The Girl who Loved only Numbers (short story 4)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.
*

Crowded dance floor, lights tracing arcs across the room, pounding loud electronic dance music. Everyone is dancing but Alice, wearing a black hoodie, loose pants, and tennis shoes, in the center of the dance floor. She’s occasionally jostled by the young energetic dancers around her, but ignores them, zoned out in her own world, letting the sound wash over her like a cleansing shower. She lives with numbers - the beats per minute, the color frequency of each light shining down from the ceiling, the equations of the arcs as the lights move across the dancers, the expected time she waits until she gets another call. With her head covered, no one can even tell she’s female. Alice is 15 but the fake driver’s license in her sweater pouch says she’s 21. In this light it’s impossible to tell if she’s black or white, but does it really matter?

After several minutes her watch buzzes on her wrist. Focused but head down, she pushes through the crowded dance floor to the closest exit.

Alice walks through the rain along the alley outside. She’s on her cell-phone with her friend Matilda. Matilda’s black, pudgy even in baggie clothes, sitting cross-legged in front of a computer. She’s Alice’s best friend. Actually, she’s Alice’s only friend.

“Kaleidoscope made another purchase,” says Matilda.

“Alias Kevin Smithereen?”

“Yes. Delivery is tomorrow. What do we do? ”

“Mattie, we either do something ourselves or we pass it onto Berman.”

“I have a test Friday,” Matilda says.

“You’re always studying for something.” Alice reaches the street. A Lyft pulls up. Alice gets in the back.

“Cops are trained to do this. We’re not,” Matilda argues. She's a little afraid of this one. For good reason.

“This one needs to be taught a lesson,” Alice says.

“I want to pass it on. I can use the anonymous email on the police website.”

“I don’t trust it. I think it logs the IP.”

“I can use one of the emails we created using the burner phone from Virginia.”

“Okay, but use the Texas phone instead. See you in 15.” Alice closes her eyes.

On the 6th floor of the Baltimore police department, Sheriff Berman sits at his desk in the police station. Coffee cups fill the trash, while each desk has a computer, keyboard, telephone, piles of files and papers. He clicks on a newly arrived email. Frowns. Berman quickly pushes things around on his desk until he finds a pad of blank paper. He makes notes on the email.


That night, in a run-down suburban neighborhood, Berman makes his move. Two sedans, one red with a dented back bumper, are parked in front of a house whose old rusted mailbox says “Smithereen.” Berman and his partner, wearing POLICE windbreakers, guide an overweight man in a wife-beater t-shirt to one of the cars.

Matilda is doing high school calculus homework in her living room with Alice. Matilda’s mom Rachel is working in the kitchen preparing an apple pie.

The TV news is on, which the girls pretend to ignore. A TV reporter says: “Alleged child pornographer Kevin Smithereen was arrested last night. Explicit images and video was found on his home computer. Police got information from an anonymous source, who also gave them the password to the computer.” Matilda and Alice trade a quick look at each other as the newscaster moves on to the next news item, then get back to their homework.

“Can I see what you got on problem 13?” Alice asks.

“Sure,” Matilda says, handing a page of mathematical computations to Alice. “Do you see that for problem 13 part (d), you have to use problem 10 part (a)?” Matilda asks. Alice zones out, thinking of Smithereen. “Alice?” Matilda asks. Alice snaps out of it. “Does it ever end, Mattie?”

From the kitchen, Rachel yells upstairs a question, “You girls doing okay?”

“It’s just a long assignment, Mom,” Matilda yells down.

“You girls want a coke?” Rachel asks.

Alice manages a faint smile. “Sure, I’ll get it. I’ll get one for you too, Alice.” Matilda goes to the kitchen, leaving Alice alone, zoned out. She thinks back to the crowded dance floor, light show, pounding loud electronic dance music, oblivious to the jostling in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a huge crowd. Everyone’s dancing but her, the girl in the black hoodie, loose pants, tennis shoes, and spaced-out look. She smiles, feeling the sound wash over her like a cleansing shower.

*

Matilda drove all the way from Baltimore to watch her brother and her 13 year old cousin. She hitched a towing trailer to her car to take both their bike bikes.

When they arrived at the track, Matilde parked in a lot, Manny and Gonzo unhitched the trailer and untied their bikes – Manny’s Hayabusa and Gonzo’s TL1000. While they readied them, Matilde wandered over to a screened-in hamburger stand, ordered a hot dog and coffee, and read a math book while she waited for them to hit the track. The book was the biography or the mathematician Paul Erdos, The Man Who Loved Only Numbers. She was in heaven.

Manny and Gonzo are enrolled in Advanced Racing, at Summit Point Motorsports Park in Summit Point, West Virginia. In the classroom, Wes, the skinny grizzled old instructor, collects the application forms from the students. Sonia, the younger assistant instructor, helps him. “Get those all filled out. I need the date you passed Intermediate Racing,” Wes says. Manny hands his application to Wes, who looks it over. Wes looks at Gonzo. “How old are you, son? You have your parent’s permission?”

“It’s okay.” Manny said. “I’m his uncle.”

“Wes dear, he’s the best rider in the class,” Sonia says.

Gonzo sits expressionless. Wes takes his application form. “Okay, you can stay,” Wes says. “Sonia, did you do their inspections?”

“Yep,” Sonia says. “Gonzo’s bike is good, so is Manny’s. They're the only bike that don't have leaky belly pans.” The others in the class hang their heads. “Okay, class, fix them up," Wes says. "We can’t have oil or gas leaks on the track."

Out on the track, Manny and Gonzo, take a few warm up laps. Slow. They check for loose gravel, especially on turn 4, and to warm the rubber on their tires to make them grippy. If you see any, report loose gravel to the track crew.

Matilde lays a towel down on a grassy observation area known as “the beach”. She settles down with her math book. It’s relatively quiet now but when she hears the approaching whine of the bikes, she puts her book down to look for Gonzo and Manny. It’s not hard to spot them. She knows it will be Gonzo fighting for the lead, with Manny somewhere back in the pack. After they pass, she returns to her reading.

Afterwards, Manny and Gozo get ready to hitch the trailer back to Matilde’s car. Matilde walks up to them. “Nice job you guys,” Matilde says.

“Thanks,” Gonzo says. “Manny beat me through the first two turns, but I caught up with him.”

“Gonzo’s getting faster every time we ride. Get some reading done, Mattie?” Manny asks.

“I did. Anyone hungry?” she asks.

“I don’t like the food here,” Gonzo says.

“While you boys tie the bikes down to the trailer, why don’t I get us some pizza for the drive back?” Matilde asks. Gonzo smiles.

“Sounds good. Before we go, Gonzo’s needs to fill out a registration for an 18-and-under race next month,” Manny says.

“Be back in 15 or 20 minutes,” Matilde says, getting in her car. Manny and Gonzo watch as her car takes the windy road through the trees to the main highway.

“I couldn’t ask for a better aunt,” Gonzo says.

“I couldn’t ask for a better sister,” Manny says.

As Matilde’s car roars out into the highway, they turn back to roping their bikes to the metal loops on the trailer. Then they hear a loud horn and a crash, then another crash. They turn to look and see Matilde’s car has crashed into a semi head-on, and a red sedan with a dented rear bumper zooms off.

“Can you see the license plate on that red car?” Manny asks in a terrified voice.

“It’s too far,” Gonzo says, running faster.

Matilde was side-swiped by the red car, lost control and verged into the lane of the semi. As Manny and Gonzo run through the woods to the crash site, they know she’s dead. The semi may have ended her life, but what killed her the red car with a dented rear bumper.


*


The church is crowded. Matilde had a lot of friends. For example, Alice. They’ve been friends since they we little. All of Matilde’s relatives are there, too. Her mom and dad, and her brother Manny, sit in front.

Alice shuffles up to the dias. “Matilde was my best friend. We laughed at the same quirky things.” Remembering one, Alice smiled. “I’ll tell you a couple of stories to tell you about Matilde.”

Matilde and Alice are 8 years old, playing doll house in Alice’s bedroom. “Your dollhouse has seven rooms. Mine does too,” Matilde says.
“You take Stacie and Ken, I’ll take Barbie,” Alice says. “How many ways can we put the dolls in the house so that your dolls are in the same room and my doll is in a different room?”

“I can put my doll in any of the seven rooms,” Matilde says. “I can put mine in any of the remaining six rooms.”

“That’s forty-two total?”

“Yes, six times seven,” Alice says.

At the dias, Alice dabs her eyes with kleenex. “That was when we were 8 years old. Later, when we were teenagers, we both enjoyed the stories of Douglas Adams. We both loved numbers.”

Matilde and Alice are 14 years old, laying on the floor reading books in Alice’s bedroom. Alice has The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy open in front of her. Matilde has So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.
“What’s the answer to the ultimate question of the universe?” Alice asks. “I give up. What?”
“Forty two.”
“Do you remember that day we were playing dollhouse? You gave me
two dolls and you got one. Then you asked how many ways can we put the dolls in the house so that my dolls are in the same room and your doll is in a different room?” Matilde asks.
“The answer was --”
“Forty-two,” both of them say together. Matilde laughs to hard, Alice starts to laugh as well.

At the dias, Alice wipes her nose with a kleenex. “That’s Mattie for you. I’ll never forget her. I didn’t think this would be so hard.” Alice steps away and, crying now, walks out of the church.

Manny gets up and follows her. It’s dark inside but a nice day outside the church. Alice stands wiping her eyes, getting out earbugs from a pocket. Manny walks up to her.

“I loved that story. Funny and smart. That was so Matilde,” Manny says.

“We’re both more comfortable with mathematics.”

“I found a dead dog on my route yesterday.”

“Monica told me you’re a garbageman.”

“Someone threw away their dead dog.”

“Poor thing. Some people are disgusting.” Manny and Alice walk over to his motorcycle, a Suzuki Hayabusa in the parking lot.

“I definitely seen another side of people.” Manny laughs at the sickness of it all. He’s got an honest, easy laugh that makes Alice feel better. “Have you seen seen my bike? I love motorcycles the way you and Matilde love numbers.” Manny gets on, but he’s so big the bike
now looks small.

“I like it. You know, my grandma had one,” Alice says. She laughs.

Manny laughs with her. “You need a ride home?”

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle.”

“Put your feet on these pedals and hold your arms around me tight.” Alice gets on, sits on the tiny bump of cushion called a seat, but doesn’t
touch Manny. “This is a fast bike. Hold on and don’t let go.” Alice puts on earbugs, pulls in a Skrillex song, loud, and puts on her helmet.

Manny taps her helmet to get her attention. “Give me the bud for your left ear.”

Alice looks at Manny blankly. Manny repeats himself. She takes out her left bud and Manny puts it in his right ear, forcing Alice to get up close to Manny. Manny starts the engine.

Alice puts her arms around Manny, holds him tight, and they take off with a roar.

In Memorium (short story 3)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

Inspired by A. Chekov's short "The Orator."
*

Helen Sodre, the youngest mathematics professor ever tenured at Yale, unlocks her door. It has a name plate “Professor Helen Sodre” above the paper tray mounted beside her door. She enters her office and dumps a pile of papers and books on a chair. To anyone else, it’s a messy office, but to her it is carefully organized. She knows where everything is. If you were to ask her, where’s Zalivsky’s paper on the classification of strongly regular signed graphs? She’d tell you it’s the third paper under the red book by Gramwood on combinatorics in the pile on the floor near the window.

Emily, her only graduate student (meaning, Helen’s Emily’s thesis advisor), knocks on the doorframe and comes in asking a math question. “What if I use Kramer’s method to do the estimate?” Emily’s about the same age as Helen. They communicate like equals.

“Good idea, Emily. Try it,” Helen said, as she sits in front of her computer reading emails. “Did you ever meet Jorgensen?” Helen asks.

“Jorgensen spelled with an ‘son’ or with an ‘sen”’ Emily asks.

“Spelled with an ‘sen”’ Helen says.

“No. I heard he got cancer the year before I arrived. Why?”

“I knew him pretty well until he got sick. He mentored me when I first got here. The organizers of his memorial conference have asked me to give a talk. Wanna go?”

“Where is it?”

“Bowdoin.”

“Maine in the summer? Sounds nice. Thanks Professor.”

“It kind of does, doesn’t it? Let’s go. Pack light, no sweaters or coats.”

*

Helen and Emily depart a shuttle van in downtown Bowdoin, each wearing a short-sleeved shirt and dragging two-wheeled luggage behind them. A “Welcome to Bowdoin” sign is ahead. They see a Bank of Bowdoin sign with a time of 2pm and a temperature of 35 degrees. Next door to the bank is Annie’s Tavern.

“Why do we have to fly into Bowdoin the one day of the summer when it’s friggin’ freezing?” Helen asks.

“That tavern looks warm.” They head to Annie’s Tavern.

Once inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with their luggage beside them. “Nice and toasty in here,” Helen says, taking her coat off. A waiter walks up. “Just two beers,” she orders.

“You got it,” the waiter says, then leaves.

“What are you going to say about Jorgensen in your talk?” Emily asks.

“Good question. I guess people what to know what it’s like to work with him. I knew him as a co-worker, not as a co-author or advisor.”

The waiter returns with their beers. “Here you go,” he says, putting the bill down as well.

“Were you friends?”

“God no. He got my friend Matilda pregnant. She had to leave grad school to have the baby. She never told him.”

“I had no idea. Are you going to tell everyone that?”

“Should I? What do you think? He’s dead, what good would it do?”

“Won’t his widow be at the talk?”

“He never married,” Helen says.

“What if Matilda's not the only one? What difference does it make?”

Helen thinks about it as they finish their beers.

“We should make it to our rooms. Your talk is at 5 o’clock, right?” Emily says.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Helen says, putting a ten down down for the bill as they put their coats back on.

Outside, Helen and Emily start to shiver as soon as they leave the tavern. Dragging her two-wheeler suitcase behind her, Helen says “Holy crap, it’s cold. Did the temperature drop that fast?”

Emily points ahead. "See The College Tavern a block ahead? Let’s stop in there just to warm up,” she suggests. They head to The College Tavern.

Inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with their luggage beside them. “My teeth were chattering out there,” Emily says.

“This feels much better. The heater’s overhead.” A waitress walks up. “Just two light beers,” Helen says.

"Did he ever hit on you?" Emily asks. "Jorgensen, I mean, with the -sen."

"Back then? Let me think. I think it was more sexist jokes. I didn't laugh."

"Sounds like a misogynist jerk."

"He wasn't that bad. Is that a problem with you or the other female graduate students?"

"At a grad student mixer, one guy said he wanted to fuck me right there. Just like that. We'd just met that day."

``Sounds like a jerk. I hope you slapped his face."

"Look at the time," Emily says, changing the topic. Helen and Emily leave the tavern dragging two-wheelers behind them.

“Holy mother of christ, it’s freezing out here,” Emily says, teeth chattering. Helen points to a "The Polar Bear Bar & Grill" sign a block ahead.

Inside, Helen and Emily sit at a small table, with a large neon “Polar Bear Bar & Grill” above the bar on the other side of the room. Emily is shivering. “I’m starting to defrost,” Emily says.

A waitress walks up. “T-t-two beers, p-p-please,” Helen says, teeth chattering. In a moment, the waitress returns with their beers. “I gave you ladies ale’s. No up-charge,” she says, putting the bill down as well.

“Thank you,” Helen says, taking a large sip.

“So Jorgensen with an 'e' slept with at least five grad students, getting three of them pregnant?” Emily asks. “I heard Jorgenson spelled with an 'o', who's much younger, slept with some of his students. Almost sounds like him.”

“No, we’re talking about Jorgensen spelled with an ‘e.’ Plus, Jorgensen stole Smottle’s construction of strongly regular graphs.”

“You mean, Jorgensen graphs are actually Smottle graphs?”

“Yep. Smottle slept with the chairman’s wife around the same time Jorgensen refereed his paper. Jorgensen put his name on it and told Smottle to shut up about it to keep the affair secret,” Helen says.

“That’s the worst case of academic dishonesty I’ve ever heard of. I thought the Jorgenson in Jorgenson graphs were spelled with an ‘o.”’

“‘E’, Emily, not ‘o.’ That jerk Jorgensen will not be missed.” They finish their beers.

“It’s 4 o’clock and your talk is at 5,” Emily says.

“We'd better go straight to the auditorium,” Helen says.


*

Helen and Emily sit at the edge of the front row of a crowded auditorium. Helen belches loudly.

Professor Morgenstern introduces Helen. “Our last speaker of the day is the youngest mathematics professor ever tenured at Yale. She’s also the only scientist who’s won both the Abel Prize and the Wolff Prize: Professor Helen Sodre!”

To generous applause, Helen mounts the stairs to the stage, tripping drunkenly over the top step.

“Here did that fucker come from?” Helen jokes on her way to the podium. Helen looks over the crowd of smiling faces. A elderly woman in black sits in the center of the front row. Behind her sits Professor Jorgenson. (That’s Jorgenson with an ‘o,’ for those keeping score at home.) “We are here to reflect on the memories of by former colleague Professor Jorgensen. What a man,” Helen says.

The elderly woman in the center sniffs and dabs her eyes with a hankerchief.

“We mathematicians are personifications of truth and rigor,” Helen says. Everyone nods. “I want to share the truth about Jorgensen.”

“Oh, no,” Emily says. She slouches down in her seat.

“I have a friend named Matilda who he got pregnant. She had to leave grad school to have the baby she had with Jorgensen,” Helen says.

“What did you say?” asks the elderly woman in the center.

“She never told him,” Helen adds.

“What did you say?” Jorgenson asks.

“Is there an echo in here?” Helen asks. Then she belches.

“She wasn’t the first,” Helen continues.

The elderly woman in the center breaks down and cries.

Helen belches. “But that wasn’t all. Have you heard of Jorgensen graphs?”

Jorgenson gets up with an embarrassed huff and quickly leaves.

“Jorgensen graphs ... wait, Jorgenson graphs are spelled ‘son’ not ‘sen”,’ Helen says.

“That’s what I told you before,” Emily says.

“After three beers, I can’t understand what you are saying,” Helen says.

“Are you saying my husband stole his results?” asks the crying elderly widow.

“Who are you?” Helen asks.

“Mrs Jorgensen,” she replies.

Beellccchh. “Is that spelled ‘son’ or ‘sen”,’ Helen asks.

Professor Morgenstern mounts the stairs to the stage shouting, “Let us thank our speaker?”

Fun with the Fords (short story 2)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.
*

We're watching a rerun of an old TV sitcom "Fun With the Fords":

Young husband Fred Ford enters the kitchen where his wife Ginnie is fixing dinner and watching over their 1 year old baby, Hank.
“You sexy thing. Say something dirty to me,” Fred says.
“Clean the toilet in the downstairs bathroom,” she replies.
Canned laughter.

Even louder than the laughter from the laugh track is the laughter from Chuck Dillon, the actor who played Fred Ford years ago. He’s sitting in the living room in his comfy chair, with his back to the adjoining kitchen and dining room, watching a rerun from 20 years ago. Chuck polishes off a third beer as the credits roll and his wife Edie in the dining room finishes preparing the dinner table.
“Dinner’s ready,” Edie yells.
Down the stairs come their son, 21-year old Sam, and daughter, 25-year old Dottie. They both cram into the dining room to take their seats at the dinner table.
“We’re waiting for you, Dad,” Sam says.
“That show paid for this house,” Chuck says getting up, watching the credits finish, then walking over to sit with the others for dinner. “You can wait.”
“What good is a house if we starve to death in it, Daddy?” Dottie jokes.
“Very funny,” Chuck says.
“I made a list of foods for you to buy at the store, honey,” Edie says.
“Why do I have to do that? Why can’t you?” asks Chuck.
“I told you, I’ll be at the cardiology conference all week,” Edie says.
Chuck looks at Dottie.
“Daddy, I’ll be working late every night until my team’s project report is finished. We’re beta testing a new kind of smart glasses,” Dottie says. “But if you need anything, just give me a call. I’m only an hour’s drive away.”
Chuck looks at Sam. “Dad, I’m leaving for Chicago to gather footage for my thesis film. It’s going to be a documentary on how poverty social programs have changed in the past 25 years,” Sam says.
“I’m going to be alone all week?” Chuck asked.
“No, honey, you’ll have Buster and Felix. Buster has a grooming appointment on Wednesday. Don’t forget to get more tick meds. Felix has a check-up with the vet on Friday. She just needs some shots. Don’t let her sleep on the sofa.”
*
The next morning, Chuck wakes up. He gets up and notices the sheets on his side are messed up and on Edie’s side are neat. She's gone. On her nightstand there's a framed collage of pictures of all her activities at work - getting an award, posing with patients she’s cured, and an old photo with Sam and Dottie when they got an award in middle school. Chuck looks on his side of the bed. His nightstand has old pictures of him on set of “Fun with the Fords”, old stills Larry King Live with other actors from the show. He was absent from his family then. He’s absent now. It dawns on him that, in some ways, he’s changed places with his wife and kids, who are now successful themselves, while Chuck has to read Variety and People magazine articles calling him ”washed up.”

He drags himself downstairs and puts the dog Buster out into the fenced back yard, then he shuffles into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. As he slurps away, he wanders into Sam’s old bedroom, then wanders into Dottie’s old bedroom, missing them all.

*

For lunch, Chuck sits at a table in the local Deli with his producer friend, Tony. Chuck complains Sam is away and he misses him.

Tony lost a son 6 months ago to a fentynal OD. “I miss mine every day,” Tony says. “Spend time with him while you still can. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

On the drive home, Chuck punches the phone button on his steering wheel. “Call Sam,” he orders.
“Hello, Dad?” Sam answers. “Is everything all right?”

“Hey, buddy. Yeah, I’m just calling to see how your thesis project is going. It’s something about poverty, right?”
“Yeah. Can I call you back? I’m on a shoot and it’s super crazy busy right now.”

“Sure thing. No problem. Love you, Sam.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Click. Sigh.

“Call Dottie,” he orders.

“Hello, Dad?” Dottie answers. “Are you okay?”

“Hey, sweetheart. Yeah, I’m just calling to see how things are going. YOu're doing something with smart glasses, right?”

“Yeah. We can always use beta testers. Do you want to do that? It would really help me out.”

“I guess so, sure. What do I do?”

“I’ll express mail out a pair and call you tonight with instructions.”

“Sounds good. Can you call after 7?”

“Yes. Don’t want you to miss your reruns.”

“That's my girl. Love you, Dottie.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

Click. Smile.

“Call Edie,” he orders.

“You have reached the voicemail of --”

With a sigh, Chuck hangs up before he can leave a voicemail on his wife’s cellphone.

*
The next day, the smart glasses arrive, with a charger. He plugs them into the charger to charge them. After an hour, he puts them on, presses ‘Record’ then plays with Felix inside the house and plays in the backyard with Buster. He then downloads the files to his laptop and watches the video.

As Chuck drinks a beer, he gets a idea about a TV show. He’s so fired up by it he calls Edie. It goes to voicemail. This time, he leaves a very upbeat message about his great idea. He knows she’ll be proud of him this time.

Later that day, at lunch, Chuck sits at the same table at the same local deli with his friend, Tony. Chuck brought the smart glasses with him and puts them on the table between them.
“So, what’s this great idea you told me about, Chuck?” Tony asks. He’s trying not to be too skeptical.

Charles pitches his idea. “This will be a serious film documentary portraying the suffering of poor in American society. Sam is working on a similar idea.”

“He’s working on his thesis film?”

“Right. He’s studying how social programs for Americans in poverty have changed in the past 25 years. My film will involve the study of poverty through the lens of smart glasses to get some of the footage.”

Tony rejects his idea. “You’re a sitcom star, not a documentary filmmaker. The business has changed since your show ended. This isn’t something I see you happy doing. I love you like a brother, but let’s face it, you have a pretty
lazy work ethic.”

“I want to change. I want to get more involved with my son. Like you said, if I don't, I'll be sorry. What if he dies tomorrow? What kind of father have I been to him?”

“He’s not going to die tomorrow, Chuck. Besides, he’s a great kid, going to film school.”

“Which Edie pays for. My residual checks are getting smaller and smaller.”

Tony counters with a reality show concept. “Here’s an idea that I could sell. You star in a reality show titled ‘Life as a Has Been’. Go around town and see who recognizes you and who doesn’t. Tell some jokes. It’ll be funny. What do you think?”

“That is the opposite of what I’m envisioning. I want to do something right, not something I have to do so show biz execs can make another buck. I’m done with that.”
“Good luck, brother.”

*
Another scene from “Fun with the Fords.”

Chuck drinks his third beer and closes his eyes. In his mind, he laughs along with the laugh tracks to old jokes. His son Sam laughs with him, as does Dottie and even Edie. The whole family sit in the living room, laughing with him. Chuck drains his beer and when he opens his eyes they are gone. It’s just him alone, getting drunk. Buster gets up to sleep in the other room.

The next morning, Chuck plays with his Dottie’s smart glasses. He calls her. “Daddy, go out into town. Test them out, that’s why they’ve been loaned to you,” she says.

Early the next morning, in the bedroom, Chuck picks out some old jeans and an old junky jacket, and takes off at daybreak into the inner city to record some real video of inner city life. He records a purse-snatching, huge rats, and used hypodermic needles in elementary school playgrounds, all with the smart glasses.

Once he gets back home, he then watches the video on his laptop. This gives him another idea.

*
Another lunch, Charles and Tony in the same deli, same table. Charles places the smart glasses on the table between them.

“Am I having deja vu?” Tony asks.

“I’ve got an idea for a reality series,” Charles says.

“I’m listening.”

“This is based on me wandering the city in disguise, capturing the real effects of living in poverty. Call it ‘People On The Edge,’ okay?”

“Love the title. I’m liking the vibe of this. Go on.”

“The footage will be captured using smart glasses. We’ll get Google as a advertiser.”

“Awesome sponsor suggestion. Kind of a Candid Camera but for the inner city. We could sell this to Oprah’s network.”
“I’ll pitch it.”

The next day, Tony calls Charles and tells him the producer’s boss loves it. It’s green lit the day after that.

*
Chuck calls Dottie to tell her. As a result, of the smart glasses show going into production, she expects to get a promotion at Google.

Chuck calls Sam to brag to his son about the new show. “Maybe you can get hired on as a consultant?” Chuck asks.

“Awesome, Dad. You are the best. I can’t wait to tell my thesis advisor,” Sam says.

Finally, Chuck is able to talk to his wife on the phone. She cancels a scheduled dinner meeting at her conference to spend the night talking with him on the phone.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” she says.

“Oprah loves it. The show will draw attention to issues in the inner city, but entertaining.”

“I can’t wait to get home to you, you sexy thing."

"I miss you, honey."

"Say something dirty to me,” she teases.


The End

Russell, editor extraordinaire (short story 1)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.
*

It’s eight o’clock on a quiet Sunday night. Russell’s finishing up notes on an article he’s editing for Modern magazine.

His mathematics professor wife Bertie is happily knitting. A sock, a blanket, or maybe it’s a sweater, he’s not sure. She knows a lot about mathematics, but she’s not the best knitter.

Should he call it a day and have a nightcap, or read one more submission? Just one, he decides. Russell settles into his comfy chair with the article, a fresh cup of decaf coffee and his trusty red fine-point pen.

He plops his feet on the coffee table and starts reading Russell, editor extraordinaire. “Russell was an editor, an extraordinarily good one,” he reads. Strange coincidence, but good name and occupation, Russell thinks. Who wrote this? Henry Maxwell Dempsey. Never heard of him.

The phone rings. Bertie doesn’t even look up. “It’s for you,” she says.

Russell picks up. “Yellow.”

“Russell, good news. Did I wake you?” It’s his boss, Tamika, the managing editor.

“Yes, you did. Does that mean it’s bad news?”

“I did not. You’re wide awake. This is good news. You got a promotion.”

“Is there a pay raise involved?”

“No, but it’s a really good deal. You’ll only edit works written by other editors.”

“So, presumably, less crap? Not that any of our authors submit crap.”

“No, of course not.”

“But they do.”

“Think of your old self like a crude sieve, a gatekeeper of the barbarian horde –”

“I always said that.”

“And your new self is a finer filter, more select, more elite.”

“Oh, elite. I like that.”

“You’re an editor extraordinaire.”

“I get it. What about this piece I’m reading now by Henry Maxwell Dempsey? What do you want me to do about it?”

“I know him. He edits for EC Comics, keep reading it.”

“Will do.”

“Remember, only edit those editor-writers who do not edit themselves.”

“Thanks, Tamika. I guess.”

“Yipee! Congratulations! See you tomorrow at the office.”

They hang up.

“More money, honey?” Bertie asks.

“No. She just called to tell me I only edit for editor-writers who do not edit themselves. She calls it a promotion.”

“Do you edit your own stories?”

“Of course.”

“Not any more.”

“Because I –”

“... only edit for editor-writers who do not edit themselves.”

“Right. Now I can’t edit my own stuff, dammit. I gotta call her back.”

“Hold on. You do not edit yourself –”

“I just said that.”

“Don’t interrupt me. You do not edit yourself, but you ‘only edit editor-writers who do not edit themselves,’ right?”

“Sounds logical.”

“Therefore, you can edit yourself.”

“Bertie, thank God you’re the mathematician in the family, not me. I’m glad we straightened out.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, for the record, you’re saying I can edit my own stories after all?”

“No. I’m saying you don’t exist,” Bertie says, returning to her knitting.

And, with that, Russell disappears.

David Mamet on Writing

I've been watching a ton of masterclasses (from masterclass.com). For example, I loved Aaron Sorkin's, James Patterson's and Annie Leibovitz's. Finally, I decided to try David Mamet. I knew of him, of course, as everyone has. I've seen all his movies, some multiple times, read his script for The Verdict, and one of his books. My firm opinion was I didn't like him. Watching his masterclass gave me a chance to recall all the strong opinions he holds on matters which I disagree with. There are a lot. Still, I found myself enjoying the wisdom of his writing lessons, communicated in his frank, sometimes dogmatic, and even bombastic, style. At the end, I said "God damn it!" They are that good. I'm watching them a second time right now.

These are not precise quotes, but are fairly accurate representations of his ideas.

• Writers are like beavers, A beaver chews down trees because his teeth itch. He has to chew in order to keep his teeth from driving him crazy. A writer writes to get his/her conscience to shut up for awhile. Give it a problem it likes and it will shut up - writing does that.
  
• Myth is a form of unverifiable reality. Drama is a form of myth. It is not false (or true) but merely unverifiable.
  
• Cause and effect is how we perceive reality, even if there is no real correlation. Drama, like life, is a narrative of cause and effect. But don’t investigate reason via drama. The purpose of good drama, like a good joke, is not to teach but to entertain. To help the audience member forget their stress-filled burden of everyday life. Done right, drama brings us closer to God. If you write drama, do your job.
  
• Your job is to tell a story with a hero who wants one thing. The story begins with a precipitating event. It has to be told simply, so you can mislead your audience. The story ends when the hero achieves or fails to get what they want. Everything in the middle must be a progression, using cause and effect, from beginning (the precipitating event) to the end.
  
• On character, 1: A drama is the story of a character, the protagonist, who wants one thing.
  
  1. What does a character want?
     
  2. Why does he/she want it?
     
  3. What happens if she doesn't get it?
     
  4. Why now?
     
• On character, 2: Aristotle says character is simply habitual action. Character doesn't really exist as we naturally conceive of it. There is no more to a character other than what they do in the script. As a corollary: if you have a character "in your head" but haven't described a character attribute using action lines you've written, don't think the audience can guess this aspect of your character's behavior. For example, say Sally is your protagonist and you think of her as honest and decent. If you haven't given her actions to indicate this, the audience won't know.
  
• A story is told in the closing lesson which I really liked. It emphasizes a dictum that Mamet repeats over and over in his lectures: if you decide to be a writer, take it seriously - to the same level of seriousness that you take a marriage. Mamet tells his viewers "thank you for your attention" before giving his final message. This is taken from a scene in scifi writer Alfred Bester's Hugo award-winning novel "The Demolished Man": People have discovered that (1) certain people can read minds (that is, are telepaths), (2) there is a time warp that allows people to travel very long distances. However, only the mind-readers can communicate with those who have traveled this way across the galaxy, so the mind-readers are revered in this future society. Everyone wants to be a mind-reader, so the mind-readers set up a school and people showed up at the school to apply to be a mind-reader. The crowd of applicants are in these long lines filling out the application forms. The mind-readers look at these lines of people filling out forms, waiting to be tested, and the mind-readers think "If you can hear my thoughts, I want you to go to the door on your left marked 'No Admittance' and I want you to go through that door." At this point, David Mamet simply looks at the camera says "thank you" and leaves.
  

  What a great class!
  

"His Girl Friday" (1940) and the Nutshell Technique

Recently, Jill Chamberlain wrote a book called "The nutshell technique: crack the secret of successful screenwriting" (link to her website). While I'm not yet done reading it, I like this book. As an exercise to understand this book, and to better delve into my favorite movie His Girl Friday (HGF), I wrote this post. Hope it helps someone out there.

Note:

1. HGF is in the public domain, so you can read its script and watch it for free. I'm going to assume you've watched the movie in this post.
   
2. Jill Chamberlain wrote a blog article describing Jordan Peele's Get Out using her Nutshell Technique. Check it out for more details on the method.
   

There are two flavors of the Nutshell Technique, one for Comedy (in the Aristotelean sense, where the protagonist gets what they want) and one for Tragedy (where the protag doesn't). We'll deal only with the comedy version in this post, since that's what HGF is.

The Nutshell Technique is a way to describe a feature film story using seven story elements which the protagonist (the main character that drives most of the action) has or experiences.

• Flaw
  This is a weakness of the protagonist, a character trait which causes the protagonist to react negatively towards the "catch."
  
  In HGF, Hildy Johnson's "flaw" is her "external need" (in "the hero's journey" paradigm): she wants to be a conventional housewife, with a 9-to-5 husband, 3 kids and a house in the suburbs. As a result, she gets engaged to Bruce.
  
  
• Point of no return (PONR)
  As with the "inciting incident" (in "the hero's journey" template of a screenplay) the PONR happens to the protagonist and is not an event created by the protagonists' actions. The PONR can occur after the inciting incident, but the PONR has to be connected with the SUW and the Catch (see below).
  
  In HGF, Hildy's PONR is her engagement followed immediately by the chance to write a newspaper article that saves someone's (the escaped convict) life. (One could also say, she got engaged and this immediately caused Walter Burns to interfere by giving her the article assignment. So the engagement is the PONR/inciting incident.)
  
  
• Set-up want (SUW)
  In "the hero's journey", the "external want" of the protagonist motivates action until the midpoint, after which the "internal need" becomes more of a driving force.
  Here, the SUW is the protagonist's want that the PONR delivers to them; typically it corresponds to the internal need.
  
  In HGF, Hildy's SUW = internal need is to be great reporter, being thought of as an equal or better by the other newspapermen.
  
  
• Catch
  This is a plot point something else delivered by the PONR but it is something the protagonist doesn't want. It's a counter-balance to the SUW and a test of the "flaw."
  
  In HGF, the catch is that Bruce's mom plans to live with them and interfere with the marriage.
  
  
• Crisis
  This is the low point of the protagonist's arc (often marking the end of act 2). It is in some sense the worst thing that could happen to the protagonist, from the perspective of the SUW.
  
  In HGF, Hildy's crisis is when she and Walter Burns are both arrested by the Sheriff (for aiding an escaped criminal and kidnapping Bruce's mom), supporting the crooked Mayor.
  
  
• Climactic choice
  This is a choice made by the protagonist which is counter-indicated by the FLAW. In "the hero's journey", it can be a choice determined by the "internal need," as opposed to the "external want."
  
  In HGF, Hildy's climactic choice is to ignore the objections of Bruce's mom and to pursue her newspaper article instead of following Bruce to the train station.
  
  
• Final step
  This is a more emphatic choice made by the protagonist which is counter-indicated by the "flaw." It is a consequence, or at least dependent on, the climactic choice.
  
  In HGF, Hildy's final step is to reunite with Walter Burns and to return to work on the newspaper, but this time as the top reporter.
  
  
• Strength
  The strength is the protagonist's characteristic that is achieved at the end of the character arc. It is a natural progression from the perspective of the climactic choice and the final step. In some sense, it is opposite to the "flaw."
  
  In HGF, Hildy's strength is that she is an independent woman, as capable or better than any man on the newspaper reporting staff.
  
  

Sol Saks’ Ten Commandments of comedy writing

The late great Sol Saks (creator of the Bewitched TV series) wrote a terrific book on comedy: Funny Business. Highly recommended. Taken from that, here are his Ten Commandments of Comedy Writing:

1. Thou shalt be brief.
   
2. Thou shalt be simple.
   
3. Thou shalt be clear.
   
4. Thou shalt be bold.
   
5. Thou shalt be relevant.Show ph
6. Thou shalt be recognizable.
   
7. Thou shalt be controversial.
   
8. Thou shalt be unpredictable.
   
9. Thou shalt be original.
   
10. Thou shalt be salable.