Learning to Flip

Lauren Montgomery is 24 years old, and living in San Francisco, California. Currently she is in a southern suburb, visiting her sister and recently titled brother-in-law.

Upon entry into the apartment Lauren notices a pull-up bar positioned in the center of the living room.

“When did you get a pull-up bar, and why is it in the center of the living room?” She asks, immediately walking over to check it out.

“Scotty bought it this morning and we haven’t found a place to keep it yet,” Says Danielle, following her over to the bar.

Lauren climbs on top and sits, surveying the room: a small living area with a galley sized kitchenette on the side. There is obviously no room for a free standing pull-up bar in the apartment.

Scotty emerges from the bedroom. “What are you doing up there?” he asks.

“Just sitting, now I’m flipping,” Lauren says, letting herself fall backwards. She kicks her lets behind her and lands on her feet with her arms still holding the bar.

“How’d you do that?” Scotty asks.

“What do you mean, ‘How’d she do that?’ everyone used to do that in elementary school on the playground,” Danielle says. She climbs onto the bar and expertly performs the same flip.

“Let me try,” Scotty says. He is noticeable better built then the present company and therefore feels he will have no problem with this new found maneuver.

Scotty pulls himself onto the bar in an actual pull-up, and sits on top. “What do I do now?”

 “Just fall backwards without letting go,” Lauren says.

“And kick your feet behind you as you fall,” Danielle adds.

“Alright, I’m gonna do it.” Scotty says, noticeably frightened. He silently counts to 3 and lets himself fall backwards, failing to kick his feet over.

“What are you doing?” Danielle asks.

“Just push the bar with your feet,” Lauren says.

“I can’t, I’m scared.” Scotty says, and starts to pull his feet between himself and the bar.

“Pussy,” Danielle says.

Scotty now has one of his legs through the bar, but has gotten the other one stuck on the heel of his sneaker. He is dangling in mid air, and begins to panic. “What if I fall on my head?”

“You’re one foot off the ground!” Danielle says.

“You won’t fall on your head, just lean forward and you’ll fall on your back,” Lauren says. Both girls are failing miserably at hiding their laughter.

Scotty decides to go for it, and quickly yanks his foot through the bar. He succeeds in knocking off his shoe which then kicks him in the face. He follows up by landing directly on his back. Looking up Scotty sees two women giggling like school girls, and knows it is at him.

“I could have broken my neck.” Scotty says.

“No you couldn’t,” says Danielle between fits of giggles.

Lauren cannot stop laughing long enough to comment.

Lauren Moves a Desk

Lauren Montgomery had been living back at home approximately 12 hours when her father informed her of his plans to turn his office into a sit down bar. She was immediately on board. One look at the office proved that the 15 year old L-shaped Staples press-board desk would have to move to the other side for optimal seating area. After a brief discussion with Phil:

“Hey Dad, can i move your desk?”
“Do what you gotta do kid, I'll be in the gazebo smoking my pipe.”

Lauren set into action. The desk would have to be cleared, but would it? If there was a possible way around this situation, she was going to find it. 15 years worth of crap was quite a task to undertake, and if Phil wanted the desk clean he could do it himself.

Lauren started with the front side, just to see if she could get it out of the grove, and quickly realized it wasn’t exactly attached to the desk as a whole. She moved to the corner, and tried to budge it, no dice. It was then that Lauren realized this was no one person job. Throwing open the screen door, she dashed to the gazebo to inform Phil of her plans.

“Jeese, it’s cold out here.”
“Yeah, it’s winter.”
“I need your help.”
“Can you give me 30 minutes here?”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Doesn’t bother me.”

Lauren dashed back into the house, and made a cup of tea for herself in an old mysteriously acquired mug (really what mugs aren’t?), and one for her mother using the Port Marin China.  Warm liquid in hand, she found Nanc reclined in her favorite chair, reading cooking magazines.

“I brought you some tea.”
“Hmm? Oh, thanks hun.”
“I have to move the desk in Dad’s office.”
“Whatever would you want to do that for?”
“Dad wants to turn it into a bar.”
“Where is Dad?”
“In the gazebo.”
“He’d better stay out there, if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Will you help us move the desk?”
“No.”

Tea in hand, Lauren made her way back to the office to re-evaluate the situation. Upon further inspection of the under side Lauren came to the realization that if moved this desk would fall apart. She removed the overstuffed drawers, and set them out of the way. Figuring it better not to destroy the house’s only computer, 8 years old or not, Lauren dismantled and moved it as well. By the time Phil arrived there was only one thing left to do.

“I checked underneath, and i think it’ll break if we move it.”
“This old tank? no way.”
“Dad, it’s made of press board and some to the screws are breaking through.”
“Well, if it brakes, it brakes. You can just put it back together.”

Lauren noted the “you” but decided it was too late to turn back now.

“I’ll grab the corner, if you grab the side.”
“I think we’re going to need someone on the other side too. NANC!”
“She said she wouldn’t help.”
“Probably for the best. Come on, we’ll just drag it behind us.”

Phil picked up his side of the desk and motioned for Lauren to do the same. Phil began to pull his side which promptly broke off and fell on the ground.

“Don’t make any plans for today kid, you’re schedule just filled up.”

Lauren mentally canceled her plans.

“Well at least we can just move this big part.”
“Yeah, just stay where you are kid, I'll move this piece of shit and get on the other side.”

Phil moved the broken desk piece to the side and the two of them began half lifting, half dragging the desk across the carpet.

“Man this thing is heavy.”
“I told you, it was a tank.”

The words were not fully out of Phil’s mouth before the remaining legs of the desk proceeded to break off from under them. They put the desk top down, and as the contents spilled onto the floor.

“Well this sucks. Guess you don’t need me anymore though, it’s light enough to handle on it’s own.”

Phil went back to his gazebo, and Lauren went to Home Depot to buy some screw panels. Upon her return Lauren realized they owned no screws small enough to fit into the panels, and returned to home depot.

Once again Lauren set about putting the desk together by drilling some starter holes for the screws until the drill bit broke of in the press board. Lauren tried screwing without the bit,found it unsuccessful,and determined that this was enough for one day.
XXXXXXXXXX

Lauren awoke early the next day and was back from the home depot and drilling holes by 9:30am. At 9:38 the drill broke in her hand and the bit holding parts fell onto the floor. Upon inspection she determined it could not be fixed. Lauren found another drill in the laundry room with dead batteries. She promptly plugged them in, and found herself with nothing to do. Knowing that there was no worse feeling then the need to be productive without anything to be productive about, Lauren decided to clean her room. One hour later Phil shouted at her from downstairs.

“Hey kid, you know this drill’s broken right? You can charge all you want, but it won’t do you any good.”
“Do you have another drill?”
“No.”
“What am i supposed to do then?”
“Ask Popou.”

Popou was Lauren’s grandfather and lived in a house in back of their house that was connected by a screened in porch. Walking in Lauren headed into the smoke filled basement Popou frequently occupied. Cigar in mouth he greeted her.

“Good morning kid!”
“Good morning Popou. Do you have a drill i can use?”
“Sure, sure, it’s upstairs in the hall closet. How do you like it back here so far?”
“It’s been... interesting.”
“Not down here it hasn’t.”
“Maybe i should come down more often.”
“Of course, you can fix my VCR. What are you drilling?”
“Dad’s desk, it fell apart when we were moving it.”
“Whatever you say, just don’t let your father touch the drill.”
“Ok.”
“And bring it back when you’re done!”

New drill in hand Lauren was finally able to undertake the desk. Upon completion she organized the contents spilled over the office floor, rearranged Phil’s knickknacks in their proper spots, reattached the computer, and wired said computer in a way that made sense. She was just about through when Popou walked in.

“Hey kid, where’s my drill?”
“Sorry Popou, i just finished. I was about to bring it in.”
“Looks like you found a drill.” Phil said entering the office.
“Yeah, it’s mine, don’t even think about touching it.”
“Well you got the desk back together.”
“It looks like a piece of shit.” Popou said, servaying Lauren’s work. “You should stop being so cheep and buy yourself a new desk.”
“You know what Pop? You’re right. I haven’t had a new desk in 15 years. Let’s you and me go desk shopping tomorrow.”

Lauren returned the drill to it’s proper place, walked upstairs, slowly closed the door to her half cleaned room, laid down on her bed, and wondered just how long she was going to have to stay here.

Playing With Fire

“Lauren! Can you come down here for a minute? Your mother and I would like to talk to you."

Lauren Montgomery is 27 years old. She has just moved back into her parent’s house for the first time in 9 years. Surprisingly (or not) nothing has changed. 

“Be right down!” Lauren lives on the top floor of their two story house. It contains a second bedroom that has remained vacant since the departure of her sister to the other coast, and a half bath who carpeted floor is stained with bleach in the effort of removing kitten birthing fluids. 

Lauren runs down the same steps she has since she turned 10 years old, and was packed off to the attic.  Her hand grabs the banister at its well worn surface, white paint now a dullish grey. She skips through the ‘Hall of Shame’ whose containments’ are reminders of the adorable stages of early childhood, and the hideous transformations of adolescence. Rounding the corner she finds herself in the small country kitchen, both parents seated at the countertop in the high-backed stools her father bought without her mother’s permission at a Loews Memorial Day Sale. 

Her mother slowly picks up a Port Marin mug full of Red Rose Tea and sips. Port Marin being the fine china of the Montgomery household, is only used by Nancy or for special occasions; Red Rose Tea was on sale at ShopRite and cheaper then Barry’s this week. “You father and I would like to talk to you about your moving truck.” Nanc had a habit of making all conversations involving monetary funds formal. 

“Yeah, when is it coming again?” Phil was flipping through the sports page of The Post, the newspaper he had stolen from his own father earlier in the day. In his right hand was a cup Maxwell House, brewed in a way that, if possible, made the taste worse. Phil was a smart man and a bad listener, devoting most of his concentration to the next home remodeling project, ‘Maybe re-tiling the floor in the main bathroom?’ They had been uneven since his last attempt when Lauren was 12, but the kids had learned to walk on them in bare feet without cutting themselves.

“Tomorrow morning, hopefully before class,” Lauren had held a BA in Lighting Design for 6 years, an ESL degree for 3, an AA in Library Science since for 1, a bartending certificate for 7, and this year fancied herself a writer. School tuition was a prominent reason in her “decision” to re-occupy the house of her youth. 

“What time is class?” he asked, turning the page to see the details behind the Giants defeat. 

“1 o’clock.” Lauren’s classes were at 1pm every Tuesday through Thursday and had been for 4 weeks.

“Well what happens if it doesn’t come by then. I’m certainly not moving any boxes.” Nanc, at times, had a flair for the dramatic.

“They are moving all the boxes; just tell them to put them in the basement. I’ll leave the money on the table by the front door. Its $600 cash, I think the moving van is $500, and you can just tip them.” Lauren looked at her dad to make sure he was paying attention, he was not. She punched his shoulder. “It will be in a white Bank of America envelope by the front door, don’t touch it.”

Phil looked up at his wife and daughter and knew he was supposed to be paying attention to whatever it was they were talking about. “I got it.” He said but, in fact, did not.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day is cold and wet. Phil, being the first one awake, takes it upon himself to start a fire. He grabs some of the wood he had cleverly brought in from the porch the night before in anticipation of the weather change. He grabs scrap papers and old Post’s scattered throughout the house, and starts a blaze. 

The rest of the family wake and all are warmed by the comfort of its heat and warming light. “Good thinking Dad!” Lauren says patting him on the back. She has not been exposed to a real fire since last Christmas. 

“This is just what I needed to get me out of bed!” Says Nanc, as she curls up in her robe, and a throw blanket in the near by rocking chair. She sips her tea, and watches the red and yellow flames dance across the black streaked window of the fireplace door. 

The day passes, and the household revolves mostly around the great fireplace and its 600 dollar flames. It is 10:00am when the moving truck arrives, and all are relieved that Lauren will be here to deal with it. The driver approaches the front door, paperwork in hand. Lauren walks to the table to retrieve her cash, but finds it’s surface bare. 

Nervously she shares a look with her mother, and both turn to Phil. He is playing with the fire. “Hey dad, where’s my envelope?

Big Bill

Leon Czolgosz stands nervously in line waiting his chance at reception. His hair is freshly cut, and cleanly shaved, Emma would be proud of him. Sure his wool three piece suit weighs heavily in the thick New York heat, and his handkerchief is visibly wrapped up in his hand, but whose isn’t? Late September, but still the summer won’t end. All this is unimportant anyway: the Temple of music, the new electric light display, the whole exposition, really, along with its millions of visitors. No the only thing that matters is the large man awaiting him at the end of the line. There he stands, his straight posture with his large stomach protruding in front. His face clean shaven, his three piece, of only the finest materials, neatly pressed. Czolgosz wraps his handkerchief tighter around his hand, absorbing the moisture, reminding him of his purpose.

He is no longer Leon Czolgosz; he reminds himself, no longer the poor factory worker from Detroit, no longer the son of Polish immigrants. No he is Fred C. Neiman, an American.

“He’s a fine man.” The large black man standing behind him is practically dancing in place.

“Excuse me?” Neiman had been absorbed in his thoughts, a practice he is growing fonder and fonder of, withdrawing to one of the few places that make sense. This man’s statement has caught him off guard.

“The President, William McKinley. I will say to him, Mr. President my name is Tracy Parker, and it is my honor to meet you, Sir. He is a fine man to be sure. “Neiman again retreats.

He begins to think of Gaetano Bresci, and the fine services he has done for his country. He thinks of Abraham Isaak, the coward who has turned against him in his publishing’s. He thinks of true freedom, the good people: the working classes. He thinks of equality. How can one man have so little and one so much? Is this American? Finely he thinks of Emma, what she has done for him, how she had opened his eyes. If only she knew he was standing there right now, she would be proud.

Closer now, soon he will have his say. Soon he will look the President in the eyes and it will all be clear. McKinley will see it, the unfair working conditions, the violence it has caused, the helplessness, the poverty, the death. He will see how a world with such segregation could never work, how equality among all is the only way. How religion, with its false hopes, is hiding the true injustice, injustice of the world, injustice of America! He will see it, and Neiman will show him.

It is his turn now. The child before him has had her moment, her awkward smile, her excitement at meeting the great man, her nervous skip back to her parents. It is Neiman’s turn. Not Neiman, Czolgosz. He is still Leon Czolgosz, and he will have his say. McKinley is talking, not even paying attention. His attention is split, half focused, a second spared for the no one in front of him, his great smile, his outspread hand. Czolgosz extends his own hand, knocking McKinley’s aside, his handkerchief falls, and his hand tightens around the .32 Iver-Johnson, he fires the revolver twice.

Everything is slow. McKinley falls, as Czolgosz drops his pistol, he is vaguely aware of Tracy Parker wrestling him to the ground. McKinley declares, “Don’t be too hard on him boys!” and promptly passes out. Czolgosz is surrounded. They are arresting him, preparing his evacuation. He is confused. He has spent so much time in his own mind that the new found excitement is disconnecting. He must collect his thoughts. They have him now, they are hustling him out, it is his last chance, and finally he speaks, “I have done my duty, I am not sorry.”

I Couldn’t Help Myself

Blake strode his way up to the bar. This was a pretty low class club, and he didn’t like wasting his time. His hair was immaculately gelled to a point, a straight line all the way back. Both of his collars were popped, and he was ironed down to the Armani Exchange black lace-ups he had purchased yesterday for two hundred twenty dollars and seventy-eight cents. He had no need for dollar shots; that was all Brad. Blake didn’t particularly care for Brad or his bottom barrel loafers; he also didn’t care for staying in on a perfectly good Friday night. He was 27, too young to act like a washed out 30. And going solo? pShhh. He had been around enough to know that for trust, a wingman is necessary. Brad was just the right amount beneath him, not too embarrassing to be seen with, but he’d still get pick of the litter. Worth setting foot in this pedestrian whole? Maybe, if there were some babes around.

The club was currently empty, soiled leather couches lining the walls, with a banal disco ball lighting the dance floor. Bar to the side, glowing from the cheap rope light strung half hazard-ly around it. The music was loud techno, at least they had something right.

“Two shots of Patron.” He orders from the bartender, a flat chest-ed brunette, not worth his time. If this was all this dump had to offer, he’d down his shots and go. It would be worth shelling out for Brad’s drinks if it got him some.

“Two shots of vodka for me,” Brad says, having no problem with the well-wash this shit-hole had to offer.

“Patrons aren’t on the dollar list,” says the flat bitch, giving him a look like he’s an idiot.

“I don’t care about the price.” He says, barley giving her the time of day. She walks off wagging her hipless ass to get him his drinks.

“Who’re you trying to impress?” says Blake, starring at her swagger, drooling at anything with two legs.

“No one here. Let’s take these shots and get out of here. We can probably make it to City lights before the line.”

“Just give me a minute here, man. I might be ‘In’ to something.” Blake runs his hands over his hair in disgust, carefully straightening his faux. “Really?” he asks as Flatty comes back with their drinks.

She puts them on the counter. Brad picks up one of his and holds it out. “This one’s for you.” He says as he squints his eyes and lifts his head in a slight nod. She takes it from him.

“I’d rather have the Patron.” She says, winking at Blake. “Cheers!” She throws back the shot and takes their cash from the bar top. Blake is careful not to take his shots until she leaves. He’s not that desperate, not yet.

He’s just about to remind Brad that it’s time to bounce, when the male-whore nudges him in the arm, and points to the door. Four decked out ladies parade their way by and situate themselves around the other end of the bar. They were guidettes, that part was obvious. But a couple of them had designer labels. High class skanks, perfect.

“Four shots a lady!” a short b cup announced is a loud off pitched voice, sharp as the tips of his hair. The bartender gets out the cheap vodka and starts to pour. ‘Fuck, she looks even worst next to these Italian gems,’ He thinks.

It was the busty brunette at the corner that caught his eye. Those had to be D’s, no, doubles. Blake had an eye for two things, designers and tits, and this chick had both.

Flatty strode over and poured them another round, and Brad kept talking her up. Some people just had no taste. He ignored them, keeping his eyes locked on those doubles. The hottie had started to dance, and he gazed on, mesmerized by their soft bounce. He imagined himself grabbing them, rubbing those perfect pillows against his face right there on the dance floor.

The tightening of his pants reminded him not to imagine too hard. Taking hold of himself he felt anger at his loss of control; Guilt that he did, in fact, want to do just that right there on the dance floor, all class out the door. He was better then that. Better then Brad. Better that this shitty excuse for a club.

Composing himself he ordered another round of Patron. Flatty and Brad were into deep flirting now, and he practically had to slap her shapeless ass for some attention. She poured him his shots, taking her damn time about it.

He stood, straightening his shirts. One more hair check, and he was off to doubles with the shots. Dancing sleekly up to her, he gave her a slight upward nod and handed her one. She took it back slow, her massive chest rising slightly as she swallowed. He quickly threw back his own. and made his way up behind her, grinding in time with the beat.

He squeezed the glass in his hands in an attempt to keep some of his thoughts clear, but as doubles slowly turned, tits bouncing in time, he new his resolve was lost. Without thinking, Blake dropped his glass, grabbed those gorgeous double D’s, and motor-boated.