rayaso

Idol Minor+, Prompt 1
"There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days"



Robert J. Thompson, author, raconteur, and man-about-town, strode purposefully into his office and faced off against his laptop.  The key is not to show fear, he thought, and then lifted the lid.  Bright safety-orange letters appeared on a black screen: “This writer has worked 563 days without a creative thought.  Slumps are avoidable!”  A screensaver meant to motivate him now made his shoulders sag.

It had been 563 days since the Times published its annual “Where Are They Now?” article, warning the literary world that he was fading into irrelevance.  His novels soon disappeared from bookstore shelves and reappeared without ceremony in the “Remainders – 90% Off!” bins, where they lingered.

It had also been 563 days since his last drink, his last party, and even his last woman.  Drafts had come and drafts had gone, but they had all been crap.

He turned on the desk radio, hoping for some inspiration.  Iron & Wine came out of the old speaker, singing “There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days."  He switched it off.  He’d been hoping for something like “Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly.”  Something with some muscle, not a demotivator.

Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, thought Robert, now that’s inspirational!  Maybe that’s the problem.  What’s a writer without his vices?  Besides, how can days be both endless and numbered?”

Clean living hadn’t worked.  It was time to find his own Molly – especially one in a blue dress, someone who could clear the rust out of his brain, or at least help him forget about it for the night.

He grabbed a nondescript hat, threw on a vague jacket and headed for Jack’s Bar, which barely survived in a strip mall a few blocks away, sandwiched between a revolving door of nail salons, laundromats, and the only other long-term tenant, a bargain liquor store with a drive-thru window.  Not a great joint for finding women, but the drinks were cheap and he could run a tab.

The bartender looked at Robert as he settled onto a stool.  “Scotch rocks,” Robert ordered.  The bartender made a decent Flaming Duck Milkshake, but Robert didn’t have the stomach for it tonight.

After his second drink, Robert looked around the bar.  In the corner was an attractive blonde dressed in business clothes.  Her hair color at least was natural and she was doing a good job of holding on to her looks.  Best of all, she was alone.

“That’s Alice,” said the bartender.  “She lives around here.  Comes by once in a while.  Nice.”

Robert picked up his drink, headed over, and asked her if she minded some company.  Alice looked at him for a long minute.

“Not yours,” she said, with a tired smile.

The rest of the evening was uncomplicated, and when Robert woke up the next morning, he was alone, but that was OK.  He had some writing to do.

He went over to his computer and turned it on. “This writer has worked 564 days without a creative thought.  Slumps are avoidable!”

Days 565 and 566 went by.  Being good hadn’t worked.  Being bad hadn’t either, but it felt better.

Day 567 at least brought some interesting mail, a flyer from Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop.  It advertised brain de-rusting, along with car repairs and a free tire pressure check.

Robert had read about brain de-rusting on the internet.  It was supposed to revitalize a person’s brain.  There had been claims, counter-claims, and the whole topic had degenerated into another partisan dogfight.  Ever since the death of science and the malleability of truth, it had become impossible to trust anything.

Attempts by the medical profession to close down the brain-derusting clinics had fizzled after the entire concept of professional licensing was abolished.  Anyone could be a doctor or a lawyer, or even a brain-deruster.

Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop had survived all the controversy.  When Day 572 passed with no sparks, Robert gave in.

Might as well get my brain derusted, he decided.  Nothing else’s worked.

It was a bold move by a formerly bold writer, and it made Robert feel good.

At least that’s a start, he thought, as he fished Al’s ad out of the wastebasket.

“Walk-ins Welcome!” the ad read.  There were coupons for oil changes, tune-ups, and 25% off any brain-derusting service.  That was the clincher.  Robert was a little short on money, now that his publisher had demanded the return of his advance.

“I can get my brain derusted and my car fixed at the same time – a real two-fer.”

Robert drove over in his sports car, which had seen better days.  Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop clearly had never seen better days.  It had originally been painted white but was now gray, dirty, and peeling.  Out front was a rack with a few used tires for sale, currently being used as a perch for a mangy cat enjoying the sun.  Both service bays were empty, with lots of tools and dirty rags scattered around.

Robert was starting to have second thoughts.  He wasn’t sure about having Al work on his car, let alone his brain.

But I’ve got that coupon and I can always leave, he thought.  How bad could it be?

Just then, Al came out of his office and started walking toward Robert.  Al was wearing fresh scrubs and an immaculate white lab coat, with a stethoscope drooped casually around his neck.

“What can I do for you?” Al asked.

“I was interested in getting my brain derusted and my car’s transmission is making funny noises,” replied Robert.

“Let’s go to my office and you can tell me why you want a brain-derusting,” said Al.

The office was sparsely furnished, just a table with two chairs.  Most of the room was taken up by a large machine with two tanks, a lot of copper tubing running around it, and red-and-green blinking lights.  It looked like a space-age still.  There were four rubber tubes hanging on it, plus a pipe running to a sizeable metal bin sitting on a mechanical ultrasonic cleaner.  There were several large cans with “Brain Cleaner” written on masking tape over Rust-Oleum Rust Reformer labels.

“I’m a writer,” began Robert.  “My first three novels were easy, and the critics and public loved them.  Then all of a sudden, nothing.”

“I think I can help you,” said Al.  “Sounds like a clog brought on by too much dirt and rust.  You haven’t been taking care of your brain.”

“The deruster will clean you right out and get you running again,” Al said.  “We offer two services.  Our Basic is just that – think of it as a brain enema.  Then there’s our Deluxe, which includes a reset to original factory specifications.  Your brain will be ready for another 100,000 miles.”

“Wow!  How does it work?” Robert asked.

“Well, for the Basic, we attach two of those tubes to your ears and the other two to your nostrils.  Then we pump our special brain cleaner through your ears and out your nose.  It only takes a few minutes.  For the Deluxe, first we do the Basic, then we take out your brain, put it in a bath of brain cleaner, and run the ultrasonic cleaner for a day.  Either way, we put you out like a light.  You won’t feel a thing!”

“Brain removal?” asked Robert, feeling nervous.

“That’s a protected trade secret,” said Al.  “But I can tell you that we just pop your head open, take out your brain, drop in a loaner, and you come back the next day and we reverse it.  Then you go home and write your next best seller, money-back guarantee.  Plus, we take care of your car, all for one low price.  You can’t beat that!”

“Whose brain do I get for the loaner?” asked Robert.

“It’s just Rose,” replied Al.  “She was our top mechanic until a car fell on her.  Really nice. You’ll see.”

Robert still hesitated.

“Look,” said Al, “we’re not real busy today.  $250 for the brain and the car, not including parts, if you do it right now.”

“Sold.”

Al brought out his brain tools, which looked like the auto tools, only cleaner.  Robert swallowed the knock-out pill, and Al went to work.

After he gave the brain its enema and put it into the ultrasonic cleaner, he woke Robert’s body up.

“I feel like #@!%,” said Rose.  “Did you really talk someone else into your brain derusting again?”

“Yeah.  It was a hard sell.  But you’re back for the day.  Go have fun, but come back in time to fix the guy’s car.”

“OK,” said Rose.  “It’s been a while for me.  I’m going over to the Cock Pit, have a few drinks, and see if I can’t get lucky.  I hate it when you stick me in some guy’s body.  It’s never the same – just one and done.  At least this one’s not bad looking.”

Rose returned Robert’s body the next day with a smile on his face, and fixed his car.

The procedure complete, Al returned Robert’s brain to his body.  It was all shiny and new, full of ideas and ready to write.  He just couldn’t understand the Cock Pit bar stamp on his wrist.

At home, Robert headed straight for his laptop.  He ignored the screensaver and started typing.  He worked hard, revised sensibly, and a year later, the new Robert Thompson novel reached #1 on the Time’s best-seller list, a searing portrayal of a male stripper and the woman who loved him.

He went back to Al’s to thank him, but the store was closed.

Only the mangy cat was left, a dusty bundle of black fur that nonetheless seemed happy to see him.

Robert thought she looked like a “Rose,” though he couldn’t say why.  He took her home with him and gave her a bath, a bed, and the promise of beef-flavored kibbles for all the years to come.

*         *         *         *         *

“Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly” by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAClxmXqX0M

“Passing Afternoon” by Iron and Wine
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0dP7iZv9K0

Season 9, Week 3
In Another Castle



I need my father’s forgiveness. My father is “Lightning” Lee Castle, the man who ruined the Castle name. I went one better. I turned my back on him.

Lightning (everyone called him that, even me) was the son of the legendary Harry Castle, owner of Castle Construction: “A Man’s Home is His Castle”. When my father graduated from high school, it became Castle & Son Construction. It was a stretch to say Castle & Son was a construction company. My grandfather was a handyman, and proud of it.

Harry could do it all – carpentry, electrical, plumbing, painting, appliance repair, sprinklers (back before they became irrigation systems). Anything. He charged a fair price for excellent work. Harry’s favorites were what he called “rescues.” Homeowners would start something, get in over their heads, and call Harry. He never made his clients feel incompetent and he showed them what to do next time. Next time, most of them called Harry to begin with.

Harry taught Lightning what to do – the right way, not the easy way. “Measure twice, cut once” was his religion and "the right tool for the right job" his mantra. Green wires were always for ground, black and red were hot, and white was neutral.

Lightning was fast – usually too fast for Harry: “What’s your hurry, son?” Lightning worked hard, no question there. Plus, he was good with customers. Lightning talked a lot, sometimes a little too quickly, but everyone liked him. He was also good at selling elaborate ideas. My father didn’t deliberately create grand projects, but Harry could always find simpler, less expensive ways to do them.

We lived in an older city, so there was always plenty of work. When Harry finally retired, business was booming. My father wanted out of his father’s shadow, so Castle Construction became Lightning Lee Construction. Lightning had big, unfocused dreams, but Harry couldn’t really let go and he started to meddle; they were constantly fighting. Finally, Harry moved to Florida and passed away several years later. That spared him from what came later.

My father was almost certainly manic. He did not have an "off" switch. Lightning’s big ideas became bigger, more than the homeowner needed or wanted. He worked too fast, talked too much and went from project to project, taking on too much and getting behind. The Castle “brand” as my father called it, began to lose its luster.

Trouble surfaced later. A lot of a handyman’s work is out of sight. Wiring and plumbing are behind walls, sprinkler systems are underground. Homeowners operate on faith. If a switch turns on the light, the toilet flushes, or the lawn gets watered, they’re happy.

Later, when something goes wrong, customers lose faith and become unhappy. Sprinkler systems fail and customers investigate, digging up different gauges of pipe running in weird directions that later contractors cannot untangle. If you run out of the wrong color of electrical wire and attach whatever is handy, even if it is also the wrong gauge, you can cause electrical fires from overloaded circuits. A fire marshal called Lightning’s work “unintelligible” in his final report on one disastrous re-wiring job. Lightning’s insurance company settled the lawsuit, and canceled his policy.

My father was not incompetent or crooked. He was sick, but no one knew it, least of all me. After the fire, customers stopped calling. The Lightning Lee Construction van never moved from our driveway. It was banished to the garage when it became too embarrassing.

Lightning began self-medicating with alcohol. I can’t re-visit that pain, not yet. Too my shame, I was glad my mother finally divorced him when I was 16. We drove to California in the van, looking for a fresh start. I didn’t see my father after that, just a few letters. That was fine with me.

Even in California, I could not escape Lightning Lee. I developed problems of my own. After I dropped out college, I was finally diagnosed as severe bipolar disorder, type II. No details. I am a private person. My moods cycle downward between purgatory and hell. I am actually jealous of manic-depressives.

The meds help, but I’m not ready to return to school. I still have no energy and no dreams. I think a lot about Lightning, who had too much energy and too many dreams. I want to tell him that now, finally, I understand. I abandoned my father and now I need his forgiveness. I think about driving the van back to him and getting Lightning the help he needs. Maybe starting “Lightning Lee & Son Construction.”

Just think: father and son, his mania and my depression. Not the best business model, but between us, we'd find a balance. His enthusiasm would lift me up, and my pessimism would keep him grounded.

What a pair we’d make!