Short Stories
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Prologue
As the title indicates, this is a collection of poetry. There is no mention of their being any short stories in this collection. There is a poem in this collection called, “If You Were King.” It plays on the idea that a King can do damned fooled things and get away with it, because he is King. It is not fair, but fairness is not an issue when the King is in the conversation. I make no claim to being a King, but in putting this collection together there are times when the creative urge causes one to take advantage of being the person calling the plays.
This short story is about a guy who writes songs. Well, one can consider that songs are nothing more than poems set to music. Or one can rationalize, that songs are poems when the music is stripped away. This is a halfhearted rationalization to include this short story in this collection of poems. As we all know, all forms of the fine arts and performing arts are just various forms of storytelling. The demands of short stories are a pleasant release from the demands of longer forms of writing I have used, such as stage plays and screenplays and musicals.
The Day She Said She Loved Me Is the Day I Said Goodbye
Prologue
Ernie wrote songs in the Country genre most of his life, and had an ongoing conversation with himself and the people who were part of his life, about how much of his life and experience were in his songs. When asked, he tried to explain and just as often he wondered about how much of his life was in his songs.
Ernie sat in a large easy chair with his buddy Jamie, in Jamie’s backyard. The sun was setting and golden hues of dusk bronzed everything in the yard, particularly both their faces. They both nursed beers from bottles and were quiet for a long moment, as Jamie asked, “How long you been writing songs.?” Their friendship survived many years, with never a falling out, and they were comfortable being quiet together. Ernie did not answer for a few sips of beer and eventually responded, “I can hardly recall not writing songs. Songs were always there, and songwriting was as familiar and as normal as talking---or drinking beer. I just do it. Never imagined, it would be my living.” “I like the way you put a piece of yourself in your songs.”
“Jamie, I am what I am. I’m the sum total of where and when I was born, and my family, and where I lived and worked, and went to school, and the people I have known, like you, and the woman I have loved and liked and lost, and a lot of stuff.” There was a long pause and Jamie did not interrupt the pause for a few long slugs of beer. “What I write is from that reality and my imagination. Sometimes, where the reality ends and my imagination begins and ends is a mystery to me. I don’t draw any lines as to where my songs and my life begin and end.” The sun completely set and they sat quiet in the dark.
Ernie sat at the end of the bar with a beer he had ignored for too long and had now become warm and flat. He gathered up several loose pages he had filled with writing over the last hour or so, shuffled them together, and lay the pages on top of a notebook. His jeans, once dark blue, were perfectly faded and elegantly tattered, and may not survive another washing. His face was lined from living hard and thinking hard, and occasionally drinking hard. He took a sip of the beer, wanting to spit it out, but thought better, swallowed with a grimace, and pushed the glass aside. As he looked up, he caught the bartender’s eye, and with his index finger pointed to the glass, which initiated the bartender drawing another draft.
“No charge Ernie,” the bartender offered as he exchanged glasses. “If you don’t drink it, you don’t pay.” Ernie responded with a thanks. The first sip of the new draft was cold and pleasant, so he indulged in a second deeper sip. The bartender asked how the writing was coming, and Ernie responded, “Hard, real hard. But every song is a journey.”
“Ernie, where do all the ideas come from, because you seem to be getting better with age,” the bartender offered.
Ernie laughed and was thoughtful for a long moment: “I just let life happen around me, and keep writing down what I see and hear and what’s happening, and then try to put a little tune to it.”
“It can’t be that simple.” The bartender was distracted by activity down the other end of the bar. “Got to get going. There’s a guy at the end of the bar that had one too many and wants to tell everybody the story of his life.”
“Hey, there’s a story and a song right there.” Ernie laughed, “Send him down here.” The bartender headed down to the end of the long bar, waving Ernie off with, “You don’t want to talk to drunks.” Ernie thought out loud as he whispered sotto voce and played a synonym word game: “Drunk…plastered, three sheets to the wind, inebriated, bombed,” he hesitated, “sloshed, tanked, intoxicated, smashed” and he thoughtlessly simulated writing the words with his finger on the bar. Finally, “Plastered.”
The notebook lying on the bar was dog eared on the bottom of the pages from countless fingering. A ball point pen lay on top and Ernie picked it up, finger toed to a page, read a while and started writing; crossing out some of the old writing and eventually overflowing to the next page. The door to the bar opened and the bright sunlight form the midday sun haloed her body until the door closed behind her. Vera immersed into the soft light of the room to reveal a pretty and very precisely made-up face; shoved into a pair of very tight white jeans and a bright purple blouse with a partly turned up collar that framed a very lithe and sensual neck and attractive face. Vera approached Ernie and greeted him with a very toothy “Hi,” as she straddled the bar stool next to him. They exchanged a slow kiss and Ernie wiped away his tiredness by running his hands through his face and hair, and shaking his head like a bobbing doll.
“You look tired, darling. How long have you been working at the song?” she said with determined interest.
“Oh, I don’t know sweet face. I got here when they opened up…maybe three or four beers ago.” Vera signaled for a beer, which promptly was delivered, as Ernie, in some moment of revelation, vigorously wrote a number of lines with minimal hesitation.
“Ernie, do you think you’ll ever be able to write your songs at home or in a studio or on a park bench or somewhere other than this bar? And if not this bar, some other bar.” Ernie laughed as he looked at Vera, shaking his head and saying, “There is a creative process to writing and part of that creative process is beyond a person’s control.” He stretched his neck and shoulders to shake out the bar stool ache. “There is something about the smell and feel and energy in a bar that clears my head and detaches me from the world, so I can write.” Ernie stroked Vera’s face and sipped his beer. “I’m just a bar room songwriter, baby.
“And a damned good one.” Vera kissed him on the cheek, looked over his shoulder at the writing on the pad and asked him what the song was about. “Well,” as he took a deep tired breath, “out of all of this scribbling I have seven lines that may be good. It started out as a verse, but now I know that it’s going to be the chorus. It’s coming, baby, but slow.” Vera took her first sip of beer, put an arm on Ernie’s shoulder and asked him to read the lines. Ernie made one last quick change and said, “Here goes.” Though he spoke the lines, there was a musicality to his speech that revealed some of the melody.
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
Vera brightened her face and smiled, “That’s good. That’s really good.” She asked him to read it again and he did, this time half speaking and half singing the words. She reached over and took the page from his hand and slowly read the lines again, softly mouthing the words and finishing with a face full of enthusiasm, “Well that’s not exactly an upbeat little ditty, but its damned good.” Ernie explained that he wrote a lot of words and ideas to get those seven lines. “Is it just the words to a song, or are they something you feel?” Vera wondered.
“Well, if you mean, am I searching my soul and putting on paper a little piece of me.” He hesitated for a long while. “Well, I really don’t get into that stuff.” Ernie’s deep blue eyes searched the ceiling as if looking for enlightenment. “I guess if you can dig into your gut and your heart, and you discover feelings and write words that you think will make other people share those feelings, then you can say everything is autobiographical. But, that’s all bullshit.”
Vera picked up the notebook and read the lines slowly, and thoughtfully read some of the lines out loud: “Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind--To find--The dream in the corner of my mind.”
Vera smiled at Ernie, and he returned the smile. “Do you think your heart is too blind to find me as part of your dream?”
Ernie answered quickly, as he turned in his chair and moved his face very close to Vera’s. “We have something very good going sweet face, and we don’t have to get into the words of my songs to find some deep bullshit ideas about what you and I are all about. You’ve tried that before with other songs I wrote and it doesn’t work. It’s only a goddamned song,” he laughed. Vera did not react with a laugh.
“How many songs have you written in this bar?” she asked.
“I don’t know… but it could be two dozen. Or probably more.” and sipping his beer he added, “And drank a hell of lot of beer.”
“Do you realize it’s been eight months since we met here?” Vera replied. “Yes, Ernie in this bar. And I like being part of your life.”
“It’s been a good run, baby.”
“Is that what it is? A run?”
“It’s just an expression,” he said with just the slightest irritation. “Let’s not play word games.” He reached over and kissed her. “Remember I’m the guy with the words. Don’t get too deep about words, “Because that’s my job.”
Vera looked away and became pensive, then turned to look at Ernie thoughtfully, “You must know that sometimes I wonder where you and I are going. You know I have hopes.”
“Hope is a powerful force. Wars have been won, mountains have been climbed, and all because of hope. Let’s do what we always agreed to do. Let’s enjoy the moment. All the moments. Let’s enjoy the relationship.”
Vera sat quietly and sipped her beer. She stood and kissed Ernie on the cheek. “I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll come back later.”
“Yea, that would be good. I want to keep working on this.” Vera walked away and slipped into the sunlight through the door.
For the next hour and more, Ernie filled up several more pages of the notebook and softly sang the words to himself. He decided to take a walk for a while, leaving his papers in a tight bundle on the bar. His legs were stiff and he felt better as he stretched them with his long gait. After a brief walk around the block, and narrowly escaping getting hit by a car during a mindless street crossing, he returned to the bar. He was just in time to find a cold beer being placed by his note books, as he slid onto the stool. His head was clear and his thoughts refreshed and he took the notebook in hand. Seemingly inspired, he quickly filled several pages with words and after numerous rewrites and editing he neatly printed out eight lines on a new page.
She had a special glow about her
When she dressed in white
She’s the only one I ever showed
The poetry I’d write
She brought such laughter to my heart
But I just made her cry
‘Cause the day she said she loved me
Is the day I said goodbye
A number of versions of these lines had appeared on several pages of the notebook, and he had synthesized them into what he hoped was the final version of a complete verse. Several other verses with the same word and rhyming structure evolved from other versions of his writing. Ernie was emotionally and physically relieved, and took a large breath and bottomed the beer he was working on. He could not have completed these final lines more than a few minutes when, with perfect timing, Vera returned carrying a large bag. She approached and kissed Ernie on the cheek, saying, “I saw this shirt and I knew you had to have it. Ralph Lauren personally designed this shirt for you. I am certain of it.” Vera pulled the shirt out of the bag, a long-sleeved light purple checkered western style shirt.
“Don’t know how he finds time to cater to me and my wanton sartorial needs. Got to put old Ralphie on my Christmas list,” Ernie responded as he admired the shirt. “Thanks, baby.” Vera responded, “You’re worth it. And you’ll look so good in it.” She asked him to stand and with some hesitation he complied, as she held the shirt against his broad shoulders and he agreed with her assessment that the shirt was perfect. Vera pulled herself on the stool. “Did you finish the song?”
“I got the first verse done, really, not more than ten minutes ago. Had to take a walk and get away from it for a while, but when I got back it was there, just waiting for me to write it down.” Ernie clenched a fist with a power pull of the arm and smiling a robust “Yes!” as he pushed the notebook over to Vera. Vera picked up the notebook and read the verse.
Then she read aloud the last two lines, “Cause the day she said she loved me, is the day I said goodbye.” Ernie searched Vera’s face and asked, “Do you like it?” She said, “You mean the last two lines?” Ernie responded: “No. I mean the whole verse, the whole eight lines.” Ernie looked at Vera thoughtfully. “The verse tells a story,” he explained. “I mean in eight lines, there is an entire story.” Vera looked at him directly, “Yes, I know. It’s a story that has gone bad. It’s the story of you and me.” Ernie laughed heartily and at the same time shaking his head in a condescending way. “Don’t start thinking that way, baby. It’s a song. It’s just a goddamned song,” he said slightly raising his voice. “I don’t live my life in my songs. I live my life to write songs. There’s a hell of a difference.”
The bar was filling up and the murmur of voices and tinkle of glasses heightened a few decibels. It was approaching dinnertime and a few people had ordered food at the tables and some others ate at the bar. Ernie was aware of the food aroma and asked Vera if she wanted to eat something. Vera seemed distracted and responded with a no. She read the verse again, slowly, and her lips moving, but not audible. She turned and gave Ernie a deep stare, “I am the only one you ever showed your poetry to. You told me that?” She made it a question with the expression on her face. “Is that true?” Ernie responded, yes, by his failure to respond.
“Baby, the poetry I gave you is a lot of crap. I write the poetry as a warm up for my song lyrics. It’s my way of staying in creative shape. It’s my intellectual gymnastics” Ernie appeared slightly annoyed by Vera’s thought process. “I’m going to tell you again,” and he composed himself to be certain he did not appear defensive, “These are lyrics to a song, not the story of my life or the story of your life.”
“What would you do Ernie, if I told you that I loved you?”
“We agreed that we weren’t going to go there and why should we?”
“But you did go there. Look at what you wrote, “Cause the day she said she loved me, was the day I said goodbye.”
Ernie calmly turned Vera around in her stool to face him, their faces being a hand apart. Picking up the notebook he said, “Baby this is a goddamn note book. No, I want to change that. It is a fucking notebook with the lyrics to a song and,” pointing to her with his index finger and them to himself. “This is the real world, specifically you and me. I write songs to make people laugh, to cry, to think, to get pissed off and in general to feel something… to feel some goddamned emotions. And if I do it right, people pay me money, a hell of lot of money.”
Vera put her hands-on Ernie’s shoulders and with a half-smile said, “I love you.” She waited a long moment and repeated, “I really love you, Ernie.” Ernie’s shoulders slumped as he said, “You don’t have to do this.” She repeated and each time more slowly and softer, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” She stopped for a moment and finished with one more, “I love you.”
“Ernie I’d rather lose you than to love you and never be able to tell you that I love you.” Vera stood up and gently pushed the bag with the shirt closer to Ernie.
“It’s a beautiful song, Ernie. I’m just so sorry we had to live the lyrics. Or maybe you wrote the lyrics to reveal how it was all going to come out.”
Vera rubbed Ernie’s cheek tenderly with the back of her hand and a tear hung on her eye for a long moment, and then the tears surged, but in silence. Ernie did not look at Vera. She turned and parted through the door, silhouetted by the early evening shadows.
Epilogue
Vera exited the bar and Ernie’s life. She believed she was the girl in white and she read the poetry he wrote. Ernie completed the song. Not that day, but soon after.
A year or so later, “Somewhere in the Corner of My Mind,” was recorded by a country artist. The song had a moderate success and got on several country music charts, which is the measure of industry and financial success. Another artist did a gig on the Country Music Awards television show, singing the song and giving its sales a boost.
In an interview on a local radio station, Ernie was asked where he got his ideas for lyrics. He responded, “I get them from living my life and observing what’s happening around me” He hesitated and added, “You have to listen to the world and live in the world, if you want to write lyrics, at least lyrics that mean something.”
The interviewer offered, “I really liked one of your recent songs, Somewhere in the Corner of My Mind. A very thoughtful song with a great narrative.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
The interviewer read a question he had written down in preparation, “Was there really a girl that dressed in white, and who read your poetry and told you that she loved you, and you told her goodbye?”
Ernie hesitated too long and the interviewer started talking to fill the dead air created by Ernie’s silence. Ernie gathered his thoughts, “Yes, there was a girl.” Another hesitation, but briefer. “A very special girl. And I guess I just got the song and my life a little confused. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a song I never should have written.”
Vera was browsing on You Tube, randomly listening to songs, both old favorites and some new releases. After a long hesitation between songs, she entered into the You Tube search engine: “Somewhere in The Corner of My Mind.” The song appeared with both music and lyrics. She partially lowered the volume for the music and focused on reading the lyrics on the screen, certainly not for the first time. She struggled with the first verse and closed her eyes for a long moment for the lines, “Cause the day she said she loved me was the day I said goodbye.” Her eyes glistened as she emotionally hung on until the last line of the song.
Chorus
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
Verse 1
She had a special glow about her
When she dressed in white
She’s the only one I ever showed
The poetry I’d write
She brought such laughter to my heart
But I just made her cry
‘Cause the day she said she loved me
Is the day I said goodbye
Chorus
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
Verse 2
I’ve traveled this world around
Just looking for a place
To hang my hat and warm my heart
To find a friendly face
There’s a thousand places just like that
And there will always be
But something always missing
It’s missing inside of me
Chorus
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
Verse 3
I have been loved and I have loved
But never without pain
On a sunny day with skies of blue
I still can find the rain
I have said goodbye as I leave
With the winds to set me free
There’s an echo of I love you
I go search again for me
Chorus
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
Verse 4
I’ve had some dreams and lost a few
But few dreams that I could share
There are other dreams in my heart
But I want nobody there
I have traveled some lonely roads
And each road was my choice
I’ve listened to my heart
And I’ve heard a stranger’s voice
Chorus
Somewhere in the corner of my mind
There’s a dream that I can’t seem to find
Every time I find a home
Something tells me I must roam
Sometimes I think my heart is just too blind
To find
The dream in the corner of my mind
The dream in the corner of my mind
The dream in the corner of my mind