Another excerpt from my eternally-upcoming novel, Normal Tastes. (For previous excerpts, please click here, here, and here.)
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The fountain outside Kornwald’s Department Store spumes upward to about twelve feet. Jill drops a penny into the fountain’s circular reservoir and watches that coin sink to the bottom.
“What do you think the mall does with all the money that people put in there?” she asks.
“Keep it for themselves,” Alan says.
A few dozen pennies cover the bottom, along with some nickels, some dimes, a few quarters, and several arcade tokens.
“Well, I think they donate it to charity,” Jill says.
“Do you think Bigfoot exists too?”
“Some people are nice, Alan.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The fountain spumes downward.
Alan can stand the Garnetville Mall a little better, now that he has a girlfriend. Holding hands, they walk away from the fountain and through the corridor, sticking to the right, passing Five Star Video, and Everfun Toys, and the Haunted Halloween Store. Soon they approach Wynkoop Organs. Standing near the entrance, they watch the obviously middle-aged white guy who works there—combover, bifocals, maroon suit.
“What a stud,” Alan whispers.
Jill laughs.
The Stud sits down at a deluxe organ, dark gleaming walnut that looks genuine and features a two-tiered keyboard with almost enough knobs and buttons and faders to fill a professional recording studio, the type of studio that rock stars use when not playing in concert or making videos or snorting cocaine off stripper tits. He exhales, stretches his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, places some sheet music in front of him, opens it, adjusts a few knobs, and commences playing something jaunty.
“Hey, that’s ‘Tell Her about It,’ ” Jill says, referring to the recent hit by the American singer Billy Joel.
“Yup,” Alan says.
A few onlookers gather around them.
“You know, I’ve suddenly realized something,” Jill says. “If I were Billy Joel’s daughter, my name would be Jill Joel.”
Alan despises this song, a fucking Fifties tribute about how you need to kiss your girl’s ass so she doesn’t leave you.
And yet, as the Stud continues playing—
“I like this version,” Jill says.
“Me too,” Alan says. “I like it better than the original.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. It sounds more…heartfelt?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Plus this guy’s a snazzier dresser.”
The performance ends. Everyone except Alan applauds.
“Please don’t clap,” he tells her. “We’re not at a concert.”
“That’s what you think,” she says, still applauding. The Stud smiles at his audience and salutes it.
●
“What do you wanna do tomorrow?” Alan asks her. They’re sitting across from each other at a blazing-orange plastic table near Aunt Rita’s Pretzels.
“Could we visit the Carnegie Museum?” Jill says, pronouncing the founder’s surname the way most Pittsburghers do, as Car-nay-gie.
“Why?”
“I feel like looking at the paintings and sculptures and all that stuff.”
Alan bites into his pretzel, chews, and swallows. “Right.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause looking at art makes me wanna—”
Alan closes his eyes, lowers his head, and pretends to snore.
“Very funny,” Jill says. “So what would you rather do?”
“I dunno. Hang out at your place?”
“Again?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s…well…it’s like you never want to go out with me.”
“I go out with you.”
“Yes, but you never seem that excited about it.”
“Do you want me to dance a jig or something?”
“No, but—”
“But what?”
“I don’t know.” Jill nibbles at her pretzel. “You could have clapped after that man played the organ.”
“I didn’t feel like clapping.”
“You liked his performance.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t feel like clapping.”
“Okay, you didn’t feel like it. But I did. And you tried to stop me.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. You said ‘Please don’t clap.’ ”
“That was a request.”
“It sounded like an order.”
“What difference does it make? You clapped anyway.”
Alan finishes eating his pretzel. Maybe he—
“Do I embarrass you?” Jill asks, sounding angry for the first time around him.
“Excuse me?”
“Do I embarrass you?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“An important one. Do I embarrass you, except when you want to have sex with me?”
“Jill—”
“Is that why you’ve never introduced me to your friends?”
“No, it’s ’cause I don’t think you have much in common with them.”
“I’ve introduced you to my friends.”
Yeah, friends straight from the barnyard—dogs, pigs, and cows. “Okay, the next time I hold a tea party for the guys, I’ll invite you. Ha ha.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed.
“Do you even like me?” Jill asks.
“What?”
“Do you even like me? Have you ever liked me?”
“Cut it out, Jill.”
She looks as if she’d just seen Middle-Eastern terrorists, or Central-American terrorists, or actually any kind of terrorists, blow her family to bits.
“Oh, all right.” He starts clapping rapidly. “Hooray. Hooray for the organ player. Hooray for Billy Joel. Hooray for your friends. Hooray for you. Hooooray.” He stops clapping. “Happy now, goddammit?”
“Yes, happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life,” Jill says in a tremulous voice. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“Ha ha.”
“I’m serious, Alan. I’ve felt this way for some time.” And here come the tears. “You don’t like me or respect me.”
He considers his options. Should he take that song’s advice and kiss her ass, while apologizing profusely and begging her to take him back? Or should—
“Are you on the rag?” he asks.
Really, how else could he have answered? He has a pair of balls.
“Goodbye,” Jill says, standing up.
“Yeah, yeah. Can I have the rest of your pretzel?”
She walks away sobbing.
“Call me when you decide to stop acting like a fucking idiot,” he shouts. Some fat bitch lumbering past his table, a couple fat kids in tow, gives him an offended look. Mind you own goddamn business, lady. And do some aerobics, why don’tcha, he thinks as he chomps into Jill’s pretzel.
Copyright © 2025 by David V. Matthews
DAVID V. MATTHEWS 