420 Characters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  THE STORM

  THE TRAIN

  ZUMA PEDLEY

  I AM EXPLORING

  SHE TRUSTED

  WHILE I WAS AWAY

  THE GUNNYSACK

  MOUSE AND I

  HE CALLED AGAIN

  TODAY I'M JIMI HENDRIX

  LORD MUMFORD

  THERE IS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR

  HUMANITY SERVICES

  THE MUSEUM GUARD

  CLIFF KNODES

  I HAD NEVER

  "ARE YOU MY MOMMY?"

  NOT FAR FROM HUNTSVILLE

  THE BOOK SITS IN MY LAP

  HE DIDN'T

  I BRING

  THE WANKER IN THE WARDROBE

  OPEN THE GODDAM DOOR, RONNIE!

  THE OAK TABLE

  HE FISHED

  THE FLOOR MANAGER

  THE PRISONER OF NOISE

  MY LIFE IS NOT

  THERE WAS A MOUSE

  TURNS OUT

  "GERONIMO!"

  I SAW YOU

  THE LOOK ON THE NURSE'S FACE

  FREEDOM

  THE ASPEN SHIMMERED

  THE SCHOOLGIRLS

  I DON'T KNOW HOW

  THE ROWBOAT

  NOT MUCH TO DO

  THE HOUSE

  I'M ALONE ON DECK

  HUEY "PUDGE" WILSON

  MUD

  FROM THE RIDGE

  THOUSANDS OF STARLINGS

  FOR-EV-UH

  I DON'T CARE MUCH FOR PLUCKY HEROINES

  HOOVES

  I SECURE THE HOUSE

  I LOOKED

  HE SPLASHED

  I KISS

  HE FOLLOWED HER

  DON'T

  DANNY AND I

  THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN

  THE DOG

  I'VE NEVER SEEN

  CHEAP AND GAUDY

  I KEEP MY FRIENDS IN A BOX

  THEY ARE CLOSING THE MINE

  SHOT BY A MONKEY

  THE NORWOOD

  HIS CHUTE FAILED TO OPEN

  I CORK HER NAVEL

  HE WAS HANDCUFFED

  I READ

  THE SERVANTS SEEM PECULIAR

  STUMBLE

  I QUIT

  MICK JAGGER BLEW HIS NOSE

  WANT A SANDWICH?

  I'M THE ONLY DADDY

  SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL

  THERE IS A DEEP HOLE

  WE ARE ON A RIDGE

  KISS ME A QUESTION

  THE HOTEL WAS ON FIRE

  I HAD AN IDEA

  I HAD NEVER

  THE ROAD CLUTCHES

  ANN O'DYNE

  I LIVE IN THE POCKET

  IN

  THERE WAS A MAN

  I RISE

  THE NURSE LEFT

  THERE IS A PLACE I

  SHE LOVED SECRETS

  THE RHUBARB

  THERE'S A GLASS

  SHINBONE AND NUSBAUM

  THE TRAIN

  DON'T DRINK

  I CAN'T HEAR YOU

  CRAWFOOT

  THE OTHERS

  THE ELEVATOR IS BROKEN

  A BIRD LIVES ON MY HEAD

  WE WERE

  HER MOUTH

  I SIT IN THIS ROOM

  I WAKE

  THE FIRE AND SMOKE

  THE SKY

  HIS HANDS

  HE SAID

  THE NEW

  WHAT'CHA WANNA

  I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH THE KING

  SHE WAS INDISCRIMINATE

  THE LONG CARGO SHIP

  I STOLE

  LITTLE FLUFF

  HER FEROCITY

  JESSE PAINTED

  SHE SHOWED HIM THE TIES

  "SHUT UP,"

  RAY WAS THIS TENOR PLAYER

  THE SKY

  SHE WAS FROM TRINIDAD

  I OPEN THE CAN

  DO YOU

  SHE SAT

  I WAKE UP

  OH

  AFTER

  THE LIGHTS

  IRIS BEDLICK

  A PORCH

  SHE LOVED HIM

  RONNIE

  I LAY THE BOOK

  EDDIE FORMED

  THE POND

  VERA "WOOLY" LAMB

  THE BODY IN THE BACK SEAT

  IN THE GRAY

  AFTER SHE FLED

  JOE PRINGLE

  I FLAY

  IT WAS A LARGE SHIP

  HE WAITED

  "LET ME IN!"

  GEORGE

  HER SUMMER DRESS

  THE CITY BELOW

  THEY BOUGHT

  I DROP IT INTO

  ARDELLE PHELPS JR

  HE SITS IN THE SUN

  I REMOVE MY HEADGEAR

  THEY'VE TAGGED

  I WAS NEW

  WHEN I WAS TWELVE

  I WET

  THERE IS A TURD

  THEY PUT ME IN A CHAIR

  THE BLOODLETTING

  THE BRIDGE

  THERE IS A TERRIBLE ROCK

  WHEN I DIE

  YEARNING

  HE DISMOUNTED

  THE SEA

  HOT IN THE BAIT SHOP

  THE RAVEN SWAYS

  YEARS BACK

  THE ORCHARD

  Acknowledgments

  List of Audio

  Rust, Jeff Bridges (0:29)

  Mumford, Ian McShane (0:21)

  Path, Ian McShane (0:26)

  Cigarette, Dave Alvin (0:28)

  Reno, Dave Alvin (0:24)

  Postcard, Jeff Bridges (0:32)

  Blood, Jeff Bridges (0:25)

  Idea, Dave Alvin (0:16)

  Finch, Jeff Bridges (0:36)

  IKEA, Ian McShane (0:26)

  Kitty, Dave Alvin (0:24)

  Hen, Jeff Bridges (0:31)

  Surprise, Ian McShane (0:31)

  Dusting, Dave Alvin (0:29)

  Grounded, Ian McShane (0:28)

  For my mother, Emily Lubicz

  Copyright © 2011 by Lou Beach

  All rights reserved

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Dave Alvin, Jeff Bridges, and Ian McShane for their recordings of the following stories: "Rust," "Mumford," "Path," "Cigarette," "Reno," "Postcard," "Blood," "Idea," "Finch," "Ikea," "Kitty," "Hen," "Surprise," "Dusting," and "Grounded."

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

  write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Beach, Lou.

  420 characters : stories / Lou Beach.

  p. cm.

  Summary: "The debut fiction project of an acclaimed artist and illus-

  trator, 420 CHARACTERS is a collection of sharp and evocative min-

  iature stories first presented as Facebook status updates"—Provided by

  publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-547-61793-0

  I. Title. II. Title: Four hundred twenty characters.

  PS3602.E226A15 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011009143

  Book design by Melissa Lotfy

  Printed in China

  SCP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Author's Note

  The stories you are about to encounter were written as status updates on a large social networking site. These updates were limited to 420 characters, including letters, spaces, and punctuation. The author hopes you enjoy them.

  THE STORM came over the ridge, a rocket, dropped rain like bees, filled the corral with water and noise. I watched lightning hit the apple tree and thought: "Fritters!" as we packed sandbags against the flood. There wa
s nowhere to go that wasn't wet, the squall had punched a hole in the cabin roof and the barn was knee-high in mud. We'll bury Jess later, when the river recedes, before the ground turns hard again.

  THE TRAIN pulled into the station. I hesitated before stepping down to the platform, then made my way to the shoeshine stand. I sat, put my foot up on the metal rest. The old man looked up before tending to my shoe. "You new in town?" I told him that indeed I was. "OK then," he said and began cleaning my loafer. There was a local paper on the chair next to mine. The headline read: FIRE IN HOSPITAL MELTS IRON LUNG.

  ZUMA PEDLEY hailed from Lubbock, came to L.A. in '02 with his guitar, some songs, and an ugly dog. He didn't think to change the world, wasn't built that way, but thought music might lessen the burden of those with hearts. He was looking for an army of smiles, but settled for a girl with corn hair and a bungalow in the hills, grew tomatoes. The dog is still ugly.

  I AM EXPLORING in the Bones, formations of caves interspersed with rock basins open to the sky. I hear a sound like a turbine as I exit a cave and approach the light ahead. I'm sure it's a waterfall. What I encounter is a massive beehive, honeycomb several stories high, millions of bees. I crouch down to avoid detection and notice a shift in the tone of the hive's collective drone. I turn around and see the bear.

  SHE TRUSTED grins, they were shot directly from the heart. Whereas smiles, oh, smiles could trick, be untrue, do you harm. Mendacious, twisted with bad intentions, like her father's, his mouth turned up at one corner like a beckoning finger, pulling his eye down into a squint.

  WHILE I WAS AWAY you managed to rust all my tools. How is that possible? Did you dip them in the bathtub like tool fondue? I do not understand. You deny everything but cannot explain the rusted brad puller, pliers, awl, and bucksaw in our bed. "Maybe someone was playing a joke," you say, then add: "A wet hammer is still a hammer."

  “There is audio content at this location that is not currently supported for your device. The caption for this content is displayed below."

  Rust, Jeff Bridges (0:29)

  THE GUNNYSACK hangs from the pommel, full of sparked ore. I let Shorty sip from the stream, long neck arching in the sun. There is a ghost in the cottonwood I sit under to reread your letters. It tries to sniff the pressed flowers you sent from the garden in Boston, but the scent is gone. The petals and paper, envelope, all smell like campfire now.

  MOUSE AND I lie on our stomachs on the warm and weathered planks. The little bridge spans the stream two feet below and the sun lays its hands on our backs. We drop pebbles into the creek and startle water striders, add to the trove of shining rocks and stones. Preteen bombardiers, we laugh at splashes. Twenty feet away, in another world, our parents and their friends sit on blankets, eat sandwiches and drink beer.

  HE CALLED AGAIN. I accepted the charges of course, paid no attention to what he was saying, it's always the same story. I focused on the background noise—the grunts and rough laughter, the shouting. Once I heard a scream, his receiver clattered against the wall, the line went dead. I picture the wall, men leaning against it, scratching names and pictures into it, waiting for their turn. I try to imagine the smell. I can't.

  TODAY I'M JIMI HENDRIX, but I don't own a guitar so I set fire to a kitchen chair instead. The crowd roars. My wife refuses to be the drummer, just clucks and stirs the soup. "Have some bisque, Hendrix," she says, hands me a bowl then sits down at the table. I have to stand, 'cause I burned my ax, man. So cool, so cool.

  LORD MUMFORD cleared the table with a sweep of his arm. Before the clattering pewter had come to rest, the dogs were fighting over the gristle and bits of potato, lapping after rolling peas. "Brandy!" he shouted and pounded on the table. Sunday Pringle stood before him with decanter and glass. Mumford put his fat hands on her slim hips. "Stop trembling," he said.

  “There is audio content at this location that is not currently supported for your device. The caption for this content is displayed below."

  Mumford, Ian McShane (0:21)

  THERE IS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. Another. I slip out of my house shoes and Indian-creep to the peephole. I peek and see only hair, shiny dark. I hold my breath. There is banging on the door. I crouch, duck-walk to the couch and lie down behind it, perfectly still. I close my eyes. There is a knock on the door across the hall.

  HUMANITY SERVICES came around today. They checked on the size of our bed, the quantity of cans in the pantry, the amount of stretch in your panties. I wasn't home at the time, it was my shift at The Mill, and you were at work, but Angie let them in. They inspected her hair and teeth, measured Buddy's doghouse. Angie said they were polite. She offered them a glass of water but after testing our faucet, they declined.

  THE MUSEUM GUARD smiles as I shuffle past the familiar paintings to the one in the corner, near the fire extinguisher. It is a picture I myself painted long ago, when I was very young. It baffles me, I don't understand it. Why did I paint it? I stand before it until closing time, looking for clues, knowing I'll return tomorrow to look again.

  CLIFF KNODES had a thin mustache, clusters of wisps that faded as they swam across his upper lip and met at the philtrum. At thirty he expected a more hirsute profile, a pistolero smear above his mouth. He applied nostrums, oils, and unguents, all to no avail, remained pink, fuzzy as a skinned bunny. He met a woman whom he convinced to forgo the waxing she maintained for years. He loved the scratch when they kissed.

  I HAD NEVER punched anyone in the face before and was surprised at how much it hurt my hand. I wrapped a bag of frozen peas around it to take down the swelling. My father, the recipient of the blow, held a piece of raw steak, hurriedly taken from the freezer, against his black eye. Our relationship thus thawed, we pressed cold cans of beer to our foreheads, promised to meet again in the future for further bashing.

  "ARE YOU MY MOMMY?" said the little blue egg. "No, dear. You are a plastic trinket full of sweets," said the brown hen. "My baby is over there," and she pointed to a pink marshmallow chick being torn apart and devoured by a toddler. The hen screamed and woke up, her pillow wet with sweat, the sheets twisted around her legs. "Christ, I hate that dream." She reached for a smoke.

  NOT FAR FROM HUNTSVILLE we waited. Johnny and I whittled on some birch, but Messenger paced the river, said he was leaving if Del didn't show up soon. I told him to calm down, check the guns, make sure the rope wasn't tangled, see there was enough room in the trunk. He threw me one of his chickenshit looks, spit in the water, but pretty soon he was sitting on a rock practicing his knots, good boy.

  THE BOOK SITS IN MY LAP, heavy and dull as cinder block. Why he chose me, I don't understand. I did not know him. Perhaps he saw my photo in the paper, was impressed with my philanthropies, or the cut of my jib. It arrived the day after he was found floating in the bay. It was wrapped in brown paper, festooned with stickers and hand-drawn stars, tied with twine. It smelled of cigarettes. There was postage due.

  HE DIDN'T tie his shoes the way the other kids did. He had his own method. And though sometimes the loops of his tying attempts were longer than the dangles, he never lost a shoe when running from the bullies. The shoes were always brown, leather soles, metal eyelets, shined. He walked everywhere until he was given a bicycle as a graduation gift, pedaled out of town on Saturday, told his mother he was going bowling.

  I BRING Copernicus to the vet's office and this guy is standing there, his thumb swathed in bandages. The doctor comes out carrying a large cage that contains a beautiful macaw, its belly wrapped in gauze and tape. He hands the man the cage, then reaches into his lab coat, brings out a small box. He offers it to the bandaged man. "Some of it was already digested, but here's what we could save."

  THE WANKER IN THE WARDROBE sits on my wife's shoes. He amuses himself by pressing his face into her wool skirt. He breathes deeply, imagines himself a bat flying through a humid night. Each evening we leave a saucer of gin out for him. One time we panicked when the dish remained untouched for three days. He'd been away.

  "OPEN TH
E GODDAM DOOR, RONNIE! I mean NOW!" He's locked himself in there again, turned Slayer and Deathhammer up all the way, the cheap speakers distorting the already distorted to the point where I know the fish will pulsate and wobble in their water. The blue tetras Miriam got him after his release, to make the room cheery. The poor, poor little fish.

  THE OAK TABLE, set for twelve with bone white china and crystal goblets full of sparkling water, glistening silverware, was sprouting lettuce. It pushed out of the worn wood, knocked over the glasses, spilled water that irrigated the new growth. Plates were overturned by root vegetables pushing upward, silverware sent scattering by tomato vines and beanstalks until the entire table was a victorious garden.

  HE FISHED the Pecos, sat on the bank singing about Jesus and crows, card games and shootouts. He ran out of songs, hoped the river wouldn't run out of fish. Peeling off his boots, he stepped into the water, shouted the name of a girl who married a grocer, didn't want to ride or plant corn or pull a calf out of a cow. He shouted her name till his throat was raw, then drank from the river and lay down on a rock to dry.

  THE FLOOR MANAGER cued him for the break. "When we return, a report on elder abuse." He stood and stretched, sat back down when the stylist came to fix his makeup, adjust his hair. "You're so handsome," she whispered as she dropped two pills into his waiting hand. "You're killing me," he said and put his hand on her ass.

  THE PRISONER OF NOISE stood before the bathroom sink, fingers in his ears, head down, mouth wide open, willing the sounds in his head to spill into the basin—the yelps and booms, screeches, screams and howls, crashes and groans, explosions and roars and babel and bangs. What if they formed a hairball of din, clogged the sink, scared the children when they came in at night to pee? He closed his mouth, went back to bed.