This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Ancient Colors” Down in the Dirt, v148 (the August 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book Random Thoughts the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

No Juice

Joseph Farley

    1-888-NO-JUICE. The ad ended with the actor looking in the general vicinity of the camera, awkwardly, completely void of stage presence. Jack didn’t see why they needed any damn commercial, it made it seem cheap, a sale of some kind. Nobody really wants vital shit done at a discount: People need juice (electricity), preferably, word of mouth. Why couldn’t he at least hire a bit actor or somebody with a belly of unwatchable student films on his IMDB page? His dad would do it all himself, and worse he’d given himself a moniker: Generator Dale. Generator Dale’s superhero powers were limited to criticizing his employees and being late with raises.
    “Well, what do you think? Sweet?” Generator Dale said.
    “Cheesy,” Jack said.
    “You’re not seeing the big picture, as usual. Full service contracting. We sell it to them, then repair it when need be. It’s a cash cow.”
    “Shady.”
    “You’d be pumping gas if it weren’t for me, you’re that thick, you know that?”
    “Right,” Jack said. They both sat in uncomfortable folding chairs, the wheeled in TV gone static grey, Generator Dale’s 2-minute debut over. “I don’t think we need it, is all. Can I go work now?”
    “Go, go,” Generator Dale said. “This is our future, but what the hell do you care with the way you swing that dick around town? Find a good woman and your future might start occurring to you, and I’m talking overnight.”
    “Sure,” Jack said. “Listen, I need to help Mike with the box truck, he’s having a lot of trouble.”
    “He told me. He’s not long for here: believe me. Go.

    Mike had the open-back box truck up on the hydraulic lift with the generator still in the bed. Jack could see why his dad was on the verge of getting rid of him: Mike was a world-class bungler. Mike hit the switch and it slipped. “Mike,” Jack said, “Wait!” The arm swung, knocking the restrictor plate free, and a piece of metal shot out with incredible velocity, like an EFP, lodging itself into and through Jack’s skull. His brain popped open with all the resistance of an eggshell being stepped on by a steel-toed boot.

*

    The splintering of his 25 years in an instant left him without light or revelation. The things he saw, or didn’t see, likely wouldn’t change his life if he got another hour or day or 20 years, but maybe they would, that’s why it’s a tragedy, or if nobody likes the deceased, an unfortunate accident–tomorrow rarely knows. As the piece of metal turned out his lights and severed his brainstem, the slideshow wasn’t one he’d expect to sit through: He didn’t see himself running for 156 yards and two scores in the county semi-final to go along with 16 tackles and a pivotal sack on the penultimate play of the game–bright side, he didn’t see his team get smoked by 30 in the final. He didn’t see the girl who didn’t want to marry him, who he first kissed in a stale garage a dozen Keystone’s in a decade earlier, and he didn’t see her making a fool of herself at some overcrowded bar down the shore with his cousin last summer, and he didn’t see himself sucker punching said cousin during an argument he’d claim was over Eli Manning’s value relative to the rest of the NFL at this past Thanksgiving, either. He didn’t see his friends’ bachelor party in Atlantic City where this stripper at Crazy Horse Cabaret literally quit on stage. Before she de-clothed: “Milo, fuck this. No, really, I’m out.” It wasn’t part of the show. She left and (hopefully) never went back. Nor did he see his one semester at college, where, from the very first seven-on-seven practice, he was moving in slow motion. He didn’t see the look of satisfaction on his dad’s face (there’s no point in playing if you’re not on TV) when he said he was done with football and was ready to work. He didn’t see the myriad of ways in which he kicked and screamed but still ended up where everyone he knew figured he would: working outside and waking up early. All his hopes and dreams and insecurities coagulated in a dark pool that slicked the garage floor, mating with motor oil and mixing with the salt and soot.

    This, he did see: the street he grew up on, shooting hoops with the neighborhood kids, waiting for his dad’s turd brown work truck to round the block. Everyone knew if Dale had a few he’d want to play Error, a game he invented. It’s like Pepper but dangerous and has a scoring system. Dale would rocket the ball at the kids and if they caught it clean they’d get a point, if they bobbled or botched–error–he’d get a point. He always hit the ball harder if he had a few. Jack waits with the usual, but today, the new kid, Josh, his Korean neighbor, joins them. He’s speaks little English, or possibly he’s quiet. Dale steps in front of the pitch-catch-throw and picks up the bat: “What do you queers got?” Jack usually pitches because the mound is close and he’s the best athlete. “You throw,” Dale says. Josh doesn’t have a glove; Dale tosses him his smelly mitt. Josh steps up and sails the first pitch 10 feet to Dale’s left. “Don’t be afraid to buzz me,” Dale says. Dale hits a rope that connects with the squarest part of Josh’s face. There’s blood around his eye, but he pats his glove, wants the ball back, says, “Score?”
    “Well” Dale says, “Technically, not an error, so...scoreless.”
    “Again.” Josh sets to throw, “again.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...