The Incredible Literary Creations of an Undiscovered Genius

By Kerry Gough

The Incredible Literary Creations of an Undiscovered Genius opens with a collection of short stories about Michael Young, commencing with his childhood and continuing to his lonely middle age. Many of Michael's adventures and misadventures are drawn upon the author's own experience. The author confesses that if his memory failed as he wrote, invention prevailed. Fact or fiction should not matter to the reader, for he or she will be entertained by the sagas of Michael's life, from his search on a cold winter's day for a Christmas present for his mother (The Copper Tea Kettle) to his frustration with his high school girlfriend and her cat (Booniewac). Thirty years later that girlfriend hunted him down and begged for the resumption of their ancient relationship and swore to have him someday (In the Next Life). And there is a lot more to grip the reader, especially the two-act tragedy about a father whose selfish actions lead to the jailing and rape of his adopted Black son (White All Over). The book concludes with a sampling of short blogs drawn upon the author's experiences from cleaning toilets during the Covid epidemic to when he was in the Army and blew the whistle on the Army's complicity in denying rental housing to black soldiers on the Monterey Peninsula.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350923896

Book preview

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Blogs are from kgoughblog.blogspot.com

©GoughCreative 2022

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 979-8-35090-009-5

Table of Contents

The Michael Young Stories

The Copper Tea Kettle

Booniewac

The Punk

Shopping at Nordstrom

Solo

In the Next Life

Granddaughter

Perchance

Short Fiction

The Captain’s Cabbages

A Birkenstock Betrayal

The Artistic Adulterer

How Arnold Palmer and I Won The 1960 U.S. Open

Drama

White All Over, A Play in Two Acts

Miscellaneous Non-Fiction and Blogs

Desegregating Monterey

When I Am Gone

White All Over

The Wizard of Ooze

The Kiss and the Kill

Don’t Call Me Homeless

Waiting To Be Abducted

My Name Is Everyman

Kool Aid and Cooperation

A Birkenstock Betrayal

From Maui to Goma

Dedication

To the undiscovered geniuses whose books lie unread, languishing and gathering dust, do not grieve. Take pride that you, unlike the millions of authors of unfinished books, completed and published your work of art.

The Michael Young Stories

The Copper Tea Kettle

As Christmas approached, ten-year-old Michael was obsessed with the desire to buy the perfect present for his mother. For weeks he had been saving his allowance and earnings from hawking the Anchorage Daily Times newspaper on the downtown streets, a job made possible because Mike’s dad, Bill, and the Times’ circulation foreman, Gus, had served together on a Navy battleship during World War Two and became best friends. When the war was over, they fulfilled their wartime dreams of settling down where opportunities abounded, Alaska, the Last Frontier.

Gus was single and became one of the family, Uncle Gus to Mike and his brother and sister. Every time Gus sent Mike out the door loaded down with newspapers, he worried about him on the streets, hawking newspapers in the cold, often below freezing weather, and having to contend with older newsboys hassling him because he was in their territory, or dodging drunks grabbing at and asking him for money after they had been thrown out of the Frisco Bar, or one of the other numerous bars that populated Fourth Avenue from one end to the other. And there were always one or two cheats who claimed they didn’t have any change and walked away, saying, I’ll catch you next time.

Gus also worried about the problems he would face if his boss discovered he had a ten-year-old kid hawking newspapers. But Mike’s dad was his best friend, and they’d been through a lot during the war, and with Bill just eking out a living driving a cab, him and his wife and three kids crowded in that drafty, old army shack on the bluff above Cook Inlet—well, he thought, if letting the kid make a few bucks selling papers would help, he’d take his chances.

Michael was worried that he didn’t have enough money to purchase a really nice present for his mom, and here it was the day before Christmas. He would have to sell a lot of newspapers to earn the money he still needed. Christmas eve morning he crammed his hoarded savings into his pockets, hoping that by day’s end he would have enough money to buy the perfect present for his mother.

The Anchorage Daily Times published in the afternoon and it was dark—the sun had already set—when Michael’s dad dropped him off at the printing plant at three o’clock.

After Michael paid for his usual number of newspapers, Gus packed them into his canvas carrier’s bag. The shoulder strap was so long that the bag nearly dragged on the ground and always bumped against Michael’s leg with each step.

There you go, Mike, said Gus, when he finished loading the bag.

I need more papers today, said Michael.

Your bag is full. You’re already heeling to the starboard with one bag. How do you expect to carry two?

I can carry a bag on my other shoulder. I can carry two bags— I know I can. Please, Gus, I need to sell more papers today so I’ll have enough to buy a Christmas present for my mom.

O.K., kid, but it’ll be pretty darned heavy. Gus stuffed papers into another carrier bag and placed it on Michael’s left shoulder.

Michael too a few steps. The weight of the load bent him backwards. He shifted his torso forward, but again the load pulled him into a backward lean.

Just a minute, Mike. You are out of trim and hobby-horsing. You won’t get down the street a block before sinking. Gus adjusted the bag straps so that they crisscrossed Mike’s chest; the bags now hung in a more forward position.

How’s that?

Mike took a few steps. My legs bump against the bags, but I don’t feel like I’m going to fall over backwards. I need to pay you for the extra papers.

Take care of it next time. You better get started. Fair winds and following seas, little matey, Gus said.

Michael just stood there.

What’s the matter, Mike? Too heavy?

I have to pee, Michael said.

Oh, my gawd. Now you tell me. Let me unload you.

No, it’s OK. I can wait. Thanks for the extra bag. He hurried out into the cold.

Michael began his sales on Fourth Avenue, calling out, Daily Times, get your Daily Times here, as he trudged among the Christmas shoppers, many laden with shopping bags full of Christmas-wrapped packages. Nearly everybody was bundled in down parkas and woolen hats, and a woman in a fur coat with a wolverine fur collar, and wearing high heeled shoes carefully navigated her way much too rapidly on the crowded, ice-spotted sidewalk. She slipped and fell against Michael. They tumbled together to the sidewalk. Fortunately, the bulky carrier bags cushioned them and neither was injured. Two good Samaritans pulled them to their feet, the woman apologized, bought a newspaper, and Christmas spirit prevailing, she tipped Michael a dollar.

Sales were good; everyone seemed to be in good spirits as they called out, Yes, boy, over here, I’ll buy one, or How much is that rag? with a smile, and extending a gloved hand holding a coin for payment.

Michael had no wallet and really no need for one because most everyone paid with nickels, dimes or quarters which he dropped into his jeans pocket where, stashed with his previous savings, they grew cold, but the cold weight against his leg constantly reassured him that his earnings were safe. One customer, a scruffily bearded man who, Michael thought, looked like a sourdough just out of the bush, offered payment with a dollar bill. Michael pulled off one mitten, plunged his fingers into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and struggled to count change with his mittened other hand. Watching Michael’s struggle with mittens and coins, the man laughed and said, Don’t bother, kid. Keep the change. He pulled a newspaper from Michael’s bag and was on his way.

For well over an hour Michael had tried to ignore the nagging signals from his full bladder. Suddenly an urgent compulsion to pee, and to pee right now, overcame him. He had to pee very badly, so very badly. His bladder screamed, Empty me now!

Where do people pee when they are downtown? he wondered. He knew he couldn’t make it back to the Times building. He didn’t know the location of a public restroom or even if there were one, and probably there were none in 1947 Anchorage, a rough and tumble, frontier town where bars outnumbered every other kind of business. And that’s where Michael stood, in front of one of those bars, the Cheechako Tavern, at war with his natural bodily functions and about to lose that war. He shifted from one foot to the other, danced in tight little circles, holding it in, holding it in, vainly trying to think about something besides having to pee, trying so hard not to wet himself. Christmas shoppers streamed past him, oblivious to his effort not to have urine stream down his pants leg.

Michael had never been in a bar, but it dawned on him that the tavern must have a restroom. On the brink of defeat, Michael burst into the bar. He spotted the illuminated Men’s sign, in the distant, oh so very distant, far end of the bar. He managed just three steps towards salvation before his sphincter relaxed and his bladder contracted. The flood of urine that burst from Michael’s bladder was comfortably warm. It ran down his leg, soaked his jeans and puddled on the floor. He turned and ran outside and hid in the narrow space between the saloon and the neighboring building.

Steam rose from his wet jeans. Within a few minutes, the steam and warmth were gone and his urine-oaked jeans froze stiff. He exited his hiding place. His frozen jeans chafed his legs, but the frozen pee did not show and did not smell. As cold, uncomfortable, and full of despair as he was, Michael was determined to keep on hawking newspapers. He had to sell all his newspapers in order to have enough money to buy his mother’s present.

No longer did his mind’s desperate screams, I’ve got to pee, I’ve got to pee, compete with his cries of Daily Times here! Daily Times here! as he wended his way through the crowds. Michael’s Daily Times here shouts, propelled on his frosty breath, did not cease until both carrier bags were empty and his pockets were full of coins and a few crinkled dollar bills.

It was time to address himself to the task of finding the perfect present. He walked from one end of 4th Avenue down to the other, then back up the other side of the avenue, and then crossed over to 5th Avenue and hurried up and down both sides of it. He walked the aisles of every store that might possibly offer an appropriate gift, from the Northern Commercial Company, the largest department store in Anchorage, to smallish gift shops staffed with nice ladies who asked, What are you was looking for? In response to his a Christmas present for my mother, they passed item after item before his eyes. Some were too expensive; some were cheap looking; and there were some that perhaps his mother would like, but how was he to know? There was absolutely nothing that hit him square between the eyes and hollered, Yes! I am exactly what you are looking for!

It began to snow, large flakes floating like feathers to the ground. His foot prints in the newly fallen snow, up and down Fourth and Fifth Avenues, into and out of shop after shop, marked the trail of his anxious, disappointing and desperate odyssey.

Having failed to find the right gift in any of the stores on the avenues, he continued his search on the lettered cross streets that went down the slope towards the Alaska Railroad station and Ship Creek on the north side of town. On C Street, one of those dark side streets, he discovered The Gift Box, a tiny, brightly lit shop to which he felt strongly drawn.

As he entered the shop, a brass bell softly jingled; warm air and a richly melodic soprano voice greeted him. Merry Christmas, young man. I think you must be looking for something for your mother.

The warmth of her voice and her intuitive knowledge of what he needed raised his spirits, daring him to hope that his search was over. He replied, Yes ma’am. I am.

Just take you time and look around. You’ll know the right gift when you see it. It will speak to you, the shopkeeper said.

Shelves and display racks were laden with items. Michael walked down one of the short aisles and up the other, but nothing caught his eye. Nothing spoke to him. He returned to the front counter, prepared to thank the nice lady and leave. When he looked up to thank her, he spotted a copper tea kettle with an ebony-black wooden handle at rest high on the shelf behind her. The tea kettle was not bright, shiny or brassy, but rather had a dark patina, which it had acquired sitting on the shelf, aging well and waiting for the right purchaser.

It was probably too expensive, but anyway, Michael pointed at the kettle.

The shopkeeper stepped up a smallish ladder, reached up, pulled the kettle from the shelf, tore the price tag from it, dusted it off, and placed it on the counter. Michael picked it up in both hands and held it before him, and it was cool and smooth and substantial, and it shouted to him, Here I am, the perfect gift for your mother.

He set the kettle down on the counter, reached into his pockets and emptied fistfuls of coins and a few paper bills onto the counter.

Do I have enough?

Well, she answered, a twinkle in her eye. Let’s just see.

The lady carefully, and much too slowly, Michael thought, straightened and smoothed the few dollar bills, and oh, again too, too slowly, placed the coins in a row of separate piles, meticulously arranged from left to right according to size: first the dimes, then the nickels, then the quarters, and finally, a lonely fifty cent piece. Once she had arranged the money, she began to count, first the paper money, which took no time at all, and then the coins. She counted aloud. Michael counted with her, silently.

When the shopkeeper finished counting, she smiled and exclaimed, Why! Heavens to Betsy! young man, you have just enough. In fact, you have fifty cents left over. She pushed the half dollar piece across the counter to Michael.

A sigh of joyful relief swept away the anxiety that had grown and threatened to overwhelm him.

Would you like it gift wrapped?

How much does that cost?

Nothing at all. Let’s make it beautiful for your mother.

She placed the tea kettle in a white gift box, tucked fine white and pale blue translucent tissue paper around it, closed the box, taped the halves of the lid tightly together, and then wrapped the box with heavy, silvery metallic paper flecked with tiny golden snowflakes. She adorned it with a wide, white fabric ribbon with strands of gold and silver threads. Then her long pale fingers performed an intricate dance with the ends of the ribbon, magically transforming them into a bow of multiple perfect loops.

She sat it on the counter. Merry Christmas, young man. You better hurry on home before your mother starts worrying about you.

Thank you, ma’am. Michael carefully tucked the package into one of his carrier bags, and pressed it securely against his side. He pushed the shop door open, turned and thanked the lady again, then stepped outside onto the snow-covered sidewalk. The skies had partially cleared and the clean, white snow sparkled brightly in the light of a nearly full moon.

On Christmas morning Michael’s mother gave him a big hug. I love it, she said. It is just perfect. His dad put his arm around Michael’s shoulders, hugged him and said, That’s a really nice gift, Mikey-boy, which is what he called Michael when he was proud of him.

Sixty years later Michael visited his mother in her assisted living facility in Colorado, where she had moved to be near Michael’s sister. She was 95-years-old, her hair was silvery gray, and tiny lines patterned her face. She was still in good health and took pride in her appearance, applying makeup every day and having her hair permed once a month. Michael studied her immaculately kept room, simply furnished with a bed, desk and chair, and a tiny round table with two chairs. He spotted the tea kettle on a shelf in the room’s tiny kitchen nook. He removed it from the shelf and carefully examined it, holding it under the ceiling light and turning it slowly around two or three times. The tea kettle had aged well. The greenish patina had darkened beautifully and the lacquer on the ebony handle was patterned with tiny lines, like the lines of his mother’s face.

He heated some water in the kettle, made two cups of tea, and placed the treasured copper tea kettle on a coaster in the center of the small table. His mother and he sat down and quietly sipped tea together.

Booniewac

Mike and Amber decided to go steady on dress rehearsal night of the senior class play. They had their first fight on opening night when she insisted on sitting on his lap and placing her hand on his inner thigh. She quickly aroused him, and he realized that if he didn’t get away from her, he wouldn’t be able to go on stage.

Get up, Amber.

Why?

Just get up. You’re too heavy.

That’s all right, be better tomorrow.

Look Amber I’ve got to…

You’ve got to do what, little boy?

Get away from me, he ordered, and stood up, spilling her from his lap. He walked back and forth, his hands cupped in front of his crotch, whispering his lines until his arousal died, right before his cue.

After the play she complained that she had hurt her bottom when dumped her from his lap. Mike laughed, she pouted, and he apologized, and then they necked for an hour in his car, parked in their favorite place on an old homestead road in the woods of Turnagain by the Sea. When he took her home, he walked her to the door and then asked her if she wanted to go to the church youth group picnic the next afternoon.

I don’t want to. Let’s go to the movies.

No, I’m going the picnic. I like the youth group. We should go to church things.

Oh, all those silly girls there. Helen, Anne, Ada and June. Those silly girls. All they do is giggle and flirt with the boys. Besides they don’t like me.

Why do think they don’t like you? They like you.

No, they don’t. When I wanted to join Rainbow Girls, they all voted against me.

"I don’t know about that, but I’m