Love, Lies, Bleeding

By Randy Russell

Love, Lies, Bleeding is an epic collection of eleven stories, from very short to very long, with a variety of approaches—both traditional and experimental—and the common theme of romantic love. From infatuation to obsession, from bliss to heartbreak—these stories try to answer the big questions. Love—what is it? Why are we obsessed with it? Is it worth it? Is it possible to live without it? Or is it essential…
On the first few days of the new millennium, "Nine Lies" depicts some odd adventures during a cross-country train trip. An extended refueling stop in Havre, Montana provokes the protagonist to consider the possible outcomes of a variety of events—perhaps real, possibly imaginary—likely a combination of both.
More of a prose poem, "Summer" drops in on that all-to-brief, elevated, magical time of new love—which could be a fairytale happily ever after—or, perhaps… death.
A quest for redemption or simply refreshment? —"The Pool" is about pursuing your dreams—is it ultimately worth it?
What does it take for a person to cross the line into a life of crime? It turns out, not much in this humorous snapshot of petty thievery, called "Miller Lowlife."
A big city, high-rise office is the setting for "Please Let Me Know When You'll Be at the Party," the story of a temp worker's obsession with the woman he is temporarily replacing.
"Fiddle o' Blood" is a dual narrative from the points of view of a country singer and her loving, younger, fan—as they meet over a bottle of cheap wine.
Set in the 1970s, "Learning to Play the Piano" highlights the unlikely relationship of a Hollywood starlet and 12-year-old boy—both a twisted coming of age story and (possibly?) an allegory for the courting of addiction.
More of a novella, "Holly Golightly," follows a woman through the day in which she decides to break up with her boyfriend. The day's events include a movie, titled, Zigzag, that Holly sees at the theater—and ends up being at the heart of her difficult decision.
Literally bleeding… love… and lies, "A Plea to My Heart Which You Now Posses" starts with the old "organ theft" urban legend, then follows a twisty path of deception… and self-deception.
Toni, in the story, "Toni and the Dragon," decides to break up with her boyfriend when she meets someone new. "The Dragon," in the story, is the good, the bad, the funny, and the sometimes sad.
A bad week of epic proportions is depicted in "The Golden Pineapple"—which follows a man through the last days of his job. He then takes a train trip into the past, where he grapples with some ethical, life-changing questions—saves the world, then doesn't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667854007

Randy Russell

Randy Russell believes in ghosts. He conducts an annual ghost seminar for the State of North Carolina and can be found most summers sharing true ghost stories at visitor centers in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He wrote Dead Rules because he believes ghosts should be allowed to share their stories of encounters with humans. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

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Copyright © 2022 by Randy Russell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,

places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living

or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Portions of this book were originally published,

in slightly different form, under the name,

Nine Lies. Copyright © 2013 by Randy Russell

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission

of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover collage, Nourishment (2001), by Randy Russell

R. Speen Publishers

RSPEEN.COM

Print ISBN: 978-1-66785-399-4

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66785-400-7

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

NINE LIES

SUMMER

THE POOL

MILLER LOWLIFE

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU’LL BE AT THE PARTY

FIDDLE O’ BLOOD

LEARNING TO PLAY THE PIANO

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY

A PLEA TO MY HEART WHICH YOU NOW POSSESS

TONI AND THE DRAGON

THE GOLDEN PINEAPPLE

NINE LIES

Winter

IT WAS A VERY UNUSUAL SITUATION. The train was ahead of schedule, so they informed us that we would have a full, 45-minute stop at Havre, Montana to stretch our legs, use the phone, buy cigarettes, or even get a quick bite to eat. Stay near the station and listen for the boarding announcement, they warned, as usual, because if you’re not back in time, the train will leave without you.

It was about halfway through the two-day trip to the west coast on the train called The Empire Builder which ran across the northern edge of the western United States. Most people were happy to get off at this point for some fresh air, to smoke on the platform, or play video poker at one of the bars near the station. It was mid-afternoon, sunny, and bitterly cold. I put on my coat and walked into the town, relishing the chance to explore a place I was not likely to ever set foot in again.

I paused momentarily to read the Welcome to Havre signboard at the train station. It said that the name, pronounced Have’er came about when two French Canadian squatters, Joe De Mars and French Gus Descelles, were fighting over a girl, with De Mars, who was bigger, taking the advantage. Little French Gus then proclaimed, You can have her!—and thus the town was named.

After passing by a couple of small restaurants, and a brief look into a western-wear shop, I found a small, used bookstore on the far edge of the downtown. It was the kind of bookstore that I’m always hoping to find when traveling—a dusty, cluttered, privately owned little place with great promise.

I started with the children’s books and immediately came upon a copy of a Dr. Seuss book called Summer which had been one of my favorites when I was a kid. I hadn’t seen it in years. My heart quickened. When you find one interesting book you can’t help but think there are others there as well.

There were still several dusty, disorderly shelves to explore, but I noticed the time and had to pull myself away or else risk missing the train. I took my book to the old man at the front desk who wrote out a sales receipt with maddening care and attention to detail, and then went painstakingly about the task of calculating the tax, taking my money, and figuring out the change. For some reason, though, I was unable to ask him to hurry. I wished that I could have stayed and talked to him.

In order to calm myself, I began browsing through an odd assortment of rare and collectable books near the register. A strange book caught my eye because of the crude, homemade binding and cover, on which there was no print. I opened it and was surprised to see barely legible handwriting on a hodgepodge of hotel room stationary, notebook pages, and restaurant placemats, evidently the original copy of whatever it was. The first page had been the cover of an old notebook on which was scrawled what could have been a title: 9 Lies.

The old man paused as he noticed my interest and explained that it was indeed the original copy of a manuscript that was left in town by a stranger who had shown up suddenly one day and disappeared just as mysteriously. After the anonymous manuscript was discovered, a local craftsman had bound it, and for a while it had caused quite a stir. Would the author return? It was passed around town to anyone interested in reading it, but by now it had run its course. The stranger was never heard from again.

The train whistle sounded in the distance. It’s not for sale, the old man predicted my question, and smiled at my anxiety and distress. You can borrow it, he said. Take your time. He took the book from my hand and placed it in the bag with the book I had purchased.

But I don’t live here, I protested. I’m on the train.

It’s okay, he said. You may be back sooner than you think. I hesitated for a moment, and he looked at me and nodded. Better hurry. I just heard her whistle.

I ran, then, through the town, and as the train whistled again, I increased my speed. I clutched the plain paper bag as if it was the loot from a daring robbery and I was making my reckless escape. As I ran, not knowing if I would make the train or not, I was suddenly aware of an unfamiliar weightless feeling, a sensation that was new to me, and to which I’ve never been able to return. It was a moment of absolute freedom, in which nothing mattered—or maybe everything did.

Strawberry Ice Cream Soda

I END UP RUNNING behind the train as it slowly pulls away. Since there are no cabooses anymore, the last car is a boxcar, so when I grab onto the ladder, on back, I suddenly realize I’m not going to be able to get in the train. I’m going to have to hang onto the ladder until the next stop, which is Shelby—over a hundred miles—about two hours—away. The train is soon going too fast for me to jump off, so I’m stuck. I’ll just have to hang on.

January in Montana is bitterly cold, and in no time, I’m covered with ice. I’m able to pull my hat and gloves on, but the cold seeps right through my clothing, and my hands and feet are soon numb. I’m shivering uncontrollably, and I’m afraid it will drain all of my energy. I don’t know if I’ll make it.

Two hours is not so long, but time can fly by, or time can stop. It’s the length of an average movie, isn’t it? What if I was watching a movie? This would be nothing. I decide to see a movie in my mind. That is how I will survive this.

I’m on the train, traveling through Florida, heading down to Key West, before the highway was built, before the hurricane wiped out the train track. I’m carrying $5000 in cash—I’ve got to make one more score and then I’ll be free. There are people on this train who would cut your throat for a dollar, so I’m pretty worried. What if someone finds out? I’ll have to keep my mouth shut.

It’s an old train, and the windows are open, and the night is falling. I’m nervous, drinking rum in the cantina car. I find myself in a poker game with some drunken businessmen. I’ve got a full house, and I’m sure they’re bluffing, but I run out of money. All I have left is this $5000 bill, but it’s of no use to me.

Then I see this woman I’m in love with. What’s she doing here? It’s just a dream! Was I sleeping? Be careful! I have to stay awake! I have to keep hanging on…

I’m having a drink in the bar car and I see her there. I pull out my thick bankroll of hundreds and lay one on the bar. Let me buy you a drink, I say to her. This money is no good if I can’t do that. It’s corny, but now she’s interested—not because of the money, but because I don’t look rich. I’m wearing this ratty, old, white suit and worn-out canvas shoes and no socks. She wonders what I’m up to—maybe she’s a writer and she’s looking for stories—and now I’m intriguing to her. Money can’t buy happiness—I think to myself—but it can get you into places you couldn’t get into without it, and sometimes in those places something at least resembling happiness can be found, even if it is somewhat fleeting.

I’m hiding out in an ancient, rundown, tropical hotel, the walls of my room painted bright green and yellow. They are coming for me. I hide my heart-shaped pearl cufflinks in a can of cooking lard. There is nowhere to hide this money, though, and certainly the ratty old mattress won’t do. There are footsteps on the rickety stairs, now coming down the hall. There is the far-off sound of a vacuum cleaner. Exotic birds squawk—is it a warning? I sit on the floor in the corner and shake, my knees drawn up to my chest. Then I notice weird, shimmering light patterns on the ceiling. Where is that coming from?

I look out the window and discover that light is being reflected off the surface of a quiet, still, swimming pool. The harsh sun on the flat surface of the water makes it appear both black and white. This is where I can escape, I realize, then. I can escape from one dream into another.

I fell asleep—wake up! I almost let go. The adrenaline momentarily gives me strength. I know I was sleeping because I had a dream. Maybe I’m dreaming now? —no, because I’m too cold, too cold to sleep.

I know I was dreaming because it’s coming back to me now. It’s like it really happened. It was about the woman who works at the bar near my house. I walked by to see if she was working but she wasn’t, so I went to my parents’ house. It wasn’t actually their house, but they lived there. I saw this woman’s fuzzy hat, which she sometimes wears at the bar, laying on the couch next to her coat and my old sweater. She was outside with another woman collecting Queen Anne’s lace. They came in and surprised me while I was touching her hat. I was terribly embarrassed, but she smiled at me.

Oh, hi, she said. I’m really happy to finally meet you! It’s the first time she’s ever spoken to me. She goes to the bathroom, and I’m waiting for her to come back. We’re going to have a conversation for the first time ever. But then I wake up.

I’ve got to write this down because I want to preserve the feeling that I met her, but I can’t find my dream notebook. Wake up! You’re still dreaming! Of course you can’t find your dream notebook—you’re hanging on the back of a moving train in Montana!

I’ll remember it and write it down later. I want to remember it. I keep repeating it in my mind. I want to remember how I felt when she talked to me—it was so real.

I close my eyes and try to imagine that the redness through my eyelids is someplace else, some other time, summertime. I’m lying on my back, and I squint up at the ceiling, which becomes the floor. I can smell the lunch my mom is preparing, toasted cheese and tomato soup. I walk down to the end of the tree-shaded sidewalk to the bookmobile. It’s dark and cool, and it smells musty inside. Strawberry ice cream soda. Saturday afternoon matinee. I close my eyes for as long as I can, listening to the vacuum cleaner down the hall. Build me up buttercup. Love love love love love. When I open my eyes, the world is bright, clean, and new.

No Smoking

IT WAS THE WORST train trip ever. It was so bad I started smoking again after having been nicotine free for over ten years. My lungs jumped on this new development like a vulture on a bottle of A.1. Sauce. It was bad, especially considering that smoking had been banned from all trains at all times—a new rule instigated, as was my luck, just that day at 12:01 a.m.—January 1st, New Year’s Day. It didn’t help that I had the worst hangover of my life—even though I had quit drinking half a decade earlier. No one ever tells you when you stop drinking it doesn’t mean the hangovers stop. No one ever tells you that the hangovers get worse.

Why they sold cigarettes on the train (for $4.75 a pack) when there was nowhere to smoke them, I could only chalk up to train logic. The bathrooms were off limits, recently having been equipped with smoke alarms—so sensitive, in fact, that a good shit would set them off, much to the embarrassment of many a passenger. My solution, finally, was to hot box a cancer stick crouched behind the lounge car café counter where Jackson Lincoln Jefferson III, the 80-year-old attendant and poet would burn an English muffin in the toaster to mask my two-minute-fix, while he nonchalantly doled out candy bars, one-ounce liquor bottles, Rolaids, and verse.

The slightly more relaxed and legal alternative was to wait for the occasional water and fuel stop and smoke on the platform, shivering, with all the other pathetic addicts. I would pound as many nails as possible in the short period before the all aboard signal, usually lighting three at once and then sucking them down one after another like a man in love.

That’s why I got off the train in Havre, Montana, only to find that my pack was empty. I panicked and ran to a convenience store that was visible down at the end of the first block from the depot.

I asked for a pack of Lucky Strikes—grateful to be able to smoke something other than the Marlboros, Camel Lights, and Newports which were the only three choices on the train. I ripped open the pack as soon as I stepped out the door, then went back in because I wasn’t sure if I had matches, and I didn’t want to take the time to search through all my pockets. The counter clerk, a very old, slow-moving man, couldn’t seem to find any, and I couldn’t find any in my pockets, so he sent me to the sundries aisle for a box of book matches. I had trouble finding them, and I was down on my knees behind a shelf, hidden from the front of the store, when I heard someone come in the door, and then a man’s gruff voice demanding all the money from the cash register. The place was being robbed!

I inched around the corner and saw two men wearing camouflage coats holding a gun to the clerk. I pulled back around the shelf and hoped they wouldn’t notice me. Then I heard a sickening thud—that of a blunt object against a person’s head—and the door slammed as the men took off.

I ran up to the counter, and the old man was lying unconscious, his head bleeding. He was breathing, and I tried to wake him, unsuccessfully, and then called 911 for an ambulance. While I tried to explain the situation to the operator, I noticed that the train—barely visible down the end of the street—had started moving.

I gotta go, I said into the phone and ran out the door at the same time a customer was coming in. No time to stop and explain—I sprinted toward the train. Behind me I heard a man yelling, Stop! Stop that guy!

I ran behind the train as it pulled away, just beyond my reach. Since there are no cabooses anymore, the last car is a boxcar—so at least there was nobody watching me, sadly, or laughing, as I ran behind the train like an idiot. Finally, I gave up and stood there, disgusted, and out of breath, and watched the train slowly disappear in the distance, the red light flashing.

Marlowe

I SAT IN MY SEAT and watched North Dakota roll by in the early morning after my first sleepless night on the train. The guy who had been sitting next to me was off in the lounge car or the smoking car. I always packed my own food for a long train trip, and I was eating a small container of peach yogurt, just waking up.