Three Stories

Fiction by Jim Meirose, Fall 2012

I am in charge of things. The student went into the red brick dormitory. I walked into the restaurant, though I wasn’t hungry. Ah, to be in charge! It’s a good place to be; You yell, they jump. I meant to rob the place. It’s a two-bit war. I held my browning in my pocket. I am a bold leader. I went up to the Maitre-de. There is an object I need; likelyhood deadhead familytale.

Two leashed freshlywashed pups met on the sidewalk. The owners exclaimed loudly to each other Hello! Hello! One owner was bearded; the other a slip of a woman.

He took the dormitory elevator up to floor four.

I said where do you keep your money?

My adversary holds it.

You will need to speak to the owner, said the Maitre-de. I have nothing to do with money.

What is it?

The dormitory elevator was scarred with graffiti.

I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, said the bearded dog owner—where’d you get the little one?

I get paid little enough as it is.

It doesn’t matter.

Okay then bring me the fatty owner.

It is such a cuddly, cozy little thing. The Maitre-de shuffled away in search of the owner. Just what the doctor ordered. I stood there like just another customer waiting for a meal. I and my followers must overpower the adversary and get this thing. The owner came from the back room in a fresh shave. I have had this adversary since the days of steam; alligator deathroll.

And the creaking, groaning dormitory elevator was very slow.

From the shelter, answered the female dogowner.

What can I do for you?

Mud slimes the back of my adversary’s chair. I spoke pointedly to the owner.

He has been sitting by the side of the road being splashed by passing cars.

I want money, I said, producing my Browning.

Black is his thick hair.

The doors to the elevator shuddered open.

Good for you, adopting an older dog—

We don’t have much money here—

His hair is combed back tight as though pulled back into a bun as a woman would do, but there is no bun.

Well you better scare some up, I said. Or it won’t go well for you.

Thick is his quasi-roman accent. He affects it as part of his persona.

I—I will get you some money.

Slime muddies the back of my adversary’s chair.

He came off the elevator and sought his girlfriend’s room.

He’s not really as old as he looks, she said, as the dog pulled tightly on the leash.

Just put the gun away.

Passing cars have splashed the mud puddle over the chair upon which he sits by the edge of the road wearing black goggles on the Skyway. Torrid.

How old? asked the other dogowner.

The Browning you mean—

He entered the dormitory room without knocking.

Yes. The Browning.

Joel Normalschool hustled away. Meanwhile, silt lies flat on the bottom. The Maitre-de remained with me. The bottomfeeders suck their way along the silt. I thought the owner would get the money. They will help me gain my goal. He’d be afraid I’d shoot the Maitre-de if he did not. I am a bold leader. He came back bearing a small satchel. There is an object I need; pansykake fruitytone.

Seven. How old’s yours—and what breed?

Hi Zoe, he said. It’s been a while, she said. She wore a gleaming white loose shirt.

This is all we have in the safe, said the owner.

My adversary holds it.

I took the bag and looked in.

What is it?

They embraced, they kissed. He rubbed his hand up and down her back.

There’s barely anything here, I said. Once more my hand went for my Browning.

It doesn’t matter, said the owner. It is a jagged, spiky thing—uncomfortable to hold, but worth it.

Maybe so, I said.

Part Pomeranian, said the bearded man. She’s three.

The other way to get the money would be to slide a big shell home and close the breech and fire. But this is no two-bit war. Not many people know this; not many; but slip is used to make toilets. It’s called slip because that’s what happens if you step in a puddle of it. Slick is the deck. Whooooaaahh! I have fallen and I can’t get up. Slip.

Shelter dog too?

King Canute could not hold back the sea.

I haven’t got anything for you to eat or drink here, said Zoe.

We stood there, me clutching the bag.

So—are you sure this is all the money you have?

Yes, said the restaurant owner—and here—

Roaring comes from the lion.

The restaurant owner took two twenties and two ones out of his wallet and handed them over.

The lion’s teeth are long but dull.

Signor Maffei.

Yes—I guess we are both to be commended, said the bearded dogowner.

Oh, that’s all right, said Danny to Zoe.

The Maitre-de took a ten from his pocket and handed it to me.

House the lions in the shed until feeding time. I said thank you—now don’t call the police for fifteen minutes—or I will have to come back and get you. Then let them out into the pen. Grey is the mouse’s belly. The owner and Maitre-de nodded goodbye. The mouse slithers along the shed doorway. I left the restaurant and made my way down the crooked street.

Why don’t we go across to McDonald’s? Take a break from the studying.

Looks that way, said the female dogowner. More people should get their pets from shelters.

I am a bold leader. I needed to go somewhere quiet and secure to count my money. There is an object I need. I entered an alley full of medium-sized rusted out green dumpsters. My adversary holds it. I sat down out of sight behind one and opened the bag. What is it? There was the twenties and ones and ten from the owner and Maitre-de. It doesn’t matter. Outside of that, there was another hundred and fifty dollars. It is a small, leafy, fast-growing vine. My score had been small. The terror of the allergic. I rose and lifted the lid of the dumpster and dropped in the bag. It hit the steel bottom with a hollow sound.

Chump change.

Chump change.

Thereby, having not held back the sea, he proved to his followers that the king was not God, which was his intent.

No, said Zoe, pulling her loose shirt around her. I have a test tomorrow. I haven’t studied.

I agree—well it was really nice running into you,said the bearded dogowner.

Small things quickly become big things. Once more, robbery had paid me nothing. And big things become bigger things. I decided to go to the Church to find a priest to confess to, as I always did after a robbery. Hollering will help; holler. I went out the alley and up a few blocks hollering past some empty grimy storefronts. Loudly. That was all there were on either side. As Lance Loud. The dark blue cop on the beat eyed me so I shut up. At last I reached the church. Slam shut the iron and steel hatch. I went in and there was a confessional but no priest. Trap the men in the rising water. God damn it.

The dogs smelled and licked each other’s anuses.

Well let me at least go round and get you something, said blackclad Danny.

I am a bold leader. I went outside and around to the brick trimmed rectory. There is an object I need. I knocked on the tall oaken door. My adversary holds it. An old woman in a faded housedress stood there. What is it?

Yes? she questioned.

It doesn’t matter.

No. That’s okay, said Zoe.

No, Zeke, said the dog owner to the anus licker. Musn’t do that.

I must see the priest, I said.

That it holds water is the thing; that it will be useful to us.

And what is your business?

Then pull loose the strands of the mop.

I need to have my confession heard.

Feed them to the big cats.

Go in the church to the confessional box and I will send Father, said the woman.

You look like you’d rather be alone, said Danny.

Meanwhile, plugs form in the pipes, preventing water from flowing. The door closed. This may be prevented by means of a filter. I went to the confessional box. I am a bold leader. I waited in the cool woody odor of the old church. There is an object I need. I went in the confessional when I heard the priest’s footsteps. My adversary holds it.

The dogs were pulled apart by the leashes.

I knelt waiting. What is it? The priest entered the confessional. It doesn’t matter. I saw his shape behind the screen. It is a rolled up rough ball of fluff—just what you’d bring home to Mother. Bless me father I have sinned. Radio the engineers; the engine is failing. I don’t know how long it’s been since my last confession. We will fall behind in the race, the winning of which is everything.

No, said Zoe. I like you sitting here with me. If you don’t mind me studying—

I have robbed a restaurant at gunpoint. I am a bold leader. What is my penance Father? There is an object I need. My adversary holds it. How will I at once be clean? What is it?

A rosary, said the priest. Say a rosary.

It doesn’t matter.

It was good to see you.

I don’t have a rosary.

Volare played in the kitchen as I rode my bike.

We sell them in the vestibule.

No I don’t mind at all.

My Mother was baking.

I threw my money away, Father. I have no money to buy a rosary.

The window was open, screenless.

You will have to get the money to get a rosary them.

Yes. Nice running into you too.

It was summer. I rode the graveldriveway on my trainingwheeled babybike, to Volare.

Outside, I fingered the trigger of my browning and eyed the restaurant across the street. 

I am in charge of things. I walked into the restaurant, though I wasn’t hungry.

I’ll just sit here, then, until you are done studying. Then we will have the rest of the evening to ourselves. Maybe a movie—

Oh that would be nice, said Zoe, loose shirt flowing.

Ah, to be in charge! It’s a good place to be; You yell, they jump.

Jim Meirose's short work has appeared in numerous literary magazines and journals, including The Fiddlehead, Alaska Quarterly Review, Witness, South Carolina review, and the Cortland review.  Two of his chapbooks have been published and his novel, "Claire", is available on Amazon.