Category Archives: Stories

by

The Watch

What follows is the part of self-publishing I hate–promoting my latest work. For a while, I’ll post some little blurbs on Facebook, warble out a few tweets and post semi-apologetic paragraphs on this blog. Then, I’ll get frustrated and grumpy and abandon the whole thing because I’m so inept. I tried putting an excerpt on Goodreads yesterday, but finally gave up. I’m sorry if you heard me cussing. Anyway, I try to come up with non-pushy ways to let the world know when I’ve published something new. Ultimately, I hope to earn enough money to buy hair dye, to cover the gray hair I get when I try to format my work. It’s still hit or miss, but social media really turns me into a curmudgeon. Just ask Amadeus. Anyway, here goes:

My newest e-story is called, “The Watch.” It’s about a little girl named Angel Walker, an eleven-year-old whose parents have recently divorced. Her world’s quickly changing and she’s learning to maneuver. Her mother claims she’s trying to make a better life for them, and her way of going about it involves a search for a rich new husband. Her father’s a pill-popping playboy with a hair-trigger temper, who makes no bones about the fact that he has little interest in parenthood. Angel worships him, and prays that he’ll change. Lately, he’s given her reason to believe that he has.

A tale of family dysfunction, childhood resilience and trust, “The Watch” will transport you to another place and time, and Angel Walker will steal your heart. Don’t I sound confident? I really like this one, although I should warn you that it’s rather sad.

As part of my shameless self-promotion, I’m shamelessly copying and pasting some of the comments and reviews I’ve received so far.

“…this story is a highly polished gem…”

“What an amazing story! LOVED it!!!”

“I wept three times reading that story. It is a masterpiece.”

“…exquisitely written, each character completely believable and throbbing with life.”

“…poignant, meaty, truthful…”

Not one of those lovely words was written by a family member, nor did money change hands.

“The Watch” is available for the low, low price of $1.99 on Smashwords and at Amazon. My preferred site is Smashwords (because they take a smaller percentage of sales). I’ve published it under MB McQueen, in order to make my life more confusing. Actually, MB McQueen just seemed to fit this one better than Moonbeam. It’s a serious story, and initials are serious things. 

Thanks to all who’ve already sent me such wonderful, in-depth feedback, and to those who helped me purchase rights for the song used in the story. As always, I feel that you’re all a part of this process. If you feel the spirit, please spread the word. Post your reviews at Goodreads, Kindle and Smashwords. For the next week, I’ll gladly give a free copy in exchange for a review and a link on your blog (shoot me an email if you’re up for the task). Word of mouth is about all I’ve got to promote my work. Fortunately, I’ve got a very big mouth.

by

True Confessions: My Torrid Affair With Buddy Hackett

Love is a wonderful thing, my friends. As I reflect on my colorful and unconventional life, I must say that I’ve been blessed to have shared intimacies with an extraordinarily large number of the rich and famous. I’m not sure what it is that draws these handsome, virile, talented men to me like flies to a donut shop, but I’ve never regretted a single affair. I can recall so many– among them Jay Silverheels, Mel Torme, Richard Deacon (aka Mel Cooley), and Dick Wilson, who insisted that, at all times, I refer to him as “Mr. Whipple.” In return, he called me Charmin, and he squeezed me constantly. He was a little kinky that way, but I adored him. Call me romantic, call me irresponsible. I don’t care. I’m a fool for love.

Many of these relationships have led to heartbreak. I was left at the altar by Gene Gene, the Dancing Machine. Liberace avoided committment by trying to convince me that he was gay (believe me, that sequined stud was as heterosexual as Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter combined). Marty Feldman had a heart attack during our strenuous lovemaking. But I’d never change a thing. I recovered quickly from the demise of each liaison, knowing that the next passion-inflamed lover would soon be knocking upon my door.

There was one romance that I never completely recovered from though, one man who swept me off my feet like an O-Cedar broom at a witches convention and changed my life forever. That man was Buddy Hackett.

Buddy. Just saying his name fills me with heartache and sorrow. Heartache for what that bastard he did to me. Sorrow because of what could have been.

I’ll never forget the first words he said to me: “Two triple pastramis on rye, light mustard. Extra pickles on the side.”

I heard the voice, but at first I couldn’t figure out where that sexy sound was coming from. Then I noticed the top of a mop of shiny black hair, and a dark pair of hungry eyes peeking over the counter top. As he stood on tiptoe placing his order, I almost fainted. I knew in an instant that those eyes weren’t just hungry for deli food. Oh no, they were undressing me like he would soon be unwrapping the delectable sandwiches that I was preparing for him.

Buddy. I was so overcome with the intense heat between us, that all I could do was hand him his change. He pressed a quarter into my palm, and said meaningfully, “Here’s a little something for you, sweetcheeks.” As the door closed on his fat behind, I never thought I’d see him again. Oh, how wrong I was.

Later that afternoon, I stood in front of the deli wearing a wooden sandwich board that said, “Eat at Lindy’s!” We employees took turns standing in front of the building during slow times, which allowed us to smoke cigarettes and down a few beers while we drummed up business.

As I was chugging the last few sips of my Pabst Blue Ribbon, a gleaming black limo pulled up alongside me. A tinted window was lowered and I heard a sexy voice say, “Board?” The sheer wit of that little pun made beer shoot out of my nose. It was of course, Buddy. He’d returned to woo me.

“Um…yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” I replied.

He opened the door and I stepped inside. We sped away from my career at Lindy’s and into the glitzy world of Buddy Hackett.

How can I describe him? He was raw sensuality, machismo wrapped in the body of a miniature sumo wrestler. He showered me with jewels and furs, and servants fed us Jordan Almonds and Necco Wafers as we sat in his darkened screening room watching The Love Bug over and over again. Seeing himself on screen, riding around in that little talking VW seemed to ignite his sexual urges like nothing I’d ever experienced. Looking back, I realize that he was fantasizing about that car during our lovemaking, but that only heightened the eroticism of it all.

I often had to pinch myself. I was Buddy Hackett’s mistress! My days became a haze of shopping expeditions and luncheons with the girlfriends of Gavin MacLeod, Nipsy Russell, Nancy Kulp and other fabulous stars. Buddy and I traveled to comedy clubs across the country where he performed his act. We shook the walls of every Howard Johnson’s from the Catskills to L.A. with our passionate lovemaking, then we’d shower and dress and travel to wherever he was appearing that night. He was often late, I guiltily admit. Once we arrived at the venue, I’d watch proudly from a reserved corner table, drinking Cold Duck and eating calamari as he wowed the crowds over and over again. Never had I been so enraptured.

Of course, it couldn’t last. Buddy was too much of a man for one woman. I mean this literally and figuratively.

One night, I entered the bedroom of his mansion, and I knew something was different. He looked the same, a rotund, dwarf-sized, hirsute Cary Grant in his silk robe and slippers, sexily draped across the zebra skin bedspread like a Playgirl centerfold, but my intuition told me that something was amiss. And then I saw it. On the nightstand, beside the Tiffany bed lamp was a nail file. A nail file that wasn’t mine.

“Come to Papa,” Buddy said, in that sexy, distinctive voice. Of course, when he said it, it sounded sort of like, “Come to Phlawpa,” which usually aroused me even more. But this time was different.

I looked at him lying there, and I knew it was over. My face was burning with anger, and grief filled my heart.

“Who is she, Buddy?” I asked quietly, holding the nail file in front of him.

At first he denied it, and said that he’d bought the nail file for me, that the claw marks on his back had drawn so much blood that he’d become anemic. But he knew he couldn’t fool me. A woman knows these things.

“Yes, there’s someone else,” he finally confessed. “I’ve been seeing Madge.”

I was incredulous. “Madge?? On the Palmolive commercials?“

“One and the same,” he answered, a little too smugly.

I started crying. “What’s she got that I haven’t got?” I asked.

“A stiff, puffy hairdo and a ballsy persona,” he answered.

He then went on to describe in detail how skilled she was in the art of love. She was a tigress, that Madge. A skillful seductress who rendered powerless every man in her path. He described her heart-shaped bed, and her extra large bathtub. She ran him bubble baths and sponged his hairy back. He claimed that it was the most relaxing experience he’d ever had.

“Mild?” I asked.

“Oh, more than just mild,” he replied.

And with that, it was all over. I packed the furs, the jewels, a live Maine lobster and the stuffed animals that he’d given me, but I left my heart behind.

I licked my wounds by moving on to the next man. Dave Madden, the guy who played Reuben Kincaid, the manager on “The Partridge Family.” He’d been pursuing me for months, and we soon began a torrid affair.

Dave took me to dinner at The Four Seasons one night, and as we sat gazing at each other over our candlelit dinner, I noticed another couple sitting a short distance away. It was Buddy and that harlot, Madge. She was wearing her manicurist’s uniform, and her rock hard hair was a perfect little mushroom cloud. I thought that I was over it, but I must say seeing them in that intimate setting, she buffing Buddy’s fingernails as he drank his wine, just infuriated me.

I picked up my bowl of lobster bisque and made my way to their table. In a flash, I dumped my soup on Madge’s head. Great globs of lobstery goo poured down her starched white uniform.

“You’re soaking in it,” I said to the slut who stole my man. As the other patrons gasped, I gathered my dignity, along with my coat and purse, and walked out the door, Dave following close behind.

I never saw Buddy again. He’s up in that Great Comedy Club in the Sky now, but I’ll never forget him. Nine months after we split up, I secretly gave birth to his love child. I named her Buddina Hackettina McQueen (Tina for short), and she is the light of my life. She now works at the same deli where I met her father. Wearing the now-faded Lindy’s sandwich board, she endlessly walks the sidewalk as she chugs her beer, waiting for the love of her life to magically appear.

Her father would have been so proud.

Here’s a story about another one of my great love affairs, this one with Mr. Rogers.

 

<i>Originally published February 19, 2008.

by

The Tell-Tale Tongue

I’m writing while temping, which is my disclaimer for this one. Please keep your groaning to a minimum, or I’ll have to write  another one called “The Tell-Tale Reader. “

Laura Sotka

Artist: Laura Sotka

The tiny dog was taken to the vet for a neutering. His owner worried for his well-being, but in the end she reasoned, How bad could it be? He’s so small, and his reproductive organs are even smaller. It’ll be like removing ticks from an elephant– he’ll hardly notice.

She picked him up after the surgery, a pitiful, drugged out thing with a big plastic  cone around his neck and head. Her puppy appeared to have morphed into Baskin Robbins’ 32nd flavor, Chihuahua Chip or Puppy Praline. He slept all day and night, and by morning he was back to his peppy little self, only with that silly cone wrapped around his head. Every now and then, she’d put her own head inside the cone so that he could see her, and he’d lick her face as though she was the ice cream.

He had to wear the cone because he was what the vet called “a licker.” He licked everything– floors, faces, computer towers, hands, tires– anything in his tongue’s reach. At first she thought it was a strange behavior, the amount that he licked, but eventually she came to terms with that crazy tongue of his. She saw that it allowed him to express affection, taste new things (like autumn leaves and cat poop) and to check for potential dangers (tongue on a heat vent– not a good idea).  A licker was just part of who he was. He was also a tail wagger and a leaf pile jumper and an excitable ball of spotted fur. The only thing that he loved more than licking was humping– air, chairs, teddy bears. It was why she’d finally decided to get him fixed.

Now the deed had been done, and he’d taken to licking the inside of that cone. They’d told her that she could remove it after a week, but as soon as she did, the pup began licking his favorite thing– himself. He licked and licked, until he’d re-opened his surgery wound. Panic-stricken, she hauled him back to the vet. They said he was okay, but that he needed to wear the cone for three more days, more for her own peace of mind than for the dog’s health.

She took him home and waited. As for the puppy, he seemed frustrated and confused by the entire ordeal. A little depressed maybe, though he never lost his enthusiasm for licking. At night, she could hear the rough sound of his tongue against the inside of that plastic cone. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Soon it would be over, she thought. She looked at him, so adorable and wide-eyed, and she hoped that he harbored no hard feelings about her having his balls cut off. “Just a few more days, and we’ll take that cone off, sweetie.” She kissed his fuzzy little head and turned off the light.

After three days, she removed the cone again, but he immediately licked his wound opened again. She taped it up and put the cone back on. Lick. Lick. Lick. Scrape, scrape, scrape. At this rate, she thought, he’ll lick a hole right through that plastic.

The routine continued this way for several weeks. She’d take the cone off, watch to make sure he was okay, then realize that every time he got a moment alone with himself, he’d reopen his war wound and she’d have to put the cone collar back on him. He wore it so long that she was afraid his ears or his face would fuse to the plastic, or that he’d be so used to having no peripheral vision that he’d become neurotic and spastic.  She spent a lot of quality time with him. She hugged him, talked to him, assured him that it was all okay. Surely at some point, he would heal and the cone could be removed.

It seemed to take forever though, and she couldn’t get the horrible image of that open wound out of her head. It was big and gaping and bloody looking, and each time the memory of it popped into her head, she shuddered and felt remorse for what she had done to her little dog.

Lick. Scrape. Lick.

She had recently noticed a strange look in his eyes. Was it blame? Mistrust? Hatred? Every day, as she sat at her desk, he followed her with his gaze. Every night, he’d be under the covers next to her, licking that cone.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

She stared at the ceiling, wondering when he’d stop.

Scrape. Scrape.

It seemed to get louder and more urgent with each passing minute.  She tried to distract him by speaking gently to him about the weather, but he kept licking. That sound! Once, she put her hand into the cone and petted his plum-sized head, then moved it between his tongue and the plastic. The tiny dog snarled and snapped with a ferocity she’d never seen. Horrified, she quickly jerked her hand away, and he returned to his slobbery obsession.

Lick. Lick. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

She covered her ears with her hands and tried to sleep, and she must have eventually drifted off, because she had a nightmare about a satanic looking doctor who was trying to remove her ovaries against her will. He was laughing and coming at her with a large pair of pruning shears. Another doctor kept trying to knock her out by smothering her with a pillow. As she lay between consciousness and unconsciousness, she could hear the doctor removing her reproductive organs, and cackling in a mad scientist way.

“She won’t be humping chairs anymore!” he shouted.  The other doctor had removed the pillow for a moment, and she could see the surgeon holding her bloody ovaries victoriously up in the air. The pillow was pushed back over her face, and to her horror, she could hear them scraping her insides, the sound of sandpaper against tissue, a final cleaning before they sewed her back up.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

She would have screamed, but the pillow was suffocating her. She awoke to find her dog standing over her, staring down upon her, a small throw pillow by his side. It confused and terrified her to see him there, his normally docile posture now somehow menacing. As he stood there staring, five pounds of teeth and fur, she could see his pink tongue through the opaque plastic as he licked it.

“Please, Theo, stop.” She begged. “Please stop licking.” He gave her a look of faux innocence and kept on, his eyes fixed on her as he continued t0 steadily lick.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“I had to do it– it was for your own good.”

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

There was a loud banging on the door. A neighbor had heard loud noises from the apartment and called 9-1-1. Two policemen were standing on the doorstep, apologizing for disturbing her at such an hour. Laughing nervously,  she assured them that everything was fine, everything was just peachy.

“Are you sure ma’am?” asked one of the officers, a baby-faced red-head with freckles across his cheeks and nose. “You look a little pale.”

“No, I’m just fine. I think the neighbor must have heard my dog– he sometimes yaps a lot…”

“Well, looky there,” the other officer, smiled. Theo had entered the room and was standing beside her, tiny and white and adorably spotted with brown, his hideous eyes visible over the top of the plastic cone.

The officers chuckled at the sight of him, and as her heart pounded in her chest, she answered their endless questions about his age, his size, his breed. One of the men picked him up, and she saw the dog cut his eyes in her direction as they petted him.

Her heart was beating loudly in her ears now. She knew his game. The officers would soon leave, and she’d be alone with this monster, this menace, this terrifying creature who’d once been her innocent little pet.

“Wow, he really likes to lick, doesn’t he?” remarked Baby Face. He put the dog down, and Theo looked up at them with that sweetly angelic, deceptive little mug. The face of a killer, she thought.

She was sweating through her flannel nightgown, though the temperature  outside was freezing.

“Well ma’am, sorry to disturb you this late…”

Whew. They haven’t suspected a thing. She was giddy with relief, and actually relaxed a little.

“No problem at all gentlemen,” she said. “I hope you have a very nice evening.”

Theo wagged his tail, and Baby Face bent down to rub his head. She saw the dog’s tongue snake out of his mouth and onto the plastic cone. It was a veiled threat, a reminder that soon they’d be alone again.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“”Night doggie,” the officer chuckled.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

She felt faint. Her heart raced, her brain screamed inside her skull.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

And then she knew. They had suspected her all along. This was not an innocent visit, this was a conspiracy. When had Theo found time to contact them? How had he dialed the phone? What had she done that was so wrong? Neutering a puppy was a routine procedure, or so the vet had said.

Apparently, Theo disagreed.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

The officers turned to leave, and although they smiled and chatted pleasantly, she knew they knew they were aware of her hideous deed. They said their goodbyes and left, then she closed the door and faced her tormentor. His eyes were filled with hatred and unspeakable plans for revenge.

“Please, Theo, please. I….”

Outside, the police heard her screaming, and ran back in without bothering to knock. She was huddled in a corner, shrieking and shivering. The tiny little taco dog stood and looked at her with what some would say was confusion, but what she knew to be pure, undiluted evil.

“Make it stop!” she screamed, as they carried her away. “I admit the deed! Here, here! Take off the cone! Stop the torture, the scraping of his hideous tongue!”