Up the Alley

Up the Alley

An Epic Novel in Flash Fiction

Volume One

James Maxwell

Copyright 2014, James Maxwell

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Copyright Notice

Copyright © 2014 by James Maxwell

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Distribution via Smashword, 2014

ISBN 978-0-9960077-1-9

James M. Mills, Publisher

1330 Wasatch Point

Lafayette, CO 80026

millsja@mac.com

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Introduction

Up the Alley:

Realia

I'm Bored

Cold Cuts

There She Is

Last Requests

You're Cured

He Takes Things

My Method

The Little Shaver

I've got a Mongoose

This Way Please

Is He Okay?

Oscar's Surgery

I'm Too Young

Four-Thirteen

Coastline

What Does Contrite Mean

The Workout

When I Bend Over

I Want an Excuse

Here Boy

No Recovery

Nobody was Looking

Stay Focused Teacher

Up the Alley

A Bad Year

Date Night

As Big as It's Gonna Get

Some Kind of Flower

Light It Up

Best Ever

Aerator is French for Love

Not as Poor as I Was

Second to None

Cursing Crazy

History

Not Fit

Persona

Step Off Please

For a Penny

Hawkeye

Dirty Feet

Such a Liar

Quite a Jolt

Half the Woman

Grab That Thing

Monkey Shines

Bee Stings

He's No Father

Sideways

This Tea Is Fine

Navigation

Don't Accept That Package

Decaf

Good Eating

June In Miami

It's Too Foggy

Them Foreigners

Axe In Hand

No Damned Foreigner

By Sheer Luck

Still In the Process

Around these Parts

Palm Reading

Spit It Out

All the Others

Tomatoes

I'm Being Followed

Who Knew

Try this One

Misunderstood

Worship as I Please

Permission

What they Measure

He Opened His Mouth

Old Age

Lumber or Lumbar, Whatever Bears Do

Dew on the Mountain

Just Back

Meet the Author

Dedication

This book would not have been possible without the encouragement and assistance of my wife, Rosalind Bard. Roz edited all my stories, most of them several times and even when I was impossible to live with, never gave up on me.

I would also like to thank Terry Dodd, a gifted playwright and friend for his assistance early in my process. Needless to say, I'd like to thank the staff at the former Espresso Roma Coffee shop in Boulder. The Cafe Milano is a fictionalized version of the Roma. They were the real deal and my stories only an imitation of their compassionate actions.

I would also like to thank the staff at the Lafayette branch of the Boulder Brewing Market. It was there that I wrote all 9300 jokes, 500 scripts and the 320 stories that became Up the Alley.

I would also like to thank Lighthouse Writers Workshop (where Terry teaches), and Innisfree Poetry Bookstore and Cafe, where I read my stories and made friends among the writing community. Thank you Jonathan, Asa, and Laura. Also, thanks to Mike Befeler, geezer lit author who gave me assistance and encouragement.

Finally, I would like to thank Emeritus Professor Suzanne Juhasz for her early encouragement and criticism. My work changed direction after her critique. I would also like to thank University of Colorado Professor Bernard Amadei who encouraged me to share my work with others.

Introduction:

I never see it coming and I'm happiest that way - most of the time.

I started this project in the spring of 2010 when I wrote 9300 jokes in a single 75 day span, writing a minimum of 100 jokes a day.

Significantly, each joke is a complete story with a beginning, middle and end. Each has characters that want something in conflict with other characters. Each character is a clown or a victim, and each either gets what he or she wants - or is denied. All contain the didactic irony of oppressor/oppressed, or master/slave, or superior/inferior. In every case, the jokes are plots imitating not just action, but a specific kind of action - the cruel action of a joke in which there is always a winner and always a loser.

Eventually, I found that my jokes are placeholders for other stories I need to tell. As I tell the new story, the archetypes in the original story begin to come into sharper focus. Frequently, my characters intrude on my narrator's voice - a legitimate use of free indirect discourse.

Of course, I knew none of this when I began my writing project. Did I mention that I never see it coming?

This epic series of stories began as an experiment. I selected four days of jokes (around 500) and then assigned the Who, What, When & Where to them (a little fabula for continuity) and ended up with 500 two-minute scripts. In the process, I created an entire comic storyworld set in Boulder, the happiest city in America.

Later in 2010, not knowing what else to do with the nine thousand jokes and the five hundred two-minute scripts I'd just written, I began experimenting using them as outlines for narrative fiction - flash fiction as it turns out. Did I tell you that I never see it coming?

Here are the first 80 stories.

Realia

Realia entered the door in a huff. In her hand was a letter she received that morning from her trade school. On the transcript was a big fat F.

How can I fail at anything? Realia kept repeating this phrase in her thoughts as though it were a mantra, yet no matter how many times she heard the question, no answer followed. So, she was going to risk contact and get some answers. When her mind was made up she could focus and then she always got what she wanted. And that's why she kept asking herself that first question. She couldn't believe it. She'd never failed at anything. She was always right.

I'd like to speak to the Dean, Realia declared, formally and officially, putting stress on the D of dean.

"Good morning," The smiling receptionist replied. She was always smiling. Realia never noticed it before, but today her perfect smile seemed to be both apparent to Realia, and apparently wrong in some way.

Good morning. I'd like to speak to the Dean, please, repeated Realia, this time remembering the pleasantries.

Of course, at once, replied the receptionist. Whom may I say is calling?

My name is Realia.

Realia. My, what a pretty name, what's it mean?

It means classroom objects rising to view, replied Realia without further explanation. Is the Dean in?

Yes, of course. This way please.

The receptionist led Realia down a narrow hall separated on one side by the outer wall of the building with its floor to ceiling windows and a view of the mountains in the distance. On the other side were cubicles for both the receptionist and some unknown, unseen person whose personal fan vibrated noisily as though the juice came to it in spurts, one or two drops at a time.

As the receptionist and Realia entered his office, the Dean rose to greet them. He wore the same smile as the receptionist. Realia was beginning to be annoyed by these smiling mouths, but she repressed her emotions and stifled herself.

How may I help you, Miss? the Dean asked as he waived the receptionist away and then added, What seems to be the problem?

This letter you sent me is the problem, that's what seems to be the problem, that's the problem. According to this letter, I've failed to receive my education.

I am so sorry to hear that, Miss. May I see the letter? The Dean spoke quietly and sincerely, the edges of his mouth softened by a history of weak consonants at the end of his thoughts. Oh, here is the problem, Miss. This is what seems to be at the heart of the matter.

What's that? Realia asked, wondering what happened to both his smile and his sense of simile.

Well, apparently, you got a zero on your final exam, Miss. That's what seems to be the problem.

I know I got a zero on the exam. I know that much. That much I know, but it's not fair. Realia wondered what happened to all the other times when she received only an A. Those grades should count for something, shouldn't they, she thought but kept secret from the Dean.

I know it isn't fair, Miss, but that's the best we could do, spoke the Dean as he attempted to console Realia whom he could see was distressed, We just don't have any lower grades."

I'm Bored

I'm bored, said Ernie as he sat on the patio of the Cafe Milano, a seedy coffee shop catering to the homeless. Nobody else seemed to notice his pain.

Ernie shuffled his feet nervously. He'd finished his daily creative writing exercises just moments before, and he wanted something else to do. He didn't know what. He looked at Beatrice, whom everybody now called Bert because Ernie was attached to her sleeve like a glove. Everybody, that is, except Ernie who still called her by her nickname, Berta. Oh, and Keith, an almost homeless hustler who called her Bertie because he thought it might benefit him if she liked him. She still didn't like him, and he saw no return on his investment.

"I'm bored," repeated Ernie with just the slightest hint of a whine. He was now convinced that Berta would never notice his self-diagnosed pathetic state of mind and offer him a solution.

Well, read something, said Berta, who was a little tired this morning, well, hung-over if you must know, and she didn't feel like taking care of Ernie just at that moment.

There's nothing around to read except the labels on Keith's medical marijuana jars, replied Ernie.

Well read them, said Berta, near boiling point but still simmering away under control.

I can't. Ernie whined, again.

Why not? Berta asked, wondering what kind of logic Ernie