Harry x 2, Part II

So, when we left our intrepid hero, he was on the verge of solving the mystery of the haunted donut shop. The original version was a skin-tight 500 words (the limit I was given, you may recall), while this version is slightly longer (about 700 words). While I can see the advantages of editing, I also felt a little constrained in places I wanted to let the narrative breathe. And while some might cry “Long-winded!,” it’s not like I’m approaching Faulkneresque heights here. I’m just adding some lousy Chandler-like similes. (All private-eye parodists must bow and pay homage to the master.)

Given the sour look on his face, I'd imagine 

Chandler just read the story below.

So, presented for your edification and (hopefully) entertainment, I give you the “official” unexpurgated version of Houdini’s newest adventure. See you on the other side.

HARRY AND THE DONUTS

I sat in my office, staring at a calendar that was older than Methuselah’s great-uncle Max. Even that felt like it was newer than my last case, though. I hadn’t had a new client Einstein needed remedial math.

If I smoked, I’d’ve lit up a coffin nail. If I was a drinking man, I’d’ve poured a shot from the bottle I would’ve kept in my desk drawer. I have my vices, but those ain’t among ‘em, so I watched the cobwebs and dust hang sleepily in the humid summer air. Even they seemed to lack purpose.

That’s the thing about my business; not a lot of people need you, but when they do, they really need you.

And what is that business? When I tell you my name, you’ll know. Or you think you will.

My name is Harry Houdini.

Yeah. Him.

I know what you’re thinkin’: “Oh, the handcuffs guy.”

That’s just what I do to pay the bills, though; it’s not my passion. It’s not what I was put on this planet to do. Y’see, I’m what they call a “ghost breaker.” Or, more accurately, I’m the guy people call when they want to find out if a ghost is real.

And they never are – ever. I’ve traveled from Cairo to Kalamazoo, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that ghosts are the bunk. I’ve seen too many people who were desperate to contact dead loved ones get taken by quack “mediums” to take any of it lightly, though.

My reverie was broken by the explosive ringing of the phone. I grabbed the earpiece and drawled into the mouthpiece: “It’s your nickel.”

“Harry?” It was a dame. “Holly Halliwell here.” Brother, was it a dame.

Holly ran the donut shop down the block. “Ran” was a relative term – as was “donuts.” While her looks made Rita Hayworth look like Moe Howard, her cooking would have made Moe Howard look nauseated. Even though the donut shop was all hers, she could make only two kinds: jelly donuts and long johns, and even those were dicey.

I could read the terrified tone in her voice the way a rabbi reads the Torah. She stammered that her shop was suddenly haunted. Her donuts, which were better suited to being used as doorstops or ship’s anchors, were suddenly lighter than air – literally. “Harry, they’re flying out the door!”

After telling her I’d be there quicker than a fat kid with the key to the ice cream locker, I jammed my fedora on my noggin and hoofed it the two blocks to her shop.

I walked in, expecting to see evidence of a disturbed or fraudulent mind, but nearly got pounded in the puss by a jet-propelled jelly donut zooming its way out the door. That pastry was followed by a baker’s dozen of the same, all in a hurry to get some fresh air.

Holly explained that she’d tried a new recipe only that morning, and as soon as she pulled the first batch from the fryer, they’d started flying around the shop. “Poltergeists” was her only explanation.

Using my world-renowned powers of observation, I quickly cracked this cruller caper. “It ain’t pastrygeists, Holly; it’s yeast.” Clearly, these sinkers were being souped-up by the superheated yeast trapped inside. “It’s leavening, not levitation, doll.”

The solution was simple: instead of jelly buns, she needed to make the traditional ring type; the hole would not only allow the yeast to escape, but it’s well-known in my business that those treats were blessed by St. Honoré, the Patron Saint of Bakers, himself and were thus impervious to any kind of demonic possession.

Holly’s grateful face lit up like a “Hot Now” sign. “You mean …?”

“That’s right, doll,” I said. “Those donuts? They’re wholly holy holey, Holly.”

I didn’t know if she was gonna paste my kisser with her fist or her lips, but fortunately, she chose the latter.

Didn’t see that tag line coming, did you?

For which, you should probably consider yourself lucky.

The thing was, when I was originally given the assignment, my first thought was to cannibalize one of my Houdini plays, but – and you can probably guess this, given my verbosity in this form – the plays are pretty talky and plot-heavy. (They are pretty funny, though.) So, I thought, “Okay, I’ll write a new Houdini story. But I need a plot.”

I decided to follow the inspiration that led me to the original play, which was trying to figure out what the connection between Harry and Macbeth was. In the same way, I thought “I’ll just let the first thing I see be my inspiration,” so I looked over the top of this very laptop and saw a poster that the inestimable Rob Dario did for the cast of “Superior Donuts” at the Custom Made Theatre Company. “Okay, then; a haunted donut shop it is.”

 It wasn't easy to find a shot from the show with me in it.

My immediate thought was “holy” and “donut hole,” but how I was going to get there was anyone’s guess.

Whether it succeeded, I have no idea, but you have to admit, it’s unique.

Harry x 2, Part I

Playing on our last entry, I’m going to continue last night’s Houdini saga.

As expected, I was able – with the invaluable assistance of my long-suffering wife – to write a relatively complete Houdini adventure that came in at 500 words.

Even though I don’t want to give away the ending, I’m going to paste most of it here, in its truncated form. I plan on expanding it a bit, but not to ridiculous length. Just adding some more descriptors and color.

So, herewith below, the original version, minus the end, to be followed in our next chapter in an expanded form.

HARRY AND THE DONUTS

I sat staring at a calendar that was older than Methuselah’s great-uncle. Still, it felt like it was newer than my last case.

If I smoked, I’d’ve lit up a Chesterfield. I have my vices, but that ain’t one, so I watched the cobwebs hang sleepily in the humid summer air. Even they seemed to lack purpose.

That’s the thing about my business; not a lot of people need you, but when they do, they really need you.

And what is that business? When I tell you my name, you’ll know. Or you think you will.

My name is Harry Houdini.

Yeah. Him.

You’re thinkin’, “Oh, the handcuffs guy.”

But that’s just what I do to pay the bills. It’s not my passion. Y’see, I’m what they call a “ghost breaker.” Or, more accurately, I’m the guy people call when they want to find out if a ghost is real.

And they never are – ever. I’ve traveled from Cairo to Kalamazoo, and the one thing I’ve learned is that ghosts are the bunk. I’ve seen too many people get taken by quack “mediums” to take it lightly, though.

My reverie was broken by the explosive ringing of the phone. I grabbed the earpiece. “It’s your nickel.”

“Harry?” It was a dame. “Holly Halliwell here.”

Holly ran the donut shop down the block. “Ran” was a relative term – as was “donuts.” She could make only two kinds: jelly doughnuts and long johns, and even those were dicey.

With a terrified tone, she stammered that her shop was suddenly haunted. Her donuts, which were better suited to being ship’s anchors, were suddenly lighter than air – literally. “Harry, they’re flying out the door!”

Jamming my fedora on my noggin, I headed to the shop.

I walked in, expecting to see evidence of a disturbed or fraudulent mind, but nearly got pounded in the puss by a jet-propelled jelly donut zooming its way out the door. That pastry was followed by a baker’s dozen, all in a hurry to get some fresh air.

Holly explained that she’d tried a new recipe only that morning, and as soon as she pulled the first batch from the fryer, they’d started flying around the shop. “Poltergeists” was her only explanation.

Using my world-renowned observational powers, I quickly cracked this cruller caper. “It ain’t pastrygeists, Holly; it’s yeast.” Clearly, these sinkers were being souped-up by the superheated yeast trapped inside. “It’s leavening, not levitation, doll.”

The solution was simple: instead of jelly buns, she needed to make the traditional ring type; the hole would not only allow the yeast to escape, but it’s well-known in my business that those treats were blessed by St. Honoré himself and are thus impervious to demonic possession.

Holly’s grateful face lit up like a “Hot Now” sign. “You mean …?”

To Be Continued …

700 Words About 500 Words

If I’ve learned anything while writing this blog, these three stand out.

1. I get easily distracted and don't always stick to the (apparent) point.
2. I don't always have a topic about which to write.
3. I'm just slightly long-winded.

The first is inevitable. As my good friend Mike McIntee says of his blog, “The Wahoo Gazette: where the first draft is the only draft.” (By the way, you’re welcome for the link, Mike). You may have noticed this is all pretty free-form and off the top of my head, so I tend to free-associate, which will lead, of necessity, to tangents, blind alleys, and woolgathering.

Mike McIntee. You'd never guess he'd been a cop.

The second is problematic. While I had a goal of 100 words a day, no matter how inconsequential, there are plenty of days when I don’t have 100 words of material. I mean, I could give you a detailed description of what we did at rehearsal, but I prefer to keep that in the room. (“The Farnsworth Invention” at Palo Alto Players, June 12-29. Tickets available here.) I could tell you what I did at work, but well … And as much as my long-suffering wife loves my traffic stories, I realize they have limited appeal.

 Coming soon to a theatre near you -- especially if you live in Palo Alto.

I mean, outside of rehearsal – which was actually pretty good – the most exciting thing that happened to me today was my going to three – count ‘em, three – supermarkets in search of Gardein Beefless Sliders. I’m not strictly a fan of the meatless burgers, but I got a hankerin’ for them on the way home, and went on a quest. (Surprisingly to me, the Safeway in Palo Alto has a severely limited selection of frozen vegetarian options.) (See what I mean about the lack of thrills?) But, seriously, try these; they’re really tasty and four of them are only 600 calories.

Delicious and nutritious.

So, it’s the third option I’m dealing with tonight. As part of a job I’m in the process of applying for, they want me to tell them a story. I could use something I’ve written before, but given that my output of fiction is, shall we say, “limited” (as in non-existent), I’ve had to devise something on the fly. I could give them a play I’ve written, but that would exceed the limit they’ve given me of 500 words.

500 words? Hell, as I did, what?, 700+ on getting a haircut? How am I supposed to devise a plot with a setup, a middle, and a denouement in 500 friggin’ words?

And, yet, somehow I did. In fact, I came in at 499.

Now, I’m not saying it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. It did give me a chance to revisit my old friend Harry Houdini, the hard-boiled escapologist and ghost-breaker, and did let me end with a dumb punchline. To tell the truth, I was actually pretty proud of how I got to the punchline. I started out by thinking “what the hell am I going to write about?” I then though, “Ooh! I could (500 words right there! And I’m barely getting started. See?) excerpt something from the Houdini Plays, but it’s not really ‘fiction,’ is it? So, why not write a new Houdini story? But what about?”

I decided to look around the room and write about the first thing that hits my eye. I saw the poster for a show I’d done a while back, and set the challenge for myself. I soon arrived at the aforementioned dumb punchline, and the rest was a marvel of editing. I lost some of the nuance and characterization for which I renowned, but jeez, it’s not like a story about Houdini and polter-donuts is going to be Tolstoi-like in its subtle examination of the human condition, is it?

Slightly more than 500 words.

Depending on how it’s received, I may or may not post it here – or course, if I do, I can damn well guarantee I’m going to pad it out to a proper length and give it the breathing room it so richly deserves. I realize that no one here has even read the Houdini Plays, let alone seen them (I don’t even know if my long-suffering wife has read them), so it’ll be your first introduction to my version of Harry.

More to come …

I Ain't Gonna Drink the Flavor Aid

You’ll note in that title that I don’t use the cliched beverage mix of legend. This is one of those piddly little things that bugs the beewhoozis out of me. (I heard that in a 1932 movie this afternoon and liked the sound of it, so I’m adopting it for my own. I am nothing if not adaptive.)

The story would have you believe that the poor unfortunates who committed suicide at Jonestown drank poisoned Kool-Aid, something I’m sure the good folks at Kool-Aid would, I’m sure, love you to forget – or at least be accurate about.

The cultists drank, for the most part, poisoned Flavor Aid – something I’m sure the good folks at Flavor Aid would rather I forget and not mention.

Because nothing says "mass suicide" like fun-loving straws.

What a cheerful note on which to return, eh?

Another thing that bugs the hell out of me is the taunting “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did …” line. Well, no, she didn’t. (And, yes, I know it's an analogy about the difficulties women face in society.) Look at the numbers Astaire and Rogers committed to film; you can count those moments she’s “backwards” on the fingers of one hand and have digits left over. I’ll stipulate the high heels; that’s almost a given, but Rogers – as talented as she was (even if I find her Oscar-winning performance in 1940’s “Kitty Foyle” stultifyingly boring) couldn’t do half of what Astaire did; even in the numbers he created for her, those numbers feature her dancing, jumping, or even roller-skating in a forward motion and never doing as much as Astaire does. By intent, in their duets, he does the heavy lifting in order to make her look good. Put them side by side, she looks great; put them head to head, and she pales to the point of vanishing. There’s a reason Astaire is one of the most important dancers of the 20th century. 

 Not a lot of "backwards" here.

 

I must add here, in 1993, I saw one of Astaire’s tuxedos on display at the National Film Museum in London, and it looked like it had belonged to a child. He was only 5’7”, and when filming, always came in at 140 pounds.

Not actual size.

But I’ve digressed yet again.

My point was going to be that there are moments in life when we have to draw lines. We can go along with the crowd and drink the powdered-drink mix of the moment, or we can stand alone, clear-eyed and sane, and think “These people are part of a cult!”

I’ve just deleted a paragraph vaguely describing a circumstance I found myself in that kind of involved that mindset – and even that seemed to either give too much away or had the potential to lead the wrong people to believe I was describing them.

Not the friends in question.

Wish I were brave enough (or stupid enough) to describe the actual situation, but to do so would needlessly – and pointlessly – hurt the feelings of some very nice (if probably still misguided) people, and there’s no need for that, so I’ll have to figure out a way to deal with the situation in generalities.

And even then, I don’t need to “deal with it;” it’s not like it’s either weighing on my mind or will affect me unduly. I know how I feel or felt and no amount of peer pressure or retrospection will change those feelings. If nothing else (besides being adaptive), I’m stubborn. Legion are the cases of my disliking something that society or, at least, my friends have deemed delightful or moving or entertaining (and vice versa, I assure you). I have my reasons (my aesthetic, if you will … or even if you won’t) and don’t do it out of a sense of contrariness – though I do have a contrarian streak in me. (Or do I?)

On the other hand, I’m reminded of the “Seinfeld” episode where Jerry urges George to do the opposite of what his gut tells him to do – and leads to George having great success in life. 

 Not a cult member.

It’s certainly possible that I’m in the wrong and the everyone else is – or was – right, and that the thing in question was – or is – all that these folks claimed it to be.

But that’s not the case.