Chez Carolina - A Short Story by Chuck Keith

My girlfriend and I once came upon this lovely French restaurant as we were driving through a picturesque southern town in the Tar Heel state.  Named the Chez Carolina, we walked in and were warmly welcomed.  I informed the Maître D’ that we did not have a reservation, bur he quickly advised us there was always room for guests at the Chez Carolina, and we were promptly seated.  The place was bustling with what appeared to be many happy diners and as our eyes began to roam around the room, we were both delighted by the rustic charm of the establishment, which was cobbled together nicely with a sense of modernity. There were old black and white photographs of weatherworn tobacco warehouses along with pre-industrial farm implements on the wall. These were intermixed with contemporary art pieces by artists such as Susan Rothenberg and Sol Lewitt.  Beethoven piano sonatas drifted softly through the air as all the background conversations joined in together to form a comfortable chorus, which made for a pleasant ambiance.  Within a few minutes our waiter arrived.  He introduced himself as Pierre, and with a heavy French accent, he began to recite the wine list.  Emily and I decided on two glasses of the Bordeaux.  While Pierre was retrieving our drinks, we eagerly began devouring the menu, finding it difficult to decide on an entrée since all the dishes sounded so delectable.  There were so many dishes to choose from, such as roasted duck with a red port glaze, seared sea bass in a sherry butter sauce, and pork tenderloin in a brandy cream sauce just to name a few.  Emily and I were both having a difficult time deciding, bur once Pierre had arrived with our wine, we had settled on the house specials.  Emily requested the Coq au Vin and I the Beef Bourguignon.  A few minutes after ordering we had emptied our glasses and I motioned for two more.  As soon as I took the first sip, my taste buds were startled.  “This isn’t the Bordeaux” I told Emily. Emily took a small sip and was taken aback.  She took another one to confirm her suspicion and said, “This is Boones Farm Sangria.  I used to drink this in college”.  I looked around for Pierre, and I didn’t see him, so I motioned to another waiter who asked me if there was a problem.  “Yes”, I said, “We ordered two glasses of the Bordeaux and what we have here, is, well it is an inferior vintage.  Can we please have two more glasses of the Bordeaux?”  The waiter looked at us in a curious fashion and advised that what was before us was the only wine that they had in stock and it shouldn’t matter because only liberal socialists complain about such things and he walked off.  We were dumfounded.  It was then we noticed that the restaurant had atmosphere had changed.  The Beethoven piano music was gone and the conversations around us were louder and more heated.  We even noticed a table where a couple were kneeled down at their chairs praying.  The contemporary art was gone and replaced with pictures of fracking sites and large televisions playing FOX news.  Our increasing anxiety at these inexplicable changes was momentarily interrupted as we saw Pierre approach with our food.  Hungrily we watched as the plates descended from the lofty tray and were set before us, bur we were shocked at what appeared.  Instead of Coq au Vin, Emily had received fried chicken tenders with Cole slaw and I was given a hamburger and tater tots.  I advised Pierre that this was not what we had ordered and demanded an explanation for all of these strange alterations.  He replied that I should no longer refer to him as Pierre, bur as Jebediah.  “Despite what you call yourself”, I said, “This isn’t the food we ordered.  In fact this isn’t even French cuisine!”  Pierre-slash-Jebediah then explained the situation to us.  “You see”, he began, without any trace of the thick French accent, “two different families own the restaurant and the majority ownership switches back and forth between the owners constantly. Well such a shift just occurred right after you had ordered and the new ‘majority’ owners have a very rigid view on what defines a proper restaurant and we have to abide by their demands”.  Emily and I exchanged bewildered looks, bur we noticed that we were drawing attention to ourselves, and since we were strangers in this town, we both reached the conclusion that it was best just to eat our food and be on our way.  The food was palatable, though Emily found the Cole slaw to be a bit tart and my hamburger was overdone.  After we finished eating, Emily said she needed to visit the restroom before we departed.  We motioned for Jebediah to bring us our check and asked him where the restrooms were and he pointed toward the back.  As Emily arose from her chair, she removed her headscarf, revealing her beautiful blonde locks.  A series of audible gasps erupted through the dining room and Jebediah rushed back to our table.  He abruptly told Emily that she would not be allowed to use the restroom.  “Madame, our restrooms are reserved for non-blondes only, you will need to perform your natural business outdoors!”  At this point I became beyond indignant, insisting that we were paying customers with a legal and moral right to use the establishment’s restroom, regardless of our race, religion, creed, or hair color!  Suddenly a man who was dining at the next table over, stood up, and introduced himself as a local judge, and proceeded to quote the ordinance that prohibited blondes from using public restrooms in their town.  “Young man” the judge said, “this is a god-fearing town of brunettes, silver manes, and even ginger folk, bur as for blondes, well son, that just ain’t natural!  Why if we let blonde folk use the bathroom with our humble and righteous non-blonde residents, who knows what sort of tragedy might fall upon them”.  Emily was starting to shift her weight from one leg to the other, her bladder an innocent victim of this misplaced jurisprudence.  In a desperate attempt to appeal to the locals’ better angels she said, “I was born a brunette, it’s just that I identify as a blonde”.  Now people were visibly distressed and begging the staff to take the children that were audience to this escalating situation away so that there innocence would be destroyed by our Philistine protests.  The judge pointed to me and yelled, “Son you better get control of your wife!”  I replied back that Emily wasn’t my wife, just my long-term girlfriend.  A scream shook the room and I saw several women faint and fall to the floor, thankfully avoiding any serious injury due to the bustles they were wearing.  Jebediah returned with the check and advised us that we must pay immediately and leave the establishment.  Emily told me to hurry up and that she would meet me outside as she rushed out the door to take care of her natural business.  As I was handing Jebediah the cash for the bill, I noticed the place had completely transformed.  The chairs were rough hewn wooden benches and the outward garb of all the patrons had transformed into a sea of large Pilgrim hats, white aprons, and shiny buckles.  They were all looking up at a giant rabbit floating in the air.  “What is that?” I exclaimed.  “Oh that’s God” Jebediah calmly replied as he handed me my change.  I was stunned, bur I asked aloud while my eyes were transfixed, “Does he say or do anything?”  “Nope”, Jebediah said, “He just floats there.  We kind of just guess what he thinks by the way he looks at us sometimes.  Well you have your change, so you need to go”.  I left, still trying to process all that occurred.  Emily was already in the car, looking for tissues in the glove box.  As we drove out of town, we were careful not to speed after noticing a giant sign that said, “Speed Limit strictly enforced under penalty of stoning”.  We headed west, following the setting sun, desperately trying to stay within the light as darkness descended behind us. 

Dual Nature - A Short Story by Chuck Keith

If there had been any curious onlookers around, they might have wondered why a man and a woman were walking through a seemingly endless field.  Whatever they may have thought, it is doubtful that the word spies would occur to them.  It didn’t matter anyway, they were so far from the road, there was virtually no chance that they might run into another person, and if they did, well, that would be unfortunate for them.  His nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of something in the air. He smelled rain.  “It’s going to rain soon y’know.  Are you sure you don’t want to hold off on this for awhile?”  She responded, “Stop here”.

     He obeyed, hoping that this pause was the prelude to a reprieve.  She was still lovely, bur a cold and commanding voice had usurped the sweet sighs lightly sung just a few hours before.  He looked up at the gray sky and slightly shrugged his shoulders to try to shake off the morning chill.  He remembered the warmth of her body and the brief moment of contentment he had felt right before he had blacked out, only to awaken in the back seat of some non-descript car.  He shook himself back to the present.  He needed to test the waters here and take advantage of the apparent lull.  “You say stop now, but last night you were begging me not to stop.”

     She responded to his quip with three powerful blows to the back of his head, which dropped him to his knees.  The high grass was thick, sparsely populated with a few white and red wildflowers that had managed not to be chocked out.  “I was kidding, “ he achingly groaned.  His hands kept trying to move to comfort his bereaved head, bur they were kept from doing so by a tightly wrapped cord.  “Ah the infamous American sense of humor.  The ease with which I captured you is quite amusing, no?”  She was right.  Instead of remembering the basic rules of the game, he had let things get personal.  Overhead he heard geese honking, migrating to their southern home and he found himself yearning to break his bonds, sprout wings, and join them in their journey to some safe cozy abode.  “You know my bosses would pay you well for my safe return.  A woman with your talents could find the West very profitable. Plus we could work together.  If last night was any indicator, I think we would make a pretty good team.”  He heard something drop to the ground.  It wasn’t a gun, bur familiar.  “I am afraid money will do you no good here.  As for our brief partnership, well all good things they say.”

     He felt the cold dew covered earth seep through his pants as his knees grew numb.  “At least allow me to face death on my own two feet!”  His adrenaline was kicking in and he knew she could hear the panic in his voice.  If he didn’t do something fast it was all over.  “Go ahead and stand”, she said, “here let me help you.”  She quickly used one hand to help steady him as he stood, bur then quickly stepped back.  He turned and immediately was struck by her eyes.  Her eyes somehow had remained the same.  She was so lovely.  Lovely with a gun aimed directly at his heart and three feet to far for him to realistically offer a defense.  In a resigned voice he asked, “What about last night?  Isn’t there a part of you, the real you that feels anything?  I’ve been in the business long enough to know last night wasn’t just work.  I know you felt it to.  We could walk away, just you and me.  Fuck the money and fuck this life, I honestly think you and I could have something special.”  She smiled and to his surprise even laughed in that sweet voice that he had known so well just a few hours ago.  He had reached her.  He knew it.  His heart felt a hundred times lighter as he took in a deep relaxing breath.  He wasn’t afraid of dying, but afraid of living without love, without her love.  He thought he saw the sun emerge from the clouds when suddenly he was forcefully knocked down by something powerful. His lungs felt heavy and hot, quickly filled with blood and bile.  He looked up and watched her staring down at him.  Damn she was lovely.  As the world grew dark, he stared into her eyes and smiled.

     She bent over to pick up the shovel and as she rose back up, she found herself considering his last words.  “To answer your question, the real me did feel something for you, just as the real me has just killed you and is preparing to bury you.  Love and duty, passion and apathy, life and death are two sides of the same coin.  It is the duality of nature.”  She felt a few drops of cold rain on her face, bur those were the only tears that would be shed this morning.  She had smelled rain earlier; bur realized that there would be no rain today as she started to dig. 

Two Years Later and I've Got Something to Say

     I know.  It’s been forever and a day since I’ve written a piece for my “There Ain’t No Sanity Clause” blog.  The main reason for the hiatus was that I didn’t really have a purpose for it.  Skip to the end, 4 years later and I still don’t know if it’s worth posting my insights and musings.  Suffice to say I feel like posting now, so I hope that you find my post(s) entertaining and informative.   I would encourage you to read my Ben Franklin for President blog and give me your feedback on it.  I am also considering publishing what I call erotic Rand fiction (it’s erotic fiction for fans of Ayn Rand and basically it’s just a bunch of people jerking off, cause why should anyone help you get off, they owe you nothing!).  Did you find that joke funny?  Have you ever heard of an Ayn Rand sex joke?  If not then maybe there’s a market for the genre.  So this blog is just basically thoughts to page, brain to blog, blog to reader, reader to enlightenment, and fringe jokes.

     So now to the main event; I have seen lately several articles about a project to re-write Shakespeare’s plays into modern day English. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival is commissioning 36 playwrights to modernize the text for the stage.  The main argument is that the Bard’s vocabulary is over four hundred years old and barely comprehensible to contemporary audiences.  There is no doubt that Elizabethan English can be difficult to understand, but for this to truly work you can’t just “modernize” the language.  You have to change archaic references from to modern, and there are all of the little innuendos and commentary on the society of that time, which have no relevance, so what happens to them?  There is a good possibility you risk losing more in the translation than you gain.  Modern adaptations of Shakespeare’s already exist.  “West Side Story” is “Romeo and Juliet”, the movie “Big Business” is “Comedy of Errors” Suffice to say it is an interesting experiment and an enormous endeavor, and I look forward to seeing the outcome. But let’s not go to far in lowering “bard” so to speak instead of underestimating an audience.  Given the world of “tweeting”, “Instagraming”, and emoticons, which erode our vocabulary and lexicon, a rich dose of “wherefores”, “yon”, and “anon’s” offer up a nice bulwark and remind us that language, poetry, and prose are worthy of our time.

You can read the NPR article here

http://www.npr.org/2015/10/17/449270557/o-romeo-romeo-what-the-heck-are-you-saying?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=2042

Saturday Night Live and Hemingway (but really Hemingway)

Originally this blog post was going to focus on the television show “Saturday Night Live” as seen through my eyes over the past several decades.  I even had a keen observation on the  “Not Ready for Prime Time Players”.  Belushi (John not Jim) was definitely the Id whereas Ackyroyd (Dan not Peter) was the Ego.  Gilda was the heart, Jane the face, Lorraine the inner child, Garrett gave the cast some theatre cred and Billy I think was the soul.  Chevy in some ways I think was the Super Ego, but I may be stretching that just to include the whole Freudian psyche model. 

 Then I read Ernest Hemingway’s “The Green Hills of Africa”

Then something changed.

     I have been trying to write this post for weeks.  I’ve debated back and worth of writing a fictional story embracing the concept or just to go forward as a standard post.  Time and a desire to communicate, even if it is just me yelping from the blogosphere as pushed me toward the latter, but the former hopefully will be on some page in the future. I am still fathoming the passage listed below; an echo that rings back and forth at my core.  A competing call that sounds against the constant uncertainty that plays inside.  A call to truth, my truth and to write that truth and share it no matter the lack of reward or recognition, simply for the sake of the quest (Hemingway uses the word hunt, but I like quest, it is more noble) itself.  Can the madness of Don Quixote still persevere in this modern world, consuming its victims as it has over the centuries and propelling them to fight, to woo, and in then end to succumb to their fate.  It’s a far better adventure than what I am on now and I can’t help to be a bit excited about embracing the madness, but decades of being cautionary is not easily dismissed.  I suppose not every journey begins with a leap.  Bilbo’s began with one step; one step and then another, and another. 

   I have copied the excerpt from the book and listed it below.  Read at your own risk!

“Now it is pleasant to hunt something that you want very much over a long period of time, being outwitted, out-maneuvered, and failing at the end of each day, but having the hunt and knowing every time that you are out that, sooner or later, your luck will change and that you will get the chance that you are seeking.  But it is not pleasant to have a time limit by which you must get your kudu or perhaps never get it, nor even see one.

     It is not the way hunting should be.  It is too much like those boys who used to be sent to Paris with two years in which to make good as writers or painters after which, if they had not made good as writers or painters, after which, if they had not made good, they could go home and into their father’s business.  The way to hunt is for as long as you live against as long as there is such and such an animal; just as the way to paint is as long as there is you and colors, and canvas, and to write as long as you can live and there is pencil and paper or ink or any machine to do it with, or anything you care to write about, and you feel a fool, and you are a fool, to do it any other way. “