short stories

The Love Text of J. Rodolfo Prufrock (a short story)

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How difficult is it to check if you have a bald spot in the middle of your hair? Sure, you can have a feel around and try to identify some missing hair on the top of your head, but to do a visual test is difficult.

Prufrock was doing just that as we home in on his life. He had learnt that by using only the bathroom mirror it was impossible to do the visual check, as you had to drop your eyes down to enable the mirror to pick up the location of the potential hair void. And if you turned around to show the mirror the area in question, your eyes would be facing the wrong way to see anything.

Now manipulating two small mirrors – one at the back of his head and one in front of him – Prufrock ingeniously (his view) confirmed the murmurs, then mutters: “How his hair is growing thin!”

He sat back dejected. This just added to his funk. Was it mid-life crisis? Was it the onset of depression?

Slumped in the chair he tried to psychoanalyse his feelings. His childhood was rather nondescript. Nothing really there to help explain it, he thought. However, he did feel he had to live in his father’s footsteps – at least, his name. See his father – originally named ‘John Brown’ – had searched for his own identity. May be the malady is hereditary, Prufrock mused.

Father had fallen in love with T.S. Eliot (the famous American poet, long before deceased). He then had some Eliot-driven epiphany involving leaving mother, and him doing several degrees in literature (majoring in the poetry of Eliot) and becoming an Associate Professor of Eliot (sorry, Literature specialising in Eliot) at some obscure overseas university.

Father was so smitten with Eliot that he’d long ago changed his name by deed poll to ‘J. Alfred Prufrock’ – a character in an Eliot poem who was searching for himself. And to make matters worse, just prior to father’s departure, and through some weakened state of mind (e.g. wild sex, drunken stupor), mother had supported the naming of the newly-born child as ‘J. Alfred Prufrock Jnr’.

Mmm, my name could be a factor in my malcontent, the younger Prufrock pondered.

And this given name had been a cross to bear. With literally no father (albeit having a literary father), Prufrock discarded the ‘Jnr’ as soon as he could by deed poll. He had heard that ‘Alfred’ was a relatively common second name (this author’s middle name is Alfred), and not wanting to expand the ‘J.’ (which had to be ‘John’ as per his father’s former name), he thought he would replace ‘Alfred’ with the exotic ‘Rodolfo’ to spice up his image through the juxtaposition of Spanish with Anglo-Saxon words. It might attract some woman (Julio and Enrique Iglesias were big attractions to English-speaking ladies!).

To make matters worse, in his country the use of the nickname was rife. Like a pagan ritual, all males would receive at least one ‘other’ name (some that could not be repeated in this story) in their youth. However, most nicknames were reasonably unimaginative e.g. Daniel = ‘Danno’, Johnson = ‘Johnno’, Smith = ‘Smithy’. There were some more lateral thinkers though, and Prufrock was affectionately dubbed by one: ‘The Skirt’ – derived from the latter syllable of his surname. The name stuck and introductions to ladies went like this: ‘I’m Danno, this is Johnno, this is Smithy and over there is The Skirt’ (he wished they’d call him ‘Rodolfo’). This didn’t help his woman-chasing cause.

So here he was in his thirties, living at home with mother, with a weird-sounding name, an effeminate nickname and without a woman (or even a date). He felt he was going nowhere, like he was wedged in a vice between his past (youth) and his future (old age – ‘shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?’). Thirties was supposed to be fun according to the ‘Friends’ show on TV. Sometimes he wished he would be a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas (oops, was that a quote from Eliot?).

It was now time for him to act – for decisions, visions and revisions. Break out of the melancholy. He made a list of improvements:

  1. I will be assertive in using my new (real) name; no, it is not ‘The Skirt’, it is ‘Rodolfo’ ladies.
  2. I will get a bachelor pad. Goodbye, mother.
  3. I will forget my past. Goodbye, father
  4. I will get a hair transplant.

But how to actually woo a woman? He had had numerous opportunities – nightclubs, bars; he’d tried them all but to no avail. The result was nil. They didn’t care about a flash name or full head (almost) of hair. They seemed preoccupied. In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo (another Eliot-ism, well they talked about something, but not him).

So, he tried online dating. He had posted his profile using a grainy photograph (not too much detail – woman can air brush theirs), highlighted his saucy name in bold and tried to lift his unremarkable past through some imaginative description. And he did get one email reply. Excited he replied. I’ll text you, she said. Sure, he said.

She: OMG u Rodolfo?

He: certainly, Rodolfo is my name. What are you doing?

She: JC

He: what?

She: YSAN

He: what are you saying?

She: 4COL

He: For Col, I’m not Col!

She: LOL @ u

He: LOL oh, you mean Lots of Love. Do you love me already?

She: WTF Go Away!

That love-text didn’t seem to work out. He stood up, emboldened.

            5.  I will get a text word dictionary.

© Neil Dufty

Train (a short story)

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He wanted to feel secure in the warm womb of the train.

He was a long distance commuter: one of that hardened breed that criss-crossed the city every day. One of the many who sat in cars, buses, trains, trucks, trams, ferries etc. for hours; ‘downtime’ they called it. For what? Work = Money = A Lifestyle Back Home.

These were the ones that saw little sunlight: up before dawn, back home after sundown; urban troglodytes living in a work/commute cavern only really seeing the sun on days off. And without sunlight, and quarantined by the commute, they existed in a fugue state; hazed, dazed eunuchs neutered by routine; metronomes swinging to the money tune.

And their cityscape – when it could be seen – offered little respite, the backblocks a wasteland of factories, weathered infrastructure and decaying suburbs. A rusting, unplanned urban mess.

For the commute he had opted for the train long ago. The car was dear to run; the expressways were scary. And buses, ferries, trams were out of the mix of options – they didn’t go his way.

Each morning, he would rush down to the station to jostle for a position to be first on the train, in the same carriage, in the same seat. And do the same on the return journey. Every working day. If this all worked to plan, and the trains ran on time, it would be a ‘good train day’; if things didn’t work to plan, he felt dishevelled, out of kilter i.e. ‘a bad train day’.

The train controlled his moods.

But unlike most of his colleagues-on-the-train, he had train insomnia. The others slept in the morning, slept at night. And he, he couldn’t sleep, not even a wink. You would think the repetitive clickety-clackety of the moving train coupled with its gentle sideways rocking would be soporific, as sleep-inducing as being rocked in a cradle. But no, he was wide awake.

And what do you do if you can’t sleep for hours in a train carriage? You could:

  • read
  • eat
  • do a brain-teaser
  • do something techno
  • twiddle your thumbs
  • do nothing
  • gaze out the window at nothing
  • watch others

He opted for the last on the list. ‘Trainspotting’ he called it.

They were creatures of habit these habitual ‘trainers’, sitting in the same seat, going through the same rituals. However, when not sleeping agape like clowns in a sideshow or snoring like grunting pigs, they showed glimpses of personality. He enjoyed watching them.

Always in the front seat on the left-hand side was ‘The Wizard’ (he had a name for all the regulars in his second last carriage). The Wizard, when not asleep, would conjure up a way to draw some newcomer into a conversation around a pet topic. The magic was in the method. For example:

Wiz: Nice day?

Newcomer (NC): Some rain is forecast

Wiz: Rain? Did you ever see that movie ‘Singing in the Rain’?

NC: I don’t watch many movies, but I thought I saw it many years ago

Wiz: Oh, you talk about movies. Have you seen the one I’m watching at the moment called ‘Vampirelicious’?

NC: No, but it sounds…well, interesting

Wiz: Let me tell you about it and vampires…

Another newcomer was under The Wizard’s spell of vacuous verbiage! Canny Wizard, he thought.

And there were others he watched that succoured his interest. In the second back row on the right hand side was ‘Mister Trivia’. Trivia was behind his own seat (which was on the window on the left in the sixth row from the front), but he could always hear Trivia. When not snoring, Trivia would, extremely loudly, conduct a phone conversation with another quiz buff that involved practising the answers to possible trivia night questions (how many possible questions could there be? he thought). For example, Trivia might call out ‘What is the capital of Botswana?’ ‘Is it a. London? b. Gaborone? c. Guatemala City?’ And a discussion around the correct answer ensued, and then more questions/options/answers, broadcast to all that were awake. All trivial pursuits, he thought.

And across from him always was ‘The Lady’. For most of the journey Lady slept cocooned in a blanket, probably dreaming of walking down a Paris catwalk in some exotic gown. For The Lady liked glamour, or pretensions to glamour. An automatic alarm would then ring in her brain with fifteen minutes to go on the journey. She would spend this remaining time pimping, preening, prodding her face, pasting on mascara, blush, eyeliner and whatever else glamour-inducing that was in her makeup bag. He thought of Eliot’s line: ‘to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet’.

He could accept these same behaviours from these same people.

But rapid change came to the train. The Wizard was now only an infrequent passenger (may be Wizard had a new job in marketing, he thought). Mister Trivia was nowhere to be heard (may be now a game show host?) and The Lady, although still a regular, no longer put on a face but went au naturel (had she found a fellow or religion?). And many of the other ‘names’ changed in some disturbing way. Maybe it was the financial crisis? Or some type of pandemic? Or a drop in petrol prices?  

To add to his resultant voyeuristic angst, newcomers were invading the carriage. These newcomers were either ‘one-timers’ or those that didn’t care what carriage or seat they sat in. And their irritative behaviours:

  • Chip-crunching
  • Apple-munching
  • Mobile phone-arguing
  • Baby-screaming
  • Nose-snuffling
  • Lolly-sucking
  • And, worst of all, newspaper-scrunching.

These were not minor disturbances; collectively, to him they were major geological upheavals to the stability of the train: tremors that shook his world.  ‘Bad train days’ now far outnumbered ‘good train days’.

But what could he do? He loved the train – when it was the same, ordered. And the non-train options were out of the question. So wracked by anxiety he pondered his train future: how to embrace his love of train routine and control the irregularities.

And then it came to him – he would give his life to train.

Several months later, it was time. It would only take one step. He nervously glanced around at the surrounding passengers. What would they think when he did it? Would they respond? Beads of perspiration dripped off his brow. And summoning all his inner strength, he stepped…off on the platform and commenced his first day as a trainee train guard.

© Neil Dufty

The Second Coming (a short story)

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I won, he muttered to himself, in a moment of reflection sitting at his desk in the Oval Office.

This was not happening, I won on the night, fair and square. The election was rigged. Fake votes, fake news. To lose was unthinkable, to lose to Sleepy Joe, no way. Seventy million voted for me. They follow me, they love me. I am The President. I will show that I won. I won! I won! I won!

Don’t they realise I saved Americans from the China Flu? I have given them the cure. (Anyway, I had China Flu and it was no big deal). And I’m Making America Great Again, I deserve a second chance and I…

“Christ!”

“That is me, My Son”

Standing in front of him was a swarthy, tall man with shoulder-length black hair dressed in long white robes. He wore leather sandals on his feet and held a long, slender piece of wood that was curled at the top.

“Security,” The President yelped. “Help, Security.”

 “There is no reason to fear me, My Son. I come in peace.”

“Imposter, Bin Laden, armed terrorist…”

The President fumbled under his desk for the button. “Oops, not that one, that’s for Kim. Here it is, the security button.” He pressed it, nothing happened, no alarms, no security staff rushing in. In a lather he then sprang to his feet and rushed to the office door knocking over an American flag on the way. The door was locked. He banged on the door, “Help. Security”. But there was no response.

The President was isolated. He turned to the imposter who was impassively following his movements. He then thought of a gun and searched feverishly for a weapon. A gun, there has to be a gun, all Americans have guns, but no gun.

Sweating profusely, his face florid, The President then picked up a paper weight from his desk and confronted the imposter.

“Who are you? What do you want? How did you disable my security?” The President held the paper weight above his head threatening the impostor. “You will be killed for this.”

“I am Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, sure you are – and I’m Donald Duck.”

“My Father, the Lord God has sent me to save Mankind.”

Slightly placated, The President cautiously placed the paper weight back on his desk. He was still concerned about the long piece of wood held by the so-called Christ, but it did resemble a shepherd’s staff, not a dangerous weapon. The imposter looked harmless enough, and even had some type of circular light hovering over his head which gave off a peaceful aura.

The guy might just be a loony, The President thought, and there were plenty of those in America. He might even be one of those crackpot Democrats!

“Look, Jesus or whatever you name is, I promise I won’t have you killed. We have plenty of aid programs for the mentally disturbed. I’ll personally have you committed to a mental institution and you’ll get plenty of help.”

“I wish to talk with you about God’s Kingdom.”

Must be one of those climate activists upset about my withdrawal from the Paris Accord.

“Look climate change is fake news, fake news. Coal is good…”

The Christ guy looked at him with a slight smile but did not comment.

That didn’t seem to work. Maybe he was here to protest about something else like racial abuse or the plight of the poor.

“If you are here about black people or the homeless. Look, I can see you’re poor and kinda black. I can help you get a job, I’ve got an empire you know”.

“I have returned to save all Mankind. For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

A Bible-basher, has to be. Better not upset this guy as he might be one of my God-fearing followers, The President mused, now sitting at his desk.

“OK, I think we are done here. You’ve got your 15 minutes of fame, for whatever you believe in. I’m extra busy trying to prove that I should have a Second Term. Now it’s time to reverse the magic trick and allow the security system to work again. I’ll let you go without conviction.”

“The Lord is my Shepherd…”

“I’m getting mad again. If you’re the real Jesus Christ and you’re back, then show me a miracle to prove it. Something like turning stone to bread, feeding the five thousand…”

“I have encased your world in silence so we can talk about the future of the world.”

The President pondered. Wait on, this guy might be legitimate. Who could disengage the security system of the greatest country on Earth? This was a miracle, not magic. It could very well be the second coming of Christ.

“Alright, I’m starting to warm to you as Christ, starting to believe. Look, I need some help to win the election I did win. Like you, it should be my second coming. I can take a selfie of us and post it on Twitter. ‘Jesus Christ endorses The President for another term.’ It’ll go viral. That’ll trump everything.”

Christ looked bewildered.

The President then rubbed his eyes. He was under his desk in the foetal position. Christ was gone.

“Hell!” he yelled.

© Neil Dufty

Snake! (a short story)

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– Snake! Snake! Snake!

The dog raised an ear with the noise, then went back to sleep. He was a watch dog.

– Snake! Snake! Snake!

The noise was closer, so the dog thought he’d better give a yelp, better stand on all fours, better inform his masters of the noise.

– Why ya yelpin’, dog? Woke us up, ya did.

And then the two on the veranda heard the noise.

– Why isn’t that ya cousin Elmer a hollerin’? the older one said.

– That’s Elmer all right. I can see him a runnin’ down the hill, replied the younger one. Yellin’ something about a snake. Fastest I’ve ever seen him run.

The wizened Elmer finally reached the rundown ranch. Nearly out of breath, he kept uttering Snake! Snake!

– Now what’s this all about, Elmer? Another one of them tall tales of yours? the older one started.

– Ya spend all that time by yourself, Elmer. Ya don’t know the dream world from the real world, the younger one added.

The dog went back to sleep. His work was done.

Elmer collected himself and stopped his panting.

– Uncle Jed, Cousin Jethro. It’s the doggone biggest snake in the world! he proclaimed.

– What you on about, son? We only got some of them rattlers. And all of them varmints can’t get a livin’ here, just like us, Jed replied.

– Now cuz, you need some excitement or some lovin’. A woman or one of them blow up dolls, Jethro added (he always added).

– Ya all joshin’ with me agin, Elmer kicked the ground in frustration.  I’m a tellin’ ya this thing is huge. He’s a paddock long, a car high, and ya can’t even see his head. It’s stuck in the sand.

Jed spoke first – he always did.

– So boy, ya tellin’ us that ya seen some serpent on ya farm the size we ain’t never seen before?

– Uh-huh, come see for ya selves, Elmer replied.

– Elmer, so this ain’t one of them wild goose chases? If we git off this porch we had better be doin’ it for good reason, Jethro added.

– I was out a huntin’ critters in the back paddock and there in front of my eyes was the biggest snake in the world. I rubbed my eyes and it was still there. And then I git real scared and panicky, and I ran over here.

– OK son, just remember ya ain’t got no back paddock – only one paddock.

– And ya ain’t on none of that weird moonshine, or them plant concoctions?

Finally Jed said, Git ya gun, Jethro. We’ll see what’s stirrin’ up Elmer.

I’ll take over the story now. I’m the hotel owner in the neighboring town. The preceding is what Jethro, Jed and Elmer told me about how it all started, after they bust through my bar room door yelling Snake! Snake! The Largest Snake in the World!

All the locals in the bar barely raised an eyebrow when the relatives raised the snake alarm. See, anyone who named their boy after the Beverley Hillbillies TV character, but never found Texas Tea, has got to be odd, or maybe has a strong hold on reality. Jed’s wife had long gone off with a traveling salesman, to look for a better life, leaving Jed and the addition Jethro to fend for themselves. In Beverley Hillbillies terms they kept themselves in ‘vittles’ by doing odd jobs around town.

As for Elmer, he was the black sheep of the family. Middle-aged – somewhere between forty and sixty – Elmer was obviously closely related to Jed. Jed’s sister left town quickly many years ago, according to the old-timers. Did she have a dalliance with a local … or a traveling salesman? Rumor is that it was Jed, but that’s small town gossip. Whatever, we knew little of what went on out on their places – they kept to themselves pretty well.

Elmer, as noted previously, was a bachelor. No woman ever looked at his gaunt, worn, unshaven exterior, and with few words, he couldn’t engage them with flirty banter or woo them with his mediocre intelligence. He offered them nothing – no money, no sex appeal, nothing. And he had no phone out there to even ring the two local hookers for service.

So it was rare to see Elmer and his relatives in town, let alone seeing them so animated in my bar.

I was the only to respond to them – the locals went back to what they usually do: drinking and tale-telling and watching sports on TV.

– What you hoopin’ and hollerin’ ‘bout Jed, Jethro and Elmer? Not another snake story? The boys have told plenty of them, I said.

– Ya all gotta come fast. It’s the biggest snake ever! As long as a football field and thicker than a man!

– Oh yeah, some of the patrons groaned.

But I thought these boys don’t come into town much and they’re not up for real gossiping, like most of the townsfolk. So I thought I might pass over the reins to my wife, and follow the boys out to Elmer’s place. At least it would get me away from the humdrum of our small town.

And so I was the fourth person to see The Snake.

Well, believe me, The Snake wound like a river across Elmer’s paddock and had dropped its head into one of the sand hills. It was well camouflaged: a motley light orange like the surrounding rocks and dunes. It had green flecks across its girth, although there was little plant life on Elmer’s patch to blend with.

We all stood, mouths agape, a distance from the giant serpent.

– Watch out, Elmer uttered. If we go closer it might lift its head outta that sand and eat us all up. It’d be hungry out here, like us.

I suggested to the three that they move close to the front of the snake (as bait, unbeknown to them), whilst I go to its tail to feel if it’s real. They bought this, and so I was the first to feel The Snake.

I can confirm that The Snake felt snaky. I tugged at its tail, but The Snake did not move.

Back with the three, I reported on what I had found and then suggested I take a selfie using my smartphone of the four of us in front of The Snake. This would show all that we were the finders of The Snake and we owned it. A little like staking your claim in the gold rush days, I stressed to the boys. I was keen to post the snap on Facebook.

Odd, I took the selfie, and re-took the selfie, but there was no snake, only the background hills and dunes. Was The Snake an illusion? A figment of our imagination?

Undaunted, one by one we persuaded townsfolk to visit Elmer’s place to view The Snake, even though we had no photographic evidence of its existence.

Then the story took off. Those in the bar were talking The Snake, and talking it up big time. The town, always doing it tough, was buzzing.

I quickly became the trio’s manager, with Jed guiding townsfolk to The Snake, and Jethro adding help. Elmer stood protecting The Snake, ensuring that no photographs were taken (based on our previous experience).

Even as the summer midday sun beat down, townsfolk flocked to see The Snake.

The Snake, unmoved, basked in the heat, still with its head in the sand.

And then I said to the three, charge people an entrance fee. And so they put up a hessian fence around The Snake, with Jed now collecting the entrance fee, and Jethro helping. Elmer started to gain confidence and provided a brief commentary on how he found The Snake. I banked the money, taking an appropriate cut for my role of manager.

We continued to make sure that no one took photographs, announcing that if they did they could startle The Snake, and it being a wild animal, we had to think of public safety.

News spread outside our town and outsiders started to roll in. I quickly added to the accommodation at the hotel by bringing in some temporary trailers. I bought all the vacant land in town, providing it as camping facilities (at a fair fee).

The country was now abuzz. News of The Snake even made it to the White House. The President proclaimed that The Snake would make America Great Again. He was proud that The Snake came from Middle America, where all his supporters were. He would build a wall around The Snake to keep all unwanted vermin out. He would visit The Snake next winter, after he sorted out some matters.

The Snake was big! Some planes crisscrossing the nation apparently diverted a little to let people get a glimpse of The Snake. Again, although many air travelers said they saw it, there was no photographic evidence.

Our town had trebled in population and started to resemble Las Vegas with casinos, nightclubs, plenty of hookers, and so on. We started a theme park – SnakeWorld – close to The Snake.

As manager, I suggested to the three relatives that they become ‘hands-off’, and employ young people to do the work, like at McDonald’s. I was only looking out for the three, I stressed.

A huge international herpetological convention was held in town. Each of these snake experts inspected The Snake, wanting to classify it, to name it (probably after themselves). They argued, and went away still arguing.

And then it happened. All bubbles must burst. To start with, the young employees had not been vigilant. They had left an entrance door unlocked when the left at night. Next morning, when we did our rounds of inspecting The Snake’s condition and our infrastructure, we were horrified to find The Snake with numerous small incisions in its flesh. The Snake had been vandalized.

A few days later, I learnt via social media, that Chinese scientists had found that The Snake’s flesh gave men virility that they had never known before. Chinese businessmen immediately made me offers to buy The Snake and ship it back to China.

As I was weighing up offers, another catastrophe occurred.  One of the big city papers had a front page headline: ‘The Snake is Fake’. Apparently, one of the paper’s reporters had not been frisked properly by the young employees and had used her phone to photograph The Snake, with as before, no result. The paper asserted that The Snake was some sort of visual trickery, that the owners (us) were magicians – even if this was so, it would be still worth paying to see the trick.

The press descended on The Snake site, trying to get their part of what they now dubbed ‘Snakegate’. The President quickly distanced himself from the controversy, saying that in the true meaning of democracy and the American Way, people could decide for themselves about The Snake.

As manager, now a very wealthy one, I was very perturbed about the possible impact of the scandal to the revenue of my conglomerate, Snake Enterprises Inc. Elmer, as our spokesperson, fronted the media at SnakeWorld, confidently deflecting questions about the reality of The Snake. He even allowed one of the leading journalists to touch The Snake’s tail, as I did at the start of summer. The journalist confirmed that The Snake felt snaky and thus appeared real.

Just as Snakegate was abating and the first cool winds of fall swept across the landscape, one morning on our rounds, to our shock The Snake was gone, with not a trace, not even a curvy path in the sand.

I quickly called an emergency meeting with the three relatives. We need to close all The Snake facilities now, until further notice. Lay off the young employees. You three and I need to leave the country. Our bank accounts are safe in Switzerland. Leave a sign in front of the entrance saying ‘The Snake has temporarily left the house’.

——————————————-

It is ten years since The Snake came and went that summer.

I’m told Elmer lives a Hugh Heffner-like lifestyle on a remote Caribbean island, with scantily-clad women at his beck and call.

I’m not sure where Jed ended up or even if he’s still alive, but I’m sure Jethro followed him wherever.

As for me, I now live in China helping Chinese businessmen search worldwide for The Snake, so that they can get a piece of the action. I do this at a very healthy consultant’s fee.

As for the President, he only lasted one term in office. In the end, like The Snake, almost no one believed in him. We Chinese became great again, particularly after Russia ditched America.

And what became of SnakeWorld and our town? My wife, before she took up with a traveling salesman, messaged my secret email address to say that SnakeWorld is in ruins and the start of the President’s wall has been destroyed by anguished locals that have gone back to struggling after The Snake left. The town has dwindled back to its former self, women have left, men have returned to boozing, and The Snake’s site is now consumed by sand drifts.

Only a small group of The Snake believers hang on and have bought Elmer’s property. They have constructed a small effigy of The Snake and worship it. They say The Snake will return … one day.

© Neil Dufty