Minimum Opus: Short Stories

By Red Wassenich

This collection of 13 humorous short stories was written by the creator of Keep Austin Weird. This 75-page salmagundi ranges from buffoonish golf stories to poignant romance, all with money-back guaranteed laughs. Imaginary critics have incorrectly compared Wassenich"s writing to his favorite authors--Wodehouse, Thurber, Parker, Leyner, Ames, Bialystock and Bloom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Wassenich
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370510016

Red Wassenich

Red Wassenich is a librarian, who also has been an evangelist on Mexican radio and played a cadaver in the film "The Hunger." He created the phrase Keep Austin Weird and his book "Keep Austin Weird: A Guide to the Odd Side of Town" was published in 2007.

Book preview

Minimum

Opus

Short Stories

Red Wassenich

Copyright 2018 by Red Wassenich

Smashwords edition

This book is available in ebook or print editions.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

The author may be contacted at [e-mail]

These stories were written over the past thirty years. They are in alphabetical order, except for the final section, Back Nine Stories, which is explained there.

Also by the author:

Keep Austin Weird: A Guide to the Odd Side of Town

Nothing Before Something: A Novel

Keeping Austin Weird: A Guide to the (Still) Odd Side of Town

To Karen, fortunately, a long story

Contents

Customer Satisfaction

Dealphabetization

Kinship

The Long, Cold Shower

Semidetached

Success

Back Nine Stories

Paul B Has a Plan

The Unisex Championship

Mind Game

Miracle Off 38th Street

Spikes of Clay

T'was Tee Time at the Circus

Luck

About the Author

Customer Satisfaction

Hello?

Hi, is this Mr. Ralph Tra—

How many times did the phone ring before I answered?

Uh, I don’t know. Maybe six.

Really? That many? I was dreaming and—

Oh, gosh, I’m sorry I woke you up. But I wanted to tell you that you’ve won—

Don’t apologize. I was having this fascinating dream, and you’re waking me up let me remember it. In it I was—

This is Mr. Ralph Trataphoge?

Yes, of course.

Well, Mr. Trataphoge, my name is Brad Cranfill, and I’m happy to tell you that your name has been selected as one of our grand prize winners—

You’re one of the few people who has pronounced my name correctly the first time. I mean my last name, of course. Ha ha.

Well, actually I went to school with someone with that name. But to the business at hand. As one of our grand pr—

What was his or her first name?

What? Oh, uh, it was Trina, I think. Yes, Trina. She was a cheerleader. Boy, I hadn’t thought of her in a . . . but, Mr. Trataphoge, I think you’ll be overjoyed to hear that—

Was this in Illinois by any chance?

Um, no, Mr. Trataphoge. It was not. It was in Alaska, actually.

Alaska! Gad, I’ll have to add that to my list. Alaska! I’ll be darned. I’ve heard of Trataphoges in every state in the Midwest, except Illinois. You’ll notice I say ‘Illinois’ without pronouncing the ‘s.’ I read in L.M. Boyd that that’s technically the way to say it, although I grew up pronouncing the ‘s.’ Not many people do, about ten percent, I calculate. It’s from an Indian word meaning ‘man.’ But don’t ask me which tribe—

Mr. Trataphoge, please. If you’ll just let me finish. Our computers here at Bartola Enterprises have selected your name out of thousands of others to win one of our fabulous grand prizes: a brand new microwave oven! And to pick it up, we’ll take you and a guest out to our -new lakeside development, Pine Mecca, for a fun-filled weekend! How does that sound, Mr. Trataphoge?

Uh, well, Mr. Cranfill, what if I don’t have anybody to—you know—take along? Do I still win?

• • •

On advice from Brad Cranfill, the driver who picked up Ralph Trataphoge pretended to be deaf.

Ralph, ready for any eventuality, sat in the backseat, opened his massive backpack, and pulled out his Walkman. For the next two hours, he played Norwegian language tapes, repeating in the overly loud voice that people wearing headphones use, the banal phrases that form the backbone of everyday language. He unconsciously twirled his handlebar moustache and his nose hairs and his ear hairs.

The car turned off the interstate at the Pine Mecca billboard (which showed a thirty-foot long carved beaver wearing an Arab headdress amidst an elaborately painted forest). The development was named and the sign christened one week before 9-11. The developer couldn’t bear to tear down the $75,000 sign and change all the stationary, website, employee shirts, and related stuff, so he announced he was keeping the name as an act of defiance. Along with many other factors, it hadn’t gone well, as the many bullet holes in the sign showed.

What Ralph liked most about nature were those aspects for which he knew the Latin names, and he began to loudly rattle off the passing foliage, inexplicably to the tune of Camptown Races.

Catalpa bignoides, doo-da, doo-da,

Cnidoscolus texanus, all the doo-da day.

Sabatia campestris, Cleome houtteana,

Utricularia inflate,

Polygala ramosa.

The driver headed down the increasingly narrow road at increasing speed. Soon they came to the entrance gate to the resort. It was an elaborate construction of limestone with pine logs embedded spelling out Welcome to Mecca!

The first two hundred yards were nicely paved and lined with tall pine, dogwood, and azalea, but after a sharp turn, the road became a two-rut red-clay backroad. Scrubby hackberry trees and spindly pines competed with bogs of poison ivy. A smoldering pile of deadfall was being tended by a sullen throwback who leaned against his idling bulldozer and flicked his cigar butt at Ralph's passing car.

But Ralph didn't see, having just noticed his shirt was misbuttoned by a factor of two. He undid it and then decided to change clothes. Before he had left, he thought for quite a while about what to wear. Since he was a grand prize winner, there might be photographers who would get his picture while a pretty girl kissed him, so perhaps his dark brown suit was the correct dress. But, after, all it was a vacation resort, so maybe a short-sleeved white shirt with a turtleneck dickey and Bermuda shorts would set the right tone. He had decided on the suit but now felt the latter ensemble would be better. The driver recoiled at the blinding white of Ralph's none-too-solid flesh, which filled his rear-view mirror. Ralph donned the dickey quickly, then the shirt. But he made the mistake of trying to take off his trousers without first removing his shoes, large brogans. Though made of stretchable material, his pants became firmly lodged around his ankles. He rolled around on the backseat, frantically tugging at his pants, then trying to remove his shoes, bellowing like a walrus.

So involved was Ralph that he didn’t notice that the car had stopped, that Brad Cranfill had opened the door, or that a group of sniggering workmen had gathered. Cranfill stared into the car, his nightmare vision from the phone conversation come to life. It was tempting to just slam the door and tell the driver to leave, but he shooed away the workers and leaned into the car. Mr. Trataphoge! Please calm down. Let me help you. Cranfill grabbed one of Ralph’s pant legs and leaned back. Slowly the fabric eased over the shoe, like an arthritic stripper’s last performance. Here, let’s go inside where you can finish, uh, dressing in privacy.

Ralph, still with his pants wadded around one ankle, wearing briefs that sported a varied pattern of yellow and brown, peeked out of the car and surveyed the parking lot. He looked at Cranfill. No pretty girls?

No, I’m afraid not, said Cranfill,