A Box Of Shorts

A Box of Shorts

By Mike Proko

Smashwords edition

License notes: All rights reserved. Copyright 2009, 2012. Reproduction or translation of any part of this work beyond that permitted by section 107 and/or 108 of the 1976 United States copyright Act without the written permission of the copyright owners is unlawful and/or prohibited.

http://www. mikeproko. com

Contents

Preface

Introduction

The Light through the Stained Glass Window

A Song for Lena

A Father’s Gift

The Angel of Death

Peter and The Deacon

The Mcfuddles of New Morales, West Texas

The Only Practical Solution

PREFACE

by HJ Weinand

For 25 years, I worked side by side with Mike Proko and his brother Bob. In that amount of time you learn a lot about the other guy. You also get to see how they think, how they look at the world and how they see things around them. Years before Mike ever put pen to paper, I would listen to both of them describe some of the characters they had known over the years—the high-lifes, the low-lifes, the politicians, the mobsters and everyone in between. Bob would paint a picture with broad sweeping strokes but I noticed Mike often made use of literary devices, things like imagery, detail, nuances and the like. He had developed a natural ability to forge his characters into living, breathing three-dimensional beings. Case in point: One day, Mike starts to describe a person, an older gentleman that he and his brother had known over the years. I listened as he brought this character to life in meticulous detail; the way he moved, the look in his eyes, how he held a smoke, how he sipped his whiskey, etc. I told Mike that his description sounded like the beginning of a short-story. He just looked at me, mumbled something and walked away.

Several days later, Mike tells me he just got done writing his first short-story: ‘A Song for Lena’ based on the character he had been describing. And a beautiful story it was, filled with poetry, nuance and the bittersweet ache of a love that is pure, valorous and unrequited. I had to laugh because his first story was a love story. Who knew he was a romantic? But the people around Oak Park who read it were enthralled with the story. That’s when the floodgates opened.

Like all good artists, time means nothing to Mike. Ten, twelve, fourteen hour days meant nothing to him whether working, working on his writing or working on his golf game. He would just keep going. On more than a couple of occasions, I saw him write 7500 words LONGHAND without stopping. Every now and then, he’d stick his head into my work area and bounce an idea off of me—a turn of a plot, a dramatic gesture or a bit of ironic humor. His mind and his imagination were relentless. But, his gift was that he had the ability to turn life’s disappointments into the stuff of literature. Art for him was an act of redemption, an affirmation of the human spirit in the face of adversity. His recurring themes are compassion, courage, retribution, justice and the absurd accidents or miracles of this mysterious journey we call ‘life.’

There is a sense in his prose styling reminiscent of Mickey Spillane—short, quick punches, sharp stinging jabs to the head and heart—but his descriptive powers and broad themes give his work a Faulknerian lustre. Much like Faulkner, there’s a feeling of participating in a folk tale, the resurrection of an attitude before television and computers when we entertained ourselves sitting around a fireplace or a dinner table swapping yarns. Imaginations were exercised, there was true intimacy and connection and through the words of the most skilled tale-spinners, dreams were launched and alliances were forged. Time itself—past, present and future—would hang suspended and frozen in a magical space beyond the cruel exigencies of an alien world.

So read these stories in the spirit of continuity, the continuity of an American tradition, for the storytellers were often the healers, the medicine men in indigenous cultures. Let these luminous slices of existence bask in their own mystery. Let them inspire. Let them make you smile. Expect a tear or two to fall. That’s okay. More than anything, these stories remind us of the beauty, the bafflement, the benediction of being human; of the importance of investigating what lies beneath the surface of this brief sojourn, this adventure we unwittingly find ourselves to be a part of.

Each of the stories in A Box of Shorts is unique unto itself. This was done by design. Way before Mike was a writer or an author or an essayist, he was simply a story-teller. That would probably sum him up best: story-teller. Enjoy his stories. Enjoy the way he paints his canvas. Enjoy his characters. And watch the way he brings his characters to life. They’re unique, just like the author. Whatever Mike writes in the future you can rest assured it will be unlike anything he’s written so far. And it will be unique, just like my friend.

H. J. W.

River Forest, Illinois

Introduction

The art of story-telling is best exemplified in the short story. The writer does not have the luxury of having a chapter or two to flesh out the characters—it has to be done quickly but not too quick to leave the reader in the dust. At that point, you have lost the reader and when that happens, not only will they not finish the story, but more than likely you may have lost them for good. In The Light through the Stained Glass Window we are introduced to a young Mike O’Connor in a ‘coming of age’ piece, where a young man’s eyes are opened for the first time but the more you will learn about the young man, the reader finds that the young man’s eyes hide all kinds of secrets. In A Song for Lena, we get to see the world through the eyes of Chester, a lonely older ex-jazz musician who still thinks about the love that he let get away. As far as short-stories go, the character of Chester will be a hard one to forget far into the future. A Father’s Gift delves into the love between a father and his daughter and the mysteries that go along with a well-lived life. In The Angel of Death, we catch up with a somewhat older Mike O’Connor, whose life has not turned out the way most would have expected but seemed to gravitate in that direction from the start. Be that as it may, this is a story about two men, their love for each other and, above all else, loyalty. In the story Peter and The Deacon, Pete Jefferies is a golfer who has forgotten about his dreams and is just trying to take care of his family, but on one particular night and a chance meeting with the mysterious Deacon, that all changes and one of his oldest dreams is resurrected. In The McFuddles, we take a sardonic look at a small west Texas hamlet of New Morales, the little town that time seemed to forget, through the eyes of their bigger than life benefactor and resident charlatan, the honorable Malcolm T. McFuddle, but you can call him ‘Grandy’ because everythin’ that the boy done was on such a grand scale. The entire story was written in a west Texas dialect. Finally, we come to The Only Practical Solution. Think about this: what would happen if we could elect a man, a military hero, to the highest office in our country, a man who had specific ideas about doing things and how to get things done? Such a man is Barry Douglas and by this time you will have met some of his friends in the previous stories. They’re a lively bunch because they like the action that only Douglas can serve up. I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. Take care. Mike Proko

The Light through the Stained Glass Window

Late again! Seems the O’Connor’s were always late when they went somewhere as a family. And, really, no one reason in particular. Except one. Pat. The oldest. He was 13. He’d have

to check the stove, make sure all the burners were off. And he’d check it again and again and again. Oops! Don’t forget the pilot light. You see, before there was OCD, there was ‘weird’ and ‘a little goofy’. Then he’d check all the doors and windows, making sure they were not only closed but locked. And he’d have to give the dogs fresh water, too. Of course, he couldn’t just fill their bowl, no, it would have to be a clean bowl that he himself just washed. But mostly, he probably did all this crap just to piss-off his old man, Frank, who had been waiting in the car, clipping his fingernails, for the last 20-30 minutes, just going into a slow burn. When Pat finally did get into the car and announce, there, it’s all done, the old man would slam the car into drive, jump on the gas, drive about 100 feet, slam the car back into park and glower at Doris: GODDAMMIT! What, Frank, what is it? GODDAMMIT! Now I have to go B. M. Maybe his three cups of Taster’s Choice were finally kicking in? And he’d race back into the house while the family sat in the car for 10 more minutes. He didn’t do this once or twice. He did this every stinkin’ time the family got into the car. Always the same thing-B. M. !! Jesus, you’d think that as a grown man, he’d be able to control his bowel functions, right?Then, after 10 minutes, he’d jump back into the car, infuriated. He couldn’t go. Probably couldn’t go because there were people waiting in the car. (It was always someone else’s fault). But at least everyone in the car was up to date on Frank’s morning bowel report.

They would arrive at the church a good 10 or 15 minutes late, just late enough to miss out on the good seats up front. And Doris would flash him that puppy-dog look and say: Frank, aren’t you coming in?, and Frank would go ballistic, screaming about his bowels and what have you, not caring if anyone in the church wanted to hear about his bodily functions. JUST GET OUTTA THE F------CAR, GODDAMMIT!, and the whole family fled the car thinking that his butt was going to let loose as he sped away. Mike looked down the sidewalk and saw a young, very attractive woman running towards them with her 4 children in tow. Perhaps she, too, had been dropped off near the church by a man who had to go somewhere else to relieve himself. Maybe, there was this place, this secret place, where you could go, buy a Sunday paper, walk through this magic door, and find yourself in a large room surrounded by toilets- 40, 50, 60 of them;AHH! NIRVANA! Where guys could go and get a good cup of coffee, drop their drawers and take care of business and just get away from the wife and kids, or worse, the preacher. And there would be a sign over the door: A good day starts with a good dump!!

As the woman with the 4 children approached, Doris O’Connor nodded at Mike and pointed at the front door of the church. Michael ran up the stairs two-at-a-time and opened the doors for the young woman and her brood. The woman held her soft-brim white straw hat in place on her head with her right hand, the summer breeze softly blowing around her white linen cotton summer dress, the white hi-heels accentuating her toned tanned legs. At 12, he had never sized up a girl before, let alone a young mother of four. Nope. He had never seemed to notice. But this one, on this day, he noticed. She smiled at Mike as he held the door open for her and her children, and when she walked past him there was this scent. No, not perfume. It was soap. That was it. Ivory soap. Church was crowded that particular Sunday, being the height of the tourist season and all. The ushers had their hands full. The O’Connor’s had to stand in back for a couple of minutes, when they were waved up by an usher. Pat and young Timmy went in the pew first, then Doris, then Mike. Doris motioned to save a seat for Frank, a seat that never seemed to get filled. They all knelt, apologizing to the Almighty for being late and all, with Michael being the first to sit down. His mother reached back and with her thumb and forefinger pinched the soft skin under his tricep. She could move a 2500 lb. bull with that pinch of hers. She glowered at Michael and told him to kneel. The young man couldn’t understand why; he wasn’t the one checking the stove and the locks, and he had taken care of his business in the john way before 8:00. So, why did he have to apologize? She reached back with the pinchers again and Michael knelt toot sweet, only to have his face buried in a soft-brim white straw hat on the woman in the pew in front of him. He turns and gives his mother a stupid look as his vision is blocked by this straw hat and then, BAMMM!, it hits him: Ivory Soap. This was the woman. That scent grabbed him by the ears and wouldn’t let go. God, I hope she can’t feel my breath on her neck, he thought. He had never been that close to a woman before. You know, when your 12, girls are still pretty yucky and ugly. Can I get a witness here?

As he knelt there with his head buried in her hat, Mike tried not to breathe. That probably didn’t work all that well, but he started to notice little things, like the pores in her skin, and the drop of sweat that was slowly running down her neck towards the back of her shoulder. And that Ivory soap! All of this was new to the young man, all of this sensuality. Then, everyone in church stood up and, as luck would have it, our lady friend stood up in front of Michael. And the light through the stain-glass window showered over her, outlining all of her curves- her shoulders, her waist, her hips. Michael sized her up: Oh my God!! Look at those legs! Oh God! What a shape! Oh God! I’m sorry for thinking like this! In here. On a Sunday. He started to get dizzy and had to sit back for a moment. There was a reason he was getting dizzy and it had nothing to do with the fact that there was no air conditioning. Simple biology. God gave man (and boys) two heads, but only enough blood to operate one at a time. Doris reached down with her pinchers at the ready, Michael jumped straight up and the front of his pants stood straight out, pointing at the Ivory soap woman in front of him. Just like a Marine. Just like the American Flag. ATENNNNTIONN! Doris glowered at him and told him to sit down through her clenched teeth. And loud enough so that people would turn around. Yup, this kid had some major wood action going on. Timmy looked around his mom at Mike and let out a laugh. Pat couldn’t see what was going on but the word ‘boner’was loud enough for the people 20 feet away to hear. Pat just looked and shook his head. Again, Michael sat down, only to look up and see the Ivory soap girl, this vision of loveliness, standing in front of him, again with her silhouette outlined in this radiant light pouring through the stain-glass window. Then, they all sat down, with Michael still noticing that single drop of sweat by the nape of her neck. Again, Doris fires daggers at Mike with her eyes. Just wait ‘til you get home, Mister, she whispered. Michael thought, so what else is new? Frank would go off on the boys with a certain degree of regularity, with Pat getting hit the hardest and Mike the most often. Timmy was a mama’s boy or a daddy’s boy, depending on which way the wind was blowing at the time, but just to show him he could, Frank would knock him around pretty good every now and then just for kicks.

Then, it was time for communion and they always went to communion. Mike stood up and was still at full mast but turned to his right so his mother couldn’t see. The Ivory soap woman turned too, and noticed Mike’s ‘predicament’. From underneath her floppy brimmed hat she flashed him a soft smile, then she arched her eyebrows for a split second and hid a soft smile behind a gloved right hand.

You could hear the snickers from the assemblage as Mike made his way to the communion rail, and as he made his way back to his seat, they grew louder. Poor kid looked like a freakin’ eunuch. At the end of Mass, Doris had the boys remain seated until everyone had left the church. Then, with her head bowed in shame and remorse, she ushered her sons out the side entrance away from the priests waiting by the front door.

Frank was waiting in the car, all calmed down after what must have been a very satisfying constitution. Yup, a good day starts with a good dump. The mama’s boy was the first to speak: Michael gotta boner in church. And she starts screaming:Shut up! Shut up, you little bastard! I have never been sooooo humiliated. Ever! Goddamit! Everyone will laugh at me now! Because my son is a pervert! Goddammit! By now, all the boys were laughing. Might as well enjoy it, ‘cause you know somebody’s gonna get it later. And it looked like Mike was the odds-on favorite. Frank said nothing, just looked at the boys in the rear-view mirror stone-faced, and then told Doris to shut up as he slammed the car into gear: Shut up! I have a death weapon in my hands!

The ride home was like all the other time the O’Connor’s spent together—in silence. And no mention of ‘boners’ please. Or vomit. Or anything else the old man deemed off-limits. But bowels, his, he could talk about. At great length, too. That, and philosophy and economics. Somehow, Pat and Mike figured, all those subjects were related.

Back at the house, everyone went into the house. Everyone except Mike. He went to the boat-house, for a number of reasons. First, if Frank was going to punish him, then he would have to walk a half block to the boat house to do it and he was, by nature, a pretty lazy guy. Second, he knew that his dad always enjoyed the ass-whippings in front of an audience. No audience. No ass-whipping. Thirdly, more than anything, Michael enjoyed being off by himself- fishing, rowing, walking in the woods. So, he ducked into the boat house and started to put his rod and reel together with a couple of small lures when he heard his mother scream from the top of the hill: Don’t hurt him, Frank, he didn’t know. It’s just one of… Please, don’t hurt him, Frank. Mike looked out the window and could see Frank, bare-chested, moving towards the boathouse at a quick pace. Things didn’t look too good for the youngster.

Now, Frank was a rather large guy. A little better than six and a half feet and over 325 lbs. , he was a frightening sight, especially to a 12 year old. But, you see, there’s always going to be one in the family that stirs the pot. In the O’Connor house, that would have been Mike. He was the one with the spirit. And Frank didn’t like spirit. He himself was kind of dull and dim-witted. And he tried to beat the spirit outta that boy every chance he got. But, Mike wouldn’t break. It had gotten to the point where Frank would knock him down and the young man would bounce back up, ready for more. He just took it. And each hit, each punch made him harder, stronger, tougher, like a piece of forged steel.

Frank stood in the doorway to the boat-house, blocking out the sunlight. This guy had a graduate degree in intimidation. Michael couldn’t go left or right. He was trapped. There was no way out and he knew it. And he was ready for the worst. When you’re in church, Michael, think Godly thoughts. That’s it? Think Godly thoughts? What’s that supposed to mean? Then, he stepped away from the doorway and left. So much for the birds and the bees. Mike went out to the end of