Harvey Wallbanger (Part One)

Hallowe’en Spooktacular Party, at Gary and Elaine Dow’s house in Center Township, PA, Friday, October 31, 1975:

Costumed invitees cram the living room.  A mixtape (to use an anachronistic word) plays on the stereo’s cassette deck; the exceedingly mellow song “Those Summer Nights” by San Jose’s biggest musical artist, Benjamin Plum, nears its chorus as Donna—wearing a headband, peasant blouse, fringed leather vest, bell-bottom jeans, and sandals—spots an uncostumed guy exiting from the kitchen.  Glass in hand, she barges toward him, threading past a princess and a cowboy and a blowdried Dracula, electric guitar creeping along, Plum asserting in a reedy voice that “Those summer nights that brought us passion / Will never, ever go out of fashion.”

“Chuck Roland?” she asks.

“The one and only,” Chuck replies, holding a drink himself.

“I’m Donna Henningsen.  Milo’s mother?”

“Oh.  Right.”

“Tell your son to quit beating him up.”

“Tell your son to quit grabbing my son’s ass.”

“You believe that story?”

“Hey, your son is half Greek, so—”

She tosses the contents of her glass at Chuck, punctuated by the background tune’s somnolent saxophone-and-piano bridge.

“Now look what you made me do—waste a perfectly good whiskey,” she says reprovingly.

“You know,” he says, wiping off his face with his sleeve, “you’re lucky you have a great pair of tits.”

“Thanks.  I’ll tell your wife you said that.  Where is she?”

“At home.  She didn’t feel good.  You ever try a Harvey Wallbanger?”

“A what?”

“A Harvey Wallbanger?  Orange juice, vodka, and some Eyetalian liqueur called Gallyanno?”

“No.”

“You should.  I’m having one now.”  Chuck holds up his glass.

“Hooray.  The next time your brat attacks my son, I’m calling the police.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Plum’s song fades out.  “So I can make you one here, if you want.  A Harvey Wallbanger.”

“Fuck off.”  Another lifeless, piano-heavy track, one Donna’s never heard before, commences.

“Aw, you hurt my feelings.”  He walks away a bit jauntily.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

Advertisements

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #54: Organic Hummus Sandwich

Slumping deep into the least dilapidated chair in the teachers’ lounge during her lunch break that rainy afternoon in late October 1975, having consumed little of the organic hummus sandwich she had packed, Miss Wyant, the subaltern substitute, worried (after futilely attempting to make the Declaration of Independence’s history relevant to three consecutive classes of bored, ahistorical students) that Center Elementary School would opt not to retain her services once the academic year concluded a month before America’s two-hundredth birthday, July 4, 1976, thus providing her with yet another excuse to loathe herself in an atmosphere of rampant celebratory patriotism.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

My Tits ARE Calm!

I now present a new feature: comments I’ve posted upon websites.  (The dates refer to my contributions, not necessarily to the sites themselves.)

The Comics Journal, May 25, 2012:

No one–not Clowes, not the book’s editors, not any reviewers–has mentioned the World War Two-era racial content in these strips.  [More]

Uncensored John Simon, November 27, 2017:

Simon could have written the above passage more clearly. I doubt he thinks–well, I hope he doesn’t think–that some Jews, ROMA, or homosexuals deserved to die during the Holocaust.  [More]

Me Write Blog Good, March 19, 2019:

You do know she’s an eight-year-old girl, right?  [More, more, more]

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #53: THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES

Jess liked her job, except for the printed-out meme taped inside the cubicle to her right: a photo of a snarling gray kitten, fur standing on end, above THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES.  As a survivor of corporal punishment during her childhood, from parents and teachers alike, she wished people would not treat physical abuse so flippantly, a wish she would have expressed to that neighboring coworker, if Jess hadn’t noticed something that (to her) precluded discussion: the TRUMP THAT BITCH bumper sticker on the coworker’s SUV—the perfect sticker for such a vehicle or vice-versa, Jess thought.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews (currently 53 himself)