We Don't Name The Chickens Here by Gabriel Bates

 

Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio.

Rolex Club by Susan Tepper

So this guy X. Jack Matalan hires me to serve subpoenas.  He’s a lawyer in the same office building where my friend Marcie is a paralegal.  She plugged me into this new gig.  

I’d been doing the gram circuit:  balloons, eroto-grams, monkey suit — whatever.  Marcie is the one person from high school I’ve stayed in contact with.  She’s a stacked blonde (for real) who was voted most likely to succeed.  My brother Nat derides Marcie, calls her a regular US senator; but that’s out of total male frustration.  Years ago she gave him the toss for a woman.  

A lot of men wanted to marry her.  One was a guy who managed big name bands.  He blew in from LA once a month to scout talent.  Took her to rock concerts downtown.  Marcie claimed he was selfish.  Even though he bought her a Rolex watch.  She said all the guys in LA do that.  She said it’s like a Rolex Club out there.  Nothing to do with love.  Just to impress the other guys. 

I’ll admit I coveted that Rolex.  I told her I wouldn’t mind having one.  Marcie said here take mine.  She actually slid it off her wrist.  I’ll admit I was tempted.  She said the band guy was selfish with ear plugs.  Always carried only one pair for himself when they went scouting bands, dragging her into smoky clubs so loud you could hear the music a block away, she said.  And that it left a permanent ringing in her ears.  

Marcie ended up marrying a guy who walked dogs for a living.  But she always had some woman on the side.  Nat likes saying walking dogs is not a reliable source of income.  I want to tell him to grow balls.

Being no dummy to the dog walking situation, Marcie got herself paralegal training. Then became super friendly with a lawyer in the firm and got her divorce for free.  Free, I like reminding Nat.  He shrugs it off.  I like mentioning the huge sums of money it takes to get a divorce.  I know he wants to divorce Sherry.  

I’ve been bunking in their partially finished basement.  There’s a drop-ceiling with florescent tube lights underneath.  I can hear the fights that go on upstairs.  The walls and floor are rough cement painted marine gray.  Definitely not my shade but the balloon-grams add a nice color punch.  It was supposed to be a playroom for Rosalie their kid.  

By five or six the kid turned schizoid.  Rosalie cannot be left alone with the washer and dryer.  I’m not quite sure why, but it’s a house rule.  

Down in their underground dampness I can make myself scarce.  Not that I’m lonely.  I’m not even miserable.  I just feel turned around.  Like you’re meant to go one direction and find yourself in the other.  That’s significant.  East is east, west is west.  Vastly different experiences.  Marcie being the first to agree.  There’s no Rolex Club here on the east coast, she said.

Originally published in Blue Edge chapbook from Cervena Barva Press.

Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com 

Sugar by Susan Tepper

Henry Potts fell out of the maple before he ever got to the milking barn.  

“It was that damned mirror,”  said Mildred banging cake batter off the mixer blades. “Who puts a mirror in a treetop?” 

Spitting tobacco into smoldering embers Henry sulked near the fireside.  Then knocking off the crocheted rug she’d wrapped around his legs, he stood up wobbly.  

“How else to tell the weather that’s a comin’?  Mirror brings the cloud formations closer.”  

“Henry you’re daft.”  She held out a dripping beater.  “Want a lick?”

“Nah!”  

“How many cups a coffee you had before climbing that tree?”

He paced the kitchen slowly then had to give up. Moaning he sat again in the rocker. “Five.  Mebee six.”  

“Five or six cups of caffeine.  And how much sugar in each cup?”

“Dammit, woman, I don’t keep track.”  He swung his neck like the old horse they put down last month. “Where’s my newspaper gone to?”

“You had about half the sugar bowl before you even stepped outside this house.  You got the diabetes, Henry.”  

But he’d already shut his eyes against her; resting his head on the back slats of the cherry rocker.  His dad’s rocker.  And his grand dad’s before.

Mildred came and stood over him.  “Fact is, you’re killing yourself.  You drink all that sugared coffee then expect to climb a tree?  At your age?  Maybe it’s time to make some arrangements.”

“I want my coffin lined silver satin.”

She laughed saying,  “I’m throwing you in an old pine box.  Let the worms have a feast on all that sugar.  It’ll be a regular birthday party for them.  Cake and candles.”  She walked away humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar.

He opened his eyes, saw her pouring cake batter into a loaf pan.  “What kinda icing?”

“Forget it, Henry.  You had enough sugar for a month.  This cake is going to the bake sale.  You remember the church supper?  You even know the day of the week?”

He scratched at his scant amount of gray hair.  “The day a the week now?  Or the day a the week for the church supper?”

“Clever.”  She bent to put the cake into the oven.  “All the same I’m phoning Douglas.  I need my peace and quiet.  He can do the milking and the chores piling up.  Like the fence that needs fixing in the north pasture.”

Scowling, Henry gripped the chair arms.  “Douglas ain’t gettin’ near my cows.  Ya hear?  He’s got no sense about livestock.  Last time he broke two milking machines.  Had to hand-milk myself for almost a month.  Damned near broke my back, too.”

Pale-looking since the tree accident, his face suddenly took on a mottled purple color.  He glared at her, saying, “Besides.  Douglas sneaks looks at you.  I seen it the last time he come.”

She giggled in a way that made his old knees jump.  

Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com

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