Twisted Shorts

Irene Tritel

Description

The popularity of short stories dates back to the days of glossy magazines; think Vogue, Saturday Evening Post, Bazaar, Vanity Fair, and certainly, The New Yorker.

Although in recent years the short story has taken second place to the novel, [narrative non-fiction and flash fiction somewhat filling the void], with the prevalence of the Kindle and other digital reading devices, short fiction has shown remarkable durability and appears to be poised for resurgence with power and respectability not seen in years. The great American short story is still being written and merely awaits its readers.

Nothing is as satisfying as a good short story which grabs the reader quickly and is always driven toward a sudden and unexpected revelation, a surprising twist to the plot. TWISTED SHORTS is a perfect venue for book groups where time constraints are an issue and where one or two stories can provide material for a full discussion. 

Sujets

• Short Stories

Informations

• Publié par: Tritel Communications
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9780982805336
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

TWISTED SHORTS  
___________________
 
A Collection of Short Stories
 
 
by Irene Tritel
 
 
Copyright © 2015 by Irene Tritel
 
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
 
Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the author is prohibited.
 
Printed in the United States of America
 
ISBN:  978-0-9828053-2-9
 
Text in Trebuchet
 
Cover and book layout by Bethany Lund
Story illustrations by Bethany and Eva Lund
DEDICATION
 
Rah, Rah, Rah
For the Bronx Team...
 
Charlotte, Dora, Jeanie, Julie, Lois, Marion
 
 

 
1926-2015 and still counting!
 
________________________________
 
Not that the story need be long,
but it will take a long while
to make it short.
 
-Henry David Thoreau
 
 
    A BYRD BY ANY OTHER NAME
I could have avoided all that trouble if only I had remembered to turn left instead of right. I thought I might have been given the wrong directions, so I honked my horn at a passerby and asked where Courtyard Manor Hospital was.
“Oh, it’s just another block or so. You can’t miss it,” she pointed.
Sure enough I soon came across the three-story brick building that looked more like a college dormitory than a hospital. At 8:00 a.m. the parking lot was almost empty and I was able to pick a spot where my two-year-old limousine would least likely be damaged. I gently maneuvered my six-foot frame out of the vehicle, trying not to awaken those old football injuries. But at sixty-five my knees crackled like caramel popcorn and I had to stand quietly for a few seconds until the rest of my bones fell into place.
The lobby was friendly, the colorful walls and flooring less generic than larger hospitals. A grey-haired woman cheerfully greeted me, her glasses resting more on her chubby cheeks than on her nose. I brought my face closer to the volunteer badge pinned to her blouse ... Cynthia.  
“Hi, Cynthia,” I said. “I’m here to pick up Mr. Byrd.”
“Mr. Byrd,” she repeated, pecking away at the computer keyboard. “Hmm. I’m afraid I don’t see a Mr. Byrd, but give me a minute. I’m sort of new at this computer stuff. What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Bruce Primo.” I showed her my card, PRIMO LIMOUSINE SERVICE. “Mr. Byrd’s granddaughter sent me to pick him up.”
“Well, I still don’t see a Mr. Byrd on the list, but you know what? Why don’t you go on up to the second floor and ask the shift nurse? She’ll probably know who you mean.”
“Thanks.” I hated elevators so I walked painfully to the second floor. The nurse’s station was just opposite the staircase and I walked a few paces to her desk. “Hi,” I introduced myself. “I’m here to pick up Mr. Byrd.”
“Mr. Byrd? Unless you mean Mr. Swallow, we don’t have a Byrd here.”
“Maybe Mr. Byrd is calling himself Mr. Swallow these days,” I joked.
She looked at me, not really getting the connection.
“You know . . . Swallow? Robin? Canary?”
“Oh, I get it,” she smiled. “I didn’t know he was being released today.”
“He’s not being released. I’m only taking him out for a few hours and then bringing him back. His granddaughter is getting married today up at Green Meadow Park. The whole family will be there, and since I’m a close friend of the family, I volunteered to pick him up.” I showed her an authorization signed by Marcia Byrd.
“How nice of you,” she said. “I wish there was a limousine service in our family.”
“Well, don’t hesitate to call PRIMO whenever you’re stuck,” I said, handing her my card. “Will it take long to get Mr. Byrd ready?”
“You’re so funny” she giggled. “It’ll only take a few minutes to get him dressed. He can’t see too well since the eye surgery. Are you sure Dr. Conley approved this?”
“Well, I know his granddaughter spoke with the doctor. They both agreed it would lift his spirits to be at her wedding. I’m bringing him back in a couple of hours.”
About twenty minutes later, Mr. Byrd shuffled in led by the nurse. He was wearing sweat pants, hardly appropriate for his granddaughter’s wedding, but I figured they’d have another outfit for him at the event. He had a patch over one eye and wore dark glasses. He peered at me.
“Do I know you?” he asked as I steered him to the elevator.
“I don’t think so. I’m just good friends with your granddaughter.”
“I don’t think I have a . . .”
“. . . So here I am, at your service, Mr. Byrd.”
“Swallow,” he said quietly.
Much as I hated elevators, I could see that getting Mr. Byrd down the staircase would be a problem, so we took the elevator to the lobby and I waved to volunteer Cynthia as I led Mr. Byrd out the front door to the limousine.
When we arrived at Green Meadow Park, the wedding party gathered around the limo with anticipation as I opened the passenger door.
Marcia Byrd, beautiful in her wedding dress, looked closely at Mr. Byrd.
“Oh, my God” she shouted. “This isn’t my grandfather!”
“Wha -- what do you mean?” I stuttered. “This is Mr. Byrd.”
“Swallow,” he whispered.
“I went to Courtyard Manor Hospital as you directed.”
“Courtyard Manor Hospital?” she shrieked. “No, no, no. Courtyard Manor Assisted Living on the north side of the highway. I told you, turn left at Courtyard Avenue. What have you done?”
“I think I picked up the wrong Byrd.”
“Swallow,” he said quietly.
And that’s what I did.
 
BODY ARMOR  
 
Many years ago, somewhere between the inquisition and the terrorist attacks of September 11th 2001, a well-known national company developed a latex product originally meant for men only. However, preliminary tests indicated that when moistened either by sweat, seminal fluid, urine, or otherwise, the product was difficult, if not impossible to remove. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had been invested in prototype production. The Board of Directors was now hard put to answer to their stockholders. They extended a challenge to their designers to develop a product which could be easily adapted to the equipment already purchased to manufacture the product. A very hefty bonus was offered as an incentive. [The winning designer’s name was Torquemada].
Hence the advent of the Hold-It-All Girdle. For modern day thinkers, imagine Spanx wrapped in duct tape.
 
***
 
On a sweltering August day in New York, when no amount of deodorant or preventative could keep a circle of sweat from appearing under your arms, a beautiful ripe Jewish seventeen-year-old named Dev our ha ascended the subway stairs on 42 nd Street and Fifth Avenue.
An incompetent nurse had misspelled the name on her birth certificate; her poor immigrant parents never understood why she was not called Devorah according to the bible. In elementary school, teachers seemed particularly amused when pronouncing her name, stressing Devour and whispering ha, making it sound like ‘devour her.’
Thus the judge understood when, eventually, she changed and shortened her name to Devy. Unfortunately, this also had its misgivings, melding into Davy, Deevy, Duvie, etc.
 
***
 
Headed toward her first job interview at a prestigious gentile law firm, McDonald, Baird, Christenson & Goldin [with an i instead of an e ], someone jostled Devy on the top step of the subway and she fell to her knees. Immediately her nylon hose disintegrated and melted into the concrete. The whites of her legs showed brilliantly through the dark jagged circles at each knee. Tentacles of ripped hose, running hither and thither, emanated from the torn openings.
In the late 1940’s it was considered inappropriate to wear anything but a skirt suit when applying for a job. This was before the invention of panty-hose, when thick gage nylons were attached to a girdle with garters, thereby accomplishing two things: the garters prevented the stockings from slipping down and the girdle from riding up.
Devy’s dilemma was this: if she removed her stockings the rubber girdle would ride up. It would surround her waist and sit there like a tire, her breasts hanging over it like hub caps, her full bodied hips and ass revealed in all their gory — um — glory. She worried that in the middle of the interview, the girdle would roll up inch by inch, taking on a life of its own, defiant, unforgiving, punishing. It clung to her body like a boa constrictor.
Having little choice, Devy opted for removing both.  The girdle would be a challenge. God help you, once you pulled it on, [which could take the better part of an hour], getting if off took an infinite amount of patience, first a pull on one side, and then the other, like removing a band-aid from your belly to your groin a little at a time.  If you had arthritic hands, this could become a lifetime endeavor. Also, picture flabby flesh folding joyously over your fingers as each section of the girdle unleashes a layer of fat not meant for human viewing.     
Devy searched for a restaurant where she could use the ladies room. Not only did she have to remove the girdle and stockings but, now, she had to pee. In New York there is no place to pee. You can’t just walk into a restaurant and head for t