Freidreich Von Banana Bear, CPA

CHAPTER ONE: An Uneven Tone Throughout

An uneven tone throughout. It was her only criticism of what he had deemed his magnum opus, his “great work.”  She might as well have set the one thousand three hundred and fifty-two pages alight and then thrown them in his face. “An uneven tone throughout,” she had said, as if the article in question had been pieced together from excerpts of the written works of greater-known authors. And so that was that – dream destroyed. Moving on.

The wooden surface of the tree stump before him served as a coffee table and his mail lay on top of it, scattered amongst the magazine spread that looked like something out of the waiting area of a very kinky dentist’s office. A large manila envelope addressed to him stood out amongst the items.

Mr. Friedreich Von Banana Bear

1422 Cherry Blossom Lane

Industry, North America

The return address was the Institute of Certified Public Accountants. Inside were the results of his test but, before opening the letter and accepting his inevitable fate, he wanted to see, just to see, maybe, what, if anything, the woman from Random House had had to say about his novel. Most publishers, he thought, would have leapt at the chance to publish a novel written by an anthropomorphic bear.

Such was not the case. His prose was deemed too “muddled;” the characters were called “unfunny and irrelevant.” The woman, some ridiculous melissophobe by the name of Dana Flores-Lopez, had been kind enough so as to include a checklist of every cliché he had employed in the construct of his novel.

 And so, of course, Friedreich Von Banana Bear accepted his fate and tore into the closing flap which sealed his fate.

“Alas!” proclaimed he. “An accountant! I am an accountant.” Feigning contentment at the prospect of what the future held in store for him, Von Banana Bear let out a mighty grumble, rubbed his belly ever-so slightly, and headed up the branches of his tree-trunk home and into bed.

Sleep welcomed him; in his dreams he was beating down the door to the offices of Random House, roaring and gnashing his teeth, demanding the blood of Dana Flores-Lopez.

And then his idea hit him like a swarm of angry bees after being mistaken for the lovable Disney character. It was a complicated plot, much like that of his novel, and it would take time and patience. He would have to be a patient bear, but it would all pay off in the end.

He was going to apply to work the books at Random House, putting some money aside for himself, just a little, and then he was going to destroy Dana Flores-Lopez and her ridiculous hyphenated double surname.

Never Poop Again - un poem

Never Poop Again.

Really, don’t do it.

When you feel the urge,

The roaring, rumbling,

Ass-puckering need to poop.

Don’t do it.

Pee instead.

Relieve that pressure.

Never Poop Again.

Tell your friends.

It’ll be a thing.

One person, twelve, then twenty

Eighty-eight thousand and three

Non-poopers, like us – you and me.

Never Poop Again.

I promise you won’t explode.

And if you do, it’s not so silly.

For you won’t be the only one.

Never Poop Again.

Really, don’t.

Think about The Human Centipede.

I promise you won’t ever want to

Ever poop again.

TARTAN

TARTAN

You will never be a part of that life. Not in the “emo” sense of things, the “I’m-utterly-incapable-of-forming-emotional-connections” sort of way that the disaffected youth seem to enjoy playing these days. You have always been an observer, content to not take the lead or to follow. Rather, you are sitting on the visitors’ bleachers of your high school’s football field, relating more to the outsiders than those in it. Whatever it may be. And that’s the thing, exactly; you don’t know what key component you are missing, if any; what makes you cringe every time you watch a teenager pushing her stroller down the tartan quarter-mile track. The football players are all slapping each other’s asses and you envy them in their dumb-jock, casual, no-homo homoeroticisms. What you would give to be the sweat on that jock, or to be in the post-game locker-room, the steaming streams of water from the shower like rain, the beads of water clinging to the patch of chest-hair there, the perspiration and the steam, the odor, the stench of all that personifies youth, all that is man.

Instead you turn to your beard, at your side, her hand shaking in yours, pretending that she doesn’t notice that what you’re more interested in, where football is concerned, is less the score than the fashion statement. Her other hand is in her mouth as she chews on the ends of her fingers. Her hood is up around her so she’s hidden from sight, just locks of dirty blond hair falling from around where her face should be – a mane. In this overcast weather, she could be a guy.

You pull her into you, plant one on her. Her lips are soft and moist. You can imagine biting down into them, piercing the skin with your canines, teeth like needles, droplets of blood forming on the surface. And you suck, suck, suck, on her bottom lip, pretending you’re a vampire in some cheesy, poorly-written version of the world where outside always looks like this and you aren’t imagining that she’s the muscly Native American on the back of a motorcycle. You’re riding bitch, of course.

Someone has vandalized school property. Written in red spray paint outside of the males’ shower room is the proverb: The World Will Always Try to Tell You Who You Are, Until You Tell the World. Your beard, under you, is struggling from the weight of lifting you up. She asks can you go, and you tell her in a second, you can’t get a good look in. The high windows into the shower are foggy so you can’t peek inside, your thighs are wrapped around your beard’s neck, crushing her windpipe as she struggles to stay standing. 

A few seconds later you’re both laying on the sidewalk, your head throbbing from the fall, probably, concussed, but there’s throbbing elsewhere, too, and your beard can’t even pretend she doesn’t feel it pressing into her shoulder blade. She struggles to crouch, then crawls on top of you.

The girl on the track is circling for a fifth time and you wonder why she even bothers until 27, freshly showered, heads out of the gym, a duffel bag over his shoulders, onto the track to greet her. Number 27 who’s hung like a gerbil but still manages to satisfy. Number 27 who you blew in seventh grade P.E. class. And now he and his baby’s momma are walking the track so she loses what little tummy she has left before climbing back on top of that cheerleader pyramid.

 
The beard on your chest, her legs on either side of you, is waiting expectantly for you to say something. And you think you can do this, knock this girl up, maybe get married, pretend you’re everyone else. In a year or two you’ll be walking that track with 27 and his girlfriend and, like in Brokeback, the two of you will sneak away and make whoopee in a tent; in ten, twelve years you’ll return to this school, never any better than the rest of them, but fitting in; resigned to walk the tartan, your beard clasping your hand, 27 and his child, his future-ex-wife.

Portrait of Angles

The following takes place in a small diner in Philadelphia, just as the sun begins to rise. Only booths and the bar offer seating. A tired blond woman in a light colored jogging suit, AMERICAN, in her mid-thirties sits in a booth across from an old SYRIAN man. The table is devoid of any meals or drinks; only a sugar container, a napkin dispenser, salt, and pepper. They watch each other in silence.

Syrian.   You are licensed to carry a gun like that?

American. I don’t believe that matters now.

Syrian.   No. I suppose you’re right. (Pause.) I can pay you money.

American. I don’t need it.

Syrian.   Anything.

American. No.

Syrian.   Please?

American. I said no. I have no need for it.

Syrian.   Then tell me what I can do for you.

American. Nothing. Your gratitude was enough. Now I must be going.

Syrian.   To where? Allow me to pay for the fare.

American. I’m walking.

Syrian.   Is it far?

American. It doesn’t matter.

(The American begins to slide out of the booth)

Syrian.   Please wait.

American. Why?

Syrian.   Stay with me for a while. Talk. Give me that at least.

(A WAITER approaches their booth, notepad in hand, gum smacking in their mouth.)

Waiter.   Whatsit gonna’ be?

(The Syrian looks at the waiter, then to American, who is halfway out the booth.)

Syrian.   Have a cup of coffee with me then? Just one.

(Silence. The American reluctantly slides into the booth)

Atticus Pinke: Chapter 2: The Skeleton Woman

Chapter 2

The Skeleton Woman

    It's 1992. Tonight in East San Antonio, Texas, a mid-twenties Hispanic club vixen paints her lips with the reddest of lipsticks. She puckers into the mirror and pulls her long moussed locks into a sporty pony tail, her hands holding it in place. She locks this pose for five minutes, taking in every bit of detail. She's pleased. Tonight she'll turn heads, perhaps make some new friends and enemies.

    Her plan is to hijack the dance floor at the hottest new dance club in town, Twilight. Her birthing hips will sway to the beat of whatever bass bumping track that is dangerously close to collapsing one's lungs. The pants that hug the fat of her legs will struggle to hold on as her high heel stamps pound and tap into the neon dance floor.

    The Cover Girls', "Wishing on a Star", plays through a small clock radio at her bedside, wooing the atmosphere of her small dimly lit room. Her vanity mirror is fixed with pictures of girls in skimpy outfits squinting and smiling at the camera—the too many drinks smile. These girls are special; they have been friends since high school… her comadres. They're the kind of girls that are always there even when you don't need them there. Through thick and thin type stuff. Yet above all, they place second to her children.

   "Mommy?"

   The vixen turned, Mommy, looks at the reflection of a small boy, staring worriedly at his mother, and smiles. There is a ring of red kool-aid dyed into the skin around his mouth. His hair is oiled and messed in to a clumpy mop. It's a collection of sweat and dirt that he picked up while wrestling with his four other siblings; three brothers and one sister.

   "Yes, mi ijito?" Mommy says with an endearing inflection. She pulls a glittery scrunchie around the pony tail that she held in place, and turns to face her son, holding out her arms. The boy jumps onto her lap and presses himself into her breasts. "What's the matter, baby?"

   "I don't want 'Buelita to watch us." The boy pouts, pressing his fingers into the fat of her legs.

   'Buelita, the vixen's grandmother, great grandmother of her five children, and a woman of little reserve, is not one to hold back when it comes to discipline and structure. The children call her: "The Skeleton Woman". 'Buelita is a bruja-- a witch. She deals her hand in black magic, and closely follows the faith of Santa Muerta… among others.

    Mommy pulls hers son's hair out of his face, "Mi ijo, you don't have to worry. She's just putting you to bed."

   "Can't you stay home?"

   "Aye, baby," she adjusts the boy on her lap and gently pulls his face to hers. "Mommy needs time to herself. With her friends. You'll be okay."

   "But, 'Buelita, is telling stories."

   Mommy pulls her face away from his, and stares out into the hallway. "What kind of stories?" she asks.

   "Scary ones." Her son replies with a quiver in his voice.

   'Buelita is known for her stories; stories of ghosts, demons and witches who steal kids right out of their beds.

   Mommy grabs her son and stands up from the chair in front of the vanity. His legs dangle and bounce off his mother's stomach as she stomps out the room and down the hallway: "Aye, this woman."

   Stopping at the doorway to her children's room; she finds all her kids huddled into one giant bed, bundled up in the meager covers they have. Her daughter look as if she are ready to cry. The pockets of their eyes are blushed and their pupils glossed. But er sons hold a straight face, no emotion whatsoever… their attempt at being men—the dreaded machismo.

In the corner of the room, amongst a slew of second hand toys, 'Buelita sits in a rocking chair. Thin fragile strands of gray hair fray out the top of her bun. The skin around her eyes is stricken with cracks and deep wrinkles, like dried cookie dough. Her gaze already poignantly fixed on her granddaughter. At least, it seems poignant, although her eyes are fixed in an eternal squint due to the heavy loose skin around them.

   "No tienes huevos… no backbone, your son." she says coldly.

   "Stop it, Alma. These kids need to sleep." says Mommy as she puts her oldest son under the covers. She kisses him on the forehead and once again pushes his hair out of his eyes.

   Ack.

   'Buelita expresses her annoyance and smoothes out the black huipil draped over her red
dress. "Calling me by my first name. Este! No respect!"

   "Say goodnight to 'Buelita!" says Mommy to the kids, completely ignoring 'Buelita's last comment.

   "We have to sleep!" calls out one of her sons.

   "Or the brujo will steal our souls right out of our eyes!" is what her daughter follows up with.

   Mommy places her hands on her hips and shoots 'Buelita a disapproving stare. 'Buelita is old, but strong willed. And even though Mommy is the one who takes care of her; feeds her, washes her clothes and administers her medication, 'Buelita's independent spirit tends to be the cause of much conflict between her and her granddaughter, especially when it comes to Mommy's children.

   "It's true, you know?" declares 'Buelita.

   "What's true, Alma?"

   "You know the man. Suez! El brujo de nigromancia! The man slain by mi hermano. But not before Suez could trap his soul in his book of spells."

   "Alma, stop it. There is no such thing as a conjurer of the dead. You're scaring the kids." Mommy grabs 'Buelita by the hand and attempts to pull her out of the chair.

She pulls away with disdain, "They should be! He'll come back someday. Working his evils into the world once again. But the vessel he inherits will be stronger… a man with no heart. No blood. No pain. He will raise the dead along with him. And only someone with our blood can send him to hell."

   "Stop it!"

   The kids flinch.

   An eerie silence trickles into the room.

   'Buelita stands up straight, as straight as her back will allow, and begins to slowly walk out of the room. Yet, she suddenly stops at the doorway and fiendishly turns to point her finger at one of the boys, and then scans the rest of them with her index finger. "One of you will do it." Her finger stops on the oldest son: "Perhaps you."

   "Goodnight, Alma." pushes Mommy, and 'Buelita vanishes into the hallway.

   The kids remain tucked under the covers, their faces pale. Mommy flicks on the night-light on the wall and turns off the room light. She then hangs on the door, "It's fake. Your 'buelita is just crazy. She's old, babies," The children begin to loosen up. "Goodnight, sweeties." and she blows a kiss before shutting the door, allowing the eerie silence to once again fill the room.

   Hours pass.

   The other siblings fall asleep, except for one. The oldest son, made anxious by the mark of The Skeleton Woman's finger. His eyes dart to every corner of the room. His breathing is shallow and quiet… purposefully. And then, from the light of night-light on the wall, rises the shadow of hand with long boney fingers, and nails like a tiger. The hand grows up the wall and stretches across the ceiling, hovering over the oldest son.

   "Not my soul." he whimpers, shutting his eyes tight.

Creative Writing Assignment #2: In-Cheek (las lenguas)

In-Cheek (las lenguas)

     The tongue in your mouth isn’t your own. Yours is present, yes, but the added organ in such a small space for such an extended length of time is more than a little uncomfortable. These tongues don’t waltz romantically or entwine like the serpents of the caduceus. This is no ancient transaction: goods for goods. It is an invasion.

     Your orifice is being attacked, penetrated by the muscular hydrostat of another. And for what purpose? You certainly never invited the attacker – but, then again, who ever invites an attack? You did not roll out the welcom mat, brush and floss those pearly whites, gargle, rinse, bleach.

     You’re aware of the taste of it – not as off-putting as garlic, onions, or cat shit but not exactly spearmint. Not bile. Is this the bittersweet taste of violation? And moreover why is it not going away? Why is the unwelcome tongue of another just laying there – rest position – napping on your own?

     Maybe if you hadn’t been in mid-sentence you could have blocked it, sealed your lips, grit your teeth; you could have made an impenetrable fortress of your mouth, a vault. You’re certain, however, that that tongue would have found a way in, prying past your lips, persistent, like an unwelcome houseguest. You are being burgled!

     Your eyes are shut, you cannot open them for fear of staring into the eyes of the assailant. You breathe in deeply, through your nose; your eyes are shut so tightly now that you see stars. If this were anything but an unwelcome kiss it’d be rape.

     You bite down, teeth sinking into the spongey pink tissue.

     Hard, harder…

     And you wait for the scream.

Atticus Pinke: Chapter 1: Words are Loud… Defecation is Louder

 Chapter 1

Words are Loud… Defecation is Louder

 

    Four years is way too long.

    Mr. Hirsch is my boss. This is of course his title stated in its simplest form. One could paint the man with the title of Chicago branch manager of Indesky & Borne; the holistic pharmaceutical distributor of male enhancers, female chest augmentation pills, libido intensifiers… that sort of thing. But its titles like these that feed directly into the man's prideful cortex… this, Nathan Hirsch; the fickle father of three, grandfather of six— strong in his Jewish faith. He is nothing more than a simple man with complex needs and a big head. That's a metaphor.

    Don't get me wrong, though. His head is physically large.

    The man always stood his ground no matter how unsuited, improbable, indefatigable, or absolutely asinine his requests and ideologies appeared. Yet these crack-pot requests would always fall on me, the smoothie kid. A man— boy raised on dependence and security, no principles of accepted responsibilities or suitable work ethics instilled. I was smooth, soft, weak, and sluggish like the contents of a banana smoothie that only pose the slightest amount of utility.

    This wasn't far from the truth.

    I won't resent myself. It's who I am.

    But that's not what made me angry. Four years of go-for jobs and meaningless errands is way too long. I thought I would at least make Operator. I wasn't ambitiously pushing for assistant manager. Ambition makes me nauseous. Yet here I am, four years after my father forced me to take this job here at I&B, squatting on top of Mr. Hirsch's imported oak desk.

    The waistline of my black khakis and underwear rest on my ankles, a few inches above my squared black leather Oxford shoes. My left foot begins to quiver under the weight of my hunkered over body. The interiors of my bundled fists begin to harvest sweat that glides along the underbelly of my arms and onto my knees. My tie is slung over my left shoulder to avoid any tickling of my perineum. I can feel cold air and a slight tingling sensation on my bare ass cheeks. It's his gaze. I know it.

    I can only imagine the look on Hirsch's face right now. His oversized mouth is gaped wide open and accentuating the deep age lines that encircle his lips. It's propped open by some invisible pole or stick named shock and disbelief. The furry gray caterpillars above his eyes are severely arched and are supported his widened stare.

    I imagine the phone is pressed to the side of his face, yet he doesn't say a word as security screams through the receiver, pleading for a response.

Behind him, his managerial level view of downtown Chicago.

    Teaching him a lesson is what I hope to achieve. But as I feel myself release the first log, I begin to think about what kind of lesson I am trying to teach.

    What kind of message does shit on a desk send to someone you hate, other than really hating them?

    And it's now that I begin to realize that what I am doing is pointless. I am not establishing myself as some kind of hero of fair treatment amongst the workforce. This isn't some deeply poetic declaration of injustice and wrongdoing. I'm just taking a dump on Mr. Hirsch's desk.

    I look crazy.

    Insane.

    I'm about to lose my job.

    Hirsch's door then swings open and a small group of security guards plug the doorway. They crowd the opening, hesitant to move any further. It takes them a while to gather their bearings as they assess the situation in front of them.

    "Is he really shitting on the desk?"

    I look up at them with teary blood shot eyes. A scene description in a screenplay would compose it as: like a puppy caught in the act of doing his business under the dining room table.

    I know what comes next.

    The guards yank me off the desk. My pants hinder me from making any quick maneuvers, so my chest hits the floor with a loud thud, expelling the air from my body. It becomes harder to concentrate on breathing as I am then drug across the carpet. Heat is now engulfing my chest. It feels like being tossed into a frying pan that is in the process of being heated for some eggs. Or French toast.

Pancakes.

    My mother would always serve pancakes on Sunday mornings, while telling me that I was destined for great things. No matter how unconventional those things may be. I'm sure this isn't what she had in mind.

    Me. Atticus Pinke, the crazy cracker who dropped off a load of kids on Mr. Hirsch's fancy desk.

    I'm a little proud, especially as I'm drug through the cubicle aisles with my furry ass up in the air for all the employees to see. Even Miss Honey, the voluptuous black receptionist who once told me I was: "-fine as hell. But lazy."

    We approach the elevator doors. They ding open and I'm helped to my feet. Still bear assed (pun intended).

    Get one more look, ladies, because this is the last you'll ever see of the ass of Atticus Pinke.

    Four years is way too long.