Richard’S Eleven

By Richard Segal

It is often said that childhood maketh the man. Maybe or maybe not, but its definitely good source material for amusing stories. From characters such as pre-teen lumberjack in science class and aunt who doesnt believe she will age beyond 29, to Richard himself, an accidental insomniac, who was destined for a career as stand-up comic and newspaper humorist, after half a career gathering anecdotes in a nine to five job. As could many of us, given the absurdities of it all, but theres plenty of time to think and compose when youre awake half the night.

A short summer assignment brings him to London where he has to cope with, you guessed it, more freaks and despair, as he tries to escape into his local pub's paperback selection. However, he can't quite get comfortable in his own skin, at all. Was he born that way, or did something set him off? Richard's Eleven calls to mind top selling books dealing with depression, but this is how he'd have doodled one of them, shorter and to the point.

This is a spiritual journey arguably better to watch than to live, but can mass transit be passive aggressive and can depressed people be funnier than normal people? Read on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481796965

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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© 2013 by Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

Richard’s Eleven, 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.

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 05/28/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9695-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9696-5 (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

The Bunsen Burner

Breakfast of Champions

You You You You You!

I’m Sorry, Who the Fuck Are You?

Twenty Nine My Ass

Me Daughter

Here Ye, Hear Ye, or, Skip Ad

Road to Rivne

When the Cat’s Away the Cat will Play

Calling all Toasters

Zero Degrees of Separation

Noblesse Oblige

Talking the Talk after Walking the Walk

The Cultural Importance of Mountain Dew, in My Part of America

Flow Back

There is no Second Chance

Long Road to Salvation

Days on the Water

52 and a Half Pushups

Mea Culpa Time

Requiem for a Vodkathon

Previously by Richard Segal

The Russian Economy

Crash, Burn, Hurricane

Trilogy Year

Hitting the Tenspot

Nectar of the Lavender

Cookbook for a New Europe

The Great Art Deco Chase

Three Days in July

Return of the Drama Prince

The Victory Walk

There’s Too Many People to Thank

I had the fine pleasure—anon

The Bunsen Burner

I was sitting in the front of Mr. Fulton’s class next to JD, not because I was a goody-goody, but because it means the story takes no embellishing, as you’ll see in a moment. It was mid-winter and the heating system wasn’t working well enough. Hence, I began to rub my hands together, blow on them, put them under my thighs, anything to keep warm. From a couple rows behind, Bomarrian spotted my behavior and perceived it to be odd.

Richard. Whatcha doing? Are you playing with yourself? he asked.

I could have supplied any truthful answer, such as my hands were fucking freezing, but I was a quick witted eleven year old. No, Bomar, are you?

Except I said this too loudly, and Mr. Fulton overheard. None too observant himself, especially when he was preparing a science experiment, but I spoke too loudly.

What’s the ruckus, Richard? he asked. Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?

No, I claimed, blushing. I then thought better. Bomar was just giving me a tip on… and then I thought better again. Bomar saw that I wasn’t paying attention and told me to because this is gonna be a goo-ood experiment. Bomarrian, this son of an Armenian nobster airlifted into our small town to establish quaint bakeries and burn them down for the insurance money upon orders from the Armenian-American power brokers in Pelham, had a first name, but everyone called him Bomar, including his parents. I don’t think his father abused him, mentally or physically, but he was a tough guy and there was always an undercurrent, a strong undercurrent. Moreover, the older brother successfully escaped the family trap—through drugs that is—and therefore Bomar was always the recipient of the elder evil eye. Until the instance the insurance company smelled a ruse and wouldn’t pay and Mr. Bomar was called back to New York. Strange, ugly and true activities, but never let it be said that Armenians can’t bake.

I felt bad for Bomar, because I knew his situation was no win. He’d be scarred by his birthright for years. He lived in a nice house, of which he was proud when very young, but it didn’t take long for other kids on the playground to explain that the Syndicate financed it. He was the last to know what had been whispered around him for years. Was he brainwashed, was he self-censoring or did he, like the rest of us, merely believe what he wanted to believe? Bomar aside, when we believe what we want to believe, is it the right thing to believe?

We were attack hyenas one and all in the sixth grade and if you think I’m joking, we renamed dodge ball kill the guy with the ball. No set up was too trivial to exploit and I still recall the afternoon at recess I was sucker punched from behind. My lungs had been punctured and I couldn’t breathe the rest of the afternoon, and although I could sense Davie watching me from the corner of my eye the next three hours, I refused to show any emotion. No psychological victory for either of us, but if a pyrrhic victory, it was his, later that day, when I declared tko over his prediction in front of the cool kids that I was gonna start bawlin any secon.

Alone, I expressed my anger over Davie’s behavior and inability to respond in any way immediately by finding a secluded section of town wall and pounding my fist against it, repeatedly, until I could pound no more, and screaming until the neighbourhood pets and other animals began to flinch. Even then, nobody wanted to see me angry and I didn’t want anybody to see me angry. My reputation then as would be always was as a straightlaced and nice young man, someone who would grow into a straight-laced nerd, which wasn’t true and I didn’t like it, but it was preferable to anyone witnessing a tantrum of mine, a real tantrum, because it would have been dangerous and there would be no turning back. So what is Davie doing now, pain’din’ houses?

As a result, I was always willing to cut Bomarrian some slack. Not that I felt very bad for him, but rather that enough people teased or slapped him around and he probably heard it all before. Not so for JD and Mr. Fulton, whose science experiment went awry from the moment he tried to light the Bunsen burner with a flint and once, twice, three times, it wasn’t happening.

Hey, Teach, JD shouted, want a match? He dug out a matchbox from the pocket of his lumberjack shirt and offered it to Mr. Fulton, who doubled as basketball coach and knew JD had a smoking habit. JD laughed a grin that he thought was an evil grin, but it was more like smarm. Was Mr. Fulton embarrassed? No, nobody in the room was embarrassed and no one in the town would be embarrassed if he’d observed the stunt except JD’s father, who’s probably still rolling around in his grave.

OK, so the conceptual framework of this madcap experiment was to begin with a beaker of colored liquid to Fulton’s left, in this case blue, but once it passes through a series of tubes and coalesces into liquid again in a beaker to his right… the liquid’s clear. But wait, there’s more. Who can spot this difference? Only me, it seems. Where does this blue dye go? Does it evaporate or does it stick as microscopic particles to the inside of the tubes? Well it can’t evaporate, because the tubes form a closed system, which was the extra credit part of the quiz, which I also won, but only because I had the ringside view, in Fulton’s opinion.

Where is he now, this part time basketball coach and teacher of science experiments which proved a mystery to everyone but one? I always wondered why he was selected by the basketball coach nominating committee ahead of the PhysEd teacher who strutted—indeed, a Junior High PhysEd teacher who strutted and urged on the popular kids during his round the baseball diamond races lest they lose to a normal runner ‘like Richard.’ I suppose ignorance is bliss, and they’re living happily ever after in semi-retirement, selling insurance or manning the front of another small town convenience store. I was never ignorant, in fact I knew too much about items such as these unmatched incongruities and perhaps this was one source of my pre-teen malaise. Once, these teachers drove compact cars, not because they were economical, to be ahead of the fashion or to make a statement, but because