The Writer's Life: The Writer's Life 10/26

Here’s an excerpt from a short story, Distinctions, published long ago, that will be part of the collection I plan after New Year’s. It is based on a raucous night on the town I had the privilege of participating in way back in the 80’s. It is at the mid point. A group of ten or so males has just finished dinner at a restaurant, the treat of a company for which one of the commodity traders works. It‘s a very quick read:

"How much would it take to get you to walk around the restaurant in your underwear?" said Bobby to Phil.
"I wouldn't do it in here," said Phil, blowing smoke over his head, sitting back, legs crossed, arm around the chair beside him. "Gimme a hundred and I'll do it outside."
The same $75 was raised. I felt an acute resistance within me. I was sure Phil would do it, and I cringed at the thought of those who would be offended. And I didn't want to see him make a fool of himself, although he was eager to accept the challenge, to prove his superiority to the others, even at the lower rate. As I saw it, he knew he would never match them in wealth, education, or background, so his only recourse was brazenness. None of the others would dare parade about midtown in his underwear, none would ever match him in "sickness." I found it sad, although no malice was intended by anyone except, perhaps, Bobby. I was reminded of a short story wherein an unfaithful wife had her adoring husband masquerade as a fool at a party, where he suffered fatal realization. I doubted the present consequences would be as dire, however.
We left the place with great anticipation. As soon as we'd gathered outside, Phil began to strip, to the delight of everyone. The temperature was about 50 degrees this April night. Phil stood proudly in his briefs, black dress socks sagging about thin ankles. He held his arms out at his sides, inviting all to behold. "Am I sick or what?" he demanded. Everyone concurred.
"Look at those socks!" Bobby cried out, beside himself.
I stood apart, embarrassed yet amused as he accepted congratulatory high-fives. It was a harmless prank. I hoped the public would perceive it as such. Phil handed me his clothes, not trusting any of the others, and set off along 72nd Street, smiling, belly protruding and supported by spindly legs taking long strides. I laughed so hard I collapsed into a squat trying to draw breath, which was difficult on a bloated stomach. My vision blurred at the force of my mirth. Those he passed were amused rather than offended. And he did not go quietly into the good night. He talked up a storm, avoiding, however, eye contact with passersby.
I lagged, still in a squat. I did not rise until I noted the amused stares of the people seated just beyond the window of the restaurant. I looked away, irked at my self-consciousness, certain it was assumed I was drunk. I slipped into a nook, hiding, intending a practical joke of my own, worried only that a policeman would appear and slap Phil with a summons for indecent exposure. I didn't have the heart to make him wait long, however. He dressed on Lexington Avenue, boasting as he pulled on his pants, assuring everyone he would do it again if the money was right.
"I'm no fool," he boasted. "I got seventy-five tamatas in my pocket. Go 'head and laugh, douche bags. Who's better than me?"

My thanks to the kind folks who bought books on this gorgeous day. The highlight of the session occurred when Mike, a local super approached, hunk of pipe in hand. He spoke of how disrespectful some youths were and said his mom devised a ploy to get him on the right track when he was young. Unbeknownst to him, she asked her neighbor, a large man who worked at the notorious Spofford Detention Center in the Bronx, to put him up there for three nights. The guy asked if Mike would help him do something and, since the man often helped Mike's mom, he agreed. By the time he realized what was up, he was inside. When the three days were up, his hell-raising was cured. Just as he finished this tale, Mr. Conspiracy, aka Steve, showed up and went on a profanity laced rant that had passersby staring. He blamed meds for all of today's problems with youth. While there was truth in what he was saying, life is never all of anything. There are young men and women who don't take meds who cause a lot of trouble. True to form, Mr. C bought a bio of Che Guevara.

Vic's 5th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/okxkwh5Vic's 4th novel: tinyurl.com/bszwlxh

Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3

Vic's Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tiny.cc/0iHLb Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kx3d3uf
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tinyurl.com/l84h63j

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

Vic's Blog: http://vicfortezza.blogspot.com/

Vic's Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/