Pickled Bananas and Other Schwartz Stories

By Douglas Schwartz

Pickled Bananas is a collection of fourteen, quirky short stories from the mind of Douglas Schwartz. These "Schwartz" stories explore various random topics:

Glove Box of a UFO - When an alien ship crashes on his family's farm, a young boy takes it for a joyride.
13th Floor CVO - A young man sets out to break a curse that is destroying every company that employs him.
What Happens in Vegas - A man proves that what happens in Las Vegas should not stay there.
Sleepless Blues - An overworked superhero has a breakdown in a diner.
Damned was the Money Tree - When a man receives a money tree for a housewarming gift, he finds it hard to spend his cash crop.
The Next Master Plan - Satan tries to thwart God's Next Master Plan as they both live in disguise in suburbia.
Silent Partners - The puppet of a mute woman falls in love with an imaginary friend of a thirty-something man.
The Inside Joke - The story of three friends and the slang they've built up over the years.
Pickled Bananas - When a young woman's parents become cursed, she must save them by collecting ingredients for the ultimate sandwich.
Lobster's Guide to the Flip Trip - After his girlfriend dumped him, a man receives help from a lobster keychain to win her back.
The Dark Acquisition - Years after meeting the 13th Floor CVO, the man must unravel the mystery of why his company is hitting more hard times.
Together, Without Sleep - A mother saves her daughter with the help of the family's sleep disorders.
Dealing with the Devil - Purchasing souls is costly, and Satan must figure out why his bank account is dwindling.
A World Taken Over - A mad scientist finds it hard to give up control of the world he has accidentally taken over.

Not every story has a moral, but they are sure to make you think, laugh, and appreciate life's little quirks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Schwartz
• Release date: Jun 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986055423

Douglas Schwartz

Douglas Schwartz lives in Austin, TX. During the day, he provides software quality assurance. He also volunteers with Austin Summer Musical for Children as a board member, script chair, program designer, and website administrator. Not only does he write fiction, he designs table-top games and puzzles for his hobby company, Pegamoose Games. When Douglas writes, it is usually crazy early in the morning. When he is not writing, working, or volunteering, he spends his free time with Julie (his wife) and their two children. His superpower is the ability to get things done while no one is watching. Also, he is a Time Traveler who prefers to travel through time in chronological order.

Book preview

Pickled Bananas and other Schwartz Stories

Douglas Schwartz

Copyright © 2014 by Douglas Schwartz

v1.0

August 2014

ISBN—978-0-9860554-2-3 (eBook)

ISBN—978-0-9860554-3-0 (Print)

www.checkeredscissors.com

Published in 2014 by Douglas Schwartz

Copyright © 2014 by Douglas Schwartz

All rights reserved. This book, including text and cover art, may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

Cover art by Douglas Schwartz

Glovebox of a UFO

The weatherman predicted a cloudy night with a slight chance of rain. The Farmer’s Almanac stated the annual meteor shower was not expected until next month. Neither said anything about UFOs falling from the sky.

The family sat around the kitchen table with heads bowed in prayer. A light breeze blowing through the open kitchen window played with the curtain and cooled the supper spread across the kitchen table. Anyone walking by outside would have smelled the heavenly supper waiting to be eaten. Susie Mae, buying more time before the inevitable eating of vegetables, carefully blessed each item of food and drink. She was mid-prayer for the gravy when the craft touched down.

In the movies, when something falls out of the sky and crashes on a farm, pictures rattle off the wall, dishes vibrate out of their cabinets, and the whole house generally ends up a mess. The only thing that spilled was Bobby Joe’s milk. He tipped it over while sneaking a piece of chicken when they heard the crash. Imagine the amplified noise a three-sectioned, aluminum foil sofa makes when it smashes into a sand castle. That would approach the sound that interrupted the Davis family’s dinner prayer.

What the Hell was that?! Bobby Joe asked.

Whack!

Ow! What’d you hit me for? Bobby Joe said, nursing the knuckles of his thieving hand.

"For your language, and for sneakin’ food during Susie Mae’s blessin’," Ma said, shaking the wooden spoon at her son.

The boy’s right though. I don’t know what the heck made that noise, Pa said.

Ma didn’t see Bobby Joe’s smug, told-you-so look. She was looking at Pa and shaking her spoon for his borderline usage of the word heck. Pa pushed back his chair and stood up.

What do you think you’re doin’? Ma asked her husband

Corn don’t make a noise like that, Ma. I’m headin’ outside to look around.

Can I finish my blessin’? Susie Mae asked.

Yes, Ma said, waving her free hand toward the child.

Where do you think you’re goin’? she asked Pa.

…And thank you for the mashed taters, and the lem’nade… continued Susie Mae.

Outside. That’s where the noise came from, didn’t it?

Supper’ll get cold, Ma said. "And, where do you think you’re going?"

Goin’ to help Pa, Bobby Joe said, scooting his chair back and pulling on his shoes.

Ma gave up. Bobby Joe could be as stubborn as her husband. She and Susie Mae would eat supper while it was still warm ― assuming it was still warm after Susie Mae’s prayer. Pa and Bobby Joe could go to heck. Susie Mae finished her blessing, saving the roasted chicken for last. Ma thanked her daughter for the wonderful prayer, kissed her forehead, and began serving their two plates.

Pa and Bobby Joe stood at the edge of the cornfield and stared at the wreckage. Wreckage was an overstatement. Some of the corn stalks, which stood barely a foot tall at this time of the season, were bent over and broken in a wide line behind the craft. The craft hardly dented the soil beneath it. Bobby Joe was surprised the crash made any sound at all.

The craft looked shiny and new, as if it was recently flown off the lot. The vehicle’s body was sleek and metallic like a straightened, silver pickle. The plinks of cooling engine parts whispered from somewhere inside.

What do ya s’pose it is? Bobby Joe asked.

Maybe one of them satellites like your cousin Jake talks about. He works with them folk down at NASA, Pa guessed.

Maybe it’s a UFO! We c’n get our picture in the paper for this! Bobby Joe said. His pulse raced at the thought of bragging to his friends, especially impressing Emma Jean, his steady. Bobby Joe started back toward the house for his camera when Pa stopped him.

Now hold on. We ain’t doin’ none of that. First thing we’re gonna do is call the government, and have them clean up this mess. More’n likely, it ain’t no UFO, but some flyboy’s plane. C’mon. Our dinners are gettin’ cold.

Pa put his arm around his son’s shoulder, and the two headed back to the house.

After dinner, Ma listened to her oldies while she cross-stitched a quilt for the church bazaar, Susie Mae played with her dolls, Bobby Joe cleared the dishes, and Pa phoned up the government. Pa knew not to phone the police department. That would mean a sure ticket in the upcoming weeks for interrupting their weekly poker night. Instead, he dialed the information desk for Fort Plunket, the local military academy. A recording informed him the Fort Plunket information desk was presently closed, and would be available the next day between 9 A.M. and 5 P.M. He dialed a 2 which forwarded him to the guardhouse for emergencies.

Fort Plunket guard house. Private O’Brien speaking, barked the young sounding soldier over the phone line.

Howdy. This here is Joe Davis. I’d like to report a crash on my farm.

One moment, sir, while I transfer you to Public Relations, barked Private O’Brien.

Pa rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. Bobby Joe had dried the last of the dishes and snuck off to the other room to eavesdrop from the other phone.

Captain Reese curtly answered the phone.

Yes, this is Joe Davis. I’d like to report a crash on my farm, Joe repeated for Captain Reese, the PR representative.

What kind of crash would you like to report, sir? Captain Reese sighed in a manner suggesting anything other than this phone call was more important. More than likely, Private O’Brien would do extra pushups in the morning.

Well, sir, I don’t rightly know. We were sittin’ down to dinner. Susie Mae was sayin’ the prayer wh- Pa started explaining before the captain interrupted him.

What kind of crash, sir? the captain asked, boredom in the conversation increasing.

I think it might be a satellite, but my boy thinks a UFO crashed in my cornfield, Pa said.

First of all, sir, there are no satellites scheduled for A.R.D.

What’s A.R.D.? Joe asked.

Atmospheric Re-entry Demolition. The government pays millions to put satellites in orbit, but disposal is completely free...unless it hits a civilian. The object you’re reporting didn’t hit anyone, did it?

No sir. Not unless you count corn as people, Joe said.

The captain cleared his throat and continued with his second point.

Second, sir, the government denies any existence of UFOs. There are no such thing as flying saucers. Good night, the captain abruptly hung up the phone.

After the initial shock of rudeness, Pa cussed up a streak longer than the one across his cornfield. Ma shielded Susie Mae from the onslaught of curses by shooing her off to her room.

Ma tried to calm Pa down. Calming him down was a feat similar to taming a bull after it has been snapped by a wet towel. Bobby Joe entered the room.

Hey, Pa. If the government don’t want that ship, can I have it? he asked.

Don’t you go near that thing! Pa said, stomping around the living room.

Aw, Pa! Bobby Joe protested.

Go to your room! Pa ordered, face turning redder than the sunset out the window.

Bobby Joe went to his room and sulked. His room overlooked the edge of the cornfield with the crashed ship. The metallic skin of the craft glowed orange, then red, then purple in the setting sun. He sat in his windowsill and stared at the ship. He tried taking pictures, but doubted they would show up well—even with the flash.

Within minutes after the sun had set, he saw the first signs of movement from the fallen object. Doors on either side of the ship opened, much like a couple of car doors. Two lanky, humanoid beings stepped out and stretched. They looked like a vacationing couple taking a break at the next rest stop.

The lights from the house did not illuminate the cornfield, but the craft’s overhead light was enough for Bobby Joe to see some of the aliens’ features. They looked and dressed like a couple of rich, spoiled, college kids. The only thing alienish about them were their thin limbs and bald heads.

One of the aliens walked around the ship to the other side. The two discussed something, then walked away from the wreck and away from the farmhouse. They paused. Then, one of the aliens scuffled back towards the ship. It opened a door, leaned in for a moment, came back out, shut the door, and caught back up to the other alien. The two aliens walked away from the ship in a somewhat westward direction.

With the aliens gone and under the cover of night, Bobby Joe swore he would get a closer look at that craft. He waited for his parents and sister to fall asleep. He hoped he had enough time to check out the ship before the aliens returned, or worse, before his Pa woke up.

Waiting for everyone to fall sleep was like waiting for the corn to grow. The grandfather clock downstairs struck eleven, and the family had finally settled into their beds.

Bobby Joe quietly slid the window open and snuck down the drain pipe—the same stealthy means of escape for midnight make-out sessions with Emma Jean. Only once had he been caught sneaking out at night, and Pa yelled at his boy for being stupid enough to climb the old drainpipe. On the other hand, Pa wasn’t observant enough to realize Bobby Joe had reinforced the pipe with braces that could be used like rungs of a ladder.

Bobby Joe crept through the shadows of the farmhouse and out to the cornfield. Standing among the adolescent crops, he was highly visible under the glow of the rising moon. His Pa had been in a foul mood since the phone call. Bobby Joe would be whupped into next week if he was caught doing what he was doing.

The aliens, or at least the alien who returned to the ship, forgot to lock the door. The door opened easily without squeaking hinges or the whoosh of a vacuum seal. He was a little disappointed by the plainness. Not even an activated alarm, warning of his proximity to the vehicle.

The door may not have been too shocking, but the craft’s interior took him by surprise. The interior had that new-car feel and smell to it. Bucket seats of polished leather. Pristine, carpet floor mats. Seat belts. Even the scent of new spacecraft perfumed the air.

Bobby Joe slid in behind the wheel. Despite the second gearshift, the vehicle had the look and feel of a sports car. The bucket seats felt comfortable. The windshield was transparent from the inside. From the outside, it was the same metallic sheen of the rest of the body.

He snooped around the rest of the vehicle for any sign of extra-terrestrial detail. A few discarded wrappers from the Spuckey’s fast-food chain littered the backseat floors. He’d never heard of Spuckey’s, but the wrappers didn’t seem unusual or unearthly. Another Spuckey’s wrapper, with something scribbled across it, lay tucked onto the dashboard. A couple of florescent dice beneath the rear view mirror orbited each other by no means of support.

Whoa! Look at the cup holders! Bobby Joe said aloud, admiring the 50-ounce drink holders.

This don’t look like no space ship. Maybe there’s somethin’ cool in the glovebox.

He pulled the latch to the glovebox. Papers and a paperback book slid out of the compartment onto the floorboard. Bobby Joe flipped through the sheets of paper. The printed characters were loopy and jagged, but understandable. Bobby Joe couldn’t read the print, but something in his brain clicked so he could understand the meaning of the symbols. One document looked official, like it was a transfer of title. Another was similar to the insurance card Pa had for his truck. Both documents were made out to one Kraun Splog. He set the papers in the compartment and picked up the book. Flipping through the book, he realized it was the owner’s manual for the vehicle.

A grin spread across his face, much like a mad scientist with a new toy of destruction. He swatted the hovering dice, spinning them into a wild and wobbly orbit. He left the craft, shut the door quietly behind him, and crept back to the house.

Up in his room, Bobby Joe sat at his desk and read through the owner’s manual. You would think an owner’s manual of an alien vehicle would be difficult for Earthling’s to read without an advanced degree in linguistics. Three of the five languages in the manual were non-Earth languages; the other two, remarkably, were Japanese and English.

Congratulations on the purchase of your new Lem’Ela Nyolar, the manual read, At Lem’Ela, we pride ourselves in constructing the best, most reliable cruisers on the market. At Lem’Ela, we hope you find coasting between heavenly bodies comfortable and affordable. With our patented Extended Travel Biostasis (ETB) and Polymatrix Guidance System (PGS), interstellar travel is effortless…

The manual rambled on for pages about the additional features available for the Nyolar series of interstellar cruisers. Bobby Joe was more interested in the pages that followed. The remainder of the manual, including the appendices and glossary, contained detailed designs for operating and maintaining the Lem’Ela Nyolar. Bobby Joe read and reread the manual until the demands of sleep pulled his eyelids shut.

Bobby Joe! Breakfast is ready! Ma called up the stairs.

Bobby Joe awoke hunched over his desk in a pool of his own drool. Not even during final exams had Bobby Joe been so interested in a subject he had studied until he fell asleep at his desk. Still wearing his clothes from the night before, Bobby Joe had the notion to change before heading downstairs.

Okay. Be there in a minute, he called back.

Bobby Joe stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over his own feet. Susie Mae giggled with a mouth full of scrambled eggs.

Late night? Pa asked Bobby Joe.

Couldn’t sleep. Ya know how it is. I was all excited thinkin’ ‘bout that ship, Bobby Joe said.

Ma rolled her eyes, and said, I’ve heard enough about that thing, what with Pa’s ranting.

Pa ignored Ma’s comment. You know, son, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said last night.

Thinking out loud, you mean. You should have heard him in bed, muttering under his breath about the government not cleaning up their own messes.

Bobby Joe wanted to hear what Pa was about to say. About what, Pa?

Pa hesitated, not knowing what size can of worms he was about to open with his proposition. He asked, You still want that thing?

Do I?! Bobby Joe said, excitement replacing his drowsy insomnia.

Alright. I’ll make you a deal, Pa said, After breakfast, if you can get that thing out of my corn, you can keep it.

Bobby Joe leapt up, gave his old man a hug, and turned to go upstairs to get his shoes.

"I said, after breakfast," Pa said.

Bobby Joe sat at the kitchen table and gobbled down his breakfast. Susie Mae made quiet pig noises from across the table.

Slow down, Bobby Joe. If you get yerself sick, you won’t be goin’ anywhere, Ma said. Bobby Joe ate at a more reasonable pace.

"Is that really a spaceship?" Susie Mae asked.

Yeah, Bobby Joe said, They came here to figure out how ice cream’s made. See, they don’t have ice cream where they’re from. They come to Earth and slaughter our cows tryin’ to learn how to make it!

Susie Mae’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

Uh uh! Ma! Susie Mae said.

Bobby Joe! Quit teasin’ your sister, Ma said.

Bobby Joe grinned the rest of breakfast, partly for teasing his sister, but more for thoughts of his new Lem’Ela Nyolar interstellar cruiser.

After breakfast, Bobby Joe fashioned a sled from a length of rope and an old canvas cover, then attached the sled to the tractor. He carefully pulled the cruiser into the barn. He spotted Susie Mae in the pasture counting cows, guessing she made sure all the cows were safe.

By lunchtime, the ship was removed and the damaged portion of the cornfield was plowed. Pa was so impressed with his son’s initiative and efficiency that he kept his promise and allowed his son to have the crashed ship.

Bobby Joe used the rope and canvas to cover the ship. He shut the barn door behind him, as he and Pa walked to the house for lunch.

What are you goin’ to do with that thing? his Pa asked him.

Maybe fix it up and fly it, Bobby Joe said, still grinning since breakfast. That grin said more than his father realized.

After lunch, Bobby Joe was in his room reading more about his new Nyolar cruiser, when he heard a knock at the front door. It was unusual to have unexpected guests in rural areas.

Pa answered the door. A man in a dark suit with dark sunglasses stood on the porch. Ma looked nervous. The last time someone official visited, something terrible had happened to one of the neighbors. Bobby Joe was nervous for a different reason. He was sure the man arrived to take away his fun.

Howdy. Can I help you? Pa asked.

Yes, sir, said the man in black, I’m here to follow up on a report about a fallen bogey. In other words, a UFO crash.

Funny. The man on the phone last night said there ain’t no such thing as flyin’ saucers.

That’s right, sir. Flying saucers don’t exist. May I ask you another question?

Yup.

May I ask what happened to your cornfield?

Don’t know. Somethin’ must a got into the corn.

The man stared at Pa. Pa stared at the man in black. Bobby Joe stared from the stairs at both of them.

The man smiled.

Thank you for your time, sir. Sorry to trouble you, he said. He walked down the porch steps, back to his car, and drove away.

Pa shook his head, and muttered, Pfft. Government.

Bobby Joe sighed with relief. His Nyolar cruiser was safe.

Bobby Joe made plans for his new cruiser. Big plans. All afternoon, Bobby Joe added modifications to the Nyolar. He found an old can of spray paint in the storage shed and added blue flames down each side of the cruiser. He took speakers from his room and improved the cruiser’s stereo. He stopped by the local junkyard to get a rear spoiler and a musical car horn, too.

His final modification was what he called a rumbler. The Nyolar did not make as much as a hum while running. When he flew his new cruiser, he wanted the world to know. He took an old lawnmower engine and amplified it. It wasn’t quite what he was hoping for, but it would do for now.

Bobby Joe planned to arrive in style for his date with Emma Jean. He told her on the phone he got a new cruiser and he’d pick her up at seven. Emma Jean was excited and asked Bobby Joe dozens of questions about his new wheels. Bobby Joe refused to answer and repeated that it was a surprise. She was surprised at what he drove up in. She had not expected a sleek, silver craft (with blue flames down the sides) hovering inches above the driveway.

Be back later! Emma Jean called. The screen door squeaked closed behind her.

Have fun, her father said, not looking up from the evening paper.

Emma Jean cautiously climbed into the cruiser. No sooner had she sat down and fastened her seatbelt, when Bobby Joe had the Nyolar accelerating and ascending at a nauseating speed.

Bobby Joe! You put this spaceship down this instant! she cried, clutching the dashboard.

Relax, Emma Jean, he said with sly smile.

He pulled the gearshift, and the cruiser accelerated. Trees and farmland melted into green blurs. Despite the excessive speed, the Nyolar’s cabin and bucket seats reduced any motion sickness for its passengers.

B’sides, Emma Jean. It’s not a spaceship, it’s a cruiser.

Staring at the floating dice below the rearview mirror, Emma Jean asked him, Is this really yours?

Sure, baby. You think Pa would own somethin’ like this?

Emma Jean couldn’t argue with that.

Whose spaceship is this really? she asked.

I told you. It’s not a spaceship. It’s a cruiser.

Okay. Whose cruiser is this?

It’s Kraun’s

Who’s Kraun?

Kraun’s gone, baby. Kraun’s gone.

At that moment, several hundred miles away, Quentin Tarantino winced in discomfort, shook it off, and continued his conversation only skipping one beat.

Meanwhile, back on the farm…

Kraun Splog and his friend Melvin returned to the scene of the crash. Kraun’s Nyolar was nowhere to be seen.

Kraun stormed up to the Davis house with Melvin trailing close behind. Pa answered the door. By the looks of the two men on his front porch, Pa could only assume they were here to pick up what was rightfully theirs. He explained his son had taken it for a spin, but he shouldn’t be too long. Kraun was upset about some punk kid joyriding in his new vehicle. Pa said he was upset about some punk kids damaging his crops. Coming to a mutual agreement of being upset, Pa invited the two inside to wait. Kraun and Melvin enjoyed a couple glasses of sweet tea and a few rounds of dominoes with Pa and Ma to pass the time.

Susie Mae sat near the back window. She kept one eye on the aliens and the other on their cows.

Not too much later, Bobby Joe returned home. Emma Jean had enough of flying for one lifetime.

Kraun, Melvin, and Pa went to the front lawn to confront Bobby Joe. Kraun was stunned at what he saw and heard coming from his Nyolar.

What the flork did you do, you little znit! he yelled.

Pa gave a frown of disapproval at what he assumed was Kraun cussing, which Melvin replied with an apologetic shrug.

Bobby Joe got out of the cruiser. Kraun continued to yell at him.

Why did you take my cruiser? Didn’t you see my note saying we’d be right back?

I can’t read your handwriting, Bobby Joe said.

"It is kind of sloppy, Kraun."

Shut up, Melvin, Kraun said. Look at my new Nyolar!

Hey. These mods will only increase its value, Bobby Joe said in his defense. You ought to thank me.

"I ought to probe you!" Kraun said.

Now calm down you two. Maybe we can come to some agreement about your cruiser and my crops. Pa said.

And my mods! Bobby Joe added.

Hmm…yes, those, too.

Over another round a sweet tea, the four came to an agreement. Kraun got his cruiser with the modifications Bobby Joe made. Kraun gave Pa a hydrator to repair his crops. The hydrator was an artificial watering mechanism that takes hydrogen from the sunshine and oxygen emitted by the plants and forms water in a safe and environmentally friendly way. To reimburse for the improvements, Bobby Joe received an electro-wand key chain. An actual electro-wand is used for cattle mutilation. The one Bobby Joe received was a key chain replica.

Cool, Bobby Joe said. A light saber!

Aw man, Melvin pouted. "I liked that key chain."

Don’t worry, Mel. We’ll stop by Spuckey’s on the way home and pick up another one, Kraun said.

Those flames are pretty cool. Don’t you think, Kraun?

Shut up, Melvin.

Kraun and Melvin got in the Nyolar cruiser and disappeared into the late evening sky.

The next morning, Bobby Joe moped around the kitchen. He was disappointed