Posts Tagged ‘magical realism’

The First Visit: A Story of the Early Sixties

January 24, 2018


Paul was sitting alone in his apartment over the Rexall where he worked. As he had finished supper, Paul had listened on the radio to Jack Kennedy declare support for President Diem and liberty in Indochina. Now he was half listening to a radio episode of Gunsmoke. Paul had a lonely life. The brutal realities of the Cold War and life in the Old West were unlikely to cheer him up. But he was very happy. Aunt Emma, his last remaining relative, had finally died.

Her death itself did not make him happy. He had liked Emma, a bit. But Paul’s aunt had left him enough money to buy new clothes, rent an apartment with a private bath, and buy a new Studebaker Lark convertible. He was signing the lease on the apartment tomorrow morning, and it wasn’t over the Rexall where he worked. He was talking to the Studebaker dealer tomorrow afternoon. By next week Paul’s friends might start to respect him.

Paul finally had enough money to live. People said he should be happy he wasn’t still a stock boy, but Paul knew he had no future standing behind a soda fountain in a drugstore. Jerking sodas is cool when you’re eighteen, but not when you’re thirty-two. Today the bank had transferred the funds for a new life into Paul’s new personal checking account. Paul was very happy indeed.

Paul was sipping Champale when he heard heavy footsteps on his stairs. Since he had the only apartment at the top of stairs, he got up to answer the knock he expected. But before he got there, both the latch and the bolt lock released themselves. The door swung in.

A muscular arm ran up from the door knob into the shadows above the door frame. Only the chest and lower body could be seen behind the opening door. Then the shoulders dropped as the giant ducked his broad face under the door frame and strode into the room. The giant stretched himself to full height, straightened his sharkskin suit, and looked around with satisfaction.

Paul stepped back. “What do you want?”

Turning, the giant folded his arms and smiled down at Paul. His eyes were a warm brown, and his smile seemed good humored. Paul watched him reach up and tease a corner of his dark mustache.

“I want your money, Sonny Boy.”


“Come on. Fork it over, Paul. Everything you’ve got.”

“I only have ten dollars, and change. Honest.”

The giant cupped both hands and stuck them down below Paul’s chin, as if to catch the jackpot from a slot machine. Paul emptied the bills out of his wallet, Then dropped his change into the giant’s hands. His money seemed so small in those hands.

“That’s all I’ve got.”

The giant moved about the apartment, dumping out drawers and occasionally pocketing small objects. He didn’t even glance at Paul. But once, as he passed, he bent down, parted Paul’s hair quiff, and looked inside. “Any gold in here?” Then he laughed and patted Paul’s head.

The giant pulled a book of counter checks from his pocket and handed it to Paul. “Now write me a check. Make it for the amount in that rockin’ new checking account of yours. I’ll go by your bank when it opens and cash it.”

“I only make minimum wage.”

The giant laughed. “Now put down what’s in your account, Paul. And don’t you forget what your sweet auntie left you.”

How could he know? Paul opened the book and found dozens of signed checks, each drawn on a different account. He found many names he knew. John Dickens, the pharmacist. His landlord, Mr. Ladd. Patty Schmidt, who worked beside him at the soda fountain. Even Rex Masters, the Chief of Police! Finally he found a blank check. His name, bank and account number were already printed in.

“Put it down as a visitation fee.”

Paul saw a chance for delay. He wrote down seven dollars more than what was in his account. In the morning, his bank would refuse the check and he would have time to find help. Surely someone would help! Paul handed back the book, but he couldn’t look into those brown eyes. All he could see was the giant’s mustache, and a spreading smile.

“That will do for now, Sonny Boy.”

Paul followed the giant to the door. He listened to the steps going down the stairs, so unhurried, so sure.  He didn’t know who could help. Half the people he knew were in that book. He leaned against the sides of the open door. The radio inside his apartment had moved on to Sam Cooke singing “Wonderful World.”

Then the giant reappeared as a shadow that filled up the lower hallway and moved to the foot of the stairs. As he started back up, a step creaked and Paul felt hot urine rushing down his leg. The giant paused near the top to study the puddle still forming around Paul’s feet.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I have a bit of trouble with young folks. They don’t respect me when I first visit. But you will respect me, Paul. And we will have a long life together. Tomorrow I will give this check to the teller and watch it bounce. Then you will cover the amount, and more.”

The giant looked up and Paul saw that his eyes were blue. His face still seemed the same, all but those eyes. Such a bright blue! Paul blinked and saw that the giant’s mustache had turned white. Paul could no longer feel his shoulder against the doorjamb or even the wetness of his pants.

The giant slid Paul’s Gruen watch off his wrist. “Ten p.m. already, Sonny Boy,” he sighed, dropping the watch into his pocket, “and I have so many people like you to visit.”

The giant guided Paul back into his apartment. Then he gently shut the door.


Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer


1960 Studebaker Lark Regal Convertible - cars on line

1960 Studebaker Lark Regal Convertible – Cars On Line


Counting Down the Clock: A New Year’s Story of Magical Darkness

June 11, 2017


As the new kid at work, Tom would have to turn on the pumps and open the Standard Oil station at 7 a.m. on New Year’s Day — after he shoveled tonight’s snow from around the pump islands.  So he had left his fiancée Kathy at her house earlier that evening. With the snowstorm moving in, Kathy would have to celebrate New Year’s Eve in her parents’ home. Tom ushered in 1965 alone, at 11 p.m. Chicago time, on his couch, by watching Guy Lombardo and his orchestra perform live at New York’s Waldorf Astoria.

As Tom listened to the orchestra play “Auld Lang Syne,” he sipped ginger ale in the comfort of his one-bedroom rented bungalow. Although the snowstorm had begun gusting outside, the gaiety on his television enhanced his optimism about the coming year. Tom was just half a year out of high school, but the station’s owner was already planning to make him assistant manager next month when Bob left for Paris Island and his basic training in the Marines. For Tom, it would be the next step into the future of his dreams.

By 3 a.m., a blizzard had developed, but Tom was in bed dreaming that he was walking out to check the mailbox by the road. In reality, the county plow had sheared off his mailbox at 1 a.m. It was now buried in a snow bank somewhere between its stump and the state highway. But in Tom’s dream, he had just painted the box white and planted marigolds around it. It was a good dream. Tom liked getting mail, even junk mail. Little greetings, he thought, from his fellow Americans and the Free World.

Tom rolled onto his back. As the vision of his mailbox faded, Tom’s eyes opened. Then they opened wider. A 10-gauge shotgun was pointing into his face. At its other end in the shadows stood a shape like a man. Tom wanted to sit up but the bore was only inches from his eyes. He imagined the long tube running back to the poised shell. The end sight glistened in the dark. A bony left hand appeared with a wind-up timer clock and placed it on the night stand.

“When the alarm sounds, you will die.”

The voice sounded brittle and dry, like leaves scuttering along a sidewalk. Tom stared at the luminous numbers and hands. The timer was set for four minutes. A long finger reached out  and pressed a switch. The clock began ticking. Tom watched the second hand hop happily around the clock’s face.

Outside a gust of snow rattled his bedroom window. A mistake? Tom thought. The wrong house?

“Are you sure you want me?”

Tom told the shadow his name and address. The figure held steady.

Something will change, Tom thought. It always does in a dream. Nothing changed. The clock ticked loudly. “What have I done?” he thought. “I live a quiet life. I work hard. What have I done to anyone?”

“Sir,” he asked, “why do I have to die?”

Inside the room’s silence Tom heard only the ticking. And outside the wind.

Tom had expected to marry Kathy in June and then have three children. He had expected to become station manager, then find a better job. He had expected to win his personal War on Poverty, to enjoy life in the Great Society that President Johnson had promised. His old age he had expected to be comfortable with many grandchildren. Tom had expected a future.

Two minutes left.

Tom studied the figure holding the gun, but all he could see was a silhouette. A tall figure with a top hat and hair coming out the sides. A tight coat. A beard. In the dark he could see no details of the face. No depth. The shape seemed flat as a poster, except for the arms on the shotgun pointing at him. Tom smelled gun oil. He heard the blizzard swirl against his walls.

The clock ticked on.

Tom had never really considered his death. He had only graduated from high school in June. He had just turned eighteen in December. His parents were still alive, his grandparents. It didn’t make sense that Tom should die before them. To be killed now, for no apparent reason . . . Why was this old man taking his future?

Twenty seconds left.

The figure pulled back the hammer. Tom pushed his head deeper into his pillow.

Seventeen seconds.

But to Tom the ticks now seemed uneven and farther apart.

Fifteen seconds.

Tom tried again to imagine himself back into his dream. The image of his mailbox would not come. He tried to visualize the station where he worked. He tried to picture Kathy dancing at sock hops in the gym, Kathy dressed up for the prom. He tried to hear again the music of Guy Lombardo and before that the comforting voice of Walter Cronkite on the evening news, analyzing the old year’s developments in Vietnam.

Twelve seconds.

The ticks became maddeningly slow, and erratic. Tom thought his mind must be racing. He expected to see his whole life pass in a formal goodbye. Tom was disappointed. He could picture nothing. No people. No places. No scenes from his life. He could not imagine his mother’s face, Kathy’s expression when he had proposed, his family’s trailer in the woods, his friends from high school. All he could see was the bore of the shotgun moving closer, almost resting on his nose. He could feel its cold.

Four seconds.

Silence. Another tick.

Three seconds.

A longer silence. Tick.

Two seconds.

Then . . . He stared at the clock and realized it had stopped. Yes, it seemed completely stopped. Tom watched the figure but the shadow did not move. Poised but frozen, like the hands on the clock.

“Why doesn’t he kill me now?” Tom thought. “Can’t he see the clock has stopped?” Tick. Tom looked at the clock.

Only one second left!

Tom stopped breathing. His throat tightened. The second left on the clock glowed suspended in the dark. Tom’s life clung like a drop to the blade of the second hand. Hanging between a past he could not recall and the instant of his death.  

Outside his bungalow, the blizzard screamed. Gust upon gust rattled the snow-pasted windows in their frames.

The slightest jar and the clock could tick. The wind. A plow out on the road. His breathing. He feared the beating of his heart.

Tom abandoned the people and places of his life. He abandoned his future. Nothing mattered beyond that last second of time. Tom wanted no one, nothing. He was totally alert. Totally fixed in space and time. Totally alive inside the terror of his impending death.

Only Tom’s eyes moved about the room, returning again and again to the luminous face of the clock.


Copyright © 2017 by Michael B. Smetzer



“Counting Down the Clock” began as a dream in the early 1970’s. It was a nightmare of fear and entrapment, of unexpected, untimely, and inescapable death. But as I wrote and revised the story, a contrast developed between the mundane realism of the setting and the horror of the intrusion. Eventually I realized that the feelings in the dream were bound up with the Vietnam War and the enlistment posters and parodies of Uncle Sam that were everywhere at that time.

The story is allegory, magical realism, horror, slipstream, or just a really bad trip, man. And, yes, I know, it took me 45 years to get it done. If it is done.


Detail from "Moon Night" - acrylic painting on wood by Mike Smetzer

Detail from “Moon Night” – acrylic painting on wood by Mike Smetzer

Joe Bought a Truck

May 24, 2017


Joe’s new truck was one tall ride!
Ram 1500 Sport.
V-8, 8-speed transmission.
Blue-streak-pearlcoat exterior.
Brand new!
With the biggest mud tires the dealer could fit.

We could never afford a wonder like that.
But my brother Joe went down to Foxwoods
and he won. He won big!
So, being a man, and being single,
he bought this truck.

I said, “You could have bought
a lot of ho’s with that money.”
“Think harder, Bro,” he said.
“I bought the Ram.
Now the sluts will jump in for free.
I can drive the girls and the truck!”

To begin with Joe couldn’t really handle
the girls or the truck.
His ego was just this pale little thing
about the size of a baby mouse.
It slept quietly inside a Big Mac wrapper
stuffed between our seats.

What with all the near collisions,
I can’t say I even noticed it the first two days.
But Joe was right about the sluts.
His best play was to park the Ram near
where some muffins in tights would pass.

Then chat them up from inside the cab.
He looked like a cowboy, as long as he
didn’t try to move the truck.
Soon he was helping girls into the cab
and taking them for rides.

He got better at driving and chatting,
and sometimes,
if the girl didn’t know him,
he scored!
Joe’s ego was growing up now
and growing some thick hair
along with a visible pair of balls.

Joe had to take it out of the wrapper
and put it in the toolbox behind his seat.
Not like he had any tools.
By this time, I was no longer welcome,
except when we drove to work.

Still, when he needed recovery time
or when I was the one with gas money,
I got to ride along on his outings.
Sitting in that Ram was as near ecstasy
as you can get without a dealer.

The guys had to look up to us
‘cause we were cruising way above
their silly little rides.
When the sluts saw our stuff,
they couldn’t help giving
their booty a twerk or two.
Sweet ride! Sweet life!

Soon Joe really got to be the man.
He’d drive up next to one of our buds
lining up a slut in a Ranger or something.
The girl would look up
at Joe in his powerful Ram,
and that guy’s junk was toast!

Joe loved it!
But every time he pulled that stunt
his ego swelled inside the toolbox
and it wanted more.
I could hear it behind the seats, mumbling
and pounding on the inside of the box.

Then it started to talk,
and it talked loud!
Joe had to quiet it down with Captain Morgan
before he could pick up a slut.
Still, Joe was the man.

A lot of girlfriends took a ride in Joe’s Ram,
while their guys were at work.
Joe turned a bucket full of promise rings green.
Pretty soon none of our old buds would talk to us,
and Joe had to park next to the guard house at work.

One night Joe forgot to latch the toolbox.
His ego got loose in the cab.
By morning it had shed hair all over
and grown too big to get back in the box.
We had to let it ride between us
and try to pass it off as a lab.
Smelled like a badger!

With his ego out, Joe had to give up
poaching tights, except for Goths,
but he still loved to drive his Ram up beside
some guy with a slut.

Soon Joe’s ego needed more room in the cab.
Joe could hardly shift.
I was hanging out the passenger window.
People looked at us funny.
No one thought it was a lab.
More like a gorilla!

Even our family stopped talking to us.
And Joe’s ego just kept growing.
We moved it into the truck bed.
But we still couldn’t relax.
Joe’s ego growled and snapped
at us through the sliding window.
Couldn’t even pass it off as a bear!

Now when we pulled up next to a couple,
the girl would look up with big-eyed horror
at the three of us looking down.
Then she’d roll her window up.

Good thing we had heavy duty springs.
Joe liked this new power he had over people
and his ego kept growing.
The truck started banging at every dip in the road.

In the end, Joe’s ego took to leaning
against the tailgate,
which threw off the truck’s balance.
Joe could hardly steer.
The weight of all that ego was too much,
and Joe lost control.

It was early December and raining ice water.
The Ram flipped on a curve.
We found ourselves upside down in a ditch
with six feet of mud-flavored slushy over our heads.
We straight out lost the Ram
‘cause Joe could only afford liability.

Both of us ended up in the hospital
with cuts, bruises and serious hypothermia.
And we collected buckets full of towing bills,
ambulance bills, medical bills.
We couldn’t pay any of it!

Even worse, since we had lost our friends,
we had no way to get to work to make money,
except to walk!

On the other hand, we also lost Joe’s ego.
It shriveled up in that ice water like our testicles,
and it drowned right there under that Ram!
So, yeah, I guess we look like two losers
walking to work every day in the snow.
But at least we got back some peace of mind.


Copyright © 2017 by Michael B. Smetzer