65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  If the protagonist drinks whiskey, and makes other people eat their teeth, it is hardboiled.

  If a cat, dog, or other cute domestic animal helps solve the crime, it is a cozy.

  If a cat, dog, or other cute domestic animal is set on fire, it is hardboiled.

  If the book has a character named Agnes, Dorothy, or Smythe, it is a cozy.

  If the book has a character named Hammer, Crotch, or Dickface, it is hardboiled.

  If the murder scene involves antiques, it is cozy.

  If the murder scene involves entrails, it is hardboiled.

  If the hero does any sort of knitting, crafting, or pet-sitting, it is a cozy.

  If the hero does any sort of maiming, beating, or humping, it is hardboiled.

  If the sidekick is a good natured curmudgeon who collects stamps, it is a cozy.

  If the sidekick is a good natured psychopath who collects ears, it is hardboiled.

  If the book contains recipes, crossword puzzles, or cross-stitching patterns, it is a cozy.

  If the book contains ass-fucking, it is hardboiled.

  If cookie crumbs on a Persian rug lead to the villain, it is a cozy.

  If semen stains on a stab wound lead to the villain, it is hardboiled.

  If any characters say, “Oh my!” it is a cozy.

  If any characters say, “Jesus Goddamn Fucking Christ!” it is hardboiled.

  If the murder weapon is a fast-acting poison, it is a cozy.

  If the murder weapon is a slow-acting blowtorch, it is hardboiled.

  If the main character has a colorful hat that is filled with fruit and flowers, it is a cozy.

  If the main character has a colorful vocabulary that is filled with racial slurs and invectives, it is hardboiled.

  And finally, if the author picture looks like your grandmother—beware…it could be either.

  Another humor story about what it’s like to be a writer. Like Piranha Pool, this is semi-autobiographical, and pretty much anyone who has ever tried to write for a living can relate to the narrator.

  The first time I ever saw it was at a party.

  College. Dorm. Walls constructed of Budweiser cases. Every door open, the hallways and rooms crammed with people, six different rock tunes competing for dominance.

  Rituals of the young and innocent—and the not so innocent, I found out that night.

  I had to give back the beer I’d rented, popped into the first empty room I could find.

  He was sitting in the corner, hunched over, oblivious to me.

  Curiosity made me forget about my bladder. What was he doing, huddled in the dim light? What unpleasant drug would keep him here, alone and oblivious, when a floor thumping party was kicking outside his door?

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  A quick turn, guilty face, covering something up with his hands.

  “Nothing. Go away.”

  “What are you hiding there?”

  His eyes were wide, full of secret shame. The shame of masturbation, of cooking heroin needles, of snatching money from Mom’s purse.

  Then I saw it all—the computer, the notebook full of scrawls, the outline…

  “You’re writing fiction!”

  The guilt melted off his face, leaving it shopworn and heavy.

  “Leave me alone. I have to finish this chapter.”

  “How can you be writing with a party going on?”

  He smiled, so subtle that it might have been my beer goggles.

  “Have you ever done it?”

  “Me?” I tried to laugh, but it sounded fake. “I mean, when I was a kid, you know, drawing pictures and stuff, I used to make up stories…”

  “How about lately?”

  “Naw. Nothing stronger than an occasional essay.”

  “You want to try it?”

  I took a step back. All of the sudden my bladder became an emergency again.

  “No, man…”

  The guy stood up. His eyes were as bright as his computer screen.

  “You should try it. You’ll like it.”

  “I’m cool. Really.”

  He smiled, for sure this time, all crooked teeth and condescension.

  “You’ll be back.”

  I hurried out of the room.

  The clock blinked 3:07 A.M.. I couldn’t sleep.

  To the left of my bed, my computer.

  My mind wouldn’t shut off. I kept thinking of the party. Of that guy.

  Not me. I wasn’t going to go down that path. Sitting alone in my room when everyone else was partying. I wasn’t like that.

  My computer waited. Patient.

  Maybe I should turn it on, make sure it was running okay. Test a few applications.

  I crept out of bed.

  Everything seemed fine. I should check MS Word, though. Sometimes there are problems.

  A look to the side. My roommate was asleep.

  What’s the big deal, anyway? I could write just one little short short short story. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  I could write it in the dark.

  No one would ever know.

  One little story.

  “Party over at Keenan Hall. You coming?”

  “Hmm? Uh, no. Busy.”

  “Homework?”

  “Uh, yeah. Homework.”

  “That sucks. I’ll drink a few for you.”

  “Sure.”

  I got back to plotting.

  I raised a fist to knock, dropped it, raised it again.

  What’s the big deal? He probably wasn’t in anyway.

  One tiny tap, the middle knuckle, barely even audible.

  “It’s open.”

  The room was dark, warm. It smelled of old sweat and desperation.

  He was at his desk, as I guessed he’d be. Hunched over his computer. The clackety clack of his fingers on the keyboard was comforting.

  “I need…I need to borrow a Thesaurus.”

  His eyes darted over to me, focusing. Then came the condescending smile.

  “I knew you’d be back. What are you working on?”

  “It, uh, takes place in the future, after we’ve colonized Jupiter.”

  “It’s impossible to colonize Jupiter. The entire planet is made out of gas.”

  “In 2572 we discover a solid core beneath the gas…”

  I spit out the rest of my concept, so fast my lips kept tripping over one another.

  “Sounds interesting. You bring a sample to read?”

  How did he know? I dug the disk out of my back pocket.

  I knew it was coming. Short stories weren’t enough anymore. The novella seemed hefty at the time, but now those twenty thousand words are sparse and amateurish.

  I was ready. I knew I was. I had a great idea, bursting with conflict, and the two main characters were already living in my head, jawing off at each other with dialog that begged to be on paper.

  All I lacked was time.

  “Hi, Mom. How’s Dad? I’m dropping out of college.”

  I couldn’t make much sense of her reply; it was mostly screaming. When my father came on the phone, he demanded to know the reason. Was I in trouble? Was it a girl? Drugs?

  “I need the time off to write my novel.”

  I hadn’t ever heard my father cry before.

  I don’t need understanding. Certainly not sympathy. The orgiastic delight that comes from constructing a perfect paragraph makes up for my crummy apartment and low-paying job at the Food Mart. They let me use the register tape for my notes, and I get a twenty percent discount on instant coffee.

  Reality is tenuous, but that’s a good sign. It means I’m focused on the book. I’m not really talking to myself. I’m talking to my characters. You see the difference?

  Sometimes I need to take days off, like for that problem I had with Chapter 26. But I worked through it. The book is more important than food, anyway. Who needs to eat?

  The tears were magic, and the sob was more beautiful than any emotion ever felt by anyone who ev
er lived.

  Helium had replaced the blood in my veins. My hands trembled.

  I typed The End and swore I heard the Voice of God.

  The alley is cold. I stuff my sweatshirt with newspaper and hunch down by a dumpster, my CD-ROM clutched in a filthy hand that I can barely recognize as my own.

  It is my third week on the street. I’ve made some friends, like Squeaky, who is sitting next to me.

  “They locked me out. Sold my stuff to pay the back rent. Even my computer.”

  Squeaky squeaks. I offer him an empty Dorito bag, and he scurries inside, looking for crumbs. I don’t mind him being distracted. He’s heard the story before.

  “I’ve still got my novel, though.” The CD isn’t very shiny anymore, and it has a crack that I pray hasn’t hurt the data.

  “Best thing I’ve ever done in my life, Squeaky old pal. Wouldn’t change a damn thing about the path I chose.”

  It starts to rain. I stare at the CD, at my reflection in it. My beard is coming in nicely. It gives me sort of a Hemingway look.

  “Did I tell you about the Intervention, Squeaky? Right before I got kicked out. My parents, my brother, the chaplain, and some guy from WA. Tried to get me to quit writing. Follow some stupid 12 step program.”

  I still feel a twang of guilt, remembering my mother’s pleas.

  “They wanted me to admit I had a problem. But they don’t understand. Writing isn’t an addiction. It’s a way of life. Like being a rat. Could you stop being a rat, just because your family wanted you to?”

  Squeaky didn’t answer. The rain was really coming down now.

  “I have to write. I don’t have a choice. It’s who I am.”

  The CD in my hand got warm to the touch, glowing with an inner spirit that I knew for sure isn’t just my imagination. It’s worth something. Even if it never sells. Even if I’m the only one who ever reads it.

  It validates me.

  “I’m no one trick pony, either. I won’t rest on my laurels. I’ve got more books in me.”

  I pull out my collection of gum wrappers and sort them out, chapter by chapter.

  After reading what I wrote that morning, I take my stubby pencil from my shirt pocket and start where I left off.

  After all—writer’s have to write.

  It’s what we do.

  A Personal Essay on Health Clubs

  Once upon a time I wanted to write a humor column like Dave Barry. I quickly learned that only Dave Barry was allowed to write humor columns, and newspapers weren’t looking for anyone else. This was penned during college, and then tweaked to put on my website.

  I was watching “The 20 Minute Workout,” sitting back in my easy chair and eating a box of Twinkies. The blonde aerobics instructor (at least I think she was blonde, for I was having trouble seeing over my stomach) was chirping away about how eating healthy and exercising were the keys to a better you, while doing thigh lifts that made me exhausted just looking at her.

  Among other health conscious things, she said that if you are truly satisfied with your body, you should be able to stand naked in front of a mirror and like what you see. I accepted the challenge, and after finishing the Twinkies and two bowls of Frosted Sugar-O’s Cereal (now with 30% more corn syrup), I disrobed and went straight to the full length mirror.

  Much to my dismay, I looked like a giant sack of potatoes with a penis. This did nothing for my self-esteem, and I dove into a Piggo Size Jay’s Potato Chips and didn’t stop until I hit cellophane.

  It was not until later that I realized most of my problems, such as not understanding my income tax return, were directly linked to my overweightedness. I decided at that moment to start a strict regimen of diet and exercise, but soon just limited it to exercise, not wanting to give up my favorite meal, beer and Snickers Bars.

  The thing I had to do, as told to me by countless celebrities on TV who can’t get work elsewhere, was join a health club. I went to a popular one nearby, housed in a building the size of Rhode Island. Inside was like stepping into The Jetsons: chrome…mirrors…flashing lights…techno music…a running track lined with spongy foam…rows and rows of exercise machines, as far as the eye could see…Elroy, walking Astro…

  I was greeted at the door by a very muscular guy who’d been packed into a Spandex outfit so tightly I could see individual corpuscles pumping through his veins. His name was G.

  “How do you spell that?” I asked.

  “With a G.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “It’s just G.”

  “So on your birth certificate…”

  “Enough about me.” G grinned big, making his neck muscles ping out. “Let’s talk about you.”

  G herded me through a throng of beautiful people, telling each in turn that he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed even if Madonna called with a Pilates emergency. We went into his office, which was decorated with pictures of G with his shirt off and smiling, G with his shirt off and scowling, and G with his shirt off and looking apprehensive, probably wondering where he’d left his shirt.

  G handed me a bottled water from his personal mini-refrigerator and sat me at his desk. He remained standing.

  “It’s a good thing you came today, Mr. Konrath, because you’re about five beats away from a major myocardial infarction. If you don’t join our club right now, I’ll ask you to sign this waiver to absolve us of responsibility when you walk out this door and your ventricles explode.”

  “I actually just had my heart checked, and…”

  “Plus, you’re so disgustingly fat, no one will ever love you.”

  “My wife says…”

  “Hey, Joanie and Brenda, come in here and meet my new best friend, Mr. Konrath.” G motioned for two attractive young women standing in the hall to come in and smile at me. “Don’t you think he’d benefit from our programs?”

  “I’d love to get him in one of my Prancercize classes,” Brenda said, licking her lips. “I’ll help you take off that disgusting, icky fat.”

  Joanie put her head to my chest. “I hear his pulmonary artery crying out like a sick kitty.”

  “You truly are a disgusting man, Mr. Konrath,” G said. “I suggest the Super-Duper Extra Special Presidential Package. That will give you access to all of the club’s facilities.”

  He handed me a color brochure filled with pictures of smiling, healthy people. The Super-Duper Extra Special Presidential Package monthly dues were slightly more than what I earned in a month, but I would have full access to everything, including unlimited use of their one racquetball court, should I ever decide to take up racquetball.

  “Sign it and we’ll be your friends forever,” Joanie said.

  “Sign it or you’ll get sick and die alone,” Brenda said.

  G put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Hard. “I don’t want to sugar coat this—”

  “If you did, I’d probably eat it.”

  “—but if you don’t sign this contract you’ll be the biggest wuss-boy I’ve ever met.”

  I stared at G and had a momentary delusion that I, too, might be able to look like someone stuck a tube up my ass and inflated me. Sure, his shoulders were so broad that he probably needed help wiping his own ass, but he looked damn good without a shirt.

  “Sign,” they chanted. “Sign. Sign. Sign…”

  I signed, and left the club feeling cheerful about my new commitment to get in shape. The pounds would soon begin to drop off, I was sure. They had to, because I no longer had any money for food.

  When I shared the good news with my wife, she was equally excited.

  “It cost how much?!?”

  “Don’t think of it in terms of costs,” I said, repeating what G had told me, “think of it in terms of benefits.”

  “You tell the kids they can’t go to college because their father spent all of our savings.”

  “College is overrated. You don’t really learn anything useful. Trade schools—that’s where it’s at these days. You
see that one on TV, teaches you how to repair air conditioners?”

  My wife shook her head. “You’ve got issues, Joe. In fact, you’ve got a whole damn subscription.”

  “Why don’t you come down to the club, check it out? G said there’s a discount for spouses.”

  “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “I’m saying that your support hose isn’t hiding your little pouch like it used to when we were dating.”

  My wife smiled. She was obviously coming around.

  “How long is this stupid contract for?” she asked.

  “Three years.”

  “That’s how long you’re going without sex. Enjoy the couch.”

  The couch was close to the refrigerator, so it wasn’t too bad.

  During my fourth week as an Extra Super Special Guy Member, G called me up.

  “Mr. Konrath, you joined a month ago. When are you going to come down and start working out?”

  “I can’t now, G. I’m waiting for a pizza.”

  “Come on, Mr. Konrath. Joining was just the first step. Now you’ve got to start coming in. I’ll blend you a fifteen dollar kelp smoothie, personally train you on the equipment for sixty dollars an hour, and give you a nice thirty dollar rub down afterwards.”

  “I thought all of that was included in my Jumbo Deluxo Mega Membership.”

  “Did you read the fine print?”

  “It was in a different language.”

  “Don’t let money keep you from being the best Mr. Konrath that you can be, Mr. Konrath. Come in today and you can take my Jazz Kwon Do class for half price.”

  “What do you drive, G?”

  “A Mercedes. And my payment is due.”

  G was right. I’d made the commitment to get in shape. It was time to put up or shut up. Even my wife, after having our lawyer try unsuccessfully to break the heath club contract, had begun encouraging me to go.

  “You wasted all that money!” she’d say, encouragingly. “Put down the cheese wheel, get off your lazy ass, and go work out!”

  But, truth be told, I was scared. I knew if I went to the club I’d be surrounded by beautiful people, and I would be alienated and my self-esteem would sink even lower.

  My plan was to get in shape before I went to the club. It could happen. I lost four pounds just last week, though I found it later, in my upper thighs.