Quirky
A collection of short stories
By John P. Matsis
Published 2012 by Can Write Will Write at Smashwords
http://www.canwritewillwrite.com
ISBN: 978-1-4659-6486-1
Copyright © John P. Matsis 2012
John P. Matsis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
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Quirky
Chapter One: Monkey Man
Chapter Two: The Bones Syndrome
Chapter Three: Motorcycle Mom
Chapter Four: Not the Greek Coffeehouse Type
Chapter Five: Flight
Chapter Six: Talker
Chapter Seven: Man of Steel
Chapter Eight: Twitch
Chapter Nine: Genius
Chapter Ten: Order to the Universe
Chapter Eleven: Reincarnation of Joseph Blanovich
Chapter Twelve: What would George Raft Say?
Chapter Thirteen: “5.0”
Chapter Fourteen: Hands
Chapter Fifteen: Nightmare
Chapter Sixteen: Flat-Lined
Chapter Seventeen: Honky-tonk Music
Chapter One: Monkey Man
It seemed innocuous at first—Harold was born with too much hair. The doctor used the word, hirsute, rather than the word, hairy, as not to alarm his mother. Following a brief and painless labor and delivery, he placed her newborn son upon her abdomen for her to see. Harold’s scalp was covered with a cloud of dark wavy hair that reached down to his forehead, nearly meeting his eyebrows, and extended to both sides to cover his ears. Grassy, dark areas of hair, like patches of weeds, spotted his chest and back. It was a peculiar, but wondrous medical sight.
The months passed; Harold thrived. Proudly, his mother strutted through the neighborhood with her precious infant securely tucked in a stroller. Her heart was filled with pride, even though neighbors stopped and forced a curious look. Some paused to offer a subdued comment. Others merely stared, placing their hand over a gaping mouth in a failed attempt to disguise a gasp.
As the years passed, hurt grew in Harold mother’s heart, for she could not understand. In her eyes, Harold was the perfect son—never fussy, a good eater, an infant blessed with a perfect disposition. Harold continued to thrive, becoming taller than his peers and demonstrating considerable athletic ability, his legs long and lean. In short order he became the star of the high school track team, specializing in sprints and the long jump.
He ran and jumped to victory time after time, his long hair flowing behind him like the mane of a champion thoroughbred as people looked on in amazement. They shook their heads in disbelief at such a sight—at a young man so hairy. In short order, ridicule and cruelty became commonplace. They called him Monkey Man.
Despite his appearance, Harold remained focused, although admittedly there were occasions when he looked into a mirror, shook his head and wished he were like the others. He shaved three or four times a day, but the growth was profuse and the more he shaved, the faster his beard grew. Eventually he succumbed to wearing long-sleeved shirts that hid his hirsute arms and buttoned his shirt to the collar to prevent annoying sprigs of hair from reaching beyond the borders of the shirt.
Although his grades were well above average, Harold decided to postpone his college education. He planned to earn enough money as not to burden his parents and especially his mother who always looked so lovingly upon him, who looked beyond his hairy body as if he were a normal young man.
The position at the county zoo was a stroke of luck. When the chief zookeeper interviewed him, he was unable to take his eyes away from Harold’s hairy face and body. He hired him on the spot—for here was an individual, hairy body and all, whose appearance would not alarm the apes. It was there, at the county zoo, where Harold in a short time became the zookeeper in charge of apes, not all of the apes, but specifically the orangutans—hairy, graceful creatures with long, powerful arms that enabled them to swing from branch to branch with great ease.
Harold watched and studied them in a scientific, analytical way. They in turn responded positively to his attention, allowing him to come closer, even permitting him to stroke their hairy bodies with his fingers. When he combed their hair away from their faces, they muttered guttural sounds as if they were trying to communicate with him.
One day as Harold took notice of fellow zookeeper, Lenora, the realization of his strange, mutant malady finally took hold. He stared at her, focusing upon her smooth, hairless face, her expansive forehead and blonde hair that seemed too delicate to be real as it floated freely with each gust of wind. To his dismay, instead of a look returned, she rebuffed his attention by placing a finger into her mouth, pretending to vomit. It was the meanest of the mean.
It was then he decided that he must refocus his life. Perhaps a wondrous deed could blunt the cruel way people perceived him; instead they might look beyond his imperfection and marvel.
The summer Olympic trials were set, the stadium to be filled with the greatest athletes of the world, and the most famous of all competition would begin. It was there—in the land of ancient gods where the legendary Achilles began it all—that Harold planned to compete and show everyone that the Monkey Man was equal to the task.
He formulated a plan and began his athletic training in earnest. He studied the orangutans’ fluid motions, taking note of the exact angle of body lean as they jumped from ground to branch above, noted the precise swing of their arms that to a layperson meant little, but to Harold the intent was obvious—it was a way to extend the length of their leaps. He observed the unique way they flexed their ankles as they began their sky-bound leaps, their chins bent onto their chests to make their bodies even more aerodynamic.
It was during the early morning hours, the customary crowds not yet looking on that Harold trained with them. To his surprise, the apes urged him on, swinging their arms, bending their knees to instruct him in their way.
It then became clear that he must begin his quest to be the greatest long jump athlete of all time—an Olympic champion to be admired, someone that a Lenora would be attracted to.
During the isolation of early morning hours, he smoothed an area of dirt in the ape compound, placed a plank where the step-off of his jump began and practiced his leaps time and time again. The orangutans observed with great interest, offering shrieks of encouragement as he jumped distances never before achieved by any human. On one leap alone, he jumped over thirty feet, well beyond the world’s record.
Although he made it known to the Olympic committee of his amazing accomplishment, they merely scoffed, saying it was impossible. It was not possible for an unknown athlete who had never competed in a major field and track meet to leap so far.
Harold knew what he must do. On a Saturday afternoon with the zoo filled to capacity, visitors shoving and crowding the exhibits. The ape compounds were alike with activity as men, women, and children alike were anxious to view their favorite animal.
To the glee of the onlookers, Sampson the gorilla, thunderously pounded his chest with his fists, Isadora the chimpanzee, clung precariously from a rope high above her cage with her newborn clutched to her bosom, and in the orangutan compound, the long-limbed apes swung from branch to branch as if they were featured circus trapeze performers gliding high above anxious onlookers.
With each effortless swing the orangutan’s graceful bodies glided fluidly as if they were suspended by invisible wires. Visitors clapped and cheered with delight. But when Harold, their keeper, appeared the visitors stood in silent disbelief. Instead of wearing his official keeper’s uniform, he stood before them in skimpy clothing, his hirsute body in full display. The orangutans responded with shrieks of delight, swinging their arms in wide arcs, jumping high, and thumping their hands against their hairy chests.
Harold responded by raising and extending his hairy arms triumphantly. The crowd about the compound swelled. Curiosity increased to a feverish level, for this was a most unusual sight.
With his hairy feet, Harold smoothed the dirt that covered a wooden plank and made a narrow pathway for the feat that was to follow. He walked to the back of the compound, leaned against the wire fencing, gathering all his energy for a Herculean feat. Arms swinging, chin tucked against his hairy chest, ankles flexing and straightening in machine-like precision, he ran as swiftly as any animal of the Serengeti. Long, flowing hair streamed from the back of his head as his foot hit the wooden plank and with effortless ease his body lifted from the ground, arms swinging in wide arcs as he gathered up the air about him as if he was a champion swimmer gliding through airy waters.
Cheers burst from the crowd as he met the zenith of his leap, his hairy legs fully extended, the earth below him a blur of dirt, soon to be impacted by the mightiest of all human leaps.
Lenora, who stood in the background, leaned forward to observe this most unbelievable feat. Despite better judgment and her prudish disposition, a smile of admiration graced her face.
Chapter Two: The Bones Syndrome
By the time Elenora was four, she was into insects—creepy and crawly creatures that made her older sister, Liz, shake and take flight to her bedroom and her mother to scold, and cry out, “Elenora, what in the world do you think you’re doing with those things in my house!”
It didn’t matter what her mother said or how emphatically she shook her finger, for there was this special drive inside of Elenora—an inborn instinct forcing her to explore the world of many-legged creatures. While other girls propped up Barbie dolls in front of little tables and poured make-believe tea into delicate plastic cups, Elenora collected those crawly creatures indigenous to her neighborhood, sealed them inside of Mason jars along with blades of grass or perhaps tender, newly sprouted leaves from a bush. Sometimes she added a rose pedal as a special treat.
She placed the jars, filled with her insect friends, in special places. There, she observed and talked to them, and given sufficient opportunity, she came to recognize each and every one as a friend, even imparting to them names of endearment.
They were creatures with many long legs and curious bodies, some shaped like teardrops, others long and straight as a pencil. Some had fragile antennae that flapped in uncoordinated, odd ways, others possessed small, nearly invisible wings that took flight with the minutest of provocation—a tap to the side of the jar with her fingernail, a kiss imparted to the lid, a loving whisper.
If one died, she buried it in a special place and recited a prayer on its behalf.
As years passed and the metamorphosis from child to teenager took place, her interest of insects grew into an obsession, and she distanced herself from her peers who had no such particular interest. Eventually she isolated herself to the point of being reclusive. Her parents thought it was merely a passing phase of youth, like acne that would eventually give way to clear skin. Eventually it became apparent that it was more than a passing stage; it was a serious problem. They consulted a number of learned psychiatrists who offered little help, suggesting psychotherapy and certain medications. But the medications had serious side effects and the psychotherapy was of no value.
Eventually they consulted Dr. Jeremy Bones, the chairman of psychiatry at a prestigious medical school. He was a physician of distinction, an author of numerous scholarly texts, the editor of a national journal of abnormal behavior, and a psychiatrist who had a special interest in the bizarre—those certain conditions that he could write about and perhaps encountering a new, yet to be described entity to imprint his name…The Bones Syndrome.
He put Elenora through the standard psychiatric tests, Rorschach and such. Sophisticated blood tests were performed to assess for any obscure disease along with a MRI spectrographic scan of the brain to exclude an occult metabolic abnormality. Lastly, she was referred to the University Medical Clinic for exhaustive physical examinations by the best of doctors. Not surprisingly, every test and examination was normal.
Intrigued, he decided to personally take charge. In the past, he merely oversaw a patient’s evaluation and management, leaving the day-to-day care to his subordinates. However, this time his curiosity was aroused, for he had a gift when it came to sensing when a case was especially unique.
Elenora sat across from the doctor’s expansive, mahogany desk, properly dressed in a bulky, loose-fitting sweater and brown pleated skirt that fell well below her knees. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and her smile had a curious upward curl. Her entire expression glowed of serene confidence.
“I’m Doctor Jeremy Bones,” he addressed himself to her.
She answered, “Yes, I know.”
Following a few minutes of the usual doctor-patient chitchat, he asked, “tell me about your hobby, your interest in insects. Are there special species which interest you the most?”
Her eyes blossomed. “Where should I start?”
“Let’s start from the very beginning.”
She rambled on with enthusiasm. Dr. Jeremy Bones listened with great interest, marveling at her level of knowledge. She explained to him that insects far outnumbered other species, that there were 170,000 species of butterflies and moths alone…that moths had wings that folded back, tent-like, while the butterfly’s wings rested erect and that the moth’s antenna was thick and feathery, in contrast the butterfly’s which was thinner with only a focal thickening at the very tip.
To prove her point, she brought with her on the sessions that followed Mason jars filled with her friends. She extracted and placed on her hand various specimens, gleefully pointing out with a hand-held magnifying lens their various unique features. She stroked them gently, and they responded by shaking their bodies in contentment.
Dr. Bones sat in amazement and observed, mesmerized by the extent of her scientific knowledge, entranced by the special bond that she had developed with the creatures, awed by her ability to communicate with a lower life form. He took notes to document his observations and it became clear that her behavior represented a yet-to-be-described syndrome, The Bones Syndrome.
The therapy sessions stretched from weeks into months and against medical ethics, he made no attempt to alter her obsessive behavior. Rather, he fed upon the abnormality. He asked her questions regarding her special relationship with insects and she responded with an even greater degree of enthusiasm. In time she permitted him to handle some of her special friends. She placed them upon his finger, cautioning him to be careful, not to show the least sign of apprehension in that they would sense it immediately and could respond unpredictably.
In time, he too became nearly as knowledgeable, eagerly looking forward to each session. He studied her expressive face, her pouting lips, her sparkling blue-green
eyes, and had thoughts that a doctor of psychiatry should not.
She in return felt his penetrating glance. Her skin turned uncomfortably warm; her hands rested in her lap, trembling.
It was to be their last session…Elenora’s obsession unabated, her parents disenchanted with Dr. Bones, sensing that more than usual doctor-patient relationship had evolved.
On this final session Elenora brought with her a single Mason jar, within which was her favorite insect perched upon a brown twig. She extracted the twig and brought it close to her face, nearly to her lips. She explained to Dr. Bones that this insect was unique—that on the front of the cephalothorax there were six eyes arranged in pairs, forming a perfect semicircle, whereas most insects of this species had eight eyes. With a magnifying glass she brought into focus the insect’s long, thin brown legs covered with fine hairs rather than the customary spines. She beamed with excitement, adjusting the lens to demonstrate the dark violin-shaped marking on its bulbous abdomen.
The doctor observed her every move, his non-professional eyes flashing back and forth from insect to her blushing skin.
With each movement of his probing eyes, she became even more uncomfortable. As his hand moved across his desk, she sensed its threatening inappropriateness.
The twig dropped onto his desk, and, as if obeying her command, the brown recluse spider, its long legs moving in a whirl of purpose, interpreted the doctor’s action also as inappropriate. With a spring of its legs, it landed upon the doctor’s arm, crawled quickly to his neck, and imparted a venomous bite.
Upon completion of its task, the brown recluse returned to the twig. Elenora smiled with gratitude, stroked its body gently with her fingertip, and returned it to its Mason jar habitat.
Although the bite of the brown recluse is only rarely fatal, the doctor suffered a fatal anaphylactic reaction, and with his demise, The Bones Syndrome was laid to rest.
Chapter Three: Motorcycle Mom
Betty Jean enjoyed the wind meeting her face, allowing it to smooth those little creases at the edge of her eyes, but she especially liked the feel of the onrushing breeze spreading apart her hair so that her scalp tingled. That was one reason she wouldn’t wear a helmet, the other reason—she was her own person and she wouldn’t allow a silly, not-yet-to-be-passed law, dictate what to do. She was that type of woman. Independent. Obstinate. An expectant mom.
Traveling south on interstate 94, the traffic was heavy. Fully loaded, eighteen-wheelers bellowed dark smoke from stainless steel exhausts; over-sized tires squealed high-pitched sounds as the truckers changed from one lane to another with casual carelessness. Roaring past Betty Jean, the drivers leaned to one side and took long, curious looks. It was not that she was knockout gorgeous, but she was a wondrous sight nonetheless—eight months pregnant with an enormous abdomen that protruded, long blond hair that flowed straight back, and the most important feature of all, a red and white license plate that read—momtobe.
Most truckers offered a chuckle and a friendly wave; others shook their heads at the odd sight.
When raindrops hit the highway pavement, she eased up on the accelerator. The sky above was gray, not one of those black, ominous skies with a pretense of a hidden thunderstorm, but more of a late summer shower. A brief shower, she assumed, turning her head with caution to the right and then to her left, a rain not heavy enough for her to pull off the road.
When she felt the wetness between her thighs, she was confused. There was no way the raindrops could reach that part of her anatomy. Her leather pants fit tight, except for that rectangular section of Spandex that allowed her pregnant abdomen to bulge without restriction.
She was a first time mom-to-be, a waitress at George’s Truck Stop Diner where the Racine Avenue off-ramp took an abrupt steep turn to the right before meeting the frontage road. It was a good place to work. George, the owner, always smiled broadly with his full round face, his brown eyes dancing with mischief, his dark, thick brown hair tossed casually to one side. It was also a place to meet truckers and tips were more than good.
She had used caution, except for a time or two. Good judgment was not her strong suit, but neither was stupidity. The trucker’s attention had captured her eye more than once. It was ironic, both of them with blue-green eyes and blond hair. They could have been mistaken for brother and sister.
When he flirted, she took it as a complement, smiling back as she poured him one coffee refill after another, leaning on the counter with her elbow to chitchat, allowing him to take in her full bosom and deep cleavage. When he left her a tip nearly the amount of the bill, she barely caught her breath. She took in his rugged face and blue-green piercing eyes, captivated by his gaze. Then, one late night he asked her to come to his rig parked in the far corner of the parking lot. She did and the rest was history…all twenty-eight pounds gained in the following eight months and the trucker’s denial when she told him she was pregnant, the memory of his lips saying—“you lying whore” imprinted in her brain.
The tightening in her abdomen came with alarming quickness. Even a first time mom-to-be knew that when the water breaks, labor follows shortly. She met the one hundred and eight-mile marker when the rain started to slant; George’s Diner would be just four miles further. The plan, already formulated in her mind: she would park her motorcycle near the entrance, run in and tell George to call an ambulance. She would slump her body into a booth, placing a cool, wet cloth across her forehead and take note of the interval between contractions and wait patiently.
She let up on the gas, making sure not to touch the brake; over zealous braking on a wet pavement can cause skidding. The hundred and ten-mile road marker loomed ahead. Suddenly a Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler appeared behind her, the extra large chrome bumper pushing aside the rain, windshield wipers pausing just long enough for her to see a rugged face with blue-green piercing eyes and tasseled blond hair in her side-view mirror. As the eighteen-wheeler crept dangerously closer, she saw the driver’s mouth lipping “you lying whore.”
She had no choice. Twist up the gas, separate the motorcycle from the madness that lurked behind her. She leaned forward as the rain and wind took serious aim. The speedometer inched above seventy miles per hour. Her thighs tightened as if that would stop the cramping in her lower abdomen.
The truck matched her speed, its oversized chrome bumper now only a few feet behind, the roar of a mighty engine as loud as an express train bearing down.
Two more miles to reach the off-ramp, she told herself as she accelerated even faster. The motorcycle shook as it reached its limit. The eighteen-wheeler crept even closer, nearly touching the license plate that read, momtobe.
It was in that instant that her decision was made…be it right or wrong, in a moment or two it would be known.
The mile marker ahead read one hundred and twelve miles, the sign just beyond, “George’s Diner and Truck Stop,” next exit.
She would wait until the very last moment to swerve onto the off-ramp. The trucker, she surmised, would anticipate that move and that was when he would fully accelerator to complete his nasty deed. And that would be when she would do the unexpected: lean to the right at nearly a forty-five degree angle, and at the last split second swerve to the left to avoid the off-ramp exit.
The trucker, as if he were psychic, anticipated the unexpected. Rather than swerving, he kept a steady straight course as the over-sized chrome bumper plowed through the rain like the prow of a destroyer slicing through heavy seas. The bumper met Betty Jean’s motorcycle, lifting it up to near vertical, twisting it around so that Betty Jean looked straight through the truck’s windshield as it climbed upon the hood.
The police said it was a miracle. Nothing like that had ever been seen or reported. The impact tore the motorcycle into two parts—the rear part slicing through the truck’s windshield like a buzz saw, the license plate, momtobe, which had separated from the rear fender, cut through the trucker’s throat like a switch blade.
But that was not the miracle—by divine intervention Betty Jean survived. The impossible had happened. The front part of the motorcycle had spun away from the eighteen-wheeler, landing wheel-down in a meadow of soft, wet grass, the mom-to-be clutching the handlebar with all her strength.
A week later the miracle continued. Betty Jean delivered a healthy baby boy. But, instead of a baby with piercing blue-green eyes and blond hair like hers and the trucker’s, the baby’s eyes were a dark brown, the scalp covered with thick brown hair casually tossed to one side.
Chapter Four: Not the Greek Coffeehouse Type
Mix it together and you had Emmanuel’s Greek Coffeehouse: suspended cigarette smoke, half-empty glasses of ouzo, small cups of lukewarm Greek coffee perched on checkered oilcloths, and plenty of idle chatter—important stuff with no topic off-limit. It was strictly a man’s domain.
Take it apart and you had: Pete, Jimmy, Niko, and if it wasn’t a holy day or a Sunday, Father Joe. Everyone was from the old country, the same village outside of Athens, men with pencil-thin mustaches, dark hair thinning at the top, hairy chests and thick, old-world accents. So you can imagine when he strode in like he owned the place, everyone paid attention—blond with hair longer than a woman’s, a clean-shaven upper lip, and over six feet three-inches tall. And adding to his bulk, about one hundred grams of yellow gold draped around his neck, hanging low between the unbuttoned margins of a flowery sports shirt. He didn’t seem the type that played gin rummy, drank Greek coffee and let his teeth yellow. He didn’t seem the coffeehouse type.
“Is Angela around?”
“Whose ask?” Emmanuel replied from behind the counter. “Does this look like a place that a girl would be?”
“She gave me this address. This is 1310 Broadway, isn’t it?” He smiled to showcase his non-yellow teeth. “Angela Mason gave me this address,” he repeated.
“Angela Mason?” Emmanuel’s brow arched; from a nearby table the brows of his compatriots followed. “There’s no one by that name here.”
“She’s a dark-haired girl, about five foot six-inches tall, with the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen, a real sweet looker.”
“Oh, you mean Angela Masonapoulos,” quipped Emmanuel as arrows of alarm crossed the room.
From the nearby table, Niko Masonapoulos rose to face the stranger. They made an odd couple, the two of them. “Do you want some ouzo, if not, perhaps a cherry Coke with a straw?” he added sarcastically as he looked him straight in the chin.
“No thanks.” The blond stranger stepped back, extracted a glossy print from his side pocket and brought it forth. It was a group picture: six males, and standing in the middle, dressed in leather boots, a black leather miniskirt, and the skimpiest of an almost-see- through top—Angela Masonapoulos, her electric violin held against her bosom and a smile spread wide.
Pete and Jimmy gasped when he held up the picture for all to see. Father Joe mumbled and made the sign of the cross, nervously fingering his worry beads.
“Let me see.” Niko snapped up the print, held it at arm’s length, examined it, turning it from side to side, letting the reflected light from the front window paint it with a surreal hue.
“What’s she to you?” His face stoned and muscles born of thirty-five years of hard labor at the steel plant tensed into a knot of no-nonsense determination.
“She’s part of the band, The Wild Seven, and she hasn’t shown up for practice the last two nights. I’m worried; we have a big gig in South Chicago. She gave me this address, just in case. We’re engaged,” the blond added casually. “My name is Sean O’Reilly. I’m not Greek.”
Engaged? Not a Greek! Niko’s head swirled. He felt woozy as if he had drunk too much ouzo. This had to be a bad dream. Blood rushed to his face, not from anger, but from embarrassment. His Angela engaged to a non-Greek, to a man with blond hair playing in a rock band with six men. Not possible!
From the behind the Formica counter Emmanuel busied himself pretending to wash plates and glasses. Pete and Jimmy’s lips pursed, and Father Joe stared into his coffee. It was an explosive situation and they all knew it. Niko was strictly old-world, as unyielding as the high-tensile steel he helped make at Plant Five, as volatile as the flames that bellowed from the throat of the Bessemer converters each evening, and as traditional as his Chevy Belair.