Stories in the Key of Me

By Michael C. Keith

In the tradition of the of the classic short stories of Lydia Davis, Kurt Vonnegut, and Joy Williams, this singular collection explores the full range of human experience and behavior . . . both good and bad. At once compelling and provocative, Keith's writing takes the reader to places that only a truly vivid and original imagination could. Frequently disquieting in theme and plot, the stories within these covers invariably contain meaningful truths and lessons, and just as frequently do so in an uproariously humorous and deeply compassionate manner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Regal House Publishing
• Release date: Apr 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947548541

Michael C. Keith

Michael C. Keith is associate professor of communication at Boston College. A former broadcast professional, he cofounded the Broadcast Education Association's Radio and Audio Media division and is author of twenty books, including Dirty Discourse: Sex and Indecency in American Radio.

Book preview

Stories

in the Key of Me

New and Selected

Michael C. Keith

Regal House Publishing

Copyright © 2019 Michael Keith. All rights reserved.

Published by

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserve.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781947548534

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781947548541

ISBN -13 (mobi): 9781947548350

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019931628

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover images © by Shutterstock/Monash

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

The selected works in this volume first appeared in the following collections: Everything is Epic (Silver Birch Press), And Through the Trembling Air and Of Night and Light (Blue Mustang Press), The Collector of Tears (Underground Voices Press), Hoag’s Object (Whiskey Creek Press), If Things Were Made to Last Forever and Sad Boy (Big Table Publishing), The Next Better Place (Algonquin Books), The Near Enough (Cold River Press), Bits, Specks, Crumbs, Flecks (Vraeyda Press), Slow Transit (Cervena Barva Press), Perspective Drifts Like a Log on a River (PalmArt Press), and Let Us Now Speak of Extinction (MadHat Press).

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

–– Albert Einstein

Introduction

If someone reads one of my books and tells me how funny I am, I feel as though I have found the golden ticket. I also feel as if I’ve made a friend. I would rather be funny than smart. Maybe this is good because I am probably funnier than I am smart.

When I read Michael C. Keith, I also feel as though I have made a friend. His stories are quirky, original, slightly surreal, often moving, and immaculately written. He playfully blurs the line between fiction and memoir. And, he’s very funny.

One of his micro-fictions begins, He’s devastated to learn that his thoughts are not original. He’s had such a high opinion of them his whole life... It’s a writer’s incubus succinctly placed on the page like a welcome mat to a personal hell. This is how fiction functions, advance scout for life itself.

Another begins, I’m in another country, maybe not even of this Earth, and I don’t know what to say or how to act. This feeling of otherness, even if in the friendly confines of one’s own bathroom, pervades this selection. It is the eeriness of the everyday and it’s an eeriness that I can relate to. I guess that’s at the heart of what I want to say about Michael: I can relate to him. But I won’t be alone in this. You will relate, too. Sometimes you may feel that this uniquely original author has been visiting your personal woolgathering and walking away with some of your wool.

Let this preamble be a gate to the manifold pleasures of Michael C. Keith’s gardens. Enjoy…you will.

— Corey Mesler

Tony Bennett Sits on a Bench. . .

Two over from where I’m sitting in Central Park. It’s when I rise to leave that I notice him. He’s with an attractive blonde woman many decades his junior. I walk over and smile at the legendary crooner. He returns my smile, and I say, Hello, Mr. Bennett. How are you? He looks away without replying, his expression suddenly wooden…detached. I’m at a loss for what to do next. Perhaps repeat my question? Ask something else? His companion glares at me, and I realize I’ve encroached upon their public privacy. I feel rebuffed and embarrassed and slink away, berating myself for my audacity.

Going the Distance

There is something curiously boring about somebody else’s happiness.

–– Aldous Huxley

Miranda loved the coastline of New England, while her husband, Charlie, preferred the wide-open spaces of western Nebraska. After a relatively short discussion about where they’d spend their retirement years, an agreement was reached: Half of the year would be spent on the New England shoreline, and the other half of the year would also be spent on the New England shoreline.

After three years of quiet repose, listening to the sound of seagulls and surf, Miranda passed away. A week after her funeral, Charlie booked a flight to Omaha and then rented a car. Six hours later he reached Alliance, a small town located on the high plains of the far Midwest.

Shortly after arriving, he bought a modest house some miles from the town’s center. He felt he had finally fulfilled a long-time dream as he sat on his porch, watching the sun set on the unobstructed horizon.

In time, Charlie joined the senior center in town, and during a bean supper on a Friday evening, he met Sandra, a fellow septuagenarian. He fell in love with her and proposed. To his great satisfaction, she accepted, and they began life together in her larger house on the outskirts of the business district.

Life was better than Charlie ever thought it could be, until a revelation by his new wife on their first month anniversary caught him off guard.

I’ve always dreamed of living close to the ocean. Maybe right on the beach, confided Sandra. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel fulfilled unless I do.

Realizing that her deep-seated yearning would most likely have a negative impact on their life together, Charlie decided to take action.

Darling, you know I want us to be happy, so I bought you something I think will guarantee that, said Charlie, handing his wife an envelope.

Sandra opened it excitedly, but when she saw what was inside, she was confused.

"It’s a single one-way ticket to the East Coast."

Exactly, said Charlie.

Dark Things Rise from the Senior Body

The dull morning light seeps through the motel window. My wife does her stretches as I stagger to the bathroom to relieve myself. I catch my image in the mirror and discover that somehow in the course of the night a foot-long hair has sprung from my ear. I wrap it around my drooping lobe to show my wife. After I’ve emptied my bladder, I start to walk from the bathroom but am yanked backward and end up on my ass, a stabbing pain in my ear. When I stand, I see the wispy follicle slither across the floor, wend its way up to the sink, and slip down the drain. This is not the first time this has happened, and I think that getting old is an alien thing.

Rest in Peace

Renowned writer John Cheever has homosexual relationships and thinks he shouldn’t because he’s married to a woman and has two children. Overwhelmed by guilt, not long before Cheever dies he decides to avoid future gay encounters but falls in love with a young man called Rip. The irony of the letters comprising his new paramour’s name is not lost on his family and friends.

Acceptance

We live in a rainbow of chaos.

–– Paul Cezanne

My girlfriend and I rented a tiny bungalow at the end of the boardwalk in Atlantic City. The outside needed a coat of paint and the shutters were hanging at different angles than they should, but the inside wasn’t bad. The floors were uneven and there was a slight leak in the bathroom ceiling. But on the plus side, there was a small wood-burning fireplace in the kitchen and a built-in bookshelf in the front room where we put our collection of seashells and used paperbacks. Unfortunately, the bedroom window looked out onto the neighboring wall of a cement high-rise inches away.

We spent what was left of the first day at our new place sitting on the sagging front porch that overlooked the ocean and then turned in. Not long after, things started crashing down on the roof. The initial loud thuds shocked us out of our sleep. It was followed at measured intervals by several more jarring booms that caused us to run outside to see what was happening. As we stood on the sidewalk and looked up, another object was hurled from a window of the building that towered over ours.

Shoes! shouted my girlfriend. They’re dropping fucking shoes on our house!

As soon as the words rolled from her mouth, another pair descended onto the top of our squat digs.

Stunned and perturbed, I called the police to report what was happening.

Shoes? asked the officer.

Yes, shoes, I answered.

What type? he inquired.

Does it matter? I replied.

Maybe not…hold on, he said.

After a few moments, he spoke again, Well, I checked, and there’s no law against that.

What do you mean? I asked.

Dropping footwear from a tall building onto a smaller one constitutes no legal offense, regardless of the type of shoes, he offered.

We returned to the front porch and mulled over the officer’s response to our complaint. Then, we re-entered our new rental and slipped under the covers of our double bed. It took only a short while before we became accustomed to the crashing sounds and went back to sleep.

Making a Decision Near Tuscumbia

What we do ’bout dat Reb body out in da field? asked Jim.

Dem be da boys fightin’ to keep us slaves, said Hany.

Yeah, I knows dat, but he be dead and layin’ dere. Don’t seem right…do it?

It be right you workin fo da master fo nothin and git beat ifs ya looks da wrong ways?

We all gots ta answer to da Lord for what we duz, so maybe we do better than he do and git in Heaven.

Okay…git da shovel.

When the Best Action is No Action

I’m in another country, maybe not even of this Earth, and I don’t know what to say or how to act. Everything looks strange to me. So, I’m just going to sit where I am and do nothing. I think that’s the sensible thing to do. Besides, I don’t have any shoes on and there’s something that looks like razors all over the ground.

When Change is Mistaken for Improvement

Chloe Aubin was charged with restoring a painting by Northern Renaissance artist Jan van Eyck––not one of his more familiar works but one of inestimable value nonetheless. This work, like so many of his creations, depicted the Virgin Mary with her child. It was badly in need of reclamation, having suffered water damage to its poplar wood panels. The process of restoration was painstaking, and after eighteen months of labor, Chloe felt exhausted. She remained concerned, however, that she’d failed to do van Eyck’s Madonna justice. It was the eyes she felt she’d altered. They differed ever-so-slightly from the photograph she’d been using as her main reference. Yet to Chloe’s surprise, her colleagues hadn’t appeared to notice. I know it’s not my imagination, she thought. I’ve done something to change the Madonna’s eyes. Each day it became more apparent to her that she’d somehow defiled the classic work of the Netherlandish artist. Just finish what you need to do and move on. If your mistake goes undetected, then perhaps it’s so subtle you’ll get away with it, she told herself. After her final reparation, she informed her supervisor she was ready for a new assignment. Good, he said, looking closely at the rehabilitated portrait and smiling. We need you on another van Eyck. We love how you’ve improvised on the eyes.

Ever Ready

But there’s nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,

that moment of mystery.

–– George Eliot

My father fiddles with the on/off switch on his flashlight.

Crap! he grumbles, tapping it against the palm of his hand. Damn batteries are new, too.

The flashlight flickers on, its beam bright. Good!

He owns numerous flashlights. There is one within arm’s reach everywhere in his house. They’re very important to him, and I’ve never been quite sure why.

What are you looking for? I ask him as he casts the flashlight’s brilliant shaft out of his bedroom window like he’s done a thousand times before.

Just checking to make sure it works.

It’s his standard rejoinder to the question I’ve been