Merkin

You have plenty to work with for a comb-over, Des. Consult with Donald Trump.

Dominica is different from the Dominican Republic. Another island altogether, it is the northernmost of the Windward Islands.

Wow, Bi, that last stanza is a knock-out punch. It is so right. Thanks for it. James

That's awesome, Cole.

Just clicking on the picture works for me, Richard. So sorry you were vandalized; I hope no one has been hurt by glass shards. Did you lose anything besides the window? I'd urge you to consider replacing it with a glass or plastic product designed to withstand impact. Best wishes, James

Colin has come close to what lies behind this piece. I envisioned a boy who is deeply troubled by his orientation, but has so far managed to cope socially and even personally, as so many do, behind a rather structured mask. Almost all social behavior is learned, and as youngsters we become "civilized" to the extent necessary to be accepted. We learn to control our impulses and our actions, even our thoughts. Soon--perhaps not soon enough--we come to accept and embrace the standards of the society around us. Yet what if we awoke one morning and our 'civilized' switch failed to click to ON? What would we actually do, or fail to do, as we attempted to move through a day within our particular tightly-bound society? In this instance I envisioned the highly ritualized structure of a schoolboy's environment within which the mask, still unfinished, has failed. It has many consequences for Peter, not least being the release of the grasp he has so tightly held on disclosure of his orientation. The mistake I think I've made here is taking what is a very serious topic indeed and trying to depict it in the style of "Animal House" or traditional collegiate humor magazines. When I was an undergraduate I thought of those as the ultimate source of sophisticated wisdom, and I remembered the sly jokes and the jaded air of undergraduate humor. Clearly it hasn't worked out as I envisioned, but I'm still invested in the topic and hope to give it another go at another time. James

Hmm. I guess my brand of humor kind of missed the mark here, eh? I was trying to play out a premise involving getting out of the wrong side of bed and deciding in schoolboy fashion to let impulsive behavior rule the day. Most schoolboys have fantasies about what they'd do if no holds were barred including, in this instance, finally coming out in a most resounding fashion. It's clear from the remarks that readers didn't quite take it that way, so it's back to the drawing board. But that's what we're all here to learn, isn't it? James

Peter’s Bad Day by Merkin Peter Compton woke with a start and stared at his alarm clock. My god, it was after eight o’clock; he’d overslept! He turned to look over at his roommate Thomas’s bed. It was empty. Not only empty, but neatly made. Damn, Thomas hadn’t awakened him! Thomas woke him every morning, then his damned singing and banging around and scraping the furniture made sure he got up. But not this morning. Peter quickly got out of bed. He just knew that this was going to be a bad day. He barely had time for breakfast before his nine o’clock class. He threw on yesterday’s clothes, jammed his feet into his flip flops, and made a quick pass through the bathroom. He didn’t bother to brush his teeth or his hair. “What you see is what you get,” he muttered as he stormed through the room, grabbing his keys and his wallet and his phone. Peter opened the door to leave, then turned and went back to his roommate’s bed. He seized all the bedclothes at the neat top fold and with a heave pulled them off and onto the floor. He slammed the door as he exited. The Commons was nearly empty as Peter piled a banana, a bowl of cereal, and a cup of coffee onto a tray and headed for a small table in the corner. His head was beginning to throb. He began to shove food into his mouth until he felt a presence looming over the table. It was his best friend Greg. “Hiya, Peter, howsit going?” Greg sat down opposite him. “Do you have that ten? I’m collecting the gas money we owe Phillip for using his car last weekend.” Peter threw down his spoon. “If you think I’m going to pay anything more for that lame double-date,” he said, “you’re a bigger ass than I thought you were. The whole thing was your idea. I didn’t even want to go, and I certainly didn’t have a good time.” Peter got up, shoved the table back into Greg’s stomach, scowled at his astonished expression, and stalked out of the dining room. His headache was worse and he was late for his history lecture. He thought about cutting it, but then decided to go. The door into the classroom was at the front, where Dr. Adams was standing at the lectern. The grizzled old academic stopped in mid-sentence and turned as Peter strode into the room. “Good of you to join us today, Mr. Compton,” Dr. Adams said in his high reedy voice. Peter paused. “Good of me?” he repeated, imitating Adams’ nasal whine. “Good of me? It’s my father’s tuition dollars that pay your salary, you old fart. Maybe you should take the day off, like I just decided to do. You could go to the library and write some new material. Those ancient tests of yours are in every crib file on campus.” Peter turned in dead silence as the class sat gaping. He left the classroom, slamming the door behind him. He decided he needed a little fresh air so he walked over to the main Quad and sat down on a bench. Two squirrels rushed over, looking for a handout, and he kicked at them. He pulled out his phone and dialed his sister Sharon’s number. “Peter!” she squealed when she answered. “I’m so surprised to see you on my Caller I.D.! Is everything OK?” “Do you even care, Sis?” Peter’s voice was icy. “I’m just calling to tell you not to expect me to babysit Arnold anymore when I come home.” “But Peter, he adores you! All he talks about is his ‘Unka Peta’! It’s so cute!” “Your free ride on my babysitting is over. Besides, I’m gay, so I don’t think you’ll want me around him anymore.” Peter hung up and walked down the hill into town. He wandered around, looking in the shops and grazing on junk food. His phone rang. He looked and saw that it was from his mother. It hadn’t taken Sharon long to pass the word. He ignored the ringing phone while other shoppers stared at him. After the third call he switched the ringer to vibrate. It was still for a few minutes, then started to vibrate continuously. This time it was his father, calling from his office. Peter turned the phone off. He decided to see a movie. He went to the Armpit and saw they were showing a revival of Citizen Kane. He bought a ticket for the matinee and sat in the back of the dark, nearly empty theatre. Half-way through the movie someone sat down in the seat beside him and put a hand on his thigh. Peter looked over and saw a cute boy with a crew cut and wearing the cadet uniform from the military school on the other side of town. The hand gave his thigh a little squeeze. “You think I’m that easy?” Peter snarled. “Fuck you.” He got up and walked out into the lobby where he found the manager. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, charging eight bucks for a movie like that,” he said. “It isn’t even in color.” Peter walked back onto the campus and headed for his advisor’s office. As he climbed to the third floor of Carpenter Hall he lifted a fire extinguisher off its hook beside the stairwell. When he reached his advisor’s office he upended the extinguisher and kicked the door open. Mouth agape, his advisor looked up from his desk. Peter played the hose carefully across the desk and foam splattered everywhere. “Cripes!” yelled his advisor. “I just wanted to tell you that all of my courses suck, and thanks to you everything I’m taking is wrong for me.” Peter set the empty canister down and left. The day wasn’t getting any better so he thought he’d go back to bed. As he crossed the campus he took out his phone, turned it on, and called Charlotte. When she answered he said “Listen, you cow, forget about going out this weekend. I’ve invested enough money in food and booze for you, and you’re dragging my grades down. Besides, I’m gay. Have a nice life.” She was shrieking when he cut the connection. He tossed the phone into a waste receptacle. When he reached his room he saw that his roommate Thomas was there, working on his homework. “Hi, Peter! Thanks for reminding me to wash my sheets! I got right on it!” Apparently Thomas had missed the point. Peter’s head still throbbed. “I thought you were going to wake me up,” he said. “Aw, I’m sorry, roomie. I forgot. I wanted to pick up the package from my mother before class. She sent me a cake. Want some?” Thomas pointed to a chocolate cake sitting on the window ledge. Peter went over to the window and opened it. He shoved the cake out and watched it fall to the ground and splatter. “Too moist,” he said. Thomas stared wide-eyed as Peter pulled off his clothes and threw them on the floor. He crawled into bed. “Don’t forget to wake me up tomorrow,” said Peter. “I hope to hell I feel better.” He pulled the covers over his head. Thomas sat still for a moment, then turned off the light and tip-toed out of the room. _____

Sounds lovely to me, but when I enquired of your consulate as to how to get an entry permit for eventual residence, all they could tell me was that I had to get arrested, lose at trial, and then I would be thrown into a prison ship for eventual delivery to your shores. Seems chancy but I'll try it. Pray a good lawyer won't get me off.

Are you getting Unemployment?

Be careful, Des. If you get scorched they'll call you a faggot.

The original is actually very sweet. Why would it offend anyone?

I think you must have the expurgated edition, Bruin.

Glad to see you're doing a little tidying up, Bruin. That den must get pretty stuffy over the winter months. I'm always happy to be reminded to go and peruse your list; I've never read a story of yours I didn't like, and I admire the way you deal with tough subjects by telling a tale that goes down so smoothly that the taste of the medicine is hidden by the honey. But bears are famous for their skills with honey; I appreciate that you're willing to share. James

At least your threats are all natural, and it's possible to shake your head, sigh, and mutter "Bad luck. Balance of Nature." Here our threats are all contrived, legislated, and enforced. Or potentially elected. All things considered, I'll pack and be on my way. Save me some of that antivenom.

Yesss! Thanks, Mike.

Thanks, Des. A powerful piece, Richard.

The menfolk can take care of themselves. I'm locking up the sheep.

I think you'll be safe, Cole, if you put a pot upside down on your head and another one over your crotch. Just don't answer the phone.

An incredibly apt metaphor for the voyage of life.

One of the advantages of growing up in small-town agricultural America was that our school cafeteria was staffed by local ladies and was supplied by local produce and farm production. The food on offer tasted just like what we got at home, and the only thing supplied by the "government" was warm milk in cardboard cartons. Junk food was unknown in those olden days.

I have to thank Mary Renault, among others, for my early and abiding interest in the classics, and E.M. Forster for a youthful awareness of the ideals of humanism, a state of mind largely unknown in small-town America during my youth. Those writers along with Somerset Maugham were among my heroes and my earliest antidotes to the literature deemed suitable for boys such as The Hardy Boys (about whom I did harbor deep suspicions). It was the romanticism of Maugham's life as well as his broad output as a writer that made me aspire to become a spy or failing that, a swell. I did not succeed at either pursuit but I am eternally grateful to writers like these for the gateways they provided me into the larger world. James

I hadn't read Bad Haircut before, Colin, and it's an interesting story. Interesting not only because of the haircut plot and your great depiction of what a six year old like Cory can be counted on to get up to, but also because of your depiction of family dynamics. One theme I see here that I believe deserves more attention from some of our writers is that of the wife/mom/boss figure, 'She Who Must Be Obeyed.' She has become almost a cliche in our culture, and yet when I think about it stories about her are far outweighed by our stories about fathers who are drunken bigots beating on their kids. I'd be interested to find out if gay kids had just as much of an issue with dominant mothers as they appear to have had with brutal fathers. I know I did. James

"Magdelein" is German for little girl or lassie. Perhaps "Maggie" for short. James

Wonderful, the lot of you. Snicker. J