A man lifted weights. A woman shaved under her arm pits. Deodorants, perfumes, sprays, polishes, shampoos, conditioners, resins, lotions. Combs and brushes waved back and forth, up and down, plowing over the heads of contestants and through the lush fields of hair. Smiles: friendly, demure, tough, but always sexy.
"All right," said a white-haired man as he paced between the two rows carrying a microphone. "We're ready. Has everyone been keeping a close tally?" Twelve heads nodded. "Then put your ballots in the slots."
The six men and six women dropped cards into the tops of black boxes. A screen at the end of the passage lit up with the numbers of two cubicles. The announcer waited as the two winners made their way out the backs of their glass boxes, down the steps, and around to the front. "Our two lucky winners," he said. He took the woman's hand, brushed it across his lips, handed her a slip of paper. He turned to the man, pumped his hand. Then he wrote something on another slip of paper and handed it to him.
The man glanced at the '#1' written on it. "What's my prize?"
The announcer's mouth hung open, he stammered. "Prize?"
"Yeah. What did I win? What's my prize?"
"My God. Isn't it enough for you to know that you're better than other people?"
THE END
Sour Grapes (277 D6 6/30/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
The purple helmet--round and shiny--shot down the road, a tiny ball on the neck of a broad-shouldered rider. Under him the motorcycle roared, disappeared over the crest of a hill, and swung around the curve.
*
The hand of light picked up a bunch of grapes, reached for a purple round shiny ball, held it up to its open mouth, then stopped--and holding the grape with one hand picked up the list with the other.
*
At a hundred and ten miles an hour the bike slammed into a board lying across the road, and flipped. The driver sailed through the air; a purple ball with its human stalk attached.
*
"He's still got an open credit line." The golden hand picked up the shiny card, ripped it in half. "But he's reached the limit now." A golden finger flicked off a tiny dew drop from the grape, set it down.
*
The rider spun through the air, gyrating sideways, spread out like a scarecrow, landed on a pile of dead leaves.
*
The clump of bikers--fat middle-aged men in black leather jackets--looked up the hill at the chapel made from gas tanks and fenders, sacred relics of twisted handle bars and forks, and at the cross embedded in the hillside, its hundreds of plastic reflectors shining red in the setting sun.
The man worked a hoe, chopping weeds from around the shrine.
"Hey Jack," said one biker, setting down his beer and wiping his lips. "What's all this shit?"
"Aw, go to hell," said Jack.
"Come on. What's all this about?"
Jack leaned on the hoe, glared at the bikers. "I got to pay the interest--God Damn it!"
THE END
Trash the Earth Before It's Too Late (278 D5 7/3/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
The old man sat in his back yard. On each side steep granite cliffs rose hundreds of feet in the air, hiding this--the last--place. The man heard the sound of the crew working their way up the canyon. "They're coming," he thought.
He thought back over the years, how he'd fought them, in the big cities, and in the sprawling suburbs. Tried to stop the march of progress. "Maniacs," he thought, "out to destroy everything worth living for, everything of value. He heard more sounds--closer now. Probably just around the face of the canyon. He coughed. "Damn air. Hardly breathable anymore." He started the air compressor, adjusted the filter, then held up the mask and took a deep breath.
The crew arrived.
"It's all over gramps," said one. "This building's got to go. The five or six men and women sat down their tools and sacks of seed. "If we work fast we can knock the house down and finish planting tomorrow."
"You're crazy," yelled the old man. "This is the last building in the state!"
The crew leader shook his head. "It's back to nature Gramps."
"You've ruined everything." He poured some chemical additives into the mask, took a deep breath. "Science, the cities."
"None of it was natural."
"Dammed right it wasn't natural. Made by men and women--gods."
"Well if people are gods," laughed the group leader. "Then this is God's last half acre."
THE END
Things That Are Overrated (279 D3 7/3/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
-----Walking half a mile across a scorched vacant lot to sit in a giant ash tray and be radiated by a distant nuclear furnace--this thing they call 'going to the beach.'
-----Being rich and worrying whether someone will cheat you out of your money; being middle-class and worrying whether someone will tax you out of your money; being poor.
-----Sex with a partner and with a condom; sex without a partner and a condom.
Retired Memories (280 D6 7/8/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
"Well now Jack," said Hank. "You're going to be retiring soon, now ain't you?" The fat man waved his hands over his shiny head and cackled. "Yeah, you're going to be retiring soon. What are you going to do then?" He jabbed his finger at Jack. "Huh?"
"Oh. No problem," said Jack. "I'm not like other people. I been saving.
"Saving your money?" asked Hank, lowering his voice and leaning forward.
"No," said Jack. He lifted a wooden box off the shelf, set it on the table.
"What's in the box?" The bald man picked at the lock.
"Wouldn't you just like to know."
"Well I sure would god damn like to know! That's why I asked you."
"Oh, I guess a week early wouldn't hurt. See," said Jack, "I been getting ready for retirement and I been saving. He pulled out a key and turned it in the brass lock. "I been saving my memories." He lifted the lid. "And there they are!"
The other man stuck his head up to the box, peered down, sniffed. "Smells a little weird. And all I see is a bunch of...looks like...a bunch of dog turds."
"Dog turds?" said Jack. He grabbed the box and looked into it. "My God. They're all dried up! Shriveled."
"Don't you know? You got to refrigerate memories. You got to keep them on ice." The bald man cackled. "You sure screwed up. These old memories are worthless."
"Oh no," said Jack. "I got to get me some new ones and quick."
"Good luck," laughed the bald man. "You should have showed me before."
*
Jack sat at the bar, nursing his beer slowly, his eyes narrow. A woman with dyed blond hair sat down at the bar. Jack picked up his drink, moved down next to her. "Hi honey. How are you doing?"
"Just fine Grandpa. How about you?"
"Nice day for making a memory, isn't it?"
"I guess," said the woman.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure." She turned to the bartender. "A glass of Chablis."
"What's your sign?" asked Jack.
"Sagittarius."
"God damn. That's my favorite. You know what I like about Sagittarians?" He leaned over and whispered in her ear.
"Why you dirty old man. That's disgusting."
*
"Let's see," said Jack, looking through the newspaper. "Sports cars, motorcycles, adventure. That's what I need. I got to find myself some adventure." He looked through the classified, made a fist, pounded on the table, reached for the phone.
*
Jack walked into the shop, 'Adventures Incorporated.'
"I'm the one who called," he said. The clerk looked at him blankly. "About the adventure. I want to hire on--as one of the crew."
"You're way too old, pops. Even if you could go, the insurance would never let you."
*
"It's prejudice. That's what it is," muttered Jack to himself. "I've got to find a faster way to do this." He turned over the page of ads. "Wh
at's this? Hmmm."
*
Jack carried the wooden box into the dusty shop, with its shelves of frames and photo enlargers. "Says in your ad that you restore memories," said Jack.
"That's right," said the man. "That's what I do. What do you have there?"
Jack opened the wooden box. "This is not your typical yellowed hack work. These are real honest-to-goodness memories."
The clerk frowned. "Bad shape. It's going to cost."
"I got some retirement money coming."
"Retirement. That's why you want these?"
Jack nodded.
"All right. Come back in about ten days."
*
"Well," said the bald man, "did you ever go and make some new memories?"
"Nah," said Jack, "too much work. I did something better. I got mine restored."
"Let me see."
Jack pulled down the wooden box, opened it on the table. Then he pulled out the plastic box, turned it on.
The bald man looked at it. "Those are just old T.V. shows."
"What do you mean? That's my life."
THE END
Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 28: Short Stories Page 2
