Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
The artist formerly known as Kenney: a contest
After School Special, by Kenney Mencher
Click to see larger image
My friend Kenney Mencher, formerly known as Kenney Mencher, has a big show opening on January 12 at 826 Valencia in San Francisco. I have my fingers crossed that some of you Bay Area folks might make it to the show. I’d love to go, but I have fresh tonsils bouncing around (I like to stay in town for at least 10 days following a tonsillectomy, in case there’s delayed post-op bleeding).
Here’s the contest. Kenney’s paintings are all about narrative; in that sense, he has a writer’s heart. Guess that’s why I like him and his work so much. Anyway, take a look at Big Red and, in the comments below, tell me the story behind the painting. Note that there are no right or wrong answers, but whoever’s story tickles me the most will win my copy of Why Do Men Fall Asleep After Sex? Maybe I’ll even autograph it (because even though I didn’t write it, I should have written it).
I’ll let the contest run for the next couple of days. I’ll announce a winner on Sunday, how’s that?
Warning: Kenney has been known to take work inspired by these crackpot contests of mine and put them on his website (see this poetry page). If you object to that, or if you prefer to remain anonymous, let us know in the comments.
D.
ooo i want that book. but i am too lazy to write a story. o well.
You asked for it! 😉
—
It’s a dreary day in the big city or DeadEnd, USA, and Cecil’s tired of his wife’s shit.
Mostly he’s tired of her nightly headaches and refusal to do her damned duty like she promised when they got drunk in Vegas and she dragged his puking ass to the Elvis Shrine of Marital Bliss. Love, honor, blowjob, obey. She gave an effing vow, damn it.
But, hey, now that you mention it, the bitching and nagging ain’t exactly a turn on. And the lazy skank can’t make decent toast, let alone an effing meal. Won’t blow his horn, can’t fry chicken. What effing good is she?
Anyhoo, the wife’s on the rag – like when ain’t she? – and ol’ Cecil’s nursing a cold cuppa joe and checking tomorrow’s pony parade. Jiggles in the third looks good, maybe Fornicate in the fourth. Ohhh, Hard-On in the sixth. He’s a damn fine stud. Good bets, all three. Too bad Cecil’s barely got bus fare for the week.
Sighing at his rotten luck, Cecil chokes back another swig of stale coffee – the lush he married drank all his whiskey and passed out on the stairs just yesterday, effing bitch – and an ad catches his eager eye: Bambi-Tiffany BigJuggs is having a Grand Opening. DoubleD Massage Special, only $24.95. Cecil’s just about to play a little pocket pool thinking about Bambi-Tiffany’s Double D’s when the skank starts nagging like a louse-ridden fishwife again. Can’t a man read a bit of quality advertising without her banging her damned spoon on the damned pan right behind his damned head. Jesus effing Christ, woman, take some Pamprin! He’ll take out the garbage when he’s good and ready! Now get your saggy ass back into the kitchen and use that pan like your mama taught you! There’s Boy-R-Dee ravioli in the cupboard!
She fingers him and stumbles off. Calls him things oozing crack whores won’t say.
Da-yam, she’s a bitch. Stuffs her bra with snotty hankies too. Cecil’s seen them.
The snotty hankies. Nothing else. Ever. In fifteen years of marriage. On his birthday and Christmas – Baby, Mama’s ready! Come take me now and get this shit over with! – she leaves the effing lights off. Seriously. And wears a flannel nightgown. And granny panties.
He thinks. They’re too crusty to touch unless he’s good and plastered. Since it’s only twice a year, he can plan for it and stock up on tequila. Then it ain’t so bad.
Anyhoo, Cecil plays loving husband ‘til Jezebel finishes her 12-pack of Coors Light and passes out watching Leno. Snores like a clogged sump pump and just as sexy. Like he does most nights, Cecil drapes a dishtowel over her face to muffle the racket and sneaks to the kitchen. This time, he ain’t making a bologna sammich to cut his charred ravioli heartburn. Nope, he’s raiding her purse for eighty three lousy cents. He’s got a twenty, three ones, and a buck twelve in change left from his allowance. Counted it twice, even. There’s just enough for bus fare till payday and a paper on Wednesday – plus seven cents for a couple of chicklets from the penny-gum machine, if he’s a good boy- but Bambi-Tiffany’s DoubleD Special sounds worth walking to work for. Even though it’s cross town.
Cecil counts his booty again – Ha! Booty! Ain’t that a clever co-inky-dink? – and it’s all there. Twenty-four-ninety-five. DoubleD Special, here he comes.
Or maybe that’s cums. Snigger.
Hat low down on his head and a woody high up, well, where woodies do that sorta thing, Cecil sneaks across Mistress Avenue and charges through the alley to the address at 69th and Broad. Once that door’s open, he just slips right in. Then loses his wad.
Bambi-Tiffany’s definitely got them DoubleD’s. Got ‘em in spades. Well, badges. Bambi’s an itty bitty blonde and Tiffany’s a 300lb black dude with tribal tattoos and one gold tooth. He’s even grinnin’ so wide he’s showing the damned thing off in his Official Police ID photo. Anyhoo, Bam and Tiff are a pair of detectives and they drag Cecil’s sorry ass downtown. Then they give him The Cellmate Special while he waits for his free mouthpiece to show up.
Faced with the promise of a Grand Prize spending a luxurious days and nights vacationing in a private suite with a mountain named Cletus who makes Cecil clean his pipe like a good bitch, Cecil pleads out. He uses his one phone call to wake his buddy Walnut, the only dude he knows with cash. Picking boogers outta runny noses is one damn lucrative gig.
Anyhoo, after Walnut finally shows up to post bail – so much for watching the game next weekend, Cecil’s dragging some damn Steinway up to a third floor flat to repay Walnut’s generosity; how Cecil’s gonna do that with a sore ass, he doesn’t know – Cecil sneaks home just in time to get ready for work. Then walk to it. With a sore ass.
Only the ice bitch is waiting.
She clocks him across the face with a rolling pin just as he’s clearing his throat for the forty seventh time. Cletus had some nasty… well, you know. Snotty blood and teeth chips don’t help the taste, and it sucks walking to work with a sore ass and a busted nose, but maybe there’s some promising ponies in the paper. Cecil’s gotta have good luck sometime.
Right?
That’s one tough act to follow, Tam. I loved it.
Here’s the painting, so that folks can have it accessible to them while they read.
I love his paintings
Ok. This is my story submission. I hate doing these things, but there you go. I like the paintings.
Dearest Mom,
Hi! I just wanted to send a small note to say Ray and I are doing fine. We’re finally getting on our feet out here in New York. I know you were worried about what the big city would do to us, but we’re just fine. Times are tough, I won’t lie. Money is short but it’s the same all over. We’re doing better than others and it’s all down to Ray being so keen to keep us happy.
I’ll admit it was scary for a while there, we were living on porridge and it seemed every penny we scraped together was taken away again by rent and bills. I never knew there would be so many bills, but Ray insists on paying everything, and debt is out of the question. He’ll not even consider borrowing money from the bank. He’s a man who wants to make it off his own sweat, and I respect and love him for it. I’m happy to live meagerly so long as we have each other.
Ray works so hard. He has his day job serving warrants, which is dangerous sometimes but he doesn’t mind. And then at night he works security on the docks. They get all kinds of strange things coming into port, especially men’s cologne. It seems a few nights a week they have shipments in, and Ray says they always have a few breakages. So he smells different sometimes. Kind of exciting really. There’s trouble occasionally and a few times Ray came home with bruises and found it hard to sit down, because he fell on his tailbone he said, so I let him sit on my pillow while eating his meals.
I’ve been thinking I should get out and do some work too. There’s not much of a house to keep and I’m not going to make friends cooped up inside. I want to do my part too to contribute to our nest egg. I do worry Ray does too much. The poor darling came home just the other day early from work, I was frightened at first because I wasn’t expecting him home until six in the morning, and it was only two, so I hid on the other side of the door with my rolling pin in my hand ready to crack the intruder over the head. Oh yes, Momma, your little girl is getting tough! I was relieved to see it was just Ray, he’d come home early because he wasn’t feeling well. He was completely exhausted. All he could say was “Fleet Week. Damned Fleet Week.†and then he slept for nearly two days.
I hope you and Dad will come and see us this year, I’d love to show you around. I bet Ray would enjoy showing Daddy around the docks, but Ray says it’s not a nice place for women, so we’ll just have to go shopping instead! I know you think I made a poor choice in Ray, but Momma, he really is doing his very best.
All my love,
Maggie
I hate finding post posted typos. I mean – ugh!
Not that much in the way of typos, but I fixed what I could find.
So you see a loving couple in that painting, eh? I never knew you were a diehard romantic 😉 Thanks for playing.
Hi Guys,
Wow! These are great! I’m going to put them up on my site and also print them and put them on the walls of the gallery when I hang the paintings for my that opens on Jan 12th.
Thanks so much!
Kenney
I like this artist; I’d never seen his work before. He must have some kick ass dreams.
Harvest Time
The amazing clouds gathered over the city and Nina, secretly drawing aside the protective storm curtains, saw them coming. She wanted some. Now. But mostly she wanted the big idiot to stop with the pathetic stuff. She wouldn’t ask, she’d just tell him. She’d gotten away with ordering him around for the last couple of months. Pregnancy gave her power.
“I need clouds.”
He shook his head.
She went on as if she hadn’t noticed. “Your coffee cup isn’t going to be big enough. Take this pot and the spoon and go on out there, Egon, honey. I mean it. I want to make floating clouds.”
“Yeah, yeah, get them yourself you want them so bad.” Egon, her husband, pretended to read the paper, even though they both knew he was essentially illiterate and had been ever since the attempt to gather sleet off-season. The stupid bravado that had basically ruined both of their lives.
He muttered, “Anyway, the stuff is called floating island. Nothing about clouds.”
He turned the page of the paper and shifted on his chair away from her, but she heard the rustle of the paper and knew his hands trembled.
He’d been trapped long enough. Nina wanted him out of the apartment. The only way he was gonna get past this weather fear was to face the clouds. Christ, he even wore the damned protective hat inside.
As she took away the coffee cup, she tried to figure out what would work best. Begging? Yelling? Bribing with sex? No, he’d lost interest soon after the sleet incident.
“Listen.” She experimented with a desperate whine. “I’ve got a craving. I want floating clouds bad. You just take a couple of bucks from my purse and get your hiney out. You don’t want Egon Jr to end up brain damaged because I didn’t get enough of the right sorts of vitamins.” She tossed her handbag on the table.
He didn’t look at her but he pulled her bag toward him. As the sun set, the clouds sank closer to the ground. Less dangerous, he hoped.
He lasted five minutes outside before the blinding whispering clouds enveloped him. Cold hard mist oozed into him. He did it, though. He threw the money into the air and filled his trouser and coat pockets full of the crappy clouds.
Then he forced himself to walk–no, stroll– with dignity, back to the apartment. The fear breathed through him with each puff of cloud and he fought the urge to break into a run. Seeing the screaming kid pushing a barrel full of scraps sure as hell didn’t help.
Slowly. He wasn’t going to let the weather win.
He didn’t collapse until he’d reached the storm curtained safety of home.
Nina waited for him, ready to grab the clouds and roll them out. She hoped she looked calm, but when he came in he glanced at her clenched hand and snickered. “Didn’t think I’d make it, did you.”
She didn’t speak.
He gave her a woozy grin. “Easiest bit of harvest ever.” He turned out his pockets and walked off to the bathroom.
Please, not the return of the bravado. She longed to point out that he was sweating and pale and his neat tie was a wreck. But this was better than the sniveling fear. And it was time to bake. Hey, he’d done it. Maybe next time he’d manage to face a drizzle. She’d love some glazed donuts.
hey—- speaking of post-op 10 day bleeding… what’s that about? My big girl at age 6 had tonsils removed and exactly day 10 began to bleed uncontrollably and had to rush to children’s and get blood transfusions and restitched. They mentioned scabs- but wow… it was gorey as hell and scary, too! She’s 10+ now and fine and dandy. But that was terrifying.
I was bigger than Peoria. Mamma knew it. I was only waiting for the right vehicle to take me outta that Godforsaken place and he walked into the diner late one rainy October night. His name was John Jacob Johnson Jr. He was selling encyclopedias even though it was obvious to me he never used them himself. He smelled like Brillcreme and ordered black coffee. He shook the water from his hat and placed it back on his head. He had an easy smile and comfortable way of talking. John spoke about Chicago. He said, “Got a big place. Lots of action.†He stayed until we were closing. Then he offered me a ride. I could see Walnut, our cook, in the back shaking his head, but what did he know?
The warmth of the diner was betrayed by the coldness of John’s car. I scooted next to him. “Heater’s broke,†he declared with a smile that made me not care. The windshield wipers clip clopped in time with the falling rain.
“Mamma, I’m home,†I yelled as I busted through our front door. “I got a gentleman friend with me.†It all went down bad after that. She accusing me of slutting around again. Me telling her she was a crazy old woman. Then there was the slap. The slap was what broke it. I looked at John. He looked like he’d seen worse. My clothes were in a heap on the front porch and we were gone.
Oh, he had a place in Chicago, all right, maybe big by his standards. We don’t even have a percolator to make John’s precious coffee. And that hat. What did I ever see in that hat? He never takes it off. It even smells like Brillcreme.
I got a job working a diner ‘round the corner from our pathetic 2 room cold water flat. John, in turn, quit his job and took up with the ponies or he says the ponies took up with him. He spends every last nickel of my tip money on those damn horses. I try to talk to him but he flashes that smile of his and says, “Big Red, you need to bridle your temper ‘cause it’s gonna make us miss out on the afternoon’s trifecta.†Then he’s out the door. He’s back with nothing. He sold our winter coats banking on the big win. All we got in return was the big wind banking off the South Shore.
Big Red, indeed, John Jacob Johnson, Jr. I got out of Peoria and I can get out of this.
Well, crap.
Just… crap. I went and wrote something without following the directions. I somehow got it into my head that we were writing about “After School Special”.
Well, now that the damn thing’s written, here it is:
—–
I knew she was trouble the moment she walked through the door.
Not the usual sort of trouble: she didn’t have that swing-hipped walk of a woman who knows her way around men. No, she was a different kind of trouble. The meek, quiet sort of trouble. Women who pull you in with the secrets they have. Still waters run deep. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.
I need your help,” she said. Even her voice was quiet. It went with her clothing: muted blue, an unobtrusive navy, the same shade you see on a thousand bankers. Plaid, but barely so, slim red and yellow on a navy background. Plaid, but without the courage. Plain navy-blue bag big enough to smuggle a couple of kilos of heroin in.
Mousy brown hair.
“There’s a private detective after me,” she said.
I looked across the room to the frosted glass panel in the door. “Swainson Dick, Private Detective. No case too small” it said, in gold letters an inch and half high. I know they were an inch and a half because I couldn’t afford the two inch ones.
“Sit down,” I said. She came in with a whisper of nylon-clad legs. She kept her knees tight together as she walked over to the settee across from my desk.
I pulled open bottom right hand drawer of my desk.
“Can I offer you a drink?” I said. I pulled out the bottle of Cutty Sark. I looked for the clean glass I kept for good clients, but it wasn’t there. Four with rings and finger smudges. Still, it was too late to back out of my offer.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” she said. I picked the least smudged and poured quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
She did. Quiet broads like her always notice. And they can’t hide a thing. Her eyes widened, but she took the glass. I watched her search the rim for a clear spot. I hoped I hadn’t given her the glass that Fingers Malone had used. News had reached me that he was consumptive.
“First, what’s your name?”
“I’m Kris. Kris Starr-Rellarey.”
“Starellary?”
“Starr. Rellarey. With a hyphen.”
I made the dash an emphatic motion on the paper. Goddam modern marriages.
“What’s he after you for?” I said. Divorce? No, she wasn’t the marrying type. Librarian, probably. Law clerk. Congressional intern. Then where did the fancy handle come from?
“I don’t know. He’s been following me for days.”
“Well, he must be following you for something. Guys like me don’t follow girls like you for no reason.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. I saw that she wasn’t as young as I’d taken her for at first.
“I don’t know!” she said.
Just then the door opened. A tall galoot in a raincoat and fedora entered. I could see why she thought he was a private eye. He was a walking cliche. He was even wearing a skinny tie that looked out of the 1960’s.
“Excuse me….” he said, then his eyes widened and he shut his yap. He was staring down the barrel of the Colt .45 I keep it handy for such occasions.
“Alright, who the hell are you, and what do you mean by barging in here like you’re invited?” The Colt wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t have to know that.
As I talked, I got to my feet and walked toward him. I motioned with the barrel. He looked at me like I’d just clubbed his pet seal.
“Come in, come in. All the way in,” I said impatiently. I kicked the door closed and patted him down. He was clean, but I kept the Colt in my hand all the same.
“Now, sit down there where I can keep an eye on you.” I pointed to the other side of the settee. “Sit beside Miss Mysteriously Hyphenated, there.”
They both looked at me with puzzled eyes.
“She’s got a hypenated name, but she’s not married. She’s a librarian or something. No ring. She’s mysteriously hyphenated,” I said slowly, as if I was talking to a pair of idiots.
“I am married. I’m a publicist. I don’t wear a ring because I don’t like jewelry,” she said. I saw something in her eyes. Doubt, perhaps, in the wisdom of her decision to walk into my office.
“No matter,” I said. “Is this the guy who was following you?”
Her doubts about my deductive abilities disappeared. “Yes!”
“Ok, pal, talk. Why are you following her?”
“I just want my bareback.” He looked at me earnestly, as if daring me to disagree.
“Bareback?” I said. A vision of the woman in front of me charging extra for unprotected intercourse flashed through my mind. It didn’t compute. This was a careful woman. If she was turning tricks, it was raincoats all the way.
“Yes. She has it.”
“Well… can’t you get it somewhere else? Somewhere more… conducive?” That was the Word of the Day in the Star-Telegraph: conducive.
They both looked at me with those damn puzzled eyes again.
“I mean, there must be better places to get it. Right? I mean… just look at her. She’s not the sort.”
He looked at her. “But she has it. It’s in her bag. I saw her put it there.”
I stood up. “Now look, pally, you’re starting to bug me. She put your bareback in her bag? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, she didn’t put it BACK in her bag, she put it IN her bag. Go on, show him. Show him the bear.”
She reached slowly into the bag and took out something brown and furry. It was, indeed, a teddy bear.
I slapped myself in the forehead. “Bear back. You want your bear back. Not bareback.”
And again they both looked at me like I was drunk. Which, truth to tell, I was, a little.
“Yes, bear back,” he said. “She bought it at a flea market, but it belongs to me. I had placed a deposit on it.”
I poured myself another drink. I held a glass out to him and raised my eyebrows. He looked at the greasy thumbprints and shook his head.
Mrs. Starr-Rellarey held her glass out. She’d finished the two fingers I’d poured her. There was a sexy glow to her cheeks.
“Right,” I said, taking a pull from my glass, “what do we do to solve this?”
“How about I give you your deposit?” said Mrs. Starr-Rellarey.
There was a short silence.
“Ok,” he said. “Twenty bucks.”
She took out a plain navy wallet and extracted a note. She passed it to him.
“Well,” he said, “that’s settled then.” He rose to leave.
“Hold on a second. Why the getup? And you, Mrs. Starr-Rellary, if all this was over a deposit and a teddy bear, why the hell didn’t you just meet with the guy?”
“Would you meet a man dressed like that who was following you around?”
Fedora looked miffed. “What do you mean, ‘getup’? This is fine vintage clothing! Now, may I go?” He looked pointedly at the big automatic in my hand.
“Yeah, yeah, go on. Get outta here,” I said. He got up and left without a backward glance.
Mrs. Starr-Rellarey and I looked at each other for a long moment.
“Bear back, bareback…” she said. She drank the last of her second whiskey. “Care to explain the difference to me?”
I did better than that. I showed her. And let me tell you, what I said in the beginning is true. Still waters run deep.
Further crap: the formatting that was in the little text box has disappeared. Oh, to hell with it! 🙂
I fixed it, no prob!
Hee hee hee! Good thing I came back to see if there were any other entries. I was thinking of writing something, myself, but I had the misfortune of feeling like crappe this weekend.
But I digress. I completely didn’t see that…er…coming. 😀
Dean, you’re adorable! Thanks for making my evening. 🙂
[…] You’re all winners By Walnut Seriously. If I had to choose one winner for our contest, I think I’d plotz. So you can ALL* do a little victory dance (not a work-safe link, btw) and when you’re done, email me your snail mail addie, and I’ll arrange for you to receive a copy of Why Do Men Fall Asleep After Sex? I’m at: azureus (at) harborside (dot) com […]
I love it Dean!
Great story! Made my day. Rey would have been just fine – and I would have got it! 🙂
Rella, Rella Rey.