Healing through story

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shortfiction24 – steinbeck’s funeral

Matt Breen struggles with the death of a favorite author and the threat of the Vietnam draft.

Steinbeck’s Funeral

Revolving doors spat Matt Breen into the cavernous lobby of the Wall Street office building where he worked. He tossed a few coins down at the newsstand and grabbed a copy of The New York Times. Matt rushed to catch an elevator. As it rose to his floor, he glanced at the paper. The date: Four days before Christmas, 1968. Below the fold, a front-page photo and headline caught his eye: John Steinbeck Dies Here at 66. 

“Oh shit!” he said aloud.

A man turned to Matt. “You okay, buddy?” 

Matt pointed to the paper. “Steinbeck is dead.”

“Yeah, so?” the man said.

Matt placed a hand over his heart. “He’s gone.” 

He elbowed his way off the elevator and headed for the office where he worked as a runner for a well-credentialed Wall Street law firm. Bonded to deliver securities, he carried stock certificates, bearer bonds and other valuable papers from one financial institution to another all over Manhattan. Matt was the youngest in a stable of men who sat daily in the runners’ room, waiting for messenger assignments. 

“You guys see the paper?” Matt asked as he stepped into the runners’ room.

The men in the room, mostly retirees doing messenger work for extra income, replied, “Hey, Matt.” 

“Morning, Matt.”

“Steinbeck is dead.” Matt waved the newspaper at the room.

Leon, the oldest of the runners, sat erect, his lean legs crossed, blowing a wisp of smoke from the cigarette holder he held. “Good to see you, Matt. And yes, his death is clearly a loss.”

Matt hung up his coat and slipped on a tan office jacket.

The intercom announced. “You’re up, Lou.”

A middle-aged man grabbed his jacket and walked out to the dispatch desk.

“He’s my favorite author,” Matt replied to Leon. “I love his books.”

“You’re young enough to remember what you read in high school,” a runner named Daniel said. “I don’t remember any of that crap.”

Matt said, “My opinion, Steinbeck wrote better stories than Hemingway’s macho shit.”

“And clearer than the drivel Faulkner wrote,” Leon said.

Bernie, another runner, changed the subject. “I went to Greg’s funeral over in Jersey yesterday. Heartbreaking.”

“One more young man lost to a fruitless war,” Leon said.

Matt shuddered. “Don’t talk to me about Vietnam. It roils my gut more than last night’s chili.”

“I thought you had a deferral,” Bernie said. “You’re in college.”

“Barely,” Matt said. His eyes dropped. “I’m only going part time for my degree at NYU. It’s my Teaching Assistant job that’s keeping me out of the draft.”

A thirty-something runner re-directed the conversation again. “I almost skidded on the ice last night, driving my girlfriend home,” Tony said. “Cold as hell.”

Leon flicked the ash off his cigarette as he said, “I don’t think hell is cold, Tony.”

“You’re from Montreal, right, Leon? I bet it gets colder than the tits on a penguin.”

Matt chimed in, “Tony, penguins don’t have tits.”

“Yeah? You know that, how? You an expert?”

Matt said, “I read an article on the Antarctic in National Geographic.”

“Ha. Talk about tits. You buy the magazine for the pictures of naked native women.”

Dutch, the law firm’s building engineer, popped into the room at that moment. “You guys talking about tits again?”

Leon asked, “You keeping the secretaries warm, Dutch?”

“If only…” Dutch said.

“I was referring to the heating system,” Leon said.

The intercom squawked. “Breen, you’re up.”

Matt grabbed his coat and headed for the assignment desk. Harry Novak, the dispatcher, handed him a thick manila envelope. “This goes to midtown. Hustle. They’re waiting for it.”

Harry stood and pointed to a large subway map on the wall. “This is your station. Two blocks to the receiving address.”

Harry handed Matt two tokens out of petty cash.

On the subway Matt re-read the article on Steinbeck’s death. The family scheduled the funeral service for December twenty-ninth. In the city, at St. James Episcopal. Madison Avenue on the upper East Side. 

I need to be there, he thought. A work day. I’ll call in sick.

After his delivery, on the trip back to the office, Matt spotted several young Marines in uniform waiting on the platform. He felt a fist twist his stomach. That could be me. 

Most of the men were out on runs when he returned to the office. Bernie pulled him aside.

“When do you get your degree?” he asked. 

“This June…on my twenty-fourth birthday.”

“And you wouldn’t be free of the draft till you turned twenty-six, right?”

Matt nodded. Rubbed his fingers together. Wiped his damp hands on his pants. “And the draft lottery starts next December. I can’t stop sweating this shit.”

“Go home tonight, have a cold beer, read a good book. Take your mind off this.” Bernie waved his hands at the room.

Matt closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Read a good book. Matt had read all of Steinbeck’s stories. He always felt disappointed that critics and writers did not give Steinbeck the credit and attention he deserved. Yes, he had a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize for Literature. But scant attention when compared to Hemingway and Faulkner.

The ever-popular The Grapes of Wrath did not top Matt’s favorites list. A great story, sweeping in its scope, but for Matt, more a road trip story than a tale of social unrest. Families of farm workers traveling in dilapidated vehicles, held together by spit and wire. On the road seeking a better life. 

The characters in Cannery Row reminded Matt of the guys he sat with all day in the runners’ room. Not down and out, but scraping by. Looking for shortcuts. Sometimes crude, yet kind, almost lovable. 

Bernie’s cough brought Matt back to the conversation. “Good advice, Bernie, but it won’t stop me worrying.” He glanced at Bernie. A lucky man, too old to face the draft. Matt felt himself teetering on a tightrope. His part time college work and TA job kept him out of the Vietnam draft. Barely. One of the young runners in his firm had been called up a month ago. The guy left scared shitless. Came home in a body bag. That was the funeral Bernie had attended.

Matt held Bernie’s eyes. “My buddies from the neighborhood and from school all have jobs teaching. That gives them deferrals. Me, I follow the news every night. Go to bed with a burning stone in my gut.”

Matt shrugged, pointed a thumb at himself. “I’m no teacher, Bernie. I’ll finish my degree in June, unless I get a draft letter before that. Then what ? A body bag with my name on it?”

After the holiday, on the morning of the Steinbeck service, outdoor temps reached only the mid forties. Matt dressed in slacks, a shirt and tie, a sweater. Added a trenchcoat and thin tan leather gloves. On the way out of his apartment building he ran into Joe, his neighbor in the apartment below his.

“Hey Matt. You going out?”

“No, Joe. Just walking the halls in my coat.”

Joe nodded. “Cute… Say, I can’t go out, what with my legs and this cold.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Can you pick me up a can of Spam and a box of Mac and cheese at the grocery store on your way back?”

“Joe, I’m running late.”

“Okay. Hey, you seen today’s paper. Big story on the draft lottery starting up next year. You gonna be okay?”

Matt shivered. “I hope so, Joe.” He turned to leave.

“Hey, you seen the super? I’ve been waitin’ a month for him to fix the leak in my kitchen faucet.”

“I know.”

“This guy is the pits. He’s fuckin’ useless.”

“I know.”

Joe rattled on and Matt felt like he said ‘I know’ a hundred times before he got out the front door.

The service at St. James Episcopal had already started when Matt arrived. All the pews were occupied. He found space to stand in the back. A speaker at the pulpit eulogized Steinbeck, reading from The Grapes of Wrath. A man standing next to Matt whispered in his ear. 

“That’s Henry Fonda.” 

In the room with a celebrity, Matt thought. Awesome.

At the end of the service, pallbearers shouldered the casket down the aisle. A white cloth draped the casket, fresh pine boughs on top. As the pallbearers reached the front doors, Matt inhaled the pine aroma. Maybe for the last time. He closed his eyes, shook his head.

The same man next to Matt leaned in and said, “I’m a Frenchman. If Steinbeck had been a Parisian, this church would have been packed. The whole city would have turned out to honor a writer.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Matt replied.

As he moved out to the sidewalk, someone called to him. “Matt. Hey, Matt.”

He turned to see his TA professor from NYU. “Hi, John.”

“I’m glad to see you here, Matt. You really dig the significance of American literature.” He patted Matt’s shoulder. “That’s why you’re my TA.”

“Steinbeck has always been my first choice.”

“Hey, when winter break is over, Matt, we need to talk.” John shifted his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Budget cuts are coming. I may have to drop you as my TA.”

Matt felt himself blanch. “Shit.”

“Yeah, ‘shit’ is right. It may jeopardize your status with the draft deferral. Not sure yet. I’ll have to talk to the dean.”

“Ah, man, this is not good.” Matt looked up at the cloudy sky.

John squinted. “Hey, relax. We can work something out. You’re a valuable asset in my class… I gotta run. We’ll talk next week.”

Matt shivered, wrapped his trenchcoat tightly around himself. He watched the mourners file out of the church. I’ll come back from Nam in a flag-draped casket and no one will come to my funeral.

On the subway ride back to Brooklyn, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley swirled around in his head. Matt often dreamed of buying a truck, rigging it with a camper, and driving cross country. Driving free with no plans. But that would take money. Much more than his bank account would allow. However…if he did that, the draft board couldn’t find him. Disappear and ride free

Back in his neighborhood Matt picked up the food items Joe had requested and got himself a couple of beers. He rang Joe’s bell.

“Hey, Matt. Thanks, man. You’re a standup guy. Can you come in for a minute?”

Matt stepped in. Joe had been watching a game show blaring on TV. He flipped it off.

“Sit.”

Matt found a comfy-enough chair. Sniffed what smelled like cigar smoke mingled with bacon. 

“Matt, you look like shit. No offense.”

“None taken. Yeah, I feel like shit.”

“What’s up? Girl trouble?”

“I wish. You gotta have a girl to have girl trouble.” Matt told Joe what his professor had said about the TA job.

“Fuck the draft. Fuck the war. We need all you young guys here at home.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“You’re a good neighbor. Quiet. The last guy upstairs was noisy as hell. TV blasting all night.”

Matt listened to Joe run on about all his woes. He finally excused himself, went upstairs and collapsed in his own apartment.

He popped open a beer, picked up his copy of Travels With Charley, and stretched out on his couch. The beer did nothing to calm his roiling gut.

The next morning, back in the runners’ room, Matt and Leon sat alone, all the other guys out on runs. 

“Hey, Leon,” Matt asked in a low voice. “What’s it like in Montreal?”

“Bitter cold right now. But wonderful in the summer. Why?”

“I got a problem.”

Leon looked around the room, leaned toward Matt. “Tell me.”

Matt filled Leon in on his conversation with his professor and his tenuous draft position. He whispered, “I think I gotta run.”

Leon reached for a pad and pen, scribbled, handed it to Matt.

“Call this man. His name is Ray. Runs a settlement house in Montreal, in a poorer neighborhood. They serve hot meals, hand out clothes and shoes to homeless men. Tell him I referred you. He can give you a room if you help around the house.”

Matt looked at the paper. Freedom?

Leon went on. “Not a paying position, but Ray can help you find a job. You can save enough money to take the train cross country to Vancouver. Plenty of paying work out there.”

Matt opened his mouth to say thanks, but Leon cut him off. “Move on this. You can’t risk being called up. I’ll mail your last company check to the address in Montreal… And when you cross at the border, tell them you’re there for a few months as a volunteer. Part of your college work. Do not say you’re there looking for a job.”

Matt nodded. Whispered, “Thank you.”

The intercom squawked. “Leon, you’re up.”

Leon flicked ash off his cigarette holder. “Auvoir, mon ami.” He stepped out.

Two days later, on New Year’s Eve, Matt sat on a night train bound for Montreal. He carried a duffle bag with clothes, books and necessities. He had left his apartment with a month paid on his rent. No one would look for him there for a while. He had not said anything to his NYU professor. He had emptied all but a few dollars from his checking account. Told Joe to wait a few weeks, then help himself to anything in the apartment. 

Matt disappeared without telling his buddies. Better they knew nothing about him being a draft dodger.

He stared out the window into the black night. As he rode north, the light dusting of snow in downstate New York gave way to piles of snow, wind-blown drifts, trees drooping with the weight of a wet snow. Ice crystals formed around the window edges.

The train carried Matt deeper into a bitter winter. He shuddered. This is no Steinbeck itinerary. No truck. No dog. The clack, clack, clack of the train wheels began to ease the stone in his gut. He squeezed his eyes tight when images from the movie King Kong crossed his mind. Elevated subway riders staring out into the night, coming eyeball to eyeball with Kong standing next to the el. A routine ride home morphed into a tragic encounter with a giant gorilla. Matt eyed his reflection in the window. I think I dodged my own gorilla.

Matt pulled a notebook and pen out of his duffle. He jotted the beginnings of a journal. Notes on a new life. A new country. A tarnished country left behind. Unable to return without possible arrest.

A passenger stumbling down the aisle made Matt think of the Okies in The Grapes of Wrath. They traveled in desperation, looking for better jobs, money, housing. He felt the desperation in his own soul. Forced to leave his life behind. Running from a fruitless war. A war old rich men sent young men to fight. 

Unlike the Okies, his journey would not include a lush green California. No, only snow and ice. And the hope that the rock in his gut would dissolve. The fear and dread would melt.

Matt caught himself laughing quietly. This could be the start of a new book. Travels With Matt. Leaving from New York, like Steinbeck. Heading north instead of west. Leaving not to see if the country he loved had changed. Matt knew damn well it had changed. And the change could easily have forced him to face fire fights in a steaming jungle and a return trip in a body bag. 

As the train roared deeper into the frigid night, feeble horn toots announced midnight and a new year. A fellow passenger sitting with his wife and son reached across the aisle, shook Matt’s hand. “Happy New Year, pal!” Matt smiled at the greeting. A warm handshake on a cold black night. He took a long deep breath. I’m on my way.

***

shortfiction24 – shattered by a bullet

Paige Ryker struggles to recover after a school shooting shattered her life.

For 2024 I will be posting a new short story here every other Wednesday. If you would prefer to receive my weekly newsletter by email, you can sign up here. The newsletter will feature these stories as well as serialized stories from earlier blog posts.

Shattered by a Bullet

Bob Gillen

On the first day of school after summer break, Paige Ryker sat at her favorite school cafeteria table. Her friends Meghan and Kim were not there. 

Paige knew they wouldn’t be. 

They were dead. 

Several girls, fellow juniors, waded through the lunchroom chaos to join Paige.

“The freshmen get stupider every year,” Mara said. “I was almost wearing someone’s mac and cheese.”

“Hey, Paige,” another girl called out. “How was your summer?”

Before she could answer, Joshua Nobles slammed his backpack down and squeezed in next to Paige.

“Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

“How’s your shoulder doing?” He pointed to the navy blue sling over her left shoulder, a sling that matched her navy top.  He reached into his backpack to extract a cold grilled cheese sandwich. 

Paige shrugged.

Silence fell over the table. 

Last April a shooter had burst into Paige’s classroom. The shooter had murdered Paige’s two closest friends, Meghan and Kim, and wounded four others, including Paige herself. The shooting had left Paige lying in a pool of blood, her left shoulder shattered by a bullet. She spent two months in the hospital dealing with multiple surgeries, then all summer in rehab and physical therapy. She still did not have full range of motion in the shoulder.

Joshua repeated, “How’s the shoulder?”

“Better, thanks.” She shrugged again. “But I won’t be playing volleyball this year. So much for a college sports scholarship.”

“Yeah, that sucks.”

Paige looked around the table. “I miss my friends. They should be sitting here.” She brushed away a tear. 

Joshua said, “Have you seen the memorial garden they planted during the summer?”

“No.” Paige picked at a bag of chips. Joshua leaned over and snagged a handful from her bag.

Their school had closed down after the April shooting, and moved all the students to home schooling for the rest of the semester. Then they tore down the classroom where the shooting occurred. It was located at the end of a wing. The shooting had been confined to one classroom, thanks to a fast-acting off-duty police officer who happened to be in the building. The school board replaced the classroom with an outdoor memorial garden.

“I hear they’re planning a service for later this week.”

“I don’t think I can handle it.”

“The other kids who were wounded transferred to other schools,” Mara said. “You’re the only one who came back.”

Paige waved her right hand at the room. “That explains why everyone is staring at me today.”

“Yeah… I guess you remind them of what happened last year.”

Mara’s statement sucked the air out of the room for a long moment. 

Paige hung her head. 

“Sorry, Paige. My bad.” 

“It’s okay. When I get rid of this friggin’ sling, I can fade into the background.”

Lunch period ended and Paige headed with Joshua to their English class. Passing students stared at her sling. 

In the English class Mrs. Chen welcomed them back to the new school year. She avoided mentioning last semester’s shooting. After highlighting what they would cover for the semester, she then directed them to write a five-paragraph essay on their summer experiences. “Keep it casual,” she said. “This is merely a warmup. You know, get your minds working.”

Paige pulled a notebook out of her backpack. She stared at the blank page. 

Mrs. Chen stepped up next to Paige, put her hand on Paige’s shoulder. “Write whatever you can.”

Paige nodded. Her hand began to move. 

Ten minutes into the writing exercise Paige felt tears running down her cheeks. Mrs. Chen grabbed a tissue from her desk and walked it over to Paige. 

Paige shoved her notebook aside. Is this what the school year is going to be? Crying every day? Having nightmares every night? Sitting on the sidelines at the volleyball games? Watching for Meghan and Kim in class, at lunch? Looking for their texts on my phone?

Paige had saved Kim’s last text on her phone. She had been sending it in the middle of their American History class. This is so boring. Why…And then the gunshots. The screams. The the darkness. 

Mrs. Chen called the class to order. “I hope that got your creative juices flowing. Would anyone like to share what they wrote?”

Silence. 

Paige’s hand stabbed the air.

Mrs. Chen hesitated, scanned the room. No one else volunteered. 

“Okay, Paige. Do you want to come up to the front of the room?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Mrs. Chen stepped to the side, motioned for Paige to stand in front of the teacher’s desk.

Paige held up her notebook. “I warn you, there’s mature language.”

Mrs. Chen said, “I think we can deal with that.”

Paige cleared her throat, eyes down on her page.

My summer was a disaster. I spent most of it going to rehab for my shoulder. I missed sports camp. I could not take driver’s ed training I don’t know when I’ll be able to get my license. My dad bought me a car last spring so we could start lessons. A Toyota Prius. Not exactly my choice, but at least it had wheels and a motor. It’s been sitting in our driveway for six months. 

Paige paused, took a few deep breathes, continued reading.

I am so pissed off. Seriously. Her voice pitched higher. The asshole who shot me ruined my life my two best friends are dead my shoulder is shattered. The doctors say I will get maybe 90% usage back after a few more months. Probably never 100%. I can’t play volleyball this year that ruins my chance of getting a sports scholarship. I had been voted MVP last year. I had a chance at a scholarship. Instead I spent the summer going to physical therapy. I have a scar on my shoulder that looks like pink nail polish spread over the skin of a cantaloupe. I can’t wear a strapless dress. Ever. Every morning my mother has to help me finish getting dressed. That’s not too embarrassing!

Tears ran down Paige’s face. She tucked the notebook under her left arm so she could wipe them aside. Mrs. Chen handed her another tissue. 

Today everyone stared at me when I walked through the halls. Yeah, it’s me Paige. One of the survivors. I should be glad…I’m not. Not happy at all. Why me? Why am I here, and Meghan and Kim are gone? Why do I have nightmare memories of seeing their bodies on the classroom floor before I passed out? Hearing the crash of the gun and the screams of the students. I didn’t know they were dead until I woke up in the hospital three days later.

Paige choked on her tears. Hiccuped. The room was silent except for her sobbing. Several students wiped their eyes. 

This whole situation sucks really sucks. I feel like a shriveled tree with no roots. I have no ties. No friends. No sports. No driver’s license. Yeah, I know I survived. I have my family. My mom and dad have been great. My brother is a huge help. But I had plans. Meghan and Kim were going to carpool with me this year.

The asshole who shot all of us is dead. I’m  glad. I would shoot him myself if I had the chance. Okay, this is the fifth paragraph. That was my summer. Ruined because some demented wacko felt like shooting up our school. 

Paige sniffled as Mrs. Chen handed her more tissues.  Paige looked at Mrs. Chen. “Sorry about the language.”

Mrs. Chen smiled. “Thank you for having the courage to read your story.”

Paige shrugged. “The survivors never get to tell their stories.”

***

Mannequin Monday – Africa Rasta Hair Salon

Mannequin Monday – Africa Rasta Hair Salon

Another mannequin waiting for someone to dress it. Words, sketches, clay, film, whatever media you choose.

This week features a short story by writer, dramaturge and activist Bibish Marie-Louise Mumbu. And a brief interview with photographer Mark Seliger, done for The Creative Process.

Lastly, a piece of my current writing.

This Week’s Reading and Discussion

On this Monday I’d like to share a story, Me and My Hair, by Bibish Marie-Louise Mumbu. The author, originally from Democratic Republic of Congo, now lives in Montreal. The narrator begins by walking the reader through her five hours in the Africa Rasta hair salon. Her thoughts run to the man who dumped her after three years together. She talks of “her anger in being scorned and her pride in her identity.” She muses on changing her hair style, shedding her dreadlocks for a lighter style. “I’m coming out of my dreds,” she says.

One of the truths expressed by the narrator: “Now I’ve been dumped, I’ve gotten used to the word, you know, it’s like I told you sometimes; we think we’re safe from some things, we trust time, words spoken, tender little words in writing, until the very same mouth that says I love you says something else, and you hurt so much that you want to hurt somebody else, but if it’s not your style, then what do you do?”

She finds her revenge. A new hair style. A hot outfit. A party. A new man.

Thanks to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa for sharing the story with us.

This Week’s Podcast/Interview

Continue reading

Don’t Wait for Anyone

“Don’t wait for anyone. Life doesn’t wait. Don’t become what you most fear. A wasted soul. Leap for the rope and swing towards the stars.”

John Patrick Shanley

 

It’s been a long time since I last posted here. A family illness, now resolving itself, absorbed time and attention. I’m working my way back.

My next book, Off-Road, is close to completion. The time away from working on it gave me a new perspective, and I am re-structuring the story. Publication date will likely be September. I’ll keep you informed.

One of the most fun aspects of writing this story has been creating and developing the characters. One of them, Lyndie Reed, is a high school junior. She’s always on the move. An avid runner, she logs many miles every day. Lyndie is inspired by one of my nieces, who recently ran the Boston Marathon twice – in the same day! She started early, ran the course backwards, and arrived at the official starting line in time to run the prescribed course with all the other runners. Fifty-two point four miles. Amazing.

Lyndie is Tessa Warren’s best friend. It’s a new friendship. Tessa has spent the last two years mourning for her brother, killed in a car crash a few months after he graduated from film school. She’s now “leaping for the rope,” beginning to step into her brother’s film shoes.

I look forward to introducing the Film Crew to you. And, with luck, the book will become a series. Talk soon.

Off-Road

Off-Road

The Moon, Mars, and Alpha Centauri

Four years ago I wrote a post in my Creating Story blog about seeing Ray Bradbury at a 2009 book signing in a local bookstore.

Bradbury had arrived in a wheelchair, a rumpled man with a huge shock of white hair. He filled the room with excitement.

After speaking  for a few moments, he had fielded questions from his fans. Someone asked him what he thought the future held for our young generation. He sat up tall in his wheelchair, his eyes sparkling, and almost cried out, “We should go back to the moon! Go on to Mars, with the moon as a base camp. Then go on to Alpha Centauri.”

Here was a master storyteller who spent a lifetime exploring this world and the entire universe in his imagination. His voice quivered with excitement when he told us of his own recent visit to the Jet Propulsion Labs in Pasadena, California. The JPL scientists guided him as he drove the Mars Rover on the surface of the same planet he had visited in his imagination since The Martian Chronicles. This from a man who never had a driver’s license in all of his then almost 90 years,

This is the power of story.  Travel back to the moon. Probe the vast universe.

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