Welcome to my bookshelf.
Below is a list of my opuses.
Please Browse!
Excerpt I:
From the vowel-deprived Cyndy Pytlewski to Claire Caldwell, I went. Claire was waiting for me at the front door, or so it seemed, assuming her demeanor was a reliable indicator. Her mission was clear: to annoy me in a way only a mother can. She handed me a piece of paper known as “the dreaded checklist” and then proceeded to go over it one strenuous item at a time, and the list was longer than my goddamn arm! Next, Claire escorted me to my bedroom, where, waiting for me atop my bed was an open suitcase surrounded by an apothecary smorgasbord: eyedrops, nasal spray, mouthwash, nail clippers, sunscreen, ointment in case I forgot to use the sunscreen, aspirin, Band-Aids, talcum powder, and a dozen other items including what first captured my attention: a flat, rectangle-shaped yellow box containing anal suppositories. Able to follow my gaze, Claire defended this idiotic purchase by citing, “The water is sure to be different on a Western Pennsylvania farm, well water, most likely, and if you’re not used to well water, it’s liable to irritate your bowels and cause you to have some difficulty… down there.” Claire shilly-shallied with a schoolgirl’s embarrassment when pointing at my posterior; it was all very un-Claire-like. Then she unnecessarily added, as though somehow it could have slipped my mind: “Remember, you’re a city boy.”
I held my ground while wearing my game face; my expression was akin to Carlton glaring in at a nervous rookie. I rarely display such discipline, but had I let loose even a single utterance, the matter of the flat, rectangle-shaped yellow box might have qualified as a conversation, and whatever misadventures that could potentially befall my hindquarters three hundred miles west of Philadelphia was not a subject I was willing to broach. Then, upon listening patiently to Claire’s rationale in support of her first aid just-in-cases and what-ifs, I handed her the checklist and escorted her from my bedroom. As I expected, she got all huffy and moaned, “Fine! I was only trying to be a good mother. But if you don’t want me to be a good mother, then hell with it!”
For a second, I felt a pang of guilt for having pooh-poohed Claire’s due diligence concerning motherhood, then called to her in the hallway while reexamining the smorgasbord, “What’s the matter; was the drugstore all sold out of Trojans?” If ever there was a just-in-case or what-if item meant to travel with a teen on his first summer away from home, it was a box of Trojans. Moreover, it was challenging to imagine Claire Caldwell too embarrassed to have condoms rung up at the local apothecary, which meant that she had every reason to suspect that I would begin and end the summer of ‘77 a virgin.
“It’s not too late, Addie,” she called to me from the hallway, somewhat apologetic for the oversight. “I can still run out and get some if you think you’ll need them.”
“Never mind,” I sourly intoned. I did not want condoms as much as I wanted Claire to believe I needed them.
Excerpt II:
Joey emerged from the fields and Cillian from the kitchen. We tossed our bags in the bed of Leila’s behemoth pickup, and off we drove. Skipping the bus ride, we headed straight for Pittsburgh and the train station, blasting rockabilly music with the windows rolled down and enjoying our final time of what Leila called “hellraisin’.” As the train chugged west to east through Pennsylvania, I repeatedly asked myself: Who was Leila Bennett? Could she have been just a girl, any girl? Was Leila as common as any one of a million buttercups clustered in an open field and just as forgettable, or was she a four-leaf clover, a rare specimen who, over and over, would compel me to search for her in every crowd everywhere? Was she a young girl in a grown-up girl’s body or a grown-up girl as lost as any child would be when set to wander the vastness of the universe? Air and space: they can prove fickle entities. Not enough of each can kill you, and too much can kill you even faster. But whether we blossom in a vast field or cottage garden, in a way, we all want the same thing: the opportunity to strive for independence while enjoying the strength and comfort of unity. Leila had experienced that aspect of human desire for a time with Aunt Pearl, then later on, for a much briefer spell, with Uncle Dave. I hope, sooner than later, she finds just the right amount of air and space that allows her to bask in the beauty of youth while flourishing as a woman.
*****
Told by protagonist Mitch Morningstar, The Bohemian, with humor, satire, and pathos, challenges the cultural rigors of the post-Reagan bourgeoisie. The weapon of choice is freedom: Mitch and his band of eccentrics wield it to pierce through the ever-ossifying collective, embrace the individual, and rescue truth and beauty in postmodern America. As their guileless effort breaches the new century, these tail-end boomers lose their footing traversing their Daedalian world of carnal wanderlust but never their souls.
An excerpt from The Bohemian:
Next, I felt arms as slender and sinuous as Ursula’s, snaking around my neck and slithering to my chest. In my preoccupation, I failed to hear Nina roll off the bed and steal up from behind me, yet there she was, her chin resting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear: “Why the consternation, Mitch? Girls will be girls.”
“Is that so,” I said, with more scorn than intended. It led Nina to intone, “Yes, Mitch, and should it evolve into more than that—if Gabby and Ursula feel driven to discover one another beyond ‘girls being girls’—would it be so terrible? The last I heard, you and Gabby were hardly sharing what anyone would describe as a compulsory marriage, so whatever occurs between Gabby and Ursula, or, for that matter, you and I, if it can serve to take intimacy already dazzling to new heights, then I respectfully submit, what’s wrong with that?”
Although a bit “sideways,” as one might be inclined to describe her perspective, there was rationality to Nina’s reasoning that should have resonated better than it had. Was I becoming, dare I admit, old-fashioned? Had I evolved into the sort of man who would deny his wife freedoms similar to the one I recently was granted with Nina or was long ago forgiven for with Molly? It bothered me to think of myself in that light.
“Here,” said Nina. She handed back the reading material I allowed her to preview. “The words rival the experience; they leave me feeling fulfilled yet wanting more. I can feel proud that I was part of what happened between us last night and that it compelled you to express it as beautifully as you have. I cannot imagine my biography in more capable hands.
*****
From the dismal coalmines of Scranton, Pennsylvania came Antonio Corelli… (Grandfather). Against his better judgment, but to unburden his struggling folks, he takes along his two unruly brothers, Al and Nunzio. Upon arriving in the big city, the young duo steals a pig from an Aramingo Avenue slaughterhouse—an act that triggers a lifetime of calamity.
Meet the Corelli clan. Told by the oldest grandson, Frank, this family tapestry, with pathos and hilarity, begins weaving itself in the 1930s and rollicks through four riotous decades. The strongest thread is its oldest member, Antonio. To the ragtag Corelli clan, he is an ocean—an unwavering force upon which they rely. Lizzy, the youngest Corelli, is the brightest thread. Emanating from her is the light by which they see the world. Spanning these dynamic figures is an oddball cast of characters that keep one another in stitches right up until the life-affirming surprise birthday party of their beloved patriarch.
*****
Born into a band of roughneck migrants, Pablo Cordero spends his youth harvesting wheat under an unforgiving sun on the dusty plains of the Midwest. Upon witnessing the rape and subsequent death of his mother, and the slaying of a ruthless landowner, Pablo breaks free from the band and begins his unlikely ascension into society. There, he discovers the strength of his spirit and love that transcends Heaven and earth.
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