The Expatriate Contraband Trade

We meet in dank basements under the light of exposed bulbs that glow so weakly, they remind us of beacons in a fog. We meet in quiet parks, where the only others present are women pushing baby carriages; if a real baby occupies the carriage, the woman probably isn’t a law enforcement officer. We meet in the storage rooms of grimy restaurants, where between shelves stacked with cans of dehydrated bacon bits hang four-year-old calendars, open to the month of April, illustrating oversexed, bikini-clad girls on motorcycles. We meet anywhere we won’t be watched.

The dealer sits quietly on the park bench, tapping his fingers, waiting for me to open the conversation. “Got any Orville?” I say.

He stifles a laugh. “We don’t call it that anymore. Nowadays it’s known as ‘Red Man.’” He reaches into a satchel and pulls out a plastic jar just far enough for me to recognize the label: a red oval. A retro font. A man in horn-rimmed glasses, bow tie, and curly white hair. Genuine Orville Redenbacher Gourmet Popping Corn. An entire 30 oz. jar.

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty dollars. I have two of them.”

A fair price. Orville—or Red Man—goes for five or six dollars in the States. It’s unavailable in Europe.

“I’ll take both,” I say.

He slips them into my satchel and says, “I’ve got something else that may interest you.” He produces a 10 oz. glass jar of Heinz sweet relish.

My mouth waters. He sees the longing in my eyes. “How long since you’ve visited the States?” he asks.

“Seven years.”

He smiles. “You must need a fix really bad. Tell you what. I’ll give you this for only nine dollars.”

I conceal my delight: the street value of pickle relish is considerably higher. “I’ll take it,” I say. “Got anything else in that bag of yours?”

“Yes, but not anything you could afford.”

“Try me.”

He lets me have a peek into his satchel. I do not believe my eyes. He’s right: I can’t possibly afford it. A 12 oz. bag of taco flavored Doritos. Worth its weight in gold. I shake my head wistfully.

We pack up, then look around to make sure no one’s been watching. A woman strolls by, pushing a baby carriage. The baby is suspiciously silent and motionless. A flicker of light from a distant hill catches my eye; possibly a reflection from binoculars. It’s time to move along.

While on the Subject of Bastard Toadflax

Research allegedly proves we can remember seven things on a list, on average; more than seven, and our memory performance falls off sharply. Remember The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People? Neither do I; I can only remember three of the habits:

1. Think win-win. (That’s a good one; it contrasts sharply with the nonsense I used to read in airline magazines: “In business, you don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.”)

2. Synergize. (A dumb word, a dumb concept. “Teamwork” is fine, but do we really show up in the office expecting to synergize with our colleagues? I put it to you.)

3. Don’t take any wooden nickels. (Advice that has served me in difficult times.)

I can’t remember seven things on a list unless I make an effort to memorize them, and refresh the exercise periodically. Three things, yes. Seven things, yes, if I’m only expected to remember three of them.

I don’t have a point to make. Except I’ve been hearing from writer friends who are stuck in the middle of rough drafts, and it occurs to me that there’s really only one thing---not seven, not even three---they’re doing wrong. They’re ignoring the word “rough.”

***

We’re still seeking donations at The Lascaux Review. Every donation helps save the spotted owls. Here’s how it works:

1. You make a donation, using the convenient donate button. There’s no such thing as a donation that is too small; Wendy and I are sufficiently hard up to grovel for anything.

2. Consequently, we’ll be able to pay writers more.

3. When the writers, in turn, become editors, they’ll buy our stories. Perhaps more out of obligation than gratitude, but still.

4. We’ll become famouser, and more to the point, affluenter.

5. We’ll use our influence and affluence to save the spotted owls.

***

If you look at the Lascaux header you’ll notice our “cow” (actually horse) casts a shadow on the wall of the cave, rather than is painted on the wall. That’s Wendy’s tribute to my fondness for Plato’s allegory of the cave.

(There is no real “Wendy,” by the way. I made her up. You can do the same, but please pick a different name.)

***

The best book trailer ever:



***

I started this blog six years ago with comments turned off, until somebody talked me into turning them on. They’re off again. Comments are so bourgeois. The aristocracy disdains of them and the proletariat has nothing to say anyway. I trust I’m making myself obscure. If you have something to tell me you can email me at

stephenparrish at hotmail dot com

Fabric, by Jessica Bell

Today I'm celebrating the release of Jessica Bell's new poetry collection, Fabric ... Wait! Please don't close the tab at the the mention of poetry! Trust me, just read a little note from the author herself before deciding to disappear ...

Jessica says:

My poetry will not baffle you with phrasing that scholars award for academic genius and that can only be understood by those who wrote it. My poetry is for the everyday reader. In fact, it is even for those who don’t like to read poetry at all. Because it is real, stark and simple.

The poems in Fabric are no different. They explore specific moments in different people’s lives that are significant to whom they have become, the choices they’ve made. It’s about how they perceive the world around them, and how each and every one of their thoughts and actions contributes to the fabric of society. Perhaps you will even learn something new about yourself.

So, even if you do not usually read poetry, I urge you to give this one a go. Not because I want sales (though, they are fun!), but because I want more people to understand that not all poetry is scary and complex. Not all poetry is going to take you back to high school English, and not all poetry is going make you feel “stupid”.

You can still say to people that you don’t read poetry … I really don’t mind. Because if you read Fabric, you’re not reading poetry, you’re reading about people. And that’s what reading is about, yes? Living the lives of others?

Are you still here? I hope so!

Please support the life of poetry today by spreading the news about Fabric. Hey, perhaps you might even like to purchase a copy for yourself? The e-book is only $1.99 and the paperback $5.50.

Here are the links:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Goodreads

Let's keep poetry alive! Because not all poetry is "dead" boring ...

About Jessica Bell:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. And not because she currently lives in Greece, either. The Australian-native author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist has her roots firmly planted in music, and admits inspiration often stems from lyrics she’s written.

She is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and co-hosts the Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop on the Greek Isle of Ithaca, with Chuck Sambuchino of Writer’s Digest.

For more information about Jessica Bell, please visit:

Website

String Bridge (a novel) 

Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop 

Blog 

Vine Leaves

Facebook

Twitter

Thinking About Quitting?

I repost this more or less annually. I intend more or less to continue.

When he was two years old his family moved to Knob Creek, Kentucky when their farm in Hogdenville failed to support them.

When he was seven his family lost its title to the Knob Creek farm and moved to Indiana.

His mother died when he was nine.

When he was 18 his sister died in childbirth.

At age 21 he followed his family to Illinois in an effort to improve their desperate financial circumstances. A year later they moved again.

At 22 he became part owner of a retail store in New Salem, Illinois. It failed.

He was subsequently appointed postmaster of New Salem, until the position was eliminated.

He was 23 when he first ran for the Illinois state legislature. He lost. Two years later he ran again and won.

The following year his girlfriend died.

When he was 29 he ran for speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives. He lost.

He became engaged to a woman he met at a dance. Her family convinced her to end the engagement because they disapproved of him. A year later the two reconciled and married.

His wife became, in the vernacular of the time, insane.

At age 33 he ran for his party's nomination to the U.S. House of Representatives. He lost. Two years later he won the nomination and was elected to congress.

At the end of his term, by prior arrangement, he did not receive his party's nomination for reelection.

He then sought appointment as commissioner of the U.S. General Land Office. He was not selected.

At 41 his three-year-old son died of tuberculosis. Ten years later another son, age 11, would die of typhoid fever.

When he was 46 he ran for the U.S. Senate. He withdrew from the race to prevent a split in his party.

Three years later he ran again. He lost.

His next bid for public office, at age 51, was for the Presidency of the United States. He won.

Glory

I played left field in Little League. For a single inning. The rest of the game—and season—I sat in the dugout. Which was okay, since the only reason I signed up for Little League was to get the t-shirt. “Bob’s Ranch House,” it said, referring to a restaurant in Henderson, Kentucky. It had a black logo on the front that was neither a ranch nor a house, more like a picture of a t-shirt. A t-shirt with a picture of a t-shirt. Advertising Bob’s Ranch House. Because Bob had donated it. The science of economics was simpler back then.

The reason I spent most of the season in the dugout was because I wasn’t any good. Everyone, even the batboy, could hit better than me. Hell, dead people could. It wasn’t until the end of the season that I realized I was supposed to swing at the ball whizzing past me. I thought the reason we stood there with a bat raised in the air was so that our moms could take pictures of us. My coach treated me fairly, I must admit: shaking off a turd stuck to your shoe is a fair way to treat the turd, to say nothing of the shoe.

Nevertheless, he had to play me once. You couldn’t make a kid sit in the dugout the whole season, especially when his parents parked on the other side of the home-run fence to watch him play. They could have sat in the stands, but the area beyond the home-run fence was safer, since no ball hit by our team ever went that far.

Bob’s Ranch House was the worst team in the division. And I was its worst player. There was a certain glory to bask in, I suppose, but all I knew at the time was that the coach was saving me. That’s what he said after every game: “You’ll get your chance, Stevie. I’m saving you.”

From humiliation, no doubt.

Come the last game of the season, our record was 0-18. The coach put me in left field. It was the bottom half of the ninth inning; he couldn’t wait any longer. “Stevie! Left field! On the double!” On my way out with the rest of the team I asked one of the other players, “Where’s left field?”

I did the same thing out there I’d been doing all season in the dugout: picked weeds and let them dangle from my mouth. My mom climbed out of the car to snap some pictures, and I couldn’t fathom why; I had no bat to raise in the air.

A funny thing was happening. The scoreboard said 4-3, Home vs. Away. We were the home team. I didn’t know why we were winning; the scoreboard said so, and that was good enough for me. I kept myself busy selecting weeds to dangle from my mouth.

If our pitcher ever threw a strike, it was the most freakish of accidents. At any rate, I never saw him do it. So the first three batters for the “away” team, Cedric’s Auto Parts, filled the bases with walks.

The next two batters inexplicably swung at what our pitcher threw, and struck out.

Spectators in the stands rose to their feet. My dad climbed out of the car and stood next to my mom. Bob’s Ranch House was within one “out” of winning a game, for the first time in its franchise. But the bases were loaded, and the best hitter for Cedric’s Auto Parts stepped up to the plate.

He delivered. A long fly ball. To left field.

I saw it coming. I hoped it wouldn’t hit me. But then I heard my mom and dad behind me, yelling, “Catch it! Catch it!” What the hell. I picked up my glove, which was resting in the grass at my feet, and looked up again. It was still coming. Had it been hit one foot to the left or right, it would have missed me altogether, resulting in an in-the-park grand slam.

I opened my glove, and the ball plopped into it. The game was over. I was carried off the field a hero.

Old-timers in Henderson, Kentucky still reminisce about the day. “That kid from Bob’s Ranch House, the left fielder, what was his name?” “Dunno. Had a mouth full of weeds, all I remember.” “The next season Bob changed the name of his restaurant.” “Yup. Didn’t want to jeopardize his 1-18 record.”

They say half of success is showing up. Standing in the right place helps too.

I can haz interview?

J.A. Zobair is interviewing me. Not in the present, of course. So I guess I should have said, J.A. (she doesn't have real names like normal people) interviewed me. In the past. Which makes it less interesting to narrow minded readers who are all about what's going on in the present. Not that she cares.

The interview has nothing to do with racoons.

The Feasts of Lesser Men

My novel The Feasts of Lesser Men is free for download from Amazon for a limited time.

When I joined the army I had the extraordinary good fortune to be assigned to the 8th Infantry Division (Mechanized) in Germany. At the time, the height of the Cold War, it was the largest military division in the world, with responsibility for repelling, among other things, a Soviet-led attack on Western Europe through the Fulda Gap. My fortunes improved when I was plucked out of the replacement detachment to work in the Plans office of the division headquarters, down the hall from Carl Vuono, who would later become Army Chief of Staff.

The NCOIC of the Plans office, and my boss for two years, was Clyde Lee Conrad, who was convicted of espionage and sentenced to life in prison. He died of a heart attack after serving ten years. Others in the office received sentences ranging from eighteen to thirty-six years.

The Feasts of Lesser Men is based on my experience working in this environment.

I began writing Feasts just as the Berlin Wall was falling and the Soviet empire was disintegrating. By the time I'd finished, the demand for Cold War era novels had dried up.

Last year I dug the manuscript out of the trunk and rewrote it, changing all the Cold War stuff to contemporary terrorism stuff, and halfheartedly pitched it to the industry. But it felt like asking a mellow old Cabernet to dress up as Boone's Farm.

So I changed it back. It's a spy novel, but not like any you've read before.

You don’t need a Kindle to read it; Amazon offers a variety of free reading apps, including Kindle-for-PC or -Mac. If you prefer a PDF file, simply let me know during the five-day free period and I’ll email one to you.

It's my desire to give away as many copies of Feasts as possible. I urge everyone within the sound of my voice to spread the word: for a handful of days, this book is free.