The MuDJoB Story

A Look Backward: TecIngles (pre-MuDJoB)

Open publication

We Can Still Be Friends

-So it has come to this, Elaine said. To think we only began dating four months ago.
-All good things have to end, Turner said.
But this stopped being a good thing weeks ago. She was filing her nails and looked up from under hooded eyes.
-Do you want your key back now or can you wait until next week? In any case, you'll have to wait. I left it in my desk drawer at the office.
-Why's that? He looked at her hand. Short choppy nails. He couldn't see the evidence of all her attentions. She smelled nice though. He thought it was lilacs. Real lilacs; not a chemical mix.
-When I was coming over, I would come straight from the gym after work. I just never brought the key home after that last time I went straight to work from your place.
-Why do you think we soured on each other, Turner asked, I mean in that way? Do you think we can still be friends?
-Sure, we can be friends. Hand me that little bottle will you?
How he hated the color she was applying to her nails. It made them look as if she had clawed him with them and the cuticles had filled with blood. He could feel heat and welts along his arms. He rubbed his right arm with his left hand.
A smile played on her lips. -Cold, she asked. -You can turn off the air conditioning. I just turn it on when it feels stuffy in here. Her apartment was crowded with furniture. Much more than a single woman needed. On the radio, Roger Miller sang, -Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let, fifty cents. No phone, no food , no pets...
-Do you mind if I smoke, Turner asked.
-I'd rather you didn't, if you're going to turn off the air conditioning, Elaine said.
-I'll leave it on, he said, -I'm not cold anyway. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply then turned his head to one side so as not to exhale the smoke all over her. After that he turned to her to smile and to see if she had appreciated his gesture, but she was preoccupied with painting her pinkie nail.
-So it's come to this, she said, and held out one finished hand.
He thought she was admiring how the light bounced off her red, red nails. They were very shiny.

Published at CJT's wordvamp

My story Intimations: Black Velvet versus Ebony was published as a guest writer at CJT's wordvamp.
CJT (Nicole Hirschi) is a fine writer herself, and a good friend. We are currently (for months now) partnering on a novelette in six-sentence episodes, tentatively titled Caitlin and Mathias.

Intimations: Black Velvet vs. Ebony

When lights are on, and I close my eyes, I see black velvet. When I close my eyes in the dark I see blackness opaque as ebony. In both instances, I'm well aware things exist which I cannot make out, but behind the velvet I surmise these things have rounded contours. In the blackest black I am afraid if I brush against something, I may receive a bruise from its sharp edges. In that instance I am more likely to remain motionless. In the velvet there is poetry, as if only definition has disappeared. In the other instance, time may have passed, and I am more concerned with what may have occurred and less with exploration. In the velvet the darkness seeps into me and is immediate. The ebony surrounds me and is infinite. When I experience the velvet it is usually out of choice. Contrition and awareness are only a blink away. Otherwise, it makes no difference and sorry seems unattainable. Fear is pervasive. The velvet comes often. It is a trifle. The ebony is always behind the door. It is the door. Once it slams, opening it takes some doing. In the end, for everyone, forever, as we have no choice, is jet black ebony, the blackest black. Starless and eternal night wins. No one has ever broken even. All lose, one at a time, each and every one. For those who await their turn, closing their eyes and experiencing momentary velvet; trying to recall the lost, snatching a fragment here, a memory there, the light returns, and the darkness recedes. It, too, waits. For its winning is ineluctable, inevitable and complete. It comes when it will. As if it knows resistance is futile. Do not go gentle... But go you must—eventually.

She has recently begun featuring work by other writers on her blog, including Jeffrey S. Callico, Salvatore Buttaci, Edward Dean, Michael J. Solender, Richard Godwin, and Lee Hughes, and I am pleased to be among their company.

A Union Contract

Who stole the money and from whom was it taken?
After Mr. Canaan was dead his widow and her lawyer opened his safety deposit boxes and inside discovered over two million dollars and a few Tai Chi videotapes.
The lawyer claimed Mr. Canaan was a gambler and had won the money at Atlantic City over a period of years and had stowed it away. He said one of the bundles was bound by a tape with the insignia from one of the casinos. Mrs. Canaan said she was unaware that her husband had been such a heavy gambler, but it must have been so because on finding the money she saw several casino binders. She mentioned the names of several.
Sherri Palatnik, a chronic junior executive, said she was not surprised. She had always thought something was amiss but she wouldn't elaborate. Later under oath in front of a grand jury, she denied having any knowledge whatsoever. In fact she denied having implied that rumors had reached her ears.
None of the partners of the law firm would give the goods on any other. Even those who had retired and were granted immunity refused to implicate any former coworkers. Each who came to testify fidgeted and appeared uncomfortable when the employee expense accounts were read out once again.
The Union had changed leaders a couple of times since Mr. Canaan's tenure. So none of the officers who came to speak could say much with any conviction.
The only thing that was a certainty, was that after the election in which Mr. Canaan lost his position, the law firm handling the Union's legal requirements was dropped in favor of another, not entirely different, firm. Many of the lawyers moved to the new firm. They were familiar with the Union members' needs.
In the end, the district attorney's assistant failed to make his case so it was a moot point as to how the money arrived in the safety deposit boxes. Mrs. Canaan was two million dollars richer, minus her attorney's fees of course.
And the old law firm which was paying a pension to the retired partner who had been a long-time friend of the deceased? They walked away quietly licking their wounds and hoped to rebuild their good name. They really did not need the bad publicity a trial would have brought on them.
These are rough times. Everyone says the stock market is due for a correction, in which case even privately held companies will suffer. Buying Union contracts could prove prohibitive under the new economy.