Great New American Short Stories

By Desmond Scott Rubinstein (ed.)

Sit back and relax with a cup, a jug, or a glass of your favorite beverage while you enjoy reading each of these thirty sparkling short stories from some of the finest freshman English students around the country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532011801

Desmond Scott Rubinstein (ed.)

Melville House is proud to again sponsor publication of the winning entries of the prestigious William Henry Oerter Literary Prize for Short Story. Popularly known as the “WHO,” the prize was created by the late distinguished editor at Brown & Shue, Desmond Scott Rubinstein (pictured) to nurture the potential creative writing talents of freshman English students. The WHO was named in honor of the late William Henry Oerter, the brilliant young professor of humane thought at Mundane University. With so many outstanding entries, Mr. Rubinstein recommended the prize en masse to all thirty entrants. At the awards ceremony in early April, each winner will receive a framed certificate of completion (with distinction); a specially commissioned friendship bracelet with attached WHO medallion (see cover), and the optional shot glass of Grand Marnier at Terry McGuffey’s Lower Manhattan (just ask anyone). Friends, bystanders, and literary agents are all invited to mingle with the awardees until. William H. Melville Syosset, New York August 1974

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Copyright © 2017 Tom Blair.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1179-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1180-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/28/2016

Contents

Finder’s Keepers

Click

A Strand of Pearls

I’ll Keep It Short

Quorum of One

87 West of San Angelo

Good Neighbors

The Beta Version

The Wrench

Horrorween

Crushed Notes

The Easement

A Carnation for Chloe

One Week in West Texas

Run the Table

All Roads Lead To

The Last Time I Saw Renee

PAGA

The Other Woman

The Escape

The Hazing

Among Equals

Lost and Found

5-MPB

Anyway,

The St. Valentine’s Day Manicotti

Bermuda Triangle

The Laugh Artist

The Rocket in the Pocket

Charles Foster

Official List of Winning Entries

Finders Keepers – Harry Hoyt

I’ll Keep It Short – Cliff Barker

Click – Max Bishop

A Strand of Pearls – Mary DeGrazia

Good Neighbors – William Hartman

Horroween – Ferguson Jackson

87 West of San Angelo – Kenny Clarke

The Beta Version – T.P Galloway

Run The Table – Mario Novello

A Carnation For Chloe – Nigel Conover

Crushed Notes – Cicely Renshaw

Quorum Of One – Wayne Krauss

All Roads Lead To – Maria Bixio

The Other Woman – Ralph Canfield

The Hazing – Art Hornsby

Among Equals – Terence O’Keefe

5-MPB – Abby Epstein

The Wrench – Douglas Slidell

The Escape – Ruth Eddy Chadwick

The Last Time I Saw Renee – Ken Fischer

The Laugh Artist – Horst Spielmann

The Easement – Murray Klein

A Week In West Texas – Jim Bob Cooley

Bermuda Triangle – Dorothy Adler

PAGA – Franck Klammer

Lost And Found – James Knox

Anyway – Charles Munschin

The St. Valentine’s Day Manicotti – Gene Falcone

The Rocket In The Pocket – John Mellon

Charles Foster – George Criswell

Atlantis Unleashed* – Peter Potamus

Missive From Rabat* – Ben Ali Mahmoud

The Sauna At Anita’s Place* – Helga Swenson

*Publisher’s Note: Will appear in addendum to the 1973 edition

Finder’s Keepers

W hat? Fifty-three thousand! And fifty cents!

I was worried about my fingerprints, so I recounted the six neat bundles with my eyes. The two quarters stared back up at me like two accusing eyes: I had no business here. Pay down the mortgage. Pay off the credit cards. But just as I had come up for air snorkeling last week off Aruba, I took a deep breath and realized I had the wrong suitcase. Exact same style, color, grip. Except for the money, which was in place of the dirty clothes and tennis shoes I threw in.

Why couldn’t it have been a paper bag? Finder’s keepers. But this! Crisp hundreds; wrapped; scary; traceable. Could get killed. That’s what flew past my conscience like a vulture at high noon, blotting the sun for a chilling instant. Maybe for a million. Not this. I didn’t like those lifeless metallic eyes shining back at me. I closed the suitcase. Inflation or not, those two quarters reminded me of the pennies on a dead man’s eyes.

It was hot. At the sink, I splashed cold water on my face and neck. In the mirror, I remembered the airport luggage carousel. Reached for my bag and a firm hand jumped out on top of mine.

I believe yours is over there, she said.

Who was I to argue with a blonde in a beige pantsuit, Fabrizio Otoni sunglasses and reeking of Chanel No. 5? At least, it wasn’t airport security like the last time. A tight smile. In a hurry. I was in her way. And that air of certainty that confirmed my guilt for taking an extra week of vacation.

Ah, my mistake. I had had such a good time on the island, what difference did it make, anyway? What’s to lose? Some dirty clothes and local maps.

I grabbed the one next to it. Same one. With plenty of suitcases flying around, there’s plenty of look-a-likes.

I walked across the motel parking lot I had crossed many times before on vacation and looked back over my shoulder at the two stories painted the shade of desert sand with a nice vertical double stripe of cerulean blue up to the roofline. I always liked the place.

In the office, I called the airport lost-and-found to see if mine had already been turned in.

Hey! Slow down! said the desk clerk at a car racing past the door. These people who can’t wait until the last minute to catch a plane.

Yeah, I said. I don’t fly until tomorrow.

Lucky guy, he said.

Yeah. Lucky.

On the way back to my room, I thought maybe I should wait a bit longer. What’s the rush? I never put my ID on my bags, anyway. So many passengers. So many flights. Might as well consider the suitcase a paper bag by now.

I pulled the suitcase from the closet and placed it at the end of the bed. Closed my eyes and pushed the tabs to flip open the locks. Just like mine.

The odor of musty clothes and tennis shoes hit me before the note under those two metallic eyes staring up at me again.

Sorry. This one is yours. Keep the change.

Click

T hese days, one only needs to aim, click and shoot. That’s what a popular advertisement encourages, right? The click can be from a camera shutter or a gun. They’re just different forms of expression. Let’s be frank and modern-thinking about it. Family portraits and mugshots are part of the social spectrum of joy and sadness. Whether it’s a camera or a gun, a well-placed headshot usually does the job to someone’s satisfaction. Of course, getting in the way of a high-velocity round is deadlier than posing for an 8x10 glossy, although an avid photojournalist, who believes the pen mightier than the sword and often makes a living by character assassination, will tell you differently. A snapshot from any one of dozens of cameras available at the store could result in the subject dying as slowly and painfully as from a gut shot or terminally ill patient figuratively bleeding to death over onto the second page of the local newspaper or National Inqu irer .

Danny Valentine adjusted the tripod to refocus the telephoto lens. From three hundred feet across the Stardust Motel parking lot, he prepared to shoot state senator Bob Walker right between the eyes; or, more precisely, between his testicles as he moved naked across the room toward the woman on the bed. She wasn’t the senator’s wife, who paid Danny five hundred dollars for the hit job that would ruin her husband’s bid to become the next state governor. She told Danny she had paid enough and was cashing in what was left of her patience after twenty-five years of marital infidelity. By the way, she found Danny at a wedding reception the previous week; so she must have been fairly anxious to consummate the contract.

Valentine had already gained notoriety in the trade for bagging a number of personalities in the limelight; mostly blackmail, extra-maritals, kickbacks. He carried out most of these gigs moonlighting from his day job as a society page photographer for weddings, ribbon-cuttings; even the annual Boy Scout jamboree. Sugary, harmless stuff.

At Northwestern, he dropped out of reportage and the byline business in his junior year to focus on a degree in photojournalism. Danny had always had a camera around, even as a small child. When he was eight, he snapped mom and dad one night going at it under the covers. The flash interrupted something and his old man smacked his rearend. During target practice on the weekends, he and some classmates challenged each other to some friendly competition to shoot a roll of twenty-four exposures of the most provocative incidents they could find. They called it their papparazzi workshop. Danny often said, Hell, people don’t read anymore anyhow, and a picture’s worth a thousand words, expecting the viewer to fill in the blanks, eventhough he regarded each exposure as live ammo that could maim or kill someone’s reputation, if not lead to thoughts of suicide.

Valentine, better watch yourself out there, advised one of his teachers.

What?

You can flatter people or mess up their lives. That camera around your neck can also be an albatross.

What’s that mean?

I’m just telling you to watch your step with that thing. You’re carrying around an unlicensed weapon.

All right. I get it.

Sure you do. If you’re after some big money and fame by exposing the rich and famous, you may well be the one getting framed or having your photo credit on a marble slab.

Danny turned around and restrained a chuckle at the classroom door. You’re serious, aren’t you.

Danny placed his eye into the sight of the telephoto lens. Perfect. He sat in the chair and pulled out a ham sandwich.

Five years had passed since graduation. Then three years for the Post-Tribune working the social circuit of charity events and high-profile weddings. Not enough money for the two-bedroom apartment he wanted, even with tips on the side.

There he is. Taking off his clothes. She’s smoking in the bed and waving him over.

Then he jumped to the Evening Standard for an extra two dollars an hour and a crime beat. His professor was right: after shooting the mayor’s wife fooling around with a city councilman at a local motel, the city editor threw out the negatives, saying I want to keep my job.

But this is great stuff, boss. The camera tells the truth.

Valentine, we’re in the entertainment business, not the truth business. He let Danny go after six months.

Danny finished the sandwich, drank a cup of coffee from a thermos and crouched over the gunsight, as he called it to make his commission.

Things got exciting following his third free-lance gig. He received five thousand and a late-night broken jaw for ten exposures of a tryst between the local TV sportscaster and the weathergirl for the other network.

Danny checked the telephoto lens. Two birds with one stone, he whispered.

There was a knock at the door.

Jack, he said. Come on in, buddy, and close the door. You can put the pizza on the table.

This would be the shot needed to destroy Bob Walker’s bid for governor, if not Walker himself.

Shush!

Now, shush could mean be quiet, or keep your mouth shut, or mind your own goddamn business, or--, but Danny wouldn’t know this, because by the time he turned his head fifteen degrees to the right to say thanks to Jack, the shot had long since passed the silencer and exited through Danny’s left eyesocket, putting a spidery hole in the sliding glass balcony door.

A Strand of Pearls

B ob walked along the avenue of crowded shops and sidewalks filled with windows of sparkling enticements and an exciting assortment of women on his way to work. It was the morning rush hour and these gals bore the look of grim determination to punch the office timeclock before the boss came snooping around. His eyes glistened with moisture, as it was a breezy morning in May. He wiped his eyes with a tissue from the breast pocket over his heart, and he stepped out of the stream and wondered for a moment just why he had done so. From under the awning of a jewelry store, he gazed at the younger ones whose bountiful blouses, curvaceous slacks and dresses, leggy strides, swirling perfume and flowing bobbed hair and full lips gave him pause to sigh with that old familiar desire to make their acquaintance—all of them. It was a compulsion he felt ever since he could remember and gave a strange and exciting sense of lustful hope that carried him through the days of his life. He watched them cross and jaywalk at the intersection, oblivious to the cars and buses racing past.

Bob had just turned sixty-five and was at that crossroads of desire where he was a step slower, grayer around the temples and often out of breath. The chase now originated not so much from his trousers as from his head, but he would be the last to confess that his younger male competition had any advantage over his experience with women and a certain je ne sait quoi and savior faire he possessed; but those French phrases he learned in college were part of the defense he preferred as he stood there and privately conceded the hunt was now more cerebral. One of his pals at the office had been telling him recently that it was all a state of mind anyway, to which Bob would nod his head in agreement but sequester with jealousy the opposite opinion with an intrusive, Well, talk to you later.

A threesome of laughing, distracted young women brushed his shoulder with oblivious nonchalance, pushing his perspective toward the window of baubles. He wanted to say ginch or quail or some other epithet from his lexicon of female synonyms, but one of them turned around to excuse their wayward excursion.

Forget it, he replied and waved good-bye to them.

Turning to face the music, as he used to call it, another young woman brushed aside his shoulder again.

I’m so sorry, sir. I’m late for work.

Bob winced at the way she emphasized, sir.

It’s all right this time, he joked.

She was young enough to be his daughter, he thought; but that didn’t stop him from watching her enter the jewelry store and head for the Employee’s Only door. Bob shook his head, rubbed his shoulder and wondered what guy was going to nail her later that night.

With thirty minutes before he also had to cross over to his mid-town office, he returned his attention to the array of pearls glistening in the window. He gazed at a double strand dangling from a black velvet neckline display and began counting the pearls one-by-one for no apparent reason other than to kill time and, perhaps, the reality of his recent sixty-fifth birthday as a bachelor.

Oh, hon; let’s do it again tonight (Jane)—Well; when, then?(Alice)—I’ll tell mommy if you don’t do it, you brute (Diane)—Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh(Sandra)—Where did you get that big thing? (Joan)—Don’t stop don’t stop (Martha)—That hurts! (Ginny)—My place or yours? (Brenda)—He’s gone for the weekend (Betty)—Where did you learn to do that? (Karen)—Wait! Let me get on top (Rebecca)—I bet you say that to all the others (Claire)—Come! Come! Come already! (Delores)—More to the left (Monica)—Did you shave today? (Rhonda)—Tie me up, but not too tight (Sarah)—Hurry and put it on (Patty)—Ouch! That’s better (Carol)—Que grande! (Maria)—Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t! (Simone)—Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh (Linda)—We could do this all night (Paula)—Just call in sick, ok! (Natalie)—You’re not married, are you? (Ruth)—Hit me with everything you got (Tess)—I’m getting dry; hand me the cream (Trudie)—Wow! (Jennifer)—Push harder! (Laura)—Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! (Candy)—Where do you get so much energy from? (Heather)—I’m done with the sauerkraut; let’s have the Polish (Gina)—I’ve never done this before (Valerie)—Turn over! (Anne)—If you’ve got the bratwurst, I’ve got the buns (Danuta)—Keep it in longer (Bonnie)—Don’t pull out now (Vickie)—I told you I was worth it (Sally)—Take it slow; slower (Cathy)—Now you got it all over my dress! (Debbie)—Not that one; the other hole (Terri)—Give it to me give it to me give it to me (Monica)—Grab my hips! (Loretta)—Surprise! I shaved this morning (Nancy)—My tongue is too sore (Chloe); Bareback, for once (Denise)—Over there, in the closet (Tina)—c’est ca c’est ca c’est ca c’est ca (Claudine)—God that was wonderful (Margaret)—Fifteen minutes is plenty of time (Kathy)"

Hmm! A strand of fifty, as he looked down at his wristwatch. Time’s a-wasting.

Bob took a deep breath, smiled and walked into the store. Ten minutes to go before he had to cross the avenue to his office. He noticed the young lady who had bumped into him earlier, strangely causing him to pause and reflect on the time of the day and where he had so-to-speak been in his mind for quite a while with the opposite sex.

Can I help you, sir, she said, then quickly followed with, Oh, hello again. I hope I didn’t bruise anything.

Bob chuckled, smiled and said it was nothing. Just my ego, he added with a tilt of his head. She was a bit homely for his taste, yet he couldn’t figure out why he was attracted to her.

She asked again if he was interested in anything in particular. I saw you noticing the pearls in the window. Aren’t they beautiful.

Actually, would you mind showing me a few rings?

Wedding rings? she asked in a typical, hopeful smile with which he was well-acquainted.

I’ll Keep It Short

I ’ll keep it short. So much has already been written about it.

This was back in the end of 1929. It was a time of great uncertainty, and people got down on each other in ways more shocking than the stock market crash in October of that year. Millions of investors took it in the rear as the positions they had gladly assumed for pennies became marginalized into thin air. Suckers—all of them. Although there was a lot of muffed diving, quite a few desperate ones successfully cashed out by jumping from the certain return of a ten-story window of opportunity. Others got their heads blown off. Marriages built on lust and bank accounts fell apart. Even farm animals had to watch