Twisted Shorts

By Irene Tritel

The popularity of short stories dates back to the days of glossy magazines; think Vogue, Saturday Evening Post, Bazaar, Vanity Fair, and certainly, The New Yorker.

Although in recent years the short story has taken second place to the novel, [narrative non-fiction and flash fiction somewhat filling the void], with the prevalence of the K

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tritel Communications
• Release date: Jan 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780982805336

Book preview

TWISTED SHORTS

___________________

A Collection of Short Stories

by Irene Tritel

Copyright © 2015 by Irene Tritel

 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the author is prohibited.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN:  978-0-9828053-2-9

Text in Trebuchet

Cover and book layout by Bethany Lund

Story illustrations by Bethany and Eva Lund

DEDICATION

Rah, Rah, Rah

For the Bronx Team...

Charlotte, Dora, Jeanie, Julie, Lois, Marion

1926-2015 and still counting!

________________________________

Not that the story need be long,

but it will take a long while

to make it short.

-Henry David Thoreau

    A BYRD BY ANY OTHER NAME

I could have avoided all that trouble if only I had remembered to turn left instead of right. I thought I might have been given the wrong directions, so I honked my horn at a passerby and asked where Courtyard Manor Hospital was.

Oh, it’s just another block or so. You can’t miss it, she pointed.

Sure enough I soon came across the three-story brick building that looked more like a college dormitory than a hospital. At 8:00 a.m. the parking lot was almost empty and I was able to pick a spot where my two-year-old limousine would least likely be damaged. I gently maneuvered my six-foot frame out of the vehicle, trying not to awaken those old football injuries. But at sixty-five my knees crackled like caramel popcorn and I had to stand quietly for a few seconds until the rest of my bones fell into place.

The lobby was friendly, the colorful walls and flooring less generic than larger hospitals. A grey-haired woman cheerfully greeted me, her glasses resting more on her chubby cheeks than on her nose. I brought my face closer to the volunteer badge pinned to her blouse ... Cynthia.

Hi, Cynthia, I said. I’m here to pick up Mr. Byrd.

Mr. Byrd, she repeated, pecking away at the computer keyboard. Hmm. I’m afraid I don’t see a Mr. Byrd, but give me a minute. I’m sort of new at this computer stuff. What did you say your name was?

I’m Bruce Primo. I showed her my card, PRIMO LIMOUSINE SERVICE. Mr. Byrd’s granddaughter sent me to pick him up.

Well, I still don’t see a Mr. Byrd on the list, but you know what? Why don’t you go on up to the second floor and ask the shift nurse? She’ll probably know who you mean.

Thanks. I hated elevators so I walked painfully to the second floor. The nurse’s station was just opposite the staircase and I walked a few paces to her desk. Hi, I introduced myself. I’m here to pick up Mr. Byrd.

Mr. Byrd? Unless you mean Mr. Swallow, we don’t have a Byrd here.

Maybe Mr. Byrd is calling himself Mr. Swallow these days, I joked.

She looked at me, not really getting the connection.

You know . . . Swallow? Robin? Canary?

Oh, I get it, she smiled. I didn’t know he was being released today.

He’s not being released. I’m only taking him out for a few hours and then bringing him back. His granddaughter is getting married today up at Green Meadow Park. The whole family will be there, and since I’m a close friend of the family, I volunteered to pick him up. I showed her an authorization signed by Marcia Byrd.

How nice of you, she said. I wish there was a limousine service in our family.

Well, don’t hesitate to call PRIMO whenever you’re stuck, I said, handing her my card. Will it take long to get Mr. Byrd ready?

You’re so funny she giggled. It’ll only take a few minutes to get him dressed. He can’t see too well since the eye surgery. Are you sure Dr. Conley approved this?

Well, I know his granddaughter spoke with the doctor. They both agreed it would lift his spirits to be at her wedding. I’m bringing him back in a couple of hours.

About twenty minutes later, Mr. Byrd shuffled in led by the nurse. He was wearing sweat pants, hardly appropriate for his granddaughter’s wedding, but I figured they’d have another outfit for him at the event. He had a patch over one eye and wore dark glasses. He peered at me.

Do I know you? he asked as I steered him to the elevator.

I don’t think so. I’m just good friends with your granddaughter.

I don’t think I have a . . .

. . . So here I am, at your service, Mr. Byrd.

Swallow, he said quietly.

Much as I hated elevators, I could see that getting Mr. Byrd down the staircase would be a problem, so we took the elevator to the lobby and I waved to volunteer Cynthia as I led Mr. Byrd out the front door to the limousine.

When we arrived at Green Meadow Park, the wedding party gathered around the limo with anticipation as I opened the passenger door.

Marcia Byrd, beautiful in her wedding dress, looked closely at Mr. Byrd.

Oh, my God she shouted. This isn’t my grandfather!

Wha -- what do you mean? I stuttered. This is Mr. Byrd.

Swallow, he whispered.

I went to Courtyard Manor Hospital as you directed.

Courtyard Manor Hospital? she shrieked. No, no, no. Courtyard Manor Assisted Living on the north side of the highway. I told you, turn left at Courtyard Avenue. What have you done?

I think I picked up the wrong Byrd.

Swallow, he said quietly.

And that’s what I did.

BODY ARMOR

Many years ago, somewhere between the inquisition and the terrorist attacks of September 11th 2001, a well-known national company developed a latex product originally meant for men only. However, preliminary tests indicated that when moistened either by sweat, seminal fluid, urine, or otherwise, the product was difficult, if not impossible to remove. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had been invested in prototype production. The Board of Directors was now hard put to answer to their stockholders. They extended a challenge to their designers to develop a product which could be easily adapted to the equipment already purchased to manufacture the product. A very hefty bonus was offered as an incentive. [The winning designer’s name was Torquemada].

Hence the advent of the Hold-It-All Girdle. For modern day thinkers, imagine Spanx wrapped in duct tape.

***

On a sweltering August day in New York, when no amount of deodorant or preventative could keep a circle of sweat from appearing under your arms, a beautiful ripe Jewish seventeen-year-old named Devourha ascended the subway stairs on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue.

An incompetent nurse had misspelled the name on her birth certificate; her poor immigrant parents never understood why she was not called Devorah according to the bible. In elementary school, teachers seemed particularly amused when pronouncing her name, stressing Devour and whispering ha, making it sound like ‘devour her.’

Thus the judge understood when, eventually, she changed and shortened her name to Devy. Unfortunately, this also had its misgivings, melding into Davy, Deevy, Duvie, etc.

***

Headed toward her first job interview at a prestigious gentile law firm, McDonald, Baird, Christenson & Goldin [with an i instead of an e], someone jostled Devy on the top step of the subway and she fell to her knees. Immediately her nylon hose disintegrated and melted into the concrete. The whites of her legs showed brilliantly through the dark jagged circles at each knee. Tentacles of ripped hose, running hither and thither, emanated from the torn openings.

In the late 1940’s it was considered inappropriate to wear anything but a skirt suit when applying for a job. This was before the invention of panty-hose, when thick gage nylons were attached to a girdle with garters, thereby accomplishing two things: the garters prevented the stockings from slipping down and the girdle from riding up.

Devy’s dilemma was this: if she removed her stockings the rubber girdle would ride up. It would surround her waist and sit there like a tire, her breasts hanging over it like hub caps, her full bodied hips and ass revealed in all their gory — um — glory. She worried that in the middle of the interview, the girdle would roll up inch by inch, taking on a life of its own, defiant, unforgiving, punishing. It clung to her body like a boa constrictor.

Having little choice, Devy opted for removing both.  The girdle would be a challenge. God help you, once you pulled it on, [which could take the better part of an hour], getting if off took an infinite amount of patience, first a pull on one side, and then the other, like removing a band-aid from your belly to your groin a little at a time.  If you had arthritic hands, this could become a lifetime endeavor. Also, picture flabby flesh folding joyously over your fingers as each section of the girdle unleashes a layer of fat not meant for human viewing.     

Devy searched for a restaurant where she could use the ladies room. Not only did she have to remove the girdle and stockings but, now, she had to pee. In New York there is no place to pee. You can’t just walk into a restaurant and head for the ladies room. Employees are trained to block and tackle. Nevertheless, Devy approached SKIP’S COFFEE BOUTIQUE.

Uh, Miss, can I help you? The waitress knew from past experience and from Devy’s body language, i.e., crossed legs, that she had but one goal. She held out her arms blocking the aisle which led to the bathroom. What can I get you? A cup of coffee? A bagel? Oh, you want the ladies room? Sorry, it’s only for customers.

In a move which would be appreciated by professional football players, Devy punted, pushed the waitress aside and sprinted to the restroom.   She locked the door and took care of priorities: girdle off, stocking removal, urinating. She threw the girdle and stockings in the trash bin, washed her hands, straightened her skirt, unlocked the door and prepared herself for a confrontation with the waitress – or the police. She thought, if they’re police, what are they gonna do? Arrest me for peeing?"  Head held high, she ignored the waitress’s dirty look, walked out the door and proceeded to her interview. Needless to say, she didn’t get the job.

That evening when the janitor made his rounds at SKIP’S COFFEE BOUTIQUE, he scratched his head and rolled his eyes as he emptied the trash bin in the MEN’s room.

CORNELIUS

Here’s what I know about dumpsters – before ya get into one ya better make sure you can get out. AND, more importantly, ya gotta know when the trash truck comes because while you’re chowing down on late night leftovers, the dumpster truck can steal up on you and you’re history.

I just escaped from a detention facility. It’s where they take you when you’re homeless.  They come after you with a net and scare the shit out of you and there’s a good chance, if no one adopts you, you’ll be terminated . . . put permanently out of commission – as in D-E-A-D!

I’m what you’d call a street person; I make friends easily because I’m really cute. But I’m cautious, too, and particular who I cuddle up to. I made a really great friend once. He was a veteran from the Viet Nam war. Everyone called him Big Time. Yeah, I thought it was odd, too. But, honest, that’s what they called him. I think he had a really prestigious job years ago, like he was an important suit, or something. But I met him on the street where people were putting money in his cup. We looked at each other and it was love at first sight. He emptied the coins from his cup, reached into his cart and pulled out a water bottle. He poured the water into the cup and put it down for me. I’m telling you, it was a real life-saver. Then he picked me up, looked me in the eye, and said, Cornelius, if you want to come with me, you can – or you can go on your way.  I have no idea why he called me Cornelius, but, who could refuse an invitation like that?

I found out later, that Cornelius was the name of his buddy who died in his arms in Viet Nam.

I’m telling you, Cornelius, he said.  I hope you never have a good friend die in your arms because you never forget it.

Well, I knew all about that ya see. I had a great buddy once just like him, who looked after me no matter what. I’d get into all kinds of trouble – I ate his shoes, peed on the rug, kept him up all night at times, barked all the time. Of course, this was when I was young and maybe a teen-ager. But my buddy just hugged me and made me understand not to do those things.

Yeah, my buddy also died in my arms. I used to sleep with him every night and in the morning I’d lick his face; he’d roll over, groan and say, Okay, I get the message, you want to go out!

One day I kept licking and licking, but he didn’t wake up. I stayed with him for a few days until someone finally came. I heard a few conversations about, What’ll we do with the dog? So that’s when I got all my experience in the pet center – if you wanna call it that!

After I met Big Time, I’d still go wandering, though - because, you know, I’m not a trusting person.  I like my freedom and I can take care of myself. I’ve been around the block a few times, if you know what I mean.  But, like Big Time, I couldn’t seem to find a place where I fit until I ran into him. We were soul mates.

One of these days I’m going to have to stop grieving for my buddy and get back into the real world, he said, sad as a naked Christmas tree.

I knew what he meant about