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JO JANOSKI resides in Pittsburgh, PA, USA with her husband, Ron.
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Night Terrors...part 2...the story
The second part, story part, of a Musecrafters Challenge
 Night Terrors
I stretched on my bed, alone, as the clock ticked. Radiant moonlight drenched me in its glow, like icy murmurs of ghosts outside swishing in the snow. I don't know why I imagined them as playful, "swishing" in the snow. Everyone knows ghosts are fearsome creatures. But really, what interest have I in ghosts?
I closed my eyes and prayed for slumber. But the flickering moonlight transformed to a strobe racing in frantic bolts across my body, fueled by a windy concert master who made tree limbs outside the window tremble in the moonlight. And tremble, so did I.
The murmurs again. This time they lingered in my ears, cementing their presence...here in my room.
I bolted up, eyes wide, jaw dropped, my own heavy breathing then the only sounds. Gazing about, I saw nothing.
I laid back down and closed my eyes. The strobes took center stage again, pulsating like wacky electrical charges across my prone torso. My heart picked up on their rhythm, pounding in unison to the light strikes.
The murmurs again, this time louder, roaring like a train in the distance. And the lights pounded, pounded across my body. Lights, pounding vibration, whispers and gentle squeals, lights...my body joined in the raucous. I felt it give way to the demands of the moment, vibrating in a frenetic display; but it wasn't my torso that moved...it was my soul. My soul pounded, demanding to be let go. It quivered in my chest, then dissatisfied, thumped harder, until finally it screamed against my pleas to stay put. And then I felt it escape. With a tug and a screech, it pulled free of my desperate demands and with new life shot up to the ceiling. To my alarm, I traveled along in a whispery stream, my consciousness contained in its vapors, content and free from bodily concerns, free from worldly worry. I floated. I don't know for how long, but I recall looking down to see myself, my bodily self that is, still lying on the bed. I think I may have been centuries floating up there, but only one physical moment in earthly time.
The murmurs returned. Only this time they were angry screeches. I was an unwelcome guest. I knew it. They wanted me to go, to return to my proper plane and be a good human.
A crack of thunder outside the window sent my ghostly presence tumbling down in a blast like the big bang. I slammed into my physical body with a horrific jolt that shook the bed. My eyes flew open at the sound of my trumpeting heart. I was back.
Exhausted, I rolled over and succumbed to restless sleep that at least offered an avenue to practice my necessary denial. My "trip" was lovely, but "they" didn't want me. I was unwelcome among them, at least for now. It's a good thing. Because, really, what interest have I in ghosts?
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 08:52 AM, November 11, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Powdered Sugar Donuts
A write for the Musecrafters Writing Workshop:
(Okay, so I'm still searching for my "inner Bob"--here is my first attempt, not intellectual enough, I know)
Powdered Sugar Donuts
"I promise no new taxes and we'll have a balanced budget!" His words, sailing out over the crowd, catapulted to the ground in lumps of dead black rhetoric before the sound even dissipated in the air. Not well received. The chunky politician in a blue suit felt his face flush as red as his tie. The blush rushed all the way to his balding head, up, up, up like a flooding river running in the wrong direction. A man can never feel more vulnerable than when his bald head is unprotected and exposed.
You stinkin' Republican! You just want to get richer!
You're saying you won't tax us, but you will!
You bastards are all alike!
Bill Brandy leaned down to talk to his second-in-command. That fine fellow sat in the first row, hunched down in his seat under the barrage of angry voices. Bill mouthed the words at him.
"Who the hell let these people in here? I thought you screened the audience!"
Jim Jenson got up and went to his boss. "We did. Looks like the Demmies pulled a fast one on us!"
"Filthy Bastards!" Bill loosened his tie and glared out at the mob. "What'll I do?"
"You can't cut and run. It'll look bad."
Brandy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He took a deep breath. "Okay, but my blood sugar is low. You gotta go get me some donuts. I need donuts, powdered ones. I need them now or I can't go on."
Jim Jenson stared back, his jaw dropped. Donuts! At a time like this he wants donuts!
He headed for the lobby. If you saw the middle-aged clerk, you wouldn't think he would be campaign manager for a big time politician. He stood only 5'7" tall, thin light brown hair, a face overrun by huge brown shell glasses, and a sheepish demeanor with a nervous little mouth and tiny evasive blue eyes. But when it came to politics, he grew horns. He was a Party animal to be reckoned with.
Finally, he spied a coffee shop. A colorful array of donuts were stacked on the counter under a glass dome. As he rushed in, the scent of sugar lined his nostrils with its sickening stench. Donuts! Yuck! Even as a child he hated their heavy grease and tons of lightweight sugar powder and gooey icing. He'd rather have a nice thick satisfying Snickers any day. Donuts were for wimps.
"Can I help you?" The tiny clerk tapped her finger on the counter as she waited. The noise, along with her face with its crooked lines and her big hair fighting to free itself from a hair net, spun off an overall feeling of a war in progress.
"I need two powdered sugar donuts."
"We're out of powdered sugar. How about glazed?"
BAM! The plan had slammed into a brick wall.
"I don't know! Do you have anything like powdered sugar?"
"Eh?"
"You know, something that looks or tastes like it?"
"What? Donuts are donuts. They're all good!"
"No. I want powdered sugar. If you don't have powdered sugar, perhaps I should look elsewhere." That should do it. Whenever you threaten to shop elsewhere, the stubborn clerk always finds what you want underneath. They always have one of the good stuff stashed underneath that they're holding for someone else.
"I told you! I don't have any!"
"Yes, you do. Now pony up with the donuts, sister!"
"Are you crazy? ...SECURITY!"
For such a tiny woman, she had a loud voice. Short people are like that, voices shrieky like little Chihuahua dogs. Her cry thrashed out into the lobby like a banshee on the run. Security guards ran in from all directions. In a matter of minutes, they had Jim Jenson cuffed and transported to the office for questioning.
Back at the lecture hall, Bill Brandy sat on the edge of the stage, bawling like a baby. "Where are my donuts? Powdered sugar ones? W-a-a-a-a-ah!" He didn't win the election.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 08:42 AM, November 5, 2007 in Short Stories |
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A Difficult Letter
 A Difficult Letter ... Painting by James de Vine Aylward
It was the night of Halloween, and I settled at my desk to read my letters. A dismal night it was, too, with a black sky outside, ominous and daring, with a recalcitrant moon poking again through obscured clouds. Those gray puffs skimmed across the inky black like ghosts, capes flowing behind them journeying to God knows where. The moon screamed its presence for all to hear, luminous and expressive, with much to say that night. As I walked home, every darkened tree warned me a goblin might be hiding behind it, ready to pounce and conquer. What do goblins want anyway? I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out.
Thus, my friends, was my state of mind as I arrived home to read my letters. The first of these was a bill which I tossed aside. The second, I did much the same; but the third, upon seeing the chaotic scrawl across the envelope, set my hand to trembling. The penmanship, angular in places, thick and hurried, belied a personality demanding to be heard. Indeed, it was such forceful writing, it yelled and cursed at the reader.
I ripped the packet open, carefully, slowly, showing it due respect. This was difficult with the way my hand was shaking; but the deed got accomplished, all the same. As I slipped my fingers in, my hand protested and started to shake again. I couldn't control it. Whatever message the letter contained, my hand wanted nothing to do with it. Exasperated, I tried with the other; but alas, it trembled even more violently. Finally, with hands like an invalid I clawed at it, grabbing and tugging until the paper ripped. Finally, the injured letter inside, dented and defiled, fell to the floor, escaping the shreds I'd made of the packet.
I pulled it with my foot, scraping along the floor until the envelope rested under the chair. Next, I got down on my knees and tossed the letter about with my shaking hands, my available elbows, whatever I could use to unfold the nasty missive. Truly, I felt so exhausted it was difficult to care at that point what the letter said. But, still on my knees, I leaned forward to read the note where I'd left off with it, on the floor under the chair. It was a stretch, but I could see it at last. Such irony! There I was on my knees, reading a letter from the tax office, questioning my ciphers for my last payment. How fitting for Halloween, the night goblins come out. I should have known. |
Posted: 09:48 PM, October 27, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Pretending
This story was supposed to be for a particular image, but I've decided to use a different character from the painting above. Can you guess which one? (Musecrafters Workshop Challenge 10/22)
Pretending
He sat at the table with the others, straw hat pushed back off his forehead, sprawling with the chair turned backwards, clutching the back with both hands like he was steering a massive boat out to sea. He might as well go off on the ocean; he was that inaccessible to me, chasing after that wench.
He had no idea how I loved him. It wasn’t that he was a strong man or a handsome man. It was his smile. I loved the way his moustache twittered above his lip when he spoke, full white teeth glaring out, open, expressive. His blue eyes, light, almost as white as the clouds that floated across them when his mind wandered... He was a gorgeous man from within, a sensitive man, a caring man.
I leaned over Sarah to speak to those at the table and his cologne wafted up my nostrils, making my blood race, pumping like an oil well blowing its top. He, on the other hand, sat cooly, studying Sarah through the corner of his eye, never guessing how my heart was about to explode. Foolish man! We could be so good together. We would keep it quiet so no one knew. He could even jaunt about with Sarah on occasion if he wished, to keep up pretenses and hide our affair. I would take whatever he would give me, really. It’s a sorry day for a young man like me, having to cloak my heart and pretend to be different from what I am. I’ll never be permitted to be me, and he’ll never know I love him.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 07:10 AM, October 23, 2007 in Short Stories |
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A Beautiful Girl
"I would hardly divulge to you anything about her. So why are you asking?"
"Coochie-coo! Ya little darling, you! What a beautiful girl you are! Can you smile for me then?"
The nurse maid tickled the baby under the chin, sending that child into giggling spasms. The maid chuckled along with the little girl, their combined laughter ringing through the quiet room like music.
"There you go, little one. Get some sleep now while I get a cuppa and relax a bit." She closed the flowered drapes around the child and, with a sigh, made her way to the kitchen.
Her son sat at the tiny table, swirling his tea in the cup with a dirty spoon. Sullen, he didn't acknowledge her entry into the room.
"And what are you doing here?" the harried servant asked. "You know I don't like you here where I work."
"I need money."
"Again? What do you do with all I give you?"
The lad merely looked her way with muddy eyes registering resentment that he had to beg. His shaggy beard and filthy jacket offered little hope of finding employment in any respectable establishment.
"Ah, what's the use in asking!" His mother pulled out a tiny black purse from the folds of her uniform and yanked out a wad of bills. "Here."
He grabbed it quicker than necessary. "So how's the little bit?" His moody face took on a softer expression.
"Ah, she's lovely really. A little angel!"
"And how is she getting along?"
"I would hardly divulge to you anything about her. So why are you asking?"
"Just curious."
"Out with you. I have work to do."
"But I was just asking a simple question..."
"Out!" With an unceremonious glare, her fiery eyes sent him running.
"Hallo, mum!" Her daughter's voice filled the kitchen like tiny bells. She had arrived for her tea. It was a busy morning making beds and tidying up the Smythe family's messes. That's what she got paid for. She didn't mind though, so they could be in the same house.
"Here, tea's ready." Her mum nodded toward the chair and filled a cup, pushing it in front of the girl.
"How is she this morning?" she asked, taking her first sip.
"Ah, beautiful."
"Mum, could I go and see her?"
Her mother paused in mid-motion, tea pot still in her hands. "I don't think that's wise, dear. You've got to remember, it's not your child."
"Mum."
"It's not your child."
The girl sipped her tea in moody silence, finally asking, "I heard Teddy. Did he ask to see it?"
"No."
She sipped thoughtfully. "Figures," she muttered.
Her mother shot her a glance. "And that's why it's better Mrs. Smythe adopt her. You can't raise that baby on your own...and you could hardly marry your brother, even if he is the father." The maid's face stretched in lines of contorted agony. "We can't tell that to anyone. I can barely believe it myself."
She grabbed up her daughter's cup and tossed it in the sink. "Tea time's over. Now back to work. Stay away from the wee one. Remember, she's no longer yours. She never was as far as the world is concerned."
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
A Musecrafters Forum Challenge |
Posted: 09:11 AM, October 3, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Drum Roll Please
his mother was a rocker....
Drum Roll Please
Martha Collins pounded out one last round of drum rolls, punctuated by a clang of the cymbals before laying down the drum sticks for the last time. The drum-playing granny, if she ever wanted to, could have competed with the best of them. But what an unseemly occupation for a woman, even in these liberated times. Besides, she had a family to raise, no time for hopping around on gigs from bar to bar. How would it sound for her children to write that ghastly occupation for mother on their school forms. In fact, she never told anyone about the drums, keeping the set hidden in her basement in a sectioned-off and securely locked alcove. She never told anyone but Teddy. With a sigh, Martha picked up the butcher knife and ran her finger along its sharp edge. This should do it.
The suicide came as a shock to the entire family. Mom slit her wrists with a butcher knife right there in her cute little yellow kitchen. Quiet, demure, thoughtful little Martha Collins.
"I can't believe this," Sarah said, wiping away another burst of tears. They were gathered for the reading of the will. There were just two of them, Sarah and her brother, Teddy. Martha Collins had not left much of a family behind.
Unfortunately, the tears were not for her mother. Sarah cried because of the will. Her mum had left her nothing. It all went to Teddy.
That fellow sat in shock. The lawyer's words still lingered in the air. Teddy had gotten all that Martha Collins owned, namely her house. According to the will, there was nothing more.
"I don't understand this. What happened to the money from when Dad died." Sarah's face was now flushing an uneasy red.
"I don't know. She had repairs done to the place. Maybe that's it," Teddy replied.
"I'm going home." Sarah left in her usual icy huff.
Afterward, Teddy stopped by the house to reminisce, pausing on the front porch, running his hand along the weathered old railing, scuffing his shoe along the wooden deck. Sunny days and childhood ways danced in his memory. He had spent afternoons there with Mom, just the two of them in silence, she on the glider and he on the stoop, but understanding each other in that peaceful quiet.
Inside, he took a deep breath and imagined the cookies she would bake. There were so many memories. Funny how Sarah was never part of them. That girl was always off with friends. It was no secret she and Mother didn't get along. Bitter disagreements were a daily occurrence. Mom always treated her differently, perhaps because she was a girl. She fussed over Sarah's behavior more; whereas, Teddy she let roam free. Mother always said Teddy was more trustworthy.
"Some day I'm sure that girl will disappoint me," she told him.
And so she did, simply by neglecting her family, moving out of the house as soon as she was able and not looking back. Teddy wondered if any love was lost between them.
He switched on the light and took careful steps down the dim basement stairs. Once Sarah was gone, Mother shared with him her most precious secret. He would never forget his surprise.
"Come downstairs. I want to show you something," she had said, leading him to the alcove that she had kept under lock and key his entire life. She'd told her family that a woman needs some space that is her own, a place to go and read or simply think. But he never saw her use the little space, unless she did when no one was home. But on that day, Mother shared her biggest secret with him.
She not only showed him the drums, Mom performed for him. He just about fell over realizing his mother was a rocker good enough to stand with the best of them. He begged her to tell everyone, to show everyone how she could play drums. She refused and begged him to keep her secret.
"Teddy, you've always been special to me. That's why I showed you the drums. I want them to be our little secret. Someday this will all mean more to you than it does right now. You understand?"
That was 40 years ago. He'd kept the secret. His sister being an antagonistic woman, he wasn't tempted to tell her. And now, Mom was gone, and only her house and these drums remained.
He sat at the set and picked up a drumstick, tapping out an awkward beat. Letting loose, he hit the drums harder and with more fever. He'd never be as good as her. In fact, his music sounded dull at the outset. He gave the big drum a pounding and stopped in surprise. Something was wrong. When he hit it, the bang was muffled, not strong and loud like it should be.
Looking closer he spotted a tear along the rim on the bottom. Bending lower he saw it extended half way around the drum. Someone had cut the big drum open.
He pulled back canvas and bent low to look in, fishing around with his hand. His fist grabbed onto a wad, a wad of money, thousand dollar bills, a whole stack of them.
"There must be a hundred thousand dollars here," he murmured, sitting back and trying to contain his pounding heart. He remembered his mother's words, "Someday this will all mean more to you than it does right now. I'll always take care of you, Teddy."
"Thanks, Mom," he whispered, clutching the bills to his heart. "You rock...oh, and I love you."
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski |
Posted: 09:05 AM, September 29, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Dinner with Mother Dear
A Musecrafter Challenge...
You can imagine my excitement to have "Mother dear" coming to dinner. I planned the best meal possible. Well, in fact, it was the same one I tried to serve Mick Jagger -- roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad, and apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Perhaps Mother dear would be more gracious.
The bell rang. But it wasn't my usual Beethoven's Ninth chime. No, it was a John Philip Sousa march. The lady had her own entrance music! How did she do that? I still pondered the miracle as I opened the door, muttering, "How can one reject a transcendental masterpiece for a militaristic marching ditty?" ...when I came face to face with her.
"Jo Ann?"
"Yes," I replied in a tiny voice. Her looming presence, a tall lady dressed in flowing black from her dark hair down to black boots, sent my pulse racing.
"Quit slouching!"
I straightened up, the fight or flight mechanisms churning on the edges of my brain.
"Aren't you going to invite me in? Surely I raised you better than that, young lady."
"But Mother dear, you didn't raise me. You're just a painting..." She glared, her eyes rolling toward me like a hurricane on the run. I opened the door.
"It's about time." She flipped off her black cloak and handed it to me. It felt heavy, like iron in my hands. As I reached to toss it over a chair, she went rigid, electrified.
"Hang it proper."
I raced to the closet. Things weren't going well. Perhaps my good cooking would score me points. Something burned my nose as I hung the ugly wrap. Smoke. Smoke coming from the kitchen!
"I believe your kitchen is on fire, young lady." She said it calmly, in a quiet voice that registered not a modicum of surprise. That was the problem. She didn't find it surprising that I could burn down my kitchen cooking dinner. There was no time to worry about it as I rushed to save my roast beef.
It was too late. Coughing, I opened the oven door and more than smoke stung my eyes. My beautiful dinner was nothing more than charred black remains, one big mound for the roast surrounded by little black pimples that used to be potatoes. I checked the temperature guage. How did it get on "broil?" Easing the door closed, I looked up to see her standing there.
"I'll be leaving now." Just a few words that said volumes. I had failed my Mother dear test. Failed miserably. Now she was leaving because I was such a hopeless case. I followed her to the living room and produced the gruesome cloak from my closet. A dust bunny fluttered out as I opened the door. Her eyes, registering disdain, followed its delicate flutter down to the floor. Mother dear didn't need to say anything. I flushed in humiliation.
She left in silence. Perhaps even her stamina had faltered in the light of my incompetence. The lady didn't give up on me though. Within a week, I received "Good Housekeeping" magazine in the mail, a generous gift subscription from Mother dear. |
Posted: 04:58 PM, September 19, 2007 in Short Stories |
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A Snippet
This is a snippet I wrote for a chain fiction endeavor, where authors pick up a story and write chapters at random to propel the overall work forward. It seems to me it can stand alone as an interesting read in its own right:
Jessica's hand trembled as she scooped slop onto the inmate's plate. He sneered back, his fat, grisly face fixed in a permanent scowl. He wasn't happy to be getting creamed corn again, and she wasn't thrilled to serve it to him. She nodded to send the animal moving along in line to get his chuck steak from the next worker.
The security guard at the left corridor entrance slipped a smile in her direction. Stan! His grin meant the deed was done.
Jessica's heart took off, zooming her to become another person in a world where nothing looked familiar. What had they done? They were criminals now, just like these filthy inmates she served every day.
First, screwing around with a co-worker was a bad idea. Then she'd gotten knocked up. Oh God! She was skinny so the baby didn't show until she got closer to the end. Then the little bulge began to fill out her uniform in front. She'd tried throwing on baggy sweaters, whatever it took, to hide the bump in her belly. But that couldn't hide the worried lines across her brow. What a mess! She needed this job, and she and Stan were bound to see each other every day at supper time for the inmate's evening meal. If the super found out about their affair, they'd both be fired.
Stan had been in denial. He wanted no parts of the baby, but it wasn't going to go away.
Eventually, he came to reality about it. They were making plans to get married when the accident happened. She slipped rushing to the pantry for their daily tryst. The fall slammed her to the floor, jarring her insides with a violent pounding. It triggered a miscarriage, with Stan finding her in a pool of her own blood, dazed but conscious. She remembered the pain as the baby pushed its way out without mercy. Her lip was still bleeding where she bit it to keep from screaming. Right there in the darkened pantry she gave birth to a tiny premature baby, stillborn.
"Oh my God! Oh my God!" were the only words Stan could utter, all while sopping up fluids with an old towel one minute and staring at the dead fetus the next. He'd severed the afterbirth with a pocket knife.
"What will we do?" Jessica asked between gasps.
He returned her gaze with shrunken unenlightened eyes. Then he spied the cans of used grease. With shaking hands, he fumbled a lid off one and poured out a few inches of the slimy stuff. It made a sticky puddle on the floor.
Hot acrid fluid crept up Jessica's throat as she spied particles of yesterday's chicken suspended in the muck.
Stan grabbed up the innocent babe and eased it into the thick slime. The child disappeared into its murky dredges with a dollop as the grease swallowed it up to sink the baby to the bottom, displacing more of the used grease, sending it oozing down the sides of the can. He swiped it off with his sleeve and pushed the lid back on, hiding their shameful act.
Stan turned to her, tears running down his cheeks.
"Once the truck takes these cans away, we're home free," he said.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski |
Posted: 11:21 AM, September 3, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Dinner with Mick
My challenge response for dinner with celebrity...
Dinner with Mick
Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! The very thought of Mick Jagger coming to dinner at my house! I couldn't believe I'd won the "Dine with a Rock Star" contest. And all I had to do was write a song about him. The song I wrote about Mick being my favorite bad boy did the trick.
I'd sent my hubby and the dogs off on a trip, and the house was mine...well, ours...Mick's and mine. I thought of his mouth, his pouty big-lipped mouth and...well, never mind.
The bell rang, and my heart flip-flopped. Mick! I ran to answer, my mind racing through the menu as I rushed...roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad and dessert...what a lovely dessert...apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Nice down-home cooking.
My hand clutched the door knob as I took a deep breath. Mick was on the other side! I swung it open.
Four huge men rushed in. Honestly, I had never seen such giant creatures. Clearly, each stood over six feet tall, and their black leather jackets only made them more ominous. One turned to me as the others dashed about the living room, pulling back drapes, opening the closet door, peering around corners.
"You are Ms. Janoski?" he asked, his eyes dashing about the room as he spoke. Such a face! A pig's face, with a punched-in, flat little nose. Ghastly fellow!
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Body guards," he snapped back.
I watched in horror as the crew opened desk drawers and my curio cabinet, poking around in every conceivable space.
"I hope you don't mind me posse."
The voice broke into my thoughts and sent my heart reeling. Mick! Mick was standing in my doorway, all decked out in leather pants and a denim jacket. He looked at me through dark shades. I was speechless.
"Is your daughter home?"
"I...don't have a daughter..."
"JO Janoski? Is that your daughter?"
"No, that's me."
He stared back before reaching in his pants pocket (no easy feat in those leather jobs) to extricate a white paper. He swiped the shades off his face and held the paper close to scan it. It rested against his nose as he read.
"Perhaps you need your reading glasses?" I asked.
"Shut up!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Oh, sorry, love. I'm feeling a bit tense at the moment. Hold on." He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a cell phone. He punched a speed dial button.
"Hallo, Mick here!" He turned his back on me and mumbled into the phone. I shot nervous glances around the room at the posse. Each one stood statuesque, hands folded in front, eyes focused well above my face.
"Okay." Mick slipped the phone back and looked my way. "So, where's me supper?" he asked with a sigh.
I lit up at the question.
"Here, have a seat at the table, and I'll bring it right in. They wanted me to go to a restaurant, but I wanted to cook for you." With that remark I blushed.
"Fair enough."
"Perhaps these gentlemen could help carry the food in?" I inclined my head toward the closest of the body guards. He ignored me. Hmmm, no help there.
My legs were rubber as I carried in steaming dishes. I served the beef and potatoes on a big platter. The corn and salad were two more trips as Mick stared with an empty expression.
"Love, what is this?" he asked as I seated myself. He pointed to the meat platter.
"Roast beef and pan roasted potatoes," I replied. "They're..."
He stopped me mid-sentence, holding out a skinny calloused hand.
"Love, I'm a vegetarian, and where's the caviar?"
"What?"
"How can you expect me to dine without caviar?"
I stood, outraged. "Excuse me. But I thought I was the contest winner here. Am I not supplying the meal? Isn't it supposed to be on my terms? I won a dinner with a rock star. It's turning out to be dinner with an a-hole!"
"Darling, I'm not eatin' this slop."
"I guess not." I took the beef platter up in my arms with a flourish and proceeded to dump it on his lap. It plopped down in a thick river of brown gravy. As I watched tributaries of grease spread across his thighs, I added, "You're not eating it because you're going to wear it instead."
The body guards rushed in, grabbing me.
"You wicked old lady!" he bellowed, jumping on his feet and dumping the roast beef and potatoes off his lap.
"Old lady? Old lady?!! YOU'RE OLDER THAN I AM!" I screamed.
"When you're rich, you never get old," he said. He flipped his hand and the guards let me go. They followed him like puppies as he went for the door.
He turned to meet my gaze. "Never, you never get old if you're bloody rich enough."
In the blink of an eye, they were gone. I ran to the window to see a black stretch limo pull away.
And that was my dinner with a celebrity. But I learned one thing. Money may buy Mick illusions of youth, but it will never buy him grace under fire.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 08:32 PM, August 25, 2007 in Short Stories |
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