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    Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1)
    Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1)
    Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1)
    Ebook106 pages1 hour

    Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1)

    By Robert Lamb

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    About this ebook

    Stories and poems from a lifetime of writing, with an afterword on their origins. Contains the award-winning "R.I.P." and the groundbreaking "Rebellion at Fugitive Flats."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Lamb
    Release dateNov 2, 2011
    ISBN9781465812629
    Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1)
    Author

    Robert Lamb

    Graduate of the University of Georgia; former editor/writer, The Atlanta Constitution; former adjunct professor, University of South Carolina, (writing and American literature), winner, Excellence in Teaching Award, Mortar Board Honor Society. Novels: -Striking Out (A PEN-Hemingway Award nominee) -Atlanta Blues ("One of the three best novels of the year by a Southern writer." ~Year-end Roundup of Novels) -A Majority of One (Voted "Most Likely To Get Its Author Hanged") -And Tell Tchaikovsky the News ("Good golly, Miss Molly, what a story!" ~Amazon reader) Short Stories and Poems -Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (contains "R.I.P.," winner, 2009 South Carolina Fiction Project; "Black Coffee," Storytelling Excellence Award, July 2008; and the groundbreaking "Rebellion at Fugitive Flats," a surreal excursion into creative writing.

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      Book preview

      Six of One, Half Dozen of Another (Stories & Poem + 1) - Robert Lamb

      Six of One,

      Half Dozen of Another

      (Stories & Poems + One)

      Robert Lamb

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2011 by Robert Lamb

      www.boblamb.wordpress.com

      Red Letter Press

      Charleston • Columbia • Atlanta

      http://sites.google.com/site/redletterpress

      ‘Good books make great companions.’

      For all my sons: David, Clay, Tyler, and Carson

      And especially for Margaret

      ‘Whether you think you can, or think you can’t, you’re right.’

      – Henry Ford

      "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

      than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

      – Hamlet, Shakespeare

      In Memorium

      John Thomas Lamb, 1915-1987

      Contents

      Black Coffee

      Sonnet: Blood Kin

      Our Man Sifford

      A Reconsideration

      R.I.P.

      On Repelling an Amorous Lady

      Ghosts

      Admonition

      Rebellion at Fugitive Flats

      Song for Margaret

      Flameout in Santa Monica

      Reflection

      Bonus Story TGIF

      Afterword

      Black Coffee

      tmp_e9fccf7800630ece1d2f8c4142173024_i1Q_g__html_1dbeb1b5.jpg

      The young waitress, bottle blonde, was back again, Made up your mind yet? She sounded impatient and indifferent at the same time.

      Just coffee, I told her. Black. No cream.

      I need something stronger, Jenny said. Do you serve wine?

      The waitress nodded, chewed gum, checked her nails. Red.

      Chardonnay, Jenny said. House is okay.

      The waitress, wordless, went away. Jenny studied the wall at my back, her solemn hazel eyes fixed on a pastel wallpaper. I studied Jenny studying the wall at my back. We were the only customers in the place.

      What? she said, meeting my eyes at last, defiant, distraught.

      Nothing.

      Well, it’s hard.

      I said I knew.

      No, you don’t. It’s not your mother.

      I said I knew whose mother it was.

      Jenny went back to staring at the wall.

      The waitress brought our drinks. She put the wine in front of me, the coffee – with cream – in front of Jenny, and left the bill on the edge of the table. The wine was a blush, not Chardonnay, but when I started to call the waitress back, Jenny stopped me. Never mind, she said.

      Swapping drinks, I nodded toward the waitress. Hope Miss Congeniality there doesn’t depend on tips for a living.

      Huh?

      Nothing, I said.

      Jenny sipped her wine. I don’t think I can do it, she said, a pink flush rising at her throat.

      Well, go back over there and tell them that. I nodded toward a big gray building across the street.

      I just can’t, she said, sipping again.

      Look, if you can’t, you can’t. They’ll understand. You won’t be the first who couldn’t do it.

      I don’t see how anybody could do it.

      I could do it. I could do it because it ought to be done. When a thing needs doing, it’s best to go on and do it.

      I’m not like you.

      Then don’t do it.

      I’d hate myself if I did it.

      Then don’t do it, for Christ’s sake. Go on over there and tell `em.

      I’ll finish my wine first. She sipped again. Maybe if I drink enough of this I can do it.

      "Do it and then drink, I said. Then you’ll have a reason to drink."

      I have a reason now. Will you order me another glass?

      I read somewhere that memory and judgment are the first things clouded by alcohol.

      Memory would be okay, she said.

      Suit yourself. I started to call for the waitress.

      Wait! Jenny said. You’re right. I need a clear head for this. She pushed the glass away. It was still nearly full. What time is it?

      Two-thirty. I signaled toward a big white-faced clock on a nearby wall. You couldn’t miss it.

      How long did he say he’d be there?

      Till three.

      She made a face. Will you tell him for me?

      Tell him what?

      You know, she said.

      No, I don’t know.

      She reached for my coffee. Mind?

      I pushed the cup and saucer toward her. The cream, too. I didn’t use the stuff.

      Stirring in the cream, she said, It’s for the best, don’t you think?

      What I think’s not important here, I said.

      She sipped the coffee, now a caramel-brown. I can’t do it. She’s my mother.

      I reached for her wine. All the more reason you should do it, I said. "Should want to do it."

      Was it this way with your mother?

      No.

      See.

      Proves nothing.

      She shrugged. You’re right. What time is it?

      I finished her wine while glancing at the clock. Two minutes later than when you asked before.

      Don’t be smart at a time like this.

      "Don’t be dumb at a time like this."

      She made a face again and heaved a sigh. Okay. You’re right. I’ll do it.

      She started to get up. I thought I saw tears. You sure?

      I’m sure. As sure as I’ll ever be. She got on up, smoothing wrinkles from her navy blue skirt as she rose.

      I stood up, too. I left enough money on the table to cover the bill and give the waitress a good tip.

      Sonnet: Blood Kin

      We don’t go in there anymore. That door

      is locked, the key misplaced, gone god-knows-where.

      He died, September ‘84, in there

      and none of us was equal to the chore

      of sorting through his things and getting rid

      of them, they seemed so much a part of him.

      We simply sealed the room. I still miss Jim.

      His wife? Oh, well, you know, they never did,

      uh, get along. She tried her level best,

      the bitch, to make him turn his back on us—

      his own, his kith and kin! I told Celeste,

      "You mark my word: he’ll put her on a bus

      back home one day." He did, then up and died.

      But come; you must be weary from your ride.

      Our Man Sifford

      Yeah, I remember how Clifford could go on and on, especially about the sanctity of marriage and the evil of fooling around. The newsroom provided him with plenty of targets, too. I even heard the lecture in private a time or two, and I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it – still it shouldn’t surprise anybody who knew Clifford that his words came back to haunt him.

      I never knew his first wife, but that second one, Velma! Clifford was the last to know that she was the original good time had by all, including several guys right there in the newsroom (no, not moi). But Clifford always was, well, a bit obtuse. I knew him in high school. He used to come by the house looking for me, and if I wasn’t home my mother would go to the door and tell him I was out – but he’d just stand there. No Well, tell him I came by or I’ll catch him another time or Well, see you later, Mrs. Blake. He’d just stand there, looking goofy, which came natural to him, you know: that long, gaunt face on that long gaunt body, and the foolish grin under an overhanging brow. Mother never would invite him in. She kept her front screen door latched anyhow, and, with Clifford at the door and me gone, it stayed latched. She was scared of him, said, He don’t act right. Now, you know my mother: She likes everybody. But she made an exception where Clifford was concerned, the only one I ever knew her to make.

      Me? I thought he was goofy, like I said, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I never saw or heard of him hurting anybody. Now that I think about it, I always figured him for the kind to break into tears if anybody so much as yelled boo at him.

      Granted, he could worry the tar out of you. And piss you off.

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