Lovebirds: My Short Story Of the Week

Lovebirds

 

Bob Lyons walked into the kitchen, his blue, denim shirt soaked in sweat and peppered with twigs, leaves, and dirt. Paula, his wife, bent at the waist and peered under the sink in search of something. Because the basin had nearly filled with hot water and soap bubbles threatened to overflow, it seemed she’d been hunting longer than intended.

“Need these?” Bob asked in a gravelly voice while peeling Paula’s dishwashing gloves off of his hands and tossing them onto the adjacent counter. He ran callused fingers through his damp, thinning flattop before wiping his forehead with a blue and white bandana that he had pulled out from his back pocket.

Paula, irritated that Bob had obviously used her gloves for something other than washing dishes, huffed before embarking upon her chore without the benefit of protective latex.

Shuffling to the cupboard, Bob removed an old mason jar. Next, he invaded Paula’s space by reaching past her and turning on the faucet. He filled his jar with cold tap water and then left her in peace when he sat at the nearby table.

While rubbing and scrubbing away grease and grime, Paula mumbled, “So you couldn’t resist poking your nose in, huh?”

Bob clenched his jaw, thumbed at a dent in the table, and uttered, “They were making a mess of things. It’s like they don’t have any sense. They needed my help.”

Paula encountered a particularly resilient chunk of grease and, as she threw her whole body into scouring it, grunted, “They’ll never learn if you do it for them.”

“I know,” Bob sighed. “I didn’t have any choice. They’ve got babies on the way and they weren’t about to have their home ready in time.”

Paula finally offered Bob her full attention. Her shoulders hunched, exhausted from battling the pots and pans, when she lectured, “And what happens next time? What will they do if they have to face the world without you?”

Staring at his wife, Bob gripped his empty mason jar, his fingers whitening from the pressure, and returned, “You’ve been watching them through the window just like I have, Paula. We both know there wouldn’t be a next time if I didn’t do something this time.”

Taking his jar, Paula rinsed it off before setting it on the drying rack with the other dishware.

Her silence spoke volumes, and so Bob stood, yanked on the pants that no belt could keep affixed around his narrow waist, and mumbled, “Come see for your own self, then.”

Paula trailed her lanky husband as he led her through their humble home. They arrived in the living room. Bob pointed through their picture window.

“You see that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Folding his arms, Bob griped, “Before I gave them a hand, that place was a disaster.”

“I take it you waited for them to leave.”

Bob answered, “I couldn’t very well work on it while they were home, could I?”

Leaning in closer to the window, Paula ignored her husband’s sarcasm and questioned, “So what did you do?”

Agitated that his handiwork did not speak for itself, Bob gruffly informed, “They had so many holes going on, you could have driven a truck through it. Their sticks were too small, and neither one of them can weave worth a nickel. They left everything loose as a goose, and to top it all off, they had a plastic bag just stuck in there, unsecured.”

Paula rolled her eyes and groaned, “So now I know what they did wrong, but I still haven’t heard what you did right.”

“I’m getting to it,” Bob spat. “I took some good, thick grass and patched up their holes. Then I rounded out the innards so that something could actually sit in there. Finally, I reinforced its base with some twine, fastening it every which way to the surrounding branches. Thanks to me, a tornado couldn’t budge that thing.”

Deciding to swallow several barbed comments, Paula instead tugged on her left pearl earring, an heirloom bequeathed by her long-departed grandmother, and asked, “And you think they’ll still use it, even after you fiddled with it?”

A smile emerged upon Bob’s face, so diminutive it could have been just another crack or crevice. He said, “That’s why I wore the dishwashing gloves.”

Feeling her hands already chapping, Paula thought of the soiled gloves that contaminated her counter, next to the drying, clean dishes, and grumbled, “I suppose that means I’ll be visiting the store soon …”

Then, as an afterthought, she noted, “You need a shower.”

♥♥♥

A few days later, Bob and Paula rolled out of bed just after daybreak. As was usually the case, before Bob made his coffee or Paula read her email, they overcame their stiff joints and stumbled into the living room in order to check up on the lovebirds.

Though the bright red male and his dowdy mate weren’t home, probably thanks to the old couple’s plodding along the hardwood floor, Bob and Paula looked through their window, examined their Japanese maple, and discerned four gray eggs covered in brown and black flecks lying within the nest.

Plainly pleased that the eggs appeared safe and sound, Bob rubbed the back of his neck, working out the rigidity, and said, “You know, cardinals can live for over ten years, and they tend to stay in the same area.”

Paula chuckled while replying, “Then let’s hope they’re as good of neighbors to us as you are to them.”

She turned around, wrapped her housecoat more tightly about her torso, and began the journey through the house to the computer room. Before Paula left the living room, however, she abruptly spun and returned to her husband. Pecking him on the stubbly cheek, she whispered into his ear, “You’re a fine man.”

Bob nodded in return, feeling a surge of warmth throughout his body.


Copyright © 2009 Scott William Foley

Originally appeared in the August, 2009, issue of News and Views for the Young at Heart.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental to the story.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

 

Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn – A Movie Review

Birds-of-Prey-2020-Poster-12

I really, really wanted to like this movie. The trailers looked vibrant, action-packed, and fun. I didn’t see how this film could miss. Unfortunately, I can only describe it as “fine.” It wasn’t bad–not at all. However, it also wasn’t especially good.

As I think on it, I believe the biggest misstep occurred by having Harley Quinn share the screen with others. We already know Harley Quinn from Suicide Squad, so the film might have been wise to simply pick up her story and go from there. Instead, they included Dinah Lance (Black Canary), Renee Montoya, Cassandara Cain, and Helena Bertinelli (Huntress), which resulted in a great deal of additional exposition. The movie had to introduce and explain these new characters as it also tried to intertwine them with Harley Quinn’s plot. This resulted in several start and stops, many flashbacks, and more than a few backtracks.

The fact is, Margot Robbie and Harley Quinn can carry a movie by themselves. The more I see Robbie in other movies, the more I appreciate her as Quinn. She really lays it all on the line with this character. There are so many interesting places to take Quinn. After all, she’s a former psychologist, an actual doctor. While treating the Joker, she descended into madness herself. Or, perhaps she finally accepted her own madness. That alone is a compelling thing to explore. Sadly, they only touched upon these aspects and instead chose to focus on her more manic tendencies, which, admittedly, lend themselves to frenetic scenes and a visually exciting experience.

Much of the movie revolved around her break-up with the Joker. For a film that touts Harley Quinn’s emancipation from the Clown Prince of Crime, it spent a lot of time focusing upon that issue. That being said, I found it odd that they neglected to actually include the Joker. They showed drawings of him, or the back of his head or shoulder in a few scenes, but never his face. If they simply said they broke up and left it at that, I wouldn’t have found the awkward flashbacks with him so … awkward. It’s as though they refused to let Jared Leto reprise his role as the villain while Joaquin Phoenix is attempting to win an Oscar for playing the same character.

It was fun to see Rosie Perez (Renee Montoya) on screen again, and Jurnee Smollett-Bell (Black Canary) stuck me as a true movie star, but they simply weren’t necessary to the story. Mary Elizabeth Winstead was completely mishandled. Her “Huntress” barely even appeared in the film. (If you want to see her at full strength, check out 2017’s Fargo FX series, which also stared Ewan McGregor, believe it or not.)

Speaking of whom, I’ve never seen McGregor so villainous. His take on “Black Mask” kept us off balance because he was at times childish, at times charming, at times brutish, and even feminine in some moments. So while the character remained consistent, we never knew what actions to expect from him.

By the way, the action is mesmerizing. Women fighting men twice their size have to be creative, and there is a great deal of creative fight choreography in Birds of Prey. There’s one particular scene in which Harley Quinn wields a bat, and it is beautiful. I’ve heard others say this is DC’s best action movie, and I think that’s accurate. There’s ample eye-popping action to behold.

I want to recommend a movie featuring not just primarily female actors, but female DC characters as well. I think it’s a meaningful development not just for the genre, but for the movie industry. Unfortunately, Birds of Prey simply failed to capture much of my interest due to its attempt at explaining all of the new characters it included. It’s a fun action movie with entertaining humor and hypnotic visuals, but it could have been far more with Margot Robbie at the helm.

 

 

 

 

A Man Out Of Time: My Short Story Of the Week

AManOutOfTime

 

Jenna sat next to her grandfather at the Academy Awards in a dress designed by someone whose name proved too difficult to pronounce.  Mateo, of course, wore nothing but the best, though he wore it in hues long outdated and cuts antiquated.

Mateo Sandoval found himself nominated for the eleventh time.  He first earned a nomination in 1946 for playing a tormented Confederate Civil War medic trapped by an abolitionist woman who kept him chained to her woodstove, vowing he would not be released until the war ended.  Mateo acted superbly in the film, but he did not win that year—the award went to Frederic March.  Nor two years later when Olivier took it.  Nor seven years after that when they gave it to William Holden.  The decades passed with him nominated time after time, but he never triumphed.

This year his nomination arrived by playing an atheist who, after living to see his wife, children, and grandchildren all die under tragic circumstances, took Christ into his heart only so that when he died and went to Heaven he could personally kill God.  The role proved demanding, but he pulled it off magnificently.  Many felt this year would be his.

Jenna always prioritized her grandfather’s best interests.  Her job that night wasn’t much different than their daily lives together.  Because Mateo refused to wear hearing aids, she often clarified things for him.  After much discussion, they decided when he won for Best Actor, she simply had to lean in and let him know as such.  Though they spoke of him perhaps losing, neither could accept that possibility.

Thus, when Julian Howard’s name reverberated through the speakers, none appeared more shocked than Jenna as she threw her hands up and thrust back into her seat.  She bumped Mateo, which prompted him to arise.  He mirrored the winner’s movement as they both approached the stage from opposite ends.

Mr. Howard, a man of thirty-three, wore a perplexed expression upon his face as Mateo took the statue from the presenter and stood directly before the microphone.  The applause quickly died down, and it appeared as though Mateo believed it did so out of reverence.  Jenna suspected it rather the result of universal embarrassment.

However, her own heart swelled, for at long last her grandfather held the award he deserved.

Mr. Howard, sensing the awkwardness, simply took his place alongside the presenters and watched as his idol accepted an Oscar that, while not awarded, certainly had been earned.

“I’d like to thank the Academy,” Mateo said, “for finally coming to its senses.”  He laughed and did not look troubled when no one else joined.  “You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to say that.”

The orchestra music played, softly yet inauspiciously, and Mateo bellowed, “I’ve waited over five decades for this award; there is no way in Holy Hell you’re going to play this best actor off stage!”

He next shook the Oscar high over his head and beamed from ear to ear.  The crowd could not help but put their hands together in support of the sheer vitality displayed by their favorite luminary.

The orchestra music wisely placated.

“Thank you,” Mateo offered with an open-handed gesture to the composer.  “As I was saying, I’ve been in this game for many, many years.  I’ve worked with the best and the worst.  I’ve lived a good life, and now I can die happily.  I know that sounds silly to some of you, but when an artist pours his heart—his very soul—into his work and that effort is never commended by the greatest awards show in the world … well, that can prove burdensome.

“Some would give up.  Hell, I’ve known a lot that did.  Not me, though.  I knew one way or the other, by God, I was going to get up on this stage, even if in the twilight of my career—my very life—and finally hold this award.  And look, here I am.”

A roar of applause erupted, led by Jenna.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, this film wasn’t my favorite.  The director’s an egomaniacal prick; my costars rigid and unnatural; and frankly, I thought the script self-serving and pompous.  However, I knew it had the stuff of controversy, Oscar’s favorite skirt, so I plunged in headfirst like any horny boy would!”

Here he chuckled a little.  A few accompanied him, but most were losing faith again.

“Despite its utter tastelessness, I knew Hollywood would lap it up with the usual fervor it displays for gourmet shit, and so I made a point to give it my all.  You could say that for me, it was Oscar or bust.

“Well, thank God … it’s not bust,” Mateo sighed.  “It’s Oscar.  Finally, it’s Oscar.”

Mateo’s eyes glistened and he paused while holding his fist up to his mouth.  He looked away from his audience for the briefest of moments, and then, with a renewed flourish of intensity, said, “I want to thank you all for watching my movies.  Chasing this castrated little boy is what’s kept me alive these last few decades.  Hell, the Academy did me a favor.  They added years to my life!”

Jenna noted that some of the crowd laughed and nearly all smiled.  He had his Oscar, just as everyone wanted, and so the world turned a little more gracefully.

“If I die tomorrow, or the day after that,” Mateo said with the award clutched to his chest, “don’t mourn for me.  I am satisfied.”

This time, when the music floated up, he said, “Now I truly am a man out of time.  Thank you—thank you for this moment.”

He then grinned at Jenna.  She offered an impish wink in return.

The crowed rose and offered a standing ovation, Mateo’s last.


Copyright © 2017 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental to the story

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.