When Flash Mob 2013 called for entries, I jumped in there just to be part of a mob. Not the kind of mob that involves irate villagers with flaming torches, but the other kind of mob, the good kind of mob. It’s something I’ve not had the opportunity to do since the heady student protest days in the 60’s.
I hoped by rubbing elbows in close quarters with so many fantastic writers their mojo might rub off on me. I thought what the Hell and sent in my quirkiest piece. One of my favorite pieces, freshly rewritten, but had never seen the light of day. I made believe I was a pitcher throwing a screwball, then a football QB heaving a Hail Mary pass. Or not.
Anyway, I was just happy to be in a mob and livin’ it up with all my fellow mobsters! Lightin’ cigars with hundred dollar bills. Struttin’ our stuff & shuckin’ and jivin’ in our zoot suits. You get the picture. Because I was preoccupied with intense summer solstice rituals (it’s Saturday bitches and it’s summer!) and because of the super moon, hugest.full moon.ever. I forgot to even check to see what was going on, and it was not until a friend called to congratulate me that I found out I’d won.
“Huh? What now? Who’s on first?”
“I called to congratulate you.”
“Um….congratulate me …. for ……. not getting arrested …what…what?”
Long period of speechlessness followed by ranting and raving.
It’s not like I’ve never won anything. I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff. A bike at a school blacktop carnival. A pie at St. Anthony’s parish festival. A bag of groceries. A two dollar lottery ticket. A karaoke contest in Tokyo. A bonus round on the slots at a casino in Cleveland. An arm wrestling contest. Yeah, I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff.
But to be honored in this event …. well, all I can say is
I am humbled, honored and giddy as all git out!
Thank you Flashmob people and all my fellow mobsters!
FLASH MOB 2013 showcases more than 100 stories from more than 100 participating writers from all over the globe.
Click the link below to jump in with the Flash Mob
Funky Little Blaze Orange Pork Pie Hats
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”