proof of this, antoinette showed the policeman her phone. “get in,”: the young policeman told antoinette, “and we will take you home. get in the back, it is unlocked.” antoinette knew enough not to argue. she opened the door. as she slid into the back seat she got her first good look at the other policeman. he was not so young or good looking, had a black mustache like a sicilian bandit, and looked downright nasty. “i live on south street,” said antoinette, “down by the rverside.” “don’t tell me my business, “ the young policeman said. he pointed the car north, toward the great swamp. they drove for a while with nobody speaking, heading for the swamp. they left the lights of the city, and the roadhouses on the outskirts of the city, behind. “this is not really the way to south street,” antoinette finally ventured to say. “and we are not really policemen,” the driver replied. “we are a couple of desperate rounders, only pretending to be policemen, and we are kidnapping you.” “i suspected as much.” “do what we tell you”. the man with the black mustache spoke for the first time. “and you may not come to grief.” may not, thought antoinette. “but just in case you really are policemen,” she said, “may i know your names, so that i can report you for unprofessional conduct?” “my name is christopher columbus,” the driver said. “and my compadre here is vasco da gama.” “my name is marie antoinette.” “we know all about you.” part 2

beautiful people always get their way, even on rainy days and really hot days

by bofa xesjum

although she was not one herself, helen loved beautiful people. even as a little girl, she lived for love. she did not wish to be a queen, but loved to look at their pictures in books. in time, she graduated from looking at drawings of queens and princesses in books, to looking at real queens and princesses on television, and in photographs in the newspapers and magazines. perhaps things would have gone on smoothly in this manner except for a curious incident that happened one day. helen was bouncing a little red rubber ball on the sidewalk in front of the little house she lived in with her mother and brother and three sisters, when a long black limousine pulled up on the street beside her. the most beautiful woman helen had ever seen in real life - a real queen, or at least a princess or a duchess. leaned out of the window of the back seat - she must be being driven by a chauffeur, helen thought - and asked: excuse me, little girl, but my worthless chauffeur and i are lost. can you tell me the way to deforest street? oh dear, helen thought, i wish i could help this beautiful lady, but i have never heard of forest street. i am sorry, ma’am, helen said, but i have never heard of deforest street. you have never heard of deforest street? but this is wilsonville, is it not? and wilsonville is not a very big town. i am afraid you are mistaken, ma’am, helen replied, this is not wilsonville, but zanesville. wilsonville is two towns over, down the road apiece. at this, the beautiful lady erupted with a stream of vile abuse that would have resulted in helen or her sister or brothers getting a good thrashing if they had uttered anything half as horrid. the invective was directed at the chauffeur - whom helen could not see behind the tinted glass of the front seat window - but even so, helen was quite taken aback and somewhat perplexed. it messed up helen’s mind to think that so beautiful a person could speak in such an unseemly manner. and yet… she got over it… * under a veneer of like who cares? helen’s heart beat with a thirst for love and beauty. helen’s mother was named ursula, but all her friends called her cookie. her sisters were named imogene, juniper, amd kiki, and her brother was named lawrence but everybody called him loopy, because he wasn’t very bright and kind of lurched to one side when he walked, but he had a good heart. her father’s name was ken, and he was a worthless bum that cookie had only known for a couple of weeks before he vanished into the great unknown. the other four kids were all older than helen, and had the same father, an even more worthless bum named walt, who had disappeared twelve years ago, but not exactly without a trace, as he had left cookie a very nasty note before leaving, and made a few even nastier phone calls to her in the weeks after he left, before disappearing forever. at least the bum paid for the phone calls himself and didn’t try to call collect, cookie said to her sister veronica at the time. helen had never heard anyone say a good word about walt, or excuse his behavior in any way, but sometimes she wondered about him. if she asked the other kids questions about him, they would just laugh and say, what do you care anyway? he wasn’t even any relation to you, dufus. soon helen stopped asking her half siblings questions, or even talking to them at all, except when they told her to do things. it should not be supposed that helen was some kind of cinderella and that her mother and the other kids gave her a particularly hard time. they were all just folks. nothing very exciting happened to any of them for a long time. * helen got a pair of scissors for her birthday and she began cutting pictures of beautiful people out of magazines. her mind became a kaleidoscope of images of beautiful people. left to herself, she would happily pass the day in a dream of beauty. but it just was not meant to be. she was too young to realize how harsh life was. a girl named jocelyn sat beside helen in school. unlike helen, jocelym was herself exceptionally beautiful. even at a tender age, she drove the boys wild. helen’s dreamy manner made jocelyn consider her stuckup and not properly attentive to her, jocelyn’s, queenliness. someday jocelyn’s prince would come - boatloads of them. it never to occurred to helen that jocelyn took any notice of her. because of this, the long days in the classroom drifted by. but finally they both got a little older and moved on. eventually jocelyn, surrounded by admirers of both sexes and all ages, forgot helen and her improperly inattentive ways. helen did not have so many admirers. but she was almost quite content in her dream world. helen got a job in a drug store which sold a lot of magazines. she spent a lot of her paycheck on the magazines and took them home with her at night. george, the manager of the drugstore, noticed that helen bought a lot of magazines, and resolved to keep an eye on her to make sure she paid for them all and did not steal any. a girl named betty also worked at the drugstore. betty did not particularly like to look at pictures of beautiful people, but she liked to look out at the rain. roger, a regular customer at the drugstore - he came in regularly because he needed to buy a lotion for rashes on his feet - thought that life was all a joke. on inheriting a little bit of money from his grandparents, george quit his job as manager of the drugstore. although pete, the new manager, did not pay so much attention to helen, she continued to pay for the magazines she took home, and never stole any. at the end of the night, pete would always say, all right, that is enough of this, before closing the drugstore.

fred and myrna and the twins

by bofa xesjum

the world is divided into two kinds of people - upward-lookers and downward-lookers. oliver and olivia were twins. they expressed themselves differently, especially to the world. myrna mcgonigle was their governess. a strange fate befell her when she was hired for the job. many people have similar experiences. they think their path through life is as smooth as a silk purse lost by the rosdside - and then… returning to our original theme, olivia was an upward-looker and oliver was a downward-looker. myrna quickly divined that the twins were different, from most of the human race, and from each other. simply put, upward-lookers look at the human race and are resentful that anybody ranks above them or that anybody has any advantage over them - even if the anybody is only one or two people. and downward lookers look at the human race and are grateful or relieved that they are not the people who rank below them and whom they have any advantage over. fred johnson was the handy man around the fifty room castle that oliver and olivia and their parents and assorted aunts and uncles and cousins, most of them completely mad, inhabited. myrna was very much an upward-looker herself , like 92 percent of the human race. fred johnson, under an outwardly placid demeanor, was a rather vicious individual. except when he was talking to his aunt jennifer on the phone, as he did every saturday afternoon, saturday afternoon and evening being the only times he was not “on call” by the members of the family. there were times, increasingly frequent, when fred felt he had just about enough. myrna dimly understood fred - he was a lot like her own father and seven brothers. * myrna was wearing a quizzical expression on her face one day, after a trying morning with the twins, when she encountered fred lurching along one of the castle’s labyrinthine corridors. i’m late! fred exclaimed, as he rushed past myrna, who was happy he had not stopped to talk. in another room of the castle, olivia was giving poor oliver the business, as she did when they were left alone, so that myrna could walk around the castle grounds, make herself a cup of tea, or otherwise occupy herself for her allotted fifteen minutes. what are you two silly willies doing? a voice suddenly interrupted the twins. it was aunt fair rosalind, the third dottiest of all the aunts. behold fair rosalind, the fairest of them all, who dances in the rain and feels no pain. olivia pierced fair rosalind with her most withering glance. if we are being silly willies, what is it to you, you withered hag, who drinketh from a cup of woe, which overflowed long long ago. gosh, rosalind retorted, aren’t we the scandalous ones this fine afternoon? i was only trying to be friendly, one of the girls, as they say under the boardwalk.. you look lovely today, rosalind, oliver, always one to calm troubled waters, observed politely. permit me to commend you for a gallant lad, rosalind replied, with a savage toss of her head toward olivia. may i be so inquisitive as to enquire the subject of your morning lessons? we learned a great deal, oliver said, especially about the ancient parthians and scythians, peoples who have not inspired a great deal of fascination in the world lately. king scyla of scythia, oliver continued, had a great enthusiasm for greek culture, and this caused his downfall, and his execution by his philistine brother octamasadas. those with beautiful souls end badly more often than not, rosalind agreed. * perhaps, myrna thought as she finished her cup of tea, preparatory to returning to the twins, things might have been different. just at that moment fred johnson, breathless from exertion, arrived at the door of cousin walker’s room. fortunately, the door was open, so fred did not have to waste precious seconds knocking on it. getting up slowly from his cavernous red easy chair with stuffing sticking out from it in a hundred directions, cousin walker turned his baleful gaze on poor panting fred. it should perhaps be noted that cousin walker was wearing only a top hat, a red clown nose, and khaki shorts with enormous pockets. seems you are a little bit late, eh, fred? i came as fast as i could, sir, fred gasped, through the red haze of his murderous rage. you are pathetic, cousin walker sneered, completely pathetic. all fred wanted to say was, you look kind of silly yourself, but he needed the job. what was it that you wanted, sir, fred managed to say in a properly respectful tone. i have forgotten, completely forgotten, thanks to your being late, cousin walker replied snappishly. then may i be excused, sir? yes, that will be all. fred turned to go, buffeted by a red tidal wave of rage and a green monsoon of relief. somehow, he mused, i may have gotten through another day. * every time myrna thought she had the twins safely under control, disaster struck. i wonder what happened, she sighed inwardly, seeing the steely glint in olivia’s eye. you look a bit aggrieved, olivia, myrna ventured to say, did something happen to upset you? cousin fair rosalind was here, oliver explained. she was here most of the time you were on your tea break. i should have known it was something like that, myrna reflected. without getting her fifteen minutes to abuse and torment oliver, her natural orneriness gets bottled up and will have to find some other outlet - like me. how about a game of charades? myrna asked the twins. in the past, charades had sometimes proved an effective outlet for olivia’s steam. but not today. charades! exclaimed olivia, you know what you can do with your idiotic charades! and your other foolish games and your useless knowledge and your fake gentility and your simpering obsequiousness and your unfathomable righteous ignorance! bah, bah, bah! i hardly think such an outburst is germane to the situation, myrna responded with a game attempt at a merry laugh. i think a game of charades sounds rather jolly, said oiiver. the afternoon dragged on interminably. it seemed to myrna that it was a shame she could not live one day, or one hour, in a less than totally insane world. oliver will probably find his destiny fulfilled as a country vicar. despite innumerable obstacles, myrna will shuffle along somehow. but for olivia and fred johnson, those children of rage and the night, all will be lost.