Short Stories






  

Short Stories


Stories on this page copyright, Cher Cunningham, 2004

Fiction

Tahitian Twilight #24

I'd like to tell you about some folks I know - Martha and Ed Greenlee and Debbie and Lou Culpepper. They're typical folks. Ed and Lou work at the local factory that manufactures seats for Toyota trucks. Martha is the secretary at the Mayfriar United Methodist Church and Debbie is the shampoo girl at Evelyn's Clip-n-Curl. This short tale is about the night that Debbie decided to color Martha's hair.

Like most couples in Mayfriar, the Greenlees and Culpeppers have run around together for just 'bout ever. They go to the same church, their kids go to school together, and they are proud members of the PTA. Martha and Debbie have made more than their share of Rice Krispies treats for the many PTA bake sales throughout the years. Martha is especially known for her peanut butter krispy treats, and she'll never tell anyone, not even Debbie, just how much Jif she adds to the marshmallows and margarine. She is very proud that no one has been able to duplicate her recipe and guards that secret jealously. However, I digress, on to the story of the, the night, as it has come to be known

Now, I should inform you that it has become tradition for the Greenlees and Culpeppers to dine at the Ponderosa in nearby Holcomb every Saturday night. They find the Pondersa to be a good choice because of the "boo-fay" where the men can enjoy "wings", clam strips and shrimp while waiting for their well-done, 9-ounce sirloins, and the women eat salads and baked potatoes with fat-free ranch dressing, so as to maintain their figures. After eating, they always head to the new super WalMart for their weekly shopping chores.

During dinner on this particular Saturday, Martha, during one the their trips to the Ladies' Room, complains to Debbie about the gray showing in her hair. "Debbie," Martha moans, "I am much to young to have so much gray in my hair."

Debbie, looking at her friend's hair in the mirror, says, "Now, Martha, there's nothing wrong with your hair that a little Tahitian Twilight #24 can't help."

"Oh, I couldn't," Martha sighs, "Ed would never go for it. Imagine me, covering my gray."

"But Martha," Debbie replies, "You should see Tahitian Twilight #24! It's such an exotic color." Standing behind Martha while they both look into the mirror, Debbie begins styling Martha's hair saying, "Can't you imagine Ed's eyes when he notices the new way you look? He'll not know what is different, but believe me he will like what he sees."

Martha looks at her friend and laughs, "What the heck. I'll get a box at WalMart, and we can color my hair when we get home!" And as she dries her hands Martha says, "How hard can it be? Afterall, you are the shampoo girl, so you should know what to do." With that they head back to the table laughing along the way.

Ed and Lou are in a deep discussion about the early baseball season and whether or not McGwire and Sosa will continue their home-run quests this year. They notice, however, their wives chuckling and ask what is up. "Nothing!" the two women say in unison as they smile conspiratorially at each other.

Later, at Martha and Ed's, the two women finish putting away the WalMart purchases and sit down at the kitchen table with the box of Tahitian Twilight and cups of coffee. The men are ensconed in the living room with cans of Bud and the remote control; they will soon be engrossed in a game. "Well," says Debbie, "Let's get to it."

Martha, by this time, is getting cold feet. "Debbie. Are you sure this is such a good idea?"

"Oh, sure." she replies, "You know Swoosie Clapper, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer she continues, "Well, Maddie put Tahitian Twilight on her last week, and she looks fabulous."

"Okay," Martha agrees, "What should I do first?" And the two of them get down to the business at hand.

Suddenly over the sound of the ballgame, Ed and Lou hear a screech. Looking at one another Ed says, "What the hell do you think they are doin', Lou?"

Lou, scratching himself, eyes still on the game mumbles, "You know those two, they're always up to something. It's probably nothing."

Just then, Martha comes running into the living room with Debbie fast on her heels. "Oh, my, oh, my," she cries, "Look at my hair! What am I to do?"
The men are unable to take their eyes from her as they sit there gaping at the sight of her normally mousy hair which is now a vibrant chartreuse.

Clearing his throat, Ed begins to speak. Martha looks at him and bursting into tears she runs from the room. Lou thunders at Debbie, "Woman, what have you gone and done? What have you done to Martha's hair?"

Debbie, gasping like a fish, swallows and stutters, "B-b-b-but it's supposed to be Tahitian Twilight #24!" Sighing, she drops on to the ottoman looking at the two men, who having forgotten the game, are now focussed on her. "I don't know what happened," she bleats, "I followed the instructions on the package."

Lou explodes, "Good God woman! Do you think since you are the shampoo girl that you are an expert on color?" He gets up and pacing round the room he turns to her saying, "Well, you better come up with something. The poor thing can't run around town with hair like that." He continues, "That hair is the color of the faces of some of the guys who come in to work the line after a long night at Ike's." Ike's is, of course, the local watering hole across from the factory. Also known as the paycheck pincher, it has often caused many a man to tremble in abject fear at the thought of facing his wife the day after payday. "What have you done, Debbie," he asks again, sadly, shaking his head.

"It's supposed to be Tahitian Twilight, and we only wanted to cover her gray! I don't understand what happened," she wails.

"Holy cow," Ed exclaimed, "Isn't that the color that Tex Clapper's wife had done this week? Tex said it was Tahitian .... something .... sounded exotic to me." Looking at Debbie quizzically, he asks, "How did this happen, Debbie?"

"I ... I ... I ... just don't understand," she gasps, "We followed the directions ........ ." Her speech trailing off she sits dazedly upon the ottoman staring from one man to the other. "It didn't seem such a hard thing to do. I've watched Maddie do it so many times."

And that's how it came to be known as the night. As you may have guessed, all ended up well, Martha visited Maddie at the Clip-n-Curl early Monday morning slipping in the back door. She was reported as saying that she will never again spend another Sunday in a turban. Debbie and Martha are still friends, and they still do the "boo-fay" at Ponderosa every Saturday with Ed and Lou.

Want to know something? I swear, if this were the way I wanted to spend my Saturday nights, I would have been straight and married!

Non-fiction

April - National Poetry Month – Patti Smith

“Jesus died for somebody’s sins . . . but not mine.”

I remember when I first heard those words. It was back in the early 90s, and my best friend, David, was trying to introduce me to Patti Smith. Those words scared the shit out of me.

I was still at odds with my spirituality at that time. I hadn’t been to church in years, wasn’t sure what I believed in, if I believed in anything, but yet those words were so close to blasphemy.

He would call me late at night and play some Patti Smith Group (Smith, Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daughtery and Ivan Kraal) cd over the phone and want me to understand what I was hearing. Hell, I couldn’t understand a word that I was hearing. To me, it wasn’t singing – this woman was screaming, howling more precisely. But there was something.

He would loan me his cherished Patti cds. I would listen to them for a while and then would return them. I just didn’t get her. I wasn’t ready. Then three years ago my life changed drastically. I discovered my spirituality. I no longer feared what we are taught to fear, I finally learned what faith is all about, and I found that I have a very strong faith.

My interest in Patti Smith began in earnest. I began buying her cds and really listening to them. I saw her through Mapplethorpe’s eyes. I wanted to know more. So, I finally shared with David that I “kinda” like Patti.

Patti Smith was born in Chicago, IL on December 30th, 1946. She was raised in New Jersey by a Jehovah’s Witness mother and an atheist father. No wonder her words touch me the way they do. With the Patti Smith Group, she was a strong influence on the 70s punk genre. She was ever the passionate poet who was strongly influenced by William Burroughs and Rimbaud.

She was absent from the music scene for eight years in the late 80s early 90s. During this time, she raised her kids living in obscurity with her husband Fred “Sonic” Smith, guitarist with MC5. Fred was her love, and he died in 1994 from heart failure. It was Bob Dylan who brought her back into the spotlight by asking her to do a support spot with a winter tour of his.

The photographer, Robert Mapplethorpe, was a close friend of both Patti and Fred , and it is one of his photos of Patti that graces the front of the Horses (1975) cd. The photo accompanying this bio is one of that set taken by Mapplethorpe.

David also told me that my poetry style reminded him very much of Patti’s. This was long before I had begun reading her stuff. He was right. Our styles are very much the same, and I feel that even before I knew who she was, that she was an influence on me. Now, I know that she is. With the emergence of my spirituality has come the desire to study poetry and a love of Patti’s poetry has blossomed. Her music is incredible, but her poetry I find even more so. She has published many volumes and chapbooks, but one in particular has become my favorite. It is, Early Work – 1970-1979. It is a collection of both prose and poetry. All of these pieces are found in Early Work. Babelogue is from the 1975-1976 section, Oath from 1970-1972 and Notebook was written in April 1971.

babelogue

i haven’t fucked w/the past but i’ve fucked plenty w/the future. over the silk of skin are scars from the splinters of stages and walls i’ve caressed. each bolt of wood, like the log of helen, was my pleasure. i would measure the success of a night by the amount of piss and seed i could exude over the columns that nestled the P/A. some nights i’d surprise everybody by snapping on a skirt of green net sewed over w/flat metallic circles which dangled and flashed. the lights were violet and white. for a while i had an ornamental veil. but i couldn’t bear to use it. when my hair was cropped i craved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil and the scalp of a crazy and sleepy comanche lies beneath the netting of skin.

i wake up. i am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun. i desire him, and he is absolutely ready to serve me. in house i am moslem. in heart i am an american artist and i have no guilt. i seek pleasure. i seek the nerves under your skin. the narrow archway, the layers. the scroll of ancient lettuce. we worship the flaw, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. one who has not sold her soul to god or man nor any other.

oath

Jesus died for somebody’s sins
but not mine
melting in a pot of thieves
wild card up my sleeve
thick heart of stone
my sins my own
I engrave my own palm
sweet black X
Adam placed no hex on me
and take full responsibility
for every pocket I have picked
mean and slick
every Johnny Ace song
I’ve balled to
long before the church
made it neat and right
So Christ
I’m giving you the good-bye
firing you tonight
I can make my own light shine
and darkness too is equally fine
you got strung up for my brother
but with me I draw the line
you died for somebody’s sins
but not mine

notebook

I keep trying to figure out what it means
to be american. when I look in myself
I see arabia, venus, nineteenth-century
French but I can’t recognize what
makes me american. I think about
Robert Franks’s photographs – broke down
jukeboxes in gallup, new mexico . . .
swaying hips and spurs . . . ponytails and
syphalitic cowpokes. I think about a
red, white and blue rag I wrap around
my pillow. maybe it’s nothing material
maybe it’s just being free.

freedom is a waterfall, is pacing
linoleum till dawn, is the right to
write the wrong words, and I done
plenty of that . . .

I know that Patti is definitely not for everyone, but if you like these, then I suggest getting a copy of Early Work: 1970-1979 (ISBN: 0-393-03605-7). Also look for Babel.

Finally, here's a fitting piece written about the Patti Smith Group:

horses on vinyl
by Meagan Brothers

on the back
it's jay dee holding a switchblade,
ivan looking unsure and young,
some weird poem. angels and death.
lenny, dark, your pale twin
and richard with his steady eyes
and girlish mouth.
your name strikes the white
like a sea-scrawl,
ink inchworm
birdshit childspeak
glossy black,
like you were really there
and put your hand to it.

on the front,
it's you
with your frayed sleeves
and your hot chocolate mouth.
it's the way you wear your coat,
shrugged across your shoulder,
pony pin in the lapel.
your neck of milk
your iris hands
your black halo hair
your eyes never seeing so much.

behind you,
a faint triangle of light
erupting from your back
like a ghost wing,
ethiopian pyramid
gossamer echo
splinters the black
from the white
into a kaleidoscope
of mercury
and gray