Strata Various

By Bruce Bentz

Anna Forthright, an intelligent, attractive woman works in a Government "think tank", which is beset with difficult problems that evade its collective methodologies and intelligence. Anna discovers an author whose ideas are so "wing-nutty", that he might be just the antido

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Branding LLC
• Release date: Dec 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639452149

Bruce Bentz

A former Canadian University professor of Design, Bruce Bentz, draws from his many interests in Fine Arts, Design, Architecture, Literature, Films and Psychology to find humor in the ordinary and outrageous aspects of human behavior and brings them to light in various written forms. His initial impassioned intentions to travel the world and holdup in exotic places, while enjoying their rich cultures and cuisines and motivated by the struggle to be understood while ordering adult beverages, he would resort to his native tongue and self-imposed isolation to write productively. That didn’t work out. He still travels, although less often and to less exotic places, but continues writing. Currently living in the Midwest his written adventures come from the States, Canada, England, Mexico and Romania, to name a few. Some are set in the Garden of Eden, the Rockies, and the shadow of Castelul Bran. Others originate in the author’s auto-erratic imagination. His recent novella – Strata Various is set in the Midwest, London, Washington, D.C., Tucson, AZ and on a sunny subtropical beach. Also by the author – Whip Up – poems, In Between (sort of a novel), Loose Ends and Frayed Knots – short stories, and Under the Ice – a novella.

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Praise for Strata Various

"A truly outrageous collection of surprising solutions to curious problems drives the humor in this playful, viable story."—Strange but Quirky.com on Strata Various

"The author of Under the Ice reveals how many Virgins can a martyr manage? And how many Angels can dance on the head of a pin? Sexy and provocative." —You Asked.com on Strata Various

"Can an outsider survive in and light up a low wattage D.C.? Finally, a refreshing, lateral thinking approach for those who work hard and are little appreciated." —The Capital Knobbiest. com on Strata Various

"The author at his satirical jest, makes fun to our credit, while tickling the Packer's G SPOT and playing with words [e.g., Strata Various – any of the socioeconomic groups of a society. Differing one from another; of several kinds.]" —Play William.com on Strata Various

"An assembly of entertaining shaggy blog-like non-sense rises to the level of common-sense novella material and makes it—triumphantly. Three loud cheers!!!" —The Appraiser.com on Strata Various

"Can't ya, don't ya, won't ya mama let ya?"

Get off the table Mable, those two dollars are for beer.

Head for the Round House Nelly, he'll never corner you there.

I'll never ever forget what's- her-name. —The F.C. Round Table.com on Strata Various

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Bruce Bentz

Strata Various – A Novella

Bruce Bentz has formerly taught industrial design at the University of Alberta, Canada. He is the father of two daughters and the grandfather of two granddaughters. He has returned to the Midwest, where he goes for coffee, talks with friends, runs errands, cooks dinner, does the laundry, looks out the window and watches birds and the occasional deer wonder why he's looking out of the window, works out elliptically at the Y, and is encouraged by the dedication and determination of others. He is regularly refreshed by the sauna where he thinks about writing. He takes the occasional trip to see friends and family, which fuels ideas worth sharing.

This novella is set in the Midwest, London; Washington, D.C.; Tucson, AZ; and elsewhere.

Also by the author: In Between (Sort of a Novel),* Loose Ends and Frayed Knots – Short Stories,* and Under the Ice – A Novella.*

*From which several snippets have been borrowed for Strata Various,

because they were worth repeating.

Correspondence: [e-mail]

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In loving memory of Jutta Anna Bentz

You mean so much to me.

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Acknowledgements

I have numerous people to thank for their help:

The always high-spirited and positive Kat de Falla, editor extraordinary Paul Marose, and fellow members of Writers on the Run for their kind criticism and encouragement.

My readers, Mike and Marion, for their candid and very much appreciated feedback.

My valued technicalassistants: Laurel, Dave, and Tia.

Bruce Bentz

Wisconsin, October 2021

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Paper or Plastic?

UNTHINKING, UNFEELING, SADLY MECHANICAL, I pull up to the ATM, unholster my bank card, and insert it into the automatic teller's slot. I know exactly which buttons to push, and she loves it. As always, she's performance perfect today, opens her mouth ever so submissively, and spits out my life-force which she's been holding safe. My hard-earned cash. I thumb-flutter the bills past my ear. They're just the right count and still mine for the next fifteen minutes before I hand them over to my indoor teller at another bank for deposit. Not surprisingly, we're on a first-name basis, and why not, we perform this same dance several times a week. Then I drive across town and drop off that exact amount into our joint account, one I've never written a check on. Today's and other varying amounts are used by my love- child for… for… for, I'm not exactly sure what. This won't hurt, did it? Well, as a matter of fact, now that you mention it. However, I smartly tell myself to Shut up and quit while you're ahead. But, these days, that's just the point. I'm not ahead, I'm behind, way… way… behind. So by way of mixed metaphors, I ask myself, How many times do I have to go to the well to keep this domestic boat afloat?

I've always felt a little, no, more than a little, ambivalent about money. As long as I feel there's enough, I don't give it much thought. But for some time now, I've had a deep-down feeling that there's not enough, that I'm running out. One of the micro-creases in my brain is sending signals to other parts of my body that make me feel, for lack of a better word, icky. So what's a man to do? What am I to do? I have to do something about this awful situation. But becoming a greeter at Walmart, or pushing a grocery cart down alleys and collecting aluminum cans for redemption, or giving blood or any other bodily fluid would make me feel even ickier. So I had to do something befitting my education, experience, and what's left of my self-image, but what? Because I'm too proud, too embarrassed, and too much in need of excitement to get a real job, I have to find something that's engaging, challenging, uses my talents, and has, at least, the promise of some financial reward. That's what I'm looking for. Try to find that in the want ads. I've always thought of myself as a problem solver. But who needs one of those? And what constitutes a problem, anyway? A problem is something that needs to be changed for the better.

Now, the first step in the problem-solving process is problem identification. Well, I'd already done that. My bank account was seriously depressed and… so was I.

To complicate matters further, I engaged the approach/avoidance factor and put the original problem on the way-back burner by replacing it with another problem. Here it is: For some time now I'd been sleeplessly trapped in a Skinner box… and I couldn't find my way out. So I invoked problem solving's second step, you guessed it, I started to think outside of the box.

DING, DING, DING. Here's how I solved that problem.

Have you ever slept with someone who is a very physical sleeper? I have! I mean… thrashingly physical. It had happened to me numerous times. In a courtroom, these episodes, if there was photographic evidence of my scrapes, scratches, and bruises, would be judged abusive. And if malice-aforethought could be determined, that would be grounds for… But I don't think that's the case. Let's hope not. And stranger still, this acting out in a dream or a nightmare was accompanied by inexplicable utterances, angrily or passionately expressed. It's difficult to decide which, maybe anger and passion are closely related. On several different occasions, a name had been repeated. It was the same name every time, which made it even more disconcerting. It sounded eastern European, maybe Czechoslovakian. The name was… Bla… Blan… Blanka… Blankachec… Blankcheck. Maybe she's having an affair with an eastern European. Whatever. Who cares? The bottom line is, I was losing sleep. A lot of sleep. I hate losing sleep. It's a waste of time and I feel drugged the next day. Of course there were several options: I could move out of range, to the edge of the bed, which I've done… a couple of times. But the kicks became more arching, and I've found myself on the floor. I could sleep on the couch and fully realize that I've just been kicked out of our bed. Or I could try to wake her up and suffer the consequences. And there would be consequences.

Last week, after suffering a bout of about thirty minutes of foot, leg, and torso aggression from her and more dark questions about Blankcheck, I just couldn't take it anymore. So I got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a clutch of plastic grocery bags. I tied them together end to end, like a knotted escape sheet out of a 1930s second-floor film noir window. Did I say she is a SOUND sleeper? I pulled back the bottom of her corner of the covers, and with her legs temporarily at rest, I looped one of them in plastic and gently knotted it. Then gently looped the other leg and knotted that. I wrapped the remaining length around the bed leg which I tied securely and replaced the covers. She and I slept through the remainder of the night uninterrupted by her involvement with her foreign affair, Blankcheck. The next morning I was taking a shower when she must have extricated herself from her bondage which, surprisingly, she made no mention of. It's as if she accepted it as a by-product of her dream. Strange fruit.

My solution to my/her, our problem worked. The field testing of the concept prototype had been an enlightening experiment, but one I couldn't repeat… on her.

What had I learned? Regarding the subject of thrashing legs: If you can't beat them, join them. That night I adopted the spare room as my new bedroom. Had she been trying to accomplish that all along? Who knows? What I do know is, I'm now getting the sleep I deserve. And there's a smile on her face every morning. There's peace in the valley.

So remember, the next time you're grocery shopping and the cashier asks, Paper or plastic? you have a choice.

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Thrash-Talk

DING!… DING!… DING! What just happened here? A serious problem was solved. The solution didn't bring about world peace or eradicate a threatening pandemic or restore ice flows for polar bears, but it did improve the quality of life for two people. Who knows, with some product development, some targeted marketing and not selling out to Walmart, its physical and psychological health-giving benefits may possibly save a few relationships, maybe even marriages.

So with that necessity, I mothered an invention. I gave birth to an idea that was just ready for nourishment and development.

Like most men, and women, I frequently need to get out of the house. (The subtext is to address the most ruinous aspect of any relationship— frequency and proximity.) In 1929, Virginia Woolf published A Room of One's Own establishing this freedom for women. Their personal space is frequently the spare room which becomes the sewing or crafts room or office. Many men have their basement or garage or workshop. As an artist/designer/problem-solver, I can rightfully call my personal space a studio (which oddly sounds sacrosanct, like a Paris garret). But quite simply, mine is only a sanctuary, a place to hide, think, feel, express, play, work, and generally mess around with ideas. And in my case, develop a relationship saver by organizing an appropriate combination of user-friendly materials in pursuit of a good night's sleep and have thoughtful discussions with myself.

Who else is sleeping fitfully while giving someone else a fit for not being able to sleep? If there are desperate housewives, there are also desperate househusbands and thrashing partners. How many people have this problem? Is a product like this worth bringing to market? Should I start Strata Various a blog called—what else?—THRASH-TALK? And discuss what? How many grocery bags does it take to make a good restraint? What kind of knots are best to use? Free advice would be useful to people strapped for cash. Maybe some folks are just into grocery bags. But honestly, bags are too down-market for my intended user. Besides, I can't make any money on a do-it-yourself device. Are there enough annoyed insomniacs in Waterville to determine the viability of the product? What would be an appropriate outlet? In the absence of any adult stores in the area, how would it get to market? What about a pet store? I could brand the product Man's Best Friend. It's a pet you wouldn't have to walk several times a day or buy blue poopy bags for, or worry about fleas and ticks, or put in quarantine because it's bitten a neighbor. I could call it a New Leash on Life or a New Leash on Wife. No, no, no—too close for comfort. If the products were customized, personalized, and individualized, they' d be Fit to Be Tied. I seriously need a break. You can begin to see that having ideas tends to spawn other ideas and one runs the risk of running aground. Running at the Athletic Club would be a place to take a break, and after that, a real break—a body cleansing, mind clearing, refreshing sauna. A place to spawn ideas. A spawna! A SPAWNA!!!

After a 400-calorie, 47-minute, 3-mile elliptical run in the club's cardio wellness facility, I'm now sitting in my corner of the second/ top tier of the closet-sized space, where I can count on the heater's full output and reconsider my present situation. I'm happy with having renamed my new facility a SPAWNA. This acknowledgement is too good, too early, and too special to share with anyone. As I bask in its idea-generating potential, I decide to keep its name a secret until after I've completed the design, the model, and then the prototype.

I could recruit testers to use and evaluate the claims that I feel are real and true. I might find appropriate applicants among Minnesota Scandinavians. I imagine a test group of happy, healthy, beautiful, and handsome Viking women and men who would welcome a good sweat, while exuding joy and discussing creative ideas.

The Spawna will promote better ideas while making people look and feel better. Remember the last scene of the original Dumb and Dumber? Remember the busload of Swedish beauties who invite Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels to go on tour with them? Those were Spawna girls.

But before I get ahead of myself, a company name is a necessity. And products would have to be proven safe for those who would use them. Whether it's a car or a toothbrush, a flat tummy or a fabric, a wrinkle cream or a cure for erectile dysfunction, anything and everything has to be acceptable to a potential user and meet the claims made about it. As somebody's granny used to say, Where's the beef? In other words, where's the proof? Well you can't show an erection on television… yet. But you can show satisfaction in a woman's face. There's nothing that sells a product like that.

Related ideas come easily and quickly in a Spawna, so on another burner in that same session, the illusive butterfly-like question of a company name was fluttering around in my head and came to rest on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't help myself. Even with no one to hear, I said it out loud, Prova. It sounded so good I said it louder, PROVA! It was one of those Swedish words that might confuse an IKEA shopper. But because I had spent some time in Sweden designing furniture for a small company, I would "prova or test" prototypes to make sure they worked. And now, as a company name, it could be the key word in the design process—test.

It had been a very good, productive session. The Spawna had done its work, or more correctly, had allowed me to do mine. With what other product or discipline could you work with Swedish beauties and, as the father of a design, also be its primary testee?

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Soup's On

Some people say I have ADD, but they just don't understand. OH LOOK, A CHICKEN! (Anon.)

RECENTLY A FRIEND, Will, and I were talking at our coffee shop, Will Ya Huh? when he shockingly came out of the closet. Although he's straight, intelligent, articulate, and has a good sense of humor, he surprised me when he revealed a well-kept secret by saying, I'm a vegetarian. I didn't mind; some of my best friends are vegetarians. Ohhhhh, I'm so sorry, I replied, Is there anything I can do to help? I shouldn't have made that offer, because he turned our table into a confessional. I could have held up the Journal Sentinel to serve as a confessional screen so we didn't have to look each other in the eye, but I didn't as it would have drawn too much attention. So we just lowered our voices.

He continued, Yes, I have been one for quite a few years. I bit my lower lip, almost unable to find the words.

Then I reluctantly asked, Does your wife know?

He knitted his brow and slowly admitted, Initially, I tried to hide it from her by feigning allergies to meat. So she started concocting home remedies out of a box of herbs that she bought at a rummage sale for a dollar twenty-five. The remedies were unbearably vile, impossible to keep down, and gave me hives. I saw an opening and blamed meat for the hives. She got upset with me for ‘having chicken pox’ when I was a seven-year-old. When she wasn't looking, I hid meat in my pants pockets. When it disappeared, she thought I had a ‘good appetite’ and ‘should keep up my strength.’ So she went to the stove to get some more pot roast. It was very awkward for me and messy. After dinner I'd go down to my shop in the basement to work on a project. There I'd empty out my pockets, wash my pants, and hang them up to dry. Fortunately she was preoccupied in a room of her own where she does crafts, I think she's making Q-tip holders out of clamshells.

Clam shells? I said, We live in Wisconsin.

"You can buy anything online. Anyway, my deception worked for a little while until our Border collie, Bouncy, came into the house early one evening while we were still eating. He started sniffing around. He's got a good nose for lamb. So he plunged into my left pocket right up to his eyelids and came back out with a lamb chop. Well, the gig, the chop, medium rare, and my little secret was up.

"My wife is a pretty sharp cookie and an animal lover. She put down her Kindle crossword and had a crossword of her own. ‘You can't kid me,’ she barked, ‘I smell a crack in the ointment,’ she said. ‘OK,’ I finally admitted. ‘I'm having an affair with… vegetarianism.’"

Did she threaten you with divorce?

"No… something much less expensive, a little ‘tit for tat.’ However, I should say that the ‘tit’ was bigger than the ‘tat.’ She had another plan in place. What she said was, ‘Good, think of all the money we'll save. Now I can buy that faux mink I've always wanted.’ She took a semester of French in college."

So I'm thinking, Wow, Will's really been hiding a lot. OK, but what does this have to do with me?

"Well, there is something you might be able to help with."

What's that?

"I know that you're always messing around with ‘stuff,’ like the ‘thrashing problem’ and the ‘idea generator’…"

Yeah…

And now you know about my commitment to a meatless lifestyle....

Yes.

Well, every night for the last few weeks I’ve dreamt of being accosted by some very aggressive chickens, followed by serious bouts of insomnia.

Really, I’ve never heard of anything quite like that.

"It’s true. I’ve been having some frighteningly sexual dreams in which I’m in a warm sunlit environment surrounded by a flock of naked Strata Various virginal chickens, all of which are perspiring profusely. They harmonize and make seductive soft throaty ‘I-just-want-to-grow-up’ chicken sounds."

And you say they’re naked?

Without feathers.

How do you know they’re virgins?

"I can just sense it. In the same way dogs have ‘dog years,’ there’s a time between when they’re not puppies and not quite bitches. I imagine those years are equivalent to being a teenager, and they’re at their most seductive. It must be true of all species, so it must also be true of chickens."

As dubious as this sounded, I was intrigued by where it might go. "How can you be sure they’re all virgins?"

The dreams are always cock-free, or rooster-free.

Do you ever find the chickens intimidating or threatening?

"No, never. On the contrary. They’re friendly, delightful, demanding of my attention, and they insist on giving me theirs. The only thing that’s frightening is the excited and frustrated