The Day the Muses Died

By Richard Segal

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger; I want to become very strong.
The Day the Muses Died brings together many themes and elements of my short stories, books and novellas, from special interests, lovers and friends don't you know, we pray when it counts, we tale-tell for show.
But wait, there's more. Aside from the poetry of life's true despair, a maxim or two and a vendetta to air. Not so much a journey but a recap for when we are older, recanted with flair and a fair wind blowing over our shoulder. The villains, the heroes, will they live to see the day? Read the book, you'll find out, the book, you don't say.
I'm so out of words, Ive tossed them all in, now or never choose verbs, may the best some day win. The Day the Muses Died you may find, represents one final perfect moment, frozen in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491885512

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

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© 2013 by Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/25/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8550-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8551-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Straight line no chaser no variation

Health and Safety

Rub a Dub Dub, Three Men in a Pub… Them Too

Seven Billion Stars

Peggy’s Hoboken

Snezana

Hung Up on a Dream

Grand Theft Nuh

Tolstoy’s Dream

What can I say about Gordon Corrigan?

Homes for Heroes

Sunrise as Muse?

Henry & Max

PART TWO

Adverse Camber

Courgettetc,

Shape Shifting

Bonus Corporativos, or, Seems Like Old Times

Not Case Sensitive

She’s a Waterfall

Dude, Where’s my Car

Bigmouth Strikes Again

No batter no batter, no batter no batter, batter can not swing!

The Tricycle Theatre

Sounds Like Good Beer Drinking Weather

Richard’s Revenge

We are Pleased to Present

The Summer Before Dark

Roth’s Party, or, Closer to Home

Tapestry

The Six on the Top

‘At Some Point’ Means ‘Never’

The First Chance Saloon

Reflections of Various People I’ve Seen at Filling Stations—a final interlude

My Favorite Game

How the Story Ends

The Day the Muses Died, by Richard Segal, is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, and actual events, organizations or locations, are intended purely to provide a sense of context or reference point. All remaining characters, places, names, incidents, dialogue and opinions are wholly fictional and their resemblance, if any, to real life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

To everyone

Is there gas in the car?

This was once my Untitled Three Month Project. My previous book, it took three weeks to write and two weeks to publish, including a long weekend, plus five days to wait for the first copy, but it was my 110-page novella, and therefore worth it.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I consciously resolved to shift my outlook on life and become a good person, when Chakra Gold replaced People Who Deserve to be Punched as my mainstay and urban bible. As I walked into an elevator one recent early spring evening, I sighted a BMOC I knew only by reputation. The skies had been darkening, but I was in a rush and neglected to bring my rain coat and umbrella with me, though the VIP was fully equipped. He made eye contact, signalling both that he knew who I was and that I’m jumping into the lion’s den if I go outside in shirtsleeves. I hesitated, because one of the three elevators was under repair and if I chose the ‘dry’ route, it would be a long time before another would arrive.

He glanced again, and when a senior executive does a double take to a more junior employee, the implications are clear, as though reputational issues would be involved if a staff member is witnessed walking in medium heavy rain without an overcoat or umbrella. I took my time walking back to the desk, because if I ran or otherwise rushed, it would merely signal a longer wait for an elevator with little to do but pace back and forth or twiddle my thumbs. I had no inclination I might ask one of the bosses to hold the elevator for me, because first of all a junior employee is not normally entitled to ask such favors and second of all, I should not be holding him up from his busy schedule. In addition, though, I should in some way pay for my shame.

However, when I did return, the elevator and the dignitary were in the same position as before, and this obviously surprised me, given my natural paranoia, my experience of people not waiting for me and consequently feeling invisible. He must not have known of me very well at all. Are you sure you wanted to do that? I nearly asked, but that might have been weird. He wasn’t sulking at my Slow Mo act, he wasn’t tense, impatient, staring at his watch, playing with a PDA or talking on his phone. He was merely holding the elevator doors open for me.

The clouds disappeared as quickly as they arrived, but I invented an onus to withdraw cash from the in-house ATM, because talking to the big cheese would have been too weird. However, from this moment on I resolved to be polite to people when possible, not keep a running tally of my evil stares, not mutter under my breath and wish I hadn’t discarded People Who Deserve to be Punched, any more than is necessary.

There is, though, plenty to get off my chest and what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I want to become very strong.

Straight line no chaser

no variation

He was right and I accepted the young woman was admirable. This was many years ago, so memory may render the story less interesting. She possessed the features a man could desire: prettiness, intelligence, a sunny disposition, sense of humor and the capacity to act well below her age, in the expectation you’d mimic her and get caught acting like a child instead. And oh yes, she even had a dopey ex-boyfriend named Kirby.

However, Lauren’s personality was like a straight line, I maintained, and he didn’t like me saying that. She never displayed emotions. The emotions had to rise and fall for her to be a real woman. He disagreed, but then one day someone played a prank on him, it might have been her and it might not have been, but it wasn’t about her. Therefore, one day I decided to test her resolve by asking a personal question and she flew off the handle. Problem was when I spoke to her I thought of someone else, when I looked at her I kept seeing someone else’s face. In fact, it happens a lot that I think of one person and I see another’s face. It’s OK if I like that person’s face, though, I can think of a couple now.

Oh my no one has she began in response and I can’t remember the rest but I haven’t spoken to her again and probably never will. Did I burn this bridge and did I burn it unnecessarily, for the sake of my friend, alter ego and main character? Yes, I probably did, but is it worth rebuilding? Probably not. It was inevitable that I would test her resolve not to get angry. She was not the kind of person to whom I could not say anything wrong. There are some of them and I know who they are. In our busy lives, how many countless people do we come across and of those, how many do we truly care about? One per year? Two per year? Hold on to them.

I like getting excited, I like my emotions and everyone should. But how to stop from getting overexcited and to avoid saying stupid things when overexcited? After all, the period of overexcitement might last just ten minutes. That ten minutes can ruin a life, my life? My true regrets in life? Those ten minutes. I didn’t know where this chapter was going, it was not how I intended to write it, about how I don’t appreciate people who are too even tempered but like all good chapters, I let it write itself. Yes I know, talk is cheap, but this is no attempt at cheap sentimentality, one for the masses, this chapter is for real and if any of you out there want to rebuild bridges, I’ll take the first step. Let me sleep tonight, the first decent night of the ages and remind myself that we were sincere after all.

If people could read my mind, half of them would want to stick to me like glue, whereas the other half wouldn’t want anything to do with me, depending on which half they glimpsed. Let me begin by saying I know a lot of individuals, but let me reassure you I’m not going to tell a story about each and every one of them. I, however, not by coincidence ran into YSK—no relation to the SBI who jokes that we always seem to run into each other ‘at some or other event where alcohol is involved’—in the street yesterday and he asked if I was going to . . . but he stopped short when I named a different seminar, and he wouldn’t tell me. I sneakingly suspect, though, that it was where I had just been—and if he’d known the Loose Cannon would be at my presentation. Separately . . . because unlike last time I remember the adventures Peggy scoured and sourced for us, I’m going to tell a story about her.

I am a voracious reader, but not of books and not because they take too long, but because I prefer my drafts. I know, the word ‘better’ is in the eye of the beholder, but I’d rather read a phrase such as ‘how are you today—I’m stressy today’ that I’ve conjured in anticipation of how a native German speaker might begin a conversation with a new acquaintance than any self-styled profound text from an English master. The Continental classics? Depends on the translator.

The horror is gone, the depression has faded, but I’m in a holding pattern, so I can’t promise to be funny, I can only promise to be truthful. May it hurt others who haven’t done what they were supposed to. May I not care if I unmask middle managers for their slovenliness and force them to repeat the words ‘round the outside, round the outside’ for eternity while an Anatolian plate spinner looks the other way.

I unearthed a negative epiphany during a 62 hour insomniathon and horrified myself. How many mea culpas must I offer the world before it will let me breathe without interruption? I wasn’t asking for the right to put the genie back in the bottle, I was asking for the right to breathe freely. It may sound strange, given my oft weakened state, but I’d have been able to rescue others from their emotional trauma if asked and in fact, this might have snapped me out of my funk, but no one asked. But in fact, that genie has been out of the bottle for a long time. I just didn’t realize.

I could write dialogue, but I couldn’t